I’m the most horrible Magic player that there ever was and will ever be. Whoa, that’s a pretty big statement there, mister man.
Well, son, you just sit yourself down right there and peep this. I think the proof is in

the pudding, inasmuch as the Cuba’s in the Gooding.

So there I was,

ogling your moms

minding my own business on Facebook, when out of the blue (Facebook’s logo is blue oh no

I didn’t!), Aaron Forsythe shot me a message like he never had
to worry about the Brady Bill:

————–Official looking electronic mail header————-

From: Angry Hermit was awesome!
To: But Friggorid was so moar br0k3n evar!
Date: August 13, 2011 GMT minus 5 hours = the length of the courtroom scene in True Grit

Come to GP — Pittsburgh because it will be like 2001 and we can all of us make out with

each other a lot! In fact here’s a deck0rz you can play
cuz black cards r00lz!!!!!!!!11!1!!1!

Rizzo Black (designed by Aaron Forsythe specifically for bad players like me)

The above email may have been faker than every porn star who accidentally looked at the

camera when she was supposed to be moaning in ecstasy. LOL,
porn “star.” Interestingly to me, today’s wacky yutes seem obsessed with becoming

famous, or a star, or an embarrassment to the human race — so if they
can’t get on a reality show to destroy their pride, then I suppose the adult

entertainment industry might offer a helping hand, Tennessee Valley
Authority-style (or the TVA to those in the know, or those who ever attended

7^th grade).

Listen, children, being famous is the ass end of the suck. I was only barely famous for

fifteen minutes as a jackass Magic writer in a world of virgins
and jpeg tossers, and then barely famous as a minor playwright in a world of “social

justice” morons… and both eventually came to suck more
than Snooki at the International Suck Convention (this year held jointly with the

Explore The Diseases Growing In Paris Hilton’s Warm Cleft Interactive
In 3D With Dolby Surround Sound Symposium).

So if you get a chance to be on a reality show, go ahead, you whore.

And yet I write an article.

STFU for noticing.

Phyrexian Obliterator

So, you just take five, five, five, five and shuffle up? Wizards Quality Assurance: not

what it used to be.

*****************Spoiler alert! ******************

No one sacrificed so much as a single permanent to Obliterator in nine rounds.

***************end Spoiler alert!*****************

I considered testing against net decks but who does that, and apparently Apprentice no

longer exists because it’s no longer 2002, so how would I test
anyway, and who even knows what the net decks are except all of you because that’s what

you do: know what the net decks are and test against them. Good
job, you guys!

A couple years ago, I drove down to StarCityGames and sold Ben most of my cards for like

three grand because Maine has a lot of jobs and hey a brother
gotta do what a brother gotta did. Most of the cards I sold are worth about a thousand

million dollars, because I am a shrewd investor. Now that I’m
rich again and live in Virginia where everyone is rich, I ask myself if I regret it. The

answer is no. I regret nothing I ever did because it made me
who I am today.

Because I’m so hipster.

I went to GP-Chantilly/D.C. a while back.

Because it’s forty minutes away.

No one lent me a deck.

Probably because I didn’t ask anyone.

So I drafted.

Went 2-1.

Without knowing any of the cards.

Bought Chapin’s

book.

Speaking of which.

Thirty-seven dollars!!!!

Then went home.

Yes, that hipster.

So hipster that Adrian Sullivan laptop is banned from Starbucks.

Know how before a big event you’re all like “Man, I’m totally gonna make day two, then

top eight, then bring home the big-ass fake check pow bam and
booyah?”

First off, no you’re not. And secondly, stop talking like that. It’s annoying.

So in case you think I hold ideas above my station, know that I don’t dare dream of day

twos or top eights or fake checks or even doing well. My goals
are more realistic, ergo:

1) Get to the site

2) Register the deck

3) Play badly

4) Cheat a lot

5) Hurt the feelings of any children I may encounter

6) Cheat moar

7) Get caught

8) Make a scene by loudly declaring my innocence

9) Because it’s a conspiracy

10) Get banned

11) Write an “I was totally framed!” article

12) Get shunned by the community

13) Sue Wizards ‘cause I’m shunned, yo

14) Appeal the decision after it gets tossed out of court

15) LOL “tossed out”

16) Start a website called wizardsá´™sunsabitches.edu

17) Psyche! I don’t know HTML very well

18) Plus, I’m kinda lazy

19) So never mind

20) But I’ll probably still cheat

I put on my official Wizards of the Coast polo that I stole from Nationals like five

years ago, then off I went, homeward bound, with the wind at my
back and an endless procession of construction barrels ahead. When you enter

Pennsylvania from anywhere, be prepared for an immediate and overpowering
aura of corruption that threatens to fill your lungs and choke your ass out like Darth

Vader became his own state. Er, “Commonwealth.”

If you’re too naïve to know about Star Wars, get off your ass and know about it — but

until then, I’ll offer a more contemporary example: it’s like the
stench from Morpheus’s dome, Agent Smith-style.

I found the site ‘cause I like, used to live in Pittsburgh! When I went to pay, a couple

Professional Event Services (or “PES,” to the “in” community)
peeps noticed my Wizards shirt, which is kinda like why I wore it. No, people, I am not

here “on official business,” — though I did threaten to make a
terrible ruling or perform a random deck check if s**t started to get real.

Speaking of which.

Forty dollars!!!!!!!!

And I have to bring my own deck!!!!!

Well, borrow a deck.

But still.

I then entered the rest room and was momentarily joined by Mike Guptil, pimp and

undefeated PES champion ten years running, who was on the lookout for
“some old f**ker wearing a Wizards shirt.” It seems that the registration people were a

bit concerned, as well they should be. I told him I hadn’t seen
anyone who meets that description.

The event hasn’t even started, and already I feel like I cheated. This is gonna be

awesome.

Since when did girls start playing Magic? You know, save your “Girls are human beings

too!” arguments, because I’m about to get all man on
your asses. If there were, say, two thousand people at the event, I’d wager that at least

two hundred had wimmen parts.

In my day, any Magic event that sported 10% wimmen parts was probably organized by

Gloria Steinem.

Of course, there were also significant numbers of wimmen parts waiting in the hallways

outside the event room, where they could read Tiger Beat, update
their Facebook status with “omgz I’m soooo board [sic]!”, wrangle the infants and their

strollers, and to simply stand by their man by listening to
their “…and then in the third game I got mana screwed” laments.

Their replies were most likely of the “That’s the only screw you’re getting today, you

bastard” variety, since they had to, like, spend a billion hours
commiserating with fellow wimmen parts and discussing what it would be like to have a

real boyfriend. You know, the kinds that drink, watch football,
and beat on them in drunken fits when their team loses.

I’ve decided that no one gives two rat’s fat asses about the actual gameplay, nor

actually reads a tournament report for the play-by-play. Mostly I
decided that there was too much stuff that happened, most of which would be boring to

read

write, and which included cards that I can’t remember and don’t feel like looking up.

Rather I figure I’ll show you how horrible I am at Magic. Every match will have at least

one example of my pure horribleness. See, now that’s going to
be fun! Who else loves you this much?

No one.

Loves you.

Except me.

Round One: Justin Shuster, G/R Ramp

In game one, Justin played Avenger of Zendikar.

I picked it up and read it.

Twice.

Since I was stuck on three lands, I picked it up a few turns later and read it again.

When he attacked for a million, I picked it up and read it again
to death.

In game two, my opening hand consisted of Doom Blade, Go For the Throat and Dismember,

with lands and creatures aplenny. Things are going along quite
nicely with a big ol’ pro: green Bloodghast, when Justin plays another Agent.

I pick it up and read it.

Twice.

He makes a bunch of tokens.

I pick it up and read it again.

When he attacks with seven 7/7s, I pick it up and read it again.

I Doom Blade it.

With the same Doom Blade I had in my opening hand.

And could have used every turn since the Avenger came into play.

He: Kewl, but the tokens still have the +1/+1 counters.

Me: LOL, you silly! Lies! They’s 0/1s now, fool!

He hands me the card.

I read it again.

For about the tenth time this match.

Look at all them tokens there.

My Doom Blade.

My life total.

Which is assuredly south of 49.

I am horrible at Magic.

Pretty good at reading, though.

But apparently, I suck a fat one at comprehension.

I sent myself a text so I would remember this foible for the report. Like I could

possibly forget it.

0-1

There are two things you can count on during a big Magic event:

1) The bathroom stench

2) Someone will have a broken leg

For this particular event, the stench was more than omnipresent and palpable. It got on

your clothes, in your eyes, into your circulatory system, and
was strong enough that it most certainly will have an adverse effect on both your sperm

count and likelihood of having mutated offspring — if you ever
get laid, that is. And judging by the stench, your diets consist mainly of entrails and

human waste. So if you ever do get laid, don’t.

Not content to be “that guy with the broken leg,” there were no less than three players

sporting the fun constricting leg wear and OMFG it itches gimme
a coat hanger and no you can’t sign my cast unless you’re rk Post!

(Rk Post was actually at the event signing stuff, so I assume you see what I did there.)

Round Two: Ryan King, U/W Control But Wait! Fatties!

Ryan was in a wheelchair due to what appeared to be a broken leg. I didn’t ask, mostly

because I want to be able to come to my own conclusions of a)
what is the injury and b) how it happened.

Thus, I’ll say his shinbone was shattered in the London riots by Apple Store looters.

Obviously, Ryan works in the Apple Store in London, but is really
good at an American accent. Like Christian Bale. Unless, of course, it was Justin from

round one who had the broken leg and I’m simply misremembering.

In order to prevent future questions of journalistic integrity, I’ll simplify by giving

all of my opponents broken legs and tell you what I think
happened.

In game one, I suited up Bloodghast with so many artifacts that Nicolas Cage went to

look for him.

Aaron and Neil Forsythe showed up toward the end of game one, just in time to see me

being awesome. Handshakes and idle chatter complete, they wandered
away, apparently safe in the knowledge that I am indeed a fantastic Magic player and

benevolent human being. More one than the other, as it turns out.

In game two, Frost Titan is really good.

In game three, Ryan played Venser, the Sojourner. I picked it up and read it a few

times, then he RFG’d something to get him up to five counters. The
next turn, I attacked unimpeded with Obliterator and Bloodghast, which would take him

down to nine life.

He: Are you attacking Venser?

Me: Take seven in your own face, son!

The next turn, he cast

Wrath of God

No Offense To Your Deity and RFG’d to get to seven.

I did nothing my next turn but seethe.

He did nothing but RFG to get to nine.

I cast something insignificant.

He got an emblem.

I asked, “What the hell is an emblem?”

He said, “It makes you lose.”

I cast stuff, it got RFG’d, he cast stuff and RFG’d me.

Note to self:

I am horrible at Magic.

No, horribler.

Horriblest.

It’s not like I hadn’t seen planeswalkers in action before. In fact, me and Lilly go way

back. Thus, I should know that you pretty much kinda wanna
kill the s**t out of planeswalkers when you get the chance. I suppose I figured that an

RFG for every spell cast isn’t really that good in
Constructed, though a beating in Limited.

Or I suppose I just f**king suck at anything that fits in my mouth.

0-2

I ambled over to the Gunslinga! table, where Aaron was beating upon hapless children

like he owned a salt mine and child labor laws were repealed
because iPhones and video games are crushing the souls of the next generation. You tell

me how a mono-green EDH deck can use creatures to turn his
opponent’s lands into artifacts then blow them up by tapping other creatures. At the end

of the game, Aaron had about forty permanents while his
opponent had zero.

WHAT A FUN DECK TO PLAY AGAINST!

It might be meaner than a deck built around an enchantment that makes you cut off one of

your fingers during your upkeep — because, let’s face it,
after four or five fingers, you’re probably so out of it that hey, what’s one more

finger, and I’m due to draw Disenchant soon, and even if I don’t, my
hands look pretty silly with all these nubs so mise well just put ‘em all in the bin for

aesthetic purposes.

Round Three: Derek Douglas, U/B Control But Wait Fatties

Derek had a broken leg. I believe it was due to his wearing a mohawk. See, there are

people that don’t take kindly to those who aren’t afraid to
examine the rules of hairstyle etiquette. Derek met two of these people. They are

members of the Pittsburgh Steelers — the local futbol club.

One day, Derek was at the Carnegie Science Center checking out the mohawk exhibit — you

know, mohawks past and present, what does the future hold for
mohawks, the usual — and James Harrison and Big Ben bumped into him. Derek was deep in

thought, considering the impact mohawks had on the industrial
revolution and was perhaps not watching where he was going.

Now, Harrison and Ben don’t cotton to mohawks on a good day, let alone when they’re in

an actual science center instead of a bar beating on or
harassing the patrons, so let’s just assume they were slightly miffed to begin with.

Big Ben: Watch it, you mohawk-havin’ bitch.

Derek: Sorry, predator.

Harrison: Don’t call him preditor, bitch.

Derek: You spelled “predator” wrong.

And it was on.

Game one:

Blue Titan

Black Titan

Wurmcoil Engine

vs.

Bloodghast

Game two:

Know what’s really good? Those 3/2 unblockable lands. Know what’s even better? Using Go

For the Throat instead of Doom Blade on the Blue Titan.

Take three.

Okay.

Take three.

Okay.

Take three.

Okay.

Take three.

I used Go For the Throat instead of Doom Blade on the Blue Titan.

Yes, you did. Now take three ‘til you die
.

0-3

Since I am officially out of the running for day two, this ends my tournament report.

Thanks for reading and have a nice day.

Look at you, knowing s**t about white space! Clever girl!

Scottie Too Hottie “Bags” Teamann , Andrew “Andrew Cuneo” Cuneo, and Mike “Spikey Mikey”

Patnik decided to show up and just get all Team CMU circa 2001
in the place. It was teary, and solemn, and joyous, and well, just like old times. Few

of them still play — but when they do, they’re still a couple
hundred rating points above my career high. So there’s that.

Bags got into a draft without knowing any of the cards. He drafted a white/black

cesspool that included a grand total of two creature enchantments,
double Auramancer, and Gravedigger. You know that one game out of a hundred where he’ll

pull off the recurring Replenish-type loop? It’ll be awesome.

However, in the three games I watched, it simply did not happen. Pobre si and lo siento.

While milling about waiting for the pairings to go up, I decided to try a thought

experiment:

Depending on your sources, between two and ten percent of the total population is

homosexual. I found myself a nice vantage point where I could take in
the entire venue, then estimated how many people were present. I settled on 1,500. I

then started with the “2% homosexual” group and tried to mentally
segregate thirty people and declare them gay as the night.

This was unsatisfying, for the group was too small to appear significant. Plus, the gays

were able to easily blend in with the straights, and we
absolutely can’t have this, according to the Republicans.

I then jumped straight up (LOL “straight!”) to the 10% bracket, and this is where my

research started to produce results! I found a suitable test group
of 150, drew an imaginary gayness circle around their group, and informed them, — only

in my mind, of course — that they were queer as three-dollar
bills.

It was remarkable! They were such a significant presence, in both allocated space and

purchasing power (2011 dollars adjusted for inflation, which is a
good thing according to the Democrats), that I could only conclude that wow, there are a

lot of homosexuals here! How did I not notice them when I
walked in? I mean, they’re all standing right there inside that imaginary circle and

being gay, and yet I walked right past them!

Round Four: Karen Thomas, G/B

Karen had a broken leg. She suffers from a little-known and very rare disease called

omgsoadorable. Omgsoadorable sufferers are well, omg so adorable,
and as a result, they’re adorable.

Few people are aware that when you reach the furthest heights of adorableness, one of

your legs breaks, which causes you to need a cast on said leg,
which causes you to be so much more omgsoadorable, which further raises the limits of both

adorableness and the bandwidth of icanhascheezburger.com. It’s like Moore’s Law

dispenses ovaries like Mentos, while Darwinism provides the
Diet Coke in the form of rutting season. (I have no idea what this actually means — The

Ferrett)

We both mulled, but since she has very small fingers it took her longer to shuffle. So

much longer that while she was still trying to shuffle her deck,
I was beating down with Obliterator.

We both mulled in game two, but since she has very small fingers it takes her longer to

shuffle, thus she realized that if one mulligan lasts x long,
then two mulligans must most assuredly last (2)x long. Karen is a science teacher, and I

gotta say for what the sciences gained the maths up and lost.
And I beat her into oblivion with turn 1, 2, 3, and 4 guys because I am merciful, Sensei

Kreese notwithstanding.

So she mulliganed a lot.

And drew pretty much nothing.

Why you hatin’?

Q. Wait, how does any of this prove that you’re horrible at Magic?

A. I beat upon a mana-screwed girl with very small fingers.

1-3

For those of you familiar with my work (LOL “work”), you may remember that I am, well,

kinda pee-shy. A bank of urinals with no dividers + one open
urinal + lots of guys occupying the other urinals = come back later, or hold my breath

and use a stall. To pee. Because I am pee-shy. So are you, but
you’re way too embarrassed to admit it.

The David L. Lawrence Convention Center in Pittsburgh, PA has the ultimate urinal setup.

They have urinal dividers — but not just any urinal dividers!
Apparently the architect, when it came time to design the bathrooms, realized that

“pee-shy” is a serious affliction and most certainly no laughing
matter (but g’wan, laugh anyway). The dividers are so massive that absolutely no eye

contact, not even peripherally, is possible. They can also,
depending on your position, blot out the sun, like the Persian arrows in 300.

Our dividers will blot out the sun!

Then we will pee in the shade.

The dividers are so lovely, that the next time I’m in Pittsburgh, I will gather up all

my immediate family and truck them down to the Convention Center
for the express purpose of showing them the architectural masterpiece that is the men’s

room urinals. That $40 entry fee was a bargain. I would’ve paid
$60 if Wizards added a pic of the urinal dividers to the GP literature sheet.

Dear Wizards,

That idea is on the house!

Love,

A Marketing Genius

Round Five: Ryan Unser, U/G/B/R

Ryan had a broken leg. He said he got it at Wal-Mart on Black Friday, fighting over the

last copy of From the Vault. See, Wizards, in your zeal to reap
unconscionable profits on the backs of the working poor, you caused at least one broken

leg.

I’ve known some money-hungry capitalists before — but Wizards obviously takes the cake.

They should be declared a monopoly and split into at least five
separate entities, each of whom will be required to pay a 75% corporate tax, provide

jobs for the needy, and scholarships, and open food banks, and
libraries, and buy vests for police dogs. For the children. Oh, and the elderly.

After Ryan double-mulled, I played turn 1 Duress and saw Unsummon and Fog.

“Serious” Magic players are probably laughing. “Casual” Magic players aren’t even

reading this article — but if they were, they might say “I like his
deck already.” Regardless of which pompous camp you belong to, the beat-down came post

haste in both games, since Ryan decided to draw a whole lot of
nothing.

Afterwards, I had to ask what his deck did, other than stall and draw cards. He showed

me a bunch of Millstone-style cards that decided to play
hide-n-seek in his deck.

Q. How does this prove you’re horrible at Magic?

A:

2-3

One of my favorite activities in life is being near a guy who’s telling a story of how

he was out at this bar (or anywhere, but it’s usually a bar),
and this gay guy either hit on him overtly or subtly, or maybe all he had to do was walk in. The

storyteller then either beat the guy up, ‘cause mash teh gays!, or immediately

left, shielding his crotch for sheer life.

Now there are five stories that most (d**khead) guys have in their arsenals:

1) This one time I was so drunk

2) This cop pulled me over and I manned up and he cowered

3) How I walked up to this hot chick and said “let’s go” and we did

4) I was so good I coulda made the pros if I hadn’t

5) Cool story about how I deal with gay guys

It’s story 5 that gets me into Rizzo Fun Mode For The Intellectually F**ked:

I ask, “Why are you afraid of gay people?” The answer is either “I’m not afraid of

them!” or “I f**kin’ hate ‘em!”

Question two is: “Are you uncertain about your sexuality?” The answer, as you may guess,

is “I’m straight and I know it!”

I then slide into Fun Mode: “There’s no reason to be ashamed, I mean, really, it’s no

big deal. The stigma is gone.” At this point, they usually turn
red and start laughing — a shameful laugh hidden under false bravado as they either get

with the quickness as they show me their wedding ring or a
picture of their “hot-ass girlfriend.”

At this point I pretty much come straight out (LOL “straight”) and tell them it’s okay

to be gay. Obv they say they’re not, but the obv retort is
“prove it.” Since one cannot disprove a negative — as in “okay, Mr. Rizzo, prove to me

you don’t whack it to Serra Angel” — this results in me winning,
though I win nothing. But man, it’s some kind of fun to f**k with people.

Kinda like what I’m doing right now.

Round Six: Rachel Rodgers, R/B

Rachel had a broken leg. Oh, and elf ears affixed to her regular ears. I never really

knew I had a thing for elven women, though I thought Agent Smith
was dead-sexy in Lord of the Rings. But Rachel! In her elven ears and broken leg, she

looked not just tall and lean and deadly with a bow and arrow,
but vulnerable, like she needed me to just for once show her a little damned compassion

— I have a broken leg, for God’s sake! She got it defending
Helm’s Deep, which is pretty bad-ass if you ask me, plus, you know, she killed orcs and

goblins.

Rachel mulled and drew about eight lands and two red spells. I drew about the same, but

I haz artifacts.

I double-mulled game two and was being beaten to death by red bloodthirst creatures that

are probably fair to middling in Sealed Deck. Then the
Obliterator Twins came to play, and they fought over who should wear the 6/6 Lashwrithe.

Know what big-ass tramplers do to little red guys? I bet you do, and I think I’ve

successfully proven why I am still, despite winning my third
consecutive (!) match, horrible at Magic. And yet, I’m pretty good at Magic…

3-3

Bags and I were watching Aaron cheat little kids at the Gunslinga! Table, when he asked

how much I thought Revised duals might go for these days. I
guessed about $100 for the good ones, and maybe $500 for the kewl Beta ones. We both

marveled at how no one can possibly afford those prices, and
aren’t you glad you sold a billion million bucks worth of cards for 3k?

Then it hit me:

The cards are fairly scarce, relatively speaking, and the people who can pay those kinds

of prices are the people that were, ten to fifteen years ago,
high-school-age Magic players. Now they’re all grown up and have jobs — and since most

Magic players are pretty smart, they likely have good jobs,
probably more than a few even have lucrative jobs.

And now all your duals are belong to them.

Wizards of the Coast are geniuses on so many levels that I can’t even comprehend. They

must have anticipated that the youngsters playing in the old
days would one day grow up and have monies mo’ monies to spend on cards. The only thing

was: how to keep them interested in the intervening years? I
think they solved that problem by printing awesome sets with awesome cards with awesome

mechanics, a.k.a.: cardboard crack.

Oh, and getting that Forsythe guy. Decent hire, I guess.

Speaking of the decent hire, while watching the Gunslinga! Table, some guy asked what

the hell is the Gunslinga! Table. I informed that it’s famous guy
vs. random who can win a pack if he beats famous guy, and I pointed to Aaron. The guy

asked, “Why is he famous?”

I paused for a moment, trying to gauge his sincerity-slash-naiveté. Then went for the

jugular:

I said he’s famous because he used to be a teammate of mine. He then asked who I was. I

replied that I am a former teammate of the famous guy at the
Gunslinga! Table. An infinite loop began, and unless I’m mistaken, that guy is still

there trying to find a way back to finity.

Round Seven: Onassis Burton, Mono U

Onassis had a broken leg. I believe he finally got sick of saying “Yes, that’s correct:

‘Onassis.’ Yes, like the Greek shipping magnate. Yes, who
married JFK’s widow. Yes, his first name was really ‘Aristotle.’ Yes, like the Greek

philosopher. Now STFU and die in a fire and come back to life to
die in another fire and come back to life and die for infinity,” and instead smashed his

own leg with a baseball bat to avoid, for the millionth time
in his life, regurgitating all of the above.

Kinda like how I feel when I hear “Rizzo? Ever heard of The Jerky Boys? Huh, liverlips!

Frank Rizzo! What’s up there, fruitcake!” Like this guy I work
with named Bruce Campbell, who rarely if ever gets asked “Hey, you ever see Evil Dead?”

Those people should die in fires.

Metaphorically, of course.

Then for real, of course.

Because I lost game one and it was never my fault I got mana screwed and he topdecked

like a champ, I won game two on the back of turn 1, 2, 3 and 4
action while Onassis was trying to get his fatties on. He was as stunned as I was when

his life total reached zero.

It was probably a typo and I cheated. Well, good on you, as those fun-loving Brits tend

to say.

It was 30-7, my flavor, in game three, when s**t went downhill. Onassis cast two Ratchet

Bombs and the tapper artifact, which put the beats at a
standstill. He then cast an Leonin Arbiter and that seven-mana artifact that kills my

life like Vindicate was on a string, since he’d sac it to gain a
life and put it back in his hand and drop more bombs than M. Night Shyamalan. Once I was

officially a eunuch, he dropped titans and Wurmcoils and
stocked up on Mana Leaks like they were legal again.

This match doesn’t prove I am horrible at Magic, for Onassis was probably too good of a

player to be paired up against me this late in the
tourney. It does, however, prove that I suck at beating good players with good decks and

tapping s**t in 2011 is just as annoying as it was during
Invasion Block. Nevertheless, a loss is a loss, and while I am horrible at Magic, I’m

still kick ass at grammar, evidenced by the first tee from my
online tee shirt company:

3-4

The Center had an on-duty security guard, an older white guy with a badge but sans gun —

so yeah, respeck my authoritay! His main job was to
funnel the smokers away from the front entrance to around the corner, where “We got

ashtrays set up.” He was vigilant and diligent and wasn’t about to
take no mess any way you wanted it. For hours, he stood his ground and made sure no one

smoked near the entrance, ‘cause secondhand smoke death and
decay and omg just go around the corner or I’ll show you my badge. No one fronted,

because we could see how seriously he undertook his undertaking.

Fast-forward a few hours, and his replacement showed up: an overweight black woman, who

decided that the smokers are at least paying exorbitant taxes,
so mise well let them smoke wherever they want. Actually, I can’t say that was her

thought process, but she did find a nice cozy spot behind a large
desk, where she sat, and sat, and sat, until she could no longer sit, so she reclined.

Round Eight: Devin Williams, U/G Pod

Devin had a broken leg, because I gave it to him after the match. To wit:

I pulled Liliana Vess’s ultimate and put into play the following:

3/3 white flyer that brings back an artifact

Acidic Slime

The 4/4 Baloth

Wurmcoil Engine

2/1 land-finder guy

Phyrexian Obliterator

Another Phyrexian Obliterator

Vampire Nighthawk

Some randoms and artificia.

Devin had some Birds and Wurmcoil tokens and the White Titan and Elesh Norn.

And then he played Mimic Vat.

I picked it up and read it.

Twice.

Imprint.

But wait, you have no cards in hand and just peeled it.

You must imprint!

But no, you mustn’t.

Okay, whatever I guess.

He attacked with his White Titan.

I am sneaky, instant-speed, yo.

I killed Elesh Norn.

Reached for my Vampire Nighthawk.

Who is now a 2/3 again.

And…

Pause.

Q. What did Rizzo do?

No, he couldn’t.

Could he?

But he must have.

Though seriously?

It’s not too late to change your answer.

You are a(n) ________ Magic player.

a) Awful

b) Nasty

c) Terrible

d) Atrocious

e) Ghastly

f) Hideous

g) Horrific

h) Horrible

i) All of the above and I’ll go to synonym.com when I get off work to find some more.

So of course I broke Devin’s leg to prevent him from running to tell his friends about

this horrible player who looks like he could afford to lose a
ton of cash in a money draft. Wouldn’t you?

3-5

After a tearful goodbye hug and dry hump, Bags left. Then Cuneo left, then Patnik left,

neither of whom said “buh buh, love you, call me.” Then Aaron
and Neil left, though I didn’t realize this until later, when I sought out my last two

friends in the world… and they were gone.

*sadface*

As he looks toward the exit, a single tear slides down Rizzo’s cheek.

I’m all alone in this world now! Okay world, you son-of-a-bitch, bring it on.

Round Nine: Riley Benson, Caw-Blade

Riley had a broken leg, and he only attended this, his first Grand Prix, due to an

unforeseen multiplayer melee injury. One night, one of the players
created so many squirrel tokens during an extended, infinite-mana turn, and another

played Congregate, and another played Rebound, and another played
Time Stop, and another cast Shahrazad — and then Riley called Wizards Rules Team.

The rules guru on the other end determined that one of these a**holes needed to get his

leg broken for playing such dumb cards. The other players,
knowing that rules gurus have the power to ban people from the kitchen table, decided

that Riley would be target player. Oh sure, they laugh about it
now, and he told the guy next to him that it wasn’t so bad, and would he be interested

in joining his group?

I kid the kitchen table crowd, because that’s how I started and that’s how I will likely

end. But in the meantime, I’m just jealous ‘cause y’all have
friends. The last two I had in the world left me.

*sadface*

Rizzo looks to the heavens, exasperated and alone, and screams “WHY!!!???”

I have Bloodghast suited up.

He has no guys and is facing death, then peels the double-strike pro: black guy.

LOL

I peel Gatekeeper of Malakir.

Fast-forward to game two:

I have some dork suited up.

He has no guys and is facing death, then peels the double strike pro: black guy.

LOL

I peel Gatekeeper of Malakir.

Do I need to point out that I won only because I peeled one of four answers in my deck

the exact turn I needed them two games in a row?
Because I will point that out if you need me to.

4-5

So all that went and happened. I beat upon the mana-screwed, chicks, and those who

couldn’t beat my super-lucky guy top decks and lost to everyone
else. Par for the course, I suppose, and really kinda what I expected. I saw some old-

school lovers, albeit briefly, devoured Magic player stench,
wandered the massive hall and venue aimlessly for what seemed like hours and miles,

played against what I can only assume were at least seven rounds of
net decks, and got to see about a billion Steelers’ jerseys on the passerby who were

walking to the stadium ‘cause duh, Da Stillers’ are playin’
tonight!

Which reminds me, athletes’ salaries are outrageous! If you’ve ever uttered those words,

as I have oh so many times (which basically means “never”), I
have a quick list which, if adhered to, will usher in a new era of reasonable salaries

and then you can finally afford to take your family to the game:

1) Buy an authentic jersey for $100+.

2) And a hat and couple t-shirts.

3) Buy game tickets for a c-note or ten.

4) Or buy the pay-per-view at $60 per pop.

5) Or the TV season ticket package at $200 per year.

6) Sit back and relax as you watch player salaries plummet.

Q. What’s the difference between a rabid sports fan and a brain sitting in a jar on a

shelf?

A. Nothing. Well, I guess the shelf is different.

As he was heading out and I was going for one more sextastic pee behind the divider of

love, I passed Patrick Chapin, offered a fist-bump and said
“Patrick Chapin!” He returned the potato and said “Have a good night, man.”

“Man?” Don’t you know who I am? I’m famous! I’m frigginrizzo!

I had to put that paragraph up in here for two reasons:

1) All StarCityGames.com articles must mention Patrick Chapin at least once.

2) Patrick is one of my few Facebook friends who isn’t politically and philosophically

moronic. (Hey! — T.F.)

3) Even if the f**ker didn’t recognize me.

4) Though he looked kinda tired.

5) And I was kinda tired.

6) But only one of us had a four-hour drive home.

7) Hint: it was me.

How tired was I? I only fell asleep while driving a dozen or so times, and only rear-

ended one guy at a stop light because I am horrible at driving,
though not as horrible as I am at Magic. The impact jarred me awake, and I pulled over

into the parking lot where he pulled over, hopefully to get my
ass beaten to a pulp: at least if he rendered me unconscious, I would be able to sleep.

We appraised the total lack of damage (how the f**k?), then he
said “I don’t give a s**t, it’s not my car!”

So i mise.

I drove on and on and on she kept on ‘cause that thang been alive before my mother’s

born. There were no further incidents, and now I can go back to my
regularly-scheduled life.

And so can you.

Because I lived the dream.

Again.

Even if it was only for one day.

Love,

John Friggin’ Rizzo