The Asses Of Boston: An In-Depth Analysis

Not knowing five hundred cards and playing with and against those five hundred cards in a Limited environment is some friggin’ friggin’.


I played Magic. On purpose. At Grand Prix: Boston. Yep.

Not knowing five hundred cards and playing with and against those five hundred cards in a Limited environment is some friggin’ friggin’.

For some reason, Scottie Too Hottie Teamann, a.k.a. Bags, emailed me out of the blue. For another reason, I returned the email and mentioned that Grand Prix: Boston is both upcoming and thinks it’s in close proximity to Harrison, Maine, even though it sorta isn’t. Thusly, we attended.

Funny thing alert:

— Panzini Scott wrote:

Hey Johnny. How the wife and the kiddies? I hope they’re good i really do.

Anyways, the reason ur getting this e-mail is cause im upset about a certain article(s) u wrote about me back in the day and i figured i’d slam u now since ur a lowlife, piece of garbage, no skill, no class, pile of s**t who quit magic cause he got sick and tired of going 0-6-1 in ptq’s and decided to write about them cause he has nothing better to do with his sh***y life.I read the article(s) u posted about me back in Jan ~ feb 2002 and i hafta say, dat has to be the worst pile of sh*t i have ever seen. But now when i Read them again out of boredom, they just make me laugh. Mainly cause, well ur the worst writter ever. Where do u get the right to slam me on the internet?? Im surprised u quit. I figured u would want to get revenege on us”jagoffs” lol! Thats a creative word right there buddy. Almost as creative as ur awful f**king articles. lol why would u ever post someone ratings, just to make urs look worse?? I mean cmon, Have u ever done well at any event… Or LIFE EVEN?? Let me know man cause im curious. This”Some Kid” really thinks ur funny and that u should become a comedian. I know i know, ur saying that comedians don’t make much at 1st, but frankly sitting on ur ass writing horrific Articles about”some kid” and his”jagoffs” isn’t gonna get u anywhere. Maybe a few welts in ur bald dome. Well this is”some kid” sayin ur a f***face and us”jagoffs” hope u have a fun time with ur horrible life. Peace foo.

“Some kid”

Somekid&[email protected]

They’re so cute at that age. So cute that I felt obligated to reply…

>Hola Scott,


>Heh. Only heh for you.


>Too bad you don’t know what that means. And never will.


>Thanks for writing,

>John Friggin’ Rizzo

FrigginRizzo: <---the worst writter ever.

If you don’t know the Scott Panzini chronicle, check it out in my archives: That New Card Smell And Punks Galore – Torment Prerelease, and the followup I Can’t Think Of A Clever Title: PTQ: Nice. Or just reread the above email and judge for yourself.

Since I arrived about three hours too early, and thus would be cooling my heels until Bags his bad self decided to show up, thus allow me entry into the hotel room (that I am even as I type this trying to find a way to stick him with the bill), I figured it would be quite the nutty experience to play”spot the magic nerd.”

Not long after pulling out ol’ trusty laptop, placing it on my – heh – lap, my prayers were answered. Amongst the randomness that is the Park Plaza lobby, there was some nonrandomness up in it to skin it.

Lo’ and behold, over yonder: the back of a YMG dragon/fish/scary thingy t-shirt. Ah, but who or even whom might be sporting the wacky dragon? Well, the hair told the entire story: Alex Shvartsman. See, he’s got that hair… It’s just oh so very… Shvartsman-like. I’d like to comb it, not run my fingers through, but comb it nonetheless. So would you.

While typing the previous paragraph, an Asian kid walked by with a mini entourage. He was possessing many Magic nerd characteristics. Could it be… Ken Ho? Or, well, I couldn’t really recognize any other Asian Magic nerds, so it’s Ken Ho, damnit, and to hell with accuracy.

Speaking of accuracy: In my States report, I clearly listed”2x Terror” in my decklist, and even made mention of a few games where I used said terroristic card to kill something to death. Problem is, Terror was not and is not Standard-legal. Heh; I cheated.

The thing, it certainly seems right now, about Boston is that every establishment has this idea that thermostats set at less than fourteen hundred degrees kelvin are simply unacceptable. Heat is not a satisfactory soothe for a city still hurting from that Babe Ruth Thing, so turn that crap down.

Also, no one in Boston has a bad ass. I know this because I ventured a block or so, which in Boston can take an hour or two (idea: have a few more intersections and traffic signals that take forever to give a brother the green go hand), for some coffee – just plain coffee, none of this fancy schmancy big city folk nutty fruity-flavored jazz, thanks.

Perhaps some of the elderly gentlemen that I passed were wanton in the gluteal region – but for some unknown reason, I chose not to turn and evaluate. However, the city is now priming the folklore of the guy that walked around in circles ogling every woman he passed until he slipped on a patch of ice (on a fifty degree day no less) and fell down and broke his friggin’ grille.

And it’s all true, except for the grille part. Oh, and falling down, too.

When I returned to the hotel, to wait yet another two hours, I swore I saw The Great Ass. Yes, it had to have been Bob Maher’s ass, for the way it maneuvered through the revolving doors was nothing less than awe-inspiring. If the picture of me watching Bob Maher’s ass floating through a circular portal doesn’t at least pique your interest, well… I don’t blame you.

It’s gonna cost me forty-eight bucks to get my car out of the parking garage on Saturday night/Sunday morning. Heh, forty-eight bucks.

Quick math:

  • Gas: $20

  • Tolls: $10

  • Parking: $48

  • Trial and grand prix: $50

  • The least amount I can probably at least offer to pay Bags for the room: $50

  • Meals: $20 (heh, of course)

  • Total to go a combined 2-13 for the weekend… Too much. Add a couple hundred if airfare entered the picture.

Pro Magic player: Hi, I won twenty-five grand at a Pro Tour, can I borrow a five?

Oops – there’s Baby Huey with two guys. Brock and Linde perhaps? Could be, but I don’t know: All those Brocks and Lindes look alike.

Bags informed me, via cellular technology, that Aaron might not be in attendence. Oh, for the newbs, that’s Aaron Forsythe, that bastard. If he dares to not show up I’ll beat his ass senseless with Arc Lightnings and Darwins and things that remain in the drain after a shower. Of course, I imagine much of the CMU posse will be precisely in effect, which may or may not lessen the pain and agony and many other synonyms for pain and agony.

Like Mike Turian isn’t gonna show. Or Eubroken. Or Nathan Peterweiss Heiss. Or Nick Eisel. Or Sottovoce.

I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ.

You could look it up in my archives if inclined: PTQ: Somewhere, at Origins. That’s where I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. Seriously, in two games, pretty bad. No, worse. I’m neat.

Was that Rob Dougherty that just passed by? In an”event staff” t-shirt? Could be, let’s ask.

Me: You’re Rob Dougherty – I know because I played in a dozen tourneys you organized and I saw your pic on the web and all that stuff and I think you hate me anyway.


Actually, Rob had nothing to say, since we didn’t make eye contact, thus could not go through the two-stroke ritual. Ergo:

Me: Hi. (one stroke)

Rob: Hi. (one stroke)

Me: Hot enough for someone’s mom? (one stroke)

Rob: Who are you, you freakin’ random? (one stroke)

I’m all about giving and receiving the proper amount of strokes. So are you, but you don’t want to admit it.

They should change the name of this hotel to The Hotel Where Every Chick That Enters Must Have a Sexy Ass. I see a problem: That’s a very long web addy to type, and it wouldn’t fit on the caps they buy from Cintas either.

The bellhop/doorman/man of many hats looks like Farid Merenghi. A little too much.

Did I mention that I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ?

Heh; Rob swung by, pushing a stroller or some such, made the briefest eye contact ever; when I met the fleeting glance, he looked away, and very quickly at that. I think that means I’m tough. So much for our stroke fest.

Jesus, even the moms have sexy asses up in Beantown.

Frigginrizzo: <---Did a mom once.

Of course, this does not include doing my wife, who along with being my wife and the mother of my children (at least I think), is also the mother of my children, hence a mom. I meant some other mom. This was before the term”MILF” was created or popularized. And way before milfhunter.com uploaded their first mpeg.

It’s three o’friggin’ clock, and there goes Rob again. Busy guy, huh? I think the next time he passes by, I’ll say something along the lines of”I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ.” That outta impress the piss out him, huh?

Seriously, could I look any more pathetic? Sitting in a chair in the lobby with a laptop on my, wait… Lap, with a big ol’ heavy bag of assorted things lying beside. Staring at chicks’ asses. And typing.”Multi-tasking” was the old nomenclature in the pre-politically correct days – now they call that”staring at chicks asses and typing.”

There’s this guy looking at me. He may or may not be:

1) Gay

2) A homicidal maniac

3) A gay homicidal maniac

4) A Magic nerd

All of which are quite worth giving him a little wink. I’m such a tease.

Farid the bellhop is darting all around the lobby like a Magic nerd with his mana tapped down. To and fro, here and there, with nary a second to check out the surrounding asses. And he’s carrying some stick-like stick thing that I assume he uses as a stick-like stick thing for many different reasons, many of which are likely justifiable.

The endless ass parade has quieted for now, which is – There goes Huey and his dynamic unknown duo, looking very much Brock and Linde-like, but probably aren’t. Perhaps I’ll scream”Brock!” and then avert my eyes (but still maintain surveillance) to see if either of them look over. I could also repeat this exercise by yelling”Linde!” but I just don’t feel like it right now. Perhaps later, say four A.M., in the room, in my fort, while lying on top of Jill. Or Becky. Or Jill and Becky.

Oh. My. God.

Think I’ll pack up my bag and go have a smoke. Or six.

Okay, one did it: There’s too many asses out thar’ in that big city! By the way, men are only pigs because women have asses. If they didn’t have asses, we wouldn’t be pigs. Problem: Solved. Now, to get to work on all you leftist swine Saddam sympathizers.

I see a lot, actually more than a lot, of Boston men with shaved heads. Here’s a tip from an old-school wigger:

We can still tell you’re going bald. Really. Nope, didn’t work for me, won’t work for you. But hey, look at the bright side: It does make you look like a dildo with ears.

Nick Eisel, I beat him in a PTQ.

You know what I really don’t feel like doing for the next two days? Playing Magic.

Heh on me.

I think I finally figured out why moms tend to look a little too sexy for my cat: It’s because there is evidence, in most cases irrefutable, that they put out. Kinda hard to claim you don’t put out when you’re pushing a stroller, huh? Thought they could fool me? I’m like Will Hunting with my super genius mathematical skillz. Somewhat.

I positioned myself nearer to the elevator because the chairs look much more cozy. Sitting on your ass for hours at a time might seem like a blast, but it really isn’t because it’s too public in this lobby and I dare not open up some rather iffy mpegs. Thusly, it’s Magic, nothing but Magic, from here on out.

Speaking of outing stuff, I had a very close call a few weeks ago:

During working hours, and whilst me and mine work partner guy were at, coincidentally, work, although making a non-work related stop at Staples, we pulled up the offical work vehicle next to one of those little bitch trucks – S-10s or whatever, and who to my wandering eyes did appear?

Answer Boy.

A double-take on our parts, then a moment of fear from me when Answer Boy stepped out and offered me a”sup?” Uh oh, I better be smooth here, or I risk spilling the”former Magic player” secret to my co-worker fellow.

However, co-worker was none too impressed that I actually knew someone in life, and off he went. But Answer Boy was so plussed or non-plussed or anti-plussed that he promptly locked his keys in his little bitch truck. Heh on him.

Into the store we went, where Answer Boy went in search of an answer. I left before the answer was administered, but nevertheless, he locked his friggin’ keys in his friggin’ truck and it’s all my fault.

I inspire things.

But before we could actually enter the work vehicle, co-worker guy was accosted by an acquaintance of his. Said acquaintance had approximately four teeth in his entire head, a week’s growth, and who knows how long since he bathed. As I listened to them chat amiably (the discussion mostly revolved around how evil the world is because they both weren’t born rich, or handsome, or with a shred of intelligence), I couldn’t get one phrase out of my head:

White Friggin’ Trash.

Yeah, we have some of that in Maine. Okay, a lot; apparently, the rest of New England sends their white trash up I-95 into Maine and abandons them on the side of the road. White trash, not knowing what to do, simply stay put. And the rest is history.

About a million Magic nerds have since passed, but I don’t know any of them. You probably do, but you’re not here right now; if you were, you’d agree that there are a lot of nice asses in Boston, particularly the lobby of this hotel. Offically named”The Park Plaza,” but”The Ass Plaza” seems more apropos. Plus, that rolls off the tongue better than that really long, but also apropos, name from a few pages back.

If I’m ever reincarnated, I think I’d like to come back as a woman’s crotch. And if I can’t get that, go ahead and make me an ass.


It’s ten after four and Bags isn’t here yet. Uh, the trial starts at five, so think he’d better get a move-on? I wouldn’t be above lugging around my amazingly heavy-ass bag through the tourney site, but it kinda would piss me off.

Okay, another venture into the big city o’ asses from heaven. Hey, there’s Bags, with a bag or two.

Hi, Bags. Lemme check my phone to see what time it is and if we have to hurry to get to the trial – Hey, I lost my goddamned friggin’ sonuvabitchin’ godamned cell phone. Really, it’s not in my pocket, nor my big ol’ bag, nor anywhere in life. I just had the goddamned friggin’ sonuvabitchin’ goddamned thing, now I don’t.

Wow, I’m not too angry. The fact that I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ isn’t calming my nerves one bit. Okay, a little, but I lost my goddamned cell phone. No, really, I’m pissed.

Let’s check the concierge guy. After ten minutes on hold, the answer came back. It did not please me. Any idea how hard it is to spell”concierge?” Alas, a fancy name for a gopher high and low-priced call girl (or guy) and cocaine finder, no matter how hard it is to spell, does not impress me. But I’ll be in room 739, thanks.

Five minutes or less of gettin’ reacquainted and we’re off to The Castle, the site of many magical thing type things to transpire.

Oh, the trial starts at seven? Nice.

I lost my goddamned friggin’ phone, by the way.

Mouth was standing outside, cell phone in hand aligning beeyotches for something probably very illegal and/or incredibly tantalizing, when he decided to accompany the Bagger and I for drinks and a snack.

It was at the hotel bar/lounge place thing that I gleaned from subtle conversational context that Mouth may or may not be a democrat, much like Bagger may or may not claim to be.

Ah, democrats, gotta love ’em. Or not.

Since the hotel was not all about having anything tasty in morsel size or other, we went in search of real food. Mouth, of course, had a bevy of beeyotches to attend to, leaving us to our destiny.

Ah, let’s traipse ’round ol’ Beanertown to see what we can see. Yep, just as I figured: lots of nice asses and very average looking guys accompanying them, many with shaved heads. Heh on them.

But oh, food, as in”is there any in this Godforsaken imitation real city?” Doesn’t look good, especially when you’re with Bags, who will find very many reasons to not eat at this or that establishment. From”there’s nobody here” to”the doorguy needs ID and The Other Johnny Magic didn’t bring his because there’s no friggin’ way he could possibly be under 21 but doormen have small penises and like to play ‘imitation cop boy’ and intimidate randoms for no reason” to”this city is horrible,” Bags is all about the negativity.

Or maybe that was me.

Finally, we found a place that fit the bill, and by this time the bill was fit to be tied to a bed and pounded from behind whilst gazing adoringly at that sexy tat on the small of its back. Of course, that’s the real reason chicks get tats back there, right? I am old, so pardon me if I’m not exactly down with the sickness – though I’m fixin’ to be in the next life.

We ate, we ogled, we ripped on everyone in the place, which is only fair because they were all white collar jagoffs, thus fully deserving of every barb thrown their way, but quietly enough so they wouldn’t hear because I’m a coward.

Blah, blah, let’s get this damned trial thing over with so I can take a nap or something.

25 beans and a deck – Rizzo without a friggin’ clue. And it showed.

Rounds 1, 2 and 3: I lose, horribly. I got one guy down to two life in one game. Boo. Ya.

However, Bags did get to face off against resident Starcity art guy Michael J. LaRue. For some reason, Bags won. MJL and I chatted for a few moments, then coincidentally found ourselves seated beside each other in the next round.

After looking at my opening hand, I showed MJL a Starstorm and asked if that was a good card. He decided that, yes, it’s fairly bombay, which was good enough for me. However, I was quite concerned with the negative space, and voiced as much to MJL. He found the artwork to be more than just fine regarding said negative space, so then I felt even better.

But I still lost, bombay card with appropriate negative space nothwithstanding.

Gary Wise was giving a sealed deck clinic, surrounded by more than a few throngish peeps – most likely all of which were wearing thongs. Or g-strings. I’m not a fan of either thongs or g-strings, but I stayed for a few minutes and watched Gary work the onlookers like he was working onlookers. But I wisely chose a spot out of Gary’s line of sight, which of course means he didn’t see me.

Whew; that was close as hell.

A few peeps seemed to recognize me but wisely stepped the hell off, for I am a true bastion of something quite bastionlike. But seriously, ladies and scumbag pig men who are way too all about staring at chicks’ asses, I have no real idea how to finish this sentence. Or why I started it in the first place.

Aaron didn’t show. Yet. Bastard.

While outside having a smoke with a number of nerdy Magic nerdies, this gaggle of hot chicks walked a little by a little too closely. Thus, I ripped off half a dozen stinkers. Heh; stinkers. As loud as humanly possible. I think that’s funny. Very funny. You do, too.

Really, farts are, and will always be…Funny. At any hour of the day, in any location, from anyone, even chicks. Sorry to burst your bubble, dudes, but yep, chicks can rip ’em off like gangbusters.

I am so friggin’ disgusting and funny, in that order. Farts are hysterical. Please, try to deny it, won’t you? And while you’re at it, try to tell me that you don’t play the bone flute. I’ll almost believe you.

You think breaking wind is funny. And you masturbate. Heh.

Frigginrizzo: <---Thinks breaking wind is funny.

Frigginrizzo: <---Been known to touch himself from time to time.

Go ahead, click the back button – but we both know you need to either a) get laid, which just ain’t gonna happen, ever, or b) lighten up.

Nick Eisel lost to me in a PTQ. And he’s okay with that. If he can recover, you can look in the mirror and admit that I might have a point. I might not, but if you even think about thinking either the phrase”that’s a little too much information,” or the modern cyber inspired”TMI,” then you’re the one with muy problemos.

That’s called”transference” in the psychology biz.

Sleepy time for the guy who has absolutely no clue what the hell’s up with morph and this tribal stuff. I sucked at Magic when I knew the cards and played at CMU and actually cared.

Take the knowledge of 99% of the cards, CMU, and caring away, and I’m a license to print money.

Upside down cards and guys that cost either three or nine to cast was obviously enough to make me go”hmm.”

And to the hotel, where Bags was quite content for me to beat upon him with that crazy elf life gain guy and the elf +X/+X guy until we decided food was again in order.

Nope, nowhere to be found. Solution: hop in a cab and say”take us to food.”

We do just that, but when Bags muttered the question”Can you help us out with a place that might have pizza?” the cab driver didn’t bother to respond. Five minutes later, he stopped in the middle of the road, nearly turned his head around to us and muttered”down de end of de block.”

Bags and I stared at each other for a moment, then took that as our cue to get the hell out of dodge before foreign cab driver (go friggin’ figure – stereotypes might actually be a tad accurate?) decided to either hack us into pieces or take us out behind the woodshed and learn us some manners, neither of which sounded too appealing. At least at that moment. In retrospect, might not have been so bad – he did have a nice accent, might have sounded nice to hear him cursing us in a foreign language while he administered said lessons or just plain old murdered us.

Nick Eisel? Oh, you mean that guy I beat in a PTQ?

We found pizza hidden among a horde of nice asses and yet more foreign guys with bad attitudes.

There are two types of people in Boston: Those with nice asses, and foreigners with bad attitudes and little command over the English language.

Ah, now I can build a fort. In the smallest hotel room ever. But I scraped together many random parts to construct a dwelling large enough to hold my soon to be asleep and hopefully snoring ass.

Woke up took a shower, blah, blah. Off to the GP.

At the elevator, who should appear but the rightest reverend ever, Toby Wachter himself.

This might be called”irony” if you were one of those people who have no friggin’ idea what”irony” really means. Otherwise, it’s called either”coincidence” or”serendipity,” depending on your point of view and general political persuasion ya’ goddamned democrats.

Free Mumia! Or not.

Free Scott Weiland! Or not.

Free James Brown! Well, okay, maybe.

By the way, how worth was the nearly year wait to finally hear Chris Cornell with the real members of Rage Against the Machine (even though they’re psycho leftist scum)?

The answer is”very worth it.”

Dear Zach De la Rocha,

Wherever you are, please stay there.


A guy who was weary of your pissing and moaning about random causes that were so random that nobody ever heard of them, much less cared (or perhaps I need to stand corrected in my corrective shoes)

“I’ll bring all my shoes, so I’ll have them.”

“I’m gonna come down there and make you eat your f’in shoe!”

“I fell down the stairs and my shoes fell off.”

The Jerky Boys are funny. Julia Roberts is not.

Passing gas is funny. The Three Stooges are funny. Still, Julia Roberts is not.

This is a tournament report, right? No, this is me and my problems, nice to meet you.

Oh yeah, back to Evil Toby, plain ol’ bad guy anti-Rizzoite from hell. Along we walked towards thine Castle, chatting merrily and singing Irish drinking songs while bonding in many ways that such mortal enemies such as us should never attempt. And that’s exactly what Bags said, more or less or even more like”you’re both nerds and Magic is the devil and does anyone have a bad ass in this town?” We are or were, and nope, nice asses from here to wherever the nice ass line ends.

See, Toby made very much fun of me in his big ol’ article, and that’s just fine and dandy. Because it was a) creative, and b) funny. People who can’t laugh at themselves, or others taking good-natured shots at least partly in jest, need to get laid.

Lots more peeps today than yesterday – and boy, don’t I love crowds? Shoulder-to-shoulder, ass-to-ass crowds, perhaps even a little closer. Call me silly, but I really can’t remember what it was about this type of scene that appealed to me. I think that it never really did, but I was able to successfully delude myself that it did.

Either way, the first thing I’m thinking”is it almost time to go home?” Heh; a might uncomfortable was I. Shrinks might have something to say about my not enjoying the”closeness” of a thousand peeps bouncing around and randomly groping each other, but I probably wouldn’t listen. Nick Eisel, however, would. And he certainly should, since I beat him in a PTQ.

So, who was there, you ask (as if you didn’t already check out the coverage on the Sideboard).

CMU nerds were, but in limited numbers, which seems fitting since this was a limited event. Mister Mike, Turian that is, Nick”Rizzo beat me in a PTQ” Eisel, Paul”National Champ 2003″ Sottosanti, Jeremy”Spoke in class today” Darling, and of course Eugene, Eugene, you broken mother freakin’ machine, were all ready to crush dreams and beat randoms unmerciful until their shoes fell off.

A few moments of reacquaintance, then this hottie walked up and interrupted. The conversation:

Hottie: Hi, my name’s Jill Costigan.

Me: Hello, Jill, would you like an autograph?

Hottie: Yes, I would.

Me: Heh.

Oh yeah, the sexual tension was cut with a knife, then said knife was licked. In case you were unaware, playing the”adoring fangirl” and”nutty former Magic writer guy eager to ‘please’ his fangirls” is a not necessarily unsatisfying substitue for carnal activities. Or so I wish.

A few minutes of catching up with the former Babe of the Month who was really never dethroned, then this guy walked by who looked a little too much like EDT.

Turns out it was, as I excused myself from the game of deep-rooted sensuality and approached. While EDT was obviously surprised that somone so random as I would appear on his shoulder and offer a”sup?” he nevertheless played along, to perfection the role of someone who seems to have no idea who the hell he was talking to. I guess our times spent together meant much more to me than to he. Heh.

Uncle Pete, he of owning StarCityGames fame, thought it appropriate to offer me a sizeable amount of cash money, brotha, for a large bag of rares that I saw fit to bring with me in an effort to unload. I was prepared to ask for x dollars, but he pre-counter-offered with X+150 more than I expected. Uh, okay, sounds good.

Bags figured that was a generous offer because I used to be frigginrizzo. I turned a blind eye to that logic, especially since I was just poked in the eye by all that cash Pete threw at me. Regardless of either Pete or my expectations, happy times were borne for all involved. Except for Nick Eisel, who may end up winning a Pro Tour someday, but can never, ever get that loss to me in a PTQ expunged from his record.

It wasn’t long before deck reg, where I was seated a little too closely to Jon Becker, he of at least one-third reponsible for forcing me to fall in love with Millikin. Chatty Cathys we both were, until the kid across from me started uttering to no one in particular”anyone have a pen?” Of course, I felt duty bound to reply”why, yes, I most certainly do, thanks.”

Or maybe I didn’t. But you’ll never know.

Friggin’ Forsythe didn’t show up. Bastard. I don’t like him anymore.

But Josh Bennett did, and a tense moment of subtle love was spread amongst us. But as far as I know, he never beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ. Even if he used the word”Schandenfreude” (the paradoxical joy some take from enduring pain – heh, kinda like Bruce) in a match report way back when before he was all important and big and Wizardish.

And who woulda thunk that some Crossroads nerds might make the couple hour trip? Not I said the random. Alas, Answer Boy apparently found his keys, because he and Alex and Mike the silent Dupre were up in here, up in here. As was Aaron Lewis from Staind.

Heh. I never get tired of saying that, mostly because I really hated Staind, even before I found out that Fred Durst either signed or produced them. Then I really, really, really hated them. Might have something to do with wanting to beat the living piss out of Fred and everyone associated with him.

Speaking of Limp Bizkit, Karl”I did it all for the” Rookey was also in su casa de Darwin’s Castle. But the more I think about it, the more apt I am to come to the decision that Karl most definitely did not do it all for the Rookey. Then again, perhaps he did.

Okay, the tourney report:

Rounds 1, 2 and 3: I lose.

Details that matter but probably don’t:

I was this close to winning a game with that 5/5 dragon guy and tons ‘o fat when an opponent tapped a billion mana and cast a red card that allowed him to steal all of my guys and serve me in the nonbelieving grille with them. Neat.

Another opponent was about to die when he cast Starstorm for a lot, killing everything in our game and at least two matches beside us, then tapped a few more mana and cast this Bear Claw sonuvabitch that gave him 4 2/2s from nowhere. Nice combo; I guess I shoulda seen that coming, huh?

Another guy had this annoying blue morphy guy that bounced a guy when turned over in combo with the other blue morphy guy that would reflip a guy when he was turned over. No, that wasn’t annoying. Much.

Yet another guy had Butcher Orgg, who is a very fair card by the way, and Phage the Untouchable in play at the same time. Of course, that zombie guy that acts like a little Necro coming out on turn 4 and having the zombie regenerator guy to keep him alive was cute as well.

Hi, Magic is weird all of a sudden. Guys cost a billion and do ridiculous things, like dome you for 5 or turn into Ghitu Slingers or Bone Shredders when flipped over. Man, this game was tough when I understood it. Now it’s just nutty as hell.

But I did manage to win two games by swapping my G/R/b deck into W/U/b for game two. Heh; I won with white cards, who are pretty friggin’ nutty in their own right.

Sitting down after round 2, an amazing desire to not be here anymore overtook me. Actually, I wondered on the drive down exactly why I was coming in the first place. Thirty hours later, I was still wondering, sans cell phone which I goddamned friggin’ lost.

Alas, after round three I packed up what was left of my weary ass and headed out of the city of perfect asses and shaved domes, and back to the land of the white trash, where at least things make sense.

Finale for mintbox:

600 Rizzo, John *

The asterisk indicates severe tightness.

Name players that I finished above:

601 Dalton, Ryan

602 Raymo, Thomas

603 Castrello, Brandon

604 Kolbig, Kyle

605 Williams, Justin

606 Tessier, Adam

607 Layman, Keith

608 Schettino, Alexander

609 Rego, Tj

610 Pierce, Chris

Oh-fer-the-tourney (and the trial) isn’t very good. Losing your cell phone isn’t either. Forty-eight bucks for parking ain’t gettin’ me sexed up. Aaron calling in sick was fairly ass. But I got to build a fort, see some of my nuggas from the old school, not to mention pass by Scott Panzini a couple of times – nope, we didn’t acknowledge each other (yet again) and finally, remember why I used to play this wacky little game. And here it is:

“ur a lowlife, piece of garbage, no skill, no class, pile of s**t who quit

magic cause he got sick and tired of going 0-6-1.”

Actually, you give me too much credit, Scottie. It was simply 0-6. And I never had more fun going 0-6, although I would have liked to get that draw you so much wanted for me.

I finished 600th and I don’t mind one bit. How’d you do, Mr. Expert?

271 Panzini, Scott * 10 pts: a stellar 3 wins and a draw (an ID perhaps?)

But the odds are very high that he didn’t end up 3-5-1. Nope, Scottie would never play after he had lost two matches: why play when you’re out of contention for day two? Why jeopardize your precious rating? Speaking of rating…

As of Feb 13, 2002, these were his stats:

Constructed: 1841

Limited: 1796

Composite: 1818

Now, a little more than one year later, here’s where he stands:

Constructed: 1789

Limited: 1795

Composite: 1792

Simplifying, we get this:

Constructed went from 1841 to 1789

Limited went from 1796 to 1795

Composite went from 1818 to 1792

Translation: In one year, Scott Panzini became even more suckier in Constructed, despite likely using every net deck he could get his grubby little hands on. In Limited, he was nearly able to maintain a merely average rating, but slipped one point. Overall, losing 26 points from Composite is not a promising trend.

“why would u ever post someone ratings, just to make urs look worse??”

No, to make yours look worse.

Dear Scott,

You outta quit, too, dawg.


The worst writter ever

I almost feel like coming back to the fold – just think of how much material this kid would give me! I could write about him for months upon months, forcing him to come up with lines that break the boundaries of profundity such as:”dat has to be the worst pile of s**t i have ever seen” and”ur a f***face and us”jagoffs” hope u have a fun time with ur horrible life.”

The kid is mint, ain’t he?

A few pages back, I was wondering why I used to wake up at five in the morning and drive three hours to go 3-5 or worse. As I sit comfortably in front of my computer in the confines of my”worth much more than I paid for it” cribbo, I wish I was back in Boston.

What the hell is wrong with me?

By the way, I beat Nick Eisel in a PTQ.

And if I didn’t say it before, allow me to do so now…


John Friggin’ Rizzo