ME: (shoving the box under his nose) Taste these right NOW!
HE: (tasting) Uh-oh.

White Cheddar Cheez-Its.

Meet your life’s true purpose.

So The Bronte Blog linked to our recent little convo between Jane and Faramir.

That’s so nice, but, I gotta be honest and say that what’s going on ’round here til Saturday morning will make no sense – zero – to anyone clicking over.

I mean, it barely makes sense to me.

I should get drunk and it will all become clear.

It’s set: Saturday morning, Breakfast at Wimbledon:

Jane Eyre

VS HER SISTER, HER ENEMY, HER FELLOW INSUFFERABLE DIVA …..

Faramir

Smack away, ladies!

(Where IS Jane?? Someone smack for her, if nothing else, ‘kay?)

Good luck and good matches, brats.

Jane Eyre

uhmm, stood firm in her principles until a shamed

Zaphod Beeblebrox

couldn’t take it anymore and cried “Uncle!” with both heads?? (I dunno. You try writing these!) Jane Eyre dominated the match with something like 537 service aces. Not bad for a tiny birdlike creature. Well, she’s got a will of iron, that girl. With the second set tied 6-all, Jane and Zaftig Bubblegum were forced into a tie-break. Sadly, the second head raised its ugly head, obscuring peripheral vision as predicted, ahem, and Ziti Bacchanal double-faulted match point away.

Oof. Painful. Polish up that Boo-Bye, Zinke.

Faramir

kill’d with a sword, again, because, look, they don’t have tennis in Middle Earth ….

Mercutio

You’d think by now the judges would have intervened, what with all the mayhem and disemboweling and ruined grass and such. But no. They’ve blithely looked the other way. Which is weird, you know, because they always got so pinchy whenever McEnroe had tantrums or Agassi said he didn’t want to wear white. Okay. So whatevs. Welcome to tennis in the 21st century, I guess.

When the first blow came, brave garrulous Mercutio was heard muttering that it was “a scratch, a scratch” which Faramir, incorrigibly vain about his sword play and fashion sense, took as an insult to his prowess. The wounded Mercutio was mumbling still when Faramir, sword gleaming in the morning light, jumped the net, howled to the heavens, “Scratch, is it? Scratch?!” and ran him through completely. That kid. Such a drama queen. Ever the jokester, with his dying gasp Mercutio quipped, “Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.” At this, Faramir rolled his eyes, took a tennis ball out of his pocket, and, as a final insult, bounced it off of Mercutio’s dead head. A little boy in the front row caught the ball on the rebound.

Nice souvenir for the kiddo, don’t you think?

Sorry you’re a grave man, Mercutio. Time for your big Boo-Bye Speech.

The comments on this post have gotten completely out of hand. It’s killing me.

That’s Jane on the left; Faramir on the right. They play doubles together, you know.

What do you think they’re whispering?

Jane: So do you see him? Is he looking at me? Is he?
Faramir: Who?
Jane: What do you mean “who”? Mr. Rochester, duh.
Faramir: Oh, for God’s sake. Are you still hung up on him?
Jane: He’s hot.
Faramir: He’s old. And blind. If he’s even here, he can’t see you, idiot.
Jane: He could call out to me. I’d hear him.
Faramir: Yeah, well, he better not do it when I’m trying to serve. Huh-uh. I’ll kill him. Stupid old fart.
Jane: You’re such a bitch.
Faramir: Whatevs. Look. You haven’t even noticed my hot new outfit.
Jane: It’s okay.
Faramir: “Okay”?? You’re mental. I designed it. It’s hot.
Jane: Fine. It’s hot, okay? Look. The judge is giving us the stinkeye. Serve the ball, Fary.
Faramir: Girl, I’m tired. Where’s my sword?

A story hot off the presses about one of our semifinalists. Much to her dismay, your lazy on-scene newsgirl actually had to work and fix this piece — there were just so many errors. Like, oh, wrong names and such. Man, I hate those cokehead British reporters. So here’s the revised — uhm, correct – version:

With six Grand Slam singles titles to his name and millions in the bank, there may be reason to question Faramir’s desire to add yet another prize to his bulging trophy cabinet. (Say what now? I’m sorry. The word “bulging” was distracting. Please don’t use that again.)

Even more so when you consider that the 28-year-old has recently gained an associate degree in fashion design (ooh, mazeltov, Faramir) and has built up a successful career as a businessman, with his own fashion line, SwordPlay, and interior design firm, Overlooked Son Interiors.

But going into yet another semi-final here, this time against Mercutio, it is clear the defending champion still gets a real buzz from competing and killing his competitors and other innocent people, like the hot fudge sundae vendor. Tru dat.

With no titles this year, Faramir hasn’t had the greatest start to 2008. (The public slaughter of the goaty little Pardoner probably doesn’t help.) But he says his intent remains the same as when he first stepped out (Oh? Out? Yes?) as a lanky 18-year-old more than 10 years ago, despite having won four titles here:

“I love killing people. Every time I come over here it is exciting. I don’t think I could ever tire of being here,” he said with a murderous twinkle in his eye. “The people, the history, everything is just so great. I’m excited about my advancement (through killing, natch) every step closer towards the final where I hope to make my neglectful daddy proud if he’s not too busy fawning over Boromir or turning nutjob or throwing himself on a funeral pyre to watch.”

He scotched suggestions he was not as hungry or as straight as other players. “I want to win but I don’t feel I have anything to prove at all. I’m very happy and blessed as a person in my life. I think just to be happy and healthy enough to be here playing and killing and wearing my hot new fashions on the court; that’s really all it’s about.”

With muscle-bound limbs that seem to go on forever (ooh, for all you lightfooted menfolk out there), Faramir’s power play has brought a new dimension to the game (is that what it’s called?) since the start of the Third Age. With other players coming to the end of their careers and sailing off to The Grey Havens, Faramir went on to dominate the game before sister Jane Eyre got in on the act two years later.

Both sisters are in the semis and are the hot favourites to meet in the final - which would be the third such time - and Faramir is delighted at the prospect.

“We believe that we’re the best on the court at that moment. I think that we both play really similar games (apart from the killing) and I think that we play against each other a lot.” (That’s deep stuff, man.)

Fifth-seeded Mercutio stands between Faramir and a final spot. And having beaten the unpredictable Italian five times in seven meetings, Faramir is confident.

“He tries really hard,” Faramir said. (Condescending much, Faramir?) “He fights really well. He has good movement (uh-huh). I think that’s really some of his strengths, unlike mine which are good grammar. And he is a very consistent player and killer but his trophy case is just not as bulging as mine. (And here I asked you nicely.)

Faramir’s net play has been solid during the first seven days – something he admitted he wanted to work on when quizzed earlier this year. But it is his sword that has really caught the eye. (Enough with the blue material, I beg of you.)

“I think my sword has been key in this tournament,” he said. “Any time I’m down break point, double break or something like that, my sword gets me out of trouble. I’m just really blessed (blessed schmessed, Faramir; please shut up) to be able to run people through with a sword to get me out of those issues.”

Someone, please, contact British authorities.

The semifinal matchups — to be played tomorrow, Thursday, I believe — are as follows:

Jane Eyre

VS

Zaphod Beeblebrox

ANND ….

Mercutio

VS

Faramir

Rest today. Regain your strength. Polish your swords. Get the crick out of your two-headed neck. Smack talk at will.

Good luck and good matches, everyone!

To all Best Thing Ever Tournament Players:

Here’s the Boo-Bye Speech from that loser, Severus Snape. Uhm, he lost. HE’S DEAD. And he refuses to admit it. I’m putting it here — front and center — so that nobody misses it, because he basically smack talks everyone, even people he won’t ever get to play. Because he lost and he’s dead. Even I, your benevolent game mistress, am thrown under the runaway bus of verbal abuse. Here is what the sorely departed Mr. Snape has to say to us all:

I don’t expect the crowds will really understand the beauty of the barely out-of-bounds backhand with its shimmering bright yellow lack of chalkiness… the delicate power of the double fault that creeps through a service game, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses, sounding like “love… forty.” I can teach my fellow players slash characters how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death.

That’s right, Mer-cue-she-pwn3d! I said stopper death. Yeah, baby, I’m the potions master! You think you kill’d me with the sword? I’m the Prince, baby! Dumbledore’s most trusted confidante! I’ve danced with the devil, Lord Thingy himself! And lived to tell the tale, yo! For a while, anyway.

I do not concede defeat, because I have not yet been defeated. Don’t believe me? You, too, will die, Merwhatsyerface. And when your head is being lopped off by Faraqueer [sorry, sorry], I want you to ask yourself. Did I really kill Severus? Or was it a Russian tennis chick under the influence of Polyjuice Potion?

You can ask Miss Tracey, the insufferable know-it-all. She’ll tell you.

Oh. I have to go. My snake is squiggling. Thingy calls.

By the way… EXPELLIARMUS!

Haha, got your racket.