GYSO Reviews Part 75 - YOU WON’T FUCKING BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENS IN THIS MADE-UP-BALL GAME?! GONE WILD?! GONE SEXUAL?! WATCH THE SECOND RULE TO FIND OUT~!!!!
Published: 2025-09-21
At center stage stands two guys.
John John: Aaaaaaand a hearty welcome to the second day of the Regional International Made-Up-Ball tournament, where our finalists are getting ready to take the stadium!
John: That’s right, John John, today we have the underdog versus the giantgod, it’s Thim versus Santa F. Clause!
In the audience…
Henry: Wow! They got John and John John to commentate the game! They’re like, people that I knowo of, but not really! :O
Sara: I heard they were carpenters that randomly got the gig.
Booming from the speakers…
John: That’s right, random person in the crowd! But because of issues with asthma, stemming from some 20-odd years working in The Black Lung Zone(TM), we now repair elevators by day. If you’re a landlord, or a public institution, call John-John-John-evators!
John John: That’s double right, John! You know what that means…
John: That’s right, John John, we’re playing everyone’s favorite game…
John John: MADE! UP! BALL!
The crowd goes wild, surviving in the wilderness on berries and small game.
John John: To mark the occasion, we’ve got a special guest just for you in this live stadium audience!
John: That’s right, John John, celebrating sunday, here’s the Big Man, the Prophet, the Huge Ding-Dong, here to heat your seats from front to back, iiiiiiit’s…. Big Erectus Babe!
Big Erectus Babe: Hey.
The fireworks explode in the sky like fireworks, the airplanes explode in the sky like fireworks, and half the crowd gets spontaneously transformed into vuvuzelas for the other half to use. How long can they blow them? Who knows!
(Ten hours)
John: ARE YOU READY FOR THE MATCH OF THE MONTH?!
Snag’darr: Get on with it!
Big Erectus Babe: Get your skills on with it!
John John: I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
The crowd does one of two things. They either (1) scream very loud or (2) launch intercontinental nuclear warheads at everyone’s favorite scapegoat.
(No goats were harmed in the making of this joke)
John: Whoo! Alright, the crowd’s pumped up!
John John: That’s right, John! Let’s announce our two competitors!
The lights dim, and twenty four spotlights blind parts of the audience while they roll around and center on one side of the stage.
John: Iiiiin this corner, weighing in at a whopping several billion souls, iiiiiit’s…
John John: SANTA! F! CLAUSE!!!
Bill Conti’s “Gonna Fly Now” starts playing in the speakers, and Santa walks out on the stadium floor in a red-white striped boxing outfit, gloves and all. As he walks up towards the stage, he makes various rude and lewd gestures towards the crowd, the cameras, and your mom – she’s so large it’s hard to miss her. It’s unclear if the audience is cheering or booing. But it seems the ones that are booing are getting picked off by snipers.
The gestures don’t really work well on account of the boxing gloves, but the intent gets across easily enough.
John: As the reigning champion, and also the god of War–can’t forget that–Santa is the clear favorite to win this hour’s Grand Championship! But– wait!
John John: Hang on for JUST ONE SECOND!!!, John! It appears our second contestant is so eager to play ball that he’s started shambling towards the stage already! What will our strange underdog do next? Is this just one part of his extensive mind games that has gotten him this far in the competition?
Walking towards the stage, Bunny proud on his shoulder, adorned in his fuzzy pink bath robe…
Thim: Will they shut tf the fuck fucking up already? Fuck. Let’s get this over with…
Bunny: Father, are you ready to fuck off– face off- against your nemesis once again?
Thim: I hate everything about this so much that I’m going to need to eat a thesaurus to get the right words to say it.
Bunny: It can’t be that bad, right father?
Coming up to the stage, Snag’darr, Thim’s “coach” and actual fucking dragon, is standing by.
Snag’darr: Also, hey, brother. If you’re going to eat a thesaurus, those words are not exactly going to stay with you for very long. But maybe that’s your point.
Thim: Maybe it’s shit, maybe it’s shite. Either way, it’s all downhill from here.
First, there’s some superfluous walking around on the stage and the opponents shake each others hands. Then the completly useless ref walks between Thim and Santa, placing a regulation Oxyclean Detergent Made-Up-Ball ball between them, then runs as far and as fast as he can in the opposite direction. He’s not getting hazard pay–mostly because nobody expected him to actually survive.
The two contestants stare each other down, not saying a word. There’s no need for words between two warriors, especially ones that smell this rank, only mutual respect and lethal doses of testosterone.
Thim: This is so dump. I mean dumb.
Way to go, Thim.
Santa waves a hand, causing snow to swirl around it, manifesting into a piece of paper with his rule. Also, the winds cause a nasty draft across Santa’s boxing cape. Children are traumatized forever as the winds settle.
Thim fumbles with a piece of raw charcoal and a cave wall he brought with him.
John (subbing for the cowardly ref): ARE BOTH CONTESTANTS READY TO SHARE THEIR FIRST RULES?!
John John: Nobody has ever made it past the first rule against the legendary Thim! Will Santa be the first?!
Snag’darr (whispering): To be fair, you’ve only played a couple of games.
Thim (whispering back): You’re a terrible fucking coach, jackass.
Snag’darr: I’m an accountant-turned-lawyer. What did you expect?
Bunny: Father. What is your strategy?
Thim: My strat is to do the thing that wins.
Thim puts on a pair of taped-together sunglasses, one lens missing, as “Eye of The Tiger” starts playing in Thim’s mind through Henry’s PSYCHOTIC ABILITIES?!?!? The half-handsome man turns to give an approving nod to the houseplant in the audience.
The crowd is crazy. Statistically, half of them are diagnosed with a mental health disorder. The other half is just fucking crazy.
John: CONTESTANTS! REVEAL! YOUR! FIRST! FULE!!! I mean rule.
Without hesitation, they both do that thing that was said to do.
Santa’s rule: I win. Because of this gun I found.
Santa moves his cloak, revealing a holster.
Thim’s rule: If Santa wins, he has to give up his title of God of War.
The crowd recoils in horror and shock at the two greatest rules ever ruled in Made-Up-Ball history.
John John: I can’t believe it, John!! The anal-list are going to be talking about this one until Melon Mars harvests enough energy from the sun for it to burn out!
John: What do you mean, you can’t believe? Are you even watching this with your own, real, human, eyes?
John looks to his right to meet the eyes of his coworker and co-commentator. There, he sees a man with two glass eyes practically falling out of their sockets. Wall sockets. They’re glowy eyes.
John: Oh.
John John: What?
John: Nothing.
The rules are displayed on the jumbotron for all the stadium to see, and the half-handsome audience is voting on their favorite rule. Not that it means anything, but it drags things out for the commercials. The jumbotron shows two bars filling up, fighting each other based on the audience’s votes. They’re neck and neck.
Henry: It’s Thim’s! It has to be!
Sara: Now wait a moment. Violence is a powerful force.
Big Erectus Babe: Against Thim, the immortal? I don’t know…
Albert (munching on popped corn–fully cooked corn): I’m here too!
Back on the stage…
Thim: Did I catch a brief glimpse of despair, Mr. Clause?
Santa: You are a formidable foe, immortal. I will grant you that. However, this next turn will be all I need to defeat you.
Thim: Whatever, dumbo.
The crowd goes eerily silent as the next round of this legendary game is played.
John: CONTESTANTS! REVEAL! YOUR! RULES!
Throwing his snow-paper like a shuriken, Santa lets his rule hover in the air as the cameras lock on the text. Thim meekly turns and points to his… rock hard wall… Though the cameras seem partly focused on the super duper cute bunny named Bunny perched on Thim’s shoulder.
Santa’s rule: Santa wins without having to give up his title!
Thim’s rule: Uno. Reverse.
There is a stunned silence (not) heard around the world.
Thim: lol get rekd son. I am your father–if you disregard evidence to the contrary.
Santa: NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
Santa disintegrates into a snowman, carrot nose and all. Elf and Elf Two jump out from their “coach” seats to… deal… with that.
Thim turns to the announcers, yelling.
Thim: Hey Joe or whatever the fuck your name is, does this mean I win?!
John: That– Ahem. I mean, THE WINNER! THIM!
Ushering Thim and Snag’darr to center stage, the commentators tries taking an interview.
John John: THAT WAS AMAZING! THAT WAS CEREBRAL! WHAT AMAZING HIGH LEVEL PLAY! HOW DO YOU FEEL?!
Thim: If you don’t get that mic out of my face I’m going to literally drop a loaf right here on camera just to shit on your reputation. Literally.
John: …. A– Uh- Ah… AMAZING! ISN’T THAT FANTASTIC! WHAT A GAME WE’VE HAD, THAT’S ALL, FOLKS!
The crowd goes wild, shitting in the woods and wiping their asses with poison ivy. Thim starts reaching for his belt buckle, but luckily the mic leaves before things get dicey.
In less than two minutes, everyone is gone, including the crowd. Guess they had things to do.
Thim talks to the empty air (and his shoulder Bunny).
Thim: So… wait. Does that mean I’m the God of War now?
Bunny: Yes, father. All hail.
Thim: Shit. Anyways, how would you know? It probably didn’t even go through or something, who knows how much administration is involved in re-registering a title like that?
Bunny: No, father. It did. I can feel it in my wittle bunny nose.
Thim: Damn it.
The dies.
The end.