GYSO Reviews Part 87 - No Rules Billiards Operational Opinion Boob

Published: 2026-03-08

Thim: So… I have to ask(gay). If a game of No (hyphen) Rules Billiards has, well, no rules… How does it start? How does it end? Where did it come from, where did it go? Where did it come from, cotton-eyed Joe?

Everyone in the room shuffles and shimmies. To the left, and then they take it back now y’all.

Cotton-eyed Joe: MY EYES

Thim: Criss-cross!

We are at the Awesome Secret Secret Government Agency Yes No Rules Billiards Operational Opinion Boob–the ASSGAY NRBOOB–the top secret lab where they experiment on the phantasmal No Rules Billiards.

Sir: Okay. We have a billiards table. We have cues. We got more balls than we know what to do with. Let’s play!

Machine Operator: Made-up-ball! (woos with hands)

Sir: Please calm down, Mo. We’re at ASSGAY NRBOOB, not some adolescent playground full of biker gangs for some reason.

Machine Operator (Mo): Sir? Then how do we start?

Sir: Go right ahead, I guess. You go first.

Machine Operator: Yes, sir!

Sir: You cheated! You moved the ball with your hands!

Mo: Sir, remind me about the name of this game again.

Sir: I’ll have you scrubbing toilets for talking shit like that, Mo. With a toothpick.

Mo: Doesn’t matter shit, Ess, suck my ass, I’m ahead 6-2 on your tiny white ass.

Sir glares.

Sir: Stop cheating. We’re supposed to be researching boob– I mean No Rule Billards.

Mo: What rules am I breaking?

Sir: …

Sir looks suspiciously out the window of the ASSGAY NRBOOB lab. He looks suspiciously at everything, to be honest, but this time it’s out of the window.

Sir: Mo, come look at this. I think it’s serious.

Mo puts away his cue and peers out of the blinders like a nosy old woman spying on the neighbor’s dog shitting (on Debra’s desk).

Mo: What is it, sir?

Sir: Uhh. There’s an, uh, white– suspicious… van. Out there. Just look at it. Has it been here before you think?

Mo: Before I think what? Before I think about how to use commas?

Sir: Shut up, I’m focused on my move.

There’s clinking and clanking. Mo looks back at the table.

Mo: What the hell?! You just pocketed your own balls?! With your hands?! (lmao)

Sir: You got a problem, Mr. Mo? Mo money mo problems? Mo mo mo your boat?

Mo: You can’t just do that!

Sir: According to what rule?

Mo points outside the window.

Mo: LOOK, ESS! IT’S A GIANT FUCKOFF DRAGON FUCKING A MYSTERIOUS WHITE VAN!

Sir: What?! That’s my fetish! Finally, after all these years, they’re all in one place!

While Sir is looking out the window, Mo takes the eight ball and hides it in a (non-psychotic) potted plant in the corner.

Mo: Aww, man, must’ve missed it. Oh well.

Sir: Damn it! Oh well, were was I?

Sir makes a perfect shot, with his hand, after a few attempts, pocketing every single one of his balls. Now searching for the eight ball…

Sir: What the hell?

Mo (the smug fucker): Yeeeeeeeeess?

Sir: There’s no eight ball. Now I can’t win!

Mo: Ha! Gotcha!

Mo perfectly pockets his own balls by bum-rushing the table with his bum hands. Searching for the eight ball…

Mo: The table is empty. Now I can’t win…

Sir: Weren’t you the one who hid the thing?

Mo: I have short term Mo-mery loss.

Sir: Wait.

Mo: What?

Sir: What rules say who wins or not?

Mo screams to the heavens. They offer no mercy for fools who ‘play’ No Rules Billards. This is why God abandoned us. Because of ASSGAY NRBOOB.

The ASSGAY NRBOOB office smells like two people who have been going at it with their sticks, playing non-stop, viciously poking their balls, for several days. The malnutrition, lack of oxygen, and general vibes in the room can make a person dizzy.

Mo: Bro… What if we… Decided the rules for ourselves? Like you know, we both individually decide about the rules and then we have to play around that.

Sir: You’ve reinvented Made-up-ball.

Mo: Damn it!

The room is empty, like their hearts. Absolutely not sterile – the ASSGAY NRBOOB facilities are way too cheap for that, and the people cleaning the place haven’t been allowed in for several days due to the secrecy of the No Rules Billiards experiment.

Sir: Wait, should we have clothes on for this?

Mo: What even are we doing?

Sir: It’s an experiment, dog gamnit! Won’t dorry about it! We’re working with reduction!

Mo: …But isn’t that a rule?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU–

Mo takes another swig up his Thim-brand rubbing alchohol. It burns going down, and out! Buy now, $19.99.

Mo: Does this game even exist? Are we chasing a ghost? Not, like actual ghosts, but a fake one?

Sir: If it existed, that would mean it has a rule to define it against pure chaos… Maybe? Or is that a rule too?

Mo takes another swig. He coughs up a chunk of something internal.

Mo: Fuck this, man.

They play a regular game of Boring Rules Billards.

Suddenly!

Mo screams like a jet engine– which is to say not at all because engines don’t have human vocal folds.

Then he sweeps Sir’s legs out from under him, making him fall to the floor. Mo follows it up by smashing his cue over Sir’s face before pocketing the balls with his hands again.

Not only have they still not moved on from the whole pocketing balls with their regular human hands thing – something that jet engines don’t have – but Mo pockets his opponents balls.

Sir: (cough) Ha! You dumba rumba! I’ll have you demoted for this!

Sir doesn’t deliver his lines in a calm manner. Rather, he reads them bland and dry straight from a script before bum-rushing Mo with his bum.

From the outside, the only thing you can hear are the sounds of the only two people working at ASSGAY NRBOOB making a ruckus, screaming something about touching balls with hands, and “no rules”.

The lab is a mess. The billard’s table is on fire, and nobody knows the rules for putting it out. Pizza boxes are stacked in a corner, still filled with pizza and also more portable fire.

Mo: How long do we have to keep doing this, Ess?

Sir: We were supposed to find answers.

Mo: Do you have any answers?

Sir: Go fish.

Mo: Ugh. Is there really anything we’ve come up with here that proves that No Rules Billiards even exist? I mean, what are we even here for? To spearhead some weird weapon with the guy that makes the drinkable rubbing alcohol?

Sir: I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe Albert was wrong about this whole thing…

Mo: We need to send a report. What do we even say on it? Do you have any sevens?

Sir: Go fish.

Mo (shrugging): Okay.

Albert reads the report, frowning. It’s a badly compressed, poorly composed, smeared, and out of focus photograph of them fishing. In the dead of Winter.

Albert: Why are these idiots on our payroll again?

The dies.

The end.