Well, sort of. Each week our kickball league publishes a newsletter. Somehow I've been repeated tapped to fulfill my team's write up for that week. I'm kind of the club cub reporter as it were. However, to truly understand the absurdity of this newsletter you have to realize that not a whole lot of people actually read the parts that do not pertain to their team. I'm not going to lie. Most of the time I read the main stories and skim the other team's entries.

What? The other teams write drivel. It's a lot of my team is better than their team. Or their team cheated. Or the head refs suck. Or no one knows the rules. Or my team won at flip cup. Or did you see that really hot boy making out with that lame ass girl from the green team. See? It's a lot of rot.

So, since I kind of know that most people do not read our newsletter from cover to cover, sometimes I write obscure or irrelevant trash just to see if people will talk about it the next week at kickball. Call it an "experiment in psychosocial behavior." Or call it being bored about writing about how our team got cheated by the other team and how the head refs slowly suck all the fun out of the game.

Well, this week it rained and they didn't cancel the games. I was surprised especially after seeing the mud laden fields. Every cranny on the bottoms of my tennis shoes is CAKED with mud. Well, it's dried mud now, but you get the point. Well, when tasked with writing this week's write up, I did what any red-blooded American would do.

I wrote about girl on girl mud wrestling. Wanna read it? (Come on. You know that's why I wrote all the background up there, just so I could post the damn write up. Yes, I am that transparent. Indulge me.)

The air was heavy with moisture on Tuesday. The orange and yellow rays of the evening sun dripped behind the cold brick buildings of Uptown. Twilight washed over Griggs Park in soft and soothing waves. The electricity raced through the fingertips of each kickballer as they itched to get the game started. The other team sauntered in with birthday noisemakers dangling off their lips. Unabashed by the clear display of phaIlic e.roticism, we took the field.

Quickly we realized that the field had not survived the downpour as the cold rainwater collected in deep mud puddles around the outfield. So we did what every self respecting kickballer does when the outfield is muddy and the evening is cool. We peeled off our sticky kickball shirts and shimmed out of our shorts.

Standing there wearing only lacy panties and cleats, the breeze felt cool against our bare skin. She then looked over at me and winked as to say "let's go." I turned to face her, my bosom heaving with anticipation. Soon, our naked bodies would be wound tightly in a playful, yet passionate knot of competition and most likely mud.

She lunged at me determined to cover every curve of my body in a thick layer of gooey sludge. The excitement of the impending tumble sent chills to the very core of my bones. I smirked. And then time slowed down as she launched every muscle in her toned body towards mine. I grabbed her around her n.aked waist as we both tumbled into the right field mud pit.

The loud splash halted game play. Both teams turned towards the noise, startled by the disruption. The heat of the battle grew to epic proportions as our n.aked skin quickly became coated in muck. The small freckle on her left collar bone was no longer visible. The mud was everywhere. It spread smoothly over the soft curve of our breasts and rolled down the backs of our thighs. Our cleats, caked thick with mud, pounded against the solid ground as we rolled over and over and over.

The e.rotic bout ended nearly as quickly as it had started. Lying on top of her, covered entirely in mud, we heard the whistle blow. The Head Ref was making his way out to right field to break up the scuffle.

What a buzz kill.

Ha. I am so funny.