Broke out the BrunoHau 88 for an invitational tournament in Westlake Village that plucks all of the damp and moist 4.5 players from various parts of the country and gathers them in a large dimly lit room to convince them that no one is really watching them play. I was set to battle forth one of those fast Japanese dudes who is legendary for his calmness and graciousness on the court. In other words, the opposite of me. Controlling emotion is deeper than Allen Fox's dark crevasse of sludgeounous tennis mud. Bruno was last strung with Tour Bite 17 in February 2011. Totally dead but play-worthy. The Pacific white OG has chips, nicks, and epic dabs of goobley goop and teef marks that were inflicted by a girl named Farrah from Murray Hill in June 2011. I quickly was ahead 2-0 in the first set. Ok I thought another wall with no weapons. I hadn't played with the 88 in months so serving was really off, averaging 1 DF per 2 service games which is unheard of for me. There's 6-8 people watching my match. My opponent's little baby girl was crying but quickly stopped. Why am I playing with this stupid stick? Ah, thats right because it has the most piercing depth of shot for my recreationally enhanced strokes. I'm up 4-2 but its closer than that. I'm getting frustrated. This is the kind of guy that I usually can handle quickly. I started to abuse poor Bruno like a fool: a few throws against the fence, a mad overhead smashing sequence into the net. Imagining the net is a composition of all the things I hate and the girl that made me cry on Ventura Blvd in 1987, mercilessly beating it after missing an easy ass forehand 5 feet in the court at my shoulders. The crowd of 6-8 will never forget it: that guy is a mental midget headed spazz case. Arthur Ashe once said his reputation was his most prized possession, I tend to destroy mine with Wilson Box Beams in my hand. But I know in the end they all love me for the various GOAT shots I make in a 3 set match. I'm mentally spazzing out after every point. What a waste of energy. I think this is why dad lost interest in me after I broke a Borg Pro with 100 people watching in a 14 under southern cal satellite final. Look, look there is my retarted son abusing the greatest wood racquet of all time, shaming Bjorn Borg's name and crushing the immortal power of the Donnay brand in the early 80s into splinters on Westshore Tennis Club's show court. He sure is a wonderful young fellow. LoL. So I lose the first set 7-5. Down 4-2 in the second. And I pulled out the second at 6-3. I'm up 3-0 in the 3rd. I'm taking some of his second serves early and just killing them for winners. I started playing really high risk tennis and it paid off. After an epic point that I won with a disgusting topspin lob a woman in a seriously sexy white shirt who was probably considered really damn hot in the 1950's said "you have a fantastic game" on the changeover. I had to check her out because any woman that says I have a fantastic game is worthy of my grotesque affections. But alas I noticed that her legs had advanced spider tubes growing on the outset edge of her age advanced epidermic region. But they were tan and long legs and were worthy of a young man's glance or an old man's battered sexual thought process. I said to her I always play bad on this court but thanks. I always turn a tennis positive into a tennis negative because that's what I was taught on Talk Tennis. It really makes me feel weird when I know in my heart I truly suck to get complimented when you feel like you're playing like steaming hot brown flavored crap piles in front of 6-8 people. I go up 5-1 in the 3rd, I'm cruising like Fedace on a skateboard in the Gaslight district. Its 40-0. 3 match points. I flub a drop shot that landed 10 inches in front of me, what a serious LOL. Double fault. Wild forehand out. He wins the game, its now 5-2. Ok calm down dipstick, odds are I will win one of the next 2 games the way I've been playing. Easy money. Koshimoko claws back and starts yelling Japanese slogans of old Shiatsu warriors who during a heated fencing joust with sharper swords would groan out to the Gods who would in turn deliver invisible doses of courage and resilience. 5 minutes later I'm dumbfounded to find myself at 5-5. Ok, WTF. Lets go Bruno. When I put my mind to winning late in a match I tend to win. There was just no effing way I was going to live with knowing I lost with a 5-1 40 love lead. Oh dear God no. Holy crap I sound like Cindy. I go back to work and eventually win it 7-5. In the next round I will try so hard to keep my cool. I'm sorry Bruno. I literally just took you out of your bag and tried to rub out all the sore spots around your throat I inflicted today. What a moron I am for abusing you like that. I don't blame you if you don't ever forgive me. But if you think that my apology is worthy lets kick some ass tomorrow. Just don't let that 8 month old TB 17 break otherwise I'll just have to be a triple stupid idiot and whip out and wield forth the BLX 85 with week old NXTt17 and custom weighted BLX Crystal injections.