The other day I went for dinner with my co-ed softball teammates. Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but EssBee (Softball) really is average cardio, and you wouldn't believe the bonds I've formed with some of my teammates. One guy even added me on LinkedIn. At this dinner, a friend from my pre-softball days engaged me in conversation. Her story comes from her own mother who had an interesting chat with the family landscaper. For all intents and purposes, we'll call this gardentender, Michaelangelo (only because it's an Italian name, and coincidentally enough, my favourite of the four ninja turtles). As I remember it, this is how their story went down:

Mom walks down the driveway to greet Michaelangelo. Michaelangelo is a middle-aged Italian man who could pull off an award winning impersonation of Mario (from the video game) without even knowing it. He unloads his lawnmower in preparation to cut grass, etc.

Mother: Michaelangelo, Suzy tells me that you recently got married to Alfredo (Suzy's hairdresser). That's so wonderful, but I never even knew you were gay!

Michaelangelo takes on a look of anger and stinking machismo.

Michaelangelo: I no fag. I fucka heem, he no a fucka me.

Michaelangelo steps back, pulls the cord to his mower, and angrily stuffs his sweat rag into the back pocket of his cut-off jean shorts.

You aint getting a story like this from no greco-roman wrestling league, assholes.

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