Meanwhile at the Justice League...

The tension mounted at Sally's Sewing Nook as the verdict approached on how tight Superman's spadex should actually be...

Captain America: I'm not convinced they're hugging his buns quite enough.
Flash Gordon: Yeah I was thinking the same thing. How about a few stripes on the thighs?
Wonder Woman: Hmmmm, I like blue! Yeah blue is definitely his color!
Aqua Man: Hey make sure you make them areo dynamic, like a bullet only slicker!
Batman: Holy Hand grenades Sally! Give the guy some breathing room in the driver seat will yah!

We, your friendly neighborhood commentators, have been offered sexual favors by random cowboys and been man-handled on the streets of our fair city numerous times by rabid croquet fans in recent past. As you all well know, we've promised and promised again to have an opening edition, but the stars have not seen it fit to allow us our commencement. And those of you who don't believe in the validity of jyotish and the stars, well we ask that you stand well away from the groomed part of the pitch since the thuderbolts make a mess of the grass. Thanks.

We've been putting our minds together (to create something about the size of a hamster), and have come up with a theme that we feel you will either love or hate. Either way, we've strained every last cat whisker to it's capacity on this one. Obviously you want some history - we originally thought that the opening act should be reminiscent of spring and romance and flowers. Yup, we were going to have the renaissance and mayfair croquet. But all that loving and sweetness made us throw up a bit in our mouths (and chilidogs are always better the first time around), so we canned that one fast. And yet the idea of guys in tights did appeal to us quite a bit. The idea of women in bolts & yards of fabric however, did a little less for us. So we decided to split the difference and go for spandex all round.

Yes boys and girls, we're doing SUPERHERO CROQUET! It really sucks to not have a drumroll and flashing lights and a chorus girl lineup to go with that announcement, but i'm hoping your imagination fills in right there.

At this point most of you are probably going - "those pervs, they just want to see guys in their tighty whities". Are we really that shallow and transparent? P-lease! Ok, it's true, there *is* a bit of that going on (hee hee). Most of you are probably stumped for ideas. That's ok, coz that's really why we're here - to help you help us. And while all the helping is going on, we'd like to bring up the oh-so-fabulous theme that your friendly-neighborhood commentators fashioned for that round of croquet - furry croquet. Yes, we know - we're great.

Let's recap the last glorious event.

If memory serves us correctly, the last tourney was about as unorthodox as it gets. Villains became heroes. Heroes became villians. Heroes dropped out of the game to hand it over to the villains who came from behind to become heroes. Confusion rained on the croquet parade. And much joy and cheering was heard from the bleachers. And much grashing of teeth was heard from Hans and Nav. Most impressive of all, poison was invoked by TWO malleteers! Could we be set up for super-hero croquet any better than that?

We had the usual 4 deathmatch rounds, but the only one that matters is the grand finale, so we're pleading alzheimer's and dropping all recollection of what occurred in any of the non-finale rounds. Except that we need to throw in the valiant efforts of "Natasha" Honeycutt and "Boris" Svensson, who came out from behind to be a pair of fabulous wild-card finalists. Unfortunately Boris and Natasha had to be called off to the gulag early, and handed off the reigns to their galloping mallots to the able bodied mod-squad of "Comrade" Hall, "Madame" Swanson, and "Proletariat Pig" Raman. It's unclear what the exact look the Proletariat Pig was going for, but as our resident Official Fetish Coordination Expert "Furlicious" Hirsch pointed out "that's a brave move going with white socks and black boots and a satin skirt". The Mod-squad had initially had a strategy of strategic loss, with the intention of making it into the final rounds through coordinated incompetence. However, the more strategically incompetent team of Boris and Natasha managed to usurp what little chance the mod-squad had and became the wild-card finalists. This was in spite of the underhanded guidance and virtual hand-off of the game by the duo of "Leatherette" Hibbs and "Tubba" Dalton.

The final round came down to the mod-squad (Hall, Swanson, Raman), Olson, Navarette, Reeder, "Wildman" Stephens, and "Furry Thongs" Moschak. Through monumental ineptitude that was more strategic than the team let on, the mod-squad managed to squander every opportunity, and held last-place position at the half-way wicket. "Furry Thongs" Moschak, "Cpt. Caveman" Olson, and "Fur Before Friends" Navarette were, to everyone's amazement, up for the winning stake. But they had forgotten about the "wrinkle" that had been added into this tourney. The poison rule - the first one to hit the end wicket becomes poison. They must then go out and eliminate all the other players. The winners are the last to be eliminated. And one more thing - anyone can declare themselves poison by declaration after hitting the half-way point.

The reasons to become poison are complex. Ultimately it boils down to requiring psychiatric assistance over extended periods of time. You, the faithful patrons of the BCC know, however, that this covers pretty much everyone that steps onto the hallowed greens of the BCC. There are those that consider the very act of becoming poison by declaration an insane act. We, of course, consider it to be nothing short of heroic. And we must hand the very first honor for this heroic act to "Cpt. Caveman" Olson, who exceeded our wildest expectations for wildness, and went for broke.

We could continue on with banal descriptives that we attempt to flourish with such superlatives as "beyond words" and "magnificent" and "breath-taking" and "hellfire and damnation", but you who attended that fateful event know that these are but pittances that reduce the occassion to a handful of vowels and consonants, and a trifle of syllables. So let's just leave it as possible the greatest moment evar in the history of any sport played on a mowed lawn with mallets and balls with people sporting fur and leather.

In case you've recently checked yourself in to a memory cleanse clinic, and have had the last match forcibly erased from your cerebral cortex, the valiant moments are recorded in all their glory. Do yourself a favor and revive those lost memories. They are more precious than you will ever realize.