New Balls

There is noone left to oggle in the Australian Open Tennis Men's Draw. First The Poo was bundled out, and then that sleeveless American hunk James Blake departed. These tragic losses were in spite of our best attempts at bribing them to play better, ie. much gentle coaxing at the telly: SHAUNA:  If you could try a little harder, I will buy you a lolly. RHI:  If you win this point, you can take me out for dinner. S:  If you make this an ace, you get to see me naked. R:  Crikey! He double faulted. S:  Bastard. Australian Open haiku: my loins love sight of lanky legs of tennis men in the morning dew

About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! I’m Shauna, an author, copywriter and content mentor. I love telling stories about life and helping others to tell theirs.

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39 thoughts on “New Balls

  1. I’d leave a lengthy comment here, but I’m afraid that Shauny has chosen a topic that I have no desire to dwell upon. It is neither Australia or tennis that deposit me at this cliff of reluctance, but the hunk crux, that male muscular stopgap that renders my penis flaacid when contemplating something that I respect in those, male or female, who gyrate at the sight of pecs, biceps and other physical features of the modern caveman, but that I simply cannot find within myself.

    I can only say that there was one point in my life in which I won a tennis game and there were at least 300 times in my life in which I lost. The former moment allowed me a small moment of triumph, but it was easily overshadowed by the latter moments at a ratio that is ineffably high. There must be another way to be sexy.

  2. Anna has talent Tarsh, just not on the court.

    I’ve never really understood the Phillopousis thing, but fell victim to it during a night game early in the tournament.

    *scotty and girlfriend involved in light hearted conversation on couch, when the poo comes on the tele, repleat with tanned, muscular arms and legs, and bedroom eyes*

    Girlfriend: “So she’s going silly saying….”

    Scotty: “What?”

    GF: *mild stare at the poo, punctuated with sly grins and the intermitant licking of lips*

    S: *frowns, feels fat, goes and gets tub of double choc sarah lee ice cream, wallows in depression*

  3. Miss J-J — The Poo has nice legs. I’ll give him that. I tend to watch him from the waist down.

    Ed — The Modern Caveman is just something I like to look at on the telly and dribble over.

    I mean, just say Mr Blake did say, “Shaunybabe, I want your sweet bootay”, I’d run for the hills because I’d be so overwhelmed by crapness and inadequacy and the horrifying thought of such an Adonis seeing me in the nuddy.

    So anyway, one’s definition of sexy in the Real World is much different and is not about pecs and biceps at all.

    And what’s this about titular tonal changes? I’ve missed something…

  4. Just don’t look at him at after-match functions. He ain’t so pretty when there’s no tennis to concentrate on. Trust me. Look for proof in ye oracles in the coming weeks…

  5. Okay, I actually DO have something to say about this. Scroll on to the minimalists, if this vexes you.

    Shauny: If you keep abreast of your subeponymous balderdash (adorable!), about four or five comment threads ago, Graham pointed out postmodern souffles exploding in the microwave. To continue mixing metaphors, add three cups of coffee, unjustified excitement, the aforementioned lust that causes you to cower away in a very silly manner because, heaven forbid, your body is on display and you’re convinced Mr. Modern Caveman Adonis WON’T be interested at you in the slightest.

    When in fact there are exceptions to the rule (and not the grammatical ones being broken in this too long sentence) and there’s really no telling what men or women want from another, aside from affection, Saturday night copulation, the exchange of saliva, laughing, crying, forgetting, sharing, conversational swaps, things that involve leaving a legacy, even when the legacy lasts as short as a month or as long as a lifetime. It’s an opportunity above all. And that’s what counts.

    Dammit, Shauny, I’m going to have to smack you across the head with my copy of Cosmo (don’t ask) because you’re once again expressing doubt, albeit humorously, when it’s uncalled for. How do any of us know that Tennis Hunk #1 and Not Quite As Hunky As Tennis Hunk #1 (aka Tennis Subhunk #2) isn’t Googling himself, finding mention of himself at What’s New, coming over here and saying, “Well, here’s a swell lady that I’d love to get to know,” and then prepared to mack, mate or what have you, essentially throw himself at you, dear lady? And for all we know, TH1 (as opposed to PH Balanced) might be an intelligent, amicable, fun-loving guy who you’ll be able to improve your backhand with.

    But Shauny Shauny Shauny, my goodness, I’m prematurely balding, have a slight gut and am terribly self-conscious about both of these things (although caring less about them each day), and I have no trouble throwing off my clothes with a consensual adult. (Of course, lest I be accused of waxing horizontal with just anyone, the consensual adult goes through a screening process and, if my heart is tingling because it’s with someone extra-special, I still get a bit nervous.) But why crapness and inadequacy? Why self-doubt? Why the hangups over body? Why, as ridiculous as fantasy being used as a what-if scenario is, can’t you enjoy yourself if an opportunity were to spring up like Old Faithful?

    Shauny, every minute, there are millions of souls dancing in the Naked City. They vary from beautiful meatchop aesthetic to gargantuan zit-popping Quasimodo. They are of all ages, all body types, etc. But they all waltz around, having a fun, flopping old time. You absolutely deserve to join them, when the need pops up, so to speak.

    And I’m sorry for the seven or so lascivious puns in this comment. But I couldn’t help myself.

  6. Um…

    Yay Ed. Nothing like a lascivious pun or two.

    On my tele we have Sumo Wrestlers, and some of the women here go as crazy over their bulging gluetus maximi as you do over a certain sleeveless hunk.

    Haiku rock.

  7. Scott: You should indeed feel proud of your lovely thatch of hair, quite difficult to see except from very precise gymnastic positions and nowhere nearly as big of a deal as you think it is. Indeed, one of the silliest fallacies of the Western world that men are judged by where hair is and isn’t, when in fact there are plenty of ladies out there who defy the norm. (Cases in point: Emma and the sumo wrestler conundrum, the unequivocal unsexiness of a toupeed Burt Reynolds contrasted with sex symbol status only decades before, the advent of Patrick Stewart and Sean Connery, and now, on the ladies’ side, it looks like we have the yummy Sigourney Weaver still sexy at the “too old” age of 53.)

    And then, on top of that, we have Jamie Lee Curtis doing cool photo shoots that show how silly the whole thing is. (See

  8. People are unfair to Anna.

    She has been ranked as high as number 8 in singles, and number 1 in doubles.

    You don’t climb to those heights without having talent.

    People don’t realise that she missed a lot of last year through injury. It’s not easy to come back.

    She’s in a long slump at the moment, but I’m sure we’ll see her back in the top 15 before the year is out.

    Go, Anna!

  9. Ed ed ed ed ed…. and the comments started out so abridged.

    oh…and Anna has talent. She’s a VERY talented girl. Though, perhaps, not at tennis.

    All this talk about Poo, it’s like being traped in kindergarten.

  10. I can in fact vouch for the incredible sexiness of the Shauny. Beautiful, intelligent, damn hilarious, and not a little bit wonderful–all kind and caring and not afraid to make jokes about spiders exploding out of people’s necks. Any tennis star would be remiss to not want some Shauny lurvin’.

    Also…it’s Saturday two, three times a day for me. Oh, GOD, it’s good to be back home.

  11. yeah, but the roddick match was the best i’ve ever seen. that, and his older brother is a friend of mine

    blake’s a great guy. i covered him when he was in college. we hold the ncaa tennis tournament nearly every year, and blake came a couple of times. pretty amazing to see a world-class athlete who went to harvard

  12. Since the term “Saturday” has become a codeword for private affairs, I can’t help but contemplate the effect that a seven Saturday week will have on the Gregarious Calendar.

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