URQUHART'S FURY IGNITES A COMEBACK FOR THE AGES... GEORGES RALLY TO BEAT THE MAILMAN AND HIS EVIL HENCHMEN

Sometimes, in baseball, a manager will intentionally get himself ejected from a game for the sole reason of lighting a fire under his team's lazy arse. He'll charge out of the dugout, arms flailing and eyes red with fury. Sometimes he'll kick drt. Sometimes he'll go nose to nose with the umpire and - while barking and spitting in his face - insult the smell of his breath. Other times he will run around the base path with his hat on backwards, pulling each base from its holder and heaving them towards the outfield grass.

As his team watches this scene unfold - this performance art of sport - they almost always feel a flame begin to flicker and burn in their bellies. Sometimes they know not even why. But they feel the roar of the crowd build to a frenzied pace, they see their leader laying his passion on the line, and then they hear the umpire - with an exaggerated wave of his arm towards the heavens - point to him yell: "YOU'RE OUTTA HERE!"

More often than not, the team will look upon their coach's wild shenanigans with misguided pride, and ride the wave of adrenaline to a victory.

On Monday night at the Mousetrap, such was the case for Furious George. Tied 1-1 and about to go down 2-1 to the Mailman and his evil henchmen, Urquhart sensed an opportunity to unleash his fury and spark his band of useful idiots into action. With Mixa rattled and down, the Henchmen called a timeout. Then, in blatant disregard for the rules, they sent not one, not two, but THREE people to the table to consult their player. Urquhart unloaded like a bull in a china shop. His visceral hatred for the Mailman did not help the situation, nor did the 9 whiskeys he had injected into his blood stream.

"He showed up at about 7:15 and already had 7 in him," commented Veto. "It didn't take a rocket scientist or forensic engineer to know how things were going to end."

Urquhart lunged from his bar stool and showered profanities upon the Mousetrap like napalm over the Mekong Delta. Old ladies gasped and choked for air. Their ears rang, and their lungs burned. It was a quick, powerful burst of anger like nothing anyone had seen before. Creepy sat stunned, unable to speak. Uno - scared for his life - looked to him for guidance. He was, after all, the acting coach for the night. But Creepy just sat frozen in terror like a deer in the headlights. One witness compared his empty, disconnected eyes to Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. "Mmm, Bacon good," he muttered, "I like bacon."

Veto and Weighlum were locked in an epic battle of wits on the middle table, and missed the incident that triggered the commotion. "One minute I'm eying down a thin cut on the three ball," commented Weighlum, scratching his head, "and then next minute its like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome in here."

Urquhart cursed the Mailman and his henchmen, and then turned his wrath upon his own team. How dare Veto and Creepy not back him in his fight? How DARE they sit back and allow such injustices to occur before their very eyes? The Captain, needless to say, was furious.

"It all happened so fast," said Veto. "All I heard was 'F*&K YOU VETO!' and then he was gone."

Indeed, like a manager ejected in the 7th inning of a close game, the George's fearless leader was headed for the showers. Or at least one could only hope.

"He stank like whiskey and urine, with a hint of nicotine," stated Mixa, holding her nose and choking back small bits of vomit that had shot up to the roof of her mouth. Urquhart hadn't showered in days, and his beard had grown long and greasy. "Oh God, I don't think I will ever forget that smell. It was like decaying road kill in the summer sun."

"This is getting to be an ugly trend," said the pregnant bartender from the Trap, "Urquhart shows up, gets drunk, starts a fight with The Mailman, and then stumbles off into the night."

But, in the end, Urquhart's wild antics served their purpose. Down 2-1 (Weighlum had secured the George's only win to this point, extending his impressive winning streak and inching himself one step closer to complete APA domination), the team responded to their leader's call with fear, confusion, and intensity.

Blackbeard got all he could handle from Old Lady Flabbybelly in match 4, but our favorite swashbuckling pirate stayed strong, found his touch, and outsmarted her for a victory in the crucial hill-hill duel.

"Blackbeard may be the MVP tonight," commented Veto. "He found a way to win a tough match and keep us in it when our backs were pinned square up against the wall."

The stage was now set, and the Georges were poised to take home the victory. Tied 2-2, Creepywhite brought down the pain on yet another unsuspecting victim. The old timer looked eerily like a Civil War vet. In all possibility, he may indeed be the last surviving one. He was a walking skeleton, nothing but skin on bones, with a beard like General Lee's. His hands shook and his arms quivered as he gingerly bent over each shot, but the battle tested veteran had over a 100 years of fighting experience. This would be no easy kill for our hero Creepywhite.

Creepy won the first two games of the 4-3 race before dropping the third. Then, in the pivotal game 4, he turned to Veto during a key time out. Two lonely balls remained on the table: his one ball and the eight, which hung easily in the corner pocket. A bank shot was his only option on the one. The two decided that defense was not an option, so Creepy went for the jugular.

"Veto told me to go after it with a little bit of low right english to shorten the angle," said Creepy afterwards, "and it did just the trick."

The acting Captain nailed the bank, and the crowd roared in applause. Even the Mailman had to extend his appreciation. He murmured praise, begrudgingly, and showed off his best golf clap. "Hooo-weee!," someone else yelled, "the banks are open for business!"

"Creepy drilled that bad boy," beamed Veto afterwards. "That was a big time money shot right there."

The rest of the match was a mere formality, as Creepywhite did what Creepywhite does best: he closed the deal in slow, methodical, calculated fashion.

Urquhart's fury had done the job once again. While not often conventional - and never pretty - the team responded to their Captain's tactics much like a Marine platoon responds to a mad dog drill Sergeant. They roared back with poise and dignity, locking up another 3-2 victory and sending the Mailman and his henchmen home broken, and dejected.

Somewhere, passed out in a shower - most likely in a pool of his own vomit and feces, with a whiskey bottle still gripped firmly in hand - Urquhart must have smiled; at least for a second or two.

URQUART TURNS 40, REVEALS SECRET BIRTHDAY WISH

Today, Urqhuhart turns 40. Many will send cards and birthday wishes. Some will send flowers. One underage street hustler turned sex slave will shower him with unthinkable pleasures - but only for $200/hr and begrudgingly, of course. A few will probably go with the most obvious gift: a fifth of whiskey with a bow on it.

Many others will simply send their congratulations. "Its amazing that his liver has held out so long," said one drinking partner from The Post, "I never thought he'd make 35, never mind 40."

But I can tell you this friends: save your time, money and effort on such irrelevant birthday gifts and wishes. My award winning investigative reporting (well, not quite yet, technically, though Weighlum assures me a Pulitzer awaits) has turned up a stunning new piece of information. The only thing that Urquhart secretly desires for his 40th birthday is... yes, it's true, a 'bromance'.

As news of the fiery Captain's birthday fantasy spread through the ranks of the team, panic quickly began to set in. "Oh please," sighed a terrified Numero Uno, "please don't let it be me!" Creepy put on his headphones and embarked on a 4 hour run, trying desperately - though ultimately in vain - to block the possibility from his mind. Veto shivered and turned a disturbing shade of greenish-pale, though he knew the odds were slim he would be picked. "I just want to vomit right now," he said. "The thought alone is too much for my stomach to handle." Chewy retreated to the back of Binks, scurrying up the pipes and onto the roof. He brought a sleeping bag, and a back pack full of food, beer, and smoke. "I'll stay up here as long as I have to," he said, defiantly. Blackbeard dove head first into a barrel of rum, and then opted for a game of Russian Roulette in the Captain's quarters of his ship. Fortunately for the Georges, he didn't lose. "Arrrr," said the shaken pirate, "I'd rather blow me brains out and be fed to the fishes than be subjected to that kind of torture. Arrrr, woe is me!"

"None of those guys have to worry," confirmed Urquhart, when finally reached for comment on Friday morning. "I've already picked out the perfect friend for my bromance," he said, blushing and proud, "and it's not any of those retards. The winner is... obviously... Weighlum."

"Of course!" cried a relieved Veto. "It makes perfect sense. Urquhart has always been so nice and respectful towards Weighlum, even when he was missing in action all of those sessions. It always seemed so illogical and wayward of his personality, until now."

"I knew there had to be a dark, sinister reason why he kept Weighlum on the roster all this time," commented an equally relieved Creepywhite, "and now, I supposed, its time for the poor bastard to pay the piper."

As of press time, Weighlum was nowhere to be found. He has avoided all phone contact and work obligations. The angry pit bosses at his grocery store fumed, stating that he hadn't shown up for work or even bothered to call. Audry told reporters that he had gone fishing, and asked them to please stop calling her house. Their dog Wrigley moaned a low, lonely howl in the background. One neighbor stated he witnessed Weighlum's truck tearing out of the neighborhood at breakneck speed shortly after the news broke. "The smell of burning rubber lingered in the air for a good two hours," he said. Another friend claims he put on a fake beard and retreated to Mexico, vowing never to return.

"There are a lot of conflicting stories out there," commented Anderson Cooper from CNN, "but one thing is for sure: Weighlum is in hiding, deep hiding."

"Oh, I'll get my 40th birthday wish," stated a confident Urquhart, "or there will be serious hell to pay. Just come on out Weighlum, and lets get this over with."

Elsewhere on the Northeast side of town, Chewy sat on the roof of Binks, waiting and alone. He had forgotten to bring a transistor radio, and had yet to hear the news. "Can I come down yet?" he screamed over the passing cars on Alberta Street. The juke box rang out onto the patio, and no one below seemed to hear him. It would be another 14 hours before he climbed down and rejoined society; safe from Urquhart's bromance, yes, but never again to be the same.

GEORGES FIND A LEAD OFF MAN... REBOUND AT PIEDMONT PLACE... RIDE SWEEPS BY WEIGHLUM, VETO AND MIXA TO 3-2 VICTORY

Behind an explosive barrage of shock and awe that would have made Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld proud, Furious George stunned Piedmont Place and jumped out to an insurmountable lead on Monday night. Weighlum, Veto and Mixa all swept their opponents in convincing fashion, winning the first 11 games of the night.

Weighlum set the tone with a quick 4-0 victory. He was so dominant - so in command of his craft - that he chose, for kicks I would presume, to finish his opponent by nabbing the win and two prestigious awards, all with one swift stroke of the cue. Unthinkable? Perhaps. Impossible? For most, probably. But for Weighlum, on this night, well, he made history without even breaking a sweat. The returning hero - and original passenger aboard the Furious George Express; formerly known as The Battling Bastards of Binks - put an explanation point on his victory by sinking the eight ball on the break in his final game, earning both the sweep certificate and the eight on the break patch.

"Hot SU-EY!," sang one drunken patron. "That Waylon Jennings is one slick dancer! He was slicin' and dicin' and zig zaggin' all over the table out there. Hoo-WEE-damn!"

The home crowd gasped. Piedmont Place's bench groaned. And the Georges swelled with confidence and pride. Finally, they had found their lead off man. No more of the usual match one shenanigans to worry about (such as Veto losing to a 90 year old 3, Creepy forgetting to mark his pocket, or Chewy puking on his shoes).

"At last", sighed Urquhart afterwards, "a true point guard who can set up the offense - and set the tone - without dribbling the goddam ball off his foot."

"Its nice to put down the grocery store vest and pricing gun and pick up cue stick and a pint glass again," said Weighlum during a Tuesday morning phone interview.

Weighlum's Monday night work schedule had been like a prison sentence until recently when - perhaps by the grace of the great pool God Earl - the cosmos aligned, strange energies transpired, and finally - FINALLY! - those evil grocery store pit bosses released their shackles and set him free.

"Its a great, symbolic moment for Binks pool and for all of mankind, really," wrote one keen observer from the Carefree Republic Times, "kind of similar to when Nelson Mandela was released from prison."

Ah yes, free at last, FREE AT LAST!

Urquhart summoned Veto to the table for match two. Fueled by beer and adrenaline, a few cigarettes, and the awesome performance he had just witnessed, Veto rode the wave of momentum to 5-0 win. It took just 10 total innings to beat one of the most feared 4s in NOPO history (at least for Veto, who openly admits his 'issues' with middled aged ladies and white haired grandmas).

"Weighlum's performance really pumped me up," said Veto afterwards. "Suck at that one Burt."

Mixa jumped to attention like Demi More from GI Jane when she heard her name called for match three. She carefully picked up her trusty cue Norton, and held his shaft close to her cheek as she whispered sweet, encouraging words to his tip. The pre-game pep talk worked like a charm, and Norton did not let her down. The two worked in tandem like a well oiled machine, winning 2-0 and extending the George's streak of sweeps to 3.

More importantly, Mixa had assured a team victory at Piedmont Place. The Georges were up 3-0, and had won the first 11 games of the night. It was as dominant of a three game stretch as any team could ever hope for. Even Urquhart seemed, well... slightly happy, sort of.

Sensing Urquhart's equilibrium was skewing dangerously out of whack, the pool gods had no choice but to step in and intervene. During the next match, sadly, Numero Uno became their sacrificial lamb. Inexplicably - so it seemed - he struggled with bad breaks, tough rolls, and untimely scratches.

Just as the gods had expected, Uno's poor play did the trick. Urquhart clenched his teeth. His face turned from a tan brown to a burnt red. Blood vessels began to pop and crackle in his head, triggering hideous flame-ups from dormant blood blisters. His head was like a volcano waiting to erupt. The vein in his neck bulged. He scratched dry skin from his scalp and laced his vocabulary with awful profanities. Spit flew from his nostrils and his eyes glared. The gods smiled. A balance between optimism and fury had once again been restored to the team. They had pulled Urquhart's strings like a puppeteer, and sent a powerful message to the team - yet again - through their captain's fury.

Numero Uno went down in flames but, for the moment, a brief sense of humility returned to their swelling heads.

"Up 3-1, the fiery Captain sent himself up for the final match. Piedmont Place had to recall a player, so he squared off against the same old hag who had just taken down Uno. The gods smiled upon this fitting twist of fate. They sat neutral, and let the match turn to a blood bath of epic proportions.

It was a classic battle of guts and brawn. Urquhart, surprisingly sober and present, quickly found himself down 0-1. Then in game two he summoned one of the best runs of his career. With his opponent down to the eight ball - which hung like low lying fruit in the corner pocket - Urquhart stared down his six remaining balls. Defense was not an option, he realized, so he did the unthinkable: he went offensive.

Urquhart prowled around the table like a beast over her prey. He took his time and stayed in rhythm, calmly eyeing down each shot; and then executing with perfection. His stroke was true, his leaves were impeccable, and his desire to close never wavered. He ran out the table and the Georges were once again flying high.

"Wow," raved Veto, "he really can play an offensive game. It was a glorious display, a true sight to behold."

The team erupted in support and Urquhart forged on, eventually pushing the match to a scintillating hill-hill finale. What ensued was one of the toughest table layouts in APA history. "It was the dog gone craziest thing I eva' seen in ALL my years," said 87 year old Quick Fire Perkins, best known for his backroom hustles and trick shot shows on the Oklahoma circuit.

The eight ball hung next to the corner pocket, and four balls - two stripes and two solids - clung to it like a pack of wet snowballs on a freezing day. A defensive battle was inevitable, which normally plays right into Urquhart's hands. But something inside of his head had gone terribly awry by this point. Perhaps that beautiful run out in game two had caused him to go 'offensive minded', and he had forgotten how to bring the famous Urquhart D when he needed it.

The cat and mouse duel went on for innings, but it seemed like hours. Starvation and dehydration eventually set in and began to play funny tricks on their minds. Uquhart swatted at the tension in the air, like a cow swatting away flies with this tail! He stumbled around and began to sweat profusely. There were no easy moves. No safe plays. Madness was taking hold.

Then, like a peace offering from the gods, he was given a gift. He was down to the eight ball and had no makeable shot, but the setup was custom made for his patented brand of sneaky D; and then an easy kill. After a timeout and some coaching advice by Veto (Urquhart's first mistake), he stood over the shot and did the unthinkable: he needlessly hit his opponent's ball and mangled his golden opportunity, handing over ball in hand and essentially gift wrapping the win for Gimme (Yes, that is her nickname. Insert your own Urquhart joke here).

"Veto's plan during the timeout was solid," confirmed a surprisingly humble Urquhart afterwards, "but the execution was piss poor. God damnit," he sneered, after a brief moment of reflective silence, "somebody get me a whiskey before I snap!""

"Gimme was tough tonight," admired Veto, scratching at the fuzz on his chin. "She took down Uno and Urquhart, back to back, which is no small task. I do believe a new nemesis has been born."

In the end, the Georges got their three wins and remain in a two way tie for first place. Next week the schedule brings them back to Binks, where the garage door will be open, the beer will flow fast and cold, and the rejuvenated fans will probably end up spilling onto Alberta Street in wild, drunken hysteria."

"Ah yes," smiled Weighlum, "its good to be back."

RELAPSE! FURIOUS GEORGE FALLS TO CORNER SPOT PLAYERS IN HOME OPENER

Coming off of an impressive 4-1 victory at the Kenton Club, Furious George suffered a terrible let down in their Summer session home opener, falling 2-3 to the Corner Spot Players.

Said Veto, "I wasn't there, but my guess is the coaching was to blame."

Numero Uno and Mixa fell in quick succession to start the night. "We missed last week's match due to our anniversary," confirmed Uno afterwards, "so we were a little rusty. This is mostly due to the fact that we stayed in bed all week making sweet, sweet love."

Urquhart raged. "No practice? NO PRACTICE?!! That is completely unacceptable. Just because I never practice doesn't give the rest of these peons the right to slack. God damnit, GET OUT AND PRACTICE! No more love making, do you hear me? If I don't get to have any sex, none of you do!"

Waylund and Urquhart battled back valiantly, winning the next two matches and evening things up at two matches a piece. For a moment, the excitement at Binks reached a fevered pitch. Women screamed. Old men yodeled. A bartender pulled up her shirt, exposing her glorious tattooed breasts to the team.

"I didn't look," said Urquhart, "because I'm gay."

But in the end it was not meant to be. Blackbeard, while an expert at raping and pillaging and creating all sorts of general pirate-like havoc on the high seas, could not muster up the strength to beat a three with the match on the line.

"Arrr," he said afterwards, despondently. "I deserve to walk me own plank."

"It was a swell comeback," sighed Creepywhite, "at least while it lasted."

"Am I pissed?" asked Urquhart at his post game press conference. "You bet your ass I am. I'm pissed at Dave and Mixa for losing, I'm pissed at Blackbeard for losing, I'm pissed at Creepy for annoying me, I'm pissed at Chewy for having better hair than I do, and I'm pissed at Veto because, well, mostly because I just really hate that guy."

"I guess we better rebound next week," commented Chewy, "or coach is going to be pissed."

Next up for the Georges: Piedmont Place.

AMBUSH AT THE KENTON CLUB! FURIOUS GEORGE IS BACK... FOR THE MOMENT

Sorry friends, but I have been gone for a long while. As my editor likes to say, 'life moves fast for a freelance beat writer'. One day you're covering a high stakes billiards match in Portland, the next day its a horse race in the Tulsa, a tractor drag in West Virginia, or a bass fishing tournament in Florida. It ain't always easy, but times are tough and the recession is on, so what can a poor man do except pack a typewriter in his Lincoln and drive?

Ah, but save your tears for a better story. Old RJ Pinderton is back in high spirits. The layoff between sessions was much needed. It takes a few weeks, after all, to forget about all those terrible beat downs. There were so many. And they were all so painful. It was an awful session indeed. There was bitterness, infighting, anger... and the losses kept coming. The Georges finished a distant memory in the standings, and people around the league began to openly question their condition; mental and otherwise.

But hot dammit, I am here to report that Furious George is back! The summer session began last Monday against their arch rivals, The Kenton Club; where the weather is always grey and the bad blood runs like electricity through the walls. Perhaps these very conditions caused Burt to fire 'The Shot Heard 'Round The NOPO Division' last session when he called out Creepywhite for not marking his pocket on an eight ball; though it was the easiest of all easy hangers, with virtually no chance of error for any player of ANY skill level. His bush-league move tipped the series, and ultimately the match for the Kentonites, who slipped away with a 3-2 win.

Urquhart was furious for months. He paced around the house in a tattered bath robe, mumbling and sneering about those low down suns a bitches and their dirty tricks. "Burt thinks he can play us for fools?" he would snarl at himself. He pulled at his chest hair and spit as he screamed profanities. God forbid he caught a passing glance of himself in a mirror. Many ended up smashed to pieces on the ground. It was a terrible scene, by all neighborly accounts. He once put a whiskey bottle through a picture frame while an innocent girl scout stood on his front porch with a wagon full of cookies; petrified, frozen with terror.

Upon setting his eyes on the Summer schedule, his feelings of pent up anger suddenly changed. Urquhart's psyche shifted a few degrees to the north and the fury slowly turned to determination. Some say he was on a quest for redemption. Others say it was revenge.

Said Urquhart, "When I found out we were opening at the Kenton Club, I was like, 'oh-my-god, I so want to kill these guys'. Okay, so how am I gonna get these id-iots on my team to (1) show up on time, (2) not screw it up, and (3) not annoy me while I get drunk?"

"The fury runs deep," confirmed Veto afterwards. "I think its safe to say that the old codger wanted this one bad. Real bad."

The Georges rolled into the pub and received the Kenton Club's usual brand of icy cold hospitality. No words were uttered, no pleasantries of any kind exchanged. Both teams wanted nothing more than to screw their cues together and get down to business.

For the Georges, it was the business payback.

From the opening match, their was little doubt about who was in control. With a flurry of body blows and daunting jabs, the Georges jumped out to a convincing 4-0 lead. Blackbeard, Creepy, Veto and Urquhart all won in succession. Each showcased impressive moments, took advantage when opportunities presented themselves, and sealed their wins. It wasn't always perfect, nor pretty, but it was never really in doubt either.

Burt fumed, silently. The night had turned into a nightmare of epic proportions. When Willie jumped out to a 3-0 lead in match one, he instinctively knew that it was going to be long night. Creepy stepped up next and gave their ringer - and highest ranked player - a bad case of whiplash. The Kentonites were down 0-2 and there was little hope in sight. When Burt sent up a 4 to play Veto , the room was stunned. Everyone thought for sure he would put up himself - a five - to avenge the 1-5 thrashing Veto gave him the last time they played. But Burt wanted no part of Veto on this night. He later claimed the '23 rule' as his defense, stating, "I had no choice, other than to sack up and play Veto, and then forfeit the last match. We were down 0-3 so some would say, 'what the hell, why not? Be a man Burt.' But I tugged on my lip ring and thought about it, and ultimately chose to take the cautious route."

Afterwards, when the stunned crowd had dissipated and the last reporter had packed away his camera, Burt approached Veto and said, "When did you go up to a six, at the end of last session? Hmm. I think you played better as a 5."

Class move Burt, class move. When asked about the incident afterwards, Veto responded, "It just confirms why we were so motivated to embarrass them on their home table tonight. But I'll give Burt one thing, he is a bold dude to make a statement like, especially after the beating I gave him last time we played. I just have one question: if I'm a 5 by his standards, what does that make him, a weak 4 or a strong 3?"

Said Urquhart of the team's win, "Its about time these guys started a session the way I told them too. And its about time the Kenton Club got the bitch slapping they deserved." When asked about the prospects of success for the Summer session, he replied, "Just win three. That is our new battle cry. If we win at least three matches each week - which we all know we can do - you'll be seeing us in Tri Cups."

Ah yes, the passion is back. The fury has returned. And the bitter rivalry with the Kentonites continues. All in all, it was a great opening night. Much better than a chili cook off in Tuscaloosa or a strong man competition in Milwaukee, I can tell you that.

The Georges came and they conquered, reminding us all along the way of the spirit and tenacity they once entranced the masses. And, in the end, they left with a blunt statement plastered right upon the Kentonites wall: 'we're back, and the summer session is ours to win.'

Sorry, our regular reporter is off learning how to count so that he can teach his son someday.

BTB? Bad to the bone? Back to basics? Who knows? Who cares? Three weeks into the Spring session and FGPB was playing at home for the first time in forever. But alas, who would show? Veto the ball whisperer? Nope. The only report we had about the status of VTBW was from Captain Urquhart when he was overheard saying that 'the little freak was probably distracted by super ball that was talking to him.' Weighlum? No such luck. Again, Urquhart was overheard bitching about the fact that the match was scheduled on a Wednesday night so he could make it; but alas...it was also date night. Strike two. Blackbeard? Eventually showed; but by that time the match was almost over.

How would the team react? With three 3s, one 4 and Toby (still reeling from being cheated out of his Monday night match by...oh yeah, himself); would they possibly have a chance?

Chewy was first up. Two minutes in and he was down to two balls. (that sounds bad). He then chased those two balls around the table for the next ten minutes. (Again, that sounds bad.) But in the end he focused and took game one. Off to a great start; but then the focus slipped away and he dropped the next two games. There is hope; because he shoot very well and I'm sure he will recover quickly.

Next up was the probi UNO. Would the new recover from his bout with Small Pox? Yes, in fact he would. But first, he tried a new trick. Waiting until his opponent's lag was completed before lagging himself. Despite the foul; the opposing team didn't call it. In shock after the near brawl at Kenton Club, Uno started the match. Three up, three down. Another win for the new guy. Here's hoping he doesn't jump to a 7 again, or he will find himself back on the Captains sh*t list.

Third at bat was the Captain himself. With whiskey in hand, he lagged for the break. Holy weak crap. Despite his best efforts, he barely made it to the other end of the table. First game was a long, drawn out study of frustration. Missed shots, missed Ds; it was all just missing. Game two was a repeat. Ah, but then he remembered the comment from Veto about his special D ability. And the the comeback began. Win in game three; win in game four; and win in game five.

Binks up 2-1.

Miss Norton's turn at the table. Reporting is a little vague from this point on. The new reporter, making a rookie mistake, had one or two more whiskeys. Despite shooting well, Miss Norton lost to the Poundcake. Comments about her opponent taking the cake were not met with appreciation. Norton vowed that from that day on; Poundcake would pay! Voodoo is her secret weapon.

Binks tied 2-2.

Creapy was up. Could he redeem himself in the team's eyes? Or would he be traded to the kenton club for a bag of peanuts? He won the lag! Toby never wins the lag. He won the first game. He never wins the first game. Won the second. Won the third. Would it be a sweep? Not tonight. Lack of concentration seemed to be dooming the team. Would he fall as well? Game 4 lost. Game 5 lost. And then the return of the real Toby and he won game 6.

Binks wins 3-2.

First win of the season. The drive to the playoffs starts here. No justice, no peace. Live free or die. Let freedom ring. Nothing to fear, but fear itself. Tear down that wall! A house divided will not stand. Hmmm...doughnuts.

KENTONITES PROVE TO BE STICKLERS FOR THE RULES... FURIOUS GEORGE GETS PINCHED, THEN FALLS SHORT IN COMEBACK EFFORT

As Creepywhite stepped to the table for the first match on Monday night, the Kenton Club appeared to be full of good vibes and harmony. Beer flowed freely and laughter was in the air. A band played old-timey American roots music in the background. Creepy shuffled and danced to the music, doing his best Mick Jagger chicken dance in between shots. Down 1-0 to Snaggle Shaft - the Kentonites most feared player - Creepy felt confident and looked to even up the score in game two. The eight ball hung deep in the pocket, and the cue ball was merely inches away. Victory seemed assured.

"Not even Urquhart could screw this one up," commented Mixa.

But apparently Creepy could. He forgot to mark his pocket and the Kentonites pounced like Tonya Harding at a crow bar factory. A wry smile crept across Captain Burt's face as he announced their decision. "Ooooh, yeah, sorry about that guys. We're gonna have to call that one."

The Georges were shocked and appalled. Sure, the rules are the rules, but would anyone on their bench have called that foul? And more to importantly, does anyone really want to win that way? Creepy, no doubt, was stunned. Chewy sat speechless. Willie covered his eyes. Mixa temporarily gagged on her turkey sandwich. Veto's nostrils flared, and at least one witness claims to have seen smoke coming from his floppy ears.

Urquhart, however, offered little resistance. The coach actually seemed... well, happy.

"I hate to see us lose one that way," he said afterwards, "but I do enjoy screaming at Creepy when he screws up."

Creepy battled back, but ultimately lost 5-3 to the Kentonites ringer. Had he been credited with a win in game two, he surely would have won the match.

Mixa was sent up next, and the home team ramped up their brash intimidation tactics. They gave her nasty looks, and heckled her when she failed to let the cue ball roll to a complete stop after a table scratch. With momentum on their side, the Kentonites continued to catch all the rolls and Mixa lost in yet another heart breaker.

Down 2-0, it was up to Black Beard to mount the comeback charge. And mount the charge he did indeed! Our favorite pirate stormed out of the gates with his flintlock pistols blazing. "Ye landlubbers will feel the cold steel of my mighty sword in yer crusty arses!" he snarled towards the Kentonites bench as he prepared for the opening break. He then proceeded to shoot with deadly accuracy, picking up a break and run patch and steamrolling to an impressive 3-1 victory.

"Arrrrrrr," smiled Black Beard afterwards, when asked to describe how he felt about his performance.

Black Beard had done his job, and reignited the fire on the George's bench. They were down 2-1, but they were far from out. Following Black Beard's lead, Veto took Captain Burt out behind the wood shed for an old fashioned butt whooping in match four. It took just 15 innings for him to finish off the 5-1 victory.

A foggy glaze covered Burt's eyes. He looked stunned, and confused. "That must have felt like a sucker punch to the balls," summarized Chewy afterwards.

"That one was for Creepy," commented Veto, obviously referring to the gross injustice his teammate had suffered earlier in the night.

With the match tied 2-2, Captain Urquhart strode to the table. Feeding off the energy of the previous two matches, the George's leader was smooth, confident, and fearless. His patented brand of Special D was on full display for everyone to witness. He barely gave his opponent any room to breath, and before long the poor fool was about as frustrated as a man can get. He began to twitch and snivel uncontrollably. His nose ring shook like a wind chime on a stormy night.

The match came down to a hill-hill battle and, with two balls left, Urquhart found himself with a ball in hand opportunity. Sadly, he mangled it yet again, leaving himself poor position on his second shot and ultimately giving ball in hand right back to his opponent. The Kentonites could finally breath easily. With nothing but the eight ball left on the table, they happily accepted Urquhart's gift and finished off the match.

The Kentonites 3, Furious George 2.

"El Capitan played with passion, pride, and an unwavering determination tonight," commented Veto when asked about his play, "as did the rest of the team. There is nothing to be ashamed of when you give that kind of effort. We easily could have won 4 matches tonight."

"I still like the way our team is playing," said Captain Urquhart afterwards. "We've lost a few close ones sure, but that happens sometimes. We'll turn this thing around and catch a hot streak before long, I can feel it in my bones. "

Next up for Furious George: a Wednesday night make up match with the meth heads from Sweet Home.

NUMERO UNO ACHEIVES HIGHEST RANKING IN TEAM HISTORY... URQUHART HAS ISLAND NAMED AFTER HIM... FURIOUS GEORGE LOSES IN ANOTHER HARD FOUGHT BATTLE

Much to the chagrin of head coach Urquhart, the new guy has set a major team record in just one week of play. With a masterful performance in his first outing at the Blue Parrot, Numero Uno has escalated to the top of the APA mountain. "He was so powerful," said local APA official Boomer Humphreys, "that we had no choice but to rank him a 7. He probably would have been a 9 or a 10 if the rankings went that high."

Said Veto, "Wow, Numero Uno has been on our team for one week and has already achieved the highest ranking in team history. Very impressive indeed. I am humbled in his presence."

Urquhart, however, did not share Veto's warm and fuzzy feelings towards Numero Uno's record setting performance. "He needs to come down off of his high horse and remember one thing: he's still just the FNG around here! He's a worthless peon, a neophyte, a helpless ninny who still needs me to wipe his ass. You hear that new guy? I WIPE THE ASSES AROUND HERE!"

When reminded that the new guy is popular with teammates and has been widely credited with bringing a burst of fresh energy to the mix, Urqhuart replied, "He hasn't done anything yet except annoy me. Does he have a conference championship under his belt? No. Does he have any APA trophies on his mantle? No. Does he have an island and a bridge named after him like I do? Puh-lease."

Confirmed Urquhart's young nephew, "Its true, they named Ross Island and The Ross Island Bridge after him. He knows Santa Clause too, he told me so himself. Uncle Ross is my hero!"

In other news, Furious George lost another hard fought battle on Monday night, this time to the 8 Ballers from U&I Tavern. Hoping to set the tone early, Urquhart called his own number in match one. While his shot making and strategery were impressive, he was ultimately unable to pull out the win. "I can't get too down on myself for losing to that guy," said the captain afterwards, "he was just sooooo cute."

Sadly, things went down hill from there for The Georges. Veto had the lone win of the night, sweeping his opponent 4-0 and salvaging a small bit of pride for the team.

The Georges are currently 0-2 on the session, and have a total match record of 3-7.

In a rare moment of clarity afterwards, Urquhart managed to sum things up nicely: "Its no time to panic. We've lost a few close ones this session, but that's just they way it goes sometimes. Its still early, and this isn't the first time we've started slow. It won't be the first time we come roaring back either. At the end of the day I like the way our guys are playing and I like our chances. I feel like next week is going to be a big win for Furious George."

NATIVE AMERICAN RIGHTS GROUPS GO ON WAR PATH... FORCE VETO TO RETRACT ENTIRE POST

In response to a flurry of complaints from Native American rights organizations - here in the Northwest and elsewhere throughout the country - Veto has decided to remove his most recent post.

"We do not deny that Mr. Veto hustled one of our elders out of $5 at The Bitter End Pub," said Chief Mocking Bird of the Umatilla tribe. "We are used to such con jobs from the white man. But to ridicule our heritage, to speak in such ignorant stereotypes, to disrespect our women and children as he has... this Veto must pay."

Answering questions at a tense press conference that followed, Veto attempted to clarify his position: "Truth is, I didn't even know she was Native American at first. If I had to guess I probably would have gone with Mexican, maybe even Chilean or one of those other countries down in South America. I didn't find out about her heritage until afterwards, over a cigarette, as she wailed out stories about life on the reservation. But it didn't really matter to me anyway. All I knew was this woman challenged me to a game of pool for $5. She could have been from the shanty towns of Jamaica or the slums of Guatemala for all I cared. I was playing for pride. Come on people, everyone knows I still have nightmares about Margaret from the Mouse Trap. Gives me the chills just thinking about her face. Imagine losing to another old gray hair - and this time for money. It was too terrible to even think about. Her blood lines were the least of my concerns."

But the crimes of generations past still blow strong in the wind, and the Umatillans are proud Indian warriors. Veto had slipped at the tongue, and offered up red meat. Like it or not he was in their cross hairs now - the cross hairs of vengeance - and they refused to let him out of their sights. "We will skin him like a buffalo and carve tee-pees from his hide!" cried Chief Mocking Bird outside the conference hall. The swarming crowd of injuns exploded in agreement. They roared and danced and chanted, and pierced many ears with their war cries.

"Look Chief," Veto replied - he was hidden behind a wall of police escorts, being pushing towards an unmarked van - "I meant no disrespect to your people. And I took down the post. Now please, tone down the menacing threats."

"Hmm-mmm," sighed one Furious George fan, shaking his head in disbelief. He stood across the street, witnessing this modern day witch hunt unfold. It was a scene made for the CNN news ticker: mob of angry Indians finally get their day, shake down white man in broad daylight for whole town to see... "

"Poor Veto," he muttered to himself, "it ain't easy being a hustler."