YOU CAN TASTE THE RAIN THE COW DRANK IN THE WORLD'S BEST BEEF BURGER

TENNIS THIS YEAR

You may not know it to look at me, but I'm an athlete. At first glance I'm a regular beanpole with a blueberry head, and yet my career in sport is above average (sub-illustrious). My body doesn't seem to react to anything I put it through, which may mean I'm an alien. Perhaps the Zorb that programmed my human disguise was too busy playing Scrobboobleps on her Grimzax to properly code the growth matrix. If I were to lift weights I'd probably just get hairier. If I ate too much pizza I'd probably have more complex breath. The only time I got "jacked" was when I was a junk man for a couple of summers. I don't think it was all the lifting though, I think it was all the time I spent at some of the GTA's best dumps, aquiring nutrients and vitamins through osmosis thanks to the fragrant air. Seriously, anyone who's ever slept in the same room as me claims they don't need breakfast the next morning. On my rookie card it says "Glenn displays a high level of nutrient transference but sucks at bunting".

Tennis is a sport I've played for a long time, albeit extremely casually. This year I had the opportunity to get a new racquet that cost over 30 dollars thanks to one of those reward programs that buys merchandise by selling your information to Batman. All of a sudden I feel like Thor when he wraps his hands around his big knife. 

Due to some injuries and my fondness for playing skateboard video games, I've only been able to play once this year with co-comedian Chris Locke, whose racqet turned his hands orange because it was old and rich in beta carotene. Good thing we didn't pass by any gardens or he would've been pegged as a carrot rascal faster than a hare on a slip 'n slide.

If we continue to play regularly for the rest of the summer I think we can qualify for Wimbledon the next time the Queen blows into her platinum clarinet, summoning the world's top smackers to the storied lawns.

I bet if you work as a grass cutter at Wimbledon, you take so much grass home the first couple of weeks. There's two type of relationships in this world:

1. Husband gets job cutting grass at Wimbledon. Brings home tons of grass. Wife hates it but supports his career and also finds it kind of cute. After a month on the job, Husband can't think of anything to do with grass plus the job starts getting boring, so he sprinkles his collection on his own lawn, shrugs his shoulders then goes out and gets pissed.

2. Husband gets job cutting grass at Wimbledon. Wife won't shut up about bringing home grass clippings. He obeys. She shows her friends. Makes crafts for an afternoon, gives grass as presents, kind of forgets the whole grass thing and now won't shut up about a tennis membership. Husband says "I'll ask", never asks because it's stupid, but brings her toilet paper from women's toilets.

I'd be the first one I think.