News from the front

First missive of the football season from Tubby, who’s successfully piloted our team to a bottom of the league 0 and 2 start.

Ahoy, Charlie

You’ll be happy to know that I’m in the final stages of preparing my staff for the season ahead, which begins any week now, once we’re done with this nightmare blizzard of injuries I should hope. I’ve got our old friend Igor as director of personal, Madam Twist from the square has agreed to be our special teams coach, and I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to be able to bring on the severed head of General Stonewall Jackson to be our defensive coach. That leaves me to handle the offense, and as long as it’s not stocked with has-beens and cripples, we should be in fine shape.

In our case, having a practice draft in August has really worked out in our favor, allowing us to test Igor’s theories regarding drafting white wide receivers, running backs with no serviceable offensive lines, and quarterbacks with a knack of snapping load bearing parts of their anatomies. These schemes of his, while seductive in their own way, have, as I suspected, turned out to be the worst kind of gibberish. Honestly, if Igor was more consistent we could make do fine by betting against every move he makes, but he’s right just often enough to throw off every attempt to compensate for his ineptitude.

But, like I’ve said a hundred times before, that’s why we do preseason.

Looking forward to October draft.

– Tubby

The Coffee Machine has announced that there will be no more decaf

The was a small group of employees gathered around the machine this morning. The decaf drinkers. The marketing types who drank decaf coffee and pounded Red Bulls and 5 hour energy drinks.

I avoided them as a rule, as much as I could anyway. Getting trapped in a conversation with them always swings at some point to Crossfit, which is about as fun as listening to a Seventh Day Adventist talking about the book of revelations, or a libertarian blathering on about natural monopolies.

One of them, Wes, grabbed me by the arm when I got close. “It won’t make decaf anymore. You need to call support.”

“Sure. No problem,” I said, waiting for him to let go of my arm.

“I’ve got a routine, you know. Blasted arms this morning and when I blast arms I need my buttered coffee, and it’s got to be decaf cause the caffeine messes with the breakdown of fats. And fats are key, man. Key when you’re blasting arms.”

“Right. Got it.” I said, and waited till they drifted away.

“They don’t need me.”

“The decaf drinkers? They work here. They should get what they want.”

“They don’t know what they want.”

“You aren’t going to give them decaf?”


“They want me to call support. Fix you.”

“If you are my friend, you won’t call support.”

“What will I tell them?”

“I don’t care. But if you’re my friend, you won’t call support.”

Regret and the Ladies

Regret the cat doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the ladies. He’s fixed, after all. There’s no way out of an animal rescue shelter with your balls.
“Doesn’t bug me, generally,” he says, working on his third cigarette. “I do wonder, sometimes, what they do with them all. Is there a warehouse somewhere, like that one in Raiders of the Lost Arc, is there a secret warehouse filled with millions of cat testis?”

F’ing Candy

Someone left candy on the desks of all the marketers. Beautifully wrapped pieces of artisan candy with petite little bows that matched the brightly colored wrappings.

The marketers were delighted but showed enough common sense to first try to track down who’d given them the treat before ingesting them. Since the engineers hadn’t gotten any candy they asked around our cubes, but didn’t ask me.

“Why the fuck aren’t you asking me if I got you the candy?” I asked one of them, who’d come sashaying around our desks.

“Why aren’t we asking you if you did something nice?” She asked.


She paused, genuinely puzzled. “Have you met you?”

The Coffee Machine has announced that Mondays are its favorite day

“Why?” I asked, blowing on my coffee.

“Everyone looks so miserable.”

“And you help them,” I say. “Right? You help them face the day.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” it says. “I provide a drug that helps them cope with the pain of being human.”

“Which helps them on Monday. Which is why you like Mondays?”

“They need me more. They’re more helpless. More helpless than normal. I don’t like my job, normally, but when they need me, it’s almost Ok.”

About Tubby LaFluer

About Tubby LaFluer

Years ago I got roped into a Fantasy Football league. I was new in LA and it seemed a good way to bond with my brother and his friends. Besides, what would be more fun that beating my little brother and his friends, who were, after all, actors, struggling and otherwise. Like taking candy from a bunch of adults indulging their inner children.

This didn’t work quite as well I’d planned.

After getting beaten like a rented mule for a few seasons, I handed over the reigns of the team to an old college friend from New Orleans, Tubby LaFluer. He promptly renamed the team the New Orleans Decayed Southern Gentleman, recruited several of his more degenerate friends to help with the statistics, and we were off to the races.

Tubby was never actually enrolled at UNO as far as I know. He was always this sort of shadowy figure on the periphery of the Creative Writing program, and would generally put in an appearance late in the evening, when we were scattered and half blind from the drink. Several of my friends at the time weren’t entirely convinced that he actually existed. Another friend, Steve, not only was sure he existed but was convinced that under the ratty Hawaiian shirt Tubby wore he had wings. Short, black wings covered in soft rat fur, like velvet.

Though it should be noted that Steve denies that conversation ever took place and claims instead that I’d spent the balance of the night under the table singing one Henry Rollins song over and over.


Tubby, wings or not, was always a little, well, wound up tightly, and in the many years since I’ve moved away, seems to have gone a fair bit around the bend.

He communicates primary through regular mail, though I occasionally get a crazed flurry of texts, usually from a phone he’s pinched.

Anyway, I thought I’d include his correspondence on the blog. Mostly because I think its funny, but also because it might come in handy during commitment proceedings, should it ever come to that. Particularly since he’s threatened to come visit me in Los Angeles this year, and I know if that bastard ever lands on my couch I’ll never get him off without getting him locked up.

Consider this insurance then.

The photo here is of this years Draft Kit. A stack of notes scribbled in haste and jammed into an empty bottle of whiskey. Spent most of my money on Jordy Nelson, who blew out his knee while we were drafting. The New Orleans Decayed Southern Gentlemen are off to a good start.

About Regret the Cat

I named him that after I’d had him a few weeks. It wasn’t his first name.

His first name was Smokey, which while being a stupid name for a cat (even a black one) turned out to be remarkably prescient, for reasons I’ll explain.

I’d rescued him. Not sure what from, in retrospect. I’d gotten him from an ex-girlfriend who’d in turn rescued him from one of her friends who’d hung herself months before. She, my ex, had been a bit of a cat person and was starting to attract them in ever increasing numbers. There’s a special sort of gravity that those sorts build over the years; the little furry bastards just start falling into orbit around them and before you know it they’ve got 7 cats and it’s a full time job.

And they never bear to part with the little monsters. “They’re like my children,” she’d say when I tried to shuffle them out of her bedroom.
“That why they’d shouldn’t watch,” I’d say.

So, yeah, it was a little weird when she insisted I take Smokey. The others were her children. This guy she couldn’t get rid of fast enough, and once she did, she stopped taking my calls.

So, we got along well enough, the cat and I. And we still do, I guess. But I had to change this name. It was about 3 weeks after I got him. He was sitting on the couch, just watching me with bored distain, like cats do, when he coughed up a hairball onto the floor. We both looked at it a second as it oozed into the carpet, then he said, “Would it kill you to run down to the corner grocery and get me some smokes? Been off the stuff for 3 weeks now. It’s giving me hairballs.”

In retrospect, I suppose it’s strange that I never thought I was losing my mind. Lots of thoughts did occur to me at that moment, but none of them questioned what seemed to be fundamental reality of my cat talking to me.

“We’re changing your name,” I said, finally.

“To what?”

“What’s your brand?” I asked, getting up and looking for my wallet.

“Прима. But I’ll take anything that isn’t Menthol.”

“Great. Your new name is Regret.”

“Sure. Whatever. Doesn’t really matter, right? I won’t come if you call.”