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DrFrolf

Fargo, ND - 11/15/14 - Tecmo Ryder Cup

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I hope to one day look back at this thread and see it in the top 10 viewed threads of all time on this site.

 

If Frolf keeps the cards coming, I think we can make that happen.

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Since I have been summoned, and because I didn't put cards up this weekend, today will be yet another double dip. I present to you a legend: 


 


#37 -- L. Ron Haddix


 


post-8376-0-83517200-1416853775_thumb.jp


 


 


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Since I have been summoned, and because I didn't put cards up this weekend, today will be yet another double dip. I present to you a legend: 

 

#37 -- L. Ron Haddix

 

attachicon.gif37_frank.jpg

 

5 stars.

Time to step your game up, DFM

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And where did you did that guy's picture up from? I know of no Tecmo player--except this guy obviously--who has been to Glamour Shots for a personal shoot. 


 


Well, maybe moulds or ArtVandelay have been to Glamour Shots, but no self respecting real Tecmoer has. 


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Not to distract from that arousing nice picture of Regulator, but the "Mamba" is an actor whose name we spelled wrong on the cards.  I think he may have started a new Glamour Shots trend, though, that will be hard to restrain.

 

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2348807/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1

 

I just started throwing consonants at that name, hoping to get it right. This is not the only incorrect spelling on the cards either. Whoops!

 

Next person to reveal a card spelling blunder receives that particular trading card delivered to them, along with a random card selection, sealed in a standard issue envelope via USPS!

 

Also, Hero Status was granted solely by the Tecmo Gods. If you question The Status, you are questioning your own existence. 

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Good memory! He wore a Kobe Bryant All-Star game jersey. 

 

There were 2 dudes from Cali at Tecmo VIII who just got bombed taking shot after shot, told everyone they were having the time of their lives, and then we never heard from them again. Let's hope they turn up again someday. I'll buy the shots this time.

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The Place Beyond the Wasteland (Part 3)


 


“When I came to you, brothers, I didn’t come with excellence of tapping or of wisdom, proclaiming to you my testimony of the Fontenot of Youth. I was with you in weakness, in fear, and in much trembling. I knew your faith wouldn’t stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of the Tecmo gods. We speak their wisdom in a mystery, the wisdom that has been hidden in the great prairie where the woolly mammoths roam, which the Tecmo gods foreordained before the worlds for our glory.”


 


- Skansi’s first letter to the Cornelius, 1200 yrs BLT (Before LT)

_____

 

We barreled down the great dirt road at breakneck speed. I learned much of the North Dakota culture, and heard tales of great men like “Onion” and “Smells,” who apparently weren’t the same person. Just at the point where I could smell the second site in Davenport, our caravan was stopped by a crossing train. I saw several Tecmo hobos (“Tecmobos” as the ancients call them) on the boxcars. Hardened men, with their best years behind them, and scores of worse years laid out before them like so many railroad ties, stretching endlessly eastward.

 

I called out to them that they were passing through fertile Tecmo territory, and they needed to disembark before reaching the Wasteland. But I was speaking to ghosts: their eyes were deader than Mosi Tatupu’s as they lumbered past us. My spirits only recovered when we reached the second site in Davenport: a former deer processing plant. I knew then that one of two things would happen when I entered that building: (1) Our bodies would be butchered, and sold as venison to the starving hordes in the Tecmo refugee camps of the east, or (2) We would enjoy the greatest Tecmo venue we’ve ever seen, and all the mysteries hidden therein. 

 

I walked into the plant with no hesitation, for in my heart I knew the truth. This was the place to which Paul Skansi was referring, all of those ages ago. We entered the holy site to much fanfare, and after drinking a few Nordeast beers, the North Dakota clan immediately screened their brilliant “Is there anybody out there?” and “Designers” documentaries.

 

Shortly thereafter, we were treated to groundbreaking Tecmo player cards, and a tour of the ancient Tecmo hall of fame, where “the wisdom that has been hidden” had laid undisturbed for centuries. The museum’s artifacts were painstakingly preserved, and when I tried to take a picture of the famous “#EatShitOrenga” towel, I was ushered out by one of the curators who curtly informed me that flash photography was damaging to the precious items inside.

 

After devouring four Sloppy Ivy Joe’s, I was ready to resume our quest for the Cup. As a strange Wastelander in gym shorts explained the process of baking tasty cakes while eviscerating me in Tecmo, I found myself hoping for many things, but chief among them was that my teammates could vanquish their opponents in the finals singles round. And vanquish they did. Our squad went 7-1 in the final session to finally lay claim to the elusive Tecmo Ryder Cup. 

 

As we took the stage to receive the cup, I found myself thinking of Art Vandelay, “the man who hides behind the corn” in the ancient tongue, and the dangerous trek he took to be there after being abandoned by his lesser, timid tribesmen. I also thought of Team Minnesota captain QB_Browns (“wrong-way rubber of teammates” in colloquial wasteland terms) who left his family alone in the darkness to be there. And I thought of all the other intrepid travelers who joined us that day, against all odds.

 

It was then that I realized this was much more than a competition for the cup. More importantly, it was a celebration of Tecmo and of life, of history preserved and legacies forged, of mysteries seen and unseen, of the peaceful prairie and the great woods beyond.

 

So began the kegstands.

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Not to distract from that arousing nice picture of Regulator, but the "Mamba" is an actor whose name we spelled wrong on the cards.  I think he may have started a new Glamour Shots trend, though, that will be hard to restrain.

 

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2348807/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1

 

Who could forget his career-defining roles as "Criminalist", "Resident" and "Disdainful Man"

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The Place Beyond the Wasteland (Part 3)

 

“When I came to you, brothers, I didn’t come with excellence of tapping or of wisdom, proclaiming to you my testimony of the Fontenot of Youth. I was with you in weakness, in fear, and in much trembling. I knew your faith wouldn’t stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of the Tecmo gods. We speak their wisdom in a mystery, the wisdom that has been hidden in the great prairie where the woolly mammoths roam, which the Tecmo gods foreordained before the worlds for our glory.”

 

- Skansi’s first letter to the Cornelius, 1200 yrs BLT (Before LT)

_____

 

We barreled down the great dirt road at breakneck speed. I learned much of the North Dakota culture, and heard tales of great men like “Onion” and “Smells,” who apparently weren’t the same person. Just at the point where I could smell the second site in Davenport, our caravan was stopped by a crossing train. I saw several Tecmo hobos (“Tecmobos” as the ancients call them) on the boxcars. Hardened men, with their best years behind them, and scores of worse years laid out before them like so many railroad ties, stretching endlessly eastward.

 

I called out to them that they were passing through fertile Tecmo territory, and they needed to disembark before reaching the Wasteland. But I was speaking to ghosts: their eyes were deader than Mosi Tatupu’s as they lumbered past us. My spirits only recovered when we reached the second site in Davenport: a former deer processing plant. I knew then that one of two things would happen when I entered that building: (1) Our bodies would be butchered, and sold as venison to the starving hordes in the Tecmo refugee camps of the east, or (2) We would enjoy the greatest Tecmo venue we’ve ever seen, and all the mysteries hidden therein. 

 

I walked into the plant with no hesitation, for in my heart I knew the truth. This was the place to which Paul Skansi was referring, all of those ages ago. We entered the holy site to much fanfare, and after drinking a few Nordeast beers, the North Dakota clan immediately screened their brilliant “Is there anybody out there?” and “Designers” documentaries.

 

Shortly thereafter, we were treated to groundbreaking Tecmo player cards, and a tour of the ancient Tecmo hall of fame, where “the wisdom that has been hidden” had laid undisturbed for centuries. The museum’s artifacts were painstakingly preserved, and when I tried to take a picture of the famous “#EatShitOrenga” towel, I was ushered out by one of the curators who curtly informed me that flash photography was damaging to the precious items inside.

 

After devouring four Sloppy Ivy Joe’s, I was ready to resume our quest for the Cup. As a strange Wastelander in gym shorts explained the process of baking tasty cakes while eviscerating me in Tecmo, I found myself hoping for many things, but chief among them was that my teammates could vanquish their opponents in the finals singles round. And vanquish they did. Our squad went 7-1 in the final session to finally lay claim to the elusive Tecmo Ryder Cup. 

 

As we took the stage to receive the cup, I found myself thinking of Art Vandelay, “the man who hides behind the corn” in the ancient tongue, and the dangerous trek he took to be there after being abandoned by his lesser, timid tribesmen. I also thought of Team Minnesota captain QB_Browns (“wrong-way rubber of teammates” in colloquial wasteland terms) who left his family alone in the darkness to be there. And I thought of all the other intrepid travelers who joined us that day, against all odds.

 

It was then that I realized this was much more than a competition for the cup. More importantly, it was a celebration of Tecmo and of life, of history preserved and legacies forged, of mysteries seen and unseen, of the peaceful prairie and the great woods beyond.

 

So began the kegstands.

 

 

Only the greatest can cheer for you. 

 

slow_clap_citizen_kane.gif

 

We will celebrate your writing with TWO more Hallowed Training Cards!

 

(Depending on your work environment, the following images may not be suitable for the workplace, aka NSFW, because their legendary Tecmo Status may overload the servers.)

 

#2 -- Bastard Son of Pat Beach

 

post-8376-0-95529400-1417001329_thumb.pn

 

# 27 -- Knobbe, Grandfather of Tecmo

 

post-8376-0-81076500-1417001678_thumb.pn

Edited by DrFrolf

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The Place Beyond the Wasteland (Conclusion)


 


After the keg stands, my mind was as hazy as the air surrounding Jerome Brown’s funeral pyre. But I do remember a great many things from the festival of life that followed, led by the great Deonysus, the Tecmo god of fermentation, ritual madness, fertility, and ecstasy.


 


I remember the beer we drank from the Ryder Cup tasting every bit as good as the ambrosia drank by the ancients, centuries before us. I remember the Davenport Supper Club and bar, which served more people that night than they had seen in a month. I remember the great dance party that ensued, and the patient teachings of TOWRIR on the dance floor.


 


I remember a naked man playing Tecmo in a dark room alone, rhythmically chanting aloud, a scene not witnessed since the Tecmo dark ages. I remember the fear of the Bearded Beacon, who was certain he would collapse on the long trek home from the bar, and freeze to death, as his great-grandfather Gannon had done so many years ago. I remember an AFC Pro Bowl team vs. Vikings matchup, which seems impossible now, but felt nothing short of inevitable on that fateful night.


 


But mostly I remember the women, so wholly unlike those of Wisconsin. In my native region, the women were wide of berth and short of temper. They were stout, well-fed, born to plough the fields and mother 10+ children. In contrast, these North Dakota women were slight of figure and blessed of bosom, their bodies clearly unfit to plough or give birth to more than 5 children. And I remember the way they were drawn to the forbidden fruit of the Madison clan, as the great Haddix is drawn to the Wilson bomb.


 


And I remember spooning with the benevolent Dr. Frolf to keep warm enough to survive the night. In the morning, I thought it was all a dream, until I held a deck of Tecmo cards in my hand, and saw the Ryder Cup on a nearby table. Dr. Frolf drove me to the airport, where I graciously thanked him for his hospitality. Word had reached him that war had once again broken out on the eastern flank with the wasteland warriors, and he needed to race to the front to care for wounded soldiers.


 


Before he left me, he handed me the official North Dakota Tecmo Ryder Cup flag, grasped me by the neck, pulled me close to him, and pleaded: “Hang this flag with pride. And no matter what happens, remember this. And remember us. Tell the world our story.”


 


(Epilogue)


 


Weeks have passed since that day, and I’ve yet to hear from Dr. Frolf. Our friends on the borderlands have passed along troubling news from the wasteland: their hordes have been reinforced by cowardly Tecmo players from Nebraska, and it’s unclear how long the mighty North Dakotans can hold them at bay. If the siege continues on this trajectory, North Dakota will fall before the next full Moon.


 


I feel morally obligated to fly to the front, and protect my North Dakota brethren. These will likely be the last words you read from me. If you or your children ever find yourself near what we now know as Davenport, North Dakota, look for the red marker northeast of the great dirt road, which includes the following message of hope:


 


Tecmo Ryder Cup - Madison Team


November 8, 2014


The Place Beyond the Wasteland


“Rage against the dying of the Dwight”


Edited by sonofpatbeach

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