Deadpool ruins everything

 

07:15 pm. England are 111/6. The South Africans are in pink, and they’ve never lost a game when in pink.

The universe came into existence when South Africa played a WC semi dressed in pink,
I hypothesize.

o8:15 pm. I am on my way to watch Deadpool, and I’m running a bit late. Google Maps suggests I’ll be there just in the nick of time. A friend, who’s already picked up the tickets, sends a message saying he’s thinking about selling my ticket. “Good luck trying to find someone willing to buy a Deadpool ticket,” I write back. England are 220/7, on a bit of a comeback.

10:12 pm. The mutant with the Russian accent is preaching Deadpool the virtues of forgiveness. I ask my friend, “What do you think he’s going to do?” “He’s going to shoot,  of course,” he replies. “What do you think the audience are going to do?,” I ask. “They’re going to laugh,” he says. “They’re even going to clap,” I say, raising the stakes.

10:20 pm. The credits start to roll. Spying the crowd I think to myself, “Two kinds of guys in this world. Those who take their girl to see Deadpool and those who take their girl to see Carol.”

Somewhere between 10:30 and 11:00 pm. I’m heading back home. South Africa are 90/3. Text commentary conveys AB is living dangerously and is taking it to Broad. Sitting in the passenger seat, I don’t understand the necessity of taking it to Broad.

We’re at the gate. AB’s run-out. I’m inwardly seething. I’m making up this metaphor of AB being a billionaire who lines up overnight outside shops to avail black Friday discounts. I turn on the TV, the TV commentators are laying the blame squarely at the feet of JP Duminy. The incompetent text commentator didn’t provide me with that information, I wouldn’t have thought up that metaphor otherwise. I see the replay, it was some fine work from Woakes. South Africa, in any event, are 130/4 in the pursuit of 263.

There might be a higher chance of God existing than South Africa pulling off two decent sized chases in a row, I declare.

I further declare, JP by running out AB has set back cancer research by a decade. We all know how AB loves to hit those sixes on pink days.

I feel a bit better. Twitter therapy.

Duminy, the villain from the previous act, bows out pretty soon after the interval and leaves Behardien out there on his own with the tailenders. His style of running is that of the proverbial headless chicken. Why did Behardien run down the wicket, shout out No!, and then take the run anyway? What came first? Behardien or the run-out? Why is Behardien so insistent on promoting my band, Suicidal Pilots? Does Behardien’s price fall when there’s an outbreak of bird flu?

A wicket falls, and then two more. South Africa have huffed and puffed their way to 210/8. They still need 53 runs. I need a distraction. Thankfully, I have twitter, and twitter has the latest from Berlinale- the first reactions to Jeff Nichols and Michael Shannon’s next. The reviews mostly lean towards the effusive, and suddenly I don’t feel so gloomy anymore. The weatherman has been caught out again. Morris, meanwhile, has better luck. Rashid, the one with the butter fingers.

South Africa are 219/8. Morris hits a six, they’re 225/8.
South Africa are 226/8. Morris hits a four and a six, they’re 236/8.
South Africa are 240/8. Weatherman claims there’s a bit of hope blowing in from the northeast. The believers are delirious. The skeptics are skeptical. Broad has the ball. Morris has the bat. Broad gets hit for a six and a four and a four.
South Africa are 254/8, the target is down to single digits, and they still have as many wickets as they did almost 50 runs poorer. The believers have transformed into beliebers at a Justin Bieber contest, the skeptics can’t believe it. Surely, even they should now feel safe enough to risk the vulnerability that comes from joining the ranks of the hopeful?
South Africa are 255/8. Morris hits a six, they’re 261/8. They’re mere two runs away from the target, an implausible scenario just a few blows ago. The skeptics with nothing left to lose have finally given in, their walls of pessimism coated with apathy have been breached.
As if on cue, Rashid breaches Morris’ waft with the scores level- but he isn’t getting any atonement today, not after that dropped catch, not after Tahir strides out to the middle and calmly hits his first ball to the cover boundary.
The series is level at 2-2. Morris gets rechristened as Chuck Morris. The South African cricket fans roar RT their approval.

Deadpool realizes from the earlier tweet that this must mean there’s a God: “Hey there, God. I’m sorry I haven’t been over much. As penance, the next time I whack one off, I’m going to have you in my thoughts.” Needless to say, I’m not a fan. Ironic, you may say since the movie relies upon many of the same devices I do to evoke “humor”.

<Deadpool font> I’d rather shove a cactus up my ass than watch a Ryan Reynolds movie, but if I already had a cactus up my ass and an additional knife to my throat, I’d say The Voices is the one movie of his that is somewhat decent. </Deadpool font>

the-voices-poster

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