Look, I don't make the rules. Personally, I really wish it didn’t have to be this way at all. But if you wanna get the entire high school marching band to leave the field so that you can finally wrap up the second third of your flag football game, then someone is gonna have to man up and fight Clarence, the tuba player.

I know, it’s fucked up. And I do not envy whoever has to go toe-to-toe with that plump buffalo of a man. I’ve seen him lay low at least a dozen overconfident quarterbacks who thought they could reclaim the gridiron from a bunch of band geeks.

Unfortunately, they all overlooked the fact that one of those geeks is the size of three forklifts stacked on top of each other.

I don't know if anyone is really even sure how this custom of wind instrument dominance got started. I just remember coming out here one day and noticing that everyone running track was refusing to make eye contact while “Stars and Stripes Forever” was being played way more aggressively than I had ever thought possible.

It still makes me tense up thinking about it.

School spirit has been at an all-time low for a while now. Not only because we have had to call so many ambulances lately that our district is now on 911's blocked call list, but also because we haven’t been able to hold a full sporting event ever since our marching band became some kind of musical field gang.

And you know it’s like they want you to fight him. There’s no other reason why they would be playing that same fucking Sousa march for forty-five minutes straight unless they were taunting you to try to take a swing at that aerophone-playing oak tree. He’ll barely even need to fight back—you’re gonna break your hand on impact anyway.

Tuba players are the unhinged powerhouses of the marching band world. No sane person looks at six metric tons of pounded brass and thinks, “I’d like to carry that shit around all day in 90-degree heat, but I’d also like to be wearing a stupid, furry hat while I do it.” You can’t reason with that mentality. It only exists to destroy your world.

Also, don’t expect the principal to pull him off of you either. Word is that she tried once and that’s the reason she doesn’t have ears anymore.

If I were you I would just cut my losses and go play catch in the parking lot until practice is over. But if you really insist on trying to force your way back onto the field by fighting that baritone obelisk currently giving you a withering, bassy death glare, then I wish you luck—just don’t tell him that I wished you luck or he’ll come for me next.

Actually, forget the whole thing.