if you don't come for the frisbee, come for the food*. if you don't come for the food, come for the women**. if you don't come for the women, come for the men***. if you don't come for the men, come for the conversation****. if you don't come for the conversation, come to sit around and see if I can duplicate the play several years back where I managed to emerge unscathed from a high speed collision with a large, attractive man (with an even more attractive girlfriend), whereas he was forced to quit the field, injured*****.
*lies. there is no food. unless you count the egos of the vanquished.
**less of a lie. we have several women who regularly come, but they're more interested in crushing you than smooching (at least on the field, off the field, they are gloriously gracious).
***I can't imagine a reality in which sweaty men are appealing, but to each her own.
****the conversation is amazing. we discuss suing our landlords, graduating, finishing finals in the next eight hours, getting denied by bone-crushing, yet dainty, women, denying men (at least the girls discuss this; I have yet to drum up a story about that...well, except one...), losing out in the end zone by inches to kiwi gazen (half gazelle, half woman of new zealander pseudo-nationality), times when our gazens have gotten us into trouble, and ducky togas, along with their dampening effect on dating.
*****uncoordinated skinny white nerds don't have a lot to brag about, but when we do, we remember it and bring it up again and again and again. this particular play will get me into history books (I won't have as many mentions as Mr. Douglas, but mine won't be written by tenth graders, and followed by profanities).