I Get it Already

Everyone knows you're not supposed to be a sore loser or a boastful winner. You're supposed to find a mannered balance between the two, even if you have a secret stash of voodoo dolls hidden under your bed. But yesterday I realized the finer points of battlefield etiquette. What one must ask oneself, when engaged in a brutal campaign, is this: will I be embarrassed (after I've won of course) when he pulls out his belt only to find the band marked in pink sharpie and bearing the following, "Festering pus blister in the bowel of a syphilactic mole"? One should only write such bizarre epitaphs when one is sure she has lost the battle. And you know what they say, it ain't over till it's over. I'll tell you, when all is said and done, it really appears ungracious. So does a parade of mutilated boxer-briefs. The momentary gratification is not worth the lifetime of off-hand reminders that you are the mental equivalent of an untrained dog.