It's Frolfing time, bitches

As you look over the vast array of mindless activities that make up the sporting world, you'll see that horse racing is the sport of kings, and golf is the gentleman's game. Try as they might to hide themselves beneath these archaic disguises, I can see right through them. In the 21st century, horse racing is the sport of women and transvestites with large, funny hats; and golf is the fat lesbian's game. Times have changed folks, it's time to get out of the country clubs to where the real action is.

There is a game the real men play. A game that only an elite few are qualified for. It is their sport of leisure, played in their breaks between stopping bullets with their steely gaze and hunting bear purely by pointing at them and saying "down". That game is: Frolf.
I don't know who created the game, nor whether it was in an act of genius, madness, or pure drunkeness, but it would change history forever. My future was sealed in laminated concrete the day those prophetic words were uttered: "you know, we should combine frisbee with golf".

The Game: That's right, Frolf is the spectacular result of a romantic rendezvous involving a Frisbee, some golf clubs, some Barry White and several bottles of wine. Sure the morning after may have been a little awkward as the frisbee spoke not a single word to the golf clubs as they called a cab, but the spawn of that night made up for any regret they may have shared.
The rules of the game are simple. Taking most of its cues from golf, the aim is to get your frisbee from the tee off area - indicated by a concreted area on the ground - into this:

Which is what constitutes "the hole" (only in a purely sybolic sense though, as it is obviously a cage) in as few throws as possible. Now I know there are some of you out there going "pfft, is that it? That's piss easy. I could do that with my testicles on fire". Well, while I don't particularly care what you do with your testicles in your spare time (and if you're female, why you have testicles at all), I cannot help but laugh at your arrogance and niavety. There are many trecherous hazards that will try their darndest to impede your task. Gale force winds, nearby backyards that fence in vicious (possibly mutant) dogs that are just waiting for their chance to maul you and urinate on your frisbee, random people walking through the park, creeks more than willing to swallow your frisbee and refuse to spit it out, and of course who can forget the people sniffing butane on playground equipment and park benches. What an atmosphere!

The Equipment: The is only once piece of equipment you need for the prestigious game of Frolf, and that is of course the frisbee. And there is only one frisbee to have: The Aerobie.

This flying ring is the stuff dreams are made of. At least any flying ring related dreams, of which I can only assume you all - like me - have many. Fashioned from black magic, unicorn blood, and probably some form of rubber and plastic, it is the only apparatus worth having in the no-holds-barred world of frolf if you're serious about competing - the Excalibur of the frolfing world, if you will. If you're not serious and just want to make a fool of yourself, then go steal a hubcap. And beat yourself over the head with it for an hour. Just stay the fuck off our course.

The Location: Do you really think I am going to reveal that to you? Frolf is an exclusive game, and only the most worthy can compete. You will learn the location if us competitors deem you one such worthy person. We have yet to see other people on our course, and so it remains that way we have placed land mines around the course that only we know the locations of. Am I serious? Do you really want to find out? Is turtle wax really made of turtles. Very good questions, now let us ponder the answers...

The Players: These are the elite few, the champions of the field. From different walks of life, we have battled through adversity and fabricated long winded, drama packed origin stories for all of us, so we sound cool. Of course you will not hear these origin stories now, because the level of cool may cause your heads to implode, and don't need something like that resting on my shoulders. Ha! Get it, on my shoulders! Hahaha, oh I kill me. Now after a lengthy hiatus from the Frolfing world due to scheduling conflicts, and an entirely fictional fued between two of the competitors, we're back and better than ever (more likely worse)!

Scott 'The Shaman' Strange

That is me, myself and I, although I do not usually refer to myself in triplicate. Short on height but high on skill (occasionally) I am the one and only frolfer to have not suffered the loss of an Aerobie into the clutches of the dreaded creek, and having just jinxed myself with that statement I shall expect to lose one in the near future. Hell, I won't be surprised if the creek shows up at my front door to requisition it (actually I will, how the hell does a body of water make it all the way to my door? Baffling). Nickname derived from my attemps at using voodoo to enhance my frolfing skill. So far it has only resulted in ressurecting several zombies and cursing a nearby childcare centre. It's a process that involves a lot of fine tuning.

'Tightrope' Tim Vella

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Ever elusive of the camera's lens, some people have suggested that he is nothing more than a ghost of a frolf player long since passed. Admittedly, most of those people are the ones that have been inhaling butane on the swing set for the past hour. Know as tightrope as he is constantly waking the fine line between "highly skilled" and "drug cheat". While there has been no rock solid evidence either way, I shall keep slipping performance enhancing drugs into his food until someone catches him and puts an end to his immoral and unsportsman like behaviour.

'Raging' Ross Warner

Contrary to what this picture might suggest to you, on the course his anger and agression knows no bounds. While this emotional instability can provide an added edge to his game, it also harbours unpredictable results. Seven dogwalkers, three small children (one was fat) and one shifty looking tree have incurred the wrath of a Ross who feels he has suffered an unfair penalty or produced a sub-par throw. But as they were far to honoured to have been physically assaulted by frolfing royalty, not chargers were laid.

Brendan 'Mad Dog' Murdoch

The wildcard of the bunch. An enigma, wrapped in a t-shirt and shorts, holding a frisbee. Calm and collected one second, firing a shotgun into the air the next (where the shotgun came from, nobody knows). This unpredictability is probably what has made him the most frequent winner. Either that or he made a deal with the devil. Oddly enough though, the nickname has nothing to do with his wild nature though. Instead originating from the time he unexpectedly mauled a passer by in the middle of a game. But after we pushed the injured man into the creek and made him get his rabies shot, many laughs were had.

Hayden 'Hangman' Brake

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The newbie of the group. The amatuer, he's green as grass and needs to step up and prove to us that we haven't made a mistake allowing him join the league. With his first game tomorrow, his entire frolfing future is about to be judged, with us taunting and mocking him all the way. If he performs well, there will be rapturous applause, high fives and possibly the gift of a Chupa-Chup. If he fails he gets hanged from a tree (hence the nickname). Hey, frolf is a cut throat game, and he knows the risk he's getting himself into...actually we haven't told him, but i'm sure he'll be cool with it.


Well that's it folks, I have enlightened your lives by educating you on the wonderful world of frolf (not to be confused with Disney, although that's a pretty hard mistake to make. Seriously, how stupid are you?). Now I shall let you all sit back in envy, as we refuse to allow you to play. So we're frolf snobs, deal with it.