Countdown to New Wexley

Prepare to hate your jobs even more than you do now. We have a new space and we think it's kind of ok. Update on that: It actually kicks complete agency ass. Check back for new photos over the next week with the grand unveiling when we move in.

Team Wex

Great breaking news on the Wexley sports front. We won the Seattle City League co-rec B Division Championship! Being the best is totally the best.
We took our perfect 9-0 record into the playoffs after giving up only six runs all season in a league of panty weight bully magnets who probably never made it past first base in life, let alone the Tuesday Night League. “Should be playing in A,” or at least that’s what our umpire, heretofore known as ‘Creepy Old Guy Who Called Balls And Strikes Based Only On The Batter’s Attractiveness’ , said at our victory cookout on Friday.
It would have been five runs, too, if it wasn’t for ‘The World’s Most Ill-conceived Pick Off Attempt At Second Base’. A.) there are no lead-offs anyway, stupid Jared, and B.) that throw sailed over Jamie’s head and so far into centerfield, the runner on third could have scored after a successful double leg amputation. Performed by a Civil War-era field surgeon. Using a saw blade with teeth as big and sharp as thimbles.
We won our first playoff game on devastating good looks alone. We popped off our shirts to show what four sets of three rep 65-pound lat pull-downs and Monday-Wednesday-Friday’s 90 minutes on the elliptical and can do. Immediately, our cross town rivals peed themselves with glee at our nakedness and then bagged their own inbred heads. We rapped out the mercy rule in two innings.
Game two. Beating this team 10-1 was a lot like making balloon animals for a toddler and then skewering him with a toothbrush prison shiv. Up 8-0 after one, they loaded the bases each of the next five consecutive innings as we used an array of overhand fastballs plunked between the shoulder blades, Bad News Bears pop fly reenactments and four-pitch walks where we pretended the giant graffiti genitalia spray-painted on the backstop was the strike zone. And each inning, those tomato-faced piglets turned their $75.00 trucker hats inside out and squealed “rally cap!”, only to see the next three batters effortlessly mowed down without Bryan even taking his hands out of his pants at second base. They did score two runs on ‘The Stupidest Pitch Of All Time’ from Cal, who thought, with a man on first, he could prove the last batter on their team was a pre op tranny . Cal did out he/she using a watermelon change up. But in doing so, he/she took it so deep, about 400’ and two fences later the ball was still going up.
The Championship Game. This one might have been closer if our pre-game ritual was to rip our opponent’s heads off and suck their brains out through their eye sockets, then mount their lifeless corpses on shower curtain rods at the various field positions and before we played nine innings. 6-0 might look close, but in actuality we scored all six runs by the second and then took turns freebasing from the chalk line marker while rotating in only three field players. The opposition disgracefully forfeited in a pouty pants outburst when the umpire allowed our fielders participate in a King of The Mountain wrestling melee on the pitcher’s mound for the right to strike out their next batter.
We would like to be good sports and thank not only the second place team, but everyone who bowed down at our alter of superiority throughout the season. You made our Tuesday nights just a little more fun.