Water On Mars Means There Is Still Hope For "Splash Ball" To Catch On

NASA announced that they’ve discovered signs of liquid water on Mars, which opens up the possibility of life existing beyond Earth. It also means there is still hope for “Splash Ball,” the new swimming pool sport I created and allowed to consume my entire life, to finally become the next big backyard craze!

For reasons I still can’t fully understand, “Splash Ball - The swimming pool game with 3 balls, 1 hoop, and 2 much fun!”, hasn’t quite “caught on” here on Earth in the way that I would have hoped when I cashed out my 401K to begin building up inventory. But maybe the Mars is just the market that we’ve been waiting for! I know we don’t have evidence of life yet and that finding intelligent life is even more of a long shot. Don’t even bother running the numbers on the possibility of finding intelligent life that’s interested in alternative backyard sports and games. I don’t want to hear them. All I know is that where there is water, there can be “Splash Ball.” And where there is “Splash Ball,” there is at least a shred of hope.

‘What is “Splash Ball?”’ Great question. It’s one that I pray to fucking God the entire solar system might soon be asking. Otherwise, what the hell have I done with myself? Why am I even here?

The idea for “Splash Ball” actually came to me after a regular old game of pool basketball during at a friend's Memorial Day grill out. What started as fun little game of aquatic two-on-two quickly devolved into a seemingly endless series of diving board alley-oops and deep-end threes. No one was keeping score. No one passing the ball. Everyone was calling my arcing mid-range shots “boring.” No one was letting me do a diving board alley-oop again after I missed the hoop and threw the ball into the grill on my first try. Everyone was telling me to “chill out” whenever I insisted that we “get back to the game.” Everyone was purposefully splashing me in the eyes after I called them all “a bunch of dumb assholes.” Everyone starting pushing off of my shoulders to dunk and holding me underwater for a really long time after I squirted an entire bottle of ketchup into the pool. It was total chaos.

‘There has to be a better way’ I thought as the EMTs pumped gallon after gallon of pool water out of my stomach. Couldn’t there be a ball and hoop pool game that rewarded skill and strategy instead the kind brute strength seemingly possessed only by dumb assholes? Where was the “thinking man’s” ball and hoop pool game? And it was right then and there, my mind still addled with chlorine poisoning, that “Splash Ball” was born.

The rules of “Splash Ball” are simple:

• Teams of two or more players try to score “Splashes” by throwing the “Splash Ball” through the floating “Splash Hoop.”
• But be careful! A team must complete three “Splash Passes” or “Splasses” before they can attempt to score a “Splash.” If a team attempts to score a “Splash” before completing three “Splasses” their “Splash” will not count and their opponent will automatically gain possession of the “Splash Ball.” That team must then complete three successful “Splasses” before attempting to score a “Splash.”
• But be careful! All “Splasses” must be completed within the “Splash Zone,” a six-foot wide circle surrounding the “Splash Hoop.” If the “Splash Ball” travels outside of the “Splash Zone” or if a player receives a “Splass” and their body is completely outside of the “Splash Zone”, their opponent will automatically gain possession of the ball.
• But be careful! All “Splasses” must also cross the cross the “Splash Pass Line” or “Splass Line,” an invisible and ever-changing boundary that runs across the diameter of the “Splash Zone.” The exact angle of the “Splass Line” is determined the player who posses the “Splash Ball’s” current relation to the “Splash Hoop” at the time of his attempt “Splass.” If a “Splass” fails to cross the “Splass Line,” the defending team will automatically gain possession of the “Splash Ball.”
• But be careful! Once a team completes three “Splasses” across the “Splass Line” they may attempt to score a “Splash.” All “Splashes” must be attempted within the “Splash Zone” and may not be attempted within a three foot radius of the “Splash Hoop.” Any “Splash” attempts made within a three foot radius of the “Splash Hoop” are considered to be a “Dunk” and will result in loss of possession of the “Splash Ball.” 
• But be careful! Because once a team successfully scores a “Splash” the opposing team has an opportunity to negate, or “Trash,” the “Splash.” To “Trash” a “Splash,” a player from the formerly defending team must throw the “Trash Ball” into the “Splash Hoop” from anywhere outside of the “Splash Ring.” If the player successfully “Trashes” the “Splash,” the “Splash” will not count and his team will gain possession of the “Splash Ball.” If the player does not “Trash” the “Splash,” the “Splash” will stand and the team that scored the “Splash” will regain possession of the “Splash Ball.”
• But be careful! The team that has successfully scored a “Splash” that was not “Trashed” has the opportunity to wager up to three of their “Splashes” on a “Cash” throw. If a player from the “Splashing” team can throw the “Cash Ball” through the “Splash Hoop” from outside of the “Splash Ring” his team will gain the number of “Splashes” wagered.
• But be careful! If a player misses his “Cash,” his team will lose the “Splashes” wagered and those “Splashes” will be awarded to their opponent.
• First to 45 “Splashes” wins. 

Now, I’ve heard a lot of criticism about “Splash Ball.” Nearly every toy store and big box manufacture I’ve met with has said the same thing: “It’s just like pool basketball.” “It’s just like pool basketball, but with two extra balls.” “It’s just like pool basketball, but without the fun dunks.” “It’s like pool basketball, but way slower.” “It’s like pool basketball, but way more complicated.” “The best part of pool basketball is the fun dunking and you guys specifically took the fun dunking out.” “I think people would rather just play pool basketball.”

Well, all of these “flaws” are purposeful. “Splash Ball” isn’t just some mindless dunk fest, even though focus group tests of “Splash Ball” inevitably turned into mindless dunk fests. People actually told us that they would be much more interested in buying a product called “Mindless Dunk Fest.” But I’m no fucking sellout. It was gonna be “Splash Ball” or bust, baby.

Interestingly enough, a few months later a three-balled, one-hooped pool game called “Mindless Dunk Fest” came to market. The product was almost an exact replica of the “Splash Ball” starter kit, save for the instruction manual, which simply read “No Rulez. Just Dunkz.” It was an instant hit. Stores couldn’t keep “Mindless Dunk Fest” on the shelves. People were calling it the Alternative Backyard Sports and Games Market’s “Furby. My lawyer told me that we should file a suit. He said it was an open and shut case. He said I’d be rich. But I refused to go to ever go to court. “Why would I sue?” I’d ask him. “That’s not ‘Splash Ball.’ If there’s dunks, it’s not ‘Splash Ball.’”

“Mindless Dunk Fest” got to keep their millions. I kept my pride.

Sometimes I think that even on the infinitesimal chance that “Splash Ball” fever does sweep the entire Red Planet, perhaps the damage is already done. When I quit my job to dedicate my days to “Splash Ball” Growth and Development by bringing after-school “Splash Ball” programs to inner city public schools, my wife decided that enough was enough. She told me that she had held out hope that “Splash Ball” would be a passing phase and that a life dedicated to “Splash Ball” wasn’t what she “signed up for.” She revealed to me she had entered into an extramarital affair with Mark, the fitness model I hired to star in my “Splash Ball” promotional video. I have no idea what she saw in him. He spent the entire shoot dunking the ball like an absolute idiot.

When she left me, I told her that if I had a real life “Trash Ball,” I would have used it to “Trash” having ever married her, but now if I had a real life “Trash Ball,” I would just want to “Trash” having ever said that to her. But there are no real life “Trash Balls.” I can’t “Trash” the fact that I have created a Hell for myself where I live alone in a home filled to the brim with 40,000 unsold “Splash Ball” kits and spend every single day trying to dig myself out of $175,000 in credit card and business loan debt with a splashy sizzle reel of the man who cuckolded me.

I don’t even have a pool.

The only thing that keeps me going these days is the thought that 48 million miles away there might be a home for “Splash Ball.” I don’t care if it takes hundreds of billions of years for life to develop on Mars to the point where it can hold and manipulate a playsoft, water resistant basketball. If the people at NASA has any decency in their hearts, when the next rover lands there will be a “Splash Ball” kit, complete with illustrated instructions, waiting for them. All I want if for someone, somewhere, at some time in this universe to appreciate the offensive/defensive balance brought by the three required “Splasses,” the possibly game-changing decision that comes with every “Cash Ball” wager, the sadistic thrill of the “Trash.”

Maybe “Splash Ball” never stood a chance here on Earth. Maybe “Splash Ball” was just too beautiful, too nuanced, too fragile for this planet and its dumbass human race. Maybe “Splash Ball” has always belonged… in the stars.

In Addition To Water On Mars, We Also Found LaCroix

We here at NASA are just as confused as you are. When the Reconnaissance Orbiter’s HiRISE camera showed us definitive proof there was water on Mars, we were ecstatic. Water on Mars has significant scientific consequences, from the potential of micro-biotic life to the amazing possibility of a human colony living on the red planet in the distant future. At NASA, we have a saying, and that saying is, “we love it when science fiction becomes reality.” And there hasn't been a day since the infamous moon landing where we've truly lived up to that motto. But just as we were popping the champagne, the Reconnaissance Orbiter’s HiRISE camera showed us something else, something far more sci fi than simple water. We zoomed the camera closer and found a can bearing the distinct logo of LaCroix, the sparkling water beverage enjoyed by many famous rappers, comedians, and Internet personalities.

We were thinking the same thing you're thinking – someone put a can on the Mars Rover Curiosity as a goof. And we haven't ruled out that possibility. But it doesn't explain the eight other twenty four packs of LaCroix we found on Mars' surface, in a wide variety of flavors – passion fruit, mango, and pamplemousse. Even Chad, NASA's resident prankster in charge, doesn't have it in him to load Curiosity with all that LaCroix. It's a Rover, not a mobile cooler.

We here at NASA have developed two theories. First, that the planet of Mars self-produces its own LaCroix. The second is that LaCroix, and its makers, the National Beverage Corporation are Martians. Frankly, we here at NASA are split down the middle. The Parallel LaCroix theorists have been throwing around some advanced chaos theory to show that in an infinite universe, eventually, there would be a planet that naturally creates LaCroix. They're saying we should be thankful that a planet that can generate such a delicious and thirst-quenching beverage is only 46.8 million miles away. Frankly, and I rarely say this, but the ramifications of this are dope as hell. Imagine a future where LaCroix is more plentiful than water. I'm already smacking my lips in anticipation.

The Alien LaCroix group, however, are postulating that sometime in the early 1990's, Martians landed on our planet, blended in with the Earth's populace, and created LaCroix out of self-preservation. This has led some of us to believe that anyone who drinks a substantial amount of LaCroix is in fact an extraterrestrial from Mars. Whether these xenoforms are dangerous, subversive, or simply here to hang out and chill with some refreshing LaCroix remains to be seen. If your head is spinning, welcome to our world. We've barely been able to wrap our heads around it, and we're some of the smartest people and biggest LaCroix fans on the planet.

Sadly, were are still unable to explain the liters of Pepsi NEXT and the Mountain Dew Code Red volcano.

I Think The Pope That Came To Trenton Was A Robot

Sure, he looked exactly like the Pope. Sure, he said exactly what the Pope would say. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the Pope that came to Trenton was not the Pope, but actually, a hyper-intelligent robot.

My first clue that the Pope might not be exactly on the level was the Pope's own schedule. The Vatican released the Pope's itinerary – Washington, DC, New York, and Philadelphia – before the Pope's US visit. It was only on Sunday that the Pope's schedule was updated to include Trenton, New Jersey. At first, I thought nothing of this. I only pumped my fists and cheered that the Pope was coming to New Jersey's capital city. But I became a little suspicious when the schedule said “TRENTON – ROBOT POPE” before being replaced with “TRENTON – HUMAN POPE” before being replaced with “TRENTON – POPE.”

The second clue came during the Pope's drive into Trenton. We all expected the Pope would take his signature Pope-mobile over the Trenton Makes Bridge. Instead, the Pope flew through the air, powered by rockets that shot out of his feet. When the Pope landed, he acted very frail and old, causing the crowd to rush to his aide – the perfect distraction. But I wasn't going to be thrown off the Pope's trail that easy.

During mass, everything seemed on the up and up, and I began to think that maybe I was being paranoid. When the Pope said that Trenton was his favorite town in America, however, I knew something was up. Trenton isn't a town – it's a city. A human being would know this, no problem. But a robot would make this kind of error nine times out of ten. Also, during the entire mass, sparks were clearly shooting out of the Pope's shoulders.

After the Pope was fed a sufficient amount of motor oil, the liturgy continued without hiccup. My fears that the Catholic Church was pulling the wool over Trenton's eyes were assuaged. But as if on cue,

in the middle of the homily, the Pope loudly shouted “INSERT DISK 2 TO CONTINUE.” A cardinal immediately rushed the stage, opened the Pope's mouth, and fed him a small disc-like object that was either a CD-ROM or the holy sacrament. The Pope then continued talking as normal. Sure, the Pope could have just been telling a joke, like the cardinal said, or was delirious from hunger, like the cardinal said after he got a sense that the crowd wasn't buying it. But if that was the case, why did the Pope blue screen during the Peace Be With You's? I have seen the Pope on television countless times, and never once did all the life immediately evaporate from his eyes as his hat turned navy blue with the words “KERNEL PANIC” scrolling down the side. The arch bishops then scrambled to find extension cords to plug the Pope into a portable generator as the Pope, in his own holy words, “power cycles and reboots.” I 100% believe that the Pope is the vessel of God on earth and that God wants his messenger to have a fully charged battery, but it really feels like the simplest explanation is that the Vatican built a Pope robot as an audacious display of their nigh-limitless influence, wealth, and power. I don't know much Latin, but I'm almost positive it doesn't sound like a 56k modem connecting to America Online. And when I said as much, a deacon just explained it was “new Latin.” Which I almost believed, before realizing when I got home that Latin has been a dead language for centuries. But by then, it was too late – the Pope had already transformed into a mid-sized luxury sedan and drove away.

I know you don't believe me – I hardly believe it myself. I would've taken a picture, but the Pope disabled all smartphones with an EMP pulse that emitted from his mouth as he spoke his anti-abortion hate speech.

LEAKED!: 6 Episode Plots From The New Season of 'Black Mirror'

Just today, Netflix announced that they've picked up a twelve-episode run of the smash sci-fi series Black Mirror and our Hollywood snoops have already got themselves a big, fat scoop on the new season! Here are six bleak takes on the dark side our technology-centered society that are rumored to be streaming soon.

• In a future where every citizen must complete their DAR (Daily Activity Requirement) to avoid being labeled as a burden on the national healthcare system, Sarah tries to sneak in an “off day” by sending her government issued fitness tracker for a joyride in her driverless car. The incredible speed and distance of Sarah’s “workouts” quickly turn her into the country’s biggest fitness celebrity... without her ever having to lift a finger! However, Sarah still ends up "breaking a sweat" when she learns that her vehicle has been involved in a mysterious series of fatal hit and runs.

• In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes… because it’s required by law! In order to satisfy a meme-ravenous public, the government institutes a mandatory three-year service in the Department of Homeland Delight and Share-ability for every citizen once they turn eighteen. With just twenty-four hours left to create a piece of viral content, a young man manically stages and records a deaf dog operating frozen yogurt machine in a desperate attempt to stave off execution.

• When Emily meets the man of her dreams, Adam, on the new dating app “Mr. Right” she thinks he’s too good to be true… and she’s right! When Emily accidentally discovers that “Mr. Right” is creating perfect matches by brainwashing refugees of the California Water Wars with users Amazon purchase history, she must choose between her happiness and Adam’s freedom.

• When computing giant Appaul’s stock starts to plummet, CEO Jim Crook must decide whether to try and resuscitate the company’s founder, Steef Joobs', legacy of industry-leading innovation or succumb to shareholders’ pressure and release the latest iFone, whose only new feature is that it can perform oral sex on its owner.

• When a fertility clinic’s delivery drone goes rogue and mixes a sperm sample with a donated egg to create a human embryo, America becomes obsessed with a new reality show competition created to decide who will act as surrogate to “The Air Baby.”

• When a video of Rob accidentally taking someone’s Starbucks order starts spreading on social media, an online community of vigilantes creates a Kickstarter to raise enough money to force Rob to “butt-chug a Frappuccino.” With only $1,200 to go until the campaign reaches its goal, Rob plans to divert outrage away from himself by tricking Matt Lauer into saying the “n-word” during his Today Show apology interview.

Ryan Adams Covered Me Going Totally Ape Shit In A Mexican Restaurant

Like the rest of young America, I’ve been blasting alt-rocker Ryan Adams’ cover of Taylor Swift’s “1989,” all week. What Adams is able to do with that album blows my mind! Like the rest of hip America, I had originally wrote off “1989” as a blatant, over-produced, and somewhat mindless attempt by Swift to push herself even further away from her singer-songwriter roots and into the pop mainstream.

However, Adams’ uses twanging guitars and echoing rim shots to parse through “1989”’s mess of synths and boom-claps and reveal not only the incredible song craft in each track, but the nuanced emotion of young woman reveling in the future that lies ahead of her while simultaneously grappling with the mistakes of her past. Like the rest of America, I guess all it took for me to realize how good of a musician Taylor Swift is a forty-year-old man telling me so. Go figure.

Well, guess what? Ryan Adams just released his cover of the time I went absolutely apeshit on the staff of an airport mexican restaurant on Spotify and (surprise, surprise!) it’s making me look at my violent, tequila-fueled blowout in a totally new way.

I’m still not sure how Ryan Adams heard about “my little scene” as I make my girlfriend call it if she ever wants to bring it up to me. The airport police said that they wouldn’t file a report as long as I apologized, paid my bill, and put all of the replica Aztec masks back on the walls in the right order, but I swear Adams got his hands a word-perfect transcript the twenty five minutes I spent giving each individual table a personalized and profanity-laced dressing down. I remember seeing a couple of teens take out their cell phones when I shoved a basket of tortilla chips into the manager’s chest, turned a ramekin of salsa upside down on his head, and called him “Mr. Sloppy Mariachi.” Maybe Ryan Adams was able to stitch it all together from from their Snapchats?

Either way, I’m just so honored that he chose to put out his take on the entirety of my meltdown and not just the “hits,” like when I asked a busboy how he’d like it if a white man stole his job for once (the busboy was also white) and started manically shoving people’s carry-ons into a dish bin or when I built a “border wall” along the entrance of the restaurant using barstools and highchairs.

Let me say that when I first started ripping the entire staff of Tequileria in Charlotte-Douglas International Airport a shiny new asshole, I thought I was just standing up for myself. Service was slow, the food was taking absolutely forever, and I couldn’t get my server’s attention for the life of me. I had to do something.

“We’re going to miss our flight!” I yelled finally. Then I yelled “Guess we’re staying here tonight, babe!” and I started to make a big show of unpacking my suitcase and laying my clothes out on the server station. Then I grabbed a stack of menus out of the hostess’ hand and used them as a pillow while I pretended to go sleep on the floor. Whenever someone would try to talk to me, I would just start cartoonishly snoring. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegh! Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegh! Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo! Honestly, I thought it was pretty funny.

But when I had my own words sung back to me in Ryan Adams’ warbly falsetto, I didn’t hear a man confidently, but good naturedly, asserting himself inside of a busy tex-mex style cantina. Between Adams’ sparse finger picking, I heard the harried yelps of a man afraid that he may be going invisible to the world at large. As he ages and begins to feel his own potentiality slowly wither and fade, his pleas for “mucho siesta, por favor” are not part of a charming if forward bit, but wild swings at the air, his way of testing whether or not he can have any effect on the world around him, positive or negative, or if he will spend the rest of his life shouting into a void. Honestly, I had no idea that was even in me. But Ryan Adams sure did.

Likewise, in Adams’ version the moment when I muscled my way up to the twenty-two-year-old bartender, “El Diablo Loco” margarita in hand, to demand that he “look me in the eye and tell me that this is Patron” does not come across as someone trying to “settle this man to man” as I had originally told the large number of staff and customers trying to restrain me. Rather, needling guitars and a hissing hi-hat turn, paired with Adams sneering delivery, give the impression of a lifetime loser trying desperately to bully his way into a small win. Sounds like I got a lot of stuff going on! Who knew?! I’ll tell ya who knew. Ryan Adams knew.

Adams is even able to work his alchemy on what was previously my LEAST favorite moment of the evening. In an attempt to answer the question “Just how hard is it to get rice and beans on a fucking plate?” I had made my way into the kitchen. Of course, my girlfriend gave chase and just as I was about to drop my shoe into the deep fryer so that I could “eat something with a little texture” she grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye and said “Babe. Why don’t we just grab a Blimpie?”

On first listen, I took her line purely as social self-preservation. She was just trying to shut me because my attempts at getting a little respect and the accent I had adopted while portraying “El Burrito Bandito,” a newly-formed alter ego of mine that held other customer’s cutlery hostage until my server brought me the extra side of guac that I had asked for, had started to “draw a few looks.” Well, so sorry that I’m not interested in saving face in front of a room of lime-sucking strangers, baby!

But when laid on top of Adams’ soft strum, her words turn from gag to salve. Lullaby-like, Adams’ coos and ahhs, trying to soothe the mind of a man consumed by his own self-perceived inadequacies. “Who cares about the enchiladas?” he seems to ask. “Our love is enough to sustain us.” I know it’s weird, but I would have never picked that up in a hundred years. Funny that all it took for me realize that my girlfriend wasn’t being a total bitch that night was a forty-year-old man telling me so. Go figure.