From the depths of Lower Manhattan's slimy streets to the barren stomping grounds of Brooklyn's Polish Mafia, we rise like beacons in the night. A glorious force of salvation destined to conquer all who cross our path. Team Fun reigns like a brute tyrant, double-fisting 40 ozs of malt liquor and breaking the bottles over the heads of haircut pussies afterwards (once the sweet nectar of the gods we most definitely are is consumed of course.) Our presence is marked upon the hearts and souls of men and women who cross our path. We are the sexiest bitches within a 100-mile radius, standing for the basic tenants of D.I.Y. and intellectual domination. We want action and trust us, Team Fun gets what Team Fun wants.
Ahh to be young and dumb and call yourselves Team Fun.
As much as we attempt to rally our forces the fact remains, we're getting fucking old dude. I am no longer an undergrad who is able to balance party, work, band, and school. Ty and Chris and I no longer have a DJ night, Tuesdays and Happy Ending are a thing of the past, and Keith and Jordan are in fucking grad school. AND...fuck, I think that the Bro Council has way better graphics and may also be waaaaaaaaaay funnier than us (although I by default can't be a member so fuck that!)
But once a long time ago we had a crew and we called ourselves Team Fun and that's what we were. We went out together, passed out together, defended each other and got each other laid. We went to each others shows and had each others backs. It was a great period, when our friends were getting famous for the mere act of partying and we were on the front lines, helping them get there.
And our communiques were fucking awesome. We lived up to our name back then:
Monday, May 31, 2004
A Message from the Female Ambassador (Beastmen and others)
School's out for summer motherfuckers so I currently exist for call-outs and bro-downs. So far I've already had a drink thrown in my face, gotten a concussion, accumulated various bruises, busted out the short shorts, officially divorced myself from Team Girl, and downed enough vodka and red wine to kill a fucking rhinoceros. My future plans include making sure the male ambassadors are the best dressed in NYC, bringing lowly bitches to tears as I turn down their applications for introduction to the rest of the team (only the best for my boys) and raising an army of male groupies and gay men clothed in Battletorn shirts to do my bidding. I'm like the house mother of the planet's most exclusive (and debauched) fraternity.
What's the point of this? If the other members of Team Fun are the kings of New York nightlife, then that must make me the goddamn queen. When it comes to plundering, this bitch has the whole east coast on lockdown. So, Team Beastman, consider yourselves warned, because Team Fun has a secret weapon and she's got a 4 1/2" stiletto aimed straight for your heart.
Ahh yes, I remember my days as Empress Brosephine quite well. The den mother in that debauched fraternity. I have a feeling that's the way I'll always be. And I wonder why I can't get a boyfriend?
The best part of Team Fun was that we had rivals! Fuck yeah! And this was before Team Mayhem and all that jazz. Team Beastman were our ultimate rivals. Hailing from Boston and living the white belt dream they were great drug aficionados than we were but far less awesome generally speaking. And we could outpace them for sure.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
assorted team fun detritus: calling out team beastman
last tuesday witnessed the full convocation of team fun force at happy endings in the lower east side. while there was much merriment had, unfortunately carlos d was spied on the premises making his round from teenage girl to bathroom to teenage girl to bathroom and so on and so forth... this bodes ominously for team fun's continued primacy at this location. fortunately, team fun member stefan holds the upper hand, being the proprietor of happy endings' tuesday night soirees.
most importantly, it bares stating that team fun has bested many foes in its way to the top of the heap. we didn't become the kings of nyc nightlife with our thumbs up our respective asses not pounding 40's in broad daylight. therefore... to quote euripides, verily we say unto TEAM BEASTMAN: BRING IT ON, MOTHERFUCKERS. anything you can shove up your nose we can shove harder. anything you can imbibe we can imbibe quicker. anything you can break team fun can stomp, smash, burn to the ground, build a complex device to atomize, then completely obliterate from creation with more aplomb and chutzpa than your feeble little minds could fully comprehend even with a 2,000 year life span, pen, paper and a trust-fund. so let's have it then, team fun will even take down filt-shaak as an added bonus...
Ahh Team Beastman...wonder where they are now.
See...those dudes, waaaaaay too white belt for us. Boston black-haired vampire post punks.
I dunno, Team Beastman seems a little gay to me...maybe that's because they are from Boston...and Boston is mighty gay (whatever the hell that means.)
Sean has been trying to bring back Team Fun for months now. It hasn't quite worked. It's kind of like a band reunion, fun in concept but potentially depressing in execution.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
COMMUNIQUE: TEAM FUN RECONSTITUTED
Current mood: jubilant
Category: Religion and Philosophy
In A La Recherche du Temps Perdu, Marcel Proust talks of the visceral manner by which powerful memories can be recovered by sensuous episodes. He was brought back to childhood by a cookie dipped in tea. Proust's experience was revelatory.
Well, Team Fun does not eat cookies and it sure as fuck doesn't drink tea. Last night it was the slow burn of whisky and the cancerous fumes of tobacco that led to the reconstitution of Team Fun. From our collective memory was recovered past dreams and broken promises. Like a great leviathan rising from the sea, Team Fun has been reborn of base elements, in this case blood, sweat and whisky.
This bodes very poorly for all who have used the last two year's hiatus to tread upon the storied reputation of Team Fun and those who have sought to take Team Fun's place as the pre-eminent NYC party collective. Our pique and ire is directed mostly, of course, to our old and respected adversaries Team Beastman. They have consolidated their position in both the east and the west. They have marshaled their forces and gotten really snazzy tattoos. But it is all useless.
Boston and San Francisco are cute towns, but pride for them in the face of NYC's hegemony is comparable to that of Italians after Mussolini's invasion of poor Ethiopia. All who cross our path will be destroyed, no matter the provincial fetid backwater from which they've spawned.
Team Fun is insuppressible, no matter the obstacles and no matter the vast boroughs that separate us. Our next communique will be in the streets of Brooklyn, written in blood on a whisky bottle. Don't forget to duck when it flies burning through your fucking window.
May a thousand flowers bloom.
Also, let it be noted that there was a LA annex called Macho Midnight but like most people from Los Angeles they had an unfortunate predilection for Diesel Jeans and baseball caps
Not so much guys...
However someone in Team Fun found they worthy as an alliance, perhaps only to strengthen our forces for some imaginary battle against Team Beastman.
We have created the playing field on which all those who strive to greatness do battle, with 40's in hand and crotches on "ready". While Team Fun laments the existance of the trifliing and laughable contenders to our gilded throne of brodom, we realize that the battlefield we've made is not a flat one, but a slippery and rocky slope now littered with the smoking remains of the laughable.
Our indominatable will and iron gullets have heralded the failure of such incorrigable pretenders and bottom-feeders as Team Beastman to even compete with the luxurious intoxication of our power.
There does, however, occasionally arise a band of merrymen whose latent bro-osity makes them instant peers to greatness and co-conspirators of copulation. Such an auspicous union of spirit has truly arisen in The West... Thusly, we extend our hand to our new brothers-in-arms, The Macho Midnight, and tip our 24's to the success of their whiskey-drenched endeavours. May our bro-umvirate be a thousand year Reich of Debauchery! EinVolk! Ein Fervor! Ein Brodom!
A convergence of this sort deserves a celebration of the sort unheard of in recent history. For this reason we declare tomorrow, July 4th, an official bro-holiday. Get out your dusty version of the "shit-split" because...
TOMORROW WE COMMEMORATE THE FIRST ANNUAL BALLENTINE'S DAY!!!!
Ahh Team Fun, what a handsome (and gorgeous) bunch of fuck-ups who stopped fucking up but don't want that to mean they've stopped being Team Fun.