I sat in the corner of the quadratical plot, my arsenal spread before me in a shade of red very much not evocative of blood. The color of one stripe of the candy cane, perhaps, but not sanguine in nature. From one to five squares they were arranged, left to right, for ease of selection in the battle to come.

To my left sat crafty Brad, his pieces resplendent in the yellow of a desert sun. His paramour, Sabrina, sat across from me, armament the deep green of an ancient forest. To my right, as my own wife, Amy, prepared to make her first move, an intense internal debate raged behind her beatific visage. Her hand wavered from piece to piece, each the shade of the deep ocean. Her first move would be just as cold, I suspected. Finally, the battle began.

Nothing much could be gleaned from the initial placement. With a curious glance as my wife (what were you up to this time?), I considered my options.

The opening salvo fired, I prepared to make my move. In an earlier engagement, I rushed recklessly for the center of the field, eager to take the heart, only to be outmaneuvered by the adroit contrivances of Brad. I would not make the same mistake again. Confidently taking up a five-block piece, I placed it in my own corner. The beginnings of a smile appeared briefly on my face. Crafty Brad knew it not, for my play could proceed apace in any direction, but that piece was the beginning of his defeat.

Other corners were quickly filled with blocks of gold and green, and my wife played once again. My turn was anew, and I rapidly loaded another right-angled bullet into my weapon, pointed at the devious Brad. Another fiver went into play. Had I telegraphed my moves? Does he suspect yet? For my pieces went near the boundary of the field, and not into the center. Perhaps, perhaps not. Only time will tell.

Around and around the play went and my strategy became all too clear. For I was blocking off an entire section of the board for the devilish one at the expense of my own expansion. Difficult it was, I knew, to stop the amoeba-like growth of another in this contest of wills, but I knew a way.

Eventually crimson clashed with yellow and I played my trump. Picking up "old straighty," I played it perpendicular to the edge. There would be no cracks for him to slip though this time. He must go another way…straight into the waiting embrace of his wife. But oh, how sweet it was, for his encounter would not be one borne of love, but of blocks.

Cold…unyielding…plastic…blocks.

Stymied by my defense, Brad turned to his left and managed to sneak through a weak point in the green blockade, while I considered my own position. My unilateral strategy had left my in a vulnerable position to my own wife! Quickly I turned to my right, picking the largest pieces I had left in an attempt to regain some of the lost ground between our starting positions.

Fortunately, I managed to find a gap in the center through which new footholds were established in the domains of green and blue. Several times I cursed my early use of certain pieces, as they would have not only advanced my own cause, but ended the hopes of others as well. As one is often forced to do in the heat of battle, for no plan remains intact for long, I improvised.

Around and around again we went, exhaustion beginning to take hold. Distractions aplenty attempted to turn me from my destiny as our children begged a moment of attention. They would not have it from me, for victory was in my grasp. The stench of it was so heavy in the air, I thought that I might choke on it.

What is this? My wife has fallen from the contest, her options exhausted. I adore her dearly but can spare no time to mourn. Give my love to the children, dearest, I will join you when the day is won.

Sabrina is the next to fall, overwhelmed by the combined assault of myself, and a redirected Brad.

Only the crafty one and I remain. Our pieces are nearly spent. My early strategy has borne fruit, as his options are limited. On the other hand, I have left myself openings in the holdings of my spouse which only I can reach. I play a piece, as does he. Another. Another. Another. Back and forth, like Foreman and Ali in the jungle we do battle. In the back of my head, I imagine that I can hear the chants; "Bomaye. Bomaye."

And like that, it is over. Only a single piece remains unused in my stash, while several litter the ground before my opponents.

I declare victory…and then we eat cake. Delicious chocolate cake.

Mmmm…cake.

DISCLAIMER: Some details may have been changed for dramatic effect. But there was cake, and it was good.

Now THIS is how to write a session report of Blokus!

Maybe you should write your session report as a sonnet next time.

That was a fantastic read!!!

Yes, very good read!

Awesome session report. It accurately channels the emotions of an intense game of blokus.

Agreed. That was about as good as a session report could be. Well done.

Hung on every word I did as the session report unfolded before me. Though I knew not how the contest would end, one fact was clear - if this guy can make Blokus sound interesting he was going to have my attention thru to the end! On I read as I drank my beer. Swayed not by the emptying of the bottle I forged ahead...AHEAD I TELL YOU. To the climax of the tale, hoping against hope that evil Brad's intentions will be thwarted by our hero. My eyes began to blur due to the sheer emotion of the story...or maybe the beer...Nevertheless, cake was had, beer was drank drunk...drinked swallowed and our hero emerged victorious. Somehow I felt unsatisfied. Thankfully my wife lay ready, empty wine coolers strewn about her buxom form....My own private game of Blokus was about to be played.

Blokus, eh, that's what they're calling it these days?

The cake is a lie!



Great report. Very entertaining.