Fox Files: The Diarrhea Squad & The Enemy of my Enemy is my Friend

Fox Files: The Diarrhea Squad

Among my bandit group of “friends’ whom I’m tragically relegated to play COD with for the rest of my stay in whatever strange purgatory I’m in — if a squad is particularly successful a nickname is often bestowed upon them.  These squads usually achieve something remarkable like winning three matches in a row.  There have been a fair number of these squads despite the fact that we’re all 30+ and really can’t hang with the young, spry tiktokers whose brains are far sharper than ours. 

A fan favorite is the ‘Flat tire squad’ nicknamed after Buchnasty’s flat tire misfortune.  He committed to playing COD, but instead sat on the side of the road, awaiting triple A while my fellow soldiers slayed the warzone taunting poor Buchnasty the entire time.  There’s the ‘Coach Ramboel squad’ named after Ramboel’s remarkable ability to win several matches in a row with a group of idiots.  Lastly, there’s The Hawks squad formed at the behest of the Knicks fans in our COD platoon that can’t stand Trae Young of the Atlanta Hawks.

It brings me no pleasure to tell you about the diarrhea squad.  Unfortunately, this squad was formed after I was struck with an awful bout of – nice job captain obvious – diarrhea.  Myself, Docbighead, Traitorhank and Ezmode were squadding as my stomach rumbled.  I knew I would need to use the bathroom, but I had no idea what madness was about to hit.  I had no clue that my stomach was in the midst of slowly performing a self induced colonoscopy.  No, my friends I could have never predicted that the food I ordered from Turkish Kitchen, whose sign on their door read “We are understaffed please be patient :)” actually meant – “you’ll be shitting yourself very shortly :)”.  I knew I made a safe choice with their chicken kebab with rice, but I shouldn’t have played Russian roulette with red lentil soup.  Little did I know that red lentil soup would fly out of me like milk flying out of an eager cow’s udder.  I don’t know why I used that metaphor, but it happened.

When the earthquake struck, I don’t know why I didn’t just lie.  After all, Docbighead, Traitorhank and myself comprise the wife squad.  I could have just said “sorry fellas, I have to go – wife needs help.”  There is a gentlemanly understanding that any issue involving a wife provides guaranteed immunity from heckling.  I understand that sounds obvious, but addiction is a real disease and our single friends have no chill.  In fact, Ramboel is divorced.  Lol, what an idiot.

Alas, I am nothing like TraitorHank – I’m an honest man.  I spoke the truth and announced that my stomach was about to evacuate every ounce of food I had ever eaten as I sprinted for the bathroom.  

Now you must understand, the COD chat truly lives and dies on cucking.  Cucking is when someone is left out of a win (and therefore a cuck) and this can occur under several circumstances:

1.  They are playing with a squad, quit and the remaining squad wins without them (or wins with their potential replacement).

2.  A squad is in the middle of playing when you log on and invite them.  To invite in the middle of a squad’s win is a rather pathetic invitation and you are therefore a cuck.

3. Multiple people desire to play and a race ensues to log on as quickly as possible.  The “rotten egg” in this scenario arriving last receives zero sympathy.  Rather, they are vulnerable to a cucking.

No cucking is complete without a video in our COD chat in which evidence of a victory is shown.  Also, a photo of the kills is required.  Kills tell the true story and if anyone ends with zero kills they are rightfully labeled “Cuck of the night.”  Alas, one could give a cucking, but also be a cuck.  A cruel fate indeed, but these are not my rules, but rather the rules passed down from our cod’ing forefathers who were cucked and their ancestors that were cucked before them.

When my diarrhea began I knew I was going to be in the bathroom for at least 30-45 minutes.  In all honesty, I usually take that long anyway, but more so because my spirit animal (besides a fox) is probably the toilet.  Don’t ask about the history of toilets in my family and particularly, how my Mom has a genuine fear of toilets, ok?  Just don’t.

I was fear stricken to learn that Ramboel The Great would be taking my spot.  Not only would they be motivated to win, but they would celebrate any win with the utmost pride knowing it was accomplished while I suffered my own version of a flat tire.  In case there was any confusion, I was suffering from diarrhea though.  Horrible, neverending, mountains of diarrhea.

They say if you overthink something enough it can manifest to reality and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking the COD chat with anxiety.  I envisioned the soon to be diarrhea squad pillaging the battlefields of caldera with only knives, axes and scythes.  Storming enemy lairs as they riotously laughed not only killing clowns but humiliating them.  They made passionate, consensual love to their victims wives before eating, smoking and drinking to their heart’s content.  An unusual break on the unforgiving battlefields before resuming onto victory.  Alternatively, my stomach twisted with agony.  It wasn’t just diarrhea, it was a painful episode.  I had already ripped my clothes off because the pain made me feel unbearably warm.  I bent my head over nearly in a fetal position struggling to cope.  

I could feel them celebrating, taking their time with the final clowns, taunting us both.  There’s nothing worse than slowly bleeding to death at the end of the match, your teammates long gone as your enemies start crouching beside you like they’re mimicking sitting on a toilet.  No one’s coming to help you, death has arrived.  I imagined them crouching among their victims while talking about me mid crouch, “Look I’m Seth and I have a tummy wummy ache!”  The bastards. 

When the first video dropped, the celebration was a riot.  Ramboel exclaimed with joy that I was probably watching from the toilet.  I was.  Ezmode did an impression of me using the voice of an ailing nerd, “My name is Seth and I have the poopsie whoopsies.”  It sounded nothing like me, but they all agreed that if they closed their eyes and listened, EZmode’s voice was no different than mine.

The second video was a harsher version of the first.  Ramboel said “Damn I bet that cuck is still on the toilet!”.  I was and it hurt my soul and anus.

The final video was the most tragic.  To win three times makes your squad legendary and as legends were formed, I rested my legs upon a squatty potty with nothing but sadness for the diarrhea squad would forever be etched in the COD history books.

May you all avoid such a brutal fate my fellow cucks.

Love always,


Fox Files: The Enemy of my Enemy is my Friend

Many times I’ve heard the phrase, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend” but have never been in an applicable scenario. Honestly, what kind of stupid phrase is that anyway? I feel like some pretentious beta created it to sound cool and beta’s have no place in the warzone, soldier. Regardless, it actually applied in a wonderful scenario (I’m not a hypocrite, how dare you) in which I accidentally, but delightfully screwed my teammate over. To clarify, I don’t normally like screwing teammates over, but TraitorHank? Well, that’s a different story. Honestly, fuck that guy. We met freshman year in college and I genuinely don’t think he’s contributed a single iota of positivity to my life since I met him. He even forced me to be a groomsman at his wife’s funeral – sorry I meant her wedding. Tragic times for the poor woman, but most importantly for me.

Anyway, TraitorHank and I (Fox) were sniping two enemies from the headquarters tower on Rebirth Island.  The Traitor heroically (rare) downed two opponents, but they crawled to temporary safety.  

For all you heathens who don’t play when someone is “downed” although they are bleeding out and can’t use their legs, they can slowly crawl like the pathetic, crab walking soul they are.  In the midst of a chaotic warzone it’s certainly plausible for an enemy to crawl to safety before you can end their meaningless life, leading to their tragic revival.  

I’d like to take a moment to say that my psychiatrist at the mental health facility I’m currently writing this from recently said I suffer from delusions of grandeur.  He felt this would be an appropriate time to include that.  I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I trust his insight as he helps the voices in my head go bye bye.  Did I get sidetracked again?  Blame the voices in my head.  So, as I was saying, Traitor watched in horror as his victims eluded the coveted “kill confirmed” when an unrelated enemy appeared and went after our crab walking enemies.  For the first time ever, the enemy of my enemy was our friend.

For proper dramatic tension, I’m going to write this like an action sequence.  A random clown had scaled his way to the rooftop where TraitorHank’s victims lay.  A white light of protection encircled our friendly foe.  He was going to be the hero Hank needed.  He was going to kill the two downed enemies.  He was going to indirectly help us.  The enemy of our enemy was going to be our friend in a warzone.  Was this a clown or the messiah?

We watched from a distance as he rushed towards our enemies with an LMG and an enormous bazooka on his back.  This man was ready to murder a damn village and I could see it clearly through my sniper scope.  The 1812 of overture played (come on man, that’s the one classical song you should know) getting louder and louder like the climactic ending of V for Vendetta.  Redemption, hope, glory, triumph – Hank was laughing, crying, thanking god and chewing chips, disgustingly loud and crunchy, cool ranch potato chips bound to give him diarrhea later as he sobbed, “you love me, you really love me.” I didn’t know what he was talking about either.  No one loves that idiot.

I fired my sniper as a golden bullet soared across the battlefield, the deafening sound from my unsilenced barrel blasting like the cannons of the overture.  It struck our friend directly in the head, killing him instantly.  I could hear everything in slow motion, Hank yelling “no”, “what have you done”, “it can’t be”, and “how could you do this to me?”  The 1812 of overture came to an end as I smiled, an ever so slight smirk as Hank’s victims received aid and I said to Hank as the cannons cooled and the violins died down, “What did I do?” but I knew my friends, I knew.

Today’s lesson is simple my friends.  If you ever see TraitorHank on the battlefields – tread lightly, or tread right over his stupid ass, either works.

Stay Frosty,


Seth Borkowski is a New York-based writer who enjoys writing about dating, self-improvement, sports and the challenges of growing older as a millennial. You can read more of his work at

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