While browsing obscure sports videos late in the night, you happen across a clip entitled “Worst Soccer Fail Ever? (FIVE Players Banned!)”. Intrigued, you click on it, expecting to see some personality greet your screen to explain some complex story that you never knew existed. Instead, you’re surprised to see what is clearly just raw, unedited footage from someone’s DVR, displaying the halftime to a minor league match from an area you’re completely unfamiliar with. The break quickly concludes, with players storming the field as the commentators interrupt the silence with opening remarks:

“…And it’s looking like it’ll continue to be an absolute scorcher on the field,” an unseen announcer continues, oblivious to the fact that they’d starting recording while he was mid-sentence. “Easily 90 degrees, maybe more. How lucky that I’m not playing out there today. What do you think, Terrance?”

Another, deeper voice chimes in: “Well, Sammy, I’m sure everyone in the league can handle a little excess heat, and if they can’t, that’s what the infirmary’s for. Why don’t you get us back up to speed before kickoff?”

“Not a problem.” The first announcer clears his throat before going through some pre-rehearsed spiel. “Hello once again soccer fans, Terrance and I are more than pleased to bring to you yet more minor league action from some of your favorite local stars. Today the Mayweather Pistols are going up against those perennial favorites, the Redgrove Red Jackets, and surprisingly enough are really holding their own with a tied game so far, 1 to 1!”

“It’s not the strangest upset in the making I’ve ever seen,” continues Terrance, “but given the Pistols’ strategies of late I’m surprised they’ve made it this far. They’ve always had a tendency to draft heavyweights for a defense-heavy roster, but nowadays you’d be able to pick any Pistol player out of the lineup and you’d find they’re nearly twice the size of the league average!”

“And that hasn’t worked out for them as well as they’d been hoping, has it?”

“Not at all! Wouldn’t be surprised if the entire team got relegated out of the league by the end of the season.”

“Well, they’ve picked a hell of a time to suddenly show up. The Red Jackets are currently undefeated so far, but tonight they just can’t break through the Pistols’ setups to make anything even resembling a lead.”

“Bad for them, Terrance, but oh so good for us. Hopefully this tussle between agility and brawn won’t end in a complete blowout like it did for the Pistols last night.”

“You said it, Sammy. Now, let’s get to kickoff!”

By now the teams have taken the field, and despite knowing next to nothing about the two squads you already have a clear picture of who the Pistols are. Clothed in grey and navy blue, the eleven players on the left half of the turf absolutely dwarf their red-clad opponents. Each of the teammates are undeniably fat, the normally lithe forms of gazelles and panthers instead bloated out with flab that barely seems to be contained by their XXXL uniforms. Taking their places, you swear you can see the ground shake as what appears to be a star player heads to the center of the field. The crow woman is almost awe-inspiring with her sheer girth, with tree trunks legs, concrete pipe arms, and a black-feathered doughball of a belly jutting out from underneath her clothes as she waddles along. She’s clearly having a bit of trouble moving her limbs, which look rather stiff. Everyone in the vicinity seems to think something’s up, but they let her take position all the same. It’s odd, you’ve never seen any athlete with a waistline like that before, but if no one’s going to stop her then you guess it must be some sort of normal occurrence for the team…

“The Pistols’ Anabelle Crowe seems, um, pretty fired up,” stumbles Sammy, who seems for a second just as confused as you are. You can hear him mumbling to someone, presumably to the production staff wondering why one of the players looks like they’ve been eating for ten. “The head coach for the Pistols has told me she’s experiencing ‘a bit of allergic swelling to something she ate during halftime’. Despite this, she’s still ready to play and should be over it in a bit.”

“Are we sure we can still trust that guy-” Terrance begins, before getting effortlessly cut off.

“Sure as sure,” grunts Sammy, “Anyway, folks, the second half’s beginning now. The ref’s made it to the center field, and we should see some action immediately.”

Indeed, the playoff is ready to begin, with the ball ready to be set into play. All the players crouch into a bracing position (save for Ana, who merely bends a bit) as the referee starts counting down. In that moment, you swear you can see Anabelle’s entire demeanor change. By the count of 1, the avian seems infinitely more comfortable in her vastly bloated skin, and all eyes are on her as the whistle blows. Immediately she darts off, taking control of the ball away from a visibly stunned Red Jackets player. The surprise works wonders for the Pistols, who now have the advantage to push as Ana stomps further down the field, hips swaying and bobbing all along the way. She’s incredibly light on her feet- almost too light, in fact.

“Well look at that, Crowe’s keeping up her electric performance today!” comments Terrance, audibly surprised that the woman can still move with such grace.

“Allergies or no, she’s not looking to be stopped today.” agrees Sammy.

                Ignoring the banter, you almost immediately rewind the clip, playing it back and staring at the screen in disbelief as Ana once again maneuvers herself with all the ease of a fur a third her size. It’s positively mesmerizing for a number of reasons, and as you scrub further and further forward you start to notice other things about her performance. For one, you swear she’s getting bigger over time. Her shorts were already noticeably strained when halftime ended, but with each minute that passes you’re surprised that you can’t hear them cry out in pain already. Her breasts, her thighs, and by god her stomach- they’re all slowly rounding out as the match progresses, and as they do Ana’s movements just seem to grow more nimble, as if she’s waving around in a wind tunnel instead of on the court. You try to shake the feeling that something’s off… players can’t just gain weight during a match, can they?

                …Maybe they can, though. Have you gone crazy, or are the other players expanding too as the minutes tick down? An obese panther woman that currently trails behind Ana is suddenly way bustier than she was two penalty shots ago, her tits slowly shifting down the alphabetic ladder as they begin to seriously strain her top. A formerly thin golden collie has also joined the gaining group, her once flat stomach now bulging out of her shirt with a food baby the size of a basketball. You certainly can’t forget the elephant manning the goal right now, either; every time the camera pans back towards her you swear she’s gone up a pant size, and now you’re worried that any sharp movement might shred through her clothes and force her to guard her dignity instead. The status of the game at hand no longer matters to you as you scan the field, looking for yet more of the evidence of growth that seems to be afflicting every player for the Pistols at once.

“And the Pistols’ growing defense continues to shut out the Red Jackets,” says Sammy. “Funny, I’d say you’d normally expect this kind of agility from the other team. What do you say, Terrance?”

“Well Sammy-” begins Terrance, right before a sudden interaction on the field crashes his train of thought. “Yeowch, and there’s our first collision of the game. June Knight’s been sent reeling to the floor after… Tammy Worth of all people got in her way? Am I seeing this right?”

No, you saw it, too. That massive panther lady (whose name you now know to be June) is currently groveling on the floor in the wake of the bunny lady who happened to get in her way. The only problem is the obvious size disparity between the two opponents- Tammy, as a rabbit, happened to be one of the smallest players on the Red Jackets side, yet June just so happened to practically bounce off of her as she ran into the bun. Even now, June’s practically being dribbled by some unseen force as she rolls over on the turf, some 350 pounds of blubber attached to her frame jiggling like jell-o shots as she tries to regain her footing. The collie from earlier, as one of the only members of the Pistols that looks like she can still bend properly, helps her up in a jiff, but the damage has been done: something’s up, you reckon, as you watch June’s tail tuck between her ample legs.

“Guess there’s a hidden lion inside that crouching bunny,” laughs Sammy uneasily. “Anyhow, while we were discussing that blunder, the ball’s been sent out of bond courtesy of the Pistols. Red Jackets will have the chance to take the penalty shot.”

“I see the Pistols have (oddly enough) chosen Crowe and Knight to crowd around to intercept the shot.” Says Terrance.

“And why would that be odd?”

“Well… one can see that they’re kind of having trouble walking right now.”

That’s a bit of an understatement. Both Ana and June have been pretty thoroughly shaken up by this point in the match, and their contents are ever-expanding as whatever’s in them fizzes up like a soda bottle in a paint mixer. Ana’s hulking form looks a bit like a black gumdrop from a distance, her stubby limbs tearing the seams in her uniform’s sleeves. June is not faring much better, with her asscheeks threatening to pop apart her shorts as they casually outgrow the size of pumpkins. Sure, they look like walking tanks, but somehow you bet this couple will topple as easily as a pair of dominos if the Red Jackets so much as sneeze in their direction. You wonder if that’ll take their blue outfits out for good if that happens.

“Tammy’s going to bring the ball back into play, Terrance, and- oh, Ana’s body-blocked it!”

You don’t think for a second that Ms. Crowe actually meant to do that. The ball ricochets off her belly as if it’s encountered the wall of a bounce house, but for Ana’s sake she might as well have taken a cannonball to the gullet. The bloated ball of a bird crashes to the ground, only to spring right back up as gravity just refuses to work on Ana’s body. It defies all logic, but this nearly quarter-ton crow seems to weigh less than the ball that’s sent her flying! This absurdity doesn’t escape Ana; she’s squirming for yet more help from any of the players, her limbs laying bare just how little they can move as they become more dome-like in structure. All of the avian is hitting what you can only describe as peak rotundity; her chest and gut’s forming a solid curve, as does her back. June’s appropriately backing away from the building bird ball; just a few inches to the left, and it could’ve been a black orb of panther swelling out on the field.

“Good lord,” Terrance finally blurts out, “she’s growing like a weed!”

“What the hell is happening to the Pistols? Somebody get the coach!”

It’s far too late for that, not when Ana’s bloating like they hooked a ball pump up to her. The crow’s squawking like mad as her body continues to billow outwards, and you swear that through the broadcast you can hear the stitches on her uniform tearing as she rapidly sizes up past anything the fabric could hope to contain. Suddenly a censor pixilation appears on the screen; you don’t have to guess as to why the edit to the tape was needed.

“Uh oh,” says both of the commentators at once as Ana’s womanhood is displayed to the mildly-horrified crowd. The top of the pixel blurred player turns bright pink as her watermelon breasts break free of their surroundings, waving free in the air.

“We’re just gonna cut to commercial for a few seconds-“ Sammy panics, before a gasp causes the words to die in his throat.

Ana’s floating. The other players race over to her to try and tether her back to the ground, but they’re too late; the borb goes sailing skywards, screaming high-pitched bloody murder as she waggles her useless limbs in a desperate attempt to clutch onto anything. It sure as hell doesn’t work, and the camera’s keep running upwards as she rises above the field. Ten feet… fifteen feet… you’re not sure if that’s a reading of her height or her diameter, because all the while Ana’s still ballooning outwards with every second that’s passing, her limbs and beak sinking into her flesh as it all rapidly grows around it. The pixilation blur removes itself as Ana’s naughty bits go too far away from the camera to be seen, letting you see the black orb of Crowe in all her majesty. The spectacle doesn’t last long, though; her body’s quivering like mad, tautening up, barreling past her limits until finally-

***Ka-BOOM!***

Feathers rain down onto the field as Ana’s hide ruptures, reducing the Pistols’ player count to ten as she does a grand imitation of a party popper. The name of the game changes to total anarchy as the remaining players scurry off and around the court, with the Pistols trying desperately to avoid the same fate while the Red Jackets just look confused. Half the team’s huddled under the canopies on the other of the field, while others maneuver themselves under the bleachers for a safer guard against the newfound threat of upward lift. June’s over by the coach’s bench, chugging sports drink out a keg that would’ve been splashed on the coach who won. Now it’s all going down her throat, and the extra weight’s causing her to round out quite fabulously to the point that she’s a dead ringer for the exact shape and size that Ana was before takeoff. The staff’s objecting to this harebrained scheme, trying to roll her away before she gets to heavy to do so. One wrong hand on her uniform and suddenly she has to be censored out, too. And throughout all this, you swear you saw one of the Red Jackets punt the soccer ball into the opposing goal. Guess nobody’s called the game despite all the chaos.

The footage immediately cuts to presumably later in the broadcast, with the cameras now focused on the announcers. Sammy and Terrance, a sharply dressed pig and crocodile, respectively, are looking mighty disheveled.

“Well, uh…” Sammy beings, choosing his words carefully. “Ana Crowe’s going to be just fine, folks. The medics have gathered all the pieces of her and she’s currently unconscious in the infirmary.”

“You know who isn’t going to be fine, though?” adds Terrance, “Coach Humphrey. The Pistols’ coach has locked himself in his quarters and is rejecting any attempts for an interview. Guess we know who to blame for all this!”

“In his place, Team Captain Mae Miller has promised to give us an interview about what happened today instead. Let’s cut to her now.”

The footage does indeed cut to a podium somewhere important. It’s hard to make out the location, however, given that half the stage is swamped by tightly packed golden fur. It’s that collie from earlier; she’s grown considerably since her last appearance on the field, looking like little more than a fluffy yellow balloon of a canine. She tries to limply wave her paws to the camera, ignoring that they’re currently swallowed up into divots next to her nearly spherical form. The team captain has certainly seen better days, especially in the wardrobe department- her uniform evidently came off long ago, given that they’ve draped spare pennants over her to cover her naughty bits.

“Mae, just what the heck were you thinking coming onto the green like this?” cries a voice from off-camera. The collie’s puffy face practically sinks back down into her neck out of embarrassment.

You go to scrub even further to see the aftermath, but thankfully the video has edited out the dead air for you.

“Well… there you have it, folks…” groans an embarrassed Sammy Hayfield. “I don’t think the sport will ever experience a day such as this ever again.”

“You said it, Sammy,” agrees Terrance. “Not only have half the Pistols been banned from the sport, but their coach might look to do time for doping up his players!”

“Does it really count as doping if the rulebooks don’t count it as a performance-enhancing gas?”

“After today it probably will. Can you believe it? Helium- a nobel gas for pete’s sake- banned from the sport!”

“Guess anybody looking for a souvenir balloon will have to try a more respectable sport.” Admits Sammy. “As for the rest of us, let’s breath a sigh of relief that we only had one near-casualty on the field today.

“That we know of!” laughs Terrance.

The video ends it runtime there- displaying all sorts of related videos in its wake. You can’t help but notice that a lot of the videos in the feed are from the same channel, and more importantly they seem to have similar titles, too.

Greatest Basketball Fail of ALL TIME? Explosive Embarrassment!

Top Ten Baseball Goofs (That Ended In A Roll-Off)

Eating Contest RUINED by Cheater (Blatant!)

If they’re anything like the one you just watched, then you have some binge-watching to do.