I have an excellent dressing down story. It was cut down by nearly half once I remembered there was word constraints. If you'd like the entire unabridged story, send me a letter asking for it. Anyway, here is my dressing down story: 

The Problem 

After exiting off a plane in Detroit from attending a funeral in Philly, I had to head over to basketball practice officiated by Henson. However, I was still wearing a suit and tie. And those unbearable tight dress pants were wrapped around my abnormally muscular thighs. AND I didn't have any sneakers on. All I had was dress shoes, god forbid. 

Practice was in only 40 minutes and I needed to go halfway across the city to get my basketball gear from my apartment and then another 12 miles away to the basketball court at HQ. Of course this wouldn't be easy. Detroit was a big city. On top of that, it turns out, my chauffeur went to the wrong airport. He was supposed to go the Wayne County Airport but instead went to Detroit City Airport. Now what was I gonna do?

The Taxi

Through an interesting series of events I had to cut out, I had obtained a taxi.

Inside the Taxi was a thick and smelly smoke. The driver was clearly smoking something but the odor was distinct and I wasn't sure what. "Where ya headin' to'?" He said in a raspy voice. I realized I didn't have time to head to my apartment so I told him to go straight to the courts. 

The Dressing Down

In the back of the taxi, I removed my suit, tie, vest, and dress shirt. Then I removed my shoes and pants. Unfortunately, I'd have to play shirtless, shoeless, and pantless. 

As I arrived at the court, I payed the taximan, who didn't seemed phased at all about me being in my underwear. Then I went to practice and had the greatest practice of my life! 

The End

That was the story of my undressing. It may not be exactly what you were looking for but it was an undressing. Also, please don't count this or the part at the beginning as being in my story or else I'm still over the word maximum. 

Permit if you will to break your hearts once again. This is a tale with not one but two betrayals, and a dressing down for each.  Headcoach and his patented gang of Mafia basketball goons have made Detroit a mug city. I have twice fallen victim to Coach’s lure of free signed merch only for him to beat me down the second I tried to take it. I was a failure and a victim, and I admonished myself for it by having to say seven hail Mary’s to my shrine of Grin-22. I dressed myself down real good, and felt like shit for it.

That was the first one my dear friends, the second was a betrayal from within. You see, one of my employees witnessed Headcoach’s fat chubby sausage fingers attempting to pick their pocket. They had the perfect chance to mug in revenge. They failed to doing so. I ordered them to do it, breaking out my big boy voice, but still? Nothing. They refused my wishes. They made me look weak.

At this point I was torn. Did I beat them? Take their gun? Demote? HQ Wack? All of them? Or, send them a Quad CA for beating Headcoach at his own nefarious game and refusing to comply with his shit rules. For beating him.

Once again, I found myself back at my shrine, praying for forgiveness. I was weak, naïve and a fool. Seven Hail Mary’s and a lashing later, I’m back here on the streets, ready to prostitute myself for a chance at $35 million dollars, which I’d of course share with my good friend Grin-22, thus fulfilling the other obligation one of the late great Fareham lineage by arming that toerag.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was pounding the streets of Las Vegas. The lightning was putting the lights of the Strip to shame. Foo and Willy entered Woodlawn Cemetery to make this evening’s take. As always, they had the previous days’ burial listings in their coat pockets. The gravediggers knew not to get to work burying the recently deceased until these two had finished their nightly work. As Foo and Will approached the first site, they found it already covered. Cursing to each other, they proceeded to the next site and found the same thing. One after another, the ten graves from the day all had been filled in.

Foo and Willy proceeded to the gravedigger office where they found someone they had never seen before. They asked this man if he knew who they were. He replied that yes, Foo was Hobbs’ left-hand man and Willy was a well-known associate of the Three Star Mob. Foo put on their best stern voice and explained to the man that graves were not to be filled in until the two of them had time to inspect every single one. No exceptions! Willy, being even more stern, told the man that if they ever found the graveyard in the state it was in tonight, a lot more than a talking to would be delivered to the man. The gravedigger’s hands visibly shook knowing what these two and their connections were capable of. He apologized and went to work undoing the wrongs he had committed that night so Foo and Willy could complete their duties.

"Jaws, let's not beat around the bush ocean here and call this anything other than what it is. This is unsportsmanlike conduct, and you should be sanctioned accordingly and benched for a full quarter or whatever you have in basketball. The deadline was set, and just like JFMAST when losing to Bricktown-5's you've tried to add in some extra time to try turn around the result. If nobody comes to your games, you can't extend the time until the audience finally arrive for cut-price concessions and soggy hot dogs. You should reward those who did arrive on time and prostitute themselves in the hope of winning $35 million dollars, and a magnificent mystery prize.

By the way, this also counts as a dressing down. Consider yourself formally undressed in the streets."

Is it too late to enter? There is a 72 hours extension still in place, right?

I wasn't going to enter, I don't have a death wish. I was just curious. 

"I'm sorry, what? Do you mean to tell me that despite being The Last Winner, and all round handsome man, Grin-22 who won't recall my letters or phone calls was the beneficiary of $35,000,000 dollars? This is some serious fraud. And by that, I mean some serious fraud in respects of being a fellow Mafiosa who steals and commits crimes for a living (Though not Organised Crimes due to a fear of getting blood on tighty whitey's)

Look, it's great I am victorious and significantly ahead of MikeTyson, but I'd really like to receive my real prize now. Otherwise there will be lasting and really, really far reaching repercussions for the sport of Mafia Basketball."

Congratulations Grin-22 you really deserve the prize money for this. The real winners of this competition is the great city of Detroit and all the wonderful ballers out there.