Some New Audio...

Some of you might remember this from the original post, which was way back in 2006. Anyway, this is the audio version of that little gem.


Another audio rehash from this old post.

New Audio!

I just wanted to let you Blogsters (or, if you prefer, Stupesters) know that both FooDaddy and I have uploaded new audio to the Blog of Stupid audio page. Now you can stop moping around the house and do something even more unproductive! Your parole officer will be so proud.

Also, don't forget to sign up for the Blog of Stupid feed, so you can receive regular doses of Stupid delivered right to your desktop. Who wouldn't want that? You can find a link to your favorite feed provider on the sidebar. Waddya waitin' for? Feed your Stupidity!

Granola Prose IX

“So Tony's responsible for sewing your, uh, bum shut?” Becky looked doubtful. “Somehow I don’t see you letting that happen.”

“He sorta snuck up on me,” Merbert mumbled, his mouth full of spud. “And speakin’ o’ bums, iffen I ever get ahold o’ that Maxwell, I’m gonna…but I don’t wanna ruin yer meal, so you folks go ahead and et up. Yuh.”

Becky and Stubs sat down at the table and looked at their respective plates, both of which were piled high with steak and potatoes. Stubs picked up a fork and cut off a piece of steak, tentatively nibbling one corner.

“It’s delicious!” he said, immediately setting into his food with an energy befitting a much younger dwarf.

Encouraged, Becky followed suit. The two travelers hadn’t realized the extent of their hunger and it took three helpings of food and several flagons of mead and Sprite to fill their stomachs.

The Writer chuckled. “Flagon.” That was an amusing word and he really should use it more often. He decided he’d name his firstborn child Flagon and the idea amused him even further.

He was in an exceptionally good mood. It wasn’t often a story moved along with such proficiency and grace. Although trying hard not to become overconfident, he couldn’t help imagining himself standing next to a publisher, each of them holding up one end of a giant check, made out to him, and with many, many zeroes.

Opening up his email, he fired off a message to the Pulitzer committee, telling them all about his book and including a short synopsis. At the last minute, he inserted his phone number. They might want to call up first, just to chat for a bit. Maybe pick his brain for a future study of literary geniuses.

Stubs awoke and sat up. He didn’t remember falling asleep and for a moment couldn’t even remember where he was. He saw Becky lying a few feet away, still sleeping soundly. It was dark, except for a single burning torch, stuck into a crack in the wall. Then Stubs noticed a circle of darkness not far away, with brightly lit…stars? It was the night sky and the dark circle was the mouth of a cave. Merbert!

He jumped to his feet and looked around. What time was it? What day was it? They had to be on their quest!

“Merbert?”

Becky stirred awake at Stubs’ shout and took stock of the situation. “Merbert!”

The ex-wizard had vanished. Becky walked over next to Stubs and they glanced around the cavern. No sign of their kindly host.

“Well, how about that,” Becky said. “The good Samaritan strikes again! Now I guess we’ll never know the full story behind the Mysteriolith Three. I was hoping he could at least point us in the right direction.”

A voice, echoing eerily through the cavern, spoke. “That woulda been too easy! Ah-yuh-yuh-yuh!”

“Merbert?”

Becky and Stubs looked around again, but still saw no sign of their rescuer.

“The one and only. Sorry ta run out on you all, but I’m afraid my part is done fer now.”

“How long have we been asleep?”

“Just a few hours. You folks was plumb tuckered out and without the rest, you’d never’d made it. So I letcha sleep fer a spell. But now that it’s dark, ya might wanna think ‘bout movin’ on. Yuh!”

“Can’t you even tell us if we’re headed for danger, just so we’ll know what to expect?”

“Nope, can’t do that,” said Merbert’s disembodied voice. “Iffen you folks knew the danger, you’d never carry on yer quest.”

“But why do we have to leave at night?” asked Stubs.

“Yeah,” added Becky. “And how are we to find the Mysteriolith Three? And if we can’t find them, how are we going to find the magic stick?”

“So many questions!” echoed the wizard. “First off, stop callin’ it a magic stick. It’s a staff! And secondly, you folks worry too much. And third, it’s really dark in the back o’ this cave, so iffen ya don’t mind, I’m comin’ out there with you all.”

Sure enough, Merbert suddenly appeared beside them, carrying a bucket in one hand.

“We thought you’d vanished!” Becky said. “How’d you get that echo in your voice?”

Merbert held the bucket up to his mouth and spoke into it. “Ya mean this? Yuh! Every wizard worth his salt has an echo bucket.” He tried to toss the bucket over his shoulder, but hit himself in the head. “Ouch, dammit, yuh! Didn’t see that one comin’.”

“So you won’t guide us to the wizards?”

“Can’t. Never wanna see those bastards again. An’ they don’t wanna see me. Better we keep it that way.” Merbert turned away and emitted a tiny yuh. Then he whipped back around. “But enough ‘bout misery an’ strife! You folks have a gruelin’ trip ahead o’ ya. Better be movin’ on. I’ve put some vittles in yer packs and filled yer canteens with water, so ya shouldn’t be needin’ grub. Now, then. Be off with ya.”

Stubs and Becky picked up their packs and moved toward the entrance. “Well, thanks for your help, Merbert,” Becky said. “Perhaps we’ll meet up again soon?”

There was nothing but silence from the cave, so they kept moving until they were outside and some distance from the opening. The night air was cool and, fortunately, the stars were bright. But even though the sky was clear and the moon full, deep shadows spotted the landscape, concealing who knew what. Sharp rocks, sinkholes…Tony. At the thought, Becky shivered and Stubs put an arm around her.

“Not to worry,” he said. “We’ll be fine. And if anything happens, I’ve got my hammer at the ready.”

Behind them, quiet and unseen, Merbert slipped from the cave, wrapped in a large, flowing robe. He observed the scene and smiled. If those two could stay together through the danger that was certain to come, they might just have a chance of making it.

From beneath his robe, Merbert withdrew his echo bucket and risked a single, muffled, “Yuh!” And then, walking quickly in the direction of the Mysterolith Mountains, he disappeared into the shadows.

“Now what is he up to?” wondered The Writer. “Perhaps there’s more to Merbert than meets the eye.”

A banging sound startled him and he instinctively ate some granola. His wife appeared, dragged a large shower unit behind her.

“Almost have the bathroom remodeled,” she announced. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in seeing it when it’s finished?”

“Oooh, now’s not a good time, dear,” The Writer said. “I’ve just introduced a bit of intrigue into the story and, well, you know how it is.”

“Right. Intrigue. How are you holding up on the granola?”

“I could use another box, since you’re asking.” The Writer licked a few granola crumbs from his fingers. “And if you’re not too busy, I could use a ream of high-quality paper. When I print this out to send to the publisher, I want it to look its best.”

“Sure thing,” sighed The Wife. “As soon as I finish the spackling and install the satellite dish.”

“Excellent!” The Writer turned back to his laptop, but remembered something and whipped back around. “Hey, have you heard from the Pulitzer people yet?”

“No, dear.”

“Hmm. Strange. I sent them an email with my telephone number and a synopsis of my book. I’d have thought they would have called by now. Have you checked the machine?”

“There have been no calls.”

“Maybe you just...”

“No calls, dear.”

The Writer knew that tone of voice and it scared him, so he turned again to his laptop and continued writing.

Stubs and Becky hoisted their packs higher onto their shoulders and set a course for the Mysteriolith Mountains. They could just see the peaks rising into the sky, but it was far too dark to tell the distance.

Nervously, Stubs made a practice swing with his hammer, but when he spoke his voice was steady. “Once the sun comes up, we should have a better idea of what we’re up against.”

“I’m more worried about surviving until sun-up,” Becky said, making no effort to hide her concern. “Have you noticed there aren’t any night sounds out here? No crickets, owls, frogs…nothing!”

“So?”

“So this is obviously an undesirable place for wildlife.”

“Uh…so?”

“So it’s probably not safe!”

“Ah. But Merbert seems to do all right for himself.”

“Merbert’s a wizard. At least, a former wizard. Not many people want to tangle with them.”

A few minutes of silence and walking ensued before Becky said, “I wonder why Merbert wanted us to leave at night. It seems like it would be even more dangerous in the dark.”

“Maybe he thought we could slip through undetected.”

“Slip through what? You seem to be forgetting we don’t really know where we’re going.”

“Or at least how to get there.”

“Precisely. But you’d think Merbert would at least have the courtesy to—” Becky stopped talking abruptly and held a hand to her head.

“What’s wrong?” Stubs was instantly concerned. The expression on Becky’s face frightened him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No…” Becky’s voice was weak. “Not a ghost.” She swayed and Stubs hurried to help her sit down. Her face was pale and a sheen of perspiration coated her forehead.

“What then?” Stubs tightened his grip on the hammer.

“It’s The Call. I just heard The Call.”

Stubs had never heard of The Call, but he remained quiet, knowing Becky would continue when she felt able. The fairy was bent almost double, holding her head in both hands, and was obviously in considerable pain.

“The Fairy Syndicate sends out The Call whenever they want to summon all the fairies together.”

“Oh, ESP!”

“Sort of, but it’s more…powerful than that.”

“Is it always so painful?”

Becky shook her head carefully. “Not to everyone. Just to those fairies who’ve been disgraced or try to ignore The Call.”

“So what does this mean?” Stubs was almost afraid to ask.

“It means our time is growing short. The Syndicate wouldn’t send out The Call unless the warlord had arrived. He’s gathering them all together to give them their battle plans.” Becky struggled to her feet. “We have to hurry! It will only take the fairies a day, two at the most, to assemble. After that, they’ll march on the Dirty Forest Man. We must deliver the magic staff before they reach him!”

Their courage renewed by the direness of the situation, Stubs and Becky continued walking toward the Mysteriolith Mountains. So intent were they on their path, they didn’t notice a shadowy figure trailing close behind, flitting from tree to rock and rock to tree.

Technorati Tags: dwarf,granola,prose,fairy,fantasy,stupid

Listen Up!

Hey, faithful Blogsters. I just wanted to once again draw your attention to the sidebar, where there is a tidy and rather insulting link to the new audio version of The Blog of Stupid. Check it out and see if its stupidity measures up to the high standards you've all come to expect over the past couple years.

Technorati Tags: audio,blog of stupid

The Moron Has a New Job

Once upon a time, there was this moron, see.

He was an inexperienced moron, as morons go.

Excuse me. You misunderstand. He was quite good at moronity, having many skills and much practice, but in his new capacity as tech help for a local library concern, he was indeed out of his depth. That was the idea I was trying to convey.

No, wait. As a moron, he was still plenty in his depth concerning his new job. If he were making an attempt to be competent, however, going against his moron tendencies, he would indeed be miles from wherever he left his depth.

Oh, fiddlepricks. I'm afraid I have you all confused now. I hereby issue a formal apology.

Perhaps an anecdote would prove more illustrative. That is, after all, what this Blog is about: Dodging responsibility. In fact, I'm dodging it right now. I could be...well, that's not the point.


The Moron sauntered into the air-conditioned office environment. In this office, he would perform duties (called "tasks") that would be the basis for all his major paychecks. The Moron figured that this would involve a lot of sitting around near a telephone. He knew he was very good at sitting around.

"And near a phone? I'm your man! Boy, can I be near a phone! Better than most, I'd bet!"

He said these things very loudly, because they were very true.

The Moron rednecked his way over to the little enclosure that was to be his home for the next five hours. He noted the computer and the fabric-covered walls and the telephone. Yeeeees, the telephone. Sure had a lot of buttons on it, that phone.

"Best avoid that for now," he mumbled to himself.

The Moron was given a password in order that he might log on to his work computer. This pleased the Moron as he had always wanted a password protected computer. His instructor approached.

"Hi Moron!" she said. "Ready for your first day?"

"Am I ever!" he hooted.

"Okay. First, log on to your computer."

The Moron was ready for this. He poked the keyboard to wake his computer up. The screen remained obstinately dark.

"This is highly suspect," he said. "Must be a malfunctioning peripheral." Just to be sure, he unplugged his mouse and threw it away.

"More comfortable with keyboard shortcuts, are we?" asked his instructor. "Excellent. That shows aptitude. Shall we begin?" She reached over and turned his computer on.

While Windows Vista booted up, the Moron picked some crud out of his fingernails and smirked unpleasantly. After ten minutes, the characteristically mundane "Dingly-dong!" Windows noise chortled out of his speakers.

"Scared you? Yeah. Sometimes I forget and leave the volume up pretty high too."

The Moron picked himself up off the floor. "Never in a million years," he said sweatily. "I was just checking the power strip thing down there. Did you know it's a UPS? That stands for 'Uninterr--' no, wait. It stands for 'Un-ordained Papal Squirrels.' You know? To be honest with you, that's never made much sense to me. Hey look! Vista!"

The instructor waited patiently while the Moron flailed at the keyboard, minimized and maximized a window to watch it do its fady, flippy thing and moved all of his desktop icons into a big clump in the corner of his screen.

"Whew! I am so ready for a break," the Moron said, flinging beads of honest perspiration onto the power strip. "Should that be making sizzling noises?" he queried his instructor. "I somehow don't think it should. In fact, my training suggests that it really ought not to. I'm going to write the IT guys a note and have them call a plumber."

"You're allowed one fifteen minute paid break, and you can take a half hour for lunch. But that half hour is unpaid. You'll have to mark it on your time sheet if you decide to take it."

"Will I ever!" shouted the Moron as he sauntered toward the Snickers. He took a very long time to make his choice.

"I shall select this one," he said finally to nobody in particular, picking one of the "Fun Size" candy bars from amongst its identical peers. "Because it looks like the finest, most professional of the bunch." He popped it into his mouth, wrapping and all, and chewed like an executive. He wiped his fingers on his bowtie.

"Well, you've, uh, used your break for the day," his instructor told him.

"That's okay!" the Moron assured her, throwing himself back into his chair and releasing a peanut-scented burp. "I'm wearing corduroy pants!"

"I don't see what that has to... well, never mind. Are you familiar with Microsoft Office?"

The Moron stopped making zipping noises with his thumbnail and corduroys and looked up. He formed his face into a very serious expression. One that allowed a glimpse at his wealth of knowledge, but did not display it in a condescending manner.

"They wouldn't let me in without an ID card." And honestly, why would they? he thought.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. Why asketh thou?"

"Your face. You...uh, there's no way to put this delicately. You appear to be experiencing bowel discomfort."

"Oh that? It's genetic. My nephew had it too."

"So we can assume you're unfamiliar with Office. Have you ever used a spreadsheet program before?" the instructor valiantly continued.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, ma'am," the Moron said, lowering his gaze respectfully. He read once in some magazine he'd found in the break room that employers appreciated an employee who was humble and contrite. Or perhaps that was God. Or maybe that was a hymnal he'd read. And maybe that wasn't a break room, but a church.

Perhaps.

Whatever.

"It's a tool for handling and organizing large amounts of alphanumeric data. Have you ever done that before?"

The Moron, considering all the experience he'd had with alphabet soup, quickly and efficiently decided he was an expert.

"Indeed. What're all these little blocks?"

"Huh?"

"These." The Moron indicated the Excel spreadsheet onscreen with a Snickery finger, leaving a goo smear. "These little white bricks with letters all near 'em."

"This is a spreadsheet."

The Moron recovered quickly. "Have tons of 'em back home. Use 'em to keep track of my many alphanumeric items. Add 'em. Subtract 'em. Fun stuff. What should I do with this one?"

"Be familiar with it," his instructor said, getting up. "I'm going to let you two get acquainted while I go rescue a few job applications I, uh, accidentally threw away."

"It shall be totally under my control within the hour!" chirped the Moron. He focused his laser-like concentration on Excel. He bore down. He grunted and strained. He poked the keyboard experimentally, and the letter "B" showed up in one of the cells onscreen.

"Victory!" he shouted.

Then, the Moron lusted after some Cheetos...

New Audio!

Hey, swine

I've added some audio to this post and this post. See what ya think!

Granola Prose VII

The Writer couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the poor echoes. But, alas, they were fodder for his story and perish in the chasm they must. He fortified himself with granola and the fiber stiffened his spine.

"How are we going to make it across this great chasm?" asked Becky. She sounded really lame, but had delivered the line so as to keep the reader apprised of the situation. "Oh, if only I had wings." She sat down on a nearby rock and began to weep piteously.

The Writer sat back from the keyboard. Should he say 'piteously'? Wasn't all weeping piteous? He had heard many writing instructors issue stern warnings against the use of adverbs, but he liked the word 'piteous.' He really liked it. He liked it intensely. The hell with it, he was going to say 'piteous.'

Becky sat down on a nearby rock...

Of course it would be a nearby rock. Why would Becky go on a long journey merely to find a rock suitable for sitting and piteous weeping?

Becky sat down on a conveniently located rock and wept piteously. Stubs, who fancied himself the strong, silent type, was unsure how to handle the situation. What would John Wayne do? He'd probably slap the woman, who would then dry her tears and become the woman she was always meant to be. But Stubs was no John Wayne. He wasn't even Wayne's younger brother Herman, who was always getting slapped by women.

The Writer groaned. This rambling had nothing to do with the story. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to envision the chasm. Large, deep, dark, rocky...made of harmless rubber? No, too easy. Did he dare have Becky and Stubs wake up from a dream? He glanced over to where The Wife/Girlfriend was greasing the turret to her Abrams tank and decided against it. She hated it when The Writer used 'the dream.'

"It's lazy writing!" she always said. These words were usually followed by an energetic boxing of The Writer's ears. Yeah. The dream was out.

Stubs surveyed the scene with a gimlet eye. "I once signed up for a class on how to construct rope bridges using gravel and sunbeams," he said. "There's plenty of gravel here and the sun is just now coming over the mountains."

"So the problem is solved!" Overjoyed, Becky leaped from the rock and gave Stubs a hug.

"Well...not really solved, per se."

Becky paused in her celebratory fairy dance and looked pensive. "But you took a class."

"I signed up for a class. I'm ashamed to say that I found the class very confusing and I neglected the homework."

"You flunked a class on sunbeams? How could you!"

Her tone put Stubs on the defensive and he crossed his arms truculently. "How was I to know my future would require me to capture sunbeams? That's the kind of thing fairies are supposed to do."

"Don't try blaming this on me," Becky said, her voice rising in anger. "If you hadn't been so lazy, we'd be across this stupid chasm by now and on our way."

"Oh, so this is all my fault, is it?" Stubs grabbed a handful of rocks and hurled them angrily into the dark abyss. "If I'm so stupid, why are you even wasting your time on me?"

Becky emitted a hard, angry laugh. "That's an excellent question. I felt sorry for you, that's why! If it weren't for me, you'd still be stumbling around in the swamp with your ass on fire."

"Oh, sure!" Stubs was shouting now. His face was red with fury and his beard was bristling.  "This is all about revenge to you, Becky. Getting back at the Fairy Syndicate. Speaking of which, why don't you set to work and perform some sort of fairy magic, here. Oh, wait, I forgot. You're not a real fairy because you don't have wings!"

The Writer gasped. How could Stubs have been so cruel?

"You'll regret that remark once the sun goes down," Becky replied coldly. "I hear it gets really dark in these mountains."

And now sweet little Becky? She of the gentle pink machine gun? The Writer flung his fingers back onto the keyboard, hoping to arrest the terrible momentum that had taken over the story.

From a granite ledge overlooking Becky and Stubs, Tony the Antagonist watched the awful scene, an equally awful sneer slithering across his face like a viper through a pool of ooze. "I have them right where I want them," he gloated, rubbing his slimy hands together. "Soon they'll part ways and be forced to abandon their stupid quest. Then I shall be able to go back to the Fairy Syndicate and collect my exorbitant wage."

Ah-ha! So Tony was working for the Syndicate. His job was to stop Stubs from finding the magic stick and taking it back to the Dirty Forest Man. The Writer patted himself on the shoulder and took the opportunity to forage for more granola. The trip to the kitchen took scarcely an hour and once he had returned to his laptop, he ripped open a packet of deep-fried granola and gobbled a few morsels. As the life-giving potion entered his body, The Writer sat back in his writer's chair with a sigh of deep contentment.

"Ah, granola...my soul's balm!"

"Hey, you!"

The Writer jumped and looked at the laptop screen, upon which more words had somehow appeared. "Stubs?"

"Yeah. How about getting back to business? The story's in something of a crisis, here."

"But I was balming my soul."

"Dang your soul! Start typing, fella, or I'll balm you with my giant hammer."

Becky collapsed back onto the convenient rock and buried her face in her hands. "What's happening to us? We have to stick together!"

After a moment, Stubs relented and, leaving his hammer behind, joined her by the rock. "You're right. I'm sorry for my uncouth and calloused remark. I don't care that you have no wings. You'd look silly with wings, actually. You're better off without them. Besides, if you'd been a normal, I mean, an ordinary fairy, I never would have met you."

"And I'm sorry I mentioned your ridiculous fear of the dark," said Becky. There was a moment of silence and then they both erupted in gales of laughter.

On the ledge, Tony gritted his tooth and crushed a piece of granite in his hands. Why, oh why, did the protagonists always have to prevail? Well, not this time. No retarded fairy or charred-ass dwarf was going to humiliate Tony the Antagonist. He climbed to the top of the ridge where sat a giant boulder. With the sounds of merry laughter still burning his ears, Tony began rocking the boulder back and forth, slowly loosening it from its purchase. The boulder teetered...

Below, Stubs and Becky had completely forgotten their squabble. "We still need a solution to the problem," Becky said. "What about your hammer? Does it do anything?"

Stubs thought. "Not really," he finally admitted. "I mean, it's nice as far as hammers go and if you need anything hammed, then it's great, but for crossing scary chasms, it's pretty useless."

"Well, that's it, then," Becky sighed. "We can't cross the chasm and by the time we walked around it, our quest would be in vain. The fairy warlord, Crapulent Fartwing, is due to arrive at the Fairy Syndicate's headquarters within a few days at the most. After that, they'll march on the Dirty Forest Man. It looks like we're finished."

As these seemingly prophetic words left Becky's mouth, the boulder trembled on the edge of the cliff, dislodging loose rocks and a few dozing hamsters. Because they were both too steeped in despair, neither Stubs nor Becky noticed the falling debris. The boulder of doom rolled slowly forward and seemed to pause a moment on the very lip of the ridge.

"Why, hello, there! Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh! You 'uns need a lift?"

They looked up and rubbed the misery from their eyes. Could it be? Rising from the chasm was a huge, brightly-colored hot air balloon, piloted by a jovial-looking man wearing a tuxedo and coonskin cap. He halted the basket of the balloon just even with the edge of the chasm.

"I say, I say! You 'uns need a lift?"

"Well, yes!" Stubs said. He and Becky exchanged glances, then traded back again, because they weren't the same size. "But...who are you?"

"Well, sonny, I wouldn't waste time askin' fool questions, 'cause there's a helluva boulder headed your way. Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh!"

"Boulder?"

Both Stubs and Becky glanced up and saw the boulder hurtling toward them. Just in time, they leaped aside as it crashed onto the smaller rock where they'd been sitting and crushed it into dust.

"Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh! That was a close 'un. Damn, you're both white as ghosts! And...do ya'll smell somethin' burnin'?"

Becky covered her nose with a handkerchief. "That's just my friend, here. He has difficulty dealing with moments of extreme crisis."

"Oh! A farter! Ahh-yuh-yuh-yuh! I used to be one o' them, 'til I had my bum sewed shut. Where you two headed?"

"At the moment, just crossing this abyss would suit us," said Becky, since Stubs was still too humiliated to join in the conversation. "Could you ferry us across?"

"Well, little lady, could be. But first you'll have to answer a coupla questions..."

Granola Prose VI; Properly Formatted Title Edition

The Writer leaned back in his black leather, professional-looking chair and cracked his knuckles at the screen. He did this out of the sense of satisfaction that inherently follows the defeat of a worthy adversary. He'd seen powerful lawyer types do this on TV before. The Writer felt powerful too, and cracked with gusto.

"Yes you are powerful, dear," his girlfriend said. "Powerful as all git-out. Handsome too," she giggled.

The Writer was very pleased with her for saying this, and vowed to fetch her something pretty or delicious the next time he ventured outside. This would not happen for a while yet, of course, because he was still working on his dwarf story.


"Oh, right. I have decided to..."

Sticky Jake, in all his double-breasted-plaid-turtleneck-with-corduroy-caped glory, stepped upon the tabletop to continue his statement from a more impressive vantage. He drew the air of ages into his lungs, hoisted an index finger atop the valiantly extended forearm of wisdom, and bellowed.

"Eat a SOCK!"

The throne room fairly echoed with silence.

Becky and Stubs stared at the Lord of the Nitwits, mouths open in pure dumbstruckery, as he stood upon the dining table with one foot in a bowl of potato salad.

The Lord's arm wilted. "Er, I mean..."

Becky buried her face in her hands. "This was a mistake," she muttered through her shame.

Stubs emitted a poot of optimism. "Not all is lost, Becky! I'm sure the Lord here will allow us to take some leftover swine wads with us, wrapped in aluminum foil. Our larder thus stocked, and a friendly basecamp established, we'll be well on our way!"

"Great. Now we can just go outside, throw a stick into the air, and head off in the direction it points to when it lands. We have no idea where to start looking."

"Yeah, but...swine wads?" Stubs said, an encouraging grin rustling through his beard.

Tiberius roused himself with a snort and as his eyes flickered open, he gave voice to his own splendid idea, formulated inside his very own head:

"Looks like you two oughta find y'selves a wizard!" he ejaculated. "I know they got magic sticks. It's a fact. Use 'em to turn rocks into porridge and whutnot."

"Excrement idea, Tiberius! Pay me many heeds, Belchy and Squids, for 'tis a journey of capitalized danger to the nearest wizard in these lands. First, you must gravitate your way through--"


"You should have one of the other characters tell Becky and Stubs how to find the wizard. That Nitwit guy's speech is a little tiresome," said the Wife.

The Writer hated it when someone presented a good argument for editing an idea or character he was particularly fond of. He threw a raisin at his wife when she turned her back, and reluctantly put her counsel into effect:


"I shall sermon my faithful guard and partition him to emasculate on the pearls of this journey, for I have become tiresome and wish to adjoin to my bumchamber for a refractive snortle."

The Lord of the Nitwits shouted for his guard. Tiberius the Chunky came on the run. Because he was already in the room at the time, he achieved this by running out and then back in again. This appeared to please the Lord.

"I reward you with a striped one!" he said, handing Tiberius a sock. "And the best of luck to you, dear questers! May your socks be not fouled with bog water, and your way fraught not with unintestinal misshapes!"

"May your Pogs sparkle as a beacon of freedom with the intensity of a thousand suns," said Stubs, bowing his way out.

"I'm taking these leftovers," said a stern-faced Becky, stuffing baseball-sized, foil-wrapped swine wads into her knapsack.

Tiberius led Becky and Stubs out of the palace and into the courtyard. He waved a hand at a range of mountains to the West.

"See them mountains? That's the Mysteriolith Range. I ain't rightly sure of the best route to git to 'em, but a great wizard lives on the top of that biggun thar," he said, indicating a formidable peak with one sausage finger.

"That's Merbert's Peak," said Becky. "That'll take us days to climb! Not to mention all the equipment we'll need. Carabiners, rope, crampons--"

"Eeew!" said Stubs, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"They're like cleats. Spiky soles to grip ice and stuff," explained Becky.


The Writer stopped to think for a second. If he made the mountain really hard to climb, he would either need to bend reality, or he would have to go into depth about the equipment his characters needed to climb it. This latter frightened him. If he got any of his facts wrong, he was sure to be bombarded with smuggery in the Indulge in stupidity section by mountaineering Internet mavens more than happy to remind him that he was an ignorant putz.

As a Writer, though, he was pretty comfortable with bending reality.

"You should take a liberty," grunted his wife, bent double under the weight of the bathtub she was lugging across the room.

"Good idea!" said the Writer, and rummaged happily in her purse.

"Wrong!" said the Wife, lobbing a crescent wrench at him. "I meant with your story. Put my mints back."

"Fine. I have my granola. You have your mints. As long as I know where we both stand."


"That's Merbert's Peak," said Becky. "Tallest mountain in the country. Wonderful."

Tiberius scratched his head and furrowed his brow. "Don't know the feller. You're right about it bein' a tall 'un, though. If I was y'all, I'd take the elevator," he said, bending reality.

"Thank you, Tiberius. We'll do just that," said Stubs, shaking hands with the corpulent guard and loosing a poot of gratitude. Tiberius stumped back into the castle, giggling quietly, and Stubs gauged the time of day by looking at the sky.

"Night has fallen," he said.

"I heard it," said Becky, and the two of them spent the night in the guest house.


"Won't that send the wrong message to impressionable readers?" opined the Wife. She was building a digital thermostat out of PlayStation 2 parts to control the water temperature in the shower. "I mean, the two of them, sleeping together in the guest house?"

The Writer coughed granola bits onto the rug. "You're right, pretty one! I cannot believe I let such a glaring moral faux pas slip past me!" The Writer patted his soul reassuringly. "Almost lost you there, little guy!"


"I heard it," said Becky, and the two of them spent the night in the guest house after first asking Tiberius if it would be okay.

When dawn came, sneaking over the horizon like some sort of golden, moth-frightening burglar, the questers donned their knapsacks and britches and glaves and clavicles and set out.

"Soooo," wheedled Stubs, "you haven't told me what humiliation drove you out of the Fairy Syndicate. I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm your dwarf."

Becky stopped in the path and sighed heavily. Stubs kept walking until he was brought up short by a tree. He landed on his back, noticed that Becky was no longer beside him, and scooted, still on his back, over to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking remorseful. "The wind'll blow it away in short order and--"

"Have you noticed anything...strange about me, Stubs?" she asked, her face, sad, pointed skyward.

"You're not impressed by a pristine collection of Pogs?"

"No. Something missing. Something that should be there, but is not. Two somethings, actually. It's why when you met me, I was on foot. It's why I am still on foot."

Stubs got to his feet and looked down at Becky's. She had two small, pretty fairy feet encased in what looked like silver ballet slippers. He frowned thoughtfully.

"Rocket boots?"

"Wings! I'm a fairy, and I don't have wing one!" Becky screamed. She ripped off her cloak, exposing a pair of shoulder blades on an otherwise bare back. "Can you imagine the shame my parents felt, knowing their only daughter was a wingless freak?"

Tenderness welled up in Stubs' gassy little heart as he stared at Becky's back. Empathy hissed out of him as his face softened.

"I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I'm afraid of the dark."

Becky re-fastened her cloak. "I don't know what that has to do with me," she sniffed.

"I'm a dwarf. Dwarfs work and live in mines. In tunnels underground. It's, uh...dark underground."

"Oh."

The two of them looked into each other's eyes and bonded.

"I think we should shake hands," said Stubs.

"I think you should fall down and die!" said an evil voice from the shrubbery. Stubs knew that voice.

"Tony..!"

"Indeed!" said Tony, stepping out. He was carrying a rusty crowbar and was wearing a catcher's mask. "I'm ready for you this time, dwarf!" he sneered. "It's been far too many paragraphs since you were last hassled!"

Tony raised his crowbar and advanced. Then, he noticed Becky.

"Oh, shit! A fairy!" he squealed, using the first real cuss-word on the Blog because he was that evil. He fled into the deep green fastnesses of the forest whence he came.


"Honey! Tony just ruined the PG rating we had going here!" said a panicked Writer.

"That bastard," replied his wife, her calm voice muffled by her welder's mask.

"I thought you'd be more broken up about that."

"I'm sorry, dear, but I'm in the middle of something kinda delicate. Once I get the uranium and graphite rods in place and start the reactor, I can pay more attention."

"Oooh! Gonna save us some money on the ol' electric bill this summer, huh?"

"Yessir!" she said, her face suddenly lost from view behind a shower of sparks. "My own design."


"Must be scared of fairies," muttered Stubs.

"We'll see him again. He is the antagonist, after all, and he can't be vanquished already," Becky said, shrugging.

"Who would we battle?" agreed Stubs.

"Who would provide the necessary friction to slow us in our quest and add that spice of adventure all the great stories have?"

"Who would we throw swine wads at?"


"Of course!" said the Writer.


"So, now that we have established Tony's relative role in this story, how are we going to get across this giant, bridgeless chasm?" said Becky, gazing down into the abyss, where light was swallowed alive and no echo found its way back out...

Granola Prose V

Before we begin, let me direct the attention of all newcomers to a new sidebar. In an effort to make following the Granola Prose tale a bit easier, I've included a mini-directory, where you will find this and all other Granola posts listed and linked in chronological order. And now, on with the show...

The Writer grimaced. Here it came, the long section of exposition that inevitably showed up in his work. Might as well get it over with. His fingers were poised above the keyboard, ready to begin the dirty deed, when a thought entered his head and began galloping about.

"Why do I keep ending sentences with prepositions?"

Another thought answered, "Who cares? As long as the writing itself sounds decent, a lot of those old rules are kaput anyway. Follow your instinct, son."

This led to yet another, more intriguing thought. "Wait a gol-darn minute..."

[munch, munch]

"I'm sorry, lord," Stubs said. "But to reveal everything about my quest, not to mention my story (which happens to be lengthy), would not only bore the reader, but endanger my mission. How do I know you can be trusted?"

Becky and Tiberius gasped and backed up a step. The Nitwit lord lunged to his feet and teetered for a moment before regaining his balance.

"I cannot bequeath thou spaketh thus to me!" he gasped. "I am Sticky Jake, Lord of the Nitwits, a personable of grunt distraction, and I shan't be spaken to in such a *wheeze* fragrant murmur. Forthby and therewith." He sat down quickly and continued gasping for a minute or two. He motioned to a nearby servant, who brought him a particularly succulent sock with which to refresh himself.

Stubs, who had been startled by the outburst, tried to ignore Becky's gagging and Tiberius' giggling. He gathered his courage and stepped forward.

"I know you find this a serious offense, your lordship, but your title lends one to suspicion. After all, are you called Lord of the Nitwits because you are the wisest among them or simply the greatest Nitwit of all?"

Sticky Jake paused mid-chew, the toe end of the sock hanging horribly from a corner of his mouth. After a moment he finished the sock and then said in a Southern drawl, "That be a damn fine question, boy. And I'll answer it soon as ya tell me why I'm sudd'ly talkin' like a Texas cowpoke."

That was an easy one and Stubs answered without hesitation. "Because The Writer's a moron and has no sense of characterization."

What? The Writer sat back in his special writing chair and reread that last line. His own characters were beginning to mutiny! He'd always read it was a good thing when the characters began taking over a story, but now that it seemed to be happening, he was finding it rather scary. He poked his head out the window and called down to his wife/girlfriend.

"Honey? One of my main characters just called me a moron."

"Readers will probably identify with him. That's a good sign, dear."

The Writer wasn't sure if this was a compliment, but decided not to press her on the issue. After all, she looked really busy stirring that cement for the new driveway. He turned back to his laptop and the small morsels of granola debris scattered about the desk. Scooping together a little pile, he used his cupped hands to funnel the granola into his mouth.

[munch, munch]

"Okay, fine," said Stubs. "I've always been a sucker for Southern accents. I've been sent by the Dirty Forest Man to find a magic stick that he plans to use against the Fairy Syndicate. Without the stick, he can't hope to prevail. Time is also of the essence. Word has it that the Fairy Syndicate is awaiting the imminent arrival of their warlord, Crapulent Fartwing. After that they plan to march upon the Dirty Forest Man and, if he is not in possession of the magic stick, wipe him out."

Ah-ha! The Writer chortled aloud and pounded his clavicle in glee. Not only a quest (basic plot), but also necessity and a deadline, the main ingredients of suspense! Now if he could just give Stubs a reason for continuing the quest...

"Waaaait a minute," Becky interrupted. "I thought you told me you knew nothing about the mission. That the DFM simply set your pants on fire and scuttled you into the swamp."

Stubs acted coy. "I didn't know you then. I saw you were a fairy and was afraid you might take their side."

Sticky Jake was looking skeptical. "The Filthy Frabjous Mule infers to decorate brittle against the Furry Scintillate?"

Even Stubs couldn't figure this one out, so he turned to Becky for help.

"He doubts your word that the Dirty Forest Man intends to declare battle against the Fairy Syndicate."

"It's true!" Stubs insisted, turning back to Jake. "As soon as he gets his magic stick, it's curtains for the fairies."

"Curtails? The Dairy Furbished Minion warrants to constrict droops for the..."

"You're getting a little carried away with that character," said a voice over The Writer's shoulder.

The Writer hooted in panic and farted. "Don't sneak up on me like that," he admonished The Wife.

The Wife wrinkled her nose and began backing out of the room. "Don't worry, I won't. Perhaps granola isn't the best diet choice for you after all."

"Never mind that. What do you mean I'm getting carried away? Sticky Jake is hilarious!"

"In small doses, yes. But you're making the reader work too hard to figure out what he's saying. I think you should tone it down a bit. Give the reader a taste, not a steady diet."

"And what makes you such an expert? All you can do is fix sinks, pour concrete, weld, install heating and cooling systems, wire houses, and build Corvettes from scratch. You seem to be forgetting who's the writer, here."

"Just thought I'd mention it." The Wife turned and walked serenely from the room. The Writer ground his teeth a little. He hated it when she was serene.

Finally understanding the gravity of the situation, the Lord of the Nitwits emitted a sigh and began wracking his wizened little brain for a solution to the problem.

And a problem it was. The dwarf's quest was clear enough: obtain the magic stick and return with it to the Dirty Forest Man. Sticky Jake knew of this magic stick and, although not aware of its exact location, possessed enough knowledge to point Stubs and Becky in the right direction. But the Nitwit lord was also indebted to both the Man and the Fairies for past favors. To aid one would most certainly incur the wrath of the other.

As he pondered, little plumes of smoke began wafting from his ears and a clearly audible grinding sound could be heard.

"I have made a decisive!" he announced after some minutes of deep deliberation.

Stubs and Becky snapped to attention, while the stout Tiberius raised an eyebrow, became exhausted, and fell immediately asleep.

"Yes, my lord?"

"I shall eat a sock!"

"But about the quest!"

"Oh, right. I have decided to...

The Zodiac

Disclaimer: To any readers out there who actually take astrology seriously, I apologize for mocking your belief that the sky dots or placemat monkeys are telling you what to do. It sounds like more of a neurosis than a strategy to me. Go lie down for a while.

Anyone who gets a newspaper or has eaten at a Chinese restaurant has probably seen a table of zodiac signs before. Personally, I like the Chinese Restaurant Zodiac the best. I looked for my birthdate on there, and I'm a boar. Or a pig, depending on where they had their placemat printed. I am chivalrous and noble and have common sense when it comes to mortgage rates. All the characteristics one generally associates with swine. One Web page I looked at also says that Boars do not "shimmer," which is kind of disappointing. I had plans to.

My favorite part about the placemat zodiacs is the compatibility list. Every sign has other signs that it does or does not get along with. I always get a kick out of reading "Beware the monkey" while I'm waiting for my curry chicken. I want that on a bumper sticker.

While the Placemat Zodiac is divided up by your year of birth, the FooDaddy Zodiak will be by month because it's easier that way. There are far fewer months than there are years, you know.

The FooDaddy Zodiak

January - Sincere Weasel

The Weasel is kindhearted and true, and would never steal any of your honey roasted peanuts because they are extremely scrupleful. Weasels enjoy long, totally harmless chats with other Weasels, and are generally well spoken of in society. Especially among other Weasels. Avoid the Swine and make fast friends (read: business relations) with the Finch and hire a Hamster for P.R.

February - Developmentally Disadvantaged Goat

Here's a sign that everyone can love! Goats make wonderful after-school specials, and feature heavily as pivotal and kind-hearted savants in Stephen King stories. Turn that frown upside down and have a handful of Skittles! It's time for a parade! Beware the Weasel and Finch, because they can't see just how special you are. You will make sparkly paper hats with the Pony.

March - Shimmering Swine

All Swines are chrome-plated and awesome. They shimmer and dazzle all they want. All Swines are sarcastic in an endearing, sweaty sort of way, and would make wonderful grandparents if equipped with canes. A Swine will generally not come right out and criticize your stupid values or moron choices, but they will drop infuriating, needling hints. Swines should MapQuest a route the hell away from the Pony and Sloth and visit a Squirrel instead.

April - Crenelated War Badger

Badgers are extremely aggressive and protective of those they love, and would like nothing more than to punch the rest of the Zodiak in the ear. But only if they annoy the Badger enough to make the Badger yell. For while all Badgers would love to pass a law legalizing road rage, they are mostly fair. The Badger would make damn sure nobody picked on the Goat and will roundhouse kick any sign that tries.

May - Giggling Pony

Tee hee! Like, Ponies are so awesome! They are the kindest and prettiest and bestest kissers! Ponies totally love writing poems in their journals about flowers and clouds, and reading Anne Geddes books, but are so totally deep too. Like, when a Pony watches a sad movie, that Pony is not afraid to cry. Ponies should never develop crushes on the Smurf, but they do. Ponies say they want a Swine because they really value a sense of humor, but they don't.

June - Addlepated Platypus

Platypuses never seem to know exactly who they're trying to fool. They have personalities composed of bits of other peoples' that they are merely leasing. They can be extremely agreeable conversationalists, because they're extremely agreeable. Tell a Platypus anything, no matter how preposterous, and they will readily agree. A Platypus should make friends with the Smurf because this Zodiak heard that it was a good idea, but please don't lease from a Sloth.

July - Exploding Firetailed Patriot Finch

Finches love their country, and anyone who doesn't can just go the heck right back to Frenchylvania, or wherever. The Finch can't prounounce the name of yer crazy foreign country, so y'all should make up a new one in God's own English. If anyone questions the Finch's patriotism, that person is probably a terrorist, and is liable to catch an ass-whuppin'. Buy a big ol' flag for your Hummer H2, take advantage of the Badger if you deem it in the national interest, marry a Pony and have fifteen children.

August - The Smurf

Smurfs don't really exist. They are the perfect friend and they are the worst enemy. Smurfs tell lies about lazy co-workers to those co-workers' bosses and elect incompetent politicians. On the other hand, Smurfs are personally responsible for leaving you a parking spot right in front of Bob Evans. Ninety-eight percent of dating relationships carried on via Instant Messenger are between a Smurf and a real person. Don't tell the Goat about a Smurf, because the Goat will be very disappointed.

September - Caffeinated Ground Squirrel

Squirrels are very outgoing, but cannot stay on topic for an entire sentence. When captured on high-speed film, fine analysis of the Squirrel can reveal actual deliberation, but--hey! Is that a peanut? Squirrels love peanuts! Circus! I went to one once, but it smelled like poop, and--whoa! Did you see that? That car had a thing on it. Should the Squirrel grow a beard, y'think? Squirrels should always attend pizza parties with the Pony or Swine, but might want to stop poking the Sloth.

October - Crepuscular Goth Sloth

All Sloths have more originality in their labret than you have in your whole body, and don't even pretend to like that band you like. The Sloth liked it first, and all you're doing is popularing it up. Don't look at the Sloth like you think you're better than the Sloth, because the Sloth doesn't give a crap what you think. The Sloth was born with only one crap to give, and it used it for choosing a brand of cigarette. You should befriend other Sloths, but only share your power crystals with the ones that are just as different as you.

November - The Carp

Nobody likes The Carp. You're just the kind of person nobody likes. No shame in that, but if you can't be bothered to bathe or to stop leaving your nose pickings right in the middle of the tablecloth, then the rest of the Zodiak is going to have to ask you to go home. You may find that shadowing a Badger keeps you out of trouble, and in your free time you should hang around the Pony because the Pony deserves it. The Sloth will find you interesting because you're differentish.

December - Snow Hamster

Hamsters are very sweet people. They will bake you cookies and they will help you eat them, and any cookies left over are stored in the Hamster's generous cheek pouches in case you want more later. You want to hug a Hamster. Seriously, you do. Look at 'em! Who wouldn't want to hug a Hamster? A Hamster is always the first person to give a handful of Skittles to a Goat or Carp, and are pretty much the only ones with a calming effect on Finches. Hamsters make good friends with everybody but the Sloth, because being nice isn't part of Sloth programming and it gives them headaches.


There you go, time-wasters! I hope this little guide enables you to get more out of your lives, now that you know exactly what to expect and whose names to keep in your cell phone. Get this Zodiak tattooed on your forearms, and life will be thwarted by default every time it tries throwing you a curveball.

Disclaimer: If you were born under a sign that does not, in any way, describe you, keep in mind that the FooDaddy Zodiak is no more binding than any other. Go lie down for a while.

More Freakin' Baseball

There has been much talk on the Blog lately about the grand ol’ sport of baseball. I realize there are many people in America who love this game, possibly because it is so sedentary that it is not necessary for them to move during the course of it. And that’s just the players. The viewers of the game are absolutely motionless. In fact, there have been several confirmed instances of baseball fans being carted away for display as department store dummies and all the statues of Indians you used to see placed in front of cigar stores were actually dedicated baseball fans who mummified while waiting for the final inning. But, apart from these vague slurs and aspersions, I decided it would be wise (and extraordinarily funny) to write a post that truly exhibits the insanity of certain sports. Because baseball has been the chosen topic here, I’ll start with it.

Baseball
(For a short history of this sport, please read this early Blog post.)

Why this love for baseball? First off, I don’t know. But, since a lack of knowledge has never stopped me from offering an opinion, I’ll tell you anyway. Baseball is popular because it gives guys an excuse to spit and swear in the outfield. Seriously! Well, that and become insanely wealthy.

Baseball is structured in nine segments called innings. Why these segments are called “innings” is not known. The game is essentially played outside. And, to proceed to succeeding innings, there has to be a specified number of outs, usually three, unless you are playing against a really stupid team and then you can usually get away with one.

The game is played with a small, white sphere, called a baseball for obvious reasons, which is approximately one inch in diameter (one litre for you metric types). In spite of its innocent appearance, this ball is obviously an instrument of evil or simply talks with a lisp, because it receives no end of punishment. Men with hats and chewing tobacco throw it at 100 miles per hour (100 hectares for those farther to the north), beat it with large wooden clubs, smother it in scary leather gloves, and sometimes throw it at the ground when it does something they disapprove of, like dodging out of the way when a player attempts to shove it into the scary leather glove. Personally, I’m on the ball’s side, here. If a large man wearing, as The Girlfriend put it, tight-fitting pants with knee-high socks worn over them, lunged toward me with a leather bag-like object several times my size and attempted to stuff me inside, I have to say I would exercise great agility in fleeing his grasp.

Then we have what is called a pitcher. This is a man who stands on a little hill of very unsanitary dirt called a pitcher’s mound. Why is this called a “pitcher’s” mound? If it is indeed his mound, why cannot he take it home with him after the game? He could let it eat dinner with him and introduce it to his mom: “Mom, Mound. Mound, Mom.”

But I think the pitcher is misnamed anyway. I mean, if I was standing in the kitchen (unlikely, but let’s suppose) and my wife said, “Hey, pitch me that large spoon,” I would not think she meant I should attempt to impale her with the spoon by using it as a missile and hurtling it at her at 100 mph. No, I would assume she meant I should toss it to her using a gentle arcing motion. Not in baseball. There, pitching means Attack of the Death Sphere. It would be much safer for the batter if the pitcher simply hauled out a double-barreled shotgun and pulled both triggers simultaneously. Hey, if it works for certain high-level government officials, then I think a major-league sports player could pull it off.

Each team also has a coach. I don’t watch a lot of baseball, but one thing I did notice was that the coach would every now and then walk briskly onto the field in order to talk to the pitcher, who cleverly covered his mouth with a scary leather glove while speaking. Actually, the fact of the matter is that the coach does not go to talk to the pitcher. He gets up and moves around because he has to go to the bathroom, but doesn’t want to miss any of the game. Ha! A league secret is out. Look for my tell-all book, which will be appearing in bookstores everywhere, at least until the store management notices that I have replaced the latest Grisham thriller display with copies of “My Secret Life As An Undercover and Very Inconspicuous Wad of Tootie-Frootie Chewing Gum.”

Well, shucks, look at the time. I meant to give a quick rundown of each major sport, but baseball turned out to be so silly that I carried away. The others will just have to wait. Stay tuned, ladies and gents, we still have to get to lacrosse! And bloody knuckles!

A Short History of Baseball

Well, the season is on us once again. It’s a magical time: the crack of the bat (although why you’d want to sit around listening to a wise-cracking, nocturnal insectivore I don’t know), the smell of the turf, the loud belching of the drunk behind you…ah! Yes, fans, it is baseball season!

I hate baseball. It is unquestionably the lamest game ever invented, with the possible exception of lacrosse. However, I understand there are many people who enjoy it and for that reason I will say, “Get a life!” No, seriously, I’m just joshin’ you. I’ll take it all back if you’ll put down the Louisville Slugger. Okay?

Now that we have that settled, I will say what I actually meant to say in the first place. Ahem. Because I understand there are many people who enjoy this sport, I have decided to devote a space on this Blog to explaining the history of baseball. I’ve done extensive research on this subject and have come to the conclusion that it would have been a much better use of my time to construct a scale model of the Arc de Triomphe out of pinecones. However, since I’ve already done the research, I might as well pass my findings along to you.

A Short History of Baseball

Once there were twin brothers, Ralph and Ernie Base. The Base brothers were ambitious and, because they knew that Mom and Pop were pulling for them, wanted to become a success so their parents would be proud.

“Not a chance,” their parents said.

Undeterred, Ralph and Ernie decided to become inventors. Their first contraption, invented in 1849, was a water-purifier that worked wonderfully well. Immediately, they crated it up and took the machine to California, where the Gold Rush was in full swing. Once there, they began putting their invention to work, removing all that pesky gold from the streams so the water would once again be safe to drink.

Strangely, the Base brothers soon found themselves in a home for the criminally insane. Since there was nothing to do except drool and play with straws, the brothers became increasingly bored.

One day, Ralph sat at breakfast, staring at his orange and wondering how his life could have taken such a drastic turn for the worse.

“It’s because you’re stupid,” Ernie said, reading Ralph’s thoughts.

“Shut up,” Ralph thought.

“Okay,” Ernie said.

Irritated, Ralph threw the orange at his brother, who caught it expertly.

“You’re out!” Ernie yelled.

Ralph looked at him strangely. “What did you say?” he asked. “What do you mean, ‘You’re out?’”

Ernie looked confused. “I’m not sure what came over me,” he said. “It just sort of pooped out.”

“Popped out,” Ralph corrected, rolling his eyes.

“Eh?”

“The correct expression is ‘popped’ out.” Ralph replaced his eyes, which had obediently rolled back to him. “Gimme back that orange.”

Ernie threw the fruit and Ralph caught it easily. A thrill passed through him, signifying that he had either made a great discovery or his bedpan needed changing. Either way, it was a lot more exciting than what had been taking place thus far.

“We’ve made a great discovery!” he announced.

Ernie glanced over at him. “Sweet!” he said and went back to playing with his drool.

“No, no! I’m serious!” Ralph sat up straight in bed and gazed at Ernie in wonder. “You threw a small, spherical object at me and I caught it! We’re geniuses!”

“Sweet!”

Over the next few days, the Base brothers busied themselves working out the details of their new game. At first, they were going to have five starting players, who would bounce the spherical object on the ground and then try to throw it into a round metal rim, which would be called a “basket.” But they soon realized how ridiculous this sounded and scrapped the idea.

“Maybe we are going crazy,” Ralph thought.

“Yeah,” Ernie agreed. “We’re bonkers.”

Gradually, their plans took shape and soon they had devised an entire game, complete with rules and everything. The hardest part was naming the game. Ernie insisted it be called “ernieball,” but Ralph felt that was dumb, preferring instead to call it “tennis.” Finally, they reached a compromise wherein they named the game “baseball.”

“I’m seein’ national pastime in our future,” Ralph said, always the optimist.

And that, my friends, is a short history of baseball. Perhaps this season will mean more to you die-hard fans now that you know how and where the game truly evolved: by two crazies in a nuthouse.