A Thanksgiving Story
Four deer ran across the road as I was driving. Darted, in single file. I slowed to let them pass. It’s below freezing and hunters prowl the fields this time of year. The deer met a fence on the far side of the road. The first three deer, full-sized adults, sprang over the fence with ease. The much smaller fourth deer froze in mid stride when it realized it couldn’t make it over. It hopped left and right along the fence looking for a way to catch up as the others sprinted into the woods. Then I drove away.
Lesser-Known Musical Instruments of History
Based on a type of body bag developed during the Dark Ages that was used to carry plague victims, the musician lays in the sealed bag and uses a series of harmonious coughs, screams, and gurgles to play the instrument. Advanced flux-baggists…
The Original Ten Commandments
1. Thou shalt not eat rocks.
2. Thou shalt not eat small rocks, pebbles, sand, or chunks broken from boulders.
3. Thou shalt not eat your own flesh, even if, and especially it is separated from your body and or rotting.
4. Thou shalt not eat the hair or…
Yahoo Grades My 7 Yr Old Daughter’s Draft
Draft Grade: D
Ouch. Prove these ratings wrong by nominating yourself for the Toyota Hall of Fame.
Despite selecting in the top half of the first round (second overall), Jenny looks a little soft on paper. They’re projected to finish fourth in Civil War League with a record of 0-17-0 (78 points). Jenny addressed their need for signal callers immediately, using their first two selections to acquire QBs Brady Quinn (2nd overall) and Tim Tebow (6th). They ended up with the lowest-scoring set of RBs in the league, as they scooped up Owen Marecic, Corey McIntyre, Owen Schmitt, and Lousaka Polite for their rotation.
- Risk Lover: Jenny would play well in Vegas; they rolled the dice on 14 gambles in 17 picks.
- Mr. Irrelevant: The choice of Tyler Clutts with the 66th pick gave Jenny the worst pick of the last round in terms of projected points.
- Ending with a Whimper: Jenny didn’t end the night the way they might have liked, ending up with the fewest projected points in the league over the second half of the draft.
The Hall of Fame Ballots Are Here: A Zombie Story
(Images by Jeremy Scheuch)
“Stay inside. Honey, move away from the windows and be quiet. It’s here,” I said, running inside the house and locking the door behind me.
“What poppa? What is it?” My four-year old daughter, Susie, with nothing but love in her eyes, looked up at me, pulling at the fabric of my pants.
“I don’t want to scare you. But it’s time to be a big girl now.” I swallowed hard. “The Hall of Fame ballot was announced this week.”
“Shouldn’t that be a good thing? Isn’t the Hall of Fame for good players?” she asked. The air raid sirens had just gone off in town and the noise was deafening. I got down on a knee.
“Normally it is, sweetie. But not now. You see, there are still months to go before the award is even announced and every writer, blogger, and carbon based life-form with an opinion will be writing, tweeting, talking, and calling into the radio about it. And they’ll be really angry the whole time. They’re…they’re no longer human.” My wife walked in the room.
“Honey, what are you doing?” she asked, looking at heavy steel grate I was using to block the door.
“Jill, don’t panic, but the Hall of Fame ballots came out.” Fear filled her face. She grabbed Susie’s hand.
“Hurry, come with me,” she said, rushing Susie down the hall. “Let’s hide you in the bathtub, away from the windows and internet.” The wind howled in the distance.
A day later, I had finished my preparations. The windows were boarded, the doors were locked. With luck, we’d make it through. I fired up my phone, there must be some internet left. I opened my Google Reader and like that scene where Wayne Knight’s face fills the computer screen in Jurassic Park, everything was Hall of Fame related. Why Jeff Bagwell was a cheater, why Fred McGriff didn’t stop enough crime to earn the title Crime Dog, why Mike Piazza’s back acne predicted every major natural disaster. I was already too late, society had crumbled. I powered down. We’d have to go without the web for the winter. No gifs in this house.
Jill, who had been comforting Susie in the bathroom, reading her stories of simpler times when ballplayers were merely racists or tax evaders but not performance enhancing drug users, came up behind me, putting her arm on my shoulder.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, feigning courage, but she saw through my facade. She glared at me until I gave in. “I’m not sure we have enough food for the winter. We’re out of all of the essentials, including Hostess’ Baseball-shaped snack cakes and Justin Verlander’s Fastball Flakes. I need to get more.”
“You can’t. It’s too dangerous. I heard Fort Dixon fell to the Rafael Palmeirians. We’ll just have to ration our supplies.”
(Image by Andrew Kazmierski)