Uriah Q. Muttonchop on Advancements & Breakthroughs in the Great Scientific Endeavor

      Dear Reader, those of you who rely upon this fine publication for news of Great Strides in the Scientific Endeavor have become accustomed in this space to find the byline of Dr. Phineas Fobswallow, Naturalist & Philosopher of Science. Due however to fiduciary constraints recently imposed upon The Picayune-Tattler, as well as certain unfortunate rumors concerning Dr. Fobswallow being bandied about by the so-called Fancy Gentlemen of this town's less reputable haunts, I will be adding the Technology Beat to my already groaning burden of journalistic duties for the foreseeable future.
      But what a month during which to be thrust into the hurly-burly of the scientific world! First, the Wonder Baked Goods Corporation astounded and delighted us all with the introduction of their ingenious Previously Sliced Bread Loaves, forever freeing the nation's womenfolk from the arduous and so often bloody task of slicing their family's Daily Bread. I predict that this development will be the benchmark against which all future great inventions are measured. Let me here add my personal and heartfelt "Huzzah!" to the laurels already heaped upon the brow of that truly Wonder-ful company.
      No sooner had the hubbub attending that remarkable breakthrough begun to wane when the boffins at the Apple Company announced, with their trademark blend of Hoopla and Foofaraw™, the introduction of their amazing new machine--The Fountain Pen, which for reasons still murky to this reporter, they have dubbed the iPen. Whatever its name, this ingenious device has forever eliminated the drudgery of repeatedly dipping one's quill in the inkpot by storing a continuous supply of ink in a reservoir intrinsic to the pen itself!
      How can I relate to you with mere words, dear Reader, the Technological Ecstacies to which I am transported by this device? Not only is the iPen a marvel of Utility and Engineering, but, as we have now come to expect from the folks at Apple, the iPen's form is so beauteous, so sensuous, so rife with Barely Suppressed Sensuality that even now as I use my new iPen to write these very words, I fair blush to think on it.
      It seems almost base to quibble about the pen's few shortcomings, but quibble I must, for the People's Edification is my Sacred Trust. I have already heard a rumor through Reliable Sources in the town, that Apple plans soon to introduce a new and improved version of the iPen with an even larger storage reservoir of ink, the iPen Two Ought. Thereby Apple rewards my loyalty by callously presenting me with Mr. Hobson's Choice: either I must lay out more of my precious spondoolicks to upgrade a pen from which the heady sheen of newness has barely faded, or I must suffer the indignity of having Davey the Copy Boy incessantly waggling his iPen Two Ought in a provocative and taunting manner every time he can contrive to catch my gaze.
      A second and even more vexing drawback is that the purchase of a new iPen further binds one into an exclusive contract with the American Telephone and Telegraph Company for the replenishment of one's ink supply. Even were it not obvious that such a monopoly will inevitably lead to an artificial inflation in the price of ink, I would still be trepidatious, for it has been this reporter's experience that that particular company would be hard pressed successfully to deliver a telegram free from errors of transcription, even so far as to its own corporate backside. And now that they have moved their Center for the Redress of Customer Grievances to their slaveholdings in the South Pacific, the simplest enquiry or complaint requires at least an eighteen-month overseas correspondence, usually in Pidgin. I do not relish the notion of trying to track down a missing shipment of ink with them: "Inky no come here, long time. Where inky now time, you tell?"
      But all these quibbles fade in the soft sensual glow that emanates from my beautiful new iPen. Once again Apple has pipped their competition at the post and come first to the market with a wondrous and elegant new product for the Betterment of Mankind. And a Little Birdy of Scientific Endeavour has already told this correspondent that Apple's next project is a new and improved sort of gramophone disc that will allow so much music to be recorded on a single platter, all of Herr Beethoven's Ninth Symphony could be transcribed on but five two-sided records. What a Brave New World that has such advancements in't!

More Things That Keep Me Up At Night

      If a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, shouldn't I be investing heavily in hand-birds?

      I am God's gift to women. If they don't like me in this color or the size is wrong, they're still gonna need a receipt to return me. Right?

      Did Marco Polo really invent echo-location at sea, or is that game just apocryphal?

      Is it possible to overdose on cottage cheese? Cause man, I ate about half a tub of that stuff right before I lay down, and now my toes are numb.

Before there were more things that keep me up at night, there were of course simply things that keep me up at night.

Uriah Q. Muttonchop, Humble Chronicler of the Affairs of the Celebrated

      Dear Reader, as the Entertainment Correspondent for this fine periodical, The Picayune-Tattler, it is my great pleasure and privilege to wind my meandering course throughout this fair land’s many theatres, writing salons, and town square gazebos, rubbing elbows with the most talented Thespians, Singers, Orators and Writers our vibrant young country has to offer. Some of the more generous of them will graciously stand a drink or two for an Impecunious Scribbler, while a few even of the richest insist on The Dutchman's Treat. You know who you are, Mr. Van D--.
      But with great opportunity comes the equally great burden—nay, sacred duty—of the would-be chronicler of this land’s rich tapestry of entertainment: penning the Obituaries of the Celebrated—those dolorous dispatches that remind us yes, even for kings He comes, though one may be the very King of Popular Music.
      It was but a month ago that I first informed you, dear reader, of the passing of the beloved and internationally renowned Negro entertainer, Mr. Michael Jackson. I will never forget the sense of awe and child-like wonder invoked in me the first time I saw Mr. Jackson’s minstrel show on stage—the elaborate sets, the dozens of ballet-artists, and of course, his signature flourish, the Moon Walk. How my mind boggled at the feat! “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” I heard myself ejaculate. “To all outward appearances, he seems to be walking in a perfectly straightforward manner. And yet, see how he nevertheless is progressing not forward as one would naturally expect, but widdershins! What a Strange and Wondrous place the Moon must be if indeed its denizens perambulate in such a manner!”
      Perhaps some of us tutted at the troubled man-child’s Foibles and Eccentricities—the single gauntlet, the tinted spectacles he wore even at night, the pederasty. And even Mr. Jackson’s staunchest supporters in the Negro community bemoan the ill-advised Whiteface Routine he had incorporated into his performances in recent years. Mr. Jackson himself was so taken with the look that on more than one occasion this humble correspondent espied him about town in full costume and whiteface, as if he were perpetually performing on stage, no matter whither he went. Yet who among us cannot whistle at least one of his Famous Ditties, and who of us who witnessed his Opulent Funeral was not moved when that great golden sarcophagus was lowered into the mouldy earth, followed by his beloved pet elephant Jumbo, still mournfully trumpeting a lament for its Fallen Master as the tomb's lid sealed them together 'til that other, Final Trumpet does blast?
      Now yet again I put pen to paper with Heavy Heart, for I have the onerous task of informing you that during the very same month two more of our beloved idols have shuffled off this Mortal Coil, never again in this world to thrill us with their prodigious gifts or their derring-do.
      I dab now at the tears in my eyes as I write of the death of beloved charlatan William Mays. What housewife’s heart did not thrill to the noise of his shrill tenor as he arrived on her street in his horse and buggy, hollering his wares? How he eased the daily drudgery of her Domestic Rounds with his improbably Miraculous Nostrums! And if his snake oil could not always remove the blood and vomit from Father’s going-out shirts as efficaciously as promised, what lonely homemaker would begrudge the odd fib or two, if only it were shouted to her by one so Manly in Form and so Lush of Beard? Farewell, sweet Billy, and may flights of angels bellow thee to thy rest.
      My final charge in this litany of woe, dear reader, is to report that Mr. Stephen McNair, who once bestrode the football gridiron like Colossus, was brutally gunned down by his mistress in a Love Nest in the city. The Wicked Vixen—who it should be noted was of Foreign Extraction—gave vent to all the fury of her sex when scorned, before turning the Hellish Engine of Destruction upon her own tender breast. Though tragic, perhaps Mr. McNair’s fate might serve as a Lesson for Gentlemen to steer clear of the doxies, or at the very least to make certain said ladies remain ignorant of the Art of Shooting, a discipline which this Sad Affair makes clear should remain the exclusive Province of Men.

Top Ten Imaginary Reasons for Hypothetical Palin Divorce*

      Over the weekend, a rumor spread quickly across the internet that Sarah and Todd Palin were on the verge of getting divorced. The rumor was started by the Alaska-based blog "The Immoral Minority," but has since been vehemently denied by both Sarah Palin's lawyer and her spokesperson, and few major news outlets have touched the story with anything less than a ten-foot pole. But the boring truth has never hindered The Broken Stove from makin' stuff up before, and we couldn't help wondering: if Sarah and Todd Palin were to get a divorce, what might be the top ten reasons for them going their separate ways?

10) Stress caused by the media's insistence on quoting Sarah's actual words, as opposed to that much better thing she thought of as soon as she got home.
9) Staying together would simply be "marriage as usual," something Sarah swore she'd never do.
8) Sarah doesn't want kids to be saddled with lame duck mother.
7) "Once you 'go McCain,' there's no goin' back to plain."
6) Gay marriages in the sinful states have eroded fabric of once-sacred institution to the point where straight Palin marriage never had a chance.
5) Todd & Sarah just can't keep it in or out of their pants, respectively.
4) Let's face it; Todd just not First Man material.
3) Sarah sick of Todd constantly bugging her for sex act he calls "Shoot Me from the Helicopter."
2) Sarah is not quitting the marriage, she's simply repositioning herself to serve the marriage in other arenas.
...and the number one hypothetical reason why the Palins would hypothetically get a divorce:
1) It would be the Mavericky thing to do!

*Not actionable. Really. Don't even try it.

Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Plays the Dozens

      Last week Harvard prof Henry Louis Gates, Jr. was arrested after breaking into his own home. The arresting officer's report indicates that when he told Gates he would speak to him outside, the famous scholar allegedly replied, "ya, I’ll speak with your mama outside." What happened when they both hit the street was the most vicious dozens beatdown that a Harvard professor of literary criticism has ever laid on a Cambridge police officer.

• "Yo mama's girth is so prodigious, I was compelled to compensate my limo driver with overtime remuneration because of the time required to navigate to her good side."
• "Yo mama's intelligence is so feeble, she mistook football's "quarterback" position w/ a refund of 25¢, when in fact it has nothing to do with currency at all."
• "Yo mama's so advanced in years, a screening of the motion picture 'Jurassic Park' evoked in her a keen nostalgia for the days of her youth."
• "Yo mama's girth is so prodigious that, presuming you reside in a building with multiple floors, the safety notification posted by the responsible authority in your building's elevator reads MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY: 12 Passengers or Yo Mama."
• "Yo mama's physical appearance is so repulsive, that John Merrick, better known by his sobriquet 'The Elephant Man', because the combination of terrible deformities inflicted upon his body by a congenital disorder gave him what some witnesses perceived to be an elephantine appearance...of course his name was not really John at all, but Joseph; due to an unfortunate error of recall made in the memoirs of his one-time physician and guardian Frederick Treves, the mistaken name 'John' was perpetuated, and then reinforced in the contemporary public's mind by the Oscar-winning film 'The Elephant Man,' a fictionalized account of Merrick's life directed by avant-garde filmmaker David Lynch, who used Treves's memoir as source material. But none of this is really pertinent to my central thesis, to wit: yo mama's so ugly, the Elephant Man paid to see her."
• "Yo mama's intelligence is so feeble, she raised you, a high-handed authoritarian who believes that his position as an officer of the law empowers him to punish disrespect with imprisonment, even when the disrespect has been earned, and comes at the hands of an innocent man who has been humiliated in his own very expensive home, and who has committed no crime other than being in the wrong skin at the wrong time."

Captain Ahab's Lost Twitter Log Sees Light of Day

      At long last, the lost Twitter log of famed whaler and monomaniac Captain Ahab is available for viewing, thanks to the fine folks at Yankee Pot Roast. From Hell's heart, he'll stab at thy funny bone.

Family Court Circus

Family Court artist Bill Keane is off this week, so Little Billy is filling in with his observations.

Trending Twitter Topics--Catnip for Comics

      If you've ever Twittered away your time online, you're probably familiar with the "Trending Topics" list on the right-hand side of your Twitter home page that identifies the words and phrases that are appearing most often on the social networking site. The trending topics list usually reflects the news of the hour, but it also serves as a sort of meme mine, and often facilitates--for better or worse--a certain brand of flashmob comedy writing. Tonight someone started the topic #coolbandsmadeuncool, which essentially involved changing famous band names to their near--but very disappointing--analogues. The Broken Stove is feeling pleased enough with its own contributions to reprint them here for your delectation.

#coolbandsmadeuncool

• The Snuggle Pistols
• Telegraphhead
• The Butthole Smurfers
• They Might Be Padres
• Dead Coolidges
• and my personal favorite, Public Enema

addenda

• Burkha-Clad Ladies
• RUN DMV
• Dr. Drédel [Yiddish mother voice] "Such a nice young man...AND a doctor!"[/Yiddish mother voice]

P.S. The musically-challenged among you should feel free to request a key to the original cool band names. But then I'll know either a) you're not cool, or b) I'm not as clever as I thought I was. Probably it's a).

RiffTrax Contest

      There's still time (if it's not yet 11:59PM Friday the 12th) to get in on this contest from the very funny folks at RiffTrax (they're some of the same people who brought you Mystery Science Theater 3000). The premise is simple:

THE CHALLENGE: Make an existing comedy into a drama, or vice-versa.
DETAILS: Pick an actual movie, from any era. Re-pitch it as a comedy if it’s considered a drama, OR if you’ve chosen a drama, re-pitch it as a comedy. Stick as closely as possible to the actual characters and plot of the real movie, but completely change the tone…. and do it in 150 words maximum.

It's just that easy.
      For the record, here are my entries--one is drama to comedy, and the other is the other.

Rick was fed up with the rat race, so he dropped out, bought the bar of his dreams, and started spending time with his feet in the sand and a drink in his hand. Life was great… (*sound of needle scratching across record*) until his ex walked in! With a hunky new boyfriend! Who’s on the lam from a bumbling band of Hitler’s hitmen! Two’s company, but three will make you laugh out loud in CASABLANCA!
Ingrid Bergman wants what only Humphrey Bogart can give her…a one-way ticket out of town. But Sydney Greenstreet--the funny fat man who split your sides in THE MALTESE FALCON--and Claude Rains–the kookiest collaborator since Benedict Arnold--have plans of their own.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, this one is the most full of laughs! Get the Dooley Wilson single, “As Time Goes By” on Warner Bros. Records.

Edwina’s a no-nonsense cop with a promising future; H.I. is the three-time loser and petty crook who has stolen her heart. But their newfound happiness together is shattered when they discover that her womb is a rocky place, where his seed can find no purchase. Yearning to build the family that nature has denied them, they make a desperate decision that will CHANGE THEIR LIVES FOREVER (cue pounding drums). Now they’re on the run--from the law, from a ruthless pair of escaped convicts, and from a dark and unrelenting agent of vengeance, a warthog from hell that may be of H.I.’s own creating. With the greatest chase sequence since THE FRENCH CONNECTION, Ed and H.I. are raising hell, raising the stakes, and RAISING ARIZONA. All they have is an empty gun, a box of Huggies, and each other.
(cut to Nic Cage) “Well, it ain’t Ozzie and Harriet.”

BTW, the prize is your pick of one of the movies from their catalogue of RiffTrax.

Bilbo Baggins at Group

      Hey, everyone. My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I’m a ring of power addict.
      Hi Bilbo!
      Yeah, hi. It’s been 5 months and ummm 12 days since I last wore a ring of power. My nephew and some friends staged an intervention and they took away my stash, so I had to go cold turkey. Frodo--that’s my nephew--he got religion or something and joined up with that Gandalf cult. They cornered me in my hole and went on and on for like, hours, about how if I kept wearing the ring that Satan, or Sauron--or whoever their major evil dude is--was gonna sweep all through the land with his armies of darkness and the whole world would fall into some kind of age of shadow or something.
      Whatever.
      I just knew that if I kept on wraithing it was gonna end bad. It got to where I was getting invisible like two, three times a day—as soon as I woke up I was reaching for the ring. The first few days without it were pretty rough. I tried wearing like ten mood rings at once, but they didn’t do jack, not even a buzz. By day three I was hiding behind bushes and just pretending I was invisible, which, hearing it out loud right now, sounds really pathetic. Every day’s a struggle, but I’m getting better.
      Bruce here says that I won’t really be well till I apologize to everyone for all the bad stuff I did to them when I was wraithing. So here goes. Umm, Lobelia…wow, this is hard…Lobelia, remember how you thought those immigrant elves down the hollow were using one of their weird enchantments so you never caught them stripping your fruit trees? Yeah, actually that was me who stole your fruit when I was invisible. Sorry. No, I never knew you went down to confront them about it. That must have been pretty awkward. Is that why they put that spell on your donkey? Man, I have never seen so much manure in my life…no, you’re right; it wasn’t funny. Did you ever find out how they got him in your kitchen? Sorry about that.
      What else? Oh right, Toby. Toby, pretty much every weekend I’d get hammered on Barleywine, then put on my ring, sneak into your place, and watch you and Violet rock the ol’ hobbit hole. That time that you thought the dog had gotten onto the bed but then you couldn’t find him? That was me. But man! Your family’s not called Proudhammer for nothing! Wow! Yeah, no, that was totally…I’m sorry, Tobe, I’m sorry. Bruce, let him go now; it’s OK. Sorry, man. It was the ring. I was powerless, you know?
      There’s a lot of other stuff…no, right Bruce. I’ll save some for next week. Anyway, thanks for listening, everybody. Hey man, that’s a sweet cloak brooch—does it have any kind of magi…no, no, of course not.
      Sorry. Sorry.

Things That Keep Me Up At Night

      I wonder if Murphy really wanted that Law named after him, or was that just one more damn thing that went wrong?

      If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, who the hell cares? It's a TREE. In a FOREST. Which means there are lots more of them. Get over it.

      Sometimes, my dog smells like Fritos. Which makes me wonder what the Fritos people might be hiding from us.

The Lost Twitter Log of Captain Ahab

UPDATE: Captain Ahab's Twitter Log will soon be run by the fine folks at Yankee Pot Roast. I'll update with a direct link as soon as they post it.
And here it is.

Great Moments in Film á la Xtranormal (Rocky, 1976)

      OK, Xtranormal.com owes me another 30 minutes of my life back. This time, in honor of risk-averse Hollywood, rather than create my own original idea I've simply rebooted a popular classic. This way, I don't have to do any original work to create goodwill in my audience; nostalgia will do it for me! If I just remember to include enough of the taglines and iconic images from the original, I'm guaranteed to at least break even at the box office. First up, the final scene of Sylvester Stallone's beloved chump-to-champ crowd-pleaser, Rocky.

Honoring Earth Day

      Hey fellow earthlings, today is Earth Day. You know, Mother Earth only gets this one special day every year, so how about honoring your one and only place to live by taking her out for a special dinner, or maybe picking up after yourself without being asked JUST THIS ONCE ALREADY?! Flowers are an entirely inappropriate gift for Earth Day, as they simply remind Mother Earth of her own mortality. Kind of like giving your mother a lovely bouquet of her own hair and nail clippings.
      And guys, don't get her lingerie; Mother Earth does not want lingerie for Earth Day. This is her special day, not yours.

A Darkly Animated Night of the Soul, or Siccing God on Santa

      OK, you know you have too much time on your hands when you spend about an hour and a half at (an admittedly very fun) website called Xtranormal.com creating an existential, text-based, minute-long "movie" about God and Santa. If you're a normal, busy, productive person, I beg you not to click the link. It's a total timesuck. Nevertheless, GretaPorter Productions proudly presents: "A Crisis of Faith: Santa vs. God."

Meeting Cute: A Story Which, to an Extent Surprising Even to Myself, Is True

      OK, this might be a bit late for Valentine's, but not long ago I was going through some old writing files when I came across this piece that I first wrote in a slightly different form back in the 90's. It was for some kind of essay contest about "First Love" sponsored by Random House (didn't win, but got Honorable Mention). If you hate stories about couples "meeting cute," you should avert your eyes at this point.

      There are people who don’t believe in love at first sight, who simply can’t credit the notion that such a life-altering experience can happen in the same time it takes to decide between paper or plastic. Many of these same people are fully capable of forming an instant dislike of someone—God knows I can—but somehow that leap in the opposite direction seems too farfetched. These people are idiots. Here’s how I know.
      The first time we ever spoke, she ran up to me frantically, grabbed the front of my shirt, and said, “Make it work! You've got to make it work!” There are, I suppose, some situations in which this could be viewed as a downright promising way to begin a relationship. The truth, however, was far from romantic. Like me she was an English Lit graduate student, only she was hopped up on Diet Pepsi and M&M’s, staring a major paper deadline in the face. As she clutched a fistful of my shirt in despair we stood in the computer writing lab, where I tutored semi-literate freshmen and baby-sat the bank of computers and printers that were available for the students' use.
      I followed her glare to where one of the printers gloated in malevolent silence, refusing to spit out the last five pages of her research paper. Her eyes cut to the clock on the wall. Five minutes until class. Five minutes to get those five pages. Her tone shifted, uncomfortably, from supplication to menace: “Make. It. WORK!”
      Fortunately for me and my shirt, the problem proved easy enough to fix; soon she was gathering up her paper and running out the door. On the way out, however, she shot me The Smile--a loquacious smile, I thought, bursting with meaning. “Sorry I was so rude,” the smile said; “Thank you,” it said; “My hero,” it said. And I still maintain that, as a sort of coda, the smile even added, “You're kinda cute.” My spirit instantly grew to a ridiculous height, and I fell in love.
      A Happy Ending, however, proved unlikely. We had a mutual acquaintance whom I literally chased down that day. “So-oo-o... has she got a boyfriend?” I asked nonchalantly, pretending that my every hope for a happy future did not hang on the answer.
      Oh yes. Long time. Very serious. Expected to marry.
      My spirit fell from its enormous height and made a nasty mess on the sidewalk.
      But all was not lost. She was back in the writing lab the very next day. And, as a “thank you/I’m sorry” present, she brought me a little bag of gumballs tied up with a red ribbon. Gumballs! The most romantic token of affection one can give short of an outright proposal. Better than diamonds. She had noticed me! I was no longer just an anonymous computer geek. Suddenly, I existed in her world as someone to whom you might give gumballs. My broken spirit leapt back up from its heap on the sidewalk and danced a little happy dance. I had a chance!
      So go right on denouncing love at first sight, you sad, lonely, dateless cynics out there, but know this: we celebrate our eighteenth wedding anniversary this week, and the printer on our home computer works just fine.

The "American Scientist" to be Removed from Endangered List

      Update: This story has been picked up by The Science Creative Quarterly. Click the above link many times to increase my apparent popularity in their eyes. After a couple of days on the front page, it'll move to the archives, here.

Yankees Sign Designated Apologizer to 5-Year Deal Worth $35 Million

      Addressing what was long perceived to be a hole in their lineup, the Yankees today signed designated apologizer Miguel Culpa to a 5-year, $35 million contract. Culpa, a left-handed power apologizer from Venezuela, comes off a year in the minors during which his apologies to the fans and the press had an acceptance rate of .870, the best in the league.
      Culpa is aware, however, that apologizing in the major leagues--especially to the notoriously unforgiving fans and press of New York--will be a lot different from his work in the minors. "I'm really going to have to step up my sincerity to a whole new level," said Culpa. "In the minors, mostly you apologize for guys yelling at the ump or showing up drunk for the game. But in the bigs, man, these guys really know how to piss fans off. And the Yankees, wow! But I'm ready for this challenge, and let me say right now that if I ever let the fans or my teammates down, I'm very, very sorry."
      Although Culpa's contract guarantees him $7 million a year, he's likely to make a good deal more than that with bonuses. Successfully apologizing for a player's extramarital affair reportedly will earn Culpa an extra $50K, smoothing over reports of domestic abuse is worth $100K, and if the Yankees fail to make the playoffs and Culpa is forced to apologize for the entire team, he's scheduled to make another $500K. Apologies for each loss to the Red Sox earn him $10K, but Coach Girardi has already assured Culpa that he doesn't expect him ever to have those accepted. "The guy's an ace," explained Girardi, "but he's not a miracle-worker."
      Player reaction to Culpa's signing was overwhelmingly positive, with the most effusive praise coming from 3rd baseman Alex Rodriguez, who has yet to pull off his own successful apology as a Yankee. "I only wish Miguel had been on board earlier for all that Madonna business," said Rodriguez, "and now all of this steroid stuff has hit the fan. I've never been able to figure out what the hell Yankees fans expect me to do or say. It's going to be great knowing that Miguel's got my back, so I can feel free just to go out there and fuck up."

Other Baseball Notes:
Citi Field Ball Park Set for Opening Day: New York Mets look forward to first pitch, first homer, first late-season collapse in beautiful new stadium.
Pitchers and Catchers Report to Spring Training: Spring training officially opens on Friday when pitchers and catchers report; on Tuesday the Pittsburgh Pirates are mathematically eliminated from playoff contention.

A Huddle in Which Coach Wade Phillips Could Have Used Christian Bale

      Umm, guys. Yeah, huddle up please. No, you too please T.O. I want everyone in on this. Yes, I am serious. Please join us.
      Well, I don't want to name any names, but as a group, gosh darn it we're just not playing very well out there. Now I know everyone's tired and these guys are pretty good, but I'm asking you fellas to all pull together as a team and do a more professional job out there.
      Again, I don't want to pick on anybody, but Flozell that third holding call really hurt us. Remember what we talked about? No, not the ice cream pizza thing. Today. After the first two holding calls. Yeah, you kinda promised me that it wouldn't happen again. I know, I know, he is very big and fast, but golly that was a crucial ten yards there and, if you'll recall, he sacked Tony anyway. Yes he did, Flozell, he hit Tony very, very hard.
      Well T.O., I don't really think you should be chuckling at Flozell right now; this hasn't exactly been your greatest game either. What I'm "referring to," T.O. is that last first down pass you dropped over the middle there. Yes, I realize that you weren't going to be able to score on that particular play, but holy cow we really can't afford to throw the little fish back at this point. I agree that the safety did have a certain unpleasant gleam in his eye as he noticed you crossing the middle of the field, but you would have had a first down before he got there, and well, you know, we kind of pay you a lot of money to do that sort of thing. Well then, let's just agree to disagree.
      Now I know we're down 44-3, but I feel like, if we all pull together and do our jobs out there, we can still save this thing. OK, I'm not gonna ask who threw that. You know who you are, and I'm sure the shame that you're feeling right now is worse than any punishment I could come up with. C'mon now guys! Cowboy pride! Go out there and win one for...for somebody that you may have cared deeply about once.
      *sigh*
      Yes, T.O., it can be you if you want.

a tip o' the helmet to kenmorefield.blogspot.com for the inspiration.

Less Than Good King Wenceslas

      Almost everyone has heard the popular Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas," which tells the heartwarming tale of the kindly Czech king who took alms to a poor peasant at yuletide and miraculously saved his trusty page from dying of exposure during their mission of mercy (it could be pointed out that the page would have been snugly sleeping in his warm bed if the king had not dragged him out into the snow in the first place, but that's as may be). The lyrics were set down by Englishman John Mason Neale in the 19th century, and are supposedly taken from an old Czech poem celebrating the deeds of the generous monarch.
      Few are aware, however, that Neale took many liberties with his source material in order to burnish the reputation of the less-than-saintly Wenceslas. The truth only recently came to light when an early, authoritative manuscript of the Czech poem was found behind one of the toilet tanks in the men's room of the Municipal Library of Prague. The newly-discovered document reveals that it was not the king's page who was in attendance with the king but his minstrel. The Broken Stove's resident experts in 14th Century Czech Lavatory Music are proud to present the first English translation of this important cultural discovery, complete with the original stage directions (see footnotes).

The first verse is exactly as Neale's familiar translation records it:

Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night, tho' the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel.

It's not until the second verse that Neale diverges from the original Czech, and his bowdlerizing becomes apparent. Having seen the peasant, the king calls on his minstrel:

Bring me wine and bring me flesh, bring me faggots hither,
Write a song of my largesse, play it on the zither,¹
Make me sound magnanimous, handsome and endow-éd,
If it does not gladden Us, you'll be dis-em-bowel-éd.²

Make my song have harmonies, pleasing to the senses,
Or I'll hoist your progeny, high on pointy fences³
All your children will be killed, while you watch in horror,
But their entrails won't be spilled,⁴ 'til I've had your daugh-augh-ter.⁵

Take⁶ these faggots and this wood, take them with my blessing,
These kittens are mickle good, try them with the dressing,
Someone fetch the minstrel's lass, while he is composing,
Drink my toast and raise your glass, "May the Queen keep doh-oh-zing."

¹(meat, wine & faggots are brought--the latter are gaily dressed, carrying wood; dancing, merriment)
²(dancing, merriment stop; long, uncomfortable pause; king finally laughs heartily; dancing, merriment resume--less gaily now)
³(dancing, merriment stop)
⁴(fermata on "spilled"; minstrel fawns pathetically)
⁵(minstrel flees back to castle, trying to remember where zither is kept)
⁶(king puts arm around peasant, who had made as if to wander off)