Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Whatever rumors you may have heard, particularly those concerning my untimely demise on an electrified Whirlyball court, were all untrue, I swear on Jiminy Cricket’s eyes. You see, I prefer to die in the actual Whirlycar, surrounded by Whirlyscreams as I slump over the Whirlystick, my inert form fused to the Whirlystains of hundreds of Whirlyplayers from ages past.

I don’t hate it to the degree that I did, mostly because I beat the odds and, in one of the earliest Christmas miracles of the year, managed to score twice. What this means is the game has been upgraded to somewhere between mildly loathed and intensely disliked. We discussed last week the lack of physical exertion involved. My mistake. I had forgotten how the ol’ platelets always get a workout unlike any other, such is their preoccupation with trafficking blood back to its proper channels.

Minor cuts. Major bruises. Whiplash. Rage. Spasticat once forwarded me this picture. It’s a gibbet, a device used in the olden days to keep the executed–the hanged, the halved, the drawn, the quartered–together in the literal sense. Add some roller skates and you will have, by my estimation, the very vehicle in which Whirlyball is promulgated.