Shingles anyone? /A Funny old lady ...




Hi There,


I have been hiding myself away from all and sundry these past few days due to the fact that once again I have caught the dreaded lurgy ...... (well not quite but nearly) to be exact I am once again experiencing Shingles. This is the fourth time I've had the spots (not counting the first time when it was Chicken Pox - that's bad enough, but once again it's on my face) and to be honest I could see it far enough ! It is no longer funny... and I feel like c*ap . By the way, don't let anyone tell you that you can't catch Shingles from someone with Shingles ... You flippen well can - My late sister Dorien had it about twenty years ago, she passed it to me - I then passed it to her again and she then passed it back to me - aaarrrghhh !!!

I have been popping pills since Wednesday (Aciclovir) 5 times a day and it's driving me up the wall !!! This being housebound is driving me to distraction ..... So, if you hear of some ancient white haired old woman with a face like 'Spotty Muldoon' in Glasgow running about like a 'looney' you'll know who it is...

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Sorry to continue the subject of age but it's where my head is this week and I can't help it so please bear with me ! The last item in todays blog features an old lady who has plenty of comic timing ... Enjoy !





Wonderful lady with comic timing down pat ...


Cheers from the land of the Tartan, Love Kate xxx.

On Mike Maroth and Taking a Look at the Man in the Mirror

If you haven’t heard by now, ex-Tiger pitcher Mike Maroth has announced his retirement. Maroth is infamous, of course, for being the first pitcher to lose 20 or more games since 1980, when he did so with the awful 2003 Tigers team.

I spent time today thinking about writing something about Mike and how much I appreciated and liked the guy. (No matter what I could come up with, it wouldn’t be as good as Ian CasseIberry’s great piece on him for SB Nation Detroit. Please check it out.)

I thought about what a nice guy he always came off as to the press and fans. He was always there signing autographs and answering questions with a smile on his face. I thought about the awesome one-hitter he threw in 2004 against the stupid Yankees, one of the top-five favorite baseball games I’ve ever seen. And I thought about how much I appreciated him taking the ball every fifth day in ’03 with that woeful team behind him and how he had no fear in losing 20 games and becoming a joke to the ignorant fans and sportswriters that didn’t watch him every day. (Unlike Jeremy Bonderman, who the team shut down after his 19th loss, not wanting to damage his fragile, young mind. Never mind the fact that Bondo cannot likely count to 20.)

Yeah, I was going to write something nice about him, like I did Matt Anderson last week. But then it dawned on me. Mike Maroth wasn’t very good. Neither was Anderson. Neither were Timo Perez, Josh Anderson, Marcus Thames, Jason Smith, Justin Thompson, Paul Bako, and countless others I consider past favorites of mine. Hell, my favorite player of all time is Bobby Higginson. And he was average-to-terrible for much of his career.

Take a peek at Maroth’s career numbers. They’re horrible. Why do I have such fond memories of him and these other guys? And how can I sing their praises when I continue to, in nearly every post, poke fun at guys like Brandon Inge, Clete Thomas, Will Rhymes, Nate Robertson, and Don Kelly for being bad at baseball ? How can I continue to make fun of their supporters, too?

Look at my arguments for Mike. He was a great guy. Please, I dare you, find a nicer person in baseball than Mr. Brandon Inge. The guy can’t hit a curveball, but I’m pretty sure he’s qualified for sainthood at this point. Rhymes is, pardon the idiot sportswriter cliché, like a kid out there. You can see the excitement in his eyes and he plays the game and interacts with fans. Clete, Nate, and Kelly are all reportedly great guys and wonderful teammates, too.

Mike had his moments on the field. Over a long enough time, everyone has their moments on the diamond. Inge is a whiz in the field and hits the occasional big homer. Rhymes hit over .300 as a rookie. Clete was hitting 3rd for us at one point. (shudders) Nate got the name “bulldog” for a reason that I’m assuming didn’t involve peanut butter and his owner’s crotch. Kelly can play anywhere on the field and help out with the occasional knock.

Maroth was a gamer. Again, everyone else I tend to poke fun of on here can be described that way, too. These guys try their damndest and I continue to mock them. Why is this? Have I been wrong all this time? Damn.

Should I apologize to these players and the fans that idolize them and wear their jerseys?

Should I maybe quit being a wiseass for ten minutes and think about the sacrifices they’ve made to get this far in the game?

Maybe…just maybe, I should think back to the time when I would just support any guy that happened to be wearing a sweet “D” on their chest, like I did Maroth, Anderson, and the others. Just be a rah-rah fan and stop being this monster I’ve become since starting this blog that was based off a joke after a Nate-blowup.

Should I?

The answer is simple.

F-ck and no. Are you kidding me? I’m a fan. Fans do not follow simple logic. There are Tiger fans out there that ignored what an incredible player that Miguel Cabrera is and wanted him released/traded after his alcohol moment. There are people that gave up on Magglio Ordonez the second he started having problems at the plate in 2009. There are those that worship Brandon Inge and those that want to see him shot. Fans are fans, even the mutant trolls that post at mLive and the freep. From the loudmouth prick that won’t shut up behind you at the game to the single mom bringing her kids to their first ballgame, everyone is different and everyone has their favorites. They don’t need to make sense.

Me? I’m kind of a prick. I love the Detroit Tigers and I love to make fun of them, too. I make jokes about Brandon Inge being a dork and not being able to hit worth a damn. But when the little prick hits a homer or makes a run-saving, diving grab, there’s no one cheering louder than me. Does that make me a bad person or fan? Maybe. But f-ck it. I’m having fun. And that’s what baseball is all about.

So yeah, THANK YOU Mike Maroth. You deserved better in your career and I hope that you find happiness in your retirement. You were the poster boy for that horrific 2003 team and became a symbol of futility. That’s how most will remember you. But to me, you were a true badass that put the team ahead of yourself and always gave it your best, even if it wasn't very good. And as a fan, that is really all I can ask out of a any player. I’m proud that Mike Maroth was a Detroit Tiger.

As for Don Kelly, I still hope he falls into a tar pit. Worthless sh-t.

Armando's Goodbye is Cut Short By a Visitor

ARMANDO GALARRAGA: Wow. This all happen so fast. Can’t believe it over. I really like playing here…it was like family.
BRANDON INGE: Yeah, Mando. We hate to see you go. You were a swell teammate and, gosh, we’re all gonna miss you. I’m sure great things are ahead for you in Arizona.

GALARRAGA: Gracias, Brandon. You’re good man. I wish you luck this year.

INGE: Thanks, pal. Same to you. It’s not going to be the same without you around here.

GALARRAGA: I just hope I fit in with Ar-zona like I do here. I gonna miss you guys. And the Skipper. Who knows what it gonna be like down there?

/loud pounding on door

INGE: Who could that be?

/door flies open


KIRK GIBSON: You f-cking make me sick, you pussy.

INGE: Gibby! Hey!

GIBSON: Shut it, you little bitch. Gibby’s not here to see your pathetic ass. Isn’t there some 10 year old in the hospital with the f-cking gout or something you could be getting your picture taken with?

INGE: Actually, there’s this sweet boy named Billy that’s really sick…

GIBSON: Great. F-ck off. My business isn’t with you.

/put full can of Copenhagen in lip

INGE: Um, okay. Seeya, Mando. You too, Gibby.

GIBSON: Die. Anyway, how ya doin’, kid?

GALARRAGA: Well, I sad to leave Detroit, I guess. No offense.

GIBSON: Detroit. Ya know, I’ve spent my most of my life here. And yeah, they liked you cause you’re a nice kid. Ya know what nice kids get done in the big leagues?

GALARRAGA: No…

GIBSON: They get jack and sh-t done, that’s what. Gibby was a star in this town and they sh-t on him. Then I went to LA, won an MVP, and hit the biggest home run in baseball history and won a World Series. Gibby didn’t kiss no sick babies like your boyfriend that just left. And I sure as f-ck didn’t kiss the ass of an umpire that f-cked me out of the greatest moment of my life.

/spits on clean floor

GALARRAGA: Mr. Joyce make mistake. I couldn’t hold ill will toward him.

GIBSON: No, you should’ve held a shotgun to his f-cking head. You’ll learn, boy. With me in Arizona, I’m gonna turn you into a f-cking animal. You’ll see.

GALARRAGA: I guess so.

GIBSON: You guess so? Ya know, you look familiar. Did I ever tell you about the skank I saw Rozema hitting on back in this club we used to drink at in ’83? She was an ugly bitch. I tried to stop him, but Davey didn’t give a f-ck once he had a pint of whiskey in him. Anyway, Rozema won’t take no for an answer and sticks his hand down this beast’s pants. Out of nowhere, some even bigger broad hauls off and punches ‘ol Dave right in the f-cking mouth. Turns out they were lesbos and Rozey was too dumb to take a hint. Funniest sh-t I ever saw. Anyway, you look like one of those bitches. Are you?

GALARRAGA: What you talk about?

GIBSON: Are you a BITCH!

GALARRAGA: No, sir!

GIBSON: Then quit crying like one. F-ck this team. These aren’t MY Tigers anymore. The guys I played with in this town were tougher than a f-cking two dollar steak. You think Clete Thomas or Don Kelly would last ten seconds in a fight with Darrell Evans or Larry Herndon?

GALARRAGA: Who?

GIBSON: F-ck and no, they wouldn’t. Sparky Anderson would have skullf-cked and cut half of these f-cking losers. Jesus, you think Sparky woulda been letting some twat named “Casper” be making silly videos on the damn internet? No f-cking way. And my gawd, half these f-ckers don’t even speak English. No offense, Senor Crybaby.

/skins chipmunk with pocket knife

GALARRAGA: Okay.

GIBSON: You remind me of a tubby f-ck named Juan Berenguer. That wetback didn’t know the difference between pussy and piss until Gibby got a hold of him. Within two months, he was barred from every strip club in Detroit. Too many dancers needing abortions…ha. Anyway, point is, this city and team has gone soft. You’re with Gibby now and in Arizona, we’re gonna hunt down every f-cking team we play like they’re a twelve-point buck. We are MEN and will act like f-cking MEN! You hear me, son?

GALARRAGA: Yes, sir.

GIBSON: What did you say, boy? Like you have a pair!

GALARRAGA: YES, SIR!

GIBSON: Good. If some ump screws one of Gibby’s boys out of a perfect game, we’re gonna beat the sh-t outta him with a tire iron after the game. Then, we’re gonna knock his daughter up. Gibby protects his boys. And you’re one of Gibby’s boys now, son. Now get your sh-t and let’s get the f-ck out of here. You’re gonna love it in Arizona. You ever f-ck a rattlesnake, kid?

GALARRAGA: No.

GIBSON: Thank the baby Jesus for that. That’d be weird. But those sh-ts are good eatin’. Let Gibby show you the way, boy. It’s all gonna be fine.

/pisses in corner next to door marked “MEN”

GALARRAGA: Thank you, sir. I do my best.

GIBSON: F-ck your best. You’ll do Gibby’s best. Or I’ll kill you. C’mon, let’s go get some jerkey, some booze, and a hooker. You’re a Diamondback now.

GALARRAGA: You much different than Jim Leyland.

GIBSON: Jim Leyland is a sack of doe piss. I can’t sleep at night at what that f-ck’s done to this team. Put it out of your mind, kid. Gibby’s gonna change your life.

/belches alphabet

GALARRAGA: I like blonde hooker?

GIBSON: Haha…indeed, my boy. We all do.

An old soppy film / The LittleTrees that Would ...

Hi Folks,

I've just watched the last 45 minutes of a 'great' soppy and weepie film - it was on one of the Sky channels and it was only because the programme I had been watching ended that I noticed the film's name... 'An Affair to Remember' in the TV paper, Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr starred in it... It was one of these really romantic ones with violins playing and everything .

The ending looked as though it was going to be sad but right at the last 4 minutes Cary found Deborah's wheelchair and realised that she hadn't just ' let him down' by not being at the top of the Empire State Building where they had previously arranged to meet, she had been hit by a car while crossing the road to get to their meeting place .

Ohhhhh... it was so good even if it was just to see the last wee bit which I have loaded on here - Enjoy !





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This last bit came from the Inspirme Blog ... I hope you enjoy it .

The Little Trees that Would ...


Once there were three trees on a hill in the woods. They were discussing their hopes and dreams, the first tree said. "Someday I hope to be a treasure chest, I could be filled with gold, silver and precious gems. I could be decorated with intricate carving and everyone would see their beauty."

The second tree then said "Someday I will be a mighty ship. I will take kings and queens across the waters and sail to the corners of the world. Everyone will feel safe in me because of the strength of my hull".

Finally the third tree said, " I want to grow to be the tallest and straightest tree in the forest. People will see me on top of the hill and look up to my branches, and think of the heavens and God and how close to them I am reaching. I will be the greatest tree of all time and people will always remember me".

After a few years of praying that their dreams would come true, a group of woodsmen came upon the trees. When one came to the first tree he said. " This looks like a strong tree, I think I should be able to sell the wood to a carpenter".... and he began cutting it down. The tree was happy, because he knew that the carpenter would make him into a treasure chest.

At the second tree a woodsman said. " This looks like a strong tree, I should be able to sell it to the shipyard." The second tree was happy, because he knew he was on his way to becoming a mighty ship.

When the first tree arrived at the carpenters, he was made into a feed box for animals, he was then placed in a barn and filled with hay . This was not at all what he had prayed for. The second tree was cut and made into a small fishing boat. His dreams of being a mighty ship and carrying kings had come to an end. The third tree was cut into large pieces and left alone in the dark. The years went by, and the trees forgot about their dreams.

One day, a man and woman came to the barn. She gave birth and they placed the baby in the hay in the feed box that was made from the first tree. The man wished that he could have made a crib for the baby, but this manger would have to do. The tree could feel the importance of this event and knew that it held the greatest treasure of all time. Years later, a group of men got in the fishing boat made from the second tree. One of them was so tired he went to sleep.

While they were out on the water, a great storm arose and the tree didn't think it was strong enough to keep the men safe. The men woke the sleeping man and he stood and said "Peace" and the storm stopped. By this time, the tree knew that it had carried a very special King in its boat.

Finally, someone came and got the third tree. It was carried through the streets as the people mocked the man who was carrying it. When they came to a stop, the man was nailed to the tree and raised in the air to die at the top of a hill.. When Sunday came, the tree came to realise that it was strong enough to stand at the top of the hill and be as close to God as was possible, because the man had been crucified on it.

So, when things don't seem to be going you way, always know that there is a plan for you. Each of the trees got what they wanted, just not in the way they had imagined.

Powerpoint The Secrets of Getting Old - Slide 1



Cheers from the land of the Tartan, Love Kate xxx.

Funnies ...

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Did you know that dogs are the only beings on earth who love you more than they love themselves ...




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Do you know which human body part when stimulated increases in size by ten times?

The 6th grade science teacher, Mrs. Parks, asked her class, 'Which human body part increases to ten times its size when stimulated?'No one answered until little Mary stood up and said, 'You should not be asking sixth graders a question like that! I'm going to tell my parents, and they will go and tell the Principal, who will then fire you!'Mrs. Parks ignored her and asked the question again, 'Which body part increases to 10 times its size when stimulated?'

Little Mary's mouth fell open. Then she said to those around her, 'Boy, is she going to get in big trouble!' The teacher continued to ignore her and said to the class, 'Anybody?' Finally, Billy stood up, looked around nervously and said, 'The body part that increases 10 times its size when stimulated is the pupil of the eye.' Mrs. Parks said, 'Very good, Billy,’ then turned to Mary and continued. 'As for you, young lady, I have three things to say:

One, you have a dirty mind.
Two, you didn't read your homework.
And three, one day you are going to be very, VERY disappointed.'


Ticket Please ...

Three lawyers and three engineers are travelling by train to a conference. At the station, each of the three lawyers buys a ticket while the three engineers buy only one ticket. “How can the three of you travel on one ticket?” asks a lawyer.

“Watch and you’ll see,” answers an engineer Aboard the train the lawyers take their respective seats while all three engineers cram into the restroom and squeeze the door closed behind them. When the conductor comes around collecting tickets, he knocks on the restroom door and says, “Ticket, please.” The door opens a crack and a single arm emerges with a ticket in hand. The conductor takes it and moves on.

The lawyers are impressed with this clever idea. One the way home from the conference, they decide to copy the engineers’ technique. At the station, they buy a single ticket for their return trip. To their astonishment, the engineers don’t buy a ticket at all “How in the hell are you going to pull this off?” asks a lawyer.

“Watch and you’ll see,” answers an engineer. They board the train. The three lawyers cram into one restroom and the three engineers cram into the other restroom. Shortly after the train departs, one of the engineers leaves his restroom and knocks on the other restroom door. “Ticket, please!”



Cheers from the land of the Tartan, Love Kate xxx...

P.T. Barnum Would Be Proud of Seattle

Another sucker has been born.

Our Hero has been signed to a minor league deal by the Seattle Mariners and received an invite to Spring Training.  Checking early reaction from Mariner fans proves that they should stick to complaining about NFL officiating and throwing fish around, as they seem to know nothing about baseball.  Many are happy and think Nate can fill an immediate hole in the rotation.  We Tiger fans know that Nate's skills at this point are pretty much limited to wasting payroll and chewing bubble gum.

With Florida and Philadelphia last year, Robertson went a combined 6-8 with a 5.95 ERA, 1.549 WHIP, an ERA+ of 71, and 63 strikeouts in 101.1 innings.  It's amazing...if you're left-handed, people will keep giving you chances, no matter how terrible you are.

All joking aside, I wish the Patron Saint of DNR well.  He's a very nice man.  Just a very below average pitcher.  Say hi to Luke French for me, Nate.

Tiger Droppings: Yawn Edition

 Things more interesting than baseball’s offseason:

*Glenn Beck’s views on anything.
*The mating habits of the fruit fly.
*One of those shows on MTV where underage whores are pregnant.
*A Clippers/Grizzlies game.
*Did Brett Favre fart today?
*Anything with George Lopez.
*A preview of the Tiger season written by Jen Cosey of Old English D for i70.com. (Ha, I kid. It’s actually a good piece by Magglio’s mistress. Check it out.)

So, yeah. Not a whole lot going on. But I’ll do what I can here. Hey…at least I still have my beloved Chicago Bears to root on! (Until Sunday…)

Let’s get the jump out of the way.



-ArmanDOH!

So we signed him and then DFA’d him. Dick move or good move? Truth is, I don’t care. Armando sucks and isn’t any better than any schmuck we end up calling up from Toledo if we need a spot starter. Yeah, he had THE GAME. But other than that, he hasn’t done anything other than get shelled the past couple years.

And quit getting misty-eyed about it. Armando will be fine. This doesn’t hurt us, either.  We might even get something in a trade. One game does not give him a pass for life. In the past ten years, Bud Smith, Hideo Nomo, Kevin Millwood, and Anibal Sanchez threw no-hitters. Know what they did afterwards? Zip.

Thanks for making ESPN pay attention to the Tigers for once, Mando. Good luck in Pittsburgh or wherever.

-Emergency Catcher That Makes Max St. Pierre Look Like Mike Piazza

Monday, my girlfriend and I split up. Tuesday, I got some horrible news about a family member. Wednesday, I found all of my CDs stolen from my car and got news that a 17 year old kid that works for me has cancer. I managed to go all day today without anything traumatic happening…then I get home, head over to Bless You Boys, and see this.

F-ck you, Detroit. I’m *this* close to becoming a Blue Jays fan. Don Kelly should be doused in kerosene, set on fire, and thrown off a cliff. Let Raburn catch if Avila gets an ouchie when VMart’s DHing.

-Mark Your Calandars To Watch Third Stringers Play

Detroit will be featured six times on TV this Spring! That must be a recent record. I loved it as a kid as it seemed like George Kell and Al Kaline were on the tube covering a bunch of the games. Nowadays, not so much.

ESPN will have them March 3rd at 1pm against the Braves and on March 29th against, sigh, the Yankees. Fox Detroit will have games on March 16th against St. Louis, March 22nd vs the Mets, March 24th against Washington, and March 27th against Houston. Hate to admit it, but I kinda miss Rod and Mario. Don’t tell anyone.

-Facepalm

The Twins re-signed Jim Thome and Carl Pavano. F-ck. Luckily, they have jack and squat in the bullpen still.

-Always A Tiger Updates


Johnny Damon is still a free agent. Rumors have had the Yankees, Rays, Blue Jays and Angels connected to him. There seems to be plenty of interest in last year’s Tiger DH, but clubs are having trouble figuring out who is the bigger whore between Johnny’s agent, Scott Boras, and Johnny’s tramp wife. And with that, I will never make fun of Mrs. Damon again. I thank her and Johnny for their cooperation the past year.

DNR favorite Marcus Thames signed with the Dodgers. I seriously hoped that DD would somehow realize that Marcus offered the Tigers more off of the bench than any of his untalented Clete clones, but oh well. Kick ass in la la land, Marcus.

LA also signed former cheesecake calendar model Gabe Kapler to a minor league deal. I thought he retired ten years ago.

Village idiot Jeremy Bonderman is still looking for a job and has been in contact with Texas, St Louis, and the Yankees. If we end up re-signing him, and Don Kelly ends up catching him, my head will f-cking explode, I swear to Ra the Sun God.

Tim Byrdak is close to signing with the Mets. Tim was a bit wild, but a good lefty reliever. I hope he catches on again after being successful with the Astros.

-But, Plugs

Decent story here on Matt Anderson's return by Jerry Crasnick at espn.  Yes, the octopus was mentioned.  Everyone mentions it.  Dicks.

Ian Casselberry, as always, has a nice piece...this one on Armando's time in Detroit.  Again, I never really cared for the guy, I but I get why others did.  I just prefer players that don't suck.  And Josh Anderson.

JP of MCB covers the start of the Tigers Winter Caravan.  Being that I love in the Toledo area, I probably should have attended the thing yesterday.  But can you imagine Don Kelly and I in the same room?  Authorities would have to be called.  I kid...we've met before and Don's a great guy.  Just a terrible baseball player.

Good day, my friends.  Here's to hoping that my car doesn't blow up tomorrow.  It's been that kinda week.

Wolves

Benny came to the birthday party because his mom had volunteered him to help supervise the children. He must have felt out of place being the lone teenage boy amidst a flock of over-excited six-year-old girls, but we welcomed his presence. We saw him as a sort of prop that we could manipulate in our imaginary games - a living, breathing human that would submit to pretending to be whatever we wanted it to pretend to be. On that particular day, we wanted to play a game called "wolf pack" which we had invented after watching a documentary about the hunting tactics of wolves.

We swarmed Benny as he was preparing to pour himself a glass of apple juice.


As a 13-year-old boy, Benny probably did not relish the idea of wasting an entire day entertaining us. But he was a good-natured young man, and he had agreed to help keep us out of trouble, so he reluctantly asked us what we wanted to play.

Us:  "Wolf pack!" 

Benny: "How do you play 'wolf pack'?" 

Us: "We're the wolves and you're the deer. We close our eyes and count to twenty and you run away. Then we try to find you and catch you!"

Benny:  "Okay. Where do you want to play?" 

Us:  "In the forest!" 

Benny followed us outside and we led him deep into the vast expanse of backwoods wilderness that was to be our playing field.  We reached a small clearing and decided to start the game there.  We yelled at Benny, "Now run away!"  

And we began to count.  

Benny scurried off into the forest, calling out behind himself to help make the game easier for us.  He thought we would have trouble finding and catching him.  


What Benny did not know was that we were incredibly serious about the realistic aspects of "wolf pack."  In our wildly vivid imaginations, we were actually wolves and Benny was actually a deer. 


We found him almost immediately.   


Benny probably would have tried harder if he knew that losing the game involved so much biting.  But he did not expect that the game would be so true to life. I'm sure it was quite painful for him, but that was a necessary casualty for the game to feel convincing and fun.  

Benny fought bravely, but there were too many of us and he was handicapped by his reluctance to punch and kick a bunch of six-year-olds. We wrestled him to the ground and bit him repeatedly until we were satisfied that we had "killed" him.


At that point, Benny had two options: he could stand there and try to reason with us until we finished counting and mauled him again, or he could flee and try to find his way back to the safety of the house before we caught him. 

Benny chose fleeing.  

But it was starting to get dark and the woods were unfamiliar to Benny.  There were labyrinths of footprints, left behind from our previous forest adventures, providing a confusing web of false trails.  He desperately clawed his way through the underbrush in a random direction that he hoped was the right one, but he only had twenty seconds and things weren't looking good for him.  We finished counting and took off after him. 


Benny was faster than us, but we greatly outnumbered him and we were able to strategically "herd" him into a clearing where we surrounded him and went in for the kill.  


Benny had severely underestimated our hunting and maiming capabilities.  We were not like ordinary little girls who frittered away their time hosting tea parties and pretending to be princesses.  We had spent countless hours out in the forest, sharpening our hunting tactics on imaginary prey and we finally had an opportunity to put all of our practice to use on a real thing that would run away from us and struggle for survival.  Unfortunately for Benny, we had not yet developed the ability to empathize with the pain and suffering of other people, and his terrified fleeing was pretty much the most fun thing that had ever happened to us. 

Once again, we let him stand up after we were satisfied that we had bitten him enough times.  


It became clear to Benny that he was going to have to play the game over and over and over until he could find his way back to the house.  He had to make the most of the 20 seconds we gave him to flee and try to make as much progress as possible in between maulings.  

We were exhausted from all of the chasing, but we weren't ready to stop playing, so we began to rely much more heavily on stealth. We stalked Benny through the darkening woods, waiting for him to make himself vulnerable to attack.


The psychological torment of waiting to be attacked was almost worse than the attacks themselves.  We darted around in the shadows, snapping twigs and making strange growling noises.  We sounded like tiny chainsaws.  

We would have continued to torture Benny for hours, possibly even days, but our parents called us home for birthday cake.


We cared about cake more than we cared about Benny, so we abandoned him in the woods and ran back to the house. Benny heard us being called, but he couldn't see where we went from his hiding spot. He tried to follow our shrieking voices, but just ended up getting turned around.

At first, no one noticed that we had arrived back at the house without Benny, but the topic did eventually come up.

My mom: "Where's Benny?"

Us: "Outside." 

My mom: "Doesn't he want some cake?"

Us: "No." 

My mom: "He should at least come inside and get warm..." 

Us: "He's fine." 

We didn't actually know if Benny was okay, but we wanted cake and talking about Benny wasn't bringing us any closer to that goal. 

 Eventually, the adults went looking for him. They tromped into the woods with flashlights, yelling "BEEENNNNYYYYY! BENNNNYYYYYYYYY!" They were startled to hear loud crashing and branches snapping behind them, but it turned out to be Benny. He stumbled into the pool of light cast by the flashlight.


Benny's mom:  "Benny, what are you doing?" 

Benny: "Where are they?" 

My mom:  "The girls?  They came back an hour ago, are you still out here looking for them?" 

Benny: "No." 

Benny's Mom: ".... Well, you should really come up to the house, sweetie. It's cold out here."  

And so Benny got to come back to the house. When he walked through the door, we ran over to him and hugged his legs. "Bennybennybennybenny!" we shrieked. Bennybennybennybennybennybenny! We brought him a huge piece of cake on the most special plate we could find, and we watched him eat it to make sure he was enjoying it.


When he finally had to go home, we cried out after him, "Benny, are you coming back?  When are you coming back to play with us?"  Benny's mom remarked about how cute it was that we loved him so much, "isn't that just adorable, Benny? They really seem to like you!"  She assured us that Benny would come back to play with us soon.