This is a truly awfuI, twisted tale of villains and heroes, powerful ale if used carefully, giant beasties and smaller hobbyts, but also renewal and redemption.
I will ascrybe to an ancient rytual, back to when the tyme gyant lyzyrds peered into second story wyndows of apartment byldings and no amount of walls could keep them out of such urban non-placated places, save this practice that annually, about this tyme of three-day holiday, would save humanity for another year. So in this spryng fertility ryte, go consume copious quantities of hunhy grhym cr’krz and jinjer biyr, deprived of its alcohol as worshippers need to be sober-headed about these things, while assumyng the position on the d’vine place facing away from the wyndow where the nectyr is offered, the luev sete, then go fulfill the sacred ryte to be exhuming to save your soul. Via the way and tutelage of the ultymate master, also known in the north village of these parts, Phi Zapppa Masta Krapppa, the ryngleader and his lordshyp, at the holy place, northern stall, of MNSudds center or revelry and worship. Like Stonehedge, these days availed to but a few, as it has closed for most.
— Big-time boater Dan’s based-on-the-time-around-Memorial Day prediction didn’t come true.
He told me twice during the series, the only two times I saw him, right on first greeting, that he wanted the Golden Knights to sweep the Aves in dubbed retribution for their drubbing of The Wild in six games. Well Tuesday was the-now-needed game five of the former configuration, even if starting late, so …
But there were two fans in blue shirts in downtown Hudson Tuesday night rooting … or should I say continuing rooting for Colorado. They were wearing two identical T-shirts saying, “I (heart) day drinking.” Since when did it become a thing to announce and admit that?!?
Mom would never do that. But she would be a fan for now the first time in what, 20 years, at a Milwaukee Brewer home game — she now has seen the inside of the now roofed stadium, to use her term — and soon found balls flying around her. As in twice within about three feet of her, foul as they were as they sat in the bleachers celebrating my nephew’s birthday, and that’s just in the first inning. What, my mother is the target of some nefarious force? But she got through it without injury or spilling mustard on her blouse, as the stadium planners sold 50,000 hot dogs at a special price of a dollar a dog in a special promotion and if I’m counting right that’s more than one per person. To top it off, a call was received that evening from the northern part of the state, Merrill if you’re keeping score but still Brewer fans, asking just where they happened to be seated to attract so many foul balls. Relatives speaking. —Â Â
The administration of the earlier ryte will continue later, this Sunday at the tolling of the bell on the holy day, since the early days, as much more preparation must still be done. That is the ceremonyal opening of and singing of the sacred scrolls by none other than gangsta Geof Luevyn with his bards in Lue Oystur Kilt, and the epityme being of the ebb of tyme, and the rendition with lengthy vibrayto by Jye Wyntyr of The Clysh and The Hyndryx, to unveil the opening of the fertility ryte, ayt Dyke’s. Rych R will provide the sygns, and an unnamed other the horns.
But all must be done correctly, or all hobbyts present will be cast into the soiled abbbysss that is the mouth of the tentaclyd pit where they will fall for days, as per Star Wars, the original I think, and then be slowly dygested over the course like a Tool of 10,000 Days (or years) and face a prolonged bloody death. So theyre is much at stake, so to speak, here. That perfectly attained rytual includes the prolonged, rytualistic, of course, chanting of, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
But now all has been well prepared at the altar of stupidity, and it is tyme for Memorial Day hyjynx, the ultymate fulfillment of the wholly, holey ryte, to be done at the home I am protecting for another day or night or year, in the unwholesome c’m’ode, squatting in much the same manner as I did when consumyng the copious quantities of cr’krs and biyr in the r’tchous position. Grunt and push and then with passage, the completion, which brings compasyion. And then cleansyng with lots of wyter.
Speaking of wyter, the lyzyrd slinks away back to the Synt Crux Ryver, as the fertilyzing effects of the rytual have been fulfilled, the flowyrs and grass that were havyng trouble in our time of clymate change with growing, evyn since the sprout of spring and May Day, have now overwhelmed and surpassed the second story wyndow.
There is nothing more than greenery for the lyzyrd to see, so it again slinks away, just before death, attainyng wyter for its own preservation so the fertility rytual out of this its necessity, and the greenery it provides, can go on for another annum.
Of course this fanciful story of a spring fertility ryte is, to say it, a load of crap, although I will make no comment about paganysm. But there are lessons aplenty to be learned. So I hope you enjoyed it.