100417b

Smart phones came along just in time. Kids almost too old for road-trip games:

"A, my name is Alfred and I'm an armadillo assassin."

"Do you mean you're an armadillo who kills or a reaper of armadillos?"

Rock Paper Scissors

like 909 kg of bricks
like an arboriform recording its own demise
like a cutting remark
squashed like a bug

101616c

Pig Pong

Charley was on the verge of winning his 100^th game of pig pong. It was a grueling sport, but he had made it his own, by dint of countless hours of practice on his grandmother's pig farm. How he had sacrificed--foregoing the ice cream socials, Friday night dances, trips to the movie theatre, birthday parties, everything, all had been subsumed by his one goal. And it had all been worth it. Now, with pig pong declared the newest Olympic Sport, he was perfectly positioned for a gold medal next year at the Pyongyang games. All the name calling, clod throwing, glance casting scum bunnies from East Central High School would finally get their paybacks. But now, it was time to focus. Randi had just backhanded a big hairy sow low across the center of the net. Squealing, the pig bounced in the near-right quadrant and spun towards the outside corner. *Wack* ("Eeeeeeeeeee") Charley returned the hog, dropping it just on Randi's side of the net in his patented pigspin return. No point. It was his serve. He dropped the porker smartly for a good bounce and slammed it towards the white line just below Randi's navel. Yes, it took a big woman to play pig pong successfully, but Randi was no pig. There wasn't an ounce of fat on her 6'1" frame. She returned the swine to Charley's left corner. Return. Right corner. Return. Left corner. Return. He began to sweat. This was a long volley for pig pong. Usually either the table or the suid gave out by now. Good thing they weren't playing a boar. Right. Return. Left. Return. Right. Return. Sweat poured down Charley's face. Randi was indeed a worthy opponent. He might just ask her out after the game. Left. Return. Right. Return. Left. Return. Right corner--and away. No point. Randi's serve. And so the game wore on, neither combatant yielding. Finally, the score was 20:18, Randi's serve, game point. She slammed the oinker down on the table and fired it straight for the right corner. Charley lunged and whacked the pig on the ham. He lurched back to position just in time to see the curly tail disappear over the other end of the table. He had lost. LOST! She must have cheated. He would NEVER ask her out now.

"Good game," she said, grinning, "want to go for a root beer?"

The end

Publ. Daily Cabal, May 21, 2007