Thursday, January 1, 2009

The Very Best of Mass Hysteria: Part IV

What ho and felicitations for the Annus Novus, my dear friends! It is I, Worthington P. Foxtrotty, reporting to you at the request of the proprietors of this interweb-site. Currently, I am spending the holidays at the Foxtrotty ancestral homestead, located on several acres adjacent to (and, thankfully, upwind from) the family business, Foxtrotty's Medicinal Unguents and Sardine Cannery, Pty. Ltd. While the holidays have been pleasant for me, they have required me to once again face my formidable paterfamilius, the inimiable Winchester Archimedes Diplodicus Foxtrotty himself. Father, you see, has never approved of my foray into the world of journal-papers and events of sport, although he has graciously refrained from formally disowning me to this point. "The money is in the piscine fields, son," he would say. "I do not see why you, a Foxtrotty, bother with the plebean guttersnipes who participate in this horrible 'bases-ball' that you follow like a common street cur seeking out butchers' scraps." Of course this is an approximation of his entreaties, since Father is an educated man and therefore speaks only in Classical Latin, but I believe it nonetheless captures the gist of his point. It is usually at this point that my beloved mater, Dorothea Quincy Locke-Smithfield Foxtrotty, intervenes on my behalf, insisting that if her Worthington vouches for such a man as the Freed Negro Ortiz, then he would be welcome at the Foxtrotty table for Christmas turkey should he so wish. The ensuing row usually lasts upwards of thirty minutes.

But I digress. The gentlepeople at The Mass of Hystera (or whatever it may be called; I care not as it is none of my concern) have asked me to prepare a summary of my favorite submissions over the course of the past year. I politely noted to them that I have not been in their employ for a full year, and therefore do not have a large catalogue of opii from which to choose. This logic fell upon deaf -- or, more probably, woefully uneducated -- ears. Ergo, here is a brief list of my preferred entries into the journals of bases-ball in the past demiyear:

(1) Spaniards!

(2) More Spaniards!

(3) Predictions as to the employment of certain freed-men!

I look forward to reporting to you on the many vicissitudes of the bases-ball in the forthcoming year, and wish you all the happiest of days!

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