osullivan

Something struck me ill as I betook the Bengali Tygers lost endeavors against the Norse Boatsmen of Parts Northward and Uninhabitable.

At first, I didn’t give utterance to my thoughts as I feared that they were only brought on by the mind-melting mystic qualities possesst by the enclosed structure of modern Norse manufacture. How do they secure the tepid airs when all is frigid outdoors? With such technology, it is no wonder we Tygers were found to be the lessers that day.

Soon, however, these lingering ruminations overtook all resistance when I was marshaled into the contest late for scrubsman’s scutwork duties. Menial work often frees the mind of the barriers of wayward thought.

I entrust these words to you, computing box, because I know that you will keep them in confidence. Such disclosure could find me at odds with those whom I am aligned on the field of footballing.

By my lights, Good Sir Palmer is to no longer be thought among the good.

Whereas, at the risk of dispensing vainglory, I have developed worldwide acclaim for the issuance of haymakers (one company has gone so far as to produce bundles of hay with my name brandisht upon it, so they may retail at giftly prices) Good Sir Palmer has long been in reliance of his brand of Pulverizers. It is a sound maneuver, one supposes, by not one that makes fright renderable in the opponent. Men of thought have long turned over in their head what makes men so weak in constitution – either that they are too mollycoddled by their mothers or not mollycoddled enough. Still, he is a man of stature in Cincinnatus, whereas I, a Man of Irish Descent, am cast among the dogs and the Roy Williamses.

For many an annum, Good Sir Palmers faults were run over with gloss. He had yet to fully convalesce from an affliction of the leg, they claimt. His squadronmates were not of satisfactory skill, they brayt. Perhaps such arguments were true at the time, but now the team is in all respekts as stout as a haymaker, and there is no pepper in the Pulverizers.

There would be those Cincinnatans who would run down our Pollack offensive strategist before Good Sir Palmer. Indeed, he is a fool and is frequently unawares of how we mock him in his presence. One time, we replaced his favorite chapeau with a live skunk and he did not notice until he attended his daughter’s marriage four weeks hence. However, truth be told, not all can be laid at the fetid feet of the stupid Pollack. The errancy of the Pulverizers is not part of the design (as I am privy to the designs as well).

As any True Man of Irish Descent, turbulence of thought can be eased with drink. But only for so long. I fear insurrection.