Four hours and seventeen minutes ago our F3 brothers brought forth upon this county park, a Saturday Q, conceived on an index card the previous night, and dedicated to the proposition that sweating ourselves down to a lower weight class is not just for high school wrestlers.
We became engaged in a great natural war, testing whether that Saturday pax, or any pax that goes to Area 51 by the back way can long endure. We were met on a great battle-field of that war. I have come to dedicate a portion of this backblast, as a final resting place for those who there gave their lower calves, and their miserable waspy stingers, that that pax might continue on to meet Jack Webb. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a larger sense, we can not kill all the wasps – we can not drink enough diphenhydramine – we can not send Abcess out there with a can of RAID like we did at the Space Ship. The brave men and wasps, and their stingers and calves who struggled there, have consecrated it, far beyond our poor power to add or detract. Google will little note, nor long direct internet traffic to what we say here, but Scoreboard will probably never forget the new words he heard yelled by Pele. It is for us the sore and sweaty, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought there have thus far so nobly advanced. From these honored wasps and calves we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion – that we here highly resolve that this pax, under Lilydipper, shall drink a bunch of Benadryl. And that Saturday Nap of the pax, by the pax, and for the pax, shall happen this afternoon.