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Beaters and Bats

The poor redhead is not fond of puns, and tends to hit me when I commit one at her. So, like a moth to a flame, like Mulder to venomous swamp-beasts, I feel compelled to share the worst of my puns with her. (Though I'm still resisting sharing the milk snake one from the SoaP thread.) To make everything better, I tend to hand her one of the foam bats that are around the apartment before sharing.

...Yes. Our apartment has a number of sawed-off pool noodles, because they make life more interesting. Technically, one is the other half from my work cluebat, and the other three are foam Beater's bats for American Indoor Quidditch. (To be distinguished from Australian, where they use baseball bats.)

She has recently decreed that if I need to hand her the bat, I do not need to tell her the pun. This makes me pout.

I'm glad at least Darkside appreciates these things.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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