"Awesome!" shouted Jason Kubel
"Sweet!" exclaimed Michael Cuddyer
"SUPRACTION!" copyrighted Delmon Young.
"Hey," said Brian Bucher, he of the knee whacking blow against Brandon Webb, "why are we sitting around here. The other pitchers of the apocalypse are over on that beach, why don't we go take them out on their turf."
"Yeah!" cried Justin Morneau.
"Hell Yeah!" crowd Joe Mauer.
"Jiminy-jo-bob-jeeephus-Jamima!" gabbled Mike Lamb.
And so the might Twins' hitters ran forth from the Domey Dale towards the sandy shores of San Diablo (Yes...St. Devil...for these were the pitchers of the apocalypse, and not mere men who occasionally enjoyed the southern Californian sunshine).
That is to say, almost all the Twins' hitters ran forth. For poor little Brendan Harris, so young, so scared of the imposing Pitchers of the Apocalypse was cowering under an elm branch. Young Buscher of the knee whacking approached him and carefully asked. "What's wrong, Brendan?"
"Nothing...I mean we're winning and all, but..."
"I don't feel complete."
"Does that have anything to do with the hack photoshop job they did on you?"
"No, I mean, not really...you see, I don't have any schtick."
"It's a forest, there are plenty of..."
"No, not sticks, schtick, gags, something funny to say or do. Craig Monroe's obsessed with nuts, Mike Lamb's a crazy prospector, Delmon Young yells out copyrighted phrases. I'm just a guy who goes out and does his best."
"You know Brendan, there's no shame in being dependable."
"Of course not, you're what they call a foil."
"Like an ee-pee?"
"It's pronounced eh-peh, and no...you see it's up to you to react to the madness around you, to Livan's love letters, and the world's adoration of Justin's butt. That's all you have to do. The fans will respond to that, they'll rely on you to do your job and to provide them a touchstone to their own bemusement at the world around them. You see, humor, or umour as it was in the Latin originally meant..."
And so they spoke, long into the twilight of all things comical and uncomical, humorous and just umourous in nature. Until they looked up in the twilight of Domey Dale and realized that it was midnight.
"OH NO!" shouted little Brendan Harris, "we missed the game in San Diablo!"
"Oh, no, my little friend. For though it is midnight here, it is far from it in San Diablo...Quickly to the YetToBeFoundComicalName-Mobile!"
In San Diablo the hitters were befuddled. They had hurt the Horseman Peavy, but his stallion Trevor the Terrible--The Horse of Death still grunted and pawed the ground.
"Lemme attem, lemme attem!" snarled Mauer the Sideburned.
"We must observe the rules of war," said the Morneau the Mountie, "It is not yet your turn to do the damage, it is, that one guy, with the short cropped black hair...you know who I'm talking about, plays over on the other side of the infield."
"Oh yeah," said Cuddyer, "that ONE guy...has he said anything this year?"
"Whether he did or not it wasn't an original wordism like mine! Hey, Wordism! That's my new Wordism!!" proclaimed Young proudly.
"Where is he anyway?" asked Morneau.
"Here he is!" And so, with the trumpet sounded by noble Brian Buscher, young Harris strode to the plate and stared at Deathly Trevor the Terrible. And then did he smite a pitch mightily and thoroughly, deep into the San Diablo night.
"Way to go Brendan...is that your name, Brendan?" said Mauer.
"Yes it is Joe, and you know, I've learned a lot these last few hours: I learned th--"
"Oh my god, look at what Buscher just did! Woohoo!!" Cried the mighty army, for lo, Brian Buscher had smoted a pitch more mightly and thoroughly than Little Brendan Harris had, and he was the hero of the day, while Brendan Harris gave a big sigh and shrug to the camera thereby fulfilling his purpose as Comic Foil at Large.