ClosetMonster

Over the Hill ~ ClosetMonster x PopeAlessandros

Well, I'd love to know who this Po is, as I'm not entirely sure who Po is (that name only? Last name, first name? One would think it was a rather unusual name, but I hate to assume like that) but I will try and clean things up so they are easier to read.

So your understanding that Wren has examined Chall and hasn't taken note of his non-human characteristics is true. The whys are probably more tied in to the fact I believe he is well traveled and to consider Chall as anything but the unconscious one in need of healing would be to somehow not be who Wren is. I'd have to say it is a personality characteristic, a certain bit of blindness to the differences of people, which seems important. However, if it seems so out of character for anyone to be capable of that, then I can rethink it and redo it. I find it difficult to play with a character I don't believe in, and to think of him as incapable of this would make him a difficult person to trust in as opposite of your character. It really would be fairly easy to redo, so let me know.

As for the others (rich family/group/something) - heck, sounds good. I was playing off of a group of people some distance away, hanging at a fire. Whatever further direction you want to give it, I'll build off of that as well. In other words, please feel free to take it wherever you feel it is going. I didn't want to throw out the possibility of having someone show up looking for him, because you'd put that in already. Ignoring it would be silly.

Also - feel free to take your time. I'm doing the same, oldest to first, and some days don't get home until seven or eight at night - time enough to make dinner, feed dogs and other necessary mouths, then get to bed m'self to do it all over again the next day. I'm sure I'll trail further behind than you will - so I'd have no right to complain. :) So no worries on wait time, kay?

Sleep well and enjoy your RPs! :) It's always nice to have a full plate.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

Zahi leaned against the wall and waited on the Djinn who spoke some strange language and held up a hand in another human gesture. Not one of Anat's people would request time, rather they took it for time was theirs to play about with. Thus, it was with some confusion that he watched this Djinn in the form of a Frank, as it stumbled about and put words into practice.

First, the words which – and then, glorious! It was pleased and despite all evidence to the contrary, the Djinn or the man, whichever it was, perhaps a magi of some sort, spoke to him as carefully, as well as if Zahi were indeed one of import, not a man who held his father's token to his chest and whom had not managed to foil a simple enough plot against him. A dagger in the hand of a shadow and it was all that was necessary. Zahi had laughed at himself after he had killed the would be assassin. He survived their encounter, but it would be a matter of days before the belly wound would take him as well.

As the man, the magi, the Djinn who was no Djinn, gestured to Zahi, the dark skinned prince looked about him as proudly as a hawk put to her first rest. His gaze, while clouded with pain, was still keen and he tipped his head just slightly to one side, watching this stranger back from him. Behind him, at the door, Anat had obviously taken the inclusion seriously and she, golden as the sun, stepped into the strange green light. The gold of sands did not hold up against the dark and the green and she dipped her head, her delicate hooves tokking on the floor, and her entire body lit to a tarnished copper. With a shiver across her fine flesh, she set herself at her rider's side and took his weight. He, without thinking, gave it to her, leaning into her and sighing as weariness flooded him.

They left the door open behind him, both because he hadn't power to close it, but also because none of his people were about to enter into a Djinn's realm without permission, and together with Anat's tender urging and the stranger's insistence, Anat and the prince delved further into the darkened emerald hall. To not die, it would have been better for him, yet to take such a gift from anyone in this place, Zahi feared what might be the outcome. Was it he too would be caught here, to be let free once again but only by one with the door? It was all too obvious that his newest host felt some trepidation about the door itself, yet by the same token, did not rush for freedom. Instead, he tempted Zahi further.

“This key,” Zahi looked down at the dark key which he found he still clutched in his hand. “It was in the sands outside the door,” he muttered and glanced at the man. “Forgive me, O my host, but I found it within the bones of what had to have been a child or a woman, it clung to the bones and did not sift into the sands to be lost forever. I had thought it yours.” And again, he held it out, his hand trembling as he did so.

Over the Hill ~ ClosetMonster x PopeAlessandros

:) I took some advantage over your character - his state. However, please feel free to yelp, "NO! He's awake HERE!" and I shall simply take back it all and use what I have as a directional pointer. I'm afraid introduction of character seemed to take some time and I'm quite capable of doing it all without Chall in the picture, leaving it down to just a simple meeting of Harcourt and Chall.

-added-

Actually, I may have really taken advantage of your character in the interest of going somewhere with an unconscious kitty boy. Please, do let me know if you'd like it stopped elsewhere. I'm afraid I let it take me for a ride. My posts aren't generally half so long, nor as presumptuous. (*L* I hope!)

Over the Hill ~ ClosetMonster x PopeAlessandros

“Flit! Heyoh Flit!,” a boy's voice calls out and the sheep stamp in nervousness a moment and settle right after. A series of quick, sharp whistles and high pitched calls, the dog responds as easily as breathing, its eyes fixed on the sheep while its ears flick at every call of its master.

The sheep move slowly, pressing in closely to one another, silent and with noses in the air as they try for indirect eye contact with the predator in their midst. From within the group, a bell sounds.

“There it be, Gran, go on!” the call and the sheep scatter, split down the middle. Gran, a large brown dog with blue eyes stops, turns and gives a single bark. Without a sign of being told, a slighter, pure black dog is in the midst of the sheep, driving them opposite of the shape inert on the ground. The bark being the only sound given, it is surprising how, in the resultant silence, the flock is moved and the dogs involved so quickly. Strange it is too, to anyone not of the sheep business, how the slender boy leaps the rock and heather, his small bow drawn immediately and his keen eyes, not unlike that of his dogs, takes in all about them.

The brown dog lays in the heather and pants, his blue eyes watching the boy come in close. When the boy is at his side, he reaches out and with a cursory pat, turns his attention onto that which the dog is beside.

Like his kin, the boy is quiet in regard and does not speak his thoughts aloud. Instead, he makes a click of the tongue to which both dogs come to his side. “Flit, get Annie,” he orders, then makes a finger motion to which Gran, the larger dog, slips from his side like a hawk from a man's wrist, diving into the sheep and driving them.

The boy settles the sheep within eye distance of the silent figure. Both he and Gran keep alternate care of the sheep and the man on the ground. The sun slips into the sky and the boy, when no further movement comes from the sleeper, takes out a penny whistle. Sheep and dog all relax some as the first of a series of comfortably common reels pipes out. If there is to be music, then there is nothing to fear.

It is an hour before Flit is back. Annie and her master were likely on the other end of their pastures, while the boy, a Harcourt Mace, is mostly between both, having intended to take his flocks to the far end of his family's pasture and work their way back in over the course of the day. The black dog hops up the slight rise and settles down comfortably at his master's feet, his tongue twice as long as usual, lolling out in a long pink portrayal of a good run. The boy says nothing to the dog, because as the dog is with him, then his job has been done. It is a marker of trust often seen between shepherd and dog, something he has learned from his neighbor and the only other shepherd in the area.

Oh, to be sure, there are others who keep sheep, Harcourt argues during those times he speaks. But to be a shepherd, one must be more like Wren than like Jacob who pens his animals and then lets them out into a larger enclosure. It is the reason Jacob's wool hasn't the same softness as Wren's does. It is the reason, his father argues, that Jacob is married and has children for his father to dote on.

Harcourt has no argument for this, as he does not know why exactly Wren hasn't any children to offer his mother. But the Widow does not seem overly concerned with her lack of grandchildren. In fact, she seems happy enough with her son as he is and it seems somewhat unfair that Harcourt's father would be so intent on such a thing.

Still, despite Jacob being easier to find, as he is often in his workshop or barn, Harcourt intends to involve Wren and so it is that a moment after Flit has settled, that the black and white mask of Annie comes over the rise and trotting soon behind, in his ground eating lope which means concern, is the large, bird nest haired man.

Wren says nothing, but his keen gaze goes over the sheep and the boy who jerks a chin toward the dip and the huddled shape on the ground. Despite it being obviously hurt, the man draws his blade and kneels down at the side of the creature. He shows no sign of hesitancy, nor does Annie, who sits at his side. She has none other to care for but the man, these are not her sheep, nor is the boy hers – only the man falls within her purview.

Rolling the figure over, Wren lets his gaze sweep the figure, his broad, callused hands smoothing over sides, checking for pulse (there, but weak), temperature (high), and that all limbs are intact (fully, but for the injury to the shoulder which weeps blood still). The scent of blood makes Annie sneeze and she rubs her muzzle with her forepaw, then stands and asks her master with a low, slow half arc of the tail if he is going to take this lamb for shelter or not.

Chuckling, Wren rubs a broad palm across her domed forehead as he stands. “Harcourt,” the man calls in a low tone.

“Aye, Wren,” Harcourt is at his side as eagerly as Annie had been. The boy is easily half the size of the man and he looks up with the same longing and adoration as the dogs.

“Go to yer Da. I'll have Annie watch your flock. Go'n tell yer Da, we need Marge at my cottage. And Harcourt,” he adds when the boy is a few steps already on his way, “no need to tell the entire village, is there.”

“No ser,” Harcourt bobs his head and then as fleet as Flit, he is gone over the ridge which separates the band of pasture land from the rest of his family's farm.

Wren leaves the man on the ground and with a nod to his dog, walks the flock. Annie shakes herself and while she seems to not notice the sheep at all, he ensures she has them, each one, in her sights before he jerks his chin. “Go to,” he orders. “Until Harcourt comes back, luv.”

With the sheep under the watchful eye of Annie, Flit, and Gran, Wren returns to the man on the stoney ground. He gathers the man up easily, being not much more than a lamb, yes, and beings the trek back to the cottage.

Wren's cottage isn't as far from where Harcourt had his flock and as he makes his way to the front door, he can hear the his own flock, being brought in quite handily by Baxter who, despite his only two years of age, is seeming more and more like his mother, Delta who has a way about her Old Man Jones swears is just this shy of being human. Having had four from the same line, Wren can attest to it and the superb intelligence of the dogs.

Still, Baxter cannot undo latches and the sheep crowd around the yard gate. Wren hasn't time to tend to them and so leaves them to the dog and instead enters into his home with his burden.

The front door leads directly into a small open room with a large sitting lounge and a stone fireplace beside which a rocking chair is occupied by a small, black cat. The shepherd carefully deposits his burden onto the lounge then goes to the kitchen to get water and a cloth. Returning with both, he sets all beside the lounge and leaving the man there, goes to let the sheep into the yard. It would be some time yet for Marge, the local healer, to make her way to his home. In that time, he managed to put up sheep and then allowed Baxter into the house where the dog settles immediately before the rocker and sat, one eye on the cat beside him.

Wren ignores the interplay between dog and cat, and instead, focuses entirely on the inert man on his lounge. The man is slender, small, both of which Wren had noted easily when he'd carried the man back, just a little lighter than a broken ewe. Granted, Wren had not had to carry a ewe quite as far all that often, only when they fell and broke a leg or when, once, an older ewe had died in the middle of the pasture. Generally, he kept the elders in the stone corral and there, was able to move them via his sledge.

This one, though, was slight as a teenager, with glossy black hair and pale skin, too pale to be a man of the country. But why would he have been in the midst of a pasture as he was, so far from the nearest busy town? Wren settles into a small, three legged stool and begins to use the cloth and bowl of water he'd gotten to wash the man's face.

Some time later, there is a scratch at the door. Wren sets aside the bowl which he'd since ceased to use, and lets Annie back in. Harcourt had no doubt found Marge and then returned to his flock. Wren uses Annie's entrance as reason to put the kettle on. Marge would expect it. Manners are important to her.

Marge comes in soon after Annie, though she does little asking to enter, instead she raps on the door frame and lets herself in. Wren has the kettle fully heated and cups of tea set to steep. He gives her a quick nod as the large woman instantly goes to the wounded man. “Any injuries beside the shoulder?” she asks as she lets her hands do the same that Wren's had. She trusts Wren's judgment, but it is she who has the healing lore to do more than make a simple poultice. She leans over and sniffs at the water and makes a grunt. He has put in lavender and comfrey and she approves, he can see.

“None that I could find,” he says, then watches as she mutters to herself and lays her hands on the man's shoulder.

It isn't anything flashy, this hedge healing. Wren has traveled, has been to many a country before he chose to return home and settle into herding sheep. There are courts he has seen where magic flared gold and blue, left baubles of red in one's retinas. He has seen blood rise and men scream in pain as their skin was painted with pain. It is a magic which Wren has no taste for, the higher arts. Rather, he approves and even covets to some extent, the art which Marge shows. It works with the world around them, not pressing her will upon it, but asking rather politely. And because of this, when she leans back, Marge looks as pink-cheeked as ever and the man on the lounge, just as pale and injured.

“That'll do,” she says, standing. “He'll heal. There was a bit of infection starting but I've teased it out. The hole's best if it closes on its own. Poultice are good.” She looks at him and smiles. “And you, you probably didn't even notice what he is, did you?” At his blank look, she laughs. “Of course not. You're a blind man for all that you seen, Wren Autenberry. Poor creature's been mauled. I've half a mind to go over to Harveston and give them a piece of their own medicine. But you'll keep an eye out. If any of them boys or girls manage to come onto your land, I've no doubt they'll regret it.”

Wren tilts his head in concern. Harveston, he's no issues with, other than it is a different sort of place, but not a bad one. There are some old fashioned ideas which Old Man Jones and Mother Autenberry never allowed to take root in Skyefell. But old fashioned ideas are safe to have out in the middle of nowhere.

“Are they coming, Marge?” he asks, because her words mean something.

“I'm sure they will,” she nods. “They'll be hunting this one, they will.” She gestures to the man on the lounge. But instead of answering his questions, she gives him a quick, business nod and mutters something along the lines of “best check in on Jasper's wife. You'll be making a blanket, won't you?” as she leaves.

Wren, confused and worried for his charge, goes about the process of setting a poultice in the warmth of the fire, setting it to the man's shoulder. Then as the man sleeps off the magic Marge had set on him, Wren begins dinner and tending sheep, much of which is done out of doors. He keeps close to the house, however, and does his work while leaving both Annie and Baxter to guard his home. None will enter without his say-so, even the ill-informed of nearby Harveston.

The Highwayman Came Riding

hrm

I'm just ferreting Mrs. Vaughn out, so I realize there is little "story" here other than her point of view. But if need be, I can do a "Bess" post as well.

Diana Vaughn, Mrs. Robert Vaughn, set the quill to the side of her page, dusted the paper, and let the sand remain for a time as she looked out onto the wild gardens. She was a slight thing, with wrists as frail as a sparrow's. Her long neck and small body were almost too young for her twenty two year old frame. From the day she had married at seventeen, she had grown little if at all in any of her stature, remaining almost childlike in form. Woe to any who let her appearance dictate her inner character however. For little known to any but her closest companions, Diana was a force of nature. It had been only natural for she to become one. Newly married, her Robert had left her to the tender mercies of the social circles. Without him to direct or aid, with little but his name and that only as a weak door stop in that he was in the Americas (none dared to even think that he might not come back, let alone say it aloud), Diana had had to play the part of the waiting wife, the winsome and bonnie girl. Gone were the times when her very look upon this or that person played a position shifting in the great Game that women played within the dances, the card games, the lawn parties. Rather, she found herself, rather without any warning, off the table. She was Robert's and where was he? Why, he was gone and left her nothing but a quiet, delicate memory of mornings at his side and carriage rides about the park.

For a short time, Diana had sat in her parlor and waited on a card, on a visitor. Her melancholy at having lost her husband to his journeys might have inhibited her very happiness had she not had a very good friend in Miss Fannie Bolton, a pastor's daughter and Diana's age. Fannie, it could be said, was a creature of unfathomable good nature and much advice, most importantly advice to Diana that not only did melancholy make one tiresome, but it also made one pale and wan. What man would with to return to a wife who had spent all of his time away, seated in the window, watching for his return?

“For,” Fannie laughed gaily, “this isn't some romance of long lost captain's ship, my dearest. You walk no rooftop and you'll not be seen to waste away with grief. Come with me and we'll go to The Midville-Price's house this very night. I have heard tell that the Austrian will be there!”

Diana would, in years to come, be hard pressed to recall the name of this newest enticement, the Austrian, who brought out his horses and who spoke with a perfect tongue, almost without any hint of accent. It wasn't the intrigue which made her get out of her chair and go to make merry with her dearest Fannie, but the realization that she was, strangely, very much alone and must make her own way or fade to obscurity. To Fannie and to her lady's maid alone she told her thoughts. To the world, she showed but a girl who would make the best of her fates.

And so, with gentleness, with laughter, with a quick wit and sure, but genteel manner, the girl made herself into a woman any man would be proud to return to. She made acquaintance with those higher than she, kept secrets for some and offered secrets for others, and fast made her way into what she felt was an arena of the social circles few her birth could be expected to go. Her nimble mind often caught her a ledge upon which she would swing, only to climb higher until it was not so much her husband's return which she clambered for but the trials themselves. Her independence was not so much a hindrance as it was an opened cage door and she a bird newly tried to its wings.

So it was, that five years passed and when the note came to warn her of her husband's return, Mrs. Robert Vaughn was not so content with the idea as she might have been four years prior. He, she assured herself, would want to go about business with his older friends and she, relegated to being his wife once more, must do the same.

But the changes! Oh the changes were horrifying. For unlike she, he muttered and paced about, ran to this or that errand to acquire his pay, a task which she could, to some extent, understand. It was, no doubt, of a very frustrating nature to deal with accounts. She had done well enough when he was gone, but she knew the initial shock and how strange it had been, how difficult. No doubt, he would need only to square his accounts with all and then she might receive him once more as her husband. Granted, she would have to direct him toward this or that party to secure their interests with those connections she had claimed while he was away and her mind had already bent toward the task rather handily.

She steered him toward a supper and then a concert and in the venues, she introduced him around, made light of his boorish comments, and attempted to give him subtle guidance as befits a wife, so that he might re-enter the world he had left. It was to be understood that he often talked of his experiences and that held some interest for a week or two, but he so often turned toward how he felt he was being treated upon his return, his frustrations at the lack of recognition, that after a few more gatherings, she found that her space had begun to clear. The work of years and his petulance and single-mindedness were blowing it apart as a stiff wind does a house of cards.

So it was, that she began to work quietly in the background. A word thus and a whisper here, until Lady Dartland suggested Lady Rumsford and together, the women had given their careful agreements. There was little telling the men what it was they were to do, of course, but the best of them knew she was a director of a great play and with a call here or a nod there, she might get the actors to all take their places and thus, keep the story on the stage.

So it was, that Lord Rumsford and her husband came to their accord. With a sigh of relief, Diana made her plans once more and waited for the warmth to come out of the chilly company of her husband. Yet to her horror, it was not to be. No sooner were funds exchanged and actions completed, then Robert announced his intention to leave behind town and go to the country. Diana could stay, he insisted, as he had little to offer her in the countryside.

No – she would not have it. If he were to the country, so would she. Even with her card house rained about her, Diana continued to look at opportunity. If he had done such a disservice to her during this season, she could utilize the countryside for parties outside of the season and, allowing her husband time to rest up from his travels, he would be more amenable to attempting a re-entry into the tonne after. And so she had gone with him. Kissing her Fannie and leaving behind her lady's maid to pack up her things, Diana had left her machinations and her free flights and had instead, bound herself to the earth and her husband.

The earth, she thought as she looked out into that decrepit garden, was not so bright a thing as she had remembered. She had spent some time in the countryside as a child, but there was little sign of color in the brown and green spray of disorder outside her window.

“Higgins,” she called and the older man bowed as he came forward. “My husband has seen fit to not return for supper. I shall eat in the parlor. Oh, and Higgins?” she folded her paper and then quickly addressed it before standing and holding out the envelope to him, “the mail. Thank you.”

The woman watched her husband's valet leave her to the quiet and then she sighed. She would go into town herself the next day. She needed to acquire a maid as well as to look into the gardens. If the letter did as she hoped, the quiet of the building would not be alone nor so quiet much longer. Fannie would be glad of the chance to come and visit.

Over the Hill ~ ClosetMonster x PopeAlessandros

That is an absolutely GRAND post and I shall return to this and get you a response when I've had some sleep after a long week. :) A feline-like mage. Very nice twist!

And, in addition, it has been many months since I've written in first person, so please forgive any tense drops I happen to do.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

I have NO idea why you're apologizing for this awesome consciousness idea. Everything in there is just...

Oh wow. I'm so happy!!!!! Okay... gotta sit and think about how I'll respond. This is lovely. Perfectly lovely. You are lovely. You and your lovely writing and your lovely mind and this lovely story and your lovely character and lovely sad Agatha and the lovely everything is so completely lovely.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

Golden light of the Arabian sun flooded across the surface of the rock in which the keyhole stood. The dyes and pigments of what had once been paint, flared into color and Zahi could see an eye, another eye, and a great, gaping maw of what looked to be a great bird, alternately gilt and covered in blood. He let go of the key which had, as if guided by magic, turned its full rotation as smoothly as if the mechanism were newly made and newly oiled.

With the last pin in place, a seam broke out across the painted stone and a door, small enough that he might duck to enter, was visible. Zahi gazed at it for long moments. He had little use for magic outside of his precious Anat who carried the blood of her forefathers, the djinn whose winds still swept the dune tops and heralded, no – incited the storms to rise. Besides, he had miles to go, a talisman to take into the depth of an uninhabitable desert and there, to die with it and thus, keep his father's pride untarnished by bickering and bids for power.

Still, it was a door and as such, demanded that it be used, for all it seemed new enough in the turning, every other sign told a very different tale. Here, the bones of one who had been searching, perhaps, for that very keyhole. Here, a lost civilization painting their vengeful god across its surface. So bid by a power of time and tale, Zahi put aside the pang in his side, the dull ache of his life leaving, and set his bloody hand to the center and gave a heave.

The door proved to not be as smooth nor as helpful as the keyhole and it grated, complained, and gave but a little. But suddenly, it began to jerk under his hand, trying of its own accord to open. Seemingly, however, it could not do it alone and he was forced to set his shoulder to it and with the aid of the door, he was able to move it open enough for a man to enter through.

Within, the dark called and Zahi considered that if he were to somehow close it behind him, particularly with the key in his hand, then none would ever find his body, his tribe's talisman, and such a place for death might have been the work of Anat and her people.

He staggered as he slid into the opening and leaned heavily against the door's furthest edge. Immediately within, the scent of cool, wet, and human rank cut Zahi's sense of smell and into the pain, much like a dull knife tears at the flesh which is well cooked. A mallet would do better a job, if by no other means than brute force and the height of the preparing swing.

Zahi squinted into the shadows within. The stone had been hollowed out in angles, with thick lines rent into it. Along the upper surfaces, a dim, green light flooded the chamber as twisted vines on the ceiling described the ceiling of both the inner room and hallways beyond going either direction. Despite the monolith being a chimney of sorts, beyond the door felt in his bones, like a great deal larger than the very rock into which it was bored. It had a sound within, almost that of the soughing of the night winds, but greater, a storm perhaps.

The ground beneath him was hard and he looked down to see what it might have been and in the looking, his gaze swept over the shape beyond him. It stood, readied for him, its shape taken as that of a man, shirt white and hair wild. The djinn, for what could it have been else, was larger than he and with the pale skin and even paler eyes of the Franks with whom others had fought. He had heard that they stank, these foreigners, and this place which the door had led to reflected that belief.

“As-salamu alaykum,” the prince rumbled through the smell and his own weariness. He tipped his head, touched fingertips to head, to chin, to mouth, and then gave a small, pained bow. “I am the Prince Zahi Akeem Gabir Hakim Amjad. O Djinn, I ask but your favor to lie in this blessed place and set down my burdens. If I die here, you might do as you will with my bones so long as you leave my father's mark behind the closed door. I have here, the key which you and my Anat directed for me to use.” That said, he held out the key between them to prove his worth.

The Djinn though, as the shadows passed and its face came to be more distinct, looked not at all pleased to see him. Rather, he gave Zahir a glance of thunder and then fixated on the key. In fact, the Djinn was strangely human looking. The fierce free will of Anat's people, the sharp teeth, the golden fire of their spirit was lacking in this one. Zahir let his hand fall and gripped it, and the key, against his side. “If you were captured here, and I may presume, I would grant you your freedom for the right to bury myself out of any man's sight.” The creature had done nothing to make Zahir sure of himself and despite his initial belief that this was the Djinn's notions which had brought him here, he had begun to believe that perhaps it was more the will of the key, if such an intelligence could live in a key.

Behind, through the still open door, Anat snorted and the wind began to sift sand through the entry, pale against the hard floor underneath.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

Oh please! I love this... The change is actually VERY good. It was a brilliant shift in everything!

Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)

Good gravy - Now that is a real blast from my familial past. :) Crazy - making beer commercials for all walks of life. When will they do the Emo-commercials? Or how's about the ones where they make a commercial advertising to the soccer moms? "When I take Junior to his game, I make sure to pack my own pick-me-up next to the orange drink that has no nutritional value. It's the only way to keep me In the Game for the next three hours." (cutaway to mother stumbling up the white line, screeching, "GO BOBBIE, GO!")

Hee hee... Gotta keep up with the Joneses, m'man. Get mah family van and then the cooler, yeah.