Soul Force

In the days of yore, it is said that men would often participate in 'food fights'. In ritualistic dances, they would toss food - precious food! - at one another, ideally foods that would stain and ruin clothes. In this manner did they honour their deity, with sacrifice; for it is sacrifice that gives meaning to loss.

Today, the 'food fight' is a frivolous activity, of no meaning or value to anyone; the sort of thing children do. The League of Desmond, however, does not practice thus. When spaghetti was knocked on the floor (and Mattehewe's foote), did we dismiss it as an accident? No! It is now legend among us, the Battle of the Spaghetti. Thus do we give all things meaning. When my tortellini was carelessly knocked onto the ground - my only meal - was it abandoned? No! The salvagable core was recovered, and my meal was saved.

This, then, is the way of the League of Desmond. Let not pasta be dismissed, thought without meaning! No! In even the least of our actions, in the mundanity of ordinary life, let us consecrate our actions - let us make our every gesture meaningful. Let us reverse the flow of entropy, that which brings the heat-death of the universe!

This is the teaching of the Timmerick.

The Way of the Timmerick

EDITOR'S NOTE: The end of the series 1 histories has been postponed, pending authorial inspiration and/or anyone asking for it. (Anyone! Please!) This is the prototype of the modern pseudohistories.

Many a day ago, the tranquility of the League was shattered by strife between the League's founders over that most mundane of things - lunch-food. For months, years, the League has banded together at lunch, giving to one another of their food and of their trash alike, for the common good. Devin contributes saltines; Kelsey contributes (or contributed) cookie crumbs; David contributed french fries; and I myself give partial or whole Nutri-Grain bars or Pop-Tarts. This symbiotic relationship helps keep the League of Desmond strong.

But the Devil is always whispering, waiting to catch some poor soul off guard and snatch him off the path of Timmerick and straight to Old Scratch's Hell. That recent day, his words snuck into David's heart, feeding the greed and lust that lurks deep within every man. David is normally as pure a Timmerite as any you might see, being co-Pope of the Church, but on this day he saw the Pop-Tart crumbs given to Devin and he were of differing sizes - and that injustice created an opening for the Devil to crawl into. David, diabolically influenced, struck, demanding more pop-tart bits than he had gotten - demanding them with violence. I myself, being a man of peace, did not strike back - but I equally refused to right the wrong I myself had commited, until I saw that nothing else would allow my escape from David's crazed grasp.

After the deed was done, David left us, to ponder as his anger cooled. What have I done?, he wondered. Though they did wrong me, should I have strayed from the path in turn?

To David's vast surprise, a pillar of light spread around him, and an Angel of the Timmerick descended from the heavens. You have done wrong, son of Isselunde, it said in a voice divine, but the Timmerick will forgive you should you mend your ways. Amend your mathematical sloth! Post Chronicles of Desmond on the blog! In this manner shall your sins be oblated. Let your friends find their own peace with the Timmerick.

Humbled and awed, David knew that he would follow the angel's words. Would that we all might possess such grace.

Moral: We might be too mean to David, Pop-Tarts are tasty, David should post more on the blog.

Fin.