The Rake Magazine

The Minnesota Twins mean business in their new commercial. Morneau, Cuddyer, and Mauer wear ultra-cool Twins fan gear. They begin strolling to the soundtrack of Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused." In slow motion, the camera catches each individual, like a shot out of Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. On location, at the under-construction open stadium, it's spring. Air gusts ripple Cuddyer's ringer t-shirt with the "TC" logo. He tosses a ball into the air playfully; then he sticks that tobacco rock ball into his mouth, suggesting the Twins will be outdoors and reckless, without restraints.

Morneau, the heavy hitter, walks with his bat resting on the back of his neck. His two hands grasp each bat end, as though bound to some ancient torture device, illustration the persecution of playing inside the big-topped circus atmosphere of the Dome. Mauer holds his bat like a cane, until he laughs. In one quick swoop, he kicks the barrel and catches the bat — no more crutches to endure for the Minnesota Twins. The franchise will be outdoors soon, and Hell will break loose.

With a fierce glare and clenched teeth, Morneau orders Pete to lay something into him. No one knows anyone by the name of Pete, meaning Morneau screwed his line in the commercial. They air it anyway to convey his tough-guy, testicular fortitude is what the fans have been hankering for.

Each player takes turns knocking home-runs.

Morneuo's blast lands upside First Avenue, proving the team will rock with legendary force in their new ballpark. Never, ever will the Twins be constrained by a demeaning domed novelty garbage pile. Cuddyer cranks one. The ball soars like a missile and decapitates Mary Tyler-Moore's statue, showing the world the franchise will not put up with junk, nor be treated as a bunch of nobodies. The Twins will turn heads or heads will be rolling, or we will be heads and shoulders above the rest and so on. Using both hands, Mauer hurls a damn boulder into the air.

It tumbles awkwardly. He grips his bat while the stone is in the air, and sends the rock out beyond to Mary Jo Copeland's shelter for the homeless. As suspected, Mary Jo is outside Sharing and Caring Hands, and, in the middle of the day, hustling a crack deal to a fiend.

Splat!

The homeless addict is rubbed out of existence by the powerful blast, symbolizing the Twins mean business in their new commercial.

Psychology class, at the Saint Paul campus, ended its session. Two students remained. He opened the door for her. She wore a baggy, off-white dress shirt with a narrow, new-wave neck tie. She approached. As if gentlemen's rules, he opened the door wider. She stopped a few paces from the door.

He extended his arm, as if displaying to her, go first. She tapped her foot, showing as if the nerve. He raised his brow as if he had all day. She folded her arms as if she couldn't take this bull anymore about men thinking women are weak. Ha! He shrugged as if, C'mon, just walk through the damn door. She placed her hand on her chest as if scumbags like you make this world what it is.

He brushed his sleeve, rubbing his eyes as if, Boo-hoo, you poor helpless feminist. Making a hacking sound, she stuck her tongue out as if barfing from chauvinism. He slammed the door as if declaring war. She scowled, shaking her finger as if there are other exits in this room, like windows, so would he hold one open for her, too? He pointed to the window as if to dare her. She made an oinker sound.

He clucked like a chicken. She threw her book bag at him. He mooed like a cow. She gnashed her teeth to a grind. He slapped his own face. She grunted like a Neanderthal. He screamed, "Oh, as if!"

She spun around three times and charged toward the window, while flailing her arms. He said, "Whatever."

She crashed through the top story window, smashing atop the sidewalk. He rushed to the window and said, "Oh, my Lord."

She rolled over and looked directly at him before dying in a dramatic pose as if Christianity is the only Afterlife. He exhaled as if in her Afterlife gateways open automatically, without anyone else there to hold them, at least he hoped.

 
After Hank Handy's audition to become KARM's next television meteorologist, Cotton Leggler held the responsibility of breaking the news to Hank.

Hank the "Handyman" Handy had, without a doubt, the main ingredient of meteorology, his name. Leggler was impressed that Hank didn't create such a catchy name on his own, like so many people did in the business.

Hank's resume highlighted relevant work experience. Hank's accomplishments touted a former magazine modeling career, a Yale doctorate in every discipline they offered, a gig doing weather reports for a top-notch radio show, and an inventor of several sophisticated computer programs specializing in meteorology, but Hank lacked one thing.

Hank Handy had no arms.

Leggler told Hank that without arms and hands, he could not use the clicker to change the green screen.

"I can use my teeth," said Hank.

"But, Mr. Handy, if you have the clicker in your mouth, then how can you speak clearly? Also, without arms and hands, you cannot point at different cities or show a storm's movement on the map. Most of all, how can you hold an umbrella when it's raining outside during the telecast?"

Hank stormed out of the room.

Leggler wanted to run after him and scold him for not ending the audition with a firm hand shake, yet Leggler could not run after Hank. Leggler got the double conundrum. After all, Leggler had no legs.