The past couple of weeks haven't provided any time to research and write my weekly posts - I know how disappointed you all are. I've been able to keep all of our contests and challenges updated and I expect to get back to delivering fantasy goodness next week.
In the meantime, here's a little story to keep you all occupied...
The Great Sagebrush Cactus Championship Chase
Once upon a time, in the heart of the endless Sagebrush Desert, 16 teams set out on a race like no other. The prize? The legendary Sagebrush Cactus Championship Trophy, a prize so dazzling it could make even the dullest desert sands sparkle with envy. Watching over this grand event was none other than the Commish, who considered himself wise, though his wisdom was more often paired with sarcasm than solemnity. Commish had seen these teams struggle through many seasons before, but this time they were desperate. They would travel by any means necessary to claim that trophy. Whether they’d actually reach it, well, that was a different question.
With the sun blazing high, the teams gathered at the start line, eyeing each other with steely determination. Commish couldn't help but smirk. “And so it begins, folks,” he announced, his voice dripping with his usual mock enthusiasm. “A grand display of questionable strategies and self-sabotage, brought to you by the Sagebrush Cactus League!”
At the signal, they were off… or at least, most of them were. Baby Got Dak had a “brilliant” plan, claiming, “Water is the fastest way to travel!” They climbed into a rowboat and began paddling with all their might. There was just one problem: there wasn’t a single drop of water to be found. But that didn’t deter Dak, who stubbornly rowed through the sand with all the vigor of a ship’s captain caught in a storm. Watching them, Commish chuckled. “A solid plan if we were on the Nile, perhaps. But here? Bold choice.”
Pork Chop Express, meanwhile, somehow managed to acquire an actual train engine. “We’ll chug right through this desert!” they shouted, a whistle blowing in celebration of their great idea. The train wheels spun uselessly in the sand, going absolutely nowhere. Commish could barely contain his laughter. “If there were a contest for commitment, Pork Chop would win it. Unfortunately, there’s no contest for commitment.”
Not far off, Golden Tate Warriors had one of the more ambitious strategies. They had launched a giant hang glider, convinced that they could float over the desert sands to victory. There was just one minor issue: no wind. The Warriors swayed gently back and forth, desperately hoping for a breeze. Commish shook his head with a sigh. “Keep at it, Warriors. Maybe if you wait long enough, the wind will pity you.”
MaxxCasualties, however, decided on foot speed, sprinting off with an enthusiasm that could almost pass for bravery. For a while, they led the pack, until the scorching sun made their enthusiasm evaporate faster than a mirage. Gasping for air, they slowed to a crawl. Commish, ever the supporter, snickered, “Turns out, you can’t outpace dehydration, but nice try.”
Then there were the Tallahassee Tator Tots, who had constructed a wooden carriage pulled by two reluctant sheep they had somehow procured. “Nothing like a sturdy set of wheels and a couple of… sheep?” Commish said, raising an eyebrow. The sheep, naturally, had zero intention of dragging a carriage through the desert, and the Tots made painfully slow progress. “A practical choice if we were in medieval England,” Commish continued, “but here in the desert? Good luck, Tots.”
Badazz Bri took a different approach altogether, “borrowing” a large sheet of metal and sand surfing across the dunes. Armed with a makeshift sail stitched together from towels, they gained surprising speed as they glided along. For a brief moment, Commish was impressed… until Bri soared off a dune and faceplanted right into a sandbank. Commish clapped slowly, ever the encourager. “A high point followed by a literal low.”
Los Perros Locos had perhaps the most sensible idea: a fleet of camels. They made excellent progress initially, plodding along steadily until the camels simply sat down, unimpressed by the urgency. Commish shrugged. “Even animals know when it’s time to give up. But don’t let that discourage you, Locos – the camels have their limits, even if you don’t.”
Meanwhile, Fat Cats floated serenely above in a hot air balloon, the epitome of confidence – or overconfidence. “A lofty idea,” Commish commented. “But who’s going to tell them that hot air balloons don’t exactly ‘land’ so much as ‘crash’?” The Cats were blissfully unaware, drifting toward a cactus grove with a look of dawning panic as they realized their course. “Might want to rethink the whole ‘sky is the limit’ strategy, Cats,” Commish mused.
Then there was Reek Squad, who somehow found themselves bouncing along in a giant hamster ball. They rolled over the sand with wild abandon, the occasional “REEK SQUAD!” war cry echoing through the desert. Commish watched, barely containing his laughter. “An innovative approach… until the sand turns that hamster ball into a slow, sticky mess. But hey, points for effort.”
Consolation Kings, however, had a method unlike any other. They towed a giant cactus behind them, convinced that this “lucky cactus” would lead them to victory. “Ah, the ol' ‘good-luck-cactus’ approach,” Commish muttered. “Nothing says victory like dragging a 100-pound prickly plant through a desert.”
Blue Ribbon took a decidedly different approach: they danced their way forward, twirling and leaping in the sand as if they were on a Broadway stage. Commish, baffled, muttered, “Well, at least they're entertaining themselves. That counts for something, right?”
As the sun dipped lower, the teams were scattered across the desert, each one facing their own bad choices, the harsh elements, and, most of all, the Commish’s endless ridicule. Now and then, one team would stumble upon a shortcut or catch a rare tailwind, but just as often, they'd trip over their own ambition. Baby Got Dak and Pork Chop Express were firmly stuck, still clinging to their chosen “vehicles” while Golden Tate Warriors waited hopefully for a breeze. MaxxCasualties and Los Perros Locos trudged forward with grim determination, while Badazz Bri dug themselves out of a sandbank for the third time.
Who would claim the Sagebrush Cactus Championship Trophy? That remained to be seen. For now, the trophy sat beyond a final row of dunes, gleaming in the distance as if taunting the desperate racers. Even Commish, who had long since written off most of them, couldn’t deny it: these teams, despite their many setbacks, kept pushing forward. Through the heat, through the chaos, and through the Commish’s endless taunts, they pressed on. It wasn’t about intelligence or strategy anymore. It was simply about not giving up.
As the Commish watched, he wondered – would any of these motley racers actually reach the trophy, or would they simply collapse in a heap of sand and sweat along the way?
The answer, as with most great adventures, would have to wait. For now, the Commish sighed, shaking his head with just a hint of grudging respect. “Fools, the lot of you… but determined fools.”
And so the chase continued, with the Sagebrush Cactus Championship Trophy waiting for the team bold (or foolish) enough to reach it.
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