Tinselton Live! with Raskin & Mooch (2)

Mooch: Zippers, R! Goes walking the very Lily de Oh!

Raskin: Say what say?

Mooch: Armed with Mike the Tyke! That lard of a bucket.

Raskin: Ach! Swounds she the beater, Mooch. Churns my bitters to see such flowering a-thistled.

Mooch: Wary, R, for Lily’s angels wandering the fro and through.

Raskin: Goodman Fleck, a sole waterlivet and pour friendly, pour friendly.

Mooch: Band-of-brothers that order, Fleckie, tight we are, pole hawks wired-like wing-to-wing.

Fleck: The Tyke’s too much roughage for that company to keep, R. Odious cabbage boar, excrementally so.

Raskin: Sores my eyes seeing thus.

Mooch: Oh, lawdmercy, see indeed thus, comes KeeKee hither.

Raskin: We’ll be ear-ing the broadside’s weltan-news now, Boyos.

KeeKee: Lookee lookee lookee, the two dogs of the lappeterrarium! Pint of the house darkwater, Mr. Fleck.

Mooch: Woof.

KeeKee: What, Mr. R, nary a-howling, and Lily scribbling in public with the Mighty Tyke.

Mooch: Hush, Kee, lest the house also blue plate a tongue fillet.

KeeKee: Well, such sorrowing sad unbuckles a gent says I. But here’s the nugget-in-hand. Ready? Squire Mike is building 40 two-and-ones at the corner of Old Wash and Grand.

KeeKee: Just G-P-S-ing, R, ain’t but a block there shy from jardinairess Lily.

Raskin: That shoal in the walls mounts never a 40. Bleek’s seatery no more than 30 in the main, and the upstairs was but three of the twos with a one down the hall.

KeeKee: Yass, true not true. The elevatory regs circumcised and lottoed the shebang at 40.

Mooch: Pshaw! Alderman Carrio balderdashed any gentry prance-a-frying herethereabouts and so as duly sworn people’s people.

KeeKee: Tyke’s cousin the builder, other cousin city attorney, other cousin housing inspector, other cousin brick maker, other cousin realtor, and other cousin jailed across the river, soon home to roam during the holidays.

Fleck: Hmmm, may dazzle the ol’ gal with polish and spittoons to the craigs, fernery—waltzing we in the greenery, Gents. Waltzing in the greenery.

Mooch: R, how we fast slippery from slab ribs to Wallet Salads.

Raskin: Likely cattails tucked, we’ll go a-mewing, Brother Mooch.

Tinselton Live! with Raskin & Mooch

Raskin: You hear El Prez, T-Bud?

Mooch: Did. Did. Did did did did.

Raskin: Ol’ Bully Dodger say what he say.

Mooch: Did did did dideo.

Raskin: Keeperman, pour the poor his tap. Full quaff for a working man.

Mooch: Mucho obligato, Mr. R. Ima thirsty too much today.

Raskin: Well here’s to a well never dry running.

Mooch: And the moat swole full.

Together: Bonnie dismal days forever!

Raskin: Ol’ Dodger whirled the wind, did he not?

Mooch: Sounds much like he did—maybe didn’t—dunno.

Raskin: Dunno the whirling or dunno the winding?

Mooch: Can’t say, R. Maybe if Ol’ Bully pigeon himself on a stool—like perching-like, and then we ask him.

Raskin: The Dodger himself here? That is blameworthy nonsense—twirling the twirl a-seat between us? Hoo, stash some foam and close the hatch—you a daft-hatted left-hander, Moochie.

Mooch: See the mug in hand, know the mug at hand, you know so I say how many times, R?

Raskin: Hands in the mayo jar every day before setting his cap I surmise.

Mooch: Sure true, well-oiled The Bigs—we sandpapery shakes down here, uh-huh.

Raskin: Here quicks Doctor Q.

Mooch: Does he have the Book with him or traveling light?

Raskin: Docttore Q, how churns the demise?

Dr. Q: Oh, it churns. It churns like the wintry sea a-thrash the rocks of Nova Scotus, a dun sky and a biter cold.

Raskin: The Moocher wants El Prez to toss a few here in the pewhouse and here here to what ails us. Say you?

Dr. Q: Sic transit moonbeams, Mr. Mooch. From the heights descend to alight—never.  

Mooch: People to people, the broad way now! Or we just go another mauling?

Raskin: A pint of thank-you-very-much-D40 and the tumbleway is greased for the falling.

Dr. Q: Boys, boys! Remember, the gloamy noose in the air hangs now not forever.

Mooch: From the Book of Pears, Doc? That sings!

Dr. Q: From the very book, Monsieur Mooch—for a pint now and the rest shall follow.

Mooch: Let me unpocket the jangles—R, you good for a handful?

Raskin: Full-a-throat so, and so in for a mouthful. Keep keeping, Keeperman. There may follow to be glassed over more and more by and by.

Moving Averages, So Moved

The next time some jackleg says, “Well, it’s just one degree”, please take this post and stick it to him in an email. While no doubt a degree of politicization is in the equation, more often than not I hear the sputtering of a member of the innumerati. And, yes, I just made that word up (I think): See neologism.

Perhaps folks just didn’t spend enough time with batting averages while growing up. First week of the season and a little-known-player goes 6 for 10 and he’s batting .600. Phenom? Next week he goes for 0 for 10 and now his average is .300. Dramatic drop, right? Check back with him after 500 at bats.

He’s batting .200 and is headed down to the minors. On a glorious Saturday afternoon in Wrigley, he goes 4 for 4. Keep him in the Bigs? Uh, no. His average moved—staggered—up to .206. He’s gone.

Here’s another way to think about the way numbers and averages work. Before the weekend he got a hit in 1 out of 5 at bats, and after his last swings, he now gets a hit in 4.85 bats—wanna round up?

Which is why, if I were to bat against a big-leaguer and magically managed to squib some lame duck over second base for a single, I would never bat again, and so forever claim that I batted a thousand (1.000) against professional pitching. And for the sake of the scenario, just imagine I loped out that single. Somehow. Against all odds.

Okay, so a one degree temperature move—same deal with the way the hits and at bats numbers averaged out. One day the high is 80, and the next 50. Average high, then, is 65. Twenty-eight days later, the average high is 62. On the last day of the month, 105 degrees of sweltering awfulness. Month averaged 63 (and, yes, I rounded down).

Now, 364 days into the year, the average high has been 60. On the last day of the year—we’re living down under—115 degrees. Your new average high is—ta dum!—60.15. Better fix the fan.

Finally, 100 years of an average high of 60 degrees, with some leap years in the pile, and on the first day of the new year, 124 degrees—yikes! So, 60.001 is your new average daily high for the 100 years.

With our thinking caps on, what do we surmise? When an average, weighted with over 36,000 data points, moves a degree, up or down, in a short span of time—something might be in the air.

No, I didn’t check my work.

No, I didn’t show my work.

Homework: How many days at 124 degrees would be needed to move the 100-year-average to 61 degrees? Too cataclysmic? How many days at 100?