Though I am new to the splort, I have gathered what I know to be a series of fundamental truths and rights of Blaseball fans. As a loyal, albeit fresh, follower of the Hawai’i Fridays, it deeply pains me to upset the vibes of any set of proceedings, but I feel I must speak. All who know the game know that the two main methods of participation for fans are the act of voting and the act of betting, which both depend inherently on possessing an amount of money to perform. This is where I come in; I began to participate in the cultural phenomenon known as Blaseball on the day of the postseason of Season 10. I had little in the ways of wealth; I could afford either to idolize a player or to cast a vote in the upcoming election, not both. Upon a careful vibe examination with my compatriots, I was advised to cast a vote, and save the rest of my funds for betting. I was assured at every turn, however, that I was not far from a decent sum of coin, as Eat The Rich was soon to go into effect. I waited with bated breath for the 1% to be reabsorbed into the fabric of the fans, for their wave to return to the ocean; I had selected Nagomi McDaniel as my soon-to-be idol, and only required a few more coins to place her upon the pedestal. I was appalled when the coin required simply did not appear. I come before you today not only as a fan, but as a person, and appeal to your sensibilities; please, let us consume the most wealthy members of this beautiful splort. For the economy.
In the interest of not having the case be decided solely by the fact that “The commissioner is doing a great job”, I have compiled a PowerPoint showing that there are, in fact, several possible definitions of “great”, and that that statement does not prove which one it is using. I take the bold stance that it is possible to do a great job badly, and that doing a great job does not exempt Parker from the responsibilities of his actions.
Twenty-plus microwaves duct-taped together in our collective basement.
(Three figures in hooded orange robes and Chicken masks address the camera.)
CHIPOTLE: Is this thing on…Yes there’s the little red light. Um…so we are here to give evidence.
GARLIC: You should say who we are.
CHIPOTLE: Good point. I am known as Chipotle, I am the Occulinary Sous Chef of the Gastronomic Conjury Guild. The Executive Occulinary Chef, BUFFALO is unavailable. Because he’s trapped in a battle with a Fried Mushroom Spirit.
GARLIC: I am Garlic, and I’m a Senior Sauceror with the GCG.
MEDIUM: I’m Medium, and my position with the GCG is um…well I’m a medium, and a line cook.
CHIPOTLE: Garlic, why don’t you give just a little background on what the GCG is and what evidence we are presenting?
GARLIC: Right, so the Mexico City Wild Wings’ General Manager is a being known as Guy Flieri, but he’s not a being that exists in within conventional space time, or even whatever passes for that in the Immaterial Plane. So the Gastronomic Conjury Guild exists to interpret the sauce stains he leaves behind, which are his way of communicating. And also to cook the concessions for Wild Wings home games.
CHIPOTLE: The Wild Wings part of the lawsuit is of course in the hands of the WIld Wing’s famous Legal Team, but Guy Flieri did feel, in his role as general manager that he should make a statement. Garlic, please proceed
GARLIC: We found a sauce stain of an Ancho Chile and Peach sauce. The unusual combination may suggest Flieri speaking in area he doesn’t understand well. Oh and on Case Sport’s recommendation we would like to mention that the General Manager is not used to formal proceedings and we are merely reporting what he said. So without further ado, take it away Medium!
MEDIUM SPEAKING AS GUY FLIERI: “Welcome Back to the Bucket! I am Guy Flieri! Today I am here to address a matter in the High and Mighty Sunbeams Court. Blaseball players voted to Eat the Rich but the eating hasn’t happened. What’s going on? Did you just forget? Did you figure that since the Big old Calamari ate the Peanut that that decree was no longer in force?
That’s no way to run a railroad, or a splorts league! The players voted on that decree and that seals it in to blaseball like breading seals in the juices of a fried wing. So you need to give those players their wings. Let me put it a different way. Imagine there was a grocery store, but it was a fake grocery store, and you used it for a game show. And you promised the winner a funkalicious prize, right? But then for some reason you let the producers keep that prize? That’s no way to act on television! Are the games on television? Is there revenue from that? How is it being distributed? Case, could you check on the TV thing?
So what I’m saying one chef to one…weird big coin thing…and to Parker is give the people what they were promised. Um…that’s covers it I think? Go Wings! Eat the RIch!”
CHIPOTLE: So um there you have it. Oh Case told me to say, “may it please the court.” so I hope you are pleased.
You were looking for evidence. You opened a drawer. There was a bottle of [REDACTED] and a tape recorder in it. It was dusty. You have in your inventory: an lost voice recording of a report from Noperative (Noir Operative). You listen to it. Parker is named. It might be of interest, or it might have never happened.
Forest and Anonymous Relation
(Note: below is the transcript of the above audio. Please listen to the audio if you can. It’s fantastic.)
There was a woman. There is always a woman. This woman was all legs. Only legs. At least seventeen of em, and no mouth. She communicated with a modified version of ASL. She came in crying, but then smiled, when I made it clear that I saw through her farcical display. She stopped smiling, when we both remembered legs could not smile.
She was angry, you see. Angry at the world, at the endless cycle of existence, never beginning or ending, always crawling, continuing, breathing, writhing…
Anyway, to be specific, she was angry at her partner. They had been coming home late these past few weeks, looking flushed and exhilarated. Excuses about ‘big plans at work’ and ‘the coffee machine would only give O negative blood’, would be familiar topics around the breakfast table.
“There can only be one reason behind this,” the woman exclaimed to me. “They are practicing Blaseball without me! I cannot believe he” — here she wiggled her toes in a most rude manner — “would do this to me. It has been our dream to join a team together. I want you to follow him and find proof of this betrayal.”
“And what will you do with this information?” I asked. An operative should always have a sense of the consequences of their missions, even if said consequences will be redacted post haste.
“I will [insert long swearing peep],” she said.”
I nodded and said, “Alright. I will take the case.”
The woman stood, and stood again, and stood several more times before toeing me a business card. “Here is his office’s contact information,” she said, “so you can confirm he has not been working.”
The card was of high quality paper. On the face was a forbidden symbol, indescribable and incomprehensible, and on the back stood in fine print “Parker MacMillan the third, intern.” Below the name was a telephone number I could not repeat out loud.
The woman turned towards the door, but I stopped her with a high pitched whistle.
I asked, “Before you go, which team did you and your partner want to join?”
She let out something like a wistful sigh, if she’d had a mouth, and said, “The Baltimore crabs.”
I nodded. I had suspected as such. And even if I hadn’t suspected it at all and was in fact quite surprised, it was not like anyone could hear my thoughts and discern the truth.
The doorbell jingled as the woman waggled her way outside.
It was raining still. It is mostly raining. And it was night. But the woman was not bothered by the gloomy weather. She had no umbrella, but instead it seemed as if the rain droplets all individually decided not to land upon her, creating a gentle circle around her form.
The gaslight lanterns gave an orange glow to this shield of water, and when she reached the corner of the street, she disappeared with a flash of light.
I played with the card in my left hand, while reaching out for my glass of deep red whiskey with the other. it smelled like wine, as it always has done.
Sipping my definitely-whiskey, I pondered the circumstances of my new case. I mused on the potential implications of the information that had been laid before my admittedly lacking feet. The future told me, by way of soulscream, that there was something of import behind it all, yet my stomach told me, by way of rumbling, that it was time for dinner. The latter won out.
After my agency-sanctioned food coma, the rain had stopped pouring. It was day. It might have always been day. And yet it was dark, yesterday. Or was it? It must have been. The woman. The legs. Parker. Or was it not Parker at all? Was it John? Or Simon?
The card was gone.
There was no burn mark of destruction, which would be expected when a business card of high quality disappeared from sight. Instead, my desk was slightly wet. It smelled like the sea.
My stomach reminded me it was time for breakfast. It won out.
When I finished, a new woman came. There is always a woman. No legs, this time. I honestly could not say if there were legs, last time. There hadn’t been legs in this office for over 25 years.
I sipped my blood red whiskey. I listened to smiling lies.
Information on the Fridays’ trouble with the Close! decree due to Parker’s actions:
Is legal drama vibes??
Anyways: after “Close! The Book” passed in the season 11 elections, the following passage was added to the forbidden book:
This has been of great concern to the Fridays, as our traditional team culture has been to not have any permanent stadium, and simply place the bases down wherever the vibes are best.
However, after discussing initial ballpark possibilities, we realized something: after the costs of helping our new crabs players move to join the team (including every citizen of Montgomery County, Maryland) and without the expected cash inflow from the Book’s currently suspended Section 6, subsection h. decree that redistributes the 1%’s wealth to the rest of the 99%, we simply do not have the budget to build a ballpark!
It is unreasonable of Parker and the ILB to expect such large scale construction from us, when they have removed one of our most consistent revenue streams.
If we were unable to build a stadium because of this, it 😉 sure 😉 would 😉 be 😉 a 😉 shame. -The Hawai’i Fridays
(Note: This document can be found in .pdf form on Holden Milk Legal’s website. We are republishing it here, with their permission, in order to have all of our evidence collected in 1 place, but we really recommend you check out their site!)
A statement of personal impact from a member of the 1% who wanted to get eaten and didn’t, and who isn’t super happy about that. Filed in support of the Millenials and the 99%
Anonymous member of the 1%
A personal statement of impact
From a prospective member of the 1%, anonymously filed for the attention of the court.
The nature of Eat The Rich is well known: It is decreed that the 99% of the population will feast on the wealthiest 1%. This has been the case since Season 3, when it was first introduced. On arrival to the cultural event of Blaseball, senior fans informed myself and others of this decree so that I may account for it when budgeting funds for the end of season when doing things such as purchasing upgrades, buying votes, or ensuring that the start of the next season had enough to bet with.
At the end of Season 10, I decided that I wanted to put myself forward for this and see my funds redistributed. As a prospective member of the 1% who was looking forward to being consumed, I was therefore dismayed when my wealth remained my own and Eat The Rich was not actioned.
As an established fan, I am in a position where my wealth can be recovered easily. I had a well-paying idol set out ahead of time, and maxed-out pendants to work with this. Begging for coins with which to bet is not exactly the most graceful of starts to a season, but it is a humbling experience I had braced myself for. It is a situation from which I was entirely capable and also willing to recover from.
Not only did not getting eaten deprive me of the ability to see my funds distributed out to others, it also deprived me of the ability to provide SIBR with research information about getting eaten. Like many others, I have a great deal of respect for the work done by SIBR, and was looking forward to an opportunity to participate in furthering the cause of science.
Being deprived of this chance also left me feeling dismayed and let down. Look. At the end of the day, the 99% need to eat, and that means there needs to be something there for them to eat. The job of the remaining 1% with the most wealth is to be eaten so they may sustain their peers. This is not a dirty thing, but should be regarded as an honour and a solemn duty. I considered it to be a point of pride that I was in a position where I could step forward for such a thing. I have personally witnessed a number of other players who are in greater need of these funds, such as those who are trapped with a negative coin balance, or just starting and trying to purchase their first improvements. How, in good conscience, can we rejoice on the first day of the season when our peers cannot?
In conclusion: This decree failing to be actioned has had a negative impact both on the 99%, who are now suing the Commissioner and The Coin, but on the 1% who were looking forward to having their wealth distributed fairly and for a good cause. We are hoping for a clean and