Hammerheads,  here's the letter I have sent to Al Lighton to include in our
bid as way of pleading with Toaster to allow us in to NYF, despite my nasty
letter from last year.  Hope you guys don't mind wearing skirts.


Dear God of the Bids,

Last year, due mainly to the fact that I am the owner of a questionable
world view and a modem, I heaped harsh, if somewhat amusing invective on you
for our being an on again, off again, on again owner of a beloved NYF bid.
As it was, in you utmost kind and gentle way, you said I was a giant ass and
you were right.  When we danced at the party (being that you allowed our
humble Hammerhead team to participate even though I, the king of bad form,
was a member) I thought your gesture toward reconciliation was especially
touching, and your legs, while suffused with a downy and abundant coat,
strangely curvaceous and sublime.  I digress.  As we, my team being gentler
and more decent souls than I, progressed through the losers bracket of the B
pool, I thought to myself, yes, more of this please!  With these words of
contrite submission, I hope that you will see past my ill-chosen rhetorical
flourish from yesteryear, and find us a place in the beloved B.  As a side
note, there's always the chance that my heart condition will require
surgery, and you won't have to deal with my sloppy ass anyway.

As for the nature and quantity of our bribe, I suggest the following.  With
your approval, if we managed to get to some level of semi-final or such, or
better still, the finals of something, I propose we all wear kilts as a way
of expressing our gratitude for being allowed to participate in the festival
non-pareil of the frisbee world.  If that idea is too digusting, then I can
also, by way of removal, promise we will do no such thing as it would be
against your wishes and beyond the scope of decent human behavior.  I am not
decent, I agree, and the idea of cavorting across you're hardscrabble fields
ensconced in tartan folds gives me just the kind of charge I thrill to.
Heart murmur be damned, let's get busy.

I await your wise and kind decision.  That little snot-nosed control freak
Al Lighton awaits it as well.  If you demand that we be allowed entrance
only if I do not make the trip, I will consider your wishes mild and a
fitting punishment for my sorely tested karma.  If you can find it in your
heart to allow me to attend, I will kiss the hem of you garment with all the
metaphorical respect you so richly deserve.

Sincerely,

Allan E. Peterson, sphincter boy.