Once upon a time, there was a ball. Although being a ball is equivalent to being imballs, and that's a state of nirvana that only people as screwed as balls can attain, there's nothing fundamentally wrong with being a ball-

Apart from a certain sense of ballsiness, that is. And the overwhelming imballness.

Actually I take that back. There's a lot of things wrong with being a ball.

But, unlike other balls that saw the truth of their situation (and rugby is a good example to all you balls out there. It saw the light and decided to get out onto the green field, and as a result turned oval and got promoted from a Ball to a Rugby), there's something weird about this ball. Something...different.

You see, this ball liked mountains. Note that the like is in the past tense, something that will be explained only at the end of the story for narrative suspense, which is supposed to keep the reader at the edge of the seat. Should that fail, slow and painful torture can be used as backup.

And, by a stroke of luck, ball managed to get very close to the mountains. It rolled around the mountain daily, and constantly gazed up at the looming silhouette of the mountain.

Like the old chinese proverb ai4 wu1 ji2 wu1, ball not only liked mountains. It also liked mounds and emulsions, and spent its time bouncing over mounds and doing chem just to watch emulsions, instead of trying to promote its status like a good ball should.

As the days passed, ball noticed how many other balls were getting titles, such as football, and felt the MOUNTING pressure on it to drop its little fascination with the mountain.

Which is where little mike came in. Little mike had never heard of balls before, but the vice versa could not be held to be true. Since balls first laid its round eyes on little mike, it decided that little mikey would be the one for it.

And since then, ball never bounced round the mountains again. Ball instead decide to roll discreetly behind little mikey, hoping that one day little mikey would turn around and pick it up to play with it. And who knows, maybe one day our little ball can, with little mike's help, turn into a sport.

And maybe the sport would be called suanning, but authorial intervention here is not allowed, so the story shall end thus, and I not progress into the later stages of the development of Suanning, a thoroughly fun sport consisting of balls and, well, balls.

--------------------------------------

Well, the moral of the story is, er, donch pcc. Yes. I grin.

Lichen was reightarded