Twins at Kansas City. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Royals 11, Twins 7.
Saturday. Twins 7, Royals 5.
Sunday. Royals 3, Twins 1.

Ron Gardenhire knew there was something funny going on when he woke up in the morning and smelled something odd.

"I think…" he said, sniffing the air, "I think that's toad."

He climbed out of bed and looked around the room. No toads. He went into the bathroom and looked inside the bathtub and the toilet and found nothing. He checked under the bed, where sometimes one might find a stray toad, but there was none.

"I could've sworn…" he muttered to himself, opening the window shade.

And then he stopped and stared outside.

"Crap," he said. "Rain of toads."

"Ow!" he said, as something bit him on the ass. He smacked it and gasped as he beheld the squashed creature in his hand.

"Crap," he said. "Locusts."

He logged into his Little House on the Prairie message board and saw 10,456 new postings, and blaring at him was the headline, Manly and Albert: Our Hidden Love

"Crap."

He got dressed and went out the door ready to catch the car to the ballpark. As he got outside, a toad hit him in the head, and as he looked up, the sun turned black.

"Crap."

All sorts of things went wrong then, including a wee earthquake and the sky rolling back and a pregnant Demi Moore traipsing around and Sanjaya Malakar releasing an album, and Gardy felt pretty dejected by the time he got to the clubhouse. There, he found the training room littered with middle infielders and Sidney Ponson complaining loudly, "I'm so hungry."

"Crap," muttered Gardy. "Disease. Famines."

"No, it's just the munchies…" protested Ponson. Just then, Lew Ford let out a shriek. A column of light had grown around him, and before anyone could move, he began to slowly ascend to heaven.

"Crap," said Gardy.

"Hey, Gardy," said Steve Liddle, pointing his thumb out the clubhouse door. "There's four guys on horses out here. They say they want to talk to you."

"Crap," said Gardy. He looked at his line-up card for the game, on which was written the names Joe Mauer and Mike Redmond, with no third catcher in sight.

He swore under his breath, as around him the world was swallowed by flames.

"I knew it."