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railbird "Mikey the Tout" Hammer of Arlington.

Full Text (1245   words)
Copyright The Washington Post Company Apr 4, 2004

Breed

ALPHA TO OMEGA with

SHUFFLE PASS

and name the foal DELTA BAD HAND

BORIS JORDAN x MACH SPEED = AEROFLOT

PHILANTHROPIST x RUSH INTO HEAVEN = PAY AS YOU GO

It's Mate Madness time again, time for our annual Run for the Neuroses as we ask you to breed any two of the horses on a list of those qualifying for this year's Triple Crown races, and tell us a good name for their foal, as in the examples above. There's a difference this year, though: Instead of comprising all 400-plus early nominees, this list consists of a sensible 100 names: Most are taken from lists of experts' "top contenders"; some have been added by The Empress at her whim. This move, she hopes, will help preserve her sanity by limiting the possible combinations and permutations (and thereby the number of entries), and will also deter those maniacs who found the full list on the Web in February and have been thinking up names for weeks. Ironically, this year's list is more likely to include the eventual Kentucky Derby winner, since for the first time it includes all 15 late nominees, from whose ranks the winner often comes. (The list appears at the bottom of this page and on washingtonpost.com.) The actual genders of the horses don't matter. Maximum 18 characters, including spaces.

Listen up: Even with this truncated list, this is still a relatively easy contest to come up with some answers for. But that doesn't mean you ought to send in all 423 combinations that pop into your sorry little head. Go ahead, send as many entries as you like, but if there's nothing brilliant and original at the top of the list, we're not likely to make it to the bottom. And if you don't double-space them, they may be hurled trashward.

First-prize winner receives the Inker, the official Style Invitational Trophy. First runner-up wins a 1,000-piece Elvis jigsaw puzzle, as if you wouldn't have wasted enough time doing this contest.

Other runners-up win the coveted Style Invitational Loser T- shirt. Honorable mentions get one of the lusted-after Style Invitational Magnets. One prize per entrant per week. Send your entries via fax to 202-334-4312 or by e-mail to losers@washpost.com. Snail-mail entries are not accepted. Deadline is Monday, April 12. Put the week number in the subject line of your e-mail, or you risk being ignored as spam. Include your name, postal address and phone number with your entry. Contests are judged on the basis of humor and originality. All entries become the property of The Washington Post. Entries may be edited for taste or content. Results will be published May 2 (the day after the Derby). No purchase required for entry. Employees of The Washington Post, and their immediate relatives, are not eligible for prizes. Pseudonymous entries will be disqualified. The revised title for next week's contest is by Phyllis Reinhard of East Fallowfield, Pa. This week's contest was suggested an eternity ago by railbird "Mikey the Tout" Hammer of Arlington.

Report from Week 548, in which we asked you to tell us some hints that celebrities gave us as children about their destinies:

{diam}Fourth runner-up: Georgie Santayana flunked history, and had to repeat it.

(Brendan Beary, Great Mills)

{diam}Third runner-up: Little Kreskin was amazing -- even as a young child he knew he'd grow up to be a charlatan. (Russell Beland, Springfield)

{diam}Second runner-up: Ralphie Nader put training wheels on his training wheels.

(Milo Sauer, Fairfax)

{diam}First runner-up, the winner of the book "Wind Breaks: Coming to Terms With Flatulence": Baby Jessica Lynch had a normal birth, not an emergency Caesarean, and it took 2.5 hours, not 25 hours. (Tom Witte, Montgomery Village)

{diam}And the winner of the Inker: At the family's holiday gatherings, Frau

Schwarzenegger kept little Arnold occupied by putting him in charge of the

fruitcakes. (Walt Johnston, Woodstock, Md.)

{diam}Honorable Mentions:

Stevie King would wake up his parents at night to complain that there were no monsters under the bed.

(Chuck Smith, Woodbridge)

Little Ollie Stone suspected that more than one of his classmates -- perhaps Mrs. Stone as well -- was breaking the lead on his pencils.

(Jeff Brechlin, Potomac Falls)

"One day, Nicky, you're going to grow up and find that the world doesn't

revolve around you," warned

Mrs. Copernicus. (Brendan Beary)

Little Jerry Seinfeld drove his parents nuts with all his questions: "Why do they call it doo? All it does is sit there. And what's the deal with those two dogs?" (Mike Connaghan, Alexandria)

Little Donnie Quixote decorated his room with Red Sox pennants.

(Mike Genz, La Plata)

Donny Trump didn't have an imaginary friend: He had an imaginary toady. (Chuck Smith)

Billy Buckley defenestrated

dihydrogen-monoxide-engorged

spheroid bladders. (Milo Sauer)

Like any child with a Christmas

birthday, young Jesus always felt a bit

shortchanged. (Russell Beland)

That Davy Letterman always had 10

excuses for everything.

(Sanford Horn, Alexandria)

Al Sharpton's mommy told him the same lie that all parents tell their kids: "You can be anything you want

someday -- even president of the United States! (Ken Advent, Parma, Ohio)

To Al Einstein, it sure seemed that time moved slower when you were with your relatives. (Jeff Brechlin)

No one dreamed that little Michigan would grow up to be a famous dancer -- of course, he didn't have any legs as a tadpole. (Russell Beland)

After Buddy Selig's lucky ball was

stolen on a class trip to the nation's capital, Buddy vowed he'd never bring a baseball to Washington again.

(Walt Johnston)

Handwriting was Jenny Lopez's best subject -- her S was prettier than anyone else's.

(Frank and Cindy Curry, Kingwood, W.Va.)

Mikey Powell demanded a quarter every time someone uttered his dad's

obscene and indecent first name.

(Rich Mehrenberg, Manassas)

Georgie Orwell hated it when his older brother was left to watch him.

(Brendan Beary; Jeff Brechlin)

Little Anna Nicole Smith dated her

kindergarten teacher.

(Tom Witte; Marc Leibert, New York)

Jayson's second-grade teacher was

delighted with his book report on Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason." (Marc Leibert)

Little Rodney Dangerfield played

kick-the-can with the neighborhood boys. He was the can.

(Chris Doyle, Forsyth, Mo.)

Little Davey Gest couldn't wait for his first beard. (Chris Doyle; Chuck Smith)

Mrs. King warned Donnie not to put his fork near the electrical outlet . . .

(Mark Young, Washington)

Little Mickey Mantle was a fussy eater; at dinner he'd try to trade his liver for something to drink. (Russell Beland)

Little Monica could never remember to put her clothes in the laundry.

(Bill Spencer, Exeter, N.H.)

Little Byron White liked to write his name in the snow. (Tom Witte)

Jimmy Watson and Frankie Crick were always getting their Slinkys tangled up. (Mike Connaghan)

Billy Spooner kept asking people to play Don the Tail on the Pinky. (Chris Doyle)

Denny Kucinich liked to see if he could enter a room and no one would notice. (Roger and Pam Dalrymple, Gettysburg, Pa.)

"I'm telling you, Ted, if you keep making that awful face, it's going to freeze that way," warned Mrs. Williams.

(Elden Carnahan, Laurel)

Yet again, young Mohandas was sent to the principal's office for not fighting. (Elden Carnahan)

When the boys wanted to play doctor, Pammy Anderson would say, "Okay, you be the plastic surgeons."

(Scott Campisi, Wake Village, Tex.)

{diam}And Last: The parents of the Style

Invitational Czar had an unusual

potty-training method: "Poop! We want more poop! Show us the poop!"

(Jessica Lynne Mathews, Arlington)


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