Wednesday, August 20, 2025
Column 696
Stewie the Sloth Starts the Jungle Premier League
Once upon a time there was a sloth. His name was Stewie. He was slow, lazy, and always a little high from chewing funny jungle leaves. Stewie had never managed anything, never written more than a shopping list, and never finished anything he started. The only time he ever held any “stature” was through lies and manipulation, and all the animals knew it.
The antelopes knew how to run fast. The beavers knew how to build dams. The birds knew how to fly south when the cold came. Everyone in the jungle knew something useful. But Stewie? Stewie knew nothing. He was incompetent. He was a phony.
One day, some of the animals handed Stewie a job. They knew it was a job he couldn’t possibly do, at least honestly. They thought it would be amusing to watch. “You can do it, Stewie,” they said, smiling politely, while laughing behind his back.
Stewie wanted to look important. He always did. He puffed himself up, pawned off AI-generated nonsense as if it were his own brilliant writing, chased cheap women to look like a big shot, and booked first-class vines so he could strut through the jungle as if he mattered.
So… Stewie got to work on his “job.” He announced the creation of the Premier Jungle League of Darts. He claimed it would be the grandest competition ever held, with all the jungle animals vying for glory.
He promised walk-ons with parrots screeching theme songs, elephants stomping the dirt to create stage smoke, and fireflies forming laser beams in the night sky. At first, the animals loved the concept. Stewie even unveiled “star players”:
Marvin the Monkey (a thinly veiled Michael van Gerwen) – fast, ferocious, and always throwing 11-darters with a scream that rattled the canopy.
Tallulah the Toucan (hello, Peter Wright) – flamboyant feathers dyed a different color every week, with a habit of taking five minutes to choose his darts.
Gareth the Gorilla (Gerwyn Price, of course) – muscles bulging, chest-thumping after every checkout, terrifying the smaller animals at the oche.
Stanley the Snake (a parody of James Wade) – slow, steady, deadly on doubles, but liable to hiss at the referee if things didn’t go his way.
Stewie promised riches and fame. He plastered banana leaves with slogans like “The Greatest League on Earth” and “History Will Be Made Under the Canopy.”
There was just one problem: Stewie didn’t know diddly about darts. He couldn’t hit a double if it was painted on his paw.
Once at practice by the watering hole, Marvin, Tallulah, Gareth, and Stanley were banging in 140s. Stewie? He threw three darts – straight into a sleeping hippo. His scoring was so bad that the scorers refused to chalk his legs, muttering, “We’re not adding up negatives.”
Still, Stewie strutted like he was the Barry Hearn of the jungle. He promised big prize money in clams he didn’t have and convinced sponsors (mostly dung beetles) to “invest.”
In short order, the animals who were impressed at first walked away.
“Why aren’t they taking me seriously?” Stewie moaned. “I worked hard – well, I copied hard – and I’ve created the first-ever Premier Jungle League! Why are they laughing at me?”
“Because you’re a fraud,” squawked Penelope the peacock. “You can’t write, you’re a liar not a leader, you can’t manage, and you can’t play darts.”
“That’s right, mate,” muttered Nigel the newt (who, oddly, had a British accent). “Your so-called Premier League is rubbish – a blind hedgehog could run it better.”
Stewie wilted. “But what am I supposed to do? I’ve already promised greatness.”
At that moment, Leo the lion strolled by. “Yo,” he growled, “find someone smart to do the work – slap your name on it, and take the credit. That’s how useless animals get by. That’s what you have always done.”
So, Stewie did. He found Harold the hawk, who actually knew darts. Stewie convinced Harold to draft the schedules, design the logo, and write the league rules. Stewie copied Harold’s work, slapped his name on it, and strutted like he’d invented the bullseye.
Briefly, the animals took renewed interest in Stewie’s tournament.
But Harold wasn’t stupid. He realized he was doing all the work while Stewie collected all the credit and continued to live the high life – swinging on first-class vines and chasing more jungle flings (he already had more than one out-of-wedlock sloth baby) and promoting “his” Premier League with more AI banana leaf propaganda.
Harold broke away.
He launched the Real Jungle Open. Marvin, Tallulah, Gareth, Stanley, and the rest ditched Stewie and signed with Harold instantly. The animals swarmed to the clearing to watch Harold’s league. The fireflies lit up the stage, the monkeys chanted “One-hun-dred-and-eeeeeeighty!” and the jungle had its first real night of darts.
Meanwhile, Stewie’s Premier Jungle League? Empty. Forgotten. His fake sponsors pulled out. His prize fund never materialized. Even the hyenas, who loved a good laugh, stopped bothering with him.
Stewie was finished. His pile of AI-generated banana-leaf rubbish rotted in the mud. His reputation, always a see-through mirage, crumbled to nothing.
The moral (for all fables must have one): Lies have speed but truth has endurance. In darts, as in life, you can’t fake a 180, you can’t bluff a bullseye, and you can’t build a Premier League if you don’t know squat about the sport. And you sure as hell can’t steal respect that isn’t yours.
Stay thirsty, my friends,
Dartoid
