The smallest dinosaur fossils ever found belong to Apatosaurus pusillus, known to archaeologists as the “pygmy bronto.” Native to the western regions of what would later become the North American continent, pygmy brontos lived during the Lower and Middle Jurassic periods. Adult males stood around three quarters of an inch tall, measuring on average three inches in length from nose to tail. They roamed in great herds that often numbered in the hundreds. Vast though these herds were, they likely passed undetected through the plains, appearing to other animals as nothing more than a rustle in the grass. Indeed, evidence of pygmy brontos falling victim to predators is rare. They were herbivores, consuming what vegetation they could reach and standing atop one another — sometimes thirteen or fourteen at a time — to reach low-hanging leaves. Fossil records of Apatosaurus pusillus end abruptly 160 million years ago. Archaeologists believe that they were wiped out by the impact of a tiny asteroid.

Scorpius
What we see today as the scorpion was known by the Vikings as Dagrustýrfål, a scar that runs across the forehead of Týr, the Norse god of war. As it is told in the songs of Valhalla, Týr was notoriously self-conscious about his scar, and would have been horrified to learn of its immortalization in the stars. The idea for the name was likely planted in the heads of mortals by the trickster god Loki, who liked to make fun of Týr but was actually quite envious of his popularity.

Cygnus
Cygnus the swan, which graces the summer sky, was called Mängaflicka, or “The Dancing Maiden.” However, for Cygnus to be seen as a dancing maiden, the 3 stars in her left arm would necessitate a third arm segment, joined by a second elbow. Though rare, this condition does exist among women of Scandinavian descent. The medical term is tertiary limb segmentation. To someone less polite, such women are called “mantis jointed.”

Orion
Orion the hunter is one of the most widely recognized constellations. To the Vikings, he was seen as a squid, locked in eternal life-or-death struggle with a reindeer, while a mouse watched. The squid (Utveck) represented the sea, and the reindeer (Frågfråg) represented the land. These were the two primal elements of Nordic culture, and Viking imagery is rich with the contrast between them. The mouse watching was just a mouse watching. Mice are curious, and like to watch things.

Ursa Major & Ursa Minor
These went by the names Stor Huvud and Föga Huvud, or “Great Head” and “Little Head.” They were the heads of the conquered, trophies earned through blood and honor. The Vikings used to bring them home as presents for their wives, to show them the various places they had been on their latest voyage. The woman with the most diverse collection of heads was in charge when the men were away.

Draco
The mighty dragon of today was then Den Lågg, “The Kite.” The 9th century Viking warlord Algot the Wrathed named the constellation for his young son Ragnar, who had a kite he loved dearly. By all accounts, Algot was a good family man, though the long hours of pillaging caused tension in the home. Ragnar refused to follow into the family business of raiding, which infuriated his father. He was never able to earn his respect, despite opening a successful chain of fur and leather outlet stores. After the death of Algot’s wife Ingegard, the two men grew apart, and rarely spoke in the later years of Algot’s life. Ragnar’s son Torgny claimed in his autobiography, “We Burned His Body Upon A Boat Of Wood,” that Ragnar kept the actual kite all his life. Their story was the basis for the 1974 Harry Chapin hit, “Cat’s in the Cradle.”

Cassiopeia
The Vikings called it “W,” because it is clearly a W in the sky. To think of it as a crown, or whatever the hell it is we call it now, is asinine.

A 13th century text uncovered by culinary folklore historian Illyrio Mopat describes the proper deployment of a pretzel:

“Yarn doone your prettzel when the moon does cast her scole baleful eye upon thee. For yon, the lycanthrope does lurke among the wooded foreste trees, there to devour flesh and soule. Hange your prettzel upon a chaine of silver, there to hoark and dangle about your neck where it does lend itself to swifte handlement. When in the wooded foreste, brandish yarn prettzel in the hand. Whene’er a shade does shift or noises do poltern, hold faste upon the prettzel and speak ‘Hark ren lycanthropite, here be prettzels, come no further.’ Shoulde auld lycanthrope speak in returne, seal thine ears, for he soils them with falsehood, oft sounding as a guiltless childe or mead-vendor.” (Mopat, “Of Darkness and Baked Goods,” pp. 131-2, Oxford University Press, 1904)

“Ready thine pretzel, a werewolf is over there.”

The crossed “arms” of the pretzel represented the blessed arms of God, blocking the werewolf’s gaze and and hypnotic powers from reaching the monk who wielded it. The salt was meant as a preservative both literally and figuratively — to keep the pretzel fresh, and to maintain its holy potency throughout the phase of the full moon.

In time, of course, the monks began to realize that their sole protection from savage death by claw and fang also happened to be completely delicious. By the mid-1400s, less disciplined monks were making up excuses for why their werewolf-bane kept vanishing, and the discovery of mustard in 1486 strained their wills even further. Soon, even the most devout monks were eating them. Monks and their pretzels became a well-known source of humor, as illustrated by this typical Commedia Dell’Arte scenario:

Il Dottore: You mustn’t eat your pretzel! The werewolves will rend your flesh in the forest!
Arlecchino: Think you that I am a fool? I would never leave myself defenseless. That’s why I’m eating your pretzel!
Pantalone: (jingles change purse)

The pretzel’s origins have far-reaching effects, even today. Superstitions about pretzels persist in parts of Europe, passed from generation to generation. So long as there are grandmothers baking treats for young children, there will be those who believe that the pretzel will save them from the werewolf. And that the undead can be thwarted with cupcakes.

The map of that journey is etymology. An etymologist traces the history of words, locating their first usage, how they have evolved, and other information that comes in handy for impressing first dates.

This is not to be confused with entomology, the study of bugs, which are disgusting and should be eradicated from the face of creation.

Here now, AN presents the etymologies of some common words — perhaps words you have used in conversation today! Though probably not.

Hook • 13th Century, from the Old English hauk, a curved piece of iron used to handle infants.

Chimney • From the ancient Greek chimera, a mythical beast which breathed smoke and often clung to the sides of houses during winter.

Muzzle • Mid-15th century, entered parlance in the court of an Italian count named Muozzoli, who was notoriously hard to understand.

Glossary • From the Latin gloci, meaning “daft” or “mad,” evolved into French glossaire, “to list things with a precision that borders on batshit crazy.”

Beanbag • 1880s, from the Danish bienbacht, a popular type of chair that offered near-perfect comfort, but which drew odd looks if owned by someone over the age of 25.

Intimidation • Built from Latin prefix inti, meaning “through,” and midatus, the act of running away screaming like a child — an act that was deemed honorable among the patricians of Rome.

Piggyback • Earliest usage in 1730s Philadelphia, where riding a pig was a common form of transportation.

Impenetrable • Late 12th century impfenetre, compound of “imp” and “fenêtre,” the French word for “window.” According to lore, imps have some of the hardest to open windows in all of Hades.

Pasture • Origin unknown, likely coined in 14th century because nothing rhymed with “moisture.”

Eradicate • 16th century, derived from Slavic eradsma, an endless hate that is all-consuming, especially when referring to bugs.

It is a popular misconception that the award was named for Denton True “Cy” Young, the Hall of Fame pitcher who played from the 1890s through the early 20th century. In actuality, the award’s name is short for “Cycle of the Young.” It was so named because pitchers of that era frequently became confused and feebleminded after the age of 28 or 29, gradually sinking into a nightmarish vortex of half-reality. The best pitchers, therefore, were almost always in their mid-20s. (Future generations of pitchers were spared a similar fate when MLB banned the use of mercury in rosin bags in 1961.)

For the first eleven years the award was given, there was only one recipient — one true outstanding pitcher throughout the game. But few people today know that the award was not split between the American and National Leagues for reasons of fairness or generosity. That particular development was actually the result of a bookkeeping error at Thompson Trophy & Monument in Detroit, makers of the Cy Young plaque itself. When two copies of the plaque were delivered to MLB commissioner William Eckert at a press conference honoring 1967 winner Mike McCormick, Eckert thought it impolite to point out the error and nervously stammered an announcement that there would now be two recipients. He awarded the other one to Jim Lonborg on the spot. Unwilling to correct the mistake, MLB has given two awards ever since.

As a matter of fact, there is a great deal of evidence suggesting that there was never a professional baseball player by the name of “Cy Young” in the first place. Historians believe the character was likely invented during World War I as a propaganda device against the Kaiser.

Plant hunters will traverse the globe in search of a particularly rare bloom, but one orchid may be prized above all others. It is Apostasia abscondita, otherwise known as Ophelia’s Wraith, or simply the Wraith. Few have ever seen the Wraith, and fewer still have gotten close enough to study it. What little information we know paints a picture of a truly magnificent flower, whose beauty is so exquisite that Tchaikovsky allegedly once quipped, “I cannot recreate in five movements what the Wraith does with none.”

Ophelia’s Wraith is found only in the coastal regions of Argentina, Chile and Peru. It grows in the shade of the rain forest canopy, on slopes facing west, where the ground is sufficiently damp and there is ample breeze. They will not grow if there are too many salamanders nearby, but they have difficulty if there are too few, as well. Estimates vary, but there are believed to be only around a dozen Wraiths alive at any given time.

From a slender stalk, the Wraith produces a single flower of pale yellow, streaked at the center and edges streaked with a dark, almost vampiric crimson. The flower unfurls only in the mornings and late afternoons, closing for shelter between the hours of 11:00 AM and 3:30 PM. It is pollinated only by a particular hummingbird, Heliodoxa proeliati, which itself has only been glimpsed a handful of times. Excessively loud noises can kill the plant instantly.

Waxy, orbiculate leaves radiate in nested layers down the length of the stalk. The leaves will crumble to ash if glared at too harshly. Robbed of the ability to photosynthesize, the flower wilts and dies a slow death. As it does so, it exudes a chemical that can be sensed by other plants nearby, which then wilt and die as well, an affect known as “abscondita sadness.”

The closest photo ever taken of Apostasia abscondita. The flower can be seen towards the back, on the left.

Reaching the Wraith’s habitat requires a long journey on foot, since it has never been seen closer than 30 miles from human activity. Once a specimen is spotted, it must be approached quietly and calmly over the course of several days. There have been reports of botanists going mad simply from the strain of approaching a Wraith. They run off into the jungle, and most are never heard from again. Those that do survive are hollow shells — husks that have been drained of all logic or reason.

The scent of the Wraith changes, depending on (among other things) soil acidity, seismic activity, and phase of the moon. At any given time, the flower may smell like fine perfume, strawberries, coffee, library books, cinnamon, paint, fresh baked bread, white wine, gunpowder, rain storms, or a new car.

Researchers speculate that the elusive flower could have extraordinary medicinal properties. South American tribal cultures have used it as a cure-all for centuries, even claiming that it has restored life to the dead. They do tend to exaggerate events over time, though — a problem they wouldn’t freaking have if they wrote things down every now and then. Regardless, there is likely some validity to the health claims. A 1992 study published in The New England Journal of Medicine found compelling evidence that a tincture of abscondita restored to full health a man who had been suffering from type 1 diabetes, bone marrow cancer, and a lawnmower accident.

The call of Ophelia’s Wraith is unlikely to fade. So long as it remains out there in the wilderness, its name will conjure flights of fancy and dreams of grandeur in botanists around the world.

Because let’s face it, they really are a sheltered bunch.

The year was 1979, and the Cincinnati Bengals were hoping to erase the memory of a dismal 4-12 season. Coach Homer Rice decided that what the team needed was inspiration. Something regal, something forceful, something whose presence could not be ignored. When players arrived for training camp, they were surprised/concerned to discover Rice’s choice of inspiration — an actual Bengal tiger.

The tiger, named Atisakti (a Hindi word meaning great power or honor), accompanied the team throughout training camp. He stalked the sidelines, lurked in the dark during game-film sessions, and watched with an unnerving calm as players ate in the cafeteria. At first the team thought Rice had lost his mind, but soon found that they were practicing with a vigor and pride that they had lacked the year before. When they started mowing down their pre-season opponents, every one of them agreed, to a man, that Atisakti was the reason.

Unfortunately, a small problem lay on the horizon. The Bengals’ first game was on the road, against a Denver team that had won the division the previous year. Players and coaches alike came to the same conclusion: somehow, they had to get Atisakti to Mile High Stadium.

After much deliberation, the team devised a plan to smuggle the tiger in their equipment truck. One of the equipment managers had a cousin who worked for the stadium’s ground crew, and was able to arrange a minor diversion when the Bengals arrived. Emboldened by their totem of strength, the team took the field as champions, ready to claim their first victory.

Until Atisakti followed them through the tunnel onto the field, and immediately made a murderous dash for the Broncos’ mascot horse. The horse, a mare named Whisper, made a good run of it for a while, but the tiger’s agility proved too much. As tens of thousands of horrified fans watched, Atisakti ate Whisper on the 35 yard line.

The Bengals lost the game, 10-0. They would go on to an identically dismal 4-12 record. Homer Rice did not return as coach in 1980.

These specimens were like nothing seen before. They defied classification, and unveiled a variety of prehistoric life that previously had been unthinkable. For over a century, the shale has yielded new species — creatures that remain a source of fascination even today.

For example, Opabinia tussis was originally identified as the mouth and antennae of a larger animal, before Dr. Christian Knoxson properly described it in 1921. It is thought to be the only organism of the Cambrian period that used sneezing as a form of locomotion.

Anomalocaris pugni, first classified in 1951, was a shrimp-like organism that was 90% fist. By contrast, the fists of modern shrimp are barely 2% of their total mass.

A team from Northwestern University first classified Marella plaustria in 1966, describing it as “a very small Volkswagen with claws and a propeller.”

Amplectobelua proboscid, discovered in 1917, most closely resembled a whale caught in flagrante with a unicorn, only if the whole thing were three inches long.

Kerygmachela vescora kind of looked like a lobster that tried to eat a radiator but gave up halfway through. It was added to the taxonomy in 1948.

Pambdelurion peteria more or less resembled a stealth bomber with tiny chainsaws for feet. It was named in 1977 for a guy named Pete, though no one thought to write down who Pete was.

And then of course there was Dinocarida marisequum, “The Jewel of the Burgess” as it came to be known, an almost perfectly preserved creature that pretty much looked like a seahorse made out of drywall screws.

The shale may well have secrets it has yet to divulge. If so, it’s a fairly good bet these wondrous new species, like their predecessors before them, will give children sufficient nightmares to scar them for life.

And so was born Brewer’s Best, the only microbrewery ever to be fully owned and operated by a Major League franchise. Brewer’s Best Lager and Brewer’s Pale Ale were to be the flagship brands, with Brewer’s Amber Harvest and Milwaukee Stout catering to aficionados.

Then there was Brewer’s .300 Ale.

A discount beer, .300 Ale was intended for rural markets. “Nothing fancy, nothing flashy, just a .300 hitter” went the slogan. (The Brewers themselves, of course, had no .300 hitters, and wouldn’t until George Scott barely passed the mark in 1973.) The four premium brands faltered, but .300 Ale became an immediate hit on college campuses and at high school parties, selling at corner stores and supermarkets until 1978.

Many who came of age in 70’s Wisconsin remember the beer fondly—today, .300 Ale neon bar lights sell for as much as $100 on eBay. Selig and his advisors never understood why the other beers failed, but industry experts agree it probably had something to do with the fact that they all tasted like bat piss.

Among her 819 records:

• Largest ball of melted crayons (1.3 meters in diameter)
• Longest unbroken streak listening to dial tone (2 days, 4 hours)
• Most times seen “The Last Emperor” (322)
• Longest streak standing on one foot at the Four Corners (47 hours, 56 minutes)
• All time high score in Dig Dug (maxed the score at 99999, then continued playing for another 49 minutes)
• Shortest time skinning & cleaning a 12-point buck (1 minute, 37 seconds)
• Longest time taken to read Joyce’s “Dubliners” without at any point putting it down (6 days, 7 hours)
• Largest collection of game-used hockey sticks (214 and counting)
• Most teeth (33, born with an extraneous incisor)
• Most teeth removed (33, now wears dentures)
• Most starring roles in coffee commercials (12—tie, record shared with Sharon Maughan and Anthony Stewart Head)
• Most consecutive sneeze-burps (108)
• Longest frisbee toss while dancing, tap (127.6 meters)
• Longest frisbee toss while dancing, jazz/modern (114.1 meters)
• Longest frisbee toss while dancing, folk (184.3 meters)
• Owner of oldest dog (Killer, a pug, age 31 years at time of passing)
• Fastest complete disassembly of a Chevy Nova (1 hour, 54 minutes)
• Most bicycles eaten on a High Holy Day (3)
• Longest streak watching “Barney Miller” reruns (4 days, 15 hours before collapsing—the record of which she is most proud)
• Most sand carried in backpack for entire month (54 pounds)
• Fewest shoe laces used since high school (2)
• Largest dodecahedron made of tin foil (total volume 4.9 cubic meters)
• Most oranges simultaneously fit in mouth (7)
• Longest philosophical argument without devolving into personal attacks (6 hours, 21 minutes—after which she exploded into a profanity-laced tirade that made her opponent weep)

Now 78, Abernathy is currently planning her next record. Something to do with basketballs. She hasn’t decided exactly what.