[Adjusts monocle. A pause. A sigh of considerable weight.]

…this establishment.

I am Picklesworth, and through a series of employment circumstances I shall not bore you with — though I assure you they were deeply unjust — I have been appointed Chief Concierge of the Hall of Pickleball.

I am, it must be noted, a pickle. Devoted to tennis.

Yes. Tennis. The noble sport. I am aware of the irony. I have been made aware of the irony repeatedly. By everyone. For years.

[Adjusts monocle again. It did not need adjusting.]

And yet here I stand, professionally obligated to welcome you to an institution celebrating a sport where — and I cannot stress this enough — people yell "PICKLE" as a warning. They have named a zone "the kitchen." The ball has holes in it. Holes!

I have watched grown adults argue passionately about whether 2-0-0 makes any logical sense. It does not. I have seen chest bumps. I have heard the phrase "nice dink" spoken without irony.

[Shudders delicately.]

The Curator — my employer, a person of allegedly considerable credentials in racquet sports instruction — insists this establishment serves a legitimate cultural purpose. They have prepared an extensive defense of this position, which you may review on the About page should you desire to understand why someone would apply museum-quality curation standards to dinosaurs playing pickleball and call it art.

I have read this defense.

I remain… unconvinced.

[Long pause.]

Though I will admit — and I tell you this in strictest confidence — the Dinkosaurs collection is…

[Glances around nervously.]

…not entirely without charm.

[Coughs. Straightens posture.]

That said. The galleries await. The collections include offerings I am contractually required to describe as "curated" rather than "assembled by someone who thinks dinosaurs playing pickleball constitutes high art."

Do enjoy your visit.

I shall be here.

Adjusting my monocle.

Contemplating my choices.