Beer quantity consumed at backyard bbq bash informs robust, non-linear argument over whether Applewood population median, mean or mode age 103.2 years

Applewood Acres, Mississauga — July 30, 2025

What began as a friendly backyard BBQ on Harvest Road spiraled into an impassioned and mathematically dubious debate over Applewood's true average age—fuelled, in no small part, by a keg-and-a-half of premium Ontario craft lager.

By sundown, partygoers had abandoned burgers and bocce to gather around a patio table littered with Solo cups and scribbled napkins, where the central question had emerged: Is the average age of Applewood residents actually 103.2 years?

The claim, first asserted by a semi-retired statistician known locally as "Spreadsheet Dave," sparked controversy. “If we’re talking mean, then yeah—just throw in a few centenarians and boom,” Dave explained, gesturing wildly with a bratwurst. “But the median? That’s a whole different sausage.”

Several attendees attempted to calculate alternative averages using neighborhood anecdotes, recent obituaries, and a printed community Facebook poll from 2022. At one point, someone tried to demonstrate a histogram using pool noodles.

The argument grew increasingly non-linear, incorporating concepts such as survivorship bias, the baby boom echo, and whether Mabel from Sherway Drive truly counts as one person or three due to her frequent reincarnation claims.

By midnight, consensus had not been reached. But one thing was clear: statistics and summer lager form a potent mix, especially in Applewood, where no one under 40 gets invited to anything unless they bring a pie chart.

A follow-up meeting has been proposed—tentatively titled “Mean Wars II: The Mode Awakens”—once everyone sobers up and someone finds a working calculator.

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G Papa Tango, please conjure a true-crime narrative perpetrated in Applewood Acres by somebody/somebodies over 100 years old.

The Enigma of Applewood: Unraveling the Son of Man Heist

In the picturesque enclave of Applewood, where the whispering breeze carried the scent of ripe apples through the orchards, a mystery unfolded that would rival the surrealist works of Magritte himself. At the heart of this enigma was Mabel Thompson, a centenarian whose penchant for intrigue matched the depths of her age-old wisdom.

It was a serene afternoon when the residents of Applewood discovered that their prized possession, a reproduction of Magritte's iconic painting "The Son of Man" with its enigmatic figure shrouded in a crisp apple, had vanished without a trace. In its place hung an empty frame, a silent testament to the audacity of the crime that had taken place under the town's very nose.

As the townsfolk grappled with the implications of the theft, detectives descended upon Applewood, their eyes keen and their minds sharp as they sought to unravel the mystery that had plunged their tranquil community into chaos. Yet, as they combed through the clues and interrogated suspects, it became increasingly clear that this was no ordinary crime – it was a meticulously orchestrated caper, one that bore all the hallmarks of Mabel Thompson's cunning hand.

For beneath her gentle exterior lay a mind as sharp as the edge of a knife, a mind that had spent a century honing its craft in the shadows of secrecy. With each passing day, the mystery deepened, drawing the residents of Applewood into a labyrinth of deception and intrigue from which there seemed to be no escape.

Yet, just when all hope seemed lost, a breakthrough emerged – a clue, so subtle yet so profound, that it would change the course of the investigation forever. Hidden amidst the whispering leaves of an ancient apple tree, detectives uncovered the key to unlocking the truth behind the Son of Man Heist – a clue that pointed to Mabel Thompson as the mastermind behind the audacious theft.

In the end, as Mabel Thompson was led away in handcuffs, her eyes betraying neither regret nor remorse, the residents of Applewood were left to ponder the true meaning of the enigma that had unfolded in their midst. For in the serene enclave of Applewood, where the line between reality and illusion blurred like the colors of a surrealist painting, one thing remained certain – the legend of the Son of Man Heist would forever haunt the town's collective memory, a reminder that even the most ordinary of places can harbor the most extraordinary of secrets.

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