Friday, December 21, 2007

Merry Christmas

Hi all,

We will be taking a break over Christmas week, though we will be posting a holiday image.

Wayfarer's Moon will return with regular updates on January 1st!

There will be training, traveling, and cool magic. The lovely Haith will appear, along with some new faces, both friend and foe.

Merry Christmas,

Thursday, December 20, 2007

My Christmas List: Part 3

A Solid Cat-Stance
I train Hung-Ga style kung-fu. I’ve been at it for a while now, yet can’t quite do a proper cat stance. I can get my thigh parallel to the floor, but I’m just not solid and comfortable with it. Oh well, with more stance training I’ll get it eventually.

Prime Rib
A nice 24-oz Prime Rib with mashed potatoes, bread, and some sort of vegetable that I’ll ignore, followed by a hot-fudge sundae. Yes, I know it will kill me, but sometimes, you just gotta go for it.

World Peace
It would be nice.

Merry Christmas,

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

My Christmas List: Part 2

Someone to Please Explain to Me Why Halo is So Popular
I don’t get it. Halo isn’t a bad game by any means, but it’s not fantastic. I happen to be an FPS fanatic and I play ALL of them, even the weird ones that come out of Eastern Europe, so believe when I say it simply isn’t that great. It definitely doesn’t rank up there with Half-Life, Call-of-Duty, the original Unreal, or even Marathon, Bungie’s first FPS. I find it very confusing.

To Finish My D&D Campaign
I’ve been DMing a D&D Campaign for almost 14-years now and its getting really close to finishing (as in the entire story arch has been completed). It started in California with three players, moved over 700 miles to Redmond, WA and ballooned out to 7 players, with the three original players still participating. For non-nerds out there, finishing a campaign is the Holy Grail for a DM. Most campaigns peter out. It’s like what would happen if the Fellowship of the Ring got bored and gave up. Another couple of years and it’ll be done (I hope).

A Vacuum Cleaner That Will Pick-Up Cat Hair
Seriously. I have never had a vacuum that could pick up my cat’s hair. I have to rake the carpet to get it up, which defeats the entire purpose of vacuuming in the first place. Granted, that would destroy my excuse for not vacuuming, but even I get tired of having a crunchy carpet.

Tomorrow: The Conclusion

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

My Christmas List: Part 1

My mother has been bugging me to give her a Christmas List. This is part of our annual tradition. She wants to buy me things. I procrastinate and eventually name a couple things I would like. I typically name a few movies or albums, along with the ubiquitous ‘a nice shirt’ or ‘a sweater.’

This is all well and good, save that I am completely lying when I make my list. These are things that would be nice, but not necessarily things that I want. You see, I need to keep the list relatively short, reasonably affordable, and above all, things that she could actually acquire. Mom can probably get me a Jackie Chan movie, but the life-size model of Kate Beckinsale’s bottom is probably a bit out of her reach (she would try though, which is why she is such a cool mom).

So here it is. Things I really, actually want.

I have, if I may be immodest, great arms. The rest of me is decent. However, the one thing I’m missing is a chest. I have no pecs. Despite thousands of push-ups, bench presses, and vats of modeling clay, I have nothing. My chest is like a black-hole. Exercises go in, but are never heard from again.

A Suit of Armor
Yes, I’m a nerd. I’ve wanted a suit of armor since I read La Morte D’Arthur in the 3rd grade. And not just any old suit, I want a battle-ready suit of Maximillian armor tailor made for me. I do know where to get one. I simply lack the many thousands of dollars it would take to get it made.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Monday, December 17, 2007

What Would Brian Boitano Do?

I happened to be reminded of a classic song from the South Park Movie today.

What would Brian Boitano do?


Friday, December 14, 2007

UR Savior

A truly funny short cartoon sent to me by my buddy Ugdo (no, I'm not kidding).


Thursday, December 13, 2007

Operation: Panting Debutante

Operation: Overlord
Operation: Barbarossa
Operation: Desert Storm

What do all of these things have in common other than that they contain ‘o’s? They’re all names of real military operations and they’re all rather macho. It does make sense, I suppose. You want your troops to be all fired up and therefore you need call your operation something suitably ‘tough.’ Operation: Flaccid Porpoise isn’t really going to inspire your men to victory.

However, at some point, we’re going to run out of suitable nouns and adjectives. I suppose we could venture into verbs and adverbs, but they can be a bit obtuse. Operation: Running Quickly or Operation: Gently Massaging are more likely to cause ‘huh?’s rather than ‘hurrahs!’

That being said, here are a few operational names I like to see:
Operation: Beanie Baby
Operation: Kawaii!!!!!
Operation: Blue Light Special
Operation: Blind Drunk
Operation: Nipple Ring
Operation: We Have No Pants
Operation: Zombot
Operation: Dirty Old Man

And my personal favorite: Operation: Public Mastication


Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 2

The Major waited for his next beer, as the Urchin spun back and forth on the barstool. Lloyd deposited the fresh Guinness and took away the empty glass, as the Major took a sip.

“Kid,” said the Major. “That was the single worst, most convoluted origin story I’ve ever heard. What’d you do? Take the top ten origins and mash them together?”

“But . . . no! It’s totally true!”

“C’mon? You were raised by hyper-intelligent sea urchins? Both your parents were amazingly athletic research scientists? A rogue government agency?”

“Yes!” the Street Urchin half-rose. “It’s all completely . . . “ He looked at the Major, who was shaking his head. “Completely made up.” The Urchin sat back down with an audible thump.

“It’s okay, kid. Everybody lies about their origin. The trick is to lie just enough.” The Major patted the young man on the shoulder. “Look, what’s my origin?”

“Uh, you developed your amazing mental power at puberty and then traveled to Tibet, where you were trained by an obscure sect of ninja-monks.”

“I stuck a fork in a plugged-in toaster when I was 12 while holding a Speak-and-Spell.”

The Urchin’s mouth dropped open. “No way!”

“I did go to Tibet, though.”

“Did you train with ninja-priests?”

“Well, I was on a tour and saw some priests, but no, not really.” The Major shrugged. “I did see a movie about some ninja-priests once though.”

“Was that American Ninja-Priest in Paris? That movie totally rocked!”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. But that’s not the point. You need to tone down your origin a bit. What really happened?”

“When I was nineteen, I had some bad sushi and a couple beers. Well, fourteen-odd beers. And some shots. And a couple pieces of week-old pizza. And then I passed out. In a swamp.”

The Major nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He thought for a moment. “How about this? Your parents were research scientists working on irradiated sea urchins. You fell into the tank, got stung, and presto, instant powers.” The Major paused. “So, what are your powers anyway?”

“I can project spikes out of every part of my body.”

“Well, that explains the outfit.”

“Yeah. I don’t actually like dressing like this, but when you shred your clothes once a week, you gotta make do.” Urchin made a face. “I don’t know about that origin. It’s kinda . . . dull.”

“But it’s easy to remember and it’ll keep nutjobs from trying to help you find your parents.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You see Madame Mystery over there?” The young man nodded. “She made up a bit about her parents being murdered and she’s got no fewer than three crazed fans trying to find the killers. Trust me, you don’t want the headache.”

“Huh.” Urchin took a sip of beer. “So, does everyone lie?”

“Pretty much. I mean, how many people are hit with omega rays, were raised by aliens, or witnessed their parents deaths at the hands of a crazed rodeo clown? Not everyone gets a dramatic story, kid.”

The door banged open both of them glanced over. An almost skeletal man with a distinctive green tinge to his skin, a lot of old stitches, and what looked like robot parts bolted to his body shuffled in, hanging up his coat and hat with an immense robotic arm that would have looked more at home in a car plant.

“Hey, Bill.” Said the Major, as he passed. “How’re the kids?”

GOOD. AND HOW IS MARGE?” He replied, in a deep, mechanical voice.

“She’s great.”


The Major nodded. “Funny.”

Street Urchin stared at the man as he moved away, mouth agape. “That was Zombot!” he finally stammered.


“But . . .you two are mortal enemies!”

“This is the Cape and Cowl, kid. Neutral ground. No fighting or powers inside. Besides, you battle someone long enough, you get to know them. Hell, our kids had play-dates.”

“Wow.” The Urchin turned back. “So, I never did hear what his origin was.”

“Zombot? Oh, he was the result of a horrible experiment where a necromancer and a mad scientist tried to create the perfect killing machine. The scrounged together a bunch of body parts and machinery, put them together and reanimated the whole thing. Thing is, the process drove ol’ Zombo mad and he butchered them both before embarking on a reign of terror.”

“Ah. So what’s his real origin?”

“That is his real origin. That’s exactly what happened.”


“Yep.” The Major sighed. “Man, I’d kill for an origin that good.”


Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 1

Major Headache walked into the Cape and Cowl and shook off his wet overcoat, letting the door swing shut behind him. He waved to The Punter and Madame Mystery as he hung up his coat and flipped off Kid Vicious, who returned the gesture with both hands. He walked over to the heavy oak bar, leaving a small trail of wet footprints on the worn tile floor.

“Evenin’, Major” said the bartender, glancing up from the mail.

Major Headache nodded and sat down. “Hey, Lloyd. How’re things?”

“Not bad. You missed the excitement. Red Hot got sick in the corner booth.”

The Major glanced over. The corner booth was taped off with an ‘Out of Order’ sign. The worn red leather on the left-hand bench was scorched and twisted and a burn mark extended almost six-feet up the oak-paneled wall, completely obliterating an old, framed newspaper clipping, one of the many pieces of hero and villain memorabilia that decorated the bar.

“Ice Queen put it out pretty quickly,” Lloyd continued. “But then she wanted me to wipe her tab.”

“Villains,” said the Major, shaking his head. “What’d you do?”

“I gave her a free Cosmopolitan. She was happy with that. The usual, Major?”

“Sure thing.”

As Lloyd turned to draw a Guinness, the door opened again and a young man in a black leather jacket, jeans and combat boots entered. His entire outfit was tattered, as if he’d been rolled on by a spastic porcupine. He hesitated, as most everyone in the bar turned to look at him. The Major looked at Lloyd, who shrugged.

“Hey, kid,” said the Major. “Who’re you?”

“Uh, I’m the Street Urchin.” The Urchin suddenly focused on the Major. “Whoa! You’re Major Headache!”

“Yep.” The Major waved him over. “C’mere, have a seat.”

The Street Urchin practically leapt the 10-feet to take the stool next to the Major. “This so cool!” he said, “I used to have a poster of you in my bedroom!”

“That’s nice,” said the Major, as he took a pull of his Guinness.

“Wow! I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you!”



“Calm down. We’re all capes here.” The Major gestured at the bottles at the back of the bar. “Let me buy you a beer.”

“Yeah, right. Sure.”

“Another beer, Lloyd.”

The bartender nodded and drew a Guinness, placing it down in front of the Urchin.

“So, kid, how’d you get into the hero game?”

The Street Urchin half-choked on his beer. The Major waited patiently for him to regain his composure. “Well,” began the Urchin. “My parents were marine biologists who were experimenting with the neurotoxins found in sea urchins. When I was just an infant, a rogue government agency broke in one night to steal their research and surprised my folks. My dad happens to be an ex-Navy Seal and my mom was an Olympic kick-boxer and sharpshooter, so in the ensuing fight, there was an explosion which released deadly delta radiation that infected the urchins, making them super-intelligent. My parents were eventually captured by the government agents, but the urchins, realizing the danger, hid me and raised me as their own, teaching me the way of the Urchin so that I could one day find my parents and avenge them.”

“Ah,” said the Major. “I’m gonna need another Guinness after that one. Lloyd?”

Tomorrow: Forks and Toasters

Friday, December 7, 2007


Here is the complete 1975, Chuck Jones Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cartoon narrated by Orson Welles.

This is a marvelous story and one of my all-time favorites.



Thursday, December 6, 2007

Crates and Such: Part 2

I don’t know in which video game crates were first used to store goods (I’ll guess Doom), but it has become a staple of both RPGs and FPSs. In many games, you cannot walk ten feet without seeing a crate, barrel, (or occasionally) chest that you have to open. And when I say ‘have to’ I mean it. You don’t know what could be in there. There could contain health, money, or the crown jewels. You simply don’t know. It’s like an Easter Egg hunt where you can find bullets. So, of course, you must open everything.

The best part is that the things/monsters/people you’re fighting don’t actually open the crates themselves. All too often, a bad guy will come charging at you with a sword when there’s a perfectly good laser rifle inside a crate 10 feet away.

You’d at least think they’d be curious enough to take a peek.

Why anyone would store anything in a crate is beyond me. Think about it, what if you went to your financial planner and he recommended putting all of your money into easily accessible containers and then leaving them outdoors?


“So, Mr. . . . Janeeecki, is it?”

“Well, close enough.”

The man adjusted his glasses with a thick finger while he flipped through the sheaf of papers. “It says here that you work with video games?”

“That’s correct.”

“Hmmmm.” He brushed an errant hair from his Armani suit. “Interesting. And you wish to invest?”

“Well, I’d like to diversify my portfolio and start saving for retirement.”

“Capitol, capitol.” The planner looked over his glasses. “That was a joke. Capitol. Investments. That sort of thing?”

“Ah, I see.”

“Apparently not,” he mumbled. “Well, Mr. Janeeeskivi, I have one word for you.”



“A joke. The Graduate.”

“Indeed. No, I am speaking of crates.”


Leaning forward, the planner laid out the papers, indicating a column with a gold-ringed finger. “Crates. What you need to do is purchase a goodly number of crates, barrels will do in a pinch, Mr. Jayeneesinky, and secure your remaining wealth in them. Then spread said crates around the countryside at random, preferably along well-traveled routes.”

There was silence.


“Tell me, Mr. Juneivskyanitti,” he said, steepling his fingers and peering through them. “Which of us is the financial planner?”

“Uh, you are.”

“Correct. And if I tell you that spreading your money about the area in individual, easily accessible containers is a good idea, then you may trust that it is, in fact, a good idea.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“I do, Mr. Jianskwkqqqeikssyitsy, I do.”


Don’t laugh, why else would there be money squirreled away in those things?

NOTE: The author is neither a financial planner nor a financial expert and is generally considered to be dim by those that know him. Do not listen to his advice unless you’re really dense.


Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Crates and Such

The other day I was walking up to a Home Depot and noticed a stack of crates sitting innocuously along the wall next to the store. Being an avid gamer, I walked into the store, purchased a crowbar (I left mine at home – a silly mistake), and upon exiting the store, proceeded to vigorously smash said crates.

It was disappointing, as not only did no gold, items, or health packs pop out, but the Home Depot employees seemed somewhat vexed by my actions. After much shouting, a lengthy footrace, and a narrow escape across a train trestle, I was able to stop and ponder what had occurred.

It seemed unthinkable, but video games had lied to me. Crates are not full of goodies and people seem to take it poorly when you smash them open.

NOTE: Obviously, I did not smash open a bunch of crates at a Home Depot with a crowbar. This was a small fabrication on my part. I used a tire iron.

Tomorrow: Barrels, Are They Just Round Crates?

Monday, December 3, 2007


Sorry, but I'm feeling under the weather and will not be posting a blog today.

Well, anything other than this, as this is something. Not much of a something granted, but this is most definately a thing.

'Nothing' was orginally an insult in Old English, though they spelled it 'Nithing.' It meant that you literally did not exist, you were a 'no thing.' Those were fightin' words, so to speak.

They also had a wonderful insult about having sex with a troll. I'll save that one for the next time I'm feeling ill and slightly loopy (or loopier, as the case may be).

Anyway, there will be humor tomorrow, promise. Hint: Crates.


Fast Driver

Here's a really bizarre Speed Racer spoof called Fast Driver.


Thursday, November 29, 2007

Wonder Twins!

Some of you may be old enough to remember the Super Friends. If not, it was an incredibly cheesy '70s kid show with your favorite DC characters.

Two of the characters, Zan and Jann, were teenage alien shapeshifters known as the Wonder Twins. How they became Super Friends is a mystery, as is why they hang out with a monkey named Gleep.

Jan, the girl, could change shape into most anything. Zan, the guy, could only take water-based forms.

Armed with that knowledge, you're ready to watch a Wonder Twin parady that is truly hysterical.


A Hero Is Born

So, long story short, I have been rear-ended twice in the last three weeks. Both times I was not moving and was rammed by an SUV. I am fine, thanks for asking, but my truck has taken a beating.

This, however, is not a rant about SUVs and the people that drive them. Granted, my truck is a small (even smaller now, actually), but it is not invisible or anything.

Or is it?

My theory is that for some unexplained reason, possibly due to the copious amounts of fajitas, teriyaki, and kung-pao chicken I eat, I have acquired a super power. My truck, when I am in it and it is sitting completely still, becomes invisible to SUVs. I am not sure if I become invisible as well, but I would hazard a 'yes' to that (further testing is required).

This leads to two fundamental questions: how do I use this power for good and what will my super hero name be? Secondary questions would include: Can I make money from this and will this help me get dates?

So how can I use this power for good? Not sure, unless there is an evil SUV gang out there. I could stop my truck near their base/lair and do surveillance. Potentially, I could actually stop inside their base/lair and listen in on their conversations.

Evil SUV Gang Leader: “. . . and then once the guards are incapacitated, we will- wait, do you hear that?”

Evil SUV Grunt: “What?”

Evil SUV Gang Leader: “Music. It sounds like . . .Garbage ‘I’m Only Happy When It Rains’.”

Evil SUV Grunt: “Maybe it’s coming from that invisible pickup over there?”

Evil SUV Gang Leader: “You mean the one that smells like fajitas?”

Mental Note: I need to remember to turn off the radio when surveilling.

The second question is what will I call myself? Invisible-to-SUVs-When-Not-Moving-Man is accurate, but hard to say. Inviso-Truck might work. Ghost Driver is cool, but it doesn’t actually work when I’m moving. The SUV Watcher just make me sound like a nutjob.

I will figure it out eventually.

So remember, if you ever need an SUV covertly watched, call me, The Phantom Pickup!

Nah, that doesn’t work either. I’ll think about it whilst shopping for tights.


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Freedom: $19.95: Part 2

So, yesterday I explained the basic economic problems of Hellgate. Now let’s see how it might play out.

“Oh my,” said the merchant. “You’re Dirk Squarejaw! You punched out the Demon of London! You spanked the Seven Succulent Succubi of Sussex! You defeated, gutted, and then barbequed with remains of the Rather Tasty Ox of Stratford-Upon-Avon!” The merchant saluted. “It is an honor and a privilege to serve you!”

Dirk returned the salute. “Just doin’ my job. Now then, we’re at the end-game. I’ve fought my way through thousands of demons and now we have a real shot at closing those Doors for good. In an hour, I’ll be leading five-hundred of our finest into desperate battle and we’ll need some supplies.”

“Absolutely!” The merchant gestured at the racks of goods behind him. “My store is yours!”

“Fantastic.” Dirk pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and began to read. “We’ll need 50,000 rounds of 7.62mm, 2,000 grenades, 257 bullet-proof vests, 28 phased plasma pulse-lasers in the 40 watt range, 712 tuna-fish sandwiches, hold the pickles on 137 of those, 311 vibro-swords, 17 blow-up dolls, 1100 bottles of beer, a bottle-opener – wait, make it two bottle openers, and a Barbie lunchbox.”

“One moment,” the merchant ran his finger through his inventory sheet, his lips moving as he scanned the text. “I think we have everything in stock. It’ll take some doing, but we should be able to have everything ready in 40-minutes.”

“Perfect! You may very well have saved the world!”

“Wonderful. That’ll be $37,412 and we only take cash.” He gestured at the dead charge card reader. “Visa has been down for months now.”

Dirk stood there for a moment, staring at the merchant. “Umm . . . what?”

“$37,412. Well, technically, $37,412.28, but we won’t worry about the change.”

“You’re going to charge me?”

The merchant blinked. “Well, this is a store.”

Dirk leaned forward on the counter, getting very close to the merchant. “Perhaps you don’t understand the situation. If we don’t get those supplies, humanity ceases to exist.” He gestured around. “All of this, everyone, me, you, will be gone.”

The merchant leaned forward as well. “Perhaps you don’t understand basic economic principles? Supply and demand? Goods and services?”

“But what about humanity and the world?”

“What about my bottom line? Do you even have any money?”

Dirk reached into a pouch on his harness and pulled out a wad of cash. “I have, maybe, 50 bucks. And a coupon. “Buy a tuna-fish sandwich and get one for free.’”

The merchant plucked the coupon from Dirk’s hand and glanced at the fine print. “This coupon is expired.” He wadded it up and tossed it into the waste bin.

Dirk held up a hand, but only managed a few inarticulate grunts before his shoulders sagged and he turned away. “Start gathering rocks and sticks, boys,” he announced. “We’re going to do this old school.”


Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Freedom: $19.95: Part 1

I’ve been playing Hellgate: London lately. Overall, it’s okay. The cool stuff (fighting demons, lottsa loot, cool graphics) is balanced out by the bad stuff (performance issues, bad UI, broken single-player campaign) which gives it an over-all score of ‘meh.’

However, one aspect of the game that amuses me is the fact that you can buy and sell things from a merchant. This might not seem particularly noteworthy, as buying and selling stuff has long been a staple of RPGs, but consider that the plot of Hellgate goes like this:

The Doors of Hell have been opened and demons by the untold millions are streaming forth. Humanity is pretty much circling the toilet, fighting desperately to prevent that final flush. You, as the stereotypical hero, must fight off the demon hordes, defeat the Big Bad, close the Doors, and save the day. The fate of the world, as you are told rather frequently, hinges on you.

The local merchants, however, charge you for healing packs.

Yep, you collect money, both by picking it up and selling loot, and you can then BUY stuff from the merchant. You would think that they would be happy to give you what you needed, but no, all the merchants seem to have gone to the Ferengi School of Retail. Profit is apparently more important than the fate of humanity.

Tomorrow: Merchant: 1, Fate of Humanity: 0

Monday, November 26, 2007

Site Redesign

Greetings and salutations,

Our site redesign has gone very well, with only a few minor problems to report. Thanks to everyone who let us know about the bugs they found.

However, if you originally linked to the comic via the comic page (as opposed to going through the front page), you will find that your link no longer works. This is because all the pages are now displayed on the front page.

So, if you haven't figured this out already, here is the correct link to reach the comic:

Tune in Tuesday for a new page and a new blog (hint: end-of-the-world discounts).


Friday, November 23, 2007


An oldie, but a goodie for your weekend viewing pleasure.

Rumor has it that this was a completely fan-made production. Enjoy!


Thursday, November 22, 2007

The Problem with Thanksgiving: Part 3

Thanksgiving is also lacking any real personalities. Let’s face it: Pilgrims are rather dull. Aside from the odd hats and big collars, they’re not particularly memorable.

Halloween has Dracula, Jack Skellington, the Headless Horseman, Elvira, and a host of psychotic murderers. I’m pretty sure even a third-rate psycho could take out a whole village of Pilgrims without even needing to adjust his mask. It wouldn’t even be a fight. All the Pilgrims have are some muskets and the odd turkey. The psycho wouldn’t even need a machete. He’d just beat them to death with pumpkin pies.

Best Idea Ever: A horror-flick based in a Pilgrim village where the psychopath kills people with pumpkin pies. It could be called The Pieman.

Christmas, of course, has the biggest personality of them all. He’s so big, I even hesitate to mention him. After all, who doesn’t know the name Yukon Cornelius?

C’mon, you remember Yukon Cornelius? The prospector from Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? He fought the Abominable Snowman and fell off the cliff? He was totally my hero when I was a kid.

Who am I kidding? He’s still my hero. The man fought an abominable snowman three times his size with a pick. He’s like a singing, prospecting Rambo. You don’t get much more heroic than that.

Compared to the other holidays, Thanksgiving is just . . . blah. It doesn’t have theme music (though Amariah did point me towards a close contender) nor does it have a recognizable face. It seems to be wholly unmarketable.

But maybe that’s for the best.

Halloween is all about parties, costumes, and candy. Christmas has been merchandised into a shopping extravaganza. These are not necessarily bad things.

Thanksgiving, the ugly stepchild of holidays, still seems to be about spending time with family and friends. I’m pretty sure this is a good thing.


Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Problem with Thanksgiving: Part 2

Quick! Name a Thanksgiving-themed song? Did you think of even one? Nope? Well, don’t worry about it, I couldn’t think of one either. I even googled ‘thanksgiving music’ and all I got was an Adam Sandler song. I’m not sure that counts.

Now try and think of a Halloween song! I immediately thought of the Monster Mash (he did the mash!), a song I've loved since I was big enough to memorize the words and sing it endlessly until my parents told me to stop or they’d send back to the zoo they got me from. I’m partially kidding (the orangutans used to wave at me).

Christmas, as you all well know, is the musical equivalent of a baseball bat. I appreciate Silent Night the first couple of times I hear it. I begin to loathe it by about December 2nd and truly start to hate it by about the 5th. By the 25th, I have heard the song roughly 11,378 times, a number I completely made up.

Let’s face it, there are enough versions of Silent Night floating around that you could probably 24-hours a day without repeating a performer. I will not even mention the 53-million other Christmas songs, though I just did.

We can all sing Silent Night. We can fake the Monster Mash. There isn’t even anything to hum for Thanksgiving. Of course, we could always rewrite the Monster Mash to have a Thanksgiving theme.

He wore a hat! It was a Pilgrim hat! He wore a hat! It was tall and flat! Etc.

Sorry, I’ll stop now.

Tomorrow: Pilgrims vs. Psychopaths – Who Would Win? (hint: the guy with the machete)

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

The Problem with Thanksgiving: Part 1

Thanksgiving is nearly upon us and frankly, it isn’t what it used to be. Back when I was a kid in the 1880’s, Thanksgiving was a major holiday, number two of the Big Three: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

For my readers across the pond: Thanksgiving is a uniquely American holiday celebrating when the first European settlers gave thanks for having survived the trip and were enjoying the bounty offered by the New World. It is remembered by Native Americans somewhat differently. They refer to it as We Should’ve Taken Them Out When Had the Chance Day.

Nowadays, the Christmas decorations go up immediately after the Halloween decorations come down. Thanksgiving is merely a blip on the commercial radar that is the holidays.

So, what happened? Why did Thanksgiving fade to number 3, allowing Halloween to take the coveted number 2 position?

The answer is, of course, marketing.

Tomorrow: Pilgrims and their hats

Monday, November 19, 2007

Thanksgiving Caption Contest

In honor of our special Thanksgiving picture and because the Halloween Contest went so well, we have decided to hold another Caption Contest.
As you can see in the picture to the left, Lily is preparing to engage a turkey in mortal combat. What's on her mind? What's on the turkey's mind? You tell us. Simply log onto the forum, find the Thanksgiving Caption Contest thread and post your favorite captions. Post as many as you like, there's no limit.
Later in the week, Leigh and I will decide which one we like best and the winner will get a special desktop of the Thanksgiving picture, as well as have their caption featured in the full-color artwork.
For those not already on the forum, the button is on the upper right hand side of the main Wayfarers Moon page (
Also, note that there are two new desktop rewards available for donators! See the thumbnails at the top right of the site pages, just below the ad banner. We have a Haith and an M'Kot desktop! Click the donate button and follow the instructions through to download the full size images!

Happy Thanksgiving,
-Jason and Leigh

Friday, November 16, 2007

Sock Baby

This is one of the weirdest, funniest things I have seen in a very long time.

Just watch it. Trust me.


Thursday, November 15, 2007

Cheese Anyone?

I read an article the other week about a new, genetically superior breed of mice that has been developed. I cannot now find said article, but essentially, the mouse had amazing cardiovascular ability, was stronger, lived longer, and could eat junk food all day and still remain slim.

Anyone who has ever read a science fiction or horror novel can see what is coming next: one of the little buggers will escape.

A scientist, flushed with success, will forget one tiny detail. The cage holding the mouse was not rated for super-vermin. A mouse will escape and create a mouse kingdom, which will be populated by his genetically gifted offspring. Some of the new mice will espouse the ways of Mickey, but others will follow Ignatz, the Thrower of Bricks. There will be a civil war and the Ignatzians will triumph and begin their grand scheme to throw a brick at the world.

They will start small, possibly by eliminating the cats, but once the felines are out of the picture, we all know who will be next. Us. We cannot even keep regular mice out of our houses, what chance do we have against super mice with machine guns? They will have television. They will know what has been done to their species and they will be ticked off.

Our only hope is to create a species of genetically enhanced cats with opposable thumbs, which they will need to be able to operate their little chainsaws. This, of course, brings up a whole new set of problems. Namely, not changing the litter in a timely fashion could have some serious consequences.

The worst case scenario is that the cats team up with the mice to take out the dogs, leaving humanity totally defenseless.

So, just in case, let me say that I welcome our new furry overlords. Cheese anyone?


Wednesday, November 14, 2007

EULA: Part 2

1. Eligibility
All rights and the title in and to the Program and the Server (including names, likenesses, catch phrases, music, thimbles, and small collectable figurines) are ours. You may not have them or use them in any way that we find upsetting. Of course, nobody actually reads this so we can really put in anything we want. BOOGERS. See?

2. Ownership
You many establish one (1, uno, un, ichi, ein, etc) User Account per install. Not that we would know if you did, but still we have to say this. Its not like were going to come to your house and beat you up if we find out. No, we tried that. It got really expensive. Instead Ill just call you up and say some vaguely threatening things. Maybe we can be friends? God, Im so lonely.

3. Miscellaneous
Ummm, if youve thought of doing something we havent explicitly told you not to, this is a blanket statement to cover that and anything else you might think of. I wanted to be a folk singer. There, I said it. I didnt want to be a lawyer. I wanted to make people happy with whimsical songs about dogs named Beauregard. But no, Mother said I had to be a lawyer. She said folk singers never made any money. She wouldnt listen when I tried to explain about Arlo Guthrie.

4. Pickles
You didnt read any of this, did you? The least you could do is read it. I mean, I worked very hard on this, you could at least give it a cursory glance before you start killing stuff with a +12 Sword of Permanently Single or whatever it is this program does. Its probably zombies. Everythings zombies these days. Why cant they make nice games? Like Chutes and Ladders or Candy Land? But no, you just want to blow stuff up. Well, fine. Click Accept. Dont worry about me. Ill just be here. All alone. Writing legal stuff. Maybe another EULA. Joy.


Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Apostrophe test.

Leigh's quick test of the blog's use of apostrophes and other text - like dashes.

EULA: Part 1

No, this is not the name of my matronly great aunt. EULA stands for End-User-License-Agreement. It is the thing that pops up when you install software that you have to click AGREE on to complete the install.

In a nutshell, the EULA basically says you will not do anything bad with the software and that you accept that if you do anything stupid with it, it is your fault.

At least, that is what I hope they say. I have yet to meet someone who has actually read a EULA. Frankly, it would no surprise me to learn that companies have been messing with us all these years and putting pretty much anything they can think of in there, safe in the knowledge that we will happily click on the button so we can shoot zombies in the head.

What might be in a EULA, you may ask? Well, tune in tomorrow to find out.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Moving Forward

Some of you may have noticed that our site has not been redesigned, despite what I said last week. We really, really, really hope the new layout will go live this week, but we will see.

We will start updating again this Tuesday, so stay tuned.

Blogs will continue as usual. Hint: EULAs.


Friday, November 9, 2007


I have recently encountered a British comedy show called Spaced. It was both written by and starred in by Simon Pegg (of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz) and Jessica Hynes.

It is really, really funny and generally brilliant. If you like off-beat, quirky humor with great characters, you'll love this show.

They only made 14-episodes before going off to do other things, but they are well worth hunting down.

The official web-site is here:


Thursday, November 8, 2007

Han Would Never Wear That

I have a confession to make

There was a time in my life when I had a mullet.

It is sadly true, but in my defense, I did not know that was what it was.

You see, for a long time, I had really long hair. I got tired of it and went to a hair place in the mall. I had no real idea what I wanted, save that I wanted less hair. So when the hairstylist asked me how I wanted it cut, I said I dunno, what do you think would look good?

She cut my hair and then told me it looked fantastic. I was happy. You see, I have absolutely zero fashion sense. If you ever see me wearing something even remotely nice looking, it is because my mother bought it for me.

In hindsight, the hairdresser may have been a sadist, but I digress.

I had the mullet for a number of years. After all, I had been assured that it was fantastic, and I still did not know what it was called. One day, I got tired of it and chopped it all off. Afterwards, one of my female friends leaned over and said (and I quote):

I am sooooo glad you got rid of that mullet. It looked terrible.

So, the question is: why did you not tell me before?

This was a person I had known for years and considered a friend. If I was on fire, I am reasonably certain she would put me out. If I had a lamprey on my buttocks, I would expect a call to 911 (or Jacques Cousteau). Yet in the face of a mullet, she said nothing.

This was not just her, though. I had at least two other female friends. They too could have warned me.

I realize that the mullet damage has been done. I will never recover from the shame. However, on behalf of nerds everywhere, I hereby ask this:

Please tell us when we look terrible.

Seriously. Let us know that wearing sweats all the time is bad. Let us know that fanny packs are not cool. Please, tell us to get a haircut.

We are nerds. Our brains are filled with Star Wars trivia and lines from Monty Python. We have precious little space left for mundane things like fashion or eating right or basic social etiquette.

So, if possible, just lean over and say: You know, Han would never wear that.

We will understand.


Wednesday, November 7, 2007

XP is XP

I have learned many things from playing WoW. I have learned that having two skinners in the same instance group is bad. I have learned that a Rogue with enough Flash Powder can survive most any wipe. I have also learned that the Armorsmith sub-profession is really not worth it.

However, the greatest lesson I have learned is about tolerance and understanding.

Take Zangermarsh. There is a whole clan of Ogres that lives next door to a community of Naga. You would think that they would fight incessantly, but no, they live together in peace and harmony.

The Ogres farm their giant mushrooms. The Naga do whatever it is they do. And they manage to do it without fighting, without as much as a harsh word across the mud. They even have a mutual defense treaty, as the Ogres will come to the aid of the Naga and vice-versa.

Truly, an example for us all, for if Naga and Ogre-kind can get along, why cant we?

But then again, it has not stopped me from killing them by the score and taking their stuff. XP is XP, after all.


Tuesday, November 6, 2007

I Like the Spikes

Arklebar, Dark Lord of Berenir, King of Uburia, and Conqueror of Kordrun drummed his fingers on the armrest. Before him lay the royal armory, where his smiths were putting the final touches on his new armor.

I grow impatient.

Instantly, a smith was at his side. It is almost ready, Lord.

I had better be, else you will be smithing left-handed.

The smith stared up at Arklebar. My Lord?

You will smith left-handed. Arklebar made a hammering motion. Smithing. With your left hand. Because Ill cut off your right.

But I am left-handed, Lord.

Arklebar stared at the trembling smith. Youre not terribly bright, are you?

No, Lord.

It is ready, Dread Master!
cried out another smith from across the room.

Rising, Arklebar strode across the smithy as tools and apprentices were hastily pulled from his path and beheld his new armor.

Arklebar frowned. Well, he said, put it on me. NOW!

Hands undid his cloak and lifted the crown from his head. Even more hands helped him into the greaves and sabatons. The rest of the leg armor was quickly added, as the vambraces were strapped to his forearms. The breast and back plates were affixed and then the huge shoulder pieces. Lastly, his helmet was lowered onto his head and a large mirror was wheeled before him.

Arklebar looked at himself. The armor was massive and black, with three foot spikes coming off the shoulders. The breastplate featured a huge, snarling dragon maw and great horns, fully six inches thick at the base and two-feet long, adorned his helmet.

The Dark Lord turned, first one way and then another. He struck a pose, swaying slightly under the weight of all the metal. Does this armor, he asked, his voice echoing deep within the helm, make me look fat?

No, Lord!

Absolutely not, Lord!

You look magnificent, Dread Master!

Arklebar turned slowly. I am pleased. You all may live.

There was a chorus of thank yous.

Yes, yes, I am wonderful. The Dark Lord turned and stomped towards the door, enjoying the great clash of metal that sounded as he walked. The door was thrown open before him and he marched through, only to be knocked flat on his back as he entered the doorway.

There was absolute silence.

What happened? Arklebar asked.

A smith appeared above him. The spikes, Lord. They . . . ummmm . . . wont fit through the doorway.

I like the spikes.

Yes, Lord.

Very well. Have all the doorways in the castle widened immediately. No, all the doorways in the kingdom. Any building that has a doorway I cannot fit through will be burned to the ground with the owners still inside. And if I hear about this incident, I will have everyone here put to death.

Of course, Lord.

And help me up.

Yes, Lord.


Monday, November 5, 2007

Two Announcements

Hey All,

Two medium-sized announcements for the coming week:

First: We have been in the process of revamping the site and it will be going live this week.

Second: Leigh was sick for several days last week, so we will not be updating the comic this week. The story will continue on Tuesday, the 13th.

So, expect to see a new site layout this week and a new comic a week from tomorrow.

I will be blogging as usual during the week, so please come by and check out the blog. Hint: Evil Overlords and fashion.


Friday, November 2, 2007

Caption Contest Winner

So, after a savage brawl with much blood, spilled coffee and tearing of black t-shirts, Leigh and I have hashed out the winner.

Actually, we just IM'd each other (but we typed violently).

There were a lot of great entries, but after much debate, we narrowed it down to the three we liked best.

So without any more ado, here were the top three:

Third Place: Frumple
Iri: "Maybe you should just say 'Treat' at the next door."

Second Place: zog
Iri(whispered) "Can we walk a little slower, my longbow is chafing ..."
Lily "Your longbow ...? Where ..."
Iri(growled) "Do NOT ...ask."

And First Place: Rachel
"There's GOT to be a better way of getting chocolate."

So congratulations to Rachel, for winning our first (mayhap annual) Halloween Caption Contest.

Please shoot us an email (or post your answer in the forum caption thread) letting us know what size desktop you prefer.

Congrats again,
-Jason and Leigh

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Hello, Mr. Mammoth

I am glad I was born in this day and age. There are many reasons for this (video games and polio vaccinations, for starters), but the main reason is that I would not have survived in any other era. Why would I think this? Well, let me tell you a story.

Today, I was doing laundry. I happen to have three boxes of detergent sitting on the drier, ready to dispense their cleansing goodness. I do not recall why I purchased three boxes, but there was probably a sale.

I filled the washer with a selection of black t-shirts and picked up the nearest box of detergent. It was empty. This did not perturb me, as I had two more boxes at the ready. I picked up the second box of detergent. It was also empty. I picked up the third box. It too, was empty.

Not only had I not thrown away empty detergent boxes, I had also managed to place them in such a fashion as to make it look like they had not been opened.

I am apparently quite dim.

Honestly, I had no idea the boxes were empty. I knew that the nearest box was running out, but I obviously had two more full boxes, so I had not bothered to buy more.

How does this relate to living in another era? Simple. I would have been the one caveman who forgot to bring his spear.

We would have been clustered on a hill, ready to attack a wooly mammoth. The leader would have looked around, making sure we were ready to risk our lives to feed our clan. And he would have seen me, playing with a rock.

Leader: Where spear?

Me: What?

Leader: Where spear?

Me: My spear? Oh, funny story. I thought I had a couple, but I must have forgotten to make more. Why, do I need one?

Leader: {long pause} No. Go pet big mammoth. Him friend.

Me: Really? Why hello, Mr. Mammoth! It is certainly a lovely- AAARRRGH! MY DUODENUM!

Leader: Idiot.

Basically, my ancestors fought and scraped to survive so that one day I could be completely incapable of doing my laundry.

It kinda makes you think, doesnt it?


Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Surly, Acne-Ridden Twits

Before I stat this, don't forget about the Halloween image caption contest. I talked about it in yesterdays post, so you can read about it there or on the forums.

Here it is, my last Halloween blog, detailing one of my all-time favorite monsters.

Consider this: You are hanging out, going about your life, when you suddenly began to experience strange, often horrifying changes. You begin to eat more, your personality starts to change, and your clothes no longer fit. You want to stay out later and later and find yourself struggling to get out of bed in the morning. You find yourself looking at others, especially members of the opposite sex, differently. That girl or guy you would never have talked to before is suddenly strangely attractive, juicy, even.

Perhaps most alarming, hair begins to grow where there had been none before.

Ultimately, you wake up naked one morning with a horrible taste in your mouth, and no idea where you or your clothes might be.

It is then that the horrible, inconceivable truth hits you.

You have become a teenager.

No, really. You hit puberty and have become a teenager. What did you think I was talking about? Lycanthropy? Werewolves?

Please, teenagers are far more frightening than werewolves. For one thing, you can shoot a werewolf. You just have to put up with teenagers. I would far prefer dealing with a werewolf over a teen any day of the week.

For example:
Teenagers are always moody and temperamental. Werewolves only change once a month.

You can lock a werewolf in a cage when it starts to change. You cant really lock a kid up until he turns 20.

Werewolves act like wolves and are therefore predictable. There is no algorithm on earth that can predict how a teen will act.

Werewolves are vicious, bloodthirsty animals that wont think twice about ripping you to pieces. Teens have cell phones and wont think twice about running up your bill.

You rarely have to deal with a surly werewolf when ordering at McDonalds.

The good news is that teenagers will eventually grow up and become actual people. Unless, of course, werewolves and teenagers merge into wereteens. These would be adults who, a couple nights a week, revert to being surly, acne-ridden twits who just want to hang out at the mall and play video games.

Some things are just too horrible to contemplate.


Caption Contest

In honor of our special Halloween picture, we have decided to hold a Caption Contest. In the Halloween picture, Iri is saying something to Lily. Is it a threat? A compliment? A vow to get Leigh for drawing her in that outfit? You tell us. Simply log onto the forum, find the Halloween Caption Contest thread and post your favorite captions. Post as many as you like, theres no limit.

Later in the week, Leigh and I will decide which one we like best and the winner will get a special desktop of the Halloween picture.

For those not already on the forum, the button is on the upper right hand side of the main Wayfarers Moon page (

Happy Halloween,

Monday, October 29, 2007

300 Spartans on a Plane

Truly hysterical.

If 300 and Snake on a Plane had an illegitimate child:

Warning: slightly gory.


Friday, October 26, 2007

Another Waste of Time

Heres another little game with which to wile away the weekend.


Thursday, October 25, 2007

Unsexy Dead People

So, having talked about vampires yesterday, I thought today I would talk about mummies. I am not referring to Imhotep from the recent Mummy and the Mummy Returns (he was more of a sorcerer, really), but the classic 1932, Boris Karloff mummy of yore.

I gotta say, mummies never did much for me. Even as a kid, I keyed in pretty quickly on the fact that I could easily outrun one. Sure, the mummy is basically unstoppable and will pursue you for the rest of your life, but really, once the mummy shows up, all you have to do is move cross country and then you have another year or so before it shows up again. Sure, this would play havoc with your work and social life, but think of the mileage you would get out of it at parties.

Insufferable Jerk: I just took my company public, made a couple hundred mil, and bought a yacht, an island, and George Washingtons wooden teeth. How about you?

You: Well, its hard to concentrate on work when youre being relentlessly pursued by an unstoppable 3000-year old Egyptian pharaoh.

Supermodel: That is sooo cool.

Frankly, mummies are much less scary than your typical zombie. A zombie could have at least been someone you knew, whereas a mummy is just a dead guy.

However, this brings me to the single greatest idea I have ever had. A mummy is relentless. It never stops. It is the undead equivalent of the Energizer Bunny sans the drum.

Now here is the idea: Build a sturdy cage. Put a treadmill in it. Hook said treadmill up to your house, so that by using the treadmill, your house gets power. Lure the mummy into the cage and then lock it in.

Voila, you now have a permanent power source. As the mummy pursues you, it generates power. It never stops pursuing, so you basically have endless power. Once it gets going, you can just build a wall around it. You never even have to look at it.

Sometimes I amaze even myself.


Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Sexy Dead People

I have realized it will soon be Halloween. I know this because there are humungous candy displays in the grocery stores and a glut of really bad horror movies on cable. Yes, I am that clueless about dates. Whenever I talk to my mother, she always asks if I called someone on their birthday, which was last week. I always reply that I did not, as I did not know. I then ask her to remind me before the actual birthday, but so far, no dice.

However, as it is Halloween, I have decided to do a few blogs about monsters and some of the various Halloween traditions. First off, vampires.

Now at some point in the last century, vampires became sexy. Now some of you may not realize this, but historically, vampires were not attractive, brooding loners with a penchant for black clothes who whined about their lot in life (unlife).

Vampires used to actually be scary. People were afraid of them.

No, really. I am not kidding.

Vampires were EVIL. Bad evil, not cool evil. They would actually kill you. And they would do it in a messy, and above all, painful way. And they were ugly. Not in a disheveled, hip, too-cool-to-care-about-my-appearance way, but in a not-human, holy &#@! what-is-that kind of way.

Vampires did not agonize over moral decisions. They did not feel pity or remorse. They did not hang out in coffee shops or Hot Topic. People were takeout food, so to speak.

Now, I am not saying these new, coiffed vampires are a bad thing (pun intended), but I think the pendulum has swung too far to one side. Sure, I loved Underworld and Blade and Buffy, but there should be some love for the misshapen, flesh ripping, soul-eating, malodorous, non-recycling, village-slaughtering monstrosities as well.

But maybe that is just me.


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Please Remove the Lamprey

I was at a party the other night. Eventually, I found myself on the sofa, chatting with a rather inebriated fellow who was eating very large handfuls of trail mix from a bowl on the coffee table.

It occurred to me, as this nameless individual (he probably had a name, I just never learned it) wolfed down said trail mix that I might have to give him the Heimlich Maneuver. In a worst case scenario, I might even have to give him an emergency tracheotomy.

As we chatted, three things occurred to me:
1) I might need a really sharp knife
2) My warrior needs a butt-load of Fel-Iron
3) How would I know when I needed to perform the tracheotomy?

I mean, if this guy is choking to death, how will I know when to actually perform said tracheotomy? And how long is it going to take to farm all that Fel Iron?

I then had a brilliant idea: emergency-specific flash cards.

This would be a set of cards with specific emergency messages pre-printed upon them, to be used in case you cannot adequately convey what is needed. For example: I am choking to death. Please perform an emergency tracheotomy.

Other, useful cards might include:
Please remove the lamprey from my buttocks
The knife in my head is not fake
Please collect my limb(s) for potential reattachment
I am on fire
I am currently falling to my death. Please provide a parachute, trampoline or other gravity-defying device
Please distract the lion eating my leg. If possible, recover my leg.

Granted, to be truly prepared would require a large assortment of cards, making it difficult to find the correct one. Therefore, the first card in the pack would read: I am having an emergency moment. Please be patient while I locate the correct card to adequately convey my situation.


Monday, October 22, 2007


I would like to announce that we now have a page up on Comixpedia. There's a plot summary, brief bios of the cast, and a snippet about three of the featured races.

Check it out:


Friday, October 19, 2007

A Horrible Waste of Time

Last week I rediscovered Desktop Tower Defense. Its a weirdly fun (and massively addictive) game. I played it for hours until I managed to beat Hard. I then played for hours more trying to maximize my score (7600-ish, which is meh).

Do not, under any circumstances, click on the link below unless you have time to kill.

You have been warned.


Thursday, October 18, 2007

A Very True Story

This is a story of courage, fortitude and intelligence. It is completely true. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Actually, this is a story of complete and utter stupidity masked by brilliance. It is actually completely true. These are our real names.

I was around 18 and in my first year of junior college (Hartnell Junior College, home of the Fighting Somethings – I totally cannot remember – some sort of cat I think). Me and my best bud Mike decided to take a quick trip between classes. Now, I happened to have the nice car that day, an expensive Toyota four-door, rather than the mustard color truck I normally drove, so we took my car.

Upon returning from our trip, we hopped out, locked the doors via the automatic door lock and started on our way. However, for inexplicable reasons, the door locks popped back up.

I locked the doors again and shut the door. Once again, the door locks popped up (if you can see where this is going, you are much smarter than I was at 18).

Third time, same result.

Now, in our defense, the car did have electrical problems, meaning that the sunroof would occasionally open at random, so we figured that there was some weird electrical thing going. We began to lock and shut the doors rapidly, assuming that eventually the locks would stay down.

Eventually, we noticed that if you pulled the door handle at the right time, the lock on that door would stay down. So, we hit upon a strategy. I would lock the doors and we would both pull on the handles on each side of the car at the same time, thereby ensuring that the doors stayed locked.

This proved to be much harder than it sounded, but we persevered. We were, after all, highly intelligent college-types with excellent hand-eye coordination. Eventually, we managed to get all the doors locked. This had taken us probably 15-minutes, but in the end, we had triumphed.

Just as I was giving Mike the thumbs up, I realized something. My keys were still in the ignition. The doors kept unlocking because it was a safety device to prevent people from locking their keys in the car.

Still, we congratulated each other. After all, we managed to defeat the security device. Our victory was short-lived, however, as I then realized that I had to call my mom to come unlock the car. Mom showed up, heard the story, commented that we were idiots and unlocked the car. Later that night at dinner, Dad wondered why he was bothering to send me to college.

Some months ago, Mike got married. At one point, I leaned over to him and said Hey, remember that time we locked the keys in the car at Hartnell?

He smiled and nodded Truly, he said. One of our finest hours.

His new wife then walked over. What are you guys talking about?

Nothing. We both responded. I gave him a thumbs up.


Wednesday, October 17, 2007

+3 Shield of Fiber: Part 2

As I pointed out yesterday, not every barbarian or pickpocket has the looks or the style to cut it as a real hero. Here are a few magic-items that might help bring them up to the standards we expect from our fantasy heroes. Feel free to use them in your campaigns.

The +3 Shield of Fiber
The item that started the whole blog. A player asked what bonus another players shield had and when told it was a +2, responded with an Oh, is that all, which prompted me to respond with What do you want, a +3 Shield of Fiber? The Shield of Fiber keeps you, well, regular. Because theres nothing worse than having to duck out of the fight with the Overlord of Terror because those Iron Rations are acting up. Conan surely never did.

+2 Rapier of Wit
Not every swashbuckler has the quick wit needed to add insult to injury (I know I do not). This rapier not only provides extra sting, but also feeds the bearer lines during combat. Your only retort will no longer be Oh yeah!

Pointy Hat of Tallness
Wizards judge each other by their hats. The bigger the hat, the more powerful one must be. Its the equivalent of a really big sword for the robe and staff set. This hat automatically gets taller if it senses another hat of greater height in its vicinity, always ensuring that its wearer has the biggest one. Care should be taken when going through doors however.

The Comb-Over of the Gods
A major artifact, the Comb-Over of the Gods resembles a regular comb, save that it can take the thinnest, wispiest strand of hair and turn it into a head of hair so thick that even a wooly mammoth would feel inadequate. From crewcut to dreadlocks, the comb can create any hairstyle, though oddly enough, it wont do a mullet.


Tuesday, October 16, 2007

+3 Shield of Fiber

After an hour, the mage finished the last rune to needed to complete the eldritch ring.

Give me the sword, he said, holding out a bony hand.

Its about time, grunted the warrior, holding out the massive two-handed sword. He smirked as the mage almost dropped the weapon, but never-the-less took a step back when it was unsheathed and placed within the circle.

I will now begin the spell. The mage began to chant, hands weaving in a complex and subtle pattern over the weapon. After ten minutes, there was a flash and the chalk ring disappeared in a blaze of green.

Well? Said the warrior.

I have it, said the wizard, after a moment. This sword is called Azure Flame. Its edge will never dull and it will glow with a blue flame when fighting any of the tribe of Kheth.

A true treasure! My thanks, sorcerer. The warrior stepped forward, reaching down to pick up the blade.

Wait! The mage held up a hand. There is more. Additionally, he who bears the sword will always smell pleasantly of lilac.


And his hair will always shine and be full of body.

Do you dare mock me, wizard?

You wished to know the properties of the blade. I am merely informing you of my findings.

Both of them looked down at the sword.

Good hair? Asked the warrior.


The warrior raised an eyebrow. Huh.

During a rousing game of DnD the other day, it occurred to me that magic items in games and fiction always tend to be useful or combat oriented. However, for every handsome hero or beautiful sorceress, there has to be a least a couple balding heroes with big noses or witches with thick ankles and a moustache problem. They might want a little something extra in their magic items, something to improve the image, so to speak.

Tomorrow: Chainmail that lifts and separates!

Friday, October 12, 2007

The Tell-Tale Cell Phone: Part 2

I will not trouble you with the labors I undertook. How the body was rent down into easily carried parts, how the blood was caught in a succession of Mountain Dew bottles. How I deposited him into the very couch upon which he died. There was no need to clean, as the living room was in so much disarray already, not even Gil Grisom of CSI could find a trace of wrong doing!

When I made the end of these labors, it was four o’clock, still dark as midnight. I was a bed, sleeping, my heart light, when there came a knocking upon my door. I rose, groggy, and answered, my feet safely ensconced in bunny slippers.

There were two constables. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor in the night and an alarm had been sent, foul play was suspected.

I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the officers welcome, saying that the shriek was my own in a dream, that Mario had set upon me with a wrench. I bade them search, nay, invited them to search. I opened every door, unlocked every latch. My roommate, I said with glee, had gone to an all night showing of the Extended Version of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. He would not return for many, many hours.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. They sat upon the couch, the very couch!, and chatted of familiar things. Of leveling in WoW and of the outcome of a battle betwixt a zombie and a robot. I chatted with ease, a smile upon my lips. Yet I began to grow nervous. I heard a ringing in my ears, the bale tune of an mp3, as if an ocarina were played through cotton. It was the cell phone of my victim, I had not removed it from his trousers, loathe as I was to touch the soiled fabric.

The noise grew, louder and louder still. I talked more quickly, more loudly. I at last found that the noise could not be within my own ears. It was so loud, yet the officers gave no notice. I talked more quickly, more vehemently. I argued, debated, whether Gordon Freeman could defeat Master Chief! And they still could not hear the infernal tones of the ocarina! I rose, began to pace, but the noise steadily increased! And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? They must hear it, they had to hear it! They must suspect! They must know! Yet they sat there, mocking me! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I felt I must scream, and still, louder! Louder! Louder!

Shit! I shrieked. I admit the deed. Up with the cushions! The nerd lies buried there! Here, here, it is the ringing of his hideous cell phone!

(if you would like to read the original Tell-Tale Heart, here is the complete text online:

Thursday, October 11, 2007

The Tell-Tale Cell Phone: Part 1

With all due apologies to Edgar Allen Poe

True!, nervous , very, very dreadfully nervous I have been, and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Playing games had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in GameStop. How, then, am I mad? Harken! and observe, how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it began to grow, to haunt my dreaming thought and waking mind. I did love him, as a brother might love his sibling, not in the way of homosexuality, though oft we did accuse each other of such proclivities. It was his way, yes, it was that! It was his way of mocking, of cruelly jesting at my expense, of defaming both my ancestry and manhood. Whenever I fell to him at Halo or Team Fortress, whenever my avatar did crumble to his did he unleash his taunts and churlish jibes. Noob, he would call me, pansy, often calling me by the name of a girl-child, such as Susie or Becky.

When the invectives would spew forth from his lips I would find my hands, inching, slowly, ever so slowly, as if by their own volition, towards his throat. He noticed not, entranced as he was, by his own wit, which did pour forth in mockery. A sloth might have bemoaned the slowness of my hand. The wise tortoise would grow impatient at my progress, so slow was I. So intent. A Holy-Speccd Priest in WoW could solo from 1 to 70 in the time it took for my hands to move a bare inch.

Yet – every night – his jibes would subside. His taunts would ebb as does the tide as his Cheetos found his lips, the unnatural orangeness staining his fingers, the couch, the controllers. I could smile then. Laugh even – how mirthful I was! Murder was replaced by fondness, for the joy of camaraderie. I hated him not! To think that I had – bare moments ago! – yearned to feel his neck beneath my hands, to crush that marvelous vessel down which many a Slim Jim and Red Bull had flowed – it could not be imagined.

Yet upon the eighth night, eight nights of taunts, eight nights of barking, dog-like laughter and cries of mirth at my expense, I could take no more! A pillow I seized, fouled by much passing of gas, and thrust it upon his face, even as a Jolly Rancher did pass his lips. A strangled scream was all he managed, a single scream of such a pitch and tone as to break glass.

There was flailing, yet his prowess at Halo availed him little, as the eons spent upon the couch had reduced his strength to that of a kitten, an anemic kitten at that! My weight pressed down upon him, his hands grasped at me, oh the jests that could have been made had there been someone to witness the act!

I smile, laughed even, as his muffled protestations grew weaker. When at long last his arms ceased their movement, when his body grew still, did I remove the pillow. He was dead. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there for many minutes. There was no pulsation. The nerd was stone dead. His taunts would trouble me no more.

Tomorrow: The conclusion of a tale most foul

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

The Best Game Reviews Ever

I recently stumbled across a game reviewer named Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw. These are some of the funniest and best thought out game reviews I have ever encountered.

There are not a lot of reviews up yet, but they are well worth the time.

You can find Bens reviews at:

Warning: They are rather rude, so I would not advice blasting them at work.


A Prime Number of Squirrels

Imagine this: You need to go to the bathroom. Your home, be it an apartment, house, mansion, or cardboard box, only has one. Therefore, you need to walk to it whenever you feel the need. Now, imagine that the next time youre walking to your bathroom, you happen to notice a squirrel sitting in the hallway.

Odd as this may be, you continue on past the squirrel. After all, you need to use the bathroom. However, the squirrel, instead of gathering nuts or buying stocks on margin or whatever it is squirrels normally do screeches horribly and attacks you.

You are surprised, rightfully so, and recovering from your astonishment, beat the squirrel off your leg with a club that happens to be there (if you can accept a squirrel in your hallway, you can accept that there might be a club there as well. Just go with it).

The squirrel runs off and you continue towards the bathroom, perhaps whistling a jaunty sea tune. However, before you can reach the bathroom, eleven squirrels, led by the one that originally attacked you, descend en masse and begin to savage your calves.

One squirrel is not so bad. Two squirrels could be irritating. Five is downright nasty. Eleven however, are almost lethal. You fight your way into the bathroom, slamming the door on them and stand there panting and bleeding and probably wondering what the hell was going on.

After staunching the bleeding and applying Bactine or your antiseptic of choice, you do your business and then exit the bathroom. The squirrel is still there, using a pen to draw on the wall. You try to get past it again and the same thing happens. Youre attacked by a prime number of squirrels and have to dash halfway across the house to get away from them.

Now imagine that you have to do this every single time you go to the bathroom. Ludicrous, yes?

You may be wondering what Im talking about. Well, welcome to WoW, the only place in existence where the animals are as abundant as they are aggressive.

This is a long standing pet peeve of mine in WoW. There are just too many damn animals that agro way to easily. Its just amazingly irritating trying to get from point A to point B and having to wipe out a half-a-dozen species to do so. The Hinterlands are one of the worst places for this, as there are so many wolves in the area (some of which are stealthed) that even if youre the appropriate level, you will spend half your time simply running away.

The worst example to me is Spinebreaker Post in the Hellfire Peninsula. I spent a good chunk of Sunday leveling my hunter and there is simply no good way to get there. No matter how you approach it, youre going to agro something. And the boars stun, so just riding through does not work. I probably got half-a-level just from having to kill boars I could not get around.

Now, I love WoW as much as the next addict, but they really should reduce the agro on most animals, especially if you have to constantly travel back and forth through them to get to the quest givers.

Just my .02 cents.


Monday, October 8, 2007

A Review

Greetings and salutations,

Leigh just discovered our first review. Well, the first review weve actually seen, to be more accurate.

The site is: You need to scroll down to the 10/01/2007 section.

Stick around and check out their site, they obviously have good taste :)


Thursday, October 4, 2007

Men in Masks With Knives

Picture this. Youre walking home late one night and decide to take a shortcut through a dark alley. As you trudge down the darkened path, you begin to grow nervous. Your pulse quickens and you soon flinch at every noise. All of a sudden, a shape looms before you. You freeze, your hands clench and your breath quickens, as adrenaline floods through your system. The shape moves, revealing itself to be a rental cat, also on its way home after a hard day.

You relax, even smile to yourself, and then realize, someone is behind you. You whirl and see a man in a mask with a knife. You have only a mere fraction of a second to decide: is it a surgeon or a ninja?

Your life will depend on the answer.

Surgeons and ninjas, much like zombies and robots, are amazingly similar:
Both wear masks
Both are trained to use knives
Both smell of lilac
Both wear form-fitting, monochromatic outfits
Both have devoted years to learning their craft
Both have taken solemn oaths to fulfill their duty

But while a ninja will chop you into pieces, a surgeon will put you back together. They are two sides of the same coin, one yin to the others yang, salt and pepper, ebony and ivory, marshmallow and bbq sauce, rock and paper (it works if you ignore scissors).

The one thing, however, that both hate above all, is being mistaken for the other. The ninja will simply cut out your heart and show it to you, but the surgeon will tell everyone at the country club that you cried like a girl.

How can I tell the difference, you may ask? There are no hard-and-fast rules, but I will make something up.

Surgeons generally carry much smaller knives than ninjas. This works well, unless you happen to get a ninja whos really secure in his masculinity.

Ninjas tend to be Japanese. If its a white guy, hes probably a surgeon. This is of no help if hes a surgeon of Asian descent, however.

Surgeons tend to wear much more colorful outfits. If hes dressed head-to-toe in lime green or his outfit has a floral pattern, chances are hes a surgeon. However, many modern ninjas have ditched the traditional black outfits in favor of more colorful garb. If hes in bright pink, your guess is as good as mine.

Armed with this knowledge, you have a good chance to correctly identify the masked man and forestall a disemboweling or some vicious gossip.

If you think its a ninja, say: Ohio! Watashi-wa, shobosha-desu!
Literal translation: Good morning! I am a fire truck!
The ninja will laugh and probably only mutilate you a little before vanishing in a puff of smoke.

If you think its a surgeon, say: I wanted to be a doctor, but just didnt have the patience!
Literal translation: I wanted to be a doctor, but just didnt have the patience!
The surgeon will give a tired laugh, as he has heard the joke a billion times and roll his eyes as he continues on to his Mercedes.

Armed with this knowledge, you can safely wander through dark alleys, reasonably certain your life and reputation will remain intact.

Warning: wandering through dark alleys is dangerous. You could trip, fall on a rusty nail, and get lockjaw. We are totally not responsible if that happens.


How Big a Nerd Are You: Answers

1. What is Benders last name?
a. Rodriguez. His full name is Bender Bending Rodriguez.
2. In Dune (the original novel), what is the name of the Emperors house?
a. Corrino. His full name is Shaddam Corrino IV.
3. The Roman Legionnaires carried the gladius. What was the name of the longer sword used principally by the cavalry troops?
a. The spatha.
4. In the novel The Fellowship of the Ring, what is the name of the elf who comes upon Aragorn and the halflings after Frodo is stabbed on Weathertop?
a. Glorfindel. In the movie, its Arwen, which was done to give her more screen time and not add another character.
5. What is Kirks brothers name?
a. George Samuel Kirk, Jr.
6. In Star Wars (Episode IV: A New Hope), not including the Millennium Falcon, how many Rebel ships survive the attack on the Death Star (bonus points if you can recall what types of ships they were)?
a. Three. Two X-Wings and a Y-Wing. Wedge Antilles piloted one of the X-Wings, with Luke in the other. No clue on who was piloting the Y-Wing.
7. In Babylon 5 (the original TV show) how many Techno-Mages are actually seen on camera?
a. One.
8. What is a mud-die?
a. In the early days of DnD, the plastic used to make dice was too soft and their edges wore down rather quickly. They became known as mud-dice.
9. What does the H.P. in H.P. Lovecraft stand for?
a. Howard Phillips.
10. What is Caliburn an older name for?
a. Excaliber. Caliburn was the name used by Geoffrey of Monmouth (c. 1140) and it is believed to have been derived from Caledfwlch, which is first mentioned in the Malbinogion.


Wednesday, October 3, 2007

How Big A Nerd Are You?

Im a pretty big nerd. Sci-Fi, fantasy, I love it all. Ive read quite a few nerd questionnaires over the years, so I thought I would be fun to whip up one of my own. All of these questions are off the top of my head and prove nothing save that I store a lot of useless information.

Im sure you can find all these answers on the internet, but go through them once and see how well you do. And if you have any real good questions (nothing too esoteric, ie, they should involve a commonly read/watched series), let me know.

Answers will be posted tomorrow.


1. What is Benders last name?
2. In Dune (the original novel), what is the name of the Emperors house?
3. The Roman Legionnaires carried the gladius. What was the name of the longer sword used principally by the cavalry troops?
4. In the novel The Fellowship of the Ring, what is the name of the elf who comes upon Aragorn and the halflings after Frodo is stabbed on Weathertop?
5. What is Kirks brothers name?
6. In Star Wars (Episode IV: A New Hope), not including the Millennium Falcon, how many Rebel ships survive the attack on the Death Star (bonus points if you can recall what types of ships they were)?
7. In Babylon 5 (the original TV show) how many Techno-Mages are actually seen on camera?
8. What is a mud-die?
9. What does the H.P. in H.P. Lovecraft stand for?
10. What is Caliburn an older name for?

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

I Root for the Bigfoot

I happened across a commercial the other day for Jack Links Beef Jerky. It showed a couple of hikers eating said beef jerky who come upon Sasquatch (aka Bigfoot, the Yeti) and decide to play a practical joke on the creature. They go through with it, which results in the enormous Bigfoot attacking them.

I do not get these commercials. Why would you want to suggest that eating your product will make you do something stupid and potentially suicidal?

The kicker is that the Bigfoot is pretty much minding its own business when these guys decide to harass it and get beaten up. Personally, I root for the Bigfoot.

Now, I realize the commercials are trying to capture your attention (it did capture mine, though in a negative way), so they are attempting to be strange and off-beat. And apparently, it is working, as there are a bunch of these commercials on their website.

Now, if I happened upon a Bigfoot in the woods, my first thought would not to be to antagonize it. This would seem like a basic survival skill, along the lines of not kicking a pit bull, kissing a black mamba, or wrestling a zombot.

Jim Croce said it best: You dont tug on Supermans cape. You dont spit into the wind. You dont pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger and you dont mess around with 8-foot tall man-beasts who can use you as a fly swatter.

Actually, the song doesnt say that, but it seemed apropos.


Monday, October 1, 2007

The Adventures of Arin Asurance

Deputy Director Ferguson absently tapped his pencil on his desk as he frowned at his computer screen.

The intercom beeped.


Agent Asurance to see you, sir.

Send her in.

Ferguson leaned back in his chair as Agent Arin Asurance entered his office, her pink hair shining brightly in the fluorescent light, and closed the door behind her.

Please take a seat, Agent Asurance.

Speaking of taking a seat, have you sat down to compare car insurance prices?

Ferguson sighed. Yes, Agent Asurance, I have. But were not here to talk about auto insurance, were here to talk about your performance.

But with Asurance, you always get great performance!

Ferguson raised an eyebrow. Were talking about you, Agent, not car insurance. He held up a hand to forestall her insurance-related comment. What was your last assignment, Agent?

I showed a bunch of people how to save money on car insurance!

No, actually, your last assignment was to stop Dr. Insano from activating his latest invention. Do you recall Dr. Insano, Agent?

I sure do! He saved time and money with Asurance!

Actually, yes he did. Then once you left, he disintegrated the Isle of Malta. Were you unclear on your orders, Agent?

No, sir! I tell everyone everywhere I go about Asurance!

Ferguson stared at Agent Asurance for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk. Agent Asurance, you are a highly trained government operative with top secret clearance, access to the most sophisticated technology in the world and a license to kill. Dont you think it would be odd that we would send you out to tell people about car insurance?

But Asurance also covers boats, motorcycles, mopeds, scooters, snow mobiles, unicycles, and jet skis!

I guess not.
Ferguson loosened his tie. Agent, if it were up to me, I would have you immediately removed from duty and confined to a psychiatric ward until our top doctors could figure out what was wrong with you. However, the Director likes you. Apparently, you saved him a bunch of money on his car insurance. Therefore, I will give you one last chance.

Ferguson picked up a file from his desk and tossed it to Agent Asurance. Doctor General Baron von Jones has escaped from prison and is rebuilding his organization. We dont know what his plan is, but if its anything like the last fourteen-times, he will be trying to construct any army of killer zombots. Find him, destroy his base, and bring him to justice. Any questions?

No, sir! Agent Asurance is on the case!

Good. Now remember Agent, youre a highly trained spy and assassin. Do not leave if he buys Asurance.

Right, Chief! Ill be sure to tell him about all the cash he can save with Asurance!

With that, Agent Asurance was out the door and gone. Deputy Director Ferguson leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. The clock read 11:38. He reached for the intercom.

Sandy, Im going to take an early lunch.

But, Agent Watchtower is here to see you, sir

Ferguson groaned and then took a deep breath. Send him in.

Morning, sir! said Agent Watchtower, as he opened the door. Can I offer you a pamphlet?

I hate my life, muttered Ferguson.


Friday, September 28, 2007

Call Now, Supplies Are Limited!

Tired of dull kitchen knives that cant cut a simple tomato? Tired of limp, lifeless hair? Tired of being mocked by small children because of the growth on your head?

Then you need: the Cutterator! The worlds first gas-powered kitchen knife! Simply fill it with gas, pull the included starting cord, and whammo! Your days of being dull, uninteresting and ignored by the opposite sex are over!

The Cutterator cuts everything! It cuts tomatoes, potatoes, and actual toes! It cuts through aluminum cans, the counter beneath, through the floor and into the ground! Use it to Julienne fries, clean up after the dog, and prevent global warming!

And, if you act now, well throw in not one, not two, but fifty-seven Pocket Thingies! We dont know what they actually do, but we theyre made out of indestructible alutitanichromium, which is the hardest made-up metal in the whole universe!

We will also throw in a handy-dandy Nuculator, the only nuclear-powered pocket calculator in the world! It adds, divides, and even subtracts! Plus it glows in the dark, making it perfect for lighting your way, signaling passing aircraft, and causing all your hair to fall out!

So thats the Cutterator, fifty-seven Pocket-Thingies, and the Nuculator! But wait! If you call within the next twenty-two years, we will also throw in a Pink Lunchbox! Its square! Its pink! It can HOLD YOUR LUNCH! It even comes with a matching pink strap!

Call now, supplies are limited!

This offer not valid in Canada or any state containing vowels. All product warranties void if product is touched by human hands. Do not taunt the Nuculator. Were serious.


Thursday, September 27, 2007

The Good, the Bad, and the Mortimer

There is a spider that lives in my bedroom. He is mostly found on the wall behind my computer. I have decided, for no readily apparent reason, to name him Mortimer (Mort is okay, but not Morty. He does not look like a Morty).

Mortimer is a rather quiet fellow. I rarely see him move, but when I come home, he is generally in a different spot (he favors the corner and directly above the calendar). I can therefore only assume that he is some sort of spider hero and that when I am gone, he goes off to have exciting, spider-related adventures.

I am rather pleased by this, as it means that at least someone in my apartment has a life.

You may be dubious about my claims that Mortimer is a spider hero, yet I have proof. Mortimer once intimidated my cat. Now, my cat is small, by cat standards, but at 6-odd pounds, she is a behemoth compared to Mortimer.

One day, I noticed my cat sniffing at the wall near the door. I looked over and found her nose to carapace with Mortimer. They eyed each other in a Sergione Leon-esque fashion for a moment and then my cat dashed under the bed.

I am not kidding.

I can only assume that Mortimer growled some sort of threat and that, combined with the glare of his eight steely eyes, was enough to send my cat fleeing in terror.

Mortimer is not here right now. I am forced to assume that he is off in some exotic locale, rescuing hot spider girls and beating the snot out of evil insects.

Well, at least one of us is having fun.


Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Klingon Kindergarten

Silence! Roared Miss KTarth. Silence! Or I will crush your skulls and feast on your brains!

The kindergarten class quieted down, turning obediently to face their teacher.

I will now call roll. Answer quickly! BGor!






There was no response. Shoktor! Answer me!

I think hes dead.


He was playing on the slide with a betleH. He sorta . . . fell . . . on it.

Then he was weak and deserved to die! Bah! I have no patience for calling roll!
Miss KTarth threw the clip board over her shoulder. It is time for arts and crafts! Get to you desks. NOW!

The children scrambled to their feet and dashed to their seats, leaping over the various spikes and knives that were scattered around the classroom. Miss KTarth fetched a large box from the storeroom and began passing out materials.

Now, using paper and glue, you will construct a macaroni duck. You will take this home and give it to your parents, who will honor you by taping it to the refrigerator.

One boy raised his hand.

What, Zargath? Do you need to use the little warriors room again?

Whats a duck?

An Earth creature. It lives on the water and tears apart its prey with razor sharp talons. Now get to work!

The children bent industriously over their papers, carefully gluing the macaronis in place as their teacher walked among them, offering encouragement.

Blort! Do not eat the glue yet! Save it for lunch!

Varktar! Your duck is weak! Make it fiercer or you will bring shame to your family!

Miss KTarth paused by one desk, where the boys paper was blank. Thort! You were ordered to create a macaroni duck! Why did you disobey a direct order!?

Because a great Klingon warrior killed the duck with his bare hands and then ate it!

Miss Ktarth smiled. You will go far, young Thort!

There was a sudden, horrible screeching.

Recess! Bellowed Miss Ktarth. I expect to see fighting! Kahless help you if there is no fighting!

As the children ran outside, Miss Ktarth straightened up the classroom. Additional knives were strewn about and she made sure the painsticks were charged for a game of Duck, Duck, Aaaargh later on. She looked up at a particularly loud yell and saw several kids run by the window waving betleHs. She smiled and with a shake of her head, continued cleaning.


Monday, September 24, 2007

Holiday schedule woes.

As I’ve mentioned before, our coloring is now being done by the good folks at Lamplighter Studios Inc. This is a dandy relationship, but I totally failed to account for a holiday difference in our schedules, which has put us back a week on coloring. As a result of this, pages 43 and 44 will be posted next week. All will soon be well again, as I am now armed with both their and my holiday schedule, and all is again right with the world. At least it will be right again starting next week, when we return to our normal Tuesday Thursday schedule.
- Leigh

Hello, Dave

So, there I was. It was 5:30 am and I was in bed, staring at the ceiling, and wondering why computer are always female. No, really, I was.

Insomnia is a harsh mistress.

Im not referring to the computer I use to write my blogs (Testiculus the Destroyer), but to computers in sci-fi shows. Think about it. All the computers in Star Trek, at least for the Federation (dunno about the Klingons). Cortanna, from Halo. Shodan, from System Shock. Even the cars in James Bond. Computers just seem to have female voices (and oddly enough, British accents). Pretty much if a computer talks or has a holographic image, it is female.

Why is that?

Computers started out male. HAL9000, the granddaddy of talking computers, had a male persona. KITT was also male, but was also a car, which somehow makes sense (I have no idea why). But somehow along the way, computers became girls.

Experts in psychology and sociology could probably come up with some very interesting and fascinating reasons why this may be so. I would even be willing to bet that a couple of thesis (thesises? thesi?) have been written on this very subject.

However, I think the answer is far simpler. Sci-Fi geeks, myself included, just want to talk to a girl.


Friday, September 21, 2007

Zombies vs. Robots

So, I had a thought the other day: who would win in a fight between a zombie and a robot?

I am talking about your average, run-of-the-mill zombie, ie, your classic, slow, brain-obsessed ones and your average early 80s robot, who is also quite slow and bent of destroying all humans (think Cylons from the original Batllestar Galactica).

They are, upon comparison, weirdly similar:

Really Stupid
Smells Bad
Nigh Unstoppable
Craves Brains

Kinda Stupid
Probably Stronger
Smells Minty
Also Nigh Unstoppable
Programmed to Destroy All Humans

The question is, if you put one of each room, who would emerge victorious? Actually, both of them would just stand there. The zombie craves brains, which the robot does not have, while the robot, which is programmed to kill all humans, would not target the zombie, as its already dead.

However, if you stuffed a brain into the robots chest cavity and then programmed it to attack any human-like thing that moved, you would then have a fight on your hands.

I would have to put my money on the robot, no matter how much I would want to support an Undead American. Frankly, while the zombie would eventually tear open the robot, the robot would probably first either immobilize the zombie by breaking its limbs or get a lucky shot to the zombies head and take him out completely.

Of course, if such an experiment were tried, the zombie and robot would end up working together to destroy humanity. Worse, they could merge and become a zombot (rombie just does not sound right).

Anyhow, $50 on the robot.


Thursday, September 20, 2007

Booby Traps

We all know the story. The intrepid adventurer, be he archeologist, knight, or commoner-who-is-really-the-son-of-the-king, is creeping along the passageway of the ancient and fearsome Really, Really Evil Dungeon, a place that has been lost for a thousand years. Alongside of him is his trusty comic relief, who is there to make him look good (or at least competent).

Just as the comic-relief is about to step forward, the adventurer holds out a hand.

Wait, he says. There may be booby traps.

The adventurer then throws a stick or rock or marmoset right where the comic relief was about to step. There is a thwap (or possible a thwip) and an arrow zings across the passage, right where the comic-relief would have been.

A quip is made and they continue on, to rescue the spunky princess with large breasts.

Here is the thing: how the hell does that trap work? Think about it. Adventurers are continually running across long deserted tombs, dungeons, and strip malls and encountering traps that have been sitting there for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and they still work. My last watch, comparatively a marvel of technology, ceased functioning after a mere 8-years.

Wood rots. Metal rusts. Even stone will crack or become overgrown. Even if someone is tending these things on a regular basis, the failure rate would have to be high.

Obviously, it is just a movie or book, but I am always amused by this. Ancient technology, for no readily apparent reason, always works.

Someday, I want to see this:

The hero and his sidekick are moving along the deserted dungeon corridor. The sidekick stumbles and grabs a rock to steady himself, which activates an unseen trap.

There is the horrible screeching of metal scraping against metal and iron spikes appear from the holes in the ceiling. Once, they would have shot from the holes with amazing speed, impaling anything below them, but now most of them are rusted into place. Only one lone spike descends, but agonizingly slowly. The hero looks up and calmly takes one step to the right. The spike continues to descend, but there is a sudden PING and then it stops.

Huh, says the hero, before continuing on.