Wednesday, January 30, 2008

I Am a Chicken

Earlier in the week I fell ill. It was not bad, as far as illness go, but I pretty much slept all day Sunday and most of Monday. Relatively speaking, it probably made up for the insomnia of previous weeks.

However, one interesting side effect of being that sick, for me at least, is what I call fever dreams. Basically, I have amazingly strange and vivid dreams. These dreams don’t just have sound, color, and plot, they have a whole 4th Dimension of weirdness as well.

For example, when I was in the 6th grade, I was laid out with the flu. I had a dream where I was a two-dimensional object (a square to be precise), who was trying to find a way to break into the 3-dimensional world. My search was rather hampered by the gang of swirls that kept chasing me around.

No, really. I’m not kidding.

So, Sunday night, I was a chicken, a rooster, actually. I was trying to find a way to free my brethren from the clutches of the evil Colonel who bore a suspicious resemblance to a certain military commander with a line of chicken restaurants.

Yes, the Colonel was making nuggets out of my people and I was determined to stop him. After a gun battle in fast-food establishment (which was in the first person), complete with bullet-time, John Woo-esque leaping, and the dispatch of a foe via knocking him into the deep fat fryer, I learned the location of the Colonel’s secret factory.

I gathered my stalwart companions (who were also chickens) and dressed in black commando garb, we stormed the compound. A ferocious gun battle ensued (though this time in a 3rd Person overhead view), where many a chicken and man alike fell in a hail of lead. Think the D-Day scene from Saving Private Ryan done in a warehouse with chickens carrying machine guns and you’ll get the idea.

I managed to make it into the main factory and oddly enough, it was now a side-scrolling platformer (think Mario). I now had to jump between floors, evading traps and pixilated bullets, while pecking any enemy who got close enough. I eventually made it to the Colonel, who resembled Donkey-Kong wearing a white suit, glasses, and a white goatee.

Unfortunately, something must have disturbed me during the fight with the Colonel, so I never found out if I won. Instead the scene shifted and I (being regular me now, not a chicken) ended up hitting a series of hanging pails with a lead pipe, hoping a clock would fall out of one.

I am dead serious.

In retrospect, maybe I need to stop playing so many video games.


Is Better Than . . .

I happened to use the expression ‘x is better than sliced bread’ the other day. It’s an expression I use with some frequency.

Once the sentence escaped my lips, however, I wondered ‘why?’ Why is sliced bread so magical that other things need to be compared to it?

I somehow doubt that the unsliced bread of yore was particularly tough or screamed when you cut it (which would be unnerving to say the least), so why would pre-sliced bread be so wonderful? Our ancestors were hearty working folk who regularly hunted dinosaurs and fought yeti, what possible terror could a loaf of bread have held for them? I mean, I have personally cut bread. It didn’t fight back and I have all my fingers (though one had to be put back on ).

So, I humbly submit that we should have a better expression. Something that truly reflects the magical experience that sliced bread simply doesn’t convey.

Please feel free to use the one you like best in your daily conversation:

X is . . .

Better than a solid gold puppy
Puppies are cute. Everyone loves them. Plus if it’s solid gold, it will a) be worth a lot of money and b) won’t poop in the house.

Better than an overclocked Intel Core 2 Extreme QX6850 (quad core)
I don’t actually know what that means, but my tech friend got all excited when he talked about it.

Better than being at a supermodel nudist convention
No explanation required.

Better than X’s bottom
Please insert the name of the person whose bottom you feel is the most perfect in the land. It should probably be your spouse’s or significant other’s if they’re within ear shot.

Better than a +5/+8 vs. Evil Holy Avenger
Those of you who know what this means are thinking ‘yeahhhhh.’

Better than a Zombot
It would have to be marvelous indeed, to be better than a hybrid zombie-robot.


Monday, January 28, 2008

Morning folks! Jason is off sick today, so I am filling in. Let’s all hope he gets better soon!
I also just wanted to say that I hope all our readers are doing well. Total donations during December and January have been $0.00, so I’m hoping it’s not because everyone has spent all their money over the holidays and has nothing left to eat. Not to sound like a shallow greedy bastard, but although this site is not fully powered by donations, they certainly help. I’d also like to thank everyone who has donated in the past for your support, and remind folks to let us know if you experience any issues with the new rewards section.
- Leigh

Friday, January 25, 2008

Triumph, the Insult Comedy Dog

I happened across this clip from Triumph the Insult Dog about the opening of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. It was too good not to share. Enjoy!

Part 1:
Part 2:


Thursday, January 24, 2008

Moving Up in the Ranks

Arklebar, Dark Lord of Berenir, King of Uburia, and Conqueror of Kordrun drummed his fingers on the armrest. Before him lay the royal map room, where several very nervous men in uniforms stood staring at their feet.

“So,” began Arklebar, “you’re telling me that we lost?”

“Yes, Sire,” said the man with the biggest array of medals. “As you can see from the map, enemy forces surprised us at Sandwich Pass and your entire Western Army was annihilated.” He hesitantly pointed at the large, minutely detailed map of the continent that filled two-thirds of the room. A number of carved wooden figures were set at various points, painted in the colors of various nations.

“We’re the red ones?” asked Arklebar.

“Yes, Lord,” said the same man. “The half-dozen blue figures clustered around the knocked over red figures represents the battle.”

“How come none of the blue figures are knocked over?”

“We, ummm, didn’t inflict enough casualties.”

“Really? Three thousand heavily armed psychopaths didn’t kill enough people to knock over even one blue guy?”

“Well, Sire,” began the man. “It was hobby night. They were busy making macaroni ducks when they were surprised.”

“Macaroni ducks?”

“Yes, we find it keeps morale up.”

Arklebar considered this for a moment. “Huh.” He leaned forward, the giant spikes on his shoulder plates casting ominous shadows. “You know what else keeps morale up?”

The man swallowed, as the other men quietly stepped away. “No, Lord.”

“Executions.” Arklebar signaled and a guard efficiently lopped the man’s head off. There was a fountain of blood and two thuds. The first was from a head with a very surprised expression as it hit the table and the second came a moment later as the rest of the body hit the floor.

“Well,” said Arklebar, after a moment of silence. “Who’s next in line to be General?”

No one answered.

“Come on, somebody speak up.” Arklebar raised his hand and the guard stepped forward again.

“Ummm,” said a young man, who was liberally splashed with blood. “I don’t think there’s anyone else.”

“What? I command over 50,000 men. Who’s the next senior officer?”

“I don’t think you have any left.”

Arklebar raised a finger and the guard stepped forward, but then lowered it after a moment. “Explain.”

“Well, you’ve executed every senior and junior officer you have. General Errew there,” he said gesturing at the corpse. “Was just a lieutenant 9 months ago. Your officers are actively refusing promotions now. Many have busted themselves down to sergeants. Captain Bower had himself court-martialed all the way down to Corporeal.”

“And who are you?”

“Private Kren, Lord.” He gestured at the map. “I move the figures and . . . err . . . clean up.”

“Hmmm, I like you, Private. How’d you like to be General?”

“No thank you, Sire.”

“Come on! You get all sorts of perks. There’re fancy uniforms, good pay, and lots of medals.” Arklebar leaned forward. “The ladies love the medals, if you get my drift.”

“I will, but I have some conditions.”

“Really? Such as?”

“Not being executed would be pretty much it.” He thought for a second. “And no sneaky ‘toss him down a well when no one’s looking’ either.”

Arklebar rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“I’d like that in writing.”


“In front of witnesses.”

“Oh come on!”

“And notarized.”

“You’re killing me here,” said Arklebar. “Really.”


Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Insomnia Has No Rhymes

I have occasional bouts of insomnia. Last night was around an 8 out of a possible 10, so I had plenty of time to stare at the ceiling and wonder what it would be like to actually sleep.

Out of curiousity (or boredom, hard to tell) I kept a more-or-less accurate list of the things that went through my head. Here they are:

1:14 AM
My cat is either the dumbest creature in the world or the smartest. She will sit just out of reach and then want attention, forcing me to reach for her. She then darts away and does it again 10 minutes later. She’s either so dumb that she hasn’t yet figured out that I need to touch her to pet her or she’s running some sort of Pavlovian experiment to see just how much she can get away with. Either way, it’s been going on for 14 years now.

1:55 AM
To my knowledge, no movie has ever dealt with Godzilla pooping. Obviously, he must eat something, therefore he must also poop. It’s a mystery.

2:21 AM
I think I dozed off for a second. My cat chose that moment to jump on my chest.

2:51 AM
My neighbor has a diesel tow truck. He often arises in the middle of the night and drives away. Mayhap he is a super-hero with tow truck related powers. “My tow truck sense is tingling! There’s a car, a 1988 Honda Civic, and it’s stalled! To the tow truck!!!!”

3:07 AM
Insomnia sucks. Nothing rhymes with it. I think Steven King wrote a novel called Insomnia. Granted, he probably just picks up a dictionary, finds a word at random, and then writes something scary around that word. If I did that, I’d end up with a novel called ‘Isthmian’ about a haunted isthmus.

3:30 AM
I have an uninteresting ceiling.

3:36 AM
My ceiling is still uninteresting.

3:38 AM
I grow tired of looking at my ceiling.

3:40 AM
My ceiling is mocking me with its flat whiteness.

4:08 AM
I don’t actually know what an ‘isthmus’ is. I should look that up.

4:28 AM
I count the bars on the individual numbers on my digital clock. 1 has two bars. 2 has five. Interestingly enough, 4, 5, and 6 have the same number bars as the number they represent. This is an amazing revelation at 4:30 in the morning.

4:43 AM
I wonder if King Kong flings his poo? If he does, Skull Island would be really nasty. Why the hell is it called Skull Island? Oh yeah, there’s a giant mountain shaped like a skull. That makes sense and it sounds better than Clavicle Island. I wonder if it has an isthmus?

4:51 AM
I moved and now my cat wants attention. My Rogue just hit 60 and I need to go to Outlands and start working on my Skinning and Leatherworking. This is vitally important for reasons I cannot articulate.

5:00 AM – 7:00-ish
I think I was actually asleep. I’m honestly not sure. I was either awake and wondering if I was asleep or asleep and dreaming I was awake and wondering if I was asleep. I think I was mostly awake, as nothing was obviously melting and my cat wasn’t speaking French.

7:18 AM
‘Rutabaga’ would be a great name for a Steven King novel.

7:30 AM
I’m trying to remember what the colors in the Olympic rings are. I’m pretty sure there’s a black and a yellow, but I can’t remember the others. This seems really important for some reason.

7:30 AM to 9:15 AM-ish
I think I was honestly asleep here, as I don’t remember looking at the clock.

9:30 AM
Time to get up and get busy. If I’m lucky, I won’t nod off at the computer. Mothra is a funny name. I wonder if the tiny twins that accompany it sing when it poops.


Monday, January 21, 2008

Road Signs

Whilst playing WoW the other day, I was trying to find a particular area and was checking the various signs as I rode by. It then occurred to me: “Who put these up?”

While you expect road signs in a reasonably ‘civilized’ place such as Durotar or whatever zone Stormwind is in (Horde player here, I honestly don’t know), who put them up in places like Shadowmoon Vale or the Burning Steppes?

I somehow doubt the local denizens did. If they had, I would also expect them to be wrong. The sign to the nearest city would probably lead into the middle of a bunch of Scarlet Crusade types or at least into a very deep hole.

But no, the signs are omnipresent and are actually correct. It is if some elder god of analness decreed it to be and his faithful followers carried out his edict.

“We have organized the silverware drawers, oh greatest of beings. Now the fish forks will never touch upon those meant for salad.”

“You bring honor to my name, yet I have one more task for you.”

“We eagerly await your task, oh most methodical one.”

“Then I command you to travel forth and put up road signs, so that travelers may ever find their way.”


“Well, people keep getting lost and falling into pits. It’s inefficient and mucks things up. Put up signs at every crossroad, so that everyone, no matter the faction, may benefit from them.”

“Where exactly, your meticulousness?”

“Everywhere. I want roads signs on every road in every land in every dimension.”

“Ummm, there’s only three of us, most anal of all.”

“Then you should probably get started, shouldn’t you?”


Convention Season

Hey all,

Convention season is drawing nigh and Leigh and I have been discussing where we want to go.

We will definately, probably go to Emerald Con (, as it's 20-minutes away, but we are also thinking about going to the San Diego Comic-Con (

There are a plethora of small fantasy cons in the WA area as well, so we'll try to hit at least a couple of those as well.

However, if there happens to be a comic-con or fantasy-con near you that you'd like us to appear at, please drop up a line at and we'll see if it's possible (places very far away are probably not within our budget).


Friday, January 18, 2008

Viking Kittens

Here's a rather strange blast from the past (in which the past was a couple years ago).

The Immigrant Song done with kittens for you viewing pleasure.


Thursday, January 17, 2008

Adventuring is Hard: Part 3

You almost never do proper quests in RPGs. Quests, as defined by an online dictionary are ‘an adventurous expedition undertaken by a knight or knights to secure or achieve something: the quest of the Holy Grail.’

Killing 12 Vapid Rats is not a quest. Neither is escorting some brain-dead moron who attacks everything in sight out of a dungeon (that’s more of a trial aka ‘pain-in-the-butt’). These are really just Tasks, which are appetizers to the feast that is a real quest.

Tasks tend to be weirdly number intensive. Somebody lost an eye to a Frosted Bat and now he wants you to kill twenty of them. Is that the going rate for an eye? What would a hand be worth? Fifty? It just all seems rather arbitrary.

Real quests are things like taking the One Ring to Mount Doom, defeating the Evil that has Enveloped the World, or even Cleaning my Bathroom. Hint: you can tell ‘real’ quests by the number of words being capitalized.

Understandably, RPGs are limited in their scope. The Baldur’s Gate series has an actual quest as the overarching plot. The old Betrayal at Krondor game also had one (fun game, hard though). I’m sure that many others also have them. MMORPGS are a bit different, as not everybody can throw the One Ring into the fires from whence it was forged. They’d have to queue up on Mount Doom to throw the rings in. Orcs would set up souvenir stands and sell 9-fingered gloves. “I destroyed the One Ring and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

It’s all rather silly, once you stand back and take a look at it. This doesn’t keep me from playing though :)

And here’s one last look at Garin and Co. before we go.

“So, what’s Garin doing now?”

“Killing Murderous Mud Mammals.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Oh, some guy will give him three gold if he brings him twenty Murderous Mud Mammal Molars.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Oh, and some other guy thinks that a Murderous Mud Mammal may have mauled his mother’s magic maple margarine minder. He’ll give him 8 gold and a sword if Garin finds all the pieces.”

“That’s silly.”

“Nope, that’s 11 gold and a new sword.”

“Can I do it too?”


Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Adventuring is Hard: Part 2

So, I have established that going to the bathroom can be a horrible experience. Yet, there is one worse than that: fighting.

Fighting is the bread and butter of the adventurer and is typically undertaken by the warrior, paladin, barbarian, or whatever. Fighting, though, hurts. No matter how good you are or how well armored you may be, eventually, someone is going to stab you with something sharp.

To counter this problem (namely bleeding), there are healers. Those who faithfully bind wounds, cast healing spells, and generally see to the health of the party.

These people are great for the party, but horrible for the fighters.

I can hear the hue and cry now. “But healers keep the melees alive!” “But without healers, melees would never fight!”

Both are true, but consider this: A warrior fights, gets injured (if not dead), has to heal up and then fights again. It is a slow process, but one wherein the warrior does not spend the majority of his time being stabbed.

Now, put a healer into the mix. A melee fights, gets injured, gets healed, fights again, gets injured again, gets healed, etcetera. Basically, what the healer does is ensure that the melee is in nigh constant pain.

Have you ever been punched in the face? It was probably unpleasant. Now, imagine that you knew you were going to get punched. It was inevitable. Bad, yes? Now imagine that you were going to get punched 100 times, only someone would make you feel better in between punches. Welcome to the life of the warrior.

Even worse is considering that the majority of healing is done through spells and that to maximize the healing spells, you had to be injured a certain amount. It might go something like this.

“So, who’s that Garin’s fighting?”

“Not sure. Looks like there’s about twenty of them though.”

“Yeah. I won- oooh, that looked painful.”

“Meh. Nothing a Cure Critical won’t fix.”

“Huh. Wow, Garin’s really taking a beating. Shouldn’t you be healing him or something?”

“Nah, I’ve got a Cure Massive ready. He needs to be really injured though; otherwise it’s overkill.”

“I think his arm just came off.”

“Not yet.”

“Ummm, he’s screaming and I think I can actually see his lungs.”

“That’s about right.”

Healing happens and the battle ends.

“Garin seems a touch upset.”

“He’ll get over it. Besides, there’s another group coming over the rise. Don’t worry, I’ve got another Cure Massive.”

Tomorrow: Quests and the People that Love Them

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Adventuring is Hard

So, while I was playing WoW the other night with my 5-man instance group, I was sneaking along with my Rogue through scores of MOBs (the end boss in BRD, if you happen to know where I mean) and I thought to myself, as a patrol passed by, ‘Man, it would suck if I sneezed right now.’

This random thought made me reflect on what life would be like to be an adventurer, not just in WoW, but in any of the scores of MMORPGs and pen-and-paper based games

Being an adventurer would be hard. Think about it. You constantly travel, routinely fight horrible things with fangs that want to eat you, basically camp-out 90% of the time, and would probably know which leaves made the best toilet paper. Actually, you would eventually learn which leaves made the best toilet paper. There would have to be a certain amount of trial and error involved, which would probably lead to some really interesting (read painful) rashes. Just hope you have a cleric with you, otherwise life would be hell for quite a while.

And just when you came to know which leaves worked best and which leaves needed to be avoided, what would happen? That’s right, you’d wind up on another continent, planet, or plane of existence and you’d have to start all over again.

Imagine a camp of stalwart adventurers, hardened by years of combat and eating things that tried to eat them first, at camp on a new continent.

“Hey, why is Garin standing in the bushes crying?”

“He can’t decide whether to use the blue leaf that smells funny or the green one that looks like a top hat.”

“You’re kidding? That’s Garin the Destroyer! He once bit an eyestalk off a Beholder on a bet and called the Minotaur King a pansy to his face!”

“Well, last time he tried the soft purple leaf and discovered it was actually alive.”


“It bit him in the . . . err, little Garin and wouldn’t let go. Let’s just say I had to cast Cure Critical Wounds. Twice.”


Tomorrow: Warriors: Having a Healer Means Getting Stabbed More Often

Monday, January 14, 2008

A Slight Hiccup

Hi all,

We had a slight hiccup last week, but are back on track for normal updates on Tuesday and Thursday.

Speaking of hiccups, though, have you ever seen a movie or television show where someone hiccuped? I get hiccups fairly frequently and most people get them occasionally, but you never see them portrayed on any screen, big or little.

Now, I can see Bruce Willis as John McLane hiccuping in a Die Hard movie, but not Schwarzenegger or Stallone.

"Conan! What is best in life?"

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women."

Granted, you never see Conan or Rambo blowing their nose or going to the bathroom either, but there you go.


Friday, January 11, 2008

Turret Defense

Hey all,

Been really busy this week and haven't had time to write my blogs as usual. Following in that theme, here' s a site chock full of Tower Defense games and variations thereof.



Thursday, January 10, 2008


I like tanks. I like them even more when I get to drive around and blow stuff up.

This is a fun, simple tank game that will keep you occupied for hours (well, it did for me, anyway).


Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Microsoft Coat 2010: Part 2

Of course, there’s no reason that having talking clothing couldn’t be a good thing.

“Why yes, he is happy to see you.”

“Trust us, he’s got abs, thighs, and buns of steel.”

“And after volunteering at the orphanage, he always drops by his grandma’s to see if she needs anything.”

“No, ma’am, your son went straight home after practice and couldn’t possibly shaved Mrs. Wilson’s cat.”

“The square root of 277729 is 527.”

However, once they start implanting microchips in your clothing, it will only a matter of time before somebody starts beaming viruses into your underwear. You could end up with shirts that won’t come off, pants that drop at random intervals, and underwear that’s beaming mpegs of your privies to everyone on your friend’s list.

Then again, you’d get to say things like “I have to update my Norton Underpants.”


Monday, January 7, 2008

Microsoft Coat 2010: Part 1

I was watching a science show on robotics the other day and one of the predictions made was that someday, little tiny microchips would be sewn directly into your clothing. The advantages to this would be that the chips could automatically regulate heat, report if the wearer’s vitals have dropped below a certain point and so forth. However, knowing the way things generally go, I envision the following scenarios:

“Good evening, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No, sir.”

The traffic cop adjusted his gloves. “Well, sir, you were driving somewhat erratically. Have you been drinking?”

The driver shook his head. “No, not tonight.”

“He’s lying!” shrieked the driver’s sportcoat.

“Shut up!” hissed the driver.

“It’s true,” said the driver’s pants. “All night long. Glug, glug, glug. He’s like a fish!”

“Sir, your clothing seems to disagree.”

The driver held up his hands. “No, they’re lying! I haven’t had anything to drink at all! I swear! My pants are just mad because I wouldn’t buy that belt!”

“Oh, man,” said the pants. “That belt was sweet.”

“She totally wanted you,” affirmed the sportscoat.

The officer raised an eyebrow. “If you haven’t been drinking, sir, then why were you all over the road?”

“My jacked keeps pulling at my arms. It wants the new Microsoft Coat 2010.”

“Please get out of the car, sir.”

The driver fumbled with his seatbelt. “Really, I haven’t been drinking at all.”

“Sir, you do realize that your clothing can testify against you in a court of law?”

Tomorrow: Part 2

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Monk Vs. Vikings

A very stange, yet funny video I found a while ago.

Tomorrow, I'll be talking about computers in your clothes. No, really.


Thursday, January 3, 2008

A Knight to Remember

A very funny little film sent to me by my friend Doug.


Do Not Believe Me: Part 2

So, during Christmas dinner, I found myself sitting at the kid’s table, eating with my 2nd brother and my niece and nephew. I was there by choice, thank you very much, and not because I had referred to the turkey as ‘the flesh of the unborn’ the year before.

In making conversation, I asked my 13-year-old niece what she wanted to be when she grew up. When she had no firm plans, I suggested that she become a yak herder.

She expressed bewilderment at the idea and I began to tell her all about yaks. When she asked how I knew so much about them, I told her I did a paper on them in college. I was, of course, lying.

Here’s what I told her:

Baby yaks are called yiks.

Yaks do not moo or low. Instead, they make a sound that resembles a cross between a hiccup and a fart.

Yak hair was the original dental floss. It’s called floss because that’s the English pronunciation of the Tibetan word for hair.

Yak meat tastes like chicken. Unless you live in Tibet, where chicken tastes like yak.

A yak will never step on a frog. If a yak is about to step on one, it will always pause to let the frog move. There have been cases where a yak was about to step on a deceased frog and froze, waiting for the frog to move. The yak will eventually starve to death if the frog is not moved. No one knows why this is so, but there is a legend about the King of Frogs saving the life of the Yak Prince, which is the traditional explanation.

Yaks and squid are natural enemies. If they happen to cross paths, they will immediately set to battle. The squid almost always loses, unless it can manage to drag the yak under water. There have been no confirmed cases of yaks fighting giant squid, but it is speculated that the giant squid would have the upper hand.

My niece and nephew were of course, enraptured by my tales. They asked many questions, which I answered to the best of my ability. I am fully confident that if they need to write a paper on yaks, they will get a D- (partial credit for creativity).

It should be noted that their father, my 2nd brother, was sitting there the whole time and he never said a word. When I asked him why he hadn’t said anything, his response was “If they haven’t figured out that you’re full of it yet, I’m not going to bother telling them.”

Maybe someday I will tell the story of why my sister-in-law refused to believe anything I told for three years. I could have literally walked up to her while on fire and said “I’m on fire. Could you please put me out?” and she would not have believed me. Such is life.


Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Do Not Believe Me: Part 1

Subtitled: Things I've Told My Nieces and Nephew

I had opportunity to visit the family over Christmas week, which included my 13-year-old niece and my 9-year-old nephew. They’re good kids and I enjoy spending time with them, in part because they still more-or-less believe what I tell them (the 13-year-old is getting suspicious though).

You see, it is my solemn duty as an uncle to mess with their heads as much as possible.

Now let me explain that I am the ‘fun uncle.’ I will play any game, watch any video, and generally do whatever they want to, all with enthusiasm. I have played Barbie, watched Barney, debated the relative merits of Pokemon, given horsie rides, and patiently endured endless hours of Chutes and Ladders (perhaps the single most mind-numbing game ever created). I think this gives me the leeway to tell occasionally tell them that boogers are brain poop (for the record, she stopped eating them after that).

And, in all honesty, it’s fun.

Tomorrow: Part 2: Yaks and Squid: Mortal Enemies

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Things Were Eaten

I have just returned from California, where I spent a very pleasant week visiting family and eating far more than any human should. I do normally watch what I eat very closely, just in case it decides to attack en route to my mouth, but I threw caution to the wind and ate whatever happened to appear in front of me.

I had at least 3 burritos, some fajitas, turkey, stuffing, enough mashed potatoes to feed the French Foreign Legion for a day, a metric ton of chicken, some jalapeno and pepperoni pizza (sounds gross, but it's really good), and about ten-pounds of assorted snacks, which included chocolate, cheese, various dips, and what I think was an insect.

I also played some tennis, if you define 'play' as occasionally putting the ball over the net and in the court. I did better once it was explained to me that a) you didn't have to hit the ball as hard as possible and b) you weren't actually trying to hit the other player with the ball. I had fun, though, and that's what counts.

Note: If you happened to be one of the people I played with, I apologize for serving directly at you.

In other news, we are back to regular updates, so stay tuned for more Wayfarer's Moon goodness every Tuesday and Thursday and my usual semi-coherent ramblings most every day.