I don’t want to be a downer, but I haven’t been doing too great lately. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m tired and listless and just don’t have any energy. It’s gotten to the point where I even dread coming home.
You see, my apartment is haunted.
No, seriously.
About twice a week, my TV will turn on when I enter the room. Sometimes, my phone will also click on when I walk by. There’s a vague, lemony smell in the kitchen (and no, I haven’t cleaned or mistaken the Lysol for juice again) and I swear the whole place has been dusted and obviously, I didn’t do that. I’m even pretty sure that at one point, the toilet paper roll was changed. And I don’t even have any.
It’s like I have an invisible, incredibly considerate roommate and it’s driving me nuts.
Now, I realize this sounds like a dream come true. Who wouldn’t want an incorporeal butler? Yet here’s the problem: I have an entire trunk full of undead fighting equipment that I can’t bring myself to use.
I’ve got Bibles, crosses, stakes, garlic, silver bullets, lead bullets, Shinto sacred rope, a recording of the tiny woman from Poltergeist saying ‘this house is clean,’ a blessed shovel, brass knuckles, a little electronic doohickey that makes ‘bleep’ noises so I can pretend I’m a Ghostbuster, three small-ish band-aids, a leg from a chair Sarah Michelle Geller once sat on, a mirror, a ten-foot pole, a magic 8-ball, and a plastic sword that screams when you push a button on the handle.
In short, I am prepared to fight anything from vampires (both regular and sparkly) to werewolves to poltergeists and I can’t do it. It would be like slugging a little old lady for making you tea. I have literally been itching to fight a ghost for as long as I can remember and when I finally find one, it turns out to be very pleasant.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s fluffing my pillow right now.
Screaming heads in the fridge I could handle. Knick-knacks flying off shelves? No worries. Voices cursing at me in Latin? Whatever. Blood dripping down the walls and flies everywhere? Pshaw, I do that myself.
NOTE: Yes, I do sometimes realize why I’m still single.
So, yeah. I’m prepared for a battle to the death with the forces of evil and I get a consideration and not having to turn on the TV.
Sigh. I kinda miss the ninjas.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Yak Herding: A Career for Everyone
The other evening I was home polishing my collection of antique, woolen undergarments (yes, they’re very old) when someone knocked at my door. Now, this has happened a couple times since I moved. Usually it’s a neighbor wanting to introduce him or herself or politely ask if I could please stop putting zombie heads in the recycle bin.
NOTE: If zombies aren’t recyclable, then I don’t know what is. Seriously, the bin says ‘All recyclables except for glass.’ Ergo, zombie heads go in there. If it was a glass zombie head, obviously it would not.
I opened the door and dropped the antique woolen thong I was holding, which clanged ominously on the tile.
It was a ninja.
I thought fast. He had a sack of some kind and was raising it towards me. I didn’t know what was in it, mayhap sleeping powder or Bob Hope’s remains, but I knew it would be bad. Now, I was in a real pickle. I normally would have had my mace at hand, but it was in the shop (Bob’s Macery and Bludgetorium, tell them I sent you).
So I grabbed the nearest thing at hand: a sock filled with dried hedgehog poop (long story) and commenced to smite.
Strangely enough, the ninja screamed and started to run away. I thought this was a touch unusual, but I took advantage of the situation to chase him down the street, thwacking him as I went. The running was helping, by-the-by, as I easily kept up.
It was then that the situation got strange. The ninjas ran up to a woman and began crying. Said woman, whom I gathered to be the ninja’s mother, seemed upset which was completely understandable.
I calmed her down and showed her my official Ninja Fighting ID. I then explained to her that ninjitsu, if caught early, was perfectly curable. All she had to do was throw away all her son’s ninja gear and if she caught him with any more, just to administer several solid whacks with a rolled-up newspaper while saying ‘No!’ in a firm voice.
She kept insisting that it was just a costume, but I reiterated that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Many young men become enamored with the ninja lifestyle and seek the path of the shinobi. However, with firm guidance and a ready supply of rolled-up newspapers, her son could be turned to more socially acceptable professions, like necromancy or yak herding. I even gave her a pamphlet: Yak Herding: A Career for Everyone (yes, I always carry one).
At this point, the woman thanked me and began edging away, dragging her son along with her. It was a good moment. I had turned an impressionable young man away from the shadow arts and given him a new lease on life. I even whistled as I walked back to my apartment, passing two little girls dressed like princesses, a boy in a Captain America outfit, as well as an astronaut and a pirate.
Y’know, on reflection, it’s kind of odd that there were so many kids dressed in costumes. And all of them were carrying bags.
Oh well, at least they weren’t ninjas.
Cheers,
-Jason
NOTE: If zombies aren’t recyclable, then I don’t know what is. Seriously, the bin says ‘All recyclables except for glass.’ Ergo, zombie heads go in there. If it was a glass zombie head, obviously it would not.
I opened the door and dropped the antique woolen thong I was holding, which clanged ominously on the tile.
It was a ninja.
I thought fast. He had a sack of some kind and was raising it towards me. I didn’t know what was in it, mayhap sleeping powder or Bob Hope’s remains, but I knew it would be bad. Now, I was in a real pickle. I normally would have had my mace at hand, but it was in the shop (Bob’s Macery and Bludgetorium, tell them I sent you).
So I grabbed the nearest thing at hand: a sock filled with dried hedgehog poop (long story) and commenced to smite.
Strangely enough, the ninja screamed and started to run away. I thought this was a touch unusual, but I took advantage of the situation to chase him down the street, thwacking him as I went. The running was helping, by-the-by, as I easily kept up.
It was then that the situation got strange. The ninjas ran up to a woman and began crying. Said woman, whom I gathered to be the ninja’s mother, seemed upset which was completely understandable.
I calmed her down and showed her my official Ninja Fighting ID. I then explained to her that ninjitsu, if caught early, was perfectly curable. All she had to do was throw away all her son’s ninja gear and if she caught him with any more, just to administer several solid whacks with a rolled-up newspaper while saying ‘No!’ in a firm voice.
She kept insisting that it was just a costume, but I reiterated that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Many young men become enamored with the ninja lifestyle and seek the path of the shinobi. However, with firm guidance and a ready supply of rolled-up newspapers, her son could be turned to more socially acceptable professions, like necromancy or yak herding. I even gave her a pamphlet: Yak Herding: A Career for Everyone (yes, I always carry one).
At this point, the woman thanked me and began edging away, dragging her son along with her. It was a good moment. I had turned an impressionable young man away from the shadow arts and given him a new lease on life. I even whistled as I walked back to my apartment, passing two little girls dressed like princesses, a boy in a Captain America outfit, as well as an astronaut and a pirate.
Y’know, on reflection, it’s kind of odd that there were so many kids dressed in costumes. And all of them were carrying bags.
Oh well, at least they weren’t ninjas.
Cheers,
-Jason
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