Hey everyone!
Hope you all got your taxes done! Mine are in and ideally, the government won't be sending men in suits after me.
This is not because I'm daunted by men in suits, it's just that they'll probably trigger the ninja and mime traps that litter my house and get blood and/or documents all over the place. Speaking of which, the damp Swiffer mop thingies are great at getting body fluids off the ceiling. Just FYI.
We're also having a touch of weirdness on the Wayfarer's site. If you use arrow button on the second to last page to try and get to the last page, you get sent to a blank page instead. We're trying to figure that out, but if you use the archive instead, you'll be fine. Another FYI.
Anyway, look for a new blog on Wednesday and our return to twice a week postings next week!
Cheers,
-Jason
Showing posts with label ninjas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ninjas. Show all posts
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Best Side: Part 7
The carnage was too terrible to describe.
Well, actually, it just a lot of dead guys with the occasional random limb thrown in. The walls were splashed red, which really clashed with the orange and purple décor. Ninjas and mimes were slumped or laying on every conceivable surface, some dying, some already dead, some doing their taxes.
There was still a spirited battle going on, as ninjas and mimes fought back and forth across the diner. A ninjas went down to an imaginary bat with nails in it. As he writhed on the floor, the mime went for the killing blow, only to be struck by 112 shurikens and a menu. Ninjas died with muted screams, as they clutched at their ragged wounds and wandered around, looking for a clear spot to fall down on. Mimes died silently, with many an exaggerated gesture or last attempt to get out of a box.
Only about a dozen were left on either side and they were panting. A ninja was catching his breath right by the door to the kitchen when I burst out. He caught three Kens in the kisser before he knew what was up. A mime with an imaginary shotgun ran by, trying to get a clear shot on the ninja with the shuriken launcher. The Kens were not kind to him either.
“What’s in that thing?” the Dame asked from behind me.
“I filled the Ken dolls with steel shot. What?” I said, with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I’m not stupid.”
“The jury’s still out on that.”
The fighting was now centered on the buffet, where the remaining clowns and mimes fought for honor and possibly, the last of the pepperoni pizza.
There were a dozen dead mimes around one of the ninjas, his shinobi katana gleaming with invisible mime blood. A mime stood near the salad bar, some twenty feet away, fallen ninjas and spilled dressing littering the floor around him.
They were both exhausted and wounded, but they fought on, their strikes and punches still strong and true. These men fought not for pride or riches, but because in their cold, dark worlds, there was nothing else they could do. They were also really stoked for the new Hobbit movie.
They suddenly noticed each other: ninja and mime. Two men with vastly different fashion sense, but experts in their own deadly art.
“Oh!” I said, as the two ninjas went after the mime and a pair of mimes tried to outflank the ninja. The attackers went down in a frenzy of swordplay and imaginary baguette work and now the two masters were the last ones standing.
“’Oh!’ what?” asked the Dame.
The ninja and mime eyed each other. The ninja brought up his sword in a salute, which the mime returned.
“I just figured it out,” I said, as the last ninja and mime began to circle. “We’re not the ones in the John Woo movie. They are.”
“Huh?”
“Two men, both badasses, from different worlds develop mutual understanding and respect, yadda yadda.”
“Oh, I get it,” said the Dame, stepping forward to stand by me. On cue, the doves flew out of the kitchen in slow motion, curving gracefully between the two foes as they still circled. “What normally happens at the end of a John Woo movie?”
“I honestly haven’t seen that many,” I said, laying my flail across my shoulder. “But I think the heroes tend to die a lot.”
“Then that makes it easy.” The Dame walked forward, her heels squishing on the now soaked carpeting. Both the ninja and mime turned towards her as she approached.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Dame said. The ninja and mime glanced at each other and shrugged.
At which point, the Dame double-tapped them both.
“I can’t decide,” I said after a moment. “Whether or not that was really mean.”
The Dame blew the smoke from the barrel of her .38. “Who am I to argue with John Woo?”
“You have a point.”
“So,” she said, as she stepped over a body. “Do we have a deal?”
“Well, everyone who knows where I am is dead, so I guess you didn’t blow my cover.”
I took a deep breath, which was a bad idea in a room full of dead people and spilled pizza. “How about this,” I finally said. “Can you hole up for a week? Give me some time to come up with a plan?”
“I think I can manage.”
I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.” She stepped forward to shake. “On one condition,” I said. Her eyebrow raised. “No poisoning, shooting, or knocking me unconscious.”
“That’s three conditions.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
We shook and then made our way towards the front door.
“Come find me in a week,” I said, holding the door open for her.
“Bet on it,” she replied, stepping out into the cold Oregon winter and turning right.
I followed her out and then turned left, pulling my coat collar up against the crisp air. “Looks like things are going to get interesting,” I said, as I neared my pickup.
Something hit me in the head as I pulled my keys from my pocket and as the world went dark, I heard a distant voice say, “The Montebank says ‘hi.’”
Le Fin
Well, actually, it just a lot of dead guys with the occasional random limb thrown in. The walls were splashed red, which really clashed with the orange and purple décor. Ninjas and mimes were slumped or laying on every conceivable surface, some dying, some already dead, some doing their taxes.
There was still a spirited battle going on, as ninjas and mimes fought back and forth across the diner. A ninjas went down to an imaginary bat with nails in it. As he writhed on the floor, the mime went for the killing blow, only to be struck by 112 shurikens and a menu. Ninjas died with muted screams, as they clutched at their ragged wounds and wandered around, looking for a clear spot to fall down on. Mimes died silently, with many an exaggerated gesture or last attempt to get out of a box.
Only about a dozen were left on either side and they were panting. A ninja was catching his breath right by the door to the kitchen when I burst out. He caught three Kens in the kisser before he knew what was up. A mime with an imaginary shotgun ran by, trying to get a clear shot on the ninja with the shuriken launcher. The Kens were not kind to him either.
“What’s in that thing?” the Dame asked from behind me.
“I filled the Ken dolls with steel shot. What?” I said, with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I’m not stupid.”
“The jury’s still out on that.”
The fighting was now centered on the buffet, where the remaining clowns and mimes fought for honor and possibly, the last of the pepperoni pizza.
There were a dozen dead mimes around one of the ninjas, his shinobi katana gleaming with invisible mime blood. A mime stood near the salad bar, some twenty feet away, fallen ninjas and spilled dressing littering the floor around him.
They were both exhausted and wounded, but they fought on, their strikes and punches still strong and true. These men fought not for pride or riches, but because in their cold, dark worlds, there was nothing else they could do. They were also really stoked for the new Hobbit movie.
They suddenly noticed each other: ninja and mime. Two men with vastly different fashion sense, but experts in their own deadly art.
“Oh!” I said, as the two ninjas went after the mime and a pair of mimes tried to outflank the ninja. The attackers went down in a frenzy of swordplay and imaginary baguette work and now the two masters were the last ones standing.
“’Oh!’ what?” asked the Dame.
The ninja and mime eyed each other. The ninja brought up his sword in a salute, which the mime returned.
“I just figured it out,” I said, as the last ninja and mime began to circle. “We’re not the ones in the John Woo movie. They are.”
“Huh?”
“Two men, both badasses, from different worlds develop mutual understanding and respect, yadda yadda.”
“Oh, I get it,” said the Dame, stepping forward to stand by me. On cue, the doves flew out of the kitchen in slow motion, curving gracefully between the two foes as they still circled. “What normally happens at the end of a John Woo movie?”
“I honestly haven’t seen that many,” I said, laying my flail across my shoulder. “But I think the heroes tend to die a lot.”
“Then that makes it easy.” The Dame walked forward, her heels squishing on the now soaked carpeting. Both the ninja and mime turned towards her as she approached.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Dame said. The ninja and mime glanced at each other and shrugged.
At which point, the Dame double-tapped them both.
“I can’t decide,” I said after a moment. “Whether or not that was really mean.”
The Dame blew the smoke from the barrel of her .38. “Who am I to argue with John Woo?”
“You have a point.”
“So,” she said, as she stepped over a body. “Do we have a deal?”
“Well, everyone who knows where I am is dead, so I guess you didn’t blow my cover.”
I took a deep breath, which was a bad idea in a room full of dead people and spilled pizza. “How about this,” I finally said. “Can you hole up for a week? Give me some time to come up with a plan?”
“I think I can manage.”
I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.” She stepped forward to shake. “On one condition,” I said. Her eyebrow raised. “No poisoning, shooting, or knocking me unconscious.”
“That’s three conditions.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
We shook and then made our way towards the front door.
“Come find me in a week,” I said, holding the door open for her.
“Bet on it,” she replied, stepping out into the cold Oregon winter and turning right.
I followed her out and then turned left, pulling my coat collar up against the crisp air. “Looks like things are going to get interesting,” I said, as I neared my pickup.
Something hit me in the head as I pulled my keys from my pocket and as the world went dark, I heard a distant voice say, “The Montebank says ‘hi.’”
Le Fin
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Best Side: Part 6
“What?” I said. “You don’t like it?” In my hand was a flail made out of three headless Ken dolls joined by chains to a door handle from a ’88 Subaru.
“Stupid is the word that comes to mind,” she replied. “I’m going out the back door. Good luck with that” she made a gesture at the flail. “Thing.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said, swinging my flail in a little circle. It made a whistling noise that sounded exactly like a load of ape poop being flung out of a trebuchet.
The Dame ignored me and walked quickly towards the back door, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She stepped over a reanimated chicken and in two more steps was at the door. “Y’know,” she said, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really thought you could help. Sorry about the ninja thing.”
“No worries,” I said. I whacked my flail against the stainless steel counter. It made an amazingly satisfying thud and left three disturbingly Ken-shaped dents.
“You’re not going to stop me?”
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” She turned, hands on her hips. “You’re just going to let me walk out alone to face unknown peril by myself. And here I thought we had something.”
“Everytime we’ve met I ended up unconscious and/or shot. That’s not really a stable base for a relationship. Besides, we might meet again. I’m only 50% certain that door is trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“Yep.” I zipped up my fly, as I had previously forgotten to do so. “Like I said, we did that last time. If I were a ninja or a mime, I’d put a claymore or four on the next back door.”
The Dame glanced at the door, an eyebrow raised. “That does make a certain sense.”
“So today,” I said. “This nerd’s going out the front.”
“With a flail made out of Ken dolls.”
I grinned. “It’s all about the style.” I walked over to the door to the dining room, flail in my right hand, my left ready to push the door open. “You coming?” I asked, without turning around.
There was a clicking of heels and then the click of a hammer being pulled back. This was followed by the rapid clicking of one of those ball banging thingies people put on their desks, but that’s immaterial.
“On three?” the Dame asked, from close behind.
“How ‘bout one?” I said, as I pushed through the door and leapt into the room.
Next: Le Fin.
“Stupid is the word that comes to mind,” she replied. “I’m going out the back door. Good luck with that” she made a gesture at the flail. “Thing.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said, swinging my flail in a little circle. It made a whistling noise that sounded exactly like a load of ape poop being flung out of a trebuchet.
The Dame ignored me and walked quickly towards the back door, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She stepped over a reanimated chicken and in two more steps was at the door. “Y’know,” she said, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really thought you could help. Sorry about the ninja thing.”
“No worries,” I said. I whacked my flail against the stainless steel counter. It made an amazingly satisfying thud and left three disturbingly Ken-shaped dents.
“You’re not going to stop me?”
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” She turned, hands on her hips. “You’re just going to let me walk out alone to face unknown peril by myself. And here I thought we had something.”
“Everytime we’ve met I ended up unconscious and/or shot. That’s not really a stable base for a relationship. Besides, we might meet again. I’m only 50% certain that door is trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“Yep.” I zipped up my fly, as I had previously forgotten to do so. “Like I said, we did that last time. If I were a ninja or a mime, I’d put a claymore or four on the next back door.”
The Dame glanced at the door, an eyebrow raised. “That does make a certain sense.”
“So today,” I said. “This nerd’s going out the front.”
“With a flail made out of Ken dolls.”
I grinned. “It’s all about the style.” I walked over to the door to the dining room, flail in my right hand, my left ready to push the door open. “You coming?” I asked, without turning around.
There was a clicking of heels and then the click of a hammer being pulled back. This was followed by the rapid clicking of one of those ball banging thingies people put on their desks, but that’s immaterial.
“On three?” the Dame asked, from close behind.
“How ‘bout one?” I said, as I pushed through the door and leapt into the room.
Next: Le Fin.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The Best Side: Part 5
“I hope it’s a good secret,” the Dame said. “As in ‘fully automatic with lots of ammo.’”
“Better.”
An eyebrow went up. “I’m intrigued.” There was a slight pause. “What are you grinning about?”
“Well,” I began. “It’s just that you’re the first woman to be intrigued by something in my pants in a long time.”
The Dame rubbed her temple and sighed. “If we weren’t in danger, I’d shoot you.”
“Well, that’s nice to know,” I said. “As our friends are getting ready to rumble.”
The Dame looked left and right. The mimes were already up and pretending that a wind was pushing them towards the buffet, while the ninjas were flourishing their shinobi katana and adjusting their masks.
The Dame started to rise, her .38 clutched tightly in her right hand. “I thought you said they had to go potty first.”
“Well,” I began, as I stood and walked around to her side of the table. “Ninjas never go potty and the mimes just pretended they did.”
“Ninjas don’t go potty?” she asked, her eyes darting back and forth between the mimes and ninjas.
“Have you ever seen a ninja in a bathroom?”
“No.” She glanced over at me, as I held out my hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of the decapitation zone.”
On cue, the music, a reggae version of ‘Better Be Home Soon,’ the 1988 Crowded House single ended and a metal version of ‘Eidelweisse’ commenced.
I took the Dame’s hand and despite my stiff leg, waltzed her out of the dining room and into the kitchen. We went right by the mimes, one of whom stepped back and let us pass.
I let go after a last twirl and glanced around. Iggy’s kitchen was empty, save for the usual assortment of stoves, pots, goat heads, wind instruments, and rusty bone saws.
The Dame was staring at me. “What the hell just happened?” she finally asked.
“I got us out of there,” I said, as I opened a cupboard at random. It made the Wilhelm Scream, so I opened and shut it a couple times, until the Dame cocked her pistol by my head.
“First,” she began. “Stop that. Second, why the hell didn’t they try to kill us?”
“It would be rude to attack someone waltzing,” I said, as I pawed through the chainsaw drawer. “Oh, it’s fine to gut somebody during a foxtrot, but never a waltz.”
The Dame stared at me, her arms folded. One of the doves landed on her shoulder, but she didn’t appear to notice. “Your world,” she finally said, “is just weird.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. And what are you looking for?”
“Nothing, really,” I replied, shutting a drawer full of glass eyes. “I was just waiting for the numbers to thin out there.”
“Can’t we just leave through the back door?” she asked, pointing at the back door.
“Nah, we did that last time.” I undid my belt and started to unzip my pants.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Dame almost shrieked, spinning around.
“Getting out my secret,” I said. There was a clang as a crowbar fell to the kitchen floor.
The Dame glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “A crowbar?"
“That’s not it.” I said. “That’s just in case I find any crates or headcrabs.” A set of jumper cables joined the crowbar on the floor. “I always carry some,” I explained. “And here we go.”
The Dame stared, as did the dove, which pooped on her shoulder. The Dame didn’t notice.
“I take it back,” she finally said. “You’re not clever or stupid. You’re just nuts.”
Next: Part 6
“Better.”
An eyebrow went up. “I’m intrigued.” There was a slight pause. “What are you grinning about?”
“Well,” I began. “It’s just that you’re the first woman to be intrigued by something in my pants in a long time.”
The Dame rubbed her temple and sighed. “If we weren’t in danger, I’d shoot you.”
“Well, that’s nice to know,” I said. “As our friends are getting ready to rumble.”
The Dame looked left and right. The mimes were already up and pretending that a wind was pushing them towards the buffet, while the ninjas were flourishing their shinobi katana and adjusting their masks.
The Dame started to rise, her .38 clutched tightly in her right hand. “I thought you said they had to go potty first.”
“Well,” I began, as I stood and walked around to her side of the table. “Ninjas never go potty and the mimes just pretended they did.”
“Ninjas don’t go potty?” she asked, her eyes darting back and forth between the mimes and ninjas.
“Have you ever seen a ninja in a bathroom?”
“No.” She glanced over at me, as I held out my hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of the decapitation zone.”
On cue, the music, a reggae version of ‘Better Be Home Soon,’ the 1988 Crowded House single ended and a metal version of ‘Eidelweisse’ commenced.
I took the Dame’s hand and despite my stiff leg, waltzed her out of the dining room and into the kitchen. We went right by the mimes, one of whom stepped back and let us pass.
I let go after a last twirl and glanced around. Iggy’s kitchen was empty, save for the usual assortment of stoves, pots, goat heads, wind instruments, and rusty bone saws.
The Dame was staring at me. “What the hell just happened?” she finally asked.
“I got us out of there,” I said, as I opened a cupboard at random. It made the Wilhelm Scream, so I opened and shut it a couple times, until the Dame cocked her pistol by my head.
“First,” she began. “Stop that. Second, why the hell didn’t they try to kill us?”
“It would be rude to attack someone waltzing,” I said, as I pawed through the chainsaw drawer. “Oh, it’s fine to gut somebody during a foxtrot, but never a waltz.”
The Dame stared at me, her arms folded. One of the doves landed on her shoulder, but she didn’t appear to notice. “Your world,” she finally said, “is just weird.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. And what are you looking for?”
“Nothing, really,” I replied, shutting a drawer full of glass eyes. “I was just waiting for the numbers to thin out there.”
“Can’t we just leave through the back door?” she asked, pointing at the back door.
“Nah, we did that last time.” I undid my belt and started to unzip my pants.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Dame almost shrieked, spinning around.
“Getting out my secret,” I said. There was a clang as a crowbar fell to the kitchen floor.
The Dame glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “A crowbar?"
“That’s not it.” I said. “That’s just in case I find any crates or headcrabs.” A set of jumper cables joined the crowbar on the floor. “I always carry some,” I explained. “And here we go.”
The Dame stared, as did the dove, which pooped on her shoulder. The Dame didn’t notice.
“I take it back,” she finally said. “You’re not clever or stupid. You’re just nuts.”
Next: Part 6
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The Best Side: Part 4
It was my turn to pause. “No,” I finally said. “I honestly never thought about it.”
“And back to stupid,” the Dame said, letting go of my arm. “I have information. You have a strange, almost Buster Keaton-ish ability to survive. If you can protect me until the war ends, I’ll tell you why the ninjas have been after you all these years.
I eased back down into the chair, keeping my left leg out straight to the side. “Give me a hint.”
She nodded and after a quick glance around, leaned forward. “Fresno,” she said quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Fresno,” I said, in one long breath. The world slowed and faded. A petite girl in black was looking over her shoulder at me. There was a hat made of paper. I staggered away from a field, my vision blurring as I looked down at my red stained hands. A grape was squashed in slow motion. In the distance, a cow farted.
A sudden shock of cold brought me back to Iggy’s. The Dame had an empty water glass and I was soaking wet, ice-cubes in my lap.
“I really, really hate flashbacks,” she said.
“Well,” I said, as I flicked ice-cubes off my trousers, “at least you didn’t shoot me this time.”
“I didn’t want to cripple your other leg.”
“Oh, my leg’s fine.”
“Then why are you walking like a geriatric peanut salesman?”
“It’s a secret,” I said. “And I completely don’t get the analogy.”
She shrugged. “Lots of shells. So, do we have a deal?”
“I don’t know. Fre- that place has a lot of ghosts. And raisins,” I added. “Besides, despite my ability to survive, we may not last the next ten minutes.”
“Why is that?”
“The ninjas are finished and the mimes are pretending to sharpen knives. Once everyone goes potty, it’s going to get dangerous.”
The Dame glanced around. The lone waitress was nowhere to be seen, though a small bucket of dead flies had been left behind. The doves started to fly back out of the kitchen, then realized that they were early and flew back in.
“There’s only seven of them,” she said. “Hell, we could just let them fight it out and then shoot the winners.”
“Not a bad plan,” I replied. “Except that there’s about 30 ninjas outside hiding in the shrubbery and about the same number of mimes in a tour bus out front.”
“And how do you know this?”
I tapped my head. “Sometimes clever, remember? My dad told me to never go into a buffet without a good recon.”
The Dame took a deep breath. “So we’re boned,” she said. “Guess I could’ve kept smoking after all.”
“Not necessarily.”
She frowned at me and I tapped my left leg. There was a metallic ‘ping.’
“I’ve got a secret.”
Next: Part 5
“And back to stupid,” the Dame said, letting go of my arm. “I have information. You have a strange, almost Buster Keaton-ish ability to survive. If you can protect me until the war ends, I’ll tell you why the ninjas have been after you all these years.
I eased back down into the chair, keeping my left leg out straight to the side. “Give me a hint.”
She nodded and after a quick glance around, leaned forward. “Fresno,” she said quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Fresno,” I said, in one long breath. The world slowed and faded. A petite girl in black was looking over her shoulder at me. There was a hat made of paper. I staggered away from a field, my vision blurring as I looked down at my red stained hands. A grape was squashed in slow motion. In the distance, a cow farted.
A sudden shock of cold brought me back to Iggy’s. The Dame had an empty water glass and I was soaking wet, ice-cubes in my lap.
“I really, really hate flashbacks,” she said.
“Well,” I said, as I flicked ice-cubes off my trousers, “at least you didn’t shoot me this time.”
“I didn’t want to cripple your other leg.”
“Oh, my leg’s fine.”
“Then why are you walking like a geriatric peanut salesman?”
“It’s a secret,” I said. “And I completely don’t get the analogy.”
She shrugged. “Lots of shells. So, do we have a deal?”
“I don’t know. Fre- that place has a lot of ghosts. And raisins,” I added. “Besides, despite my ability to survive, we may not last the next ten minutes.”
“Why is that?”
“The ninjas are finished and the mimes are pretending to sharpen knives. Once everyone goes potty, it’s going to get dangerous.”
The Dame glanced around. The lone waitress was nowhere to be seen, though a small bucket of dead flies had been left behind. The doves started to fly back out of the kitchen, then realized that they were early and flew back in.
“There’s only seven of them,” she said. “Hell, we could just let them fight it out and then shoot the winners.”
“Not a bad plan,” I replied. “Except that there’s about 30 ninjas outside hiding in the shrubbery and about the same number of mimes in a tour bus out front.”
“And how do you know this?”
I tapped my head. “Sometimes clever, remember? My dad told me to never go into a buffet without a good recon.”
The Dame took a deep breath. “So we’re boned,” she said. “Guess I could’ve kept smoking after all.”
“Not necessarily.”
She frowned at me and I tapped my left leg. There was a metallic ‘ping.’
“I’ve got a secret.”
Next: Part 5
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
The Best Side: Part 3
The Dame tapped her fingers on the faux plastic tabletop. “Like I said, either very clever or really stupid.”
“So, what do you want?” I asked.
At the buffet, the two men paused at the pizza counter, both reaching for the last slice of Hawaiian. The taller of the two grabbed at the slice, but the shorter man deftly snaked it from him. However, before he could get it onto his plate, the other man knocked the slice into the air, intent on catching it with his other hand. Yet the shorter man ricocheted it away with a slice of vegetarian.
This strange ballet continued for several minutes, as the two men whirled and spun around the pizza bar, neither able to grab the slice for themselves as the other always countered. Neither made a sound, though their actions were scored by a light jazz ensemble that just happened by.
Unfortunately, I missed all of this, as I was intent on the Dame. She sighed. “I need your help.”
“Why? You’ve got connections with the clowns.”
“That’s just it,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “They’re losing.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Normally, they wouldn’t have a problem with the mimes and ninjas, but there was an attempted coup. The Mountebank turned on the Harlequin and a surprising number of clowns followed him.”
“Whoa,” I said, raising a hand. “Who’s the Mountebank?”
The pizza ballet ended then, as another Hawaiian pie was added to the pizza bar. The two men, both panting, stared first at it and then at each other. Then, the shorter of the two, with a slight bow, indicated that the other should go first. The taller man slid two pieces onto a plate, then offered it to the other, who accepted with another bow. They parted, each flipping a few dollars into the jazz ensemble’s open guitar case.
“Traditionally, he’s the clown’s enforcer, but he decided he wanted the mask himself and took a shot at the top. The clowns are in chaos. They don’t know which way the pie’s pointing and as a result, the mimes and ninjas are having a field day.”
“Ah, that would explain it.”
“Explain what?”
I nodded towards the far corner. “Those are mimes and the guys on the other side are ninjas.”
The Dame froze and the barely audible click of a gun cocking was heard under the table. This was followed by a duck’s quack from the kitchen. It is unlikely the two are related. “How do you know?”
“Well, the mimes have been eating invisible food the whole time and one of the ninjas is using chopsticks on his mashed potatoes.”
“I guess you are very clever,” she finally said.
“And you led them to me,” I pointed out. “I was just beginning to unwind,” I continued. “I haven’t found a cobra in my bed in ages and the only mail bombs I get are the ones I send myself.”
“Why would you send yourself a mail bomb?”
“For the same reason I floss between my toes.”
The Dame stared at me. “I’m not going to bother asking.”
“Good.” I stood up stiffly. “So thanks for nothing. I’ll be on my way now.”
“Wait!” The Dame reached across the table and grabbed my arm.
“Do you know what happened to the last woman who touched me?”
“No.”
“Me neither. We were supposed to meet in the food court at 7, but she never showed. I’ve always wondered about that.”
The Dame rolled her eyes. “Let’s leave your hygiene out of this. I’ve got information. If you can help me, I’ll tell you everything.”
“Like what? And if it’s where my remote is, don’t worry about it.”
She shook her head. “Would you like to know why the ninjas are after you?”
Next: Part 4
“So, what do you want?” I asked.
At the buffet, the two men paused at the pizza counter, both reaching for the last slice of Hawaiian. The taller of the two grabbed at the slice, but the shorter man deftly snaked it from him. However, before he could get it onto his plate, the other man knocked the slice into the air, intent on catching it with his other hand. Yet the shorter man ricocheted it away with a slice of vegetarian.
This strange ballet continued for several minutes, as the two men whirled and spun around the pizza bar, neither able to grab the slice for themselves as the other always countered. Neither made a sound, though their actions were scored by a light jazz ensemble that just happened by.
Unfortunately, I missed all of this, as I was intent on the Dame. She sighed. “I need your help.”
“Why? You’ve got connections with the clowns.”
“That’s just it,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “They’re losing.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Normally, they wouldn’t have a problem with the mimes and ninjas, but there was an attempted coup. The Mountebank turned on the Harlequin and a surprising number of clowns followed him.”
“Whoa,” I said, raising a hand. “Who’s the Mountebank?”
The pizza ballet ended then, as another Hawaiian pie was added to the pizza bar. The two men, both panting, stared first at it and then at each other. Then, the shorter of the two, with a slight bow, indicated that the other should go first. The taller man slid two pieces onto a plate, then offered it to the other, who accepted with another bow. They parted, each flipping a few dollars into the jazz ensemble’s open guitar case.
“Traditionally, he’s the clown’s enforcer, but he decided he wanted the mask himself and took a shot at the top. The clowns are in chaos. They don’t know which way the pie’s pointing and as a result, the mimes and ninjas are having a field day.”
“Ah, that would explain it.”
“Explain what?”
I nodded towards the far corner. “Those are mimes and the guys on the other side are ninjas.”
The Dame froze and the barely audible click of a gun cocking was heard under the table. This was followed by a duck’s quack from the kitchen. It is unlikely the two are related. “How do you know?”
“Well, the mimes have been eating invisible food the whole time and one of the ninjas is using chopsticks on his mashed potatoes.”
“I guess you are very clever,” she finally said.
“And you led them to me,” I pointed out. “I was just beginning to unwind,” I continued. “I haven’t found a cobra in my bed in ages and the only mail bombs I get are the ones I send myself.”
“Why would you send yourself a mail bomb?”
“For the same reason I floss between my toes.”
The Dame stared at me. “I’m not going to bother asking.”
“Good.” I stood up stiffly. “So thanks for nothing. I’ll be on my way now.”
“Wait!” The Dame reached across the table and grabbed my arm.
“Do you know what happened to the last woman who touched me?”
“No.”
“Me neither. We were supposed to meet in the food court at 7, but she never showed. I’ve always wondered about that.”
The Dame rolled her eyes. “Let’s leave your hygiene out of this. I’ve got information. If you can help me, I’ll tell you everything.”
“Like what? And if it’s where my remote is, don’t worry about it.”
She shook her head. “Would you like to know why the ninjas are after you?”
Next: Part 4
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The Best Side: Part 2
The Dame glanced around. “I’m not familiar with John Woo movies.”
“Have you ever leapt sideways in slow-motion while firing two pistols?”
“No. Would it help if I had?”
“Actually, yes.” I took a deep breath, which was a mistake as the air tasted like bad pizza. “John Woo movies are usually about two men on opposite sides of a struggle who earn each other’s respect and friendship. Oh, and they just happen to be absolute baddasses.” I nodded towards the kitchen, where the sound of doves pooping could be heard. “Slow motion doves are one of his trademarks.”
“I see.” The Dame fished around in her pocket and took out three screwdrivers, a socket wrench and a baggie of cubed ice, before finding a crushed pack of cigarettes.
“I thought you were quitting,” I asked, as she pulled one out.
“I am.” The cigarette trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. She sighed. “Do you have a light?”
I pulled a rather nice desk lamp from my coat and set it on the table.
“Funny.”
“Not terribly,” I said, as I reached over and plucked the cigarette away. “Now,” I began, as I tossed the cigarette over my shoulder, not noticing that it stuck in the wall. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on.”
She looked away. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not your usual self. And,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “there’s this.” I slapped the note onto the table, inadvertently flipping a spoon across the room. I didn’t notice the looks the other patrons gave me, as the spoon clattered and rattled on the tile floor.
She leaned forward and looked at the note. “A parking lot receipt from 1989?”
“Turn it around.”
“Now it looks like a pirate knitting.”
I looked down and turned the note towards me. It did look like a pirate knitting. “Wrong note,” I said, this time checking before I slammed down a pink post-it note.
“That’s the note that was on your computer monitor.”
“And what’s wrong with it?”
The Dame shrugged. One of the men from behind us got up and walked past towards the buffet. He made no noise. Simultaneously, one of the men from the other group also rose and headed towards the buffet. He also made no sound.
“There’s no harlequin picture,” I said, leaning back with a smile. “This isn’t official clown business.”
Next: Part 3
“Have you ever leapt sideways in slow-motion while firing two pistols?”
“No. Would it help if I had?”
“Actually, yes.” I took a deep breath, which was a mistake as the air tasted like bad pizza. “John Woo movies are usually about two men on opposite sides of a struggle who earn each other’s respect and friendship. Oh, and they just happen to be absolute baddasses.” I nodded towards the kitchen, where the sound of doves pooping could be heard. “Slow motion doves are one of his trademarks.”
“I see.” The Dame fished around in her pocket and took out three screwdrivers, a socket wrench and a baggie of cubed ice, before finding a crushed pack of cigarettes.
“I thought you were quitting,” I asked, as she pulled one out.
“I am.” The cigarette trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. She sighed. “Do you have a light?”
I pulled a rather nice desk lamp from my coat and set it on the table.
“Funny.”
“Not terribly,” I said, as I reached over and plucked the cigarette away. “Now,” I began, as I tossed the cigarette over my shoulder, not noticing that it stuck in the wall. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on.”
She looked away. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not your usual self. And,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “there’s this.” I slapped the note onto the table, inadvertently flipping a spoon across the room. I didn’t notice the looks the other patrons gave me, as the spoon clattered and rattled on the tile floor.
She leaned forward and looked at the note. “A parking lot receipt from 1989?”
“Turn it around.”
“Now it looks like a pirate knitting.”
I looked down and turned the note towards me. It did look like a pirate knitting. “Wrong note,” I said, this time checking before I slammed down a pink post-it note.
“That’s the note that was on your computer monitor.”
“And what’s wrong with it?”
The Dame shrugged. One of the men from behind us got up and walked past towards the buffet. He made no noise. Simultaneously, one of the men from the other group also rose and headed towards the buffet. He also made no sound.
“There’s no harlequin picture,” I said, leaning back with a smile. “This isn’t official clown business.”
Next: Part 3
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The Best Side: Part 1
It began with a note.
Iggy’s Buffet was strangely empty for 1:24 in the afternoon. A couple ceiling fans spun slowly as a strangely upbeat accordion version of Chopin’s Funeral March played throughout the dining room. There were a dozen booths and twice that many tables, with three buffet bars opposite the entrance. A lone waitress leaned against the wall by the salad bar, idly killing flies with a cricket bat.
“Nice place,” I said, as I slid stiffly into the chair opposite the Dame. “Orange and pink wouldn’t be my first choice for a color scheme, but I think it works.”
“What happened to your leg?” she asked. She was dressed in a dark blue business suit with big shoulder pads, her dark haired pulled back in a bun. I was wearing a full suit with a tie because it was laundry day.
“You shot me, remember?” She shrugged. “Where’s the cigarette?”
The Dame leaned back, staring down her nose at me. “There’s no smoking in here.”
“As if that would stop you.”
She looked away. “Trying to quit.”
“That doesn’t really work with the whole film noir theme we have.”
“I could shoot you again, if you like.”
“No thanks.”
We sat in silence for a moment. There were only two other groups there. A trio of men eating in the far corner and four others eating in the opposite corner. We were smack dab in the middle of an orange and pink themed game of Tic-Tac-Toe. The Funeral March ended, only to be replaced by the Macarena done in Hebrew. It wasn’t bad.
“So,” she finally said, after taking a sip of water. “What took you so long?”
“What do you mean? The note said ‘Iggy’s at 1:20.’”
“The note was put there two days ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” The Dame leaned forward and poked my arm with a finger. “How the hell did you miss it?”
“Well,” I began, shifting slightly. “It’s wasn’t a very big note.”
“It was in the middle of your computer monitor!”
“Which explained why I was sucking so hard at Minesweeper.”
“I can’t decide,” she finally said. “If you’re very, very clever or just really, really stupid.”
“Can I be both?”
She glared at me and then relaxed. “You did do an amazing job of disappearing. It took almost a year to find you.”
“You didn’t notice the U-Haul truck? The one that I put all my stuff in and then drove away?”
“We thought that was a distraction.”
A small group of doves fly silently by in slow motion as the waitress dropped a glass. The plastic mug bounced twice, a drop of water spraying from the lip. The doves, stark white against the orange and pink, flew into the kitchen.
“Crap,” I said.
“What? I haven’t shot you yet.”
“No, it’s just that I think we’re in a John Woo movie.”
Next: Part 2
Iggy’s Buffet was strangely empty for 1:24 in the afternoon. A couple ceiling fans spun slowly as a strangely upbeat accordion version of Chopin’s Funeral March played throughout the dining room. There were a dozen booths and twice that many tables, with three buffet bars opposite the entrance. A lone waitress leaned against the wall by the salad bar, idly killing flies with a cricket bat.
“Nice place,” I said, as I slid stiffly into the chair opposite the Dame. “Orange and pink wouldn’t be my first choice for a color scheme, but I think it works.”
“What happened to your leg?” she asked. She was dressed in a dark blue business suit with big shoulder pads, her dark haired pulled back in a bun. I was wearing a full suit with a tie because it was laundry day.
“You shot me, remember?” She shrugged. “Where’s the cigarette?”
The Dame leaned back, staring down her nose at me. “There’s no smoking in here.”
“As if that would stop you.”
She looked away. “Trying to quit.”
“That doesn’t really work with the whole film noir theme we have.”
“I could shoot you again, if you like.”
“No thanks.”
We sat in silence for a moment. There were only two other groups there. A trio of men eating in the far corner and four others eating in the opposite corner. We were smack dab in the middle of an orange and pink themed game of Tic-Tac-Toe. The Funeral March ended, only to be replaced by the Macarena done in Hebrew. It wasn’t bad.
“So,” she finally said, after taking a sip of water. “What took you so long?”
“What do you mean? The note said ‘Iggy’s at 1:20.’”
“The note was put there two days ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” The Dame leaned forward and poked my arm with a finger. “How the hell did you miss it?”
“Well,” I began, shifting slightly. “It’s wasn’t a very big note.”
“It was in the middle of your computer monitor!”
“Which explained why I was sucking so hard at Minesweeper.”
“I can’t decide,” she finally said. “If you’re very, very clever or just really, really stupid.”
“Can I be both?”
She glared at me and then relaxed. “You did do an amazing job of disappearing. It took almost a year to find you.”
“You didn’t notice the U-Haul truck? The one that I put all my stuff in and then drove away?”
“We thought that was a distraction.”
A small group of doves fly silently by in slow motion as the waitress dropped a glass. The plastic mug bounced twice, a drop of water spraying from the lip. The doves, stark white against the orange and pink, flew into the kitchen.
“Crap,” I said.
“What? I haven’t shot you yet.”
“No, it’s just that I think we’re in a John Woo movie.”
Next: Part 2
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Pillow Fluffing: OF DOOM!
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
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
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
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Running And/Or Chasing
Long story short: I’ve taken up running.
. . . .
Okay, that didn’t quite fill up the page the way I’d hoped, so long story long.
NOTE: This all happened before I moved, just in case someone actually read an earlier blog and asks an obvious question.
So, there I was chasing a ninja. The little bastard ambushed me when I was making breakfast (ie, putting cereal in a bowl) and after a brief, but brutal, Captain Crunch-filled exchange, made a run for it. I ended up chasing him through the apartment complex with a box of cereal in one hand and a bust of Scipio Africanus in the other.
Yes, I have a bust of Scipio Africanus in my kitchen.
Needless to say, after about fifty-yards, I was gasping for air and reduced to the occasional rude gesture. The ninja decided to rub it in and run circles around me, doing that weird ‘arms straight back’ run they do and laughing.
Suffice to say I had the last laugh when a car backed into him. I had a last, last laugh when I hit him with the aforementioned bust as he was trying to get up.
Ultimately though, the entire incident was a humbling experience. Not only did a ninja laugh at me, I had been making breakfast while only wearing a pair of what one might call ‘whimsically’ decorated boxers that I’m sure my neighbors appreciated.
I decided then and there that I needed to get into better shape. Not only to catch ninjas, but to at least look decent when I end up in the parking lot at 9:00 am in my underwear and carrying the bust of a celebrated Roman general.
Anyway, I’ve been running for a couple of months now on the treadmills at the gym. I bought some nice running shoes, a pair of shorts and one of those high-tech shirts that somehow eats your sweat (or something). And I can honestly say that running is really, really boring.
Granted, road running might be more interesting, but I don’t want to run in the rain, so I’m reduced to treadmills at the gym. They have little TVs in them, but no speakers, so it’s really hard to read the closed-captioning while bouncing up and down (and gasping and swearing).
The whole trick, I understand, is to learn how to detach your brain and just let your body run. This seems to be harder than it sounds, as I have no trouble detaching my brain at any other time, say in meetings, while driving, pugilism, etc. However, actually trying to detach my brain is proving difficult. If anyone has any fool-proof methods, let me know.
Anyway, I haven’t had a chance to chase any ninjas lately, but hopefully the next time it happens he’ll be eating Roman marble faster than he can say ‘Hannibal.’
Cheers,
-Jason
. . . .
Okay, that didn’t quite fill up the page the way I’d hoped, so long story long.
NOTE: This all happened before I moved, just in case someone actually read an earlier blog and asks an obvious question.
So, there I was chasing a ninja. The little bastard ambushed me when I was making breakfast (ie, putting cereal in a bowl) and after a brief, but brutal, Captain Crunch-filled exchange, made a run for it. I ended up chasing him through the apartment complex with a box of cereal in one hand and a bust of Scipio Africanus in the other.
Yes, I have a bust of Scipio Africanus in my kitchen.
Needless to say, after about fifty-yards, I was gasping for air and reduced to the occasional rude gesture. The ninja decided to rub it in and run circles around me, doing that weird ‘arms straight back’ run they do and laughing.
Suffice to say I had the last laugh when a car backed into him. I had a last, last laugh when I hit him with the aforementioned bust as he was trying to get up.
Ultimately though, the entire incident was a humbling experience. Not only did a ninja laugh at me, I had been making breakfast while only wearing a pair of what one might call ‘whimsically’ decorated boxers that I’m sure my neighbors appreciated.
I decided then and there that I needed to get into better shape. Not only to catch ninjas, but to at least look decent when I end up in the parking lot at 9:00 am in my underwear and carrying the bust of a celebrated Roman general.
Anyway, I’ve been running for a couple of months now on the treadmills at the gym. I bought some nice running shoes, a pair of shorts and one of those high-tech shirts that somehow eats your sweat (or something). And I can honestly say that running is really, really boring.
Granted, road running might be more interesting, but I don’t want to run in the rain, so I’m reduced to treadmills at the gym. They have little TVs in them, but no speakers, so it’s really hard to read the closed-captioning while bouncing up and down (and gasping and swearing).
The whole trick, I understand, is to learn how to detach your brain and just let your body run. This seems to be harder than it sounds, as I have no trouble detaching my brain at any other time, say in meetings, while driving, pugilism, etc. However, actually trying to detach my brain is proving difficult. If anyone has any fool-proof methods, let me know.
Anyway, I haven’t had a chance to chase any ninjas lately, but hopefully the next time it happens he’ll be eating Roman marble faster than he can say ‘Hannibal.’
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
The Scourge of Man: Part 3
It is done.
I moved. I spent the better part of last week frantically doing last minute packing. I had reached that point where I really didn’t care where things wound up, just as long as they were in a box, garbage bag, or down the front of my pants.
This necessitated me saying (more than once) ‘why yes, that is a mace in my pants.’
Of course, this is why I keep finding things like underwear in my microwave and live ammunition in a box marked ‘impale with spear.’
NOTE: I marked boxes like that so the ninjas would not hide in them. I then impaled (or sometimes bludgeoned, as per the mace comment above) any box not marked. Any box that screamed or bled was thrown away. Once the boxes were safely in the truck, I tear-gassed the whole load anyway, just to be safe.
Anyway, after a frantic day of moving things into the truck, me, my brother Rick and my best bud Sean all piled into said truck the next morning and drove five hours to my new domicile, where we then unloaded all the boxes we just put in.
And then we went to Red Robin and ate burgers. We also apologized to the waitress for the constant giggling. We were up at 5 am, drove for 5 hours, and then unloaded a 22-foot truck. We were allowed to giggle.
So, here I am, typing my very first blog in my new apartment, which still doesn’t smell or have blood stains on the ceiling. Both of these conditions will be fixed soon enough. I have also started a new job (Octopus Strangler), but more on that later.
I’ve managed to unpack about 80% of the boxes, which are now piled neatly in the middle of my kitchen. The rest of the boxes are strewn about, as I haven’t quite figured out what to do with the contents. I mean, you don’t just toss a 23-piece collection of Yeti tibias on a counter and call it good. You have to think about these sorts of things. And by consider, I mean stare at a wall with your head slightly tilted until you get a headache and decide to watch TV instead.
And now, for a serious note: a big thanks goes out to Laura aka Longhair, who helped pack the truck. Thanks also goes to my big bro Rick aka Rick and my best bud Sean aka Sir Blue Pants, who made the drive and helped pack and unpack as well.
And more thanks goes out to the crew from Redmond: Leigh, Laura, Sean, Devon, James, Leah, Ugdo, Stan, Eric, Beth, and Doug, who sent me off in style. Fair warning: I will be back.
Cheers,
-Jason
I moved. I spent the better part of last week frantically doing last minute packing. I had reached that point where I really didn’t care where things wound up, just as long as they were in a box, garbage bag, or down the front of my pants.
This necessitated me saying (more than once) ‘why yes, that is a mace in my pants.’
Of course, this is why I keep finding things like underwear in my microwave and live ammunition in a box marked ‘impale with spear.’
NOTE: I marked boxes like that so the ninjas would not hide in them. I then impaled (or sometimes bludgeoned, as per the mace comment above) any box not marked. Any box that screamed or bled was thrown away. Once the boxes were safely in the truck, I tear-gassed the whole load anyway, just to be safe.
Anyway, after a frantic day of moving things into the truck, me, my brother Rick and my best bud Sean all piled into said truck the next morning and drove five hours to my new domicile, where we then unloaded all the boxes we just put in.
And then we went to Red Robin and ate burgers. We also apologized to the waitress for the constant giggling. We were up at 5 am, drove for 5 hours, and then unloaded a 22-foot truck. We were allowed to giggle.
So, here I am, typing my very first blog in my new apartment, which still doesn’t smell or have blood stains on the ceiling. Both of these conditions will be fixed soon enough. I have also started a new job (Octopus Strangler), but more on that later.
I’ve managed to unpack about 80% of the boxes, which are now piled neatly in the middle of my kitchen. The rest of the boxes are strewn about, as I haven’t quite figured out what to do with the contents. I mean, you don’t just toss a 23-piece collection of Yeti tibias on a counter and call it good. You have to think about these sorts of things. And by consider, I mean stare at a wall with your head slightly tilted until you get a headache and decide to watch TV instead.
And now, for a serious note: a big thanks goes out to Laura aka Longhair, who helped pack the truck. Thanks also goes to my big bro Rick aka Rick and my best bud Sean aka Sir Blue Pants, who made the drive and helped pack and unpack as well.
And more thanks goes out to the crew from Redmond: Leigh, Laura, Sean, Devon, James, Leah, Ugdo, Stan, Eric, Beth, and Doug, who sent me off in style. Fair warning: I will be back.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Scourge of Man: Part 1
So, not to be a downer or anything, but something has happened in my life that has affected me on a personal, political, and above all, palatable (I really wanted three ‘p’ words) scale. I am not unique. This has happened to millions of people and will certainly happen to me again at some point. I speak, of course, of the scourge of moving.
Yes, I will be moving in a couple weeks time and I’ve begun the arduous process of looking at my apartment and saying ‘damn, I gotta lotta stuff’ and thinking about putting it into boxes. No, I haven’t actually packed anything yet, this is still the preliminary stage where I just stare at the piles of crap in my apartment and wonder how many moving vans I’ll need to get it all where it needs to go.
And frankly, my apartment isn’t pretty. In fact, it looks like a warzone. There’re piles of books, broken exercise equipment, bloodstains on the walls, an operating table (now covered in comics) from when I tried to reanimate dead bugs, a sort of shapeless mound in the corner that might be clothes, but may in fact be a ninja just disguised as a pile of clothes (I’ll stab it to make sure), and the thing in the fireplace that screams when I get too near. And that’s just in the living room.
I won’t bother describing the rest of the apartment, as I do try to keep this a PG-13 blog. Let’s just say that the Marine from Doom, an individual who fought his way into Hell so he could shoot a gigantic demon in the kneecaps with a rocket launcher, would probably faint three steps into my bathroom.
And honestly, right now it’s fairly clean (for me).
Now, the actual packing and moving isn’t bad. It’s the other, seven hundred things you have to do that irritate me.
You have to:
Find another apartment
Inform your current apartment you’re leaving
Find a safe place to dump the bodies
Turn off your utilities
Have a combination farewell/bludgeoning party for the ninjas
Turn on your utilities
Get cable
Have your mail forwarded
Figure out why you have a pie plate filled with human teeth on top of your bookshelf
The hardest part is getting your friends to help. Strangely enough, all of mine leapt at the chance to come over and carry stuff. This may because I asked them individually at 4:30 am when they were asleep. I should note that I was wearing a hockey mask and carrying a weed whacker and a plastic dinosaur. Needless to say, they were very enthusiastic.
My next big task will be getting boxes and opening the door to the spare room, a realm no man has seen since 1937. I’ll let you know how that turns out.
Cheers,
-Jason
Yes, I will be moving in a couple weeks time and I’ve begun the arduous process of looking at my apartment and saying ‘damn, I gotta lotta stuff’ and thinking about putting it into boxes. No, I haven’t actually packed anything yet, this is still the preliminary stage where I just stare at the piles of crap in my apartment and wonder how many moving vans I’ll need to get it all where it needs to go.
And frankly, my apartment isn’t pretty. In fact, it looks like a warzone. There’re piles of books, broken exercise equipment, bloodstains on the walls, an operating table (now covered in comics) from when I tried to reanimate dead bugs, a sort of shapeless mound in the corner that might be clothes, but may in fact be a ninja just disguised as a pile of clothes (I’ll stab it to make sure), and the thing in the fireplace that screams when I get too near. And that’s just in the living room.
I won’t bother describing the rest of the apartment, as I do try to keep this a PG-13 blog. Let’s just say that the Marine from Doom, an individual who fought his way into Hell so he could shoot a gigantic demon in the kneecaps with a rocket launcher, would probably faint three steps into my bathroom.
And honestly, right now it’s fairly clean (for me).
Now, the actual packing and moving isn’t bad. It’s the other, seven hundred things you have to do that irritate me.
You have to:
Find another apartment
Inform your current apartment you’re leaving
Find a safe place to dump the bodies
Turn off your utilities
Have a combination farewell/bludgeoning party for the ninjas
Turn on your utilities
Get cable
Have your mail forwarded
Figure out why you have a pie plate filled with human teeth on top of your bookshelf
The hardest part is getting your friends to help. Strangely enough, all of mine leapt at the chance to come over and carry stuff. This may because I asked them individually at 4:30 am when they were asleep. I should note that I was wearing a hockey mask and carrying a weed whacker and a plastic dinosaur. Needless to say, they were very enthusiastic.
My next big task will be getting boxes and opening the door to the spare room, a realm no man has seen since 1937. I’ll let you know how that turns out.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
So . . .
Funny story. Leigh came over to my place the other week. No, that’s not the funny part, though it is unusual. For some reason, most people only visit me once. They come in, look around, ask why there’s a baseball bat with a bloody tooth embedded in it by the door, and then suddenly remember a pressing engagement elsewhere.
Oh, they also then change their phone number and unfriend me on Facebook, but I digress.
Anyway, Leigh has come over multiple times, so I assumed he remembered the ground rules:
1. Don’t look up.
2. Before opening a door, check for tentacles.
3. If attacked by a ninja, remain calm, point at me, and say ‘No, not me. Him,’ in a forceful tone.
4. The freezer may contain things not normally found in freezers. Or this dimension.
5. If you see a sign that says ‘Caution: Eldritch Evil’ near a pit, don’t look into the pit. If the sign says ‘Naked Ninja Girls,’ then still don’t look (it’s a trap for the ninjas). If the sign simply says ‘Pit,’ feel free to look all you want.
At any rate, Leigh came over to help me move my TV, an old model that weighs around 250 pounds, as I was rearranging my living room furniture to cover over some of the more obvious blood stains.
NOTE: Yeah, I really need a steamer.
Things were progressing smoothly. The TV had been removed from its stand and put to one side, my furniture was shuffled, and we were picking the TV up again when I noticed the cobra.
“Oh,” I said. “I’ll need to grab that. You got the TV?”
Now, I’m 99.9% certain that Leigh replied. “Yes, I can hold your TV up by myself. In fact, I find it a rather pleasant.”
Leigh, however, maintains that all he managed to get out was a “Wha-?”
Needless to say, I let go of my end for a split second to toss the cobra back onto the cobra shelf, only to hear a yell from Leigh as he started to drop my TV. I selflessly leapt back to save my TV and help guide it back onto its stand.
Leigh, much to my surprise, then said some very bad words while holding his arm. It seems that while trying to maintain a grip on my TV, he injured the tendons in his right arm a touch and now has to take anti-inflammatory medication and wear a brace for a few weeks.
So, the comic updates may take a little longer than we had originally planned.
In all seriousness, Leigh did injure his arm and it will be a bit longer before we can begin to update again. I have told Leigh that it’s okay to injure his non-drawing arm or legs as much as he likes, but we really need to keep his head/drawing arm healthy.
We will let you know a hard date on the updates once we have them. In the meantime, please enjoy the blogs.
And don’t look in the pit.
Cheers,
-Jason
Oh, they also then change their phone number and unfriend me on Facebook, but I digress.
Anyway, Leigh has come over multiple times, so I assumed he remembered the ground rules:
1. Don’t look up.
2. Before opening a door, check for tentacles.
3. If attacked by a ninja, remain calm, point at me, and say ‘No, not me. Him,’ in a forceful tone.
4. The freezer may contain things not normally found in freezers. Or this dimension.
5. If you see a sign that says ‘Caution: Eldritch Evil’ near a pit, don’t look into the pit. If the sign says ‘Naked Ninja Girls,’ then still don’t look (it’s a trap for the ninjas). If the sign simply says ‘Pit,’ feel free to look all you want.
At any rate, Leigh came over to help me move my TV, an old model that weighs around 250 pounds, as I was rearranging my living room furniture to cover over some of the more obvious blood stains.
NOTE: Yeah, I really need a steamer.
Things were progressing smoothly. The TV had been removed from its stand and put to one side, my furniture was shuffled, and we were picking the TV up again when I noticed the cobra.
“Oh,” I said. “I’ll need to grab that. You got the TV?”
Now, I’m 99.9% certain that Leigh replied. “Yes, I can hold your TV up by myself. In fact, I find it a rather pleasant.”
Leigh, however, maintains that all he managed to get out was a “Wha-?”
Needless to say, I let go of my end for a split second to toss the cobra back onto the cobra shelf, only to hear a yell from Leigh as he started to drop my TV. I selflessly leapt back to save my TV and help guide it back onto its stand.
Leigh, much to my surprise, then said some very bad words while holding his arm. It seems that while trying to maintain a grip on my TV, he injured the tendons in his right arm a touch and now has to take anti-inflammatory medication and wear a brace for a few weeks.
So, the comic updates may take a little longer than we had originally planned.
In all seriousness, Leigh did injure his arm and it will be a bit longer before we can begin to update again. I have told Leigh that it’s okay to injure his non-drawing arm or legs as much as he likes, but we really need to keep his head/drawing arm healthy.
We will let you know a hard date on the updates once we have them. In the meantime, please enjoy the blogs.
And don’t look in the pit.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
An Epiphany
I had an epiphany of sorts the other day. I was opening mail with a letter opener (shaped like a sword) and was so intent on the offer of term life insurance, I accidentally kinda ‘let go.’ The letter opener flew across my living room, ricocheted off the edge of the TV, and then knocked out a ninja who was disguised as a houseplant before falling to the ground.
Luckily, the TV wasn’t damaged.
As I was dragging the ninja out to the recycling bins, I reflected on my good luck. At that point, I tripped on something, possibly a rock, and fell heavily. Luckily, I landed on the ninja who was relatively soft, all things considered.
NOTE: I should have noticed the ninja disguised as a houseplant sooner. I don’t have any houseplants, as I feel it’s cruel to cage a wild creature. Also, they tend to die if you don’t water them at least once a year or so.
It was as I was sitting there on the ninja that I had my epiphany. It was entirely possible that I was a klutz.
The thing is that I don’t really think I’m clumsy. It’s more that when my mind is occupied, my body tends to do things on its own. Oh, it has the best of intentions, but sometimes it lacks . . . finesse. Coupled with what Leigh refers to as my ‘monkey strength,’ my body occasionally, accidentally, manipulates objects in a fashion that was not intended. IE, like the time I unintentionally removed a cabinet door from its hinges.
In my defense, allow me to point out that I gave my right arm a good talking-to and it hasn’t happened since.
So, on the one hand, I tend to break things. On the other, if someone is ever trapped in a kitchen cabinet, the door will be no obstacle.
No, I don’t know why someone would be trapped in a kitchen cabinet. Maybe they were playing hide-and-seek and hid in a cabinet and then developed a terrible cramp and couldn’t get out.
And yes, I suppose I could just open the door.
Okay, I admit that was a bad example. What if a race of evil, alien kitchen cabinets attacked the Earth and the only way they could be defeated was if their doors were ripped off? And they were somehow immune to bullets. And fire. And . . . uh . . . gravity.
So, yeah. Just let me know if you ever need something accidentally destroyed. My rates are quite reasonable.
Cheers,
-Jason
Luckily, the TV wasn’t damaged.
As I was dragging the ninja out to the recycling bins, I reflected on my good luck. At that point, I tripped on something, possibly a rock, and fell heavily. Luckily, I landed on the ninja who was relatively soft, all things considered.
NOTE: I should have noticed the ninja disguised as a houseplant sooner. I don’t have any houseplants, as I feel it’s cruel to cage a wild creature. Also, they tend to die if you don’t water them at least once a year or so.
It was as I was sitting there on the ninja that I had my epiphany. It was entirely possible that I was a klutz.
The thing is that I don’t really think I’m clumsy. It’s more that when my mind is occupied, my body tends to do things on its own. Oh, it has the best of intentions, but sometimes it lacks . . . finesse. Coupled with what Leigh refers to as my ‘monkey strength,’ my body occasionally, accidentally, manipulates objects in a fashion that was not intended. IE, like the time I unintentionally removed a cabinet door from its hinges.
In my defense, allow me to point out that I gave my right arm a good talking-to and it hasn’t happened since.
So, on the one hand, I tend to break things. On the other, if someone is ever trapped in a kitchen cabinet, the door will be no obstacle.
No, I don’t know why someone would be trapped in a kitchen cabinet. Maybe they were playing hide-and-seek and hid in a cabinet and then developed a terrible cramp and couldn’t get out.
And yes, I suppose I could just open the door.
Okay, I admit that was a bad example. What if a race of evil, alien kitchen cabinets attacked the Earth and the only way they could be defeated was if their doors were ripped off? And they were somehow immune to bullets. And fire. And . . . uh . . . gravity.
So, yeah. Just let me know if you ever need something accidentally destroyed. My rates are quite reasonable.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Assassinate Your Cavities: Part 2
We take two of the most feared creatures in the universe and then combine them into a force for good. Like the old saying goes, two wrongs make a right. Or is it don’t make a right? I forget. This may explain why my brother was so upset when I lost one of his Matchbox cars and then hit him to make up for it.
Moving on.
Combining ninjas and dentists would give us an unstoppable, nigh-invincible, and above all, stealthy method of eradicating our cavities.
Think about it. You’re at home, eating dinner, when suddenly the world goes black. You wake up two hours later and discover that you were face down in your spaghetti. After staggering to the bathroom to wash the marinara off your face, you realize that your teeth have that ‘just scraped by a metal object feeling’ and that there appears to be a new filling in your #21 molar. The bill taped to your shirt confirms it. You were just visited by a ninja dentist, who knocked you out, drilled and filled a cavity, and then billed your insurance (the cleaning was done by a ninja hygienist).
NOTE: I decided to look it up dental numbering. I was close. According to the FDI World Dental Federation Notation, molars are labeled 18, 17, 16, 26, 27, 28, 48, 47, 46, 36, 37 & 38. I also learned that there are multiple ways of numbering teeth. Also, the World Dental Federation sounds like a league where dentists wrestle each other and have names like ‘The Masticator.’
It would be perfect. You’d never have to worry about scheduling checkups, as your checkup would come to you. And you’d never have to be worried about the pain or inconvenience, as you’d be unconscious via subtle pressure point manipulation or a good old-fashioned bludgeoning.
Once people get accustomed to ninja dentists, the demand will go through the roof. Now I just have to get the funds for my Ninja College of Dentistry and Assassination.
Cheers,
-Jason
Moving on.
Combining ninjas and dentists would give us an unstoppable, nigh-invincible, and above all, stealthy method of eradicating our cavities.
Think about it. You’re at home, eating dinner, when suddenly the world goes black. You wake up two hours later and discover that you were face down in your spaghetti. After staggering to the bathroom to wash the marinara off your face, you realize that your teeth have that ‘just scraped by a metal object feeling’ and that there appears to be a new filling in your #21 molar. The bill taped to your shirt confirms it. You were just visited by a ninja dentist, who knocked you out, drilled and filled a cavity, and then billed your insurance (the cleaning was done by a ninja hygienist).
NOTE: I decided to look it up dental numbering. I was close. According to the FDI World Dental Federation Notation, molars are labeled 18, 17, 16, 26, 27, 28, 48, 47, 46, 36, 37 & 38. I also learned that there are multiple ways of numbering teeth. Also, the World Dental Federation sounds like a league where dentists wrestle each other and have names like ‘The Masticator.’
It would be perfect. You’d never have to worry about scheduling checkups, as your checkup would come to you. And you’d never have to be worried about the pain or inconvenience, as you’d be unconscious via subtle pressure point manipulation or a good old-fashioned bludgeoning.
Once people get accustomed to ninja dentists, the demand will go through the roof. Now I just have to get the funds for my Ninja College of Dentistry and Assassination.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Assassinate Your Cavities: Part 1
I just had the best idea ever. Even better than the last one ‘best’ one about constructing humungous diapers to put on giant monsters. Admittedly, I still don’t know how you’d get Godzilla to stand still long enough.
Like I said, this one is better, which would make it ‘bester.’ ‘Besterest?’ ‘Gibesterest?’
I’ll stop now.
Quick! What are the two most terrifying things on the face of the planet?
No, not clowns, though that’s a good guess.
I’ll give you a hint: the first one sneaks into your bedroom at night with malicious intent. That’s right: chickens. They wait for you to fall asleep, and then creep in on clawed feet, nothing but hatred in their tiny, tiny brains. They climb onto your bed, nestle down, and they prepare to lay an egg of doom upon you!
Whoops, sorry. The correct answer is ‘ninjas.’ Ninjas sneak into your bedroom, turn off your alarm, put knots in your shoelaces, and rearrange your underwear drawer. That way, you get up late, you can’t find a clean pair of underwear, and then have to spend precious seconds sorting your laces out. Oh, and they murder you, which kinda makes the previous points moot. So yeah, ninjas are the first most terrifying thing in the world.
The second is: chi- No, nope. Not going to go there again. The answer is: dentists.
Everyone fears the dentist.
NOTE: I apologize to any dentists who might be reading this. I know you perform a valuable service and that oral hygiene is a vital part of staying a healthy, productive member of society. It’s just all the, y’know, PAIN.
Now I shan’t bore you with all the reasons everyone fears the dentist, which are numerous and well documented. What you really want to know is: why am I telling you all this?
Simple. What if we combined the two?
Tomorrow: Part 2
Like I said, this one is better, which would make it ‘bester.’ ‘Besterest?’ ‘Gibesterest?’
I’ll stop now.
Quick! What are the two most terrifying things on the face of the planet?
No, not clowns, though that’s a good guess.
I’ll give you a hint: the first one sneaks into your bedroom at night with malicious intent. That’s right: chickens. They wait for you to fall asleep, and then creep in on clawed feet, nothing but hatred in their tiny, tiny brains. They climb onto your bed, nestle down, and they prepare to lay an egg of doom upon you!
Whoops, sorry. The correct answer is ‘ninjas.’ Ninjas sneak into your bedroom, turn off your alarm, put knots in your shoelaces, and rearrange your underwear drawer. That way, you get up late, you can’t find a clean pair of underwear, and then have to spend precious seconds sorting your laces out. Oh, and they murder you, which kinda makes the previous points moot. So yeah, ninjas are the first most terrifying thing in the world.
The second is: chi- No, nope. Not going to go there again. The answer is: dentists.
Everyone fears the dentist.
NOTE: I apologize to any dentists who might be reading this. I know you perform a valuable service and that oral hygiene is a vital part of staying a healthy, productive member of society. It’s just all the, y’know, PAIN.
Now I shan’t bore you with all the reasons everyone fears the dentist, which are numerous and well documented. What you really want to know is: why am I telling you all this?
Simple. What if we combined the two?
Tomorrow: Part 2
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Stupidly Busy
As the title implies, Leigh and I have been stupidly busy here at Single Edge Studios. We're trying to finish up our trade by this weekend and there have been the usual stumbling blocks. We can't find a file. We don't have the right printing quotes. Our page count is off. The ninjas keep attacking.
Yeah, the ninjas have been a pain. It seems that they will stop at nothing to prevent us from publishing our trade. They keep shouting something about a 'prophecy' and 'end of the world' and 'free burritos' or something as they attack. We keep trying to interrogate them afterwards, but it's hard to talk after you've been bludgeoned with a crowbar.
Leigh keeps telling me not to hit them so hard, but I can't help it. I get excited.
Anyway, we should have good news next week, assuming the ninjas don't manage to critically injure Leigh's drawing hand.
And, of course, there's only about a month left until we start updating again! Hint: Lily and Iri go shopping!
Cheers,
-Jason
Yeah, the ninjas have been a pain. It seems that they will stop at nothing to prevent us from publishing our trade. They keep shouting something about a 'prophecy' and 'end of the world' and 'free burritos' or something as they attack. We keep trying to interrogate them afterwards, but it's hard to talk after you've been bludgeoned with a crowbar.
Leigh keeps telling me not to hit them so hard, but I can't help it. I get excited.
Anyway, we should have good news next week, assuming the ninjas don't manage to critically injure Leigh's drawing hand.
And, of course, there's only about a month left until we start updating again! Hint: Lily and Iri go shopping!
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Signage
I happened to be driving home the other night and noticed that the sign on the local KFC had changed. Rather than ‘10pc Bcket $6.99,’ it now read ‘Die Jason Die.’ I was rather flattered.
NOTE: Granted, it’s possible they meant some other Jason. There are several million of us in Redmond alone (which is interesting as the population is only 120,000 or so). However, I was reassured when I noticed the employee holding a sign beneath it that read ‘We mean Jason Janicki. We’re cool with everyone else.’
It then occurred to me that I had never actually seen anyone changing one of those signs.
Seriously.
In all my one hundred and eleven years, I still have no idea how they actually do it. I suppose that the signs themselves could be programmable or something, but I kinda doubt a neighborhood KFC or your average movie theater would have that sort of money. I mean, if they did, they wouldn’t bother actually opening the business and would instead spend their days in a luxurious money bath with nubile maidens pouring cash over their heads and fishing quarters out of inconvenient places.
Which brings me back to my original point (and I did have one). How do they change the signs? I suppose I could simply ask someone or check Wikipedia or something, but that would be proactive. Instead, I will choose to believe they employ . . . you thought I was going to say ninjas weren’t you?
Honestly, people. I can go a whole blog without mentioning ninjas (though I managed to fail spectacularly on that count in this particular blog).
Gnomes. The correct answer is: gnomes.
As far as I can tell (meaning I made it all up), in the old days, the gnomes were enslaved by evil sign builders and were imprisoned in the signs. They were forced at vegetable-point to change the letters and those that refused were severely beaten with some sort of beating-thing.
Eventually, they rose up and after a great battle that left many a buttock bruised and veggie pureed, they won their freedom. However, they eventually realized that they rather enjoyed living in the signs and all that, so they decided to stay and work for day-old popcorn and Pez.
Yes, gnomes are weird little buggers.
So, to sum up: KFC hates me and gnomes live in signs.
Now, some people might claim that the employees simply change the signs with a stick-like tool and ladders. Needless to say, I vastly prefer my version.
Then again, what if the gnomes were also ninjas?
Cheers,
-Jason
NOTE: Granted, it’s possible they meant some other Jason. There are several million of us in Redmond alone (which is interesting as the population is only 120,000 or so). However, I was reassured when I noticed the employee holding a sign beneath it that read ‘We mean Jason Janicki. We’re cool with everyone else.’
It then occurred to me that I had never actually seen anyone changing one of those signs.
Seriously.
In all my one hundred and eleven years, I still have no idea how they actually do it. I suppose that the signs themselves could be programmable or something, but I kinda doubt a neighborhood KFC or your average movie theater would have that sort of money. I mean, if they did, they wouldn’t bother actually opening the business and would instead spend their days in a luxurious money bath with nubile maidens pouring cash over their heads and fishing quarters out of inconvenient places.
Which brings me back to my original point (and I did have one). How do they change the signs? I suppose I could simply ask someone or check Wikipedia or something, but that would be proactive. Instead, I will choose to believe they employ . . . you thought I was going to say ninjas weren’t you?
Honestly, people. I can go a whole blog without mentioning ninjas (though I managed to fail spectacularly on that count in this particular blog).
Gnomes. The correct answer is: gnomes.
As far as I can tell (meaning I made it all up), in the old days, the gnomes were enslaved by evil sign builders and were imprisoned in the signs. They were forced at vegetable-point to change the letters and those that refused were severely beaten with some sort of beating-thing.
Eventually, they rose up and after a great battle that left many a buttock bruised and veggie pureed, they won their freedom. However, they eventually realized that they rather enjoyed living in the signs and all that, so they decided to stay and work for day-old popcorn and Pez.
Yes, gnomes are weird little buggers.
So, to sum up: KFC hates me and gnomes live in signs.
Now, some people might claim that the employees simply change the signs with a stick-like tool and ladders. Needless to say, I vastly prefer my version.
Then again, what if the gnomes were also ninjas?
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Smear Fairy
I was about 10-years old and sitting in the backseat of a car with my friend Alex Monto. His mother was driving us somewhere at night and I noticed a large, glowy thingie, possibly a sign. Indicating said glowie thingy and hoping it would turn out to be a UFO, I asked what it was. Alex turned to me and said ‘You can’t read that? Man, you need glasses!’
It was a K-Mart sign. A huge K-Mart sign.
So, I got glasses. I don’t mind them, though I did wear contacts for a number of years. I switched back to glasses when I realized the ninjas were less likely to punch me in the face whilst I was wearing them. This led to a (brief) experimentation with glasses-based clothing, but I digress.
And the point of all this (and there is one, trust me)? Where in the hell do all the smears on my glasses come from?
I mean, I don’t touch the lenses. I’m very careful about how I handle them, as I’m prone to damaging small things if I don’t pay attention. Leigh keeps trying to keep me from touching his miniatures for exactly that reason (honestly, you flick one mini over and he has a heart attack. It did actually become airborne and lodge into the wall, so I guess he has something there).
Anyway, my glasses, for no readily apparent reason, are constantly smeared with oil, grease, blood, holy water, and the occasional whole McNugget. I will wash them and an hour later, notice a huge smear across the lenses.
I’m either subconsciously taking off my glasses, licking them, and putting them back on or my eyeballs are capable of spraying a fine mist of grease on both sides of the lenses. Either way, I probably need help.
NOTE: Notice that I did not choose to blame ninjas. I have realized after many hours of soul-searching and extremely expensive psychotherapy that ninjas are not the sole reason for every calamity in my life. I have accepted the fact that blaming ninjas was merely a scapegoating tactic I used to justify my paranoia. Ninjas are not real. They are not out to destroy my life. The men who constantly ambush me are probably just innocent bystanders who happen to be wearing black. Their frequent attacks are merely a response to seeing a large, 225 pound, shaggy-haired Yeti-thing (me) bearing down on them while screaming incoherently (singing).
I honestly don’t get it. It’s like my glasses attract stray grease atoms. The only other option would be some sort of Smear Fairy, who spends her time flitting about with a wand and a can of lard, liberally applying grease to every lens she finds.
Either that or ninj-
Crap. Now I have to call Dr. Shinobi.
Cheers,
-Jason
It was a K-Mart sign. A huge K-Mart sign.
So, I got glasses. I don’t mind them, though I did wear contacts for a number of years. I switched back to glasses when I realized the ninjas were less likely to punch me in the face whilst I was wearing them. This led to a (brief) experimentation with glasses-based clothing, but I digress.
And the point of all this (and there is one, trust me)? Where in the hell do all the smears on my glasses come from?
I mean, I don’t touch the lenses. I’m very careful about how I handle them, as I’m prone to damaging small things if I don’t pay attention. Leigh keeps trying to keep me from touching his miniatures for exactly that reason (honestly, you flick one mini over and he has a heart attack. It did actually become airborne and lodge into the wall, so I guess he has something there).
Anyway, my glasses, for no readily apparent reason, are constantly smeared with oil, grease, blood, holy water, and the occasional whole McNugget. I will wash them and an hour later, notice a huge smear across the lenses.
I’m either subconsciously taking off my glasses, licking them, and putting them back on or my eyeballs are capable of spraying a fine mist of grease on both sides of the lenses. Either way, I probably need help.
NOTE: Notice that I did not choose to blame ninjas. I have realized after many hours of soul-searching and extremely expensive psychotherapy that ninjas are not the sole reason for every calamity in my life. I have accepted the fact that blaming ninjas was merely a scapegoating tactic I used to justify my paranoia. Ninjas are not real. They are not out to destroy my life. The men who constantly ambush me are probably just innocent bystanders who happen to be wearing black. Their frequent attacks are merely a response to seeing a large, 225 pound, shaggy-haired Yeti-thing (me) bearing down on them while screaming incoherently (singing).
I honestly don’t get it. It’s like my glasses attract stray grease atoms. The only other option would be some sort of Smear Fairy, who spends her time flitting about with a wand and a can of lard, liberally applying grease to every lens she finds.
Either that or ninj-
Crap. Now I have to call Dr. Shinobi.
Cheers,
-Jason
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