Robadillo

I recently received a grim warning from the future. This has happened twice before. The first time, I was ten and warned not to glue my nostrils shut with paste, regardless of how much money my best friend Chuck offered me.

I got my other friend Danny to do it instead and was glad I did, ‘cause when the school nurse pulled the hardened plug out, it was like the inside of his nose had been waxed. They say you could hear the scream ten miles away.

The second warning was about not starting a sci-fi web-comic. I dodged that one by starting a fantasy web-comic instead.

This latest warning was a simple, one-sentence email I received from an anonymous source. It read ‘Warning from the Future: Do not create robot armadillos or ‘robadillos.’

NOTE: The warnings always come in a ‘time-period’ acceptable way. The one about the nostrils was on a 3x5 card I found inside my Trapper Keeper. The second one was a rather (perhaps) ill-conceived tattoo. A word of caution: don’t get a ‘spur-of-the-moment’ tattoo from someone you don’t share a language with. That goes doubly if either party is drunk.

This latest warning brings up a couple questions: Why would I want to create a robadillo? What would I use a robadillo for? And thirdly, seeing as how I can barely balance my checkbook, how would I create a robadillo in the first place?

The first two answers are obvious: who wouldn’t want to create a robadillo? Honestly, the name is just cool. Secondly, I’d obviously use my army of robadillos to take over the world. Oh, sure, I’d start out with some sort of noble goal, like eliminating the scourge of gingivitis, but once I had a sixty-foot, fire-breathing armadillo with laser eyes and enough armor to stop a Tomahawk missile, I’d go a bit nuts.

Obviously though, the chance of me successfully creating an army of robadillos is slim to none, which is why this particular warning from the future is so puzzling. If I can’t create a robadillo in the first place, why warn me not to?

Unless, I’m SUPPOSED to create an army of robadillos, perhaps to fight off an alien invasion or something, and this warning is really from the aliens in a Terminator-esque ploy to get me not to.

Hmmmm, it’s a quandary. Maybe I should dust off my plans for a zombot army (half-zombie, half-robot), just in case.

Unless, that’s what the aliens really want!

Indecisively,
-Jason

Is Better Than . . .

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

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

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

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

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

X is . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers,
-Jason

Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 2

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

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

“But . . . no! It’s totally true!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did go to Tibet, though.”

“Did you train with ninja-priests?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, that explains the outfit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s great.”

“GLAD TO HEAR IT. EXCUSE ME, I MUST DRAIN THE LIZARD. AT LEAST, WHAT IS LEFT OF IT. HA HA HA.”

The Major nodded. “Funny.”

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Ah. So what’s his real origin?”

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

“Really?”

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

Cheers,
-Jason