The day the clock exploded was the day I knew that I was not only awesome, but also pure genius personified. I was 6. After taking the clock apart on the back porch, (something the merely average little girl never seems to think of doing), I put it back together with a few additions such as clay from the potted plant and a fuse from the house fuse box system. The only thing left to do was to take my twin brothers' cap gun and rob the caps of their gunpowder. I also took a few of his leftover PopIts from the Fourth of July. And voila! With a twist here and a push there, I had the clock all wired up and the alarm set. A genius was not born that day, because I was born 6 years ago. No, only the knowledge of that geniusness was born. And my twin brother. Yes, he was there. That day, he attained the rank of chief sidekick.
I went on from there. All through elementary school, middle school, and high school, I rigged gadgets that exploded. Of course, I didn't always have gunpowder on hand, and the teachers didn't like it anyway. But I learned a lot during those years about the exploding power of water and air. Chief Sidekick had a new material for me to try nearly every day. I played pranks on the basketball team, football team, soccer team, and baseball team. All designed never to harm anyone, of course. Sometimes the team might walk into their locker room and set off an explosion of their shoes. The best one was when they triggered an explosion of the gate where all the basketballs were kept. When I graduated, my class voted me "most likely to be a successful terrorist." They named me valedictorian anyway. My teachers? Yeah, they couldn't wait to see me leave.
In college, I met a guy. Nothing romantic, of course. But we breathed on the same wavelength, and he knew a lot more than I did. He was my physics teacher, after all. His classes were always full because a day didn't go by without something exploding. Very fun for the average student, naturally, but for me...
Chief Sidekick, PG, (Physics Guy) and I formed an inseparable trio. When all those baseball geeks were trying to get the attention of major league scouts, we had a bigger goal in mind. You see, we all had this idea that the government, particularly the international branches thereof, were the greatest achievement anyone could hope to get. We had it all figured out. PG was going to be military chief, I was going to be head of the FBI, and Chief Sidekick would be president. (He liked law stuff better than we did, so that's why he got that job). So, all our pranks and experiments had one goal. We didn't want to go campaigning or anything like that-much too dull. We wanted them to come to us. They were going to hear about us and our geniusness and were going to ask us to join the team. Then we were going to wow them with our abilities and get promoted within the same year.
It actually started to work. I should say "actually," like I was surprised. Awesomeness always works the way we intended it.
One day, we were front-page news! And everyday after that! Almost simultaneously, PG was approached by the then president of the United States and asked if he would come on as honorary military chief advisor. Honorary. Haha. Within three weeks the previous dude resigned and nominated PG to success him. Mr. President Man became pretty good friends with PG.
Two days later, the FBI head honcho accidentally became one of the "dearly departed." Mr. President asked PG for his advice, and so I was installed immediately.
Along about then, those marvelous 4 year elections rolled around. Mr. President Man wasn't eligible to re-run, so I wrote in Chief Sidekick's name. No campaigning, no nothing. Just a name written into that little blank line on the ballot. Come Jan., we had a new Pres. My twin bro.
Goodness, things were fun in those days. We hired a few of our former highschool classmates. Anytime the news asked how things were going, our employees and associates would say that this new era was the funnest in history. Yessir! We made what I like to call...an impact, on this country.
All sorts of little explosions went on. In the White House, out into the streets, and around the world. International relations were, well, they were.
By the time those first 4 years were over, it was clear there was no one else beside us in the world to compare with us. Errr. It was clear there was no one else besides us in the world. Oooops.
Let's just say they weren't all, ahem, small, harmless explosions. You see, me and PG, we kinda accidentally mis-measured the ingredients on our last little experiment. We were just trying to give the Olympics Opening Ceremony a few new sorts of fireworks, and then. Yikes. Um. Hmm.
Going out with a bang.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Operation Peter Pan
My hands twitched as I glanced nervously behind me. After checking my watch, I again glanced
behind me, slowly proceeding into the darkened alleyway. A rat scurried across my foot, startling me
enough to send the lid to the garbage can loudly clattering across the concrete. I paused momentarily, as if to reconsider,
before slowly proceeding further into the dark recess of the city; the noise of
the normal nightlife of Bluffington quickly faded, the buildings around me absorbing
the noise.
Near the far end of the alley, I could see the light of a
window, faint shapes flicker across the harsh light of the warehouse. The deal was obviously still happening;
despite having been told that it had been called off. I just had a couple dozen feet to go, and I would
be in position. The sound of my team
leader came over my coms, telling me that satellite coverage was taking a
little longer than expected, but should operational in the next thirty seconds.
Glancing again behind me, I proceeding cautiously to the side of the building, attempting to hide my footsteps in the noise of the thunder that was growing increasing louder. I could now feel the cold damp brick of the warehouse with my clammy hands and continued towards the window, moving ever more slowly. My feet slipped on an oil slick and I lurched sidewise, barely catching himself on a drain pipe. I again heard the voice of my team leader, this time crackling slightly due to the interference created by the storm, telling me that the live satellite was showing seven people in the warehouse and 2 hostages.
Glancing again behind me, I proceeding cautiously to the side of the building, attempting to hide my footsteps in the noise of the thunder that was growing increasing louder. I could now feel the cold damp brick of the warehouse with my clammy hands and continued towards the window, moving ever more slowly. My feet slipped on an oil slick and I lurched sidewise, barely catching himself on a drain pipe. I again heard the voice of my team leader, this time crackling slightly due to the interference created by the storm, telling me that the live satellite was showing seven people in the warehouse and 2 hostages.
I prepared for a silent entry, threading the silencer on my
Beretta and adjusting my Kevlar jacket. I
opened my coms, asking for clearance to use lethal force, if necessary to
complete the recovery for the two agents held with in by the enemy
operatives. Before the getting a
response, I heard a noise behind me and saw the glare of approaching headlights. Knowing I didn’t have time, I quickly breached
the window, startling the guards on the lower level who were unloading a
shipment of automatic weapons. The
guards, knowing I had the jump on them, quietly submitted and allowed me to tie
them. As I did so, I could hear the enemy operatives upstairs interrogating
our agents, my fellow team members, attempting to get the GPS coordinates of
our HQ.
The buyer was tapping at the door, alerting the agents upstairs that the buyer was arrived and ending for now, the interrogation. I began looking for a hiding spot, knowing I was trapped. Seeing a closet, I began moving quickly towards it --- Sammy -- , barely making it inside before -- SAMMMY – the enemy operatives made it down stairs. IT was here I remembered that I had left the two enemy agents tied up in plain sight and it was only moments before I was discov --- SAMMMY! – ered and I became a third hostage.
I started, the entire class was starting at me and I began to flush. I had been daydreaming again and the teacher had been calling on me for the last several minutes. I began to stammer, I…. I… I don’t kn – the teacher cut me off, telling me she was calling the principle and I was going to be expelled. The class began laughing, and I, embarrassed, headed back to my dream where I had just heroically took out the rest of the enemy agents single-handedly and was taking a selfie with the subdued enemy agents before calling for an extraction for me and the two hostages upstairs who had been taken during a mission earlier that week. Satisfied, I started to send the selfie to my parents, who I knew would be proud of me, when I again woke up and remembered that I was going to be expelled.
And that is the story of my first day in First Grade.
The buyer was tapping at the door, alerting the agents upstairs that the buyer was arrived and ending for now, the interrogation. I began looking for a hiding spot, knowing I was trapped. Seeing a closet, I began moving quickly towards it --- Sammy -- , barely making it inside before -- SAMMMY – the enemy operatives made it down stairs. IT was here I remembered that I had left the two enemy agents tied up in plain sight and it was only moments before I was discov --- SAMMMY! – ered and I became a third hostage.
I started, the entire class was starting at me and I began to flush. I had been daydreaming again and the teacher had been calling on me for the last several minutes. I began to stammer, I…. I… I don’t kn – the teacher cut me off, telling me she was calling the principle and I was going to be expelled. The class began laughing, and I, embarrassed, headed back to my dream where I had just heroically took out the rest of the enemy agents single-handedly and was taking a selfie with the subdued enemy agents before calling for an extraction for me and the two hostages upstairs who had been taken during a mission earlier that week. Satisfied, I started to send the selfie to my parents, who I knew would be proud of me, when I again woke up and remembered that I was going to be expelled.
And that is the story of my first day in First Grade.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Storm Weather
Seamless clouds of dark grey filled the sky from horizon to horizon. Rain poured in torrents, hitting the ground with hard angry smacks. It lent a whole new meaning to 'rivers of waters in the streets.' The earth was soaked and flooded. It came so fast, there wasn't a chance for anything to drain off. Bolts of lightning struck every two or three minutes in random crazy streaks, tearing the ominous sky in sunder, while in between, the heavens were lit up as bright as day with great sheets of it. Between lightning it was so dark you couldn't see to read a book, even at noon. Streams of water ran into your eyes. It was impossible to see two feet ahead.
Impossible that is, unless you're a ghost writer. They call it literary licence. Because of it, the storm parts a little and you can vaguely begin to see a two-lane road. It runs straight as a dart across great plains of dripping, bent grain. As the storm continues to give way to your laser-like, literary-licenced eyes, you see a car. Not just any car either. You can tell that at a glance by its mud-flecked posh appearance. It could be compared to a celebrity turned tramp who has obviously seen better days.
The owner of the car was clearly not granted your own blessed eyesight. He was a model of caution and drove at not more than 10 mph down a slight, long, sloping grade. He also had his hazard lights on so that the (non-existent) cars behind could see him. As you zoom in with your marvelous eyes, you see that his windshield is a constant waterfall and that his wipers might as well be pitched for all the good they were doing.
As you watch, the car drunkenly skids into the ditch with tires screeching. You quickly advance towards the scene. Upon your arrival at the accident, the decrepit automobile was found to have been unoccupied at the time of the collision, and very likely for some time beforehand.
After some deliberation, you apparently decided that the luxurious Porsche now sitting empty before after its gentle decent into the ditch was now in need of a good owner. After some slight effort, the car was out of the ditch and cruising along at seventy miles an hour on what had now become a busy road despite the rain that brought the visibility, for everyone else, down to almost zero.
You rejoice with exceeding great joy at this procurement of a more gravity-bound vehicle. Floating around the world in a misty, vapory existence for seven years can be tiring. As you come at last to a city and zoom undeterred through a traffic light, you become aware of a strange thing.The car begins to groan and the engine cover ripples and bulges. At first, you think it is only the wind, which beats your car this way and that, but then the cover pops open and you realize for the first time that the car's owner was a ghost like yourself, (though not a ghost writer, but rather a ghost mechanic).
Apparently, Mr. Mechanic had left the car running at a slow speed while he flitted around to fix a knock in the engine. The wind had blown the cover down and trapped him inside.
Mr. Mechanic was hopping mad. You don't know if you've ever seen a mad ghost, but you don't fancy pursuing the matter. Rather than duking it out, you choose to leave the car.
Relegated once again to the terrible weather, you watch a human out in his garden attempting to place tarpaulins over his more delicate plants. You wonder afresh at the futility of man and become suddenly grateful that you no longer have to deal with such things. With a sigh you flit away, up, and up, into the nothingness beyond the storm.
Impossible that is, unless you're a ghost writer. They call it literary licence. Because of it, the storm parts a little and you can vaguely begin to see a two-lane road. It runs straight as a dart across great plains of dripping, bent grain. As the storm continues to give way to your laser-like, literary-licenced eyes, you see a car. Not just any car either. You can tell that at a glance by its mud-flecked posh appearance. It could be compared to a celebrity turned tramp who has obviously seen better days.
The owner of the car was clearly not granted your own blessed eyesight. He was a model of caution and drove at not more than 10 mph down a slight, long, sloping grade. He also had his hazard lights on so that the (non-existent) cars behind could see him. As you zoom in with your marvelous eyes, you see that his windshield is a constant waterfall and that his wipers might as well be pitched for all the good they were doing.
As you watch, the car drunkenly skids into the ditch with tires screeching. You quickly advance towards the scene. Upon your arrival at the accident, the decrepit automobile was found to have been unoccupied at the time of the collision, and very likely for some time beforehand.
After some deliberation, you apparently decided that the luxurious Porsche now sitting empty before after its gentle decent into the ditch was now in need of a good owner. After some slight effort, the car was out of the ditch and cruising along at seventy miles an hour on what had now become a busy road despite the rain that brought the visibility, for everyone else, down to almost zero.
You rejoice with exceeding great joy at this procurement of a more gravity-bound vehicle. Floating around the world in a misty, vapory existence for seven years can be tiring. As you come at last to a city and zoom undeterred through a traffic light, you become aware of a strange thing.The car begins to groan and the engine cover ripples and bulges. At first, you think it is only the wind, which beats your car this way and that, but then the cover pops open and you realize for the first time that the car's owner was a ghost like yourself, (though not a ghost writer, but rather a ghost mechanic).
Apparently, Mr. Mechanic had left the car running at a slow speed while he flitted around to fix a knock in the engine. The wind had blown the cover down and trapped him inside.
Mr. Mechanic was hopping mad. You don't know if you've ever seen a mad ghost, but you don't fancy pursuing the matter. Rather than duking it out, you choose to leave the car.
Relegated once again to the terrible weather, you watch a human out in his garden attempting to place tarpaulins over his more delicate plants. You wonder afresh at the futility of man and become suddenly grateful that you no longer have to deal with such things. With a sigh you flit away, up, and up, into the nothingness beyond the storm.
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Letter
"Good Morning, Mr. Smith!"
"Ehh? What's that?"
" I said, GOOD MORNING, MR. SMITH!!"
"Good morning to you too. Always mumbling. Can't understand it"
Mr. Robert Smith, now going on close to sixty-seven years, was losing his hearing. The previous exchange with Bill, his newspaper boy, had been the same for the last four years. In fact, similar exchanges had been noted for much longer periods of time with his grocer, doctor, secretary, and most importantly, his lawyer.
Our story begins not with a newspaper delivery, but the morning mail. As usual, on the first Friday of every month, Mr. Smith received a report from his lawyer detailing how Mr. Smith's business matters were going throughout the world. This particular Friday, however, he received three letters rather than the typical one letter. Knowing his lawyer as he did, Mr. Smith knew that something either really good, or something really bad had happened, and considering the fact that one of the three was labeled "Priority," he guessed that it was bad rather than good news.
Looking around the room where he was, he noticed that there was only one chair, and that it was already occupied by his aging secretary. Being the gentleman that he was, he moved to his personal office where there was a chair, and began reading the first of the three letters. The first of the three letters was the report that he normally expected to see, and was much as would normally be expected in any given month.
After some deliberation, he decided to request his normal cup be served right then rather then waiting for his normal eleven o'clock cup. Why this change of routine? Because he felt that the remaining letters contained bad news rather than good, so he wanted to be well prepared for the tragedy contained within the unexpected missive now laying on his desk.
After slowly consuming and enjoying the tea that one of his businesses manufactured, he opened the second letter that his lawyer had so unexpectedly entrusted to the public mail service for delivery to his office. This letter informed him that his lawyer wished to take a month off, and would it please Mr. Smith to grant him leave of absence while he took a much needed vacation?
Understandingly, Mr. Smith straight away wrote a somewhat lengthy letter apologizing for his apparent lack of sensitivity to the needs of trusted employee and friend, and also noted that he was giving the poor fellow a raise.
After sending the letter off by means of his secretary, he began looking at the third and last letter now sitting ominously before him, daring Mr. Smith to read the contents valued at two shillings postage. As he reached over to open the letter, he glanced at the clock realizing as he did so that he was nearly ten minutes late for an important meeting.
Thankful for the slight escape from the letter that was sitting there looking smug, he raced to the boring meeting that as the mayor of the city he was required to attend. By the time the meeting was over, he recognized that it would be best to read the letter the next day rather than going back into the office that evening to read something that probably contained undesired information. He decided rather to come in early the next morning to read the unpromising letter.
The next morning, early the next morning, he headed into the office to read the letter that had cost him a whole nights sleep and added many a cup of tea to his diet. As a precaution, he decided to reserve a spot at his local hospital in case of a heart attack, and also called his primary doctor to ask that he attend during what was now becoming an opening ceremony for that letter so glaringly stamped " Priority."
It was nearly nine o'clock by the time the doctor arrived. After the doctor had setup his heart monitoring equipment, and located the bottles that could be necessary in the the development of any sudden health issues, he sat down preparatory to opening the letter. Before actually breaking the seal however, he decided to jot down a quick Will and Last Testament in the unlikely case that he fail to survive the onslaught of the letter.
Completely ready, he broke the seal, and painstakingly drew the letter out from with the dark confines of the envelope bearing his name in a bold, black scrawl that few could replicate. Finally free of its bindings, the letter gloried in the fresh light now laying so plentifully across the desk. He would dare to read what the postal system had marked "priority."
Despite dreading have to look at, read, and comprehend the missive now open before him, Mr. Smith did so. A first glance told him that all was not lost, that in fact all was much as it should be. Being the responsible person that he was, he told the doctor that he would have no need of his services that day, but would he mind confirming his normal appointment due for later that month? He also proceeded to cancel his reservation at the hospital, and apologized for being a no-show during such a busy season.
After taking care of his responsibilities in that direction, he proceeded to read the letter, which is much like the following, but of a somewhat lengthier variant.
Mr. Smith,
As regarding your birthday, may I offer my sincerest congratulations on you newest attainment of your already impressive lists of accomplishments at whatever you turn your hand to. It has been my pleasure over the last twenty-four years to work under one of the most kind and considerate men that I have ever known, and I wish that every man could be as blessed as I am knowing you. Thank you so much for all you have done for me and others throughout the years.
Yours Truly,
William Pritchard, Solicitor
"Ehh? What's that?"
" I said, GOOD MORNING, MR. SMITH!!"
"Good morning to you too. Always mumbling. Can't understand it"
Mr. Robert Smith, now going on close to sixty-seven years, was losing his hearing. The previous exchange with Bill, his newspaper boy, had been the same for the last four years. In fact, similar exchanges had been noted for much longer periods of time with his grocer, doctor, secretary, and most importantly, his lawyer.
Our story begins not with a newspaper delivery, but the morning mail. As usual, on the first Friday of every month, Mr. Smith received a report from his lawyer detailing how Mr. Smith's business matters were going throughout the world. This particular Friday, however, he received three letters rather than the typical one letter. Knowing his lawyer as he did, Mr. Smith knew that something either really good, or something really bad had happened, and considering the fact that one of the three was labeled "Priority," he guessed that it was bad rather than good news.
Looking around the room where he was, he noticed that there was only one chair, and that it was already occupied by his aging secretary. Being the gentleman that he was, he moved to his personal office where there was a chair, and began reading the first of the three letters. The first of the three letters was the report that he normally expected to see, and was much as would normally be expected in any given month.
After some deliberation, he decided to request his normal cup be served right then rather then waiting for his normal eleven o'clock cup. Why this change of routine? Because he felt that the remaining letters contained bad news rather than good, so he wanted to be well prepared for the tragedy contained within the unexpected missive now laying on his desk.
After slowly consuming and enjoying the tea that one of his businesses manufactured, he opened the second letter that his lawyer had so unexpectedly entrusted to the public mail service for delivery to his office. This letter informed him that his lawyer wished to take a month off, and would it please Mr. Smith to grant him leave of absence while he took a much needed vacation?
Understandingly, Mr. Smith straight away wrote a somewhat lengthy letter apologizing for his apparent lack of sensitivity to the needs of trusted employee and friend, and also noted that he was giving the poor fellow a raise.
After sending the letter off by means of his secretary, he began looking at the third and last letter now sitting ominously before him, daring Mr. Smith to read the contents valued at two shillings postage. As he reached over to open the letter, he glanced at the clock realizing as he did so that he was nearly ten minutes late for an important meeting.
Thankful for the slight escape from the letter that was sitting there looking smug, he raced to the boring meeting that as the mayor of the city he was required to attend. By the time the meeting was over, he recognized that it would be best to read the letter the next day rather than going back into the office that evening to read something that probably contained undesired information. He decided rather to come in early the next morning to read the unpromising letter.
The next morning, early the next morning, he headed into the office to read the letter that had cost him a whole nights sleep and added many a cup of tea to his diet. As a precaution, he decided to reserve a spot at his local hospital in case of a heart attack, and also called his primary doctor to ask that he attend during what was now becoming an opening ceremony for that letter so glaringly stamped " Priority."
It was nearly nine o'clock by the time the doctor arrived. After the doctor had setup his heart monitoring equipment, and located the bottles that could be necessary in the the development of any sudden health issues, he sat down preparatory to opening the letter. Before actually breaking the seal however, he decided to jot down a quick Will and Last Testament in the unlikely case that he fail to survive the onslaught of the letter.
Completely ready, he broke the seal, and painstakingly drew the letter out from with the dark confines of the envelope bearing his name in a bold, black scrawl that few could replicate. Finally free of its bindings, the letter gloried in the fresh light now laying so plentifully across the desk. He would dare to read what the postal system had marked "priority."
Despite dreading have to look at, read, and comprehend the missive now open before him, Mr. Smith did so. A first glance told him that all was not lost, that in fact all was much as it should be. Being the responsible person that he was, he told the doctor that he would have no need of his services that day, but would he mind confirming his normal appointment due for later that month? He also proceeded to cancel his reservation at the hospital, and apologized for being a no-show during such a busy season.
After taking care of his responsibilities in that direction, he proceeded to read the letter, which is much like the following, but of a somewhat lengthier variant.
Mr. Smith,
As regarding your birthday, may I offer my sincerest congratulations on you newest attainment of your already impressive lists of accomplishments at whatever you turn your hand to. It has been my pleasure over the last twenty-four years to work under one of the most kind and considerate men that I have ever known, and I wish that every man could be as blessed as I am knowing you. Thank you so much for all you have done for me and others throughout the years.
Yours Truly,
William Pritchard, Solicitor
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Metamorphosis of the Shoes
A pair of Shoes lay silently on the floor under the bed. Small points of light followed the bare-foot steps of the little girl.
"Will she put us on today?" wondered Lefty Shoe hopefully.
"I doubt it," replied Right-o Shoe with a sigh. "We're just not good enough anymore. Ever since she got those fancy shoes from the mall, she hasn't even looked at us."
"Those Fancies are so stuck up too. What possessed her to buy them? Didn't she know how ornery they would be?"
"Of course not, Lefty, humans can't tell the difference just by looking."
"Look, she's putting them on. And they're giving her trouble too. What a surprise...Not. I wonder where's she's going. We never go anywhere or see anything anymore. I think we should do something about it."
"What do you mean?" Asked Right-o.
"I know where the shoe blacking is," replied Lefty.
Right-o made an aghast sound. "You mean, move around without Feet inside of us!? You know that's against the Rules! Think of how much trouble we would be in if a Human caught us!"
"We wouldn't get caught. I know how to be quiet, you know how to be quiet, and the humans sleep at nighttime."
"We-ell...But, but, my heel has developed a squeak. " This confession was difficult for Right-o to make.
"We'll stop by the Parent's room on our way down then. Dad's Rebok's are professional chiropractors. Come on, we can do it."
"Ok, I guess."
In the darkness that evening, two flopping shadows low down on the ground might have been seen making their way down the stairs. A little later, a faint screech as Dad's Nike's knocked the squeak out of Right-o. Then, the creak of the basement door.
"We're here. The blacking is on that shelf. I'll get it. You get the rag in the corner." Lefty climbed the shelf laboriously.
Forty minutes later, they stepped in front of a cracked mirror.
"Say," said Lefty, "we look pretty good, now we just have to wait for it to dry."
"Wait," answered Right-O, "We might as well go the whole nine yards. I saw some glitter on the desk upstairs. We could give ourselves a sparkle.
"Great idea, Right-O! That's the spirit! We'd better hurry before this dries though, or it won't stick."
The next morning, the little girl tripped over them as she got out of bed. She grunted, and then looked down to see what had caused her fall.
"New shoes," she squealed happily. "Just what I wanted! Mom and Dad must have put them there when I was asleep."
As they walked out of the room happily encasing the beloved Feet, Right-o and Lefty couldn't help waggling their laces at the Fancies.
Right-o and Lefty winked at each other. "Viva la Olde Shoes!"
"Will she put us on today?" wondered Lefty Shoe hopefully.
"I doubt it," replied Right-o Shoe with a sigh. "We're just not good enough anymore. Ever since she got those fancy shoes from the mall, she hasn't even looked at us."
"Those Fancies are so stuck up too. What possessed her to buy them? Didn't she know how ornery they would be?"
"Of course not, Lefty, humans can't tell the difference just by looking."
"Look, she's putting them on. And they're giving her trouble too. What a surprise...Not. I wonder where's she's going. We never go anywhere or see anything anymore. I think we should do something about it."
"What do you mean?" Asked Right-o.
"I know where the shoe blacking is," replied Lefty.
Right-o made an aghast sound. "You mean, move around without Feet inside of us!? You know that's against the Rules! Think of how much trouble we would be in if a Human caught us!"
"We wouldn't get caught. I know how to be quiet, you know how to be quiet, and the humans sleep at nighttime."
"We-ell...But, but, my heel has developed a squeak. " This confession was difficult for Right-o to make.
"We'll stop by the Parent's room on our way down then. Dad's Rebok's are professional chiropractors. Come on, we can do it."
"Ok, I guess."
In the darkness that evening, two flopping shadows low down on the ground might have been seen making their way down the stairs. A little later, a faint screech as Dad's Nike's knocked the squeak out of Right-o. Then, the creak of the basement door.
"We're here. The blacking is on that shelf. I'll get it. You get the rag in the corner." Lefty climbed the shelf laboriously.
Forty minutes later, they stepped in front of a cracked mirror.
"Say," said Lefty, "we look pretty good, now we just have to wait for it to dry."
"Wait," answered Right-O, "We might as well go the whole nine yards. I saw some glitter on the desk upstairs. We could give ourselves a sparkle.
"Great idea, Right-O! That's the spirit! We'd better hurry before this dries though, or it won't stick."
The next morning, the little girl tripped over them as she got out of bed. She grunted, and then looked down to see what had caused her fall.
"New shoes," she squealed happily. "Just what I wanted! Mom and Dad must have put them there when I was asleep."
As they walked out of the room happily encasing the beloved Feet, Right-o and Lefty couldn't help waggling their laces at the Fancies.
Right-o and Lefty winked at each other. "Viva la Olde Shoes!"
Friday, December 23, 2011
Santa's Last Visit
It all began that night 30 years ago. I was lying in bed, sound asleep, when I heard a slight sound on the roof. After several minutes had elapsed, and I had just about fallen back asleep, I began to hear a slow rustling and clanking noise. As I reached for my shotgun, I was thinking about the stories I had heard since I was a kid. Stories the like you have never heard. There was a legend, I was told, that once a year, somebody or something, would creep down the chimney, and would leave stuff random stuff into peoples stockings as they slept.
When I was first heard this close to thirty years ago, I was in shock. How could somebody dare to sneak down a chimney, and fill peoples socks with objects. That might make them rip, and then I'd be stuck without socks until next I went into town. Destroying socks was the worst possible crime one could commit where I grew up. As years when by, and I began to use my hard-earned money to purchase my own supply of socks for the year.
That was when I began to keep the shotgun beside the bed, in the hope that one day I would stop the one who made it a habit of breaking and entering peoples houses while they slept. Thirty years later, my shotgun was about to pay off. I was thankful, as I walked towards the fireplace, that I had loaded and cocked my shotgun before going to bed that night.
Moments after reaching the fireplace, I saw the first part of my target, a gigantic foot clad in red, appear. As I watched, I saw the rest of his massive body slide out onto the hearth. As I pulled the trigger, all I could think of was the millions of socks I was saving from destruction. Never again would a stocking be ripped because of somebody with a giant white beard, and a floppy red hat.
When I was first heard this close to thirty years ago, I was in shock. How could somebody dare to sneak down a chimney, and fill peoples socks with objects. That might make them rip, and then I'd be stuck without socks until next I went into town. Destroying socks was the worst possible crime one could commit where I grew up. As years when by, and I began to use my hard-earned money to purchase my own supply of socks for the year.
That was when I began to keep the shotgun beside the bed, in the hope that one day I would stop the one who made it a habit of breaking and entering peoples houses while they slept. Thirty years later, my shotgun was about to pay off. I was thankful, as I walked towards the fireplace, that I had loaded and cocked my shotgun before going to bed that night.
Moments after reaching the fireplace, I saw the first part of my target, a gigantic foot clad in red, appear. As I watched, I saw the rest of his massive body slide out onto the hearth. As I pulled the trigger, all I could think of was the millions of socks I was saving from destruction. Never again would a stocking be ripped because of somebody with a giant white beard, and a floppy red hat.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Once Upon a Marshmallow
"Gar! Make 'im walk the plank."
"Throw him to the fishes."
"Hang him from the highest yardarm."
Each new suggestion was greeted with joyous sounds by the rowdy pirates. Then, a new voice piped in.
"Maroon him on the White Island!" Few knew what or where this was. It's locatation was kept as a profound secret by the wayfaring captains of the sea. A sort of trump card against mutineers and grumblers.
This was the plan adopted. Less than 3 hours later, I, Jonathan Garbaldo, was set upon the thin green edge of the Island. Less than 2 minutes later, the pirates, my former companions and friends, were speeding away; not daring to stay longer in the mysterious place from which no man had yet returned.
The green spit upon which I stood, was the only green thing in sight. For the rest, a smooth looking white cliff arose into the clouds. I walked the 5 steps necessary to reach the cliff. I had to find a way up. In another hour, the tide would be coming in. To my surprise, I found it to be very porous. I touched it and stepped back in astonishment. I had never seen the like. A sticky, powdery rock! I sniffed the stuff that had come away in my hands, and then I tasted it. In untold horror, I knew in that moment that this strange place was nothing other than a giant marshmellow. It would have been drifting heedlessly had it not been for the narrow piece of earth at the bottom.
"At least," thought I, "I won't want for food!"
Upon further examination, I discovered steps climbing up the white cliff. I was not surprised to see that many of them had been carved by teeth. But, I had no time for thought or exploration. The tide was lapping at my feet. I went carefully, but after the first few steps, I knew I had to go quickly. If I paused for a moment, my feet would stick. When I sped up, I only felt as if I was walking upon a springy white carpet. A delightful sensation really.
It took me nearly two hours to reach the top. I was then in for another surprise. Stretched out for miles was a town made completely of marshmellow. Dusty white figures darted quickly about snatching bites of the mountain as they went.
Upon approaching, I discovered old friends. These people, I realized, were all those who had been marooned from decades past. A short conversation took place as we jogged back and forth. I discovered all I needed to know. The outcasts could not stop moving or they would stick and sink. They ate as they ran in distinct patterns. Eventually, they would be able to add more buildings to the town. They made the buildings large so that they would have room to keep moving during a storm. Many had lived there for 20 or more years. In all that time, they had never seen a friendly ship. The colony was divided into two groups. The first group ran in circles along the edge of the marshmellow. Their job was to look for ships. The second group, as has been mentioned, carved the buildings with their teeth. When one group had had enough to eat, the groups switched.
I quickly adapted to the new way of life, but despite the fact that I did what everyone else was doing, I was far from happy. I was often to be found swimming in the ocean, the one time that I didn't have to stop constantly running, the one time when I could relax and get away from that sticky landmass. The idea of freedom was never far from my thoughts as I went through the mundane sameness of what was my new life.
It was like this for months, but I knew it could not last forever because the island was rapidly shrinking as new members were added to the colony of outcasts. Yet, what could I do? The marshmallow could not be moved, the colony had nothing that could be used to escape the sticky mess that we were all in.
But this all changed when a small chest washed ashore, and stuck fast to the goo that was our beach. After painstakingly opening the chest at risk of getting forever stuck in the glistening white landscape we discovered naught but a single match that had somehow escaped the water.
It was with this that we resolved to make our escape from the desolate island. We determined to burn our way to freedom. I remember it like yesterday, the decision to risk burning our island in the hope that we could turn our fluffy habitation into an over-sized hot air balloon. But could we generate enough heat to take us to land? That question we left for the next morning, the day of our great attempt.
To prepare us for our venture, I suggested to the colony that we find for ourselves seaweed, with which we might be able to avoid getting stuck for a little while in the sponge-like thing we called home. Once having obtained a sufficient supply of seaweed, we began placing it on such parts of the island that we felt would be safe for habitation during our flight home.
On the following morning, we laid the chest in a deep hole that had been excavated in the side of the Mt. that occupied the center of the island. Before lighting the match, we also painstakingly detached with our hands the marshmallow from the green beach. And then the match, the one hope of our escape, was lit and applied to the chest. Thankfully, the chest caught, and we had only to wait as the chest burned. Would it be enough to inflate the island? Would the island turn into a giant roasted marshmallow and waft across the currents towards freedom?
As unlikely as it seems --and what about this story isn't unlikely?-- the fool's hope, the last desperate attempt to save ourselves from insanity, stickiness, and the thought of eating more marshmallow, succeeded. With great trepidation, hardly daring to believe our eyes, the great island lifted a few feet, faltered, and then, half floating on the ocean, half flying in the air, we were on our way to freedom.
The thought of those last few hours sicken me still. We had no way to guide our ship. Would the wood of the chest last long enough to bring us to land; land that we had no idea where it was, or if it was? As the flames licked up the last plank, the clouds lifted. They lifted higher than they had ever lifted before. And we saw it then. Saw what we had never seen before. What had been our 'ocean' was nothing other than a large lake. If we had, in our daily swim, swum but a little farther, the truth would have been known. Freedom could have been so much sooner.
I leapt ashore first, but I left the scene of our horrible folly last. I lingered, and one thought was pressed indelibally on my mind. Fears are only as big as we believe them to be. When we take action to overcome the prison of our fear, we find it to have been as insignificant as a fly. All our lives, we had been told that the White Island was a place of no return, but if we had only looked beyond the lies, we would have seen the truth.
"Throw him to the fishes."
"Hang him from the highest yardarm."
Each new suggestion was greeted with joyous sounds by the rowdy pirates. Then, a new voice piped in.
"Maroon him on the White Island!" Few knew what or where this was. It's locatation was kept as a profound secret by the wayfaring captains of the sea. A sort of trump card against mutineers and grumblers.
This was the plan adopted. Less than 3 hours later, I, Jonathan Garbaldo, was set upon the thin green edge of the Island. Less than 2 minutes later, the pirates, my former companions and friends, were speeding away; not daring to stay longer in the mysterious place from which no man had yet returned.
The green spit upon which I stood, was the only green thing in sight. For the rest, a smooth looking white cliff arose into the clouds. I walked the 5 steps necessary to reach the cliff. I had to find a way up. In another hour, the tide would be coming in. To my surprise, I found it to be very porous. I touched it and stepped back in astonishment. I had never seen the like. A sticky, powdery rock! I sniffed the stuff that had come away in my hands, and then I tasted it. In untold horror, I knew in that moment that this strange place was nothing other than a giant marshmellow. It would have been drifting heedlessly had it not been for the narrow piece of earth at the bottom.
"At least," thought I, "I won't want for food!"
Upon further examination, I discovered steps climbing up the white cliff. I was not surprised to see that many of them had been carved by teeth. But, I had no time for thought or exploration. The tide was lapping at my feet. I went carefully, but after the first few steps, I knew I had to go quickly. If I paused for a moment, my feet would stick. When I sped up, I only felt as if I was walking upon a springy white carpet. A delightful sensation really.
It took me nearly two hours to reach the top. I was then in for another surprise. Stretched out for miles was a town made completely of marshmellow. Dusty white figures darted quickly about snatching bites of the mountain as they went.
Upon approaching, I discovered old friends. These people, I realized, were all those who had been marooned from decades past. A short conversation took place as we jogged back and forth. I discovered all I needed to know. The outcasts could not stop moving or they would stick and sink. They ate as they ran in distinct patterns. Eventually, they would be able to add more buildings to the town. They made the buildings large so that they would have room to keep moving during a storm. Many had lived there for 20 or more years. In all that time, they had never seen a friendly ship. The colony was divided into two groups. The first group ran in circles along the edge of the marshmellow. Their job was to look for ships. The second group, as has been mentioned, carved the buildings with their teeth. When one group had had enough to eat, the groups switched.
I quickly adapted to the new way of life, but despite the fact that I did what everyone else was doing, I was far from happy. I was often to be found swimming in the ocean, the one time that I didn't have to stop constantly running, the one time when I could relax and get away from that sticky landmass. The idea of freedom was never far from my thoughts as I went through the mundane sameness of what was my new life.
It was like this for months, but I knew it could not last forever because the island was rapidly shrinking as new members were added to the colony of outcasts. Yet, what could I do? The marshmallow could not be moved, the colony had nothing that could be used to escape the sticky mess that we were all in.
But this all changed when a small chest washed ashore, and stuck fast to the goo that was our beach. After painstakingly opening the chest at risk of getting forever stuck in the glistening white landscape we discovered naught but a single match that had somehow escaped the water.
It was with this that we resolved to make our escape from the desolate island. We determined to burn our way to freedom. I remember it like yesterday, the decision to risk burning our island in the hope that we could turn our fluffy habitation into an over-sized hot air balloon. But could we generate enough heat to take us to land? That question we left for the next morning, the day of our great attempt.
To prepare us for our venture, I suggested to the colony that we find for ourselves seaweed, with which we might be able to avoid getting stuck for a little while in the sponge-like thing we called home. Once having obtained a sufficient supply of seaweed, we began placing it on such parts of the island that we felt would be safe for habitation during our flight home.
On the following morning, we laid the chest in a deep hole that had been excavated in the side of the Mt. that occupied the center of the island. Before lighting the match, we also painstakingly detached with our hands the marshmallow from the green beach. And then the match, the one hope of our escape, was lit and applied to the chest. Thankfully, the chest caught, and we had only to wait as the chest burned. Would it be enough to inflate the island? Would the island turn into a giant roasted marshmallow and waft across the currents towards freedom?
As unlikely as it seems --and what about this story isn't unlikely?-- the fool's hope, the last desperate attempt to save ourselves from insanity, stickiness, and the thought of eating more marshmallow, succeeded. With great trepidation, hardly daring to believe our eyes, the great island lifted a few feet, faltered, and then, half floating on the ocean, half flying in the air, we were on our way to freedom.
The thought of those last few hours sicken me still. We had no way to guide our ship. Would the wood of the chest last long enough to bring us to land; land that we had no idea where it was, or if it was? As the flames licked up the last plank, the clouds lifted. They lifted higher than they had ever lifted before. And we saw it then. Saw what we had never seen before. What had been our 'ocean' was nothing other than a large lake. If we had, in our daily swim, swum but a little farther, the truth would have been known. Freedom could have been so much sooner.
I leapt ashore first, but I left the scene of our horrible folly last. I lingered, and one thought was pressed indelibally on my mind. Fears are only as big as we believe them to be. When we take action to overcome the prison of our fear, we find it to have been as insignificant as a fly. All our lives, we had been told that the White Island was a place of no return, but if we had only looked beyond the lies, we would have seen the truth.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Bon Voyage
It all began that summer afternoon long ago. I remember it as if it were today; the humidity, the ice-cream man gracing my street with his presence, the nagging feeling I had that something wasn’t right. Despite that feeling that some things were not as they should be, I went ahead and booked my trip to Berlin. I never guessed that it would be the last time I would glimpse the Statue of Liberty as I sailed out of New York Harbor on the night of the July 17th, 1919.
As my ship, the Preussen, left the harbor, I had that sinking feeling yet again in the pit of my stomach. A bowl of hot, steaming stew soon shoved that feeling to the side for the moment. However, I continued to feel that going forward with this business trip might not have been as important as I had thought, and began to seriously wish that I had never seen the contract that I had signed binding me to ship twenty thousand head of cattle to Germany. The recent termination of World War 1 did nothing to relieve the growing tension, but rather acted as an intense fuel to my growing apprehensions that my personal safety was at risk in Germany.
The only comfort I had was the service pistol that I still carried from when I was on the frontlines in World War 1. I felt that my m1911 was my only insurance for my life, and as such I always kept it by my side loaded and cocked. When I walked on the deck, my hand was always on the comforting pistol butt, ready at a moments notice to show the world that I was not to be messed with.
On the 8th day of an already stressful voyage, the Captain came over the loudspeaker, and asked the crew to report to the main deck immediately. About five minutes later I heard the steady thunk-thunk of the engine picking up speed. As I looked out my cabin window, I saw what the Captain had seen, a submarine off the starboard bow.
I then knew that I had been right, that I should’ve stayed in New York, and that my puny service pistol would be useless in the coming ordeal. But despite that, I was hesitant to get rid of it, and instead began looking for something to waterproof it in the probable case of my personal self being pitched overboard. Yet, even as I did that, I still hoped that it was all mistake; that the submarine was merely a U.S. sub patrolling the shipping route. In those last few minutes before the torpedo hit, I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded that I might never feel the shock or hear the noise as the torpedo hit. For despite my time in the Marine Corp., I still dreaded the water as no man ever has. When I purchased my berth aboard the Preussen, I did so under the desire and expectation that this would be a quick voyage without foul weather or other unpleasantries.
As I was thinking these gloomy thoughts, I felt, rather than saw or heard, the torpedo hit the engine room in the deck below me. I flung myself through the porthole more by instinct than any other reason, and felt that cold wetness that I knew to be the Atlantic Ocean slowly cover my body. It was only then that I realized I had not yet put on the lifejacket that I had placed on my bunk, and that my only chance at survival was to reach the submarine before I died from the cold.
Apparently others had reached the same conclusion; the raft being put out from the submarine had all the indications of coming for me, as the sole survivor of the Preussen, they were coming for me. I was helpless, and could only watch as the raft came nearer as the two sailors onboard combated the waves with the paddles they had in their possession. I knew my only choice was to submit if I wanted any chance of seeing my homeland, the good old U.S of A.
When the raft came alongside me, I spent my store of energy on raising my hands for them to grab. This they did with no great show of gentleness. I passed out.
Later, after coming to, I realized that there was no way of escape; that getting out of a submarine hundreds of feet below the murky surface of the Atlantic was an option that would never be available, especially to one with such an acute fear of the water as I had. I resolved then and there to confront those who had rescued me, and placed me under lock and key far from the light of day.
I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, in desperation, I started pounding on the walls, the door, anything that came in front of me as I staggered around my confines. After completely exhausting myself with this exercise in futility, I heard a key in the lock, and a squeal as the door opened to allow the passing of a masked someone in black.
His were the last words ever to sound upon my ears, and as I think of them, I feel the horror of his voice. Despite that, his words are precious to me as the last words I will ever hear in this lifetime. He told me, in the short minute he spent in my cell, that I was to be observed, watched, and experimented upon until the day I die. He told me that I was never to interact with another human other than to be passed food. Food which, he told me, would have various experimental chemicals and other nameless terrors in it. Yes, I was to be locked in a giant test tube as test factors were added. I could not help but asking why. Why me? Why this elaborate plot against ME? But he told me nothing and even now, as I write this, I sometimes wonder if this is real, if I am real.
As my ship, the Preussen, left the harbor, I had that sinking feeling yet again in the pit of my stomach. A bowl of hot, steaming stew soon shoved that feeling to the side for the moment. However, I continued to feel that going forward with this business trip might not have been as important as I had thought, and began to seriously wish that I had never seen the contract that I had signed binding me to ship twenty thousand head of cattle to Germany. The recent termination of World War 1 did nothing to relieve the growing tension, but rather acted as an intense fuel to my growing apprehensions that my personal safety was at risk in Germany.
The only comfort I had was the service pistol that I still carried from when I was on the frontlines in World War 1. I felt that my m1911 was my only insurance for my life, and as such I always kept it by my side loaded and cocked. When I walked on the deck, my hand was always on the comforting pistol butt, ready at a moments notice to show the world that I was not to be messed with.
On the 8th day of an already stressful voyage, the Captain came over the loudspeaker, and asked the crew to report to the main deck immediately. About five minutes later I heard the steady thunk-thunk of the engine picking up speed. As I looked out my cabin window, I saw what the Captain had seen, a submarine off the starboard bow.
I then knew that I had been right, that I should’ve stayed in New York, and that my puny service pistol would be useless in the coming ordeal. But despite that, I was hesitant to get rid of it, and instead began looking for something to waterproof it in the probable case of my personal self being pitched overboard. Yet, even as I did that, I still hoped that it was all mistake; that the submarine was merely a U.S. sub patrolling the shipping route. In those last few minutes before the torpedo hit, I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded that I might never feel the shock or hear the noise as the torpedo hit. For despite my time in the Marine Corp., I still dreaded the water as no man ever has. When I purchased my berth aboard the Preussen, I did so under the desire and expectation that this would be a quick voyage without foul weather or other unpleasantries.
As I was thinking these gloomy thoughts, I felt, rather than saw or heard, the torpedo hit the engine room in the deck below me. I flung myself through the porthole more by instinct than any other reason, and felt that cold wetness that I knew to be the Atlantic Ocean slowly cover my body. It was only then that I realized I had not yet put on the lifejacket that I had placed on my bunk, and that my only chance at survival was to reach the submarine before I died from the cold.
Apparently others had reached the same conclusion; the raft being put out from the submarine had all the indications of coming for me, as the sole survivor of the Preussen, they were coming for me. I was helpless, and could only watch as the raft came nearer as the two sailors onboard combated the waves with the paddles they had in their possession. I knew my only choice was to submit if I wanted any chance of seeing my homeland, the good old U.S of A.
When the raft came alongside me, I spent my store of energy on raising my hands for them to grab. This they did with no great show of gentleness. I passed out.
Later, after coming to, I realized that there was no way of escape; that getting out of a submarine hundreds of feet below the murky surface of the Atlantic was an option that would never be available, especially to one with such an acute fear of the water as I had. I resolved then and there to confront those who had rescued me, and placed me under lock and key far from the light of day.
I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, in desperation, I started pounding on the walls, the door, anything that came in front of me as I staggered around my confines. After completely exhausting myself with this exercise in futility, I heard a key in the lock, and a squeal as the door opened to allow the passing of a masked someone in black.
His were the last words ever to sound upon my ears, and as I think of them, I feel the horror of his voice. Despite that, his words are precious to me as the last words I will ever hear in this lifetime. He told me, in the short minute he spent in my cell, that I was to be observed, watched, and experimented upon until the day I die. He told me that I was never to interact with another human other than to be passed food. Food which, he told me, would have various experimental chemicals and other nameless terrors in it. Yes, I was to be locked in a giant test tube as test factors were added. I could not help but asking why. Why me? Why this elaborate plot against ME? But he told me nothing and even now, as I write this, I sometimes wonder if this is real, if I am real.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
An Analysis of Current Threats to the Brain
So we thought we'd change things up a bit, and share a paper written long, long ago... or maybe in the not so distant past four years. This was co-written with out neighbor/friends in September, 2007. Enjoy!
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Psalm 139:14 “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”
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Psalm 139:14 “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”
The brain is the one of the most important things that God ever created. It is the part of the human body that does our thinking. It tells us when and how to move our limbs and it tells the other important parts of the body whether they are functioning properly or not. In other words, the brain is the most important part of our body. It is extremely important to keep our brains from any kind of disease or serious malady.
A new kind of illness has come to the attention of some of our top scientific minds. The following is a synopsis of their report to the Royal Science Institute.
“Due to the systems of pathogenic organisms, the brains of those inhabiting earth have become muddled, and have therefore become susceptible to the dangerous disease of hypothermia. The process of hypothermia causes the internal body to have a temperature of more than five degrees below zero, leaving the person unable to support any kind of mental strain and causing the brain to collapse. One of the most dangerous symptoms of hypothermia is a brain freeze. Brain freeze, essentially, is what happens when your brain becomes so completely strained that it tries to rest itself by shutting down. It is often referred to as a paralysis. This is usually brought on by junk food and particularly by: ice cream, hot dogs, and potato chips. Doctors have not yet found a solution for this strange phenomenon other than relative healthy eating.
Doctors have found that anyone in the vicinity of junk food often comes down with this dreaded disease. Because of this, the disease is spreading so far as to greatly alarm government officials throughout the world. Incidentally, the effects of hemangioendothelioblastoma are intensified by the consumption of junk food. The muddled brains mentioned earlier are especially vulnerable to this.
It seems, moreover, that the mental stress that opium gives to the normal person is yet another of the many sources to which mankind has fallen into subjection, (literally fallen). The government has unsuccessfully tried to ban these drugs, and has also unsuccessfully tried to ban the smuggling of such drugs. The methods which have been taken to do this have greatly aroused the anger of the citizens because of the unethical cruelty shown in so many cases.
As we reach the end of this very startling document, let us leave you with one more sample of the brains' diseases. Seps ceph is an infection of the brain that causes it to rot like an unused tomato. This infection can be very painful because it often causes migraines, and severe pain in all parts of the body. So say the experts in medicine, neurology and psychology.”
The brave team currently investigating this alarming issue currently includes Professor John D., Phycologist Abigail D., Dr. Kathryn K., P.H.D, and Dr. Drew K., MD. Others are called in daily, and we expect to soon arrive at a solution to these mind-boggling problems. The team currently involved has some recommended reading for those interested in the study that has so far taken place.
The brave team currently investigating this alarming issue currently includes Professor John D., Phycologist Abigail D., Dr. Kathryn K., P.H.D, and Dr. Drew K., MD. Others are called in daily, and we expect to soon arrive at a solution to these mind-boggling problems. The team currently involved has some recommended reading for those interested in the study that has so far taken place.
Recommended reading: Dr. Ben Carson is an expert neurologist who has studied the brain in extreme detail, his book Gifted hands is an excellent example of his work. Dr. Kathryn K. has also written a practical handbook for those who are sensitive about their health called Junk Food and Your Hemangioendothelioblastoma, this tome is about the effects that junk food can have on your brain’s blood vessels. What You Need to Know About Septcephnecrosis Syndrome by Dr. Drew K. is about the effects of muddled brains. Our honored Professor John D. has kindly contributed an informative video entitled Government Drug Prevention and Why it’s Not Working. Also available is the book The Psychology of Mental Stress by Psychologist by Abigail D.
A note from the Editor
This article has been published in part because of the editor's deep concern, and also in part because as a major medium of information, the editor feels that it is his responsibility to pass on this vital information to those infected with the deadly disease. Please do your part in saving the world. Pass this on to those you care about! And yes, that really long word is a real medical term and it's definition is correctly stated. Sound it out! It's fun to pronounce! The other one, Seps ceph, is a combination of two real medical terms, for which the authors took the liberty of defining in their own words.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Noodle Wars 3
Introducing the final segment of this three part saga concerning NOODLE MAN! We left our hero, Fred Dunderson, in the exciting throes of mystery, suspense, drama, and the key to unraveling it all.
For those who missed the first several parts of this thrilling adventure, we have generously provided premium quality links entirely free of charge.
Premium Links:
- Part 1
- Part 2
As this publication hit the streets, Fred was slowly sneaking through town, carefully looking for any sign of the Bain of Houston. But nowhere did Fred see a trace of Noodle Man. No Noodle Man, but noodles? Yes, all in various stages of decay. This decay was assisted to some extent by the new population that was quickly establishing itself in Houston. What the citizens found unattractive, the crows found extremely appetizing.
Despite Fred’s lack of success, he still valiantly continued his search for the one who was making his life miserable from dawn to dusk. Yes, he was ready to find the thing who was responsible for his eternal suffering. Who would have ever guessed that the sight of noodles would send a man into hysterics, but our records indicate Fred at this point in his life was suffering from a mid-life crisis. Yes, Fred was in the depths of despair to the great delight of the furtive figure watching Fred from the shadows of a nearby house. Yes, the shadow was exuberantly excited over his extreme success as he watched Fred’s slow sneak turn into a stumbling stagger. Yes, analysts at this later date believe that Fred was well on the way to becoming crazy. Lulu. Insane. Kookie.
The Shadow slowly moved across the street, and as it did, it revealed itself. Here is what an observant person would have seen. First off, he would’ve seen a white cape, which, upon closer inspection, would have been recognized as a well loved cape of Ramen noodles. Under that dreadful cape slunk a man, entirely unrecognizable. In one hand, he carried a bag that was spilling noodles from a jagged hole near the bottom. Tucked underneath his other arm, he had a brown paper package containing several knobby and crunchy objects.
Fred turned around. He had heard something. The mysterious shadow slid into a doorway. Fred's dim eyes followed the trail of noodles. A whole pile was building up where the shadow was. Fred reached in his pocket for the only thing he had handy. A screwdriver. Jumping desperately on the man in the Ramen Cape, Fred belted three good ones across the Noodle Doodler's hand. A feeling of victory came over him. A renewed vision Yes, Fred Dunderson was on his way to being crazy. But he WASN'T THERE YET!!! Unfortunately, Fred's slow realization of this fact allowed Ramen Man to escape once again. As he did so, Fred caught sight of three distinctive welts on the man's. They were in the shape of a single star. "Well," he thought to himself, "That makes it easy. All I have to do now is find a man with a red star on his hand and a black eye.
Inspector Bond leaned back in his office chair. A smile flitted its way across his face as he stared out the window through his sunglasses. The smile faded as he saw Fred Dunderson walk in the door. "It's you again. Now what Freddie old boy? Got the water from the fountain of youth or something?"
The Inspector exaggerated his yawn. Fred's buoyant attitude made him look even more bumbling than ever. Fred glanced out the window, and shouted, "Take a look through this telescope! Look over there on Second Street. On the light pole. It's a flamingo."
"Seriously Fred? I don't have time for this. I'm incredible busy. I've got a crowd of rioter's to control. Not flamingos."
"Awwww, come on Bond! Please?"
The Inspector grudgingly took the telescope with his left hand and removed his sunglasses with his right. A light bulb flashed. Three men appeared in the doorway. Fred's camera spit out a picture. He held it up in front of the Inspector. A black circle was revealed under the Inspector's eyes and a deep red welt shaped like a star across the back of his hand. "Well, Noodle Man. I think your Noodle is cooked."
Houston Daily News
March 9, 1992
So ends our recount of the Attack of the Noodles. Our records indicate that much of what we didn't make up is entirely true. But, despite a few discrepancies we would like to assume that all facts are true unless proven otherwise by a higher authority that than the writers imagination.
For those who missed the first several parts of this thrilling adventure, we have generously provided premium quality links entirely free of charge.
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- Part 1
- Part 2
Houston Daily News
March 9th, 1992
March 9th, 1992
Town Council
After some deliberation, the town council has decided to leave their citizens helpless, undefended, victimized, and assaulted in their very homes. The very angry populace have been parading through the streets as they protest the decision of the town council. At the writing of this paper, no councilmen have yet commented on either the protest or their decision. In fact, not one of those scoundrels has yet shown their face.
After a short deliberation, the town mob has decided on a stakeout at the mayor’s residence until the decision is reversed by the town council. As month after month rolls by of constant assaults by Noodle Man, the town is getting disgusted, and not a few of Houston’s highly respected citizens have found another place to live; far from this place of horror.
As this publication hit the streets, Fred was slowly sneaking through town, carefully looking for any sign of the Bain of Houston. But nowhere did Fred see a trace of Noodle Man. No Noodle Man, but noodles? Yes, all in various stages of decay. This decay was assisted to some extent by the new population that was quickly establishing itself in Houston. What the citizens found unattractive, the crows found extremely appetizing.
Despite Fred’s lack of success, he still valiantly continued his search for the one who was making his life miserable from dawn to dusk. Yes, he was ready to find the thing who was responsible for his eternal suffering. Who would have ever guessed that the sight of noodles would send a man into hysterics, but our records indicate Fred at this point in his life was suffering from a mid-life crisis. Yes, Fred was in the depths of despair to the great delight of the furtive figure watching Fred from the shadows of a nearby house. Yes, the shadow was exuberantly excited over his extreme success as he watched Fred’s slow sneak turn into a stumbling stagger. Yes, analysts at this later date believe that Fred was well on the way to becoming crazy. Lulu. Insane. Kookie.
The Shadow slowly moved across the street, and as it did, it revealed itself. Here is what an observant person would have seen. First off, he would’ve seen a white cape, which, upon closer inspection, would have been recognized as a well loved cape of Ramen noodles. Under that dreadful cape slunk a man, entirely unrecognizable. In one hand, he carried a bag that was spilling noodles from a jagged hole near the bottom. Tucked underneath his other arm, he had a brown paper package containing several knobby and crunchy objects.
Fred turned around. He had heard something. The mysterious shadow slid into a doorway. Fred's dim eyes followed the trail of noodles. A whole pile was building up where the shadow was. Fred reached in his pocket for the only thing he had handy. A screwdriver. Jumping desperately on the man in the Ramen Cape, Fred belted three good ones across the Noodle Doodler's hand. A feeling of victory came over him. A renewed vision Yes, Fred Dunderson was on his way to being crazy. But he WASN'T THERE YET!!! Unfortunately, Fred's slow realization of this fact allowed Ramen Man to escape once again. As he did so, Fred caught sight of three distinctive welts on the man's. They were in the shape of a single star. "Well," he thought to himself, "That makes it easy. All I have to do now is find a man with a red star on his hand and a black eye.
Inspector Bond leaned back in his office chair. A smile flitted its way across his face as he stared out the window through his sunglasses. The smile faded as he saw Fred Dunderson walk in the door. "It's you again. Now what Freddie old boy? Got the water from the fountain of youth or something?"
The Inspector exaggerated his yawn. Fred's buoyant attitude made him look even more bumbling than ever. Fred glanced out the window, and shouted, "Take a look through this telescope! Look over there on Second Street. On the light pole. It's a flamingo."
"Seriously Fred? I don't have time for this. I'm incredible busy. I've got a crowd of rioter's to control. Not flamingos."
"Awwww, come on Bond! Please?"
The Inspector grudgingly took the telescope with his left hand and removed his sunglasses with his right. A light bulb flashed. Three men appeared in the doorway. Fred's camera spit out a picture. He held it up in front of the Inspector. A black circle was revealed under the Inspector's eyes and a deep red welt shaped like a star across the back of his hand. "Well, Noodle Man. I think your Noodle is cooked."
Houston Daily News
March 9, 1992
Extra! Ramen Man Caught At Last! Read Everything About Our Hero Fred Dunderson and the Arch-Villian Of all Houston History!
An exclusive interview with Inspector Bond revealed the motives behind his bizarre outbreak. He confessed that he had held another name before, he confessed that for years he had been locked behind the bars of an insane asylum. Ever since his escape, he had taken the name Bobby Bond. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years behind bars for his heinous crimes throughout the then unsuspecting town of Houston. Houston is finally settling back down to normal. Noodles, however, are still frowned upon by every citizen within twenty miles of Houston.
After questioning Fred, it turns out he first guessed that it was the Inspector when the Inspector tried to shrug his off the case, and the fact that both the suspect that he had tacked and Inspector Bobby Bond both had a similar limp.
After questioning Fred, it turns out he first guessed that it was the Inspector when the Inspector tried to shrug his off the case, and the fact that both the suspect that he had tacked and Inspector Bobby Bond both had a similar limp.
So ends our recount of the Attack of the Noodles. Our records indicate that much of what we didn't make up is entirely true. But, despite a few discrepancies we would like to assume that all facts are true unless proven otherwise by a higher authority that than the writers imagination.
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