Boxo's Big Day

The sun rose above the clouds with a beautiful malignance much akin to what the French called 'la petite morte', and Boxo watched with grim satisfaction. It was going to be another day alright, and he could tell. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, when the sun rose, it was going to be another day. Even if no one else believed him. The other progeny, scattered to and fro like so many bits of flotsam, clung desperately to their backward views. Boxo hated them all. He hated them with such reciprocity that it was a natural wonder they didn't hate him in return. But that's another story for another time.

I was reading today, as I often do, with my good friend the cup of coffee. We came across an article that found its way to our eyes from a little town on the other side of the globe, Bejing. It seems that the famous Shaolin Temple, long known for its martial arts proficiency and as the birthplace of the Wu Tang Clan, is demanding an apology from an Internet user who claimed that a Japanese ninja once defeated the entire temple in one-on-one combat.

"The facts that the monks could not defeat a Japanese ninja showed that they were named as kung fu masters in vain," the Internet user was quoted as saying in the post.

Relations between China and Japan are often "sensitive" at best. Rumor also has it that the two countries enjoy soap operas together with a box of Kleenex between them. An attorney for the Shaolin monks was quoted as saying, "It is not only extremely irresponsible behaviour with respect to the Shaolin temple and its monks, but also to the whole martial art and Chinese nation." The attorney went on to state that if an apology were not forthcoming, the entire temple would "rise up like the dragon" and windmill kick the whole Nippon nation so hard that it would collectively get amnesia, "just like Destiny did when her evil twin from New Jersey arrived."

I for one, am deeply concerned. If even the peace-loving Shaolin monks feel the need for legal action and swift, lawsuit-driven justice, then maybe the end really IS nigh. Next time I'll listen more closely to that guy with the sandwich board.

Lovins,
Dezz

Arrrrrr! Avast! Ahoy!

Ahoy, you scurvy dogs and various wenches! Today be a very special day indeed. For it is National "Talk Like A Pirate" Day! This here be me fav'rit holy day of the year, arrr. Tis the one day outta the year when Dezz gets ta be Captain Dezz. So dust off yer eye patches, strap on those wooden legs, sharpen up yer hooks, and go buy a parrot afore I make ye swab the poop deck! If'n ye need some help with yer pirate speaks, I've given ye yellow sharks a bit o' an intstructional video. Set sail fer adventure...and tacos. Where's me rum?

Arrr,
Captain Dezz

The Five A's Of Piratin'

Tooba's Tale

At the request of a few people, I present for your inspection a story I began writing a few months ago. It is a work in progress, with new "chapters" being added as I find inspiration. It is called "Tooba's Tale", and it concerns the life and times of a young Pakistani woman as she learns how to deal with magic and a world she never knew existed. Okay, that was mostly bullshit, but it sounded good right? If anyone has any suggestions as to where they would like to see this tale go, feel free to let me know. So without further ado, I give you "Tooba's Tale".
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It was a dark and stormy night. She had been awake most of the evening, filling out forms of all shapes and colors. Her hair, normally piled neatly on top of her head, was a gnarled mess falling about her shoulders. If one were to look closely, they would discover that she had been crying. Light tracks streaked her delicate brown skin where the teardrops had cascaded down her cheeks. "I can't do this", she said exhaustedly, "They don't need to know about my herps."
"And don't forget the clap you got when you were in Thailand." said a voice from the darkness. "But no worries, I'll help you out."
" Wh-who said that?", she asked to the shadows. "Show yourself! Appearicus Instantio!" A brilliant arc of blue flame leapt from her fingertips and exploded, blasting away all the darness and gloom. In the very corner of the room was a small cricket who sat, smiling crookedly...

"I don't think you should tell them about THAT," chirped the little bug, "These cheeky bastards get all squeamish about those sort of things. By the way, my name's Fopp" And with this, the cricket jumped onto the arm of the futon, still smiling in his lopsided way. "So, what else you got?"
"Well, I've had the chicken pox. Just last week, actually." Tuba smiled to herself in spite of the fact that she was a little unsure about talking to a cricket; even if he was rather helpful. (In fact, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed likely that she was just losing her mind, going crazy, getting loony, being...well, you get the idea. At least he wasn't a bird.)
"So, ummm," she stammered, "Where did you come from?"
"Oh, here and there. I've been around for awhile."
"Uh-huh." She wasn't really interested anyways, she thought. Making polite conversation with an insect wasn't really something she was good at, mostly since she had never tried it before.

Suddenly, the closet door, directly across from Tuba, flew open with a loud bang. A cackling, high pitched voice came from inside, "Vhy don't you tell him about your maaaagic?", said the voice. A moment later, Tuba's freind Brick leapt from the closet wearing only spotted underroos, a shabby cape fashioned from a rather large napkin, and a collander on his head. He was laughing hysterically and yelling in a german accent. "I am the polka dot kiiiiiiing!," he screamed.
Instictively, Tuba muttered a single, shocking word. "Cruciatus!" A second later, Brick fell to the floor. For a few terrifying moments, his body twisted and writhed like a snake having a seizure. His face was contorted into a mask of pure pain, his eyes rolled back in their sockets. For a few terrifying moments, Tuba and the cricket simply watched, unable to do a thing to help. With a bright flash, Brick was gone and only a small pile of dust remained.

Tuba just stared at the small pile with shock. "Ohhhhh, shit....," she said slowly, "What did I do?! I mean-I never knew...I could do ...THAT!" She was bordering on hysterical, her initial surprise giving way to terror. "I just disintegrated Brick!"
"I told you, no worries. I'll help you out..." replied Fopp casually. He promptly hopped off the arm of the futon, if a little reluctantly (he HAD gotten comfortable) and made his way over to the dust pile. "Guess you thought it was only with the paperwork. Besidse, this wasn't your friend. It was only a golem; made to look like your friend. Hence the underwear and the accent."
"Wait. You mean that wasn't Brick? What's a golem?" Tuba was returning to her senses now, and she was beginning to wish she wasn't.

"I could sit here all night trying to explain it to you, but it'd be easier to just show you. Suffice it to say that it's not human. Have you got a scrap of paper?" Tuba nodded. "Good, now write the word of God on it and hand it here."
She had no idea what the word of God actually was, but she could think of a few guesses. She picked one out and wrote it down on the small piece of paper. "Dandy" it read. She finished writing and handed the paper to Fopp.
"Thank you," he said, "Now you put the paper in the middle of the mound and then say the magic words. The bug whispered a few words which, to Tuba sounded something like 'animal guts' or 'animate pus'.
Hopping back up to the futon, Fopp declared, "Now just watch."
Within a second or three, the dust began to swirl together, rising off the floor by the force of some unseen wind. Particle by particle, mote by mote, the dust came together and rearranged itself until it took on the general shape of a person.

Tuba could make out arms and legs, fingers and toes, a chest, a head. When the mysterious wind died down, a figure stood where the "Here Lies Brick" plaque should have been. Covered from head to toe in dust and ash, the figure smiled broadly and promptly sneezed, scattering dust everywhere. "Hi, I'm Dust...in....your living room.", the figure said, looking around appreciatively. "Nice place."
Just then two men, dressed like they had just stepped out of an old B-movie, complete with tinfoil spacesuits and fishbowl helmets, entered the room. Looking out the window at the raging storm pelting the city street with raindrops the size of buicks, the astronauts realized they were in the wrong story. With a hasty and somewhat embarrassed apology, they walked out of the apartment forever.

Meanwhile, far off in the land of Bridges, two figures sat alone on the steps of a large warehouse-shaped castle. Their names and occupations were, respectively, Court-Knee and the Brain. They were dressed as most castle occupants were supposed to be. Court-Knee had on a pink hooded sweatshirt and white pants while the Brain was clad in business casual complete with shining tie. In his left hand he clutched a disposable lunchpail.
Thought the sun was shining, a small gray cloud hung above their heads, threatening at any moment to throw a full tantrum if it did not get what it wanted. The pair had nicknamed the cloud 'Satan' because of its angry and deceitful nature. One edge of the cloud twitched back and forth like an irritated feline about to pounce. "I hate that thing," muttered Court-Knee, "But I love it, too."
"Ugh" was all the Brain could muster up as a response.

Reaching into the food sack for something to eat (he WAS starving), the Brain had a thought. It started out small, but as he rummaged through the questionable contents of his bag, it grew into a full-fledged query. "So what are we supposed to do about this girl?", he asked, face buried in the feedbag. " I mean, is she comin' to us, or is we 'sposed to go get her? Cuz, I don't know if we have that kind of time. We've been awfully busy lately, and I don' wanna jus' sit here waitin'."

"Oh shush. You know as well as I do that only the council can answer that question, and they're not here. Which is why we're waiting on this dumb stoop. Besides, we don't have a carriage, remember?" The pair's carriage, a vintage '93 stagecoach, resplendent with its high-sorcery sound tubes, had been stolen only a few days previous. It was found high on a deserted hilltop, wheels missing, sound tubes broken, and the mechanical horse which led the carriage was smashed into several hundred thousand pieces.

"Oh yeah, I forgot.", muttered the Brain, munching on what appeared to be a cantaloupe and bacon sandwich. In truth, he hadn't forgotten, but he was trying his best to pretend it was all a dream.

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And that's as far as I've taken this yarn, for the time being, anyways. I hope you've enjoyed your trip into this strange world. Keep in mind that this bit of folklorish fiction is still in its infancy. As ideas come to me, the story will undoubtedly fill out with details and hopefully evolve into a grand tale.

Lovins,

Dezz

The Brain In A Jar

For any of you out there who know me, then you know that I love a good debate. Especially on the topic of religion vs. science. My favorite debate starter sentence goes thusly: "I'll admit that there may be a God, if you admit that there might NOT be a God." Nine times out of ten, just that simple phrase is enough to shut up most fundamentalists. It always amazes me that the religious-minded hold so strongly to their beliefs with little or no actual fact to buttress them. On the other hand, it is that same die-hard zeal which causes the scientifically-brained to scratch their heads in bemusement. Anyway, while I was perusing the web for a brain in a jar (yes, an actual one) I came across this interesting rant. I found it in a little used, and much neglected, corner of the internet. Once I blew the dust off, sneezed a few times, and coughed once, I thought that maybe I would share this nugget of thought with all of you. So read on, and enjoy. The Brain In A Jar Argument

Lovins,
Dezz

'93 Honda: STOLEN!!

Last night, a good friend of mine, we'll call him "Bustin", had his car stolen. Stolen! Not broken into, not vandalized, it was actually taken from right under his well-manicured nose. Now, I understand that this sort of thing can happen, and often does, when you live in the big city. We all know the stories and have seen the movies. Chop shops do in fact, exist in the real world. The thing I can't figure out is why someone would want his particular car. I guess a few facts are in order.

For the past year and half, Bustin and his wonderful wife had been living in the "ghetto" of Buffalo. During this time span, they encountered no problems, no break-ins, no random cross-trail shootings. About a month ago, the happy couple relocated to a much nicer neighborhood, conveniently situated in the heart of Buffalo's Allentown; an area more known for its artistic community and plethora of late night hang-outs than for auto theft. In the month since they have lived in this quaint little slice of downtown burbia, Bustin's wife has had her tires stolen, her sister had her sideview mirror smashed, and now this: the thievery of Bustin's pride and joy; a 1993 Honda Civic Hatchback with 280,000 miles to its credit.

The scene unfolded as such: Bustin and I had come outside to sit on the front stoop like good little city-kids and have a late night cigarette. The time was just before 2:45am. We sat down, lit our respective cancer sticks, and prepared to settle in for some geek talk on the subject of the newest Mac invention, the ITouch. I looked across the street, to where Bustin's care should have been. To my surprise, it just wasn't there. As a fan of the late Douglas Adams, I at first assumed that a simple SEP (Somebody Else's Problem) field had been erected around the vehicle. Unfortunately, I was dead wrong. The car was gone.

Dezz: Bust, where's your car?

Bustin: Ha Ha, funny. My tires are still there. (in reference to his wife's car)

Dezz: No, dude. Where's your CAR?

Bustin: What?

Dezz: Dude, where's your fucking car?!

Bustin: Oh, fuck...

The whole thing played out like a scene from a bad Ashton Kutcher movie. It was surreal. We called the police, filed a report, and then proceeded to drink ourselves retarded in the faint hopes that it was just a bad dream, and we'd wake up the following morning to find the car safely tucked into its little home next to the sidewalk. Allow me to be the first to tell you, that doesn't work. The car is still missing, and Bustin has a bachelor party to plan without the aid of his trusty Honda to carry the plan to fruition. Fuck.

Dezz

Inauguration Day

Welcome, all ye internet stumblers, to the Lap Hammer! This is the premier place for all sorts of useless knowledge and other assorted viscera. Honestly, its just a place for me to go off upon one of my patented tangental forays into the proverbial Pandora's Box of society. (Un)Fortunately for you, you're stuck along for the ride, so get used it and shut up. Let's begin, shall we?

Last week, in Malatya, Turkey, a strange package was left ( and subsequently discovered) on a public sidewalk near Kanalboyu Street. The police were called, who later called the bomb squad. As protocol demands when dealing with a potential explosive device of unknown origins and/or composition, the area was cordoned off and bystanders kept at bay. A brave member of the bomb squad approached the box, placed a detonator inside, and then squirreled himself in a corner a safe distance away. The detonator was ignited and the box exploded. Now this is when all the trouble began. As it turned out, the "bomb" was, in actuality, a box of kittens! Horrified onlookers were shocked as they witnessed several small kittens mewling and writhing in pain on the now charred sidewalk. Luckily, a janitor was on-hand to clean up the mess. *Whew!*

What I can't seem to wrap my mind around is what, to me, seems like a very simple observation. When the "detonator lackey", as I fondly refer to him, approached the box, don't you think he would have noticed some kind of kittenish-type noise emanating from the cube?! Kittens are not known for their silence. Playful antics and all around adorableness, yes, but silence? Not so much. My best guess is that this poor schmo was the "low man on the totem pole" so to speak, and was more concerned with not ruining his new uniform with fecal matter and shrapnel. I mean, what kind of a world do we live in when a self-respecting negligent pet owner can't leave a box full of kittens on the sidewalk? I just don't know any more.

Luckily, news crews managed to film the event as it unfolded...or exploded, as the case may be. Check it out if your curiosity demands it, but I warn you, this time: the cat does die.

Bomb Squad Vs. Kittens

Lovins,
Dezz