End of Truculent Daschunds league

By now you have seen that Michael Vick signed with the Philadelphia Eagles. The Truculent Daschunds have a problem with that. The football league is disbanded until this monster is out of the league.

The Third Vogon

Editor's Note: Lord Turnips and Lady Turnips returned from their complete disaster of an attempt to turn the outworld planet of Zarkson into a bucolic agri-colony with a touch of classic style and refinement. Upon their return from the utterly and outrageously disasterous colonization trip with but one of their safari ships still barely intact and their personal fortunes put to extreme distress they discovered a note from Lord Woodpecker indicating that he would soon be sharing a story about a vac suite repairman.

Worse still was that when they arrived at their homes in Herndonia they discovered that there was a sort of ruling coalition running the place. Apparently, during the two months since they had last posted an article a great many changes had occured on their home world.

As they opened their doors to the Turnips family estate they were greeted by a group of military policemen who appeared to be turning over the home. A very dashing British major began asking sharp questions about the current whereabouts of Lord Woodpecker and Admiral Rossaroni.

Is it wrong of me to want this?

Schweinehund Gary Bettman

Ik kan niet de Rode Vleugels geloven die aan de stomme Pinguïnen van Pittsburgh van de varkenshond worden verloren. Stomme NHL schijnt samengezworen te hebben om dit resultaat door een reeks gunstige vraag en niet-vraag te bewerkstelligen.

COMING SOON TO A BARRISTERS KEEPE!!!!

A GOOD VAC-SUIT REPAIRMAN IS HARD TO FIND

A Bad Man is Hard to Find

Lord Turnips was just baffled.

He had no idea where to look for the sort of underworld characters he would need to subdue a planet. His purposes were not nefarious. He only wanted to beautify a planet. He would offer the citizens enough credits to relocate. He was enough of a business man however to know that one never starts a negotiation from a position of weakness. So, having some muscle along would be critical. Also, he knew that his caravan would present a tempting morsel for pirates or other hostile elements.

He thought of calling Admiral Rossoroni but he knew that he had, in semi-retirement, taken a financial analysis job with the Ares Corporation. Even if he couldn't help because of the annual Imperial budget cycle, He'd be the sort who'd know a couple of trustworthy brigands. As it turned out he did know such a character: Juan Seis Armas.

Outfitting the Expedition

Lord Turnips contemplated the outlay for his small fleet of ships. He had three of the 200 Ton Liger-Class Safari ships, a Kugashin-Class 400-Ton Laboratory Ship and of course two of the 1000 Ton bulk carriers.

His plan was to purchase enough of the soil and hydro needed for his wife's plans to establish the garden colony. He could carry most of that in the bulk ships. The planet's M class atmo would sustain the soil and water but he'd need to terraform most of what he needed. That would probably entail complications with the locals. His safari ships--which would also carry the family Turnips in fine style--particularly the HMS Frank Chadwick--had hard points which he could mount a double turret blaster cannon. HMS Ashton Kutcher, His lab ship was, by treaty, not allowed to mount weapons. He'd have more trouble with the bulk carriers because they didn't have the needed hard points. If his tiny caravan encountered trouble on the way or if they needed to subdue locals from space they might have some serious trouble. Perhaps he should spend some of his credits on a warship. That would eat into his reserves he would need to spend on the regiment of drones.

Oh bother.

A Simple Meal: Eaten in Silence

Lord Turnips contemplated the hostility he knew he would be experiencing from Lady Turnips when she divined that he was unsuccessful in bribing the Queen's ministers for her grandiose dreams of Greater Lockgatia. He had failed to turn the ear or adequately grease the palms of the Minister for Gaia Soil preservation and the Earth Resources Board Minister. He came very close to cajoling the Minister of Defense into authorizing him to form a new regiment of drone infantry but it was struck down in the QJROC.

He sat sipping at his chai, eating a simple meal of Edam cheese, and a high protein bar he had invented out of turnips and apple cores. He conteplated his next moves. He had the safari ships and at least a few transports he could use to move the soil to Zarkson 4. He knew the finest horticulturalists and hydraulogical engineers who could help him transform the green M class world into his garden paradise. Of course there were the locals to deal with. That was why he needed the troops. His household regiments were off fighting at the far end of the Spiral Arm and wouldn't be redeployed until that mess was over with the Vogons.

Do I risk it? Do I have the resources to do everything at
once? How do I go halfway and then finish up next year when the
resources are available? If only I had a dynamic capability assessment
model of some sort. What if the local population resists?

An Early Morning Phone Call

Grand Admiral Rossaroni sat at his desk on the 140th floor of the Ares Corporation Headquarters building waiting for his computer to boot up. You might say he was sitting idly. His computer was only 2 years old, yet all the interminable scans, checks, executables, and "svchost.exe"s that were being pushed on him resulted in his computer having the analytyic power of a chipmonk for a good 20 minutes every morning.

On top of that, he had to be in early today, as his job as Chief Analytical Flunky for the Widget Interoperablity Program (CAF for the WIP) required him to spend 5 minutes preparing a slide explaining the benefits to the company if the Life Support budget for the Vesta Asteroid mining colony was reduced to zero during the next fiscal year. As Vesta was the least profitable Widget manufacturing site, it only made sense to eliminate unnecessary administrative fucntions that didn't generate revenue.

After that was done, Rossaroni decided to spend some time looking out the window. This was difficult, as his office didn't have a window. But he walked to a nearby office that did have a window, and looked down onto early morning mists that obscured the view of most of the capital. Off to his right he saw the gleaming spires of the Mclean Stevenson Stadt-based Summer Palace, and far off to the left he could see the firery plumes rising from the Reston Spaceport.

But he didn't have long to soak in the view, as he heard his viso-phone squawking in his office. It was Lord Turnips, his old pal. He was extremely agitated.

Turnips: "Admiral, you've got to help me, I'm extemely agitated!"

Rossaroni: "What is it, old pal, has the revolution come?"

T: "Exactly! I fear my latest antics have resulted in a proletarian uprising."

R: "Indeed. tell me all about it."

Turnips then explained about how he kicked two minor functionaries out of an office, and that all heck had broken out as a result.

R: "I'm surprised that a simple office usurption should cause a Red Revolt. Who were these prols you put out on the street?"

T: "Well, one of them WAS Johnny Six Guns"

R: "Johnny Ilyich Six Guns?"

T: "The same."

R: "Well, that is a horse of an entirely different color. I had no idea he had returned from exile on the Luna colony, let alone that he had a job as a minor functionary for your company. This will require some delicate finesse in order to avert catastrophe. And by 'delicate' I mean that we may have to burn large portions of the city to the ground."

T: "Then we'll need to call Woody."

R: "Precisely."

Awaiting an Audience

Lord Turnips was not used to waiting. He sat idly in the lounge of the Mclean Stevenson Stadt-based Summer Palace. He was on the 7th floor of a building he used to sit in around the turn of the last millennium. At that time he was a minor functionary of Her Majesty's Britannic Galactic Empire worried mainly about how much wood a wood chuck could chuck and if he would chuck if he did chuck how many mensurated target images could be fit upon the head of a pin.

He remembered fondly his work at that time with Lord Woodpecker-Smythe who, though perhaps quite daft, was a jolly good analyst of such things and particularly good at kow-towing to the Empress' ministers. Woody had the ability to flatter and cajole even the most amphibian of personages.

Lord Turnips who had by this time had amassed enough credits to purchase 3 different offworld safari ships, had funded his own psionic institute, had countless sports teams and stadia and had his name on the trophy of 4 separate World-wide sports leagues was growing tired of waiting. He clearly had not bribed these ministers sufficiently or with enough style. It clearly wasn't a question of money. He could use Woody's grovelling powers now.

He sat in the visiting plutocrat office mulling over the potential for a hybrid asparagus/broccoli mixture when he received a call from his wife, Lady Turnips.

"Dearest, has though bribed enough of the lackey ministers to gain approval for my plans for Greater Lockgatia?"

A curious discovery

Lady Turnips and I discovered this statue while yachting. We found this on an island just north of Sao Tome off the coast of Africa. Our location was just north of 1 00 N, 7 00 E.

Seems a bit early for the Lawgiver to appear in our milieu.

Bullets Over Reston Space Port

Johnny Sixguns peered closely at the tractor fed paper taped to the the door of office 11071. It was printed with what was obviously an 8 pin printer. His lips moved silently as he attempted to read the fancy "blackadder" script Turnips was so fond of.

"Dear Johnny Sixguns and Cecil Tophat,

According to Deanna the office fixer-upper people will be in on Wednesday to change out the office from the proletarian 2 person style to the autocratic 1 person style properly befitting a bloated top hat-wearing plutocrat like myself. Please get the deleterious relics of your time in 11071 out by Wed AM."

As he reached the 'out by Wed AM' portion of the letter, he slowly reached for his revolver and glanced at the rest of the letter. When he noticed what Turnips was doing with a $10,000 bill and the cohiba, he spit out the day old coffee he'd been swilling and fired his guns into the air (which actually was the next office up - luckily it was only occupied by some expendable level III's)

"TURNIPS" he roared, his sombrero slipping from his reared back head "I'll get you no matter where you try to go!"

"Johnny"

This was Cecil. He spoke in a quiet tone.

"Johnny, I have a better idea for our 'friend' Turnips and it involves the use of this small device"

Cecil withdrew a small Spanish Ear Screw from his left holster pocket.

"I believe" and here he steepled his fingers, "that this should do the trick"

Johnny holstered his pistols and blew the smoke from the cold steel barrels.

"Why Cecil, I think I'll leave it to you this time - you're the best tracker I've ever seen this side of Sonora, where do you think he went?"

"I smell the print out of one, no two, airline tickets and judging by the remants of kiwi fruit and McDonald's bags littering the floor, I believe he is headed to New Zealand."

"Wow, you are GOOD!" Johnny exclaimed as he hopped on his fancy riding Wyvern.

"Yes, you might call me a 'jack of all trades'" replied Cecil donning his ablative armor.

Moving Day at the Office

Meanwhile, as the Owlbear rampaged through the Kristal Stadt office, Lord Turnips sat at his ultra-modern wordprocessor to prepare a letter to his soon-to-be former office mates.

Dear Johnny Sixguns and Cecil Tophat,

According to Deanna the office fixer-upper people will be in on Wednesday to change out the office from the proletarian 2 person style to the autocratic 1 person style properly befitting a bloated top hat-wearing plutocrat like myself. Please get the deleterious relics of your time in 11071 out by Wed AM.

R,

Turnips

PS: I am currently lighting a Cohima cigar with a $10,000 bill, while being fed grapes by my monkey butler

As he moved his hand from the keyboard to click the "print icon" he was suddenly distracted by a noise that sounded like the beat of leathery wings. He thought it might be time to run but not before he taped his missive to the office door. He also hoped Johnny Sixguns wouldn't be too sore.

Rossaroni Unleashed EVEN MORE!!!

As news of the budget exhibit debacle spread about the 37th floor of the Paramutual Assured Destruction Building in downtown Kristal Stadt, several of the office bullies surrounded Rossaroni cackling and pressing fist to palm as is the bully's wont.

Rossaroni did not turn from his visio-screen to return the taunts of the three thickly muscled, heavy browed, payband five creeps who began whispering the foulest of insults. Insults like, "you colorblind oaf, I'll bet you can't even tell 3600 dollars from 3100 dollars. Why me own granny could do 'at!" And, "HAR HAR, Rossaroni DUMB .. He big DUMB DUMB .. make boss MAD with mistake even Grog not make ... HAR HAR HAR!"

Despite the heavy scent of low carb burrito with extra onion breath now reaching his highly sensitive nostrils, Rossaroni remained as focused as ever as if nothing could break his concentration.

A second ruffian then began taunting Rossaroni over his dressing habits. "Why 'at looks like Pseudo-dragon leaver if ever I sawr anyfing. HAR HAR HAR"

As one of the ruffians then leaned over Rossaroni's keypad to take his mouse and commence the ever humorous game of 'keep away,' a second ruffian suddenly grunted in surprise and pain coming from the "Y" region of the trousers. As Rossaroni planted that backkick, the first ruffian found his forearm twisted and crushed in the grasp of Rossaroni's massive grip and slammed suddenly to the formica topped computer table. The third ruffian stood mouth agape as Rossaroni finished his eponymous ballet of danger by hurling the two ruffians into the third which resulted in a delightful coconut sound.

As all three lay on the nicely carpeted floor, Rossaroni spoke, as cool as ever, "Never, ever say bring up the topic of pseudo-dragons when I'm working a programming chart. It makes me very angry"

Needless to say, one of the ruffians, the chief and of course the most cowardly, reached behind his back to pull out a morningstar he had secreted on his person for such an occasion.

He never had a chance to use it as Rossaroni snatched the flail and used it as a lever to hurl the unfortunate through the plate glass window into the river below. Such is the fate of sneaks.

Rossaroni, his long hair flowing in the breeze of the broken window, removed his short sleeved yellow oxford shirt and tie to reveal a skin tight set of leather armor and scaled gauntlets.

"Oh Rossaroni, what shall I do without you" cried Tiffany (the super-attractive, intelligent and charming program analyst), whipping off her glasses.

"You'll make do babe, Me, I've got a plane to catch. By the way, honey - one thing I never could stand about Kristal Stadt - all the damn owlbears."

At which point an Owlbear crashed through cubicle 790384

Rossaroni shook his weary head and remarked drolly, "Well here we go again"

A mere catch?

Lord Turnips has renamed his daughter: "Curtis"
and his wife: "Granderwife"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWBs7_Gup8Y

ROSSARONI ... UNCHAINED!!!!

Coming Soon ... To a Barristers Keepe Near You!!!

Get ready to get weak in the knees ladies!

Not for the faint of Heart!!!!!!!

Commentary: Turnips Corner

Salutations Friends, fellow ministers of Parliament!

Turnips here to share some thoughts on issues of the day. I've decided to use Sports Illustrated writer Peter King's Ten Things I Think I Think format because he's a professional journalist and I'm not.

So here are ten things I think I think:

One: The United States needs the F-22 and OV-22 program because they were featured prominently in the movie Transformers. It would be a shame if the real transformers came to Earth and we didn't have those.

Two: General Motors is right to scrap the Pontiac brand because the name is insensitive to Aboriginal Americans. And while we are on this subject I do not think the Cleveland Indians Chief Wahoo logo is insensitive at all. Most native Americans I've met look just like that.

[SARCASM]

(Chief Wahoo: Racist symbol for Cleveland's racist fans who should be off beating their kids, rather than watching a baseball game)

Third: The finest coming-of-age movie of the last 40 years is The Karate Kid.

Four: The Home Rule question must be struck down the next time it comes to a vote. Until we civilize Ireland and bring good order to that place we cannot in good conscience allow them the privilege of self government.

Five: You really can't get a decent sandwich south of Baltimore or North of Cambridge. It has to do with the water used to make the bread.

Six: I am fascinated by the possibilities of Muon spin spectroscopy. As you know Muon spin spectroscopy is an experimental technique based on the implantation of spin polarized muons in matter and on the detection of the influence of the atomic, molecular or crystalline surroundings on their spin motion. The motion of the muon spin is due to the magnetic field experienced by the particle and may provide information on its local environment in a very similar way to other magnetic resonance techniques, such as Electron spin resonance (ESR or EPR) and, more closely, Nuclear magnetic resonance (NMR). Just think what this could mean in the world of agriculture?

Seven: While I appreciate his poems, Shelley is a pig and a bounder. I do not think Barrister's Keep should invite him to speak and I think we deserve an apology for his actions in Italy during our visit on the Turnips yacht. Lady Turnips and I would also appreciate it if he would return the 50 bob in silverware he took from our dining set.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley: total wanker)

Eight: I stand firmly with the Clapham Sect on the issue of the Slave trade.

Nine: Is there anything finer than an ale on the veranda during a soft spring rain?

Ten: Do not go to the 22nd century if you can help it. I don't want to ruin the surprise for you but lets just say Orangutans are not a good bet for domestication.

Oh Bitter Day!

Accursed Budget Exhibit, thou dost torment me!

Whilst I thought I was rid of thee last a fortnight ago

Thine ugly head has risen this day to befoul my noontime repast

Not one, not two, but three errors have made themselves manifest

Throwing all manner of confusion into those analysts

who were comparing it to the Congressional Brief, submitted this day past

Woe unto this writer who had to make ammends, pay homage to, and grovel

before the feet of no less than FIVE government customers

plus two contractor supervisors

Oh, bitter day!

Bitter, bitter day.

An Insprirational Poem

Woody sat atop the smallish mound of skulls. Pensive, with fist tucked under chin, he wondered what was taking the girls so long with those darned coconut cream pies. And, why hadn't DeBock, the one third Canadian, one third Cameroonian and two fifths apricot salesman/gunrunner and Nguyen Van Schott, the half-Vietnamese, half-American barfly/C++ programmer, finished his sleeping quarters.

Perhaps he had better get to work on his next inspirational poem.

He began,

"Oh Ninhursag, Oh Ninhursag
You tempt me with herbs so sweet
Eight they are in number
Yet forbidden am I to eat them
You wicked queen and temptress!

By night, into the garden
shall I steal and claim them
for mine own!



Yes. That would do nicely. The allusions to Sumerian mythology would be sure to intrigue the rest of the survivors. Woody realized that in ancient days, bards such as himself, often inspired the people even in the most difficult times.

COMING SOON

A new article posted by Lord Turnips

keep watching this space for more.....

AWESOME!

Why do I find this picture hilarious? I don't know, but it is. It's awesome too.

Point-Counterpoint

This is an actual e-mail conversation that happened on 21 April, 2009.

Woody: " Turnips, Admiral, I've posted another story gents."

Admiral: "Yea! All hail Woody! Death to all wyverns!"

Turnips: "I'm thinking of writing the article that blames Wyverns on the India/Pakistan split which led to millions of displaced and killed in 1947. "

A: "What are your sources? Will your article be heavily footnoted?"

T: "Yes, here is an example: Wyverns decided to split British India into a Hindu nation centered in between two primarily Muslim areas of to be known by the name given to it by Jinha and Muslim members of the Indian National Congress: Pakistan.*

* Yo Momma"

A: "It's hard to argue with you on that point. I always thought it was Basilisks that split the two countries, but perhaps I am thinking of North and South Korea."

T: "Hmm...very drakeo-determinist of you to assume that it wasn't caused by Wyvern's."

A: "You know, not all of the world's problems are caused by wyverns."

T: "See! Right there you continue your crypto-wyvernism by providing covert support for the possibility that mystical monsters other than Wyverns were the cause of great calamities of the 20th century. In so doing you undermine legitimate efforts to combat Wyverns."

A: "The whole world's black and white for you, isn't it? Your whole "you're either with me (against wyverns) or against me" attitude is very shortsighted.

Little known facts about the Basilisk:
1. Could split boulders with a single glance from their deadly eyes

2. Noxious breath would wither trees and bushes

3. Streams and rivers they drank from would be permanently poisoned

4. Odour of its sweat was foul and toxic

5. Land they passed through would become barren wasteland 6. These would counter the basilisk's lethal powers:
- The weasel [somehow immune to its death-dealing gaze]

- The rooster [the basilisk would flee at the rooster's crowing]

- The Rue plant [could withstand the basilisk's breath and was used by weasels to heal themselves if they were attacked by the basilisk]

7. All US Presidents since Harry Truman have been Basilisks

8. Would be destroyed by seeing its own reflection in a mirror"

T: "Jimmy Carter was only half Basilisk."

A: "Basiliskism is inherited through the mother, so technically, Jimmy Carter is full Basilisk"

All Ashore That's Going Ashore

The ragged remnants of Altair Flight 815 we gathered about the beach.

"I suggest we eat some of the tastier, less important passengers" declared a corpulent gentleman who tugged on his pants to keep them aloft. Curiously he wore both a belt and suspenders, neither of which seemed to be serving their purpose.

"Egad, man," the Admiral interjected, "We've only been ashore for 3 hours, surely you're not that hungry"

"Sir, I am absolutely famished, all I had before ditching we pretzel sticks" He paused, "and, they made me thirsy too" he added for good measure a bit sheepishly.

Another passenger, this one with a young lad in tow remarked that the lush greenery didn't look a bit sinister and that the propeller half-buried in the sand might make a useful tool. He'd seen as much on a popular television show.

The handsome chap, also known to his friends as Woody or Woodpecker-Smythe, to his legion of fans and adoring public, stood atop a small mound of bleached skulls to make the following announcement of duties:

"I expect this will be quite good sport until we are rescued - Lady Marzipan, why don't you go with Lady Lyme Weoghe and search out some coconuts and tropical bananas as is your wont. Turnips, why don't you get a start on the fire. I as party poet should begin a diary or poem to record or adventures. Admiral, perhaps you could mix us up a calming tonic. And, DeBock, why don't you build us a shelter, I'll need an extra wide bunk if you don't mind - and please, don't get sassy this time. I know your type."


"May a rabid wyvern use your femur as a toothpick" muttered DeBock under his breath.

Response Option Alpha Tango

A Datron model PRC-1077 radio abruptly crackled to life in a non-descript quonset hut on the West Coast of Tasmania. Silent for weeks, a message came through

The short broadcast consisted only of a mechanically repeated phrase "Execute response option Alpha-Tango - Execute response option Alpha-Tango - Execute response option Alpha-Tango." The statement was bereft of emotion or emphasis.

This broadcast was subsequently interupted by another eerily sinister voice that was, however, altogther human/humanoid. Regretably, it was broken up by a competing broadcast out of WIN-4 Wollongong.

"...Sporadic E,

"I now return you to your regulary scheduled broadcast of Australian Rules Football."

... Suspect Sprodic E"

"Today, South Fremantle versus ...."

Then all was silent.

Somewhere a plane was going down and things were about to get ugly.

AltAir Flight 815

"Man this flight to Aukland is long," thought Admiral Rossaroni, as he finished leafing through the in-flight magazine for the fourth time.

As he put down the magazine he looked around the cabin at his fellow passengers. Several rows in front of him was seated a very dapper looking gentleman who was having an argument with the stewardess over how often she was supposed to bring him a fresh gin & tonic. He was saying "every 15 minutes" while she was saying "are you barmy?" He had a kind of George Sanders look to him.

On the other side of the plane the Admiral spotted a man and his young son. The man had a bandage wrapped around his head and was helping his boy play with Legos. And by "helping," I mean he was doing most of it himself. So perhaps the boy was helping his dad play with Legos.

A few rows beyond them, the Admiral spotted a young woman who appearred to be in handcuffs. And, although she was in handcuffs, her hair was magnificently styled, as if she had trained weasels sitting atop her head. She also looked very annoyed.

Just as the Admiral was about to examine some other, ancilliary characters, the plane suddenly started shaking violently. SHAKE! SHAKE! SHAKE! SHAKE! SHAKE! Then part of the cabin ripped off and a few passengers, none of whom were important, were sucked out of the aircraft.

Fade to black.

Poetry Corner

Ode to my Giant Foam Cowboy Hat

Giant Hat
You are so Big
So Orange
So Foamy
You sit there in my closet
Mocking me
Why do you torment me so

Do you not understand the joy I feel when I wear you
Those that stare at me can sense my power
BUT THEY CANNOT HAVE MY HAT
For it is not mine to give

'Ello luv, 'ow's the leg?

Rossaroni was tired. His hand hurt and he needed a break. He stretched his arms over his head and looked around the room. The furnishings weren't exactly what the Admiral would call first rate, with a simple bed, a few chairs, and the writing desk he was sitting at, but he needed a room in town, and the Hydra's Lair was as good as any other place. It would have taken several hours each way to make the round trip to the Keepe and back. And the Planetary Sovereign was in the yard getting an incredibly expensive refit-slash-upgrade. Plus, Schlamazel the Butcher owed him for all the extra sacking he did on the way to Toronaga's. And back. And a little more a few weeks later.

The Admiral was in town at the behest of the Crown to pen a treaty with some filthy barbarian principality that the governement wanted to exploit and usurp. He was just getting to the good bit, where the government reserved the right to come to the aid of endangered commercial interests in the principality. He wondered just how long it would take after ratification of the treaty before an "incident" occured, or was manufactured. But the wording had to be just right, and he was a bit fagged right now, and needed some refreshment.

He headed out of his room and down the stairs into the tavern. As he walked gingerly down the stairs, gingerly because his trick knee was acting up again, he noticed that, as there were no ships in port right now, it was filled with only the regualrs, and therefore not very rowdy.

"'Ello luv, 'ow's the leg?" purred Edith the barmaid ("Purred?!" Belay that! I mean cackled, for she was far from comely.)

The Admiral sat at the bar. "It's acting up a bit today, Edith. A pint of bitter, please. And some Edam"

"Coming right up, your grace," she said as she finished cleaning the glass in her hand (and by cleaning, I mean she was working out a piece of grime by spitting on it). "You know, you ought to get that gammy leg looked at, before you end up wiv' one of them peg legs. Ha, ha. A proper pirate you'd be then, wouldn't you?"

Hmm, that hit a little too close to home.

"You know, some doctoring is just what I had in mind. As a matter of fact, that's why I stopped by Lady Marzipan's estate today. You see, I am well aware of the appalling state of medical care and technology in this day and age, and have no desire to have some drunken lout who calls himself a surgeon, but is actually no better than some ancient barber, hack away at my body parts. So I've hatched a plan to travel to the future to get better medical care."

Edith put the brew in front of the Admiral. "Oh, that's a good 'un, Mr. Admiral. Hoo, hoo, you can sure spin a tale, says I."

Rossaroni continued, "So I get to Marzipan's place and get straight to the point, for she doesn't put up with dilly-dallying. I asked if I could borrow her Q Device and go to the future to get my leg looked at. So, long story short, she agrees (after some haggling and certain concessions on my part) and says if I come back tomorrow, she will send me to the 21st century to a first rate sawbones."

Edith opened her mouth as if trying to form some coherent statement, as unlikely as a coherent statement from her might be.

"I know what you're thinking," the Admiral said, "why the 21st century? Why not the 22nd century, or the 30th, or 10,000th? Well, Marzipan got quite serious at this point, looked me straight in the eyes with that deadly intensity that only she can muster, and said 'If you want to use the Q Device you will never ask me about the 22nd century again. Never.' And if you saw the way she was looking at me, you'd have agreed that my knee's health, and probably that of the rest of me, depended on keeping mum about that particular subject."

" 'Ave you been nippin' at the ale all evening, your grace? Because that is a bunch of nonsensical blathering, as far as I can tell," replied Edith

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Rossaroni, not really having the energy to explain Q Device theory to a backwater tavern barkeep. "But, thanks for the pint, Edith. It was just the pick me up I needed. I'll now get back to figuring out how enslaving some wogs can increase the share price for John Company by half a pence. Cheerio!"

Cheese?

Edam.

creamy, delicious, slightly buttery flavor.

Edam cheese has a very mild taste, slightly salty or nutty and almost no smell when compared to other cheeses. It also has a significantly lower fat content than many other traditional cheeses being approximately 28 percent with an average protein content of 25 percent. Modern Edam is quite soft compared to other cheeses, such as Cheddar, due to its low fat content.

In a word...superb

Milk?

(A Mighty Wizard depicted above)

Woody, Rossaroni and Little Lord Turnipsaroy had arrived at their usual gathering spot beneath the ancient oak near the ruined stables beside the rotted remains of the old church spire nearby the mystic stone slabs, remnants of an even more ancient race, the druids. As was there custom, one of the trio was to tell a true story of the distant past in hopes of inspiring that night's adventure.

Rossaroni, the most garrulous, befitting his ancestry, spun a tale for the other two as follows:

“There before us stands the house of the great wizard Crestoloon, Your Majesty,” said the pimple faced page.

“Excellent.”

Sitting at the top the hill was a rather smallish, pink split-level. The king had expected something more along the lines of an imposing castle, or even a menacing hovel.

“I suppose even wizards have to keep with the times,” the king muttered, and he led his party of courtiers and knights to the door. The door was lime green, and ornately carved with a relief of a wizard battling creatures that looked to be half-man, half-wolverine, with some bat thrown in.

“Ugh,” groaned Jeremy the page boy, rolling his eyes at the overdone door. The king ignored him and squinted at the handwritten sign taped to the door.

“Doorbell broken, knock loudly.” He grasped the beard of the brass demon head that served as the knocker and gave three hard raps of the door. Knock-Knock-Knock

The door swung open to reveal an old man with a long white beard and a bald head. He was dressed in a purple robe with white stars and matching slippers that curved up at the toes to a point.

“What’s up Kingy?” The wizard’s thick eyebrows rose with his greeting.

“I have come seeking assistance,” intoned the king in his most royal voice. “My kingdom is beset by the hordes of the evil Count Krishnack; only with your aid can we defeat him. Mind if we step in?”

“Well, uh, now is not really the best time,” said Crestoloon, glancing back into his home. “Perhaps some other time.” And with that he attempted to shut the door, but the king’s foot was in the way.

“Nonsense, Crestoloon,” said the king in rather a haughty tone. “Now is the only time.” The king, who was shorter but far wider that the old wizard, pushed through into the house, followed closely by Jeremy the page boy, leaving the knights and courtiers in the front yard.

They strode to the living room, followed closely by Crestoloon, who was shuffling along, all the while wringing his hands.

“We need to buckle down and put our heads together if we want to defeat, OH!” The king had cut himself off in midsentence, for there sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee halfway to his lips was evil Count Krishnack!

“Well, this is awkward,” muttered Crestoloon.


Woody spoke, pausing a minute in awe after the story was concluded, "Do you really think that this could be true and that old musty keepe on the outside of town belonged to the mighty wizard Crestoloon? Maybe we'll find the secret to defeating the town bullies there!"

"Or maybe not and maybe, just maybe Rossaroni is full of baloney as per usual!" exclaimed Little Lord Turnipsaroy, "Remember the last time he had us off on a wild goose chase after Wyverns!"

I Don't Like Reggae .... I Love It!

Lord Rocksteady stumbled out of the "Drawn and Quartered" Pub at closing time that chilly London night. An unusual early September snowfall had given the entirely seedy neighborhood a cloak of respectability.

There he came face to face with Cecil Tophat III.

He was amazed at what he saw.

At-sa Mighty-a Spicy Meat-a-ball Mrs Rossaroni! A Lance and Dirk Adventure

It was a clean, brightly lit room, illuminated by Saint-themed candles. Saint Rita, Saint Agnes and St. Louis cast their watchful, hand-painted eyes across the small dining room where a young Italian lad sat carefully eating his penne carbonara.

"Your carbonara is simply delicious!" the boy exclaimed through an unruly mop of shiny black hair that tended to hang over his face.

"Why-a thank-a you, little one" the Dowager replied, patting the boy on his head. "And, a-aftera dinner, I getta you da nice-a candy, maybe da Tree Musketeers Bar - they seem-a safe - I giva them to da trick-or-treaters and they-a no die."

"Why that's certainly a positive sign" Rossaroni thought for a moment, a bit incredulous even at his age, and again thanked his dowager aunt.

He continued. "Aunt Rossaroni, I truly enjoyed this dinner but, I really must head back to the orphanage now. The mistress simply insists we are safely tucked in no later than 9 o'clock of the evening .. on the dot! Which reminds me could I borrow five bob til next Tuesday?"

He batted his large brown eyes, extra cute street ragamuffin style.

"Oh, my of course you can, here you can-a have-a 10 bob because you such-a good-a eater!"

With that, the young Rossaroni made his way down the long, treacherous flight of apartment stairs in the ancient brownstone edifice located on the wrong side of the Shrewsbury tracks. Five minutes later, he was in the foyer where he bade farewell to the concierge who wasn't really the concierge. The concierge had died so his wife was now the concierge.

Be that as it may, Rossaroni planned a detour this fine evening. He was to meet his best chums: from the good side of the tracks it was the young Lord Turnips and from Kraut-Town, it was young Woody with his funny accent and even more amusing lederhosen. Woody and Turnips had gotten it into their heads to explore the forbidden ruins of the truly ancient keepe on the outskirts of town. He would share with them the details of his evening feast. Hopefully Woody would still have some leftover leberkase. And, with any luck, Turnips would have gotten over his obsession with railway track gauge standardization.

Everything was going to plan as long as Cecil Tophat III and his gang of cretins didn't show up! Or even worse, the Dunkirk Boys Massive.

Rocksteady at Court

"Frederick Rocksteady Rushing, Pater familias of 26 children and loving husband to your lovely child bride, after your countless good acts in service to Lord Charles Townshend, also known as Lord . . . 'Turnips', and your singularly brilliant repair of the royal household's wireless network, and your finding the glitch in the software of the Q device and recovering Prince Albert from near certain death, I offer the thanks of the British Empire, its peoples, the royal titles and lands of your beloved Kingston, and this gift card for your family to stay for free at Legoland."

Rocksteady Rushing was gobsmacked at his fortune but he realized that the reason he fled Jamaica in the first place was the utter lawlessness of the place. He started to interrupt the royal personage, as he opened his mouth Prime Minister Disraeli shot him a withering look which bade him quiet. And given Disraeli's desire to cut Rockstady off before he made a spectacle, the wily minister passed a note to the Queen.

"And since I have installed you as Viscount Kingston you shall require the services of some of the Empire's finest troops to bring order to your fair island. I offer you the services of 3 battalions of the Royal Gurkha Rifles, 5 battalions of the Royal Horse Artillery, 3 battalions of the Queens Own Rifles, and the 22nd Armored Brigade."

Minister Disraeli made a small sound and whispered to her that the latter unit did not yet exist.

The queen mildly miffed that her whim had been contravened stiffened and continued.

"We shall substitute the 22nd Armored Brigade with the Royal Dragoon Guards which I believe are just back from the Sudan. As soon as those lads are rested and ready we will provide them to you."

Freddie Rushing could not believe his luck to have come all the way from the worst cesspool in Jamaica to be here in Windsor being received by the royal court and soon to be installed as the power in his homeland. He owed it all to being good at math. To having taken those tough classes, having worked complicated theorems in the dirt in the back of his shanty, and having stumbled across Lord Turnips as he surveyed his Jamaican land holdings that day when Lord Turnips could not figure out how to provide a 20% tip on restaurant check. That simple service to the great Lord Turnips had turned around the lives of all 29 members of his family.

"your humble servant ma am. Would the i gaan fe bed i fe continue massagin' your feet?"

Dem, d'ventures o' Rocksteady Rushing

Freddie Rocksteady Rushing, aka Rudeboy, aka Lord Rocksteady was just back from the dockyards where, following a tough day of work computing tallies of various fruits and produce, he and his mates had already had a fight with the a motley assortment of hooligans and street thugs. He eased into the wraught iron chair in the corner of his corrugated tin roofed shanty in the most fashionable part of Trenchtown. He looked around. He had many mouths to feed. He knew he had to leave Kingston and Jamaica behind if ever he was to make a better life for his kin.

He looked on his ever expanding brood of children and his beloved wife and came to the sad realization that he would never be able to perform complex assessments of information architecture frameworks, optimize logical models, be part of complex multi-agency taskforces, or do capability decompositions working as a tallyman here in what had to be the most violent corner of the Caribbean.

He knew his faith in Jah was being put to the test when he received a cable signed by Lord Turnips Townshend the mysterious agrarian from England.

Hey, i-man have gotten a telegram from Lord Turnips. dat English bobo he wants
i-man fe come help de young Stuart mit his tall divisions.

He contemplated the gangs who had tried to extort money from him just today, including:

Dunkerk Boys Massive

Truman Arms Posse

8 Ball Posse

The Gucci Gang

98 Posse

Du Rag Posse (a.k.a. The Dus)

Much Love Crew

Hey wife, pack dem bags and get de children fit. i-man are goin' fe england
fe teach lord stuart fe do de tall division. Jah be praised.

Mit Dem Schnitzel in der Grossen Stadt! A Lance and Dirk Adventure

Meanwhile, in another part of town, a recent transplant from the German state of Wuttemberg, was merrily strolling down the street lunch satchel in hand. He whistled a happy teutonic tune and waved aufwiedersehen to him mother.

“Aufwiedersehen Mutti!”

“Be careful Voody! Und don’t gif avay your lunch like you did yesterday.”

“Ok momma, I vill be werry careful zis time!”

“Oh, and don’t get schmutz on your new lederhosen.”

But by that time young Woody had already turned the corner directly in the Top Hat gang led by that villainous and terribly rude rascal, Cecil Tophat III. Cecil was an upperclass snob who prided himself on extorting lunches, treats and loose change from his classmates.

“Fork over the schnitzel Kraut”

“Yeah, fork over the sausages too” exclaimed the Schott, one of Cecil’s most loyal henchmen.

“And the Fastnachtskuchle” added DeBock , another loathsome example of Shrewsbury’s finest.

“Vell, ok but my mozer vill get werry werry angry wiz you and I shall also tell my best friend in ze whole vide word, der Rossaroni – he vill fix your vagon und gut!”

“We idn’t afraid of da likes o’ him – he’s another foreigner like you!” Schott chimed in.

Slowly, the gang bore down on the poor German lad and his lunch and his lederhosen.

The Mystery of the Crumbling Keepe! A Lance and Dirk Adventure

It was ordinary day; ending as did any number of other weekdays in the Turnips household - Young master Turnips engaged in a futile struggle with Miss Crumpwidget’s mathematics homework. Tonight was long division – 16 problems! “Drat these confounded figures!” he thought to himself, “I should much rather be on an imaginary patrol in the deepest Congo with my two best friends Woody and Rossaroni.”

Presently, however, the gas lamps fluttered announcing the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Turnips. But, before either could say a word, Turnips was pleading for succor.

“Dear father, may engage my two comrades in arms, young master Woody and the young Italian lad Rossaroni in spirited youthful adventure this Saturday? Please Please?”

“Why my boy, I don’t see why not as long as you’ve practiced your music … remember the membership exam for the Fellowship of the Lute is but a fortnight away.”

“Oh yes father I will practice most diligently!”

“In that case I suppose we consent” agreed his mother, “now get a good night’s sleep and finish up Ms. Crumpwidget’s homework or you’ll never get into Cambridge.”

Turnips was terribly excited for the adventure he planned was more than the usual play-acting patrol in Africa. This time he had another objective in mind – the crumbling Keepe on the edge of the moor. He’d heard many a story about the old ruin and he was certain a mystery required solving.

And hopefully, the three friends would avoid the attention of the local bully gang, the Sixguns.

The Old Bamboo, The Old Bamboo

A tribute to Lord Woodpecker-Smyth (or at least my perception of how he is during his more lucid moments). I perceive him to don his straw boater, grab his bam-boo cane, and sing elaborate productions with several anonymous dancers singing behind him during client meetings.





A gentleman's got a walking stick.
A seaman's got a gaff.
And the merry men of Robin Hood
They used a quarterstaff.
On the Spanish plains inside their canes
They hide their ruddy swords.
But we make do with an old bam-boo
And everyone applauds!
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - Hey!
Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.

Chorus:
When punting on the beautiful Thames

Caractacus:
You use a sturdy pole.

Chorus:
To protect their fair complexion

Caractacus:
Ladies use a parasol.

Chorus:
It's useful in the underbrush

Caractacus:
To have a hefty spear.

Chorus:
Right!

All:
But what we do with an old bam-boo
Makes everybody cheer!
1 - 2 - 3 - HO!
Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo
You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo
'Ere we go, mate . . .

Caractacus:
A flyer in an air-e-o-plane

Chorus:
He steers it with a stick

Caractacus:
He does?

Caractacus:
A collier in the pits o' Wales

Chorus:
He leans upon his pick

Caractacus:
That's right!

All:
Now every wheel of an automobile
Revolves around a shaft (HEY!)
But what we do with an old bam-boo
Makes every one go daft.
And 1 - 2
Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
(Dance break)
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - HEY!
And a 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - and a 5 and a 6 and a 7 HO!
Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo!

Worship this World of Watercolor Mood

The solitude of the barren landscape gave me time to reflect. I thought back to my childhood. How I had cursed my parents for giving me the genes for incredible good looks, the marvelous ability to get along with people and of course, humility.

They had insisted I watch Sesame Street reruns from the post Korean War era. I was particularly traumatized by one episode – a retelling of the John Frankenheimer's Manchurian Candidate. In this case the Sesame Street version was directed by Sam Peckinpah. Big Bird portrayed Sgt Raymond Shaw, the insufferable “hero” who has in reality been brainwashed to become the perfect assassin. Shaw’s mother, Murder She Hopes, was portrayed by Gina, the long time human character while Capt Marco was cooly brought to life by Snufflelupagus. It was hard watching Capt Snufflelupagus slap Big Bird around in a desperate attempt to convince him Gina was a communist agent bent on turning control of Sesame Street over to the nefarious Dr. Yen Lo, cruelly acted by Elmo. Plus, Big Bird, simpleton that he was, could never get the hang of “solitare.” Then, repeated over and over was the nightmare scene where Big Bird shoots Mr. Hooper through the head during what he thinks is a meeting of the old ladies at a garden show.

These painful memories were not unlike the suffering Prometheus endured at the beak of the vulture daily tearing his liver from his side.

Something had to put an end to this nightmare – caught between Penna’s lies and Turnip’s delusions. All I could hope for would be a deus ex machina-like love interest to appear – one whose wealthy, powerful and hopefully pretty much human looking parent could save my skin, offer up some opportunities to woo his daughter and provide goblets of space-wine (or whatever they served on this planet) until The Admiral Rossaroni could get me out of here.

Then I would have my revenge on The Creature.

Commanding That Corkscrew Comet Jet

87 minutes. That’s how long I had to find him and bring him back. That’s how long the black hole would last before it became unstable and collapsed into itself. At least I hope it would do that. Let some other universe deal with the cataclysmic discharge of null energy. Not my problem. Unless the random universe chosen for this discharge happens to be the one I’m in. I’m thinking that would destroy the solar system. Best not to think about that, got to be positive, got to focus on finding Woody.


I emerged from trans-dimensional space and collapsed on a rocky desert plateau, disturbingly familiar to the rocky desert scene you see in every Star Trek episode. Even had that slanty rock formation. Now, I don’t know what you’ve been told about traveling through trans-dimensional space, but let me tell you, it’s in no way similar. To anything. Anything at all.

As you re-enter reality, your body needs a few seconds to become reacquainted to not being a spaghetti-fied stream of high energy particles traveling beyond time-space. So I think I’m going to pass out for a few minutes. Hopefully, for less than 87 minutes.

…21 minutes left. I was out for way too long. Woody better be nearby. Let me open the scanner. Whew! That’s a piece of luck, he’s less than a kilometer away. That’s an improvement from the specs of Penna’s machine that the Marquis gave his life to get me. Poor De'BocK, cut down before his prime. So young… so pretty.

But back to the task at hand. That must be him, over there near that cliff. His naked, emaciated frame is unmistakable now. He seems to be surrounded by a bunch of crudely put together stick figures. And it looks like he’s putting on some sort of performance with them. The trans-dimensional gate is beginning to decompose now, and is creating a very severe windstorm, so it’s hard to hear what Woody is saying. But it seems like gibberish to me. I was afraid he might be mad.

“Capt Marco was cooly brought to life by Snufflelupagus… Big Bird, simpleton that he was, could never get the hang of solitare… when Rossaroni arrived, I’d recount the thrilling rescue of this erstwhile slave girl and how I fought off a squadron of meta-daemons riding beaked slerm.” Oh dear, it’s worse than I thought. This just isn’t your regular “I’m insane” gibberish, it’s some sort of super-insanity. Unless…
Hmm, there appears to be some sort of rhythm and repetition in what he’s saying. Could Woody, somewhere deep inside his ravaged mind, be trying to tell me something? Oh damn! I should have been recording this, where’s the record button on this damn scanner? I wanted to get the Apple version as it’s much more intuitive, but the Marquis De'BocK convinced me to get the PC compatible one. Well, BocK's dead now- well mostly dead - so I can do whatever… oh, there it is. “Record.” But you need about three extra clicks to get there.

13 minutes. I easily pick Woody up and make my way back to the rift, which seems to be thoroughly enjoying ripping the surrounding countryside to pieces. We dodge a few flying boulders, jump a chasm, and then… blackness.

Golem Rage

The Young Master Rushing, Golem-Fedor, Kaotic E, Zimbar, The Marquis De’BocK, and the entire Penna clan sat crowded around a small, futuristic table in a seedy cantina centrally located in the Mos Eisley space port. No one seemed to be having a good time despite gay bunting draping the cantina’s party room and the festive party hats each wore.

The futuristic jukebox played Ben Folds Five “One Angry Dwarf And 200 Solemn Faces”

Young Master Rushing glumly toyed with a piece of cake while Zimbar and Kaotic E complained loudly about Cash and Vardaman. The Marquis De’BocK argued with the Penna’s about the merits of Quiet Riot and Patrick O’Brien. Golem-Fedor sat alone, immobile as he had not yet been given the command to party.

Slowly the Rushing rose to his feet. By the 10th bar, the tune's catchy back-beat had invigorated and inspired him.

“I’m sick of cooling our heels in this center of filth and villainy. Let’s find Turnips, Woodpecker and the Admiral and kick their cheating &^$*^$@& wherever and whenever they are! Who’s with me?”

The Golem-Fedor moved imperceptibly at first. First a finger tip then the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, his fist came down, crushing the table and the neon bulbs beneath.

"Golem-Fedor will follow Master and crush his enemies."

And the others soon followed suit.

STAY TUNED FOR OUR NEXT EXCITING INSTALLMENT: BEACH BLANKET ATROCITY

My Dinner With Rossaroni

I hadn't seen my friend Rossaroni since the sacking of Kristal Stadt over 15 years ago but he had contacted me via aether-plane wave and I decided to meet him for dinner at the old Delmonico's Restaurant on St. Charles Avenue.

I arrived early and took a seat at the bar and ordered a Tom Collins to relax since I had not seen Rossaroni in many years and didn't know what to expect. I rehearsed a few questions I wanted to ask since asking questions would also make me feel more comfortable but I knew I would have to have several prepared - I'm not good at coming up with questions on the fly.

Time passed and Rossaroni arrived. We were seated a table near a pillar across from the bar. I could hear the noise from the adjacent casino which was not unpleasant but reminded me of the bawk-bawk-bagaaaaaaaaaaawk a yardbird might make.

"What brought you back Rossaroni? Weren't you living in a Lokarian ashram?"

"I came back to discuss matters of fantasy and reality, chaos and non-chaos"

"I'm afraid I don't understand. My life is firmly grounded in reality - stability is what I find"

"No and yes, sadly, that is what I was afraid of. Things rarely go haywire now - remember when I conditioned Turnips to believe he was a chicken and all he could say was cock-a-doodle doo and fight with the tenacity of a beserker?"

"Yes, but we cannot continue to do these sorts of things, I have bills to pay - I used to think about adventures, riding about in mighty seagoing vessels or aboard flying carpets but now I must think about money"

"Perhaps but this habit - and it is a habit you are now operating by is not living"

"Are you suggesting that all I am looking for is comfort?"

"Woody, comfort can lull you into a false sense of security, tranquility can be dangerous. I realized this at the ashram where I was a photographer and surrounded by numerous beautiful women serving me hand and foot."

"Rossaroni, I don't live that way, you can't expect us to give up those comforts that protect us from the bitter cold or broiling heat?"

"Listen Woody, I don't trust them - we should be closer to the abrasive elements of nature"

I took a streetcar home from dinner, looking at the street signs, thinking about the chickens and the ports we had sacked and told Lady Lyme Weoghe all about my dinner with Rossaroni

Casino Turnips

The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling - a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension - becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.

Lord Turnips did not know how he had arrived in this casino but he suddenly knew he was tired. Very tired.

If he understood correctly the situation...he had a sizable pile of chips in front of him...somehow...although by now he was used to finding himself in remarkable situations. He suspected vaguely that his schoolyard acquaintances Admiral Rossoroni, Lord Woodpecker Smyth and Lady Marzipan had something to do with his situation.

He shifted himself unobtrusively away from the roulette he had been playing and went to stand for a moment at the brass rail which surrounded breast-high the top table in the salle privee.

It appeared that Lord Toronanga was seated at the top table and had himself amassed a prodigious pile of chips.

UPDATE: Just as Lord Turnips was boldly stepping up the short stairs that led to the top table to match card-playing wits with Lord Toronaga, he was tapped on the shoulder by Woody who breezed by him up the stairs. "No fear old chum, I'm the gamester around here" he whispered to Turnips.

The KEEPIES! Redux! Again!!

As chairman of the annual KEEPIES award committee, I am pleased to announce a new category: "BEST ACCEPTANCE AWARD SPEECH"

The Winner of this years inaugural award is none other than our beloved Freebooter, The Admiral Rossaroni!

I'd Like to Thank the Academy...

I would like to thank the Academy and all the wonderful people who helped me write "Inane (adj.)." I have a list.

First of all, I'd like thank myself because, without me, none of this would have been possible. It was because I believed in myself that I had the courage to write what many thought was a complete waste of time.

I'd also like to thank my agent, Ari Gold. Without you, none of this would have been possible. We did it, Ari!

My defense team, Goldberg, Goldstein, and Goldfarb. If you hadn't gotten me off on that technicality, none of this would have been possible.

My inexplicable sense of self-worth. Without that concept, none of this would have been possible.

My ma and pa, who, although they had no knowledge of my desire to write, or indeed anything at all about me, encouraged me through ridicule and abuse.

I'd like to thank the treasury of many of the cities along the Forbidden Coast, which now reside in the hold of the Planetary Sovereign, for helping to finance the writing of the article.

(music starts)

(Quickening his pace) I'd also like to thank Harry's Armorer Shoppe, for outfitting many of my expeditions. Um, the girl at the restuarant the other day who gave me a refill on my meade. Fagan, at the ship caulker's, who said he'd give me a 5% discount if I mentioned his name on the air. And Marzipan. You're my muse, baby!

(music gets louder, presenter moves to start ushering him off the stage)

...and King Aragorn should end the illegal occupation of Mordor! Bring the troops home!

(fade to commercial)

Awards Night!!!!!!

Good evening sports fans! Yes, its that time of year again – awards time.
Well, you’ve got your Tony’s, your Obies and your Oscaries and now for the first time on live-internet, we’ll be presenting the 928th Annual (in this dimension and others both future, past and present time streams) Keepies hosted by Tony Orlando and many other luminaries of the Arts and Sciences including Nobel Prize winner, Lord Kelvin! Incidentally, this entire awards ceremony will be live-blogged by Lady Lyme-Weoghe and Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper!!! WOWZERS!!!

“Ladies and Gentlemen, It is my great pleasure to announce the first category, ‘Best Dining Scene in a Blog set on an undersea vessel’ and the nominees are The Admiral, Brigadier Rossaroni for his thrilling post ‘Inane: (adj.) - lacking sense, significance, or ideas’; Lord Woodpecker-Smythe for ‘MMM, something smells good here aboard the Naughty-Less!’ and Lord Turnips for ‘ Precious Treasure.’

(Live blogging by Lady Lyme Weoghe commences)

Boos and catcalls are erupting from the audience or should I say part of the audience, the Rossaroni part.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, there’s no such story as MMM, something smells good here aboard the Naughty-Less!’”

“Silence! And allow me to announce the winner”

“The winner is …. THE BRIGADIER!!!!!”

The brigadier is walking up to the stage where he threatens the presenter with a ‘whiff of grapeshot,' takes the statuette in the photo above and makes a pass at the awards girl.

Lord Kelvin and Lord Tony Orlando and Dawn ready the next presentation.

The next award is made to someone in the literary world who has made an enormous contribution to the body of Chris Elliot-based literature via writing, filmmaking and charitable works.

The nominees are: Chris Elliot for writing “The Shroud of the Thwacker” ; Chris Elliot for writing “Into Hot Air” ; Chris Elliot for donating time to appearing in the documentary “Cabin Boy” and finally Lord Turnips for his posting “Prisoner of the Island.”

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

Again Boos and catcalls are erupting from the audience or should I say part of the audience, this time the Chris Elliot part.

“Prisoner of the Island isn’t Chris Elliot related!”

“Tangentially it is too!”

Tony ‘s got it back under control

“The Winner is: Chris Elliot for ‘Into Hot Air’!!!!”
Regrettably, the winner is not present tonight and as such I will accept the $500 Shoney’s Big Boy gift certificate.

There seems to be some commotion / controversy going on -----

“Hey, I’m here”

“No you are not”

Security guards are escorting someone from the auditorium and Mr. Dawn has started on a new category.

Now, our next category is very special, it is “Best Subject impersonating a chicken as if under mind control but isn’t really undercontrol anymore.”

The nominees are Lord Turnips in “Might Chanticleer”, Lady Marzipan in “Set Adrift” and The Commodore in “You Ought to Be in Pictures!”

And the winner is LORD TURNIPS in “Might Chanticleer”

Turnips is coming up on stage munching on what appears to be a fluffernutter sandwich

“First I’d like to thank me, then Lady Turnips then Capt Stuart then Daphne Turnips then……”

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORING, BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORIING”

Wow this audience is tough! Lets see what the next category is

The next category is Best Faulknerian Rip-Off. The nominees are Lord Woodpecker Smythe for “The Lamp’s Turgid Savage Gleam,” Lord Turnips for “Regarding Troll Fens” and Lady Lyme Weoghe for some letters she posted on-line.

What? I’ll kill him – he’s too lazy to look up the article’s title!

And the winner is Woody with 5000 votes for “The Lamp’s Turgid Savage Gleam”

Woody, I must tell you that was some of the finest writing I’ve seen this decade and that includes several articles by Christopher Hitchens’ in the Atlantic such as his review of Revolutionary Road and most of John Updike’s works.

Woody is responding

“Well, yeah, thanks – I’ve considered writing to be a passion along with being a swain and acting of course, I’d really like to get behind the camera next.”

Ladies and Gents please stay tuned during this important commercial break – we’ll be handing out more awards later including “Most Violent Gunslinger” “Character Most Likely to Murder the Rest of the Ensemble Cast” and the coveted “Best Actor Thrown Forward In Time to Appear in a Dinner Theater Production of ‘Jesus Christ Superstar.’”