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.’”

Operation Excelsior Dramatis

The Admiral had it all figured out. This gambit was known as “The Old Squawk” and it was never known to fail unless the individual under control had somehow broken the conditioning. Ridiculous! This was of course impossible and, relieved, the Admiral then began whistling a catchy tune, which in another part of the multi-verse was the bridge portion of Matthew Sweet’s 1990’s hit “Girlfriend.” Regrettably, he was interrupted by Woody.

“You know what?”

“What is it now Woody?”

“I think this cabin is a couple inches smaller than Turnips.”

“Oh, uh, yes, well I’m not really concerned with that now.”

“Can I look at your magic sword, Sabrina? I need to practice for the big battle.”

“No not right now – I’m looking for something for the Chicken-based assault on Lord Toranaga’s stronghold”

“Please, please, please?”

“Huh, ok, sure you can, just don’t swing it around in here – as you pointed out, this cabin isn’t very large.”

“No problemo skipper, I’ll be careful”

“Really? I recall Lady Lyme Weoghe recounting numerous instances of you pushing buttons marked ‘don’t push’ and pulling levers marked with similar warning signs.”

“Look, I said, I’ll be careful plus you know Lady Lyme Weoghe is always exaggerating about things like that.”

“I find her advice to quite sage actually but ok, here you go”

“Nice” and Woody began to swing the glowing +4 long sword about. He even practiced a few thrusts at life sized dummy of Sir Bocking the Admiral used for “batting practice.”

“Why that fink – He’ll pay for that - he painted buckteeth and 'google eyes' on that dummy!” Sir Bocking whispered half to himself and half to Kaotic E and Zimbar as he peered through the peep hole he’d drilled for the express purpose of spying on the Admiral. Sir Bocking however, was about to be rewarded with a rare treat for Woody had raised the shining blade over his head and was about to cleave the fencing dummy in twain. Instead of striking the dummy though, the blade made fatal contact with the over-sized crystal chandelier the Admiral had installed after the last sacking. The chandelier of course came crashing down right on the Admiral.

“Woody you blithering ….. “ was all he could say as stars and cartoon bluebirds filled his mind's eye.


Luckily he came too in what seemed like moments later but he was no longer in his cabin. Instead he was surrounded on three sides by what seemed like a very flimsy wall with bits of multi-colored cloth tossed over the walls in the fashion of drapes. The Admiral noticed he was surrounded by eleven other gentlemen not wearing swords or chainmail but dressed in toga like outfits completely sans weapons. A plate and goblet had been placed in front of each on long table and a man with a beard and long hair was looking directly at him and singing. The ten remaining coves gazed at him wearing shocked expressions and making denials of various sorts. The singer appeared to be directing his wrath directly at the Admiral as he belted out a song.

“One of you here dining, one of my twelve chosen will leave to betray me!”

There was an awkward silence followed by a "I'll have a Morey Amsterdam sandwich if you've got one"

"CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT" yelled an annoyed director.

Mighty Chanticleer

After several days had passed since his attempt to brainwash Lord Turnips had failed so miserably, Admiral Rossoroni and Lord Woodpecker considered Lord Turnips latest personality incarnation as a rooster. Lord Woodpecker reminded him of an old joke:

this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs."*

At that the Admiral did a spit take and sent Scottish thrice-malted barley which had been casked for over 50 years shooting out of his nose. "Good Lord man! Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Lord Woody looked puzzled "you don't actually intend to have him....I mean...with a chicken?"

Admiral Rossoroni grimmaced and gave Lord Woody a how-stupid-are-you? look. "No, I mean to use his unique Chicken persona in my attack on Lord Torananga. You'll see."


Meanwhile, Lord Turnips was wondering how long he could maintain the pretense that he was a Chicken. Strutting around had given his gammy leg a bit of bother. He knew that he needed to continue with the charade a little longer.

*Woody Allen - Annie Hall 1977

3 3 3 For My Heartache, 4 4 4 for My Headache

Johnny Sixguns faced Toranaga in his kitchen stadium.

"My body is a vessel for the truth Toranaga"

Toranaga's face twisted in confusion.

"What the heck is that supposed to mean, loud mouthed braggart?"

"My mates will be here soon and they'll be serving you up a very special 'secret ingredient' if you know what I mean."

"You're friends are pitiful fools and ..."

But Toranaga did not finish as he was interrupted by his pimply-faced junior messenger.

"Your lordship, your lordship" the young man panted, "a message for you sir."

"what what what" toranaga replied in annoyed tone.

"The Planetary Sovereign has arrived and a party of warriors, mages, thieves and two epsilon-minus, semi-proles are storming the castle."


"Jimmy, White Shadow, PW - stop them - summon the ..."

But once again, Toranaga was interrupted, this time by a charging Turnips/Hannon.

"Banzai - BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWK!" he cried in his fiercest battle squawk.

In the meanwhile, Sir Bocking was busy sticking his shiv in the three henchmen while Zimbar pocketed the silver.

Woody and the Admiral halted in their tracks to ensure that none of the fine antique china was damaged in the melee.

The golem Fedor crashed through a wall and accidentally damaged three teacups but other than that most of the antique dining ware was protected.

Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until Lady Marzipan noticed a large lever marked "DO NOT PULL."

Woody took a moment from his guard duties to take a quick look at what had Lady Marzipan so engaged.

"I'll bet Lady Lyme Weoghe would be interested in this - she's always telling me not to touch stuff like that. I'll show her - I'll just go over there and demonstrate my will power in front of a witness. I won't fall for that one and pull it."

"Hey Lady M, its me Woody remember? Neat looking lever, mind if I get a closer look?"

Lady M replied, "No Woody, that's not a good idea, you know what happens. Lady Lyme Weoghe told me to keep an eye out for this type of thing."

"Oh no worries there Lady M. I'll just ..."

And here Woody slipped on a the slippery rind of a yellow tropical fruit and landed his other foot in a bucket as he stumble forward.

"I'll be just fine ..."

Woody, his eyes obscured by a large tapestry, stumbled right into the lever.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Stars

Tracers

Stillness of space

Bing, beep, beep

"Sir, Sir, you're needed on the bridge"

Happy One Year Anniversary, Barrister's Keepe!

Well kids, what a long strange trip it's been. Now that Barrister's Keepe has completed one whole year and 176 hard hitting articles about idiots and general buffoonary, I have an important announcement to make.

Starting immediately, Barrister's Keepe will convert to what I have always wanted it to be, a blog for and about Lego Dioramas. As this diorama depicting Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog shows, the Lego Diorama genre is just super-duper. Here we see Dr. Horrible being beaten up by the local superhero.

Um, on second thought, that's kind of lame. Not Dr. Horrible, THAT'S awesome, or even Lego dioramas, which are awesome, but to a lesser degree. But the idea of writing about them is a little lame. And it doesn't even work well as a joke in a blog either. Moving on...

I think what we'll continue to do is to write more articles about idiots acting idiotically.

We seem to have hit on a general theme in all the "worlds" we write about. The story revolves around 3 people: the Admiral/Brigadier, Turnips, and Woodpecker-Smyth (a.k.a. Woody, a.k.a. W-S, a.k.a. Homer J. Fong). The Admiral/General claims to be a leader, and is rather devious and Machiavellian in his behavior (bordering on monstrous lately, it seems). His friend Turnips is usually suffering from some sort of traumatic brain-injury-slash-Manchurian-Candidate-brainwashing. With hilarious results. And Woodpecker-Smythe is the Breakout character, a la Kramer from Seinfeld. His enthusiasticly idiotic nature completes the comedy troika.

And these character always seem to be on a mission. And it always involves trying to rescue/capture One Lady Marzipan, depending on whether she's good or evil.

This is the formula.

But where will it go next? The D&D universe can't last forver. Here are a few ideas:

Star Trek Barrister's Keepe

Our intrepid trio are part of the Star Trek Universe (Whether TOS, TNG, DS9, STV, or Enterprise can be negotiated. And if you don't know what the acronyms stand for, you're not geeky enough to be reading this blog). Just imagine Captain Rossaroni ordering Turnips, his Vulcan Science Officer, to mind meld with Chief Medical Officer Woodpecker-Smythe. The comedy and copyright violation potential is unlimited!

The Gospel According to Barrister's Keepe

Imagine Devinci's The Last Supper. Now imagine it in the hilarious Barrister's Keepe universe. Perhaps Jesus actually had 15 disciples, with three of them being idiots. Or maybe Our Lord and Savior Rossaroni has disciples like John(ny Six Guns), Mary Marzipan, Woodpecker son of Smythe, and the traitor Turnips Iscariot. The only thing stopping this thing from being written is my fear of damnation.

That's all folks. It's been a fun year. I now return you to the narrative...

Brawwk Brawwwk!

The Admiral erupted with unusual ferocity.

“Great blathering blatherskites! “

As has been his wont throughout this narrative, Woodpecker-Smythe pointed out the obvious

“He thinks he’s a chicken, you know gallus domesticus”

And, with that impeccable sense of timing so necessary to drop in on the most embarrassing aspect of this pitiful scene, Sir Bocking strode in with his henchman Zimbar in tow.

“Ah, I see I’ve missed the high class luncheon featuring ..” And here he paused to lean over and survey the remains on serving dishes.

“…. Almond Chicken ala Binky .. simply delightful”

The Admiral quickly regained his composure.

“Actually, I was aiming for a Coturnix coturnix japonica theme but I had to act quickly after Captain Stupid over here nearly spilled the proverbial beans about the sacking.”

“Who’s Captain Stupid?” Zimbar asked.

“You, that’s who” replied Bocking

“Now listen carefully, I understand that Lord Toranaga is not only a high-level mage but also fancies himself to be a top-flight chef and designer of haute couture, 8th level. If I am sure of anything, he’s no doubt got his wedding banquet already laid out and Lady M is probably the main course.”

Woody looked ashen.

“Will we have to face him in a fashion feud?”

Bocking turned on his heel, his hand on the hilt of his +5 shiv.

“Quite likely, quite likely I’m afraid. And it might even include a bake-off as a tiebreaker.”

Zimbar cut in and place both palms on the dining table. He looked exceptionally grave.

"Then we had better hope to Heimdall that chicken isn't the secret ingredient."

"Bawgawk Bawgawk!" seconded Turnips

A Delicious Evening

Lord Woodpecker-Smythe, Lord Turnips, and the Admiral were gathered around the Admiral's table and set down to a delightful meal prepared by Cash, Vardaman and Binky the hyper-intelligent (although-not quite-human smart) Monkey. Tonight's board of fare was Almond Boneless Chicken, a specialty of Lord Turnips' Estate and one that the Cash/Vardaman/Binky triumvirate could passably copy from Lord Turnip's scribbled recipe.

Turnips was extremely enthusiastic about the meal which reminded him of his home and hearth. Admiral Rossoroni and Lord Woodpecker-Smythe humored him. The meal, although quite filling, was naught more than crispy fried chicken breast, some sauce, and white rice: fairly pedestrian for their tastes. They even supressed an argument over the choice of wine in deference to Lord Turnip's blue mood.

Lord Turnips turned to his associates. "My good companions as you know I have a strange sense that I've been blacking out and committing horrible crimes. I can't help but think that these questionable sackings and pillagings that we have been witnessing lately have been somehow our responsibility in some way."

Admiral Rossoroni gave Lord Woodpecker-Smythe a quick look but was unable to stop him from blurting out in an uncharacteristically childish taunt. "DUH! Where have you been? The Admiral brainwashed you so you could do his dirty work you daft old agronimist and minister of state."

Admiral Rossoroni kicked Woody under the table. Woody realized his mistake. "Um, I mean, yes it is odd how so many castles, ports, temples, wizard keepes, hobbitons, and rabbit warrens have been razed recently. "

The Admiral pulled out his gold pocket chronometer and dangled it in front of Lord Turnips. "Turnips, I need your attention. I want you to keep your eyes on this until I count to ten. When I reach ten I want you to forget everything Woody has told you and I want you to signify that you have done so by whistling."

The Admiral commenced his count and at the conclusion Lord Turnips sat silent, a blank look on his face. Admiral Rossoroni grew concerned at the silent impassive face of Lord Turnips. Had his hypnotic suggestion failed? Was this a cross-wiring? How many links had he programed? Those beautiful links were so numerous could he really trust the response he would get? Lord Turnips was an enigma. He was bright but often daft. Not always quick on the uptake but the reprogrammed version had a hell of an uppercut and was skillful with the blade and knew a number of 10th level cleric spells.

"Am I talking to Hannon now?" he asked.

At that Turnips/Hannon got up out of the chair and began crowing like a rooster.

"Cocka Doodle Doo!" (or something similar)

Lord Woodpecker-Smythe exclaimed: "Good Lord! Now you've done it Rossoroni. What did you do to him now?"

Admiral Rossoroni called for Vardaman. "Bring me the black bag located on the trunk in my quarters immediately."

"Brwawk" Chirped Turnips/Hannon.

My Big Fat Lokarian Wedding

Lord Toranaga sipped from a fine crystal goblet.

Smacking his lips, he announced “This is a fine white zinny! I shall serve it at our wedding feast!”

Lady M was not impressed.

“How many times do I have to tell you there is no way I’ll marry you – I’d rather marry one of your Sahuagin brutes!”

“Oh please, do not be cross my sweet – it upsets my staff, especially the White Shadow – he despises conflict.”

Toranaga then took another gulp of the zinfandel and raised a glittering coin to his eye.

“You see, I’ve already directed the mint to design a new gold piece featuring you and I reclining in our royal beach chairs – note the fine engraving which includes details such as the novelty straws protruding from our fat Buddha shaped mugs – I designed it myself.”

To which Tornaga’s three henchmen exclaimed in unison, “Wow boss you are an artistic genius!!”

“True, true, let us drink to my artistic genius, then I'll show you the designs for the bridesmaids outfits!”

Toranaga did not finish the toast for at that moment Johnny Sixguns came exploding through the oaken door in a cloud of sawdust and bat guano.

Toranaga sprayed the remains of a mouthful of white zinfandel in surprise.

Holding a large, still vibrating frying pan (recently used on the White Shadow’s noggin) in one hand, Johnny strode up to the surprised pair of Toranaga and Lady Marzipan.

“Is this guy boring you?”