Barrister's Keepe

We're Back!

2011-02-03T13:02:00.004-05:00

What ho, loyal reader(s)!
I've just now escaped the vile clutches of Count Ignatieff and have made my way back to civilization. What did I miss? Anything going on? India still ours? The Suez canal still safe?

My comrades in arms should be around here somewhere, I'll send a servant to go roust them straight away.

Rossaroni

End of Truculent Daschunds league

2009-08-13T21:39:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-06T23:28:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-06-18T11:56:00.002-04:00

Schweinehund Gary Bettman

2009-06-12T22:50:00.003-04:00

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!!!!

2009-06-01T21:11:00.001-04:00

A GOOD VAC-SUIT REPAIRMAN IS HARD TO FIND

A Bad Man is Hard to Find

2009-05-30T21:27:00.007-04:00

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

2009-05-26T23:30:00.006-04:00

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

2009-05-24T10:47:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-20T07:29:00.007-04:00

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

2009-05-19T14:45:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-18T08:00:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-17T21:32:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-17T12:43:00.005-04:00

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!!!

2009-05-11T19:41:00.005-04:00

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?

2009-05-09T15:50:00.004-04:00

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

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

ROSSARONI ... UNCHAINED!!!!

2009-05-07T20:38:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-03T14:29:00.002-04:00

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!

2009-04-30T15:00:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-29T21:04:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-24T10:18:00.000-04:00

A new article posted by Lord Turnips

keep watching this space for more.....

AWESOME!

2009-04-23T20:58:00.003-04:00

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

Point-Counterpoint

2009-04-22T07:41:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-20T21:24:00.006-04:00

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

2009-04-19T15:42:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-02T08:16:00.005-04:00

"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

2009-03-25T21:05:00.001-04:00

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?

2009-03-05T00:09:00.014-05:00

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?

2009-03-04T18:14:00.004-05:00

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?

2009-02-28T12:27:00.006-05:00

(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!

2009-02-22T17:47:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-19T20:22:00.009-05:00

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

2009-02-15T07:37:00.004-05:00

"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

2009-02-11T20:28:00.009-05:00

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

2009-02-10T21:43:00.004-05:00

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

2009-02-09T20:38:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-03T21:46:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-31T14:06:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-29T20:11:00.005-05:00

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

2009-01-26T21:03:00.006-05:00

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

2009-01-24T20:07:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-20T23:03:00.006-05:00

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!!

2009-01-20T20:16:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-01-19T09:36:00.008-05:00

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!!!!!!

2009-01-16T19:29:00.006-05:00

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

2009-01-13T20:28:00.007-05:00

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

2009-01-13T12:24:00.006-05:00

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

2009-01-10T20:43:00.004-05:00

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!

2009-01-07T19:04:00.007-05:00

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!

2009-01-05T21:09:00.006-05:00

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

2009-01-05T11:41:00.007-05:00

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

2009-01-03T21:05:00.002-05:00

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?”

Another in a long series of fitful dreams

2008-12-24T00:21:00.006-05:00

Lord Turnips tossed and turned in his opulent cabin in his regal bed which according to custom was a full 2 inches wider and longer than Admiral Rossoroni's and made the hammocks slept in by the crew risablely inadequate.

His fitful dreams turned back to his alternate persona Hannon, the Troll-Slaying cleric of Heimdall.

In his dream Hannon was tending to his Troll-slayer keepe, serving as harried magistrate and Lord to his newly-peopled lands in the Troll Fens. Things were going well in his life but he suffered a sense of ennui. He tried to explain everything to Salina. She just didn't understand his desire to "loaf" now that he had means. He wanted to travel to the Eastern Marches to explore the idea of Brahman, the eternal Oneness. This was pretty sensitive stuff for Hannon as he was sworn to Heimdall: son of nine mothers, swords, one arm, wolf bites and all. Hannon had the inkling however, that Heimdall was part of a larger cosmogony. A meta-cosmogony if you will.

Salina listend to his discourse on this in utter disbelief. She had sincere feelings for Hannon and wanted him to settle down as Liege of the newly-conquered Troll Fens and maybe she would couple with him in a bond agreeable to their two Deities. Hannon's dabbling with this Brawmin meta-cowjury stuff was not good for him getting the ok from Heimdall for a marriage outside his faith. She didn't want to have to convert to the Norse mythology as she was just fine worshiping Athena in her native hellenic mythos. Besides the Norse services were just such a bore. The Hellenic mythos was also more empowering to women and she would not hold to have their daughter raised in such a boorish culture without the influence of the Sisterhood of Athena.

She also noticed that Hannon had taken to smoking french cigarettes and talking about art.
She became angry at Hannon and stormed out of the coffee house where he was laying his vibe on her about the potential for an alternate unified cosmology. This was to be the last time anyone had seen her alive.

It was with this dreamed backdrop of a conflict between Hannon and Salina that Lord Turnips awoke to the sounds of Vardaman and Cash outside his cabin door fishing and japing.

Vardaman

2008-12-22T20:24:00.005-05:00

The incandescent sun raises a thin film of sweat on Vardaman.

Meanwhile, Cash observes the Mr. Binky push his small broom across the foc’sle. Cash imagines he favors constructing baby buggies rather than coffins. Geometry favors coffins over buggies though.

Vardaman returns to his fishing – he has still caught no fish. His mother was a fish, he thinks, but not as clever as Mr. Binky. Mr. Binky knows a lot more than he lets on.

In another land, Johnny Sixguns realizes no prison can hold him and he blows the cell door off its rusty hinges with a cocktail of bat guano and coal dust.

Oooh, Oooh BLACK DIAMOND or Coming To Your Emotional Rescue

2008-12-21T09:33:00.005-05:00

Lord Toranaga continued his conversation with Lady M as his three henchmen, The White Shadow, PW Giant Chin and Jimmy stood mutely guarding the exits.

First, surveying the grand hall with sweeping hand motions, he spoke to his henchmen, “Dunderheads, do you recall when I bought this magnificent stronghold?”

The three simpletons nodded like marionettes.

“Are we gonna go downrange boss?” PW interjected.

“No, not now. I have yet to weaponize the combination of your common sense, the White Shadow’s pick-up lines and Jimmy's sense of humor.”

“OOOOH, I want to be called Jimmy Fresh!” Jimmy shouted.

To which the other two replied, “Shut up or we are gonna call you ‘&*# bird’!”

The situation was clearly headed in the wrong direction.

Lady Marzipan looked appalled at this cretinous behavior as well as the White Shadow's poor table manners (he was licking the top of his ale bottle). Toranaga realized he had to quickly regain control of this scene before this opportunity to sway Lady M's opinion was spoilt. Without her, his plans to extract and purify slag, phosphor-gypsum, and calcium sulfate wastewater from Antipodan Mountains would all be for naught for she had the technical knowhow.

Perhaps it was time for the tender, sensitive approach.

So, presently he turned to Lady Marzipan, appearing in soft focus; now holding a cute widdle baby tiger cub drinking from a bottle in his arms,” If this home doesn’t appeal to you we can live with our in-laws until we find the palace of our dreams or a citadel that some mid-level manager with Enterprise Rent-A-Frigate bought two years ago because it was real big and nice and he got a 3.8% loan with 42% ARM. Now he is divorced and has an addiction to oxycontin and Jack Daniels and can't pay the 4,500 gold piece per month mortgage. I love the pain and suffering of others during the holidays.”

Before, she could reply Toranaga added for good measure, “Oh and I’ll kill Johnny Sixguns if you don’t agree to marry me – being the sensitive type I’ll give you until the sunset tomorrow to decide – sleep tight.”

Sinister doings in the Antipodes

2008-12-20T10:05:00.009-05:00

Woody, Rossoroni,

Have examined the multi-spectral imagery that indicates that enormouse amounts of slag, phosphogypsum, and calcium sulfate wastewater has been removed from Mount Cook Mountain. (Since Lord Turnips is indeed a decendent of Captain James Cook, I shall refrain from using the slang Aoraki Mountain)

My analysis indicates with 60% certainty (+-30%) that someone or something is building a deep tunnel facility in the very stout volcanic rock. Could this "doomsday facility" be designed to survive some impending catastrophe? Perhaps I've already given away my analysis by calling it a "doomsday facility".

In any event...If they do complete the Mount Cook facility it could well mean that Karen and Ken are preparing for an impending global catastrophe or merely are collectors of calcium sulfate wastwater, slag and phosphogypsum.
Your, Turnips

(although not at liberty to reveal sources and methods, this image of a large industrial sewing machine or air filtration system being installed in the Mount Cook facility was recently acquired at great expense and loss of life...oops I just gave away a source and method)

Karen-ologists at Odds Over Cryptic "RBBB" Reference

2008-12-19T23:41:00.008-05:00

(AP - Washington) Karen-oligists across the blogosphere are fiercely debating the recent mysterious appearance of "Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper" (RBBB) in the list of "Dramatis Personæ of the Realm."

During the Cold War, Kremlinologists would often argue over the the appearance of certain Soviet luminaries in photos, or their placement on a reviewing stand during annual May Day parades. In this photo, we clearly can see that Defense Minister Ustinov was standing closest to Brezhnev. Is he now in favor? What about Kosygin? Why is he not pictured? Are the rumors of his stroke true? Perhaps he was the one taking the picture. Who knows.

But that's really all besides the point, since this article is all about Karen. Why did she choose the moniker Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper as her literary nom de plume? Author and intellectual Dan L. has his own theory. "I theorize that Karen is trying to drop a subtle hint that she has become a gravida, from the latin graviditas, meaning that her Oocyte has been fertilized... she's preggers." After putting down his thesaurus he continued, "I mean, just think about it, she's married to a New Zealander, world reknowned for their fertility, and she's living in an arctic climate where there's nothing to do for 8 months out of the year except flense whale blubber and procreate. It all adds up."

Others aren't so sure. One wag, Andy R., has a different theory. "I believe that Karen has started her own business and is now producing and selling custom-made bumpers for infant carriages. Dan L is correct in that she spends much of her time flensing whale blubber, but she takes the fat and fashions it into her new product. And with the arrival of the baby Lady Turnips known to all, Karen was merely trying to advertise her product in the hope of making a sale. QED."

Who is to say what the truth is?

We now return you to your previous D&D themed narrative...

The Talented Mr. Binky

2008-12-18T18:38:00.007-05:00

Mr. Binky pushed his broom along the deck. Sweeping and brooming, that was his job. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Broom, broom, broom. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Broom, broom, broom. He liked the sound that made, so he said it out loud. "Sweep, sweep, sweep. Broom, broom, broom." All day long he worked to keep the Planetary Sovereign spic-n-span.

It was after the evening meal and Mr. Binky was sweeping and brooming along sub-deck 4. He liked to listen to all the hustle-n-bustle that was always going on in the giant ship. He couldn't really understand much of it, but he thought he might get smarter if he listened more.

"George, you oaf! This etching is of the Captain beating Turnips at whist. What possessed you to frame it in white lace? The frame should exude manliness and triumph. I don't know WHAT you were trying to accomplish, you simpleton!" "Chief Artisan Michael, look what you did, you made Georgie cry." "Be quiet, Andrew, and finish your frieze. It looks like my drunken mother threw up on it."

Mr. Binky didn't know what the HECK they were talking about, but Admiral Rossaroni's Artisans did lots of important work on the ship.

As Mr. Binky continued to sweep along the passageway he thought about how much he liked living on the Planetary Soverign. The Admiral was a good owner, and treated him very well. He was a lot nicer than his previous owner, Zirkast the Omnipotent. Sometimes Zirkast the Omnipotent would beat Mr. Binky. Admiral Rossaroni won Mr. Binky from Zirkast the Omnipotent a year ago, while gambling. Mr. Binky didn't really miss Zirkast the Omnipotent, but ZTO did give Mr. Binky super intelligence, so that had to count for something. But super intelligence for a monkey is only enough to qualify you to push a broom, and not enough to be any kind of criminal mastermind or rollerskate or anything like that. I don't care what the stories you've read say.

Mr. Binky didn't even miss his brothers and sisters in the jungle much, either. It was such a long time ago anyway, and he could hardly remember back that far.

By now, Mr. Binky was sweeping and brooming his way past Reserve Art Supply Room #7. He saw there was a strange light coming from under the door, along with some very sinister incidental music. He strained his monkey ears as hard as he could to hear what was being said.

"Lord Toronaga, we have just come from Kristal Stadt." Pause. "Yes, yes, the artifact is on board, your unholiness." Pause. "We will be passing north along the Forbidden Coast in 2 days." Pause. "Yes, my master, as you command. There will be no survivors."

The light went out.

Through the astral portal, a glorious visage

2008-12-17T10:09:00.008-05:00

The day's adventures behind them, Lord Turnips was minding his own business in his palatial cabin in the Planetary Sovereign when he began to see a shimmering light emerge from the normally not shimmery wall (er, bulkhead in nautical parlance). He covered his eyes to adjust for the blinding glare of the shimmeringness. He heard a voice that sounded not unlike that of his Lady Turnips, she of the beer funnel celebrations at Michigan State University, the expensive law degree, and the not so lucrative government job, and the fanatical love of all James Cameron films (whatever those are).

"My Lord, I announce the arrival of a daughter to this realm of time known as Northern Virginia in the early 21st Century"

Lord Turnips was surprised at his Lady's ability to use the astral gate without his help as she normally struggled with all electronic devices and seemed to make it a point that his knowledge of electronics was some sort of character flaw. But, his appreciation for her at that moment outweighed this foible. "My Lady, our daughter is born? Halleleuah!!! Praise the Lord! And just in time for me to change my benefits before the new year tide, and in time to take advantage of the additional beneficiary in this year's inland revenue filings. Lady you are truely wise and good."

She then asked him if he would like to see the etchings she had commissioned of the Baby Turnips?

"Verily, my wife"

(Behold!)

A Very Blue Monday

2008-12-14T14:00:00.010-05:00

After having made up, Woody and the Admiral began discussing some other ways of profiting from their current adventures in order to satisfy the filthy lucre-hungry Schlamazel the Butcher.

"I was thinking that perhaps we could sell a souvenir mug or pictures of our heroic battle versus the vile Sahuagin to the locals at the pier or to our own crewmen as a 'keepsake'" Woody said.

The Admiral seemed confused.

"Picture? What is a "picture"? Do you mean the etching I had made of that battle? You've probably never ventured down to sub-deck 4 in the lowermost level of the Panetary Sovereign. That's where I keep my army of artisans who document every aspect of my life via skectches, etches, painting, writing epic poetry, creating interpretive dance routines of what I have for breakfast, and writing illustrated children's stories about my belly-button lint."

To which Woody testily replied, "I thought I was in charge of epic poetry!"

At that the slap fight recommenced.

Shoot that Poison Arrow Through My Heart

2008-12-11T21:44:00.007-05:00

Johnny Sixguns was uncomfortable to say the least – it was low grade straw he was resting upon. Gazing up at the cell’s ceiling, he wondered if Lady Marzipan was faring any better. Probably not; Lord Toranaga was a pretty despicable varmit. He probably was applying the old honey and ant routine by now, laughing maniacally in standard fashion. Johnny Sixguns was going to make him pay for that.

Actually, Lady Marzipan was seated at one end of a long oaken dining room table in a quality, well-padded dining room chair. The chair arms were a little high and didn't fit under the table so that was a little awkward. Tornaga was seated at the other end per standard idiom. There were lots of candles and highly flammable fabrics draped about the room.

“I do not speak of love” Toranaga said.

“Your love is rotten to the core” replied Lady M

“I’ve told you before, I do not wish to speak of love” Lord Toranaga continued, “And I suggest you re-consider my offer if you care for your friends.”

Lady M would have none of this - “Toranaga, I care enough that I can never love you!”
The horrible Lord Toranaga rose from his seat and said “In that case you will bleed for I have no time to mess about!”

Lady Marzipan was outraged but maintained an unflustered exterior. As she idly picked at her cheese toast she quietly exclaimed, “My friends will come and crush you Toranaga.”

“Oh I don’t think so because EVEN IF they make it past my Sahuagin warriors and the Daughters of Odin AND Count Grimani AND the black chainmail turtleneck wearing assassins at the Kristal Stadt Coffee House at Kierkagaard Square, I still have two of my top agents on the Planetary Sovereign! MUHAHAHAHHAHAHA” Toranaga cackled.

Lady M looked momentarily taken aback.

Toranaga raised a crystal goblet of egg nogg to his lips and spoke, “Ah yes, I am well aware of what has been going on aboard your friend, the Admiral’s vessel - we shall be prepared for them and I’m afraid they shall all die.”

The Killing Moon Will Come Too Soon

2008-12-10T15:08:00.005-05:00

Lord Turnips sat down at his desk in the palatial cabin reserved for the impossibly rich Lord. Admiral Rossoroni had taken a smaller cabin than Lord Turnips or Lord Woodpecker-Smythe out of deference to their social rank. Admiral Rossoroni had seemed not to mind one iota.

As Lord Turnips began to ruminate over the past few days he felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck along with a burning sensation. He could not place it but he felt a pang of unease whenever he thought about certain periods when he had less than perfect recall of events. He seemed to have an image in his head of a Valkerie speaking with him while he stood at the lip of a crater. He also seemed to recall that she refererred to him as Hannon Trollslayer.

Without consciousness he scribbled the following words on the beech parchment with a diamond tipped fountain pen that Admiral Rossoroni had provided :

Under blue moon I saw you

So soon you'll take me

Up in your arms

Too late to beg you or cancel it

Though I know it must be the killing time

Unwillingly mine.

Lord Turnips wondered where his son Captain Stuart Turnips was at that moment. He'd had no memory of his son or even thinking of his son for several months. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth. Perhaps his storyline was inconvenient to his peers. It was also possible that Captain Stuart Turnips was a Deus Ex Machina to whatever drama was unfolding.

Lord Turnips began writing again:

A child arrived just the other day,

He came to the world in the usual way.

But there were planes to catch,

and bills to pay.

He learned to walk while I was away.

And he was talking 'fore I knew it,

and as he grew, He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, dad.

You know I'm gonna be like you."

Suddenly it dawned on Lord Turnips that he heard music ringing in his ears at a nearly imperceptable volume. "Tis strange to have these tunes. "What could be thine cause?"

As soon as he said these words Admiral Rossoroni burst into his room with a bottle of Schnapps, two glasses and a deck of cards. "My good man Turnips. You fancy a game of solitaire?"

Harmony Restored and A Perilous Decision Awaits

2008-12-08T21:37:00.006-05:00

The two sparring warriors calmed a bit following Turnips departure. Each looked quite abashed.
Woody: "I'm sorry"

The Admiral: "No, I'm sorry"

Woody: "I'm sorriest"

The Admiral "Ok, you are the sorriest, but I'm still really sorry"

Woody: "Friends?"

The Admiral: "Friends!"

The brave and manly former-combatants shook hands and reviewed the situation.

Woody: "Where did Turnips go?"

The Admiral: "Oh brother, weren't we trying to cheer him up?"

Woody: "I think he was kind of upset about all that sacking even though the sacking was only light to moderately sacking."

The Admiral: "I agree, he's too lawful good for his own good whereas you and I are rather more of the chaotic variety. And, a little more neutral-ish (and here he caught himself) although we are totally committed to rescuing Lady M and Johnny Sixguns, re-building the magic dingus of seven parts and restoring Livoniumtonchester to its former glory. Yes, ok so we are a little chaotic neutral-ISH. But certainly not EVIL! And, I did get a nice Hummel figurine that I was looking for - Its rated quite highly on the Bradford Exchange."

Woody: "Oh sure, but you know if you don't pay Schlamazel the Butcher back, he'll grill our &%%^%^$ that'll take more than a Hummel Figurine and a couple of enchanted gizmos."

The Admiral (putting his finger to his chin, pensively): "True, True, that means we might just have to do some more freebooting."

"Back to Kristal Stadt?" asked Woody? "All we got there was this magical porcelain horseshoe shaped thingy."

Writing Frightening Verse to a Bucktooth Girl in Luxembourg

2008-12-08T20:37:00.005-05:00

Hannon/Turnips was in a deep funk.

He sat at his spartan bunk gazing through sunken, red-rimmed eyes at his two adventuring mates, Woody the Half-Elven Illusionist and the Admiral. He absentmindedly twirled the magical dodecahedron in his fingers.

Lord Turnips/Hannon clearly re-emphasized that whilst the Good Party enjoyed many outstanding adventures and had blasted to smithereens, rendered unto dust, dispatched with make-do monster vertebrae flails, and generally smoten . . . many a foe, they had done so under the banner of lawful goodishness.

He also raised a point about the appropriate casus belli that led them to sack the Temple of the Daughters of Odin and Count Grimani’s Castle.

But, it was more than this, it was more than Salina or the imprisoned Lady M or the creepy pair of characters constantly building coffins in the ships’ hold.

Woody hesistated at first but decided they had to do something, “Look Turnips, you know what I do when I when I’m feeling down in the dumps like you? I compose another brilliant poem!”

The Admiral sensing an opening added “And I write entertaining stories in my logbook in which I visualize outcomes to my liking!”

“Sure” Woody added, “And look at old Bocking, he composes rude songs about people when he’s not planning their murders. That’s how he takes his mind off his troubles.”

“I’ve actually started one” replied Turnips as he showed them his own notebook.

Inside was indeed an introduction to a poem. It went as follows: “The day is gone and all its sweets are gone, soft voice ..”

Woody broke in sounding annoyed, “No, no, oh no, not all gooey like that! You need to write poems about dragons, dirks and lances and vanquishing wicked Lichs!”

“Now wait a second Woody, I’ve seen some of your stuff about certain ladies and its just like that” the Admiral chided.

“What were you doing looking in my personal poem book Freebooter?” said Woody, hands place petulantly on his hips.

“Well, it just so happens that I’m the Captain of this vessel..” but the Admiral was unable to finish his statement because both he and Woody somehow found themselves in a slap fight with Turnips caught between the two - each launching highly ineffective blows on the other.

“I think I’ll go talk to Cash and Vardaman” said Turnips as he escaped the cabin.

The Inept Wizard of The Rusty Palm

2008-12-07T12:16:00.006-05:00

After receiving the gift of the Magic Dingus of Seven Parts from the glistening misty figure: Raven Odinsdottir, Hannon/Lord Turnips considered his plight. He looked into the blood-strewn crater and saw a scrap of a parchment. He picked it up and read it. It was an editorial from the Elders of the Fort of the River Straights, an important center of artisanry in the Kingdom located in the South East Corner of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm (aka Michigan).

(Carl the Inept)

Carl the Inept --a wizard who has sat upon the Council of the Important in an impressive marble building for 30 years (1979-2009) in league with fellow important wizards. This wizard sat upon as chairman of the all powerful Armed Services Committee of the council of the Important for most of these years. During this time his home province, the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm has received naught in federal military spending and indeed even drew down several important bases. Carl the Inept now stands up to defend the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm during its most critical hour. He mounts no rebuke at all to the Bane of the Peninsula's citizenry, Lord Shelby the Jackass, of the Province of Crimson Tides who has secured innumerable federal dollars for the seer-sucker and straw-boater garbed denizens of his province, and provided lucrative incentives for lucky foreign artisans who have protected home markets to come produce at lower cost in his province so as to undercut the people of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm. So now when Lord Shelby the Jackass argues that the artisans and industry of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm are to be cut off from survival funding due to the failures of the Merchants of the Skyscraper Island to keep the banking system of the land afloat, it appears he has an agenda: to destroy the artisans of the Peninsula and all the people of that state so that there is greater power for the Province of the Crimson Tides and its sister provinces.

(Lord Shelby the Jackass)

Well, thanks a bunch Carl the Inept and thanks a bunch Lord Shelby the Jackass, from the people of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm and our sister states of the lands of the Snowy North. We'll keep you in mind when the next hurricane comes to your land. Perhaps you should have seen that coming? Wishing a plague of ghoul frogs to devour your homes and for a Basilisk to kiss your mothers. Eds.

So back to our story.....

After reading the editorial parchment, Perhaps it was a memory from his own youth when last his home peninsula was under the same level of duress, Lord Turnips/Hannon remembered a little better that he wasn't supposed to call Debbie V. In fact she was the sister of John V and she was often tantalizingly present to enjoy the banter of meetings of the Good Party co-led by John Wisshard and Hannon Troll-Slayer. Although John V served in a Chief Financial Officer role and had substantial perks and benefits of the other members of the C-suite, he had no veto power over party adventuring activities.

Lord Turnips/Hannon recalled also that whilst the Good Party enjoyed many outstanding adventures and had blasted to smithereens, rendered unto dust, dispatched with make-do monster vertebrae flails, and generally smoten . . . many a foe, they had done so under the banner of lawful goodishness. So it was with some confusion he asked Admiral Rossoroni the appropriate casus belli that led them to sack the Temple of the Daughters of Odin and Count Grimani’s Castle?

Hannon, Warlord of Turnips

2008-12-06T21:26:00.003-05:00

Homework, twenty-sided die, thief …that was weird.

Hannon / Turnips was back in the crater again … same black hat, same miscellaneous body parts, same ethereal figure of a gorgeous Northern maiden bearing down on him.

Wait. Check that. That maiden bit, that was new, he hadn’t noticed it before.

The misty figure spoke, “Fear not brave Hannon for I am Raven Odinsdottir and I have a gift for you.”

“Nice! What is it? A magic sword? A magic ring?” replied Hannon/Turnips.

Raven Odinsdottir tossed her lovely hair back, raised her right hand skyward and said, “No, it is a dodecahedron of wondrous power!”

She continued “I also have a Hummel figurine – it’s a limited edition – a young lad with a pot on his head, having his hair trimmed by the village barber. I didn’t want the Admiral to leave the Temple of Odin’s Daughters empty handed.”

Turnips was confused “What shall I do with this regular geometric solid?”

“Oh that? I think its part of the Magic Dingus of Seven Parts – one down, six to go” the ghostly figure added for good measure. You can find another one in Kristal Stadt.”

Good heavens, Miss Sakamoto! You're beautiful!

2008-12-05T18:28:00.004-05:00

Lord Turnips awoke with a start. He was standing in a very sticky pool of a red fluid. Sticky but slippery. He looked down. In his right hand was a bastard sword which gleemed brightly indicating some form of incantation, although he wouldn't know that. In his left was a shield which also gleemed unaturally. He was wearing a set of plate armor that was unusually light and comfortable. Upon his head was a mail cap also of unusual light weight and comfort.

This was not his usual sartorial fare. Normally he adorned himself in loose hanging comfort typical of his station as a middle aged, minister of government and supremely rich proponent of agriculture and the arts.

As he looked around he saw the severed limbs, heads, and torsos of dozens of orcs. Slightly further away he saw the snakey vertibrae of an Ogre that had been used as a flail to dispatch several dozen skeletons. [ed. SEE] A little beyond that he saw a crater which contained naught but a black wizards hat and staff and possibly a few body parts strewn across the crater indicating that someone who had been dressed like a wizard had been blown to smithereens (although Turnips did not know what a smithereen was.)

At that moment he remembered that he needed to phone Debbie V. on the pretext of helping her with her homework and that she kept promising to come over to play a thief character named Salina. Maybe he could get her to come over to check out his dice collection?

Shot Through the Heart and You're to Blame: You Give Love a Bad Name (Bad Name)

2008-12-04T19:08:00.007-05:00

That evening, following the somewhat less-than- successful sacking of the Temple of the Daughters of Odin, the party gathered around the steam harpsichord in the Planetary Sovereign’s ample lounge. The Admiral was holding forth beneath the swaying, candle filled crystal candelabra on the topic of the mysterious and charming Salina. In support, Mr. Mudskipper, the ship’s graphic artist had designed several charts depicting Salina in various slinky guises for the purposes of visual recognition. The entire party paid absolutely rapt attention of the sort normally reserved for a Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.

“Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, prior to charting a course through mer-man territory we’ll be paying a brief visit to the port city of Kristal Stadt, located here” and the Admiral gestured at a crudely drawn map with an X identifying the port’s general location somewhere to the southwest.

“Oh please” cried an exasperated Lady Lyme Weoghe, “That is absolutely the worst map ever! Schott could have done a better job – just how do you expect us to navigate with that? I mean, this is the bonehead that convinced us that there were just a 'couple' of skeletons and orcs at that so-called 'temple' and that 'fire elementals' were actually just a type of matchstick.”

But she was unable to finish as the hubbub rose.

Woody raised an eager hand.

“Yes Woody, what’s on your mind?”

“Why are we going to Kristal Stadt? Are we running low on Courvoisier?”

“Not Courvoisier exactly, but we are running low on the stuff that puts the ‘booty’ in ‘freebooter’ and by that I mean, gold, gems and the like – someone else’s of course.”

The Admiral continued, “Plus, I want to stop at my favorite restaurant, ‘Le Glace Lune’ to grab a quick bite.”

Rushing turned to Ali Baba el Mendab Penna the Younger and said quite excitedly “I hear you can get the best grilled cheese sandwich in the entire doggone Theocracy of Pale there.”

Ali Baba el Mendab Penna the Younger began to reply but before he could finish Zimbar stepped between the two and placed his grimy halfling hands on the lads’ shoulders “Why yes indeed that is true, and I shall take the opportunity to renew my partnership with our dear friend Kaotic E, thirteenth level fighter/thief. I believe he’s currently their executive chef – I understand he’s been looking to moonlight though.”

Turnips broke in. “Now wait just a second because (dramatic pause), A: who is Kaotic E and B: what about Salina?”

He was starting to feel there was no sign of the morning coming; that he’d been left out alone, like a rainbow in the dark.

Luckily the wise Admiral had a plan. “Ahh, Salina. You see Turnips old boy, she’s made a financially advantageous engagement to that aging lothario Count Grimani. No need to fret then, we will execute a financially advantageous sacking of Count Grimani’s Castle; rescue Salina and buy some spare parts for the Fedor.”

“Sorry” Turnips replied, “When there’s lightning, you know it always brings me down.”

The Temple of the Daughters of Odin

2008-12-03T16:57:00.018-05:00

The 11 adventurers had marched through the Wild for two days in their search for the temple. "Temple" was a misnomer, actually, as the place was more like a fortress. Had to be in this part of the world.

It had been 10 days since Turnips had started having his dreams. Or, at least, since he started telling us about them. Then they got worse. It wasn't just during the height of battle or while sleeping that Turnips would assume his Hannon persona, with its strange Northern tongue and accompanying Berserker battle rage. This certainly wasn't something that was advertised when the Admiral signed Turnips up for the "sugar cure." There must be something else afoot. And, while having a Berserker was defnitely handy in battle, we were now in real danger of losing the Turnips identity for good. This could not stand.

All morning the landscape was strangely silent. There was no sound nor sight of flying birds or ground creatures, both large and small. The land itself seemed to have lost some of its color. There was a faint charred smell to the air. The group was in a subdued mood, and even Bocking the Bard's songs could not rouse their spirits. In addition, for the past mile there was the strangest glow in the sky ahead of them. The orange glow would start then quickly fade. This would happen several times a minute.

Now there were faint, but growing, sounds of battle.

Not wanting to be taken unawares, the Admiral had ordered the fighters to the front of the group, in the Standard Adventuring Tactical Formation (SATF). Then came the theives, bowmen, and Zimbar the Halfling Paladin. In the rear were the healers and spell casters, as far away from melee weapons as was possible. Turnips was in the front line, as it was assumed that, during any combat, his Hannon Berserker persona would take over.

Rossaroni looked over at his friend, Turnips, as they trudged up the hill, whose summit must surely reveal to them what was afoot. Turnips was dressed in a leather jerkin, +1 enchanted chainmail (softly glowing green in the dim sunlight), an iron helm atop his head, and the famous Seven League Boots on his feet. On his back was the Bag of Holding, which contained all the Fellowships food and bedding. And a couple of ponies too, I think.

The Admiral remembered how Turnips had begged him not to interrupt the journey to Toronaga's Island for his sake. Rossaroni was adamant though. They had already lost Fedor. Another loss must be avoided, if possible. So the Planetary Sovereign put in to Woolly Bay, left the ship in the capable hands of the Chief, and made tracks for the Temple of the Daughters of Odin. Surely, the reknowned Sisters would know something about Turnips' Nordic affliction.

When they reached the summit a most unnerving sight greeted their eyes. Half a mile away stood the Temple, its sturdy polished granite walls rising twenty feet into the air. But surrounding the fort was an attacking army. Behind the army was a small hill, obscured by fog or smoke. Just then a orange glow flared up inside the mist and a glowing fireball flew towards the fort's wall, sending splinters of stone in all directions as it hit.

"Penna the Younger," ordered Rossaroni. "Come up here and tell me what your young elf eyes see." "Half-elf, Admiral," he joked. Even the sight in front of him could not douse his good humored nature. "On the left I see skeletons, perhaps 20 or 30 of them. The center has a troop of orcs. I reckon about 80 of them. On the right are 2 dozen earth elementals. And surrounding the hill are a dozen centaurs, galloping in a loose skirmish formation."

Undated picture of Penna the Younger

"I say, other than the chap with the fireballs, this lot doesn't look all that bad," Woodpecker-Smythe interjected.

"It's that 'chap' I'm worried about, Woody," replied the Admiral. "A low level sorcerer who can only summon elementals and skeletons could never throw fireballs like that. And they don't attack well defended castles either."

"So what's he up to then?" P the Y asked.

"Good question, my lad." The Freebooter responded. "Well, if he's not showng his entire hand, neither will I. No offensive magic until I give the word. Woody, can you whip up an illusion to hide or disguise us?"

Woody nodded and started rummaging through his pack. "Sure thing, boss. Give me a minute to find the blasted scroll."

The Admiral continued rattling out instructions. "Zimbar, you and the Padre are in change of dispelling those summoned creatures. You take the skeletons and the Padre will tackle the elementals, as they are a bit tougher to take down. Padre, keep your eyes open for any life-suckers. If that sorcerer is as bad as I think he is, he'll have a few liches or ghasts hanging about. And make ready with your bows, gentleman... and ladies," he said with a nod toward Lady Lyme-Weoghe, perhaps the best shot of the group, "I don't want those centaurs to get within 100 yards of us. Woody, are you ready?"

W-S closed his eyes, chanted quietly for several seconds, and the group faded into near invisibility. Only a slight shimmering in the air betrayed their presence. The Admiral hoped it would be good enough to get close to that hill before whatever was in there noticed them.

The Admiral looked over his motley group. "Alright people, no attacks till we're spotted. Stay alert for surprises."

"Follow me..."

The Feminine Thief Mystique

2008-11-30T08:57:00.012-05:00

Lord Turnips decided that he had seen one too many coincidences when Admiral Rossoroni handed him the calling card from Salina the thief. "Struth! 'tis just like my dream."

"D'ya mean?" The Admiral inquired. Incredulous at the strange portent of this female thief having appeared in the dreams of his friend Turnips.

"Pon my soul, I had a dream of this cleric figure named Hannon and . . ."

"D'you just say 'Hannon'"? Interupted Rossoroni. "'Hannon' is a name you insisted we call you during the battle with the Sahuagin. You seemed to have slipped into some sort of battle fever and spoke in tongues. You were quite the show, Old Bean."

"Hmmm?" Turnips pondered the meanings of this revelation. He knew that he had recently been through some strange blackout periods that happened to coincide with his band of voyager's greatest excitement.

Of course Admiral Rossoroni feared something like this would happen when he put his friend Turnips through a fortnight of mental conditioning in order to help him overcome an addiction to cane sugar. The "sugar cure" that Turnips signed up for provided a freebie for Rossoroni. He used the opportunity to train his normally sedentary friend into a autotomic weapon that could be useful in situations like the Sahuagin attack. but the entire dynamic of Hannon, (to say nothing of this Salina figure) was not in the programing.

"So who is this Salina?" Rossoroni asked.

"Really I'm not sure. I can't even put a fix on her face. I seem to know she's charmingly lovely but its sort of a blur. Perhaps I can get a fix if I take another nap."

"Well can you describe her at all?"

"Hmmm....maybe a sort of Vanessa Hudgens meets Xena appearance?"

(Vanessa Hudgens: Cuter than puppies)

(Lucy Lawless as Xena: Sorta attractive, but definitely bad ass)

He paused . . . "Maybe a little bit of Hallee Barry in there."

(Hallee Barry: Hollywood Icon)

He paused again . . . "Seems like she's got some sharp corners too. Like she's got this sense of propriety. She's very independent."

(Betty Friedan: Feminist Icon and communist agitator)

"Here, I'll try to sketch her."

(Salina?)

The Queen of Diamonds Redux

2008-11-29T17:26:00.002-05:00

Before Zimbar could reply Bocking continued “Well I guess, on second thought its really sort of an odd amalgamation of flesh golem and bronze or brass, I can never quite tell.”

“Wow, check this out” Zimbar exclaimed as he lifted the chest plate, “It’s a secret chamber and there’s a business card inside.”

“Fork it over munchkin”

“Hey, what’s with the munchkin talk?”

“You see Zimbar my simple friend, it’s your crainial capacity I reference, not your stature”

“Ooh I get it”

“I don’t think you do, now let me examine this calling card.”

“Alright already, don’t get your chain mail in a wad.”

Bocking examined the card, turning it over and over again in his fingers, “Classic white vellum with narrow blue piping below the logo – this is the work of elvish printers. Hmm, this reads (in old elvish and common), ‘Manses Burgled, Marks Charmed , Security Systems Evaluated’ and it has a name and address on it as well - ‘Salina, 10^th Level Thief, The Goblin’s Head Tavern, No. 8 Kierkegaard Square’.”

Zimbar was elated “Do you think she’s cute?”

“Would you please focus on the task at hand?” Bocking continued, “I think she has something we want, namely the device that was stored here inside Fedor for safekeeping – I wonder if we can get this Fedor-golem started.”

Meanwhile, topside, Turnips awoke with a rude sunburn. He’d been tormented by dreams of Hannon again but this time another figure from his past had appeared – a charming and dexterous thief. It was a sign surely. He would alert the Admiral to put in at the next port – he remembered her having an office there in a tavern on Kierkegaard Square. That tavern was kind of odd in that it was frequented by young people in black turtleneck chainmail but the hot chocolate and hummus they served was delicious!

Turnips was momentarily lost in thought but the knocking at his cabin door proved hard to ignore.

“Come in – its open” he called out

Woody and the Admiral entered.

“So what do you think about this Fedor business Woody?” Turnips asked.

“Why Fedor is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I've ever known in my life.” Woody replied.

Like a Shiny Metaphor Burning with the Heat of a Thousand Suns

2008-11-29T00:41:00.005-05:00

Lord Turnips was sorrow-filled from the [apparent] death of Fedor. He decided to take to his cabin aboard the Planetary Sovereign. As he drifted off to sleep he noted that he had blacked out during a portion of the fight with the sea creatures and had missed the action [or so he thought?].

He began to dream again of Hannon the ennui-suffering, troll-slaying, time-travelling, cleric of Heimdall. The Heimdall the vaunted guardian of Asgard that would have no sympathy for one of his more powerful lords moping about after achieving all of his life goals. Yeah, that Heimdall.

Hannon decided to talk to Trose, the uni-dimensional, non-player character he met during his encounter with a demon spider goddess Lolth in the infamous Q1 Module Queen of the Demonweb Pits.* Sadly, Trose was only good for basic lawful good advice and could be relied upon to reveal no true insights into the kind of metaphysical suffering Hannon faced. Lawful good characters were supposed to be so devout and true to their beliefs that you seldom saw them at cafes, clad in black turtlenecks, chain-smoking unfiltered Gauloises and reading Sartre or Kierkegard.

Trose offered that perhaps if Hannon, on bended knee prayed and made certain offerings things might become clearer. As Trose said this he placed an encouraging hand on Hannon's shoulder. After a few minutes of looking into Hannon's eyes in a blandly spiritual way, Trose placed a very alarming hand on Hannon's hip. Hannon abruptly got up and left the vestibule where Trose kept his sacraments to some never clearly delinated god of a different pantheon from Asgard. No wonder Trose had never married.

Hannon decided to go visit a female friend, the lawful good thief Salina. Salina was a dazzling person to talk to and she was as beautiful as she was dexterous [charisma 17 and dexterity 17...see?] As usual, Salina was in the nearby Theocracy of the Pale gaol because she had left her calling card at the scene of her latest crime. This was an occupational hazard of a life of thieving as a lawful good character. Poor Salina, was enormously proficient in footpadding and cutpursing from evil characters, but the line between good and evil was becoming especially blurry now that major combat operations in the Troll Fens had come to an end.

Salina and Hannon had never been a romantic item because it was strictly professional between them [again: lawful good]. But Hannon was fond of Salina in a chaste, blood allies; till the poisonous death; self-sacrificing; powerful sense of emotional longing; is this sounding too much like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon sort of way. His feelings perhaps could no longer be denied now that he was suffering so. Perhaps this comely lass could shake him from the horse latitudes in which he found himself? Hannon was sure that Salina was also fond of him. Still it was possible that she also kept a warm spot in her heart for the co-leader of the party John Wisshard. It was all so complicated to consider. Hannon became distraught with inertia.

Perhaps it would be best if he approached Salina about changing the nature of their professional relationship under some pretext rather than just coming out and asking? His warrior heart weighed him with the combined gravity of over 1000 suns and burned slightly less hot but still his chest thumped as if 1000 plate armor barding-clad warhorses were charging on the dry stones of very hot desert. Hannon considered coming out and asking Salina to be his helpmate in a more familial sense. He considered his options. Perhaps he could think of some excuse to meet her in the boat house? Such a scheme might blow up in his face because as a lawful good cleric he was not supposed to be deceptive and surely Salina would be as filled with rage as . . . a something that is filled with an enormous amount of rage. Salina would be filled with nearly 1000 burning suns full of rage. Perhaps it was time to make a direct inquiry of Heimdall? Perhaps he would sanction a union of such a powerful force as Salinas with a favored warrior-cleric?

Hannon realized that he thought of the 1000 sun metaphor before and as he considered why he would be thinking that . . . Lord Turnips awoke with a start as he realized that he left his tanning lamp on in his cabin of the Planetary Sovereign. Crikey! He was going to have some bad sunburn.

*Q1 Queen of the Demonweb Pits (1980) is the final chapter in the mega-adventure which includes T1-4 The Temple of Elemental Evil, A1-4 Scourge of the Slave Lords, G1-3 Against the Giants, D1-2 Descent Into the Depths of the Earth, and D3 Vault of the Drow.

The Lamp's Turgid Savage Gleam!

2008-11-28T18:00:00.007-05:00

At dinner that night, a rather somber affair given the events of the day, the party assembled to enjoy a meal at the Captain's table.

Sir Bocking leaned over to whisper conspiratorially to Zimbar, the halfling paladin, "You know, Zimbar, old mate - Something about that Fedor death speech didn't sound quite cricket to me."

"I know" Zimbar replied, nodding in a knowing fashion, "It seemed like a bit of diabolical overacting, if you know what I mean."

"No dumbkopf, that's not what I meant" Bocking replied testily.

"I mean didn't you think he knew just a bit too much about geometry, mechanics and naval grade rope ?" Bocking continued.

"Ooooh, I get it now"

"I'm not sure you do"

Finally, Zimbar suggested that the two excuse themselves and pay their "final respects" to Fedor in the Planetary Sovereign's chapel in order to settle the matter once and for all.

Sir Bocking got up and addressed the guests "Zimbar and I will be heading down to the chapel to see poor old Fedor off - by the way, my compliments to the chef, that 'Mindblower Sandwich' was simply delicious!"

A few moments later, the pair found themselves in the chapel facing Fedor's lifeless body now laying atop a makeshift funeral pyre.

Zimbar was first to speak "This is awfully strange - but I didn't notice .."

Zimbar did not finish the statement for he noticed two others were in the chapel as well, Cash the coffin maker and Vardaman the fool.

Vardaman had an old cane pole laying across his knees.

Cash says to him "You ain't gonna catch any fish down here - ain't nuthin' down here - you need to go up on deck."

Vardaman answered, "Aw hell Cash, cain't you see that them turnip greens are mightly spindly eating for a fellow of my frame."

Cash ignored the comment and returned to planing then stopped and squinted to check the trueness of the plank. He wanted to make sure he got the bevel just right on account of animal magnetism.

"Hand me 'nother one Vardaman, will ya?"

Bocking broke in just in time to save Zimbar from further moronic speech, "Oh just ignore those two yokels ... look at Fedor, there's no blood!"

"Great Heimdall!" Zimbar exclaimed, "And, look at this" He pointed to a place where Fedor's skin had been abraded by a Sahuagin flail.

"Merciful Idun!" and Bocking retreated a step, "This isn't Fedor, its a Fedor-shaped IRON GOLLEM!"

The Wheat, the Wheat

2008-11-26T18:50:00.003-05:00

As Fedor lay dying, Rushing, the naïve young druid, knelt and supported Fedor’s head.

Fedor croaked, “Alas and alackady, for now I shall be unable to follow you, my brothers and sisters into glorious combat with that most wicked of Sorcerers, Tornaga!”

The gathered adventurers murmured their assent as Rushing tried to reassure Fedor that everything was going to be ok. Sir Bocking started to say something untoward but was knocked into politeness by one of those wooden billy club looking things you see on the rails of sailing vessels.

“Do not vorry, Fedor my friend – ve shall have ze cleric cure your wounds; I’m sure vee haf many healing potions!” Penna the younger added gravely, looking round at the Admiral’s younger brother, Carolus Quintus.

Carolus Quintus replied after a moment, “Uh, well about dem potions, uh, I had to give them to Sir Bocking – he had a really bad tummy ache.”

The scene was about to get ugly but Fedor broke in and called for the Admiral to come closer.

Fedor spoke, his face a portrait of nobility, “Admiral Rossaroni, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve solved the Kobayashi Maru test – chart the parabolic course through the merman neutral zone (cough) – chart – the – parabolic course THROUGH the merman neutral zone – its our .. no, your only hope!”

Naturally, any mention of mermen was of deep cultural significance to the sailor and usually the mention of that race was considered to bring ill-fortune.

Sir Bocking and Schott, a second level fighter, interrupted, “But crossing Merman territory - that is MADNESS!!!!”

Fortunately Lady Lyme Weoghe settled the matter matter-of-factly with a simple, “Would you two shut up! Can't you let Fedor at least die with some dignity”

At her ladyship's direction, the two cads were silenced and the group’s attention then returned to Fedor.

Fedor, flooded by a reddish glow on the rain-spattered deck, raised his glinting, silver mailed sword arm to the sky, his aura glowing brightly as Wagnerian incidental music played.With a final breath, he explained some of the finer details of friendship, poetry, naval grade rope milestone B entry requirements (such as IOT&E) and capability package enhancements which could certainly improve the interoperability and efficiency of entropy based adventuring.

Upon the conclusion of his speech, he passed away and crossed the rainbow bridge at Asgard so to speak. The remaining crew and party members doffed their helms in respect. Funeral music played and everyone reflected on how they would be nicer to one another from now on and not hog all the healing potions and try to pay closer attention to tech orders and acquisition processes.

Rest in Pieces

2008-11-25T21:20:00.004-05:00

As the Planetary Sovereign plowed through the waters of the Drawmidj Ocean enroute to Lord Toranaga’s Keepe, Lord Turnips (or was it his alter ego Hannon) held court with the lower-ranking, more expendable members of the party, Rushing, Fedor, Penna the Younger and another un-related Schott.

“Ah, yes, there I was, the mountain dwarf Obmi had been enslaved by the fire giant king Snurre Ironbelly of the Hellfurnaces and it was only through my cunning and my steel that he was freed!”

Here, however, Turnips brought the tale to an abrupt halt. He turned to Rushing.

“Rushing, where are the fluffernutter sandwiches I asked you to bring up from the galley?!” he barked, “I’m absolutely famished!”

Rushing dashed off to retrieve the sandwiches and Turnips, calmed, began his tale with renewed vigor.

“You see, Zagig and his adventuring band delved deep into the Crypt of Lyzandred the Mad. Zagig remained for a short time to learn at the lich's feet and gained inspiration that would aid him well in the later construction of his masterpiece, Castle Greyskull! “

“Sir” said Fedor timidly, “I don’t quite get the connection between Snurre Ironbelly and the Crypt of Lyzandred. According to historical records, those events occurred a hundred years apart; in fact I had a dream about it last night where I was in a crypt; I ….”

Fedor was unable to finish the statement of foreshadowing because at that very moment of tranquility the foretopman cried the warning “Sahuagin attack!”

Immediately, the adventurers drew weapons and sundry magical devices. Rushing dropped the fluffernutter sandwiches on the deck where they were squished beneath Penna’s hobnail boots during the commotion.

The Admiral grimaced, “Sahuagin – they are so evil, they even hate the almost as evil ixitachitl –these sea devils are only befriended by the shark!”

Woodpecker-Smythe looked confused, “What’s an ixitachitl?”

Bocking sounded off first. “Oh don’t be such a dullard Woody, it’s a type of highly intelligent, chaotic evil manta ray.”

“What’s a manta ray?” Woodpecker-Smythe asked.

Sir Bocking was losing his temper.

"I mean that doesn't make any sense, I just don't get it, Is it some kind of wyvern? I'm a big fan of wyverns you know!" Woody continued ad nauseum.

“Oh good lord, who invited him on this trip?” he whispered, under his breath.

As this argument played out, the Sahuagin began to clamber aboard the Planetary Sovereign via their fiendish grappling hooks and fifty feet of naval grade rope. This, despite the best efforts of the crew. Compounding matters, crossbow bolts flew in a thick cloud across the deck - an extreme hazard to sailing safety no doubt!

Things looked dark for our party but just as the Baron Sahuagin was about to lead the final assault, his webbed feet became stuck in the large patch of fluffernutter Rushing had so carelessly dropped on the deck. Unable to move, the Baron was mercifully chopped into dozens of pieces by the heroic adventurers. Without a leader, the remaining Sahuagin attempted to flee but were similarly cut down by a variety of missiles, blades, clubs, maces and halberds.

“Wow! That was fun” exclaimed Penna the Younger.

Rushing joined in, “It sure was, I wonder where Fedor is though?”

Sadly, Fedor would be unable to enjoy their victory or share in the experience points for he had been slain at the hands of the evil undersea dwellers.

“Yep, too bad about Fedor, may he rest in pieces,” Sir Bocking lamented, “Let’s see what these boys have in their pockets!”

Naturally, the subsequent looting of the Sahuagin’s underwater city brought the party great treasure and lots of laughs. And, of course, Turnips was finally able to enjoy his fluffernutter sandwich in peace.

Death of Dr W. G. Grace: Britain loses its finest Cricketer

2008-11-25T15:23:00.001-05:00

http://century.guardian.co.uk/1910-1919/Story/0,6051,99003,00.html

Monday October 25, 1915....Manchester Guardian
We regret to announce the death, which took place on Saturday morning at his home in Kent, of Dr. W. G. Grace, the famous cricketer. Dr. Grace, who completed his sixty-seventh year last July, had an attack of cerebral haemorrhage last week.
Dr. William Gilbert Grace was by common consent the greatest and most attractive figure that ever appeared on the cricket field. In his all-round mastery of the game, in the length of years during which he stood far above all rivals, in the amazing sum total of his cricketing achievements, and by no means least of all in the popular interest he excited, no cricketer, living or dead, has ever approached him, and it is doubtful if any ever will.
While Dr. Grace in his stupendous total output hopelessly outdistanced all rivals, he had a remarkable list of isolated achievements to his credit. For many years he held the record for the highest individual score. This was an innings of 344 made in 1876 for the M.C.C. against Kent, and it remained the record score until MacLaren beat it with 424 against Somerset 19 years later. The most remarkable year of Dr. Grace's career was 1895, when he was 47 years of age. In that season he scored a thousand runs before the end of May, completed his hundredth century and finally scored 2,346 runs. He received more than one handsome testimonial in recognition of this feat, and a letter of congratulation from the Prince of Wales gave him 'profound pleasure'. Like Barlow, Dr. Grace went through his long experience of first-class cricket without ever getting a pair of spectacles.
A Great PersonalityDr. Grace was always an attractive personality on the cricket field, and in the later years of his great career carried a certain atmosphere of romance about him. His great towering figure, with his strong features and full black beard, instantly commanded attention, and there was always the expectation among the spectators that he might be out for some great performance. Descriptions of him even at his best make no reference to any special degree of style in his batting. His great height made it inconvenient for him to hold his bat down to the block-hole; it was generally held some distance off the pitch, looking a mere toy in the hands of a giant. Yet it was with a remarkably straight bat that the ball was played. His batting was distinguished for its strength and certainty rather than for its elegance; his regard, however, for orthodoxy of style comes out in his own statement that he was forty years of age before he adopted the fashionable 'pull' stroke. "Style is ease, and ease is strength," he once said, and that summed up his creed on the point.
As a bowler in his later years he looked rather ponderous; his leisurely amble up to the wicket and slow round-arm delivery often excited merriment, but the simple-looking ball which he delivered - a slow good-length one with a slight break, generally from the leg side - was by no means easy to judge. And perhaps his success was partly due to the fact that most of the batsmen felt that he knew a bit more than the best of them. He held to the old-fashioned theory that length and straightness were the secret of good bowling, and that one of the greatest mistakes a bowler could make was to try to 'break' too much. In his early days he fielded in various positions, frequently at fine leg, but later his recognised place was at point. Many a fine cut he snapped up in his large, safe hands, and his little trick of holding the ball behind him after he had caught it often excited vain hopes of an escape in the unlucky batsman. He held to the view that a thoroughly efficient fielder was worth his place in any team, even if he got no runs at all, and he considered 'mid on' the least risky place for a duffer.

Le Morte De Arthur

2008-11-24T20:28:00.010-05:00

Lady M cradled Johnny Sixguns' beaten and bloodied head in her arms. He had been thrashed within an inch of life by the Lord Toranaga's Locathah henchmen in a vain attempt to solicit information about locating the remaining 6 parts of the Magic Dingus of 7 Parts. Toranaga was a wicked sorcerer indeed and he understood fractions, making him that much more dangerous.

"Wake up Johnny, wake up, I'll need you to help me escape" whispered Lady M in the darkeness of the sixth level dungeon cell.

Johnny groaned but luckily the light of life still flickered just barely in his sunken eyes.

Lady M spoke quietly, "I shall tell you a story Johnny, the story of how King Mark mocked Sir Dinadan and Sir Dinadan thought anon he just had seen these six knights and he thought in himself he would bring King Mark by some wile to joust with one of them. And anon they took their horses and ran after these knights well a three mile English."

Johnny interrupted her after her third 'Anon.'

"I can't understand a word you're saying. (hack, wheeze) I'd rather you recite a grand adventure like the kind I read about in the penny dreadfuls like M. Schmutzmacher's Derring Tales Dragon Quarterly (tm); 'Wyvern Hunting', 'at's the ticket (gasp, cough) Its a five part series (more gasping, wheezing, coughing) started last month. Tell me that story .."

Johnny had not the strength to finish so Lady M patiently replied "Very well Johnny, please attend and try to conserve your strength as I tell you this tale."

She began ....

“That was a jolly fine soup Mr. Jack.”

Mr. Jack was silent. He always was. If you could get him to say more than five words at a time, then you won a shiny penny. Of course, no one got a shiny penny. Or a yucky green one. Mr. Jack just nodded and smiled. The smile said something like, ‘When winter comes, I won’t be wanting for firewood. You’ll burn nicely.’ Though everyone knew he didn’t really think that. Maybe he did. He never said any thing.

It had been storming. The screeching of small animals getting struck by lightning had faded away. The scene in the parlor was a jolly one that would look nice on a Christmas card. One person hanging the star on the tree, a pair of lovers curled up with mugs of cocoa and a wild guest, passed out from all the sherry, that sort of thing. It was summer though, so no cocoa or stars. There was sherry.

Lady Jeanine looked out the window for any signs of a dreaded wyvern. They came swooping out of the sky quickly after the rain. “Not to fear about the wyverns Lady Jeanine,” came the voice of Mr. Simon. “I’ll have them taken care of.” Lady Jeanine turned around. Mr. Simon couldn’t get rid of wyverns. No one could. Her father had tried. They found his arm eventually, and offered to sew it back on but he had refused. “I’m not living here with those buggers around!” he had shouted at the sky. That was right before they came swooping back. What was left of father went to live in the city.

Mr. Simon was confident. He was also the Greatest Hunter in the Land ©. His hunting expeditions were exciting to hear of. If there was an animal out there, he would massacre it in some clever manner. Lately, he had been fascinated in wyvern hunting. He had spent months researching the scaly devils. Today it was all going to profit.

“How about a bit of sport, now that the rain has cleared,” he proposed. No one answered. Mr. Jack gave him a long stare. Mr. Simon continued. “Those bloody dragons have made this place unsuitable for good old English life. I say we shoot the damn things.” No one said anything again. The silence was getting on his nerves.

He turned to the skinny young lad known as Jonathan Eldritch. Jonathan was a healthy boy and might be keen on the idea. Jonathan cleared his throat in a quite irritating manner and said, “Those ‘bloody dragons’ are extremely dangerous, Mr. Simon. Hunting them is suicide.”

“Poppycock,” barked McAngus the Unknown Title. “Them things will be dead before sunset!”

Johnny turned his head upward. "Ooooooo, this is getting good," he said before passing out.

An Ill-Tide or Mal-Digested Mutton?

2008-11-23T00:13:00.009-05:00

Lord Turnips had the same dream again. Here he was Hannon again, with and amongst his grand party and serving his master Heimdall as healer and warrior all over again. Except in this dream he saw himself slumped over as he sat on the edge of the bed in a darkened room. He could not raise himself from his bed no matter how hard his chums implored him with their imploring good cheer. "Hannon, here is a good lad, why not come out and slay something evil with us?" They implored cheerfully.

Hannon ignored these well-meaning chums. He could not raise his voice to speak. He surveyed his darkened surroundings. He was grateful that in his last fit of manic troll-killing energy he had installed the extra dark blinds in his room.

He looked over at the Troll-slayer sword which had proven so helpful. It had the benefit of +3 sharpness and provided additional 2d6 damage when used against trolls. The same sword had been rather mediocre against the massed armies of ghouls and ghasts who you just did not want to fight in close combat if possible because of their soul-sucking rot. You just didn't want to give up a level of experience if one of those touched you. No, for these he used his ability to turn the undead and his trusty 7.62mm belt-fed thunderstick acquired in one of his journeys to something called a National Guard armory in the distant future of some strange parallel multi-verse.

He strained his eyes to see a framed passage he had ripped out of the infamous Greyhawk Gazetteer. It read something like:

Troll Fens:
These fens are well named, for all manner of fierce and gigantic trolls, ogres, gnolls and their ilk prowl the desolate wastes of this fell place. The fens are always misty - clouds and swirls of chilling fog drift down from the Griffs and Rakers at the head of the Yol River and settle on the Troll Fens. The Theocracy of the Pale hedges the area with watchtowers, keeps, and three great castles, watching for unwelcome visits from the monsters of this dire place.

Hannon, sighed. Here he was in the middle of the Troll Fens. No sign of troll, gnoll, ogre, orc, or kobold would darken these misty swamps again -- at least not while he or his breedlings dwelt here. Indeed, even the climate had improved modestly -- the fens were not nearly as desolate and the infamous mists had taken on the aspect of soft spring rain at their worst. These swamps proved very productive for rice, turnips and other crops where soil moisture was critical. Hannon was able to grow surprisingly large volume of asparagus per acre. These crops proved to be quite profitable due to the voracious appetites of the nearby Theocracy of the Pale. Of course cash would never be a problem for him after capturing the hoarded wealth of the trolls, and of course those of the supreme lich lord Thankstostrock* of the Land of Black Ice.

He spat at the thought of living out his days as a farmer of leafy greens. "Pweew" he spat. This was no way to live. There remained no further evil of a kind strong enough to oppose him or the party. Maybe he would try to read a little of the works of the sage philosophers today. What would Lord Heimdall say? Probably something bloodthirstily encouraging. The sort of lawful- good, hail fellow, cold-baths, stiff upper lip, muscular religiosity that was all fine if one was fighting all the time -- but was utterly useless if all the foes were smote and you had to sort out the meaning of existence.

Hannon's chums were useless of course. They wanted him to go down to the local village and perform healing ceremonies on the sick. Yawn. Bloody peasants always had the same complaints. Double yawn. "Lord Hannon, though you are so wise and good...could you heal me of my afflicted nether parts which appear to be cursed horrid and vexxing." And of course, like a sap, he would heal the luckless fornicating peasant and he would be on his way to catching the same pox from the same serving wench.

Or, there would be the ingenue twirling her golden locks around her finger. "Lord Hannon I have a desperate need to make Grimbold marry. Say lest yee cast a spell of [REDACTED]." Pathetic.

And the upper classes were no better...indeed in many ways much worse. He could not count the number of times he was called upon to stand in lawful judgment of a dispute between two merchants. "Lord Hannon, though are wise...can you tell Scootero the Bold that he may not let his cattle graze upon my prized clover fields as these are indeed lucky clovers which if consumed by mere cattle will empower these cows to make wishes thrice. No more wasted a wish was ever made than that of a cow for more grass."

Hannon the Troll Slayer needed to get away from this gilded cage he had constructed for himself on the disintegrated matter of many, many, untold many trolls. Perhaps a voyage to sea? He turned over in his bed and returned to the land of dreams......

[Await the next dream where Rogers and Hammerstein meet hack and slash]

*so-called Thankstostrock as homage to Richard Strock who designed the supposed Good Party-defeating characteristics of this lich lord. Little did Strock or the rather lazy deity supervising this aspect of the campaign was that John Wisshard reviewed these characteristics through snoopery and relayed them to the Party in time to avoid mishappenstance.

Gnomic Utterances

2008-11-22T17:49:00.009-05:00

Turnips’s head ached with the pains of the previous night’s feast. His stomach roiled and the luminosity of a volcano sun tortured his eyes. He quickly threw his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the light.

Strange dreams had plagued his sleep. He had imagined himself to be Hannon, cleric of Heimdall, fighting trolls during the great rear-guard battle at Ragnarök. Why, he had even engaged the great lord in conversation on Bilfrost Bridge!

He thought to himself, “Surely, this must have been the result of some piece of ill-digested mutton.”

No matter how Turnips sought to ease his mind with this rational explanation, he remained uneasy and unsure of himself. The floor swayed beneath him.

Clenching his fist and raising it to the skies, Turnips cried aloud, “Trouble me no further Idun - The woof of darkness you have woven is thick and has hid all delight from me!”

Luckily, Woody, the Admiral and the Planetary Sovereign’s crusty Chief Petty Officer arrived to comfort Turnips in moment of madness.

The Admiral spoke first “Come, come old bean, you’re amongst friends - ”

“Yes, we heard you talking excitedly and I thought you might be composing a new drama so we rushed to your cabin,” Woody added, “and I didn't want to miss out a chance to hone my own dramatic skills. Remember, I played the third Triton in 'The Lokarian Chamber Pot Merchant'."

The Chief, not wishing to miss out on an opportunity to appear in the blog, joined in, “No kidding, we was all a bit confused by all that Shakespeare talke you were spouting, why we was ready to –.”

The chief, however, was rudely interrupted by a fourth party who appeared leaning casually on the cabin door, applauding softly, almost sarcastically into his supple leather gloved hand.

“Bravo, bravo, my good man, bravo” said the shadowy figure, “But, I’m afraid we have no time for this sort of nonsense, we have ports to sack and Marzipans to rescue. When the time comes for poetic recitations, I shall be the one to deliver them.”

As Sir Bocking stepped out of the shadows, Turnips noticed the large badge he wore – a badge bearing the legend “My Green Dragon ate your Honor Student.”

Ever wise, the wiley Chief thought crustily, "Whew, I reckon we can't get to Lord Toranaga's quickly enough."

Regarding the Troll Fens

2008-11-20T23:05:00.012-05:00

The cleric Hannon, honest and lawful servant of the Norse god Heimdall, was not to find happiness when all the trolls in the eponymous Troll Fens were slain.

Lo, he was unhappy though he was able to gain ample vials of the Arch Mage Toth's famous Universal Solvent - which according to Toth's brochure was necessary to dispatch a troll's cruelly-regenerating form, and lo, though he was able to smite the entire population of trolls in a mere 24 moons of constant violent campaigning and lo, though he was able to finally plant firmly in the ground near the spot where Trolls had carried off his boyhood dog, his family's battle standard with the crest so familiar to the people (and in particular the troll population) of this particular plane of existence: "Dude, have you seen my dog?"

Hannon and his party of robust adventurers had searched multiple planes of existence for the necessary means to defeat the trolls of the Troll fens. They had slain mighty balrogs, giants and even a few ice dragons. They had defeated entire armies of time-travelling undead, including many score thousand ghouls and ghasts as well as several very powerful arch-liches. To win they had to use some of the mana they found whence they ventured to a plane of existence known as the Reagan Administration. Thoughts of this made Hannon grimace because he knew that he would have to explain himself to his Lord Heimdall on the Bilfrost Bridge during the final, rear-guard battle of Ragnarök for his use of the fire weapons that greatly assisted his fight against the trolls. Naturally, no self-respecting cleric of Heimdall should use anything but a trusty sword. Hannon would have to explain his cowardly use of these devices even though their impact was not unlike the powers Heimdall himself had granted Hannon through the awesome powers of his Blade Barrier and Flame Strike spells. Surely he could plead his justifiable and honorable blood lust resulting in many glorious victories and a land shorn of all trolls to his master.*

But all that glory in the defeat of the trolls and his myriad accomplishments, trophies, and battle streamers had left Hannon wanting for something. He recalled his reading of the sages from the amok time of the undead wars:

"Without stimulus or focus, the individual is confronted with nothingness, the meaninglessness of existence, and experiences existential anxiety. Heidegger states this idea nicely: "Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference. This boredom reveals
being as a whole." Arthur Schopenhauer used the existence of boredom in an attempt to prove the vanity of human existence, stating, "...for if life, in the desire for which our essence and existence consists, possessed in itself a positive value and real content, there would be no such thing as boredom: mere existence would fulfil and satisfy us."

What did it all mean? What was left? He must undertake a journey to find out. He must discover that which was within....

*despite the clear stipulation in the 1979 edition of the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons rules that clerics could not use edged weapons.

A Secret Council

2008-11-18T18:49:00.016-05:00

The Admiral, Turnips, and W-S beat a hasty retreat from the Hydra’s Lair and made tracks for the Admiral's ship, Planetary Sovereign. The trio wound their way through the city's narrow streets and soon came to the docks and safety.

W-S breathed a sign of relief. "I say, that was jolly good fun. Let's do it again. I know this bar over in the Nymph District where the ladies..."

"I'm not in the mood for another 'adventure' Woody," interrupted a still down-in-the-dumps Turnips. "I still don't see what our purpose was in going to that benighted tavern-slash-casino. The Admiral said it was all part of his 'plan.' " Lord Turnips added air-quotes for emphasis. "All I know was that we were there for an hour and didn't do anything other than get accosted by some low life NPCs."

"But that is where you are wrong, dear friend," replied the Admiral, as he led them into the Sovereign's salon. "You failed to see me concluding my business arrangement with the Hydra's proprietor, the esteemed Master Schlamazel the Butcher. Everything is still going according to plan, as you shall see tomorrow evening when you and Woody attend the great Council I am convening up at the Keepe."

"I smell an adventure!" Beamed an excited W-S. "Do tell us what's in store for us. Please, please, please, please, please!" "Now, now, Woody," replied the Freebooter. "For reasons of operational security it would be best if we wait till tomorrow. Come now, let us forget the travails that face us, and have some rum to celebrate our successful escape roll against those thugs. Schott! Flagons for my guests! ... Schott! Come here! Oh bother, it's so hard to find good oafs these days..."

------------------------------------

Turnips and Woodpecker-Smythe arrived at the Keepe the following evening. Even as Schott led their horses away to the Keepe's stable, they were still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council. "I say, we're still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council," said Woody. "Just cool your jets [Editor: huh?], Woody. We'll know in two shakes of a lambs tail," replied Lord Turnips.

Turnips was in a much better mood now after a good night's sleep and an afternoon teaching his son and heir Stuart some of the finer point of his profession. Young Turnips had impudently stated that all the cool kids at school wanted to be mages, but the elder Turnips explained to his son that 6 generations of Turnips have had the same profession and Stuart was going to make number 7. At least his son didin't come out and say he wanted to be a healer, Turnips thought with relief as he smiled to himself.

The two openned the door to the Keepe's meeting room. The room was dominated by a large circular wooden table, highly polished and inlaid with intricate carvings of strange creatures, half of which probably didn't even exist. The table was surrounded with 12 chairs, with no one chair more ornate or larger than the rest. This was a table meant for equals.

Almost all the chairs were full. The only empty seats were on either side of the Admiral. The other nine seats were occupied by a diverse group, ranging from a fierce northern Barbarian, an armor plated Paladin, a flambouyantly dressed eccentric who could only be a healer, and a ravishing pair of twin sisters who were seated in the 12th and 13th seats. Oh wait a minute, she must be an illusionist, there are only 12 seats here. The Admiral waved them over. "Turnips! Woody! Over here! I've saved some kick ass seats for you!" The duo sat down.

The Admiral began. "Now that everyone is here, let us begin." He solemnly looked around the room. "Thank you all for coming here tonight. I look around the room here and see representatives from many peoples and many cultures. Though we come from different backgrounds, and have different reasons for why we came, after tonight we all share a common purpose. And that is an unwavering desire to rescue Lady Marzipan from the clutches of the Dread Sorceror, the Dark Lord, Lord Toranaga. Let us vow that, from this day, till we acheive sucess or draw our last breath, that we shall not rest until she is returned safely from the Dark Lord's island fortress. Our goal here tonight is to come up with a plan to save her, and then to outfit our group, our fellowship, if you will, to go forth and sail into immortality!"

At this point, where there should have been raucus cheering and shouts of "Here, here!" and "We're with you Admiral!" and "Excelsior!" from 11 excited voices, there was only one voice, one Woodpecker-Smythe crying "Here, here! We're with you Admiral! Excelsior!" And Lord Turnips was curiously looking at the other faces, wondering why they weren't jabbering like W-S was. An awkward silence filled the room.

The Admiral broke the silence, "But what kind of a host would I be if I didn't serve dinner to my hungry guests before we get down to business. Schott! Bring in the mutton!"

As the guests started to eat, Woody, oblivious to the awkwardness, turned to the Admiral. "I've got an excellent felling about this, Admiral. I look about me and see the finest our land has to offer. Free men and women, here by choice, virtuous and honorable, ready to lay their lives on the line for truth and justice. By the Maker, it makes me proud to be alive!" Turnips, a touch more savvy than the eager Woodpecker-Smythe, raised a finger to interrupt W-S, who was now describing how the upcoming rescue would be enshrined in the annals of history and be immortalized by epic song, story, and verse from now until the time the Maker undid the world.

"Ahem, if I may, Woody," said Lord Turnips. W-S, now red in the face from his verbal exhortations, fell silent. Turnips continued, "Admiral, I couldn't help but noitce the, how shall I say, lack of enthusiasm among our guests with our upcoming quest. Would I be correct in surmising that these people are not here of their own free will?" "Wha-wha-what!" exclaimed Woodpecker-Smythe. "Turnips, are you saying that the Admiral kidnapped these people? That's monstrous!"

"Easy now, Woody," explained Rossaroni, "It's a little more complicated. All of these men and women do share one thing in common, appart from their skill in swordcraft and magery. And that is, their lack of skill at gambling. Each and everyone of them has run up extrodinarily large gaming debts at the Hydra’s Lair. Dangerously large. You see Fedor over there? 5000 pieces of gold he owes from the dice table. Lyme-Weoghe? She lost the deed to her father's blacksmithy. And Bocking, the foreigner, has fallen so far in debt in trying to earn his Guild membership money, that the very same guild has put out a contract on him."

Turnips was looking bemused with a slight grin on his face. The only term to describe Woodpecker-Smythe is agog.

The Admiral continued, "These people were all offered a choice by my business parter, Mr. Schlamazel. Debtor's prison (or worse), or a noble and virtuous adventure, as Woody would say. So they really are here of their own free will, if you look at it a certain way."

"You sly dog," chuckled Turnips.

"I'm not sure I like the smell of this, Admiral," said W-S. "It just doesn't seem... um, right, I guess. What about asking for volunteers? I'm sure the tavern is filled with young adventurers yearing to prove their mettle." "When was the last time you were at the tavern, Woody?" the Admiral retorted. "It's only filled with old men and thugs like the Schotts. I had a notice posted on the Help Wanted board for two months with no answer. And all I wanted was someone to go pick up my drycleaning! I knew I could count on you two, old friends, but we'll need a little more muscle for this job."

"Well, all right" replied W-S. "I guess I don't really have much choice in the matter. And, as I am your busom friend, in thick and thin, through orc raid and orc raid reprisal, I will stand by you now."

Turnips and W-S turned to their delicious mutton, one of the Admiral's specialities, from a recipe he acquired while adventuring near Buccaneer Islands many seasons ago. After finishing his delicious mutton, Lord Turnips raised one final question of the Freebooter. "Admiral, one question has been nagging me, old friend. These people are here to pay off a debt to Schlamazel the Butcher, right? But what does Schlamazel the Butcher get out of this? I mean, he gets along and respects Lady Marzipan just like the rest of us do, but I don't see how he will profit from this."

The Admiral uncharacteristically hemmed and hawed. "Hem... haw."

"Well, we just have to do Schlamazel the Butcher a little favor on the way to rescue Marzipan, that's all."

"And just what kind of favor would that be?" asked Turnips.

"Nothing really. Nothing."

"Admiral..." chided Lord Turnips.

"Hem. Haw. Well, we just have to stop at a certain harbor along the way, and, er... sack it."

The Ecstasy of Gold

2008-11-17T20:16:00.004-05:00

The Admiral consoled Turnips who sat forlorn atop a stool at the bar in the decidedly downscale Hydra’s Lair Tavern & Betting Clubbe.

“There, there Turnips, we’ll see to it that Livoniumtonchester is fixed up … right as rain!” the Admiral exclaimed, beaming with confidence.

He continued, “Why with me and Sabrina and old Woody here we’ll pop over, rescue Lady M, complete the Lost Mystical Dingus of 7 Parts and use it to restore balance, beauty, justice and goodness to our faire lande!

As he spoke, the Admiral’s teeth glinted and his aura glowed warm gold as his noble gaze turned skyward to rest on an imaginary star.

Turnips was not to be so easily swayed however, “Don’t you patronize me Rossaronius, we’ll never find the Mystical Dingus of 7 Parts and poor Livoniumtonchester shall remain in the evil clutches of whoever…..”

His energy flagged at that moment due to effects of the half-pint of ale he’d been nursing for an hour.

Turnips roared back however to continue his diatribe “… and whatever, but I don’t see how a washed up illusionist / cleric and a freebooter with a super-powerful magic sword could hope to achieve anything other than to be clapped in irons and escorted off to the nearest looney bin.”

The Admiral, being a man of the sea, had to face many situations like this before and took the appropriate action. He slapped Turnips, then grasped his collar and held his face close.

“Now listen up and come to your senses; we are attracting all the wrong sorts of attention here and that’s the last thing we need.”

No sooner had he finished this utterance than up sauntered Livoniumtonchester’s favorite gang of bullies led by their chief, The Schott (coincidentally, he was the second cousin, once removed of the Admiral’s oaf, also named ‘Schott.’ Funny that.)

The Schott was first to speak.

“Well la-dee-dah, ‘oo ‘ave we gots ‘ere?” he menaced, his foul breath overwhelming the more delicate olfactory receptors of our would-be heroes.

"Harhar harhar harharhar harhar" went the gang

The gang’s evil, insensitive laughter went on for a full seven minutes until The Schott raised his hands in the universal sign of ‘stop larfing you oafs, I gots somefin to say.’

“Now stop larfing, you oafs, I gots somefin to say” The Schott continued, “I have a fine idear – let’s take their lunch money what their mommies done gived them!”

Then to add insult to injury, he farted.

At was at that moment that the Tavern owner, Schlamazel the Butcher, entered, carrying a large serving bowl made of a very heavy earthenware with a pale blue flower motif.

“Ahhh, who ordered the paella for six?? Hey, I said who ordered the paella for six!!” he called out.

Schlamazel the Butcher stopped and his nose wrinkled and his eyes began to tear. Temporarily blinded, he tripped over the Admiral’s magical cutlass, Sabrina, and the paella bowl flew from his hands. The bowl flew in a perfect arc and landed heavily atop The Schott’s surprised noggin, sending him crumpled to the sawdust floor.

The contents of the bowl spilled showering the floor with bits of saffron rice, shrimp and other stuff that was very slippery. Although the gang tried to advance upon our heroes, they were unsuccessful as their feet could find not purchase. In fact, their legs spun madly about ala Shaggy and Scooby Doo.

Unhesitatingly, the Admiral seized the initiative and called out “Let’s get the H-E-Double Hockeysticks out of here Woody! – there’s another exit through the kitchen .. last one to the Planetary Sovereign is a rotten egg.”

“Hey but what about my Morey Amsterdam sandwich I just ordered?” Woody whined as the Admiral dragged him out.

Turnips however, had the last word. “Oh shut up, that sandwich hasn’t been invented yet”

Final ahem

2008-11-17T00:22:00.000-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72cHfOKoA1c&eurl

Ok, Lord Turnips is off the proverbial box of cleaning products.

ahem part II

2008-11-16T14:02:00.000-05:00

http://www.freep.com/article/20081116/COL08/811160434/?imw=Y

ahem

2008-11-16T14:00:00.000-05:00

http://www.freep.com/article/20081116/COL07/811160459/?imw=Y

Strange Parallel Universe

2008-11-13T07:43:00.012-05:00

Fog and smoke shrouded the fire-routed village of Livonia, home of several encampments of the once-mighty wizards who produced carriages for the good citizens of the kingdom. Fisher Body, Ford Transmission, Delco Electronics, GM Engines, and thousands of artisans and guilds who supported them were all left homeless, and without the copper pieces to pay their monthly cable tv bills or for the strange leavened-bread pies with sliced pork, cheese and the sauce of the once-feared tomato.

The kingdom had suffered for years from leaders and citizens who viewed the work of the wizards as inferior to goods produced by non-guild laborers and artisans. Stories abounded of the employees who slept in the rafters of the encampments or were strong with mead or other potions. Some of the worst stories involved illegal apothecary and even one evil worker who ran an assasins guild from the encampment whose sole purpose was to keep the other workers in line.

Many citizens of the kingdom did not enjoy the experiences they had when they went to purchase a carriage. Carriage salesmen were infamous for their vile deceits.

Other citizens viewed the carriages as wasteful. They felt that carriages should be smaller and take fewer horses to pull them. This was particularly concerning as many horses came from the evil lands of Balmor, whose kings spoke with two faces about their alliances with a band of orcs, kobold, ogres and vile brigands in the Krag Mountains. Citizens felt that if they used fewer horses, Balmor would not be able to support the denizens of the Krag Mountains.

The good people of Livonia looked upon the wreckage of their village and recalled the multi-fold times that their carriage works had saved the kingdom and the pride they had when their carriages had once led the crusades that drove the forces of various evils from the World.

Other citizens of Livonia recalled that many in the south of the Kingdom enjoyed racing these carriages and wondered what carriages they would use if there were no more artisans.

The workers and artisans of Livonia would need to summon mighty magics to turn back the destruction of their fair village. They would need to fight the blind clerics who supported the previous king, who while fighting an expensive war in the Krag Mountains, caused an increase in prices that made the Balmor horses so expensive. They would need to fight the blind merchants of the villages of New York and the Eastern shore who cared not a wit for the Livonia-ites (as it was a rather unfashionable village). They would need to fight the wit-less citzens of the Rock-candy Mountains who under the spell of various illusionists, viewed all carriages as anathema and felt that the citizens of the kingdom should move about in magic tubes.

The poor citizens of the village of Livonia had few friends and the future looked very bleak indeed. Unless some help arrived for the nearly powerless wizards the village's destruction would be complete.

To the Troll Fens and Onward toward the Ghoulish North

2008-11-11T18:54:00.004-05:00

It was a little more than 20 years past. Twas the dwimmer of our Lord One Thousand und Ocztein Seiben. A band of mightly warriors and heroes, known across the freize as the Good Party. They were led by two:

Hannon the sword-wielding cleric of the Norse God Heimdall. Hannon was known for his intense hatred of trolls who had done him wrong somehow. He vowed to utilize his life of service to Heimdall to the additional service of ridding the infamous Troll Fens of their namesake denizens.

John Wisshard the Monk/Illusionist. Wisshard was a legendary martial artist who was capable of multiple attacks per ten minute turn and even multiple attacks per combat segement. His mission in life was unspecified violent supression of the forces of Evil. To this end he helped lead an adventure to the icy Northern wastes to fight an army of the undead.

There were many, many associated individuals with this so-called Good Party. During their myriad adventures they voyaged in multiple planes of existence and conquered many kingdoms and made away with massive hauls of treasure that they were able to cart around without concern for weight or mass because of some strange waiver to the laws of physics in their world.

Exeunt to the Tavern!

2008-11-10T20:29:00.002-05:00

In the bleak mid-winter I often travel to visit my comrade-in-arms, Admiral Rossaroni’s, at his heroic citadel, Barrister’s Keepe. We tell tales of past adventures and enjoy fine ales served in goblets fashioned from fine Greyhawk silver and crystal. Sometimes I stop by to borrow fifty feet of rope and a bullseye lantern (I rarely employ the lantern however, since I possess the half-elf’s infravision).

I recall a favorite tale wherein I defeated a Catoblepas, a nightmare creature, loathsome beyond description. Its body resembles that of a huge bloated buffalo and gives off an offensive odor. The odor, naturally, matches its favorite haunt – the fetid swamp. Regrettably, this creature’s gaze causes death in manner similar to a wizard’s death ray spell.

Before, I could complete my marvelous epic, the Admiral interrupted. He waved away Schott, his oaf, then leaned over and carefully explained to me that we would be embarking on his ship, the Planetary Sovereign to undertake a rescue mission to find Lady Marzipan and her manservant Johnny 6G.

Luckily, I’d packed my Wand of Illusion, a few scrolls, two weeks rations and some healing potions. No one will ever say Woodpecker-Smythe, 10^th level illusionist is ever unprepared!

But we still needed able-bodied back-up for the Admiral’s trusty steel, the +5 magic sword “Sabrina Tuberculomata Teleutosorus" and my amazing skills at magic.

Now, just where in the world could we find the types of adventurers willing to round out our party on such short notice?

“Fedor's Tavern?” I thought out loud

Welcome Adventurers!

2008-11-10T13:12:00.004-05:00

What ho, everyone! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Admiral Rossaroni, Freebooter. I have been in residence in Barrister's Keepe, and the nearby Barrister's Keepe harbour, on and off, for too many years to count. While I am a veteran of many an adventure, I am most commonly known for defeating a +4 Kraken last year with my crew of the good ship Planetary Soverign (good thing I had my +2 enchanted broadsword with me at the time).

I must apoligize to you, dear reader, for the quality of my post, as I seem to have a slight headache today to go along with the strange bump on my head. I also seem to have something that can only be described as a vague memory of living an entire lifetime somewhere called "England" and that I was some sort of pompous, aritocratic buffoon. But, as everyone knows, I have been living at Barrister's Keepe ever since my childhood, when the Fell Winter brought the Orc Invasion that has plagued our land ever since. Well, I'm sure I'll get everything sorted out in my old noggin before too long, so fear not.

At present I am embarked on a quest. I am sailing, with my crew and a band of Intrepid Adventurers (tm), to a distant land to rescue one Lady Marzipan and her manservant J6G.

You Only Live Thrice OR ... HAI KARATE!!!!!!

2008-11-09T12:56:00.005-05:00

Turbulent weather appeared on the horizon. Clouds roiled, waves tossed, seabirds careened and cartwheeled about the ev’r darkening sky.

Johnny Sixguns was first to note the change in atmospherics, “Aye, there’s turnbulent weather afoot.”

“I think you mean ‘tur-bu-lent’ not 'turnbulent' Johnny” replied Lady Marzipan.

“No I mean turnbulent – see, look at the donkey’s tail on this comical barometer I picked up in the Black Forest – the tail is swinging around and translating from the German interpretation beneath, it means ‘the weather will be turnbulent.’”

To which Lady M retorted, “You are the biggest idiot I’ve ever met, remind me to murder you later … if we survive.”

Before Sixguns could reply, lighting arced across the turnbulent sky …..

“STOP saying ‘turnbulent’ !” Lady M screamed above the din.

“… the turbulent sky, striking the small craft, sending its occupants about forty feet into the air.”

The streaking pair left behind the lifeboat which was promptly crushed into matchstick sized remnants by the next wave (which, for foreshadowing’s sake was depicted in the 17^th century Japanese woodcut style).

Eventually, dawn came and our two travelers awoke covered with seaweed and surrounded by a forest of poles with pointy-bladey things affixed to their termini. These of course might better be described as halberds but neither Johnny Sixguns or Lady M were in any shape to recall the fantastic weaponry of the AD&D Players Handbook (version 1).

To the shouts of onlookers, Lord Toranaga confidently strode through the crowd and parted the mass of weapons to better assess the situation. He gazed down at the bedraggled survivors.

Groggily, Lady M raised here head and spoke “Have you ever heard the one about Rene Descartes in the bar?”

Science Jokes

2008-11-04T15:41:00.003-05:00

Q: How many quantum physicists does it take to change a lightbulb ? A: One. Two to do it, and one to renormalise the wave function.

Bohr moved in atomic circles while Schrodinger waved and Heisenberg hesitated.

Rene Descartes was sitting at a bar. The bartender came over and asked ifhe would like another drink. He replied, "I think not." And he vanished.

A neutron walked into a bar and asked, "How much for a drink?" The bartender replied, "For you, no charge."

Q: What did one quantum physicist say when he wanted to fight another quantum physicist? A: Let me atom.

Two atoms were walking across a road when one of them said, "I think I lost an electron!" "Really!" the other replied, "Are you sure?" "Yes, I 'm absolutely positive."

Copenhagen: The lost 4th Act

2008-11-03T10:15:00.009-05:00

Niels Bohr: "You can't toy with the human race with these quantum mechanics. You aren't my pupil anymore. "

Sports Illustrated.com's Peter King: "I'm very glad we didn't bring in Brett Favre to work on a Q-Device. I believe his calculations are in error. It is typical of his tragic genius that he makes as many spectacular errors as spectuacular plays. I believe our effort to bring in Tom Brady will yield success much sooner. "

Former University of Michigan Quarterback Tom Brady: "Ja, Dr. Heisenberg and I have been working on this. Well, between rehabbing my injurred leg and my journeys of discovery with various and sundry movie starlets and Brazilian supermodels. The good Dr. Heisenberg and I are convinced me that we may find the Maximum Likelihood Estimated location for the lifeboat with J6G and Marzipan at a place and time near the Paracel Islands in or around 1968, although i may be confusing if it is during the Nixon or Johnson administrations."

Niels Bohr: "You don't seem very certain."

Heisenberg: "No, I'm known for that actually."

Note: Tom Brady was inserted into this storyline to remind one and all of the former greatness of the winningest college football program, and second luckiest alumn of that University. #1 luckiest is of course playwrite Arthur Miller. The single unluckiest is Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg.

Future Direction of Barrister's Keepe

2008-10-28T21:33:00.005-04:00

Recent delays in posting new blog entries have resulted from a writer's block. I have a couple of new ideas for future direction for Barrister's Keepe. Tell me which you prefer:

All Lego, all the time. We continue our storylines in Danish, we use only pictures of our characters in the stories depicted in Lego mini-figures. We have to painstakingly build models of the things we want to depict. This will argue for a quantum physics Lego set delivered by the geniuses in Billund, Denmark.

Bad legal advice. We set up a random legal advice generator similar to General Rossoroni's ancient agitprop 2000 that he devised during the previous millenium. The device is advertised as 100% foolproof. When the unwitting person is through paying for information on childhood custody law and is given expensive information on say tax liens, or the magna carta, the joke will be on them and we will laugh all the way to our offshore bank. [According to our device this won't be fraud.]

Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Having never seen the show I think I am in an ideal position to critique the show. True tabla rasa.

Those were some ideas I had...let me know if you like them.

Barrister's Keepe Kidz Korner!!!!

2008-10-25T18:51:00.002-04:00

Kids, have you considered the possibility that if Lady Marzipan and Johnny Sixguns were isolated from the rest of the universe, except for the gravitational pull exerted by the Earth and the Moon, both might evolve into a non-localized quantum state over the next 20 years?

Wowzers! That’s a whole heap of quantum uncertainty without even considering the eigenvectors!!!

See, boys and girls both Johnny Sixguns and Lady Marzipan, as they sit in their lifeboat, are being bombarded by photons and those zany photons have their own quantum states which get all tangled up with each other.

So, how do keep track of all those crazy states?? Here’s a hint: the Lyapunov exponent is about 10 days for the both of them and this system is dissipative.

The BK Kidz Korner Challenge:

Clever children please post a 10-15 page white paper which models the various system states (a system in this case being Johnny Sixguns, Lady Marzipan, the lifeboat, the aforementioned gravity & photons plus a few sharks) and proposes a solution to their quandary (avoiding the non-localized quantum state). The lucky winner shall receive a gift certificate for 5 Crowns, 3 shillings and a halfpenny (good at all Barrister’s Keepe Gift Shoppes!).

The Dowager Rossaroni is Funny

2008-10-16T20:41:00.002-04:00

This is from a recent e-mail:

"I just finished a bag of 3 Musketeers which I bought early for Halloween visitors. They were delicious and apparently safe for the children to eat. Now I must get some more."

Adrift in the South China Sea

2008-10-14T20:13:00.005-04:00

We’ve all been there. You know … stuck in a longboat, somewhere in the South China Sea, wedged uncomfortably between a psychopathic gunslinger and a the recently dethroned “duchess of destruction” herself, the erstwhile Lady Marzipan.

Heard it before? Sure. Thought so.

The weather was doing a kindness to the occupants of this tiny craft. It was overcast and about 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Thus was the porcelain skin of Lady M spared. As for Mr. Sixguns, it made him no difference as the cruel Sonoran sun had permanently toughened his leathery hide.

The dorsal fins of a few patrolling sharks were visible – they had gathered around the boat because Johnny Sixguns had been feeding the ravenous little terrors tidbits left over from the survival luncheon (this was a relatively well equipped rescue longboat).

“Got anymore of them petits four, Marzipan” Sixgun called over his shoulder, (mispronouncing Marzipan to make it rhyme with “pan.”), “my little friends here love ‘em!”

Obviously, the effects of being adrift at sea had seriously affected Mr. Sixguns cognitive abilities for at present he did not see sharks, rather he imagined them to be adorable baby pandas.

(editors note:I mean, that's not hard to understand, pandas are amazingly adorable)

For her part, Lady M, was not much better off – she imagined herself to be Charlotte Rampling in “Marat/Sade” and was presently scheming to stab the lead, as played by Monsieur Sixguns, in his bath. She just needed some inmates to complete the ensemble and it would be PERFECT!!!

She would make her escape to Havana and be crowned Queen of the May, the lord of Atlantis at her side.

And to think, it had only been a day and a half.

Matzohs of The D'Ubervilles

2008-10-13T20:18:00.004-04:00

Brassy trumpets and a rapidly rotating camera pan (which came to an abrupt halt) announced the next scene -

Beneath the fold, the London Times carried the latest tale of tasty comestibles direct from the captain’s table of the Ammonite. Sadly, many have nevertheless insisted upon referring to this vessel as the “Nautilus” despite the threat of copyright infringement lawsuit by the Disney Corp.

The reader, an anonymous High Gate banker, glanced at the story, muttered something about petit fours under his breath and tossed the paper into a nearby rubbish bin whereupon it was quickly snatched up by an equally anonymous ragamuffin cum street urchin.

As you, the gentle reader might expect, this was no chance encounter. The cretin scanned the story from top to bottom evidently scouring the words for some clues or secret message. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated.

“Now let me see” he thought to himself, “’Is ‘ere paragraph might ‘ave somefin”

A single “heghh” escaped his lips as he read.

Indeed the the deeply encoded message began to leap from the two dimensional newspaper in blocky Neuropol script …. Shellfish, scallops, ginger, garlic, broth, antipasto, bruschetta, parmiginana di melanzane, turnips.

“Heghh, heghhh, heggghhhhhh” was all that boy could manage.

Then the letters re-arranged themselves into something more logical as follows:

“Johnny Sixguns and Lady Marzipan cast adrift in small boat seven nautical miles SSW Folou Northeast on Hainan Island encircled by ravenous sharks stop Lady Marzipan contemplating retirement in Havana as Lady Commandante Shokolateh stop Johnny 6G contemplating guzzlement of large quantities of Old Volcano whiskey stop Stuart Turnips in custody of General Tang’s most wicked henchman, Lt Fruitbat stop Turnips about to divulge most precious secret of Barrister’s Keepe – Ur Gin stop Turnips location is secret concrete prison in Eurasia corner of Shanghai and Main, three levels up above Woo’s Shop.”

Message translated, the boy was about to dash off to the “Have You Seen the Sunrise Club” in Croyden, a posh London nightspot frequented by malefactors of both high and low caste. At any rate, the boy knew he had to act quickly, for the Bellasario had only seven days left to complete the deal.

Making sure he wasn't being followed, the wretched creature turned and disappeared into the twilight never having noticed the flute-like qualities of the French Horn soundtrack.

An Ugly Morning

2008-10-11T08:43:00.007-04:00

Donald P. Bellisario?

Captain Stuart Turnips kept thinking about that name. He had precious little else to think about in his tiny little world. It was a world comprised of concrete, shouting guards, humorless solo "re-education" sessions with an austere chain-smoking Eurasian officer known only as Lt. Fruitbat, and a thin gruel of rice and rat meat. It had been this way since the day he was captured by his Father's nemesis: General Tang, from the island of his friend the dread assassin Scaramanga.

Donald P. Bellisario

Why would that name be running through his head? He tried to remember what Scaramanga had told him about memes and collective unconsciousness. None of that made much sense in this place. He tried to will himself to standup to the daily sessions with British reserve and stiff upper lip. As his diet suffered, so did his willpower to resist the indoctrination. Particulary difficult to resist was Lt. Fruitbat's focus on the evils of the Imperialist system and its internal contradictions. For a while he remembered his time at the prestigious Tiny Finding's Dayschool. His memories of the Herndon Red Wings, his cricket team were another reserve of mental resistance to the glowering garlic-soaked Lt. Fruitbat.

Donald P. Bellisario?

He could only wonder what Lt. Fruitbat had meant when he told him during his last session: "Criminal Stuart, dis is just the beginning of your education. I am but the one who opens the door. Your real training will occur in a different location and will involve far more sophistocated methods."

Found Humor: The Glory of Honey Mustard!

2008-10-07T10:47:00.010-04:00

While waiting for an original effort from Lord Woodpecker-Smythe, why don't we all feast our funny bones on this excerpted piece of goodness from my friend over at Being Dr. Doolittle: Stories and Idle Chatter? While she's generally a jovial, although jejune, thrice divorced,* young nerd-ette ex-Marine** with the best education Lancaster Pennsylvania can provide, her description of her love for honey mustard fulfils my love for needlessly long descriptions of food and fills my heart with joy. Bon Appetit!

The last and most awesome defining aspect of being at George Mason is the shocking availability of condiments at this school. Not just any condiment. I’m talking about the sweet and tangy goodness that is honey mustard. I’m not sure who sat on the George Mason University Dining Board and decided that there shall be honey mustard wherever there are students, but they should get the Nobel Peace Prize. Seriously.

I bought a plain ham and cheese sandwich from their little convenience store to stave off some I-missed-dinner hunger pains. Seeing that the sandwich was as dry as the Mojave on a Tuesday in August, I decided to hit up the condiment bar for some yellow mustard or some mayo, whatever was available. As I’m scoping out the selection, which I’m sure you’d agree is generally pretty poor wherever you go, my eyes fell upon a beautiful sight. It was as though the heavens opened up and rained sunshine into the room packed with oblivious students. I thought I heard angels sing as I feasted my eyes upon a never before seen phenomenon: there, in all of its glory, was a big, giant dispenser of honey mustard. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I rubbed my eyes to be sure it wasn’t a chemistry-induced mirage. I pinched myself to make sure I was awake. Then, after people around me started looking at me funny, I finally dispensed the inaugural tablespoon of golden yummy-ness onto my sandwich. That was the coolest thing ever!

Good stuff, Dr. Doolittle!

* She's actually only twice divorced

** She played flute for the Marines. The world's most deadly band camp.