Worship this World of Watercolor Mood

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

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

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

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

Then I would have my revenge on The Creature.

Commanding That Corkscrew Comet Jet

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Golem Rage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the others soon followed suit.

STAY TUNED FOR OUR NEXT EXCITING INSTALLMENT: BEACH BLANKET ATROCITY

My Dinner With Rossaroni

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Casino Turnips

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

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

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

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

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

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

The KEEPIES! Redux! Again!!

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

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

I'd Like to Thank the Academy...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(music starts)

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

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

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

(fade to commercial)