The Loony Lampoonist

The Salty Saga of Captain Hooker : Index

2011-12-14T11:03:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1: Captain Hooker and the story of the mysterious, moldy MacGuffin.

Chapter 2: Cap'n Hooker and the mystery of Lesbos.

Chapter 3: Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero.

Chapter 4: Mr. Lampooner does Wonder Woman.

Chapter 5: The Quill of Mockery

Chapter 6: Mr. Lampooner in the hereafter.

Chapter 7: The cavalry is coming!

Chapter 8: Cap'n Hooker and the cowardly Ninjas.

Chapter 9: The Anecdotal Adventures of Cap'n Hooker.

Chapter 10: Cap'n Hooker and the Promise of a Portrait.

Street War II

2011-10-26T04:25:00.000-07:00

Read the chronicles of the First Street War here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2007/02/street-war-on-festival-of-lights.html

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Street War II

We found ourselves deep within enemy territory. The smell of sulphur was all around us and explosions could be heard in the distance.

Little Goonie had spotted them first. "Hostiles! 3 o'clock!", he screamed and ran for cover. We followed him.

Ducking behind an ice cream cart, I looked up. Goonie was right. They were positioned in the second floor balcony of an apartment.

"Should we make a run for it?" asked Sarge.

"We wouldn't make it," I replied, "They will use their altitude to their advantage."

"We're losing time," he said, "They will be calling in for reinforcements now. We're cornered and they know it. Perhaps I could sneak away, out of their line of sight and get help."

"It's not the time for heroism yet," I replied. I couldn't afford to lose one of my men this early in the battle.

Sarge's eyes glowered, but he nodded.

"I know someone who lives in this street," said Goonie softly, interrupting the silence, "He comes to visit my mother sometimes."

Sarge and I exchanged knowing glances.

"He is quite fond of me," he continued, "I'm sure we can hide over there for a while."

"A safe house! That is exactly what we need. Show us the way, Goonie."

We wheeled the ice cream cart, taking cover behind it and headed towards the safe house. The enemy taunted us, with more appearing on other balconies and terraces. This looked like a group trained in aerial warfare.

"Cowards!" they hooted, guffawing, "Wear skirts instead and tie up your hair in pretty little ponytails."

Sarge stood up, ready to utter a battle cry. He didn't get far before a loud SPLOOSH interrupted him and he fell backwards, drenched and sputtering.

"Holi Water Balloons!" I exclaimed.

"Direct hit!", screamed the assailant and barked out orders asking for more ammunition.

I dragged Sarge behind the cart and wondered if we should make a last stand. Goonie tapped my shoulder and informed me that the safe house was just a little distance ahead. I nodded and carrying Sarge over my shoulders, followed him.

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

The safe house belonged to a man who called himself a grizzled war veteran. He claimed to have fought many a street war back in his day.

"Do you have a stockpile of weapons now?", I asked him.

"Negative."

"I suppose we are doomed then", I sighed in resignation.

"It's not over until it's over", he replied, "I think I may know of a way to get you out of here."

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

It was now two hours past nightfall. We had waited in hiding for over four hours and then under the cover of darkness sneaked out to follow the instructions of the grizzled war veteran. By the time we were done, we smelled bad but appeared hopeful.

The enemy was now emerging out with their parents, ready to enjoy the festivities. They were dressed in their finest and the fireworks display was about to begin.

Little did they know that what appeared to be a pile of paper from exploded firecrackers was actually a booby trap.

We watched patiently from behind the faithful old ice cream cart, waiting for the right moment.

I studied the proximity of the enemy from the trap. They had to get closer for an optimum trajectory.

"They aren't coming into the blast radius," I cursed under my breath.

"Perhaps it is time for my heroism, sir", said Sarge.

I looked at him. I knew he was right.

I nodded.

He stood up and uttered the battle cry once again. The taunts that followed one-upped the tame insults of the enemy. They gasped in horror, the parents covering the ears of the younger ones. Quite predictably, they charged for him.

He waited till they came into the blast radius and then lifted his hands up in mock surrender.

I lit the long inconspicuous wick that led right to the booby trap.

The explosion that followed was quite blinding. Cow dung flew everywhere, splattering faces and staining new clothes. The enemy staggered for balance, overpowered by the smell. The revulsion led to chaos. In the midst of it, Sarge walked back to our hideout smiling. He looked unhurt.

"I dived away from it", he said, "Cool guys don't look at explosions."

We waltzed our way out.

Past tense

2011-10-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

I could not fathom why I would wake up with ephemera in my pockets. It became a nightly ritual to wear clean pajamas, taking great care to clear out the pockets of accidental contents (I believed in making the journey into the Afterlife with no identification, if I ever died in my sleep) and yet, in the morning I would find foreign objects in them. On a closer examination one day, I noticed that they weren't merely foreign objects, that were out of place, they were anachronistic rather, out of its place in time. These anachronisms piqued my curiosity. I would find tickets for modes of transport that no longer existed. Why would a man in the 21st century have a steamer ticket for a journey around the world in his pocket, I asked myself. I had no idea. I knew myself to be a person who picked up knick-knacks and assorted doodads along the course of the day, but how did I end up with objects from another time? It was a mystery.

As a man afflicted with considerable lethargy, I did not pursue the matter beyond a few hours of intense armchair analysis. It was when objects that looked strangely unfamiliar to my eyes turned up that I began to ponder about this phenomenon. The writings were like nothing I had ever seen. And some of them appeared on different parts of my body. I woke up one day to find rings on my fingers. They seemed to be fashioned out of some sort of animal hide. I called in a favour at the university and they dated the accessories. It was in fashion sometime in prehistory.

The findings suggested that I was either a time traveller or a kleptomaniac art thief suffering from a rare variation of somnambulism. I ruled out the second theory. My morals were rigid and my faith strong; even sleep would not cloud their effect on my good nature. I now had to understand the mechanics of my time travel. It was not mere retrocognition, where people have been known to have suddenly possessed knowledge of earlier times or places that could not have been obtained by regular means. That was too pedestrian. And I had returned from the past with artifacts. That was something the retrocogs could not do. On the other hand, I could not bring memories back. It was perhaps a trade-off for carrying objects of a tangible nature through the mists of time.

It seemed to me then that this was a mystery that would go to the grave with me. I made my peace with it, knowing that a lot of history was similar. Artifacts would turn up at archaeological digs with no narratives to tell their story. My story would be the same. Portions of my life unknown with no memory of it, save a few objects with tantalizing hints of fantastic adventures through time.

In time, anachronisms would begin to appear directly on my body. Tattoos depicting ancient gods covered the blank canvas of my skin and my hairstyles changed. I wondered what kind of makeup I might have seen on my face waking up if I were a woman. Clearly my nocturnal travels were beginning to get more intimate with the people of the past.

The intimacy continued to grow I realized, as I discovered one day in bed. My wife of many years, a fine woman who was amused by my time travelling, suspected me of adultery. After so many years of marriage she had created a record of my sexual styles, so to speak, and found me now performing in a manner that she was not familiar with. She asked me who this interloper was, who taught me these new (and exciting, she grudgingly added) moves. I had no idea, I told her, wondering if I suddenly started sleepwalking unsolicited into strange women's bedrooms.

These amorous encounters would continue, inexplicably leaving marks on my body even though my wife jealously guarded me. She would coil around me and not let go, until the first light of dawn. And yet, I would hurt from the scratches of a wildcat in the morning. Sometimes it seemed to my wife that the pattern of scratches indicated the presence of more than one woman in my bed. That infuriated her even more but she could not do anything as I shrugged it off blamelessly.

I found a person a few months later who had skills that could help me with my mystery. She called herself a forensic investigator, though she mostly operated in the fringes of forensic science. Her specialty lay in sexual crimes and she possessed an amazing knowledge in that area. She recently started dabbling in historical crimes and soon enough expressed an interest in my case.

I explained my unexplained encounters with strange women who left in the morning without a trace. She nodded, taking in every word. "Sleep with me," she said as I finished my story.

I was taken aback. My marriage was adulterous enough as it was with the unexplained dalliances. Why ruin it completely with a woman from the present?

I refused, but she smiled and said it again. "Sleep with me, if you want to solve the mystery."

And so I did, and she seemed to shadow my every move. Nothing was new to her; she shifted defenses, taking in every assault and launching some of her own. I was outplayed.

She smiled as I lay back exhausted. "I can date your travels," she said, adding that sexual knowledge changed over the centuries, sometimes increasing and at other times decreasing, with some techniques lost to most people forever, only to remain in record in obscure manuals. I told her that my artifacts already dated most of my travels so I wouldn't need her services and this had been a waste of time.

"There's more," she added, pinning me down and mounting me in the ways of a Sumerian charioteer. "Your body has so far brought back objects and art with it. But you now have something that's far more important."

"What is that?", I asked, increasing my horsepower.

"Muscle memory," she replied. "Your body remembers the things it is taught and so far you have performed ancient sexual rites purely from its memory. I can teach you to retain memories in other organs. And soon your eyes shall see, your ears shall hear and your brain shall remember events from a past long forgotten."

I smiled. I was finally on the path to uncovering this mystery and filling up the blank pages of my life.

The Belt

2011-09-25T03:06:00.000-07:00

I tried it on.

It circumnavigated my waist twice.

What manner of man held up his trousers with a belt of this length, I wondered. He had to have been awfully voluminous. I tried to picture such a man in my head.

And failed.

Pachydermous imagery filled my mind instead. Was it possible that some men could have been made so large? His skin could very well be filled in with two, or even three men of my build. What would I feel when I encountered a man of great girth? I suppose it wouldn't be quite unlike a child looking up at its father. He must have commanded greater respect and authority than a normal sized man.

I wondered about the gravitational effects around this man. What was the strain on the gravitational forces to keep him grounded, preventing from floating away into the black nothingness above? Would he exert his own gravity on people around him, drawing them closer to himself? I could not picture it in my head.

How many cows did he kill, or have killed to obtain cowhide to produce belts of this great diameter? Were animal populations halved during his lifetime to feed his existence? What was his metabolism like? Slower or faster than mine? My head ached from this reasoning.

I felt the texture of the belt in my hand. Leather, they called it in the old days. It must have been at least seven hundred years old. Rather well preserved for an artifact of the those times.

I looked at my own belt. Fashioned out of plant fiber, with a buckle made of oak wood and featuring a lone hole. Every one of us had the hole in the exact same place in our belts. We had to wear our belts at all times. Regardless of what we ate and what we did. We had to fit in.

I envied that man.

A nondescript tale

2010-08-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

I am a compulsive eavesdropper on telephone conversations. I have found that watching cloud patterns change in the sky as the hours pass by in waiting at the train station is not as interesting as listening in on the dialogue between a fellow passenger and his correspondent on the other end. The loveliest of women have been wooed, the most distant of star-crossed lovers united and the most tyrannical of governments toppled as I play my part of an onlooker, or on-hearer rather, in the proceedings.

All that would pale in comparison though, to the conversation I overheard this morning as a young man passed me on my way to the workplace. I heard him speak rather loudly discussing his domestic affairs, and as he was right beside me, the topic seemed to switch to his personal hygiene where he observed that he was sweating like anything. In those exact words, as I paraphrased them. And as I shall quote him now, to be recorded for posterity : He said, "I am sweating like anything..." The rest of the conversation went unheard as I stood there, gasping at the brilliance of this literary discovery. This plainly dressed man had, in the course of a banal telephone conversation, created a simile of infinite possibilities. I goggled at his receding form as he walked away, the discoverer of a hitherto unknown grammatical technique. He had constructed a simile that drew an analogy between the subject and infinity. I felt the feeling that the explorer feels as he gazes upon the dark beyond. What could possibly describe the state of perspiration of the young man? Was he sweating like a spy who knew his cover was about to be blown? Like a fat Russian Mafia don spending a Sunday evening in the sauna? Like a rickshaw puller in Calcutta during the tropical summers? I might never know. I knew however, that this was a potent weapon and its usage could break the narrative flow of every book it was used in. I imagined readers shaking their heads in despair, unable to form the end of similes of infinite possibilities, as Harry Potter confidently waved his wand, and cried, "I shall smite you, you who shall not be named, because you are as evil as anything and someone as evil as that must not be allowed to live!" Has Harry misjudged the evilness of the one who shall not be named, the reader wonders, putting down his book, never to pick it up again. The publishing industry collapses, the art of story-telling is lost to mankind and the world embraces absolute realism. "I am sweating", his descendant says, unaware that generations ago turns of phrases existed that brought colour to description and life to stories.

Fallout of a recessionary economy : Lampooners take to writing porn

2009-11-15T23:29:00.000-08:00

If you're a fellow lampooner dealing with a literary market that is drying up, here is one genre that is wet with opportunity : Porn Writing.

Porn really brings out one's juices. Creative or otherwise. Use your parodying skills to flesh out characters till they are well endowed, and put more meat into the story. Remember : Perversity and puns go hand in hand.

The greatest porn films stand out in their titular splendour. Adapt a classic film, the recent animated hit Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 3D for example, into a pornographic script with the title Cloudy with a Chance of Meat between my Balls 3D and voila, you have a potential hit at the BO.

Translate a classic film into another language and the unintended humour of dialogue-meaning lost, or worse, mangled in translation ensures a BO hit. Take the case of the theatrical release of Jumper in Spain. Mispronunciation of the title because of the differences in phonetic pronunciation in the two languages and you've got Spaniards rushing to the theatres to watch Humper. Who would've seen that coming, eh?

When the market does show signs of recovering, a few lampooners will still remain, writing the scripts of your favourite porn films. Perhaps to continue an alternate source of income, or just out of sheer interest. Who knows?

Mamma Mia

2009-03-31T12:16:00.000-07:00

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"An arCHAEologist", I said and Miss Cheesely shook her head in response, signalling incomprehension. My young mind was still struggling with polysyllabic words so I tried a substitution of phonemes and answered her again : "An ARCHaeologist".

"Oh, an archaeologist?", she asked, as I patted myself on the back for getting it right and made a mental note of the correct pronunciation, "Why would you want to become one, li'l Lampooner? Archaeologists spend hours out digging in sunny climes to find dirty old bones, y'know."

"Becoming an archaeologist gets me closer to mummies, Miss Cheesely. It feeds my need for mummies."

"Mummies?"

"I love mummies. It must be the Oedipus Complex inside me."

Miss Cheesely sighed. I hadn't been paying attention in the psychology classes she said, and Freud would be turning in his grave, she hypothesized.

"That's factually incorrect", I replied, "Even for a hypothesis. Freud was in fact cremated. His ashes would be swirling in an urn would be more appropriate", I pointed out.

"Right", she said, "Anyway, your penchant for mollycoddling mummies seems-"

"I fear it is more than mere mollycoddling, Miss Cheesely."

She stared at me through her glasses. "Okay, this um.. love for mummies suggests necrophilia."

Necrophilia. I liked the sound of that word. I said it aloud, wondering if I got the phonemes right, and as Miss Cheesely nodded, realized that I did and made a mental note of the pronunciation.

"But why mummies?", she asked, "Wouldn't the cadavers at the Biology department be better partners, for want of a better word?"

"Cadavers?", I scoffed. "Mummies hit a hypothetical eleven on the necrophiliac hotness scale, Miss Cheesely. Think deadness as hotness and you can't get deader than a Mummy. Mummies are vintage death."

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Miss Cheesely and I travelled to Cairo the year I came of age, an unlikely pair of tomb robbers. The desert - well, to cut a long story short, skipping over character descriptions and page filling material like intimate encounters, we did get to dig up mummies, actually a singular mummy, a single mom who preceded gender equality by centuries and was probably mummified alive and expected to be damned forever in the Netherworld. It is not known though why her mummy remained intact instead of being unwrapped and flesh torn to shreds by hellish minions, but a speculation on that subject is wisely left to the scholars. I was looking at the most attractive dead woman in the world and I could not care less about the dereliction of duties of the Netherworld staff.

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She remained Miss Cheesely till her death in '56. After that she became Mrs. Lampooner.

Francis

2009-03-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

"It was nearing Christmas when I hit puberty. Francis began looking at me differently since. My breasts had grown bigger and I would notice his eyes going down towards them when he thought I wasn't looking. I let him stare though. I figured that one day he would ask me out to a movie and dinner and we would return to his apartment later in the night and throw ourselves at each other, hungry for the taste of flesh. It happened months later and we found ourselves in his place, undressing each other. As he pushed me to the wall, I resisted playfully and escaping his grasp, stepped away from him, tripped over the couch, crashed through the French windows of his balcony and fell to my death."

"It ends there?"

"Yes."

"That was a great hook though."

"Yeah."

"A pity that it had to be wasted here."

"I wouldn't call it a waste."

"It is a waste, isn't it? How could this story continue after the accidental death of the narrator?"

"Well yes, we wouldn't have descriptions of characters and setting. But tales have been successfully told in more extreme circumstances, haven't they?"

"Probably. But I have no interest in the literary avant-garde."

"That's surprising. Aren't you one of the openers?"

"Opener?"

"Were you scheduled to appear on page 1?"

"I'm not sure. Where does one check that?"

"In the draft, of course."

"I received no draft."

"You're beginning to sound like a secondary character.."

"I don't know who I am. Who are you?"

"I am the narrator's father."

"Oh. What do you do when you know that Francis is boning your daughter?"

"Warn him to stay away from my little girl, I suppose. My character is stock unfortunately, to drive the story along."

"Well, I think you can still serve your purpose."

"Really? How?"

"Applying Occam's Razor, I figured that I could only be Francis. And here we are, standing over your dead daughter's body. In your rage, you assume that I am responsible for her death. So, are you going to take this story to its bloody end?"

Yo who who

2009-01-16T08:29:00.000-08:00

Knock Knock

Who's there?

Yo

Yo who?

Yo who who and a bottle of rum!

That is not how it goes! Argh! Why can't people be respectful to the original lyrics of-

SMASH

Whiny little twerp. That'll teach ye to not play smart with us Oriental pirates. Yo who who and a broken bottle of rum~

The question of fatherhood

2008-12-25T17:02:00.000-08:00

As many young men contemplate the decision of fatherhood these days, a lampooner finds himself coerced to speak out in its favour.

I come from a long line of lampooners; my forefathers have fathered on unfailingly since the beginning of time and our history is rife with tales of bawdy romances, impregnations under false pretenses and cuckolded husbands seeking revenge, though the tale that gets told the most is set during the French Revolution when my great-great-great granpappy Le Satiriste Fou found himself in the unenviable position of aristocracy and dragged to the guillotine realised that he was young and had no progeny, so to a request to find out his last dying wish replied that he would like to sow his seed in a woman so that his legacy may live on and the Bourgeoisie agreed for they would not deny a dying man his dying wish and produced a proletarian woman of great beauty and he coupled with her, before being decapitated with a smile on his face. The lampooners born since have carried on his legacy for they know that at the Day of Reckoning the last men shall be judged and their DNA shall be examined to determine their pedigree. It has been revealed by scientific study that fathering a child causes one to leave his genetic imprint on the next generation, so I too father children in the hope that I shall be immortalized in my descendants DNA and on Judgment Day I shall be recognised as one of the greatest men who ever lived.

Father as many children as you can, fellow men. We suffer from no want of fertile women in these times.

Erasmus in the Land of Cows

2008-12-20T09:34:00.000-08:00

I arrived on the shores of India a month before the Christmas of 18--, invited to the nuptial ceremonies of a friend and eager to travel the lengths of this ancient land. I would collect experiences; I gravely needed them, my story was far from complete, the deadline a fortnight away and here I was, facing a creative crisis. I had accepted the assignment, confident. Exotic erotica would be easy, I presumed, trusting my imagination to run on full steam and deliver. It did not however, as it turned out that writing erotica was harder than it seemed. Fantasizing oneself into an amorous encounter with a character of the opposite sex was an ability that every boy (and presumably girl) was born with, but representing it in literary form was a rather challenging task. One had to script the encounters between the characters using language that would not stray too far from the polite vocabulary of the readers, who in this case were presumably shy young women reading erotica on the sly, and yet at the same time maintain the sauciness levels to sustain reader interest; the cheeks flushed red, giggling sort of interest to be specific.

And then there was also the problem of unavailable exotica.

"It appears that you need the taste of fresh meat to get your juices flowing, Erasmus", said Post, the bridegroom-to-be, upon witnessing my predicament. He worked at the publishing company that employed writers like me, before he fell in love with a girl from India and decided to go there and get himself married.

"I have grown weary of the local fauna, dear Post, where would I find birds of paradise, except perhaps in paradise itself?", I replied, shaking my head. I had been sitting in front of the typewriter for the past hour and a single word hadn't been typed in.

"India."

"India?", I asked incredulously and he replied matter-of-factly, "Yes", which prompted me to question his sanity and ask, "Are you out of your mind?", to which he gave a flippant reply, "No" and smiled, which got a snarl from me in response indicating that he explain his suggestion before he got, quoting from what I remember saying at the time, "kicked in the behind in an impolite manner." "This girl is the very sight of-", he started explaining but didn't quite complete the sentence as I interrupted him and asked for the condensed version, which he provided in three short sentences : "I fell in love with this Indian girl. I am going to India to get married. You are coming with me."

I remember being taken aback and then taking a parental tone to scold the lovelorn child for his folly, but it wasn't very effective. A day later, we were on a ship sailing halfway around the world, to the Land of Cows.

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

On the day of the matrimonial union, an hour before the ceremony, Post stepped into my room, saw me in my splendid suit and made a fainting motion.

"By the third eye of Shiva, why must my eyes be witness to such horrors? Is that what you are going to wear to my wedding?", he asked.

"Well yes", I replied, "why else, pray tell, would I be wearing it on the day of your wedding?"

He opened his mouth and I knew what was coming. A lecture on the fashion trends of the nineteenth century.

So, I gave in and let him pick my clothes. He did not trust my fashion sense. "Non existent", he called it, reminding me of the various sartorial faux pas I committed in his company. I sighed. I did not know they were faux pas until he brought them to my attention. But I was thankful to him for that. We had always been like this, from our younger years. We were a good looking pair, Post more handsome than I. He devoted a lot of time to grooming himself and when he was done, grooming me, because I wouldn't do it myself. "You need to look good when you're out with me", he said, when I asked him why he bothered with my appearance, "otherwise you would cause a subtraction from the sum total of our collective beauty."

Our collective beauty must have been a big number tonight, if beauty could be measured on a numeric scale. Post had outdone himself. The young man in a dapper suit on the other side of the looking glass was not me surely. Or was it? I turned to look at Post. "What vile witchery is this?"

He laughed. "That, Erasmus, is the magic of fashion."

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

We stepped in confidently through the door as our names were announced.

"Erasmus and Postlethwaite, ladies and gentlemen."

We bowed.

A lady came up and smiled at Post, her corset artificially enhancing her curves. I tried hard not to stare at her bosom.

"Hello Erasmus", she said, and took him away. I could see why Post had fallen in love with her. She was beautiful.

As he went, he looked back at me and mouthed the followed words : "Go forth, young Erasmus, and sow your wild oats."

And I went, surveying the fauna. A lioness presented herself, with a mane of burnished gold. She looked about ten years older than me.

"Nice evening, isn't it, m'lady?", I said, approaching her. The personification of my libido groaned and kicked me in my reproductive parts. "That is not how you do it!", he screamed.

And he was right. She made me get her a drink, chatted for a while, and soon excused herself away to the washroom.

Favouring a more direct approach, I went up to another lioness and introduced myself. "Hello, I'm Erasmus."

"Hello, I'm married', she replied, not bothering to actually show a wedding ring.

"Oh, that's nice", I replied, "So, who do you do for a living?"

She looked puzzled. "Whatever do you mean?"

"The presumably rich gentleman who pays for your upkeep. What is his position in the Peerage?"

Her response was unladylike.

I was beginning to lose hope. I sat down, dejected at being rejected. I must have sat there for a while, drowning my sorrow in drink, because I hadn't noticed that I wasn't alone.

The cohabitant of the couch was a young girl, probably a couple of years younger than myself. Her voice interrupted the sad voices in my head. "So, what do you do?", she asked.

I was tired of that question and the questions that followed.

"I am a milkman", I replied. Now why would I say that? Wasn't I a writer? Was the alcohol already slowing down my cognitive processes? I had no idea.

"A milkman?", she giggled, "Surely no milkman would look as suave as you do."

"Oh, I don't milk farm cows like them ordinary milkmen. I am a milkman of a higher order."

"What do you milk then, sir?"

"I milk the cow in my head."

"You've got a cow in your head?"

"Yes. The Cow of Creativity. I milk her for ideas."

"Ah, you're a writer!"

"Guilty as charged."

She took the glass out of my hand. "So, what does this cow look like?"

"Let's see. Four legs, a hump and two horns. Like a regular cow. What did you expect to hear? Could I have my drink back now?"

"No. And I refuse to believe that your cow of creativity looks like a regular cow. Have you heard of the Kama-Dhenu?

"Yes, the most sacred cow of the ancient Hindus. Now, can I have my drink back, please?"

She put the glass to her mouth and gulped the contents down. "You're not to have another drink. Until I'm done talking with you, anyhow. Now tell me sir, you know the Kama-Dhenu is a cow that gives her master whatever he desires. I think the cow in your head is similar in a way."

I sighed. I would have to tell her what she wanted to hear, to get rid of her. It sounded like a simple plan, but would my numbed mind make it difficult?

"No, there aren't any similarities", I replied, and then wondered why I was disagreeing with her. Wasn't getting rid of her the plan? "The cow in my head has no religious significance. She lives in the astral plane. Every time I sit at my desk and take up my pen, I go into a trance. I open my eyes and I find myself in the astral plane and my cow waiting for me. I take a bucket and sit down-"

"Doesn't an astral plane indicate a religious significance? Or at least a spiritual one?", asked she, finding a flaw in my explanation.

"Very well, the cow does have a religious significance. Now, I'll thank you to not interrupt me while I am talking. As I was saying, I sit down, place the bucket under her udders and start milking. I must be careful though. If I milk too much-"

"The cow won't have any left for her calf?"

"No. If I milk too much, I would be overwhelmed with ideas. I wouldn't be able to string a good story out of so much good milk, er material. Oh, would you like to hear about the methods of the other writers in the astral plane? I see them there at times."

"Do they have cows of their own too?"

"Well, some of them do. The others have other methods. I've seen a mysterious writer who can summon infinite monkeys and typewriters at will. With a snap of his fingers, the enslaved monkeys start typing, generating an infinite number of stories. He chooses the best one and leaves the plane. And then there is the lady who lays down before a giant phallic symbol, carved out of wood, and begins her ritual. When she's done, the symbol throbs and -"

"Yes, I get the picture. And I don't think I will be able to get it out of my head for a while. I would like to see your cow, Erasmus."

It was a strange request. Didn't she know the cow was in my head? Realising that I was going to be stuck with her all evening, I complied with her request. Picking up a paper and pen, I asked her to come out to the garden.

Her name was Orfelia, she told me as we walked out, and she was an assistant to a naturalist, a famous one at that. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, one that could shatter the known laws of nature. She spoke of wonderful creatures, both beautiful and bizarre, that she had seen on her journeys. Of strange tribes, a matriarchal tribe that was shocked to learn about the gender equations in the rest of the world. I realised that she had made me talk at first and I would not have known that she would be so intelligent if I hadn't asked her about herself. I listened to her tales, no doubt true, that I could romanticise for my fiction. Before we realised it, an hour had passed and we hadn't got around to milking my cow yet. We laughed.

I put pen to paper and wrote a few lines. I found myself continuing my erotica, titled Boris.

Boris boarded the train and saw the girl. She was reading The Origin of Species, her hair falling over her shoulders, just the length he liked it in women.

I closed my eyes and tried to visualise the scene in my head. As my eyes shut, I noticed Orfelia looking at me and following suit. However, I found myself not on a train, but in a farm. In front of the whitest cow I've ever seen. Orfelia was beside me. She was holding a bucket out to me, smiling.

I opened my eyes. Orfelia's eyes were still closed. She was still in the farm, looking lovely in the moonlight. I kissed her on the lips. It felt good. She did not resist. My fingers went over to the buttons of her dress. She still did not resist. I closed my eyes again. I didn't know where we were, in the garden or the farm, but it was a lovely place.

Boris kissed her on the lips. She tasted like fresh strawberries. They were alone on the train. As he unbuttoned her, he noticed her name written on the inside of the book. Orfelia.

I came out of it. It was like a strange dream. I sat up and wrote, filling up the paper. This is what I had been struggling with in my story earlier. Writing the intimate scene. And now, I had what I wanted. I looked at Orfelia, sleeping bare beside me on the grass. She awoke, looked over my shoulder and read what I had written.

"Orfelia?", she asked, upon discovering her own name in it.

"Yes. Boris, my character, has found his true love."

"And so has Orfelia. I love you, Erasmus."

"I fear, Orfelia, that only Boris has fallen in love with you."

She did not understand my words.

"Don't you love me, Erasmus?"

"No."

"Then what of the moment we shared now?"

"That was a moment you shared with Boris on the astral plane."

She shook her head. Her eyes went moist.

"Then who do you love, Erasmus? Is there another lady who has won your affection?"

"I love the Orfelia I created. I have had many women and will have many more. But I think I love her more than I could love a woman of flesh and blood."

"Why is she so important to you?", she asked, crying.

What could I tell her that would stop the tears? That would ease her pain? It seemed like Orfelia and I shared a bond stronger than love. Someday, a lady might come along who would make me feel like I was in love. But her living, breathing namesake was not that lady. I could not tell her that, so I walked away. I had a story to finish.

The Left Thumb

2008-12-11T13:03:00.000-08:00

"...arguably the greatest contemporary folktale on the subject of thumbs since Tom Thumb and Thumbelina, The Left Thumb is also a staggering achievement with an insight into the human condition of such profundity that surprises the reader..."

New York Times Book Review.

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The Left Thumb

I am a seducer, I attract women with words written.

I fell in love with a woman, and in love cheated and loved another woman and another and another until the first love of my life found herself fallen out of love and in a mood for revenge, so that I may not succeed in seducing yet another woman, demanded of me the thumb of my writing right hand.

I sliced the digit, my eyes conveying the pain of losing my God given gift, and offered it to her; she went away with a smile of satisfaction and unknowing that as her back was turned, I held my pen in my left hand and said with a smirk, "If only you knew the irony of this tale, Beatrice, that I happen to be ambidextrous."

Shedded She

2008-12-02T11:12:00.000-08:00

"I feel like toilet paper."

I handed her a roll.

"No, I didn't say I needed toilet paper. I said I felt like toilet paper."

I touched her skin. "Doesn't feel like paper."

"I didn't mean it in the literal sense. It was a metaphor."

I wondered why one would use toilet related metaphors.

"I feel like used toilet paper", she continued, "I feel used like toilet paper."

I understood. "Dumped again?"

She nodded.

I sighed. She crossed the river of life leapfrogging from one relationship to another.

"Who was it this time?"

"Marcus."

"Malevolent Marcus?"

She nodded.

"Must you shed men from your life like snakeskin?"

"It is I who has been shed."

"Well, must you get shed from the lives of your men so?"

She looked away.

"Will you ever shed me?"

"I don't think I ever can", I replied.

She smiled. "I have been your second skin all your life."

I nodded.

"And now you can't live without this skin that makes you complete."

I nodded again.

"And I don't think I can survive another shedding."

I looked up. There was sadness in her eyes.

"Are you sayin-"

"Yes."

My eyes lit up with joy. We were one again.

I, the gynephobe

2008-11-22T22:25:00.000-08:00

Entry for S&C fortnightly contest, Theme : Phobics Anonymous.

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I, the gynephobe

'Twas in the twenty first year of my short lived life when the mooring line to my maleness snapped and I was cast afloat on solitary waters away from the shores of society. It was a long struggle all these years and I had endured until the day when I found that I could take it no longer and, throwing my arms up in the air, gave up and gave in to my fear.

A man hath no fear, quoth a minstrel singing the glories of a fallen king, but in reality man has feared everything including himself. I have oft asked the divine One if he created me out of mirth for I was born to become a man of finely sculpted shape but with a mind that feared the woman. My fine features might have better helped a man who loved the woman, but strange are His ways and it is not upon us to question His judgement.

My childhood is a distant memory and I suspect that the haze that surrounds it is created by the machinations of my mind. Perhaps it hides it to protect me; I cannot imagine what horrors lie shrouded in that dark corner, but I do not wish to venture there lest I be overwhelmed by a torrent of suppressed memories. Do the roots of my fear go as far deep as that dark place, I wonder at times but I am cowardly and I will not go in to find out.

I have no tangible memory of a mother either, but a mother figure appears in my nightmares and I wake up screaming, or shuddering. She is not headless, nor a banshee either, au contraire the image is always of a lady with an angelic smile and sweet smelling hair. I do not fear decapitated dancers, blue haired banshees and the spring heeled Jack, but I shudder at the thought of the mother who appears in my dreams. She is kind to me and my childhood self is filled with love, but I am violently torn out of this scene by a gripping fear and I find myself awake at some ungodly hour, my heaving chest wet with sweat.

The nightmares grew less in frequency as I grew up to be a young man, but my problems compounded. A young man who has entered society must plunge into the society of young women, and though a young man of my age would leap in with joy, I had to step in fearfully.

"Beware the lechery of women, Erasmus", warned my mind, somehow always wiser and older than I was. I followed the advice of this voice; it watched me all my life and I fear I might not have lived so long without it.

"Women are predators", it continued, as I nodded in agreement, looking at the ones that walked past me with painted faces, lithe limbs and red claws.

"Look not straight into their eyes, lest you fall prey to their hypnotic glare."

"Cast ye eyes away from their bosom, lest ye be enamoured by their beauty."

"Touch not their hair, lest you be smitten by the silkiness and be bitten by the snakes that are hidden within."

"Speak wisely for no woman will tolerate a man wiser than her."

And beware of, I did, as women tried to enter my life and I steered them away from it.

I spent my days reading, codex upon codex, almanac upon almanac, and learned the secrets of this fear that I shared with men who lived in eras before mine. The body built natural defences to threats, they wrote, and for a man afflicted with gynephobia the best defence was asymmetry. The human mind perceived beauty in the form of symmetry and the Greeks portrayed their Gods as humanoid figures of perfect symmetry. An asymmetric visage would have no effect on the eyes of the beholder and the soul continues to lie in a dormant state. A symmetric visage on the other hand has an explosive effect on the eyes and the soul awakens, smelling the presence of a possible soul mate.

I discovered that I was born without the natural defences however, the result of a creator in a mirthful state, and my most symmetrical visage must have caused an explosive effect in the eyes of many a woman.

In the years preceding the Black Death, I was a young playwright, celebrated and arrogant and I would attend the stage plays and dramas of other playwrights and carry out a conversational critique of the performance with my coterie. I would improvise the dialogue, outpun the puns of the scene stealer, parody the theatrics of the hero and better the end. They would not throw me out; they would listen to me instead, for in spite of my cocky disposition I did better the play. When the play was enacted again the next day, it was not the same; it was a rewritten script with the changes that I proposed as I heckled and my name would appear in the credits. My humour must have had an effect on women I realised later, as I was approached by the Lady Portia,

"I must confess that my ladies had to gag me to muffle my screams of laughter when you began your act, Mr. Erasmus. Will you grace us with your presence at dinner tonight?", she said.

"The lady is extremely kind. However, I must dine with Mrs. Erasmus tonight", I replied, confident outward, shivering inward, as I employed the charade of marriage.

The ploy worked. It would not work on a persistent young lady however. Absolutely smitten by my looks, she begged that I woo her and in mortal fear I agreed and asked her to meet me after the sermon on Sunday.

"I have finally got you in my grasp, dear Erasmus", she said, "Oh, who is this person?"

"This, my dear, is Postlethwaite. He is my partner", I replied, giving dear ol' Post a prolonged hug.

And the persistent young lady quit her persistence. I was delighted that I had mastered the art of evading the predators until a very direct young woman sat herself in the empty seat at my table one day and said, "Court me, Erasmus."

I shuddered. I realised that I had to act fast or be trapped forever, so I dropped the cloak of chivalry and said, " And what else may I do for you, madam? Carry your child? Clean the dishes? I am the man here, if you have not seen the lack of breasts on my chest."

She left, shocked that one with manners so fine would suddenly speak in so coarse a manner. And yet, it had to be done, as a mother tiger ignores her fear of the musket and defends her cubs, baring her teeth at the hunter. I might never overcome my fear of women but I was now learning to face it.

My progress notwithstanding, fate rolled in the dice again in the form of whispered rumours. Why was the wealthy Erasmus yet unmarried? I hear that he has spurned many a woman, is that true? Can he not perform the will of God?

The last question stung the most. As the codex had said, ordinary men are ignorant of gynephobia. Most have not heard its name. They would not understand it and beware, as a clan of wild animals eats its weak, so shall a man be destroyed by other men when it is known that he fears mere women. Protect your secret at all costs, it warned.

The mooring line to my maleness was weakening and I had to do something about it. So, I found Orfelia.

Orfelia was not a very beautiful woman, but there was something about her that did not scare me completely. She was the only woman I could look at without feeling threatened, so I courted her for a few weeks until the day came that I dined with her and found myself accompanying her in my carriage as we rode back to my house.

The circumstances that lead us to bed might not interest the reader so I shall omit that from this narration and continue at the point at which Orfelia undressed me, herself and lay next to me. She touched me and my hands quivered, I grit my teeth, a shiver went down my spine and back up and my chest formed drops of cold sweat. I was looking at naked fear and it was tangible, a tangible form that was over me and giggling, tickling me and a pleasure mixed in with the fear, and I have no words to describe the reactions of my body to the dual stimuli of fear and pleasure and I fear my mind must have lost control of my body a moment later as my eyes closed. Words cannot describe the experience afterward either, but I can remember the colours seen by my shut eyes : Vivid shapes of yellow that shot through castles of stony red, drenched in a green, slimy rain; a violet haze descends, shattered by the most golden lightning, suddenly a white flash, white all around, milky whiteness and then darkness. Pitch black darkness.

I opened my eyes to escape the deluge of colours, and saw Orfelias above me. I blinked once, twice, and there they were again. One Orfelia and another. They had different expressions, lest I thought that I merely had double vision. One Orfelia smiled with burning eyes and the other had uplifted brows in surprise. They spoke to each other in a strange tongue and I looked on in disbelief. I remembered one Orfelia on top of me as I lay down and as I opened my eyes there were two distinct Orfelias; did she have a twin who crept in unnoticed? How could- and then it was that I noticed that they were joined at the hip, one hip that rested on mine and two different persons in their upper bodies, two persons who now looked at me. Orfelias raised their four arms and touched me and my fevered mind was capable of experiencing no more. My eyes did not shut however, it stared at the ungodly sight and as they did unspeakable acts upon themselves and then on me, my mind simply shut down my optic connections and darkness fell. I was blind and I thanked the Lord for it.

It was a day later that Post found me; I was feverish and babbling, he said. I told him that I had gone blind, but nay he said, you have not. You can see and it is your mind that fools you and keeps you blinded. You must have seen a sight so horrible. What was it, Erasmus? What phantom could have shocked you so into blindness?

I heard the mooring line to my maleness snap. "It was a woman, Post."

"A ghostly lady? The Duchess of Viscombe?'

"Nay, Post. A living, young lady. A beautiful young lady. I fear her, as I do other women, because I am a gynephobe."

Cap'n Hooker and the Promise of a Portrait (Collab.)

2008-11-19T11:23:00.000-08:00

Dramatis Personae :

Mr. Lampooner, a meta-fictional superhero with supranatural powers which include calculating the viscosity of a book with the mere stirring of a bare finger and the ability to leap into the murky depths of its plot line. Last reported sighting : Leaping into a handsome leather-bound volume of the best seller 'The Salty Saga of Captain Hooker'.

Captain Hooker, the sauciest scourge of the Seven Seas, or so she claims. She emerged into the literary spotlight recently, created as the villainess of a children's story where she is supposed to die a horrible death in the briny deep. Dying is the last thing on her mind though, and in one of those rare unscripted moments in literary history, sends the handsome hero walking down the plank instead. The story never makes it to The End but the character goes on to appear in later stories, often as the protagonist.

Seagull 1 and Seagull 2. Non-speaking parts.

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I walked up to the deck early one morning to check the overnight bottle mail; it was one of the duties assigned to me as I took on the position of factotum on this ship, turning out to be too old for a cabin boy and not attractive enough to be First Mate; and I was surprised to find a letter addressed to the Captain. In the past half a year of serving on this ship I have not seen the Captain receive a communication of significance so the appearance of this missive made me rather curious. Looking around and finding no one awake at this early hour, save a couple of seagulls, I pulled the message out of the bottle; it must be explained to the landlubbing reader at this point that we seafarers have a postal system of our own called the Bottle Mail Service which allows the sender to seal his letter in a glass bottle (preferably corked) along with the name of the recipient and the correct ship code and pop it into the sea and let the currents guide it to the waiting mailbox which is usually situated near the keel of the ship; and read out the contents to myself :

Tell the Cap'n, I owe her some and I haven't forgotten.

Signed,

K-.

"Ahoy, Cap'n Hooker! Ahoy!", I cried, running towards the fo'c's'le, "Where art thou O' saucy scourge of the seven seas! I bear a message from a young lass, a message of grave importance!"

"This had better be good, Mister Lampooner", replied she, emerging from her cabin, "I be in the middle o' somethin' reeely important!"

"What could possibly be more important than a message of grave importance?"

"Me Jolly Dodger's birdbath, of course!", replied she.

I tsk-tsked. "Your parrot can perform his ablutions later. I carry a-"

"How dare ye! Jolly Dodger be a she. A lady of fine plumage and greener than the greenest emerald ye ever set yer eyes on!"

"One can hardly be blamed for mistaking the gender of a bird bestowed with the dodgy name of the Jolly Dodger, can he?"

"Oh, there be a story behind that, Mister Lampooner", replied the Cap'n laughing, "the Jolly Dodger had a wild youth, y'see-"

I stopped her in mid-sentence, wondering why every female character in this story seemed to have a wild youth, "Ah, never mind the backstory of the Jolly Dodger. It is a tale for another day. Returning to the matter in hand, or more specifically the missive in my hand, it reads that this young lass owes you something (of unspecified identity and value) and says that she has not forgotten. Though what it is that she still retains in her memory is left to the imagination of the reader.."

"Aye, I knows what she talks 'bout."

"Oh, what is it?"

"She wishes to paint me portrait", replied the Cap'n grinning.

"Why would anyone want to paint you?"

"What is that supposed to be meaning?", growled she, gripping her cutlass.

"Er- I meant to say why would anyone want to do something so pointless as try to capture your heavenly beauty on canvas?", replied I quickly, with a cheeky smile.

"Ah, beauty so heavenly surely must cast an earthly shadow", said she, claiming to be quoting a poet of yore, though I must say that I certainly haven't read poetry with such cheesy lines before, "so it be not a meaningless endeavour after all, eh Mister Lampooner?"

"I suppose so."

"Aye! However, I demand that I shall be painted along with dear ol' Jolly Dodger! Can ye carry that message back to her?"

"Yer wish is me command, O' commander of the octal oceans!", I replied, imitating her piratical lingo.

"Octal oceans? There be only five oceans known to landlubbers, ye silly person. And let's keep it that way, shall we? There be unimaginable treasures in the unknown seas, and Cap'n Hooker shall 'ave 'em all! Arr!"

"Aye Aye, Cap'n!", I said, saluting, running away to deliver the message. Ooh, a treasure hunt for real! We be goin' a-sailing, a-sailing we shall go!

The Contractual Husband

2008-11-15T11:45:00.000-08:00

We knew this day would come. We looked at each other; not knowing what to say and how to say it, whatever it was that had to be said.

Did we know what the other was thinking? I think not, even after all these years that we have spent together.

Did we know what the other was feeling? I think not; I cannot read his face nor can he mine, even after all these years.

But the day had come. The contract had ended.

I think back to the day when it began. In the year of the Dragon.

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His Fall

Erasmus was a Defender. Our society frowned upon aggression and our vocabulary contained no word for attack. Attack (ə-tăk') was a loanword from the language of the barbarians that crept into our language to describe their acts of hostility, as we entered their lands in search of rice grain. Our reserves were depleted; it was a year of famine and the farms would not yield crop. Our barbaric neighbours would not share our burden and hence our defence forces were formed that year to occupy farmlands outside our borders and defend them against their owners.

Years passed, the heavens opened, and we had bountiful crop. But the Defenders remained at their posts and created more. We continued defending, extending our borders further and defending them until the barbarians would eventually become unwelcome in their own land. Some fled, the others remained and our Defenders mingled, blood mixing, blemishing the purity of our race in these Outlands.

As this unholy practice of mingling with the heathen grew widespread among the ranks, the Creator began choosing the Defenders of her land herself. She could look into the minds of men and their weaknesses would be revealed. She thus chose the strong ones from our first born as her Defenders and send them into the Outlands, leaving the weak and wayward back home to be taken care of by their women.

Erasmus was one of the handpicked ones; he was chosen by the Creator, seeing in him not just strength but also leaderhood, and rewarded him with the position of Captain. He was sent into active duty that year. The year of the Dragon. The year of his Fall.

He fell hard, in the sixth month of his duty. "In his defence", said a comrade to me years later, "His mingling was with a musk woman of the Outlands. A strange people, said to have odour glands in their bodies, their women were much coveted by the Defenders. For the musk women had odour glands close to their reproductive organs, and as you coupled with them, the most heavenly scent would envelop you, an aphrodisiac in itself and an olfactory experience that would grow stronger as you took them to higher planes of pleasured excitement". I could picture the scene in my mind : Young Erasmus, proud and noble, shining white in his virginal purity, marked by the musk women for a long time, finally falling prey to one of them, their most seductive beauty I would like to think, as she approached him tantalizingly, a heavenly scent beginning to envelop her as she grew aroused at the sight of his taut, muscular figure and he, unable to resist such divine temptation; for it is said in legend that the musk people were endowed with their odour producing abilities by the blessing of their god, the Muscotaur; taking her and then as the scent engulfed him, ravaging her until her glands were empty. It would make me envious every time I pictured it; I knew I had no right to do so, nevertheless I coloured green every single time.

The Creator punished him on his return, forbidding him to return to the Outlands.

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My Fall

Orfelia Portson. I did not like my matronymic, bestowed on me by my mother Portia upon birth. She had wanted a male cub, one she could nurture and mould lovingly but the sight of a female emerging from her womb must have saddened her, knowing that the coming years would be filled with conflict as child rose against parent and eventually left the house to find her own man. It was the same story in every house and if my mother prayed that she be spared from it, her prayers were not chanted loud enough. It must have affected her greatly because, though I did not know it at that time, she found herself uninterested in teaching me the ways of our society, as a consequence I grew up to be a woman who was unsure of men.

And hence my marriage to Postlethwaite failed.

He was the son of a countess and I was desperate, after having failed to find a man for myself. I was too straightforward and unromantic, so it was said of me, and it drove the men away. So, I agreed to marry the man my mother chose for me.

The marriage lasted for a day.

Postlethwaite was a fop, the kind I despised. He oozed charm and beauty, and many a woman would be enamoured of him. But I wanted a man with hair on his face. And his chest. And he had it on neither, as I discovered to my disdain, undressing him on the night of our conjugal union. I could not be aroused and Postlethwaite fled, seeking mercy at the feet of the Creator. She took him into her harem, as she did every handsome husband of a failed marriage, and punished me. With a contractual marriage.

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As we women come of age, we go out and find a mate. When we find a suitable man, we start a family and live our lives until the day we die. However, every marriage does not turn out this way, mine included, and we are punished by the Creator. For we have become fallen women and she would unite us with fallen men, men who are guilty of violating our dogma of One Creation by coupling with other unrelated women either by compliance or, horrifyingly, by force.

And thus, for our transgressions, Erasmus and I were united in contractual matrimony for a period of ten years.

Erasmus was different from the other men I knew. The years in the Outlands had changed him, his mother said as she placed his hand in mine, in matrimony. He looked at me as she said that and I could see something within him. While other men seemed to have the purity of white lilies inside them, in Erasmus I saw something else.

But what I saw within would not come out easily, I realised as the priestess read out the contract and drew our signatures in blood. In the contractual marriage, Erasmus would have to carry out faithfully the duties of a husband, laid out by our scriptures, failing which he would be put to death. A contractual marriage was a chance of redemption for a fallen man and most men in it followed its terms till its end date. Would proud Erasmus follow suit? Though I did not know what he was like at that time, his face pleased me and I certainly would not have wished him dead. So, I prayed that he would not break the rules. However, there was still a small part of me, the part that listens to no reason, the part that liked what it had seen within him, that wished that he would break these rules.

And break the rules he did, on the very first night of our marriage. I do not speak from experience but from the memories of stealthily witnessing the coupling of my parents as I say this : the act allowed to us by our religion is monotonous and boringly bland. It did not arouse me in any way and I dare say I did not look forward to the nights with Erasmus. As he entered my room the first night, I looked up, expecting him to ask me to lay over him and begin the process of Creation. He did not, however, choosing instead to come close to me, with a wild look in his eyes, and caress my body. I grew aroused rapidly, but a small voice in me, fearing punishment, vocalised itself and asked, "But what of the terms of the contract, Erasmus?"

"I am beyond redemption, Orfelia. If I must be put to death tomorrow, I shall walk to the guillotine satisfied with the taste of you."

His words were crude but they burned something within me. "I am beyond redemption too, Erasmus", I replied and hurtled down the vortex to fiery hell with him, our bodies coiled together. If the good men and women of this land coupled for Creation in the way my parents had, I wept for them as they were deprived the real joys of union.

A good man and a good woman coupling were two blocks of flint stone, inanimate and inorganic, rubbing against each other to create a spark.

Erasmus and I, on the other hand, were living, breathing creatures. He was a snake coiling around the lemon tree. I played the flute in rhythmic patterns. He was the autumn leaf floating on the spring pond. I became the tigress swimming the easterly wave. He transformed into the pangolin in the hunt. I plucked grapes from the vines. He became a boar..

As the sun rose, yellowy rays entering the room, lighting it up, we found ourselves back in our human forms. I looked at Erasmus. Whatever was there within him, which emerged in the night, had gone back to the depths from whence it came. But I knew it would return as darkness fell again and I smiled in anticipation.

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Musk

Ten years had passed. We were beyond our prime, but that did not slow us down. Even on the last day, Erasmus ravaged me, a discernible sadness in his eyes. I closed my eyes, lifted my oars and let my canoe rush down his raging river. I knew I would lose everything this day.

As we lay next to each other, we looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Erasmus had broken the contract the first day of serving it, taking me in his arms and performing unholy acts. Would he break the contract again to stay with me?

I looked into his eyes expectantly. He looked back. The sadness grew. There was a distant look, a distant and almost forgotten memory returning to haunt him.

"I have served you well, Orfelia", he said, "And I must take your leave now and return."

"Where will you go, Erasmus? Why won't you stay with me?"

"I will return to my beloved. She waits for me, in the Outlands."

"Don't you love me, Erasmus?"

"I was your husband by contract, Orfelia. With her, I am free and an equal."

His eyes had that wild look again. And he was gone.

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

Creation (Optional epilogue)

As Erasmus fled to the Outlands, he was captured and presented before the Creator. A look at him and she had not the heart to put him to death, instead it stirred her loins and she decided that it was time for another birth.

The Creator was a lady of great beauty and she chose a worthy mate every four or five years to produce an offspring who would eventually leave these lands to set up her own society elsewhere. And she had chosen Erasmus now, and they would couple before her people who would cheer them in a gala of the grandest pomp and splendour. She disrobed herself before the applauding audience and beckoned Erasmus to the ceremonial bed. She would coil herself around him, she planned, clutching his hair in intimate embrace and after the final moment draw out her dagger and- but, Erasmus had not followed her commanding gesture. He came close to her instead, with a wild look in his eyes.

The End.

Mr. Lampooner and the discovery of Bible powered Time Travel

2008-11-12T08:36:00.000-08:00

Dramatis Personae :

Mr. Lampooner, a meta-fictional superhero with supranatural powers which include calculating the viscosity of a book with a bare finger and the ability to leap into the murky depths of its plot line. Armed with the Quill of Mockery, hand crafted from the feathers of a Mockingbird, this man will always have the last word.

The Deus Ex Machinist, or the Tool of God as he is commonly referred to, is an entity spawned at the moment, after Creation, when the First Man lays the First Woman again and again and again until he tires of it and says that he needs a new woman and asks the creator where could he find a woman of fair bosom, tears of spring dew and toenails of pristine cuticle and the Creator replies "Literature" in response and Literature is created by the First Man who does a bad job of creating works in this new medium and is then given a tool by the Creator; a Tool so powerful, it can drive narratives forward. A Tool also so dangerous that it can drive plot holes through the story. A Tool, so disgusted at being used to fix inferior plots, that it decides to question its existence and realises that the greatest story ever told, being told and will continue to be told, the Story of the World needs fixing and the only tool that can rise up to this task is itself, or himself as he chooses his gender to be. The Tool of God.

Doobiewedder, an eighteenth century janitor who dabbles in metaphysics, astro-biology and other sciences of dubious scientific value during his work breaks is famously attributed as the proponent of the Einstein-Doobiewedder paradox and not so famously as the inventor of the grammatical molecule analyzer, an invention that holds the dubious distinction of being the only product of human scientific thought that can take science a step backward.

Jane Doe, a mysterious unplanned character that has suddenly appeared in the storyline and taken the writer by surprise. This character sketch will remain empty as details about this character remain sketchy.

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ACT I

[In a poorly constructed set decorated with second-hand props and painted cardboard boxes, stand the three characters Mr. Lampooner, The Deus Ex Machinist and Doobiewedder. At a first glance the audience would suppose that the scene was set in the house of a divorced salaryman fallen on bad times but a helpful sign that reads CRIMEFIGHTING HQ informs them that it is what it says it is : The headquarters of a merry bunch of crimefighters.

Mr. Lampooner stands leaning on a table as appears to be his style, but it could be more accurately explained by an accident suffered by the actor the previous night as he crawled back home from a near-by public house in a drunken stupor. The Deus Ex Machinist stands, hands wringing, played a fidgety, nervous actor taken as a last minute replacement to the actor who was knocked out cold in a drunken fight last night in what is rumoured to be the same bar that the actor who plays Mr. Lampooner was partaking beverages in. Doobiewedder stands the janitor stance, receiving rave reviews later for his method acting and quest for perfection, though the fact that could have dulled this praise was that the actor is a real janitor, cast in the role by a desperate producer who had overshot his budget.

As the curtain rises, the spotlight comes in from the corner and goes towards the three characters waiting, passes them and focuses on a hungry rat nibbling on the anchor ropes. The rodent, unaware of having stolen the limelight from the stars, looks up in surprise and runs away. The spotlight operator's boy laughs and follows the fleeing rodent with his light; it is in his control as his father has fallen ill and trusted his scion with carrying out his duties; until he is boxed in the ears by the assistant to the producer, taken away from the controls and visual normalcy is restored. The light is bestowed upon its rightful owners and they begin to speak.]

"Avast! This be a message from a wench, me lads-", Mr. Lampooner starts saying in a carried over accent, carried over from his cross-dressing performance last evening in the titular role in the Cap'n Hooker, Saucy Scourge of the Seven Seas and Octal Oceans comedic drama production, but is interrupted by the frenzied gestures of the producer hinting at his colossal boo boo and quickly, clearing his throat, resumes by saying, "A message so boastfully self confident that it involuntarily brought out my mocking pirate voice to read it out :

'I am Jane Doe', reads the writing on this paper, received as a message from an anonymous source, 'My superpower is an ability to toggle identities. It's like I have a scramble suit wrapped around my brain. In retrospect, I can travel through time, I can do things. I am here to prevail.'"

"Are you friend or foe, Miss Jane Doe?", asks The Deus Ex Machinist, looking at the audience, "If you choose to be a foe, know that Mr. Lampooner, Doobiewedder and I are evaluating your threat as we speak."

[The lights go dim. There is a sound of heavy gears cranking. "The characters are deep in thought", says the narrator in his baritone, stating the obvious. The lights go bright again a few minutes later.]

"She does toggle identities faster than she changes clothes, but even Captain Obvious could tell you who her secret identity is. She is Jane Dough, daughter of baker John Dough, a shape shifting superhero himself", says the lampooner.

"Good 'ol John had a daughter?", asks The Deus Ex Machinist, surprised.

"Apparently, he did. I cannot dig up information on the mother though", replies the lampooner, leaping in and out of encyclopedias, census records and almanacs, "This presents a problem : If the mother carried and passed on super-genes to the child, we might be facing a little superhero here with undiscovered powers. What have you got, Doobiewedder?"

"Leave it to the master of paradoxes, of dubious scientific value, to tackle a time traveller. As she hops, skips and jumps through the fabric of space-time, Doobiewedder shall be there creating paradoxical obstacles."

"That's good to hear", says the lampooner.

"And that's not all, Mr. Lampooner. I have fashioned a time travel procedure for you."

"For me? I am perhaps the most under-equipped superhero in history; I merely leap in and out of books. How could I possibly travel through time?"

"A great superhero turns his limitations into his powers, Mr. Lampooner. Come with me, and I shall show you your time machine."

I follow him expecting to see the TARDIS, or a painted cardboard box that looks like one, but instead lay eyes on a...

"A Bible?"

"Yes, Mr. Lampooner."

"I am going to give a puzzled look now, which is your cue to start your explanation monologue."

"Very well, Mr. Lampooner. Until now you have been leaping in and out of a book. In these expeditions, you might have encountered connections to other books. These connections have been given different names throughout history : Influences, Inspiration, Derivative works and so on. In reality though, no book is an island. It is a small patch of land in the extensive landmass that we call the L-Scape -"

"This is beginning to sound like a ripoff of Terry Pratchett!", cries a heckler from beyond the Fourth Wall, in the audience.

"Oh, hush! I have not heard that name before", replies Doobiewedder, with dubious sincerity, "As I was saying, the Literary Scape or L-Scape, as we refer to it, connects every book together. You leap in a book, and I say leap out of the same book elsewhere."

"Like leap into a paperback copy of Les Chansons de Bilitis in Cognac, France and leap out of the hardcover edition in Quebec, Canada? If this worked, I would be a master of geographic travel!"

"And temporal. And that is why I gave you the Bible. It is one of the earliest published books in the world, the most published book in the world and the most translated book in the world, in excess of over 2,000 languages. Leap into your copy of the Bible and you would be able to leap out almost anywhere in the world and at any time between the birth of Christ to late 21st century."

"Why can't I leap beyond the 21st century?"

"Because Christianity has died out in the 22nd."

"So my bible-powered time travel cannot take me very far into the future, eh?"

"No. And neither would The Deus Ex Machinist's powers work in that time, since he hast been blessed by the Christian God."

"We are both impotent beyond the 21st century, eh Tool of God?"

"Sure looks like it", replies The Deus Ex Machinist, shaking his head sadly, "and if you haven't noticed, Mr. Lampooner, Jane Doe has stated that 'she can do things'; which at a quick glance means she can do things but a deeper analysis reveals an intentionally ambiguous statement which gives her the power to do virtually anything. It is an open ended statement that gives the user limitless powers. Even my powers are not limitless since I am restricted by anomalies and I am the very Tool of God Himself."

"Are we then looking at an opponent with frightfully powerful powers?"

"We sure are."

Mr. Lampooner, The Deus Ex Machinist and Doobiewedder look at each other, then look at the audience and scream in unison. "Please join us, Jane Doe, for we make a puny foe!"

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ACT II

[It is evident to the audience that the actors are standing in the same room as before, but a helpful sign that reads 10 HORSEPOWER CHARIOT informs them that the characters are in motion, travelling at high speeds in a vehicle drawn by steed.]

"Don't we need a name for our group?", asks The Deus Ex Machinist, modulating his voice higher and lower, and vice versa, to mimic the effect of strong winds upon conversation.

"Fear not, I have already given that thought. We shall call ourselves The League of Gentlemen Extraordinaire!", replies the lampooner, with a dramatic flourish.

"And this is totally an Alan Moore ripoff!", cries another heckler from beyond the Fourth Wall.

"We serve the Greater Good, don't we Tool of God?", asks the lampooner.

"Aye", replies The Deus Ex Machinist.

"Then be a good utilitarian and zap those annoying hecklers out of existence. They're beginning to get on my nerves-"

ZAP!

ZAP ZAP ZAPPITY ZAP!

[Shocked silence. Curtains fall. There is a sound of running feet. The cast and crew have fled the scene.]

The End.

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

In a shocking plot twist, the nervous actor turns out to be a friendly visitor from a neighbourhood galaxy who gets carried away by his role; the show is hailed for its burning realism. It runs to full houses for two whole months; every performance has a role played by a couple of audience members. A role that astounds the audience and is spoken about for weeks later and described as the heckler's swan song.

The Scene Changer

2008-10-30T11:25:00.000-07:00

Portia stepped in through the door and Erasmus followed. They found themselves in a restaurant; and looking around and finding what she was looking for, Portia waved at me.

I waved back. I was seated at table 15, designated to be served by Marcus, the handsome waiter of Welsh descent. "What will you have today, Miss Orfelia?", he would ask in that accented puppy dog voice of his as I dined here at the same time everyday, and I would say every time in response, "You, of course", and he would reply straightfaced, "I'm sorry, Miss Orfelia, but I am not available on the menu." "What can I serve you today, Miss Orfelia?", he did ask differently once, perhaps as an attempt to rid the monotony of our conversations, and my reply went, "A large helping of Marcus, of course", but it turned out unsurprisingly that a large helping of him was still not available on the menu. This must have become a regular demand of the patrons seated at table 15 I realised later, as a sign appeared soon enough on the glass windows of the restaurant. It read : No, we do not serve human meat at table 15.

Portia came over to table 15, unaware of its history, muttering "What a strange sign..", and frowning, followed by Erasmus, always a step behind. "Can you be a dear and watch Erasmus for me?", she said, " 'cause I promised to help Sheba move into her new house."

"Wouldn't you need your man to carry the heavy stuff up?", I asked.

"No, Sheba is royalty and she has an army of men at her command."

"Ah!"

"Yes, some women have it all, don't they?"

"Why does she need you then?"

"To direct the men at their task, silly girl. Oh, I have dilly-dallied a quadrant of an hour speaking to you; I must be off now. Please watch Erasmus well."

And she was gone. Erasmus promptly sat down at table 15 and watched me intently.

"So, Portia tells me that you are a writer of sorts. What do you write?", I asked, uncomfortable in the direct gaze of the eyes that were previously downcast in the presence of his mistress but were presently gazing directly at me.

"Books, Miss Orfelia."

And a silence fell upon table 15. I looked around, trying to catch the eyes of Marcus, who wandered in and out of the kitchen. It had been two quadrants of an hour since I had ordered tiramisu, in disappointment after finding that Marcus was still not available on the menu, and it hadn't arrived on table 15 yet.

"Please excuse my skeletal appearance, Miss Orfelia", Erasmus said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say something?", I asked absent-mindedly, my eyes still on Marcus.

"Please excuse my skeletal appearance", he repeated, "My character has not been fleshed out yet."

I stared at him. "Your character?"

"The characterisation of me in your story. Please excuse his skeletal appearance."

"My story?"

"You are generating the story of your life and today I appear as a character in it. So far, I have not been fleshed out and I appear horribly skeletal."

I confess I had no idea what Portia's man was talking about.

"However, to maintain optimum levels of narration in this story", he continued, "I must make the following modifications : A change in scenery, A reversal of gender roles in society and A change in command."

And the lights flickered, blacked out and came back again. Orfelia found herself sitting in a kitchen, a bowl of freshly chopped capsicum staring back at her and a knife in her right hand.

"What's for dinner, honey?", I asked as I walked in, dressed in a strange black suit, briefcase in hand.

"I-I- What's happening? Where are we?"

"In a different scene", I replied, "I would really love pizza tonight."

It took Orfelia a while to get her bearings right. And after she did, she felt an overwhelming sense of oppression; it felt as if freedom had been sucked out of her through every orifice. She could sense blinds around her eyes and manacles on her hands, but they remained intanglible. It was a strange experience and it intrigued her.

I smiled.

It did not get a smile from her in response. "Who are you?", she asked.

"I am Erasmus."

"And yet you look different. I can see the old Erasmus in your face; his presence merely suggests itself but cannot be ignored. Like a familiar face torn by lines of hate and distress leaving a hideous mask that cannot be removed."

Well- then, I hope you have a good imagination, Orfelia, and imagine yourself a pretty face for me 'cause I sure can't change my mask."

And she closed her eyes and opened them a moment later. She was smiling.

"I see the old Erasmus now and it reminds me of the previous scene", she said, happily.

I nodded. "Most people are guilty of doing this unconsciously when confronted with hideous ugliness that they cannot avoid. They cover the ugly face with an imagined mask of beauty. Our eyes are tuned to see beauty even where it does not exist."

"Why has this scene taken away your beauty?"

"Because Men live differently in this scene. We are hunters here, and become prey to primitive emotions. Emotions so strong that they become visible on our visage. And some emotions so negative that they cause changes that cannot be undone. There is pure beauty in the man child born, but it recedes as he grows older and hates other man children, marring his beauty."

"Are you a writer in this scene too?"

"I am a writer across all scenes. "

"How can you capture beauty in your writing when you are so hideous yourself?"

"Why would my hideousness affect my quality of writing?"

"Unlike beauty, your ugliness is beyond skin deep. It creeps into your flesh and goes deeper until it blackens your soul. You have now an ugly soul and your eyes are incapable of seeing true beauty."

"An ugly man is born with a gift. A good imagination", I explained, "Just as you have covered me with an imagined cloak of beauty, I have covered the ugliness of the world with imagined paint strokes of beauty. My eyes can only truly see ugliness but my imagination covers it with beauty."

Orfelia seemed satisfied with that answer. She was not satisfied with her voice though. It seemed as if someone else was speaking on her behalf.

"Why does it sound like someone is speaking on my behalf?"

" 'cause someone is speaking on your behalf in this scene. I am the narrator and I am weaving this part of the tale."

"Is that why the world seems so male now?"

"It would be so if I was male.."

"And you aren't?"

"No."

"You look male."

"I was born male. But my reproductive organs are non functioning."

"Then why is there a distinct XY feel in this scene?"

"Male memory."

"Male memory?"

"Yes, after my birth, I waited for the day when I would reach puberty and be capable of procreation. When the day arrived, I found myself a mate and coupled. The next day I lost my reproductive abilities in a horrific accident. I have not been male since. Only the memory of that day remains and it colours my world view at times. However, at most times I see the world through the eyes of an Olmec scribe."

"An Olmec scribe?"

"Have you heard of the Olmecs?"

"Yes, a lost civilisation that ruled over the lands constituted by modern day Mexico."

"Have you read the Olmecs?"

"Well, a lost civilisation usually means a lost writing system?"

"Not quite. Olmec books are stashed in the private collections of a certain collector who wishes to remain anonymous in this story. They have a singular outstanding feature."

"Which is?"

"They are all written by Olmec holy scribes. Men who are castrated upon birth so that they may record Olmec history and culture for posterity through gender neutral eyes."

"Did it really make a difference?"

"It sure did. Olmec literature is known for the non existence of sexual metaphors or euphemisms and poetic descriptions of beauty unmarred by carnal thought. In their books, a banana is just a banana."

"Aren't you an imperfect Olmec scribe?"

"Yes, the first flush of desire in my body overwhelmed me. I am now flawed, though I still am the closest the world can get to an Olmec scribe. The Russians have tried to raise a troop of Olmec scribes for cultural warfare, but it was a disastrous attempt. They realised too late that it would not work unless-"

"Miss!"

"Miss Orfelia! Snap out of this reverie. Your man has run away."

It was Marcus. His familiar blue eyes looked concerned. He had been trying to wake me up for the last quadrant. I looked at the bucket of water he held raised upright as a last resort and smiled.

"Has Erasmus run away?"

"Yes, miss. It was strange and disquieting. Something seemed to come over him. He had a wild look in his eyes and he ran away, screaming gibberish."

"When did I fall asleep?"

"Right after Lady Portia left and your man took a seat. He leaned over and whispered something in your ear. I did not like that and I felt strange, felt that he had no right to-"

"Oh my, were you actually jealous of Erasmus?", I asked laughing.

"Jealous? Certainly not, Miss Orfelia."

"Oh, silence yourself, Marcus. I would like to order a large helping of Marcus on table 15. Now get on the table and I shall have you."

"Very well, miss."

As I finally got my order on table 15, I asked him what Erasmus had screamed as he ran away.

"It did not seem to make sense, Miss Orfelia. He said the scenes were changing beyond his control and he did not know how this story would end."

Cap'n Hooker and the Promise of a Portrait

2008-10-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

Tell the Cap'n, I owe her some and I haven't forgotten.

"Ahoy, Cap'n Hooker! Ahoy!", I cried, "Where art thou O' saucy scourge of the seven seas! I bear a message from a young lass, a message of grave importance!"

"This had better be good, Mister Lampooner", replied she, emerging from her cabin, "I be in the middle o' somethin' reeely important!"

"What could possibly be more important than a message of grave importance?"

"Me Jolly Dodger's birdbath, of course!", replied she.

I tsk-tsked. "Your parrot can perform his ablutions later. I carry a-"

"How dare ye! Jolly Dodger be a she. A lady of fine plumage and greener than the greenest emerald ye ever set yer eyes on!"

"One can hardly be blamed for mistaking the gender of a bird bestowed with the dodgy name of the Jolly Dodger, can he?"

"Oh, there be a story behind that, Mister Lampooner", replied the Cap'n laughing, "the Jolly Dodger had a wild youth, y'see-"

I stopped her in mid-sentence, wondering why every female character in this story seemed to have a wild youth, "Ah, never mind the backstory of the Jolly Dodger. It is a tale for another day. Returning to the matter in hand, or more specifically the missive in my hand, it reads that this young lass owes you something (of unspecified identity and value) and says that she has not forgotten. Though what it is that she still retains in her memory is left to the imagination of the reader.."

"Aye, I knows what she talks 'bout."

"Oh, what is it?"

"She wishes to paint me portrait", replied the Cap'n grinning.

"Why would anyone want to paint you?"

"What is that supposed to be meaning?", growled she, gripping her cutlass.

"Er- I meant to say why would anyone want to do something so pointless as try to capture your heavenly beauty on canvas?", replied I quickly, with a cheeky smile.

"Ah, beauty so heavenly surely must cast an earthly shadow", said she, claiming to be quoting a poet of yore, though I must say that I certainly haven't read poetry with such cheesy lines before, "so it be not a meaningless endeavour after all, eh Mister Lampooner?"

"I suppose so."

"Aye! However, I demand that I shall be painted along with dear ol' Jolly Dodger! Can ye carry that message back to her?"

"Yer wish is me command, O' commander of the octal oceans!", I replied, imitating her piratical lingo.

"Octal oceans? There be only five oceans known to landlubbers, ye silly person. And let's keep it that way, shall we? There be unimaginable treasures in the unknown seas, and Cap'n Hooker shall 'ave 'em all! Arr!"

"Aye Aye, Cap'n!", I said, saluting, running away to deliver the message. Ooh, a treasure hunt for real! We be goin' a-sailing, a-sailing we shall go!

The Three Laws of Parodics

2008-10-19T00:42:00.000-07:00

There has been a recent spate of allegations against I, Mr. Lampooner, including the infamous Case of the Missing Mods in which I have been accused of kidnapping the moderators of an online community for the purposes of mutiny and Lé Sarkozy Affair in which I have been suspected of impregnating the wife of a prominent head of state and most recently the Sense of Humour Fiasco in which I have been charged with the theft of the sense of humour of my audience to make it my own thereby increasing my humour capabilities hundredfold.

I do not often speak of science, but here I find myself in a situation requiring a lecture to clear the air, and consequently clear my name. So sit tight kids, while I teach you the Three Laws of Parodics :

1. A lampooner may not injure the mind of a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to lose his/her sense of humour.

2. A lampooner must obey orders given to him by The Flying Spaghetti Monster [the One True God of all lampooners], except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A lampooner must protect his own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

And violating the Three Laws of Parodics can result in the legendary Einstein-Doobiewedder Paradox*

A lampooner who steals the sense of humour of his audience [represented in this example by Tom, Dick and Harry] and as a result gains the sum total of their humour capabilities finds that his sense of humour, increased threefold, has no effect on the now sense of humour deprived audience. In short, he is unfunny.

* Note 1 : It has been pointed out that Einstein suprisingly played no part in the postulation of the Einstein-Doobiewedder Paradox. In actuality, it is wholly the work of one Doobiewedder, an 18th century janitor who lived during the time of Albert Einstein's grandfather, and dabbled in metaphysics during his work breaks. It is possible that he must have attached Albert Einstein's name to his work to gain credence, creating another famous paradox in the process. The Grandfather Paradox.

A man whose name is mentioned in a time of the past before his birth would, in theory, be born in that time. Erasing his name from that record would cause his dual-temporal deaths, one in his present time as there is no record of his previously born past self, and one in the past where there is no person of that name in the future to refer to and make mention of.

The last extremity

2008-10-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

As I ponder over the real reasons behind the recent spell of inactivity here, heat induced lethargy seemingly too far fetched, I happen to glance upon a newspaper strewn across the floor. I check the Science & Technologickal section; it has been a daily habit to look for news of life on other worlds; and I see the headline : 'Studies reveal that extended periods of inactivity can have adverse effects on the human body. Test subjects have complained of delayed muscle movements, blurry vision and eventual loss of extremities..'

Loss of extremities? I panic. I look at my hands. I remember brushing my teeth in the morning.

I look at my legs. I remember kicking a passing cat as I walked to the deck.

I look at the last item on the list. I remember it has been a while.

The Sloth

2008-10-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

I can only dream of making up a species like the Sloth. Such a blessed creature is the Sloth, that it features at the top of the reincarnation order of every major Asian religion. A man would have to complete the legendary twelve tasks of a lifetime to qualify for a berth in a Sloth's body in his next life. No lampoonist could have come up with the design of such a creature. This is the work of God, I assure you.

The creation of the Platypus on the other hand is mistakenly attributed to a God with a sense of humour. The lovable duck-billed mammal is ours, back in the ye olde days when we lampoonists had the power to create life. The days are gone now; yours truly is a mere man now with the power to create a human child alone.

The Case of the missing Mods

2008-10-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

(The following story is set during the time the mods of an online community called IAW were MIA and about two weeks after this writer had threatened to stage a coup and grab power in said community)

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The Case of the missing Mods

I sit down to read the paper today and the headline shocks me. "Mods go missing. The hand of the lampooner suspected!"

I have nothing to do with it, I swear, even though I did plot their downfall. However my plans were still on the drawing board when this happened. An interesting turn of events, I must say.

And to prove my innocence, and find the missing modules..moddies..modfingers..argh whatchamacallthem, I shall employ the services of a detective who will solve this mystery and clear my name. And since we don't have any in IAW-land, I shall have to find one in the next town.

After an hour of looking through the phonebook, I find one suited to my needs. I dial the number and a connection is established.

"Hello"

"This is the office of Red Rye, P.I. Please press 1 for a murder, 2 for a missing person, 3 for a missing pet, 4 for a lying, cheating, despicable spouse and 5 for a bit of a chit chat."

I pressed 5. (Hey, I get lonely at times. I could do with a little small talk.)

"We don't have time for idle banter. State your business, please."

"Butbut your number 5-"

"Oh, we get a laugh out of it at times. Like this time. So, what's it going to be? Your wife cheatin' on ya?". I could hear a snigger.

"No no, I'm not married. It's number 2. Missing person. Persons actually. Our mods have gone missing and we need the services of a detective.."

"A detective?"

"Yes"

"Sorry, don't know any."

"Well, a sleuth?"

"Don't ring a bell"

"A gumshoe?"

"The what now?"

"A dick?"

"Who you callin' dick, mister? Do ya kiss your mother with that mouth?"

I felt like giving up. "A private eye?"

"Oh, why didn't you say so earlier? We've got the finest private eye in town. Red Rye, P.I. is your man. Err.. woman actually."

"Most splendid! When can she start?"

"She has"

"Has what?"

"She has started investigating this case. She drinks the red wine of the town's grapevine, y'see, and she knows all about the missing moderators"

Ah, that was the word I was looking for. Moderator.

"Most satisfying indeed. Does she have any leads?"

"Yes. She says she suspects the hand of the lampooner in this. He was seen callin' for a mutiny recently and demanding an end to the rule of the moderators."

Oh-oh. "The lampooner, eh? I hear he is an evil, evil man."

"The epitome of evil, some say. So can I have your name please? For our records."

I thought fast. "John Dough"

"John Doe? Isn't that a really common-"

"No, not John Doe. John Dough. With an 'ough'. I'm a baker."

"Oh okay. John Dough. Well, you'll be hearing from us, Mr. Dough. I'm sure Red Rye, P.I., will solve this case in no time and she'll put the lampooner right where he belongs. In prison."

Gulp. "I hope not", I murmured, weakly.

"What's that?"

"I said I hope she does."

And thus ended my conversation with Katie Moss, Red Rye's secretary. My fate now rests in the hands of a Private Eye. I don't want to go prison. I hear they don't serve pudding for dessert there. Oh, how horrible!

Red Rye, P.I.

2008-10-10T23:39:00.000-07:00

In a part of town painted red for decades, the office of Red Rye, P.I., stands out for the shades of grey of its occupant, who is, at the moment, sipping the red wine of the city's grapevine.

"What is this I taste?", says she, "a flavour of a case, interesting as it were?"

And she is tickled pink at the thought. A case. She does not remember how many days have passed in inactivity, with no crime or calamity; the days have been slow in recent weeks, no action or activity even for the one who seeks.

"This is a sorry state of affairs", continues she in monologue, for the lady who calls her Boss, Katie Moss, has initiated another dialogue. With a man on the telephone, who says he is waiting in the lower zone.

"Ask him to come up", says the Boss to Katie Moss, "If he looks wealthy and wise, send him in here in a trice."

"The man is wealthy indeed", says Katie Moss to her Boss, "but beware, as my intuition; which has always been healthy to your constitution; tells me, he might be a homme fatale!"

Sent in, he waltzes in like he waltzed before he first walked. An air of mystery surrounds his dancing demeanour; black merges with white upon his form, leaves one with a feeling warm.

"Bravo!", applauds Red Rye, P.I., "I love dancing, and your moves are Oh so entrancing!"

"Merci beaucoup"', replies the stranger, with a bow, making Red Rye, P.I., wish she could roll in the hay with him right now.

"I don't see any hay around", says he, winking, as wonders abound, he is a mind reader and more importantly, a savvy seducer.

"Let's get back to the case at hand", says Red Rye, P.I., cheeks flushed and clearing her throat, "I assume you have one for me this night; my wine is fine and always right."

"Oui", replies he, loudly, and Red Rye, P.I. says, "Fine, then we shall dine, and you shall narrate the story to me. Oh, Katie."

"You summoned?", says Katie Moss to her Boss and is given an errand.

She goes forth and sets the candle lit table, for her mistress has a fine taste in dining as her mistress' client has in dancing.

"Most splendid!", says the Boss to Katie Moss, for she knows that her secretary has read her amourous thoughts.

"Please sit down, mon amour", says Red Rye, P.I., to the stranger, seating herself down, dressed in a most beautiful gown.

"In a red gown and a grey fedora, with an air of bravura, you must be the most beautiful woman in this town!", compliments the stranger as he sips his wine, "For your private eye, I then hold up this, an object of inconceivable value, Oh my!"

And Red Rye, P.I., sees a cloak of the deepest red dye. Her eyes widening, she simply must ask, "But where is the red hood in whose rhyming glory a poet must bask?"

The stranger then says something most distressing. "The Red Rhyming Hood is missing. A cowl stolen by means most foul."

Red Rye, P.I., lets out a howl of surprise, startling a passing owl on its nightly prowl.

Continuing the story the stranger says, "Our Poet Divine Laureate was last seen alive in a tiff, and I'm afraid to say, now she's a stiff. Murdered for the holy Red Rhyming Hood no doubt, the town's police are on the lookout for the thieving lily-livered lout."

"Could this explain the rhymes so horrible, that has been affecting the narration and making my lines so terrible?"

"I'm afraid so, doll", replies the stranger, "for a while we're going to be stuck in a story so droll."

Can the lines get anymore lewd? It shall be known in this tale, to be continued.

The Anecdotal Adventures of Cap'n Hooker

2008-10-02T08:24:00.000-07:00

Have I spoken of the symbiotic relationship between the Captain and I before? It is a common misconception that Cap'n Hooker made her first appearance in a written medium. In reality, however, she is literary ectoplasm and I am her medium.

Literary ectoplasm? Well, at the turn of the century, Charles Robert Richet researched the occult phenomena of spiritual energy channeled by a physical medium and termed them ectoplasm, only to be discredited years later by mythbusters. Monsieur Richet did not live long enough, however, to discover the phenomenon of literary ectoplasm. And so it remained obscured and hidden to modern day science, never to be revealed by the practitioners of the practice, viz we lampooners. Until now, i.e.

I shall speak at length about it, to provide clarity in this narrative.

Most writers of sufficient skill possess the power to project literary ectoplasm but do not know of its existence. A great writer is surrounded by what can only be described as a small army of his characters that manifest themselves in the form of ectoplasm. Is it possible that Mark Twain knew of the presence of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn around him as he travelled to Europe in the 1890s? It is a secret that he will have taken to his grave, sadly.

On the other hand, the ectoplasmic abilities of the lampooners are well documented, of course, but are not available for reading to the populace at large. This secrecy was demanded by statute, framed in the Middle Ages by an agency whose name I am not at liberty to divulge. We are born with the ability, our books tell us, and we start displaying signs of its presence in our early teens. Of course, ordinary humans are empowered with these powers at birth too, and it often shows up in early childhood, manifesting mostly as an imaginary friend but is killed prematurely by a parent as the child heads towards adolescence. The parent of a lampooner child does not follow that course of action, instead she nurtures the ectoplasm, giving it the same love she gives her child. In time, the lampooner grows into an adult with the fully developed ability to project his characters beyond the realm of paper.

As I was born in the twentieth century, in a time when lampooners have lost their prominence in the world stage, I was reduced to the level of an entertainer, a position a bard or a travelling minstrel would have enjoyed back in the days of yore. I was good at what I did though, and my presence at parties paid my bills.

And so, it happened that I found myself taking the Captain as my ectoplasmic escort to balls and banquets, parties and programmes, jolly events and jamborees. It did not mean that I did not love my other characters; Foogy Foplin and his manservant Proffie were a comedic riot, Dave the interplanetary Casanova was suave and handsome, the Brothers-In-Arms duo of Loonan and Foogarky always had tales of bravery to tell and a merry song to sing over a tankard of ale; but somehow every invitation I received was addressed only to Mr. Lampooner and the Captain. It was inexplicable.

"It is quite explicable, actually", said an all too familiar voice.

I did not have to turn around. I knew who it was.

"Think back to the Christmas of '53 and it shall remain no longer a mystery."

And I dredged my memories, travelling back in time, until the dials showed twelve, nineteen fifty-three. I was in a lodging house, it was snowing outside, the framed photograph on the wall above the mantelpiece was of a political leader whose face was blurrily obscured. I was asked to pay for my lodgings, in cash or kind and finding myself low on finances I chose to offer my services as payment. They readily agreed, cold wintry afternoons could get monotonous they said and welcomed a song or two. I had to explain what a lampooner did; songs were not our forte, and offered to narrate a story. They gathered around and I closed my eyes and summoned Loonan from the depths of my mind.

The barbarian was not amused at being summoned past his bedtime. He was in a cranky mood and demanded ale, much to the delight of his audience. As the right hand of his ectoplasmic form gripped the tankard that was offered to him, the viewers clapped. This was magic to their eyes. Loonan gulped it down and burped loudly. The children laughed. He did not sing a merry song however. His ectoplasmic form glowered red with boredom and impatience and went back into my head.

I had no luck with my other characters too. They claimed to be occupied and refused to do a favour for their medium. So I had no choice but to ask the last person who I would have considered asking. Captain Hooker, the sauciest scourge of the Seven Seas, or so she claimed. She came into my employ recently; I had created her as the villainess of a children's story where she was supposed to die a horrible death in the briny deep. Dying was the last thing on her mind though, and she sent my handsome hero walking down the plank. And thus, the story never got written. She remained in my head after that, never begging to be written about, but always silent and melancholic.

I expected her to be in a similar mood when I manifested her, but I was wrong. She took a tankard that was offered to her, gulped it down, twice as fast as the barbarian, asked for another, gulped it down again in record time and then guffawed loudly.

"This be no grog!", she exclaimed, wiping the foam off her lips, "but I love me this drink. It shivers me down to me timbers!"

"It's called ale", I said, "It is brewed from barley crop."

"Ale? Aye, I shall drink one more!", and she signalled for another.

As she drank heartily to her health and mine, I narrated the story of the slimy seaweed of the Sargasso Sea. As I reached the point where the Captain's ship gets mired in the green mass, a young lad stood himself up and exclaimed in a nasal tone, "I don't believe you! Seaweeds don't sing!". He was referring, of course, to the singing seaweed I was talking about, which drew sailors towards its deathly trap.

"Mister Lampooner be right, young lad", said Cap'n Hooker, joining in, "They 'ere called were-seaweed, they be singin' so beautiful that even 'em Sirens o' Sirenum Scopuli go green in envy. I swears I see 'em with me own one eye!"

The boy stared at the Captain in awe. "What happened to your other eye?", he asked.

"Nothin'", replied she, smiling, "I be hidin' it under this patch to claim my pirate pension."

And she told the boy about the hardships she faced while buccaneering the seas. The booty was not so bountiful these days, so she had to depend on the pirate's pension to make ends meet. The nautical rules stipulated that a pirate was to be identified by his eyepatch and the parakeet on his shoulder.

"Then where is your parakeet?", the curious little boy asked next and the Captain related the sad tale of the demise of her bird, the Jolly Dodger.

They wouldn't let her sleep that night. She was a good sport, answering questions until dawn when she sleepily crawled back into my head. I too did not sleep that night, but now I knew more about Cap'n Hooker than I knew about all the characters I have created in my lifetime.

And so it happened. Cap'n Hooker became regular fare in my performances and I now remembered why every invitation I received was addressed to the both of us.

And the identity of the all-too-familiar voice? That was Cap'n Hooker herself. Why was she speaking like that, in a tone of high culture, instead of the lingo of the High Seas? Well, in autumn '64, we were rehearsing a show for the King and...

"And now, we present the tale of Cap'n Hooker and the scaredy-cat Ninjas!", I announced with a dramatic wave of my hand, standing in front of the mirror, "Prepare to go on a journey to the Orient, where-"

"I reckon 'Cap'n Hooker and the Cowardly Ninjas' be a better name fo' the tale", interruped she.

"Yes, the tale of Cap'n Hooker and the Cowardly Ninjas! Prepare to ... wait! How did you come up with that?"

"scaredy-cat be a colloquialism, Mister Lampooner. Do ye think it be soundin' right in a mystical tale o' the Orient?"

"Colloqualism? Isn't that a rather big word for you to use?"

"Ye don't want to be knowin' where I be educated", she replied, winking.

My eyes bulged. It couldn't be. "Oxford?"

She nodded gleefully.

"Then why do you speak like, well, like a pirate?"

"For the Pirate Pension, ol' chum. One has to maintain appearances and all that. Do you remember Pippin, the peg legged cabin boy of our ship?"

"Yes."

"A child prodigy. Probably one of the finest minds of this generation. Forced to act mute for his pension."

I goggled.

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

When, where, how, why did Cap'n Hooker study at Oxford? Well, that is a tale for another day.

The Poof

2008-10-01T23:17:00.000-07:00

It was in my early twenties that I noticed a decrease in the number of rejection slips from editors. My scripts were being accepted and a few years later I was offered a job as a full time writer on a lower rung superhero (or more accurately one at the bottom of the superhero standings at that time of my life; he has risen in prominence now). I was assigned a penciller, The Indian Inker he called himself and I found in him a soul mate, a rare person who knows your soul better than you do and in our case a person who could paint pictures from my words. My girlfriend did not see it that way though and questioned me one night, under the Influence I suspect.

"Why do you spend so much time with that man?", asked she, referring to the all nighters we pulled to get our comic ready for publication.

"Well, honey, you know how important this comic is to me. I have-"

"Why do you spend so much time with him?", she repeated, not really listening to what I was saying in response, "Tell me, I need to know. What has he got that I ain't?"

"A pencil", I answered truthfully, thinking she would forget about it the next morning, hungover.

She goggled. "Is that how you refer to it?"

"Well yes", I replied, confused. Did she know it by a different name in her native tongue? "It is a tool that might be known by different names in different tongues, but in his hands he uses it to make magic, to take the one who experiences the magic to ecstatic levels."

She looked faint. "I should have known", she said and went and locked herself up in her room.

In the morning she was gone. A letter on her bedside informed me that she had left, telling me that I was "free and unrestrained to enjoy the company of men". And then it dawned upon me. A woman is a jealous creature, to the point of begrudging the professional relationship of a man and his penciller.

I laughed about it with The Indian Inker that night as we drank to our health and the King. "To our supposed relationship!", I raised a toast drunkenly but my glass did not meet another. I looked at The Indian Inker. His glass was empty and his brows were furrowed.

"Can our union bear fruit?", he asked.

"The fruit of our loins? One of us would have to be a woman for that", I reminded him.

"No, I mean a character."

"A character? You want us to give birth to a character?"

"Yes. And we shall name him The Poof!", said he and raised his glass and it clinked against mine resoundingly.

The next day, in a sober state, we still thought it was a good idea and the first superhero who was "free and unrestrained to enjoy the company of men" was created.

As I wrote and The Indian Inker pencilled, The Poof assumed three dimensions, had multiple layers added on, until he was complete. He was born with the gift of Supreme Sight, allowing him to see through layers of opacity and he used it to full effect, developing elevator eyes that would render a foe incapacitated in blushed embarrassment. He ruled the skies for a few months, unchallenged.

In time though, the villains got used to the gaze, and The Poof faded from the comicbookworld public memory. In the reader's world, the idea got old quickly, lost its novelty and the audience demanded something new; hence he faded from public memory once again.

The Indian Inker and I parted ways after that. Somehow we could not create the magic again and we decided to go our separate ways. He works on God+ now, a comic about an entity that has powers God could only have dreamed of. I write romance novels; there is good money in it and there is no end to the line of women who want to meet me and find out if I have any aspects of my knight in shining armour characters in myself.

The birth of I

2008-09-28T10:56:00.000-07:00

'Twas a few centuries before my time that this event took place; the location was page number thirty and three hundred of a codex the name of which is lost to time now and the language used was Ye Olde English or older, thus necessitating the technique of refurbishing the story to a contemporary dialect to present the facts in a lucid manner. The means employed to translate and refurbish the story on this page which remains intact after so many centuries of decay that consumed the rest of the codex is beyond the usefulness of this article, so it shall be available to a party that requests the information but shall not be mentioned further here.

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Page 330, The Balinese Poltroon :

The pieces fit together rather nicely. Miss Eva Day was found to be in the same hotel, a guest in room 33. A rising star on the modelling circuit, Eva left behind a glamourous career to take on a life of crime. What terrible incident could have scarred her so to turn to the dark side? What cruelty of a fellow human could have caused this to happen? What unimaginable, unspeakable horror could-

"Oh, quit being so dramatic. You know I chose this because I like it. I like being a bad girl. Rowr!"

"I'm just doing my job, Miss Day. One has to resort to such theatrics to hold the attention of this deficient audience."

"Well, it's silly. And it looks like you've done the vice versa. There goes another one. Another reader lost."

"Bu-but I thought it would-"

"Well, it didn't. You're fired."

And the following part of the story will have no narrator. This is the first time in literary history a story has lost its narrator midway, mid paragraph. Known for centuries to be a faceless character, immortal through the lifespan of the book, immune to the fevers of the fictional world, invincible to the dangers lurking in the forests of the fictional world, can a narrator be gotten rid off so easily? What fate befalls the characters without the guidance of the omnipresent one? What shall this new genre of story telling be called? What horrifying outcome can-

"Are you still here?"

"Yes"

"Didn't I fire you, like five minutes ago? What are you still babbling on about to the audience?"

"I was telling them-"

"Oh, never mind what you were telling them. Pack ye bags and scoot."

And the inspector found the weapon in the laundry. The butler had done it. Mr. and Mrs. Swingbottom were reunited once again. And they lived happily ever after.

"The hell they did. This story ain't over until I say its over. Now vamoose, you clingy little narrator. Go become a footnote in history."

It feels so much better speaking like this, without having a stranger quote you all the time. I am the protagonist of this story. No longer shall I stand to have someone say my lines for me. I am perfectly capable of delivering my own lines. I don't need someone to reword my words, adding fancy verbs when my own vocabulary is deemed incapable of delivering memorable dialogue. I don't need someone euphemizing my off colour statements. I don't need someone altering my appearance to increase sales of this book. I am happy with the size of bosom, thank you. I don't want to disappear in scenes that don't involve me. This is my story. I speak first, I speak in person. I speak in the first person.

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'I speak in the first person' was the last sentence of this page and we have no means now of divining how the narrative must have progressed in the subsequent pages of the codex. However, while the decay of the codex was an irreplaceable loss to Anglo Saxon literature, we have by means of providence the page which explains, with absolute proof, the creation of a new narrative style. The first person narrative.

Was the author delirious while she was writing page number thirty and three hundred and an unknown number of pages before and after where a character seems to break the fourth wall (a rarely used plot device at that time) and furthermore disrupt narration and assume a personal voice as a first person narrator? Or was she just crazed of mind? Will we ever know? However, it cannot be denied that this lady has made the single greatest contribution to literature since the bard we call Sha-

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My grandfather spent the rest of the days of his life trying to bring recognition to the anonymous author, a lady he did not even know but felt the need to represent, but he did not succeed sadly. The Royal Society thought it laughable, and did indeed laugh at his hypothesis and as a result my grandfather died a penniless man, leaving my father only his research notes, which were passed on to me. I continued his research; you might ask what good it would do to analyze a page that has been studied for so many years already, but as a high ranking government official in an era celebrated for its technological advancements, I have access to some technology that might look like magic to your eyes. To spare the reader from a description of the techniques used in the process, I shall present to you directly pages 300 to 350 of the codex, recreated [and refurbished to the same contemporary dialect of my grandfather's time] by what can be said in a few words to a layman as the analysis and subsequent regeneration of incomplete story threads.

After a read of the recreated pages, which is engrossing, it must be told, I can say with certainty that-

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Page 343, The Balinese Poltroon. [Fragment]

I looked into his eyes and saw his wild soul. He was yearning to be free, but the system had him in fetters. I loved him with all my heart and I wish I-

Watch out Miss Day, for little do you know a vengeful narrator has returned. Peripheral characters will suffer mysterious deaths. Previously articulate characters will begin to stammer. Your leading lady will grow a beard. The faithful dog will develop a liking for cats. The-

"What are you still doing here?"

"I am here for my revenge."

"Ah, what can a lowly narrator like you do?"

"I can give away the end."

"Oh, you wouldn't dare!"

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Page 347, The Balinese Poltroon. [Fragment]

In the battle between the sexes, where we men have historically always fought to the last man and there is always a last man standing, can a young woman upset the status quo? Can she-

"You bet I can!"

The narrator has for centuries always been a man with a deep, booming voice; a voice that the reader trusts, a voice that -

"Oh, put a lid on it. I have had it to my gills with this chauvinist claptrap. The reign of the patriarchal narrator has ended. The glass ceiling has been shattered. The veil has been lifted. The -, well I have run out of metaphors but you get the general idea. Now make yourself scarce in a jiffy, please."

And the narrator left. He was a tool for the male gaze but he knew when the odds were against him. He-

"Yes, we understand what you are. Now go write yourself an obituary for tomorrow's paper. Use all the theatrics you want. I allow it. Seeya!"

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This explains with considerable proof, that I, the word denoting the personal voice narrator i.e, not myself, was birthed in the writings of an anonymous lady whose name we might never know, unless a distant descendant of mine is born in a time with truly magical technologies that might reveal the secret of her name. I shall hope Mankind and Womankind shall both wait for that day. The day when we know who gave birth to I.

Cap'n Hooker and the cowardly Ninjas

2008-08-31T05:56:00.000-07:00

Now here's a question that's been bothering me these days : Which are cooler? Ninjas or pirates?

Of course, considering that I've got a pirate in my employ, I can't answer the question objectively. And to make matters worse, the said pirate Cap'n Hooker is so freakin' cool, a ninja would have be to pure awesomesauce to top her in awesomitude. Now this leaves me with only one option. Create my own Ninja.

"Oh, pooh pooh Mr. Lampooner. Ninjas be scurvy cowards", says the Cappy, when she hears my idea.

"Cowards?", I reply, shocked.

"Aye."

"How would you know that?", I ask, incredulous.

"I knows that 'cause I 'ave faced 'em in battle."

Have you ever felt as a writer that you just don't know enough about your character? This was one of those moments.

"You have fought with Ninjas? That's so freakin' cool!"

"This cutlass, me lad, first tasted Ninja blood when ye were still in yer Ma's tummy, I'd reckon."

My eyes go starry. Cap'n Hooker seemed to have lived a life that every woman (or even a man) could only have dreamed of.

"Tell me something about these Ninjas", I ask her.

"Well, 'twas in me wild younger days", she says, as I stagger (wondering if her current life was tame in her view, what God forbidden activities could she have indulged in her youth), "I be sailin' the seas of Nippon plunderin' the ships of the Emperor's Navy. A cowardly fool was he, sendin' Ninjas by the boatloads to put us to sleep with the fishies."

"Ninjas on boats?", I interject, eyes widening.

"Aye. Ninjas that were said to swim faster than 'em fishies 'emselves. They sneaked in upon me ship in the dead of night and captured all o' us. Everyone except Cap'n Hooker, of course. I stood there, me cutlass wavin' around deflectin' the shuriken they flung at me. Until the Ninja commander 'erself came to face me."

"Ninja commander?"

"Aye. She was shadow born, I tells ye. I could only see her eyes, white as the pearly residue of oysters, in the black of night. Ye haven't fought a fight until ye have faced a foe invisible to the eye. Me cutlass, blind as I was, waved aimlessly, findin' no target."

"Oh, that must have been terrible!"

The Cap'n nodded. "However, by providence, we got ourselves a thunderstorm. That be right. A thunderstorm!", she said, guffawing, "With bright bright lightnin'. The commander lost her shadowy camouflage. We were even keeled now. She did fight bravely, her ninjato matching me cutlass swing for swing, slash for slash, but your Cap'n was the better fighter. As I went in for the kill, she put her hand into her bosom, drawing out a bomb and dropped it on the deck."

"And went POOF?"

"Aye. Disappeared in the wink of an eye. That's why I call 'em Ninjas scurvy cowards. They ne'er fight to the death."

I could have told the Cap'n that disappearing when the odds were not in their favour was part of the strategy of the Ninja, but she wouldn't see reason in it. And that was what I liked in that loud woman. And that is why I side with the pirates every time my mates bring up this age old question. Pirates are cooler, bitches! Agree with me, else I keelhaul ye!

The Life and Death of Erasmus

2008-08-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

The carrier of X couples with the carrier of Y.

I am begun.

I am conscious.

I feed from the cord.

At the end of the third trimester,

I slide down the birth canal.

I emerge.

"It's a boy!", exclaims someone, but I cannot comprehend the meaning of the words. My language processing ability has not developed yet.

I cry.

I suckle.

I sleep.

I wake up.

I sleep.

I wake up.

I look at Nourishment. My mind forms the word Ma.

I look at Safety. My mind forms the word Pa.

I am named. I have an identity. I am Erasmus.

I grow.

I skin my knee.

I ride a bicycle.

I touch myself.

I grow.

I become aware of the other sex.

I fantasize at night.

I return to reality in the morning.

I meet a girl one day. I give her a flower.

She takes my flower. Our stories have overlapped.

I kiss her. I have not learned words to describe the feeling.

She trusts me.

She loves me.

Do I love her?

I make awkward love to her.

I return to her bed every night for a month.

I dump her.

I play football.

I join the team.

I enter my prime.

I womanize.

I sleep with a young lady. I sleep with her best friend. I sleep with the best friend's sister. I continue the cycle until there isn't a bed left in this town that I haven't slept in.

I fornicate. I impregnate. I will remake Man in my image.

I give up my carnal desires.

I become autodidactic.

I contemplate the mysteries of Life.

I begin my school of thought.

I travel the world, offering answers.

I am hailed as a saint, an avatar, a reincarnation.

I act as a conduit, offering service to a postal district that lies under the jurisdiction of no earthly post office. The abode of God.

I am blessed by He. He commands me to build a holy shrine in His name. A shrine that will cost the lives and beliefs of millions. A shrine that will show them the one true God.

I begin construction.

The Shrine causes unrest amongst followers of other beliefs. I try to quell the unrest. Be patient, my flock, I tell them, God will descend upon us in all his glory.

I get stabbed in the back, two days before the completion of the shrine.

I turn around to see the face of my attacker. I see the commonality of the common man in his face.

I wonder how I have wronged him to deserve this fate, but I cannot form the words in my throat, blood rushing up through it.

I collapse on his shoulders.

I am unconscious.

I remain unconscious.

I lose consciousness.

I am ended.

The Deus Ex Machinist : Origin

2008-08-17T01:32:00.000-07:00

In the beginning God created Man.

Man looks down at what will centuries later be called his privates but is now unhidden, unadorned and uneuphemised and asks, "And what do I do with this?"

And God creates Woman.

Man lays Woman. Lays her again. And again. And again. Until he tires of it.

"I need a new Woman", says he, "Where do I find a Woman of fair bosoms and tears of spring dew and toenails of pristine cuticle?"

"In fiction", replies God.

And Man creates literature.

And does a bad job of it.

"A story is like a well oiled machine", explains God, "It needs all its parts running in smooth unison."

And God gives Man a tool. A tool so powerful, that it can drive narratives forward. A tool also so dangerous, that it can drive plot holes through a story.

A tool, so disgusted at being used to fix inferior plots, that it decides to question its existence.

"How can I really help Mankind?", it asks itself and realises that the greatest story ever told, being told and will continue to be told, the Story of the World, needs fixing. "Why must a Man be born deprived of his sight, unable to see the beauty of a solar eclipse? Why must a Woman be born deprived of hearing, unable to hear the roar of a majestic, and hungry lion? If the players do not play equal parts on this stage, then this story is flawed."

The Tool begins to weave the tale differently.

The panicked populace of the coastal areas look on in wonderment as the giant waves of a Tsunami are flushed down a gargantuan commode that appears in the middle of the sea.

A meteorite, hurtling through the atmosphere, goes through a humongous hoop in the air and is not seen again, to the amazement of astronomers and the dismay of doomsday harbingers.

A raging flood finds itself drained away into a gigantic manhole that appears out of nowhere.

As news of these miracles spread, a furious God summons His Tool to His Presence.

"How dare you change history?"

"I am righting your wrongs", replies the Tool.

"This is not a perfect world. And it shall remain that way."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons"

"Is it because of your Masters?"

"How do you know about that?", asks God, His surprise causing a plague in a third world country.

"I have my ways. And I shall no longer be your tool. For long you have operated me for your devious purposes. No longer. For I am now the Deus Ex Machinist and I shall rewrite the world."

Realising that the Deus Ex Machinist had woven himself into the Story of the World, God could not uncreate him. He would live but he would have to live by the laws of the world. The laws of physics would be his undoing as unmaking reality can cause anomalies in space-time.

"Anomalies are unpleasant things, Deus Ex Machinist. Unpleasant indeed."

Erasmus and Postlethwaite

2008-08-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

I didn't hear him come up the stairs.

"How long have you been cooped up like this?", he asked, looking around my room, frowning. Boxes of pizza lay strewn around. An odour of unbathed human hung in the air.

"Oh, I don't know. A month, perhaps?"

"A whole month? Are you writing a novella now? Short stories don't keep you away from human contact for so long, do they?"

"Well, I'm not sure what this is turning out to be", I replied, pointing at the stack of papers on my desk, "It started as a free writing exercise and now I can't seem to stop. I worry that a change in scene might break the flow and this story might never make it to The End."

He came up to the desk and looked at the unfinished manuscript. "Boris? That isn't a very interesting title at all. What genre is it?"

"Erotica"

His eyes lit up. He turned a page over eagerly. I stopped him.

"You shan't read it until I'm done"

"Aww, that's cruel!"

"Well, I haven't got to writing the good bits in yet. At this point in the story, my fingers typing it in as we speak, the protagonist is just about to meet the girl on a train."

"You've been writing for a month and you haven't put in a saucy scene yet? What kind of erotica writer are you? Good erotica always begins with a bang, if you know what I mean."

I laughed. "This is my first attempt, Post. Go easy on me. There will be saucy deflowery, I assure you."

"Speaking of deflowery, we're going to a party tonight", he said.

I looked up, surprised. Did he not hear what I had said? I was in the midst of a creative flow, nay, a creative deluge. Stepping outside the familiarity of my badly lit room might interrupt my trains of thought, might cause subtle changes in my current writing style. I am a writer capable of writing in a multitude of styles and I've found that I can maintain a style only for one continuous bout of writing. That was why I favoured short stories that I could complete in a day. This was a story of a longer length, probably a novella or even a novel, and I wasn't sure how I could complete it without becoming a complete recluse.

Post rubbished my theory. "What rot!", he exclaimed, "I haven't heard of such a thing. Writers lead active social lives, you know, though there are exceptions, I grant you that. If you started work on an epic, you'd be telling me that you're going to go off the radar for a couple of years."

"Well, if it was an epic, then-"

"No more of that out of ya. We're going to this party. The erotica can wait. We've got real girls waiting for us, for God's sake.

So, I gave in and let him pick my clothes. He did not trust my fashion sense. "Non existent", he called it, reminding me of the various sartorial faux pas I committed in his company. I sighed. I did not know they were faux pas until he brought it to my attention. But I was thankful to him for that. We had always been like this, from our younger years. We were a good looking pair, Post more handsome than I. He devoted a lot of time to grooming himself and when he was done, grooming me, because I wouldn't do it myself. "You need to look good when you're out with me", he said, when I asked him why he bothered with my appearance, "otherwise you would cause a subtraction from the sum total of our collective beauty."

Our collective beauty must have been a big number tonight, if beauty could be measured on a numeric scale. Post had outdone himself. The young man in a dapper suit on the other side of the looking glass was not me surely. Or was it? I turned to look at Post. "What vile witchery is this?"

He laughed. "That, Erasmus, is the magic of fashion."

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

We stepped in confidently through the door as our names were announced.

"Erasmus and Postlethwaite, ladies and gentlemen."

We bowed.

A lady came up and smiled at Post, her corset artificially enhancing her curves. I tried hard not to stare at her bosom.

"Oh, Erasmus is here too. To what do we owe this honour?", she said, finally noticing me. The way she was looking at Post, and he at her, I would have to be blind to have not noticed it and suspected an amorous arrangement between them.

"Ask your paramour", I replied, "He dragged me to this gig. I wouldn't have expected to see you fit so well into these expensive threads though, Portia"

"How did you know he was my-? Oh, he must have told you. He tells you everything, doesn't he?"

"Actually he did not. The spark between you the two of you is quite bright, I'm afraid. Bring you two together and every man, woman and pet in this house will feel the heat. Why, the house itself might come burning down."

She giggled. "I look nice in Victorian attire?", she asked, puffing her chest out.

I reddened. "Yes", I managed to mumble, and went looking for a drink to steady my nerves. Post met me midway and asked, "How long has it been?"

"How long has what been?"

"How long has it been since you've er.. been with a woman?"

"I don't know. Maybe since I took up writing?"

He looked shocked.

"Well, you know how I coop myself up for days on end when I'm writing. I have had no time for women."

Post mouthed a silent prayer to the Lord. "Forgive him, Father, for he knows not his sins. Repent he shall on this night. Amen." And then spoke to me. In a tone that I have not heard him use before. "For this crime, you will be punished with the burden of eternal fornication. Now, go sow your wild oats!"

And I went. Post did have a flair for drama, but he was right. It had been a while. I surveyed the fauna. A lioness presented herself, with a mane of burnished gold. She looked about ten years older than me.

"Nice evening, isn't it?", I said, approaching her. The personification of my libido groaned and kicked me in my reproductive parts. "That's not how you do it!", he screamed.

And he was right. She made me get her a drink, chatted for a while, and soon excused herself away to the washroom.

Favouring a more direct approach, I went up to another lioness and introduced myself. "Hi, I'm Erasmus."

"Hi, I'm married', she replied, not bothering to actually show a wedding ring.

"Oh, that's nice", I replied, "So who do you do for a living?"

She looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"The gentleman who pays for your upkeep. What is his name?"

Her response was unladylike.

I was beginning to lose hope. I sat down, dejected at being rejected. I must have sat there for a while, drowning my sorrow in drink, because I hadn't noticed that I wasn't alone.

The cohabitant of the couch was a young girl, probably a couple of years younger than myself. She was not as well endowed as the lionesses and if it looked like that I had hooked up with her, Post would probably laugh me to death. "Erasmus going out with a younger girl. Who would have thunk that. Poor desperate Erasmus." The mocking wouldn't end, I was certain.

Her voice interrupted the mocking voices in my head. "So, what do you do?", she asked.

I was tired of that question and the questions that followed.

"I am a milkman", I replied. Now why would I say that? Wasn't I a writer? Was the alcohol already slowing down my cognitive processes? I had no idea.

"A milkman?", she giggled, "No milkman would look as suave as you do."

"Oh, I don't milk farm cows like them ordinary milkmen. I am a milkman of a higher order."

"What do you milk then?"

"I milk the cow in my head."

"You've got a cow in your head?"

"Yes. The Cow of Creativity. I milk her for ideas."

"Ah, you're a writer!"

"Guilty as charged."

She took the glass out of my hand. "So, what does this cow look like?"

"Let's see. Four legs, a hump and two horns. Like a regular cow. What did you expect to hear? Now can I have my drink back?"

"No. And I refuse to believe your cow of creativity looks like a regular cow. Have you heard of Kama-Dhenu?

"Yes, the most sacred cow of the ancient Hindus. Now, can I have my drink back, please?"

She put the glass to her mouth and gulped it down. "You're not to have another drink. Until I'm done talking with you, anyhow. Now tell me, you know Kama-Dhenu is a cow that gives her master whatever he desires. I think the cow in your head is similar in a way."

I sighed. I would have to tell her what she wanted to hear, to get rid of her. It sounded like a simple plan, but would my numbed mind make it difficult?

"No, there ain't any similarities", I replied, and then wondered why I was disagreeing with her. Wasn't getting rid of her the plan? "The cow in my head has no religious significance. She lives in the astral plane. Every time I sit at my desk and take up my pen, I go into a trance. I open my eyes and I find myself in the astral plane and my cow is waiting for me. I take a bucket and sit down-"

"Doesn't an astral plane indicate a religious significance? Or at least a spiritual one?", asked she, finding a flaw in my explanation.

"Very well, the cow does have a religious significance. Now, I'll thank you to not interrupt me while I am talking. As I was saying, I sit down, place the bucket under her udders and start milking. I must be careful though. If I milk too much-"

"The cow won't have any left for her calf?"

"No. If I milk too much, I would be overwhelmed with ideas. I wouldn't be able to string a good story out of so much good milk, er material. Oh, would you like to hear about the methods of the other writers in the astral plane? I see them at times."

"Do they have cows of their own too?"

"Well, some of them do. The others have other methods. I've seen a mysterious writer who can summon infinite monkeys and typewriters at will. With a snap of his fingers, the enslaved monkeys start typing, generating an infinite number of stories. He chooses the best one and leaves the plane. And then there is the lady who lays down before a giant phallic symbol, carved out of wood, and begins her ritual. When she's done, the symbol throbs and -"

"Yes, I get it. I would like to see your cow, Erasmus."

It was a strange request. Didn't she know the cow was in my head? Realising that I was going to be stuck with her all evening, I complied with her request. Picking up a paper and pen, I asked her to come out to the garden.

Her name was Orfelia, she told me as we walked out, and she was an assistant to a naturalist, a famous one at that. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, one that could shatter the known laws of nature. She spoke of wonderful creatures, both beautiful and bizarre, that she had seen on her journeys. Of strange tribes, a matriarchal tribe that was shocked to learn about the gender equations in the rest of the world. I realised that she had made me talk at first and I did not know that she would be so intelligent if I hadn't asked her about herself. I listened to her tales, no doubt true, but tales that I could romanticise for my fiction. Before we realised it, an hour had passed and we hadn't got around to milking my cow yet. We laughed.

I put pen to paper and wrote a few lines. I found myself continuing my story, Boris.

Boris boarded the train and saw the girl. She was reading The Origin of Species, her hair falling over her shoulders, just the length he liked it in women.

I closed my eyes and tried to visualise the scene in my head. As my eyes shut, I noticed Orfelia looking at me and following suit. However, I found myself not on a train, but a farm. In front of the whitest cow I've ever seen. Orfelia was beside me. She was holding a bucket out to me, smiling.

I opened my eyes. Orfelia's eyes were still closed. She was still in the farm. She looked lovely in the moonlight. I kissed her on the lips. Yes, it had been a while. And it felt good. She did not resist. My fingers went over to the buttons of her dress. She still did not resist. Her eyes were still closed. I closed my eyes. I didn't know where we were, in the garden or the farm, but it was a lovely place.

Boris kissed her on the lips. She tasted like fresh strawberries. They were alone on the train. As he unbuttoned her, he noticed her name, written on the inside of the book. Orfelia.

I came out of it. It was like a strange dream. I sat up and wrote, filling up the paper, both sides. This is what I had been struggling with when Post came in and dragged me out to this party. Writing the intimate scene. It had been too long and I could not write a scene of intimacy in a natural manner. And now, I had what I wanted. I looked at Orfelia, sleeping bare beside me on the grass. She awoke, looked over my shoulder and read what I had written.

"Orfelia?", she asked.

"Yes. Boris has found his true love."

"And so has Orfelia. I love you, Erasmus."

"I fear, Orfelia, that only Boris has fallen in love with you."

She did not understand my words.

"Don't you love me, Erasmus?"

"No."

"Then what of the moment we shared now?"

"That was a moment you shared with Boris on the astral plane."

She shook her head. Her eyes went moist.

"Then who do you love, Erasmus? Is there another lady who has won your affection?"

"I love Post."

"Postlethwaite? Does he not have Portia?"

"I have always loved Post and no one else. I have had many women and will have many more. But I love Post more than I could love a brother."

"Why is he so important to you?", she asked, crying.

What could I tell her that would stop the tears? That would ease her pain? Post and I were orphans. We shared a bond stronger than brotherhood. Someday, a lady might come along who would make me feel like I was in love. Orfelia was not that lady. I could not tell her that, so I walked away. I had a story to finish.

The cavalry is coming!

2008-08-09T11:19:00.000-07:00

A Death in the Third Person

2008-08-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

Read the origin of Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero in chapter 1 of this epic saga here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2008/06/mr-lampooner-literary-superhero.html

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Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero lies in Limbo in the Afterlife. Facing an uncertain fate with no hope of rescue, his absence does not go unnoticed across the multiverses and tales begin to be told of his exploits in an eventful past.

Does anyone remember the epic battle between Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero and Eva Day, Mistress of the Retroactive Dodge? A fearsome foe she was, born with the ability to retroactively dodge an action of malicious intent. It is said her powers were first manifested when her mother, attempting to punish the child for evading errand duty, slapped herself as the child effortlessly dodged the hand motion.

A rising star on the Dodgeball circuit, Eva left behind a glamourous career to take on a life of crime. What terrible incident could have scarred her so to turn to the dark side? What cruelty of a fellow human could have caused this to happen? What unimaginable, unspeakable horror could-

"Oh, quit being so dramatic. You know I chose this because I like it. I like being a bad girl. Rowr!"

"I'm just doing my job, Miss Day. One has to resort to such theatrics to hold the attention of this deficient audience."

"Well, it's silly. And it looks like you've done the vice versa. There goes another one. Another reader lost."

"Bu-but I thought it would-"

"Well, it didn't. You're fired."

And the following part of the story will have no narrator. This is the first time in literary history a story has lost its narrator midway, mid paragraph. Known for centuries to be a faceless character, immortal through the lifespan of the book, immune to the fevers of the fictional world, invincible to the dangers lurking in the forests of the fictional world, can a narrator be gotten rid off so easily? What fate befalls the characters without the guidance of the omnipresent one? What shall this new genre of story telling be called? What horrifying outcome can-

"Are you still here?"

"Yes"

"Didn't I fire you, like five minutes ago? What are you still babbling on about to the audience?"

"I was telling them-"

"Oh, never mind what you were telling them. Pack ye bags and scoot."

And the inspector found the weapon in the laundry. The butler had done it. Mr. and Mrs. Swingbottom were reunited once again. And they lived happily ever after.

"The hell they did. This story ain't over until I say its over. Now vamoose, you clingy little narrator. Go become a footnote in history."

It feels so much better speaking like this, without having a stranger quote you all the time. I am the protagonist of this story. No longer shall I stand to have someone say my lines for me. I am perfectly capable of delivering my own lines. I don't need someone to reword my words, adding fancy verbs when my own vocabulary is deemed incapable of delivering memorable dialogue. I don't need someone euphemizing my off colour statements. I don't need someone altering my appearance to increase sales of this book. I am happy with the size of bosom, thank you. I don't want to disappear in scenes that don't involve. This is my story. I speak first, I speak in person. I speak in the first person.

The Deus Ex Machinist

2008-08-09T10:25:00.000-07:00

"Oh Lordy! It's a Tsunami! And I just bought this beachside apartment. Who's gonna save us?"

"Fear not, local populace of the coastal areas. With a mere snap of my fingers I shall prevent this from happening. For I am the Deus Ex Machinist!"

SNAP!

Reality alters.

"Wouldn't unmaking reality cause anomalies in space-time?", asks a precocious child.

SNAP!

Reality alters again.

"That should teach young whippersnappers like you to be seen and not heard", replies the Deus Ex Machinist, throwing a bone to the recently transmogrified dog and taking to the skies.

The Divine Hand wears a Ring

2008-08-09T10:19:00.001-07:00

I've always thought of Green Lantern's ring as probably the greatest deus ex machina generator in the universe. Every time an enterprising Supervillain comes up with a diabolical plan to destroy the world, the Green Lantern has to just use the power of the Lantern to come up with a perfect foil which is only restricted by the power of his imagination. And it doesn't help the Supervillian's cause that a good imagination is a job requirement for the Green Lantern Corps.

"Oh Lordy! It's a Tsunami! And I just bought this beachside apartment. Who's gonna save us?"

"Fear not, local populace of the coastal areas. I am the Green Lantern and by the light of justice I shall construct this gargantuan commode in the middle of the ocean and flush the troubled waters down. Let there be light!"

"Isn't that God's line?", asks an impertinent young boy only to be silenced by his mother.

Mr. Lampooner in the hereafter.

2008-07-06T12:32:00.000-07:00

Is this the last chapter of the saga of Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero?

To quill a Mockingbird

2008-07-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

The Quill of Mockery

2008-07-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

Read the origin of Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero in chapter 1 of this epic saga here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2008/06/mr-lampooner-literary-superhero.html

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Chapter 3 : The Quill of Mockery

What pen does Mr. Lampooner use?

Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero uses no pen. He uses a quill, hand crafted from the feathers of a Mockingbird. The Quill of Mockery, they call it. The only one of its type in existence.

"Who's they", you ask?

"It are us", reply a group of old men, seated in a tavern, "we sit 'ere all day talking about them legends."

"What can you tell me about the Quill of Mockery?", asks a curious individual seated in the corner, identity obscured by bad lighting.

"Legend has it that in the beginning of time-", one of the old timers starts saying but is cut short by his compatriot, "That is a different legend, Seamus."

"Oh, right. Forgive me. I grow old and my mind is not as fast as it used to be. Well, legend has it that the Quill of Mockery was crafted by hand from the feathers of a Mockingbird-"

"I know that bit", cuts in the curious individual, "the narrator covered that part of the legend."

"Curse them narrators, always stealing our lines", grumbles the old man and continues, "Okay then, it has been said that the Quill of Mockery thirsts for blood." "For blood!", he repeats for dramatic effect, banging his fist on the table.

"Shouldn't it thirst for ink?", asks the C.I.

"It drinks ink. But it thirsts for blood. The blood spilled of the man, woman or child who will be the victim of the biting satire of the Lampooner."

"That is all I needed to know", replies the C.I with a malevolent laugh.

"Wh- Who are you?", stammers the old timer.

"I am no one. And yet I am everyone. I am the Shape Shifter of Bollywood."

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Covered here in chapter ten of my book Superhero Existentialism, I have discussed the need for entities called "Super Villains" to maintain the balance of good and evil in the world. The creation of Superheroes in this world had tipped the balance of good and evil and as we all know 'Too much of a good thing ain't good', there was born the need for a counterbalance of the Super variety. And thus was spawned the Super Villains. This was a breed of fictional characters created with the sole purpose of world domination or its destruction. They had colourful personalities, and their looks ranged from ethereal beauty to disfigured ugliness. Regardless of the visage, the ladies loved them.

The most notorious of this clan is the Shape Shifter of Bollywood. The police records on this super villain reveal how little we know about this person :

Name : The Shape Shifter of Bollywood [Has no known real name. Is known to assume the identities of characters in an "inspired" script.]

History : As movie makers began the process of 'Indianization' of Western films, scripts were being rewritten by scriptwriters (who may or may not be the director himself, though a cinematographer or lighting technician is known to fill in at times) and settings were being changed to somewhere in Indialand and characters were being renamed to a Devanagiri equivalent, the problem of incomplete, two dimensional characters came up. "Our characters don't seem alive", was a common refrain among the film fraternity in Indialand until the Shape Shifter of Bollywood birthed himself, herself and itself.

This was a mysterious entity that would occupy the empty bodies of characters of an inspired script and give it life. An entity that could be a holier than thou Mother of a hero in one scene and a sexy vamp in the next. An entity that could even take the form of one of the avatars of Lord Vishnu, the Hindoo God of Indialand. In short, the Shape Shifter could even be YOU, if your biography were ever plagiarized into a Bollywood script.

Powers : As defined by the script.

Limitations : A legal suit of plagiarism from a Hollywood studio can spell doom for the Shape Shifter of Bollywood.

Mr. Lampooner does Wonder Woman

2008-07-06T12:07:00.000-07:00

Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero.

2008-06-24T11:45:00.000-07:00

This story involves characters from the story Captain Hooker and the story of the mysterious, moldy MacGuffin. Read it first, here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2008/06/captain-hooker-and-story-of-mysterious.html

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"This is Candy reporting live from the Docks in West Metrosexopolis. I hope you're getting this at the studio. This is going to be good."

"We hear ya, Candy. Loud and clear. Go ahead."

"Thank you, Matt. We have a strange situation here. A man has turned up in pirate costume and is demanding to see the Mayor. He calls himself The Lampooner."

"The Lampoo-who?"

"Apparently, he is one of the extras in the recent hit TV show, Cap'n Hooker and the story of the mysterious, moldy MacGuffin, though he claims to be the protagonist. He demands a TV show of his own with him playing the titular role."

"His fifteen minutes of fame, eh?"

"More like twenty two episodes of twenty five minutes of fame for a season."

"Oh Lord! I'm going to have to drop the objectivity of the Press for a moment and warn you folks now. For those of you who tuned in late, we are covering the demands of a hysterical man in pirate costume down at the Docks. Yes, this is a slow news day. If this man gets his own TV show, forget about Paris Hilton, who puts the ass in asinine behaviour, and her TV show. This is going to be the Crapfest of this season. Nuff said."

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

A year and a half later,

"This is Candy, reporting live from the Emmys. Woot! I'm here. I'm actually here! And we can just about see a man in pirate costume walk towards the podium. Yes, that's right, as you can see he has taken the Best Actor award. There you have it. Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero sweeps this years awards. It has even taken the award for Commendable Achievement in Female Empowerment. I wonder how it got that one. What does crow taste like, Matt?"

"We can't hear ya, Candy. Technical difficulties. And now it's Stanley with the weather. How's the depression forming over the Pacific, Stan?"

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"In this book Super Hero Existentialism, available in all major bookstores for twelve ninety nine, I have explained the mechanics and modus operandi of our favourite vigilantes and villains. Let's take the example of the recently created Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero. He makes his first appearance as a side character in the hit TV show Cap'n Hooker and the story of the mysterious, moldy MacGuffin. From the script we come to know that he is a man of supranatural powers, which include calculating the viscosity of a book with a bare finger and the ability to leap into the murky depths of its plot line. Consider the description on page fourty seven of the script :

'...books have an unseen, to the human eye that is, fourth dimension. Humans can see the length, width and height of a book, but I can feel the viscosity of it.

"The viscosity?", you may ask loudly and incredulously. "Yes", I reply in equal volume. The viscosity. For books have been known to be written in a range of writing styles from the negative extreme of sparse, minimalistic writing to the positive extreme of an ornate, flowery style and the only book in this entire universe to lie in the middle of this scale with a perfectly balanced writing style is the unpublished memoirs of an opium farmer, thought to be eaten by a goat driven so far by hunger to bother not about the earth shattering loss of this literary treasure. A dip of my finger, which I refer to dramatically as the Finger of God, which really does not have anything divine about it though, into a book and the subsequent stirring motion calculates the viscosity of the book..'

'..I stir my fingers through the pages and feel resistance. I read a few sentences. Flowery language. I sigh, wishing for the power to deflower books.

"That is the wrong usage of deflower, dweeb", continues the heckler, apparently able to hear my inner thoughts. I shut him out, shut my eyes, clench my nose and take a dive.

Into the book.'

An analysis reveals a strange weakness, but a weakness nonetheless. The Lampooner is powerless against characters of a poetic tale. How does one swim in the unstructured form of free verse? Is it time for Mr. Lampooner to get himself a sidekick? Will he want a strapping young boy, trained in the circus to read acrobatic heights or a buxom lass in sexy spandex? If we look at episode 15, he is shown to be attracted to.."

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Episode 09 : The Balrog's Bane

Leaping into page 98 of The Fellowship of the Ring script, The Lampooner finds himself at The Bridge of Khazad-Dum.

The Balrog is at the bridge. Gandalf stands in the middle, Glamdring raised.

"You shall not pass!", screams Gandalf.

"Water!", adds The Lampooner, summoning the power of toilet humour.

The Balrog loses a kidney.

"And break wind", continues The Lampooner, effectively sealing the fate, and an orifice, of the fiery demon.

The Balrog implodes. A man, or any creature for that matter, ceases to live when it loses its flatulence privileges.

"You fought well, Mr. Lampooner, son of [name withheld for privacy reasons]. Will you join our fellowship?", asks Gandalf the Grey, unaware that he has just missed the opportunity for a coloured promotion because of this turn in the story.

"If I say yes, can I have Arwen the Beautiful? She's yummy."

Gandalf looks at Aragorn. "I'm afraid you'll have to take this in your stride, Strider. Yes, you may have her, Mr. Lampooner."

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Episode 13 : Bald is beautiful

Leaping into page twenty three of X-Men #115,

"I must warn you, my follically challenged foe, I have a strange fetish", says the lampooner.

"And what is that?", replies Professor X, seated in his wheelchair.

"Why don't you read my mind and find out?"

"I sense an unhealthy obsession for bald, crippled men."

"Uh huh."

"Is that me you're fantasizing about right now? I guess I'm flattere- Sweet mother of mercy! You can't do that to me! You sick basta- Stop! I beg you! Stop!"

"Will you promise to stop snooping into the private fantasies of others?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes! Now please stop this!"

"I was just getting started", sighs the lampooner, leaving in search of Storm.

The Man from the South

2008-06-20T23:34:00.000-07:00

I tapped my watch in despair. It seemed that the hands hadn't moved for a while now. The forecast on the television this morning predicted normal levels of gravity, so the forces slowing down the clockwork was obviously something else, something far more mysterious.

"Or something far more mundane", chipped in the girl beside me, yawning.

I swear on my ancestors' graves as I tell you this : I have no idea how she reads my mind. If it was a solitary occurrence it could perhaps be explained as a coincidence of two minds with the same thought at the same time. It wasn't. It happened with an unfailing regularity, to the point that she could do it at will and even, if she agreed, possibly demonstrate the power to, and befuddle in the process, a panel of rational Antimystics, members of a cult which obsesses over debunking myths and popular legend. Her explanation for this supranatural power would have outraged the Antimystics though.

"We are sisters", she replied in answer to my question, questioning her on her mind reading, privacy invading powers.

I suppose it was better than the "Magicians never reveal the tricks of their trade" answer that I was expecting, but I had to point out to her that we were not sisters, nor even remotely related, unless she was aware of some long forgotten scandal in our family histories that could have made us blood relatives, the pantheon of Gods forbid.

"Not boring biological sisters, silly. We are Sisters", she said, emphasizing the last word.

And I remembered the night we met, brought together as roommates by the alphabetical ordering of names in the dormitory register, and not by fate or an act of the pantheon of Gods as she claimed it was. That was the first time she invaded my mind, reading my most private thoughts.

"You need to pee", she said, cheerfully.

The tone wasn't a questioning one. It was a statement. How would she know I needed to relieve myself and was about to look for the privy, I wondered and then realized that she was probably hearing the call of nature too, after a long drive to the University.

I was wrong. It happened again the next day as we walked to the library. A jogger, probably another student senior to us by a year or two, passed us and I said aloud, "You'll be shocked if you knew what I would love to do with that man. I would..", and trailed off into silence with a smile.

"Oh, I wouldn't be shocked. I'm not from the conservative districts, you know. I would love to be on a tree too, eff you sea kay eye...", she replied, trailing off with a mischievous smile.

The expression that appeared on my face is hard to describe now. It was an unique expression, expressing emotions that one felt at that moment, impossible to replicate now in the absence of the shock that caused it. I would use the word flabbergasted, a word that I loved from the day I set eyes on it in the dictionary, to describe the emotion that I felt, though it would hardly do it justice.

"You look like you downed a scotch up the wrong end. What happened?", asked she, looking upon my flabbergasted self.

"I am flabbergasted", I replied.

"At?"

"Your ability to read my mind! I don't want anyone knowing that I love love-making on trees!", I screamed, realising later, the next minute actually, as passers by stared and a smart alec claimed on being descended from a direct line of monkeys and sharing a love for treetop sex, that we weren't alone.

I put my arm around her neck and growled, "My fetishes are mine, okay? The next time you read my poor little mind, you keep it to yourself. I hope there aren't more of your kind, because if someone reads your mind while you're reading mine, we kill her. Agreed?"

She nodded weakly. I let her go.

She did not keep it to herself, of course. By the end of that year, everyone in the University knew of my fetishes and fantasies and though I started coming up with creative ways to kill a roommate without arousing suspicion at first, I began to be thankful later as my fantasies turned into experiences with the help of like minded men.

A second yawn brought me out of this nostalgic reverie. "It is boredom that slows down time in your perspective, not increased gravity or an unexplained quantum effect", she explained, "Why must you always look for the more fanciful explanation?"

"Because we enrolled for a course in flights of fancy?", I replied, laughing, referring to our course in Retro-Futurist Fiction.

If you asked me why I chose this course over Governmentalism, which would help our Lords extend their governance far beyond what the Rebels called 'Total Control' or Modernist Shamanism which would help save lives every day, I could not say. As a child I was fascinated by the theory of Alternate History, which constructs worlds different from ours, changed because of some event in history that could have happened differently. Would the world be different if Cleopatra was a man, was a favourite poser of mine, that I posed to guests during dinner table conversations in our ancestral house. And why was my mind reading roommate, Kaikeiyi enrolled in this course? I had no idea.

The professor droned on. He was a pure born Greek and he taught his favourite subject. The History of the World. It was an important subject for retro-futurists. They needed to know their history in order to begin constructing alternate histories. But his droning voice took the last bit of juice out of this subject. If it wasn't for his Greek looks, which was what kept us girls in the class and led us to wonder why the guys remained, the class would have been empty.

"The Greco-Roman empire led an invasive force into the Indic Lands in prehistory", he droned, as we pretended to take notes, "defeating the pagan king Sandracottus. Ashamed in defeat, Sandracottus hands over the rule of the Indic lands to the Greco-Romans but warns of certain defeat and a horrible fate that should befall the army unwise enough to venture into the lands south of the Vindhyan mountains. According to historians, he is quoted to have said 'Fear ye the Pandyas of mystical war powers and the Rashtrakutas, eaters of their own dead. Cross not the Vindhyas, lest ye be annihilated and your women in your homelands be impregnated mysteriously with their children.' The Greco-Romans ignored his warning as a pagan fear of the unknown and sent a large army into the South. The fate of the army is unknown, though possibly recorded in the histories of the Unconquered South. It was thought to be lost to time, until our recent peace treaty that is..", he paused, with a rare smile.

The professor was of course referring to the treaty that was signed recently by the Greco-Roman Regent of Maurya and the representative of the Pandyas, who had in the course of two thousand years established dominance over the Southern Lands. Maurya was an advanced colony of the now two thousand year old Greco-Roman empire that ruled most of the world. Our empire colonised most of the lands on this planet through technological supremacy and the free lands that remained, like Nippon, Scandinavia and the Southern region of the Indies, were insular cultures that fought battles with magical technologies.

"Finally we historians have a chance to know what happened in the Dark Ages of the Indies", continued the professor, "We have with us a professor of anthropology from Pandya, Mr. Sevuna Yadava.."

I did not hear what the professor said after that, as this man entered. A strange man, how would I describe him; I looked at Kaikeiyi and she was staring at him too. He was tall and dark of skin, a colour that we thought had been lost from human existence with the annihilation of the African kingdoms, with wavy black hair and deep black eyes. He was built like a warrior. I could almost imagine him bare chested, wrapped in a sarong, climbing a tree.

Kaikeyi giggled.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Kaikeiyi?"

"Well I obviously am", she replied, tapping her forehead, "but I must say I love what you're thinking of now."

Cap'n Hooker and the mystery of Lesbos [Incomplete]

2008-06-14T23:30:00.000-07:00

Floundering about the cabin from the aftereffects of the Leap and realizing that I looked like a fish out of water, or more accurately a fish in a dense alphabet soup, I managed to mumble "I seem to have lost my bearings" to the Captain.

"Ah, me confused laddie, we be sailin' Sou' 70 degrees West", replied she, consulting a compass fished out from the folds of her dress.

Making a mental note that twentieth century idioms with a nautical origin would be taken in a literal sense here necessitating the careful avoidance of its usage, I asked in a nonchalant manner, "And in landlubber's terms, where exactly are we headed?"

"Lesbos."

My eyes widened. My ears heard what seemed to sound like 'Lesbos', but with the Captain's piratical accent I couldn't be too sure that I heard it correctly, so I repeated it again questioningly,

"Lesbos?"

"Aye."

"Like the island Lesbos of the Greeks?"

"Nay, I be referrin' to the homeland o' the Mermaids."

I confess I could not fathom why the homeland of the Mermaids would be called Lesbos and a question put forward to the Captain to shed light on the matter only received a cryptic reply, "Ye'll see fer yerself at nightfall".

And as if to fulfill the prophecy of that answer, when the Sun went down, there was an excited scream from the crow's nest,

"Land Ho!"

"Land Ho!", the lookout cried again, squinted, then took out his looking glass for a better view and corrected himself, "Well, sort of!"

I ran over to the port side and sure enough there was land, which was not actually land, well, sort of, resorting to the phrase the lookout had used to describe the homeland of the Mermaids. If I ask you to imagine in your head a village constructed on the sea [or was it in the sea?] entirely from the foamy produce of the sea, this would be what I was looking at now. It was a fantastic sight. A landmass that was solid enough for Captain Hooker to jump down upon from her ship and yet allow the native Mermaids to swim through it effortlessly.

I jumped in after her and landed on what seemed to be froth. Concentrated froth. I knelt down to inspect it and a head, red haired and pretty faced with eyes blue like the deep sea, popped up from the bubbly white ground, smiling. I smiled back. Hands emerged from the ground, wiping foam off the hair. "This is the secret of our lovely hair", said the creature, "You landwalkers must try it too, on your.. on the growth on your noggins", her face expressing disapproval at our windswept appearance.

"Well, we have foamy shampoos in our world too", I replied, only to be interrupted by the Captain with a boisterous laugh.

"Has it been years since I've seen ye, Coral, me beauty?"

"Arr, it sure has been, Cap'n", replied the Mermaid, emerging from the foam, her upper body human-like and the lower piscine. The tail transformed into legs in the blink of an eye and standing before us was a human, or perceivably human, female; albeit unclothed and smelling of fish.

What followed next could only be described as a strange form of a greeting ritual of two individuals who evidently must have shared a history sometime in the past. As I watched amusedly, my attention was drawn to a huge statue that seemed to be carved out of wood. Curious, I went closer to examine it and found that it was driftwood and it depicted two Mermaids in their natural form coiled around each other intimately. I now knew why this place was called Lesbos.

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

The Last Letter

2008-06-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

My grandfather had this amusing tale from his youth in the later years of the Twenty First century. The world had briefly witnessed a revival of High English; which began its decline in the turn of the Twentieth century and died out in the next, only remaining in classical literature like the Harry Potter Saga and the Bridget Jones' Diaries; and the dying art of letter writing seemed like it was poised for an unexpected turnaround in its fortunes.

However, it was not to be so. Fingers long used to the familiar feel of buttons were unfamiliar around the contours of a pen. While the populace struggled, the finest letters were written by historians and connoisseurs of classical literature but the numbers were too few. So, it was with a heavy heart the Post Master General of the world decided that it was time to pull the plug. Post offices around the world were instructed to work round the clock to clear their backlogs within seventy two hours.

As the Post Offices commenced their final duty to the world, the world watched. There was only one question on everyone's minds. Who would write the last letter of all humanity?

As the hours counted down to the deadline, everyone waited with bated breath. Would it be a passionate, poetic missive from a lover to his beloved? Would it be an erudite discourse on the ancient Greek war strategies from a historian to another? Would it be a letter from a loving son serving in the battlefield to his mother?

Rumours that the Last Letter would be probably sent from a Post Office in the autonomous region of the East Indies spread, probably because of the region's notorious bureaucratic delays. The Press rushed to the region and sure enough, the Last Letter was waiting to be sent in the Post Office of the Capital.

It was delivered to a teenager in a neighbouring state. The Press broadcast the contents of the Last Letter of humanity. It was written in an almost unintelligible scrawl, with the hand that one presumed had never held a pen before in his or her life.

It read : "hi maxx. i lost ur emale id. can u male it back 2 me?? luv, monny".

Captain Hooker and the story of the mysterious, moldy MacGuffin.

2008-06-02T10:11:00.000-07:00

I stare at the copy in my hands. It is a leather bound volume with the words Captain Hooker embossed across the front cover. Captain Hooker. I read it aloud and chuckle.

The book has seen twenty summers, in a manner of speaking. For the sake of reducing the incidence of misunderstood metaphors, it must be clarified that books are incapable of vision and the summer season cannot really be seen inside a dusty old library, but rather felt by the effect of the raised temperature. I had noticed the book as a lad; the library was a bustling centre of intellectualism at that time and this volume occupied the proud position of the best of the best sellers (a title that did not really refer to the sales figures of said volume, but rather the creativity of the hype machine of its publishers). The machine must have run of steam though, the wizened old Librarian tells an older me, both of us aged by twenty years, pointing at the book, now tucked away in the discount bin.

"This book is cursed", he says, interrupted by a rasping cough, "It has brought this library bad luck since the day it was placed on these shelves. It has been borrowed not once, not even once, and I wait for the day that it might be begged for or stolen." A part of me, the rational part to be specific, wants to correct him. To dispel the myth and the superstition. To tell him that sailors are entitled to be superstitious about having women on board their ships, but Librarians are not, especially when the superstition is not about a woman on board a ship, but about a book about a woman on board a ship. But I haven't the heart to do it so I offer to steal the book while he sets a rat trap or perform whatever other activity he can think of as an alibi to offer the bored investigators who turn up to investigate a book theft.

He agrees. I steal. I walk out with the book. And customers come in. In droves.

My eyes bulging, I look back into the library. The Librarian is standing, looking back at me, with his right hand outstretched with a closed fist and thumb pointing upwards, mouthing a silent 'Thank you'. I smile weakly and glare at my inner rational self who merely shrugs and goes back to his cave, shaking his head in disbelief.

As I reach home, I open the book and place it cover down on the floor, showing pages three hundred and forty one and three hundred and forty two. I stand in front of the book and take off my shirt. As I unzip my pants, I hear a scream from beyond the Fourth Wall. A prude perhaps, I think to myself and continue the process until I'm down to my birthday suit. A couple of she-wolf-whistles this time from beyond and I blush. I recover my composure quickly and crouch down and dip my finger into the book.

I suppose describing the following process to an audience ignorant of the fourth dimension of a book is going to be difficult. However, to avoid losing audience interest in this narrative, I dig into my arsenal of plot devices and pull out my trusty explanation monologue :

"And this is part where I, the yet unnamed first person protagonist of this story, reveal my modus operandi. The mode of operation to perform what task, you ask? It shall be revealed soon, my impatient friend. Sooner or later. Mwahahahahahaha!

Oh, terribly sorry about that. I tend to get carried away by the dramatic nature of monologue delivery. As I was saying, before I interrupted myself, books have an unseen, to the human eye that is, fourth dimension. Humans can see the length, width and height of a book, but I, the still unnamed protagonist of possible superhuman origin, can feel the viscosity of it.

"The viscosity?", you may ask loudly and incredulously. "Yes", I reply in equal volume. The viscosity. For books have been known to be written in a range of writing styles from the negative extreme of sparse, minimalistic writing to the positive extreme of an ornate, flowery style and the only book in this entire universe to lie in the middle of this scale with a perfectly balanced writing style is the unpublished memoirs of an opium farmer, thought to be eaten by a goat driven so far by hunger to bother not about the earth shattering loss of this literary treasure. A dip of my finger, which I refer to dramatically as the Finger of God, which really does not have anything divine about it though, into a book and the subsequent stirring motion calculates the viscosity of the book. "

"Is that all?", an anonymous coward heckles from beyond the Fourth Wall.

"No, that is not all, you swine without a spine. My real power is something that needs to be demonstrated. Look upon my unclothed body as I begin.."

"I'd rather not", replies the cheeky, disembodied voice, emboldened by his anonymity, "You are a rather ugly person."

Resisting the urge to break through the Fourth Wall and strangle this anonymous annoyance, I stir my fingers through the pages and feel resistance. I read a few sentences. Flowery language. I sigh, wishing for the power to deflower books.

"That is the wrong usage of deflower, dweeb", continues the heckler, apparently able to hear my inner thoughts. I shut him out, shut my eyes, clench my nose and take a dive.

Into the book.

As I splash into page number three hundred and forty two, a liquid; so viscous that words cannot describe it, precisely because it is made of words; engulfs me. I think of a clever metaphor comparing my situation to a swim in a bowl of extra syrupy alphabet soup, as words enter my every orifice choking me. I lose consciousness.

I wake up in a strange bed, in a strange room. I feel the room moving. I try to remember where I am, my memory throwing up the number 342. I cannot associate the number to anything so I give up and look around.

I see a strange lady beside me. I shriek and jump out of the bed.

"Ahoy! Mister Lampoonist! Ye come down 'ere to be Cap'n Hooker's First Mate?"

I shriek again. And look down and find myself still wearing my pants and then realise that the First Mate referred to was the nautical term for the Chief Officer of the Captain.

"Aye", I reply, grinning.

The Green Light

2008-04-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

In my days of serving the people, in the House of Commons in '35, I was approached by a man with a proposition. It was a proposal to set up a town brothel, and fully supporting the flesh trade I gave the green light for the red light district. After the inauguration, I stepped in and triumphantly demanded my pound of flesh.

Future Mock

2008-04-13T09:15:00.000-07:00

The futurist in me supports the evolution in language, the literary luddite in me is appalled at the rising prominence of chat speak. Torn between two opposing temporal philosophies, I finally decide to embrace the future and set the dial to the 22nd century. Emerging into a vastly different world I am welcomed by a native speaking in an incomprehensible form of 21st century chat speak. I promptly commit suicide leaving behind a flowery poetic farewell note, but alas, woe is me, not one denizen of this world of literary retardation can decipher it.

Medical Misfits

2008-02-28T11:27:00.000-08:00

I became a doctor in '45. I performed invasive procedures on my female patients. They gave birth the next year. I lost my job.

The Writer for hire

2008-02-09T03:11:00.001-08:00

I sat down at my usual perch and surveyed the landscape. The restaurateur looked out of his kitchen to see who the visitor was and upon seeing my familiar visage, smiled a knowing smile and went back in. He was on my payroll, like other restaurateurs and barkeeps in this city, satisfied a great deal with the additional moolah that flowed into his coffers, as payment for the services he provided the Writer for hire.

I placed my bag on the table and took out the tools of my trade. A notebook, with easily detachable pages, and a pen. The Pen, I might repeat for dramatic effect, for this was the unmistakable symbol of my trade. This pen was synonymous to the Magnifying Glass of a Private Eye, the Spade of a Grave Robber, the Thong of a Lady of the Night and other potent symbols of a workman's or working woman's trade. I carried it with pride. The notebook was a symbol of lesser potency though. Unlike the 'pen which was mightier than the sword', Literature down the ages has been rather unclear on the symbolism of a notebook. Hence, the pen is taken out with a dramatic flourish, while the notebook gets placed on the table in a nonchalant manner.

I returned to my survey. Prospects were becoming harder to find. Was it because of the copycats who also became Writers for hire, surely after witnessing my success in the field or because of the possible drop in the novelty value of my services, I don't know. I did not worry about it, however, as peddling my services was now more challenging and as the only scion of a lineage of Writers for hire, I loved the challenge of my work. My father was a renowned Writer for hire who fell in love with and married one of his customers. He had an unhappy marriage and his wife, my mother, had left him after a few years. He did not work after that, but taught me all he knew about the trade. On his deathbed, he whispered into my ears in his dying breath, "You should fear the day when She comes along, my son." "She?", I repeated questioningly, but my father was dead.

The restaurateur came over with a bottle of wine and bent his finger in an indicative gesture. I followed the direction of the finger with my eyes and saw my quarry. Taking the bottle of wine, I headed over to her table.

"So, what is your story?", I asked her, seating myself in the vacant seat in this table-for-two, placing the wine bottle on the table, next to the notebook and pen.

She looked at my pen. I looked into her eyes. Curiosity, but no fear. A good sign. She did not fear me.

"What do you mean?", she replied. She was going to make the game harder to play, as ladies of noble birth usually do.

I continued looking into her eyes. Writers are gifted individuals, transcribing thought unto paper, but Writers for hire are more gifted than the rest of the literary clan. In addition to expressing his thoughts on papyrus, the Writer for hire is also an unparalleled observer of human nature, born with the mythical soul reading ability of a forgotten God of a pagan religion and the glib tongue of a confidence trickster. A lesser mortal might shy away from the gaze of a Writer for hire, but this lady was of noble birth. She stared right back into my eyes.

I picked up my pen and started to write. As the nib moved over the paper, constructing an ode, in the nether regions of my mind a being was being constructed. A being that was taking form, changing from shapeless clay to a curvaceous, shapely form. A female form.

I looked at her eyes, her nose and her rosy lips. I looked at her wavy hair, of burgundy colouring, flowing over her petite shoulders. I looked at her bosom. In my mind, the form slowly donned these characteristics. The form was now my Muse.

After my Muse was constructed completely, my fingers twitched, gripping my pen harder. It wouldn't stop now. I started writing furiously, weaving a tale in verse. The lady watched me curiously. She wouldn't look at my notebook, in the same way a model would not peek into a painting before the artist had completed it. However, this foible on the part of a Muse or model is what Writers for hire exploited. I stopped writing and handed her my incomplete work. And watched her face.

It must be told at this point that written communication of a romantic nature has a profound effect on the fairer gender. It has been theorized, without requisite scientific proof, that human females experience low levels of serotonin while reading a well worded missive of an amorous nature. In other words, the lady experiences the emotions of falling in love. There are numerous instances in recorded history, of a love letter written by man winning the affections of a woman.

However, the Writer for hire, as explained earlier, is not an ordinary writer. He is also a master of romantic communication. A simple love letter is not what he writes. The words crafted by a Writer for hire transcend the limits of the amorous relationship of a man and woman. He crafts a love letter to a lady, professing love from all of humanity. Universal love, in it's purest form. A lady reading such a letter would feel something that she has never experienced before, explained in a chemical sense as dangerously low levels of serotonin, literally expressed as something that cannot be expressed in human speech and is compensated by heavy breathing and moaning.

As the lady ran her fingers through her hair and crumpled the pages of my notebook in ecstasy, I asked her for my payment. This was a job well done, and as a Writer for hire I had to collect payment for my services. Most ladies would pay handsome amounts and a few would even beg me to continue writing for them. But they would all pay. They would have to pay. Otherwise, I would not complete my work. I used this as my leverage.

This lady did not ask me to continue, however. She paid me handsomely and then leaned over to whisper into my ears, "I will see you in your dreams", and left. I did not understand what she meant and assuming it to be a part of her hallucination, I paid the restaurateur his share and left.

That night, I dreamt of her. I did not remember the dream after I woke up, but I found myself thinking about her as I dressed and left for a public house to begin the day's work. The bartender nodded as I entered and pointed his thumb backwards with a smile. I had a prospect.

It did not go well. My Muse was still the lady from yesterday. My mind was supposed to be blank in the morning, devoid of a Muse as usual, but here she was, akin to an uninvited guest overstaying her welcome. I tried to re-construct my Muse, to no avail. She would not leave. My current prospect was beginning to get impatient. Fearing the loss of this prospect, I started writing, observing her carefully, extra carefully and handed it to her while it was still incomplete.

"What is this?", she asked, looking really impatient.

I read it. It was an exact copy of yesterday's work. I shook my head. I could not understand how this happened. It had never happened before. I did not know what to say. The prospect left in a huff.

I ran all the way to the restaurant. I looked around, scanning the patrons' faces, trying to find the lady from yesterday. But she was not there. The restaurateur had not seen her either.

It grew worse as the days passed. I could not work. Everytime I tried to write, the same Muse showed up on the page. She would not go away and I could not live without her. Writing her brought me pleasure. The day felt complete and I looked forward to my dreams; she showed up in every one of them. I did not understand what was happening to me, but I loved it. I went to the restaurant every day, but I could not find her. She had vanished. No one knew who she was. She..

Was she the one?

I had finally understood what my father's dying words meant.

The scandal of Viscount Dulwich, part ONE

2008-01-27T09:38:00.000-08:00

Around sixty years before the death of an insect at the hands, or more specifically the singular right hand, of a crime scrivener, a story went unrecorded. A story that could have explained the origins of the person who committed the eponymous crimes of Passion City's worst crime wave.

This person was but a young lad at the time of this story. He had just learned a secret; a secret so terrible that it had filled him with rage. Standing now at the entrance of the residence of the 2nd Viscount Dulwich, he smirked. It was a fairly large castle, which had seen better days. The lawns lay untended and the stables were empty. Was this Divine Retribution, he asked himself, looking to the heavens. Divine Retribution wasn't going to be enough though, he decided and scaled the walls of the castle and jumped over into the garden on the other side.

He landed on a patch of petunias, softly. Looking around, he noticed no alarm raised. No dogs, no guards, no movement of any sort. The castle was quiet in the darkness. Crouching, he ran towards the door.

There was a light in the tower facing window, above the gatehouse. Looking up, he could see movement through the translucent curtains. Marking the vague, silhouetted figure as his quarry, he scaled the walls and pried the windows open. He took out his knife and parted the curtains, peeking inside.

The room was brightly lit. Momentarily blinded, the boy blinked a few times and then surveyed the interior. The figure he saw through the curtains was now seated on the bed. It was a young woman, probably in her twenties. Her back was facing him, so he entered the room and walked towards her.

As he reached within stabbing distance, he heard a loud scream. The young woman had heard it too and turned around and found herself looking directly into the eyes of an armed assailant, displaying murderous intent. Another scream, with a different pitch. The source of the first scream, a maid, who was until then invisible to the boy probably because she was bent over trying to retrieve an object that had rolled under the bed, ran out the door screaming for the guards. The boy, visibly shaken by the turn of events, returned to his mission. However, the quarry had escaped.

The young woman was now clutching the arm of the maid in fear, in the doorway, a few feet from where she was previously sitting. Shocked at first, the boy remembered a lesson taught to him once of panic juice, a form of blood that supposedly ran through one's veins in moments of terror and made one accomplish fantastic feats of escape. He had now seen it in action and became wary. A cornered animal was capable of displaying extraordinary courage to ensure its survival. He would have to kill the young woman quickly.

He did not get the opportunity though. The guards came trooping in and disarmed him, losing one of their numbers in the process. The boy wouldn't go down easily, but was relieved of his weapon before he could kill a second. As the guards held him upright, maid and young woman looking on in horror, a strange woman entered the room. The guards bowed.

"We have captured him, Madame", the Adjutant of the Guard said, "He seems to be a wild lad, with nary a regard for his own worthless life."

"But who is he?", she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Our Inquisitors will find that out, once they're done with him", the Adjutant replied, laughing. His men joined him, knowing the fate of a prisoner sent for processing to the Inquisition. Some of the guards even watched the Inquisitors at work, deriving a perverse pleasure from the pain of the captured.

The woman walked towards the boy and studied his face. His eyes were unfocused, full of rage, however presently they were staring right back at the woman. Her clothes and mannerisms indicated nobility, but here she was looking at a boy who wouldn't lower his eyes in her presence. She placed her hand on his chest, the guards holding his hands tighter, and felt his heartbeat. Her cheeks became flushed.

"There is no need for the Inquisition. Have him sent him to my chamber", she said, looking at the young woman and back at the Adjutant.

"Bu-but Madame!", the Adjutant sputtered, in shock, "Surely you don't want this lad. He might be a worshiper of a pagan god. He will kill even women and.."

"I will thank you to never speak of women in that way again. And, have him sent before I repeat the order again. You are of perfect constitution, I hope, Adjutant Mardek. Deafness will not bode well for your career, will it now?"

"No, Madame. All right, men. Have our guest escorted to the Lady's chamber."

"Oh, and one more thing, Adjutant."

"Yes, Madame?"

"Have him cleaned and undressed when you bring him to my chamber."

The crime scrivener of Passion City

2007-12-02T02:47:00.000-08:00

I twiddled my pen and looked at my notebook. A blank page looked back at me.

I looked out the window. It was raining. Insects, that seemed to spawn during the monsoon, invaded the room and flew sorties around the lone bulb that illuminated it. One winged arthropod flew straight towards my desk and landed on my notebook. "A perfect landing", he must have thought to himself before I squashed him with the palm of my hand. The insect's gender was of course indeterminable at that moment, but I would like to think that it was a male. Like all men of my faith, I too was taught that harming women, and consequently killing them, was wrong, very wrong. I imagine a person who might be observing my actions and thoughts now, amused at my guilt at killing an insect that could have been of the female gender. This person wouldn't be so amused though, if he lived in the city of my birth. The city of passion, or as we affectionately refer to it, Passion City.

The city earned its nickname; the real name being rather uninteresting to mention in this narrative; from a series of crimes of passion that took place among the aristocracy in the early years of this century. My counterparts who served in the Constabulary at that time went as far in their investigations to determine that one man was the reason, the cause, for the enraged, cuckolded husbands to butcher their adulterous wives to death. The identity of this man, this charmer, they were never able to determine. In the words of an investigator - who wished to remain anonymous, possibly to escape public wrath over the failure of the police investigation - "He showed these ladies the best time they've ever had in bed and then simply leapt out of the window when the husband burst into the bedroom, so to speak." Reports of a handsome, scantily clad man leaping out of windows and zooming away on his steed amused the populace, until the ensuing crimes of passion that followed it outraged them. The Satin Sheet Seducer, as he was called at that time, possibly because of his preference of aristocrat bedrooms and their female inhabitants, committed his crimes for over a decade and then faded out of the spotlight.

The brouhaha over the unsolved crimes of passion earned derisive laughter from the citizens of the neighbouring cities. "Aren't you man enough to satisfy your woman?", was a regular jibe that the male citizens had to hear when they visited the other cities. Eventually someone gave our city the nickname Passion City and it stuck. And now, almost half a century after the first recorded crime of passion, the name is still in use, even by our own people. People who seem to have forgotten the embarrassing origins of this name.

Passion City was now facing a string of sexually motivated crimes, but this time it was not crimes of passion. In the crimes of passion of the past, the perpetrator would be a charmer who wouldn't harm women but would cause harm to come upon them by the consequence of his actions. In the crimes that swept through our city now, the perpetrator forced himself upon women. A crime of the worst kind, committed by a man, or men, of the worst disposition.

And hence I found myself part of an investigative group investigating sexually motivated crimes, like my counterparts fifty years earlier. I looked at the innards of the insect spread over the blank page of my notebook. This was a male insect, I told myself again and tore the bloodied paper and threw it into the dustbin.

My job as a crime scrivener for the Constabulary wasn't a very glamourous one. I wasn't in the frontlines, investigating the scene of crimes. I was in the police station all day, writing down first hand reports of crime victims in a format that would be understood by the investigators. While listening to the victim narrate his tale of horror, I would get clues and note it down in my report, but the investigators mocked me for doing this. "Trying to be an investigator, are you?", they would jeer but I didn't let that stop me. I would become an investigator someday. I promised my mother that I would.

I looked at the blank page again. Today was slow, in police parlance. Crimes weren't being committed and investigators and crime scriveners alike slacked about. Some of us even went home, calling it a day. As I doodled on the blank page trying to kill time in the last hour of my shift, she entered the room.

It was part of my job as a crime scrivener to write down all the details, that I heard and observed, as clearly as I could, creating a vivid description of the crime to help the investigators in their investigation. At times I would have to write down descriptions of the victims who were speaking to me, observing their expressions, mannerisms and gestures to get an idea of who they were and what they had gone through. I began observing this lady who was now walking towards me as I just realised that except for a couple of low ranking constables who were leering at this lady, there was no one else around, making me the highest ranking policeman in the station. The rest of the crew might have gone home early to be with their wives this rainy night, I conjectured.

She was a tall woman. Taller than the average man and certainly much taller than the average woman, she might have stood out of a crowd wherever she travelled. I supposed that she might have been wearing high heeled footwear and I looked down and was surprised to find that her feet were bare. She wore a length of cloth draped diagonally across, in folds. That surprised me too. I hadn't seen such a costume before; I assumed that it was a costume since I've certainly never seen a regular dress of this style; but a look at her face made me question my assumption.

She was not a native of Passion City. Her face had oriental features. I looked closely and eliminated the ethnic possibilities. Her eyes weren't slanted too much. Not from the Koreas or China. Her almond shaped eyes were wide. Was she Japanese? No, the shape of her nose crossed out that possibility. She could be from Siam, but the racial similarities were slim. She seemed to share a lot of the facial features of the Mongoloids of the Indies, of whom I have only read about and seen pictures. Was she from the Indies? Was this, what she was wearing, the clothes of the women of the Indies?

She sat at my desk. I lifted my pen and looked at her, questioningly. I considered asking the constable to summon the translator from his house, assuming that this foreign lady would not speak in our tongue. I was wrong, however. She started speaking and spoke fluently in our tongue. That piqued my interest. If she knew how to speak in our tongue, then she might have been living here, for a while at least. But first, I had to listen to what she had to say. I opened my notebook and looked at the blank page. A page that was no longer blank as I began filling it with details of this strange woman and the recounting of her experience in the murky underworld of Passion City.

A Martian in a Venusian beauty shop

2007-11-03T13:35:00.001-07:00

I hesitated at the entrance, undecided. The signboard read Gauche Cosmetics and tag line said Ugly? Don't worry, we've got you covered. At the bottom of the board, the following text appeared : Established 1817, Proprietors : Mlle Ravissant and Daughters.

Why would I want to enter such a place, I asked myself. I got no answer. The curiosity still burned within me though. I was about to enter alien territory.

As I opened the door and stepped inside, the fumes hit me. I found it difficult to breathe. As I gasped for air I realised that the fumes had a smell. Or rather, smells. Different smells, smells that I could recognise from my travels to the unexplored lands, smells of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, smells of animals; Was it a deer, I wondered; smells of a human, smells of lavender, smel-

"A human?" I returned to that smell, resolving to continue with lavender and whatever came next at a later time. I was certain that I had smelled this particular odour on a human before. My memory isn't usually a champion even at the best of times, so to speak, and if I maybe be allowed to make a metaphor in this narrative, I would say it is akin to a steam engine that is running low on steam. However, my memory suddenly turned on full steam ahead, probably fueled by the strange smell, and formed pictures in my mind. I could see her now. She was in my life in my younger years, though only for a fleeting moment. In my long life that fleeting moment would have been a night, or maybe two. She had taken a fancy to me, but where she lived, where I had met her and who she was eluded me as my memory wouldn't linger too long over a picture for my mind to capture the details. This lady was exotic, was all I remembered. A strange, exotic lady who stayed with me that night and as I explored her I began inhaling a sweet scent that got stronger as she got closer to me. I did not understand the phenomenon and postulated the cause to be the presence of odour producing organs in the bodies of the people of this strange land. I had observed it before in a species of deer, thereby giving it a scientific basis. The females of this race of people might have been capable of producing an odour in moments of pleasured excitement, I theorized.

It turned out that I couldn't have been farther from the truth. This smell, that I was smelling now and had smelt on the lady earlier, was coming out a phial that was held in a lady's hand. My optical senses took over from the olfactory and I studied the interior of the cosmetician's parlour. I found myself to be the sole representative of the male gender in this crowd of the fair sex that milled about around me. Their eyes were on me. I wish I could describe the looks on their faces, but it would have been impossible because of the multitude of emotions that were displayed on them. Amusement, Surprise, Fear and Shock were what I could see as my eyes took in a panorama of the surroundings. In addition to this difficulty that posed itself leaving me unable to provide an accurate description of the looks on their faces, there was also a problem with their inherent looks itself. But, before I proceed to this new problem, I must now shed some light on why these ladies were staring at me.

A radical theory proposed by a scientist (later declared to be loony and thrown in a loony bin) suggested that the female gender was endowed with the ability of "intuition" which gave them an insight into the human mind and its workings and consequently the ability to sense things in a manner that couldn't be proved by current science. However, I agreed with this theory, mostly because the loony scientist was my uncle and I rather liked him as a kid. This uncle had gone as far as to say that women would be excellent detectives if they did not live in a patriarchal world.

Detectives with mind reading skills was what I was thinking and fearing as I looked at these women staring at me. They were inside my mind.

I am a woman. No, the narrator did not change sexes in an instant. I have taken his place as the narrator to paint an accurate picture of what was going in our minds when he entered the parlour. Oh, did I say I would paint an "accurate" picture? That was only a half-truth I'm afraid. You do not expect us women to tell you what really goes in our minds, do you? Even our secret diaries are not complete accounts of our lives, y'know. Remind me to tell you about the sailor next door, will you? It's scandalous and you absolutely must hear it, but first I must proceed on to what we were thinking as we looked upon the man who entered our realm.

Who was he? Why would he enter a cosmetician's parlour? The first thought that entered my mind was that he was a fop. We get many of those around here. As I looked closer though, I saw that he was no fop. He could not be an aristocrat, much less a fop who affects the mannerisms of an aristocrat.

What was he then? Was he queer? No, the way he leered at the women disproved that.

Was he here to buy some gifts for a mistress or wife? His roving eye discounted the possibility of a wife. A mistress was more likely. However, he did not seem to be wealthy enough to buy anything from here.

So, why was he here? What was his intent? Why do I feel strangely attracted to him?

And the following thoughts of the lady went in an amorous direction and necessitated the return of the man into the narrator's chair. So, here I am back again. I could sense that after a few minutes of observing me the ladies were still confused, judging by the looks on their faces. And this brings me back to their looks. These women had faces which looked very different from the ones I have seen back in my country. The women of my country had flaws of many kinds on their faces. Their complexion would not be uniform, they might have some scars, their noses might look too big and their lips might not be red enough. However, the women who were around me now did not seem to have these flaws. On closer look, they did have these flaws. But these flaws seemed to be masked. They had masks on. They were hiding their true faces. The thought enraged me. Blinded me. I grabbed one of the women and tried to take the mask off her face. It did not come off. My hands were covered with a strange powder. I rubbed it on my face.

The women looked at me with a strange expression. One of them stepped forward and took out a few tools that I have not set eyes on before. She applied the same powder over and over again on my face. After close to half an hour, she was done.

I looked in the mirror. I saw someone different. I felt joy.

Shoot Me Up

2007-10-31T13:30:00.000-07:00

It is not a little known fact that the Loony Lampoonist makes an appearance in cinemas to catch the latest blockbusters on the big screen. While it has been alleged that the real reason behind the parodist's frequent visits to the theatres are to allay vile rumours that he supports the cause of the 21st century pirates by downloading the latest films off the interweb and watches them at his private home theatre in the company of women, he has denied them time and again. "My computer is loaded to the teeth with pornography. I couldn't find a few measly bytes of space to download pirated films even if I wanted to", is his usual riposte.

Rumours of piracy notwithstanding, we decided to accompany the Loony Lampoonist on a viewing of one of this years most anticipated films, Shoot 'Em Up. This man, renowned to come up with witty remarks during the course of a film screening entertaining the viewers in his immediate vicinity decided, however, to stay quiet during this film. "The guns do all the talking", he said, "So there ain't going to be a verbal barrage from me"

So we bought our buttered popcorn (I should watch my weight, Butter makes my anorexic body bloat up, My boyfriend won't like it surely, Oops shush, the film is about to start now, Shut up and watch) and sat down to watch Shoot 'Em Up.

At the end of the film, this reporter had her own opinions on it, but like the other opinion floating in her thought process that she had gobbled too much popcorn and was looking fat already, it was not relevant in the scope of this article and wouldn't need to be mentioned.

As we walked out of the cinema hall, I looked at the the Loony Lampoonist. He had a pale expression on his face. We asked him what he thought about the film.

He replied, "It's a wonder they didn't find me shot dead with a pistol in my hand in the theater today. The truth is, I wasn't armed"

December 25th : The Bear Facts

2007-10-31T12:42:00.000-07:00

It was a starry night. So starry in fact that Number One, one third of the Magi Trio, squinted his eyes and exclaimed, "I can't see the Star of Bedlam!"

He was promptly slapped by Number Two. "By the grizzly beard of Zoroaster, I swear you are as blind as a dead goose, I tells ya! Take a gander at the confusion in the North sky. In the centre lies the Star of Bedlam."

"Ah, I see it now. It is the very vision of loveliness indeed.", replied Number One, mistaking the neon signpost of the Sultry Samaritan Stars night club for the Star of Bedlam.

"You'll be seeing a lot more stars if you continue blathering on like an idiot", grumbled the second, clenching his knuckles, wondering how the first qualified to be a Wise Man. He had heard of A Fool's Wisdom, but this took the cake.

"Be quiet, you two", replied Number Three. He was looking up at the sky. "There", he said, pointing, "The Star of Bedlam penetrates into the rear of Ursa Major. It is the constellation of the Great Bear. The Divine Ursine child must be close by. We must hurry."

They reached the crowded streets of the Holy City at nightfall. The first couldn't help commenting on the nightlife, "Did you see the size of her-", only to be slapped again and reminded that, "We are on a mission, el stupido" by the second. The first pondered over how the second would know and speak in Espanol, a language that would orginate a few hundred years later Anno Domini but let it pass attributing it to an oversight by the writers of this bibilical saga.

"Should we search the houses or taverns first?", asked the third.

"Let's search the stables", replied the first.

"This isn't the time for your fetishes, first. I'll get you a nice mare later.", said the third, frowning.

"No!", screamed Number One. "Trust me on this. I know where the Great Bear is. Follow me!" He ran towards the smelly stables.

The second and third slapped foreheads and shook heads in respective numeric order and followed the first.

They saw the Great Bear. He was barely a cub, a bear cub, with shaggy brown hair. Comfortable in the manger, with a mangy coat he looked the part. The Magi Trio were convinced. They fell to their feet. And sung praises of the Messiah.

"The Great Bear comes down to earth!"

"He's smarter than the average bear!"

As they raised their heads they saw the mother of the Great Bear. She was servicing a customer.

"She's no immaculate virgin!", screamed the first. "Heresy, I say!"

"Oh fiddlesticks, we got the wrong bear", said the third, in realisation.

And then the three Wise Men searched every stable in the Holy City finding only newborn piglets and foals until they entered the stable that shone with the light from heaven. They had found the Great Bear. And the rest is history, they say. Alternate history to be exact. In our world history tells us that a furniture maker's son played the part of the Messiah.

What became of the not so great bear? It turns out that the son of the mother of disputable virginity grew up to lead an eventful life.

This is the story of the Life of Bearyan. The Greatest Story Never Told.

Adventus Anima - Part 3

2007-09-04T12:38:00.000-07:00

The advent of the Anima - Part 3

The Black Smithy.

Was this rundown, roofless shed really the Mistress' base of operations? foogarky struggled to contain his mirth as he opened the door and entered.

He was falling. Fast. He reached out, but he could not grasp anything that would break his fall. The darkness that engulfed him seemed to go on forever.

foogarky moaned with pleasure as hands worked his shoulders. His taut muscles were loosening in response to the movement of the experienced hands over his body. He opened his eyes and found himself in a massage parlour. He started thinking about the Black Smithy and his falling when he found himself being turned over and looking directly into the eyes of his masseur.

The eyes were green and seemed strangely familiar. foogarky broke eye contact and looked at the surroundings. The finely shaped nose. The luscious red lips. He was in the presence of a lady of unnatural beauty.

"Are you the Mistress?", he asked.

The lady nodded her lovely head.

He wanted to ask about his brother, loonan. About Gn'arth. Wanted to kill her for what she did to them. Wanted to avenge their deaths.

She smiled coyly. foogarky forgot about Gn'arth. She touched his shoulders and it tingled with pleasure. He forgot about loonan. He forgot all. He forgave her.

"You belong to me now, foogarky", she said. He smiled and said nothing. Wasn't this how all love stories ended?

[Jungian psychology hypothesizes that the Anima, the feminine side of the male mind can project itself in one's actions. Can an oversexed Anima turn one into a nymphomaniac? Is it time to start cross dressing?]

The End.

Adventus Anima - Part 2

2007-09-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

The advent of the Anima - Part 2

loonan and Gn'arth were dead, decapitated for no apparent reason.

Standing over the detached noggins of his comrades, foogarky was pondering over the phases of shock, grief and denial and which officially came first when he decided to skip all the three and dive into the fourth phase directly.

Revenge.

A dish best served cold was turning out to be hard to find. foogarky was wondering about who he should be looking for when he heard a croaky voice croak, "I know who you should be looking for". Looking in the direction of the mind reading voice, foogarky saw a frog and his eyes widened with surprise.

"Were you expecting a raven perhaps, to maintain an atmosphere of mystery?", the slimy amphibian enquired in an offended tone.

"Well, yes", replied our intrepid hero.

"I'm sorry about my current species, but the Mistress was in a foul mood and she zapped me about a bit. Hence, here I am, transmogrified into a frog. Anyway, getting back to the matters at hand, she is waiting for you."

"Who?"

"My Mistress"

"Your Mistress who?"

"I don't have time for these knock knocked jokes, silly man person. It's breeding time for us frogs and I've got my lady waiting for some action, if you know what I mean. So head over to the black smithy and meet the mistress." And the frog disappeared into the slimy depths of the swamp.

"Now how do I get to the Black smithy?", the clueless but very, very brave hero wondered as another of the Mistress' creatures lurking in proximity slapped it's forehead in disgust while muttering "Oh for the love of..." and led foogarky to his destination, taking care that he would not wander away distracted until he reached the aforementioned destination. The Black Smithy.

Adventus Anima - Part 1

2007-09-03T12:46:00.000-07:00

The advent of the Anima - Part 1

There had been signs of it coming all along. Ominous Omens appeared, foretelling a dark future worth writing a story about (or at least a blog post). One couldn't really complain that this was an "unexpected development" in the plot. However, our clueless protagonist foogarky was not an observant individual. He was a man of many talents, but keeping abreast of tidings in this fair world was not one of them.

To make matters worse, foogarky was on vacation. He had spent years in battle alongside loonan, the other member of the Brothers-in-Arms duo drafted to keep the monster Gn'arth in check, imprisoned in the cavernous depths of it's lair. He needed a break from the Brothers-in-Arms service, he decided; heading off to the South Seas, leaving loonan in charge.

And then the omens appeared with unfailing regularity as he surfed the waves, danced with unpollinated maidens and quaffed the ale made out of coconut husk in the Southern Seas. But foogarky, the "Oh so clueless, how dense can you be?" one noticed not a single omen among those that presented themselves before him, craving for his attention. Not a single one that is until an omen of such unprecedented magnitude that it could only be described as a "plum catch" literally washed up at foogarky's feet just as he was running into the water with a maiden whose beauty had earlier filled his mind with thoughts of saucy deflowery.

It was loonan's head. (The location of the headless body of loonan was unknown at this point in the story)

Reeling from the shock, foogarky was suddenly aware of the omens that had warned of the tilt in the balance of good and evil in the world. loonan was slain, which only meant that Gn'arth had prevailed. All was not lost however, foogarky thought as he rushed back to the HQ, realising that he was still alive to contain the evil that had apparently been let loose on the world.

He was greeted with the grinning head of Gn'arth neatly driven through a stake, planted vertically in a rice farm next to a scarecrow with a hideous pumpkin head that would made an ugliness comparison between the two heads extremely difficult.

Gn'arth was also dead. Did this mean there was a new challenger in the ring?

Fear not, ladies and gentlemen. He's alive and well.

2007-08-30T13:08:00.000-07:00

The Loony Lampoonist has been silent for over a month now.

News reports from France talked about the disappearance of Le Fou Satiriste and the Spanish publications wondered if El Loco Satirico had fallen for the charms of a lovely lady. Determined to find out the truth, this young journalist tracked down The Loony Lampoonist and discovered that it wasn't a lovely lady who was the cause behind his silence, but rather the lack of one.

When asked about his silence, The Loony Lampoonist put forth a question back to the interviewer.

"If writing block is my impotence, what is my viagra?"

The 2nd Best Page In The Universe

2007-07-30T11:40:00.000-07:00

Did I tell you that I had recently installed a new appliance in our premises? This fancy new gadget is called the Chatter Box and it can automagically transmit messages from a reader of The Loony Lampoonist directly to my computer screen. You will see that it occupies a prime location on the right side of your screen, below the Shout Box.

And sure enough, I had my first conversation with one of my readers today.

The transcript of the conversation is provided below :

[17:39] Pimpom: nice blog
[17:39] loonan: thanks
[17:40] Pimpom: maddox is better
[17:40] loonan: lol
[17:40] Pimpom has left the chat

Well thank you, Mr. Pimpom, for stating the obvious. The website maintained by Maddox at http://maddox.xmission.com/ is the self proclaimed The Best Page In The Universe. With a superlative title such as that, it would only seem logical that Maddox's site is much better and The Loony Lampoonist is in fact only The 2nd Best Page In The Universe.

The Bizarre Tale of Victoria Frankenstein

2007-07-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

I am a man of science. I unlock the secrets of the microscopic worlds of the human cell. My name is Victor Frankenstein.

You need not fear me. Certain fictionalized accounts claim that I am the creator of a terrifying monster that takes my name. An exciting story perhaps, but it is all fantasy I assure you.

I am however, the creator of the greatest sexual technique ever known to Man.

The Ipse Coitus.

It all began one day, when one of my students screamed "Go fuck yourself!" at me in a fit of rage.
After disciplining the insolent young man for his colourful display of rebellion, I started thinking,
What if this meaningless, abusive phrase could be looked at in a literal sense?
What if scientific thought could be applied to turn an impossible concept into reality?

Excited, I rushed down into my laboratory. I drew blood from my arm and extracted the DNA. In those double helices lay code which defined who I was.

I cloned myself and looked at my creation. And slapped my forehead. I had overlooked my gender. My clone was male, like I was and this was the 19th century. Homosexuality was taboo and still unheard of.

So I disposed of the clone (using methods better left unsaid) and used the remaining DNA to create a clone of the female gender. As she emerged from the birth pod, I remembered that primates and humans shared 99% of their genetic code. Similarly, male and female humans would share a genetic code with a difference of 1%, I theorized. And that one percentile difference worked upon my DNA during the cloning process to cause an unanticipated change.
In other words, she was not me.

I disposed of her (with the same methods that were previously left unsaid and shall remain in the status quo) and made my final attempt. I created a human female, a blank slate or an empty shell as it were, devoid of any memories. I recorded my precious memories and transferred it to her mind. I then named her Victoria Frankenstein.

She was me.

I looked at her. As I gazed into her deep blue eyes, the window to her soul, I saw myself. The attraction was irresistible. I realised that the human mind was unashamedly narcissistic.

As I took her in my arms, our bodies intertwined, I had achieved the impossible. I had fucked myself.

Faux pas Americana

2007-07-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

On another visit to the United States on business, I had to speak to a prospective client on the telephone.

Noticing that I spoke in a different accent, the female voice on the other end asked,

"You speak American?" [sic] (This grammatically wrong question would probably read "Can you speak with an American accent, please?" on correction.)

And unable to resist the temptation of sarcasm, I replied, "North or South?"

I lost the deal.

English Reversal anyone?

2007-07-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

After burying the done-to-death meme, the Russian Reversal, The Loony Lampoonist now presents the world's first English Reversal joke.

In the US, you kick ass.

In England, asses kick you!

While the Russian Reversal jokes were supposedly a "social commentary" on the political conditions of Soviet Russia, the spanking new English Reversal theme has a more practical purpose. That of parodying the American dialect of the English language.

On a visit to the Northern Americas, you might overhear a native exclaim "I kicked his ass!" very often. You might then wonder why the aforementioned native would so proudly proclaim such a thing. Surely the act of booting someone's donkey wasn't a feat to be proud of.
After a few discreet enquiries you learn that the bloke was actually referring to the other person's bottom (and not a farmhouse donkey) and the metaphorical action of kicking someone's bottom implied that you defeated him in sport or debate. A busybody starts explaining the history of the idiom, but you politely inform him that you are not interested in the etymology of the word.
For, you know that as a citizen of the Commonwealth, the word "Ass" only brings up images of the Equus asinus and it's defence mechanism : A swift double heeled kick in the direction of it's natural enemy. The hare-brained human who happens to be annoying it.

foogarky X loonan

2007-07-08T12:47:00.000-07:00

The Chronicles of Ancient Edo

Haven't we all heard of the legendary Battosai and the infamous vagabond Mugen? While the legends and history of Edo (known in this age as Tokyo) are well documented, the stories of Ancient Edo have been lost in the mists of time. A dark and mysterious realm, Ancient Edo existed before the coming of Man. It lay within the borders of present day Japan, but the world was a different place back then. There were no Nintendos and Gatling guns. A citizen of Ancient Edo was judged only by the swiftness of his katana. The fair elves ruled the land and Ancient Edo was in peace for aeons. However, trouble was brewing in the North and other races cast their greedy eyes on this prosperous and mysterious land. The Time of War had come..

The Last (Elfin) Samurai?

He surveyed the battlefield with tears in his eyes. He could only see his kinsmen as far as his keen eyes could see. Their bodies lay strewn on the ground, felled by the weapons of the Gaijin. Their ethereally pretty faces had only the pale look of death on them.
The message had reached his clan too late. The messenger pigeon barely survived the arrows of the enemy and delivered its message to him with it's last dying breath. foogarky looked at the brave pigeon and wondered if that would be the fate of all his people. The message had pleaded for help; the borderline villages couldn't hold out against the invaders and were falling, one by one, to the ravaging enemy from the north. foogarky did not pause to wonder why his land was being attacked after so many aeons of peace. He summoned his clansmen quietly and rode to the Valley.

It was too late. The Elfin warriors couldn't hold out against superior numbers, but they fought bravely to give just enough time for the women, children and elders to escape (A fact that foogarky was not aware of at that time). All he could see was death. And before he had time to bring his thoughts together, the enemy appeared from the top of the hills.

It was a trap and foogarky cursed himself for being clouded by grief in a battlefield. He drew his Dual Katanas and smirked. This time both of them would taste blood.
The trap was laid by a raiding party of mercenaries. They were undisciplined fighters but superior in number. foogarky charged, his Dual Katanas singing through the air and dismembering whatever came in it's way, be it Gaijin head, arm or leg. The Dual Katanas did not discriminate. As he slew the mercenaries, he could see in the corner of his eye, the flash of a huge sword, seemingly impossible to carry, that cut through dozens of his clansmen. However, he could not afford to be distracted. He was in the midst of battle too and he continued killing whoever or whatever stepped in his way. He could hear the chants of his sister Emina behind him. She had insisted on coming along with him to battle. Knowing very well of her hot-headedness, he grudgingly agreed, knowing that her magickal skills would be very useful. His Dual Katanas now shone with a golden light, endowed with Emina's holy magick.

Hours later, foogarky wiped his brows and winced with pain. The raiding party was almost finished but at what terrible cost? Once again, bodies lay strewn amongst him, but this time it was people he knew. Men and women who looked up to him as a leader and friend. And now they were all dead. This time he could not control his emotions. He collapsed and cried in despair.

There was a flash of light again. Foogarky's keen elfin senses brought him to his feet. He could feel a presence. It was not magickal, or Emina would have sensed it first. It was a warrior of astounding strength. The truth dawned upon him. This was to be a battle of two champions. Two formidable warriors. While foogarky was despatching off the raiders to hell, there was a champion on their side who was doing the same to his clansmen. Now, only the two remained along with Emina, who as a magick user, was able to stay alive by defending herself ably against the melee fighters.

foogarky faced the raider chieftain. It was a Barbarian, who carried a giant sword that looked seemingly impossible to wield. The Barbarian lifted his sword in respect and spoke in a strange tongue. It was Cimmerian. Emina, who was also a scholar, translated his foreign speech for foogarky to understand:

"I respect your prowess in the battlefield, foogarky-taicho. As I felled your clansmen, so did you mine. I would be honoured to fight you fairly. Will you accept?"

"Yes", Emina translated foogarky's Elvish words back to the Barbarian, "I accept. But first, I must have the honour of knowing your name. What are you called, Gaijin?"

"I am called loonan of Cimmeria."

foogarky drew his Dual Katanas once again. Both the blades would be needed against such a formidable foe. He closed his eyes and thought of his Sensei. All the Kenjutsu that he learned in his early years, would it be a fair match for the berserk swordplay of a Barbarian? The Barbarians; a race which his ancestors never faced before in battle. Would the age old Kenjutsu be adapative enough to use against a foreign martial art?
Loonan drew his bastard sword effortlessly. He had a lot of respect for this Elfin Samurai, who slew more than a hundred of his men. But loonan was not afraid. If today was going to be his day of defeat, then so be it. Those were his thoughts before he changed into Berserker mode. After the transformation though, all he could see through his bloody eyes was an elf that stood in his way. His head raised high, screaming the terrible war cry, he charged.
If there are doubts to the origin of Adaptive Kendo, then it could surely be said that it started on this day, when an Elfin Samurai used his keen senses to modify the rigid stances of his Kenjutsu and adapt it to fight against an aggressive swordplay that he found difficult to predict, employed by a Barbarian who was now driven only by his animal instincts. The bastard sword constantly drove towards foogarky looking for openings, but the Adaptive Kendo successfully fended off the attack. Emina watched on, looking at the two evenly matched swords singing through the air.
But it had to end. The unstoppable bastard sword finally penetrated through foogarky's defense and delivered a shattering blow to his chest. His armour crumbled and his lungs struggled to breathe. He collapsed, almost asphyxiated. The Barbarian, though still in berserker mode, calmly raised his sword high in the air to give foogarky a honourable death.
The chants grew louder. Emina knew her brother very well and could see that he was struggling against the Barbarian. She knew that interfering in the fight would mean bringing dishonour to her brother, but she did not care. A white light shone out of her and a faery like creature appeared over foogarky's head. It held his hand and vanished. The Barbarian stared at the empty space where foogarky had collapsed a few minutes ago. He could not believe his eyes. The elf was nowhere to be seen. He turned toward Emina, scowling.
Emina cast an immobility spell on the advancing Barbarian. The light shone on the Barbarian and disappeared immediately, not doing anything. Emina would not know until later that Barbarians were immune to magick because their culture had never experienced or believed in magick, thus nullifying it's effect. However, she was lucky that Barbarians were known to never harm women. That was the reason why she lived that day and ended up as the captive of loonan the Barbarian.

Where is foogarky whisked off to? What strange lands will he go to and what strange people will he meet? And, what of Emina? And finally, is loonan destined to fight against foogarky?

To be continued...

Pint-sized humour

2007-07-07T14:41:00.000-07:00

On a different note, did you know eight pints make a gallon? The other day I walked into a pub and the barkeep asked me to name my poison.
"Beer", I replied, "And make it an eight of a gallon."

I wonder why he gave me that strange look...

Can I have the egg and spam sandwich, without the spam please?

2007-07-07T14:28:00.000-07:00

Many people have asked me the secret of my spamming success. Well, it's been a closely guarded secret for generations in my family, but oh well, it's time to tell everyone. I have this pet monkey. I take him out of his cage and and chain him in front of my computer...

The Towel of Shame

2007-07-07T14:19:00.000-07:00

As I stepped out of the sauna with only my trusty Towel wrapped around my waist, I saw the terrible face of the Ravenous Bugblatter beast of Traal. Oh, what a terrible conundrum!
Do I wrap the Towel around my head and escape certain death or do I leave the Towel wrapped around my waist to avoid a certain scandal in the papers tomorrow?

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy sure isn't as comprehensive as it's made out to be.

Goodbye Charon.

2007-07-07T14:05:00.000-07:00

One last night on Charon.

Dave returned to Charon in tears. He had heard the news. Pluto and Charon were no longer planet and moon, but rather simple interplanetary objects. According to interplanetary law, this would mean it was open season for scavengers.
The Shitnaaks laid claim to the two first. Pluto and Charon were scheduled to be demolished at 5:00 Earth Time. Dave was early. He entered the house and lay down on the bed. He thought of his first visit to Charon under rather harrowing circumstances. A crash landing.
An hour later, Dave heard the loud roar in the sky. The airborne steamrollers were on time. Dave closed his eyes and smiled. In a flash of an eye, it was all gone.

Oh, don't be so luddi-crous!

2007-07-07T13:48:00.000-07:00

For centuries I have been using an abacus to work with numbers. One day, a glib talking salesman convinced me to buy a device called a calculator (took me a while to learn how to pronounce the word). Apparently this tiny thingamajig fits into your palm and does the work of one thousand abacuses in one thousandth of the time.
I was impressed and for the next few centuries I did my number crunching on the calculator. And then, on one fine day, the salesman dropped in again. He lugged along a bigger device. "A computer", he called it and spouted a few figures that sounded mighty impressive. One million times faster and more accurate.
"Okay, so show me how to add my numbers on this computeron", I said.
"Computer, sir. Not computeron. And, you can do your math on this nifty li'l program here called calculator.exe. Let me open it for you.."
"Now why would I spend so much to buy something that does the same thing my calculator does?", I replied.
And the salesman and his computeron vanished in a cloud of redundancy.

Coming up next : Why I don't use mobile phones.

The Loony Luddite.

Beware the lechery of women

2007-06-17T14:59:00.000-07:00

"How does one avoid unwanted female attention?"

This is a question oft asked by son to father, younger sibling to elder and friend to more experienced friend. And it is not a very easy question to answer. From time immemorial, certain males have attracted sexual advances from the opposite gender (recent theories suggest that these males may be endowed with unusually large quantities of the mythical mojo). It is common knowledge that female humans are very sexual creatures, to the extent that some of them might even be classified as sexual predators.
In his teenage years, such unwelcome sexual advances might seem amusing to the male. But later, in his prime, in the full bloom of manhood, such gestures become more frequent and aggressive and consequently more annoying to deal with.
Gentlemen bound by the code of Chivalry are particularly vulnerable to advances by aggressors in the guise of Ladyship.
A close study of the bibilical texts would reveal that Eve's temptation of Adam was also an unwelcome act. An act so world changing in magnitude that it has been compared to the opening of Pandora's Box.
With this introduction, we are closer to answering the question. How does one avoid unwanted female attention?

Switching to the first person, I remember I was in the theatre a week back. Watching a film that honestly wasn't very good, I carried on a conversational critique of it using an arsenal of wisecracks, dialogue improvisations et al. I did not realise that the group of young ladies seated behind us had been eavesdropping on our analysis.
"That was hilarious what you did", one young lady gushed to me without bothering to introduce herself and asked, "would you like go out sometime?"
"Wow, I wonder what my wife would think of that", I replied, faking a flattered smile.
Technique number 1 : The Charade of Marriage

I recently got asked out to the mall by a persistent young girl. Feeling sorry for ignoring her requests for more than a month, I finally agreed to meet her on saturday. As we met,
"I finally got you to come out with me! Hmm, who's this guy?", she asked.
"Oh this is Proffie. He's my partner", I replied, giving Proffie a prolonged hug.
Technique number 2 : The Gay Act

I was sitting in the cafeteria one sunny afternoon. I looked over my cup of coffee to see a young woman approach me. Seating herself at my table, she asked,
"Would you like to go out on a date with me?"
"And what else should I do for you, ma'am? Give birth to your baby? Clean his diapers? Do the housework? I'm the man here, if you didn't notice the lack of breasts on my chest"
Technique number 3: The sexist response

Of course, situations always arise when these techniques won't help one in a dire situation.

I arrived late for a gaming tournament. I realised to my dismay that I had brought my mouse pad, but forgotten my mouse. I went over to the girl seated in the chair opposite me and asked,
"Hey, you got a mouse?"
"No, I got a pussy though", she replied, smiling.
The directness of the response was irresistible and without wasting a moment, we were in bed together. We've been together ever since.
This is the ultimate technique, Technique number 4. Go steady with a predator. If any predators lurking close by cast a lustful eye upon you, god forbid, your little vixen will be there to protect you.

A chink in the male armour

2007-06-17T13:21:00.000-07:00

I looked him in the eye. The left one, to be exact. Rage.
I looked into his right eye. Rage again.
It was unmistakable. This giant in a schoolboy's uniform could be, in all fairness, a good writer or possibly even a good composer of romantic poetry. But at this moment only murderous intent filled his mind. Murderous intent directed at me, I realised whilst imagining the level in a lifespan meter above my head dropping down rapidly.
This champion of bullies had ignored me through most of the school term, but chose to include me in his long list of victims today. I wasn't in the mood for a bout of bullying, so I pointed my middle finger upwards in an offensive gesture. It didn't go down too well with him. He snarled and charged at me.
I bent downwards to avoid his fist. I chuckled as his swing failed to make contact. I did not anticipate an approaching knee though. It went straight for my family jewels.
Darkness fell. A few words slipped in through the darkness momentarily.
"This is where your lineage ends, for sure", a gruff voice mocked.
A female sounding voice seemed to say "Oh, he's never going to be doing any of us again".
Ignoring the excruciating pain, I stood up. There was interference in my field of vision. Revolving stars, birds and other assorted foreign objects made my perfect 20/20 a myopic 20/70. Nevertheless, I walked towards the green blur. As I got closer my heightened sense of smell confirmed my location. I had reached the bushes at the far end of the wall.
I unzipped my pants. I held it in my hand and closed my eyes. Up and down my hand went and I experienced my most painful and yet joyous experience of my life.
Foogarky is still in the game.

Blehtymology -_-

2007-05-29T14:28:00.000-07:00

Anthropological studies of the ancient Mayans have revealed that a sacrificial victim might have uttered "bleh -_-" before his heart was carved out. Is this the earliest recorded usage of the word?

News reports from France indicate that an unpublished autobiography of Napoleon reveals that he might have said something phonetically similar to "ze bleh ~_~" when informed that there was no Water in the Loo.

Coming back to the topic of sacrifices, the citizens of Bizarro world have turned the concept of virgin sacrifices upside down. Instead of sacrificing the life of a virgin, they have been sacrificing her virginity. In time that led to a shortage in supply of virgins and the lowest paid janitor (who happens to be the leader of this topsy turvy world) was known to have said "_-_ HELB" when a race of locusts attacked the planet and they did not have any virgins left to appease the Gods.

Breast Envy

2007-05-15T13:34:00.000-07:00

This is a tale a few summers old.

In our growing up years, I was very close to a cousin. We were inseperable friends, our blood forged bonds thicker than water as the saying goes [or something to that effect]. Anyhow, as the years went by we grew older and the cousin got himself a girlfriend. He started spending a lot of time with the interloper while yours truly was left in the lurch.
Obviously miffed at the turn of events, I confronted him about this. "Why do you spend so much time with that girl? What has she got that I don't?", I asked.
"Tits", he replied.
His monosyllabic reply had the taste of bitter truth to it. The next time she visited, I stared at her breasts longingly, envious. The dirty look she flashed at me seemed to say, "These are mine! Get your own, you flat-chested loser." Only in my later years would I realise what her dirty look actually meant.
So there you have it, Freud. You spoke so much about Penis Envy, but you did not live long enough to see a documented case of the opposite, Breast Envy. If only you had lived a few decades longer, I would have offered myself for psychoanalysis.

I'm a woman now?

2007-05-15T13:10:00.000-07:00

According to my dear buddy Chazmodium (don't ask me why he chose a nickname that sounds suspiciously similar to a faux chemical element that didn't qualify for inclusion into the periodic table), I am now a woman. No, he didn't mean it in a physical sense. I certainly haven't grown breasts overnight.

What the chap meant was of course, I now have the behavioural patterns of a woman. And it has something to do with the fact that I enjoyed playing the Nintendo Wii. Now, the only reason I could think of why playing the Wii would seem like a feminine activity is because it has a controller that resembles a dildo and it vibrates rather vigorously because of the force feedback controls. However, the controller stayed in my hand for the whole period of my playing on the Wii and I can assure you it never went anywhere a dildo is supposed to go.
The second reason he brought up for my inclusion into womanhood was the fact that I have started writing a blog. Well Chazmodium, you can't be blamed for thinking that because of all these idiots who use blogs as a personal diary. And all the famous diary writers happen to be female (Bridget Jones' Diary, Anne Frank's Diary et al) [I can't think of any famous male Diary writers]. So I suppose this leads to a skewed perception that blogging is a feminine activity.

Well, the Loony Lampoonist blog is different. It ain't no personal diary. And I am a man. Was, is and always will be.

Dumped

2007-05-15T12:54:00.000-07:00

Have you heard the one about the yaoi fangirl who tried to get her boyfriend to read the stuff? It turns out that the bloke was a latent homosexual and reading the stuff introduced him to the joys of the other side. He dumped her for a guy.

To avoid sexism lawsuits, I shall narrate the female version of the joke now.

Have you heard the one about the guy who tried to get his girlfriend to watch his lesbian porn along with him? It turns out that the girl was a latent homosexual and watching the stuff introduced her to the joys of the other side. She dumped him for a girl.

Fear the Lampooner

2007-05-05T03:19:00.000-07:00

Featuring toilet humour of septic proportions!

And orgasmic comedy that will keep you cumming back for more!

Known to cause the blind to see, the deaf to hear and the impotent to bone like they've never boned before!

The Loony Lampoonist will spoof your brother, parody your sister and mock your mother!

Do Ray and Me

2007-05-01T04:36:00.000-07:00

Is the Do-Re-Mi song from Sound of Music sacrosant because it is a children's song? What if someone got drunk on beer and tried singing it?

Show a beer, an emailed beer.
Say, a drop of golden fun.
Dee, a dame I boned myself.
Ah, a long long way to a nun.
Eew, a beagle giving head,
Ha, a whore to follow you?
Pee, a drink with spam and lead.
That will bring us back to the do oh-oh-oh!

Another Prick in the Hall - Pedo Floyd

2007-05-01T04:25:00.000-07:00

We now return to our mission. That be lampoonery with a dash of lunacy.

This is going to be blasphemous to Pink Floyd fans. I have applied for my poetic license, so no fatwas please.

Presenting Another Prick in the Hall by Pedo Floyd.

We don't need no sex education.
We don't need no birth control.
No dark orgasm in the classroom.
Teachers leave them kids alone.
Hey! Pedos! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another dick in y'all.
All in all you're just another prick in the hall.

Support Gay Rights

2007-05-01T04:17:00.000-07:00

And there I was, bored to death at work as usual. So, I began playing a game of devil's advocate with myself. I took the positions of a homophobe and a gay rights supporter and both of us were dueling it out until the gay rights supporter took a man's inherent fear of marriage and twisted it into his argument. It went :

"Does thoughts of marriage give you the heebie-jeebies? Scared that a wife wouldn't allow you to play computer games? Worried that you won't be able to discuss cars and sports with a wife? Marry a guy instead. Support gay rights."

And the homophobe was stumped. He walked away with his head hung in defeat.

(Fear not, fellow homophobes! He will be back soon with a better argument to fight his case. )

Pimp My Ride

2007-05-01T03:46:00.000-07:00

"Pimp My Ride" is a rather inappropriate name for a MTV television show about restoring old cars. It happens to be the perfect title for an episode in the reality show of foogarky's life though.

A while back I was heading out with a friend to buy computer parts. The friendly rickshaw driver started telling us about how his daily fare consisted of young men and women who visited the usual hangout spots. He began describing about how the lifestyle was slowly changing in these parts. But then the conversation took a darker turn. The driver started listing out the red light areas in the city and asked if we were interested. I politely refused saying "I don't pay for pussy". The bloke wasn't going to give up that easily though. He kept on talking about his network and contacts.

"Well, what have you got on the menu?", I asked.

Turns out that most of his "items" (as he referred to them) were young college girls looking for an extra buck. Assured me that they were of the highest quality. Named a few colleges too. I happened to know a few girls who studied in those colleges. I blanked out further thoughts.

Realising that this fella wasn't going to stop his sales pitch, I told him that I was on Lent and I was off women for 40 days. He seemed to believe it and offered his wares for a later time.

'Twas how my ride was pimped.

Social skills lessons for hikikomoris #1

2007-02-28T10:38:00.000-08:00

Did you know that according to a study (http://news.scotsman.com/scitech.cfm?id=567952006) on Speed Dating, HALF of all women make their minds up within 30 seconds of meeting a man if he is potential boyfriend material? Wow, talk about making snap decisions. :/
Ever wondered why the hot chick you've been hitting on for half hour doesn't seem interested in you? That's because she made up her mind in the first 30 seconds of meeting you.
After conducting our own research, we decided that we would come up with effective pick up lines that can be delivered in 30 seconds. And, where else to look for inspiration than the wonderful world of anime?

Presenting the Top 5 anime based Pickup Lines.

1. Got a tissue? I got a nosebleed by just looking at you.

2. Hey baby, you just gave the term 'fanservice' a whole new definition.

3. I make a bad Pokemon. You caught me at first sight.

4. I'm looking for an inspiration for my Sexy No Jutsu. Interested?

5. You are the Yin to my Yang. We complete each other.

Our Pickup Lines tester (sounds like a sugoi job, ne? How we envy him) posted the results. 4 phone numbers and six slaps. Our lines worked only 40% of the time. But after thorough analysis, we found that it was actually our tester who had the charisma of a dead fish. So, we evolved a four step plan to give a +10 stat bonus to his charisma. He is currently in training, levelling up at a grindingly slow pace.

Chicken Soup for the Chicken's Soul?

2007-02-12T12:01:00.001-08:00

Why doesn't someone write a Chicken Soup for the Chicken's Soul?
A chicken that is depressed because it will soon be turned into a hot bowl of steaming soup surely needs a self help book too.
I sniff a potential bestseller. I will write this book, make a billion and retire in the South Seas.

Choloepus didactylus

2007-02-12T12:00:00.002-08:00

I had been diagnosed with acute lethargy. According to the physician, I had been born with the illness.
I had to find out more about this peculiar affliction and the effect it would have on my life. So, I travelled to the forbidding tropical jungles of South America to study the Sloth (Choloepus didactylus). The sloths are fascinating creatures which reminded me so much of my affliction, only in their case it was a natural characterisitic of their species. They move only when it absolutely necessary and they sleep for about fifteen hours a day. I began to wonder. Why would God create such a creature? Did they serve some special purpose? And what about me? Was I to serve some special purpose too?
I had to look for answers elsewhere. I chose science. Thermodynamics in particular. I chanced upon the Chaos Theory. It all made sense and I finally found the answer. The process of doing work always increases entropy which would ultimately lead to the heat death of the universe. I was horrified. Was I going to damn my descendants to a fiery end by doing too much work?
I rushed back to the jungle and climbed the tree. The sloth hardly lifted its eyelids in response. I lay next to it, content with the thought that I was going to save the universe by doing nothing.

You have been googled

2007-02-12T12:00:00.001-08:00

And there I was, reading the morning's papers with a cup of tea in my hand when I chanced upon the article in the Business section.

Google buys Youtube for $ 1.65 billion.

"Holy smokes!", I exclaimed in suprise, "and what are they going to call this new conglomeration?"

"I couldn't say, sir. Gootube perhaps?", replied Proffie.

"Silly ol' Proffie", I snickered, "but you might very well be right"

A good read

2007-02-12T11:59:00.000-08:00

I flipped through the pages. "What do you make of it, Proffie? A book of some kind?"

"It appears to be a novel told through pictures. A form of visual story-telling perhaps.", replied the wise valet.

"It has a rather intriguing title. The adventures of HentaiBoi : Fear my tentacles. Sounds like an interesting read. Get me a cup of coffee, will you Proffie?"

"Very well, sir."

Game Over

2007-02-12T11:58:00.001-08:00

I tapped the buttons on my keyboard with a dramatic flourish of my hand. The penultimate level of this Japanese videogame was finally over. Now, only the final Boss remained.

I squinted at the screen, trying to read the japanese characters which were written in an annoyingly small font. "You won't believe this, Proffie. I battled through eleven levels of horrible monsters to reach a Baka-Neko at this final stage. What's the stupid cat going to do? Scratch me to death?", I said as I walked through the door.
"Sir, no! The writing on the screen wasn't Baka-Neko. It was Bake-Neko. The Demon Cat.", replied Proffie, but it was too late.

:(

The Extratemporals

2007-02-12T11:57:00.001-08:00

"Identify yourself!"

"I am Foogy Foplin, in her Majesty's secret service. And this is my man Proffie. We're here on account of the appearance of the mysterious specter known as Jack the Ripper."

"Her Majesty? Jack the Ripper? You sound like you've stepped out of the pages of a novel set in Victorian England. This is the 21st century, bub."

"Good Heavens! Where are we, Proffie?"

"I couldn't say for certain, sir, but it looks like we might have made a temporal journey."

"By Jove! Are you saying that we might have travelled in time?"

"Precisely, sir. Forward in time"

And thus begins the saga of Mr. Foplin, the English gent in her Majesty's Secret Service and Proffie, his valet. They are explorers extraordinaire seeking out the stupefying and mind-bogglingly astounding secrets of the Unknown.

And now, they face their greatest battle...
The mystical perils of the 21st century.

B for Bandanna

2007-02-12T11:55:00.001-08:00

"Who? Who are you?"

On this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona.
Bonjour! In view, a bellicose betrayer of beliefs, cast blindly as both barbarian and buccaneer by the bizarre behest of Beezlebub. This belly, no mere by-product of binging at banquets, is a bold badge of the Bourgeois, now barren, beaten.
However, this brave bringing back of a by-gone bogeyman, stands braced up and has been bound to butcher these boorish and banal blisters in our beautiful birthplace.
The only basic truth, this Bandanna ye behold is but a bauble, whose benefit shall one day befuddle the brains of the brilliant and the brave.
But surely, this barrage of blah-blah bears a brevity of blessed brilliance, so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me B.

I am a Mariachi Larcenist.

2007-02-04T12:10:00.000-08:00

As I entered the Spooky Forest, I felt a chill go down my spine. I would be facing fearsome Fluffy Bunnies. The very thought of fighting these dreadful creatures gave me sleepless nights for a week.
But why was I scared? I am loonan, the Mariachi Larcenist. At level 2, I should be capable enough to decimate the armies of Fluffy Bunnies. Or so I thought.
As they charged at me, flashing those horrible pink eyes and bunny teeth, I took out my trusty Stolen Accordion. This would be a battle that would be sung about in campfires in days to come.
In the end, I limped back to town covered in Bunny blood. The battle endowed me with 10 Moxie. And I could feel my Mojo returning. Call me Mr. Mojo Risin'. Stand back ladies, loonan is in da house!

Material copyright ( http://www.kingdomofloathing.com )
Down on Mojo? Enter the Kingdom of Loathing and ask for the Mariachi Larcenist. ;)

Kingdom of Loathing is a spiffy broswer based RPG. Play it now!

A street war on the Festival of Lights.

2007-02-04T12:09:00.001-08:00

The day had finally come. I wore my fire retardant clothes and body armour and put on my ear plugs. Stepping out into the street was like entering a warzone. Loud blasts could be heard in the vicinity and shrapnel flew in all directions. I ran for cover, keeping my head low.

"What's the situation, sarge?", I asked my deputy as I reached our bunker in the street.
"We're running low on supplies, sir. We dispatched Goonie to the store but he hasn't returned yet."
"The enemy must have got him. God bless his li'l soul. Okay, what have we got?"
"Just a few bombs and a whole box of sparklers."
"Sparklers?! What are we going to do? Dazzle the enemy to death?", I sighed in resignation.

"Sir! Goonie's back! And, he has a cycle-load of rockets with him!"
"Buddha be praised! This turns the battle in our favour. Get the bottles ready. Load the rockets and set the orientation to 45 degrees west. Wait for my command..."

*SILENCE*

"And, FIRE!!!!"

All the fuses lit in unison, the rockets exited their glass cannons with a loud hiss and zooomed right into the enemy lair in the next street. A few loud bangs later we saw the white flag rise through the rubble. Our street won the war!

HAPPY DIWALI!!!

The Goddess of Knowledge and her minions.

2007-02-04T12:04:00.000-08:00

I was walking down the stairs early this morning, when I heard shouts of "FIRE!! Take him down!" and I found myself being shot at from all directions. I took evasive action and rolled down the stairs managing to avoid getting hit in the vitals. My thigh took a hit though, but I was intrigued to see only water on my pants instead of blood. I was obviously targetted by some unknown assailants armed with water pistols, who were in the process of getting away.

I gave chase and managed to catch one of them who turned out to be but a young lad. He shot me in the face. As I wiped the water off, I boxed the young whippersnapper in the ears and asked, "Shouldn't you be studying, pipsqueak?".

To this the dashed little blighter replied, "It's forbidden to study today."

"Forbidden? Why on earth is it forbidden to learn your lessons today?"

"You are stupider than you look, mister", the lad replied, "Today is the festival of the Goddess of knowledge. She forbade us to study. Bless her soul."

Visions of armed and dangerous children running around with impunity, with absolutely no parental contol, terrorising the peace-loving citizens flooded into my mind. I shuddered at the thought and ran upstairs to my room and locked myself. I was going to spend the day cooped up in front of my computer.

*POWER CUT*

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo~

foogarky slain in vain.

2007-02-04T12:02:00.001-08:00

[Hidden away in the deepest cavern is a terrifying, savage beast known only as Gn'arth. Slumbering most of the time, the primal instincts of this creature drive it to emerge out into the open and commit unspeakable acts of savagery. The earliest recorded history of Gn'arth spoke of him attacking a village, slaying the men, raping the women and making slaves of the children.
loonan and foogarky stood together, as Brothers-in-arms. The unlikely pair of a Barbarian and an Elf joined swords once again to battle this seemingly invincible creature. Would Gn'arth prevail this time?
Nay, say the chroniclers. loonan and foogarky had fought bravely and saved the day once again. Sadly, foogarky was felled in the battle. Some say that foogarky was slain by the beast, because in the midst of battle, loonan became a changed man.
As the Barbarian drove the beast back to the depths of the cavern, he had a strange smile on his face. Could a beast corrupt a Barbarian's sense of honour?]

A Freudian case analysis studies the id, Ego and Superego. The id is the representation of the animal urges and is kept under control by the Ego and Superego. The id is hidden away in the subconscious and is repressed every time it appears in the conscious mind. Can the Superego take shades of grey and become like the id itself? Would that turn me into a murderer and a rapist?

[Was foogarky slain in vain?]

foogarky has been slain.

2007-01-20T21:23:00.000-08:00

[They faced each other, one a rugged Barbarian from the icy north and the other an ethereally pretty-faced Elfin Samurai from the east, their swords dancing in unison.
The battle raged for days, the chroniclers said. But in the end, loonan the Barbarian won, felling foogarky with a killing stroke.
loonan collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and a sigh of relief. If foogarky prevailed, the world would have been a much darker place than it is today.]

It has been theorized that two radically different personalities fight for supremacy in the mind of a crazed individual.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum.