The Cyndrille Orchard: Brother Cyril's End

"R-Regmayon?"

Brother Cyril's breath hung on the chilled air for a moment before it was borne away by the wind.

"In Ellest's Name, Regmayon!"

Again the old cleric's call elicited no response from the silent forest. A pipbird rustled somewhere in the brush.

The path became steeper as Brother Cyril again moved slowly forward, his aurignas incantamas fluxuating rapidly between cobalt blue and a fervid violet, streaked with black. His cloak floated out behind him, undulating slowly in the colored cloud.

The Captain's Post stood to the right of the path with its heavy front door ajar. Brother Cyril could see a table and a few rough chairs, one of which leaned against the far wall, as though it contained some invisible person reclining after a heavy meal. And on the gritty floor, placed in front of the stone hearth like a cooking stool, was Captain Regmayon's crimson hat.

"Justificatus abatem," Cyril rasped, and the swirling color vanished instantly. Beads of sweat developed on his clammy forehead as he strode quickly toward the open door. Captains of the Orchard Guard never remove their hats before sunset; it is a part of their rigid disciplinary code to observe the strictest dressing schedule. Routine and procedure are the Guardsmen's best defense against the beckoning, and never in Brother Cyril's memory had even the smallest detail in their meticulous regimen altered. A Captain's hat on the floor at three-quarter bells was revolutionary.

"Regmayon? Are you in here, Captain?" But no one was in the post. No fire burned on the hearth, and no plate was set on the table for twilight's repast. The Captain's bed was undisturbed, and his patrol saber hung from its peg, the silver filigree on its handle depicting traditional scenes from the contruction of the Orchard Wall. Cyril stood looking down at the Captain's hat, so incongruous with its harsh, minimalist surroundings. Made of double-pressed crimson velvet, the hat tapered down from the crown toward the brim, giving it a slightly funnel-shaped silhouette, and silver wings encircled its base in a band. Its brim was wide, and embroidered branches outlined in purple thread twisted in byzantine patterns across its front. And crowning the whole opulent affair was a straight silver plume mounted on the crest, its whispy featherettes fluttering in the frigid breeze from the open door.

"Where on terras...?" Cyril began, but his question was interrupted by a quick, intrusive thought that seemed to come from outside his conscious will. The invader expressed its message in a melodious whisper, like the private confession of a lover.

"The Captain belongs to us," said the beautiful voice, "And so do you."

"INTERCEDIAM MAXIMA--!" But Cyril's protection prayer broke off in mid-utterance.

There was silence again in the forest. Only a light rustling from beyond the massive orchard wall disturbed the stillness that settled over the place like a blanket.

In the Captain's Post, Regmayon's hat sat in front of the hearth as before, and Brother Cyril's silver stole lay neatly folded beside it.

Futurus Persevero

The Cyndrille Orchard: Haim Vaylen's Househand

The entryway to Vaylen Hall was brightly lit with torches on either side, the faint scent of oil perceptible beneath the rich, sweet smell of animal skins that filled the place. I slowly closed the massive oaken door behind me and moved a few steps toward the entrance to the main hall. The parchment, tightly clasped in my sweaty fist, was irreparably open; I had fervently tried to meld the wax seal back together with the feeble flame from my tinderbox outside on the lawns, but I had only managed to melt what remained of the seal and stain the margins of the parchment in the process.

"Mayhap I can plead the duckfoot," I thought frantically, "S'Haim knows well my plodding, rolling gait; I near enough toppled his best beekeep three springs gone. And along," I reasoned, "such yammers at the base have the bell-tone of truth in the echoing."

But inwardly, I knew that no such apologetics would repair the heinous act I had comitted in reading the message's opening lines. And no amount of whipping or blinding could erase that knowledge from my foolish, addled brain. What is more, I knew that Haim Vaylen would know this fact even better than I, and I shuddered to think what he might plan for me when he learned the truth.

The hall stood virtually empty when I leaned through the archway; only one of S'Haim's househands remained after the evening feast, tidying up the table and sweeping up the scraps from the dusty floor. I recognized him as Biernon Janusen, the High Butler, and I nearly ran from the house as if it had been S'Haim himself standing before me with his thorned riding crop in hand. Janusen was well known amongst Haim Vaylen's servants as a vengeful snitch and an insufferably cruel master to those unfortunate enough to work directly beneath his station.

Frozen like a sweaty pillar of stone near the archway, I noted Janusen's hoary head tilt slightly to the left, as though he had just discerned the subtlest of noises from my corner of the vast room. And before I could make up my mind to drop the parchment on the threshold and flee the place, the High Butler had whirled around and spotted my terrified countenance, whereupon he abruptly shouted, "Yon churl! Dost thou hide in shadows in the presence of thy elders? Come forth, and speak thy errand or know the wages of serpentine stealth!"

"Many 't-tritions, Your H-H-Height," I stammered, "My errand is this message, but in flying nigh I've trespassed the seal . . . of no intent, Ellest's Word . . . but I know not how to --"

"How dare thy sullied tongue trace the name of the Most Holy!" boomed Janusen, his blue-tinted veins throbbing alongside the wild, glossy balls of his bulging eyes. He hurled his broom to the floor and strode over to me with a speed that defied his many years and his bent frame. "Have a thought for the due reverence of the Host of Skies or speak nary a word more before me!"

Having lowered my head at this latest rebuke, I merely continued to stare at the slated stones around my feet until Janusen's rough hand clutched my chin and raised my face on a level with his own. At this proximity, I could smell the unpleasant odor of unwashed linen and stale perspiration that surrounded the old codger like a putrescent bubble. Janusen snatched the parchment from my hand and gaped at the condition of the document.

"O, the lowest dungeon is reserved for thee this ev'n, without question," he said with an ill-disguised sadism, "S'Haim shall not let this pass in peaceful reprobation."

My already horrified imagination began to paint vivid pictures of my half-naked body chained to a wall of wet stone, rats and other unspeakable creatures skittering around my feet, and the presence of something evil in the darkness, something beastlike and yet calculating, that slapped the cold floor with its loathsome fin-like hands. I had never seen the hall's bottommost dungeon, but there were tales enough to make it a place more fearful than Dis itself. My eldest brother's employer had been placed there for his fault in losing 50 of Haim Vaylen's best cattle. His stay had only been three nights, but he had reputedly lost the ability to speak afterwards.

"I beg of your Height, sir, I sketched no ill-works on my duties here; I only stumbled on the verge, sir, and the heft of my fool trunk having landed fully on the seal, I did snap it 'neath my cursed belly." I did not, as any fool would be wise enough to emulate in a similar situation, inform the High Butler of my subsequent reading of the parchment's contents. I fully expected Janusen to sneer at my feeble excuse and escort me immediately to the Bailiff's Hutch for my nightmarish incarceration, but the grizzled old cur seemed preoccupied with something more important than my obsequious drivel.

Though he did not note my observation, quick as it was and concealed to a certain degree by my ramblings, I followed his watery gaze to where it rested on the opening lines of Haim Vaylen's letter. No sooner had it landed there but it was full again in my face, searching, scrutinizing every inch of my features to detect even the slightest trace of a knowing look or embarrassed twitch. I stopped in my bootless narration and simply concentrated on maintaining the inviolate placidity of my expression, lest the anxious old fool should see anything there he might construe to be guilt or consternation.

After several tense moments, Janusen stepped back, releasing my chin but almost imperceptibly tightening his fist around the confiscated parchment. The paper crinkled and popped with an echo in the high-vaulted ceilings. "Well, now, lad-o-luck," he said in a voice markedly less venomous than that previously employed to lambast me, "The night's gone on ahead and left us behind now, wouldn't you agree? Let us say enough's enough for this one time and not trouble S'Haim out of bed, shall we? After all, no harm's really done now that thou hast perfected thy duty and delivered up the scroll. Run along back to the dens now, and we'll just keep this little exchange betwixt chumleys for a sport."

Dumbfounded and amazed by my fortunes, I nodded a hasty oblige and retreated hurriedly toward my humble domicile, little thinking what import my conversation with Janusen might have for the future. If I had only known what would come around by my knavery that night, I would have walked much slower . . . and with my cursed head hung low.

Futurus Persevero

The Cyndrille Orchard: Brother Cyril's Path

Though obviously uneasy about the horrible noises coming from the path ahead, the old man forced himself to remain composed and dignified. He straightened his navy blue Annunciation robes and adjusted his bright silver stole, which had drifted askew during his rushed walk from the rectory.

Another scream echoed against the darkening sky, and the old man paused in his progress. If that was Captain Regmayon, and it had certainly sounded like his voice, though it was hard to tell since he had never used it to express fear before, then the old man had no business going any farther along the path. Then again, if he did not investigate, the Elder Council would send another, and he did not wish to be responsible for that unlucky soul's destruction. He muttered a prayer of invocation under his short breath, and instantly a faint blue glow like sunlight rippling underwater began to cling to the edges of him and his hair and beard blew back from his head in a nonexistent breeze.

Another scream, this one much louder and somehow more final than the last. Whoever was making those sounds was not likely to make any more. The blue glow surrounding the old man turned a deep shade of scarlet as he stopped again, shaking his head and turning around several times in the middle of the path. The evergreen trees on either side of him seemed to grow darker by the second, and when he glanced up at the sky, he could already see the Old Mother constellation emerging from the hazy gloom.

"It's too late," he whispered to no one in particular. His strange aura changed again, this time to the color of aged cheese. "No . . . too late, too late," he repeated, secretly hoping that the time it took to say the words would confirm the observation. A few yards ahead, he could just make out the break in the trees where the Captain's Post stood, a harsh, utilitarian building of limestone and clay. He could see no movement at all, but he was sure he was being watched. For a moment, he simply stood frozen on the pathway, staring straight ahead. Then he lowered his wrinkled face to the stones of the path and a tear rolled slowly down the side of his hooked nose. "Oh, all right," he said, "Ellestral volitum facilitum."

Suddenly, the sickly yellow light around him turned a fierce shade of cobalt blue, deeper and richer than a midday summer sky, and the old man resumed his march along the path. His beard whipped back over his shoulder as he walked, and the layers of blue light around him drifted farther and farther outward, until his hunched form was lost in the middle of the undulating blue cloud. When the cloud reached the Captain's Post, it turned and disappeared around the corner, moving slowly but inexorably down the main road to the Sophia Gate, the largest entrance into the Cyndrille Orchard.

Futurus Persevero

The Cyndrille Orchard: Prelude

Every three generations, a new Custodian was chosen and allowed inside.

For four hundred years, the Elders had appointed gatekeepers at each entrance and armed them with crystal swords engraved with the sacred words of protection, the words that keep the cyndrilles safe from blight and corruption: "Ellestral formigum sumptra cyndrillianus." Or in the Lowspeech of the Valley, "May the strength of Ellest the Eternal protect our cyndrilles forever."

As a turfboy of the Valley, my chances of even glimpsing the Orchard's outer wall were exceedingly slim. In the first fourteen years of my life, I had not been closer to the Orchard than the Procession Arch, and then only at night when the only evidence of the Orchard's existence was the phantom glow from the swords of the gatekeepers, an eerie grey light like the reflection of the moon on a mist at sea. By order of the Elders, no one was to approach the wall without the messenger's mirror, a square panel of polished silver that would reflect the gatekeepers' swordlight and announce the coming of someone from the Valley. This procedure was the direct result of the tragedy of Ferfton the Tiller, whose ill-advised visit to the Orchard one summer's eve had cost him his right leg.

The Elders' precautions were somtimes deemed too strict by a small faction of the people of the Valley, but the bulk of them understood that the Orchard Guard had been established for the good of all. The power and enticing beauty of the cyndrille trees, the silvery boughs of which were just visible above the stone wall that ran around the Orchard, could drive men mad with desire. The story is still told of how once, before the great wall was constructed and the Guard established, a crew of fifty lumbermen looking for new logging grounds ventured into the open Orchard and set up camp. By sunset on the first day, many of the men had lost their minds in the midst of the silver trees. Each began to threaten anyone who came too close to the special cyndrille tree of his choice, and before the passing of two days, all fifty men had perished at the hands of their friends.

At the time of the Annunciation, there had not been a breach of the Orchard wall for many hundreds of years, and most believed this to be due to the vigilance of the Guard. Their unwavering calm and swift defense in the course of their duty was legendary: it was said that the gatekeepers did not sleep, and that in their constant surveillance of the lands surrounding the Orchard, they had even trained themselves not to blink.

But when the 20th Annunciation drew near, and the Elders began consulting the Ancient Writ to determine what sign the next Custodian would bear, something strange began to happen to the members of the Guard. I accidentally heard of the trouble from the High Messenger Byornon Konvaya, who arrived with a spray of soft earth on his black horse Plota one evening at dusk, after the diggers had hung up their spades and the fireflies were beginning to glimmer like sparks in the dark places of the pasture.

"Boy, Ima need yo ta hustle this message on up the hill'n right quickly," said Haim Konvaya, "and just yo ta sure Haim Vaylen gets it 'for enny else." His thick, matted hair was pulled back into a ponytail and cinched with a silver locklet, and he knitted the carefully groomed eyebrows that curled like the twin arms of a vine over his commanding green eyes to emphasize the gravity of his order. As he tossed a parchment roll on the ground at my feet, he flung his huge arm back toward the Master's House, and I knew at once that I had better hurry.

"Ya, Haim," I said, "As quick'n I may." And I hurled myself across the furrows as fast as the soft soil would let me. But as I neared the yards of the Field Master's House, my foot caught on a shrub-root I had overlooked in my haste, and I fell splayed across the cool, wet grass. When I pushed myself up from the ground, cursing my foolish clumsiness, I noticed that the wax seal on the parchment had broken beneath my weight, and the message lay partially unrolled in the fading light.

Instinctively, I cast my eyes up to the evening sky, for to read a sealed message before its addressee meant a violent flogging at the very least, and blinding at the worst. I realized with dismay, however, that I had already seen the first line of the letter, written in the silver ink of the Secretary of the Elders, and it burned in my mind's eye like the white spots that float in one's vision after glancing too directly at the sun.

"My Most High Servant, Haim Vaylen,

Thy assistance is needed most immediately at the Temple of the Ancient Writ. Bring the strongest of thy house, for the wall is breached and the Guard has fallen..."

Futurus Persevero

Why Blogs Suck...

Let me count the ways:


1. NO ONE READS THEM.


2. They're usually hampered by excessive "cuteness" involving bad puns and lame titles.


3. They contain even less useful information than the half-baked codswallop on Wikipedia.


4. NO ONE READS THEM.


5. Making them is extremely time consuming, even worse than PowerPoint presentations.


6. Who the hell are we kidding? They're as dead as disco. MySpace and Facebook are the new kings.


7. NO ONE, BUT NO ONE, READS THEM.


8. They allow fools the right to publish their folly, thereby infecting us with foolitis.


9. They were invented by nerds who desperately needed to vent about how disappointing the "X-Files" movie was, or some such related nerdery.

10. AND NO ONE, I MEAN ABSOLUTELY NO ONE, READS THEM!!!

It's time for a change.

The countdown has begun...

The Bibb Apple

It's a helluva town, so they say. And Bibb's gonna put that to the test. That's right, loyal blogapaloozas, yours truly is off to the city by the bay...the windy city...the land of a thousand lakes...the big easy...well, damn. That place where Spider-man lives. And Bibb needs your help to make it a super-special funathon not to be forgotten (even with extensive therapy).

The great Forky of New Yorky has graciously made room for me to stay in his rickety old mansion in midtown, where the locals say a powerful gypsy woman once conjured demons from the depths of a cauldron forged from the sticky black souls of the damned.

Forky's Place (Dramatic Recreation)

But as exciting as this trip is bound to be of its own accord, I just know that you poor saps out there who have to stay home all summer in the raging flood waters of the Lone Star state are just dying to experience Gotham vicariously through the exploits of your favorite Bibb. So send me the craziest ideas for adventure you can devise.

For example, should I...

1. Apply for a job at the Times Square Applebee's?

2. Drop a steaming cup of egg drop soup off the top of the Empire State Building?

3. Exorcise Forky's haunted manse?

4. Ask several people on the subway where Spider-man lives?

5. Go see Mary Poppins?

Your imagination is the only limit. I will be in The City for six days in August, and I solemnly swear to perform the three wackiest ideas / activities / misdemeanors you can come up with. Think of me as your New York puppet: you pull the strings and I dance & sing!

Coffee with Darth

Recently, I had the unique opportunity to sit down over a nice cup of jawa...I mean java...with that most feared and respected of all Sith Lords, Darth Vader. I found him relaxing in his library, enjoying the simple pleasures of a leisurely summer's morning. Though not many know of his intellectual pursuits, Darth is apparently quite an avid reader. His interest in history, politics, and philosophy, particularly the works of Emperor Nero, Machiavelli, and Nietzsche, has developed into a full-blown passion.

Sipping Darth's fresh ground Columbian brew, I asked how he had come by his fervid desire to rule the galaxy.

Me: "Was absolute domination of the known galaxy a childhood dream? Or did you develop an interest in tyranny during college?"

DV: "Impressive. Most impressive. Obi-Wan has taught you well. You have controlled your fear. Now, release your anger."

Me: "Well, thank you. I went to Johns Hopkins. And you're really not as intimidating as everyone thinks. But I have no reason to be angry, and I don't know anyone named Obi-Wan. Why would you think I was angry with you?"

DV: "Only your hatred can destroy me."

Me: "That won't be necessary. This is certainly not a defamation piece. The people just want to know a little more about you; they want to know the man inside the helmet. What about your ambitions? What makes a man decide to overthrow the Republic?"

DV: "Your powers are weak, old man."

Me: "What's that supposed to mean?! I'm only 28!"

DV: "Perhaps you think you are being treated unfairly?"

Me: "No, no. I just don't understand what my age has to do with this. What's got you so riled up today? Are you worried about that defense project you were telling me about?"

DV: "The Death Star will be completed on schedule."

Me: "I'm sure it will. I was just asking to be polite."

DV: "I find your lack of faith disturbing."

Me: "I have nothing but the utmost confidence in your leadership abilities. Really, I'm one of your biggest fans. Don't let there be a conflict between us."

DV: "There is no conflict."

Me: "I'm glad to hear it. I was hoping we could just relax and have a friendly conversation."

DV: "You are unwise to lower your defenses!"

Me: "Always the statesman. Well, I suppose we could turn to more political matters. What is your response to the rumors that several of your staff are using Imperial transports for recreational and promotional campaign purposes? Are your subordinates running a payola operation right under your...um...nose?"

DV: "Do they have a code clearance?"

Me: "I have no idea. I would assume so if they are running around with Imperial property. What do you intend to do about this?"

DV: "Leave them to me. I will deal with them myself."

Me: "So now you don't want to talk politics? What's the deal here?"

DV: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further."

Me: "That's it! I've had it! This interview is over. You're the single most frustrating person to talk to in the universe! I'll come back when you're ready to be less frickin' obtuse."

DV: "As you wish."

Me: "Is that all you have to say for yourself? I must say, after your conduct this morning, I'm not at all sure your subjects will form an overly positive opinion of your personality."

DV: "Nothing can stop that now."

Me: "Fine. I don't suppose there's anything I can say to change your mind?"

DV: "It is too late for me, son."

Me: "It's never too late to reclaim a positive public image. That's what the Internet is for! I can change the people's opinon of you with a click of the mouse!"

DV: "Don't be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed."

Me: "Alright, then. Any last thoughts?"

DV: "You've learned much, young one."

Me: "It doesn't really feel like I've learned anything at all. But, well, thanks for your time, anyway."

DV: "You have only begun to discover your power. Join me, and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy."

Me: "I thought you said there was no conflict! I just wanted to ask you a few harmless questions about your hobbies and favorite songs, for heaven's sake! You're the one who had to turn it into this ridiculous argument."

DV: "Don't act so surprised, your highness. You weren't on any mercy mission this time."

Me: "OK, that's enough. Cut the tape off."

Well, there you have it, folks. An enigmatic, scary, frustrating man. What kind of strange, powerful mind lurks behind that pointy, angular medical capsule mask? The world may never know.

The Power of the Dork Side...

Well, blogpals, it's finally happened. Hitherto, I would have simply classified myself as a 'nerd', or a 'geek' at the worst, but now I have crossed over completely. I have been seduced by the Dork Side. I went to the opening day festivities of what borders on a crazed fan convention: the traveling Star Wars science exhibit at the Ft. Valuecity Museum of Science and History.

I admit that my initial interest in the exhibition was almost purely intellectual. But when I arrived at the museum and they were blasting the Imperial March through loudspeakers attached to the building's exterior, and stormtroopers, bounty hunters, and...be still my beating heart...Lord Vader himself were all milling about the lobby, the dormant midi-dorkians flowing through my veins sprang into life and filled me with unlimited dorky power.

Yes, the tingling sensation of burgeoning dorkiness washed over me in a wave, and soon I found myself pointing to the full-grown men in costume and explaining the fundamental differences between the attire and equipment of Jango and Boba Fett to my indifferent wife. Next, with a dorkish squeal of glee, I would latch onto the nearest 'celebrity' and demand that a picture be taken at once. For example...

And again...

I became almost manic upon seeing the actual Yoda puppet used in The Empire Strikes Back, and I giggled like a silly schoolboy when I found the glass case containing the actual Vader suit worn by David Prowse in A New Hope. The photos below won't convey the pure dorky ambrosia of seeing these marvelous artifacts in person, but try to imagine yourself there...use your feelings.

These are no lame, tattered Halloween costumes, folks. These are originals! Frank Oz had his sweaty arm inside that Yoda! Peter Mayhew struggled to resist the temptation to scratch his cheek inside that Chewie fur! Anthony Daniels tottered around in a black leotard inside that C-3PO! Great scott, people! Do you understand what I'm saying here?! IT WAS LIKE THE POP CULTURE HOLY GRAIL!

Whew...sorry. I let my dorkemotions get the better of me there. I became so infatuated with each and every magical display that I occasionally lost track of my lovely wife. She wandered outside and was attacked by an Acrocanthrosaurus.

Luckily, a burgundy SUV drove by and startled the beast back into the trees. Finally, it was time to pack up the light saber and head home. When we arrived, we found that even little Nelson had joined the Dork Side.

Now he refuses to answer to anything other than "Darth Kittious," and he's been using the force to choke birds in the backyard all evening.

Needless to say, if this traveling exhibit comes to your corner of the galaxy anytime soon, you must fulfill your destiny and go see it immediately. But beware the power of the Dork Side, and remember the words of wise Master Yoda: "Nerds lead to Geeks, Geeks lead to Dorks, Dorks lead to pain and suffering."

May the Bricks Be With You...

I don't normally blog about video games. Movies and books are typically more in my bailiwick. But dang it if I don't feel compelled to share about this one. When you die, you merely return to the bricks from which you were composed (an apt visual representation of a complex theological concept), and every level is jam-packed with cleverly hidden treasures and extras. I've never had this much fun with my Braincube TM, and these games have even renewed my passion for the original Star Wars saga. Playing through them has almost convinced me to shell out $12,000 for a tiny Preggo TM Playset . . . almost.


Some of you may not yet own a Stupendo Braincube TM, and others of you might have already upgraded your system to a Sex-Box 360 or a Slaystation 3, but if my opinion is worth diddly-poop to the three of you who occasionally visit this humble blog-corner, I recommend that you toss those other systems in the bin and return to the game console that actually makes use of that most neglected of bodily organs . . . the mind.


And just when you thought it couldn't get any cooler . . .

Kitty Livin'

Ah, to live the life of a cat.

No responsibilities. No job. No psychological angst. No deep philosophical quandaries.

They truly lead a charmed existence. They wake up around 11:30 a.m. and then take their first nap at noon. They eat at 6:00 every night - two scoops of Purina Cat Chow (Indoor Formula). Then they take their evening poop in a giant plastic poop-dome full of the very finest kitty litter Fresh-Step has to offer.

When their adopted owner comes home, he or she always pounds on their bellies just the way they like. They roll and crawl and mewl with infinite pleasure.

Sure, they're occasionally forced to pose for ridiculous and demeaning photographs.

But that's a small price to pay for free room and board and constant affection.

In the evenings, they crawl into bed with their adopted parents and plant themselves firmly in the very middle of the mattress (the very softest and warmest spot). Sure, sometimes inconsiderate people force them to endorse over-the-counter cold medication...

Or Meow Mix kitty snacks...

...but such minor inconveniences are just par for the course.

Kitties of all sizes are essentially the same. They all sleep close to 18 hours each day and still manage to retain that sleek athletic physique. Due to their fierce appearance, they have nothing at all to fear from anyone or anything else.

Yes, the life of a cat is to be envied. I believe it was the wise Thomas O'Malley who once said, "Everybody wants to be a cat." Or was it Berlioz the Kitten? No, I'm fairly certain it was O'Malley.

We could learn a lot from kitties. Follow their example and just go with the flow. Let the problems and prickly pickles of life roll off your fuzzy, spring-loaded back. Forget those high-dollar entertainment systems. Just play with a milk twisty on the kitchen floor for a few hours. Hey! Where'd it go?!

And always put some effort into your appearance. Try to look more regal, even majestic, at all times. No matter what anyone says, never alter your expression even the slightest bit. Lick your lips subtly if someone displeases you, and lay your ears flat against your skull if you're really mad.

Let go and have some fun! Right around bedtime, just cut loose and run across the house as fast as you can, producing gutteral growl/meow noises as you go.

But more importantly, be proud of yourself. If we learn nothing else from kitties, we should remember that we are better than everyone else, and we should always act accordingly.

28 Posts Later

"The satire is biting, and so are the zombies." Mmm, God, I love me a good zombie zeugma.

Britain is struggling to repopulate its devastated urban areas, virus-ridden corpses strew the streets, hideously mutilated skeletal skin-bags are poised just behind every half-open closet door, and two innocent children are just bustin' to go exploring in this post-bioapocalyptic wonderland! Bring on the really fast, extremely angry zombies!

Treat yourself this holiday season (I refer here to Memorial Day, but really any holiday will do), and go see this blood-spattered horror-fest with a touch of Greek tragedy thrown in for us nerdophytes who desperately need some esoteric allusions to make us feel clever. Cowardice! Betrayal! Viral infection through an ill-advised kiss! It's all here, and at the risk of sounding like Ron Popeil, but wait, there's more!

Zombie films have long suffered from a poetically appropriate lethargy and decay that lumbers along like the creatures they feature. They have no plot skeletons: contrived situations and one-dimensional characters rot their innards and cause a premature "death on film." And just when you think the gory, gut-slinging action is about to really burst forth like a fresh body from the grave, the tiny, fleeing band of zombie refugees finds some new hole to hide in, and all we as audience members get to quench our zombie-lust is a few bangs and groans from the other side of the titanium door. Oh, please.

But not this little slice of zombie cake! The action is unrelenting and horribly uncomfortable! During the film's opening sequence, I actually had to avert my eyes for a moment. ME! I'm the guy who sat through The Exorcist with a bowl of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O's, laughing hysterically the entire time. And it may be because of my irrational fear of crowds (agoraphobia, for those of you who think I'm making up disorders), but the scene in the quarantine building with all the biting and screaming just about put me over the zombie edge.

I don't want to splatter you with spoilers, so I'll bring my homage to a close. But let me say that the makers of this little gem have managed to do what no zombie filmmakers have done before: they made a sequel better than the original. So go get drenched in zombie sweat! It's well worth the horrible nightmares.

By the Power of Greyskull!

I wholeheartedly agree with Forky. Do yourself a favor and go see this film. There are really no words to adequately describe it. Suffice to say that Jim Broadbent has a car accident involving an angry swan . . . and that's about the least unusual event in the film.

The Professin' Profession: The Prologue

Oh my, gentle blogheads.

Oh my.

Today, as I sat in my cubicle reading through the rough drafts of my two giganto-projects for the semester, projects that comprise my total grade for two classes, I heard Prof. Criesalot burst into the office bewailing something at the tippity tops of her overworked lungs.

Prof. Criesalot: (hurling herself into her swivel chair) Mwaaaah-hoooo-hoo! *snuffle, snuffle* Mwahh-haaa-hooo-hoo!

Prof. Schadenfreude: (supressing a grin) Gee, Criesalot, what's the matter?

Prof. Criesalot: Mwaah-hoo! Dr. Supravizor called me *snuffle* into her office today *snuffle* to tell me that she was . . . MWAHHH-HOO-Hoo-hoo0o0o0o0o! . . . concerned about one of my student evaluations from last *snuffle, sniffle, snuffle* last semester.

Prof. Dropeaves: (peeking around her cubicle wall) Really? What did it say?

Prof. Criesalot: O0oo00oo0o0o0o0o-hoo0o0o! Sh-she said the st-student compl-plained about me letting everyone go early from class all the t-time and n-n-n-not explaining the readings from the book f-f-fully . . . *snuffle* . . . I g-guess I just SUCK AS A TEACHER!!! MwO0oO0oo0O-HAaaa-oooo000000ooo!

Prof. Schadenfreude: Gee, I don't think you suck. I mean, how often did you let them go early?

Prof. Criesalot: *snuffle*

Prof. Dropeaves: I let my students go early sometimes. How early did you release them?

Prof. Criesalot: (buries her face in her hands) *sniffle, snuffle*

[Student enters with a question for Criesalot, looking embarrassed]

Student: Um . . . Professor Crazypot?

Prof. Criesalot: Criesalot. Did you need something?

Student: I just wanted to turn in my essay revision; I sent you an e-mail about it.

Prof. Criesalot: Just put in on the desk . . . wait . . . what do you think of me as a teacher? Whatever you say, it won't affect your grade.

Student: Uuuhhmmm . . .

Prof. Criesalot: Come on, you can tell me. Honestly.

Student: You're pretty good, I guess. Sometimes you rush through things too fast, though. Maybe if you didn't let us out so early, we could spend more time on the material . . .

[Criesalot rushes from the office, weeping loudly; Student stands awkwardly against the wall]

Prof. Dropeaves: She'll be right back.

Annnnd . . . scene.

I wish I was making this stuff up, me bloggys, truly I do.

Stay tuned for more installments of "The Professin' Profession"!

Cuniculus Terribilis

In the tradition of our good friend Forky Fourchette over on the 42nd floor, I have collected a series of unsettling photos involving horrible bunnies in honor of Pagan Fertility Day...I mean Easter. If your church decides to participate in an egg hunt or a festive dance round the maypole this weekend, think back on these images and cringe inside your new, brightly colored Easter clothes. For you know....

...he's watching, and he's worse than Santa.

Vote for your fave!

Oops...how'd that one get in there?

OK, so this last one isn't terrifying. But you have to admit that the idea of bunnies high on candy and behind the wheel (with nothing left to lose) is pretty scary.