K'heref Ayin

I was going to post a poem
about the evils of the world
and how the whole world was against
us
except for the parts of the world
that didn't make a difference
but then i did dishes for an hour
and saw that a friendly snag was
online
and showed him shaar hayichud v'haemuna
and told him the nice wake-up apikores vort
and he's really inspired
and suddenly all is well with the
world
and i realized one thing
I'm still a chassid
I still care
and that makes me really happy
because even though the world outside
has brains the size of a small pea
and the emotional quotient equivalent
to that of a relatively small
fly
I still know that the right things
can make me go to bed happy

Do you find the Biblical talk annoying?

Hear my voice, O dwellers of the basements
Those of the subterranean Heights, hearken to my words
Jubilation springeth forth from City College
Joyous students stream from her hallowed halls

The examination has come
Yet we have prevailed
Demonstrate have we demonstrated our knowledge
Of the chemicals on G-d's green earth
With aught but my calculator
And a periodic table
Percent abundances have been figured
And out of grams, have moles been extracted
Ions have been named
And molecules have been formulized
Milliliters have become cubic feet
While the gram becomes a pound
Perish have they perished
All the figures of insignificance
For they have distanced themselves from the point

Come has the chemistry test come
And passed have I passed

No ketchup for me sire

Continued from...

The impersonator wasn't feeling particularly happy. He had taken a lot of trouble to make a lunch/assassination date with the king, and now the king had stood him up. The impersonator wasn't particularly happy with this. And it's not like it was the king's fault either. The king wanted to be by the lunch/self-defense date, but the queen wouldn't let him. She said he was too fat to be going out to a lunch/potential-widowmaker appointment. Would she be there to supervise and make sure he stuck vegetables that ended in "i"? She didn't think so. So the king wasn't going. No matter that he was the king.

The impersonator decided to make himself some lunch instead. He made himself a cheap lunch, Edam cheese on roll with mustard x3, because the king wasn't paying. Heck, the king wasn't attending. The impersonator briefly considered interrupting the king's golf game, but he was too afraid of getting hit by one of the king's notorious errant chip shots to give the matter more than the briefest thought. No, for him it was to be another lonely lunch, never to be made glorious summer by any son of York. Valley Forge this was not, but rather Shakespeare at his finest, giving Richard III the voice he so desperately needed. And yet. And yet. The impersonator had some coffee and considered the turbo-nutrients that he was not imbibing. He didn't even know what a turbo-nutrient was. At least the bathroom had paper towels, the proper kind, the ones that most shuls were forced to use on shabbos.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, the queen was supervising the king's lunch. He wasn't going to be eating much, because she didn't let him, but still, the meal had to be fit for a king. The king was sitting in his bedroom listening to some Bach, but he soon grew irritated. The king hated listening to composers whose names he couldn't properly pronounce, and he also was no Henry VIII. Fortunately his chief of staff walked in soon enough and announced that dinner was served. The king bounced up and off his bed and promptly tumbled onto the floor. The chief steward found this to be a rather amusing sight, and began to laugh uproariously. The king, burning with a passion bordering on the pathological, bellowed with all the might inherent in a monarch of men, "Off with his head!" The queen, hearing this outcry, sailed majestically into the room, told the king curtly to get up off the floor and to come down to dinner, and then inquired about the head that had been forfeited. "It's a forfeit!" cried the other man, "they've only got eight hours live!" "No we don't," a deep voice said, much to the king's surprise, "since I am the queen, well a fair thing it would seem, to let him live a little longer, to be the ninth man on the team." The king told her that she didn't even make sense. The queen said, "Well, at the very least, don't kill him this paragraph. How can you countenance introducing a character and then killing him in the same paragraph? That's crazy!"

"I'm the king!" screamed the king, "I can do whatever I want! Guards! Off with his head!" Then, calming down somewhat, he said, "Well dear, at least you got your wish. It's a different paragraph." She wasn't particularly impressed, and made that known to him. He ate his lunch in silence. The impersonator did the same. The chief steward would have too, but his head was no longer in a position to do so.

To be continued...

Impersonate this!

I know this isn't a public forum or area for social networking, but it seems like the only place I'll reach everyone I want to reach. Fine.

For all those who are VD"L, and you know who you are, do me a favor and don't talk to me about certain topics. I mean, fine, if you spot me on gmail chat and I'm in a good mood then ok, but otherwise? Chat amongst yourselves, but don't bother me about it. And definitely don't chat publicly. Got it folks? Excellent. I appreciate your understanding.

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph)

His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph)

Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph)

He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph)

It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph)

"Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph)

Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.

(EndOfWorld's Paragraph)

Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.

(CA’s paragraph — feel free to trim; sorry, I said I suck at fiction; plus, I am packing for moving)

Henry paced nervously in the ER waiting room. Detained as an attempted murder witness, he was stuck, in his bunny suit, in the hospital, in a nervous state of mind. Henry, a hypochondriac suffering from OCD, did not like hospitals. Besides, he was under a court order to stay away from buildings with fire alarms. Henry had a compulsion to pull them — the red color, the feeling of a pulled lever, the sirens, the lights… Henry gulped nervously and started pacing back and forth. He was going to stay in control. This obsession had him arrested five times, cost him his job and luxury apartment in Manhattan, estranged him from his family and pet iguana. But today he was going to stay in control!.. Henry entered the bathroom. The first thing he saw was a bright-red fire alarm. Staring at him. Sneering with its lever’s white outline. Inviting. Henry backed nervously towards the sink and suddenly realized that his bunny suit’s hands have no zippers. He had no way to splash some water on his face. A scrubbed-in intern with a walrus mustache opened the door of a stall and dropping “Howdy, partner?” in a thick Texan drawl left the bathroom. Without washing his hands. This was too much for Henry. He turned to the fire alarm and licked his lips, tasting bunny fur. The last thought that entered his mind before he reached for the lever was “Ben told me to try pancakes with sour cream in that Russian place”. Henry filled his lungs with slippery air of the hospital bathroom and pulled. Fire alarm exploded in Henry’s head with hundreds of bright sounds. Loud flashes, bouncing off the white bathroom walls, pushed his tortured mind off the cliff, into the abyss of primeval insanity. Ricardo, a hit man for the Colombian mob sent to the hospital to finish off Gershon, entered the ER waiting room and was knocked off his feet, unconscious, by something bright-pink with big ears that ran out of the bathroom, charging towards the ER exit.

Direction

Life is pretty confusing
You just don't know what is what
Or where where is
Or what the right thing to do is
From all sides opinions form
And you hear them all
And feel like writing about it is really pretentious
And you hate feeling pretentious
And you don't know what to do
You don't even know what you want to do
Which is worse?

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph) His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph) Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph) He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph) It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph) "Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph) Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.

(EndOfWorld's Paragraph) Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.

Cooking for Wimps

We studied the cake, then simultaneously exchanged glances. She cast a sideways glance at the cake, wilting on the counter. The cake wobbled sympathetically in my direction, attempting to lend moral support. It nearly fell off. Finally, she broke the silence.

“So…What is it?”
“A cake! What did you think it was? For goodness sake! It’s in a cake pan.”
“True. (pause) (throat clearing). So…If it’s a cake…”
“Yes. A Chocolate cake.”
“Chocolate. Right. So why is it so…so…flat. And why is it so…so…wobbly?”
“Well, I was trying something new and…”
(pause. sighs all around. More wobbling from the cake)
“Look, EndofWorld…”
“Yes?”
“I know you love to try things out.”
“Yes?”
“And I know, as your mom, I’m supposed to foster creativity…”
“Yes?”
“Look, I know it’s hard to reign in all that talent. When you get older, you’ll be able to [diplomatic pause] experiment as much as you like. In your own kitchen.”

As predictions go, that was a pretty good one. Of course, it would have helped had I paid attention to the big, red DIRE that was flashing in front of it. Don’t think I blame my mom. Personally, I would have put a combination lock on the kitchen after experiment number seven, and there she was, patiently discussing #17. At the very least, it was a subtle attempt to divert my attention away from the fact that when she said, “Let’s put it on the side to cool,” she really meant, “Turn around so I can throw it out without feeling guilty.” My mom was great with that kind of psychology.

But I vowed to prove her wrong.

I vowed that when I got married, no matter how great the temptation or lack of ingredients, I would follow the recipe. Okay, it was more of a promise, barring earthquakes, tsunamis and boredom. And only if I really kept off those 7 pounds.

This lasted up until I met the poetic cook who, upon failing to launch his poetic career, turned to pasta instead. Alas, I learned too late that when he wrote “Salt the water so it tastes like the sea,” he wasn’t referring to the Dead Sea.

In any case, as I scraped that disaster into the bin, I vowed to turn over a new leaf. Again. Which would probably mean that I would have to turn it over twice to see any real changes. This vow lasted an admirable three days until I ran out oil. That’s when the fun began…

A mazal

I suck at fiction, and I suck at photography, but I happen to like this old photo of mine.


(New Orleans, 2004)

There is no blade of grass below that does not have a mazal above that strikes it and says: “Grow!”

Lyrical defeat

Continued from...

The impersonator was worried. He knew that strange ways were running through the maze, strange ways, always, but he was stuck in the desert trying to find his way, lost lost in the desert trying to find his way, and why the heck was there an axe chopping down the forest from which he was made? The really strange thing was that he hadn't listened to matisyahu in two years, and now people were going to think that he was some sort of alter-ego for his creator. Even worse, they might connect him with Joshua. To show the fallacy of these thoughts the impersonator decided to do something drastic. Ever since he had the left the veiled tundra that was not New Mexico he had been troubled day to day. Sometimes he thought it might be easier to throw it all away. But then he remembered that life does go on, a gift of courage from the dawn of time. The forced inside him were fighting mightily, two angels wrestling until dawn, each one trying to gain complete control of his wounded psyche. It was, in a word, weird.

The impersonator finally decided that enough was enough, and it was high time for something drastic. "Oh right", he recalled, "I already decided on doing that." This was one of his problems. He never seemed to quite grasp that just because you had decided to do something it didn't necessarily mean that you were going to do it, and in fact, many people needed a lot of persuading to keep their word. Usually the impersonator, when assaulted by these thoughts, would simply give up on the whole venture, as if the multiplicitousness of the thing was somehow a bad omen.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, the king was bored. Everyone always thought that life was so easy being a king. Sure, he didn't have to empty his own chamber pot in the morning, and people had to bow whenever their presences collided, but at the end of the day he was only human, and he was bored. The king considered dealing with some of the important affairs of state that his secretary would undoubtedly throw at him if given the slightest hint of the merest inkling of a chance, but the king wasn't particularly enamored of the idea. The king then considered going down to the palace kitchens and getting something to eat, but then he remembered that the princess consort has told the royal chefs that if any if them so much as dared give the king any food without her supervision then it'd be off with their heads, king be damned. The king had tried to reason with her, saying that he wasn't fat, and anyway, even if he was, it was kingly to have some meat on your bones. But hey, he wasn't fat anyway. What she thought was fat was actually well-toned muscle. The princess consort would have none of it though, and insisted that he be put on a well-regimented diet. "That's nuts!" cried the king, "do you know who I am? I'm the king! And who are you? Just some tart I elevated! How dare you tell me what to do?!" The king knew that it was a hopeless cause, and anyway, the lack of an interrobang wasn't helping matters. Still, at the end end of the day the king loved/feared his wife, or maybe it was the other way 'round, and he knew he was powerless in her hands. So he starved.

To be continued...

Spinning the wheels

I suck at writing. What I can contribute though, are my pictures. The words beneath the photo explain my thoughts. Don't just look for a pretty picture, look at the message. Sometimes it's easy, sometimes not.

Stop standing in the aisle and choose a seat.

So what is the story?

So I'm sitting here, trying to decide what the whole point of this is.

I know what it is not:

• It's not for social networking. We all have gmail, twitter, facebook and cell phones for that. (I'm looking at you, e.) If we want to keep each other updated, we have personal blogs for a reason. (Yes I know you don't have one e., but that is your choice).

So what inspired this? A few things:

• There has been discussion of bloggers' conventions and writers groups. Due to geographical and may I venture to say physiological/religious barriers that isn't so feasible. 
• The joint story thingermerbobber that took the blogosphere by storm yesterday...

I guess I'm searching for suggestions here? We're all creative and have what to say, so let's put our talents to good use, or at least sharpen them a bit.

So, please, I would be greatly pleasured if you would all sound off and chime in...

See y'all later!

Sarabonne's post about her Internet and Le7's continuing chemistry and calculus drama have inspired me to take a drastic step: from now until next Thursday night, after I finish my chemistry exam, I will have nothing to do with the blogosphere. I'm also signing out of gmail chat. No, I'm not going invisible. I'm freaking signing out.

I love y'all, but there are priorities: Schoolwork uber alles!

You thought so

"Voila!" said the impersonator, and he promptly fell off the stage, having failed to produce a rabbit. The king, embarrassed in front of his guests, cried, "Off with his head!" The impersonator, satisfied with a job well done, was carried off to the dungeons to await the head chopping. He realized that he was sacrificing his life, but he figured that it was worth it. After all, was this not what he had spent all his life planning for?

Meanwhile, the king began to reconsider. Hadn't his clown served him well for all these years? Fine, so maybe he had failed at the annual meeting of kings, causing the king to become the laughingstock of his monarchical friends. But still, didn't everyone deserve a second chance? The kind ordered a stay of execution.

The impersonator was not impressed. Was this to be his lot? Would he have to mess up majorly again?

The king had the impersonator brought in and began to lecture him. "In this house, only the king gets to mess up royally!" Here the king paused to laugh at his little joke, and then had to wipe the spittle off his collar. "Since you've served me so faithfully for so many years I'll give you one chance to make good. Tonight is the final night of the conference of kings. Success brings you life, failure brings you death. Don't disappoint me."

The impersonator, who wasn't particularly fond of the king at the best of times and was now quite put out, decided to have a little fun at the king's expense before his head went flying.
That night at the conference of kings masked intruders came into the hall and started yelling, "What's with your fixation with death?" The assembled throngs were stunned at the breach of security, and in concert they yelled "Off with their heads!" The masked intruders responded, "See? We told you that you were fixated with death." The kings were infuriated, and their guards made short work of the intruders. The impersonator never got a chance to perform. 

They didn't even kill him. Just sent him to work in the fields.

He was disappointed. The king went to an oral surgeon and didn't spit anymore.

To be continued...

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph) His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph) Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph) He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph) It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph) "Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph) Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.

They lurk in the background, blending into graffiti stained walls and piles of three day old pizza cartons. With nothing but their keen eyes, saber sharp wit and assorted writing utensils (including, but not limited to palm, iphone, pen, keyboard and the occasional ketchup packet) they seek to bring a blinding new creativity to the masses. The blogsphere (and spell check) holds its collective breathe as it watches, and waits to see what they will accomplish.

They are...
*cue the music*