Tuesday, March 31, 2009

The return of the king!

...Continued from

Betrayal makes for strange happenings. The king, for example, happened to happen upon his wife, the queen, doing some extremely un-queenlike things with a pot of pea soup. He felt distinctly queasy when she said, "What, I can't eat an entire pot of pea soup for lunch? I'm the queen, no?" The king was even more shocked when he found out that an entire eight pack of hotdogs (beef hotdogs!) had been sliced up and put in that pot of pea soup. Not only was his wife doing what he was not allowed to do, but she was also breaking the law. For the first time in his life the king considered having her chopped off.

The king's attorney general took a look at the evidence and decided that there might just be a case. He called up the solicitor general, discussed the matter with him, and then went to the courts to see what could be done. The courts told him that since they were dealing with a member of the royal family the courts didn't have jurisdiction, and that his best bet would be to have the king himself preside over the trial. "A brilliant idea," thought the attorney general, "but it's a pity it's nearly three weeks after purim already." Outwardly he smiled at the solicitor general and said, "A fine idea, though of course I'll have to run it by the king."

The king was not impressed by the idea. "What, you think I'm crazy? If I kill her I'll go down in history as a madman who killed his wife for eating some hotdogs, and if I don't kill her I'll become a madman!" The attorney general expressed his sympathies, but he also expressed his opinion that the circumstances warranted a trial by monarch. The king refused, and told him to come up with a solution posthaste; otherwise, it would be the attorney general's head on the chopping block.

That evening found the attorney general forlornly sitting in his local pub nursing a Guinness and trying to think of a way to get out of his predicament. He knew that the king would follow through on his threat, and he'd probably be able to sell it to the public as a sacrificial lamb or scapegoat or something. Whatever it was, the attorney general wanted no part in it. The bartender walked over to him and asked if he was planning on staying the night. "Say what?" asked the attorney general. The bartender regretted to inform him that closing time was in ten minutes, and if the attorney general was interested in staying the night then accommodations could be arranged in the local jail on charges of trespassing. At this the attorney general roared, "Do you know who I am? I've fabricated more evidence than you've poured beers! I've put more innocent people behind bars than you've seen in your bar! I AM THE LAW!"

The next morning found the attorney general forlornly sitting in his local slammer nursing a headache and trying to think of a way to get out of his predicament. He knew that the king would follow through on his threat, and he'd probably be able to sell it to the public as a sacrificial lamb or scapegoat or something. Whatever it was, the attorney general wanted no part in it. The screw walked over to him and asked if he was planning on staying the day. "Say what?" asked the attorney general. The screw regretted to inform him that bailout time was in ten minutes, and if the attorney general was interested in staying the day then accommodations could be arranged in the local jail on charges of assault and battery. At this the attorney general roared, "Do you know who I am? I've fabricated more evidence than you've had told you by prisoners! I've put more innocent people behind bars than you've seen behind bars! I AM THE LAW!"

The next morning found the attorney general forlornly sitting in his local dock nursing an even bigger headache and trying to think of a way to get out of his predicament. He knew that the king would follow through on his threat, and he'd probably be able to sell it to the public as a sacrificial lamb or scapegoat or something. Whatever it was, the attorney general wanted no part in it. The judge walked over to him and asked if he was planning on staying for the rest of his life. "Say what?" asked the attorney general. The judge regretted to inform him that he was sentenced to life in general, and if the attorney general wasn't interested in staying the rest of his life then accommodations could be arranged in the local courthouse for an appeal. At this the attorney general roared, "Do you know who I am? I've fabricated more evidence than you've heard on the bench! I've put more innocent people behind bars than you have! I AM THE LAW!"

The next morning found the attorney general dead as a doorknob. The impersonator, not missing to wish the fun, popped in for a quick hello and promised to feature more prominently next time.

To be continued...

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Story Time

From Untitled Album

OK, I'll break the silence. But this one requires your feedback.

Being a small time traveler - I've had the experience of davening in interesting places. It's really a thrill for me, to be so different from the rest of the room. Also, I always wonder what type of impression I'm leaving on the people around me. I care to know what they think.

Here are two personal experiences:

Before catching a bus to Mitzpe Ramon in Beer Sheva, my friend and I chose the perfect spot to pray under the tent of some restaurant. We picked a table in the corner away from the eaters and began. Sometime in the middle, a man comes out and puts a plate of felafel, pita, salad and french fries on our table. He must have made a mistake, I thought. When I finished, I brought the plate back to him saying I didn't order anything to which he insisted the food was for us - from him. Hmmm... So, I'd like to think we impressed him with our 'spiritualness'. But we were in Israel and he's obviously seen people pray before, so what difference were we to him? Or maybe it was just that we looked like starving seminary girls and he had pity on us.

I was stuck in the bus station bright and early one morning, in Memphis, Tennessee. Surrounded by genuine southern folk, I was actually a little bit nervous to pray. What if they decide to lynch me or something? Then I reasoned with myself that, Hashem protects you while doing a mitzvah. So I prayed, all the while being stared down by the man sitting next to me with a cowboy hat, long black pony and a mustache. As I put my siddur away very casually, the man sitting next to me finally works up the nerve to ask: "That wasn't the Koran you were studyin' there was it?"

Well, whats your story?

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Let's get a little random

From Blogger Pictures

actually, this is just enough potatoes to satisfy for maybe... a few hours?
who else does this happen to?


helloooo peeoopppllee

I'll rephrase it to clear the confusion.

If you ate all those potatoes, would you be able to eat anything after??
I sure can.

and is that normal?

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


This is Henry. He is 43 years old, living in a single bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, New York. He works as an entertainer for small children under the ages of 5 and spends his free time complaining to JJ the local barman or reading various romance novels. He likes jelly Beans. He is a hypocondriac and OCD with an affinity for the color red, especially when presented as the lever of a fire alarm. As a result, he has been arrested numurous times which lost him his job, upper-eat side flat, and is currently estranged from his wife Roberta, their little girls Donilaquita and Brieze, not to mention, the pet iguana, Tony.

There. We have an illustration. Now can someone resume our experimental-almost-failure-because-no-one-will-continue-story?

Beat the rock

Continued from...

The Impersonator and the King were having an identity crisis. The King wasn't sure if he was a proper noun or not, and the Impersonator was ruminating over the irony of someone with his name having an identity crisis. It didn't make sense! But that didn't matter, it was happening.

The Queen was not amused. She had been holed up with Amanda discussing their latest plans for King-domination, and now that the King didn't quite know who he was anymore, it appeared that all their hard work might be for naught. The Queen pleaded with the King to get a hold of himself, but he was unable to. She even suspected that he might be putting on an act, but then she realized that the man she had married wasn't nearly smart enough to do that. No, he really was confused. Amanda wasn't much help either. Though she was all right when it came to reducing the amount of King in the world she was no good when it came to bringing the King back.

The kingdom was happy to finally get a mention, and they couldn't be bothered feeling bad for a King who had the backbone of a fish and a wife to go along with it. Besides, they had other issues to contend with. The ban on sausages had been extended to all meat products, and they ravened for a good steak or at the very least for a burger.

The Impersonator couldn't figure out what to do. He decided to do the only thing he knew: he went down to his local bar for a drink. There was a karaoke contest going on, and after a few white russians the Impersonator felt ready to compete. His turn came up, and he selected the song "Memories" from MBD. 

"And I was left with memories, sweet memories, yes I was left with-" At this he stopped, because a loud voice was suddenly heard to come from the area around the bar which proclaimed, "Why should I pay more for premium gasoline?" People around the Impersonator motioned for him to continue, but he was transfixed by the voice's question. He too began to think, "Why should he pay more for premium gasoline?" It just didn't make any sense! No wonder the voice was downing whiskey sours at an alarming rate. The Impersonator moved over to join it, much to the dismay of the crowd, who were looking forward to the satisfaction of him finishing his song.

The voice by the bar said, "Howdy, partner, ain't you excited to be in Denver? Yeehaw!" The Impersonator was confused; he didn't think he was in Denver, and even if he was he certainly wouldn't be excited about it. The voice continued, "I know you have problems. I have problems too. For example, I just don't get why anyone would listen to anyone else ever. Doesn't make any sense!" The Impersonator thought about this for a moment, and said, "So you're saying that my listening to you makes no sense?" "Precisely!" cried the voice, "you're merely perpetuating the abusive circle and striking a blow to humanity!"

The Impersonator was beginning to think he had made a mistake in abandoning chance at karaoke stardom and his thoughts were confirmed when the bartender moved over to where he and the voice were standing and said, "I wouldn't bother with him, if I were you. He has issues."

The Queen had her own issues, as has been discussed above, and she didn't know what to do. She turned to the only solace she had: sugar. The Queen knew that if she consumed enough sugar all her problems would go away, or at least they'd be replaced with new ones which would make her current ones look petty in comparison. So consume she did consume, until she turned fat. Curiously enough, this was all the King needed to return him to his senses, and soon they were living happily again, Amanda imprisoned happily ever.

The Impersonator got scared out of his wits, and he too realized who he was and where he was headed in life. It looked like the story might end, with all the loose ends wrapped up together tidily and thrust under the couch.

The impersonator realized that he still had, what, at least six months left, so he decided to make some mischief. The next morning the King found out that his wife, the Queen, had betrayed him...

To be continued...

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Shamor v’zachor

(click to enlarge)

Mitzva m’loshon tzavta.

Friday, March 13, 2009


(Slightly Belated)MAZAL TOV to our very own Mottel.
May you both be blessed with only revealed good, etc etc
From all of us lurking in the basement blogsphere.

It's not what you think

Continued from...

The Queen was supervising the installation of the King's new exercise room with the King's newly hired personal trainer when the King walked in.

"Oh, husband, such a pleasure to see you!" effused the Queen, "This is Amanda, your new personal trainer. She's going to help you get back into shape!"

Amanda took one look at the King and said to the Queen, "Shocking, isn't it, that you've let your husband run to rot. But don't worry, I'll soon have him back in shape."

The King was not impressed by this, and was even less enthused when Amanda proceeded to walk over to him and pinch his admittedly large belly. "Guards!" he roared, "Off with her head!"

Bounded into the room immediately hundreds of guards who attempted to off with her head, but she did some crouching and hiding and then some karate moves and the guards retreated strategically to a corner of the room and cowered behind an unfinished bar bell installation.

The king was not impressed, and roared "Amanda! I command you to get my guards into shape before you even think of dealing with me!" He chortled as he said this, and before the Queen could protest he flashed her the secret sign (two pastrami sandwiches on rye with mustard, pickle, and fries on the side, plus a large Sprechers root beer) that meant, "Be careful woman, you're next!" She was careful, and realized that sometimes you lose a battle or two in the war that is marriage. The King, emboldened by his success, began to mutter something about making sausage legal again, but the Queen flashed him her own secret sign (a fried egg sandwich with mayo and a green-colored healthy drink) that meant, "You won that one buddy, but you try any more tricks and you'll regret it." The King reflected that he had at least fought off the enemies latest salvo, and comforted himself with the thought that there was always another day.

Meanwhile, the impersonator was having his own problems. He had just discovered that his only living relative was rich and determined to not include the impersonator in his will. The impersonator was of course quite perturbed at this state of affairs, even if they didn't really change anything. You see, that morning he had received a phone call from a lawyer in darkest Africa who said, "I'd like to inform you that your long-lost great uncle Fred-"

"Who?" asked the impersonator, "who's my great uncle Fred?"

The lawyer said, "He's your great great uncle Charles' only son."

"I didn't know Charles had a son!" said the impersonator, "and by the way, what ever happened to good 'ol Charlie?" The attorney informed him that Charles was dead. The impersonator expressed suitable condolences, and then asked the attorney what the purpose of his phone call was.

"Well, as you may or may not know," explained the attorney, "your great great uncle Charles was an extremely wealthy man. When he died he left you half his estate, on the condition that his son Fred was interested in sharing it with you. Fred isn't, and therefore you won't be seeing a penny."

The impersonator asked, "So why did you have to tell me this?"

"Because," replied the attorney, "I told Fred I would do it for him."

A few hours later the King, excited with his new-found sense of power, ambles down to the local pub. The impersonator had the same idea, though it was caused by a different idea, and the two met there. The King told the impersonator all the latest news, and asked him what he thought. The impersonator laughed at the King's naïveté, and said, "You think you'll be done with Amanda so quickly? She's the most persistent woman in the kingdom!"

"Are you kidding me?" scoffed the King, "Have you ever met my wife?"

"I don't know about that," replied the impersonator, "but I do know that Amanda has never not gotten her way in her life, so if I was you I'd be careful. Besides, she controls the purse strings for now."

The King thought this over for a minute while the impersonator nursed his Guinness, and then said, "Hmm, interesting. Very interesting. Seems to me that you might just be correct. But how do you know?"

"Ahh," replied the impersonator, "that would be telling."

Indeed it would.

To be continued...

Thursday, March 12, 2009

An oxymoron — take two

A vegetarian chossid.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

An oxymoron — take one

A Mongolian sailor.

Monday, March 9, 2009

PSA: Purim Safety

PSA: (Which stands for public service announcement):
When packing your shalach manos, please keep the following in mind

1) Do not pack any homemade products. We shudder just thinking of what went into these. As in, your hands. Gross. Even before the door clicks shut we've already tossed them. And I dont mean into our mouths.
2) Do not try to save money by buying a cosco size box of hamentaschen and then individually wrapping them in cellophane. They meet the same fate as #1.
3) Do not not not not not label your packages with those annoying unpeelable labels that leave marks when we try to pry them off. Its unfair.
4) Themes. Feh. What took you 15.7 hours to prepare, takes us exactly 8.6 seconds to disassemble: 5.6 to pick out the good stuff and 3 to pass on to the next friend(unless you use the aforementioned labels. So don't).

Please keep these common courtesies in mind and we'll all have a more pleasant experience. Better yet, just slip cash under our door.

Referential treatment

Continued from...

"Great art only comes through suffering!" said the king. His wife, the queen, said, "Suffering? What do you know from suffering? You're the king!" Her husband, the king, responded, "By you starvation isn't suffering?" "Starvation?" said his wife, the queen, "A little diet, the likes of which many have lived through before, can hardly be termed suffering." "What you smoking woman?!" cried the king, "The only thing small about this diet is the amount of food I get to eat!" "Be that as it may," said the queen, his wife, "you are the king, and therefore you're really not entitled to say that you're suffering." The king said, "If I'm the king, then why can't I do whatever I wish?" "Because you have a wonderful wife, the queen," said the queen, "who is desperately trying to help you in your hour of need."

Meanwhile, back at the bar, the impersonator was contemplating one of life's great mysteries. "Why is it," he thought, "that you can't always have what you want when you want it, sometimes you just have to wait? And how did MBD ever make such gorgeous Yiddish songs?" The impersonator thought be had an answer for the first question, but the second to him was like a closed door. "Anyway," he continued thinking, "there's more important things for me to deal with. For example, how do I overturn the sausage decree, and what was that strange sound heard in the king's very own chambers last episode?"

Suddenly, in barged thirteen of the king's own guards, resplendent in their mochachino-shaped hats and each carrying an AA-12, purchased by the king for his very own guards from the Jordanian government. The impersonator looked up, and the leader of the guards said, "Mr. Impersonator person?" The impersonator said, "Yeah, that's me, but you could call me Carl." "Really?" said the guard, "that change everything!" "Not really. It's just as anonymous as calling me the impersonator" said the impersonator, "but it's not as much of a pain to write out every time. Besides, I've always wanted to be called Carl." "Yeah sure, and my name is Penelope," replied the guard, "but however you wish to be called, you've been charged with a very serious offense: bringing stake and outdated plot devices from one episode to another. The punishment you face, if convicted, is death, or marriage to the queen's sister." "No!" cried a shocked and stirred impersonator, "anything but the queen's sister! Besides, though guilty I may be, you people do it all the time with your diet talk. How much longer will you be able to milk that story line? If I am to be punished let the king stand trial as well!" This was said quite majestically, but the guard was not impressed. He drew himself up to his full stature, and said, "Let the record state that the accused did make a potentially self-incriminating statement, and furthermore, accused the king of the same crime. The only thing I don't get is, how would you punish the king? He's already married to the queen! Death would only bring relief!"

To be continued...

Sunday, March 8, 2009

People are Stupid

On Friday, I was looking at some bagels in a swanky Manhattan grocery. See I this sign:
$0.39 each

OK folks, do the math. 3*$0.39 is $1.17. So you lose two cents if you buy your bagels in groups of three. 

Amoeba files

Thanks to Sara from Chicago for making me remember this.

Amoeba on a tightrope: ____.____
Amoeba on a tightrope with a pole: _____—.—______
Amoeba firing a gun: .—<
Amoebas on a walk: ...
Amoebas rowing: .,.,.,
Amoeba with pom-poms: *.*
Amoeba playing a bugle (or French horn): &. (or maybe it was @.)
Amoeba in a prison: #. _#
Amoeba wearing French cook hat: !
Amoeba with long hair on a windy day: ~.
Amoeba blowing up a balloon: .o
Amoeba finished blowing up a balloon: .O
Amoeba about to climb stairs: .H
Amoebas carrying a pipe: .—.
Amoebas carrying a coach: .=.
Amoeba carrying a magnet: .c
Amoeba shooting from a bow: .} → (.
Amoeba-vampire: ^.^
Amoeba looking through binoculars: o.o
Amoebas in a middle of a circus act: .:
Amoeba conducting an orchestra: .'
Amoebas on a carousel: .T.
Amoeba with an antenna (or a slingshot): .Y
Amoebas on top of a hill: Ö
Amoebas on top of a tree: Ï
Amoebas on top of a carousel: .T̈.
Amoeba with long hair running with a pole: ~./
Amoeba holding up flairs (on a landing strip): '.'
Amoeba holding a sickle: ?
Amoeba in an elevator: [.]

There were also amoebas on a seesaw, but I can’t remember now. Sorry.

Feel free to add.

(Apparently, some of these work better in simpler fonts.)

Friday, March 6, 2009

Two Euphemisms I Invented this Morning in the Shower

Don't say, "He trims his beard." Nope, he "engages in scissors-facilitated picking."
Nobody shaves. They just "engage in extreme trimming."

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Trashy Teen Dramas

I really like trashy teen dramas. It's a weakness, like enjoying really terrible chocolate, or candy corn. We know that it's not a worthy indulgence, but we like it!
My latest probably-never-going-to-go-anywhere inspiration: a trashy teen drama set in... Crown Heights.
 Call it "The CH" or "Crown Heights 11213" or something. 
An angry teenage boy is taken in by a warm and loving family in Crown Heights. 
Put him in the basement, give the mom a high school sister for him to flirt with, and let the drama ensue. 
Late-night parties, mikvah scenes, getting kicked out of (and allowed back into?) yeshiva...
I can almost hear the theme song...

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

A (Slightly) Dramatized Version of How I Joined the Ranks of the Unemployed

(Commenters: don't mention the names of any people or organizations mentioned herein. The shred of anonymity must remain intact. If you don't understand what I'm talking about, feel free to send me an e-mail.)

Me (after a long day at school): Well, it's only 12:30. I have a full seven hours until I need to get up again. Let me go to the office and spread truth and light throughout the land!

(Five minutes later, in front of my computer and a precariously balanced stack of books)
Me: What does she want to know? Jewish foot washing practices in the first century? Oy. I have no koach for this type of stuff. I'll get back to her later. Hmm, who's next on the list? This guy needs a comprehensive enumeration of all 248 limbs in the human body. Darn. No way I can do that tonight. OK. This next customer has already been waiting for a while for an explanation of Chabad's view of Reform and Conservative. (It's real simple, but the simple explanation is not for public consumption.) I'll tackle this one tonight.

(Three hours later) Yaaaaaaawwwwnnn I think I'll go to bed, but first I got to check my gmail.

(Two hours later) I think I'll go to bed, but first I got to check CrownHeights.info. Hmmm... business as usual. Shomrim is apprehending perps. NYPD is arresting public spirited individuals and and freeing said perps. A rabbinical rising star in Lubavitch is expressing profound and pertinent thoughts of Jewish import by means of the conduit of words which are humble, unostentatious, unpretentious, and simple. Yep, business as usual.

(The next day in school)
My funny math professor with a hilarious Caribbean accent: We are gonna haf da quiz now.
Me (beginning to feel separation anxiety as I put away my calculator): !!!

(That night)
Me: All those pure and innocent people are waiting for my pearls of wisdom. Of course I need to do 85 algebra problems, 23 calculus problems, read 40 pages of chem, and listen to 13 songs for music class. But first a quick trip to the office.

(Same computer, bigger and more precarious pile of books)
Oh No. That guy who wanted to know where to put the mezuzah on his octagonal-shaped doorway leading to his garage which occasionally serves as a guest house wrote back. And there's another OCD frummie who needs a lomdisheh explanation why Chabad is matir flushing the toilet on Shabbos. Then I got to explain why Daniel 9:13 is not referring to JC, plus help him find the verse which says something to the effect of "Jerusalem shall be a refuge." He's sure he's come across it somewhere, but he's not sure where. Well, neither am I! Then this other dude wants to know if the Talmud has anything to say about callouses and what is the precise definition of the Hebrew root "DBR." He's come across it in Leviticus a couple of times and doesn't trust those Christians that it really means "to say." Wouldn't it be a more accurate representation of the word of G-d to render it into English as "to relate, to express vocally, to transmit by means of speech, to verbalize"? Plus there's all those people whom I ignored last night. Yessiree, it's gonna be a long night. I'll just quickly check my e-mail before another grueling night of enlightening the masses...

As you can well imagine, the work was piling up. If the number of unanswered questions was plotted on a graph as a function of the time that had elapsed since I joined City College [Q(t)], it would look like a graceful exponential equation. Q(t) was actually beginning to resemble a vertical asymptote. I knew that if something didn't happen quick, I'd become undefined. So I did what I do best. I kratzed. Then I got a call from The Boss. He wanted an definition. So I defined it. In short, I told him the immortal words, "You can't fire me. I quit." To which he responded with the immortal words, "It's been nice knowing you. All the best in your future endeavors."

Now I am a free man, unfettered by work and responsibility. Of course I'm also heading towards poverty. If you plot my predicted finances as a function of time [$(t)], you'd get a mercilessly straight line, with a fearfully steep negative slope [$'(t) < 0]. And it won't settle into any horizontal asymptotes. It's gonna go straight into the fourth quadrant without flinching.

So please, O great and merciful G-d, Define $(t) piecwisely! May $(t) soon reach a point of discontinuity! May $(the very near future) < 0, and sharply concave upwards, with the finding of new employment, speedily in our days (in the first quadrant), amen kein yehi ratzon!

(OK. I admit it. I threw that in all this math junk because I was jealous of the chemists who were discussing beautiful acids.)

Kings cry too

Continued from...

The impersonator could never figure out if being irrationally happy was a good thing or not. To be sure, things seemed to be working out, but was it ever possible to know if this situation would continue? Besides, he knew his happiness was irrational. How did he know this? Because if it was real than the other people who should have been happy would have been. But they weren't. Obviously something wasn't right with his happiness. The impersonator didn't know how to remedy the situation.

The king and queen, meanwhile, were having a frank and open discussion about the king's diet. The king said, "I think sausages would be a good addition to my daily fare." The queen quickly nixed this idea, calling it immature and irresponsible. She declared that she'd sooner see the king move out of the castle then have him do such abominable acts against creation. "But the sausage is so noble!" cried the king, "and anyway, you can't kick me out of my own palace!" The queen said, "Watch me, white boy."

At this moment a cry was heard to emanate from the king's own most inner chambers. All the courtiers were surprised, for they knew the king to be a decorous individual, not given to such open expressions. The queen had always been skeptical of the knowledge of the courtiers, seeing as the king she knew was in fact quite passionate about many subjects, including in no particular order his subjects, his food, and his riding crop. The queen was nevertheless as surprised as the
courtiers, because she had the king right next to her, and so obviously the source of the cries must emanate from a different person. The king was completely oblivious to any noise, sunk deep as he was in a most miserable reverie regarding his lack of sausages. The palace guards were immediately dispatched to see who it was that had so publicly disturbed the peace of the king's own most inner chambers. They had a shrewd suspicion that it was the impersonator,
finally come back to wreak havoc upon the world and its works, but they wanted to make sure.

The impersonator, contrary to the shrewdest thoughts of the palace guards, was not in the king's own most inner chambers. He was in a pub trying to win the affections of a lonely lass and more importantly the contents of her plate of sausage. It was the very last plate of sausage in the land, the king having decreed that if he couldn't have sausage than neither could anyone else, and the impersonator was ravening after it. The lonely lass suspected that her wooer was only
after her sausage, and she parried his attempts at wooship accordingly. This frustrated the impersonator, and he came up with a dastardly plan. If he couldn't have the sausage, well then she wouldn't be able to either.

"Guards!" he shouted out, as only the impersonator was able to about, "look! Sausages! Take her away to the palace dungeons!" The palace guards, having retired from the king's own most inner chambers frustrated in their attempts to find out who had disturbed their peace, inmediately rushed into the pub and seized the sausages that the lonely lass had valiantly tried to stuff down her socks and thence her boots.

"No my pretty," said the head of the guards, "it's the incinerator for those sausages, and the palace dungeons for you!" The lonely lass shot the impersonator a look of pure and unadalterated hatred, and vowed her revenge. The impersonator looked unconcerned and ate some beer nuts. The king, realizing that some sausages were coming to the palace, resolved to get them for himself, while the queen resolved to make sure they never reached his grubby little hands.

And the cry from the king's most inner chambers?

To be continued...

Weird Things

I just got an email from Wikimetro. They claim to want to place ads on my blog, earning me some easy cash. My momma taught me well, and if I don't have to work hard for it, I don't trust it. Any of you guys had any experiences like this?

Monday, March 2, 2009

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

Sorry for the delay . . . Due to technical reasons (i.e. the way permissions were given out on this blog etc.) I was forced to make a new post for this here venture. I tag Sefirah Next.

(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.

(Mottel's Paragraph[s])
"Pitiful," thought Ira Green. "Simply pitiful . . ."
Ira paused for a moment, popping the cap of the little plastic bottle held in one of his sweaty hands. It was empty. Tossing the bottle aside, he reached into his desk drawer and took out a fresh one. Turning it upside down, he poured a generous handful of Tums into his hand.

"What exactly was pitiful?" He mused as he downed a handful of his "candies". To be honest, he was entirely unsure to what he had been referring to - if it the hit man Ricardo sitting nervously in the seat in front of the fold out table in the roach infested back of a cheap Bistro in Little Italy that served as Ira's "office", or if it was his own fate once the bosses heard that the Cocaine they had stolen from the Hasid in Brooklyn was nothing more then confectionery sugar, and the cheap kind at that.
Perhaps, it occurred to him, it was an even more profound conclusion about his life in general, as the Mafia's 'Jew' - the accountant for the aging Sicilian dons, and their go between with their contacts amongst their tentative allies - the Druglords of Columbia.
"What kind of job is this for a nice Jewish boy?" his mother had once asked him. "Your father slaves away night and day to put you through Columbia - and you can't even get a job as CPA for a local franchise of Corn Friend Chicken? Why couldn't you be more like your brother Arny? Such a good boy that is Arny!"

Whipping his ever sweating hands on the frayed sleeve of his tweed jacket, he reached up to adjust his glasses on the edge of his nose and straighten his hair. My, he thought wryly, the hear plugs were setting in nicely.
Taking out another handful of Tums, he returned his attention to Ricardo, who in the silence of the last few minutes, seemed to have been driven nearly mad with fear.
Popping a Tums in his mouth, he began to chew as he asked the hit man,
"Tell me again why you couldn't finish off that boy?"
"It was the rabbit!" Ricardo shrieked in fear. "You got to believe me Senoir! I was goin' to finish the job, you know, and suddenly all of the alarms go off. I don' why they go off, so I freeze. Try to act in'specious, like you say boss . . . But then this big pink rabbit comes running at me. It had big ears, a puffy white tail. It runs right into me, Knocking me down on the floor. I know it's real. I didn't drink any Tequilla or nothin', vato!"

What a mess, Ira muttered to himself. The hit man had lost his screws, the hit was alive, what was supposed to be pure Columbian was from Sugarland, Texas. . . and then there were the other problems - reports that the Israeli Mossad was on their trail - perhaps the Russian Mafia had tipped off its contacts in the Kenesset after his bosses had thrown in their lot with the Japanese Yakuza. Then there was this business with the crash landing the other day in Nevada - the word was that it was something more then a purported "Weather Balloon" - his bosses would want to know if it was connected to this business with the Ithorian Overlords. But that was an entirely different problem.
Oy - so many doubts.
"Carla, please see Ricardo out," he called to his secretary, "and tell big Guido I'm taking off 'sick' for the rest of the day."
One thing Ira was sure was that he would have heartburn soon - if he didn't have it already - or that his Ulcers would act up. Maybe both. Why if his luck held up, he'd get a batch of the Gout too. What kind of job was this for a nice Jewish boy in a tweed jacket, suspenders and hear-plugs anway?