Basement Blogging: The Crown Heights Underground

So

2011-04-24T14:06:00.004-05:00

No one's got anything to blog about, huh? Some of us are trying to procrastinate, you know. This blogging famine is making it very difficult.
I mean this blog is certainly in the decomposing stage. Which is a shame, blogs these days just ain't what they used to be. Course I'm just being a snob, I post about "your mom" jokes. But seriously, too much angst these days, it's becoming a cliche to feel desolate and blog about it. And so many blogs are just angsty.
So here's to original, angst-free, blog-thoughts! For my procrastinating, reading pleasure. And yours.
On that note, I'd like to take this moment to convince everyone once more to move to Oregon where it's ok to just lie in the myriad of dandelions of a grassy hilltop. For hours. In the sunshine. With the background yelling of stoner-skateboarders in the nearby skate park. Which in itself acts as a source of entertainment. Hard to say no, right?

2010-08-29T05:35:00.004-05:00

The reality and global warning.

2010-02-09T14:50:00.000-06:00

This story takes us back many years. 2.4 billion in fact. this is where my awareness first existed. Previously it had been a small crack in a glacier somewhere off the coast of nowhere. The thing was that all the other cracks in glaciers all the world over were losing their identity by the huge pieces of ice closing them off. This was of course a tremendous blow to their ego, and so some of them, by force of instinct and a tremendous will to exist, became what we now take for granted: our own awareness. Of course the fact the that these awareni and the homosapians collision is a total coincidence and you can of course see many people who lack this special quality.
Many years passed before my awareness developed brain cells and what not. Legs seemed like a good idea till i realised i could not fly with them. It took a further billion years to notice that they look better in flat fronts.
One thing it really hated was having to breath that obnoxious oxygen, i mean of course anything in the universe tastes better than vile oxygen, it took several million years to develop a taste for it after it came into style.
So anyway i was just getting wind of some carbon dioxide in the atmosphere when everyone starts going green. I mean please, just when something good starts some people have to ruin it. I would even consider just waiting a couple billion years till the next ice age and i can snuggle back into a comfy glacier if it werent for the 15% i was saving with Geico.

Borsch

2010-01-26T20:43:00.002-06:00

New Yorkers think that the disgusting blue stuff they see in bottles in their grocery stores is the real borsch. Maybe in Poland it is. But not in Russia or Ukraine. I am not going to make any disparaging remarks about other people's food. And I actually like beet borsch (when it's cold and has some boiled eggs crumbled into it). But the difference between Russo-Ukrainian borsch and Polish borsch is the difference between Chassidus Chabad and Chassidus Chagas.

Some examples (click on the last image to enlarge and view in full glory):

(garlic is in the picture, because borsch is eaten with garlic dipped in salt and sometimes rubbed onto toasted rye bread)

(presence of meat and sour cream together for demonstration purposes only)

עומד לשרפה 2 aka the onion post

2010-01-20T12:23:00.002-06:00

לכבוד ידידי הגר"ח הרה"ג כראלינג עקס שליט"א:

בענין שאילתך לגבי הברכה על בצלים יש כמה צדדים ברכת בצלים חיים דנקרא "רא" בעכו"ם היא שהכל משום דלאו דרך לאכול כמו דאיתא בברכות שילהי דפרק כיצד מברכים ובקצה"ח שם אבל מאידך גיסא יש לטעון דזה הוי מנהג יוצאי רוסיא יוקרע"ן וקצת פולין דרך אכילה דידיה הוה וליברך האדמה אגב אורכא מצד יוחסין יש לי מדור רביעי לומר מנהג דידן אבל אין לדקדק בזה כדידיענא מכ"ק מסאקמער שאין גורסין "שפיץ יחוס" אלא לסוסים וכלבים (ויש מוסיפין שידוכים וד"ל) וא"ת דאין לברך את האדמה משום חוקת הגוי של עובדי כוכבים שעובדים עפר הארץ דמתקרי למיניהם טרי האגערז וכדומה אין לחוש לזה דאין מברכין את האדמה ממש אלא ברכת הנהנין באיאמה"ע בורא פרי האדמה דיש לנו לזה מסורת אבותינו אבל יש לבא לההוא מסקנא דאין מברכין מזונות מטעם אחר דבתר רובא אזלינן ואין לתמוך על מנהג שאין מנהג המקום וכידוע בכל עולם הישיבות דאין שייך מה"מ כלל באמעריקא דכולנו מבולבלים כמו טשלענט ואין שום קהילה חזקה דיש לה מקום ומנהג ולאו גורסין מציאות דמכשיש כלל דפתיחת העניים מביא לידי כפירה דמביא לידי כאלעדז דמביא לידי זנות דמביא לידי ב"צ רחמנא לצלן! ולענ"ד הדבר תלוי בסביבה כדי שרוסי שאוכל בינו ובין עצמו (כמו שרגיל באוכלי בצלים) יברך האדמה ובורא נפשות ומי שרואה אותו יברך משנה הבריות אבל אם הוא אוכל עם חברים שאינם נוהגים כן יברך שהכל ויש כמה ראיות לדבר.

בברכת כל טוב והצלחה רבה

דער הלבע כופר

The above was a cleverly written satire or a load of borderline sacrilegious crap depending how you look at it. The only part that was meant to be taken seriously in any way was the very last sentence after the exclamation point. Even so, I want to do some real research and ask my rabbi. I would say continue making shehakol until then.

About sports

2010-01-12T19:59:00.001-06:00

Soccer is the most superior of all sports.

Baseball is about as interesting as a game of paper-rock-and-scissors.

Both facts are objectively true.

Gefilte chicken

2010-01-11T20:39:00.001-06:00

Fine, since nobody posts anything, I’ll do another food post.

Everybody knows gefilte fish. But what about gefilte chicken? Click on the images to enlarge (and sorry for the quality).

Austin PSA

2009-12-10T23:50:00.003-06:00

As I'm sure y'all have noticed, lately there's been a lot of spam in our little corner of the blogosphere. A lot of spam. Nasty shtuff. Anywho, back in the day, in the land before time, I used to have word verification on comments (On TRS). E convinced me to get rid of that, so I did, and replaced it with comment moderation. E convinced me to get rid of that too, so I did, and all was well for many moons. Now suddenly we are under attack, and it's quite annoying. What to do? Good Q. Obviously we don't want to stifle anyone's creativity, or the fights that happily happen between two bloggers (call them discussions if you will), but at the same time, who wants to provide a platform for spammers? The Japanese shtuff isn't so bad, because it's in a foreign language, but the other spam? Disgusting. I've taken the simple step of enabling comment moderation for all posts older than thirty days, which seems to have stemmed most of the tide. I think that the spambots detect that their spam isn't going through, and stop trying, or something like that. Far be it from me to suggest that anyone should follow my lead, but I thought it appropriate to say something on the matter.

How do thoughts look like?

2009-11-23T18:41:00.007-06:00

Not like this:

(pyramidal neurons in cerebral cortex)

More like this:

(synchronized firing of pyramidal cells, in red, due to inhibition from basket interneurons, in black)

First picture mine. Second borrowed from some paper (forgot which one).

Click on the images to enlarge.

Guess who wrote this:

2009-11-12T15:14:00.001-06:00

http://www.heightsdeals.com/blog/2009/11/12/24/

A series of events

2009-11-10T20:47:00.008-06:00

Click on the images to enlarge.

Step 1:

Step 3:

Step 4:

Step 8:

Step 9:

The evils thereof

2009-11-06T08:59:00.002-06:00

e's description of FB touched us all greatly, I'm sure, and I felt the need to make my own admission: In the beginning I friended people who I actively liked, and accepted friendings from people who I was friendly with. But now... twice in the last day I've been friended by people who I actively dislike, and I accepted them! Why? Because I didn't want to hurt their feelings? It's not like I'm trying to get as many friends as possible, because believe you me, I'm not. So what gives?

My apologies

2009-10-28T23:34:00.003-05:00

It has recently come to my attention that some bad shtuff has been going down over at this particular forum. Some of it may very well have been my fault, and for this I apologize. "Oh!" you say, "TRS is going to get away with a blanket apology? Over my dead body!"

All right, all right, since I'd hate to have any dead bodies over here in the bloggerverse that we all know and love, I'll be a little more specific. First of all, one specific blogger attempted to stem the tide of immorality and point out a few things. Whether or not I (or anyone else) agreed with him, it was wrong to demonize him, for which I apologize. Secondly, I think an apology is owed to the organizers of the event, who never at any time set out to create anything more or less than a poetry slam that could be enjoyed by all. I am sorry if the organizers in any way suffered through the aforementioned particular forum, and I hereby beg their indulgence of our blogger criticism.

Now that I've finished groveling...

Brezhnev Exeter Kipkin Silva

2009-10-15T01:04:00.002-05:00

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

LoT has no end! http://bit.ly/117FZ9 DIES MERCURII VIII ID. OCT. VDCCLXX A.V.C.

Stam L'haar

2009-10-07T23:06:00.000-05:00

You heard of this thing called marriage? It kinda takes a lot of energy and whatnot. So if you don't see too much blogging shtuff from moi? Just know that the less time I spend online the more I'm spending with my lovely wife, and that can't possibly be a bad thing.

When You Become Too Frum For Your Friends

2009-10-02T08:44:00.002-05:00

Or the other way around, to be open-minded. I think most people have experienced this in some form or another. You change and your friends don't and you wonder how to, or if you should, stay friends with them. With chassidishkeit, it can be a little more complicated, because you know that the changes you make are usually for the better.
So I'm putting the question to you, fellow bloggers.
Tell us your story, and how you dealt, what choice you made.

שו"ת עומד לשריפה 1 aka The Shaving Post

2009-09-29T16:35:00.002-05:00

It has come to the attention of these quarters that there is a lack of knowledge regarding the important halachos of hashchosas hazokon among קק"ק דבלאגער. To that end we the undersigned have decided to provide בירור in this matter -- at least to those members of the community who can read Yeshiva dialect aramaio-hebraicized English.

crack.

A shot rings out and the writer slumps over his desk in a pool of blood. A man steps through the bedroom doorway, smoking gun in hand. He looks at the old man lying across his notebook, fresh blood dying his gray beard the red of youth, and laughs.

"Once again ignorance is preserved."

Ok. No more leitzonus. ATTENTION: Here is the serious part

I was reading an old post on e's blog about shaving vs. picking when I came across some halachic stuff which I said I'd post about and this is it. (Note: e said I know what I'm talking about! Can you believe it?)

First off, there seems to be a misconception in Lubavitch (and other chasidusin) that shaving falls under the prohibition of transvestism (לא תלבש colloquially). While many authorities including the Chazon Ish among others have said this, upon examination it turns out that this is a statement of passion rather than psak as the Law simply does not stretch that way. (Perhaps another post if interest warrants)

That being said, the prohibition against shaving bears further analysis. Hashkafa, chasidus, and kabballa are beyond the purview of this post (I'm too lazy to look things up) and we will stick to straight halacha. Enjoy the ride.

EDIT:
Before proceeding further, it is important to note that the only readers of this blog to whom this applies are Shriki and myself, both of whom have beards anyway. The Tzemach Tzeddek assurs beard removal or abridgment in any way shape or form, therefore it is assur for his followers i.e. Lubavitchers.

The prohibition against shaving is derived from two psukim, the first states "do not razor the corners of thy beards" (emor) while the second states "he [the kohen] will not destroy his beard" (somewhat earlier in emor). By a combination of mesorah and אסמכתא the gemara derives that one has only committed the sin of shaving if one destroys the beard hair below the length of recognizable stubble, with a halachically defined razor.

A halachically defined razor is an instrument that removes hair at the root with a scraping (single-bladed) motion. The definition of stubble in halacha is a source of debate in its own right, though most poskim hold that a reasonably dexterous person must be able to take the hair between two fingers and bend it.

Following these criteria, we can form a list of permitted and prohibited activities.

Trimming with scissors. Muttar, leaves enough hair and is not a razor
Depilatory powder or cream. Muttar, is not a razor. The RaMChaL used this method
Crappy shavers sold in Jewish electronics stores. Muttar, they use microscreens not blades at all and leave enough hair
Good shavers. Some may be assur, particularly lift-and-cut models as they use single blades and some even work and give close shaves
Razors of any sort. Assur gamur. While there has recently been a spurt of kiddush-club halacha going around that safety razors are not razors this is completely unfounded.

ועל זה באנו על החתום
אנאנימוס

Mazal Tov!

2009-09-15T21:58:00.003-05:00

Mazal tov to our two basementbloggers.
The ones who have gotten married, that is.*
We wish them only the best.**
Rumors have it that although they have [insert appropriate chassidic alternative for "tied the knot"], they decided against moving upwards in life....to an apartment, that is.*** Ahhhhh, once a basement blogger, always a basement blogger

Footnotes:
*the other ones who feel they deserve a mazal tov need to dedicate a post to that topic. for example, I finally made pasta that didnt immediately morph into a ball of pasta-mush. Mazal Tov to me!

**Well, I'm assuming we do.

***Just follow your nose to the nearest Dr-Prager stocked polka dotted-free sub terrian dwelling abode.

To remember 9/11

2009-09-11T11:40:00.000-05:00

It's been 8 years. The memories are still clear in my mind.

It's a war that we have been fighting ever since then. It isn't over yet.

Take a minute of silence. Reflect. Remember. Don't walk away and never look back, because then you are condemning all who died that day to their graves. And they don't deserve that, they deserve better.

There's nothing we can DO to fix it, to change the past. But we CAN do something to change the future.

Light a candle for those who died. Give extra charity. Do a good deed in their memory. Help create a better future.

It's up to YOU.

Moshiach now!

For E

2009-09-09T21:38:00.001-05:00

College

2009-09-09T10:26:00.004-05:00

What several people have said to me about college:

You have to go or you'll be fixing toilets for the rest of your life
You can't go or you'll go OTD and become a mumar.
If you go you'll become an alcoholic and a drug addict

How it measures up with reality:

I missed the first class of this semester because I was fixing a toilet.
I daven vasikin
I was at a wedding last night where I was the only current college student at my table and the only person who never smoked weed.

Farbrengan tonight for women

2009-09-07T17:30:00.000-05:00

Contact me for details.

matisyahu virtual concert

2009-09-03T15:48:00.003-05:00

Will the bloggers of today join together with reb matis in san fran?
its like on twitter or facebook or something, im not exactly sure but i think u can send in requests.
Right here:
http://apps.facebook.com/matisyahulive/
5 PM PACIFIC STANDERD TIME, or for the rest of us, 8.

2009-08-30T22:34:00.003-05:00

Hey everybody - Got a requst for you all. Please daven for the immediate recovery of ChananVelvel ben Bryna.

This is a man who has been more of an uncle to me than my uncles, whose children are my siblings and cousins and friends.

And the situation right now is the sword on the throat kind.

So please - say some Tehillim, do a little learning, and daven that this man should see his grandchildren celebrate their weddings.

UPDATE: NAME CHANGE: His name is now Chanan Velvel SIMCHA ben Bryna

Be sensitive

2009-08-20T17:37:00.006-05:00

M1 = primary motor cortex (moves whiskers)
S1 = primary sensory cortex (senses whisker movement against objects)
A1 through E3 — barrels (columns) in sensory cortex, each responsive to a single whisker movement

Such is His Will.

How do we know this, you ask? This is how (click to enlarge):

(source)

Workspace

2009-08-19T20:23:00.002-05:00

I apologize for two posts in a row and low picture quality (taken with my phone before I clean up).

Weirdness salad

2009-08-19T18:26:00.004-05:00

How the mind of a Russian looks from the inside:

(click on the picture to enlarge)

[via Artemiy Lebedev’s business lynch]

Riddles

2009-08-16T03:07:00.002-05:00

What can run but never walks,
has a mouth but never talks,
has a head but never weeps,
has a bed but never sleeps?

~~~~~~~~~~
Pronounced as one letter,
And written with three,
Two letters there are,
And two only in me.

I'm double, I'm single,
I'm black, blue, and gray,
I'm read from both ends,
And the same either way.
What am I?

~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a marble hall white as milk
Lined with skin as soft as silk
Within a fountain crystal-clear
A golden apple doth appear.
No doors there are to this stronghold,
Yet thieves break in to steal its gold.

An important question

2009-08-10T09:36:00.001-05:00

Does anyone know a good, mouthful-of-syllables, recognizably ashkenazi-Jewish name? I need one for a story. Depending on who -- if anyone -- buys it, the story will probably show up here.

Out of the woodwork

2009-08-07T17:09:00.002-05:00

After a flurry of intense negotiations regarding multimillion dollar contracts (they had to have happened sometime in in human history, no?) the notorious lurker Modeh B'Miktsas has joined basement blogging. Not a native of Crown Heights nor a member of the Lubavitch underground, this move has been hailed by diversity advocates as a huge leap forward towards that great day in the future when goats will have tenured faculty positions.

Rev. B'Miktsas was not available for comment. When last heard from he was working on a Star Wars novel centered around a Sith lord named Darth Kushentuchus.

I agree

2009-08-04T07:50:00.000-05:00

Guzel bir baslangic wrote:

Kullanmad��n�za pi�man olacaks�n�z
3 ayl�k k�r ile 3 le 7 cm aras�nda b�y�meyi garanti ediyoruz.
Mucizevi bir tamamen do�al bir takviye Hayat�n�zda m�kemmel bir ad�m at�n.
3 kutu kullan�mda i�e yaramazsa para iadesi
�u an stoklar�m�zda �stanbul i�ine 2 saatte teslim ediyoruz.Dilerseniz kap�da kredi kart� ile �deme.
Kargo �cretinizi biz kar��l�yoruz.I

An Important Question:

2009-07-23T08:50:00.001-05:00

Why is a mouse if it spins?

Good comment from Yitzi

2009-07-15T13:45:00.000-05:00

Hi, I just happened upon BB ..

was curious to read the comments of this post..
to know how Chabadnikim think of the Rebbe currently.. [I only know some of the Hassidut of the Alter Rebbe] Thanks to all of you for sharing.

If I could share my thoughts (limited by the fact that I haven't had the benefit of much exposure to the Rebbe's Hassidut -- only one sicha) I would think that it's clear from Igrot haKodesh (in the Tanya) in the letter the Alter Rebbe wrote to console the mourners of the Pri HaAretz, that during the Rebbe's corporeal lifetime, our ability to perceive the Rebbe's ahavah/yirah/emunah were hidden and now it's possible to experience (ie. l'hasig) them directly through our love for him.

@Altie, I'm assuming you don't have children -- I think when you have children, you will better understand what it *feels* like to be a parent and to treat every little thing your children produce as if it is more precious than gold -- maybe then you will really be able to *feel* that the Rebbe not only reads but prizes your letters. [which reminds me of a teaching that touched me from the Baal Shem Tov, (i believe in Tzava'at HaRivash) that just as a father is excited when his child says 'abba' even if the child doesn't even know what he's saying, so too HaShem takes great joy in our calling out His name, even if we don't know what we're saying.]

For myself, all I can say is that I wish I had a chance to see the Rebbe.. even if it was only as a child and I had forgotten the memory.

2009-07-09T10:08:00.001-05:00

331 40 501 501

What you think

2009-07-08T18:46:00.000-05:00

So, Shiva Asar B'Tamuz, anyone?

Profile Pictures

2009-07-08T18:26:00.002-05:00

I tried getting a profile picture (a cute little cheerio), but it doesn't seem to work everywhere. Help!

Gimmel Tammuz Virtual Farbrengan

2009-06-25T04:00:00.004-05:00

Gimmel tammuz is an important day. I think it is appropriate for a "Crown Heights Underground" blog to be a place where we can talk about what Gimmel Tammuz means. I'd like to use the comment section of this post as a forum for such a discussion.

Yesterday, one of the shluchim here started singing "Gimmel tammuz didn't change a thing..." I turned to him and asked, "Do you really think that Gimmel tammuz didn't change anything?"

And now... I turn the question on you. Do you think that anything changed with Gimmel tammuz? I think we would all agree that something changed... but maybe differ on what changed. What do you think is different now?

Gimmel Tamuz in my soul

2009-06-25T01:43:00.003-05:00

Stolen from my blog and before that from somewhere else.

Presenting, for the very first time; C on BB!!!!!

2009-06-22T20:00:00.002-05:00

Thank you TRS for this most thoughtful invitation (and to anyone else who may have inspired it). I am must flattered, and feel as if I have been accepted amongst all the cool bloggers as part of the "inner-circle". OK, just kidding, but it is nice to be here.

I would introduce myself, but that would just be boring, plus it's customary to be introduced by someone else (which can be done in the comments). Anyhow, mostly I am welcoming myself to this here bloggaroo (which is apparently a word) and to Israel. Not because you care, but because I can't sleep and I'm bored and no one else is awake.

Anyhow.... I think I've just about bored myself to sleep here... so may be heading back upstairs soon. Just wanna say hi, and thanks for the invite.

And wishing you all a wonderful summer! Here's hoping the sun shines soon wherever you are...

L'chaim!

Expanding the Family

2009-06-21T18:24:00.002-05:00

Since Basement Blogging was started, a whole bunch of new people have gotten involved in out corner of the blogosphere. Why not invite them to join Basement Blogging?

Mazel Tov!

2009-06-07T23:17:00.001-05:00

All right, I feel really bad and guilty and whatnot for not attending fellow BBer Mottel's wedding, so I'll use this forum instead to say a big mazel tov!

Creative Decalogue Writing Experiment

2009-05-21T02:18:00.004-05:00

I wrote this for someone, it has a few of the ten commandments in it . . . Let's put as many different commandments as we can! I tag TRS to continue it . . .

"My name is Ira Cohen.

"As a child I was always fascinated with shiny objects. Bits of tiny foil, glass marbles, pieces of metal . . . I would collect them all. I knew they weren't worth much, but in my childish mind, they meant the world to me.

"I became so excited about my collection, that my friend Billy also got involved. One day, Billy called me over to his house -his voice full of excitement.
'Look!' he told me. His hands darted to his pockets - and slowly produced a small gold ring. 'Look what I have . . .'
"I wanted it, I wanted it right away . . . The desire gnawed at me, it began to distract me from everything - school, games, life . . . I needed it for my collection.
One day, at Billy's house, I saw the ring sitting on his desk. When he wasn't looking I stole it. That evening I ran home and put in my drawer with the rest of the shiny odds and ends in my collection.
As the days went by, I forgot about the ring languishing in my drawer. A week or so later, however, my parents came to me. They asked if I had seen a golden ring in Billy's house. Apparently it had been a gift from his Grandfather, and meant very much to him. Guilt welled up in my heart, but I couldn't bring myself to confess my wrongdoing. Though an honest, child - one who felt so ill at ease to lie . . . the word's seemed to flow so easily from my mouth.
'Nope,' I told my mother, 'I've never seen it before.'
'Are you sure?' They asked me.
'Yes!' I answered. 'I swear - I swear to G-d that I've never seen it before!'
'If you see it,' they pressed on, 'you'll let us know . . . right? It was a very expensive gift!'

"I became nervous, I couldn't bear the guilt of stealing something from my best friend.
'I didn't see it, ok!' I yelled at them . . . 'No leave me alone. Just leave me alone . . . I hate you, when you bother me like that!'

"The next day in school I couldn't bear to play with Billy anymore. I became distant from him and our other friends . . . I became depressed, and my grades began to drop. By the time I entered high school, I no longer fit into the system. I made trouble, got into fights . . . When I didn't pass the 11th grade, instead of repeating it, I quit. Working odd jobs, I continued my downwards spiral. At nights I would get drunk and hang around with wild guys and girls like me. I would even use drugs. I couldn't hold down a job with such behavior . . . so I turned back to the one thing I knew I could do . . . I began to steal.
"That's when things got really bad. One day I broke into an old house. I thought it was empty, but I saw old lady inside. Worse yet, she saw me.

TRS:

We committed adultery. Then I worshiped satan. Then I violated the sabbath and murdered her.

Saved by the bar

2009-05-15T16:55:00.003-05:00

...Continued from

The impersonator was preparing for his big day. Of course he had practiced for hours and hours before, but this would be the first time he would be performing live. All right, he had tried performing live once before, but it had been a complete and utter disaster. Or so he liked to believe. His belief's were of course his business alone, and he liked to keep them that away.

Point was, and this was what the impersonator always had to keep in mind, he was going to be performing. Before an adoring crowd. The press was rooting for him to win. The royal box would be occupied tonight, to see him, the impersonator, in his greatest triumph.
----
The King was complaining again. "Would you just shut up?" asked his wife, "Haven't you been king long enough to know that when these sorts of events happen a royal presence is expected?"

The king responded, "Why can't you just go yourself?"

"Because it would be quite improper for a lady to go unaccompanied to the theatre. Think of the scandal!"

"Why can't you go with some other guy then?"

"Because if I go with 'some other guy' (making quotation marks with her fingers) then people will think that he's cuckolding you, which would of course be highly embarrassing."

The king, who hated when the queen made quotation marks with her fingers, thought of a good idea. "Maybe I go alone?" he asked.

"Absolutely not!" said the queen, "Besides, people might think you were abandoning the eden that is living with me."

The king would have snorted, but he realized that it's improper to snort in front of ladies. Then he realized that this was absolute poppycock, but he still didn't snort, because he knew that if he did his wife would disapprove in the strongest measures.

The queen took a look at the king, wondering why he hadn't said anything, and proceeded to fill the void with, "Besides, I really do want to show that the royals support the arts, and what better way could there be than to attend a live performance at the state theatre?"
----
Later that night...

The king may have been dominated by his wife, but he did have some powers. When they had first arrived at the theatre he had called the chief chamberlain over and told him to arrange drinks in the royal box, but on his side, so that the queen, a noted teetotaler, wouldn't be able to see what he was imbibing.

Being her usual eagle-eyed self she had in fact noticed the king drinking, but he had suavely turned the situation around by offering her a drink too, and when he handed her a Shirley Temple she was mollified. Obviously the chief chamberlain had followed her instructions and made sure that there was no alcohol in the building.
----
Half an hour after the show had started, just before the impersonator was to make his grand entrance, the king slumped forward to the floor. The crowd gasped, and the king's attendants rushed forward to help. A man leaped onto the stage and screamed, "Thusly to all tyrants!", and hundreds of guards swarmed forward to waterboard him (at least, that was the plan. First they'd take him into custody, book him, make a few press conferences, etc). The king was carried to a waiting ambulance, and as the sirens roared off into the night the king was transported to the bar of the theatre, his wife following behind the empty ambulance in the royal automobile.

The king's doctor was in the bar too, and he said, "My congratulations, sire, on that most brilliant escape."

"Escape??!!" cried the king, "I was deathly ill! The shock to the system would have killed any lesser creature!"

The royal physician arrived at that moment, and pushing the king's doctor aside, he said, "Yes sire, that assassination attempt would surely have killed any lesser man."

The king gave him a look that would have killed (if looks could kill), and said, "Assassination attempt? Putting ginger ale in my sixth Manhattan was an assassination attempt?"

At this moment the king's own surgeon arrived, and rudely pushing away the king's doctor and the royal physician he said, "Such a shock would surely have killed any lesser man, though I do declare, ginger ale in moderation can help the average diet."

The king, thoroughly disgusted by his inept medical team, wondered where he had gone wrong in life.

To be continued...

No you didn't!

2009-05-03T17:32:00.001-05:00

...Continued from

The King was discussing a plan with his chief economic advisers to sponsor a golf tournament. His advisers weren't particularly enthused with the idea, but they were dealing with the King, and they had to tread lightly. The problem, as they saw it, was that the kingdom didn't stand to gain much, if anything, from a sporting venture, and could quite possibly lose big. The king wasn't listening to all the king's men, and protested that if Monaco could have a grand prix and Luxembourg a tennis tournament, why couldn't he have a golf tournament?

The queen, meanwhile, wasn't impressed with the king's latest idea either, but she wasn't going to say anything. Yet. After all, hadn't she always gotten her way with sufficient cajoling? But now was not the time for such antics. After all, her opinion hadn't even been asked yet. Not that she expected it to be asked. No, the queen rejoiced in an advisory role that was above the asking of opinion. She made her views be known in a far more subtle way than an outside observer, seeing her gross manners and corpulent build, would have ever believed possible.

The king followed his meeting with lunch. His wife, the queen, had ordered cheese omelets, and the king began to eat his with gusto. After a few investigatory bites of her own egg the queen asked, "And how was your morning, dear?"

The king, instantly on his guard following such a patently false opening, guardedly responded, "It was satisfactory." The queen hadn't been prepared for such a brilliant strategic move on the part of the king, and was nonplussed for a moment. Only for a moment of course-she hadn't become the queen by failing to respond to such provocative statements instantly. Girding her wits about her, the queen said, "Well, that's nice. Was anything accomplished?"

Shocked by this completely unexpected rejoinder, the king pondered his next move, but only for the briefest of periods of time. Less than ten seconds to be sure, but possibly a little more than five. Regardless, the king soon gathered his thoughts, and let loose with a barrage of astounding clarity, "Not too much. We discussed various options for making it through the current financial crisis, and we're all pleased with the progress we're making."

The queen was blown out of her boxers by this incredibly coruscating retort, and nearly gave up the fight. She didn't, of course, because she hadn't become the queen by giving up the fight. When the going got tough, the queen got nasty. "So what you're saying, dear, is that you're interested in improving the kingdom's financial well-being with a well-timed stimulus package designed to bolster our workforce and improve morale in both the public and private sector with a series of interventionist measures calculated to dig us out of the morass we've fallen into?"

The king felt that this conversation had gone too far, and he fell asleep. The queen finished his omelet, content in her victory.

To Be Continued...

2009-05-03T16:18:00.001-05:00

WHat happened to the post I put up here?

Plugging My Other Blog Because Its 2 AM and I Should Be Asleep

2009-04-30T00:55:00.002-05:00

Bsd

Everyone - go read my writing blog (you know, the one with the pretentious title and the cute url and check out the poems I posted.

Bless you!

2009-04-28T17:09:00.002-05:00

In der velt, when you sneeze and someone says "bless you," should you respond "thank you"?

Continuing the Creative Word Joint Writing stuff

2009-04-28T09:40:00.005-05:00

In this Joint writing Exersize - we write things two words at a time!!

Let's get started!

Key: e TRS le7 Sarabonne Dovid Mottel Cheerio Crawling Axe Sef

A Bochur fell off a very thingilded stool on wheels and then he died. His motherscreamed in French, Russian, and Chinese And broke her water gun. Then much to her displeasure she snorted some coca cola. The cat spat up the phylacteries and started to dance.Suddenly he meowed outloud saying, "I just must abstain from hacking up tea kettles." The mother

Continued!

2009-04-26T20:42:00.006-05:00

Key: e. TRS le7 Sarabonne Dovid Mottel Cheerio Crawling Axe Sef

Eric ran for all he was worth. Suddenly, he was hit by the front-end loader he had been chased by and landed in a nearby ditch. He landed flat on his rather plump posterior and was more shocked than injured. He cursed the heavens and rummaged around for his monocle.

"What kind of job is this for a nice Jewish boy wearing a tweed jacket, suspenders, hair-plugs, and a monocle anyway?" he wondered. Reaching into his coat pocket for his inhaler, Eric felt something warm and wet oozing onto his fingers. Eric pulled out his monocle, and popped it into his eye socket. And then he saw the rhino. Knees buckled, he ran for Tijuana. And promptly fell flat on his face, it's hard to run with buckled legs.

"What the hell is going on here," he muttered to himself, as blood dripped from his fingers, his monocle fell to the ground, his suspenders snapped, and he noticed--for the first time--that the rhino and the front-end loader were both gone. Ira Eric Green was definitely beginning to have second thoughts about his new "legitimate" career as a stunt double. It wasn't only the danger involved; the pay was shoddy, and it left him with no time for his true love, competitive matzah ball eating. Fluffy white ones, little brown hard ones, stuffed with ground beef and jalapeno, fried with mango sauce... whenever Ira thought about matzah balls, he could barely contain himself...

Slowly the world came back in focus as Ira settled down from the trip - taking matza balls laced with acid, was not good for ones health. "Could this be the cause of my tinnitus?” Ira thought, suddenly remembering his trip to Prague as a representative to Russian mafia.

Little did Ira Eric Green know that the high-pitched beeping noise he had been hearing since that trip was really a result of a tracking device that had been installed during the night he had stayed in a sleazy Russian hotel. As Ira slowly rose to his feet, perhaps a cup of coffee would help stable his blurred vision and pounding headache.

Sipping his coffee, he moseyed over to the calendar to see when the next matzah-ball-eating competition would be. As he began searching through the dates, he discovered that the next contest would be in three days. He sipped his coffee, added a fourth teaspoon of sugar and then noticed where the contest would take place. "The Brooklyn City Hospital- front parking lot", he read off the notice. "Oh dear", he thought, "talk about flirting with the past." He slurped down the rest of his coffee and gave a loud belch.

A man standing next to him said, "My dear sir, that was absolutely disgusting, I've never been so offended in my life!"

He looked over at the man and said "How in tarnation did you get inside my kitchen?"

"Your kitchen!" the man roared, "who do you think you are, making horrible noises and then thinking you own this place? Be gone!"

"Security?" said Eric Ira Green, with a slight bit of annoyance in his voice, "Can we get this guy off the set?"

Ira "Eric" Green wagged his head and blinked a few times, trying to dispell the image of the man standing in his kitchen. "Guess acid takes longer to wear off then they said in that recipe book," he muttered to himself, shaking his head harder and faster back and forth. Suddenly, something dislodged itself from his ear and fell to the floor with the quietest of smashing sounds.

"Oh no!" Ira cried, "my prized platinum stud has fallen out! Whatever shall I do?" (Too bad Ira doesn't know what a stud is).

Suddenly, Ira realized that his tinnitus was gone. Ah, and there was that bloody rhino again. "Damn, the acid flashes are getting worse! Well I better rest up and hope this wears off before the competion", he thought yawning and lying down.

Ira heard the instructions from his CIA handler over the earpiece he had inserted back into his ear (where else), and proceeded to the rendezvous point three miles out of town to the left of the Alterra coffee where the wild things were. (Or so he dreamed in his long, deep slumber.) Ira blinked as he saw himself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies - from afar somebody called him, so he answered quite slowly,to a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

She sang to him,

"You're so vain You probably think this song is about you You're so vain I'll bet you think this song is about you Don't you? Don't you?"

and then ran off.

Ira tried to look for his monocle, but instead found a piece of French toast in his jacket; at this point, he heard (amidst now very distinctive lack of tinnitus) a male voice in Eastern European accent say “Brrrekfest ready, Mistterr Eeera”, smelled French toast and woke up. Laying in his 800 count - hot pink - Egyptian cotton sheets, Ira looked around the room to see if the voice he heard was real.

"Of course I'm real!" a raspy voice screamed. The raspy voice belonged to a shriveled old man who was standing in the center of Ira's room (which was coincidentally was painted hot pink), holding a (what else?) hot pink breakfast tray.

"Oh Adrian its just you. What day is it? How long have I been sleeping here on the set?"

"Erm, Meester Ira sir...you been sleeping many a moon, we was very worried."

Ira looked around the room and saw something strange; a cow was staring straight at him! It let out a loud moo and informed Ira that he was from Wisconsin.

"Perchance you hail from the Sheboygan region, my ancestral stomping grounds?" Ira asked hopefully.

The bovine creature was rather appalled by Ira's outragous question and his lacking sense of propriety.

Realizing that the acid has yet to wear off, Ira decided against driving himself to the matzah-ball eating contest and instead asked the cow for a ride. The cow mooed with delight and kneeled down for Ira to climb on, as he grabbed his hot pink 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets and tied it around his kneck for a cape - "yeehaw!"

Creative Word Joint Writing Exersize

2009-04-23T21:07:00.016-05:00

With my ADHD and the Chasuna prep, B"H I'm very busy and don't have the time to invest in making blog posts like I used to . . . Writings sentences is fun, but it just takes to dern long.

That's why I'm starting a new Joint writing Exersize - we write things two words at a time!!

Let's get started!

ey: e TRS le7 Sarabonne Dovid Mottel Cheerio Crawling Axe Sef

A Bochur fell off a very thin gilded stool on wheels and then he died. His mother screamed in French, Russian, and Chinese And broke her water gun. Then much to her displeasure she snorted some coca cola. The cat Spat up the phylacteries and started to dance

The One-Sentence-a-Piece Joint-Writing Exercise.

2009-04-23T10:00:00.026-05:00

A man standing next to him said, "My dear sir, that was absolutely disgusting, I've never been so offended in my life!"

She sang to him,

"You're so vain You probably think this song is about you You're so vain I'll bet you think this song is about you Don't you? Don't you?"

and then ran off.

"Oh Adrian its just you. What day is it? How long have I been sleeping here on the set?"

"Erm, Meester Ira sir...you been sleeping many a moon, we was very worried."

Yet Another Group Writing Exercise - the Crown Heights Teen Drama Version

2009-04-23T00:07:00.003-05:00

Bsd

Inspired by recent events (I'M MOVING OUT OF THE BASEMENT!!!!!),and a chance comment made by my roommate (the incredible Ilanica) about such events, I now have the basic plot for my Crown Heights teen drama (tentatively titled CROWN HEIGHTS 11213) :

When three young women move out of their basement apartment to the third floor of the all-female-resident Brooklyn brownstone, their landlord shockingly rents the basement to his young male relative and two friends. Hilarity, hijinks, and hysteria ensue.

Now I need YOU to contribute following plot lines!

Closure

2009-04-20T10:01:00.001-05:00

(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?
(Dovid's Paragraph II)
"Beep, beep, beep"
Annoyed at the sound of this disturbance, the anesthesiologist glanced up from the novel he was reading to see why the heart-lung machine was beeping. The quick glance was enough to tell him that he would be seeing Gary Feld's family in court sometime soon. "I'll blame it on the surgeon", he thought, "he must have dislodged a bullet fragment. Maybe I can somehow blame it on that fire alarm that went off earlier" . As he was forming his defense, just outside the hospital, Dina Light watched as Henry the bunny ran wildly around the parking lot evading the hospital police. After about an hour of this, Henry ran straight into her parked car. Dina walked out and checked his pulse, "shoot" she muttered "he's dead". She got back into her car, turned the key in the ignition and detonated the bomb Ira Green had deftly planted under her seat while she was scoping out the hospital. Ira frowned as he watched the screen go black and grey. What kind of job was this for a nice Jewish boy in a tweed jacket, suspenders and hear-plugs anway?

Heavenly fire

2009-04-01T09:29:00.006-05:00

(click on the image to see a slightly larger version)

New Orleans, c. 2005

The return of the king!

2009-03-31T19:03:00.005-05:00

...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...

Story Time

2009-03-29T15:25:00.003-05:00

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:

#1
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.

#2
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?

Let's get a little random

2009-03-21T20:56:00.004-05:00

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?

Henry

2009-03-18T23:25:00.013-05:00

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

2009-03-18T21:04:00.004-05:00

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...

Shamor v’zachor

2009-03-14T20:08:00.001-05:00

(click to enlarge)

Mitzva m’loshon tzavta.

MAZAL TOV!

2009-03-13T15:47:00.002-05:00

(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

2009-03-13T14:08:00.008-05:00

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...

An oxymoron — take two

2009-03-12T07:33:00.001-05:00

A vegetarian chossid.

An oxymoron — take one

2009-03-10T23:25:00.000-05:00

A Mongolian sailor.

PSA: Purim Safety

2009-03-09T17:01:00.004-05:00

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

2009-03-09T11:59:00.004-05:00

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...

People are Stupid

2009-03-08T14:58:00.002-05:00

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

$0.39 each

3/$1.19

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

2009-03-08T01:31:00.011-06:00

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.)

Two Euphemisms I Invented this Morning in the Shower

2009-03-06T11:21:00.002-06:00

Don't say, "He trims his beard." Nope, he "engages in scissors-facilitated picking."

Nobody shaves. They just "engage in extreme trimming."

Trashy Teen Dramas

2009-03-05T14:32:00.004-06:00

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...

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

2009-03-04T20:16:00.002-06:00

(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

2009-03-04T17:10:00.004-06:00

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

2009-03-04T01:09:00.001-06:00

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?

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

2009-03-02T01:30:00.004-06:00

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?

K'heref Ayin

2009-02-27T03:52:00.002-06:00

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?

2009-02-26T18:56:00.002-06:00

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

2009-02-24T12:49:00.005-06:00

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!

2009-02-24T01:12:00.002-06:00

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

2009-02-23T17:10:00.009-06:00

Direction

2009-02-23T10:13:00.003-06:00

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

2009-02-22T19:45:00.008-06:00

Cooking for Wimps

2009-02-21T19:56:00.003-06:00

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

2009-02-21T19:29:00.005-06:00

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

2009-02-20T11:13:00.008-06:00

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

2009-02-19T21:21:00.003-06:00

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?

2009-02-19T19:41:00.003-06:00

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!

2009-02-19T11:09:00.004-06:00

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

2009-02-19T00:35:00.006-06:00

"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

2009-02-19T00:33:00.005-06:00

(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.

2009-02-18T21:53:00.001-06:00

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*