There Is No Excuse For Being Prissy

Headbutts for everyone.

Let's start with this: shut up you windbags.

And let's get this out of the way: I have a problem.

This writing has become a problem, indirectly speaking. See, I start with an idea. Usually when I come to the computer and force myself to write, nothing comes out. It's dull, it's dreary, it's not the A-list material we all know and love. My best ideas come out of the blue, when I'm having a peaceful moment of zen reflecting on the consequences of Jupiter's third moon moving out of my orbit. Suddenly, an idea strikes, and I realize, right then and there, that it is pure, unadulterated, literary gold.

But my problem kicks in. When I am finally ready to type, I can't remember the idea that was so brilliant it could kill you upon the conclusion of your reading. I forget.

Now, I remember when I was a kid that I had a brilliant memory. I could remember things that I had never even seen before, that's how good I was. Obviously, I have not changed since the time I was 6 other than I have the capacity to grow more facial hair, so the root of my problem lies elsewhere. And I, being the intellectual that I am, have found out what my problem is.

Someone comes in the night and steals my ideas.

A small man, possibly along the lines of 4'8", blue hair, shoe size 11, wearing a fishnet shirt from 1987 and shorts emblazened with the old Houston Rockets logo, comes into my bedroom in the middle of the night and steals my best ideas right out of my head. I believe, since he is so tiny, he enters my room through the air conditioning duct, ala Santa Claus going down a chimney, and sifts through my brain, taking only the truly great ideas and leaving the rest. This leaves me with little to nothing to pass onto you, as almost all of my ideas floating around in my head are truly great ones.

But I am telling you now, I am onto you, you little blue haired man in the Houston Rockets shorts. I know what you are doing, and I want my ideas back, especially the one about the noodle incident. I'm watching for you, and I'm waiting.

K bye.

The Reports of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Headbutt.

Let's get this out of the way: retirement doesn't appease the masses.

Thanks to the hundreds and thousands and millions of people who wrote, called, emailed, IMed, and smoke signaled me to show their appreciation for my work. After answering every call, writing back every letter that contained a self addressed stamped envelope, and sacrificing a squirrel, I feel that I owe it to those hundreds and thousands and millions of people to continue forth. To keep writing, keep publishing, keep providing content so those people can rest easy at night knowing I am doing my part to keep the world safe from boredom, malaise, and goats.

Gotta watch out for those goats, they're dangerous.

So now, onto bigger issues. Onto the dwarf in my TV.

Yes, the rumors are true, we do have a dwarf living in our television set spinning the color wheel (or "wheel of color", as that little Portuguese rascal likes to call it). First things first, he's not enslaved in any way. He's free to go whenever he wants to, provided he can get past the laser grid, the shark tank, and the guard puppy like everyone else (hey, if you can make it past a laser grid and a shark tank, you deserve a gimme with the guard puppy. Besides, it's soooo cute, just look at that little face.... Sorry.) Plus we feed him sometimes, and he has a roof over his head, and he gets free television whenever we turn it on. What more could you want?

Anyway, we're not getting rid of him. We're not "freeing" him. He likes it in the TV, that's what his Portuguese rantings said. At least, that's what I think he said, trying to figure out Portuguese is tough when you have no idea what the hell they're saying. That's why we just punt him back into the TV and make him work. It's easier that way on everybody. Trust me.

Is he overqualified for the job? Eh, maybe a little. But you have to start somewhere. Everybody does. Just because he's Royal Order of Gnome doesn't mean he's anything special over here. He should have to work his way to the top like all the other dwarves in this society. Did you see David the Gnome complain about not having his show renewed on Nickelodeon? No. Is that dwarf from the Lord of the Rings trilogy complaining that the movie is over? No. Am I erroneously lumping dwarves and gnomes together to make a point which doesn't exist? Yes. Do I care? Not one bit.

What's really important is that we have a dwarf spinning our wheel of color, he's alive, and we aren't letting him go. Does that make me cruel and cold? Possibly one of the two, but not both. What it really means is that the retirement is over, let my reign of dominance over both the literary world and all dwarves residing at 8010 recommence right....... now.

K bye.

The Final Goodbye

Headbutt.

First things first: I don't know where that crazy English minstrel came from, but thank god he's gone. It was getting really damn annoying, plus that story had gone on for way too long. Three weeks?? It needed to get finished and over with. Is this an apology by any means? No. You can't tell me what to do, you aren't my mom (unless my mom does happen to be reading this right now, in which case, well, you get the idea...)

And let's get this out of the way: I got nothin'.

Yes, that's right, I got nothin'. Completely out of ideas. The well's dry. I never wanted this to turn into a "here's what I did today, I ate my cereal, doot do do..." kind of page, because that sucks. Why would you want to know what kind of cereal I ate in the morning?

Or did you already know that I don't eat cereal?

Touche.

Anyway, I've tried to provide you with insight into life. Give everyone a laugh. Show you some crazy weird pictures. Maybe make you think for 3 seconds before your brain died. Well, I can't do that for you anymore. I just don't have it in me. My drive is gone. My desire, my penchant for the insane, the wacky, disappeared. I can't do what I used to be able to do so well: provide a zinger every now and then, lay down a sac bunt with less than two outs, walk without tripping over my own two feet. You know, the little things.

I'm sure there will be others to come along and take my place. People that are more capable of what I used to be able to do so well: rock your socks (and shoes) off.

That is why I have decided to announce my retirement. Please, I know this comes as a shock to at least one of you, but you must understand. I can't keep doing this forever. I need time to spend with my wife and my kids. Appreciate the little things in life. Get a holistic medicine degree. Stuff like that.

I leave you, one last time, with these final words...

K bye.

The Trilogy Concludes

Headbutthine.

And now, ladies and chaps and those of unbeknownst denominations, I present to thee the conclusion of thy story. When we last lefteth Lord Jeremy the Poor and Sir Richard the Cash-Strapped, thy heroes had justeth climbed a hill, and blah blah blah, thy remember the resteth.

Onward our heroes pushed, bravely trudging forth to the Field of Fed-Ex. Off in the distance, what do our heroes see but two more brave knights, halted at what appears to be an ice cream trucketh. And ho ho ho, what are thine purchasing but.... Confectioners sugar?

No, good listeners, thine two knights were purchasing substances of an illegal trade! In a mass effort to rid the world of powdered donuts, thine knights werth buying all of the delicious white powder, leaving us only to purchase regular cake donuts.

Okay, that waseth a lie. Our heroes were witnessing a drug deal. Two guys saideth, "what's up", our heroes respondeth with the same, and onward they trudged. It was kind of creepy if thy asketh me.....

ONWARD our heroes walked, surely knowing that the Field of Fed-Ex. By the grace of Poseidon's beard, there it was! The Field of Fed-Ex, decked out in all it's green and purple glory. Magnificent!

Except our heroes underestimated what lie in store for them.

What lie in store for them, you ask? It was a trap.

Many thousands of years ago, Dark Emperor Turbiathan ruled the world with thine iron fist. A thousand years ago, after narrowly losing the popular vote, Turbiathan wenteth into hiding, vowing redemption and spite. Now, longing to take down the heirs of thine voters who refused to cast a ballot, Dark Emperor Surpreme Turbiathan stood at the Field of Fed-Ex, having promised two young knights, Lord Jeremy the Foolish and Sir Richard the Dumb fame, adulation, and cake.

"Aha, young knights and decendants of those who refused to cast a ballot, be struck down by my iron fist of plenty!" screamed Dark Emperor Exaultant Supreme Turbiathan as he prepared to smite our two brave heroes.

"Huh?" responded Sir Richard the Confounded. "Vote?"

"You mean your ancestors never votedeth?"

"No. Hey, we're tired since we walked for three fricking hours. Can we get a beer?" asked Lord Jeremy the Realistic.

"Oh, yeah, sure, there's a little tailgating thing going on over at my car. Sorry about the whole iron fist of plenty and smiting thing, I thought for sure you guys were the descendants of my sworn enemies. You guys want some chips?" And with that Dark Emperor Exhaultant Surpreme Commander Turbiathan openedeth up the trunk of his car, from which protruded much beer, much more chips, and seats aplenty.

Lord Jeremy the Exhausted and Sir Richard the Dead-tired rejoiced, for they had conquered their journey to the Field of Fed-Ex, and could finally sit down. And with that, ladies and chaps and those of unbeknownst denominations, I shall quiteth plucking thine lute, and bid ye farewell. Checks and money orders for my performance may be senteth to the address on the right.

K bye.

Holy Crap, There Was Just A Huge Clap of Thunder Right Outside My Window

Headbutteth.

Thy time has cometh, ladies and chaps and people of unbeknowst denominations. Sitteth down upon thyest rumps, whilst I spin to ye the second part of our tale. Whenth we last left Lord Jeremy the Striker and Sir Richard the Reader, thine had justeth slayed the Viking horde of Landover, therebyeth paving the way for the Packers of Green Bay to taketh the NFC Central. However, our heroes hath realized the Viking horde was nothing more than the cleverest of clever ruses. Indeed, our heroes were far off course, and thine journey had justeth begunth.

Our heroes consulted thine map, which, for some good fortune blessed upon it before thy had lefteth by Mariel Hemingway, alerted them to their lostnessness. Thanking Mariel, our heroes retreated upon their tracks, slaying the Hound of Eight O'Clock Coffee (which was sleeping when thine lasteth past), foiling again thy Wizard of Very Cruel (Yet Awesome) Tricks, and walkething past the Stump of Nothingness.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Lord Jeremy the Coffeehoundslayer and Sir Richard the Stumpwalkerbyer beat the trail to the Field of Fed-Ex. Thy path was long, thy path was hard, and there waseth many trials to endure. But at last, eureka! Our heroes came upon a Checkers, an oasis in the middle of an urban blight. Erected some timeth before by its feudal lord Chubby, thine Checkers had hostedeth many a great warrior making thy same pilgrimmage as our heroes: Duke Abbington the Flashy, Sir Arrowbottom the Slightly Pale, Archbishop Louie Louie, and Prince. Our heroes claimedeth this Checkers as thine own, and there was much rejoicing round the land.

However, our heroes still had some distance to go before conquering the Field of Fed-Ex. Off again they set, toward the Hill of Lament. Known round the land, the Hill of Lament tortured those whost tried to climbeth it without the aid of motorized assistance. Undaunted, however, our heroes began the trek.

A third of the way up the Hill of Lament, they decided it was a wench.

Our heroes foundeth two small children, gaveth them each a stegosaurus, and "borrowed" thine bikes. Success! The Hill of Lament was conquered, and Lord Jeremy the Briber and Sir Richard the Shinkicker hath acquired means of transportation.

Eight minutes later, our heroes were giveneth citations by "La Policia" for an unregistered bicycle chain. Oh, La Policia, you will incur our heroes' wrath someday! Alas, our heroes were again vehicle-less, and significantly poorer than before. However, thine hath closed in upon thy goal, the Field of Fed-Ex. What riches await them at thine destination? How much fame and adulation willst our heroes endure? How many women will throw themselves against thine heroes, fanning them with leafs of the giant grape variety and feeding them to thine hearts content?

You shall find out, ladies and chaps and those of an unbeknownst denomination, next time.

K byeth.

Gold? You Just Got Demoted To Silver.

Headbuttest.

Let us partake in this before thy column beginnith: ouch.

Pray sit down, fellow chaps and ladies and those of an unspecified denomination. Let me tell ye of a wondrous tale whilst I pline on me lute; a tale of suspense, intrigue, heartbreak, and pain. Listen, as I spin ye the "Tale of Two Million Steps."

It beganst many a moon ago, in the not-so-far away land ye known as "Vienna". It is here that we meet our two heroes: Lord Jeremy the Gallivant, and Sir Richard the Jujubiant. Lord Jeremy and Sir Richard were preparing to set out on a quest of fantastic proportions. Their aim, pray tell? Travel to the far off land knowst only as "Landover", and find and conquer the conquerable: the Field of Fed-Ex.

Thine outlook of our heroes was delightful. Fully confident in thine abilities, our heroes embarked. After taming the beast beknownst only to thee who hast survived it's ferocity as "the Metro", Lord Jeremy and Sir Richard bravely disembarked in the strange and unbearable land of Landover.

After partaking in a vigil with the cosmos, our heroes set off in Landover, looking for the land of Fed-Ex to conquer with their weapons: a terrifying morning star for Lord Jeremy, and 17 stones plucked from thine ground for Lord Richard. The initial Viking assault was a horrific one (Landover Vikings are some of the worst, mind ye). Facing odds that might make a normal man babble, our heroes gallantly slayed Viking warrior after Viking warrior. Finally, only the Vikings known as Mike of Tice and Daunte of Culpepper remained in our heroes way. With a mighty blow, Lord Jeremy struck down Mike of Tice, sending thy villain to the ground. And with 8 well-aimed threws, Sir Richard prodded a stone into the eye of Daunte of Culpepper, felling him as well.

Success! Victory! Our heroes rejoiced, demanding the finest wines and wenches join in ye celebration. So the Viking cheerleaders did join in the regalia, and their was much celebration.

But alas, ladies and chaps and those of an unknownst denomination. Our heroes, Lord Jeremy the Ravishing and Sir Richard the Hurler had indeedest miscalculated. In thine haste to conquer the horrible Viking forces of Landover, thine travels has bequixted thee in thy wrong direction. Around our heroes must turn, a journey anew they must undertake.

Until nextest time, k byest.