Friday, February 10, 2006

Ducking Responsibility

My Family Crest I decided that I needed some time away from the office and to get intimate with the nature of your planet. I can think of no better way to implement intimacy than with duck hunting. So, I loaded up the van, enlisted the services of my trusty, Japanese, duck-hunting dog, 私は憎む (Iha-teyou, pronounced ē'-hä tā-yō) and skeedaddled off to HuntDuckLand.

My quarry?
Just Ducky
You quack me up!

Simply shooting the poor, dumb beasts with a projectile weapon (of which I have many) would be no challenge at all. And while using the traditional weapon that emits bursts of light only is considerably more difficult to be sure, I hold myself up to higher standards than that. Rather, I utilized a technique perfected by my mother whenever she wanted to get a point across. These foul fowl would meet their ends at the hands of "the FACE." Yes, whenever I would transgress the boundaries of what my materfamilias would consider acceptable childlike behavior, she would administer "the FACE" in such generous portions that you would think it was grits. This would immediately reduce me to a simpering, catatonic state, and I would recover several hours later with little remembrance of the event that necessitated a FACING.

...What was I talking about? I guess it doesn't matter. Once "the FACE" is perfected, it can actually tear the fabric of spacetime. When the poor animal discerns that it is being FACED, it becomes trapped momentarily: helpless, suspended in the air and surrounded in a white, orthogonal aura. The look of astonishment upon the bird's brow is definitely a point of amusment, as I can tell that Iha-teyou finds it very comical. This lasts for but a split second before the animal careens down into my loyal companion's salivating yapper. That will teach it to fly around not bothering anyone.
Eemos: two. Fowl: zero.

Before heading home, we set all the ducks free, because I am smitten with emancipation. I'm absolutely idiotic with it.
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Thursday, February 09, 2006

Candid Camera

My Family Crest In addition to my knightly duties, I consider myself somewhat of a photographer as well. If you happen upon my flickr block to the right, you will see that I have captured some wonderfully candid shots of some of my friends and coworkers in action. You can see that I've mastered the ideas of framing, headroom and perspective, although I don't necessarily follow the inaccurately named "rule of thirds." Come now. How can something be a rule if there is no consequence of bodily harm for breaking it? No, I prefer my subjects front and center, thank you very much.
My model has redeye reduction. This works well on demons.

You no doubt recognize them from their various videogame exploits, although most of them seem fairly trite when compared to my adventures.

Still, there is something to be said for nostalgia, so take a gander or perhaps a goose at my virtual photo album if you should have the time. I've even organized them into friends, foes and myself for easy gandering.
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Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Incoming RPG-TV

My Family Crest I took a trip across the pond to pay a visit to our friends over at RPG TV. Much like Cato would always keep Inspector Clouseau's discernment of his surroundings and possibly-imminent death sharp, I chose to test the spacial awareness of Josh and Seth. Unlike Clouseau, though, I neglected to bring along a snappy soundtrack.
Knock, knock. Panther-gram

Their defenses failed, obviously, but this was not altogether expected. Perhaps over time, their acuity will evolve to a point where they are able to realize things like the addition of a vine in their frontroom from which a first-rate videogame hero could pounce upon them, panther-like.
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Suicide Bob-ombers

My Family Crest Draing's expounding has got me thinking about a nasty little enemy that I have encountered countless times and have defeated countless + 1 times.

I speak, of course, of the Suicide Bob-omber. The concept of blowing one's self to Havana for one's beliefs is not unique to this planet, unfortunately. Unlike here, though, Badaserian suicide bob-ombers know their place. They are utilized for purely defensive means to protect strongholds and the like. This is a very subtle, yet important distinction. Somehow, this just seems nobler... or more noble.
He's late for a very important date.

Also, they are not only very easy to spot given their small, (very literally) bomb-like countenance, but they also have the fortunate tendency of designating their imminent annihilation with a helpful, flashing, warning posture. This allows you to simply pick them up and toss them away with moments to spare. The crafty adventurer might even utilize their incendiary nature for makeshift demolitions; should a wall or say, giant frog impede his or her progress.

Conversely, I can't think of a single, positive effect produced by your species' version.
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Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Cartoon Violence

Draing's Favorite Grade Since I'm fictional, I can get away with saying stuff you real people can't. So, I have to get some current events stuff off of my chest. Apparently, a certain subset of a group of people are up-in-arms, literally, about a cartoon that depicts the person that they hold most dear as a violent sociopath.

How does this subset choose to express its rage (with a cartoon)? As usual, the truth is stranger than fiction. This subset decides to commit unadulterated violence against people that have absolutely nothing to do with the thing that irritated them in the first place. That insult being a cartoon just so you don't forget.

If you miss the irony in this story, I wonder why you're even reading this blog.

Please, please, please know that I'm not talking about the group, only the subset. I can totally understand being ticked off. I'm sure that any organization would be upset if their head-honcho came under fire. But, come on, don't personify the very thing that has your pretzel in a twist.

"My sister just called me fat, so I'm going to eat her now!"
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Monday, February 06, 2006

Oeufs, I did it again.

My Family Crest Nothing vexes me like the golden honeypot that is the yolk. Why must this meniscus of melodrama mock me? Try as I might to keep the tasty payload in tact, I always invariably wind up tearing the slimy fabric and spilling its warm entrails all over the pan; therefore denying myself the future, decadent soppage with toast.
Farewell, sweet Yolk.

Should ever I preserve the flavorful bounty, much like the water strider preserves the surface tension of the lake, my success is far from guaranteed. Oh no. Some infernal distraction such as the invasion of a sovereign nation by the unclean hordes or the doorbell always sequesters my attention away from its intended recipient. I return to the skillet to find such an unwanted thing as a lump of coal in the Christmas stocking: an orange, solid mass of broken dreams. Folly!
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