shhhh it's a secret

this blogger has a secret. is it a dark secret? no, not really, but a secret all the same. come closer...stop.

*whispers* i want to be a singer. it is my number 1 wish as i blow out my birthday candles every year. 

but it can't happen, i sob as i write this.

growing up, i had very few insecurities. whether i should have felt more or not, i don't know, but i was pretty confident in myself. that is, until i was introduced to the 'musical'.  i have a faint recollection of my heart beating fast when they were assigning lead roles in the 5th grade play, and feeling disappointed that my name was not called. i don't think i had realized at this point that i was shitty at singing, and probably thought that at the tender age of 11 i had it in me to sing and dance my way to stardom. i'm thankful that i was able to use my time in the privacy of the back chorus row, where i was placed because i was a giant 5th grader, to figure out that my singing voice sounded similar to a squawking hen with laryngitis.

i braved that 5th grade play the best i could, but it was probably the most uncomfortable i ever felt throughout all of my formative years--enduring something is very different than participating, i learned. on top of all this singing business, i was forced to wear a skirt to the opening night of the show. A SKIRT! what about my jorts? it was as if someone had slapped me across the head and said, "victoria, you are no longer a person, you are a girl."

at any rate, that faint hope to star in the musical gave birth to a pitiable offspring that still lives today: the resigned daydreamer. but the aspirations of my daydreams are much higher than starring in the 5th grade play--i inevitably belt out adele and the like to my ever captive dream audience who reside in my car. after making hideous squawks for a solid 5 minutes or so with my blinders on, the fantasy unravels, and my car sounds less filled with the beautiful sounds of my dreams and more like, well, the squawks. that is okay though, because in this blogger's mind, reality never really has to win anyhow.

the night of the 5th grade play. grrr. 

krumpusnacht

snow was falling lightly in the moonless woods. the branches caught the snow where they could and let the rest float down to the ground.  ice had forced the stream to quiet itself weeks ago, and all the furry little animals had tucked themselves away somewhere, but not all was silent and still in rock creek park.

in the distance, the distinct crunch of an intruder could be heard trekking through the snow. if one were to catch a glimpse of the tracks, they might be delighted to see that they were made by cloven hooves--must be a brave winter animal. however, if this same person were to ponder the tracks a while, to play out the rhythm of the impressions in their head, they would be able to come to one conclusion and one conclusion only: this was no complex running beat of a ba ba boom boom ba ba boom boom kind of creature, it was a simple ba boom ba boom ba boom ba boom...the kind of work that could only be made by two extremities--by a horrible, hooven upright beast.

unnoticed, krampus trudged on, anger coursing through his knotty veins and hot breath meeting the air through his nostrils. he was on a special mission tonight, a mission to install more fear and terror into some poor souls' lives than he ever had before. krampus was no stranger to the old world, where he had haunted both the waking and dreaming hours of alpine children for centuries, but including the new world in his wrath was unheard of. these f***ing hipsters, he thought, celebrating krumpusnacht in the open night? they don't know the depth of evil they are dealing with. 

krampus was a terrible-looking thing. at just over 7 feet tall (7.5 feet if you counted his gnarled horns), his entire body was covered with coarse brown hair, which fell in long strings off of his head and his chin. from his ears to his nose to his chin to his teeth, everything on his face was dreadfully pointy and sharp. his long tongue was split like his hoof, and his tail had a peculiar way of twitching as he walked. he carried a short wooden broom, had chains about his neck and torso that bounced silently against his matted fur, and a large, empty basket strapped to his back to carry away his victims.

after many miles of staggering through the forest in this way, krampus hit a clearing and saw his penta-cloven footed brethren in the distance.  despite the krumpusnacht celebration and all the costumed krampuses it would bring, it was still too risky to walk the streets. as much as krampus preferred walking, he would need another means of transportation to arrive at his final destination, h street NE.

krampus rolled his pink tongue into his mouth, and whistled loudly through the slit, the agreed upon call if he was in trouble. within seconds, 9 cloven hooved animals flew down from the sky, carrying krampus' master, the one loved and hailed by all, kris kringle, st. nick, papa noel, father christmas. santa claus. be not surprised my friend, for all smiling idols have their own secrets and motivations too.

santa took his time exiting the sleigh, using one of the poor reindeer in the back to hoist himself up, whose bones looked curved and deformed from years of supporting such weight. on his clumsy way down, santa grabbed some snow from the ground, balled it up, and aimed his throw at krampus' old noggin. the snow hit krampus' nose with a soft thud, and buried itself in his beard.

"ho ho ho!" shouted santa. "look what we have here, a very bad boy indeed! ich vin von krampus? you know how i frown upon naughty children. well silly me, of course you do! you're such a terribly wicked thing, aren't you? why'd you call me, needing a ride to inflict your terror on h street, i assume?"

"i've only done what you've required of me, mr. claus," replied krampus.

"oh don't kid yourself boy, i know you love it. all those dissatisfied, spoiled children out there, begging me for this and that year after year after year, and it's only gotten worse. someone had to do something about them, since their parents only add fuel to the fire, pushing them into my lap and holding them there until i grant them their wish with a forced smile. one time, yes, one time i had the courage to stand up to a mini devil, i could smell the impropriety all over him, but it did nothing but tarnish my reputation that christmas season. you wouldn't believe how many households left me coal rather than cookies that year! me! santa claus! no no, that wouldn't do. those kids, they needed to be punished, but they needed to love me too."

"that's where i come in, i suppose," said krampus in his dry way.

"oh, ho ho ho, you've caught on, better late than never i always say." santa slapped his suspenders against his flabby chest. "well, let's be on with it then."

"mr. claus, i don't understand," said krampus grasping for straws, desperately hoping that santa would change his mind, "the people of h street are celebrating krampus and everything he stands for, they are promoting the punishment of naughty children in this parade! why would you want to stop them? let them do your dirty work for you, for us!"

santa's eyes grew hard, a faint flicker of lunacy glowed through his pupils. "you fool, don't you see, these hipsters have no intention of actually hurting any children! all they stand for is anything that isn't jolly saint nick, and you are obscure, and everything else that i am not, or so they think. sure, they'll talk about me ironically at their ugly sweater parties, but not once have 100 santas come together and paraded through h street, the forefront of culture in the new world!" at this point, santa was fuming. he closed his eyes, carefully pronunciating each word, "they. think. YOU. are. COOLER. than ME. ho ho, no, they will not get away with this, this, transgression. krumpusnacht will be forever no more unless it is celebrated earnestly!"

krampus bowed his head. "as you say, mr. claus."

santa grabbed krampus by his chain and pulled him into the sleigh. with a quick switch of his elkhide whip, the reindeer kicked into motion and cleared the forest below.

they sailed over the nation's capitol, home to good children and bad children alike. the great monuments and mall looked so peaceful at this hour, why couldn't those h streeters all just stay home and be peaceful too, krampus thought. he closed his eyes and sat meditatively, rehearsing the plan in his head and convincing himself that no one would be hurt.

too short of a time later, they arrived behind the meeting place where the krumpusnacht parade would commence. krampus peered around the corner, and saw krampuses of all shapes, sizes, and ages. they seemed to be having a wonderful time admiring each other, petting neighbor's horns and tussling ratty hair. no one had ever tussled the real krampus' hair before, he thought with a sulk. not since...well not since an entirely different time indeed.

krampus' brooding was interrupted by a hard clap on his shoulder, and a quick shove from behind caused him to reveal himself to the party. catching a chair to prevent himself from falling, krampus collected himself and approached his fans with his head held high.

"damn, look at that sweet costume" a blue-faced krampus shouted. "are you on stilts man, how are you doing that!" krampus was about to yell some fiery words at them, demand their younglings and shoot out his split tongue when suddenly the parade jumped into motion. relieved, he pretended that nothing happened and pushed into the krampus sea.

the flashing cameras, overly elaborate costumes, and hellish screaming, it was all for him. krampus could see why santa was pissed, the people loved him! forgetting himself, krampus posed for several pictures with neighboring krampuses and made a point of walking hard so his hooves would make a loud 'clop' with each step. these hipsters had taken his horrible self and made him into something fun, something different! krampus' high lasted until out of the corner of his eye, he caught a whir of red and saw that lunatic eye blinking in the darkness of a closed storefront. the fun was over; he still had a job to do.

krampus stopped marching and peered around to find a suitable target. he didn't have to look long. standing apart from the parade were two boys and a girl dressed in plainclothes who were snapping pictures and looking on with amusement. good as any, krampus thought.

departing from the crowd, krampus hunched his body and slinked his way over to them, leering and cocking his head in different ways to appear like he was considering, perhaps, devouring them. of the three, the girl was giving the most visceral reaction, so he focused his glowing red eyes on her face, using the powers bestowed upon him by santa to penetrate her soul. before the girl could fall into hysterics, santa jumped out from his hiding spot to save the day, his plan all along.

"ho ho ho, and a merry christmas! say, krampus, what is going on here, leave these poor people alone!" with that, santa kicked krampus in his shin, and krampus yelped and fell heavily to the ground, clutching his leg. "no need to thank me, boys and girls, it's really my pleasure!" santa was about to take a step forward, but before he could do so, the blue-faced krampus had hit him over the head with his staff.

"this is no place for santa," he screamed. grabbing krampus' wood broom, he went on, "assume the position santa, assume the position!!!" other krampuses who had seen what santa did to the real krampus joined in, chanting "assume the position" at the tops of their lungs and circling around him. one of them picked santa up, and the blue-faced krampus hit santa not once, but twice in the arse with the wood broom. for a quick moment krampus caught santa's expression, saw the mangled glint in his eye, and dove from the ground and across the circle to take on the full blow of santa's spell, which had been intended for the blue-faced krampus.

blinding pain reverberated throughout krampus' body, and his ears rung so fiercely that nothing registered with him except the own beating of his heart, which at that moment was all he wanted to hear. slowly the ringing turned to voices, and he looked up and saw all of his krampus friends gathered round to care for him. glorious, it's glorious, krampus thought, shedding a tear. but as he tried to raise himself up he wasn't so ecstatic any longer. his arms were wrinkled and leathery, like that of an old man, and his legs were buckled and feeble. krampus realized that his hearing had returned, but there were no noises coming from h street at that moment, only the silence of shock. a pair of krampuses helped him up and supported him as the crowd made way so he could approach the reflective glass of the popeyes chicken restaurant. krampus reached out and touched the reflection, shaking, and then touched his actual face as well, feeling around his eyes, over his mouth and across his nose. it was unmistakable-- he was a much older version of the naughty boy santa had stolen from his Vater and Mutter's cabin centuries ago, and imprisoned in this body called krampus. crying, krampus, now Dolf again, turned and shouted to all in the crowd who was listening, "i will tell you everything, everything!" truly open to anything, those free-wheeling h streeters, they cheered and heard out his story as they all dined together, and laughed together when they saw santa's mug shot flash across the tv in the corner with 'fraud' displayed in big letters, and Dolf tasted the sweet joy of the popeyes chicken, and knew that for once, everything was as it should be.

broken metro card :(

woe is a broken metro card.
to finger its smooth, sleek surface
you feel the rush of a cold, intelligent future.
that prochronistic plastic gadget!
one would think that thing invincible.

tis not, i say!
i droppeth my phone one day
that fall was hard
my hand held the card
caught the phone on my hip
then the card had a chip.

zach, he no understand how
how she can make chip with card
it plastic, so durable, no?
no no no
that card not hit soft flesh
it hit bone hip
card go crackalacklack

truth be
he just mad cuz
cuz it his card
hoo hoo hoo
hah hah hah

the pie

i didn't really need that pie, you know, or so i thought. after that first offensive bite, i was prepared to let it slide off my plate and onto the floor of the red draped ballroom of my employer, mr. haversham. i had worked for years to gain access to my company's inner circle, and i wasn't about to let a rotten pie make me cough and shoot phlegm in the face's of my superiors. as i continued nodding my head and guffawing intermittently, pretending to be engaged in mr. haversham's colorful story about his precious deformed cat, Little Bear, i slowly tipped my plate to my right to check for potential sliding. my eyes bulged so wide that for a second i thought for sure i would be unduly noticed and caught for giving deaf audience. not even an inch did that pie budge--a sure sign of a butterless crust! giving it a slight poke with my fork, a cloud of desiccated flakes blew out and settled like dust on top of the pie and my closest finger. was haversham's chef really vain enough to leave out the butter? at----what's that, why are you laughing?

yes, that's what i said, a butterless crust! the pie was clearly too dry to allow any movement at all, which was worsened by the fact that haversham's cavalier disposition made it very likely that the china was buffed and rebuffed before serving dessert! now back to the story--try not to interrupt this time--i stood there positively frozen while i contemplated what other recourse i had available to me at that moment. as i considered the possibility of slowly oiling the plate with my finger pad, i realized that there had been a lapse in the conversation, and mr. haversham, along with with the rest of the circle, was waiting for my comment. clearing my throat, i closed my eyes and spoke:

Just now I said the prayer for this cat Little Bear and when I finished, I felt a tremor shake my whole body. When it was over, I knew that our Lord had heard my message. I blieve that is a hopeful sign that someday soon little Bear Deformed will be restored to his former self. Amen. 

that seemed to satisfy the crowd, most of all mr. haversham, who blew his nose loudly and gave me an appreciative blow to my pie-holding arm. thank god, not all was lost for me. i've been told before that i'm quick on my feet. now----uh, there you go again, with that laugh! what's it this time?

not quick enough to figure out what to do with that pie you say! touche! well listen to what happened next: just as my chuckle was residing, mr. haversham called to the waitstaff to have Little Bear brought out. background chatter from the party ceased, and momentarily Little Bear was produced on a little red pillow. picture a repulsive gray tabby cat splayed out with mismatched eyes, infirm limbs, and neck goiter the size of an apple. a chorus of greatly forced "oos and awws" filled the room.

"please, over here!" shouted mr. haversham, "i want Little Bear to meet his biggest advocate!"

i braced myself for imminent revulsion when my touch would produce no muscle contraction or expansion in this slack kitty--don't roll your eyes--and while i breathed deeply to counteract the onset of nausea, never in my deepest dreams could i have imagined the turn this situation would take. a gasp erupted, i tuned back in, and immediately saw that the pie on my plate had disappeared. you're laughing, and i'll forgive you this time, because it doesn't take a detective to guess who the culprit was. the room went still while that little cat sat there, gurgling down the remainder of the pie through his clogged pipes. and then the cat was on the ground.

"LITTLE BEARRRRR!" mr. haversham shouted, reaching down save his precious pet. but it was too late--Little Bear was convulsing on the floor. i buried my face in my hands, not able to bring myself to face the destruction of this guileless animal. that pie--how did i lack the courage to stalk off and confront that pompous chef! it was my fault, my fault, my fault....

but suddenly someone is shaking me and telling me to look down, and what i saw, mind you, was a miracle. or perhaps just the product of some very dry pie crust. Little Bear's goiter was shrinking, as if all of the fluids were being drained out of it, and his legs were gaining strength, which i can't quite explain except to say that maybe it had something to do with the vitamins in the fruit filling. but what i do know is that in less than a minute of eating that pie, Little Bear Deformed Legs was a changed cat.

now i see you shaking your head, and that's okay with me. there are some things in this world that are too hard to believe unless you witness them firsthand. but promise me this, my friend, if you are given something and don't know what to do with it, do not immediately start devising ways to get rid of it; hold onto it for a while and see if there is a Little Bear in your life that needs help in the most unlikeliest of times.

Toady finds a way

no one ever really liked little Toady. his egg, having been watched over very carelessly by his dolt of a mother, rolled away one day into the river and he was born a tadpole among the wild salmon and the river otter, with no direction on how to be a proper toad.

for a while as a young tad, Toady thought he had found others just like himself. as he was indolently wagging his tail to and fro through the river on the second day of his life, he chanced upon a small underwater alcove brimming with tad activity. not one to be shy, Toady joined the party, and mindlessly swam in circles through the other tads until nightfall settled over the alcove. Toady could not have thought of any other way to be in the world, for he was quite limited in these kinds of faculties. he continued on this way, and would have done so indefinitely, if it had not been for the noticeable changes that were all of a sudden taking place in his body.

you see, while the other tads continued to be tads, Toady was on his way to toademhood. his long rod-like tail was becoming so stout, and to compensate, his previously useless tendrils began to kick a little. Toady had no opinion on these changes, but he was a little miffed when the tads surrounded him and marched him out of their alcove. little did Toady know that he had happened upon the last living pod of panpeter tadpoles, the tads that never grow up, and being in that fragile existence they did not take well to outsiders like Toady.

so Toady swam on down the river, relatively unmoved by the wonders that passed him by. the magnificent salmon swimming upstream against the current had little effect on his fancies, but they did give him a jolt and subsequent bump on his head as he he swam head first into them. the bump would later turn into dent, the damage of which would permanently cause his mouth to hang open ever so slightly. the salmon shouted at him in salmonese, but Toady knew naught of that foreign tongue, so he went on his way, bruised and forgotten.

Toady henceforth spent his time drifting in and out of scenes that belonged to other creatures.  after he became full toad he exited the water and took up residence in the woodland forest, where he hopped amongst the fox and the mole. the fox was terribly cruel to him and poked fun of his dent, while the mole was even more oblivious to the world than Toady was. one time Toady saw a baby mole munching on a worm completely care-free while the fox placed leaf after leaf over his head, until the fox grew bored with the mole's complete lack of awareness of the world around him. with something that resembled a toad's resignation, Toady lived on in the woodland forest as best as he knew how.

that is, until one day later in his life he was feeling unusually enterprising and hopped so far that he finally found some other toads, just like himself. when Toady approached the group they were squatting in a protective semi-circle around something on the ground, unseen from Toady's position. without introduction, Toady nudged his way in until his buggy eyes had a good view.  what Toady saw had a profound impact on him: it was an old, wrinkled toad! the old toad was lying supine on the ground with a fox skin pillow and cover of leaf, and it looked like it was in unbearable pain.

Toady inched his way closer to get a good look at this venerable creature. suddenly, the old toad spoke to him in a hushed, raspy voice.

"Toady, i am your mother."

Toady's eyes bulged and his mouth dropped down another quarter of an inch. Toady had heard the babble of the fox, the low pitched mumble of the mole and gurgled salmonese, but he had never heard anything he could understand before. without giving him a chance to respond, Toady's mother continued.

"i have missed you more than you will ever know, dear Toady."

somewhere in Toady's heart, a piece of kindling sparked, a sparrow took flight for the first time.

"CROOOOAK, CROAK CROAK CROOAK!" exclaimed Toady.

"what is that, m'boy? speak your mind, Toady!" replied his mother, gathering her strength a bit.

"croak? croak croak??"

Toady turned around to seek help from his brothers and sisters, but they looked just as puzzled.

"Toady, what you say?" shouted sister toad. 

Toady let his jaw slack again and slumped a little. damn! he could understand toad, but they couldn't understand toady. Toady waved his webbed fingers in the air--it was no matter. his sudden rush of feeling had subsided, but he still felt a kind of contentment he had never known before. Toady reached down to give his mother a pat, but she had already fallen into a deep sleep.

for days, Toady's brothers and sister fretted over their long lost sibling. they even went as far to hold him down while they kneaded out the dent in his head until it was completely sheer on one side. upon seeing his dashing reflection in a pool of water, Toady contemplated showing his new noggin off to the wild salmon, but he feared they might make a new dent, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to find his way back to his siblings' home.

unfortunately, it was inevitable that the other toads would lose interest in Toady--he couldn't say anything that made any sense to them and they increasingly realized how uncouth he was. to their credit, the siblings tried to overlook his eccentricities, but Toady's sagging mouth and disgusting habits made them feel ashamed. for god's sake, Toady gorged himself on anything set in front of him, always shoveling shoveling shoveling whatever morsel he could find into his mouth, whereas his siblings sat patiently and ate only that which was a delicate tongue's flick away. it was really all too much for those upstanding toads, who had never known what it was like to have been a loan toad fending for him or herself.

as his siblings grew colder, the fire that had been kindled in Toady's heart grew dim. the toads are scum, he thought as he lay awake one night. but Toady had a plan. the next morning at dawn he set off, not with malice but with a kind of toady love, not forgetting the favor his siblings had done him by smoothing out his dented head. that being said, Toady did not look back, and pressed forward with the faint thoughts of a different life in a different place with unspoken creatures.

TO BE CONTINUED....

the war on christmas

this post may seem a little premature, but with winter quickly approaching i have had this growing tingling sensation in my sciatic nerve, a slight whir in the blood, that can only mean one thing: the war on christmas is ramping up again. this year, i'm ready to fight tooth and bone for whatever side is willing to give me some uncensored air time. i'm learning towards the good people at Fox, because for all the things they suck at, they are damn good at coming up with pithy little taglines like war on christmas. maybe they can also help me come up with a new name for my blog.

to prepare for the debates, let's see what bill has to say about the war on christmas:

with no other context, these talking points lead me to believe that bill could be referring to those ultra-pious christians who denounce santa claus and the rampant consumerism which has devoured the holiday, and celebrate nothing other than the birth of jesus on christmas. with their lack of christmas spirit, they surely must be the biggest perpetrators of this war.

sometimes though, i think beloved bill gets side-tracked and focuses his attention on the lesser, but more scandalous enemy-- the secularist. are we talking about the average person who goes to church once a year on christmas eve so they can justify the fun they plan to partake in the next day? the people who, during the holy sermon, can only think about whether or not santa will forgive them for having consumed all of the advent calendar chocolate a mere 3 days into december? no, these ones are doin real good. we're talking about those who dared to be vocal enough to say that, for example, maybe a particular religion shouldn't have a federally recognized holiday. although it certainly would not be inconsistent for a religious person to also hold that view, my guess is that Bill labels anyone who is not advancing the triumph of christmas as secular, and probably un-patriotic as well.

if bill could stop his prattle and think for a minute, he might realize that this war has no losers; christmas has spiraled completely out of control and could use a little bit of humility. who knows, maybe if santa wasn't flashing in our faces every 5 seconds during december, christmas might even become a religious holiday again. but in addition to Bill, groups like the american family association wouldn't dare let walmart get away with making advertisements that generically reference "the holidays" rather than christmas. i have two things i don't understand about this. first, why are these groups dying to have a religious holiday manipulated and taken advantage of by marketers so that children become little greedmongers? shouldn't they be happy that marketers are backing off? for two, why are marketers trying to be so PC? their job is to sell shit any way they can. these are very confusing times indeed.

if i ever find myself fighting a war over an imaginary fat man and the proper name for a dead tree that probably has roots in paganism anyhow (c'mon people, holiday tree?!), i will know that my life as a human being making contributions to a productive society is over. i'm not saying that these traditions aren't fun and nice, but let's put things into perspective: just because christmas symbols aren't being shoved down our collective throats, doesn't mean we can't continue christmas traditions, even if that means these traditions are increasingly relegated to the home. are people afraid they lack the will to celebrate without the help of big business? like, wut i do, wut this day for? however, if christmas hinges upon being bombarded with santa and whatnot in the public sphere, then that would be a problem. hmm...

the reason christmas is so tolerated in the public sphere is because its celebration has aspects which, despite its religious undertones, lend itself to being a very secular holiday. in fact, this war is really a war on secular christmas--i don't hear much jesus bashing, it's mainly, "get that f'ing north pole elf out of my face." bill is smart to fight about santa rather than jesus, as the latter would make his case much shakier. there is nothing in the constitution that references the separation between santa and state. but what if the tradition was to sit on jesus's lap and ask for a present at the mall rather than santa's lap? okay, actually i am not going to go any further into that thought because the image makes me feel sick.

but this post has been way too one-sided with only bill and i's thoughts. i want to know what the people think. i've been told that the people are scum, but this is a democracy and they should have a voice in the great war on christmas. i went to debate.org and typed in "should christmas be recognized as a federal holiday?" this is what i found.

of the 5 people who participated in the debate, 20% thought that establishing christmas as a federal holiday is against our constitution, and 80% thought that it was fine as is. of those who thought it should stand, reasoning included because "Christmas is fun" and "There is no good reason for it not to be a federal holiday." there was also this reason:

I believe that Christmas should be a federal holiday. It has been one for quite some time and nobody seems to have a problem with it. Changing this would not be right. Even those that do not celebrate Christmas are okay with it being a federal holiday. I guess they don't mind because its a day they get off from work.

speak with more confidence, fellow debater! it's not you "guess they don't mind", it's you know they don't mind. using such apprehensive claims will get you destroyed in a real debate.

if you are afraid of the war on christmas, you have let fear mongering get the best of you. i will tell you why: as long as christmas sales represent like a quarter of most company's yearly sales, it will never go away. it may change, and we all know dear bill and friends hate change, but things change for a reason...our culture has to stay up to date. but prattling on about patriots will not stop the zeitgeist, so i say, let 'em war. my weapon of choice? flying elf with dagger nose.

sharknado mostly sucks

i was intrigued to learn that sharknado came out on netflix recently, so i decided to see what all the buzz was all about. i went into it with high expectations from hearing everyone express so much enthusiasm for it, but unfortunately, xiao long was not impressed.

admittedly, there were a few fantastic scenes in the movie, such as when the guy uses a chainsaw to brace for impact from an open-mouthed shark falling from the sky, and ends up being swallowed by the shark and chainsawing his way out with a friend who, to her misfortune and fortune, was swallowed alive and whole by the same shark.

it was also excellent when the guy shot a shark out of the sky from a long distance with a hand gun.

beyond this, sharknado's total lack of sincerity made it difficult for me to really enjoy this film--this movie was intentionally bad, and possibly even a parody of itself. how can i mock it when it is already so self aware? i don't actually believe that the director thinks you can shoot something out of the sky with a handgun, and knowing that, i can only say "WHAT!" so many times. but it's still tempting--why, WHY is the house flooded and has a shark in it if the driveway is water-free? if anything, the reactions to sharknado made me realize that as bat shit crazy as some people are, at the core of things we all do agree on how a few things in the world are and should be. a good test of mental hygiene test would be to show someone this movie and gauge their reactions to it: if they see no inconsistencies in the world of sharknado, then they surely are bat shit crazy. but for us, those sane ones, glaring logical inconsistencies cause such outrage and hilarity as sharknado does.

but the writers know this too, so i feel kind of manipulated. if you go beyond the these quirks, and the ridiculous premise of shark-filled tornadoes, there is really nothing there; the dialogue is terrible, the plot is conventional. really, the only good thing about this movie is that a man flies through a shark with a chainsaw, but i have already mentioned that, and that was the climax of the movie anyhow.

now i'm not going to argue that all terrible B horror movies are made in the utmost sincerity, i think a lot of writers/directors probably knows that they are at least slightly ridiculous (unless you are the director of troll 2, who claims that he made a good movie), but in the best ones the jokes are more subtle, the "world" of the movie is better developed, and the characters are more interesting. in these movies it seems like the writer/director actually cared about the product they were making--that it had some aspect of their artistry in it.

i guess...i don't really know what to think about sharknado. on one hand it must be genius, because it hit the right chords with so many people, and is brutally honest about it's stupidity, but on the other, it's really the pits. numbness and apathy are worrisome.

by the way, if you want to watch a truly terrible horror movie, check out "rawhead rex", the 1986 terror of the irish countryside. as my friend put it, "someone took the time." for better or for worse...

the hour long search for power

what would you do for power? think about it: that pure, ultimate force, raising just as many fools to great heights as to great ruin, but all worth it for that one sweet taste.

i will tell you what i would do for power. i would walk around capitol hill for over an hour searching for it, but i would only feast upon its fruit if it cost less than $2.

i am talking about the power bar here, that calorie-stuffed goodness that, no matter what state you were in before, will leave you cartwheelin' in the streets after consumption.

but i didn't have one, and my body was crying out. i stayed late at work and wanted to spend the rest of my evening swimming at the pool, but i hadn't eaten anything since lunch and didn't want to go home to eat, where the chains of my warm bed would dance around like charmed cobras until i slowly eased into them, preventing me from leaving the house again for the rest of the night. so i did what any rational person would do -- i grabbed $2 from my wallet, locked my car, and sought out the coveted bar to tide me over.

i made my first desperate stop at a liquor store and decided to play it straight, i barged in and demanded to be directed to the food. However, i was presented with a rack of those nasty bugle chips, so I knew that no power was to be found here, save for its lowly cousin, liquid courage. I thanked the shopkeeper for his time and left.

although i was loath to travel even farther away from the pool, the thirst for power drove me on. i walked some more and found a little "marketplace" which i thought looked promising. i couldn't have been more wrong--the cheapest bar in there was $1.99, not including tax. i still thought i might have a chance though, there is a little shop near our house where i have forgotten my wallet before and been told that i could pay another day. but this was not the shop by my house. she told me it was $2.20 with tax, so i made like i couldn't afford it and started to put it back, but she didn't take the bait. i knew i was going to have to be real with her. "listen lady, i only have $2, is there a spare change jar or something here?" "no." .....silence.

i ran out of this stupid "neighborhood" "marketplace" in a huff, determined to find a chain store that would sell bars for a fair price. as i charged forward, i was suddenly accosted by a blond boy with spiky hair who ran out from behind a car and hailed me down. thinking that i was going to get my $2 bar money stolen, i braced for perpetual hunger. honestly it scared the shit out of me, i thought he had a gun in his hand (black cell phone) and i was about to get mugged. instead, he tells me that i'm cute and asks me on a date to get coffee. that was a relief, kind of. using no words i flapped my hand at him and moved on, this was no time for such frivolities. i know i'm a rare beaut but at this moment i was running down the street in a frenzy, waddling because i was holding up my too-long work pants by the fabric at the knees to prevent myself from stepping on them in my pink flip flops, and my cold little sausage toes were sticking out and cursing me for not being more sensible. i think his nose caught the scent of the open air dollars in my pocket, and thought i might be money bags. Sigh.... I was going to have to take a different route back to avoid him.

Dizzy, confused, and with my lifeline dwindling, I staggered onwards: just ahead, a cvs bag. The straight path is often the most difficult. Another cvs bag. How much longer down this road to temptation? The lights, oh those big red letters.  Oh the bars and the stars and the cars. itchy pocket, open esophagus.

Scene 3: victoria enters cvs with a flourish. She looks around momentarily, a little bewildered, and then regains her composure and heads straight for counter.

VICTORIA: Evening sir, got any of those bars here?

EMPLOYEE: Sure do ma'am. You're just in luck, we just got a new shipment of all kinds of bars in yesterday during the night delivery. Follow me please.

The employee swings his legs over the counter and together they walk to the other side of the store. When they find the bars, victoria claps her hands once.

VICTORIA: This is quite a selection of bars you got here mister.

EMPLOYEE: Sure is. We take pride in that kind of thing here.

VICTORIA: And only $1.87, what kind of profit are you all running around here anyway?

EMPLOYEE: ma'am, we make ends meet, but we gotta leave some bills in the customer's pocket too.

VICTORIA: you don't say! Well here's $2, keep the change kid, and keep up the good work.

Victoria leaves cvs while the employee looks at the bills, mouth agape. End scene.

Once I exited cvs I ripped open the packaging so greedily that the contents almost spilled onto the ground. But no matter, I had succeeded in my quest and everything was alright again. I even felt confident enough to walk back the way I came, and if I ran into the spiky boy again I would rip off a hunk of bar with my glimmering eye tooth, and then watch him slink back into the shadows.

Well, that never happened because on the way out of cvs I was filled with such blinding mania that I went the wrong way and became utterly lost in capitol hill for at least 20 minutes, a place that I am no stranger to. It was as if all the pieces of capitol hill had been dismantled and rearranged so that everything was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Still clutching the wrapper of the bar, I finally sought the assistance of a young "suit" who didn't know where the pool was but said he could check Google maps. I nodded my pumpkin head vigorously. He seemed to think it strange, so I felt compelled to explain that I didn't have a smart phone, which made him aghast and he mocked me while he looked up directions. I bit my tongue to hold my tirade against this suit. In the end he set me on the right course, and I made it to the pool in no time. Yet my mania still lingered over an hour later when I was leaving, as I could not decide which way was home, a route I take at least once a week with no previously recorded troubles. I realized that as strong as I am, it was presumptuous of me to think that I could gallivant around on my lonesome after devouring a power bar. I am no match, no match.

7 things that happened during zach and i's 10 year anniversary

it was a decennial anniversary, and important things were bound to happen. one of those being that the inn owner congratulated us on our 10 year wedding anniversary. did i miss something, and why have i not been collecting any tax benefits?

to properly celebrate, we took a weekend trip to the eastern shore of maryland, and stayed in a little town called easton only 1.5 hours away from DC. easton has that small town new england feel to it, which is perfect for halloween. if no witch convictions were made back in the 1700s there is still ample opportunity to complete a few trials with the perfect backdrop.

during this peaceful, reflective weekend, i made a few discoveries and learned a few things that i would like to share. here are 7 things you need to know about zach and i's 10 year anniversary weekend:

1. the stick tree artist is in good company. as if one stick tree wasn't enough, we were fortunate enough to run across a forest and path devised by an artist not unlike our resident gales street one. yet, as i walked that narrow path and pondered further, i thought, is it not the expression of the medium that makes the artist, not the coincidental use of the same object of beauty? i can say that our artist has a much more fastidious aesthetic to him than this stick tree forest dreamer, preferring the lone figure to the field, concentrating his efforts on fashioning that one stick in way he sees fit. instead of washing away the idiosyncrasies of the stick (in the general sense of the word) by closely juxtaposing it with more sticks to create an anonymous brown cluster, our artist forces the viewer to celebrate the little deviances each stick brings to bear; in the case of our artist's subject--a slightly off kilter vertical growth trajectory, a jagged stump of a branch where a clean cut was not possible with such small shears, and so forth. yet, whether expressed as figure or field, the stick continues to be the stuff of artist's fancies.
 

an accidental picture, caused by claustrophobia and subsequent panic in the stick tree forest.

2. there is poetry in the rot- i love easton maryland because they take the law into their own hands there. from observation only i have concluded that the law of october states "for every 3 square feet of porch space, there must be no less than 1 pumpkin." yet, even an autumnal paradise has its misplaced participant. in enters the rotting pumpkin.

this lone pumpkin in the grass made me think of a previous piece i wrote that parallels another blogger's plight to not be the figurative cake that her boyfriend munches on, in addition to other tasty lady cakes. her takeaway: don't lose yourself amidst all the baking--be strong. my takeaway: use higher quality, locally sourced ingredients that your boyfriend may prefer in a pastry. OK cheekiness aside, i indulged her metaphor to practice my empathy, albeit from the point of view of a pumpkin:

i was the smallest pumpkin in the pumpkin patch. but i was pure orange--no fleck of yellow, or under ripe green spot.  and let me tell you, i was a round little thing. i wanted the man in the straw hat to notice me. i was long past due on that vine, and wanted to sit, painted with black sharpie, on his doorstep. somewhere in between the waiting i lost myself, and my peel started softening. i sat there, helpless, as i slowly rotted into the ground. when only my stem was left, the man in the straw hat finally came for me. he tossed my stem in a pile next to the pumpkin patch, with all the other pumpkin stems from that harvest.

seems to me like this abandoned little pumpkin is having an equally poor, if not worse time of it than that overeaten cake. 

3. the gourd is king of the land- the law of october also states "for this one long month, all affairs of gourds will take precedent over the people of easton." find another place for your car, biped, the gourds are in town.

4. local is bad- having hung around with zach for 10 years, there's not much i don't know about my dark (haired) companion. however, i did learn one interesting tidbit this weekend--he hates local. while most people will froth at the mouth upon hearing even just the first syllable of the word, zach is much more skeptical about the only movement hipsters have been able to rally around. i don't blame him. if one has a fine palette, how can you limit yourself to ingredients only found in the area? if i were a locavore, i would make it my mission to yell at all the people living in northern siberia for not living solely on a diet of snow, their most abundant local asset. that's what it's all about--celebrate the local, and celebrate it good. however, i think the biggest issue with local, ironically, is proximity. how can i eat that cute little pig down the road when i could eat that faceless pig from canada, already vacuum sealed in a package? there is a reason i call that little oinker a pig and not a pork, I NEED SOME SEPARATION HERE. without it, my world crumbles, along with the local movement. i will rally for packaging that specifies if the animal was butchered in radius < or > 100 miles of the point of purchase. for all those gentle souls like me who would prefer to eat someone else's animals rather than your own, you're welcome.

here is a picture of zach and i eating locally sourced dessert:

this picture was taken by an  intoxicated person in a very fancy restaurant, initiated on their own accord.

5. the local cemetery is bad- we paid homage to all the animals killed in the movement by visiting the local cemetery where they're buried, situated just west of the town center. the cemetery stretched on for miles in either direction, making me believe that easton has been the quiet epicenter of all things local for a number of years now. as you can see, they are taking down the trees to accommodate the explosion of local. i put a red leaf in my hair, a small (but growing) symbol of the bloodshed that has plagued this otherwise quaint town.

6. birds still fly south for the winter- we took a quiet walk through a state park and didn't run into any other hikers. by some misfortune we lost our map in the middle of it, and ended up in the hellish stick tree forest, the place where lost souls meet. luckily we made it out to a clearing, where the oppressive silence of the STF was broken by hundreds of geese in formation squawking overhead. the experience was kind of surreal. at first the squawks are far away, like the distant rumble of a train, but once the geese are over you the sound is deafening, like they are surrounding you on all sides. for a minute after they're gone you continue to stand there looking at the sky, taking in the silence of the squawkless void above.

7. at the end of the world there is a lamp post and a pillar- i am a woman prone to modest extremes. for example, if there is a tip of land, i don't care whether the tip is inhabited by dense forest brush made of cacti or if it's filled with succulent lollipop trees, i must go there. looking off towards the end of the world, i forget all those terrible things in my life--the precious gourds that irresponsible people let go to rot, the sadistic ideals of the locavores, the onset of mania that comes with contemplating the stick tree--and i can concentrate on the good things that make up life. this weekend i got to reflect on my longtime love, a person who got mad at me because i broke my promise to share a suitcase with him to easton. i make this promise to zach now: if you continue to go the end of the world with me, i will share my suitcase with you.

a good explanation for why i don't bother with traditional grammar conventions, such as capital letters:

hyperbole and a half

i'm just a majestic, talon-footed eagle. get off my case!

everything you need to know about grass

before purchasing a home, grass to me was just something that was there, a green mass that exhibited a uniform consistency and occasionally needed to be lopped off to maintain appearances. i am here to tell you that none of this is true. grass is made up of thousands of feeble, needy little shards that are just dying to betray you at any moment. if you even so much as withhold one drop of water because your can was empty, or cut it a centimeter shorter than it pleases, in an instant the treacherous stuff will disregard all the times you coddled it--brushed its fine blades with your comb, massaged its root--and get back at you with such an outburst of pettiness (weed party, not the good kind) that you wonder how so many people have fallen slave to that two faced plant. then you remember that creepy guy who claims to be "Scott" of the Scott's lawn company and you know he is the reincarnation of an evil blade of Scottish grass who is hypnotizing everyone to "feed it" (the grass, that is), and now no one can stop. because i faintly heard the desperate squeals of a dying emerald soul behind the mask of a pleasing scottish accent, i am one of the few who is repulsed by his creepy requests, often heard through my car radio. yet even i was not totally immune to this bit of bewitchment, for i too fed the grass, yes, yes i did. the difference is that i fed it with some fine, crystal drops of bottled poison. did mother nature learn nothing from the gardens of versailles, the neat rows where not a twig stands out of place? she must know that with a little perseverance, man has certainly mastered nature.

dead, reclaimed by the earth

zach and i thought long and hard, with the help of this miniature pumpkin, about what could we put in our front yard in place of those wicked green clumps.

after much deliberation, we finally came to a point of mutual agreement--there would be plants galore.

and there was.

i contemplated the beauty of what we were doing, and judged it good. 

i have a feeling i haven't heard the last of Scott, but this is certainly a start. 

prayers for our pets

the worst friend of the blog is the critic. unfortunately, ballin' in dalian is no stranger to these types. if i had truly opened my ears to their cutting words, taken in the pain of their literal and figurative jabs, i would have shut down this blog long ago. yet, ballin' in dalian, with its simple ambitions, lives on; read by few but loved by many.

one minor criticism i have come across is that this blog is "too niche" and that no one knows what i'm talking about. i say minor, but if i had any real plans to do anything with this blog, i would probably say that this is actually a major problem. i feel like the english language is missing a word that means to care and not care at the same time.

however, today i have succeeded in finding a blog that is even more niche than mine. it is called Prayers for Our Pets. Between 2009 and 2013, this blogger has cranked out approximately 2,700 posts, each with a different prayer to heal Mr. Fluffers the Cat, Freckles the Dog, or whatever other pet that needs some help. i don't know who or how many people are reaching out to this blogger, but this seems like an enormous undertaking trying to save all of the world's pets.

continuing to use blogger's "next blog" feature, i came across another religious-oriented blog, whose author was thinking about some recently deceased friends, and reminds her readers that:

"Sometimes we believers forget that, just as God has plans for our life,has pre-planned our death. Neither we, nor Death, gets to choose the time, place, and means for our dying. Our death scenario was chosen with God’s purpose and our obedience in mind." 

if what this blogger is saying is true, that everything in our lives has already been mapped out, and we must all follow along like little marching ants, she better let Prayers for Our Pets know that he/she can sit back and relax--not even the strongest incantation is going to save T-Willie the Dog, or Little Bear Deformed Legs the Cat.

in short, even if no one knows what you are talking about, you still might be making the most sense out of everybody.

The Bane of Captain Peg Leg

Thirty eight days and thirty nine nights that cursed storm has raged, he thought. 

Captain Peg Leg tossed and turned in his bunk, deep in the hull of the ship and far beyond the comfort of the officer's quarters aboard the Splintered Peg. Although the grime-stained sheets soiled his fine tunics and rats scurried right under his nose, only here could Capt. Peg Leg find solace from the tempest that threatened to destroy everything he had worked so hard for. But down there in the dark all alone, it was also the only place where it was impossible for him to forget his past, and day and night, Peg Leg found himself confronting the man he once was.

He thought back to the days when he was just Peg Leg, and then he thought back as far as he could go, when he was a boy of one and his parents named him little Harry Swift. And then he went in between to the day in the schoolyard when that nasty bully Charles Tyrwhitt gave him the nickname "Two-Legged Harry".  The nickname stuck, all the way up until he became Stump-Legged Harry, and finally just Peg Leg. The gradual transformation of young Harry's legs did not go unnoticed by his tormentors, who pointed their fingers at him and laughed deep from their bellies at each stage of his misfortune.  

This story probably isn't any less strange to you than it is to poor Harry. While he had always been a tall lad, by the time he was in upper primary school his legs alone were longer than most of his classmates were tall, perplexing every doctor his parents took him to. No matter what they did--bandages, splints, tea, and so forth--his legs just wouldn't seem to stop growing. As it was very hard to crane one's neck high enough to see him, to most people, he became just a pair of lanky walking legs with fine woolen pants that his parents had custom made for him. It was really a shame, because those blessed with keen eyesight could easily tell you that Harry was becoming a handsome young man.

Just when Harry thought things couldn't get any worse, the most peculiar things started happening to him. It all started with a tingling sensation in his toes while he was sleeping one night, and when he woke up, he couldn't wiggle his toes any longer. Upon further investigation, his toes had become connected together like some web-footed duck. By eveningfall, Harry Swift no longer had any toes to speak of, and by morningcome he had no feet. Even more quickly than his legs had grown, they were being taken away from him. It was a cruel jape indeed, and Harry liked it not. 

When the Swifts realized there was nothing they could do to stop Harry's transformation, they insisted that he return to school and finish becoming a learned man. Although Harry begged and pleaded to stay home so as to avoid ridicule and scorn from his schoolmates, his parents paid no heed, and brave Harry returned to school that week, sporting nothing but stunted nubbins for legs, covered with his rolled up woolen pants. 

Oh how the children and that horrible Charles Tyrwhitt laughed, just as Harry had predicted. Echoes of "Stump-Legged Harry" followed him through the hallways as he hobbled along in misery to class. Harry had never felt so down, and even wished for his long legs back. In fact, every night for two whole weeks, Harry perched below his bedroom window and wished upon the stars for his two legs to reappear. He wished so hard that sometimes he would fall asleep and dream they were back, only to wake up when the sun rose, with his nubbins curled up beside him in full view. One morning, when his nubbins burned bright in the first light of the day, Harry decided that he was done wishing. 

Pulling out his ink pen and pad, Harry furiously began drafting sketches for what would later become his famous peg. He worked day and night measuring his nubbins until he had the perfect dimensions, and only then did he visit his father's woodsmith to craft his design. The woodsmith laughed, doubting that any man could walk on pegs, but Harry showed him a silver penny and the woodsmith did as he was bid.

No more than a week after the pegs were complete, to the astonishment of the woodsmith, Harry took his first step in his peg. That followed by a second step, and soon Harry had no trouble making jaunty strides across the shop. What joy for dear Harry! Throwing open the woodsmith's doors, Harry jumped up over the stoop and clicked his pegs together as he flew through the air. He had a feeling that things were finally going to go his way. 

Feeling that he was on to something with these pegs, Harry convinced the woodsmith to let him set up a small stand next to his hut selling pegs. Under his meticulous eye, Harry had the woodsmith replace the legs of his table and chair with eight sanded pegs, and he made a fine sign carved with "Peg Legs Unlimited" into a plank of wood with red painted letters. The woodsmith helped Harry post the sign above his table and chair, and then the waiting began. 

At first a few only a few curious passerbys came, and Harry wondered if the stand had really been a good idea after all. But the passerbys started talking and soon the word got around about his peg stand, and people with all kinds of stumps from far and wide came to get a fitted peg.  With tears streaming down, scores of customers praised Harry for saving them from a lifetime of hobbling as all of their limbless predecessors had done. Harry, never one to get swept up in himself, pushed aside his sudden fame and continued to refine his business. 

By the following year, Harry had become so wealthy that he commissioned a goldsmith to make two solid gold pegs for himself, encrusted with jewels from the far side of the world and forged with metal at the tips. The pegs took months to make, and cost Harry a small fortune, but it was worth it, and they became his most loved, valued possession. Looking down at his shiny pegs, Harry realized that he had outgrown the peg stand, and asked the woodsmith to take over his shop while he set his ambitions to the horizon and beyond. 

And this is how Harry became Capt. Peg Leg. Loading up his fine peg samples and other goods to present to exotic peoples, he took command aboard the Splintered Peg, the very ship that he now cowered in. 

It was never meant to be like this, he thought as his mind drifted back to the present. He could hear the ship's wooden beams groan with every crashing wave, threatening to swallow Capt. Peg Leg and his crew whole. What have I done to deserve this?

His ruminations were suddenly interrupted by much commotion coming from the upper deck.  Although Capt. Peg Leg was inclined to stay out of the trouble, he decided that if he could hear anything through the howling gale, it must be serious enough to require his attention. Brushing off his tunic, he reattached his pegs and made his way into the storm's furor.

Upon forcing open the deck hatch, Capt. Peg Leg was met by such a powerful onslaught of water and air that he almost slid down the ladder back to where he started. A few crew members saw his head bobbing over the hatch and pulled him up, placing his pegs on the deck as gingerly as one could given the circumstances. Shielding his eyes from the elements, Capt. Peg Leg spotted the rest of his crew huddled over the starboard aft and gesturing wildly. With the help of his men, he made his way over and planted his pegs firmly between two joists, took a look, and was much distraught by what he saw.

There in the distance, but quickly approaching, was a ship that had to have been the work of none other than the devil himself. Its wood had been painted a terrible ebony with splashes of blood red smeared on the side, and carved in his likeness on the prow and the stern was the devil's double horned head and vile pointed tail. No crew was in sight but there were gourds, disgusting GOURDS galore--yellow and orange and green with warts and stems and hooks and bumps--filling the empty spaces of the ship and pulsing with the ups and downs of the choppy waters, as if they were gasping for breath like a great beast of the sea.

Suddenly a voice called out from the abominable ship, and a man stepped out from behind the far side of the devil's head. Capt. Peg Leg squinted, and gave a quick gasp--he'd recognize that man anywhere. Stroking the devil's twisted beard was none other than than that wretched, good for nothing Charles Tyrwhitt!  

"Looking surprised are we, Captain Peggy," Charles shouted over the storm. He jumped down to the deck, kicking over an orange pumpkin. "Thought you'd seen the last of me, huh? Thought you'd slip right between my fingertips, eh?! Well I'm not done with you, and now I've come to finish up!" His devil ship inched closer and closer to the Splintered Peg, threatening to gouge its hull with the devil's ugly horn.

"What is it you want from me, you little devil?" Capt. Peg Leg called out over the ship, "Tormenting me half my life, and now this, what is the meaning of it!" 

"What is the meaning of it, you ask me?" retorted Charles, "I will tell you straight, as straight as those starched woolen pants of yours used to be! How was it that whether your legs were long or short, you never failed to have the finest trousers of all the boys at school! It wasn't fair, damn you Captain Stump! Not fair at all! I made a deal with the devil, thinking that you could never find pants that would fit if your legs were too long, and then too short, but you always managed to get them tailored just so! And to think, all I succeeded in doing was to make you more wealthy--well it all ends today!"

By this point the two ships were so close Capt. Peg Leg could have reached out and touched the bright green squash hanging over the side. But this wasn't the time to contemplate gourds, it was the time to save his innocent crew from the nonsense of Charles Tyrwhitt, and it was time to save himself as well. 

Capt. Peg Leg declared, "Charles, let us forget this foolishness. Wealthy though I may be, you have undoubtedly succeeded on other ways. For one, you have certainly caused me great hardship, for I have nubbins for legs, and as gay as it may seem to walk around on these pegs, I can tell you it has been no picnic. For two, seeing as you have made this deal with the devil, I feel compelled to placate you somehow, so as to end this curse you've put on me. I, being a wealthy man, would be more than happy to share some of that with you, so that you too may commission some fine woolen trousers for yourself." Having made his point to his satisfaction, Capt. Peg Leg waited anxiously for Charles' reply, the rain still beating down between the two men. 

Charles licked his lips and looked at Capt. Peg Leg thoughtfully. "Fine, have it your way," said Charles with a wick grin plastered across his face, "if you give me your two golden pegs, I shall bother you no more, for I will be a wealthy man then, and the envy of all!" 

Capt. Peg Leg tried to hide the surprise from his face. His crew gave a collective gasp, unsure if he would ever part with them. Capt. Peg Leg drew a deep breath, and beckoned to Charles. 

"Here then, old schoolmate of mine! Though it be heavy on me to part with them, this I will do to end our quarrel once and for all. Reach out your hand and they will be yours." 

Capt. Peg Leg drew out his nubbins from the pegs and carefully leaned himself against the railing, outstretching his arm so as to relinquish the golden peg. Charles grabbed it hastily and gave a great cackle when it was in his arms. Suddenly, quick flashes of lightning filled the sky, the devil's horn seemed to pulse in the light, and the tail gave a great twitch. 

"You've always been a numb skulled fool, haven't you Captain Bone Toe!" exclaimed Charles. "The devil and I, we have everything we need for sure now to finish all of you! Now make haste and hand over that last peg, please don't make me come over there myself, I'm afraid my burlap breeches won't suit your fancy!"

As Capt. Peg Leg reached out to give in to the devil's wishes, and Charles' fingertips had just brushed a ruby, Capt. Peg Leg swiftly brought his arm back and whacked Charles over the head with his golden peg. The force of the blow knocked Charles over the side of his ship and into the sea in one stroke, and that repugnant, despicable Charles Tyrwhitt was no more. 

In an instant the sky stopped its tantrum, the wind ran out of breath, and the sea reduced to a simmer. For the first time in thirty-eight days and thirty-nine nights, Capt. Peg Leg and his crew saw the sun. A cheer went up amongst the Splintered Peg, and they hoisted Capt. Peg Leg above their heads until they could cheer and hoist no more. But there were still other matters to take care of.

"Let us not waste good food!" proclaimed a surly sailor. 

"YES, the gourds!" cried another. 

The crew made their way to the devil ship, and feasted on the good gourds until their bellies were bursting and there was nothing left but stem and seed. When all was said and done, they burned the devil's ship so that it would haunt those waters no more. The Splintered Peg went on to finish her trip, and Capt. Peg Leg found much interest in his products abroad, filling his coffers to the brim with their treasures.  After returning home, he was called upon by the Queen to pay her a visit, and as she had been regaled with the tales of his bravery and smarts, he was anointed Sir Peg Leg. 

Never, ever one to let anything get to his head, Sir Peg Leg continued his business in earnest, and he allowed himself a constant reminder of the struggles he had been through. Sticking out from behind a crushed ruby on his golden peg was a small, rectangular piece of scratchy burlap that would never come out. 

RIP D.A.