Freestyle Knock Knocking

10 Things I'd Like to do with a Potato Before I Die

I like to imagine that
her name is Melinda

• Menace hand maidens.
• Wear it as a merkin.
• Chuck it at my neighbor Barry's head (really hard).
• Hide it under the seat cushion of my mom's favorite chair.
• Carve it into the shape of a lamb and hide it in my sock drawer.
• Toss it 5 feet into the air and using the power of my mind make it float there. 
• Balance it on my head for one hour (without dropping it).
• Mount it to a church door using a large hunting knife.
• Wrap it in tinfoil and use it as currency in Burkina Faso.
• Cradle it lovingly for 30 minutes every night for a week.

AOD - RealUglyGirl Part 3

Part 1: Here

Part 2: Here

AOD - RealUglyGirl Part 2

Part 1: Here

AOD - RealUglyGirl

I think she's probably a
lawyer or something...

AOD - Adventures in Online Dating

OKCupid Profile Here

Part One:

XIX – I love you ReallyUglyGirl! Please tell me you have a vestigial limb! Lie if you have to, just say the words…

RUG – Dear Sir, While I would like to say yes, (because truly at one point in my life I did), it is simply no longer the case. Regrettably, Christopher Buttons felt that it was in his best interest to consume said vestigial limb (or most of it anyway) despite my repeated protests to the contrary. Such a delightful scamp, that Christopher Buttons… always up to shenanigans.

Sincerely,

Agatha Tameryn Gray

XIX – Dearest AGs, Tender is the night!!! Wouldst that you portray but one thing – and that, a vestigial vestige! Forsooth; I quiver.

And to thy musculusin chum, Nantucket Buttons, my gratitude. For you and I were made for one another my sweet misshapen fiend, and it is upon your grace that I (and my delicious cake) await.

Your Servant,

Xix Feng

Postcards From the Edge - BOOM!

Sans dorky operator, natch...

Hello my pal! Hope things are going swimmingly!

I decided that I'm going to finish building that turret mounted laser cannon up on the roof that we talked about. It will be pretty sweet (and powerful)!

It’s going to need a targeting and fire control app for our smart phones tho, so I was thinking that maybe you and your genius buddies at camp could whip something up? Android version is fine for right now. We can work on an iPad app when you come home.

If you hear a loud boom and see a smoke plume coming from JTown, it works! Also, if the cops show up there and ask you a bunch of questions you should just pretend to not know anything.

Love you!!! xxoo

Xix

Nan and Co-Nan

A tender moment in front of  Polearm Palace.

It shocks me to think it's been so long since Nan passed. She was the grandparent who let me get away with all the things Mom didn't-- which is how it goes, I guess-- but that's not why I miss her. She was tough. She lived through the Depression, so she had to be. She used to save plastic yogurt cups for drinking since it’s what her parents did when they had next to nothing. The family always thought it was weird, but not me. I never had to worry about not having warm clothes, enough to eat or a roof over my head. Yet, as a child, just before I went to sleep, I used to imagine what it might be like to have to live like that. Not because I did anything wrong, but that's just how things were.

Nan lived through her own Hyborian Age. Not unlike a barbarian, she felt the oppression of regional warlords, bartered with traders from foreign lands, and swung a bastard sword like a modern day Louisville Slugger. They called her Dorcas the Dealer of Death, but never to her face. To utter such things in her presence meant your ass. She was a devil or a deliverer of vengeance, depending on who you asked. She had her own moral code-- perhaps one not easily suited for life today-- based on a strong arm and the righting of wrongs, where she defended those who could not defend themselves by making examples of those who would enact cruelty or hardship. I'll never forget the first time I saw her lop a bald man's head from just below the nose. The BLOOD. Always she would throw back her head and shout to the heavens and the gods above:

"By Crom!"

When she got too old to swing the sword, our family petitioned a blacksmith to forge her battle hatchets, but it just wasn't the same. When she could no longer mount her horse and kill for food on her own, the Northern Tribes sent this young man to assist her. He kept her fed, bathed, and sang the Oaths of the Fathers as she dreamed of shearing flesh from bone. I suspect they, too, were lovers. What young warrior-- man or woman-- wouldn't wish to bed the Deathdealer?

After twelve days of mourning, as is custom with her people, he took to horse and vanished into the scrub waste. I have sent for word, by writ and by wire, but contact eludes me. In these days, it would be most comforting to look across the fire and behold his breast swelling with the Song of Dorcas. In the time they were together, him and my nan, I never learned his name. Now, I can't help but feel in her absence, he is lonely. He's not the only one.

May the great gong of Gwahlur shake the hereafter, Dorcas the Dealer of Death.

By Crom.