On Swordplay

This is me, teaching my
neighbor Barry a lesson...

People are always pestering me for advice about sword fighting so I thought I would compile some of the more common questions I've received for a simple primer on this fine, and deadly art. Please to enjoy the below:

Where did you learn how to sword fight?
From my sister. From the time I could walk until early adulthood her only goal in life was my aboslute destruction. Typically at the tip of a sword, but from a variety of other means as well. It was during this time that I was also able to build up my formidable resistance to poisons and various forms of electrocution.

Can a chainsaw be used as (or considered) a sword?
Absolutely - and it makes for an invigorating battle as well; however they are far more effective for thrusts. If used to parry they create quite a bit of rattle and chatter (called churn) against the opponents blade that make the weapon hard to control.

Do you like to sword fight with women?
No. I typically lose. Stop asking.

Is it easy to defeat a professional actor in a sword fight?
Yes, it's quite simple and most duels rarely last more than a few minutes. This actually occurs in the lobby of the Chateu Marmont more than you might imagine. Most actors are poorly trained and if you get in a tight spot you can just menace their face with your blade and they will back the fuck off. The exception to this of course are those actors (and actresses) with Shakespearean training. Most of them are quite bloody minded and seem to know what they are doing - this incorporates about 80% of the Brits. Of course the face rule applies here too, so still pretty easy.

What is the best type of sword to have in a sword fight? 
Well, that really depends on the fight doesn't it? If one is mounted (on a beast, like a horse or a dinosaur) I'm partial to a large two handed affair, like a claymore. It makes it easy to hit targets on the ground with some force and you can use that bad boy like a lance if need be. If one is unmounted and/or fighting a child, a broadsword is an excellent choice as it allows for the occasional close in work and can be hurled a respectably long distance when the opposition (inevitably - if a child) tries to run away. This technique is also highly effective against the French.

What is the best way to disarm an opponent in a sword fight?
With a gun of course. This is called the Indiana Jones opening.

Who was the best opponent that you've ever faced in a sword fight?
That would be my ex-wife. Her technique was far and above the most complex and deceptive I've ever seen, and in a pinch she could use her toungue just as effectively as any blade. I still shudder when I think of it.

What's the proper way to challenge someone to a duel of swords?
I'm not certain if there is a 'Proper' way. Personally I prefer the direct approach, like walking up to the individual and stabbing them in the leg. If they are armed, they will respond. This may not be an honorable approach, but swordfighting is a serious business, and it's far easier (and preferable) to face an opponent who is limping.

Is it possible to disable a motor vehicle using a sword?
Yes, through the front grill, but it requires a tremendous amount of strength and a modicum of bravado. If the vehicle happens to be moving at the time you'll also need excellent timing and the dexterity of a cat.

Do you really own a sword fighting Monkey?
Yes, a small army of them in fact. Glorious!

My son/daughter would like to learn how to sword fight. Can you recommend an instructor?
While they are neophytes and still young (and smallish) - YOU are really the best teacher. Just begin by chasing them around the house with kitchen knives. This is how I learned as a youngster, and in time they will acquire basic defensive techniques. As they become teenagers you will want to get them a proper instructor. I recommend The Portland Sword Fighting Academy in Oregon if you are on the west coast, and the Dover Delaware Dueling Society if on the east. Of course if you've been chasing them with knives since they were small children you will also want to pick up some defensive instruction for yourself as they are likely to harbor malice.

The Eye of Moron

Exhibit A: What we see here is the facial hair equivalent of what Vaudeville used to remove bad acts from the stage. Where this one differs in representation instead of application is, alas, a distinct lack of modern day Vaudeville-- with the somewhat tarnished exception of Old Country Buffet.

Behold: a mountain of corn and riblet studded mashedcaroni and cheese potatoes, resentfully monikered “Mount Consume”, whereupon rests a triple drumstick king with a clucked up crown of pizza pepperoni.

Three plates for the elderly coots under the weather,
Seven for the fat bastards with bowling ball moobs,
Nine for the children of men doomed to dine,
One for Guy Fieri and his peroxidized hairy.
In the old country of Buffet where we're all porcine.
One buffet to rule them all, one buffet defines them,
One buffet to call and nether gravy falls recline them,
In the old country of Buffet where we're all porcine.

The man above, who referred to himself in third person as Boroweird, had only this to say:

"One does not simply walk out of Old Country Buffet. Its cobblers are gilded with more than just apples and cinnamon. There is a menu there that never leaves and the great prime ribeye is ever tasteful. It is a gastroenterological playland, riddled with meat and starch and cheese, the very air you breathe is an aromatic plume. Not with ten thousand Hoverounds could you do this. It is folly."

His hot sauce stained tee proclaimed him "Lord of the Wings".

Dangerous Liasons

That's my little bird Kevin...

A frozen fish makes an excellent defensive weapon, and if it's big enough it can stop a bullet. Cephalopod (frozen or raw) are useless as are smaller fish. Go for a swordfish for thrusts and swipes or a shark for audacity.

If you survive the encounter you should really consider why you were fighting for your life in a fish market in the first place.

Seriously ... shit ain't right.

Groucho Surpriso

High ball, low brow. 

Great Uncle Aloysius was known by many to be a serious, even dour, individual. He worked as a railroad foreman and knew how to keep men at the job be they cheerful, spitting blood, or any mood inbetween. He had five kids-- three boys and two girls, all a year apart-- and lived in a duplex close enough he walked every day, rain or shine. When his youngest was four, Uncle Al caught him throwing stones at the neighbor dog in the alley. He reached into his lunch pail, put on his nose and mustache glasses, and sneaked up behind the boy. Then he yelled “BOOGA” and the boy whipped around with a yelp and wet himself where he stood.


Groucho Surpriso.

There was a man Uncle Al supervised named Dennis, but everyone called him Balls. Balls was not a small man. He was a griper, a moaner, a wiseacre and a poop stirrer, and he liked nothing more than to give lip when Uncle Al had to tell it like it was. Balls had his own little group of passive aggressives and malingerers he liked to rile up when the mood struck. It was on one of these days his “Boatload of Balls”, as they came to be known, were pissing and groaning about as was usual for them right after lunch hour. Uncle Al tried to ignore it, but they were getting so loud it was starting to cause a scene. That’s when he reached into his desk drawer, put on his nose and mustache glasses, and walked right up to Balls.

“Ever wonder how blimps float, Dennis,” he says.

Balls gave him a puckered look.

“Keep talking,” he says.

“You callin me fat,” Balls says.

“What does your wife call you,” Al says.

Lips curled up sore, Balls took a swing, which Uncle Al ducked, and racked himself on a two-by-four poking out of the scrap bin.

Groucho Surpriso.

Grandma Millie’s birthday fell on Valentine’s Day, yet it never made her less of a sourpuss. It was always a gala affair and she expected everyone to attend. It was clear that day, warm, and Mom made me wear a jacket even though it made me sweat. When we arrived, I found my cousins and hurried off to cook up some mischief. We weren’t expected to be there until Grandma opened her presents, after which we’d eat.

That year, Dad decided to give Mom her Valentine’s gift while Grandma opened hers, and they sneaked off to one of the back bedrooms to do so. Not long after, Dad came running down the hall, but it was too late: Grandma already looked in the box that was meant for Mom. I didn’t know what I was seeing when she held it up -- some sort of weird rubber snake thing-- but it sure made all the adults hoot and holler.
Groucho Surpriso.

There was the time Cousin Arnold found nudie pics of his older sister with two guys dressed up like Tonto and The Lone Ranger. Groucho Surpriso.

And when me and the neighbor kid accidentally set fire to the pile of leaves raked to the curb four doors down and the fire department showed up. Groucho Surpriso.

Even the time my best friend gave me homemade chocolates wrapped in tinfoil at school and I spent the rest of the night on the toilet. Groucho Surpriso.

It was a somber day when Great Uncle Al passed, but he went in his sleep, and for that the family was grateful. Everyone gathered at Aunt Winnifred’s-- known to us kids as the “Party House”-- since that’s where grown ups went for cards and cocktails. Aunt Winnie was a bit of a harpy, and less than tactful about her dislike for Grandma Millie.

Now, if you ask anyone, Cousin George or Uncle Webster or even Mom or Dad, the story might not quite tell the same way. Some say Grandma came with Great Aunt Leanne, others will tell you Aunt Winnie was in the kitchen stuffing deviled eggs and puffing a Pall Mall. This is what REALLY happened, caught on film just as Grandma Millie arrived.

Winnie was on her fourth Old Fashioned, smoking and growling like a carnival barker. She swore on Great Uncle Reuben’s deathbed it would be the last time Grandma Millie set foot in her home. Aiming to stay true to her word, she stood behind the door as Grandma entered, prepared to cuss Aunt Millie back to her front step. When Winnie came around and got a good look, Grandma Millie’s jumped out at surprise crossed with Aunt Winnie’s seeing nose and mustache glasses surprise made them run into each other trying to get away and knocked themselves out cold.

Groucho Surpriso!

Postcards From the Edge - Scary Bunnies

wtf Bunny is wtf...

Hey my buddy! Love you! Miss you! :)

Yesterday I discovered that the bunnies in the back yard are hoarding watch batteries and sewing needles! I saw the little one shoving something under that metal frog by the back door and when I went to investigate I found their stash. I have no idea what they plan on doing with it all, but it's creeping me out! I caught one of the big ones and demanded to know who he was working for but he wouldn't talk so I put him in a shoebox and left him at the post office.

Something has to be done.

WTF bunnies available here.

A Boy and His Dirt

This is the first post by our new contributor Colin McK! This post is the first in a series...

Test scores affirm he's a
below average son, but an
excellent mudder...

Fact:

Everyone has something weird about them.

Case in point:

My Uncle Wurt on my dad's side of the family used to juggle his false teeth. Usually with an apple.

One might say everyone's got a funny uncle or aunt or stupid cousin or whathaveyou. What does that prove? Simple.

Everyone knows someone like that, who in turn knows others, and those people still others, ad infinitum. Uncle Wurt wasn't the only acquaintance or family member I knew who was weird, but for them-- knowing me-- well, I was the one most thought the weirdest.

It all started in the summer of 1983.

I spent a lot of time in the back yard during the day. It was fenced in and overgrown with trees, bushes and flowers. I couldn’t see the neighbors and they couldn’t see me. It was like I was cut off from the rest of the world. I knew that wasn’t true, but it was fun to pretend. Until I got bored being all by myself and decided I needed some friends.

For most kids my age, friends meant classmates, church buddies, maybe even kids from the neighborhood. In my case, friends meant I needed a shovel. I rummaged through the garage until I came up with one better suited for gardening or potting plants than my own task, but it would have to do. The big shovels Dad kept locked up and he was at work. Mom wouldn’t be much help, either, as having to ask anything other than if I could leave the premises was a big, fat no. Mom had shows, and shows required concentration on show stuff. Show stuff took up so much time and energy there wasn’t much left for anything else. In a way, Mom was like my gigantic desk top computer: one task at a time.

Shovel in hand, I found a good spot behind the shed and set to work. As a rule, I didn’t much care to get my hands dirty with anything but dirt. Like I said: weird. Before long I found several thin roots and a few as big around as my fingers, but I just dug around those. They weren’t what I wanted.

There was a compost heap nearby Mom ringed with bricks and that was where I normally found my friends. I’d overturned them all the previous day and, without a plan, let them escape. Most of them were little and not worth my time, though a couple seemed good enough. I got yelled at for not putting the bricks back the way I found them so I made sure that was the first thing I did that morning. Mom was known to spot check me when I played outside to make sure I wasn’t up to no good. I figured digging up the back yard might fall into that description, but I was too far into my work to turn back.

The first one came out in a chunk of sod and I held it up while it popped back into its hole like a gopher. Then in dawned on me I needed something to put them in. I dropped everything and ran back to the garage for a basket or maybe an old jar. Dad kept old nails, screws and other odds and ends in a mason jar next to the broom, but that was off limits. Undeterred, I ran back to my spot, falling to my knees to stop. I tore the dirt chunk apart and held aloft my prize:

A fat, juicy worm.

I continued my love affair for the next half hour, plucking several more from the ground and jamming them one after another into my pants pockets. Once I could feel them wriggling around against my legs, I knew I had enough, and began the painstaking process of funneling their former homes in after them. I had a fifth fistful of dirt when it happened.

“Hey, kid.”

My head whipped around. Two kids stood near the fence at the end of the yard, peering over. One was tall and chubby, with curly red hair. The other was short, skinny. His face looked like a rat. I knew them from the neighborhood, but not their names. It didn’t matter. They were trouble.

“Choo puttin in your pants, pal?”

I dropped the handful of dirt.

“Nothin.”

Firetop snorted.

“Don’t look like nothin to me.”

Ratface grinned half a mouthful of teeth.

“You playin witchoself back here?”

I felt the worms moving around against my legs and the blood drained from my face. I thrust my hands into my pockets, tried to make them stop.

“N-no.”

Firetop giggled, but Ratface wasn’t convinced.

“BULLPUCKY. Lemme see them hands.”

I knew it wasn’t the time for heroics. I’d seen enough cop dramas to know that. Just do what they say and it will all be over. All they wanted was to see my hands. So I yanked them out and held them in front of me like kids my age waved hello.

Firetop and Ratface had eyes like full moons.

“GET AWAY GROSS KID.”

And they ran to go tell their parents.

My name was Deke.

But everyone called me Dirtball.

For Those About to Rock

It's Angus Young!

Ever since this song came out, it has puzzled me. Sure it's a totally kick ass tune (it has a cannon after all), but what does it mean? What does someone, who is on the very cusp of rocking, but has not yet rocked look like? I always pictured some dude with long hair and a Kiss T-Shirt, head thrown back, ready to swing forward and bang into something - or perhaps Angus Young leaning back, arm raised high, pick in hand contemplating his next power chord.

About to rock, but not yet ... rocking.

Moreover - why just about to rock? Why not for those who have rocked, or typically enjoy rocking? Why not salute those dudes?

For a long time I assumed that it was just based on syllabic necessity, until I read this post from +Will Robinson. It was then that I realized that there must be some instant, just before an event of calculated madness that one perceives the totality of the moment they have chosen. Plan in mind, hand on doorknob, and a sense of propriety admirably absent. This is what it means to be about to Rock, and while fleeting, it seems only reasonable that the moment should be marked with cannon fire.

Will Robinson originally shared this post:

Just ran across the gale-force windy seafront in a t-shirt and jeans singing "POLYAMORY!" to the tune of the Balamory theme. Got spun around twice, pushed into the road repeatedly, almost knocked over, and am now in adrenaline comedown