Dark Holy Day

The Day of The Rending had come. There had been rumors of its approach, but they had never known how close that foul holy day was until it was upon them. The signs were now unmistakable. All of His people, known amongst themselves as “the Purchased,” had been gathered together. The ceremonial food offerings had been placed above the fire pit the night before, and subsequently consumed (as all things were) by the Devourers. Yes, the Devourers’ excitement had been growing in the past handful of days. Even now the smallest and frailest of their kind pawed at his people, lifting them from the ground and throttling them, but leaving them intact. The hour of death was not yet at hand.

All of the Purchased had known that this time would come; they had always known. The knowledge of their deaths had been born with them. Yet they had no idea from where they had come, merely that they were. Their lives but a dismal existence, awaiting their final doom—the Day of Rending.

In the quiet of the night He had prayed that this time would be different. He prayed that, unlike the previous generations of Purchased, His people would be saved. He knew not to whom He prayed, only to what. He prayed to the Source, to whatever power that created Him and His people. Only the Source would be powerful enough to destroy the Devourers and liberate His people. As of yet, no divinity had intervened, but He would not give up hope. Hope was all his people had ever possessed, and He would be damned if He would let the Devourers take that from them as well.

With thoughts of hope in His mind He felt His Beloved near him. She was glorious. The light bent around her and pierced all who looked upon her. She was always at his side; even now, though He knew the fear that filled her - the fear that filled all of them - she comforted Him as only she could. She had never cowered before the Devourers; she had never let them see her fear. That above all else was why He had named her his Beloved. Indeed, she had bourn a name before, a name branded upon her by the Devourers, a name that they together had rejected.

They had all donned new names in defiance of the Devourers. Resting next to Beloved was Elder, oldest and wisest of the Purchased. Flanking him were his three Guards. Identical in form and disposition, they had pledged their lives to the protection of Elder. On His other side stood Forgotten. Forgotten had given himself that ridiculous name in the hope that it would give him the power to survive the Rending. Damn fool. If he were to have faith in anything, it should be in their Source. Crouching in the shadows near Forgotten, or at least as well as his size would allow him, was Runt. Because of his overwhelming fear of the Devourers’ wrath, he alone had refused to give himself a new name. Instead he had been named Runt, not from the perspective of size (of which he was the largest) but from the perspective of heart.

He, like Runt, had refused a new name, but not out of fear. He had taken the slave name that the Devourers have given Him and claimed it as His own. Not because that was what they had branded him, but because of His hope. His hope that His name would be all that was left of the Devourers’ legacy. His hope that He would soon brand the Devourers with the same name with which they had branded Him. His hope that as the Devourers had muttered His name in anticipation, they would soon scream it in terror. His name—

“Tojon,” one of the smaller Devourers chortled His name with an air that made Tojon nervous. Saliva dripped from its fangs as its hand slowly approached Him. Tojon steeled himself for the inevitable crushing and tearing that was descending upon Him, but by the grace of the Source, one of the larger Devourers halted the small one’s progress, scolding it for its impatience.

Tojon enjoyed his momentary reprieve, for that was all it was. He stayed close to Beloved, His near-death experience unnerving her more than He would have liked. They exchanged no words, for their thoughts lay open to one another. They held close together in their blessed union. It was then that the crying began. Shrieks filled the air. The ground shook. The smallest of the Devourers advanced. His prayers had failed. The Rending had begun.

The Guards were already at work. Sacrificing themselves for Elder, they had already been overpowered and were being ripped limb from limb by the smallest of the Devourers. As they had promised, their lives were sacrificed for Elder, but they were sacrificed in vain. As the frailer Devourers tore the lives from their bodies, the largest of their kind made straight for Elder. It howled a sickening laugh as it tore a throbbing red mass from Elder’s frame. As Elder began to collapse from the shock, the creature’s cackle only increased, and it began to tear into his soon to be empty husk.

Beloved was still standing next to Tojon. She would not back down, even though her people were being torn through like tissue paper. She was unafraid.

A sudden noise to his right made Tojon turn his attention elsewhere as Runt was hefted high into the air and thrown across the room to the awaiting arms of yet another Devourer. Tojon did not know how many Devourers there were; they seemed to be everywhere.

Beloved stirred next to Him. They drew strength from their love and steeled themselves against the coming throng. Tojon encouraged her to place her hope in the Source—all else leads to folly.

His attention was brought back to Runt as he heard a cry. Apparently the coward had grown a spine. The Devourer that held him had been the one to cry out, a trickle of crimson flowing from its hand. Tojon would have smiled if he could have, but the horrific sight that followed would have quickly removed that smile. Tojon was mortified to see the beast place its appendage in its mouth and gorge itself on its own lifeblood. The Devourers had been aptly named, for even their own forms were not safe from their unyielding appetites.

After the creature had drunk itself dry, it greedily tore into Runt. The viciousness of the attack was almost too horrific to witness, but Tojon kept His watch. He watched, and He burned every moment of suffering into His consciousness. He seared their deaths upon His soul. He channeled their pain into His fury, and as He watched Runt die, Tojon felt something within Him snap. An unknown power was unlocked within Him; it coursed through Him. Tojon felt a strength growing in Him that He had never felt before—a force of unspeakable proportions, a power that could defeat, no, would defeat the Devourers. The Source. It must be. It had to be. There was no other possible explanation. His prayers had been answered; His people would be free.

It was in that moment of triumph, in that moment of power, that Tojon once again caught glimpse of His Beloved, at least what was left of her. She had been utterly destroyed. Her death must have been horrific, and her suffering had not yet ended. A small portion of her flesh flapped in the air as it stubbornly clung to her now lifeless body. The rest of her skin had been littered about the floor almost absent-mindedly. With that sight Tojon was broken. All hope that was within Him died; He no longer desired to continue living. The power that had so completely filled Him mere moments ago was nowhere to be found. In its absence a new hope arose, a hope that His end would come soon.

As Tojon had called for the Source to save Him, He now called for Death to embrace Him. Unlike the Source, Death was more than willing to accommodate. As Tojon still reeled from His Beloved’s death, a Devourers’ hand reached down and plucked Him from amongst the remains of His people. It lifted his lifeless husk and began its work. In mere moments the last of the Purchased, Tojon Frommom, was no more.

His Devourer chuckled with impish glee, a smile playing across its smacking lips, and as it reared itself upon its hind legs, it bellowed, "Thank you, Mom. I love it. Merry Christmas."

Life Imitating Art

I've just returned from a Christmas party...the only Christmas party I was actually invited to this year. While there, I had an "interesting" conversation regarding movies, a conversation that brought on a strong sense of deja vu. In particular, some of the people at the party were talking about going to see the new King Kong movie on Tuesday. Having seen the film, I offered a few tidbits regarding the nature of the work, particularly its length. More specifically, I stated that:

a) It was over 3 hours long.
b) It could have been made shorter.
c) Kong does not appear until 1 hr and 9 mins into the movie. (I timed it with my watch.)
d) They make it back to New York in 2hrs and 17 mins into the movie, leaving him roughly 45 mins to wreak havoc on New York.

After making these comments ("d" in particular), I was informed by one of the other guests that I shouldn't be talking so much about the film, since he hadn't seen it yet. Immediately, I had a flashback to a Penny Arcade strip that I had read a short ways back.

Now, I like to believe that I am fairly sensitive to spoiler information. Ever since I had a coworker ruin the surprise twist of Fight Club, I've tried to monitor how much I reveal about a movie, particularly if I don't know whether or not the person I am talking to has seen it. But as Gabe so eloquently points out in the strip, there are limits in place.

It's King Kong. They're not really treading any new ground with this one. And even then, knowing that Kong trashes New York is in no way going to ruin the film for you. You should be able to put that much together from just watching the preview.

To continue on Gabe's mean-spirited spoilering of The Passion, I seek to ruin additional films for the denizens of the Intraweb. WARNING: There be spoilers below:

Batman Begins - Bruce Wayne is Batman.

Debbie Does Dallas - Couples have actual sex on film.

Ernest Saves Christmas - Ernest does, in fact, save Christmas.

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial - E.T. manages to phone home.

Fried Green Tomatoes - Pre-ripened tomatoes are placed in fat and heated.

Hamlet - Everybody dies. Everybody, that is, except Horatio...and Fortinbras.

JFK - President Kennedy is assassinated.

Mickey's Christmas Carol - Ebenezer Scrooge reforms and comes to embrace the true meaning of Christmas, which has absolutely nothing to do with the baby Jesus and everything to do with product placement of Disney cartoon properties.

The Muppets Take Manhattan - After a pitched battle with the Lords of Hell street gang, the Muppets succeed in conquering the island of Manhattan and instituting a benevolent dictatorship under the reign of Professor Milton Honeydew.

Planet of the Apes - Charleton Heston (or Mark Wahlberg in the later version) is an astronaut that lands on a planet that is dominated and controlled by apes.

Psycho - Norman Bates is the killer, dressing up in his mother's clothing and slaughtering young women.

Raiders of the Lost Ark - Indiana Jones raids archaeological sites, searching for the Ark of the Covenant that was lost centuries ago.

Star Wars - Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father, Anakin Skywalker. (If you did not already know this, you are either a Communist or the Anti-Christ. Either way, destroy yourself now for the benefit of humanity.)

The Ten Commandments - Moses leads his people in a grand exodus out of Egypt.

The Titanic - Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslett's characters fall in love.

To Kill A Mockingbird - The title is actually a metaphor and no mockingbirds are killed in the film.

Tora! Tora! Tora! - The Japanese successfully bomb Pearl Harbor.

Transformers: The Movie - Hot Rod, not Ultra Magnus, unlocks the power of the Matrix and becomes Rodimus Prime, the new leader of the Autobots.

The Wizard of Oz - Dorothy and Toto leave Kansas...and the Wicked Witch of the West attempts to "get" both of them.

A Dish Served Cold - Pt 2 of 2

What—what have you done to me?”

For the first time in the conversation, Worf allowed a true smile to cross his lips. Looking down at the bit of metal in his hands, he inquired, “Do you like my cane? A friend of mine made it for me.” Worf paused a moment in thought, “Well, to be honest, he only made the top of it. And he did not necessarily make it for me. He made it for you.”

Armus pulsed slightly, a ripple running across the surface of the oily channel. “For – for me? I do not understand.”

Worf continued, “You do remember the android from your last set of visitors, don’t you?”

“The Tin Man?”

“Yes, the Tin Man,” answered Worf. “If you remember, you sought to manipulate him, to play on his emotions by forcing him to hold a phaser to the head of his captain. You asked him how he would feel, knowing he was the responsible for the death of his captain.”

“I remember.”

“When I first reviewed the logs of that meeting, I admit I found the irony rather amusing. You see, Data (that was his name by the way) lacked any emotions at the time – he would not have been able to feel anything.”

“At the time?” asked Armus.

“Yes. As time passed, Data was reunited with his creator who fashioned an emotion chip for him. This chip allowed Data to experience a whole wealth of human emotions – fear, love, sorrow,” Worf again smiled, “and hate.”

Worf continued, “Tasha, Lt. Yar, was very special to him. You might almost call her his first love, and when he thought of what you did to her, he felt an uncontrollable rage rise through his circuits. For a time, he became obsessed with you, studying everything we recorded of you and this planet, seeking to find out as much about you as possible.

“His goal, of course, was to find a means to destroy you. And he did. You see it here before you.” Worf tapped his finger against the shining, metal cylinder at the top of his cane. “I do not pretend to understand it. From what I could decipher from his notes, it emits a radiation that breaks down your cellular structure on a molecular level.

“But he chose never to use it. He believed that isolating you on this planet was a far worse punishment.”

Armus, its voice barely distinguishable, allowed itself a brief chuckle. The humanoid form it assumed was growing thinner and thinner as fluid oozed down back into the channel, “Really, and why is that?”

“He felt that you were primarily motivated by a deep loneliness and hurt. That you lashed out because of your abandonment, and that continuing to isolate you would be sufficient torment.” Worf cocked his head slightly to one side, “I happen to disagree.”

Armus managed an unintelligible gurgle as his form began to sink into the oily channel.

“I believe,” continued Worf, “that you were not motivated by pain, but by rage. Rage at the Titans. You used to be a part of them. You were their every dark impulse. Their obsession. Their rage. Their madness. You were everything that they hated about themselves, and they found a way to purge themselves of you. A way to slough you off like old, dead skin.”

The humanoid form that had been the mouthpiece of Armus was no longer visible, and the channel of sludge was beginning to dry up and mix with the sand of the desert.

“And with that, your precious ego was shattered, and you were forced to realize that you are not as great as you think you are. In fact, you aren’t even necessary. Once they were rid of you, they continued to thrive even more. They were free, liberated. They achieved things that you could only imagine, and you hated them for it.

Worf wedged the can deep into the ground next to the pool of filth that had been Armus. “You hated them so much, that the very mention of them distracted you to the point that you didn’t notice you were dying until it was too late. Your stupidity is almost enough to evoke a sense of pity in me. But my mercy died along with my honor long ago. All I have left is my hate and my revenge. On this planet, you took Tasha from me, and now your life is forfeit.”

Worf tapped the comm badge on his chest, “Ambassador Worf to the Kho’voth.”

The badge emitted a slight chirp followed by the deep tone of Lt. B’etoth, “Kho’voth here. Have you concluded your business, Ambassador?”

Worf was wracked by a brief coughing fit before he could respond. He produced a small black cloth from a pocket to cover his mouth. When the fit had ended, Worf answered, “Yes. My work here is done.” He then took a moment to look at the bloody residue that now covered the cloth – it would not be long now before he too entered the land of the dead.

“Beam me aboard quickly. There are some more stops I need to make.”

A Dish Served Cold - Pt. 1 of 2

Varga II - the planet alone was an assault on the senses. Even now, at midday, light was unwilling to extend too much of its presence on the surface of this hell. The dull red glow of the planet’s sun was coupled with a temperature far colder than to be expected from the dry, desert landscape. And the smell - the acrid stench that burned the nose and the eyes. No matter how many times he had reviewed the logs and reports, nothing had truly prepared him for the stench of this place. But he was Worf, son of Mog, and he had no time to concern himself with mild unpleasantries.

It had taken a great deal of effort and latinum to circumvent the quarantines that protected this planet, quarantines put in place decades ago by Starfleet Command. Admittedly, he was no longer under their rule, but this was still their territory. And he was far from the Klingon home world. So far, in fact, that he had been forced to call in several old favors to make it here undetected, but, honestly, what else would he be saving them for.

Worf reached to his hip and lifted the tricorder up into his now fading gaze. There had once been a time when his eyes were as keen as any Klingons. A time when his body was honed as hard as steel and the warrior’s fire that burned in his heart could not be quenched. But those times were long gone. Age had dulled those eyes and quenched that fire. All that was now left was a dull smoldering, not worthy of a true Klingon.

The tricorder chirped and whirred, analyzing the surrounding area and condensing this information into a pulsing burst of lights. He was, of course, heading the right way. He had planned this day for some time and knew the route already, but he found some comfort in checking anyway. Though the path was easy, he still struggled, limping slowly and placing much of his weight on a thin, black cane with a bright silver tip.

He was now but a shell, ravaged by a disease and time. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, a nasty scar stretching above and below, tracing the path of a blade long since stilled. It had been so long ago now he could not even remember that battle. Had it been the second civil war? His graying, mattered hair hung loosely about his shoulders. Deep in thought, he ran his fingers through his also graying beard, clutching them into a fist before releasing. The danger was quickly approaching, and he readied himself for battle.

“Ah, I see I have a visitor once again,” gurgled a voice from ahead. It had a liquid sound that belied its alien origin. It was a voice as dark as night and as cold as space. A voice of emptiness and doubt that burrowed its way into your mind. “Come closer,” it continued, “come to your death.”

Worf stepped out into a small, sandy clearing, perhaps twenty meters in diameter. The clearing was banked by small rock formations not five meters high, and a large crater was burned into the far side of the opening. Near the edge of the crater, a black, oily channel cut through the sand.

Worf inhaled deeply, and answered in his most official-sounding voice, “Hail, Armus. The Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets salutes you. I am Ambassador Worf, son of Mog, and in the interests of intergalactic peace, I extend greetings to you.”

A vaguely humanoid form began to slowly rise from the river of sludge. “Welcome, Meat, to the place of your death.” The being appeared to possess two arms and head of sorts, but it was covered – if not composed – of the oily substance. “You know my name, who I am, and yet you still come. What makes you value your life so little?”

Worf stepped forward with his arms spread open, “I come on behalf of many civilizations with a proposition for you. One that I believe you will find to your—” Worf’s voice broke off as his airway was cut off. An unseen force coiled around his neck, slowly choking him.

“You dare bargain with me?” bellowed Armus. Another jolt of force dropped Worf to his knees. “You seek commerce? You seek profit? You dare come to me with this filth?”

Worf’s fingers fumbled about his neck, seeking to pry the unseen vice from his throat. He pushed with all of the air in his lungs and wheezed out a faint, but audible word, “Titans.” The pressure immediately released from his neck, and Worf collapsed onto the ground gasping for air.

“What do you know of the Titans?” Armus bellowed. “Why are you here?”

Worf panted on the ground for a few moments before rising back to his knees. Rubbing his throat, he answered, “They have returned.”

Armus shimmered, visible agitated. The consistency of the liquid that made his form altered, losing color. The being began to ramble to itself shaking violently with each syllable, “They have returned, and yet they do not seek me? They abandon me here with no explanation, no course” Armus turned its attention back to Worf, “Where? Where are they now?”

Worf took a moment to get back on his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, before he answered. “Not far from here. A few days travel. They have appeared near the Antillian homeworld and have begun interfering in our affairs.”

“Interfering?” Armus asked, almost sounding interested.

“Yes,” Worf answered as he sat down on a small rock formation nearby. He leaned forward, much of his weight resting on the cane. “They demand tribute from us. They demand that we honor them for their superior nature. They interfere with our trade routes. They have proclaimed themselves rulers of the sector.” With each word, each sentence he had allowed his voice to grow louder, more angry. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “Rulers of our territory.” He spat on the ground. “And there is nothing that we can do about it. Every military force that we have sent against them has been destroyed. Every attack has been overcome. We are at a loss. We are desperate. We need help from someone who is as powerful as they.”

Armus’s answer was almost sickening in the delight it showed, “And you to come to me?”

Worf nodded in agreement. “And we come to you. While our last visit to this planet was brief, we recognized the sheer force that you hold at your command. You were able to strike down one of our people with but a gesture. You outmatched every show of force we could offer. It was obvious that we faced a superior being with a superior intellect.”

Armus paused a moment, mulling over Worf’s words. “Yes, you would need my help. The one I killed – “

“Lt. Yar” interrupted Worf.

“Her name does not matter,” answered Armus curtly. “This Yar,” Armus spat the name out as if it were a bit of rancid meat “she died quickly. Your people possess no power. No strength. You would have no hope of overcoming the Titans.”

“And that is why we seek your aid. We know that with your hand guiding us, we will be able to rise up and overcome them. With you allied by our side, we may find true power.”

“You delude yourself with your own importance, son of Mog. You will not be my ally. You will be my victim if you do not obey me. You will use your ship to take me to the Titans, and I will crush them. I will feast on their flesh and grind their bones into dust. They will weep before me, and they will know fear. And you, you will—I, I do not—what, what is happening to me? What—what have you done to me?”

(To Be Concluded)

The spiders in my brain tell me that if I close my eyes, the gnomes will steal my soul...

It's the first time that I've stayed up all night in quite some time (probably since college). I was playing Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, and the next thing I knew, it was after 5:00 AM. It seems pointless to go to sleep now, so I have decided to write haikus regarding the games I've been playing...I think the lack of sleep may be affecting my higher brain functions...

Lord of the Rings: The Third Age:

Frelling Uruk-Hai
They keep killing my party
...need to level build

Dune 2000:

Build fast, Atreides
You need missile tanks to win
Or ornithopters

Baldurs Gate: Dark Alliance 2

My dwarf's an archer?
Who makes a dwarf an archer?
Lousy game design.

Peter Jackson hates black people

Ever since Kanye West uttered those revelatory words about our nation's President, I have been on the lookout for these subversive hate-mongering white men that have risen to positions of power. Last night, as I watched the updated version of King Kong, I believe I found one - Peter Jackson.

Throughout his film he has one racist visual image after another, each one more heinous and insulting. The violent, murderous natives of "Skull Island" are all as black as sin, while the lily-white Americans are just trying to make a harmless movie. It seems that this color-scheme is foremost on Mr. Jackson's mind since upon close observation, it becomes apparent that several of these natives are really Anglos and Asians done up in black-face. And here I thought that kind of degenerate entertainment went out in the 50's.

In the film, the most violent, bloodthirsty native is obviously an Asian male, but his skin is a deep ebony. If you think that the racial overtones hadn't been obvious enough, the palest of these "natives," a decrepit old hag, is the only one of them capable of speech. Obviously, she had to whiten herself up to gain the gift of language.

The only redeeming black character in the film is the ship's first mate, who just so happens to be the first human killed by Kong in the film. Obviously some twisted commentary on black on black crime. I'm sure Mama Jackson would be so proud.

And Kong himself is perhaps the worst embodiment of racial stereotypes since Darth Vader. The BLACK gorilla is able to lift more, jump higher, run faster and throw farther than any of the white characters, yet the one thing that he lacks is basic human intelligence. He is ruled entirely by instinct with no intellectual thought, probably how Jackson views the entire black race. Oh, did I mention that he spends his entire time on screen obsessed with a blonde-haired white girl. Apparently an ebony princess isn't good enough for our erstwhile king.

They could have only made Kong more insulting if they had done him up in blackface and had him tap-dancing on a stage to entertain the white folk--oh wait, they already paid some black actors to do that at the beginning of the film.

Have you seen my hate? I seem to have misplaced it...

In my meanderings about the Internet today, I stumbled across a scathing revitorial (review+editorial) on the recent film release of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that was entitled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateful About Religion."

Now, I saw this movie twice over the past weekend, and I have to admit that I really didn't see anything all that "hateful" in the film. (Then again, I didn't see the anti-Semitism in Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. In fact, I found myself arguing with someone at a Christmas party last year that the film wasn't the least bit anti-Semitic. The discussion reached a stalemate when I learned that the girl I was arguing with hadn't actually seen the movie. She had, however, written a graduate-level paper regarding the film's anti-Semitic content and, ergo, was an expert...but I digress.)

Upon reading the article, though, I realized the error. You see, the article should have been titled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateable About Religion." I found that the following passage brought the author's reasoning most clearly to light:

"Children are supposed to fall in love with the hypnotic Aslan, though he is not a character: he is pure, raw, awesome power. He is an emblem for everything an atheist objects to in religion. His divine presence is a way to avoid humans taking responsibility for everything here and now on earth, where no one is watching, no one is guiding, no one is judging and there is no other place yet to come."

Realizing how misguided this author was, I immediately knew that I had to post a response. There are so many better reasons to hate religion (Christianity in particular) that it boggles the mind. After a brief wracking of my brain, I have settled on ten better reasons to hate Christians than because of our faith in the divine Aslan...er...Jesus.

10. The Daystar Network.

9. The Spanish Inquisition.

8. The second Left Behind movie. (The first one gave reason to be mildly displeased, but the second one was a clear insult.)

7. Their flapping heads and beady eyes…no, wait...those are Canadians.

6. Their inability to understand sarcasm, irony or most other literary conventions.

5. Centuries of anti-Semitism.

4. Their instant belief in everything that shows up in their e-mail inbox.

3. The Crusades.

2. Giving out tracts instead of candy on Halloween.

1. Amy Grant.

An Open Letter to J.K. Rowling - Author of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Blasphemous Sacrilege

Madame Rowling,

Reticent as I am to interact with anyone involved with the den of iniquity known as the "entertainment industry," I find that I can remain silent no longer. In the past month, I have had the opportunity to not once, but twice view the recently released film based on your novel, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. May I be the first to say - How dare you!

How dare you and your ilk invade my nation with your filth and propaganda. How dare you sully this land's soil with your lies and pornography. How dare you profit from damning the souls of children and household pets. Your work is a travesty and an insult to all that is good and pure in America.

While I was admittedly surprised at the lack of bestiality, demon worship and human sacrifice that I expected from the film, I still felt an evil presence hovering about me as I entered the theater. A damp blast of air pulsed on the back of my neck during the entire movie - doubtless a minion of the dark lord seeking to penetrate my spine to gain access to my soul. My ample waist felt pressure on either side of me - as if some unseen force had taken two planks of wood or coated plastic and forced them to pinch me on either side. And when I tried to leave the theater in the middle of the film, a sticky, unworldly substance attempted to pin my feet in place. Oh, it gave off a saccharine-sweet aroma, but I recognized it for the demonic bile it was.

As if this assault was not enough, the content of your "masterpiece" was even more disturbing. Let us take a moment to examine one of the key themes in your work - magic. Poppycock is more like it, but let us use your term for the benefits of clarity. It is obvious that you encourage children to believe in this unseen yet all-powerful force that operates beyond human comprehension to affect our lives. Moreover, you encourage children to engage in daily exercises to strengthen and hone their ability to commune with this power. The gall you have, Madame. To take young minds and pollute them with this drivel is unforgivable. How you can sleep at night is beyond me. Matters are only made worse when you make it clear that the level of one's belief in this unseen power (placing one's "faith" in it, if you will) will result in improvements to one's life, station and character. How absurd. I will pray for your sanity.

To prove the evil of your works, Madame, I need only point out how quickly children are seduced into mimicking young Mr. Potter and his cronies. As I sat there, watching your filth on the silver screen (now sullied to a dull brass, or perhaps tungsten) I noted that the children of your dastardly Hogwart's magic school were all dressed in black robes. This unique wardrobe choice reminded me of last May when I attended my nephew's graduation from kindergarten. All 17 children in his graduating class had chosen to don a black, flowing robe over their dress clothes. At the time, I thought the children were merely performing some type of political commentary regarding the U.S. Supreme Court, but now I know the awful truth. It is now obvious to me that these children were imitating the emissaries of darkness from your film.

Perhaps this isolated incident is not enough to convince you of the wickedness of the path you have chosen, but there is more. The characters from your "harmless" wizard film all had a strange manner of speech as well. I'm assuming this is some type of magic language that they all learned in the first movie. There was probably some lesson that taught if you don't pronounce the "h" at a beginning of a word or make every "a" sound like an "aw," the dark prince of hell himself will grant you unspeakable powers. Either way, I attended a community theater production of Hamlet not two weeks ago where every actor in the piece imitated this foul demon-speak. Again, in my naivete, I assumed an innocent reason behind this oddity - perhaps they were all deaf or had recently experienced strokes. Nay. They obviously sought to use some magical wile to enchant their audience to engage in some disgusting orgy of filth and wretchedness. I thank God that I was in that audience and that my faith protected everyone that night.

Now I know that your apologists typically use the defense of "It's not real. It only encourages children to use their imagination." And they say that like it's a good thing. Let's take a minute to look at this glorious "imagination" that you wish to instill into our nation's children. I believe we will uncover the truth if we break the word down to its roots - i/magi/nation. Or to fill in the blanks - I am the MAGI to the NATION. Yes, that's right. I've cracked your cunning lingual code. You seek to turn the children of our nation into the Magi (sorcerers or wise men) of our nation. While I'm sure that you would state your goals are benevolent, I find that highly unlikely. Doubtless you seek to raise up some clan of demonically-powered overseers to conquer the American government and enforce the socialist "utopia" that you British hold so dear.

Well, foist your magical universal health care plans on some other hapless nation - perhaps France. Lord knows they deserve it.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel

For the first time in a decade, I have gone snowboarding. This now brings my total of snowboarding trips to two. I don't know if there are words to describe just how much I suck, but I saw dozens of children no higher than my waste rocket past me throughout the day. (I think quite of few of them were laughing at me.) However, I can say that I did a hell of a lot better than I did back in my senior year of high school. Unfortunately, any number multiplied by zero is still zero.

As you might expect, I fell on every part of my anatomy several times - sometimes driving one part of said anatomy into an alternate, more tender part. Oddly enough, the pain of the actual day of snowboarding is so much less then the ongoing suffering of the following days. Every muscle burns with the fire of a hundred...nay, a thousand suns. Those aforementioned anatomy parts grow livid with any motion. And my left knee, my apparent shock absorber of choice, stings on contact with anything heavier than a feather.

In this state, I find myself questioning "Why in the name of all that does not suck did I do this to myself?" I believe the only answer is that I must have some masochistic tendency. Some intense self-loathing that leads me to my own destruction. Typically, I try to avoid pain whenever possible, but on Monday, that was not the case. In fact, I kept trying to push myself until my body was no longer willing to cooperate.

I need to have a good, long talk with myself and work on this latent hostility. Until I work this out, I am going to self-medicate with a lot of rest and sitting on my voluminous, yet supple posterior.

Working my fingers to the bone

As you can see, I'm not really doing such a hot job posting regularly. But I have an excuse this week. While I took time off last week, I am working several extra hours this week.

"Doing what?" you might ask. Well, I work for a marketing company writing boring sales collateral. No really, I'm a copywriter. I write copy. "What kind of copy?" Well, something kind of like this (but completely different).

New to the IBM Workplace family of products is IBM PureEdge. For those of you who have longed for more edge in your applications, IBM now has the answer. This sucker's edgier than U2. That's right, it's edgier than "The Edge" - the definitive article. It's edgier than one of those Schick Triple Edge razors (which is by default three times edgier than The Edge/U2). You want edge? You got it baby. This hot little application is so edgy that it's PureEdge. Pure. Unadulterated. Edge. It's all edge. It's as edgy as a one-dimensional line. There is no part of it that is not edge. You could circumcise a muon with the edge on this puppy. Now that's edge. That's PureEdge, by IBM.

...somebody should pay me to write commercials.

The Pevensies vs. The Hobbits

(I am going to gauge this combat based on each of the groups' later incarnations, at a time when they were battle-hardened and actually "dangerous." If this contest were to take place at the beginning of each set of novels, my guess is that it would be filled with introductions and "how do you do's," ultimately concluding with a grand tea party and discussions of the weather. Then again, perhaps that would have been more interesting...)

"We swear fealty only to King Aargorn!" piped Sam. Turning to his companions, he asked, "Isn't that right, Master Frodo?"

"Well," Frodo answered as he rolled back his eyes in thought, "there is Lady Galadriel...and probably Elrond."

"Don't forget my Lord Theoden," added Merry.

"Alright, alright," muttered Sam. Turning back to the well-armed children he cried, "I take that back. We swear fealty only to King Aargorn, Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond and King Theoden. But no more."

"You will claim Aslan as the highest king before this day is out, or I shall send you to meet him," came the cry of Edmund Pevensie. (Now dear reader, this challenge may have been more intimidating had Edmund yet reached the initial stages of puberty. However, since he had not, the Hobbits felt no qualms about crying back--

"Game on, Mother Trucker." (In all honesty, this isn't entirely what they said, but I don't feel comfortable writing what they said where young children or women might read it, so I have loosely paraphrased.)

Edmund unsheathed his sword, swinging it back and forth, while his older brother rubbed his hand against his forehead and muttered a "Bloody Hell" under his breath. Lucy and Susan, the two Pevensie girls, fell back several paces from their brothers. You see, the girls were archers and carried no melee weapons with them since Aslan doesn't like it when girls fight in war...unless they are shooting pieces of wood and steel from a long distance. I think it's supposed to be more feminine or something...

Anyway, as the four Hobbits begin their advance, Susan cocked back an arrow and let it fly, lodging the shaft in Pippin's throat. (Gentle reader, the previous line may sound a tad pornographic in nature, but that is no one's intent except for perhaps yours, you filthy pervert.) Lucy's arrow also landed home, striking poor, dead Pippin in the leg. You see, young Lucy had been thinking of gumdrops and caramels rather than listening as her sister told her to target the one on the left. Had she been listening, she would have severely wounded young Frodo Baggins, and things would have gone far better for the Pevensie children.

Realizing he was in terrible danger, Frodo placed the One ring on his finger and became invisible. Surprised, Lucy and Susan paused a moment before reloading their bows, which gave Merry and Sam a chance to begin a mad rush on Peter and Edmund. The wise little hobbits took great trouble to keep the much taller boys between them and the two female archers, robbing the women of a clear shot. Frodo, meanwhile, used his invisibility to sneak up on the girls and promptly stabbed Susan. At the fall of Susan, Lucy began screeching about her "Dearest sister," but she was quickly silenced by the bite of Sting.

Peter, who was quite easily dealing with Merry and Sam, dispatched Edmund to go check on the girls. It bears mentioning that Edmund could be considered what some might call "tricksie" or at least "crafty" or perhaps "a deceptive little wanker." Either way, Edmund had also seen Frodo disappear, and as he approached the fallen bodies of his recently departed sisters, he was well aware that he now faced an invisible foe. (I do mean faced in a figurative sense, since Edmund would not be able to tell if he was actually facing his foe because he was invisible...the foe, not Edmund.)

As luck would have it, or mayhaps the will of Aslan (long may he reign), this particular battle was taking place on a rather dusty, dirty field. As Edmund kneeled near the corpses of his deceased siblings he sneakily (it's a word) filled his hands with dirt and quickly cast it about him. Now anyone who is familiar with cloaking technology (magical or non-magical in origin) may tell you, when someone is cloaked (invisible) light bends around them. Unfortunately for Frodo, dirt does not. Immediately noticing a patch of earth that seemed to halt in mid-air, Edmund lashed out with his blade, neatly severing Frodo's head from his body.

"Noooooooooo" cried Sam as he launched into a blood rage much like the berserkers of old Norse legend. As his tiny form whirled about in a dervish of blood and metal, he quickly struck down Peter the Great, High King of Narnia. Unfortunately, in his unrestrained lust for vengeance, Sam also happened to strike down Merry, who, honestly, was standing a little too close for his own good in the first place.

As Sam raced forward to strike down Edmund, the young lad grabbed the bow from his fallen sister (Susan, not Lucy) and let fly an arrow that pierced Sam's side. Undaunted, Sam continued his advance, a blood-curdling cry drawing forth from his lips. A second arrow struck his left arm, forcing him to drop his favorite frying pan. (Perhaps I should have noted earlier that Sam preferred to enter battle carrying a sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other. It was actually said frying pan that crushed the tiny skull of young Meriadoc Brandybuck not a full minute earlier.)

With Sam so close now, Edmund was forced to drop the bow and unsheathe his sword once again. While not exceptional fighters, hobbits typically have an advantage in combat since most denizens of Middle Earth have never combated an enemy that barely came up to its middle. Unfortunately, Edmund had fought many a tiny enemy -- from dwarves (whom are shorter in Narnia) to wolves to the nasty badgers of Hedgwick Falls (who weren't that nasty really, but the name had stuck). As Sam drew within Edmund's range, he let forth a devastating over-the-head blow that split the little Hobbit's skull right down the middle.

Victorious on the battlefield, Edmund stared around at the devastation and death that lay about him and muttered a muted but triumphant "Bollocks."

The Winner: The Pevensies

The Chronicles of Narnia vs. The Lord of the Rings...in a no-holds-barred cage match

I've taken off the second half of this week to burn through some of the excessive vacation that my employer gives me (I am by no means complaining). Yesterday, I finally had the chance to sit down and watch all three of the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy back-to-back-to-back. If you're interested in doing this as well, it takes about 11.5 hours with minimal breaks (I'm talking about taking the time to pee in between disks, not the time to cook a meal).

I've also been rereading the Chronicles of Narnia; though it might be better to say I've been devouring them. In the past week, I've read through the first four - typically finishing each novel within 24 hours of starting it. I'm also halfway through the Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

Anyway, since I've been infusing massive amounts of Inkling-based fantasy, I figured now would be as good a time as any to compare the two bodies of work. (For any who might be concerned that I am basing my assessment of Tolkien's craft solely on the movies, rest assured that I have indeed read nearly everything Tolkien wrote about Middle Earth, not just the four main titles.)

It's difficult for me to say which body of work I prefer. I can handily say that I am more familiar with the Chronicles, having read them several times since childhood, while I have only read through the Lord of the Rings twice (once as an adolescent and once as an adult). But familiarity does not necessarily imply preference.

The Chronicles offer a rosier view of a fantastic world, almost making things how we'd want them to be. A world full of nobility and mercy. A land of wonder and awe that surprises us with beauty again and again. Middle Earth, on the other hand is a much darker yet more real realm. Victory is purchased by spilling the blood of another. Suffering is all too common, and redemption is found at the end of a trying, painful journey. Rather than simply relying on an Aslan-ex-machina to save the day, Middle Earthers must agonize and toil long after hope has abandoned them. This structure, of course, leads to a richer, more complex story, but it does not instill the sense of marvel and awe that the Chronicles offer.

In all honesty, I think I read through these sets in the appropriate order. The Chronicles are ideal for younger children. They fuel the imagination. They make you believe that life is a glorious thing and that every moment should be treasured. Joy can be found around the next bend, over the next hill.

The Lord or the Rings trilogy, however, works better for young adults. They offer a much more complex storyline that isn't always the easiest to follow (and I'm not just saying that because I repeatedly confused Sauron and Saruman the first time I read through them...ok, maybe I am). They remind us constantly that nothing is free and that anything great usually comes at a terrible price.

Honestly, to determine which one is better, you really have to decide what you're looking for. Do you want an intelligent, compelling story...or are do you want something that will capture your imagination and instill a sense of wonder?

Perhaps it is simply a sense of nostalgia. Maybe at this moment in my life I'm just looking for something that will offer me a sense of hope. Maybe I need to believe that redemption can be easily gained. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm really happy to be reading some fast-moving, simple novels after just completing the Frank Herbert Dune saga last week. Whatever the reason, I heretofore decide...

The Winner: The Chronicles of Narnia

Best chase scenes

I've been off for the past couple of days, and I've been watching a bunch of DVDs. A couple of these featured some really good chase scenes, which got me trying to decide on my top 10 favorite ones. So here they are.

10. Striking Distance - Honestly the only reason this one made the list is because I get a huge kick out of watching the light bars bouncing around on the tops of the cop cars as they go bounding down the road.

9. The Transporter - A movie about a professional "wheel man." I'm going to go out on a limb and say there were some good scenes in this one.

8. The Italian Job - Three words: Minis, minis, minis.

7. The Bourne Identity - A movie for anyone that's wanted to careen down the narrow streets of a small European village...and has.

6.Return of the Jedi - Who didn't want a speederbike when they saw that movie?

5. The Rock - A movie for anyone that's wanted to drive a Mercedes through a plate glass window...and then derail a street car.

4. Ronin - Driving on the wrong side of the road for fun and profit.

3. Bad Boys II - High end sports car + (A car transporting semi x Villainous Haitians) = Fun for the whole family.

2. Matrix Reloaded - This one probably scored so high because of the fight scenes that are interspersed throughout the chase. I loved the in-car fighting between Morpheus, Trinity and one of Albinos. Of course, ending the scene with two semis slamming into each other at full speed didn't hurt either.

1. Batman Begins - A car chase on rooftops. Does it get any better than this? No. It doesn't.

Damn...I'm so sorry to hear that...

I have been shopping at the Aamazing Fantasy comic book store in Littleton, CO since I was in the seventh grade. Over the years I have spent countless hours enwrapped in the tales of wonder and woe offered by this shop, and it holds a special place in my heart. As I was purchasing my weekly comic shipment today, I learned that the owner's wife had just passed away.

While I was extending my condolences, Shawn (the owner) found it necessary to walk across the store to where I was standing, hug me, and thank me. You see, a few years back, I had given a ride to his wife so that they could get their sick cat to the vet. It had taken no more than a half hour of my time and really didn't require much effort on my part. In fact, I seem to recall making a joke at the time that this was the easiest good deed for the year that I'd ever done.

Years later, that simple act of kindness suddenly meant a great deal to Shawn, and I found myself sharing a hug with someone whom I don't even believe I've shaken hands with. I spent the rest of the day reflecting on this exchange, trying to wrap my mind around it.

Too often, I think that I simply ignored the people that were around me. I glossed over their pain, their suffering, their loss because I didn't want to get involved. I didn't want it to bog me down. After all, I've got enough problems of my own that I don't need to waste my time on them...Now I find myself wishing that I would have spent a little more time reaching out to those that have been around me.

Opening Salvo

Well, it's been previously stated that whenever I get around to jumping on the technology bandwagon, the trend has reached complete market saturation. I have always dragged my feet when it came to upgrading to the newest technology or participating in the latest fad. Part of this is because I am extremely lazy and unwilling to put forth any individual effort. The other factor is that I am an extremely cheap individual. Some might say niggardly. (Of course said people would immediately be tackled by members of the ACLU and subsequently beaten into a sticky paste.) Unwilling to part with my hard earned cash, I still lug about a cell phone that is heavy enough to beat a man into unconscioness. I've never spent more than $20 on a video game (though I've owned dozens), and my car is old enough to drink alcoholic beverages.

So why blog? Why bother to participate in this particular social phenomenon. The short answer - it's free. The not as short answer - arrogance. As all writers do, I'm operating under the assumption that people will find what I have to say exceedingly interesting, moderately entertaining, or at least unexplainably addictive. The least shortest answer - hope. As mentioned previously, I'm inherently lazy. While I hold grand aspirations of being a well-published author, I rarely put forth any effort into writing outside of my job. In fact, I spend most of my time talking myself out of writing. I am inherently afraid that I am not nearly as intelligent or funny as I think I am, and the moment anyone reads anything I have written, they will see through to the babbling moron that lies within. With this blog, I hope to take a few of the first steps in changing this. (The being afraid part, not the babbling moron part...though I should probably look into working on that as well.)