GO!!!

Good Luck out there Fjordlings! See yas in '06!

-Tsunami-

ONE!

Friday stood over the bomb. It was about five feet long and three across. A mess of wires and conduit ran about the thing, and set at the very top was a digital clock. The numbers raced downwards at a speed which was definitely faster than your average time.

"Clever." Said Tuesday.
"What?" Asked Thursday.
"Using an alternate time signature on the timing detonator. It seems to be moving downwards at 8.7639 seconds per standard second."
"What does that mean?" Asked Wednesday.
"We don't have much time!" Exploded Monday. "Jeezus, Friday, would you get cracking!?" Monday paced across the front of the bomb.
"Don't do that." Said Friday, "You're making me nervous."
"Good!" Shouted Monday, "Because I'm nervous. Maybe it'd help move this thing along if some other people got nervous too."
"He's right." Said Wednesday, "We're taking too long."

Friday took hold of a few wires, and looked at where they went. Some blue ones went off to the right, and some white ones went off to the left. Some green ones went down, and a few yellow ones went up. They were all braided with a bunch of black wires, and they all disappeared into the body of the bomb. He examined the blue ones first. Then after a minute of careful observation, he moved to the yellow ones. After another long moment (with the timer moving past the 42 hour mark, and rapidly plunging towards 41) Friday moved aside a small plastic block, and found a second clock.
"insidious." He said.
All four weekdays asked in unison, "What?!"
"There's a second timer on the bomb. This one's just a clock...and it's set for Eastern Standard Time!"

Tuesday stood up from staring down at the bomb, and began a long series of,
"Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck..."
Monday whacked him on the shoulder.
"Stop that!"
"Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck...I can't take it anymore!" He screamed the last bit, and ran off at top speed.

"I guess we all kinda' figured that was going to happen." Said Wednesday. "Just a matter of when." The other weekdays nodded their heads in agreement. Friday looked back down, at the bomb, and continued his examination of the wires that led from the second clock. The same series of blue, white, green and yellow. Some joined their counterparts, others ran into random holes drilled into the bomb-case. Friday looked underneath the device, and saw nearly the mirror image of the top. He stood up, put his hand on the top of it, and leaned on it.

"Whaddaya think? Can you defuse it?" Asked Thursday.
"Well, I don't know," Said Friday, "It's complicated."
"We kind of figured that one out ourselves." Said Wednesday.
"It might help if I could get a look inside." Continued Friday, "Does anyone have a fiber-optic scope?"
"Hold on a sec!" Exclaimed Monday, who ran off.
The three remaining weekdays stood looking at each other oddly...for a moment, when a small bell chimed.

There was a second bell that chimed. A nice chime, like a "G" note on a vibraphone. A second later there was another, then a small squeak. Then a man with dark hair, dressed in a tuxedo walked up, pushing a small fine cart. Upon the top of it was a mirror. On top of the mirror were placed a number of bottles, and a large glass pitcher. As he walked, he struck a triangle, that was suspended from the push-handle of the cart.
"Martini! Martini for sale!" He called out in a rich baritone.

"Kickass!" Exclaimed Thursday. "Martini Cart!"

The three ran over and each ordered themselves one. The tuxedoed man opened a small cupboard in the side, and produced three stemmed glasses. Then pulled out an ice-bucket, and filled the pitcher with it's contents. Then with deft hands he poured the perfect amount of gin and vermouth. He stirred the pitcher, and poured three glasses. The three weekdays drank their drinks quickly, and ordered more. The man went through the routine again.

They were well into their fifth drink - happily chatting and exchanging banter with the martini-cart man, when Monday returned. He had a huge contraption over his shoulder, and pulled an air compressor on two wheels.
"Got it!" Monday cried. "Let's get cracking!"
"Got what?" Said Thursday.
"Jaws of life!" Monday exclaimed. Then he kicked on the compressor, filling the air with a whooshing series of thumps. Then he took the jaws, found a welded seam, and began to crack the bomb apart. Rending sounds of metal and machine filled the air. The others walked up with slight Dean Martin sways, and watched the action.

The jaws of life dug in, and split the case in two halves. Monday pulled back, and smiled. The smile fell from his face, when he saw the others with drinks.
"Hey! Where'd ya get the booze!!?"
The three pointed with their glasses at the martini-cart. Monday dropped the jaws of life, and went to get himself something. The other three looked at the bomb.

"I suppose we should take a look." Said Wednesday, putting down his glass, and grabbing the top. He pulled back carefully, and Thursday and Friday looked in. Inside a number of processors, hard-drives and l-e-d lights flashed. Wires were everywhere, and a number of dangerous warhead-shaped items sat within.
"Dang." Said Thursday, completely baffled by the complexity.
"Yeah." Said Friday, looking around. Inside there weren't just yellow and blue and green and white and black wires, but pink and silver and copper and navy and burnt sienna and mauve and maroon and cream. Making it even harder was the fact that some were spliced together with tiny chrome caps, making it nearly impossible to determine where one wire went, and where three more started.

Friday stuck his head in, and began to look more closely at the electronics. He peered intently for more than five minutes. He only paused to take a sip of his martini. When the glass was completely empty, he stood up. Monday was back, and just in time to watch (with the other two weekdays) Friday move back to the martini cart, and fill up again. He walked back, and looked at the others.

"I don't think we should defuse it." He said quickly.
"But..." Started Monday.
"We're the only ones who..." Interrupted Wednesday.
"Why?" Finished Thursday with a question.

Friday took a drink, and pointed in with his hand, pushing back a hard-drive, a plastic plate, and a mess of wires soldered to a circuit board.
"Here. Read that." And he stood back, waving over the martini-cart guy.

The other three looked in and saw what Friday had pointed out. Inside, stenciled on a chunk of casing were the words: "Party Bomb 2005".
"Fuck." Said Monday. "We can't stop that from going off. This thing's probably circa First of January!"
"Yeah, seems like we'd be doing a disservice to...well, everyone that made it through 2005." Thursday mumbled in awe.
"Besides," Began Wednesday, "It's probably too complex to stop, even if we tried."

"Right!" Said Friday. "And anyways, even if it's not a party bomb, I'm sure wherever we end up is going to be amazing! Let's get more martinis!"

They all rushed the martini-cart guy, who, like a good butler, put up with it.


Happy Friday.

TWO!

I guess there is someone out there who is in control of this countdown thing, and THEY'RE ADJUSTING WHEN WE'RE GOING TO SWITCH!

I'm not an expert, but this just seems odd to me.

Anyhoo...
I was blessed by a recurring dream for the past few weeks, that finally made sense to me. I'm not going to go into details...cause I find that dream explanations are stupid, and have no narrative thread...which is generally true, and makes for stupid conversation. (not to mention reading)

With that in mind, I'm going to say,
It's nice to know I have a dream girl.
It also nice to know that she's a total bitch.
Just what I'd expect.

Three!

Since nobody's ever really determined who controls the countdown...I guess I'll start.

Three more days left!!!


And with three days left, how about some excitement?!?
And what's more exciting than a knife fight?

Well...

Okay then.

I wrote this last night.

He was quiet, and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was at the edge of the roof with a switchblade knife held loosely in his left hand. We were pretty high up - twenty stories or so, high enough that the fall could kill you just as sure as a knife, but neither of us wanted to fall. I pulled out my little dagger too. It was a sheath knife I'd inherited (or stole, it's hard to remember, it was a long time ago) from my father. There was some whaling themed scrimshaw on the ivory handle, and it had a thick solid blade about five inches long. I moved closer.

He pivoted and kept the edge of the building off to his right side. I'd never had to knife-fight a lefty before, so I told myself to be careful. Before I could finish the thought, he leapt and struck quick, his switchblade straight out. I knocked it to the side with mine with a little ring, but it's edge caught my arm, and made a little slice about four inches on the side of my forearm. It was, however, better than the gut he was aiming for. He didn't back after the leap, but struck again from up close. I caught the strike square on my knife. Sparks rang off, and I lashed out fast. He jumped back, and I moved forward, making a stab towards his hand. I caught a finger or two on the top of his hand, but he made a nifty nimble up-cut, and sliced me across the top of mine. In a couple of minutes, the blood was going to make the ivory handle hard to hold.

I made a quick move with my left, and caught him square on the jaw with a fist. He staggered back, making a sweep with his knife at my offending arm. He was good - this guy - and he would have made a nice gash along my wrist, but I had on a watch. His knife sliced through the band, and my near 300 buck Swiss Army Watch dropped to the roof. I hit him again with the fist, and it sent him back a step. As he stumbled, I struck. My blade caught the top of his right hand - went through it, and pinned his palm against his stomach. I pulled it out in time to fend off the strike coming from the other side. His switchblade rang off the hilt of my knife. He struck again in a little neat circle. It got past my guard, and ran into my shoulder, hitting bone.

It hurt. But in a spot like that, adrenaline is flowing pretty hard, and besides, you stop for too long thinking about how much you're hurt, you get hurt a lot worse. As it was, I took a step back, and ran my weapon up to knock his away. It was good that I did, since he'd already pulled it out of my shoulder, and was making a slash at my throat. I blocked it, and had him way over-extended. I ran my arm up, and pushed his knife-arm to his left, then ran my blade straight at his chest. He pulled up his right arm to block it, but my steel went through the soft part of his forearm, I pulled it back with a vicious rip. I felt the handle grate as the knife ran across bone.

He was in no position to do anything but give ground, so he did. I pressed in, but he got his knife back in front. I kept moving forward, and he went back, trying to get into a good stance. But he hit the edge of the roof with a calf. He staggered, and I jumped at him. He couldn't do two things at once, and tried to fend off my knife with his. It worked, and the blood oozing around my hand for the last minute or so, made the handle slippery enough, so my knife left me. But he was wobbly, and I was moving forward. I didn't stop, and gave him a head-butt into his face. He tried grabbing me with his off arm, but it was weak from two of my stabs. As he started to go over, he made one last lash with the knife. It missed my nose by a few inches. I gave him a kick, and he went over.

I'll give him this though, he didn't make a sound going down. He took it pretty good. I lost him in the dark after a few stories, but I heard the thunk when he hit. It wasn't loud from where I was, like, the sound of a neighbor across the street dropping a trash-sack on the curb. Which, I guess, was sort of like what he was. I wiped my hand on my shirt, and picked up my knife, and got my watch. The watch had sentimental value.

Home again, home again, rig-a-jig-jig

By all accounts, it's Tuesday...

Four more days till we bury this weird-assed year.

Anybody got any fiesta news for me?

Just One More Thing Before I Go...

Cute Overload.

Soooooo Cute!

Well my pretties...

Things are about to go into full-bore X-Y-&-Z-Mass Nutzville...and there's not gonna be much over here until at least a coupla' days past that.

Lemme' just say I hope you're all going to see some good friends, and at least some of the Family you like. And if not, at least I hope you eat for free. Anyways, after this it's just a happy-funland-waterslide smack into the Gjoddamn New One...and we'll start up where we left off - given' dem da business!

Cheers!
-Tsunami-

P.S. - Maybe if ya got it in your heart, send some well-wishes to our pals in NYC. I've lived thru my share of transit strikes, and they ain't fun fer nobody.

Friday Stood Upon a Hill of Red Fingernails

Long ones, like the kind you'd see in on the hands of...hand models. The hill rested upon a plain, made of black obsidian, that reached out far into the twilight. From the top of the hill, one could see two silver rails that ran straight across it. He reached into his jacket, and pulled out a pair of hi-powered binoculars. He watched the magnified image of a huge steam engine pulling a line of cars. The rails, appeared to be razor-thin, and where the engine sat, it crushed them down to puddles of molten silver. In front of the train, a small wave moved in the rails, about ten feet in front of the train's gravity...like a big ship cutting thru water.

"Well," Said Tuesday, "that confirms it, one comes every hour, on the hour."
"Unless they slow down the schedule after rush hour." Monday said flippantly, looking at the last rays of the setting sun. "Which, they might..."
"Nevertheless," Friday spoke, taking the glasses away from his eyes, "It seems to be a well used line. Let's get a move on."
He trudged down the hill, small red fingernails giving way in little avalanches. The other's followed after.
"Hey, where do you think these fingernails came from?" Asked Wednesday. After a long pause, Tuesday answered. "fingers."

It wasn't long before they were walking across the obsidian plain in the dark. The moon came up, and stars appeared. Each casting a reflection on the glassy-stone. Monday kicked a small pebble of the stuff, which skittered across it, making nearly the sound of a rock on ice. "So Friday, just let me get this straight. While we were busy working this week, you were seducing the Voodoo Queen, and then what exactly happened?

Friday sighed as he walked...he'd glossed over the story earlier, and didn't really want to explain it, but there was nothing else to do. "While she was getting her hair done, I went over to the hydroplane race. As I was watching those bad-boys on the water, I looked over the crowd, and spotted Mrs. Trixie."
"The wife of Coyote?"
"The very same."
"I had a thing for her once." Wednesday spoke into the night. Most of the other weekdays shuddered at any thought of the hunchback having any sort of sexual "thing" for anyone.

"Well," Me and Trixie go way back," Continued Friday, and somehow, we got to talking, and drinking, and what-have-you, and the next thing I know, the Voodoo Queen's right there, and thinking I'm doing something...improper. Of course, Mrs. Trixie plays the whole thing up, cause, she's Mrs. Trixie. So anyways, the Voodoo Queen gets all pissed, and she was mumbling some of her jumbo, and here we are."
"Fuck." Says Tuesday.
"Sometimes things don't really work out so good." Finishes Friday.

Up till now, Thursday's been pretty tight-lipped, but he breaks it, and says,
"What's that?"
The others look over into the night, and spot a bonfire, casting shadows around a number of thatched huts. Then the sound of a forlorn train whistle echoes across the obsidian plain.
"Eight o'clock" Wednesday reads from his digital watch, it's face illuminated with a small push-light. Then a HUGE blinding light blasts into their night-eyes. A massive sign lights up in neon. One letter after another. P-O-L-Y-N-E-S-I-A-N (then it goes dark, and more letters follow) P-A-R-A-D-I-S-E. Those letters go dark, and both light up together, POLYNESIAN PARADISE. Then suddenly, a huge tower behind the sign, and behind the thatched huts lights up.

"I believe I've read about this." Says Tuesday, "It was something about a native tribe called the Obsidian Polynesians...got a gaming license I heard.
"Whatever." Concluded Thursday.
"Yeah," Friday said, "Let's Go!"

They covered the distance in a small time, and walked past the thatched huts, which were actually well crafted parking structures. The bonfire was a huge affair, fed with some kind of gas jet, and about a city-block in size. It gave off a bit of heat. The five weekdays made it to the entrance, and the doors were pulled open by two handsome men in loincloths. Standing there was a proud looking fellow, about fifty, in a kickass head-dress, and somehow making it all work with a fine Italian suit.
"Friday, and his most esteemed colleagues, it is my pleasure to welcome you, the first guests to arrive, at the Polynesian Paradise. Try your luck at roulette, craps, blackjack, and the loosest slots on the Obsidian Plain!" He bowed, and waved his hand in gesture to a huge, and empty modern casino. Friday looked over to Thursday,
"Man, led me some money."
Thursday pulled out his wallet, and produced a thousand dollars.
"I know how you get when you're gambling Friday. Don't come back for more. Besides, we still gotta' get back."
"Back?" Asked Friday, "Back to where? This is where the party is. Where we're at!" He laughed, and ran like mad for the craps table.

Happy Friday

P.S. We're all lucky tonight.

It's been awhile since I touched on

What it's all about.

The Fjords.

As much as I like to think of our little webzine as rich in text as the most majestic of all landmasses, sometimes there needs to be a little refresher course as to how badass fjords look.
Checkit! And here! Maybe this'll help? Howabout this...

Anyways, I'm not going to start a "fjord of the week" segment, but if I did, it might be worth looking at. However, I am suggesting that with X-mas close on our heels, and with some people a little confused what to get (the notoriously hard to shop-for) Uncle Billy this year. Well...howabout a nice senic fjord? Who wouldn't love to have one of those stuck under the X-mas tree? Nobody! Not one body wouldn't love to get a fjord for X-mas. Not. One!

Since a few of our readers might be in the income bracket, where they (sadly) can't afford a fjord, I'm going to give you guys the next best thing. If you want to print out a fjordpost and give it to one of your extra special loved-ones, I will not set our lawyers on you for copyright violation! Huzza! Huzza for X-mas! Huzza for Fjord!

In other news, there's these jellyfish

And our good pal Pop has outdone himself again with this badass concoction of Chinese forward-thinking. You should read the whole thing...it's scarily astounding, and I'm kinda' astounded that I didn't think of it myself. Then again, I've been busy.

-Tsunami-

Sweetness and Light...

HeLLO!

Can't quite find the Fjords tonight...

But if you're hungry, go read my Sunday Dec. 11th post...

it's worth reading all those words. (again)

-Tsunami-

Tuesday seemed angry...

and however well sourced you think I am, I have no idea why. So, instead of wasting my time making pointless phone calls (since well before I get home every night, the real world has shut down and ain't answering) I'm just going to hit you with this link.

Some sweet lookin' art, if I do say so myself. Found, thanks once again to Cool Hunting - which made me regret not visiting for a while.

I got this idea in my head...

and I thought this was cool.

Fjord - ruling the Webmonster since January 2005...

so you don't have to.

So I was wondering...

Are we the last generation that will ever know the feeling of freedom from the Webmonster?

With P.D.A's to access the beast, and PSP's and other wi-fi devices, becoming more and more common, it's not like anyone's even tethered to a DSL/cable line at the house. If you want to use your imagination on a word like "net," well, we're starting to live in one. I'd always been fascinated with the way radio and television signals could travel through matter, (walls, cars, space, bodies, ice-houses) then there were cell-phones, ATM machines (yeah, don't kid yourself, when the Telstar Satellite got blown up by a massive solar flare, it took down a huge network of ATM's - not to mention a large chunk of gas-pumps - which were busy transmitting something thru your clavicle...(and no, I'm not smart/informed enough to tell you what))

Anyways, I'm one of those gray-beards that recalls a time before personal computers , and now the power of the global database is accessible by hand-sized devices. It's like Dick Tracy's wrist-radio, only with an up-link to the entire database of knowledge humanity has been able to create. While I'm more than happy (hell-addicted is more like the word) to surrounding myself with every kind of media, I'm just wondering, is it a trap that'll be hard to get out of, once it's really everywhere? (and if it is, and you're not reading Fjord, I'm going to find out...)

Will we ever be able to get free of knowledge, information, news, entertainment, backstory? And if not, what is that really going to change?

Private Binks had a problem

It wasn't something that was too bad. It was just that he couldn't pronounce the words "en" together without tripping up his lips and saying "nen." Now the only reason this was a problem was that Private Binks was attached to the First Infantry Division HQ Signal Corps, fighting the Nazi's. It was his job to relay the orders of General Thomas "Meatgrinder" Smith.

Now General Smith came from West Point, fought a little in the American Expeditionary Force in W-W-1, and considered himself a fairly martial kinda' guy. He loved the commands of battle, ordering in the deadly rain of artillery, or sending a mass of tanks like a rolling iron wave at the enemy. But Binks was running the theater of it all. It was so cool to send a brigade of riflemen around the enemy's flank, but it was not cool to have Binks, every single time say, "Yes Gneneral! I'll signal the troops your orders right away Gneneral!" It was starting to ruin the whole fun of being a General.

What made it worse, was Binks shared his job with a signalman named Private Thoss. Thoss was even worse, because he had a damn Daffy-Duck slur in his S's, and therefore pronounced every s, as if it were a "th."

"Call in the Mustangs!" General Smith would command, "We need some close air-support!" And Thoss would salute and say, "Yeth Thir! Your orderth are already thent!" It was worse when things were really hairy, and both of them were on duty at the same time.

"Where are the casualty reports!?" He'd ask.
"Perhapth on your dethk Thir!" Private Thoss would say.
"I'm receiving an nencoded message now Gneneral!"
-the field telephone rang, and Thoss answered
"Firtht Army Command Potht!"
(He suspected other Generals of calling just so they could laugh at whichever boob picked up the phone.)
Binks was doing something on the radio.
"Gneneral! The nenemy has pinned down Lieutnenant Glnenn's platoon! What are the Gneneral's orders!?"
"Thir! Eithenhower hath given the orderth to retreat. The flankth thouthwardth are in theriouth ditharray!"

General Smith put his hands to his head. How could anyone conduct a war like this!?

I guess it wasn't Private Binks that so much had a problem, as it was General Smith. Shortly thereafter, the 25th panzer-grenadiers landed a lucky artillery barrage which straddled the command post. The concussion was enough to knock General Smith out, and he was carried to safety by his two signalmen. When he awoke, much to his horror, he found he had somehow gained BOTH of the hideous speech impediments of Binks and Thoss.

"Do you know where you are?" Asked the medic.
"In Germany."
"Good. Do you know who you are?"
"Of courth, I'm Gneneral Thmith."

And with that, his military career was over. He was however, (to his humiliation) quite the study for psychologists and linguists for years.

wow...

that last one was weird...

even for me.

They thought they could shut me up!

With some high-falutin' talk, and a lotta' liquor. (of course you know...) It ain't gonnan happen, least-wise, not while yer pal D. Tsunami is at the helm controllin' this shit. I don't believe their lies, and I'm not buyin' what their sellin' - even tho that's their job, and they're good at it. It's like spam I get on the...

Fuck That!!

Look, I know you all are hungry for a happy friday post, but Gjoddamn, this particular Friday has been a jackhammer on my particular wisdom, and on my brain as well. And I'm not sayin' it hasn't been great, but, it's also been evil. The kind of evil you want to suck deep inside yourself and hope in the morning...that, that-evil manefests into a beautiful creature that's lying beside you naked, and compliant to whatever -dream/sleep/fantasy- kinda' deal-i-o you're into. The kinda' sitch-u-ation that would kinda' get your rocks off in...sorta' the most bizzare way you could possibly imagine getting yourself off to - in the way that you'd never admit, even to your closest lover. That's what Friday's all about tonight...and when I talk about Friday like this, you know I'm serious. This is clearly the King of All Weekdays - the kinda' Friday that needs no elaboration.

So, in other words, I hope you all win the lotto tonight, and if yer not that guy/gal, then I hope your tongues all get a gjoddamn workout. I'm wishing you a moment of comlete satisfaction...knowing at the moment you read this, the weekday is done. And that ain't half bad.

Happy friday.

Two Posts Down

Contains the line that may have been the best thing written in the last month.

It goes like this...

- He looked up, the smile on his face slunk away like a kicked dog. -


That's nice.

Okay...

Things have been a little quiet lately, and while I know that the International Community of Devoted Fjordlings is doing their part...I need you all to do more. (just a little, itty-bitty bit more...really...like 25 seconds more...)

If you'll notice at the bottom of each post is a little envelope icon, with an arrow. This icon allows you to instantly e-mail anyone of your choosing that particular post. Do us, over at the West Coast Branch, a favor, and send one of your favorite Fjord textuals to three of your like-minded pals. (or if you want, just copy and paste a link of our URL, or...if you've got a blog yerself hyperlink us in - that'd be cool)

That's it. That's all you gotta do. Just, yaknow for yer 'ole pal Tsunami.

In return, I'll do an un-assisted handstand. Here I go! HUP!
OOoop! Stuff's fallin out of my pockets! Shoulda' thought of this before I got up all upside-vertical, There go the...Keys - check. Lighter - check. Loose change - check. Wallet - check. Hey - don't run off with that - it's got my bus pass! Fuck you! I'm now chasing you down the street on my hands! I'm catching up - I move pretty fast on my hands! When I catch you I'm going to strangle you with my calves!

I'm just sayin' - three measly people...
and don't ever, ever, take my wallet.

Thursday Was Dark and Ominous...

And he walked through the hallways of his personal fortress, built from the toilings of thousands of wage-slaves, (which, to a weekday, ment nothing.)
"Whisky!" He demanded, even though his left hand was clutching a huge ceramic jug that had three X's stenciled upon it in yellow. Puny mortals scattered this way and that, to either fetch him the dark liquor, or to avoid his dark and ominous mood. One tripped, and fell flat to the floor. Thursday trampled him with a spiked-boot that would have made the official KISS cobbler proud.

Thursday drank from the jug until it was empty, then threw it against the wall where it shattered. He turned the corner, and a small man dressed in a white apron, stood by the awning of a small wheeled cart. As Thursday passed, the small man said,
"Would you like to try some falafel?"
Thursday took the back of his hand and sent the falafel salesman flying back into his cart, which promptly overturned. Falafel and various cans of soda spilled out onto the floor.
"I don't have time to eat!" Bellowed Thursday, "I need whisky!"
Of course, none appeared, which made Thursday even more dark and ominous. (Lets' face it, at a certain point dark and ominous crosses a line, and becomes downright threatening - which is the line we crossed a few paragraphs ago.) Thursday continued stomping down the hall. Behind him, hundreds of mortals, like rats, swarmed the falafel cart, and began hungrily stuffing their mouths, and popping open soda cans that fizzed and spilled over everything. The small falafel salesman tried in vain to stop his merchandise from being looted. Sad really.

Thursday flung open the doors to his fortress courtyard, where a few Thursday-Shock-Troops were practicing a vicious assault on a small hut. Sub-machine gun bullets ripped through the bodies of five target dummies inside. (at least, it seemed like they were target dummies) Then various grenades, flame-throwers, rockets, and missiles were launched obliterating the hut. There were hi-fives all around. Thursday dropped a mighty hand (covered in a fingerless, studded leather gauntlet - the kind of thing Judas Priest would adorn their hands with) on a Shock-troop's shoulder.

He looked up, the smile on his face slunk away like a kicked dog.
"Whisky." Thursday grumbled...and a pissed off Thursday grumbling is like the sound a volcano makes right before it's about to flatten a good chunk of a city.
"Try over at the trading post." The Trooper was able to say. "There's usually someone there that's got some stuff."

Thursday walked off, dark and ominous. A truck drove in his path, and he picked it up in one hand, without stopping, and threw it against a massive stone wall where it exploded. A fireball raced to the sky, and the driver spilled out of the cab, a charred cinder. Thursday came to the trading post, where various merchants and barterers were packing up their things and hoping to run away before any wrath could fall upon them.
"Whisky!" He yelled.
Merchants fled, some clutching bags or cases, but most willing to leave their wares to save their lives. Thursday watched the panic with some satisfaction, but mostly disgust - why was there no whisky to be had??!!

A man dressed in a seedy overcoat spoke up from the shadows.
"I gotcher whisky." He muttered.
Thursday eyed the fellow, from on high. He didn't look like he had anything but disheveled clothes.
"How much?" Thursday grumbled.
"As much as you need." The fellow said, his eyes a shadow from the brim of a shabby hat.
"Show me!"
"It'll be ten-thousand dollars."
"What!?" Yelled Thursday. His voice was like thunder, and it echoed off mountains miles away. Small woodland creatures scampered for their burrows.
"I said, ten thousand dollars,"
"Where are your trucks? Where are your wagons? Where are your porters? Ten thousand dollars buys a lot of whisky."
"Don't need 'em. Gots it right here." And with that the man reached into his shabby overcoat, and pulled out a mid-sized pewter hip flask. He shook it enticingly. Thursday laughed. "Ten thousand dollars for THAT!?! HAH!"
"Dude," The man said to Thursday, "It's weapons-grade whisky. You don't need much."
Thursday walked away. He looked about his fortress, which he now knew to be dry as a bone. He took a few more steps, but he knew, just as the man in the seedy coat knew, he'd have to buy it.

He turned and walked back. He fished out his wallet, and produced ten, thousand dollar bills. The man handed over the flask.
"Now, like I said, " the man spoke, "you'll only need..."
Thursday drank the whole thing. Peculiar sensations hit his mouth, throat and stomach.
"a mouthful or two." The man finished, and calmly looked up at Thursday. The big weekday looked about him, his eyes focused on something far off, then glazed over. His left knee bucked and he fell, flattening a post office, and part of a doughnut shop. Giant snores began to fill the air. The man in the seedy overcoat and shabby hat counted his money as he walked out of the fortress. As he did he mumbled under his breath.
"Fucking amateurs..."

Hello Kitty!!!

Greetin's my Fjordian Gangsta's and Gangsta'-ettes!

Tonite we delve into the realm of a couple of items the Webmonster threw my way today. Now, I'll preface this here post, by sayin' I ain't a huge "Hello Kitty" fan, but I do find the little creature to be pretty cute. But when I heard there was a Hello Kitty Guitar! I knew I needed to win the lotto and get myself one posthaste!

I shared my new-found knowledge with my pal Monkey, and found she could trump me one on the "Cool Hello Kitty Merch."

I'd get more use myself outta the axe, but I'll tell ya what, I'd be happy seeing either of these fine creations -actually in action.

Anyways, I know you're all gettin' hungry for another literary masterwork, but at the moment, I'm directing my energy towards another project, and I'm stealing that time from here. However, I will spill this little secret. Since I started writing at this here web-zine, I've found my work affected (effected? yeah, probly...) by every good piece of literature I've consumed. This year I'm going to say, that's exactly two books. (that's not how many I read, but how many ended up being good.) However, I'm busy ripping through Naked Lunch right now, and I'm pretty confident that it's going to start leaking over here in just a little bit.

Tuesday Night Webzine Humor

Tonight's episode is titled

"BLIMP BOMB"

man 1) Dude! There's a bomb on that blimp!
man 2) Man, do you know how fucking rediculous that sounds?
man 1) Yeah, but it'd be pretty funny if that fat fuck actually did have a bomb.

Just kickin' it tonight...

but for all you Ladies and Gentlemen who really need something from Fjord tonight (and tomorrow)

I give you

This wonderful story about squirrels!

Continuing our tireless efforts

To entertain you bastards. Here's some light Saturday Noir for your eyeball-pleasure
(hmmm...another good band name, methinks.)

Good god, I remember looking at the first corporate computer screen I’d ever seen, and thinking, how cool it was. Then I started figuring out what the hell all these programs did, and I realized, how much I wished I didn’t know what these little icons meant. They meant despair, they meant subjugation, they meant, the hell of the nine to five summed up in eight or ten graphical icons.

Tom looked at the same icons, but he never felt the trap like I did. See, he had an outlet. Usually he’d find a pick-up game of basketball, and play hard, and like an asshole. He wasn’t afraid to throw his words around like weapons, slamming insults into people until it got under their skin, and they got pissed enough to start hammering elbows back, and ripping up their own worst trash talk. But, that’s just an aside, like I said, Tom had an outlet. He had a nice stiletto, something he picked up in Mexico, before the 9-11 made it harder to get stuff across the border. Although, now that I think about it, you could probably still buy the crazy stuff, and just ship it Fed-Ex.

Anyways, it had a solid black handle, and a nice thin blade, and he liked to find people to knife with it. The cops and the crime beat guys had noticed his particular style, which was pretty nasty. He got a thrill out of, well, getting to stab people a lot of times. But he kinda’ had a way of keeping them alive while he did it. The first few he practiced on, it was either a quick affair, where only one or two thrusts were enough to damage some internal organ, or they were loud, where the victim screamed so many times, that he either ran, or got really lucky, and was never caught.

By now – damn near three years, the cops and crime beat guys were calling him “The Scorpion Killer” cause he stung his victims so many times while they were still alive. Anyways, like I said, his technique was to surprise the victim from behind, and make a small cut across the windpipe of the throat. Done properly, the cut was only about ½ way through the windpipe – it didn’t come close to killing. It just drowned the vocal chords in blood, and that way, Tom could just start knifing, with satisfying stabs to the legs, arms, and wherever there wasn’t a really vital organ.

I’m not saying I liked him, but the guy didn’t really look at the computer the way I did. Like I said, he had an outlet.

Now...go find a cure for cancer or something...

Tonight the role of Friday will be played by...

Albert Finney

Cause it'll need his special talents.
So, now, without further ado...here's your Happy Friday Post.

The ship was one of those old-timey, three-masted sailing vessels, and it rolled down huge waves, and then climbed the next. The sea was gray, and waves were tipped with white. And was like this for as far as the eye could see. The wind was biting, and whipped water and spray and mist - fast enough to sting.

Friday stood in the forecastle in a rain-slicker that glistened. A plastered-wet parrot on his right shoulder, hung on, digging claws in through the raincoat. The ship topped another wave, and Friday opened his arms as the ship began to plunge down the fifty-foot drop, and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"I'M KING OF THE WEEKDAYS!"

Wednesday lurched up, as the ship dug into the trough between waves, and yelled.
"Capn'! We must ship some sail! They're going to pull down the masts!"
Friday turned back, and saw, the other weekdays in various spots around the boat.
"Call the officers to my quarters!" He commanded.

In his quarters, lit by a couple of swinging lanterns, Friday looked over his motley assortment of pirate officers. Monday had a hook, Tuesday an eye-patch, Wednesday...well, apart from the hump he had a very nice bandana on his head, and a mouth full of golden teeth. Thursday bore the eyepatch.
"Look," Friday said, "I know we risk damaging the ship, but if we take down some cloth we'll loose the Galleon. And if we loose the Galleon, well, why the hell did we become pirates!?"
The officers stood around, grumbling and making random, "Yarr" sounds.
"I'm serious!" Friday said, why did we become pirates anyways!?"
Monday: "Err, the pillaging?"
All: "Yea! Yarr..."
Tuesday: "The raping!"
All: Yea! Arrrrg!"
Wednesday: "BOOTY!"
All: "AAAAARRRR!"
Thursday: "To practice the art of celestial navagation!"
All: "Yea...whaa? The art of..."
Thursday: "I'm kidding! Floggin prisoners, and keel-haulin' them, and makin' 'em walk the plank, and stickin' my cutlass in the gullets of scurvy dogs! Yarrr!"
All: "Yea! ARRRGGG!
Friday: "If we loose the Galleon in these heavy seas, then we won't have any of that, and we won't BE VERY GOOD PIRATES! Now will we."
All: Noooo.
Friday: "Very well. Everyone to their posts. Make speed, and we'll be rich by nightfall!"
All: "HUZZAH! HUZZA FOR CAP'N FRIDAY!"

They charged out of the cabin, and smack into a huge wave that washed over the ship. Friday's parrot was carried off, squalking madly.

Friday sat up in his eazy-chair, water was dripping from his chin, and had soaked through his shirt. Monday and Thrusday stood over him, looking concerned. Monday had an empty bucket in his hands. He coughed, and spulttered, and shook his head. Droplets of water flew off his hair.
"Why," He asked, "Did you do that?"
"You were thrashing about, and we, err, tried to wake you up, but couldn't." Said Thursday.
"I was in the middle of a wonderful dream."
"No," Said Monday, "It was more like a subconscious drug trip...I think."
"Hmmm." Said Friday. Then he remembered last night.

Yeah, as it came back to him, he was at the club, and a sketchy fellow came up, sunglasses (tho it was far past 1 at the time) dark hat, long gray coat. He'd made small talk for a bit, then offered a potion which, he claimed, would be the cure-all for what ailed him. Friday was pretty far gone at the time, and, the fellow did have a soothing, trustful voice. Friday looked at his surroundings, and sure enough, there was an empty vial, laying at his feet. He realized, he'd been stupid.
"What time is it?" He asked
"About 6:30" Said Thursday.
"Jeeesh! I gotta' get cracking!"
"Yeah," Said Monday, looking for a place to put down the bucket. "We kinda' thought that."
"Well, okay, thanks. Let me offer one word of advice to you guys."
"What's that?" Asked Thursday.
"Never buy anything from a sketchy peddler of elixers."

Happy Gjoddamn Friday!

Turned out it was last night.

15,000 hits...that's NIIIIIIICE!

Kickass. Thanks Fjordlings!

In return, I'll write you some non-fiction...a real life D. Tsunami moment.

So yesterday I was at the dentists office. It's been near five years since any professional has looked at my choppers, and I was...pretty nervous. So after I gets my X-rays, I get set for the bad news, when the dentist comes in. She's young, Asian, attractive...and I figger if someone's going to make my mouth hurt - it really couldn't get any better.

So, after checking out the bad spots on the X-rays, she goes ahead and starts givin' me the 'ole "oral cancer" check. Jeesh, pretty nerve wracking knowing any second a lovely Asian dentist could say, "Oop, you've got mouth cancer."

However, while she's lookin' around in there, she 's moving a mirror around various places, and she goes, "God, you've got a great tongue! It does exactly what I want it to do." It was the first time (outside er...umm...yaknow...the sex) I'd been complemented on my tongue. The next thing I knew, I was thinkin' "this young Asian dentist is hot for my tongue!"

Of course, the ways of the Dentite are strange and mysterious...for after the exam and cleaning, she took off her latex gloves, and as she did, I shot a quick glance over at her hand. Yup, sure enough, a big fat ring explained the story of a rich husband, nice house, probly a nice car too.

However, it was still super nice to walk out of Wednesday with a tongue compliment.

P.S.
I wanted to mention, that I think all of your tongues are amazing! Keep up the good work with those little guys!

-Tsunami-

Sometime in the next day or two

we're gonna knock into the 15,000 hit ceiling...and I'm pretty damn excited.

Just sayin'

-Tsunami-


(I'm off to scrub the floors...the Casa Aloha is lookin' a tad grungy at the moment. Maybe more later, we'll see.)

The Webmonster spat this in my brain today

I got pretty cheered up when I saw this

Happy Wednesday.

Tonight's episode brought to you by...

Sam's Scepter Warehouse!

Nobody listens anymore? Not getting the respect you deserve? Then what you need is a fancy Royal Scepter to bash your subjects skulls in! That's right, no self-deserving noble entity such as yourself should be seen without a Scepter. People act differently around a scepter, and we've got all-kinds of selection down here at Sam's to prove it! From $100 to $100-million, we've got the Scepter you and your subjects need! What are you waiting for? Get your Royal-Badness down to SAM'S SCEPTER WAREHOUSE!

Cut to: ANIMAL PLANET
(a hushed voiceover)
And here, the king of the beasts holds court.
(mid-shot of the action...the V.O. fades as real action takes its place)
The proud Lion awaits, as a Giraffe dressed in noble-court finery saunters up on his huge legs. He takes out a scroll, which unrolls across the floor to rest at the bottom step of the Lion's throne.

"Ahem," The Giraffe clears his throat. It has been hereby declared, that you, Oh Most Magestic of Creatures, Lord of Mammals, and King of All Beasts, are deemed unfit to hold the License to Drive."
"What!?" The Lion roars! (a few gazelles and zebras take off, their hooves slipping and clattering on the polished throne-room floor)
"I'm afraid it is written, M'Lord." The Giraffe calmly speaks.
The King of all beasts rises up, and claws the scroll away from the Giraffe. He scans the scroll, mumbling as he does.
"Due to...mumble mumble...poor vision testing...mumble mumble, unable to obey speed limit...grumble grumble...hitting two pedestrians while taking DRIVERS TEST! This will not stand!" His proud lion voice explodes. The wildebeest herd all look up in alarm, (tho still chewing their cud.) and brace to make like the zebras, who are long gone by now. The hyenas in the back are looking like they'll crack-up at any second.
"Bring me the driving tester from the D.M.V." The Lion says.
"All right Your Worshipness, however the scroll has been affixed with the official seal." Says Giraffe.
"Just do it."
Giraffe ambles off, and twenty minutes later returns with a penguin, looking official in his tuxedo, and a small D.M.V. cap.
"You failed me." Lion says to the Penguin.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You failed to pass the driver's license exam...not to mention that you struck two pedestrians during your road test."
"They were Water-Buffalo! They're my prey!" Shouts Lion.
"That's no excuse for poor driving." Says the Inspector.
Lion springs from his throne, a mighty scepter in his right paw. He grips the Penguin by the throat with his left, and bashes his head with the regal implement. Blood and brains ooze out of the Penguin's head, as he slides to the ground.
"Giraffe, make me another appointment for a drivers test."
"Well, " says Giraffe, "I'm not sure what good that would do..."
"Just spread the word of what happened to the last inspector that failed me."
The Giraffe sighs. This is the third time...
"Very well, Your Royal-Badness."

And that is why you'll be needing a scepter. Make it happen, AT SAM'S SCEPTER WAREHOUSE!!!!

Enter...Anzor MK IV!

Tonight...it's coffee. Dark as sin, strong as a Peterbuilt, and rich as Corinthian leather. There's just too much for me to deal with tonite, to be drinking a cocktail, and everybody here can agree that water's obsolete. (except, of course in Fjords, and in fjountains.)

So, tonight, my mind is filled up with comic-book style frames of zombies and robots battling killer monkeys and junk-yard-dogs.

The Anzor MK IV wraps Puddles the Monkey around the neck with a long steel tentacle. It begins to squeeze tightly, and Puddles makes gasping sounds - flailing madly against the steel with his tiny monkey fists. His blows do no good. However, Rex, Zero and Spike rush up, leaping into the air...their Rotweiller fangs bared. Rex bites off Anzor's antenna, and drags it away - ripping wires out of Anzor's head! One of the eyes goes dark, but he continues to squeeze Puddles' throat. The poor monkey is turning blue. That's when Zero and Spike leap up, and fasten onto the strange and lethal appendage (ooh - good band name there...LETHAL APPENDAGE!) Their powerful teeth begin to sever the servers and mechanisms. Puddles drops to the ground and scrambles to the top of a shattered refrigerator.

Anzor flips to another weapons system - a viscous flame thrower. He fries poor Zero into a blackened husk. Spike runs off dodging. However, he's seized by a pack of zombies, which proceed to rip him limb-from limb. However, from his refrigerator perch, Puddles commands his monkey army to swarm the zombies. There are strange flailings and moans from the zombies, which mix with the battle-screams of the monkeys! Anzor turns his targeting systems on the writhing mass of allies and friends. He means to fry them all! His computer brain establishes a lock, but a split-second before he can fire, (his er, fire) Rex pulls enough wire out of Anzor's head, to disrupt the internal processors. Anzor goes limp.

Ohmygod! What will happen next!?!?
I'd like to bring up an installment of
"Choose your own ending"
1) ANZOR's Brother-bot KILLZOR MK VIII arrives, and destroys the monkeys and zombies with well-aimed machine-gun-fire. He's then rendered immobile by Rex, as Puddles pounds his head in with a metal sink.
2) The zombies are able to withstand the monkey-army attack, and instead turn the monkeys into zombies! Then the combined Zombie Monkey and Zombie Human armies begin to run amok. Rex outruns his foes, and using his powerful howling voice, assembles an insanely-vast army of dogs, wolves, foxes, and hyenas - which fight the zombie army to a standstill. An uneasy truce is broken as KILLZOR MK VIII, disguised as a dog, kills Rex. The insanely-vast army of dogs, wolves, foxes and hyenas are leaderless...and run off to the woods to hide, making occasional attacks on Petco warehouses to support a guerilla movement.
3)Puddles's monkey army proves to be too much for the zombies...and thru virtue of their monkey-immune system, can't actually be turned into zombies. With his brother, and his zombie-allies destroyed, KILLZOR MK VIII finds his way to Japan, where he enjoys celebrity status, making appearances at robot conventions and on strange television shows.

The End

Before I go away...I want to point out that our good friend Borat has been sued by Khazakh authorities. I'm sure he'd appreciate our thoughts and prayers to get through these troubling times.

Hey Gang!

It's been a bit crazy what with the T-Givin' and the B-Day-Celebrashin's and all the other glamorous things a popular on-line personality like myself gets asked to do, and see...and be seen at. (And in L.A. - there ain't nothin' like bein' seen - natch)

So, in the spirit of that, my band - Apartment Rock - (or, "Apt>Rock"...as we like to write it in the modern vernacular of today's youths) has launched a brand new media campaign. The other day, we had a kickass photo-shoot, and we put up a web page. There’s no music yet, but some’s coming down the pike pretty soon.

There's a few apartment dates we've already booked (oh, yeah...fer now, we're just playing apartments - you homeowners gotta take a trip to see us.) but there'll be plenty more. If you want Apt>Rock to rock your flat - then let us know about it!

Here's some awesome comments/responses we've already received:

1)Apt>Rock...flat out rocks.

2)my mom thinks you guys are soooooo sick

3)my favorite song that you guys don't cover is that one by styx...renegade er sumshit

4)we will open for you guys anytime, anywhere. Please give us a chance - we won't let you down. soooo sick. such a bust.

5)can't wait for the first release...i'm sure it will be a hit. Don't forget the little people who really matter when you make it big, that's the problem these days.....little people who don't really matter

6)you guys are too hot for the hot tub.

That's just from one day...
This shit might just blow-up!

-Tusnami-

Taking a slightly different take on...

Gjod.

Has he been steering my life all this time?
Looking over my shoulder, watching, waiting, guiding,
making it okay?

Cause I saw it tonite as if it was for the first time (even though I knew it all along)
I thank Gjod for Bugs...
or is it,
Bugs is Gjod.

Taking the "less is more" theory this week...

"I'd like to propose a toast.

Ladies...Gentlemen...

To Evil!"

I'd like to reiterate...

It's as close to the line
as
a guy who's right next to the line
might think
one more step and I'm over the line.

If you know what I mean.

So...what could I possibly be sick of this week?

Hmmm...my tax-bracket? my lack of wheels? war? real-estate prices? age? smog? pigeons? parking-lots? wisdom? public rest-rooms? overfishing? North Korea?

Ahh, I just lost my train of thought on that one. As I was casting around looking for inspiration, I picked up my handy-dandy-super-magic-8 ball, and gave her a quick question.
"What will I have to do to find inspiration for tonight's Fjordpost(tm)" (Yes, I actually said "T.M.," cause our lawyers told me I should...and I pretty much always do what our lawyers tell me...I don't argue with the good people over at Skewerburger, Skullcracker, Fishmonger and Brick. At least, not since they got me off for that ugly Bus Stop Strangler misunderstanding, but that's another story.

Anyways, the super-magic-8 ball spun around in its super magic fluid, before revealing the answer to be...
Do ten thousand push-ups, fifteen thousand sit-ups, drink a glass full of three raw eggs, eat an ice-cream sandwich. Then rehearse your entire stage-magic act.

While I might have been able to perform the first 4 tasks, my stage-magic act requires three African elephants and a Komodo Dragon, which, as you probably know, wouldn't fit in the Casa Aloha, without doing serious structural damage - not to mention the furniture!

So today, I'm sick of the handy-dandy-super-magic-8 ball. I don't care if it was a gift from the Dali Lama on the anniversary of my 16th incarnation...I also got a gift from Skewerburger, Skullcracker, Fishmonger and Brick, on the 16th acquittal of my numerous Felony wraps (each and every one a frame, or horrible misunderstanding...btw...) - A lovely baseball bat made by the good people over at Louisville Slugger.

I'm takin' that Slugger, and that super-magic-8-ball into the street, and I'll give it one more question.
"What is Tsunami about to do right now?"

I think it might like to have a chance at one last right answer.

Well, there's a game on tonight...

And I'll be watching as soon as I dump this post into the gaping maw of the Webmonster. It seems like you can pour as much content as you like into the beast...and it's still an empty void.

So 100 years ago, Einstein wrote out the equasion E=MC2
which later gave humanids the foundation for atomic bombs, and 3 mile-island and some other whacky stuff. But what else was happening in the world in 1905? Japan was kicking the ass of Russia in a war over Korea (and probly some other stuff too, but I'm too lazy to look it up right now.) using weapons that would basically make us modern humanids laugh.

So now we got drones and robots, and stealth-planes and cruise missiles, and satellites and whatnot defending our little patch of the globe, and as I looked around the city, I sort of wondered...have we really done enough with the time we've had?

I mean, I don't see flying cars, there's no hovercraft-only lanes on the 110 freeway. There's no hi-speed mag-lev train with a martini-car that could whisk me off to Vegas in three hours. I did see the Goodyear Blimp floatin' around, but that's technology that basically dates from 1905.

I'm not saying we don't have some cool technology and all, but, how often do you really walk around your burg and say, "Wow-this is some pretty-out-there 21st century shit I'm living in!"

Well, I gotta go watch me some ball.
(the NFL was organized in the 1920's)

Here's some of that hi-tech crap I was talking about, if you ain't interested in a stone-aged rivalry with 300 pound guys who throw people around for a living.

-Tsunami-

THE END OF THE WEEKEND DEAL-I-O!

I hope that headline was exciting enough for you. (It was for me...)

Perhaps you might like to know, my pals over at 3D-Arson have a links window. They mispelled my real name...(and this will be the first, and last post about who I really am...I'm like a Gjoddman superhero, I can't have my identity just leaked out to the public every day - I have things to do.)

However, if you go there, and then click on the link to..."The Darrin Riggs page.
Home of The wacky adventures of LA's most prolific writer."

You'll be able to read Fjord to an actual soundtrack.

Might be worth it if you're tired of...just text.

-Tsunami-

P.S.-Remember kids, tip your bartenders and servers well. They'll like you for it.

Today the role of Friday will be played by...

BRIAN DENNEHY!

Gjod, if that don't cheer you up, nothing will!

Here's the scene...

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday drive parade-like through every city, town, hamlet, village, and burg, in old-timey (like model-T kinda' old-timey) convertables. They wave as they pass. Some people cheer or clap, but it's not the kind of thing to write home about.

Then, perched like Santa on the top of a massive golden hovercraft, sits Friday. He digs into his massive bag of goodies, and throws huge handfuls of Friday-Gifts to the crowd. They arch into the air, gift-wrapped with bows and ribbons, boxes, envelopes, and various assorted packages - then fall at the perfect speed, to be grabbed by each and every person, whether young or old.

What's in them? Revelry! Joy! Booze! Happiness! Contentment! Peace! Sex! Rock-n-roll!(or Hip-Hop, or Jazz, or Classical - whatever gets you off man, it's Gjoddamn Friday...)

Anyways, I'd ask you what you got, but I hear those old-timey car horns comin' down the street right now. The sun's gone down, and I gotta go grab whatever's comin' my way!

Happy Friday!
(from yer pals at Fjord)

Since I'm feeling feisty...

And...
well...
'cause the post previous to this one is sooooo kickass...
I want to induce some sort of delayed-grat-i-fi-cation...

I was digging around (again) in our archives, and found THIS!!!

Just another wonderful piece of work you'll find, buried here in the archives of Fjord.

Now...
go...
read...
the next post...
It's done in the spirit of knowing the greatness Fjordlings expect.

Well, there goes the neighborhood...a short, short story

I saw him looking out the window, on the fourth story of a brick apartment building that might have been built in the 40's. He was obviously sort of a man-sized bug, but what kind, I couldn't tell from the street, and what with the reflections off the glass window.

A man came out of the apartment building and I looked at him. It seemed as though he was pretty well human, which gave me at least a little hope that the whole place wasn't a big nest or hive of the huge creatures. Altho, as I looked closer at the man, (who had reached the sidewalk, and was now moving towards me) it appeared that his disguise wasn't as good up-close as it was from far away. a small bump stuck out on his forehead, under the skin. In the exact spot where an antenna would be.

"Not so fast Mr. Bug!" I said, and grabbed his neck by the crook of my elbow. "I don't know what you're doing in my neighborhood, or what your plans for humanity are, but I aim to stop you!" Then I began tugging madly at his hair and back of his mask's neck in order to pull it off him.
"Stop!" He cried.
"Never!" I said, pulling like mad at the scruff of his neck, "Not until you tell me what your species is planning to do to the earth!"
"Stop!" He cried again as I got a better grip on the top of his scalp and pulled like crazy. I could feel it move, but it didn't seem as though it would come off."
"Hey! What are you doing!?" Said a passerby.
"This apartment building is full of man-sized insects," I said, "and this is one of them in disguise. I'm going to unmask him and find out what their plans are!"
"Christ, another whacko." The guy said. Then he ran up to try and pry my arm away from the giant insect's neck. Eventually, and with much struggling, they were able to pry me off, however, as they did, I jumped back and whipped out my gun.

"Allright." I said. "Look Mr. I don't know if you're working for them, or if you're just a confused bystander, but whether this bug's dead or alive, I'm going to have his mask off." Then, I addressed the bug in the mask. "So what's it going to be? You've got three seconds before I fire!" The bug didn't move.
"One." I said quickly. The bystander's eyes moved rapidly between me, my gun, and the masked bug.
"Two!" I didn't wait long to say it, and then cocked the hammer back. The bug reached up and began pulling off his realistic-looking human mask. Underneath, wasn't a man-sized bug, but instead a man-sized duck!
"Holy crap!" The bystander said, jumping away from the duck.
"All-right duck." I said, keeping him covered, "What's this all about?"
"Quack." He said.
"So it's going to be like that huh." I turned to the bystander, "Hey buddy, see what I'm talking about!!??"
"Uh, yeah..." He said, confused.
"Well you'd better go fetch some law. Who knows what else is in that apartment building!"
"Yeah," He finished, and took off up the street.

I turned back to the duck.
"So, what insidious plots are you hatching in that apartment building?"
"Quack, quack." He said.
I shot him in the leg.
Lousy ducks.

And now, another installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

Mr. Pigglesworth looked over the body of a tall man, with a top-hat crushed under his head. He had a dark beard, and a long coat covering expensive clothes.
"I say Gimpson, he's dead!" He said to his companion, who was busy taking a snort out of a hammered pewter hip-flask. After he finished his sip, he placed the cap back on it, and put it into his coat.
"Perhaps he was a spy, and deserved death."
"A spy?!" Pigglesworth said incredulously.
"Yes. A person in the employ of a foreign power, paid to discover and pass along sensitive information."
"Gimpson, I know what a spy is. What makes you say that this man is a spy?"
"Well, look at his shoes..." Gimpson pointed at the shoe-souls with a silver-capped cane. "They're from France. And examine his pocket-watch" He pointed again with his cane at the timepiece, which was flung away from the body, but still attached to the man's vest with a chain. "It's Swiss. Obviously we're dealing with a continental. And since he still has his watch, and it appears as though his pockets have not been searched, then we can assume he wasn't killed by a common mugger. Therefore I speculate, it's a matter of National Security!"

Mr. Pigglesworth looked concerned. He scratched his chin, and exhaled - his nostrils making two jets of steam below his moustache. "Well, following your logic, he could just have easily been killed in a crime of passion, or perhaps he ran afoul of a demonic cult. I say!" Pigglesworth exclaimed excitedly as he saw buried in the man's side, the handle of a knife...it's hilt was studded with rubies and gemstones."Look at this! It appears more like the work of a Demonic Cult I should say!"

"Or perhaps it's a weapon from India, where there are known to be forces working against Her majesty's government. I'm of the belief that the man was a spy for one of these forces, and either betrayed them, or somehow ran afoul of their bizarre and secret rites - and was then slain by them!"
"That seems a little far-fetched old man, if I do say so myself. Either way, I suppose we should fetch a constable."
"Surely, if you wish to contaminate the scene with the bungling incompetence of provincial detectives."
"Provincial!" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "We're in London! The largest, and most cosmopolitan city on the planet!"
"Yes, but how well is Scotland Yard acquainted with the ways of international intrigue? Not very, I should hazard to guess."

Pigglesworth put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and looked at his friend.
"Gimpson, I can't for the life of me understand why you've taken so strongly to this obviously fanciful theory."
"Because my good Pigglesworth, if it is a matter of national security, the only way we can truly help, is to walk away until the real authorities arrive - which I'm sure they will. If not, we'll be bogged down by police interviews for hours, and thereby missing the curtain for Macbeth. Now Sterling Smythe is in the starring role, and one of the most powerful actors to take the stage of the 19th century. And, as I might add, I also paid a pretty sum to acquire box seats for."
"Oh, I see." Said Pigglesworth, "I'll admit, I was anticipating the performance until we came across the body of..." Pigglesworth paused for a long moment, "This international spy. You are correct Mr. Gimpson in suggesting we leave it up to the Queen's agents, in order to not befoul an already very complicated situation."

Gimpson nodded his head, and began walking down the cobblestone street. Mr. Pigglesworth cast a last look at the corpse, and hurried after. By the time he had caught up, Gimpson had once again taken out his flask and uncapped it.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" And had a long pull from it. Then he handed it over to Mr. Pigglesworth.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" He repeated as he had a shot. Then he asked a question. "I say, Gimpson?"
"What?"
"Do you think we're patriots?"
"Of course Pigglesworth, no ordinary citizen would have done what we just did for the crown."
"Quite right." Said Pigglesworth.

I was just

Digging in the archives a moment ago and thought I'd re-post this one.

Apart from the fact, that it's got just about everything you love about Fjord, only, from like 5 months ago...It's also got our patented-trademarked expression listed for the first time, Holy Google Search for "seething rage at everything."

I've taken it upon myself to try and use this phrase at least once a month (yeah, I know, it seems like I'm pushing it...but "Holy Google Search" has a LOT going for it...

And for yjou Q-Dog fans, he's got more than a few brilliant concoctions that month...might be worth a re-run.

Since nobody wanted to share with the class...

I'll forgo any real brain-work here and transcribe something I found in a notebook.
it starts something like this...

I stood at the crosswalk waiting for the Green Man. The sound of air-breaks ripped loudly in the quiet afternoon. I'll admit, with my nerves what they were, I both jumped and jerked my head to the left.

That's when I saw her. She came out of the rear doors of a Metro Bus - which were placed in the middle of a billboard that showed the tits, legs and lip-sticked mouth of that month's tart - hawking a theatrical release.

She looked at me, and the run down hamburger stand I stood next to with amused indifference, and took a slug from a Jack Daniels bottle. She hitched one strap of a red backpack that hung from her right shoulder, over a white t-shirt, and asked,
"Which way to Beauford Street?"
"I have no idea." I said.
"Okay." And she took off up the sidewalk.
Since I didn't have anything else to look at, I watched her go. After a few feet, she stopped, turned, and asked,
"So, what are you doing?"
I held up three golf clubs and said,
"Driving range."
"Sounds like something you could blow off for a bit. Howabout helping a girl find Beauford Street?"
She seemed like the kind of girl that could find Beauford Street on her own, but the Green Man was already twenty-five minutes late. I hefted the three clubs over my shoulder and said,
"Sure, I could do that."
"Which way."
"Uh, I guess it really doesn't matter..."

It could go either way...

This weekend, Papa Tsunami was in town, and while he was here, I gots some, "culture." Of course, living in a megalopolis like L.A., there's tons of stuff happnin', but I rarely do anything about it. As it turns out, I went to the outstanding Getty Center, where I got lucky, and caught an exhibit of a kickass photographer named Weege. Over here's a sample of his work. Anyways, we also took in a symphonic performance at Disney Hall, which was also pretty damn impressive.

But I think tonight, I'd like to inquire if anyone else but me thinks mermaids are sexy?

They're pretty, elusive, got magical powers, are rarely shy about covering their breasts, and I've wondered over the span of some 20-odd years, how exactly are you supposed to act out your manly (er...humanid) desires on, umm...the lower erogenous zones when there ain't exactly an obvious erogenous zone. My thinking on the issue is that, it would become obvious what to do, if you were locked in a passionate act with a mermaid (or mermen - fer you Fairest of Fjordian readers...which is pretty damn fair, since, as I've mentioned before Fjord readers have been statistically proven to be uber-hot.)

Since I'm not quite myself tonight, I'd like to finish up this post by musing on the word erogenous. Does it surprise anyone that the word is derived from the spawn of Venus, Eros?
Of course not.

Well, if anyone has any insight into this kind of thing, it'd be you, handsome/gorgeous Fjordlings. Perhaps you'd like to share with the class?

Deet...Deet...Deet-Deet-Deet...Fjordnews...Deet..Deet

Keeping you in the know about all the latest in PIRATE NEWS...

the attempt by Somali pirates was thwarted using a military-grade SONIC WEAPON!
(altho the fact that it's reported on the BBC makes me wonder why we didn't hear about it in the good 'ole US-of-A...we used sonic weapons on our own citizens in New Orleans? The King of the Swamp People will have something to say about that, I'm sure...)

There's also a kickass map of the world and the location of reported pirate attacks this year! It's all right here.

Fjord Jumping

Trumpets are sounding! Lots of trumpets, like, fifty! The dawn cracks and Friday is in the middle of a dream. He's standing at the beginning of the world. Next to him is Thor (yeah, the God) and Friday hawks up a big gob of spit, and shoots it flying 850 yards. Thor takes off - up into the air (he's got wings on his helmet...or something) and smites the spot where the spit lands.

An earth shattering thunderclap echoes across the sky. And there, a massive Fjord opens up, cracking it's way to the sea. It's waters are pure deep blue, and on its steep hills grass and goats appear.
"Do it again!" Thor shouts excitedly.

Friday picks up a nearby rock, and throws it over a neighboring hill. Thor rises up and follows, disappearing for a moment, then another thunderclap. Laughter from the mighty thunder-god echoes off rocks and trees and earth. "I could do this all day!" He shouts, followed by more laughter. "Friday - Do It Again!" Friday looks around for something else to throw. He spies a piece of driftwood, and walks over to pick it up. "Friday - do it again."
"All right-all right, I am..." he mumbles.
"Friday."
"Friday."
"Friday."
"Whaaaat!" He says, waking up. Thursday's kicking Friday in the side.
"Get up! I'm done, turning in for the day...er...week, man, I'm so tired I can't remember what the hell's going on anymore. Anyways, it's your shift." Thursday's got bags under his eyes, a rip in his pants, and carrying a backpack full of cats and weasels. Occasionally one sticks its head out, or gives a strange pained hi-pitched Merrrrowww!
"What the...?" Friday mutters.
"Don't even ask. Just get up." Thursday trudges off.
Friday looks at his clock...it's 8-billion years later than his dream. All around the world, people are about to get up, turn on their televisions and computers and fax machines and latte makers. How long would it take any of them to notice that Friday wasn't there? Even if they did, wouldn't they just go along with their days? Might they just assume that something was odd - with Themselves?!?
Friday's emperor-sized bed was warm and comfjordable. A few more hours wouldn't throw the whole universe off. And besides, he thought, he'd make it up to everybody later on. Didn't he always?

He slipped back through the dark of sleep, past the clouds and back to the earth primeval. Thor stood looking over a scenic fjord.
"Hey, where'dja go?" He spoke excitedly not concerned with an answer. "What do you think of this one!!?"
"That's, that's beautiful." Friday answered.
"Yer djamn right its beautiful, I made it. I'm a Gjoddamn Gjod! Everything I do is beautiful. Even the most horrible actions I make are filled with a horrible, terrible beauty."
Thats what Friday liked about hanging around with Thor - he was always so full of himself...a refreshing confidence of an entity that knows - I can do nothing wrong.
"Do it again!" Thor bellowed.
Friday picked up the driftwood, and threw it over the horizon.
Thor chased after it like a happy dog. Minutes later there was another thunderclap, and another Fjord.

Happy Friday

P.S. Not much more to see here for the weekend. Might be a good time to catch up on our stupendous archives!