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So yeah...and that's, [YEAH!] 700.
700 is a lot of anything. If there were 700 people that came to your house, you'd be hard pressed to find enough seats for 'em - even if you offered up your floor.
700 individual dollars could get yas 700 scratchers, or near 90% of the electronic devices (that's devices -singular) on display at the local Best Buy.
700 tanks would scare the crap out of you if they were driving down your street right now, and 700 mummies...well, even with the most advanced mummy destroying technology, it's hard to imagine overcoming 700 mummies.
Anyhoo - with 700 posts in the bag, the fate of Fjord is kinda' up in the air.
The West Coast Branch is clearly focused on other things, and obviously without the full attention of the WCB, Fjord suffers horribly.
So, with that said...I'd like to offer up this million-dollar idea.
A gang of cat buglaresses goes on a rampage led by their sexy, but strangely vacant heroine
indulging themselves in the glamorous life, until one man devotes himself to busting up their crime ring.
And that, my friendly Fjordlings, is an entertainment equation that equals deliciousness!
-Tsunami-
Yaknow - I'm a big enough fella to know that it would be really easy to die, if, on occasion, the universe did not conspire to please me.
However, on the eve of Fjord's 700th post, the webmonster spat this in my face.
Which is exactly why the webmonster is pretty damn cool. I grabbed this off of the Table of Malcontents...which, apart from the rapidly dwindling cool-assed text you find here, is rapidly turning into my favorite place to visit.
-Tsunami-
So, lots of people come up all the time and ask me,
"Tsunami, if I wanted to turn the Empire State Building into a giant laser cannon that
could destroy the sun, and build an undersea fortress where I could control it from, and fight off the combined might of all the world's navies...what should my first step be?"
This question always makes me laugh and laugh, cause, they honestly
have no idea how many extension cords this kind of project is going to
require. (in excess of 6.2-MILLION!) And even funnier, they're almost
sure to be short (if they've even thought of it) hundreds of tons of gruel, with
which to feed their army of slave laborers.
Remember people - free labor is only free if you intend to work your
slave workers to death - and quickly!
However, other, less mad people, come up to me all the time and ask,
"Tsunami, how do you come up with such inventive, revolutionary posts
for Fjord? Because I want posts like those to grace my blog and or webzine.!"
To these people I ask three very simple questions.
1) Do you own a hovercraft?
2) Are you able to call up goons at any hour to break someone's legs?
3) Do you know for a fact that you - personally - can survive without air?
Now inevitably the answer is, "No" to all three of these questions.
(If I had just asked you these three questions, would the answers also be
"No?" Well - no matter.) My response is "In that case, - you're going to have to use your imagination!"
Imagination. This is key here people. If you don't have an imagination, this is not going to work. In order for you to have your very own - nearly Fjordpost(tm) quality - post on you blog or webzine - you're going to have to make it up! Entirely from your own head! From scratch!
Wait, wait...seriously, don't panic...just breathe.
I'm here to help you through this, and it's easier than you think.
"How easy?" You would ask hopefully.
"Pretty damn easy kid!" I'd say, snapping my fingers and pointing at you in one gesture. "There's only one thing we need, before we can apply "THE FORMULA!"
"What's that??" You ask excitedly.
"A topic we can write a post about."
"How about Mummies!" You exclaim.
"Well, that is sorta' my thing...see..I mean, couldn't you...ahhh hell, look at your beady little eyes all peerin' up at me. Okay kid - knock yourself out."
"Yaaay." You say now very happy, however, you do realize your Fjordpost(tm) quality post, has not yet been written. (very astute of you, I must say) "What do I do now?"
"Now - now we apply THE FORMULA!"
"What's the formula?"
"The formula is simple! In order to create a Fjordpost(tm) quality post for your blog or webzine, you need to apply this equation to your chosen topic.
10% inspiration + 90% perspiration +110% Booze =1 Fjordpost(tm) Quality post!
Well, I gotta' get going, but remember kid - those Fjordpost(tm) quality posts ain't going to write themselves!"
I'd drift off into the crowd, jauntily swinging my swordcane, and disappearing as you process all that. But just as soon as I had become lost in the crowd, you'd realize there was one more answer you really needed to know.
"Tsunami! What's inspiration!!!"
Since I'm a kind and benevolent Tsunami, I'll give you a hint. It's really just simple algebra. If you add 90% perspiration with 110% Booze, and you don't have a Fjordpost(tm) quality post, you haven't added the inspiration - you're just drunk. Well, happy blogging!
-Tsunami-
Friday walks down the five stairs of the gantry from the official King Of All Weekdays hovercraft. He waves to the multitudes which have gathered on the banks of the canal. They hang from the windows and balconies of old European styled buildings, and throw confetti and bouquets of flowers - and they peer dangerously from the tops of modern skyscrapers throwing streamers and lingerie. (all of the objects above fall well short, and drop onto those gathered below)
They stand hundreds deep on the streets - some womenfolk are perched on the shoulders of men. A few blocks down a security services tank sits nearly invisible, it's armor and gun covered like a chia-pet, with citizens sitting, standing, crouching, trying for a better spot to see.
High above a Red-Baron styled tri-plane tows a huge banner that reads, "Welcome Back Again!" Friday turns his head left and right to take it all in, and gives a wave in as many directions as there are people. The crowd goes into a frenzy! They cheer, clap, whistle, wave back, and some even expose the best parts of the human anatomy that usually remain covered in public.
Friday walks another twenty feet to where a modest podium sits. Behind the podium, is a massive wall of speakers hundreds of feet high, and at least an acre or two wide. Friday dribbles his voice into the microphone,
"Hi there."
It comes out of the speaker wall at eighteen billion watts, and promptly breaks every window within two square miles. Hats fly from heads! Scarves and coats pick up and dance backwards! People stagger - their faces look as if they were undergoing a NASA g-force test! After the initial sonic blast - it's a good thing the wall of speakers is blaring out eighteen billion watts, because nobody in the crowd would register a human voice (even shouting) for weeks afterwards.
"Ooh, sorry,"
Friday says, looking startled and apologetic, but still releasing another assaulting blast of sound from the speaker wall. He realizes it's too late to stop, so he adjusts his tie-knot and plows ahead. "I was in a spot of being overwhelmed with requests, of showing up early, making plans, being relied on...so I decided to try an experiment. This experiment was so dangerous that it could not be undertaken in this universe. I...you might find this hard to believe, but I traveled to another dimension, and had myself cloned."
At this exact moment, six stealth bombers flew overhead in a precision wedge formation. To the ringing ears of the entire crowd, they made no sound, and finally, truly, lived up to their name. In fact, over two million eyes didn't notice a military fly-by, and it wasn't caught by cameras. Friday continued. "I actually had myself cloned five hundred thousand times...since that's about the number of Friday's you all seem to need - and even then, that's one of me for some eighteen thousand of every one of you...rounding of course."
Friday takes out a silver flask from his sportscoat, unscrews the cap, and has a long pull. He fastens the cap back on, and tucks it away.
"To be blunt..." The mega-amplified voice of Friday continues, "It was such a horrible failure, that the only way to contain the catastrophe, was to completely destroy the dimension that contained five hundred thousand me's. Believe me when I say," Friday says knowingly, "that wasn't an easy task. I'm pretty resourceful!" A million people laugh, and not one person there heard anything but ringing through their ears. "Anyways, the experiment revealed that after a factor of two - there became too many conflicting desires, and too many equally matched powers for anything but a befuddled mess to occur. No fun, no accomplishment, just conflict. It turned hideously ugly. In fact, had we not demolished the dimension, most everything would have exterminated itself, and whatever remained (or computer models suggested) would have been forced into a pre-civilization Neanderthal like existence...and I don't have to tell you that couldn't have been too much fun!"
Heads nod in agreement, as people, just normal folk who like Friday, who have been trying to wrap their heads around his words, finally have something tangible to deal with. Then a huge black hull drifted down the canal, between Friday and his audience. A supertanker drifted up without a sound and was made fast, and a gangplank came down. Behind another massive hull, and another, and another and another and another.
"And since I've been gone for a while..." Friday speaks to his now mostly obscured audience, "I've got something special planned! Hop on board, real quick-like! There isn't much time!"
On the other side of the canal, people rush up to board the gigantic ships. Friday turns and walks from the podium. He makes his way, down a staircase of brick to the edge, where a massive and yacht-like hydrofoil waits. He springs across a walkway onto the ship, where he returns the salute of a white uniformed Captain who appears to have been waiting for just this moment. The Captain spins about and moves off to the windowless bridge of his craft, and Friday opens a door set in the superstructure, and walks down a teak-paneled hall.
After passing ten doors, Friday turns and moves down a stairwell that emerges in a luxurious room where Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday sit around a huge television, playing Madden 2006. Wednesday lets out a triumphant yell as his fullback powers through the goal line defense. He stands and hi-fives Thursday!
"Who's winning?" Friday asks. The four weekdays look back. "All tied up." Says Monday. "Nice to have you back."
"Thanks. Good to be here."
Tuesday picks up a glass from a coffee table and drinks a big sip.
"So..." Wednesday waves his controller in a sweeping arc as he speaks, "You done with allllllllll that?"
"Yeah," Friday moves a little closer, "Done deal."
"I guess the question is," Thursday looks up with a serious face and voice, but happy eyes, "What are we going to do tonight?" The others wait transfixed for the answer.
"I put together ten drilling platforms, built a city on them, linked them together with bridges, helicoptered in eighteen great bands, fifty DJ's, and enough liquor to get Europe drunk. Should be fun!" Friday looked excited about it.
Tuesday leaned back in his chair and made a sour face. "Don't want to rain on your parade, I mean it sounds like fun, but everyone that's coming is going to be deaf for weeks." Friday let an "Ahhh..." slip from his lips.
"See, the sound system that's set up there, beats the one here...I mean, I know it's going to piss off the whales and dolphins, but they can swim away pretty quick."
"But what about the people Friday?" Asked Wednesday, "They won't be able to talk at all!" Friday stood there for a second, watching a replay of the video-game touchdown.
"That's the cool part. You think a million people can get along at a party without talking to each other? I mean, you think they'll get the gist of it, of everything without words getting in the way?" The four weekdays reacted in different ways, and with different speeds, but all began to smile and nod. At that moment, and not a second sooner, the hydrofoil took off, and flew down the canal, out to sea.
So yeah...and that's, [YEAH!] 700. 
