Friday's in the background

and its a stream of images and channels. Like the landscape seen in between the gaps in a passing train.

Channel 1:
It was black. Very very dark. Like being buried in a cave a hundred miles inside the earth dark. A sound, a pebble kicked, a stumbling footfall crunching earth and sand...and a man striking a rock wall with his face.
"ow. damn."
A strong voice calls out. (We know by now it's the voice of Wednesday)
"Who are you!?"
"Umm, I'm Mathew Storfield."
"Who do you serve?"
a long pause.

"Well, I serve the economic interests of the shareholders of the United
Alliance of Insurance Brokers."
Then frenzied scuffling.
"Hey, you can't do...damn! What is the meaning of - wait why am I...do I smell horses?"
Then hooves pounded away in the darkness - followed by strange popping noises, and the unmistakable sound of rending human flesh. After that there's a loud, meaty thunk. Probably best that this was shot in total darkness.

"Click"

Channel 2:
He was well put together - black suit - Italian, and expensive. A long black coat, and a pair of
nice black shoes. He had a white shirt with a black tie, and he carried a thin black briefcase with
chrome fittings. He also had the face of Tuesday, and approximately the same height and weight. The best thing about it was, he walked up to the circle of people, and just pushed his way in.

They were gathered around a square of cardboard, and a hip-hop kid, no more than 14, was dancing with standard moves to one of your common drumbeats. When he finished, he looked over to the rube in the suit and called him out. The being, looking like Tuesday walked out - took a moment to take off his jackets, and breathed deeply a few times - bringing the music inside him. Then he began a remarkable display of breakdancing on the dirty cardboard.

He did handstands, and headspins, and an array of kicks, punches, and glides - intercut with head, shoulder, arm, leg and torso swivels which, vaguely resembled robotics - however, the real
word would be "butter." Around him the circle - some thirty or forty people clapped and cheered like crazy - laughing at the unbelievable things this guy was pulling off. Then in a finale - he performed a one-handed handstand, and with the other slapped the insoles of both of his feet, then lowered himself to his head - spun about in a crazy fast headspin, and came to
a rest, laying on the cardboard looking casual with his legs crossed, and hands interlaced behind his head. The mob cheered like crazy.

Monday walked out of the crowd with a sawed off double-barreled shotgun, pointed it at the man, and pulled both triggers. The blast pretty much took away his head and his hands right behind it. From inside the hole of his head-stump, a massive wave of beetles and roaches rushed out. The crowd recoiled in fear. Either jumping away, or crushing the bugs with their shoes and boots.

"We don't take kindly to clones around here." Monday said in a slow drawl to the crowd - eying them over as if there might be more in the group, "No matter how good they can dance."

As the scene fades, we hear someone ask quietly, "How do we know that wasn't really Tuesday?"

"Click"

Channel 3:
"Reminds me of the time I slipped Queen Isabella a pastry laden with aphrodisiac." Began Thursday. He was reclining on a daybed, attired like a Roman, and drinking wine from a huge bronze cup. A lovely nymph plucked grapes from a vine, and dropped them into his mouth. He spoke while chewing, both his body language and chewing grew more animated as he talked.
"It was 1491, mind you, and love potion was not cheap to come by in those parts. However, I still had a few contacts in the Moorish areas - but unfortunately, while I was there, I had more than a few delicious lamb kabobs. Well - soon as the Queen had taken my offering, and set it to her dainty lips - I was seized by the most urgent need to, ah, um, well...relieve myself."

Thursday takes a moment to look around at his audience to see if they're still with him. (they are) He laughs loudly at himself, and gets fed a couple more grapes.

"Well -" He continues, "I slipped away for but a few moments, however, when I returned, Columbus was there explaining his whole trip to the West, and the Queen sat there completely enchanted. There was nothing I could do but chalk it up to bad lamb.

"Click"

Channel Fjord:
Friday can feel it. It seeps from his pores like magic. Hell, it is magic. He can see it in the eyes of people he crosses. They know. In the window of the Acme Machine Company he catches his reflection. Dark jacket, dirty ripped hoodie, even a green workshirt won't be contained, and peaks out in places. All the right places. He might as well have been made up by a stylist - but he wasn't, and that's why he's feeling it. He looks like rock-n-roll, he smells like successful night on the town, and his feet make the sound of owning the piece of ground they fall upon.

Why couldn't his enemies decide to pick on him on a day like today? He wonders...
CUT TO:
Friday stands upon a sand dune. To the right - a German panzer division attacks! Shells fall about - whistling razors of hot metal shear through the air. Small arms fire blasts the hill he stands upon. With infinite time, he raises his hand, and moves it slowly across them. Wherever it passes, bullets, shells, mortars, tanks, rifles, machine-guns, howitzers, half-tracks, all rust instantaneously and fall to dust. Buckles on the stormtroopers belts fall away. Buttons and zippers on trousers explode in small puffs of rust-dust. Helmets and insignia of rank follow. The entire division falls into disarray, and slink off - holding their clothes up.

A nice fantasy, he agrees with himself. But of course, his enemies would never pick a day like today. They'd know - and give him a wide berth. Their spies would pick a day when he had less lethal mojo. He moves on until he reaches the nice looking pad he was seeking. He walks up the driveway past nicely polished old cars, and notices a few too many men in nice suits and sunglasses admiring the landscaping, or polishing off non-existent spots on the nicely polished cars. Two of the men open the front doors, and he enters.

Inside, music seeps into the scene. Someone is knocking the hell out of the ivories, and there is laughter along with it. Friday moves down a staircase, and opens a door - to full blast of "Come Fly With Me" Sammy's rockin' the piano, and Dean and Frank are working harmony off each other - belting out the ending "PACK UP - LET'S FLY AWWWWWWWWWWAY!" Then they crack each other up, and have huge gulps of scotch from huge low-ball glasses.

"Friday baby, glad you could make it kiddo." Says Sammy, (in only the way Sammy can say things like that and have it come out sincere-and cool) stepping up from the piano to give Friday a hug.
Dino looks over and smiles a loopy grin.
"Ring-a-ding-ding." He purrs. "It's the cat who put the fat back in Friday. Let me get you some gas, man." And he moved over to the bar - and began pouring a huge lowball to the rim.
"Yeah." Frank said, walking over to drop a hug, "If you ain't the original jet-setter, I don't know what one is. Pull up a stool, we're dropping some tunes to pass the time."
"Don't mind if I do." Says Friday, pulling up next to the piano as Dean hands him the drink, full to the point of overflowing. He takes a sip, and looks up at three smiling legendary faces. "So what's next?" He asks.
"Well, you see baby, " Starts Sammy, "We kinda thought, see, you'd hit us with one-a-yours."

Friday looked up and with no false modesty said, "I think it would be better if..."
"No way baby!" Said Dino moving in closer, "We know you're dizzy with the songs...so lay one on us!"
"But really I..." Friday got cut off by Frank.
"This party is nowhere 'til we hear a song." Says Frank with authority.

Friday managed a little grimace. He starts thinking, and comes up with very little. He takes a slow long sip of excellent scotch, and realizes, he might just have something.

He clears his throat with a loud, "Ahem."
And then sings out in a soft - but perfectly toned voice.
"I was workin' part time at the five-and-dime,
My boss was Mr. McGee."

Dean sauntered to the piano, and picked up the melody in a couple of bars. Friday kept it up.

"He told me many times that he didn't like my kind
'Cause I was a bit too leisurely.
It seemed I was busy doin' something next to nothin'
But different from the day before.
And that's when I saw her - oooh that's when I saw her
She walked in thru the out door - out door."

And if in a movie - the Rat Pack and Friday hit the chorus with abandon.

"She wore a raspberry beret, the kind you find in a second hand store!
A raspberry beret - I think I love her..."

Fade out
(End Transmission)


Happy Friday

I seem to be writing full-circle this month...

Why, it was only last week I was writing about a cat brain-parasite that changed its hoast animal's brain chemistry - and I was worried, because it was (through a long and tangled explanation) was getting into sharks...and I was pretty concerned about what the parasite intended to do with their zombie shark vehicles.

I don't think its been said enough here at Fjord (actually, I don't think its ever been said once...but anyways) Thank God For the U.S. Defence Department!

They've obviously known about our impending threat, and are taking counter-measures.

"They want to remotely control the sharks by implanting electrodes in their brains, The New Scientist says."

I say - bravo! What better way to fight a zombie shark - than with a robo-shark!

Well, I guess this just about wraps this one up in a neat little package.

If only this mummy business would wrap up so nicely.
Kinda doubt it tho.

Happy Hunchbacking!

(Your friendly minor league media demon's mood today is: Nearly Happy/Almost Energetic)

I figured out why I was in such a nasty mood last night -
it was Fat Tuesday
and I didn't have any plans.

Which luckily, got resolved before Fat Tuesday was over.

So by default - today's Ash Wednesday. Which, according to traditions handed down from generations of blacksmiths, er...maybe chimneysweeps, (but anyways...) people are required to have a smudge of ash wiped on their forehead. Earlier, I sent an email to a pal, titled, "Smudge Weds." This brought forth the question - "What's Smudge Weds?" Whereupon I replied like this...

Subject: RE: smudge weds.

it's ash Wednesday...where you get a smudge on your forehead of
ash. I don't know why.

I wrote a song title for "expansive pad" (Apt. Rock's double
album) called

"I wrote your phone number on my hand, and later that night I
met someone way hotter than you
and my hands started sweating, and now all I have is a smudge."

It was shortened later to: "all I have is a smudge."

smudge is a great word.
(End Transmission)

So perhaps in a few years, with a bit of pop-culture invasive, society changing efforts from your pals at Fjord, we might just get this whole "ash" thing off the books...and henceforth it will be called "Smudging Day."

Smudge

RRRRrrrrrrrrr!

Your friendly minor league media demon is in a nasty mood today.

I'm not sure why - seeings how I got paid, I didn't get rained on, and a Giant Squid was put on display. (be sure to check out the "related links" on the right side of the page - good stuff there)

Anyways...some things you can't work out in words, but you can work your exchange rate out in a currency calculator! And if you convert enough of your US Dollars, to the Ringgit (1 US Dollar = 3.71621 Malaysian Ringgit) you too could join the adventure searching for the Malaysian Bigfoot.

And if that doesn't pan out too well - you could always head south, and go hunting for the fearsome Australian Salt Water Crocodile. Just make sure it doesn't get a hold of your arm.



P.S.
Still feeling nasty. Best take this up with the neighbor's cat.

-Tsunami-

A couple of months ago

I wrote about weapons-grade whisky, thinking I was being, yaknow, imaginative. Of course, I was trumped again by reality.

Here's a nice little bit...
The US Secret Service admitted in 2003 that it had been monitoring the distillery because the difference between distilling a fine whisky and making chemical weapons was "just a small tweak"

That's beautiful.

The article also states that two spoonfuls might be enough to kill a man.*

*Fjuckin amateurs.

-Tsunami-

Yeah, it's me again

screwing around on the internet so you dont have to.

I've been wanting to direct you guys over to Banksy for a long long time. The guy's work is inspirational.

Friday awoke to the phone...

It was so early in the day, that it should have been called Thursday night. (In fact, at 01-10 am, nearly everyone who was awake at this time would have said, "Fuckin' great night man! Whatcha' doing for the rest of it?" Of course technicalities like this have a way of creeping up on you when you're responsible for a whole 24-hour weekday.)

He fjumbled his half-asleep arm from under the pillow he was sleeping on, and felt around for the phone.
"Yeah?" His voice was groggy, with none of it's usual zip.
"Are you happy?" A cold voice of a woman asked.
"Huh?" Said Friday, who clearly wasn't interested in taking a survey, and would really have to work when the sun cracked open the sky into morning.
There was a long silent pause,
"Do you feel guilty?" The voice asked again
"Whaaa? Look lady," Said Friday, "do everyone a favor, and find a better hobby." Then he hung up the phone, and fell quickly back asleep.

An hour and twenty minutes passed, and the phone rang again. Friday reacted as one reacts to a ringing phone from a deep sleep - he reached over and answered it.
"Yeah?" His voice was still groggy, with no hit of charm.
"Are you having a nightmare?" The cold impersonal woman's voice asked.
"Look woman, I have dreams you couldn't comprehend - so don't even bother."
There was another long silent pause.
"Like what?"
"I had just befriended a pack of hyenas, who worshiped a strange Idol, to which they brought severed human heads in sacrifice. They howled a tribute to their strange god, which took some time. Then, when they were done, their chief got up on his hind legs, and walked over to a Harley 3-wheeled motorbike...upon the back of the trike was a 32-gallon keg of Newcastle Brown Ale. Which he began pouring for his clan. I was just about to get mine, when you called and woke me up. This is the second time, so what the fuck do you want!?"
"Are you comfortable in your own skin?" The cold woman's voice asked.
Friday hung up, and again, fell into a deep sleep.

-I think we all know by now, that Friday isn't just a weekday - per se - he's an agent for something bigger. What kind of agent? Hard to know, Friday surrounds himself in a cloak of good-times, fun, excitement and pleasure. (all-in-all not a bad disguise for anyone, no matter what their intentions) What kind of being/organization is he an agent for? Also hard to say. But I know this, in order for the King of all Weekdays to take instructions from anyone or anything - it's got to be really big, really bad (or good, as the case may be) and not opposed to us humanids having a good time. Therefore, I at least assume its designs on our civilization are not set on our imminent destruction.

At 3:47 the phone rang again. The woman's voice was a touch less cold this call, when she asked her first question.
"Are you attractive?"
"Baby, fjuck."
After three phone interruptions of his sleep, by now - at least subconsciously Friday was ready for this. He was a little less groggy, and his voice had a little snap to it.
"How many men do you command?"
"I only command my army of Dragon Men."
"Dragon Men?"
"How many Dragon Men do you command!?" Friday shot back.
The cool woman's voice on the other end of the line did not reply. In fact, there was a small click, and he was put on hold. Music filtered through the line...it was "Girl From Ipanema."

Friday lay there for about ten seconds, listening to the lullaby, and started to hang up the phone.
"Wait!" A voice said from the speaker of the phone - which carried across the three feet from the handset to Friday's ear. For some reason, he obeyed, and brought the receiver back to his face.
"Yeah." He said.
The cold woman's voice asked, "Have you ever called the party line?"
"You stupid twit!" Friday spat out, "I'm King of all Weekdays, I AM THE PARTY! I'm ready to party anytime, any place, anywhere - ANY TIME!"

Friday paused for a second thinking about what he'd just said. And he realized he'd repeated himself - which made him a little mad, and a little ashamed at the fuckup. But it was only for a second. He covered it up by becoming more hostile.
"I'M READY TO PARTY RIGHT NOW - - - EVEN BY PHONE!"

"Good." The woman's voice said, "Very good."
"What, you ready to party now!?"

The woman laughed a little laugh on the other end of the line.
"Oh - no Friday, I've still got another 15 hours on my shift. I'm Miranda, calling in from control - just checking to see if, after all these millennia, you're doing all right."
"Huh? Oh, um, hi Miranda. How'd I do?"
"Prefect. Just ahh...hey Friday?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep up the good work."

The conversation ended there with a click from the other end of the line, and Friday lay in his bed with an empty phone stuck to his ear. He smiled, hung up the phone, and knew he'd have to get cracking in a couple of hours. At that moment, he thought, he was looking forward to doing his job again.

Happy Friday

A brief mummy rundown.

Here's what we've dealt with during the last 54 days.

4 mummy related stories on the 10th of Jan
Another on the 25th
Here's a more imaginative piece from the 1st of Feb.
Another on the third...
And a mummy vs zombie post that same day
On the 10th...
The 20th...

Mummy enough for ya?

Cat Parasites...A Fjordian Essay

For those of you who are privy to my regular conversations (a lucky few these days) this post won't be much of an enlightenment, but I've been meaning to do an overarching summary of the news stories I've seen in the past regarding the Toxoplasma parasite. For those of you unaware of this particularly interesting little critter, here's a brief summary.

The Toxoplasma lives in cats, specifically cats brains. After it's lived long enough, it moves into the cat's digestive tract, and then is pooped out into the world. The primary goal of the Toxoplasma is to be ingested by a rat - feeding off the cat feces.

Once ingested by a rat, it changes the rat's normal behavior - and basically makes it unafraid of cats. Thereby assuring it being re-ingested by a cat. Here's this older link to the original story.

Now, it appears after further study, that the Toxoplasma parasite, can, and does, in fact, infect humans.

"Parasitologist Jaroslav Flegr of Charles University in Prague administered psychological questionnaires to people infected with Toxoplasma and controls. Those infected, he found, show a small, but statistically significant, tendency to be more self-reproaching and insecure. Paradoxically, infected women, on average, tend to be more outgoing and warmhearted than controls, while infected men tend to be more jealous and suspicious." (this quote from the good people at Boing Boing - summarized from the CORANTE article here. - warning - sloooow download, but worth reading.)

So, this little beastie not only changes the behavior in rats - but also manipulates the behavior of humans - in fact to such an extent that it changes human behavior according to gender. (Which I find especially creepy) Scientists have determined that Toxoplasma does not pose a health threat to humans as long as their immune system is not compromised. However, this statement doesn't seem to imply that psychological changes in human behavior BY A FOREIGN CREATURE IN THE BRAIN is a health threat. However...this is not the end of the story just yet.

Today, popping up on my news radar was this little tidbit. "Sea Otters Dying From Cat Parasite." It seems that infected cat shit is being washed into the oceans, filtered by mollusks and shellfish, which are consumed by the Otters, and are then infected. The interesting thing here is, 1) we now have a parasite that can live in 5 different hosts, (cats, rats, humans, shellfish, and otters(altho this article also implies the parasite can travel in birds - so maybe six)) and 2) 17% of all sea otter deaths from 1998-2001 were caused by brain infections brought on by the Toxoplasma parasite. With a brain infection, Sea Otters are 4-times as likely as healthy Otters to be EATEN BY A SHARK!

Here ends the fully educational portion of our essay.

However, I have a few other speculations I'd like to mention.

Here we have a very adaptable and insidious parasite, which is nearly proven to live in multiple species, and changing their hosts behavior for their own uses. What does that mean they're doing to a shark's brain? Sharkfin soup is a popular dish in many Asian countries...do they make sharks more catchable so they can get back into human system again? Or, perhaps the parasite waits till the shark dies - is consumed by scavenger fish, which are then controlled into being more easily caught in nets, whereupon they are deposited (with our help) back into cat food? These questions are better left to smarter people than I, however, this will shortly tie in with my current hypothesis on mummies.

-Tsunami-

Thanks Everybody!

And yeah...

I miss you too.

-Tsunami-

Short. Month.

Seven days left to conclude your business in February.

This makes me speculate...exactly what my goals in February were.

I've mentioned before - lists are powerful creatures...and I, am a list maker. Part of this rolls from my compulsive writing down of ideas that I find amusing. Lemme tell ya, if you come up with something - write it down! If you don't, odds are you'll find yourself next to an attractive and charming "other" in the line at the local food court, who, eschewing all reason decides to strike up a conversation with you.
"Did you see last weeks "Desperate Housewives?"
They'll ask, and you'll be tripping all over your brain to find the neurons that will tell you that you did or didn't. Then, coming up with a suitable response, you'll respond with the most appropriate inflections...yea or nea is unimportant, the important part is keeping the conversation alive with the charming other.
And, having continued the conversation (in defiance of all odds) through the line, past the order-taker, and next-to the soda fountain, you'll astound yourself by asking the attractive and charming other's name. Whereupon, they'll reply some unusual and perfect name, and in between spending the time being charming yourself - you'll be saying their name over and over "Dashiell" or "Alicia" or "Estavan" or "Samantha" so that you won't forget because THIS COULD BE THE ONE!

Of course it isn't, and as soon as they get their Arby's "western-style" combo - they're gone, and you're hoping you can remember their name in case you meet at the food court again. Which of course you won't, and now, you've forgotten your idea. I KNOW THIS! And that's why I write things down.

So anyways - I also have lists. Let's look over one and see...
1) Finish Script -- Ah! One down. Altho, finish is verrrrrry subjective.
2) Pay phone bill -- Not bad - I'm two for two.
3) Heater? -- unfortunately, sometimes I write things down with no context. I don't know what this one means. -- draw.
4) Shelf Space -- Okay, this is important, and I've tried to make it happen, but what space I've gained, I've promptly filled with other crap lying around. -- So...that's a No.
5) Cross-Bread a possum with a lobster. -- This is one of those ideas I had that I thought would be funny, and I didn't have any where else to write it. But, it's on the list and I didn't even try and acquire a possum. -- Another no.
6) (oh this is rich) Live Better -- Good Gjod, who actually writes that on a list. -- No.
7) Junk Junk - Okay, this is something I've been doing for about two weeks, but I still look around and see junk. This might get a check-mark next to it for "in progress" but... --No.
8) Buy new Voodoo dolls. -- I needed to do this last month, but I've still blown it off. --No.
9) Bake cookies for the neighbor kids. -- First time I saw this, since I wrote it, and it scares me. No idea what was in my head here, and happy I didn't. -- No. (and it's crossed off as of now!)
10) Legally Change Name to "Johnny Verdugo" -- No. Altho, in my defense, there were quite a lot of forces working against me on this one. Let me just ask you this. Wouldn't you feel just a little bit better knowing Johnny Verdugo was out there, somewhere?

Hope yer doing better on your lists than I am.

-Tsunami-

It's a President's Day Miracle!

Don't hear that one too often, so I thought I'd be the one to say it. I'm about to hit the town for some curry...just cause it sounds about right.

Meanwhile, searching out Mummy News, I found (a link that doesn't work anymore - but...reading the following will fill you in...this post is really old...)

It's more an update of previous stories, but it does have some great info on FAMOUS MISSING MUMMIES!

Here's an excerpt.

Some important New Kingdom rulers are still missing. One of them is Queen Hatshepsut, one of the first powerful female rulers in world history. Also not accounted for are the pharaohs Ay and Horemheb, who successively seized the throne after King Tut's death, and Ramses VII and Ramses VIII, obscure kings of the late New Kingdom.
But perhaps the most sought-after missing mummy is that of Akhenaten, the pharaoh who turned Egypt upside down and introduced the nearest thing to monotheism Ancient Egypt ever knew, and his beautiful queen, Nefertiti, who is portrayed in a famous bust in Berlin.

Why can't they find the mummies of Pharaohs Ay and Horemheb, or Queen Hatshepsut? I'm sure you know what my speculation is - THEY'RE WALKING AROUND SUCKING THE LIFE OUT OF POOR SAPS WHO AREN'T ON GUARD AGAINST MUMMIES!

Anyways, my precautions might be a little over the top for some folks, but I'm letting you know that every night, I go to sleep armed with this! (yeah, yeah I know what you're thinking - why is Tsunami hung up on all that retro crap? In this case (1) it was the best I could afford at the time, and (2) at least I have an anti-mummy weapon.)

I'd recommend you do the same - that way, when the mummy of Pharaoh Akhenaten comes sneakin' in the window some night to squeeze your soul into his hungry gullet, you can sent him back to Ra - posthaste. Maybe while you're doing that, you could drop in a cool action-movie line like, "Hey Nefertiti! Tsunami Sent Me!" But whatever, just as long as we GET these creepy undead before it's too late.

-Tsunami-

A little image before I go.

deathbot?

Friday stands at the lectern

In front of a huge assembled audience. The official Friday seal is affixed to the podium. (For those who are interested - it's got a rocket-car, hovercraft and Lear-Jet, set in a triangle, within, is a man in a tux, with a top-hat and cane, and a woman in a flattering, and low-cut evening gown. They stand next to a table with two martini glasses. Around the outside is text reading "Friday - King of All Weekdays." Pretty slick.)

"I'm continuously astonished," Friday begins, in his rich baritone, "at life's ability to find new ways to confound me."

*the audience claps madly in agreement*

"As always, there are the repeats of problems which we've all faced before...not enough money, the regrets of lost loves, the sinking depression just knowing you were happier at some other time. The self-realization, that you are in no way close to where you should be in personal, or professional life, and that your hobbies are meaningless and stupid in comparison with what others are doing!"

*the audience breaks into it's mad clapping again*

Friday takes a moment, and reaches under his lectern for his cocktail, and takes a hearty drink. He slips it back, and continues when the applause subsides.

"But apart from these - and the others -" Friday puts the back of his hand up to the mic, and speaks in a soft whisper. "and I know, you all know what I mean."

Friday drops the whisper and begins speaking in a louder clipped tone.
"Then there are the ones you don't see coming, from out of left field - Voodoo curses! Zombie attacks! Towering deathbots with chemical lasers and rockets! Webmonster viruses combining with Ebola, SARS, and Dengue Fever, spreading between computer and man through the keyboard interface - leaving piles of silicon vomit and diarrhea leaking out the disk-drive, USB ports and cooling vents, next to the real piles of blood, puss, vomit and diarrhea spewed from it's up-till-then healthy operator. I ASK YOU: WHO WOULD HAVE SEEN THAT COMING!!?? IT'S INCREDIBLY CONFOUNDING!

*The audience leaps to it's feet cheering and clapping in a near frenzy! The auditorium is defening. Cheers and yells are called out*

Friday has another sip of his drink, and looks out approvingly at the crowd. He toasts them, and then speaks.

"I'm not here to..."

The audience drowns out his words with their applause. They begin to settle down.

"I'm not here to tell you how to avoid these things, that would be pointless and foolish. There are things that cannot be predicted, or avoided...and you all know deep in your hearts that is true."

Friday pauses meaningfully...he savors the pause, and rolls it around in his mouth. He knows they're going to love this.

"Therefore, I, in association with Friday Incorporated Business's (authors aside: FIB) of which you are all shareholders, have created THIS!"

Friday holds in his hand a small yellow pill. He smiles out to the audience. Cameras pick up the smile and the pill, and project it onto the back of the auditorium on huge screens which suddenly flick on!

"A hundred million dollars in development, and worth every penny!" Friday pauses, and places the pill on the top of the podium. He knows what everyone is thinking, but he still gives them a bit of time to think it. "What does it do? You ask. It inhibits befuddlement!

*The audience wonders what, exactly Friday is saying.*

We can not prevent confounding events from happening, be we can chemically adapt the mind so under any bizarre, amazing, ridiculous, outlandish, freaky, occurrence - one will react in a perfectly reasonable, and stylish manner! I give you Test Subject B!" The massive screens show a picture of a regular man, attired as an office drone. We fed Subject B, the anti-befuddlement pill, and sent him without warning, back through time to the Jurassic era! On observation, we found Subject B quickly took stock of his situation, and created a spear. Having created a weapon, he then did the next best thing. He, set out to find shelter - whereupon, locating a cave, he began building an array of defences for his new home. Then found the tinder which would ignite a fire - which he could create with his pocket lighter - as he had enough sense to realize was an important tool. This, thusly, kept him warm, and alive through the night. From there, he set out to find food, felling a small lizard-creature with his spear. In all, Subject B lasted three full days, before we returned him to the present time, whereupon he took stock of his situation, and promptly asked if his employer was aware of his absence. This, in contrast with Subject A - who was not given the pill, who ran madly - and stupidly - I might add, in confusion for ten minutes, where he was quickly eaten by a pterodactyl. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE ERA OF BEING CONFOUNDED IS OVER!

*The audience gets it. They explode in cheers and whistles, and applause! It's wonderful.*

Friday gives one last smile at the crowd.

"Good night, and...might I add. A very happy Friday to you all!"

Yeah - Thurs.

Talk about burning the candle at both ends with a flamethrower...

Gonna leave you with a "Classic Fjord" and call it a night.

My Friends...

Happy Hunchback Day!

Busy on another project that's been tickling the brain for a while, and I'm sure you'd all approve. However, the W.C.B. is shut down for the night. Maybe tomorrow too...we'll see.

V-Day?

Yeah, yeah...all that stuff. Don't kid yourself, Fjord Loves Love! Tons. All for it, in all of its strange manifestations. "Bring it!" We say.

I was going to write some sort of masterpiece about all the lonely, broken, desperate, aching, contented, fulfilled and pounding hearts out there. But I have a date with a sponge, a bucket, and my kitchen floor. All three are looking at me with bedroom eyes, and don't get me started on the shapely laundry pile resting seductively near my closet...implying numerous perversions. And since I'm a multi-tasking dude, I also have a deadline for tomorrow, with another delicious labor of love in the expansive next-door file on my hard-drive.

So, no masterpiece. We're so in demand, there's just no time.
Hope you're all feeling as wanted as we are tonight.

W.C.B.

Monday: Why I love robots.

This.

And Definately THIS!

Any mummy news that slipped past me?

Hello...and...one...more...thing...

GOOD MORNING!

Could be worse than Monday.

Got this from W. Ellis' site. It kicks-ass, and you should visit.

Another few items

The other day I was noticing my bag was starting to get a little ratty - so I wandered around some places...browsing, as it were.
This Place had some pretty cool stuff.
Also cool gear here. (tho you have to move about three pages in to find stuff.)

Just as a side note. It's funny that a tough bag starts wearing out after five years, but humans can live up to (what's it now...110?) I rarely think of myself as "durable," but I've probably gone through at least 15 separate bags (of various quality) in my lifetime. I also plan to keep functioning longer than every single car you saw today.

On a different note. Researchers have come up with a nano-particled surface that AUTOMATICALLY CLEANS YOUR BATHROOM!

Kickass!
Altho, in another side note. I'm already developing ideas on how to use this technology for evil.

Who's Reading?

If you are, GO HERE NOW.

Launch the gjoddamn jukebox, and turn yer compooter into a fjucking sonic experience!

These kids are stupidly good.

Friday sat at his massive desk

Reading a single sheet of white paper. His chair was a nice big black number, and his desk was made of redwood, that was polished to a mirror sheen. Inset to the desk were a number of monitors that showed various scenes from around the globe. He finished reading, and fed the sheet of paper into a shredder. It activated with a hum, and ripped the paper into a million bits. He smacked his hands together a couple of times, and rocked back in his chair. He let out a contented sigh, got up, and walked out of the office.

The office was in a wing of a gigantic mansion, and Friday strolled through huge, opulent, and empty halls, until he came to the armory. He entered, and gazed at an array of weapons lined up on the walls. His gaze passed crossbows, rifles, old-timey flintlock pistols, spearguns, shotguns, swords, knives, maces, axes, assault rifles, machine guns, foils, rapiers, revolvers, automatics, brass knuckles, Derringers, garrots, whips, flails, spears, daggers, and an array of dangerous looking throwing-stars.

He picked up a speargun from the wall. Behind it was a post-it-note, that was yellowed with age, but miraculously still stuck to the wood paneling. Upon it was written

"You are a good boy - Venus"

Surrounding the words, were drawn eight poorly constructed (and very cute) stars.

"Fjuck." Said Friday. He looked around, and spied on a coffee table, a pad of post-it's, and a black sharpie. He walked over and scribbled some words on the pad. It read,

"The one I love, I will shoot through the heart with a speargun, and pull her to me."
He pulled the note off the pad, walked back and stuck it next to the other note on the wall. He replaced the speargun, and left for the night.

Happy Friday.

Everything...and I mean EVERYTHING's

Coming up mummy!

Fjordlings...this was cute at first. But really...it's starting to get creepy.

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

"I say Gimpson..." Said Mr. Pigglesworth, as the two walked down the massive steps of the Victoria Theater, into the cold London night. Behind them was a large sign that read "Vlad Schless's Amazing Automaton!"
"What did you think of the exhibition?"
"Not my favorite, old man." Said Mr. Gimpson, throwing a thick wool scarf around his neck, and burying his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. They crunched down the sidewalk - covered with snow that had melted, frozen, and melted again. A dogcart clattered past in the street.
"You have to admit the contraption did have some amazing powers. Why, when it caught that butterfly in the net...I was astounded!"
"That was a neat trick, I'll admit." Gimpson found his fingers fondling a pewter flask in his pocket. He resisted it's pull for a moment. "Something was wrong though."
"Wrong!? What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, the base of the automaton...it didn't make sense. You wouldn't need that much space for the simple mechanisms of propulsion."
"Explain your thinking." Pigglesworth said, thinking back to the design of the automaton, basically a human-sized torso with a lifelike face, attached to a large box at the base, with four wheels at each corner.
"If the contraption only needed a human-sized arm to duplicate human arm movement, shouldn't it correspond, that it would need the same space, to duplicate human leg movement?"
"Well, I should think..."
"I'm under the suspicion that there was a small man, or dwarf in a compartment, at the base, who was operating levers."
"But the chess game!?" Pigglesworth exclaimed. "It beat the man from the crowd! That was impressive!"
"You might have noticed, that the arms were made of extremely polished silver." Gimpson could no longer resist the pull of his flask, and took it out. He stopped in front of a long row of shops, illuminated buy hissing gas-lights, along the street. It was a nice part of town. He unscrewed it, and had a nice long drink.
Pigglesworth walked a few more steps, and stopped.
"Are you saying it wasn't mechanical intelligence at all!?"
Gimpson took the flask away from his lips, and burped. "Exactly."
Pigglesworth stamped his feet on the ice. "It should be a crime, I daresay!"
"It is." Finished Gimpson as he capped his flask. "It's called fraud."

Pigglesworth paced angrily up and down the sidewalk, exclaiming words like, "inconceivable! Preposterous! Outrageous!" Gimpson decided he wasn't quite done with the flask, and unscrewed it to take another snort. He knew his companion would calm himself without any help from him.

Mr. Pigglesworth paced madly down the street, passing a number of fine shops. A furniture store, bookseller, stationary store, and the last on the block, selling luggage. He turned back, realizing his companion hadn't followed after. He stood there impatiently, as Gimpson took his time, strolling at a casual pace, nipping at his flask. Pigglesworth cast his gaze about, and cocked his head at an astoundingly nice steamer-trunk. He noticed the fine buckles, rich leather, and devious inlay upon the small drawers built into the inside. His gaze slid off the steamer-trunk to a nearby suitcase, crafted with the same details, but red in color, with small compartments for razors, and elixers, and other small items. From there, he saw the briefcase!

Black leather, with pocket dividers to hold pads, manuscripts, or dockets. In the front clever loops of leather to hold quill pens, and a small formed leather compartment for a bottle of ink. Apart from that, a small strap was fastened with grommets, where you could carry it over a shoulder! Genius!

"Gimpson!" Pigglesworth cried out. "Gimpson, look at this astounding briefcase!"
Gimpson strolled up, and looked into the window where Pigglesworth was pointing madly.
"Mmm. Nice." Said Gimpson.
"Nice!?" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "It's perfect. Why, I can't imagine a finer satchel."
"What's wrong with your old one?"
"Why, just look! The various pockets will separate my business in an order. Plus, it could hold my favorite pen, and others, along with ink." Pigglesworth was so excited, had the store been open, he would have rushed in and bought it on the spot.
"I've never understood the allure of bags." Gimpson said.
"What, why? How could you not want to carry your possessions in that satchel?" Blabbered Pigglesworth.
"Well, so you purchase that fine case...and don't get me wrong, it's very nice. But then what. I daresay, you realize, that you don't have a pad nice enough to keep in such a nice bag. So you purchase a new, finer, and better pad. But, all you're doing is writing your ideas down. Any old pad will do. Is the bag going to make your ideas better? Will the bag make your belongings more important? Is the book you're reading going to be better when you take it out of your regular briefcase, or from a very nice one?"

Pigglesworth looked at Gimpson for a moment. His voice took on a harder edge.
"That's not the point."
Gimpson cocked his head.
"What, exactly, is the point."
"I like nice things. If it does it's job - fine. If it does it's job and looks nice doing it, well Gimpson, then I prefer to think of it as superior. It's called style, and it's something you'd know nothing about." As far as Mr. Pigglesworth was concerned, this was over. He reached into his own jacket's breast-pocket, and took out his flask. He turned to the street, and had a drink. As he did, he saw a wagon coming down the street. Gimpson's eyes glanced his way, and landed upon the same wagon. Two pairs of eyes followed it. It was the only thing to look at.

At the reigns, was Vlad Schless. Next to him, sat a dwarf, smoking a pipe. The wagon clopped by at a slow pace...slow enough where they could read the writing on the back of the wagon. "Vlad Schless's Amazing Automaton!"

Pigglesworth capped his flask, and lept up over the snowbank. He chased down the road after the wagon, and turned his head to shout.
"Gimpson! Fetch a constable! I'll have this Schless arrested for fraud, or my name isn't Pigglesworth!"

Gimpson groaned, and trundled down the street. Two blocks later, he found a small warming house. He rushed up, and ripped open the door. Three constables were gathered around a pot-bellied stove.
"My companion is in the midst of apprehending a fraudster! We could use the help!"
The constables leapt to their feet, and followed Mr. Gimpson down the street.
Gimpson knew Pigglesworth was happier, and he guessed that the constables, having something to do, were happier, but he wondered if he was happier. As they rounded the corner, he spied Pigglesworth fighting madly with the dwarf (who seemed to be more than holding his own) and didn't think about being happy for the rest of the night.

Stuff...

There's things you'll learn about yourself when you're hydroplaning across four lanes of freeway traffic on a dark and stormy night at 75 mph. There's also things you'll learn about yourself when you're watching your arm being torn off by a crocodile. There's things you'll learn about yourself while watching a microwave popcorn bag perform it's own personal magic. You'll learn stuff about yourself while chewing on the end of a gun-metal 9mm trying to command your sweaty hand to pull the trigger. There's things you'll learn about yourself while you're debating whether to stock your medicine cabinet with "liquid bandage" or the standard band-aid. The latter is made more confusing wondering which of the above actions you'll need the first-aid for, and how effective these minor wound treatments will be in response to the massive traumas that you might encounter in your quest for self-knowledge. (I realize that popcorn bags are generally incapable of causing great injuries...but use your imagination. Okay-I know you're lazy, so... example here.)

I suppose that's the great thing about the world. You learn stuff about yourself all the time.

Release the Cracken! (beast)

There's an invisible marker that drifts through each week, without a sight, and without a sound. No trumpets sound when Monday turns to Tuesday, and I can't remember when I heard some church bells ring out high-noon. Still, as I walk around my fair burg, I hear whisperings. "It's coming! It's coming!"

When that invisible marker hits the right quiet minute, and the right silent second, it's going to be here. Unfortunately, I don't know what "IT" is, but I think it's going to be BIG! (I'm talkin' Cracken-Big) I'm adopting the classic "squinty-eyed gunfighter" stance, because, I have a hunch it's going to be fast, rough (possibly brutal) and most likely, from a blind spot.

Profitable? - Possibly.
Robotic? - Doubtful.
Painful? - 'Course.
Newsworthy? - Assuredly Not, Totally Under the Radar.
Hula-Girls? - No Chance.
Techno-Soundtrack? - Maybe.
Property Damage? - Toss-up.

I know this is pretty ambiguous...it's supposed to be, to keep you on your toes. I'm not about to be caught flat-footed when it happens!

Sciency-stuff...

Try and read this.

No good reason...but a side study found

"It turns out the Milky Way is more massive than we thought," said Professor Gilmore.
"It now looks as though the Milky Way is the biggest galaxy in the local Universe, bigger even than Andromeda. It was thought until just a few months ago that it was the other way around."

The Milky Way is now officially, the coolest galaxy in the Universe.

Thanks for reading...

It's Late Sunday...

Here's what's in the works.

C'mon - what?
C'mon - what.
C'mon...What?
C'mon - what...
C'mon - what?
C'mon - What?
I mean - come on. What?

Does that not look like a series of astounding lyrics...or am I just...as per use...preaching to the masses who already get my drift?

...Super...

It's that time of year again...where we figure out what to do, where to go, who to cheer for. I think, like usual, I'm rootin' for the Essendon Bombers. Just cause they got a cool logo.

Okay, no...?

Getting serious, we've got the real inside deal here at the W.C.B. of Fjord. THE OFFICIALS WORKING THE GAME! This all important roster that has the outcome of every play, in their hands...and here it is.

Assignment Uniform number Name NFL experience Previous playoff games
Referee 127 Bill Leavy 11 8
Umpire 53 Garth DeFelice 8 7
Head Linesman 28 Mark Hittner 9 7
Line Judge 9 Mark Perlman 5 4
Field Judge 33 Steve Zimmer 9 6
Side Judge 97 Tom Hill 7 5
Back Judge 25 Bob Waggoner 9 3

I think the key here is going to be Hittner, at the Head Linesman position, but the Field Judge is also going to be a pivitol role. Now, Seattle's really got to contain Waggoner at Back Judge, and if they can go that, then they'll have a chance at some big gains. Talking with the Steelers yesterday, they were worried about DeFelice at the Umpire spot. They figure he's the key to the Seattle defence, and what they're going to do is every play - send either a Tight-End, or Fullback and make sure he can't get into the play, and make stops in the backfield.

See ya on the other side.

Robots in Chinatown, El-Ay

Aaah-lllllll right. At least that's a try. Let's see if I can't narrate just a touch. 1) Is me lookin' amazing after the show. 2) is flame-thrower robot destruction. 3) Some tech-guys operatin' robots. 4) Tech guys trying to get the robotic-hovercraft's weapons activated. 5) Some tech-guy's head. In the back is a sign for "Super Home Mart" If you're in El-Ay's Chinatown, don't miss a walk thru of Super Home Mart. It Kicks Ass! 6) There's a robot in that pic. It's dark and low to the ground. (also another good plug for "Super Home Mart." 7) A pretty good look at a cyclone fence. 8)Me video-tapin' you. (and I dunno why, blogger just uploaded three of those. Kinda' nice tho) 9) This is the street sign at the corner of Sunset and Broadway - right before Chinatown. I just thought it looked cool, 'cause none of the arrows actually went straight.

Deet...Deet Deet Deet...Deet...Fjordnews...Deet...

Last week this appeared over on the BBC.

Basically some Pentagon policy paper was released/leaked, talking about the future of the United States electronic warfare goals. It's a pretty dry piece, but deep, nestled in the article is this line.

US forces should be able to "disrupt or destroy the full spectrum of globally emerging communications systems, sensors, and weapons systems dependent on the electromagnetic spectrum".

(if you haven't been visiting us for long...the "electromagnetic spectrum" is anything that uses electricity to work.)

Now, speaking as an emerging supervillain, this seems like a pretty understandable goal for any military unit...but speaking as a powerless American resort operator, it's kinda' troublesome.

Well, okay,
back to your Saturday.

Later...there'll be robots. Promise!

Friday stood in the middle of the bullfighting ring

attired like the traditional Matador, holding a large red cape. Thousands of fans clapped and cheered expectantly. Then entering the ring at tremendous speed, was a gigantic Bull. It pulled up throwing it's huge skull and massive horns around in a dangerous display. Then it pawed the ground with an iron hoof. It's eyes locked on Friday and his large red cape.

(BTW - the author would like to interject here, that this particular Friday post is an EPIC. I hope you have the time.)

"Why is he doing this again?" Asked Thursday, just now sitting down with a bag of aromatic mini-doughnuts.
"Some sort of post-Groundhog's Day Fertility Rite. At least that's kinda the gist of what I thought he was saying. I didn't much care, I had a Japanese woman walking on my back at the time." Says Monday, taking a sip of Mexican beer.
"Isn't globalization wonderful?" Wednesday spoke in a hopeful statement/question.
"It does seem to bring people together. Tho, sometimes, they don't get along so good, once they're in the same spot." Tuesday said, watching the ring intently.

The massive Bull charged forward, and ran through Friday's outstretched cape. The crowd cheered madly. The Bull skidded to a quick stop, sending up geysers of sand from it's hooves. Then, it turned and ran towards Friday again! It was much closer this time, and Friday moved quick, made a sideways turn, and the Bull once again rushed through the rich red fabric. However, more wheels turned in the massive Bull's brain than the once-again-cheering-crowd gave it credit for. The Bull didn't stop and turn for another pass. Instead, it covered the distance of the ring with massive pounding strides. Then it struck the door full on.

The door groaned. The door held. Then the crossbeam across the back broke in two!

The doors exploded back off the powerful shoulders of the Bull, and the massive creature continued through the tunnel with more straining rending sounds filtering back. The crowd went silent. Nothing like this had happened at the bullfighting ring since 1732. And even then, not many people believed it happened. The crowd waited for something to happen. Then Friday, with a furl of his red cape, raced after.

The crowd exploded! Cheers and yells and whistles rained down on Friday as he rushed after the mighty Bull. Then he disappeared.

"Whaddaya say we hit the taco stand?" Said Monday.
"Sure!" The rest replied. And they drifted with the slow moving crowd out of the ring.

Friday ran. Friday ran fast. Friday couldn't remember the last time he had run as fast and as far as he was - at the moment. Cobblestone streets, and buildings built next to each other in such proximity that they basically formed an alley - was his course. He could tell from the shocked look of pedestrians, the small cars, pulled off on sidewalks, and small vendor-carts overturned, that he was on the right trail. However, he still could not catch a sight of his quarry. Far off a woman screamed. He tried to keep his aching legs moving, and pumped his arms to try and help keep his speed.

In front of him, a three-wheeled meter-maid vehicle was overturned. A man in a traffic-cop uniform lay against the curb with a gash on his head. Friday ran to the small vehicle, and righted it. He hopped into it's single seat, and took off in a puttering cloud of dust. The meter-maid (er...man) tried vainly to get up and stop him, but was far too groggy and slow. He watched his ride zip away, and disappear around the corner. He just sat back down on the curb, and wondered what the hell just happened.

Friday's cape billowed out from the right side of the 3-wheeled contraption. His Matador's hat was tilted rakishly on his head, and he peered through the dusty windshield, avoiding obstacles in his path. A cafe table - complete with umbrella in the street. A series of dented metal garbage cans. An overturned horse-drawn cart carrying fresh-cut sod. A flood of water, and a number of large lobsters. Gradually, the city died out, and was replaced by dry, hard grassland. Friday slowed, and peered down at the ground. Sure enough, there was the track of some large animal. He followed after. His little ride tipped precariously over hills, dales, and around boulders, until it crept past dusk. He turned on the meter-maid-vehicle's light, and was still able to keep the trail, but at a crawl.

After night fell, and the moon crept up over the horizon, Friday stopped at the top of a valley. He looked down, and saw the lights of some small establishment. He picked a path, and drove down, the vehicle jumping and leaning and tipping as it hit unseen chunks of rock, earth or shrubs. He reached the place, and got out. It was a bar.

It was called "Animal Sanctuary." Underneath the neon sign was written "All are welcome."
In the lot were parked some 3-wheeled trike-bikes, a dune buggy, a couple of Range-Rovers (the old African explorer kind, not the new-fangled S.U.V types) and an old WW2 era American half-track. Friday heard strange bird-calls coming from the joint, but as he approached, realized it was just Martin Denny playing from a jukebox. He pushed open the door.

He took one step into the bar, and the music stopped with a horrible record-scratch. At the bar, an old Orangutan pulled the pump back on a shotgun, and pointed the dangerous end towards Friday.
"We don't take kindly to Matadors around here." He said.

Friday stopped for a moment, then adjusted his cap.
"It says all are welcome on the sign."
"Some are more welcome than others." The Orangutan said.
"I'm not really a Matador." Continued Friday, I was performing the Post-Groundhog Day Fertility Ritual. I don't even have a sword. I was just hoping I could have a moment with the Bull. A couple of words, I was pretty impressed."

The Orangutan slowly lowered the shotgun. A hyena in a biker jacket (part of a whole pack of them) got up from the booth, and moved in slo-mo, around to Friday's backside.
Friday walked calmly up to the bar.
"Could I get a whisky coke?"
"Okay." The Orangutan bartender had on a white apron, looking almost cute, had anyone not known he had a 12-gauge behind the bar, and knew how to use it. He made with subtle skill, a cocktail. Friday sat next to a rhinoceros, perched precariously on a barstool drinking a tanqueray and tonic. The rhino looked over.
"What are you looking at?" The Rhino asked accusingly.
"A rhino on a barstool. What's you're story?"
"Oh, just wandering around, looking at stuff, like any rhino."
"Right."

The Orangutan dropped the drink in front of Friday, who pulled out some bills and dropped them on the bar.
"Here he comes." Said the Orangutan. "Don't do nothin' stupid." He pointed his hairy Orangutan head over to a booth next to the Hyenas, and a table of black leopards looked dangerously at Friday.
"No Prob." Friday had a sip. Well, at least the bartender didn't stiff him on the cocktail. A massive anaconda slid past his legs on the way to the bathroom.

"Hey Bull!" Friday called out.
The Bull looked over, and gave a snort that actually shot steam out of his nostrils. Then his creepy Bull eyes rotated over to the Orangutan, who gave a little shrug in his white apron.
"What are you doing here." The Bull said in a voice that rattled bottles and glasses.
"Just wanted to let you know, I think you played that really, really well." Friday had a sip of his drink.
"What!?" The bull said in the same glass/bottle rattling voice.
"Look, you coulda' just ended up being made a fool of in front of five-thousand humans, and instead, took the only smart play, and got the hell out of there. I didn't care that much about the Post-Groundhog's day Fertility Rite that much. It was something that Venus put me up to."

The Bull walked over (mind you, all the animals at the bar were listening intently to how this was going to go down.) to the bar, and grabbed a tall dark drink, and drank it all in a snort.
"You mean Venus...the Goddess?" The bull rasped.
"Yeah." Friday replied, then took a good gulp himself. "No hard feelings, I hope."
"The Goddess?"
"Yeah. Just a thing..." Friday paused, "you know..."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Friday."

The Bull looked at the Orangutan, who already had another drink made, and was setting it in front of his hooves.

"Holy shit." The Bull said, "If I'd known it was you..." He raised his hoof to adjust the ring in his nose. "Let me buy you a drink!"

And with that, the bar exploded in cheers and howls and growls of approval. The music started up! A Hyena clapped Friday on the back! Two Gazelle moved up closely to look at Friday's face.

"Glad you could make it Friday," Said the Orangutan, "Didn't really expect you to ever show up...here."

"Yeah," Said Friday, "I get that a lot."

Happy Friday

Zombie Vs Mummy

Today in conversation, I brought up the question, which is more troubling as a foe. A zombie, or a mummy.

Now, I've taken zombies quite seriously over the last year. Infact, coming up with a Zombie Action Plan - but this mummy business is troubling. The reason it's troubling is that you don't really know what a mummy's powers are. I mean, we all know they've got wraps of flammable cloth, and groan a bit, kinda like zombies. At least we know zombies just want to eat your brain, and are basically unstoppable killing machines - altho quite slow. Mummies, you just don't quite know what they want...but if they get it, it's probably bad for you and your immortal soul. (if you believe in that sort of thing) Mummies also have this sort of super-natural element to them, which makes me think they might, infact, be the more lethal foe. Since we know they're immortal, and we know that strange and mystical rites were inscribed and performed over their crypts...I'm just under the impression that they've got some magic powers under dem wraps, and I, as a normal humanid, don't quite have the protection I need from magic powers wielded by mummies.

Well, that's what's been knocking around my brain, and I had to get it out. Perhaps you've got some informational tidbits to pass my way?

-Tsunami-

Howabout a good morning...

MUMMY!

Are you with me on this!!?? It's happnin' so you might as well start making preparations.

P.S. - Fjord will now become the official clearing house for all mummy related news. If you see something out there on the internets, lemme know, and I'll put it up A.S.A.P.

Thanks.
West-Coast Branch.

the radioman says "it's a beautiful night out there"

And he'd be right. I'd like to invite all of you out to L.A. for the last 10 minutes of this sunset - cause it's horrifically beautiful.

Instead, I've got some news about Pirates!

"When the 10-men crew heard shots in the night most of them locked themselves in their cabins but the captain and chief officer were later found shot dead."

- note to self: When under Pirate attack, lock self in cabin.

Now then, in a tangentially related nautical theme, there's this killa' place that has a list of islands you can buy!

- note to self: Buy tropical island.

Okay Fjordians, I'm off to accomplish tasks, manipulate mechanisms, drink liquids, and achieve great renown.
What'er you doin'?

Welcome to the Casa Aloha!

Once again! If you've been here before...If not, well, we're nestled in the eastern wing of Hollywood, California, and have expansive grounds where your bestest wishes can come true. As long as they (er...your bestest wishes) have scantily clad island dwellers in the background, (doing something amazingly sexy) somewhere.

There's quite a bit of information that can somehow find it's way to you, while you're staying here, but it won't be the common story, oh no, it'll mean something. 'Cause the Casa Aloha is a filter, the kind of filter that tells you "This year is the Year of the Mummy!" And can prove it to you. But only if you want to...you know......................................................REALLY VISIT!

Hopefully you'd want to. If not, as always...
thanks for swingin' by.

It was only "Needle" singular, not "Needles" Plural

As per the aforementioned dentist, who I visited today. In fact, I prefaced my visit with, "I'm about to go have needles stuck in my gums, how the fjuck are you doing?"

Anyways, after dealing with 1/2 of my "required dental work" I'm a little irritable, (as I have at the moment, 1/2 of my mouth that barely functions. However, I found out a small nugget more about mummies!

I've been reading a book called "The Place of Dead Roads" by our good pal William S. Burroughs. (Fjucking great by the way, I'm claiming it Fjive Stars!) I'm going to post a paragraph. BTW it's a complex work, and in the same sequence, Burroughs also talks about how Vampires and Mummies are similar...but since we're dealing strictly with mummies at this juncture...only the relevant may prevail.

"Why was it necessary to preserve the actual physical body? Look at this body. It is a spacecraft designed to accommodate one person. And no two are exactly alike. Fingerprints differ. Voiceprints differ. Pricks differ. (It never occurred to them to isolate these factors? No. they didn't have the technology for that. We do now.) So the ka fits perfectly into this body. And it needs that precise filter to suck energy from other bodies. And this precise difference. You fellahin cattle are there. We immortals are here. A parasite must always preserve this unique difference, otherwise it will merge with the host and loose the most precious thing a parasite can have: It's identity. It's name. So the body has to be preserved since it contains the essence of name and difference that enables it to suck life from others, a specialized filter on which the ka is absolutely dependent for its continuous existence in the Western Lands."

Well now...what do you have to say to THAT?

I'd suppose if you've never read Burroughs, you'd think "Doesn't make a whole lot of sense about anything." But, if you are sharing my dread at the coming year of the mummy, it might be wise to dig into a little literature and find out...just exactly who (or what) our foe is really up to. I'll be it's something horrendously insidious.

Or, it could just be the novacane talking.

Have you ever had...

The feeling you were repeating yourself?

As I was debating the various

Legal and ethical arguments around cloning (of which, I am staunchly anti-clone btw) and I saw two angels standing at the ticket machine in the subway-station.

This, I thought, was unusual.

One ran up to put money in the thing, while the other stood with an absolutely massive bouquet of balloons. Maybe 25-30 of 'em, floating gently about eight feet above her wings. It wasn't just that the angels were in yer typical angel costume, it was the talcum powdery color of their skin, that made me take a second look.

Anyways, since the one with the balloons didn't come over straight away to me and thrust the mass out at me, I realized, they weren't my angels, they were someone elses. (and don't think the fact that they were taking the train made me wonder if they were even real angels...after all, wouldn't a really good angel take the most responsible of all transportation - public transportation?) Now, I didn't so much as get jealous, as wonder, was there anyone out there trying to clone Angels!?

Being an inventive race of humanids, I'm sure we've nabbed a few (perhaps in the deep Pentagon Dungeons of the Special & Magical Creature Detention Facility) where they reside in anti-magic/holy power containment fields, next to Leprechauns and Unicorns and 3-headed Hell Dogs...all awaiting the same terrible fate...Weponization. But anyways, I digress. Apart from the difficulties in the basic genetic structure of these wondrous creatures that resists weaponization, I think there'd be a pretty big market for your standard Angel. Of course, there's probably a stigma that goes along with a cloned Angel. I mean, standard angel magic is one thing, but would you be 100% trustful of some Clone Angel Magic? It'd be like your car was falling off the edge of the cliff, and you go,

"Hey angel - make with the flying car routine!" You'd say. And the little Angel waves her wand or whatever and the car stops falling towards those jagged rocks, and instead, starts crossing the deep chasm. Whereupon, some slight defect (undetected by the boys at the lab, or Inspector 12 - who's paper slip was found in the bottom of the box that shipped your Angel via FedEx) in it's magical genetic makeup, causes your car to then turn into a giant colander - with holes just the right size for letting humans slip through. And you do.

I think that's the problem with cloned angels. (and Leprechauns and Unicorns, and 3-headed hell hounds) people just wouldn't quite trust them to come through in a pinch. Course, if they were really really cheap, I'm pretty sure I'd pick up a couple.

Maybe I'm not so staunchly anti-clone after all.

Monday

Hello fellow uber-hot Fjordlings!

Tonight, I've got to turn my fjormidable powers towards another project (that must get done tonite) and laundry.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll start a renaissance.

Yeah..just one more weekend thing...

Then I'm done.

See, I posted about this a while ago, and not just cause I thought it was cool. If you'll bother to enlarge the photo's you can see, it's an amazing invention. In fact, most likely, the most powerful scientific sensor we, as humans have ever created to figger out anything. It's the CERN - (jeebus, thanks again to the kids over at B.B. for the help...I spend too much time over there) the Large Hadron Collider, and, I'm convinced that (If we over at the W.C.B. of Fjord continue our efforts for another year or so) many new posts will be inspired by what this device reveals. I'm a huge fan...and would just like to let you know, right now, that before all the shit this thing is going to do is on the nightly news...you read about it here.

On. Channel. Fjord.

(more than many apologies for the numerous ellipses...I'll use less in the future...promise.)

More cool things...

Just found this over at B.B.

Checkit.

Yaaay! Yaaay! Huzzah!

My kickass band Apartment Rock - has just released it's new record. It's a double-disk, called Expansive Pad. You'll have to look for it OVER HERE

P.S. - Let it be known, I am working my ass off to entertain you.

BOOOO! Booo! boooooooo!

I'm sad, and dissapointed. Sony's discontinued production and development of the Aibo robot dog. I don't know why, cause ever since I saw one of these cute little robo-critters doing a little dance on the subway platform, I totally wanted to get one. I suppose it was probably the price - at about 2-grand a pop, it was just too far out of reach for most normal robot lovers.

Anyways, the guys over at We Make Money Not Art have a few more things to say if you're interested.

Man...I used to pretty much think Sony was the shit. But then they went and did that whole DRM thing with their C.D.'s, and now THIS!

We all knew the end of the world was coming...but now we have to face it without robot dogs?

This one kinda' snuck up on me

"snuck" is a very nijce looking word, if I do say so myself.

I was also looking through some old email today, and found I'd made the typo trying to write the word "don't" and instead wrote, "donk." Which is also a very nice word.

Thought I'd share.

Now...there's this post...

INT: ROOM
The teevee babbles in the background. "Tired of normal breakfast cereals? Then try Fjord-Flakes! They're made of three kinds of grain, formed with a tasty center where milk can..."
"Shut it off!" Shouts Wednesday. "I'm so sick of how those guys sold totally out."
"What?" Asks Thursday.
"Those guys at Fjord. They used to be cool." finished Wednesday moving over to manually hit the power button on the teevee.
"Still are if you ask me." Monday said.
"Oh yeah?" Wednesday fumed, "What about "Fjord-Flakes? Fjord-Curtains? Fjord-Sheets? What was the catchphrase for that one - oh yeah - 'Keep the barfly you picked up last night from sleeping too close to you.' The Ford Fjord? Man, whatta hunka' shit! The Fjord Valentine - 'Fjords help keep hearts together' I mean What The FUCK! They've sold out to everything and anything they could."
"You've got a point." Said Tuesday. "But..."

Whatever he was about to say, was lost forever as the door opened with a crash! A massive Chinese dragon costume entered, and as the door smashed to the wall, the sound of symbols and drums rang out. The dragon moved closer to the Weekdays, it was obvious, it was a very large dragon costume. Eight pairs of legs stuck out of the bottom of the dragon, and the whole thing wasn't yet in the door. The dragon's face stuck it's head at Wednesday, who staggered back.

The dragon moved around as the rest of it moved into the room. It stared each of the weekdays in the face, as the rest of the sixteen pairs of legs followed it around. Then, after the dragon had pointed it's face at Thursday - the drums and symbols stopped on a dime. Then Friday took the dragon's head off, and pointed it at himself.

"There! We're ready."
"Ready for what?" Asked Monday.
"For the Chinese New Year. It's tomorrow!"
"What?" Said Thursday.
"It's the year of the Dog!" Said Friday, "And not only that, I think...well, judging from what my astrologer just said, I think it's going to be a Fire Dog! How cool is that!?"
"Well not really..." Began Tuesday.
"Oh what the fjuck do you know? You're sitting here wondering what you're going to do tonight, after just barely mustering up the energy to turn off the gjoddamn teevee. You were just talking about what?"
"How those Fjord guys sold out."
"Fjordguys! You know...you know I consider Tsunami a friend of mine, and it's going to be his year. I for one am going out and celebrating the year of the Fire Dog."
"It's not really the new year...that already happened." Mumbled Thursday.
Friday looked over. "Yeah, and the Chinese had a civilization about three-thousand years before Rome was even a pimple on a map. Now, if I knew all of you would be so gjoddamn gloomy about the idea of celebrating, I wouldn't have gotten sixteen guys to run this dragon costume, and a bunch of drummers and cymbal-playing guys to come out tonight. Or, maybe I would have, and just wouldn't have come over here!"

"I'll celebrate with ya." Said Monday, getting up from the couch.
"I ain't doin' nothin'." Tuesday mumbled, and got up himself.

Outside there was a clash of cymbal hitting the sidewalk, and crazy warning shouts. Suddenly, men ran in from outside. The put down their instruments, and adopted martial-arts postures.

"What?" Asked Friday.
"Ninja!" Shouted a drummer.

Friday dropped the dragon-head, and looked out. "Ahh, the Japanese, traditional enemy of the Chinese."
Then a cymbal player flew through the room backwards, and came to rest unconscious against the couch. A flurry of sounds entered through the door. Then the remaining musicians fell back into the room. The last cymbal player was busy using his instruments to fend off throwing stars that rang off with loud clangs.
"I hate Ninjas" Said Thursday getting up.

And with that, the twenty-or-so occupants of the room were confronted with a likewise number of pajama-clad foes. A massive hand-to-hand combat broke out! A drummer used a big drum as a shield to stop three throwing-stars coming towards Wednesday! A Ninja cut down a hapless dragon-costumed fellow, before he came across another cymbal player, who deftly blocked a samurai-sword with his copper shields. Fists flew, kicks lashed out, strange objects were used as weapons. A telephone handset cracked a ninja on the head - a remote control was jammed into and down another ninja's mouth - a set of keys ripped off a nose - A back issue of Vanity-Fair was rolled up and shoved into another's eye! Tables broke, eazy-chairs were thrown, a cymbal came out of nowhere to slice across a throat. A jar full of pennies smashed across another's head.

The Weekdays were not idle while all this went down. Tuesday had grabbed the phone and used it's cord to begin strangling one, until another came to his help, a sword swinging down. Tuesday spun the strangling Ninja at the other like a shield. It worked. Not so well for the near-strangled Ninja, but still. On the other side of the room, Friday fought off three with a phone book, a throwing star embedded in it, altho it was rapidly being cut apart by swords. Then Wednesday picked up the teevee and smashed it over the head of one of Friday's attackers. The other's looked back, and Friday swung the throwing star embedded in the phone book across the throats of the other two. Red spurts splattered the walls as they fell. Monday held a cracked coffee table, in front of him were three unconscious or dead black-clad men. Tuesday was pinned in the closet, throwing wire hangars that arced crazily through the air at tremendous speed, until his attackers realized, they were the only ones left.

Three black-clad shadows rushed out of the place, followed by glasses, cymbals, and small statue figurines.

"Damn." Said Tuesday from the closet. The rest of them looked around at the carnage.
"Yeah" Mumbled Wednesday.

"So whaddaya say we go out now?" Said Friday to the stunned, and victorious crowd.
There was a tepid response.
"Yeah."
"I mean it. Something good is on the way. Fjuck! They tried to stop it! Anything good always has something trying to stop it. No?"
"YEAH!" The response was much better this time.
"All right then!"

Friday began ushering people past the bodies of the ninja's, and slapped his hand on the hump of Wednesday's back. Wednesday looked back to see a funny look on Friday's face.
"What?" He asked.
"One, thanks for the teevee move, that was cool."
"No Prob." Said Wednesday.
"Second, don't ever say Tsunami's a sellout. I'll be the one to let you know when that happens."
"Oh. Right."

Happy Friday

Thursday slithered into the room...

Coiled up in a big snake-coil pile, and waited for yours truly...hunting through the maze of the day for some cheese, to come bumbling by. Whereupon he lashed out, constricted the fuck outta me, and then swallowed me whole.

Now don't get me wrong, being stuck inside the dark belly of a snake (er...Thursday) ain't so bad, as long as you don't mind the smell of bile, the sight of puss and vomit-like tummy-gruel, or the sensation of having your skin and muscles digested off your bones.

Now, being a man who's been in this kinda' pinch before, I just kicked back, and rode the digestive track to it's inevitable sphincterish end. Granted, there wasn't much left of me, but I figger it'll grow back come Friday.

I found out about some medical micro-bots a bit later, and thought they would be a handy thing in extricating myself from the tummy of a giant snake (er...Thursday) in the future. Here's the Quote which tied the room together.

"In tests on a live pig, the robots were were inserted through the animal's mouth, and once inside the stomach, surgeons cut a small hole in the stomach wall, which allowed the robot access to the whole abdominal cavity."

I suppose a pocket-knife would do the same job, but they're so hard to get through security. And besides, while pocket-knives are cool, robots are rad.

Right.
I'm outta here.
-Tsunami-

Deet...Deet Deet Deet...Deet Deet...Fjordnews...Deet

There's been more than a lot happening in the world since last we kept you updated. So let's dive right in.

Pirates Still Doing Their Dirty Work

Those British Sex-Fiends do 350 million pounds in damages...EVERY YEAR!

And there's this guy.

Finally, to follow up on the YEAR OF THE MUMMY...

Altho, if you ask me about the last one, I'd say, the guy was a mummy before the horrific torture was performed on him, and then after they'd slain the mummy-beast, then, they threw him in the bog. But, that's just me.

Gonna Slack Around Tonight...

Maybee tomorrow too.

I'm sure you'll manage.

Aaahh...CRAP! (and robots...)

I was going to make a further self-indulgent post about this being the 500th! Of course, when I saw the robot multi-media extravaganza, I was working, and just put up a quick link-post. At least it was a GOOD LINK POST.

So anyways, let me explain, if you have not heard of the robotic displays of Survival Research Labs, or the super impressive Robochrist Industries , we're not talking about things that can walk up stairs, play the trumpet, and do cute little robo-dances to Coldplay. We're talking massive destructo-bots, made of steel, belching out smoke, with massive hydraulic claws and chainsaws, and pneumatic harpoons.

The most impressive at the last performance was the robotic hovercraft. About twelve feet long, with two turrets of dual fire cannons. They were powered by massive tanks of...butane? methane? propane?...I dunno, but the thing was floating around shooting these extremely loud blasts of heat and blue flame, that made people cover their ears. With all the smoke and strange fumes belching from just about everywhere, and the omni-present sputtering of compressors and engines...(not to mention the destruction of everything) it's quite a visceral experience.

Anyways, at the end, this guy drove up on a forklift, holding a massive flame-thrower, and just torched everything. Like, a thirty foot blast of flame...that even set the hovercraft's weapons on fire. Even I thought that seemed a little dangerous.

Well, at least this time I got some pictures I can post up, when I get off my lazy ass. The link's got a ton of media, so go check it out. Or if yer nearing El-Ay, swing by the Casa Aloha, I'll show you the five minutes of video I got b-4 my battery went out. It's pretty fucking great.

P.S. - I just watched the stuff on the link, my shots are like 50 times greater than that. I don't, however, have the means to capture and post said material. For now, you'll just have to see it in person.


-Tsunami-

How was your weekend?

Mine was purtty good. I went here.

Robots make everything better.

And so ends the streak. *sigh*

My good pal Fjord-Borg (who co-incedentally kicks my ass at Halo on a near nightly basis) has just busted my streak of being the only author here...which has stood since 7-14-05.

Which is erm...umm..hang on whist l get my calc-U-lator. 190 days! Holy Moly that's a long frikkin tjime!

I guess all things have to end. And now, we'll see how long the next one goes.

Good to see some of the old gang still lurkin' around the internets. And wherever Q-Dog and the Mindfuck might be...hope your fingers are healing up nicely.

-Tsunami-