And So I Prepare to Fight Another Day...

…against the unseen forces that would pollute the world with their evil conniving.  Still recuperating from the shock of my near-death, but more determined than ever to rid myself of the likes of Pervical Braithwhaite and his minions, The Nocturnal Order of the Coming Unpleasantness.

Inspector Hecatomb Redoubtable and his partner, the able Tecumseh Fangborn (joint winners of the 2008 All-County Most Improbably-Named Policeman Competition) have assured me that they have promising leads, and as soon as I have completed my bedrest (Dr. Illfavor has prescribed a course of laudanum, idleness, and baths, and I have every intention to follow his instructions to the letter), I shall join them in their efforts.

In other news, I’ve recently gotten to know JezebelTheGreat, and I think it’s time that you all did as well.

Friends! I Am Alive!

Just as I was about to expire at the deceiftul hands of Percival Braithwhaite, a visitor in the personage of Inspector Hecatomb Redoubtable burst into the library, intervening at the most fateful of moments.  It seems that he had finally solved the enigma of the Chinese Epigraph, and girded with this newfound knowledge, was able to divine the location of Braithwhaite just as the shadow of death was upon me.

After a brief clashing of sword-canes, Braithwhate escaped into the night, bleeding from a wound most savage.  Would this fearsome injury spell the end of my arch-enemy?  It would not be the first time he had been presumed dead.

The Treasure of Marsden Manor is safe, for now.

In other news, a good time was had at the gay bar last night, though there were only a couple guys who challenged my heterosexuality.  What’s the purpose of going to these places if they don’t cause me to drunkenly stagger along the line separating hetero and homo, occasionally falling helplessly to one side or the other?

Going out Drinking Tonight...

…so if I don’t make it back alive, I must unburden myself of a secret that has beleaguered my soul these many decades.

The Treasure of Marsden Manor is hidden behind a secret door in the library, activated by a lever cleverly disguised in the—

WHAT?  YOU!  Percival Braithwhaite!  How dare you enter my home univited, you treacherous—OOF!

Ack!

FRIENDS!  I am being murdered by my long-time nemesis!  I believe he is after the treasure of the Manor!  Please!  If you read this blog post, which I am somehow writing while actively fighting for my life…please tell everybody that the murderer of Kevin Wolf was…

Percival Braithwhaite!  O!  Death, I accept your baleful embrace!

Alas!

(German?) Kids Nowadays...

I was at the store earlier purchasing tater tots and hamburger buns, and I encountered five teens walking through the store smiling and asking people, “Sprechen ze Deutsche?”  They seemed very amused by this.  I stone-faced them when they twice attempted to converse with me, assuming that they were just jerk-off kids practicing their high-school German.

But then I started thinking about the kids themselves.  They were all thin and pale, and they were dressed like teens from the Bizarro universe, all shorts-with-scarves and dorky hats and orange construction vests (seriously), and I started thinking, “Holy crap, what if they really were German?  Did I just give my fuck-off face to five friendly exchange students for no reason whatsoever?”

So, just in case you teens were legitimate Germans, my apologies.  Americans are generally really nice people.  On the other hand, if my first instinct was correct, please go play in traffic, you smug little fuckers.

One Should Strive to Be like a Shark in All Things

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Before now, I never really contemplated the importance of having a stockroom that is organized into the perfect silhouette of a shark, but now I know that it is vital to keeping larger, less-well-organized predator stockrooms at bay, lest your stockroom be devoured.

Also, are those supposed to be predator stockrooms cruising by in the distance, unaware that the shark silhouette they see is actually composed of dozens of tiny little stockrooms, or are they just tiny, tiny stockrooms that are so well-organized that they are much more convincing than our ersatz shark?  Maybe we should strive to be like those guys, then.

Man, I hope our stockroom doesn’t get eaten.

Quail: The World's Stupidest Bird

Driving home from work today, I crested a hill and spotted three quail standing around in my lane, just chillin’.  I slowed down, since squashing wildlife is not how I get my kicks.  Two of the birds immediately scurried right off of the road.  The third stood around for awhile, then looked from left to right in a panic, as if to say, “Derr, where did everybody go?” then finally turned and leisurely strolled out of the way in complete ignorance of his wings.

It makes one wonder if Darwin was really full of shit with that whole natural selection deal.