What's wrong with Alice in Underland

Why is Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland terrible?

Let's take a close look at this awful movie, and find out.

First, let me stop and say that I really enjoy the art design, and there is actually a lot to like about this, but altogether, it betrays a terrible misunderstanding of Wonderland as a whole.

Burton apparently didn't ever really "feel an emotional connection" to the original, so he found Linda Woolverton and used her story instead. Why? To refresh an aged and worn story we are all tired of? If we are tired of an old overplayed story, then why would another movie version be marketable at all? I don't think that's it. I think the problem is that Burton just doesn't care about the source material, and was never really a fan in the first place.

Carroll's Alice is a masterpiece of absurdity, instead of slipping a pill of a sermon to the audience by wrapping it in a worthless sugar-coated story (as Burton's Woolverton story does), Lewis served up a fantastic masterpiece that turned that little subterfuge on it's head.

While Burton feels the need to have Alice grow as a person and learn about herself (and her role as savior of "Underland" as it's been renamed, giving you an idea of how little Burton thinks of the source) , Carroll shows us an insane world of nonsense to revel in and enjoy.

So, given that Burton's version isn't anything like the original and Burton misunderstands and apparently cares nothing for it, how does his movie stand on it's own merits?

It's an ok movie set in a fantastic world which perfectly captures Carroll's Wonderland, but which completely misses the point and ultimately falls short of being anything other than a cliched mess. If I wanted to watch another gangly misfit find out they are destined to save the world and become a successful assertive adult, I could go watch pretty much any other movie.

Burton has a great eye for design, he's a great artist, and can spin a great tale when he wants to, his interpretation of Alice and earlier, his Willy Wonka, betray his complete inability to connected with, enjoy, or understand timeless classics. There is nothing wrong with adding your own spin on an old standby, but there is no point in stealing titles and themes to sell your own crap.

Listen to the wind rush through the trees, watch it ripple over the water.

Soon the big red robot steams through the wood, to the mossy shore, and sits. He casts a weary eye at the water and motionless remains.

As the big red robot watches the water, a purple iris nearby opens, and out peeks a little winged fairy. While the robot is motionless still, the fairy climbs atop his ruddy head, laughing, dances a little jig.

Dance and laugh, little fairy, and sit, big red robot, along the shores of the Lethe!

Poseidon's Non-Adventure

I guess it all started when Captain Winterbottomsmythe murdered Lady Fitzmattering on the Southern croquet court one nice day in May.

It all went downhill from there. The butcher when belly-up, the green-grocer was chased from town for being a commie sympathizer, and the newspaper (only one in town) was deep in the red.

Soon our little village was a wreck, and everyone treated everyone else with suspicion and little whispered threats under their breath.

The Winterbottomsmythes loomed bitterly over the whole shebang, unaware of the many ghosts that were on their way to haunt the joint.

* * *

From his point of vantage above the lonely village, Gerald tossed another paper airplane into a gust of wind. The wind picked it up and hurled it clumsily back over Gerald's head and over behind him somewhere. Gerald took spoonful of soup and began folding another.

* * *

Underneath the ocean, Poseidon puffed on a bubble pipe, and scratched his beard.

Guide of Guides.

Prefect Travel Guide

Survival Kit:

• Always remember to bring an egg of Silly Putty, because you never know when you'll need to copy a Bazooka Joe comic strip.
• You need a compass so you can draw perfect circles.
• A deck of cards to while away the time and make some money
• Bazooka Bubble gum for an adhesive and comics to read
• A real survival kit

Clothes:

Clothes are important because they keep you warm and keep spiders off of you. I recommend a hat; either a Fedora or a Bowler, depending on how British you are.

Pants are a good idea, and some gloves for when you need to pull a pizza out of an oven and you don't want to burn your fingers.

Shoes are important, as your feet are a large percentage of the end of your legs.

Kung Fu:

You will need several varieties of kung fu, as different places have different styles. Kung fu is banned in several places, so don't advertise your skills.

Food:

Always bring a snack. Ideally one that fits in your pockets, like jelly beans or club sandwiches. I usually recommend cleaning the lint out of your pockets before a journey to keep your jelly beans nice and lint-free, but some lint may come in handy on the rare occasion you need a good distraction or lint. You never know what you'll find to eat in an alien world.

Weapons:

While the bigger the better usually applies--on a trip, big weapons are exhausting to carry around, and attract the attention of gendarmes and golems, so I stick with the basics: knives, poisons, little beetles with machetes, and universal computer viruses.

Books:

Always bring a cookbook, a copy of "How to win friends and disembowel people", and a couple of really big books to impress people and flowers.

Top 10 myths about lawncare

1. Garden Gnomes keep evil spirits away.

This is a myth, Garden Gnomes, while fairly benign, are powerless against the elder spirits, bad or good. They do promote a healthy garden, but are likely to be vandalized, and the little imps are apt to play practical jokes and steal things. They really aren't worth it.

Theoretically, they do make good allies against the forces of evil, but are so amazingly fickle and troublesome, I recommend leaving them be.

2. Fire ants eat invisible parasitic organisms known as 'bacteria'.

Science hasn't yet convinced anyone that 'bacteria' exist, let alone what fire ants eat, other than chili peppers. Oddly enough, this myth is fairly widespread.

3. Cutting grass destroys precious fairy habitat.

While technically possible, most fairies prefer flowers over grass. Fairies are also happy enough living anywhere above ground really.

4. Lawncare professionals are stupid liars.

Nonsense.

5. Using chemicals will help my lawn.

Contrary to all recognized good sense and science, using harsh chemicals will only upset the delicate balance of magic present in the world. It's a waste of money, and may poison dryads and hot-air balloon aficionados. Experts instead recommend using the following nature friendly substitutes:

Beer - Fertilizer

Treacle - Pesticide

Lemon Curd - pH balance

6. Gas Powered machinery is alien to our world.

Internal Combustion Engines were developed here on earth, though the source of their original designs is unknown. I believe there is sufficient evidence to prove conclusively that these engines are purely terrestrial. Jet engines, of course, are advanced devilry from another planet.

7. Croquet may damage my lawn.

Croquet is ancient sport of kings and queens which most grass finds agreeable, though certain types of grass (crab grass, astro-turf, mercury spats, devil grass) may react violently or die without warning. Some grass has been trained to cheat visiting players at the game, so offer it some sweet wine before playing to make sure it's on your side.

8. If I leave my home, the grass stays there.

This is actually true, except in extremely rare cases, your grass should remain firmly rooted to the ground.

9. Scarecrows will keep pesky crows away from my lawn.

Scarecrows actually do little in the way of scaring crows. The only reliable method is to install peacocks or flamingos.

10. People will think less of me for having a sub-par lawn.

While there are a lot of jerks out there, the condition of your lawn is mostly a reflection of the condition of your soil than your soul.

Several cults originating in France found their way to suburban areas of the US, where people worship the gods of grass, instead of merely observing them in amusement. Members of such cults may turn up their noses at unkempt lawns, but they are snobby insecure little prats.

Monster

So anyway, Robert put the finishing touch on his new robot, and with a moment's hesitation, pressed the big red button and threw a giant switch, causing a shower of sparks to leap from the contacts.

The big red monstronsity before him shuddered and groaned, it resembled a collapsed scaffold with a few pieces of heavy machinery buried in the twisted beams of steel and iron. Big puffs of smoke spewed from the rusty behemoth's innards and sat fixed above like a dark omen.

A big red screen lit up and a few roman numerals flashed in sequence. Robert scrawled down the numbers on a notepad, and tossed another switch.

This time the monstrosity rose a few shakey feet into the air, accompanied by the screams of tortured metal and earth.

'OK so far,' Robert commented.

'Hurrrrrrrr' the robot said.

twitterschmitter

Almost forgot to say that our dear friend Cerebron has started a twitter account, because firing off updates in the middle of high-flying kung fu action is easier that way.

Twitter.com/CerebronIX (I believe) is the url at which you can find our favorite nut.

Smackadoo

Just thought I'd share with the tiny fragment of our demented world that is oddly curious about what an intergalactic journalist for the galaxy's foremost publisher of tripe and deceitful advertising has to say about essentially nothing, my latest creative epiphany of epic proportions.

Then I got to thinking about how I typically, and without warning—unless you are familiar with my fantastic and wonderfully predicable style—change the subject and radically dismiss everything I convinced you was important.

So I changed my mind and wrote something vitally important instead. I sent it off the the New York Times, and received a scathing letter of reprimand in return, rebuking my attempt to sully the good name of Benedict de Spinoza, and to please not use so many semi-colons and scatological epithets when referring to the Duke of Plaza-Toro's solicitors.

Nonsense, of course. My literary accomplishments have earned me the right to say whatever I want to say about whatever it is that strikes my fancy at the time, whether or not I forgot where I was going at this particular junction.

In this sense, one must understand that Achilles was not only a great and honorable warrior, but a true revolutionary in his re-evaluation of the honor system by which the Greek warrior lived his life.

One may be somewhat curious as to the state of mind of the author capable of writing like this, but one must not wear one's hat on one's nose, unless it's a very small beret or possibly a deerstalker and one is really ugly or perhaps one of the despicable crusty clown types.

This is of course, a proverb from the Zoroastrian guru, Mikhail Kittybottom. I've stolen it and have it locked up in a safety deposit box, lest the Zoroastrian religion once again spread across the land and consume all of our Tropicana Orange Juice, as it once did in the time of great cheese and rotten TV.

Take that you bastards.

Ok, wise guys, who's the hoppiest frood this side of Hawaii 5-0's Jack Lord?

You guessed it, it's me--Ford "the Cuticle" Prefect, posting one of my ever-popular Q&A sessions, and utilizing the lazy man's em dash.

Without further adieu (because goodbyes are so hard), let us begin at the beginning, where all good things start, unless you count epic poetry, which sometimes starts just before the middle begins.

Q. How you be so crazy?

A. Never you mind. This isn't the time, nor the place, Dr. Trussman. I know it's you, with your psychoanalysis, and your court orders, but this is a fun place for me to escape the misery of everyday life, to find release from crippling guilt over... nothing. I refuse to play your little game.

Q. How many strawberries does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. A house.

Q. What's the fun in stealing a car and driving it off a cliff?

A. I REFUSE TO PLAY YOUR LITTLE GAMES.

Q. What's your inspiration for writing?

A. The cast of Ghostwriter

A. 5th Element

Q. What's your favorite movie?

Q. Why would anyone leave spam comments on an otherwise unpolluted and awesome bloggomat?

A. They are nozzles of the highest odor.

Q. What convinced you that anyone would read this tripe, mildly entertaining though it may be?

A. I'll start cutting up these hostages man.

Q. So what would you say is a healthy level of exuberance in an average post-potty celebration?

A. I believe it's based on the amount of relief you experienced, times the density of the BM, minus the odor and only a fraction of a point for sticking the landing.

A. I heard you were a word nerd?

A. I tire of your insolence.

Q. Who would win in a battle to the death; Batman, or the Blob?

A. This is a trick question. Batman can't kill anyone, it's his only flaw. And the Blob may not even be alive.

Q. So, Donatello or Brunelleschi?

A. I think I prefer Bruneslleshi's simplicity over the complexity of Donatello. Turtle jokes aside.

Q. Seriously though, do you think the planet Hoth's gravity would have made the Empire's walking things impractical to use in the snow?

A. Wait, I've got a Ninja Turtle joke somewhere

Q. Do you think that my starter might be going?

A. Hold on, I've got an answer to that Star Wars thing

Q. I'm serious about my starter

A. I'm serious about my damn Ninja Turtle joke

Q. Moving on, I thought you were witty and had quick comebacks, like those people on the TV.

A. I'm doing my best. Wait, Donatello was the one with the stick right? Leonardo had the sword, am I right?

Q. Answer the question about my starter, then I have one more, and you can go back to playing video games.

A. Ok, does it click when you turn the key?

Q. What's the proper way to end an interview?

Video Game Review! Oh noes!

"Army of TWO: 40th Day" is an ambitious mess of a game. It opens with a bang, as an entire city explodes all around the player, but the game ultimately cascades down around the player in much the same way.

Ok. So it's actually really fun, especially with a friend. Customizing weapons and thinking out battlefield tactics, such as flanking maneuvers, cover fire, etc. are the main draw in this game, which is presented with an entertaining cinematic flair. The game is a fun experience with a friend along, and in fact, if you haven't got one, would seem to have lots of weird design decisions, like playing "rock paper scissors" with your teammate. Wait. That is still a weird design, why is that even in this game?

The game is plagued with horrible design; unskippable cutscenes abound, and if you want to play Versus, you have to load up a Versus menu (and load times are unbearably long).

I played with a friend, and--playing on a high difficulty because we aren't pussies, and we are slaves to the Achievement trap--we attempted a tough level over and over until we passed it, and then the game once disconnected us, and once just bugged out so no further progress was possible. At that point, the game was a chore and subject to much cursing.

Weapon customization is pretty fun, lots of crazy ideas can be played with there, do you want a polka dot sniper rifle, or a shotgun with a shield on the front? Go ahead, go nuts! But make sure you pass the next checkpoint afterwards, because if you don't, you will have to customize your weapon all over again, wasting even more time through loading screens, etc.

This game is actually pretty frustrating. Maybe if you've got a buddy and something to take the edge off, you'll enjoy it, but it's actually not a good game. It's an ok game, if this was 1998, it might be a phenomenal game, but why bother with a subpar mess of a game with horrible controls and terrible programming in this day and age? Or any?

Screw it. This game is pretty bad.

Jordan Stuart, Spaceman. Part II

Jordan Stuart peeked around the corner at the four grimy space pirates fumbling around with a large Pulse Repeater 3000, and, noticing that the Repeater's charge cannister had fallen on the floor, clicked the lever on his blaster over burst fire mode. He listened for the slight hum, and felt for the barely noticeable vibrations in the handle of the blaster that indicated a full charge.

Then, very coolly, and without pause, he raised the blaster to the ready position, and spun around the corner, fired four shots in rapid succession, and felled all four disgusting space pirates, three scaly, and one incredibly hairy.

This sort of thing had been going on ever since he and his incredibly beautiful and intelligent girlfriend, Zoe, and abandoned the Earth in the midst of a horrific zombification. Now their lives where filled with more adventure than a normal earthling could handle.

Not long ago, they had barely out-maneuvered a jagged and lumpy pirate ship through an asteroid field, stopped at a damp rest-planet to catch a game of space cricket. There, the pirates caught up to them, and they somehow ticked off the Glastic Royal Guards of Remly 9, and thoroughly riled the population of parasitic ice slugs orbiting Station Phi outside of Theta Quadrant.

Of course, all of this, new and confusing as it would be to any human, was taken in stride and handled professionally and with scathing wit and a great deal of exciting chases and sarcasm by Jordan and Zoe, and they zipped through the galaxy in their Silver Dart, the sexiest space-craft Earthman had ever devised, the first and only one capable of such adventures.

Right now, Zoe had fallen victim to the oldest scam in the galaxy, and been enslaved to some sort of tyrannical space bean, and once again, Jordan launched another hair-brained scheme to rescue her. Most of his schemes were too wild to work, but somehow all came together in the end to the benefit of the good guys.

This scheme mostly consisted of charging straight into the lion's den, and punching everyone in his way, shooting the odd alien who was either impossible to punch, or brandished some sort of weapon.

After dispatching the aforementioned pirates, Jordan made his way further into the pulsating moss-covered lair of the Evil King Bean, and found Zoe working her way out behind a hostage she was using to shield herself from various lasers, particle beams, and pesticides that were fired in her direction.

Jordan provided accurate cover fire, and they both edged out of the wide open foyer, and down into a random hallway where they could control the advance of their enemy, and enjoy the holographic artwork hanging on the walls.

Zoe kicked her hostage into an incidental table covered in knickknacks, and together, our fantastic couple backpedaled down the hallway, firing the odd shot at whatever alien was foolhardy enough to stick his head or whatever appendage had an eye on it around the corner.

Soon, they found themselves in the shiny metal shipbay area--a nice change of scenery from the creepy mold structure that made up the rest of the palace--and climbed aboard a small, round little contraption that hovered them out through the main gate, and they sailed away, back to the Silver Dart carefully hidden in a cave.

Caractacus

Sun set, that fiery chariot dove into the briny deep. Night fell, and the world plunged into darkness. The moon hid her face, and the world was still.

Swiftly through the night our hero ran, though the darkness hid his way. His feet well knew the way he trod, and truly kept the path.

One by one the stars winked out, and the way grew rough and wild. Yet on our hero went, slower now, and slower.

Why you ask, why this rush? Why at night this bold, courageous hurry? I'll tell you now, lend an ear, rest your head, and hear this song I sing.

The story of Caractacus, our hero brave, and Lily White, his love so true and fair; began so long ago, when first they met, at court one summer's day.

Their love was pure and fast, though doomed so soon by trouble. An evil sign, a bird flew by, and those who saw they shuddered.

The summer past, and their ways too soon were parted. Lily White was spirited away, across the mountains and sea.

So now our hero, Caractacus, has sailed off to find her. Across the sea, to foreign lands, wherever the wind did lead him.

Almost there, the darkness falls, and again, his love he loses. But when the stars come out, and in the night, of Lily White, a glimpse again he catches.

Regaining strength, his wits he gathers, and off again he flies. Forever lost, and yet so close, you'll find the hero, Caractacus.

His endless search throughout the world will never end, but sometimes at night, when the stars go out, you'll catch a glimpse of white.

And that, my friend, is prize he seeks, his love so true and fair. And sometimes at night, if the light's just right, you'll see the hero Caractacus.

Indeed.

Bah. The holidays are thingie and whatnot, leading to the whatsits and something, and a severe shortage of the various bits that make reading interesting.

However cobbled together these bits were, Todd continued wrenching them from the ether, in an effort to create what used to be described as 'stories'. These had disappeared over the years, in either the greatest, most devastating robbery ever, or perhaps just through apathy and a general miscarriage of justice.

Either way, Todd had no idea what he was doing, and after a few failed attempts, just started stringing together names of breakfast cereals and soft drinks.

This worked quite well, and established a good base for further attempts, using names of print shops and convenience stores. These latter attempts grew slightly more depressing as time went on, though several works were pure genius, and a few were hilariously bad.

Todd made a fortune from these works, mostly from large corporations paying for advertising. So, Todd's income depended primarily on large corporations, which unfortunately where destroyed in the 3rd Great Marketing Wars, leaving things a bit worse off, (notably, Todd.) However, the end of these monstrous corporations signaled the beginning of true creativity, hobbled though it may be by the lack of cereal boxes to riff off of.

Creativity, then, struck without warning, and with the triumphant decline of marketing organizations. Creativity blazed away with both barrels for a time, leaving people like Todd riddled with bullets and crippling holes in their chests.

Google Wave

Gonna play with Google Wave for awhile, I might attempt to integrate it with this site, but for what purpose?

It's like inventing a pivoting socket wrench before many people have bolts to deal with, it's a fantastic tool for solving an unimportant issue.

Anyway, how should I implement it?

1905 San Francisco

See ancient San Francisco, and marvel, all ye who look thereupon! The amount of awesome here is palpable.

Jordan Stuart, Spaceman.

One day, as Peter sighted down the barrel of his 30-30, searching for the most vulnerable part of the slowly advancing zombie, he paused to consider his various life choices that led to this horrible situation.

The monsters had attacked earlier, a sign of the impending apocalypse, but were largely ignored by the smart people, while the simple-minded loaded their rifles and let fly at anything that appeared suspect. Smart people are stupid like that.

Peter's life choices had been generally poor in the past, but deciding to always carry a rifle everywhere had been a spectacularly good one. Not only was it handy for shooting ATF agents and endangered species, it was also good for shooting zombies and monsters.

He spit a wad of chew into the bushes and squeezed off another shot, blasting a fountain of gore into the air.

"Eat that, ya dirty zombie" he quipped.

* * *

Above the burning apocalypse hovered a lonely spacecraft, a classic rocketship with big fins and lots of chrome, the kind that cool people fly. This little baby went completely unnoticed, as most of the people and institutions responsible for noticing these things were either zombified or on fire.

Inside was a really cool cat, the man who had stolen this sexy spacecraft from Ferris Aeronautics himself, Jordan Stuart. He chomped on a cigar, poured another shot of whiskey, and stared at the amber Earth below through his sunglasses.

"Dunno," he said to his amazingly beautiful girlfriend who sat next to him, "Think we should stick around?"

"Blow this joint." She responded. He flipped a switch, grasped the controls in his big manly hands, and stomped on something on the floor which sent them hurtling into the nether.

* * *

Below them, the Earth consumed itself. Ragtag teams of misfits and solitary heroes fought bravely, a few big budget explosions wiped out major cities, but the survivors didn't have a chance.

* * *

Aboard the Earth's only known rocketship, Jordan and his girlfriend Zoe poured over a bunch of charts and shopping catalogs. They sipped the drinks they poured, and relaxed in comfy chairs when they weren't in the control room pushing buttons and reading control screens. The life support systems would last indefinitely, and the chances of getting bit by a zombie were slim to none. Infomercials were a thing of the past.

Day after whatever you could call a day in space passed, as they rocketed through the empty night. Through the chaos, and past the edges of our known solar system, Earth's coolest couple flew. Where, they knew not. But they didn't care. Anywhere was better than the hell-hole they had left.

* * *

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

* * *

While Jordan and Zoe slept, the ships computer recorded a signal emanating from a standard galactic navigational beacon. These were installed throughout the galaxy when super-high speed travel hit the mainstream, as normal dead reckoning methods were obsoleted, and new methods were required.

With no way to know this, our heroes continued to shoot through space, leaving the beacon far behind them.

Their passage was not completely without incident however, as the beacon relayed all relevant information regarding their passage to the Galaxy Travel Board (a now defunct agency), and a small device taped to the side of the beacon sent the same information to a dark and jagged ship orbiting a large asteroid nearby.

The jagged ship was crewed by a nasty band of outlaws, escaped convicts, tax collectors, the flotsam and jetsam of the criminal world, and general riff-raff of space. These turned to piracy as their main revenue source, and hid from the authorities in the far reaches of the galaxy, waiting on the signal from a hijacked beacon to launch them into action.

* * *

The Pirate Captain leered into his readout screen and tugged his beard thoughtfully.

"Unknown craft, probably a small private vessel." A nearby crewman read out, his tentacles waving around, pushing buttons and moving food in and out his various food orifices.

The Captain nodded, "We need the practice anyway."

He gave the order to attack.

Sir Lord John Fritzlebald's Adventure Journal

11/2/09 My last adventure was cut short as I had urgent business at home to which I was forced to attend, and after a great deal of thought and consideration, I have decided to embark once again on the Great Adventure. Having learned the harsh lessons the last failed adventure had to teach, I made absolutely certain that the booze would not run out.

11/4/09 I picked up some more Ovaltine, just in case, and stowed it among the boxes of fedoras and crates of alcohol already aboard the steamer Poseidon's Nipple, and set about a devious scheme to cheat the sailors at cards.

11/19/09 Sick, extremely sick. Most of the booze was lost in a card game which I pretty much won, but some sailors convinced me that sharing the booze was more advisable than getting stabbed for cheating at cards. I've been drinking water for 2 days and mal de mer is unbearable.

11/22/09 We stopped in some port or another, and stocked up on the local beer and wine, which is pretty vile, but it beats the bilge water I've been forced to consume. Also, the captain owns part of my estate back home, on account of a straight flush.

11/23/09 First mate Something Smith is now captain of this d____ boat, as the original captain left for home, probably to take command of my house and servants, which I hope murder him in his sleep, the cheating b_____.

11/25/09 Stock of beer is gone, we are reduced to drinking the local wines like savages. Several of the men have lit a fire on the deck and are roasting an animal or something over it, but as the leader of this expedition, I must attend to the important things, like building a still in the hold so we don't die.

11/27/09 Most of the ship was destroyed in a fire, but we've fortunately found a hotel here in Portsmouth and I've sent back home for more supplies. While the ship burned, the still failed catastrophically and I was unable to salvage it. Also, many of the men are dangerously angry for some reason. I hope their stupid hut they constructed out of charred boat pieces falls on their ugly heads.

11/28/09 Hotel is quite nice, I think I'll recuperate here before launching into another harrowing adventure, my supplies have arrived, and I'm quite content with the lodgings. I shall remain here until these supplies run dry and then will set out on the hazardous journey home where I shall confront said captain. This adventure is over for now.

Due to popular demand, I will appease my teeming masses of fans with yet another, shockingly terse and devastatingly hilarious postarooni.

I may have set the bar a little high there, so forget I wrote that last bit, and pretend that you aren't sure whether this will be a depressing look into refrigerator maintenance and repair , or possibly an erotic Mario Bros. fan fic.

You are know in the proper mood to enjoy the rest of this literary delight which I hereby present to you, the gullible little mook who has been tricked into visiting this page.

Ahem. Drum roll please!

And begin.

Whoops, had to close another window I was looking at which was Twilight related, and did not want polluting my above average mind which is rapidly filling with nonsense faster than I can spew it out of my fingers.

So now my mind is clear.

Begin.

Aeons ago, in a foggy grey land,

Sat a small village with a lonely kirk,

And a tavern, some sheep and a mule.

But deep in the woods, the foggy grey woods,

Lay two robots, silent and rusty.

Their eyes were stuck shut,

So they could not see the foggy grey land,

Nor the small village with the lonely kirk,

Nor tavern, the sheep or the mule, not each other.

Yet a high frequency blip echoed through the wood.

Oh, the Automaton sighed (for the blip was a voice),

Where am I? And where is my darling?

Where is my Android I've lost in the wood?

She shed a tear and and she sighed.

This is conducive to oxidation.

Another voice wanders through the fog,

In answer and sorrow.

It is quiet, and lost in the wood,

Without anyone to hear it or notice.

The mourning cry of the Android.

Though when the wind changes,

And the North Wind blows,

The Android's cry rides on the wind,

Carried across the water,

He cries for his Automaton.

Rusty and still, the Android sits,

His eyes swollen shut, his head in his lap,

And his heart in a thousand pieces.

His Automaton sits not a foot from his grasp,

But neither one knows this.

If ever you are in the foggy grey woods,

Past the old kirk and tavern,

Listen with care and with kindness

To find the two robots who are lost in the wood,

And oil their joints so I can sleep.

Polaroid Psycho Psanalysis

Polaroid photos make you look like a murderer. This is a fact. If you manage to scrounge up the now-discontinued-once-ubiquitous camera from the photographic netherworld, snap a picture of your sweetest little kitten or even a prairie dog, and prepare to cringe in an instinctual defense posture as the terrifying face of a psychotic killer stares back at you with cold, beady little eyes.

If you still have a box of old photos lying around somewhere, collecting dust, or have managed to slap those suckers into a photo album (like some sort of crazy person would put polaroids into a nice photo album,) you can dig those up and take a quick peek at your sad embarrassing past.

Done? Ok, are you surprised none of the subjects have murdered and raped their way into a mental institution? If not, you might have had a regular camera, better look a little longer. Polaroids have big white borders, an extra layer, and the image of the very devil captured in every one.

I have a few theories. One is that the polarizing effect only filters out whatever good is present in the world, and only captures the malignant and horrible.

The other theory is that the quality is shit and the lighting is pathetic, and the photographer has the skills of a manatee.

Neither theory is completely supported by the evidence, nor is completely thought out by anyone qualified to make that judgement.

Another theory is that the world is truly evil, and that the camera merely captures the truth of the matter; some have even posited that the mechanism of the camera works on an occult principle, using some sort of demonic imp inside the physical camera itself, sketching the world as seen through it's twisted little eye, but those people are nuts, one should treat their theories with caution.

Once upon a time, in some place or another, a tiny village sat.  Partly because of the steep and dangerous mountains that surrounded it, and partly because of the fierce dragon that guards it, this village escaped both the detrimental and beneficial effects of time that changed the world around it.

Inside this village, life is simple, vowels are frequent, fairies are benign, and the greatest mind the world has never known works diligently away in a dark and musty study.

Ancient tomes, bubbling concoctions, and whirling contraptions littered the already cramped study, reducing it from cramped to claustrophobic nightmare dimensions with just enough room for one man to navigate the gargantuan piles of books and oddities from cluttered desk to cluttered desk.

The wiry man behind the madness appears to work very hard translating an ancient document of some sort, surrounded by the appropriate paraphernalia related to such a pursuit, but instead he is about half way through a crossword puzzle that sits on his lap.  He taps a pencil idly on his chair, and in a moment, reaches behind him to place a phonograph needle back on track before leaning back and taking a sip from a glass sitting on the desk beside him.

This is the lair of one of the great heroes belonging to this village, the Mechanic.  The other two are the Captain and the Governor.  The Captain spends his days drilling and marching out of doors with his handful of deputies, and the Governor hosts parties every night.  Everyone else has a normal job, farming, shepherding, blacksmithing, keeping an eye on the dragon, or mining the mountains for sugar and precious metals.

Everyone in the village knows the Captain and the Governor very well, their hero status is unassailable, but the Mechanic is rarely seen.  A few people believe he is a normal villager, perhaps somewhat invalid, or a nut perpetuating a few myths, but he is, indeed, a hero.

All of the Captain's war machines (both of them) were designed by the Mechanic, the Governor's parties are powered by rumbling machines designed by the Mechanic, and oddly enough, the pretty pictures on the wall, and the dazzling coloured light displays are also designed by the Mechanic.