Last week’s sickness killed my normally hearty appetite –I’m basically a tapeworm wearing a pale skin sheath—and so I found myself with about 70% more brain power kicking around that would normally be devoted to picturing sandwiches. 69% of that went into this Lego blog, and the other 1% to laughing at the number 69.
Now that I’m back on the eating horse (and eating horse), it was grim, black times when this morning’s headlines introduced me to yet another pretentious food concept: a “mustard sommelier”. I’m pretty good at staying on the forefront of food movements, and now that the environmental pros of eating bugs has started to get some traction (this is actually how Alan and I first met each other years ago) I’ve been bringing various ones to social functions and encouraging people to try them (general consensus: “nutty” “I like the crunch” and “Who the fuck brings insects to a social function”). It’s going to catch on, and I had a dark thought of some Park Slope yup calling over their waiter and asking “Excuse me, where are these maggots sourced from?”
I mentioned this to Ritch, who rightly pointed out that they would come up with some new PR-friendly name for maggots (life grubs? protein wiggles?) and he said that you’d really need to go the “escargot” route and not the “Rocky Mountain Oysters” one; some deception has to be involved, but there shouldn’t be a fear of litigation if someone downs 28 in a diner.
(Crystal and I actually did yeoman’s work trying to find Rocky Mountain Oysters when skiing in Breckenridge last season, with no success–only a couple of places in all of Colorado have them. The invisible hand of the market doesn’t do ball stuff, it seems.)
We imagined a series of naming sessions in Big Bean Branding HQ: I said that Garbanzo Beans are the result of some feminist group getting riled up at “chickpeas” and a frustrated exec throwing his hands in the air and tossing out “desk lamp beans. Mufflepuff beans. Garbanzo beans. Take your fucking pick” as relacements; he expressed awe for the balls on the dude who named Green Beans (“That’s a kick your feet up on your desk and take a nap for 6 hours naming job right there. That’s a union man.”). I also imagined the poor Black-eyed Peas Corp., who stood their ground against decades of racist accusations only to have Fergie et al. come onto the scene and really ruin it for them.
Speaking of things I’ve eaten, on to the Legos!
(it’s really hard to get the little nubbin pieces off without using your teeth, and I’ve been at this a long time)
So yesterday’s post—“yesterday’s”—was nothing short of a masterpiece as far as I’m concerned, combining my knee-melting love of Douglas Adams with my cholesterol-melting love of beef jerky, with a dash of Plato and frog lust built in. I’m also pretty psyched to be able to eat the corpse dirt now.
I know Alan the Osteo Grinch was all bone there, done that with yesterday’s haul, but for me, I don’t think anyone’s been happier to open up a box o’skeleton since Indiana Jones discovered the First Crusade Knight. Let’s see what today brings.
Merry Christmas, kiddies. Now go ask your Mommy about BDSM.
Well, ain’t this just a little slice of life imprisonment! When the kid from next door comes knocking, asking if your son wants to play with his new calling birds, explain that Johnny’s in the rec room, formulating a doctrine on punitive justice.
The different shades of stone are the sort of attention to detail that makes me think that somewhere deep down, Norcross the Calendar Designer might take a little pride in his job. This is a man who may spend his days toiling as a pawn in the Evil Lego Corp., but when Boss Man comes into his office and says “I want 300 instruments of death on my desk by 5”, Norcross pictures how he’ll brick him up alive with careful relish.
(HAVE YOU ALL READ THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO? GO READ THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO)
Leslie may have committed some atrocities in his 33 years –ladies loved and left, lives senselessly stolen, last legs of turkey taken—but if there is one thing he could not stand for, it was wordplay. The sense of awe he had just experienced seeing the rehydration and reanimation of the dead was quickly wiped out by righteous anger. He grabbed Rodrick’s ulna and stormed to the door, ignoring Lee the Overexplanatory and pausing briefly to grab the remaining gems and flick his tongue between his two fingers in the direction of that wanton frog. “It’s time for you to dry out in the dungeon, bones.”
Back down the Great Hall, through the conservatory, sneaking past the pantry to grab some pigeon jerky—belly full, check—stepping over the piles of axes, swords, lead pipes, candlesticks, and wrenches in the armory; Leslie the Ready was glad he consulted the keep’s fire escape plan when he took the blacksmith job earlier that morning. The dungeon was located where all medieval prisons are: third door on the left.
“…so you see, the water displaced by the initial dessicated gem, or what actually is a semiprecious stone if one is being entirely accurate, that volume of liquid in the bathtub is the same when it is redistributed into the skeletal form. It all appears very remarkable but it’s just science, there’s nothing supernatural about it at all other than the otherworldly preservation of the soul and immunity to the passage of time. It’s the unmortification of the flesh that really holds the key…” The skeleton laid sockets on the chains and cage in front of her and stopped its incessant chatter. “Stop me if you’ve heard this. A man walks into a set of bars…”
Handcuffs slapped around her carpal bones before puns could occur. “Look,” said Leslie, thinking of the horny toad he had left upstairs, along with his magic sword. He hoped the Duke of Northcrumblich wouldn’t find them before he did. “Your enemy is my enemy. But that does NOT make you my friend.” He spat into the chest of ancestor gems to prove a point. “And I don’t want to hear another bon mot out of your bone mouth.”
He spun around towards the door to illustrate his finality – pigeon always turned him into a bit of a drama queen –but was stopped by the shadow cast on the doorway. Turning back to the cell, he saw Rodrick’s arms still held captive in the cuffs; turning a bit further, he saw an extremely vengeful skeleton, holding a smithing hammer in her metacarpals and hopping about on the other foot.
“NOBODY tells me not to quip.”