I’d like to take this intro to welcome Alan to the huddled, unwashed masses of Cubicle People. I lost my own longtime office in the Year of Our Lego Calendar Number Three, when my company moved to a new soulless corporate demesnes. Without a fourth wall between you and the normies, you really have to make it clear that you’re more in the Eccentric corner than the Sociopath one, and spending 15% of the year openly playing with toys can really go either way; on one hand, it’s hard to be intimidated by a girl playing with Legos; on the other hand, is that blood?
Speaking of coworkers and toys, I took some flack last year for dropping a new snorkeling set into the lobby toy drive bin (“What the hell would a kid in Harlem do with a snorkeling set?” asked Hilary. “Find his brother in the East River?” said I), but honestly: I don’t know what kids OR adults want these days. Most people don’t know what they themselves want when asked; not only does earning a living rob you of half your waking hours, it robs you of the inability to purchase things you desire. When your desires aren’t that unreasonable—I asked for and received a chef’s knife so nice and sharp that the desire to carve human flesh instantly became written into the genetic material for all future Adamses, easy peasy—it really takes the fun out of wanting and hoping.
Luckily, as I type this sentiment, I have an Alan in the other window reminding me of all of the Lego sets that we desire but cannot in good faith purchase. Look at the Maersk Line Triple-E: this is just straight Lego porn. I don’t want to build this thing. I want to be reincarnated as this thing.
There’s also still the matter of the Lego Star Wars Death Star Capital Campaign, which many of you have said “Oh, I’ll kick a few dollars into that!” and thus far have LIED TO ME about. Why do we feel that we are worthy of taking a few of your duckets? Let me put it this way: if, at the start of this month, each of us had taken the time we would use to write about Legos and instead got a minimum wage job at the local factory where metal gets riveted and Mellencamp plays all day, we could have earned enough to purchase this Death Star. We could have bought it with money left over for a sixer. But we didn’t. And not just because Alan is like 80% limbs and would get caught in the machinery, and not just because I’m not exactly a “foreman friendly” personality. It’s because we want others to share in our love of Legos, and fly off the rails with us. And we also want some of your money. Right there, off on the right side. Only to be used for the Lego Death Star. I promise, you will get to read about the fun what we did have. Also, we just promised if we get this we would put it together based on the instructions just once, then take it apart and do it drunk without schematics from then on, Drunk History-style.
Now, as for the today Box: I want a dragon. I badly, badly want this to be a dragon. I’ve opened fifteen weapons, a chair, a medieval Nintendo ROB? and some truly regrettable headwear. Life has given me swords, and I have made lemonblade. While I’m happy to have the days of Lego City repetition behind me—remember, remember, the kerchiefs of December—there are a few itches that this calendar has just one week left to scratch, and one of those is a motherfucking dragon. I want to be the mother of fucking motherfucking dragons.
(Look, I’m not thrilled about “lemonblade” either. But you go to war with the sound-alikes you have.)
It’s weird. I don’t feel the same total sense of pre-disappointment that I did with Lego City. There is a small part of me that believes I might get what I want.
Oh, fuck you. Fuck you back to the Mesozoic Era. Fuck you back to the primordial sludge. Fuck you back to Rochester.
Do you have any idea what sort of dissonance your soul has to perform when it expects a dragon and it gets a frigging pot? This isn’t a “count to ten” situation. I can’t picture my childhood summer camp. I need to see a life extinguished.
Granted, I’m not in the most favorably disposed of moods when it comes to Lego Corp right now, but the little piece of plastic connecting these knives is pushing me right over the edge of anger. Why do I suddenly have to do all the work? Is this a choking hazard thing? Cause I will swallow this goddamn Day Box whole. You watch me.
(Seriously, LAY OFF ME ABOUT LEMONBLADE. Do you know what happens when you type “scimitar” into RhymeZone’s rhyming dictionary? It spits in your fucking face, that’s what. It also shits in your sucking place.)
Boiled apple again? We just had boiled apple.
Look. I lead a not-altogether-unbusy life. I eat on the run on the regular. I’ve been pretty clear about my openness towards strange interpretations of “dinner”. But come ON, Norcross. This isn’t even in the realm of “meal”. This is what aliens trying to masquerade as humans would eat.
(I coined “blockblock” and “Legods”. I Marilyned a sexpot frog out of a Norma Jean amphibian. I don’t understand why “lemonblade” is my Waterloo. )
(with a cool and detached air) Let’s get back to the story, shall we?
:: Rereads three weeks of blog posts to try and remember what the SHIT is happening::
“…receasing to be, going to remeet my maker, kicking the bucket back, reshuffling off my mortal coil, rejoining the choir invisible. my metabolic processes are…well, actually still history…
Leslie drifted slowly back into his own mind, a process in which his senses returned in the strange order of touch, smell, taste, hearing, sight. He felt something stuck between his teeth and smelled the char of roasted flesh, like a freshly sacked village just after a rainy day; the next two faculties returned with metaphors so illustrative that he was at a loss for words. As for sight, he figured it was easiest just to open his eyes.
“If you want me yet again, relook for me under your boot-soles…” The armless skeleton lay in front of him, a dagger shimmed into its ribcage but otherwise no gore spilt. Across the room, his drinking buddy of just a few minutes—hours?—ago sat atop a necrotic but animated pig, and the most fuckable frog this side of Karfoosh donned a fabulous helmet above an overturned and blatantly empty daemoncask. Leslie recalled the face of the hottie that had helped kick off the bacchanalia at the exact same moment that his eyes landed on the face of the hottie that had helped kick off the bacchanalia, on his plate. A bite was missing from her cheek and life was missing from her eyes. He would still do her.
“Did we….” There were so many words that could be strung together at this time, no permutation more peculiar than another. “Is that a….” Even the mostly-redead skeleton stopped prattling and looked at him. Rhetoric had never been Leslie’s strong suit—that had appropriately been Armor Making—and he decided to cut to the chase. “Wasn’t that pig dead. What happened. What was in that cask. Who dereanimated Rodrick. Am I eating a woman. Is that a modified YT-1300 light freighter in the corner. Do you want to like, get a drink sometime, just you and me, Frog.” It felt good to speak frankly. He smiled and took a bite of lady.
Hal dismounted the pig and walked towards the table and skeleton, more in possession of his senses than Leslie. There had been some holes in his evening when he regained sentience, but Ms. Wiggles had filled him in.
“Leslie, old boy. I’ve been where you are. I know what you’re feeling. You were me, just an hour ago.” He kicked a sword absentmindedly and contemplated his words. “Or I was you.” He picked up a sword. “Or was I me?” His smiled cryptically.
Although he had known Hal only a short time before partaking of the Daemonbeer, this brash new air was out of character. Granted, this was Hal the Slightly Unpleasant at Dinner Parties, heir to the Dukedom of Northcrumblich and soon-to-be-stepson of Lee the Overexplanatory, who sought to call her ancestors out of death stasis in order to overtake the throne without having to marry the horrible-but-as-yet-unseen Duke. And yes, he himself had recently proclaimed his own intentions to overthrow the Duke and rule over Elsinore. Things were complicated. But they’d been having such a nice time. “I understand we probably have some things to talk about,” Leslie said. “But just answer me first.”
Hal sighed. “The pig—that’s Ms. Wiggles to you—was dead but isn’t anymore after a mouthful of Daemonbeer. You accepted the Trial by Cocktail and won and then we drank all of the Daemonbeer. The cask was full of Daemonbeer. You’re eating Penelope of Death—I’m a little fuzzy on how that went down but I think it was like, an inside joke between you two? Dunno—and yes, of course that’s a light vessel.” He took a deep breath and cleaned out his teeth with the tip of the sword. “As for you and the toad: that’s up to him. But may I suggest a Daemonbeer?”
He stirred the Penelope stew with the sword.
“Oh, and I stabbed Rodrick because he is one annoying, annoying drunk.” And with that, he picked up an especially glinty sword and drove it into Rodrick the Overexplanatory’s heart cavity. “And because he and his brethren will not stand in the way of my rightful throne.”
And with that, both the frog and Rodrick croaked.