Reviews for the new website are in!
“It’s like a hot dog stand” –Chris B.
“Oh god, the colors…” – Rob L.
“Go fuck a chicken.” –Jen A.
You may have noticed the snazzy donation button off there on the side that says “Lego Star Wars Death Star Alms”—if you’re reading this on your phone, it’s not there, as my will to live is not strong enough to mobilize this site—which is a sentence that is 17% “star”. Six good men’s lives were lost in the installation of that short code.
Anyways, the Lego Star Wars Death Star is sort of the Gatsby green light to this blog; Prufrock measures out his life in coffee spoons, but Alan and I measure ours in how many times we’ve hovered over the “Add to Cart” button on this thing when purchasing advent calendars (I’m young again!). I figure, if you like this blog, and you’ve liked this blog for four years, and you feel like you want to kick a couple bucks towards the people who spend a lot of fucking coffee spoons writing it and muttering to empty html forms and accidentally almost swallowing more pieces than daily recommended, then just toss it in the coffers. Money will only go towards the Death Star, and if we don’t hit the $400 this year, it’ll roll over into future years until eventually my body becomes one with the Force at age 900 and also I realize I’ve put more effort into saving for a Lego Death Star than my own retirement.
Can we look at the rival Lego Advent Calendar “blog” that this guy over here at Gizmodo has going on? (h/t Joseph). All three calendars (Friends, City and Star Wars) simultaneously, and what he does is open each Day Box –HE DOESN’T EVEN CALL THEM THAT—and then he describes what is in them. How bland can you get? Does this guy shit beige? Is his Christmas stocking just filled with the oyster crackers he asked for? Does he do his taxes sober? Every word that he writes makes me swallowing mad.
This here is my nemesis. This is up there with Moriarty and “your commercial airplane pilot husband’s other mirror family in another state”. This guy is TOAST. His name is Michael Schulte, but from now on we’ll be referring to him as Drab the Blogger.
Sick-at-home Alan telecommuted today’s Day Box by having slightly less sick-at-work Jen open it and tell him what it was. This was my first experience being an avatar and it wasn’t so bad. Should an intergalactic war race descend upon Earth and use our flesh and bodies as soldiers, you heard it here first: “it’s not so bad.”
I wish I could say that there was still some childlike excitement from opening a box and finding a pile of weapons, but four years in and this has become a humdrum routine. Show me a hot girl and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her; show me an arsenal of death tools and I’ll show you a hot girl who’s tired of handling battleaxes.
We’re now at a 6:1 ratio of weapons to people and my spear finger is getting itchy; what good is giving your child a world of slaughtering options if there is no one to slaughter? I’ve got murder blue balls over here. Let’s see if I can find some sort of release at the office.
Dead Placido Polanco, briefly on loan from my very, very confused web design guy.
Eye cream? More like DIE CREAM.
Well I guess it would be nice, if I could impale your body? Wake me up, before you bleed out? Did I mention I‘m not feeling well?
Yeah, OK. Time to stop.
As flame touched the swatch of his exposed skin, Leslie snapped back to the gloomy surroundings of the Elsinore keep. He was upright, fully clothed, lucky griffin foot still in his back pocket and his bald spot still covered by the hood that the former Elsinore blacksmith’s “daughter”, Robert the Definitely a Dude, had said was fooling no one. His bulging, turgid muscles registered a soreness not felt since that night of their turgid hayromping, and his hands were black with the byproduct of blacksmithing; this was the first time he realized how aptly named his profession was. Under the Duke of Northcrumblich’s orders the bowel forge had no windows or means to mark the passing of time other than the level of dread that crept inward like kudzu with the hours spent within; however, the forge fire he had stoked six hours before was nearly extinguished. Also, his pocket timepiece said it was just after seven.
As he unwisely moved about before his eyes adjusted to the shades of rust and coal around the room, he stumbled over a mountain of weapons that lay on the ground before him next to an overturned anvil. “Come on, arsenal!” he muttered as he inspected a spear. All had the The Unready touchmark etched into the blades—a small design of a man running away from responsibility—and even the anvil had been cast aside with his signature careless hurl.
A burnished sword glinted from amidst the pile. Leslie gingerly stepped over a still-warm battleaxe and wrapped his manly hands around its hilt, which glowed red from the tip of the blade to the ends of the hilt. The warm metal—not iron or steel, but some other substance he had never seen before but he sensed was rare and probably coveted by a lot of people and not necessarily the types of people you want with you in a foxhole, you know?—ignited in his mind flashes of being alive, but like a nightmare, feverishly forging the instruments strewn around him. Had he done this? Were these tools of his making?
And who had wielded the flame that awoke him?