Day 7 and 8: Now, on Day 9!

Friends, I must begin this blog with an apology for depriving you from your regularly scheduled Christmas-lego-murder-fantasyadventure fix.  I was writing this blog last night, and went down a bit of a rabbit hole comparing Money in 2014 to God in 1214, and the ways that the worship and study of one had (almost) fully replaced the worship and study of the other in “polite” society. I was a couple of thousand words in before I realized that all relevance to this Lego blog had fallen by the wayside, and I ended up falling asleep on my computer. So, you know… par for a monday, and this blog.  This is how I apologize for making you wait.

(Note: This is not a guarantee that this money/god thesis won’t be back here. Watch this space!)

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So, what do the Day Boxes show us?  We start with what I’d call the first really uninteresting box (from a Lego perspective). Not to channel Drab, but the pieces aren’t that interesting, and the final product sitting on my desk is underwhelming at best.  If this is going to be “The throne” for our hero to pursue… It needs some steps up.  Some glitz and glam, some swords behind it, SOMETHING. Let me see what I can do.20141209_124144

There we GO! That’s more like it. This is a throne worth killing a random Frenchman over. It also comes at a good time in the storytelling arch: here we have both of the things that speak of dukely prestige to the eye off some nobody serf: the Seat of Power and the… ummm. Whats in the other Day Box?  We’d call this, maybe… the Womb of power?  Yup. We will go with that.

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We think that IS a frog, yes?

Ok, but really Lego – why is she holding this frog? Are we being dropped into the midst of some basic amphibian/Prince lust nonsense?  Even for a classic German-Freudian fairy tale, that’s some pretty basic bullshit. I’d like to think that, from an analytic level, we’re way past that. So I am going to assume this frog is just confirming for us a sort of R.G. Collingwood “recollection of the french” theme in a crass and vaguely insulting way.  To whit, I’ll be checking all the Lego figures for their first two fingers, just to make sure their long bows still work.

Also, this duchess, which we must assume she is, can never sit on the throne herself.  Because she can never sit.  Her long flowing robes get in the way.  Lego just over here reinforcing the patriarchy: she is literally is unable to sit in the throne. She can stand on it and shriek until the Lego mouse is dealt with, but unless she borrows a set of legs with a waist, that’s all she’s got.

This is just part and parcel of the nasty, brutish, and short lives of Legos living in the middle ages.  Women are trophies, and serfs like our hero are pushing all-in if they consider a run at the Big Man.  If you play the game of Lego thrones, you win… or your head is pulled off and switched for last Christmases yoda head, and you are left as the laughing stock of all.  So the stakes are high, is what I’m saying.

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As he reached the top of the stairs and returned to the great hall, Leslie was already backtracking on the project of taking on the Duke. It sounded Hard. Complicated. Dangerous. And the old Unready family motto always held, “anything worth doing… is no longer worth doing if it gets to be complicated and dangerous.”  Leslie looked at the image of the Unready man on his sword, and at the glorious crest of what appeared to be a Griffin forcibly mounting a Stag that adorned the dukes livery and the shield he’d just grabbed.  This was stupid.  What was he thinking?

Then, Leslie entered the great hall, saw the throne room, and everything changed.  There, standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne, was the most beautiful frog Leslie had ever seen.

Leslie had always felt an affinity for frogs. Once, he’d woken up in a swamp with a frog that looked quite a bit like what his father had always told him about his mother (Frank the Unready), and since then he’s often preferred the company of his green friends to that of the pink or brown reality.

This particular frog was being held in the hands of a woman, who Leslie now realized was particularly unhappy to see him.  This was not something that put Leslie off much – he was used to getting the angry option when it came to attractive women’s faces on seeing him enter a room.

She bellowed: “Qui la baise êtes-vous?

The frog looked hopefully at Leslie, but said nothing.

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