Day 9: Enter the The Overexplanatory Clan

While I’m happy that Sunday’s Day Box gave us another life to toy with—writing this thing requires a pretty unhealthy God complex—I had a hard time undoing any buttons for that monstrosity of a throne.

Me when my Day Box yields weapons or a life that can be snuffed out with weapons:

Nice queen

Me when my Day Box yields a motherfucking chair:

Mean queen

Me when my Day Box contains Keith Richards:

Coke queen

(While you’d think the worst part of this little photo comparison would be the concerned looks of coworkers as you rinse the drugs off your toy in the sink, it would actually be when you find yourself thinking “I am definitely prettier than this Lego”.)

Now that I only write this thing every other day –roughly 1/10th as often as I hear “I still have to catch up your Lego blog”—I find that I haven’t gone quite as insane as previous years. That, or II have gone equally as insane but so has Alan and so we’ve got a sort of Mad Hatter’s tea party going on here, where things seem perfectly logical to us but to the rest of y’all we’re out of gourds. But look: only God and the talking owl that lives in my right ear shall judge.

Though I’ve always been a pretty standard issue holiday person—a Christmas Pecota—I’ve decided to get super into Christmas this year, because that seems like the sort of thing juries identify with. Tree is up and decorated with little chainsaw-wielding Lego Santas, Christmas cards are bedicked and mailed—no, Clippy, I didn’t mean “bedecked”, you smug little shit –and I’ve got a my second Christmas movie at Nitehawk on tap for tomorrow night: National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Fun experiment with NL Christmas Vacation: go mention that movie to someone in your office right now, casually in conversation. They will say this: “Oh, I LOVE National Lampoon Christmas Vacation”. I don’t know why. For some reason, this movie invokes The Wiresque requirement that the conversant to state their (always positive) opinion out loud.

OK now, really, any Day Box that follows Weapons Week and Fuck Frog Monday is bound to be a letdown, so my hopes aren’t high for this one.

Day box

They have been appropriately met. They’ve been Metsed.

Treasure chest and gems, ho hum, fiddle dee dee. As Alan pointed out—I think privately to me, though lines are getting blurry enough that I’m starting to think I’ve imagined him in general, a la A Beautiful Mind?—this is a carbon copy of the treasure chest and booty that he got in his Lego Pirate Advent Calendar last year. Honestly, after three years of Lego City box sleds I’m pretty understanding of this as a phone-it-in-day for Norcross the Calendar Designer. They can’t all be gems.

(see what I did there. I desperately need for you to see what I did there. My psyche will crumble if you do not see what I did there.)

Now, yesterday’s post—“yesterday’s”—got us the hell out of that forge, and into the majesty of the throne room. Alan apparently disassembled the Guggenheim Museum and modded out the Chair That Regality Forgot, but I lack those pieces in my own City-heavy stash and that is why a dog is a major architectural component. Frank Gehry has done the same thing in a pinch, I’m sure.

I am le thrilled at the way that Norcross anticipated our arbitrary pick for random cultural despisement and then threw us the necessary props to fight the good fight. What are the odds that the day box after you kill a Frenchman, you get a frog? If we pop open an actual cheese-eating surrender monkey tomorrow then we might need to start keeping a file on Norcross, but for now I’m going to go at it with the fury of Curie.

baise translation

(how all great literary writing sessions begin)

“You have to fuck a lot of frogs before you find your prince.” –E.L. James’ rapidly rotating corpse

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Dec 9

“Je m’appelle…Leslie,” he said, then realized he didn’t have to cave to the linguistic demands of this beastly female. “The Unready. Leslie the Unready.” His chest inflated beneath his dogskin surcoat as he caught the gaze of the frog, who batted its eyes coquettishly. “But I am ready now.” He slapped his hipbones with both arms crosswise, his blade glinting dangerously. “So then, uh, Leslie the Ready. Of the House of the Ready.”

 

The femalish figure’s countenance remained unchanged, etched with an anger that predated Leslie’s arrival. She made a small puffing noise —bof–and scowled at his attempt to appear brave. “And what, exactly, are you ready for?” she asked. “Or is it that you are ready to play house?”

 

It was a good question, and one that Leslie had not actually asked himself in the several minutes since he had adopted his new outlook on life. A man could live by the mantra “any man with a good sword in his scabbard, food in his belly, love in his life, and one flamingly homosexual piece of headgear could challenge the Duke and rule over Elsinore,” but what was he really preparing himself for? Is the completion of a quest’s tasks the measure of a good life? he wondered. Does one owe a service to humanity, or merely an objectivist duty to serve themselves? Thoughts bandied about his head. Is that frog just completely asking for it?

 

Sure enough, the amphibian was dancing around the room as if it had diamonds at the meeting of its cloaca. The French woman–Leslie hesitated to even think this term, as it seemed too generous–shifted her dismay with the frog’s position, from her hand, to the throne, to the chest of jewels that had been prominently displayed atop the altar but toppled as the creature landed nearby, blowing kisses towards the blacksmith. All parts of Leslie stood erect, and he fell to his knees to provide camouflage for his frog-bulge.

 

“MY GEMS! MY PAST! MY FAMILY’S SOULS!” cried the vaguely feminine thing as the baubles spread across the floor. “They must not be lost! The time for reincarnation is near!”

 

Even had it been in French, this statement would have been a distraction to his desire, and Leslie chose his words carefully before speaking aloud. “Scuse me?”

 

The woman?, nearly inconsolable, grew deadly serious. “I am Lee the Overexplanatory, the betrothed of the Duke of Northcrumblich, and the rightful heir to Elsinore. And those gems before you contain the anima of the members of the The Overexplanatory clan, who shall one day rise again and take back these halls.” She paused, and her expression alighted. “Given the ideal conditions and a brave herald to resurrect them and lead them into battle, that is.”

 

Leslie the Now Ready considered. “And who’s the frog?”

 

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