While I’m racked with jealousy that Alan got the completely badass minifig on his watch, I was relieved to not have to go all Commodus on deciding the little guy’s fate. I think we both knew that the next minifig we received was not long for this world: Legos gotta kill and blood’s gotta spill. A reprieve may come at the last minute in the form of today and tomorrow’s Day Boxes, but if I were The Giant, I’d make peace with my dieu.
In re: the back-and-forth on the name of yesterday’s bludgeoning devices, what can I say: nothing makes you feel more like a natural woman like a pedantic knowledge of medieval weaponry. But look, I know a flail when I see one. I lost twenty bucks to my father last Christmas morning over a bet on the name for this thing. Giftwrapped weapons are the cashmere scarves of the Adams Xmas tree; y’all enjoy your wassail around the fireplace, we’ll be in the basement with the throwing star backboard.
Adamses have been big on laying out money to back themselves up for as long as I can remember, and Dadams had zero qualms about taking dollar bills from a 7 year-old girl with Hungry Hippo-sized balls regarding her trivia or chess prowess. People talk about the sadness and humility felt in the moment they realized their father was human—the first time they saw him cry, or stumble—but when I finally beat my father at pool it was the diametric opposite of “Cat’s in the Cradle”. Short of killing his children in front of him so he’d know his seed would spread no more, I could not have reveled more in the fact that not only was my father human, he was an inferior human. If this had been the end of Field of Dreams, instead of asking if he wanted to have a catch, I would have calculated his pathetic VORP in front of him and then invited Shoeless Joe in to dinner.
Let’s look in on Drab the Blogger over at Gizmodo, a man so uninteresting he brushes his teeth in the shower AND at the sink. Oh, the Star Wars Day Box is “packed full of cool stuff and looks awesome”? Way to really open up the engine on the English language, kiddo. Maybe tomorrow you can just transcribe your grunts and nods.
“And now, Drab the Blogger will recite his vows.”
“I’ll marry you. NOICE.”
(this is just in jest, as obviously Drab will never find love with anything animate)
DAY BOX TIME! We’re dealing with our first weekend here, so I’ll take Saturday’s box and Alan can have Sunday’s in addition.
OH MY GOD IT’S THE DEATH WHEELBARROW I ASKED FOR. Yes, Virginia, there is a Murder Claus!
This thing is so awesome I could explode. Alan’s not online for me to type nonsense in all caps to so instead I just scaled the side of the building and then captured Cerberus and then updated all of my Adobe software and then made love to three women.
I can only imagine Drab is droning himself into a frenzy.
Hoo boy. Not a slayable Lego in slight. Rest in pieces, you gentle Giant.
This is kind of a new level of cruelty for kids who have grown up unable to play with all of their dad’s figurines and models that are still in the packaging and “will be worth something one day.” This is a toy of a display of a toy. This is so metatwisted, it is an Escher painting made into a Mobius strip between two mirrors. Also, this is a reallllllll gay hat.
…made contact with something distinctly solid and distinctly French. Though he had squeezed his eyes shut in self-preservation—he had also pissed himself a little for the same reason—the wet sound of metal in torso is nature’s alarm clock, and he took in the sight of a giant Frenchmen impaled on the Ethelred-brand Deathbarrow that everyone and their friar seemed to have in their living room nowadays. Never one to get attached, it was hard for Leslie to feel any sympathy for the man he had just killed for no real reason and with no real thought, but he seemed like a nice guy. He didn’t even know the man’s name, though it was probably Jean-Francois. Love ‘em and cleave ‘em.
Even though his timepiece indicated it had only been several hours, it felt as though he had been in the Duke of Northcrumblich’s sinister forge for four days, and with only a heaping stockpile of weapons crafted using superhuman strength whilst possibly possessed by a malevolent spirit to show for it. He still had no idea what had transpired that afternoon, or who had scorched him back to reality, or any real aspirations or meaningful connections to show for his life; as the Giant’s blood dripped rhythmically onto the cobbles, he felt a tinge of regret for the first time in his life. Maybe it was his brush with mortality, or perhaps it was the final city of Elsinore itself, but Leslie suddenly wanted to want something.
It had always been said that 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. As he picked up the newly-forged blade he most likely just made and contemplated dinner and hats, he thought this sounded as good a plan as any. Leslie the Unready was ready.