Kingmonkey's Soupcannon

With Great Paranoia Comes Great... uh, Wait

2010-12-01T11:33:00.000-05:00

A couple days ago, while I was heating up some frozen food in the microwave for the babyboy, I had a bit of a startle. I opened the microwave upon completion of the 30-second, high-power cooking cycle and a spider ran out of the microwave! He (okay, maybe she-- I couldn't say) ran out and skittered under the microwave to disappear into the darkness beneath, presumably to plot revenge from some sinister, web-coated corner of my house, unreachable by human hands.

Now, I admit I don't know much about entomology or microwave ovens other than the basics of both but surely something is very wrong here. Can it be that I have unwittingly created the progenitor of a race of mutant spiders, endowed with cruel human intelligence by the transforming power of a Hitachi microwave oven, bent on retribution for countless generations of slapped, crushed, poisoned, and now irradiated arachnids? Given that much of my understanding of radiation comes from sci-fi movies and comic books, I can only say yes-- yes, mankind is now doomed to extinction by a kingdom of spiders.

For what it's worth, I'd like to apologize to all of you right now for unleashing an arachnid-driven genocide of humankind. My bad-- I'm really sorry.

Still, I remain cautiously optimistic that I may be bitten in the near future and have already begun to shop for spandex!

The Past, and How Bad It Must Have Sucked

2010-11-25T14:05:00.000-05:00

All things have a genesis. Innovations and inventions have a starting point. Before that point of origin, the thing in question existed only as a dream, a spark of imagination in one person's head. History is thus divided by a single and specific instance of creation.

There must have been a time before you could get bacon-wrapped sausages. There is an entire history before that point, a whole era, quantifiable and pitiable, in which sausages wrapped in bacon simply had never occured to anyone. Or maybe, in Douglas Adams way, someone came up with the idea but was then somehow atomized, consigning the intervening generations to further wallow in their naked sausages.

...

Okay, wallowing in naked sausages conjures an entirely unintended image that I wasn't prepared to discuss, so let's table that particular tableau for another date.

Still, damn, huh? Bacon-wrapped sausages: that's some good stuff!

My Own CAPTCHArt Comic

2010-10-08T15:29:00.001-04:00

It's the Law!

2010-09-10T09:26:00.002-04:00

I appreciate the need for certain rules of order in our modern society. If some things were left to choice, anarchy might prevail and all would be lost in senseless revolution.

That's why I'm happy for the simple rules that guide our daily existence.

Like the fact that it is required by law that the song We Are the Champions necessarily follow We Will Rock you on every radio station on Earth. Can you imagine if this were not so? Traffic would grind to a halt as drivers in the millions would be shattered emotionally. Civilization would grind to a halt! Madness would prevail and we'd be reduced to a nomad society where might makes right and lives would be worth less than a full tank of gasoline and Mel Gibson would be our only way to Fiji.

That's just too much to contemplate.

Thank, classic rock stations, for keeping that from happening!

Schizophonia!

2010-05-31T14:41:00.001-04:00

It strikes me that where there is money to be made there is always someone lined up to profit off someone's misery.

It further strikes me that I may be one such person.

The prominence of jackasses wandering around with Bluetooth earpieces for their cell phones -particularly in Wal*Mart, accessorizing a snazzy pink, stretched-to-the-breaking-point spandex, or on the ears of loud-mouthed show-offs in front of me in the checkout '1-8 items' lane of the grocery store (with their Audi TT and their Tommy Hilfiger man-capri pants, you know who I'm talkin' 'bout!)- makes me long for the day when people just used cell phones so you wouldn't have to stop and wonder if the guy talking to himself was actually talking to himself or not. Remember the days when you'd see someone jabbering to himself and you'd know that he or she was a little off? It was like nature's way of saying "Heads up; shit may or may not go down." Nowadays, you have to stop and pay attention to see if the guy's actually got a phone of some kind.

The line between mental illness and being a jerk is getting blurred and, to be fair, I have more sympathy for those who are mentally ill. At least they have an excuse. What's yours, Ms. Decaf-half-soy-non-fat-ristretto-with-Splenda?

In fact, to help out those who have mental illness of the kind that makes one prone to outbursts in the street or prolonged conversations with people I can't see, I would like to start a business. For particularly aware schizophrenics who are aware that, for whatever reason, those around them don't see the lizard people that talk to you daily, I would like to start manifacturing and distributing fake Bluetooth headsets.

All you have to do is slap one on your ear and Presto! you're not crazy anymore, you're just a jerk with a Bluetooth! I know, crazy street people: it is a bit demeaning to have to pretend you're a Bluetooth loser, but it's a small price to pay to be able to really get into conversations with angels in the food court without having some damned security guard interrupting you every fifteen minutes.

The Truth? You can't hand- oh, whatever.

2009-08-14T08:38:00.001-04:00

There comes a time in each man's life when he must confront the darkness in his soul. There are dark urges that sometimes drive us, make us do things we could never speak aloud, fill us with regret. These are the times when we know we have become as low and as foul as we could possibly be.

It is only through the light of truth that we can start to rid ourselves of these evil predilections. Today, I have to admit to you something that shames me to the core.

I kind of like the taste of Thrills gum.

What the Huck?

2009-05-27T23:05:00.003-04:00

I took this photo a couple years back in Iqaluit, Nunavut (Northern Canada). I wouldn't want to worry any potential travelers, but this sign was posted at the airport.

Seems logical, though, doesn't it? Don't fire your rifle at the airport.

Weird Comics

2009-05-11T11:41:00.001-04:00

There was a time when weird was a common part of comic books. Literally. These titles represent only some of those that had the word Weird right in the title to let readers know what lay ahead: Weird Fantasy, Weird Mystery Tales, Weird Science, Weird Science Fantasy, Weird War, Weird Western Tales…. Beyond that, there were books like Creepy, Eerie (not to be confused with Eerie), and Vampirella.
Sadly, books like Vault of Evil and Vault of Horror are rarely made these days, and we have sunk into a rut of superheroes... not even Vault of Superheroes. (I miss vaults.) I, for one, would love to see a revival of series like Uncanny Tales from the Grave. Maybe, if comic book writers can avoid some redundancies in titles, it would help keep them from all presenting Adventures into Fear, Mystery, Terror, Weird Worlds, and Alan Ladd.

The Amazingly Awesome Adventures of kingmonkey: Superspy

2009-04-02T14:48:00.002-04:00

Chapter Tre! A "sticky" situation-- get it?... with disaster!

The steady stream of police cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, had dispersed. kingmonkey had used his rocket cycle's smokescreen, and finally launched himself in to the air leaving $48,329.88-worth of property damage, dozens of angry policemen, and one seriously unnerved old woman behind him. The times were chaotic, and called for a chaotic and random hero-- a role which kingmonkey would gladly hold until someone more deserving came along.

In a rare moment of lucidity, he realized that the best place to start tracking down the Bacterian dictator would be the World Super Prison. Iron Cast had changed strongholds with such alarming regularity that, if he were to go immediately to Bacteria, he'd end up having to comb the entire country to find him. kingmonkey didn't have the patience for that kind of thing. kingmonkey found games of Hungry Hungry Hippo too long and convoluted for him to enjoy.

The rocket cycle set down on the rooftop landing pad of the World Super Prison, a blast of rockets and a cloud of dust heralding his arrival. kingmonkey wiped the smashed bugs off his helmet visor as the prison's warden came to greet him. The building was a massive, blocky grey structure originally built in the '50s. The warden was a massive, blocky grey woman, originally built in the '50s. Unlike the prison, the warden had had no cosmetic upgrades in the mid-'90s. Unlike the prison, no man had ever attempted to breach her impenetrable walls.

"You must be kingmonkey," the warden said, "can I please see your World Spy League ID badge?"

"Of course, Miss Wardenetta," kingmonkey said as he gave her his badge, "you can't be too careful these days."

"As we learned to our great regret," Henrietta Wardenetta replied, handing back the badge, "we thought we were impregnable. Unfortunately, human error proved to be our undoing. We've had to resort to home cooking since the French bakery fiasco. Deprived of their French pastries, Japanese chocolate, and Australian Spaghetti, our inmates are already starting to threaten to riot."

"It's only been about six hours," kingmonkey said (giving a necessary timeline to the narrative).

"We have a very poor kitchen staff. You must return Iron Cast, kingmonkey. You must restore the World Spy League's confidence in our operation so that our budget will be restored, and anti-foreign-food restrictions will be lifted."

The warden and kingmonkey strode out of the midday sun and into the bowels of the massive jail. From the bowels, they proceeded to the colon of the building-- the maximum maximum security containment cells! kingmonkey crouched and looked at the blasted ruins of the European dictator's cell. The smell of brioche-bombs still lingered in the air, an acrid stink that tickled the back of the nose. Loose bits of concrete still littered the floor. In the debris, kingmonkey could make out the footprints, the familiar footprints, of the agents who had freed Iron Cast.

"Big Wrench and Bigger Wrench," kingmonkey muttered.

kingmonkey touched his fingertip gingerly to the nearest footprint. He brought his finger to his mouth and touched it to the tip of his tongue. Raising an eyebrow, he smirked.

"I know where they're headed, warden."

"What? How could you-?"

"Simple! The footprint. Toffee," kingmonkey stated triumphantly. Seeing the warden's confusion, he added further sentence fragments. "Big Wrench. Junk food. Durfy's Toffee. It all makes sense."

"I'm sure it does to you, but I can't read your mind, monkey. Tell me what you're figuring," the warden said.

Iron Cast had an accomplice in the area, an accomplice known only to members of the World Spy League, and their evil opposites, the World Evil-Spy Evil-League (WESEL). He was an accomplice that kingmonkey had heard of, but never encountered: Durfy, the Toffee-Maker-- an insidious confectioner with a taste for junk food, and torture.

"Thanks, narrator," kingmonkey said, "yeah, that about explains it."

"I didn't... Who were you listening to?" The warden stepped back as kingmonkey stared unblinking at her.

"There's no time for discussion, now. Now is the time for senseless action."

"What are you going to do?"

kingmonkey smiled. "I'm going to go over to Durfy's Toffee, and show the Toffee-Maker the door-- the Glendoor!"

An awkward silence filled the hall for a moment. kingmonkey stared knowingly at the increasingly worried warden. She simply shook her head.

"The Glendoor?"

"The Glendoor."

"I don't understand," the warden explained.

"The Glendoor."

"What's the Glendoor?"

"The Glendoor."

"Is that some kind of-?"

"The Glendoor."

"Merely repeating 'The Glendoor' doesn't explain it," said the warden, growing more irate.

"It's a private joke," said kingmonkey

"Then how was I supposed to-"

"The Glendoor."

The warden sighed and began to walk away.

"Forty-two," kingmonkey called after her.

"That still doesn't make any sense to me," screamed the warden.

kingmonkey, undaunted by the warden's lack of appreciation for finely-crafted puns, kicked a piece of broken concrete, thrust his head into his helmet and dashed madly out the door. The blazing sunlight suddenly blinding him, kingmonkey ran into the side of his rocket cycle, knocking it over.

Chanting a theme song aloud, he picked up his rocket cycle and programmed the directional coordinates for Durfy's Toffee. kingmonkey knew the Toffee-Maker was a clever customer, and a cleverer criminal. kingmonkey would need a super-secret disguise, which no one would ever see through. As the clouds sped by in the sky, kingmonkey wracked his tiny little brain until he finally had an idea.

After he stopped for lunch at Denny's, he got back onto his bike and continued to think about what kind of disguise to use.

Stay Tuned for Chapter 4: Candy-gram!

Life imitates (ostensible) art

2009-03-12T10:50:00.006-04:00

Here are two commercials to watch.

Okay, so far so good, assuming you're into facial filling make-up. To be honest, I watched this with the sound off, so I know nothing about the product. I can only assume it's some kind of jelly that makes your face look chubby. In all fairness, Chub-gel probably wouldn't sell as well.

Or is it?

What I know for sure is that it bares a startling similarity to a fictional product I have seen before.

Submitted for your review and comparison:

Holy shit!

It's at times like this that you realize how hopelessly out of touch most cosmetics companies are with the modern horror movies (shocking, I know). Surely, at least one person at Avon must have said "hey guys, this new product is great and all, but you do realize that we've designed it to look almost exactly like a zombie-making virus from a series of horror movies and games, right? Guys?"

At this point, the lone voice of dissent was no doubt introduced to the labs in the secret sub-basement at Avon-- the labs where the zombies are stored. Of course they don't do animal testing; zombie testing is much more reliable!

I had never considered this before

2009-03-06T19:09:00.001-05:00

Hi, my name is Knuckles.

2009-02-05T08:27:00.005-05:00

I'm a heroine addict.

It was innocent enough, in the beginning. I found a discarded poster of Princess Leia, one day after school, and brought it home with me. My friends thought it was cool. I loved the adulation of my peers, and I needed to do more to keep it up. They'd egg me on; they convinced me to start reading Wonder Woman.

Well, then I was Mr. Popular. We'd have parties and someone would always start passing around the Batgirl. My wife was always trying to be understanding, but I hid how often I was using. It was a downward spiral of Black Canary, Ms. Marvel, and Lara Croft.

Before I knew it, my wife left me when she found Ellen Ripley stashed under our mattress.

The Mayfair Theatre

2009-01-02T14:23:00.001-05:00

Here in Ottawa, Ontario (Canada), we have been graced. A new owner has stepped forward and saved our recently closed Mayfair Thatre. The theatre had been opened back in 1932, and closed at the beginning of December. The last movie I saw there was The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

It was a repertoir theatre, but somewhere along the way, it got lost in becoming a commercial thatre, basically being a double-feature running theatre, playing Hollywood crap that was fresh out of the big chain thatres. Now, under new management, it's going back to the way it should be. Check out their schedule at http://www.mayfairtheatre.ca/.

James Bond double-bills? Metropolis (with a live band, The Hilotrons, doing the soundtrack)? Machine Girl? Kung-Fu Fridays? Mad Max? I am beside myself in anticipation of going tonight to catch Metropolis. I joined their group on Facebook, too, because this is super-exciting.

I'm better than Bookworm

2008-12-22T14:52:00.000-05:00

Have you ever played a game of Scrabble against someone with a limited vocabulary? Like the time that I played against a couple friends and laid out the word rapt. Not exactly a high-scoring word, now is it? Nonetheless, the girl pointed out that rapt wasn't a word. I assured her that it is a word. She declined my offered definition.

http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/rapt

She then asked me the ultimate Scrabble-challenge question: use rapt in a sentence. By this time, I was fairly flustered and the best I could come up with was: Rapt is a word. It's a complete sentence, grammatically sound, and it is also a true sentence. Alas, I only won after the fun of the game was thoroughly ground into the dirt.

My feelings when playing Bookworm are similarly unpleasant. Here, not only are you unable to use some words for mysterious reasons, but you also cannot argue that you're right. Case in point: look at the image above. Wizened is a word, as surely as rapt is and rofl isn't.

http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/wizened

I raged against my machine that day, I'll tell you. The feeling of such bitter and ignominious defeat, of plummeting from the lexical heights of Bookwormdom's noble court (the 7-letter+ word club)... it soured my whole Bookworming experience and I have not played since.

Then you play Scrabulous on Facebook and somehow za is a word. The vocabulary world has turned against me.

Life of a Chocolate Addict

2008-12-10T11:44:00.005-05:00

I bought some new hot chocolate. How was I to know it would change my life?

At first, I thought 'hey, this stuff looks good.' It seemed innocuous enough, in it's little brown tin, with simple green patterns. The ingredients: dark chocolate, sugar, salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and pepper. It was enough of a subtle twist that I was hooked.

Hooked. Huh. I used to use the word as a joke. Hooked on comics, hooked on zombie movies, hooked on crystal meth-- always light-hearted and comical.

I tried the hot chocolate and it was good. It was smooth, chocolaty, and most of all, it triggered a catastrophic addiction. Y'see, I thought it said to add 3 tsp of chocolate to my 6 oz. cup. I liked it, and felt warm surges of ecstasy under my skin. Then I reread the package to discover it actually read 3 tbsp per cup! Naturally, I wanted the full effect- nay, needed the full effect. And that's when it all started. It seduced my senses, left me a gibbering puddle of flesh in my chair. (My co-workers were remarkably understanding, and didn't feel compelled to help in any way whatsoever.)

That was when I decided to leave my wife and run away with my hot chocolate. I know, deep down, that eventually my chocolate will run out on me. Sure, I'll try to find it again, but it's a weird foreign brand and I'm not sure I'll be able to. I'll eventually try the next fancy hot chocolate to come along, then the next, then the next, in an ever-worsening spiral of chocolaty self-destruction.

Next thing you know, I'll be snorting raw cocoa-- freebasing Ecuador 80% Dark. My family will try to hold an intervention, and my wife, tearful, will ask me to leave chocolate and come back home.

At first, I'll try, thinking maybe, just maybe I can do it, but fearing deep down that one day, the Cocoa Dragon will have me again. Sure, my confidence will be boosted the first time I pass by Laura Secord or Godiva stores, and I'll think 'you know what? I can do this.' But then the first time it gets too hard, I'll be back on the street, probably on Hallowe'en. The cravings will have gotten too bad, and I'd be looking for the biggest fix of all, only to be lost in a sea of milk chocolate and dark cocoa.

Seriously, though, if you can find Chuao Chocolatiers' Winter Hot Chocolate? I heartily recommend it. And I'll reserve a place for you in choco-rehab.

An Infinite Game

2008-11-06T15:42:00.003-05:00

For a thousand years, I've been watching the Estigies plot their wars, and run the course of history. The parasites have manoeuvred nations to do their bidding, sacrificed countless lives to fill their need for conflict. They shifted their focus from all-out slaughter to subtle manipulations-- architects designing architects, schemers behind the schemers behind the thrones. To what end do they play their games? Toward what goal do they march? I've yet to discover that hidden truth.

I suspect it may be little more than sheer boredom that impelled them, at first, to toy with our world. Their unending existence must have been terribly, maddeningly dull before humanity rose to a level worthy of their attention. Like a sudden breeze with a strange smell across an unending, uninteresting plain, we immediately became their sole recipient of their studies and experimentation. The games began when they realized that their own brethren wanted to play with us on their own. They behave like children, destroying what they have to prevent others from having what they want for themselves. Unlike children, instead of tossing us aside in a tantrum, they have plotted to ruin us for their brethren in an eternal game.

Ha, would that it were eternal. The closing gambits have come sooner than the Estigies ever expected. The game has taken on a life of it's own, further driving their interest in playing, but has also exceeded their designs, moving faster to it's inevitable end. Our suns are setting, and they are mad with the desire to end the game in their individual ways. They are desperate, even knowing that once the game is done, they will return to their infinite and pointless existence alone in our realm.

What of humanity? As a rule, we are unaware of the game being played, even as the dice are cast, and we are moved across the board by hands well-cloaked in shadow. It is only recently, compared to the length of the game as a whole, that a new player has taken a seat at the table. An unknown variable, further confounding the desperate Estigies, has manipulated a small number of us, changing us into players in our own right. None know the purpose of The Player, but it seems obvious that its goal is to disrupt the Estigies' game.

Our eyes have been opened and we have been made to see the hands of the Estigies as they move us in accordance with their plans. We have seen the game being played and in our indignant rage, we have thrown their plans into turmoil. We hate them for their presumptive control of our lives. That they treat humanity as playthings is despicable. We strike at them where we can-- their pawns, their knights, and given the opportunity, we would undoubtedly strike at the Estigies themselves.

I am one of the chosen few plucked by The Player to become more than a pawn. I have been alive for a thousand years, since the nineteenth century. In that time, unlike some of my peers, I have spent more time watching than waging war against our unseen manipulators. There is more afoot here than even the Machiavellian schemes of the Estigies and the chosen humans. The purpose of The Player is unknown but accepted as beneficent to humanity. I alone ask why The Player has interceded.

Is it cynical to doubt an apparently altruistic move? Could The Player be yet another of the Estigies in the guise of a stranger? For all the things we know, we realize we cannot know everything. I have taken it upon myself to investigate the seeming source of our salvation.

The Amazingly Awesome Adventures of kingmonkey: Superspy!

2008-10-28T10:13:00.003-04:00

Chapter Deux! The spy who clubbed me... with disaster!

kingmonkey sped away from his home on his rocket-powered motorcycle. Old women scattered in his path, screaming, as kingmonkey pondered his mission. It would be dangerous, and sexy... very sexy. Crazy Ned's words still echoed in his ears (for Crazy Ned was unable to differentiate between indoor and outdoor voices): Hazzum, blazzum in the can, you farging radent!

Crazy Ned was a fount of wisdom, presumably, and kingmonkey knew better than to take his words lightly. The meaning of Crazy Ned's cryptic message would likely become clear as kingmonkey's mission unfolded.

kingmonkey was a monkey on a mission- a mission to stop a crazed European dictator (is there any other kind?) and no amount of enemies or red lights would stop him from rocketing blindly into danger and succeeding despite himself. Iron Cast and his many minions were no stranger to kingmonkey, for they had crossed swords many times. Truthfully, they had crossed guns more often than swords, and once even crossed streams, but still, the metaphor sounds best in its original format, and it's best not to mess with that.

Above the intersection through which the speeding simian super spy now hurtled, a strange stork stood staring starkly in silence. It's camera eyes recorded the scene as a dozen police cruisers hopelessly pursued the daring rogue. The stork suddenly extended an antenna from it's head and began emitting an encrypted electromagnetic signal along a special frequency. The information beamed its way out of the city and up into the sky where it jumped from secret relay satellite to secret relay satellite, and finally down to a small European theme park-- Submissionland! The nation was Bacteria, and in the magic castle at the centre of Submissionland! Iron Cast stood in front of a megascreen, watching as kingmonkey evaded justice in the pursuit of justice.

"Come, you simian simpleton," Iron Cast said aloud to no one in particular, "this time you shall find that Iron Cast is ready for you, and no amount of idiot luck will save you this time."

"You're doing it again, sir."

"What? No, I wasn't"

"You were, sir," said a thin man, impeccably dressed, who stood beside the deranged monarch, "you were referring to yourself in the third person. You remember what your evil therapist said about that?"

"Sigh... when you dissociate from yourself, you dissociate from success."

"That's right. Care to try that again, majesty?"

"Right. Ahem-- Come, you simian simpleton," Iron Cast said aloud to no one in particular, "this time you shall find that Ir-I am ready for you, and no amount of idiot luck will save you this time!"

"Well exclaimed, sir. I have a number of your minions online. Who would you like to send after kingmonkey first: The Toffee-Maker, Big Wrench, Bigger Wrench, Chopper Queen, Spastic War Veteran, or Natasha Unfaithfulova?"

"Call in... The Toffee-Maker! Hah ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Indeed, sir."

Stay tuned for Chapter 3: A "sticky" situation-- get it?

www.howdoigetmyheadoutofthisthing.com

2008-10-28T09:32:00.001-04:00

Day 1: After the initial flush of panic subsided, I have determined that my first fears were correct: my head is indeed firmly stuck in this thing.

Day 2: Calling for help has done me no good. I spent most of the day, gently tapping and sounding out any weak points in this thing. There appear to be none. There is a slimy patch, though, which I regret having touched in the first place. I've made a mental note of that spot, in order to avoid it in the future.

Day 3: The peculiar sensation of being watched came over me today. I suspect that someone is out there, simply watching me as I blunder about with my head caught in this thing. They don't answer me when I ask for help. Did they put this thing on my head? I must investigate further.

Day 4: Is someone cooking bacon?

Day 5: I have stubbed my toe. Curious, though, is the fact that whatever it was, against which I stubbed my toe, cried out in pain. My suspicions of being watched have been confirmed. Whoever I kicked did not answer when I asked if he was all right. So I called him a jerk and tried to kick him again. I missed.

Day 6: Is this just a large vase? I think it might be. It's pretty durable, but thus far I have resisted punching myself in the head or slamming my skull against the floor to try and break it. I am quite hungry, now, and fear the corner of the room will no longer be habitable since I could not find anything that felt like a bathroom.

Day 7: I woke up this morning to see a crack of light. It seems the vase in which my head had become stuck was broken a bit by a fit in my restless sleep. I dreamt of dancing through a field with this thing stuck on my head. I could see, though, and the thing had become part of me. Upon seeing the crack of light, I rejoiced and cried out huzzah! Someone shushed me, citing that the game was on. I immediately set about tapping the crack with my knuckles until it widened. Eventually, the whole vase fell to pieces and I was free.

Day 8: It was explained to me that I drank too much, and upon being dared to stick my head into a vase, I did so with no thought to how I might extricate myself once thus inserted. I was the subject of laughter for some time before I ceased being humourous. That no one made any move to help me in the following week is a cause for some concern.

Day 9: Thinking of my dream, I have begun to miss my vase.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Paranoid Delusionals

2008-10-16T08:44:00.005-04:00

It turns out that Phil has been in the Army... the Chinese Army where, as best I can glean from so many Chinese movies, all soldiers are trained in mystical kung fu, capable of short range flight, and possessed of golden magical energy. It now seems that my idea to have planked him in the back of the head while sneaking by his desk may have been ill-advised. I blame you for this, Sam. You should have known better than to let me run off, half-cocked, or even one-third-cocked as it turned out.

I've made a peace offering, a gift basket of assorted jams, and I think everything will work out fine between us. Especially once the psychotropics in the jam start to take effect.

The whole situation has taught me an important lesson, though. It's made me realize that I am physically weak, and have a phobic aversion to pain. I once fainted while watching someone cook chicken in the microwave; that's how ridiculous my fear of hurt is. You'd think that would have taught me the lesson long ago, but for the purposes of this story, it did not.

My mind is my strength, as sad a statement as that is, and I shall endeavor to rely on it in all future battles. Until my inevitable telekinesis manifests, this means I will become a planner, a schemer, an office Machiavelli. Instead of challenging the next Phil directly, I shall manipulate my co-workers to do it for me. I shall be unstoppable.

Unless I am stopped, somehow.

The Game Begins

2008-10-02T16:36:00.004-04:00

I have difficulty with the idea of having a desk near the bathroom door. I was lucky this time, and I didn't have to bite that bullet. The bullet was instead bitten by Phil. He isn't our resident bullet biter by any means, so this seems an odd place to put him.

I do notice that he nods and speaks to me when I go by, though. It's as though he's documenting my bathroom habits. Perhaps he's been put there by The Man, whose name is Gord, to keep me "down" somehow.

I like being able to go to the bathroom unnoticed. It adds a layer of mystery that is comfortable for me. Like, 'where has kingmonkey gone?' 'I don't know'. That's better than 'where has kingmonkey gone?' 'To the bathroom, he's been in their for seven minutes, and this is his third trip to the bathroom today.'

Clearly, I must devise an alternate means of reaching the bathroom unnoticed. Perhaps if I slide along the office floor, wearing strips of carpet as camouflage. I can wait until he's doing credit card reconciliation and dart into the men's room. That'll screw up his precious surveillance, won't it?

Alternately, I may hit him in the head with a plank, from behind.

I'll be sure to document the results of whichever plan I enact. Stay tuned, and know that I am fighting for your rights.

Somehow.

The Amazingly Awesome Adventures of kingmonkey: Superspy

2008-09-14T20:58:00.003-04:00

Chapter Uno! Appointment... with disaster!

It was a bright summer morning, and kingmonkey was just finishing his swim in the Olympic-sized, banana-shaped, champagne swimming pool. It was bright (as previously mentioned), and it was warm, with an afternoon high expected to reach 28 degrees Celsius, winds from the east at 5km/h, 15% chance of precipitation. The ruggedly handsome monkey luxuriated as he dried himself off with his solid gold towel, enjoying the feel of the warm sun and gentle easterly breeze on his naked monkey parts.

His day was packed. First he would eat a breakfast largely consisting of peanut butter and chocolate bars, washed down with beer. Next on his agenda was an inordinate amount of time playing video games on his cinema-sized television. After that, lunch: nachos and beer! Following that, he would harass Crazy Ned, the bum who lived on the mansion's front lawn. After that... truthfully, kingmonkey wasn't what you'd call a 'planner' and had no real plans for the late afternoon and onwards, only vague conceptions of what he would do. He did know that they involved women in some fashion, and possibly some kind of physical activity. He logically concluded he was going to be playing rugby with women, but couldn't imagine a rational reason why at this point. He hoped the afternoon would be more clear after his nacho and beer lunch.

Unfortunately, as is often the way of things for international super spies, his plans were to be interrupted. The Blue phone began to ring in the far west wing of the mansion. At once, kingmonkey sat in the speed chair, clicked the GO switch and was whisked along greased rails, through his amazing mansion, at unreasonable speeds toward his private spy room. The chair whooshed along, frightening the butler, and threatening to throw kingmonkey off at every junction. At last, he arrived more or less safely except for one collision with a stuffed flamingo which would leave an uncomfortably visible bruise. Damn that stuffed flamingo; this round was it's, but kingmonkey would win the war.

The blue phone rang and the auto-viewer screen had automatically turned itself on. The President of the World Spy League was on the monitor, waiting for kingmonkey to pick up the blue phone. kingmonkey quickly poured himself a glass of water (scotch) to steady his stomach after the chair ride, while the blue phone rang. He also swallowed a pair of antacid tablets while the blue phone rang. The President of the World Spy League (whose title, the regulations state, must always be capitalized when either written or spoken) waited impatiently, puffing his big cigar and emitting tiny white clouds of irritated smoke while he waited for kingmonkey to answer the blue phone.

Answer the blue phone, dammit!

"Okay, keep your horses on," kingmonkey mixedly metaphorized, acknowledging the voice of the narrator, "what's up, o Presidente?"

"It's about time you answered the blue phone, kingmonkey," the President of the World Spy League's voice was thick with aggravation and velvety smooth, rumbling out from beneath his voluminous moustache (an Imperial, if you're curious), "we need your help."

"That's what I'm here for," kingmonkey narrowed his simian eyes in an attempt to appear tough. He failed, looking more myopic than heroic. "What do you need?"

"It's Iron Cast, the armoured dictator of the tiny European nation of Bacteria who is always trying to conquer the world," exposited the President of the World Spy League, "he's been freed from the World Super Prison by members of his elite forces. They broke him out by posing as French Bakers. They went in under the pretense of replenishing the baguette supply, and incapacitated the guards with sleeping-gas-brioche-bombs, and extra-old baguettes which they used as batons."

"I knew they shouldn't have put that prison in America," kingmonkey smacked his tiny fist into his tiny palm, gosh he's so cute, and tiny, just like a little person. "Americans are unable to resist anything French; they just love them too much!"

"It's true," the President of the World Spy League nodded solemnly, "Americans love their baguettes without regard for the consequences. But that doesn't matter now, we need you to bring Iron Cast back in. We'll pay you the sum of one hundred million dollars if you can do it."

Without a word, kingmonkey put on his white and red jumpsuit, and the gold cape that came with it. He picked up his motorcycle helmet and turned dramatically to the video screen.

"I'll do it, Presidente," kingmonkey announced.

He stormed out of the spy room with heroic music playing on his mp3 player. He kicked open the door to the main hall, knocking over the startled butler. But kingmonkey didn't have time for such minor concerns. He had an appointment: an appointment with... disaster!

Stay tuned for Chapter 2: The Spy Who Clubbed Me!

A Facebook Thing

2008-09-11T16:41:00.003-04:00

As you, my imaginary readers, can see, I have added an application that links this blog to Facebook. My hope is to increase my readership from 'zero' to 'some.'

I know, dare to dream, huh?

Still, if nothing comes of it on a self-serving note -and I hope it does, as my self-servitude knows few bounds- it will at least get a couple other blogs some much-deserved attention. I refer, of course, to Those Aren't Muskets! (at http://thosearentmuskets.blogspot.com) and Weird Universe (predictably at http://www.weirduniverse.net/blog). If I could find Gladstone's blog, I would link it in, as well, but I've had no luck tracking it down just yet. Still, you can check him out at www.waynegladstone.com. And by 'check him out,' I mean that he hosts full frontal nude photos of himself.

You know, I can still hardly believe I even have a Facebook account, seeing as how I'm actually fairly anti-social. Or unfairly... it depends on which side of the urine-filled water pistol you are. Of course, the account is under a false identity (a shocking revelation for those of you who know me as Knuckles McGillicuddy, no doubt), so it sort of precludes actual social interaction with most people I know in real life since I'm not posting any of my private info to identify me. Add to that the fact that most of my Facebook 'friends' are people I've never met-- it paints quite the loser-y picture of me.

Luckily, it's all a facade. Rest-assured, I am quite cool, and certainly don't live in my mother's basement. (I wish, though: she has a very cool basement.)

In conclusion, be my fake internet friend, and send me Facebook kittens.
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=786440710

Truth in Advertising

2008-09-08T08:16:00.003-04:00

I'm not sure what planet most advertising people live on. It's certainly not my Earth. The simplest things, under the only-slightly-biased eyes of the ad-men transform into the most miraculous of events.

Do they even shave? If they do, then why are they trying to make us think that shaving is the most thrilling experience a man can have? I mean, yeah, shaving is pretty cool and all-- it helps you not get kicked out of bed for scraping your partner's skin off like a cheese grater when you try to kiss. But how many times have we seen this ad?

Experience the thrill and excitement of Gilleck Quadro Fusion Extreme 3 Micro-razors! Each blade gives a more spine-tingling excitement than the last! Shaving is more exactly, more scientifically designed to provide you with the most awesome experience known to man!! With the Gilleck Quadro Fusion Extreme 3 Micro-razor you'll be more manly and virile than ever!!! You'll be like half James Bond, half Rambo, and half race car driving astronaut!!!! You'll become a shaving cream powered sex-machine!!!!! God-damn it shaving is so cool!!!!!! Hot, submissive women in silver skin-tight space suits will come on to you and you'll ejaculate like a man on fire parachuting from the space shuttle at 3,000 miles per hour!!!!!!!

Of course, for women the approach is less, shall we say, un-subtle... and graced with fewer exclamation marks.

The Aphrodite will transform you into a living goddess. No exaggeration. Once you shave with the Aphrodite, not only will your unsightly, freakish leg-hair be mercifully removed, thereby saving your immortal soul, but you will instantly be transported to a tropical island, where you and all your other Aphrodite-transcending goddess friends will live a life of idyll and luxury. You'll do nothing but take leisurely swims in a remarkably sterile ocean, and drink brightly coloured tropical drinks served to you in ornate glasses adorned with little pink umbrellas, served to you by bronzed, servile men with killer abs, who are also adorned only with little pink umbrellas. If you don't shave with this razor, you'll remain a hairy cow, fit only for a career in a circus freak show, doomed to live a single life, alone and miserable with your twelve cats. It's your choice.

It has become painfully apparent that I should get a job in marketing. I have few reservations about lying, and suffer few, if any pangs of conscience. I would concoct ads promising sexual prowess and material wealth if only you'd buy Velveeta. Velveeta's delicious and smooth flavour not only grants immortality, but also, moments of omniscience. If you drive a Hyundai, you will have sex with every woman in the world (even if you are one yourself, so ladies, you may need to really think about your sexuality before buying a Hyundai). Lucky Charms cereal is guaranteed to give you your own leprechaun in each box; don't worry about that curious smell of decay, that's normal for leprechauns-- the rank wee buggers!

Unleash Your Inner Goblin!

2008-04-22T12:56:00.002-04:00

They key to a new future is in your hands

Stress is a daily aspect of your life. Whether it be from work, relationships, traffic, or any number of other sources, it's there. The important thing is how you deal with stress. Many people will tell you that a positive outlook and simple excercises are the key to using stress to your advantage. These people are, of course, idiots who make money off naive fools.

Unleash the Goblin within you! Learn to use the power of stress to unleash your inner goblin. With this course, you will learn to:

delight in the misery of others
torment small animals and children for pleasure
speak in a shrill voice with a Cockney accent
make arrows with black goo on them (usually poison)
wear mismatched armour
conceal yourself in shadows (useful in the stock room or warehouse!)
lie
cheat
lie some more
steal
grovel pathetically for mercy
attack in swarms
laugh maniacally

And for a limited time, when you purchase this course on DVD, you will also receive the 'Goblin on the Go' CD. A great gift valued at 19.99 for free. Useful when you need quick goblin tips during bus rides, staff meetings, and hunting lone hikers in the woods.

Unleash your inner goblin now!

Stop pretending to be happy about your stress; make someone else miserable instead! Just listen to these testimonials..

"I think I ordered this along time ago and forgot about it, but I absorbed all the info cause I still use some of those tactics today. I can say that it is all useful info. I encourage everyone to order it. I might even order it again to brush up on my Goblin Rampage skills."

"Now this sounds like the DVD for me. I'm tired of pretending that I'm not under stress. Now I can be mean to people, and if they ask why, then I can just say I ordered Unleash Your Inner Goblin on DVD. They will have to understand. If they don't, then they aren't my real friends!"

"Ive been a nasty son of a 'explitive' for seven years now, Kingmonkeys DVD changed my life! Before I was kind, congenial and walked over. Now people avoid and fear me... they know that if they get in my way I'll ruin their lives with the same obsessive compulsive dilligence that I do everything. Plus it gives me another excuse to eat kittens. Thanks Kingmonkey!"

"Before taking the Goblin program, I was a kind and generous person. Now, I hunt people for sport and push old ladies down the stairs. Thanks Monkey!"

I'm pretty sure that my fortune cookies have been hitting on me

2008-04-17T16:30:00.004-04:00

A few days ago, I went out and got some Chinese food. First, and most importantly, it was fucking fantastic! Second, and even more most important, my fortune cookies started to chat me up.

They didn't even start off subtle, either.

Others are deeply moved by your presence... in bed.

I could only respond to that in one way: fuckin' right they are!

But it didn't stop there. My leftovers also included a fortune cookie.

You express yourself with charm and humor... in bed.

Oh, Fortune Cookies, you say such things-- I'm blushing. If only you were animate...

I'm having the last of the Chinese food tonight, before it goes bad and starts a refrigerator revolt. I'm hoping my fortune cookies will affirm their love for me, but secretly fear they may leave me for the moo shoo crepes.

Soundtracks

2008-04-16T13:37:00.003-04:00

Why doesn't real life have a soundtrack?

I enjoy listening to music. It's almost perverse how much I enjoy listening to music. If music were a solid thing, I'm sure I would be arrested for doing indecent things in public with it.

I always like having music playing while I'm doing anything around the apartment. Be it writing, cleaning, cooking, conversing with the cats, or engaging in witty repartée over Skype with some of my fellow sophisticants, there's usually music accompanying my hilarious hijinks. Right now, I'm listening to Guns' N Roses - Appetite for Destruction... it is soothing my savage breast.

So, now all I need to do is figure out a belt clip for a battery pack, attach some speakers, keep them in a backpack, connect it to my free iPod (thanks, moviesonline.ca!) and blast out the Vanilla Ice wherever I go.

Um, and by Vanilla Ice, I clearly mean whatever music you assume I think is awesome.

When writing, some specific scenes seem to call out for a certain type of music. In Behind Stone Walls, I found that Mr. Self-Destruct by Nine Inch Nails kept coming back to haunt me like the odour of a fart that gets trapped in the cloth of your pants.

RDL has proposed a contest of some kind for writers over at moviesonline.ca, and sleazy and Flagg seem to be thinking of polishing The New World Order for submission to Image Comics. I'm going to need to buy new speakers.

Where the Wild Ideas Are

2008-04-15T16:32:00.002-04:00

I wonder where ideas come from. Not literally, but in the arrogant, pretentious artistic way.

I developed a whole background for Behind Stone Walls* which I don't think will ever get to see the light of day in the completed story. Maybe I'll explore them in another story, but it's unlikely. Despite my participation in spin-off stories at www.moviesonline.ca, I don't like to revisit my creations. I like to love them and leave them like an irresponsible lover.

The writing journal is getting filled with my "secret codes" (i.e. poor handwriting) of all kinds of story ideas. A few are just simple titles, a couple lines of dialogue that want to be told in something later on, one seriously cool time travel idea I had late one night before going to bed... Sometimes, just writing down a description gives me fodder for later use.

Red Death Lady had an idea over at moviesonline, about a summer writing contest/thing. I'm thinking about it-- seriously thinking about it. I think I really need some external motivation to get going. I used to write on forums because other people could read it immediately, and give feedback. (Plus, the mind-blowing praise and blizzard of money you get paid for that sort of thing is nice, too.) Left to my own devices, I don't get much done. Must do something about that lak of writing initiative.

A cool quote from I Know This Much Is True: Inspiration is a fickle mistress, after all-- keep her waiting and she may desert you for another!

*I'm really starting to hate that title.

Reading Stuff!

2008-01-11T10:55:00.000-05:00

I'm a little under halfway through The Day Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko. It's the second in the Watch series, following The Night Watch. I started reading the first book (exclusively on the bus while going to and from work every weekday), a little over two weeks ago, and now am halfway through the second. I gotta say, I really like this stuff!

The series is very well-defined, and follows an unusual and original premise. I know I'll be picking up the next two books as soon as I've finished this one.

This is the kind of fantasy I've always wanted to read: set in modern times, and following some parallels with White Wolf's World of Darkness, but minus the Anne Rice-centric melodrama and angst. In a real World of Darkness (like the one written by Mr. Lukyanenko), the whiney, self-obsessed vampires would be slaughtered by the very desperate werewolves.

kingmonkey goes back to school

2007-12-28T13:49:00.002-05:00

As January approaches, I'm eager to go back to school.

Holy shit.

How did that happen? I'm going back to school? Well, okay not a full schooling, or anything. I'm going to take a course at Algonquin College called Crafting a Novel. Hopefully I'll be able to put this to use and finally write a story with an ending.

It sucks having the attention span of a

So anyway, my vision of the future has me living the high life in a vast studio apartment, overlooking an ocean of some kind. For some reason, I'm dressed all in white, in this dream, and my clothes flutter in a constant breeze no matter where I go.

We'll see how ready the public is for finely crafted novels about zombie apocalypses and superheroes! No doubt, the lack of them indicates that there must be a starving market for them, right?