Shakespeare, the Animated Series.

I sat in my chair enjoying the show. The students watched with rapt attention as the screen flared to life, a *shwoom* marking the beginning of the movie. I, for one, was going to enjoy this; a 20 minute cartoon representation of Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet was right up nerd alley for me. In awe of the *shwoom*, the students sat and waited. Whether they sat on a chair or on the carpet, the room was silent.

For a classroom with 50+ nine/ten year old children, this can only be categorized as a miracle of epic proportions. Such a silence had not been heard since the kids had left for summer vacation. I wondered how long it would last.

The year 5’s had been working on reading and understanding Romeo & Juliet for approximately 3 weeks now. The reading part wasn’t hard. Students had been reading a shortened, reviewed, edited, and modernized (linguistically speaking) version of the play. Tame would be the best word to describe it; not so much as a peck on the cheek had made it’s way out of Shakespeare’s more adult original.

In short, the book had none of the original’s character. Still, it was effective at getting young readers to buy into a world where pantaloons were the height of fashion.

“O Romeo, Romeo? Wherefore art thou Romeo?” wailed the oddly well endowed cartoon Juliet. I pondered the meaning behind that particular artistic decision. Juliet was supposedly a 13 year old girl, and here was a particularly fetching cartoon of her in a night slip that barely covered her ta-tas. I mean, it must have taken a team of animators to do this movie, but the unanimous decision to make Juliet bombin’ was an odd one.

Juliet from Romeo and Juliet

My 9 year old brain wouldn’t understand. I’m with him.

My thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of nauseated children. Focusing on the screen, I realized that Romeo and Juliet had just started making out, and laughed to myself.

“Sir, that’s gross!” shouted a little boy in the seat next to me.

I shrugged. “Give it 6 years kid, and you’re going to wanna know how he did that.”

“Wha?” English accents don’t particularly like having consonant sounds at the end of words.

“Never mind. Keep watching, or you’ll miss the film” I turned back to the movie when a memory started tickling at the edge of my conscious mind. I couldn’t figure out why though, as it was interrupted by the most horrifying Mercutio I have ever seen prancing around.

Mercutio cursing the houses

Fuck yo couches, I was beautiful.

Students were asked to take a bullet point summary of the book in an earlier class. This completed, the last class was spent entirely on summarizing those points on another sheet, this time with two sides: one said book, the other said film. Most anybody can figure out what this meant, but year 5 students are not most anybody.

Mr. B, why is there Film? Because we’re going to be comparing the book and a movie.

Mr. B, are we watching a movie? No, we put film on there to torture you.

Mr. B, can I go to the bathroom? I’m bustin’!! (Apparently “bustin” is appropriate terminology for “about to piss ones pantaloons.”) Remind me in 5 minutes. Don’t pee yourself. Please.

Regardless, the proverbial stage had been set, and we were going to compare and contrast the book to the cartoon version of Romeo & Juliet.

Romeo had killed Tybalt in what was probably the most bloodless murder that I’d seen. What if Tybalt had no blood? That would explain his creepy ass complexion.


That jaw tho. What a pale ass HUNK.

The thought that had been nagging at me surfaced again, and this time I remembered; isn’t the part after this where Romeo and Juliet straight up do some underage matrimonial polka? Panicking, I glanced at the desktop computer playing the film. Not that sexuality or fixing the proverbial plumbing is a bad thing: quite the contrary. However, the UK has the interesting and backwards view towards sex ed that basically boils down to “if I have to.” In this case, I really didn’t want to be the one to explain to upwards of 50 children about the birds, the bees, and the bedroom blanket drill.

Thankfully, one of the teachers was manning the post, and just as the story started to get visual with a game of “hide the salami,” she turned turned off the projector.

“Wha’?” exclaimed some kids.

“Is something wrong?” asked most of the rest.

One boy, however, was close to the desktop.

Curiosity can be rare in kids, depending on the subject. Ask a student to do math and the majority response will be an untempered but well practiced groan of misery rising from the bottom of the deepest hell they can fathom. If you tell young ones they are playing a game, they will lose their minds.

Often, getting kids curious about something is like working with a stubborn, conservative, crotchety old man. It’s not so much that you’re telling the man what to do; it’s more like guiding him, tricking him into doing something you want him to do. Like letting women vote or something.

Sometimes, curiosity just comes up, but it’s never when you want.

I imagine that the boy was probably seeing the hanky panky for the first time. His eyes were wider than plates, and sucked in the scene faster than a dying man in the desert could suck back a fresh glass of water.

“Oh my gaw, they’re naked!!”

A calm before the oncoming storm lasted for all of a half second. Silence, the likes of which I’d never hear again in a class this packed, filled the room like air in a balloon ready to burst. Then, the class erupted.

“What do you mean naked?” “Like, NAKED naked or naked naked?” “That’s gross! Can I see?” “What does it look like?”

“Cool,” went one solitary voice in the back. I didn’t know who it was, and it was probably better that way.

The other teachers scrambled. For precisely 40 seconds of chaos, the class had dissolved into a cesspool of burgeoning curiosity the likes of which I will likely never see again, and I sat and laughed. If only you could have this level of curiosity on a daily basis, not just for the bedroom romp, but for everything. It would be amazing.

When the class had calmed down and the film had picked up from where the tangled sheet tango left off, normalcy returned and the story concluded in dramatic and completely depressing fashion. Half the students left to go to their normal class, and the incident was mostly forgotten instantly.

“Sir?” asked the boy who was grossed out by the kissing earlier. I turned to him, and asked him what was on his mind.

“What did you mean by 6 years?”

Poker face meme

Maybe later kid.


The Camel of Comedy


I once heard Jason Biggs, “Jim” from the American Pie movies, say something to the tune of “If you can’t get embarrassed, then you’re missing out on a lot of funny”. Not an exact quote, but it has kinda stuck with me.

Unfortunately, my little 8 year old self didn’t know or understand this. This is probably fortunate from a parenting standpoint, because this means I didn’t watch American Pie when I was 8. Could you imagine? “MOMMY, WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?!” “That is called fucking a pie, honey.” Yeah, nope.

Sexual scarring possibilities aside, I didn’t see that movie or hear that quote from the extras in time to avoid feeling horrible about the most embarrassing moment of my life. It took place in a grade 1 Christmas play, and I was about 8.

My class was a joint grade 1 and 2 operation. Our poor teacher was the head of this sorry state of affairs, but was adamant that we were going to put on a classroom Christmas play. We were going to go full out, with props, and lights, and the gymnasium stage…

To me, this was my time to shine. I was going to be the best, I was going to stun everyone and show them that yes, I was totally cool. If I could act super well, if I could nail my lines, if I could just be the most awesome person ever, people would be nice to me. This hope stemmed from a healthy amount of bullying and schoolyard douchbaggery directed towards me from an early age; seriously, I thought this school play was going to change everything.

It was going to be this easy.

The Christmas play was about the birth of Christ if I remember correctly. We were to all play the part of animals making our way there, and eventually be super happy about all of this baby stuff. 8 year old me didn’t give a shit, I just wanted to show them bullies who was da man, and who wasn’t. I was totally going to be the man, in case you didn’t know. They totally weren’t. That was just the way I knew it had to be. So I waited for the eventual assignment of roles: who was going to be who.

Someone was given the cat. Another person was a horse. Here I sat, waiting for all these animals passing me by; the frog, the lobster, the dog… none of that mattered. All that mattered was when the teacher called my name.

“Philip Budd?”

I frantically stretched my hand and practically shouted “PRESENT”. Giving me an awkward look, she then assigned me my animal.

“You’re going to be the camel.”

You can be ME.

Oh my fuck yes please. I was going to be the coolest camel on the planet. Dogs? Not a chance. The cat wasn’t even remotely swank compared to me. The bird had to go elsewhere for shiny stuff, ’cause my camel ass was going to blind them. As soon as I got my lines, I started rehearsing and learned my lines in 4 hours.

Seeing as this was two weeks before the play, my parents got very tired of hearing my epic camel soliloquies throughout all of that time. Too bad, I thought, I had to be perfect. Which I totally was going to be. Duh.

My mom worked on my Camel costume personally, tirelessly, and the day before the play it was finished (or she bought it, which is entirely possible). The onesie piece was brown with a beige belly, complete with a tail and a hump on its back. One hump, mind you, which my 8 year old self was keen to notice was actually a dromadaire, but meh, who cared. It was awesome, and I wore it for a couple of hours while practicing my lines yet again. Imagine a big, furry monstrosity with a hump that was perfect for knocking over glasses and chairs like so many pieces of fine china, all while reciting Shakespeare.

To be or not to be, moo.

That was how it was.

The night of the play, I was ready. The lines? perfect. The outfit? Immaculate. The Phil was ready. I wolfed down my dinner, and made a beeline for the costume. I waited for my mom to help me into my outfit, and I felt great… but then the trouble started.

I looked into a mirror. It was then that I realized that Camels are actually really stupid looking. Why did they have a hump? Or a tail? They were weird horses, really, and I was instantly aware of how stupid I looked. How could I look cool as a Camel? HOW? There was no way.

Mom and I made our way to the school, and the prevailing feeling of doom was upon me. I knew my lines, I thought, I’ll be fine; but I was a camel! They’re going to make fun of me for being a camel, no way they weren’t. I was screwed.

I was shuttled into the waiting area backstage with the rest of the animals in their costumes. The dogs? Totally wicked. The cats were cooler than cats. Even the zebra looked great; and here’s this camel. I could practically hear the snickering.

And so, the play starts. A few animals do their thing. I prayed it wouldn’t come to me, that they’d skip the camel part. A few more. The time passed so slowly that I could practically see everything in slow motion. Then a couple more, and finally, it was time. The camel walked out onto the stage.

I walked in from the left side to glaring lights and what looked like a million rows of shadowy people I couldn’t see. The nerves forced my heart so skip a beat; I gulped, I put on my best acting face, and I started my lines.

As an aside, it’s important to note that, when I’m nervous, I have a couple of ticks: biting my nails into oblivion, fiddling non-stop, and sweaty palms.

As I got going through my lines, my nerves got the best of me. I grabbed the first thing I could and started fiddling with it while concentrating really hard on my lines. This was when I started hearing giggles from the crowd.

Laughing? Why? Nothing I said was funny. Everything I had done was oscar worthy, not giggle generating. I wanted to create a stirring solo of solemn sereneness, but instead it was becoming chuckle palooza.

I stopped, and the laughing got worse. Everyone in the room, and I could only think one thing; they were laughing at me, because I was stupid, a camel, and a loser. Even with the best performance anyone had seen since Muppet Treasure Island (8 year old me had a skewed sense of good movies), everyone was laughing at me. I couldn’t take the ridicule.

I crumbled, fell to my knees, and started crying. “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE???” I wailed, and the audience laughed even harder. I cried, and was dragged off stage. I don’t remember the rest of the night very well, but I’d like to think I went on a grape juice binge while snorting lines of powder sugar to forget the feelings I was feeling.

So the question was, why were they laughing at me? Imagine the following.

A small boy walks onto stage in an adorable camel outfit. He starts adorably reciting his lines, just like he was told. It’s at this point he grabs his tail, pulls it through his legs, and starts waving it around like a hose at a sexy carwash.

Yeap. This. But with a tail. In a children’s play.

That is why I love comedy: because if you can’t laugh at yourself, you slump down on stage and turn into a sopping wet heap.

What about you folks?

Well that was a surprise


I will not lie when I tell you the following:

I had COMPLETELY forgotten two things. First, that this blog pressed to Twitter; second, that this blog subsequently pressed to Facebook and my Tumblr. As a result, I totally typed a post that was about as emo as a sad clown convention and it was posted to the world.

Smooth moves, Ahab.

Initially this discovery was followed by fear. “OH NO MY VIEWERS CAN SEE MY EMO SIDE” I thought. “THEY SEE MY WEAKNESS.” My thought process came to the conclusion that this was about as awful as it could get, and so I tried to delete any and all traces of my emo-tastic shame, the same way that most people try to mop up a murder. Needless to say, it had about the same results, which means to say, none at all save for a lot of guilty looks coming from my general direction.

But hilariously enough, the post got more views than some of my videos. In the space of about 4 minutes. That is both sad and amazing, since I feel I put a lot of effort into entertaining in my videos, and that post was meant to be a whiny bitch, and despite that got more exposure.

I figure I might as well keep writing then, occasionally, whenever I’m feeling offbeat or sad about something in real life. If you haven’t noticed, I’m about as natural in front of a camera as most people are trying to conduct an interview, which means to say that I feel like there is an actual level of perfection that needs to be achieved. When I write, I tend to flow out onto the page, and so a very different image results from it.

If you are curious to see that image, who am I to stop you? SlowWolf? Bah, not enough e-fame to do any ordering around anyway.

Welcome to my personal blog. I hope you enjoy your stay, however brief, even it’s less than a second or so. Seriously. It’s okay for you to just… wander away and surf elsewhere. Might I suggest my YouTube channel?


Top Ten Reasons Why Moving In After Frat Boyz Sucks


Just today (at the time of this writing, which is May 1st/2nd) we moved out of our old house, my friends and I. Our house, A.K.A the Castle, was a great place: but due to whatever reasons we decided to, we moved out into this new place.

This place was nearby, and was well known as an establishment for rockin’ keggers, the kind people actually paid money to get into. It was that house in the neighbourhood, and still we moved in.

Every experience is a learning experience. I learned that moving into a house like that was a $&$#ing terrible ordeal, and that, in short, sucked.

1. Moving sucks. Period. It could be for any number of reasons, like the fact you’re leaving your home behind, good memories, you’re being forced to by the mob, it’s being done at gunpoint, but basically because MOVING REALLY SUCKS.

If you’re moving at all, I hope you have a damn good reason.

2. They don’t know what a mouse is. Or how to find and get rid of one, for that matter. I’d like to say that the cupboards were spotless when we found them, but what really happened was the horrible smell of bleached mouse crap. It was inspiring… it really motivated me to kill it with fire.

3. There was a ceiling? Really? Cause I had no idea before I decided the music was so awesome I’d punch the ceiling. Now I’ve left my mark on something! I can die happy.

And he might.

4. And that reminds me there’s a wall… Cause I had forgotten that the walls aren’t made of Unobtanium and as a result might chip and break if I punch it with my fist.

Oh well, I think it adds character, don’t you?

5. Tape is for &$##*(@, You don’t use tape in a manly house to put up posters and such, no. Also, you can’t just use the built in closet, ’cause that’s for sissies. You want posters? NAILS IN THE PLASTER. You want a shelving unit? UP ON THE WALL, USE A BOLT GUN.

Oh, thanks frat guy. It looks awesome. My room could be a ^$#*ing CHAPEL because it’s so HOLY. I was thinking of installing some holes anyway. I’m glad you made up my mind. It spells class. In moderately sized holes.

6. I’m too lazy to take off my shoes. So, instead of taking them off and keeping the hardwood floor safe to walk on in socks, you’re going to stamp the dirt so hard into the floor that the wood goes from cedar to ebony eh? It matches the curtains you left me. Thanks. Oh, and now the tiles in the kitchen don’t slip? That’s good, I’ll be sure to walk around bare foot on the dust encrusted tiles so I don’t slip and break my neck.

Besides, I’d rather have foot fungus anyway.

7. Loving the long showers. And it’s kinda obvious. The grout at the base of the shower is gone. Arrividerci, great grout, sayonara. Au revoir. You’re now gonzo, bereft of existence you now litter my bathroom floor. If you didn’t provide an entrance hazard for rodents you’d be useless to everybody. The grout has now joined the garbage disposal, a malignant memory on a forgotten parquet. The grout is no more.

However, your hair is quite spiky. I approve.

8. Everything is a sticker surface, and double sided tape is a statement. I gotta admit, even I was impressed when I found a picture of Jesus made out of errand strands of double sided tape littering the inside of my new closet space, interspersed with irremovable tears of stickers. I called up the Pope to check it was a miracle!

I got an answer. Turns out it’s just an idiot who decided to sticker up the house with YOUNG AND RECKLESS. It’s a badass older version of YOLO right? Right?

What’s that smell? Oh, it’s angst stickers.

9. We decided we wanted a petting zoo. So we bred dust bunnies in such large quantities that it required not one, but two professional cleaning crews to actually round them up once we left. It was like hunting for diabolic and disgusting easter eggs.

They were big enough to kill a grown man. I named one Caernabog. It had sharp, pointy teeth, and required that we use our last remaining holy hand grenade.

10. I heard you like booze. So we boozed up your floor, we boozed up your wall, hell! We boozed up your ceiling. We knew that, upon entering the house, you would love to mop the floor AND the walls too! Also, I hope you don’t mind that we used the wine to make it look someone had been brutally murdered on the spot.

5 Minute Analysis: Dawn of War is NOT League of Legends

As a small forward, a pal of mine was watching me play Dawn of War: Black Crusade. Oh, the fun I’ve been having playing that game again! It’s loads of good fun. In any case, he looked over my shoulder and proclaimed that “This reminds me of league of legends.”
Well, that simply wouldn’t do.

1. League of Legends (Hereby referred to as LoL) is a MOBA. You control just 1 unit most of the time, and it’s called a hero/champion/macguffit. Dawn of War (Hereby referred to as DoW), you control armies. Many people. HANDLE THEM.

2. LoL is pretty cartoony, charmingly so. You won’t see many torn bodies or genereal mishandling of corpses in a desacratory way. DoW, you are expected, nay, gleefully appreciative of the fact that your many units (HANDLE THEM) are tearing up many others. Grrrrrrrrrrrross! and great, but G(L)ORY.

3. LoL, you cant move the camera save to zoom in. DoW? Oh, that’s an impressive looking army. Let’s take a look at them from ground level.

… Why, yes! It is an impressive looking- *eviscerated*

4. LoL is full of armies, but of only 3-4 kinds of units tops. DoW, you have access to an entire plethora of… okay, there’s a giant spider, many guns, chainswords, and mutant horrors. and that’s a 3rd of the units I can have.

5. MOBA. RTS. Although MOBA comes right out of an RTS, that’s still the big one.

6. Did I mention LoL is a MOBA and not an RTS?

7. LoL takes 30-45 minutes to play on average. DoW takes 10-15. Booya time savings!

8. In one, I play as yordles (dafuq folks) and in the other, I get to play as 8 foot tall warmonsters with a penchant for TEARING YOUR HEART OUT WITH A SPOON. GG yordles.

Next time, I’m going to rip off a famous show and steal their shtick with BACON STRIPS.

5 Minute Short Story: The Man Obsessed With His Housecoat

There it was: a housecoat. He had wanted one for such a long time now!

The elegance of the plaid pattern blew his eyes away. The red crisscrossed pattern clashed with his green smiley faced pajamas, but it mattered not. It was a housecoat, and it was his. He was now king of his house. His  castle now had a ruler with ROBES. How badass was that?

The man reflected for a moment. Very, was his answer. Very badass.

Look at me, he said as he relfected uppon his viasage in the mirror, look at the handsome and devilishly good looking man in the housecoat. It flowed on the non-existent breeze, flapping away in his imagination. His grin grew a mile wide, and he knew what must be done.

He left his boudoir and alerted his subjects to his precence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, nobles and peasants, look at me! Upon my back I wear a MIGHTY ROBE OF AWESOME. It is mine, and mine alone! Now, do my bidding!”

The group of three grown men looked at him, bewildered and exhausted.

“It’s a housecoat. Seriously. you’ve been wearing it for like, a month. It’s time you took it off.”

The man refuised. He cried mutiny! at the top of his lungs, ran forward, and jumped through the window, glass shards badassedly flying all around. He then landed headfirst into the pavement.

Ow, he thought. What am I doing outisde? Why am I coverd in glass?

He look down. Oh right, he remembered, I’m a badass with a badass housecoat. Look at me &$^#, I’m fabulous.

What am I doing?!

I have NO idea what I'm doing. Where's this space come from?

I have no idea what I want to write.

This is my second time writing that sentence tonight. It’s only showing up once because the first time I did that, I followed it up with a bunch of gobeldy gook that unfortunately resulted in my closing the internet and wiping my gobeldy gook.

The gook looked like this:

Qlskc aldic q;ekjcv w n erhois nfoiq dnf cmiqpwejf apsdochnqpwoeuzlkzlsp qpwo lkf qpoiusdpnbgpouqh dpo lupo uhapsod fqpowud fpaso qrjodhuf qpwoe rqpo wiuerhp as fpoqwopieruypslk,nvpqouh qp woiur hpoq whrfpq ofpo qwf q f pqowuhr poqhwpo fpq hwf 9qw 9f98 hqwpohf poq8whf qw8f hq f qpwf qwf pqw f8qw hfpo8qhwpfo8h psohdfpokjch  pqouhcolkjhlvmnlxzkjnv olijnsdlkqhpeourqh dkjvn lzkxihu pq l.

And that was supposed to represent my thoughts.

They still do, as a matter of fact. And I’ve typed an re-typed the next section at least 3 times with the aim of trying to create something to help my thought align themselves to something useful.

... precisely.

Totally hasn’t happened though. Which is puzzling, as normally when I tell my thoughts to do something, they do it. Or they get the soap. And by soap, I mean I totally mind crush them.

And I suppose that’s a pretty apt way to explain how life is at the moment, actually: it seems like although I do things, things aren’t apt to fall into place unless I glare at a problem with great disdain and displeasure. It’s a glare so sour that most things pickle on the spot; but nooo, life seems to find a way to go “uhh, how bout no?” and continues to do its thing regardless of what I want.

Upside, things that I do want are increasingly awesome! For instance, my girlfriend Kitteh and I made our anniversary, and neither of us have died due to bodily harm and/or mental onslaught! It’s pretty fantastic.

Speaking of fantastic, I’ve been doing well in school too, for the most part. And my HoNage continues to get better, and remains a way to feed my insatiable ego and remind me that I am still fabulous and fantastic.

I don’t know why I feel at a loss of control of things; it probably has a lot to do with the preoccupation I have with my lack of money and independence, although maybe a crippling feeling of “WHERE/WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOOOOOOING?!” has a hand in this.


The Slaying Stone, Castle Party Style: Part 1

Hey everyone! I started DMing a D&D campaign, and I thought that it’d make for good blog material. For those who are D&D versed, we started with a Wizards published campaign, The Slaying Stone. So far, it’s pretty fun looking, and everyone’s enjoying it. Here’s hoping you enjoy it too.


The cold wind blew sleet hard into the faces of our four adventurers, the dark evening sky barely visible through the horrible weather. A tall dragonborn lead the way, his head bowed down to avoid the sleet from hitting his eyes. A human followed him, his arms folded into his sleeves, his face hidden under the loose hood he wore on his cloak. Immediately to the human’s right was an elf, who was talking excitedly to the human. The weather seemed to make him only more obnoxious. And behind them all was a young half elf, her gigantic lute hanging off her back. Though it must have weighed a tonne, she didn’t seem to really care much.

The dragonborn raised his head, and grunted. “There’s a light in the distance.” He then proceeded to drink a whole skin of booze like it was water, find a new skin from his pack, and then started drinking it too.

The elf sighed. “Any idiot can see that. Or are you blind?”

The dragonborn shrugged. “So long as you pay me, I’m good either way.” Another skin bit the dust. The human laughed a little before he said “That’s what your mom said.” Both he and the elf started laughing.

The dragonborn chuckled, and continued to lead the way to the dim light. In the distance, one could make out a wide river with a stone bridge to cross it. On the other side, the dim light form before illuminated a short tower, and the entire clearing there was surrounded by forest on all sides. It wasn’t any further than 100 feet away, which warmed the bones of the soggy adventurers.

As they began to make their way over to the building, the elf pricked an ear. Howls, in the distance, no further than 40 feet away and on either side. “Hey guys, there are wolves.”

“Wolves?” Asked  the human quizzically. “Oh noes, looks like we’re going to have to fight them or something.”

The dragonborn shrugged. “Okay, so I’ll go in front.”

A half elf skipped out from behind the human. “Okay! I’ll just sing them to death about how miserably I am.”

The human sighed. “Sure, whatever. It’s not like these things are particularly dangerous anyways.”

“Ha, like, not even. Have you SEEN these daggers? I can sneak attack the SHIT outta those things.” Just as the elf finished speaking, the wolves ran towards the group, fangs bared.

“ohshit-“The elf didn’t finish as the first wolf bit into the elf’s leg, dragging him away from the group.

The half -elf sprang into action. “Hold on, I’ll save yOOOOOW!” A second wolf bit into her thigh, dragging her towards a much bigger wolf, probably with the intent of making a meal of her.

“Well shit, this is going well.” The human noticed some wolves to the north of them, opposite the wolves dragging his friends away. “They’re screwed, let’s kill THESE guys instead!!” He reached out to the wolf’s mind, trying to crush it with his own. He settled on making the wolf do a jig.

I feel so PRETTY!

The dragonborn saw a wolf run around to the other side of a rock close to where the human was. He calculated that, because of the muddy ground, unless he froze it, there would be no way to close the gap with the wolf before it began to flank the group. Taking a running start, he used his ice breath to freeze the mud in front of him, and then did a powerslide. Which would have been awesome, had he not slipped on his scaly hide and crashed into a nearby tree instead.

“Well screw you two too then! I can get myself out of this mess JUST FINE!” Screamed the elf. He unsheathed his daggers and swiped at a wolf’s face, gouging the wolf’s left eye. It yelped in pain, letting go of his captive and backed off 10 feet to get ready for another attack.

Not too far away, the half elf was beating the wolf biting her over the head with… a lute? It wasn’t very effective at first, but a lucky swing to the side of the wolf’s head crushed its cranium, and sent the wolf’s body flying to the side. The large wolf, the alpha, recalculated his plan and went after the dagger wielding danger to its right.

The human realized he couldn’t keep control of his target’s mind for much longer. Just as the wolf broke the mind control, the human focused all of his mystical might into one, all out mental assault, meant to liquify the brain of any foolish enough to be on his bad side. All the feelings of crushing despair, malice, greed, hate, suffering, and of his mother-in-law came out in one all encompassing attack, lighting the battlefield with psychic energy.

The wolf stood still for a moment, shook its head, then looked at the human as if wondering what he was.

“… meow.” And the wolf slunk off into the night as if nothing was the matter. With that threat effectively dealt with, the human patted himself on the back. What could possibly go wrooOOOOOOOOW!

The dragonborn got up, and turned around to see his prey had bitten down hard into the human’s rear, exposing his undergarments. The dragonborn swore that this time… THIS TIME… that wolf was going down. The dragonborn took a run, jumped onto the ice. His perfect form, his grace, and his skill slid him across the ice like a professional skater at the Olympics. He hopped off, readied his mace, and made a running charge…

Which cause him to trip on a root, go flying through the air, and land squarely on top of the wolf, causing it to yelp, and begin to run away. The dragonborn slowly got up, looked towards the wolf, and immediately began to curse and swear, eventually throwing his mace at the darkness where the wolf once was.

Which, largely due to a coincidence, sheer luck, or the fact that it was a million-in-one chance, hit the wolf square in the head so hard that, even in the darkness, the explosion of gore was impossible to miss. Go figure.

While the dragonborn contemplated why his dice gods hated him and loved him at the same time, the dagger wielding elf had problems of his own. His leg was bleeding profusely, and was completely unusable. To top it all off, those wolves dragged his perfect hair through the MUD. Someone was going to have to pay.

To be fair, it was a really expensive haircut.

He found the target of his wrath to be the large wolf right in front of him. Readying his crossbow, he took aim and fired a single, amazing shot; coincidentally, the shot was so perfect that, thanks to the rules of fiction, the wolf was somehow able to dodge the shot at the last possible second, causing the bolt to hit a nearby squirrel.

The squirrel’s last thoughts went as such, as far as we know: why me?

The wolf, happy that his freakishly good luck had paid off, decided that it was a good time to make a meal of this elf. And he might have succeeded had it not been for the half-elf coming out of nowhere and clobbering him over the back of his neck with a lute far more suited for clubbing small mammals than any actual music.

The last wolf looked out over the battlefield. These morons had somehow overcome his pack of highly trained, highly organized brothers who had hunted many people before. Then he remembered: oh, right. Player characters. Overpowered. Why didn’t I think of that?

At this point, he ran off, and became a major character that would haunt the adventurers for the rest of this adventure, and vowed revenge, which increased his chances of an epic show down, but probably means he was going to die anyway.

With the battle over, the group bandaged their wounds and made their way to the building they saw in the distance earlier. Whoever lived in there better have had a damn good reason for not coming to help them kill those wolves.

As they opened the door to the tower, an older woman greated them. Runes in various languages covered her wrinkled face, creating the weird impression that light just didn’t interact with her face properly. Behind her stood an older man, his white hair and short beard in perfect condition and maintenance. Rich.

When the adventurer’s asked why they didn’t help, the old lady answered. “Well, we’re old and infirm. We were shouting for you to come to us, but it seems like you handled the whole thing well enough. Come in! We have food and shelter and-”

Before she could finish, the dragonborn had not only finished at least 5 bottles of expensive wine from his sack, but he barged into the room.

“Oh yeah?!” he began. “Well, how’s about I show YOU what… like… *hic* what YOU like… FUCK IT.”

Whether through sheer force or sheer stupidity, the dragonborn tore off his chainmail pants, revealing his naked underside. He then shook his hips too and fro, scarring the entire group and rendering them all potentially mad.

He learned from the best.

The old lady, suitably unimpressed with anything the dragonborn was showing, cast a quick spell. As quickly as the chainmail pants had come off, they were on the dragonborn once more, but this time with a belt.

“And those,” she said with a hint of smug satisfaction, “are NEVER coming off.”

“Not even to poop?” He asked.

She thought for a minute. “Nope.”


WTF Saturday Night

A Quiet Start
A Saturday night, a long time ago in a city that is, at the moment, a few hours away, I was alone. Which, really, wasn’t so bad. I was kinda prepared for a slow night of gaming, reading, maybe some food and then bed. As I begin to meander to my room, I get a text. Expertly twirling my phone from my pocket, the text read “Hey can I come over? Is there anything going on?”

It’s from Kitteh! Well, I’m totally cool with her coming over, so I wrote back “Yeah, sure. Nothing’s going on though.” Didn’t matter to her, she came over anyway, and brought some drinks with her. And who am I to refuse drinking with a pretty woman?

So we’re having some drinks when the idea of watching a movie comes up. Considering that the rest of my housemates are gone, it means we can watch anything without bugging anyone. Not that anything would bug anyone, but it does mean we had free reign of my buddy’s X-Box to watch movies.

So far, seems like a quiet, fun night for just me and m’lady. That’s something I’m cool with.

While we’re in the middle of watching Kill Bill, the rest of my housemates come back home with a couple of other friends. Not that I was expecting them, but I wasn’t sure when. So the atmosphere of the room went from laughing at the copious amounts of hyper high pressure blood to barely being able to hear the T.V at all. Noise everywhere! When everyone got settled though, we all started laughing at the ridiculousness that is Kill Bill and Kill Bill 2.

Pretty much this.

After 4 hours of watching movies though, people get hungry. And what a better way to be less hungry with a group of people than to go the nearest McDonalds? Just as soon as we have some home made Jalapeno Poppers.

McD’s, or that run in with Brigit
As we hop into the van to get to McD’s, we realize there’s not quite enough seating for everyone. So I volunteer to stand where there isn’t a seat. I felt pretty badass.

The McD’s is only about 3 minutes away by car, so it didn’t take long to get there. Much like Russian clowns exiting a clown car, we piled out of the van and got inside the McD’s.  It’s one of those newly renovated ones, with the McCafe and the many attempts to make the fast food joint look like a fancy upscale restaurant. Which is hilarious considering that I go there to eat the complete opposite kind of food.

As we get inside, we line up. It’s not a super long line, but it takes awhile to get through the people in front of us. As we get closer and closer to getting to order, a brand new group of people gets in line behind us. What kind of people? Well, it’s 2-3am on a Saturday night: drunk, loud, and dressed to… impress other students. In any case, there were at least 3 girls and 2 guys or so.

I was standing next to my housemate Steve. He quickly gets initiated, against his will, into a conversation with one of the girls. We quickly found out her name was Brigit, that she was “Soooooooooo drunk, lol!” and that she wasn’t kidding. At this point, Kitteh was finished ordering and she was waiting on the other side of a throng of people waiting to get food. I looked at her, smiled, and then froze as something began tickling my ear.

I’m a lot like a dog. If someone I’m comfortable with (Read: Kitteh) scratches my chin, or my ears, I really enjoy it. In this particular case, I was not comfortable with this. I couldn’t really turn around, and being not comfortable turned very quickly into being really, really awkward. From what I could hear behind me, and from Steve laughing next to me, it was Brigit who was scratching my ear with a $20 bill.

If I thought this was awkward, I hadn’t seen Kitteh’s face yet. I looked to my left, and I’ve never seen her so angry in my life. I mean, it wasn’t the kind of angry girls usually do when they just ignore the shit out of you either. It was the kind that definitely meant she wanted to kick some ass.

And so joyously!

It’s at this point that Brigit saw her face too. She immediately went from laughing her ass off to realizing “oh shit.” Now I know how scary Kitteh can look when she’s angry, but Brigit just booked to the other side of the line, and didn’t come back to bug people for a good 2-3 minutes. When she did though, she proceeded to poke the guy in front of me with the same $20 bill. When he turned around, Steve immediately looked at me.

“Phiiiiiil. Why would you do that?”

Well shit. It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! Seriously! See the outrageously drunk woman behind me? She did it! And then he framed me for it!

Yeah, he didn’t believe me.

After ordering some McMini’s, I reunited with Kitteh. We started talking about Brigit and what the living ^%$# happened when all of a sudden Brigit started shouting.

“Like, oh my gaaaaawd! How did you know my naaame?! You’re psychic! You can read my mind! Ohhhhh miiiiiii gaaaaaawd! Why would you doooo thaaaat?!”

Steve is laughing his ass off, as is most of the rest of the line. Brigit is freakin’ out. Kitteh and I are just standing there, food in hand. What the heck just happened?

It’s at this point that Kitteh makes he way to the Ketchup for her fries, and that Steve makes his way over. Turns out that Brigit bet him he couldn’t guess her name.  Which she told us not 5 minutes ago. The rest from there was history.

We grouped back up and made our way back to the van, which took about 5 minutes to get everyone else’s orders. Once we got rolling, we saw Brigit and her friends trying to jay walk the street. What a perfect opportunity.

We screamed past them, honking the horn as much as possible. I’ve never seen women run in heels so fast in my life.

That was the last we saw of Brigit.

Headed Home
At this point, we headed back home (A.K.A, the Castle. That’s a short story for another time) and piled out of the van. At this point, Kitteh remembers she forgot her drink at the McDonalds, curses and swears, and then proceeds to describe exactly how mad she was at Brigit and it was being that angry that caused her to forget her drink. At this point, we were inside the house, and Ryan, my other housemate, decided to start trolling.

“How mad would you get if I started scratching Phil’s ear?”

“I’d hit you.” Simple enough answer. It’s at this point that Ryan started scratching my ear.

So as I was just standing there, Ryan scratched my ear. As he scratched my ear, Kitteh then proceeded to smack him silly, which evolved into a pillow war.

After about 45 minutes of provoking Kitteh’s wrath, I needed to walk her home. We ate our food, put on our coats, and left for her place. We talked about Brigit, the lost drink, the car drifting closer to our sidewalk, the dodgeball that had been launched from the passenger side window.

Wait, what?

As the ball flew uselessly beside us, we saw a campus police car start following the drive-by-dodgeballers. Kitteh and I btoh just looked at each other, shrugged, and contemplated how that car looked a lot like Ryan’s car, and that we’d keep the dodgeball as a trophy of our passive ninja-dodge skills.

Once I had walked Kitteh to her room, I got back home only to find the rest of my housemates laughing their asses off. Why? because Kitteh was right: they were the ones who threw the dodgeball at us.

Exhausted and exasperated, I went to bed. Quiet nights at the Castle just don’t exist.

The Gritty Truth About Valentines: Or What It’s About

So we’ve come to this time of the year again.

I can see it all now: the posts and tweets about being alone and needing a loved one, the cries of forever alone and the dreaded friendzone echoing loudly in the halls of the interwebs, clattering with calls of over corporatization and money grubbing, only to be mashed together in one messy, confused, and altogether pointless noise that makes up the loudest section of Valentine’s day.

Why is that? I mean, are there really that many people who are that upset with Valentines day?

How can so many people be so together in their alone-ness, and why don’t they seek to end it?

I’ve thought a lot about Valentine’s in the past: both from the perspective that it sucks in years past (cause, you know, “fuck being the only single frenchman on the face of the damn planet” is an attractive mentality) and from the opposite viewpoint that says it rocks (“I’m sexy and I know it” style). What’s interesting in both these perspectives is the assumption that Valentine’s day should be about couples only: if you’re not in a thing with someone, you dun goofed, and you should be ashamed of yourself for not being in looooove with someone else.

Assuming, of course, that love means being in love with someone you eventually want to do feather bed jig with.

There’s the problem: why is love always assumed to only matter if it’s with someone you want to potentially shake their sheets?

Here’s the way I see Valentines: Valentine’s day is about love. Of that there is no doubt; but why is it always about docking your submarine/equine mounting? There’s more than just that to love, isn’t there? For instance, most people have parents. Do most of those parents love their kids, no matter what? Ideally, one would hope so. For those lucky/unlucky enough to have siblings, cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, wouldn’t most of those people also love? What about friends? The ones that usually end up in the same stupid situations you do?

It seems obvious to me there’s a lot of love in the world when you look for it.

“But Phil!,” you might say, “what the hell do all those people have to do with Valentines day and me being so alone/angry/upset/eatacat/sad about the whole deal?”

I’m here to advocate an attitude change. I think that the people who think they are “forever alone” and friendzoned need to realize that Valentines is not all about the thrill of the bone, nor the opportunity to simply kiss another person. Or date. It’s a lot simpler than that complicated ^$#^@&#* we put up with ever other day of our damn lives.

Valentines needs to be a lot less about performing a mattress hoedown and a lot more about celebrating love as a whole. Celebrate ALL the love!

For all the people who don’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend to spend Valentine’s with, I have a challenge for you. I want you to look at who in your life loves you, and celebrate that. If you can recognize that you are indeed loved, guess what?

You won’t go alone a day in your life.

If no one loves you, then I’m sorry to say the best I can do is link a picture of a dinosaur.

So at least there’s that.

Happy Valentines everyone! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go fill in the circles on a scantron sheet.

Seriously, I have a midterm. It stops now.