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Well, it looks like I unleashed a Greater Evil just in time. The Elves and Faeries looked like they were settling their feud, and conspiring to claim my desk from its rightful owner, ie: ME! Looks like I distracted the backstabbing little ingrates just in time by openening the bottom drawer of my desk and releasing the Munchkins of Mayhem I'd been holding in reserve for just such an emergency. Already in the midst of a conspiracy, the elves and faeries quickly join forces to combat this new and imposing threat, giving me time to go look for 20 Uses for a condom. In spite of being shockingly handsome, witty and intelligent, I'd have to leave the house to actually meet women. Apparently, they don't go door to door anymore. This leaves me with an abundant supply of condoms left over from the salad days of being mobile, and nothing to do with them. The epic battle taking place on my desk between the newly united forces of the elves and faeries and the Munchkins of Mayhem is getting messy in a pitched battle for control of the High Ground, namely my desk lamp. An entire division of faeries meet their maker when a stray round of faery mortar fire explodes the lightbulb. Exploiting this fortuitous calamity of Friendly Fire, the Munchkins of Mayhem seize the summit of Mount Desk Lamp and begin belaying light artillery to a height from which they can rain death down upon the better part of the office, and have the desktop covered with ease. The bad aim of the Faery Mortar Brigade is viewed as highly suspicious by the elven leadership, and things degrade rapidly into a three way battle for supremacy as the Elven/Faery Alliance completely breaks down. This is good news for the Munchkins of Mayhem, as united, there is next to nothing that can stand against the elves and faeries. With things on my desk settling into a comfortable level of disorder, I take a moment to reflect and rejoice on yesterday's execution of that murdering bastard of 168. In a last ditch fit of failed comprehension, instead of leaving a proper farewell and apology for his misdeeds, he merely plagiarizes A nineteenth century poet whose words seemed to him to be a speach justifying his own bankrupt vision and solitary stand against a system he saw as a failure. What William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) was really talking about was his ability to withstand the death of his daughter with stoicism and grit, without having to resort to the false comfort of religion. And he'd probably be pissed as hell at such a misapropriation of his words.  Good Riddance. I manage to douse the flames with a pitcher of water, and drown mixed asssortment of little folk at the same time. In a screaming fit I issue a dictate against any further use of heavy or light ordinance, threatening to grab the Raid and gas the little fuckers if they don't comply. With the heavy thudding of light and medium artillery fading into the steady chakka-chak of light arms fire, my mood improves enough to go online and chat with the crowd of writers, poets, artists, programmers and other miscreants I seem to have fallen in with. One of them comments that he's seen this diary and accuses me of having too much time on my hands. In revenge, I steal his picture off his profile, and post it here mainly because I think it would look neat against a black background.  Laszlo's Bad Hair Day The sweet succor of sleep beckons me, and I am loathe to resist the call. The situation with the Little Folk will have to procede without me for now. But I shall return, you have been warned. |
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