Haggis Part 10: The Haggis.

          A loud, terrible shriek tore through the trees. "BAAAA!" Haggis the Goat enunciated, which means something along the lines of "We have no time for detailed battle strategy and planning, so I highly suggest we RUN!!!!" So the heroes ran away into the thick cover of the trees. They all crouched down on the ground, peering cautiously from behind a tree.
         Hippie Guitar Man shook his head. He narrowed his eyes and stood, planting his feet firmly on the ground. There was resolve and determination in his eyes. The kind you might see in a man about to face his fears. The kind you might see in a man climbing a mountain that everyone said was impossible to summit. He's just feet away. He just has to place one foot after the other, and he will have achieved his goal. The kind of determination you might see in a 4 year old trying to pour his own cereal. He gritted his eyes. Or his teeth, I mean. "This is mine. Stay here, man." He said.
      The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache grabbed him. "No. We can't let you do this alone. You don't know what it's capable of. We can help you."
     "Nah, man," Hippie Guitar Man replied. "I got this. I may not be the brightest cookie in the tool shed, but I do know this: A man has to face his own battles. You mess with the orange juice, you get the pulp. And this haggis has been sticking his nostrils in the wrong orange juice."
     Hippie Guitar Man brushed The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache's hand off his shoulder. He walked a few steps, and another shriek rang through the thickly wooded forest. He turned around. "If I don't come back in one day..." "Hamburgers." The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache finished. "What? What was that?" Hippie Guitar Man asked, perplexed. "I... I was trying to finish your sentence to show the readers that we've grown as characters and bonded, or something." "..." Hippie Guitar Man responded, backing away. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. BUT I'M GOING TO FIGHT THE HAGGIS!!!" He ran toward the cries of the demented creature. "Baaaaa!' Haggis called after him, encouragingly.
      Hippie Guitar Man was alone now, running through the thick mass of bramble and trees. It was dark and foreboding. Just as a mountain climber could misplace his foot, and just as a 4 year old could cause a terrible cereal accident, this too could be a mistake. The twigs snapped under his feet.
       After a while, he slowed. Silence. Strange, tense silence. He no longer heard the haggis's cries, but he knew he must be close. He could smell it. After another few minutes of walking, he stepped into a clearing. But not a natural clearing... Someone, or, dreading the thought, someTHING had knocked over the trees and tore them from the ground. He saw a footprint. Not a human footprint, but the footprint... of a toad. But right next to it was a much larger footprint... That of the haggis.

On "the Self."

Throughout my short life, I have found humans to be fascinating. Disgusting at times, yes; repulsive, yes; but what makes them interesting is their choice to be the way they are. A conscious decision? Not always, in fact, rarely. But life is made up of little moments, each one a choice. Each choice results in some sort of outcome, each outcome affecting who you are. You cannot simply "Be yourself" because "yourself" is something constantly being created. You are not born a self, but rather, the self is being invented each moment you live and is constantly under construction until the moment you die. Once you have died (and even before then to an extent, but exclusively afterwards) the Self you have created is left in other people's minds. Not wholly, not completely, perhaps not accurately, but it is a reflection of the Self you have created being seen through the mirror of the Self they have created. Each little choice, every judgment, everything you think and the way you react to stimuli comes from decisions you have made in the past, and can affect the decisions you make in the future. But one thing that baffles me, and I believe always will, is the choices and decisions that could cause someone to like Nickelback.

Vice Prez debate: 11 October 2012.

       Tonight's debate was good. My favorite part was a tie between Biden's ridiculous laughing (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/11/joe-biden-laughing-photos_n_1960060.html#slide=1633548) and Ryan's burn of Joe Biden. "I think you would know better than most people words don't always come out of our mouths like we mean them." Paraphrasing, of course. I can't remember what he actually said.
       But more than this debate, I'm looking forward to next week's legendary traditional "yo mama" jokes debate. This was a tradition started in the era of the great election between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, though most people falsely believe it started with the election between Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton. The Yo Mama joke debate was so heated, physical violence ensued and both Jefferson's and Hamilton's mothers had to attend counselling sessions. Since then, it has been a highly respected and anticipated debate. Next week's jokes are kept a top secret, and it is even rumored some of them will be free styled, an interesting move from both Obama and Romney. Experts have anticipated that these jokes will be used:
Romney: "Obama, yo mama so fat she makes the national debt look small!"
Obama: "Yo mama so ugly, uh, Joe Biden couldn't stop laughing at her during last week's, uh, debate!"
             Obama has revealed his jokes are being written by comedic genius Darrell Bluett, while Romney has made the unprecedented move of having his VP, Paul Ryan, write half the jokes, and an even more unprecedented move of having Joe Biden write the other half.

        Yes, ladies and gentlemen, next week will prove to be quite interesting. And remember, vote, vote, vote!*




*The phrase "vote, vote, vote!" is meant simply as you really, really should vote, however, if you are a Democrat, chances are you've taken it literally.

Songs you Probably like and Reasons They're Terrible (Or, I'm an unrepentant and insufferable snob whose opinion is respected by no one.): Issue #2

This issue: "Stronger" by Kelly Clarkson.

This song starts off strong by contradicting common logic. "You know the bed feels warmer Sleeping here alone" While clearly Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 (NIV) says

^"9 Two are better than one,
    because they have a good return for their labor:
¹⁰ If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.
¹¹ Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
¹² Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves."

"You know I dream in color And do the things I want"

"You know I dream in color." Why say this? Do you think that makes you special? Most people dream in colour. Maybe 20% dream in black and white (we can only assume that this comes from a childhood habit of having their local theater pianist play them to sleep while those crazy neighborhood kids are up to their usual silent shenanigans.) 

"And I do the things I want" 

This reminds me of a passage in Judges. Judges 17:6 to be specific. And we ALL know how that ended. NOT WELL. "In those days there was no king in Israel; every man did what was right in his own eyes (KJV)." 

And the chorus:

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger Stand a little taller Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone What doesn't kill you makes you fighter Footsteps even lighter Doesn't mean I'm over 'cause you're gone."  

Well thanks for that message of inspiration, Kelly. The only problem is that it isn't true. For instance, losing your leg in a drunk driving accident would not make you stronger. You never see that person in the gymnastics in the Olympics (I haven't anyway, but I don't watch the Olympics that much). And you might say 'ah, yeah, but EMOTIONALLY, not PHYSICALLY.' Well in that case, I can go ahead and eat my 6th fried bacon-n-butter burger coated with extra bacon and dipped in chocolate. Because while it will kill me eventually and is obscenely unhealthy, every one I eat until I die is just MAKING ME STRONGER (Although it's still inaccurate, because "footsteps even lighter" is like the opposite of what is happening every time I take a greasy delicious bite of my chocolate dipped heart attack).

The rest of the song is just repeating the bridge and chorus, so that's all the lyrics I'll analyze for now. 

But all in all, this song sends the wrong message. "it's okay to disregard the wisest man in history!"; "it's okay to be a fat fatty wallowing in bacon grease!"; and most importantly, though you only get this from the video, not the lyrics, "it's okay to include kung fu moves that would be rejected from a 1970s B movie in your poorly choreographed and cheesy music video!" 

     Spaghetti, 

Master Chef. 

Rims on the Wagon: Chapter 10

Chapter 10: no one messes with a bearded baby

               

                In his amazement at seeing his favorite artist in person like this, Danny walked straight into a large claw arcade. He realized about the time that the claw started pulling his hair that he had made a terrible mistake. On reflection, he realized he shouldn’t have taken what I said about walking “into a large claw arcade” so literally. He could hardly be blamed for this, since he had no idea what I said about it, but the fact remains. He made quite a racket trying to get out, and a crowd started to gather. M.G. and his posse turned to see what was happening just as the machine tipped over, sending Danny sprawling across the floor in the broken glass. M.G. looked at him with disgust for several seconds, and was about to walk away when he heard the sound. What sound? THE sound. Danny’s fall had knocked him into a daze, and without knowing where he was or what he was doing, he began to rap. M.G. had never heard its equal. Many of the posse thought that M.G. himself had started singing, and they joined in with their rhythmic calls of “YEEEEEAH. M.G.!!!”, but he quickly silenced them. “I’m not one to be modest about my skills, y’all, but I won’t ‘tend like I can rap like that.” They stood in shock. “Kid, you got the makings of something great. HEY!! I don’t wanna see no south-side wannabes messing with my little man, here. The kid’s got skill. The kid’s got a beard. The kid is south-side.”  The posse was shocked. Danny, as he came to his senses enough to realize what his idol had said, was also shocked. I was shocked. Why was I shocked? Because I realized that I had taken for granted that you would know the most obvious fact in the world about Amish children: they are all born with full beards. One look at that exquisite facial salad was enough for M.G. to see that this kid had some street-cred. “Boys… men… south-side modified gangstas… I want you to give it up for Bearded Baby.”

                M.G. invited Danny, or as he was now known, “Bearded Baby”, to join his posse. They walked, they talked, and they rapped. They walked about the town, they talked about the town, and they rapped about everything in between. Danny told his hero his whole story, including how he had found out about him. “Man, you straight up rap after just a few months of knowin what south-side is in the first place? YEAH!! I give you some props fer that, Beard-Baby.” Danny couldn’t believe what was happening to him. He was talking to his favorite rapper of all time, and his own hero was giving HIM props.

                The posse continued to walk around the town, and eventually made it to the rap legend’s favorite hangout. “Bearded Baby, I want you to make yourself at home in my favorite hangout.” Said M.G., as he gestured towards the front door of his favorite truck stop. “This jin-u-wine south-side eatery is the best you’ll ever see.” Danny looked with wonder at the slightly rustic, yet slightly elegant gas station. The front windows were totally covered in glossy posters of racecar drivers and their favorite light beers. The gas pumps had computers on them, yet the attendant wore pleasantly comfortable looking overalls. The door had a sign reading, “You TRY n come in here with your wanna-be south side swag and no shirt, and we say, ‘naw.’” Upon walking inside, Danny was blown away by the cool, air-conditioned air. He was mesmerized by the bright, shiny fluorescent lights. He was enraptured by the selection of Bob’s Authentic Amish Bear Jerky. He was dumbfounded by how the bathrooms smelled even less repulsive than his favorite aunt’s outhouse. “Jonathan’s hairband!” exclaimed Danny. “this place is amazing!” “This,” said M.G., “this here is a little piece of south side.”

                “D’oh, schwack.” Said Danny, “It’s almost 5:30. I need to get back to Mr. Nathaniel’s house for dinner.” He thanked the rap legend and his posse for the warm welcome, and jogged back towards Nathaniel’s apartment. “Hey, Danny!” said Nathaniel as he opened the door for him. “It’s nearly time for dinner, you’d better get washed up.” “Ok. Sorry I was gone so long.” Danny said. “I got the digits of your apartment number backwards and almost got kidnapped by some guy with a pet ear sitting on his shoulder when I accidentally knocked on his door.” Nathaniel laughed, “Oh, that’s just Mr. Jimmie. He’s harmless enough. He probably just wanted to show you his exotic hankie collection. By the way, I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Chartreuse.” As he said this, his wife, Chartreuse, came into the door. “You must be Danny!” she said as she brushed the mass of ridiculously curly hair out of her eyes enough to see him. “Since Nathaniel called earlier, I’ve been looking forward to cooking a fresh pot roast for everyone! I’m just about to put it in, so hurry and get ready for dinner.” “You’re just now putting it in? I thought Mr. Nathaniel said it was almost ready?” Danny pondered aloud. “Oh, don’t worry.” Chartreuse assured him, “It won’t take more than 15 minutes.”

Haggis the Goat part 9

      They left the airport where they had landed in the plane (I use the term "airport" loosely, as it was really more of a complex of runways and buildings for the takeoff, landing, and maintenance of civil aircraft, with facilities for passengers. But no matter, the point still remains). Steve suggested they all go to the nearest Jamba Juice and enjoy a citrus-y beverage. However, there was no "nearest Jamba Juice" because they were in Scotland, and Scotland has nothing of the sort. In fact, the sort of "juice" they have is spirits, and not the kind that haunt the castles and manors of Scotland (though they have plenty of those).

     They asked the nearest Scotlander if there was a place for some citrus juice. "Aye, citrus juice, ay? I'll tell ya laddie, ain't no citrus juice round these parts."

    Steve asked "Is there a place where we can get some nice, refreshing H2O?"
The Scot replied in a stereotypical thick Scottish accent in this stereotypical manner. "Ach, we don't have H2O round these parts either. Just C₉H₁₆O<sub>2. "
     After their conversation with this stereotypical Scot was over, they continued to walk, led by Hippie Guitar Man. In the city, they rented a car. In this car, Hippie Guitar Man the driver, they traversed the land to the point where Hippie Guitar Man had his traumatic experience as a child with the giant haggis. 

     The car rolled up the dirt pathway. Hippie Guitar Man applied his foot to the brake, halting the car. He turned off the car. The engine stopped. There was dead silence. Minutes passed, and no one breathed. Time itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, for the shaky Hippie Guitar Man to make his move and face the odious memory of that abominable night. 
   He shook his head and opened the car door, stepping out onto the earthy pathway. As his foot hit the aforementioned earthy pathway, a deafening roar deafened them half to death. "Aw, snap." Said Hippie Guitar Man, lazily chewing his fingernail. "Baaaahh", said Haggis, which is roughly translated, "Wait, it was like 2 months ago when I read the last chapter. How should I be reacting to this, again? What's my motivation here?" So, as he thought it over, I flipped back to part 8 to find out, myself. 
"Baaaaaaahhhhhh." said Haggis, being translated, "Oh, right. We're here to avenge Hippie Guitar Man by destroying the haggis. I'm not sure what the haggis actually did to him, but that doesn't really matter now." "That is quite right, Haggis." said the Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache (yes, I am going back to calling him that. I was an idiot for ever letting that go). "Alright, enough stalling for time so that the author can think of ideas for what's going to happen next. Let's take down that haggis."


     As the Ridiculously White Man with a Handlebar Mustache finished these words, another deafening roar blasted through the air. Haggis and the Hippie Guitar Man ran ahead towards the forest in the distance, while the Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache ghost-rode the car behind them. It was time to face the beast.</sub>

Songs you Probably like and Reasons They're Terrible (Or, I'm an unrepentant and insufferable snob whose opinion is respected by no one.): Issue #1

This issue: "We are Young" by Fun.

First of all, this song is basically composed of one verse and a chorus. A vapid, useless, meaningless, overly repetitive chorus with poorly written lyrics and analogies that don't seem to be analogous to anything. The song reminds me of "Pumped Up Kicks" in a way, except that song is actually good, while this song has nothing to offer except an admittedly catchy tune. They're both upbeat songs that sound happy juxtaposed with depressing lyrics, though the lyrics to "We are Young" seem to be positive if you don't really look into it.
Buuuut they're not positive. Which is fine.

"she's waiting for me just across the bar
My seat's been taken by some sunglasses asking about a scar, and
I know I gave it to you months ago
I know you're trying to forget between the drinks and subtle things"

Tis a silly song.

There's only one good thing I've gotten from this song, and that is it's really fun to belt out 'TONIIIIIIIIGHT' at the top of your lungs when someone else is speaking.

 In closing, if you really, really like this song, and the lyrics have inspired you, then that's fine. Just know your taste in music is bad and you should feel bad.

Next week, another installment will be written and posted on here, even though I know you don't care about my clearly superior opinions.

     —  Master Chef.

*note: the opinions and viewpoints stated in this article are necessarily the viewpoints and opinions of the staff and writers of Tales From The Burrito. Any offense and/or hatred inspired by this post is your own fault, you silly nitty, and we fully hope you are offended. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional, except any resemblance to Stephen Tyler, who we aren't sure whether is living or dead. 



P.S.- Happy Esther Day. 

Rims On the Wagon: Chapter 9

Rims on the Wagon:

Chapter 9: The end of the beginning- the beginning of the end

 

Sorry it's been so long. I'm back now. Click here to read chapter 8 if you missed it, or search "Rims on the Wagon chapter 1" to go to the beginning. Moving on, here's chapter 9.

                “Dear people of the Amish faith,” began Preacher James at the ceremony, “you are witnesses here of the charges brought against young Danny Dominici. These charges are charged based on a basis of fact. I am not here to tell you how you should decide his sentence, I am just here to say that this young man is guilty. The aforementioned charges include possession and concealment of a forbidden object of the world and possession and use of occult idols. Here is the evidence against him: the device which he admittedly concealed for over three months, and this occult idol, known to the world as a Pokey Moo toy, which I personally found him using to perform rituals of the occult. What is your verdict?” Danny felt a lump in his throat (not unlike a whale, really) as a slow murmur began in the crowd, which quickly turned into a chant of “AAAAAWWWWWW YYYEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHHHHH” which was the customary way of voting “guilty” in the community’s legal functions. The words pierced deep  into Danny’s soul. As the outcry reached its peak, the people rushed at Danny to forcefully carry him out of the square. They picked him up and passed him along over their heads through the crowd. As he floated through the sea of angry village people, everything seemed to change. He looked down, and the people weren’t the familiar faces of his hometown. He saw instead a crowd of city rabble, hipsters, and new wave hippies. He immediately realized where he was, as the flashback of his past faded away.

                He was at a concert- his concert. Hundreds of people were there to see him perform. It was the best show in months, and in the excitement he dove into the crowd where he was caught by ready fans who sent him surfing around the arena. It had been two years since he left his hometown, and his dream was beginning to come true. But, unfortunately, I can’t just tell you he lived happily ever after and let you be done with this book. There’s still a lot of story for me to write and for you to read.

                He had walked for three hours to get into the nearest town after being roughly carried out on that 4^th of May. As he was tossed out onto the road to begin his journey, he saw Joseph waiting by the village gate. “May this day always be with you.” Was all that Joseph had said. In the two years since then, May the 4^th had been with him constantly. It haunted his nightmares, and fueled his dreams. It was never so potent, though, as it had been in that concert. That concert was held on the second anniversary of his finding that strange device. It took him several minutes to fully shake off the vision, and the venue went silent as they wondered what was wrong. The show went on, though, and the air was electric. That first free style had inspired him. He developed it into a breakout hit. When he managed to make it back to the stage, he sang that song to end the concert. At that point, the crowd went into a fevered frenzy that would make Mrs. James proud.

                Now, I should probably explain how all this happened. When he arrived in town, he walked around looking for somewhere to stay. He was already exhausted from his morning’s walk, and he soon collapsed on the sidewalk by a small apartment building. He was awakened a few hours later by a young man’s voice, ”Hey. Yo. Get up. What it is with you?” Danny looked up to see a young man (bet you didn’t know that already) with a scruffy red goatee and a shaved head. “What are you doin sleepin on my sidewalk, man?” the young man asked. “You’d best get up before the po po comes and takes you to the happy house for loitering.” “I’m sorry,” Danny replied, “I’ve been walking for hours, and I was too tired to go any farther.” “Well then, homeboy, I’ll see what I can do fer ya.” Said the goateed man. He took Danny into his apartment, and gave him a hot plate of pot roast. The plate was nice enough, and the rice and carrots were delectable, but Danny would quickly find that the beef had roughly the texture of an apple made of meat. However crunchy the beef was, however, Danny devoured it quickly. “Wow, homeboy, you attacked that like a whale shark.” Said Goatee. “Now that you’ve eaten, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Nathaniel. My wife, Chartruse and our baby, Grape should be home in a few minutes.”

                Danny decided to go on a walk around town. He went around the block a few times, then turned down a street towards the middle of town. As he walked past a large grocery store, he saw a commotion inside. He went through the door to see a large crowd of people crowding around a short skinny young man. He was wearing baggy pants which sagged around his knees, a basketball jersey, sunglasses, and what looked like a towel wrapped around his head. He looked to be about seventeen, with short brown hair and a street poet mustache. Danny recognized him immediately. He almost passed out with excitement. He couldn’t believe that in his first day in the city he was about to have a chance to meet M.G. When he found the strange device several months before, M.G. was one of the first rappers he listened to. He immediately fell in love with his stylish beats, his heart felt lyrics, and his powerful voice. M.G. created the best raps Danny had ever heard. As he got closer, he heard M.G. talking, “Man, I see all them TRYIN to hate on me, an’ I sed ‘naw’.”  Every sentence or two, one of his posse would put in a quick “YEAH” or “M.G.!!!!!” as a form of agreement. “I sed ‘naw’, y’all south side wannabes bes’ throw up the towel,” “HEY!!!!!” “An y’all bes’ not mess with this real south side, y’all”. Danny followed at a safe distance. He listened with fascination as M.G. told tale after tale of his experiences in what he called “south side”.

Lawrence Refrigerator, Jameson C. Meat, and Lorenzo Bread: An Unknown History of Culinary Cornerstones.

A forward to this post: 

Recently I have become more and more engrossed with history, and one area of history in particular, which often receives less attention than I personally believe it merits. This area of history, though rarely studied by the common man, is one I find most engaging: Culinary History. 

Yes, the history of advances and digressions, the patterns and spontaneity, the origins of food. But my area of interest is one in particular. The naming of food. 

For instance, where do the names "barley," "cauliflower," "twinkies," or "corn" come from? 

I have spent several weeks tracking down the origins of certain food names, and in this article share with you the three most interesting and obscure origin stories of food names.

Lorenzo Bread: Father of the Loaf.

Lorenzo Bread was born in Sicily in 1847.  Bread-like products existed at the time, but Lorenzo Bread advanced all bread technologies to the extent of man's imagination. he advanced not only the cooking technology (Previously they had simply mashed a bunch of wheat stalks into a ball and thrown it at a fire), but also the manner in which bread existed. before it was a blackened wad of wheat viewed with disgust, but he made it into a delicacy fit for a sandwich. The people were so grateful, they named the product "bread" after him. Incidentally, his great grandson, Otto Frederick Bread Rohwedder of Davenport, Iowa, invented the product known as "sliced bread." He spent 17 years developing this sliced bread technology until it was finally available for mass purchase in 1928.

Jameson C. Meat: Discoverer of Meat.

Not much to say about him. Discovered meat. Remarkable fellow. He died of a heart attack in 1807.

Lawrence Refrigerator: Pioneer of chilling technology.

Lawrence "Jimmy" Refrigerator, also known as "Jim Fridge" was born in 1899. He came from a large family. Eleven parents and eight brothers and sisters. He was inspired by his father, who originally came up with the idea for the refrigerator in 1877. His father tried and tried all his life, but was never able to build a functional cooling device because the technology was not available. He died in 1912 in his workshop trying to build a prototype. His last words were reportedly "This blasted device! How can man survive this eternal maze of warm foods! It must... be... remedied." Lawrence Refrigerator is the one who found his father and dedicated his life to developing the cooling device. He spent many years finding and developing the technology for it, and finally finished his first prototype in 1945. He had dedicated his life so intensely and fervently that he died in 1946, only having built 3 functional refrigerators. After he died, his family was left penniless. They sold the patent for the cooling device for $4,000. The man who bought it named it after Lawrence Refrigerator, calling it the "refrigerator." However, no other credit was given to him, and he and his hard work were lost in the cryptic and obscure passages of history.

I hope you have enjoyed this brief overview of some Culinary Cornerstones, and feel free to ask any questions that you may have on this subject. Next week I have scheduled an interview with Lawrence Refrigerator III, the great-great grandson of the inventor of the refrigerator, and I will share with you the fruits of this upcoming interview session.

Spaghetti,

Master Chef.

Haggis the Goat part 8 of 37

    The rag tag group of heroes (That's 'heroes' with an 'e' by the way, you never spell the plural of 'hero' without an e. It's always 'heroes,' never 'heros.' and it's ESPECIALLY not 'hero's' unless it's belonging to ONE hero. Anyway, back to the story.) made their way to the airplane the next day. The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache, who from now on we'll call Devin (because seriously, 'The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache' is way too much trouble to type every time I want to mention him), spoke to Steve. "Hey. You know how in action movies, the hero always says some witty phrase right before he gets in the plane and dramatically flies away?"
    "Yeah." Steve said. "Why?"
    "Cause we should do that."
    "Why?" Steve responded.
    "It would be pretty cool."
    Just then they reached the stairs to the airplane. They begin walking up to the door, with Hippie Guitar Man in front and Haggis the goat in the back. As Devin passed the door man (yeah, there's a door man.) who was politely holding the door open for them, the door man slipped something to Devin. "It'll come in handy. Trust me." Devin kept walking, and the door man kept politely holding open doors for the rag-tag group of heroes who politely thanked him for politely holding open the door.
     Just then a thought hit Devin. "Ow!" Devin said. "That thought hit me rather hard." Then he examined the thought that had hit him. What the thought was, in fact, was that he had gotten a job at the toothpaste cap factory, and had not shown up for work one single time. Of course, now that Haggis the goat was making best selling hip-hop/rap albums, he didn't need a job. He called up his employer and told him he quit. His former employer yelled at him repeatedly that he was a nitty, and then broke into tears. Devin hung up the phone.
    The door man held open the door for Haggis, who was the last one to come into the plane. Haggis put sunglasses on. "Baaaaaaaaa" he said. He turned, facing the sunset and raised his eyebrow. He took his sunglasses off. "Baababababbbabaaaaa baaa." (for those who don't speak goat, he was saying a melodramatic and somewhat witty phrase before they flew off into the sunset.) They flew off into the sunset.
                                    DAYS LATER

Devin stepped onto the green grass, his polyester pants swishing each time he took a step. He rubbed his chin and turned around to face the rest of the team. "Well, men. I have no idea what I am doing. So I'm going to go ahead and turn the lead over to Hippie Guitar Man."
    Hippie Guitar Man stepped forward. "Gentlemen, I have only one thing to say. BOB, YOU ARE SUCH A NITTY! Now let's catch a haggis."

The Tale of Haggis the Goat pt 7 of 37.

     Everyone looked at Hippie Guitar Man. He had never spoken a sentence without his usual hippie drawl and prefacing it with "Hey man," yet just now, he had spoken a perfectly normal, almost sophisticated sentence. A perfectly normal, almost sophisticated sentence oozing with mystery, that is.
      "What... What do you mean, he's quite right?" Steve asked. "He can't be right, he's just a lowly paranoid assistant who believes in haggises and drop-bears."
     "Well you see," said Hippie Guitar Man, raising his eyebrow, "As a child, my parents took me with them on their travels. We went all over the world, from the epitomes of wealth and class, such as Paris; Tokyo; Walker County, Alabama; and London; but we also went to the depths of poverty in India and Africa. They were rich, too rich for my blood, so I left when I realized they were all part of the System. But before I realized that their conformity to the status quo was influencing me, they took me to a magical place called 'Scotland.'
     "There, I enjoyed myself. Ate many wonderful delicacies, including... haggis. At first I didn't believe when they told me about the haggis. They said it was made out of haggis. I assumed it was made out of sheep guts like all their food is. But eventually I agreed to go on a Haggis Hunt with them the next morning.
     "I lay down for the night, dreaming of capturing a wild haggis the next day, when I heard a scream. I ran outside looking for the source of the yell, and what I saw shocked me. The entire village was in flames; people were running, terrified, into the forest. 'IT'S THE GREAT HAGGIS!' a large man yelled at me as he ran past, the hair on his head singed.
      Suddenly, I saw the beast. Black as night, towering in the air, it turned its head to me, its eyes glowed red with malice as it glared at me."
     Hippie Guitar Man shuddered. "After that, I don't remember what happened. I- I just blacked out. The next morning I woke up in the hospital in the next town. As soon as I was released, me and my parents flew back to the U.S.
    "Soon after that, my eyes were opened to The System, and I began to fight it. But I couldn't fight it with my parents' money. It was a battle I had to fight alone. So I took to the streets, sleeping on park benches, anywhere I could. But whenever I went to sleep, I could never forget... the haggis. I would dream about it every night.
     "Eventually I picked up the guitar. From the first moment I saw it, I felt a special connection to it. Ever since I got it, the nightmares went away."
     They stared in awe at Hippie Guitar Man. "I had no idea." said The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar mustache.
      Staven patted Hippie Guitar Man on the back. "I know that feel, bro. I know that feel. We're going to find this haggis... and bring it down."
     Hippie Guitar Man put a carrot in his nose and smiled. "Let's riggidy roll."

The Tale of Haggis the Goat pt. 6 of 37

Staven and Steve looked at each other. Staven smirked and said "And who are these HOODELUMS? Hmm? And also, why is that guy stuffing whole-wheat all natural organic baby carrots in his nose? Seriously, what is the deal with him?"
      Hippie man pulled the carrot out of his nose. "Hey man- You're really messing up the vibe in here. You know what you're doing? Messing up the vibe in here, that's what."
    Staven looked at Hippie man in an awkward silence. The entire group stood and looked at the ground, awkwardly clearing their throats and shuffling their feet. Staven looked up. "So, you guys recording here today? That's cool, that's cool."
    "Yessir! We sure are," said The Extremely White Man with the Handlebar Mustache.
"Baaaaaaa," Haggis agreed.
     "Even though I work here at Addicted to Pants Recording Studio, music isn't really my interest. My main interest is, well... No, you wouldn't understand. No one does." Staven looked away, dejected.
      "Baaaaahh!" Haggis said, which means, essentially, "Please tell us! I am *quite* understanding, I'll have you know."
     Staven sighed. "Fine. I'll tell you... My lifelong goal is to find... A haggis."
     The rest of the group pointed at Haggis, including Hippie Guitar Man who was once again sticking carrots in his nose. "This is a Haggis," they said.
    "No, no, I knew you wouldn't understand! I mean a REAL haggis..."
    Extremely White Man with the Handlebar Mustache exclaimed "You'll be hard pressed to find a Haggis as real as this Haggis!" Hippie Guitar Man nodded. "Yeah man, totally all natural and organic."
    Staven backed up and shook his hands defensively. "No, you misunderstand me. This is what I mean by a REAL haggis... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_haggis."
    The others stared at him in awe. "What-- What's that?" someone said as they watched Staven procure the link to Wikipedia. "I... I don't know," said another.
      "Go ahead, click it." Staven encouraged.
Haggis clicked the link. The rest followed suit and read the short article on the Wild Haggis.
      "Ah," said Steve. "That makes this whole thing much clearer. However, they don't exist."
"Oh, but they DO!" Staven said energetically. "I've seen one, seen it with my own two eyes. Clear as day."
       Hippie Guitar Man pulled off his sunglasses, took the carrots out of his nose, and looked each one of them in the eye, all at the same time. "Gentlemen... I'm afraid you'll find Staven here... To be quite right. Quite right... indeed."

Kony 2012.

In the last few days, a video entitled Kony 2012 has gone viral. Long story short, there is a man by the name of Joseph Kony who runs the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) who kidnaps children and forces them to mutilate and murder other people. In watching the video, I was inspired by its message. People of all races, from all over the country, and even over the world fighting to end Kony. People coming together to fight, not for their own benefit, but for the benefit of others, for the helpless. I felt a sense of community, a bond among those with a common goal. It was inspiring to see people who cared about something worthwhile and being proactive about it.
 But then I had a thought. What if Christians had the same enthusiasm for spreading the Gospel as they do spreading the Kony 2012 campaign? What if we were as passionate about stopping Satan as much as we are passionate about stopping Kony? What if when we woke up in the morning, we decided we would tell someone about the Bible or invite them to Church? But unlike Kony 2012, most people won't agree with you, most people won't care, and some people may even get angry with you. It's not easy. And you may get discouraged. But if you don't try to help people, no one will be helped. And what's more important? Feeling a little uncomfortable because you don't want somebody to think you're different, or helping someone to salvation?
Everyone may not be able to help spread the gospel in the same way. Some people may be terrified of talking to people in real life, but are quite vocal online. Use that to your advantage. Send out Bible verses, set up classes and arrange for speakers to come teach at them.
Some people may not know how to use a computer, but may have good speaking abilities. Use those to talk to people and study with them.
Everyone has a different strong suit, so figure out what yours is and use it to the best of your abilities.
Even if you don't think you're knowledgeable enough about the Bible to teach somebody, you can still arrange a Bible study with people who are.
The point of Kony 2012 is to spread awareness of him by showing people we care, and how much we care. Let's show the World how much we care about doing what's right.

SF Gavin Richardson.

today's drawing.

The tale of why I've not been writing any posts lately, or, No it's not because I'm lazy.

     So some of you may have Noticed I haven't written any posts for a while, breaking my new year's resolution of writing one Every week. There is a good reason for this however. And in this post, I'll be recounting the reasons why.
     It all started on January 23th, 2012. I got a letter in the mail with no return address. As a person generally living in the 21st century, I wasn't used to getting letters, particularly mysterious ones. I stuck the letter in my coat pocket, and made my way back to the house. Once in my room, I sat on my bed and looked at the letter. It was a yellow envelope, fairly unusual, though we had some we occasionally used. It had no stamp on it, but it was addressed to SF Gavin Richardson. I don't know how normal people open letters, but as I never receive letters I am quite inexperienced with opening envelopes. So I do what I normally do when I receive a letter, try to open it like it was intended to be opened, get frustrated, claw at it until I can get an opening, and then proceed to rip it to shreds, usually leaving the contents intact.
     I unfolded the letter that I had pulled out of the ripped remains of the envelope. The lights in my room flickered. I looked around suspiciously. My lights never flickered unless there was a storm. But I went back to reading the letter.

"Dear Mr. Richardson,--"

 Before I could get past the greeting, I heard a noise from the kitchen. No one was at home, so I wondered what it could be. I supposed it was just one of those noises that the house makes when no one else is home, like "creeaaaaaakkkk" or "Gavin, I'm coming to kill you," but I decided to check it out anyway. I put the letter down and slowly walked to the kitchen. Nothing was out of place. While I was in the kitchen I decided to grab the bag of Doritos. That isn't important to the story, I just like Doritos. I went back to my room and picked up the letter. Suspenseful music started playing. I ate a Dorito. I reopened the letter.

"Dear Mr. Richardson,

Are you tired of paying too much for cable? Have you or a loved one died from using the drug euxjruhuweuweoueouebananaqfohefioizine after a hip replacement surgery? Are you tired of being fat?

Well we have just the product for you."

This seemed like a legitimate offer, and I had recently died, after all, and I was left feeling out of shape after Skinny Hank's Peanut Sauce failed to make a difference in my physique. I decided to call the number at the bottom of the letter. 

    The phone rung. After a few seconds of ringing an old Indian woman picked up the phone. "Hello?" I said. "Yo." said the old Indian woman. 

    "Yes, I'm calling about the product I received this letter about?"

"Ok." she said. 

 There was a silence for the next several minutes, save the buzzing of the phone. 

"Hello?" I said again.

    "Sup," the old Indian woman said. 

    My cat brushed against my leg. He looked up at me, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his ears flopping. He was the biggest, ugliest cat I had ever seen, and at first I didn't want to keep him. But after a while, he started growing on me, much like mold on bread, except not as literal. I threw a carrot I conveniently was holding at him. He grabbed it in his ugly cat-muzzle and scampered down the hall. 

    The old Indian lady was obviously not going to help me, so I hung up the phone. I exited the phone room and made my way back to the bedroom. What waited for me there I could never had imagined. 

       I opened my bedroom door. I gasped. Actually didn't gasp. I made a quizzical expression, which is usually as close as I get to gasping. There, standing on the other side of the room... Was me. But with sunglasses. "What are you doing here?" I asked, surprised. "Who are you?" 

     "I'm you..." He said, taking off his sunglasses, "From the future." 

      "Ok."

So we went on adventures fighting space pirates, basically. 

The end.

  

The Tale of Haggis the Goat returns! Part 5 of 37.

When we last left off, Haggis the Goat, The Man With the Handlebar mustache, and Hippie Guitar man were following Recording Studio Owner Who Had Been Watching The Goings On From a Distance Man to his recording studio.
"My!" exclaimed The Man with the Handlebar Mustache, "A real recording studio! I can't believe we've caught such a lucky break!"
"Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!" Haggis agreed.
Hippie Guitar Man didn't say anything. He was too busy clapping his hands and swaying to the music inside his head to do anything but eat a whole-wheat all-natural organic baby carrot.
They finally arrived at the recording studio, called Addicted to Pants, and Recording Studio Owner Who Had Been Watching The Goings On From a Distance Man held open the door for them. The three walked in the building. Hippie Guitar Man put a baby carrot in his ear as thanks.
"Wow!" The Man with the Handlebar Mustache gasped. "It's wonderful in here!"
He looked down at the paisley carpet approvingly, the pastel coloured wall tiles made him grin with glee, and the red and blue striped and polka dotted ceiling tiles caused him to skip around the building happily. He looked at the paintings on the wall. "My! This picture of a landscape with a waterfall is quite gripping! Oh, and what's this one over here?" He asked, walking further down the wall to the next one. "Horses! My oh my! My second favorite animal from the equus genus! Look at them run! See the thunder in those hearts! Feel the rain in those ears!  Feel the passion in those eyes!"
"Alright! First things first," said Recording Studio Owner Who Had Been Watching The Goings On From a Distance Man, "You can call me Steve. Now let's get recording!" Steve, or Recording Studio Owner Who Had Been Watching The Goings On From a Distance Man said.
The went in to the first recording booth. The walls were covered in packing peanuts that had been stapled on to reduce the echo. Steve dragged a microphone out from the corner. "Alright. All we actually could afford at this studio was this one microphone, so it looks like one of you will have to use this potato to record."
"I only use whole-wheat all-natural organic potatoes, man." said Hippie Guitar Man.
"Oh, I assure you it's the most whole-wheat all-natural organic potato around," Steve validated.
So they began to record. The raps were flying free, and the guitar was wild and unchained. The amalgamation of the words and the music created such sweet harmony that the sky itself started crying tears of joy. Or pain. Whatever.
At any rate, by the end of the day, they had an album recorded. Now all that was left was to market and sell it.
The door flew open. A very tall young man dressed in a black suit walked in.
"Staven." Steve greeted Staven.
"Steve." Staven greeted Steve.
Steve turned to back to the group. "Staven is just the assistant here," he explained to them.
Staven smiled evilly. "Not for long..." he muttered under his breath.

   Part 6 coming next week!

Spaghetti, 

Master Chef.

New Years Resolutions.

I've made a list here of new years resolutions. I don't have anything to say other than what's on the list, really, so here we go.


This year I resolve to …


1. Find the proof in the pudding.


2. Let sleepin' dogs lie.


3. Chunk handfuls of applesauce at my neighbors on a weekly basis.


4. Put the smiles on those kids' faces.


5. Take a midnight train going anyyyyyy wheeeeeerrre.


6. Fight crime dressed as a stalk of corn.


7. Tiptoe from the garden by the garden of the willow tree.


8. Find out what "finding the proof in the pudding" means.


9. Have two birds in the bush and one in the hand.


10. Put a spoke in the wheel.


11. Make it snappy.


12. Make no bones about it.


13. And finally... Write a new blog post at least every week. And stick to it for more than a month. Unfortunately I've already missed two weeks, so maybe there'll be some bonus posts later on. 

Spaghetti,

Master Chef.