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Sunday, April 8, 2012

Flap and Eva -- A Very Special Easter Story

Okay, so I'll admit it's funnier if you are in on all the inside jokes. But, due to the nature of some of the jokes (and the people involved in them) I can only say this: It's  funnier if you're in on all the inside jokes. ;)

Enjoy my wicked awesome prose, anyway. You may get a laugh or two out of it.

So, without further ado... I give you...



Flap and Eva

and the

Curse of the Easter Pig


Once upon a time Flap and Eva were playing in their back yard. It should be noted that Flap was the Kwisatz Haderach, and Eva spoke with a thick Hungarian accent. Other than those to facts, they were mostly normal children from Normal World.
 
Mostly.

 
They were un-normal by virtue of their parents. Their father was Sir Boone, Lord and Grandmaster of the League of Men Who Raise Magical Dogges, and their mother, Theodora Rossé, was the personal assistant of Judge Norwegian—the only Norwegian judge allowed to judicate in Normal World, not to mention the most respected judicator in all of Normal World.
 
As it was (and it usually is as it is, so it stands to reason that it was—most probably—as it was on that day) it was Saturday. More precisely, it was Holy Saturday. (For those of you who don’t know it, that is the day before Easter Sunday.) Being that the next morning was a day filled with egg hunts and sugar highs, Flap and Eva were excited—as kids are wont to be. However, like every other child in Normal World, they were also weary. Weary because they knew of the curse of the Easter Pig.
 
It was said that on every thousandth Easter (and it was—of course—the thousandth Easter) there would come, flying over the mountains—coming straight from Abnormal World (which is, contrary to popular belief, not the World of Normal Abs; that’s quite a different world)—the infamous EASTER PIG!
 
(Yes, grammar fans, the preceding sentence was convoluted, likely a little confusing and probably qualified as a run-on. I don’t care. Get over it.)
 
The Easter Pig, some thought, was just a legend, or an old wives’ tale designed to make children fear winged pigs. Most, however, knew the ominousity (ßnot a real word) of the truth of the legend, and they feared the coming of the Easter Pig as most would fear rabid Chihuahuas—which is, like, A LOT!
 
Flap and Eva, though, were super-mega-geniuses with a combined IQ of well over a billion. They knew that with a little effort they could protect their chocolaty loot from the hated flying swine. So they set out to pig-proof their house, and—if they could—capture the Easter Pig, thus making Normal World a safe place to celebrate candy once again!
 
After much thinking, planning, and plotting, Flap had an idea.
 
“I’ve got an idea, Eva Jo,” He said.
 
“Ah, do tell it to me, dahling.” Eva answered.
 
“What if we got Boris to help us?”
 
“The drunk Russian?” Eva was shocked, “You know mother said we’re not to hang out with him anymore.”
 
“No, not that Boris. The bulldogge Boris.”
 
“Is that really how you spell ‘bulldogge’?” Eva asked.
 
“It’s Olde English, I think,” Flap said, “But that doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to be hearing me, not reading me.”
 
“Ah, yes, dahling. I tend to forget tiny things like that. Do go on.”
 
“Where was I?”
 
“Not getting the drunk Russian to help us.”
 
“Oh, yeah.” Flap continued his plan, “Suppose we get Boris to stay up all night and talk to the Easter Bunny—he won’t come if we’re awake, but it doesn’t mind dogs!”
 
“The Easter Bunny is probably a girl, dahling, considering it lays the eggs.”
 
“It’s a rabbit, Eva Jo.”
 
“And?”
 
“A mammal?”
 
“And?”
 
“A mammal that lays eggs?”
 
“And?”
 
“Is this turning into a Coke 0 commercial?”
 
“Probably, dahling, let’s just move on. What will Boris do to the EB when she arrives?”
 
“Okay, we’ll have Boris stay up to meet the Easter Bunny, and when it arrives, we’ll have instructed Boris to instruct the Easter Bunny to leave all the eggs in one place—to not hide them!”
 
“But then our egg-hunt will be rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”
 
“That’s not the point.”
 
“What is the point, dahling?”
 
“The point is we’ll have the highest concentration of chocolate per square foot on the block; the Easter Pig won’t be able to resist it! Plus, we’ll know EXACTLY where he’ll be headed, so we can lie in wait!”
 
“Can I squat in wait, Flap? If I lie down I’m apt to fall asleep.”
 
“Whatever.”
 
So, without much further ado about nothing, they set their plan into motion.
 
Boris—not the drunk Russian Boris—readily agreed to help them… provided he got fifty percent of all chocolate gained through the Easter celebrations.
 
“But, Boris, dahling,” Eva said, “Chocolate is terrible for dogges!”
 
“Arf, I know!” Boris said, “I’ve got some friends I wanna off.”
 
“Oh, well in that case…” Flap rolled his eyes, “Sure.”
 
“Which friends?” Eva asked.
 
“That’s none of your concern!” Boris barked (literally).

 
“Just agree, Eva Jo.” Flap whispered in her ear, “We’re gonna welch on the terms anyway.”
 
“Oh, you mischievous fool!” Eva slapped him in the arm. “Boris, we cannot agree to these terms, and don’t trust my brother; he plans on reneging on any promises he makes to you.”
 
“Well then why in the heck should I help you two whippersnappers?” Boris barked again (still literally).
 
“Because I said so.”
 
All three jumped at the unexpected voice. They looked up and, standing above them, they saw Sir Boone, the Lord and Grandmaster of the League of Men Who Raise Magical Dogges himself.
 
“Hi, Dad.” Eva said.
 
“Pops.” Flap nodded.
 
“My liege!” Boris groveled.
 
“Hi, kids.” Sir Boone said, and then turned his attention to the bulldogge, “Boris, I need you to do whatever they ask of you, even if it involves a sweater vest. Their mission is too valuable to Normal World to be hampered by the ego of one such as thee.”
 
“Yes, my liege!” Boris did not bark. None who love life dare bark at Sir Boone. “Of course, my liege!”
 
“Good.” Sir Boone said. “Back to what you were doing, kiddos.” With that, he left.
 
So they explained their plan to Boris, who—reluctantly—agreed.
 
That night they went to sleep in their comfy beds while Boris stood his ground in the living room, waiting for the Easter Bunny to arrive.
 
As Easter Bunnies are notoriously shy—no human has seen one and lived to tell the tale—we know absolutely nothing about what occurred when the EB finally did show up. So we take up our story again when Boris barked for Flap and Eva to wake up and take their positions hiding in the living room.
 
They gazed at the pile of sugar-filled eggs, drooling excessively, for a moment, and then scurried away behind furniture to await the dreaded Easter Pig.
 
“How long do you think it will be, dahling?” Eva asked.
 
“Don’t know, Eva Jo.” Flap smiled, “That rhymed.”
 
“You are quite the accomplished poet.” Eva rolled her eyes.
 
“Shh!” Flap shushed her. “I think he’s here.”
 
Sure enough, the front door creaked open. In the shadows it was difficult to see all the details of the creature’s form, but it was, without question, a winged pig—the Easter Pig!
 

“Stop fiend!” Flap yelled as he and his sister burst from their place of hiding.
 
The Easter Pig snarled. “Flap and Eva! I should have known.”
 
“You’ve met your doom now, dahling!” Eva cried.
 
The Easter Pig laughed, “You can’t stop the Easter Pig! No one can. Your boppa tried once; Sir Boone and Theodora Rossé never told you what happened to your boppa, did they?”
 
“They told us enough,” Flap said, “They told us you killed him.”
 
“Which was terribly rude of you, dahling.” Eva added.
 
“No, Flap and Eva,” The Easter Pig’s deep voice boomed throughout the room, “I am your boppa!”
 
“No-o-o-o-o-o-o!!!!”
 
“Join me, Flap.” The winged swine said, “Join the Abnormal World, and we can steal Easter candy together, as boppa and Kwisatz Haderach.”
 
“Don’t do it, Flap, dahling!” Eva called out, “It’s not worth it! At least make him cut off your hand first!”
 
“No! I’ll never steal Easter candy with you!”
 
The Easter Pig said, “Then you will surely have Easter candy stolen from you.”
 
With that Eva pulled out a lightsaber.
 
“That’s enough chit-chat, dahlings. Let’s end this.”
  
She lunged at the pig.
 
He drew his own saber.
 

The duel was epic.
 
Eventually, however, the Easter Pig was overpowered—with much thanks to the Kwisatz Haderach’s many kidney punches. They tied him up and quickly dispatched him to court where Judge Norwegian exiled to him for his crimes to Kansas (which is another abnormal world) forever-ish (unless he leaves).
 
That, friends and countrymen, is how Flap and Eva defeated the curse of the Easter Pig and saved Easter candy for everyone forever.
   

The End
The Lands of Flap and Eva


Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Science Fiction, Unfair Words, Long-Winded Clues, and Other Atrocious Interlocks

Do you like crossword puzzles?

I love them.

And, apparently, I make them.

So I made  one special for you. :D

It's a PDF and can be found here.
You can print it off or whatever... I hope you enjoy. -_-

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Weighty Issues of Weight, Urine, and Sleep

So, my story begins in room 936 at the University of Colorado Hospital.

The *NEW UPDATED* mailing address would be:

Raphael Biltz, Room 917
c/o University of Colorado Hospital
Mail Stop F771
Aurora, CO 80045
 
…in case you were wondering…you know…how to send me love…

But, you probably weren’t, so I’ll go on with my story.

Let me begin by saying that I have nothing but the utmost respect and appreciation for the nurses, CNAs, and the rest of the hospital staff here. They’re amazing. It may seem like I’m dogging on them in this post, but—you must remember—they’re just doing their jobs. It’s the person who decided the best time for them to weigh me is an hour after I’ve fallen asleep that I take issue with. Anyone who ACTUALLY dogs on nurses and CNAs just doesn’t know how hard they work.

Anyway, it was getting rather late, and I wasn’t tired. My nurse even commented a couple of times on how late I was staying up.
As of yet none of my actual nurses have been zombies...

Sometimes I stay up late.
 
Is that a crime?

Well, in a sense, yes. It is a crime against yourself… If you do not catch your winks before too late, you may have to go without. Hospitals are for the sick, not those in need of rest.

You see, at about 3:30 in the AM—after countless counting, knee bouncing, and wishing—I was finally able to go unconscious.

At about 4:20 in the same AM the CAN walked in… with a beeping machine…

She wanted to attach this machine to my arm and my finger… and another one that she needed to run across my face… but I can forgive the quest for vital signs at night. It’s not too huge an imposition to deal with when they’re just trying to make sure none of their meds are killing you. Ya know? I like them keeping track.

Still, riddle me this: why must one be weighed in the middle of the night?

On this same very early morning the CNA woke me up to say: “I have to weigh you. Do you want to do that now?”

Well, I was awake anyway—and the gods seemed to want me always weighed at night—so I got up… and got weighed. But I’m still curious: Why at night? It’s always at night. They never schedule your daily weigh-in for morning, or afternoon. It’s always at night.

I suppose someone might say that various factors may fluctuate one’s weight during the day, and that—without a lot of food in your stomach—they’ll get a truer weight on you at four in the morning.

But at four in the morning? Is the plus or minus two-ish pounds really going to make a difference?
 
“Holy cow! He weighs 117, not 115! We have to stop everything now, and put him on a strict diet of tapioca and olive oil!”
Dude, I can't think of a witty caption...

Yes, I weigh about 115… laugh at my skinniness now, punk. When you realize you’re you, you’ll be wishing I weren’t me. >:)

(Or something like that…)

She typed my vital information and weight into the computer then, “You drink a lot of fluids last night?” She asked.

I thought for a moment Last night? Like, four hours ago, last night, or twenty-four hours ago, last night? Why at night? Do I count what I drank during the day? There’s not enough information here!

“Yeah.” I said.

“How many times you pee?”

How many times? Since when? Does she means how many times do I pee on average? Are we still on the last night shtick? Does she mean how many times last night, or how many times SINCE last night? Or are we talking about the last few hours? (When it’s technically morning, and you’re working with the graveyard shift, it can get confusing what is meant by terms like “last night.”)

“Three.”
 
This seemed to satisfy her want of urine intel.

Good enough to stop the questions.

She packed up her loud machines, and exited the room.

. . .

And, now I had to pee.

Great.

Going to the bathroom is no small feat when you have an IV in one arm, attached to a pole (that must be brought with you) and have an oxygen tube you must keep on your face that is plugged into the wall opposite the bathroom.

I guess I was awake anyway…

Let the countless counting, knee bouncing, and wishing begin anew.

Ugh.

As per the usual, go do some evil.

Ciao.
 
~Rafe

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Sweethearts? - A Special Valentine's Post About Cannibal Cupcakes

As my most ardent followers probably know, I am going to be attending KU this fall.
Rock Chalk!

My ardent followers also happen to know that I am single. ^_^ Ladies...

Yay Valentines! (I know Valentine's Day is over... sheesh! Judgmental much?)

How are these two things related???

They're not. Except that Mom-Lady has decided (for whatever reason) that I'm going to find my "sweetheart" at KU. I suppose she did drop out of business school as soon as she got her MRS.

But she did drop out to raise me and my nine wonderful(ish) siblings... This was quite a daunting task, you would agree, if you knew my siblings and me. (I'm not even the worst of us...)
Anywho, disregarding all of the above, this line of thought got me to thinking about the term "sweetheart."

What is a "sweetheart"? Why do we call people "sweethearts"? What does it mean when one has a "sweetheart"? Are "sweethearts" contagious? Does it have anything to do with blood sugar?
My thesis? Whatever a sweetheart might be, no matter how "nice" one might be, my cold, dead lump of coal is a far preferable thing.

My Heart

Back to the initial question: What exactly IS a sweetheart?

To discover the answer, let us examine the usage of the word. It is obviously a noun. It is something we can possess, e.g. "She is your sweetheart," "You are my sweetheart." It is also something we can be, e.g. "I am your sweetheart," "We are sweethearts." So, in a certain unpleasant sense, it's a bit like slavery. (That is, you can be a person but if you own a person they're a slave, and you can own a chocolate, but you can't be a chocolate... you following me? Something that you can both possess and be is akin to slavery...ish...)
Let's move on...

Now, if we look at the root words, "sweet" and "heart," we can see that we are discussing an internal organ that is pleasant to the senses. (Note that the word "sweet" need not only refer to taste, e.g. "sweet music," "sweet odor," or "sweet feeling.") It is obvious how someone could possess such a thing (though, wondering who tasted, smelled, or felt another's heart conjures up disturbing images of... well... their in your head now. You know what I'm talking about...)
Still, we are left with the question of how one person can BE another person's "sweetheart." How could one actually become a sensually pleasant organ for someone else???

O.o

Aaand... we all just thought of the answer to THAT question...


Let's move on...
As this is supposed to be a family friendly-ish blog, let's get out of the gutter and examine what you and I both know I meant.

I can't be someone else's heart anymore than someone else can be my heart. And, even it was possible, what makes this reverse-anthropomorphized heart sweet? You never hear someone accusing someone else of being their "bitterheart."
That would be fun though... to be bitterhearts with someone. ^_^ Aww... delicious, mutual malevolence. Makes me think of my relationship with Satchel.

But, where were we?
Oh, yes.
Dissecting sweethearts.

Obviously, as shown in the discussion above, we cannot take the term "sweetheart" literally. If we do we end up with all sorts of crazy things like little sugary people replacing our blood pumps. Ludicrous.

So we must assume that the term in question is, in fact, a metaphor of some kind. Could it perhaps be that we are saying this person is what makes our heart sweet? Like they somehow metaphorically take otherwise normal hearts and coat them in sugar and sprinkles like some cannibalistic cupcake?

I'm going to assume that's it.
A "sweetheart" makes another person's otherwise normal heart less of a selfish bit of meanness, and more of a other-centric lovey-dovey "I'mma buy you chocolate and flowers" kind of a blob.

...


And we're back to slavery, it seems.
Still, with this understanding, I have to conclude that Mom-Lady is, in point of fact, very wrong. I will not find my sweetheart at KU. I am incapable of having a sweetheart because I have no heart. No one on this earth can make sweet my cold, dead lump of coal.

Yay, Soulless freaks! :D

Ciao.
~Rafe
P.S.
Go do some evil. ;)

Thursday, January 12, 2012

I Scared Her ^_^ It Was Fun - plus whatever I ramble on about...

I scared a woman at Target the other day. (No, not THAT day... the other day.)


'Cause I'm creepy like that. >:)


I'll bet you're wondering what happened?


So is Queenie... I told her about it, but not really. I told her that I scared someone, and that she would have to read my blog to find out more. -_- I love to tease.


Okay, so let me see if I can tell it funnily.


First of all, I was out with Queenie and Mom-Lady doing some last minute Christmas shopping. (It was the 23rd day of our favorite month with Christmas in it.) That's approximately two days before our favorite day with Christmas on it.


Yay, Christmas!


Festive, isn't it?
Ah... don't you love it when bloggers begin a post BEFORE Christmas, and then don't go trying to finish it until almost three weeks later? Me too.


Yay laziness!

Okay, back to my story.

I was Christmas shopping at Target. 

Whilst I was engaged in this activity, I was wearing a very special shirt. Let me explain...

I have back problems. I hunch, and have a bit of scoliosis. (Scoliosis is like deadly back breakage, only less so... it's actually more like a curvy spine... my spine's not straight... no, it's not gay either. Sheesh.) Because of this I sometimes wear an uncomfortable, white shirt under my comfortable, non-white shirt. The uncomfortable, white shirt is very tight, and pulls on my shoulders, and rides up in my armpits. It's supposed to help me stand up straighter. (Leave to doctors to find a way to make uncomfortable underwear "healing.")

Meanwhile, back in the story I'm telling, I was looking at hats. I showed a particularly cool cat to Queenie. She said I looked creepy. (Not sure if that was intended as a compliment or an insult...)

Then Queenie left.

I walked to the edge of the hat aisle, and stood, staring off into space with my face pointed in the general direction of the people walking by in the main aisle. I wasn't going anywhere, because I was busy trying to pull my uncomfortable, white shirt out of my armpits a bit. (Of course, I was doing it so no one would notice... 'cause I'm smooth like that.)

As I was doing this a pretty young lady walked by. I saw her, she saw me. I saw her see me, and she saw me see her. I saw her see me see her, and she saw me see her see me. I saw... etc. ad infinitum.

I didn't really take note of her.

BUT (and this is an important "but") she must have taken note of me. (Keep in mind, I am ravishingly good looking... women can't help but notice me... remember the She-Cop?) Also, I finished suavely picking my pits just as she walked past me. So I stepped out into the main aisle, and proceeded to look for where Queenie went.
Coincidentally, I had stepped out into the main aisle with the pretty young lady just about ten paces ahead of me.


So, to recap, here's the situation:
I look creepy (according to Queenie, anyway). I (while staring off into space) seemingly leer at a pretty young woman as she walks by. She notices me. I fall into step just a few paces behind her... as if... (dare I say it?) ...following her! >:D


Jaws music begins... NOW!
That's when I noticed her glance over her shoulder... at me.
Duuuuh.... dum.
I don't think she was checking me out.


She started walking faster.


She glanced over at me again.


She started walking even faster!


By this time I was grinning. (Probably didn't help my trustworthiness factor...)
"Do you wanna know how I got these scars???"
The next thing I know, she's darted around the corner and is running off into the towels, pillows, and pillow pets section.


Despite the overwhelming urge to follow her, I don't want anyone to call the police. So I stroll along my merry way, never to see the pretty, albeit scared witless, girl again.


>:) I hope I haunt her nightmares...


That is all. ^_^


...Ish.


I do have one request.


If you happen to be the girl I scared... respond to this blog. :D I'm not really a creeper (sometimes...)


Anywhosist... ciao.


And, as always, go do some evil!
~Rafe


P.S. Queenie got me the hat I admired for Christmas. Yay, life!