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Jan 27, 2011
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 22, 2011
Trust the Commander
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Jan 21, 2011
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 15, 2011
Silver Sameowri
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Jan 14, 2011
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 12, 2011
Somewhat OK Adventures of a Boring Guy, Part 1
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Jan 11, 2011
Jan 10, 2011
Snowpocalypse 2011
We mounted an expedition to get supplies. The pass was completely iced over. It was slow going, but we pressed on. Jenkins didn't make it past the second stop sign. It was getting colder, and we neglected to pack enough jerky. We hauled his body along; just in case, you understand. There's no predicting dire need, and it's better to be prepared, as Jenkins himself had proven.
Once we passed the Culdesac, we found ourselves joining other desperate travelers. We huddled together for warmth and shared ghost stories. Most haunting were the abandoned wagons of our predecessors, their frozen corpses still upright, as though they refused to surrender.
We finally reached The Intersection. Our goal was in sight. But between us lay a wasteland. Bones, twisted, burned metal, blood on the snow. It seemed insurmountable. We started on Jenkins' thighs as we tried to find a way around it.
We built a ladder using the bones of Porkins and Jenkins. It was only strong enough to take the thinnest of our group. We elected Nash to go, gave him our combined coin, and settled in to wait.
Someone fashioned a soccer ball from Porkins' stomach. I wish I could say I didn't join in, but... Perhaps it is best I leave this out. By the time Nash returned, snow madness had taken many. We were forced to leave them to their fate, and began the journey home.
As we neared the village, we were met by an overwhelming force of neighboring villagers. We were outnumbered 300 to 1. It was decided that one of us would take the supplies and sneak around the edge of the battle, so as to make it back save the families. We played Monopoly to decide who it would be. (Fortunately, our attackers were patient.) 3 days later, I won the honor of saving the town.
As the battle began, I climbed the hill in order to cut through the woods. It worked, until I met an attacker with seemingly the same mission. We eyed each other warily, the goods bags in one hand and our knives in the other. He grunted and looked pointedly left. I understood. We would let each other pass without incident. There was enough brutality without our contributing to it. We moved on.
It was then I sustained my only injury, from not watching where I was placing my feet. I slipped and smashed my nose against a might pine.
My nose still dripping, I staggered home. I fell through the door, still clutching the goods bag. An elder took it and spilled its contents. A gas station hot dog (with mustard), two 2-liters of Diet Coke, and an empty 16-oz coffee cup.
"This is it? This is what our sons died for?" Jenkins' and Porkins' mothers asked accusingly. "Only this?"
A child spoke up, showing wisdom seemingly none of the elders possessed. "But that's all we need, grandmother. It's supposed to warm up tomorrow, and then we can drive to Wal-Mart and buy all we need."
"You're right, child. Of course you are." She began weeping, and, soon, others joined in. And as we sat around the heater that night, we raised a glass of snow-chilled soda, and remembered our fallen sons, fathers, and brothers.
The End
Once we passed the Culdesac, we found ourselves joining other desperate travelers. We huddled together for warmth and shared ghost stories. Most haunting were the abandoned wagons of our predecessors, their frozen corpses still upright, as though they refused to surrender.
We finally reached The Intersection. Our goal was in sight. But between us lay a wasteland. Bones, twisted, burned metal, blood on the snow. It seemed insurmountable. We started on Jenkins' thighs as we tried to find a way around it.
We built a ladder using the bones of Porkins and Jenkins. It was only strong enough to take the thinnest of our group. We elected Nash to go, gave him our combined coin, and settled in to wait.
Someone fashioned a soccer ball from Porkins' stomach. I wish I could say I didn't join in, but... Perhaps it is best I leave this out. By the time Nash returned, snow madness had taken many. We were forced to leave them to their fate, and began the journey home.
As we neared the village, we were met by an overwhelming force of neighboring villagers. We were outnumbered 300 to 1. It was decided that one of us would take the supplies and sneak around the edge of the battle, so as to make it back save the families. We played Monopoly to decide who it would be. (Fortunately, our attackers were patient.) 3 days later, I won the honor of saving the town.
As the battle began, I climbed the hill in order to cut through the woods. It worked, until I met an attacker with seemingly the same mission. We eyed each other warily, the goods bags in one hand and our knives in the other. He grunted and looked pointedly left. I understood. We would let each other pass without incident. There was enough brutality without our contributing to it. We moved on.
It was then I sustained my only injury, from not watching where I was placing my feet. I slipped and smashed my nose against a might pine.
My nose still dripping, I staggered home. I fell through the door, still clutching the goods bag. An elder took it and spilled its contents. A gas station hot dog (with mustard), two 2-liters of Diet Coke, and an empty 16-oz coffee cup.
"This is it? This is what our sons died for?" Jenkins' and Porkins' mothers asked accusingly. "Only this?"
A child spoke up, showing wisdom seemingly none of the elders possessed. "But that's all we need, grandmother. It's supposed to warm up tomorrow, and then we can drive to Wal-Mart and buy all we need."
"You're right, child. Of course you are." She began weeping, and, soon, others joined in. And as we sat around the heater that night, we raised a glass of snow-chilled soda, and remembered our fallen sons, fathers, and brothers.
The End
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