When asked how he intends to deal with the Egyptian president, the new ambassador replied “Handling him is no problem at all.” Pressed further on specifics, he offered “I’ll make him climb a mirrored wall.”

The boy was shocked to find that i did not share his love of Party of Five.

via Brass Goggles.

Click here to view the embedded video.

My tenure as head of this project was brief, however, due to the interference of a cuordoroy jacketed interloper. A literature professor on a one year loan from an indeterminate eastern university, he was interested in trans-curricular studies and expressed a desire to participate in the project. He contacted my assistant via gem-engraved lawn dart, and following a brief courtship, explained his interest in our research. The self-described “literateur” intended to provide our team with test subjects, and then write about their individual progress in the project.² Eager to expand the base of our test subjects, we agreed.

He failed to include on his vitae, however, that the state he wished to induce, in a group consisting solely of his more attractive female students, was a sensation indistinguishable from desire. He was successful, and published a number of papers on his findings. The phenomena he observed, termed educator lust, in conjunction with films he made of his experimental procedure, cost us our lab and our funding. There were positive effects, however, as the visiting professor received a Tanner Fellowship and eventually, an “endowed chair of comparative gender studies.”

2. His collection of poems and short fiction, entitled “Emotion: The Feelings my Feelings are Feeling” is available from Livre Pathetique, Rue de Bette, Paris.

“They’re beautiful.” My lover struggled to remain composed but nearly wept at the weight of them.

The attendant smiled politely. “They have hair triggers and a set of 100 cartridges is included. “

As she handed one of the display cases to me, it was my turn to fight tears. The chamber was surround by a metallic starburst of precision machining. What I’d thought was a setting fixture for the rifles was instead a wreath of 700 nitro express rounds. I was beginning to hallucinate the scent of cordite filling the display cases and spilling into the street, telling the world of our love.

“For two young people like you,” he all but winked and nodded, “I’ll throw in a pair of tooled gunbelts that belonged to James Arness.” I was skeptical and it showed, but I owned leather from virtually every James Arness vehicle, and I had never seen anything like these. I figured I could get the price down if I expressed my doubt firmly, but politely. “I’m skeptical and it shows, but I own leather from virtually every James Arness vehicle, and I have never seen anything like these.”

He seemed to relish the banter and continued, “Remember the episode of Gunsmoke where Miss Kitty has to convince a Pinkerton that she and Festus are father and daughter? Remember just before the inevitable failure of the plan in a hail of Festus’s frontier jibberjabber when Marshall Dillon breaks in and catches the three of them in the parlor and threatens to shoot them dead unless they perform forbidden and thoroughly unpalatable sex acts at a sideshow in a nearby town while the marshall sells sniffs of Miss Kitty’s petticoats as a cure for impotence? You know how he drew on the angry mob when they knocked out the Pinkerton with a head of cabbage, interrupting the delicate finishing sequence of the “Golden Lotus”? Right when he starts firing indiscriminately into the mob, accidentally winging Miss Kitty’s niece, these very holsters are visible for a couple of frames. Then they get soaked in gore and are unrecognizable for the rest of the scene.”

He obviously knew his Gunsmoke, because I remembered that scene. However, I was determined to haggle a little more.

“How are we supposed to keep large-bore rifles in holsters meant for sidearms?” I asked. My fiance seemed mortified, as though I’d asked permission to relieve myself in the man’s jacket. He smiled the cloying rictus of all salesmen and closed the deal. “The stocks are removable and may be custom fitted by our in house weaponsmeister.“ He was already helping me into a belt and showing me how to balance the dread firearms into the holsters.

“See?” he noted,” perfect for young lovers.”

From his other side, my lady chuckled, “I couldn’t agree more.“

My better half shouldered her oil-wet dowry, already loaded, and leveled it at the salesman’s chest . Pressing him slowly into the wall behind the display case, she smiled and swiveled her good eye towards me. She took a long, slow breath. “Do you smell that, baby? It’s like the whole island knows we’re in love.”

Hans is an expatriate Paraguayan with no discernable political affiliations. I asked him once, given his age and accent, if his family had ever been in Germany. His response was whip quick and well rehearsed, “Nein, mein amigo. I am born of Paraguay.” He shot me a wooden salute and heel-clicked his way back into his house, slate-gray and peppered tastefully with Hindi caricatures depicting, alternately, good fortune and eternal vengeance.

His method of protest was to induce in himself a crippling case of bloat. He ate every sort of hay available and within about 40 minutes was beginning to cramp as well as experience vivid auditory and visual hallucinations. The pain in his stomach and the horrors in his ears (choir boys telling him to graze less fitfully) and eyes (those same choirboys directing him to the podium, so he could deliver his grand elocution) continued until the authority rendered him cooperative. Senor greenpeace staggered into the ceremonial Hog Trough of World Alliance with grasses of every description extending from nooks and crannies of every description. The sight of this man, regally bloated, a purple mountain majesty in Birkenstocks, every portal of his body filled with the eager faces of tommorrow’s hay, the end of world hunger and the evolution of milk cows into productive members of our no longer agrarian society, nearly overtook me. With the last of my resolve overcoming my concern for this man’s safety or dignity, I asked him about the emerald city, Dorothy, and offered my support in the form of a shouted epiphany and whistle stop rendition of “If I only had a brain.”

The blue ribbon went, incidentally, to a young Karen Morphus, for her macaroni recreation of Mad Mable’s, a brothel in Durango during the mid 19th century, complete with rotini staircases and prairie doves of ricotta and vermicelli.

Recent events have reminded me of the importance of early detection when dealing with alien invaders. You can’t just let them land in your yard and promise not to take over the earth. Aliens don’t value yards the way we do, so you can forget about them valuing human life. With this circuit, you can remain aware of exactly how much sunlight is being blocked by an approaching alien warship. Ignore the radio broadcasts. The mind-controlled announcers will claim it is a medical supply vessel, but we know an unimaginably futuristic, alien, and complex warship when we see one.

Bottom Line: LEDs + piezo buzzer = not dead from alien attack.

In the spirit of ghost hunters everywhere, I give you the DarknessScan 2.0. It not only detects rising and falling light levels (and therefore red flags the presence of beings that thrive on darkness…hint, hint…ghosts) but tells the user about it with convenient LEDs.