Magic

Little Billy waved his magic wand reciting the incantation that had saved Harry Potter from the dementors so many times before, yet for all his practice, nothing happened. He’d read all the books and watched the movies, he’d studied the folk lore are memorised all the spells that made Harry Potter and his friends heroes of the wizarding world, but after much tireless effort Little Billy seemed no closer to casting his first spell. And time was running out.

The school yard bully had challenged Little Billy to a pistol duel at high noon on the third Wednesday after the Winter solstice. Little Billy wasn’t quite sure when that was precisely, but was assured by his friends that he would be dead before the end of the week. Being a practical sort of chap Little Billy assumed the bully was exaggerating, but his doubt effortlessly dissipated on Tuesday at high noon, when a pistol duel in the playground resulted in the untimely death of a student.

The entire affair seemed rather odd quite frankly. Little Billy had woken early that Tuesday morning, readied himself for school as usual, kissed his mother goodbye and headed off to catch the school bus. Lessons were as boring as ever followed by lunch; a little before midday. All the kids headed to the playground when suddenly the school bully announced the duel would take place for “grievous and unjustified insult cast against his God fearing soul.” The children had stopped their games and rather confused by the accusation but excited nonetheless, they quickly gathered to observe this new development.

Shackled and obviously terrified, a little girl of perhaps 9 or 10 years old was being led by the art teacher to the middle of the playground. She quickly turned her head left and right, her gaze darting to each of the children staring curiously at her. When without warning she hurled insult after filthy insult at the crowed, damning them to eternal hell fire in language to make sailors blush and spitting furiously at all within her range. Her brown tongue snaked out from between her rotten teeth and even from a distance she reeked of an odour so foul it evaded all description.

On seeing the poor wretch, Little Billy could not help wondering how this all came to be. After all, he’d finger painted with the little girl just a few minutes ago and she seemed perfectly normal. Being the curious sort he was, he asked a nearby teacher to explain this sudden and rather unexpected turn of events, but was told to “let not the evil ways cloud thy judgement. She be of heinous upbringing, and deserveth is she of the cleansing torment of death. Heil Bully. He is the way.” And once again, the medieval rantings and 18^th century attire of the school staff didn’t quite fit with this time or place, but not wanting to be an unnecessary bother, Little Billy helped himself to a handful of rotten vegetables (which were suddenly available in wooden pails when he’d turned around), and joined the rest of the crowd in pelting the evil child.

It was only a few minutes before she’d been ushered to the middle of the playground where the school bully leaned casually against the see saw, picking last night’s supper from his teeth with a sharpened chicken bone. He stood a little over 6 feet tall and bore battle scars from the various wars he’d served in. Playground gossip said he’d been forced to leave school early and before long was recruited into the Gulf war back in the early nineties. He’d later served as a mercenary in South America and finally got into drug trafficking for the Columbian cartels. It was only a year ago he’d decided to pick up the tattered remains of his life and live on the straight and narrow, starting by continuing his education. But having never completed primary school, he was forced to continue his schooling in Little Billy’s grade.

The righteous headmaster served as mediator. The little girl was handed a water pistol; after all, the school took the safety of its pupils very seriously. The bully was allowed to choose from a selection of well maintained automatic weapons and settled on two AK-47s and a few hand grenades. Technically he also carried a hunting knife which gave him an advantage, but the headmaster ruled he could keep it, but would not be allowed to use it unless the knife was thrown. Civilised conduct prohibited both hand-to-hand combat and close range stabbing.

Standing back to back, the little girl and bully took 10 paces away from one another, pistols in hand. With the crowd watching nervously, the headmaster instructed they turn and fire.

It was a close thing, but the bully had proven the better. The little girl’s body was buried on consecrated ground and she was marked absent for the remainder of the school year. She never did progress to the next grade, and served as a constant reminder to all students of the danger of absenteeism.

Little Billy wasn’t quite sure what it was that he’d done to insult the bully, or when for that matter, but the gun smugglers were delivering another shipment as school ended for the day and the school gardener was seen collecting the less edible vegetables. The woodwork teacher smiled at Little Billy before measuring his height, then worked vigilantly on the coffin. More than a tad worried, Little Billy returned home and explained the situation to his parents who simply stated that “fair is fair”, to which Little Billy had no response.

And so, after learning little from the Chuck Norris marathon on television, Little Billy turned his thoughts to the boy wizard who’d suffered so much and triumphed against all odds and placed his last hopes on magic. His eyes closed wearily repeating yet another incantation, dreading the coming day.

Oral Hygiene

It occurred to me earlier this evening while riding home from work that quite simply, Dracula had rather foul smelling breath. And this probably applies to the majority of, if not all vampires.

Vampires, unlike other monsters, have the distinct ability to be cool. And that applies regardless of whether you prefer the more traditional Le Stat, or are a devoted BtVS groupie, or even are in love with the oh-so-girly Edward Cullen of Twilight fame. Now I personally wouldn’t group Dracula into the cool category, but that’s more because he’s into frilly suits and greasy hair which makes him look like an investment banker from the dark ages, but I’m sure his fashion sense qualified him as cool back in his day. Also, I’ve always found him rather dramatic; the original emo kid with a chip on his shoulder. Regardless, he certainly holds his own.

Which of course is the exact opposite of what one might think if one saw vampires whipping out the Colgate every morning and brushing with a soft but firm circular motion for a full five minutes. The plain and simple fact of the matter is that it’s hard to appear dark and mysterious when you’re caught using mouthwash after drinking your victims dead. It’s even worse for the classically cool to be seen flossing after nibbling at the neck of some poor cheerleader. Oral hygiene and vampires do not make an attractive pair.

Hence, we arrive at one of two conclusions. On the one hand, we may strip vampires of their uber-cool status and cast them to the pit of mediocrity like we normal folk. On the other, we may allow them the ability to look and act cool, but smell quite the opposite. Which naturally implies that all forms of subtle seduction one may hope to experience when in the presence of such creatures will either involve nose plugs, or simply not occur at all. Halitosis is nature’s own mood killer.

And so alas, reality has once again reared its ugly head and killed off all hopes of me ever being uber-cool. I simply refuse to stop flossing.

World War Zero

It was just last week that I was chatting online to a South African friend of mine who’s currently studying in Germany because, despite all the fancy technical jargon she uses as excuses for studying abroad, she’s really only there because the Germans have larger microscopes. Which is particularly vexing since she’s not a particularly large person herself, being only smidge bigger than those little handbag poodle monstrosities Paris Hilton is always carrying around.

Nevertheless, our conversation drifted off to things she’d been doing in her new country and she mentioned a chocolate shop she’d discovered that even sold chocolates made of sheep milk. And it suddenly occurred to me that I never knew sheep milk existed. In hindsight it makes perfect sense that sheep would of course produce milk, especially for their newborns. Come to think of it, most species produce milk, even humans. But social conditioning usually prevents us from considering the possibility of a farmer running around squeezing ladies’ breasts in an attempt to feed his family; a social faux par of note! So that, combined with our exposure to mostly cow and some goat milk completely – until that online conversation with my friend – impaired my ability to realize that the world of sheep milk existed.

Given this new information, the world as I knew it before my discovery of sheep milk suddenly seems very strange. In such a world milk would still be required for the new born sheep, which of course means that farmers would milk their cows and then hand the buckets over to the sheep. It’s unlikely the farmer would conceal this fact from any of the animals, meaning of course that the cows would first watch each other being milked, then watch the sheep lounging out in the sun on recliners and slowly sipping the cow milk out of the farmer’s pails with bendy straws.

The difference in social standing here is quite apparent, and in a sense very similar to human social structures. The cows represent the working class, with the sweat of their udders (and I mean that quite literally; I still don’t understand why people don’t consider milk to be internal cow sweat) serving to sustain the higher order animals – the sheep. The sheep of course are clearly the supermodels and rock stars of the farming world, what with their bendy straws and recliners and woolen sweaters. The farmer I suppose would represent some form of communist government in this little equation, who takes from everyone and distributes resources as he sees fit, but that’s not overly important in this story.

Still, day after day the poor cows would watch their precious milk being given to the sheep, always resentful of the fact that while they – the cows – do all the work, the sheep reap the benefits. The air would quickly become thick with the smell of hatred and before long murmurs of revolution would likely be heard as the cows plot revenge and an overthrowing of the imposed order. I’m not quite certain how this next part would occur practically, but in my head at least, the cows slowly start smuggling AK47s and land mines into the farm, obtained from other revolutionaries in North Africa. The sheep of course would be blissfully unaware of imminent danger, and take to using hair gel in their wool so as to achieve odd looking styles, much like human teenagers do these days when they make their hair stand up and point in different directions. Apparently the electrocuted peacock look is the latest craze.

And then the catalyst: a young, innocent sheep would take his pail and stroll past the cows, blowing bubbles in the milk or perhaps make a few slurping sounds. The cows would lose all sense of reason. The careful plans of revolution would be forgotten and, incensed by a sudden wave of fury, the cows will grab their weapons of war and open fire on all sheep, massacring all within their sights. The farmer and his family – all of whom were unaware of the festering resentment – would unfortunately be caught in the cross fire as body after body would pile up on the blood soaked farm land until when the sun finally set, only the cows remained.

At sunrise the following day the cows would of course milk each other and plan to meet their new future with exuberance; full of hope that finally justice has prevailed and like the ungrateful, undeserving sheep before them, they too will now lead lives of luxury. And so they would toast their success and prepare to sip their life-giving milk – only to realize that it was the farmer who supplied the bendy straws. And for the rest of forever, the cows would outwardly celebrate their freedom, but internally grieve their defeat, for they would never be quite as content as the sheep once were.

But of course that’s only if sheep didn’t produce any milk, which they do, so everything’s right with the world just the way it is. Which is one great result of my friend studying in Germany.

Truth

It was a little after midnight when Little Billy stared out his window, rifle in hand, preparing for the coming doom. He’d been too young to remember the turn of the century, but his parents often told him stories of how, come year 2000, all computers would malfunction and rise up to rid the world of humans. And so to protect both themselves and him, they stock-piled ammunition, re-located to a remote island devoid of all technology and trained Little Billy to shoot anything that moved for his own safety.

Rather unfortunately, but quite accurately nonetheless, Little Billy was responsible for the death of both his parents several seconds after receiving his orders, as his father patted him on the back, and his mother ran away in horror. Little Billy did notice himself move in the process, but after blowing off a pinky toe decided that perhaps his parents were less than truthful.

Nevertheless time passed on and Little Billy grew ever more lonely, forgetting the exact words of his parents but remembering the shoot first and ask questions later policy that was key to survival, unless survival required movement. He never did manage to reconcile both those thoughts.

And so it was a little after midnight on February the fourteenth that Little Billy saw an adorable baby cherub with wings and a bow and arrow fly by his home, wondering if a little more love might be spread in the world. Smiling serenly, Cupid snuck through the window of Little Billy’s bedroom and giggled at the lovely mischief he occupied his time with. When naturally, Little Billy opened fire from his command post, well camouflaged high up a coconut tree, and shattered the bones in both Cupid’s legs. Noticing the bow and arrow, Little Billy took aim once again, destroying any hopes the baby had of flying away, or ever using a bow and arrow again.

It had been many years since Little Billy had grilled steaks for supper. After all, the island was rather small and Little Billy was an excellent marksman. So he savoured his Valentine’s meal, of course unaware that it was Valentine’s day. And people all over the world rejoiced for never having to see the annoying, nude, flying baby cherub ever again.

PETV – People for the Ethical Treatment of Vegetables

For those of you who may not know, the food chain is a sort of hierarchy of edible beings, where those higher up in the hierarchy get to munch on those further down. Human beings are rather fortunate in this regard since we happen to be at the top of the food chain which means that, as a species, we can munch on anything below us, from goldfish to weeds and everything else. It’s a pretty sweet deal overall – for us, not the goldfish.

Which is why certain types of vegetarians make no sense to me. I once knew a girl who chose to be vegetarian because she simply didn’t care for the taste of meat. That makes sense to me. Other vegetarians do so because they abhor the cruel conditions animals may need to endure before being slaughtered and ending up on our plates – another reason I’ll accept. The bit that really gets to me though, are those who choose to be vegetarian (or possibly vegan) because they consider it wrong to destroy or harm life.

Well geez, last I checked, carrot sticks and lettuce were alive too. Interestingly, so are mushrooms, apricots, beans and broccoli and virtually everything that not just humans, but most animals eat as well. I stand corrected, but I think mountain goats suck minerals out of rocks, so they’re on my list of exceptions, unless of course they get together on the weekends and cook little bunnies.

The typical response I receive when I mention this sort of thing goes something along the lines of “but plants can regrow”. Sure. So why not slice off a portion of a cow’s rump, marinate that with a few spices and grill it all just enough so that it’s still juicy when you eat it? After all, if you cut off just a bit, the cow is likely to regrow its flesh anyways. It’s what we do to plants after all.

For some odd reason, I recently visited PETA’s website and saw an invitation for everyone to join up and become proudly vegetarian and this, combined with the various other articles I’ve read and stories I’ve heard of how guilty I should feel when applying the BBQ sauce to my steaks have prompted this little retort. I’m all for the ethical treatment of animals. It’s not like I spend my free time squirting mustard on live cows to make them wonder how long they have before they face the chop. Nor do I support the idiotic killing of animals just for their fur. But geez, we’re top of the damn food chain so if I’m cold and starving and see a cute little furry bunny, I’m gonna score me some steaks and a new pair of gloves dammit!

The point of this little rant, very simply is that you’re at the top, so enjoy it. And if you’re so loving and caring that you cannot find it in yourself to harm even a single living thing, then stop being hypocritical and stop eating fruit and vegetables as well. And before too long this rant won’t be needed anymore.