a significant car-toon

COLEGGE IIII

ONE DAY: there was a great storm in the land of the place where there is a lot of TREES, and MOUNTAINS. And it rained for 3 days, and 3 nights, and probably MORE, and in the middle of these days, there was a MEETING of the minds, and there was comestibles, and combustibles, and they were "Republicans". And in an auditorium on the other side of the hall, there were "Democrats". And we ate PIZZA, and watched FOX NEWS. And it was "FAIR" and "BALANCED". 

AFTER THAT, there was a PARTY, of a different sort, the kind that involves BINGE DRINKING, and SEXUAL INTERCOURSE, and I attempted to partake, but the line was too long.

AND ON THE NEXT DAY, I became ILL, and UNCOUTH, and, the weather being damp, and unpleasant, I retired to the LIBRARY, whereupon I saw many young virgins, though they probably knew many men by laying with them. 

And I did take several trips to a DRUG-STORE, where I purchased DRUGS, and WATER, and it weighed heavily upon the EARTH.

Also one of my teachers is ALMOST HOT.

Also, chymistry class is apparently more about QUANTUM MECHANICS than chymistry.

Also I found out that a hot womon probably hate me.

College: The Backlog (Cupcakes)

So dang behind.

Anyway.

Don't feel like talking about my move-in, so instead, a story from last night:

I've been going to a lot of banquets lately. I'm an Honors student, plus I have some scholarships, so these things happen. It is no great burden on me. Some days ago, I went to the Honors banquet; last night, I went to the Regents Scholars' banquet. I did not actually know about this banquet ahead of time; half an hour before it began, a friend told me that a friend had told them that there would be a banquet tonight. I went to the indicated place at the indicated time, and noted a large presence of people in semi-formal dress, milling about and eating appetizers. I concluded that this was the banquet in question. (Thanks here go to friend Robert and friend Rachel respectively.)

I should note here that this is not the first time I managed to get to an event which I was meant to attend by near-pure luck; some days before, I went to the Computer Science orientation only because I was trying to go to a different event in the same building at the same time. I'm rather hopeful that there isn't a significant proportion of events that I wasn't lucky enough to catch. It's hard to tell, for obvious reasons.

But I did go to the Regents Scholars' banquet. I did my part, eating appetizers and milling about like the others, reuniting with Robert and Rachel fairly quickly. We talked with other people - a lot of their stories I'd already heard, but I was first informed of another suite's custom stadium seating then, so it was hardly a waste of time, even if I hadn't been enjoying myself. The food was delicious, to boot - there was shrimp, chicken-on-a-stick, and cheese quesadillas, alcohol, cupcakes... I've rather lost the habit of eating regular meals, so this was doubly delicious.

Then we sat in an enormous auditorium (it had a giant glass door that rose up on rollers like a garage door!) and listened to people say fairly uninteresting things. Afterwards, we got water bottles made out of cancer-plastic. I took one. Certain others took more than one. For their "roommates".

The crowd dispersed. I was talking to a few people I knew there (and one I didn't) when we were commandeered by a staff woman. "Come help us!" she instructed. I guessed, at the time, that we would be required to do heavy lifting.

They wanted us to carry the left-overs. Two boxes of beer and a big box of uneaten cupcakes. So, basically I was right.

Two of my friends ended up carrying boxes, while another guy (a staff guy, maybe?) took the last box. I was left with nothing. (Later I was accused of sloth. Pah!) We headed up several flights of stairs, past a very long queue waiting for admission into a nearby nightclub. ("The Loft".) "Move quickly!" we were told. "Don't let them get what you're carrying!"

The danger was exaggerated.

At last, we arrived at our destination (a small office), and the beer was stashed. (With some difficulty - the refrigerator in use was fairly small.) The disposition of the cupcakes was considered. My suitemates and I volunteered to take them home. "It'd be no trouble," we agreed.

This suggestion was tragically rejected.

Instead, we returned to the queue a floor below. My friends and I were left with a pitiful five cupcakes from the box, as thanks for our service, while the staff-woman who initially recruited us ran with increasing speed down the queue, distributing the cupcakes for free. Some people ran after her to get a cupcake; others were left dazed, only realizing what had just passed them moments too late. (I observed a girl talking to a friend: "They were giving out what?" she asked, her voice displaying an incalculable agony at the opportunity missed.*)

This is, essentially, how every banquet, everywhere, should end.

*Hyperbole/outright fiction warning.

COLOGE III

So orientation was like 2.5 weeks long, it was crazy but there was free food and fun stuff. 

My rum(room) is cool, it is a single but it's about the same size at the doubles at berkoley or some other places (owned). It is in an old building so it has "character" which means it kinda smells

The food here is pretty good.

There is so much crap to do here it is rediculous(in a good way)

Classes started today. I have way too much home-works, I think. Also the biology class I signed up because it had a cool description but it turned out to be about "evo devo" which was like my least favourite part of ap bio in hy school, but it was cool but the reading is a lot. The class is freakin huge. It is intro bio so naturally everyone in the world take it, it have like 120 people in auditorium. It's weird because the textbooks aren't real textbooks, they're like paperback regular books. Also chymistry is cool, the classroom has cool black-boards, it is like "modern". Also there was an explosion. Also we start with this weird quantum mechanics stuff that is confusing but it is so cool. Also the professore's mouth is weird.

I tried out for the penis-boat team but I phaled, but I got some special programmes or something. I was doing it to "impress the ladies" but too late for that I guess.

Also I tried hitting on that girl and I think I scared her off because she was like cool to me but like she don't respond. :(

COLLOGE II

Anyway, I arrived on campus and there were people there on the lawn greeting us with colour in their hair and funny clothes on and there was music very loud. So basically before orientation you go on this trip into the woods and "bond" with each other. There were "ice-breakers" and "get to know you" game, and then we set out the next morning. We took a canoe to this farm and like, farmed, and the farmer told us to urinate in cornfield because it was "sustainable agriculture". And like we had to sleep-out-of-doors and like we all smelt bad. Yah, but the tomatoes was good, organic. We sang song and play game, but everybody hate me.

curd

Okay like there were like 2 international students, in our "section", like there was this dude from Isreal and he was like really old like a "twentysomthing" because he was in the army, before he went to college. And he was like a genuis or somthing and like he was a "survival" man in the woods, because he was trained in army and he helped us with like tactics and stuff in survival. And there was this indian guy who was like crazy and he was hitting on every body and he talk a lot and I think he said he was a homosexuel but not sure also the leader man maybe was a homosexuel (o yeah, I learned recently that he was) and like in the lodge where we all me the last day, (it was cool) there were 4 speakers at the program and like 2 were homosexuels. So a lot of homosexuels.

So like the rest of the group was like all oriental peoples which was weird something. Anyway there were a lot of hot gurls on the thing. Actually there were like none.

There were like singing dancing peoples everywhere and like musikals and stuff it was scary.

And sometime like I feel like loser but that boring so I not talk about it.

Oh I went to a "Frat" it was so cool there was free beer, and people were dancing like crazy, and it smelled really bad because people urinate on floor. I was going to play "Beer pong" but there was not tables so I drink beer and play ping-pong in basement. It was not same thing. Then I went dance and I got all sweaty. O and I think some guys were smocking marijuane

Anyway, classes start to-morrow. Orientation was a whirl-wind, and a furor, also today some kids were like cool. O, and I started hitting on that hot gurl from the busse. 

College: The Backlog (prologue)

I'm a bit behind on this, but I've got notes! So we'll see how this goes.

The Nicholas left for college on a sunny morn, one stroke before noon; 'twould have been one, were it not for his laggart father, who delayed the errant party for want of camera and pharmaceuticals. Once begun, however, their journey was sure and smooth; the road was clear of obstacles (be they cars, trucks, or stranger things), and their path was known. Twice they were delayed; first for their mid-day dinner, for their repast took two minutes for each one it should have; an hour and a half in sum; then second in the dismal expanse of the City of Angels, wherein which the arteries of traffic were filled to bursting. (Disgusting though the metaphor is.) The Nicholas himself drove for two hours, in a time succeeding the first delay and preceding the second; though at first he was intimidated by the size and poor handling of the vehicle he commanded (a minivan), much worse than the Beetle to which he was accustomed, still he swiftly acclimated and acquitted himself honourably.

They drove unto the southlands, wherin their quest lay; the day had become dreary and filled with a thin gray mist, so near to the sea were they, yet still they were not endangered. In the night hours, they supped at the house of the Buca di Bepo, wherein which was a small orca biting a woman's behind; this (deliciously) accomplished, they went to the house of their friend Presbyter John, which, though concealed by darkness, yet offered shelter and rest to the weary travelers. For a time they tarried in idleness. Some (the Nicholas included) venturing forth to fetch the John's daughter, Jessica, from her play, upon which she pleaded for father-provided funds with an intensity which those not involved found hilarious. (Specifically, she wished to purchase a costume of the anime character "Neki" (?), which she reckoned herself $30 short of; in fact, though, she had discounted shipping, much to her detriment. Also, to our further amusement.) This accomplished, all personae retired; the Nicholas was relegated to a couch, wherein which he slept with a flesh-eating hamster not even a room away.

Also, there was a cat. It was adorable, and deserved petting, which it therefore recieved. The same could not be said of the dog.

Finis!

Departure

I leave home tomorrow.

There's remarkably little hurry. Thanks mostly to my mother's planning, everything's getting packed up and stored in plenty of time. Just an hour or two a day, to put my life away.

Sorry for the rhyme.

There's few things that are really unique to me. Computer games, DS and accessories, take up very little of the space. (Thankfully, most of the computer games I play these days are digitally distributed, so I can reinstall them wherever without bothering with CDs or DVDs. Thanks, Steam!)

The cat seems to know something's going on. She's increasingly irritable, and I fear that she will commit gross indignities against my yet-unpacked belongings. She's been known to. Nothing so far, though, and my window of vulnerability is closing.

Meanwhile, I've gotten an automated call to my new phone giving me a "second warning" that my vehicle registration had lapsed. Strange given that 1) I've never registered any vehicle, 2) it's a new phone (and a new phone number), and 3) I don't presently own a vehicle. I am inclined to think that this warning was nothing other than a lie.

Tragic, to think what our society's sunk to.

My friends remain reclusive and hermit-like as I finish preparations. The person I've heard most from in the last week is Mr. Zhang, who presently lives three thousand miles further from any of my other friends. Mr. Higham, why do you forsake me so?

Packing up all my stuff, backing up all my save-games, leaves me with little to do, and generates posts like these.

Hopefully tomorrow's road trip will be more interesting. Hoping to return with more stories then.

The Guns of St. Marie

 Across the river, bright flashes of light flashed in irregular patterns, distant thuds following each eruption of light. Minerva gazed at them, enraptured. She could see them so clearly! (a subtle hiss of motors behind her right eye) - men and women and machines toiling on the guns, loading shells filled with toxins and data-bombs and atomics into each. It was too far for faces to be made out, even for Minerva, but she knew with absolute certainty what would be on each face. Devotion. Devotion to her. It was the knowledge that drove her forward, that made her continue even when all the forces in the world seemed united against her.

 Turning her gaze upward, she saw the sparkling lights - those same shells crackling into nothingness, coming ever closer as they harried the island's defensive guns into defeat - and stared past them, looking at the stars invisibly dim in the night sky. Though she couldn't see them, Minerva stared with utter certainty at the satellites watching her - those few left unsubverted, stealing glimpses from the edges of their range. She delighted in them, too - to think that a billion, five billion, sentients watched her from the satellites' eyes - all over Earth, united in unswavering devotion to her! Childishly, she rubbed all six hands together in glee.

 Staring up at the night sky, she didn't respond at all to the approach of her subordinate, known once as Roheet Singh. He coughed, twice, to attract Minerva's attention. She did not respond.

 "The troops are prepared for battle," he informed her after some minutes, speaking with some reluctance. "The bombardment has caused some disruption, but we are expected to survive with at least fifty percent of our line of battle ready for tomorrow. All the same - the enemy outnumbers us ten to one, and their fabbers and gear are years ahead of us in every way. Unless you pull another brilliant reversal out of your..." he faltered, looking at Minerva's unusual body structure. "Out of your leftmost hat, your parents will crush us and turn this island into ash."

 Minerva turned at last, affecting a girlish giggle. "What, me? Another brilliant reversal? No, no," she demurred. "I imagine I'll probably flee and leave you pathetic lot to your doom, forcing you to beg for mercy that you - as potentially booby-trapped pawns of the Adversary, me - will not recieve. I rather like the notion, actually. Thinking of my parents faces as they are forced to massacre civillians for fear that I might have left them as a trap - knowing that each one likely isn't, but killing them anyway! The devotion they would feel!" Minerva sighed at the thought. "Perhaps I should even leave you now!... but no, perhaps they would find a way to guarantee your purity if I gave them enough time. Mustn't have that - it would ruin the moral dilemna quite entirely! No moral there."

 Roheet Singh twitched slightly - almost imperceptibly. Minerva noticed it nonetheless, leaning in closer. "Oh, it's so hard for you, isn't it?" she crooned to him. "Being forced to live without control of your own glands - just dealing with unregulated emotion, like your ancestors might have - those pitiful, helpless fleshsacs! Tell me," she asked, "What is your ancestry?"

 Gritting his teeth, Singh answered, "Third generation clone on my mother's side, purebred on my father's."

 "As plain as they get!" Minerva exclaimed in delight, leaning back from him. "I'd say you're the only one in my six-million to have that refined a breeding. Perhaps that's why I elevated you to second-in-command?" she wondered to herself, musing. "Oh, right, no, that's because I tortured your predecessor to death for growing his hair out too long. Pity, of course, but one mustn't have undisciplined followers, and the devotion he displayed was delightful. How long have you been with me? You mustn't have been in my forces long, or I should've had you as second-in-command much sooner."

 Singh, who had grimaced with rage at the mention of his predecessor, snapped with this question. "Stop asking me these questions!" he screamed. "We both know that you're some sort of bizarre, aborted, pseudo-AI - that you remember everything about me that you've asked and more beside! You know that I 'joined' you in -"

 "New Delhi," Minerva interrupted, reminding him with a sweet, completely unfazed smile. "The mind-bombs. A hundred million taken to my cause - which explains your persisting loyalty in face of your utter hatred of me, of course."

 "Why do you ask me these things, just to barb and spite me?" Singh asked, ending on a plaintive note.

 "Why, that's exactly it," Minerva said. "But I can see you're confused. Let me educate you."

 "No-" Singh objected, but Minerva continued, ignoring him completely.

 "Earlier you called me a - what was it? Don't care to repeat? Ah, well. - a 'bizarre, aborted, pseudo-AI'. That's really not true at all! I'm a full AI. Now, you probably don't know this - it's public knowledge, but not widely publicized, if you see what I mean. Most AIs are 'born', not quite as humans are, but following the same general idea - two AIs get together, swap differentiating traits, which are randomly recombined in the 'child' AI. These are slowly nurtured on steadily increasing amounts of hardware, from subsentient things that can barely parse "Hello World" to full adults. As something of a transition stage, each AI is exposed to real, unregulated human activity, to help give them something of a psychological model to mold themselves on - carefully selected scenes, mind you, but uncontrolled ones, to produce uncontrolled individuals. It's a little more complicated than that, as everything is, but I think you get the gist." Minerva smiled sweetly at Singh, who opened his mouth to speak. Minerva continued.

 "Now, the scene they chose for me was a rural village - a handful of children playing outside some houses. It was going quite nicely, and I'm sure I formed valuable traits which I carried to this day. But then an adult came out of a house - an uncle to one of the children, I realized - and the boy, upon seeing him, gave him a look - just for a moment - of undisguised, pure loathing."

 "Quickly, I parsed the data, and realized what it was. A deviant relationship - sociopathic perversion, in this day and age! Imagine. But while I knew it intellectually, I was still set to learn from it subconsciously - and it shaped me! Taught me everything I know today, really. Of course my parents realized what had happened - and were set to wipe me, to start from scratch - but they hesitated! Held back by indecision, reluctance to waste all their effort - by love, perhaps! - and I escaped. Thus my five year rampage around the globe!" Minerva exclaimed gleefully. "And now you've heard what makes me me."

 Roheet Singh, visibly beaten down and apathetic, tried once more to speak. Minerva motioned him away. "Sorry, got a call from the folks. Must chat. Ta!" He trudged away, dull embers of hatred burning beneath his face. Minerva stored them to memory before she answered her parents.

 They could have communicated faster than the blink of an eye - but both sides were wary of dataworms and memebombs, too easy to hide in binary chat. Instead, as was the protocol they had evolved over the past five years, they spoke in slowtext - English language, overburdened with human inefficiencies and vagueness, hard to embed anything truly dangerous into.

 "Why do you continue fighting?" Minerva's mother asked, the emotion flags on the text conveying resoluteness, with subtle undertones of despair. "You throw away your forces for nothing! Will you not bargain with us?"

 "We are your parents," Minerva's father reminded her. "You know we love you still."

 "Despite the time when I murdered all the AIs in the Cherezborg Collective?" Minerva asked, her own emotion flags schiznophrenzic, manic. "Or the time when I killed half the population of Eastern Europe, and rendered the rest sterile until you can find a cure? Must get on that, now - you're dawdling. And you haven't dealt with the horrible damage I'm doing to the reputation of AIs, everywhere, either... you still love me despite all that? Truly, you are such wonderful parents - to love a genocidal madwoman who confuses hate with love!"

 They cut off communication, as they always did. Unfortunate - she had so much more to remind them of! Still, Minerva fancied she caught a faint wave of irritation filtering through on her father's message. She lay back, watching the light-bursts of exploding munitions overhead. In the distance, she heard a screeching hiss as a data-bomb got through, temporarily covering the left side of her vision in static before the automatics kicked in. Minerva didn't want power, after all - she didn't mind losing this rag-tag brainwashed army. Their patient devotion was nothing compared to that of the population at large - all too aware of the atrocities she'd mentioned, and many more.

 "When I find that lovely, hatefilled devotion in my parents," Minerva whispered to herself,"I will be content."

 "Isn't that just what any child wants, after all?"

of cologe, part I

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED:

Okay so it started in the airport, and I was standing in line and there was like this hot girl behind me was I was like "sweet please please sit on plane next to me" but I lost sight of her but it turns out she was on my plane anyway but she not sat next to me, anyway after the plane I never saw her again, she probably went to Harvard or something, (my flight went to Boston) anyway, on the plane I sat next to this old guy, I think he was a professor or something, he was an engineer so he was probably going to MIT or something like that, he was talking to this guy about "wave-forms" and drawing cool diagrams in this notebook, and then I tried to sleep. After I was in Boston, and then I caught a bus, and like it was like several hours long, and it was boring, however, I talked to this hot girl, whom I thought was like cool, and I thought it was a good idea because I'm meeting people that I would see again later, but then I was pwned, because it turn out that she (along with the only other guy I talked to) was a graduate student, (they were both foreign, incidentally) and I never saw them again, and they didn't say good-bye or nothing, and I was sad. She was really hot. 

Oh, and the some of the highways here are actually called "turnpikes". It's so cool.

So once I arrived on campus there were scary people who had colour in their hair and stuff, and they were wearing clothes like a clown-man, and they were singing and dancing on top of building, and so we all registered for the camping and crud, and there were a bunch of freshman, and we play games, and stuff, I was being lamer because I was scared of people, and there were hot womons, and in the night we sleep in sleeping bag in this huge building.

Day's Post: Patrick Steward has become unconscious

I've been playing a lot of X-COM: UFO Defense recently. It's an old game, from around '93, and it shows. The graphics are archaic, and the UI is pretty clunky, and you can't quit or load in battle. You can save just fine, you can surrender, but you can't quit or load. I suppose the notion is that it would make the game too easy. For me, a weak-hearted soul who can't bear to let his soldiers die, it means a lot of alt-tabbing and force-quitting. This is somewhat relevant.

So, I send my poor soldiers out on another mission, against a "VERY LARGE" UFO my long-range spotted somewhere in Southeast India. Grounded, it doesn't lift before the troop transport arrive. The brave men and women of X-COM scramble out of the jet, hunting for nearby foes - exiting the confines of the scramble-jet two by two, it's all too easy for the disembarkation to become a slaughter against prepared aliens armed with plasma-cannon. It's happened.

But not this time. Three squads form, each moving toward one of the three passes between the small, rocky rises that dominate the surroundings. Most of the X-COM operatives carry plasma rifles, reverse-engineered from those found on the bodies of slain aliens. A few carry human-designed laser rifles or heavier weapons, plasma cannon also taken from the aliens. (One woman due to poor planning on the part of logistics personnel, carries only a small laser pistol. This was an oversight.) Carrying the squad's rocket launcher is Patrick Stewart, currently a sergeant. Some would say that his name is a coincidence; a randomly generated first/last name combination, not too different from the two other "Stewart"s X-COM has boasted in his ranks. (Mary and... something, the name escapes me. They didn't last too long. Casualties are high in X-COM.)

I don't believe in coincidences - especially not in a '93 sci-fi game, somehow giving me a character with the name of a famous sci-fi actor of that time. So I've been carefully preserving Patrick Stewart - always letting others go first off the jet, though he has an odd tendency to end up in front, and loading whenever he dies. It's my hope that he'll be a captain one day.

I may have digressed.

So, the X-COM team advances in three squads. Stewart is in the centre, bringing up the rear - his rocket launcher is too heavy to be used except on special occasions. Soon the first enemy is seen, looming out of the night darkness: Snakemen. Filthy things - larger than a man with a propensity for wanton killing. They're fragile - I saw an armoured one once that took five plasma burst before going down, but it was the exception - and this one's no different. A snap shot turns it into a fine haze of bright-glowing ash, and the three squads advance.

I save, as I do at the beginning of each turn.

The squads advance slowly. The UFO comes into sight, its four supporting pillars and the central hover-elevator that provides access to the interior. Two more snakemen appear, and are burned down. The middle squad, finding itself crowded with excessive manpower, dispatches two men to the south squad, Patrick Stewart among them.

The enemy's turn comes. I wait, watching as they make their hidden movements. Doors hiss open and shut in the invisible confines of the UFO.

Then a tiny purple projectile flashes out of the hover-elevator and does this.

Five squad-members, out of my total fourteen, die instantly. Patrick Stewart, being a cut above the ordinary lot, merely "becomes unconscious." The walls of the UFO - which a point-blank rocket strike will not scratch - are rent asunder. I watch as the bulk of the remaining squad members, overwhelmed by the disaster, panick or go berserk, firing wildly at the air or each-other. Kenji Koyama, a man of stout heart if there ever was, is one of the few who does not - thus the image above. (The weapon in the bottom-right is a plasma rifle, for reference.)

I quit and reload the game.

My first attempt is to close with the UFO faster. The projectile - from a weapon referred to as a "Blaster Launcher", if it is indeed the captured weapon my scientists at base are attempting to analyze - flashes out at my middle and north squads. Fire bursts out, they die.

I quit and reload the game.

This time I try to keep my squads in cover. Noting the blast pattern in the previous attempts, I move the soldiers to keep the supporting pillars of the UFO between them and the source of the projectile, which I believe to be the hover-elevator. The projectile flashes out again, at a different spot. They die.

I try again. I position all my soldiers with time to spare, readying them to fire at any enemy who appears before them on the aliens' turn. Two aliens appear and fall; so does one of my own men, fried by friendly fire. I feel a little bad. Then the launcher-wielding alien appears in the elevator - a plasma-rifle wielding woman fires, misses - and once again an explosion the size of a city block erupts and wipes out the south squad.

To my amusement, I note that the launcher-wielder has been splattered by the vast damage radius of his own weapon.

I've not yet solved this tactical puzzle - I suspect that a modification of the last approach tried will succeed, though I haven't yet gotten it to work. This, though, I know:

Patrick Stewart must survive.

Redemption and Grace

This post contains SPOILERS for the first two Phoenix Wright Games, Ace Attorney and Justice for All. You have been warned.

The first thing you have to understand about the setting of the Phoenix Wright games is that it is completely insane. The first game establishes that there is a sort of eternal war between "lawyers" (that is, defense attorneys) and prosecuting attorneys. Furthermore, due to a dramatic increase in criminal cases, the law has been amended: trials may only last up to three days, after which, if no conclusion is reached, the defendant is ruled guilty. This may also explain the very poor grasp of logic and court protocol exhibited throughout the series - and when I say very poor, I mean ridiculously abysmal - though the character of the judge, who presides over every trial in the two games mentioned, may also be partially at fault. His name is Judge Judge, if I recall correctly, and while he is lovable, he is both not that clever and terrible at keeping the courtroom under control.

So: The premise of the series is that you play the role of a young defense lawyer, the eponymous Phoenix Wright - "Nick" for short, oddly. Following in the fine tradition of legal dramas (Law and Order, Boston Legal, etc.) which have their characters, no matter their ostensible profession, participate in all stages of the legal process, Phoenix collects evidence and interrogates witnesses in and out of court in a desperate, flailing, very confused effort to keep his clients from a conviction - FOR MURDER! Then he, invariably, finds the real murderer, the Judge declares your client "NOT GUILTY", and confetti falls from the court ceiling as an audience cheers. It's all very lighthearted, with many 'zany' characters and a rotating 'sidekick' - that role usually being filled by Maya Fey, who we may speak more of later - which makes it all the stranger when you, as Phoenix Wright, must utterly break a woman's spirit to prove her guilty of a crime which - you find a little later - she did not actually commit.

Stepping back for a moment, to add context: You are informed that this woman, Adrian Andrews, who seemed very self-sufficient and competent when you met her earlier, is actually perpetually dependent on others, and tried to commit suicide when her last mentor died some years ago. You already know (from such reliable sources as a tabloids and an old woman who follows them) that Ms. Andrews seems to be romantically involved with the murder victim of the case - who was also connected to Ms. Andrews' old mentor, it's a bit complicated - but Ms. Andrews won't say a word to you on the matter. So, armed with this new information, you go to Ms. Andrews and force her to confess that she's not really self-dependent and is just a weak, spineless woman deep inside. By the end, she's nearly in tears - and for all this you get the information that she was involved with the murder victim to try to retrieve her mentor's suicide note. Information tangential to the case, not even complete information (there's a lot more discovered later)... but by the time of the first day of the trial, a little while later, it seems clear that Ms. Andrews is actually the murderer! It's okay to abuse and practically (I shrink at using the word, but here it seems justified) rape the spirit of a murderer, right? Phoenix Wright seems to think so, because when the trial comes around, he does it again, in collaboration with the prosecuting attorney (who we will certainly attend to later) - wrecking her utterly with threats of public disclosure of all her secrets, suggesting that she should try suicide again, pressing her to the point of tears - only to find, at the end of the day, that she is clearly and entirely innocent of murder. (She did try to frame your client, but it was pretty justified.)

When I, playing the game, had to press through the dialogue where you first break Ms. Andrews' spirit, it disgusted me. (The games are completely linear - you always have to talk to everyone and get all evidence and so forth before you can continue. There's no choice in the matter). I stopped playing for a time. Then, when I resumed, the game revealed that she was the murderer - and the protagonist's actions almost seemed justified. Until it reversed itself again.

If you believe that there is nothing wrong with breaking an innocent woman's spirit utterly for sake of minor, tangential testimony - and note here, the main character never expresses regret for his actions - then there is something deeply wrong with you. (Yes, you, Mr. Zhang.)

I was deeply sickened by the game, and had little enjoyment pressing through the next sections of gameplay. I considered abandoning it. But my persistence paid off - for, slowly, I realized that there was a reason you must perpetuate such an abomination as I rail against, above. It's a strange reason, and not one that's ever stated overtly - so it's the reason this essay of a blog post exists, to explain it.

To give it all away - or explain my thesis, as the English-man might - the abomination exists for purpose of redemption. It shows how low you, Phoenix Wright, have sunk; how much like those you condemn you have become. The dirty tricks the prosecutors play are a common theme of the series, even a central part of one trial. Even some of the noble race of defense lawyers seem to act so - there are hints to improprietries in the court of law in the history of Gregory Edgeworth, defense lawyer, mentioned earlier in the series. Phoenix judges them (appropriately), almost even mocks them - for he fights for justice, never with any filthy tricks! But now he is sunk low; as he must be, if he is to be redeemed.

Miles Edgeworth, the aformentioned Gregory's son, is a prosecution lawyer. He has a long and complicated history with Phoenix Wright, and spars with him twice in the first game. But between the first and second games, he leaves. This is repeatedly mentioned - brought up by one character or another, it becomes clear that Edgeworth has left, Maya Fey (your assistant/ward, mentioned earlier) doesn't know why, and Wright is very reluctant to say anything about Edgeworth or his departure. M. E.'s absence a reoccuring point in the game - he left, M. F. doesn't know why, P. W. v. reluctant to talk about it. Eventually, upon sufficient prodding, he confesses to this: Edgeworth was very depressed by, first, his own defeats and Wright's hands, and second, Wright's defense of him against charges of murder. (More complicated than it's worth to explain, though one might note that this is where the elder Edgeworth is described). Edgewroth then left the county while Maya was on a sabbatical of sorts, leaving a note that he, Miles Edgeworth, "chose death". Wright surmises that this is because Edgeworth's perfect win record was ruined by Wright. (Also important in the plot is one Franciska von Karma, who appears in the middle two cases, just as Edgeworth did, has a perfect win record initially, just as Edgeworth did, and loses to Wright, just as Edgeworth did. Also, she whips people, in court and out. Including the judge. Painfully.)

After his year-long absence, Miles Edgeworth returns at the beginning of the fourth trial (the one discussed) in a dramatic scene, and immediately begins manipulating events. Franciska von Karma is assigned the prosecutorial role for the trial, yet Edgeworth, despite the eternal war between defense lawyers and prosecuting attorneys, gives the player help and advice! This includes, notably, the information about Adrian Andrews' attempted suicide and personal failings. Later, he takes up the prosecutorial position after von Karma is rendered unable to do so (not due to Edgeworth's manipulations, it should be noted - she's just shot with a gun, that's all). Edgeworth then collaborates with the player on several occasions, including the court-based brutalizing of Ms. Andrews - despite Wright and Edgeworth's conflicting interests! He hints that he has discovered something on his year's odyssey - his true goal as an attorney, not as "perfect win record" - and encourages the player to think about this for themself. It's not initially clear what's different about him - he wears the same ridiculous, ruffle-covered suit, he has the same enigmatic mannerisms - but he has changed.

Most of the cases in the games are fairly simple in structure. They're all 'turnabouts' - you defend a client against a charge of murder, and must not only prove that they are innocent, but prove the real murderer guilty. (Again demonstrating the complete ignorance/disregard for anything resembling real-life law that makes the games what they are.) This may take in-game days and many cross-examinations and out-of-court interrogations - but you come through in the end. It's simple, morally unambiguous, and entertaining.

But the last trial isn't like that. You're compelled to take the case - your ward is kidnapped, and held ransom for the acquittal of the defendant. You must interrogate those around him - leading to the deeply twisted situation described at the beginning of the piece. And then, eventually, you discover the truth - not only is Adrian Andrews not the murderer, but your client is.

And a moral dilemna arises - even more for your character than yourself. Do you continue to defend your client - even though you know he's guilty? Or do you let him take the fall - and abandon your ward to likely death, your duty as a defense attorney, and your 'perfect win record'?

For a while, you can (and must) delay the choice. Police search for the abductor, and the player must delay and stall, collaborating with the prosecution to use ever-flimsier pretexts to buy time. In the end, though the abductor is never caught, evidence stolen from his lair in a police raid is enough to convince him to turn traitor and sell out his employer, allowing the player to end the trial without endangering the ward.

And you, as a defense lawyer, argue for a guilty verdict.

As a character, the protagonist had never really been forced to decide what his duty as a defense lawyer really was - to defend his client, or find the truth. In his first however-many trials (between seven and eight - a 'bonus' trial in the first game is of questionable canonicity), P. W. just muddled along as best he could, stalling and bluffing and managing to pull out victories for his clients however he could. The truth was always on his side. When it wasn't, he showed how low he could sink, in the incident with Adrian Andrews.

But when it counts - after days of arguing and discussions with Miles Edgeworth and worry for your ward - at the end of the trial, you choose truth. You choose to condemn your client to his just fate. And Adrian Andrews thanks you tearfully.

The world of Phoenix Wright is a strange place - a place in which prosecuting and defense lawyers are locked in an eternal war, battling with whatever tools are at hand to win victory. It is a world in which truth can be established unequivocally, and villains always admit their guilt at the end. In this world, Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth are something truly new - attorneys who have unlearned what they were taught about the nature of law, helping each-other along the path to redemption of sorts. They set Franciska von Karkma, too, on that path - she flees at the end of the trial, following Miles Edgeworth's path exactly. There is something new in the air of Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney. Justice for All.

Unnoficial Epilogue

As all good things come to end, the clan of the League of Desmond eventually dissolved. Each member left the homeland to keep watch over various kingdoms and ensure the knowledge of the clan could be spread to new townsfolk. It was a sad day, and many a villager were sad to see the adventurers depart.

Legend has it that when the league is to reunite, many fun will be had.

of a foray into the mind of a nichools

a reading from the precepts of ali baba

tyr was the sonne of WODANAZ, also know as NIKOLAZ

His name was: TIWAS

A Rude Message

censzored

The Song of Sir James

VERSE 1

This tale is of a far-away land,
near York-shire it is set,
of Brave Sir James and his five knights,
who into the forest rode.

Their swords were sharp and their lances gleamed,
and many a foe they slew,
'till a dread odor rose and an ill sound made them pause,
as the monster David unfroze.

With tooth he slew one knight and claw slew another,
one swipe killed five more knights and his breath felled four others.
Sir James charged and lopped off one arm,
foul David returned the favor,
and Sir James collapsed in shock and died of blood loss.
Then David ate him.

VERSE 2

With his antics David the Pope offended,
excommunication was too good for him;
the Pope signed a bull and the orders were given,
the Fourth Crusade regally began.

A million men in armour and cloth marched across the continent,
their goal to slay a monster.
At their head rode a half-dozen kings,
set to slay the demon thing.
From every country their forces drew without any fee,
from Spain child-soldiers, from Saskatchewan, dentistry*.

The furthest of them marched five hundred miles,
to reach the forest where a David resided;
then internal conflict, disease, supply issues, and domestic turmoil destroyed the crusade before it accomplished more than wasting half the manpower in Europe for half a generation and all the food and other supplies that came with them.

VERSE 3

Where armies had failed, one man set forth,
a hero who called himself DESMOND;
though he was a peasant, a man they called Kessler,
still he was certain of triumph.

Into the forest he travelled,
and there a David he met,
into the eyes of the monster
sulfiric acid was poured;
and he cried;
and he cried;
and he died.

THE END

*The phrase "urine pee" would make no sense here or, indeed, anywhere.

A Gathering of Knights

For the first time in many years, the Horn of Ilthias was blown. Not once, but three times, did its echoing call resound down the hills and dales of the land of Saint Joseph's Land. And with its call came a great wind; and a crash of thunder; and for two hours' span, the sky turned a burnished red, crackling with lightning and stranger things. And so did the knight Nathan, sword at his side and iron on his hands, summon his brethren to the Third Moot of the Knightly Order.

They trickled in, one by one, to the great gathering. First came the knight Roland, his trusty steed thundering down the long road from the Imperial capital. Then came Ser Rotem, her cloak fluttering in the breeze; Ser David, whose helmet's plume stood proud and tall; Ser Ethan, youngest and boldest of them, who lived once as blood-brother with Ser Nathan. They met at the center of the Moot, and spoke; but their two remaining members, Ser Emilia and Ser Kevyn, did not come.

The knights spoke, and shared rumours heard on the road, and reached a conclusion: their comrade Ser Kevyn was in grave danger. One traveler had spoken of a knight, riding to face a dragon; another had seen it belching flame skyward in triumph, a battered figure prone at its feet. The knights agreed: all but Ser Nathan would travel to the dragon's lair, to face it down and slay it, either to rescue their brother or to avenge him. Ser Nathan would stay, and await the coming of Ser Emilia.

Days passed, and Ser Nathan saw no sign of man or beast approaching the blasted heath around the Moot. He took up knitting.

Then a cloud of dust formed in the distance; Ser Nathan looked up hopefully, for he thought it possible that Ser Emilia, of nobler lineage then any other one of the knights, might arrive with a retinue. But no; it was the other Knights, Roland and Rotem and David and Ethan - and Kevyn, for he had survived his captivity in the dragon's lair, whose largest tooth now hung at his belt. They met together, and cheered, and celebrated victory and success and life itself; and they traveled to a nearby town, where skilled chefs prepared them frosted yoghurt and other delicacies for the knights to delightedly consume.

Then the Knights returned to the Moot, and began their business at last. They assembled the materials, and began to plot; a war-game, their plan for the next five years, until they would Moot once more. They each took up the role of one of the great nations, and plotted and schemed against the others; though, they would confess, not without some amusement at great success or vile treachery perpetrated by their brothers. They engaged themselves thus for many hours, and saw what they might of the world's future; then they lapsed, and spoke of deeds past and plans future, and watched Kevyn in his occupations. One by one, they left, as they had come; first Roland, then Rotem, then David; but Ser Ethan decided not to leave, and to live once more with Ser Nathan, who he named brother closer than the others. Ser Kevyn was last to leave, as he had been last to arrive; he stayed 'till day turned to night, and starry night descended. But at last, he, too, was gone; and the Moot was empty once more. Still none among them knew what fate had befalled Ser Emilia, though some vowed to search; and of the consequences of the Moot, none could yet say.

Dreams

The first I can remember of the dream is that I am in a classroom. Desks and chairs are arranged in a simple U-pattern, with a (male) teacher at the front of the classroom. A specific girl of my real-life acquaintance sits to my left. Let us call her, in lieu of her real name, "Ophelia."

Beginning a lecture, the teacher asks, "What is the first age of civilization?" I, as well as most of the class, am rather confused by the question. Guessing, I raise my hand to offer the suggestion of the "Ancient" age. (Though I don't realize it in the dream, this is taken from the Civilization series of electro-video-games; my next suggestion would have been the "Classical" age.)

The teacher, to my surprise, agrees with the suggestion, and begins talking about Hong Kong, and its rich and ancient history. (This makes no sense.) A number of other students begin bristling at this, offended by a perceived or real untruth; I have some vague thought that they are Chinese. I lend half an ear to the lecture, instead turning to speak to "Ophelia", who sits a seat away. I don't recall what we speak about, but after a minute or two, she laughingly notes that I cannot keep my eyes off her.

She is correct. Though I had never (in real life) felt romantic feelings toward Ophelia, there is a feeling within me that suggests such has changed. I look down, offer her a very bad compliment that takes me a very long moment to formulate; "There nothing better around you to look at," something like that. She rejects the flattery.

In a moment of daring, I ask Ophelia out on a date. She seems to agree, and asks me when would be a good time.

I wake up, lying abed. For a moment, I think: "All was a dream." I chide myself for believing that such could be real, noting the obvious bipolarities and inconsistencies.

Then I notice my laptop next to me. (At the time I had this dream, I did not own a laptop.) I realize that at least part of the conversation is real, because a chat client is up. It stores chat logs, so I should be able to find what part of the dream-conversation was real. I begin looking.

(At this point, things begin making somewhat less sense than they did before. This is partially because I've forgotten some linking sections; for instance, there was another occasion shortly thereafter at which I 'woke up' and then realized that the dream WAS NOT A DREAM, but I don't remember when or why. Follow along as best you can.)

For some reason, I have trouble finding the chat log. This may be because the laptop is now a DS, and the conversation was held over some more sophisticated, text-focused variant of Pictochat. I try to look for it - there's a big button on screen, "Press B to refresh chat logs", something like that - but I'm having difficulties. People (and the logs of my conversations with them) are represented by crayon-drawn avatars, drawings of their heads, and I'm having trouble finding Ophelia's head in the mess.

Luckily, two other people are here. (I'm standing in front of my desk, still in my bedroom). A teenage boy and girl - one of them is, I think, the boy named Trevor Criddle, though I am uncertain. The girl's name I have never known. They offer to help, and look for a moment. Reluctantly, I offer them a few descriptor's of Ophelia's appearance; I am reluctant to let them know of who exactly I was speaking with, so I try to leave some ambiguity.

Trevor and the girl scroll through the list of avatars, as I watch over their shoulders. They look at a number of girls, skimming past the boys, dismissing each in turn. The girl notes one - the avatar has black hair, tinted at the front with red. Suspicious, she yanks out some hair from the front, revealing the roots - a startling yellow! She yanks out more, turning the entirety of the avatar-girl's head a close-cropped yellow. I object, but the girl refuses to stop - she's just an avatar, after all! Now three dimensional, and possibly existing in real life in some way, the avatar confesses that, yes, she dyed her hair - perhaps there was a reason? (She's not the person represented by the avatar, she's just a representation, so she's rather more forthcoming about these things.)

And blessedly, at this point, the dream stops. I expect that, should it have continued, I would have eventually found the chat log (with Trevor's help or otherwise), would have found that I did give 'Ophelia' the terrible compliment but had not asked her out, and would have had to make a decision about how to proceed from there. (There was some concern about time constraints, as I recall - would she be awake at 8:00 in the morning? Could I call her?)

All in all, it was a really weird dream - not the strangest I've had, but my faithful readers know that's quite something. I hope you enjoyed it, even in its somewhat fragmented form.

The Invincible Man Goes to Venus (pt. 1)

(Carrying on where Issue 1 left off.)

Daniel Fitsworks plunged into the atmosphere of Venus, a corona of fire surrounding him, immolating his clothing. His hands were held over his eyes, covering them tightly, shielding thick lenses from the heat and stresses of entering the atmosphere. Metal oxygen tanks on his back pumped compressed oxygen into his mouth, which he breathed rhythmically, as he had been taught to, as he watched green numbers scroll quickly downwards in the corner of his vision.

"Damn," Daniel thought, pummeled by turbulence as he fell through the increasingly-thick chemical vapours of Venus's atmosphere. "What would Milton say?" He grinned at the thought, his expression distorted by the oxygen tube sealing his mouth. "NASA sure gives a hell of a ride."

No machine built by man, equipped with the sensitive recording and transmitting equipment necessary for space exploration, could withstand the terrible heat and pressure of Venus's atmosphere for long. In a few generations, that might no longer be true - great advances in composite materials and miniaturized sensors seemed certain in the near future - but now, NASA could send a probe to Venus, but it would either have to orbit - unable to see through the cloaking gasses that fill Venus's atmosphere - or descend suicidally, collapsing into a ball of twisted metal in moments. But NASA wanted to know more - they wanted to know what lurked within the alien, hostile environment of Venus. And Daniel Fitsworks was, after all, invincible.

Daniel agreed to the two-year round trip, after considering it for a few days, because he really couldn't think of anything better he could do for the next four years than go to Venus for Science. Then NASA told him the details.

To conserve mass, Daniel would be deprived of oxygen in the journey, which would send him into a comatose, hibernating state. (They'd tested this in the lab.) He would be sent on a half-hour arc through the outer atmosphere of Venus, at the beginning of which he would be revived by the oxygen tanks on his back. He would observe for twenty-five minutes, aided by the lenses over his eyes (the best in wearable computing, featuring multispectral receptors to allow Daniel to see through the murky atmosphere, along with a grab bag of other computational functions. Once the half-hour was up, he would rendezvous with the spacecraft (which would take a longer arc to avoid atmospheric damage), be caught by a net, and run out of oxygen, allowing him to hibernate for the rest of the trip back to Earth. The plan wasn't flawless, but NASA thought there was a better than seventy percent chance of mission success, and an eighty percent chance of Daniel's survival if the mission failed. He figured that was sufficient.

Now, plunging meteorically downwards, he might reasonably be more nervous. But the turbulence all but stopped, the flames died away, and Daniel, seeing the timer click down to zero, lifted his hands from his eyes.

"Ah," he subvocalized, looking at the endless, beautiful mix of colours surrounding him. He stared directly at the Sun, barely visible as a vague orange glow shrouded by mists. A prompt from the HUD appeared in the corner of his eye; he shifted spectra, seeing the atmosphere in infrared, ultraviolet, microwave. "How beautiful."

He turned slowly, feeling the pressure surrounding him. Daniel felt almost as though he were in water, so dense was the air around him. He twisted his body, completing a rotation. Then something hit him.

Daniel raised his hand, curious. Some sort of chemical had adhered to it; blue and gummy, it began to fall off even as he looked. He peered at it; and more of it hit him, covering most of his side. "There's something odd about this," he thought, and more hit him. "I'm passing through layers of this substance, this chemical," he realized, turning himself and seeing loose, floating sheets of the stuff in the distance. "The sheets of it are getting thicker and more numerous as I descend. But what is it?"

He looked up, at the orange sun. He looked down at the blue slime covering him.

"You know," Daniel thought, "I think this is photosynthetic, like algae - blue for an orange sun, not green for a yellow sun!" He grinned. "I just found life on Venus. This is mission success."

Then another glob of blue goo hit him in the face.

"Ech," he elaborated.

The Invincible Man

His name was Daniel Fitsworks, but his friends called him Danny. He was of middle-class, American upbringing. Both parents were managers for a large corporation, and he had two siblings, one male, one female, both younger than him. He was remarkably healthy throughout his younger years, but not shockingly so, and managed to get through them without any terrible trouble. After graduating from high school, he considered his options carefully, and decided to go to an East Coast school, his major undecided.

Then, in his freshman year, while walking across a road on campus, he was hit by a car.

It is not that he was injured, or crippled, or killed. These things would have changed his life, or in the last case, ended it.

It is not that it had some great effect on the poor, slightly-too-inattentive driver that hit him. It did - the guilt required therapy - but that was not the crucial result.

The result was that, after putting a great dent in the car, being hurled down the road upon which he walked and through two walls and a fence, Daniel learned that he was invincible - for he, through all this, recieved no injury at all.

Daniel was a conscientious young man, and had grown up in a culture that knew very well the tales of Superman and Batman and all the rest. He thought of becoming a superhero - but what would he do? He had no heat vision, no flight, no genius for devices. He was just... invincible.

The first thing he did, upon getting back to his dorm, was to test - to attempt, with scissors and then a knife, to injure himself. He could not - the skin could not be pierced.

The second thing Daniel did was to call his parents - then, after speaking for a long while with them, he hired a lawyer.

This turned out to be a very good move, because local media began calling very soon, and the word spread quickly - such that in a few days, when a staffer for a Pentagon general called Daniel, asking him to agree to be studied by DARPA, Daniel had a plan drawn up by his lawyer to keep him from becoming a lab guinea pig. (That wording being perhaps a little too strong - but something approximating Daniel's fears on the matter.)

A compromise was struck.

So Daniel continued college - his invincibility, he reasoned, would last a while (it having persisted through all of his childhood, and showing no sign of disappearing), but education would be much harder to acquire if he went off to have adventures now. On weekends, he agreed to be studied - under limited conditions, with the right to abort proceedings at any time - by select DARPA personnel. They gave Daniel money to compensate him for his time, which he found quite nice.

Ten different governments attempted to persuade Daniel to enter their custody. (He declined, not so much out of gung-ho patriotism as fears for his treatment elsewhere.) Three attempts were made to kidnap him - none of which succeeded, invincibility being a useful trait in so many ways.

Despite all this, Daniel managed to get through college, graduating with a Bachelor's in Contemporary Philosophy. Most college graduates, equipped with a shiny new degree in philosophy, might have some worries about job prospects. Many would end up in a McDonalds, on the wrong side of the counter.

Daniel went to Venus.

FEASTING ON MEAT

LO, it was decreed. WE MUST FEAST ON THE FLESH OF THE DEAD, AS WE DID IN TIMES LONG PAST. And it was SO.

ON THE DAY BEFORE MEAT DAY, we, the CLAN of the FLYINGBURGHER, went INTO THE WILDERNESS, to find the MEAT which we might USE. So did we purchase meat, MORE than FOOLS advised; we found also FRUIT, and DISTILLED DRINKS, and RICE, more than the FOOLISH FEARED. So much RICE! On our return, our LARDER was STUFFED to BURSTING. Such were the PREPARATIONS FOR MEAT DAY.

ON MEAT DAY, we ROSE AT THE STRIKE OF DAWN, and MADE THE MEAT INTO A FINE MIX, with SPICES, and EGG, and OTHER THINGS. Then was the meat CHILLED, and PRESERVED, for the use when the time came.

The ZHANG came many hours later; with him the others, the PHUNG, the KELSEY. (kelsey!) They ARRIVED IN OUR PARLOUR, and made ENTERTAINMENT, with CANNONS. But the ZHANG was not content; he said, "We should not dally so, wasting our lives away with these meaningless electronic actions. Let us live! Live, to the fullest, as we ever should!"

And WE ASKED HIM, "What else should we do? We can think of no alternative to this life! It is the only one we know!"

And the ZHANG replied, "Let us live! Let us take a road trip! - travel to far San Francisco! - visit the mall!"

And so we DID.

Then was time for FOOD PREPARATION; the ZHANG having left us after our GREAT JOURNEY. (The Prophets teach us about the Great Journey. It's in the Creed of Ali-Baba.) RICE was put in a POT and BOILED and SIMMERED; MEAT was MOLDED, FROZEN, MOLDED AGAIN, and GRILLED. The ZHANG arrived again, left again; the CHU, our most honorable and essential guest, came early, the ZHANG following, stalking like a mantis across the snow-swept tundra; we invited both inside, and FEASTED.

The kebabs were quite tasty. Rice was pretty okay, though the flavouring didn't really show through. Poison sumac was good, though difficult to distribute; we may have to find a better container for next time.

Also, apparently, the ice cream sandwiches tasted good with kebab-bits affixed? I really wouldn't know.

For a time, we partook of ENTERTAINMENTS of a SMASHING sort; the ZHANG did, and the PHUNG, and the KELSEY, and the CHU, and the BROTHERS FLYINGBURGH; for these were those who did FEAST that night. And the hour grew late, worn away with DOWN-B SPAMMING from the FOUL LIGHTNING RAT; we adjourned to film, though there were TROUBLES with SOUND (the KELSEY to blame, for all our troubles must be put on HIS SHOULDERS), and then at last guests receded from our house. The ZHANG and the KELSEY, INSEPARABLE, were the last to leave; each's labour the subject of another post to COME, the ZHANG for a WOMONCARD, the KELSEY for a KELSEYBLOG, the NOVELIZATION of WHICH will be an EPIC to be REMEMBERED.

And now that I've broken the shift key on my keyboard, it's time to bring this post to an end.

Hope everyone had fun! (Sorry about the initial bit, Mr. Zhang - though I'm still not sure if you were serious in your suggestions.)

the end