When Lars Ulrich Met Lars Ulrich

Before we get ourselves started today, links to be seen to. Norma has revamped the look of her blog, so go on over and see what it looks like. And at our joint blog yesterday, we did a Snippet Sunday post.

Now then... this was just a matter of time coming, you know...

Entertainment Reporters Perplexed By Two Men With Same Name; Real Reporters Not At All Surprised

Calgary (CP) Heavy metal band Metallica came to town today for a press conference in advance of a weekend of concerts at the Saddledome. Band members James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, Robert Trujillo, and Kirk Hammett came out before the assembled press at the Metropolitan Conference Centre. Unfortunately, this being an event about music, the press included entertainment reporters, who are truly some of the dumbest human beings on the planet, in this reporter’s opinion.

“Hello, Santa Monica!!!” Hetfield yelled as he walked in.

“James, we’re in Calgary,” Hammett reminded his bandmate.

“We are?” Hetfield asked. “How did I get through Customs?”

“You were drunk,” Trujillo replied. This reporter rolled his eyes, wondering who he had annoyed by having to be present at a press conference for a pack of over the hill brain damaged heavy metal musicians. Well, it could have been more over the hill. Metallica, after all, are younger than the decrepit Rolling Stones, who have a combined age of ten thousand nine hundred twenty three years old.

“Well, we’re here and we’re gonna blow the roof off the arena, or concert hall, or wherever the hell we’re playing,” Hetfield boasted. “It’s gonna be big, it’s gonna be loud, and it’s gonna be a night to remember! Just as long as no one thinks they’re gonna get away with recording us and putting us on Youtube, because we’re Metallica, and we’re not gonna put up with our music being out there for free! Our fans will pay through the nose for our music!”

This reporter tried not to sigh. Heavy metal, in this reporter’s opinion, is not music. Trujillo spoke up. “It’s a big night for us, isn’t that right, Lars?” he asked, clapping the band’s drummer 

on the back.

“What?” Lars yelled, staring around as if confused. “Speak up, dammit!”

“I said, it’s a big night for us!” Trujillo repeated as a shout.

“Oh! Yeah! Right!” Lars nodded. “Definite big night!”

This reporter spoke up. “How do you answer those who think you’re long past your prime? What, seriously, is the point to your continued touring around the world and playing endless concerts?”

Hetfield replied, “The booze.”

“The groupies!” Hammett added.

“The drugs!” Trujillo noted. “Oh, wait… I’m not supposed to talk about that on the advice of my attorney.”

“What the **** did you just say?” Lars yelled.

At this moment, there was a stir from the back of the room. This reporter looked back, as did a number of other reporters. We all saw him passing by. RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich, the legendary Mountie with a fearsome reputation and a hatred of entertainment reporters. He was in his utility uniform, walking briskly, looking through a folder, not noticing the reporters nearby. At least until a correspondent with Entertainment Tonight called out, “Hey, it’s Lars Ulrich!”

Hetfield looked at Lars. “What the **** does that mean? You’re Lars.”

Inspector Ulrich stopped in his tracks. He looked at the crowd of reporters and sighed in dismay. Entertainment reporters looked back and forth between the band and the Inspector. The correspondent from ET blurted out, “Two Lars Ulrichs? But which one is which? I can’t tell the difference between them.”

Ulrich stared. And then he walked right through the crowd of reporters, up beside the band, pausing as if assessing each of them in turn, and finding each man lacking. He stopped before Lars. “So, you’re the other Lars Ulrich.”

“What???” Lars yelled. “You’ll have to speak up!”

“I said, you’re Lars Ulrich!” Ulrich shouted at him.

“Well of course I am!” Lars said with a nod. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lars Ulrich!” Ulrich yelled at him, sounding angrier by the moment.

“That’s ridiculous!” Lars insisted. “I’m Lars Ulrich, not you. I’m the drummer, not you!”

“I never said I was a drummer! Are you an idiot???” Ulrich shouted in his face.

“No, he’s just a little deaf,” Hammett said. “Thirty plus years of metal music have done that to him.”

Ulrich glared at Hammett. “If I wanted your opinion, I’d tell you what to say.”

The reporters gathered closer. The ET correspondent spoke up, his face seeming to be confused. “Hi, I’m Max Maguire, Entertainment Tonight. Which one of you is the Metallica drummer? I can’t tell the difference.”

“Neither can I,” a reporter with Access Hollywood agreed.

“Wow…” a TMZ correspondent remarked. “It’s like they’re mirror images of each other.”

Ulrich glared at them, standing side by side with Lars. “Are you idiots really that stupid? He doesn’t look anything like me! He’s a lot older than I am! And he looks like he was hit in the face with an ugly stick!” Any real reporter could see that. The two Ulrichs indeed looked nothing alike.

Maguire shook his head. “They must have been separated at birth. That’s the only explanation! Lars! Other Lars! Any chance you two will appear on stage together during that concert?”

Ulrich stepped away from the band, walking towards Maguire. “Run,” he told him in a low, growling voice.

“Is that a no to the joint appearance in the concert?” Maguire asked.

Ulrich turned away for a moment, looking back towards the band. Then he threw a punch, hitting Maguire in the chin, sending him flying eight feet. Maguire rubbed his chin, sitting up. “Is it something I said?”

Ulrich started yelling, running towards Maguire. Some primal instinct urged Maguire to flee, the Inspector hot on his heels. This reporter later learned Maguire turned up in hospital, where he’ll be eating his meals out of a straw for the next six months. In this reporter’s opinion, he had it coming.

The other Lars Ulrich had the last word, in the wake of the Inspector’s departure. “Who was that guy, and did he say something about me getting hit by a goggly tick?”

What Does A Retired Lunatic Do With His Free Time?

Before getting to the business at hand, have a look over at our joint blog, where yesterday we said hello to summer as only we can.

Every once in awhile I'll check my blog stats. Sometimes the search terms people use to find my blog are, well, slightly beyond bizarre... which would be an understatement. That would explain how, among the top ten search terms for the week is the term Porn Captain America. Okay then...

Of course, the international audience for my readership varies from week to week. The top place each week is consistently the United States, where many of my readers are (big hugs to all of you!). Below that, things can get rather odd. There are some of the usual nationalities: Canada, Britain, Australia, Germany, and France. Then there's the strange places like Malaysia or India, which, I suspect, is where many of the spambots that turn up in my Anonymous filters come from. Note to spammers: I'm not publishing your posts, and if one sneaks in past the filters, it's getting sent back to spam land post haste! Go away! Note to other bloggers: check your published comments each day, because spam comments do tend to get through your filters.

Anyway, this week, the second most readers of my blog came from an unexpected country... Iran.

This I find a bit puzzling. I have from time to time featured Iran in blogs (usually grouchy diplomats), and I do have a character loosely based on the outgoing President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (also known as Mr. Cranky) in my writings (for the record: my fictional one is a rather nasty chap). Still, how is it that within a week, six hundred views originated from Iran? What is it about this nonsense that I write that appealed to that part of the world? I don't really think of Iranians as the ideal audience for my usual brand of mischief, after all. Sorry, Iran, but you do have a rather dour, frowning reputation, you know...

An election was held there in the last few days, and it seems the new president, Hassan Rowhani (much harder to make fun of that name), is seen by some as a moderate or centrist. Not by our Foreign Minister, who dismisses the whole thing as "meaningless", but between us, our Foreign Minister is a sneering self absorbed blowhard jackass. Here in the West, when we hear moderate in terms of a new Iranian President, the subtext of that is Please, let this one not be a crazy loon like the last guy.

Well, so... the new guy is coming in, and the old one is stepping out. Mr. Cranky has certainly not been dull during his tenure, sniping and snapping at every opportunity, grabbing the tiger by the tail, and viewing the world through a warped and rather demented lens. At least that's the view from here. Still, Mahmoud (I can call you that, right?), your annual speeches at the UN consisting of endless I hate all of you rantings gave a lot of fodder to many a comedian here. What will you be doing now that you're stepping away from the spotlight? Writing your memoirs? Puttering around the garden in retirement? Yelling at kids to get off your lawn? Plotting how to get yourself into the post of Ayatollah, by chance? Come on, now,  you can share.  

To the people of Iran, just in case it's actual people from the country reading these dispatches (as opposed to Mr. Cranky and his minions... hi, minions!), you'll have to get used to the new fellow. At the very least, you're lucky enough not to have this guy as a mayor of your largest city...

And while I can't say I live under the auspices of a theocracy (something I'm quite grateful for, thank you very much), I do know something of what it's like to have a leader who's a hyper-partisan, paranoid, vengeful control freak seeking to reshape the country in his image, and would love to get away with being called Supreme Leader, Majestic Excellence, or Glorious High Muckety-Muck.

We call him Stephen Harper.

D Is For Diplomacy

It's been awhile since I've done one of these, so I thought I'd play around with a one-off of sorts today, by tossing a Muppet into the seething cauldron that is Middle East peace negotiations. Well, not literally into the cauldron... well, you know what I mean. Anyway, without further ado....

Peace Talks Fail, Iranians Blame UN Muppet Envoy

New York (AP) Middle East peace talks have stalled at the United Nations after the Iranian delegation walked out of a session. Ambassador Farid Ebadi and his staff stormed out in fury during a closed session with the delegations of other regional parties. The United Nations continues to remain concerned with the nation’s nuclear program and intentions towards other countries in the region. They have appointed a special envoy as a chief negotiator for the talks. The envoy is a rather unusual choice, given that he is a Muppet.

“We will not be subject to such utter nonsense!” Ebadi declared before a group of reporters. The Ambassador looked outraged, clearly frustrated by the events of the day. “We have our own destiny to write, not be dictated to by outsiders and fools! We are meant to be feared and respected, not ridiculed!”

The tirade went on for a half hour, with the Ambassador switching back and forth between English and Farsi, ranting about conspiracies, Western interests, and vague threats. Finally, one of the reporters asked, “Why are you walking out of the discussions?”

 “Because the envoy is a puppet!” Ebadi answered, red in the face with anger. “A felt children’s puppet with weird hair and weird eyes! And all he manages to say is meep, meep, meep. It doesn’t even make sense! Such gestures are proof to us why we must hold the UN in such contempt! Why we must forge our own path! I promise, this will not go unanswered. For this display of contempt upon us, we will rain down fire on all of our enemies! As soon as we can figure out how to stop our glorious scientists from getting killed or disappearing and get the bombs finish… um, did I say too much?”

The ambassador stormed off, followed by his entourage. Out of the room came the special envoy, looking confused, wired, and slightly on edge. Beaker the Muppet has been working carefully to help the peace process along, trying to bring together competing visions for the region. It has been largely a thankless task. He was asked for his comment on the situation.

“Meep! Meep meep meep! Meep! Meep!”

Some Are Born Great, Some Achieve Greatness, And Some Have Greatness Thrust Upon 'Em

I thought I'd do something a bit different today. As I'm closing in on the end of Heaven & Hell, it felt like it was time to bring together some of the various world leaders I've used through the book in what might be considered a summit. With yours truly conducting the summit. Just a word in advance: it does get silly. Not as if that should surprise you by now....

A large conference room. A group of men are gathered together around a table, a summit of world leaders. To be precise, they're a summit of world leaders from the fictional world as depicted in Heaven & Hell. Some of them have names... others have merely gone through the book as nameless titles. Most of them wear business suits. The American President sits with the British Prime Minister. The Israeli Prime Minister is seated with Palestinian President Jibril Miraz and the Syrian President (yes, I know that's an odd combination). Pope Timothy (sorry, Benedict, but there's no room for you in the Kendallverse. Does that mean I have to do a lot of Hail Marys in penance?) sits at the table, and unlike the extravagant clothing one might expect of the Vicar of Christ, he's simply dressed, in a black priests' cassock. And sunglasses for some reason. And rounding out the group, sitting at the end of the table, are the tag team rulers of Iran. President Aref Harandi looks as menacing and annoyed as ever... while beside him, the Supreme Leader, Azad Garoussi, sits in bitter silence, glaring at everyone else (Ayatollahs tend to glare a lot) as though wondering how he got suckered into showing up. In walks the author, known in some circles as William Kendall.

Kendall: Thank you all for coming today. I know it's been a long flight for some of you to meet here in between the Fourth Wall.

United States: Not so much for me. Just a quick hop in Air Force One.

Great Britain: I'm curious as to what the purpose of all of this is.

Syria: And why am I being designated by my country in these... transcripts? Is that the proper term?

Israel: Yes, I am too. And those two as well.

Kendall: Look, I very deliberately named some of you in the book, and didn't name others. And since there's more then one President, and more then one Prime Minister, I thought it would be less confusing to designate you by country.

United States: Wait. I'm the most powerful leader on Earth, and you don't even give me a name?

Garoussi: Aref, think of the opportunity. We could kill every last one of them right here and now and have our way with the whole world.

Harandi: Yes, but we don't have a gun.

Great Britain: I suppose you two crazy sods realize we all just heard you say that.

Garoussi: Heard us say what?

United States: Answer me this. Am I supposed to be the President in your... what's the term you used? Out there where you live beyond this... Fourth Wall?

Miraz: What is a Fourth Wall anyway?

Israel: I've heard some odd ideas about it.

Pope Timothy: It's the literary notion that characters in a book, television program, or movie are seperated from the audience by an invisible Fourth Wall. From time to time, writers like to have a character realize that they're actually fictional characters being written by someone else. It's quite often used in the comic book field. In fact, the characters She-Hulk and Deadpool are infamous for doing that sort of thing.

Syria: Wait... the Pope reads comic books?

Pope Timothy: An old habit I got into during confessionals. There's only so many times you can hear someone say "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned a whole lot. In the last six hours I robbed two banks, committed adultery, and swindled a fortune out of a rich widow." At some point, reading light entertainment makes the confessional time go faster.

Kendall: Your Holiness, I think the Catholic Church would prefer you keep that to yourself. Now, if we could continue? Mr. President...

Syria: Yes?

Miraz: What is it?

Kendall: No, him.

United States: Yes?

Kendall: In regards to the whole are you or aren't you the American President in my reality thing, I'm really leaving that matter to the reader's imagination. You might be the current President, and you might not be. At least I'm being reasonably respectful of you when I'm writing you. It's not quite the same with your Syrian counterpart over here. He's definitely not the sociopath currently running things in Syria in my reality. This guy here's a man of honour.

Harandi: Note to self: have the Syrian President killed.

Syria: I heard that, you know.

Kendall: Enjoy it while it lasts, though. You're not going to be the President of the United States anymore in a couple of books.

United States: Why not?

Kendall: Well, the book after that one requires a personal connection to the... oh, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, and going into detail about that would be considered a spoiler. All I'm saying is you're not going to be a two termer. Sorry. I know that's got to be disappointing, but as the creator of the Kendallverse...

Pope Timothy: Wait. Did you say creator?

Kendall: Yes, I created all of you. Out of my imagination.

Garoussi: Are you implying you're the Creator? Are you implying you're God? Blasphemy!

Kendall: I wasn't implying that at all. All I'm saying is that I have omnipotent power over all of you. I can, if I wish, delete you from existence. It's the full right of an author to control their characters. Granted, sometimes characters don't listen to you and wind up doing whatever they want anyway...

Pope Timothy: My son, you're claiming omnipotence over our lives. That certainly implies that you're...

Kendall: Wait! You don't understand. All of you people are characters! In a book I've been writing.

Israel:  I don't know about the rest of you, but I rather resent being characterized as a mere fictional character.

Miraz: I'm with you, Prime Minister.

Great Britain: Who, me?

Miraz: No, I was talking to him.

Harandi: I never thought I'd agree with an Israeli, but I too resent being dismissed as a mere figment of someone else's imagination. I'm the President of Iran! That means something, you know! I have the pathetic lives of every single citizen of my country in my hands! Even this senile old loon beside me!

Garoussi: What was that?

Harandi: Did I say that out loud?

Great Britain: Is anyone else developing a headache?

Syria: If I might ask a question, Mr. Kendall?

Kendall: Certainly, Mr. President.

Syria: What makes you so sure we're the characters and you're the author?

Miraz: Indeed. What if you're the one whose every action is being written by some other omnipotent unseen force?

Israel: Yes, answer that, Mr. Smartypants.

Kendall: Oh, this is just getting silly.

Great Britain: No, silly would be your use of Shakespearean related imagery for no apparent reason. Don't think we can't see those images you're inserting into this blog, because we can. None of them have anything to do with the subject at hand. Tell us, whatever would be the reason for that?

Kendall: If you must know, I borrowed the title for the blog from Shakespeare, so I decided to play around with images too. All the better to confuse my readers with. Besides, it's not like google images for diplomacy came up with a whole lot of potential images. Now, if we could get on with the work at hand?

Garoussi: Shakespeare was a blasphemer too!

Kendall: And you wonder why no one invites Ayatollahs to parties.

The door bursts open. In rushes Moammar Gadhafi, former leader of Libya, looking frantic and desperate, as if he's just been running.

Gadhaffi: Sanctuary! I plead sanctuary! I've been overrun by rebel forces and I ran through some really strange door and where the hell am...?

He looks around the room, sees everyone...and waves.

Gadhafi: Um... hi! Listen, if you happen to see a horde of Libyan freedom fighters come this way, forget you saw me. In fact, I was never here!

Great Britain: Aren't you dead?

Miraz: That's what I thought.

Israel: That's what we've all heard.

Harandi: That was our impression too.

Syria: Did you fake your death somehow?

United States: Our intelligence sources have you dead in this reality, Colonel. Mr. Kendall here has plans to work your assassination into the backstory of a character down the line.

Kendall: Who told you that?

United States: We have our sources.

Kendall: It was Norma, wasn't it?

United States: I'm not at liberty to say.

Kendall: Okay, so was it Beth?

United States: I can't divulge that.

Kendall: It must have been Donna. It's always the quiet ones.

United States: I assure you, I can't talk about our intelligence sources.

Gadhaffi: Look, I'm not dead, all right? I'm just on the run. The whole counter insurgency plan didn't quite go according to, well.. the plan.

Kendall: Obviously this must be the real Gadhaffi from my side of the Fourth Wall. Somehow he made his way here. Which is surprising, because we're all a long way from Tripoli. Listen, Colonel. May I call you Moammar? You might as well just throw in the towel. You had a long run as a despot, but it's over. You tried your best, and you came up short. If you turn yourself in to the new governing authorities in Tripoli, I'm sure they'll be lenient.

Gadhaffi: Are you crazy? After what I've done? They'll hang me!

Pope Timothy: Yes, my son, no, wait... you're older then I am. My son sounds wrong. Yes, Colonel, they probably will hang you. And to be perfectly honest, don't you agree that you've had it coming?

Harandi: Note to self: blow up any potential insurgency.

United States: You know, we all heard you say that.

Kendall: Those two are an awful lot like the two real ones in my world. It didn't take a lot of imagination to create them. Bitter, vindictive bastards of the first order. Which makes them good fodder for manipulating villains and pulling strings for a few books.

Garoussi: Note to self: have this so called author and blasphemer assassinated. How hard could it possibly be to hire someone reliable?

Kendall: I heard that too. How many authors are the target of murder plots by their characters?

Great Britain: Well, rumor has it that Charles Dickens was actually killed by Pip and Estella...

U Is For United Nations

Muppet Supervillain Holds Planet For Ransom; World Leaders Squabble

The search continues for muppet fugitive Fred Johnson, aka Fat Blue, since the recent threat by the convicted murderer to destroy the world if his arch rival Grover is not executed. RCMP officers continue to hunt for the criminal, who escaped after a US Marshal plane crashed across the border in southern Alberta.

Johnson, who had loveable muppet Elmo murdered and framed Grover for it, has eluded authorities in the weeks since the crash. Old friends and associates remain shocked by the turn of events that saw Grover exonerated. Reached at their home on Sesame Street, bickering couple Bert and Ernie spoke to reporters.

"Fred was C-list at best," Bert remarked. "They only brought him out when they wanted someone for Grover to annoy. He never had his own storyline, and I'm sure that had to get to him. Muppets do have egos, you know."

"That's right, Bert," Ernie agreed. "Now, how about you join me and Ducky in the tub?"

Cookie Monster was found spending time with Oscar the Grouch. When asked for their comment, Cookie Monster began chowing down on Oreos. "Om nom nom!!" he said, the mouthful of black and white cookie and cream obliterating the clarity of what he was trying to say.

"That's what I mean, Cookie!" Oscar gruffly declared. "That mother****er Fred went and killed off Elmo. Sure, you know that everyone here would have liked to get rid of the little red menace, so I can't blame him, but framing Grover for it? **** that, mother****er!" When this reporter asked Oscar if that was the polite thing to say, the grouch sneered, and replied, "**** you!!"

Asked for his comment, the enigmatic Beeker had this to say: "Mee... meep. Meep. Mee. Mee. Meep!! Meep!"

Grover himself remains in seclusion with his girlfriend, protected by federal officers in an undisclosed location.

Meanwhile, world leaders have been gathering at the United Nations in New York to discuss the crisis. The President of Iran took the podium and launched into a half hour long tirade. "I blame this on Israel!" he thundered in Farsi at the beginning of his rant. After listing dozens of grievances against the Israelis that had nothing to do with the threat, he concluded, "We must stand together as one planet under my benevolent and absolute rule and drive them out of Israel and back to where they rightfully belong. In the Upper West Side! Oh, and forget anything I said about absolute rule. I haven't implemented that part of my plan yet."

The American President spoke too. "You know, we must never negotiate with terrorists. That's what this muppet Fred Johnson is. You don't make threats about destroying the world if you're not. He wants us to execute an innocent man... er, that is, an innocent muppet. Or he says he'll destroy the world. I ask the leaders of the world, why should we even think he's capable of destroying the world?"

Talk show blowhard Rush Limbaugh was quick to criticize the President. "You know, this is just typical! Typical of this godless liberal who thinks he's the President. This is not a time for calm and reasonable discussion! This is a time for a call to action! For doing without thinking! Well, my friends, I have had it! It's time for us to rise up and take back our country! One country, under Rush, divided into God fearin' and gun totin' good Americans and traitorous Commie liberals."

Right wing dominatrix and self absorbed snit Ann Coulter had her own remarks on the issue at hand. She spoke to a gathering of reporters in New York. "If it comes down to the life of one left wing socialist Marxist muppet versus all of the people who buy my books, well, I know where my loyalties lie. Give me Grover's location. I'll kill the muppet myself. And his girlfriend. Then we have no more problem. See? Problem solved. In the meantime, check me out at my new website MistressCoulter,DominatrixoftheTeaParty.com. And don't forget to read my new book, Liberals Want To Eat Your Children."

What of the man in charge of the hunt for Johnson? Lars Ulrich, the legendary RCMP Inspector, is hard at work tracking down all leads in the Alberta foothills. Reporters gathered at a detachment to speak to him, finding him heading out with his men. "I haven't got time for this," he said as he tried to pass through.

An entertainment journalist stepped in front of him. "Lars! Lars! Kip Bannister, Entertainment Tonight! Are you in that uniform shooting a video? And where's the rest of the band?"

Ulrich glared at the man, and then at the other reporters. "Is there some sort of school for entertainment reporters that suck out their brains? Are they all this stupid?" His glare returned to Bannister. "Listen, dimwit. Are you listening? Good. I am not that Lars Ulrich!!! Now do the world a favour and jump in front of a train!!!"

Surprisingly, the Inspector passed by him rather then strike him. Bannister looked around, confused. In the experience of this reporter, it's a common problem for entertainment journalists. Then Bannister made his second mistake of the day by speaking again. "So does this mean you've had a falling out with the rest of Metallica?"

Ulrich stopped. He turned, walked back, and threw a punch, connecting with Bannister's jaw, knocking him to the ground. "Drop dead, jackass!" the Inspector said, delivering a swift kick to the ribs before walking off with his men.