Abraham Lincoln Versus The 1812 Overture

Some links for today before I get started with the mischief at hand. Norma had a flashback Friday. Parsnip had a Square Dog Friday. Cheryl has a July 4th post. Shelly had a Fourth of July quote. Krisztina had dessert ideas and outdoor entertaining tips. Lorelei is marking the Fourth of July. And Ivy has a true or false question.

As mentioned, that mischief at hand...

"The British aren't coming! The British aren't coming! Wait, is that what I'm supposed to say?" ~ Milo Revere, April 18th, 1775

"There, I guess King George will be able to read that." ~ John Hancock, July 2nd, 1776

"And he won't even need a telescope. Anyone across the ocean can see that monster sized signature of yours, Hancock. Are you desperately trying to overcompensate for something? Because someday a fellow named Freud might have to say something about that." ~ John Adams, July 2nd, 1776

"Oh, don't worry, Libbie, I'm sure nothing at all is going to happen while I'm out picking a fight with the Lakotas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? By the way, hold onto my lucky rabbit's foot. It's kept me alive all this time, but I shouldn't be superstitious." ~ George Armstrong Custer, ~ May 16th, 1876

"I had a strange dream, Mary. A Russian composer will someday write an overture commemorating his nation's victory over the French in 1812, and yet for some odd reason our nation will hijack it and play it endlessly with fireworks on the Fourth of July. What do you think about that?" ~ Abraham Lincoln, July 4th, 1863

It has been my tradition in previous years on Independence Day to showcase spots in American states that I have visited, or would like to visit. I divide the country up each year in half, as opposed to going with fifty different locations. Here is this year's edition, roughly from east to west.

Narragansett Bay, Rhode Island

ECHO Leahy Center, Burlington, Vermont

Yale University, Connecticut

Mount Marcy, New York

Cape May, New Jersey

Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge, Maryland

Smoke Hole Caverns, West Virginia

Ford's Theatre, Washington,  D.C. 

Charleston, South Carolina

Stones River National Battlefield, Tennessee

Tupelo National Battlefield, Mississippi

Mississippi Bayou, Louisiana

Hurricane River Cave, Arkansas

Hopewell Culture National Historic Park, Ohio

Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, Indiana

Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, Wisconsin

Voyageurs National Park, Minnesota

Effigy Mounds National Monument, Iowa

Dodge City, Kansas

Black Kettle National Grassland, Oklahoma

Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico

Devil's Hole, Death Valley, Nevada

Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado

Sacagawea National Monument, South Dakota

Lemhi Pass, Idaho

Fort Clatsop National Monument, Oregon

Crashing Right Through Ye Olde Fourth Wall

Some links to see to before we get started today. Norma writes about spoilers today. At Two Little Fur Peeps and A Writer, Shelly's dogs SPAL and Hairball pointed out yours truly here and here. Eve had some poetry this week. Cheryl has a look at a lighthouse. And AngryParsnip has another Square Dog Friday at hand. 

Now then, for those who might be new in these parts.... yes, this is going to confuse you.

"Neo, there is a theory that some of us subscribe to. Others believe it is impossible. We know the Matrix is a false reality. We live here in the Real World, struggling to free all of humanity. The theory, however, suggests that even this Real World is a fiction, that there is a Fourth Wall out there, and everything we do is being watched by others beyond that Fourth Wall. Yes, Neo. Especially when you and Trinity are having sex. Yes, Neo, they can see that tattoo of the Mona Lisa on your butt." ~ Morpheus

"Mr. Kendall, tear down this Fourth Wall." ~ Zombie Reagan

"How dare this Kendall insult the beloved memory of our Glorious Saint Ronald Reagan, the greatest President in the history of the universe, by suggesting he's a zombie. When we find you, Mr. Kendall, we will have you hung, drawn, and quartered, I promise you." ~ Senator Ted Cruz

"Senator, you're a wanker." ~ William Kendall

A computer lab. Evening. A man sits working at a computer. Someone approaches. He is clad in the red serge of the RCMP dress uniform. He also looks angry. He often is angry, after all. Particularly when he's around entertainment reporters. For this is Inspector Lars Ulrich, legendary Mountie and scourge of entertainment reporters. He strides up towards the man, grabbing him by the shoulder, turning him roughly around in the chair.

"Whoa! I was working here!" the man says.

"William Kendall?" Ulrich demands.

"Yes, that's me," Kendall replies.

"I've been looking for you. You're the author of my misfortunes," Ulrich says in a way that suggests he's thinking of how to separate his head from his shoulders.

"Wait a minute... wait... this isn't possible," Kendall says, staring up at the angry Mountie. He looks around, and finally whispers, "Lars?"

"Yes, Lars," Ulrich confirms with an angry growl. "I've broken through that Fourth Wall and found you at last. Were you expecting another Mountie?"

Kendall shrugs. "Well, considering how much I make fun of Darth Harper The Vile, yes. How's this possible? You're a character. One I created."

"So they tell me," Ulrich mutters. "You're the Creator."

"Well, um, yes... in a manner of speaking... though that's sounding vaguely blasphemous. The Sisters Of Little Or No Mercy wouldn't appreciate the comparison. I'm your Author. You're a figment of my imagination, Lars."

"And do you always subject your creations to being tortured by the presence of despicable stupid idiots?" Lars demands.

"You mean the entertainment reporters?"

"Yes! They keep mistaking me for that drummer from Metallica! I mean, come on! He's ugly, and a whole lot older. How old I can't tell, because years of booze and hard living can take their toll. My point is, how stupid can these reporters be to keep thinking I'm him when I'm not?"

"I know, I know, they're pesky, Lars... can I call you Lars? Listen, how about you let me go and we talk this over like civilized people?" Ulrich finally lets Kendall go. "Look, in my defense, when I first created you in your earliest version, I was just looking for a vaguely German sounding name. Lars and Ulrich sounded good together. I had no idea about the guy from Metallica, Lars, seriously. I mean, that's not my kind of music. It's so loud and hostile. So I could have cared less about the names of the band. And then someone told me that Lars Ulrich was the drummer. So ever since I played around with it when I'd write about you."

Ulrich shakes his head. "You put them in my way all the time."

"True, but don't you enjoy the chance to beat them up?"

"Well, yes, but that's beside the point..."

"Look, it's all part of the plan, Lars. Think long term. Would it help if I said you've got a lot of fans out here in the real world?"

Ulrich looks around. "Really?"

"Yes, really. See, over there's Norma. And there's Shelly, and Eve, and Deb, and Krisztina... come to think of it, a lot of them are women. They like your attitude, Lars. They like the no nonsense take no prisoners kick ass and take names thing you do. Even the anonymous lurkers who never leave comments. Wave to everyone, Lars."

Ulrich shakes his head. "Are you drunk?"

"Um, no, not that I know of. If I were, I might tell you of the alternate theory that here in my world, it's not the real world either, that none of this is actually happening and there's another Fourth Wall over there where I'm simply the figment of someone else's imagination, but that might be getting too metaphysical and philosophical."

Ulrich rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine. So you say that I have to put up with the entertainment reporters."

"Yes, it keeps the readers amused."

"I can think of another option, Kendall," Ulrich says, grabbing Kendall by the throat, squeezing hard. "I can end your existence. Right here, right now. I can throw you through those windows to your death. Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

Kendall manages to gasp, "Yes, I have no doubt that you could, but I am your Creator. If you kill me, you destroy yourself."

Ulrich stares at him for a long moment, and lets go. "Damn it. I hate when you're right."

Kendall takes a moment to catch his breath and massage his sore throat. "Look, I really am sorry about the sending endless entertainment reporters after you, really, I truly am. I know it's made you cranky, but that grumpiness has won you a lot of fans. But look at what else I've done for you. You've solved big crimes, stood up to vile threats without fear, and hey, you've even saved the world! And seriously, in the long run, I've got plans for you. Big plans, and yes, you'll like them. Here. Let me whisper it to you."

"Why whisper?" Ulrich asks, confused.

"Well, I don't want to give anything away to them."

"The readers?"

"Exactly. It's called stringing them along, only letting them know what you want them to know and no more. It's a writer's perogative, you know." Kendall stands and whispers a few things to Ulrich, out of earshot of the readers. Ulrich nods a few times... and his eyes widen.

"You have got to be joking," Ulrich tells him.

"Deadly serious."

"Wow. I didn't realize..."

"Doesn't it just blow your mind?"

"That's one way to put it." Ulrich takes a deep breath. "Okay then. At least now I know this isn't just you torturing me for no reason. There's a purpose to it all. Thank you."

"Thank you. Aside from writing cat and dog blogs, you're my biggest source of readership. The fans love you, big guy."

"I'd better be getting back to the other side of the Fourth Wall."

"Yes, you've got things to do. I, on the other hand, have to bring this to a conclusion."

Ulrich looks curious. "How are you going to do that?"

Kendall shrugs. "The same way I always do. With a funny picture."

Vengeance Of The Dark Cabal

A link for you to look at before we get things started today. Take a look at Norma's blog, where for some reason my partner in crime takes exception to that lovely of loveliest seasons, winter. 

Today I'm doing one of those did I actually write that blogs....

A dimly lit chamber, in a bunker deep beneath the Hollywood sign. A large round table, set with twelve chairs, dominated the room. Overhead, a stylized microphone was carved into the ceiling. One by one, eleven people, in hooded cloaks, walked in, each taking a place at the table. At last, in came the final member of the group. She stood at her chair, her eyes gazing out from beneath the hood of her cloak, and began to speak.

“All hail the Dark Cabal of the Infernal Gossip,” she called out, her voice strangely familiar. Years of being on television left that impression.

“All hail, Supreme Majesty!” everyone else said in unison.

“Sisters and brothers, our time is at hand,” the Supreme Majesty declared. “Since the days of old, when our founder Antonio Paparazzo created the Cabal, we have worked carefully for the day when we would be in place. When we would come to dominate the world. The signs have all aligned. Our seers and sages believe the prophecies point to our present day. As do I. Long ago, when the great Antonio spent his time reviewing the plays of his day and writing gossip columns, he could have felt ashamed when William Shakespeare told him he was a halfwit who would never be remembered for anything. Instead, he vowed that he would be remembered long after Shakespeare was forgotten in the dustbins of history. After all, what did Shakespeare know about writing?”

“Nothing!” the rest of the Cabal agreed.

“Exactly,” the Supreme Majesty said with a smile. “The great Antonio dedicated himself to ensuring that one day, those just like him would come to achieve the ultimate power over all life on Earth. That there would come a day when gossips would be running everything. Antonio could not have foreseen the advances of technology, that our guild would become journalists, highly respected journalists, despite what those hacks who win Pulitzers and awards might say about us. That we would be hosting television shows, reporting on everything that famous people do, even those famous for being famous. That there would come a day when the single status and barren womb of the goddess Jennifer Aniston would be more important than climate change or wars in a foreign country or the state of the economy. That was not his concern. For reporting on all matters entertainment was always meant to be our facade, while we worked behind the scenes to consolidate our dark power and wield our rightful destiny as masters and mistresses of the world.”

One of the cloaked men blurted out in a panicked voice, “They’re all watching us! Out there! Beyond the Fourth Wall! They’re wondering what on Earth the writer’s thinking! And we’re using too much expository dialogue!”

The woman at his side reached out. “Brother Leonard, what do you mean?”

“You’ll have to forgive Brother Leonard,” the Supreme Majesty told her. “He has never been the same since that buffoon Ebert told him he isn’t a real movie reviewer.”

“Yes,” the man to her side remarked. “Brother Leonard of the Maltins seems to have gone slightly bonkers. Our therapists suggest he believes that none of this is happening, that we are nothing more than fictional variations of real people out beyond this Fourth Wall. Clearly, the effects of that mind shattering put down have had a long term effect on Brother Leonard’s emotional well being. Be at peace, Brother Leonard. Let me play you some of my soothing music when we’re done here.”

“Very well, Brother John,” the Supreme Majesty told him. “Sisters and brothers, the time is at hand. For it was foretold by the great Antonio that when our time would be at hand, our greatest enemy, the only one able to stop us, would make himself known. Antonio wrote of the man of justice, a man in red serge often mistaken for a deaf musician. He called him the rider on a white horse, and the man’s name was death. He might have been borrowing liberally from the Bible, but hey, who cares about plagiarism? Two centuries ago, the Cabal thought the prophecy might refer to Beethoven, so we scoured the world for a man with the same name who wore red serge. Alas, it was to no avail. For our enemy was not of that time.”

“You’re doing it again! Expository dialogue!” Brother Leonard blurted out.

“Brother Leonard, be at peace,” the Supreme Majesty said. “All of our seers and sages agree. Our most hated enemy, the only one who stands in our way, is the Mountie, Lars Ulrich.” An image of Inspector Lars Ulrich appeared on a viewscreen on one wall. Boos and hisses resounded through the chamber. As did one wolf whistle. The Supreme Majesty called out, “Who did that?”

“It was I,” the woman beside Brother Leonard admitted. “Well, I mean, come on, the guy’s hot.”

“That’s not in dispute, Sister Leeza, but he is our most hated foe,” the Supreme Majesty insisted. “And we cannot lust after our adversary. We have cast our minions upon the Ulrich time and again, the rank and file of our industry, those who have no idea that the Cabal even exists, with the mere objective of annoying him endlessly. We have even sent a woman from those ranks to flirt and tease him last New Year’s, only to pull the rug from under him by revealing what she does for a living. I would have loved to see the look on his face. All of this is a wise thing. It keeps him off his game. It keeps him from discovering who we really are. For each time one of our minions asks a question about Metallica, it only infuriates him all the more and keeps him permanently distracted.”

“He’s going to Russia, I understand,” Brother John noted.

“Yes, as security for the Canadian Olympic team,” another man affirmed.

“Brother Ryan of Seacrest speaks truth,” the Supreme Majesty said. “The Ulrich was in Vancouver last week when Godzilla surfaced. All it took was one good hard glare from the Ulrich, and the monstrous beast fled back into the ocean. That, sisters and brothers, the ability to turn a hundred foot tall monster into a whiny little coward, is the mark of a very dangerous man.”

“Could we get the Russians to see to it that he meets with an unfortunate accident?” another woman asked.

“Unlikely, Sister Nancy of O’Dell,” Brother John said. “President Putin would view us as competition for his own world domination schemes if we would make the request, and is unlikely to ever do us a favour. We can count on no help from those quarters in ridding us of the Ulrich.”

“It shall be left to us then?” Brother Ryan asked.

“Yes,” Brother John replied. “Patience. We will deal with him in time. We will imprison him, and I will play endless amounts of my music until he weeps for death. For it is said that the Ulrich can’t stand my endless keyboard feel good music. For some reason I can’t quite understand, there are many people who dislike my music.”

The Supreme Majesty nodded. “I don’t understand it either, Brother John of Tesh, but such is life. And when we take command of the world, your music will be required listening for every last person on Earth. When the Ulrich weeps for death, we shall give it to him. We shall set the Ulrich on the block, and sever his head from his body. With a rusty axe. After that, the world will be ours. As it was foretold in the days of old. And I, Mary of Hart, will be Empress over all the world. And I will get even with everyone who ever called me a lightweight or rolled their eyes when my name was mentioned.”

“Bravo, Supreme Majesty,” one of the women called.

“Thank you, Sister Maria of the Menounos. The time is at hand, sisters and brothers. Now then, we are adjourned. We shall go to the antechambers to sacrifice an intern and commence the orgy.”

“The orgy is my favourite part,” Sister Maria declared with enthusiasm.

The Cabal rose from their chairs. Brother Leonard cried out, “Don’t you see? He’s making fun of all of us! He doesn’t think we’re real journalists, and he’s making fun of us! And it’s not as if he’s even going to write the orgy, he’s just leaving it out there as a punchline!” Brother Leonard glared up at the ceiling. “I know you’re out there, Writer! Out there beyond that Fourth Wall! I know what you’re doing! And one day you’ll pay for your sins!”

Sister Leeza took him by the arm, leading him out of the room with the rest of the Cabal. “Brother Leonard, perhaps you need more therapy. There is no such thing as a Fourth Wall. Now come on, a good orgy and a ritual intern sacrifice will have you feeling better in no time.”

Save Us From The Stupid People

"Hey, what's the worst that can happen?" ~ Dougie Albans, Village Idiot, April 16th, 1978

"....Mr. Albans, also known as Dougie, was found five miles away in the aftermath of the barbecue explosion, babbling about seeing the elephant. He was examined by doctors, who pronounced him stable but stupid." ~ news reporter, two days later

The notion of the Darwin Awards has been around awhile. Some very stupid people (okay, ninety nine percent of the time it's men, because yes, we're stupid, and yes, it usually starts with a watch this sort of line) have a tendency to test the bounds of the Darwinian concept of survival of the fittest. I thought I'd amuse myself, and hopefully you, with a few Darwin Award moments in pics.

Incidentally, my idiot ex-brother-in-law is a prime candidate for the Darwin Awards. He's a pretty dimwitted  moron, after all. And he has no idea just how dumb he is. I keep expecting him to buy the farm someday by falling through the ice while ice fishing, or being one of those buffoons who drives a snowmobile into open water.