You know people like that.

Grapes of wrath?

I like to keep raisins around. They're good to put in yogurt, on cereal, in recipes, everything but the dog. Great fiber, which becomes more important by the year. And besides, they're nature's candy. 

Recently I got some when I girded my loins and did the weekly shopping at Walmart. 

You never know how you're going to do with store brands, and Walmart is dicier than others. I've had good luck with some of their knockoff cereals, and staples like beans and canned vegetables, but I find their cheese pretty poor. So it could go either way.

I thought the raisins went the other way.

Small, too dry, and hard, these raisins did have that great raisin flavor, but the texture was poor. They were very cheap, though, a buck for a six pack of 1-ounce boxes. We're blessed to have some awesome grapes in many states in this country, so I wondered if these were from overseas. Indeed they were, and I was shocked to find out from where:

Walmart is importing raisins from Afghanistan. Hmm.

I was struck by several thoughts immediately, which included the following:

1) I'm really, REALLY glad that Afghanistan is exporting more than illegal drugs and terrorism and illegal immigrants and slaves.

2) What other legal products are we importing from that war-torn rock farm? Well, it turns out we imported $34 million worth of things in 2016, including "precious metal and stone (precious, semi precious) ($7 million), carpets and other textile coverings ($5 million), edible fruit & nuts (other fruit, dried) ($1 million), and electrical machinery ($1 million)." Who knew? Well, the carpets and textiles they're famous for.

3) After having a nominally US-friendly government in place since 2001, this is the first time I've ever heard of anything imported from there.

4) I encourage industry and wealth in all poor but friendly nations of the world, so I was sorry that I didn't like their raisins. Maybe they dried out on the way over.

It's true that $34 million in international trade is a pittance, and Afghanistan is 93rd on our list of trading partners. It may only be that high on the list because of all the stuff we sell them -- $913 million worth -- probably with money we've put up.

Is there hope that one day this country will not be an Islamist basket case that needs constant propping up from US blood and treasure?

I don't know. George W. Bush warned that the War on Terror would take decades, a hard pill to swallow, and I have no idea if we've followed anything like a consistent strategy in the years since 9/11. I am sure that if Afghanistan wants to become a civilized nation on the world stage, it will need to be engaged in honest commerce.

Raisins may be a small start. And they are nature's candy. Just ask Molly.

Kaleido-dope.

I guess the lesson I would wish to impart is, if you're going to be a craftsman, and charge craftsman prices, create crafted works. 

And if you sell things online, don't just post the good reviews. 

Okay, from the top:

Last year I wanted to buy a gift for a loved one who makes a great living and buys whatever she needs or wants herself. But AH! I did once hear her say that she'd wanted a really good kaleidoscope, as she had loved them from childhood. 

To the Internets! 

Amazon had a bunch, but nothing struck me as special. It seemed like the kind of thing that you wanted a real artiste to create, and I was willing to spend some money. I found one that looked good on an Etsy-type site (for the record, it was NOT Etsy) and ordered it. 

It arrived like this:

The glass jujubes were all over the place. It was held together (poorly) with glue. Frankly, it was a piece of garbage, and I went on the site to demand a refund of my $100+.

I also wrote a poor review of the product, which never ran. I wrote it again; it also never ran. They refused to post a bad review.

Now, I did finally get my money back, and a sort-of apology from the guy who was running the site. And I doubt he could personally inspect everything that was up for sale. But the plain fact is, if you're going to post user reviews, you have to post the bad ones too. I did not use profanity, I did not otherwise violate norms of user reviews. But they just weren't going to run something negative, regardless of how true it was.

I wasn't going to write about it here, because I did get my money back and purchased a nice kaleidoscope elsewhere that was a well-received gift, and this exact product is no longer for sale on the site. But when I came across this photo on my hard drive, I thought, this is a good reminder, at least to me, that good reviews are not the whole story.

Caveat emptor onlinus. And readus the return policius. In some corners of the Internet, it's still a little dicey. Another reason why Amazon is so stinking rich.

Shark week.

“Sneaky devils, them sharks.” —Quint

Bob the Mage, ch. 14

[Author's note: Fiction Friday! returns in all its...whatever. And today we have chapter 14 of our thrilling fantasy adventure, Bob the Mage. I wrote Bob in my wayward youth years ago -- my one and only completed fantasy-world book -- and am editing and refreshing it and posting it here. At the end of chapter 13, incompetent wizard Bob and his friends Astercam the Academic and Bourbon the Barbarian had been freed from captivity on a Tegoran ship, when first mate Sanford argued for their innocence. The ship was commissioned to hunt evil wizards, and Bob successfully argued that they should go to Big Evil Island and destroy its master, the incomparably wicked Mormor, and rescue Bob's love, Princess Suzy. Bob's enemies, Bugsby the (supposedly reformed) pirate, Tegoran Mage Corps leader Karkill, and Tegoran army commander Chokolost, are on the ship as well, and a couple of them are reluctant. Perhaps they ought to be...

You know what? This is getting confusing, but we only have three chapters to go. It's not too late to get caught up; here are the links: 
chapter 13, chapter 12, chapter 11,

chapter 10, chapter 9, chapter 8, chapter 7, chapter 6,
chapter 5, chapter 4, chapter 3, chapter 2, chapter 1

And remember, if you're enjoying the book, tell someone! Shout it out loud! Post a link! Tell the swimsuit models you follow on Instagram! If you're hating the book, write me a letter! (frederick_key at yahoo) I'll give you a fresh joke for free!]

Bob the Mage

by Frederick Key

Chapter 14

The closer we got to Big Evil Island, the less noise could be heard on the ship. First the cheerful sounds of happy warriors faded, then the standard everyday grumbling of men at sea faded. Everyone had the feeling that we were up against something for which common chatter was unequal.

There were some incidents that made us think, too. The morning of the second day, a large squall seemed to form ahead of us, completely unexpected based on the weather, that petered out quickly. Astercam and Karkill were certain it was evidence of the Gallstone fighting against the evil magic of Mormor. I was not comforted by the knowledge that if that were the case, then Mormor had seen us and knew we were coming. I certainly hoped he did not have a sea monster on hand, as I didn’t think we’d have much luck finding a virginal royal on this vessel.

A couple of days after that, I was standing on the deck with Sanford again, as the sun dwindled in the west. Astercam’s brilliantly plotted course was taking us right to Mormor, and we now just waited for the tar in the crow’s nest to let us know when the island was spotted. Chokolost had mouthed objections that the island could not possibly be in this direction, so I knew we were on target.

While Bugsby had resigned himself to letting me live for now, and Karkill was dreaming of treasure, Chokolost still refused to be anywhere near me. The one time I saw him aside from consultation on the bridge was at mess, when he grabbed by the nape of the robe and hissed in my ear, “That Mormor had better have as much gold as you said.” Then he pushed me aside and cut the line.

“So,” I said, “are the men ready to pile into the boats?”

“Wrax reports that they are,” said Sanford. “I wish their enthusiasm was as bright as it had been. We seem to be having the life drawn out of us as we get closer. As if we had already died and become ghosts.”

“I had no idea Mormor was so famous in these oceans. There are an awful lot of stories about him around this ship.”

“And a lot of awful stories.”

“Probably all true.”

“Hmmm.”

Silence fell between us with a thud. I was trying to think of something light to say when we heard the cry.

“Land ho!”

And there it was on the horizon, a big blackhead on the face of the ocean. Big Evil Island.

“Very well,” said Sanford. “So the plan is: Move in a little closer, drop the anchor, load the boats, row like crazy, run up to the castle, and hope that the Gallstone dispels any magical attacks.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know Astercam drew maps of the island. There should be no human beings around except Mormor and Suzy, but we may have to fight imps and demons.”

“You have your magical doodads together?”

“As much as I could find on the ship.” Which wasn’t much. With what I had in my pouch, I could do my light and heat and cold spells, and if there were any vermin around that needed zapping, I was your man. That was about it. Actually, considering my ineptitude at combat, I was feeling as useful as a tick on a wooden leg. I now had a nice staff the ship’s carpenter whipped up for me, but it wasn’t enchanted. If a bad guy popped out and stood still for a prolonged period, maybe I could hit him.

We drew closer. I kept waiting for lightning, fireballs, hairballs, something to come at us, but nothing happened. Was the Gallstone really keeping Mormor at bay, or was he just waiting for us to get closer so he could trap us alive and put us in his dungeons? Was Suzy distracting him? Or had she beaned him with a teapot and won the day on her own? When what you expect to happen doesn’t happen, you expect everything else.

While I was checking my bag of magical bits for the seventy-fourth time, a whistle came from the speaking tube. “Now hear this,” shouted Bugsby.

“What?” yelled every nervous sailor on deck.

“Drop the anchor, boys. It’s showtime.”

In moments we were assembled, the anchor dropped, and we were starting to board the boats. The Badass had more landing boats than any ship I’d ever heard of, but that made sense considering it was designed for just this type of operation. Its four large boats would fit us all, not including the handful of swabbies working the ropes. Bugsby directed things on deck, and I heard him tell Sanford he was going to stay aboard and wait for us. “All the more loot for me,” muttered Sanford, and Bugsby inserted himself on the next boat. I got in one with Chokolost and Karkill, and both were glued to my side. We were lowered onto the waves, where the oarsmen did their thing, and some sailors were crying “For the KING!” and others “ARR! BOOTY!” But their hearts didn’t really seem in it.

Soon Big Evil Island was looming over us, its shadows from the dying sun licking us like the cold tongues of demons. I wondered if it was too late to have Chokolost kill me and get it over with fast.

We hit the black-sand beach and started running. Screaming mighty battle cries, we dashed up the path four abreast. I was forced up near the front, along with Bourbon, Astercam, and Sanford. Behind us were dozens of screaming sailors. I guess there was no point in trying a sneak attack. Right in the middle of the herd, two of the beefiest sailors were carrying a crate on poles, a crate that had been our ace in the hold (so to speak) and now we hoped would preserve us against the enemy—a crate containing my old pal, the Gallstone of the Gods.

I could feel the magic coming from it. Unfortunately I could feel a lot more magic ahead of me.

Farther up the path we ran, that craggy path from the beach to the castle, and the cheering died down as everyone ran out of breath. Hey, it was a long uphill run, maybe 300 yards, which is why the ship’s cannon couldn’t give us any cover. Even Bourbon was winded. Without our motivational yelling, the castle, staring down at us with the empty eye sockets of thousands of skulls, looked more terrifying by the second. Morale was starting to dip.

Then we came to a dead stop at the iron doors. Now that we had a good look at them, it was clear that the battering ram we’d brought would be as useful as a toothpick against plate mail. I waited for Bugsby to start ordering siege positions, as we’d discussed on the ship, but he and all the sailors were just looking up at the castle like this whole thing had been the worse idea ever. But Karkill, dreams of gold and treasure still shining in his eyes, said, “Come on, you grunts! As long as we have the Gallstone, nothing can stop us!”

And then two very bad things happened.

First, the enormous eyes on the overall skull shape of the castle were suddenly lit as with unholy fire, blasting twin beams of light into the sky that neither warmed nor illuminated. We all cringed as one.

Then two black-winged beasts swooped down and bowled over the men carrying the Gallstone crate. It wasn’t even a fight. They came from the shadows of the sky while we were staring upward like dumb gerbils and flattened the two dummies with the crate, then whoosh and away, no one even getting in a chop or nocking an arrow. The Gallstone might stop magic, but not magical beasts. All I and Chokolost and the others on King Maximo’s quest had achieved was gone up into the sky, our protection vanished.

We stood there saying nothing, the panic leaping from face to face and building as it went.

“S-say something!” Sanford said, elbowing me hard.

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Say something to them, damn it, before we all lose it!”

I cast my eyes around quickly and then, loudly as I could, yelled, “Men!”

They looked at me.

“What the hell! Let’s do it!”

They blinked.

“Come on! Say it with me! WHAT THE HELL!”

“WHAT THE HELL!” cried a hundred men.

We raced up to the doors, caroming off them without effect. If they were magically sealed we had no chance of getting through. But if that huge keyhole built like a howling mouth was just an ordinary lock…

“Stand back!” I said, and gathered myself for my best heat spell ever. I did the whole song and dance, focus driven by terror, and prayed please, just this once…. And I let loose a shot of burning heat straight into the lock. A flash of sparks came out and a little molten metal was coughed out of the hole.

“That’s my boy!” yelled Karkill.

“WHAT THE HELL!” I screamed, and we hit the doors again. With a huge crash they burst inward, and we stumbled into that hallway I’d entered so long ago. I had done it!

But there was no time to pat myself on the back.

No sooner were we all in, weapons drawn, when a couple of sailors were screaming. From the floor, which was dimly lit by patches of light from the ceiling, greenish hands with two thumbs each grabbed at the sailors’ legs. They popped up everywhere gripping, tripping, grabbing, squeezing with inhuman strength. They appeared to be made of stone, for most of our edged weapons just blunted against them. Kevin the ex-pirate got his wooden leg grabbed; he popped off it, but his good leg was snagged above the knee. Chubby little Wiggen, scowling, leveled his blunderbuss against one arm and blew it to pieces; two more grew in its place. Karkill, lashing out with his wand, had little more luck. We struggled forward, but as we went more and more men became ensnared and were left behind. They were not being crushed to death as I feared at first, but just completely constrained. Soon we were down to fifty in number, then twenty, then ten.

Finally I struggled to the end of the hall and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL!”

“What… the… hell,” wheezed Astercam.

I turned to look at him. We were the only ones left. Behind us were no men, just cries and oaths from where they were captured far behind. Even Bourbon.

“Well, that went to crap in a hurry,” I said. “Just us two now, old-timer?”

“Quite the… coincidence, eh?” he panted.

“Looks like a showdown to me.”

He leaned on his knees and shook his head. “Not like I have anything better to do right now.”

I smiled.

“You scared, Bob?”

“Petrified.”

“Me too.”

We looked back at the hall full of men, struggling against their bonds. We looked ahead into a blinding and sinister light. Then we looked at each other again and shrugged.

“Let’s go,” I said.

😱😱

[Well, surely the next chapter will include the deaths of Bob and Astercam, so you may not want to see this. Or you may have been looking forward to it for weeks. Either way, come back next Friday for our astonishing penultimate chapter!]

Eau du chien mouillé.

It's been rainy this week.

View from under the umbrella.

I'm not complaining, I'm really not. They have scorching temperatures out west and lots of places here in the northeast are getting flooded. Out in Laos they have "hundreds missing" following flash floods and a dam collapse. All I have are luxury problems. 

In fact, Sophomore Dog Nipper really seems to like the rain. On Tuesday and Wednesday mornings we got drenched during our routine morning exercise (either a walk or playing in the yard, depending on presence of garbage cans) and he had a blast. He could not have been wetter if he had been snorkeling in the Caribbean. He smiled at me like the world's happiest dog. Maybe he was at that moment. 

In the yard, though, he picked up a little passenger:

Yep, stuck his wet self into the tall grass on the verge and came out with a wet bee that did not look like the world's happiest bee.

I wanted to gently de-bee him with the umbrella, but that scared Nipper and he dodged and weaved. He would like very much to play with (i.e., destroy) the umbrella, but doesn't like it waved at him. After some minutes I managed to brush the bee off with a ring toy, and he and the bee parted ways with no further acrimony.

After that, my only problem is the wet dog. He would love very much to eat a towel, and goes into a kind of frenzy at drying-off time. Despite my best efforts, you can only get a dog so dry with a towel anyway. He was still soggy for hours. And you know, there's a reason Glade doesn't make a scent called Wet Dog.

Well, at least he had fun.

If it's too dry where you are, I hope you may get some of this life-giving rain. And if you're being flooded, may you get a chance to dry out. We all must live in the middle of extremes, even the dogs.

Far over the horizon.

This Friday's a full moon, which is nice.

Anyway, in looking into the solar probe for my article last Sunday, I got to thinking about this insane information about our other big sky friend, Mr. Moonlight:

Holy Toledo!

I'd seen that factoid on Cracked and heard that it came from Reddit, but despite that it actually turns out to be true. No wonder it took three days at, well, astronomical speed to get our astronauts to the moon. It's not like driving to the shore for vacation. Although it must be said that the traffic is better.

Our moon is ridiculously far away, 238,900 miles, and yet so strong. We sometimes think it looks huge, especially at Halloween.

Here the moon is orbiting Earth at a height of seventy miles.

But looking at the real moon in the real sky, one might think it's what, maybe a tenth the size of earth? Actually the moon is more than a quarter of the size of our planet. It's bigger than Pluto, which might be one of the reasons for Pluto's demotion to dwarf planet.

So I have to ask: Why is this moon thing hanging around us? And so far away? And yet it still pulls the tides. Its dark side shows the impacts of some meteors we would prefer to have struck there rather than here. Life on earth may not have emerged without the moon, which is one reason we may be very much more alone in the universe than we think. Not every planet is lucky enough to have such a cool accessory. We're lucky it showed up one day, however weirdly it happened.

So if this all isn't moon-mind-blowing enough for you, let me hit you with this factoid about Michael Collins you may not have heard. It's not original to me, but it ought to be shared widely.

Collins was, among other things, the astronaut who stayed behind on the command module of Apollo 11 while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first men on the moon. Not sure if there was a short straw involved, but it doesn't seem so. In addition to being the only NASA astronaut to inspire a Jethro Tull song, Collins took this famous picture from the command module of Apollo 11:

As Rare Historical Photos put it, inside this frame is everybody on Earth who ever lived -- except Michael Collins.

He may not have been the first man on the moon, but that is an amazing claim to fame.

Forty-nine years ago our three guys had just come back from the first manned landing on the moon. Sometimes it seems more incredible with the passing of time.

Nothing good happens after midnight.

Morpheus is a jerk.

Last week was tiresome. I was filling in for someone who was on vacation, and I found out just how annoying his job is. I mean, I thought the worst part of his position was having to deal with, well, me. But that was just part of it. (Of course, I still have to deal with me all the time; how fair is that?)

Between that and a huge project for another employer on which I am slowly grinding to the end, it was a tiring week. And as usual, especially when I'm under work stress, Morpheus was a jerk.

Not the guy from the Matrix movies. I mean the Greek god of dreams. He sucks.

The problem is not dreams of running around Yale naked or trying to work when I can't read or even the world coming to an end. No, it's that I'm dreaming about workish things and that itself is a lot of work. 

It's exhausting. Like the late Mitch Hedberg said, "I hate dreaming. Because when you sleep, you wanna sleep. Dreaming is work, you know -- there I am in a comfortable bed, the next thing you know I have to build a go-kart with my ex-landlord. I want a dream of me watching myself sleep."

In one recent one I was at a work event at a stadium, where we were all going to a ball game; I had brought a bunch of pizzas, which I was carrying, and wearing a suit, and I didn't know most of the group and was trying to fit in. No one else was dressed for work. I got lost in the stadium and wound up wandering the halls of the run-down hotel attached to it. I was tired when I got up. And not only tired -- for an hour or so I had this vague sense of something I had to do, until I realized that the thing on my mind was that I worrying that I had to meet up with the imaginary gang to deliver the imaginary pizzas at the imaginary ballpark.

This went on all week. I would have a dream where I could not accomplish something, and my brain would keep working on the problem even after I was awake. Even last night. I had to make two stops at a grocery store that hasn't existed since I was kid and got the wrong things both times, so I had to figure out what I really needed to get for the first fifteen minutes I was up. This is stupid.

Look, Morpheus, I've had it. I already have a bunch of clients who need me to fill in some holes while others are on summer vacation. I don't need unpaid assignments from you. Knock it off.

Fun in space.

So the planned launch date for the Parker Solar Probe is (conditionally) August 6. I hope you haven't made any plans for that week. The probe will fly 89 million miles, give or take, to orbit our star at a distance of 4 million miles, 32 million miles closer than the planet Mercury. And you thought it was hot at the beach yesterday. The question of course is how the probe can get that close to ol' hot stuff and not melt. Simple: NASA is going to send it at night.

Thanks, folks, and don't forget to tip your bartender. He makes the jokes go down easier.

I applaud NASA for carrying out such interesting missions before a largely uncaring public. It's been a long time since Project Mercury made national celebrities out of a passel of test pilots and a bunch of nerds. Days like those may never come again.

And it's funny, because with the rise of the Internet and its attendant billionaires, nerds are being celebrated as never before. Commercial space flight becomes more possible all the time, making the final frontier open to not just plane jockeys and geniuses, but to the average slob (who happens to be stinking rich). At the box office, science fiction rules, or at least science fiction that involves fistfights and explosions (rare exceptions being films like Gravity, and it still had explosions). You'd think that we'd be hanging on everything NASA does.

Nah, it's always, "When are we going back to the moon? When can we send a human being to Mars? What have you been doing in the seven years since you put the space shuttle orbiters up on blocks, anyhow?"

Well, the public is dumb in a lot of ways, and always fickle. But there's also geopolitics to consider, and NASA's own part in this situation.

Back in the Mercury days, we were getting our astro-asses handed to us by the Soviet Union. First thing in space, first thing in orbit around the sun, first living thing in space, first man in space, first woman in space, first space walk -- those bastards were making us look stupid. We don't have that kind of pressure today. China may plant their godless flag on Mars before we get there, but it won't catch us off guard. It's not the same. Plus, as much as we're always trying to keep the Chinese in check (and vice versa), they are our capitalist trading pals now; we're not in a Cold War with them. Economic peewee Russia keeps grabbing the headlines because of their direct belligerence; the Chinese are playing a longer game. So the facts on the ground have a lot to do with the facts in the air, as it were. Because of this, NASA is not a key propaganda tool as it once was. It's a little hard to be chest-puffing about our space program when we have to beg rides from the Russians to get to our space station because we can't get anyone in orbit.

Even back in the halcyon days when America loved her astronauts, the support for the space program was not universal; as Tom Lehrer said it would be "twenty billion dollars of your money to put some clown on the moon". And there is something about the boffins at NASA that makes me think that our concerns are not their concerns. What's important to scientists is to find out what's out there, not necessarily to be there to look at it. They seem to think humans are a waste on space missions. After all, it was our first satellite, Explorer 1, that discovered the Van Allen belts, not Alan Shepard or John Glenn. The Project Mercury astronauts were little more than passengers, "meat in a seat." I'm sure that NASA has gotten wonderful information from the space shuttle program and the ISS, but that doesn't trickle down to us, the people who have to pay for it. We are psyched by the guy who climbs Everest; the eggheads would just as soon send a drone up to look at it.

And maybe it's just as well. If we ever get this Mars mission going for real, Millennials will be running most of the operations, and that's alarming. They will insist that the first person to walk on Mars be a differently-abled tattooed aboriginal non-citizen multiracial minority transgender atheist lesbian poet who will plant the UN flag. Focused on checking all the PC boxes, not the competence of the mission members.

When priorities are disordered, disaster follows. In space, get woke, go dead.

I hope I don't live long enough to see the politically correct Mars launch. Even if we made it I would feel like there should be Martians there, just so they would laugh at us.

Hoo, boyardee.

This caught me by surprise in the canned meat aisle:

Chef Boyardee throwback recipe for Beefaroni? What could this mean? Does this mean it's the original recipe? Was this how the cans looked then? Can you only eat it on Thursdays? So many questions.

So of course I had to buy it and eat it. Look at this:

That seems like a strange admission from parent company ConAgra. It's saying that the "regular Chef Boyardee Beefaroni" has less meat, less cheese, and less goodness.

Like all the best people, I love to shower contempt on canned food. Shower, shower, shower. But for you, my readers, I ate this thing, expecting that the big difference in the throwback recipe was sugar as opposed to the high-fructose corn syrup (what the cool kids call HFCS) in the modern Beefaroni. As it turns out, there is not a lot of sugar in Beefaroni, and as far as I can tell there never has been any HFCS. There may be more sugar per serving in "grown-up" brands like Classico.

But here's the stunner -- the new Beefaroni is actually better for you than the old one. A one-cup serving of the new recipe (one serving is half a can -- yeah, right) is 240 calories, with 9 g of fat (3.5 g saturated fat), 800 mg sodium, and 15 mg cholesterol. The throwback Beefaroni is 260 calories, 13 g fat (5 g saturated fat), 980 mg sodium, and 25 mg cholesterol.

!!!

I had kept it around for a few weeks until one night dinner plans fell through late, and it was Ettore Boiardi to the rescue!

Being that it's so full of death-dealing cholesterol you'd think it would be awesome. Well, it was okay. As far as I could tell, it tasted like Beefaroni the last time I had it, which was not 1950. It's got little bits of beef all throughout, and a sweet sauce, and you feel like you ate something when it's over (I mean, besides a lot of salt). Not bad for a buck or so a can.

Still, I'm not sure what the point of the throwback recipe was. Were baby boomers complaining about the current recipe? Most of them should be on a low-sodium diet now anyway, if you follow the killjoys at the American Heart Association. Besides, while I resisted the sacrifice of doing a head-to-head throwback vs. modern Boyardee-off, I'd still guess that there's not a ha'penny's difference between them by taste. Not like Miracle Whip.

Anyway, in truth, I really have nothing against canned goods. Some are better than others, but you can say that about anything. Beefaroni was never my favorite, though. As a kid I was more of a canned ravioli guy.

Bob the Mage, ch. 13.

[Author's note: Sorry, gang, but like it or not, it is Fiction Friday! again! And today we have chapter 13 of our fantasy novel, Bob the Mage. As I keep explaining, maybe as an excuse, I wrote Bob in my ill-spent youth years ago -- my one and only completed fantasy-world book -- and am editing and refreshing it and posting it here. At the end of chapter 12, incompetent wizard Bob and his friends Astercam the Academic and Bourbon the Barbarian had been arrested on a Tegoran ship, after escaping Big Evil Island and its master, the evil Mormor. Bob's enemies, Bugsby the (possibly reformed) pirate, Tegoran Mage Corps leader Karkill, and Tegoran army commander Chokolost, are on the ship and out for Bob's blood. For a moment it looked like Astercam had saved Bob's bacon, but the crowd turned on him. The crew is about to vote on whether Bob should live or die...

If you haven't been following along to this point and want to binge-read, here are the links: 
chapter 12, chapter 11,

chapter 10, chapter 9, chapter 8, chapter 7, chapter 6,
chapter 5, chapter 4, chapter 3, chapter 2, chapter 1

And remember, if you're enjoying the book, tell someone! Post a link! Tell your grandma on Facebook! Post a link with some cat videos! If you're hating the book, write me a letter! (frederick_key at yahoo) I'll apologize for wasting your time!]

Bob the Mage

by Frederick Key

Chapter 13

Then they killed me.

No, just joshing. There are four more chapters in this story to go; at least give me one more. That’s what Sanford did.

Just as Bugsby was about to call again for the vote to kill me, First Mate Sanford said, “Excuse me, Captain Bugsby! I request the chance to speak!”

“Don’t bother, matey; we’ve got enough to hang him now.”

“No, sir; if you please, I wish to defend the man.”

“DeFEND! DEFEND? This is MUTINY!” cried the captain.

“Hardly, sir. I can assure you that under the laws of Tegora, differing opinions of the captain and members of his crew in a criminal trial do not constitute mutiny.”

“Damn yer eyes, you rotten mother-suckin’ barnacle!”

“Such outbursts are unbecoming a captain of His Majesty’s fleet, if may say so, captain.”

“GAAAH!”

Bluster as he might, Bugsby was up against pure implacability and he hadn’t a clue as to how to get around it. Pirates could duel, or throw each other to the sharks, or randomly assault each other, but such things are not in keeping with a shiny new captain of the king, especially when your first mate is popular with the crew, as Sanford was. Defeated, Bugsby stepped aside, gallantly waving Sanford up with mock civility. As the first mate stepped up smartly, Bugsby muttered about the good old days.

“Captain, fellow officers, and sailors,” Sanford began, nodding to the captain, “none of you but Wrax, Wiggen, and the codefendants and I were present when this Bob told us of his love for the princess Suzette, held captive on a dangerous island where a sorcerer wields hellish powers against his prisoners. Bob and his companions barely escaped from the clutches of this madman, with the help of his princess, and now Bob lives only to seek the means to save her.

“Rubbish, you say? I see some of you scoffing. Puzzman, and you there, Grattie. Scoff if you will, but you know I am a good judge of men. A first mate must be loyal to his ship above all, and fearless, but he must also have a keen ear for truth. And while I suspect a few details may have been fudged, I say that this Bob’s fear of the evil wizard and his love of Suzette are truer than most of the pitiful emotions that most of us wander about with through our lives. He speaks truth! And we three officers, I, Wrax, and Wiggen, ask that you vote to spare his worthy life so that we may all aid him in his quest.

“I note that Bob’s esteemed accusers are looking at me as if I had lost my senses. With all due respect, I think they are mistaken, although I can understand it. For they must think I am asking to set this devil free, and not only that, but to salute him and follow his orders as well. After all, was it not the mission of this ship to hunt for the evil Bob? Is that not why we have the very artifact he was supposed to recover, activated by Hackles the Bold’s Hairy Wand?”

At this, my eyes and Astercam’s both bugged out. They had the Gallstone of the Gods here, on this ship? That useless hunk of rock? And yet it was obviously not useless anymore. It was sending out some kind of magical energy that I had detected over the waves; that must have been what I felt that had led me to steer our little boat toward this ship. I’d heard of the Hairy Wand, mainly as a joke, but if the Tegorans had it and had a wizard who was able to actually use it, that would explain some of what was going on. The Wand’s purpose was kind of as an enhancer and activator. Simon the Unsteady said it was a catalyst, but at the time I thought he meant it did something to cats. Not to get too “inside jousting” on you; I can say the Wand was not a fearsome magic weapon, but it could be used to activate other magical items or wake dormant magical creatures. So was the Gallstone now some magical protection against evil wizardry? Did that mean that this ship and its crew, although sent to kill me, were really the best hope to stop Mormor?

I wanted badly to hear what Astercam might think, but at the moment Sanford was still talking.

“Bob is no more a villain than any of us,” he said, “and in fact, probably less of a villain than many. Did he break our laws? Well, haven’t most of you? Did he really work magic on innocent men? Look at his pathetic form and tell me what you think. Did he disobey orders? He survived Karkill’s training, and did get Chokolost to the stone they were seeking. He may have disobeyed Captain Bugsby by meeting the princess, who was a, um, a guest on the Seaworthy, but it must be said that the Seaworthy was a pirate ship and Bob’s action could be construed as a service to the crown. And remember, he, like all the pirates on that ship, did get pardoned in exchange for fighting a sea monster.

“We believe that Bob’s actions were no credit to his service to Tegora, but we must temper justice with mercy. Most of all, we must believe the evidence of our association with him, that Bob is not a powerful mage, may be barely competent at best, and there is nothing to be gained by putting him to death. It would not serve justice and would be an insult to the hope for mercy in this world!”

You might imagine that I was stunned. You’d be right. Not only was Sanford suggesting mercy, but the crew was listening, and some were nodding.

“As for his quest,” said Sanford, “I submit that what Bob seeks, the freedom of his princess and the destruction of Morwor Mordun Mormor, is exactly what we are meant to do. Chokolost told us that the reason he was sent to find the Gallstone of the Gods was because the crown feared the growing power of the wizard Mormor, and was looking for a means of protection against dark magic. It has been a single-minded goal of King Maximo’s for a decade, and for good reason. I suspect that the reason we were commissioned to find Bob was mainly as a test to see if the Gallstone’s protection was really active against evil magic. Well, we cannot consider it a success or a failure yet. But then, look at it this way: We have the stone, we have three passengers who have been to the evil Mormor’s island and know the layout, and we know the legends that Mormor has tremendous piles of gold and gems and magical items hoarded in his castle. These men, these three brave men, these three brave men who know what kind of serious treasure may be found on Big Evil Island… perhaps even the legendary treasure of Gargothene the Odiferous… these three men can lead us to battle and plunder and the rescue of the Princess Suzette! Our man Bob can take us straight to the evil Mormor, and with the strength of our arms and the power of the stone, we shall destroy him! And get the gold! What say you now, men?”

They ate it up. Sanford could have told them to jump into the water and tow us to the island. I hoped he hadn’t oversold it, since I had not actually seen any mounds of gold on Big Evil Island, but it stood to reason that Mormor had them—and it served its purpose. Those Sanford could not sway by reason, he swayed by greed. Bugsby still was calling for the vote of death, but his voice was lost in the cheering. Karkill had softened, and he leaned on a barrel with a dreamy look in his eyes. Chokolost just glared.

Within minutes I was freed of my chains, as were Bourbon and Astercam (although they left the muzzles on Astercam). I was hoisted on the shoulders of sailors who demanded, “Speech! Speech!”

“No, it’s time for action!” I yelled.

“Speech! Speech!”

“Well, okay.”

They put me on the poop deck and I waited for them to quiet down.

“Thank you all,” I began, “for showing true honor. And thanks to Astercam and Sanford, who spoke so well on my behalf. I am not evil, as you know, and I am glad to be accepted among this fine crew, the crew of the finest ship I have ever seen!” This bit was true, but I had spent my life as a total landlubber and had seen exactly four ocean vessels up close, counting the catamaran; no use mentioning that now. “Let us sail on to Big Evil Island and take the battle of good upon our shoulders! For the king!”

“THE KING!”

“The princess!”

“THE PRINCESS!”

“The loot!”

“THE LOOOOOOOT!”

There was much shouting and laughing, backslapping and autographing. It seemed to take a while before anyone got back to work.

When they did, Astercam—finally de-muzzled—was taken with a grouchy Bugsby to chart a course for Mormor’s stronghold. Sanford got the men turning the ship in the generally correct direction. Chokolost went below, glowering as he passed. Karkill followed me around all afternoon, though, saying things like, “I knew you were a good sort, Bob” and “You do the warrior mages proud” and “Just how much gold is on this island, anyway?”

I said, “Imagine the biggest pile of gold you can.”

“All right.”

“Is it really big?”

“Oh, I have a strong imagination.”

“Double it.”

“Whoa,” he said.

“And all kinds of magic stuff just lying around by the sackful.”

“Whoaaaa.”

That got rid of him for a while, but it was still several hours before I could speak with Sanford alone. We stood on the bridge at sunset, while the sky was filling with heavy clouds and a nervous wind played through the ropes. From all quarters I could still hear snatches of shanties sung by sailors dreaming of heroism and riches and glory as they worked. Sanford gripped the wheel steadily, his eyes reflecting the reddening sun.

“So why’d you do it?” I asked.

“Do what, Bob?” he said, still looking to sea.

“Why’d you save my neck?”

“You don’t think I believed your story?”

“I’d like to think so, since it was true,” I said, “in its key aspects anyway. But most people don’t believe me, and no one’s ever trusted me, except Suzy, for some reason. Why you?”

“I did believe your story. And Astercam’s. They jibed with everything I’ve ever heard about Mormor. And the king really would like Mormor to be dead.”

Silence for a bit, broken only by the drifting songs, the odd slap of sail.

“And?” I asked.

“And the gold,” he said. “I’m a decent sort of chap, but I’m not stupid.”

💰💰💰💰

[Can the crew of the Badass take the fight to the evil wizard? Can they stand up against Mormor? Will Bob's enemies try to dispose of him again? Tune in next Friday for Chapter 14 and find out!]

How to hurt a guy.

Hey, gang! It's Throwback Thursday, and here's a rerun from my old, defunct Blog.com blog. This post was about a hot news issue of the day, that day being 2013, but as you will see, it is still a matter of crushing national concern five years later. Be generous in your support.

----

This came out in March--- 

Perhaps I should rephrase that. 

This study popped up---

Start again.

Dr. Herman Bagga--

Hmm--no help.

Okay. A study in the British Journal of Urology International reports that, as Medical Daily put it, "more than 17,600 people in the United States, mostly men, visited the ER during the past 10 years after catching genitalia between the teeth of a zipper."

So during the past decade a group larger than the entire population of Beckley, West Virginia, got their business stuck in their fly so bad that they had to go to the ER!?

Hacheeeeemamma!!!!!

This is terrible stuff. Boys, you don't need me to illustrate. You may have had such an incident yourself, but I hope never so bad that you had to be rushed to the hospital. What are they making zippers out of these days? Samurai sword steel?

And the news from the BJUI only gets worse. Dr. Bagga (heh) also co-authored a study that is in the June 2013 issue entitled, "No small slam: increasing incidents of genitourinary injury from toilets and toilet seats." (I heard this story thanks to Michael Graham, who reported on it with gusto.)

You sure you want to read more? The abstract uses the phrase "crush injuries."

Here we go.

"The most common mechanism involved crush from accidental fall of toilet seat.... Most crush injuries were isolated to the penis (98.1%)."

Yikes!

Unlike the zipper-teeth chomps, these toilet seat traumas were pediatric injuries. Not that it hurts any less for the little shavers, of course. God knows how many more "crush injuries" occurred that were bad but not bad enough to rate a trip to the ER. Aside from big brothers with really stupid ideas of what constitutes a practical joke, what could be causing all these poor kids, who must be just learning the fine art of penile penmanship, to have the porcelain seat suddenly pull a guillotine on them, causing them to---to quote Dr. Bagga (heh) and Company---sustain "toilet- and toilet seat-related GU injuries"?

I can't speak to the zipper thing---one suspects alcohol or the sudden arrival of a husband may have something to do with these---but I think I know what's happening with the poor lads and the slammin' seats. I blame these:

Yes, those fuzzy carpet covers that women like to put on the lid. The fluff pushes the vertical lid out from the tank just a bit, but sometimes it's past the tipping point, especially if the wee tot flips the lid up in a hurry, and wham! 

Paging Dr. Bagga!

This is a terrible epidemic that is truly and literally threatening our manhood!

If you're a girl, you're sitting whatever you do, so it doesn't matter. If you're a man of average height, it's just a nuisance that the thing could fall down, interrupting your flow of consciousness, as it were, and getting you in trouble for peeing on the seat. But if you're a little guy using the big-boy can, your junior member is right on the chopping block, at the top of the bowl.

I have argued the point about these lid covers with the stunning Mrs. Key, who like most women, did not at first see the problem. Perhaps this study will open some lids... eyelids, that is. Yes, we all like to decorate the house so that it looks like the toilet is just another comfy chair---Why, we don't actually need toilets in this house! Ha-ha! But these seemingly harmless toilet toupees are a menace: "In all, 13,175 GU injuries related to toilets presented to ERs during 2002–2010." A population equivalent to that of Washington, Missouri, with penile crushment. And how many of these were caused by lid rugs? Oh the humanity!

Until now I thought the most inhuman thing in the typical bathroom was the lady doll toilet paper roll cover---you know the kind, with the knitted "hoop skirt" that covers the roll and the eyes that close when she falls over?

Little did I know that while Junior was being terrorized by Charmin O'Hara staring at him from the tank, the true horror was the carpeted toilet lid lurking just below.