Long Live the King

The Kings of the Marmots roused himself from his royal slumber when the sun had already began its indefatigable climb into the azul expanse, shielded occasionally by shreds of cloud left over from the previous day’s storms. He was glad that he had decided today would be temperate. He stretched himself luxuriously on his throne of impregnable stone and reveled in the warmth the sun offered for his pleasure. While the previous day’s storms had been perfectly crafted by his will, drenching his domain in fecund blessings and peals of thunder which sent the picas and chipmunks scurrying for cover, today would be different: Party cloudy throughout the day with scattered showers across the Denver area. High of 78, low of 47. The King of the Marmots had decreed it would be so.

As he finished his stretching and leisurely grooming routine, he looked around to see that the first of his supplicants had arrived. Red-faced and puffing, these strange bipedal serfs made a steady stream in pilgrimage to his throne, strewing it with offerings of Doritos and granola crumbs and taking pictures of himself and his domain to bring back to their abodes far below among the mire of the world. The King of the Marmots cared not what these peasants did with their photos, but he often imagined his portrait hung above their mantles. Perhaps with candles surrounding it, or a wreath of pungent summer wildflowers. Perhaps they kissed it as they went to sleep in their hovels in the dregs of the world.

Perched at the very pinnacle of his high mountain throne, bestowing his haughty gaze upon the throng of serfs congregated to celebrate his greatness, the King of the Marmots spent his later morning and afternoon fulfilling the highest hopes of those who had come to give their worship. As the sun reached it’s zenith in the sky above him, a tallish skinny worshiper approached his ensconced presence and said to the couple to his left, ‘Hey, look at that guy. He thinks he’s the on top of the world, huh?’ The King of the Marmots flicked his lavish eye lashes and turned his head to another angle in response. After appropriately bowing and scraping, the lad made his way back down the mountain, his soul sustained by his encounter with the Marmot-Deity.

About the 10^th hour of the day, when the sun had begun to near the Western horizon, the King of the Marmots saw the last of his subjects make their treacherous way back down to the flats, leaving the appropriate gifts of food and homage. ‘What loyal subjects I have,’ he thought to himself, ‘to risk their life and limb to come and ply me with supplication in my high and unassailable fortress.’ His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a quick flash across the late afternoon’s flattening rays. He peered towards the heaven to see what might have caused it, straining his majestic neck into the cooling afternoon air to better see. Without ceremony, the Golden Eagle which eyried nearby grasped him in its talons and neatly severed his head. Hauling the King of the Marmots’ lifeless form back to his nest, the King of the Eagles thought, ‘What loyal subjects I have, for that marmot to present himself so selflessly on that high and unprotected spot just for my evening meal.’

Words of Wisdom

If you know me at all, you know that I deeply lament this country's treatment of the Native Americans. Here are some sage words from of of their most famous leaders.

I am a red man. If the Great Spirit had desired me to be a white man, he would have made me so in the first place. He put in your heart certain wishes and plans, in my heart he put other and different desires. Each man is good in His sight. It is not necessary for eagles to be crows.

- Sitting Bull

A Song For Mish

A farewell ballad.

Too True

The sad thing: this isn't even a hyperbole. Perhaps more sad: I miss it.

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Now playing: Bob Marley - No Woman No Cry (Live at The Lyceum)

*Muffled Sob*

I just finished a 34-page draft this afternoon . . . now I'm listening to Metallica. I'm planning on writing out the rest of the Liam adventure after I graduate, for those of you who may still be interested; stay tuned!

About Time . . .

I was really hoping that we'd come up with a new and better way to kill each other. Enter: Blackwater! Nothing like a shotgun that can deliver nearly 300 rounds a minute to slake your blood lust. The host of the show gets even more creepy at about 4:30 when he starts describing specialty rounds.

Touché, M!

Daniel Gross on Slate had a fine point about the economic stimulus package passed through Congress today and, baring any major setbacks, in our mailboxes in May sometime. I thought it was worth sharing.

Of course, there's no guarantee that American will turn their 2008 rebates into consumer activity instantaneously, or in six months. The only way to do that would be to make the rebate something more like a reimbursement. Require taxpayers to collect $300 worth of receipts from the Cheesecake Factory, Target, and Dick's Sporting Goods, and then mail them to the IRS order to receive a rebate. That would certainly be a backward way of boosting the economy. But it would be perfectly in keeping with Washington's general approach to managing the nation's fiscal affairs.

The Other Foot

Today at the gym, a girl told me I had 'nice boobs.' That was a first for me. On a related topic, I heard that if you don't vote 'yes' on the Indian gaming props, Arnold will personally crush your head between his massive pecs. Food for thought.

How Many Days Later?

This cracked.com feature is worth a peruse. If you like zombies. I promise I'll get around to writing something of my own sometime soon, too, instead of just regurgitating the tripe I excavate in my study breaks.