Why Robin Has To Die

Perhaps this is why the new Robin is being killed off by DC Comics?  He sold out as any grandson of Ras al Ghul would?  So Batman had to fix the problem?

Armoured Women

Back in 1934 Robert E. Howard help create a whole new genre of sword fantasy, the fearsome woman warrior.  Her name was Red Sonya and the story was The Shadow of the Vulture.  This inspired the later comic hero Red Sonja and then a movie was made which put Red Sonja into the Age of Conan.  So the ring linking two Robert E. Howard characters was forged.

Red Sonya/Red Sonja had another impact in the world of fiction.  More than a new genre was created, a new term was also birthed.  From thence onwards any story that featured a woman warrior in skimpy armor was called a 'Chick in Chainmail' story.  Esther Friesner and Baen Publishing then proceeded to turn the concept on its head with the publication of Chicks in Chainmail, a collection of short stories featuring woman warriors who proceed to prove who's really the baddest warriors.

So where is this going this post?  Is it supposed to be just on fiction and fantasy?  Not really.  Like the authors in Esther Friesner's book, the United States Army has come to a realization of a different sort, body armor designed for men really does not properly fit all the women in the military.  So they have gone back to the design board to address this uncomfortable matter.  I just have a problem with the Army invoking another fictional female warrior in their attempt to sell the new designs - Xena.  One thing I can say is, if the new armor is based on the Xena armor then the US military won't see any chicks in high-tech chainmail.  I am reserving judgement on the whole idea after the Army finally realized that the $5 billion ACU program was a dangerous bust.

Looking forward in time, if the Army is successful in creating more female friendly body armor, will the Knight Sabre HardSuits be far behind?

A New Word?

I would possibly claim it as a new word. But it seems to be a high value fashion den in the UK - Liberatti. Instead I will borrow the word and create a new definition for it.

What is a Liberatti? It is someone who was born with a trust fund silver spoon in their mouth it seems. They get up and bemoan how horrible people have it and the government must do something with all of our money while hiding their own assets. They roar loudly and wave their arms frantically whilst in high dungeon over their pet causes. But if they are forced to really put some of their own personal skin in the game, they turn tail and try to claim everyone who was outraged did not understand their intelligence. In other words a Liberatti is a phony.

Writing Contest from Random House

Well this is a keen challenge. Random House/Del Rey has a contest going for unpublished manuscripts that fit their marketing niche aimed at adults and older teens. Subject wise it seems pretty open, science-fiction, horror, paranormal, and such. Its is limited to legal residents of the United States, excluding Puerto Rico, and who are 18 years or older. Maximum length of the story is 150,000 words. Winner gets a professional edit by Betsy Mitchell and possible publication by Del Rey. All the rules and such can be found here at Suvudu.

People in the comments are hung up on a few things. One is self-published via Amazon for example, literal reading of the rules makes that an ineligible submission. Another is a person asking if they can submit a runner up from another contest, that is a tough one. In both of these cases, as an author I would not submit the stories; I would submit something that literally complies with the contest rules. Why feed the lawyers right? Now a couple people think their stories can't be submitted because they exceed the 150,000 word limit. There are a couple options available if these writers have courage and are willing to make modifications. If they are not willing to make self-corrections then they probably will not emotionally survive a professional edit. Yes we authors love our characters, neat plots, and wonderful prose; but sometimes a pruning is in order to make the story better. More is not always better in writing, unless you want your story be to used in sleep studies. In Elizabeth Moon's Deed of Paksenarrion, she had to edit out chunks of that saga to get down to what we read as three books. And judging by the books' success, it worked very well with hardly any scars lurking in the published books - save a reference to a blue dress Suliya wore in the third book Oath of Gold. Moon's trilogy also points to the other option available to these writers, find a point earlier in the book where things can be wrapped up nicely - but naturally not ended - with some editing and submit that as the manuscript. Then on the rump, get cracking on reworking that. So when Del Rey/Random House does like the story, makes it their grand prize winner, and decides to publish; why you already have the start on the sequel.

Downside of this keen challenge? It started in January and ends on March 18th, 2011. So I better get cracking and see if I can conjure a literary rabbit out of my hat. The game is very much afoot. Realistically to hit even 50,000 words, after self-checking, would be a Holy Grail event. But at the same time, it is motivational to get me off center and moving forward.

So You Want to be an Author?

I have had delusions of possessing some writing skills as some of my posts in the past have proven. Presently I am roughing out some fiction that is about 5,000 words in length and I now have ideas of how to push it probably past 10,000. Its usually not the traditional way of writing, but I am writing each as a short story that ties back to the previous. So in other words it could be argued I am writing each chapter of a longer story while tricking myself. Perhaps. But I seem to have a mental hangup when it comes to longer pieces.

So one of the things aspiring writers do is look around. Do we try to crash the barricades of the big publishers like Random House or Baen? Or self-publish? Or perhaps go to one of the Print on Demand[POD] places. Just mentioning POD brings back images of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, of your entire being stolen away and replaced by a worker drone. Another name for POD publishers is vanity publishers. The authors at such places tend to get jacked around and bank account lightened to prove to their small circle of friends that they are a published author. And when you go to places like Amazon to find the book, the title is listed as Amazon's #6,431,909th best seller.

Then there is a truly special publisher called Publish America. If you look for their titles on Amazon, generic cover art will be displayed for paperbacks that list for hardcover prices. They claim they are not a POD or vanity publisher but it seems they are. As for their prowess in editing and formatting, it seems not so great as some of their authors claim Publish America added typos to their works. A collection of science-fiction authors decided to take umbrage at Publish America's condescension towards the science-fiction genre in 2005 by writing one of the worst novels ever hatched called Atlanta Nights with horrible formatting, missing chapters, duplicated chapter numbers, and horrible prose; amazingly Publish America took it all in and was ready to print it. Then when they learned of the hoax, all deals were off and it seems Publish America got real pissy over it. For a rundown of why many authors think Publish America is bad, try this forum.

So to avoid the pitfalls of being sucked into a scam, talk to a real author. Ask them what you need to do to get published by a publishing company. While never forgetting to practice your craft.

Post Ludi - I wonder, got this 40,000 word anime fan-fic. Publish America. Should I just to see if they green light it? Nah, I will stay good.

Amidst The Mirrors

While Republicans in the House set about putting a leash on the out of control Obama administration, here comes something to distract people. Maybe even cause a few chuckles while in other circles ratchet up the paranoia. It seems someone anonymous is about to publish a book purporting to tell the inner workings of the Obama administration and even the 2012 election plans. Joe Klein vehemently denies writing this book. No word on Kitty Kelly though.

Put your drink down and swallow before reading the next sentence. Done? Then read on.

Some think outgoing White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs is the mysterious author.

Bit of Doggerel

Fall doth arrive,
Leaves scream banzai!

Ode to the Black Friday Warrior

Oh she revels in all the anticipation. She has been in her spot since last Thursday. There behind her in the shrubs the store pays landscapers to weed, water, and trim is her pup tent; the grass is now looking decidedly brown. What is a cold snap to her that caused her less prepared competitors to be hauled off for frost-bite or malnutrition? Nothing at all, she is giddy when each is carted off because that is one less person after her precious quest. For she is at her Mecca, her Valentino lover beckons as she stands at her temple’s doorway in exultation. Clutched in her warm mitten clad hands are her offerings to the mercantile deities, her credit cards that are lovingly arranged in alphabetical order in the faux calf-skin organizer she had to fight off three other women to acquire a previous year. She will not be denied her chance at sales glory even as her husband works two jobs and her children have learned once again that Mommy is a bit special this time of year. So what if her dear husband and kids spent Thanksgiving at McDonalds and brought her a Happy Meal, she has a higher calling. At precisely one minute after midnight all will be revealed to this devoted disciple to wanton consumerism.

Then the Red Sea is parted as the doors are unlocked and the workers run for cover behind the sandbag barricade. Department workers stand ready while wearing catcher gear, wondering if it will be Bobby in Toys or Sue in Electronics that will be hauled off to a hospital. They all kiss their employee badges as a sign of fervent prayer that it will not be them this year buried as they hear the thundering roar of so many feet in heels clatter their way. And then workers are face to face with that which fills them with such dread even, the untamed and wild female bargain shopper herd that the store’s own advertisements have lured to this commercial watering hole. Like the scent of fresh water entices animals to abandon all caution in the Sahara they come. The workers tremble in fear.

And the next second it has happened. Our happy warrior of conspicuous consumption has found her watering hole. She elbows and gouges other women as they all stampede over the poor workers to reach their individual holy grails that are held within. Her Timmy will not be denied that Zurg blaster from Toy Story 3, oh no! After a vicious battle that leaves two women bleeding on the floor with torn jackets, she is off to her next quest. She has to secure Sally a Tinker Bell doll. This results in an unfortunate worker being body-slammed into the Elmo display, but victory again is the result. She does a happy dance on the body of another shopper who lost in the struggle and has to settle for a Tinker Bell without wings. Ah the sweet ambrosia of victory our shopper exults.

Let us end this happy story here. Fade to black as she relives her track&field days by jumping human hurdles to make it over to Electronics and Starcraft 2 for her dear husband. Oh what a loving wife our heroine is.

Anti-Communist Slogan

Communism is like toejam. Why?

Random Musing

Here is something to ponder on, whether it is true or just silly. You decide.

Q.) What is the difference between an honest person who thinks we are living in the end times as foretold in Revelations and a person who thinks global warming is the end of this planet?

Give up?

A.) A person who thinks this is the End Times might be found on a street corner in sack-cloth holding up a sign reading 'The End is Near, Repent." Now the person thinking global warming will doom this planet might be found jetting in their private G3 sipping champagne to attend a conference on climate change.

A New Game in DC

Well it looks I was right about the Mighty Barry going to bat.

He strode into Fenway looking proud.
Swung his trusty rhetoric bat a few times.
Being satisfied with its heft, waved to the crowd.
Next he stepped to the plate pausing for the distant chimes.

Then he proceeded to swing and strike out.
Coakley and other fans where aghast and silent.
For last night, the voters gave him a rout.
Today Obama's fans are found on couches as clients.

But elsewhere the sun shines as a new day dawns.

Barry at Bat

With due apologies to Phin and his original poem. In anticipation of President Obama's visit to the great state of Massachusetts I give you my reworked version.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Obamville Nine this day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Corzine died at first, and Deeds did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung bitterly to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Barry could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Barry at the bat.
But Coakley preceded Barry, as did also Billy Clinton,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a rake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Barry's getting to the bat.
But Coakley let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Clinton, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Billy safe at second and Coakley a-hugging third.
Then from 500 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the stands, it barely rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and fell flat upon the flat,
For Barry, mighty Barry, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Barry's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Barry's bearing and a smile on Barry's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his UN hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Barry at the bat.
One thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five hundred tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while Curt Schilling ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Barry's eye, a cool sneer curled Barry's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere camgd e hurtling through the air,
And Barry stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the slim batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Barry. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted Ed Schultz on the stand;
And it's likely they'd a-killed him had not Barry raised his hand.
With a smile of faux charity great Barry's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult like he did the rising seas; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to Curt, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Barry still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened union hundreds, and echo answered fraud;
But one condescending look from Barry and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow aloof and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Barry wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Barry's lip, his teeth are clenched in shock;
He pounds with frustrated violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Barry's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Obamaville— mighty Barry has struck out.

Didn't I Write About This?

ORLANDO, Florida (CNN) -- He looks like President Barack Obama, speaks like him, and even gestures like him, but he is not exactly the president of the United States. ... Disney calls the new President Obama figure "the most dynamic figure Disney has ever created." "We're very proud of the technological advances that allow this to make him come to life so realistically," Jacobson said.

Why yes I did, the Prompt Chancellor. Life imitating fiction or vice versa? But trust Disney to improve things, this one does not need a teleprompter like the live one does.

Revisiting Star Trek

With the new movie still playing and the, well, less than fullsome acceptance my opinion of said movie has engendered I have decided to hit up my hardcopy versions of Memory Alpha on Star Trek.

They say life is about change and this is true to a large extent. Without change, things tend to stagnate and die. Even proven ideas sometimes need to be rebranded to stay relevant. But the crux with change is what kind of change is good? Change just for change sake is such a problem since such change invites chaos to do its bidding.

JJ Abrams was not the first time Paramount tried to rebrand Star Trek. Back in 1976 they had the Great Bird himself tackling this thorny issue. How do you capture the magical lightning twice was his challenge. With a title called Star Trek:Planet of Titans it almost got off the ground. But Paramount scuttled it only to suffer two slings of fortune's outrage for sitting on Star Trek: Star Wars [Who's McQuarrie did ship designs for Titan] and Close Encounters of the Third Kind conquered the box office. Then for the Paramount execs it was battle stations as a Star Trek movie must be made.

Which lead back to Roddenberry, the slowly coalescing concepts for Star Trek Phase II to further the adventures of Kirk and company, and Paramount's idea of creating a fourth TV network that they could sell their own properties to.

For one of the scripts of Phase II In Thy Image written by Alan Dean Foster and inspired by an earlier Roddenberry story idea called Robot's Return that would transform into Star Trek: The Motion Picture in 1979. The man who made the call to turn In Thy Image into a movie was Michael Eisner and Paramount's deams of making a fourth network were dieing. So to recoup what was spent on Phase II, a movie would be made and released to theatres.

...SUMMARIZING, most of our story problems seem to boil down simply to getting to know our alien machine character better. It's abilities, limitations, motivations, needs, and so on. With all that established, it should then be much easier to build a tale which rises steadily in excitement and jeopardies (to the starship and to Earth) to a very exciting and satisfying climax. - personal notes of Gene Roddenberry pg 39 Star Trek Phase II:The Lost Series.

What's been wrong with science fiction in television and in motion pictures for years is that whenever a monster was used, the tendency was to say, "Ah ha! Let's have a big one that comes out, attacks, and kills everyone." Nobody ever asked "Why?" - Gene Roddenberry quote pg 35 The Making of Star Trek.

Phase II not only launched the series of Star Trek movies but would be the genesis in many ways to Star Trek: the Next Generation. Instead of a full Vulcan named Xon trying to fit in with the crew by trying to have 'emotions' in Next Generation it would be Data. Though the ties are even tighter than that when the Phase II episode The Child becomes a ST:NG Season Two episode; instead of it being Lt. Ilia as parent it is Deanna Troi.

Like the original series, Phase II had its Bible to hand to prospective writers that set out basic information on the ship, crew, technology, terms, and even had an FAQ.

If there is ONE MOST IMPORTANT THING, what is
it?
It is MAINTAIN REALITY. The crucial point to remember in doing science fiction is to keep it consistent. Once the nature of the place has been established, it must be inviolable. Do not set up a race of super beings only to have them outsmarted by Kirk at the end with a ploy that would barely fool Kojak. Do not show us a super strong alien only to defeat it at the climax with a fist fight. If its super smart to begin with, it must be sumer smart throughout. Likewise, for strength or any other quality that an alien antagonist or society exhibits. ... Keep in mind that the situations are far out to being with; if they are not consistent within the created reality, then all credibility goes out the window - and good drama departs with it. - pg 103 Star Trek Phase II: The Lost Series.

So where am I going with all the mad scribble, why I want to talk Star Trek movie villains of course. When it comes to V'Ger, because its an allegory for Spock coming to peace with his human half, their quest to understand V'Ger takes up so much screen time the audience ended up bored while wishing Kirk would use some phasers on it. Sometimes trying to crawl too deeply into your nemesis' skin is detrimental. So why does the probe in Voyage Home work so much better? After quickly analysing the probable motive of the probe due to Spock's superior skills, Kirk and crew turn the movie into an action yarn centered around the people trying to solve the danger posed by the probe. And not a movie centered on the probe.

Now Khan in Star Trek II was a truly well rounded character who so happened to be stark raving bonkers. From Space Seed we knew Khan Noonian Singh's background and what he had already tried to do to Kirk. Now its fifteen years later, like Ozymandius, all that is around Khan and his survivors is sand and death. For fifteen years he has simmered on Ceti Alpha VI hating James T Kirk and mourning the death of his beloved wife. So when Captain Terrell stumbles across him, we can understand why Khan thinks it's a sign and a gift for vengeance. And then there is Khan's loyal lieutenant Joachim who has retained a clearer vision than Khan of what USS Reliant and Genesis can mean to all the survivors. Because Joachim is such a level headed person of strong convictions, the madness of Khan is brought out more. Khan is Ahab and a ship named Enterprise is his white whale.

We can even empathize with Kruge and Chang, though they are Klingons. Kruge, being a product of Klingon culture that prizes strength while being steeped in hatred of the Federation, can only view Genesis as a weapon that will wipe out all of Klingon space. He is also a bored and frustrated Klingon since he can't kill too many of crew or feed them to his 'dog.' This makes him even more dangerous. So he takes his frustrations out upon USS Grissom and David Marcus while trying to protect his star nation from what he considers looming annihilation. Chang on the other hand fears a more cerebral threat to the Empire he so loyally serves. Peace with the Federation is something that is more anathema to him than is beer to a Baptist after services. Conflict or tension with the Federation is all he knows and Gorkon's peace initiatives scare the blood worms right out of him. So he finds himself allied with people whom would be his enemy, save they all have one goal - to derail the peace process between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. They all prefer the known horrors of ever possible war to the chance of peace. And it falls to Kirk to overcome his own hatred of Klingons for the murder of the son he just started to know and prove Gorkon right that peace is possible.

When compared to such villians, Nero in the latest movie is but a pale shadow. He does not stalk menacingly across the bridge of his ship like Khan or lapse into bombast, he just sits there with his spear. Only once is the reasons for his hatred of Spock, Vulcan, and the Federation explained. And its never expanded upon. Nor does Nero have a good lieutenant, he has an abject servant. Through out most of the movie, the personality of Nero is that of wallpaper as he sits and broods, hardly that of someone who has been kissed by the hand of cruel fate into an avenger of his dead people. Instead Nero exists solely as a plot device to menace Earth ala V'Ger or the probe so the new version of James T Kirk can sit in the center seat. In the end V'Ger had more personality than Nero.

Arlen Ecplised

High Senator Arlen pensively walked the confines of his office, wrestling with his inner demons. He ran fingers through his thinning gray hair as the polling data showed his secure throne slipping away to an upstart named Toomey.

Shadows leaned over Arlen within his own demesnes and when they pulled back, there stood Arch-Senator Harry Reid with a cool smile upon his cadaverous face. As the door to the office stayed firmly closed, no one immediately learned what sweet whispers were exchanged between the two nor the fell promises. Save Arlen now took one of his pens off the desk and eagerly signed his name to a piece of parchment proffered by Reid.

Once again the shadows closed over Arlen in his office to enwrap him and Reid in a cloak that once it vanished, so did the apparition of Reid who still had a gloating smile upon his face. He pauses in front of a mirror to brush his hair and straighten his suit, failing to notice how transparent his image has become. Then High Senator Arlen soon rushed out of his office to hold a press conference. He has had a revelation.

As the media crows circled around a person whom they considered road-kill just the night before, they all sensed a change. High Senator Arlen merely smiles to all the cameras, waiting for them to finish setting up. No one notices how the pallor of Arlen’s skin has started to blend in with the stone steps behind him.

With a thrust of multiple microphones, Arlen now knows it is time to make his announcement. Smiling most fetchingly, he proudly announces his alignment with those of Arch Senator Reid’s party whilst castigating his now betrayed allies for driving him away with such antiquated notions as small government and less taxes. All the while Arch Senator Reid sits in his chair ensconced within the confines of his office watching the televisions; the smile now on his face is not a kind one like grandfathers use to dote on grandchildren, instead it seems to be the smile a shark who has scented fresh blood would show. For now Reid had his useful idiot who had granted him the 60 vote boon. Then the smile turned downright nasty as he contemplates the fine print of that contract, soon dear Arlen would rue this turnabout.

For the next three days all was wonderful for High Senator Arlen as his new allies slapped him on the back in shows of camaraderie when the cameras were seen. While his former allies were left speechless even as their leadership told Arlen good riddance. But on the third day, the other shoe dropped upon Arlen with the weight of a sandbag.

Oh how Arlen railed when he learned what the fine print meant to his dreams of keeping his power were now checked and possibly dashed. But with his bridges burned behind with his betrayal what could he do. Reid’s smile was mock solicitous as he apologized to a shocked Arlen. But how could he discomfit the other senators of his team right at this delicate moment Reid innocently asked? But he assured Arlen that after the next election Arlen’s seniority requirements would be adequately met. Arlen could trust him to keep his word.

Thus Arlen Faust retired to his now much diminished demesnes to ponder his cruel fate. For as he betrayed people who stood by him, he now stands betrayed by those whom he believed would help him. He buried his face in his hands and the tattered remnants of his soul cried out in anguish.

Economic Parable

Now imagine We the People are at a Chinese buffett. Our rich uncle Obama says he will pick up the tab. So everyone is having a grand time. Now imagine 300 million people overstaying their welcome.

President of the People's Republic of China as manager. "Mr. Obama you promised to repay!"

Uncle Obama, "Relax, I will pay you in full."

Manager, "No, you and your people have been eating us out of house and home for over an hour!"

Obama, "Here is my Ultra-Platnium Deluxe Mastercard."

Manager, "No! That no good! Cash!"

Obama, "I am sure we can work this out to our mutual benefit."

Manager, "I want cash."

Abashed silence. Obama, "Well you see I don't have that much cash on me at the moment."

Manager gets red and really starts to scream at all the people eating, "Out! Out! You finished! You go home now!!!" People start to amble to the door, Obama following.

Manager grabs Obama's arm while other workers grab Pelosi, Reid, Gibbs, Geithner, Sebelius, and Rahm. "No you stay! You told us your money was good. Now you repay!"

And there for the next 20 years toiled Obama and his helpers to pay off the debt their glib promies brought about while the rest of the People had to accept a far lower standard of living and a Happy Meal became haute cuisine.

The Prompt Chancellor -A Modern Comedy

Let me tell a little tale that I cooked up. So sit right back and enjoy.

Obviously someone failed to get the memo for we are no longer on Earth but on the Discworld. How else to explain the TelePrompter Overlord we now have versus the Uber-Brain 9999 made by MicroRonco that everyone expected?

Seriously, how else can we explain it? Those bright chaps at the Unseen University knew they were bright, scary bright in some cases. Doubt me? Just ask them and they will tell you how smart they are. Heck when they realized how hard a 40-hour work week was, they cut back to a more manageable 20 hours. Those unpaid teaching assistants who were slacking off made the difference on that let me tell you. So these scary brainy boffins wanted a more predictable concept of a Chancellor, they set about creating one. Not in a mad scientist way of robbing graves and such gunk, remember these are the people who like to stay clean and look smart.

They subcontracted the inner-workings of their automata Chancellor to the gnomes, only the finest metals, after competitive bidding, were used and no expense was spared in labor as illegal gnomes sweated on the project. Alas the AI R&D department at Unseen spent far too much time at O’Malley’s Pub&Crawl, so no progress was accomplished in regards to giving the robo-Chancellor a perfectly serviceable mechanical parrot brain. They could not use a real parrot brain since the Animal Husbandry department was very adamant in their opposition, the whole matter got dropped when one of the supporters of a real parrot brain vanished for a short bit and came back squawking ‘Polly wanna cracker!’

So after several months and quite a few research grants, they had reached a very vexing impasse. Their Chancellor looked all fine and regal, what with just the right bit of gray in the hair and a few strategic laugh lines in the face to make him seem kind. But they had no brain to put in that distinguished head. But as I said they are bright boffins and nothing was going to stop them from completing this project. They wanted to protect their tenures and the 20-hour work week. Talk about motivation.

After a few more tankards at O’Malley’s, the AI team finally hit upon a brainstorm that might save them. After blearily looking at the barkeep tabulating with an abacus, they had an epiphany, a programmable abacus in that empty noggin might save all their tenures. But then they got glum on how to program that gizmo. There was no way they could get away with cracking open that fine noggin just before a speech or a commencement, that would ruin their whole plan. So instead they watched the dwarves get blitzed and play toss the gnome.

Which was when that strange and fickle lady Discworld calls Luck intervened. The dwarves were so drunk they missed with their gnome toss, so the poor gnomish lad in red pointy hat went smashing into a magical TelePrompter. Thereby setting off the electro-sprites who lived in that TelePrompter who were getting smashed in their own right atop the bar. As the sparks flew over the dazed gnome who was already seeing enough bright lights as his now bent hat sat rakishly on his head, so did a light turn on over the collectively very drunk AI brain-trust.

Almost in unison they shouted, with nary a slur since they are bright drunks who are proud of their pronunciation, “Eureka!!” Which in this case meant, “We have a solution!” and not “Oh my gawd who let Simmons play in the chemistry lab again.” They turned to each other and smiled, then they raised their tankards, took a deep swallow, and threw their steins at the broken TelePrompter in recognition of it saving their cush little jobs.

The next day the few survivors of the AI team assembled in the lab. While they manfully ignored their throbbing heads and parched tongues as they bent to their task, they could not forget those who gave the ultimate sacrifice the previous night as the electro-sprites used the beer itself to conduct their fury upon those who had desecrated their TelePrompter.

For the next three days, no one at O’Malley’s saw the AI team and the owner started to fret as his bottom line started to turn red. They were for once hard at work, they had fire in the belly, and it was a worthy cause in memory of their comrades who died of beer eletrocution. And on the seventh day, when O’Malley’s was looking at being foreclosed there did the hearty band from the AI team showed upon his doorstep. Instantly the frown turned to a smile. The team was victorious and their Chancellor would now be perfect.

And they completed the task not a moment too soon for this semester’s commencement was right around the corner. Though the electro-sprites almost caused the whole plan to come unglued. You see the electro-sprites were union through and through and so were the dwarven speechwriters who programmed their TelePrompters. There was almost an honest to goodness picket-like strike of these cutesy little glowing blue sprites calling Unseen University Scab-versity on their not so small protest signs. Luckily St. Bill of NAFTA happened to be cruising through Ankh Moorpark on the well-paying speech circuit when he heard of this little disagreement. Being a neighborly sort, he intervened by calling everyone over to the Kosovar Building for negotiations. After a little sax and feeling everyone’s mutual pain it was kumbayah time as the boffins and the union shook hands and inked a good deal.

Soon no one could think of Unseen University being in better hands than their distinguished new Chancellor who seemed to always say the right things at the right time while pursuing policies everyone on tenure loved. But as they say, the only constant is Change and even that capricious lady paid a visit to marvel at the newly installed Chancellor. And where Change goes, Chaos soon follows just to join the festivities.

The chaos in this case was when the current batch of speechwriting dwarves decided to have a party aboard a boat on the lake to celebrate their latest union mandated pay-raise. And once again that stalwart gnomish lad, being a good sport, went with them to celebrate. No one is sure what happened next save the usual massive quantities of dark ale, ale so stout it would make Guinness seem a light beer, were consumed by one and all aboard. Some think the dwarves got into a spat over the next speech they would program into the TelePrompter for the Chancellor to parrot. This speech was supposed to be really good for the professors, giving them a pay-raise and options on further cutting back their work week hours. What is known is when the boat was recovered there were multiple holes in the boat just about the same size as moveable type. No dwarves were left to tell the tale and the gnome had a concussion when found floating in the beer cooler.

Which lead one wag to comment that “Indeed, words can kill.” He was found the next day smooshed under the non-circulating library which accidentally toppled onto him. Chaos was not giving interviews by this time.

O’Malley’s Pub&Crawl was adorned in black in mourning for a whole week. The bottom line became even blacker as the electro-sprites and the AI team tried to drown their sorrows. Off at one corner of the bar, sat the gnome in the red hat all sad as he missed being tossed by the dwarves. Meanwhile, the Political Science Department staged a hostile take over of the Journalism Department. And everyone shrugged it off, it was academic war as usual they thought. Chaos and Change merely smiled at each other when it happened.

“I tell you it’s this new batch of dwarven speechwriters that is causing the problems! Look at this newest speech by our perfect Chancellor, he is now running to become the leader of the whole flat expanse of a world we live on.” Naturally we are back at O’Malley’s as our brainy heroes realize they might have a problem that even O’Malley’s heavy brew can not cure even as they try to make sense of it all.

And the AI team leader was right, though he truly did not understand it since he dealt in the hard science of ones and zeroes. For you see those crafty little collectivists over at Poli Sci Dept had no hand in crafting the new Chancellor, but when they saw him in action all kinds of red images floated through their pointy noggins. So they leveraged the Journalism Department the moment the original dwarven speechwriters turned up dead and slipped in their own dwarves. Yes ring dwarves to bind them all.

The creators of the perfect Chancellor stood in shock and awe as their cherished Chancellor was hijacked from under them. With every speech, every smile, and especially with every stroke of a pen they found their own domains and perks shrunken while those of the new Political Journalism Department expanded tremendously. They also found themselves saddled with ghastly 30-hour work weeks and no more teaching assistants, which left them with precious little free time to think of protesting. As if protesting would do any good since the dwarves and electro-sprites were union and virtually immune to a job firing. Not even St. Bill of NAFTA dared to cross this union.

With their erstwhile enemies cowed back into their ivory towers of hard science, the mandarins of the Political Journalism Department got real busy. The Chancellor started to take whistle stop tours of the far corners of the Discworld promising a chicken in every pot if he became their leader. He promised them no worries from work. No worries from getting fat. He would take care of them all. And before the usual power oligarchies knew what hit them, they found themselves out on the street shivering in the cold as their subjects voted with their feet and flocked to the Chancellor’s alluring call.

All was happy in the Discworld, even Death took another holiday as the Chancellor was so convincing on how wonderful everything would be with him in charge. Why some even thought they would see unicorns farting rainbows after one speech. Then as the mandarins seemingly reached the apex of their power over the whole Discworld, those darlings Change and Chaos came back from vacation.

They thought they were delighted in the Chancellor when he merely ran Unseen University. Now that he was the ruler of the whole Discworld, why they rubbed their hands in fearful glee. Luck just looked on as she kept rolling snake-eyes. O’Malley’s Pub&Crawl filed for bankruptcy soon after the AI team’s tenure was creatively terminated under the Gnome Affirmation Hiring Project[GAHP, where the p is silent].

Thus the stage was set for Change and Chaos’s greatest performance to date, a production that would prove so monumentally mind-boggling it would in later years be turned into a comedy by Smell Hooks called The Prompt Chancellor. It began most quietly since Change liked to be subtle sometimes and Chaos was gob-smacked at how brilliant it was.

Now the bright boffins, if they were still around could have prevented this from occurring. But they were languishing in the ever expanding unemployment lines while their creation babbled on. By small means the whole machine of control started to topple. The mandarins merely thought their pet ring dwarves were more radical than they were but let it slide since the people did not notice. But the goofs started to get bigger and so did the stumbling speech of the Chancellor get more noticeable. Soon those who had fawned over the Chancellor and believed in unicorns started to drift away.

Finally Luck rolled a seven while Change and Chaos laughed themselves into a tizzy and could no longer manage a creative crash. The Chancellor’s popularity started to plummet while the ring dwarves tore their braided hair out as he veered off the prepared scripts, sometimes even thanking himself while the reporters wrote everything down. And then it happened, in mid-word the Chancellor froze.

Thirty reporters from all over the Discworld put their pens down and stared at the Chancellor. The mandarins backstage swooned like schoolgirls with the vapors as their perfect tool failed them. The electro-sprites and dwarves had no clue what to do so one of the dwarves decided to open up the Chancellor. In front of all the reporters in the media gallery. Now the mandarins seem afflicted with St. Vitus dance as their sham is exposed. So, as a dwarf cracked open that noble noggin, the whole game came unglued when he exclaimed triumphantly “By golly he slipped an abacus disk!”

Thus was left standing Ozymandius the Chancellor, forever frozen behind his favorite magical TelePrompter as the reporters stampeded out the room to get the greatest news story ever to their subscribers. While up in the lights, Change and Chaos kept laughing maniacally.

The Photos of Dover

The airman in reflective vest, with lighted wands, gives the pilot of the C-17 Globemaster III the final pantomime directing the parking before crossing the wands in an X shape. The nose of the plane dips just a bit as brakes are applied to stop the huge airplane as it still strobes its red warning lights. The four massive P&W F117 engines keep running emitting their classic sound as the two pilots go through their shutdown checklists. While down in the cargo area, the three loadmasters and escorts go through their own checklists to ensure this most solemn of charges is carried out with all the proper respect.

Outside the crew from aerial port ignores the strangers on the ramp while the airmen in Air Force blue six-pack trucks watch everything. Their M-9s and M-4s are properly secured even as they sit in full battle rattle. Finally the engines of the massive transport shut down after faithfully flying from Ramstein AB Germany, again.

The lights flicker in the cargo area as power switches over to the onboard APU. The lighting inside is fluorescent as a loadmaster, at her control panel on the right side aft, commands the massive aft ramp to lower. A crack of white light is seen in the fuselage of the plane by the aerial port crew, security forces, and strangers. All react in ways typical of their profession. The security forces start to scan the surrounding areas more intently while the strangers lean forward as they ready their own equipment. The aerial port crew merely waits as the ramp continues to lower, when it reaches a certain point, like four articulated fingers, the back half of the ramp unfolds. The loadmaster watches the operation carefully until the fingers contact the concrete ramp and then stops the operation.

While this was happening, the other two loadmasters have walked down the sides of the troop compartment to release the ADS restraint rail system and the other restraints holding the pallets and their sacred cargo. Gingerly the escorts move their cargo into orderly rows down the length of the troop compartment and over each is draped an American flag. Gentle and precise attention is given each flag to ensure it is perfectly aligned and unwrinkled. Mercifully there are only eight such flag draped coffins on this mission.

Then its time for the final movement. Each coffin is precisely picked up by its escort and carefully carried down the ramp into the gentle night. It seems the weather is cooperating to welcome America’s fallen warriors home from foreign lands as a bright full moon shines down upon the scene. As an escort’s foot strikes the concrete of the ramp and hence American soil, the strangers cannot hold themselves back any longer and the beautiful moonlight is washed away in the flashing white glare of camera flashes and of television lights. Grips tighten among the escort as they fight against the sudden blindness all those lights inflict. They ignore the tumult as they and the aerial port crew tend to their honored comrades but on the quiet ramp they cannot close their ears as the reporters destroy the solemn scene with a barrage of questions aimed at hapless public affairs officers who had escorted them.

Random Thought

The progressive leftist mind is such a tangled briar patch of assumptions and beleifs, its very difficult to figure out what will make them twitch. Until 7.62 transits their cranium, but by then its a moot point.

I Voted Today

So my voice has been heard.
Because I took the time.
To vote on what future I want to see.
By my own choice.

What about you?
Did you decide the lines were too long?
Or the weather too terrible?
If you did, then you are mute.
By your own choice.

Then remember just a little while ago.
When many Iraqis voted.
Not once, not twice, but three times.
Each time risking their lives.
To boldly flash a purple finger.
And then smile knowing liberty was theirs.
By their own choice.

So when things do not go your way.
When things happen that outrage you.
Remember you did not vote today.
And close your mouth, for you are mute.
Your opinions are meaningless.
By your own choice.