The Sound of Silence

I'd like to get some of those nature tapes. You know, the ones with birds singing, or the ocean. Another really good one would be silence, because if there was ever a noise that was bugging you, like somebody trying to tell you about their day, or your dog whining to be let in, you could just crank up the silence and drown it out.

All Hail, Karkharoth

My new bike has a moniker, and it is pure evil. It has been christened Karkharoth, “the Red Maw”, after the mad Wolf of Angband, Sleepless Guardian of the gates of Angband, slayer of Huan the Wolfhound, and Beren Erchamion, Lord of Dorthonian. Karkharoth was born of the race of Draugluin, Werewolf of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He was raised by Melkor, Lord of Darkness, feasting solely on the living flesh of Man and Elf. When Karkharoth swallowed the Silmaril (along with Beren’s hand), it burned in his stomach like a Divine Habanero. He was driven mad with the pain and laid waste to Beleriand, slaughtering everything in his path. His name alone struck Fear in the stoutest of warriors.

A fitting name for a bike mad enough to Fearlessly dart in front of speeding cars and chase backhoes like a ravenous beast. A fitting name also, because I am obsessed with wolves, and when I ride, I ride like a rabid wolf, growling and snarling, pushing myself past the brink of exhaustion. I've always believed that if I were a wolf, I would be an animal.

Militant Pacifism

Again, the world is cyclic. Something old becomes something new, and something profound I wrote a long time ago becomes poignant again today. It’s just another example on a perpetual list of how things never change, and probably never will.

For your viewing pleasure, back in the spotlight, Militant Pacifism:

When it comes down to it, I'm a pacifist. I'm not confrontational, I'm not a fighter, and I'm opposed to war. Sure, I get angry and want to lash out sometimes, but the complexity of my psyche is not what is in question right now. What is in question is the validity of violence and war in our society. It's out of hand. Gangs, teamsters, pirates on the Seven Seas, violence is everywhere, and there is always a war being fought somewhere for some odd reason. It's as if our society can't function properly without conflict. It has run so rampant that we're even starting wars in the name of peace. Now I don't know about you, but I don't think starting a war where there wasn't a war is doing anything for peace. Capiche? What makes it even more nonsensical is that there is always overwhelming outcry against it, which unerringly dies out due to the obvious lack of acknowledgement by the powers that be. I believe something drastic must be done. I believe we need to get out and put a stop to the violence using the only thing that pirates, warmongers, and schoolyard bullies will understand. Counter-violence. We need to usher in an era of militant pacifism that will bring the violent to their knees. We need to put down our placards and pick up our pistols. We need to run through the streets with pitchforks and torches, killing and maiming all the violent and degenerate members of our society before they do the same to us. We need to seek out the rapists, molesters, thieves, and government officials before they completely destroy society with their despicable beliefs. We need to force pacifism down their throats until they understand that we won't put up with hostility any longer. The sooner they see that we're serious about making our world a place free of fear, the sooner they'll fear us and join us in our dream of a violence-free society, or die trying to get in our way. This war on war shall have a name. It shall be called, The War on War, and pacifists around the world will flock to our banner. So put down your pens and pick up your pikes, put down your microphones and replace them with machine guns, drop your axes and arm yourself with AK's, or if you don't own an AK, an axe will do just fine. It is time for us to come out of our homes and fight for our right for peace. It's time to make war on war for peace, for peace, because we just can't take it any longer.

Híppos Mélas

I have a shiny new bike. It’s a metallic gold (not brown!) two-wheeled mayhem machine powered by Fury. When I ride the world stops, or at least it seems stopped as I race past, bending the space-time continuum, my legs pumping like Thumper jacking off on Methamphetamine. Hold on to your toupees. At that speed if you hit something you won’t even slow down, like a katana slicing neatly through a man’s jugular. At that speed a helmet is only a hindrance, catching the wind as it whips past and pulling you back like a parachute attached to your head. I prefer to go au naturel, only wearing a headband to keep my mane in check. Helmets are no good to immortals anyway. If somehow I do hit something able to withstand my skull smashing into it with the force of a comet plowing into a small moon, I do have a contingency plan. Any subsequent coma would be short lived, as I’m confident that my considerable experience with insomnia would pull me through. I’ll just say I was finally taking a nap, could somebody put some water on?

I don’t have all the necessary accessories for my new bike yet; banana seat, streamers, onkly donk spoke thingies, or a wicker basket to hold my chips, but I do have a pack of laminated trading cards and a handful of clothes pegs. Tomorrow morning it will sound like the Devil himself is riding forth from the pits of Hell on a heaving chopper made from the flesh and bones of the Damned. This is no supernal bike. It’s the incarnation of Hades’s Hounds, in bicycle format. Tomorrow morning I will ride again like a Tempest, whipping up the winds in a cyclonic frenzy. Those in my path will think me one of the Horsemen, come to wreak God’s vengeance on those who have Mortally Sinned. All shall repent with the sound of my malevolent laughter ringing in their ears.

I don’t have any pictures of my new bike yet, nor do I have a name that befits a vessel of such Fury, but soon I shall. Soon it will be christened with human blood, and decaled like a stock car sponsored by the Underworld. Soon its name will thunder through the Heavens, and Angels will weep and tremble with fear.

Rejected thus far:

The Gold Rush
Khimaira
The Chariot (in which case I would play the part of Helios)

Just 'Cause

According to researchers at University of Texas, one species of plant or animal becomes extinct every twenty minutes. The same study predicts that half of all bird and mammal species will be wiped out within 200 to 300 years (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2002/01/020109074801.htm).

I believe in the annihilation of Mankind. That is my cause. Intelligent people should have been making more babies, and the Stupid involved in more farm accidents, but it hasn’t happened that way. Many Intelligent took stock and decided that it was too late to save our planet, and subsequently our race, and as a result decided not to procreate, saving future potentially intelligent children the agony of living immersed in inferiority on a barren rock. Conversely, the Stupid just keep on popping out babies like idiot factories. Our society is severely watered down, like a teabag on its third pot.

Al Gore believes we can save the planet. But is it true? Can we truly reverse the damage we’ve done? The experts say if we all start now we can, but does anybody actually think that is going to happen? Take a good look at any major corporation, or US foreign affairs strategies, and you’ll see we are a long way from convincing anybody who’s making any money destroying the planet to do anything to save it.

Environmentalists are cowards. They want us to think they’re trying to help, but what do they do? Carry placards, chain themselves to trees, they put on a good show, but there are no selfless acts. They just can’t admit to themselves that the world is already doomed. Environmentalists fear their own mortality, yet they’re prepared to watch our world slowly die. They won’t take the necessary steps. They’re afraid to pull the plug.

We need a global purge, like Naess’s Deep Ecology movement, but far more extreme. We need to throw out that teabag, but why stop there? Let’s throw out the whole teapot. Let’s start a fire in the kitchen and burn the entire house to the ground. Let’s scorch the Earth until not a single tea leaf remains.

We can only save the planet by destroying ourselves. The quicker we are gone, the sooner our beloved planet can rebuild, from the beginning. The longer we wait, the more permanent damage is done. We need to get it over with quickly, like killing a deer you just hit with your truck. We need to wage war, spread disease, and support our local famine. We must do whatever we can to rid the Earth of us, for its own good.

The old saying goes, “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back it was meant to be.” (Actually I may have improved it). Let’s put a twist on that old saying. Let’s free Earth of our torment, and if in a few billion years we come back, then we can try again to co-exist, because then at least we’ll know we’re supposed to be here, and not that we’re just some kind of planetary HIV.

A Work In Progress

The world is cyclic, ever spinning, ever repeating. Unless we read the signs, our sins too will be repeated. Patterns are everywhere, in nature, in the choices we make, in our every day interactions. To evolve we must be able to recognize the patterns, and heed the warnings. If we can’t we’re doomed to make the same mistakes, over and over again, passing ineptitude down for generations. Some have that ability; the clinical thinkers, the people who can look at a situation from outside it, and base their opinions or decisions on rational thought. These people learn from their mistakes, and their lives are enriched in turn. Many though, have an innate inability to clinically evaluate and instead will rationalize irrational behaviour to suit what they believe to be right. These are people who can’t see beyond their own selfish needs, and fail to recognize how their actions affect those around them. In most cases they are likely only going on what they know, what they were taught, or learned through experience, but herein lies the problem. An inability to adapt only helps sin beget sin, and the cycle continues unchecked. How can we evolve as a people if we’re surrounded by people incapable of evolution? We’re all doomed to the same fates, as are our children, if we are unable to see the patterns, much less do something about them.

Ask yourself, can you step back from a situation and attempt to look at all sides? Can you put yourself in another’s shoes? Can you understand another’s opinion, or at least where it comes from?

Do you rationalize without thought? Will you write those other opinions off as blasphemy if they don’t match your own? Do you feel like you repeat yourself?

If the latter is true, do you often find yourself in the same situations? Do you wonder why it seems like everybody is against you, and nobody understands? Perhaps you need re-evaluate how you look at things. Perhaps you need to heed the warning signs, learn from your mistakes, and evolve.

Where We Came From

I was once told a fantastic story that I’d like to relate, because I think everybody should hear it. A woman I know once told me what she believes to be the History of Humankind. It goes a little something like this:

Women came before Men. They were their own race of people, completely self reliant. Women reproduced by stimulating the then active female prostate. Women’s DNA arrived on Earth on the back of a flying turtle, or maybe a living flying saucer that was shaped much like a turtle and upon arriving on Earth evolved into a turtle, and the DNA was distributed throughout the planet on the back of said turtle. Men only came to be when the women began copulating with monkeys, thus contaminating their pure bloodline.

This theory poses a number of questions.

1) Where did the DNA actually come from?
2) Where did the turtle come from?
3) Why was female DNA on the back of a space turtle?
4) Why did the turtle and/or DNA not burn up during entry into the atmosphere?
5) How exactly did women stimulate their prostate? And to follow up, did they help each other?
6) Why, if they had it so good, did women start screwing monkeys?
7) Is that where AIDS came from?
8) Do women think they are superior because Men came from monkeys and they did not?
9) How superior can they be, they screwed monkeys.

I searched around on the internet for a while and couldn’t find anything on the subject, so to answer these questions I’ll have to go to the source. Wish me luck.

Why Cheating is Like Murder

(Disclaimer: This is all written from a male point of view because I just happen to be male. Ladies, it works both ways.)


At first glance it might seem like I am adamantly against cheating, and at first glance I am, but if you look a little closer you’ll find that there are different degrees of cheating, and sometimes fault is not as clear as one would think. I intend to explore the various degrees and discuss them in a relevant fashion.

1st degree cheating is the premeditated cheating. This is when you’re sneaking around, telling your girl you’re going golfing or out with the guys when you’re actually meeting a piece of tail at the lake for some forest fun. This is clearly the most audacious of the cheats. It’s cold, callous, and calculated. If you are caught there is no defense. Pleading guilty and throwing yourself at the mercy of the courts is your best bet.
Punishment for 1st degree cheating is often lifetime termination of the relationship and a Level 4 Timeout, though some guys seem to repeatedly get away with it. It’s not clear whether this is because they’re so charming, or because the judicial system is terribly flawed.

2nd degree cheating is a conscious choice, but unlike 1st degree, it’s a spontaneous cheat. In this case the guilty party doesn’t plan the cheat, but events conspire to force them into a poor decision at a weak moment. Because of its impulsive nature it can be slightly more difficult to prove Mens Rea (Guilty Mind), for as the great Sir Edward Coke said, “Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea.” (An act does not make a person guilty unless (their) mind is also guilty). To show you how this might work let’s say you find yourself at a pool party, you’ve had a few drinks, and the cute girl across the hot tub is flirting with you. You flirt back, just to be friendly, but it quickly escalates beyond your control. Maybe you find yourselves on the back deck, innocently discussing Nietzsche, when you notice how the moonlight twinkles in her eyes, and before you know it you’re screwing on a deck chair with a beach towel for privacy. If you get caught committing a 2nd degree cheat you’re definitely in trouble, but it can be easier to talk your way out of.
Punishment for 2nd degree cheating can be substantially less than for 1st degree. It is forgiven far more often, because of its spur-of-the-moment nature, but don’t count on leniency, as there are at least as many cases of harsh punishment. Someone guilty of 2nd degree cheating could find themselves anywhere on the Timeout Level System depending on the severity of the cheat and/or who it was with.

3rd degree cheating is the Manslaughter of cheating, and can be broken down into two groups, Voluntary, and Involuntary. Voluntary 3rd degree is an intentional cheat, though it occurs in a circumstance where any reasonable person may lose self control. An example of Voluntary 3rd degree would be if the cute girl across the hot tub in my previous example were Jessica Simpson dressed as Daisy Duke. Nobody in their right mind could resist.
Involuntary 3rd degree is the Negligence side of said degree. This would come about if the allegedly guilty party were too drunk or stoned to make a rational decision. There is still fault, but the fault is only in that the perpetrator engaged in other, normally acceptable activities to such an extent that their judgment was clearly not in play. Waking up with a bra in your pocket and not knowing from whence it came would be an example of 3rd degree cheating, as would waking up with a girl in your bed and not knowing her name. It’s harder to prove innocence in these cases though, because it’s simply your word that you were too inebriated to make decisions. Perhaps if you were so drunk at the pool party that you kept putting your dick in a hot dog bun, you might be able to find a few witnesses to corroborate your story.


(Disclaimer 2: The preceding exploratory essay was not an endorsement of amoral, deceitful, or despicable behaviour. It was merely an explanation of the subtle nuances of the Cheating Table. The bottom line in cheating is that it is wrong. It might feel good at first, but ultimately it will only cause heartache and tears, and nobody likes tears. I for one, would never cheat on my precious little Chimpit.)

Common Sense

After I posted my last blog I received an influx of emails, and they all had the same refrain, how can I claim Common Sense while writing about such incidents as going over bike handlebars and attempting to fly? I am here to answer that question.

First I should address the question of what is Common Sense? Merriam-Webster defines it as “Sound and prudent judgment based on a simple perception of the situation or facts.” Well clearly I possess the ability to assess a situation and make rational decisions based on my findings. I proved that just last weekend when I got in a cab instead of fighting 11 homeless punks with a superiority complex. I could have given them the tirade of their lifetimes, putting them directly in their place, before being pummeled into salsa, but I did not. I deemed it imprudent. That alone shows I have Common Sense in my arsenal. You may claim that one example does not prove a theory, but I submit that it does, especially a theory as vague as this one, with no real point to it.

A mistake commonly made is when people project their own feelings of morality or prudence on others. I do this myself on occasion, but I am in the unique position of often being Right (apolitically of course). Far too frequently I witness people making judgments based solely on their own views (this is called closedmindedness, and I won’t listen to anybody who tells me different). To truly pass judgment unbiased one must be immersed in that which they judge. It’s not fair for a homeless punk to think he’s better than me just because I don’t know how tough you have to be to live on the streets, because I couldn’t care less. He was judging me from his own perspective, unable to put himself in my shoes, because he clearly couldn’t afford them.

Let’s try another example. All the emails I received about not having Common Sense because I went over my handlebars were guilty of biased judgment. I was unfairly condemned as lacking Sense because careening down a hill through the murky darkness of a moonless night on a bike with no back brakes while chatting on a cell phone may seem to the layman as imprudent, but for somebody who can not die it really is quite safe. Ok, it’s not necessarily safe. I’ve proved I’m immortal, not invincible, but I have also shown on numerous occasions that I’m made of rubber, much like a baby’s head, and virtually proved that theory when I bounced down the road with nary a scratch or bruise. A mortal being consisting of flesh and bone may not be able to conceive the relative safety of tumbling down a paved road at twenty km/h, but that is simply because they are in fact mortal flesh and bone. Another human rubber ball could read about that incident and think nothing of it. It wouldn’t even occur to them to question my Common Sense. So who would be Right? They both would be, from their own perspective.

So you see, Common Sense is about relativity. Contrary to its name there is nothing common about it. It’s different for every person. Could it then be said that everybody possesses Common Sense in relation to their own circumstances? No. Some people are just morons. That’s why they created The Darwin Awards.
http://www.darwinawards.com/

So to recap:

1. Common Sense is about relativity
2. Judge not lest ye be judged.
3. Closedmindedness is a word.
4. Fun things that seem stupid to other people are still fun.

Ergo,
5. I am still a 4 out of 5 for Common Sense.

Intelligence Equalizer

I am Intelligence elitist. It's not that I think I'm superior to everyone, it's more that I think I'm superior to MOST everyone. I judge, and I have strict criteria. As I see it Intelligence can be broken down into infinite parts, depending on what you see as important traits for an Intelligent being, as long as you are Intelligent enough to make the distinctions, but for me the most important aspects of Intelligence, and this is a very basic synopsis, are; Common Sense, Problem Solving, Sense of Humour/Wit, Imagination, and a basic grasp of Quantum Physics. I don’t expect anybody to have it all, it's fine to excel at some things and not others, it's what makes us unique, but any truly Intelligent person will have a good average.

Picture the graphic equalizer on your stereo. When you have the music sounding just right, some bars will be up, some will be down, and some will be hovering around the middle. My Intelligence Equalizer (I.E.) works much the same way, except in this case the music sounds better when you have more bars near the top. I can rate any individual’s Intelligence using this simple system, according to my own likes and dislikes of course. 3 out of 5 is not bad, 4 out of 5 is impressive, and 5 out of 5 is a little intimidating. Conversely, 2’s out of 5 are a waste of time, 1’s are the living dead, and 0’s are the peanut allergy of the Intelligence spectrum. They don’t have a chance.

Some of you may wonder at my leaving out Fact Retention, Book Smarts, or University Degree, but I did so for good reason. They all fall under the same category, and do not denote Intelligence. All these prove is that you have a Good Memory. That does not factor on the Intelligence Equalizer. I usually can’t remember what I had for breakfast (usually because it’s nothing), but I can cross a street without somebody having to pull me back out of traffic on every corner, something a certain University Graduate I know is guilty of. If you're relying solely on a Good Memory to get you through life, without any real I.E. worthy statistics, you might as well have a peanut allergy.

The following is a rough example of what the Intelligence Equalizer might look like, and I keyed in my own statistics to show you what’s possible.

Little Red Riding Hurts

I swear I do not go looking for situations like this. They just come at me, thick and fast, like garlic breath on a close talker.

Last night I got drunk. On the way home from work I stopped by the local loud talkers convention to drink as many free beers as I could, turns out it was all of them. I hung out with Good Conversations for a couple of hours talking about such things as love and toys, and then went home to get ready for the rock show at Barb’s Buns. I drank more beer at home and by the time I was ready I was exceedingly drunk. Responsible adult that I am, I decided to ride my bike to town, for safety’s sake. I packed a few beers for the ride and set out. It was an uneventful ride, the only highlight being when I swerved into traffic trying to open a beer can. I spilled a little too, which irked me more than anything else. I worked the door at the rock show, because Squirrel clearly has a doorman deficiency and was just letting everybody walk in for free. Afterward, Squirrel went to a party that was uphill, and I only like riding downhill, so I went over to Moby’s for more beer and nonsense, except that the beer became rye and ginger, and stronger each time. By the time they closed I was exceedingly drunk. I pulled my bike out from behind the woodshed and began swerving again, this time towards home. About halfway there I crashed right into the ditch, and this was no ordinary ditch. It was more like a small valley. This ditch can probably be seen on Google Earth. I had to ride it out, and almost did, but for the pothole that sent me tumbling. I picked myself up and got back on the bike, still in the ditch, and then a car drove up.

“Did you crash in the ditch?"

“Who, me? No I’m checking the drainage. Yup, it looks pretty good. I’m just going to ride down here. It’s safer that way, you know? Shouldn’t be on the road this late at night.”

The car carried on. I pushed my bike back up the bank, and that was when I noticed the rear brake was broken. A smart man, a sober man, might have decided to walk at that point. No rear brakes on a bike is a bad idea, especially considering it was all downhill from there. But riding is faster than walking, and I like going faster. It really did go downhill from there. I made it to my road, the steepest part of the journey, and decided to call Squirrel to see how his night went. There I was, with my phone in my right hand, leaving a message for Squirrel about how much fun I had at Moby’s, my left hand gingerly tweaking the front brake to keep my speed down for the upcoming corner, when I wobbled a little, and squeezed the brake way too hard.

Do you watch gymnastics? The floor routine? I believe they call it tumbling. Last night I was a tumbler, except the floor wasn’t so much springy as fresh asphalt. It was as though I had an ejector seat. I launched headfirst over the bars in a tucked position, somersaulting, as the bike did two full rotations behind me. For a split second I thought I was going to stick the landing, that is, until I actually landed. Then came the tumbling. I lay on the road, moaning and gasping for breath, and then noticed my phone about eight feet away, still on, still leaving a message. When I could finally drag my tired body off the tarmac I decided it might be a good idea to walk the rest of the way, and then quickly changed my mind, because riding really is much faster. I just didn’t use my phone again.

This morning I woke up to my phone ringing somewhere in my bed. It was Squirrel calling to see if I was ok. Apparently he heard everything in the message I left him, the talking, the tumbling, and sounds like a baby elephant being eaten alive by a pride of lions.

I think in the end it was another good experience. It turns out I am ok, maybe not in the head, but we already knew that, and I learned some valuable lessons;

1. Don’t ride a bike that only has front brakes down a hill, one handed, in the dark, while you talk on the phone.

2. Nobody needs a helmet.

And once again;

3. I cannot fly.

4. I cannot die.

What's Newt?

Last week I caught a newt, or was it a salamander? There was some question. For the story’s sake I’ll say newt, because it sounds funnier, and works better in the title.

Last week I caught a newt, and it reminded me of an experience I had with another lizardy bastard, though that time it was much bigger. I’ll set the scene;

I was traveling around the Galapagos Islands, part of a group researching the effects of high levels of estrogen in the sea on the local tortoise population. One day I snuck away from the group to do a J with a German couple. One became two and pretty soon we were messed up. We hung out by a stream for a while, laughing ourselves silly, until one of us realized the group had moved on, I think it was Gunter. Anyway, when we got up to look for the group we realized we were not alone. A huge lizard was sitting on the other side of the stream. I guess it had been there the whole time, but none of us had noticed. When we got up to leave it came at us, fast. I can remember Inga screaming. I glanced at Gunter and he was frozen, rooted to the ground, his face twisted with horror. I knew I had to do something. Instinct took over. As the lizard got closer I let out my fiercest war cry and ran right at it. A split second of hesitation was all I needed. The lizard wasn't accustomed to being challenged. I surprised it with my counterattack, and it balked. That's when I struck with a flying kick in the face. The lizard stumbled back and eyed me, confused. I charged again and it fled. Just then our guide ran up. The group had heard the screams and some of them came running. One of them even had the presence of mind to snap a picture. When we got back to civilization she gave it to me. In the newspapers they said I'm a hero, but I don't think so. I'm just a man, with a wicked snap kick.


I must admit, catching this newt wasn’t quite as exciting as kicking a giant lizard in the face, but a naked guy did say their skin is poisonous, so I should wash my hands after. I scoffed! Clearly he didn’t know that I cannot die. I ate berries until my fingers turned blue…come to think of it, those were strawberries…

Anyway, it reminded me of this time that I caught a giant frog in Nicaragua. It had been terrorizing the local duck population, eating their eggs and molesting their young, so I offered to help. The thing about man eating frogs is that they piss venom that, if not washed off right away, will cause necrosis. That’s when your skin peels off like old paint in the sun. At the time I wasn’t aware that I cannot die, so I was understandably nervous to do battle with such a loathsome creature. I had given my word the beast would be caught though, so I crusaded into the night (that’s when they come out to feast upon small children). I searched in the dark on my hands and knees, dangling a chicken’s pancreas out in front of me like the lure on the head of a deep sea fish. Eventually the greedy bastard took the bait and I pounced. I did not anticipate just how strong the thighs of a frog can be, and the thighs of a man eater are particularly strong as they’re roughly the size of a horse’s wrist. It kicked like a kangaroo on its tail, but I was too much for it. Years of hard labour have honed my hands into viselike appendages. I held the little bucker until he tired himself out, but he was not done. With his last ounce of strength the froggy bastard toad-pissed all over my arms. Thinking quickly I stuffed him in the sack locals had made from the three stomachs of eight alpacas (the only thing that can hold a giant frog) and quickly tied it up with a lock of my hair. Then I rushed to the nearby lake to wash off the poison before its evil could take effect. Now my only worries were what to do with the frog bag, and how to wash off the lake water containing a microbial bastard which, after entering the blood stream, will traverse your intestines and live there until you die, wreaking havoc on your digestive tract. There is no cure. As quick as I could I tore open the stomach bag and let the frog toad-piss all over my arms again, hoping it would act as nature’s Purell and kill any nasty microbes lurking on my skin. Then I wiped my arms down with wet banana leaves and a paste I made with small chili peppers and my own saliva. My quick action paid off, as in the end it was only my mouth and sphincter that burned.

Unfortunately in my haste to pick peppers and banana leaves I forgot to re-tie the stomach bag and the giant frog escaped. Four duck eggs were lost that night. For my ineptitude the entire village turned their backs on me, which is regarded as the most severe punishment in that region, reserved only for goat rapists, murderers, and bungling fools. They turn their backs, and will never face you again. There is an old legend of a man who refused to accept the village’s decision to turn their backs on him and went on living in the village in defiance for three years, but eventually went mad because nobody would face him. The legend says he died trying to sew his face onto the back of his own head. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of not seeing me that way, so I packed my things and left the village in the morning. They never saw me again.