Showing posts with label ART. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ART. Show all posts
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
MISSION: Accomplished!
May 14th, 2010. The Darger forces took a day off to reload, refuel, and recover from their 3-day sweep through the disillusioned, desert defenses of Arizona. The Traffic Town regulars made a quick pit stop home, then turned their sights due south, crawling 125 miles along the congested, free-market birth canal that connects the commercialized breeding grounds of cultural homogenization to the perpetual mass-markets of world-wide consumerism - Interstate 5. El Camino Real. The King's Highway.
The mission at San Diego de Alcala is the southern-most command outpost of the Holy Rollin' Roman Catholic Empire's linked chain along the southwestern coastline of the continental United States. It has been a 2-century safe haven for saints, sinners, and Holy warriors defending themselves from the indigenous godlessness.
The Dargers were once again doing battle in a border town; this town bordering the upper enchalant of the western fighting armies, the former town bordering the bottom. Coming into the battle, the Dargers have traveled the middle road, winning 4 consecutive battles; they've reached a happy medium.
The armies battled late into the warm night in an intensely contested jihad. The cannonade of Darger artillery was led by Nos.7, 16, and 99, in a back and forth struggle, with the decisive blow coming from No.27 late in the attack. The Big Howitzer, No.51, came to shut down any hopes for divine intervention.
W is for Winquisition.
The mission at San Diego de Alcala is the southern-most command outpost of the Holy Rollin' Roman Catholic Empire's linked chain along the southwestern coastline of the continental United States. It has been a 2-century safe haven for saints, sinners, and Holy warriors defending themselves from the indigenous godlessness.
The Dargers were once again doing battle in a border town; this town bordering the upper enchalant of the western fighting armies, the former town bordering the bottom. Coming into the battle, the Dargers have traveled the middle road, winning 4 consecutive battles; they've reached a happy medium.
The armies battled late into the warm night in an intensely contested jihad. The cannonade of Darger artillery was led by Nos.7, 16, and 99, in a back and forth struggle, with the decisive blow coming from No.27 late in the attack. The Big Howitzer, No.51, came to shut down any hopes for divine intervention.
W is for Winquisition.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
SWEEP!
May 12th, 2010. There was flour everywhere. I held a broom in one hand, and a bag of flour in the other. Darger was bleeding from both of his shins. "Captain's choice." I said, and handed him the broom. "I outrank you, dummy."
Earlier, while I was on my breakfast walkabout, I found Darger trapped under an upturned shopping cart behind the Liquor Basket. He told me that he had tried using the cart to climb onto the wall behind the row of dumpsters that divided the Liquor Basket and the Food-4-All; he had slipped. I pushed the shopping cart off him. He didn't thank me or offer a reason why he was trying to climb the wall; he just screamed, and violently pointed to the top of it, as a barrage of boxes came hurtling over, landing in a haphazard heap, directly next to the cart. The boxes were full of day-old poultry and produce from the Food-4-All. Then, a lone bag of flour flew over the wall, and exploded in a white cloud on the cart. I said, "Put that meat in the cart, private! C'mon! I know where we can get some more flour."
When we got to my house, Darger dutifully jumped out of the cart, and ran around to the backyard, out of sight. I parked the cart, sans Darger, under the kitchen window, and ran inside. I had hoped the simple pantry raid would go smoothly, but I forgot about one minor detail. Tidbit!
Tidbit must have heard the shopping cart as we were coming down the street. And smelled the meat. As soon as I cracked open the door, the crazed, little pup wiggled past my feet and out through the front door. "Stupid dog!" I yelled. I wanted to go after him, but, I was on a mission. I strolled into the pantry and grabbed two bags of flour from the shelf. I heard Darger screaming. I grabbed a broom and ran outside.
The bag of flour exploded about six inches from the kitchen window. A huge cloud of powdery, white, dust was slowly floating down to reveal Darger in his underwear, frantically trying to climb into the shopping cart. Tidbit had Darger's pants in his mouth, desperately chewing at the day-old meat smell, I suppose. Anyway, there was flour everywhere. But, I was hungry.
"Sweep." I commanded. "I'll fry enough chicken for an army!"
W is for Self-Rising.
Earlier, while I was on my breakfast walkabout, I found Darger trapped under an upturned shopping cart behind the Liquor Basket. He told me that he had tried using the cart to climb onto the wall behind the row of dumpsters that divided the Liquor Basket and the Food-4-All; he had slipped. I pushed the shopping cart off him. He didn't thank me or offer a reason why he was trying to climb the wall; he just screamed, and violently pointed to the top of it, as a barrage of boxes came hurtling over, landing in a haphazard heap, directly next to the cart. The boxes were full of day-old poultry and produce from the Food-4-All. Then, a lone bag of flour flew over the wall, and exploded in a white cloud on the cart. I said, "Put that meat in the cart, private! C'mon! I know where we can get some more flour."
When we got to my house, Darger dutifully jumped out of the cart, and ran around to the backyard, out of sight. I parked the cart, sans Darger, under the kitchen window, and ran inside. I had hoped the simple pantry raid would go smoothly, but I forgot about one minor detail. Tidbit!
Tidbit must have heard the shopping cart as we were coming down the street. And smelled the meat. As soon as I cracked open the door, the crazed, little pup wiggled past my feet and out through the front door. "Stupid dog!" I yelled. I wanted to go after him, but, I was on a mission. I strolled into the pantry and grabbed two bags of flour from the shelf. I heard Darger screaming. I grabbed a broom and ran outside.
The bag of flour exploded about six inches from the kitchen window. A huge cloud of powdery, white, dust was slowly floating down to reveal Darger in his underwear, frantically trying to climb into the shopping cart. Tidbit had Darger's pants in his mouth, desperately chewing at the day-old meat smell, I suppose. Anyway, there was flour everywhere. But, I was hungry.
"Sweep." I commanded. "I'll fry enough chicken for an army!"
W is for Self-Rising.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Mother Knows West
May 9th, 2010. "There's too much traffic. We're not going to get back for another twenty-five minutes." I moaned. I wished, now, that I had taken a different route. But, I had wanted to stay within range of the weakened, FM broadcast, so I bypassed the stereotypical, metro-business route for a more centralized, less discriminating commute.
"At least we won." said Karen. Karen always tried to say nice, positive things when she rode with me in the car. I don't know what she said in the car when I wasn't there. Maybe she said nice, positive things whether I was there or wasn't. She was , after all, a nice and positive person. And if she wasn't saying anything nice, maybe she wasn't saying anything at all?
Then she said, "They're heading west."
"They're heading south." I corrected her.
"Really? I thought they fought hard today. You were listening. The radio doesn't lie." she said.
"Yes it does." I responded. "But, I'm talking about the traffic. It's spilling out towards the landfill. I should have taken the freeway."
"Oh." she said. "Is the landfill full?"
She was lost. "Yes. They're headed west." I tried to tell her.
But Karen was confused. "But you just said the landfill was south. Is there another landfill?" she asked.
"They're heading out to the desert." I continued.
"This all used to be a desert. Do you think any of these hills are old landfills? Filled with trash?" she wondered.
"God makes the mountains, Karen. God doesn't make trash. People make trash." I reminded her.
Suddenly, Little Karen's big mouth interrupted from the back seat. "God made the people and his people made the trash." she said.
Ignoring the outburst from the third party passenger, I concluded, "God doesn't make trash, Karen. Cleanliness is godliness. Trash is forbidden in Heaven. It's in the Bible."
I turned up the radio. The tiny voice of the famed broadcaster had just reported that mobilized artillery units from Traffic Town were massing in the dry, desert battlegrounds near the Arizona border.
Then Big Karen dropped an incendiary bomb. "God makes trashy people. I hope General Glory pulverizes those dirty snakes!" she hissed.
W is for Mom.
"At least we won." said Karen. Karen always tried to say nice, positive things when she rode with me in the car. I don't know what she said in the car when I wasn't there. Maybe she said nice, positive things whether I was there or wasn't. She was , after all, a nice and positive person. And if she wasn't saying anything nice, maybe she wasn't saying anything at all?
Then she said, "They're heading west."
"They're heading south." I corrected her.
"Really? I thought they fought hard today. You were listening. The radio doesn't lie." she said.
"Yes it does." I responded. "But, I'm talking about the traffic. It's spilling out towards the landfill. I should have taken the freeway."
"Oh." she said. "Is the landfill full?"
She was lost. "Yes. They're headed west." I tried to tell her.
But Karen was confused. "But you just said the landfill was south. Is there another landfill?" she asked.
"They're heading out to the desert." I continued.
"This all used to be a desert. Do you think any of these hills are old landfills? Filled with trash?" she wondered.
"God makes the mountains, Karen. God doesn't make trash. People make trash." I reminded her.
Suddenly, Little Karen's big mouth interrupted from the back seat. "God made the people and his people made the trash." she said.
Ignoring the outburst from the third party passenger, I concluded, "God doesn't make trash, Karen. Cleanliness is godliness. Trash is forbidden in Heaven. It's in the Bible."
I turned up the radio. The tiny voice of the famed broadcaster had just reported that mobilized artillery units from Traffic Town were massing in the dry, desert battlegrounds near the Arizona border.
Then Big Karen dropped an incendiary bomb. "God makes trashy people. I hope General Glory pulverizes those dirty snakes!" she hissed.
W is for Mom.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Trigger Happy
May 1st, 2010. The Darger's call to arms was heard loud and clear on another clean and sober Saturday night in Traffic Town. Answering a lightning-fast, first-strike charge, the menacing, long range cannons of Number 16 sent a spectacular broadside of muscle-flexing scorn into the clenched fists of the enemy bersagliere. The Darger guns subsequently erupted in full effect, taking the battlefield by storm.
The beleaguered air defenses managed to avert any serious advance by the Steel City soldiers under the command of another of the Darger new recruits, No.37. He was backed up sufficiently by his supplementary reservists, Numbers 35 and 38, respectively. W is for Sound Effect.
The beleaguered air defenses managed to avert any serious advance by the Steel City soldiers under the command of another of the Darger new recruits, No.37. He was backed up sufficiently by his supplementary reservists, Numbers 35 and 38, respectively. W is for Sound Effect.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Obelisked!
April 25, 2010. With mounting pressure from the home front, and empty hand lobbying from the forward command, the discordant Darger unit was unable to capitalize on the illusive capitol defenses. Again, the Darger heavy artillery failed to breach a single line of the special forces interest groups, the choreographed grassroots movements, or the sniveling, lip-service militias.
Lost in the early symbolism of the Sunday afternoon, a cult of 33,000 sun worshippers outlined the owlish inroads of the district in a profane parade of Warvillian protectionism. Darger forces book-ended the day's fighting by mounting hard-hitting campaigns, but were ultimately brought down by the enemy's lone psychological operation.
The new balance of power has rapidly masqueraded into an arms race, and the challenge now falls in the hands of a ragtag group of professional conscripts who are underfoot, limping north into unbridled, urban warfare.
L is for E pluribus nothing.
Lost in the early symbolism of the Sunday afternoon, a cult of 33,000 sun worshippers outlined the owlish inroads of the district in a profane parade of Warvillian protectionism. Darger forces book-ended the day's fighting by mounting hard-hitting campaigns, but were ultimately brought down by the enemy's lone psychological operation.
The new balance of power has rapidly masqueraded into an arms race, and the challenge now falls in the hands of a ragtag group of professional conscripts who are underfoot, limping north into unbridled, urban warfare.
L is for E pluribus nothing.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Guns Blazing!
April 21st, 2010. The LA Darger war machine unleashed a full-frontal assault against the big red menace tonight in renewed river bend fighting on the banks of the Ohio River. The collective efforts of Numbers 7,15,16,27 and Number 99 crippled the enemy's defenses with a multitude of aggressive lapidation. The Darger rifle battalion again was called in for flare-ups of continued small arms resistance.
All eyes will be watching the skies for tomorrow's operations as a bank of thunderclouds has been sighted moving in from the southwest flatlands. The Dargers, however, appear to have packed their rucksacks with plenty of their own thunder and lightning. W is for "Hitting Machine"
All eyes will be watching the skies for tomorrow's operations as a bank of thunderclouds has been sighted moving in from the southwest flatlands. The Dargers, however, appear to have packed their rucksacks with plenty of their own thunder and lightning. W is for "Hitting Machine"
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