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A Pertinent Excuse for a Missed Update

It's a less than stellar precedent I'm setting. What precedent is that, you say? The one that places me not but two weeks after launch and missing an update. For shame. For great heaps of shame upon both me and my family line going back a thousand years. But in my defense, my most feeble and pathetic defense, I was legally dead for a solid chunk of that time.

I was doing my evening walk around the gardens when I spied, at a great distance, a young boy on the run from a bedraggled man. It is no great secret that in these desperate times there is a thriving market in young boys flesh. I have heard it quite the delicacy in foreign lands, where the unfortunate wretches are delivered to aged crones for fattening and baking into pies. I am a gentleman, however, and I shan't name that otherwise great, flat, positively *Siberian* land. It would be a grave insult to Flat Cold Landias noble sons and daughters who, true, may have supped on a haunch once or twice, but would never think of putting an order in to certain bedraggled strangers to capture and fillet young boys just outside of my humble domicile.

I do not like to brag, but I am nothing if not a warrior at heart, and so in seeing the opportunity to prevent bloodshed with a greater spilling of blood (by volume, if not by custom), I leapt to my feet and fetched my hunting cats. The little pouncers had already taken to mewling for the kill and sharpening their claws upon a scullery maid's face. After I put the poor dear out of her misery (with a shot of strong bourbon, my loves--do you think me so rude?) I wrapped my spoor in the handkerchief and affixed it to the pelting stick. This took quite some time as that I'd had a light lunch, and I regret to report that the boy was already in bonds by the time I bounded from my leaping terrace and readied the pelting stick.

Oh, that blaggard gave a mighty ROAR of defiance as he saw me coming! Oh, if you were there you'd have filled your trousers with waste and fled at this fellow's fierce countenance. But I did not, for I am made of sterner stuff, and my bowels were empty. It took one strike with the pelting stick and the ruffian wavered, calling me a name most rude and un-gentlemanly. It was then my beasts sprang, clawing and slicing through his rough flesh, ready to bury the man like the bit of offal he was. You see, the fastidious feline's instinct for the kill and cleanliness are both so powerful that once the two become intertwined in their pretty little heads, they are a force that would cow Jupiter himself.

It was over in only ten or eleven more liberal applications of shit and an hour of screaming and unmanly begging for mercy.

Unfortunately for me, some of the pelting stick rubbed on my boot, and the cats came at me. I ran across the moors, the pack in steady pursuit, until I came to the frozen lake my family demanded I keep on my side of the property line despite the fact it is a notorious faery circle and magnet for suicides. Without a moments hesitation I leapt into the lake, which killed me stone dead.

Later I was revivified by a Moorish gentleman and learned of their strange Oriental ways, but that is a story for another time!

Okay, none of that was true. I just came down with tonsillitis and wallowed in a pool of my own sweat and misery for the past few days. Hopefully I'll regain my voice sometime in the next two weeks.

Thanks for reading!

Jon Munger

posted by jon_wake @ March 27th, 2010, 9:56 am  -  0 Comments

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