The Return Of The King

Once again, and without further gibberish, I bring you the wise words of my liege, the noble king, courtesy of brave Sir Matthew S.:



I TAKE MY VICTORIES LIKE I TAKE MY BOSTON-CREAMED DOUGH-NUTS

FOUR OF THEM, SERVED CONSECUTIVELY!

PAY HEED, my humble minions! For it is not every day that your King speaks so plainly, or with breath so shallow. I have taken leave of my royal banquet to caress your ear-holes with tales of what is, and of what is yet to be.

Gather 'round.

As Mother Sun rose this ‘morn and gave succor to the dawn, the ice-clad fields of De-Troit gazed upon her bosom with eyes anew, and sweat-pants a-tented. Her golden rays bathed the ground in warmth, and gave form to the lifeless, shadowy husks that littered the earth. And as she robed these dark blobs in her warming glow, it was revealed once again that on this day, the corpses belonged to the King’s vanquished enemies. And to those who would feign surprise at this outcome most inevitable, I would say but four words:

Get used to it.

I might then, by royal decree, submit an addendum of still two more words:

Get fucked.

There exists today NO WALL that can halt the King’s armies! NO SHIELD that can give pause to his arrows! NO PLATE of fried potato sticks, no matter how smothered by cheese, that can repel his royal gravy! We are today a juggernaut, a many-pistoned engine of death that shall thrust itself wherever the King pleases. He need only point his royal scepter at a target, and it shall be thusly obliterated.

And yet, the King’s royal scepter remains sheathed in the knit caddy that hangs over the arm of his throne. For you see—if, indeed, you CAN see over the small mountain range of corpses that litters these lands—there is simply no one left to vanquish. Indeed, the King’s armies have earned their respite from the grounds of battle. Today, we feast. Tomorrow, we rest, and prepare for the next harvest of souls, and chips of corn. My charges shall have at least eight-and-ten fortnights of revelry before they are again called to rend flesh from bone.

HARK! TRUMPETEERS! I would have fanfare for my bravest warriors!

BLOW THY HORN for the young squire STAF-FORD, who has toiled endlessly behind the scenes and between the sheets to restock the King’s never-ending supply of cannon fodder. Is there a flaxen-haired service wench in the whole kingdom who does not find herself with child by this virile knight of the King’s table? In one-and-twenty years, the borders of De-Troit will pulse and swell with endless hordes of tow-headed, cannon-armed bastards, ready to rain tightly-spiraled death upon all who oppose the King! HUZZAH!

BLOW THY HORN for the noble HOUSE OF SPEARS! But don’t blow too hard, lest your incessant blaring drown out the sound of his approach. You do not want to be the latest stain on the ground that proud NDAMUKONG leaves in his wake. For the next ten harvests, he shall be the bloody point of the King’s arrow, the grand penetrator, the thickly-veined, rage-fueled thunder-shaft that shall aerate the sternum of any and all who would stand in the King’s way. It is upon his broad shoulders that mine legend shall be built, and before his grim visage that mine enemies shall soil themselves. HUZZAH!

BLOW THY HORN for Sergeant Slaughter himself, my general and yours, the dread pirate SCHWARTZ! The King cannot always be there to lead his armies to victory. In fact, it has become increasingly rare that His Royal Highness makes it to the front lines. You see, the royal knees are not what they used to be, and the King’s palace is separated from the battlefield by a good-many hundred stairs. It is thusly made necessary to anoint a Leader of Men that can fill mine boots, and SCHWARTZ is his name! Let it ring throughout the halls! SCHWARTZ! SCHWARTZ! SCHWARTZ! HUZZAH!

Is it really almost five hours past noon? My word, time flies much like a pass from the arm of Squire Stanton—wobbly, and with little purpose. Alas, I must retire to mine chambers royal for a scheduled sponge-down. By my watch, my hardiest wenches are now working the bellows ‘neath my bath, no less strenuously than they shall soon be working mine own hairy bellows.

But FEAR NOT mine loyal subjects! Tho’ the time for campaigning has passed, there are still battles to be fought! Even now, General Tso is launching a full-scale land invasion of mine lower intestine! Though he fights with fiery purpose, I aim to take that squirrelly yellow bastard to the porcelain graveyard! Alas, just as soon as I finish these barbecued spare ribs. I will let you know how it goes. And remember, my bless-ed vassals…













All hail the King.

Bow Down To The King

Bow down to the King

I originally planned to discuss some random thoughts that have been swirling around in my fucked up head today, but as you all well know that is a dangerous proposition. Chances are, I'd start talking about Dominic Raiola and I would end up gibbering about werewolf sex or writing really fucked up Back to the Future fan-fic again or describing the size and texture of a walrus penis and there are some things you just can't erase from your mind, you know? Oh hell, who am I kidding? We all know that I would probably just end up harpooning poor Drew Stanton again while my eyes went all glassy and foam began to seep from the corners of my mouth. And so, to spare you all another trip down the rabbit hole of insanity that is . . . well, whatever the fuck this is (Ty told me I should rename the blog Wonderland's Basement, which, uh, is actually kind of perfect.), and because it is the holiday season and everyone is just sort of half-assing their way into the new year, I have decided once again to turn things over to Matt S., who once again has graced us with these words of wisdom from The King of the Lions Fans. My inbox overfloweth with creative genius and thou hast saved mine ass yet again, noble Matt. Anyway, here it is, and as usual, it is pretty damn great:


DE-FROST THY NETHER-HOLES, YOU SHIVERING KNAVES!

FOR THE KING IS A'PLUNDERING, AND HE WILL TOLERATE NO ICE UPON HIS PURPLE PLOW!

FIRST AND FOREMOST, the King would like to declare this day, Eight-and-Twenty of December, to be a day of feast and dance for time immemorial! HUZZAH! May every hearth have a spiral ham, and every gullet a flagon of Rock N' Rye! This is to be done in remembrance of the King's brave hordes of crack-heads, hundreds of whom gave their lives to dig out the King's chariot this morn. One after another, they piled atop the snowy dune that entrapped the King's 1975 Buick LeSabre, using the last of their meager body heat to melt the snow, centimeter by centimeter, until Jack Frost gave up his death-grip upon those two-tons of hardened De-Troit Steel.

And another HUZZAH! for the second wave of crack-heads that were tasked with removing the bodies of the first, for they too were woefully under-shrouded, and met a similarly frozen end. If only they had access to the King's vast array of fleeced sweat-pants, so that they could have spared their ashen legs the vicious bite of...Lo, what am I saying. It would take a dozen crack-heads to fill the King's trousers. They died as they lived--huddled under my chariot wheels.

AS I WAS SAYING! Were it not for these wretched bum-cicles, the King would still be snow-bound within his castle, watching his blue-cheese vats deplete at rate that can be described only as "alarming". Their sacrifice will not be forgotten, nor shall this past Lord's day, which saw the King's armies hoist the gnarled ham-bones of victory for an unprecedented third consecutive campaign!

DOWN into the swampy depths of equatorial hell did venture the King's immortal legions! DOWN into the trenches did they march, with spears sharpened and shields glistening! DOWN into the taut, water-slicked blowholes of those turquoise-clad mermen did they thrust their barbed loin-rods, rending flesh and blubber alike with equal disregard for the laws of man and nature!

GATHER ROUND, MY FROST-CLAD SUBJECTS, FOR I HAVE A QUERY!

Who among you would stand between a thundering herd of jungle cats and a freshly-laid spread of buffaloed wings?

None?

Well HUZZAH for you, for in staying your hand you have shown more sense than the King's last three conquests. Why do these fools insist on battling the King? What are they teaching in the schools of Green-Bay, if not Studies in Self-Immolation? What constitutes a normal Sun-day morning in the Bay of Tampa, if not vigorous ass-love with a broken bottle of E&J? What goes through the mind of the mucus-slicked porpoise-men of Miami, if not a paralyzing desire to be flayed and served raw with a side of creamed horse-radish? Why do they rush to die? If these hapless whelps continue to draw swords with the King's men, one can only gasp in horror at the twisted impulses that drive them.

HARK, on this frozen 'morn in the gilded realms of De-Troit, there exists not a soul who isn't clothed in the robes of victory. The symbolic robes of victory, of course. There are actually quite a few leprous curs within mine borders who haven't felt the warming embrace of clothing in many a harvest. But spare them not a thought, and certainly not a pair of fuzzy socks, for they would only use them as kindling 'neath their glass pipes. Indeed, the celebration shall penetrate long and deep into the virginal night! The King's armies are unvanquishable, and in half a fortnight's time, the bearded ass-pillagers of Minnetonka shall come a-knocking! And when they do, the King shall extend to them his customary greeting--a frozen sword driven right through their purple hearts.

All hail the King.

HARK!

Once again, courtesy of Matt S., the proclamations of the King of the Lions Fans appeared in my inbox, as if by magic, and so I feel duty bound, both to all of you and to my liege, the good king, to spread his message unto the world, so that one day we may know peace and happiness in every corner of our realm. Hark! 'Tis a day of great celebration and wondrous joy. Shit, this stuff is catchy. Anyway, here it is, and once again, thanks to Matt S. for proving that, if nothing else, we Lions fans are creative and strange sons of bitches. Naturally, I mean that in the best way. Anyway, the latest from the King of the Lions Fans:



HAVE A MOUTH-FUL OF WAX, YOU CRAVEN DOGS, SO THAT YOUR SLOBBERING TONGUES MIGHT BUFF MINE ROYAL ORBS TO A MIGHTY GLOW!

FOR TOO LONG, the King’s legions have found naught but defeat beyond the sacred borders of De-Troit. The fort-nights have numbered four-score-and-two since last the King’s armies have tasted victory at a foreign out-post. We fell on our own swords in Newe Jersey. Our dead washed up in a tide most frothy upon the shores of Lake Minne-tonka. And do not even ask the King about the blighted expanses of Chi-ca-go, where we choked down Fortune’s toxic seed in a debacle so foul, it vanquished forever the notion that the heavens could play seat to Gods of honor or worth.

But no longer. For much like the King’s brief dalliance with low-cal skinn’d potatoes, this era of futility has come to an end. A merciful, pork-laden end, slathered in soured-cream and topped with golden-fried glory.

Some time after breakfast, the King’s Armada descended upon the waters of the Bay of Tampa and stained them red with Buccaneer’s blood. Reeking of scurvy and failure, these wretches fancied themselves dread pirates, but were proven to be little more than a glittering cadre of cabin boys before the King’s cannon thunder. Would that they had spent the previous week planning for battle, instead of mincing around below deck, plucking barnacles from each other’s cod-pieces with their gangrenous lizards’ tongues.

For the second time in a fort-night, the King’s finest have waved his flag in victory. One triumph is an occasion for cele’bration. Two is cause for an orgy of violence, sex and ranch dressing and that would make Bacchus himself blush in modesty. But tonight the King finds himself within not a serving wench, but contemplation instead.

For you see, the King has developed a taste for victory, and he would see his royal belly stretched.

I HEREBY DECREE that all territories of the globe tremble now under the greased fist of the King of the Lions Fans!

I HEREBY DECREE that all enemy forces lay down their swords and embrace the King’s shallow-breathed love!

I HEREBY DECREE that from now on, nothing goes down unless the King is involved. No chequers, no indulgences, no nothing. A flagon of mead gets sold in the square, I want in. You knaves got fat while everybody starved on the street. Now it's the King’s turn.

The King’s armies embark now upon a righteous crusade, one that will ensure that their bravery echoes throughout history eternal. For centuries, the people of De-Troit have huddled around flaming garbage cans and hallowed-out chariots to hear the Elder’s talk in whispered tones of the fabled “play-offs”. Long thought to be little more than legend, the mythical Tournament of Champions appears now before us like a dream made real. We shall hold this Tournament by its ankles and use it to fuck-plow the Elysian fields of victory. We shall carve our names into Lombardi’s Silver Chalice, and raise it high above the withered corpses of our enemies. We shall strew it with their entrails, and drink from it the blood of their children. W shall conquer…


…speak up, knave. The King cannot hear you from down there.


…Hmmm.


…I see.


The King has been informed by this soon-to-be-quartered messenger that the Tournament of Champions will not be extending an invite to his fearsome armies. This is…most disappointing.

Well, then, maybe next harvest. Until then, let there be milkshakes.

All hail the King.