Won't someone please think of the children lazy?

I was horribly axe murdered last night so I'm writing this post from beyond the grave. You're welcome.














Before I go any further, bonne anniversaire, Louis the Stammerer.
Louis not pictured above with Agent Harvey Manfrenjensen.

Anyway, among internets circles, angry loners, the unemployable, esoteric cults of the tubes, and various and sundry pseudo-literati beholden to a dystopian vision of anarchy, November is more than turkey, cranberry sauce and Ohio State/Michigan games. Something Important® is supposedly happening next week, but I'm not referring to that claptrap. I'm talking about something far more hideous.

Sure, there's this blasphemy as well, but only lunatics and worshippers of the Old Ones would dare participate in such an unholy blight upon Odin's creation.

"You're both a lunatic and a worthless acolyte of Cthulhu."

That's right, brain! I knew there was a reason I kept you around instead of trying to sew something Frankensteinian. So, putting aside that piece of French Fried trash, here's what I've got so far for NanoMojo.

It was the best of a dark and stormy night, it was the worst of a dark and stormy night. Leon "Paddy" Czolgosz, the town's Irishman, stepped out of The Daughters of the Bohemian Yugoslavs underneath a dry sky. Oh sure, there was lightning, spooky, spooky lightning, but facing such an empty threat, Leon boldly reached into his jacket, one of those cheap, mass-produced faux-leather bombers that became such a hit during the war that was still raging with no sign of ending in what would probably be a rage, and pulled out a pack of American cigarettes, Winston-Salems. He tried to understand why a Yankee company would have a racecar-driving witch as its mascot, but there weren't any Yankees living in the Kingdom to ask and holding overseas contraband would get you an appointment before the town elders and being circumscribed by the fiery gaze of a gaggle of assassins is something you didn't want, especially if you were the only Irishman in Belgrade.

"Fuck," said Leon, catching the attention of passers-by and the stray rat that scurried for cover in one of the multitude of run-down or abandoned buildings strewn as far as smiling Irish eyes could see. Upon placing the cigarette between his lips, a stark revelation of minor annoyance cast its long shadow over the purple and orange twilight.

Throwing the unlit tobacco product on the ground to stomp it out as if it had been lit, which it wasn't because he had no lighter which was the source of his minor annoyance that had immediately expanded into a major one the very second he realized he would have to reenter The Daughters of the Bohemian Yugoslavs and ask someone for a light, he understood that he would indeed have to do his grave duty if he was to advance the cause of cancer which he didn't care about but stepping back through that portal in the form of a door was something he did because that meant game after game of whist and he was terrible at whist.

Well, time to use The Google to find future fun with captions so I'll have thirty days worth of posts. What else am I gonna do with November, something constructive? Don't be such a Yugoslav.