Magical

Hydra“Dude, I’m thinking about . . . kinda getting into Magic again.”

Dasad paused the game, his beefy in-game character frozen while carving the body of a subterranean orc-mercenary. High-res blood and brain-matter splattered the screen, proof of the game’s ‘M-rating’ and hundred-billion weekend sales. He stared at me, his eyes screaming silent chords of betrayal and disbelief as if I had confessed to operating a meth-lab in my spare time . . . and refusing to split the profits.

“Why . . ?” he stammered. “Why would you play again willingly? I thought you were going to register on eHarmony with me . . . well, not WITH with me, but . . . you know, figuratively cruise for potential female life-mates on a digital frontier?”

“Well, Magic doesn’t prevent any of that.”

“Unless you plan on lying on your questionnaire, it does. Face it, you’re mutant-bait.”

“Maybe, but role-playing strategy games cannot hurt my love-life any worse than ’33-years-old and still living with parents,'” I remind him. “Or my dream of owning my own house to solely to store my extensive comic book collection . . .”

“. . . and Japanese porn . . .”
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Signs

Found the following video today and wanted to share it with everyone.  Something sweet and simple for the morning break or the 3 o’clock doldrums.  Or if you’re like me a pleasant dream on a rainy day.

A Strange Evolution

Kevin made a startling discovery this morning at the orthodontists office, while perfect strangers probed and prodded his gums.  As the doctors adjusted his braces, my brother listened absently to the nearby, offering an occasional grunt to the nurse’s questions.  I sat outside in the waiting room reading, my mouth comfortably free of fingers and metal implements.

“Did you hear the radio, Murph, while you were waitin’?” he asked me afterwards.

“Only the ‘Tiny Dancer’ song,” I answered.  The local oldies stations maintained a robust playlist of about ten or twenty songs comprising solely of half-a-dozen Elton John singles, a few scattered Guns N’ Roses covers, and Don McLean’s ‘American Pie,’ repeated usually once an hour. Continue reading