Monday, February 28, 2005

maybe old man winter's not so bad after all

Welcome back, loyal readers! If I seem particularly cheery, it's because I -- The Haiku Master -- had my tenuous faith in humanity somewhat reaffirmed today...and it was Old Man Winter who did the reaffirming, if you can believe that!


Old Man Winter Showered The Haiku Master With Gifts To Make Up For His Earlier Misdeeds

As those of you with adequate reading comprehension skills will recall, O.M.W. and I had quite the nasty scuffle last week. And considering how much trouble he's caused me in recent years, I'd begun to ponder a more permanent solution to his antics, if you get my drift.*

Then, early this morning, it was like that French term for a sense of having been there before all over again: Old Man Winter woke me up with another of his god-awful ruckuses! At least he didn't break into my top secret base of operations this time; instead, he parked outside in his snowmobile, repeatedly laying on that tacky "Jingle Bells" horn of his.

"Haiku Master! Hey, Haiku Master!" he shouted. "Hey, it's me -- Old Man Winter!

I reached for my trusty megaphone and clicked it on. "Get out of here, you freon-sucking freak!" I bellowed. "It's not even noon yet! I'll come look for you in a few hours, and we can fight then!"

"No, no, you got me all wrong! Hey look, I'm real sorry about the other day, see? I wanna make it up to you. C'mon, lemme make it up to you!"

Peeking out my bedroom window, I saw there might be some truth to the villain's words. Perched on his lap were a number of princely gifts: an overstuffed hoagie, a bushel of fine Cubans, and a case of my favorite beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon: The Official Beer of The Haiku Master! Might as well see if he was on the up and up.


Pabst Blue Ribbon: The Only Beer Endorsed By The Haiku Master

As it turned out, he was, and we spent a swell afternoon eating sandwiches, getting drunk, and smoking cigars. Turns out he's bipolar and had been off his medication for awhile, but now he's bravely beating his disability instead of letting it beat him. Which is Dr. Phil speak for "taking a lot of pills," from what I can tell. But don't quote me on that.

Needless to say, I was still compelled to seek out some small token of revenge for his earlier churlishness -- one's street cred must be maintained, after all. So when O.M.W. asked to use the restroom, I instead directed him to the storm cellar and locked the door behind him. He's been down there two hours so far; three more should balance the karmic checkbook nicely.

I guess the lesson here is, not everyone who's a dick is a dick all the time, and everyone's a dick sometimes. Take it to heart, 'ku believers!

Best,


-------------------------
* If you don't get my drift, I'm saying I wanted to kill him.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

i'm ready to endorse you

Hi, friends. It's me, The Haiku Master, and do I ever have some Good News for the marketing departments of corporate America: the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 is now available for official product endorsements!

That's right! Why settle for some has-been hick like John Travolta or Brad Pitt when the suavest cat this side of young Marlon Brando is ready to help you make more money?

The savvier amongst you no doubt noticed Haiku International's first-ever commercial advertisements in my last epic saga, "One If Bin Laden, Two If Haiku," for Motel 6 and Hostess Snack Cakes, respectively. Not to mention written plugs for George Dickel whisky and Minneapolis's Purgatory Coffee. What you might not realize is just how much those fine product lines benefited from my Official Seal of Approval. Observe:


Click For Larger Version

Note the sharp incline in sales, especially for the two that took advantage of my reasonably priced print ad service. In fact, after I sent them these numbers, the staff at Dickel's marketing department immediately ordered their own ad, which can be seen here:


George Dickel No's. 8 & 12: The Only Whisky Endorsed By The Haiku Master

So there's your bottom line, ladies and gentlemen: The Haiku Master moves units. Don't let your company miss this fantastic money-making boat! Drop me a line today at thehaikumaster@earthlink.net to learn more about this exciting new venture.

Oh, and if you somehow didn't catch the ads in my last saga, they're reprinted below for your convenience.

Best,



***
HAIKU MASTER PRINT AD GALLERY
***


Motel 6: The Only Motel Chain Endorsed By The Haiku Master

***


George Dickel No's. 8 & 12: The Only Whisky Endorsed By The Haiku Master

***


Hostess: The Only Snack Cake Endorsed By The Haiku Master

one if bin laden, two if haiku, pt. VI

***
CHAPTER VI


"And now, you non-rhyming infidel poet," said bin Laden, about to use his scimitar to slice one of the ropes keeping me and the net below from tumbling into the lava, "it's time for you to..."

"HAIKU-YA!" cried Haiku Girl, unexpectedly bursting into the lava room through a hidden door! "Forget it, bin La-dumb! Nobody cooks The Haiku Master on my watch!"

A strange light emanated from H.G.'s funky ring, striking bin Laden and his posse...and they horrificly morphed into swine with human heads!


Thanks To Haiku Girl's Magic Ring, The OBL Posse Learned The True Meaning Of 'Unclean'

"That's for trying to take over Purgatory Coffee!" she shouted as the bin Laden pigs ran squealing from the room. "Next time, you'd better leave that nice girl Heather alone -- she's a friend of mine!"

"So much worse than -- OINK! -- bacon! So much worse than bacon!" bin Laden grunted back. "You have earned my -- OINK! OINK! -- eternal indemnity, Haiku Girl!"

"Nice work, H.G. -- you're getting a raise for this!" I said, amazed. "But, uh, do you think you could use that magic ring of yours to whisk me off this net? My fine mane of cabbage hair is starting to wilt!"

"Zoiks!!" she said. Then, waving her ring: "Alacazoo, Alacazedge, put The Haiku Master on this ledge!"

ZAP! Just like that I was standing next to her, and we high-fived in triumph! "Come on!" I said. "Let's get out of here before anything else crazy happens!"

"Right behind you, H.M.!"

We were topside within minutes. Well, within minutes after I stopped at a rather dilapidated vending machine to buy a pack of Hostess Snack Cakes -- the Official Snack Cake of Professional Crimefighters!

Before we jumped into her car, though, Haiku Girl stopped outside the warehouse and waved that kooky magic ring of hers again.

"Hold on, H.M.!" she said. "I want to make sure this warehouse poses no further threat to the good people of Minneapolis!"

A green bolt of magic energy burst forth from the ring, and the warehouse exploded!


Bin Laden's Hideout, Post Haiku Girl

"Sweet Jesus, H.G.!" I said. "You could really put someone's eye out with that thing!"

Suddenly, a short little man in a ten-gallon hat came running towards us, a furious look on his face.

"Dagnabbit, what do you meddling kids think you're doing?" he shouted. "That's my building -- you'd better be prepared to pay for this!"

Haiku Girl and I looked at each other, laughing uncontrollably. I mean, really! Crimefighters? Pay for property damage? Whoever heard of such a thing!? Maybe on Bizarro World...but not here on good ol' Mother Earth, folks!


***
EPILOGUE


So that, loyal readers, was that. OBL and his crew may have escaped, but in their new pig bodies they no longer posed an immediate threat to the fine coffee houses of the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. Which meant my latest thrilling adventure was coming to an end!

After an afternoon spent taking in art galleries and dining on local delicacies, Haiku Girl dropped me off at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, where another 747 would return me to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs.

"I guess this is it, H.G.," I said. "Have you given any more thought to my sidekick offer?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I've been doing all right on my own -- heck, I'm just weeks away from single-handedly wiping out all crime in Minneapolis! After that, who knows. Maybe Seattle, maybe Philadelphia. We'll see."

"Well if it makes any difference, know that the one and only Sultan of Syllables thinks the East Coast needs you more than those flakey hippies on the West! Until we meet again, Haiku Girl!"

"Until we meet again, Haiku Master!" she replied, waving as she pulled away from the terminal.

My heart heavy with the sorrow of parting -- which, I might add, is never sweet, despite what that Shakespeare fraud might say to the contrary! -- I headed inside to await my flight at the nearest overpriced airport tavern. But as the barkeep poured the first of what would be many flight relaxants, my spirits were buoyed with the knowledge that I was not alone in my tireless quest to fight crime and spread haiku...and that Haiku Girl and The Haiku Master would no doubt meet again in the future!

Not to mention the Hostess Snack Cakes, which I discovered in my smoking jacket pocket after beer number five.


Hostess: The Only Snack Cake Endorsed By The Haiku Master

As always, those things really hit the spot! So sayeth I...The Haiku Master!

one if bin laden, two if haiku, pt. V

***
CHAPTER V


Upon our arrival at Osama bin Laden's warehouse hideout in downtown Minneapolis, Haiku Girl and I prepared to leap into action!


Despite The Clever Subterfuge, The Haiku Master & Haiku Girl Did Indeed Find Bin Laden Hiding In This Abandoned Warehouse

"Okay, H.G., this is it," I said, slinging a knapsack full of bacon over my shoulder. "Let's synchronize watches. I've got 7:18 -- you?"

"6:19 on my end, H.M."

"What the -- one of us is wa-a-a-a-ay off, and I don't think it's my trusty Timex! Let's bring it up to speed, kid."

"But H.M.!" she said. "Your watch is probably still set to Baltimore time. Minneapolis is an hour behind the east coast, remember?"

"What kind of crazy time-travel nonsense are you blabbering about, H.G.? Now stop goofing around -- I'm beginning to have second thoughts about my sidekick offer!"

The time issue settled, H.G. and I approached the warehouse's front door. Opting for the direct approach, I knocked loudly three times.

"Who is it?" a voice asked from within.

"Koran-Gram, mate" I said, affecting a perfect Australian accent. "All praise to Allah."

"Koran-Gram? We didn't order a Koran-Gram."

"That is correct. This Koran-Gram is a most blessed gift from the Saudi royal family!"

"Ahh, why didn't you say so!" said the voice. "Let me get the door..."

Turning slightly, I gave Haiku Girl a double thumb's up, and the warehouse's entrance opened. The man on the other side peeked through -- and was hit squarely in the face by a wet piece of bacon thrown with Marino-esque precision by my partner!

"Gah!" he cried, clutching madly at the offending meat product. "Not again!"

"Again and again and again if necessary!" I barked, shoving a piece of bacon into the punk's mouth. "How do you like the taste of that, huh? Infidel-icious, no?"

"Blearghhhhh!!!" he screamed through the bacon, running forward blindly into the street...where he was promptly crushed by a passing bus!

"Nice start," I said to Haiku Girl, "but now it's time to end this mad game of coffee house terror once and for all!"

"Right on, H.M.! Haiku powers -- activate!"

"Man, that is one kick-ass battlecry!" I said in appreciation. "I should think about trading up. But in the meantime -- Hiyo, Haiku!"

H.G. behind me, I stormed into the warehouse...only to hit a trap door three steps in! After a long slide I was spat out onto a frayed net, which in turn was overhanging a lava pit!


Thanks To His Brash Actions, The Haiku Master Soon Found Himself Suspended Over A Lava Pit, Much Like This One From Temple Of Doom

"For #%$@'s sake!" I cursed. "I am really looking like an amateur on this case!"

"Of course you are!" cried a voice. "All infidels are amateurs before the divine eyes of Allah!"

I turned to look -- and saw bin Laden and his remaining crew on a ledge 20' away! I then realized I'd lost my knapsack of bacon during the tumble, and was now defenseless in the face of Islam's most notorious outlaw!

"Oh," I said. "So that's how you want to play it, huh? Do you expect me to be scared, bin Laden?"

"No, Mr. Haiku Master," he said, holding a scimitar over one of two frail ropes that attached the net to the chamber's far wall. "In the immortal words of my close, personal friend, Auric Goldfinger...'I expect you to die!!'"

Well, I certainly don't see any way out of this, loyal readers. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion, in which I shall no doubt meet a horrible end!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'ONE IF BIN LADEN, TWO IF HAIKU' PT. VI---

one if bin laden, two if haiku, pt. IV

***
CHAPTER IV


I was still reeling from the discovery of another haiku-powered crimefighter, but there was no time to dwell on it -- if we didn't act now, Osama bin Laden would soon have his picture on every cup of coffee sold in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area!


Despite Being Driven Out Of Purgatory Coffee, Osama Bin Laden Clung To His Twisted Plan Of Coffee House Domination

In a solid display of lightning-quick thinking, my new ally had thrown a self-attaching sensor onto bin Laden's back when he and his bacon-covered posse fled Purgatory Coffee. Using H.G.'s sophisticated computer equipment, we soon had him pinpointed at a deserted warehouse in downtown Minneapolis...but what good was I going to be against a crew that had soundly defeated me in our first go-round?

"I just don't know how we're going to stop him, Haiku Girl!" I said. "You saw what happened at the coffee shop; my Haikung Fu is no match for that bizarre 'camel fu' used by bin Laden and his boys!"

"No sweat!" she said, holding up two fistfuls of greasy raw bacon. "Or did you forget that bacon's like vampire garlic for Islamic fundamentalists?"

"Oh yeah! Bacon..."

"Besides which," she added, "this funky ring of mine gives me all sorts of magic powers. Got it from a haiku-addicted fairy named Aldolpholus P. Funpockets."

"Good show, H.G. -- I like the cut of your jib! What would you say to a job as my sidekick?"

"Mmm, I don't know. What's the pay?"

"We'll discuss that later. Right now, we've got a super-villain to catch! Quick! To the...er. Do you have a sweet ride? I left the Blue Raja back in Baltimore."

"Of course I have a sweet ride -- I'm a professional crimefighter! Let's go!"

"Great. But I'm driving!"

"All right..." Then, to Kuey the Giant Intelligent Crimefighting Pigeon: "Kuey, stay here and watch the house! I'll be back soon!"

So off we went, and in short order arrived at our destination! According to H.G.'s laptop, bin Laden was still inside...which meant it was time for us to kick out the jams!!!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'ONE IF BIN LADEN, TWO IF HAIKU' PT. V---

one if bin laden, two if haiku, pt. III

***
CHAPTER III


As always, unconsciousness was relaxing...but alas, it was not to last! Before long, I was swimming back to the light, called by the sound of someone nearby.

"'Ku!" they said, softly poking my face with something sharp, cold, and hard. "'Ku! 'Ku!"

"Not right now," I replied sleepily. "Daddy needs his beauty rest..."

"Kuey!" came a second voice, this one somewhat familiar. "Get away from there; you're going to wake him up!"

"If that was the scoundrel's intent, they have succeeded!" I said, opening my eyes at last...only to find myself face-to-face with the largest pigeon the Sultan of Syllables had ever come across!


Kuey The Giant Intelligent Crimefighting Pigeon

"Sweet Merciful Odin!" I cried, throwing my hands in front of my face. "The birds! The birds!!"

And then, she jumped to my aid again! That's right -- the pink-clad crimefighter who had previously rescued me from certain death at the hands of Osama bin Laden!

"Kuey, leave him alone!" she said, shoving the pigeon away from me. "Sorry about this, mister. She won't hurt you. Just, uh, overly friendly sometimes."

"G-gah-gah, you're swell," I stammered. "I m-mean, that's all right. After all, you really saved my bacon earlier...with bacon, no less! The least I can do is let your giant mutant pigeon nuzzle me."

"Oh, Kuey's not a mutant," my benefactor said. "She's from Seattle -- they're all this big and smart there."

"Really!" I said, flabbergasted. Then to my always-handy mini-tape recorder, I whispered, "Note to self: bring extra breadcrumbs when visiting Seattle."

Finally, I took in my surroundings. I appeared to be in some kind of high-tech crimefighting headquarters not unlike my own, with loads of computer equipment, villain trophies, extra costumes, vending machines, art projects, and the like filling up the vast space.

As for yours truly, I was sprawled out on a big, comfy couch. Swinging my legs onto the floor, I raised myself to a standing position and took my new friend's hand.

"Whoever you are, you have earned the undying gratitude of the one, true Haiku Master for your earlier brave deeds!" I said. "From one costumed crimefighter to another -- SA-LUTE!"

"Haiku Master?" she said. "Did you say 'Haiku Master?'"

"Yes," I said. "Is that a problem? Wait -- you're not a Limerickist, are you?"

"No, far from it. As a matter of fact, around these parts they call me...Haiku Girl!"

Haiku Girl, huh? Well smother me with barbeque sauce and throw me on the Foreman, 'cause this adventure just got that much hotter!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'ONE IF BIN LADEN, TWO IF HAIKU' PT. IV---

one if bin laden, two if haiku, pt. II

***
CHAPTER II


After bin Laden issued his challenge, the store's clerk, Heather, did the wise thing and ducked below the counter for safety. Purgatory's other patrons took similar actions...but such easy roads are not traveled by the one true Sultan of Syllables!

My heart was beating like an alligator as I turned to face the OBL posse. "All right, bin Laden! You want a fight? You got one! Prepare to face...my Deadly Hands of Haikung Fu!!!"

I leapt forward with the feared Cobra Kai technique referred to as the Kirk Foot Lunge, but soon realized I was hopelessly outmatched! These wiry bastards employed some kind of bizarre "camel fu" I'd not previously encountered, and had no problem in landing one hump-like blow after another on my increasingly sore noggin!

Within minutes, they had beaten me to the ground! Me -- The Haiku Master! Can you believe it? 'Cause I still can't! But there I was, blood pouring from my nose, my ascot astray...and bin Laden pointing his Afghan war revolver straight at my face!!

"Give thanks and praise, you cabbage-headed infidel!" bin Laden said. "For now, I send you to whatever paradise you believe--"

"HAIKU-YA!!!" cried a new voice.

I can't properly describe what happened next, loyal readers. I saw a blur of pink, and a galosh-wearing foot kicked the gun from bin Laden's hand! Then, more bacon than I've ever seen began to fly through the air -- fat, greasy slices of uncooked ham, cascading down on the heads and shoulders of the OBL posse!


Bacon Is To Islamic Fundamentalists As Garlic Is To Vampires

"Sweet Mother of Mohammed!" one of them shouted.

"The infidels have cursed us!" spat another, who looked suspiciously like Sesame Street's Bert.

"Gah!" said bin Laden in disgust. "We are unclean! Unclean! Quickly, we must retreat -- to the bin Laden-mobile!"


Kevin Bacon, On The Other Hand, Pisses Off Fundamentalists Of All Faiths With That Sinful Footloose Dancing Of His

Just like that, bin Laden and his men were gone, giving me a chance to get a good look at my rescuer -- and it was a she!

This valkyrie was wearing a sassy pink top with "HG" emblazoned across the front, a fuzzy white cape and matching mask, black leather skirt, and the most stupendous galoshes I'd ever seen. Her fabulous outfit was topped off by a pair of perky pigtails and pink, Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses. She moved towards me with a worried look on her face, and I noticed an incredibly funky ring flashing on her right hand.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

I never got the chance to answer, for at that point my world went black.

Which is a fancy way of saying, "me went nappy-time." In case you were confused.

---CLICK HERE FOR 'ONE IF BIN LADEN, TWO IF HAIKU' PT. III---

one if bin laden, two if haiku, pt. I


Click For Larger Image

***
CHAPTER I


Greetings, friends. It is I, The Haiku Master -- beckoning you with another tale of real-life HIGH ADVENTURE!!!

For years, the world’s -- well, the Western world’s -- intelligence agencies have been tirelessly hunting the most infamous of super-villains, Osama bin Laden. But now, with the help of my crack support staff, I’ve tracked him to the one place no sane person would ever think to look: Minneapolis, MN!

That’s right -- not the City of Caves, nor the City of Deserts, nor even the City of Turbans, but the City of Lakes! Could that fiend be any more diabolical???

Regardless, a 747 bearing yours truly was soon touching down at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. After signing the inevitable round of autographs for a throng of waiting fans, I was whisked away via taxi to the local Motel 6; the Official Motel Chain of The Haiku Master.


Motel 6: The Only Motel Chain Endorsed By The Haiku Master

Then, the real work started. Phone in one hand and a stiff glass of George Dickel No. 12 in the other, I started calling some local contacts: cops, pimps, hustlers, street preachers, and even an unusually trustworthy hotdog vendor. But no luck -- if Osama was in town, they hadn't seen him.

Feeling defeated, I pulled a fresh smoking jacket and ascot from my luggage, and hit the streets to clear my head. Not knowing where else to go, I decided to try a nearby coffee house recommended by my close, personal friend -- and Minneapolis native -- Prince: Purgatory Coffee.

Once there, I could see why P (as his close, personal friends call him) gave Purgatory his Royal Seal of Approval; it was truly the finest coffee shop I'd ever seen! Inside was even better -- especially when my eyes got to the cutie pie working the counter!

"Hi!" she said. Heather, according to her name tag. "Can I help you?"

"Ah-gah-gah-gah," I said, tongue firmly tied as it always is in the presence of pretty girls. "G-gah-gah!"

Fortunately, I was saved from further self-embarrassment...for at that very moment, the nefarious Osama bin Laden himself stormed into the coffee shop, followed by an entourage of would-be tough guys in slick leather turbans!

"All praise to Allah!" he shouted. "I claim this infidel house of coffee worship in the name of my people's glorious battle against the Great Satan! Henceforth, it shall be known as 'Paradise Coffee!'

"Now, all you infidels, get out of my place and spread the word: Osama bin Laden shall take control of every coffee house in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area if your President does not call for an immediate surrender to the holy forces of Islam!"


If Osama Bin Laden Has His Way, Every Cup Of Coffee Sold In The Minneapolis-St. Paul Area Will Bear His Image

Looks like things are about to get down and dirty -- or my name's not The Haiku Master!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'ONE IF BIN LADEN, TWO IF HAIKU' PT. II---

Thursday, February 24, 2005

old man winter must die

Face front, 'ku believers! Do it now! Pronto! I, The Haiku Master, am in no mood for tomfoolery tonight! For I've spent the whole day battling Old Man Winter -- and I'm not speaking figuratively!


Old Man Winter Demonstrates His Deadly Sub-Zero Breath

He woke me early this morning, apparently using the spare key from 'neath my welcome mat to gain entrance to my top secret base of operations. Once inside, he started to cause a real ruckus: throwing my records around, knocking over an end table, even upturning the trashcan!

Fortunately, my advanced Haiku Master hearing works even in repose, and I pounced from my bed in a powerful fighting stance! Rushing into the hallway, I saw O.M.W. flee into the kitchen, and chased him down like the rat he was!

"Hello, H.M.," he said smugly, helping himself to a fresh box of Samoans. "Don't mind if I just...chill out here? Do you?"

I'd heard enough. "Why you frostbitten old fraud!" I bellowed. "What's the big idea, busting into my place at eleven-thirty and making a mess? I'll make you fill your Depends for this effrontery!"

"That's it, momma's boy!" he cried, dumping the Samoans onto the kitchen floor. "It is on!"

On it was, the two of us going at it like a couple of brain-damaged billygoats: O.M.W.'s witchy winter powers against my Cobra Kai Haikung Fu! We fought tooth and nail for six straight hours, and finally, with my last bit of strength, I sent my opponent flying out the front door with a well-placed Crane Kick to the ass!

"And don't come back, you dog!" I added for good measure.

As I watched Old Man Winter scurry down the street, I knew in my heart of hearts he'd return, and would eventually have to be dealt with in a more permanent manner. But that will have to wait for another time...for my sources tell me that the world's leading super-villain, Osama bin Laden himself, has been spotted in Minneapolis, MN!

The Sultan of Syllables has been tracking that creep for a long time, friends, and it looks like I'll finally get my chance to bring him to justice! Plus, it'll give me a chance to check up on these juicy tabloid rumors about a City of Lakes-based crimefighter who's been using the moniker "Haiku Girl."

If nothing else, I understand you can get a world-class cup of java at Purgatory Coffee. We'll see!

Best,

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

have you heard the good news?

Seasons greetings, 'ku believers -- like the headline says, "Have you heard the Good News?"

No, it's not the "Good News" those Jesus freaks are always going on about. I, The Haiku Master, am wondering if you've heard that today was Girl Scout Cookie Delivery Day in my neighborhood!? 'Cause if you haven't, Good News: it was!

A month or so ago, the local Girl Scout cartel had gone door to door, insisting that the locals pre-order their sinfully sweet treats...or else! Fortunately for both sides -- I don't like beating up little girls, no matter how much they threaten me -- my arm proved to be extremely twistable on this topic, and I gladly put myself down for two dozen cases of their Samoas. Or, as I like to call them, Samoans.


A Mighty Samoan

Now, they're finally here; more Samoans than I've ever seen in my life! The misnamed cookie Samoan, of course, 'cause believe you me I saw plenty of Samoans when me and Telly Savalas teamed up to foil a grandfather clock smuggling ring on the island of Samoa.

But that's a story for another day, my friends. In the meantime, I've haiku to write, crime to fight, and cookies to enjoy. Sa-lute!

Best,

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

goodbye, you weird #$%@er

Welcome back, friends. It's me, The Haiku Master, with my final thoughts on the untimely death of the infamous, nefarious, pirate king of gonzo journalism, Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson.


Two Dead Men: Hunter S. Thompson (Left) and Oscar Zeta Acosta, Circa 1971

Based on the latest round of follow-up reports, the leading wisdom has it that H.S.T. blew his own head off in reaction to his rapidly declining health, which was preventing him from living the kind of life he preferred to live: Wild. Rambunctious. Kinetic. These traits don't come easy to a 67-year-old man who had undergone hip replacement surgery and a broken leg over a year's time. But would that alone be enough to drive a warrior like Thompson to suicide? Were there other thoughts in play?

In 1964, Thompson wrote an article for The National Observer entitled "What Lured Hemingway to Ketchum?" (The article is reprinted in Thompson's The Great Shark Hunt.) In 1961, another honored American writer, Ernest Hemingway, also committed suicide, only with a shotgun. A year earlier, Hemingway had relocated to a very small, out of the way town in Idaho called Ketchum. Thompson's piece, obviously, was an exploration of what had brought "Papa" there, and ultimately to his death.

There are more than a few interesting passages in it:

"'That poor old man. [Hemingway] used to walk out there on the road in the evenings. He was so frail and thin and old-looking that it was embarrassing to see him. I was always afraid a car would hit him, and that would have been an awful way for him to go.'"

And:

"'We do not have great writers,' [Hemingway] explains to the Austrian in Green Hills of Africa. 'Something happens to our good writers at a certain age....You see we make our writers into something very strange....We destroy them in many ways.' But Hemingway himself never seemed to discover in what way he was being 'destroyed,' and so he never understood how to avoid it."

And:

"'Well,' said Hemingway, 'there's only one thing I live by -- that's having the power of conviction [in your writing] and knowing what to leave out.' He had said the same thing before, but whether he still believed it in the winter of his years is another matter. There is good evidence that he was not always sure what to leave out, and very little evidence to show that his power of conviction survived the war."

And finally:

"Perhaps [Hemingway] found what he came here for, but the odds are huge that he didn't. He was an old, sick, and very troubled man, and the illusion of peace and contentment was not enough for him -- not even when his friends came up from Cuba and played bullfight with him in the Tram. So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun."

If you've followed H.S.T.'s career as closely as the one true Sultan of Syllables, you'll no doubt see reflections of his elder incarnation in the words he wrote for Papa. I think he was an old man, afraid of becoming increasingly fragile, and probably more than a little embarrassed by the fact that, try as he might, he could no longer summon the old fire magic as forcefully and accurately as he had in his youth.

So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a 45-caliber handgun.

So goodbye and good riddance, you weird #$%@er; this world will not know your kind again. No matter how weak your reasons for leaving, you'll always be missed. Remembered. Honored. You did indeed stomp terra, and I have no doubt you're now doing the same in Valhalla.

And if you have any trouble, you can always send a telegram to the Right People. You know. Explaining your Position. Some asshole wrote a poem about that once, from what I understand.

But enough of this maudlin bullshit -- we'll be back to the usual dumb soon enough. In the meantime, go read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas if you haven't already; the Power of 'Ku commands you!

Best,

Monday, February 21, 2005

hunter better have a good goddamn explanation for this

Hello, readers. It's me again -- The Haiku Master -- still extremely distraught over the apparent suicide of one of America's great literary treasures, Hunter Stockton* Thompson.

It just doesn't make sense. H.S.T. was a legendary warrior, possessed of an indomitable free spirit and unbreakable iron will. He relished his own weirdness too much to remove it from the picture prematurely -- hell, he was the man who coined the phrase, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." Which really only leaves three explanations:


Nobody This Weird Kills Himself Without Good Reason

1) The government finally had him dead to rights, and was about to put him in prison for his remaining days;

2) He had recently been diagnosed with some kind of incurable, inoperable medical condition; or,

3) He has posthumously revealed himself to be the biggest bullshit writer of the 20th century.

Given that Thompson wouldn't have killed himself over Reason 1 until after a trial, that only leaves Reason 2. Because Reason 3 is just completely unacceptable, and will no doubt find him confined to a cage in Hell where a legion of betrayed, angry, former fans will beat him on the kidneys with branches 'til he pisses blood all day, every day, for the rest of time.

I'm sure it's Reason 2, though, or some variation of it. Come on -- this is Hunter Stockton Thompson we're talking about, after all. As his son, Juan, said in the official family statement to the Aspen Daily News, "He stomped terra."

Amen and selah to that.

Best,


----------------------
* Stockton, not "Stocton," as the widely reprinted AP report had it. Frikkin' amateur journalists.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

r.i.p., h.s.t.

The infamous outlaw prince of gonzo journalism, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, is dead, and our world is exponentially poorer for it.


Hunter Stockton Thompson, 1937-2005

I could usually give two tugs of a dead dog's cock when a celebrity dies, but this, given the nature of his death...this is horrible.

Words fail. The books written by the man pictured above have been ingrained in my psyche since high school, and I wouldn't want to imagine a world where those books hadn't been written. If you've never read his Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, you owe it to yourself to do so. (And no, watching the movie doesn't count.)

After all, you don't think a dumb guy like me came up with a slick phrase like "two tugs of a dead dog's cock" on his own, do you? That's all the good Doctor.

At least one Justo Juez santaria candle will burn in your honor tonight, Doc. Wherever you are or aren't, as the case may be.

thanks for wrenching my works, kofi

Just to warn you, loyal readers -- I, The Haiku Master, am pretty damned aggravated right now.

Earlier today, I told you about the sad case of a Pennsylvania judge who faces public castration just for acting on the basic human need for armament. And now, this: the United Nations has drafted a resolution against human cloning (link goes to the Ft. Wayne News-Sentinel)! More specifically to my circumstances, U.N. members are being asked to "take measures to prevent the exploitation of women in the application of life sciences."

Following in a proud crimefighter tradition begun by Superman, the Sultan of Syllables is a member in good standing of the United Nations. Which means, of course, that my plan for an army of Britney Spears clones is now a "no-no."


Thanks To The Killjoys At The U.N., The Haiku Master's Grand Plan For An Army Of Britney Clones Is Now On Hold

Needless to say, this rash decision on Kofi Amman's part is going to weigh heavily when I decide whether or not to renew my membership later this year.

Best,

stop the madness

Greetings, friends. I, The Haiku Master, was doing my daily sweep of the world's major news outlets when I came across this troubling report: the case of a Pennsylvania judge who faces fines, dishonor, and public embarrassment, all for trying to execute his god-given right to be armed (link goes to NY Newsday).

Have we become such a society of milquetoasts and old ladies so as to no longer trust its upstanding members with small defenses like keychain pocket knives? (Or, for that matter, brass knuckles, as my Minister of Information discovered when he was arrested at Maryland's BWI airport in January 2003?) Observe the weapon in the Judge's case:


Good For Opening Cellophane Packages And Filing One's Nails, The Swiss Army Keychain Knife Is NOT Suitable For Hijacking Airplanes

Being intimately familiar with a broad range of weaponry, I can assure you that a Swiss Army Keychain Pocket Knife is perfect for:

Opening small cellophane packages;

Cleaning one's teeth after lunch;

Pulling splinters from a lion's paw, so as to better befriend it;

Filing fingernails; and

Giving haircuts to midgets.

Note the distinct lack of "hijacking airplanes" on the above list, due to the fact that the knive's biggest blade is an inch-long piece of flimsy steel that can be easily snapped by a rambunctious child. Any adult who gets mugged by one -- much less plane-jacked -- really has no choice but to commit immediate seppuhaiku so as to avoid further embarrassment. Just don't try it with your attacker's weapon, as that would take all day.

So, in retaliation to this and other draconian decisions on the part of the TSA (Shelton's ignomious brass knuckle arrest included), I think it's high time for a Million Human Dumb Weapon Flight Day.

Under this grand scheme, any adult with a fetish for small knives, brass knuckles, nunchuks, throwing stars, electric joy buzzers, peashooters, and the like would descend on airports nationwide, demanding tickets and refusing to lay down our arms 'til served. Ahh, now that would be glorious!

Hopefully someone can get the ball rolling on this, 'cause I'm more of an idea man than a "do" man.

Best,



P.S. Despite being wronged, the Judge still needs to find a better class of friends. What kind of ally gives a cheap-ass Swiss Army Keychain Pocket Knife as a gift?

Saturday, February 19, 2005

what in the hell is the deal with paris hilton?

Welcome back, pardners. It's me, The Haiku Master, and I'm deeply troubled by this phenomenon known as "Paris Hilton."


If You See This Girl, Please Give Her A Square Meal

According to evidence gathered by my worldwide network of Haiku Agents, she's an offspring of that famed prestidigitator, Conrad Hilton, but eschewed the family business to become a porn star. After reaching the top of that sleazy industry, she parlayed her notoriety into a successful sitcom on the Fox network, and is now linked to a number of lucrative nightclub and apparel enterprises.

Which leaves me, the Sultan of Syllables, with one question: why?

I mean, aren't such career paths traditionally reserved for voluptuous, achingly beautiful women? As opposed to what one would get if the lovechild of Hitler and Eva Braun decided to develop the Auschwitz look so as to best annoy her parents during the inevitable teen angst phase?

No offense if you're into that sort of thing.

Ah, well. I suppose it's not the first time I've noticed the Emperor's lack of clothes, and I doubt it shall be the last. In the meantime, I'm off to draft a petition to ensure a Jenna Jameson Fox sitcom for the coming television season.

Best,

shortest adventure ever

Hi there, 'ku believers. It's me, The Haiku Master -- already back in town following the events of the shortest adventure I've ever undertaken, "Deranged Scion of the Lost City."

But don't let its stumpy stature fool you; you wouldn't judge Yoda by his size, would you? Due to certain legal entanglements, though, I'm not allowed to discuss what happened. At least, not right now.

So, in the meantime, back to the usual dumb.

Best,

Friday, February 18, 2005

no downtime for the dumb

Hello, 'ku believers. It's your close, personal friend, The Haiku Master, and it looks like my hope for a relaxing weekend has been shot to hell once more.

Turns out my science ally, the right honorable Professor de la Groove, just won't take "no" for an answer. Two days ago, I respectfully declined his voicemail request that I provide security for the archaeological dig he's heading up off the coast of India's Mahabalipuram (link goes to the Washington Post).

This morning, I was awakened by two heavily armed thugs who, shall we say, more forcefully expressed the Professor's desire. So I'll be leaving with them shortly -- just as soon as I complete this entry and finish packing. Reports to come, no doubt.

Best,

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

i must regretfully decline

Good to see you again, pals o' mine. It's me, The Haiku Master... and am I ever tired!

Upon returning home after the successful completion of my latest epic adventure, I had to go rescue my next door neighbor's dog, who was once again stuck in a tree. Then, Old Man Pinkerton across the street needed a hand cleaning out his storm gutters, which led to the Widow Finklebaum pressing me into service as a weed-puller. Finally, with dusk approaching, I was free to go back to my top secret base of operations.

After a sumptious dinner consisting of what the French call "le sausage pizza," I considered hitting the sack...but instead gave in to the siren call of a marathon session of Halo 2. By the time the last Covenant was broken and final Flood dammed, it was nearly 6 in the morning -- well past my normal bedtime, to say the least.

Fortunately, The Haiku Master is ruled by no schedule, and was qualmless about sleeping the day away if needed. My plans were soon undone, though...for my other next door neighbor, the dastardly Mr. Heem, had chosen that very day to have his new swimming pool installed! The construction noise proved to be too much and I soon gave up on slumber, resigning myself instead to mind-numbing daytime television.

So here I am, exhausted beyond belief and eagerly awaiting tonight's well-earned rest. And that's why I'm going to have to beg off from my good friend, the right honorable Professor de la Groove, and his request.

The Professor left me a message while I was in Singapore, and it turns out he's been placed in charge of the archaeological dig surrounding the lost city that was revealed off the coast of Tamil Nadu by the Boxing Day Tsunami (link goes to that bastion of Kiwi journalism, the New Zealand Herald). He said some weird things have been happening at the camp, and that he wanted me to come provide security. Which is certainly a shrewd decision on his part, but frankly, having just gotten back from my reunion with the Adventure Team, I can't be bothered.

I might make it out there eventually, but for now I'm going to suggest he give Flaming Carrot or the Guardian Angels a call. I need a break.

Best,

Monday, February 14, 2005

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. VI

***
CHAPTER VI



The R.A.H. Squadron made their move, storming the building with manic shouts of "Yo Joe!" But we seven -- myself, Joe, The Commando, Air Adventurer, Sea Adventurer, Man of Action, and Mike Power a.k.a. The Amazing Atomic Man -- were ready for them, having reaffirmed our belief in that fair notion of "all for one, and one for all!"

We gathered in the center of the briefing room in a star-shaped defensive formation so as to best strike at our enemies with our combined arsenal of kung fu, Haikung Fu, big frikkin' guns, and the like.

In the flash of an eye, the R.A.H.ers were on us, swarming like roaches. There were dozens of them, wearing gaudy uniforms emblazoned with goofy sounding names such as "Beachhead," "Nunchuk," "Wild Bill," "Shipwreck," "Big Ben," "Sergeant Slaughter," etcetera.

I will not lie to you -- the battle that ensued was glorious, a veritable cacophony of blood, guts, and brains that sent many a warrior soul to Valhalla. Better still, the Adventure Team suffered no casualties... as the R.A.H.ers proved to be the worst shots since Hinckley! Seemingly incapable of controlling their weapons, their bullets flew harmlessly over our heads, making it that much easier to mow them down like the dogs they were.

With his platoon all but gone, the R.A.H. leader soon found himself face-to-face with Joe, who was threatening him with a bloodstained knife!

"I'm warning you, stand back!" the leader said nervously. "Stand back or I'll shoot!"

"Go ahead, Duke, do your worst," said Joe.

The R.A.H. leader fired -- and as expected, the bullet sailed right over Joe's head! Joe struck, gutting Duke like a fish!

"That," Joe grunted, forcefully pulling his knife from Duke's gizzard, "is for telling people I don't exist, you 3 3/4" plastic turd!"

Duke slid to the floor, and the fight was finished -- another day saved by the one and only Adventure Team.


R.A.H.ers Like This Joker Made A Huge Tactical Error In Tussling With The Adventure Team

"God-damn, that felt good!" huffed The Commando, who had stripped off his shirt and was drenched in R.A.H. blood. "Those little wimps had that coming for a lo-o-o-o-o-ng time!"

"Tell me about it!" said Mike Power. "It was a real treat to flex my amazing atomic arm... around some Real American necks!"

"Yeah," agreed Air Adventurer. "We'll probably have to go on the lam as fugitives from justice, A-Team style, but damn if it wasn't worth it!"

"A-Team style...," Joe teased, "...or Adventure Team style, eh? Eh?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" asked Man of Action.

"I don't know," said Joe. "But if you think I'm saying we should get a heavily armed motor home and criscross the world in search of... adventure... then, yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying. Now who's with me, Adventure Team? All for one and..."

"...ONE FOR ALL!!!" everyone else shouted, throwing their hands on top of Joe's. Everyone, that is, except yours truly.

"Uh, sorry guys," I said. "It was great seeing you all again, but I really should be going. Got a, uh, dentist appointment next Tuesday that I can't miss."

"Well no offense, but who asked you?" said Joe. "For that matter, who are you?"

"Who am I?" I asked, surprised. "I'm The Haiku Master! Remember? You asked me to come help you fight the pygmy gorilla!?"

"Haiku Master?" muttered Man of Action. "I don't remember a Haiku Master... I remember The Astronaut. Did he write haikus?"

"Did he write haiku," I corrected.

"Oh, now I recognize you," said Joe. "You're Chuck Bukowski's sidekick, Wart. Right? I didn't know Chuck was here -- where is that old son of a gun?"

"No! Chu... Sensei Bukowski died years ago, and the whole Cobra Kai Haiku Order was annihilated shortly thereafter. I'm the one and only Haiku Master these days."


The Late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) Briefly Served With The Adventure Team In The 1970s, But Never Rated An Action Figure

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm an old man, and get easily confused," Joe offered.

"That's alright..."

At that precise moment, who should walk in but Emmanuel Lewis himself. True to Joe's word, he was wearing a pygmy gorilla suit, but held the heavy head mask in his tiny little hands.

"Sweet Mother of Moses!" he squeaked. "I've been sitting in that jungle for six hours now, Joe, and I won't take no more! Now pay up -- I'm out of here!"

And oh, how we laughed.


***
EPILOGUE


With that, the Adventure Team was off -- presumably to purchase a heavily armed motor home. As for myself, I returned to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs to fight crime, write haiku, and reflect on my latest adventure. Or maybe re-read the first new issue of Grimjack for the seventh time and take a nap. One or the other.

When I finally got back, though, my phone was ringing off the hook; seemed the neighbor's dog had gotten itself stuck in a tree again. Ah, well! Rest is always at arm's reach when you're me... The Haiku Master!

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. V

***
CHAPTER V


No doubt about it, Adventure Team Headquarters was under attack -- and to make matters worse, Joe had gone stark raving mad!

"No, not them!" he gasped, still pointing his pistol at The Commando's head. "Why does it have to be them?"

"Giant ants!?!" I asked, incredulously. "Awesome! I've never fought giant ants before!"

"Giant ants don't yell 'Yo Joe!,' boy!" Man of Action barked. "Only one bunch of pansy-assed yahoos use that term."


The Haiku Master Thought He'd Have An Opportunity To Fight Giant Ants, But Was Wrong

"You mean..." started Air Adventurer.

"...our successors," finished Sea Adventurer.

"Successors my ass!" added The Commando. "Cheap imitators is more like it -- look how many of 'em it takes to get a job done! Can't believe they call themselves 'Real American Heroes."

"ADVENTURE TEAM!" boomed a voice via an outside PA system. "THIS IS THE R.A.H. SQUADRON! WE HAVE YOUR BASE SURROUNDED, AND HAVE NEUTRALIZED YOUR POWER SUPPLY!"

"Yeah, 'Real American Zeros' is more like it!" guffawed Man of Action. "Haw, haw!"

"I mean, how good could they be?" said Mike Power. "There's not... an Amazing Atomic Man!... in the lot!"

"WE HAVE NO QUARREL WITH MOST OF YOU -- WE JUST WANT JOE. ANYTHING HE'S TOLD YOU ABOUT THE PYGMY GORILLA IS A LIE. GIVE HIM UP, AND THE REST OF YOU CAN GO IN PEACE."

"Well, well, well, Joe, looks like I ain't the only one what wants to bust you upside the head," The Commando said.

At that point, we saw something we'd have previously written off as impossible: Joe dropped his gun, slid to the ground next to the briefing room's podium, put his head in his hands... and started to cry. Big, blubbery, wracking sobs; a real embarrassing scene, to be sure.

"Oh gah--! Gah! I... I'm s-s-s-so s-sorry! S-s-so sorry! I m-made it up! Made it all up! Even hired Emmanuel Lewis to hide in the jungle in a pygmy ape suit, just so... just so... just so I could see all of you again! Just to feel alive again!"

"Say what?" The Commando said in disbelief. "Emmanuel Lewis? In a pygmy ape suit? Hiding in the woods? That has got to me some of the -- no, that is the craziest, most messed-up thing I have ever heard of, man! And all because--"

"ADVENTURE TEAM!" came the PA again.

"All because you're--"

"YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO EITHER GIVE UP JOE OR EXIT THE PREMISES. AFTER THAT, WE'RE COMING IN!"

"All because you're lonely and living in a shitty nursing home? Shit, Joe, you and me were brothers -- why didn't you just call me up and say you needed a hand? I woulda been glad to help."

The other Adventure Team members quickly concurred. Even Power, who added, "If nothing else, I could have built an amazing atomic companion for you. Been thinking of whipping one up for myself!"

"Guys, you have no idea how much that means to me," said a humbled Joe. "Looks like I've still got a lot to learn about the meaning of 'all for one and one for all,' huh? But right now, I think I better go outside before I get you in any more trouble than I already have."

"Just outta curiosity, Joe, what do they want you for?" Air Adventurer asked, cooly smoking a cigarette. "I mean, besides making up a pygmy gorilla threat and giving Emmanuel Lewis his first paying gig in years."

"Well, uh, the equipment I got for us to use on this mission. I sort of... borrowed it... from the R.A.H. base..."

Man of Action leapt forward. "It's no crime for a commander to arm his men!" he shouted. "If they want you, they'll have to go through me first!"

"They'll have to go through all of us, Man of Action -- the whole big, bad Adventure Team itself," said The Commando, extending his right hand, palm down. "Are you with us, Joe?"

"I'm with you, all right," Joe confirmed, planting his hand on top of The Commando's. "Let's hear it... partners! All for one and..."

A wave of hands, my own included, rushed to join this brave alliance, and we gladly took up the Adventure Team's time-honored battlecry: "...ONE FOR ALL!!!"

"ADVENTURE TEAM, YOUR FIVE MINUTES ARE UP!" the R.A.H.s challenged from outside. "WE'RE COMING IN!"

And just like that, the "H" was "O."

---CLICK HERE FOR 'FINAL HUNT FOR THE PYGMY GORILLA' PT. VI---

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. IV

***
CHAPTER IV


Once inside, Joe took us to AT HQ's main briefing room, where another batch of older, familiar faces awaited.

As I set my bags down on the stone floor, they rose to greet me: Man of Action, Air Adventurer, The Commando -- even Sea Adventurer, looking out of place as always without his motorized raft. But someone was missing...

"Hey," I said. "Where's Bulletman? You know, the Human Bullet?"

"He met his match in Vestman the Human Bulletproof Vest," Joe told me somberly. "I tried to warn him, but he just wouldn't listen..." Then, to everyone: "Okay men, now that we're all here let's get to the matter at hand."


Bulletman The Human Bullet Met His Match In Vestman The Human Bulletproof Vest

"'Bout damn time," Sea Adventurer muttered. "Things go right down the crapper at my seafood restaurant every time I'm outta town, so the sooner I get back the better!"

"Seafood restaurant?" The Commando scoffed. "You mean that Long John Silver's franchise of yours? Shit, I guarantee my brokerage firm makes more in a week than you do in a whole year of selling greasy-ass fishsticks and such."

"What the--?!? I'm gonna shove a fishstick up your greasy ass, you--!"

"Settle down--," Joe started, but was immediately interrupted by Air Adventurer.

"They kinda got a point, Joe," he said. "I'd much rather be making time with the nurses at the V.A. hospital than hanging around in the woods with you yahoos. No offense intended."

"Yeah!" added Man of Action. "Let's get going here. I, uh -- I hate sitting!"

"Enough!" Joe shouted. "If you goldbrickers would pipe down for two seconds, going is exactly where I would get! Now sit down, shut up, and pay attention!!!"

With all eyes on him, Joe took the podium.

"Right then. Thirty-five years ago, the Adventure Team undertook a mission codenamed 'Capture of the Pygmy Gorilla.' During which, of course, we rescued an African pygmy village from a rampaging, presumably evil, pygmy gorilla."

"I remember that," I heard The Commando mutter to Air Adventurer. "That shit made no sense. I mean, sending in a badass paramilitary strike team to take out a midget ape?"

"Commando..." Joe said.

"Alright, alright," said The Commando.


The Dreaded Pygmy Gorilla

"At any rate, the mission was a success. After the pygmy gorilla was secured, it was brought to a top secret government lab for further study. But its story doesn't end there."

"Lucky for us," Sea Adventurer sneered.

"Having ran a full battery of tests on the pygmy gorilla, the top secret lab determined it wasn't evil at all, simply hungry, and eventually released it to the relative freedom of Florida's Lion Country Safari. But the other Safari inhabitants never took to the strange creature, and it soon found itself in mortal danger.

"Fortunately, I had been monitoring its situation, and called the team into action for the mission codenamed 'Rescue the Pygmy Gorilla.' During which, of course, we rescued the pygmy gorilla."

"Which was even stupider!" The Commando said.

"Indeed it was, Commando. For as I've recently learned, the lab was wrong all along -- I was wrong! The pygmy gorilla is evil, and now has the domination of Earth within its grasp! Which is exactly why I've called you all together for one last mission, codenamed... 'Final Hunt for the Pygmy Gorilla!'"

Suddenly, brassy patriotic music began to drift into Headquarters through hidden speakers, amplifying the wind-up to Joe's pitch.

"The Adventure Team will again be stronger and the world safer because of us, men, even if it means we go out in an awe-inspiring blaze of glory instead of rusting away in some crappy retirement home where the male orderlies rifle through your care packages and won't clean you up when you have the occassional accident during naptime! Now let me hear you, Adventure Team: All for one and one for all!"

"Man, this is bullshit!" The Commando shouted, rising from his seat in anger. "Bu-u-u-lshit, you old jive turkey motherfu--!"

A crazed look in his eyes, Joe pulled a high-caliber pistol from the waistband of his fatigues. In less time than it took to say, "Whoa!," he had it cocked and pointed at The Commando's head.

"I said all for one and one for all, mister! All for one and one for all! ALL FOR ONE AND ONE FOR ALL!!!"

Right about then, an explosion rocked Adventure Team Headquarters. The lights flickered, then went out, and I heard scores of voices screaming in unison outside: "Yo, Joe!!!"

Which, as it turned out, wasn't caused by a mob of Joe fanatics hoping to see their idol.

---CLICK HERE FOR 'FINAL HUNT FOR THE PYGMY GORILLA' PT. V---

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. III

***
CHAPTER III


Power and I walked in silence to the Adventure Team jeep parked outside. He took the wheel... but not before telling yours truly to don a silk blindfold!

"I'm not a kid sidekick anymore, Power." I snarled. "I'm not covering my eyes this time."

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger," he said. "This was Joe's idea, not mine."

"Jesus, fine! Give me the damn blindfold!"

As I tied the cloth 'round my face, Power gunned the jeep's engine and sped out of the airport parking lot. We drove for what seemed an eternity down roads with more bumps than all the nightclub bathrooms in Manhattan combined.


The Official Adventure Team Jeep

"I don't remember it taking this long the last time I was here," I muttered after hour three.

"The bridge is out," Power replied. "Had to take a detour. What's the matter, is your non-atomic bladder in need of a restroom?"

"No. Just feels like my ass is about to fall off, that's all."

"Heh-heh. Yeah, with a road this rocky, I'd probably feel the same way... had I not built a fantastic new atomic ass for myself a few years back! Maybe you should look into getting one."

"Maybe I will."

Finally, when I thought I could take no more, the jeep rolled to a stop. "All right, you crybaby, we're here," Power said. "Now get your gear and let's--"

"What in the name of all for one and one for all took you two so long?" barked a gruff voice.

I pulled off my blindfold and saw "Ol' Eagle Eyes" himself marching straight towards us. He was older, balder, and grayer to be sure, but it was definitely Joe.

"I expected you back hours ago, Power!," he shouted.


He May Be Past His Prime, But The Fabled Leader Of The Adventure Team Can Still Kung Fu Grip With The Best Of Them

"Sorry, Joe," Power answered. "The uh, bridge was out. Had to uh, take a detour..."

"Bridge? What bridge? What in the Sam Hill are you talking about, man? And why was H.M. blindfolded?"

"I, uh..."

"I knew it!" I fumed, winding up to deliver a devastating technique known as the Rusty Trumpet. "I knew you were #%$@ing with me, you self-loathing cyborg freak! Now I'm going to Haikung Fu those amazing atomic limbs of yours right down your amazing atomic pie hole!"

"Boy, boys!" Joe shouted, throwing himself between me and Power. "We can't let personal differences get in the way of our mission! Save it for our target: the pygmy gorilla. The filthy, evil pygmy gorilla!"

"All right, all right," I said, standing down. "But when this is done, Power, you and I are going to have words. And believe you me, you can count to the bank on that promise!"

With that, I snapped my fingers under Power's nose, then turned to follow Joe into Headquarters.

---CLICK HERE FOR 'FINAL HUNT FOR THE PYGMY GORILLA' PT. IV---

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. II

***
CHAPTER II


"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now making our final descent into Changi Airport."

This was the captain of the plane that was ferrying me, The Haiku Master, into Singapore, bellowing over the loudspeaker into the cramped coach section.

"At this time, we ask that you extinguish all smoking materials, fasten your seatbelts, and return your seatbacks and trays to the upright position."

Ah, Singapore. Despite its world-class slings, I never envisioned myself returning to this backwater burg... but then, I never expected to be contacted by the long-thought-dead field commander of the covert organization known only as the Adventure Team, either! And this man, Joe, had all but ordered me to report to Adventure Team headquarters, hidden deep in the jungles outside of town.

As I breezed through customs, though, I came to realize I had no clear idea as to the exact location of the AT HQ! The only other time I'd visited that fabled site was during my arduous Haiku Apprentice years, and Joe had insisted that my then-sensei, dearly departed Haiku Master Charles Bukowski, blindfold me for our journey to the base. How was I to find it now?

"Need a ride?" a coldly robotic voice asked from behind me. Whirling around in a Haikung Fu fighting stance, I found myself face-to-face with yet another blast from the past: Major Mike Power, the Amazing Atomic Man!

"Long time no see, eh Wart?" he said, thrusting his bizarre robotic right hand at me for a shake.

"Indeed, Mike," I replied. "But they don't call me Wart anymore; these days, I'm the one, true Haiku Master."


Major Mike Power, The Amazing Atomic Man, Was Good Enough To Meet The Haiku Master At Singapore's Changi Airport

"Well isn't that fancy," he said. "Maybe we should see how your much-vaunted haiku does... against my amazing atomic powers!"

"God, all this time and you still reek of insecurity!" I said. "Aren't you ever going to get over being born handicapped? Who pulls your strings, man?"

"I may have been born with disabled limbs, but having spent my entire life creating fantastic new atomic parts for my body, I've no doubt I'm more than a match for you, boy! Now grab your bags and let's go -- the commander's waiting!"

And so we went... but if Power didn't watch himself, he'd soon discover just how dangerous it was to mess with a certified Master of Haiku!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'FINAL HUNT FOR THE PYGMY GORILLA' PT. III---

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. I


Click For Larger Image

***
CHAPTER I


Greetings, friends. It is I, The Haiku Master, back with another awe-inspiring tale of roughneck adventure culled directly from my singular life!

As the hepper amongst you already know, the greatest comic book series of all time -- Grimjack -- is back after a 15-year, lawyer-caused hiatus. I was at my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs, re-reading the first new issue for the sixth time when the phone rang.

“The Haiku Master residence,” I said, suavely. “The Haiku Master speaking.”

“H.M.,” said the gravelly voice on the other end of the line, sounding haunted. “It’s me... Joe.”

“Aw, Jesus -- not you!” I said. “It can’t be you. You’re dead! You were on the Intruders’ saucer when it exploded! Game over, man! Game over!”

“On the contrary, old friend, the game has only just begun,” Joe said. “It’s me alright -- though I wish to god it weren’t! The world’s in danger, H.M., terrible danger...”

“What danger, you bearded fool? What are you talking about?”

“The gorilla,” he said. “The damn, dirty pygmy gorilla! I was wrong about it, so wrong...and now the world's going to pay!”

“Alright, now slow down and take a deep breath -- what does the pygmy gorilla have to do with...”

“There’s no time,” he cried, “no time! This threat has to be nipped in the bud... and I’m putting the Adventure Team back together to do the nipping!

“But how does that concern me? I was never even on the Adventure Team -- that was my sensei, Charles Bukowski.”

“Well then let’s hope you’ve got the feet to fill his sandals, H.M., 'cause I'm gonna need all the kung fu grips and eagle eyes I can get my hands on! I expect you at Headquarters by Friday, mister -- all for one and one for all!”

With a click, the line went dead. “Yeah, yeah, all for one and one for all, you dirty commie,” I muttered.

Well, this is certainly going to blow my weekend, loyal readers. But when the Adventure Team calls, one answers.

"Yes," I said, now speaking with a hot-sounding airline representative. "This is The Haiku Master. I'm going to need one ticket to Singapore, please."

---CLICK HERE FOR 'FINAL HUNT FOR THE PYGMY GORILLA' PT. II---

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

happy rooster year

G'day, mates! It's me, The Haiku Master -- back with warm wishes for you on the first day of the year 4703!

Don't worry, though; I haven't been whisked away to the future on some crazy adventure or anything. See, 4703 is the current year if you're Chinese...and as if a high-falutin' number like that wasn't cool enough on its own, they're calling it the Year of the Rooster, to boot!


Foghorn Leghorn Ponders The Possibilities Presented By An Entire Year Devoted To His People

As you can tell from my profile picture, I'm not Chinese, but I am a certified Master of Haiku. As you may or may not know, haiku originated in Japan, which in turn is very close to China (or so my agents tell me). So it seemed only right that I join my Chinese step-brothers in celebration.

And what better way to ring in the Year of the Rooster than with a slam-bam, no-holds-barred, winner-take-all cockfight?!?

Details to come, but it'll probably take place behind the 7-11 near my top secret base of operations, with a $25 entry fee and a strict BYOC policy.

Hope to see you there!

Best,



p.s. No robot chickens allowed.