time magazine doesn't know from good novels

Hi kids. It's me, The Haiku Master, taking a break from my in-development Big Vegas Caper to bring your attention to a very disheartening development: TIME Magazine's highly suspect list of the All-Time 100 Novels!

How Does One Compile An All-Time 100 Novels List Without Finding Room For Hunter Thompson's Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas (Shown), Amongst Others?

Picked by "TIME Critics Lev Grossman and Richard Lacayo" -- a.k.a. two guys the Sultan of Syllables has never heard of -- this so-called list pretends to pinpoint "the 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to the present." And while I'll admit there are some good choices amongst the many white elephants, it should be noted that a large section of that crop's cream got left on the cutting room floor!

At any rate, and using the same criteria as TIME, here are 19 novels and three "graphic novels" (a fancy word for comic book, and included to complement TIME's Watchmen endorsement) we at Haiku International feel should have been included, presented in alphabetical order. I've only read the comics, but H.I.'s Minister of Information claims to have read the real books and assures me they are the bee's knees.

So without further adieu, here's H.I.'s All-Time 22 Novels That Should Have Made TIME's List Of All-Time 100 Novels:

• The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon
• Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
• Casino Royale, Ian Fleming
• The Collector, John Fowles
• A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy O'Toole
• Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
• Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
• A Feast of Snakes, Harry Crews
• Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk
• The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
• The Godfather, Mario Puzo
• Grendel, John Gardner
• Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski
• The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
• The Invisibles, Grant Morrison & Various
• Libra, Don DeLillo
• Misery, Stephen King
• Preacher, Garth Ennis & Steve Dillon
• Stranger in a Strange Land, Robert Heinlein
• Transmetropolitan, Warren Ellis & Darick Robertson
• The Wanderers, Richard Price
• Wise Blood, Flannery O'Connor

Some may argue, but they are wrong. So sayeth I... The Haiku Master!!!

Best,

marino mania

Hut-Hut-Hike, 'ku believers! It's me, The Haiku Master, here to celebrate the biggest event of the year: once-and-future Miami Dolphins Quarterback Dan Marino's induction into the National Football League's Hall of Fame, taking place today, August 7, at 12:00 p.m. E.T.!!!

Dan Marino Quarterbacked The Miami Dolphins From 1983-2000, And Will Again In Valhalla

Being the Sultan of Syllables, I've written a haiku in honor of my close, personal friend's big day, and it goes something like this:

Thirteen on his chest
Foul mouth, rocket-launching arm
Danny's Canton-bound

There, that ought to coax a tear or two out of Ol' #13. But Haiku International's Marino Mania doesn't end there! We're also pleased to re-present the true details of an adventure Marino and I once shared, originally published on this site back on February 5; enjoy!

* * *

In The Haiku Master's experience, being "The Man" is almost always a bad thing. Who sends you bills? The Man. Who taxes your income? The Man. Who gets filthy rich while you never get enough? The Man. Who says it's illegal to fire off large caliber weapons in the privacy of one's apartment? The Man.

To which I say, "#%$@ The Man."

But Marino is one "The Man" with whom one does not want to #%$@.

I'll probably embarrass Danny by telling this story, but he and I once worked a case together. God, it was ages ago; 1988, I believe, and I was still but a Haiku Apprentice. Earth Command had asked the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (my sensei) and me -- along with Marino, Patty Hearst, Evel Knievel, and Chuck D -- to investigate a reported Nazi alien infestation on the Dark Side of the Moon.

Sure enough, Earth Command's suspicions were right on the nail. Seconds after our shuttle touched down on the moon's green cheese surface -- and having been there, I can assure you it is made of green cheese -- our hearty band of adventurers was confronted by a throng of goose-stepping, tentacled, interstellar foreigners!

The battle that ensued was mighty, and may have been my last had it not been for the strong arm and unerring accuracy of Marino. I fought well that day, my friends, and was finishing off one of the Nazi aliens with the Haikung Fu technique referred to as the Cleveland Steamer... but never noticed the alien Kapitän sneaking up behind me!

Fortunately, Marino did -- and rocketed a plutonium-core football at the bastard's head before it had time to remove my own with its plasma sword!

Needless to say, everyone in our group survived that bloody day, though the aliens did not. Which just goes to show: You don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't spit in the wind, you don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don't #%$@ around with Dan "The Man" Marino.

* * *

Thrilling stuff, huh? Well, you didn't think the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 was going to bust out something boring, did you? But enough jibber jabber -- time for me to fire up Castle Haiku's high-tech bank of Sony Trinitron plasma monitors before the gala spectacle begins. Sa-lute, Daniel Constantine Marino, Jr.! Sa-lute!

Best,

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. IX

***
CHAPTER IX

I was in dire straits. Lying in a pool of my own blood (and Brotherhood urine--Ed.) at the feet of Austin's famous Lenin statue -- body broken, wallet gone -- I felt my qi slipping free of its earthly bounds... when a familiar voice called out!

"Wart," the voice said. "Wart!"

The air before me began to shimmer, coalescing into a ghostly version of my former sensei, the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski -- just like Ben Kenobi did in Empire Strikes Back!!

The Ghost Of Charles Bukowski Pulled A Ben Kenobi On The Haiku Master

"Sensei Bukowski?!" I gasped, weakly. "I thought you were dead?"

"I am," he said, hiccupping. "And still drunk, too, if you can believe that. Who knew they'd have booze in heaven?"

"Well, Dean Martin must be happy!"

Sensei Bukowski's eyes flew open, a mixture of disgust and hatred raging across his face. "#$@% Dean Martin!" he shouted. "Why'd ya have to bring him up?!"

"S-sorry, Sensei. I, uh, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Alright, forget it. Just forget it. That ain't why I'm here anyway -- I'm here to tell you it ain't your time to die. Not yet, at any rate." He waved his hand, and my wounds were magically healed! "There, that oughta do the trick."

"Thank you, Master!" I cried, rising from the ground in disbelief.

"No problem," he said, just as his etheral form began to dissipate. "Oh, and be sure to check out the TXRD while you're in town...it's all-girl roller derby...not to be missed..!"

My sensei faded completely... only to reveal Texas Kelly and his henchman, Dubya, quickly approaching!

"H.M.!" Kelly shouted. "Gawdammit, boy! We been looking all over town for your ass! Where the hell you been?!"

"You can run," Dubya assured me, "but you can't hide."

"Oh, here and there," I replied. "You know, 'TCBing,' as they say. What's it to you and that pack of traitors in Masters of Mariachi, anyhow?"

"Aw, hell!" Kelly spat. "Look, I didn't have nothin' to do with them kicking you out! Shit, if'n it were up to me you'd still be their lead singer, but you ain't, and getting all pissy about it ain't gonna change nothing. Word?"

I stood silently, arms folded across my chest, refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Word??" he repeated, tilting his head menacingly.

"Word," I finally conceded, rolling my eyes.

"Good," he said approvingly. "I'm glad that's behind us. Okay then -- who's hungry?"

"Ooh! Ooh! Me!" Dubya shouted, jumping up and down frantically.

"Yeah, I guess I could go for a bite," I said. "But you have to take me to something called the 'TXRD' after that! It comes highly recommended."

"Roller derby, huh? No problem," T.K. grinned. "Matter of fact, the Hellcats are taking on the Holy Rollers later tonight. Now, c'mon -- tacos are on me!"

So they were. At Kelly's suggestion, I ordered the Barbacoa de Cabeza tacos. Turns out that means "head barbecue tacos," which would've been handy to know before I'd started eating. As it was, I found out halfway through my second helping.

The Haiku Master Doesn't Recommend Barbecued Head Meat

The Pharaoh of 5-7-5 vomited long and hard at that point -- much to the amusement of Texas Kelly and Dubya. Who laughed and laughed, and oh, how they laughed...

***
EPILOGUE

Sunday afternoon was a blur, having spent the remainder of our petty cash on a bottle of liquor each and three tickets to that night's roller derby festivities. When the booze was gone, we headed out, Dubya behind the wheel of Kelly's Mercedes.

The Haiku Master, Dubya, And Texas Kelly Spent Sunday Afternoon Downing A Bottle Of Sam Houston, Jim Beam, And Dalmore, Respectively

Is it dangerous to ride in a vehicle driven by a drunken 7'-tall freak who may or may not be some kind of imperfect duplicate of America's president? Of course! But one doesn't become a Haiku Master by playing it safe, kids.

As for the roller derby itself... well, let's just say I've come to realize there are greater sports in this world than cockfighting. What do you get when two gangs of hot girls on old-school skates beat the crap out of each other for a good hour or so while music blares, and a couple of punk bands perform beforehand and during intermission?

One satisfied Haiku Master.

The Haiku Master Does Recommend Austin's TXRD, Home Of The Holy Rollers

I don't know when I went to sleep that night, but I do know the morning came too fast and too ugly for the third straight day -- though much of Monday's ugliness was likely caused by Dubya's less than tender method of waking me up.

"Get up!" he bellowed, smacking me in the face with his open, hair-matted palm. "Get up! Check out time in 10 minutes -- Master Kelly tell Dubya to take Haiku Master to airport!"

"Okay, okay..." I muttered. "Give me a sec..."

"No time!" he shouted, smacking me again. "Up! Now! Or me put you on no-fly list!"

We were soon on our way, Dubya weaving in and out of traffic at a fantastic rate of speed, just as he had done on my arrival. As we pulled up to the terminal closest to my waiting Haiku Plane, I turned to shake his hand... only to receive a long blast of mace in the face!

"Gahhrg!" I shrieked. "Mufferfuggerwhathfugchewdothafer!!"

"Ha ha! That for messing with Texas!" he laughed, shoving me out of the car. "Don't mess with Texas!!"

Dubya drove off with a squeal of rubber, leaving me writhing on the sidewalk outside Austin-Bergstrom International. Adding insult to injury, my violent arrival attracted plenty of attention from airport security, requiring me to answer questions for some 32 hours before finally being allowed to return to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs.

And that, gentle readers, is the true story of how I had mariachi stardom in the palm of my hands, only to have it snatched away by a guy from Mexico. That's right! Me! The Sultan of Syllables -- outsourced! Now I know how all those textile workers feel!

Oh well. Life goes on, as they say. They, and me...The Haiku Master!

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. IV

***
CHAPTER IV

Needless to say, the Wal-Mart show was a huge success, leaving thousands of concertgoers highly satisfied... both with our performance and the store's astoundingly low prices! From our opening number, Motorhead's "Bomber," to our encore finale, KISS's "Detroit Rock City" (changed to "Austin Mariachi City" for local flavor), our mariachi covers of classic metal songs had the audience caught up in a bona fide orgiastic frenzy!

MoM Saw A Million, If Not Hundreds Of Faces At The Austin Wal-Mart, And Mari-Rocked 'Em All

Afterwards, Texas Kelly went to collect our fee from the store manager, and my bandmates and I moseyed back to the official MoM tour bus to start a well deserved post-gig celebration. But as we neared our communal ride, a strange man with a ghost puppet on his hand leapt out at us!

"Boooooooooo," he said in an eerie voice, speaking from behind his puppet. "My name is Gho-o-o-o-stie! Wo-o-o-o-n't you sto-o-o-o-o-p and talk to my friend, The Muffin Man?"

"Er, maybe," I said, sensing danger. "Where... uh, where is this Muffin Man?"

"Oh, hello," the man said again, this time in a thick -- and obviously fake -- Cockney accent. "That would be me -- The Muffin Man, at your service." He extended his non-puppeted hand, clearly expecting me to reciprocate. Which, given the way he introduced himself, is not something the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 was keen on doing. I mean, just look at this geek:

From Right: The Muffin Man And His Sidekick, Ghostie

"Let's go, Hombre muy Extraño!" Paulo urged me, tugging at my shoulder. "This guy -- he plum loco!"

"Yeah," I said, "I think you may be right, Paulo..."

"Oh, your little friend is right!" squeaked the Muffin Man, dropping the accent. "I am crazy -- crazy about your sound, baby! I have to commit it to vinyl! I wanna be your producer, baby, your producer!"

"Commit it to... Listen, no offense, but you may want to consider commiting yourself! I mean, Jesus! What's with the weird ghost puppet?"

"It's..."

"And the bowler hat?"

"I..."

"And all those freaking pens?!"

"Um..."

"'It's...I...um!' And you want to produce our record?! You are a textbook case, man -- a textbook case!"

At that point, I recalled a lesson taught to me by my former sensei, the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski.

"Listen, Wart," he had said, reclining on his cot in a hot Vietnamese hotel room, shortly after vomiting into a nearby bucket. "Never bust a crazy guy's balls. They go nuttier than a bull goose when you do that."

"Okay, Sensei," I had said.

"Good boy," he had said back. "Now, go fetch me an ice cold beer. And a few of them local whores. Chop chop."

The Late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

Man alive, he sure would be mad if he knew I'd forgotten that one -- not to mention its countless companions. Still, probably not as mad as the Muffin Man was now.

"You dirt-eating, flower-sniffing, city-loving son of a son of a son of a bitch's bitch!!!" he shrieked, pulling violently at his own hair. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! Every last one of you bastards! Every last one of you!! Ah-haha! Hahaha! Haha-hahahaha!! Hahahahahahaha!!! Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Then, he calmed down and we all had dinner together. Just kidding -- he went nuts, pulled a giant meat cleaver out of the back of his pants, and attacked!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. V---

world of the dogs, pt. I

Click For Larger Image

***
CHAPTER I

Greetings, 'ku believers. It's me, The Haiku Master...but I'm not sure where I am or if this message will even reach you!

Last night, after helping local police take down a west-Baltimore clown smuggling operation, I decided to celebrate at my favorite tavern, The Ritz Cabaret, with a nice, stiff glass of George Dickel: The Official Whisky of The Haiku Master.

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

As fate would have it, Old Man Winter was also at the Ritz, and rushed over after I took my usual spot at the bar.

"Haiku Master!" he shouted, waving his Manhattan glass wildly. "Hey Haiku Master! It's me, Old Man Winter!"

As longtime fans will recall, O.M.W. is somewhat of a reformed criminal, having recently gone back on his "meds" after months of threatening the good people of Baltimore with his bipolar behavior. Luckily, it appeared he was still beating his disability instead of letting it beat him.

"Hey," he said, "lemme buy you a drink. C'mon, I wanna buy you a drink. C'mon, huh? Drinky-poo? C'mon, whaddya say?"

Naturally, I said "yes," and we proceeded to have a swell time. Mass quantities of sweet, sweet liquor were consumed, my friends, without a drop being wasted. My dearly departed sensei, former Haiku Master Charles Bukowski, would have been proud.

Front Row, From Left: Old Man Winter And The Haiku Master Had A Great Time At Baltimore's Ritz Cabaret

Unfortunately, the carousing caused me to enter my infamous Drunken Haiku Master state of being, and reality became a blur. When I finally came to, I was stumbling back to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs.

I unlocked the front door, and heard the distinct sound of voices coming from my parlor.

"All right, Schmitty," one of them said. "I'll see your bones and raise you two more."

"That's five to you, Rover," said another.

"I know, I know," said a third. "Grrrr...forget it. I'm out."

"Cat," sneered a fourth.

What in the hell? What kind of strange action was taking place in the Pharaoh of 5-7-5's sanctum sanctorum without his consent? Lunging forward, I burst into the parlor...only to walk right into the mind of master painter C.M. Coolidge! For there, sitting 'round my poker table, were seven dogs -- and with Dickel as my witness, they were playing cards, drinking whiskey, and smoking cigars!

A Motley Scene Similar To This One Awaited The Haiku Master At What He Thought Was His Top Secret Base Of Operations

"What in the catland?" one of them barked in surprise. "How'd that hairless ape get in here? And why does it have cabbage for hair?"

"For that matter," said another, "what's with the strange fur it's got on?"

"Bad ape!" shouted a third, rising from the table. "Get!"

Needless to say, someone had a lot of explaining to do.

---CLICK HERE FOR 'WORLD OF THE DOGS' PT. II---

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. 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---

memories of marino

Hear, hear! After a year spent foolishly backpedaling away from the sex and violence it sells so well, the National Football League regained a modicum of respect with today's very wise decision to elect the greatest quarterback to ever play the game, Dan "The Man" Marino, into its Hall of Fame (link goes to Bloomberg.com).

Dan Marino Quarterbacked The Miami Dolphins From 1983-2000, And Will Again In Valhalla

In The Haiku Master's experience, being "The Man" is almost always a bad thing. Who sends you bills? The Man. Who taxes your income? The Man. Who gets filthy rich while you never get enough? The Man. Who says it's illegal to fire off large caliber weapons in the privacy of one's apartment? The Man.

To which I say, "#%$@ The Man."

But Marino is one "The Man" with whom one does not want to #%$@.

I'll probably embarrass Danny by telling this story, but he and I once worked a case together. God, it was ages ago; 1988, I believe, and I was still but a Haiku Apprentice. Earth Command had asked the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (my sensei) and me -- along with Marino, Patty Hearst, Evel Knievel, and Chuck D -- to investigate a reported Nazi alien infestation on the Dark Side of the Moon.

Sure enough, Earth Command's suspicions were right on the nail. Seconds after our shuttle touched down on the moon's green cheese surface -- and having been there, I can assure you it is made of green cheese -- our hearty band of adventurers was confronted by a throng of goose-stepping, tentacled, interstellar foreigners!

The battle that ensued was mighty, and may have been my last had it not been for the strong arm and unerring accuracy of Marino. I fought well that day, my friends, and was finishing off one of the Nazi aliens with the Haikung Fu technique referred to as the Cleveland Steamer...but never noticed the alien Kapitän sneaking up behind me!

Fortunately, Marino did -- and rocketed a plutonium-core football at the bastard's head before it had time to remove my own with its plasma sword!

Talentless Hack Jim Carrey Once Got To Make A Movie With Marino

Needless to say, everyone in our group survived that bloody day, though the aliens did not. Which just goes to show: You don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't spit in the wind, you don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don't #%$@ around with Dan "The Man" Marino.

Best,