Saturday, November 22, 2008

Ninja Temp Agency

Alistair here again, Pat is currently assisting my Squimonk brethren in the construction of our body shop front. Actually, by assisting, I mean he is eating donuts and watching the shop come together when he's not watching Judge Judy. Sometimes, he goes hunting with that Douggy character he hangs around with. We're OK with that, because then we get work done. Plus, while he's gone, we like to rifle through his stuff. We don't steal anything, we just like to rifle through things, we are squirrel monkeys after all. While we're building, though, I would like to tell you more about my time with Lindbergh.

I woke up the day after meeting him knowing much more about the world and more convinced than ever that I was making the right decision in turning against Clan Platypus. I had begun to learn about the evils of meth and of ninjas, especially the evils of ninjas with meth. That's some kind of super crazy evil I can't even begin to describe. Think about it this way: meth turns people into mindless zombies. When people do meth, it bonds with the calcium in their bodies and eats their bones. It also forms tiny crystals under people's skins so they slowly become geodes. Ninjas are silent killers trained to cheat and sneak their way into any situation in which they can assassinate people. Take those two and put them together. Now put a little week old cake on top. Now, take all of that and throw it into a blender with Castor oil. While you're at it, throw in some anchovies and let it all sit in the sun for a day. Now, drink that concoction. You taste that? Do you? You know what that taste is? Evil. That is the taste of evil, my friend, and don't you doubt it. I've heard some people say that V-8 mixed with Slim Fast is the taste of evil, but that's not true. That's really just the taste of stupid. I mean, why would you mix together vegetable juice and liquefied chalk? That's just not right. But Ninja-meth-cake-Castor-oil-anchovy day old hot cocktail? Pure evil. But I digress.

I woke up the next day ready and eager to help Lindbergh in his fight against the meth ninjas and so I asked him how I could help. He let me in on his plan. He was trying to raise an army to fight against clan platypus, and I was to be the general. The army, though, must have intimate knowledge of the clan's workings and their distribution network.

"You're talking about the squimonk, aren't you?" I asked him.

"Indeed," he said.

"Who the heck says 'indeed'?" I asked him, incredulously.

"Look," he told me, "I was born in 1902, if I want to say 'indeed' or 'consarnit' or 'curses' or even call the 0 in 1902 'aught', then I have earned that right, dagnabit."

"Fine, fine," I told him. I realized then how much of a generation gap existed between us. He had been born in 1902 and I had been born a week prior. Amazing how a hatred of ninjas could draw us together.

"So," I inquired, "how do we get to the squimonk?"

"Sadly," he responded, "We don't get to the squimonk. You do."

"How so?"

He then told me his plan. I must return to clan platypus and act as if I'd delivered the meth with no problems and without attaining sentience. I must then work from within, analysing each individual squimonk and push them to the point of sentience. Then, when all had been made sentient, or, in the case of Carl, able to poo on their own, we would all plan an escape together. In the meantime, Charles would implant me with a learning chip, capable of accessing information through his private satellite, so I could continue to learn throughout my spy mission, hopefully coming up with new ways to combat the ninjas. Charles would continue to pose as a large buyer of meth, keeping some of it off the markets. This ruse would give us a chance to occasionally contact one another. When I visited his house, I was to practice anti-ninja combat techniques.
"This last part," he told me, "is the most vital and the hardest to set up. You will be practicing on real ninjas."

"Really?" I asked. "Where do you get real ninjas?"

"From Ninjatemp," he said, "the ninja temp agency."

"Why is there a ninja temp agency?" I inquired.

He responded, "In this day and age, it is increasingly hard for ninjas to find work. First, with all the movies inspiring nerdy young teenagers to take up ninja'ing, the market is really saturated. Second, most assassination work these days goes to shooters, which is sad really. I mean, look at Kennedy. That was a sloppy job, too many witnesses. I'm not saying I condone the killing of the president or anything like that, in fact, Kennedy was a very close friend of mine, but the fact remains that, if that hit were done by ninjas, there would have been no witnesses left alive. In fact, the American people may not have even known their president was dead until the next election. Regardless, because of a serious dearth of work, ninjas are hiring themselves out in other industries; light industrial work like splitting boards or sharpening paper cutters, construction and, sometimes, secretarial."

I tried really hard not to ask. I really did. But, in the end, it overwhelmed me. "OK, OK, why secretarial? What does that do with being a ninja?"

"Nothing, really," he responded, "but ninjas are fast typists and very quiet. Plus, there's a lot of secretarial work to be had. If you go to a temp agency, you have a 50/50 chance of being a secretary somewhere. Ninjatemp's no different. But the ninjas I've hired will be doing real ninja'ing, and they are thrilled. So, whenever you return here, which will be once every two weeks or so, you will learn anti-ninja combat skills, which we will eventually use to overthrow Clan Platypus and foil their nefarious scheme. HA HA HA HA!!!"

"That was a little dramatic," I said.

"I've told you before, you get weird when you spend a lot of time alone," he responded.
And so, my training begun in earnest. I traveled back and forth between Clan Platypus and Lindbergh's estate, learning about the world and how to fight ninjas. I studied my fellow squimonk and helped them grow in intelligence. We all worked together to plot our escape, which is a story for next week.


Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

Terrific entertainment. However, I caution anyone against trying to explain what it's about to, say, their wife. They just mutter "Jesus!" and walk away.

Pat O'Neil said...

That seems a fairly true statement. I write the thing, and I also would not recommend trying to explain it to people. Mortimer Adler once said that, if someone asks you what a book is about, just tell them to read the book.

Mateo Seagrave, California said...

Oh yes, it is good. Though I suppose I should take notes on what it was I wanted to comment on as the topics and tomfoolery comes at such a snapp pace, i forget what it was that inspired me to click the comments link inda first place. Let me open another tab, then... (opening tab)Ohhhh... that's right: meth. And not just, but the theoretical smell of evil, associated with meth as being among the ingredients. Also, I wanted to say that I almost never laugh out loud, not even at things I find very funny... I mean, they may be funny... but... laughing out loud, that just doesn't happen unless the humor is really up there. Well the line about those who abuse crystal meth turning onto geodes was nothing short of a side-splitter. You should write for film or television. God knows it needs it.

Anonymous said...

Wow...So very RANDOM. I love it!

Anonymous said...

I found your blog via PC World's Lamest Blog article, but I would just like you to know I think this is hillarious!!! My friends and I have conversations just like this and it's to know it's not weird! Keep up the good work!

Joe Fool said...

It really reminds me of Tolkien's style. Ever read "Mr. Bliss"?