User:Muushu/sandbox

Odeology is the art of confusion through extremely long and extensive literature methods. Sarcasm is not the lowest form of humour - this is. Written to confuse and entertain, an experienced Odeologist is able to confuse while making sense.

SOME RULES

NO DELETING

NO MODIFYING

NO ALTERING

Do not copy or use in other places without explicit permission

Email me at odeologist@gmail.com

Some Facts

Founder: Master Fin of the Royal Kingdom of Frolovia

Date Founded: 2015

Type: Literature

Below is the complete collection of every ode, ever:

= Odeologist = An Ode to Boring Essays and continued arguments By Fin (Royal Scribe) Dedicated to all whose minds have drifted...

Armour was now very effective in blocking blows and strokes from swords, and heavily melee battles was abandoned, as long-ranged weapons became primary weaponry, especially weapons such as the Longbow and Crossbow, which were favoured due to their ability to pierce plate armour, which sometimes did a thing that screamed unintelligibly at another one, who decided it was all too stressful and had a nice relaxing bath full of blue and yellow rubber duckies who then got into another large argument, for the 3rd time this week, about who made green best out of pink and grey, both colours of which made it into the Channel 15 News which broadcast every nice Tuesday afternoon for a few seconds, only when the weather is good, which, naturally made the purple octopi of hueness extremely upset, which bumped the calligraphy ink pot, spilling shiny yellow juice all over the keyboard, which made the G key very cranky, because the juice had corroded under him, enabling the password to be constantly CAPS LOCKed, a tradition carried out over thousands and thousands of years, but even though only but. â€œYesterday had might have quite a ran tomorrow, for today, we did the might marathon!â€, quoted Mr Tense, possibly the most confuddled person ever to talk the earth, who is currently in the care of mr brown, an associate of an octopi whose calligraphy pot was in a state of distress after a traumatising experience with a loud suit of armour who owned a lot of rubber duckies. â€œFor yesterday, we will fought to the start!â€ proclaimed Mr Tense until someone found a frozen chicken and is whacking him with it, sponsored by the calligraphy pot. In his state of corrosion, the G key took up a lawsuit with the juice, whose origins are unknown by the long-ranged weapons, who run the Channel 16 News, who are easily upset, which is obvious considering the circumstances, especially Saturday, who is loved by all except 5, which arenâ€™t in the best mood at the moment and will be back shortly with another round of ink for the poor old calligraphy pot whoâ€™s all caught up in colossal amounts of donut traffic which consider him an abuse to donut society and have taken up a complaint with Saturday, who isnâ€™t a happy man at the moment, even though heâ€™s not, which explains perfectly the problem with the corroded G key. After a big argument with his second-step-cousin, Mr Tense has taken up knitting and is currently having some problems with working out when, and where. In four seconds, the world just knitted itself out of the calligraphy pot, he understands, but cannot grasp the meaning of the Channel 16 Newsâ€™ Saturday, who recently ordered a large patch of pink rubber duckies which mysteriously disappeared after a juice spillage on highway 4, where the calligraphy pot is still stuck behind a particularly obese donut, of which just yesterday, got run over tomorrow, today, by a certain Mr Tense on his way to visit the yarn shop because he regrets to told everybody here yesterday that heâ€™s had to run out of the stuff, and has to go fetch more. Simply said, the juice has just filed a complaint against Mr Tense, blaming him for the sueage from the calligraphy pot, who, in other news, is on the verge of WWIII with the fat donut. Mr Tenseâ€™s lawyer just sacked himself, as his client is â€œtoo hard to understandâ€, which is completely irrational, stated the poor old calligraphy pot, who has been recruited as a Channel 17 journalist, which has made him even more distraught. To add insult to injury, his therapist just spontaneously combusted, the police are thinking it over, after finally arresting the fat donut, who is on trial for the attempted eatage of the juice, who was on trial for the corrrosion of the G key. Really, in all aspects, reflected the calligraphy pot, ãã‚Œã¯ã™ã¹ã¦å®Ÿéš›ã«ã“ã¼ã‚ŒãŸãƒŸãƒ«ã‚¯ã€ã¾ãŸã¯ã‚¤ãƒ³ã‚¯ã€ã¾ãŸã¯ã‚¸ãƒ¥ãƒ¼ã‚¹ã®ä¸Šã«æ³£ã„ã¦ã„ã¾ã—ãŸã€‚ãã‚Œã¯æ±ºã‚ã‚‹ã“ã¨ãŒã§ãã¾ã›ã‚“ã§ã—ãŸ ãã‚Œã¯ã™ã¹ã¦å®Ÿéš›ã«ã“ã¼ã‚ŒãŸãƒŸãƒ«ã‚¯ã€ã¾ãŸã¯ã‚¤ãƒ³ã‚¯ã€ã¾ãŸã¯ã‚¸ãƒ¥ãƒ¼ã‚¹ã®ä¸Šã«æ³£ã„ã¦ã„ã¾ã—ãŸã€‚ãã‚Œã¯æ±ºã‚ã‚‹ã“ã¨ãŒã§ãã¾ã›ã‚“ã§ã—ãŸ, he said, as he appealed to the lord of spageetah, as the pot wanted the lord to reassure his authoritah over the legions of spageetah. Mr Tense has his foot in a puddle of brown, squechly stuff and is wondering if anyone knows what it might be, and how to got his feet into the stuff. Judge 3.8 has ruled, guilty to the Fat Donut, who is currently having an argument on how to spell his name - Doughnut or Donut, and really wishing he hadnâ€™t got out of bed. Meanwhile, the 16 blue and yellow duckies are having a marvellously luxurious lifestyle on happiness clouds and argument rainbows. Bubbles filled the sky as the mythical green rubber duckie floated high above the slightly wet and awfully unhappy Mr Tense who had gotten halfway to yesterday before he encountered a storm of soapy tasting water and strawberry flavoured shampoo which left him damp and miserable and tasting awfully nasty. In their luxury bucket, the duckies were on their way to the calligraphy pot who had given up all hope of ever being happy and has become a small black cloud who likes to follow happy looking people around, complaining about all things yellow and happy and wishing there was more grey around, you know, to brighten his day a bit

An Ode to Cows By Fin (Royal Scribe) Dedicated to all slightly stupid animals everywhere

Upon an old mountain-top, blanketed in delicious green grass, lived a cow. â€œMoo!â€! said the cow, and that was that.

An Ode to Ramblings and Mind Scrambling and Bogglingly Long Speeches consisting mainly, but not entirely of rather angry vegetables By Fin (Royal Scribe) Dedicated to The Logothomical Bibliomaniac

Once upon a time, rather once in a time because it would be rather hard to be upon a time as time and space stretches out in all kinds of directions and acute angles, and were you to try and stand upon it you would find yourself tumbling down rather fast and painfully, being pulled one way and another by the various gravities and anti gravities of the universe. Not only that, youâ€™d find yourself travelling back through time, because you are falling through time and space, so donâ€™t come crying back when you get rather squashed by a nasty pink turnip who is complaining about the quality of his 3 Oâ€™Clock and how bruised it is and how he demands a full refund and complementary synthesisers for the rest of his leaves. When people to try and place things once upon a time, these things tend to all get mashed together and everyoneâ€™s confused now. Not only would you get rather mashed up by the various talking vegetables and bruised timeframes, but youâ€™d age rather quickly, get pulled this way and that, squeezed and moulded into various works of contemporary art, but youâ€™d spend a lot of time bored. As itâ€™s name suggests there is a lot of uh, space in space. But enough about that. For the purpose of this story and to not only save the people in it from some very uncomfortable experiences, we will not use the phrase â€˜Once upon a timeâ€™, to avoid its nasty consequences, instead we will say, Mrs Must had not had a very good day. This leaves us to wonder what disastrous events had occurred that had made her day so bad. We can assume, that she had not encountered the annoyed pink turnip, as we have had the grace and good nature to save her from the unpleasant experience described before. We can confirm this fact, as she also has a lack of contemporary art lying around, or any at all. Mrs Must is a strong believer in uncreativity and wants nothing to do with the stuff. The very fact that she is being talked about here, should she ever find out, would leave her such a stake of shock that she would instantly faint, for lack of undercreativity. However none of that would matter, as her reading this would leave her in a immensely awkward argument with a pink turnip who had returned, angrier than before with his dolphin shoes, who, he reported, â€˜had not stopped squeakingâ€™. The fact that he was also speaking in turnipese did not help the situation. As Mrs Must tried to wrap her head around the confusing gestures he was making with his leaves to try to communicate with her, a small, but headstrong tomato popped into existence, had a good look at himself and decided he wanted a refund. We leave poor Mrs Must with her two unhappy friends who are both insisting that receipts are so mainstream and that the ratio of squigeeness to squishiness should be about equal not,â€™thisâ€™. At this moment, we whoosh around the world to a rather remote part of France called London where 3 dogs are having tea and a polite argument over the state of one of their hairballs that had recently fallen out of the sky in the form of a cat. They were most displeased and started yapping at it, until one of them started choking on a large turnip that had just materialised and dropped into his mouth. Dog 2 started to do the Woofleich maneuver, but it was too late, the turnip had not survived Dog 3â€™s liver-flavoured drool. â€˜How upsettingâ€™ said London, and promptly started wailing and tantruming flooding France up to the sky. To this day, it still leaks constantly giving everyone soggy sandwiches and wet cows. Poor Cows. To this day, the beef industry has flourished on turnips, but one day they all disappeared and started demanding refunds. Unfortunately none of them kept receipts or any membership details so none of the retailers are to refund them. After the great vegetable market crash, the economical value of tomatoes soared, as they are great double agents and absolutely not fruit. Nope. The seeds are just a genetic mix up they swore. So that ends that and the tomato tea industry, which was never going to go anywhere anyway. With great sadness, the Londonese dogs got up and rebelled against the system. With great happiness, Mrs Must trotted off, free of her worries and vegetables and swore to become a strict vegetarian to rid the world of the horrors of things like turnips. Such great happiness bestowed upon her by the great cosmic powers of the universe and she was as free as a bird. Unhappily the happiness was very heavy and she was immediately squashed once again. How very sad. Paris, the capital city of England decided now was a good time and promptly followed in Londonâ€™s lead and rained on everyone all at once and forevermore. How very dreary, thought Mrs Must who was wondering what type of vegetables she would devour messily as they all pleaded for mercy and didnâ€™t get it because thereâ€™s no such thing as vegetable mercy, and she made sure that all the vegetables she bought were free-range vegetables, because she believed, no matter how annoying they were, they shouldnâ€™t have a miserable life. On reflection, however, it occurred to her they have no brains and her constant struggle to find Free-Range vegetables ceased. Paris got a tear in his Notre Dame at that one and promptly drowned 17thousand pigeons, which made London really mad and they started throwing stuff at each other. On to the subject of pigeons however and The Young Turnips First Encyclopaedia makes it very clear that pigeons are very very stupid and bluntly declares that no-one cares. Everyone agreed and went off to annoy Mrs Must who was starting to look a bit too happy at the absence of vegetables in her life (she had recently gone off being vegetarian when she realised she couldnâ€™t eat meat. The arrival of 30million turnips coming to annoy her darkened her mood again and her psychologist decided she might need to come in twice a week. Somewhere insignificant however, the greatest theme ride for water particles had been opened and called the water cycle. This great new ride allowed somewhere, sometime, 15 trillion water particles to fall out of greyish blobbish thingos and wet everyone. The rideâ€™s owners, Mr Paris and Mrs London reported to be â€˜pleased at the rideâ€™s successâ€™. Shortly after Mrs London and Mr Paris swapped homes, Mrs London took over control of the ride and went overboard on using it. Mrs Must, got the other end of the ride and sadly accepted the fact that she was going to spend the majority of her life wet and went back. Anyway that's not the point, We must get back to assessing the potential problems of trying to stand upon a time, London and Paris have stood through time, but not on it, however, thought Mrs Must, should we need advice, they would be handy, however, the Water Cycle Amusement Ride was in full swing and wouldnâ€™t shut down for a while. Despite the enormous number of young particles who went on it each day, not everyone had had a turn yet. She hypothesised that in fact, the very reason that it was this way was because some very immature water particles had tried to be once upon a time, and only once, because it is very hard to get back to the top once youâ€™ve fallen in, and requires a great deal of being able to fly and much more of having a green jetpack, because, of course, it wouldnâ€™t work otherwise. She had a sneaking suspicion that they all had mini teleporters and was very mad about it and wanted one too. She planned to interrogate them tomorrow when she had her tea. She must practise her interrogation skills tonight to her teddy gorilla. Then she would be ready to get herself a mini-jetpack! Before she could do anything else, she was squashed by a falling turnip. How tragic, thought Atlantis and promptly drowned herself

An Ode to Meaningless Sentences and Undetermined Phrases Beyond the Restrictions of Character, Plot or Moral Development Where Everything is Definitely Not All a Metaphor for the Acidicness of Printer Cheese and the Wellbeing of Carrot-Flavoured Refunds By Fin (Royal Scribe) Dedicated to Mr O Jozef

Never, through but always on top, yet the essence of it neglected to react correctly once it was. Space travel was once needed as a necessary nutrient of nothing, but the paper required was beyond the limitations of the chairâ€™s knowledge of Octopus life cycle, from Tadpole to Sickly Feeling In Stomach from too much Cordial. It was in the way that spacecraft became extinct on 23% less firepower. Fuel, of course, is extremely abundant in all corners of the plant and printer worlds, where Chlorophyll dominates the energy industry, owned by a Mr Fotosinthzees. Unfortunately, the Apollo 943 was never equipped for electric fuel, nor space travel, rather built by a small and raggedy rat from a few scraps of mouldy cheese (green, of course). 15 000 years before, cardboard boxes ruled the galaxy before some idiot invented liquid acid, which was in the form of highly toxic cheeses before. When the world was young, mused Mrs Must, we must all yell simultaneously to achieve perfection of communication, for ideas were the basis of all underness and stupidity. Luckily the stone age in yet to come in the world of monkeys, they are still in the stick and hamlet age. Kung fu became a popular form of relaxation in the minds of young, free carrots. A dark force was gathering in the eastâ€¦, or the west, or wherever it is in relation to the young minds of the carrot industries. Fifteen times after the 4th big bang and the 12th Ice Age of Resdera, a small but individually unique printer ran out of carrot juice and had to call for more, which sent Mrs Must to bonk him over his copier and teach him a lesson. She had recently purchased a large hammer and was using with great reckless abandon on the many vegetable lovers of the known and unknown universe. London disagreed also with the printerâ€™s lack of taste for its beverage choice and rained all over it. The printer asked for a refund and was disappointed when the only answer was when he was squashed by a falling, and very confused looking octopus. It was with great sadness, that if turned the back and punctuated away slowly and miserably, only to be picked up by the Lord of Carrots, and carried to carrot heaven, seconds before Mrs Must destroyed it with her hammer, and happily murdered all of the carrots. Oh, happy day, thought Paris and turned itself pink. Suddenly, a million seconds from somewhere thatâ€™s pretty close to nowhere, a large reference section appeared and decided it should be just like Paris, but mucked up the final draft and turned a rather nasty shade of brown. Whatever remote planet it was on decided enough was enough and threw the reference section down the rear end of a bibliography, which the section absolutely loved and exploded with happiness, but then found a Harry Potter book, turned red and disappeared. Upside down is now mainstream, decided the king, but inside out is so out of fashion. Lots of people thought this was a pretty bad move, but to this day, it remains the largest city in the outer triangle of the 15th atom of the back of some really old and boring sloth called Absolutely Nothing Beneficial To Society. His time had come and whats-his-face would have to continue without him, not that he cared. Sloths are notoriously unsympathetic at the best of times and he was in no fit state to express anything.

An Ode to Code

It is now that it must be addressed, the â€˜ness of code. An ode to code. For now is the time to code, with binaries and colons, with brackets and small reptiles eating bigger reptiles, among abbr. and letters representing colours, in which words mix into symbols, and foreign characters slowly reveal the sense, of where formatting and paragraphing eludes logic and sense. With greater enormonity comes the time of the code, and it strides in with great presence and excellent tone. Code is logical yet uniformatted, a language which none may understandment until thy is worthy of symobols and those who try are doomed to confusion and nattiness forevermore. Into the glimpse of unto codity, most of the world worships those who can â€˜ness, upon a world of black and whiete through red woven egnimatically through the mix and turn, upon where one may ponder the meanings of abbr. and turtles, who get graded C++, by Mr Sir H, Mrs T and their cat, ML, which of course stands for Mary Lou, what did you thunk it stood for, or sat on? Markup Language? Ridiculous people, machines and fellow cats. It has come to the attention of the great Turtle, that one may not code, should they not ode, and in that is that. Let it be known, typed, read, dictated, telepathically transferred, moved and splatted interverse wide and everywhere of code, that turtles are the wisest of the system in series, not parallel. But code is not inhibited by computers made in panda. Code of hospitals, inducing purpleness. RETURN OF THE â€˜NESS

An Ode to Study, Exam Preparation, Assignment Makeage, Late Night Stress and Result Reflection

Oh the mind numbing boredom that waits beyond the 7th week, boredom fuelled by the monstrous study. It lurks at the end, knowing that its time will come and when one meets this boredom, one must grudingly accept one's fate, and become a slave, to said master, for 2 weeks, only hope being the angel in the night, procrastination. However this angel, this angel of stealth can be an angel of death and destrucitom. Rather, it can bring said death and destruction, planting seeds of overconfidence, all knowingness and overhighlighting everything. When one is a slave to study, at this dark end of time, one must be wary of this angel. The anger and disappointment coming from one's elders will bring the study larger and closer to the light end of Teerem. One must never give in to the angel.

The grey, the Azongments, often called The Scouts of Stress, must also be kept away from the white angel, or one will face the great Soubgekt Felure, redder than red. The Scouts of Stress may play with one's mind, use their powers to deal inconceivable worry, however one must remain with the spirit of green - Urgonizashun, for she will be the saviour of one's mind, and one must remain close to Urgonizashun, or be a slave of red, black and white. Abyssal Gloom waits for one at the other end of Teerem should one abandon Urgonizashun, and the red will slowly envelope everything. The white angel is the path to red, the fath to Soubgekt Felure. Never venture down that path, for down is the right word. Once down, in that pit of red and white, deathly white, one's only hope is to find ones Rephlecshun, sister to Urgonizashun, for she is ones only hope once on the path down red and white. Make Urgonizashun your friend, keep her close, then at the end of the tunnel, in the warm light of the Halidaez, Urganizashun can leave to and roam free, rest until one needs her once more when the grey Scouts of Stress come slinking in.

Some background on said Royal Scribe
Once, Jozef the Great told said Sribe that my Ode's needed a plotline.

''R.I.P Jozef. The Volleyball that was thrown was, indeed, heavy''

Inequivocal rules of Oding
Said ode must never contain plotline

An ode should leave the reader completely rapt, in a horrified, awed way

Said characters in said ode must always argue

Oding is to be done distracted and very tired for best results

Sentence Structure, Paragraphing, Capitalisation, Punctuation, Grammar, Editing and any sentence type is deemed unneccessary and redundant

Any sense of sense is looked poorly upon

Eccentrism is the best kind of ism and is always aggreed with, even when disagreeing.

Always disagree with yourself, argue extensively, beat yourself up, then sleep on the board of keys

An Ode to Fantasy, How it is Fantastic, What Fantastical Worlds There Are and Who Decided That its so Fantastic Anywho?

Why was the King not happy?, one may ask and one had better sit down, you may be here for a while. One quickly got up and left, but he's going to tell him anyway (whoever he is) King Must had just gotten a teleturnip from his sister who had informed him she was sending him her "excess" turnips as a birthday present. Not only was the King's birthday yesterday, so she had forgot, but her "excess" consisted of several million turnips, all of which insisted on luxury, 2 bedroom suites. The Royal Interior Design Manager, Royal Bedmaker, Royal Luxurist and Royal Vegetable Manager (newly appointed) all fainted, then one died and one exploded of internal awesomeness. That got the King a bit peeved because it was a lot of work to go and tell someone else what to do and how was he supposed to deal with all that and the royal teamaker was already in Bali and it was way too much effort for a busy man like him and he really needed some tea and why don't you go get me a tea or why don't you go get my sister to get me some tea, I'm a busy man you know I've got to tell people to run a kingdom etc. The Royal Manager went and hired a professional vegetarian, who, after requesting a sharp sword and trident, went after all the turnips. The King got carried in and fainted from all the turnip juice. (I'm a sensitive man ok?! I have had some extremely traumatic experiences in my life, and turnips are just one of the factors, and you may be wondering what that is and I'm going to tell you etc)Meanwhile, his sister had forgotten his second birthday that week(oh I'm so mad my sisters so lazy, I mean is it really that hard to go to the shops, buy me some money, go home, wrap it up, put a bow and a card on the truck she just wrapped, find a wormhole, try not to die going through that wormhole, get an intergalatic taxi etc) and the professional vegetarian had at last gotten rid of the turnips. Meanwhile, several storeys down, a rather irrational troll was trying on a rather sparkly shoe (in context, this shoe was beyond sparkly - it had 15 billion diamonds, and leds under those (they were rainbow)and many mant many different gems). The troll didn't think they were good enough and dumped them in a passing bowl of turnip soup and strode off, leaving the store clerk to wonder how fired she must be right now, and on a scale of one to ten how dead she was. Meanwhile King Must was throwing a massive tantrum after finding a shoe in his bowl of soup (I mean is it too much to ask, not to have a shoe in my soup? All I get is pre-pre-breakfast, pre-breakfast, breakfast,post-breakfast,post-post-breakfast,pre-pre-brunch, pre-brunch, brunch, post-brunch post-post brunch...............get some pride for your pathetic work people!) The Troll had found an even sparklier dress and hated it more than the shoes. She neglected to find some soup to dump it in while the attendant was trying to get her attention by biting her ankles (breaking his teeth in the process) and instead the troll found a conviniently placed swamp halfway down the keep and chucked it in there (the wizards may have had a rather stupid apprentice. That perticular incident made King Must so made that he chunked an ubertantrum and ordered every single wizard to redecorate his 300m3room ten times over, in a range of 5 different shades of brown and made the interior designers watch. Some people say you can still here the screams of pain at a murder of room fashion.) She (the troll) strolled off, only to find a sparkly hat, which of course she loved, and wore it everywhere from then on (troll fashion is all about sparkly hats). Mrs Must was on an interdimensional tram, when it broke down 56 light years from King Must's dimension. It was most upsetting. London came back from an encore and promptly cried herself and everyone else to sleep. Mrs Must, resourceful as ever, and given a great opportunity to relieve herself of a few suitcases of turnips. built an interdimensional bridge of turnips, as well as donating 15'000 turnips to every passenger on board, all of which were asphyxiaing (Must had brough an Oxygen Kit). King Must was most displeased with her arrival. It wasn't that he didn't like his sister. Truth be told, he was a bit scared of her headstrong poersonality. He was a lot scared of the turnip storm that always followed in her wake. He ordered all the shutters to close. They promptly refused, and told him it was nice and sunny and warm and no. The King ordered the bubble shield to deploy. The manager of the bubble shield was 563years old and had no glue where his glasses were and was the only one who could configure it properly. He had been looking for the past century. It was most unfortunate that there was no mirrors in the bubble shield house. The king, in a panic went to his last resort - the chief vegetarian. The Chief vegetarian was a formidable man indeed. 2 foot tall, he was a towering man, and his weapon of choice, turnipator 4000 was most frightening. The king quivered at the thought, dismissed it, and sent his sister on the nearest train to pluto. He sighed with relief as he saw the white cloud on the horizon turn away. Recollecting, he realised that he had walked 10metres to the phone, was devastated at this and immediatley called a year long banquet. In the forest of Yurk, a brown bear lived in a tree, up a tree and all over the tree. Yurk was quite disgusted at this bear and was just about fed up with its antics. The bear was swiftly relocated into the King's 4th pot of (turnip) stew. Ballistic with rage, the King used his giant ladle to catapult the bear into the neighbouring forest of Burk, next to Yurk. Burk hated the bear even more, and soon the bear was part of the largest scale game of tennis ever. Of course it was all way too much fun for the bear, who had not enjoyed the forest at all and loved the pretty views. But enough about the King, the bear, the troll and the forests. Let one journey beyond that to a tall, spiralling fortress on a mountain, above a lush green forest. There were 3 people who lived here. Ram the Goat, Kid the Sheep and Merlin the Wizard. Merlin didn't like Ram, he ate all of Merlin's hats (Merlin had 3 hats - blue, dark blue and darker blue). Kid the Sheep was very very stupid. He had an obsession with one particular fence post (Kid was too stupid to live in the fortress, he lived in a paddock beside). In his tiny, tiny, tiny sheep brain, he thought it was the most attractive fence post he had ever seen, much nicer than the other 399 identical pieces of wood, and was intent on freeing it from the ground, by ramming his tiny stubs of horns into it all day everyday. Ram the goat did not enjoy the outside and lived in the cellar/basement. He had a thick rug to sleep on and the end of a enormous dragon to chew on. More about that dragon - her name was It. She had been asleep for 45'000 years and wan't going to wake up now. Anyway, her hide was much to strong for any goat to chew through. So the two lived in mutual understanding and happiness (meaning the Ram knew she could chew on it and It didn't know Ram existed). And that leaves us Merlin. Merlin was a Wizard, and a direct descendant from The Merlin. I know what you're thinking. Oooh - this is going to be so clichÃ¨d! The wizard is bad a magic. Well you're wrong. He was extremely bad at magic. He had failed Wizardry School 15 times before he fluked out by waving his wand in the general direction of the headmaster while sleeptalking. The headmaster was immediatley impressed by his slowly gathering pile of drool and the perfect way he was biting his own hand and he graduated immediatley. By some miracle, he aquired this tower, but he is improving his magic. For example, yesterday, he fond out that you had to actually hold your wand when you said the thing, it doesn't do it by itself. (Merlin had aquired a set of bluetooth headphones early in his childhood and was immediately amazed at how magic. Pathetic, isn't he) Should one enter through the (unlocked) front door, one would find a variety of smells that hospitably greet the nose. Goat hair. Brimstone. Wood. Freshly cut (eaten) grass. Burning Toast/Eyebrow. Merlin was cutting up an orange, with his wand (he had accidentally exploded half of it, giving the remaining twig a nice serrated edge) He was, in fact, not burning anything, it was the reminants of yesterdays accident, in which the dragon was less asleep than normal and had sneezed some explosive goo all over the inside of the mountain. It was most fortunate Barney the Great had been passing to rebuild the entire countryside. One would try to ascend to the kitchen on the 2nd top floor, then one would realise that one needed stairs, dumbwaiter or flying platform etc. It was most unfortunate that there were none. One would then wonder how to get up and one would be completley stumped. A few weeks after moving in, Merlin, in all his infinite wisdom, decided that he needed a security system and removed all the stairs. Most excellent, he had thought. He immediately regretted this decision, as he fell down the long tube multiple times a day. He had since boarded it up with wood. One is also realising that its gotten quite dark. Probably, the door was in a bad moood and didn't appreciate being moved so suddenly. So this is where we will leave Kid, Ram, Merlin and One, as they go about their liveã€‚

And Ode to Contradiction and Antiunderstandment

To the guards of Yulang Fortress, it simply was not good etiquette to defend the keep unless said guard was wearing the proper uniform. To enter battle without said helmet, shoulderpads or shield would result in the immediate expulsion of said solider from said area until he/she had gone to the armoury in whatever state of disrepair to retrieve a new one. Yulang Fortress prided itself on this reputation of uniform. What the general manager of battlements didn't know, was that no-one cared. He, himself, was so arrogant, he nearly didn't realise the near death of the queen while conducting a garter inspection of the entire solider population, as well as the cavalry. The queen was most displeased and not at all amused when he informed her that garters were "the supports of the entire army". Not only that, but Yulang Fortress was attacked hundreds of times a year by the barbaric tribes that lived in the Gyjul Forest. It was immediately obvious, from the fortresses' perspective, that these tribes consisted of humans of a lesser evolutionary stance. They were, as the naturalist had said, very, very stupid. Their 'armies' constantly battered the huge Rysteel Walls. They were constantly at 'war' with the fortress, and although they were loud, their attack did not affect the overall feeling of security. For the most part, however, Yulang Fortress wasn't affected by any real enemies, which Major General Solider Uniform Inspection Officer and Enforcer took full advantage of by constantly regulating uniform procedures. The expectations were high, and obedience was always at an all time low, making the job, in the eyes of the person weilding it, one of the most important in the fortress. Somewhere, in his minute little brain, he connected Uniform Perfection to absolute elite fighting force. Bonkers. The Queen of the Fortress, Her Majesty the Most Majestical Queen Phlatt had other concerns more superior on her list of priorities. It should be said the the Queen was, in her own words, "relaxed" (lazy). Her list of priorites was unlimitless, so hard to remember that someone else did it for her, and the things on the list were constantly fighting for superiority. Exactly 5 centuries, 3 decades, 11 months and 9 days after the first cornerstone of the fortress was placed, an army consisting of thousands appeared on the horizon. No-one saw it of course, it was much too early in the morning. The army, one could say, was not big. It was massively tiny. It looked at the fortress, as one cummulative force of an old squirrel and several acorns, and then decided not to risk it. Quickly realising themselves in proportion to, not the enormous castle walls, rather the puddle that crossed their path, its raging waters lying deathly still, its apparent coolness and attractive waves of epicness being certain, burning death. They proceeded on, after a bried recollection, and sacrificed much to the puddle - they got their feet wet. Tired and wounded after their battle with the puddle, this small company went to sleep, and was promptly trodden on by a Efalent. A Efalent was a large hippo-like animal, and they were currently going through their migration cycle - the least interesting migration ever. They moved from the North End of the field surrounding the fortress to the South End. This year, their migration was not going as swimmingly as it was supposed to. The Major General Solider Uniform Inspection Officer and Enforcer was bored until he realised that the Efalents were not wearing their official kingdom-issued hats. He was both furious and delighted at the same time. He stormed