Posts Tagged 'kobold kompanions'

A Turd To Be Reckoned With

On my way upstairs for the night (or, “up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire,” as the Brits would have it) and I spot a small piece of landscape bark on the landing. I nudge it with my foot and realize my first impression was erroneous: it’s too rounded to be bark, it’s too dense, and I live with kobolds.

I’m too lazy to go fetch a kleenex for the job, so after a moment’s hesitation during which I’m pretty sure I’m gonna fully leave the turd lie, I finally pick the thing up with my bare hands, run it to a toidy and flush it. Washwashwashwash hands.

For some of you, maybe this is nothing. For others, maybe it’s unthinkably gross. For me, I’ve had worse. And I’ve learned the direct approach is the safest. One time I was scooping Maimer’s litterbox and there was a little lone poo on the floor next to the box. After chasing it around a bit with the scoop, I finally pinned it against the box side and tried to wiggle the scoop under it. It was a stalemate for about eight seconds (a liftime in turd terms), which was broken when the scoop slipped, the poo broke free and BECAME AIRBORNE, arcing right past my face. My life flushed–I mean flashed–before my eyes. When I’d recovered from the shock, I scurried after the errant feces, snatched it up and tossed it in with its brothers. Bare hands.

See, bare hands are nothin’. It helps to have some perspective. If I’d been yawning, I coulda had that thing in my mouth.

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There are gnomes outside my window.

It’s the only explanation I can come up with. There are gnomes outside my window. And on my roof. I can hear them scrabbling around out there right now. It has to be gnomes. What else could get a Kobold as pissed off as Maimer is right now? Well, not right now. At the moment she’s too sound asleep to hear them. But usually when the things come scurrying around, she slams herself against the glass, practically foaming at the mouth with rage, gibbering like an insane Kobold. And the sadistic gnomes just keep taunting her.

And if anyone has ever wondered what sound a gnome makes, well eat your heart out, because I know. For your information, they go “caw caw.” And they fly. Glittergold’s honor.

Stay tuned for when I finally catch a glimpse of one. I’ll let you all in on what gnomes really look like. Maybe even snap its picture with my camera-phone.

I’m not vain, just paranoid.

I wake up this morning, stumble into the bathroom, peer in the mirror and see a black hair on my upper lip.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!! NOT A MISSTACHE!!!! I CAN’T HAVE A MISSTACHE!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO – OOOOOOO…

I brush at it. Oh. It’s just Maimer’s.

Peebag strikes again.

At least my room is still safe. Peebag has declared war on the living room, the family room and now the dining room has joined the ranks of victims. I went in there for a teabag a little bit ago and soon found myself wandering the room, a packet of English Breakfast in my hand, playing hot-and-cold with an elusive pee smell. Sure enough, Mom’s expensive drapes have been violated. What is wrong with that animal?

To be honest, at this point in the pee wars, I’m no longer sure all the crimes are Peebag’s or if some of them are Maimer retaliating and retaking territory, but I’m not about to admit that to a Peebag-loving household. It’s Maimer and me against the world. If I betray her bladder now, then I’d have to start cleaning up the pee. And I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment. I’m not even telling Mom her drapes have become toilet paper. She’ll find out on her own eventually. I’m guessing the next time she drinks tea.

On an unrelated note, I’ve gone two days now without seeing Aeon Flux and I’m starting to feel a little panicky. It’s okay, though. You know why? Because it just hit the dollar theaters. And between now and the next showing, well that’s what they put clips on the internet for.

So a guy walks into a bar… and says OUCH!

Sorry, that was corny. But appropriate for my current state of clumsiness. And I do have a story:

So I wake up in the middle of the night for a bathroom call, and when I look in the mirror, there’s blood on my nose. I’m like what the– I scrub at it. It’s a gash. Or at least a deep scratch. Now I’m feeling paranoid. How is it I’m getting cuts on my face in my sleep? Did I scratch myself? My nails are nonexistent. Did Maimer do it? But the little kobold’s just sleeping innocently at the foot of my bed. Did I fall asleep with paper and pencil again? I’m gonna lose an eye if I keep doing that.

Accepting the strange reality that I somehow sleepwalked face first into a cheese grater, I slap a bandaid across my nose and head back to bed through the pitch black of my room. I go to dive into bed and run face first into the Leaning Tower of Music and Reading Material that lives on my nightstand. This could have something to do with it, I’m thinking. I’m afflicted with life-threatening clumsiness! Combined with chronic disorganization, it’s amazing I’ve lived this long. So it’s still pitch black, I still have a bandaid on my nose, but now my face and hands are throbbing, I’m catching books, cds and papers as they slide every which way and the commotion has awakened Maimer who decides now’s a good time to maul me with love. I can’t see a thing, but she’s yapping and growl-purring, rubbing against my arms and biting my fingers as I hold desperately onto the crumbling remains of the Leaning Tower. When my Cowboy Bebop mix cds start hitting her, though, she starts to complain.

So if any of you are confused as to what kind of animal my kobold kompanion is really, it’s on purpose. If you’re not confused, then I’m not as clever as I thought (a distinct probability) or else you’ve met the real thing in real life (for those few of you who have, I’m sorry, she’s just like that). But if anybody’s confused as to what a kobold is, plain and simple, I can help you there. And I’ll do it with an acrostic!

Kowardly
Ontisocial
Bicious
Ogly
Lizard
Dogs

There! It’s like a kobold wrote it! Cuz they’re stupid, too. But I couldn’t fit that into the acrostic. Now, there’s some disagreement as to whether kobolds are reptilian or canine. (In Baldur’s Gate, I always thought they looked like organ grinder’s monkeys, with little red vests, going “oo-oo-ah” when I killed them.) But, since each side of the debate is spearheaded by the greatest geniuses of gaming (Wizards of the Coast say lizards, while Ninth Level Games and Dork Storm say dogs), I like to integrate both into my concept of kobolds. Plus I just like the sound of “lizard dogs.”

To see different visual concepts of kobolds, do a Google image search. You’ll find some gnome-looking things in there, too, since kobolds used to be mythical mine-dwelling spirits before Wizards of the Coast got a hold of them.

Wait! I can fit “stupid” in there! Kobolds are always plural! KOBOLDS! Kowardly Ontisocial Bicious Ogly Lizard Dogs that are also very Stupid!

It’s all college’s fault… and teething’s a bitch, too.

Rethinking my music choice the other day… “O Fortuna” probably would have been more appropriate for that medieval St. George combat, but I was in the mood for a more intimate, mob-hit kind of tone. Young, innocent Maimer peers through the stair railing at my slow-motion struggle in the coils of the gray accordeon hose, √† la Laocoon, to the sobbing sound of Pavarotti… “Ridi, Pagliaccio!

Well, no vacuuming today. The Sphinx is on vacation from the library all this week, which means she has trouble lifting a paw to do anything. Except blog. I’m addicted. I really have nothing to blog about, yet here I am, boring the ether to tears. Speaking of tears, I just spent the evening with my neice Petunia Button, who is TEETHING. I don’t care who you are, after five minutes with a 14-month-old who’s teething, you’re reaching for the children’s Tylenol–the kind that knocks you out–and not necessarily to give to the baby. Even our game of dancing to “Sur le pont d’Avignon” didn’t help–she didn’t want to stop playing, but her usual squeals of delight were more like wails of despair. Poor kid.

Ahhhh, but she went home and now finally everyone has gone to bed and stopped talking and turned off the tv and I’m alone and it’s quiet. Vacation doesn’t feel much like vacation when your house is full of noisy family all day needing stuff from you.

I wish I had a book to read on my vacation, but I couldn’t find anything. I’m the finickiest reader in existence. I’m a really slow reader, so I get bored easily with what I’m reading. It’s all college’s fault. I was an avid reader until I had to read a novel or two a week for each of my three or four seminar courses… in French! And don’t even get me started on the kind of shit they make you read before they’ll let you wrench that Master’s out of their soulless, ossified hands… just say the word Ferdydurke to biblio_girl and watch her start to foam at the mouth. The life of a lit major is not to be envied.

So why major in something as useless as French Literature? You mean besides the great perk of getting to read all five volumes of Les Mis√©rables even though Broadway already conveniently consolidated them into one easy-to-view, foot-tapping show? Well, I suppose then it would be because of the math. I mean that there wasn’t any. Whereas to become a geologist they wanted me to do all this math! And chemistry. But the crystallography was the real killer for me. Sometimes I take out my old crystallography notes just for a laugh. I have no idea what they say. I had no idea what I was writing down at the time. My professor used to get so frustrated with my blind-stab answers in class, his voice would get all breaky and he’d hop in place, squawking, “No, no, no!” (If you like that story, read “University Days” by James Thurber–he was an even worse student than me, and at the same school!) Anyhow, that’s when I dropped out of school the first time.

So why did I want to be a geologist? I love dirt. I love how it smells, how it feels… I love how rocks smell and feel, especially the sulfur-y ones. Smelling the sulfur in a rock is almost like hearing the volcano that forged it go “boom” three million years ago. I “get” earth sciences, the tangible forces of the visible world around us. Unfortunately, the nit-picky molecular stuff that’s behind those tangible forces always manages to beat me up, steal my lunch money and leave me with an academic wedgie. So I dropped out. And when I came back to the college game, it was with a different school, a different major. And I finished.

So fuck you, Ohio State, and your stupid buckeyes. I speak French now. And I still have a closet full of rocks.

Saint George and the Sphinx

Ah, just finished vacuuming the carpet. Not very satisfying when you realize after all that work it’s still just the same eight-year-old crap carpet that Peebag has had her way with. But it does look better.

Poor Maim, she’s absolutely terrified of the vacuum cleaner, like it’s some kind of dragon that lives in the closet under the stairs along with the wrapping paper and old photo boxes. You’d think with her draconic heritage, she’d feel some kind of cameraderie with the evil bag of suck, but as far as her little Kobold brain can tell, it’s this mammoth creature that every now and then escapes from its den to rampage, thrashing and hissing around the house until I finally wrestle it back under the stairs.
I’m Maimer’s Saint George.
While I wrangle, panting and red-faced (I’m sadly out of shape), Maim just hides at the top of the stairs, calling to me occasionally for updates. Sometimes, the dragon even makes it all the way upstairs and Maimer has to flee to my room, the only place she knows the dragon dare not tread since it feeds on carpet and you can never see any in there.