Category: writing

Technical Standards, Inc. has posted the results of the 2002 Worst Manual Contest. My favourite is the Sliding Bicycle instruction sheet, in which it states, “Discharge the product by the way of the opposite installation sequence” and “Be careful not to let your fingers got squeezed, when installation and discharge”.

Thankfully, my manuals didn’t show up in the list of winners this year.

Have a look at the One Word website. Given a seemingly random word, you have only sixty seconds to write something using the word as a theme. As it says on the website, “don’t think. just write.”

(Thanks, River Selkie, for the link.)

He was the mighty warrior, the one called Shadowrider, Champion of the Three Villages, and wielder of the dreaded blade, Bunniesbane. From beneath his shining helm, his eyes glowed in triumph over his foes. From across the field came the sounds of the dying battle: shouts of victory floated through the settling mist, amidst the moans of the wounded and dying and the occasional startled yelp from someone who had just been inadvertently stepped on.

The battle, hard-fought, had left its mark on Shadowrider: axe-marks hew the noble device on his shield, his armour was smeared with dirt from the battleground, and his sword was caked with the blood of his enemies and a certain number of his friends too, which was almost certainly accidental.

The Reortor, son of Reorthus, the village chieftan approached, followed by his daughter, Betty, who led Shadowrider’s steed by its reins.

“Hail, Shadowrider Quicksword,” proclaimed the chieftan, “the one who is also called Blademaster, and occasionally, Stan. You have bettered our enemies and left them slain in the field,…”

“Thank, you, Lord Reo—”

“…where their sucking chest wounds will ever prevent them from rising again against our land,…”

“Yes, my—”

“…and whose noses will surely be plucked from their faces by the winged carrion-eaters.”

“Uh… yes,” Shadowrider said carefully. “Hmmm.”

Betty, Reortor’s daughter, approached Shadowrider, her eyes wide with wonder. He sheathed his sword and bowed deeply to her.

She smiled graciously in return and handed him the reins, saying, “O Shadowrider. Quicksword. Will you ever again return to our land and grace our chieftan’s hall?”

“My lady,” Shadowrider said, standing, “I will never be far, should the villages need me, for I live in my parents’ basement, which is but a few minutes from here.” He considered this for a second. “If,” he said, “I can borrow my father’s horse.”

“Oh,” she said. “I see. Well… thanks.” There was an awkward pause, which she ended with a friendly wave. “Bye.”

Taking that as his cue, Shadowrider turned and leapt onto his mount. In his excitement, however, he overshot his target and slipped off the other side, hitting the ground with a solid thud.

“Could, um,” he began. “Could anyone help me up? I seem to have fallen on something pointy.”

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the igloo

Not a creature was stirring, not even an emu;

The rabbits were strung by the bonfire with care,

In hopes that Bonhomme would prefer to eat hare;

The children were fearful and hid in their beds,

While little brown lemurs did jigs on their heads;

Anne Murray in her parka, and Jean in his cap,

Set up in the woods a great beaver trap,

When out on the snow there arose such a clatter,

I threw off the lemurs and watched them all scatter.

Away out the doorway I flew like a flash,

Expecting the Mounties to search for my stash.

The moon on the breast of the great spotted bird

Made the drunken old emu appear quite absurd.

When, what to my crusty red eyes should appear,

But William Shatner, and drinking a beer.

With a little smoked salmon, and poutine-on-a-stick,

I knew in a moment that Bill would be sick.

More eager than beavers his carousers they came,

And he belched, and he spewed, but they came all the same;

“Rex Murphy! Pete Mansbridge! now, Mesley, you vixen!

Come on, you Canucks! Come see what I’m fixin’!

To the top of the igloo! The top of the home!

No oolican, Mansbridge! Don’t polish your dome!”

As snow drifts within an arctic storm fly,

When they meet with an inukshuk, mount to the sky.

So onto the igloo the carousers they flew,

While the Dougs they emerged from eating moose stew.

And then, after tinkling, I heard on the roof,

The Tragically Hip, all acting the goof.

As they struck up the band, and tested the sound,

Down the igloo slid Shatner, all jiggly and round.

He was dressed like the Captain, from his head to his shoe,

And kept on insisting that “I’m Canadian too!”;

After years on the bridge when the Klingons attack,

He moaned of Kirk’s death, with the bridge on his back.

His eyes — how they reddened! his makeup how smudgy!

He’d had so much Molson’s, he’d grown oh so pudgy!

The drool on his mouth froze hard in the snow,

It appeared his sobriety had started to go;

Then beavers appoached us, all baring their teeth,

And lemurs avoided being squished underneath;

To prove his Canuck-ness, Bill showed them his belly

He’d painted with maples leaves seen on the telly.

It was chubby and plump, a right jolly old gut,

And they quailed when they saw it, and pulled his shirt shut;

And shutting their eyes and a holding back vomit,

The beavers turned tail and fled like a comet;

Bill spoke not a word, but went straight to the stage,

And stepped up to the mic; and gave a look that was sage;

And sawing the air with hands as he started,

And lifting his voice, his talent departed;

He bellowed out loud, and the crowd gave a whistle,

And to him they flew like a misguided missile.

But I heard him exclaim to the townsfolk arcadian,

“Happy Christmas to all, and I… AM… CANADIAN!”

All’s well that ends well, as they say. Our runaway bird situation resolved itself this morning when Bill Shatner made a final attempt to seize the microphone while cleverly disguised as a spotted snow emu.

Our snow emu was immediately intrigued, and in the shade of the giant Christmas Tree, it made… er… romantic advances. Then dropped dead of shock on discovery of the gallant captain under the feathered disguise. Bill was devastated. It was the closest he’d come to “third base” in years.

With that, we dragged the emu directly to the feast igloo, where Carlo Rota plucked and dressed the bird, then stuffed it with open beer cans. Bill looked on enviously, muttering, “I… am… Canadian… too. I… am… Canadian. Spock! Do… something.”

This afternoon the villagefolk and their children will converge on the feast igloo to festoon it with streamers and balloons. Well… strips of rabbit hide and inflated seal bladders, actually. But they impart a festive feeling, nonetheless. Tonight, we’ll pass around the Molson’s and listen to Bob and Doug (the other ones) sing the Twelve Days of Christmas until the wee hours.

And tomorrow… tomorrow Christmas Eve is finally here.