Inigo Montoya sat looking at himself in the mirror, burnt bulbs barely providing enough light for his make-up. The lines on his face and around his eyes had grown deeper since he had avenged his father’s death and helped set Princess Buttercup find her one true love. But that was neither here nor there, as tonight he had to get ready for the biggest challenge of his life. A challenge he had dreamed about but never pursued since he was busy pursuing his father’s killer.
Then, a knock at the door. Inigo turned, kicking the foot stool out from under him and pulling his sword from his sheath — “who is it?” he yelled. The door opened slowly revealing Sir Fred Amelle, a French man more German than French. “They’re out there,” he nervously stuttered. “You either do this now or you’ll never get the chance again.” Inigo lifted his sword and held the blade mere inches from his eyes. “I will do this, my old friend — and I will use this sword to showcase my resolve.” And then, without warning, Inigo swept past Sir Amelle, slinked out of the room and burst out onto the adjacent wooden platform.
There, in front of him, they stood. Numerous guests, each being served dinner and drink. A spotlight beamed across Inigo’s face as he leaped onto stage. “Hello,” he announced. The crowd, in return, went WILD. Inigo waited for them to calm down before continuing: “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to-”
“DIE!!!” the crowd yelled out in unison, reminiscent of modern day concert hive mentality.
Inigo smiled as a dummy resembling his past nemesis descended from the rafters and he readied his sword. He thought to himself in the slice of a second before he began to parry and weave, that he was happy. His dream of dinner theater had finally been realized.
But would he be able to support himself financially? Only time would tell.
When the sun rose the next morning, its golden rays of baptism shone down upon the sleepy little city of Shreveport, confirming what Ben had said all along. That any city, despite its size, geographic location or annual tourism could be completely swept clean from dusk till dawn. It was at the corner of 5th and Mason where Ben sat atop his street sweeper with Princess Yajim, surveying his handiwork from the night before. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” Ben proclaimed, proudly puffing his chest out so that the Princess would see. “Yes,” she replied, “and you are God’s right-hand man-boy servant.” It was then that the two shared a look. A look of love that had been developing since the two met in Cairo, when Ben had swept clean the streets despite being pursued by the evil Gorgon. But that was in the past now. Back in the present, Ben leaned into Princess Yajim as the rays of sun began to sparkle and shine against the now-clean gutters of Shreveport… “I prefer handy-man servant,” he smiled. “It doesn’t sound so vulgar.” Princess Yajim looked at him and stifled a laugh. “Yes,” she agreed. “It’s not vulgar at all.”
My few month old hilarious new book The Lost Blogs (which includes blogs from history’s most famous folk had the Internet been around in their times) also has a companion website. That companion website has a section that includes an e-mail address available for questions from the public. I felt it was about time to post some of the answers to some of the most common questions:
- No, Abraham Lincoln has yet to appear on the hit ABC show, Lost.
- No, I didn’t see last night’s episode nor can I provide you with the answer to the question, “How is there a polar bear on a tropical island?”
- Yes, I am friends with Lost creator J.J. Abrams in my dreams, and yes we have gone on a three day ski-retreat creative brainstorming session weekend together IN those dreams.
- Yes, I’m sure the people at ABC.com are annoyed at me and talk about me in their digital meetings on a weekly basis since I own www.thelostblogs.com, www.thelostblogs.net, and lostblogs.net.
- Yes, Joan of Arc and the actress who plays Kate on the TV show DO sort of have a similar brand of “female gusto” that helps them get through trying times.
- No, the World Organization of Manuscript Preservation’s site is not a part of Lost‘s elaborate on-line puzzle game connected to the Dharma Initiative.
- No, when I told you that the W.O.M.P. wasn’t a part of the Dharma Initiative, that wasn’t a clever way of trying to confuse you in determining the solution to the secret on-line Dharma Initiative game connected to the Hanso Foundation.
- Yes, someone paid me to write The Lost Blogs and no, they didn’t pay me in coconuts.
- No, this page does not include a picture of a primitive version of the computer from the show Lost that people fawned over for episodes, typing in a collection of numbers to save the world from being destroyed.
- No, I don’t know how many ladies in waiting Marie Antionette had, where Jim Morrison is currently living, and what Moses’ favorite sports drink happens to be.
What has been lost can now be found.
With The Lost Blogs having been out for the last few months of the summer and with Words For Your Enjoyment happening today (Friday) — I thought, what better way to publicize both than to present one of the missing lost blogs of the book.
That’s why, today, I’ll be making public one of the twenty-five “lost blogs” available for FREE here on WFME. And what better way to start off such a promotional fete than to reveal one of the more obscure personalities?
“And then I saw it. Sherri Nakasawa always brought me something special before the meal began. That’s why I kept going back to the restaurant. Sometimes it was soup. Other days, a fried confection of some kind. But today, she revealed a fluffy ball of bread with (as she whispered quietly into my left ear), ‘a surprise inside.’
I looked to her with a look of confusion and a look of surprise all at the same time. It was more surprise than confusion but if you didn’t know me you might say, ‘Hey that guy looks sort of half confused and half surprised all at the same time.’ Then again, if you did know me you might say, ‘Hey there he goes again with his more surprised and less confused look that he normally gives when he’s really surprised in the first place.’
But none of that mattered as I dug my fork into the center of this luxurious fluffy ball of white yeast. White like the burning whites of some guy’s burning eyes (but not really burning, more like a mad/angry kind of burning) but transformed into a huge oversized fluffy and misshapen ball of bread. And as my fork passed through the center of the newfound delicacy my eyes went wide with wonder as I saw the edible paydirt before me…
It was sausage! Or it may have been beef. Or really dark chicken. Or maybe duck. Actually it could have potentially been a vegetarian tofu mix of some kind. Or styro-foam with soy sauce drenched over it. Or those little pellets you put on frozen yogurt but all chocolate flavored. Or fish eggs. Or something…
The possibilities, it seemed, were endless…”