Marge's Vacation

I believe I shall retire to the beach for a few days. I hope my enemies don't bore themselves to death while I am away.

I died while killing Marge

Where to begin? Four years ago I was a 10-year-old boy romping with my sisters in the playroom of our home in Allentown. The year was 1868. A tan cat ran past the doorway and I ran out of the room into the hall to follow it. Suddenly I found myself in the Arctic in the form of a polar bear cub. Trapped thousands of miles away from Allentown and my family, I lived out my life as a polar bear until I was killed by a poacher 11 months ago. I now reside in the spirit world.

And now I am home again, in a way, but no less trapped than when I was while living in the Arctic circle. The room that I played in as a boy still exists in the attic of this home. My sisters still play in that room in 1868, under the impression that I have been gone for mere moments. The very cat that led me to my life of torment still roams these quarters -- my sisters are playing with it as we speak. There, my own corpse lies yonder on the floor, a lifeless hide serving as a rug, its eyeballs torn from its head, ironically, by the very cat that led me astray....

Hmmmm. I reckon I oughter say somethin. I don't reckon it's ironic per se that there cat tore out yer eyeballs. Hmmmm. I reckon it's a coincidence. Hmmm.

Excuse me, Karl, but I certainly do believe it is ironic. Listen here. The very same cat that I followed 140 years ago, which led me into the future and into my exile to the Arctic and to my life as an unwilling polar bear, has plucked the eyes out of my corpse, which serves as a rug in Team Marge Headquarters. A rug, I might add, that the cat also vomited on, if it were possible to add any further insult to my injury.

Hmmmm. You spun around on me there. Hmmm. Well, I still reckon it's a coincidence. ... Fer instance, let's say you was a blind boy back in them olden times and one a them doctors fixed it that you could see again cause he found some kinda medicine in that cat's throwup. Hmmmmm. Then you come a back here as a dead polar bear and whatnot and find out that there cat tore out yer eyes, that'd be ironic. I reckon, tho, some people might call it false irony, account of them eyeballs not really bein eyeballs but marbles is all. Hmmmm. I believe I'd call that irony. Right now, tho, I call it coincidence. Hmmmm.

Call it what you wish, Karl. But while my family lives in this house in the past, I am trapped here in the present. And because spirits cannot exist in the same time in which they lived, I am unable to enter the room to reunite with my family.

How come you's a polar bear anyway? I remember you was a boy up there in that room.

Ah! The ultimate irony -- don't interrupt! -- because in my timeline I grew up to be a man and eventually died, my spirit already exists in this time. Because my body could not exist in the same time with my unearthly spirit, I was transformed into a polar bear. When I died, I died as a polar bear and now I appear as a cub -- the form I took when I was first transported to your time.

Hmmmm. How come you ended up a polar bear and not some other kind a animal like one a them porkypines anyways?

I wish I knew ....

Hmmmm. Arite then. ... How you end up dyin back in y'own time anways.

I died while killing Marge. ...

78 and sunny

... Also in lower Bucks County residents along the Delaware reported that some sort of sea monster in the river was attacking and eating their pets. A Bucks County wildlife official said, "How the hell would I know what it is?" Well, Ed on a beautiful day like this I guess a walk along the River would be pretty nice.


Yeah, sure, right. So the weather out there is nice -- 78 degrees, mostly sunny, blah blah blah -- OK, fine, whatever. But what if it were 60 degrees colder with a huge, humid air mass moving in from the south? All hell would break loose in the Lehigh Valley. There'd be upwards of 45 inches of snow. Traffic would be paralyzed. Buildings would be pulverized. Those who do survive would be trapped in their homes, forced to subsist through cannibalism in many cases. Bridges and highways would collapse under the weight of the snow and ice, avalanches along South Mountain would obliterate several communities. Fires would burn out of control, there would be rampant looting and lawlessness and a complete breakdown of social conventions. Did I mention cannibalism? All infrastructure would be crushed and all communications would be down across the Northeast and Midwest. The federal government would be crippled and most of our national defense system would fail. Mexico would most likely annex southern California, Arizona and New Mexico; Texas would declare independence; and Cuba would move against southern Florida, annexing South Beach and taking countless actors, entertainers and celebrity chefs hostage. In short, it would be a mess out there folks. Tomorrow looks pretty good -- partly cloudy with a high of 81. Whatever. Rob?


Good night and thanks for watching. ... Are we clear? Hey you want a piece a me big guy, I'm right here.


I will slap you silly.

No wonder he's dead

O.K. If you really want to find Atown-Liker in the spirit world, you should probably look in a bar -- a spirit world bar, that is, like Cannons or the Federal Grill. Would you care for a mojito?

Make that a NO-jito. You got any protein shakes?

Protein shake? Hmm. I'll let that one go by. I think we should start off with Cannons. God knows he spent a good part of his life in that place. ... POOF! Here we are. It hasn't changed a bit. There's Frank himself tending bar! And there's Joe Rednagle giving back rubs. And there's that fellow who came in almost every day in his pajamas and bathrobe. ... And look, the big painting hasn't been moronically destroyed. And ...

Hey Barbra Streisand, enough with 'The Way We Were.' He's not here. And I need to get paid. Don't you owe me some money?

No! ... Let's try the Federal Grill. He's been dead a month -- he may still be at the bar waiting for a beer. POOF! ... Hmmm. It's closed even when it's supposed to be open. I guess even spirit world bars can close if the service is slow enough.

You sound like some damn apologist! Hey look at that line outside Johnny Mañanas. That's more than a mile long.

That's not Johnny Mañanas. That's heaven. It only looks like Johnny Mañanas. See the velvet ropes? And the bouncer there with the Bluetooth ... that's St. Peter.

Do they charge a cover?

Not if you're on the list -- or if you show up with supermodels. But you have to know somebody. Do you have any connections?

Do I know somebody?? Does the name Jesus ring a bell? Jesus is my boy. He's saving me a seat right up there beside him. I just need to collect on a few debts so I can live in style once I get inside.

Well, good for you. How much does Atown-Liker owe you anyway? It's not like he ever had much money, and when he did spend it he certainly complained about it enough. Did you see what he wrote about Bolete?

Hell, I never read this stupid blog when I was alive. I sure ain't gonna start now. ... Well, he told me one time he would buy me a beer but he never did. Hell, The Player doesn't even drink beer. I figure with interest he owes me 1,000 bucks.

Wow. Good luck with that. ... Hey, before you go off to sit at the right hand of Jesus, I've been meaning to ask you something. What do you know about the secret room? You know, the place where Karl hid the cats.

Don't get me started on Karl and those damn cats. Those cats got me killed! ... And it's gonna be the LEFT hand! ... That stupid room is up in the attic someplace, but you can't see it -- it just looks like a brick wall from the outside. Spirits can't even go in there. Karl says there's some damn little kids livin in there and they like to play with those stupid cats. That's all I know.

Karl has children imprisoned in the attic?? You know, it takes a lot to rattle a ghost, but I just got a chill. I'm aquiver with dread. We should save them. Does Marge know about this?

I don't know and I don't care. What I care about is getting paid so I can go to heaven. Hell, if damn old Marge knew about them kids she'd probably just boil them or hang them on the wall or somethin. ... I don't think Karl has them locked up. He said they just live there ... in the past.

In the past? Hmmm. Very interesting. ... Well, one crisis at a time. Let's pop over to the Traylor. On a nice night Atown-Liker used to frequent the patio at Hary's .

He hung out at Hary's?? Hell, no wonder he's dead.

POOF!

Thoughts on my excursion

My dear friends, for once Marge is speechless.

I have completed my truncated inspection tour of the city and I must say I am in a state of shock.

First off, I was unprepared for the oppressive heat of this god forsaken place. Mr. Dodger, complaining every step of the way, and Karl carried me first to 9th and Hamilton streets, where I saw the future League of Justice. This 20-story building is quite drab but it will be perfectly appropriate for launching criminals to their punishment. However, the building is apparently infested with vultures or some type of screeching bird. Those will have to be exterminated at once.

My assistants then carried me to the Allentown Brew Works. Normally Marge would not be found at such an establishment, but I was overcome by curiosity as this was the last place my predecessor on this blog was seen alive. Though pleasant enough, that den of iniquity shall have to be razed to the ground, if only to dispel the stench it carries from its association with He Whose Name Shall Not Be Spoken.

Next I was carried to the corner of 8th and Hamilton where I am quite sure I heard the Spanish language spoken. I immediately alerted a so-called law enforcement officer that King Juan Carlos of Spain may have operatives doing his bidding in this city, but I was virtually ignored. I plan to report that officer for a variety of offenses, not the least of which is riding a bicycle while on duty!

Next I was taken to an eatery called Johnny something -- a Mexican restaurant! Perhaps the Spaniards are masquerading as Mexicans and this is their base of operations! Rest assured, Marge shall keep a close eye on this situation. Juan Carlos was a traitor to my dear friend Gen. Franco and to fascists everywhere and his influence shall not be tolerated in my city!

At this point in the tour I was rather overcome and was rushed back to headquarters for resuscitation.

While I cannot formulate my entire plan on one brief foray into the heart of darkness as it were, my keen mind is swimming in ideas. First off, nearly the entire area must be razed and replaced with glittering boutiques and spas and whatnot. Also, there appear to be a great many poor people about. Marge has always been magnanimous with those less-blessed souls among us. I think they should be relocated to the forests where they can forage and live happily in their natural state. Thirdly, the situation with Spain must be addressed. I believe the Patriot Act may come into play here.

The Spanish Armada could be lurking off our shores at this moment, ready to strike! Marge will not be caught unprepared.

Coraje, mis amigos.

I want my money!

I can see why people don't spend much time here in the spirit world. It's creepy -- and I'm not even talking about MDDFT. All of them haunted house freaks groaning and shakin' their damn chains. It's a horror show. And now there's some freakin' little damn talking polar bear runnin' around. I had my fill of those damn things back at Marge's.

I'm here for one reason and one reason only. I WANT MY MONEY. I ain't going to heaven without my money. I signed the contract and just cause I'm dead it doesn't mean you don't have to pay me. Hell, the sneaker people owe me money, the Sharpie people owe me money, the Oilers, I mean the Cowboys, owe me money, the NFL owes me money, McNabb owes me money, my agent owes me money, damn old Marge owes me money, even Atown-Liker owes me money. People I don't even know owe me money.

Truman says you don't need no money in heaven. That's B.S. Heaven's like one of them all-inclusive vacations. You don't have to pay for nothin' -- that's if you want to drink cheap beer and well liquor. That's not the way The Player plays. The Player has expensive tastes. The Player drinks Cristal, not Presidente. The Player drives an Escalade, not some damn chariot. The Player needs money to hire a body guard up there -- archangels don't come cheap. The Player needs money for tips. Hell yeah, I'm takin' it with me.

So pay me my money so I can go to heaven! Jesus is waitin' on me. We talked on my cell phone this morning. He says he's got a good seat saved for me at his right hand. That's something he and I have to talk about. He's gonna need to scootch over one and sit at my right hand, but that ain't no biggie.

... Hey that Atown-Liker is dead. He's gotta be around here somewhere. I'm gonna find him and get my damn money!

Darkness has descended

Darkness has descended upon Renaissance Square.

First, the Squire ran afoul of the mysterious and evil Marge, who commandeered this very blog as Atown-Liker lay dead in the gutter, a victim of non-alcoholic beer. Then the Squire's loyal ally, the Duchess, was attacked while recovering from cosmetic surgery that went awry and accidentally injected with some sort of performance enhancing amphibian extract by one of Marge's minions. She was last seen in the form of a monster swimming in the Mediterranean Sea in the general direction of Allentown.

Other allies of the Squire, the Green Guy and Miss Emily were hounded into hiding, retreating into the woods where they played tricks on one of Marge's dimwitted henchmen. Even the Squire's cats were turned out of the house and its grounds laced with poison. Later they found refuge in what was once my domain.

A spirit began haunting these halls, the acid tongued yet jovial My Dear Dead Friend Truman.

Then, shockingly, one of Marge's own minions, the rebellious Mr. Player, was struck down in cold blood by Karl, the seemingly mild-mannered gardener of these premises.

Worst of all, Johnny Manana's was put up for sale and an impostor calling itself Cannons opened, with its well-loved painting defaced with inane doodlings by its new management.

It's been a busy month.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Maximillian. You may have noticed I am a polar bear cub. But I am much more than that.

My home is in the spirit world. But 140 years ago, when I was a 10-year-old human boy I lived in this very house with my father and sisters.

That was before Marge came into our lives.

Happy Happy Philly Weekend

Hi, everybody. Welcome to Happy Happy Philly Weekend. I'm Harry Menpdhrtkd. It's been a happy happy weekend so far in town. Let's see how things are going at the Jersey Shore with our Jersey Shore reporter Loishia Lane. How's the shore been treating you, Lo -- lots of sun and fun?
Lots of sun and fun indeed, Harry. But there is some disturbing news to report. Some young summer day campers were traumatized today while on a dolphin-sighting cruise off of Cape May. It seems the boat had just spotted a large group of dolphins not far from the Cape May Lighthouse and moved in closer to get a look. Just as they approached the dolphins some sort of large sea creature attacked the whole group, tearing several of the dolphins apart and apparently eating them in front of the horrified children.
Whoa! Look out Flipper! I guess being a dolphin is tougher than just bouncing a beach ball off of your nose. Hmmm. Sad. So, tell me Lo, I hear there's lots of great nightlife down the shore this weekend. Tell me more about your escapade with the tequila contest. I heard you won -- what was it, 13 shots? I heard you got pretty jiggy.
Well, um, yes Harry. The Jersey Shore nightlife is always lots of fun. ... But authorities still have no idea what attacked the dolphins and have closed the beaches to swimmers as far north as Sea Isle City. Authorities also, um .... How did you hear about the tequila contest Harry?
Oh, a little birdie told me. We have our sources in the newsroom, you know. That's why we call it a newsroom. But, hey, that's really tough about those dolphins. I guess when they woke up in the morning they weren't expecting to be eaten by a sea monster. But, you never know right? I mean, I bet you never expected to wake up on the beach naked in Atlantic City this morning either. You should probably stop dating those mob guys.
What? ... That ... didn't happen. I ... I don't date mob guys. ... How could you possibly know any of this????

You may want to re-read that diary of yours, cupcake. ... Hey, that's all the time we have for the Jersey Shore Report. After the break, Gov. Rendell rates his top 500 cheesesteaks in Philly as Happy Happy Philly Weekend continues.

Viva La Resistance!

I'm in!

Thank, you Player -- you arrogant prima donna -- for the great idea. I may be far from the ethereal realm here in my tree fort but I've managed to crack Blogger and hack into this blog the old fashioned way. And I don't go POOF!

This message is for you Marge. We're tired of toying with your pumped lackey Dodger and your silly spirits and we are coming for you.

This blog will be returned to the forces of good in the name of our fallen leader and you will be vanquished to Hell, er, Hades where you belong.

Long live Atown-Liker!

-- Team Green

Yo, from the spirit world

Well look who it is. Damn, I'm good!

Seems that wicked OLD witch can't keep The Player down. Now that I'm an ethereal being here in the spirit world, seems I can pop on up on this blog anytime I want to.

Fact is, when I'm done here I'm gonna pop onto the Bronco's Web site and demand my money. ... I mean the Cowboys. That's right, the Cowboys. Then I'm gonna pop on down to McNabb's blog and find out how come he got sick in the Superbowl. Too much of your momma's damn soup, huh? That's right. It's The Player's time now.

Other guy I'm sick of is that damn Truman freak. Flittin around up here in the spirit world like he owns the damn place drinkin them damn Mojitos. I'll tell you what ... Hey! Wait ... NO! DAMN! ... ***POOF!***

Crime and punishment

As I prepare for my first inspection of this dreadful city, I feel it is time to begin providing my dear friends with some of my progressive views on topics of social concern.

When I was young girl, criminal justice was much less complicated. Daddy would simply impale criminals on long spikes outside the castle walls.

If the crime was insignificant, such as public begging, the impalement would be short -- perhaps a day. If the crime was severe then the criminal might hang on that pole for months.

Recidivism was unheard of, as most of the criminals died immediately upon impalement.
I have a similar plan for Allentown, though one much more humane than impalement. That would be rather old school, yes?

There is a relatively tall building very near here I'm told. My plan is to situate into that edifice the League of Justice, or whatever the criminal justice system is called in these parts. Criminals would be brought to the building, declared guilty and thrown off. Criminals accused of the most heinous crimes -- murder or usurping one's blog and defiling its color scheme would qualify -- will be thrown from the highest floors; those accused of less serious offenses will be thrown from the lower floors.

I would expect recidivism to be quite low as most criminals would not survive the resulting impact. The injuries incurred by those who do survive will likely make them unable to commit further crimes.

Sometimes the simplest solutions are the best.

Regards,

Marge

Simpler times

I've been resuscitated and I am feeling quite well, thank you.

While sorting through some old photographs earlier today I came upon this one from my childhood, when I was sent to Japan and other countries to study the martial arts and combat.

I thought I would share it with you, my dear friends.

I am pictured here in the rickshaw with my nanny, Yui, a driver and the driver's assistant. I'm afraid I don't remember their names. They also perished mysteriously in a rock slide moments after this photo was taken.

What a beautiful memory. (Aside from the rock slide)

Preparations

In light of a recent spate of setbacks I have some refreshingly wonderful news to report, my dear friends: My exquisite sedan chair has arrived from my vacation chalet in Turkey.

My custom made litter is photographed here with my sturdy former Turkish man servants, Malik and Mr. Abbas. Sadly these two young Turks perished in a mysterious rock slide a few months ago, shortly before I left that cradle of civilization in rather a hurry.

But I've never been one to dwell in the past, that much need not be said. Team Marge, such as it is, lives for the future!

I am currently making arrangements for my first foray into the town since I've become ensconced in this dreadful burgh.

My plan is to have my recently unreliable assistants, Messieurs Dodger and Karl act as my porters to carry me about the nearby streets so that I can see for myself the task I have set before me. Nay, not task. That is not the appropriate word. Rather the mission I have set before me. For it is with a missionary's fervor that I will attack this city, much as the courageous crusaders attacked the ancestors of poor Malik and Abbas in days of yore.

My first order of business will be to greet my subjects in their natural setting as they scurry about the streets, busily doing all of the things people in their situations do. Then I shall tour the boutiques, the galleries, the spas, the resort areas and the high end dining establishments that the downtown area has to offer.

I expect this expedition to be quite illuminating.

Drat, some of the tubes from my various medical apparati seem to have become entangled and I am starting to feel faint.

I must go now.

'Tis the heart and not the brain that to highest doth attain,

and he who followeth love's behest far excelleth all the rest!

Some rain must fall

Into each life some rain must fall. I believe in that sentiment, but suddenly, dear friends, I have become Joe Bftsplk.

.

First I travel overseas to visit a dear sick friend, only to witness her rain destruction upon the hospital and panic an entire city. Now the poor dear thing is missing and presumed drowned in the Mediterranean. It seems she was somehow incompetently injected with some sort of hybrid Amphibian Growth Hormone while she lay in a coma. I wonder how that may have happened?

.

To makes matters worse, while I was away on my mission of mercy, my treasonous assistant, The Player, usurped my entire blog and changed its meticulously crafted color schemes, braying all the while for more money. Rest assured, dear friends, his position here has been terminated. He has also, coincidentally, been hacked to death with what is known around headquarters as a Keyser blade, though some may call it a slingblade. However, as long as he remains in the spirit world it may be impossible to completely silence him.

.

If that weren't enough, my steadfast gardener, Karl, took it upon himself to use that blade upon The Player without my permission in my very own kitchen. The resulting mess has destroyed the sense of order I sought to instill in these headquarters. To compound his transgression, Karl then created an unauthorized post of his own. His butchering of The Player paled in comparison to his treatment of that horrible joke of his. He shall be severely reprimanded.

.

To complete this list of cataclysmic events, my other assistant, the pharmacologically challenged and incompetent R. Dodger, had himself briefly captured by the loathsome Green Guy and the dimwitted Miss Emily. I understand he was hung by his feet by the erstwhile Team Atown-Liker and pummeled with dung. That sounds appropriate, actually. He is now complaining of a sore head and posterior.

.

Worst of all, these events transpired under the apparently not-so-watchful eye of my trusted confidant, MDDFT. Words cannot convey my disappointment in him. Luckily for him, he also lives in the spirit world and is for the most part beyond my reach.

.

That may be everything; and it's quite enough, don't you think. But if you've come to know anything about your Marge, you know she is resilient and unflappable ... OH DEAR GOD! Is this VOMIT on my beautiful snow-white polar bear carpet???? And ... Many of the bear heads have their EYEBALLS MISSING!!!

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KARL!!!! DODGER!!!! TRUMAN!!!!!