About the Author

Herein I kill* the proverbial two birds with one stone.**

 

What kind of man is known as ‘pi’?  And to what does he ‘lord’ over?  What crimes or deeds must one do to be titled ‘dark’?  Are all of these questions written as tricks — never to be answered?

 

Some say that questions are the best answer.  Others are deaf mutes.  This being the homepage of the world’s foremost satirist, the most appropriate answer for any question is in the form of a story:

 

 

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

 

Having failed to make a living as a blogger/gigaloo/webartist/shareware developer/game designer/writer, lord pi finds himself trapped on a Trade Federation frigate.  His arch-nemesis is in close pursuit.

 

"Not another step, Herr Lord P!"

 

"Is there a known language with silent ‘I’s?  It’s pi as in the transcendental/irrational number.  Damnit, Cronus, you of all people should know that."

 

"Perhaps I know a lot of things.  Perhaps."  Lord pi felt the heat of Cronus’ twin hellhounds approaching bearing down on him — Anxiety and Stress.  "I see you noticed my twin cerebuses.  Two animals, six heads, all death!  Oh how they’ve longed for your manhood."

 

"What?"

 

A Fruedian flashed across the timeless one’s eyes.  "I mean flesh.  They’re flesh feasters.  Yum, yum, yum they say when flesh is around… Not that they talk or anything.  At least…"  Seeing Cronus trail off into the complexities of infernal animal communication/breeding gave pi some time to come up with a plan.

 

"I hate to interrupt your soliloquy, but you’ve already lost this round.  You see, I possess a power that eludes both you an Uwe Boll — that of the story!"

 

Not to our readers: Cronus went to high school with Polyhymnia and had the biggest crush on her.

 

Lord Pi glanced back at the puppies and began:

 

""Back on Earth, a planet you’ve constrained to twenty-four hour days, a person needs an occupation to survive.  Some become financial leeches, some find employment serving others, a few are producers of goods, and others print money.  One man, having failed make a living as a blogger/gigaloo/webartist/shareware developer/game designer/writer, happened to have a day career.  The hours are often long — 18-27 hours a night.  It’s noble work — making creative and useful products for a product-producing corporation, but sometimes the hours interfere with one’s international playboy lifestyle.  Lately, lord pi finds himself in such a stress.  What’s worse is that his wrist starts hurting.

 

A hurt wrist does not make a happy typist.  The first thing a human will try is the non-confrontational approach (aka ‘stick head in sand’).  Being human (or at least believing himself to be human), lord pi said ‘Ow!’  Then he rearranged his desk to be more ergonomic.  Then more Feng Shui.  Then he attached wires to his knees.  Nothing helped.

 

Once confronted with a difficulty, the next human approach is to surf though the porn for the Internet.  That was a mistake — now his wrist hurt more.  Little did our dear, perverted, always thinking of human procreation (without the procreation or even humans all the time) reader know, lord pi is a hypochondriac and now believed himself to possess every illness that the Internet told him of.  Yes, even osmosis.

 

The very next, next, next day lord pi went to see his doctor.  The doctor was a generally nice guy.  Almost grandfatherly, but not that old (unless he and his children started at a young age).  He took one look at lord pi and said, "Stop being such a wimp."

 

"What?"

 

"You should go to the gym more.  The only thing wrong with you is that you have the muscle mass of a dead pigeon.  And your hair is all split ends [Ed: get a haircut, loser].  And you stink.  And…"  Well, you get the point. 

 

Lord pi found himself both relieved and confused.  "I’m both relieved and confused," he said.  "So it’s not carpal tunnel syndrome?"

 

"No, it’s that you are the biggest wimp in the world."  Lord pi thought up the wittiest comeback ever devised by any member of the human race, but before he could begin to respond he was stopped with two words: "Stop it.  Stop it now."  The kind doctor then took a look back at the chart from lord pi’s recent cough attack (aka ‘physical’).  "By the way, your blood work came back in.  You need to eat more green leafs and vegetables."

 

That’s right:  for lord pi’s wrist to live he must become Popeye!""

 

 

Cronus reflected on the story for a while.  "You just made that all up."

 

"Actually, unlike everything I’ve said or am saying or will say I did not make up a single word of that.  With the notable exception of the insults that followed being called a wimp and the hu-man seeking robots bent on world destruction."

 

"What hu-man seeking robots bent on world destruction?" asked Cronus with a nervous start.

 

Lord pi gulped and looked around, "But perhaps I’ve said too much."

 

 

And perhaps I’ve said too much as well.  Goodnight.***

 

* Since the birds in question are ostrigalosaurs its more of a wound than a kill.

** It’s a small rock (82 grams).

*** Unless you are a hu-man seeking robot bent on world destruction, because it’s probably day for you.  And thus I must wish you a good day.

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About lordpi

World's Foremost Satirist, Aspirant
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