The Prophet of Tolkien

Oh dear!

2008-04-10T11:25:47Z

Have I forgotten to advertize it here? Oh Tolkien, I'm becoming sloppy.

Anyway, my autobiography is finished. It took me slightly longer than expected - approximately 14 months instead of one - and it ended up not nearly as long as I had thought - just about 75 pages - but I hope it is slightly amusing. Some stuff from this blog also went into it, in one form or another.

Read it online, or download it as pdf for free, at
http://www.sheepofstone.de/novel/

By the way, the fantasy universe to which this book (sort of) belongs, and the group that invented and plays with this universe, have a new website.

http://www.teunc.org/

There is still much under construction, but what is up already roolz. Sorry. I mean, it is an absolute travesty and blasphemy, influenced by the foul "humour" of my old nemesis Bqggz. Yes, that sounds about right. (The good thing is, however, that in the library in the "Fredonia" subsection, my novel is listed first. I was clever to start the title with "B", wasn't I?)

Take care, everyone.

Merry Christmas

2006-12-24T13:55:23Z

Short note: the autobiography project is on hold, but not canceled.

Here's a card for you all. Merry Christmas.

Update on the autobiography

2006-11-14T18:14:57Z

I'm terribly behind my schedule - nearly half the month is over and I've barely reached 14.000 words. Oh well, who cares. If I don't make it, I'll just unilaterally declare it a NaNoWriTMo - write a novel in two months.

Anyhow, at least I've progressed to the part where Noel meets Pseudo, Morambar and all the other characters from the UFAT mythology. Now his crusade can begin in earnest! Or less earnest.

Read all of it here!

Important Announcement

2006-11-01T08:27:51Z

Dear comrades, dear friends,

due to lack of inspiration, the blog in its current form will not be updated anymore.

But do not despair - Noel is up to bigger tasks these days. In fact, even as I write these lines, he is working on his autobiography. As an entry to NaNoWriMo, the famous annual "Write a novel in one month" competition, which runs from Nov. 1 to Nov. 30, it will hopefully be finished in this timeframe.

Everything you never wanted to know about Noel will be revealed. A tale of magnificence - a tale of masterful writing - lovingly illustrated - and best of all, it will all be available for free on the internet!

Read the beginning of Beneath Unwashed Robes today and get 5 IQ-points of extra wisdom!

Until Nov. 30, significant progress of the work will be announced on this blog now and then.

Noel reserves the right to comment your blogs whenever he's in da mood.

So long and thanks for all the jellyfish,
Bqggz

2036

2006-09-23T23:42:33Z

Hello, this is Bqggz here. I have successfully glued a three-cubic-meter cone of vanilla ice to Noel's butt. The subsequent cooling of his backside convinced him that it is winter, and he started to hibernate.

Anyhow, I have written a little short story about life in the future, precisely, in the year 2036. I hope you enjoy it.

Revolutionary greetings,
Bqggz

2036

In the late evening of July 10th, 2008, while staggering home from a party through the streets of Cologne, I was caught in the remnants of hurricane Gamma, and as I just passed a building site, a huge, rusty sign with the inscription "Completion: November 2004" broke off and hit my head. Immediately I fell into a deep coma, and my death seemed certain. But luckily, just a few days before that, an obtrusive salesman had talked me into a contract for broadband internet. In this contract, a passage of microscopic small print ensured that I donated my body without limitations to scientific research, and thus I was quickly rushed into a special hospital and deep-frozen in an experimental cryogenic device.

When I awoke, a doctor bowed over me and waved with a stethoscope implanted in his nose. When he told me that I was now in the year 2036, the shock was such that I held my breath for a second. I recovered and noticed that I still held my breath, which struck me as slightly odd. The doctor calmed me down and explained that I was in quite a financial mess, facing a huge bill for the electrical power of the cryogenic device and, on top of that, an even higher bill for twenty-eight years of ridiculously overpriced broadband internet access – therefore the hospital staff had been forced to sell my heart and lungs. Well, he ensured me that the heart-lung machine I was connected to was working fine. I would have to push it around in a small cart from now on, but that was a small price to pay for my unexpected survival.

Still I was in deep debt, and I already saw myself spending the next few years paying for it by participation in more experiments, but luckily I was able to bribe the doctor with a five-percent share of my kidneys. That was no problem for me, as fifty percent of both these organs had already been transferred to the body of a local millionaire, who hoped that the additional kidney capacity increased his drinking performance at orgies. So I did not really care anymore about the loss of an additional five percent. In a dark night the doctor smuggled me out of the hospital, and I sneaked away, pulling my cart behind me. The last thing I saw of the doctor was his friendly face, illuminated by the small green neon ad flickering on his nose stethoscope, repeating the words "Drink Euro-Cola" over and over.

I was now ready to plunge into this new and wonderful world. The doctor had provided me with a few small coins, and the first I did was to buy a newspaper, for I had missed nearly three decades of world history. Unfortunately, only boulevard papers existed, the kind that do not have any world history. But I found something even better in the paper "Pic": a photo of me. It was accompanied by a short text that read: "DEAD MAN! He LIVES! He was frozen a hundred years. DEAD MAN, how COLD was it in your ICE-GRAVE?" I grinned; obviously journalistic standards had not degraded very much in the past decades. I decided to celebrate my new fame and headed for the next pub. There I bought a glass of tab water, firstly because I could afford nothing else, and secondly because I wanted to be gentle on my battered kidneys. It was in this place that I first noticed something disquieting about this future world. The friendly woman who served the water to me moved with very small steps, and I was rather shocked when I noticed that her legs were chained together at the ankles. Quietly I asked an unshaved, very haggard man on the neighbouring table about this. Instantly this man became very furious, unexplicably, but the anger was directed at the waitress, not at me. I grabbed his shirt and just narrowly managed to hold him back from attacking her and beating her up. Finally he gave me an explanation. Only a few years ago slavery had be re-established, though this word was never used – it had been replaced with "VLWs" for "Very Lucky Workers", which was an abbreviation and therefore modern. The unshaved man, who introduced himself as Yussuf, came from the European Province Georgia and was angry that he and his people were no longer the cheapest workforce available on the market. In flawless German – he had earned several doctors' degrees in his motherland and was an educated man – he complained to me how the VLWs had brought down the wages for immigrants. Years ago, said Yussuf, he still had been able to afford a bowl of rice per day. Since the introduction of the VLW laws he barely earned enough for one "bio-beer" per day. That was sufficient, for the beer was genetically modified and contained all necessary vitamins, but he missed the flavour. Yussuf worked fourteen hours per day as "Personal Program Manager", that was someone who operated the TV remote control for a rich Cologne citizen.

My house did not exist anymore, but Yussuf and I became friends, and he offered me that I could sleep at his place until I had found a home of my own. His place turned out to be a self-built wooden shack on a wide, desolate area in the northern outskirts of the city, the place where the old Ford plant had been located before GM-Daimlerford had gone bankrupt, but it was still better than nothing. On the next evening, when he came home from work, Yussuf took me on a tour through the city. I marvelled at the numerous changes, but what struck me as weirdest was the fashion of this decade, especially the fashion for women.

When I thought about it later, it came to me that this fashion could have been foretold even in my old time, for it was naught but the continuation of two trends which had already existed back then. The first was the continuing degradation of women to sexual objects. The second was a weakening of political symbols, a sense of "anything goes". In the Sixties a young man could provoke by simply wearing long hair, in the Eighties he already had to colour it green to achieve this, but again twenty years later everybody had the most ridiculous hairdos, and even t-shirts with Che portraits or pentagrams had entered the mainstream. These trends irrevocably led to the trendiest piece of clothing of the year 2036, the half-burka. That was a shapeless piece of cloth that covered all skin from the head to the navel; but below the waistline people wore nothing at all.

I have to explain this in detail because this type of fashion was responsible that my lucky streak finally ended. Because on our way through the city we passed several spots which Yussuf called "dangerous", and we had to run across them. One such spot existed but a few streets away from Yussuf's favourite pub. When we crossed it, I spotted once again one of these half-naked women, whose half-burka was pink and had little hearts printed onto it and the words "Suizide Bomba", and staring at her, I overheard Yussuf's command to run and stood still – one second too long. For suddenly a gang of five or six young men came running out of a dark corner and jumped onto us with wild, unarticulated screams. Yussuf shouted a curse in some kind of Caucasian language before he fell, several knives lodged in his body. I only survived because I feigned a heart attack and played dead, not very convincing for someone connected to a cart with a heart-lung machine, but I hoped the young rowdies would not understand such medicinal minutiae. I closed my eyes and felt hands investigating my pockets. But as neither Yussuf nor me had much money, the gang finally just broke a few parts off my machine – parts which were shiny and blinking, but not crucial for its function – and they retreated.

When everything was quiet again, I got up. My heart would have beaten wildly if I had owned one. Yussuf was dead. I staggered to the pub, and the friendly chained waitress allowed me to use the telephone. Some minutes later the paramilitaries arrived, a troop of mercenaries in the gray area between police and army. They were the ones to call in such a case, I learned, because the real police only came when Germans were killed, and the real army was busy somewhere in the Middle East. One of the paras could read and write, and I reported to him what had happened. He had a camouflaged uniform, a machine gun and in front of his face a round, yellow smiley mask to make him look more friendly. Then the paras thoroughly searched me and Yussuf's carcass and stole what the gang had left, a completely understandable behaviour, as these men were very badly paid. Finally they threw Yussuf's carcass into their jeep and left me without a single cent.

I was desperate – I had lost my only friend in this time and did not know what to do next. But suddenly I remembered the article in the "Pic". Maybe, I thought, I was still interesting enough for another article. I stole a small coin from the nearest dead junkie, entered an internet cafe and sent a voicemail to the paper's redaction. The answer came within minutes and exceeded even my hopes. As someone who had been in the paper once, I was now a Hyper-Cool-Idol. That was still a lesser status than Mega-Super-Idol, which required actually being on television for at least two seconds, but it was more than enough to ensure an interview in tomorrow's issue.

At first everything seemed to go well. "Pic" paid relatively well for nude pictures, and I at least had some interesting scars to show off. I managed to raise the price even more by having the pictures taken while I had sex with a Moldawian prostitute, which the reporter brought along. Thus, I calculated, I would be able to pay for my bio-beer for at least another week. The successful photo session made me careless, and I let the reporter trick me into making some critical remarks on the re-establishment of slavery. If I remember correctly, I said that it "made me sad". The exact wording I do not remember, for "Pic" did not print a single word of it. Instead, when I opened the paper the next morning, I read the following caption under an admittedly very artistic photo: "ICE-MAN: Why does he HATE us?" The European Province Germany, I read, had been on the brink of economic recovery, but with my words I had scared away the boom just before it could manifest itself. Now we were in for at least another year of stagnation. Thus I, the ICE-COMMUNIST, was a HATE-TERRORIST, maybe even as part of an international network, for was not, as "Pic" wrote under a photo of Yussuf's carcass, my best friend JUSUFF, THE BICKERING TURK?

In summary, this all was – for "Pic's" standards – really well-written and thoroughly investigated, so I was not very surprised that immediately a crowd of angry people gathered around me and started to throw bottles and stones. I fled, but the mob followed me. My only chance was to escape my hunters in a dark alley. That, however, proved to be an easy task, for the sun had not yet risen, and street lights had long been abolished, so there was a certain overabundance of dark alleys. Quickly I got rid of the jeering crowd, but one brick had smashed into my heart-lung machine and damaged it. While I was running along, a numb feeling crept into my arms and legs, and my head started to spin. Now my fate hung on a thin thread. As fast as my wobbling legs could still carry me, I hurried back to the hospital where I had woken up. I smashed a window with the brick, and here my luck returned; the gatekeeper, who had been alerted by the noise, was a VLW and could not run fast enough with his feet chains. I climbed through the window, and with a terrible effort I managed to lift the cart through it too. After this my memory gets a bit fuzzy. With the last energy the stuttering machine could provide I stumbled through a long hallway. Fey I seemed, or hate-terrorism shone like a horrible light from my eyes, and all doctors fled from my sight. Finally I found the blue glow of my cryogenic device, and I sank into it, ripped off the wires that connected me to the machine, and with a thud the device closed over me.

I slept for another three decades, while the climate finally succumbed to total collapse and the rising sea flooded the city of Cologne. For years I lay unconscious beneath the shallow, but very clouded water of the Rhine Bay, while around me fierce battles raged between the last inhabitants of the city: mercenaries of a big private bank, which could afford the expensive genetic gills, and the local Monday Demonstrations, which never had been deterred by minor climatic inconveniences. One of these battles finally damaged the hospital, and my cryogenic device was washed out and drifted to the surface.

Luckily, up here the revolution had come at last. So I was fished out of the water on December 17th, 2079, by the crew of the aircraft carrier "James Robertson", which had been commissioned to keep an eye on the fighting. While I write these lines, I am sitting on the deck of this wonderful ship and enjoy the tropical breeze under the warm December sun. My new, artificial heart works perfectly. I am drinking a Pina Colada and listening to the cries of the mutant two-beaked gulls above me and the exalted voices of the Starbord Committee, arguing about the proposed fusion with the Lower Middle Ship Committee, behind me. The future, I have found out now, is not nearly as bad as we always think.

© Bqggz 2006

Planets

2006-08-18T10:51:43Z

A meeting of astronomers has changed the definition of "planet" to resolve the status of Pluto, for long time the outermost known of these bodies.

For the uninitiated, Pluto never really fit in. Too small, too light, orbit too eccentric. But apparently schoolchildren love the little bugger. So when Pluto was on the brink of being demoted to "some kinda lump of ice", public pressure forced the astronomers to do a full somersault and declare everything, yes, everything a planet. Including Xena and - hold your breath - Charon and Ceres. (Read more about it, plus picture)

I disagree strongly with this decision. How many new planets will we get now? 20? 50? "Planet" is the name of an elite, and not every ragged lump should be given this proud name. What's next? Calling the International Space Station a "moon"? Ireland a "continent"? J.K.Rowling a "fantasy author"?

I think it would be decent to not only demote Pluto, but give the remaining 8 planets new names. Preferrably names of Tolkien characters, for is the Professor not our guiding light? Here are some ideas:

Mercury	Denethor	Charred and burned.
Venus	Arwen	Unfortunately, we only see her clothed.
Earth	Peter Jackson	Nobody likes this place anyway.
Mars	Nazgul #6	There could have been life once... long ago.
Jupiter	Noel	As I am the greatest prophet ever, it is only fair if the greatest planet is named after me.
Saturn	Aragorn	Rings... Crown... get it?
Uranus	Bill the Pony	No apparent reason.
Neptune	Celeborn	Boring, nondescript and utterly unfit as sexual object.

I further think that the new "planetoids" Pluto, Xena, Charon, Ceres, Sedna and whatnot should all be named Bqggz, to emphasize his puny size and intellect in comparison to Jupiter/me.

I'm currently amassing an army to convince the astronomers of this idea.

Tolkien word count

2006-07-25T08:48:24Z

Ave, everyone out there.

I see it has been some time. Somebody of you could have reminded me to post, eh?

Well, you probably didn't miss me, because this is LiveJournal, not a place where real friendships form. And I know that getting through puberty requires all your energy. So I'll let it slip this time.

Anyhow, I was rather busy with a large-scale project. I realized that I've done much preaching and recruiting lately, but little groundbreaking Tolkien studies. So I made an analysis of certain words and their statistical frequency and prevalence in Tolkien's works. I concentrated on a topic that has been subject to debate for a long time: gender issues.

The complete results are 3700+ pages, so I can't give them all here. Just some excerpts, painstakingly manually counted:

(from Chapter 3.2.2.45.23: Frequency of male/female nouns/pronouns in LotR and Silmarillion, pp.3178-3184)

Nouns (LotR)
Man: 370	Woman: 22	Ratio: 16.82
Son: 295	Daughter: 55	Ratio: 5.36
Nouns (Silmarillion)
Man: 44	Woman: 7	Ratio: 6.29
Son: 247	Daughter: 75	Ratio: 3.29
Pronouns (LotR)
he: 8,630	she: 518	Ratio: 16.66
his/him: 7,306	her: 534	Ratio: 13.68
Pronouns (Silmarillion)
he: 2,067	she: 403	Ratio: 5.13
his/him: 2,423	her: 471	Ratio: 5.14

And because Tolkien's words are the Literal Truth, this is the final proof to what I already guessed for a long time. Men are between 3 and 17 times more important than women. Therefore, all females here should immediately accept an appropriately low social position, e.g. as my sex slaves.

Appealing to children

2006-06-04T11:50:31Z

carida_46 pointed me to the following thing that measures how difficult to read your LJ is.

prophetum's Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: 7
Average number of words per sentence:	13.06
Average number of syllables per word:	1.50
Total words in sample:	3499
Analyze your journal! Username:
Another fun meme brought to you by rfreebern

Now I know I can be pretty demanding at times. But still this result worries me. Half of LiveJournal is in grade 6 or below, physically or at least mentally, so does that mean I lose 50% of my potential recruits? And small children are the best recruits - easy to manipulate and cheap to feed.

So I was thinking about how I can appeal to smaller kids. Now vomiting recently mused about how to become a Teletubby, and that set my mind in motion. How would you like it if I made a TV series "The Noeletubbies"? I would be all four of them, of course - can't allow other actors to disturb my brilliant acting. Maybe I would give Bqggz the small role as this impudent vacuum cleaner. Here's how it would look like.

Tolkien Apparition

2006-05-23T21:57:35Z

I photographed this apparition of Tolkien's ghost in front of a brothel in Alma Ata, Kazakhstan. Note that the flowers in the field all bow towards him.

Mother's Day

2006-05-14T18:34:51Z

It's Mother's Day!

I visited my mother earlier. Yes, contrary to all malevolent rumour, I do have a mother and did not just grow out of a lab tube.

It went like this:

NOEL: Ave, mater mei! Ego returnabam!
NOEL-MUM: What? Who the f*ck are you? I don't buy anything.
N: It's me! Your son!
NM: Yeti? Didn't I tell you to comb your fur before you go outside?
N: No, Noel!
NM: Noel?
N: Yes!
NM: GOAWAYGOAWAYGOAWAYGOAWAYGOAWAY!!!!!!!!!!
N: Okay. I'll just leave the flowers on your doorstep.
NM: Those are flowers?
N: Actually, it's pipeweed.
NM: And this actually is a frying pan.

Yes, my pupils, a prophet's life is not easy! Now excuse me, I'll have to find some ice for my head. And ring up my brother Yeti. I forgot his last birthday. But it's okay, he can't read calendars anyway.

Mausoleum

2006-05-04T13:18:42Z

I recently was reminded by vomiting that we all have to die, and there was some musing about what should happen to our bodies after that. Not that I plan to leave anytime soon, but well, you have to be prepared for everything. And I, as an aspiring religion founder, have to make sure that you, my followers, still have a place to worship me when I'm gone.

As you know, I rather like my face and the way brilliance radiates out of it. So I'm thinking of how to preserve it. Burying is not an option, because I would look ridiculous as a skeleton. ("Oh look! He's bald! And beardless! Mwahahaha!")

Consequently, I am currently favoring the idea of being preserved in a large and impressive mausoleum. I would, of course, have to make sure that it is bigger than Lenin's, to annoy bqggz. It would have all the things a mausoleum has - huge columns, stone altars, large basreliefs of Tolkien on the walls. I would be in a glass box that would be polished once per day with the spittle shed by a virgin while she chanted Tolkien's words. Here's how it would look like:

Look closely, and you'll notice I only have one leg. That is because the thighbone of the other one will be made into a weapon to smack infidels over the head with. This will quickly become a verb: "Stop pretending Balrogs have wings, or I'll noel you!" And this, I think, is a very appealing kind of immortality.

Now with ads!

2006-04-20T18:59:04Z

Rejoice, my friends!

For I have finally managed to bring ads into my journal. Now you too will be able to click on them, to consume and to enjoy the benefits of Capitalism. If that annoys Bqggz, even better!

As a side effect, the upgrade to a "Sponsored" account gave me the possibility to do some designing and formatting. But please do not let this distract you from the ads.

PS: As much as I encourage you to buy all this penis enlargement stuff, please consider keeping some of your money. Not only because penises over a certain size look gross; you also might be embarrassed when I ask you for a donation and you're broke.

New Quiz

2006-04-17T15:32:04Z

I made a new quiz. I called it:

The What Kind Of Bad Hair Day Are You? Quiz

Take it today!

Original idea by derridina. Here's my result:

You are Prophet Hair Day

You are a Weird Prophet. There is no physical possibility to get this result. You cheated.

Possible solution: Being beaten with a large stick by Bqggz.

Of all users who took this quiz, you scored:
- higher than 93% on Salivating
- higher than 76% on Result Faking

What Kind Of Bad Hair Day Are You? - A quiz by prophetum

Nail me!

2006-04-14T14:50:48Z

From http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/04/14/AR2006041400342.html

At least 11 Filipino devotees were nailed to the cross during Good Friday reenactments of Christ's final hours.

The Lenten ritual, opposed by religious leaders in the Philippines, is an annual tradition in this farming village about 45 miles north of the capital, Manila.

The Roman Catholic devotees were crucified in batches, their palms and feet attached to wooden crosses with four-inch nails soaked in alcohol to prevent infection.

Nine devotees underwent the ritual in San Pedro Cutud, including Ruben Enaje, a 45-year-old commercial sign maker who was nailed to the cross for the 20th time. (...)

And they say my cult is weird! No, my friends and minions, be assured: I will never ask something like that from you. After all, if you are nailed to a cross, how will you be able to read Tolkien's books? I bet those people did not spend a single thought on that!

Oh dreary day

2006-04-08T07:35:49Z

Today I desecrated Tolkien.

I was delivering a sermon to approximately two million of fishermen, just like every day. It all seemed to go well. I had quoted Tolkien, I had done the small miracles - turning water into urine, healing people from deadly boredom etc.

Just when I was back home I discovered that I had made errors. My speech had only lasted 7 hours, and yet I had managed to slip in one misplaced comma, one wrong page number and one factual error (a reference to Balrogs in an essay Tolkien wrote in 1927, which I had misused as proof for a theory on Tolkien's opinions on the overall number of balrogs in 1920, despite the serious changes these opinions underwent in the early twenties).

I was devastated. More so by the fact that I totally did not notice until I was back home. Now, of course, I understand why my audience got so restless after the 5th hour of the sermon. They, of course, noticed.

Am I getting old? Or am I getting too complacent with my recent successes? I will have to meditate about that. I will also whip myself tonight.

Happy April

2006-04-02T21:58:43Z

I refused to make an April Fools joke this year. I feel that Tolkien is much too earnest and sacred a topic. As you probably know by now, this is a deadly serious journal - if you want humour, go elsewhere. Or read Bqggz' comments. That guy makes a fool of himself every day of the year.

What else is new? I've sort of settled in here on the northern shores of the Baltic Sea - so far, the agents of evil have not attacked me here. I caused an early spring in this region, because the greatness of my truth radiated from me like high-energy microwaves. So I melted the ice on the Baltic Sea long before it naturally would have thawed. Some millions of local fishermen profited greatly from that and joined my cult. World domination is making progress slowly but steadily! A dead elephant fell out of my hair; it must have become entangled in there last autumn when I was in India. I should comb more often.

Stay faithful!

Burn, Denmark, burn

2006-02-04T21:56:09Z

Ah, the Mohammed thing. I just saw it on TV. They burned the Danish embassy in Syria and whatnot. Yawn. While I agree that a majority of Danes are heretics, especially Claire, that is just ridiculous.

Here is a little picture of me and Mohammed which I took on a time machine vacation to Arabia. I hung around with him a while, and I think I inspired him to found a religion. Sorry about that.

Well, what can I say? He was a great guy. Though he was a bit self-conscious about going bald, which was why he wore a turban all the time, and also disliked being pictured. But hey, who of us does not have a spleen or two?

A poem in honour of Tolkien

2006-01-28T15:58:50Z

Ave, amici! Long time no update. As compensation I offer you this little poem in honour of Tolkien. I recite it every day when I get up and again before I go to bed. I recommend that you do it too, it will help you on your path to enlightenment. (And improve your Latin grades, my kiddies!)

Tolkien, you're my guiding lux
Ego lego tibi books
Every dies, every noctes
I read quod your brain concoctes.

Tolkien, you're a genius
And I quote e pluribus
Volumes of the History
Of Medium-earth et Letteri.

Non est semper truth in them?
Non sunt they so brilliantem?
O amicus, can't you find
In them pacem for your mind?

Tolkien, you're the author best
North to south et east to west
Cis et trans et hoc and hic
Noone scribit better fic.

So, amici, veni mecum
Follow mihi, the prophetum
Lege Tolkien every hora
Atque spread his words in fora!

Fireworks!

2005-12-31T22:38:30Z

bsssssssss...WHEEEEEOUH!
bsssssssss...WHEEEEEOUH!
bsssssssss...WHEEEEEOUH!

Ouch! Ouuuuuuch! Ouch! Stop it! Stop shooting this firework at me, you agents of evil!

bsssssssss...WHEEEEEEEEEOUHH!

Ouuuuch! Not into my ass!
Okay, that's enough! You asked for it! Take this bowl of punch!

SPLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!

Ha! And take this punch with my bowl!

BLAM BLAM BLAM!

What do you say now, foul desecrator of Tolkien?

*END OF LIVE TRANSMISSION FROM THE NEW YEAR PARTY OF THE ALT.FAN.TOLKIEN DISCUSSION GROUP*

Joyeux Noel!

2005-12-24T10:16:13Z

As the French say: Joyeux Noel!

How come the French named a holiday after me? Well, I admit that I have no idea. If I ever come to France, I'll ask them. They probably love me dearly. I hope they will make me their king.

Here is a little something for you, a picture titled: "How I played a harmless prank on Maria, Joseph and little Jesus". Hmmm, this must be a time machine thing. I definitely didn't have a beard in 1 AD.

My eating habits

2005-12-18T13:35:44Z

I have been asked about my favourite food.

Well, my friends, I do not have any "favourite" food. Contrary to barbarians like Bqggz, who just shove in everything they find in the fridge, eating for me is not a thing of pleasure, but of deep spirituality. I have a fixed schedule of one single type of food for every single weekday.

Monday is the beginning of the week. Grain is the beginning of all plants when it is sown into the fields. So I eat grain on Monday. Usually I snack a sack of flour or two.

Tuesday comes from French tuer, "kill". A fitting day to eat dead animals, isn't it? I begin with a lump of meat in the morning, have some light sausages for lunch and then eat a pig or small cow for dinner.

Wednesday I honour Tolkien by eating pipeweed.

Thursday I usually fast. After what I ate Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I'm usually not feeling too well anyhow.

Friday I go to McDonalds. I know it is no cultural or spiritual highlight, but I usually give a large number of sermons on Friday, so I only have time to hop into the restaurant for some minutes.

Saturday and Sunday is the weekend. Now what does a weekend look like? Isn't it something rather long and stale, with a beginning and an end? I think it compares very well to spaghetti. I eat spaghetti on these days - but, of course, just the first half of each noodle on Saturday and the second half on Sunday.

Now, my pupils who want to follow in my path, do not panic. You are not required to follow all of those strict rules from the very beginning of your enlightening. But I would request that you start to have pipeweed on Wednesdays - for if we do not honour Tolkien, what meaning does our life have?

Girl dies in peanut butter kiss

2005-11-29T15:19:36Z

From http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/4481546.stm

Girl dies in peanut butter kiss

A 15-year-old Canadian girl with a peanut allergy died after kissing her boyfriend who had eaten a peanut butter sandwich hours earlier, reports say.

Christina Desforges, of Saguenay, Quebec, died last week after she failed to respond to days of treatment. (...)

What a horrible way to go! But despite all the tragedy of this event, one must ask the question whether the decay of Western morale is responsible for that. Such a thing would not have happened in Papua New Guinea, for example.

From http://www.arte-tv.com/ (translation by me)

(...) On Papua New Guinea, the biggest island of Melanesia, all things female are seen as weakening for the man, the warrior. In many Papua tribes, the kiss, seen as the ultimate sign for affection, was totally unknown until the arrival of the Whites. (...)

So what can we deduce from this? The degererate Western civilization is doomed to collapse. If you look at the statistics, the allergies in our hyper-clean society are on the rise. We're all going to die. Unless, of course, we go back to our roots, emigrate to Papua New Guinea and live a traditional life.

I might do that myself one day. I alreaedy started adopting to their culture. Yesterday I had my nose pierced with a bone. It feels good.

Edit, 8 hours later: I have slight breathing problems. I don't suppose it has to do anything with the piercing; I probably was infected by peanut allergy already. Seems I only narrowly have avoided the peanut death.

Edit, 11 hours later: I made a mistake. I was meant to use a mouse thighbone, not a horse thighbone. Silly me.

More photos

2005-11-13T02:05:51Z

Whoah! This hotel is cool. Civilization does have its merits. I'm to lazy today to write much stuff. Here, two more old pictures from the bottom of my pockets.

This was back in 1912, when I went on a boating trip. I forgot the lake's name.

I was preaching to this crowd somewhere... this was a huge success. I recruited the guy with the antennas. A very nice guy.

NaNoWriMo

2005-11-06T03:22:35Z

I suppose you all have heard of NaNoWriMo, the competition to write a novel in just one month.

Pedestrians! Utter, lame pedestrians!

50.000 words is what I write on a day. On an average day. With one hand tied behind my back. And the other entangled in my hair.

I have just arrived at Petersburg and have checked in at an insanely expensive hotel, so I have some spare time at the moment. Okay, I'll give it a shot.

Die, infidels who desecrate Tolkien!

Chapter 1
A horrible bloodbath

Quabbz woke up in a cheap hotel in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. "Whoah!" he exclaimed. "My head hurts." He dimly remembered killing lots of people yesterday. They had desecrated Tolkien! Revenge had come upon them! Quabbz felt very proud. He was the tool of the Higher Beings to take revenge! He got dressed, went downstairs and shot the other guests. It was fun. A lot of people were killed. Some other people were not killed, because they called the police. The police were secret agents of the dark forces which hunted Quabbz and desecrated Tolkien!
Quabbz got very angry. "Have you ever read History of Middle Earth?" he yelled.
"No!" the police sneered. They brought big cannons and fired them. The hotel was thoroughly destroyed. Quabbz escaped through a tunnel which he hastily dug, and swore to take bitter revenge. More destruction ensued. A big battle was fought between Garmisch-Partenkirchen and Walchensee. The heavy tank bataillons of the police were trying to encircle Quabbz near Unterammergau, but with a bold move he took Vorderbraunau first and annihilated the police force in three months of trench war! Finally, Quabbz was victorious! "Now everyone will love Tolkien", he said and enforced this vision upon the world. The world was happy.

Chapter 2
To fill 50.000 words

Quabbz was elected president of the world. But there were still people out there who wanted to desecrate Tolkien! One of them was a guy named Zzbqw. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth I, page 465, it says: There were two Thrains!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth II, page 465, it says: There were two Boromirs!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth III, page 465, it says: There were two Gandalfs!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth IV, page 465, it says: There were two Frodos!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth V, page 465, it says: There were two Middle-earths!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth VI, page 465, it says: There were two Tolkiens!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth VII, page 465, it says: There were two boobs!" Quabbz slapped him. But Zzbqw was not yet defeated. Zzbqw came to Quabbz and said: "Hey, I think in History of Middle-earth VIII, page 465, it says: There were two [Repeat ad nauseam]

Minion Call 2005

2005-10-31T12:51:04Z

Ave, my little clean-haired friends. Let me interrupt my regularly scheduled rambling for a first minion call.

Please answer the following questions:

- Who are you, or who do you pretend to be?
- Why are you following me?
- Do you already feel enlightened? What Tolkien visions / hallucinations / voices in your head did you already experience?
- What are your hopes for your future as my minion?
- Do you have any previous experience with demented cults / sects? How do I do in comparison?
- How do you avoid getting blisters in your wooden sandals?

Thank you for your time and effort.

Eternal love,
Noel