Lord Will Wakes

We wake up, grab our tankard and finish the last of the grog from the night before, toss it away, wipe our mouth and say, 'Baaaaa!' We stand up and stretch, working the kinks and tension out of our muscles, sore from the great battlefield victory won the day before. Our left side still hurts from the Orc hammer blow we took. We see a shape beneath the furs, and only then do we remember the barmaid. 'You, wench!' we shout grumpily. 'Out!' The young thing sits bolt upright, red hair a tussle of locks about her head and shoulders. We growl. She grabs her clothes from the floor and hurriedly heads out the door. We throw the tankard after her. It hits the door and falls to the floor with a clunk. We stretch once more. A young page wearing the Royal standard creeps in, his face red at having passed the scantily clad barmaid. He see's us and stands straight. 'Excuse me Lord Will. The king needs you right away.' We wave the boy out of the room. The king, or that ravenous daughter of his, we think. Would all the victories we have won save our head if the king found out?

[You wish, loser-Ed]

This blog remains convinced that in another age we would have been an epic warrior of whom the bards would have sung many tales. In 2021 we're sleeping with Youngest Daughter's stuffed gator, Chompson. There's still more than a week left to go. Total middle-aged fail.

We didn't lead a brave band of men into battle against an army of fantasy monsters, but we did lift weights. Usually takes us about an hour. We worked up a good sweat, felt good. 

Well, we've kinda sorta run out of things to say about MTV. We lost the juju, for lack of a better explanation. Meh. 

We responded to the people who wanted freebies from us, 'You're $1.29 million short of your $50 million fundraising goal. I'm a writer and I get paid. So I pass.' We think we can turn this into a Substack piece. Damn, and we're sitting on half a dozen unpublished articles too. 

Tensions are ratcheting up in the Middle East. We admit we haven't been paying attention. Here's Benny Gantz warning the Iranians, though. 

A scientist calling himself Peter Hotez wants to ban criticism of Dr. Fauci and himself, calling it a hate crime. We tweeted that he was a dork. Actually, we think hate crime statutes should also apply to authors. Criticism of our work should be banned.

We admit the walls are closing in on Killer Andy C. The New York Post reports he's hunkered down in his mansion. Without looking we're sure there's already a Downfall parody.  Were we Andy's consigliere, we'd advice him to wait it out. That usually works for Democrats. Just remember the man is going down not because he's the greatest mass murderer in New York State history, but because he made Democrat women uncomfortable.