The Trouble With Ninjas
So, I'm on my way to work this morning... Oh man, who am I kidding, I just woke up and I probably won't even make it in today! I just thought I'd try to start this story off with something that sounded productive. Anyways, I'm on my way to the refrigerator this morning to get some OJ - fight the hangover, you know? - when I notice a rustling wind whimsically trail through the trees outside. Now, most people would say "oh, that zany weather!" but I know the harsh truth. That's right, folks: Ninjas.
As far back as I can remember, Ninjas have been chasing me down. Some say it's because I'm a real jerk, and I'm violent and hostile - especially with hostages. But those people know jack squat and should quit their belly-aching and get a life. I don't have time to pay attention to "other people's needs" while I'm trying to escape with cash during a stalemate with local authorities. So sue me.
I'll tell you why those Ninjas are really after me. Ready? Solid gold brain fluid. That's right, it's a genetic anomoly that makes me a cut above the rest. Now, I know what you're thinking: "But Dante, that doesn't make any sense! First of all, that's an impossible condition because gold isn't even an organic substance, let alone the result of genetic evolution - or even mutation. Also if it's solid gold, then it isn't brain fluid. Lastly, you're not only not a cut above the rest, but you are quite literally one of the dullest dullards ever to dull along dully." Well, whoever thinks that is a jerk. Trust me, I know. The solid gold brain juices know all.
So why are the Ninjas after my precious and lustrous cerebrospinal goodness? I'll tell you why. The Stock Market. That's right. Long has President Bush been in cahoots with Scientology to master this complex and seemingly-random financial juggernaut. They have approached me numerous times with offers of insane wealth and power to lend them some guidance - which I can obviously provide. However, I have declined them out of principal. First off, Scientology is an evil plot to take over the world, headed by none other than the villainous Grimace, who you may remember as the Purple Mountain of Terror from McDonald’s ads. Nextly, the miracle broth contained within my skull is registered as a Not-for-profit with the government. And I don't want Uncle Sam breathing down my neck.
And now I deal with the Ninjas. Day in and day out. They fear me as much as they respect me. I can tell that much, because for all the tell-tale signs that Ninjas are present - hearing stuff sometimes, shadows in places behind other things, and thinking that I had more milk than I actually find when I'm eating breakfast - I have yet to be bested by one of those wiry bastards.
So, I stay safe for another day. I hope. Perhaps it's only minutes before they pounce. But I'll persevere. I must. The world will not be safe for long if others wheeze the brain juice. Dante out.
As far back as I can remember, Ninjas have been chasing me down. Some say it's because I'm a real jerk, and I'm violent and hostile - especially with hostages. But those people know jack squat and should quit their belly-aching and get a life. I don't have time to pay attention to "other people's needs" while I'm trying to escape with cash during a stalemate with local authorities. So sue me.
I'll tell you why those Ninjas are really after me. Ready? Solid gold brain fluid. That's right, it's a genetic anomoly that makes me a cut above the rest. Now, I know what you're thinking: "But Dante, that doesn't make any sense! First of all, that's an impossible condition because gold isn't even an organic substance, let alone the result of genetic evolution - or even mutation. Also if it's solid gold, then it isn't brain fluid. Lastly, you're not only not a cut above the rest, but you are quite literally one of the dullest dullards ever to dull along dully." Well, whoever thinks that is a jerk. Trust me, I know. The solid gold brain juices know all.
So why are the Ninjas after my precious and lustrous cerebrospinal goodness? I'll tell you why. The Stock Market. That's right. Long has President Bush been in cahoots with Scientology to master this complex and seemingly-random financial juggernaut. They have approached me numerous times with offers of insane wealth and power to lend them some guidance - which I can obviously provide. However, I have declined them out of principal. First off, Scientology is an evil plot to take over the world, headed by none other than the villainous Grimace, who you may remember as the Purple Mountain of Terror from McDonald’s ads. Nextly, the miracle broth contained within my skull is registered as a Not-for-profit with the government. And I don't want Uncle Sam breathing down my neck.
And now I deal with the Ninjas. Day in and day out. They fear me as much as they respect me. I can tell that much, because for all the tell-tale signs that Ninjas are present - hearing stuff sometimes, shadows in places behind other things, and thinking that I had more milk than I actually find when I'm eating breakfast - I have yet to be bested by one of those wiry bastards.
So, I stay safe for another day. I hope. Perhaps it's only minutes before they pounce. But I'll persevere. I must. The world will not be safe for long if others wheeze the brain juice. Dante out.