Christopher Moore's Blog

You guys, here’s a few updates to the tour schedule. They’ve added another event in L.A on the 14th, as well as the Philly and D.C. dates at the end. Ann Arbor, Chicago, and perhaps other Midwest venues yet to come, and probably another Bay Area or two.

Feb.10: Books Inc, Opera Plaza, SF (Launch)
Feb. 11: Book Passage, Corte Madera
Feb. 12: Mysterious Galaxy, San Diego
Feb. 13: B & N, Santa Monica
Feb. 14: Borders, Northridge
Feb. 15: 3rd Place, Seattle
Feb. 16: University, Seattle
Feb. 17: Powell’s, Portland
Feb. 19: Tattered Cover, Denver
Feb. 20: Boulder Bookstore, Boulder
Feb. 22: Bookpeople, Austin
Feb. 23: Wordsmith, Atlanta
Feb. 25: B & N Lincoln Center, NYC
Feb. 26: Chester County Books, PA
Feb. 27: Politics & Prose, Washington DC

Well kids, here’s my Christmas present to you. It’s not much, but it’s what I do.
The chapter will be footnoted in the book, with some of the more obscure
terms defined, but I couldnt’ figure out how to get the footnotes to hyperlink
in the blog, so they’re at the end of the chapter.

Fool

by

Christopher Moore

WARNING

This is a bawdy tale. Herein you will find gratuitous shagging, murder, spanking, maiming, treason, and heretofore unexplored heights of vulgarity and profanity, as well as non-traditional grammar, spit infinitives, and the odd wank. If that sort of thing bothers you, then gentle reader pass by, for we only endeavor to entertain, not to offend. That said, if that’s the sort of thing you think you might enjoy, then you have happened onto the perfect story!

Chapter 1 – Always a Bloody Ghost

“Tosser!” Cried the raven.

There’s always a bloody raven.

“Foolish teachin’ him to talk, if you ask me,” said the sentry.

“I’m duty-bound foolish, yeoman.” said I. I am, you know? A fool. Fool to the court of Lear of Britain. “And you are a tosser^[1]” I said.

“Piss off!” said the raven.

The yeoman took a swipe at the bird with his spear and the great black bird swooped off the wall and went cawing out over the Thames. A ferryman looked up from his boat, saw us on the tower, and waved. I jumped onto the wall and bowed — at your fucking service, thank you. The yeoman grumbled and spit after the raven.

There have always been ravens at the White Tower. A thousand years ago, before George the 2^nd, idiot King of Merica, destroyed the world, there were ravens here. The legend says that as long as there are ravens at the Tower, England will stand strong. Still, it may have been a mistake to teach one to talk.

“The Earl of Gloucester approaches!” Cried a sentry on the west wall. “With his son Edgar and the bastard Edmund!”

The yeoman by me grinned. “Gloucester, eh? Be sure you do that bit where you play a goat and Drool plays the Earl mistaking you for his wife.”

“That would be unkind,” said I. “the Earl is newly widowed.”

“You did it the last time he was here and she was still warm in the grave.”

“Well, yes. A service that – trying to shock the poor wretch out of his grief, wasn’t I?”

“Good show, too. The way you was bleatin’ I thought ol’ Drool was givin’ it to you right proper up the bung.”

I made a note to shove the guard off the wall when opportunity presented.

“Heard he was going to have you assassinated, but he couldn’t make a case to the King.”

“Gloucester’s a noble, he doesn’t need a case for murder, just a whim and a blade.”

“Not bloody likely,” the yeoman said, “everyone knows the King’s got a wing o’er you.”

That was true. I enjoy a certain license.

“Have you seen, Drool? With Gloucester here, there’ll be a command performance.” My apprentice, Drool – a beef-witted bloke the size of a draught horse.

“He was in the kitchen before the watch,” said the yeoman.

The kitchen buzzed – the staff preparing for a feast.

“Have you seen Drool ?” I asked Taster, who sat at the table staring sadly at a bread trencher^[2] laid out with cold pork, the King’s dinner. He was a thin, sickly lad, chosen, no doubt, for his weakness of constitution, and a predisposition toward dropping dead at the slightest provocation. I liked to tell him my troubles, sure that they would not travel far.

“Does this look poisoned to you?”

“It’s pork, lad. Lovely. Eat up. Half the men in the England would give a testicle to feast thus, and it only mid-day. I’m tempted myself.” I tossed my head – gave him a grin and a bit of a jingle on the ol’ hat bells to cheer him. I pantomimed stealing a bit of his pork. “After you, of course.”

A knife thumped into the table by my hand.

“Back, Fool,” said Bubble, the head cook. “That’s the King’s lunch and I’ll have your balls before I’ll let you at it.”

“My balls are yours for the asking, milady,” said I. “Would you have them on a trencher, or shall I serve them in a bowl of cream, like peaches?”

Bubble harrumphed, yanked her knife from the table and went back to gutting a trout at the butcher block, her great bottom rolling like thunderclouds under her skirt as she moved.

“You’re a wicked little man, Pocket,” said Squeak, waves of freckles riding o’er her shy smile. She was second to the cook, a sturdy, ginger-haired girl with a high giggle and a generous spirit in the dark. Taster and I often passed pleasant afternoons at the table watching her wring the necks of chickens.

Pocket is my name, by the way. Given to me by the Abbess who found me on the nunnery doorstep when I was a tiny babe. True, I am not a large fellow. Some might even say I am diminutive, but I am quick as a cat and nature has compensated me with other gifts. But wicked?

“I think Drool was headed to the princess’s chambers,” Squeak said.

“Aye,” said Taster, glumly. “The lady sent for a cure for melancholy.”

“And the git went?” Jest on his own? The boy wasn’t ready. What if he blundered, tripped, fell on the princess like a millstone on a butterfly? “Are you sure?”

Bubble dropped a gutless trout into a bushel of slippery cofishes^[3]. “Chanting, ‘off to do ma duty’, he was. We told him you’d be looking for him when we heard Princess Goneril and the Duke of Albany was coming.”

“Albany’s coming?”

“Ain’t he sworn to string your entrails from the chandelier?” Asked Taster.

“No,” corrected Squeak, “That was Duke of Cornwall. Albany was going to have his head on a pike, I believe. Pike, wasn’t it, Bubble?”

“Aye, have his head on a pike. Funny thing, thinkin’ about it, you’d look like a bigger version of your puppet-stick there.”

“Jones,” said Taster, pointing to my jester’s scepter, Jones, who is, indeed, a smaller version of my own handsome countenance, fixed atop a sturdy handle of hardened hickory. Jones speaks for me when even my tongue needs to exceed safe license with knights and nobles, his head pre-piked for wrath of the dull and humorless. My finest art is oft lost in the eye of the subject.

“Yes, that would be right hilarious, Bubble – ironic imagery – like the lovely Squeak turning you on a spit over a fire, an apple up both your ends for color — although I daresay the whole castle might conflagrate in the resulting grease fire, but until then we’d laugh and laugh.”

I dodged a well-flung trout then, and paid Bubble a grin for not throwing her knife instead. Fine woman, she, despite being large and quick to anger. “Well, I’ve a great drooling dolt to find if we are to prepare an entertainment for the evening.”

Cordelia’s chambers lay in the north tower, the quickest way there atop the outer wall. As I crossed over the great main gate house, a young spot-faced yeoman called. “Hail, Earl of Gloucester!” Below, the greybeard Gloucester and his retinue were crossing the drawbridge.

“Hail, Edmund, you bloody bastard!” I called over the wall.

The yeoman tapped me on the shoulder. “Beggin’ your pardon, sirrah,^[4] but I’m told that Edmund is sensitive about his bastardy.”

“Aye, yeoman,” said I. “No need for prodding and jibe to divine that prick’s tender spot, he wears it on his sleeve.” I jumped on the wall and waved Jones at the bastard, who was trying to wrench a bow and quiver from a knight who rode beside him. “You whoreson scalawag!’ Said I. “You flesh-turd dropped stinking from the poxy arsehole of a hare-lipped harlot!”

The Earl of Gloucester glowered up at me as he passed under the portcullis.

“Shot to the heart, that one,” said the yeoman.

“Too harsh then, you reckon?”

“A bit.”

“Sorry. Excellent hat though, bastard,” I called, by way of making amends. Edgar and two knights were trying to restrain the bastard Edmund below. I jumped down from the wall. “Haven’t seen Drool, have you?”

“In the great hall this morning,” said the yeoman. “Not since.”

A call came around the top of the wall, passing from yeoman to yeoman until we heard, “The Duke of Cornwall and Princess Regan approach from the South.”

“Fuckstockings!” Cornwall: polished greed and pure born villainy; he’d dirk^[5] a nun for a farthing^[6], and short the coin, for the fun.

“Don’t worry, little one, the King ‘ill keep your hide whole.”

“Aye, yeoman he will, and if you call me little one in company, the King ‘ill have you walking watch on the frozen moat all winter.”

“Sorry, Sir Jester, Sir, ” said the yeoman. He slouched then as not to seem so irritatingly tall. “Heard that tasty Princess Regan’s a right bunny cunny, eh?” He leaned down to elbow me in the ribs, now that we were best mates and all.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Just two months in service. “

“Advice, then, young yeoman: When referring to the King’s middle daughter, state that she is fair, speculate that she is pious, but unless you’d like to spend your watch looking for the box where your head is kept, resist the urge to wax ignorant on her naughty bits.”

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

“Speak not of Regan’s shaggacity, son, Cornwall has taken the eyes of men who have but looked upon the princess with the spark of lust.”

“The fiend! I didn’t know, sir. I’ll say nothing.”

“And neither shall I, good yeoman. Neither shall I.”

And thus are alliances made, loyalties cemented. Pocket makes a friend.

The boy was right about Regan, of course. And why I hadn’t thought to call her bunny cunny myself, when I of all people should know – well, as an artist, I must admit , I was envious of the invention.

Cordelia’s private solar^[7] lay at the top of the North Tower on the outer wall, up a narrow spiral staircase lit only with the crosses of arrow loops. I could hear giggling as I topped the stairs.

“So I am of no worth if not on the arm and in the bed of some buffoon in a cod piece?” I heard Cordelia say.

“You called,” said I, stepping into the room, codpiece in hand.

The ladies in waiting giggled, young Lady Jane, who is but thirteen, shrieked at my presence — disturbed no doubt, by my overt manliness, or perhaps by the gentle clouting on the bottom she received from Jones.

“Pocket!” Cordelia sat at the center of the circle of girls — holding court, as such — her hair down, blond curls to her waist, a simple gown of lavender linen, loosely laced . She stood and approached me. “You honor us, Fool. Did you hear rumors of small animals to hurt, or were you hoping to accidently surprise me in my bath again?”

I tipped my hat, a slight, contrite jingle there. “I was lost, milady.”

“A dozen times?”

“If you want a navigator I’ll send for him, but I’ll not lend him Jones or my coxcomb.^[8] And hold me blameless should your melancholy triumph and you drown yourself in the brook, your gentle ladies weeping damply around your pale and lovely corpse. Let them say, ‘She was not lost in the map, confident as she was in her navigator, but lost in heart for want of a fool.’”

The ladies gasped as if I’d cued them. I’d have blessed them if I were still on speaking terms with God.

“Out, out, out, ladies,” Cordelia said. “Give me peace with my fool so that I might devise some punishment for him.”

The ladies scurried out of the room.

“Punishment?” I asked . “For what?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, “but by the time I’ve thought of the punishment, I’m sure there’ll be an offense.”

“I blush at your confidence.”

“And I at your humility,” said the princess. She grinned, a crescent too devious for a maid of her tender years. Cordelia is not ten years my junior ( I’m exactly not sure of my own age), seventeen summers has she seen, and as the youngest of the king’s daughters, she’s always been treated as if fragile as spun glass. But, sweet thing, her bark could frighten a mad badger.

“Shall I disrobe for my punishment?” I offered. “Flagellation? Fellation? Whatever. I am your willing penitent, lady.

“No more of that, Pocket. I need your counsel, or at least your commiseration. My sisters are coming to the castle.”

“Unfortunately, they have arrived.”

“Oh, that’s right, Albany and Cornwall want to kill you. Bad luck, that. Anyway, they are coming to the castle, as is Gloucester and his sons. Goodness, they want to kill you as well.”

“Rough critics,” said I.

“Sorry. And a dozen other nobles as well as the Earl of Kent are here. Kent doesn’t want to kill you, does he?”

“Not that I know of. But it is only lunch time.”

“Right. And do you know why they are all coming?”

“To corner me like a rat in a barrel?”

“Barrels do not have corners, Pocket.”

“Does seem like a lot of bother for killing one small, if tremendously handsome fool.”

“It’s not about you, you dolt! It’s about me.”

“Well, even less effort to kill you. How many can it take to snap your scrawny neck? I worry that Drool will do it by accident some day. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Father is marrying me off !”

“Nonsense. Who would have you?”

The lady darkened a bit, then, blue eyes gone cold. Badgers across Blighty^[9] shuddered. “Edgar of Gloucester has always wanted me and the Prince of France and Duke of Burgundy are already here to pay me troth.”

“Troth about what?”

“Troth!”

“About what?”

“Troth, troth, you fool, not truth. The princes are here to marry me.”

“Those two? Edgar? No.” I was shaken. Cordelia? Married? Would one of them take her away? It was unjust! Unfair! Wrong! Why, she had never even seen me naked.

“Why would they want to troth you? I mean, for the night, to be sure, who wouldn’t troth you cross-eyed? But permanently, I think not.”

“I’m a bloody princess, Pocket.”

“Precisely. What good are princesses? Dragon food and ransom markers — spoiled brats to be bartered for real estate.”

“Oh no, dear fool, you forget that sometimes a princess becomes a queen.”

“Ha, princesses. What worth are you if your father has to tack a dozen counties to your bum to get those French poofters to look at you.”

“Oh, and what worth a fool? Nay, what worth a fool’s second, for you merely carry the drool cup for the Natural[10]. What’s the ransom for a jester, Pocket? A bucket of warm spittle.”

I grabbed my chest.. “Pierced to the core, I am,” I gasped. I staggered to a chair. “I bleed, I suffer, I die on the forked lance of your words.”

She came to me. “You do not.”

“No, stay back. Blood stains will never come out of linen — they are stubborned with your cruelty and guilt…”

“Pocket, stop it now.”

“You have kilt me, lady, most dead.” I gasped, I spasmed, I coughed. “Let it always be said that this humble fool brought joy to all whom he met.”

“No one will say that.”

“Shhhh, child. I grow weak. No breath.” I looked at the imaginary blood on my hands, horrified. I slid off a chair, to the floor. “But I want you to know that despite your vicious nature and your freakishly large feet, I have always–”

And then I died. Bloody fucking brilliantly, I’d say, too, hint of a shudder at the end as death’s chilly hand grabbed my knob.

“What? What? You have always what?”

I said nothing, being dead., and not a little exhausted from all the bleeding and gasping. Truth be told, under the jest I felt like I’d taken a bolt to the heart.

“You’re absolutely no help at all,” said Cordelia.

The raven landed on the wall as I made my way back to the common house in search of Drool. No little vexed was I by the news of Cordelia’s looming nuptials.

“Ghost!” said the raven.

“I didn’t teach you that.”

“Bollocks!” Replied the Raven.

“That’s the spirit!”

“Ghost!”

“Piss off, bird,” said I.

Then a cold wind bit at my bum and at the top of the stairs, in the turret ahead, I saw a shimmering in the shadows, like silk in sunlight — not quite in the shape of a woman.

And the ghost said:

“ With grave offense to daughters three,

“Alas the King a fool shall be.”

“Rhymes? You’re looming about all diaphanous in the middle of the day, puking cryptic rhymes? Low craft and tawdry art, ghosting about at noon — a parson’s fart heralds darker doom, thou babbling wisp.”

“Ghost!” Cried the raven, and with that the ghost was gone.

There’s always a bloody ghost.

———————————————————-

1 Tosser -One who tosses, a wanker

2 Trencher – a thick, wide slice of stale bread, used like a plate

3 Cofishes – other fish in a group, coworkers, cohorts etc. Shut up, it’s a word.

4 Sirrah –form of address, “dude”

5 Dirk – a knife, especially a dagger, or the act of using a dagger on someone

6 Farthing – The smallest denomination of English coinage – equal to one quarter of a penny.

7 Solar – a sitting room or parlor in the top story of a tower

8 Coxcomb – a jester’s hat

9 Blighty – Britain, Great Britain – slang
10 A Natural – the “Natural” jester was one who had some physical deformity or anomaly, a hunchback, a dwarf, a giant, Down’s syndrome etc. Naturals were thought to have been“touched” by God.

Merry Christmas, kids!

February 10th you can get the rest.

Let’s all resolve to buy it on the first

day or two, shall we? A perfect thing

to spend your gift certificate on.

It’s  Christmas Eve, kiddies, and I’m signing in to wish you all a very merry and whatnot (or a happy third night of Hanukah for the Chosen.) I’m totally in the spirit of giving and generosity. I relish the company of friends and family, and I believe that we should take this time to be thankful for our blessings, and feel compassion for those less fortunate than we are, and allow our feelings to drive us toward helping to alleviate the suffering of our fellow man.  I’m all about peace on earth, goodwill toward men.

But that said, and with the warmth and love of the holiday season in my heart, I have to say, that even though it’s Christmastime, some motherfuckers still need to be punched in the junk.

Allow me to clarify,  s’il vous plait–

(This rant may take a while. You might want to go have some egg nog and come back tomorrow to read the first chapter of Fool.)

So last night I get this e-mail entitled:
Could Barack Obama Be the Antichrist/Beast?
13 Considerations

Before I even started looking at the 13 considerations, I decided to actually give some thought to my answer, which was:
Absolutely. Barack could be the Beast.  For a long time I was hoping that I might be the beast, particularly back in the late 80s when I was in radio and needed a gimmick for my drive-time show. But certainly, I’m less qualified than Barack for most any position, except maybe “pasty white guy”, which I excel at. So if someone had to be the Beast instead of me, I’m okay with it being Barack.  I’m not sure, however, how Sarah Palin missed that during the campaign. Seems like that would have definitely been a talking point. “Sure, he was the editor of Harvard Law review, a professor of Constitutional Law at University of Chicago, but also, he was the BEAST, which we don’t go for out here in real America.”

So, once I accepted that Barack might be the Beast, I had to in logical progression, ask the next questions?
Could Barack Obama be the Tooth Fairy?

And again, Abso-fucking-lutely. I’ve never seen a picture of the Tooth Fairy, but I certainly have more empirical evidence of his/her existence than I have for the Beast. In fact, Barack might have leveraged his position as the ToothFairy to get the BEAST job. “I bring upon you seven years of darkeness and pain and suffering, and a plague shall fall upon the land, and oh,  here’s a quarter for that bicuspid you left under your pillow.”

So, I was already convinced that Barack could be the BEAST, without even reading the reasons, and after I concluded, as you would, “So what?” I thought. Wow, this guy deserves not one, but perhaps multiple punches in the junk, and he was going for it big time. After all the guy who sent me the e-mail also CCed it to Dean Koontz and William Gibson, and it’s a proven fact that Koontz has trained Labrador retrievers who will bite your junk right off, and Bill Gibson has a cryo-compressed ball of mercury on a nano wire that can deliver over seven-thousand foot pounds of pressure to your junk with just the flick of his wrist. But alas, I digress. It’s Christmas and you need to get back to your stuff.

So here’s the 13 things you should consider before giving Barack beast-props.

1. Charismatic Speaker Worshipped By The Masses.  The Book of Daniel says the Beast will arise in a country made up of “diverse” people from “all kingdoms” [which could describe the USA].  The Beast “shall speak great words …and think to change times and laws.”  The Beast will have “understanding [of] dark sentences,” “shall magnify himself in his heart,” and will talk of peace “and by peace shall destroy many.”  Daniel 7:23-25; 8:23-25.  The worldwide masses will worship the charismatic Beast/Antichrist who will have a “mouth speaking great things.”  Revelation 13:3-8. [sic]

Obviously, the most ominous of these is his understanding of “dark sentences”.  Clearly, someone had to be able to interpret what the fuck Flava-Flav was talking about. Mad BEAST skills, if you ask me.

2. False Prophets.  The advent of the Antichrist will be heralded by false prophets.  Jeremiah Wright and Father Pfleger, who claim to be in the prophetic tradition, compared Barack to Jesus.  Louis Farrakhan called Barack “the Messiah” to whom the youth will listen.

I’m not going to say that we’re cherry-picking here, as far as false prophets go, but is it okay to mention the prophesy that “we will be greeted as liberators” and “Iraqi construction will pay for itself”.  Doesn’t false prophet mean someone who comes up with prophesies that are wrong? Like, oh, I don’t know, prophesizing that the rapture is upon us because the president elect can speak in complete sentences and pronounce nuclear?  Punch in the junk for you, Elijah!

3. Treated As A Religious Figure.  The Bible says the Beast will substitute himself in place of God and Jesus.  Oprah Winfrey called Barack “The One” who will help us evolve.  Chris Matthews blasphemed that Obama “is writing the New Testament.”   Newsweek and Rolling Stone both added halo effects to their Obama magazine covers.

Look, if it were up to Oprah to pick the Beast, then Dr. Phil, Maya Angelou, that chick who wrote The Secret, and cake would have all been the BEAST a long time ago.

Chris Matthews? Chris Matthews?  You’re citing Chris Matthews as the voice of prophesy? I don’t care if he blasphemes, I just want him to stop yelling at me. Punch in the junk just for that one.

And if Rolling Stone airbrushing you on the cover make you the beast then Britney’s implants were the BEAST(s) back in ‘99.  (And lo, she did taketh of the percocet and mojitos, and then she did push the beasts together so they did nearly spill out of her top, and into the land she did go, totally commando, flashing the pixilated beav unto who all who did look upon TMZ or Entertainment Tonight. )

4. 666.  Revelation 13:18 says “the number of the Beast … is the number of a man and his number is six hundred threescore and six.”  6+6+6=18, the number of letters in Barack Hussein Obama, whose Chicago power base includes the 60606 zip code.
On November 5 — the day after the election — in Obama’s home state of Illinois — the evening pick 3 lottery number was 6-6-6.

Because all cataclysmic events are foretold by the Illinois pick three lotto number.

5.  What Jesus Saw.  In Luke 10:18, Jesus is quoted as saying: “I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.”
“Barak” is the Hebrew word for “lightning.”
So Jesus said he saw Satan as barak.
“Bama” is the Biblical Hebrew word for a “high place” such as heaven.

Uh huh. And Ala-bama means that the entire state is a secret Muslim heaven, because all Muslims dream of an afterlife with 99% humidity and where inbreeding is the national sport.

6. Beast Is A Hybrid From The Sea.  The symbolic Beast of Revelation 13:1-2 will “rise up out of the sea” and is a hybrid of different species with “the mouth of a lion.”
Barack is a Leo with great speaking abilities.  He is part black and part white and has both Muslim and Christian heritage.  He was born in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on the island of Oahu, surrounded by the sea.

WTF?  WTF? WTF?  A Leo with great speaking abilities? Are we placing a singles ad on Craigslist?

7. The Burak In The Koran.  The rider on a white horse in Revelation 6:2 is the horseman of the apocalypse considered to be the Antichrist.  His “crown … given unto him” and bow without arrows signify he will be freely chosen by the people without violence.
Barack’s connection to a religious white horse:  In the Koran, the buraq or burak was a magical white horse that Mohammed flew upon at night from Mecca to Jerusalem, where it was tethered to the Western Wall (called Al-Buraq in Arabic).  When Barack went to Jerusalem in July 2008, he paid a night visit to Al-Buraq (the Western Wall).

This is some fine detective work, here. Clearly, with the spotting of the white horse that Mohammed rode from Mecca to Jerusalem we know for sure that Barak is the BEAST. Because Barack means white horse. I mean, it means, light, as in consideration 5.  Or does it mean Junk in the Trunk, as in Baby Got Barack, by the prophet Sir Mixalot?  OMFG! Barack isn’t the Beast? He’s the booty of the Beast?

8. Evil Goat Connection.  Throughout the Bible, sheep are associated with good and goats are associated with evil, which is why Satan is often depicted with goat horns.  In Matthew 25:31-41, Jesus says that upon his return, he will separate the good sheep on his right from the evil goats on his left and shall cast the goats “into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.”
Barack is the lefthanded son of a Muslim goatherder.
In Kenya, Barack’s election was celebrated by the slaughter of goats.

I’m not quite sure why it’s relevant that Barack’s dad was a MUSLIM goathearder. But you had me at “left-handed”.  All of them should be burned!  Burned as left-handed witches.  I do think that “The Evil Goat Connection” should be the title of the sequel to “The Audacity of Hope”. I’d buy the omnibus edition with both books.

9. Nostradamus’s Mabus Prophecy.  Nostradamus’s first antichrist Napaulon Ray turned out to be Napoleon, and his second antichrist Hister turned out to be Hitler.  The third and final antichrist in Nostradamus’s prophecy is associated with someone named Mabus, whose death will trigger massive calamity.  (Century 2, Quatrain 62.)
The only prominent person ever named Mabus is Ray Mabus, the former Governor of Mississippi and Bill Clinton’s ambassador to Saudi Arabia.  Ray Mabus is a Middle East policy adviser to Barack and campaigned for him.  If Barack sends Ray Mabus on a mission to Iran where Mabus is killed and Barack retaliates, the Mabus prophecy will be fulfilled.
Also note: obaMABUSh.

There has got to be a line in Vegas on this one. “Yo Ray, you going to Iran? Really? Wait, I need to call my bookie. I think I smell retirement money!”   I’m just going to wing it here, but if we’re going to go with Nostradamus and his clearly dislexic antichrist spellings, wouldn’t it make more sense to go with someone named, oh, Mavis? Rather than Barack? Clearly all prophesies use JUMBLE as an oracle.

10. Unstoppable Rise To Power.  Barack’s meteoric rise to power out of nowhere has been unstoppable.  He overcame problems in his background that would have sunk an ordinary candidate.  Barack steamrolled over the Clinton machine, with the Democratic superdelegates and mainstream media unable to resist his spell.  Hurricane Gustav delayed the start of the Republican convention.  Just after McCain pulled ahead in the polls, Wall Street suddenly collapsed to ensure Barack’s election.

Absolutely. I think the key here is “Unstoppable”. While there’s no citation of a source, I’ll buy the Unstoppable part. And given that, what am I supposed to do with the information that Barack is the BEAST?  I’m definitely saving my Obama 08 bumper sticker though, because I am totally going to get to sit with the cool kids at the Apocalypse. You McCain voters can just be raptured off to Alabama.

11. Satanic Palindrome.  Sasha is only the nickname of Obama’s oldest daughter.  Her legal name is NATASHA — the reverse of AH SATAN.

Hmmm.  Again, clearly the future has been foretold by the jumbling of letters in a language that didn’t even exist when Revelation was written. Why do you suppose God is giving us such subtle clues?  Do you think he just like watching us try to figure out puzzles, like, making fire or curing cancer?  Want’s to make us work for it, I guess. Someone should make a checklist.  Is It the End of the World? Take the Test!

12. 2012.  According to Revelation 13:5, the Beast/Antichrist will rule for 42 months of relative peace and prosperity before all hell starts to break loose in the middle of the fourth year of his reign, culminating in the Battle of Armageddon.
The fourth year of Barack’s presidency will be 2012, the year the Mayan calendar comes to an end, the year of a rare planetary alignment, and a year that scholars say Nostradamus foresaw as tumultuous.

All these prophesies, from the Mayans to Nostradamus, to the planets aligning point to one thing: Before the forty-two months of relative peace and prosperity, the guy who sent me this should be summarily punched in the junk.

13.  Shiite Islamic Prophecy Of “A Tall Black Man” Running The West.  According to a 17th Century prophetic text of the Shiite branch of Islam, the return of the Mahdi, the Islamic messiah, in the End of Times will be preceded by “a tall black man” running “government in the West” and commanding “the strongest army on earth.”  The black “promised warrior” will carry a “clear sign” from Hussein ibn Ali (the third imam) and will assist the Mahdi in converting the world to Islam.  The Iranian media have identified Obama as the “promised warrior.”

So which is it?  Whose end of the world is this?  All all the Christians going to get raptured, then the rest of us converted to Islam? Cause if that’s the case, I have got forty-two months of serious bacon eating in my future.  And we’re letting Iranian media identify prophets now?  Cause you know what the Iranian media does in my town? That’s right, they sell rugs.

The saddest thing about all of these prophesies, is that someone wasted a lot of time trying to put together an argument with less structural integrity than a fighter jet made of waffle cones. And now I’ve burnt an hour or so and even worse, I’ve burned a bunch of your time, holiday time, when you should be getting drunk and fighting with your family. Sorry.

Which is why, this Christmas, I’m praying to the Tooth Fairy to give the guy who sent me this a punch in the junk.

Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukah. See you tomorrow.

<img src="<img src="“The Author Guy Making Thanksgiving Pizza”

Photo by Flip Nicklin
National Geographic
(Really)

Hey Kids,

It’s that time again, and in honor of our favorite brain-eating holiday season,
here’s a candy-striped peppermint bunch of Zombie Haiku, with selections by
Billy Collins and your very Own Author Guy, as well as some
talented writers and comedians.(Thanks to Ryan Mecham for putting this site together.)

ZOMBIE HAIKU

And while we’re on the subject, here’s that link I promised where you can order signed copies of The Stupidest Angel. The perfect Christmacaquanza gift.

Signed Stupidest Angel

Your homework, if you decide to accept it, is to write your own Christmas Zombie Haiku.

If you missed 6th grade, the format is

five syllables,
seven syllables
five syllables

But if you come up with a really funny one, no one will hold a syllable or two against you. (But if you do happen to be in a crowd, and someone starts holding his syllable against you, report them to security, because that shit is not in the Christmas spirit. Or, better yet, hand them some twinkle lights and some tinsel and tase them, bro. See if you can make the lights come on.)

Hey Kids, here’s the tentative schedule for my tour for Fool in February.

You know I think the world of you and would like to make peanut butter toast for each and every one of you (unless you have a peanut allergy, in which case, I’d like to make you toast and stab you in the leg with an epi pen.), but I don’t pick the cities and I can’t add cities because you ask, even if I want to.

And here is what’s confirmed, and the cities still to come:

Feb. 10: Books Inc., Opera Plaza, San Francisco CA
Feb. 11: Book Passage, Corte Madera CA
Feb. 12: Mysterious Galaxy, San Diego CA
Feb. 13: Barnes & Noble, Santa Monica CA
Feb. 15: Third Place Books, Lake Forest Park, WA
Feb. 16: University Bookstore, Seattle WA
Feb. 17: Powell’s, Portland OR
Feb. 19: Tattered Cover Lodo, Denver CO
Feb. 20: Boulder Bookstore, Boulder CO
Feb. 22: Bookpeople, Austin TX
Feb.23: Wordsmith, Atlanta GA
Feb. 25: Barnes & Noble, Lincoln Square, NYC

Still to be Confirmed: Chester County Bookstore, Philadelphia; Washington DC, Ann Arbor, Chicago, Minneapolis, Phoenix/Tempe, additional SF/Bay area appearances. I’m told they are working on some sort of Canadian tour, but I’ll believe it when I see it.

Details will follow soon. What normally happens — I talk for 30-40 minutes, take questions for 20 minutes or so, sign books until everyone gets their books signed. The signing policy varies for each bookstore, but usually I’ll sign as many books as you bring, but I can only personalize one or two due to time constraints. The bookstores usually ask that you buy at least one book at their store, though. (You’ll have to inquire about that. I’ll post the store addresses and phone numbers as the time approaches. ) If you’re a dealer or collector and you have a backpack full of books, I ask that you wait until everyone else has had their books signed.

Contest news coming up, but start thinking about your “most foolish picture of you and a Christopher Moore book”.

The Dog Drank Koolaid

So I got an e-mail today from a Peace Corps volunteer in Guyana, who thought it was a little ironic that he was writing me, in the Bay Area, on the 30th Anniversary of the Jonestown Massacre. He signed the letter, “Don’t drink the Koolaid.” And I sort of shuddered.

I was reminded that what seems like a fairly innocuous phrase that we use to denote someone who has bought into a concept, or joined a cult, either a real one, like the one James Jones started in the Bay Area, which ended thirty years ago in Guyana when all of the followers drank Koolaid laced with cyanide, resulting in the greatest mass suicide in American history, and maybe human history, or a perceived one, like being an Obamaniac or believing in supply side economics.

That’s where it comes from kids, the “He drank the koolaid,” phrase. We threw it around all through the election (when we weren’t comparing everyone, including the Pope, to Hitler), I even saw it in the paper today, “they drank the Palin Koolaid, she drank the Obama koolaid, they sipped on Neo-con koolaid and watched their world burn (with respect to Harlan Ellison). *

We forget the dark origins, the tragedy of the origin of the phrase — that there are many people still living who feel a blade of grief twist in their soul when they hear, “drank the koolaid”. But the defusing of the extreme into turns of phrase goes back through history and literature, some we can trace, like “pound of flesh” from The Merchant of Venice, to “Ring around the Rosey” a song sung by children in London during the plague years. Ring around the rosy — the red rings around the sores, or buboes, left on the skin by the bubonic plague; pocketfull of poseys – they put flowers in the pockets of the dead to masque the smell. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down — well, you can kind of figure that one out, can’t you?
There are many, many more, the etymology of which elude me right now, and I loaned my Morris Dictionary of Phrase Origins to someone twelve years ago and I’m still waiting for the fuckstick to return it.
Many of us remember the, “Pod people” that started with the Jack Finney novel, The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where a “pod” was placed by aliens next to your bed at night, and when you awoke, you were part of a very docile, hive mind, all very June Cleaver, Eisenhower Idyllic. It was carried forward in the 80s when Saturday Night live used it as an explanation why so many, otherwise reasonable people, seemed to be supporting Ronald Reagan.

How many other figures of speech that we take for granted have some historical basis? In agriculture: bet the farm, living high on the hog, a bumper crop, rode hard and put away wet, counting your chickens before they’re hatched, putting all your eggs in one basket (somebody, somewhere, dropped a bunch of eggs to get that one); Military: Shot his wad (having to fire a flintlock rifle before it’s fully loaded, thus rendering it useless until the reload), or shot his bolt (similar circumstances with a crossbow), flash in the pan (again, from flintlock, when the powder in the pan ignites with a flash, but the powder in the barrel doesn’t, which is, a disappointment). It goes on. Nearly all can be traced to some real-life activity or event.

So I’m thinking, “Fucked the Dog” Hmmmm. “Screwed the Pooch.” Meaning in present day, having made a grave error. But where did it originate? Who, originally, gave the dog a bone, and what did he (or she) set out to do, that they ended up pounding the Pomeranian (it’s funnier if you think of it as a Pomeranian).
I remembered 8th grade study hall, when we were supposed to be studying, but instead we were taking turns reading aloud from The Happy Hooker. It was the most popular book in 8th grade, right up there with The Exorcist and The Prophet, which no one read aloud from. So Xavier Hollander is in South Africa, home more or less alone, and she’s got her horns up, but it’s completely forbidden to have “relations” with any of the Black African servants, so she recruits the home owner’s German Shepherd to do the deed. Yes, literally, she screws the pooch, but at the time, it doesn’t seem like that huge a mistake. She pretty much fucks the dog on purpose, and for about three pages, if I remember correctly. And they both enjoyed it, we suspect, but you know how those German Shepherds lie. She can’t have been the first person the fuck the dog as the prime example of the ultimate fuck-up.

No, someone had to set out to do something else and ended up fucking the dog.

“I was trying to adjust the carburetor on my Camero.”
“I know, Bob, but as it turned out, you fucked the dog instead.”
“So, I should have brought a phillips screwdriver, huh?”

Was this actually a farmer’s daughter joke originally? Did, Bob, set out to say, screw the farmer’s beautiful daughter, but ended up going in the wrong room, and it the dark, well — it could happen to anyone.

(I’d like to say right here, that I was a traveling salesman in the early 80s. You had to keep moving or someone would put a Regan pod by your bed. But I never, ever, got an invitation to stay over at a farmer’s house, nor sleep with anyone daughter, or dog. There was one time where a woman put Oreos under my briefcase and made me watch while her English bulldog snuffled it out from under the case like a truffle snuffling pig. It was deeply disgusting, but I did not have sexual relations with that bulldog. Which is not say that it wasn’t a mistake, but I pretty much consider all of the early 80s that way. It was the “fucked the dog” demi-decade”. )

And why, for that matter is it the dog? I’d think there’d be other, more colorful animals to denote a mistake:

“Wow, Bob, you really masturbated the marmoset on that chip shot, you’re going to have to take a penalty stroke.”

“Geeze, Alice, you certainly sucked-off the rhinoceros the the sales projections.”

“Yeah, Frank sure felated the flamingo on that one.” (I’ve just discovered that my spell check doesn’t know felated. Doesn’t even have any suggestions. I’m thinking this may be part of an ongoing curse I bear.)

Speaking of Bears, “Some days you shag the bear, and some days that old bear shags you.” Either way, can’t really be that great a thing. Maybe worse, I’m thinking, than screwing the pooch. That’s all I’m saying.

I know. There has to be an original dog fucker. There has to be dog-fucker zero, as they say in statistical medicine. (Okay, they probably don’t say it that often, and if they do, maybe you should consider changing doctors.) There has to be an alpha-dog-fucker. (Which in this case, means the first dog fucker, not the dominant dog fucker, although, to be fair, I suppose one could be both.)

We’ve all thought, “Who was the first person who thought an artichoke was a good thing to eat?” Right? Or, “How hungry did the first guy who ate an oyster have to get before giving that a go?” And someone, somewhere, had to try eating oleander, foxglove, hemlock, rhubarb leaves, and castor beans before everyone else said, “Well that shit will kill you.” So why isn’t there a phrase, “Wow, Phil, you sure ate the oleanders on that one.”?

But you get the idea. Generally, I understand, without trying it, that fucking the dog is probably a mistake. I like dogs, but not that much.

But then there are some other turns of phrase, figures of speech, whatever, that elude me even more.

I was in my teens, standing around with some buddies, I think at a CanAm race, and a very attractive woman in summer-dress walked by. And we, politely, and among ourselves, without any direct contact with the woman, nor leering, whistling, or otherwise harshing her space, or objectifying her in any way, were making comments like, “Oh man, I’d wash her windows for free.” And, “Oh man, I’d drink her bathwater.” And my friend Steve, whose name really was Steve, in this case, said, “I’d eat a mile of her shit to find out where it came from.”

And the rest of us just turned and looked at him. I mean, up to that point we’d been nodding like bobble-heads, sort of paying tribute to the communal god of not-gettin -any, but Doooood!? He ruined that poor woman for everyone, sullied the act of public lust, and pretty much creeped out a whole group of teenage boys, which is nearly impossible.

Where the hell did that come from?

And I turned to him and said, “Steve, man, you fucked the dog on that one.”

Well he did.

Your Homework: Some speculation on the origins of some of the more bizarre figures of speech in our language. Extra credit if you’re multilingual and can tell us about stupid figures of speech in other languages.

*A paraphrase of the great first line of Ellison’s story, Kiss of Fire: “He drank ice crystals laced with midnight and watched their world burn.”

The holidays are looming, kids, and once again Books Inc in San Francisco has agreed to ship signed, bibley leather Lambs to you, for that special someone, or for yourself, because some punk bastard stole yours. This edition has a special second afterword, written five years after release of the book, gold edged pages, and a spiffy red ribbon marker. Under twenny bucks!

Order Signed Gift Lamb

I’d get your order in ASAP. While these guys are great on shipping, they have a limited quantity and if they have to reorder and get me to come sign them — well, get your orders in early.

You can probably get this edition at your local book store or other sources on line as well, it just won’t be signed.

A link for signed Stupidest Angels coming soon. You know how gradma loves her some brain-eating zombies at Christmastime…

OMGMOOSES! Canadians, good news. Books Inc says they will ship your book to Canada, but you’ll have to call to make the order, since there address form doesn’t have a field for Canadian postal codes.

Here’s the number: 415-221-3666.

To the McCain Voters

I know how you feel. Honestly. Been there. Got the T-shirt. But look at the spirit of those kids who have lined the streets of our cities tonight, the tears and the smiles, and you should know. We wish you no ill. I understand if you’re angry, disappointed, or incredulous, but that will pass, really. I understand. You don’t get to drive for a while, but you can scream, grab the wheel, and freak us out the whole way. Really, that’s more fun than driving.

Come on. It’ll be fun.

So, Publisher Weekly liked the new book. To be fair, here’s the link to their site:

http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6606052.html?q=Christopher+Moore

Coming soon, tour date details, as well as a contest for you guys to win

you some great Fool swag. Check back.

“We’re on a mission from God.”

Chris Moore: So before you wrote The Tiny Templar did you ever practice any medieval combat?

Mike Spradlin: No. And the book is called The Youngest Templar.

Chris Moore: Whatever. Did you ever bash anyone in the head with one of those spiky things on a chain?

Mike Spradlin: A mace?

Chris Moore: I guess. Whatever!

Mike Spradlin: No. But when I was six I did shoot one of my sister’s boyfriends in the butt with my Robin Hood Bow & Arrow set. Does that count?

Chris Moore: Was he severely wounded?

Mike: No. Well, I had removed the suction cup tip from the arrow so I imagine it smarted pretty good.

Chris Moore: Cool! So what is the Tiny Templar about?

Mike: It tells the story of a young orphan boy who becomes a squire to a Templar Knight and during a battle in the Holy Land…

Chris: Do people get their heads bashed in?

Mike: Um. Yes. But you see during this battle in the Holy Land the young squire is given the Holy Grail….

Chris: And he uses it to bash someone’s head in!

Mike: Well. No. He doesn’t do that. He’s ordered to return the Grail to England for safe-keeping.

Chris: And he takes the Grail and bashes in Richard the Lionheart’s head?

Mike: No. But Richard the Lionheart is in the book.

Chris: Who else is in the book?

Mike: On his trip to England he is rescued from bandits by a young archer who hails from Sherwood Forest near the shire of Nottingham. Later they meet up with a girl who is a member of Al Hashshashin, a Muslim warrior cult. They team up with Tristan.

Chris: Does the girl warrior happen to carry one of those spiky things on a chain? I love a chick with a spiky thing on a chain.

Mike: No, but she does carry twin daggers.

Chris: Awesome. So there’s lots of battles and explosions and head bashing.

Mike: Yes. And it ends in a pretty terrific cliff hanger. The Youngest Templar is the first book in a trilogy.

Chris: Does the main character die?

Mike: Well, it’s the first book of a trilogy so…

Chris: How about this? Have readers send you $1 and he lives, $2 and he dies?

Mike: Um. Well. Sure, I could think about that I guess.

Chris: Where can readers find your book?

Mike: Visit my website www.michaelspradlin.com or www.theyoungesttemplar.com but its available wherever books are sold.

Chris: What about www.thetinytemplar.com ?

Mike: Um. No website there. Sorry. And the book is called THE YOUNGEST TEMPLAR: KEEPER OF THE GRAIL by Michael P. Spradlin

Chris: Good luck!

Mike: Thanks!

A TINY TEMPLAR OF YOUR VERY OWN!