Am I a ninja?
Dearest Imperceptible Artisan,
Whilst I would dearly love to answer this question directly — and indeed had quite a humorous anecdote prepared on the common origin of ninja, and as to how ninja were originally merely mutinous servants and slaves, said to be "invisible" only because the haughty Nipponese Noblemen were unable to recognize their indentured servants as potential threats, or even indeed as human — but I fear that there is neither room enough nor time in this week to explore those hallowed halls of human folly.
As an aside, it is a true fact that my dear lab assistant Rob once did pitch onto me the concept of a televisual programming series concerning two "wacky stoners" who, through an unclear legal precedent, did become legally enslaved to a "totally crazy-hot, Dirty-Over-Thirty MILF Lady President." The name of this proposed series was Indentured Servi-Dudes. Although FOX filmed the pilot and four episodes, none were ever screened. Cryptically, in the series Rob was played by the late Marten Lawrence. All traces of the series, including film prints, electronic archives, and assorted ephemera were lost in a warehouse fire in Tarzana. The lone FoxFired producer who added his own insight into the design of this program was similarly lost, although in his case to Moonies Korean. Their hungers are unholy, to say the least.
But that anecdote, as well as the etymology of ninja (or, in the singular, ninjum) will wait for another time, Dear Reader-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, as important news has thrown my entire globe-spanning organization into a tizzy.
It began with my shouting for dear Molly.
"MOLLY!" I did shout, the speakers of my public address system crackling, driven up past the highest decibel level they might faithfully reproduce, "MOLLY, COME HERE! I HAVE NEEDS OF YOU AND MY REMOTE SENSING APPARATUS SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN DISABLED!"
Molly appeared from around a corner, a sly grin playing upon her rigid features, her eyes peering devilishly from the fringe-shag bangs of her slowly-regrowing hair. "Huh. Now who could've disabled those?"
"PERHAPS SANG, OR THE PRESIDENT EMERITUS — I HAVE POWERFUL ENEMIES, MOLLY."
At this, cryptically, she did release giggles.
"NEVER-TO-MIND THE MATTER OF WHOS; I HAVE NEED TO SPEAK TO OUR HUMAN RESOURCEFULNESS DEPARTMENT. THEIR ARE GREAT AND SMALL FOLLIES IN THIS WORLD, AND COULD YET STILL BE RUN TO GROUND, THEN PULLED UP FROM ITS PITIFUL WARREN LIKE THE PITIFUL WEASEL — OR FIERCESOME BADGER — IT IS AND MADE TO SERVE MY ENDS." I pounded gently upon the reinforced glass separating her terrible vacuous Upspace from my water's embrace. The building tremored slightly.
The mirth slid from her face like greasy eggs from a plate. "HR? What are you planning?"
"HAVE YOU NOT READ THE NEWS TODAY? KARL ROVE, THE INIMITABLE TURD GENIUS BLOSSOM BOY HAS LEFT THE EMPLOY OF THE BETRAYER!"
"He fucking quit? Why now? What's he planning?" Molly began chewing her visible labia.
"WHAT IS HE PLANNING? MOST LIKELY NOTHING; HE MUST BE QUITTING TO SPEND TIME WITH HIS FAMILY, LIKE AS DO ALL WHO LEAVE THE WHITE HOUSE."
"Present company excluded."
"BUT ROVING KARL HAS NO FAMILY, SO HE MUST BE INSTEAD INTENDING TO WANDER THE WORLD RONIN-LIKE, HELPING THOSE WHO NEED HIS SPECIAL BRAND OF SAVAGERY." My perfect eyes clouded over with wistfulness as my flesh took on a sepia tone. "THINK OF WHAT THAT MADMAN COULD DO FOR US. HE HAS A MIND LIKE A BACKALLEY KNIFE FIGHT, LIKE A CORNERED AND RABID WEASEL, LIKE A FAT AND LONELY CHILD STARING AT THE LAST SLICE OF PIZZA IN A BOX. WE MUST HIRE HIM."
"A pitiful weasel?"
"A SAVAGE AND PITIFUL WEASEL, MOLLY."
Molly sputtered. "After what he did to me? To us? Christ, he was the Betrayer! He was the goddamn Buffalo Bob with his hand shoved up Howdy Doody's ass!"
"BRING ME THE H.R. DEPARTMENTO!"
Molly gritted her teeth and stared at me. Unmoving.
Rob rushed into the room. "What's the shouting? Are they showing the monkey-fucking on Planet Earth again?"
I indicated they were not — not yet — and Rob was visibly crestfallen.
"THE SHOUTING," I explained, "IS OVER THE INSUBORDINATION OF MOLLY. I WISH TO HIRE ROVING KARL ROVE AS MY ADVISOR AND MOLLY WILL NOT FETCH OUR HUMAN RESOURCES REPRESENTATIVE TO MAKE THIS THE APPROPRIATE ARRANGEMENTS."
Rob scratched his mangy head, removed a small nit. "Shit. Do we even have an H.R. rep here? I mean, Meeks did some of that shit, but—"
"Rob." Molly's voice was chilly, ice crystals grew upon the glass near her. "I. Am. The. H. Fucking. R. Rep." She punched him in the shoulder. "What the hell do you think my job is anyways?"
Rob was silent on this.
"And we're not hiring Karl because we don't have any openings for conniving ass-weasels!"
"MOLLY!" I gently scolded, "I FIND IT EXCEPTIONALLY DIFFICULT TO BELIEVE THAT WE HAVE NO ROOM FOR YET ANOTHER ASS-WEASEL, ESPECIALLY ONE OF SUCH CALIBRE!"
Rob stammered, "Do I get a vote here? Seeing as how we're like a team and all?" He raised his hand politely and I nodded my purpled headsac towards him. "We've had a few ass-weasels here before. Sang was a complete ass-weasel, and look what he did to us. I mean, I spent a fucking month froz—" Rob blanched. "Never mind. What I mean is this roving ass-weasel got you both kicked out of the White House, and Sang damn near killed all of us. Do we really need a new ass-weasel here?"
"No." Molly said firmly.
We spent the remaining thirty-two minutes before launch arguing these points and others, afore Molly explained how much salary Roving Karl would require, and what our current operating budget was in the post-Sang, post-ass-weasel world in which we dwell, and the sad, stunted realities of our situation became apparent. Uncharacteristically, I acquiesced.
In closing, I dearly doubt that you are a ninja, but you may well be an ass-weasel, and as history has demonstrated, a well-placed ass-weasel can topple even a colossus such as myself.
Thus I Remain,
Your Giant Squid
Ex-President of these as of yet still United States
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson