For, although that would have rendered lunchtime much more exciting, it would also have rendered Tom slightly dead, and we can't have that. He still has a shot at that Murder Minister of Music portfolio when I take over. Besides, he might have got blood on Anna, and we definitely can't have that. She's veggie, don't you know.
I can tell by the noise of brows being furrowed that you're not entirely sure what I'm talking about. Don't worry, today I do, and I refer to today's Cryptic Crossword. Here's the clue I laid upon Tom, as you young people say in your street slang:
"He flies a kite on top of the hill (5)"
Now, it took your humble hack a few minutes to get this one, mostly because he kept dozing off (it being 7:30 ante meridian). Tom (and Anna) both pondered on this, Anna less than Tom because she's sensible and doesn't waste her time on frivolous nonsense*.
When I told Tom the answer he was - enraged, is the word, I think. "That's the most hideous clue in the history of crosswords!" he ranted. He didn't quite froth at the mouth but it was a close thing.
Now, I'm going to be a swine and hide the answer at some point elsewhere in today's words, so you'll have to keep reading if you want to find it, heh heh!
Who Do They Think They Are?
As you should surely know by now, Conrad freely admits a healthy dislike for The Metro free newspaper (worth exactly what you pay for it), which can justifiably be described as Tomorrow's Papier Mache, or, if we are feeling particularly liverish, Cat Litter Tray Liner. Don't fool yourself about the quality of the Cryptic Crossword, they buy it in.
"How atypical!" I hear you comment. "Conrad ranting whilst frothing at the mouth."
Leaving aside your sarcasm and under-appreciation of my whimsical wit, let us proceed. Art?
There you have it, primae facae** evidence. Who are these people? Am I supposed to care? This isn't even at the level of Small Earthquake In Chile, it's more like Celebritute Crosses The Road.
Bah!
Snake Eyes
That meretricious marvel (small "m") Brian Bendis posted this, and your modest artisan is impelled to query the uniform and equipment policies of Cobra. Art?
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| Hmmmm. |
Of course you do! Using a telescopically-sighted long range sniper rifle in a close-quarter battle situation. Pshaw - we are dealing with amateurs here!
Those red handkerchiefs need work, too. They seem a little flimsy, liable to fly up in a slight breeze and reveal your identity. Not only that, your humid exhaled breath would dampen the hanky horribly. What would happen in winter? Or if you sneezed? How do you eat and drink? Can people understand your speech?
The Commander's - er - let's be generous and call it a disguise - is also a worry. Not secured around his neck, meaning that trouble with breezes will arise. Nor is there any means of speaking clearly. Imagine the scene above as the Cobra minions close in on the hapless civilians visible bottom left.
DAN: Damn it, Lucy, we've been ambushed!
LUCY: <Shrieks girlishly>
COBRA COMMANDER: ERSH GERHS HMMNG SLSHHS MRDGRR!
DAN: Sorry?
COBRA MINION: Hsh shying yrr gg toob mrgrg
LUCY: Dan, we've been captured by idiots!
COBRA COMMANDER: HHHR RDR YYY YYGG SPLESSH MRDGE <takes off mask> - just shoot them already
DAN: Why, it's Mister Lucas, the owner of the haunted mine -
<The Mystery Gang save the day>
Thank you Scooby!
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| Our hero |
And That Is That
I apologise for baling on the end of yesterday's post without posting the relevant picture, but the dreaded Curse Of The Re-Formatting Cursor had arrived. This means that the cursor will dump a picture or block of text wherever it comes to rest on the Blogger page, overwriting whatever's already been placed there.
So, here is what you missed yesterday:
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| Perfidious Albion at work |
* Unless, like you, she's reading this, which is pretty much frivolous nonsense defined.
** I don't know what this means, except that it sounds legal.
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