I woke up to the sounds of the bubbling creek singing in my ears. I looked over at Jandoram who was sleeping peacefully and decided to let him sleep a little longer while I prepared breakfast.

Fortunately there was lots of wood for a fire around our camping ground, and the presence of some wild apple trees made the gathering of some fruit quite easy. After starting the fire I took out some slithers of salted kangaroo meat a plopped them into the pan greased with pig fat. While that was sizzling noisily I deftly sliced some of the apples and threw them in with the roo meat, keeping the rest for later.

Just before breakfast was ready I started to whistle loudly, hoping that the tune “When the Saints Come Marching In” would wake Jandoram. To my reckoning, waking up to my lousy whistling was a whole lot better than being slapped around the face, something my dad was prone to do.

To my surprise he got up instantly, most likely hoping I would stop my infernal whistling. I stopped long enough to tell him to wash up at the creek, and then continued whistling aimlessly out of tune as he set off. I was just spooning my concoction into the plates as Jandoram sat down, all the while toweling his face dry. It was pleasant watching him shoving the food greedily into his face, and I thought to myself how nice it would be to have some company for a change.

After breakfast I showed him how to wash up and pack our bags so that they were evenly balanced which would make traveling that much easier. We then set of for Bloggersville, at town some 14 days away. We walked almost in silence as he was probably still brooding over what happened with the other day when I beat his stepfather senseless. I decided to get the ball rolling by kicking a lump of dried turd.

“Did you know that there are men, famous trackers, who could look at this bit of animal dung, and after examining it they would be able to tell you lots of information about the animal that left it. Things like the type of animal, how long it’s been sitting there and even the sort of food the animal ate. But in the end no matter what they are able to tell you about it, it’s still just a lump of shit.”

Jandoram walks silently by my side for awhile and then says, “Why are you telling me this Sire? Is it important in some way?”

“OK, let’s look at this in another way. There is many a man who does nothing more than boast of his great achievements; This could be the men he’s killed, the women he’s taken to bed or even the money he’s allegedly made. But when it all comes down to it, he’s usually just full of shit. The true hero does not need to shout his accomplishments for all to hear. He normally does not want his escapades to be known as it will draw unwanted attention to him.”

“But what has this to do with that lump of shit we left behind” says the exasperated young boy.

“Nothing much”, I replied, “just that one lump of shit is pretty much the same as the other. You know Jamdoram, not every story has to have a meaning, sometimes they’re good to just pass the time of day.” As I burst out laughing, thinking that after 600 odd years I would have stopped laughing at my own stupid jokes,  he threw me a puzzled look and then said, “Where are we going Sire?”

“Why, to Bloggersville of course.”

“Really? I didn’t think I would ever get to go to Bloggersville. What will we find there?”

“Ah yes, Bloggersville is filled with many wonders and delightful people.  Why, I remember hearing a story of a woman who resides there, I believe her name is Louise, who has in her possession the magical and much coveted Lottie Moon Cook Book, the recipes of which has brought some of the strongest of men to their knees as they begged to savor some of the delicacies it’s produced.  Then there is Holly who just happens to be the most ethical person in Bloggersville. Few will dare to cross her path while throwing ethics to the wind, as it has often been told that Holly can flay the skin off anyone who came within twenty feet of her limber tongue. Why there is not a word in existence that Holly can not put to good use when castigating those who get on her wrong side.

Then there is Heather the fumbling one who once put a magical potion in a cupboard that almost blew four homes into oblivion. Now let’s not forget Anne, formerly of Buttsville, who has devoted her life to finding a toilet seat that is warm to sit on. There are rumors that once she solves this problem she will devise one that lowers automatically once it has been raise.”

“But Sire, surely Bloggersville is not filled with women. Are there no men of valor there?”

“Surley Jandoram, but did no-one ever tell you that behind every great man there is a great woman? One should never discount the importance of a woman when it comes to shaping the world. But you ask of the men of Bloggersville. Let me see…..ah yes! There is the very hardy Jim,whom  many have said has traveled far and wide just to see how far in the known universe a blog will reach. Of course there is Zorlone who is well known for his wondrous cures as the city’s doctor, but I have heard that he would rather be a bard and poet, and that he frequents the bars telling far fetched stories of alien worlds where there exists the mystical Avatar.

But enough talking, lunch draws near and we need to catch some food.

Other posts in the Sire, The Wandering Bard series.

• Sire’s Big Moment A Total Flop
• Google The Tyrant, A Tale Of Old
• In Search Of Fame And Fortune

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It was only a week after the harvest, whilst I was walking through the village square on the way to the tavern for a feed, that I heard a commotion in the alleyway. I should have known better, but my curiosity got the better of me. It was in a small recess of the alley that I saw Kilander raising his huge fist about to lay another blow on Jandoram.

“Well, what have we here Kilander, are you about to hit Jandoram again, even after the village elders had warned you against it?” He stops mid swing and glares at me, hatred in his eyes, and even though it wasn’t quite noon I could smell the liquor on his breath. “You stay out of this Sire, it’s between me and my son.” “Come Kilander, If his real father was alive today, you would be the last one to raise a hand to the lad.” By this time I had edged him out into the alleyway, giving Jandoram room to scurry past his demented tormentor.

It seems that the reference to him being less a man than his predecessor seemed to infuriate the man and he charged me. Unfortunately for him I knew what to do with a bigger opponent. As he came at me I grabbed the scruff of his shirt with both my hands, rolled backwards pulling him down onto my feet and using his own momentum I straitened my legs and thrust him behind me. Such was the force that he flipped into the air and landed in the village square itself. Even though the force of the landing knocked the wind out of him he still managed to get up. He came at me with a round house punch that had it connected would have ended the fight then and there. As I saw it coming I ducked letting the momentum expose his his torso where I landed a well aimed punch just over his kidney. I was pretty pissed off by this time, so as he double over in pain I kneed him in the chest, and then instantly brought my hands, which I had clasped together, into the back of his neck, bringing the fight to a end.

By this time a little crowd had emerged clamoring as to what was going on. After my explanation, which was collaborated by Jandoram, they carried the limp body to the building which on occasion acted as the jail. I decided then and there that it wasn’t safe for Jandoram to stay in Hahndorf any longer, so I made arrangements for him to become my apprentice. The next day we left on our journey to see what adventure we could find.

Jondoram had never left the village before and even though he was exited at first, as soon as dusk arrived and the forest took on an eerie presence I could see that he was starting to get nervous. As it was to early to make camp I decided to distract him with a story.

Did you know Jandoram, that right throughout the ages,  many a great man left his village, some in search of fame and glory and others just to make a new beginning. There was one particular traveler that comes to mind, Gennaro of Wanderlust who was said to have been born to travel. Legends have it that ever since  he could crawl his parents had to tie him down to keep him from wandering away. Even at the tender age of three it after searching for him for hours they found him playing happily in the forest, a forest that terrified the bravest of men. It seems that he had decided to take A Hike Into The Wilderness.

As a traveler, there are many things that you must learn, otherwise at best, you may never get to where you are going, and at worst you may not live long enough to enjoy the fruits of your travels. In your wanderings, you are bound to come across situations that will cause you to falter and it is my job to show you how to get from stuck, to traveling fast. If you pay attention to all that I have to say, then you may one day find the fame and fortune that you seek. Not everyone is as lucky as Gennaro who was born with a traveling gene was one of the lucky ones, you my lad my need a little instruction, but that is fine, for we have some time on our hands yet. So, I think that it may be time to rest for the night, and where better than by the side of a lovely lake where the sounds of the waterfall can lull us to sleep.

Other posts in the

• Sire, The Wandering Bard series.
• Sire’s Big Moment A Total Flop
• Google The Tyrant, A Tale Of Old

The FlexSqueeze Theme gives my blog that professional look. I loved it so much that I bought the developers license. It's the easiest most customizable theme I've come across. See how easy it is to change your theme's appearance! Compare it to Thesis to see how much better it is! Check out some of the latest Latest Updates

I highly recommend you to get your FlexSqueeze copy today!

When you are an Immortal, time is nowhere near as fleeting as when you thought your days were actually finite. I remember how time used to almost stand still when I was a kid and then as I got older time seemed to simply fly right on by. That was before I knew I was immortal, and now I have learned to live with the knowledge that one day will always follow another, forever and ever. There have been many Immortals that couldn’t accept this fact but the few that remain have learned that acceptance and purpose was the key to living with longevity.

I discovered that my purpose was to help people where possible, to make their days a bit less stressful and perhaps to incite a bit of laughter every now and again. Today was the beginning of the harvest in the town of Hahndorf. I had picked a spot on a hill overlooking the workers to entertain my small group of young villagers, those who were either too young or otherwise incapacitated to help. Four young wards and the busty Illianora who came on the pretense of helping me keep them in line but who I knew really wanted something a lot more sensual from the town bard. Who knows, perhaps tonight after the harvest festivities I will accommodate her.

I waited for them to settle down, Alforone, a lively boy of 9 years who was forever getting into trouble, the last escapade the cause of his broken arm. Mystial his 6 year old sister who continually looks at her big brother with big round proud eyes. Gritalom, who broke his leg because the kangaroo he was teasing decided he had enough and a well aimed kick taught him a bit of respect for this domesticated mammal. Finally we have Jandoram, who at 14 should really be down there helping the rest of the villagers, but I pulled a few strings so that I can keep him away from Kilander his abusive stepfather.

OK, I know some of you want to help with the harvest but as fate has it you will have to listen to a story instead. So, what yarn shall I spin for you this fine morning? Alforone was the quickest on the mark as he yells out, Tell as about the days of the Google Monster! I think you mean the Google Tyrant, the greatest of all mages, but yes I must agree Google was a bit of a monster in a lot of peoples eyes.

It all began in a time long ago, a time when wizards abounded, but in those days they were called bloggers, the greatest of all was known as ProBlogger. Their great power revolved around the Word and the magic that they could weave all depended on the prowess of the individual blogger. The greater the blogger the more they were able to magically alter peoples thoughts. Generally for the good but there were  some who only had evil intentions. The thing is that Google saw the great power that they had and he wanted to be a part of what they could do.

There was only one way that Google could influence these bloggers, and that was through their greed. He offered them great riches every time they were able to influence peoples thoughts with a snippet of diabolical code called a script that they placed within people’s minds. Many succumbed to Google but the dreadful Tyrant was not happy until he could get all the bloggers under his power. Who can tell me the name of the minions that Google used to spy on these wizards?  Mystial with a squeal of glee yells out, The Googlebots.

Yes indeed Mystial, you have done well tonight remembering those tales of old. The Googlebots, an army of mindless beings, an army that Google himself brought to a semblance of life, whose sole purpose was to spy on all the bloggers and to report back to their master everything that they did or said, especially if any blogger spoke to another blogger without casting the nofollow spell. The most important instruction that was woven into the Googlebots was that they had to be on the look out for any blogger who had the audacity to accept paid links, for Google felt that they were encroaching on his domain, for only Google was able to accept money for links. Any blogger found guilty of this offense received the mighty Google Slap, a slap of such ferocity that it sent out vibrations felt by every blogger around the globe.

It was right then that I was forced to pause as Illianora bent over intentionally reavealing her ample cleavage, and it still amazes me that even after 600 odd years, something so simple could still raise those sexual desires within me. Gritalom used the pause to say, What of your great ancestor, was he afraid of the Google Slap? His question jolted me back to reality and I replied. Of course not, Sire Of Wassup wasn’t afraid of anything, let alone something so insignifacant as the Google Slap. His knowledge of lore was so great that he was able to make use of the powerful robots.txt, a magical potion that kept his great knowledge hidden from the  GoogleBots. However, there was a time before he was able to decipher the incantation of the robots.txt when Googles minions told their master of two of his lesser blogs, and Google in his wrath slapped his PR clean off, but Sire Of Wassup Only Laughed! Fortunately, by that time he had incorparated the robots.txt and Google was oblivious to his mirth.

For many years Google grew in power, and the stronger he got the greater his tyranny spread. So great and powerful was Google that he did not notice when other mages appeared, Yahoo and MSN were the first to try an ursurp his power. Google merley laughed and absorbed the weaker getting ever stronger, but there came a time when even the Tyrant succumbed to those he despised for their weakness.

There is a lesson here that you must all learn! Remember that power can corrupt even the best of us, with power comes great responsibility and it is better to treat those under you with respect and by showing them that you value them they will pledge you their undying loyalty.

Other posts in the

• Sire, The Wandering Bard series.
• Sire’s Big Moment A Total Flop

As I lie basking under the warming sun, memories of a time long ago,when bloggers wielded a great amount of power, came flooding back to me. It was the year 2015, five years before the holocaust. The place happened to be the historic Adelaide Festival Theater  where the latest blogging convention was being held and I just happened to be the guest speaker. By that time I had reached Pro Blogger status and my popularity was so great that the room was filled to capacity.

I remember when I stepped on the stage how the murmur of the crowd rose to a roar as soon as my presence was noticed. After a moment of basking in the adulation I raised my hand to signal that I wanted them to settle down. As soon as the roar subsided and I knew I finally had their attention I commenced with my  speech. It was completely off the cuff as I hated the time it took to prepare those planned and delivered diatribe. As usual I thought that I would start off with a joke;

I would like to welcome all those of you who have visited or commented on my blogs especially the fluctuating 30-45 subscribers…pause for effect….damn, only a couple of snickers, will have to try something more dramatic…., I remember another  occasion such as this where I decided to get the audience involved and so I asked if any of them had sex once a day. Quite a few of them raised their hands, their faces all lit up with satisfaction. I then asked how many had sex once a week and a greater number of hands were raised and the rest of the audience started to warm up to the subject. OK, I said, how many of you have sex once a month? This time quite a large number had raised their hands and I noticed, by their rings that most of them were married. Finally I asked how many actually had sex only once a year, and this little man in the fifth aisle jumps up excitedly and virtually  screams out ‘”THAT’S ME, I HAVE SEX ONCE A YEAR!” Really, I said, astonished. But if you only have sex once a year, why are you so excited? Still jumping up and down he replies, “BECAUSE TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!” The crowd roars with laughter with a spattering of ‘We love you Sire’ all around the room, and one young woman throws her G string at me which I snatch deftly out of the air, give it a quick whiff and then place it in my jeans pocket for DNA testing. I smiled, as I had them in the palm of my hand.

Thank you, thank you, as I once again raise my hand to quieten them down.. I have noticed lately that many of you in your efforts to gain readership have lowered your self to holding many a competition on your blogs and I find this lowers our standards…… this causes a few ‘You Suck Sire’ comments from around the room and I even had to duck a ripe tomato…

Wait, listen and you will come to understand where I’m coming from. I realize how we all look for adulation in our readers, how we want to inspire loyalty from them so that they come back time and time again. But do you really think that you can buy that with a T Shirt or some crappy 125×125 ad on your blog?  Shit, I think to myself,  I’m doing something wrong, as more and more abuse is being hurled at me and the woman climbs onto the stage to get her G string back….

YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, I scream,  YOU ARE BETTER THAN THAT! They quieten down but it took a bloody long time, perhaps the tear gas from the security guards helped…. It’s not the contests that will gain you true love and loyalty from your readers, as that only comes from within you! From your most innermost being where you pluck out those emotive words that will then form the quality content on your blog! That is what will ultimately capture the heart and souls of all those who come to land on your blogs.

There is silence, and then a voice from the back, ‘That’s bullshit Sire, you suck you moron’, and then a chanting of ‘Sire sucks, Sire sucks Sire sucks’ and suddenly I am dodging more and more missiles… exit stage left….

Yep, those were the good old days, I thought to myself as the sun was setting in the sky giving the clouds a crimson hue. Reckon I better head on over to the village tavern and see what sort of tucker they have on tonight.

This post is a continuation of Sire, The Wandering Bard series.

In the land Of Wassup, many years ago, there lived a woman named Deseria who was renowned for her beauty. The trouble with Deseria was that she knew she was beautiful and wanted everyone around her to appreciate the fact. Every night and morning she would go through the routine of brushing her luscious blond hair the required 500 strokes, all the while gazing lovingly at her reflection. Every time she would speak to the mirror the following words, “Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” Luckily for her the mirror was an inanimate object, otherwise it would have used it’s magical ability to throttle her. Still, Deseria would play her little game and in her mind she would hear the mirror telling her what a real stunner she was and how every woman in the world was extremely jealous of her.

One stormy night as she was lovingly gazing at her reflection she noticed what appeared to be some wrinkles. Heaven forbid that anything should mar her striking beauty. What to do, what to do she moans to herself as she paces her room, no longer looking in the mirror in case she was to see more wrinkles. Then she remembers that a young warlock was reported to live on the other side of town and she decided that she would pay him a visit first thing in the morning.

The next day, hiding her new found wrinkles in an expensive silk veil she asks around as to where the warlock could be found. An old hag directs her to the residence of one Sire, warlock extraordinaire. Upon arrival she knocks on the door and to her surprise a young hunk of a man opens it, and the first thing that comes to her mind is ‘Wow, this guy can fix more than just my complexion!’ Sire on the other hand remembers her as the young girl who made fun of a pimply skinny kid and of the vow that he made to make her pay for her cruelty.

He guides her to the couch and listens to her drivel, all the while wondering just how to make her pay for what she did. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Her vanity was the answer and instead of making her skin luscious and smooth again he decided to do the exact opposite. With a twinkle in his eye he givers her a concoction that he promises will make her even more beautiful than before. After giving her explicit instructions he sends her home.

She was so happy that her feet seemed to skim above the ground as she almost ran home, so eager was she to have beauty restored to its former glory. Upon reaching her home she follows the instructions to the letter. She takes the concoction and mixes it with fresh milk and some of her feces, (did I mention she was a blond) and after rubbijng it in liberally all over her body she promptly went to bed, and even through the putrid smell she managed to fall asleep.

Early the next morning she woke up and excitedly went to have a shower so she could wash the foul smelling muck off. As the putrid mess started to wash off, to her shock and horror rather than leaving her skin silky smooth it was all hard and wrinkled. She screamed, wondering what could have possible gone wrong. In a panic she dresses and covering herself in a veil, once again so she would not be recognized, she goes to Sire’s abode to find out what could have have gone wrong.

She bangs on the door until suddenly it was flung open and she gazed at Sire’s manic eyes. She screams at him asking him what the heck was going on, all the while beating on his muscular chest. Sire just waits until she stops out of sheer exhaustion and then calmly recounts the time when they were kids and how she had constantly made fun of his pimply appearance, in front of the whole village. He then goes on to tell her how the potion he had given her had only just started to work and that in time she would look like a shriveled up old hag, unless…….. ‘Unless what she screams!’

‘Well Deseria, there is only one way in which the spell from the potion can be reversed, and that is that you have to go to the center of Wassup, in the village square at high noon. You must dig a hole in front of all those watching and then you are to place your head into the hole and lift your legs into the air. Only then will you return to normal.”

With a scream she rushes to the village square and with her bare hands she digs a hole in the earth. Then, with all the villagers watching, she places her head into the ground and lifts her legs into the air. (Did I mention that she was a blond?). To her surprise her limbs went all stiff and before she could do anything about it the ground closed around her head, and where once there was a luscious, curvaceous blond bombshell now stood a tree bearing the form of a naked woman.

The moral of this story is; “Aging gracefully is better than putting shit on your face”

Or perhaps it should be; “Don’t pick on the poor pimple faced boy Because you never know how he will turn out”

Perhaps you have a better moral?

The FlexSqueeze Theme gives my blog that professional look. I loved it so much that I bought the developers license. It's the easiest most customizable theme I've come across. See how easy it is to change your theme's appearance! Compare it to Thesis to see how much better it is! Check out some of the latest Latest Updates

I highly recommend you to get your FlexSqueeze copy today!