"The most honorable and terrible Ruthless Ninja Assassin-san has come to kill us all, and there is nothing we can do about it except for prepare our women and children as best we can by providing them with clean black silk upon which they may to be drying their imminent bitter tears of mourning, inconsolable regret, and everlasting sorrow." - literal Japanese translation
I loves me some ninjas. Seriously, dude, I don't care what form they take, be it toys or movies or comics or whatever - ninjas just rule all over your shit. WITH REAL ULTIMATE POWER. It all started back in the 80s when ninjas hit American youth with a flying serpent snap to our hearts, minds, and piggy banks. I was hooked instantly. As a matter of fact, I can remember every little thing as if it happened only 20 years ago...
I was dragged along shopping with Ma Sci-Fi on one of her marathon efforts to single-handedly support the American economy by buying every last fucking thing we would ever need for the rest of our lives all in one day. We were exiting our local Zayre's, and that's when I saw him. A black-masked, death-fisted ninja warrior staring at me from behind the glass of a 25¢ prize machine. This thing was loaded with sweet ninja treasure; yin-yang medallions, little silver aluminum shuriken, little black aluminum shuriken, little brass plated aluminum shuriken, big yin-yang shuriken with holes drilled in them, you name it. But I didn't care about any of that - I wanted what HE was selling. The big daddy prize. The one you know there's only one of in all those little plastic prize wombs. The Maltese fucking Falcon of the Prize Machine... a giant sheet of holographic foil ninja stickers.
FUCK YES!!! You have to understand, this wasn't some shitty little strip of paper stickers. It was a fucking NOTEBOOK SIZED SHEET OF LETHAL HOLOGRAM NINJA KILLING MAGIC FROM THE ORIENTAL DEMON REALM OF DEATH AND FIRE!! Even as an adult I can't pass up bragging to my friends about something like scoring a giant sheet of reflective ninja stickers for a quarter; as a kid, making a find like this had me feeling like Indiana Jones himself should call me up and kiss my fat white ass for unearthing something so awesome. Ma Sci-Fi was never much into letting me or Frog Boy play those little prize games with her own money, which was kind of shitty and hateful in retrospect, because she never went anywhere without fucking $78 in change in that giant, thousand-pocketed black duffel bag she called a purse. No less than 100,000 bazillion times have I seen her pull fistfuls of receipts and tissues out of that thing, and EVERY SINGLE TIME, all manner of silver coinage would rain out of the wads of paper, scattering all over the coffee table and the floor, mocking Frog Boy and I, forcing us to remember all the times she refused to let us play Shinobi because she "didn't have any change." I think that was also the day I learned the word 'bitch.'
I knew I wasn't going to get those stickers. First of all, she was never going to let me anywhere near that machine, and even if she did, she would never let me have any cash for it. And if, by some fluke of the normal functioning of the cosmos, she were to look at me and remember how much she loved me before I reached that age where parents start to become uncomfortable with their own children because of the questions they ask and the things they remember, and in that moment of motherly weakness she were to let me have some small piece of her shoulder slung dragon hoard, I would only get one shot.
It was never gonna happen. I'd have to completely empty that damn thing to get those stickers. Before I turned into the adult who now doubts if a sticker sheet that big could ever be folded enough to fit in one of those little plastic bubbles, the child me was thoroughly convinced that somewhere, someone had made god damn sure there was at least one set of beautiful, sticky ninja goodness in that machine. Whatever organization or entity in the universe which was responsible for making sure everything was fair and equitable was on top of that shit, and woe be it unto he who falsely advertised. No, those stickers were in there, hiding. Like a ninja. And one measly quarter wasn't going to find them.
I didn't say a word. I would wait, biding my time, holding back my newly found ninja love until the perfect opportunity presented itself. And then would I strike. Already, I was becoming ninja.
Like most things as a kid, I was faithfully passionate about those stickers until roughly 14 seconds after they were out of my direct line of sight, at which point I completely forgot that there was a store called Zayre's and that I had ever heard of ninjas. But the marketing psychics had heard the siren call of my brief but white hot ninja passion, and the next time I left my house, the powers that be had ensured that my love was rekindled and everlasting, and they achieved this blanketing every single square inch of North America with totally radical ninja flavor. And best of all, IT WAS ALL FOR SALE.
Seriously, there was a time when ninjas were ubiquitous. You couldn't go anywhere without seeing some form of ninja product. Usually cheap and disposable, this crap was shoved at male children of the '80s from every angle, and we fucking LOVED it. It was like all American boys my age had sworn a secret, unspoken oath that we would, within our lifetimes, ensure that ninjas replaced Jesus as the thing we dressed up to worship at church on Sundays. And we WORKED that shit, girlfriend. Ninjas were king, and if you didn't like it, then you better watch out on the playground, because one of your classmates was going to do his best to put a cheap aluminum throwing star through your fucking eye. Let that be a lesson to you. You do not fuck with the ninja. I never stopped loving ninjas, even after it became socially unwise to admit it. Like a ninja, I had to blend in with those around me, waiting until ninjas were cool again. Waiting... like a ninja. And now ninjas are BACK!
Because ninjas by definition are sneaky as fuck, I do not know when they made their big return. It happened without my knowing, which is so awesomely ninja it almost makes my eyes bleed. All of a sudden, ninjas are just everywhere. That's how they do it; one second you're convinced you're completely alone, the next second you are surrounded by ninjas, but not really, 'cause what you don't know is that they're all the same ninja, and he's using his mystical ninja illusion powders to confuse your senses and render you helpless. I don't know where I was going with this paragraph, but I think it sort of proves my point, which I'm pretty sure was that ninjas are all of a sudden the brand new hotness, again, and you'd better get the hell on the ninja bandwagon with all quickness before you take a flying death dragon razor-punch to the spine. Yeah, that was my point.
So here's the deal: In celebration of December 5th, Day Of The Ninja, this will be the first of what I intend to be many IS IT NINJA? articles in which I will review sundry ninja and ninja-related things. My goal is simple: I will determine whether they are worthy of the name 'ninja.' I am, for those of you whom are not ninja enough to keep pace, using the word ninja in its adjective form; something must have an inherently ninja-like quality as well as be completely kick-ass sweet to be called ninja. There is no scale, and there is no subtle grading system; either something is ninja or it is not. If something sucks, it is not ninja. If something is totally righteous and incredibly awesome, but still not chock full of silent, powerful, lethal ninja goodness, then it is not ninja. That's how it works. And if you don't like it, then you are not ninja. You are a non-ninja, a nonja. And you'd best fucking keep it on the DL, because if a ninja hears a nonja like you running your mouth about anything at all, he will totally kill your ass. 'Cause he's a ninja and that's how we roll. Got it? Good. Let's kick this pig!
You know before when I said I wasn't sure when ninjas made their big return? Well, I think I've figured it out. As near as I can tell, ninja-mania was rekindled by Robert Hamburger and his totally sweet webpage Real Ultimate Power. Its a place to read about how ninjas are totally awesome and flip out all the time, and they don't even care! Is it ninja? Do you really have to ask? FUCK YES, ITS NINJA. Now go buy his book... or else.
#2 - AskANinja.com
If Real Ultimate Power rekindled the locomotive that is the current worldwide ninja frenzy, then Ask A Ninja is the musclebound coal man who keeps shoveling in the fuel. It's just The Ninja answering your questions, all day, every day, taking time out of his killin' to give you a higher nijucation. This site is totally ninja. Listen as he tells a tale from the ancient scrolls:
Okay, that's all you get for today. I know, I know, its a real short list. Hell, its only two entries. I don't even think that technically qualifies as a list at all. But damn, Gina, I gots shit to do.
Do you see why she's my very favorite Hungarian of all time? She's so slippery. I love the way she claims confidently that the breadcrumbs are most definitely there to form a crust, but then she totally takes it all back with her next sentence, leaving me exactly where I was to begin with. This lady is slick; she should have been an ambassador. So still we don't know for sure how this is put together. There was no other choice. I had to know.
Second, my cousin H-Bomb and myself decided to see The Number 23 last Friday. We hit the bar first, where I drank my dinner and got incredibly fucked up. As soon as I sat down in the theatre I passed out on her shoulder. I can’t tell you anything about the movie. All I remember was Jim Carrey doing a lot of addition, and the vague feeling that the movie was annoying. After waking me up several times because I was snoring, she decided we should leave. I’d feel bad about ruining the evening, but, as we all know, I don’t have a soul.
In other news... I got a ticket two weeks ago for running a stop sign, which I didn't do. As many of you may recall, I've been pulled over dozens of times, and each time I was guilty as hell, but this time I really didn't do it. I've been pretty pissed about it, mostly because of the cop's shitty attitude, and I decided to fight the ticket instead of just paying it. Went to court this morning, sat there with a LOT of drunks and one amazingly hot-ass 24 year old girl from Indiana who got a DUI with a 2.1 blood alcohol level. How is she not dead? And where can I find her that drunk again and take advantage of the situation? Oh, wait, I know where; under house arrest in Indiana.
I don't know jack shit about the letter of the law, but it was fairly clear that the judge was fucking INCREDIBLE at her job. She was laughing with the defendants, she would poke fun at herself when she made a mistake, she was patient, she was extremely fair, and she was completely unafraid to lay the hammer down when someone pushed her or the law too far. She was just like Harry Stone, but without all the rubber chickens and Mel Tormé. When hot-ass Elizabeth from Indiana gave her flak about her sentence, Judge said, in a much kinder, more motherly tone than these words would suggest, "You know what? I don't think you're taking this seriously. I think some jail time will straighten that out. And you're arguing with me. I don't suppose you understand how bad an idea that is at this point." I think she was just trying to scare her, which worked, because Liz freaked. She was terrified of going to jail, and eventually the judge reduced it to house arrest. I'm sure everyone totally saw it coming, but it was still a good show.
"SOMETIMES YOU CAN'T SOLVE! SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO PUNISH!" It was fantastic. My jaw dropped. It was exactly like being on the set of a comic book movie when the superstar villain makes his angriest tirade. A thing of wonder. The judge looked at him, and calmly, with as much smart-ass as you could possibly cram into four little words, said, "Well, today we're solving." The courtroom broke up at that; even the people who were bound for jail were laughing at his hateful old ass. The crusty old 
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