Greetings, dear readers. I know that many of you must wonder, "I wonder what that devilishly handsome Canada Clay has to do that is so bleeding important that it keeps him from his writing." Well, if you have the constitution...the nerve...the sheer unmitigated grit to press on, I promise that at least some of your questions will be answered.

Be ye warned, however. I guarantee that for every question this narrative answers, it will beg many more. Proceed with caution.

First, I must admit: it's summer vacation. I am out of school and unemployed, and the few friends I have who didn't go home are too busy to dedicate their beings to my entertainment. On top of that, I'm too broke to seek out most traditional means of entertainment. Come to that, I'm too broke to include meat in my diet more than once or twice a week.

Therefore, a casual observer could be forgiven for imagining that nothing stands between me and unlimited creative output. By any logical standpoint, Edmund and Elora should both be dead from old age, and Ennorac midway through an industrial revolution due to sheer narrative thrust.

However. As you will see, dear reader, logic has nothing to do with it.

I got up early this morning, as I generally do. Had a cup of espresso and a bowl of cereal. Sat down to my computer, ready to begin typing. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tin canister on my bottom shelf. The sort you get that three-flavored Christmas popcorn in. Though it was familiar, and unmistakably one of my posessions, I could not recall, right offhand, what it contained. So instead of opening Microsoft Word and settling down to a fruitful morning's work, I rolled over and pried the lid off--innocent of the terrible time-wasting demon imprisoned therein.

Five fevered hours later, here is the result:







The Piratapult is here. And it cannot be stopped.

That's right, dear readers. Rather than advancing the tale of Edmund and Elora, rather than writing a breakdown of the Elsiorite Temple heirarchy or a travel guide to the Kholan Waste, I spent all morning building a fully functional rubber band-powered siege engine out of Legos.







Yarr indeed, Cap'n Steve. Yarr indeed.

The following series of images is an attempt to capture the Piratapult in action. I apologize for the small size and terrible quality, but my team of crack researchers speculate that it will take a new generation of theoretical awesome filters to protect the cameras from the overwhelming majesty of the device.







It just gives you goosebumps, doesn't it?

So, dear readers, now you know. Next time you say to yourself, "I say, self old chap, I wonder why Canada Clay, Man of Action, hasn't updated in a Testudo elephantopus' age," you can promptly answer, "Ah, self, worry not. He is doubtless constructing a pirate-driven catapult which fires sharks. I can wait for my precious, precious stories."

Return home. Try and forget the things you have seen here. And beware the Piratapult.

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