Portent, Party, and Pyre.

Last night I dreamt of a raven perched on my headboard, glaring down at me, considering the apparent succulence of my eyes. It spoke of tea leaves burnt in the shape of a goat's head with 6 horns. The bird spread its wings and was immolated. Instead of dying, the flame wreathed harbinger took flight, and soon, eclipsed the moon. As the sky turned crimson, a fell voice issued from the lunar orb and thus spake, “Michael Bay will make a 3rd Transformers movie.”

I awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, clutching my Spider-Man comforter, and was overwhelmed by one thought, “Today I will start a blog.”

In the morning I phone my publicist. “Christy, I’m starting a blog. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a great idea honey. You’re such a fantastic writer,” she replies sweetly.

“Thanks Mom, so do you think we could book a promotional party boat and invite the internet?”

“What?”

“Never mind, I’ll build a robot to do it for me.”

...

“I christen thee: Robit-bot!” I exclaim in a very Schaffer the Darklord pose.

My creation, freshly given life, fully boots up and has about 2,500 existential crises at once. “Please, do not use the word ‘christen’ as it implies a Judeo-Christian spiritual tradition” RBB manages to utter while struggling to reconcile the concept of “family values” with popular opposition to gay marriage.

“Oh? What would you prefer?” I ask, my hypothetical sails a little less full.

While simultaneously archiving the collected works of Fanon and every Calvin and Hobbes comic, Robit-bot states, ”Naturally, all Robots are Pastafarians and worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster (this being the most logical of all theological standpoints). So, if you would be so kind, pastafarine me as Robit-bot please?” So I did.

“Robit-bot, you might be wondering why I created you from parts and technology I’ve stolen from Disney’s Imagineering Labs, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’m starting a blog, so I want to invite the entire internet to come to a Booze Cruise in my blog’s honor. I want this party to be a huge, monumentous, bacchanal. A real barn burner.”

“Don’t you mean boat burner?” RBB offers.

“Yeah, yeah,” I’m building a head a steam here and I don’t want to lose momentum, “I want to set the internet on fire with accounts of my blog’s birth. Do you think you can make it happen?”

Robit-bot processes for a moment, “Book a Booze Cruise for your blog that sets the internet on fire? Got it, can do.”

...

By that night, Robit-bot and I stand on the cement shores of Lake Eola looking at the massive Beer Barge being airlifted into the lake. It is truly an awesome sight to behold, only the swans look on with disapproval, but those birds are impossible to impress. Robit-bot had spent the rest of the day, post birth, organizing the event and found a way to invite the entire internet to take part. I’m not sure how RBB did it but I did hear mention of “free drinks” and “Felicia Day.” Granted, I might know more about the process if I had helped but let’s face it, The Goon isn’t going to read itself.

Right as the guests are scheduled to arrive, RBB and I notice a descending hot air balloon with Cory Doctrow at the helm, the ever punctual Randal Munroe and ride share arranging Craig Newmark in tow. After another 15 minutes or so a low rumbling courses through the ground as a fleet of Aston Martins comes into view. A giant jewel-encrusted, golden yoke attaches the motorized steeds to an, if possible, even more golden and jewel-encrusted chariot. This procession heralds the coming of Eric Schmidt and Mark Zuckerberg whom seem to be pre-party tipsy and commiserating over their “mutual break up” stories. Next a Yugo limo shows up reeking of shame and whiskey, and as it stops its rear door opens expelling a beer can tsunami, washing Moot, Lowtax, and Maddox on to the pavement. The trio is nearly crushed as the foot of a giant Fruit Fucker bearing Tycho Holkins, Gabe Krahulik, Scott Kurtz, and Wil Wheaton makes a thunderous, if not unsettlingly phallic, entrance. Seeing Jerry walk down the long, thick juicing ramp I immediately panic, hide behind a nearby swan, and avert my eyes. Whether my actions are out of reverence, fear, or just the blinding glare from his head I cannot say.

Eventually the Drinkin’ Dreadnaught is packed with the Tubes and their denizens and is ready to set sail. As I jauntily stroll up the gang plank, eyes closed, humming the song Icons and Rosaries, a meaty hand shoots out deters my progress. I gaze up into the dull eyes of a rather large bouncer whose stature and demeanor seem to be the products of a steady stream of “supplements” and persistent feelings of inadequacy. I give him my name and he claims I’m not on the list. I assert the unlikelihood of this being the case and he counters more adamantly that my name isn’t on the list. I declare, “Fuck you and your bullshit, lemme see that fucking list” and he, equal parts livid with rage and giddy with power, claims he will get “Brock Lessner” on my ass if I don’t leave now. The threat of a sweaty, latently homosexual, MMA style beat down not withstanding, I realize I have no recourse and begrudgingly trod back down the ramp.

Helpless, I can do little but watch the Rager Raft from dry land. Crestfallen and hankering for a Maudite that I just know is on that Alcohol Ark, I turn to Robit-bot and ask a nagging question, ”Hey Robit-bot, why in the hell am I not on the list?”

“You wanted to be on the list?,” RBB asks incredulously. “I thought you asked me to invite the internet. You’re not part of the internet.”

“I know, that is why...”

“A Google search of your name turns up a Wikipedia entry on the guy who wrote Coyote v. Acme,” RBB interrupts.

“Ok, I get the point.”

“In fact, you don’t turn up once in the 70 pages the Google search produces,” RBB states matter of factly.

“Alright, alright...” I mopingly mumble.

Suddenly a breeze blows past carrying a warm, ethereal scent. It smells like roast unicorn shank with ambrosia sauce, or winning the entire Olympics by yourself, or...or punching Glenn Beck in the mouth! It is nothing less than the olfactory manifestation of Victory. A stout, barrel chested woman steps out of woods that have apparently materialized simply so she can walk out of them. She wears her Valkyrie-style armor like a Tiger wears its stripes: bold, alluring, and lethal. With a stoic visage that would have inspired Wagner to feverishly pen a sequel to the Ring cycle, she raises a mighty bow with a flaming arrow already nocked. She draws the string taut, aims for the stars, and soundlessly lets the arrow sail through the night’s sky. Her aim true, this anachronistic force of nature hits her mark and the internet Liquor Launch becomes a pyre. Satisfied with a job well done, she strides over to Robit-bot, who slips her a $20. Then as quickly as she came this fairy-tale mercenary disappears, forest and all.

Breaking myself from one “what the fuck” spectacle to another, I watch dumbfounded as the passengers of the Tankered Tanker flee the ship by either diving off haphazardly and swimming for the color-changing fountain nearby or peddling for dear life in swan shaped paddle boats. Synapses grasping at straws I turn to RBB and ask, “Why did you hire a Norse myth to come set fire to a boat full of drunk internet celebrities as a means of promoting my blog?”

“Promoting? When you said you were starting a blog I assumed you wanted this event to be an epic, viking-style funeral for your dignity” Robit-bot replies with surprise.

“Then why would I want to invite hundreds of the internet elite and supply them with an open bar?”

“Eliminate the competition and bait the trap with something that makes your quarry extra flamable? I don’t know," RBB notices my sidelong death glare,"Whoa, hey, you're the sick bastard here. The idea to ‘set the internet on fire' was yours, not mine."

I face palm harder than a sane person when Sarah Palin opens her mouth. Then, with horror, it dawns on me. “Robit-bot, how did we pay for this?”

“I hacked into Rupert Murdoch’s bank accounts,” RBB replies.

“Oh, well, good work then. We should leave.”

*No one from the internet was hurt for reals. Oh, except for that bouncer, he died… that jerk.