Here's the deal

Spring Break starts tomorrow at 12:30. You be patient and wait until then, and I actually produce a satisfactory continuation of Da Vinny Code. Deal?

Deliriumville, Insanityland. Population: Me

The thrilling conclusion to Da Vinny Code is forthcoming. But lately, I've been dealing with fever induced delirium. As such, it's rendered my creative mind useless as it spends its evenings wandering aimlessly.

"But Hunter," you readers plead "your style is nothing if not the aimless wanderings of a creative mind. How in the world does that stop you from writing?"

Well, let me tell you, this delirium was so off-the-wall insane that I struggle to find its origin. To put it bluntly, it was like being forced off a roller coaster at the very top of the loop-de-loop and thrown into a Ferris Wheel made of cotton candy and operated by nefarious squirrels only to discover that you never left the original ride which was, in fact, a log flume on a river of Jell-o .

Did that make a lick of sense to you? No? Good! You're perfectly sane, unlike I was last night.

Are you ready for this?

I was walking along minding my own business when suddenly, the world turned purple and I stood before the Baron Wolfgang der Mausenheimmer, sovereign of West Katzen (and my mustachioed cat). I pet him a few times at which point he fades into a background of bright zig zags. The word "Danube" is repeated over and over much to my confusion (not knowing what the heck "Danube" is). Then I am on MTSU, walking past the student union building. I get engaged in conversation with some guy I've never met and could not recognize in a line up of Bozo, Jason, Godzilla, and Pikachu. But for some reason, the guy tells me "Quit hatin' on Peyton". I assume he (I?) meant Peyton Manning. Now that line was insanely clever but utterly without origin or precedent.

Then I woke up to discover it was 5 am and thoroughly dehydrated from my romp through Deliriumville. Luckily, I was able to stumble to the fridge (which was inexplicably twice as big as it was that afternoon) and pour myself some apple juice. No more insanity after that.

Come morning, I hit up Wikipedia to figure out what, if anything, "Danube" was. It turns out its a major river in Germany (with that precise spelling). So apparently even my insane half is a know-it-all dork with proper spelling.

There? Are you happy now? You now know the true madness of my unhinged mind. So be grateful for the few rusty hinges I have left!

Da Vinny Code- Part 1

Last week, many of you took part in a seemingly innocent holiday. I speak of Saint Valentine's Day. Sure, none of us remember exactly what Saint Valentine did, but we're all confident it had something to do with convincing the ones we love to overlook our numerous flaws by giving them a variety of chocolates and/or cards.

Now before I go on, some of my more astute readers may have noticed I'm missing an update for Monday. I'll get to that later, so be patient.


I was content to accept the myth of Saint Valentine's Day until last week. Because I am as romantic as an explanation of how GDP works, I sent text messages out to some fly honeys (my understanding of slang derives circa Fresh Prince of Bel-Air) wishing them to enjoy said holiday. Like most freedom loving Americans, I used the T9 word, as it is always correct. If it gets your word wrong, it's because you were thinking wrong. Which is why I knew something was up.

The T9 word for Valentines is "Takeover". Mere coincidence? Or sign left to guide observant minds to a higher truth?

So I began to search for clues. So I went to the font of all knowledge- anagrams. The results were disturbing. It took me a while to piece them together. Last Thursday, you saw me compile this brief list of evidence:

A Satanist Need Vinyl
Yetis Invent A Sandal
Satan, Evidently A Sin
A Savant Deity's Linen
A Vandal's Tennis Yeti
Tiny Seal-Ants Invade
Aslan Invades Tin Yet
I Invade Ten Analysts
Satan Invades Ye Lint

I also mentioned something about exhaustion. It turned out they had drugged my Sun Drop. When I came to, I was tethered face first to a tether ball post (oh the irony!). It was most unpleasant. I heard yelling in German.

Now, Call of Duty 2 taught me that being yelled at in German is quite terrifying. The words sound very angry and, as far as I know, they were merely asking me for directions or possibly a Fig Newton. So I began to look for a way to escape. It was then I noticed I was only tethered by a tether ball (which explained the pole).

Clearly, I was dealing with lazy Germans. That's when it hit me. They weren't German at all. They were Austrians!

Careful not to be seen by the quasi-German scum, I used all my subtlety and grace to sneak out of my prison. I am proud to say that there were only three grenades thrown in that escape, and under 400 bullets fired. Not to mention there was virtually no sword fighting. It was a real triumph for the entire Department of Espionage in the Hunteria.

That's when I saw him: A man in long red robes with pentagrams on it and a hat which read "Yay Satan". What was particularly odd was he was frantically searching old record sleeves for something but to no avail. That's when it hit me "A Satanist Need Vinyl". The first of the anagrams had been fulfilled. I felt sympathy for a man who couldn't find things, so I decided to only to wound him.

In the next room, I saw the furry kings of the mountaintop. I saw Yetis! But these Yetis all wore lab coats and were huddled around a chalkboard. Soon, they all stroked their chins pensively and came to a consensus about their latest theory, the theory of how a yeti could have shoes for warmer climates which could easily be put on and taken off. The Yetis had invented a sandal. THE SECOND ANAGRAM HAD BEEN FULFILLED! The Yetis were kind enough to explain to me that the third and fourth anagrams were obviously red herrings and they introduced me to their friend, Yorven. Yorven was an all-pro tennis yeti for a 5th century AD tribe of Germanic barbarians in North Africa.

I had a hunch which 5th century AD tribe of Germanic barbarians in North Africa it was. I was looking upon none other than the fifth anagram! I beheld A Vandal's Tennis Yeti!

I was nearing the exit when I saw what the dungeon was constructed for. It was a research facility to try and stow a biological weapon in chocolates. Their weapon of choice was the Tiny Seal-Ant. You're probably wondering how a miniature cross between two non-lethal animals could possibly threaten your health and well being. The answer is simple, cruel biology. Seals are trained from birth to either perform silly water tricks or to fight in the US NAVY. Ants are trained from birth to destroy all things sugary. So it seems as though they wanted to fill your chocolates not with delicious caramel, but rather Tiny Seal-Ants, who would invade you blood stream upon ingestion and devour your now sugar coated heart. A grim fate indeed, ironically foreshadowed by the heart-shaped boxes of candy (they were big on irony in this place).

It appears that this Satanic-Austrian-Yeti club had been working the media for years to create the illusion of necessity for Valentine's Day. Every image was meticulously constructed to unleash this great terror upon the land.

There was some more stuff, but the mastermind of this entire attack reminded me I was rapidly approaching a thousand words and I probably lost most of my readers with the whole "Barbarian tribe in North Africa" bit.

The mastermind was none other than Vinny Testaverde, oldest NFL QB to win a game. That's when I realized the one anagram all the other anagram were leading to.

Vinny Attained Sales

It all became clear. Vinny Testaverde had been masterminding this entire event. But who left me that message.

Vinny told me now that I had seen the Tennis Yeti, I could not be allowed to leave there alive. Vinny began to close in on me, when some one grabbed me from behind.

"I pity da fool who gets cornered by Vinny Testaverde!"

TO BE CONTINUED

Spamalot and Exhaustion

I caught Spamalot at the theater tonight. Thoroughly worn out. Wittiness to commence tomorrow. Discovered several anagrams behind Saint Valentines Day. Must warn world of conspiracy in morning.

A Satanist Need Vinyl
Yetis Invent A Sandal
Satan, Evidently A Sin
A Savant Deity's Linen
A Vandal's Tennis Yeti
Tiny Seal-Ants Invade
Aslan Invades Tin Yet
I Invade Ten Analysts
Satan Invades Ye Lint

Shaq-Fu

The moral of last week's blog posts was that just because you can read a book and write a five page report on it in a forty hour period, does not make it a good idea in the least. On a related note, I did find out man can subsist on Sun Drop and Frito's alone for quite a long time. Thankfully, sports offered no distractions for me.

Naturally, with a segue like that, you know that this one is gonna be about sports.

We are in the part of the year I like to call the Dark Ages of Sports. This is the period of the year after the Super Bowl has faded into history but before March Madness is an accepted form of insanity. For me, the lack of sports generally forces me into a cocoon of video games that I'm replaying for the fourth time (last year, it was Gears of War, Halo, and Halo 2). But this year, I decided to give up video games for Lent (so I might be able to give up minor excesses for the next twenty years). So now, I am doomed to eternal boredom when I'm not doing work at the last possible second.

So I must thank the Phoenix Suns for doing something remotely interesting around the trade deadline a pick up Shaq. Thank you for giving me something to chat about. Thank you for not trying to mercilessly rip off the other team thus delaying the trade to the point of obscurity.

Title Wanted

Originally, I had thought up a fairly detailed outline to give my take on Super Tuesday. It was going to be as long as the Canterbury Tales and with many more rhymes. Unfortunately, I have a large history paper due tomorrow. Normally, I'd blame myself for waiting until the last second to write it. In this case, I blame myself for waiting until yesterday to read the book the paper was about.

So I will be brief.

Democratic Primary- Obama takes the small states. Hillary takes the big states. Hillary nabs a marginal, inconsequential lead. As you can tell, there is very little I find funny about a deadlock. In the extended version of this, I'd probably make a very funny and timely joke.

Republican Primary- These are a bit lengthier so I broke them off into paragraphs.

Mitt Romney proves he has too silly of a first name to succeed outside of states where he was either born, governed, or shared the same religious denomination that the state was founded as a refuge for.

Mike Huckabee proves that it does not Suckabee to be Huckabee (that rhyme was going to show up a lot). He has appeal to every SEC school except Florida. But every SEC fan knows that Florida is a jerk and probably went to McCain to show up the rest of the SEC. Also, Mike Huckabee's ability to lay down a smooth bass line is not to be underestimated. A smooth bass line is critical to such classics like Black Magic Woman, Sweet Child of Mine, and pretty much every song by Iron Maiden.

John McCain proves that the countryside is insane for McCain (this rhyme too). His primary strength was in defeating Rudy Guiliani in the Ring of Fire, thus gaining Rudi's power. This enabled John McCain to go from mere senator to some sort of ancient Greek hero, traveling from port to port taking the Golden Fleece and other valuable artifacts. Also, he gave Huckabee a run for his money in several SEC states by pointing out that bass plays no role in such classics as Kashmir, Free Bird, and anything by the White Stripes.

One closing thought, I think it's great to see America temporarily return to the glory days of the early republic, back before partisan bickering tore us apart. No, in those days, you determined who your friends and foes in Congress were by a complicated algorithm which combined state size, proximity to home state, population, and ability to wear tri-cornered hats well.

EDIT: My short version is, again, over 400 words. Note to self: think less elaborately.

Much <3 Irony

It is with no small degree of irony that I promise you shorter posts only to write 1,000 words after that. I could make such a good politician with rhetoric like that.

The Coke Machine in my dorm stole my $1.25. In order to get my money or Coke, I have to fill out paperwork at the Business Office. Heads will roll.

Super Bowl XLII- or Proof That There IS a Kind and Loving God

By now we've all realized that the dreaded Patriot Scourge has been defeated in their moment of ultimate triumph. The Patriot Scourge that ravaged the lands of the NFL, mercilessly slaughtering all those who opposed them for seemingly arbitrary reasons. The Patriot Scourge that had all the personality and charm of a doornail and all the class of a vulture.

As you can tell by now, I dislike the Patriots a bit. But my scathing hatred aside, this victory for the Giants was nothing short of incredible. The Patriots had the names. The Patriots had the stats. The Patriots had the experience. But none of that mattered. All that matters is the smug Patriots lost and now join the Hall of Ignominy and Shame that is losing the Super Bowl. They'll probably get the spot next to the 2001 Seattle Mariners (MLB record 116 wins).

I could go on savoring the Patriots' defeat... and I will.

I love how Tom Brady whines about how Plaxico Burress only gave the Pats credit for 17 points, and then the Pats fail to get that paltry sum (oh what they wouldn't give to have had 17 points now). I love how there are several players who join the Patriots so they can win a Super Bowl ring (Moss, Seau, Harrison, etc) only to be cut down at the last possible moment. I love how Bill Belichick was shown to be the classless jerk he is on a national stage. I love how all the misinformation about Spygate seems to be exploding in their face the moment after their inglorious defeat.

The Patriots- smug in victory, bitter in defeat.

Yet no matter how much I revel in the demise of the Patriots (and revel I do), the true glory here belongs to the Giants.

I remember some of what the pundits said about the Giants last year. Michael Wilbon said that Vick would not be the most overrated QB in the NFL "as long as Eli is around". Tom Coughlin was one step away from being fired. Plaxico Burress was giving up on plays that led to interceptions. There were rumors that Michael Strahan might just retire rather than play another year for the Giants. The star RB-turned-announcer openly questioned Manning's leadership.

But it's not just the set up that was beautiful. The entire game was executed better than any championship game in any of the Mighty Ducks films.

Eli, a QB known to be a nimble as an alcoholic cat with 3 legs, manages to get out of the hands, literally the hands, of the Patriots' defensive line and then makes a decent throw, when a throw away would've sufficed. Then David Tyree, a guy who, to my knowledge, was a vagrant who wandered into camp and was given the #4 WR job, manages to leap above the steroid-fueled Rodney Harrison and no less than three other Patriots. Tyree then pins the ball to his helmet with Harrison trying his best to knock the ball loose. But Tyree came down with it.

It was like watching Kwame Brown dunk over the entire Detroit Piston defense. It just doesn't happen. Except when it does.

Plaxico Burress got into trouble for having the audacity to predict his team's victory. So it is fitting that Burress was wide open while every Patriot and his dog tried to pressure Manning the Younger into a mistake. It is fitting that he caught the pass with no problem. It is fitting that when Brady needed to lead his team to field goal range, he succumbed to the blitz and was stricken down to the ground.

I could not write a better ending myself.

Unless the NFL made it legal for Eli to drive a motorcycle over Belichick's head while dunking the football over the goalpost for a legal score.

That would've been better.

In The Beginning

Hello and welcome to the English Muffin Power Hour! I'm Hunter Barry and if you didn't know that, then why are you at my blog?

Now, many people wonder what compels a man to go blogging. Is it lust for gold? Power? Or were they just born with a heart full of web logs? In this case, it was power (although I won't turn down gold). Namely, the power to entertain my friends, enemies, and colleagues back in Virginia while I moved to Tennessee.

Originally, I sent out a series of newsletters (called "The Hunter Newsletter") each the size of short novels to a handful of interested parties. However, this proved to be an inefficient means of communication as my short novels often took a lot of time to write and I never mailed the letter often enough. Then my Latin professor, Magister Virr, suggested I created a blog.

Thus was born The One Blog... TO RULE THEM ALL!

Unfortunately, I missed the part of the letter wherein he suggested I make smaller updates more frequently. So now instead of mailing my short novels, I posted them on a blog infrequently. All in all, my first blog was a veritable Fort Necessity, a horrific failure the likes of which cannot again be replicated. But it was a failure that taught me valuable lessons to be applied later on in life (namely, to update your blog or die).

Rather than rebuild atop the ashes of The One Blog, I've migrated to this new blog, The English Muffin Power Hour. I still can't make a short title for a blog, by the way. In fact, the titles are getting progressively longer (from six syllables to seven and now nine, all of them starting with "The", as I love establishing the dominance of my work).

You can expect the standard claptrap of blog material (what I do, what I think, my uncanny recollection of historic events, etc.) but with a delightful Hunter twist added to it.

In an effort to try and keep the blog updated relatively often, I'm setting up a strict schedule of mandatory update days. On Mondays and Thursdays, you will get fresh content guaranteed. There might be more updates throughout the week but I won't promise it.

Finally, I recognize the irony that I'm already late on my first post. I'm confident that this is not a trend doomed to repeat itself.