Posts Tagged ‘leprechauns’

Glory in a Bottle

Friday, May 27th, 2011

The Norsky brewers up at HaandBryggeriet are clearly modern day recipients of Odin’s wisdom and have held a cherished spot on my Viking Barley Brew list ever since I first compiled it. But they wanted to outdo themselves and so they started to age some of their brew in aquavit barrels, and the result is this Barrel-Aged Porter, complete with Norse carving decor on the label. Midgård would be a better place if there were more people like these guys out there, so skål to them!

Then on a more somber and unrelated note, the online literary magazine Bananafish recently suicided itself. This saddens me because Bananafish was one of those few sites that actually acknowledged the importance of writing about drunken leprechauns being held hostage in Viking dungeons, which is not a topic that most literary venues value. (And also the guy who ran the site seemed like a nice fellow). So, anyway, since Bananafish is now down for the count, I’ve reposted the content of my story that had been published there, and it can be found on the Encounter with a Miscreant page.

Lastly, a few parting words for the fallen Bananafish, plundered verbatim from the mighty Ville Laihiala (formerly of Sentenced):

“The shadows growing deep
We’ll be gone eternally
Our stars have fallen from the sky
Our dreams have faded into the night
No tomorrow
Not for us
Death and sorrow
Dust to dust
Dust to dust.”

Encounter with a Miscreant

Sunday, May 2nd, 2010

This is a little ditty that once upon a time was published by an online literary magazine called Bananafish, but then Bananafish went and suicided itself. It was an unfortunate day because I like people who like me and Bananafish seemed to like me even though I was writing about mead, the violent flinging of bones, and inebriated/hostile leprechauns instead of more standard literary themes such as confused sexuality, the politics of confused sexuality, religion’s role in confused sexuality, sexual inequality and confused sexuality, confused sexuality under the influence of drugs, and teenage vampires/wizards.

Anyway, for those of you who missed it and actually don’t not give a shit, here it is in all its no-longer published glory:

Encounter with a Miscreant

A spare rib struck me in the face, causing me to spill my mead, which not only made me sad, but also made me the recipient of a large number of menacing stares. Before I could even attempt to recover from this public embarrassment, all of the projectiles that had been flying haphazardly across the wooden table just moments earlier started to be hurled relentlessly in my general direction. I needed to remove myself from the fray quickly if I wanted to avoid the age-old shame that comes from being buried alive beneath a pile of gnawed-upon bones.

I remembered noticing a small passageway near the entrance to this grand hall, so I stood up and started towards it.

“Faen ta deg!”

Just as someone shouted this insult, a skillfully aimed drumstick smacked me on the side of the head. It didn’t really hurt, but a bout of laughter broke out among the assembled drunkards just the same. I grumbled and hurried along, ducking into the passageway as soon as I came to it.

Once inside, I found that it was actually a stairwell: narrow and spiraling downward farther than I could see in the poor lighting. Sure, it looked creepy, but I was curious, and I didn’t want to go back to getting pelted with bones again just yet—better to give those guys a chance to forget my unforgiveable spillage first, so I began the descent. The sounds of drunken revelry slowly faded into the background and I reached the bottom several minutes later.

The space in which I found myself was what I had always imagined the hold of a decrepit Lithuanian freighter to be like. The air was heavy with damp and rot and the dim lighting flickered unreliably. The splatter of dripping wetness could be heard in several places, along with some indecipherable creaking noises and phlegmy-sounding coughing. But this was no freighter trafficking forlorn souls across the Baltic to a life of hopeless degradation within Stockholm’s underground criminal network. No, I was underground—literally—but it was deep in the fjords of rural Norway.

A stumpy form lying on the ground near me stirred a bit.

“Ye a banshee?” it asked in a groggy, confused voice.

“What the fuck?” I gasped, the words just sort of slipping out of me. I hadn’t expected the lump to speak.

“Hey, ye bollocksed tosser! I asked ye a feckin’ question. Are ye a banshee or aren’t ye?”

Agitation coursed through the stumpy form as its movements became more intense and it flailed itself into an upright position.

It was a little man.

And suddenly I knew where I was. I had heard rumors about this place. This was the final destination for miscreant leprechauns. A despair-ridden hellhole where all dreams of retrieving that special pot o’ gold have long since disappeared. It is said to be reserved only for the worst of the worst—as defined by the guys upstairs who were busy throwing bones around at one another. But since I’m a cynical product of modern society’s failed system, I appreciated the irony here.

“Well, what have ye got to say for yeself, ye feckin’ tosser?” he asked again, hobbling the rest of the way to his feet.

I snapped out of my daze and answered, “No, I’m not a banshee. I wasn’t even wailing.”

He sighed heavily, “Well then, I guess it was just the hangover wailin’ in me head again.” He looked at the empty bottle in his hand and a tear slid down his cheek. “Be a good lad n’ go n’ fetch me another whiskey, will ye?”


“Just a wee drop, laddy, could ye do that for me?”

“No, I think I better not.”

I tried to sound sympathetic, but as soon as the words had escaped my lips he smashed his bottle against the cold floor and started to charge towards me with his new weapon, roaring, “Blarney! Ye fetch me another feckin’ whiskey right now!”

I jumped to the side just as he slashed the air where I had been standing, the force of his effort propelling him into a disgraceful face-plant on the ground. I put my foot on the small of his back, towering above him like a goddamned giant straight out of Jotunheim and wondered why the hell this freak hadn’t been shackled down.

He struggled for a while, and then feebly tossed his glass shard away. I took a step back and allowed him to sit up. Exasperated and weary, he just sat there.

But I had had enough. This guy was a jerk, and dangerous, so I decided that it was time to take my chances with the violent bone flinging again. With any luck, the guys upstairs would have moved on to some other preferred target by now anyway. I edged backwards till I reached the stairs.

“Where ye goin’, tosser?” the miscreant asked, sniffling.

I looked at him, and though I felt some pity, it was outweighed by my residual anger. He had attempted to knife me, after all.

“I’m going to go have some whiskey,” I told him.

Well, I was actually going to go have some mead, but he didn’t need to know that.

Norwegian Scientists Find That Monkeys Are Precisely 3 Times Better Than Leprechauns

Friday, February 26th, 2010

Those Norwegians are at it again!

Norwegian Scientists Find That Monkeys Are Precisely 3 Times Better than Leprechauns

This time hails and skåls go out to Cavalier Literary Couture. And yes “couture” may just be one of the least-Viking words out there, but we won’t hold that against them. Their site has an attractive look and the editors clearly have the still north in their hearts and hill winds in their veins. Also check out the Dead Beat Dad Writes the Birthday Invitations for some good humor.

Welcome to the Mead Hall

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

Welcome to the Mead Hall is a glorified/self-deprecating account of the first time I ever met Trond Troll-Breath. Published online by Word Riot, this marks the first time a literary entity has not completely blown off my research about the Modern Viking Movement. Hail to Word Riot!

Click here to read Welcome to the Mead Hall at (Note to Norse nitpickers: the editor(s) changed “nithing” to “nothing” in the text, not me!…doesn’t really matter though since the meaning’s the same.)

But first, a short, highly educational video from Lasse Gjertsen that provides deep insight into Norwegian profanity:

Down with the Leprechauns!!! >:0

Tuesday, June 26th, 2007

Goddamn, I hate those fucking leprechauns. I always have and I always will; that’s just the way I am. There isn’t a single pro-leprechaun bone in my body. Some people call this blind hatred, but I say that’s bullshit, because, in my dreams, I’ve seen the leprechauns …Hail onwards »