A big-ol' jamboree

Not everything about being a secret agent is all fun and games, a man's gotta make his rent, and this week there's been an overwhelmingly high need for brilliant and talented agents such as myself and manpower.

Hunger was at an all time low. My stomach was burning with fatigue, but the wings were like obstacles to my tired body. Sir Knight JP was polite as always, "is everyone here hydrated and well fed?" he would say. But in my exhaustion the only thing I could say was "uggugguhha", which was actually a haiku about friendship, but my vocal skills failed me.

Wings were probably good, but I could only stomach a fraction of the multitude that I had been presented, the beer, however was a glorious victory in my mouth. This week I drank the Ayinger "Celebrator" as per the recommendation of the wise and kind secret agent Johnny Utah. A Bavarian doppelbock, the Celebrator was, though a hefty price, (7.00 USD) it was well worth every penny, it was simply one of the best beers I have ever drank in my entire life. it reminded Ducas LeReese that there is a meaning to our existence on this planet and it made me feel good inside.

Sir Knight JP has an odd tendency to lower the music whenever a customer makes requests with the robot that DJ's at the penguin. Intel reports that this is because Sir Knight JP's cool jazz is the only music that satisfies customers without the unsettling side-effect of waking the fearsome penguin deity that sleeps beneath the Brigham circle plaza. We happen to think that the penguin would like DEVO, tatu, Hocus Pocus by Focus, daft punk, The Yarbles, and madonna, Sir Knight JP digresses.

Cakescapades consisted of 4 whoopie pies and a gallon of patchwork chocolate and vanilla ice cream from hood. A dog tried to kill us. The owner explained in a kind fashion "Oh you have ice cream? Oh he'll kill you. No I'm serious, he'll kill you. For ice-cream, yeah he'd kill anybody." After lathering the owner with our Hood brand ice-cream and watching her own dog devour her whole (it was a big dog) we decided to roll around in the soft grass of Happy Hill and enjoy the fine intricacies of life. Happy Hill was founded by Seamier J. Hapihil in 1904 as a monument to himself after inventing kittens, juggling, and smiles. Happy Hill is actually entirely landfill excavated from, the once prominent, Roxbury fixture, "Suffer Knoll"; proving that no man can move mountains, wrong, wrong, wrooooongggg!

Later in the night during our post-cakescapade romp, we encountered two ninja warriors battling for their honor in the streets of mission hill. Ducas LeReese was much impressed with their showing. Much like street hockey the event was postponed due to traffic.

Escaping with my wings, which I was not able to finish, we needed to make a quick getaway. Thankfully secret agent Man Power was clever enough to have found a multi-braker, tri-rotor, custom-fibepanel supercar. Traveling at mach 8 we were able to reach the Holiday Ranch before Midnight.

In other news, on an interplanetary mission, I traveled to satellite 99, my first thoughts upon my arrival was that the value of the Zargonian "bif" was heavily inflated, to my surprise I was wrong, though the wings on S99 cost 100 bif apiece, (slightly more than our dollar) my 1000 bif dinner was surpisingly superior. the Zargonian chicken is born without any skeletal structure, therefore they yield a clear advantage over Earth chickens with sheer convenience. It is most unfortunate that United Nations regulations prohibit the importation of Zargonian livestock on account of their tendency to mutate and become aggressive in our atmosphere. these wings were delicious, they came with much more blue cheese than our typical outing would bless us, as well as a cup of celery. now, the most incredible thing about these floppy, moist, and buttery Zargonian wings was that they were absolutely slathered with honey barbecue sauce, the kind that even Baby Ray would be impressed by! I pray for the day wherein Earth restaurants might carry honey bbq sauce wings for 10 cents apiece. my childhood friend and human-plus companion Vyers Chrono-7, with whom I was traveling, agreed that the food, (and the android women) were, for the most part, the highlight of his trips to Zargon's surrounding outposts.
See you next week.
-Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle

But wait there's more! It's time fore the Secret Agent Man Power minute with your host Secret Agent Man Power.
Well it appears that while I was out burning rubber in my new supercar Razz-L Dazz-L has pretty much informed you of tonight's happenings. Well I bet you didn't remember that 12 years ago today the lovely princess of Wales was kill by Godzilla as she drove through an underpass did you? So that's why I couldn't be around for most of this report. As a Welshman it is my duty to drive at excessive speeds every twelve years on my lady's birthday. Because Princess Di loved eggs, and eggs come by the dozen, and Cheaper by the dozen was a bad movie starring Steve Martin, and Steve Martin was in Novocain with Kevin Bacon, and Bacon goes good with eggs. That's why I do it.
Also I'll have you know we had a full cast of characters at our table tonight. Ducas LeReese, C.Q. Clover, Inspector Jumpjet, Juggernaut Johnson and eight-hundred of his shadowy minions, Raver Neighbor, Fistosaur, and Hovergirl who was late and entered with a surly "Hey Jumpjet! You know that indent in the bottom of a refrigerator where all the foul liquids collect and turn to puss? That's your mom." She then vomited on the Queen of England who was in town to applaud how fast I can go in my new supercar.
Also I'll have you know that I'll be visiting the outer spiral arm of the Upper Valley Galaxy sometime next week to take core samples of their foreign wings and sign autographs. Which is a perfect segway into some wings I had recently at a sub-station called "The Red Hat"... Oh I only have 15 second. Oh, well okay... The wings were better then the Penguin and cost the same, the waitress was nice, but a Coke cost me four goddamn dollars! Goodnight... We've got a few more seconds? Oh well, be sure to...

This has been a broadcast of the Petty Bar Foods Testing and Refinement Committee. We hope that you enjoyed this program and that you'll be just as intrigued by the following six hours of broadcast tones. Goodnight.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

That is the biggest pig pile I've ever seen.

Today is August 24th 2009. Somewhere out there in the ether a woman's tear ducts dry from exhaustion, helplessly looking on as her child's stomach bloats with the gasses of starvation, unable to process food any longer because of a digestive malformation. Somewhere out there a boy's dog is hit by an automobile. The boy will never outgrow the pain and will forever be encumbered by a schism, which will render him awkward and ungainly in social situations. He will never form a lasting relationship with another human being and will eventually kill himself on the anniversary of this very day. And here in Boston it's Wing Night. MMM MMM Wing Night!!! (: MMM MMMMMMMMMM! Yummy.
Our ongoing struggle with the weather was relieved today by a five second rain shower that cooled thing off to a somewhat normal temperature, which was followed by the sun coming out again and Suffolk County erupting into plumes of fire. If we hadn't crawled on our stomachs we would have died from asphyxiation, which is why we were a bit late to wing night tonight. Razzle Dazzle was sent on a recon and rescue mission to Stop & Shop to retrieve Sweet Baby Ray and check into the day old bakery situation. Angus Rocket, Oxford, and myself continued on to forcefully capture a table.Resistance was strong, we didn't get our favorite booth, and my hand was blown off by a sawed off shotgun, but we did manage to wrangle ourselves a seat. A new waiter came to tend to us who goes by the name Wallace Rooker (jokingly referred to as "Rookie"). There was some confusion with ordering because Angus Rocket can only speak in swears but eventually Sir Knight JP came galloping up so gallantly with his back pattery and infinite charm and all was put away nice and neat in no time at all. Afterwards lite conversation was had. Oxford, as it turns out, is a student of Northeastern Academy of Combat and Psychic warfare where she majors in graphic design with strengths in lazer management.
A cool breeze entered the Penguin and it's name was Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle. The doorman asked for his ID. Rzzl Dzzl showed him his fists. The doorman showed Mr. Dazzle his brains and what they look like splattered all over the floor. Because you don't fuck with Razzle Dazzle, okay hombre?
With the last of my fading strength I cauterized my wrist using the excessive buffalo sauce and hard lined the rest of my wings straight in my veins. Oxford put on an impromptu lazer light show; the class IV lasers caused some collateral damage, but in my blood deprived state they lulled me right into comfy slumber.
-Secret Agent Man Power

hello, this is secret agent RAZZY-d. tonight i crawled through the mission hill jungle to arrive at my destination, whereupon i was attacked by a carnivorous plant. after finally escaping its jagged and sweet-smelling maw, i noticed that it had left its venomous pluumshewgunmbee juice on my skin, leaving my purple, and with a "pins-and-needles" sensation. i rushed to the penguin and plowed my way to the table, just barely allowing myself the time to grab my passport. sir knight jp was quick to notice my distress and offered to serve me my drink of the day, the magnanimous "samuel smith's nut brown ale". after pouring a salve of it on my alkaline ridden flesh, i continued to savor it with my tongue. one sip and i was in flavor country; i thought to myself: "this simply has to be one of the most delicious beers i have ever tasted in my entire life". "you can really taste the nut" oxford exclaimed after a sip. according to the label, the water used in processing the ale comes from a well that was dug over 400 years ago, and continues to serve the brewery today in northern england. it seems somewhat unnecessary to even rate it at this point, but for posterity i will have you know that it is an enormous circle with the largest dot possible within its perimeter.

wings were okay. kinda moderate.

the well for making the beer will never dry, which is far more than i can say for the well of bounty known as cakescapades. for the third week straight, we have been unable to recover a satisfying cakescapade. this week we folded and bought 3 pieces of cheesecake, because the only friggin "yesterday's bakery" goods were danishes. DANISHES.
as a result, i give cakescapades a single mark, a "den-mark".
atmosphere was lovely, we couldn't eat our wings in the tower of power like usual, or even the old "Razzly-corner", but even in the mid table we felt right at home because sir knight JP was on the prowl. he just went and pulled out our chairs for gods sake. what a sweetie! sweet knight jp gets an A for atmosphere and a SUPER for superb service.


CONCLUSION:

HUNGER INDEX: critical mass
BEER: large circle, maximum dot.
WINGS: okay
ATMOSPHERE: ASERVICE: super
CAKESCAPADES: denmark

I bet you 20 wings you don't read this in the correct order

I thanked Angus Rocket for the ride to Penguins. We'd been doing Laundry together to save on quarters even though we had an amply supply from raiding Madam Assassin's spare change jar. Angus couldn't attend wing night this week on account of having a date to kill a girl's cat. "She's allergic to it for butt's sake!" He said in a huff. I was glad that at least he had something to keep him occupied and had already thought of a way to justify it. His 1984 Volvo Wagon sped off at 200MPH leaving only Angus' familiar scent of burritos.
Man was my power low. It was so hot and muggy today I could have rubbed flaming Vick's Vapo Rub all over my body and gotten the same effect. Thank God I got water-boarded though, it's less expensive than going to the pool.
I found the gang in our pleasant corner of satisfaction chowing away. They all greeted me as Nathan, which I guess was some sort of inside joke they'd formulated in my absence. I shruggingly resigned to their snickering and ordered the usual. Missing from the regular Penguin buzz was Sir Night JP... Oh damn a typo. Oh how I wish I wasn't using a type writer right now. In JP's presence was the much dreaded Bishop Jughead. I threw her the evil eye upon which her return glance made me go blind for eight minutes. Luckily I've spent long nights mapping out the Penguin completely by feel, smell, and sonar; getting all the little intricacies under my skin and knowing beyond all doubt that Penguin Pizza was a living, breathing, entity existing to serve, biting it's lip, holding it's breath in anticipation of our smile.
The scent of my buffalo wings brought my vision rushing back along with tears of pain, because boy were they spicy. Inspector Jumpjet sat in between Hovergirl and a Ghost. Upon his aviator's chest was a shirt that read "My other girlfriend is cool". I was glad to see the inspector finally giving that uppity Hovergirl her comeuppance. Conversation strayed from scientific discoveries to "your mom looks like this ugly guy in a movie" debates. During a brief lull Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle did a back flip and everyone in the bar applauded, with exception of Bishop Jughead of course whose arms are tentacles allowing her no physical means to clap. I hope she dies.
Because we were forced to go to Defcon 2 in her presence we had to treat Sweet Baby Ray like a stowaway taking him out, only briefly, for his honey-BBQ goodness and then placing him below the table again and out of sight of the devious eyes of our wretched foe whose skin is like sand paper and voice has similar qualities. The regular wings all and all were quite good this week. Juicy, meaty, they didn't complain, I didn't complain.
Inspector Jumpjet and Hovergirl boarded their dirigible and floated fondly away. Juggernaut Johnson mounted his shadowy minion and road off into the sunset. The ghost told me my father was proud of me and faded away with a smile. Wing night, having wrapped up so nicely I decided to leave the full bounty of change from Madam Assassin, and it was at that moment Bishop Jughead came to clear our table. She eyed the bag of change we'd left as tribute, which quite possibly was a 50% tip. "What is that?"...

Moment's pause.

"What!? Did you trainer not feed you your rotting fish this morning or were you too busy shedding your skin you goddamn lizard! Evil, you're evil! We can't even buy you off. EVIL! EVIL! EVI..." At that Bishop Jughead threw a fireball in my face burning off my scalp and is why I write this entry with a wig on.

Apparently I continued on for quite sometime in a waking comatose, as if sleepwalking, as we journeyed through Stop & Shop. And as we journeyed we didn't stop believing even though Razzle Dazzle's earlier scouting had revealed a dry well of day old baked good. Instead we splurged on angle food cake, ice-cream sandwiches, french vanilla ice-cream, cereal of all varieties, and a slice of cheesecake. We found out what Spumoni was, how it related to Neapolitan, and why Neapolitan has the name it does. Wanna know? Well go look it up in a book, lazy. Afterward we waltzed through the shimmering fields of Happy Hill. It was there that my life ended.

The ice-cream with ice-cream sandwiches in it was so good I could swear my life just ended.

Goodnight sports fans.

Wings: Solid
Atmosphere: Pound it
Service: Check you later
Hunger Rating: Respect
Cakescapades: Yo Yo Yo I'm bought' ta drop da' bawm in dis' hawz

i love chicken.

Agent Razzle Dazzle here! I'm glad to be here, and boy oh boy am I just killed with delight to be eating wings right now! My colleagues and I are smoking sweet sweet "cookies & cream" electric cigarettes and I'll be honest, these lasersmokes taste like the future// (people in the future use doubleslashes to punctuate their sentences//)//
At approximately 17:02:43 I managed to rendezvous with Inspector Jumpjet and his cohorts (((Hovergirl, Juggernaut Johnson, one of his shadowy minions, and a strange silent man who wore a headband and may have been a ghost))))) We've been eating copious amounts of wings, and the sun is beating down like an iron chain. As a result I have committed to subject myself to a rigorous diet of two beers and a threefold wing budget!! Tonight I am ordering three plates of regular wings (supplemented, of course, with my newfound R.A.Y [really awesomely yummy] special formula) as well as one "riggwelter black sheep ale" and a "southhampton double white". I'm just dying to eat some wings here, party-people.

I'm just going to jump right into the beer review, because I am exceptionally delighted by my choices this week. To begin, the black sheep ale was delicious, a hearty ale with a crusty rasp that grated at the corners of your tongue. Named after the Norse word for back, or shoulder "rigg" and the word "velte" meaning to overturn. I'm proud to say that it had me feeling pretty good after 3/4 of the pint-five bottle was consumed, though not on my back ELL OH ELL. Decent for an eight dollar beer, and highly capable of hiding it's vicious bite. however, my goal this evening was not to feel good, but rather to feel cool. I then got a message Secret Agent ManPower that he was currently being water-boarded and would be a tad late. The mental image sure did dry my throat out, therefore the only thing to do was consume more delicious exotic brews, ultimately leading me to the "southhampton double white" which is thus far, second only to the tropical mango pale ale in terms of its success as a lovely summer ale. an incredibly difficult beer to make, it is carefully crafted from lemon, coriander and orange as well as unfiltered wheat grain. truly a fine belgian-style beer.

BEER SCORES:

RIGGWELTER black sheep ale: a large circle with a subtle, but concentrated 2mm dot.

SOUTHHAMPTON double white: a circle that is large, but not quite as large as the tropical mango pale ale, but larger than the circle provided for the hoeergarden. with a dot smaller than the others.

cerealization at its best

Hello my dear readers, this is secret agent Man-Power, the manliest of of all powers. Tonight I had to run some errands, because even secret agents have to run errands. I had to, pay some bills, vanquish Madame Assassin in the museum of torture, do some laundry, and traffic was pretty bad too. So I ran a little late; whatever. From what I gather, however, Razzle Dazzle managed to execute some stealth reconnaissance in preparation for cakescapades, as well as acquire a drop-pod of R.A.Y no. 85. After arriving on-site at appoximately 17:02 Agent Razzle Ddazzle was killed.

crab-log crablog cra-blog

Razzly-D here, it is quite the eventful day for a night of wings. inspector jumpjet is celebrating his 5,023rd. birthday today, which was celebrated with 5023 loopty loops and then one more for good luck. Boston has dried and withered like so many aging grapes, orangutan's have developed culture, but the event to top the evening was a visit from the mysterious and charismatic secret agent Ashburn-Sandstorm, who is visiting on a mission to evaluate our performance on behalf of the main branch.

Today marks the 42nd wing night we have attended and also the 42 day we've had something to look forward to during the course of our bleak, meager lives.

This just in: dinosaurs walk among us, as many of you may have realized. with the recent engineering of dinosaur/avian regresso-hybrids, the reality of dinosaurs living amongst us is a stunning reality that we must face. a world of giant chicken eggs awaits us. this also promises to ensure the future of "giant wing night", a dream of all wing night patrons. And you can read about it in a book... Somewhere.

Today we arrived on site early, the entire saloon was empty besides us, the usual chess pieces, and regrettably, Bishop Jughead. if it weren't for Bishop Jughead, the night would have been nearly perfect. shortly after our complaints, however, like a miracle Jughead was no more, leaving us with nearly a perfect start. Our preliminary strike force included you're two famed secret agents, Braino (The Girl With The Visible Brain), Ducas LeReese, and Ashburn Sandstorm whose watchful eye watched, always watching with that watchful, watchful eye of his. Visits from our district managers can either bring joyful songs of revelment or drastic budget cuts and would likely end us up at "celery night" with secret agent Lame Face and Jeremy the idiot from accounting who just likes going there.

Secret Agent Manpow-er was at ill ease for earlier that day he was force fed burgers for information. Needless to say they ran out of burgers, received no information, and are all now dead. with gripping determination he ordered the regular twenty wings, as did I along with a Seria Nevada. To my surprise Secret Agent Sandstorm ordered "The same thing he's having", which to my relief was in reference to a guy across the way, but to my horror that guy had ordered exactly the same thing as me. I was under the knife. Every move I made must be in perfect tandem with my DM. This is where my expertise on wings and the night they have so encapsulated would be put to the test.

Service was swift and nimble, sir knight JP offered to redeem his mistakes with a free drink which did not go unnoticed. and other chess pieces were quick to offer napkins to clean up the mess that i had made, (more on that later) though they did not offer me a replacement for the sole victim of my transgressions, a single lost beverage.

I drank a Sierra Nevada pale ale, continuing my adventure into the world of pale ales that i've been performing lately. I am told by offshore secret agent Johnny Utah that according to reliable intel, Sierra Nevada pale ale is the golden standard for pale ales. overall, it was very basic, with a oo e to it as well. it is a good beer for someone who wants to show a friend what a pale ale is supposed to be like, but without any gimmicks. A solid beer with a rough edge to it, hearty flavor and easily consumed. I give the Sierra Nevada pale ale a medium sized circle with no dot.

I was not able to adequately review this beer beyond taste and texture however as a result of a terrible unforeseen incident involving our dear and beloved secret weapon, sweet baby ray formula no. 9. My fingers were nearly soaked to the bone with the volatile, but delicious new concoction, and as a result, after grabbing with full force towards my glass of cool misty Sierra pale ale, the slickness of my skin pushed the glass beyond my grasp; spilling the sweet sweet sweet sweet nectar all over the table, my passport, and worst of all... Supervising secret agent Ashburn Sandstorm. As you can see in the picture I came in at a hard angle and it is only cunning luck that I survived, although at the time I wished for death. If only the room could fill with poison gas oh happy it would have made me to escape the disappointment of Ashburn Sandstorm via poison gas. Although he showed no emotion and simply digested the spilled beer through his skin as if it were second nature. What a pro!

The wings altogether went above and beyond the wacky level. Malformed wing ran amuck. Wings of a non-wacky nature were decent, but not as decently decent as the wackwings. moist and smlump, they were the smlumpiest wings i have had the pleasure of eating in quite a while. too many times have i came to penguin expecting smlump and getting nlumb.

Bleu cheese was soupy, inconsistent and unreliable. though it was surprising that today, of all days i was gifted with the largest chunk of cheese of all time, weighing in at 20 pounds and 3 ounces, not less than 1 inch in diameter (it was truly really extremely dense cheese matter).

Currently Secret Agent Manp-ower is Catatonic and is bleeding from his eyeballs in the most pleasant way so I wish not to disturb him, but it is my assumption that the wings were once again too saucy. Although that it appeared that Ma-npower'saucevoir was larger than everyone else's. Perhaps it's an inside job against us. Maybe it's the doings of Bishop Jughead.

Things really started to heat up at Penguin as more of our esteemed guests arrive on the scene including Cheif of Police Wigglesworth, Nigel Pendelton, The Burrower, C.Q. Clover (who was late on account of solving a spooky mystery), Oxford the animal tamer and his half man half large cat ally "Leopardo", lastly was Hovergirl who always brings her "ha-ti-dah" attitude for poor Mr. Jumpjet, who is well mannered in all ways and can only put up with it by an amazing feet of self control, and on his birthday of all things. I'll say. I will say.

We decided that it may be best to tally forth before our friends got around to the birthday brawl they're so fond of (and by the sound of the sirens Inspector Jumpjet had a grand ol' 5023rd birthday). We were also eager to impress our superior with the fine work we've been doing with cakescapades. With the poison now fully drained from my body I was feeling in high spirits. I felt that luck was on my side and with a spring in my step I entered the cozy passageways of Stop & Shop. Now imagine if you will a heard of Elephants crossing the Savanna in search of a water hole. They come to the spot they've known for unheard ages. A secret haven of water whispered down through the generations. Upon arrival however they find a dry desolate pit and they know their young will not survive to see the sunrise the following morning. That's the way I felt when I reached the day old bakery section. Hot dog buns, stale cookies, and a despair in my heart. That's what I found there. I quickly pulled off the fulled priced whoopie pie emergency maneuver that I learned way back when I was a cadet, but it only barely saved our cakescapades. We trekked up the face of happy hill and shared whoopie pies to whomever would do a handstand.

It wasn't the best of wing nights, it wasn't the worst of wing nights. It fell well within that range of melancholy that shall be soon replaced by memories of happier times or sadder times depending on how this big ol' world smiles upon us. And for our standing with Ashburn Sandstorm? As I type this memo to you in the confines of The Holiday Ranch he stands in the corner rasping his knuckles against the wall and breathing heavily, which I know is considered an act of good will in some countries, not this one, but some. So tune in next week to see what becomes of our damned souls. And now onto Secret Agent Man-Po-wer for his take on the evening.

The Secret Agent Man Power Hour! With Secret Agent Man Power!

Man I'm full. I'm sleepy too. I wonder where I'll sleep tonight. Inspector Jumpjet can't be that old. I think he's like twenty something. Maybe I'm wrong. Whoa a quarter!
-Secret Agent Powerman.


atmosphere: 9
wings: A Thumb, not up nor down, just there.
service: 4/5
cooling tower bridge decomposition ball checkpoint reservoir tank: 9
beer: A medium sized circle with no dot (credit for being solid, demerit for being boring)
Cakescapades: ** and a +

Second Sortie

This evening for dinner I ate poison. I am typing this with my last sparks of consciousness, barely even able to lift my own head, like a newborn babe. Now I'm not one to point fingers, especially not at the fine establishment that the penguin most definitely is; but if anyone knows what it feels like to be poisoned it's me. To be completely frank, I'd have to say that my keen intuition leads me to believe that our enemies have finally attempted to remove me from the picture.
My duties as an esteemed food critic however are of greater priority than even my own safety, and therefore I will not be phased by these threats.
I ate my 20 wings, I drank my sweet Colorado Dale's pale ale, and dammit, I ate seven delicious cupcakes. You listen to me now, if a little bleeding out of my eyeballs is supposed to stop me from eating cupcakes, think again, because if you want to stop me from eating sweets, next time bring your brass knuckles and fight me like a man.
-Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle

-Earlier that very day-
Ever since the ruby of a thousand tears was unearthed in Downtown Boston and subsequently releasing a one hundred year curse of famine and drought upon the greater bay area, it's been damn hot around. What better way to forget about an ancient mummy curse then to take a quick dip in the community pool? This was the well thought plan of myself and my well esteemed colleague Razzle Dazzle whose enjoyment for chlorinated pool water is unparalleled. Luck was not on our side this day, nor was luck, or even simple courtesies such as "sorry". Upon arrival at the Hennigan "Community Center" we not only had to disable the robotic sentry units, which shot first and didn't even ask questions later, leap a pit of burning diesel fuel, and be hit directly with lightning just to enter the building, but we were also presented with the most diabolical of all evil traps... Bureaucratic red tape. Apparently the term "Open Swim" implies that the pool is only open to those under the age of 18. The managers of the pool handed Razzle Dazzle a schedule clearly outlining when the 18-35 crowd could relax in the cool waters. Let’s see if you can make sense of it.

10-11am – Hennigan Summer Program
11am-12pm – Rainbow Connection SACC
12-1pm – Maintenance
1-2pm - ACEDONE
2-6pm – Open Swim
6:30 – 7:30pm – Aqua Aerobics 35+
7:30 – 8:30pm – Adult Lap 35+
8:30 – 9:30pm – Maintenance
6:00pm being subject to a strange time anomaly it can be assumed that those not under 18 and not attending one form or another of pagan water-worship can enter the pool at 6:00pm (Earth hours) be torn from the space time continuum and swim as long as they please in a land beyond time. When everyone has had their fill of swimming the Hyper Dimensional Resonator is turned off and time picks up where the swimmers left it. At least that’s what we assume happens because Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle and I had more important things to do at six o’ clock. That is, if “important” were wings, “do” was eat, “six o’ clock” was five o’ clock, and the sentence was completely rearranged to spell out “It’s Wing Night again!”
I the loathsome time after being denied access to the pool and before consuming flesh we we’re cast into state of delirium. I looked on as my cohort Raz-Daz consumed some strange berries. I thought to warn him not to consume this alien fruit, but my higher brain functions began to falter and fail as my hunger pangs set in.
-Secret Agent Man-Power
-Meanwhile-
The scorching desert heat has whet my appetite to the extreme limits of my being. Without feeling, without remorse, I will devour poultry with reckless abandon once again. Secret agent razzle dazzle reporting; this mission was a doozy, one of the hottest days of a wet and rainy summer, the sun has caused the city to forget about the harvest-worthy fronts, and given reign to the unrelenting fire of a parched sky. Amidst the drought, food has been scarce, and the people of this wasteland constantly feud over who gets the first pickings of the criminally slim rations that are passed out by shipping caravans from areas more fortunate. The mulberries that the local village was so proud of, long since over-harvested, sprouted sickly branches, barely even capable of sparing me the devastating solar rays; and as I waited at our rendezvous point, the locals, though (in a fight) they offered little challenge, were still less than hospitable.
We met and rushed to the cantina post-haste, stopping briefly at the oasis only to find that the spring had dried as well. Upon our arrival, we were surprised to see that there were few people in the bar. Our entourage took our seats and placed our orders, automatically, it seemed, as our desperate daydreams had placed the order in perfect rhythm time and time again during our long journey, which felt a whole lot shorter on account of seeing bishop jughead walk out the door just as we arrived.
WINGS, I said. Twenty. I peered over my passport to see what countries I hadn’t been to in a while, “and a Colorado, Dale’s Pale Ale” I said, feeling the humble twinges of homesickness, yearning for the sweet hoppy blood of America. Sweat poured from my brow, not out of heat, but out of relief, like an astronaut kissing the gentle green earth after his flight.

The dale’s was adequate, a recommendation from secret agent Johnny Utah, the off-site expert on rare and exotic sundries. Cool, refreshing, served in a can, trickling with dew. It had a hearty aroma, but it fell on my tongue as watery and flat, like a foggy Irish stout, not at all like a pale ale. Fortunately, it was just the kind of sensation I needed to feel, and therefore, I was saved by my beer yet again. This time, it’s a thick circle, with a teeny tiny cavity.

the wings on my side were equally sustaining, but at best, adequate. The drumsticks (I’ve found) are often dry, to the point of being the target of much infamy, whereas the actual wings were a delight to behold. The TRUE highlight of the ordeal was the bleu cheese dressing, NEVER before in my entire career of wing night excursions have I ever enjoyed a more textured, fruity, and bountiful plastic cup of liquid cheese than I did tonight. Literally 70% of it was occupied with life-affirming fortune in the form of priceless nuggets of the stuff. cheese.
-Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle
-From across the table a different story was unraveling-
I looked on in horror as my friend the Razzler drank his beer straight from the can. The voice of my grandmother came to me saying “put that in a glass, you don’t know whose hands it’s touched or how much poison has been dumped on it since it left the factory.” Of course my grandmother was arrested when I was five for triple homicide, so I just tried to put it out of mind.
As I always say you can bring a horse to water, but you can’t miss out on Penguin Pizza’s ten cent wing night. And also as I said earlier there’s nothing as refreshing as a quick swim on a hot summer’s day, but if a big, fat, two-bit, hack tells you can’t go swimming because he’s a complete jerk, and then you try to discuss it like grown-ups but he just laughs in your face and then breaks the neck of a chipmunk. If that’s the case then there’s nothing as refreshing as a pile of spicy hot wings on a hot summer’s day. The buffalo sauce situation at Penguin’s has spiraled completely of control. As you may remember from last week they’ve been dishing out buffalo sauce like they were punches, and this week my wings got the crap beat out of them. A deep pool of sauce was left on my plate by the time I had finished (which I refer to as a saucevoir). If you don’t believe me just take a gander at the picture.
To further complicate the situation, free refills are no longer allowed. We were informed that the glasses are bigger, but that’s hardly true, and that doesn’t mean I still won’t want a refill. Shortly discussed that this must be a new provision of the emperor’s food rationing efforts. Pacing myself with my Pepsi I managed to make it through my spicy wings without major medical complications. I took a second to survey my surroundings. C.Q. Clover was to my left whose crime solving skills are second to none, Sgt. Noir to my right whose marksmanship is second to none, then Braino whose brain is clearly visible when she’s not wearing her signature wig. Together the form the 93rd Action Battalion. Also accompanying us was Ducas LeReese: roughneck extraordinaire. All were locked in the blissful conversation of “wing-talk”, which has no words, only the lip smacking sound of wing digestion. I had a brief meeting with my boss, Sweet Baby Ray, then plunged head long into my regular wings. My first bite brought a twinge of disappointment. Too dry, not enough tenderness, no heart, no love. If Ray hadn’t been there I don’t know how I would’ve made it through. Unlike Razzle Dazzle’s Bleu Cheese my own was drippy and without chunks. “Inconsistency” I muttered. C.Q. Clover cocked her head amidst a wing to inquire what I had said. “Onion sister dead sea” I said to cover my tracks.
“They didn’t bring me enough lemons on the side even though I specifically asked for them.” C.Q. announced seemingly ambivalent to the fact I had said something that made absolutely no sense. C.Q. Clover has the odd trait of spreading lemon juice on her wings much as we spread Sweet Baby Rays on our own wings. Although the lemon folly had been committed by our occasional server Her Lady Queen Kim of the Dire Mire it was corrected by the always jovial Sir Knight JP who then delivered a reassuring pat on the back, which made everything right in my mind.
My Pepsi had been a bit on the lighter side all night and by the time I killed my final wing the ice had melted to the point where it was just flavored water. It was at about this time that reinforcements arrived. Angus Rocket whose crimes against humanity shall not be mentioned here, Captain Soul whose contributions to humanity shall not be mentioned here, Inspector Jumpjet and his sidekick Hovergirl who were in good spirits having just taken first place in the Bay State aeronautics competition, and lastly Juggernaut Johnson and two of his shadowy henchmen. We paid for our bill without receiving the bill and performed the highly advanced switcheroo maneuver that ensures that those close to us are always with a place to sit. We braced ourselves, received high fives from Sir Knight JP, and ran head long into the blistering heat in a mad dash to Stop & Shop.
-Secret Agent Man Power
And now it’s time for… CAKESCAPADES!!
This week we came upon a decent haul, without the help of Ducas LeReese, I would have been unable to resist buying every single cupcake on the shelf, on account of my cake proclivities… Having been a cattle rancher for some years as well as a botanist Ducas can quite literally smell danger from a mile away. Well maybe not a mile that would be ridiculous, all the same Ducas was sure that there was “Poison in them cupcakes ye dern fools!”
Heeding Mr. LeReese’s’s’s words I bought only two packages of “poison” cupcakes. To my shock and disgust these “poison” cupcakes, we actually poison cupcakes, and I have quite the allergy for poison. After going into hyperbolic shock and painting the town red with my madhouse antics I was finally revived by several eppy pens and a heart transplant. I have good reason to believe I’ve been assaulted by our arch nemesis Dr. Death and the artificial flavor in my cupcake was not vanillin, but none other than Dr. Death’s Death Medicine, which tastes great and really takes the edge off, but is horrible for your health. If it hadn’t been for Ducas LeReese saving the day with ice cream sandwiches all would have been lost.
I’ll get you Dr. Death! By God you may have gotten away with killing my wife and children, but nobody ruins my cakescapades!

-Secret Agent Razzle Dazzle

THE RUNDOWN
Pre-wing adventures: 0
Desire for Wings: 8
Atmosphere: 6
Service: 8.5
Wings: 5.75
Cakescapades: 4
Overall rating: 5.42 and a thick circle with a teeny tiny dot
Better luck next time.