Ninja Burger Stories By You
Date: Tue, 04 Dec 2001 21:11:11 +0000 From: Mr. Who <*********@hotmail.com> To: email@example.com Subject: A meditation on the many uses of the Ninja . . . Years ago as a student of theater at a large university, I was endeavoring to master the basics of the art of acting and directing. Simultaneously, I was, on my own time endeavoring to grasp the ways of different cultures and times. At the time I was reading up on the basics of life in feudal Japan, the professional theater that was associated with the university was presenting a season of Pulitzer prize winning plays. This included such modern masterworks as "Angels In America," a play I believe to be art at it's highest form; and much to my dismay, "Three Tall Women," a play I have long regarded as possibly the most boring thing ever committed to paper. Imagine, if you will, the set for this atrocity of theater. There is a large bed center stage, and on stage left a chair and stage right another chair. There are windows set on the wall behind the bed on either side, that look out onto tree branches, as if from the second story of a country home. The play is about three women, varying ages who may be the same woman at different points in her life. All are fairly static most of the time. Unmoving, and the second act features the eldest mostly lying asleep in the bed. I was viewing the play with the most serious attempt to find something redeeming beyond the actresses all working above and beyond the call of duty to make the audience care when I drifted into a state of half waking. In my semi-concious state as I was watching the play, my mind drifted to my recent studies of the warlords of Japan, and their uses of the ninja to destabilize a neighboring fief. I then for no reason other than divine inspiration was gifted with the vision of a single ninja briefly flitting past the bedroom window. Or another almost unseen vaulting over the bed between acts, his sword drawn. I awoke to discover I had been granted something. I had discovered the theory of ninja theater. I shared my discovery the next day with some of professors, all highly regarded actors, and directors in their own rights. Without dropping names, one of them was a founder of a highly successful theater in New York. My theory was well received. It held true. I had discovered a way to communicate a necessary fact of dramatics. BEHOLD THE THEORY OF NINJA THEATER: For every piece of theater: T where action: A (action is defined as movement on stage be it a cross, exit, entrance, or fist fight etc.) Is matched evenly with dialogue: D, you have good theater. T = (A+D) However, often there is the following: T = 2D/A - meaning action is exceeded by twice the amount of dialogue. This is an unbalanced equation, and therefore, bad theater. In order to restore the balance of the play, without sacrificing dialogue you must then add one Ninja, N. example: T = 2D/A + N. or for every amount of dialogue over the amount action, however one quantifies it, you must add a ninja. Now obviously, ninjas are deadly beings that should not be introduced lightly into a play, as they will most likely assassinate everyone on stage for being there. Thus in order to avoid this (as well as possibly confusing the audience and angering the ninja by demanding the audience view him) a good director must balance his action and thus avoid arousing the wrath of the Ninja. You may apply this theory to any boring film, play or television show. The next time you are forced to watch something that bores you, imagine a ninja flitting briefly through in the background. You will find yourself engaged in the action once more as you wonder why the ninja was there, and were you the only one who saw it? Believe it or not, I passed my directing courses with high marks. Jay
Date: Thu, 3 Jan 2002 16:24:12 -0500 From: **** ******* [*****@colorcardsdirect.com] To: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: haiku story for ninja burger Honored spatula Turned in my hand, turned burgers Man, meat, grill, all one. Shurikens of meat Flew from grill, into the night Ninja armed on time. Delicious and rare I held the double patties Glory and honor. But one summer night A party downtown, a call Forty-one burgers. In fifteen minutes. Twenty plain, eleven cheese And ten double cheese. Beef flew in a blur Spatula flashed in the flames Thirteen minutes left. Buns laid out, cheese on The plains wrapped, the fries ready Seven minutes left. The cheese melted Doubles stacked, wrapped and bagged up Two minutes left now. The last sodas pour My job done, ten seconds left I turn with the drinks. Condensation drips My foot slips on the smooth tile The soda falls, spills. Now I look upon My kitchen, place of honor, For the final time. Tang of boiling fat In the breeze from the hood fan It is beautiful. Speed now, katana, Send me to join the burgers Slice away my shame. - Anonymous Dishonored Fry Cook
Date: Tue, 19 Mar 2002 19:12:54 -0800 (PST) From: B** E***** [email@example.com] To: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Ninja Burger! I arrive 3 hours early for work, to begin preparations. My tools are in the finest working order. Honed to perfection. Slowly, I become one with the surroundings. The near silence, only the *click* of spatulas, and the sizzle of burgers. These hours are not in vain. They are nessisary for my very survival. I am a cook. I cook for NinjaBurger. This is my story. I graduated from college, like most, and went to work as a programmer. I always felt the drive for perfection, and programming gave that to me. The fewest bugs, the clearest code. But the more I worked, and the longer my programs became, I felt there was something missing. Things took longer and longer to write. I became less interested. ADD is like that. I quit. I started cooking. I got the short-term instant gratification that I needed. Things needed to be done quickly, and well. Once again, I felt I had found my place. Over the years, it became a routine. The only thing to distract me was waitresses trying to be chatty and middle-class assholes sending back orders because they needed something to complain about. My mind started wandering. In my spare time, I started taking martial arts. Not just one. Different ones. 5 maybe 6 classes a week. At work I started really flying. Dicing onions in the air, working blind. Becoming one with the food. The waitresses stopped bothering me. But I'm not really interested in coming to work anymore. I'm on autopilot again. Nothing pushes me. One evening while meditating at home, I hear something slip under the door. It is a card with a phone number and a symbol on the back. A picture of a ninja. I call. The voice on the line tells me he has the kind of job I'm looking for. Cooking. Where even my life is on the line. We arrange a time to meet. I walk into a small, nondescript building, and am told to wear a blindfold. Minutes later the blindfold is lifted. I am in a kitchen. The best I've ever seen. It is built in a dojo. Everything in perfectly shined stainless steel. It is almost completely silent. I am shown to a door and told "This in Ninjaburger. Would you honor us by practicing your art with us?". I think of my life. The routine of going to work, to practice, to sleep. I accept. Now, years later, after months of additional training, learning the secrets of the Fries Of Our Ancestors, and many other things, I truly live on the edge. Orders arrive. Orders depart. The burgers must be better than in the pictures. The wasabi added in concert with the precepts of Burgerdo. The edges of the bag folded perfectly. The cola fizzing just right. The spatulas fly. Hands flash into the oil to retrieve the honored fries. One mistake and I will be dead. The ninja are not kind to those who make them wait.
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