CORDUROY NINJA

Oh, hi, I didn’t hear you come in. I wish I could say the same for myself. But, alas, it would be a lie. No, I’m fairly audible, which used to be my calling card, my raison d’etre. Now it’s become my comeuppance. I’ve been hoist my own petard, and were petard-hoisting an impressive feat, I’d be bragging about the height my petard has hoist me. But it’s nothing to boast upon. My name? Thought you’d never ask. You may have heard of me, my name was once whispered reverently in certain circles, and a handful of trapezoids, but now those whispers have evolved into guttural snickering. For you see, I am the legendary, lamented Corduroy Ninja.
It is indeed true that I am self-taught, having watched many, many tapes of all the masters: Jackie Chan, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Sir Charles Norris, Bruce Lee, Brandon Lee, Jet Li, Biplane Li, Helicopter Li, Jason Lee, Ralph Macchio, all the greatest of the greats. But I had to set myself apart somehow. In some way. I tried growing my hair really long, but that affected my vision and attracted chicks into jam bands. I tried speaking with a lisp, but it was slightly detrimental to the tough-guy image I was trying to maintain, plus it drove my cats up the wall. I even tried burning a bag of popcorn on purpose to punctuate my entrance with the microwave meal scent of death, but that just became tacky.
The truth is my signature characteristic came about accidentally. I had made my way down to the local Gi Emporium to purchase my gi, and they were all out. I was unaware of a special they were running. Buy 2 gis and get the third gi free. It was a wild success, and there were no gis left. Dejected, I went home and, being naked of course, searched in vain for something to cover my awe-inspiring anatomy. See, when you devote your life to the ninja arts, you only wear your gi, nothing else. Which makes it easy on your closet, but awkward at the Laundromat. Anyhow, in preparation of that, my wardrobe had been purged like a bulemic chest of drawers. Luckily, I had missed one outfit, the one you see here. At first, I was concerned. How can a corduroy ninja make it in a competitive market of ninjatitude? I decided to follow the advice of my father, who said when life gives you lemons, deal with it. And thus, the Corduroy Ninja was born.
At first, it was slow going. Not many people believed I could be successful. But I was good! Let me show you some of my moves. This one’s called the Weeping Cabbage. This one’s the Stuttering Pamphlet. This is the Sweet Potato of the Sea. The Cha-Cha Stab. The Boxcar Children. And my personal favorite, the Reverse Stonewall Jackson. You’ve probably noticed the noise my pants makes, like the ocean or a frightened eunuch. Yes, it was a problem a couple of times, telegraphing my moves, but I grew to be lightning quick to compensate. Pretty soon, the swishing sound of my pants became synonymous with danger. I started getting assassination requests left and right. And sure, some of them were your garden variety requests, like political figures, business moguls and other ninjas, and the like. But I was getting popular due to my quirk, and other offers started popping up. People wanted me to assassinate their ex-boyfriends, neighbor’s pet, school lunches, time-clocks, credit card statements, the list goes on and on. It was when I decided to assassinate high prices at the boat show that I had jumped corduroy shark. I had become a laughingstock, worse, a guffawingstock. The assassination requests slowly dissipated, like a punctured balloon or a punctured balloon animal. And today, I’m the flawed ninja master you see before you.
And so, in the tradition of my people, I have chosen to assassinate my last victim- myself. For they say there are only two ways a true ninja can die honorably, by his own sword, or old age. And so, I want- wait, old age? I forgot about… Screw this.