Imagine being a ninja.
Awe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . some.
More awesome than when you find a crumpled tenner in your back pocket you didn't know was there. More awesome than getting a perfect ice circle out of an oil drum in winter and then throwing it off a roof. More awesome than bears with laser beams coming out of their freaking eyes. More awesome than a cigar-chomping, motorbike-riding goddamn T.rex on Viagra with all Uzis and broadswords taped to his improbably weeny but impressively tattooed arms.
Actually, probably not more awesome than the T. rex thing because, let's face it, that would be pretty flipping awesome. In fact, just passing a CBT would be impressive for an extinct carnivore with limited brain capacity and a ravenous hunger for flesh (let alone carrying weapons and taking dodgy drugs bought off of the internets and staying still long enough to be tattooed), so that really would be full of awesome.*
Especially if the tatts were Hello Kitty ones.
Where was I?
Oh yes. Ninjas.
One might think that, in order to enter the hallowed and ethereal halls of ninja-hood, where silent, toe-thonged footfalls of imperturbable warriors wear down the stones of history with tales of almost mystical legend, striking fear into the very souls of enemies and friends alike, one might have to do a spot of training?
Learn the ropes, as it were? Get your ticket? Maybe pass an exam?
You might at least have some sort of annual ninja review with feedback boxes indicating that, yes, you have successfully reflected upon the use of concealment to assassinate your foes, and perhaps you would like more tuition in wanging shuriken about, but in general you feel there are no current issues that need immediate action, thank you for the opportunity of this continual professional development meeting.
What you need is a mask.
It used to be that you could nip down to the local Akou-rner (aha) shop and purchase all your ninjoid paraphernalia in one big session, but what with the recession hitting both them and Woolies quite hard, this is no longer an option.
So, in order to help budding ninjinos the world over, someone came up with this rather ingenious method of fashioning your own ninja mask out of a T-shirt:
Of course, the very moment I saw this, I knew I had to attempt it. Who wouldn't?
Liar. You're thinking about a suitable T-shirt you've got for this very purpose right now, aren't you?
I won't tell.
Only takes a minute. We'll wait. Off you go.
*Whistles - puffs cheeks out - picks fingernail - scratches inappropriately - hums theme from Monkey*
I decided to use a white T-shirt, mainly because I couldn't find my black one, although this does indicate the innate suitability of the black T as a ninja outfit. I could then claim to be a "good ninja" as white signifies purity and goodness (like cocaine), or maybe death if you're Chinese. Either works for an enigmatic super-warrior like this:
I'm even making a suitable ninja-esque sign, which I got from Big Trouble in Little China to be sure of it's authenticity. I was going to do the Shocker, but ninjas aren't shocked by anything except the power of love to overcome hate. And shoddy electrics.
The art of appearing as if from nowhere is the mainstay of ninja abilities, surpassing even their formidable slapping skillz. The bright white ninja is, therefore, at an obvious disadvantage in the twilight world of ancient martial arts organisations. It's pointless being a silent assassin, sneaking up on camel-toed slippers to dispatch your adversary if you're more visible than a burning giraffe.
In order to be a proper ninja, I realised that I needed something superior even to the dark shadow-like imperceptibility of the black ninja. Something that demonstrated the inconspicuous limits of cloth and fabric.
I did consider beige, which is impressive for not being noticed as a shirt, but still gets the odd look when worn as a mask down at the Post Office. Actually, I've since discovered they are quite touchy about people wearing masks in the Post Office. Whatever happened to the customer is always right?
After some thought, I had the answer. For the ultimate in concealment, there's nothing short of an invisibility cloak that can beat the following.
I give you . . .
"Where?" I hear you cry, looking frantically around in fear and confusion. Well, my timid little friend, look carefully at the above photo, around the central portion, maybe cross and unfocus your eyes a little as if trying to look at one of them magic eye picture things, and let the camo ninja appear.
There you go.
*I can't condone the smoking though. I read somewhere that it's bad for you.