Monkey Raptor and Port Raptor are blogs made by MonkeyRaptor ⬅️ Notice how peculiar this lad is.
🐒🪛 Monkey Raptor
Monkey Raptor consists of methods and tips in mathematics and programming (JavaScript mostly). We can also find posts about English terms and phrases, entertainment-related bits, Blogger XML tips, exquisite matters, history, bewilderments, and other fascinating materials.
🦅⚓ Port Raptor
Port Raptor consists of frontend tools we can all use for free.
Raptor
It refers to the birds... of prey. I am truly amazed by their visions (sights), thus I use the term to honour their traits.
"Raptor" comes from Latin raptor, meaning "plunderer" or "thief", from rapere, "to seize or grab". It refers to any flying, feathered assassin with talons: eagles, hawks, owls, falcons, etc. ⬅️ I'm referring to Carl Linnaeus' taxonomy (18th century). Before 18th century, if someone called you a raptor, they meant you were a thief or a brigand. Hm. 🤔 Why not? — Wootootoo!
Monkey
Well, like us, they are cheeky at times and unlike us, they are brilliant climbers by design. But, none of that banana nonsense. And no, we won't slip on a banana peel that easy.
Port
Because it is the harbour of tól.
See, in French it is port d'outils.
It sounds "pork duty". Well, it does. Try saying it. Port d'outils, in Jean-Claude accent.
🐷 Pork's commitment is to serve us delicacy and fullness of the belly, assuming it is not haram or treif in your schema.
This derailment is intended by the Guardians of the Forbidden Meal.
The honourable guardians consist of a confused Jean-Claude, an imam, and a rabbi. Together they guard the sacred table against gastronomic blasphemy, mistranslation, and any mention of sausage rolls. "Halt!", one of them probably would say. Assuming they all speak English. Oh right right, "Waqfa la'atzor arrêt!" — that's plenty.
Off Topic
Did you know "Van Damme" is Flemish? A French would not have "van" anything.
JCVD was my role model in my taekwondo drills back then.
Oh indeed, I was a kicking-punching-throwing athlete. Consistently, inside the arena. I'm rather composed outside the arena, until I'm not. Convenient, innit?
I joined various formal clubs for about seven years. From seventh grade to first year (of university). Taekwondo was all in that span. And I expanded my knowledge and expertise to other martial arts, in parallel, during that "muppet energy" epoch.
But hey, I almost impaled my own crotch when jumping over a fence with those pointy ends, spear-like? Hm.
Blimey!
The fence perhaps said — Oi lad, next time, open gate you must. I'll be here most of the times.
🤔
"...most of the times." Fascinating.
Parkour just sighed and shook its imaginary head — Quel clown.
Indeed, it was my own crotch. I'd be baffled if it were others people's crotch. I then would need to report this bug to cosmos' repository. — Dear Esteemed Cosmos, I have found a glitch. But I'm afraid I could not replicate it. Thank you. Issue: Unexpected character swap in a high adrenaline rush event. — Filed under issue number... 1.
Aside from almost being impaled, I punched concretes and slates — repeatedly, no wraps — because I was a raging muppet. ⬅️ This was when I "joined" Kyokushin Karate. — Bye, bricks. Level up. — My knuckles are a bit sideways now. Physics.
Oh, one lad did it even more eccentrically than me. He put iron sand inside his thick gunny-sack punching bag. And he just did the drills as if nothing were odd about it! And smiled!
Now that... was... OH. ⬅️ No other proper response than
OH.
When there's steel-automatons riot, he'll be the first to break 'em.
Oi, microwave! 💥 (Disassembled.)
(Standing in the rubble, surrounded by dismantled steel-automatons, smiling perhaps.)
Once, I got mixed up in taekwondo competition area. I intended to do one-two-three kickboxing combo (jab-cross-roundhouse) as my counterattack. But instead, I did roundhouse-(pause)-jab-cross. Because I forgot I was doing taekwondo. Everything was a blur, my opponent was utterly fast — a reflex, it was. I mean, I got my hands ready but being idle. That "pause" was the millisecond-mixed-up I had. When it happened, I realised — WHOOPS!
Well...
Your Honour, I forgot.
Oh, you did? Well, here's a gavel. I forgot I'm a judge. Oops, I throw a gavel. At you. 💥
🤕 Understood, Your Honour.
My opponent got knocked out because of my cross. Fortunately, it was a mere graze from my thumb joint. Though it was a proper guided missile, only the thumb joint landed. The sabeoms gasped, flew like hawks into the arena, and bloody shouted at me face after my opponent plank-dropped. I wiped the spittle, panicking, ran to the bloke, then shouted — Oi! Ululululu! — no response. Tribal method didn't work that time. 100 push-ups didn't wake him either. 105 did. 🤔 Everyone then — Oh... that is... illegal.
Thumb? Or push-up necromancy?
To be honest, it wasn't around 100 push-ups. Perhaps somewhere around forty to fifty. Nobody kept the count, I was simply going up and down on the floor... slowly and ogling the bloke. — Is he conscious yet? (Folks poured water to him.) — Ah, good thinking. — Bloke: (Shook his head. Opened his eyes.) Huh? Huh? — Finally!
Continuing the kicking role model — my inspiration came from Bloodsport (1988). The film had that unexplainable unique quality.
But in the dojang, the sabeoms just glanced at my "attractive kicks" sideways and sighed. One seonbae (senior) clapped, sarcastically. And then they showed the most efficient technique for combat purpose, not theatrics — I nodded and palmed me face. — Ah, yes. That was for the camera... nobody stood still waiting to be kicked like that. Fascinating approach.
You goblin Hollywood.
Aside from the goblin fantasy and deliberate real-life mismatch, the film was quite inspirational for training. For a few months. Two. Maybe less. You know, we didn't have music montage while training... at all. I repeat, at all. So the association with the music helped me to... forget the... crumpets I hadn't paid... for. 🤔
To a ballerina, doing those splits would be regular. But to a naturally stiff-tendons owner like me, that was super.
Not to mention his story, running from school to dojo?
JCVD: Oh, I didn't take the bus, I ran to dojo after school.
👀 By golly, such dedication. To a runner, that would be regular. But to me, it was a fantastic approach on using the legs.
I didn't actually run from school to dojang, because I was... rather... lazy.
May selective laziness give us a proper nod. (Nod.)
Dojo = Japanese term for a room or hall in which martial arts are practiced.
Dojang = Korean term for dojo.
I mostly did taekwondo back then, hence "dojang". My karate "dojo" was mostly the outdoors. Until I formally joined Shorinji Kempo.
少林寺拳法 = Shorinji Kempo.
Shorinji [Japanese] = Shao-lin-se [Mandarin] = "Shaolin temple".
Kempo = "fist method". Adaptive. Combining karate linear strikes with fluid kung fu motions.
And later on, Aikido.
Kickboxing to me was, well, a natural occurrence. Not actually being mentored... by a proper kickboxing instructor. I instructed meself. And yes with that order, kick then box.
Oh, that Kempo sempai back then.
Bloke challenged me in a "exhibition duel" because he knew I was "skilled". To him — Nobody beats Kempo! — Oh? I just want to learn new forms. It wasn't the Kempo he represented at all. Because... well... it was a medal-based club, not a "be calm, mate" club.
Then the legend of holding back kicks and punches so that somebody won't be ashamed happened.
Quite hard, that. Looking at open-wide chin and jaw targets.
In taekwondo, they put on those body protectors in sparring because... well, roundhouse kick (middle dollyo chagi) is a basic. When trained and mentored properly, 100,000 repetitions, it'd become devastating force. The leg's not a limb anymore — it's a calibrated ballistic pendulum.
But that highly enthusiastic sempai,
Oi, come at ME! (Open keikogi posture.)
👀 Here we go. It was a spiritual test chamber. Restraint is tough, mate. I needed to make the bloke look good in front of the students, right? Oh, that. Was. The. True. Test. I passed that. Perhaps I got an A++ for stopping reflex-kicks and F for enthusiasm. That's how I stayed compliant with the black belt syndrome.
Oh yes, he looked good. No problem about that. No, sir. But the command — Don't move that much! — had me in stitches. I mean taekwondo is a leg sport, footwork is a basic. So I shouldn't move now? Right. That's like asking a shark to stop swimming.
For our information, the sensei wasn't there when this happened. So that entire training session was led by him. If the sensei had been there, that exhibition duel would never have happened. I mean, a non-swimming shark? That wouldn't happen EITHER!
Kempo itself was brilliant. Just that one sempai, though — exquisitely... memorable. Very dedicated.
Is It Kempo or Kenpō?
You may wonder. The answer is yes.
One gremlin linguist back then probably muttered — Technically, when "ん" comes before a bilabial, the sound is nasalised... so let's not write it as "m", let's keep it as "n" — and hope everyone just magically understands that it sounds like "m". — So there, yes. Let the glorious convolution triumphant.
The "o" with a macron over it, "ō", says — AVE! — A salute from Bonaventure Hepburn Ordo Minimorum. Bless him.
Back to JCVD.
Van = from, that's Dutch. Van Damme = from Damme (a city located in the Belgian province of West Flanders).
If he were an actual French, he would be Jean-Claude de Damme.
Similar to John George from Guangzhou.
But never William Hindquarters from Porkhill Manor, ever.
Being the official "Warden of the Baconshire Pastures with Dashing Posterior" doesn't make it fine to anyone, still — I assume.
So, there. Long live Belgium 🇧🇪 and their splendid books of comics.
I enjoy being imaginatively funny — I IMAGINE my bits are funny, hence imaginatively.
I aim for each post to inform and engage, conveying substantial knowledge with concise and amusing explanations.
Unless it isn't.
Style
I tend to wander away with the side notes and imaginary dialogues because this isn't IEEE paper with citations. This isn't even written on a paper.
Can you imagine an IEEE paper about low-cost agricultural monitoring with wireless nodes using ATMega microcontrollers showing a camel toe? What does that even mean? Look at me, I soldered a toe from a camel onto the casing of that cockroach-shaped ATMega. That's how Atlantis got its legend. [R.E.J.E.C.T.E.D]
About the multi-language hiccups, I hope that won't be an inconvenience. Rather, a great way to broaden our linguistic knowledge in a drunk-controlled presentation. 🍻
I observe cultures and languages — and that includes history. 🧐
A lab coat for linguistics or cultural studies would be like wearing a wetsuit to read poetry. Unless the poem radiates laser-acid substance. Which in that case... a lab coat won't do.
Music is absolutely fascinating to me. I'm a former guitar instructor.
Indeed, instructed guitars to produce sound by themselves. As such:
Right Yamaha FS9, you do clear A major arpeggio, up and down. You Fender Stratocaster, you do that melancholic solo. And you Ibanez RG, do that muted rhythm. Oi, GIBSON! Come here. Roland, get Gibson, please.
JEST.
Which one? The being guitar instructor or that dialogue?
Well, Master Schrödinger Po once said:
Grasshopper, the engine is both fixed and broken — until you turn the key.
MonkeyRaptor is the nom de plume of Johan Paul. ⬅️ That's rather odd. Voltaire didn't say — Oi, lads. I'm François-Marie Arouet, innit? INNIT? — Well, yes. I mean yes that is odd. If my pen name were similar to my name that would be... not odd, but rather... very odd — it would circle back to being minus two point five degrees.
Let's resume this oddity despite the oddity. So, Johan Paul. ⬇️
Sharing a name with Johan Paul van Limburg Stirum — statesman, Governor-General, and the OG "JP" who ran Java before it was a programming language, then popped over to Britain to teach the English how to pronounce "Dutch" without choking.
Johan Paul, graaf van Limburg Stirum would either chuckle in his velvet armchair or have me exiled to the Pacific. Usually both.
Zeer goed... but watch your tone, jongeman.
Absolutely, Your Excellency. Mijnheer de Graaf, with all due respect, I do hope the Pacific exile comes with coconuts and WiFi. 😌
Hm.
(A long sigh through his moustache.)
👀
⬆️ That's exactly how a stern Dutch count would dismiss a coconut-WiFi plea. Exactly. A plunger is necessary for an emphasis.
Monkey Raptor and Port Raptor URLs are subdomains of the root johanpaul.net.
I, MonkeyRaptor, implement Cloudflare's proxy for HTTP traffic monitoring & shielding and Real User Monitoring (RUM) for visitors analytics.
Both Monkey Raptor and Port Raptor are implementing Google AdSense. Think of it like a pub with two customers and a dim-lit neon box humming in the corner.
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This is how I migrated Monkey Raptor and Port Raptor to this latest V.2 environments. Prior blogs were on Blogger, thus the migration was done on Blogger. My description is like that hydrochloric acid, isn't it? Redundancy at its finest form.