Monkey Raptor and Port Raptor are blogs made by MonkeyRaptor.
🐒🪛 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 vision (sight), thus I use the term to honour their trait.
"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. Composed, not compost. "I'm rather compost outside the arena." What — My thing is to improve the quality of the soil using myself whilst outside the arena. — That is a strange activity.
I joined various formal clubs for about seven years. From seventh grade to first year (of university). Taekwondo was all in that span.
20+ years ago, after university graduation.
Anyhow, the logo on the paddle. Back then, in the shop, while sifting through, I'd noticed, the WTF logo on each different paddle was different. So anyone who manufactured those slapped anything "kicking". Not actually JUST placing WTF logo. Presumably they did not get the logo reference from WTF — or simply did not care — and carried on with the production.
WTF = World Taekwondo Federation — until 2017 — now is just WT. Because of the internet slang "wtf", of course. What else.
World Taekwondo Federation are you doing?
Well, that sounds peculiar.
And yes, that embodies the slang "wtf" too! Different WTF logos, wtf. See how amazingly loopy the thing is.
Anyway, for example, that specimen above. From that photo distance, it looks like two blokes bumping each other's heel perhaps, while holding hands, forming a knot. — Behold! — Announced the vector graphic. Very pretzel.
But of course, there were exclusive paddles from Adidas and so forth. Oh, Adidas put proper WTF logo reference for certain! Those were very exclusive! One exclusive paddle = 4-5 of those cheap paddles. I chose cheap paddles. I DID NOT INTEND TO PAMPER MY LEGS.
For our information, that vintage paddle above is HARDER to kick now — to get that *THWACK! feel compared to a common, regular, brand new paddle. It will, somehow, steer clear of the kick. It will precariously pre-bend some millimetres away to an unpredictable direction. I believe because the logo hath decreed —
1973-2005 was as such, more or less ⬇️
2005-2017 ⬇️
2017-now ⬇️
Moving on. The martial arts saga.
I expanded my knowledge and expertise to other martial arts, in parallel, during that "muppet energy" epoch. And occasionally did parkour.
Speaking of "running vertical jump" — I almost impaled my own crotch when jumping over a fence with those pointy ends, spear-like. SPEAR. LIKE. One foot was caught briefly on the fence, forward momentum was almost gone. Hm.
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. —
I have found a glitch. But I'm afraid I could not replicate it.
Issue:
Unexpected character swap in a high adrenaline rush event.
⬆️ Filed under issue number one.
Aside from almost being impaled, I punched concrete blocks and river slates — repeatedly, no wraps — because I was a raging muppet. ⬅️ This was when I "joined" Kyokushinkai — around second semester of grade ten. Not a proper drill, just me being a muppet. — Bye, bricks. Level up. — My knuckles are a bit sideways now. Physics. Can't argue with physics. — PHYSICS! I... Never mind.
Continuing the hand conditioning. I knew this one lad — he was a karateka, but not a Kyokushinka. He put iron sand inside his thick gunny-sack punching bag. And he just did the drill as if nothing were odd about it! And smiled! You know, smiling? That was something I did not expect. — Eh-eh-eh.
Now that... was... OH. ⬅️ No other proper response than —
When there's steel-automatons riot, he'll be the first to break 'em. —
GREETINGS, microwave! 💥 (Disassembled.)
(Standing in the rubble, surrounded by dismantled steel-automatons, smiling.)
Eh-eh-eh.
(Dracula watches — presumably hangs his head in shame.)
Back in 8th grade, I did a friendly spar with my friend. Freestyle taekwondo, but still wearing body protector. He was a proper taekwondoin, taller than me, longer legs.
I did the leg blocking. I didn't know what it was called — simply a reflex. Such as when someone tries to slap your face and you just ward their slapping arm? Softly? Well, not precisely "softly".
I did it constantly because it was a freestyle spar — front kick, back kick, any other type of kick. Until my friend exasperatedly shouted — Stop that! — He couldn't get to me. Amusing. I did not know the technique back then, did not copy it from somewhere, it just naturally occured to me. — Leg moving. Block. Again. Block. — THEN I watched Muay Thai matches, and realised — I DID THAT?! — Right.
⬆️ We did it in my friend's front yard — after school. A girl, about two years older than us, was watching us from upstairs, different house. I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or actually interested. Possibly annoyed. She looked rather pretty if memory serves. Pretty annoyed.
I was and am near-sighted. But! Now, here's the but. In a hand-to-hand combat, I do NOT need to see far, now do I? It's the combination of visual, audio, kinaesthetic, and muscle memory. And that girl? I wore my glasses to see her. Because that window next door suddenly had a person in it! Needed to see clearly. I thought we were going to be told off by the neighbour. Because we shouted about and thunk thunk thunk with the kicks. Quite loud. But then, when I saw her clearly — Oh, lovely. — Still, I couldn't tell — she watched us throughout, but also did the "pause", miffed gesture. My friend did NOT even know her name, she was his neighbour. That was comical. She was the Schrödinger girl — all conditions simultaneously.
Still with the reflex. This was in eleventh grade. I was called John in the dojang. Compare to /'juːan/, /'joːɦɑn/, or /'dʒoʊhæn/ — "John" was simpler. Right. John had already been familiar with karate and such, the "such" being kickboxing and bits from kempo — embedded in muscle memory.
It went as such.
Once — indeed once, because it happened only that one time — I got mixed up in taekwondo competition area. I intended to do one-two-three kickboxing combo (jab-cross-roundhouse) as my counterattack. Classic tap tap with the jab and cross to slide him further a bit, then the roundhouse. Because I forgot I was in a taekwondo match. But instead, I just did the counter roundhouse! Then my reflex questioned — What about the jab and cross? — So roundhouse-(pause)-jab-cross combo happened. The sequence was off. 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, that "question" from my reflex. I did a loud kiai (気合) too! As if it were a proper karate match.
So I mixed all three: kickboxing, karate, and taekwondo — at that particular moment.
When it happened, I realised afterwards —
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? (Push-up commences. Ogling about.)
(Sabeoms glower at me.)
Sabeom A: (Inaudible.) That was a karate punch. (Imitates my cross punch. *BOP! ⬅️ That sound from his dobok.)
Sabeom B: (Inaudible.) Indeed.
Sabeom A: John, don't do that again. To the face. It... looked... massive though.
Sabeom B: (Inaudible.) Don't encourage him.
Other sabeoms: (Fold arms. Shake heads.)
Absolutely. (Push-up continues. Avoiding eye contact with group of sabeoms.)
(Folks splash water on my opponent.)
Ah, good thinking.
Bloke: (Opens his eyes, shakes his head.) Huh? Huh?
Finally!
⬆️ I don't know the bloke's name until now. Thus, "bloke". But I did apologise to him. Repeatedly. He nodded.
The lesson is — well — focus.
Rather ironic, because this writing is immensely flailing about. It's comparable to Zui Quan (醉拳). 🍺
Continuing the kicking role model — my inspiration came from Bloodsport (1988). The film had that unexplainable unique quality. Grand!
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.
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. I trained Kyokushin style after I joined Shorinji Kempo. The kempo dojo was just how a dojo would be, indoors.
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 afterwards, 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. This was before I trained karate.
Here's what happened.
Bloke challenged me in an exhibition 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. Quite intense atmosphere that club had, mostly.
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. AND it would be lightning fast — an undetected kick to untrained eyes. The leg's not a limb anymore — it's a calibrated, tremendously passionate ballistic pendulum.
But that highly enthusiastic sempai —
👀 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 reflexes and F for fervor. 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. 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 —
One gremlin linguist back then probably muttered —
Technically, when "ん" (N) comes before a bilabial (that P), 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.
The Posts
I aim for each post to inform and engage, conveying substantial knowledge with concise and amusing explanations.
Style
I tend to wander away with side notes and imaginary skits 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]
The Drunken
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. HISTORY.
Quite right.
Music is absolutely fascinating to me. I'm a former guitar instructor.
Indeed, instructed guitars to produce sound by themselves. As such:
Right Yamaha FS9R, you do clear, sustained A major 9 arpeggio, up and down. You Fender Stratocaster, you do that twangy solo, we all love that. And you Ibanez RG550, do that psychopathic scale shuffling and jumping.
Closing
MonkeyRaptor is the nom de plume of Johan Paul. ⬅️ That's rather odd. Voltaire didn't say — Look here, 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 proxy for HTTP traffic monitoring & shielding and Real User Monitoring (RUM) for visitors analytics.
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This is how I migrated Monkey Raptor and Port Raptor to V.2 environment.
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.