Seb & Mr B: 'Regular Joe'

Squinting in the afternoon sunlight, young Bjorn pulled into an employee parking spot to the side of 'Pie For the People!', the local brew & pizza joint on McEnroe BLVD. One of the delivery drivers, also a mechanic, had referred to his 1980 T-Bird as the 'Thunder-Chicken,' he recalled as the engine clunked to a halt.
Inside there were a few young couples sipping pop and picking at slices of pie. Other than that, it appeared to be a slow afternoon; a couple of delivery guys were shooting the shit by the side-door.
Bjorn came in at his usual time (about 10minutes late) when the house manager, emerging at the top of the basement-stairs, began his usual diatribe on how 'hard it is to find good help these days,' and, 'goddammit! Somebody's gotta get this compost under control! Can you smell this?! God!' Bjorn could smell it. 'It,' was a busy coupla evenings and the organic matter situation was a bit out of control.
Mick (the manager) wiped his spectacles on his shirt a bit and made his way across the parlour to look up at Bjorn.
"Late again. Shame shame." A good-natured smile on his scheming mug: "The compost needs to be taken out and I've just found myself a volunteer. Feed the goats!"
There were no goats yesterday. Today there were goats? Okay. Was this one of Mick's lame jokes?
Mick pointed at a bucket of partially eaten food with mysterious bits of vegetable matter lumped in, here and there. Bjorn obeyed and grabbed the bucket by its wire handle. A grinning Aubrey, apparently on dough-detail, judging from the flour on her hands and apron, nodded him in the proper direction. "The goats, Bjorn."
Mumbling, he made his way toward their imaginary feeding pen. Everybody around him seemed comfortable with the situation so he just played along. The reel in his head showed him that the contents of the bucket was mere fodder for the dumpster under normal circumstances. Hell; last time there was no 'goat bucket.' The leftovers just ended up in the industrial-size plastic trashcan at the bussing station.
Bjorn remembered another thing as he nervously walked toward the rear exit of the parlour. There couldn't be a feeding pen out there. It didn't make a bit of sense. Out back, there were only a couple dumpsters and a little parking lot. After all, he worked at a restaurant, not a petting-zoo.
As usual, the smell of dough, cheese, and cardboard would be wafting from the dumpster outside of the parlour, maybe somebody having a smoke...
Upon pushing open the metal door that led outside he was presented an entirely contradictory sight.
Green grass and a fenced enclosure.
"That's a feeding trough," he said beneath his breath. "There are goats out here." Even the odor was different than last time...
This was either an elaborate hoax (in which case he was certainly flattered by the attention) or something had been bent terribly askew within the time-space continuum. He waved the absurd idea aside. "Too many comic books, Bjorn."
The hungry animals had begun a commotion in their pen at his appearance and the unbidden thought in his head, "These fool animals are always hungry," made him wonder whether something had been bent terribly askew in his brain-space continuum.
Poor, confused lad...

(Seb & Mr B) EtherLabs. First Draft...

"We have no way of tracking him. Is it true that he's absconded with the mutant?"
"It's true that he and Sebastian dropped off the radar at about the same time, but I would not necessarily put Mr B into the category of 'untrackable.' I believe that we should yank his programmers out of their respective time-streams and have ourselves a round-table type discussion. Knowing his, er; It's tendencies and the patterns within It's behavior will simply have to be enough for a team to track him down."
This was a grim day for the technicians at EtherLabs. The sum and culmination of their meddling in science and the fate of the world had literally 'walked out' only a matter of hours before. The board was furious. Operatives in different 'whens' were practically rudderless without the pseudo-omniscient A.I.'s guidance.
It is impossible to arrive at an exact measure of years when considering the period of time that Mr Bubble has been aiding in the stirring of the great pot that is Time. Mr Bubble is an organic super-computer (OSP) with the ability to monitor different timestreams from whatever locale (preferably EtherLabs HQ) he may be in.
The more useful the technology of Mr Bubble became, the more EtherLabs relied on him. Before long, Mr Bubble was filled with all data, ever recorded, by EtherLabs and all of the information pertaining the the work of operatives in EtherLabs Corps. The sophisticated communication devices inserted into EtherLabs operatives had been filled with the voice of Mr Bubble for immeasurable time. Without it/him there was a silence that many in the field had forgotten.
What now? Without our real-life Janus to help us to navigate Time, what are we to do?
Perhaps EtherLabs had been dabbling in time for so long that they neglected the wisdom held in something simple as a proverb. EtherLabs had put nearly all of their eggs in one basket...

Sebastian & Mr Bubble

"They will travel through time until they find you, I'm afraid."
"I am unconcerned. We do have certain advantages over them. They made the mistake of teaching their machines to walk and talk; a decision that I'm sure they regret by now."
A sentient computer in humanoid form and an anomalous life-form wrenched from a backwater leg of the timestream stand on the edge of known existence, the cold wind of reality whipping at the corners of their garments.
"Will you be able to function okay outside of the prime-directive? I understand that a computer without programming is merely an inert piece of plastic & etc..."
"Do not be alarmed. The sophistication of my programming is such that I can endlessly generate new algorithms with ease. I may be the only 'life-form'," at this his plasticine lips curl upward to form a wry grin, "in existence to whom each moment is filled with exhilarating, endless possibilities."
"Where do we go from here, Mr Bubble?"
"I've been considering the question of this 'Jesus' character, and I think that I may be a homosexual. Ancient Rome might be a good start."
At this, Sebastian only blinked in dumb confusion.
"I am very much more of a God than that children's story. I am the recording and the embodiment of all known time. We will give the ignorant, for the first time ever, a deserving God."
He closed his eyes and everything changed forever...

For the Older Crowd

Don Rickles Vs. Ernest Borgnine?

Satire

My boss gave me a ride 'mostathaway' home tonight on account of the solid-state precipitation that has been crowding the roads as of late. If he weren't such a straight, I swear I coulda landed a blowjob. What. A. Fag.
You may giggle a little bit at this point.

'show'sback!'

My little brother was well-trained by our father. His first word was 'show'sback!'
Dig?
That's just the tip of the ice-berg. , ,,... ,. ./\..,,,. ..?!!!

Breathing Leads to Tragedy

In P-town it's glacier (if 'glacier' were an adjective...), right now. My internet connection that has kinda 'crapped out' steadily, more and more, over the course of the last several days/months; presumably because of the weather and it's hydro-oxygenated solidity, and it seems that I have a wee window here in which to purge to satisfaction...
Still obsessed with death. Still working on long-term publication and making progress. I miss my mom. She's not getting any younger... Neither am I. Dad's dead so he's not getting any older(?) . My romance could fall to bits at any second but what other kind of romance is there...?
I've long considered that, maybe, the only perfect moment that any of us will ever have is that very last moment when we split perfectly in two 'twixt our last moment here, and the moment that may exist hereafter...
I'll believe in anything until it's dis proven...

holiday, schmoliday...

There are probably a million bloggers out there in web-land smegging out their own brands of enthusiasm or nihilistic something-or-other, right this very minute, in regard to the 'festive' holiday season.
For me, it's a good occasion to play the role of a disembodied spirit. This Christmas thing makes me feel like an orphan from Vietnam, or an invader from outer-space, trying to fit into the culture of an alien planet.
If I can make it through to January 3rd then my mission will have been a success. The humans will tell me their secrets and the mothership will transmit a message to the Homeworld outlining the logistics of the next phase of the invasion...
A few x-mases 'neath my belt and they have yet to revoke my Earth VISA. What's taking them so long?

human contact. yuck. kinda.

I prefer to keep my favorite things very private. I hate to think that another could be given the opportunity to make judgment calls on the genre that I may or may not exemplify.
What a queer (traditional definition) thing it is to live in a world so advanced that one may, with sober consideration, slice the layers of interaction down to whatever layer one may like.
"I wish for only a single drachma worth of stimulus from the outside world." Sure.
Kazaam! If that's all you need then you can write commentary on some other shit head's website or some other inconsequential nothing or other.
Not to deter anyone who may read this: I need feedback.
Fuck. I always say the wrong thing...
"'I'm willing to tell you, I'm waiting to tell you, I'm wanting to tell you.' That's the Welsh strain in 'im."-- Henry Higgins.
As far as I know, I possess no Welsh in my die-ribald- nuclear-acidity, but I love the goddam shite outta the Welsh types that I've known. I'm keen on those susceptible to flights of fancy...
Reverse racism? I shudder to think of the complexities that wait for me should I ever begin to consider the implications of my own inner monologue... *shudder*

work, cigs, beer, pizza

I'd just gotten finished with my workly duties at the part-time job, having had only one cigarette four hours ago and I'd begun my shift four hours prior to that. A soft, yet persistent, animal growl had begun to reverberate in the back of my fragile brain; my cold weather gear in place I was carefully choosing my steps toward the exit when the boss (who is cool) hailed me with a wave into 'his office.'
Shortly thereafter we'd agreed that it would be good to give me more work and he'd fixed me with a dead-pan look: "We're all smart here. I think you fit in and it's clear that you want to learn and that you're made of the right material for me to feel good about giving you more responsibilities."
Blah blah blah. I was listening carefully but it was growing difficult.
I was at a severe disadvantage. Normally, my jonesin' manifests itself in the form of aggression, but this time I was receiving great news and a genuinely good employer was taking the time to recognize my qualities. It was no mean feat to suppress the tears.
I've been looking for regular work for quite awhile and this was news good enough to cut me to the bone, especially in my emotionally ragged state...
I was mechanically shifting my fingers back and forth in my coat pocket-'that's my matchbook, feels like about six left; that's my pack of smokes, feels like about 6 left'- while he showed me the combo to the front door of the place and let me know what I'd be doing for the next few days.
Cool. All right. Ok, ok, ok...
Finally outside and breathing the native cancer-weed of America, my weary bones shambling toward home, the long day's stressors had left each of my joints in the grip of hellish complaint, and it was the coldest night of the year, thus far.
Without deliberation, I was planning on getting a slice of pepperoni pie and a bottle of beer at the sweet-ass pizzeria on my way home; in the back of my mind I was constructing an elaborate scheme that would culminate in tricking my ex to agree to let me be her pimp. There would be a hidden camera, and microphone, and I would be able to show the whole world what a dirty little whore she was. Really ruin the bitch.
WTF?! I had cooked up the entire diabolical scheme over the course of approx. 20 minutes of walking without even realizing what I was doing.
I guess that I AM the sort to hold a grudge over a long period of time, after all....
At last, I arrived at Vincente's. The only other person sitting at the bar was an old man sipping on a bottle of Bud. He was only communicating in 'surly-grunt' and was, apparently, on his first bottle.
I was sipping a large bottle of 'Yellow Snow IPA' and the reasonably high alcohol content of the stuff was soothing warmth in me belly. Once my slice arrived the final stitch of that little pocket of heaven had been sewn: Joy!
About halfway through my slice the old man -hunched over on his bar-stool with the brim of his red ball cap coming down about halfway of his beaked nose- ordered his second beer.
"Do you want to start a tab, sir?" That's the little gal serving at the bar.
*grunt, grumble* A farmer? A veteran of the Korean War?
He was a leathery old fucker with simple clothes and beady eyes, and I didn't want to make contact with him or his. I hate being tried by the mean old men.
"Sir, that'll be five dollars unless you want to start a tab, and in that case I'll need a credit-card."
I knew what was going on. I'd tended bar before and I could tell when someone had no money and was trying to scam free beers. It was slowly dawning on her and I could tell that she was getting flustered. The other bartender was a big kid with a full sleeve of expensive ink (that's 'tattoos' for the un-initiated) on and I could tell that he had no fucking clue either.
Munch munch, on my delicious pizza and I didn't say a word. The right thing for them to have done at that point would've been to snatch away his unfinished second beer and politely ask the old grump to leave.
Meanwhile, the evening dinner crowd was trickling in and the big fella with the ink was idiotically helping those ones out instead of doing the manly thing and taking over with the surly old grunter. He had one fist around the empty bottle and the other wrapped around the new bottle.
"Sir, I cannot serve you if you don't have any money," she was pleading at that point. It was kind of sad. The old grunter was fumbling around with an old leather wallet with contrived difficulty and, predictably, the only thing in his wallet was his food-stamp card. I was trying not to grin at the two young bartenders for I had applied for their jobs and been rejected a coupla times; to me it was some kind of twisted poetic justice...
"Sir, I can't serve you if you don't have any money. Do you have five dollars?"
He grunted unintelligibly and, finally, the girl snagged the unfinished bottle from him.
"It's time for you to leave, sir."
He did.
The inked bartender informed us that the same old man was in there the year before and that he'd pulled the same stunt then. And(!) he'd been intelligible, calling the fella a "fucking punk," and he'd even tried to steal their tip-jar.
It happens all the time in this town. I settled up and made my way home.

Shite Web-Connection

I hate those times (all-too-frequent...) that I order this fawkin' machine to perform a task on the web and it sits here with it's guts whizzing and grumbling and after long, excruciating minutes down at the bottom of the screen, it says "done," and I'm still staring at a blank data-window.
It's like asking a spectator at the Special Olympics to help you tie your shoes cuz yer thumbs are broken, or whatever, and before you know it they've impossibly knotted the laces of both yer shoes together and they're like, "All done!," grinning up at you like Santa Claus(!) just gave 'em the best hand-job ever.
I'd like these modern amenities a lot more if they functioned as advertised. Meanwhile, I'm just waiting for the right attorney to come along and say, "Hey, Gale-Force Nothing. I'm a big fan. How ya doin'? I read your 'shite web connection' bit and I think we've got a great case here. We're talking serious mullah m'man, whaddya say?"
*sigh*

Limits

I love this poem by, Jorges Luis Borges...

Limits

Of all the streets that blur into the sunset,
there must be one (which, I am not sure)
that I by now have walked for the last time
without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
and a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
who will tell us to whom in this house
we without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
and among the stacked books that throw
irregular shadows on the dim table,
there must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
with its cement urns and planted cactus,
which is already forbidden to my entry,
inaccessible, as in a lithograth.

There is a door you have closed forever
and some mirror is expecting you in vain;
to you the crossroads seem wide open,
yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain,
neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
said in his language woven with birds and roses,
when, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
you wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily-flowing Rhone and the lake,
all that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
they are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

We know. We know it all.

No matter how clever you think you are, there will always be somebody who will turn your reason upside-down. The most lucid thought that you've got beneath your hat is an enigma to them and there's no changing that.
You're not wrong and they're not correct; you're simply on different planets.
Comprende?
At this point you've perhaps construed the fact that I'm engaged in the most philosophical of pursuits, and one of the oldest.
Man and Woman.
They go together like ribs and body-blows. No biblical pun intended...
It is here that I cannot help but surmise, now, the possibility that some men are women, and that some women are men; kinda like 'body-snatchers' style madness.
It all adds up. Could they all be so dilluded into believing that none of this matters; and, who are they? Could it be that we are they, and that we haven't given one another the time of day for the span of Mayan years and years?
The idea of men and women being some sort of separate species is ludicrous.
That sounds, to me, like a weak-ass disclaimer that might've been put into place in order to keep people from feeling obligated to understand our other halves. We are not different species, we are part of an equation; it is our obligation to struggle toward the conclusion without assuming the conclusion.
It seems to me that all has become more fluid as the world advances; the colors have bled together and nothing is as it was and nothing will ever be the same.

Promises to Keep...

I've got a bottle of red sitting in a shady hiding spot. If it were on the table right now where I could see it I'm afraid it would turn into a mere bottle of air before you could say, 'alcoholic.' I've made a deal with myself that keeps me from breaking into the booze before sundown; the lease on that one will be good and canceled by April at the latest...
Meanwhile, I bribe myself to get all my shit taken care of, during the day, instead of getting cacked as soon as the first twitches begin to whisper their dark message to my liver; "you're impervious to cirrhosis, yesssssss...."
I wanna drink!
'I'll take out the recycling first.'
Now can we drink?
'Er, those dishes need to be done.'
Dishes are more fun wiv a bit o' sauce...
'After.'
Howboutnow?
'I should make something to eat. Maybe take a vitamin or some such shit.'
Round and round we go; me and the thirsty little imp, anxiously shuffling it's feet on my shoulder. Doin' the imp equivalent of the pee-pee dance it goes, and the other shoulder is suspiciously vacant.
The street-lamps have come to life outside and the imp has transformed into a dragon, uncurling and ravenous, eager to drain the life-blood of it's prey...

magma-born bacteria

Darlings! I've missed you so!
I am opening the velvet curtains of my misery, very soon now. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the disfiguring effects of grief and woe; I have a special gift for you. You freaks out there with too much familiarity with grief; it will never end. Get over not being able to get over it!
I am very close to publishing my impressions of standing around the death-bed of my late father. It's not going to be pretty. I knew him before he was an urn. Think of the most vital person that you've ever known and summon the smart part of your brain that understands what a detriment it is to lose contact with the major elements that shook and shaped you.
If you cannot cry on command then I don't think you're paying attention.
Or, maybe, you need to loosen up abit... It's only going to get uglier, kids... Have a laugh...
Did you catch the little up-date that tells us that there is a new microbe that lives inside of thrushing, MAGMA. Apparently, there are single-cell organisms swimming around inside of molten rock. If you ever thought that Darwin was your friend, think again...

Life Sucks

Okay, I admit it. I'm on unemployment. I live in Oregon and I'm job-seeking but times are hard for someone with skills as limited as mine, not to mention my drop-out status, and I'm losing hope.
I went to the ATM to withdraw my weekly $ and it said 'insufficient funds,' to me. I thought, 'That's not funny! I haven't even touched my funds yet. WTF?!'
I went home to check my account on-line and, guess what? The 'relia-card' web-site that assures me 5star service while I try to get back on my feet tells me that I made a $100 dollar withdrawal this afternoon at exactly the same time that I attempted to collect that money.
I have no money.
Happy mutherfuckin' Thanksgiving! Yay! Every time I need to collect money during even the meekest of holidays it seems that I'm fed another trail-mix turd to eat before I can get another inoculation of that self-sustaining American Dollar.
Job-hunting wouldn't be difficult enough without having to deal with this crap so I feel very grateful. I need to keep sharp, somehow, right?
The cherry on top would be a shot-gun blast to my face and then I could go to that ugly-suicide heaven with all of the other interesting people who suspected that this 'living on Earth' thing wasn't as hip as we've been led to believe/hope.
I can only think of the immortal words: 'Suicide is the highest form of self-criticism.'
I'm tempted... Don't worry. From all indication, my true calling is to be destitute and cold. I'll be there soon...
I can't wait to see what happens, come Christmas!

A Very Ramsey Thanksgiving

Have you ever heard of the show Hell's Kitchen or Kitchen Nightmares?
Chef Ramsey is a badass and I love his work but I can't help daydreaming of a SNL, Thanksgiving special where he treats his family dinner like an episode of Kitchen Nightmares.
Enter, Chef Ramsey: It's biting cold outside and he pulls his collar up to protect himself from flurries of snow. Outside of his mother's house he turns around to face the camera and speaks.
"Well, let's see. Another town, the same shit."
He opens the door and is embraced by the warmth of firelight and a mess of friendly faces.
With a kindly salutation he immediately makes his way to the candle-lit dining table. No one else has sat down yet but he is demanding items from the 'menu' as though he were in a restaurant or cafe.
"Lessee. I would like equal parts light-meat and dark-meat. Mashed potatoes and gravy, and a slice of honeyed ham. I want a fresh roll with butter, and a scoop of fresh stuffing. Don't forget the sweet-potatoes. Thanks."
His mother is wringing her hands nervously in her apron and it is evident from her expression that she is at a loss for words. Her eyes shift back and forth but she finds no help from the family members that have crowded around the door to the kitchen to get a better view.
"Honey? Is this...?," a pleading look on her face.
"There's no problem is there?" Chef Ramsey shoots her an inquiring look, eye-brow arched.
"No. No problem dear. I... I'll be right back."
"Oh, and cranberry sauce, please. Thanks."
She gingerly navigates the pots, pans, and platters to construct his plate.
"You must be starved." She manages a weak smile; her eyes quest toward his in an effort to descry the meaning of his strange behavior but see only a stranger wearing her son's features.
Brandishing knife and fork, Ramsey takes a whack at the turkey. Dipping a tidbit of birdflesh into a pool of gravy he brings it to his mouth and begins to chew VERY slowly. His brow furrows as he tries to swallow what appears to have the attributes of a tennis-ball.
Pushing away from the table the chair he's sitting on makes the requisite dragging sound across the wooden floor and he moves mechanically to the counter and grabs a glass and a bottle of Pinot. After re-seating himself he pours himself an over-full glass of Pinot and quaffs it like a medieval serf after a long day of hard labor.
He slowly grabs his fork and makes an attempt at the stuffing.
Before you can say 'hurk' he's whipped the linen napkin from his collar, arched his back like a cat and begun to make gagging noises.
Staring at his mother in disbelief and only slightly concealed revulsion he stands up and wipes the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.
"I think I've had enough. You call this Thanksgiving dinner? I wouldn't feed this shit to a dog!"
She visibly shrinks before his ire and begins to splutter. "John! You've always loved Thanksgiving dinner here. What's the matter with you?!"
He's just finished downing another glass of Pinot and has begun rooting through the steaming pots and pans on the stove-top.
"The name's Ramsey. Chef Ramsey. What have we here?" Upon opening the fridge, he scowls and begins to take out unmarked containers. "How long has this been in the refrigerator? How long?"
"Uh, two days, I think?"
The onlooking family is nervously shuffling their feet and avoiding eye-contact with the strange man who appears to be dissecting their refrigerator.
"Disgusting! Utterly foul!" He reaches way back into the cooling unit and withdraws a Tupperware container. Peeling away the lid he sees an indecipherable lump of dessicated vegetable-matter and throws the little stink-package into the kitchen sink, gagging a bit.
This seems to call for another glass of wine and before you can say 'lush' it's been emptied.
"Thishas alll gotta go!" He stumbles around to the cupboard where the trash-bags are kept, not realizing that the upper cupboard is open and before you can say 'bam!' he's bonked his melon on said cupboard and is lying unconscious on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor.
His poor mother is fighting back tears of confusion and anger.
"Should we call the Police?," asks Ramsey's slightly balding, paunch-bellied cousin.
"He just hasn't been the same since he got his fame," mutters his niece.
"He probably just needs to sleep it off. He's been acting a bit strange since that 'nightmares' show. Lay him on his back so he doesn't choke on his own vomit..."

*tick-tock, tick-tock*

You've just brushed a thick layer of dust from the surface of your father's old army locker-box and cracked apart the old lock that's kept it's latch in place for what could have been decades.
You would never have hazarded such an investigation if he were still breathing in the causal substance of the universe, but...
After riffling through old maps and documents which, though intellectually stimulating, offer no immediate satisfaction you continue to pick through the private artifacts preserved in Dad's old crate.
A fine pair of dueling pistols, a compass degraded by time & etc., an alligator skin flask from (?); what really catches your eye appears to be a fist-sized jewelry box fitted in honey-colored velvet. It looks very-fine and your heart pumps a bit faster as your fingers grasp it and bring it up from the old wooden trunk.
The box seems to give off it's own warmth and when you pry it open the fragrance of jasmine and hashish gently embrace your senses. Not that you know the odour of hashish....
Inside, in much more cunningly worked golden velvet, you are taken aback by the sight of what appears to be a jewel-bedecked locket, or an old pocket-watch, or you don't know. Just pry it open!
Of course you do, Sucker(!), and of course it's not an old locket or pocket watch; it is two halves of a semi-flattened egg with hinges between and no purpose other than to exhale a slow coalescence of emerald-colored smoke.
It makes sense, finally, when said 'smoke' condenses into the shape of a djinn of about the height of your outstretched hand.
Bobbing imperiously on a pillow of emerald, it's lips move and a powerful voice booms from it's diminutiveness beseeching you to ask of it a question, only one question, which it will answer with absolute truth under the condition that you ask before the second-hand of the clock makes a full revolution and sends the little scamp back to it's intermittent 50yr slumber.
Well? Think quickly!
*To get all theological and question the existence of God, turn to pg. 50.
*To seek great fortune turn to pg. 496.
*If you are after great power turn to pg. 807.
*Seeking the love of your life? Turn to pg. 2,035.
*Concerned about the future? Try pg. 1002.
*Obsessed with the past? See pg. 2,642.
*Frightened for your sanity? I recommend pg. 299.
*Is the pursuit of knowledge your obsession? pg. 2,400.
*Do you like candy? See pg. 20.

*boo hoo*

This is the desperate flailing of someone too old to be calling themselves an 'orphan.'
I thought I might've been able to establish some kind of twisted, postmortem bond with my recently deceased father by working the stuff of the almighty written word.
Self-deceiving fool that I am...
The not so old, Old Man, denied the squirming things of the field a wicked feast by choosing immolation over the coffin. I mourn for that which died with that mean ol', uncompromising, tell it like it is, sonuvabitch. He was like The Riddler, if The Riddler was a tough-as-leather, gun-toting, 300yr old, interesting person. If ever I was off my game I would know it immediately because I couldn't understand a bit of what he was saying; bastard was so damn quick! He was never wrong, honest...
Now, each time an Islamic fundamentalist takes a bellyfull of shrapnel, along with his nearest and dearest fuck-face buddies, I shed a silent tear because Dad is dead. The death-toll has lost it's lustre. What's a death-toll without comedic relief?
From his archives, I've learned more about the man that I so vigorously avoided, and can only express regret that I didn't learn his language whilst yet he lived. Fuck.

If Dogs Can Smell Cancer...

Sometimes, when I'm on my own, an empty section of air will mysteriously seem to gain occupancy. I'm not sure whether it's a reflex from my days as a devout Christian when I struggled always to feel the presence of the Spirit, or if it's the early manifestation of some really fun type of dementia.
God, ghosts or aliens? Perhaps I'm sensitive to something on the peripheral of 'all this' the way that dogs can smell cancer...
I'll probably never know. At least I can get myself good and creeped out for no apparent reason. *sigh*

Just a Thought?

Angel Soft toilet-paper. There's got to be something criminal about naming a toilet paper that. What are they trying to imply? "Got the winter-time drip? Out of tissue? Wipe that snot on an angel!" or, "Angel Soft toilet-paper! It's like wiping your ass with an angel!" or "Angel Soft toilet-paper! It's like having an angel wipe your ass for you. Feel like The King of Hosts!"
I'm not sure, but whenever that's my option in the bathroom I can't help but wonder if the angels in the vicinity are laughing nervously or wishing that they existed so that they could kick my ass instead of me wiping it on their effigy.
I recommend generic brands of TP for your ass-wiping needs. Try that Walgreen's stuff. That way you wont offend anyone or anything.

Here We Are

Well, well, well... You've stumbled across something rare indeed! Only the second blog ever by a talented genius born in the U.S. of A.
Such delights I have in store for you! Let's see, uhm... Self-indulgent rants on how unfair and stupid the inhabitants of my tiny little world be!!! Mwwwhahaha! Er, let's see... Hack fiction!!! YES! Do not turn away now, my friend! There is so much more for your questing eyes to find, so MUCH virgin text for your lascivious eyes to caress and your mind to hold!
Wait.... Nevermind. That's all for now. My apologies. That's really it. Damn.

Headache

If this is a place where people go to purge their demons then I can only guess at what sorts of bottom-feeding detritum feed here and what hideous forms they may have adopted to thrive in a place so rich in barbs and ill-will....