Bullshit.

About the Pregnant Man who gave birth this week:
You can't call yourself a man if all you did was sprout facial hair and have breast reductions. I think it's degrading to men and to women in general to do so. Society should have called her bluff. Just because your feelings might get hurt doesn't mean you can't hear the truth. I'm all for empowerment but not at the cost of other people's dignity and respect. She's more in need of a mental health professional or a reality show rather than being labeled a "man".
Society, grow a pair already and tell it like it is. What's next? A guy will get breast implants then impregnate a woman and then we'll call it the second immaculate conception?
It pisses me off that she boils down being a man to facial hair and no breasts. If that were the case then Earth's population would be more male heavy.

Happy Independence Day!

Chockablock

Like a loving cat bringing home a mangled bird corpse, I bring you this:
Five movies that will enrich your life immensely and make your friends appreciate you more.

1) The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai across the 8th dimension - As a young child I loved this movie greatly, it played a major part in creating the ideal of "cool" in my fresh and impressionable mind. The hero wasn't some imperfect alcoholic struggling with decisions, making moral judgments. NO! He was the epitome of cool, given it was an 80s cool, but cool none the less. Brilliant, cool under pressure, on the cutting edge of fashion. And this was the first movie to set the "Aliens as Rasta dudes" trend. My favorite part was the alien guy pulling on the jelly teat-like appendages in order to drive the giant meatball.

2) Ishtar - Technically this movie was a flop (as was Buckaroo Banzai), but it features all the good stuff you expect from an 80s action buddy adventure. Think Lawrence of Arabia meets Seinfeld. Hilarious dialogue and wacky situations make for a good time: I want to buy a blind camel! HA! My sister and I would play out the vultures in the desert scene every time we had a huge expanse of sand to crawl around in. And not to mention Isabelle Adjani... For you folks out there that are drawn to her like a dung beetle to a campfire: let's just say it'll do for you what the alien pulling on the jelly teat-like appendages did for me, as a young boy.

3) The Fifth Element - In my personal opinion, this movie is the cream of the cream of Luc Besson's repertoire. The first time I saw this movie I really wasn't impressed, but what did I know, I was just some lame teenager. I saw this movie again later on in life and I really enjoyed it. I got all the quick one liners and appreciated the most excellent vision of the future that it portrays. If you enjoy the technicalities of films then this is a really tight movie. Layers of details and the different story lines come together to make it a great film. And for all you fashionistas: Jean-Paul Gaultier did the costume design work, and while you're watching try and guess who's a model and who's an actor! Really a great movie and one of my all time favorites, I really think this could have been the new Star Wars, instead of those horrible new Star Wars'.

4) Last Tango In Paris - I think this is one of Marlon Brando's (May the blessing of Jah the most High be upon him) best roles. The dialogue is absolutely outstanding, some of the best writing I've heard yet, and I think a lot of it was improvised. It's got everything (and probably a little more) you could possibly want from a Euro flick. Wild cut scenes of the movie within a movie. Long soliloquies in a foreign language. An overwhelming sense of laissez faire malaise (Parlez Vous?) smeared all over it. I love this movie because the French avant-garde parts are really French. The American one-linerism is really American. And the absurdity of the "let pretentious art fall flat on it's face" Italian surrealism brings it all together. If none of that made any sense then your BS detector is set on high. But seriously, this movie will get a response out of you one way or t'other. I personally think that this is such a great comedy (Commedia dell'arte if you will) that those with less finely tuned comedic feelers will view this strictly as a tragedy. I mean come on! "I want you to smell the dying farts of the pig"! Don't tell me you wouldn't giggle a little bit at that!

5) John Carpenter's The Thing - As far as science fiction movies go this is one of the best ones. The special effects are great non-cgi. The plot is suspenseful and thrilling, and it will leave you questioning which of your friends are human. But it has more than just that: It is also an excellent filmographic treatise on human nature. Throughout the film there is an underlying revelation of our desire to push ourselves as humans almost to the brink of destruction to better know what we are(you really should turn down your BS detector). The ending is left open, but in my opinion it is a fitting end to the discussion: Only a human that isn't infected by the hyper-survivalist alien thing would take a drink of alcohol. It's a very artful and subtle balance between leaving an opening and firmly closing the book that makes this movie one of my top picks. Plus it has Wilford Brimley!

The Chaubwegee Chronicles 2250: The Legend of the Great Editor Pt. 1

I walked down Main St. just past the library in the ancient capital of the NWO, Orange, Old New Jersey. I had just finished conducting business with a client. She had searched for decades for an authentic Dr. Henry Jones Kotobukiya figurine from early in the millenium. I had three(thanks to my connections at the Revered and Most Holy Council of Chaub Wegee). She paid handsomely for the figurine and after I had paid my business fees to the Beloved Council of Chaub Wegee, I made about 17,462.58 Yuan. Enough to finally get me a liter of gasoline to extend my life by another 3 years beyond capacity.
I rounded the corner to Lincoln avenue when I heard shuffling in the dark alley behind the Post Office. I pointed my middle finger at the void and scanned with my SuperMegaBlackBerry. The reading came back as two humans with 33% Methcrackoine content combined. At those levels they were probably just spammers or Myspace tweakers. I continued on, as I passed I heard them moving.
"Hey, how old are you?" one asked in a raspy rattle. Awww CRAP!!!! "What ethnicity would you say that you identify with the most?" the other one chimed in in perfect sequence. I started to run without looking back, I knew what they were.
"Would you like to take a quick survey? It will only take 2 minutes!" the raspy one yelled out picking up his speed in pursuit.
"We just want to ask about your satisfaction level!" the other yelled.
Advertisers. The dregs of society. And these were the lowest of the low: Focus Groupies. In the year 2012 all advertising had been banned when extensive global research and the subsequent proofs from the knowledge base of the Alien Overlords showed that there were no direct correlations between sales and advertising. Most of them found quasi-validation as bloggers and "educationalists", but the majority slithered into the underworld with the Mole People or out into the vast wastelands of New North Canada and Minnekotia. Out there they formed large bands that roamed the countryside compiling databases and demographics info, sending Hunter/Seeker teams into civilization to update their files and mailing lists. "We would like to know what radio stations you listen to!" old Raspy asked again hoping that I would stop just enough for them to water-board answers from me. I knew their game, after they had squeezed out all the useless information from me, they would drill out my brain to ensure that nobody else got the info and that there were no duplications in their system.
My training at the Revered Chaub Wegee Academy had only reached Simple Disarming and Completing the Sale techniques. I hadn't yet been given clearance in deadly hand to hand close quarters combat. I ran down an alley hoping to lose them, only to discover that it was a dead end. I turned around and pushed my back against the wall. I wasn't going down without a fight.
They stopped a few yards from me. Raspy pulled out a drill while his partner rolled back the sleeves of his pink Armani shirt. "We give you coupon at end of survey," Raspy wheezed out. His partner tittered and stared at my head with googley eyes.
Just then I heard glass breaking above me.
"That's: We will give you coupons at the end of this survey!" I heard an angry and fed up voice scream down. A blur came crashing down on Raspy, crushing his body and ruining his wool three-piece suit and throwing his trendy retro style eyeglasses by my left foot. I saw a flash of steel and Raspy's friend flopped to the ground in two halves.
I looked at the hulking mass before me. It was mostly machine parts but I could see the basic outline of a human form.
"They was gonna kill me..." I blubbered. "They WERE going to kill you," it corrected me as it turned around and pointed a huge sword at my face. My eyes went from the tip of the blade, to the cybernetic arm, to the piercing eyes. I looked down and saw that it wore a name tag. Hello, my name is... "RENGRI" was scrawled in blood red.

"It's YOU..." I whispered in awe.

Ich Liebe Dich

I'm sitting here now, in my changing room. I can hear the audience. They're restless. They're impatient to see the greatest Marlene Dietrich impersonator that ever graced the stages of Off-Broadway. It seems so long ago, that night that changed my life forever.

It was a hot sweaty summer night. The kind where everyone's drunk and cruising in their pickup just to stay cool. Drunk driving wasn't a problem there because if you passed out you'd just wake up in the morning and have to walk into town to get gas.
I went into town with a couple of the farm hands, Red and Tex. Red was a hard man, he'd spent most of his life traveling from farmstead to farmstead digging out stumps and working over livestock. Tex was different. He looked as young for 42 as Rex looked old for it. Tex was supple and gay, like the first springtime shoot. He always had a joke in mind and always managed to get the ladies to dance. Tex was a tractor driver, he could maneuver a tractor like he was leading a town-lady at an Oklahoma two-step. We were all men. Bronzed, rugged, American.
We walked into the arcade with pockets full of change. We'd spend what was left of our foldin' money here after hitting up ole man Jenkins' hooch shack.
As soon as you walked in the smells hit you. The cigarette smoke heavy in the air. The smell of fried taters and hot dogs from the eat-shack. The stale sour sweat of the high score. Rex slapped me on the ass and pointed over to a new game.
Big Rigs: Over the Road
There were a couple of Riverdale kids hanging around it. We hated them as much as they hated us. In their varsity jackets and smelling of the latest French perfumes from the town drug store. We derided them for being in their cage of a town, and they looked down on our boundless wandering in the country.
One of them laughed out loud and gave the game a kick. "This thing sucks!" he yelled out, his freckled face turning red, looking for a dummy to tackle. He glanced over at me and signalled to his team mates. "Hey farm-boy! Here's a game for ya! Ahoo hoo hoo! Shyeeeeeeeet!" his friends joined in the merry-making and they huddled over by the dance dance console.
I gritted my teeth. Tex held my wrists and whispered in my ear in that soft country drawl, "It'ss alright sweetheart, don't let them get to you. Let's just have a good time,". Rex slapped my ass again, "Let's check that game out, maybe Tex can get the high score on it?" He grinned and winked at Tex. "No, I'll do it, I'll show them," I walked proudly over to the game and sat down in the seat.
I dropped in two quarters and changed my life.
There were no boundaries, no limits. I could do anything I wanted. I was free. I didn't have to stay on the road, I could go wherever and through whatever I pleased. I could even go beyond the edges of the map. I drove for hours that night, and I was always a winner. That night changed my life forever. I was beyond the arcade, beyond the town, beyond the farm. I was beyond the world. There was nothing to stop me or slow me down. I had broken through.

My mother sobbed as she hugged me goodbye. My father shook my hand and told me to do the right thing. Red held me long and hard. We swayed back and forth on that train platform before Tex tapped him on the shoulder. Tex pressed his wet cheek to mine and kissed it softly. I'll never forget how his mustache was wet with tears. He whispered the line from the game into my ear:

"You're Winner"

The beginning with the Dr. or How I learned to stop worrying and love the Monster

I write this in an attempt to clarify how and why the Dr. and I did what we did. Over the years the liberal media has tried to portray the Dr. as some kind of maniac. Amoral, psychotic, blundering, and foolish. This is not how he was at all.
I shall try to be concise with this story. Perhaps in telling it from my perspective, from the beginning, it will help bring back some of the luster to the brilliance of the Dr.'s tarnished and sullied memory.

From the very first he was ahead of his time and treated as such out of envy or fear. He was ridiculed and labeled a lunatic by the more offensive members of European(and in some instances American) academia. He had applied to all the great schools, hoping to gain funding to study and prove his theories of reanimation. Everywhere he turned though was a dead end. The only place that allowed him a small room and a meager stipend was the Sorbonne, and even then it was only to ensure that they were able to control him and keep an eye on him.

Things did change however, soon after his uncle died. Leaving him heir and sole inheritor of the Frankenstein estate. He hired me on as his assistant, not only because I was the sole applicant for the assistant job, but in me I think he saw a kindred spirit. We were both outcasts, him with his marvelous ideas and I with my physical deformity.
I set to work. I gave all my time and energies to him to repay the kindnesses he showed me throughout our wonderful time together.
I bought all we needed, beakers, test tubes, electrodes, surgical tools. Some of the things were harder to find, but nothing was impossible for my beautiful Doctor... Generators, capacitors, scanning electron microscopes, and gas chromatographs.
The tricky part was in finding the parts he needed for implanting into the subjects for his experiments.
It was in this environment that our friendship blossomed. We found solace in each other's company on those long cold nights. He was a caring human capable of the greatest emotions. His favorite game was to chase me around the lab with whatever he could find.
Those were days that I shall always hold close to my heart.

Then came the trials where I was granted immunity for testifying against him. He never knew it but I secretly had gone to the police with his crimes. But he denied it all, just like he denied my love.

Volunteers of America

I was a young, naive, and bright-eyed idealist out to change the world for the better.
I arrived at my new hometown after an 8-hour long, bumpy, bus trip. And not one of those luxury buses with a bathroom and shock absorbers. This had 4 wheels and that was enough.
I was met at the bus station (a bush with a signpost) by my host and translator Abu. He knew enough English to smooth over the embarrassing social situations and I knew enough Wolof to communicate with the babies and other foreigners.
We hiked back towards the cluster of mud huts. I was surprised to see a satellite dish near one of them. I asked Abu about it and he stated "Chaub Wegee". This word wasn't in the Wolof vocabulary builder courses I had taken so I shrugged it off.
A group of kids had formed as a tail to our procession. Yelping with glee at the new "Toubab" that had arrived. All of them were decked out in the latest from the Shady Limited line, and they all wore Air Jordans. I found it interesting that they all chose to wear the same name brands, but I didn't make a big issue of it. I was still new to the village after all.
Abu brought me to his home. Out front of it sat a Peugeot 205 riding on some serious dubs. We entered his hut and he introduced me to his wife Aissata and his children Ali and Mahmud. His wife was a charming woman with her hair coiled into tight little buns and his children were little balls of mischief grinning impishly. His wife was wearing a Louis Vuitton print dress that suited her perfectly. His hut was stocked with the latest in kitchen ware and home gadgetry. He had a stainless steel stove that looked like it could prepare dinners for a whole army. His fridge, microwave, and dishwasher were all stainless steel too. I was struck dumb. I asked him how they were able to afford such luxuries. He told me about the program that the previous Peace Corps Volunteer had started. It consisted of a local workshop that employed the artisans of the village in creating traditional crafts and then selling those crafts online.
I was amazed by it all. Abu offered to show me the whole operation and the "Chaub Wegee"(which I assumed was what they called the crafts they were making) after lunch. But I was too impatient and asked him to show them to me immediately. He smiled and agreed, understanding that I was still on Toubab time.
He showed me the hut where the artisans were creating traditional silver jewelry. They were very intricate and beautiful and fetched a high enough price online that the villagers did not want for anything. I was still curious about this Chaub Wegee though. I asked Abu if this Chaub Wegee was the head chief or the local protective Animist Spirit that the village prayed to. Abu laughed heartily and slapped me on the back. He grabbed my hand and ran over to the hut with the satellite dish. He ushered me in and pointed to the middle of the room. In the middle of the empty hut was a plastic table, a chair, and a computer. On the computer screen was Chaub Wegee.

Another go at it.

It was another lonely day on the metro when I spotted her. She first caught my eye when I noticed what she was wearing. A pocketed skirt in camouflage pattern and an interesting t-shirt. She had on strappy sandals which went well with the skirt. Her luxurious blond hair was held back with a whimsical hairpin. She wore glasses but her eyes were a beautiful and deep green color. The same color as the Mediterranean Sea in full sunlight. She wore a nostalgic wristwatch on her left wrist and she was listening to her magnetoscope through headphones. She had a series of fashionable bracelets on her right arm with bright colors and patterns, reminiscent of the trendy models from the popular Design Houses.

I worked up the courage and shuffled over to where she sat. "Hello, I love your hairpin," I tried to sound nonchalant. She looked up, not hearing me through her heaphones. I smiled and nodded and waved my hand in greeting. She smiled back, a smile that gave me wings. She took off her head phones. Je fuis la loi the headphones blared just before she turned down the volume. "Sorry," she giggled sweetly, "I'm learning French,". I melted a little more inside.

My dream woman, right here, under my nose in this boring old city. Classy, smart, cultured, fashionable and gorgeous. That's when I truly knew what love was about. Love for her, love for the city, and love for life.

Test, test.

Here's a little something I worked on as a guest blogger post. I'm hoping that it's up to par and grammatically... grammaticly... correct. The blog for Chaub Wegee is hilariously witty and I don't want to make a complete ass of myself... Huzzah!

THE END OF THE WORLD IS NEAR!

Yes, we’ve all heard these words before but not with this sense of urgency or expectation. For whatever reasons you believe will bring it about, there is no reason why you should not be ready for it. In this post I hope to provide you with an idea of the basics you will need and want.

Firstly, and most importantly, you will need a shelter. Underground shelters are a little bit more expensive but they provide the best protection from meteorological disasters and roving bands of heretical devil worshipers, to airborne space bacteria or the long arm of the law. I also recommend setting yourself up with a good quality composting toilet. The more you pay now for quality, the less plunging you do later, and you can use the compost for your herb garden! As for the rest it's all a matter of personal preference so I'll let you decide on that.

Now, the next most important survival related issue: Nourishment. I prefer your good old fashioned MREs. High caloric content for joules of energy, plus an excellent variety to suit any occasion! Remember to buy in bulk! Because there won't be any convenience stores to shop at after the Communists take over! Ha Ha!...

You probably will want to supplement your MREs with some goodies. Cakes, puddings, meats, breads, and special bachelor treats are all exciting options! You may also want to look into special drinks and food alternatives. And it all doesn't have to be bought food! Some of the best meals I've ever had were ones that I procured and prepared myself(Nucular fall-out permitting)!

For the tertiary area of concern: What to do? You will want to fill your hours with activities that don't take up a lot of space. I'm an avid jigsaw puzzle enthusiast so I have a lot stored in my bunker. As we jigsawers say: the higher the piece count, the higher the fun count!
FYI: Just make sure you don't lose any of the pieces though, it's a long long time to live with disappointment...

You may want to bring along a pet with you. I strongly recommend a cat or small dog. Anything larger and they tend to take up too much space. Anything smaller than that really won't provide an emergency supply of food if your rations run out early. And stay away from noisy birds.
I've got a little nook all set up for my Mr. Bootsy the Cat. And I've got treats for him too! He can provide his own compost, fun for everyone!

Now I hope that you have a better idea of what it takes to survive the upcoming Second Coming of Christ. And have fun with it! Let this post be your guide to a new world of your descendants!

Remember: Survivalism, not just for luddites and militamen anymore!

p.s. You may want to order your items soon before the United States Postal Service is activated to do it's real job. Avoid embarrassing shortages by buying in bulk!

Pompous old buffoon

So I decided the other day that when I have kids I'm going to show them the Star Wars double trilogy in the order that I saw them. That is starting with the oldest one first. I feel that this is necessary because the effects and story line of the older ones are way better. In seeing the older ones first there are certain questions that are left open and the imagination is left to it's devices. Plus the new ones are complete douchebaggery. Do I sound disgruntled or jaded? Well that wasn't my point. But anyways: I've always thought that a cool bit of addition to the story line would have been if Darth Vader got his light saber from the remaining part of Darth Maul's double light saber that didn't fall down the hole with his two halves.

Some light reading to start your week off with:
There was once a capricious king who had two favored slaves. One day in a fit of boredom he called them to audience in front of his court and subjects. He granted them both freedom at the same time but then made them both the other's slave. His royal majesty and his majesty's court laughed heartily for some time. The two slaves stood baffled, frozen, trying to think of how to resolve their dilemma. Who was master and who was slave? One ordered the other: "Bring me wine slave!". The other was about to fulfill his master's command when it occurred to him that they were both the other's slave. "Bring it yourself!", he confronted his master/slave. They stood puzzled trying to outsmart the other as the palace filled with laughter as their story spread. "Listen, the only way I can think of us both being free is if we both free each other from the other's servitude," the one told the other. "Yes, that is a good idea, I agree, so let us both free the other on the count of three," the other told the one. "One, two, three... I free you from servitude!" the one stated. But the other did not keep his end of the bargain. And so the one was found by the king and the laws of the land to be the other's slave.
Years later, after a life full of succes and riches and family, the other lay dying in his death bed with a soul full of guilt, he called the one to his bedside. "You have been a good slave and I have gotten you through ill means, I free you from your bondage!". The one stood up and strangled the other and murdered his entire family.
Moral of the story: Don't expect gratitude for doing the right thing.

Two more dialoguey bits.

These were on facebook. Twig and berries!

Onstar commercial June 24, 2006
-Hi this is Megan with Onstar, how can I help you today.

-Hi Megan this is Al, I'm just on a long drive and I was wondering what Onstar does.

-Well Al, Onstar can provide you with directions or we can call up emergency services and direct them to your location if you need it.

-Wow, that's pretty impressive Megan... Do you mind if I ask how old you are?

-Not at all I'm 34.

-Wow, I thought you were just over the legal age from the way your voice sounds.

-*giggles* Thanks, no I'm 34.

-Tell me Megan are you 5'6" to 6', approximately 150-190 pounds with blond to reddish hair and grey eyes that change color depending on your moods?

-Uuhh... No I'm actually sh...

-Yeah that's good Megan. Tell me, what are you wearing right now?

-Sir I don't think this is appropriate, would you like directions to a destination or emergency services to be notified?

-Do you ever get really turned on during long drives Meg? Do you mind if I call you Meg?

-Uh.. no... Sir if you don't need my services today I'm going to sign off.

-Don't play hard to get Meggy. You know you want it...

-This is Steve Smith, I'm the Onstar Customer Service supervisor. According to our records this is not the first time you've tried this sir. We are cancelling your subscription to Onstar. Have a good day.

-Hi Stevie what are you wearing?
*disconnect*

When Love and Culture Collide:
-Hello?

-Hey bro, what's good?

-Same ole same ole here, you?

-Same ole...

-So what's goin on?

-Nothing really, i finally saw your Myspace...

-Yeah, you can get addicted to that shit, it's like crack! haha

-Yeah I know, I started a page or whatever it's called.

-Oh yeah? What's the address on it?

-I think it's boobsnooper69. Well that's what I put in as my page name, use my email and get it.

-Cool, I will.

-Listen, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about.

-Okay, what?...

-Yeah, um. I saw your pics. I thought the one of you blowin' the statue was hilarious.

-Yeah! Those were the ones by the canal.

-Yeah I know! But listen, I saw the pics of you and your girlfriend...

-Yeah, her name's Chevalia.

-Yeah, that's good, how long has it been going for?

-What? Me and her? We met a couple months after I moved down here.

-Listen, I'm gonna have to be brutal with you, do you think it's right?

-What?

-I mean, you know. She's different from us.

-What?!?! I can't fucking believe this! I didn't expect this from you dude.

-Come on, you know I'm not like that at all. I'm so fucking cool that way, but I mean...

-Mean what?

-She's not like us dude!

-I fucking know that, that's why I love her, she's not the same as us. She's beautiful, different. She's smart, funny, kind. I really love her.

-Oh fuck, no!... Don't fucking say that. You only think it's love, you can't.

-I DIDN'T EXPECT THIS FROM YOU!!!!

-Calm down man...

-Them I knew, Jon, Mike, Stu. All of them, I knew they wouldn't understand, but not you! I thought we were like brothers man.

-We are! I love you like one, that's why I have to say this!

-No man no! You're fucking killing me right now!

-Have you guys had sex?

-WHAT???

-Did you use protection? My God, think of the kids!

-YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! I can't believe you're being like this...

-DUDE: She isn't one of us! That's fucking sick. Think of your people man!

-No fucking way! I'd leave the whole world for her! Fuck you, don't ever call me again.

-No bro please! She's not even one of our kind!

-SHE'S A CENTAUR! AND I LOVE HER!

-No dude, what are your kids gonna be like? Mules?

-YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! YOU'RE DEAD TO ME!
*click*

The Da Clowny Code

He was sharply dressed. His gray hair cut very short and serious. He wore a fitted single breasted, gray, heavy suit. His gold rimmed glasses were the only thing that would have made him stand out in a crowded room. Everything about him was angular and sharp. Hair, chin, build, eyes, shoes, watch, tie. Even the cologne he wore. He walked in, set his simple yet expensive looking brown leather suitcase on the overhead rack and sat down across from me.

I looked up from my newspaper and met his eyes. "Hello," I smiled politely. "Hello," he returned in greeting. He had no discernible accent that I could pick up. He settled in and looked out the window. I went back to giving the impression that I was reading the newspaper. I didn't notice any unwieldy bulges that he was trying to hide. People like him didn't usually carry weapons around, so it usually shows right away if they are hiding any. He reached into his left inside coat pocket. "Do you mind if i smoke?" he asked, the slightest little accent I could faintly pick up in his question. He was sizing me up too. "No, please do. Could I bother you for one?" I asked, he nodded in agreement. He reached forward with his pack of Gauloises Blondes. I picked one out and patted my pockets for a light. He reached a lit, golden, elegant, lighter forward. I leaned in and puffed until my smoke was lit. His lighter and his ring both had the Eclipsed Sun on it. "We meet on the Square," I watched him stone faced as I spoke. His face blanched and the cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth and onto his expensive suit jacket. "And we part on the Level...." he reflexively responded. "Not here, please.." he pleaded. "No, I'm no longer a brother. I'm here to help," I reassured him, watching him relax considerably, "I was once like you and there was someone there, I'm paying back my debt,". He swallowed and cleared his throat, "Thank you," his eyes glistened with tears. "Give me everything you have with the Sacred Emblem," I told him, pointing at his ring. He looked down at his finger as he reverently pulled off the ring. He was in awe. As though he would die the instant it came off. He handed me the ring and pulled out his lighter and bill fold. He handed those to me and lifted his left lapel and unpinned the little brooch he wore.

"Forget everything you've learned," I told him sternly. "You die today,". He looked sad. This was a new chapter in his existence, more than a chapter. It was a whole new book. "My family?" he asked as a look of remorse and pain played across his face. "When you're taken care of then you won't have to worry about them anymore, all this will be just a bad story," he looked relieved. I reached under my seat and pulled out a small blue shopping bag. I gave it to him. "Put this on," I ordered. "But it's a clown mask and pantyhose?" he looked suspiciously at me. "Oops! sorry I brought the wrong bag!" I giggled.

Good Vs. Evil

Okay, so the other day I was walking around. There was a man walking towards me on the sidewalk. He was about 5'7"ish, 150-170 lbs. He seemed to be an albino. he was wearing red sweat pants and a red baseball cap and had sunglasses on and he was listening to a walkman, which I thought was old-school. As I was walking by him I smiled and said hello. He replied: "Gorgeous day for a walk huh?". I smiled and agreed. Just as we were passing he said "Have a blessed day,". Now I respect most viewpoints and beliefs but I hate it when people try to sneak in Godliness into things. Especially when they don't know you. Usually, when someone says God bless you to me, I retort with God bless us all without even thinking about it. But how am I supposed to reply to have a blessed day? Oh well. That's not all, the weird part was that two blocks after there was a woman and a man walking past. The woman completely ignored me she had on tight-fitting blue sweat pants and a white t-shirt. The man had on red pants and a white t-shirt and sunglasses. Much like the first guy, except this guy had a large bottle of some tea colored liquid. It was alcoholic cause I could smell it. I smiled at him and said hi. He tracked me as I walked past and uttered some weird gibberish. Hoo baba roooo. Along those lines. It occured to me that these guys could have been the demon team shadowing the angel. It was all rather weird and surreal, and I wonder if I was caught, for a few moments, in some Heaven vs. Hell intrigue that was taking place. Both sides had pretty lame representatives though. Not like in the movies at all. But I guess that's how it is.



I want to put more first rate stuff up rather than this half-assery. But whatev. Not like the internet is a critic.

media buzz phrase: Out like a lion

As compiled from personal experiences and stories related to me by my cousin:
Is it just me or are there more and more ignorant kids everywhere? Ignorant in the sense of not knowing or caring about anything except whatever cheap thrills they get and materialistic urges they can satisfy. One can argue that that is all they are led to be by society at large, and that they are not taught to think for themselves. Now, I've been in those low-paying dead end jobs but I don't think I was such a tool about it.

Our intrepid hero: Hi, does this company practice fair trade and environmental conservation?

Casual Dining Restaurant Customer Care Associate: How should I know?

Intrepid patient hero: Okay, I'll have the fish burger then.

Casual Dining Care Associate: Do you want fries and shit?

Patient hero (Realizing what kind of evil he's dealing with): Uh yeah, small fries, hold the shit and a small drink.

Casual Care Associate: What kind?

Hero: Do you have Tab?

Casual Associate: No.

Hero: Do you have Shasta?

Associate: No.

Hero: Do you have Fresca?

Associate: No.

Hero: Fanta?

Associate: I don't think so. We got whatever there. (Lethargically stabs a thumb behind her at the drink machine)

Hero: I see, could I get half coke and half ice tea, and half sprite, and half punch? I call it my superdrink...

Associate: Are you fuckin' surrious? You playin' right?

Hero: No, surrious. And a little ice too.

Associate: Grumbles and grabs a small cup and tries to make a simple super-drink.

Hero: No that's alright, it's kind of confusing I know, just make it a Coke with ice. Yeah... no, with ice if you could... thanks.

Associate: Is that it? You want a pie or some shit?

Hero: No that's cool, I got enough shit. But could you make sure they don't put too much mayo on my burger?

Associate: (With obvious exasperation turns to the back of the house and yells down the line) Ey yo Beebo, make sure there ain't no fuckin' mayo on that shit.

Beebo: Fuuuuuck Youuuu!

Associate: Oh no you di'n', fuck you bitch!

Hero: Uh... could you tell Beebo that I would like a little mayo, not too much though.

Associate: Yo stankass! He say he want a little mayo on that shit, not too much.

Beebo: Make up your fucking mind man!

Hero: Sorry, whatever you want is good. Just don't abuse it...

Associate: Is that it? (She says as a sour look on her face tries to discourage me, she sets her heavy mass leaning against the counter)

Hero: Yeah.

Associate: $5.39

Hero: Wow. smelted catfish...

Associate: Escuse me?

Hero: Oh sorry, I'm a stock investor, I was just thinking about buying stock in smelted catfish cause it seems to be a very valuable commodity, at least at the prices Macdonald's is charging... (She didn't appreciate good sarcasm)

Associate: stares

Hero: Here you go. Thanks.

Associate: Mmhhmm...

Hero: (After checking my sandwich I realize that it has been over-mayoed) Uh.. Ms. I hate to be a jerk about this but it seems as though Beebo has over-mayoed my smelted catfish sandwich.

Associate: Beebo you stupid bitch, you put too much muthafuckin' mayo on the shit!

Beebo: (Walks around to the front. He's got light blue hair with dirt blond roots and he's wearing black pants with more zippers than required. He looks at me like he's secretly chanting a vampire curse.)

Hero: I grab the sandwich and throw it in my bag and decide not to inquire about where my small fries and the ice in my drink is. Thanks! Seeya!

Associate: Mmmmhhhhmmm.

Our hero takes apart the overpriced sandwich and flings it piecemeal onto the glass door. The slurpy smack of the mayo splattering against the dirty glass satisfies whatever feelings of regret there were. Feelings of guilt for that act are allayed when some of the mayo and sandwich are washed off by the warm Coke.

Have I put this up before? Deja View!

Hi! How's it going? Wow... You look really hot today. And you smell great, like graham crackers and day old funk, to borrow a line from Loomis Simmons.

But anyways: To the story: And here it is:

Just an old story I dug up. I had grand dreams to write a whole short story but I'm too busy not doing anything at the moment. Enjoy!

The sun is setting, the orange and red streaks streaming from the west washing everything in a golden color. I saw that same light when I was on the Western Front. I had enlisted in l'Escadrille La Fayette. I felt it was something I had to do; though not for political reasons. I had heard the horror stories about what the Hun was doing (and I’m sure my Bosche counterparts had heard the same about me), but it was a chance at adventure and glory. And I'm sure most of those who were in with me had signed on for the same reasons.

The morning had started quite rightly. I had a quiet breakfast with my tent mate Sean. A Canadian chap who had joined way earlier in the war. He was an intelligent and educated man, dashing, adventurous, and bright. He was already an ace, where I had yet to claim a kill. I had taken care of a few of the Kaiser’s balloons but I didn't really consider them victories, much like shooting fish in a barrel is not considered hunting or fishing.

It was a chill morning and it had rained for the entire week so we knew that it was prime hunting, since neither side flew in the rain and we would all be tearing at a chance to go up. For breakfast I had runny eggs and bacon with dark toast. Sean had his usual cold roast and vegetables with a large mug of Irish coffee. It amazed me how he could eat so richly in the morning but he chalked it up to his having been raised on a farm out in Quebec, and one needed a good strong breakfast out there I assumed. Our plan for the day was to run up following the Marne and scoot over St. Chrysostome then gain altitude and fly over No Man's Land to see if we could help out a few of our dough boys. We were going up with Capt. Gerard and Lt. Vincennes who were French aviators, they were splitting with us at St. Chrysostome and heading further north.

Everything was set. Chocks, contact! And she jumped to life. My beautiful Spad was firing straight and true on all cylinders. I put the full throttle to her and she leaped into the air eager as a whippet. I was on Sean’s wing and we formed up with the captain and the lieutenant. It was a grand day to fly. A crisp chill in the air. The sun hadn't even risen yet, but the eastern sky was turning all shades of light blue. We followed our path without a hitch. Over St. Chrysostome we turned our noses to the southeast and gained altitude to 850 meters. The captain and the lieutenant continued their climb slowly turning to the north. Sean and I circled about lazily. Looking for any sort of activity in the air or on the ground. It must have been a frenzy down there because apparently there had been a major artillery barrage just before we arrived, which was rather queer, for we usually saved the barrages for after tea. The land was pockmarked and muddied with sharp fresh arty holes. It looked like a giant, angry, sore. Tree stumps an ugly monument to the forest that stood there 4 years before, and pools of filthy mud water littered with corpses and debris. There were none of the telltale red spots covering the land that signified an infantry assault. It always sickened me to see those and think of the poor bastards smudged out in an instant.

We patrolled north to south and back again on what we jokingly called the race track. On either side to the east and west were tangles and tangles of barbed wire, but they looked natural in that setting, some odd metalic plant that found a rich environment to grow. And just beyond the tangles of wire were trenches in the earth, like veins. I could see men in them, from up high they wriggled and flowed like blood. Fighting over the mess of land that not even a pig would envy.

Sean and I circled lower and lower. He waggled his wings and I flew up beside him. "I’ll break north, you go south over the Bosch!" he signaled. I nodded my head and waved agreement, waggled my wings and turned south. That was the last I ever saw of my friend Sean. But those days were the last I saw of a lot of my friends. I learned after the war that he had faced the same predicament I had, except that he had crashed his plane into a trench full of Huns, taking out scores of them.

I flew for a little over men dozing, others just waking up to a cold dirty breakfast. There were scores of them lined up though, preparing to take advantage of the barrage's handiwork. So it made sense, it wasn't our guns but theirs that had softened up the terrain. Lucky for our boys we'd come out to lend a hand. I cut my engine and let my prop feather, listening as I floated on like a cloud. It was weird, after the reassuring drone of my engine cutting out my senses peaked and I could hear the slightest sound on the ground. It must have been my excitement. Random gunshots trailed behind me, some bird hunter with hopes of impressing his mates or a new recruit trying his luck with a potshot. I kicked my engine over again and it sputtered to life. I let out a huge laugh, I always laughed after she growled on, thinking about what I would do if she didn't. The laugh was straightened out of me as a green flare shot up right in front of my plane. It was so close that I flew right through the acrid smoke trail. This was it. I pulled back on the stick then nosed over slightly. Getting the trenches in my sights. Flares kept shooting up at set intervals, the officers signaling the men. Poor bastards, poor lousy bastards. I put my finger on the trigger and applied slight pressure to it, when a stream of light came up across my nose and I felt a staccato "thud thud thud" across my plane. I heard a stomach wrenching "crunch" and a loud whine from the engine as a flame blew out singing my face. This was it. I was going down in No Man's Land. I eased her back to gain as much altitude as I could and looked for a convenient place to bring her down. HA! Convenient. I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. I turned eastward into the Kaiser’s backyard hoping to avoid the ugliness that was about to take place. She started to drop and I nosed her over hoping to gain some speed. I saw a relatively smooth surface with a tree stump and the remnants of a rustic wooden fence. That would be my salvation or my burial plot. I remember thinking that it seemed like a nice quiet little place to be buried. So I eased her towards it. I was dropping faster and faster. The engine finally seized and the propeller froze jerking her downwards towards the ground. My heart rose up into my throat and my stomach dropped out. She bounced once hard then clipped her wings and cart wheeled. I bashed my forehead on the windscreen and it seemed to shatter into a million pieces. I was dazed but I was alive. My legs and arms seemed to work. Intuition kicked in and I unstrapped myself from the plane. I felt myself going under. Like I was sinking into a dark pool. Slowly sinking looking up into the murky red light.

I started with a scream as I felt the heat licking at my legs. I tried to open my eyes but I couldn't see. I kicked at the heat and wiped at my eyes. I forced them open and rolled out of my beloved Spad. That was the end of her. She would have been my pyre. I looked down at my hands and realized that the blood from the severe gash on my head had coagulated and glued my eyes shut. My head ached with a long dull pain. I remembered that I was in the middle of The Great War. I looked about and saw a shell crater that would provide adequate shelter for the time being. They would be preoccupied with their assault and wouldn't be looking for me. So to the shell hole I ran and jumped in. There was a thick mud on the bottom and it splattered all over me. I felt sick but I took a deep breath and pulled out my trusty colt .45. I looked up just in time to catch the sun rising. It was the most beautiful sight ever. Rays of gold washed over me and I felt its luxurious warmth on my face and skin. I closed my eyes and smiled.

My version of PMS

This can't officially be a writing blog if it's not updated with mediocre and emotionally puerile poetry every once in a while!

Enjoy! As I whore out my most sincere emotions like a pair of very tight black pants!

I call it "Soul Moistness"

SOUL MOISTNESS

This emptiness,
a red ring of dregs
I drink no more,
shatters me.
 
This bitter herb,
a bare sapling stem
I grow no more,
embitters me.
 
This familiar scar,
a smooth livid line
I feel no more,
reminds me.
 
This torn nail,
a ragged tear
I dig no more,
buries me.
 
When the dregs are drunk
and the herbs plucked clean,
all that's left of the scars and nails
are dreams.
 

My issue with customs and the dogs they use.

Before you go absolutely bananas: I like dogs and have had dogs in my family. They just smell funny(you'll get the pun).

My issue with customs agents: They are humorless racists who can't reason for themselves. Their job demands that they be this way, and I am sure that they are screened for it according to their humorlessness and social ineptitude(if you don't believe me, hang out with a customs agent for a day off the job; I have!). Why do I say this? Because I am not an old white woman. I always seem to be the one "volunteered" for extra screening. I admit that my complexion is a lovely olive color and that my hair is dark. I also will admit that I give off a weird vibe, as though I were guilty. But why do they even call it random? No way in hell that screening is random.

Now my issue with the sniffer dogs: The dogs train with the agents and live and work and breed with them too. They will pick up on the subtle behavioural signals that emanate from the corpus of the agent. Customs agents are inherently racist, because they use generalizations about a persons looks and behavior and country/culture of origin to detain them for security purposes. So the dog in turn learns that sniffing out "the darkies" pleases his master.

A few stories that sum up my experiences with customs:

I was randomly chosen to have my shoes inspected. The customs agent(may he be a rabid foot fetishist now), who happened to be of Eastern European descent made excuses and brought up the fact that people always despised having to take off their shoes. I pointed out to him that it was acceptable considering that there was, in recent history, some guy with ties to radical terrorism, who ineptly tried to set off the bomb in his shoe(why they still let you bring on two lighters and boxes of matches on planes I don't comprehend... but anyways). I also, rather wittily I might add, pointed out to him that just decades before it were people like him that were being stopped and questioned because they could have been communist spies; may the pinko bastards rot. He did not find this amusing and the conversation was not furthered.

Another time, at another airport, the customs folks brought out a sniffer dog. The agent made a bee-line for me and snapped his fingers in front of a bag near me. The dog sniffed at it. "Don't touch the bag" he told me. I told him that wasn't my bag, mine was over here. That was the next bag he snapped in front of. The dog sat down. Apparently this was a hit. My offending bag and I were taken to a screening area. There was an international team of customs people here. Apparently it was a slow trafficking and bomb plot day so they all pored over my things. There must have been 3 Americans and 5 Canadians. Plus the dog handler and his supervisor who were interviewing me. "Why did the dog signify a hit on your bag?" the dog handler asked. I could tell he was new to the game. "I'm not sure, what is he trained to sniff out?" I asked. He started listing off a series of drugs, "Amphetamines, coca leaves, cocaine, chatt, heroine, opium, hallucinogenic mushrooms...", the senior agent stopped him. "Oh, drugs. Nope, no drugs in my bag" I informed him. He looked at me as though it were the other option. The home I was living in at the time was a major hive of pot smoking though, I informed them both which made them relax some. After close to an hour of going through my things and questioning me, they all decided that I had nothing on me and let me go back to my gate. The couple who had been sitting there when I was pinched by customs stared at me wide-eyed in surprise that I was back at the gate, seating myself, waiting to get onto the same plane as them. Their representatives of government probably received some worried telephone calls after that.

And finally, passing through that same airport during another trip, the same dog and handler came out and hit on my bag again. I went through the same process except this time after the questioning they took me back into a secluded office. They searched me thoroughly, without the invasive bits. I informed them that I would hate to be in their jobs, dealing with assholes like me all day. The senior one got the joke but the the dog handler remained expressionless, I could see that he was disappointed though, he really wanted to nail me. Probably for teasing his partner-dog with my drug scents. "Well, we can only go by what the dog says," he justified himself. "Oh, you speak dog?" I asked him. "No, we train the dog to sniff out drugs, bombs, endangered animals..." he broke into another rant. "You can go now," the senior agent told me. I collected my things and was looking for the money on the night stand, but then remembered that those days were behind me.

Interesting follow up to the dog handler saga: he and I held accounts at the same bank! I saw him in line one day on my way out the door and greeted him. "Hi agent C******, you're the one who strip-searched me! How is Atlas(the dog)?" I didn't bother for his reply and went my merry way.

Now you may think that I deserved getting hit on by the dog(which I fully admit, for the amount of weed I was smoking at that time in my life, I'm surprised the dog didn't piss all over my bag), but all the times I've been stopped by customs I've always noticed that they seem to only stop ethnic people. And I have yet to meet a customs agent that wasn't white. Now I know, you're clucking your tongue thinking that I'm just a jaded so and so, but really: If you go according to percentage of the population, most drug users are white. And I have had many white friends tell me of their escapades in smuggling small amounts of drugs through airports. So to sum up, if I were to give advice to the drug cartels and conglomerates and to the nefarious terror masterminds, it would be: Only hire old white women.

Well, to me it seems funny.

I was Cleopatra in a past life...

Here's another updated story:

I dreamt that all my teeth had broken but I still kept them in my mouth. There was no pain or blood. It felt like a mouth full of smooth gravel. I slowly came out of my sleep.

I didn't open my eyes but I knew it was an overcast day. My favorite kind. I snuggled into my warm and yielding bed, dozing easily for a little while. Thoughts of food slowly started to float into my half-dreams. Hunger overtook sleep. I rocked my legs and sat up on my haunches. I sat there with my eyes closed, a smugly satisfied smile on my face. I drew a long, deep breath and slowly exhaled, adding to the morning mist. My eyes opened gently, it was a perfectly overcast day. I scratched and rubbed my belly and wriggled my toes preparing them for the a lazy day. I tugged and rubbed my fuzzy ears and slowly rolled out of bed. "Shoots, shoots, shoots," I said excitedly, my eyes wide open. I took another deep breath but with purpose this time. I could smell them. So green, tender, and delicious. "Shoots! Shoots! Shoots!" I repeated, unsure if I said it or thought it. I followed my nose delightedly, the morning mist making them smell even sweeter. "Shoots... shoots... shoots.." it was almost a whisper. I could almost taste them, they were close! I found my secret garden. Normally, I would have just started eating, but today was a day of easy contentment. “…shoots…” it was rapture as my eyes took them in, noting each and every little individual. I settled myself in the thickest of the thicket and closed my eyes. I breathed in their subtle delicious scent and imagined just how good they were going to taste; green, crisp, tender, spectacular. I opened my eyes and looked around for the most shootful one. I spotted one but it was bowed and burdened at such a young age. His cousin however was a fine example, I could see that the others were trying to emulate her. "SHOOT! SHOOT! SHOOT!" I daintily plucked her from the ground. She came loose quite easily, which made the day even more perfect. I tickled off the dirt-clumped roots and slowly but meaningfully stripped off the leaves and the outer skin. If this were any other day I would have eaten it all, but I was taking my time today. I put her in my mouth and just let her rest there. My tongue happily cupping around her, feeling the differences between where she stopped and I began. She was cool and refreshing, and still moist from the misty morning dew. I rolled my tongue around, letting them play together. I gave a quick suck of the juices and the forest came alive in me. The earth smelled fresher and the greens greener. The forest was one in me. Contentment and joy pulled on my little ears again. I slowly started to chew. Each bite was a smile. I ate as noisily as I possibly could, making the world jealous with my satisfaction. I giggled to myself with mischievous pleasure as I smacked my lips in joy. "Shoots; shoots; shoots." I hooted and slapped my belly as I rolled over onto the bed of shoots. Ah, the joys of being a content panda in a quiet forest.

A rotted black tooth

I screamed.
It was instinctual and completely inappropriate. Pure, raw, unfiltered. Straight from the heart. If the action of vomiting were purely vibrations in air, that sound is what it would be. The kind of scream that trumpets mental release. An utter loss of reason and function. The kind of scream you hear from murder in a lonely city. A scream that shivered the basest soul.
Everything stopped. All motion froze.
Slowly eyes gathered and swiveled to me. Pupils came into focus, hearts beating irregularly. The light streamed in from the hall through the doorway where she stood, crisply silhouetting her. Her one hand on the door knob, gripping firmly, supporting. Her other hand clutching her jacket closed, the knuckles bulging and white from the strain. She thoughtlessly tried to protect herself from whatever the scream announced. Her large white eyes scanned erratically peering into the darkness of the room. The look of utter horror painted over her face, slowly dying off as her eyes adjusted to the soft flickering light of the candles. She trembled and released the caught breath in her throat. The sigh slowly turned into a slow moan.
Those in the room with me looked away, embarrassed. Some shifted uneasily. Her boyfriend ran up to her, protectively putting his arms around her.
"You're such a fucking asshole Al," He seethed with white disgust.
"What?... Surprise!!!" I happily smiled at her, "Blow out the candles!"

Lunchtime

Here's a story I wrote a while back, can't remember if I put it up on here or not, and I'm too lazy to go back through the archive.

I sat in a 1960's era brownish-beige, rusted, metal folding chair. My elbows on a metal desk that was from the same era. Some afterthought of human comfort sprinkled on with the addition of a rubber mat to cushion my elbows. My head propped up in my hands. The floor was an industrial floor carpet that came in two foot squares. It smelled acrid and dusty. I stretched out my arms to the sides and looked at the walls, just a foot beyond my hands. I snorted loudly and shook my head. This desk was probably assembled in this room. There were no windows or shelves or anything except me, the desk, the chair, the carpet, and an obtrusively lonely hundred watt light bulb screwed into a socket right in the mathematical middle of the ceiling. I knew these details about the light because I had measured and counted them out. One day, early on when it was starting to get to me, I stood on my desk and read the fine print on the light bulb. It was too fucking bright for this little oubliette. I was blind for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t tell. The walls were glazed in a white glossy paint. Glossy like a living, breathing, membrane. I could feel the pulsations from it as it slowly digested me. There was the stench of its previous meals. Another pasty, squinted, splotched, clerk damned to the bowels of this entity. Food to break down. The enzymes of repetitious, thoughtless being slowly breaking him down. He smoked. He had left his ashtray in the desk and it had given the whole room an acrid stench. A mild burning sensation in the nostrils every time I breathed in. I noticed I was now a mouth breather when I sat eating my processed burger in the pale fluorescent light. At the neat, square, brightly colored table at the fast food shit hole. I ate lunch there. My body breaking down the meat of an animal that led a repetitious, thoughtless existence. No one ever really knew where I was. I didn't even collect my pay stubs anymore. The previous meal had been digested for thirty four years. He wrote it on the inside of the top drawer of the desk: "A.V. 1947-1981 I WAS HERE". Like a man condemned to nothingness. Digestion, the end. And in the end, he came out the end. Just waste. Nothing more. I wrote in my time too, but then covered it with a label sticker. The same stickers that went on the files, the files that went in the desk. I wasn't going out like that. I could still smell him here. The years of his stale, sickeningly sweet sweat and musky pheromones had mixed in with the cigarette smoke. Pasting on the walls like a cement stucco that coated the membrane. "FUCK YOU!" I yelled out. listening to it echo down the long cement corridor, bouncing off of the glossy wet walls up through the dark stairwell muffled by the stomach. Ending in a loud guttural belch to wherever it was heard. I opened the bottom drawer on my right side and looked in. a triangular black glass ashtray with a cigarette groove at each of the angles. It had a design in gold on the middle but I couldn't make it out anymore. All the frustrated, nervous cigarettes stubbed out on it, scraping off whatever memories it was meant to share. I once slapped myself so hard that I made my nose bleed. I just let it bleed until it stopped. I rubbed my hand in the blood. It was strangely cool for something so red. I slapped my hand on the underside of the desk. Was it lunch time yet? It’s funny how normal one can seem during lunch time. Going out and up and up and out. Everything moving so fast. I wasn’t going to rot away there in that bowel. So free, I was the vomit. I poisoned this animal and made it throw me up.

Sitting there at that restaurant. I no longer feared going back. I was poison now. I wouldn’t be digested. I put the kids meal toy I bought on top of the ashtray. Color, happy. It rolled, it could move. It couldn’t be eaten.

Wet your whistle.

I have been trying to get back onto the whole writing horse again.
It's hard. Like a drug habit that makes you impervious to derision and very very sexy.
But I'll keep at it and hopefully my creative juices will flow again like sap through something or other... I don't know. Whatev.
In the mean time here's a little taste for you to rub a little on your gums:
I call it Western Style Omelet.

*Ahem*

She stared at me with surprised eyes with pupils that looked like little pinpricks. She delicately held a small shiny metal tube in between her thumb and index finger.

"Sorry I forgot my camera..." I muttered uneasily, pointing over to where I had left it. It stared out blankly at the scene. Wanting to record the rays of light.
My eyes glanced over the HUGE line of cocaine in front of her.

"It's a habit I picked up in Tibet," She stammered out.

"Tibet, right," I wasn't sure what to do. I couldn't just leave my camera. It was cheap and old but I loved it. I took a couple steps into the room to gauge her reaction.

"Want some?" She asked politely.

"No thanks, I gave up drugs a long time ago..."

"More for me then!" She gave a little smile.
Before I could change my mind she set the tube to her nose and bent over the line. She snorted firmly and with gusto. She went through the line like it was her favorite home cooked meal.

"AAAAH! FUCK YEAH! WOOOOO!!!" She pumped the air with her fist and gritted her teeth. "Wanna screw?"

I was afraid to say no. She eyed me like piece of meat; tender, dry aged, succulent, marbled meat.

"Well... uh.. I um.." Thoughts of my bloated greasy corpse secreted in some crack house kept floating up in my mind's eye like fatty meatballs in an oily soup.
She stood up and walked over to me.

"Camera boy," she poked me in the chest, "You like your camera?".

"Yeah, it's ah.. made in East Germany," the fight or flight response kicked in. I slowly started making my way back towards the door.

She grabbed my belt buckle and yanked me back close to her, face to face. Her eyes were starting to go bloodshot and she was chewing her lip, I couldn't tell if she was doing that from lust or from the Columbian snow.

"I like you," she gritted her jaw.

"Thanks!" I yelped in a high pitched voice.

"Let's screw," she pulled me by the belt buckle to her room. Her fingers trying to reach for my goodies.

yadda yadda yadda,
It was the best screw ever!

He who controls the teleprompter, controls the world.

Recent buzzwords/phrases I've heard bandied about on the news channels:
Mea Culpa
The public has a short attention span
thrown under the bus

It seems that the same people are writing the stories for all the different news channels. Actually it doesn't seem. It actually is. Most the "news" channels get all their stories and info from Reuters or AP. Those stories are regurgitated all over the world. If you want an example try this: Go to reuters.com and read the stories. Then tonight flip in between the major networks during the beginning of the prime time news hour. The only difference between the stories will be the sequence that the stories are played.

Why is this something to be interested in?
Well in the beginning of 2007 there was a story about a Russian submarine that planted a flag beneath the Arctic ice cap in hopes of claiming oil and mineral mining rights. This story, which was a Reuters story, was repeated all over the world. It was accompanied by a picture of a submarine in murky waters. The story and picture had gone all over the world in all the major media. It had gotten to a small town newspaper in Denmark when a boy sent in a correction to the paper that the picture was not actually of a Russian sub but part of footage from a documentary he had seen about raising the Titanic. All the major media subsequently made corrections and apologies. If this is the case for something as seemingly irrelevant(for the time being) as this story, what about the big ones?

I don't watch or read the news for info anymore, I just look for discrepancies. I think it's kind of scary that we all are being fed the same stories. But the devil's advocate in me says who cares? So what if whoever's agenda gets fulfilled?

Meh...

Story to work on

I sat at the other table in the tiny cafe. Nursing my black coffee and staring at a blank page in an anonymous notebook. There were only two tables in here. I think it was an alley in between two red brick buildings that they put a roof over and put a stove in and they called it a coffee shop. I liked it because it was confined. Someplace I could go to to feel secluded. Like a cave in the middle of some lush perfect valley. Like a cloistered monk. The only other table had one of it's seats occupied by an elderly gent. He was nicely dressed in comfortable clothing. He looked over and smiled. I smiled back. "Writer's block?" he asked. "Not really just don't know where I should start," I answered. "Hmmm," he nodded his head. "A weird thing we are, humans. So different from all the other animals," he looked out the small window onto the street. "Yeah, we build cities and talk and dream," I agreed. "No not that. Other animals do that, it's what you're trying to do..." he nodded his head at my notebook. "Write?" I chuckled. "I feel like they could train the smarter animals to do that,". "No no," he smiled, "I mean creativity. It's what really separates us from the animals,". "How so?" I asked, intrigued, "Don't animals build things and create?". "They do out of instinct. We on the other hand choose to defy instinct, to experiment. We follow all routes," he sounded as though he were trying to clarify his statement to himself. "We imagine wonderous worlds, we dream of heaven and shudder from our ideas of hell. We invent fantastic new ways of killing each other. We create infinite new realities. We don't only build a nest for nestings sake. We don't kill just to eat. We don't sing just to communicate."

Lord Have Mercy!

I know..
I'm sorry...
I understand how you feel...
Please, this is not how I really am...
I've just been so bogged down with things at work/school/home/life...
I really want us to be together.
And I promise, I'll start posting more again.
Forgive me blog...
I GOT YOU DIAMONDS!