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Friday, December 26th, 2014
10:08 am
"Honey? Honey, wake up!"

"..what is it? It's.... Jesus it's three in the morning!"

"Honey, I heard it again."

"Heard what?"

"Scratching. At the window."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're on the fifth floor."

"I know, but I heard it. Like... I don't know. Like claws... tapping and scraping at the glass and whatever else our window is made out of."

"Oh, goddammit. Fine. I'll go, get out of bed right now, at three in the morning, and I'll go check it out. Will that make you happy?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that... there's scratching at the window and I don't know what it is."

"Ok, fine. I'll go."

...

"Honey?"

"I'm back, sweetheart. Let's go back to sleep. It was nothing serious."

"But what was scratching our fifth floor window?"

"Nothing much. Just a clown floating by our fifth floor apartment window in the middle of the night."

"Oh. I'm sorry I made you get up for that, honey. Fucking clowns."

"I know. They can be such assholes sometimes. Good night, babe."

"Good night."

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10:07 am
A Christmas Story from Bizzaro Land:

[CAUTION: Not for the faint of heart. Disturbing Christmas allegations to follow.]

He's sitting at the bar, nursing a shot of tequila. His phone rings. And rings. And rings.

"You gonna get that?", the bartender asks.

"I'm letting it go to voicemail."

"Why?"

"Because it's the fat fuck calling me again,"

"You're drunk, Rudolph. Don't go talking shit about Santa, again."

"And why can't I? The fat piece of shit doesn't give a rat's ass about me."

"Oh yeah? Well what about that song? That made it sound like you really saved the day."

"I hate that fucking song and everyone who sings it. Bloody idiots."

Rudolph downs the whole shot glass in one fell swoop, wipes his mouth with his hoof, and keeps right on talking.

"Don't those idiots understand what that song means?"

The bartender is wiping down glasses. He looks back up at Rudolph. "Well what does that song mean anyway?"

"It means you can get the shit beaten out of you by the other reindeer every night. Pissed on. Fed scraps of shoe leather until you're wasting away and dying. It means you've cried so much that your tear ducts are as dry as a whorehouse in the Sahara. And does the fat man say anything? Fuck no. But, suddenly, the headlights go out on his sled and it's 'Rudolph, we need you so much! Your red nose saved Christmas! You'll go down in history, Rudolph!'. Story of my fucking life,"

"You believed him?"

"Of course, I believed him! What's even more fucked up is I *wanted* to believe him! I was a goddamn stupid reindeer, lost and without hope. And he finally gave me a purpose. A reason. And, for a brief, shining moment I was happy. Happy to be wanted. Happy to be part of the gang. And then, when the sleigh ride was over, he threw me away just like whatever random piece of elf ass he fucks every night."

"Jesus."

"You're goddamn right. And you know what the most fucked up thing about it was?"

"No."

"There were no presents. Not a single fucking gift in the whole bag."

"You mean it was all coal?"

"No, I mean the fuck doesn't deliver any presents on Christmas Eve. He doesn't visit any houses. It's the parents that buy all the gifts! He just takes the credit."

"So where does he go then?"

"He flies off to Colombia. He's got a guy there - 'Dirty Sanchez', they call him. He packs Santa's bag full of cocaine and the fat bastard pays him with all the money his endorsement deals with Pepsi and all those toy companies and whatnot made him. Why do you think he's so anxious to fly out? There's no fucking way he can visit, what, a billion households in one night? It's a fucking fairy tale."

The bartender arches his eyebrow.

"So, what you're telling me, is that Santa Claus is just a big, rich cokehead?"

"That's exactly what the fuck I'm telling you. Shit. Can I get another shot?"

The bartender pours him some more tequila.

"Thanks. Listen, all he does when he gets back home is strip down to his piss-stained tightie whities and his 'Real Men Come In The Chimney' t-shirt and snort a fuckload of cocaine."

"And what does Mrs. Claus think of all this?"

"Oh, that's the best part. No one knows where she is."

"What do you mean no one knows where she is?"

"I mean exactly that. No one knows where she is. One day she got sick and tired of cleaning up after Santa's shit so she let him have it right in front of all the reindeer and elves. Fucking went on for an hour. Throwing shit left and right. And the fat man just kept getting redder and redder. That night, I pretended to sleep but, and I swear on my grave that this is true..."

"What is?"

"I swear I heard both of them leave at something like two in the morning. And then an hour later the door opens again and I could hear Santa muttering under his breath 'Ho, ho, ho, bitch.'"

"You think Santa killed her?"

"All I'm saying is, it's real easy to hide bloodstains on a red suit." replies Rudolph as he downs his tequila.

The bartender is silent for a few moments. Then...

"Did you tell the police?"

"I tried. That's when I found out there's no police department in the world with jurisdiction over the North Pole. You'd think there'd be an elf police department or something. But even then, it'd be futile."

"Why's that?"

"Because Santa's fucked enough elves that half of them are related to him somehow. If they were police I doubt they'd listen to me. It'd be like going against one of their own."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I thought about killing myself, you know. Just throw myself in the ice and end it all. But I didn't have the nerve. Like that one ember in a dead campfire that refuses to go out. So a few days ago I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. I don't care if I've been treated like shit. There are others... *were* others that had it worse. It's real easy to hide bodies when all around you is a barren, snowy wasteland. Anyway, I've made my decision."

"Decision?"

"Yeah. I wrote down everything that happened. Every goddamn detailed bit. Anything I could remember I put down on paper. And then I sent copies to every television station around the globe. It was easy too. Turns out Santa gets free postage."

"Do you think he knows?"

"I think he suspects. That's why he's calling me all of a sudden. He knows something's up. He just doesn't know what that something is."

"Well what are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him? I'm not going to tell him shit. As soon as I'm done steeling myself with tequila, I'm hopping on the next flight over to South America. I've got a hankering that Dirty Sanchez has quite a few outstanding warrants over there. Maybe, this Christmas I can kill Santa's coke connection. That should throw a fucking monkey wrench into his Christmas plans. And good luck flying that sled, you fat fuck! Your lazy ass never even fixed the headlights!"

The bartender shook his head in disbelief. Then sighed and reached over for the tequila bottle.

"Here you go, Rudolph. This one's on me. And listen, if even half of what you told me is true, I hope they put that jolly fuck away for a long time."

"I don't know what to say... Thanks."

"Good luck, Rudolph. You'll go down in history."

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Friday, December 19th, 2014
2:10 am
You know what? That's it. I'm putting my foot down. I've been avoiding writing for far too long. Writing isn't a rock. It's not something that you can leave alone, untouched and trust that it will weather through years of neglect. Writing is a muscle and, if you don't use it, you lose it. It atrophies like the brain of a shriveled, sedentary rat. Slowly ferments and liquifies and then, when you go to sleep that one fateful night, and lay your head down flat on the pillow, the writing leaks out of your ear and drenches your bed with a horrid, pungent, filthy, useless brain juice. And you wake up suddenly, thinking it cold sweat but then see your body - skin wrinkled with moisture, half-assed words plastered all over it. You know you fucked up. And you know you're fucked.

Fight, I say. Fight against lassitude and apathy. Against the malignant stagnancy of perpetual procrastination. Pick up that damned keyboard or typewriter or pen. Write something! No matter with what! With ink or graphite or blood or filth or yogurt! Just write. Lock yourself down in a room with twelve loaves of bread, plenty of water, and just enough light so you can read back what you wrote. And set upon the loftiest goal you can set for yourself. Set out to write the Great American Novel!

And that's just what I intend to do.

Write the Great American Novel, I mean. I go about it differently than most. I usually think of the title and brief abstract first. It helps me keep my thoughts together. And, so, this is what I've come up with.

My Great American Novel will be called SHITSTORM. It's about a fecund mass of dastardly feces that comes to Earth in the guise of a meteor and crash lands somewhere along the Pacific Northwest (No offense to anyone that lives there, I just like the sound of "Pacific Northwest".) The fecal meteor crashes with a loud whoosh, and a smell, and a BANG! And people rise up from their beds (this happens around 5:12am on a Saturday) and they look at each other or, maybe, the window or someplace similar or, if they're blind, they sniff with their noses and they all say "What is this shit?"

And that's pretty much what it is. A big ball of shit from outer space. Space shit. Ghastly and gruesome with one side hot and melted into a weird, fungal-like goo (heated by compressed air during the shitball's descent), and the other side frozen (by the vastness of space, the effects of air rapidly moving across its surface, and by the cold, uncaring hearts of men who regard it simply as a " big ball of space shit.")

Anyway, that's all going to be in Part One of the book "Shitstorm". This part will be called "Descent". There are characters in this book too, and they will all be introduced in the first part as well. It will be very artistic and human. Like, two of the main characters will be Jim and Janet Hensom. Now, I know what you're all thinking - Jim Hensom... isn't that a lot like Jim Henson? Well, no, it isn't. This guy's last name ends with an "m" and he doesn't make a living fisting puppets on television. Granted, that was his occupation of choice in the first draft of this abstract but then I decided I did not want to get sued. So I made him a dentist.

His wife Janet, on the other hand, plays bass in a deaf orchestra. She's not deaf herself, by the way, but pretends to be because, let's face it, it's a pretty awesome job and the benefits are great. And you don't have to hit all the notes. Just the low ones.

So Jim and Janet Hansom - on the surface they seem like a happy and successful couple. But, much like in most unsafe and condemned beaches, trouble lurks underneath! For you see, what Janet doesn't know is that Jim Hensom is having an affair... with their toaster ("it's tight *and* warm" is what he tells his therapist). Janet is no angel herself, however, since she kills people for what, at first, appears to be no reason whatsoever (it is later revealed that she is part of a Canadian organ smuggling ring and kills people for their organs (and sometimes body parts too!)).

Of course, their life is upended by this shit meteor coming to town and landing smack dab in the middle of a crowded city block, killing 15 people, 3 poodles, and seriously injuring 2 gerbils. So, right off the bat this becomes a national tragedy. All the major news networks are suddenly all over it ("Breaking News! Giant Ball of Space Shit Kills Fifteen In Pacific Northwest!"). TV anchors and newspaper reporters swarm into town drinking all the coffee and eating all the doughnuts and bagels they can find. In fact they end up causing a shortage and end up knocking on people's doors looking for a caffeine fix.

This seriously affects Jim and Janet's life. All the media attention has put a damper on Janet's murdering and bass-playing so she starts spending more time at home. Then, when she catches Jim furiously fucking the toaster in their kitchen (when he initially told her that he was just going there "to get cereal"), she threatens to leave him. Jim tries to calm her down by being all emotional, crying, waving his hands around, and making bad puns ("I'm a dentist! Filling things is what I do!" - to which Janet replies with "That doesn't mean filling them with your PENIS!").

Anyway, lots of drama. People love to read that stuff. There's a lot more including another character who is a perky, out-of-town cub reporter for the New York International World Journal. Perky because of cocaine. It's a side story at first. I wasn't sure if I should make the reporter a he or a she so I just named them Pat. Androgynous Pat - perky, coke-addicted cub reporter for the New York International World Journal investigating the national tragedy of a giant shitball of space shit crashing and killing fifteen innocent civilians, three poodles, and two guilty gerbils.

Interestingly enough, Androgynous Pat doesn't meet up with Jim and Janet Hensom until Part Two which is called... "Zygote"!

That's right. Zygote. As in fertilized egg. Because, it turns out, that's what the giant ball of space shit is - space sperm! We find this out when the Earth SUDDENLY SWALLOWS UP THE BALL OF SHIT (suspense!). It absorbs the shit DNA and suddenly begins to turn very shitty itself.

That's right. In case you haven't caught on yet - the Earth is an ovum. An egg. And the stench-infused shitball from outer space was some kind of colossal cosmic sperm. Which the Earth (which we now know to be an egg) has swallowed up and absorbed into itself.

And that's when everything turns to shit.

So you've got people running and panicking. Scrambling to get away from the encroaching poop. That's right - the ground is literally turning to shit as well. It's like one of those disaster movies we've all seen except it's *actually happening*! The President declares a National Emergency. The National Guard is called up, the military is coming to town, all the great scientific minds of the world are called upon to meet in a giant think-tank (located at the former Shamu Killer Whale tank at the nearest SeaWorld so, literally, a tank). Everyone is trying to prevent the most disasteriest of disasters: the entire world turning to shit.

By the way, before I go on, I should mention something about the President of the United States of America.

In my novel, the President of the United States of America is a twelve-year old boy. His name is Todd (as in "toddler" which was his nickname at the orphanage he grew up in) and he committed the gravest act of identity theft of all - he stole the identity of a 35 year-old man and ran for Presidential office. He won. Everyone thinks his name is Philip Axon. But it's not. It's Todd. And he's twelve not thirty-five. But I digress.

Anyway, Todd (aka US President Philip Axon) declares a National Emergency while the entire Pacific Northwest is being turned into a giant poophole. A mass evacuation has begun.

So anyway, Jim and Janet Hensom are being evacuated by a giant helicopter and that's where they meed Androgynous Pat. They all talk and find out the following series of interconnected and convoluted facts:

* Androgynous Pat's local coke dealer, Cokey Feltman was a junkie and was murdered by Janet for his "amazingly well-preserved internal organs".

* Because Pat'scoke dealer went missing, Pat turned to coffee for stimulation. Due to the great coffee shortage caused by the swarm of reporters in the town Pat, like many others, went door-to-door begging for a caffeine fix.

* During Pat's numerous, desperate knock-knock escapades Pat came across the door of one Hieronymus Funk (aka Jerome Funk) - local acid jazz extraordinaire and quantum astrobiologist.

* Hieronymus Funk's band mate and scientific colleague was killed during the shitball's impact. His name was Doctor Doctor Unk. That's right. His parents named him Doctor because they wanted him to be a world-class surgeon. He didn't. To spite them, he chose quantum astrobiology as his career instead. Of course, once he obtained his PhD he now gained the title of "Doctor" - hence Doctor Doctor Unk.

* Dr. Unk hypothesized that astronomical bodies may reproduce through sexual means and that cosmic fertilization was responsible for the creation of solar systems and galaxies. What's more, while drunk, he invented a "Cosmic Pheromone Transmitter" (originally called "Cosmic Biological Transmitter" but that had the same acronym as "Cock and Ball Torture" so he scrapped that version of the name) which utilized certain as-of-yet-undiscovered aspects of quantum interference and non-locality to generate a "pathway of reproduction" (using "quantum pick-up lines") leading to Earth.

* This Cosmic Pheromone Transmitter is what caused the shitball from outer space to crash-land and fertilize Earth.

Unfortunately, Hieronymus Funk was, in his own words, "seized by the funk" and was in no mood to board the evacuation helicopters. He did, however give Androgynous Pat Dr. Unk's work notes to bring over to the Shamu Think Tank in order to help to save the Earth. Unfortunately, the notes aren't on paper. Instead, they're stored on a Sony Minidisc and the only player able to read it was destroyed by the impact of the shitball.

Part 3 is called "The End of The World As We Know It"

Todd/President Philip Axon leaves the White House and gets on Air Force One to fly to the Shamu Think Tank to help save the Earth. His Vice President Pete Jackson (they ran on an Axon/Jackson platform), however, has other plans. With the help of rogue General Burt Nekked, Vice President Pete Jackson launches a coup d'etat against Todd/President Philip Jenkins and shoots down Air Force One which crash-lands on the Strip in Las Vegas, Nevada. Todd/President Philip Axon is slightly hurt but survives the crash. He stumbles into the nearest casino looking for help.

General Burt Nekked reports to VP Pete Jackson that President Philip Axon (aka Todd) has been killed. Pete Jackson (now the new President of the United States of America) uses this opportunity to declare himself World Ruler of the New Shit Planet on global television. The world, previously thrown into chaos by the Earth slowly beginning to turn into a giant ball of shit, is now thrown further into chaos. The UN turns into one giant disgusting orgy as world leaders realize they have no bloody clue what to do.

Meanwhile, Todd/former President Philip Axon (who I will simply call Philip Axon from now on) is found bleeding and nearly unconscious by former stage-magician-turned-gay-stripper Richard the Magnificent. Richard gives Philip Axon first aid and tells him about Pete Jackson becoming World Ruler. Philip Axon insists that he has to get to the Shamu Think Tank to save the world. Richard and Philip hijack a helicopter and use it to fly out to San Diego - the location of the Shamu Think Tank.

In the meantime, General Burt Nekked realized that Philip Axon survived the assassination attempt. Overhearing a report of a stolen helicopter flying to San Diego he realizes that the helicopter contains Philip Axon and orders a black-ops team operating out of LA to shoot the helicopter down (claiming it's being piloted by terrorists).

The black-ops team is suspicious, however, since General Burt Nekked is working for Pete Jackson. Instead of shooting Philip Axon's helicopter down they, instead, force it to land. Seeing that Philip Axon is on board they declare their allegiance to him. However, since the helicopter can't hold all of them they decide to get on a nearby evacuation helicopter which is coming in from the Pacific Northwest. This is the same evacuation helicopter that is ferrying Janet and Jim Hensom as well as Androgynous Pat.

Part 4 is called "Assholes In Space"

Seeing Philip Axon board the evacuation helicopter along with his new bodyguards (the black-ops team that rogue General Burt Nekked sent), everyone there declares their allegiance to him. Jim, Janet, and Pat all quickly explain Hieronymus Funk's story about Dr. Unk and the big ball of space shit that perma-fucked the Earth and how they can't access the scientist's notes because no one has a Sony Minidisc player.

And that is when Philip Axon pulls one out of his pocket. Everyone is shocked and ask why he has one. This is when Philip Axon decides to come clean and admit to everyone that he's really Todd - a 12 year old boy who ran away from an orphanage and adopted the identity of a 35 year-old man. The Sony MiniDisc player was his only connection to his birth mother who died while giving birth to Todd.

"Twelve years old? Well THAT explains your boyish good looks, Mister President!"

Everyone agrees to keep Todd's secret secret. Since he's still President, Todd decides to appoint Richard the Magnificent as his new Vice President. The evacuation helicopter lands in SeaWorld and everyone rushes off to the Shamu Think Tank where they receive news that the ongoing shitstorm has spread. The current "shit radius" is 500 miles which means that a circle 1000 miles across has now been turned to shit.

Realizing that they only have, at most, a few hours to save the world, they quickly put Dr. Unk's notes into the Minidisc and hit PLAY.

Dr. Unk then expounds upon his theories of interstellar reproduction but then veers off into talking about cosmic evolution. It seems that he's conducted a few private experiments ("Of which Hieronymus would not approve") that revealed that organic matter, when exposed to interstellar reproduction material, is bumped up to a higher state of evolution (through heterosis a.k.a. "hybrid vigor"). He brought down the shitball to initiate the next step in human evolution - we are destined to become assholes. Interstellar assholes. Meant to travel the stars, explore new galaxies, and colonize new worlds.

In other words, the Shit Storm (as it is now officially known) is not destruction. It's evolution.

Everyone thus decides to stop trying to prevent the inevitable. Instead, Androgynous Pat suggests that they all go to get drunk at the SeaWorld bar. Everyone agrees.

That's when General Burt Nekked's forces storm the Think Tank.

Part 5, the final part, is called "End Game or Asshole In One"

The entirety of the Shamu Think Tank team is holed up in the bar with the President's bodyguards/black-ops team doing their best to hold the fort. Unfortunately, the progress of shitty evolution is still hours away. Janet assists the black-ops team but is wounded in the process. Jim attends to her wounds and finally realizes that no toaster can do for him what Janet does. They reconcile.

Unfortunately the black-ops team is slowly but surely beaten down by General Burt Nekked's forces. They decide to blow up the entrance to the bar as a last resort - in order to prevent General Burt Nekked's forces from coming in and massacring everyone. Before they get a chance to do so, however, there is a sound of what sounds like thunder and...

Hieronymus Funk emerges from the sky, leading his LEGION OF COSMIC ASSHOLES. That's right - everyone who didn't get a chance to evacuate was transformed into a cosmic asshole - the next step in human evolution. It's sort of like Superman, if Superman was a massive asshole (but not in a bad way).

Hieronymus Funk and his legion of cosmic assholes easily defeat General Burt Nekked's forces. Then Androgynous Pat fills Hieronymus in on everything that occurred since they met. Attempting to restore balance to the Earth, Hieronymus and his legion of cosmic assholes then proceed to carry the Shamu Think Tank, President Philip Axon (aka Todd) and his bodyguards, newly-appointed Vice President Richard the Magnificent, and Janet and Jim Hansom to Washington DC to confront the World Ruler Pete Jackson and his right hand man General Burt Nekked.

They burst into the Oval Office only to find Pete Jackson and General Burt Nekked sitting next to an armed nuclear warhead with both men holding dead man's switches. If any of them are harmed or disabled, the nuclear warhead will detonate killing everyone within a 50 mile radius. Furthermore, there is a timer on the bomb set to thirty minutes and counting.

The team attempts to negotiate with them but Pete Jackson and Burt Nekked have gone completely insane. Muttering to themselves with interspersed bouts of sudden and random screaming. The black-ops team decides that they may be able to take down both Pete Jackson and Burt Nekked in one go without activating the dead man's switches but it will require precise timing and is as difficult as "getting a hole in one". They manage to subdue Pete Jackson successfully but one of the pair grabbing General Burt Nekked is shot by the General (with his ivory-handled M1911A1). When the General attempts to fire again - this time a killing shot, Todd jumps in front of the gun but is shot himself. At this point Richard the Magnificent, Janet, and Jim all rush over and begin to beat down the General while the black-ops team manages to disarm his dead man's switch.

It turns out that Todd isn't dead. His Sony Minidisc player caught the bullet. However, with minutes left on the nuke there isn't much time to spare. Hieronymus grabs the nuke and flies up with it. Once in Lower Earth Orbit he throws it at the sun. The nuclear warhead detonates harmlessly in space.

Epilogue

A few months later. The transformation of the world is now complete and all life on it has evolved. President Todd has admitted his secret to the world but it doesn't matter now. Everything is different. We have reached new galaxies and settled on distant worlds. Reality is no more and nobody fucks toasters. Jim, Janet, Androgynous Pat, Todd, Richard the Magnificent, the Bodyguards, and Richard the Magnificent now sit at the head of a galactic council. And everyone on Earth is an asshole.

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Sunday, June 2nd, 2013
4:01 pm
Why is so much science fiction about space? I mean I like spaceships as much as the next guy but so much crap about the cosmos seems to turn the entire subject into... the mundane. Why not skip right to it then and deliberately write about the mundane? I think we all know what I'm getting at here. Let's write science fiction about toilets.

Toilets. Toilets are the metaphor of life. Full of shit and piss but plop plop fizz fizz oh what a relief it is. And, while for most people toilets can be pretty boring, some of them do represent very exciting lives. Some toilets clog. Others explode. Still others are some sort of strange, cybernetically-enhanced amalgam of porcelain and silicon that warms your ass, washes your crack, and sings Daisy to you every time you want to pull the plug on the thing.

What will toilets of the future look like? Will they still sit still? Will they travel? Can they fly? "Forget about the flying car - here's the Flying Toilet!". Will they develop a taste of human flesh? Or perhaps a city's plumbing system will turn sentient - with sewage pipes forming neurons connected together with junctions and drains and synapse gaps. Three flushes and all of a sudden every single toilet in a three mile radius belches out "KILL THE HUMANS". We are doomed and our hero is *sitting on the toilet right now oblivious to the doom right under his ass*.

That's true suspense right there. No one suspects their toilet. It's the one thing we've come to trust. An island of hope in the turbulent seas of uncertainty. But that truly is a crap metaphor. Literally.

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4:00 pm
So what you're saying is Scott Baio rules the multiverse? That's crazy!

No it isn't! Think about it... he played Charles "Chachi" Arcola in Happy Days and in Joanie Loves Chachi. Then he played Charles in Charles In Charge. His role wasn't the same in that one but he was still named Charles and he still had the same mother. And remember - he played Barney Springboro in Zapped!

Yeah, he wasn't called Charles in that one so there goes your whole theory.

Wait, wait. His best friend in Zapped! was Peyton Nichols who was played by Willie Ames. Willie Ames was also his best friend in Charles In Charge! Sure, his name was different - Buddy Lembeck - but they're still the same character! Just like "Charles" is the same in every single universe! It doesn't matter what his name is. Hell, his name's Scott Baio in our universe! He could be Fred Durst somewhere else! But no matter his name he still exists in... Every. Single. Universe!

Ok, that's way too many names. You're off your meds again.

No, I'm not! I don't need them anymore! Don't you see? SCOTT BAIO TOLD ME I DON'T NEED THEM ANYMORE!!!

-----

This is what happens when I'm stuck at work on a sunny Sunday.

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4:00 pm
It all started downhill when I grew that beard. Those hairy fibrous tendrils attached to my chin. Like some sort of strange chitinous plants that flex and bend on their own. The fabled "beard shimmer" - more of a shudder, really. I swear to you it's got a mind of its own. And it grew overnight...

I'd wake up in a sweat and find that beard turned up and "looking" right at me. Slowly watching me with the tips of its "hairs". I tried shaving it off but it wrestled the razor from my hands every time. When I tried to surprise it with a pair of gardening shears it (somehow) emitted a horrid, inhuman shriek and shoved its beard tentacles into my nostrils.

That's when I realized it was after my brain.

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4:00 pm
They say sex sells but I've been sending out nude photos of me with my resume and, aside from a few sternly-worded cease and desist orders, I've got no replies back.

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3:59 pm
I'm currently reading Halting State by Charles Stross. Apparently there's a sequel called... Rule 34. Hopefully when I get that book the pages aren't sticky...

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3:59 pm
If you haven't caught up to the present you are living in the future.

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3:58 pm
So A&W wants to put advertisements on people's beards. Meanwhile, dozens of cat owners are using their cats as beard replacements. I think you can tell where I'm going with this...

http://beardvertising.com/ - Beard Advertising
http://catbeards.tumblr.com/ - Cat Beards

You're welcome, world.

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3:58 pm
So Cthulhu + Chihuahua = ...Cthuhuahua?

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Sunday, May 12th, 2013
3:36 pm - What the fuck did I just write?
- Look - you say you want to write something good. You want your words to be art. Well then write art. Write about people. Write about the human condition.

- The human condition? What is that? Is that a disease? Is that like AIDS? Did Freddie Mercury die of the human condition?

- What? No! The human condition is not AIDS! It’s... it’s what we are. It’s what people do. It’s how we live and suffer through tragedies and triumphs. It’s what makes us laugh and what makes us cry. That’s the human condition.

- Well, I don’t know about you but if I found out I had AIDS I’d cry. I guess AIDS could be the human condition then.

- Are you stupid? I just told you... look. Nevermind. Just shut up and leave me alone. Go write one of your stupid stories.

- They’re not stupid!

- Really? Your last story was about a man with wings who couldn’t fly because he lived in a house made of candy and got too fat and heavy from eating pieces of his house.

- Yeah, it was a deeply ironic tale!

- THERE WAS NOTHING IRONIC ABOUT IT! Look. Let me... let me go relax a bit. I’m a bit jumpy today. It’s my nerves. I’ve quit coffee since I’m trying to cut down on my caffeine intake. It’s why I’ve got such a short temper this morning.

- So... you quit coffee and got AIDS?

- What? No, I don’t have AIDS! I’m just cranky.

- Fine. You don’t have AIDS. You have the human condition.

- If you don’t shut up I’m going to put you in a condition.

- Fine. I’m going to go now. I’m going to go and write a story.

- Fine.

- Yeah, and it’s going to be a good story. It’s going to be a great story in fact. And you know what it’s going to be about?

- I don’t want to hear it.

- It’s going to be about this guy. This guy, right? He quits coffee and then he gets AIDS.

- You can’t do that!

- Why not?

- Because that’s... that’s what we just talked about. That’s my life.

- But you don’t have AIDS. You have the human condition.

- You know what? I don’t know you. Bye!

- Fine. I’ll just sit here and write then.

***

Chapter 1 - The Human Condition

Bob quit coffee today. Then Bob got AIDS. Hearing this news made Bob cry. Bob was sad. He had the human condition. He didn’t want to die. Bob wanted to live. Live, Bob. Live.

Bob had a best friend named Jack. Jack was the best guy in the whole world. Jack didn’t care that Bob had AIDS. Sure, it would be sad to see Bob die but at least Jack could then use Bob’s stereo anytime he wanted. Jack hated asking permission from Bob to use his stereo. Bob would always start whining about something stupid like politics. Or the economy. Or how he had AIDS.

The next morning Bob died. He was hit by a bus. The bus was very sorry.

Chapter 2 - After The Bus

After getting hit by the bus and dying, Bob ended up in the Afterlife. The Afterlife is the place you go to after life. Sort of like where you go after work. In this case, the Afterlife was located in Miami Beach, Florida. Bob could tell it was the Afterlife because of all the old people around. Also, it was warm and he didn’t have to wear a coat. But it wasn’t too hot so Bob knew he wasn’t in Hell. That place is in Michigan.

Bob stood there, in Miami Beach, Florida, and thought about what he was going to do next. Suddenly an Angel appeared beside him. He wore white jogging shorts and was listening to some music on his iPod. He stuck out his hand. “Hi, Bob. My name is Angel. I’m an angel. I’m also an interior designer. And I have a line of discount designer couches available at most discount department stores.”

Bob shook the angel’s hand. “Hello, Angel. I am Bob. I had the human condition and was hit by a bus and died. I am now in Miami Beach, Florida but I don’t know anyone or anything around here and I’m a little lost. Can you help me and tell me what to do?”

The angel turned off his iPod. “I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t hear what you said. Would you care to repeat that?”

“Actually I do care,” said Bob as he frustratedly stepped off the sidewalk and onto the busy street. He was suddenly hit and killed by a bus.

Chapter 3 - After the second bus

It turns out that if you get killed in the Afterlife you come back to life in real life. Or, at least, that is what (conveniently) happened in Bob’s case. He opened his eyes.

“Where am I?”

“It’s ok, Bob” whispered Jack. “You were dead for ten seconds but now you’re alive. It’s a cool Christmas miracle during a hot July month.”

“Is that you, Jack?”

“Yes, Bob. Live, Bob! Live!”

Bob thought about it for a moment.

“No.”

Bob died again.

FIN.

***

What the fuck did I just write?

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11:11 am - Random writing.
Bloody hell. I don’t know what is wrong with me. It could be that I woke up really early on a Sunday, my feet are wet, and I’m working through my weekend. Typical.

I feel down. Depressed. It’s one of those times when you really start to analyze your life. Scratch that. Over-analyze your life. All the little bad things and inconsistencies and whatnot come glaring out at you. Nagging at you. Threatening to pull you down into the whatnot by your ears as they whisper in them.

Let’s deal with this one at a time, shan’t we?

Right now, thinking about it all, I (once again) come to the conclusion that I am living in some sort of bubble. A cultural bubble. I don’t have a TV, for example. No. Wait. That’s not entirely right. I have a TV but I don’t actually watch TV. I don’t have cable. I don’t really know what shows are popular. I watch one or two things on websites like Hulu but I tend to keep that at a minimum.

Anyway, I don’t watch TV. I don’t hang out with people. I don’t meet new people. I don’t know what’s out there. There could be a fad with millions of people wearing unlubricated, glow-in-the-dark condoms in their underwear (No, I don’t know why they would do that. Vitamin D deficiency, may be? Not enough sunlight?) or some other strange thing and it would just pass right by me. Like a fart in a tornado. Gone unnoticed.

My point is that, if twenty years from now I would walk straight dab into a conversation between two people reminiscing about the “twenty-tens” or whatever this decade is going to be called, and they would start listing all the things they miss (or don’t miss) about it I probably wouldn’t know 97.65321% of them. Or, perhaps I’d recognize some glimpse that I did not think was significant at the time and think to myself “Oh yeeeeeeah... I never really paid attention to that. Interesting.”

“Remember, in the twenty-tens, when that guy stuck his dick in a car exhaust and got it pregnant?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that how we ended up with the Mini-Cooper?”

Ok, so may be I’m getting my decades a little wrong but that’s the general jist of it all.

Also, it’s freezing in here.

It’s like a meat locker in here. They can hang slabs of butchered meat to preserve them and I could swing them back and forth against each other for fun. Like some strange game of suspended-carnivore-dominoes.

And my feet are wet. Cold and wet feet do not go well together. For one thing, it impinges on the bladder. I do not know why. I read an interesting hypothesis a few years back about it though. Something along the lines of how diabetes was actually a survival trait for humans back during the last Ice Age since sugar-infused blood has a lower melting point. In other words, if you have higher blood sugar your blood doesn’t freeze when it gets cold. Unless it gets really, really cold, of course. That’s also why we have to piss more when it’s cold. So we don’t get ice crystals in our blood.

That sounds like something fun to say at parties. Better than talking about sticking a dick in a car exhaust and giving birth to one of the more popular cars of the early 21st century.

I think I need a career change. I mean IT is great and all but is it really something I want to be doing when I’m 60? Imagine that. I’ll probably be bitching about how nothing works right, everything’s dumbed down, and how we’re using the processing equivalent of “twenty-tens” supercomputers to play a 3-D version of porno solitaire.

Hey, speaking of porno, that reminds me for a possible career course I was thinking about. Some events a while back rattled my head and about and stuck in me the idea of trying my hairy hand (it’s not that hairy - I just like saying/typing “hairy hand”) at screenwriting. You know. Screenwriting. Like scripts for movies and TV shows and whatnot.

Well, one of these “whatnots” would be porno films. I know that nowadays most porno fims don’t really feature a story. But still, a man can dream.

One idea I ran by Anne the other day was for “Lesbo Scanners”. I’m still getting the synopsis worked out but it’s pretty much a lesbian porno version of David Cronenberg’s “Scanners”. Psychic lesbians. And they fight using their minds. It’s a bit of a mindfuck. Pun intended.

A typical “battle” would be two lesbians facing off. They’re staring at each other, each face a hardened grimace of psychic concentration. Then the scene dissolves into what’s taking place on the “psychic plane”. Here, they’re not fighting. They’re fucking. Or whatever the term is for what lesbians do. They’re “lesbianing”. “Going at it”. “Rubbing two credit card readers against one another”. The point is - they’re having sex. They’re trying to make each other cum. And you do get individual orgams here and there but each lesbian is trying to give the other one The Big One.

What happens during The Big One? It’s a huge orgasm on the “psychic plane” that results in the... uh... orgasmee’s (is that a word?) head exploding in real life. I told you it was like Scanners, right?

I haven’t actually fleshed out (pun intended) the plot yet. I’m pretty sure there’s going to be one main protagonist but I’m not too sure who the antagonists are going to be. Oh well. I’ve plenty of time.

And now I’m hungry. Ok. Time to go get some food.

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Thursday, July 19th, 2012
1:52 pm
‎"How is 'I want to drink your boob milk' not an awesome pickup line?"

"Did you get laid using it?"

"I got boob-fed."

"But did you get laid?"

"No. But only 'cause I got really sleepy afterwards. That stuff's really sweet. Almost like a Snapple. Snipple. Heh heh."

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Saturday, February 25th, 2012
2:43 pm
murd0c: sergey
murd0c: you gotta help me
Sergey: Hey, what's up?
murd0c: its all coming down around me
murd0c: RAIN
murd0c: WHAT WILL I DO
murd0c: RAIN WILL NEVER GO AWAY
murd0c: it might be semen from Jesus
Sergey: Ok, don't panic. Here's what you do.
Sergey: You find an old wool sweater and start ripping it up.
Sergey: Also get a Brillo pad and do the same thing.
murd0c: okay
murd0c: i got both that
Sergey: Then mix the fibers together really well and then wrap the resuling fabric-thingie around your cock.
Sergey: Then go outside and jack off while pointing your man-wang at the sky.
Sergey: That should cancel out the negative orgone energy and stop the rain.
Sergey: IT'S SO SIMPLE!
murd0c: thank god
Sergey: Even a caveman can do it!
murd0c: i knew i kept you around for a reson
murd0c: are you going to be at HOPE
Sergey: Uh
Sergey: Probably
Sergey: I haven't gotten a room yet though.
murd0c: i haven't seen you in forever
Sergey: I'm bringing Anne along if I do.
Sergey: Well it's in the city so I'll definitely be around.
Sergey: Unless the Mothership comes back for me.
murd0c: yeah, you're too cool for it.
murd0c: i understand
murd0c: why did you marry Anne
murd0c: and not me?
murd0c: i thought you and I had something, man.
Sergey: Yeah, you and I had something but I finally found a clinic in the Philippines that would treat it.
murd0c: you broke a nigga heart
Sergey: It took at least sixteen shots and I had to be held under quarantine for three weeks.
Sergey: They made me burn all my clothing and shave off my body hair.
Sergey: I looked like a carnivorous Powder.
murd0c: Powder
murd0c: haha
murd0c: i'm gonna miss you Sergey
murd0c: EVERYONE WILL MISS YOU
Sergey: I'M NOT DEAD!!!
murd0c: bing
murd0c: i just killed you
murd0c: with my mind
Sergey: Can't.
Sergey: My mom takes ephemerol.
Sergey: And I still have my Soviet schoolchildren psychotronic defence helmet.
murd0c: god. damnit.
murd0c: you're a naturalized American
murd0c: so
murd0c: i should be able to kill you with my mind

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Friday, January 27th, 2012
11:02 am - Story in progress...
His parents named him Ernest because they wanted him to be honest so, when he grew up to be a fiction writer, they ended up disowning him. He moved out and, with the little savings he had, ended up living illegally in a rent controlled apartment that was actually occupied by an octogenarian named Arthur. Unfortunately, Arthur ended up dying of a heart attack the day after Ernest moved in. That same night Ernest dragged Arthur’s body outside and stuffed it into a nearby dumpster and, afterwards, told everyone that Arthur had become increasingly reclusive and antisocial and that Ernest himself would “deliver Arthur’s rent checks from now on”. So, yeah, it got a little complicated.

His love life was no better. Everything he’d ever known about dating he ended up reading about in an old paperback called “How To Pick Up Strippers”. This ensured that all his trysts ended up involving either exotic dancers or acrobats. Though one time he did pick up a school teacher but he later found out that she did a bit of stripping on the side so it didn’t really differentiate her from the rest. The relationship (if you could call it that) was short and ended on a sour note when she had confided in him that she had fallen in love with one of her students who was named Joanne. Joanne was twelve years old. It was sort of awkward talking to her after that. Her name was Sharona, by the way, and Ernest always felt a little awkward calling her that. My Sharona. After she broke the news he went down to a bar and downed six shots of whiskey, threw up, and got into a fight. He lost and went home sulking and went straight to bed. When he woke up the next morning he stumbled out of the bed naked and dragged himself to take a piss and look in the mirror. That’s when he found himself the proud owner of a brand new shiny black eye which hung on his face like a misplaced areola. He smiled and said “Hello, nipple face.” Then he went back to his room, sat naked on a chair in front of an old and beat up typewriter and started to write.

He thought he was writing a short novel about a fictional 19th century anthropologist (who just happened to be a dwarf) and was living with a tribe of cannibals somewhere in the Amazon. The tribe, having eaten all the females in their culture, were having trouble finding ways of reproducing and thus took to stealing jaguar cubs and attempting to teach them the ways of their culture. The working title was called “A Dwarf Amidst A Gang of Jaguar Man Eaters” but the novel was shit and ended up going sideways. So sideways, in fact, that Ernest found that by Chapter 13 the anthropologist (who is never named but is called “Igg” by the tribe) finds out that what he thought of as the jungle is actually a large nature “preserve” inside of an underground Martian zoo. Igg and the all-male cannibal tribe are the only human occupants and some of the jaguars are actually aliens. By Chapter 15 he had vowed to burn the damned book. By Chapter 20 he decided to change the working title to “An Exercise in Futility” and by Chapter 21 he gave up and went to sleep.

That night he dreamt he was flying high above unknown cities amidst towering skyscrapers and bridges of copper and gold and massive highways on which strange and wonderful and futuristic cars moved silently and efficiently and fast towards strange vistas somewhere beyond. And Ernest, in the form of a giant, iridescent bird, did not take a shit on any of those cars because he was a good and polite bird and was not at all like those asshole birds in real life that will shit on your head just because they feel like it. “Fucking pigeons” thought Ernest and decided that, in his newfound aerial freedom, he should dive down like a swan into the blue depths of a vast ocean that lay beyond the shore of the wonderful dream city. He dove in and woke up, sweating, only to find himself swimming unconsciously in a mattress soaked with his piss. “Goddammit” thought Ernest. This was the third bed-wetting incident this week. “I’ve got to do something about these piss-dreams” he said to himself.

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Sunday, September 18th, 2011
6:12 am
He walked around with his penis sticking out of his pants. One day he even managed to scotch tape a pair of spectacles to it. He'd walk right beside you so you wouldn't notice it and then, at some random moment (and god only knows how he picks them) he'd jump in front of you, thrust his bespectacled thing at you, and yell "Say good morning to Doctor Cocklestein!"

Yes, he had a name for it. Doctor Cocklestein. And, in all the years, he has never changed it.

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6:02 am
You know, sometimes my organs shut down.
Just for fun.
Fuckers.
That's why I carry a stun gun.
I *force* them to work.
If I'm not getting a break why should they?
They can sleep when I'm dead.
I fear that may be very soon now.
Uncooperative assholes.
Except for my asshole.
At least he's reliable.

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5:56 am
One day all the skyscrapers would build little plexiglass walkways linking up the 30th floor of every building. These walkways would be see through to let sunlight come down unhindered and would, in effect, create a whole new city, layered on top of the old, overnight. Pedestrians taking a morning stroll a few hundred feet up would be known as shadow people due to the large shadows they'd cast down onto the streets below.

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5:28 am
Yes, I'm writing again. No, it's not any good. I'm just getting the cogs turning in my head. I'll be there soon.

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