So it had been a bad day. A really bad day. But it had finally wound down and it was time to head on out, meet up with some friends, and bitterly complain about our mundane lives. I was gonna need some money though, and that's when my friendly friend the ATM came to mind. He'll have money for me! He's always good to me like that. So with a song in my heart and a spring in my step I made my way to Mr. Moneypants, who is always happy to assist me.
Except for this time.
It's always a shock to be told your simple transaction for a pittance can't be completed, or that your balance is roughly $0. He still wanted to be helpful though, and provided me the option of looking at recent activity. "Well, let's just see what's been going on here." I thought. Suddenly I was assaulted with a flurry of withdrawals. Withdrawals I'm pretty fucking sure I didn't make though probably did. I do remember making deposits though. "What of the deposits!" I cried. There was no answer beyond the gentile hum of a machine that had grown cold, and ceased to love me.
I paused for a moment. Considered my options. Then finally did what any dignified member of a civilized society would do.
I punched the ATM. Just so it understood where I was at, you know?
Now, this is the important part kids so gather 'round and pay attention. However much you may believe that your local ATM is a poorly constructed piece of junk it's not. They are, as it turns out, incredibly sturdy machines. Much more than, let's say, the human hand. Moreover, as is so often the case, physics is not on your side. If you throw down with your ATM machine, you will lose. It's a tough lesson, I know, but it's a tough world.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Being An Adult Blows
Call me naive if you like, but I am of the general disposition that there was an implicit promise that when grown up my life would be a lot better. Isn't that pretty much the promise? You jump through the hoops of high school and parental control, put up with being broke in college for four years in spite of flinging yourself into a giant debt hole, then it's on to the sweetest freedom right? Well, I beg to fucking differ, because so far all I have to show for being "on my own" is an ulcer the size of Kansas City, and a bank balance whose digits, when added together, equal eight.
Sure, as a child you have to put up with a lot of shit. You control nothing. You have no voice in anything. You are, for all intents and purposes, a slave to the wisdom of your parents. The benefits though? Oh they are sweet. If there was something you were afraid to do, like a cannonball off the high dive board, and finally got the courage to do it you could shout "watch me!" until you got your folks attention. When you made that leap you were celebrated as a hero.
What a brave little tyke you were! "Let's get you out of those wet clothes and into a warm Happy Meal" was the order of the day. You felt like the king of the world, but in retrospect there was a long way to go before the really frightening crap started. Climbing a tall tree may have been a big deal when you were ten, but that doesn't exactly prepare you for the day when you've got rent due and all you have is $3.58. In pennies. That you were hoping to use to buy some Top Ramen. And when you do figure out a way around that who's there to pat you on the head and give you a cookie?
Do I pay into a 401K? You're damn right I do. It's the smart thing to do. It's the grownup thing to do. It's also the damn boring thing to do. I want that money! Thinking about marriage? You'd better start saving now, cause that 30 year mortgage ain't gonna pay itself. And while you're at it you might want to look into moving. Sure, that cool city you moved to when you were fresh out of college was a lot of fun, but is it the kind of place where you want to buy property? And what about raising kids? You gotta think about the children. Of course, this is all assuming that you've gotten past the punching a girl in the arm and calling her a doody-head phase of your life and can construct reasonably mature relationships.
I'd also recommend that you disabuse yourself of any notion you might have of still being indestructible. I'll admit it worked great for me yeas ago when it could be argued that I was, in fact, somewhat impervious to harm. Back when I could get hit in the head with a pole vault pole and scoff at the very idea of going to the hospital. Back when we would stay up all night drinking frighteningly cheap beer until the sun came up letting us know that it was chicken fried steak and a short stack of pancakes time. Before I found I had the preternatural ability to severely injure myself while sleeping.
Now, more than a couple of cups of coffee makes me feel like I swallowed a blowtorch, and after about three beers I'm getting awfully tired and after all it's already 9:00 and I've got work tomorrow.
Sure, as a child you have to put up with a lot of shit. You control nothing. You have no voice in anything. You are, for all intents and purposes, a slave to the wisdom of your parents. The benefits though? Oh they are sweet. If there was something you were afraid to do, like a cannonball off the high dive board, and finally got the courage to do it you could shout "watch me!" until you got your folks attention. When you made that leap you were celebrated as a hero.
What a brave little tyke you were! "Let's get you out of those wet clothes and into a warm Happy Meal" was the order of the day. You felt like the king of the world, but in retrospect there was a long way to go before the really frightening crap started. Climbing a tall tree may have been a big deal when you were ten, but that doesn't exactly prepare you for the day when you've got rent due and all you have is $3.58. In pennies. That you were hoping to use to buy some Top Ramen. And when you do figure out a way around that who's there to pat you on the head and give you a cookie?
Do I pay into a 401K? You're damn right I do. It's the smart thing to do. It's the grownup thing to do. It's also the damn boring thing to do. I want that money! Thinking about marriage? You'd better start saving now, cause that 30 year mortgage ain't gonna pay itself. And while you're at it you might want to look into moving. Sure, that cool city you moved to when you were fresh out of college was a lot of fun, but is it the kind of place where you want to buy property? And what about raising kids? You gotta think about the children. Of course, this is all assuming that you've gotten past the punching a girl in the arm and calling her a doody-head phase of your life and can construct reasonably mature relationships.
I'd also recommend that you disabuse yourself of any notion you might have of still being indestructible. I'll admit it worked great for me yeas ago when it could be argued that I was, in fact, somewhat impervious to harm. Back when I could get hit in the head with a pole vault pole and scoff at the very idea of going to the hospital. Back when we would stay up all night drinking frighteningly cheap beer until the sun came up letting us know that it was chicken fried steak and a short stack of pancakes time. Before I found I had the preternatural ability to severely injure myself while sleeping.
Now, more than a couple of cups of coffee makes me feel like I swallowed a blowtorch, and after about three beers I'm getting awfully tired and after all it's already 9:00 and I've got work tomorrow.
Friday, May 7, 2010
In the Zone
You don't want to be at work. You never want to be at work really, but today is just ridiculous. Yesterday (the ever changing standard by which you always measure the present) was ok except for when your dad called you to let you know that he's been recently plagued by nightmares about dying, and just though you should know. Oh, and then you remembered that it was your friends last shift at the bar and you sure as hell could use a drink. Why did you think it would be a couple of beers, man this sucks, and let's meet up next week so you can spend some of that unemployment? Instead it was an avalanche of shots. Bullets of Irish whiskey aimed with dead-eye accuracy for your liver and consumed as though if you ever stopped the Pope would die.
But you're not hung over.
Your legs feel slightly like jelly because they are filled with restless boredom. Your stomach churns as you shift in your chair. You don't want to be at work -- You want to be laying in bed, covered in flannel while flipping through the channels complaining about how there's nothing good on TV anymore. Maybe you just want to go to sleep. God knows you didn't get much sleep last night. Or the night before that. Or for too many nights to keep track of anymore. You're no doctor, but you're pretty sure that by going to sleep at an obscenely early hour on a Friday you can make up for the years of sleep you've been missing out on. A good, deep sleep that when you try to explain to others can only be done using trite phrases like "arms of Morpheus" or some other bullshit.
But you're not really tired.
Your mind is simply pre-occupied with the past. With memories of your life long ago that have faded around the edges. It's not really a surprise, they were things you didn't even really think about as they were happening much less after they were over. Now, however, you are desperate to seek them out again as though they were a lighthouse on the horizon; lose it and you, yourself, are lost. So you claw at the interior of your brain to regain those memories. You think about how you used to sneak into the fair every year for the sole purpose of ogling the older girls with their huge bangs and leg warmers and then go eat fried bread. Back before you relegated such things to the dustbin of pointless adolescence. You remember 3am at the breakfast joint with your best friend pouring liquor in your coffee under the table.
Getting handed the keys to your new car that was purchased by your dad in the shortest lived mid-life crisis ever, and having decided that it was impractical for a man of his age to be driving a sports car just let you have it. Trying to remember the name of that girl who sat in that very car waiting for you to kiss her, but you couldn't.
Then you find yourself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. At how amazingly different your life has become. At how much better and how much worse things are now. You wouldn't trade anything to go back to those days, and yet you would trade your very life to return to the memories. To return to the construct that you have built for yourself and can, sometimes late at night, convince yourself was the reality.
But you're not hung over.
Your legs feel slightly like jelly because they are filled with restless boredom. Your stomach churns as you shift in your chair. You don't want to be at work -- You want to be laying in bed, covered in flannel while flipping through the channels complaining about how there's nothing good on TV anymore. Maybe you just want to go to sleep. God knows you didn't get much sleep last night. Or the night before that. Or for too many nights to keep track of anymore. You're no doctor, but you're pretty sure that by going to sleep at an obscenely early hour on a Friday you can make up for the years of sleep you've been missing out on. A good, deep sleep that when you try to explain to others can only be done using trite phrases like "arms of Morpheus" or some other bullshit.
But you're not really tired.
Your mind is simply pre-occupied with the past. With memories of your life long ago that have faded around the edges. It's not really a surprise, they were things you didn't even really think about as they were happening much less after they were over. Now, however, you are desperate to seek them out again as though they were a lighthouse on the horizon; lose it and you, yourself, are lost. So you claw at the interior of your brain to regain those memories. You think about how you used to sneak into the fair every year for the sole purpose of ogling the older girls with their huge bangs and leg warmers and then go eat fried bread. Back before you relegated such things to the dustbin of pointless adolescence. You remember 3am at the breakfast joint with your best friend pouring liquor in your coffee under the table.
Getting handed the keys to your new car that was purchased by your dad in the shortest lived mid-life crisis ever, and having decided that it was impractical for a man of his age to be driving a sports car just let you have it. Trying to remember the name of that girl who sat in that very car waiting for you to kiss her, but you couldn't.
Then you find yourself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. At how amazingly different your life has become. At how much better and how much worse things are now. You wouldn't trade anything to go back to those days, and yet you would trade your very life to return to the memories. To return to the construct that you have built for yourself and can, sometimes late at night, convince yourself was the reality.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Addiction
I am, in every conceivable way, a child of the 80's. I can name for you all twelve members of the Legion of Doom. If one were to say to me, "It's a wagon wheel!", I would immediately respond with, "It's time for timer!" I will tell you about the horrors of new coke if you would like. I remember "Manamal".
What marks me most as a member of the leg-warmer and giant bangs generation though, are the video games. We were the people who went beyond pong to games that were sophisticated tests of 8-bit skill and stamina. Sometimes when I see kids running to the store to pick up the hottest game of the month (I believe it's "FightFight Revolution XV: The Bloodening" right now) I often find myself thinking just how badly I could kick their asses at Karate Champ.
So it was that huge portions of my childhood were spent in a dirty, but much beloved arcade. Poorly lit with stained brown carpets creating the only appropriate atmosphere to try and master Defender. Then, one day, a new game came onto the scene. It was a game that would change the world. A game that would launch a thousand ships. A game that would bind us all.
Super Mario Bros.
It was a game like no other. A game that everyone simply had to play to be cool. Every day after school I would go straight to the arcade in an attempt to feed my new found addiction. Every day after school I would arrive to find a trio or quartet of swarthy teenagers huddled around the game, each with all the money in the world in tokens lined up on the machine in reservation. It was a shiny barrier telling those of us with dreams of playing that our time would be better spent working out our strategy for Elevator Action. It only got worse as the teenagers got better at the game and could play for hours at a time on one token.
I was on the verge of giving up when I was hit with divine inspiration. The arcade, on Sunday, opened at 10am. To play my game I would be there right when they opened! I was, at that moment, clearly the smartest child on earth. The first Sunday in which I incepted my plan I was up and ready to well before the time of opening. Shortly before ten I was on my bike and speeding towards digital nirvana. Just as I suspected my plan worked perfectly. When I arrived there was nary a soul to be found other than the bleary eyed attendant.
For months that became my Sunday ritual. Up by ten and off the arcade where it was all mine. After a couple of weeks the attended started giving me a few tokens to run next door and get her coffee.
I still love the video games, but sometimes as I'm immersed in the latest graphical wonder I'll think to myself, Yie Ar Kung-Fu was so much better.
What marks me most as a member of the leg-warmer and giant bangs generation though, are the video games. We were the people who went beyond pong to games that were sophisticated tests of 8-bit skill and stamina. Sometimes when I see kids running to the store to pick up the hottest game of the month (I believe it's "FightFight Revolution XV: The Bloodening" right now) I often find myself thinking just how badly I could kick their asses at Karate Champ.
So it was that huge portions of my childhood were spent in a dirty, but much beloved arcade. Poorly lit with stained brown carpets creating the only appropriate atmosphere to try and master Defender. Then, one day, a new game came onto the scene. It was a game that would change the world. A game that would launch a thousand ships. A game that would bind us all.
Super Mario Bros.
It was a game like no other. A game that everyone simply had to play to be cool. Every day after school I would go straight to the arcade in an attempt to feed my new found addiction. Every day after school I would arrive to find a trio or quartet of swarthy teenagers huddled around the game, each with all the money in the world in tokens lined up on the machine in reservation. It was a shiny barrier telling those of us with dreams of playing that our time would be better spent working out our strategy for Elevator Action. It only got worse as the teenagers got better at the game and could play for hours at a time on one token.
I was on the verge of giving up when I was hit with divine inspiration. The arcade, on Sunday, opened at 10am. To play my game I would be there right when they opened! I was, at that moment, clearly the smartest child on earth. The first Sunday in which I incepted my plan I was up and ready to well before the time of opening. Shortly before ten I was on my bike and speeding towards digital nirvana. Just as I suspected my plan worked perfectly. When I arrived there was nary a soul to be found other than the bleary eyed attendant.
For months that became my Sunday ritual. Up by ten and off the arcade where it was all mine. After a couple of weeks the attended started giving me a few tokens to run next door and get her coffee.
I still love the video games, but sometimes as I'm immersed in the latest graphical wonder I'll think to myself, Yie Ar Kung-Fu was so much better.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Hex Monroe: Warlock Actuary
This is an excerpt from a novel I am not working on. I do, however, have a tag line: "In the battle between good and evil, you can't put a price on life. Well, actually you can. If you hire Hex Monroe for all your actuarial needs!"
Hex walked into his office, and with a wave of his hand ignited the candles which filled the room. He was often told that he would be better off using the light switch, but he was oft misunderstood by his peers. He sat down at his large desk -- It was covered in futhark ruins carved by his own hands in order to protect his most valuable client files. In the distance he heard the roar of a dragon, and a smattering of gun fire. He wondered if any of those firing upon the dragon were clients of the firm. If they were, he mused, he was pretty sure the payouts to their heirs would be appropriate given their occupations.
Hex thought about scrying for some information on who would be stationed nearby in the ADC, but knew that he was just trying to put off thinking about the Henderson incident. Hex had been told that everything was on the up and up, and all the paperwork seemed in order. Still, the inconsistencies he had found in the previous days had him worries. If nothing else, why would there would be such a large pay out on a librarian who wasn't working in either the Eldritch, Developmental, or Forbidden branches. Hex stood up from his desk, and began to walk towards the filing cabinet containing the Henderson file when he caught the faint smell of blood.
He knew that I a new case was heading his way, and without thinking turned towards the opposite wall just as a scroll was delivered via the network of pneumatic tubes which Count Lockhart was so anachronistically fond of. Pulling the scroll out of the tube, Hex slumped his shoulders as he resigned himself to the reality that his investigation up to this point had been a waste of time, and he would be better off putting his talents to better use. Sitting back at his desk he solemnly opened the scroll, and invoked the spell of authenticity that he had customized himself many years ago. All but 28 letters in the declaration glowed green, which was no surprise. Nobody ever told the whole truth when they filled out the forms for a policy.
Hex was about to cancel the spell and begin the paperwork for processing the form when something about those 28 letters caught his eye. He sat for some time looking the document over. He recast his authentication spell to make sure a mistake hadn't been made. When he was sure he wasn't mistaken or hallucinating Hex jumped up and ran to grab the Henderson file. Flipping open to the initial calculations he had made, and cross referencing them with the charts he had attached to the back, Hex finally began to understand what was going on.
Back at his desk, Hex called unto him a piece of parchment, and his pen. He furiously scribbled a short note and, using a Photostat spell, placed it, along with a copy of the new case into an envelope. Hex turned around in his chair, and slid over to the window. Opening it up, he looked to the left at a gargoyle perched on the corner of the building.
"Greycloak!", Hex shouted with an uncharacteristic impatience.
The gargoyle remained motionless, and Hex felt his anger rising.
"You might look like stone, but I can see you blinking!"
Greycloak took a deep breath and turned his head towards Hex.
"Damn! What stupid thing do you want me to do this time?", He said with an exaggerated sense of burden.
Hex held out the envelope and said, "I need you to take this to the Department of Library Oversight, and personally give it to Doctor Riverblood. Go directly there, and don't give it to anybody else."
Without a word, Greycloak took the envelope and launched off the ledge of the building. As Hex watched him fly silently into the night, he feared it might be the last time he would see him.
Hex walked into his office, and with a wave of his hand ignited the candles which filled the room. He was often told that he would be better off using the light switch, but he was oft misunderstood by his peers. He sat down at his large desk -- It was covered in futhark ruins carved by his own hands in order to protect his most valuable client files. In the distance he heard the roar of a dragon, and a smattering of gun fire. He wondered if any of those firing upon the dragon were clients of the firm. If they were, he mused, he was pretty sure the payouts to their heirs would be appropriate given their occupations.
Hex thought about scrying for some information on who would be stationed nearby in the ADC, but knew that he was just trying to put off thinking about the Henderson incident. Hex had been told that everything was on the up and up, and all the paperwork seemed in order. Still, the inconsistencies he had found in the previous days had him worries. If nothing else, why would there would be such a large pay out on a librarian who wasn't working in either the Eldritch, Developmental, or Forbidden branches. Hex stood up from his desk, and began to walk towards the filing cabinet containing the Henderson file when he caught the faint smell of blood.
He knew that I a new case was heading his way, and without thinking turned towards the opposite wall just as a scroll was delivered via the network of pneumatic tubes which Count Lockhart was so anachronistically fond of. Pulling the scroll out of the tube, Hex slumped his shoulders as he resigned himself to the reality that his investigation up to this point had been a waste of time, and he would be better off putting his talents to better use. Sitting back at his desk he solemnly opened the scroll, and invoked the spell of authenticity that he had customized himself many years ago. All but 28 letters in the declaration glowed green, which was no surprise. Nobody ever told the whole truth when they filled out the forms for a policy.
Hex was about to cancel the spell and begin the paperwork for processing the form when something about those 28 letters caught his eye. He sat for some time looking the document over. He recast his authentication spell to make sure a mistake hadn't been made. When he was sure he wasn't mistaken or hallucinating Hex jumped up and ran to grab the Henderson file. Flipping open to the initial calculations he had made, and cross referencing them with the charts he had attached to the back, Hex finally began to understand what was going on.
Back at his desk, Hex called unto him a piece of parchment, and his pen. He furiously scribbled a short note and, using a Photostat spell, placed it, along with a copy of the new case into an envelope. Hex turned around in his chair, and slid over to the window. Opening it up, he looked to the left at a gargoyle perched on the corner of the building.
"Greycloak!", Hex shouted with an uncharacteristic impatience.
The gargoyle remained motionless, and Hex felt his anger rising.
"You might look like stone, but I can see you blinking!"
Greycloak took a deep breath and turned his head towards Hex.
"Damn! What stupid thing do you want me to do this time?", He said with an exaggerated sense of burden.
Hex held out the envelope and said, "I need you to take this to the Department of Library Oversight, and personally give it to Doctor Riverblood. Go directly there, and don't give it to anybody else."
Without a word, Greycloak took the envelope and launched off the ledge of the building. As Hex watched him fly silently into the night, he feared it might be the last time he would see him.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
You Never Know Until It's Over
We were laying down in the truck bed in a last ditch attempt to keep the chill coastal night air at bay. The fire we had built up on the beach was long gone, and we were more than a few beers to the wind. In silence we just stared up at the sky as the truck wound it's way back towards A.P.'s cabin (which was actually his parent's but he had the good sense to steal the keys and make copies). The sky blazed with millions of stars, the absence of city lights allowing them to manifest themselves as though they only existed for us.
In our semi-isolated state all we could see were those stars. The sky twisting and turning as though it had a life of it's own. Later in the evening would be boisterous laughing, more drinking, and juvenile pranks played on the first unfortunate soul to pass out, but for that one moment there was nothing to do but gaze upward with silent awe. The quiet was breached only once when A.P. lazily stirred for a moment before saying, "I think I'm having a flashback. I totally feel like I'm dosing right now".
In our semi-isolated state all we could see were those stars. The sky twisting and turning as though it had a life of it's own. Later in the evening would be boisterous laughing, more drinking, and juvenile pranks played on the first unfortunate soul to pass out, but for that one moment there was nothing to do but gaze upward with silent awe. The quiet was breached only once when A.P. lazily stirred for a moment before saying, "I think I'm having a flashback. I totally feel like I'm dosing right now".
Saturday, March 13, 2010
It Was Nice Knowing You
I fear, gentile reader, that I am not long for this Earth. Is it a terrible disease, gambling debts to shady thugs, lactose intolerance? No, rather my delightful company has seen fit to upgrade our vending machines. That's right, my mortal undoing is going to be triggered by an apparent act of kindness by my employer.
For those of you lucky enough to not know me, let me be very clear about something. I am not a healthy man. Almost everything I do to my body, and put in my body is bad for me. I smoke, I drink, and I eat the kind of food that would make any reputable person in the health care industry beat themselves unconscious with a reflex hammer in a desperate attempt to forget the horrors of what they would see. I react to exercise like mole-people react to sunlight. A friend of mine recently ran the NYC marathon, which made me recall the time I spent six months in college training for a local run before somebody pointed out that sitting on the couch drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching reruns of Fantasy Island wasn't exactly the standard training procedure that one does when preparing for such an event. I was recently encouraged to start taking vitamins, and it took me twenty minutes searching the internet to find out what the hell vitamins even are.
As much as I get a giddy sort of joy from finding new ways to defile my precious bodily temple, I have a line I thought I wouldn't cross. That line is the kind of food that is now contained achingly close to my desk in an elegantly temperature controlled vending machine. Which is to say, absolute and utter crap. You know what I'm talking about. The burrito that doesn't even look good in the slickly produced packaging photo. A Jimmy Dean mini-sausage and cheese breakfastwich that looks more like Gertrude Stein than a human consumable. White Castle hamburgers that look like, well, White Castle hamburgers. Only produced and packaged in 1921 at the original Wichita location.
Vile gustatory items to a one. And you know what?
It's only a matter of time until that line is obliterated and I eat each and every one of those hell spawned "food" items. While at it, I shall I wash all those edifying edibles down with any one of the numerous energy drinks we now have. As somebody who drinks about two pots of coffee a day, let me assure you that adding energy drinks to my current course of liquid Satan is nothing but a bad idea. A very bad idea.
I have looked into a brightly lit, rotating, horror dispensing oracle and seen the way in which I shall pass from this world. I imagine that sometime in mid-January I'll be found, bloated and frozen in place, at my computer like some sort of 21st century mummy. My heart will still be beating in vain from the excessive amount of stimuli still working it way through my system. A heady mixture of cholesterol and industrially created chemicals being pushed through my withering veins with each pump.
Is it possible to live a rich, full life in two months?
For those of you lucky enough to not know me, let me be very clear about something. I am not a healthy man. Almost everything I do to my body, and put in my body is bad for me. I smoke, I drink, and I eat the kind of food that would make any reputable person in the health care industry beat themselves unconscious with a reflex hammer in a desperate attempt to forget the horrors of what they would see. I react to exercise like mole-people react to sunlight. A friend of mine recently ran the NYC marathon, which made me recall the time I spent six months in college training for a local run before somebody pointed out that sitting on the couch drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching reruns of Fantasy Island wasn't exactly the standard training procedure that one does when preparing for such an event. I was recently encouraged to start taking vitamins, and it took me twenty minutes searching the internet to find out what the hell vitamins even are.
As much as I get a giddy sort of joy from finding new ways to defile my precious bodily temple, I have a line I thought I wouldn't cross. That line is the kind of food that is now contained achingly close to my desk in an elegantly temperature controlled vending machine. Which is to say, absolute and utter crap. You know what I'm talking about. The burrito that doesn't even look good in the slickly produced packaging photo. A Jimmy Dean mini-sausage and cheese breakfastwich that looks more like Gertrude Stein than a human consumable. White Castle hamburgers that look like, well, White Castle hamburgers. Only produced and packaged in 1921 at the original Wichita location.
Vile gustatory items to a one. And you know what?
It's only a matter of time until that line is obliterated and I eat each and every one of those hell spawned "food" items. While at it, I shall I wash all those edifying edibles down with any one of the numerous energy drinks we now have. As somebody who drinks about two pots of coffee a day, let me assure you that adding energy drinks to my current course of liquid Satan is nothing but a bad idea. A very bad idea.
I have looked into a brightly lit, rotating, horror dispensing oracle and seen the way in which I shall pass from this world. I imagine that sometime in mid-January I'll be found, bloated and frozen in place, at my computer like some sort of 21st century mummy. My heart will still be beating in vain from the excessive amount of stimuli still working it way through my system. A heady mixture of cholesterol and industrially created chemicals being pushed through my withering veins with each pump.
Is it possible to live a rich, full life in two months?
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Public Service
I've recently been seeing folks coming to my site via some rather odd search terms. In order to fulfill certain "obligations" to the state I will now attempt to provide pertinent information to those individuals.
"how to make an omelet" -- If you need to scour the internet including sites named "Aimless Monkey" for information on how to make an omelet, you probably shouldn't be cooking. Please put down the pots and pans, back away slowly, and head to your nearest International House of Pancakes.
"31-year old virgin" -- Sorry. You're on your own.
"chewing nipples" -- I don't know if you're looking for pictures of people chewing on nipples, or instructions on how to chew nipples here. If you're looking for pictures, how many pages did you have to go through making explicit offers of hundreds of images of nipple chewing before you got to my site, and why did you think this page was going to be the one with the hottest nipple chewing action? If you're looking for instructions -- Well, go find a nipple and chew on it. I guess.
"clown-on-clown action" -- I'm not one of those 'afraid of clown' types, but I haven't slept in days.
"man whore" -- Send me a self addressed stamped envelope with your address, a picture, and a bucket of chicken and I'll be right over.
"monkey masturbation" -- Drop by my place tonight around 8ish. Please bring a bucket of chicken.
"how to make an omelet" -- If you need to scour the internet including sites named "Aimless Monkey" for information on how to make an omelet, you probably shouldn't be cooking. Please put down the pots and pans, back away slowly, and head to your nearest International House of Pancakes.
"31-year old virgin" -- Sorry. You're on your own.
"chewing nipples" -- I don't know if you're looking for pictures of people chewing on nipples, or instructions on how to chew nipples here. If you're looking for pictures, how many pages did you have to go through making explicit offers of hundreds of images of nipple chewing before you got to my site, and why did you think this page was going to be the one with the hottest nipple chewing action? If you're looking for instructions -- Well, go find a nipple and chew on it. I guess.
"clown-on-clown action" -- I'm not one of those 'afraid of clown' types, but I haven't slept in days.
"man whore" -- Send me a self addressed stamped envelope with your address, a picture, and a bucket of chicken and I'll be right over.
"monkey masturbation" -- Drop by my place tonight around 8ish. Please bring a bucket of chicken.
Other Places
Last night I dreamt I was bleeding. It was a small cut on my chin that I only noticed as I was looking in my rear view mirror, changing lanes across the Jefferson Street bridge. I was on my way to the mall to pick up a shellacked wooden slug, and an Orange Julius. I'm not sure why I would, even in a dream, purchase something as garish as a carved slug, but I sure was looking forward to that Orange Julius.
Last night I dreamt I was a baseball player. Short stop for the single A Kansas City Mountaineers. I was an unremarkable player on an unremarkable team. We were sponsored by the Lou Thomas Ford dealership, and had that name emblazoned across the backs of our jersey's with, "we provide service, not excuses" right below. Our pitcher was the only guy on the team with any talent -- Some folks said he had enough to make it to the show. Unfortunately, he also had a heroin habit so most people didn't think he'd make it to the end of the season.
Last night I dreamt I could fly. I never actually flew, I was simply aware that at any time, were I so inclined, I could lift effortlessly off the ground and race with the birds that wheeled high above me. Yet I was content to walk down the street as would any other person not gifted with the wondrous ability of flight. I didn't exactly have any emotions one way or another about my gift. I simply didn't feel like flying.
Last night I dreamt I was a baseball player. Short stop for the single A Kansas City Mountaineers. I was an unremarkable player on an unremarkable team. We were sponsored by the Lou Thomas Ford dealership, and had that name emblazoned across the backs of our jersey's with, "we provide service, not excuses" right below. Our pitcher was the only guy on the team with any talent -- Some folks said he had enough to make it to the show. Unfortunately, he also had a heroin habit so most people didn't think he'd make it to the end of the season.
Last night I dreamt I could fly. I never actually flew, I was simply aware that at any time, were I so inclined, I could lift effortlessly off the ground and race with the birds that wheeled high above me. Yet I was content to walk down the street as would any other person not gifted with the wondrous ability of flight. I didn't exactly have any emotions one way or another about my gift. I simply didn't feel like flying.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Things You Should Know About Rocking In The Free World
Rocking in the free world has been shown to decrease the chances of heart attack and stoke.
When rocking in the free world, be sure to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.
There will be no refreshments served.
When continuing to rock in the free world, be sure to remember that every day thousands of children all over the world are too poor to enjoy even a few moments of rocking. Give generously won't you?
Rocking in the free world was one of the pillars of William Henry Harrison's presidential campaign. Less than a month after taking office he died of pneumonia. I'm just sayin'.
Rocking in the free world once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.
Rocking in the free world's greatest fear is the rise of both popping and locking.
Please keep all trays in their upright and locked position.
Rocking in the free world likes talking behind your back -- Telling stories about how you got drunk that one time at Billy Freedman's place, and tried putting the moves on Janice Mortenson but just ended up vomiting all over her. Nice going Casanova.
Rocking in the free world loves it's job, but secretly dreams of becoming a cheesemonger.
When rocking in the free world, be sure to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.
There will be no refreshments served.
When continuing to rock in the free world, be sure to remember that every day thousands of children all over the world are too poor to enjoy even a few moments of rocking. Give generously won't you?
Rocking in the free world was one of the pillars of William Henry Harrison's presidential campaign. Less than a month after taking office he died of pneumonia. I'm just sayin'.
Rocking in the free world once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.
Rocking in the free world's greatest fear is the rise of both popping and locking.
Please keep all trays in their upright and locked position.
Rocking in the free world likes talking behind your back -- Telling stories about how you got drunk that one time at Billy Freedman's place, and tried putting the moves on Janice Mortenson but just ended up vomiting all over her. Nice going Casanova.
Rocking in the free world loves it's job, but secretly dreams of becoming a cheesemonger.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
11 Short Stories
1) He really loved his new corduroy pants. That's probably why he stole them in the first place.
2) Thomas always wondered what it would be like to have Syphilis. One day he found out.
3) All she ever really wanted was to be happy. One day she was.
4) When Millford's cat died he wasn't too upset. After all, he'd already been dead for three years.
5) The deadline came and went without anyone noticing. Three months later the town's Mayor won the prize for the largest pumpkin in Douglas county.
6) He was only 15 when his mom died, but it happened in such a bizarre way that he never really felt that bad about it.
7) "Die, die, die!", he screamed at the game store cashier.
8) She had a poor grasp of the meaning of irony which, given her job as a professor of English, was quite ironic.
9) He took flying lessons for six months before he realized he was always going to need the plane.
10) He used to rant for hours about the tyranny of American Democracy until somebody pointed out that America is a Republic.
11) Once a year, on July 15th, he would call her up drunk in the middle of the night. All he ever did though was talk about the RedSox.
2) Thomas always wondered what it would be like to have Syphilis. One day he found out.
3) All she ever really wanted was to be happy. One day she was.
4) When Millford's cat died he wasn't too upset. After all, he'd already been dead for three years.
5) The deadline came and went without anyone noticing. Three months later the town's Mayor won the prize for the largest pumpkin in Douglas county.
6) He was only 15 when his mom died, but it happened in such a bizarre way that he never really felt that bad about it.
7) "Die, die, die!", he screamed at the game store cashier.
8) She had a poor grasp of the meaning of irony which, given her job as a professor of English, was quite ironic.
9) He took flying lessons for six months before he realized he was always going to need the plane.
10) He used to rant for hours about the tyranny of American Democracy until somebody pointed out that America is a Republic.
11) Once a year, on July 15th, he would call her up drunk in the middle of the night. All he ever did though was talk about the RedSox.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Sausage
Cast of Characters
Sausage -- The local constabulary
Potato Hash -- Unemployed day laborer
Vaguely Meat -- Kind-hearted drifter
Act The First
Exterior -- Sausage approaches Potato Hash and Vaguely Meat.
Sausage: I'm afraid I'm going have to ask you two to move along. You know we have strict codes about loitering around here.
Vaguely Meat: We're not loitering, we're waiting.
Sausage: For what?
Potato Hash: To be eaten.
Vaguely Meat: Yes. Consumed.
Sausage: That's...That's disgusting! Besides, who in their right mind would want to eat an unemployed day laborer and a kind-hearted drifter?
Potato Hash: We're not sure.
Vaguely Meat: But somebody must.
Potato Hash and Vaguely Meat in unison: It's why we're here.
Sausage: How can you say you're here to be eaten when you don't even know who, or what, is going to eat you?
Potato Hash: I'll admit that's a good question. It's one I've been thinking about a lot since we got here, and I believe I finally figured it out. You see, this is where the eating will happen, so if we're here then we must be here to be eaten.
Sausage: That doesn't make any sense at all.
Vaguely Meat: Seems quite reasonable if you ask me.
Sausage: I didn't ask you! The both of you are insufferable. I should do the world a favor and run you in for vagrancy.
Vaguely Meat: I can't deny that it is your right, or rather duty, to enforce the laws of this plate, but if you were to do that who would eat us? What would that which is supposed to eat us, but is suddenly unable to do so, do having not eaten their destiny?
Potato Hash: You'll have to excuse my friend. He has a distinct leaning towards philosophical drama. We're simply two consumables with jobs to do. Now, are you asking us to shirk that duty?
Sausage: Well, uh, I guess not. I mean, that wouldn't be very civic minded of me I suppose.
Potato Hash: So here we sit. Awaiting our own fate, not harming anybody. Surely you're curiosity has been satisfied and we may stay?
Vaguely Meat: How could he not let us stay?
Sausage: Well. I guess. Though I'm still unsure of this supposed consumer you are so certain of.
Potato Hash: If you would feel more comfortable waiting with us, we would certainly enjoy having your company.
Vaguely Meat: Indeed! Stay awhile and I'm sure your fears will be allayed!
Sausage (with some trepidation): Yes. Perhaps you are right. I'll stay, but only for a short while mind you.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Bitches and Hoes
Welcome friends! Welcome to the unique site for unique people. That's right, I'm talking to you Mr. and Mrs. On-the-go! We all know that life moves at the speed of fast these days, and we all realize that sacrifices need to be made to keep up. Fortunately, the progress which steals our time like a thief in the mid to late afternoon also provides us with opportunities to shuttle those pesky burdens off our shoulders and on to somebody else's. Nannies for your precious little bastard children! Stand in mourners to take your place at the funeral of that Aunt of yours that you didn't really like that much anyway!
And yet there are still gaps in the system. Gaps which waste your time and take you away from vital pursuits such as stamp collecting, and cocaine.
Ask yourself this -- How many times have you wistfully recalled the halcyon days when you were able to breed your favorite dogs. Not that long ago? Then whenever did you find the time to properly maintain your lush garden which was once the envy of all your neighbors? I'll bet your dog kennel is frightfully empty and devoid of all cuddly life. Your garden devoid of any kind edible joy. This is why we founded Bitches and Hoes(tm), company that does the dirty work for you!
When you employ the services of Bitches and Hoes(tm) you will receive a service which surpasses all expectations. Our highly trained professionals will come to your home at the convenient time of your choosing and take care of all your breeding and landscaping needs.
Still not convinced! For a limited time only, if you call now you can receive half price off our already low gardening fees, or two for one bitch insemination. This is your chance to get in on the ground floor of America's next big thing -- If you don't act today, you will kick yourself tomorrow!
And yet there are still gaps in the system. Gaps which waste your time and take you away from vital pursuits such as stamp collecting, and cocaine.
Ask yourself this -- How many times have you wistfully recalled the halcyon days when you were able to breed your favorite dogs. Not that long ago? Then whenever did you find the time to properly maintain your lush garden which was once the envy of all your neighbors? I'll bet your dog kennel is frightfully empty and devoid of all cuddly life. Your garden devoid of any kind edible joy. This is why we founded Bitches and Hoes(tm), company that does the dirty work for you!
When you employ the services of Bitches and Hoes(tm) you will receive a service which surpasses all expectations. Our highly trained professionals will come to your home at the convenient time of your choosing and take care of all your breeding and landscaping needs.
Still not convinced! For a limited time only, if you call now you can receive half price off our already low gardening fees, or two for one bitch insemination. This is your chance to get in on the ground floor of America's next big thing -- If you don't act today, you will kick yourself tomorrow!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Money in the Bank
My bank used to be regional, now it's global. Not because their plan for world domination via hammers and burlap sacks worked, but because they got bought by another (big-ass) bank. I should have known that they were gonna be freaking me out by the way I found out about the takeover. You see, nobody actually told me (the customer) that this was going on. I just walked into the bank one day and there was a plain sign in the lobby more or less saying that old bank is now new bank, the management is totally stoked about this and they think you're really going to enjoy having their grubby hands fondling your money from now on.
Between that and the tiny signs posted everywhere that said, when you see "old bank's name" it really is "new bank's name" I was really kind of disoriented. I mean, how Orwellian is that? What you think you know isn't what you know at all because the truth is merely the perception of what we've been thinking all along. Other than that though everything stayed the same, so my nervousness didn't last too long. Until that fateful day.
I go to use the ATM the other day and it seems as though new bank has changed the program. "Gee" I think "This'll be fun!". Except it isn't fun, it's horrifying. They've anthropomorphized their fucking ATMs! Right off the bat it wants me to insert my card so "we" can begin. Who's we? It's me and an ATM machine for Christ's sake. Unless they've replaced the interior of the ATM with a midget who has access to the bank vault...THERE IS NO WE!
It was pretty much downhill after that. It kept saying things like, "Which transaction can I help you with.", and "Hold on, I'm working.". I couldn't get done with that transaction fast enough. I can understand why one would maybe want to do something like this with brand new technology (like dressing up a vacuum to look like a porn star) but everybody knows how ATMs work. I mean, I've been to a lot of ATMs in my day and I have yet to see a person looking at one with a mixture of fear and bewilderment and saying things like, "you mean that little box just gives you money?" or "That machine stole my soul!". And that's the part that creeps me out really. This dumb-shit bank just found a way to make one of the most ubiquitous machines in the world feel like some sort of 1960's space-age wonder box.
Fuckers.
Between that and the tiny signs posted everywhere that said, when you see "old bank's name" it really is "new bank's name" I was really kind of disoriented. I mean, how Orwellian is that? What you think you know isn't what you know at all because the truth is merely the perception of what we've been thinking all along. Other than that though everything stayed the same, so my nervousness didn't last too long. Until that fateful day.
I go to use the ATM the other day and it seems as though new bank has changed the program. "Gee" I think "This'll be fun!". Except it isn't fun, it's horrifying. They've anthropomorphized their fucking ATMs! Right off the bat it wants me to insert my card so "we" can begin. Who's we? It's me and an ATM machine for Christ's sake. Unless they've replaced the interior of the ATM with a midget who has access to the bank vault...THERE IS NO WE!
It was pretty much downhill after that. It kept saying things like, "Which transaction can I help you with.", and "Hold on, I'm working.". I couldn't get done with that transaction fast enough. I can understand why one would maybe want to do something like this with brand new technology (like dressing up a vacuum to look like a porn star) but everybody knows how ATMs work. I mean, I've been to a lot of ATMs in my day and I have yet to see a person looking at one with a mixture of fear and bewilderment and saying things like, "you mean that little box just gives you money?" or "That machine stole my soul!". And that's the part that creeps me out really. This dumb-shit bank just found a way to make one of the most ubiquitous machines in the world feel like some sort of 1960's space-age wonder box.
Fuckers.
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