Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? Yes, quite. Quite a while. I've got another rough story completed. Feel free to email me with comments, constraints, etc. It's not quite as long as the last one. This one, I think is mostly finished, but there are still a few errors in it, which I notice every time I read it.

She can... Touch me... all over my body. That's not the story, just the violent femmes. Ok, here's the story. Again, much like the last one, paragraphs don't make the transition, and neither do italics, or anything of the kind. Just pretend it's there, I've manually doublespaced the area between paragraphs, but going through and finding everything that should be italicized is beyond even me. It makes for a confusing read, I know, when characters are thinking and it should be in italics, it ends up looking like I just shifted perspective, but you gotta fight through that shit. I still love you guys. Good luck. Here's the story.

***
Firmly Disenchanted


And so this story starts, as most self-proclaimed good stories do, with the events leading up to the moment that changed everything, and concerns itself very little with the events transpiring after that same cataclysmic, monumental change.

The night was dark. Of course the night was dark, but it was a darkness that demanded narration in an active fashion. There are few nights in which the darkness is set loose and given such a free reign as the night whereupon this story begins. The darkness behaved like a mastiff relieved of its leash, barking and tramping about in a generally malevolent fashion.

Firmly Proctor sat on the rough, wooden pier and appreciated the night’s darkness. He had high cheekbones and almond shaped brown eyes nestled in an inoffensive face. More interesting things could have been said about him, from his tousled hair with the irreverent cowlick, to his bare feet, which were uncommon in a city as large as New York.

He was elated because he felt as though the mastiff was concerned with him, though he knew it to be untrue. The imaginary dog's job was making everyone feel as though it was angry with them, but it was only really interested in barking and making a bother of itself. Firmly was not elated, on the other end, by the tar and glass stuck to the hewn cedar boards beneath him. He was somewhat annoyed, in fact, as it was a painful experience sitting there.

This particular pier, however, was the only one he had found that was abandoned, so he put up with the tar and the glass shards. He needed a place to sit every night, and contemplate what he commonly referred to as, “Killing my-fucking-self.”

Now, this statement may seem to come somewhat out of the blue–that is, it may be surprising and unexpected–but in a narrative-logic kind of way, it must be known. This is because the behavior spoke volumes of Firmly’s personality. He said the above statement often, using it to answer a variety of questions, including questions that it didn’t seem to exactly relate to. In fact, he had just said it, in a manner of speaking, a few hours ago. To be more specific, he repeated the business about killing himself to Denise Orchards while they were at work. The whole affair happened like this.

Denise Orchards sat down on the floor next to Firmly Proctor and began again her efforts to bed him. He stood behind a register that rested on a counter, and the entire affair of the register and counter blocked her from the view of anyone who might, completely by accident, be in Mary’s Virginal Sex Emporium. One would describe all customers as arriving completely by accident because anyone who happened to be in the store, save the employees, pretended to not know where they were, and these people would frequently seem to just happen to think about making a purchase while they tried to leave. It was the only retail store in New York City that ran an entirely accidental, yet very profitable, business.

Denise said, “What are you doing tonight?”

Firmly kept watching the empty shop, and said, “Thinking about killing my-fucking-self.”

Denise had heard this a lot.

“So you’re busy, then?” she said.

“Yeah, I guess, though that would imply me doing something.”

“I suppose it would.” She paused, “Want some company?”

“Not especially.”

Then she surprised him by breaking their routine. He had expected an uneasy silence following his response, which was standard, but she spoke. This deviation from the status quo annihilated his composure, it stopped the cycle he had found himself in for years, where everybody said what he expected and reacted to him as he thought they would. It may seem like a small thing, an insignificant change, but it rocked Firmly like a stoning in ancient Jerusalem. Her comment went even deeper, resembling a minor on methamphetamines. It initiated a holocaust of composure and composure-resembling-states-of-being within his psyche. By the end of the night, there would be few stately, resigned, composed, or content feelings remaining in his mind. Although he never claimed to be happy, which is unsurprising given his obsession concerning his own death, he found himself in an altogether new and frightening world. Damn woman. She ruined everything he had, as women are wont to do to men when they find one who believes he is in control.

“Where, exactly, do you plan on doing this?”

Firmly said nothing while the world spun at amazing speeds, yet an incomprehensible force somehow kept him attached to the surface of it. For the first time in his life, he could feel the sheer speed at which he was hurtling through space and time.

“Are you deaf, Firmly?”

He saw a way out, a glimmer of something promising through the chaos. Were he a bit more careful, or even–one might say, alluding to his earlier, personal holocaust–composed at this juncture, he would’ve realized it was not in fact a way out, but a trap.

He said, “Yes, I am. Stone-fucking-deaf. Can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

She said, “Liar. That’s what you are. Just a—.”

“Nope, can’t hear you. I don’t know why you keep talking.”

“You can hear me.” She said, “Because you’re responding to what I’m saying.”

He said, “It’s probably just a coincidence.”

After Firmly finished his sentence, Denise Orchards stood up and pulled a six-inch, black rubber dildo from a display on the side of the register. It was a strange thing, that surrogate penis. The weapon was within such easy reach because Mary, the owner of the store, had decided it needed a special place near the register. As was stated, it was black, but to clarify the previous description, only the haft of it was black. A perfect candy apple obscured the portion that should have held a mushroom-shaped tip. The apple on top was perfectly edible, though the product came with a warning, written in many languages, that actual insertion of the device was advised against. Warnings being as they are, unconcerned but stern and multi-lingual, it also warned against eating the black section in as many languages.

In the common manner of frustrated women with no recourse save violence, she thumped Firmly on the head with it.

“Ouch!” he said. Seeing the trap for what it was, he realized the impossibility of convincing someone that he was deaf. The pretense was more difficult than he thought, given his decent hearing and the candy-coated thumping devices within easy reach.

“That’s what you get, you insolent prick. Will you speak like a civilized person now?”

“Fine, just don’t hit me again,” he said.

“Where do you go to think about killing yourself?”

No recourse remained save truth, so he opted for it, sullenly, “Pier 217.”

“I see. I’m expecting that you do, in fact, have a place of residence?”

He hated the way she made multiple statements, yet made them sound like a single question. Firmly hated everything about her, from the enticing way she sold fluffy, cherry gelatin, or stainless steel handcuffs, all the way to how she carried herself around in front of him, not exactly trying to sell him anything, but at the same time trying very hard to make him want to have it.

“Yes, you’d expect correctly, though I’m not sure that’s exactly possible.”

“You’re not sure what’s exactly possible?” she said.

“To expect something correctly,” he said.

She knew from previous experience that arguing finer points like this would get her no closer to her goal. The many ways Denise loved and hated complicated men could fill a warehouse with text, so it must receive only cursory attention, lest one get distracted from the narrative at hand. “Why don’t you just kill yourself at home?” she said.

He looked offended. “Because I’m not going to kill myself. I’m going to think about killing myself.”

“The point still stands, though.” She sighed, continuing. “Fine, then why not think about killing yourself at home?”

Firmly stood his ground, saying nothing.

“Look,” she said, “all I’m saying is that it would be more comfortable to think about killing yourself in your house. It’s cold outside, and more so on the pier, I’d expect.”

He looked at her, finally, and for the first time in recent memory.

“Tell me something else you expect.”

“I expect you’d be an amiable person, if you weren’t such an asshole.” And with that she went to tidy up the butt-plug section, which had been ravaged by a gaggle of drunken businessmen. They had laughed at the impossibility of such items. Of course, over the next week each of the men would come in alone and by accident, and then accidentally, on a whim even, purchase the new wall-mounted number. The one that plugged into an electrical outlet and had a four-inch diameter at its widest point. Denise figured the selling point was the international adapter, and had written a note to Mary communicating this.

Being trapped as he was–that is, within a story–Firmly was forced to revisit his conversation with Denise while it was explained. He was compelled, as it was narrated, to relive each painful moment of his perceptions changing and the events that caused that change. Of course, he had no idea that this flashback of his was not of his own design, but was, rather, a narrative convention employed to explain a bit about him.

Firmly snapped himself out of his reverie with a slap across his own face. He was here to contemplate suicide, not the finer points of Denise Orchards. It was doubtful, in his mind, that she possessed any points he could, even in passing, refer to as “finer.” Coupled with that, he wasn’t sitting here to contemplate selling what everyone in the world pretended not to want.

Except the French, maybe.

I wonder what French sex-stores are like? He thought.

Immediately, Firmly slapped himself again.

Stop thinking about work, he told himself. In fact, fuck work. There’s something very wrong with everything, when a man can’t come to an abandoned pier and regale himself with his own demise. My mind’s all, “think about this”, and “consider that”. Unacceptable, really. It’s all Orchards’s fault. Ever since she changed the way things should go, I haven’t been able to make heads or tails of anything.

As if proving his thought to a congregation of skeptics, he fished a penny out of his pocket and threw it into the water. He found that he could not, in fact, discern which side had landed facing up. Determining this, he nodded, satisfied.

Then another thought came into his mind, unbidden and not precisely welcome, like a strange, bedraggled tomcat sneaking into a tidy living room. In the manner of rowdy felines, this cat invariably advocated–and initiated, one should say–the complete obliteration of any tidiness said room once possessed. If this same cat were to have the word “why” shaved onto it, with a question mark following the last letter, the comparison would be complete.

Why? Firmly thought. Why do I contemplate killing-my-fucking-self?

He had to admit that no answer was presenting itself.

Firmly slapped his face again, when he realized he was not thinking about killing himself in any way. It disturbed him that he was thinking about why he thought about killing himself. He forced his consciousness to be linear, to focus. It complied, after attempting to distract him with other shiny, bauble-ish thoughts.

I could do it, lean forward a bit, fall into the water. I don’t think I’d make it back up here, but even then, hypothermia being the bitch that it is….Maybe I do this because it’s the only way I can imagine anything changing.

He made to slap himself as his mind drifted, but he noticed something moving.

What’s all this, then? he thought in a British accent.

A number of people were approaching the abandoned pier where Firmly Proctor sat. A great number of people, in fact, who had flashlights and glass containers sprinkled amongst them, glittering like salt, as if a restaurant patron had decided they were a dish that looked far too healthy.

Firmly wore a look of studied apprehension, much like a man who’s own doom has just sat down next to him, planning to share a light lunch.

He decided that the best course of action was to ignore the event, whatever it might be coalescing into. Ignoring the raucous crowd approaching him, he studied the sea. He hoped the coalescence would leave him largely unperturbed. Perhaps, he allowed himself to hope, it wouldn’t coalesce into anything at all. These hopes were soon thrown, arm in arm, into the water of the harbor. The damn thing was coalescing into something, something much more definitive than the damned thing that it currently was.

“Yeah, that’s him,” said a familiar voice Firmly had last heard attached to Denise Orchards. He hoped that it had recently become detached, and perhaps belonged to a new owner. That, of course, would mean that Denise Orchards had not used the knowledge she obtained from him earlier, and also not decided to invade his sanctuary. Like the others, these hopes were thrown into the water where they promptly drowned. The time for ignoring was past, and the time for actively discouraging was at hand.

Firmly turned and appraised the flock of pedestrians walking toward him.

“Kickass place for a party, Denise,” a boy said. Firmly would later describe him in a speech, as a boy who was being dragged, kicking and screaming, into adulthood.

Narration being the tricky practice that it is, Firmly did not know he would be giving speeches. In fact, he would be very drunk through most of them, but it is important that it be known right now, that they do occur at some point in this trick-some narrative. The course of events that led to him giving these speeches is what interests the story, not the speeches themselves, or the events following them. Though the speeches and their aftermath will receive cursory attention in the section affectionately called, “The Conclusion.”

Firmly looked at the people, with shock and horror. It was shock and horror’s first audition for Firmly in quite some time, and neither of them wanted to ruin it. Shock almost won the day, until horror pulled Firmly’s lips apart, making him gape. They both reluctantly agreed to a draw. Earlier in the year, shock and awe might have battled at this same set of circumstances. However, the military operation of the same name had forever prevented the simultaneous appearance of those two emotions on Firmly Proctor’s face.

Two people seemed to be carrying an ice chest, which they set down near Firmly, while the rest set down flashlights, gas lanterns, and brown bags containing, he assumed, glass bottles containing, again he assumed, alcohol.

“What’s all this, then?” Firmly said to Denise, more for a lack of anything else to say than for his desire that these people leave.

“This is drinking,” she said, gesturing at the bottles and ice. “And everybody, this is Firmly, the guy who wouldn’t be such a cock if he didn’t try so hard to be a cock.”

Everybody knew their collective name, since they nodded to Firmly after the introduction. Firmly set about being the biggest cock he could imagine, which, considering his place of employment, was simply, staggeringly, very, very large.

“Go away?” He said, knowing he shouldn’t have phrased it as a question. Firmly was simply not at the top of his game.

Denise firmly ignored him. When he said nothing more, she handed a fifth of clear liquid to him.

“This the guy that’s going to kill himself?” one of the everybody said.

Firmly took the bottle and looked at Denise, willing her to explain the whole thing: he wasn’t going to kill himself, but liked the feeling that he could change something about his situation. He didn’t recognize the difference in his outlook, but had he thought about killing himself earlier in the week, his reasoning would have been that he liked to think about it. He knew she would not explain it. She didn’t, and, simultaneously, Firmly lost the will to act like a big dick.

“Yeah,” Firmly said, taking a slug of liquid character-growth from the bottle in his hands. Now, that may seem to be an obtuse description of alcohol, but the inebriation alcohol could afford happened to be exactly what the story ordered.

“There you go. Lighten up, Firmly,” Denise said.

“I can’t lighten up,” he said. He took another drink. The fire assailing his esophagus was happy, bouncing around like a child in a playground made of sparkling candy. It wasn’t a sensation he was acclimated to.

“Why?” she said, referring not to the narration, but to his statement. She felt that progress towards bedding this befuddled, enigmatic man was finally being made, and had no idea how the alcohol meandering towards his stomach was acting.

There was a lengthy ceasefire in the conversation. Bottles were opened, imbibed, and set on the pier only to be picked up again so that the process of drinking them, setting them down, and opening new ones could be repeated. To illustrate exactly what kind of pause in dialogue this was, one could continue describing what occurred. Instead, let’s just assume the pause very closely resembled a cease-fire between two battling armies so things can get moving again. It should be noted that after this period Firmly was well down the road called intoxication, and didn’t know where it ended.

“Like what?” he mused aloud. He realized he hadn’t mused aloud in a long while, but pushed that thought aside. The impression that these people were only here to watch Denise talk to him would not go away, until he threw alcohol at it. Then it did leave, sulking at the concept of social lubricants.

Denise thought he had forgotten, and said, “Yeah, like what, specifically, won’t let you lighten up?”

“Change, mostly change. ” he said. He didn’t know where that whole change thing came from, though a tomcat was batting around the thoughts of an immaculate living room and it wouldn’t leave. Unlike his previous thought, it did not leave when he threw alcohol at it, but looked at him with an expression that said, “Oh yes, there you are. Now what was I on about? Ah, that bit of houseplant. Quite.” It seemed to look at him in order to properly ignore his presence.

“And?” she said.

Firmly said nothing, and unknowingly allowed his narrator further wordplay involving his name.

Denise was confused as to his meaning. “What kind of change do you mean? Change for a dollar, or change as opposed to static-ness. Oh, there has to be a better word for not change.”

Nobody could think of it, however.

Firmly said, “I’m not sure which one I mean. Pocket change never bothers me, until someone asks me for ‘spare change,’ and then I get all broken up. Well, that only started happening today, but it seemed that everyone wanted spare change today. I think, ‘I can’t change anything and this asshole wants me to give him what little change I have?’ How can you even have change? Just a silly notion, change is something that happens, right? Except it never does, nothing changes. Did you know that every single, real social revolution has eventually reverted to old policies?”

“What’s a social revolution?” she said.

“Hmm,” he said, “a social revolution is one of two kinds of revolutions. In a social revolution, the social class in power changes. Like, from the rich to the poor, for instance. The other kind is a political revolution, where nothing really changes, the people in power shift around, but the same kind of people are still in control.”

“Uh-huh.” She said, uninterested. Something seemed to be getting preachy, or resembling preaching.

“So all I’m saying is when people ask me for spare change, I wish there was some change for anyone. The thing is, though, everything that changes, I mean actually changes, changes back.”

“It’s funny that those two words are the same, but mean different things,” she said.

“It’s not funny, it’s fucking tragic.” He said.

“How is it tragic? They’re just words, we would’ve run out of them if some weren’t spelled the same.”

He said, “Because something should change.”

“Jesus, Firmly, lighten up,” Denise, who was a militant atheist, said. It was a measure of her frustration that she used the name of someone who many consider to be their lord and savior. Had she been near a rack of apple-topped sex-toys, she would have grabbed one and brandished it under his nose, threatening him.

He spoke before she found something to hit him with. “I will say that the main thing that bothers me is that I don’t understand how the whole thing works. You know, I went to college, just to ‘get’ it. The whole interaction of humans shouldn’t be so fucking complicated. And you know what else? I don’t think anyone gets it, I mean, really knows how the whole system works.”

“You’re not making any damn sense,” she said.

“I’m drinking. I’ll consider it a privilege granted to me, temporarily, by the great deity ‘Ethanol’.”

“That,” she said, “makes sense.”

And so the conversation continued, in a sparring match sort of way, with silent observers, who did occasionally whisper between themselves, long into the morning. Firmly asserted his viewpoint that things are unintelligible in the world, and that they should not be this way. It was decided at some point, that he should run for public office. The campaign slogan would be, “Fuck, I don’t know,” which was a phrase that saw much use throughout the night. And thus began the Firmly political movement.

This whole turn of events may seem strange, given the unassailable fact that drunken decisions rarely amount to more than hours at work undertaken with hangovers, but suspended disbelief is a much-overused convention for a reason. It works. Just keep going, and nobody’s the wiser. That said, it was an important night, one that decided the political structure of the United States for generations to come.
Of course, it would not be right, given the structure of a story like this, to end here, so rest assured, things have not ground to a stop. This horse is not yet glue. It is merely in the process of becoming glue, in the way that all things are progressing toward their end result. The end result of all things, it is worth remembering, is not glue, mostly just the end of horses.
Then, realizing this is not finished or over, someone must explain the political climate of the country this narrative takes place in, so that this grandiose change can be understood.

Volatile is a very good word to describe the politics in the United States of America at present. Another good word would be unstable, if one were writing about this in a political journal, which is not the case at the moment, so scratch that. Good words to describe it are in particular abundance, but one could become easily distracted attempting to describe this complex situation in one word.

Using many words, one could sum up the current state of things, like this:

The political stratum in the United States of America resembles the unrest felt at many corners of the globe. The Great Leader has firm control of the institutions governing the people, yet only a tenuous grip of the people themselves. A mind swath poll–that is, a poll conducted by scanning the thought-sensor installed in everyone’s brain–conducted a month before Firmly Proctor got drunk after work indicated that 0.0002% of Americans approved of the Great Leader’s performance. This statistic included the leader himself, who hadn’t sufficiently prepared for the brain probe, and was queried during a period of self-doubt. The feeling that things were vastly wrong with the structure organizing and overseeing human affairs was palpable, much like the day Martin Luther said to the Catholic Church, “Fuck off, you bastards.”

As fortune would have it, and fortune would have it, because fortune is a lusty glutton and will have anything it can get its grubby hands on, Firmly was a great public speaker. He wasn’t just charismatic with a public address system. He knew crowds, knew how they think, act, re-act, and generally crowd around in places. Firmly worked their prejudices, passions, and all the other things that humans base their decisions on. Denise was usually around. When asked about what office he was running for, and about her, the answer was, “Fuck, I don’t know. Vote Firmly!”

Firmly gave speeches and more speeches. He spoke to crowds of people that wandered into his political rallies the way they had wandered into his previous place of employment, completely by accident. Camera crews showed up at pier 217 at some point along the line, where most of his speeches took place, and filmed it, hoping to run a short story about insane people who were both local and political. Halfway through his speech, the news team decided they would Vote Firmly.

That was how it happened. Everyone voted Firmly, including the Great Leader, who forgot that he had abolished elections 12 years earlier. Voting for Firmly Proctor just made so much damn sense. He didn’t know how to fix anything, but now everybody knew that nobody knew how to fix anything. They knew that nobody could fix everything, and that anybody could ruin everything. That’s what the American people voted for.

His first day in political office, he–that is Firmly–abolished the United States government.

He said, on national television, “My fellow Americans, you’ve all voted for me because things are so unintelligible in this damn place, when they really shouldn’t be that way. I was once asked if I had any spare change. Today I have change, so I say this to every American: Don’t go to work, don’t go to school, and don’t pay for anything. It is my belief that if we do this, something will change. My first declaration as Great Leader is to fire, outsource, lay-off, downsize, and generally get rid of everyone working for anyone. Senators, judges, all you guys, go home. I would expect resignations on my desk, if I had a desk anymore. I’m fired. Hey, you news guys, get out of here. Turn that thing off.”

Nobody at home knew whom he was talking to. Perhaps he was just messing around, giving a speech in his bathroom, and some mischievous news team filmed it. Firmly, however, was talking to the camera crews. Disappointed, they turned their cameras off. Broadcasting stations followed suit. At that moment, televisions in all parts of the former great nation, which the former great leader once controlled, performed that great, cinematic ending. The ending where the picture gets very thin and horizontal, then sucks itself into the center of the television. Right after that, it rebounds on itself, just before disappearing entirely. As every television in the country winked out, the people of what had once been a nation started figuring things out for themselves. They walked out of buildings that ranged from architectural brilliance to carefully applied mediocrity. The people walked outside, and blinked at the sun. It was bright, and hurt their eyes.

And to hell with the expectation that Firmly Proctor and Denise Orchards become entangled in a web of mutual affection, because that’s another story entirely.

***end***

The state of being called, "Hangover," doesn't effectively describe what I was this morning. Naturally, several hours, glasses of water, and aspirin later, you could've used 'hangover' to describe me. Now that I think about it though, why do we call them hangovers anyway? Why not something that applies, like, "Fuck you, don't talk to me." Example.

*ring ring*
Actor 1: Uh... Hello?
Actor 2: Hey good buddy, how about that party last night.
Actor 1: Fuck you, don't talk to me.
Actor 2: That good, huh?
*click*

I should mention that they're actors not because this is a sketch, but because I hate actors. Another phrase that would work well is, "Temporarily Dead." Eeeeeexample:

*ring ring*
*smash, and other noises that resemble a phone being destroyed*
The next day:

Boss: Why weren't you at work yesterday?
Employee: I was temporarily dead.


Anyway, just a thought. Today is actually an important day in my yearly calendar, because it's Alisa's and my anniversary today. Creepy huh? I can't give any more details right now, on the off chance she'll check my site before I pick her up.

Stay off the sauce kids.

So, in a drastic maneuver involving a small amount of drinking, I did some stand-up last night. It went swimmingly. For those of you that don't know what the adverb 'swimmingly' means, it means 'well' or 'good' depending on usage. That's not a webster quote, but I think you'll find that it will suffice.

The best part, in my humble opinion, of my act last night was my heckler. She was a girl, and she was really drunk. Every other time I've performed, hecklers have fucked my world. I would lose my train of thought, forget jokes, generally get flustered, etc. This time, however, I gave it to her. It was like the pent up rage at every heckler I've ever seen or heard of bubbled out of me in this stream of witty insults (some original, some not.) There are two specific instances that come to mind, though there is a third I'll explain in greater detail. I should probably preface this by saying that I might have provoked her. The story goes like this: Her band went before me, and they kept asking for encores. The vast majority (at least of people around me) wanted them off the stage. I had been waiting for 3 hours to do my 7ish minute act. This is how open-mics work, I wasn't pissed about this. I mean, it's like 15 more minutes when I've been waiting all night, you know? I was trying to grasp the balls it would take to ask the audience to ask you for an encore, and then when nobody says anything, to keep playing WAY (Is that emphasized enough? I don't think so), WAY past your allotted time. So the first thing I said on stage, after "Hello Dinkytown!" was "Let's all give a big round of applause for pretention. Yeah, come on, give it up, pretention everybody." Some people got the reference to the assholes ahead of me, some didn't. Anyway, enough prefacing. Moving on.

I was doing a bit about Jesus (well, it's not really about Jesus, it's really about something else, fuck I'll just write out the bit) and she shouted out, "What would Jesus do?"

The bit goes something like this: Jesus is credited with saying, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth." I don't really know anything about that, but I do know one thing the meek won't be inheriting: Social Security. Because it's all gone, and there's nothing funny about that.

But in the middle of it, she demands that I answer, "WWJD?"
I said, "Jesus would shut the fuck up."
The crowd rather liked it, but I think it would've been better to say something a bit more whimsical like, "Jesus, what would Jesus do? Well, are we assuming that he's here, and listening to my act, like the rest of the audience, or just what would he do in general. Oh. You hadn't thought it through that far, well, by all means take a few minutes, then interrupt me again when I'm trying to tell a joke that depends, very much, on pacing and timing."

Anyway, I said that jesus would shut up, because it was the first thing that came to mind.

Well, that really pissed her off. In the middle of my bleu cheese bit, she started yelling, and I (yes, I'm ashamed of it) ripped off one of my favorite lines from Mr. Show, "Look lady, I don't come down to where you work and slap the dick out of your mouth."

The crowd loved it (now I'm getting to the third thing she did, after which she shut her mouth), and she got angrier. She walked up to the stage and was swearing at me, and I was swearing back, and she tried to take the mic next to me (Lo and behold, it wasn't on.) Then I moved aside and told her and my mic, "No, take this one, you are funnier than I am."

She said something into the mic about Dave Chappelle being better than me, "Dave Chappelle would kick your ASS!" I think that was it. I thought, "Yeah." The fact that she doesn't know that Dave Chappelle has about 10 years of life on me, and likewise has been doing comedy about 14x as long as I have made the statement very funny to me. I'm assuming she didn't know, because if she did, she would've known that it wasn't a very good insult.

Then they cut the mic out on her. That specific moment was one of my best ever. I just need to not get so worked up over hecklers. I mean, I kind of had to shout, to override her voice (the sound system there sucks) but I shouldn't have kept shouting once she got on the stage. I dunno, you live and you learn. One of the best shows I've done at a place where people don't come to hear comedy. Swimmingly. Quite.

Hey kiddies, I'm pretty sure everyone that is going to read the below post already did, so let's go ahead and bump it down. Let's be sure though... yep, my mom already emailed me, so everyone's read it. Thanks to everyone for the kind words about my fiction.

I'm working on another story at the moment, it'll probably take me several weeks to finish, as it's just a wee baby right now. More details on that later, but think: Trans-Galactic Gargle Blaster, and you'll at least be heading in the right direction.

Oh, and buy every Douglas Adams book you see. I just finished his final (and posthumous) publication, The Salmon of Doubt. It's an amazing read. I logged on to Amazon.com as soon as I finished it and spent over $100 on books he recommended in the course of his own. My regret is that I was never able to recognize what a sheer genius the man was while he was alive.

On a much more personal life-ish note, I ingested a heroic portion of psychedelics a while back. While you might think, "Shhh, haven't you heard of a little thing called the MotherFucking Patriot Act?" I don't really give a shit which FBI agent is doing unassociated online research at the moment, because I'm done with drugs. I know it sounds funny, but I'm not breaking their laws anymore, so fuck 'em.

The trip itself, in retrospect, reminds me of two quotes from Zoolander. I can't find direct quotes, so forgive me.

1. My friends and I have been dropping acid and sunbathing with spidermonkeys off the coast of Madagascar for the past two weeks, changed our whole perspective on shit.

2. So my rope slips, and I start to fall. Then I think,"Haven't you been smoking peyote for 10 straight days, and couldn't part of this, maybe be in your mind." I was right, I've never even been to Mount Vesuvius (spelling is hard.)

Yeah, so it was a singularly life changing experience that I wouldn't be able to repeat, and wouldn't want to, because it was the worst night of my life. On the other end, I'm glad it happened, because I've finally been able to stop trying to control everything and just let go. Of course, just saying it like that sounds incredibly trite, but I can't summarize it in any way that Chuck Pahlaniuk hasn't already. At the very point that I knew, and didn't fear that someday I was going to die, and accepted it, EVERYTHING changed. And it is prefereble to the way I was living.

Happy Trails, I've got some work to do.

Holy shit! An update. Wait for it... wait for it...

Blam. This is a 21 page fiction story I just finished. It's going to take a long time to read if you happen across it, but I have no real fear that anyone will actually read it. If you are, however, hopelessly lost in this wealth of information we lovingly refer to as 'the internet,' don't worry, we'll take good care of you. Oh, and please forgive the format errors, but I don't have the time or the energy to re-indent everything. I am putting in the page-breaks that didn't make the transition from Word though.

On a different note, before we get started. I just turned 21. I have officially discovered that I have all the requirements of a writer. I love to drink, and I love avoiding writing. Cheers!



Subcutaneous [beneath the skin]

I’m sitting here, in a pissant Mexican restaurant, eating a soft-taco. It’s almost a fast food joint, almost a restaurant, but neither. The food reminds me of a restaurant, but the prices are low enough for migrant workers to eat heartily and not worry about how much money they send home to Mexico. I’ve got two bean burritos and a soft taco, wrapped in wax paper, sitting on an aqua tray in front of me. You can purchase food here with either relevant currency. It cost me $2.13, about double what the Mexican in front of me paid.
It doesn’t bother me. I’m not even hungry, I’m paying the swarthy man behind the counter for some time. Time to think. I’m trying to keep a low profile for a little while, until at least part of this shitstorm blows over. It’s hard to keep a low profile when you’re carrying so much fucking money. Everyone you meet wants it, and knows you have it. Every pair of eyes in the restaurant is burning a hole in my briefcase. They know.
I sit back and make myself chew slower. They know nothing. I’m fucking golden. I watch a little Mexican girl take a newspaper from the rack next to the front door. The door is glass, just like the front of the building, as if it was transplanted straight from a strip mall. This little girl must be around six years old, with jet-black pigtails and squinty brown eyes that contain some sort of mischief way, way back inside them. She sticks her tongue out at me so forcefully that it makes a noise. My mind churns so fast I almost hear it clicking.
Everyone here must know. They’re all working for them. They put her up to this to distract me. The Feds found me. Any second now, the windows will implode in a shower of tear gas canisters and flash grenades, and I’ll die choking and blind. I can fucking feel it coming. I hunch down as the paranoia threatens to overwhelm reality. The bean burrito I was eating squirts into the tray. Oops. I must look like a feral rodent, with my eyes darting around, gripping a mess of brown beans and flour in two paws, chewing every bite like my only goal is to swallow it before I die. Calm, I have to be calm. I take a deep breath and sit up straight, wiping my hands on a napkin.
Cynthia, what I’m calling the Mexican girl, stops making faces at me as her mother walks up and scolds her in Spanish. Cynthia’s mother rips the newspaper out of her hands and puts it back on the rack. Still speaking too quickly for me to follow any of it, she storms back to the family’s booth with Cynthia in tow.
I’m finishing my last bean burrito when a cop walks in. He holds the door open, blinding anyone who looks in his direction. I don’t look. All talk in the restaurant stops.
Nobody who eats or works here wants trouble from the police. He knows that patrons with green cards are rare in El Burrito Dallas. They know he knows, but as long as they cause no trouble, and build highways and corporate skyscrapers for less than minimum wage, he’ll let them stay.
He lets the door close. His belt jingles as his tactical baton, ammunition, handcuffs, keys, and pistol bang against each other. I pretend to chew, while my left hand grips my own weapon hard enough to kill a small mammal. He’s wearing standard blues with big, fuck-off mirror shades covering most of his face. It’s like he looks at the room with his moustache, then proceeds to the counter of the establishment. After he arrives at the desk, he hikes his pants up, back over his hips, but below his rather formidable gut.
He has papers in his hands, and gives one of them to the owner-manager-cook of El Burrito Dallas.
“Put this up in your window. Comprende?” He says the last part with as little Spanish as he can muster. What a fucking cowboy.
This first generation entrepreneur knows that giving trouble to the police means that his restaurant will be shut down, and that his children will have no chance at a college education. He nods vigorously.
Officer Wimble turns and hikes his pants up, and in seven steps, he’ll have to do the same damn thing again. He’s carrying about fourteen pounds of gear on his belt alone, and it’s threatening to drag his pants to his polished boots and deposit him firmly on the floor. Wimble begins to walk away from the counter, then spots me.
At the same time, my eyes dart to the paper he just gave the restaurant owner, and I see my picture on it. I try to think faster.
He doesn’t know. He’s with them, but he doesn’t know what I have. Then why the fuck is he walking towards me? He knows I speak English. Let’s run with this idea, Jack. I continue chewing, with only my right hand visible, holding the ass end of a bean burrito.
He heads over and stops, hovering over my table. I look up.
“Is there anything I can do for you, officer?” Sweeter than your mother’s apple pie, I am.
He eats it up, “I’m looking for a white guy, five-eleven, ‘buck fifty, brown hair and eyes, wanted for triple homicide.” I try not to recoil from my description.
“No sir, I haven’t seen anyone. You know, about forty-seven percent of Caucasian males are five-eleven. Honestly, though, this isn’t a place where many white guys hang out.” I said too much that time. I don’t want to kill him.
“Hmm,” he says, “Never heard that before. What brings you to this neighborhood?”
I had a big fucking beard yesterday, now I look nothing like myself. “Never heard what? That most white males are around five-eleven or that not many white guys hang out on this side of Dallas?”
“I’m asking the questions here, son. What are you doing in the neighborhood?”
“Nothing really. I was on the way to pick my girlfriend up, and I decided to stop and have some food. I hate showing up to her place hungry.”
“Your girlfriend lives around here?” he says, tipping his shades down on his nose. That move is in some law-enforcement textbook, I swear. He wants me to think he doesn’t believe it. Amateur bullshit.
“Yeah, Maria lives 3 blocks north, on 15th.”
He pushes his sunglasses back up his nose. The sound that issues from his face is a sniff, but it has a definitive ‘honk’ quality about it.
“Thank you for your time citizen. If you see anything suspicious, please call your local police station. There are phone numbers on the bottom there.” He sets a sheet of paper on the table, tapping the bottom of it with his index finger. The paper shows my face.
“Will do, officer.”
He begins to walk out, but as he stops to hike his pants again, he says over his shoulder, “By the way, Jack…”
I turn around and say, “Yeah?” Before I realize what a mistake that would be. It’s hard to not respond to your name. After it’s out of my mouth, he sees my face as I realize what a mistake it was. I panic with my mouth still open, as an expletive leaps from between my teeth. “Fuck.”
My H&K forty-five is out of my suit coat and on ‘fire’ mode as recognition spreads across his bovine visage. He moves like frozen pork fat. He turns sideways, as he was trained to do, but can’t get the pistol out of his jingling and jangling belt. It’s snapped in.
“Stop that, shitsmear.” He stops fumbling with the clasp on his pistol, and then gives up, deflating like a used sex doll.
I see movement from the family booth and I drop my burrito as I pull a 9mm from my belt, pointing it at the booth. Cynthia isn’t there. It’s a family with three boys, and none of them have pigtails. The mother is forcing the boys under the booth, shielding them with her body. I’m not going to kill anybody this time. What the shit is going on? Wimble is still here, but the girl I gave a name fucking vanishes? Fuck.
I hesitate, but nobody notices. My two pistols are at a forty-degree angle away from my body and I say, “Calm is good. This will be over in thirty four seconds.”
I indicate with my forty-five pointing at the fat fuck in blue. “You. Back up until you hit the door, then stop. If I don’t like the way you move, I’ll put a bullet in your sinus cavity. You’ve read my sheet, so don’t fuck around.”
He nods and backs to the door. Someone is scared shitless by the smell permeating the restaurant. I pocket the nine-millimeter in a pants pocket while I lift my briefcase from the floor. Careful with that, Jack, they’re worth nothing broken. Then I walk over to him, put the .45 on his frontal lobe, and pull the trigger.
Oops.
I try to dodge the spray as I step out the door with my gun inside my suit.
The sun is bright, and I shield my eyes from it as I locate my car.

*page break*

Seventy hours ago, I was such a nice guy. I worked for the World Wildlife Foundation, and made a damn good living. I had this graying ponytail that came down between my shoulder blades and a fuck-all beard. I hadn’t shaved in years. I believed in my job, I wanted to save all the pandas and crocodiles and fuck. I can be realistic about it now. I was a desk jockey, a drone that wasn’t saving anything but a 401k. We thought we were making a difference.
Marcus, the guy who worked the cubicle across from mine, was probably my best friend at the time. Over the course of several months, we had both developed a substantial coke habit. Actually, I had developed a substantial cocaine habit, and he was my dealer. The way it worked out, he skimmed from the coke he got for me, and got high for free.
We were in the bathroom at work, doing lines on our lunch break. I was fucking livid, and I knew it was a bad idea to get high when I was pissed.
I took mine through a rolled up dollar, and asked Marcus, “You always knew, didn’t you?”
He took his line, so he could think of a response, “No fucking way. Jesus, I’m as surprised as you are.”
“That slimy fuck,” I spit, “I had dinner with him three weeks ago, and he mentioned the wildlife refuge. I was like, ’We can’t let that pig-fucker drill Alaska, Johnson, just tell me what to do.’ He just fuckin’ smiled and said, ‘Leave it to me, Jack.’ I think he was gonna try to get me in on it.”
“That’s fucked up, Jack.” Marcus said, calm as a Hindu cow.
“You had nothing to do with this?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I handed him the napkin with hasty scrawling on it. He looked at it like I was holding a dripping handful of toxic waste.
“The fuck is this?”
“You knew. You knew Johnson sold everything. Anyone he couldn’t cut out, he cut in on the boatload of fucking money. Our PAC was the biggest fucking opponent to drilling that oil reserve, and you just fucking went along. What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“Jack, let me explain—.”
“Shut up, you disgusting fuck,” I screamed. ”Did you eat paint chips as a child? What? What is the fuck matter with you?”
Then he got mad. “Who gives a shit about a bunch of fucking polar bears and fucking elk? Fuck, at least guys like us get a piece this time.”
“It’s not about the wildlife, it’s about not letting these guys get their way. Don’t you get it? We’ve never been fighting for the animals. We’re fighting against the retards that direct our species. We’re protecting Homo Sapiens, by protecting everything else that has to be there.”
“Get off it. You’re pissed because you didn’t get paid. It’s your same fucking complex. I was in ‘Nam too, you fuck. Yeah, yeah, I know, you can’t even say what you did. It's still top-secret. Bullshit. You’re a fucking hippie. How did that switch come about? You probably protested the whole damn war, and you haven’t learned a damn thing. Grow up, this is just the way the world works. Guys like us get trampled on when they make waves—“
At this point I stopped listening, mainly because I couldn't hear through this loud 'snap' inside my brain that meant something was broken and could never be fixed. I uncapped the pen in my coat pocket, and in one fluid motion, drove it into Marcus’ skull, through the left eye-socket. He started to scream at the same time I put my hands around his throat and slammed his head into the bowl of the toilet. I flipped him over while he gasped for breath to scream again, but then I started throttling him. As he choked on my fingers, with the back of his neck on the toilet bowl, he started to turn red. That exact moment was when I took one hand from his throat and put it back on the pen. He flailed like Michael J. Fox, twitching and writhing, trying to push me off. More blood flowed down his face once I severed the optic nerve behind his eyeball. In order to get my pen in further, I had to use the palm of my hand and put my shoulder into it. He stopped thrashing once it probed about three inches into his face.
I wiped the blood off of my face and hands with toilet paper from the stall. Marcus didn’t look good anymore, but I propped him up on the toilet seat, hoping nobody would look inside. I walked out, thinking. It didn’t take me five minutes to figure it out. The first part is always the easiest, and I was committed beyond repair by the bloodstains on my hands. I just hoped nobody would notice a quiet guy on the john for a few hours.

*page break*

I’m outside the restaurant. Wimble’s thinking-organ is splattered all over the glass door. His corpse looks like an anthill made of meat just inside. Where the fuck is my car?
All of a sudden, this girl, this little girl who looks like the Mexican girl Cynthia appears to my left.
She says something familiar in a deep monotone, “Lay your head down child, I won’t let the boogey-men come. Put your head down, go to sleep to the rhythm of the water drops. Go back to sleep, waking yourself in this way is unhealthy”
I draw a pistol, firing three times in the arc my arm makes before it’s leveled at her. Three holes in the glass of El Burrito Dallas. Then I squeeze the trigger again.
What? I’m not a monster. She scared me. I don’t like little girls.
But I didn’t hit anything.
She’s gone. What the fucking fuck? You know, I give and give to a reality that I assume to be stable and then out of fucking nowhere a little Mexican girl can appear and disappear? I don’t even know what’s real anymore. Her words tickle my brain in a remembering way, but it all dissolves to a misty uncertainty before I can wrap around it.
“Pull it together, Jackass, you have to make this count.” I say.
When I look around again, my car is right where I left it, sandwiched between an El Camino and an El Camino. Weird.
I hear sirens in the distance now. I don’t have the time to be fucking around.
I get in my car. It smells like rot and ketchup, a fruity amalgam that everyone bitches about. It could come from the leak in the roof that gets mildew in the back seat. The smell could be the half eaten, Nitrate-free hotdogs in the passenger foot-well, and I guess it could even be my secretary’s feces, vomit and piss seeping in from the trunk.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here with the key exactly halfway in the ignition, just thinking. I have no time. Fuck, and you know what? The smell could even be a combination of the mildew, the secretary sauce, and the McDonalds. I never thought of that.
And it won’t start. It makes that pathetic crahng-crahng-crahng sound of an engine that won’t turn over. I lose it. I start to flail around, banging the flats of my palms on the dashboard, the fraying cloth seats, and everything else in reach.
“Fucking shit on a brick. FUCK!” And the car doesn’t even respond.
My secretary says from the trunk, real timid-like, “What’s happening?”
Why didn’t I gag her? Or at least fold up the seat that leads to the trunk
I shout at the back, “You know what hostages do?”
“No…”
“NOTHING. You’re a fucking hostage. Shut the fuck up.”
I talk to the car, which is just listening to our conversation. “C’mon baby, you can do this.”
I turn the key again. There’s enough juice for the radio to be active, and “Pet” is on by A Perfect Circle.
The lyrics fight out the starter cranking, “Don’t fret precious I’m here. Step away from the window. Step away from the window. Go back to sleep. Lay your head down, child. I won’t let the boogey-men come. Count the bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the water drops.”
I can’t believe Cynthia’s parents let her listen to this band.

*page break*

I remember this one time, driving through Elmwood, this pseudo-suburb in Dallas, when my car didn’t start. It was raining bricks of water, the kind where you drive slower because you’re afraid the water will break your windshield. You can’t see anything through the giant pieces of water colliding with your windshield. It’s like having your wipers on underwater.
Elmwood has never been a good neighborhood, but we were seventeen and wanted to party. Elmwood’s Caucasian population quadrupled on weekends. When I think back on it, the whole thing was pretty disgusting. A bunch of pasty suburbanite culture-leeches taking their parent’s cars and driving to a place that knew how to have fun, because none of us did, otherwise.
I told my mom we were going bowling, which is what I always told her, so she thought we always went bowling on weekends. I bowled a 52 in gym class, the one time I was forced to play the game. I hate bowling.
But I would tell her this, and she would give me a curfew to ignore. Then I’d leave. I’d pick up all my friends, because none of them had cars, and we’d head south. We’d listen to whatever bands were getting the most press at the time. We were the people record companies loved. They sold it, and we bought it.
Anyway, this time we were driving. My friends were smoking pot. I think I was too, but I don’t remember. I don’t even remember their names, that’s how much I hate who we were. We were talking about how shitty our parents were, about “the man,” and about life, the universe, and everything. Mostly about how great we were. We were beyond useless by a factor of ten.
So I hit a puddle, and the back of the Gremlin got away from me. She hydroplaned across the street and the passenger side hit one of those massive light posts. All I saw was the dashed yellow line while we spun across the street. I guess we caused enough of a wave to clear that part of the street while we got royally fucked.
My seatbelt was fastened. Guess who else had taken the metal part of the buckle in their right hand and pushed it into the metal part in their left hand and tightened the strap before takeoff? Nobody. I’m not defending myself. I was high, and I was going too fast. But every time you get into something that moves faster than any human ever should, though, at least take the precautions listed in the operating manual.
I only remember this much about my friends. There were three in the back and one sitting shotgun, and my car didn’t smell so bad. Oh, and the one sitting in the front was female. She never stood a chance. The pole crushed her skull once her window collapsed into something resembling shrapnel. The three in the backseat were luckier, though only two of them survived. One of them was launched through the passenger window and his left shoulder hit the pole, which paramedics said snapped his spinal cord. The other two just sort of slammed into that guy’s lower torso, and he cushioned the impact for them. I tried to drive away, but my car wouldn’t start. The most tragic thing was that my greatest fear was what mother would say. How fucking pathetic can you get?
I never thought of this then, but I wonder about it now. When lemmings start throwing themselves from cliffs, do the ones in the back make it sometimes? I’m not asking if there’s ever a lemming who says, “Fuck this. You guys are all insane.” Because there isn’t a species on this planet that can break out of the cycle it’s in. What I’m saying is, you’ve gotta consider that there’s a cushion at the bottom by the time two thousand splatter on the rocks below. Critical mass aside, if there’s enough of you, maybe you make a pile high enough, and with enough soft tissue in it, that someone can survive. It worked for the guys in the backseat.
We had all the answers, and never knew the questions. I feel so close to finding those questions now.

*page break*

Crahng-crahng-crahng.
Crahng-crahng-crahng.
“Come on you piece of shit.”
Crahng-crahng-crahng.
Turn the key. Don’t pump the gas, or you’ll flood it.
Crahng-crahng-crahng-thrack-thrack-thrack.
And just like that, it catches.
I say, “I fucking told you, Alice! What did I fucking tell you? We’ll make it out of this yet!” My secretary doesn’t respond, but that’s okay, because I told her not to talk. I don’t want to listen to other people speak anymore. I’ve heard enough. I’m not going to figure any of this out by letting people explain
My automobile squeals out of its parking space as I apply the pedal, stripping paint off of the El Camino to my left. The sirens are closer. I skewer my foot on the gas as I shift to second. The head of the shifter got lost somewhere, and the threading digs into my palm. I couldn’t give less of a shit. I’m hauling ass through a few back streets littered with bums and alleys where trash hasn’t been collected in months.
“Alice, don’t be scared. I’m trying to save you. And not in that creepy Jesus way.” Relief at the car starting uncorked a stopper somewhere, and shit just starts pouring out of my mouth. “You just have to trust me. I know that’s hard to do, from everything that’s happened, but I’m trying to save you from them.”
Another Perfect Circle song is playing, it must be triple-dose-Tuesday or some shit. The trick to getting away from the scene of a crime is to get a few blocks away, then slow down. My car’s a different color than they think, so unless someone runs my plates, it’s easy like Sunday morning. It took me almost three hours to spray-paint it this afternoon.
“I’m hungry.” Alice says.
Fuck, I forgot to get her something.
“What did I tell you about hostages?”
She doesn’t say anything. She always was a quick learner, but how she found out about Marcus, I’ll never know.
“Like I was saying.” I pull into a busy street from an alley, like some asshole who just got his car out of a garage “You’re locked in this culture, Alice. Do you really want to be a secretary for the rest of your finite life span? Well? Answer me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s what I’m trying to save you from, and that’s what would’ve happened. You would’ve worked for some jackass after they canned our entire department. Johnson was doing it, you know. Then you wouldn’t have been a collective secretary, but is that even a step up? At least, you would’ve worked for this jackass until arthritis or carpal tunnel or some shit made it impossible for you to type and answer phones all day. Then, unless you hitched up with some other fuckhead who could support you, you’d be out of a job. Nobody will take care of you, you’ve got to do this on your own.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try to understand,” I take a left, into a merging lane for the George W. Bush turnpike, “Just listen.”
She doesn’t say anything. Thatta girl.
“When you were in college, did people ever have those conversations where they talk about how smart they are, and they talk about the stupid kid in their classes? You can answer this one.”
“I think so.”
“You don’t wanna think. You wanna know. The kind of conversation I’m talking about was on the back porch, smoking cigarettes, people talking about what scores all their friends got on this specific standardized test and how the world sucks and everyone’s stupid except the people they know. Have you been there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. That situation sums up human existence. Homo Sapiens are on this planet, and they’re the smartest organism on the planet. I’m not going to tell you butterflies hold infinite wisdom if we could only speak with them. Humans are the smartest, and they spend all this time reveling in their sheer intellect.”
She’s silent. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about it or afraid to speak.
“The bottles of beer your friends were drinking, you remember those?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how people make beer?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s genius. They take yeast. Yeast is a fungus that feeds on sucrose. Sugar. Sugar is in every plant, because plants, by definition, take water and sunlight and turn it into sucrose. Every organism needs sucrose. Now, depending on the beer, you take hops or barley or whatever. What matters is this: You use a plant, usually a grain. With me so far?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think or do you know?”
“I know.”
“Okay, so they take these plants and put them in a bottle with these yeasties. The yeast chow down on the plants. They eat the sucrose, and they shit out this strange compound called Ethanol. Ethanol is alcohol.”
There are cops all over this fucking freeway. They’re moving in and out of traffic, topping 120 mph. No sirens, no lights. Everyone is watching them, and going 10 mph under the speed limit. Myself included. I’m sweating.
“They keep eating the sugar until there is so much Ethanol that they drown.”
“What do yeast breathe?”
“I don’t fucking know, I said listen.”
I wait for a response for a couple of seconds.
“The point is, they can’t breathe alcohol. They eat sugar and shit alcohol until they all drown in their own shit. Collectively, we are a yeast colony trapped in a bottle we call ‘Earth’.”
She doesn’t say anything. She knows what I’m going to say.
“We’re trapped in a bottle, and we’re about to drown in our own shit.”
I look around the traffic, which is always horrible, then I say, “Okay, Alice, there are some things you should know.
“First, I killed Marcus, Johnson, and some other people. I’m not proud of it, but there are omelettes and there are eggs, and the masses are hungry for breakfast. I also stole some things. Ironically enough, I stole eggs.
“After I killed Marcus, I went to every zoo that we sent a California Condor egg to as part of the Condor rehabilitation program. I said there was a mistake and got them all back. I’ve got 8 eggs in this briefcase.”
I pat the briefcase affectionately, but she doesn’t see it.
“And we’re going to sell them.”
“Why? I thought you wanted to save the animals.”
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Oh, and shut up. Quiet hostages are living hostages. I’m trying to save you, but you’re one of them until then.
“I stole the eggs for two reasons. One: The investigation, when they don’t find the eggs, will uncover the vast amount of money flowing into that corrupt shit hole. That’s my last attempt to get our current society to fucking work. Two: When that doesn’t work, I’ve got another plan. Before we go into that though, I have to explain something else.
“This culture you’re living in doesn’t care, which we’ve discussed. Basically, our species has seceded from the natural order and created our own, and ours isn’t any better. We’re killing everything on our planet. Everything. Yeast in a bottle, baby. The planet will survive it, but Homo Sapiens will not.
“Daniel Quinn puts it better than I can. His theory goes something like this: Cultures based around consumption, when there are six billion seventy-ish kilo creatures on a planet, isn’t just destructive, it’s suicidal. And we’re going to fix it.”
She says, “You are an insane person. You’re fucking cra--.”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’m not finished.”
“What we’re going to do is exploit the system that’s going to destroy me. I had to rebel against it, and nobody can break themselves out of the cage they’re in. I had to, they’ve been lying to me for fucking years.”
“All I can do is let you know what you can do before I die. You’re going to take these eggs and go into hiding. Inside the briefcase are a number of people I met in the service. They know people who will buy the eggs. You sell them all, and live cheap in a country where the capitalists won’t find you. When the time is right, and you’ll know when, you find someone like I found you. Someone that wants the bad men to pay, and you do something like this.”
I think she’s crying, but why, I can’t imagine. Sometimes the sun hurts your eyes when you get out of the cage. I cried for hours after I killed Marcus. I didn’t cry for him. I didn’t.
“Just make sure they understand these things. We are not going to be rich. We’re going to rally enough money to fight them with their own system. My notes from Economics are in the briefcase as well. As long as there isn’t a substantial change in the NYSE in a few generations, we’re going to use their money to bring the whole fucking thing falling down. And before it does, we utilize the system to seize control. I can’t tell you how to do that, because I don’t know what will happen. We’re going to die, but we’re working for something. This isn’t a job. This is what we’re working for.
“Got it?”
“I think so.”
“Are you going to do it?” I say. “This is our chance. Just remember that we are not them. Always remember that.”
“Y—yeah,” she says, “Okay.”
There are too many fucking cops on the highway. I take the Jupiter Road exit. When I see the tollbooth, I swear. “Oh shit.”
I can see metal glinting from the passenger seat, and while I’m in line, I lean over and start rummaging through the garbage. Nickel, nickel, dime, fuck pennies, quarter, quarter, quarter, quarter. Hah! I think it’s a buck-twenty at this exit.
The flustered clerk doesn’t give me a second glance through his mat of curls that hang like you’d think of vines from a decaying building.
I say to Alice, “Around the corner is a motel, and I’ve got a room for you. Don’t stay for longer than fourteen hours. I’ve got some food, hair-dye, and other things you might need in the backseat. Take a taxi to Oklahoma City and call the first phone number on the list, he’ll get you a new I.D. and a car. Then to go to Canada or something.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve got several likely contingencies covered in there too. I’ve been busy these past few days.”
I pull into the Motel 6. I got a room here when my car was still wet with red paint. I take a look around, and it’s clear. There’s a privacy fence on two sides, the back of a gas station on one, and shuttered windows of the motel on the last side. I remember this place, it’s the kind of place that fills up every night with johns and prostitutes, then empties every morning. The girl that died in the accident, we had sex in the room I rented for Alice. The only beverage in the Coke machines is Diet Shasta Raspberry-Ginger-Ale. What can I say? I love the details, I guess I’m just an old-fashioned romantic that way.
I open the Motel door, then go back to the trunk to retrieve Alice. She’s still in the fetal position, and looks damn good, considering what she’s been through. What a fuckin’ woman. Once I throw her over my shoulder, I hot-step inside the room, where I set her on the bed. Then I get her supplies and the briefcase. Now it’s time for the moment of truth, I close the door and bolt it.
“Don’t move, Alice.” I say, and retrieve a pocketknife from my pants. She almost screams, but keeps it in her open mouth. I bend down and cut her loose of the duct tape and zip-ties.
“Look at me.” And she does. “Do you understand what you have to do?”
“Yes,” she says. I hear steel rebar through her sniffles, and I see concrete under her red-rimmed eyes and matted hair. She’s got it.
“Now, I’m going to say this until you understand it.” I say. “The assertion that capitalism is either an inevitable or efficient form of structuring human society is based, not on facts, but on an apathetic resignation to the status quo.”
She didn’t get it all. I say it four times, until she repeats it word for word.
“Don’t just memorize it, know it. Write it down, and remember that just because other structures for human interactions on a broad scale have not worked, doesn’t mean they can’t. We need to keep trying.”
She writes the mantra down.
“Goodbye, Alice.”
“…Goodbye, Jack.”
I step out of the door, with seven bullets, two pistols, a pocketknife, an empty wallet, a black suit without a tie, and the biggest smile I’ve ever worn. Cynthia takes my hand, and it seems perfectly rational, natural, and right. I step outside to find my death. I have time to hope. I have time, for the first time in my life, to hope that we can do it. As I drive out of the parking lot, I’m elated. I didn’t do my job this time. This time, I worked for something.


And there it is. Hit up the tagboard.

Shit on a shitsmeared shitbox. Go out and buy Doom 3. Hijack a computer if you have to, but play this fucking game. It's like visual ambrosia mixed with just enough everclear to make it naughty.

So, how long has it been? March huh? Holy fuck. Well, for some fucked up reason I decided to post this morning. It might be that I keep getting my ass handed to me in Warcraft in a strangely polite manner. It's as if an english butler is approaching me apprehensively at a party where everyone's suit costs $800 and says, "Excuse me sir, but we have found your ass." And then he casually hands it to me and strides off.

Yeah, glad you could come with me on that. I've been getting annihilated, and that makes it much less fun. On that note, I've got this kind of stream of consciousness meta-writing that I worked on while I was away. It's strange, but fits in well as a return post.


So it’s been a while hasn’t it? It most certainly has. Longer than I’ve ever planned to go without seeing you. I missed you, you know. Pouring out my thoughts, sifting through them, searching for so much as a sparkle among the riverbed gravel. It’s never really mattered to me whether it was just a penny from the 1950’s, worth about a cent and long forgotten by the world’s economy or a nugget of precious metal. I’ve never really cared, it’s the shine that draws me, that keeps me doing this.
Because when you write, you forget what you’ve written eventually, even though it’s still there. It’s at that point that reading it, without any association between the current self and the state of the work that you can proofread without hurting your pride, and enjoy what you’ve written. As Vonnegut puts it, you sometimes think: “I did that?!”
Maybe that’s the feeling I search for when I do this. Maybe that’s the feeling I search for in everything I’ve done. Other people’s appreciation or admiration is quite well and good as a means of instant gratification, but when you see something you’ve done and think Vonnegut’s thought, which I’ve shamelessly pirated, that’s a longer lasting, fuller feeling.
Well, I’ve driven that idea into the ground, but I guess I’m still writing. That happens, I keep talking when I have nothing to say, much like I type the words that aren’t even formulated in my brain before they go to my fingers.
This is how I started writing comedy. I wrote and wrote and it just starting coming out of me. Now it feels like the well is dried up, I don’t have anything funny to say. I feel like, since I’m not really writing comedy, performing would be phony, or false somehow.
Hrm, I guess I need a cigarette. Anyway, I’m back. It’s amazing to me, looking at this paragraph, that no matter how long I’m gone it’s still only two spaces to you. It’s because you’re so forgiving. So understanding. I can spend as long as I want away from you, and when I come back you’re here. Not waiting for me, but right where I left you. In stasis. Probably the only form of time travel I’ll experience in this lifetime.
Maybe I feel that I have nothing important to say. That could be it, but it’s not. No, it can’t be, because if it was, I wouldn’t write at all.

It’s been even longer this time. Long enough that I look at our first paragraph together last time, and I think to myself “That’s not so bad.” I miss you so much more now than I did before. I feel like we’ve been apart so long, we’ll never learn how to live together again.
I know you don’t feel that way. You never do, of course. It’s a return key to you, but for me it’s been months. Months of shit. I’ve been happy the majority of the time I’ve been away, but it’s a happiness I know everybody feels as they live their lives a day at a time.
You get a job, you work at your job. You spend the money you get from your job when you’re not working at your job. You go home, if you’re lucky, as I am, you eat, you sleep, you fuck someone you love. You waste time in other ways. Watching movies, playing games, drinking, wallowing.
Somehow, perhaps only in my mind, having the job I do lays my entire life out before me, like my thoughts on this page. Uncensored, vulnerable, and altogether disappointing.
I do good work at my job. I sell people things, because that’s what the people that have the money pay me to do. I sometimes disagree with the purchases people make because I know they must work somewhere to get the money they spend while I’m working so I can spend money at other places where a disgruntled clerk will disagree with my leisure activities.
That was a clumsy way of thinking through it, but I know you don’t mind. You’re like a loving parent to me, so caring and protective.
I can just envision myself putting off writing, or any kind of soul searching for 30 years. Working retail and food service as the economy and my mood suits me. Getting married and having children, forgetting everything I’ve dreamt about so often.
Comedy. When I fall asleep, as it’s happening, so many things run through my mind. Much of the time it’s acts at a comedy club, things I could perform and how I’d want them to go. Much of the time it is funny material that I wish I would write down. I don’t though, because moments later I’m asleep and it’s all gone.
Sometimes, especially at work, something happens to me that scares me. I sit and daydream about being interviewed. I’m being interviewed because I’m famous for something. This scares me for several reasons. Firstly, because at work, I’m doing nothing to further my dream of doing comedy. Second, this daydream seems like the self-absorbed dreaming of a person who does nothing with his life but sit behind a counter and watch people purchase commodities.

And there it is. Maybe, if I post again in the next few weeks, I'll talk about something a bit more recent. Now it's time for City of Heroes.

Well... Since my last post described me planning to play Warcraft III, it should come as no surprise that I've really been doing nothing but playing Warcraft III lately. That's about it kids. I've been playing Warcraft, eating, sleeping... yep. About it. Things are so fucked up with my life right now, that I can't even think about doing comedy. It's strange that I began writing comedy as a way to deal with how fucked up my life had become, and now I can't do it unless everything's peachy fucking keen. What's even stranger is that things aren't all that fucked up. I've just been at a loss as to how to rectify them.

So, if you're hear, you don't want to hear about this. You want something to occupy some time. You can look at my Warcraft III profile. Or you could check out some replays of amazing warcraft players here. In order to view them, you're going to need a copy of Warcraft III.

That's all I've got.

Alright, so I figure I should put some content up on the site. I don't really have any sketches or bits I've written to add... so how about a post! All right! Lately I've been really depressed, but I got my meds adjusted, and things are starting to look gravy. Not like burnt pieces of animal flesh at the bottom of a pan. But like creamy goodness. Because, while I will eat the former form of gravy, most people won't.

So yeah, I've been feeling pretty good. I haven't been especially productive while I've been feeling pretty good, but I feel like productivity is imminent. Hey, hey it could all be bullshit, but that doesn't matter to me at the moment.

But anyway, Warcraft III calls to me. You assholes can sit around and browse the internet for all of a fuck I give, but I'm done for now.

So, I was writing a sketch to post for an update, but it ended up sucking. The worst part is, the best joke in it was one i stole from a post several months ago. So it's right out. I think the problem was not having a good idea for a sketch when I started writing. I just watched some Mr. Show and was like, "I'm gonna write, because I'm just that fucking talented."

Well, I did write, but I'm not. I did think of a good idea for a sketch though, which is a re-enactment style (Like the show 911-EMERGENCY) scene that's about my last trip to Benigann's. I'm not going to outline it right now, but it was one of the single funniest things that's ever happened in the history of the universe, short of the Razor Scooter trend of the early 21st centry.

Or something funnier that I can't think of right now.

Here's a quick teaser of the very first thing that happened when we walked in to Benigann's (I think it's actually Bennigan's, but I don't give a shit).

1. The manager told me that the best movie in the world, ever, was "Fight Club."

Now, I was wearing my sweatshirt with a Fight Club logo on it, and I don't disagree, it is the best movie, ever. That's not the funny part, it's the next thing he said that almost slew me on the spot. After he said that, he said to me, and I'm not embellishing, exaggerating, or even joking,

2. "Well, it was the best movie ever, but there's a better one that just came out. Do you know what it is?"
I'm like, "Um, no, not really, are you actually expecting me to guess?" I'm trying to think of new indy flicks and shit, wracking my brain, so this douchebag doens't make me look like an asshole.

3. "The Last Samauri, is now the best movie ever."

And I could go on, with his ranting and raving about the movie (which I still havne't seen), but I think the quote, "The Last Samauri is the best movie ever," is really the best point I could end this post on.

Ok, so I wrote a sketch. It's really wierd, just something I thought of before going to sleep. Also, I don't think it's very good. It is short though, and that's good. I think i might be getting back on the wagon as far as writing goes. Although, I said that about 30 days ago, and haven't done a damn thing since then. And I'm not insinuating that the Cephaladon Studios fanbase takes anything I say seriously, because that, would be stupid. I try not to be stupid. Except when I'm writing sketches! Oh, and I make up all the words that are for things that happen in video but I don't know the keyword for. Camera cuts, etc.

Fade in to a blank chalkboard.

A furry white paw enters the frame and writes: Smegma.

Cut to a medium shot of a rabbit behind a desk and in front of a chalkboard.

It begins to speak.

Mrs. Applesworth: Now class, Smegma is something that boy rabbits have.

Cut to shot of the class. Rabbits sitting in desks.

Jimmy interrupts: Is that like a penis?

Mrs: Applesworth: No Jimmy, it’s not like a penis, it’s like butter.

Sally: Why do we bleed for 5 days, and the boys get to make butter? It’s not fair. (She begins to cry.)

Mrs. Applesworth: It seems I misspoke. It isn’t actually butter. See children, smegma is produced inside the folds of skin covering the young boys’s penises. Except for Peter, his was cut off.

Cut to peter, who blushes under his fur and covers his crotch, embarrassed. The class laughs softly.

Sally: I’m confused. (sniffles) Why did they cut off his smegma?

Mrs. Applesworth: They didn’t, they cut off his foreskin, smegma is made inside the foreskin. (she pulls down a roll up map thing in front of the chalkboard, it happens to be a crossection of male rabbit sexual organs) You can see here (taps it with a paw) where the foreskin is, except on peter.

Cut to a shot of peter, who looks embarrassed again. The children laugh.

Mrs. Applesworth: And that’s where smegma is made.

Jimmy: I knew it! It is like a penis!

Joanne: Penis-butter.

The class groans in disgust.

Fade out.

Block letters appear on the screen: Now you know.

Then the letters fade after about 5 seconds and news ones appear, as if talking to the previous ones.

Why were they rabbits?

Then: That’s what makes it funny.

Then: Oh, so that was funny.

Then: Shut up.

Then: I thought this was supposed to be a comedy show, not Sigmund Freud’s retarded brain droppings on video.

Then: Nobody likes you. We all talk about you behind your back.

I finally started writing again! Here's a sample (Keep in mind that it sucks, but it's still exciting to me):

I know it’s been a while since the question was initially posed, but it’s got to be answered at some point. Have we yet deduced who, in fact, let the dogs out in the first place?

That’s one thing I really love about hip hop. More than any other genre of music, they’re prepared to ask inane questions and make demands on an audience nobody else would ever conceive of. I recall Kris-Kross wanting us to “Jump, Jump,” as it were. Live shows are the worst though. Don’t get me wrong, I like hip hop, but when I go to a show, I want the guys I’m paying to see to do the work, you know? “Who’s house?” I don’t fucking know, you tell me, asshole. “Everybody SCREAM!” I’m busy trying to figure out why there’s a lemon in my long island iced tea, and you want me to scream? Fuck all that buddy, you scream.

How do they do that anyway? Not the screaming, the long islands. I’ve seen them make the motherfuckers, and it’s nothing but booze. That’s how you know you’re getting a decent drink: when the bartender has to grab bottles two at a time. I’ll never understand it, but nonetheless, my hat is off.

Now as I said, I do enjoy some hip hop, but one thing I cannot abide is hip hop lacking witty lyrics. People tell me it’s all about the beat, but I digress. What have you got without lyrical intensity in a hip hop song? A 4 and a half minute drum machine solo. That’s what you’ve got, and that, just will not cut it.

50 cent? I hate fifty cent. That’s right, fifty, though even Sharon Osborne, that status seeking trollup, feels obligated to call him ‘fity.’ I’m getting sidetracked, but what the fuck? How did she get her own show? She has a small dog and is married to a rock star. This is now the requirement for being a television personality? What about attractiveness and the ability to articulate simple concepts? Maybe I’m just mad because I don’t have a dog.

Anyway, about fifty. I love it when I articulate my severe distaste towards the man and his music, and white people say this: Well, he can flow. Shut up. The only flow that white people should be talking about is the monthly kind that has baby makings in it. Flow? Do you even know what that means? NO! You don’t! “Well, he got shot in the face, so he’s a bit more credible than Jah-Rule.” I can’t even comprehend what it would take to be less credible than Jah-Rule, so fuck that. Besides, I don’t think taking a bite from a lead salad necessarily constitutes rap competence. I mean, so fifty shorted some crackhead in Queens on an 8 ball, and the guy shot him. This kind of thing happens all the time, and really shouldn’t lend to credibility. Then again, the guy does have one of the best selling records of all time. BUT! When you consider other popular things, from Olympic figure skating, the world’s strongest man competition, Jim Jones, Hitler, and the Bible, just because something is widely received doesn’t mean it’s good.

There. An update for anyone that reads this. It's a piece I did for a non-fiction writing class I'm in. Now, after all that work. I need a fucking nap.

When I think of progress. What do I think? I don’t think about boxes that use radiation to superheat my food in mere minutes. I don’t think of electricity, A.I.D.S. Research, or any sprawling metropolis. I don’t think of the endangered flora and fauna that are unfortunate enough to share our biosphere, internal combustion, or the limitless potential of nuclear power. I don’t. I don’t think about these things. When I think of progress, I think about a number. That number is six billion.

Six billion fucking people. Descended from apes and hating every minute of it. Six billion people toiling and troubling: From Chinese peasants harvesting grain, a woman who works the late-night drive-thru at Wendy’s 7 days a week, to sherpas, who’s only purpose has been transformed into helping rich white men climb Everest. Right on down to the rich white men themselves, sipping cognac from leather chairs seated on the veranda that overlooks a tired bayou. Six billion is a number I don’t even understand, being only one serving of it.

But when I look at people, in cars and buses, on bikes and skates, I think of progress. I think of time, and the number. I see the fleshy white girl wearing a trendy shirt 2 sizes too small, where her stomach spills out and competes with her belt for viewing space. I see her, and I wonder about time.

I think about the time these six billion apish organisms have. Not collectively, of course, but each and every one of them. That’s what it all boils down to, though. Time. And how much of it.

How much time we have to do what we want. I wonder if the people who in their younger years, work to consume what the box in the middle of their dwelling tells them is important, ever realize that the box is wrong? Do they ever figure out what is important? Or do they, like this chubby female that’s almost out of sight, with her accessories and makeup, continue their charted course until they expire? And then, their rotund younglings will perhaps continue to propagate the acidic dogma they were weaned on.

I see people, and I think: Six billion. I see a person, and I think: Time.

If one of the people that I see works 8 hours each day in a 5 day working week for a year, this person will have worked for 2,240 hours. If this person sleeps, and as I understand biology, everyone must, another 2,920 are nullified. This person, with the dreadlocks and Phish shirt, regardless of the counterculture he subscribes to, will most likely have about 3,600 hours every year to allocate as he sees fit. Holidays were omitted from the total working time, but if one were to factor time spent in the bathroom, the figures would surely cancel each other.

Three thousand six hundred hours a year. Not much. Certainly not enough. Now, if this same person were to live to the ripened age of 72 (the average life expectancy of an American male) and retired at 65, he or she will have 295,320 hours to spend. Ever. This is your life, and it’s ending.

I don't have much to say. I'm really busy. Working on an act to take to Knuckleheads at some point for an Open Mic. I'm going to start performing it at the Steaknife near campus soon (maybe next week) to hone it a bit before I take it to a real club. I figure it'll be a while before I can do comedy regularly again. Work sucks. Tuesdays and Thursdays I work in the cafeteria that serves the UofM football team's dinner. THat's fun, let me tell you. Some of the most inarticulate motherfuckers you will ever meet.

"Yea, um, gimme some of that, and that, with som'a that"
The best part, is they don't even point. They just kinda nod their head in the general direction of the food they want. I'm behind a sneezeguard from them, steam all in my eyes and shit, and I'm supposed to know whether they're nodding to the chicken fried steak or the pasta? No, I'm afraid I can't do it.

Then on MWF, I work in the basement of the Med School on campus. Talk about polar fucking opposites. The best part, is at this job there's a menu. If you've never worked food service, I'd suggest it, for at least a week. Just to watch people read the menu. It's got to be the dumbest face anyone ever makes, consciously or not. Whew, does anyone know what I'm talking about? Because, if not, I need to flesh this idea out. It's like cubist art, just fucking beautiful. That, and really, really ugly. I want to smuggle a camera to work to take pictures of people reading the menu.

I need to sleep, got lots of class tomorrow and lots of work to do that I haven't done yet.

Alright. First thing's first, what did I tell you fucktards? Scroll down and shit, I'm not gonna type it again. Although, since the person's nick was actually fucktard, there's a meta-cognition aspect of the whole thing that I'm not even prepared to evaluate. Whoa, that was deep. Warning, overuse of parentheses ahead. Only because I learned how to spell it, so I could give aforementioned warning.

I apologize for not updating the huge ganja rant I have planned. Well, no, I don't. Wait. How about I apologize without any real sincerity. Sorry about the complete lack of updates.

Moving right along. I haven't been updating for a few reasons. I got back to Minneapolis on the *cough* of August, and I've been getting 'reaquainted' with 'friends.' Don't read too deeply into the use of single quotes there, even I don't really know what it means. Also, I've got so many videogames now (I'm about to play warcraft, which is why I'm not going to expound on my potrant right now (can we call it a prant?(there should be a word for word sandwiches that form altogether new words(wordrritos anyone?)))) and I got xbox live. Playing games from my TV with idiots all over the fucking world. I do have to say that nothing tickles me more than hearing an extremely thick southern accent (there's a headset dealymabob, which is both a blessing and a curse. How could it be a curse, asshole? You tell us this now, but do you give any real evidence? How about this! I think that link accurately describes the majority of conversations you'll have.) Anyway, why does the accent tickle me? I couldn't really say, except that it's not unlike a prostate tickle. Nonetheless, it's still fun.

Oh yeah, and the sign up process for Xbox live is pretty scary. I mean, the name boxes I can handle, but what do you need my Social Security # for? My cup size? It wasn't even tits, it was just what size of cup you usually drink water from, if you have a standard water drinking designated recepticle. That was the fine print on that question. It was a bit invasive, I must say. Oh well, Go Microsoft. You'll take over the world with EULA's one of these fucking days.

"You can't do this Bill, you're a fucking psycho."
"Bullshit, did you even read the EULA for Windows: Diablo Edition? It's all there."
"You crazy fuck, what are you? A mormon? You can't have your hands in this many jars at one time. What's this I hear about a microsoft theme park?"
"It hasn't been greenlighted yet, it's much more of a green-light situation than it is a green-light right now. Ah, here it is: Paragraph 283, Line 372, "By clicking, "I agree" you forfeit all rights to your everlasting soul. It is now property of Microsoft, Inc."
"How many you got, anyway?"
"In a few years, the Immaculate Soul Comission will have to give us funding, because we'll have the required 5%. This third party shit is harder than it looks. We're still way behind heaven and hell, but they've been at it for fucking years, and we have quite a bit of catching up to do."
"Was that a reference to the green party trying to get 5% with Nader in 2000? Because I think it's unclear."
"Yeah, it was supposed to be, but the guy writing my dialogue is completely unable to articulate the concept humorously right now."
"Oh, that sucks. He just has me pointing out the obvious. Fuck, I did it again."

Let's put that dialogue out of it's misery. Oh, speaking of dialogue. Went to dinner at Figlios, which I could talk about more, but won't. At the restaurant I heard a pretty funny conversation, which I will now reproduce word for word. FUCK! I can't fucking remember it. Hopefully one of the people I was with will. Because it was fucking funny. God dammit, I hate my life. THat wasn't the actual conversation, just me sitting here trying to remember how it starts and not being able to.

Classes start tomorrow. I'm taking 19 credits, and I don't know how that's going to work out. BUT! I got a fuckton of student aid this semester, for some unknown reason (perhaps the impossible amount of classes I'm taking), and this semester it looks like I only owe the university about 960 dollars. Thank you: Incomprehensible Acronym Federal Grants.

Got a new roomate now. Josh, my roomate from sophomore year, just moved in to fill the void in our lease and my asshole at the same time. What can I say? We have a very special relationship. I helped him move yesterday, as in Sunday.

I'll get back to the prant in a few days. I've got more important shits to do. Thanks for the tags, go away for 10 days, and someone visits the site. Who knew?

On Mariganjabis.
Why THC is the most deplorable chemical for the human body

TetraHydroCannabinol (THC) is typically extracted from the Marijuana plant, (More than you could ever want to know about the plant and the substance contained within it can be found here.) The chemical iteself is not water soluble, meaning it is difficult to synthesize from the plant, at least, if you're high when you try. The most symple form of synthesis and ingestion is by burning the leaves of the marjiuana plant, which releases THC along with smoke from said leaves. Some Marijuana plants are genetically engineered beyond repair, and as such, you don't end up burning leaves, but 'nuggets' of plant matter literally oozing THC, but we'll get to that later. Glass pipes, rolling papers, water pipes, nefarious contraptions with more hoses than a lyposuction clinic, and metal or wood pipes are typically used to hold the plant in place while it is torched.

Other methods of THC extraction include: Dissolving the chemical in a fatty substance (such as butter) and then ingesting the butter (this ingestion can be accomplished in a variety of ways, but brownies and crackers are popular delivery methods), vaporizing THC from the plant (pass superheated air over it, and only the THC will reach it's boiling point, you get a 'cleaner' 'hit'), and dissolving the chemical in an alcohol (Recipies for THC/Ethanol drinks can be found, if one were inclined) are the most populare methods. Chemically, I am absolutely positive that it is possible to make THC pills, or some form of liquified THC that's relatively pure. This is all conjecture however, because it would be a pain in the ass to actually do, and it's much too much work when smoking the shit makes the 5 hours of paid programming from 1:30 to 6:30 AM seem like a reasonable time investment.

Now, a little recap on our methods, and some warnings for each of them. Smoking is pretty self explanitory: Set it on fire and inhale the smoke until either your lungs stop inhaling or it won't burn anymore. Right, we've all got that. On to cooking. Cooking with Marijuana is relatively tricky, if you're an absolute moron. I mean, if the sperm from your dad had a few extra chromosomes, maybe half of you just swam too well for your own fucking good. Seriously, you people need to not fuck this up. Keeping two things in mind will make sure that it never happens again. First, Cannabinol is fat soluble. This means, that you can't just put it in the brownies and expect to get high. The acids in your stomach will absorb a small amount of THC from the plant matter itself, but most of it will be lost completely somewhere between the oven and the sewer. You need to cook the marijuana in the butter you plan to use in... whatever. Be it brownies, or just butter for toast, it doesn't matter. Get a pan, the amount of butter and amount of pot, heat the butter, then add your marijuana. This brings us to step two: Don't burn the shit. The butter doesn't need to be flying all over the fuck place to absorb tasty little THC molecules. Just get a healthy simmer, and do it for a while. I'm talking medium to medium low here. It's much better, both chemically and aesthetically if you heat it longer at a lower heat than burn the fuck out of it in 15 minutes. Also, it goes to say that your apartment will smell like Marijuana. It's not quite as pervasive as the smoke itself, but it's definately noticeable. Cook something afterwards if you have parents that don't understand they've been innoculated to subscribe to the dominant belief in a culture that doesn't give a fuck about them. Whew, I think I'm ranting. Back to our favorite plant.

Vaporize it! Vaporizers are typically bought online, though I forget the legitimate use they have. I've heard that Home Depot (Want to hear something funny about Home Depot? There's a funny bit on Home Depot on Matt Fugate's website. Click the Wallpaper Now! link) sells vaporizers on their website. A vaporizer looks like a drill and sounds like a drill, but all it contains is a heater and a fan. You plug it in and wait about 15 minutes for it to heat up. Think blowdryer. It's the same principle, just expanded by a few factors of 10. Don't use it on your hair, dumbass. Basically, this is the same as smoking the pot, but you pass heated air over the ganja (pack very small bowls, and try to make sure that the heat will hit every angle of the marijuana, you will only get one hit per bowl and if the heat doesn't reach a portion of the weed, it won't vaporize the THC) and then inhale colorless, odorless vapor. I dislike this method for a number of reasons: It's not as social. It strikes me as an industrial, professional method of imbibing THC, and that's not something I've ever liked. It's loud. You get no smoke, so it feels less satisfying (think patch opposed to cigarettes). And it's impossible to tell if you've cashed the bowl or not. I've heard that the weed looks a little browner afterwards, but the guys that told me this were high, so take it with a grain of NaCl. I think that's the right chemical. Anyway. Moving right along.

Now, since my title denotes THC as being the most destructive humor when interacting with the human form, it may seem counter-intuitive for me to begin with ingestion. I really can't explain the choice here, except to say that I wanted to start from the beginning, and this was as far back as I was willing to go. I'm not going to touch on traditional or ancient methods of partaking in the THC, because these ritualistic anecdotes have no place in explaining marijuana in our culture, and there is aboslutely no relevance between ancient uses and the way marijuana is used today. The other reason I started with consumption of THC is because my website logs posts in a reverse chronological manner, so it will actually be the last once all is typed and done. Actually, I suppose these next few sentences will be the last read.

Stay tuned tomorrow for the experience, or the 'high.'

Stay tuned, like this is analog in any way at all. I guess it also implies that anyone but me reads this, which is just as untrue. C'mon, tag the tagboard, you apathetic fucks.

It was all I could do to not talk about a girl in this post. That's probably my final thought.