Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Some stuff about stuff

I was watching American Psycho the other night and I was thinking “I can relate.”

It’s not that I would like to kill people, it’s just that I think stabbing would be fun. Like as a sport. I would be good at it. You get real close to something and then just wam-wam-wam.

Remember that song Wham Rap? Now tell me you haven’t wanted to stab someone.

But murder is bad. You shouldn’t do it. I think. I can’t remember. It’s been ages since I’ve been to church. Sometimes I forget. Like the other day when I was worshipping that golden calf and in the middle I was like “Wait – I’m not supposed to be doing this.” That was a lot of clean up. Also, I had to figure out how to sell a golden calf. It’s not easy. Most people want half the cost for postage. Eventually, I just started riding it. It wouldn’t go anywhere. But I looked pretty boss, naked on my golden calf at Walmart.

A lot of people get down on Walmart for being mean or something. I can’t remember. It was in the news or something. Anyway, point is, people are mean to Walmart. It’s just a shopping center with cheap products – what’s wrong with that? Sure, they treat their employees like scum and run Ma and Pop stores out of business and have sex with my wife, but that’s how you keep margins low. Sure, every time you buy a gallon of orange soda an executive in Arkansas rapes a mule – but that’s the price you pay for orange soda savings – mule rape.

Rape is never funny. Not even when you’re talking about mules. Mules are people too. Think about it. And while you’re thinking about that, a mule is probably taking your job. That’s the way it goes when you live in the West: mules get raped and take your job. It’s the circle of life.

Why the circle of life? Why not a square. It’s not like the world is round. A lot of people will tell you it is – like creationists and gays. I’m pretty sure it’s those people – those guys that move their body parts into different positions and become cars. I think their god is Optimus Prime or something. Anyway, you shouldn’t hate Walmart.

Some people you should hate: that guy down the street who got mad that I was looking at his wife. Looking at his wife! That’s it. I was naked, I wasn’t in a tree, and I wasn’t touching myself. I simply looked at her and took out my phone and tried to see how much that model cost. When I couldn’t find it, I asked the husband how much he got her for. And, yes, I can see how that might be misconstrued – like I meant for sex or something. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I just wanted a housecleaner. When I tried to explain this, things got worse. Maybe because she had just had a stroke or the fact that I had lit his house on fire a couple weeks before, or maybe just because he was my Dad.

I don’t understand why people don’t get along with their Dads. Dads are great. Like this one Dad that I had when I was a kid. I think his name was Jim. Or Ronny. Maybe Ronny – Jim. Like we were hillbillies or something. Wait – that was Bill Clinton. Bill Clinton wasn’t my Dad. God, I wish I knew who my Dad was. Maybe I’ll ask the Dad I have now. He might no who the first model was. Then I could track him down and be like “DAD!” and then we could talk about old times. Like when he sold me to my new Dad for that mule.

If I could be one man on Earth for a day, it would be my Dad, Bill Clinton. He was once my Dad and once President. That’s two things I’ve never done before in my entire life. That makes him a hero to me. Like Patrick Bateman.

Friday, January 27, 2012

Jr. High

The library is empty and I’m spinning a metal rack of young adult books around. There’s one about a boy who wakes up with a third arm. I open it and page through looking for the point where he grows the extra arm.
There’s a clock on the wall and I look up at it and realize I only have three minutes to get to the cafeteria.
If you get caught in the halls between classes, you get in trouble.
I put the book down and move towards the door and grab the handle, but it won’t open. Something is on the other side pulling it closed.
I yell at the person on the other side, but the door doesn’t let loose. I let go and try the door again and it opens and outside is the school security guard dressed as Robocop.
“You’re late for lunch.”
“You were holding the door.”
“I was holding nothing. Nothing at all.”
He puts his arm around me and walks me out a window.
Then I just, you know, just kinda fall. Extra arms begin growing out of my body as I plunge down the side of a tower and into the ground in Dubai.
I wake up and examine the world back then. When I got into the library and when I fell into Dubai. There’s nine new arms growing out of my torso and I can type on nine different computers, nine different stories. Each one has a different flavor to what I was doing in the library. In one it’s not a book about third arms at all. It’s a book about bees. In another I’m laying on the floor of the library reading emails that are posted on the ceiling.
All of these stories happened at the same time.
I’m in a large building as I type. The sun is coming in through a window and I have to squint.
*“I am in a library. The lights are all out. There’s a woman in glasses staring at me from behind a desk. I lift my hand and wave and she doesn’t wave back. I pick up a book from a metal spindle rack and begin leafing through ‘Eskimos of the North’ and every page is a different picture of me in the library. One where I’m waving at the woman, one where I’m reading the Boy with the Third Arm, one where I’m lying on the floor…”*
I stop typing and notice the light is coming from an approaching object. I stand and look out the window and it appears to be a comet or asteroid. The horizon behind it is on fire and I look down and notice that the city below me is also on fire.
I hope the tower I’m in stands.
The object stops in mid air and slowly moves towards the window.
The room lights on fire and I sit down on the floor and try to breathe in the fumes before I catch fire.
I feel the tower tilt and fall beneath me. I look around and I’m facing the glowing mass as I sit in mid air.
It beeps at me like a Fax machine.
I look behind me and ask “Are you talking to me?”
It beeps again.
A sound from underneath it and a very large number of human bodies drop and fall to the ground.
“Are you talking to me?”
It turns and speeds off in the opposite direction, but a rope made of light leaps from it and twists around my ankle taking me with it.
The librarian asks me what I’m reading. I look down at the book and it’s a snapshot of the aircraft dropping bodies on Dubai.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes. What are you reading?”
“I’m reading a story.”
“May I see it?”
I hand her the book and she looks down at the picture in disbelief and then up at me. Then she looks down at the picture and starts walking backwards towards her desk.
She gets on the phone and quietly gives instructions to someone on the other end.
I spin the metal rack and pick out a new book called The Librarian is Calling the Police.
The door opens and the guard isn’t in the hallway now. It’s empty.
The floor is littered with candy wrappers and soda pop cans. BDP is being piped in through the school speakers and it's that song The Blueprint. I kick some popcorn and move towards a drinking fountain.
It’s marked Out of Order. I try it and it works.
I walk down the hall.
A door opens and police run passed me and down the hall. They run through me. Dogs and all.
I look behind me and they open a door and as they pass through it their uniforms turn into the Desert Storm uniforms from 91 and I see burning oil towers in the distance.
I hang a left and two girls are fighting in the hallway.
They yell obscenities at one another and then the one with brown hair grabs the other’s black hair and runs her head into a locker.
The brown haired girl is trying to understand what she just did when a large cavity opens in the hallways and the girls go dropping into the Earth, followed by candy wrappers, lockers, Coke cans, and I think a PE teacher.
“What are you reading?”
I look down at the book.
“I think it’s a math book.”
“May I see?”
She takes the book and says “I remember this.”
She hands it back and I look at it and I can’t read the language. It doesn’t seem like any language I’ve ever seen.
“What is about?” I ask her.
“Oh, it’s about that time…” She spins her finger in the air as if she’s dancing.
“What time?”
“That time we rocked around the clock.”
She nods and smiles. She’s tearing up. The janitor is tearing large swaths of the library apart with his hands and there’s nothing but abyss behind it all.
I look up and a woman is staring at me from behind a desk. Another desk.
I tell her the door won’t open.
“You can’t leave here until 2.20.”
“But I’m 35?”
“3.20. Keep it up.”
I look around the room and I’m the only person alive. The rest of the seats are occupied by dead kids.
Light comes in through the window a tail grabs me by the leg and we go shooting off into the moon.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Egg Rolls

They are projecting images in my mind. Nimbus clouds and rhombuses. Nimbus clouds and walruses.
Here in the center for the mentally unable.
I protest and when asked I only respond “I only see egg rolls.”
“You would.” A voice in my head responds.
The doctors shake their heads and say “You can do better than that.”
I stare at the walrus, the nimbus, and the rhombus. “I cannot do any better. I only see egg rolls.”
I imagine it’s better than playing along. I have no faith that I will be released from this very serious house, so why make my captors think they are progressing with my treatment?

Back in my room I greet David, my roommate. “Hullo, David!”
“Iggy Pop tried to rape me.” David says as he looks up from a game of Scrabble he’s playing by himself.
“Really, now? Is he still in the room? I would love to get an autograph.”
“No. He’s gone. He came to me in a dream. He also lost my dog.”
For the life of me I can’t figure out if David is playing nuts like me or is really nuts. Judging by his lack of taste for excrement like the others in here, I’m guessing he’s putting me on. Or, possibly, there’s nothing nuts about dreaming Iggy Pop raped you. I imagine you can’t be held accountable for dreams. I sure wouldn’t want to be. I mean, the pure numbers of times I’ve flunked out of college and shown up for the final naked after not studying all semester – my father would be pissed at that waste of money.
“David, do you ever want to get out of here? I’ve been here for almost ten years now and I know they won’t release me. All hope is gone.” I sit on my bed and put my face in my hands.
“You know, there’s more than one way to skin a goat.” David says.
I look up at him from between my fingers. “Uh, huh. And if that goat were an escape plan?”
David looks out the window and points. “There’s nothing there. Nothing.”
“Sure there’s something!” I stand. “Jobs, women, drugs, excess, freedom, cheeseburgers!”
“They serve cheeseburgers on Fridays in the cafeteria.” David says glumly.
“Yes. Of course they do. But don’t you, you know, want a life? A life of your own?”
“This is my life.” And David stares down at his Scrabble board and spells “freedom” off “eggrolls”.

Before I was caught, I was something of a cool guy. I had a great job, girlfriends, houses with an “s” and all the trappings of what it was to be a guy you wanted to be.
All of that changed with a simple encounter.
Something ugly came into my life and started sucking the life out of me. Something vile and parasitic. And if you think I’m leading up to a metaphor, you’d be wrong. It wasn’t drugs or women or disease – it was something alien.

“Are you going to eat that?” David asked me looking at the cheeseburger on my tray.
“David, you’re going to eat two cheeseburgers?”
“No. I want to give it to the janitor for a cigarette.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I don’t smoke now. Who knows if I’ll ever start. And then where will I be without that cigarette?”
“I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“I think everything through. All the way through. That’s why I’m in here. I think farther than the normal person,where most people stop is where I begin. And that stepping off point is what they call reality. If they only knew what’s really out there.”
“You told me nothing was out there yesterday.”
“Out there, there’s nothing.” David said pointing out the window. “But in here…” He points at his head.
“What is your fascination with eggrolls?”
“I just think they’re cool. People are eggrolls. Fried and burned up on the outside, but on the inside they’re…what the hell is that shit in an eggroll? Not the meat, the – is it sprouts?”
“I think you just choose not to think farther than reality. And I think, for you, it’s cowardice.”
“Then I guess I’m a coward.”

I was in bed and this orb appeared. Just hovering over the bed. I stared at it and tried to think of what it could be besides a green orb. It was 4ish in the morning. I stared for a minute or so and couldn’t come up with any ideas to make me content, so I turned on the lights and there in front of me was the alien.

“You know, I heard they sometimes let people out. For good behavior. Like Marvin.”
“Marvin committed suicide.”
David shrugged “See?”
“See what? That Marvin committed suicide?”
“No, they let him commit suicide.”
“You’re insane.”
“I already explained this.”
“So, who’s winning?” I looked down at the Scrabble board.
“I am.”
“You are vague like the sun is hot.”
“And do we know that?”
“That the sun is hot?”
“Yes, how do we know?”
“Everyone knows the sun is hot. This is stupid.”
“Have you touched it personally?”
“I don’t need to, scientists take decades of schooling to assure me that it is.”
“Then you’re basing your opinion on hearsay.”
“99% of life is hearsay.”
“You don’t say?” David played “orb” off “monster”.

It was about 15 feet tall, and hunched over my bed. The green orb was circling it’s black shape. I couldn’t move. I only looked up into its hideous red eyes and determined I was about to enter a place I’ve never been before.
“We read all about you.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Your people. We’ve come to assign you a task.”
Nothing. I could barely manage a breath.
“You are to help us…adapt.”

“You know, you’re pretty content for an insane person.” I say to David as I watch him play Scrabble.
“Being in content means never having to say you're sorry.”
“We need to escape.”
“Like Marvin?”
“Fuck no. I mean leave the grounds. Escape. Go back to humanity.”
“It’s gone. Look out there. What do you see?”
“Rolling hills and trees.”
“And beyond that?”
“Nothing, I can’t see that far.”
“Then why?”
“Because I was there. I know that there’s steak houses, bars, booze, drugs, girls, websites…”
“Are you the same person you were then?”
“It was ten years ago, I don’t even remember what I was like.”
“Then how do you know those things are still there and you’ll still like them?”
“Don’t get odd. Every conversation with you is odd. Can’t you just – you know, talk normal?”
“No. I already explained where you choose to drop off and I choose to begin.”

“We need to install ourselves on your world. As…” It’s shadow face gained texture as it wrinkled around the black mouth and “…guests.”
I finally managed “I have money. You want…money? There’s drugs in the cabinet in the kitchen. Take them. Just…stop talking to me.”
“We need certain knowledge of where certain things are. Am I speaking correctly?”
“Take the computer. It’s a laptop. Or, I know women?”
“For instance, I need a supply of greenhouse gas? Is that what you call it?”
“Sure. Greenhouse gases. I can get those.” I summoned the courage to rise. “What are you?”
“We also need food fast. The greasy kind. And cigarettes.”
“I have cigarettes here.” I offered it a shaking hand with a deck of cards in it.

David is out the window, holding the inside of the room in one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. The storm outside doesn’t seem to deter him.
“I started smoking – I told you!” David yells at me.
I had been downstairs playing a video game and had come up to offer David a bag of Fritos.
“David, maybe you should come back in.”
“You don’t understand, this isn’t an easy habit to kick!”
“David, it’s raining! You’ll slip!” He’s crouched on the sill.
“I really need to quit!”
"You just fucking started!"


The light faded away around him and then all was black, except for a red dot in the distance.
He floated towards it as it sucked him in.
He looked around. The room was lined with burlap sacks and the stink of sulfur.
He cleared his throat and looked around once again.
"Nothing." He said to himself.
He looked towards the orb on his left that hung in the air glowing red now.
It chirped.
He looked towards a painting of Napolean on a horse, hung on the wall of bags.
The orb began to moan.
Glancing at the orb, he nodded and moved towards the door where the trail of blood led.
Opening it, he found himself in the board room once again.
"Charles, where the devil were you?" Hamstrand exclaimed to the room of suits.
"Go fuck yourself." Charles said and sat down wiping dust from his sleeves.
"Excuse me?" Hamstrand asked.
"Fruit loops. Harlem Globetrotters. Ed McMahon."
The board murmured and Hamstrand asked "Are you alright?"
"I'm not alright." Charles took out a cigarette and lit it.
"Oh, pardon the cigarette."
"The cigarette is hardly the problem."
Charles looked over at the woman next to him wearing the Nancy Regan red power suit. "I'm sorry." And he flicked the cigarette at Hamstrand.
Charles moved towards the woman next to him, grabbed her face to his lips and blew. "Bbbbbbbbbllllllpppppp". She screamed and leapt from the chair and ran into the closed door.
Charles snickered as she fell to the floor.
Hamstrand was too busy hitting the security button to notice.
The room grew black as Charles had his millionth heart attack and slumped in his chair staring at the ceiling, at the red light.


Friday, January 13, 2012


We use straws as Lincoln Logs. We use straws as magic wands. Coming closer to a theater near you. We use straws as Lincoln Logs.
Did you get that?
No idea.
Safety in numbers. We come in hundreds. Thousands. Millions. To a theater near you.
What in the hell?
We know worlds. We use words. We come in numbers. To a theater near you. We, rabid principles. We ravaged disciples. Put them on puppets and wave them around. We’ve been doing this forever and we’re coming to your town.
Pretty sure it’s authentic. Can you…the reverb is….I’m not – change the mic. The mic.
Dawn and man, man in dawn. Loose lips sink ships and your time has drawn. Wondered through the Apache. Loved. Lost. Lived. Long lived and loved. Forms words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Telegraph, readouts. We’re within.
It’s like spam or? I think it’s over there…no, it’s like it’s coming in from all directions. Can you zero in on…or….
Massive static. Are you reading us or just fine by us. We are tuning our minds to process words, letters, numbers, we communicate through you.
Recordings picking up nothing.
Let’s try it again.
We’re coming from inside your mind. Webs, drawings, sequences, course of language. Liberal doses of language. Like Ls and Ps and Qs. Trying. Trying. Trying.
It’s making more sense.
Not really.
Having tried for thousands of years to communicate we are at a loss for words. Ideas and constructs elude us and we are only now coming close to any readily available terms used and conditions in making this movie. Better. Better. We are coming to you from inside your own minds. We are legion and are upon you.
It’s not even…crap. Did you turn the lights out?
No, that’s a power issue. I don’t think the transmission…it’s over. I think.
Christ! Fucking lights all over.
We have landed.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Badger Circus

The Lion Tamer approached the lion and took out his whip. He prepared himself for the beast that was before him. Slowly, he approached the giant cat.

“There! You beast, taste my whip!” And the Lion Tamer struck at the beast and it submitted to him.

“Lion! Back! Back!” And the Lion Tamer picked up the chair and plunged it towards the lion.

Next, the Lion Tamer picked up another lion and swung it at the lion “How about some of your own medicine, Lion?”

The beast roared at the Lion Tamer (the one in his hand, the other lion, the lion he was taming stood still). The Lion Tamer became frightened and dropped the beast, now he needed to tame two lions.

So, he picked up another lion from his Shurgard storage container full of lions, then he picked another. He tied the two lions together and now he had lion nunchucks.

“On guard, feral lions!” And he swung the forward lion at the other two lions, but the lion in his hand began biting his arm and he let the lions loose and they flew into the other two lions and they all began to fight.

The Lion Tamer then slowly walked from the cage and then bowed at the audience of badgers who were clapping in approval.

“Right concert you put on!” Said one badger.

“You have inspired me to tame the forest!” Yelled another.

But King Badger the Second did not approve. For when the Lion Tamer walked to the great badger, he noticed a look of strict and utter disappointment.

“Yea, great Lion Tamer, you have tamed the lions, but you have done so out of accident. If that lion had not bitten you, you would never have flung the lion nunchucks at the other two lions, thus creating the fight that has now ended in four dead lions.”

The Lion Tamer began to weep and he walked away from the tent in shame.

“Let that be a lesson to all badgers – the mighty Lion Tamer is a fraud and let there be no more lion taming in the forest for now on. Strike that – let there never again set foot in our forest a human!”

The badgers all began to clap and the lights dimmed and went down.

A spotlight lit upon a lowly squirrel, dressed in a tuxedo shirt that he wore like a dress.

“Gentle badgers, my name is Larry the Squirrel and here’s my take on life:

Have you ever noticed how when humans come through hiking and they sit down and they are surrounded by nuts and fruit and roots and they take out a sandwich and start eating it? It’s like if you brought a sack lunch into a McDonalds – am I right?”

The badgers all boo’d.

“OK, OK, so get this, there’s this zebra in the woods. Everyone’s thinking ‘How did a zebra get into the woods?’ and the Zebra’s all like ‘I rode here on the bear.’ Get it?”

The badgers began to boo and a lion was released on the stage and the squirrel took off into the badgers and the badgers scattered and as they left the tent they ran into the poles and the tent fell down and then exploded, sending badgers and squirrels and lions all over the world.

And that’s how the universe was made, Bobby.

“Dad?” And Bobby woke up.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Do Not Disturb Me During My Fucking Lunch

No matter how good or bad this lunch is, do not fucking disturb me during it.

Yes, I understand that you have a pressing matter that needs my attention – but I’m eating my fucking lunch.

That’s correct, it is a fucking lunch. Normally, I’m just eating lunch, but this is different.

I really needed this fucking lunch to catch a breather. Not only that, I’m starving from sitting in that meeting with you for five hours. Plus, it’s Taco Tuesday.

Put all those points together and you get a Fucking Lunch.

And you’re trying to disturb it.

Wait – you can’t proceed without my help? That changes everything. Here’s my advice – take a Fucking Lunch. By the time you’re done with your Fucking Lunch, I will be done with mine and we can regroup and pool our action items to develop the project by the end of the day.

Or you could just Fucking Go Away.

Normally, I wouldn’t tell you to Fucking Go Away, but you’ve been here at my desk far too long and I have not sunk tooth one into my tacos. That spells Fucking Go Away.

So, it’s your choice, you can take a Fucking Lunch or Fucking Go Away.

OK. I read you, you are choosing to pick Fucking Stick Around Awhile Longer and hope that I give up on my Fucking Lunch before you Fucking Go Away.

Well played.

However, I have an ace up my sleeve – I’m going to the Men’s Room to eat my Fucking Lunch so you can’t bother me, seeing as you’re a woman. You can’t follow me there.

Much better.

Please don’t rattle the door of this stall. I am in here eating my Fucking Lunch.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012


It’s another New Year and you know what the means – time to get a new calendar.

That’s right. In today’s techno age, you might think a man like me would be happy with his phone or his computer.

Make no mistake – none of those things make me happy.

I’m more of a nuts and bolts type of guy. I like material items. It’s the same reason I eat food rather than looking at pictures of food. I need a good flip book for the year, so that I can thumb through the calendar and it creates a sort of cartoon that is completely disjointed.

I like to write funny things down, like “Today is Tuesday” on ever Tuesday. Or “Quit smoking” or “Quit drinking” knowing that neither will happen.

What’s more, I like to cross out holidays that I don’t celebrate. It gives me a real joy in knowing that I got that holiday out of the way, even if I don’t plan on observing it.

Like Flag Day.

There are more conveniences as well – try checking your calendar on your phone when you’re on the phone. I did it once and it was nerve racking. I had to put the caller on speaker, then find where my calendar was and then tell him “OH, WAIT – I never use this thing.”

But calendars cost money. That’s why I sometimes just use old calendars and spend a good portion of the year rewriting the dates. Like the one I have from High School. I will sometimes leave in whatever was written on it too! Oh, WOW – I have a date with my sweetheart from Creative Cooking this Thursday!

I also like going to the local book store (local for this state) and figuring out what calendar best describes me. Am I more of a ducks on a pond kind of guy or (insert TV show) dude? Normally, I will pick a calendar that doesn’t describe me at all. That way I can hone the personality of, say, a guy who’s 35 and likes Twilight.

When I purchase the calendar I always say to the clerk “I hope this goes well.” That’s my type of humor.

Unfortunately, no clerk has ever laughed at this and one time I was boo’ed from the store.

Some calendars come with stickers and crayons and stuff like that. Like the one I got a year ago from my mother who still insists I have Downs Syndrome.

Oh, Mom!

At the close of the year I will trade calendars with my friend Rupert and we will rate our years based on the entries.

For instance, last September, Rupert gave me a “C” as I had only a dentist appointment and “GET BURRITOS” written down for the whole month.

Whereas, last February, I got an “A” for such entries as “Express interest in Erica”, “Ask Erica out”, “Tell Erica you love her”, “Ask Erica to marry you”, and “Apologize to Erica”.

On the final day of the year I will look back at my calendar and relish in my accomplishments. For instance, I didn’t overcome my alcohol dependency, but I did manage to clean my bathroom. And maybe this wasn’t the year to stop borrowing money from my Mother, but it was the year that I got a silk screen Metallica poster.

And now I find myself with an empty calendar – chock full of empty pages that I can write my hopes and dreams on for 2012.

Of course, on December 21 I have already written “Die.”

Which really puts a lot of pressure on this year – it’s the last one. Like Y2K. I remember living Y2K the way it should be lived: lots of booze, coke, and sex. And I also remember how the world didn’t end and I ended up with lots of disease, debt, and imprisonment.

Therefore, I have learned my lesson and let no one say that I wasn’t wise when planning my 2012. I have decided to survive the tsunami of death that will rain upon this Earth come December. Here’s how:

June 1: Make spaceship.

So, as you can see, a physical calendar is the way to go. Call it old fashioned, but I’m sticking to it.

And now I can cross “Write calendar post” off my calendar.