Temporaly Out of Order

Look at the very pissed off man in the top right corner of this page. Man, he is pissed!

Now I'm pissed because I found out the graphic changes every time you open the page. But if you see the pissed off man, you'll know. There's also a very sad man.

There's ducttape blocking the bathroom door here, and a handwritten sign saying

BATHROOM TEMPORALY
OUT OF ORDER

The bathroom is now an unstable gate to other times! I wanted to jump in and see if I found myself transported to 1635 Asia.

Senor Wells!'s poorly written biography

This is how I see Dave's RAship.

Dave stalks the halls in a too-tight vinyl jacket. He sees the world in gray, but the world doesn't see his eyes—he wears mirror shades. A rake handle drags from his hip, but this isn't what he used to dispense his brand of hallway justice. When he sees some poor sucker peddling pot at the water fountain or running to the bathroom or unicycling through the halls, Dave uses Black Betty.

Black Betty is heavy as hell, but that's okay. She's four Hummer batteries ducttaped together in a backpack. Wires run from Black Betty to Dave's rubber-gloved hand, where they turn bare and spark when they touch. "Hey!" Dave screams, confusing his prey. "Hey!" Then he crams Black Betty into their mouths and watches them twitch into submission.

Dave, you're a sick fuck.

I heard that one time RA Wells found a kiddy pool in the hallway, full of drunken freshmen. I don't know if this is true or not, but I hear that he calmly walked back into his room, plugged in a hair dryer, and tossed it it into the pool, then pissed on those freshman while they fried. But of course the current traveled up the stream of urine and he went to the hospital. And after that he was even madder.

There was also the time when that football player slipped the note under RA Wells's door—"$50,000 or your Mom gets it." Well, Dave called a house meeting. He set up that $50,000 in little bricks on a table, and then he said that the money wasn't for the kidnappers but for anyone who could bring him the kidnapper's heads.

Then there was the time RA Wells had to cooperate with an ex-felon to sneak into Alcatraz and defeat a bunch of terrorists. And the time his nemesis Biff stole the time-traveling microwave and fucked with the past.

But the worst story is the one where RA Wells found a cat in the girls' dorm. Dave thought it was a cat girl convention, naturally, but hwen he opened that door he saw AN ACTUAL CAT. "Cats aren't allowed in the residence halls!" he screamed, and grabbed that cat by the tail and proceeded to use it as a cudgel for the beating of the offenders.

This has gone on too long. I'm sorry.

A Clockwork Wrestler

Momentum, continue!

Last nite I had to break up a party. It was even better cuz the guy who was holdin the party is a complete assfuck and it was nice to enact some vengeance on his yell-at-desk-worker's ass. He was all trying to be sorry and curteous but I still had to get everyone out of his room and write his Jamaican ass up.

Now you DONT want me to get ugly.

Partese another day

The Maltese Falcon wasn't really watched last night, but I don't think you have to watch The Maltese Falcon to have a good Maltese Falcon party. Or cocktease falcon party, as they have come to be known.

Who needs Maltese falcons when you have John anyway? John is a movie-making genius. Some of the stuff John has done with a little simple Halo 2 footage of Tim and I kicking the snot out of one another is Oscar-worthy, at least. They'll have to invent a new movie award when John hits the Hollywood scene. They'll just call it The John. It will be the John award. Johnny Depp will just wish his ass could get a John.

No kidding, the movie was brilliant. It was one full minute of cinematic ecstasy.

I especially like the part where Tim hits me in the head with a bat. I know you would all like to see Tim hit me in the head with a bat, wouldn't you? I wasn't really too keen on it at first, but now that I've seen the end result, I'm totally behind John's decision to have Tim really hit me with the bat. It was worth every shard of wood I've pulled from my scalp.

John, I know you will anyway, but I wanted you to know that you should bring your laptop down again tonight. We've got to see that again.

UFO hunting tonight. We have to start while the sun's still out. We don't want them to see us setting the traps.

pepsi two chips

Oh, so we're rolling the blog this morning eh?

Well then.

I had... a dream.

I swear they're getting wierder... There was a lot of traveling in it. Tim you were there I'm sure. We were somewhere near Vegas, some place with a pool. I discovered I could walk on water. Odd eh? The trick is to dig in and move fast. You could bear walk the whole way and move like the dickens. It was like the water had so much surface tension you only splashed in and sink if you jumped/dived in. But if you can running in off the side of the pool, right on over top you go. Keep your speed up, you could make it all the way across the pool.

I Sell Myself for Cheap

Since Andy's been so kind as to dropkick the blog into action this morning, I will keep the momentum going.

I've been shamelessly begging old professors for grad school recommendations lately. This one prof I had wrote back last night to say that yes, she'd write me a letter, but maybe there's something I can do for her, and here's her home address and here's her home phone and can I call this weekend? And did I know she's single now?

I'm sending Andy in my stead.

Some day this will be Tim

Some guy in Florida escaped from a mental hospital or something and turned up a few days later dressed like a doctor, driving an ambulance with a dead deer in the back. I read this story and thought to myself, "You know, I could see Tim doing something like that in ten years."

Read the story here.

Bring out your dead!

Saw this on mac hall and had to share with all who may have missed it.

Urban Dead

Looks fun, now who wants to go kick some zombie ass?

in terms of zombie games, there's also: Zombie4

Have fun gents.

Three-Ring Donkey Show (with special guest star, Giant Squid)

On giant squid, from Slate:

Is there any doubt that the scariest animal in the world is the giant squid? Just its name paralyzes my heart with fear in a way that "killer whale" or "jumbo shrimp" do not. Most of us first caught a glimpse of this denizen of the deep trying to kill Kirk Douglas in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and we all had the same question: How angry do you have to be to try to kill the recipient of an honorary Academy Award for lifetime achievement? The answer was instantly branded onto all of our brains: as angry as a giant squid.

. . .

I was going to say this blog is deader today than Amish's sex life, but then I remembered—it's now more dead than Amish's sex life. What the hell does this mean?!

A showing of The Maltese Falcon and the debut of another masterpiece.

I have, in my jacket pocket, a copy of The Maltese Falcon. (The movie, not the book.)

Tonight, at around eight o'clock (maybe as late as nine, depending on when you folks show up) I plan to watch this movie with whomever appears at my doorstep. Be they man, woman, or goat. Giraffes will be turned away. As will anyone whose name is Lacy (UNI Lacy is okay) or Wendell...ugh...fucking Wendell.

There has also been a rumor going around that Cricket will be giving a premiere showing of his new movie. I don't know if this is true or if some sick son-of-a-bitch is just teasing us. I'm hoping it's true, cause that movie is going to kick all kinds of ass and I've got a serious hard-on to see it. Seriously--come over here and feel this mahogany--this is a solid damn hard-on!

So, come one, come all to the greatest Maltese Falcon party ever held! This is going to make all other Maltese Falcon parties look like Casablanca parties without the Nazi costumes. And I ask you, with complete sincerity of heart: what is a Casablanca party without Nazi costumes?

WHAT? The Greatest Maltese Falcon Party Ever
WHERE? The Goat Paddock
WHO? You
WHEN? Tonight @ approx. 8pm
WHY? Cause Stoned Goat said so!

Dave's Career as an RA is OVER.

The new issue of McSweeney's is now out. This is the description:

Issue 17 is not an ordinary issue of McSweeney's. It is, however, an ordinary-looking bundle of mail, stacked and rubber-banded, containing the usual items: a recent issue of Yeti Researcher; a large envelope, called Envelope, containing fine oversized reproductions of new art; a sausage-basket catalog; a flyer for slashed prices on garments that are worn by more than one person at a time; a new magazine of experimental fiction called Unfamiliar; a couple letters the usual. This might be the strangest and most pleasure-giving issue yet...

Envy my mailbox!

. . .

Dave Wells is going to be an RA?! When I heard this news I walked into my bedroom. I pulled the mattress aside, tore up the carpet, brushed aside a covering of artificial dust, and removed a stack of Victoria's Secret catalogues. When I finished masturbating furiously, I pulled the carpet back a little further and picked up another collection of items. These were Polaroids I'd snapped at various points of history, in case Dave's political career ever gathered too much steam.

PHOTO 1: Dave stands in a dark alleyway; you can only tell that it's him because of that half-shaved/half-long haircut. A small beggar child kneels before him, hands pressed together in supplication. The boy's gaunt eyes and thin neck tell a story of hunger. His arms are like uncooked spaghetti. Dave grins in the shadows, gestures toward his crotch, and holds a box of fried chicken just out of reach.

PHOTO 2: Same era. Interior of a car trunk—the trunk of Dave's brother's car, on loan to Dave. In the trunk is a female, bound with duct tape. She has red hair. No more needs to be said.

PHOTO 3: Two summers ago. Dave is barely recognizable in this photo, his features blurred by surprise, but the interior is the attic apartment. I came up to play some Time Splitters but on the stairway noticed a godawful smell. As I climbed higher, the smell of rotten, spoiling fish was accompanied by a new sound: slippery, slimy movement. I rushed into the apartment. The scene I encountered . . . first there was the corpse of a baby seal on the kitchen floor. That was almost too much, but I thought: maybe Garrett has been over, has been cooking some exotic dish . . . but then I saw another baby seal corpse, and another, a sickening gingerbread trail to the living room. Dave should have heard me but he was distratced by the pulsing rhythm of a Gwar album. In the photo, you see him as he first realizes I'm there: he tries to pivot in his pile of corpses, but he's nipples deep in dead baby seals, and can't really get away even if he is naked and slippery with their slime.

. . .

Well, tonight is the Maltese Falcon party. Or, as those of us in the know call it, the Partese Falcon. Of the Cocktease Falcon, for the vulgar among us.

Oooh, and a screening of John's video? Is that true?

...uh what?

So I get a call today from the Life Coordinator at the dorms:

John: Dave. You want to be an R.A.?
Dave: uh....
John: Well?
Dave: ...sure.

What the fuck.

Grue.

What would be more disgusting: being dropped into a bathtub full of human intestines, or being dropped into the Grand Canyon full of human intestines? Something about the massive scale, I think, makes it less creepy. With the bathtub, you imagine planting your hands on either side, digging your heels into corners, holding your body above the steamy pile of guts, back arched, nostrils quivering, and then you slowly lower yourself in, ass first. But with the canyon, you'd just . . . like . . . be air dropped or something. All at once, floomp, and hold your nose. Like jumping into the cold deep end of a pool. No time for anticipation.

Last weekend in Bought Again Books: I found the most beautiful book I've ever seen. Really. Without exaggeration. I was bumbling around and there, on a table of employee recommendations, is this big black hardcover. No dust jacket, just the black cover embossed with a silver-lined statue of a bird, sun bursts shooting from behind, and the whole thing bordered in spades (which happen to be my old Halo symbol, thank you). The spine is covered in spades too. And then I opened it and the inside covers are crimson with black spades. This book was so damn sexy that I bought it for ten bucks. It was The Maltest Falcon, which was also a movie, as you will know if you're a fan of classic cinema or a reader of the old Ren & Stimpy comics.

In the Ren & Stimpy version, the falcon statue held magic nose goblins or some other grosserie.

Ren & Stimpy was disgusting.

Did you know that grue is a noun? As in: gruesome? So you can say, man, the first part of this post dealt with a lot of grue.

*ding ding ding*

Com'en get it!

Movie's done! Get it while it's hot!

Rendered it out last night. 4 tries later it is complete. Right after we're told we have till next monday to finish it... Wow...

War On String May Be Unwinnable, Says Cat General

Vist Andrew's myspace page for the full story.

Intelligent design (From The New Yorker)

Intelligent design with a twist of lime.

Day No. 4:

“One word,” said the Lord God. “Landscaping. But I want it to look natural, as if it all somehow just happened.”

“Do rain forests,” suggested a primitive tribal god, who was known only as a clicking noise.

“Rain forests here,” decreed the Lord God. “And deserts there. For a spa feeling.”

“Which is fresh, but let’s give it glow,” said Buddha. “Polished stones and bamboo, with a soothing trickle of something.”

“I know where you’re going,” said the Lord God. “But why am I seeing scented candles and a signature body wash?”

“Shut up,” said Buddha.

“You shut up,” said the Lord God.

“It’s all about the mix,” Allah declared in a calming voice. “Now let’s look at some swatches.”

Nothing can kill him.

The state is selling off a bunch of equipment between 3 October and 14 October, 9 am to 2 pm. Computers will be there, and other office-y junk.

2323 Dean Ave., which is supposedly somewhere near the capitol complex.

That means you can come visit me after you buy a computer! Well, actually not. Because of the dogs. Those dogs with the laser teeth. And the wandering Grimace.

Maybe is a yes that has to be babied

I agree with Tim. Childhood sucked. However, seeing the pictures of NEW Super Mario Bros makes me nostalgic of when I saw Super Mario World screenshots for the first time. Its some sort of sence of wonder to see what could the rest of the level will look like. Plus most of my non-video game memories involve me playing with Ninja Turtles and dinosaurs outside or neandering in my yard waiting to play Intendo games inside.

And I remember being afraid to see womenfolks naked. Now I shit a brick when I do. And if I did shit bricks, I could prolly build a little pyramid. Like...from six bricks. Damn I suck.

Slinnnnnnnnnnng

I know several people who are nostalgic for their childhood. To those people, I say: no. Never mind that no question was inovlved; I still say an emphatic no. Maybe you enjoyed your lollies, and your carousel rides, and the paddleboat excursions through Central Park, but my youth sucked:

1) I had one friend, and even if she did have an Atari that wasn't quite cuttin it. Although Pac-Man truly was his best on that machine.

2) My meals were entirely governed by my parents, meaning they ranged from pork chops to pot roast to hy vee chicken and back again. Lasagna was a treat, and gourmet food was two Hardees burgers and fries spread out on a plate with a puddle of chilled ketchup. Or castsup, if you will. But I won't.

3) Reading material . . . well, okay. I had the Young Indiana Jones chronicles and Ripley's and Strange: But True! and as much Goosebumps as I could stomach. This was the one good part about being a kid: books cost $2.99.

4) Do you remember how hard it was to get laid as a kid? Man, I didn't get one single piece of ass in elementary school. Any era where you don't get laid for years on end is not one to be fondly remembered, my friend. Put down the yearbook.

5) Video games were more unattainable than organ transplants. I had to scrounge in the laundry machine for days to gather up a horde capable of renting me Jurassic Park for the weekend; buying video games for myself was complete fantasy. I had to sell the fuck out of my toys, all at exorbient prices, to yard sell up enough cash for a SNES.

A MUST SEE website.

Lincoln will ravage your puny human brain!!!

Undead Presidents need to battle Bush/Cheney and crew at some point in the show. Like, Colin Powell and Wolfawitz and Ashcroft(asscraft) and some of those other douches could come flying on stage only to have their brains promptly devoured by a horde of undead ex-presidents.

Then, Bush jumps up with an M-16 and starts blasting off random shots, none of which manage to find a worthwhile target. There might be a few of those little blast caps under our costumes so it looks like a few of us take shots in the chest, abdomon, and penis. Finally Bush runs out of ammo and, just as he's contemplating retreat, Lincoln comes from behind with a running chainsaw! There's smoke rolling off the chainsaw and Lincoln is swinging it around like a wet towel. Finally he goes to town on Bush, cutting him clean in half. Then the two halves kind of fall away from each other.

Actually...nevermind, that 'splitting in two' thing might be a tough effect to pull off. Instead, Lincoln will give Bush one or two good swipes with the chainsaw and then the other undead presidents will rush him and attempt to feast upon his brains, only to be disappointed.

I think my love of pipeweed has affected my judgement...

As with Tim, I feel as though Ive become a hermit. Then I look at my porn-addicted room mate, and then I take comfort that I purposely leave the computer and go places. No offense to him, but all his friends abeit his roomies are not here in Denver. But then again, most my friends are not in Denver either. But I leave the room, so that counts for somethin, right???

New people moving in. I dont care anymore. Im just going to down a few anti-D's and be SUPER perky.

I watched the Sven Hoek episode of Ren & Stimpy last nite. WTF made that show hilarious back in the day? Watching it, I gasped at what they did. Its like seeing old arcane pictures of 7th grade selves. You just are shocked, awed, appauled, dismayed, and even dumbfuckinfounded. However it is a very well animated show from my POV.

Anyone else get the popup after 10 pm that says "HELLO AND CONGRATULATIONS! SOMETIMES IT PAYS TO BE UP LATE! LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY DEAL" I never get past that part cuz the volume is set to bowel shaking. Yes, the popup speaks. It has that out-of-work 38 year old voice of an internet diet pill pyramid scheme bracket overlord. Or an out of work english teacher. I dont even know what that shit cobbler is peddling, but Im never interested. Its the epitomy of all the internet's self destroying shit stained denim jean giraffes... or university statue art. Just so fucking pointless!!!

And then yesterday, this gaudy scrawny veggies only assclown from PETA came in yesterday and dropped off his little gypsie cart full of anti-cow propoganda. Pictures of cows being "skinned alive" for leather, cows being "butchered alive" for their juicy meats, and all this misinformation about the cattle industry. If I wasnt talking to my boss, and had a metal rod, Id beat the english major of a piss ant to a pulp, jam a still mooing steak down his fucking pencil necked wind pipe, and tell him to stop being a bitch and eat the flesh of the once living. Vegans suck their own balls and thus SHOULD NOT PROCREATE. And I bet theyd fuck the animals they protect too.

If we ate bunnies,then that would be more economical. Seriously! The yearly cost of one cow and one calf we can raise and slaughter over 56 bunnies. FIFTY SIX BUNNIES! Have you had rabbit? Its to die for. But no one wants to eat bunnies cuz their cute. Fuck that like a drunken prom date. Lets eat bunnies. While they still kick. Then we can have bunny fur accessories. And more fucking Peta fucks to jam meat down their unmeaty throats.

U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

Break out the Heroin -:- OR -:- Submitted for Your Approval: A Falling Horse

Does anyone want to help write a rock opera? We should definitely write a rock opera. And then be in it. As Undead Presidents. I suggest we open with a montage—projected onto the stage—of the Bush presidency, the falling of the towers, American tanks rolling around the desert, etc., and some heavy guitars that convey an aura of confusion and desperation and intensity, and then lights come up on a graveyard, and we claw our ways to the surface, dressed as undead presidents, ready to take back the nation.

All lines, of course, will be sung:

LINCOLN: This nation is fuckkkkked!

ROOSEVELT (Rominger?): It's compleeetly fuckkkkkkked!

KENNEDY (Andy?): Yes, straight up fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkked (sustained--)

I need to get back to work on the zombie story . . . blargh. I have no focus.

Just had to write a job description for "creative writer." I never thought that would actually come in. I should have just mailed the guy a bottle of paramount rum and told him to drink it all, fast, and swallow whatever pills might be handy. And, if possible, stand at the top of the nearest staircase.

I feel incredibly hermitlike lately . . . anyone want to do anything tonight? I'm essentially below the poverty line now, so that idea we had about sniffing lines of powdered gold will probably not work. Also, I had to sell the powdered ivory. And the batch of poached rhinos we were keeping in my bedroom escaped when I ran out of . . . rhino food. But not before they gored me straight in the crotch.

Wouldn't it be great if there were a water fountain but instead of water it shot out chocolate cake. By gum, that's where I'd be now, face bukkaked with chocolate batter. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Today I start actually applying to grad schools. If I don't make it into any of these places, not even booze is going to save me. Someone's going to have to break out the heroin.

Mission: Bomb the hell out of those dairy cows!

In high school, Rominger had this video game at his house…out in that little weird hallway that was his rec room…it was on an old computer, probably an Apple, the sort of monochromatic monitor-is-computer computer from way back. Anyway, the video game was an aviation side scroller, and you used a crappy little joystick to control it, to control your black-and-green airplane as it took off from an aircraft carrier deck.

We could never land on that fucking deck after a successful mission.

So does anyone know what that game might have been called? Dave's the only person who might know for sure, but does anyone else know of old crappy computer games that sound familiar? and if you do, what sort of computer they'd run on? specifically, I'm interested in shitty aviation games that would have run on bad ocmputers in two colors.

today my work assignment is to research and write a job description for occupation: artist!

Ghosts and killer dolphins emerge from the aftermath of Katrina.

Two of the best stories I've heard about hurricane Katrina have to have been the one about the killer dolphins and the one about the soldiers being scared by the ghosts of New Orleans.

The Line that Divides the Men from the Bitches

Want to know how to waste an entire day of your life and totally fuck your mind up? Then do this little equation:

Watch the Hobbit (any of the 3 versions will do) then watch Fellowship of the Rings, The Two Towers, and Return of the King in one continuous sitting.

Feel free to move around and switch positions during so. Even make yourself a lil dinner.

Then after the 12 hr ordeal is over, think what you coulda done in that time span and ponder: would it have been as enjoyable? No. No it wouldn't have.

Boom shaka laka.

Nobody Fucks with the Jesus!

Do a Google image search for 'crazy jesus' and check out the fourth image from the left.

Tim At Work

I wonder what he'll research today. Probably romance novel writer who has degree in civil war history who wants to run a day care from his home and make $40k a year, and is a convicted sex offender.

Teaser!

I give you essentially a second of the movie. I'm not giving away any of the plot. What? Plot? Yes. Plot. 60 seconds of plot.

CURSE YOU, MALEFICIENT!!!!!!!!!

Damn it. Piss. Shit cocks. Balls on my face, i say! I dont believe Amish had sex. I cant! I wont! Its not possible! Its like...Santa and the Easter Bunny fucked in front of the tooth fairy and then had a 3 way with Sasquatch & Nessie's love child, Carrottop.

I suck. I'm the last of my kind. Its like the world will need a virgin to possess super human powers and ...oopsie! None of you fucks will have it! I will...

...wait. Fuck! I still will be a lame asstard. And to boot, Lynn is patting me on the shoulder, as if to pity me. I need not pity: I need sexual experiences. With other people (Andy: NO GOATS)

I'm a pooor poor sorry sap and a sad panda.

On First Aid

If the fire department _does_ initiate CPR on a person, they invariably compress the _stomach_, not the chest, providing all responders with visual confirmation of the man's gastric contents and last meal. By the time we get there, there is usually feces, urine, and vomit [the unholy trinity] all over the floor.

Yoga fire!

Listen: it is tick season. This may be a joke to you . . . you may be laughing . . . and if you are, I say to you, in a stern voice, "WHAT THE FUCK IS SO FUNNY?!" Last weekend Amish came crawling in through the dog door of my apartment. His muzzle was dry. His eyes had gone cakey at the corners. His fur was matted with bog mud and burrs. "What's wrong, boy?" I asked, but already I knew. Lyme disease. I flipped him onto his back and sure enough, a damn tic the size of a KG Koolie was latched teeth first into his belly. I pulled that sucker off. It took four days to squeegie up the blood.

. . .

In high school I bought a typewriter at a liquidation sale. That typewriter was terrible. I tried to write an SF/horror story about some guy who found himself in a torture compartment designed so he would eventually drown in his own sweat and urine. Then I found out, years later, that the BTK killer (I think it was him) had designed a similar device. Of course, he wasn't using a typewriter.

And if you're curious, that story sucked. I never finished it.

One of the things that dismays me about my hobby is I look back on everything over a year old that I wrote and I want to wad it up, light it on fire, and toss it into a crowd of hobos. Stories I wrote in college = hobo fire. Stories I wrote in high school = definite hobo fire. Is everything I create doomed to the hobo fire?

But the stuff I wrote in high school . . . that stuff really sucked. Whew. Damn. I was basically Stephen King minus 46 orders of skill. Meaning I wrote about weird deaths.

. . .

I'm really desperate now. Maybe you can tell. I want to read something interesting but the blog is empty—is void! of post-Amish-getting-laid material--and the best I can do is smack some more graffiti up there.

. . .

Here are some questions. If you choose to answer, you can answer in the comments in the following format:

1) A
2) B
3) B

If you stray from that format you will be strangled sometime when you least expect it. Likely it will be this weekend, and likely it will be at night. You will be chatting up the corner flower vendor, buying roses for your girl, when suddenly you feel the cold damp breath of death on your neck. Then the piano wire—or the wound up yarn—will tighten around your meaty throat, and that will be all:

Actually, I will not ask you any questions at all, because the silly ones were too silly and the serious ones were too serious. But I will leave this in, so you will know how I could appear behind you at any moment, or at least any moment when you are buying flowers, alone.

More Dialogues from Work; Amish Gets Laid; Recycled Ideas About Corpsey Sex Puppets

Kathy: And have you seen that movie? That Pay it Forward? They kill the kid!

Me: I'm afraid I have. One of my girlfriend's parents watched it while I was at their house.

Kathy: (disgusted)They killed that kid!

Me: He gets stabbed to death.

Kathy: I can not believe he died!

Me: It's a good thing. Unconventional storytelling.

Kathy: Well. That's why my eyes are all puffy today.

. . .

I can not believe Amish got laid! And the way Josh told it was the best—very early 20th Century comic book style, with the full cap words and everything. I was going to copy it into the body of this post, but figured everyone has already seen it anyway. If you haven't, go read it.

I was going to post theories on how this happened, but that would be pretty gossip columney, wouldn't it? What's that? You don't care? Okay, then:

1) Amish and Madame X (not to be confused with Madame M from my post about bear suits and Andy's dates) sit cross-legged on Josh's bed. A deck of cards sits between them, and a bottle of Jack Daniel's sits on the end table. Madame X deals out five cards to Amish, five to herself. Amish lays down double Jacks; X tosses a pair of fours, then a three and a nine and one more four. "Strip," she says, and grins. Amish doesn't move. "Go ahead," she says, but Amish seems deaf. He stares without blinking, face angry and uncomprehending, until she gingerly starts undoing her own buttons, trying not to show fear.

2) It's the year 2019, and Mel and I are the only ones of us who remain. Amish has recently finally flipped his mashed potatoes and gone on a hormone-frenzied killing spree, triggered by a vigorous Andy junk grabbing, and has dispatched first Andy and then Ryan and then everyone except for Mel, who was working as a coal-mining taxi driver in Colorado and me, who was passed out in a gutter on 4th Street. We decide to pool our resources and stem Amish's sexual frustration before it's too late. After purchasing a time machine, we go back in time and purchase him a prostitute, swear her to secrecy, and toddle her over toward Josh's place.

3) It's the year 2150. (Life extension is discovered in 2020 and is always being improved upon). Amish has been well-laid his entire life, and we have all continued to hang out, but recently he pissed me off by accidentally deleting three entire novels from my hard drive when he drunkenly tried to feed whiskey directly into the cockport (a future internet porn innovation). I concoct a time machine—without Mel this time—and travel back into the past, before Amish's birth, and harvest one body part from all his female ancestors. When I have an entire collection, I sew them together into one grisly meat puppet. Then I travel into the far-flung future, have the body animated with nano-motors so that it walks and moves and sort of talks, and send it back to 2005, to sleep with Amish on Josh's bed. There's something familiar to the "woman"—a familial resemblance, and for a moment it's like he's fucking his brother. But then, he's used to that.

Sex with animals? Theres no time, man!

Done with finals! Yay! Only 7 more quarters to go....piss.

I get to spray paint my balcony cuz the school is repainting EVERYTHING outside. That is good. Im just goin to make a giant elephant...but Im going to remove the eyes, legs, mouth, tusks, tail, toes, feet, spinal cord, and anything else that makes it an elephant and just have a giant penis on my wall. Thatll show them.

Yeah, well, Dracula called and said he's comin for you tonight and I said okay.

Here's one of the original Dracula legends, in English alongside its original language (which is some sort of Cyrillic...maybe Russian?).

It has nothing to do with wampyres, but does recount a lot of the familiar stories of Dracula's cruelty, along with a few others (if you don't sew nice clothes for your husband, your hands will be cut off and you will be impaled. And if you lose your virginity before marriage, prepare to be . . . ).

The interesting thing is that after all this cruelty, the worst thing is that he converts from Orthodoxy to Catholicism:

And Dracula fell for the sweetness of the temporal world instead of the infinite and eternal world and he fell away from orthodoxy and departed from truth and he left light for an adopted darkness. Alas, he couldn’t bear the temporary troubles of the prison and instead prepared himself for eternal punishment by leaving our orthodox faith and adopting the Latin falsehood.

Post production and stuff. Yes, stuff.

I've got the movie into a rough cut. I'm currently in the process of putting the text into the movie. Compositing all that is annoying as hell. It's as if no computer the school has has the RAM to work smoothly.

It also means I get to muddle my way through after effects. Fun program though.

The whole thing is re-damn-diculous, and has probably gotten the most laughs so far (next to one of my friend's that includes a balloon and BB King's The Thrill is Gone).

I'll pass out of handful of copies when the thing is said and done.

Until then, I bury myself in more work. I'm like a mole that way.

Pelt the Audience with Pig Fetuses

Right after the New Orleans hurricane, every state employee got this email from the guvnor urging us to hop the nearest fan boat and head on down to the Bayou for some disaster management. It said something like, as the governor and chief exectutive of the state, I have the authority to dispatch as many state employees as is deemed necessary, etc. And a bunch of signs went us telling us to Go! Volunteer!

And then there was the scramble as the supervisors all tried to explain that sure, anyone can go volunteer, but . . . well, if they clear it with the supervisors first, and volunteer, of course, means using your paid vacation time up and finding your own transportation, but sure! Go!

And this one woman actually wanted to go. And the boss argued with her a lot because the boss doesn't like to not have the final say in anything, or have her authority usurped by the governor, and now, two weeks later, the higher supervisors have finally demanded that the woman be allowed to go to New Orleans. And a few days after that decision was made, the boss decided to lay her off along with the other eight typists. The only reason given was that she wanted to do the hiring process again.

This is why you shouldn't work for the government: everyone with any scrap of power is so desperate to clutch it close to their sweaty bosom that they will never let it go.

Here are some new innovations I've thought of for Undead Presidents:

Instead of shooting cat entrails and hog snouts out of the lincoln top hat, we'll start with a lot of rose petals. During the second song, it'll be muffins. Then, when the audience is used to this cuddly stuff, and only then, will lincoln's hat fire the intestines and kidneys and whatnot into the crowd.

A fire hose that drenches the audience in horse blood.

If crowd interest wanes, the Headless Horseman will ride out on a BMX and decapitate the Zombie Harding.

Rock the Goose!

An evaluation of energy drinks.

Next He Will Eat You!

Horseface

Here are some questions. For every one that goes unanswered, I will kill one cute animal in the following way: first, I will club a kitten and feed it to a penguin. Then I will electrocute the penguin and feed it to a basset hound. Then I will strangle the basset hound and feed it to an otter.

These questions are about horses. I try to find this info online, and just get information on how to properly GM a game with a horse, or on the Elven horses of Mithrandir, etc.

1) What's the average horse lifespan?

2) Is there any special term for a junky farm horse? Like, Rominger had this old beige horse that didn't really do anything but wander around and occasionally--occasionally--haul around equipment.

3) Rominger used to have this big tank in his yard, with holes, and one hole was about mouth level, and you could lean in and speak and it echoed so loud. Also you could beat it for a very loud effect. Any idea what this tank might have held? (okay, this is not a horse question...but what if i told you that there was a picture of a horse on the side? Well, there wasn't.)

4) For the horse in question two, what's a sort of average guess at the cost of upkeet? feed, etc.

If anyone has approximations or informed guesses, that'd be lovely.

Assassin.

Now I'm a spy.

Zombie Conversation with Christine

bombaytim (9:18:13 PM): what about if a zombie eats a drunk's brain?

bombaytim (9:18:17 PM): full of alcoholy blood?

Christine (9:18:21 PM): it's like a jello shot.

You are all my background checking service

Anybody know a Shawn Swanson? He apparently wants a job from my brother...my family seems to think I'm people who knows people.

Avast, ye scurvy punchers of donuts!

Aye, so today is Talk Like A Pirate Day. Hopefully you all remembard? No? Well screw you then, shiver me timbers!

I got all me finals finished. Thank God, shiver me timbers! I don't think Me could have sur'i'ed another week o' projects. I have, as well, been selected t' be a studend ambassador for the new kids mo'in' in next week. How fun that will be, ha har! Maybe a goth girl will mo'e in or e'en better...a pirate girl, ya scurvy dog! Then we can fall madly in lo'e o'er A Thousand Cards and get married and have sex in me bed and have 19 lil' bastards and li'e happily e'er after.

Yo ho, me mateys, yo ho!

Links of love

I don't have time for a proper post at the moment. I'm currently trying to catch up on all of the work that I wasn't able to do Thursday and Friday. Still, I wanted to make sure I shared a few links with you folks.

This first one scared the crap out of me. I even calculated how old I would be when the world ended (32). That was how seriously I took this when I first read it. You'll be happy to know that, after frantic google searches of the words "chaos cloud" and "Dr. Albert Sherwinski," I found out that the article originally appeared in Weekly World News, so I wouldn't get too worried if I were you.

Fun pictures of clouds!

Man lights stuff on fire with his electric charge.

Trans-dimensional deer found on top of power lines.

Some dude uses dead cats for fuel.

The future of the human body. A timeline showing expected advancements in medical technology, or the release of those advancements. Basically telling us how long we have until the human race merges with machines.

A medium in Italy accurately locates the body of a woman who had been missing for three years. Authorities stunned, skeptical, and appreciative.

For Andy

This isn't breaking news, we've known for a while.

I can't wait for you to shut me up

I paid $7 to see The Princess Bride at the midnight nerd showing theatre. The problem was it was an original reel of the movie so it was deteriorating at every reel switch (watch Fight Club). The result was a skipping of that oh-so-quotable movie like a very neglected Dennis Miller CD. So the infamous fight climax of The Spaniard and the 6 Fingered Man went like this

Spaniard: My name-me money!
6FM: -es!
Spaniard: J-3hg-ei-...-n of a bitch!

In other news: Is my brother retarded? Surveys say: YES. Still hasnt gotten a divorce. Still living in Albia. Still trying to find love. Still taking pictures of his little penis.

FOR RYAN.

Yeah. Ouch.

Number one on my top ten list of things never to misplace.

Let the Degrading BEGIN!!!

Hah! Hahhah! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA! I saw Final Fantasy: Advent Children ! Just typing that makes me jizm in my pants. Watching Final Fantasy: Advent Children made me jizm in my pants every 5-7 minutes. Final Fantasy: Advent Children is 1 hour 32 minutes of man-jizzin-pants nirvana. It was like, Pow! Wham! Nipple! Zip! Boom! Onomonopia! Final Fantasy: Advent Children is like...the Bible for nerds and geeks and animators! Fuck Pixar and their shitty little car movie and their talking fish! Final Fantasy: Advent Children breaks into their houses, ties them up with leather straps and then fucks their wives in front of em, then they beat off a couple rounds into their ball-gagged faces! I dont understand why Final Fantasy: Advent Children was released in Japan...with ENGLISH subititles. So close but No! NO Final Fantasy: Advent Children for you!!! Final Fantasy: Advent Children the best fucking movie in my grasps EVER.

EVER!

Let me draw you a map:

(me) (Final Fantasy: Advent Children) ------------------------------------718 miles --------------------------------------------- you fucks.

HHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHH HAHHAHAHAH HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH !!! You cant touch Final Fantasy: Advent Children cuz you dont have it! Victory is mine! Bow to my penis! Hah hah! HAHAH! I am drunk with power!!!

*You see DaveO recieves a fatal headshot. His body drops to the floor*
DaveO died.
DaveO dropped 2349 gold.
DaveO dropped Novice Sword
DaveO dropped Novice Armor
DaveO dropped Bottomless Bag

*some mist* leaves west.

(moments later)
Hahhah! You dont have it! I do! I have Final Fantas-
-The Clock Tower bell rings!
Fuck!
*DONG!*
Pandara Screams in pain
*Dong!*

DaveO died.

That alien definitely bit that dinosaur's asssssss.

Kevin has expressed interest in having an Attic Apartment account. What do you think? He's promised that his first post will consist solely of naked pictures of his mother. Some of these pictures involve Dave. Some involve dinosaurs fighting aliens for sexual rights to Kevin's mother.

Which rights, as we all know, are actually mine, and are stored, in written form, in my secret bank vault, also known as my "glove compartment."

Has anyone ever read David Foster Wallace? One story I read over lunch starts out something like this: "Here's a weird one for you:" and is the narrator's sudden memory of a day in his youth when his dad walked into the room, walked right up in front of him, unzipped his pants, and menacingly waggled his penis around.

Another story is about how a one-armed guy uses his deformed and disgusting stump to guilt girls into bed.

Girls: don't let yourself be guilted into bed with the deformed, or anyone who works for a circus.

You should only sleep with government employees.

Cricket's computer problems fuse me with corn.

When I was very young, my nephew tried to suffocate me by sitting on my face. I bit his ass cheek--through pants, mind you--so hard that it left bruises. And who got in trouble? Me. Me, baby. Me.

It's Dolomite, baby!

The TV at the café blared as usual today until some announcer started talking about a Bush speech: hear him talk about his new task force! He's got a new team together, and he's ready to take care of things! The weird thing was, the announcer sounded like an announcer for the WB, all warm and loving, as if talking about George Dub finally getting the guts to buy a rose for his 10th grade sweetheart. It was surreal.

Also surreal was this troupe of nurses, one of whom kept giggling and grinning so fucking wide and saying in the most pinched, high-pitched voice, "Ooooooh, Jesus! Oooh, Jesus! Jesus! Oh, Jesus!" The highest voice you can imagine, the most nasal high-pitched voice, and over and over and fucking over and over and over fucking over and over and over. The only time I heard her say anything at all other than "Oooooh, Jesus! Ooooh, sweet Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Oooooooh Jesus!" was when she said goodbye to her lunchmates and said, "Hallelujah! Jesus!"

My kind of cat.

Do a google search for Aliens vs T-Rex. The first site scares me.

Urgent! In need of Salvage!

All you computer types with access to storehouses of broken equipment: I am looking for something!

I need a broken firelite 40gig hard drive. The USBFLB40 model.

Preferably one that the drive died. The one I has had the usb port ripped from it's soldered placement and now has no way of talking to anything but itself (I've plugged in the A/C and the drive still spins up).

Why? Cause of stupidity on my part.

Actually, tim, can you research that for me? I've found external HD cases, so that might be another solution.

Newfanglenesse actually dates back to Middle English.

Wired News also has a review of that new-fangled controllin' device.

Goathead, are you dead? And is anyone but me going to be available for John's porn shoot?

I'm going to feel incredibly sad if nintendo ever goes under

Why? Cause of this.

I'm not even sure how to describe it. Just read.

Queen of the Damned Worst Movie Ever

Vampires are badass. Blade, Interview with the Vampire, The Lost Boys, Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter. All good vampire movies.

Then you watch Queen of the Damned.

Sure, the movie was kinda botched when Alya died 1/4 of the way through. So what did they do? They finished the movie using medium shots, over the shoulder shots, and even more medium shots. (Medium shots is when you show 1/2 the character or more on the screen) Then,because it cost so much production expense to re-write and re-shoot the movie after Alya's plane decided to go retarded, the whole movie veers away from the book and spirals downward like waste in a toilet. The ONLY redeemable fact about the movie is the hot red head who becomes a vampire in the end, and John Davis trying to scalp tickets to his own damn concert.

Vampires are the new emo kids. They forcefuly bleed, listen to monotonous music, and dress in clothes from one store. So sad. However, I think Captain Hook would have a better time fighting vampires then he would the original Lost Boys.

Capt. Hook

I've come to the conclusion Capt. Hook must have been a horrible pirate. He loses his ship and crew at Never-Never land, and then can't even beat a boy in tights and a bunch of orphans.

I'll still give him the multilation by croc. Beyond that though, even Redbrow the Irritating would feel better than him...

Bluebirds and the undead

Has anyone ever noticed that the pills on Dr. Mario look like barbituates? I realized this today after my Drugs & Individual Behavior class.
Tim, did you know there is actually a song called Zombie? It's by the Cranberries. However, it doesn't give quite the impression of the undead out collecting brains though...
Thats all for now.

The Haunting

In my third year at UNI, when I dated Carol, I often stayed in her room. Of course you did, you think; You, Tim, are a skeezy sexfiend. But when I stayed in her room, I often stayed on the couch. This is because the couch was sculpted of whipped marshmallows and upholstered in the skin of young Armenian women who had never known the touch of man—it was deliciously comfortable.

I also stayed there because of this knocking in my room. Most nights, around two or three in the morning—just when I'd be going to sleep—something would knock at the wall, about chest height. The knock would sound again twenty seconds later, an inch higher. Most nights I'd make it to the fifth or six before either leaving to stay in Carol's or just falling asleep out of exhaustion. One night I couldn't sleep, and listened to the knock travel slowly up the south wall, over the ceiling, past the midpoint, down the north wall to behind the mirror, then back up and across and down to the origin.

Anyway: this morning at 5:30 I woke up to a double knock, like a delivery person. Except it came from just above my head. I was a bit freaked out but really strangely tired/euphoric, and laid back down, and then heard the knock duplicated in the next room, but muffled. So I checked and found the apartment, of course, empty. Alyssa was elsewhere. Then I went back to bed and listened to the muffled knock against the ceiling of the living room again, and then it sounded in the bedroom.

I turned on the ibook, so that its loving blue glow would scare away any ghosts or clowns that might eat me. Then I drifted off to sleep. At the very point before I slipped over, there was a furious knocking on one of the walls—not sure which one—a repeated agitated fast knock, like when you hear your girlfriend having sex and that damn flower delivery guy's car is parked out front and your own door's locked. I went to the hallway but no one was there.

So…I'm assuming it was a hypnagogic hallucination.

Damn this sleep tomfuckery! As I've pointed out before, when you sleep sober you sleep at your own risk.

Today's image theme is ghosts/spirit photography.

Oh, Andy and Ryan--I know you want me to stay at your place tonight. I just know it.

I had a scared cat picture

But apparently I can't upload images right now... text will have to do.

Business: I'm going to be making calls. Organizing the troops with clear voices. We'll need a bat incidentally.

Pleasure: Last night, I could smell cool grass, grease and hydrolic fluid. Best combination. Ever.

Orgasmic: Found out I'm probably taking a trip this summer. That completely offsets:

Depressing/angering: Humanity sucks.

Now that cat is scared.

I have a camera now.

My luck is holding and I have the camera. Now, since the filming can't happen till at least tomorrow (if we're lucky). How's about some machinima makin?

Halo anyone? anyone at all?

Somebody masterbated....

Because I certainly am not.

No one here's fluent in Excel, are they?

It's now Pictures of Scared Cats week.

The Cat Threatener

The older lady on the other side of my cubicle wall (you may remember her as the old lady with surprisingly nice legs) is way into cat shows. Waaay into it. She's deeper into cat shows that Dave is into Amish's grandma. And there's all this stuff on her wall, this week—ribbons, a plaque, a metal. Her cat is the 14th best cat in the region, and the 3rd in its breed nationwide.

There's also a little picture frame featuring four poses. The cat is white and fluffy and has a long face. It lounges around a tiny couch, standing against the back, lying down, sitting next to an arm. The cat looks fucking perplexed. Straightup perplexed.

I do not know how they got the cat to sit there and be good. How do you get a cat to sit still? I imagine a gangly guy in a black t-shirt, standing behind the photographer, holding two frayed electrical wires, menacing the cat. This guy is the Cat Threatener. I want his job.

I really want to write a report on the career "Cat Threatener" now.

The lord of the dance is coming!

M1:Quick, get the tacks! The Lord of the Dance is coming.

M3:That won't work, he wears steel boots and kicks his enemies in the croch with them.

M1:Shit... He's going to make us watch him dance isn't he?

M3:Yeah...

M1:Hey, my eyes just started bleeding.

M3:Mercy killing. The suffering will be less this way.

M2:(enters room, putting pants on) What's going on?

M3:(Gets up and stabs M2) Flatley is coming, I'm saving you the trouble.

I just got an email telling me I can get half off performances that come to here. The most incredible of these? Michael fricken Flatley is going to be here. He will perform. He will dance, and his chest will heave, and no one will be quite sure what just happened.

If they'd rather die then they better do it! And DECREASE THE SURPLUS POPULATION!

Dickens was a harsh, cruel, literary bastard of a genius.

Dicks, however, writes Civil War romances no one will understand until he is dead. Almost...ALMOST like Kilgore Trout.

So my muffler dissapeared last nite. Just poof! Gone! They arent too expensive to replace. But that money could go to booze/tattoos/shoes.

Just learned:

Things I learned today: Ames has a lapdance ordinance. That's right. No seductive rubbing with girlfriends. No getting close during school dances, and of course, no strip clubs. They secretly watch every woman in town to make sure she doesn't waggle seductively, they break that and black helicopters come down and, well... you know the story.

You people mean nothing to me! Nothing!

Andy: It's true, last night I was too good for you. Far too good. My cellphone and I often don't get along, and here's why we were fighting last night: it was dead, and charging in another room.

Last night I forced myself to get some work done and it was god awful. It was a slog through a Siberian minefield. It was doing dishes at pizza hut without the automatic dishwasher. Only the online conversations with bar floozies at the end of the night saved my life.

That said—yous guys want to do anything tonight? We could tie ryan up above your balcony and beat him with iron rods that have been chilling in the freezer. Or we could insert those same frosty rods into his urethra. Or we could use glass rods, and then, once they're inserted, smack them with the metal rods, causing them to shatter into 10,000 crystals of eternal pain.

This is what happens to illiterate people.

And he'll never know! Because he can't read!

I'm an ass.

My boss's head is going to explode if I use the internet for personal reasons, so let's get to business:

1) Does anyone know of any schools teaching horse dentistry in the United States?

and

2) What sort of chair is best, ergonomically? With arms, without arms, swivel, non swivel?

No points will be awarded for answering any of these, so don't get excited. Ya damn hobo.

John---------------I am ready to film your dirty porn this weekend.

I think Wes has died of an abscessed tooth or maybe rotten liverwurst.

Word (or phrase?) of the Day

Mala Fide

Main Entry: ma·la fi·de
Pronunciation: "ma-l&-'fI-dE, -d&
Function: adverb or adjective
Etymology: Late Latin
: with or in bad faith

Poteen Party

I really want to learn to do this. These yoga experts can consciously put themselves into a sleeplike state where they can watch dreams and re-energize while staying fully aware. CRAZY!

And now, some pornography for alcoholics.




Oh! That's some hot stuff right there. Most of the ladies you don't recognize are some rare irish imports. The irish poteen is illegal in Ireland but they're allowed to produce it and export it. It also won a bronze medal at the 2005 liquer competition. It won the gold in '03. I've been wanting to order a bottle ever since I first laid eyes on it. And you know what? I'm finally gonna do it. POTEEN PARTY!!!



Sláinte!

Dammit dammit dammit

I realized I have a wedding to go to on saturday. I think it's saturday. I may just not stay long at the reception if the filming thing isn't happening on thrusday...

I need a planner.

Conversation about whiskey, with the anonymous Des Moinesian, "Hilda

Hilda says: (12:15:53 AM)
he would always buy me the cheapest and then whatever money was left he bought more cheap stuff

Hilda says: (12:15:57 AM)
five star baby

tim (professional magician) says: (12:16:15 AM)
jesus

tim (professional magician) says: (12:16:20 AM)
i've never even had that stuff

tim (professional magician) says: (12:16:24 AM)
that's what they call rotgut, in old books.

Hilda says: (12:16:27 AM)
that shit changed my voice

tim (professional magician) says: (12:16:31 AM)
wow

tim (professional magician) says: (12:16:32 AM)
now that is power

Hilda says: (12:16:37 AM)
i know

All smiles, despite the fact we dont have a kitchen anymore

This picture doesn't really do things justice, and you can't see the stuff on the other wall or the ceiling. Needless to say, one of the people we live with are not allowed to cook anymore, unless it is the microwave and under supervision. Those are the stipulations.
How it happened: roommate Sylvia (Asian girl in the white t-shirt, back row) thought that you could put 2 inches of oil in a pot (see the charred remains) and let it cook on high heat for a while...You can't tell in the picture, but under the stove, the light and fan were completely gone, and you can kind of tell, but the George Foreman kind of got a little burnt too...(Among other things that were above. The papertowels were set on fire, and it was just a bad deal. It didn't help that she can't use a fire extinguisher. Then I explained its kind of like a grenade, just pull the pin, but don't throw it...
The culinary impaired should not be allowed to cook. Ever.
This is what happens.
Still trying to get things cleaned up, smoke damage and such. The guy across the hall took the picture of us with our brand new fire extinguisher! Whoooha! (Those are the girls that I live with, plus 3 others that weren't home that night.)
Maybe I can find a better picture, so you can see how bad the damage really was.
Anyways, I'm out for now.

Principle shooting late this week into the weekend!

I need to start shooting the mini-movie. I need able bodied actors/actresses. In lieu of that, I'll take what I can get. Plans are for me to get my hands on a camera on wednesday.

Maybe some shooting on thursday. If not, then definitly shooting on friday/sat/sun!

This is the open call, and I'm throwing it out early this week. I will also be making calls. I plan on being insufferable until then. Also, if I can't get my hands on a camera, anyone know of one I could borrow for the interum?

Any questions?

You'd be a damned idiot.

Behold! Risen from the depths of the blog!

I'm predisposed to weird sodas. Have you had Pepsi Lime? It's delicious, in a very green way. A very green and artificial way. I mean, if you had your eyes jabbed out by an errant hockey stick, and you drank PL, you would imagine it to be green in color. A darker green that Dew, and less neon. But you'd be fucking wrong. You'd be a damned idiot. Because it's not green. It's black. Moron.

How about Pitch Black II? The sequel? This is an actual drink. I think I blogged it, but if I didn't—it's Pitch Black but sourer. I still haven't finished the twelver I bought on the Follies premier night, so I'm not sure what I think. Wes seemed to enjoy it.

The Day Tim Dissapointed Me

Dmitri: You can only send flat objects in the mail
Dave: Nu'uh. You can send bananas
Dmitri: Bullshit.
Dave: I shit you not. Tim sent me a banana in the mail.
Dmitri: Prove it!
Dave: Ill call him now! Its saturday and only 5 pm in Iowa!
*Dave dials*
Tim: This is Tim's Phone! I dont have Dave's number in my phone because I have the memory of a goldfish who has smoked a lot of pot and suffered a mild concussion, despite the numerous times he's given it to me. However, I wont call you back so this call is pointless. Leave a message.
Dave: Tim! Call me back! I have to prove the banana situation!

2 days later NO FUCKING PHONE CALL. You big phoney!

Whorin!

Phoney?!

Phoney?!

All right, the swingset story is a fabrication. In truth, I drunkenly immasculated myself with a pair of tinsnips so Dave wouldn't feel alone in his mutilation.

Here is a rumor: I am the founder of an underground cult of drunks. We pick up new recruits after AA meetings. We lean on our cars in dark parking lots outside churches and school buildings and pull open our jackets, revealing flasks.

This is the most quietly enraged I've been in months: Saturday night, Goodwill. I notice a hardback of Hearts in Atlantis, and I notice the Goodwill sign with standard flat pricing: paperbacks 25 centavos, hardbacks 50. Some previous owner or bookstore has written $5.00 and their initials on the bottom corner of the book, a la garage sale.

At the cash register, this big damn bologna ball of mental retardation grabs the book, looks at my dollar, and rolls his offset eyes while he taps the $5.00 mark. He keeps tapping and staring at me like I'm the one jockeying a counter at a thrift store. I was too annoyed to argue.

He's dead now. And so is his whole family. And everyone who was in that Goodwill, except for my companions.

Here's a phone conversation I just had:

Me: This is Tim.

Lady: Excuse me?

Me: This is Tim.

Lady: Is Rod there?

Me: Nooooo. What agency are you looking for?

Lady: (snooty) This is a personal call.

Me: Ah. Well, this is Iowa Vocational Rehab.

Lady: So are you telling me that I have the wrong number?

Me: Welllllll. Yes.

Lady: And what number is this supposed to be?

Me: 281.4786.

Lady: Well. (hangs up)

I hunted her down immediately afterward and stabbed her in the eye with a William Penn ballpoint. Then I pulled out the eye and popped it into my mouth. As she opened her mouth to scream, I bit into the orb, and ocular goo shot onto her face.

Guess what we're researching? Dead serious: Whorin'!

Word of the Day

Codswallop

Main Entry: cods·wal·lop
Pronunciation: 'kodz-"wä-l&p, 'kädz-
Function: noun
Etymology: origin unknown
British : Nonsense, nonsensical talk or writing

Synonyms: folderol, rubbish, tripe, trumpery, trash, wish-wash, applesauce.


Applesauce?

That's right, applesauce.

I went to Ducktails and all I got was this lousy blog title

As I was walking across the parking ramp this morning I noticed a very unique license plate frame. It said, “I love my goat” and had little goats prancing all over it. It was cute. So right now that is my second favorite license plate frame. My favorite is on a truck that is usually parked outside of our apartment. It’s on the back and says “Too close for missiles, switching to guns.” Since seeing that I’ve decided for certain that if I’m ever president I’m going to create a maximum tailgating distance law, and cars will have alarms that will go off whenever another car is following them too closely. The alarm will be an English woman’s emotionless voice saying, “Maximum tailgating distance has been breached.” Then you will press a blinking red button on your dashboard and the same woman’s voice will say, “Guns have been armed.” Then you pull a trigger on the back of your steering wheel and...well, you get the idea.

I’m gonna be iron, like a lion, in zion. (Iron, Lion, Zion) They have that song for karaoke at Gronau’s, which makes me like that place all the more. What’s that? You don’t know Iron, Lion, Zion? Then you are an uncultured, musically retarded codwallup. Oh! You didn't think I'd throw the codwallup at you, huh? Yeah, that's just how I roll.

After I left Gronau’s last night I stopped by the place next door. It’s called Ducktails, and I’d never been there so I thought I’d just step in for one beer to see if it was anything special. I wasn’t expecting much, considering the few cars that were parked outside, so imagine my surprise when I walk into the coziest little den of booze I’d ever seen! I think Wes might even like this bar. It had the ambiance of some rich old duck hunter’s basement. Duck pictures on the walls and duck upholstery on the armchairs, a big mallard above the fireplace, and I think there might have even been ducks etched into the woodwork. So that was a little strange, but notice I said armchairs, fireplace...and I didn’t mention the leather couch and the big oak table. Someone spent a lot of money furnishing this place. This is a bar where we might be able to comfortably play Settler’s or Family Business while we sip our glasses of scotch. And if we tire of that we can sidle over to their tournament size pool table for a game of “Andy Wins.”

Buy a box of Kleenex and rent Crash. Trust me.

I couldn’t listen to this exorcism recording at work (for some reason I can’t open audio/video files anymore), but if one of you can, please tell me if it’s cool or not.

More Swingset Accidents

I feel compelled to begin with another tale of my coworker. You may skip this and remain free of my animosity—mostly. In abbreviated form: "Come here, I have a story for you." "Okay." I wheel over in my chair. I'm trying to act busy. "So, Saturday—" "What?" *click click, opening attachment 1 of 2* "Saturday I—look at this poster" "Right—" I look over shoulder. "Shhh." "That refugee thing we went to—" "Yeah?" I look over shoulder again. "Well—oh, this is the same poster?" "No, you clicked—" "Why would they send the same attachment twice?" "What's your story?!" "Why would they—" "YOU KEEP OPENING THE SAME DAMN ATTACHMENT!"

I hope that's as incomprehensible as it can be.

In my bathroom is a dead cricket, on its back. This is how it was slain: Alyssa soaked a washcloth, balled it up, and then dropped it Wile E. Coyote style on the cricket from a great height.

Kelly: you must tell us more on your flaming apartment. Are you now homeless? Are you a hobo? Are you not a hobo? Are you finally going to give up this farsical American life and go back to your Middle Eastern palatinate?

If any of you would like to help propagate rumors about me, you may choose one or more of the following:

1) In a horrible coincidence, not only was Dave's penis lost in a horrific childhood swingset accident, but mine was also lost, but much later in life. I tried to start this rumor two summers ago, but my efforts culminated in me, in a bar, yelling "I have no penis!" while trying to remote control the pool game using a severed NES controller.

I am sure Alyssa would not mind backing up this rumor . . . ?

2) Any other rumors of your choosing that do not involve child molestation or other nefarious sexual relations. (Note: semi-nefarious sexual relations are fair game--sleeping with the postman's wife, or being a quietly flamboyant homosexual, or cross dresser. Perhaps you found a corset balled up in my bag? Well, no. That would only imply that I'd recently bedded a time-traveling Victorian. So I guess that one's out.)

My brain is running weird today. Like, in safe mode. Except no—it's much more like a virus has ravaged my files, and now when I try to open MSN I get Excel, and when I try to visit Attic Apartment I get fatbottomboys.com. (If that really exists . . . please do not tell us.)

Cedar Falls news:

There is a sushi bar. Also—probably not for anyone other than Andy—I saw Umthen. He works at Sam Goody now. He was stocking DVDs and glanced over and didn't say anything and finally I said his name.

"Yeah, hi." He continued stocking, didn't look at me.

"How's it . . . going?"

"TerribleIamsosickofworkingAllIdoisworkLastmonthIwassickofnotworkingandnowI'msosickof thisjobAtleastsixhourseveryday—"

And so on.

And then he bumped into my groin and exclaimed at my lack of manhood. It's true, I said, and told him about the swingset accident.

Not as bad as Kellynn's incident...

Between 11:30 pm and 2:00 am I walked 4 miles drunkenly from downtown to my dorms.

Considering the mugging and robbery rates increasing, that was pretty dumb.

So, yeah.
Tonight our apartment caught on fire...

My job is dumb.

This is what I've just been asked to research:

Client has $52,000 in outstanding student loans. What is available for people to see if student loans can be “written off”?

I'm going to write a very long and detailed report about the proper time of night, season, etc., to go to the Enchanted Glade and there to wait for the third rainbow to appear in the night sky, which must be followed to its completion, in a dewy marsh, where a tiny man in quaint green clothes will--

Alternate Poker Terminology

He's got double monkeys and a pirateship rum run.

A tested literary device; a romantic interlude; a scuffle at the local bar

For the opening of today's post, I will start with that old literary trope invented by Dickens: the pile of your mothers and sisters and girlfriends. I emerged from said pile this morning, clawing my way through the sleeping, sexually satisfied bodies of all the women in your life, some supple and some withered and many nude, and dropped, exhausted to my bedroom floor. And when I hit the bedroom floor, this idea came to me:

Next time one of my friends has a date, especially if it were an anxious sort of date, meaning that the friend in question was really desperate to hit it off with the girl—

Like, let's say it was Andy and some girl . . . maybe we could call her Madam M, for Madam Moldova, since he has such a predilection for those Moldavian women—

I would drive by, at first, with a fake mustache. Andy and his date would be strolling down 4th street, cups of coffee warming their hands, and I would scream, "Do 'er!"

And I would speed off into the night. Really, though, I would only speed around the corner, where I would leap out, open the trunk, and pull out the first of many costumes: a sombrero, poncho, and oversized guitar. I would then drive back by, in the other direction, steer with my knees while I strummed the three chords I know and when Andy and his date looked at me, I would yell, "Do 'er!"

And then, back around a corner, and into a Mr. Tastee outfit, and around another corner and into a Zorro costume, and around a nother corner and I'd pull on the freshly harvested skin of Bill Clinton, and then behind a hedge and into a giant atmosphere bubble complete with air compresser and feeding tube, and around another corner and into a giant clockwork Mr. T. Finally Andy and his Moldavian date would seek refuge in a bar, perhaps the Royal Mile. Andy would order a Porter's for himself and a Killian's for the lady, and just as they prepared to sip their brimming drinks—

Just as they prepared to laugh, finally, for the first time in an hour—

As the light caught his eyes and she thought that maybe there was something there—

I would charge madly in through the main door, covered in a plush blue hippopotamus suit, and would dive headlong across the bar, over tables and patrons, kicking off of bar stools, and tackle Andy straight into a Guinness mirror.

So just, you know, keep me informed if any of you get any dates soon.

This is What I'm Researching Today

Heres to you, Mr. Vonnegut, Jesus loves you mumble mumble mumble Hey hey hey

I get to shoot pornography today! It involves a vampire hunter, a cowboy, and some guy with a vaccuum. Pornography is any form of media that degrades human experiences. Its not just for sweaty fat people to fuck to 80s music anymore.

As well, I saw the school psych yesterday morning. She had to shorten my meeting to 1/2 an hour cuz of some sort of meeting. Anyway, she said that I concern myself WAY too much with my old crew and I should move on and not worry too much about issues back home. FUCK THAT. You all's my runnin crew. Despite the fact you made me roll around a fire ant hill covered in jelly or the time you tried to sell me to gypsies, I still concern myself in your group. Anyway, I made a good analogy of my life when I was in there:

" I see my life as the old game of Asteroids: Every problem I solve turns into 2 problems, which then turn into 2 problems, and then I eventually crash and burn into something I could have avoided."

Asteroids was a very early vector graphics video game that teenagers pumped quarters into. It looked like this:

The Master Beard

This is how last night's Halo rendezvous went. Andy, Cricket, Kevin and I met online for an hour's worth of

Wake up (this is Alyssa's term) on the side of the field, pick up battle rifle, run across courtyard—and have own head bisected by a hazy sniper trail.

Wake up again, now just above the rocket launcher, and leap down to get it. During fall, feel searing pain in crotch—notice that crotch has been blasted with a plasma overcharge. Receive hail of bullets, die.

Wake up next to the sniper rifle. Run toward sniper rifle only to receive a rocket in the throat.

Wake up strapped to a gurney, somewhere inside one of the bases. Blue team members stand around you in tribal/cabal gear, holding short spears and jars of leeches. They apply spears and leeches. You die slowly, while your soul is commended to the Dark One . . .

It was godawful. Godawful.

The opposing team's Wraith was laying waist to the lot of us, pummeling our scraggly defenses with plasma. After countless failures I happened to help kill the pilot, and I stole the Wraith, and then—after that thing had trampled over everyone and everything—someone fired one more grenade at it, with me in it, and the whole contraption finally exploded.

. . .

In case you missed my post the other day about the Michelle Rominger phone survey—Rominger shaved his beard. It truly was the Greatest and Best Beard I've ever seen. It was the Master Beard. It was the One Beard to Rule Them All. That beard traveled where no beard had traveled before. That beard was edible, eatible. It was formed by a Jedi night out of crystals and metal. It was the last beard of its kind. It was taken by the Nazis, for a while, in an attempt to find the secrets of everlasting life.

Man, it was an incredible beard.

. . .

I am trying to formulate, like a master strategist, my weekend plans. I may leave this town and all its hobos behind. What are you people doing? What do scuzzy, scuzzy people like you do on the weekend? Collect your food stamps and get wasted on generic Zebra Cakes? Put pennies on the tracks and make nickel bets on which way they'll fly? Have pop can scavenging contests?

. . .

I recently discovered countless phone messages from . . . Dave's roommates? Sorry to have missed your calls, Dave's roommates. I promise that if you call again, I will be here. For you. Nude. With a bottle of oils, and another bottle of melted Velveeta.

Real fast, and you might need subs, so this whole thing could be pointless--

Live longer...

but don't become a suicide zombie.

Either postural tachycardia or equine dentistry--

--is what I'm researching next. I just got done explaining why I was unable to find much of a job market for an ex crack addict with sub-par Japanese language skills to perform Japanese translation in his home.

Today's book recommendation, as if you care, is Carter Beats the Devil. It's well-written and it's about a stage magician in the very early 20th Century! A freakin stage magican! And he's beating the Devil! I don't know why I ever gave up my ambition to be a stage magician. I blame it on Harry Blackstone.

Blackstone, you fucker!

Blackstone!

That's what I'll yell right before I die. I hope I'm in a hospital, and it's three am. Some old man will walker his way over to see if I'm okay and I will rear back, will brandish my IV stand like a Clovis spear, and will run him through. And then I'll collapse forward, sated and dead.

. . .

In less interesting but weirder news, imagine this:

You're eating lunch at a hospital cafeteria. Your boss is off in the corner, which pisses you off no end, because you're only supposed to get a half hour lunch and now she'll know you're here, and will know when your half hour is up, because she's already been here a half hour herself and actually something like 45 minutes, chat chat chatting with one of her buddies, and will continue to be here for much longer while you rush food to your mouth and then march out of here—

But anyway, the fucking incessant drone of hurricane news streams out of the TV in the corner, the patrons bumble around with their trays, and you're trying to read a hardback while also trying to shovel steamed vegetables and a black bean burger into your mouth. And somewhere about fifteen feet away, for about four pages straight, some old woman will not stop muttering, in the confused and unaware and mournful way of the mentally fucked—

"The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . ."

Derrida, I ask for your wit.

It is a certainty that I can say little and mean much. Whether I actually mean what little I say is only as certain your thoughts. Derrida was quite sure that any communication, especially typed communication (the very thing you are looking at now) is completely flawed. He was pointing out absurdity. At least I hope so, maybe I misunderstood him. Maybe he really was looking to show us that because you can't be here as I type this, you will never know my real intention. In that vein, I should tell you that there is a hidden code within here. Find it and I shall buy you a beer/pop.

I'm lying.

I'm truthing.

These letters are signs that only have meaning because we know the code. If I could start typing now in greek, I may have no understanding of what I type, but they are letter/signs that had meaning. The delay and decay of that meaning has made them meaningless save that they are pretty little things.

I'm buying a load of bricks.

*Why? I've not given a reason. Infer what you will. Maybe I'm making a wall. Maybe I have a historical reference in there. HINT!*

lord

*What's my inflection?!*

What is my intention

No interference here, I'm coming through crystal clear. Look at the detail of a genuine me! *Look at the photoshopped image I flash at your eyes.* I twist it before it hits the eyes, perverted before it can pass through a synapse.

I'll tattoo my shame, it'll just look cool. Misunderstood like some cultural symbol poplurarized by a society so bent on consumption we've long forgotten something can have meaning without being a fad.

Truth? Is that I don't care. Life is hardly worth living when we can't even figure out how to just simply live! Control control controller, controlee. Hardly an interface. Hardly a doorknob. I grab, I twist, I rule the fucking front door. That's control. That's power. Get off on that.

What a genius. (oooo, who's that about? Who did he mean?! GOD I MUST KNOW!!!) *Deconstruct that bitches*

Fuck it, it's going to be a mystery. Unless you figure it out, then you get a beer/pop. Unless I'm lying to you.

Good day. *Am I lying again?!*

My god...

Okay, so...

Last night I found myself in pre-wwII era. I was in a desert country that was being "helped" by the germans. Think Rommel and his Afrika Corps. Anyway, I was a guest at an emperor's palace, he was pretty unhappy about what was happening, and it was likely he'd be "retiring" soon. Yet when he'd meet with me he seemed to have an endless joy, of life and of people. He gave me a talisman on my last evening, as he gave everyone in my travel group a token. As we left that evening, we ended up at a party. The bar started to fill with german troops and begin getting rowdy. At some point they start harassing and arresting my travel group. Fights break out. I try to sneak away. I pick up a gun and head for the back door. I get there at the same time a soldier finally finds me.

I'm dead.

That's when an english kid and his father, both in pith helmets storm the back door with rifles and save me.

more on the dream as events warrent.

Podtacular is a fantastic waste of time

Let me save you from wasting an hour of your valuable time: Don't listen to Podtacular.

I've spent this morning listening to the Podtacular podcasts and they all suck. Two hours of listening and I've enjoyed about five minutes of it. It's mostly these three high school guys talking about their clans and different Halo 2-related websites and giving out horrible gameplay tips like "on midships, don't go for the shotgun or the sword. Get a battle rifle and throw grenades in the middle and kill the people who go for the shotgun."

There were a couple of decent moments, but most of it is crap.

I would like to pass something along to Cricket, however. Apparently there are awards for best Halo 2 machinima. They said there's a link on bungie.net that leads you to the machinima awards website.

Tales about my coworker

My coworker just asked how to turn a bit of text on Word into a link to an outside webpage. "There's probably a button," I said. "Where?" she said. "I have no idea," I said, and she found it herself, and opened up the dialogue box, and I pointed to the little empty field marked ADDRESS.

"Put in the address," I said.

"Well—I just want it to go to the Hawkeye webpage."

"Put in the Hawkeye webpage, then," I said.

"Well—can't it just—I don't know what the address is."

"Open up that other window."

"But this is the one I want to go to the page."

Earlier her husband was in here to listen to some voicemail.

"How do I get to that saved voicemail?" she said.

"You push the button," he said.

"—Oh."

As revolutionary as the discovery of electricity???

Scientists at Edinburgh University have developed a way of moving an object without touching it, in breakthrough research which could be as revolutionary as the discovery of electricity.

It can't be that revolutionary, can it? I think they might be exaggerating a little bit. I'd love to hear the opinions of my fellow bloggers, and friends.

For some reason I can only post one pic at once.

Look at that cheapness! You can't even see that cheapness, it's so small! Target had flavored Stoli on sale--usually $19, now $6.54.

Don't even try driving to Ankeny--I bought every bottle they had.

Ha.

Ha!

Be sure to keep a ribbon in your inventory.

Now when zombies invade my mansion-like apartment, I can finally save my progress.

Your mom.

Some Quotations I have Enjoyed this Afternoon

Michael Schaub on the new issue of Bookslut: All this, and no profanity! So read with a clear conscience. (I'm just kidding. There actually is profanity. Fucking tons of it.)

Margaret Atwood in The Blind Assassin, on the defense of a future war memorial depicting a realistically worn-down and bedraggled soldier instead of a glorious warrior: Father refused to back down . . . saying they could consider themselves lucky the Weary Soldier had two arms and two legs, not to mention a head, and that if they didn't watch out he'd go in for bare-naked realism all the way and the statue would be made of rotting body fragments, of which he had stepped on a good many in his day.

I have also stepped on a good many body fragments in my day.

Old Spice. Its not just Britt's spaztic dog anymore

Adventures in Banking continues! I got an overdraft because $27 in Pay-at-the-Pumpland constitutes $50 for a business week. This made my account stand at -$0.16 for 24 hours...applying the good old ass pounding $27 overdraft fee and $7 a day charge. WHooo hoo! I love paying the fat fucks at the bank!

I obtained a copy of the entire Sims series (not Sims 2 luckily) and suprising enough...CRASHETRON RUNS THEM ALL! It...just takes 5 minutes to load everything...BUT IT WORKS!!!

Nat Desu Con (pronounced Nau-diss-con) is goin to happen in a couple weeks. Mau? You going? I am goin to check out my cosplaying female counterparts and cry miserably at the thin cat girls prancing around *suggestive sound*. You should come a long too! Or at least...visit Denver.


And that is where babies come from.

A happy problem

I just got lunch. As usual, they made a mistake.

It's the same mistake they do to me on a regular basis. I order a half sandwich, and get a whole sandwich for the price of a half.

"What the hell are you complaining for?! You got more food for less! Dumbass."

It's not that I don't like benefiting from their mistakes, but today I really only wanted a half sandwich. Not whole. And they had banana bars! I picked the biggest one thinking it'd go well with my half sammich.

Now I must contend with this meat and veggie abomination and ignore my favorite dessert.

Damn you fate. Damn you to boggy creek. Crenshaw can have you.

Whoa! Whoa!

I was just told that some people who say they have prolonged colds or sinus infections or flus—or people who just sneeze a lot—and especially people who claim to have no sense of smell—these people often are heavy drug users! Who burn out their fucking sinus cavities.

Amish!

Amish is obviously a heroin addict.

Did you know Amish can't smell? He clains to be incapable of smell . . . which explains some things.

That's right, he's a freak.

A fucking freak!

Freaks have no place in this society!

. . .

Yesterday I had a serious jones for a typewriter. This is because every time I go back and look at old stuff I've written it seems ephemeral and cartoony on the screen, and I change bits and change more bits and anyway, I wanted some ink.

This is an account of my Quest to find a Typewriter

First I went over to the West Side Goodwill, which happens to be in a strip mall. A very nice and sexy strip mall, actually. In the Goodwill, I went straight back to the "Electrics" and found one word processor, very nice, very new, for nine bucks. This thing was sweet to the max, man, wet to the gills, whatever that means. It was a constipated dalmation on an Adventureland ride. But what the hell would I do with a slick new word processor? Nothing. Nothing!

Some behemoth of a man asked where the other Goodwills were in town, and I mumbled about Douglas and then went over to Subway for a 12 inch sammich, which turned into two 6 inch sammiches, and I read about Sylvia Plath—the Spider Slayer—trying to kill herself.

And then I went off toward the Douglas Ave. Goodwill, and Rominger called me, and asked if I'd take a survey over the phone from Michelle, for her psych class.

"Do you still have the beard?" I asked.

". . ."

"Do you?"

". . . no."

I sighed. "Oooookehay," I said.

"Okay," she said (they were on speaker phone). "Do you believe in premarital sex?"

"Oh," I said, and missed my turn. On the radio, some NPR drone was blabbering about the deaths of supreme court officials, and I turned that shit off. Way off. I knew I was fucked. How could I answer this question without causing Michelle to summon Jehovatron?

The next question was: do you believe in cohabitation?

The third question was: do you think homosexuals should be allowed to marry?

At this point I swerved the car off the road and into a giant tanker truck carrying ketchup and mustard, which spewed into the air in a muddy geyser and splattered all over the road, turning the tanker truck into a gigantous hot dog.

And the Douglas Ave. Goodwill only had a new electric word processor as well. So to Ankeny I went, and—

Oh, I bought a can of vanilla coke at a vending machine on 86th. How old is this fucker? I wondered. I hadn't seen Vanilla Coke in decades. (Hizzle, I would have asked you to come along, but this all took place before your ass even got home.)

And then: at Goodwill in Ankeny: a shitload of typewriters.

How to describe this? I poked at the electrics, blah blah, all shiny and plastic with their shitty keyboards, and then I noticed this little plastic case on the floor, and I opened it, and there was a blue-and-white Royal, and where was the power cord? There was no power cord.

This motherfucker was a manual.

I had a couple orgasms, and when I came to I lay clutching the Royal close, in an ever-spreading pool of ketchup and mustard and bodily fluids. I threw some scrap paper into that beyatch and fired out a couple paragraphs there on the floor while college girls looked at me like I was deranged/hobotanical/artistic, and my god it was amazing. But it also sucked. The keys jammed if I typed too fast and there was no return--no return!--and backspace—forget it. After ten minutes I painfully repackaged the $9 royal and tried out an electric Sears One the color of maple frosting. This one I almost bought as well, but after testing it on a $5 bill I discovered that the keys were misaligned.