Day Twenty-Three

Day Twenty-Two

For A Couple True Comrades:

May we shout for joy
when we hear of your victory
and raise a victory banner
in the name of our God.
May the LORD answer all your prayers.

Day Twenty-One

Day Twenty

Day Nineteen

Day Eighteen

Day Seventeen

Day Sixteen

Day Fifteen

Day Fourteen

Day Thirteen

Day Twelve

Day Eleven

Day Ten

Day Nine

Day Eight

Day Seven

Day Six

T-Rexes Aren't Known For Their Posture

This is moot.
He founded 4chan many years ago, and is currently championing a new site.
It is called canv.as and it is fun. It is essentially a real-time MSPaint session for editing images. He spoke about it during a keynote speech at a web-development conference below the Mason-Dixon Line, and I caught the whole thing in a stream. Unfortunately, infamous as he is, the presence of moot leaves something to be desired...he has terrible posture. Like, the worst posture ever. And he kept doing this shit with his hands as if he were rubbing them in malicious plotting or keeping the cold out like a rheumatic old woman. I thought he looked like a dinosaur.
So I captured a revealing screencap of him at his most T-Rex and posted it to canv.as...

The following edits came in a storm:

My post is now the most popular post on canv.as.
What I show you here is simply a taste of the 100+ edits that have since been born.
To put it lightly, friend:
I have reached my peak and been dethroned in a single sweep.
Just sign up for canv.as.
You don't need me anymore.

Day Five

Day Four

EBRBRBRBRBRBRBR!

Akira Kurosawa's Dreams are coming true.
There will be a nuclear meltdown on the island of Japan, and the future lack of vomit porn and animated child rape will be suffered with iron resolve: I'm calling it. This is how Pokémon will be born. I, for one, welcome our new Demonic Asian Overlords.

8.9 MUTHAFUCKA!
Gotta get to the West Coast and get my surf on
before the FUN arrives.

Day Three

The Things We Do For Love:

Post creative dark humor for several months [x]
Shit gold on Sundays [x]
Never masturbate on Sundays [x]
Cleverly weave funny links [x]
Continue WINNING [x]
Share long-repressed memories [x]
Get you to care [ ]

Day Two

Silly Boys!

Hands off! Heeheehee!
I know what I like and what I DON'T like, okay? I'm strong and I don't need a bunch of icky NERDS ogling ME! I do what I want when I want, are you scared? You wouldn't even know how to handle someone like me...gosh!
Let's see...I love killing Jews, putting glass shards in the eye sockets of my raped and murdered victims, physically consuming famous works of art, tricking my brother into unleashing the Kraken, you know!
CUTE STUFF!















































Well, boys, I should really be going to bed. /wink
Don't spend all night looking at pictures of me, that's gross and such a turn off! YUCK.
I should could use a massage, though...
/wink
/kiss

Day One

No Booze? Psh. No Problem!

So far nothing out of the ordinary. No shakes. No curling up in a sweating heap in the corner of my kitchen, doubled over like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. This shit is going to be easy, right? I sleep five feet from an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker. No matter, I haven't been glancing at it every 20 minutes or so. When I was mixing tuna salad for dinner I didn't think about how great a big cold domestic light beer would be. No big deal.No big deal. No big d-

What Is This I Don't Even

I am being sued.
I am behind on my reading.
I am disheveled.
But I feel grape. Fat Tuesday, bro...Doughnut Day.
But we've had this dance before, and stranger ones await.
Pause. Reflect. Do you even realize the magic of that image?
We've got a young girl, a fencer, as clever allusion to a scene in my fantasy book.
We've got a BP sponsor in the background. Wow, don't even need to go there.
And yes, we've got the Olympics. You know which one, with the logo that looks like Picasso's rendering of fellatio?
The sword bending slightly to the right? Think about it. I just made most of the men reading this blog feel funny.
I knew a kid in high school who fenced; real douche.
This is getting absurd, disjointed, and I should stop.
I should stop before this gets anything like Dave Legeno's biography: a must read.

Mazel Dog

Is there any way to celebrate besides hot dogs? Sure, some people prefer champagne, or cigars, or confetti and bare breasts. But is there anything so wholly satisfying as small cooked tubes of ground beef and pork and lordknowswhat? I submit that there is not. Mazel Dogs can be covered in diced onion, chili, or slaw, then slathered in kethcup and mustard and served with beans and old bay frnech fries. It's the only way to welcome a new era of paying tolls and accruing debt. Mazel dog, man. They grow up so fast.

"Winter Is Coming."

I mean, I absolutely love it, but...
Kiss my sword, indeed.

The Beam

Kiela had no words to express the nightmare beyond.
Kethel breathed, swearing, the grip on his hot pistol loosened by shock. But even his reaction fell short of understanding.
They stood in the doorway of Dorn's chamber aboard the dreadnought Saber. There was a sucking vacuum, something orbital, that maintained a fractured perimeter of air and light. At the center of the room, floating and twisting in thin blackness, was Dorn: a mutated infant, the size of a grown man but soft and frail, crowned with a pulsating skull both grotesque and enormous.
His giggles echoed everywhere.
But before Kiela could scream, the shrieking emptiness converged on Dorn. And in that sudden silence, the levitating thing she once called friend dove into her mind and started speaking.
Welcome, welcome! Welcome, old flame! Don't be alarmed. This is just a change. I'm changing, you see, thanks to our red friends below! So much planned...we must be alone to speak. No more of your new friend, just you and me!
She turned in time to see Kethel raise his weapon. Dorn wasn't even in his sights when the General paused, gulping and belching. What could have been a cry of pain or surprise became gelatinous and buttery, like the bones in his face that Dorn was liquefying. General Rae collapsed, hands clawing to maintain the structure of his own head. His hands cupped and cradled and accidentally clawed into his brains, and when he hit the floor the entire mass popped and spread like a balloon full of soft pink cream.
Dorn laughed in Kiela's mind.
She turned back to him, willing herself away from Kethel's twitching stump of a body, mouth agape with sorrow and fear and confusion. She started running toward Dorn.
Stop, dear. Stop this. I've so much planned for us! You've no idea the things I've planned for us! Stop and let me tell you.
Kiela kept running.
Let me show you what I've built here, dear. I know the secrets of the star above! Use these secrets with me...we can remake so many worlds together!
She was close now, fists clenched in full sprint. The tears in her eyes did not keep her from reading his dark patterns. She knew where he was and what he was. Kiela knew what the freak wanted, and she would kill him.
Stop! Ha-ha! Stop now!
And as she leaped, the beam crushed and folded the outer hull of the ship. When she set her curled fingers for Dorn's eyes it pierced the chamber. And before she could dig into his weak, horrible flesh, it struck them both. Dorn was vaporized, every particle of his newly omniscient self razed and sliced by the mental laser. Kiela, however, was enveloped. The warm blue light showered upon her. Memory flooded every sense, every strand of hair, and swallowed her into sweet, immortal comfort. Then the beam plowed onward. On and on, so close to its unintended target. For years of flight, it had traversed the empty space with one unknown goal. Yet when it entered the heart of that local star, Finnis...when it stalled the sun's hot and mysterious clockwork...when the solar gears shifted and reversed, the beam simply faded. It felt peace, for the first time since it illumined the stratosphere of a world left to waste.
Finnis folded. It fell and bled into the surrounding space. When it had leaked most of its strength, there was a flush of crimson light in which the Nim'roh basked and prayed.
From the inner-galaxies, had they dark skies, there was a faint glow.
The news came quickly via Earth Forces Wire that a certain fringe system was lost.
Although being little danger to altering navigation, the various merchant guilds saw no gain in pillaging the exploded area.
And somewhere on Earth, the warm bones of a man and his friend were slowly turning to ash.

In Defense of Dragons

Look, I can't go over it enough. Dragons are an awesome concept. They are like unicorns, except for there is no folk song about how they were too busy frolicking to be taken aboard Noah's ark. Instead, there is a folk song about one dragon who lives by the sea and befriends a boy, but then become bored and depressed when the boy grows up and loses interest in him. AND THIS IS OUR NICEST STORY ABOUT DRAGONS. I remember the first time that a work of art moved me to tears. I was in 4th grade, and the book was Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher. A book that that I can only paraphrase from 17-year-old memories as Sophie's Choice with dragons. So yeah, as a crying 8 year-old, I can now see why I read books about dragons as I approach 25. I don't expect anyone who did not read Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher at age 8 to understand. Whofleck was right, in some worlds the dragons fuck with us, and sometimes that world is our own and we are children in it. So yeah, I like dragons. Even Spyro. Why? Because they touched me as a child.

I Don't Even Know How To Title This

I was recently given a book by a friend.
It is a book, so I am told, in which thrones cut men and wolves are dire and the numerous maps given are not just geographic but spiritual in nature. I am, needless to say, very aroused.
This will be my first adventure into high fantasy in quite some time.
Since my pimpled days of questing through literary landscapes of Northern jungles with mysterious histories and invented myths, most of my fantasy escapades have taken place in video games. I enjoy video games and their lore. I refuse your pity, and submit my sexual activity since puberty as evidence that I am doing okay regardless of my questionably basement-dwelling hobbies. These stories, accentuated by gameplay similar to that of ye olde tabletops, are engrossing...I am engorged by them. They feed me in equal doses of subtlety and extravagnce.
I make devils fall and gods ascend. How cool is that?
The game with the most spectacle in regard to story and universe must be Morrowind. It does not simply break the fourth-wall, you see; it hovers above it in cross-legged divinity. The cosmic and time-altering implications of this one pixelated romp alone are embarrassingly good. I have just linked an excellent study of the game's metaphysics, as well as a necessary short sermon by a divine character in Morrowind who, allow me to paraphrase, fucks the god of rape and then rapes that god and then fucks everyone and everything including time to death until he rapes the essence of rape so hard that he banishes rape from existence.
You stumble upon these short lessons and tomes while playing, completely out of context. They are like gentle slaps to the face by some inter-dimensional fantasy-fist, blessed and cursed, inviting and ruinous. The universe of this game is so frayed yet tangible, so broken yet magnetic, that the characters who inhabit it reference historic instances of time simply shifting and breaking down entirely. They believe that the stars above them are holes where the gods burst through when they accidentally made everything...and they are absolutely correct.
During rants like this, Jaybro is fond of telling me to "stop with the fucking dragons."
The irony, friends, is that...in some worlds...the dragons are fucking with you.




Boy I hope this book is good.

Ohboyohboyohboyohboy

It's Drinkmas Eve, when all the little children gather around the hearth in the hopes that St. Drunk will soon arrive. Oh to drown in the boozy yule fuel! This weekend shall be a mirror to shine upon my ugliest parts, like that time Father Maloney caught me through the emergency exit window on tha back of the school bus. THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT FATHER! STOP SAYING AC-A-ME IN YOUR HOMILIES! I used to think beer was terrible. "Eww daddy beer is gross!" The key to getting your child to not drink is to give them terrible small sips of lukewarm domestic light beer. "I'll never like beer" the child thought, not knowing he was 10 ounces away from experiencing the siren's call of splatterfaced.

Answer the call, children. He can tell who has been naughty and who has made ice.

Jesus Christ! Doc, You Disintegrated Whofleck!

Calm down, reader, I didn't disintegrate anything.
The molecular structure of both Whofleck and the blog are perfectly intact.
Where the hell are they, you ask?
The appropriate question is when the hell are they? You see, Whofleck has just become the world's first time-traveler. I sent him...into the past! Three days into the past to be exact.
And at precisely 11:59pm and 59 seconds, he shall catch up with us and the time-blog.


Seriously, now. I wish not for this to be a cool denial of yet another of my failings.
My founder and sponsor was kind enough to speak quietly on my behalf, but there is a new Whofleck in town. He is an educated man. He is a busy man. But he is not without regret, nor mistakes or short-comings.
This is no place for excuses, so consider this repentance:
I have sinned. I have put the blog behind myself, and in doing so raped any meaning my original oath may have held. I beg, and submit, that I shall live for your forgiveness. Fear not; I am no battering husband. I refuse second chances, just give me your open minds.
Things are going to get weird.

Dear Blog,

I write on you so often, but I write to you so very, very little. I was almost afriad to say this to you, but I knew if I didn't type it here, you would never know how I felt about you. You see, Blog, I've taken you very seriously, and sometimes no more seriously than the nights when, in a panic, I post a music video or a dick joke just to know that I have posted on you. "Why so serious?" some might ask. But I've neglected you these past few days, I've deserted my watch. To think of what terrible wraiths may have stormed your walls while I was off foraging for supplies or bedding the cold mistress that is graduate school makes me shudder. And to think that my negligence spread like a cancer to Whofleck and caused him to lay down his torch (torchdown) and wander off into the desert of UnBlog sickens me. I have no words for him but "It's all my fault". I've abandoned my child, I've abandoned my boy. So Blog, dear Blog, I'd like to come back, if you'll have me. I know there's no way you can ever really let me know. But I hope my return will inspire Whofleck to finish out his term as well. So we can link hands and amble out of this cold wet winter as we began it on December 2nd. You see Blog, I don't plan on stopping this time. The leaden load of looming lent aims to crush me, and you might be the only place I can come to re-create the fever dreams bourbon. So Blog, I have returned from UnBlog, and I need you to take me back. Things are about to get weird around here, I have so much repenting to do.

I give you.....BRUNDLESHEEN!