BUSted

The situation has not improved. My morning commute is at times an Orwellian deathmarch of lines, scans, and randomized squad patrols. More efficient, they said. Faster, they promised. Better enforcement, they asserted. BUT AT WHAT COST? The long lines to get on the bus have been replaced by long lines for ticket machines located three feet from the traffic whizzing by. Once you have your ticket, you stand in the frozen mob waiting for the next bus, jockeying for position. People who have paid first and waited the longest end up getting on the bus last, as they are pushed back from the curb by the swell of human traffic coming off the ticket machines. From the line, to the mob, to the mobby line that forms at each black door to the bus. Every day, it is a sad day to be elderly, disabled, or the guardian of a child if you wish to ride the bus. Hold on to your tickets. You will need your paper tickets. You no longer scan your metrocard onto the bus and be done with it, each person is issued a paper receipt for each trip. More efficient, they said. How, we screamed.

Hold on to your tickets. Because without warning, the bus stops and the doors open. People who try to get off are met by two enforcement guards asking to see tickets. No ticket? $100 fine. Then they come onto the bus. "Please have your receipts ready." They repeat. More efficient, they said, as traffic whizzes by. You hold up your ticket, they read the time and the date and the bus route. One woman desperately hunts through her many wet pockets as the agent stands in front of her with a neutral expression. "I know I have it," she says nervously as many eyes fall upon her. The bus idles, indifferent. "It must have fallen out of my pocket!" she cries, looking at those around her. Their eyes dart to the floor. There is nothing any of us can do for her. She may be lying, she may not be. It makes no difference. "Please come with me," the agent says, and walks off the bus. Doomed, the woman slinks off the bus as the doors hiss shut behind her.

Worst is the MTA agent who is all smiles every morning. "Hello! Please have your receipts ready! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" he repeats as he checks each ticket. When finished, if he is without prey, he titters; "Have a great day, everyone!" Then he goes home and skullfucks a stray kitten.

I didn't have a ticket once. The machine was broken at my stop and a group of us were instructed to get on the bus by the agent there. When I got off 30 minutes later, far away from the broken machine, I was confronted by an agent at my departure stop. "Why don't you have a ticket?" he asked, holding my Pennsylvania driver's license. Checking my fury, I repeated again that the machine at my origin stop was broken, and that I was instructed to get on the bus along with dozens of others. He holds my arm, all 5'8" of him clad in an MTA windbreaker and dangling faux sheriff badge, and asks the busdriver if this is true. It was. He handed me my license and let go of my arm.

"You need a receipt from now on," he said.

More efficient, they said.

Advice(r)

Ring Ring!

Whofleck: Hello? Dr. Trumble?

Dr. Trumble: Speaking. (dead inside)

Whofleck: This is Whofleck, I think you are my adviser and I'm in your English 135 class on Mondays and We-

Dr. Trumble: Of course! How can I help you!? (god I hope he didn't read those bios we wrote in class)

Whofleck: I just wanted to set up a meeting and discuss some concerns with my degree audit and ask you some questions about the literary community here at Poop State.

Dr. Trumble: Shoot. (long pause, what is he expecting?)

Whofleck: ...pardon?

Dr. Trumble: Go ahead, what's on your mind? (oh shit, son. flood gates)

Whofleck: Well, I wanted to go over my academic plan and try and outline everything for maximum efficiency regarding requirements. Also, I'd like to talk about dodging the language requirement and what I've gathered are PE requirements.

Dr. Trumble: Go on. (wait, is this the meeting?)

Whofleck: I took six years of German in high school and successfully scored out of the requirement when I attended college the first time. (shame) To me it seems silly that I would need to retake the same exam...also, after four years of not speaking German, I doubt I could pass again. The gym thing is just stupid to me, which the athletic history on my transcripts should make obvious.

Dr. Trumble: We'll see what we can do. (oh, we will, will we?)

Whofleck: So...tomorrow?

Dr. Trumble: Tomorrow morning, my office. Also, the campus literary and arts journal is the Abaddon Review. I can give you more information on that when we meet. (and so it begins...)

Whofleck: Excellent! Thank you so much, Dr. Trumble. I'll see you tomorrow.

Dr. Trumble: One more thing, Whofleck. (fuck fuck fuck fuck)

Whofleck: Y-yes? (jesus christ!)

Dr. Trumble: Happy MLK Day. I loved that bio you wrote in class.

Whofleck: (smiling) Happy MLK Day, professor.

GT MLK?

The Silver Lining

Physician Co-Pay:
$20

Estimated out-of-pocket costs (including deductible):
$950

A completely legal vial of Oxycodone, a magnum of serviceable Chianti, a few days of paid medical leave and some leftover pot roast:
PRICELESS!

Yurassic Park

What's the only thing scarier than a T-Rex?

A T-rex that speaks spanish!

Ultra-Derp

I was furious and told them to go have a "Pee Fiesta."
They laughed and only half of them we're disqualified.
"Of course I watched your race! So fast!"

The Spirit Of Men

As the door to his quarter-pod slipped open, the General heard commotion on the grounds outside and frowned.

“LONG LIVE KETHEL RAE!

LONG LIVE THE SPIRIT OF MAN!

WE REMEMBER BROX, WE RE-“

And then the door shut. His scout, Feldrey, was staring at him now. Feldrey knew his General’s face, and quickly tried to reorganize his report into something more agreeable to his superior’s mood. General Rae had not the time to spare.

“Your report, Fel. Stop staring at me and speak, you dumb bastard.”

Feldrey started, “Uh-of course sir.” The General’s frown sunk deeper. “In-in, in in…”

“Unless my armies are stationed in these pretty green eyes,” the General said slowly, blinking “I suggest you gather yourself. You are easily replaced, Fel.”

“In the North, sir. The Ignite Falls are under Human control. Even with the high-ground, Nim’roh defensive capabilities are overstated. Your plan was a success, and your K/D ratios were within an incredible margin, sir. General, we’ve pushed them back to the cave beyond the rear lines. They have only the webbing of the Under-Roads and a fractured city presence remaining in this sector. And Lancer teams from the West report more retreats from the enemy. There are rumors that they are surrendering the campaign, sir.” Feldrey breathed, waited.

“If I wanted rumors, Fel, I would leave my fucking door open and have no need of you.” Finally, General Rae began to regain his composure. “Look here with your dumb eyes and learn something.”

The General marched over to his Holomap, enormous under the humming Earth-light. Feldrey followed, momentarily overwhelmed by this impromptu lesson. He was listening intently. General Rae stood tall and shifted his sight into emptiness beyond. The vacuum was opened and a gust of hot wind blasted them both. Feldrey covered his face; his General did not.

“Finnis IV, or Nim in native tongue. We hunted the Hiveminders to this red rock. See?” The General, shifting his gaze to the impressed scout at his side, was satisfied and continued. “Sixty sectors mapped in standard A.R.T.H. Sixty thousand men for every sector: Lancers, Engineers, Infants, Squalls, Shifters, Readers, and even those pill-popping Marines. In orbit, dozens of Star-Galleons, beams pointed with astonishing accuracy at every enemy post. If it weren’t for this shit terrain and the unfiltered atmosphere, we would have simply burned the beasts to a cinder cycles ago. And now, after seasons and seasons of surviving our sieges and disrupting our Starports, they suddenly retreat? Look.”

The General forced his hand into the heart of the planet and flicked his wrist. A sequence of exploding light illuminated the entire war. Feldrey watched, searching for an answer that would surprise his General, but none came.

“The retreats happen so quickly, sir. It began at sectors twelve and thirty four, but the pattern appears random. One would assume they are simply reacting to individual defeats. You think otherwise, sir?”

General Rae smiled, and Feldrey nearly burst with pride. “This sequence is accurate, Fel, as is your first impression. But this map is incomplete.”

“Of course, General.” Feldrey said, “There exist no maps of the Under-Roads. There cannot, as our treaty with the Nim’roh forbid it…even in times of war.”

He stared at his General. Kethel Rae knew that the boy wanted to be taught. “Your mind is lazy, but not without hope. The Under-Roads are an unbelievable maze of trade routes, safe havens, and fucking fortresses for all we know. It is surely one of the first things the Hiveminders coveted. And I have no doubt they won their prize from these barbarians. Their alliance is our greatest weakness. We see no Hiveminders on the surface. When our plasma shields bloom and break like tiny red hearts, we fall to Nim’roh; not Hiveminders. They hide in the depths.”

“But we guard the entrances, General!” Feldrey interrupted.

“No, fool. We are simply stomping at moles...nevermind, it's an Earth-term. We are being led to believe that they are pinned, hopeless. But we are the ones who are trapped here. This surface world is unbearable to Humans, and with every cycle we weaken, no matter how many sectors we take. Beneath us lies the battlefield, Fel. In all the histories of all the species circling every star I’ve had to misfortune of destroying, no resistance surrenders. To them this is a revolution of body and spirit. And as long as they hold in their burrows, their dream lives; grows, even.”

Feldrey delved into his own mind for understanding and reply. Again, General Rae could not spare the time. As he was about to send the boy off on another errand, the General’s V-Comm flickered and squeaked.

“Kethel, we have to talk.” The face hesitated, noticing the young scout at the old General’s side. When the image settled and came into view, General Rae frowned.

“Dorn, a moment.” Before he could lift an eyebrow, Feldrey was gone, his leave marked by another wash of cheers from outside. “We’re alone, what is it?”

“It’s Commander Ricker, Kethel. How long will it take you to understa-“

“If you called to waste my fucking time, Dorn, I’ll just mute the damn thing and have a good laugh at your flapping mouth.” The General knew that his outburst was probably unwise. In fact, he didn’t care. Dorn was just a Reader. A worm.

“Hm! I’d say you have the wrong attitude about me, Kethel! Regardless, it’s about these numbers of yours…”

“I’m a strategist, not a goddamn mathematician. Dorn. Get on with it.”

“Too high, old man. Send them back out. Somewhere we can lose a few squadrons. The transports have been landing like clockwork since you got the natives retreating, and we don’t have the supplies for every man. This is fringe space, and it’s getting too costly for you to keep winning.”

How the hell did wriggling, dishonorable scum like Dorn Ricker get command of this war? General Rae thought. Blackmail, intelligence, something like that. Readers are always using bullshit to get ahead. But command!? Of an entire world!

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent. Oh, by the way, I have a representative from Earth coming to keep an eye on you. Old friend of mine, treat her well. Name’s Kiela. And before you ask: yes." Dorn smiled and gave a flamboyant salute. "I’ll be seeing you, Kethel Rae…long live us both!”

And with a quick chuckle the screen dimmed to its desolate green matte. General Rae had a great deal on his mind. Dorn was sending spies, now. Earth Readers, extremely well-trained. Having them in the shadows was bad enough, but trying to keep one ignorant while she stands at his side would be impossible. In an instant, he decided to tell her everything. At this point, it didn’t matter. He walked back toward the Holomap and extended his arm again. The stance reminded him of the order Dorn had given. Kethel Rae, completely out of character, felt gloomy.

All at once the cacophony began again, and in the doorway of his small pod, consumed in the red light of Nim, world of flame, stood a lovely woman.

“WE REMEMBER BROX,

WE REMEMBER EARTH!

LONG LIVE DORN RICKER,

THE MIND-SLAYER!

LONG LIVE KETHEL RAE!

LONG LIVE THE SPIRIT OF MAN!”

Best New Horror

AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

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AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAA

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHH

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Excerpts:

My American History professor is a tad passionate.
Our first day of class she went off on a ten minute tangent (time she should have spent discussing the syllabus) discussing the better part of the life of Robert E. Lee. She spoke of this man as if they had attended high school together. Most of this civil tirade was spent debunking the belief that he was a "romantic."
I was hoping this kind of behavior would continue.
I was not disappointed...

"The pirates of the 1500's were real bad apples. I mean zero morals. If they caught you, they would probably kill you. You know, on a boat with a bunch of dudes for months at a time; you come up with pretty interesting ways to kill each other."
"Now, the native Americans weren't stupid. They knew the kind of deals they were getting from the Europeans and they knew about war. By native Americans I of course mean the American Indians. The Incas and the Maya weren't so smart. I mean, who let's a couple hundred Spaniards with lousy firepower roll over an entire empire. Can you believe the Inca chief actually tried to ransom his own life to the Spanish? 'So we came for the gold, and you're giving us the gold, but you don't want to die?' Naturally, they killed him."

Here are some of my notes, inspired by her wild delivery:
The Spanish are fucking it up for everybody!
The pirates are fucking it up for everybody!
Pirates = colonial pimps (eyeliner and shit)
The Spanish demand the death of English pirate Drake. Queen Elizabeth knights him.
"Fuck the Spanish."
Roanoake is abandoned. Years later, President Jefferson is on the case!
(He didn't find anything)
What natives want: Whiskey, weapons, EXOTIC WOMEN!

The Worst Cut is the Deepest

So I have finally found a barber I like, after a year and a half of overpaying at discount salons in an attempt to remain within my suburban haircuttery comfort zone established since birth. While the proud males of my family have found their niche in a man named Mario, I never quite had the fortitude or the requisite simple man's haircut required to enter an all-male barber shop. It's like entering a locker-room with a micropenis. After months of getting haircuts at a shady "unisex" salon that pretty most certainly made me look like a lesbian, I finally found Jacob, a very well-priced Russian man at a barber shop two minutes away from my place of employ. It has been perfection all six or seven times I've been there. I know what to expect, he is fast, curteous, and takes pride in his work. However, we have little to no rapport and it kills me inside. I'm actually starting to feel like I do something to upset him by showing up every 4 weeks. In my effort to have a normal human interaction, things go south so quickly the best option becomes indefinite periods of awkward silence. I am learning to roll with it, but Jacob is a special kind of person, and when I visit him I may be getting more than a hair-cut sometimes. No, not anything dirty like that.

November

CT: "Oh, How was your trip to Russia, was it a vacation, or just visiting family?"

/extremely proud to have remembered Jacob's trip to Russia.

Jacob: "I visited my father's grave."

CT: "Oh, wow, that must have been moving."

Jacob: "I had never seen it before."

/silence for the rest of haircut

January (Today)

Jacob: "Happy New Year."

CT: "Thanks, have you been having a good start to the year?"

Jacob: "No. I lost my mother last week."

Cy: "Oh god, I'm so sorry to hear that."

Jacob: .........

/silence for five minutes

/SPCA commercial about abandoned animals comes on with line; 'every day, there are animals suffering in our city'

Jacob: "There are people suffering in this city."

/silence for the rest of the haircut

I give up. I can not compete with this. I will go and I will say hello and I will sit in the fucking chair and I will mind my own business and let him do his perfect work. I love not talking, that's fine. I am clearly doing Jacob no favors with the small talk. My patronage has brought with it tremendous grief and still he cares about his work, his exquisite straight razor neck-shaving work. I'm sorry about your mom, Jacob. I wish you knew that I feel that way, but maybe only because it would comfort me. There are people suffering in this city, after all. And I am not one of them, and I should be grateful this year and every year that that is the case.

Genius Expo '06

Mr. Glass : I have to kill everyone with terrorism because when I was little I couldn't play sports. BRUCE WILLIS DOES NOT UNDERSTAND. NO ONE CAN!

/presses button

........

Mr. Glass : Haha yes! The cruel murder of innocents is the only way to sublimate my childhood torment. The children! THEY CALLED ME MR. GLASS!

/spaceship lands

Mr. Glass : I DID NOT ORDER ANY PIZZA! I WILL POISON IT WITH BLEACH AND SERVE IT TO THE HOMELESS!

/spaceship ramp decends

......

/whirring noises

Dr. Stephen Hawking : Come. Now. That. Is. Quite. E. Nough. You. Are. Use. Ing. Your. Phys. I. Cal. Dis. A. Bil. I. Ty. As. A. Crutch. You. Are. Brill. Yant. Like. Me. I. Too. Could. Not. Play. Kick. Ball. Or. Smear. The. Queer. As. A. Youth. Yet. I. Found. Pur. Pose. In. My. Work. Some. One. Of. Your. In. Tell. Ect. And. A. Ware. Ness. Could. Make. In. Cred. I. Ble. Con. Tri. Bu. Shuns. To. Hu. Man. I. Ty.

Mr. Glass : Oh, Oh, Yes. The White Man wishes to weigh in on how I have not made enough of myself. Well that's easy for you to say, you merely have degenerative ALS. I have BRITTLE BONES!

.......

Dr. Stephen Hawking : .......

/carriage arrives

Mr. Glass : FOR THE LAST TIME I DID NOT ORDER ANY THAI! I WILL OSSIFY THAT TALAY LARD NA AND STAB YOU CLEVERLY THROUGH THE URETHRA!

.......

Frederick Douglass : What is all this racket? Honestly, Dr. Hawking, you brought me to the future for this?! Young man, I was born into slavery, taught myself to read, beat my abusive slave owner and escaped. Once I arrived in the North I started lecturing and founded the abolitionist movement. You too were born into slavery...a slavery of the mind. Your problems aren't in your bones, they are in your ideas. And what the fuck. Your hair. You fucking stole my hair. You've got to be fucking shitting me.

.......

.......

.......

.......

.......

/whirring noises

Bloo Bloo Bloo!

Shit the kids I coach won't shut up about while we stretch:
"I can see your underwear!"
"This hurts!"
"I don't wanna swim tonight!"
"I have to go to the bathroom!"
/several of them in unison
"CHEESE TOUCH, CHEESE TOUCH! Whofweck, you have the cheese touch now!"
"We're. Not. Doing it! We're. Not. Doing it!"
"Mister Whofweck? Mister Whofweck? Mister Whofweck? Mister Whofweck?"
/one kid crying (literally)
"Bloo bloo bloo! Bloo bloo bloo! Bloo hoo bloo!"

My face when I am overwhelmed:


Your face when those all sound sexual.

Horrible Happenings on Earth Part II

College football. Oh my god college football. I can rarely be persuaded to care about college football games, and every time I watch one I'm reminded of why. I watched the TOSTITOS FOR ALL THE MARBLES BOWL CHAMPIONSHIP on Monday, and I saw four or five players who are going to make it to the NFL and a bunch of really in-shape college kids. I also saw a fuck ton of mistakes that pretty much determined the outcome of the game. That's right, 2,000 pounds of fuck.

These teams don't play for like a month, and then they come out and we're supposed to a) still be caring about college football, b) respect this game as the national championship even though it is undermined by the talking heads as soon as it is over, and c) believe that college football and the sponsored bowl system isn't the shadiest shit ever.

People love college football. I get it, I love holding broccoli and pretending I've just uprooted a tree. It's kind of the same, in that both of us are pretending. The most decisive play of the game Monday night came when everyone thought the play was over, including the ball carrier- who might have been down anyway.

I'm excited for some of the players, the guys who will never play in the NFL and got to win a bowl game on teevee. That must feel awesome. But we don't hear about them. We hear about the star players going to the NFL and how the NCAA ruled they they aren't thieving opportunists and that they aren't taken adavantage of and how we're all lucky to watching this star player make a star star on the star yard line star.

Just pay them already. Unless they lose.

S'No Big Thing

Wed, Jan 12 - Campus Closed due to inclement weather. All day and evening classes & events are canceled.

All practices are CANCELLED due to District snow day. Have fun!



And my 700 day Summer vacation begins anew.

S'No Day

It's snowing pretty hard. I'm going to have a snow day for my third day of class.
I still have a lot of reading to do, so...you know.

Also, I learned much about my kindle and its secret functions. I can play minesweeper on it now, and load music! Sadly, I have no time for minesweeper. Instead I will trudge through Harlem Renaissance stories about "passing."
Look it up, dummy.
Second fun kindle fact: the text-to-speech voice is identical to the one used by Pheewrap's beardog thing in those xtranormal videos. On an unrelated note, I can not use text-to-speech anymore.

You can watch this if you feel like laughing!



Here comes another Chinese earthquake!
ebrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbr!
yuyuioyuioyuio!

Horrible Happenings on Earth Part I

Glock Pistol Sales Surge in Aftermath of Arizona Shootings

By Michael Riley - Jan 11, 2011 After a Glock-wielding gunman killed six people at a Tucson shopping center on Jan. 8, Greg Wolff, the owner of two Arizona gun shops, told his manager to get ready for a stampede of new customers.

Wolff was right. Instead of hurting sales, the massacre had the $499 semi-automatic pistols -- popular with police, sport shooters and gangsters -- flying out the doors of his Glockmeister stores in Mesa and Phoenix.

“We’re at double our volume over what we usually do,” Wolff said two days after the shooting spree that also left 14 wounded, including Democratic Representative Gabrielle Giffords, who remains in critical condition.

One Down...

HUNDREDS TO GO!

But that's not what you came here for. You want something to hate.
You need something to hate. Don't worry.
Hate with me a moment, will you?

Last class of a long day spent rushing and finding and listening. The professor is a younger man who demands to be referred to by his first name.
This is mostly because he has no titles.
Fucking graduate students, am I right!?
His mistakes:
"I made you guys buy this cheap little textbook because the bigger expensive ones are a waste and most of the information will go over your heads."
Wat? At least he's saving us money, right?

"Most of you write in the same voice. Sure, there are some talented writers out there, but if it isn't written in that voice I will assume you plagiarized. It's safer that way."
WAT.

"What happens when you are listening to a conversation and you jump in the middle and can't understand anything?" Awkward pause.
What the fuck is he talking about.
"You tune it out!"
False.
"That's why you have to read your assigned chapters; that way, when I'm up here lecturing (which I have made clear is all I intend to do), or having a conversation with you, then you won't tune me out!"
Wat? It was more than a lousy metaphor, it...never mind, I'm going to pretend to take notes. Maybe he won't notice the act even though I'm sitting in the front row.

Two minutes remain in class and, having not covered the entirety of a syllabus he refers to as "all you need to pass my class," the man is speed-rambling. Bullet-points are falling faster on dead ears than ever I have witnessed. I, attentive, await the rage to come. I sense it boiling inside me.
Something dumb is about to happen.
"Hold it, everyone. I asked you to stop packing up earlier. I'm not finished. Note in your syllabus that I was about to hit the part where you cannot leave early and being late for work is not an excuse."
This man is actively making me late for work.
"Do you all want to be marked absent for the first day of class?"
When he stops talking it is two minutes over our allotted class period.
I am the fury of a thousand raped Native-American orphans at a Thanksgiving dinner attended exclusively by Valley girls. I am the mass of every dying star, ever, converted into pure hate.
I am telling this man, in my head, that although I respect his right to maintain order and refuse to tolerate rudeness, that I am a polite adult. I will not be held after class, for any reason, or treated like a common teenager. I will not be late for work because he cannot manage time.
"Hopefully everyone can stay calm until I dismiss class on Wednesday, then maybe we can leave on time!"

Now I am the world's maddest whale
shaped like a dick.

Grape Moments in Recognition

"If those committed to the quest fail, they will be forgiven. When lost, they will find another way. The moral imperative of humanism is endeavor alone, whether successful or not, provided the effort is honorable and the failure memorable."

-E.O. Wilson

Gym Buddies

I can't help but be the bear-custard sweetnip of homosexual men at the gym. While I may not have people leaving notes for discrete casual encounters on my windshield, at the same time there is no demographic that talks to me out of nowhere at the gym as largely represented as gay males aged 35-50. It doesn't even bother me anymore- in fact it now amuses and delights me to the point where it may be flirting. I have no idea. I am uncomfortable now.

Man: Looks like you were working pretty hard out there, guy.

Me: Yeah well, there's no point in showing up really if you're not going to work hard.

Note: I ACTUALLY SAID THIS. I casually peeled off this cliche post-game interview soundbite without even thinking about it, and I could practically see Coatesy's microphone all up in my grill. I was as impressed as I was disgusted with myself, and I was just as shirtless.

Man: *looks somberly appreciative* You know, that's the mindset I need to have. For me, just getting through the doors is enough. Anything that happens once I'm here is just gravy.

Me: Yeah well...

Man: *ties shoes*

Me: You take it easy.

Man: Oh, definitely, you too man.

This final "man" was the most affected "man" I had ever heard. It translates neatly as "Bro, don't worry about my clear gayness because I"m just here to talk about pumping iron and relate to you in a non-threatening and platonic way, as a fellow man working out, even though I'd probably be better off not trying to seem more heterosexual to put you at ease, because then I'm just a Trojan Horse of crossed signals and furtive, anxious glances".

In conclusion: Advices is awesome.

T-Minus Twelve Hours

A cliche coming true!

Verbatim

Colour: Sparkling gold

Nose: Huge smoke, seaweed, a hint of sweetness

Body: Full

Taste: Islay peat smoke, full and earthy, tangy salt-laden air, an echo of sweetness at the end

Finish: Long and unforgettable

Not only is this description provided for you in a lovely peat-green booklet that comes as supplement to your boxed bottle of Scottish single malt, but it also includes a registered square foot of the Isle of Islay, in a plot along the Kilbride stream.

Finally, I have property in Europe.

Stare On

He doesn't know what he saw. Things; human things lined up by the stream the deer drink from. It's the only clean water-flow this side of the deep lake. He bathes in it with Kielo when the dust gets heavy and his eyes itch and Kielo starts to sneeze and whimper. He doesn't think Kielo has sneezed today.
Right, the things. Not strange to see life this far in his wood, but not right either. It's why he stopped, isn't it? He considers this and clicks his tongue, the weasel ten paces behind making haste to meet his side. The tall one stood and met his stare...she? She.
The weasel senses his thought-wandering, his sudden but daily distraction, and jumps on the net of refuse at his friend's feet. He doesn't realize until the drag quits. He turns and the weasel is tugging at the sack with its tiny fangs. Little guy needs attention, he thinks cutely.
He asks Kielo what is the matter. It cocks its tiny neck, looking through the wasted man above. He knows this act: Kielo is curious; concerned about some mystery the beast's mind cannot solve. He tries to think back, to reflect for his his introspective little friend. He peers into recent memory, already disintegrating in the familiar dusty flame of a failing mind. Something he did? Something he...she? The lady! Her hair was longer than it used to be. Wait. Someone he knew? She used to smile and lay her head upon his shoulder for a long time. What happened to the kids? Did they...
But the pictures have moved on. Always move on! he chimes aloud to Kielo, but the weasel is unamused. His forced smile drops as Kielo hops off the drag-bag and continues onward alone. He is hurt by this treason and sulks before steadying the sack.
Kielo is waiting for him on the shores of the deep lake perched atop a stone. The sun is setting behind the ruins of that nuclear plant across the deep lake. His long trek to find Kielo was full of revelation. This was all his fault, his exile. He let the kids die, magical little readers, his students, and she had disappeared, and his face feels sticky. Without hesitation, Kielo slipped from the rock and into the water. He stares at the weasel's heading for minutes before understanding. But why is Kielo swimming toward that decaying architecture? I better go; weasels are not strong swimmers.
---
As he swims, he is entranced by the gushing black beneath him. And yet, even as he races faster and faster, he cannot escape those memories reclaimed. Their burden reappeared, his heart has grown heavy. And even as the depths transition to an odd green glow, the silt floor rising to meet him, his chest beats rhythmically to a choir of shame and regret.
He nearly shatters his hand on the concrete wall. A sharp and rust-ridden rebar ladder calls to him, and after catching his breath he starts to climb the ancient edifice. He is determined to conquer wall and find his friend. Times stretches on, until near the top he hears a familiar whimper. He darts the final length of wall, refusing to look down. There, in what may have been a guard tower atop this fortress, a dim red light illuminates a thin, long shape.
Kielo is coiled upon a desk littered with dust and filth. As he approaches, a shocking fear creeps up his spine. It was warm up here, so close to...hell, they were sitting on top of an enormous belly of radiation. He had never even considered.
But it was true, the horror his imagination cooked up. Kielo was dead. In time, his friend would be cooked on that desk. In more time: dust. And so, naked and soaking wet, his body absorbing untold beams of atomic poison, he decides.
He pets his friend's head, something he has never done.
He searches the desk and finds some faded scraps of paper and pencils.
He writes a quick note.
He gathers up Kielo, still warm, and sits by the doorway with his friend in his lap.
He can see a long way from up there, and it is into the distance he stares when he goes blind.
But he keeps staring, even after he dies.
Somewhere beyond, a colony trading vessel is sheared in half as it sits in queue by a silent rift, tunneling through the void for points unknown.

Women Are Terrible

Yes, I'm talking about you. But for everyone else, an anecdote:

My little sister, let's call her Goldfleck, was heading to Trenton this morning to drop off her boyfriend (Wet Mop). Even though it is the easiest city to travel to from our home, she needed directions...again. Last time I sent her off with verbal geography I thought she could understand, making it clear to take Route Fun NORTH, not SOUTH.
Whofleck: DON'T GO FUCKING SOUTH, WHATEVER YOU DO, PLEASE!
Goldfleck: D'okay!
-Twenty Minutes Later-
Goldfleck: I took Route Fun South, is that right?
Whofleck: NOOO! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?
Goldfleck: Derp!

This historic idiocy sparked tears and parental arguments, and culminated with a drive downtown to pick up her trail and direct her with my own car like the world's dumbest caravan. Needless to say, this time, things were going to be different...
-Twenty Minutes Later-
Goldfleck: Route Fun South, right?
Whofleck:

SONISPHERE 2011

Whofleck: Yo, Dad! Guess how much my books for one semester would cost coming from Poop State?
Dad: Dunno. How much?
Whofleck: Six hundred dollars; can you believe it!?
Dad: Holy hell! That's a sin.
Whofleck: Totally. Guess how much I can get them used on the internet?
Dad: /shrugs
Whofleck: One hundred and ten!
Dad: That's my boy.
Whofleck: So, Dad...can I borrow some money?

Rubbing My Crotch on ERRYONE

Five great headlines for y'all!!

1.) My Liver as Seasoned Wok.
2.) Mangy Voices From the Afterlife...
3.) Air Bass Is Fucking SEXY!
4.) King's Quest IV; The Perils of Rosella.
5.) SONISPHERE 2011

With Dozens Dead, "Machine" Menaces

Associated Press - New York, NY - Authorities have been overwhelmed with public fear and outrage concerning the latest rash of infant homicides in Manhattan this past week. With casualties in the dozens by midweek, the latest menace to New York seeks the most defenseless of victims- babies.

An empty plastic bag was discovered on the fourth floor of a small Upper East Side office building on Tuesday, inspectors say. At first glance another example of casual disregard for common decency, the empty bag left on the floor was later found to in fact be a nursery for newborn carrots. The bag, torn open in one corner, was completely empty, indicating that the children of dozens of mature carrot couples had been kidnapped, at best.

At this point Police have given up on waiting from hearing for a Ransom for the infants. After another shredded nursery was found Thursday evening in an apartment building just north of the East Village, officials indicate that the baby carrots should be presumed dead, and the unknown killer extremely dangerous.

Police were led to their conclusions by the remains of a mutilated baby, found in a trash can not far from where the first bag was discovered. The infant carrot, born with a brownish discoloration on one end, was chomped in half before being discarded by the savage that locals have dubbed the "Keratin Killing Machine". It is thought that the mutilated youth was discarded because it had been born with the defect.

Police spokesmen could not be found for comment, but a source close to the department says that authorities currently have no leads.

I think we've met...

Jaybro: Hey, roomie guess what?

Roomie: What?

Jaybro: There's gonna be a male stripper at my formal on Friday!

Roomie: No way! There's a guy in my class who strips! He goes by the stage name "Giovanni". We all make fun of him because he's always working out and drinking tons of milk.

Jaybro: oh god, I hope it's him! I mean, how many male strippers could there be in this town?

HElllllOOOOO Giovanni!

then, 2 glorious weeks later at a local dancing establishment...

Jaybro: Hey! I think I recognize you from somewhere!

Man: Oh hey, baby. I'm sorry...what's your name again?

Jaybro: I'm Jaybro. What's your name?

Man: I'm Man. Where did we meet?

Jaybro: Oh, you stripped at my formal. I was the one taking incriminating photos of my friends.

Man: OOOHHHHHH mannnn... turns to friend Yo, dude she met me while I was working.

everyone laughs.

end scene

What Are You Doing With Your Life That's So Great, Rabbit?

Jesus that is some sweet sweetness. Roy's dead now, but only to people who believe he was human to begin with. Roy's Black and White Night concert special found its way into my stocking this year, because Santa really follows through with those Amazon.com links. Elvis Costello and Bruce Springsteen are playing backup to this man. From wikipedia:

"Orbison often excused his motionless performances by saying that his songs did not allow instrumental sections so he could move or dance on stage, although songs like "Mean Woman Blues" did offer that. He was aware of his unique performance style even in the early 1960s when he commented, 'I'm not a super personality—on stage or off. I mean, you could put workers like Chubby Checker or Bobby Rydell in second-rate shows and they'd still shine through, but not me. I'd have to be prepared. People come to hear my music, my songs. That's what I have to give them.'"

Oh, and his wife was hit by a Semi in the '60s. God damn it Roy Orbison. You and your perfect songs. Except Pretty Woman. I actually kind of dislike Pretty Woman.

WHAT'S IN THE BOX!?

Memories!

A memory box is just any variety of nice box (cigar, shoe, bread) that is filled with trinkets and knickknacks that remind you of better days. You can decorate them with any manner of artistic or memory-infused collage and in no time, you're collecting memories!

My memory box has lots of good stuff in it:

One ancient cork-postcard from Italy with a crusty old man on it.
Three cicada shells in various poses.
Three golden leaves.
One rusty letter opener.
One coiled length of branch.
Two seashells.
One cut of German flag cloth.
One Navy diver belt buckle.
A few dozen miscellaneous tickets from events, collected in a thin yellowed envelope.
Your wife's head.

I won't tell you what the items memorialize, because it's always more fun to guess!

I Came As Fast As I Could!

Notorious!

ON MY ASS, NOT IN MY ASS YOU FUCKING HOMO!

Charles Bronson. No, not Charles Bronson, you slag; Charles Bronson!
Britain's most famous prison inmate and, quite impossibly, only man to spend nearly all of his life behind bars (specifically in solitary confinement).
Wondering what that pussy Tom Hardy from Star Trek Nemesis is doing in this movie?
Here's a hint, my lovelies...busting heads.
It's a great flick that delivers in psychotic humor, but almost twice as fun is reading about Bronson's actual life when you're done with the film.
I can't gush enough about it, so instead I'll cite a short description of just one of Bronson's many, many hostage incidents:

In 1998, Bronson took two Iraqi hijackers and another inmate hostage at Belmarsh prison in London. He insisted his hostages address him as "General" and told negotiators he would eat one of his victims quickly unless his demands were met. At one stage, Bronson demanded one of the Iraqis hit him "very hard" over the head with a metal tray. When the hostage refused, Bronson slashed his own shoulder six times with a razor blade. He later told staff: "I'm going to start snapping necks – I'm the number-one hostage taker." He demanded a plane to take him to Cuba, two Uzi sub-machine guns, 5,000 rounds of ammunition, and an axe. In court, he said he was "as guilty as Adolf Hitler", adding, "I was on a mission of madness, but now I'm on a mission of peace and all I want to do now is go home and have a pint with my son." Another seven years were added to his sentence.

It's All True

Once in the early nineties I spoke with Whoopie Goldberg.
It was a Sunday afternoon. I was at my grandparent's house after church. My sisters and I were enjoying bologna grilled cheese sandwiches and watching Nickelodeon. This was routine.
What wasn't routine? Nickelodeon hosting its annual Earth Day telethon. Celebrities were taking calls from stupid children across the country. No money was being exchanged, mind you. It was simply for fun and awareness.
For reasons lost in the fog of time, I found myself alone and determined to talk to someone famous. I picked up the nearest phone with a focus I had never felt before. I was going to speak with someone famous...hopefully John Travolta. He was great in Look Who's Talking.
Not funny so far, right? Get this:
The only phone up there was a Mickey Mouse rotary phone. Although I had "played" with rotary phones once or twice, my intentions were never so clear. So I dialed. I dialed and I dialed and I dialed. It did not get easier to finger those digits. The disappointments kept coming. The automaton would answer, assure me that my efforts were righteous, and urge me to continue supporting Nickelodeon.
I had to take breaks, lest I surrender to headaches and cramping.
But every time I came close to giving up, that ancient unconscious would pipe up; Next time. We're so close!

Suddenly, a living voice:
"Hey, this is Whoopie Goldberg! What are you gonna do for the environment!?"
I'm stunned. Over an hour of spinning fingers and there are no words. I had learned that no one would answer! I never even considered what the fuck I would do for the environment! I didn't care!
"..."
"Hello?"
"I'm. Plant a tree."
You fucking idiot. You should have said something amazing. You could have blown her mind with your mastery of this language. She would have offered you a part in her new movie. Fame, fortune, boobs, all gone.
"Thanks, Whofleck! Thanks for believing in Earth Day!"

I hung up and cried. Then I ran downstairs and told my whole family that I talked to Whoopie Goldberg. Nah nah nah nah naaaaah naaah!

Where do we go now?

Well they've got boughs that seem to be

Useless just now, just memories

Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Now and again they get disgraced

dressed all up and then raped in the face

And if you stare too long, you'd probably break down and cry

Whoa, oh, oh street child o'mine

Whoa, oh, oh, oh tree shrub of mine

They've got eaves of the greenest dyes

as if they're, brought by train

I'd hate to look into those eaves and see an ounce of pain

Their shade reminds me of a cool safe place

Where as a child I'd hide

And pray that butt plunder, and the pain to quietly pass me by

Whoa, oh, oh street child o'mine

Whoa, oh, oh, oh tree shrub of mine

Whoa, oh, oh, oh street child o'mine

Whoa, oh, oh, oh tree shrub of mine

Whoa, oh, oh, oh street child o'mine

Ooh, tree shrub of mine

Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

Where do we go?

Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

Oh, where do we go?

Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

(Street Child)

Ooh, where do we go?

River Monsters.

River Monsters.

Resolutions

1.) Advices
2.) Get off Facebook
3.) Cease nullifying the effects of Resolution 1 (see picture)

Last Words

Think I remember her now.

Think I know what was done -- what I lost.



A swift death for my little friend here.
Maybe for me, too.

Who knows,

Predictable!