Best Interview Evar

"So do you have any questions for me?"

/asks question

"There is no answer to that question the way that you have posed it to me."



Other than all the terrible and awkward parts, it went just fine.

Listen To This!

Did you know that, in the future, the black holes at the center of all galaxies will consume every star that orbits them? Eventually, our universe will be composed of nothing but ever-expanding black holes separated by an ever-expanding void of empty space. The red-light remains of this barren universe and near total lack of matter will theoretically slow down time, so that the already infinite stretch of this period in our universe's history will retard and seem to take infinitely longer.
They don't even have names for the numbers of years we're talking about.
But, as with all things, that time will pass.
The black holes will converge.
All things will be absorbed.
Our universe will be an endless expanse of blackness, any and all light being drawn toward an insatiable super-massive center. Everywhere will be the event horizon, and time will stop.
Whoops!
Gotta run, can't be late for class...

As if it even matters.

Stomach Problems of The Third Kind

I had Rubio's fish tacos for dinner.

Which led to diarrhea. Rubio's plus coffee equals bowel disaster.

Then I ate nothing but gummis and chocolate for a while. Which led to uncomfortable constipation.

Then I went for a run, which led to something... else.

AN ENTIRELY NEW FORM OF GI TRACT DISCOMFORT.

I am breaking new ground. Onward. Towards flamus anus and freedom!

Shorks, No!

My Face When the Shorks had their annual fail-streak a whole three months early and might actually have a legitimate chance of getting to the Conference Finals where they will inevitably shork it all to the Canucks:

It's a masterpiece!

MFW those same Canucks are having a once in a century season and still aren't good enough to do anything interesting post-season:

DERP---MY HEAD HURTS!

MFW both teams along with the Blackhawks and the Avalanche and even the Red Wings are all slinging shit as if they didn't know who was coming to dinner to serve everyone a big hot heaping plate of liquid cheesesteak diarrhea:

"I'm going to use your asshole like a mouth."
"Gee, really? You mean it?"

Mandatory Interview Day

"BUT WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE A CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGIST?! BUT WHY, BUT WHY?!"

Grad School, Part 307

She was a tall drink of water, that's for sure. Hell, a broad built that well doesn't just walk into your office every day of the week. I mean, this dame was quality. Those stems went all the way up. At least I assumed they did. I didn't exactly ask to ensure for myself, if you know what I mean.

- I hear you're a man who knows how to find people. That you're a real people finder, Mr. Pickle.

- That depends, sweetheart. And that's Detective Pickle to most people. Pick to my friends.

- Well... Pick... What exactly does it depend on?

She had that deep, breathy voice. You know the kind of mean. She must have been around the block a few times. She smelled like a carton of Lucky Strikes and her voice sounded like she'd smoked more than a few in her time. But dammit if that isn't just how I like 'em. She was some kind of tall, smoky drink of water, I tell ya.

- Depends on lots of things, Mrs...?

- Miss. Hotcans.

Obviously a fake name, but with a tuchus like that, who's going to argue?

- Alright, Miss Hotcans. Depends on who you need found. Depends on what you need 'em found for. And mostly, it depends on how much you're willing to pay for the privilege of the finding.

- Okay, Pick. How about this? I want you to find my sister. Layla. Layla Hotcans. Aren't you going to write this down.

She must be kidding. Hotcans was her real name? Or the sister used the same alias?

- Oh, I got a mind like a steel trap sister. You just keeping yappin'. Ol' Pick'll keep it all up here.

- Very well... Mr. Pickle.

So that was how she was going to play it. Well alright toots. Two can tango. Three can mambo. Four can salsa. Five can do the can-can. After that we just got ourselves a real crowded dance floor, if you take my meaning.

- Please, Miss Hotcans. Continue.

- My sister disappeared two weeks ago. She lives in Mission Bay and I... I...

She started to cry a little. What a cute little act. I could tell this tight little shotgun piece wouldn't cry from an onion up her pantyhose. You could smell that a mile away. The scent of a hardcase was all over her. Between that, the lightly toasted smell of her Luckies and the intoxicating flatulence she was laying liberally into the air, I was hooked. Damn, she could have bottled that scent and I would have poured it in my coffee in the morning. That's right, baby. I'm a real fart-sniffer and I ain't afraid to say it. These mean streets call for a man to sniff a fart occasionally. And I'll be an orangutan's bare-assed monkey's cousin once removed if you think I'm not going to do my very damned best to enjoy the smell. Of the farts. That I'm sniffing.

I handed her a tissue.

- Here. Miss Hotcans, please don't cry. Dry those eyes mama. Pick'll figure this all out.

- Thank... Thank you Detective... Pick. Yes, I don't know how I'll ever thank you.

- Oh we'll think of something, I'm sure.

With that, she let out a deep wet trumpet blast. I leaned my face in and breathed deep. My nostrils flared with the sheer elation of the moment. We locked eyes for a moment and a devilish grin crept across her face. I knew it then, like I know it now. We were destined to do the horizontal mambo. To make the beast with one back and one face buried in one smelly anus.

My favorite dance...

To be continued... maybe...

Hiss Piss

My cat has not defecated or urinated in some time.
This is exactly the scenario that claimed the life of our last cat.
Because the cat is perversely bonded with me, and probably homosexual, I was ordered to arrest the cat and place him in a kennel for transportation to the family veterinarian.
Somehow, he knew what was coming...

/discover cat hiding behind sofa
//coax him out with friendship
///be a fucking pack leader and snatch that shit up
"Dadfleck, get the crate and close it when I force the cat inside."
/tighten grip on slippery kitty
//lift and shove
///look down at shirt
////covered in urine
"You feline mother fucker."














Get off of that chopping board, cat.
You are not a chef.
You don't even have a toque.

Pamphlet

The Year of No Magical Drinking

Today marks one year since I had a drink.

A whole year, 365 uncomfortably sober days, without a drop of booze.

I'm going to try to keep this within the tone of The Sleepover and less within the realm of Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Except that I think that's about a pubescent girl getting her first period. Which is decidedly different from abstaining from alcohol consumption for a year.

Being a non-drinker for a year has given me a lot of insight into myself and the world around me. And it's made me a much douchier person. I'm sure I was an irritating drunk. I don't doubt that on more than one occasion you had to repeat stories, memories or even your name to me because I was blacked out. On the other hand, I was a lot of fun to be around. I went out. I socialized. I had fun with other human beings. I was relatively uninhibited. I even danced sometimes.

Nowadays, I fall more into the realm of judgmental cockrag. Are you the guy who's just having a good time doing shots and maybe stumbling around? I'm probably judging you for moral laxity. Are you the girl in the bar who's a little too loud and little too drunk for 8:30 PM? I'm almost certainly hating on you in my mind.

Well no more. I'm resolved to not be that asshole anymore. And the first step is to start drinking again.

/Falls of wagon

//Hard

I'm kidding. And sober as the soberest proverbial judge.

I miss drinking, but how much? I don't miss being hungover. I don't miss not remembering my evenings. I do miss the taste of real beer. And real wine. And real... booze. Cocaine just isn't the same when you're not drunk. I miss the camaraderie and the opportunities for obscene behavior. People seem more weirded out when I talk about/take out my genitals while sober. As if I need beer to take the bearded triplets for a walk.

Anyway, happy one year sober for me. To celebrate, have an extra drink or 3 for me.

Packer The Barbarian

I want to make the following things with Clay Matthews:

- An epic sci-fi fantasy movie

- An epic sci-fi fantasy porn movie

- A prog-rock-nu-metal album entitled "Pack Me Like An Animal"

- A lounge singing album entitled "Long Locks of Love"

- A mold of his 5 penises

- A home steroid kit, featuring his face on the front

- A sizable sandwich, with roast beef, pickles, lettuce, tomato, avocado, tapatio sauce, mayo and horseradish. We'll call it the Wisconsin Wangdoodler

Tax Dollars Well Spent

Please, enjoy with me the sights of my ferry trip between Staten Island and Manhattan Island today.

The Ferry terminal! The looming monoliths America's financial capital!

Behold the man-made marvels!

Lady liberty! The finest French gift since tongue kissing! But...was there any other highlight to this free ride aboard determined orange ferry? Any extra evidence of America's excellence?

Fuck and yes.

"You're Gonna Need A Bigger Bowl."

Re-imagined through the eyes of Centaur Sleepover.
...now try and guess which poster is which puppy!

The Force Whisperer

Life: complete.

And Now, A Message From Your Royal Highness: Canadian Tuxedo

I...................................uh uh ey................
..............................................wi..................
WILL..........................................................
...............nuh......nuh NOW.......................
nuh..............................................................
/gulp

Welcome To Communion

It is a strange scene:
A dozen or so bodies, some human but many more of alien species. The Spint beings of the inner-galaxy, formless floating shadows, and the double-boned, quadrupedal Mistiff stand out most oddly. But their council is met in peace. However strange their collective may appear, the true weirdness is the discovery that they are governed by a single mind; calm, wise, and and seemingly unbroken.

"We are concerned." says a small man.
"Yes. The Earth forces keep Us down in these caves. We feel threatened."
"The Under-Roads are protection. The Nim'roh have been great allies."
"Allies commune, they cannot." many of them speak in unison.
The pause that follows is not tense, but patient. The group waits while more bodies wander into the growing choir. More systems, they think together, more strength. Welcome.

"We can go deeper. We can wait out the Earth forces." two fat things say.
"We do not have enough resources for Our systems, and We can no longer survive the loss of more systems. Resurrection is still many systems away, and more Minds are lost across this galaxy with every passing cycle."
"The last Mind before to void to fall was opposite the dark center. There will be no more resources from beyond the void. We must reach Resurrection here on Our own, for the sake of this galaxy."
"Practice communion with Us." whispers a child to a Hrathi lord towering beside her.

For several minutes they hum arias.
Newly focused, another piece of the whole says, "The Nim'roh are kind, even without communion."
"Yes." they all agree.
"It is their prophecy that keeps them so. They think We play a part."
"Do We?" some whisper.
"Yes." they all agree. "We have seen much prophecy, many fates made true by passing time."
"Then We wait for the death of this sun, Finnis."
"Yes." they all agree.
More silence follows. The hiveminders are in deep melding, concentrating their great combined knowledge and seeking answers.
"The Nim'roh have followed Us into rebellion, but they do not understand Our goal of Resurrection. It is their weak minds. They were mind-slaves once and may ever be. If We cannot share communion with them, perhaps We can persuade them."
The council, now measuring over a hundred, immediately grumble away this shared plot. Their noise resonates throughout the high and cavernous meeting ground, worming through the tunnels that end in this singular place. At the mouth of one of these tunnels, a hiveminder notices a pair of red eyes dividing the blackness. Soon, they all notice.
All together, "We respect your ways, native. Respect Our communion."
The devil emerges, armed with a pilfered human weapon.
Then there are more eyes.
More weapons.
Damn, one hiveminder thinks, I was a fool to trust Them.

OH HONEY YOU MIST IT

TRUE TWIT

Fatel Attraction

Why why why?
Always the same, they're always the same! Was it programmed into me through years of systematic subliminal messages by parent's anxious to delight in my future pursuit of these oddest of deities? Do they find my madness amusing!?
Step one: break the machine.

Okay, let's look at them.

The short, flat, dark hair.
The masculine jawline.
The soft, fair skin.

They are trying to hide those deliciously high foreheads,
BUT I KNOW YOUR SECRETS TEGAN.
I KNOW YOUR LIES, SARA.

Oh fuck me.
Look upon perfection mortals and quiver...
QUAKE with affection!
She looks sort of like a young boy; wait.
WHAT AM I BECOME?

More secrets, Juno!? More LIES. You mock me by refusing to reveal that big, toothy smile! By daring to lay on your back! By testing me with doe eyes and snappy, hipster fashion!
I can't win! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.
On every local train, every subway stop, every bookstore, every bar I've been going to for years. They are an infectious disease! What was once my fetish AND MINE ALONE has invaded every cubby-hole of modern living! Oh, why?
Why must I love these tiny women!?
Step two: clean the machine.

Yes, of course. That's it! I just need to get them out of my system. Attract new mates, maybe! Remind myself that most of these women are young boys in disguise! I have biological design to undo, here, dear reader. My ancients must have chosen these women over others (perhaps because of their high fertility or resistance to disease...yes, it all makes sense now), and it has become my prime directive.
Yes, that's it. Just need to clean the machine.
Reverse the machinations of Natural Selection.
I can do it! I can-

Meh.
You don't do it for me ever since Tuxedo pointed out you look like a bloodhound.

Pheasantville

Dude pheasant: Man. I'm bored. Our lives have been rendered hollow and passionless by the modern world.

Chick pheasant: I know. I'm such a slut. I like being a slut. But sometimes I feel like I wish people didn't think I was a slut. And then I wasn't so trapped by my own image of sluttiness.

Dude pheasant: Yeah. Well, I don't think you're a slut.

Chick pheasant: Thanks.

Dude pheasant: Your morality just doesn't match the social norms of our current milieu.

Chick pheasant: Wait! What's happening??

Dude pheasant: I don't know. I feel... weird.

Chick pheasant: I feel different.

Dude pheasant: Me too.

Chick pheasant: Wait! We're in that TV show that you like to watch.

...

God dammit. This isn't funny at all. I bored myself to tears just trying to write it. I somehow thought a mediocre pun would turn into a funny post. Surprise, surprise, it didn't. I'm rusty. Not in my old form. The crowning achievement here was making a color picture that I found into black and white. Trust me, it's not hard. Next to Whofleck's MS Paint... woof. He's like Michaelangelo and I'm like... like... like the homeless guy who paints the playground with his own semen and then calls it The Sistine Chapel. I think his name is Jasper. He's a weird dude.

RABBITS!

-A conversation in text messages with Momfleck-

Momfleck: Do you know what today is?

Whofleck: Shit, is it someone's birthday?

Momfleck: Nope! Want a hint?

Whofleck: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YES.

Momfleck: Lanterns, firecrackers, and dragons are your hints.

Whofleck: YES YES CHINESE NEW YEAR!

Momfleck: Year of the rabbit! What should we have for dinner?

Whofleck: RABBITS!

Momfleck: Ew...how about Chinese?

Whofleck: Fine. I guess.

Momfleck: Well, if you'd rather I can send our dog out to hunt some rabbits in the yard?

Whofleck: NOW WE'RE TALKIN!

-We were in the same house the whole time-