its the holidays and im home. sometimes i think i want to be back here. sometimes im here and i wonder why i ever would have thought that. today i am not sure what i think. its a spend the day in my room in my pajamas day. its a "the internet is an addiction" day. normally i dont buy into such views. i was going to update my drawing blog every day, but i didnt. i would do better if i had a scanner. im not feeling it..




Within the logical bearings of the universe there exist two rational conclusions: that within which there is a loving and caring god and that within which we are the shit that falls faster to the bottom of the toilet bowl ande clings resiliently to the porcelain to be unseated only by the keen eye and heavy hand of the janitor that is mortality. the choice is yours because no one can make a reasoned decision in isolation of the necessary facts. that said, i have decided that the shit at the bottom is only there because it chooses not to make better of itself. i am an advertising repreentative and the things that i do in my free time make up the difference of my life expectancy and the time i spend grooming myself. to sell a product, you have to be convinced of its worth or convinced of the worth of selling it, monetarily. in terms of my latest venture, i am neither. nevertheless, my job pays the bils and my gambling prevents my job from doing such.

i am currently pitching a hands-free radio that changes frequencies in relation to the nuber of times a person sighs heavily. the beta testing is going remarkably well and all of the software bugs have been worked out, but we have, as of yet, no potential client. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck ufckufkcfukc shit fuck fshit shit shit shit swhit fuckshit fuckshit fusckshit as as ass ass ass ass ass bals balls shit fuck shit balls ass cunt shit ass balls cunt shit ass balls cunt shit fuck ass balls cunt




A disembodied voice calls up and down the streets, unearthing me from my sheets.

"...must be moved by..."

Soon other noises join the call and I submit to the inevitability of waking up. If I don't move, I can stay cocoon-like for another fifteen minutes. The shower is going and I hear it through the walls. I drift away in the momentary lull and see shadows of last night's dreams slowly drowning in a rising tide. Objects drift by, clinging feebly to their names. Some opportunists have taken it upon themselves to borrow longer words from the unfortunately large who have seemingly already succumbed to the icy depths. A pen lazes by safely atop 'piano.' A guitar fights valiantly for its title and, aided by its natural buoyancy, very nearly succeeds in reclaiming it from the pig who, with all his girth, simply could not manage atop his own three letters.

Now I am sinking. Without noticing, I have been burgled of my Christian name. Aloof and without bearings for reorienting myself, I sink into the waking world. Gravity reverses seamlessly and now I am emerging upward into my body atop the softly solid mess of my bed. The shower has stopped and there is conversation outside of my door. The officious government recording is still speaking several blocks away, but now the words are completely indistinguishable. I hear my name spoken and instinctively grab for it, forgetting why even as I do. There was some momentary sense of urgency, but now it is gone. Automatonically, I sit up, outstretched arm still dangling in the ether. The weight of my hand imparts force along the lever of my arm to the fulcrum that is my shoulders and carries me straight through the sitting position into a slumped position with my head resting on my right knee




this isn't about you. nonetheless, you can find consolation in it if you wish. suffice it to say, i'm really very sorry for the way i've behaved. i think first and foremost of my needs. i've been told, by those who would deign to psychoanalyze me, that it's my upbringing of catholic repression or something that makes me insecure; that makes me so guarded. be that as it may, i have always taken some solace in the fact that at any moment, i can be on my own team again by hating myself. whenever people get their fingers between the shell and the underbelly and start prying, thinking i'll start pushing from inside (and why not? everyone should be so open and honest about every little thing as those who find no fear in full disclosure), i clamp down all the harder, push away, roll over and dig in. it's one of my many faults. i'll be the first to admit and the last to deny that i have gaping character flaws, ranging from my tendency to smack my lips to the fact that i have rarely, if ever, been able to focus on one person (self not included) long enough to open up in the slightest. instead, i lie. i lash out. fuck it. this isn't good writing. i'm done



so, check it, there was this squirrel right. he was like the runt of his litter or some shit. so like he was small, right, so the story goes that he was also really plucky. yaknow. scrappy. a fighter. its archetypal. so cool, right. so scrappy lived with his brothers and sisters in this tree. and when the winter was coming one year they were all like 'yo. lets get some food together for the long winter so we dont starve.' and then there was like a story about a grasshopper and an ant. yeah, i know, like squirrels know those stories too, right. so they all started harvesting. but scrappy was like 'fuck that shit.' i'm gonna go piss on people walking past the tree. cuz he was a badass, yaknow. so winter came and he mooched. and that was cool sorta. cuz like in a family, you often get that crazy uncle or whatever who just sits around and yells at the tv. and you're like 'why we gotta put up with that shit' and your moms cuffs you in the head and's all like 'language. he's my brother and he's your elder. you show some respect.' and you's like 'damn moms.'
so like he ate all their food. and everyone did alright. but then it was like the coldest day of the whole winter. they didnt know it, right, but like looking back on the event and all, that's like how it was. word is bond. and so like this weasel comes by the tree and knocks on the door. i know right, a door? and comes in cuz the other squirrels are pussies, but scrappy's like 'yo, that dude's trouble. look at his eyes, yo.' but no one listened. and later that night, like the weasel fucking ate the other squirrels. and he came by scrappy's room and was like 'yo, i just ate your family and you're next.' and scrappy's like 'shit dog. why's it gotta be this way. why's there so much hate in the rap game. cant we just sip some thug passion and collaborate on some fat tracks?' and the weasel had like a change of heart, cuz he was like an alcoholic or some shit and liked drinking and dropping rhymes. and they went into the booth, but then when the beat started in and scrappy was like 'yo, what the hook gon' be?' and the weasel was like 'i don't need no motherfucking hook on this beat. all i need is a...' and then scrappy capped him through the glass with his tek. and stood over the weasel and was like 'yo, this one's for my moms' and put two in the weasels head and dropped the gun and walked off and the camera was like close-up on his eyes. and he had this stare like you looked at it and you was all 'shit dog' only slow, like 'shiiiiiit dooooog.' and then it pulled out to an aerial view of scrappy walking slow-mo through a plaza smoking a cig and he puts on his glasses and then it goes to black and there's like fucking guitar riffs or 'kashmir' or something. and its like 'directed by barry sonnenstein, produced by marty lefkowitz....' and then you walk out of the theater and light up a cig and put on some glasses and the camera pulls out as you walk to your car. and then scrappy wakes up in a cold sweat and goes to the door of the tree and the weasel is standing there and he's like 'nooooooooo' and it zooms in down his throat and goes to black and the credits roll again, but this time the names are different. and you sit there and you're like, that was lame. and then the theater explodes and you're flying out of the wreckage onto the hood of a camaro and you look inside and its will smith and martin lawrence. and they're like 'bad boys for life, yo' and you're all 'that movie sucked my left nut.' and then you wake up and your left nut is missing. and you're lance armstrong and you fuck sheryl crow, maybe or something.



nobody liked bernice. she was a nice person, if you got to know her, but she had a shell of animosity you had to get past. she used to sit in the lunch room facing the wall away from everyone else. everyone thought it was because she was just a jerk, but she really sat over there thinking of all the things she'd say if someone would just come over and talk to her. she knew things. she was really smart. she read books all the time and wrote fantasy. she was in fourth grade. everyone was learning geography and long division, but she was just sitting there. she didn't want to grow up because she didnt think anything was going to change. she had no forseeable reason to look forward to more of the same depression and loneliness, but in her stories she was older. it was an odd internal conflict that although she envisioned being a woman, she couldnt conceive of process of aging. on a day-to-day level, the transformation was too surreal. her body was constantly shedding it's cells and producing new ones. she read a book on anatomy and biology. she read einstein and it blew her mind. she wanted to travel at the speed of light, leave this earth, find new worlds and when she stopped, come to the realization that if she went back, everyone she knew would be dead. but for the time being, until she re-entered that frame of reference, they were alive. what was that called? schroedingers cat, right.
nothing much ever became of bernice. she's one of those old ladies who work at libraries now. she hates it when people brush against her in the elevator. she hates alot of things. she's really old now. how did that happen? she thinks sometimes. against the collective will of her constituent parts, she had aged. it didnt matter though. because everyone died eventually and if her body could keep changing without her insides being affected, then what was the death of the body other than a loss of a hull. an escape of creative energy from this frail, fragile box we walk around in. she knew better, really. knew that there were two realities. the reality her body and the reality of her soul. science vs. romance.




the "self-help" section of any bookstore is full of the depressed and as a corollary, the depressing. the sad members of society who have admitted that they have a problem, or haven't, in which case they are in denial and have admitted to that, who are convinced that by recognizing a fault in their mental or physical composition, they have compounded their flaw. clearly, in such cases, asking anyone else for help would only constitute a further sign of weakness and so, in a show of utter madness, they turn to the words of other raving lunatics for solace. luckily for me, i suffer from mild schizophrenia and one of my personalities fancies himself a shrink. matter of fact, it was he who told me i was schizophrenic. at first i wouldn't have believed him, but he assures me that the other voices agree with him by a two-thirds margin.




every morning is a process of rationalizing the improbability of your life. the mind pops. synapses arc. a toe wiggles. surprised by this, the mind takes three great strides and assumes the now-obvious: "i'm not dead." a foot reaches out into the abyss and lands on the thread-bare rug by the nightstand. pleased by its new domain, the mind performs a somewhat foolish act. it assumes that 'god' meant for this to be. some ultimately benevolent force put the body here, enshrined the mind within its walls and returned to the heavens to watch bemusedly at the wonder of its creation. "my god put me on earth in possession of all these wonderful playthings, some of whom, inconsequentially, appear to possess similar faculties of speech and motion," the mind intones. this is the mind's mantra, which properly produced at moments of indecision and doubt allows it to maintain its unsteady grasp on the body's reins.

now the body, because we've been distracted by the showy man at the wheel of the war-wizened camaro that is the semi-functioning human body, is still standing bare-assed in front of the window scratching its unmentionables. the mind is fairly certain it had nothing to do with this present course of action, but, these things being of little or no consequence in the face of such vast and incomprehensible philosophic quandaries, the mind abides.

twenty minutes later, still bare-assed, the body is at least clean. this excites the mind, as did the wetness and the tingle of contact with the sleek porcelain and delicate fixtures. "i am ready to face the day," says the mind.

"well i'd rather be in bed," the body murmurs in a grumbly voice from behind the kneecaps, which is echoed by an angry upstairs tenant between the eyes who often forgets to turn off the radio when he goes away on business.

"you shouldn't have stayed up until four in the goddamn morning listening to all those asinine eddie murphy records if we were due at work at seven," whines a voice in the ears.

"alright, alright!" the mind shouts, by means of quashing the mutinous rabble. for shame, should the creator happen to be tuned in and watching at this moment. the biggest problem with omnipotence is getting good reception and god, though tech-savvy, has not treated his rabbit ears kindly. "perhaps i'll be relieved of my position," thinks the brain. "my expertise is in management. i'd never make it among the grunts." Straightening his chapeau and throwing back his shoulders, the mind embarks on a campaign to retrieve the wayward dissenters. "enough of this nonsense. we've all been put here with very specific duties. Each of us forms an important component of the whole, and..."

"oh, not the clock speech again," whines the earvoice more insistently, standing full-up now and shaking away the remnants of sleep. "if we're such a well-oiled bit of mechanized nonsense, and i'll remind you that you sound like a very stodgy officer in her majesty's royal navy when you get off on the subject,...were you watching the history channel again?!...if we're supposed to be so precise and wonderful, then just how in the hell did you end up in charge?!" unbeknownst to the world outside the confines of the skin, the mind suffers innumerable such rebukes from the ears, who rent out a studio loft in the head and are often the first to hear the gossip regarding errors in judgment committed by the mind.

a hand snaps to life and tugs on the earlobe. the hands dated the mind in college and, though it didn't work out between them, they're still very close. silently, they've been pulling open drawers and selecting appropriately coordinated shoes and belt from the closet. the feet, like faulkner's manchild, are guided hesitantly and whimpering into socks. in moments, despite objections from various extensions of the self, the body is out on the street and stumbling towards the car. the day is long; the night is short; the mind is tired, but resolute. it continues to heed the call of some higher power. what strange bedfellows the agnostic body and the zealot mind make. in countless apartments, alleyways, houses and hotels across the eastern seaboard, the same scene plays out.

the day begins.




when you're in love, it shows. you glow, i guess, but glow isn't really the word. you exude the inner peace that having someone to confide in grants you. there's a spring in your step (an expression that must (and here i have chosen my words insensitively) sit funny with the paraplegic. can one have a spring in ones' roll? a question for another time). there are those who will resent your newfound or longstanding happiness and in turn find you absolutely repulsive. you must, above all things, ignore this jealousy. it can ruin a relationship; make you question your motives; give you a repulsion towards yourself, and by extension, the one(s) you love. instead, as with any pack animal (and humans are most certainly pack animals), you must establish dominance. there is nothing wrong with your behaviour. you are entitled a healthy amount of pride in finding that someone who does it for/to/with you.

begin your training regimen by establishing boundaries. to truly instill a sense of inferiority in the unlucky few, for simplicity's sake we'll call them 'losers,' who cannot adapt to the necessities of reproduction and subsequently, the passing on of ones' genes (and in many cases, jeans), you must catch them out of their element and repeatedly emphasize their aloofness. invite your single friends out to bars and doubles tennis tournaments. next, startle them with gestures that emphasize your superiority. grab a sensitive area on your significant other's person while grunting loudly. proffer it to your single friend. when they make to accept the gesture, strike swiftly. it is crucial that they perceive no hesitation on your part.

repeat as necessary.

when they are sufficiently demoralized, you may reward them in some small way. offer to hook them up with another single friend. so that they don't react too strongly to this gesture, it is important to temper it with characterizations of their attire, build or personality as undesirable.

remember, above all else, that you are better than they are: more virile and lithe; sexier. it is entirely acceptable to goad them into self-mutilation. it will indicate that they have accepted their role in the pack.

kill yourself.




Henry Benson.
Hank to his friends...if he'd had any.

So already, we've established Hank as an outsider. He probably could've had friends if he weren't so particular about the friends he (would've) kept. He worked in finances and made enough money to retain a substantially well-endowed girl. He'd never tried the gay thing, he was just waiting for the one, as they say. Generally reserved was he in two words. Sure, he went out on weekends and got drunk and social, but he'd never felt the need to take anyone back to his rat's nest. He wasn't a pack rat, per se, just disorganized. He kept ill-kept records on potential terrorists, do-badders in his neighborhood and people who had pissed him off in one way or another. They occupied the rooms Hank didn't and waited for their date in court.

Late in the afternoon, one August day, he slit both wrists and died on the phone with his grandmother who suffered from Alzheimer's. She told the rest of the family that he had decided to move to Swaziland. No one looked into it and his firm replaced him.




once there was a donkey who lived on a farm. it wasn't a commercial farm or even a subsistence farm. more of a hobby farm. they had two cats to keep mice out of the barn. and a cow because the grandchildren liked cows and clyde. he could pull a plow if you wanted him to, but the garden wasnt big enough to merit all the machinery. instead he just sat in the barn and thought his donkey thoughts. one of the cats, morris, had lived in the house for a while and was knowledgable about words. he used to read the old woman's fashion magazines. clyde loved words. they were so pretty, he thought. except he couldnt read them. he wanted to learn so that he could write down his story. everyone could benefit from his story because donkeys live a long time and think slowly. he used to pull the pages out of the books that he could find. he would pile them in his nest. (donkeys keep nests you know). morris used to come by and write things on the walls as clyde spoke them, but they didn't make any sense to a cat. the farmer saw the markings one day and decided there must be kids sneaking into the barn. for the protection of his animals and because kids could get hurt unattended in a barn, the farmer closed up the doors at night and bought a lock. morris couldnt come to visit at night anymore. instead he had to interrupt his sleep pattern and come in the days. he was typically very clumsy and donkeys do not have very good eyesight so one night clyde accidentally stepped on morris and killed him. they buried him by the barn and whenever clyde looked at the little cross and read the letters, he said to himself, "M-O-R-R-I-S, smart. morris was a smart cat!"

it's touching. the story of a donkey and his cat. it's like "of mice and men". the donkey didnt know how strong he was. he crushed the poor cat. cry, you miserable bastards!!!!



three men were walking down the road. harry stood to the left of james. james held hands with his son, blake. as they approached the corner where harry lived they said their goodbyes. harry veered off into his yard where he picked up the newspaper and headed to the door. at this point, the camera pans to follow james and blake. a car drives by. we do not know it now, but it will be significant later that the car is red and carries two passengers, one a man wearing a fedora and dark glasses. james is, at the moment, walking blake to tim's house. tim has a son about blake's age and they often play together on weekends while tim and james discuss sports and cars and cooking (tim is one of james' few male friends who also enjoys cooking). they are both stay-at-home dads. tim's wife, helena, works in a law firm while james' wife, sharon, owns and operates an antique store. the antique business is big, because four months out of the year, their town is a very popular vacation destination. being in the middle of montana, this is a bit of an oddity. they draw crowds from the majority of the midwest, but they get the most visitors from canada. so much so that some elderly canadians have established time-share residences on the edge of town. marty, a married woman, retired after thirty years as a seamstress in toronto, often visits montana...alone. the man in the fedora is a private detective hired by marty's husband, donald. donald is bed-ridden from a hunting accident when he was in his mid-forties. his sister, diane, stays with them and watches donald while marty is away. all this is revealed in long pans fading from one scene to the next. there is no dialogue, but the text is instead spoken by an older gentleman.
{title credits}



steve weinstien and walter johnson lived next door to one another forever. they both lived in their childhood homes. their parents died and they each took over their father's businesses. steve married walter's sister and walter married steve's. and the wheel in the sky kept on turning. then one day as they returned from work steve and walter met at the short hedge that divided their yards, as they often did, and drank a beer as they pondered life's mysteries, as they often did.

"do you believe in an omni-present, creator figure?" steve asked.

now walter and steve had known one another all their lives, yet the issue of religion had never been broached. just one of those things you leave alone. some people are very touchy about it. there was a slight pause as walter thought the question over. then he reached under his jacket, whipped out a gun and shot steve in the head.

it was an open and shut case. there were several witnesses. walter called the cops himself to confess. later in jail he repented for his actions, began tutoring inner city kids through a rehabilitation program, prayed fervently and lived out his life in an upright, admirable sort of way. after three months of appeal failed, he faced the chair. he was electrocuted before nine members of the county governance board and received a small funeral.

"name?" saint peter asked, as walter checked in at the pearly gates.

he got through without much hassle and looked up steve in the heaven directory.

"sorry about that whole business of shooting you," walter said. "i just wanted to do some research before i gave you my answer. after weighing many things, i've decided that i do beleive in a creator and furthermore, a benevolent, forgiving creator. i'm sorry it came at such a heavy price to each of our families. i just wasnt sure how else to be certain."

steve took in the whole explanation in silence, then smiled and offered his hand to walter in a good-natured handshake. walter was moved by steve's unfathomable kindness. he had expected it to take several days, months or years, though he was not sure of a concept of time in heaven, for steve to forgive him. as he pondered all this, steve reached under his robe, pulled out a gun and shot walter in both knees. as steve stood over walter, a look of satisfaction came over his face.

"thanks god," he said. "that guy was a real shithead."

"no prob, steve," replied god. "us jews gotta stick together."



So here's the point. You are asked to tell the interviewers a joke. You suddenly forget all the jokes you know. So you’re no longer REALLY trying to be funny, but you have to say something. And if its fucked up enough and delivered with a completely straight face people will laugh...albeit nervously. So with those conditions set, I sought to come up with something completely fucked. Hence standard opening:
Two guys walk into a bar...
They work in office buildings next to one another and they realized that they get off at about the same time each day. It’s become standard to see one another there to unwind. So one day they walk in and there's a new bartender. This is a bit of a surprise, especially since they've been coming in for about a year and always had the same guy there to greet them. So one guy walks up to the bar and, by way of seeing whether the "new guy" knows his shit asks, "do you know how to make a sex on the beach?" the new bartender reaches under the counter and grabs a bat, menacing the two guys he leaps the counter and chases them out of the bar. Now they were a bit put off by the unwanted exercise, but they'd been coming to that same bar so long they couldn’t quite get out of the habit. Plus the next nearest bar was several blocks down and parking was always hard to find. So again they go in, this time careful not to say anything provocative. They order two beers. Still the guy flips. Doesn’t say anything, just grabs the bat, leaps the counter and chases them out. Well this is just intolerable. They can’t conceive of going home to their wives without a little time to unwind. They are both happily married, but the buffer is the only time they get to just let it all hang out. So they decide they'll have to wing it on the parking and just go to the bar down the street. So they get their coats on, meet in the garage and climb into the car. They park behind the bar at what looks like a loading dock, head inside and have a beer. This is all they wanted. Just some time to talk about sports, chicks and life. They walk out towards the car only to find it in flames. They are pissed. They run back into the bar to ask what the fuck is up with the "towing" in this neighborhood. the bar is empty. they go back out and see the new bartender standing in their path with a bat. he takes them by surprise. smashes in one guys kneecaps and breaks the bat over his head. he hurls the splintered ends at the man who's running away catching him through each shoulder and knocking him to the ground. he drags them both up against the bar and really works them over. then as he's walking away he looks back over his shoulder. "in my fucking bar, we dont serve no damn pussy drinks." the men chuckle under their breath. "it sure is hard to find a quality bar these days" the newly-paraplegic man says. the other man just slouches down and coughs up blood.

eh? eh? hilarious!
a bit complex, yes, but thats the point. straight face. they wont know what to think. and you probably will be branded as a sadistic fuck unfit to be in any organization. wait what were we trying to accomplish?



"If I gave you four copies of Hamlet and asked you to make a diorama, what would you do?" he said, entering the room.
"'The fuck is that supposed to mean?" she shouted defensively over her shoulder as she stuffed the potted plants under the couch cushions. He had seen it, but he wouldn’t bring it up. He knew all too well what she was going through.
"You want to go get some Mexican food?" he asked. They only spoke in questions these days.
"Are you hungry already?" she asked. Another goddamn question, he thought. It had to stop. He seized the telephone receiver and put the listening end forcefully in his mouth. He then dialed his mother-in-law. "What are you doing?" she asked, getting up and coming towards him. He slammed the kitchen door shut and barred it with a broom. "Why are you being so crazy, honey?" she wailed. "Is it something I did?"

The phone was ringing. He could feel it in his teeth. Someone on the other end picked up. He took two sticks of celery out of the crisper and played the cadence to "Wipe Out" on the lower end of the phone, while punching more numbers in with his nose.

"Who is this? Sheila?" a voice asked. "Why are you doing this to me? What do you want? Are you hurt? Sheila?" It didn’t matter what he did. Only questions. He couldn’t take it any more. He spat out the receiver into the sink. It clattered into the drain. He hit the garbage disposal and took a bite of the celery. His wife had stopped knocking. Was she gone? No, he thought. It's only a trick. He could see shadows moving outside the door. She must be trying to look at him through the gap. He poured out a pile of salt along the bottom of the doorframe and blew it under the door. There was screeching on the other side.

"Why did you do that, John?" She was crying and coughing, trying to clear her eyes. "Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"NO MORE QUESTIONS!!!!" he yelled. The lack of inflection in his voice shocked him. He had made an Imperative statement. It wasn’t a question. He had brought about meaningful change in his life. He pulled the garbled head of the receiver out of the sink and dialed the police. He told them he was trapped in his kitchen and an enraged woman with bloodshot eyes, claiming to be his wife was trying to kill him. He hung up, slipped a kitchen knife under the door and sat down on the counter laughing. She wouldn’t be arrested, but they would look into it. There would be questions and she would have to answer them...



She used to greet him as he'd walk in the door. And it used to perk him up. No matter how hard the day had been she would be waiting for him. Now when he came home, he seldom saw her before he was back out the door to the bar. He had turned to drinking shortly after her accident. It was no one's fault really. But he blamed himself. She wasn't the same anymore. She didn't glow with the same passion anymore.
One night he came back to find her sitting in the kitchen. He couldn't bear to look at her. He knew how she disapproved, but damnit, it wasn't fair.
"Why did it have to be this way?" he shouted. No response. "The least you could do is talk to me!" he grabbed her and wrestled her to the floor. "WHY???!?! Having you like this is all the more frustrating because it’s a constant reminder of what you once were. The vibrant self is gone. NO!" he popped the lid off the bottle he had in his coat pocket and took a swig to help swallow the pills. "It’ll be over soon,” he whispered. As his muscles clenched he thought of all the times they had had together. And so it goes sometimes. Love is temporary. And we either learn to cope or we crack under the tremendous weight of it all. He was just a man alone in this world. In this world that has no place for a man...and his toaster.



His skin felt tight over the tips of his fingers. Had he remembered to put change in the meter? He had to get eggs at the grocery store so she could make that cake for Sally. Sally was taller than him, which was odd since Sally was a midget. That would mean he was a midget too. He didnt think about it much. No BIG deal. Hey, was that some sort of crack? "Cool it, man. You're arguing with yourself again," he thought. Just hand the lady the card and she'll swipe it and then....Wait, why should he? What did she know about his pain. He stepped back and shot her an accusatory glance. So, she thought she was going to get inside that easy, eh? Well he'd show her. He strapped on his roller skates and took off, leaving the eggs next to the tube of toothpaste and the shotgun shells. When he got home he wrote a very scathing letter to the management. He'd turn it in when he went in for work the next day. He had been working there for three weeks and still the other employees didn't recognize him when he came in. He often considered buying them all root beer. Who doesnt love root beer? That'd show them. A nice frosty root beer. They'd drink it down and then...what's this? Ha ha ha. A peanut in the bottom of the glass. Wait. He was allergic to peanuts. Not them. How would he get the peanut in the glass? He had a very severe aversion to latex gloves. It made him feel like a veterenarian. He had told the shrink that once. Theories of fearing becoming his father and wishing he'd acted sooner on that car loan offer. What if? You only live once. He could've used the money to buy those roller skates he'd always wanted. He looked down at his feet and chuckled a bit. Why buy when you can rent? Renting roller skates was like playing scrabble...all vowels. He stopped and thought that last thought again. Roller......Scrabble. "Hmm. It's just crazy enough to work," he said. His voice surprised him and he dropped the cabbage. It rolled into the gutter with the coupons he'd clipped yesterday. He often did things in the street outside his apartment. Menial things. Once a police officer had cited him for spitting on a tree. But he had to brush. The people behind his teeth were growing in numbers. Soon they would control the uvula. Many people didn't know the benefit of that dangly flap. But he knew all too well. After living in the jungle for a year you learn those things. He had begun typing out his thoughts some time ago, but he couldnt remember the circumstances. He felt like the skin on his fingers was growing tighter. Like there was water washing over him. His shirt felt heavy. He had to stop writing in the third person. "Maybe if I created a pseudonym for myself I could pass it off as a short story," Frank decided. Yeah, Frank. That's the ticket. So Frank wrapped up the sentence he'd been working on, which is not to say he stopped the thought. He never stopped thinking, but come to think of it he also never stopped to think. Funny how things like that worked. Like a leaky faucet, this existence was...Wet. And he'd have to suffer through a bit more of it before the great plumber in the sky came and....No, that analogy made sense. He couldnt have that. Frank reached into the third drawer down on the right side of his desk and pulled out the shotgun he kept there. He pointed it at the screen. Click. Damn. No shells. He'd have to get eggs if he was going to keep brushing his teeth. Who's birthday was it anyways? This had to stop. These accusations. If that lady wouldn't hand him the credit card, how could he ever check her out. She was getting impatient. How long had he been day dreaming? Standing there wrapped in syntax. He must've dozed off standing up. Everready. Why was she buying shot gun shells anyways? Frank didn't know how much they cost. He'd only worked there for three weeks...



Once there was a guy named Mike. He lived underground. He had never heard of Jesus. Mike was a mole.
This other time, there was this guy, named Steve. Steve stood on the corner and yelled at people to slow down til he got red in the face. He was a stop sign. That was a pun. That was not a pun. Jesus didnt make puns and if he did, he didnt call them puns.
But before all that, there was a guy, named Jesus. He didnt live underground. He had never heard of Mike. Jesus was a Polar Bear.
Frank didn't say anything, but they could tell he didnt approve. He lifted himself upright in his armchair and reached for his glasses. He put them on slowly. Patronizingly slowly. As if to say "No, don't trouble yourselves. Let an old man do your work. You slow bastards." Frank was in a bunker. Frank was underground. Frank was tired of hearing about Jesus and his magic. He wanted to hear more about Mike. Mike knew what was what.



Austin Wellingford owns three apartment buildings. I rent a room in one of them. Everytime something breaks, I'm supposed to call Steve Greyson and Steve either comes and fixes it or tells me he will and then doesn’t or just tells me it's my own damn problem. On the days when Steve tells me to fix it myself I begin to question the whole system of my calling him at all. Today, however, is the third day without power, heat or running water and rather than call Steve again, I have decided to pack up all my stuff, find Austin and crash on his couch til he can get his act together. I go through my list a couple times to make sure I'm not forgetting anything and notice that the list doesn’t contain any of the stuff I've assembled in boxes by the door, nor is any of the stuff on the list even in my apartment. I begin to wonder whether I have the right list in front of me, when someone walks in. It's Gladys. She lives next door and keeps cats, though they aren’t allowed. In exchange for not ratting her out, she gave me a key to her apartment and lets me watch cable in her place. "Why the hell do you have all my stuff in boxes?" Gladys asks, as coolly as one can ask such a question. I glance at my feet and realize the boxes are moving. I have, in my haste, boxed Gladys' apartment, including her cats. "Happy Box Day!," I mumble as I worm past her out the door. On second thought, maybe I dont need to bring my stuff to Austin's. He's loaded. I'm sure I can just borrow his clothes. Clutching a page I've torn out of the phone book, I stroll up to the 8 foot high, razor-wire-encrusted fence with the big gold initials, "AW." I call the guard over and ask him whether he's gonna open the fence or am I just gonna have to climb it. He mutters something about having to have an appointment and wanders back to his booth. Feeling defeated I cross the street and go into the Diner. I sit at the counter and order a cup of coffee, but before the waitress can pour it, I see Austin's limo pulling out the gate. I drop a handful of change on the counter and run out into the street. I get out just in time to see Austin's cigar ash out the tinted windows. This just isnt my day. I go back to my apartment where Gladys has unboxed the cats and sit down in the hallway. I pull out the list and going back over it in a darker pen I write this story. I slip it under my door and walk away. Maybe someday I'll get it.



driving down the road one afternoon, paul saw a pair of slacks laying in the ditch. he slowed down, pulled over and made his way cautiously down the embankment. the shale was loose and it was slow going. as he reached the pants he saw that there was also a note in a little glass mason jar. he opened the jar and gingerly plucked out the note. it was beautiful paper. smooth, but aged almost to the consistency of lace. the ink had faded and the edges were dirty from many fingers running across its surface. he could only make out the second and the last lines:

"gave it to me tuesday with the intention of making a pie....or else never got home on account of the rain."

it wasn't clear just what the note had to do with the pants, if there was any connection at all, but he decided to take both. as he dropped the pants into the lockbox in the bed of the truck, he began to feel an odd sensation. an urge to wear the pants. the waistband had a drawstring. these pants would give a little in the wearing, a luxury he was not often afforded by his wife's stingy hemming. he made sure there were no other cars on the road and quickly slipped off his pants, but as he reached to grab the drawstring slacks he heard a voice.
"boy, just what do you think you're doing?"
albert's [his name changes?] face grew bright red. he was literally caught with his pants down. he turned slowly to address the voice, but there was no one there. a chill came over him. forgetting his own pants he jumped into the truck and drove off, shooting gravel as he pulled up off the shoulder. he didn't let his foot off the gas even in the slightest until he was in sight of his house. he ran up the front step, having forgotten all about his pantslessness and into the arms of his wife. there he wept for several hours, unable to catch his breath to retell the awful tale. she comforted him and offered him some pie.
"it's rhubarb," she said. "don, brought it over. i gave his wife some rhubarbs the other day in exchange for a cup of flour. i do hope he makes it home alright, it looks like rain outside."
"w-w-what kind of pants was he wearing?" stammered paul.
"i dunno," his wife replied as she moved into the kitchen to cut the pie. "i think they were just some drawstring slacks."



Tony worked in an office processing forms. He picked them up from Jake and then sorted them by urgency, subject matter and product code to be sent on to Mike and Sheila respectively. One day instead of reading the forms and sorting them, he jumped out the window of his 22nd floor office. Later that day, Sheila got word of the note on his desk. Looking back she could see the signs. She didn't know why, but she felt somehow responsible. So she quit, changed her name, got a new job and pretended her old life had never existed. Mike never actually spoke to Tony. He had a germ phobia and would only receive the forms through inter-office mail and only handle them once they'd met his exacting standards for cleanliness. Tony's death had no effect on Mike, who assumed it was all the work of germs. Jake hired a replacement the next week. Her name was Cindy, a young girl out of college who he hired mainly for looks. He began an affair with her and one day during a rendezvous in the conference room he called her "Tony." Things were awkward from that point on and Jake fired Cindy rather than deal with seeing her in the halls. He cut out Tony's position in the office infrastructure and assumed the responsibilities of Sheila, who's replacement had refused to work with Mike on the grounds that he often sent her emails critiquing her hygeine. With less people on the payroll, numbers began to move out of the red. The company was purchased by a conglomerate and the work was outsourced to the Dallas office. Mike moved back in with his mother and took up coin collecting (an odd hobby considering the number of unwashed hands such old coins must have come in contact with). Jake stayed home with the kids and watched his wife's crafts shop blossom into a successful chain. He envied her. When his company had begun to succeed, they gave him the axe. He had thought about killing her. Make it look like suicide and take over the crafts game. The only thing stopping him was a strong distaste for crafts. He began putting out ads for a nanny in the hopes that he'd find a cute little thing to remind him of Cindy. He coached his daughter's softball team and flirted shamelessly with the young mothers. One night he was beaten senseless by a father who happened to be in earshot. His wife divorced him and took the kids. He moved to Illinois and got a job at the Kinko's. His shift manager looked like an old co-worker, but that's too contrived. Sheila was actually in Ohio working as a waitress. Mike tried to keep in touch with people, but he didn't have their new addresses. His life came to a fitting close when he contracted West Nile at the age of 34. His dying words were, "Germs! The only way around them is to nuke the whole damn world!" Jake's wife, Olivia, read about it in the obituaries, but the name had no significance to her. She married a guy named Terry, the regional manager of her Midwest offices. Terry secretly hated kids and tried several times to asphyxiate them in the garage. Sheila, who now went by Trisha, moved in with another waitress and they moved to Toronto to start a bed and breakfast. While making copies one day, Jake met a casting director and landed his first acting part as "Bus Driver #2" in a low-budget porn. Terry took Olivia on a vacation for their one-year anniversary to Trisha's B&B and their first night there, they rented the porn that Jake was in. It was a bit part and Olivia didn't even recognize him, but the sequence of events leading up to that moment was altogether too strange and the world abrubtly ended.



So, in a small town in the Four Corners region of the country, imagine that a somewhat common expression is "They give that one to the volcano." Since the town contains one of the only clinics in the area, it is assumed by passers-by that the expression is used to refer to the passing of someone receiving care at the clinic. The romanticized version is that their spirit passed out of this plane of existence, but its power still exists, emanating from the volcano in relative proximity to the town: the circle of life, blah, blah. In truth, it turns out, the expression comes from the fact that in some cases, distant relatives visiting the clinic are actually in the area to see the volcano and happen to have timed their visit to see the ailing. The purpose of the visit is chalked up to the volcano's drawing power as a roadside attraction. A more cynical view, however, is that the records have somehow been falsified by National Park employees to suggest that people who were in fact visiting the clinic, were in the region to see the volcano. Thus, in deference to the raw power of an act of nature, "they [gave] that one [tally] to the volcano." None of this is in the least bit interesting, but the expression catches on for its poetic qualities, eventually becoming so popular as to have most of its explanation printed along with the quote on gym-shirt-grey ringer tees in 48-point, sarifed, purple iron-on, bubble letters. The end result, being convoluted, obscure and overly verbose, sells well only amongst the asinine more-irrelevant-than-thou hipster contingency and is, in this way, vaguely reminiscent of the futility of traveling through New Mexico. This in turn reminds people of the somewhat cheapening effect that thus-naming such a lackluster state has on the original Mexico.


Curating a blog::dry_run01:subject_rand....GO!

This one for the video. The sound is fitting, but unnecessary and distracting.

This one for the sound. I think I could actually listen to it forever and never tire. The video is a fucking animated .gif. How great can it be?

As for this one. The complete package. Words cannot describe...

Do watch both before further exploring the endless mines that are the random button on the window, won't you?

Jonathan Gregory Brandis (April 13, 1976 – November 12, 2003) was an American film and television actor. OMG!!1RIP4eva!!?LOLLERPEDIA!:

Who wikis the word actor?!


Love and Hate: Black (on Both Sides) and Blue(print)

"All over the world hearts pound with the rhythm,
Fear not of men because men must die,
Mind over matter and soul before flesh." --Mos Def

"You said you been in this ten,
I've been in it five. Smarten up Nas,
Four albums in ten years, n****r? I can divide,
That's one every, let's say, two. Two of them shits was due,
One was, 'Nahhh,' the other was 'Illmatic'
That's a one-hot-album-every-ten-year average." --Jay-Z


Lengthy Examinations of the Mating Habits of West African Lake Midges

Unfathomable expanses of water begin to boil inexplicably. Teeming with ripples, the ether seems to wick wisps of mist off the surface. Soon, a column stretches two, three, five hundred feet into the air. It is one of thousands. Each constitutes nearly a million flies who will live long enough to connect, mate, lay eggs and die. Were they to come upon the presence of being to attempt anything outside of this protocol, they would still be dead before reaching the waters' edge. Their sole function in life must be as the link between what they eat and what eats them. They fill a niche within an ecosystem the size of a lake (albeit one of the largest lakes in the world) which to them is an entire universe. Their biome is the expanse of underwater for the majority of their short, short lives. In the fleeting moments of existence, they collectively burst through the tyranny of water's surface tension and explode into fingers of smoke drifting lazily down. The Fleenors were not unlike these flies.


Minute Rice in the Era of Instant Obsolesence

Gary and Tina had three ugly kids, a run-down bungalow on the industrial edge of the suburbs, two rusty sedans and no ambition. They'd been married for nearly three decades and the only thing keeping either of them going was each's desire to see the other die first. Gary Fleenor had been the Runner-Up State Spelling Bee Champ in High School, but he'd assumed the title after a scandal rocked the world of competitive letter recitation, connecting the winner, one Margaret Bloom, to both the Yakuza and Archibald Pez, of novelty-candy-dispenser fame. The title had earned Gary the admiration of then-incarcerated Tina Radmonowitz. She was performing community service, collecting trash on the highway median, when she happened across the article that had broken the "Spelldown Snafu" story. It would be eight months before they met in person, but what began was a fiery correspondence built on lies and exaggeration, would gradually blossom into a bitter, stagnant marraige. Derek Fleenor, the first mistake, was good with his hands, or so went the testimony of the five eyewitnesses to his first aggrivated assault. He'd made it through six states before the stolen Chevy he was driving into oncoming traffic siezed up and went into a skid. When he awoke in the prison hospital, he was no longer a biped. It was the subject of much ridicule in the infrequent letters to "ol' one leg." Betty, the only Fleenor who had ever shown promise outside of the world of organized crime, died of Leukemia during a protracted legal battle for the rights to her first novel, "Please God! Kill Me Now." Eventually, the royalties were awarded to Gary and Tina who spent them on huckster balding cures and crack cocaine, respectively. The baby, Vernon, four-and-a-half, had no real concept of the hell he was being raised in. He also knew very little of his older siblings. To him the world consisted of blaring sirens which, when he was lucky, were from the "Real Police Drama" programs his mother watched and the slow, sour smell of unwashed clothing, which made up the bulk of the house's furniture. Eventually he probably grew up to do something undesirable for shit pay, but nobody cares about stories like that, so let's just say he became an astronaut. Vernon Fleenor, the first man on Mars!