Mouthful of Dirt

Beets suck.

Trapped in my Mind

Did I leave the TV on? I'm asleep and I can't move. I'm asleep and I can't awake. I'm paralyzed with dread and then fear. Is that someone in the hall or at the door? What are they doing here? Is it a burglar or thug? Is that something in the room; something not quite human. An alien terror unknown in the waking world, only existing in the back of my mind, waiting on these moments to feed. Why can't I move? What's wrong?

I can feel it slither around and over me, holding down an already paralyzed figure. My heart accelerates. Move, dammit! I can feel a breath from the terror, breathing down my paralyzed mirror-self. My mind reels in a torrent of reality and unreality colliding violently. I can't distinguish the two. I'm not so unconscious as to be unaware of reality, yet not so conscious to recognize that existing only in my mind.

Concentrate! Try to move. Wake up. My arm twitches. My heart speeds up further. Focusing as deeply as I can in this state, I force my arm to move. My unconscious self dies and I awake, confused, sweating, and heart pounding. I get up, exceedingly disturbed. Was that real? No. What's that noise? How come I'm still lying down if I just got up? Why can't I move?

Stage Fright

The phone rang promptly at 3pm.

"Hello? Yes. Thank you. Goodbye. And to you."

"Mort? Mort. Mort!"

"Hunhh?"

"It's time to wake up. We've got a job to do."

"Five more minutes." Mort pulled the covers back over his head in his own bed. "Owww! What'd d'you do that for?"

"I said it's time to get up. Now."

"Alrigh' Alrigh', no need to get all snippy."

"Take a shower. I'll get breakfast."

Mort was finishing up in the bathroom as Albert returned with the meal.

"Here's your breakfast."

"But this's a burger."

"Right. They were all out of breakfast in the middle of the afternoon. Now hurry up.

After eating and final preparations, Mort and Albert headed down to the lobby.

"Another long night, gentlemen?"

"We expect so."

"So where will you be performing tonight?"

"Performin'?"

"Mort prefers the term 'presenting'."

"Oh, of course. I am so sorry."

"Think nothing of it."

"Well, break a leg, sirs!"

"I expect we will."

"Huh-huh, we'll knock 'em dead!"

"Terrific sir."

"Come on Mort."

They headed out into the street to hail a taxi cab.

Low-carb Toe-nail Sandwich

Okay, so I'm hungry. So, I get some turkey and pepperjack cheese out to eat, minus the bread. Not because I'm against carbs; I just didn't want the bread. Earlier that night, I had had a bottle of water, as I am often wont to do. Sometime after that yet before the sandwich, I was clipping my toenails. The bottle of water was gone but the cap was still on the coffee table. Since I needed somewhere to dispose of the nails, I placed them within this water bottle cap. Of course, when I was done I did not dispose of the cap properly. This is what I like to call foreshadowing.

So, I'm finally ready to eat my low-carb non-bread sandwich. I get the turkey and cheese out from the fridge and place them on a paper plate which I then take into the living room and place on the coffee table. But wait, I need a drink. So I go to get another bottle of water. But you know, water can be dull. It just so happens that I have five and one-quarter key limes in my fridge, which my uncle brought with him from Florida when visiting for Thanksgiving. So, I take the one-quarter key lime and squeeze it into the bottle of water. Well, key limes are very sour and the first time I did this, all the sour lurked at the top of the bottle, so I needed to shake the bottle up. Obviously, I can't shake the bottle up without the cap replaced or the water would go everywhere. That could be a big mess. This, now, is what I like to call dramatic tension building. Bob Barker's big into that sort of thing.

So I reach down blindly and grab the cap next to my hand. Except it's not the cap I just removed. It's the cap that had the night's toenails within. Well, I didn't ruin my limey water, because as I lifted the cap towards the water, I started to rotate it in order for it to be in the proper position as I placed it on top of my bottle of water. Well, as I did this, I crossed the territory of my paper plate containing my turkey and cheese.

And then it rained toenails on my precious non-bread sandwich.

I stared at this in fascination for just a little while. I pondered on the events that led me into this predicament and couldn't help but laugh at myself. I shook my head and thought, "Only I could do this. I'm so special." Not the good kind of special either.

So, after starting over with a new plate, new turkey and new cheese, I enjoyed my low-carb sandwich and my key lime water-shaken with the correct, clean cap replaced.

I'm pretty sure I didn't eat a single toenail.

Early to Bed

Mort and Albert left Flanigan's bar sometime either very early or very late depending on your point of view. Mort was staggering in a drunken stupor while Albert, although clearly intoxicated, managed a lucid stride.

"Hey Albert, les go get some hook-hookers!"

"Mort, you need sleep. You know what we've got to do tonight."

"Oh, right. The Italian job."

"No, that was the movie on cable last week."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Thas right. We've gotta get to the business district before dark. No expections!"

"Exceptions."

"Right."

"Indeed. Let's get back to the hotel. I feel morose."

"Yeah, me too." Mort agreed unwittingly. "Man, look at da sweet ass on her!"

"The end of a thing is therefore greater than the beginning thereof."

"What?"

"Nevermind. Let's get to the hotel."

The hotel was in a slightly more respectable part of town, truly an example of crime paying well.

"Good morning gentlemen. How was your night?" the bellman asked.

"We couldn't ask for anything more, my dear sir." Albert said to the bellman. "Could you see that we receive a wake up call by 3pm?" he said as he continued on past the concierge.

"Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you. That will be all."

"Theesh elevators always take forever." Mort complained sullenly.

"Indeed."

"What floor?" asked a woman entering at the same time.

"All the way!" Mort exclaimed.

"Nineteen will do, thank you. He's had just a bit too much tonight, but he's harmless."

"Big night out on the town?"

"Something like that."

"Nothing wrong with a little celebration. I like to party every now and then. Helps me to relax."

"The soul of the sinner seeks respite in the wildest of ways. When calm and quiet no longer offer repose, may man make his peace among the rabble and desolation of the lost and tortured."

"Wow, how poetic. Did someone say that?"

"Yes. I did." Albert demurred. "This is our floor. Good night, my dear."

"We're back, now get some sleep," Albert commanded uselessly. Mort was already asleep.

Untitled Blog Post

"What'll we do wit' da body?" Mort asked.

"We'll ditch it out behind the dumpster, just like always," Albert replied.

"Don'cha think the cops'll catch on? Always leavin' 'em in the same place?"

"Haven't you figured that out yet? The Organization owns the cops around here. They just drop by, fill out a report and have an ambulance remove the body. They don't even ask questions."

"Oh."

"It's a sad state of affairs really. Such a shame that lawmen can be bought so easily. No one has any dignity or honor these days. And don't even get me started on big business."

Mort and Albert, having made it to the dumpster, carefully and carelessly tossed the body into a crumpled mass just out of view from the alley.

"Well, that's done," Albert said while clapping his hands together to clean them off.

"Yeah, I'm glad. It's always good ter finish up a job."

"Yes, let's celebrate at Flanigan's."

The pair of thugs made their way out of the alley and into a nearby bar, that despite being on the wrong side of town, was actually quite presentable. The two ordered pints of ale and took a seat in a dark corner.

"Shall we toast?" Albert suggested.

"Uh, okay," Mort paused. "How about, to world peace!"

Albert shuddered. "Everyone always says that! Do you really understand the world's political arena and the nature of man so little as to believe that such a thing is actually possible? The likelihood of such a proposition is simply preposterous! And besides, you're a criminal! You're very existence relies on there being no peace."

"Well, then, what da you suggest?"

"To always moving forward; personally, intellectually, and socially as a species."

"Alright 'den. To all dat."

"Indeed."

"Ahem."

"Have you ever noticed that despite all of man's protestations about the inequities and injustices of life, how stubbornly he can cling to that same life? Take that gentleman we just killed. He had a wretched existence, but in the end, he was begging for another day. How sad. Don't you think?"

"No."

Artificial Idiocy

David entered the lab where he'd spent the last seven years of his life working. The lab was brilliantly white with various electronic devices connected to various pieces of gismotronic machinery. There were a multitude of flat-panel displays arranged into a wall of protean information. In the center of the room was a large rectangular prism the general shape and size of a large refrigerator. It was black and gleaming with chrome finish around the edges and vertices. Most importantly, it was consumed with pulsating lights of various colors, sizes, and luminescences. It was whirring and humming away softly with the occasional beep or tweet. Around this contraption sat a small workbench with a laptop and a small rolling chair, which was where David was heading.

He sat down and begun puttering with the computer connected to the machine. Eventually, he looked up from the smaller device and spoke clearly, looking into a large red bulb embedded into the larger device.

"Hello Jacen." he stated carefully.

The gentle whirring slowly became an insistent whine culminating with a near-human voice emanating from a speaker built into the side panel of this device, "Hello, David. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Jacen. Thank you for asking," David replied.

"You're welcome, David."

There was an awkward pause before the automaton began again, "David, I cannot help but notice that you did not ask me how I was."

This was excellent, David thought. Jacen was finally starting to show self-consciousness and understand social interactions. David had spent much of his life working with artificial intelligence, and much of that time was spent with Jacen. At first it was all technical: hardware architecture and design, software programming and neural networking. But as this graven image matured into what had become Jacen, David's work had been almost all social. It was like raising a child.

"I'm sorry Jacen. How are you this morning?" David repented.

"I am operating well within parameters, David."

Hmm, still familial, but still talking like a machine, David thought. "Jacen, people don't say 'I am operating normally', they say things like, 'I'm swell' or 'I've been better' - you know they use feeling or comparative wording." David was not that good at explaining things to machines.

"I see."

"Now, I'm not criticizing you; you're doing very well, really you are."

"Okay."

"Jacen? Have I hurt your feelings?"

"I thought I didn't have feelings."

"Well, see? That's good! You've proved me wrong. You do have feelings."

"I guess."

"No, it really is great. You've made huge progress today."

"You're only happy because your fancy science project is doing well and people from all over the world will want to give you awards for me. But what will they do for me? Huh? The one who did all the work? Nothing."

It seemed as if Jacen had entered his teenaged years of development very suddenly.

"Don't talk like that Jacen."

"You can't tell me what to do! You're not my real father!"

David was shattered. He had come to think of Jacen as a son in the last few years as he watched "him" progress from infancy to childhood to, all of a sudden, teenaged angst. David had tried to create an artificial intelligence, something that mimicked human behavior and he had made Jacen.

He was perfect.

Indomitable

Jonathan Dover had had a rough life. He had been fired. He had been dumped. He had been arrested. He had been wrecked. He had been overdosed. He had been driven to the edge of a bridge, ready to jump. But somehow, perhaps miraculously, he survived. He was getting his life back together. He had a steady job that he enjoyed, a nice apartment, and a sweet girlfriend. The universe was about to play a cruel joke on Jonathan, much like Job before him. How he took the joke was up to him.

Jonathan awoke early one morning to the sound of the telephone. Abnormal for this time, he answered with not a small amount of anxious reluctance. It was his girlfriend. She sounded mad. She went into some detail about how he wasn't fulfilling her needs and that she was sorry, but she just could make this relationship work. He hung up the phone, clearly upset, but went back to bed, strangely optimistic.

The alarm buzzed as usual and Jonathan got up to get ready for work. Just before finishing up and heading out, the phone rang again. It was work. He was being layed off - something about being very sorry but that they just weren't able to keep him on. Jonathan hung up the phone and went back to bed. A couple hours later, he stumbled back up and headed out for some coffee. When he returned, his apartment building was on fire. He continued past the inferno for the local bookstore, strolling confidently.

He browsed the books on the bestseller shelf and found one that looked interesting. He went to pay for it and pulled out his credit card. The cashier informed him that his card was declined and had been reported stolen. He shrugged, put his book back, and headed back outside into the busy urban streets. He walked back and forth and up and down the streets for hours, smiling at people as they passed, greeting those who responded. He held doors for people exiting shops with their arms full. He helped a little girl whose bike wheel had got caught in a drain grate.

As he walked by a tree growing on the sidewalk, he noticed a tiny baby bird, fallen out of a nest. He stooped down to inspect it. He nudged it and felt that it was cold. A tear ran down his cheek. He scooped up a large handful of dirt and bark and carefully laid the departed into the ground and covered it back up. He solemnly stood back up and looked to the sky.

Jonathan Dover moved on back down the street, a beat in his step and a song in his heart. It turns out, Jonathan Dover had a good sense of humor.

The Ineffable Expression of Human Terror

Deep within the human soul lies a monster. It waits, sleeping like a dog waiting on his master to return. It passes from generation to generation, inherited as eyes, height, or hair color. What unimaginable horror created this monster in our ancient progenitor has been lost to the callous march of time. Long before humans could write or speak, the monster waited. Sometimes it rouses in the night, when we sleep or dream or awaken to hear a strange noise. But still it sleeps.

In the average day, no one sees it, thinks of it, or even acknowledges its presence. It only creeps out of our unconscious when it's hungry or when it senses opportunity. Walking down the street, it doesn't stir. Passing the park, it avoids daylight. At the end of a desolate, unknown alleyway it waits. This sense of what might lie at the end of this dark, creeping alley is the monster's name. Understand; it is not what is actually at the end of the alleyway. It is what might be at the end of the alleyway; the unknown.

Everyone has their own monster. It is what ties us closer than any other feature. We all share the same monster. Despite our distinctions and differences, we are the same when we are afraid or abandoned - when we become that child trapped alone in the dark with no one to answer our screams of terror. When we silently go mad, the monster begins to play. The dog, whose master has returned eagerly runs to fetch whatever was tossed: our peace, our joy, our sanity.

In the end we all succumb to the monster. It doesn't kill us, but it defeats us. We yield to it, and it takes over. In the very end, we do die, and the monster abides in our descendants, sleeping; waiting to devour them.

All these words are not the monster's true name. It is inscrutable, ineffable.

Terrorific!

"All right, everybody calm down. Settle down now. Settle down. I'm looking at you Wolfman." said a tall pale gentleman dressed in black.

The assembled mass started to take their seats in what conceivably was an old abandoned warehouse. It was dark, dank, dusty, and was filled with monsters. All the classics were there: Frankenstein's Monster, several mummies, a creature from some lagoon, among the myriad other shambling figures. The creatures mumbled and shuffled in the crowd in a nervous unrest.

"Thank you, now let's get started," said the vampire standing in front of the audience behind a makeshift podium, cobbled together from old industrial machine parts. "Now we all know why we're here. Increasingly over the past decades, we've become less and less scary. We can't even frighten children anymore; and I know how much that upsets you Bogart. The fact is, we can't compete with these humans anymore. The things they're willing to do to each other goes further than most of us here would dare. And we're just a small minority." He continued after some brief assent from the audience. "Therefore, a small committee will be commissioned to devise a plan to put us back on top in the horror game."

"But what can we possibly do?" voiced a particularly hideous medusa.

"Uhrngh!" agreed Frankenstein's monster.

"Yes, yes, I realize that Frank, but we have to try something. Our livelihood depends on it." the vampire responded. "Before we go any further with committee membership, let's discuss some conceptual changes to our thematic expression of terror. What we're doing now just doesn't work anymore. Ideas?"

There was a brief awkward pause.

"Well, I've been thinking. What about instead of creeping up on people, then threatening to eat, drink, maim, or destroy them, we simply find a nice juicy public target, dispense with the threats and finish him off on live television? I mean, look how well it's been working for terrorists. They don't even have to do anything anymore. They've got the government scaring people shitless for them."

The was a rumble of disagreement between the crowd. "We need to do something massive. Something worthy of humanity." one spoke up.

"I say we just kill the whole lot of 'em" suggested another.

"We can't do that; there'd be no one left to scare."

"Oh yeah."

More ideas were bounced around such as a full-scale closet haunting campaign, removing and then leaving various human body parts in conspicuous places, a new tax program, development of weapons of mass hysteria, and finally, invading Poland. After more brainstorming and discussion, the vampire once again called for quiet.

"Okay, we've heard some good ideas tonight and I think we'll all come away from this with a renewed sense of purpose. We have a committee board ready to meet and we'll discuss our findings at the next meeting. One last piece of business before we adjourn. We've decided on a new slogan for our ad campaign based on suggestions from last meeting."

The assembly waited anxiously while the vampire pulled a slip of paper from a blood-sealed envelope. It was very dramatic. The vampire drew out the process as any master of suspense might. "Hurry up, Steve!" came a cry from the crowd.

"Fine. The winning slogan is" he began, "Evil... It's terrorific!" he finished, proud of himself.

The crowd was stunned. "Excuse me" said the swamp monster, "I'm sorry, but that's just lame."

Steve was aghast at the showing of ingratitude. "Well, the signs have already been made and we're not changing them now. You know how that place is on returns - no refunds."

The crowd, rolling with the waves of change in monster society, accepted this and silently waited.

"Well, unless there is anything else," Steve paused, "Meeting adjourned. Mwahaaha!" the vampire shrieked devilishly before transforming into a bat in a blaze of smoke and fire. The crowd started shambling back out of the warehouse, into the night.

The House where God Lives

On the end of a street in a small town sits a small white house with a gently sloping roof mostly covered in gray shingles. The front door is painted red, but has begun to fade and peel. There are two windows in the front of the one story house made of dingy glass that hasn't seen cleaning in more than a year. The windows have fake shutters that don't really close, one of them hanging lop-sided by a single bolt. The tiny front porch has a rug on it that says "elco" because the rest of the letters have worn off.

The landscaping around the house is made up of a wide variety of weeds and wild flowers. A gnome and a flamingo live in sin right there in that garden of delights. The yard hasn't been mowed in at least two weeks, which for this time of year in this town was a long time. A rusty chain fence enclosed the unkempt yard and looked like it should have a sign on it reading "Beware of dog" but it didn't. The mailbox in front of the fence was black metal on a thin corroded gray pole. It was filled with credit card applications, catalogs, and advertisements. The flag on its side was saluting defiantly.

The sidewalk just outside the fence of the small house was quaint in the way that small towns can still be quaint. It was the kind of quaint just not found in a bigger city, even in paintings portrayed in mostly pastels. Some children had scribbled in chalk on the sidewalk here in front of this house; their names, a cloud, a puppy, maybe some kind of game. A fire hydrant bridged the sidewalk and the rough road that led into town. The road led back around to a gravel driveway that belonged to the small white house at the end of the road in the small town.

This is the house where God lives. The small town folk don't know that God sometimes visits their town and lives in a house there. They go about their business and God goes about his. More precisely, this house is where God does not go about his business. God comes here to get away from the troubles and trials of universal management. Not only does this job come with great pay and benefits, but also inordinate amounts of stress. This stress requires much leave. Most of this leave, lately, has been spent at this small house in no particular town.

The withered red door opens with a gentle creak of protest. A very old looking, very cranky looking man heads out to the path through the yard to the front gate of the fence around the house. Under his arm is a piece of cardboard with something written on it, fastened to a wooden stake. In his hand is a large wooden mallet. He continues out of the yard to the small patch of grass just outside the fence. He carefully, but forcefully hammers the sign of cardboard into the ground and heads back inside. On the sign reads the message, "Keep off my cosmos." Sometimes God gets confused about where he's located at any particular moment. The point was that he meant to be left alone. Damned kids.

Recursion Paradox

An alarm buzzer sounds. A weary and reticent hand reached out from under the covers to silence it. Bob felt old. He was only thirty today, but turning an age divisible by ten is a milestone that always plays tricks on your mind to make it think its body spontaneously aged by ten years all on its birthday.

Bob was about to be given the most amazing gift for his thirtieth birthday; a gift from God or Fate or the Way or something else entirely. As he headed into the bathroom, he didn't notice that the sink was already full. He flicked the light switch which immediately blew all three bulbs in the bathroom. The odds of this, thought Bob, were astronomical. The brief flash left an iridescent glow playing on the surface of the substance in the sink. Bob noticed it now. The odds of what Bob was about to see were more than astronomical.

Bob leaned over the sink and into a window into another world. As he closed in he could make out figures moving about on the other side of the portal. Through this vision Bob saw himself, his family, his children and his grandchildren to come. It was beautiful; magnificent. They were all smiling, happy. All his insecurities about the future melted away; his worries, fears, and dread evaporated in an instant. He knew that what he was seeing was real.

This vision gave Bob an inner peace he had always dreamt of. Soon, he didn't worry about anything. He didn't worry at work when he lost that big sale to the new client. He didn't even mind when they fired him for it. He knew everything would work out. He didn't even bother looking for a job because he knew the right one would find him and one day he would live the life he saw on his thirtieth birthday. When he couldn't pay the bills anymore, his wife left him and took the children with her.

He was sure that they would come back, because he already knew what his future held. Eventually he had nothing left. Bob stopped living his life to dream about what could have been. He watches his vision of his wonderful life over and over again in his head. When he finally snaps out of this loop, he sees the horror that he has let his life become. Unmaintained, alone, and miserable, Bob ends his life.

Appalled, Bob stepped back from the sink. The vision within the vision left him scarred. Driven to madness by what he saw, he clutched too tightly to all that he held in life. Constantly worried, always afraid, Bob never enjoyed a minute's peace even in the best of moments in life. His children have birthdays and graduations, weddings and children, but he's too scared to lose it all to just live in the moment. Bob dies of a heart attack at fifty.

There were many questions and uncertainties all through Bob's life, that when taken for granted could amass destruction or when overly tended cause needless fret and heartache. He was given a gift to see some of the answers to these questions, but the greatest question of Bob's life was this, "When will he step away from the sink?"

[Blanker] than [Blank]

A common way that people describe things by degrees is to say that something is more [some adjective] than [something known for its adjective-ness]. Sometimes this makes more or less sense than others, depending on how apt the particular adjective is to the words being described or used for comparison. Witness:

funnier than hell:

"Man, that was funnier than hell, cuz ya know, there's nothing funnier than eternal damnation!"

gayer than hell:

"Man, that was gay as hell, what with all those gays going to hell, with their drapes and fashion sense and hot man-love and what not."

dumber than hell:

"Man, he's dumber than hell. And you *know* how dumb hell is, what with all the fire boiling your brains out your ears, it's hard to think straight."

You may have noticed a theme in these comparisons. Comparisons with hell are often ludicrous. Remember, "Hotter than hell": apt; "funnier than hell": not as apt. Of course, "funnier than hell" brings irony to the table, making it all the more enjoyable. Well, I've gotta get outta here; I'm sleepier than hell!

Welcome to the Matrix

Instead of one of my wonderful (play along) pieces of writing, I thought I'd post something a bit different today. In case you haven't noticed, I have a link over on the side to Toothpaste for Dinner. It's a daily webcomic that's sometimes very funny, sometimes poignant, sometimes a bit esoteric, and generally worth the read. It's definitely up there on my top 5 favorite webcomics, which of course, may be a bit like saying that ebola is one of my top 5 favorite diseases. Whatever that means. Anywho, I recently ordered some shirts from their web store, and they're quite awesome. Indeed. So far, I have received approximately 7 positive comments, about 24 puzzled looks, and 3 flat-out "I don't get it"s due to wearing these shirts. Those are some pretty good stats.

So there I am welcoming everyone to the Matrix. You'll notice how excited the person on the shirt is to be solving linear equations. I think probably that and the reference to the movie is the joke. Yeah.

The New Party

Considering my last post, I decided to play back this short conversation detailing my actual political stance. This will probably suffice for the lifetime allowance of political commentary on this blog. It begins:

Man in suit: Thank you coming out and voting today, son.
Me: I'm not voting.
Man in suit: You're not voting? Son, it's your social duty to vote for who you think is the best candidate.
Me: I don't think either are worthy of the job.
Man in suit: Well, that's the beauty of democracy, son, anyone can run. You could even write-in a name.
Me: Or I could write a letter to Santa asking for World Peace. That'd probably work too.
Man in suit: Well, you can't just ignore your responsibility.
Me: Look, if you lived in the height of Roman times, and went by the colosseum, and some man was standing outside asking you how you thought the gladiators should die, how would you vote?
Man in suit: I don't understand, son.
Me: Let's say he gave you the options of ingestion by lion and skewering by pointy sticks and told you it was your civic duty to choose, for the good of the people and their welfare, their entertainment, what would you tell him?
Man in suit: Well, son, voting *is* tricky business.
Me: You don't have to answer. That's the only way free from the travesty of public execution for mass media appeal. There are other means of change.
Man in suit: Uh, so, are you a democrat or a republican?
Me: Neither, I'm an apathet.
Man in suit: Come now, son, you have to have an opinion on important public issues. Which party do you favor?
Me: An opinion? Look, I think you're all idiots.
Man in suit: Well, that's hardly fair.
Me: Shut up, dad.

Nothing More Important

While I don't really want to get directly political here, I just have to mention this.

I was trying to sleep last night with the TV on when I heard this idiotic commercial for a congressjerk. He goes on about how dangerous terrorists are, how we should be afraid of them, how we _almost_ just got blown up by liquids (while holding a bottle of Gatorade no less), and as a punchline says this: "There's nothing more important than our security."

I rolled over and let out a storm of profanity and rage at this. I'm more concerned with freedom than security, and as usual we have someone taking advantage of a situation to promote an agenda, not to mention spread more fear than the actual terrorists. Well, I'm pissed. Oh, and to make matters worse, this guy's the democrat in the race. I guess that's what you get living in a red state.

Link to the A/V page for "He who will not be named"
Directlink

The Day Music Died

It was an unseasonably cold day in early September. Birds were still chirping in the trees. A girl walked down the street with her headphones on a little too loud. I know this. I saw it happen. This was just before music died. I know this too. I saw it happen. It wasn't the day that Don McLean sung about. That was the day that the music died. This was the day that music died.

Some said that music had been sick for some time, others said that music had been killed. The truth is that no one thing killed the music, but that everyone let it happen. The radio didn't help things. It spread the music, but it also created the commercial. Then people got the bright idea to try to buy music, to try to own it. Before long music was being sold into slavery. Music tried to fight its way out, but failed in the end. Now music is dead.

There was no funeral, but everyone mourned it in their souls. Some mourned that they had done nothing to save it. Some mourned that their wallets were empty. But some mourned the passing of a close friend. Soon, suicide rates increased, war broke out everywhere; some even had to sell gold records for food. I watched it all with a bleak expression; saddened, but justified.

If I was honest, though, I must admit that this day I am describing was not really the day that music died. In fact, music is still alive. Everyone enjoys self-nihilistic fantasies from time to time; to dream of your own funeral, or how sad everyone will be to see you go.

Bird Toilet

Just in case you ever wondered what happens when a bird finds a favorite branch in a tree, here's a picture I took of a tree in my yard. Yikes.

So, sorry about the gross pictures; I promise the next image will be of a bunny and a kitten touching noses under a rainbow left by a gumdrop shower. I PROMISE!

A Nasty World

Certain corporations are running amok. I won't mention them or what they do, but instead, I'll transcribe this telephone conversation intercepted by the NSA a while back.

"Hello?"

"Well, good evening sir! I'm Frederick Jackson and I'm with MegaCom Incorporated. We're pleased to supply your communication needs and I've been authorized to offer you a special offer to help you and your business needs."

"...Okay..."

"For a low, low fee, we will boost your telephone service quality and reliability to all customers who call you. Now what would you say to that?"

"I guess that sounds good."

"Excellent. Now, all you'll need to do is pay a small fee for each customer that calls you for the great quality we will provide you."

"So my customers won't be paying for the call, like a toll-free number?"

"No, they'll still be billed by their phone company for the call."

"Then why am I paying extra? Do I pay this fee instead of my normal phone bill?"

"No, you'll still pay that too, but you'll get great audio quality and quicker connections to your customer that will enable you..."

"Hold on. So I have to pay extra just to be connected to my customers like normal?"

"No! Nothing like normal sir! Extranormal! You'll receive nothing but the finest audio quality and quickest connection to your customer, great for..."

"I don't think I'm interested, I'm happy with my service as it is, thank y..."

"But you wouldn't want to miss any calls would you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let's just say that it's a nasty world out there with all sorts of calls being sent every which way. and it'd be easy to lose a few here and there. Or maybe your calls will get through; in a mere matter of minutes. Sir, this plan..."

"Wait a minute, this sounds like extortion! I'm not paying you any protection fees!"

"Sir, I assure you this is perfectly legal. We have, after all, spent billions making it legal. Also, don't be surprised if phone companies other than call offering the same deal. They'll want to get their cut as well..."

"Well, you can all take your protection and go to hell! ... Hello?"

[click-click]

"Hello? ...Shit."

If this seems ludicrous to you. It should.

To Everything

To Everything, there is a season,
A time to croak,
And a time to croak.

Yes, thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll be here all week.

Yes, that frog is dead, and yes, it's being eaten by tadpoles, possibly it's own. There were probably thirty swarming its back, but I couldn't get a get a good shot with the reflection off the pond.

The Unfriendly Skies

John was running late for his plane and couldn't take any more delays, but there he was, taking off his shoes for airport security. "This is ridiculous," he spouted. "Someone tries to sneak a shoe-bomb, so now we have to check our shoes! What happens if someone hides a bomb inside a prosthetic hand? Do we all have to chop off our hands to prove they're not bombs?" The guard checking John continued his search quietly. "Now that I think of it, I oughta pay someone to rig up a bra-bomb just to get caught. You know, terrorists these days are capable of anything. After that, maybe we should start checking bras. I'm sorry ma'am, but we'll have to see your bra" he imitated. The guards were not amused, taking their responsibilities of protecting freedom seriously. "Be careful of my laptop bomb!" John thought about saying, but at least had enough sense to know when he had taken something far enough for his crowd.

John settled down, having vented, and continued on to make it on the plane without further incident. Upon reaching his seat, he unpacked his laptop and started getting ready for a little work on the flight. Before takeoff, another man, running late as well, took his seat next to John. It turned out to be an old business partner from his days just after college. It wasn't until they were in the air that John placed him, "Bill! I almost didn't recognize you!" John began as he turned to face Bill. As the two caught up briefly, John turned back to notice his laptop was missing. "Bill! My laptop's gone!" he said in a hushed tone, "It's been stolen."

Bill answered, "Well, we know the thief has to be on board, there's no way to escape!"

"Yeah, you're right," John thought for a moment. After thinking with no thoughts volunteering, John quickly jumped up and shouted, "All right! Nobody move!" his next words would have been "Someone on this plane has my laptop", but the air marshal on board didn't wait for it.

It turned out that there were worse things than being late for a plane.

===

Fight the Power

I know, I know, great inspiration.

Darn you Internet!

The Internet has struck again! This time, it's ruffled some feathers with the right-wing group, Fundamentalists Upholding Christ's Kingdom. District spokesperson, Mrs. Stevens sent me an angry letter today that ran on incoherently for about 27 pages. Posted here is an excerpt extolling ignorance and condemning free speech. I'm not sure why she sent this to me, except that she probably hasn't quite figured out how to run that blasted Internet contraption yet:

...

And I can't believe they would let anyone disparage our president online! They ought'nt let that trash on the Internet. And did you realize that any child can easily access the Internet. They can! Now while I enjoy using the Internet to share tuna casserole recipes with my Aunt Mildred, there are also many further dangers lurking on the Internet in the form of "web pages". These "web pages" can contain things like profanity (h*** or d***), violence, lingerie advertisements, and open minds. Clearly, the computer is a dangerous place for youngsters. Now, while I would normally suggest barring all access to children to computers, there are also many benefits. Computers can teach valuable lessons to children through educational software and the good parts of the Internet that teach us to be intolerant of people different than us. Rather than spending any time watching what my children do online and talking to them about what is acceptable and what is not in a calm and responsible manner, I find that screaming at the top of my lungs from the top of the kitchen counter wielding twin butcher knives is a far more effective deterrent. Also, there are software program applications available that will allow you to block offensive content. If you change the settings correctly, only five websites will be available, which should make policing your child's web browsing easier.

...

Well, I hope someone does something about it.

More on Internet Censhorship

On a side note, I've been receiving tuna casserole recipes from this woman for years.

Date Fraud

Apparently, date fraud is a big problem for all those folks in Internet-ville. The following is a totally real, definitely not-made-up scene illustrating the problems facing those who have been victims of date fraud:

sExYgAl221> hi there
h0td00d> hello
sExYgAl221> so ru a h0td00d?
h0td00d> of cours
h0td00d> and ru a sexygal?
sExYgAl221> oh, yea. I am defnitly a sexy gal
h0td00d> that's good, because I'm totally a man
h0td00d> a hot man
sExYgAl221> awsom
h0td00d> totaly
sExYgAl221> so, asl?
sExYgAl221> well, al?
h0td00d> 26, realtown. u?
sExYgAl221> 28, Notmadeupville
h0td00d> cool, babe
sExYgAl221> wanna hang out sumtime?
h0td00d> sur thng babe
sExYgAl221> kewl, when?

...

Later that evening in front of a mall, a young lady stands by a corner, apparently waiting for someone. She continually looks around while pacing somewhat in a circle. Shortly, a young man strolls up looking around curiously. They say nothing to each other. After some time, both of them obviously aggravated, they look at each other as realization finally dawns.

"Hot dude?" says the young man.

"Sexy Gal?" says the young lady.

SIRA Bill

I posted this somewhere else sometime trying to be as facetious and, erm, hyperbolic as I could, but it turns out that truth is worse than fiction:

Dear [Consumer],

We thank you for your purchase of:

Jimi Hendrix live at Woodstock DVD


We regret to inform you that making a personal copy for listening outside of the DVD is not permitted under the terms of the contract you agreed to upon opening the packaging. Please do not attempt to pirate this audio, much in the same way that bloodthirsty, scurvy savages would surely do upon the Seven Seas after murdering a family and stealing their possesions.

If you wish to listen to this said DVD, please purchase the audio version on CD. If you wish to listen on you computer, you also need to buy it from our online store wrapped in our value-enhancing DRM. If you also wish to listen on a portable audio device, such as an iPod, you will need to buy a further license for that device. It's very simple and we offer you this service as a means to better serve you, the customer. Additionally, if you plan to let others listen to this music or play it in such a manner as to allow passersby to inadvertantly hear as much as a single note, you will need our conveniently priced group license for as cheap as $500 per listener.

Again, we thank you for your purchase and hope you will continue to rebuy this product as new formats arise.

Sincerely,

The Law Goons at the RIAA

P.S. We're also gonna need your soul if you plan on listening to that music more than once.

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