A Noel Fielding Inspired Rant

I'm comin atcha. comin atcha like a laser beam, like a tiger's dream of an ice cream scene. In the dark where the fark meets the mark of the assassin. Moving through the night like a fright flying a kite. With his hands so soft and creamy and yet so tasty crunchy. Oooh wheatabix hands, what are you doing to me?

So I finally get to the pool where the showdown is taking place, just in time to find that the festival is over and the candy is strewn about the floor in a quiet haphazard manner. Just in time to find that the festivities let their sails to the wind and passed on down the road to tuluga. The starfight and the gelly fish were already gone and the crowds had gone with them. Down the road to a place I'll never know and a time in which I'll probly be somewhere else. Praps in a dream. Praps in my mind. Praps getting to the bottom of a juicy juicy lollypop.

So on I go down the road, following my destiny on the long way into the sun when suddenly. And suddenly still. I met a man with Ram's legs.

He showed me the way.

On the Street

For most of the night, he sat quietly, watching each breath as it froze in the cold. He was bundled pretty good against the slow death of winter, but knew all too well that the best coat could only save you for so long. The one he had on wasn't too bad, it'd lasted him through many of these winters, and tonight he had it stuffed with newspaper, the best free insulator out there, the great untapped resource.

He wore cheap nylon gloves that were melted between the first two fingers of his right hand, the problem with burning his cigarettes to the very last drag. He looked back to the square brick building he was huddled beneath, probably just another office building. It meant he'd have to clear out sometime before six, if he didn't want to get run off.

Damn, it's cold. He shook his head at the thought--it's not doing you any good to complain about it--and gathered his coat around him. Sleep wasn't going to come easy tonight--Heh, like it ever does.

He used to have a pretty decent gig, unloading trucks at the market for whoever needed help, getting a few bucks each time, but nowadays they got a bunch of young kids doing it, most of them couldn't even be more than 17 years old, throwing freight, like he used to. But as bad as he hated his life, the newspaper and the melted gloves and the cold, it was better than his other choice, and he wasn't about to stoop like those bums on the corners.


Ah, who're you kidding? True, he thought about it, sometimes, about how easy it would be to play off of people's pity, getting a few bucks from the bankers passing by, but he couldn't get himself to ever do it--the looks on the people's faces when they shoved dollar bills into those grimy hands--he couldn't do it. He focused his attention now on the other figures around. About a dozen people like himself, blending in with the brick and concrete like they've been doing it their whole lives. Every year there were more and more of them, until it seemed like now the homeless took up the majority of the city.

Yeah, yeah...there's time to worry about that later, just focus on tonight, it's gonna be a cold one. In a life like his, the seasons come and go, fortune smiles one day and scorns him the next, and the days and nights will march on, but sadly, in the midst of this changing world, his bleak situation is the only constant that he can be assured of. This last thought filled his mind as he closed his eyes, and fell into a restless sleep.

Trouble at Santiago Point

Part VIII - Trouble at the One-stop Survival Shop


One-Eye-Jim lit the cannon's fuse, and walked away.

Steve struggled against his bonds, not eager to meet the nine-ball grape-shot aimed roughly at his head.

The aforementioned ammunition, which didn't have a name, regretted nothing.

The church bells of Saint Mary's rang twelve times, and the courtyard fell silent.

Before the twelfth stroke, Steve was dead, and never again would he be able to ask a stranger for the time.

The End...

The Ruler of the Universe

"Bleh!" cried the ruler of the universe, "it's cold!"

The squat figure spun to face his minions as the bowl fell to the floor and shattered. "Someone must die for this," he snarled, "You, Minion. Kill the one beside you."

"Um...on the left or the right?" the armored figure asked, looking back and forth.

The ruler of the universe sighed; good minions were so hard to find. "You, other Minion, kill him for his insolence."

The knife was swift and soon met its target. The body was dragged out by a cleaning crew, which luckily was nearby mopping minion-blood off of the corridor, the remnant of an earlier outrage. Satisfied, the ruler of the universe turned once again to the main viewing window. He was very young to be in such a position of power, having only about 3000 years, but he knew how to give orders. He stared out from his fortress, deep within the core of a yellow star, inpenetrable to all but the most powerful of beings. Beings like me, he thought, grinning.

"Zorgnnn!" he shouted, and soon his most trusted, his bodyguard and advisor, stood at his side, "I'd like to have some fun today."

The ruler of the universe formulated plans, mischief, and mayhem, most of which involved the system of planets in orbit about his stellar fortress, none of which he cared for very much. He spent long periods either in deep thought or maniacal laughter until finally it was decided. "The third planet," said the ruler of the universe, "destroy it. The minions there have been unfaithful to me." "But m'Lord, your father created that planet specially, for you, are you sure?" said Zorgnnn, carefully. But his plead fell on deaf ears. The ruler of the universe was not to be questioned. Thus, in the space of a day, the fate of Earth was decided, and in the space of a hundred years, the average temperature on the insignificant planet increased by over 3 Kelvin, causing panic among the populace and marking the single greatest practical joke the cosmos has ever seen.

Math-Toons!

Answer:

That's right.

To all of my loyal fans, (hi mom!) I'm gonna be back posting only the best in ka-razy writings directly from my mind to your computer screen.

P.S. Notice the quick nav bar I added to the right side, to easily facilitate your meanderings through the darkest corners of my mind, and the website.

Epic Limerick - The Secular Tragedy Part II of III

There once was a land far away
How far? Nobody could say
You’d walk, run, or hike
Or sail, fly, or bike
And still you’d be quite far astray*

But upon this land so fair
Came a man with matted brown hair
On the shore, his two feet
Made their journey complete
Regardless of how they got there

His name is Sir Captain MacMuffin
Who liked to show children his “stuffin”**
He spent time in jail
But got out on bail
Ran away “fer all or fer nuthin!”**

An important thing happened that day
Said he, “I’m changing my way!
Right now is the time
I’m absolved of my crime***
And inside my clothing I’ll stay"

And while exploring the rest of the sand
He found a more magical land
Gum drops and gum bears
Skipped down chocolate carved stairs
And frolicked, with candy in hand

while looking upon this gay**** scene
a smile, was said, to be seen
creeping onto his face
he approved of this place
as if it were out of a dream

when the mayor of said happy town
Looking regal in licorice gown
Carried her edible gavel
Walked on edible gravel
And had this to say, with a frown

She said,
“Um, hi there!…let’s see, but according to provision 366B of the official HappyCandyTown--" the quickly gathering crowd of delicious mythical creatures cheered at the mention of the city, "--town charter, before entering the city limits—that’s anywhere within the chocolate-paved area here—you’re going to need to head on down to the HappyFunTimeStation,” she said, and gestured to a small gingerbread building to her left, “and fill out a…er…sex…offender…registra-

tion form. It’s formality really,” she laughed gaily at this, “but it’s just so we know that you’re a pedo, alright? Awww, you look sad now…here, have a lolly!”

the end.

* Actual distance may vary.
** Direct quotations from Mr. MacMuffin during his 2006 trial.
*** Actually a series of seven suspected crimes committed in 5 states.
**** Not like that, you sicko.

The Outdoorsman

“So then…I gutted him like a fish.” I leaned forward and asked him, “What was that like?” The grim-faced man, sitting opposite the campfire replied, “Well, it was a fish, so it was pretty much standard procedure.” “Ah, I see, and then what happened?” “Well,” he said, noticing that he’d burnt another marshmallow for the sake of dramatic pause, “the one thing I didn’t count on was the smell of that fish attracting the grizzlies—and that is absolutely true—I didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. I spent it mostly running from tree to tree, trying to hide my greasy, fish scented scent from the bloodthirsty bears…Of course, once I’d killed a few of them, they got the point and left me alone. But that’s not the point, you see. The point is this, if there is a point to this bloody story, the decisions you make in the wilderness are never pointless,” he paused once more, both for effect and to impale an unsuspecting mallow, “for example, the day after I’d killed the grizzlies with my bare hands—do you get the joke?—good, because it’s not one, I ripped their paws off and beat the bears to death with ‘em. Bare hands, bear hands, it’s a pun.” I laughed, but only to keep my hands attached to my body. His attempts at wordplay were not enough to quell my rising doubts. I thought, maybe it just was the way light from the flames danced across his face, or his eye patch, or maybe the way he seemed so comfortable atop a freshly dispatched bear carcass, one which he had beaten to death only moments before, but I wasn’t so sure that I could trust this man, not anymore. “So the next day,” he continued, “I found myself in a clearing, and goddammit it was the prettiest sight I’ve seen in my life. I walked through the tall grasses, sniffed the wildflowers, and frolicked amongst the trees—but I swear to god, if you tell anybody about that I will rip your ankles off and beat you to death with them—and suddenly I came across a whole bunch of wild shrubs, just full of blackberries, and I ate every single berry that I could see, musta been pounds of ‘em, and it wasn’t until after that I realized that they weren’t blackberries at all.” “Do you know what they were?” “Hell no, and at this point I don’t even want to know. I nearly died out there that day, puking my guts out all over the grasses and wildflowers. It was the first time I’d been that close to death.” The Outdoorsman became silent at this; he lowered his head, not speaking for several moments. Until I asked, “So what did you do?” “After that--” he stopped again, the memory of it pained him in a way that I would never have guessed possible, “I just, woke up.” I woke up, to the blare of the alarm clock shaking the dream from my mind.

Sci-Fi Epic (Although it's only four pages)

A Chance Encounter

The Entity floated through the darkness of space, as it had done for the entirety of its existence. It was an example of one of the oldest life forms in the universe, though partly because it was also one of the simplest, its body nothing more than a tenuous cloud of ions and messenger particles. For several million years, it had tracked its way around this and many other stars, blindly and instinctively searching for others of its kind, a search that most would proclaim futile. In the long ages of searching, this particular Entity had found only one. But now, between the fourth and fifth planets of a small stellar system, the Entity’s luck was about to change.

If the Entity knew of feelings like yearning or loneliness, it would certainly feel them. Separated by the vast gulfs of space, each member of its race yearns to find its peers, each one searching with infinite patience. On the all too rare occasion when this did happen, and two of these entities met, the two living clouds would slowly merge together. During this transformation, they become something new, greater than the sum of their parts, never to separate again.

In the vast distance, this particular Entity sensed a moving object, shining like a blinding light, which it knew at once to be the indication of another life form. It moved closer until the light resolved itself further into a close grouping of almost two dozen separate entities, moving together and, more importantly, in its direction. If the Entity knew of elation, it would have felt it. Shifting its mass slightly, the entity accelerated away some of its own gases to move into the direct path of the incoming life forms--shedding lifeblood to prepare itself for the glorious merging which would soon take place.

Eight months into a voyage which was scheduled to take one year, thirteen days, and five hours, the Captain of the R.Borillian looked worriedly upon his instrument panel. A red light blinked, one which very rarely required his attention. It was labeled EMS, and to his knowledge had been on only once before. It had blinked several months ago to notify him of the approaching electromagnetic field generated by a solar storm, one which passed harmlessly around the ship. The Captain shrugged it off, if the light were something important, he told himself, there would be a beeping to accompany it.

Looking back to the screen at his left, he scrolled through an article, dense with equations and figures, titled On the Eccentricity of Lunar Orbits in the Jovian System. It was written by one of the astrophysicists on board. He’d never been good with names, or physicists, for that matter, but it was either the bearded one or the guy with the glasses. Carrying sixteen scientists, five of his crew, and a disproportionately large amount of cargo, the ship raced at ten miles per second through the vacuum of space, intent on reaching the three inhabited moons of Jupiter.

The quest for extraterrestrial life, the scientists reminded him daily, is what brings mankind to the outer planets. The frozen seas of Europa, Ganymede’s oh-so-precious magnetic field, and the volcanism of Io had been the only topics of discussion among the labcoats aboard, each factor supposedly contributing to the chance of life emerging either on or beneath the moons’ surfaces. Even now, there were dozens of research teams drilling and scraping and digging, trying desperately to unearth even a single microbe in the hopes of forever cementing their names in the history books.

A door behind the Captain slid open with a pneumatic hiss to admit one of the biologists, who clumsily floated into the room. He held four thick books, two in each hand, and a pen between his teeth as he floundered his way into a chair. Finally settled, he nodded to the Captain and spread the books out to hang in the air in front of him. Breaking the silence of the otherwise quiet observation deck, a faint beeping from the EMS panel was the only warning the two men would receive.

The Captain barely had time to notice the sound before a sharp pain stabbed into his head, one which he would have likened to the feeling of his brain trying to rip itself free from his skull. The Captain looked to the biologist, who was convulsing wildly in the air, obviously sharing the experience. Involuntarily his eyes clamped shut and his hands went to his head, though the blinding white pain remained for several seconds until fading to dull blackness. It was after this point that the Captain, and the rest of the scientists and crew, would breathe no more.

The official report on the incident would later conclude that, after passing through an otherwise clear region of space, the R.Borillian was showered with radiation, whose origin and nature are as of yet still unknown. There were no survivors among the crew; every one of them had suffered from either hemorrhagic strokes or other complications stemming from burst blood vessels in the brain. One crewman, however, survived long enough to shout his last words into a transmission aimed for Ganymede. The last transmission is as follows:

“Hello? Is anyone listening? I’m trying to transmit...oh God, they’re all dead...Something’s happened, my ears are bleeding, I’ve got a terrible headache, they all just stopped moving, and I don’t know what to do...please, it just hurts so—“

[End of Transmission]

The Entity continued on its path around the Sun. Such a wealth of life had been found, and yet none of them were compatible, none ready to combine their life with itself. If the entity knew sadness, it would have felt it. Although an opportunity had been lost, the Entity would have consoled itself in knowing that such a great gathering of life was completely unprecedented among its race, and that the pleasure of such a momentous sight made the encounter well worth the trouble. Besides, for a being which was all but immortal, there would be plenty of chances to try again.

FAQ - How big is the moon?

"The moon is much larger than it appears to be. This is worth remembering because next time you are looking at the moon you can say in a deep and myterious voice, 'The moon is much larger than it appears to be,' and people will know that you are a wise person who has thought about this a lot."

-Douglas Adams

Even though the moon is much larger than it appears to be, it's still much smaller than the earth actually is--in fact, only about a quarter of the size. A quarter is only one fourth of a dollar, which these days usually isn't enough money to buy anything of great value. The value of something is usually determined and set by the people selling the item or service in question. Asking questions is a good way to find things out. By asking questions of smart people you'll normally get things called answers in response. But more often you'll find that people are liars and are not to be trusted. Liar is what you call someone who tells lies. These are people who will knowingly decieve and confuse you in order to achieve their personal goals. Polititians are a good example of this. While not all could be labeled with such a harsh epithet, most can be called, with great certainty, liars. This shouldn't be held against them because it is their job. People take on jobs because they need money. In exchange for their services, their employers will give them money, proportional to the amount or degree of difficulty intrinsic the job. Money is something that can be exchanged then for other goods and services, the american version of which is measured in dollars. A dollar can then be split into four quarters and so on. If you were to compare the relative value of a quarter with a dollar, it would roughly approximate the difference in size between the earth and the moon.

Hopefully this clears things up.

James "The Answer Man" Hazelton PhD

Waiting

"So when are we gonna start?" "I told you already, we're going to wait until the sun's gone down before we do this. If we jump the gun, we'll mess it up and it'll all be for nothing." Jerry sighed at this. I don't blame him, with all the stress we've been under during the last few weeks; but now's not the time to be anxious, we need to stay focused. The last several minutes Jerry and I haven't been doing anything but watching and willing the sinking sun to move faster. We've signalled our counterparts, two more figures crouched behind the next rise, several times with the hand mirror in order to coordinate the teams' actions, but I still feel sweat beginning to bead on my forehead. The tools have been meticulously laid out in front of me for a while now, laid out in a row. We've got everything ready--just don't jump the gun. I watch breathlessly as the smallest portion of the deep crimson sun dips below the horizon and Jerry and I meet eyes and give the smallest of nods. Time to start. The feeling of my fork dipping into moist cake fills my senses and I begin to drool like one of Pavlov's pooches. The taste is even better, like the first breath of air at the surface of the water. "Jeez," I remarked between bites, "Lent lasted forever this year, right?"

The Gospel According to Thom

Part Three of Three

(The exciting conclusion) (It's kind of awkward reading these archived, since you've gotta go to the bottom of the page to begin with part one...but I don't know of any better way. So do it. Unless, of course you've read parts one and two, then please go ahead, you don't have to read them again, since doing so would only create some kind of infinite loop, just reading parts one and two again and again because a silly preamble told you to. If you've figured it out, I'm just trying to build suspense for what truly is the exiting conclusion to the trilogy...which is actually just one story that I split into three parts to make it more internet manageable...enjoy.)

The miracle lasted about a week before my sight began to blur, but the momentum Frank had gained from that one incident was unstoppable. He had begun to hold what he called “Disciple Meetings” every Thursday night with his closest friends. They discussed what was to be done with the world, usually over a game of Halo or Mortal Kombat.

I wasn’t allowed to attend.

While Frank preached what he knew of forgiveness and kindness, the disciples called me the doubter or, more often just the simple epithet, heathen; and it was because of my being barred from these gatherings that I didn’t know Frank had cancelled what would have been the fourth Disciple Meeting.

I walked through the front door, expecting the venomous glares of the disciples. I was carrying a bag of groceries and a Styrofoam box containing leftover Guac-o-molay Extreme from work. It was then that I saw Frank with a rope around his neck, standing on a stack of Gideon bibles, each one lifted from a different hotel, which they claimed to read at the meetings. The groceries and Guac hit the floor, the latter of which left a green stain which remains to this day.

“Oh my God no,” came my frenzied whisper.

“I didn’t want you to have to see this,” Frank said, tears welling in his reddened eyes, “I tried it earlier, but I just broke the ceiling fan,” he added, gesturing first to the mutilated fan on the floor, and then to the hole in the ceiling, through which he had tied the rope this time firmly to a wooden rafter.

“Frank, I need you to stop this,” I was trying to be calm, but it wasn’t working. I broke down and cried out, “Take that damn rope off your neck, now!”

“What’s the point, man? Just look around you, I mean, the world isn’t even worth me saving it anymore!”

“Just come down here and we’ll talk about it, come on,” I said, inching towards him.

He wasn’t listening anymore, “I mean, a few hundred years ago,” he was crying now, but he continued, gesturing frantically. I remember being so worried that he’d fall off, that each movement would be his last, “even just a hundred years ago, the world would have been worth it…but now it’s just full of so many bad people doing so many bad things, that, they just outnumber the good now, and I’m just going to let it die, it’s not worth it.”

“Frank, come on, you can’t be—“

“No. Stay right there, dude. There’s nothing more that you can do here. I’m just going to martyr myself right now, tell Dad what I told you, and He’ll forgive me.”

He jumped.

The first second; I stood frozen, just watching him there dangling helplessly. I wanted to throw up.

The next second; I ran to him in slow motion, hoping to get there before—

The rope snapped. He fell to the floor with a crack and a thud as he went through the coffee table.

Two seconds after that; I knelt next to him, taking his head in my arms. His forehead was bleeding, but his chest was still moving. At this point we were both crying.

Frank sobbed, and after several minutes said, “I’m sorry.”

I sobbed back, “it’s okay,” and we cried there until both of our shirts were wet with tears. Neither of us remembers who fell asleep first, sitting amongst stolen bibles and ruined furniture, and looking back we really don’t care.

A week went by, and we didn’t once mention the events of that night. Frank dissolved the disciples, telling them finally to worship someone else, and that he was a terrible Christ. We had the hole in the ceiling repaired, explaining to the landlord that we were hanging wet clothes from the fan when it fell, breaking the table. I thought that the whole mess was behind us, when, on a Sunday morning, Frank looked up from his bowl of cereal.

“You know, I was thinking,” he said, pointing at me with his wet spoon, “I didn’t go to church this morning, because,” crunch crunch crunch, “because, well, I slept in, but they never talk about J.C. sleeping in…but they were always talking about him going to temple, so I think I’m gonna start trying harder.”

I lowered the classifieds and stared at him incredulously, “I can’t believe you’re still doing this,” I said, giving him a death stare, “Frank, you tried to kill yourself…twice, over this thing, aren’t you ready yet to give it up?”

“But dude, it’s destiny—“

“I don’t give a damn about destiny anymore,” I said, “and I don’t care that you think that you’re the messiah! I don’t want to hear any more of this crap from now on, I’m sick of it!”

He pushed his chair back, stood up, and pointed angrily at me from across the table, “I don’t care what you’re sick of, I know what I was told—“

“by an escaped mental patient!” I shouted, standing also.

“—and I’m going to do exactly what he told me…and…and, you know what?”

“What”

“Look behind you.”

For the first time in over a decade of atheism, I prayed. Standing before me, engulfed in light too brilliant to look at directly, was the form of a man, and Frank was right; wings and a halo, whole bit. He was right. I turned my head towards Frank, who was smiling triumphantly, bathed in the light emanating from the angelic form before me.

He then pushed his hair out of his eyes and said, “Thom, I forgive you,” slapping me on my shoulder, “but I freakin’ told you!”

The Gospel According to Thom

Part Two of Three

Later that night, I walked home with purpose. Clutched in my hand, wrinkled from the wear of several readings, was the day’s newspaper. I walked through the door to find Frank sitting on the floor, hard at video games. I didn’t care that I still smelled strongly of Frijoles Locos and Queso Bacon Bombs; I had something to say.

“Read it,” I said as I threw the paper down in front of him.

“Aw dude, it’s the boss,” Frank moaned helplessly, “just read it to me.”

I didn’t need to read it, I knew exactly what the article said, “It happens to be the story of Chet Jenkins, who, after escaping from the mental health clinic on 43^rd, reportedly ran through this neighborhood before being found this morning, asleep in a trashcan.”

“This affects me, how?”

I delivered the coup de grace, “and, when they dug him out of the garbage, he was wearing paper maché angel wings!”

Frank’s character on screen had apparently suffered a gruesome death, because for the first time in the conversation, he turned around to look at me. He said, “You have so little faith, man,” as he crossed the room walking towards me he said, “Take off your glasses and close your eyes, I wanna try something.”

So shocked by his sudden gentle forcefulness, I complied. With my eyes closed I could hear him take the last few steps and stop. The sound of him spitting into a cupped palm came next, but for reasons unknown to me, I kept my eyes closed, and I waited. He put the tips of his fingers on my face, rubbing what he would later call “the liquid miracle” into my eyelids.

Finally regaining my sense, I opened my eyes and pushed him away. I meant to yell at him; to tell him that he’d gone too far with this Jesus thing, that I proved that his angel was nothing more than a crazy hobo, that he’d gotten spit and cheeto dust all over my face, but I couldn’t. He was there, walking toward his room, and I could see him. He disappeared through the door, flashing a peace sign with two fingers and all I could do was stand awkwardly with my mouth open while I stared at him with new eyes.

The Gospel According to Thom

Part One of Three

Dude, wake up.

This is how the story starts: with me, Thomas Hargrove, being wrested from my peaceful sleeping state. I still remember his voice, echoing through darkness as I fought to stay asleep. Sometimes I do wish that I had stayed asleep that morning, never hearing what he had to--

Thom, come on.

--what he had to tell me, but more often I realize that fate would have thrown me in with him anyway, regardless of anything that I would do to try and stop it. So what happened to free will? Whatever. But since so many people now want to know the story, this is how it started:

“Dude, seriously, stop being so dramatic, get up.”

I was awake, “What do you want? Wait, the door's locked, how’d you get in here?”

“I had a key made, but that’s not important now.”

The room was still dark, except for a sliver of light from the open doorway. I didn't care who was trying to wake me, I just wanted them to stop it, but, whoever it was, he obscured the light for a moment as his silhouette moved toward the light switch.

“Wait. Hold on now, don’t do that,” but my words came too late. The blinding light enveloped me, causing a very painful headache and the blurring of my already unfocused vision. When I felt that I could safely reopen my eyes, I found that my roommate’s face was now positioned just inches above my own, and although it was impossible to make out any of his features due to the brilliant halo of light surrounding Frank’s face, the shoulder-length blonde hair was a clear indication of his identity.

The face confronting me moved away, flashed a smile, and said, “Thom, come on, no fooling around, grab your glasses and meet me in the kitch, I’ve got something really cool to tell you.”

It would be unfair to call the room a kitchen. More accurately it would be called a glorified hallway, which happened to contain an oven. It served to connect the living “area”, which was not even large enough to be called a room, and the two bedrooms, scarcely more than two closets. But any apartment was better than nothing.

Several minutes after my awakening, I shuffled into the kitchen to find Frank, staring intently at the Mr. Coffee as it worked its magic. Wondering how a man could be so intrigued by something so simple, I deposited myself in a chair.

“So what’s this thing you’ve got to tell me?”

Without taking an eye away from the coffee pot, he replied with the utmost sincerity, “I spoke with an angel last night.”

My eyes rolled as I let out a sigh. I was not in the mood to hear another one of Frank’s drunken bar fondling stories, but, being the good roommate that I am, I played along, “Did you at least get her number this time?”

Frank spun around, apparently shocked at my misunderstanding, “No dude, an angel visited me last night. While I was asleep,” he corrected as he turned to watch the brewing process once more, “Wings and a halo, whole bit.”

I closed my eyes, fondly thinking of sleep. The sound and smell of black coffee filled my senses and I realized that suddenly there was a steaming mug in front of me. I must have nodded off.

“But the craziest thing,” Frank continued, “is what he told me,” he leaned forward then, as if he were about to tell me the vault combination at Fort Knox, emphasizing every single word to make sure that I was grasping the gravity of his situation, “he told me…are you listening?...that I’m the new Jesus.”

I stood, leaving my mug of coffee untouched, walked to my room, and slept.

Fun with stationary pictures

James in Japan.

Nerd Jokes

Well, I'm working on a short story for creative writing right now, so all of my inspirado is going into that. But here to pass the time...are some jokes, most of which only I will get.

"So there's a CIA spymaster who decides to teach high school algebra. He's a very stern teacher who tends to dramatize most of the assignments. One day he says to his class, 'Alright students, I'd like for you to do these averages...by any means necessary.' "

What's that? No more math jokes? okay.

"There are two things that put Chickasha on the map: one is the annual Fesitval of Lights, and the other is cartographers."

What? No geography jokes either?

"If you're not part of the solution, then you're part of the precipitate."

Ah, come on, you don't like chemistry either?

"...so the electron says to the positron, "Wow, due to the particulate interaction of a photon with that magnetic field, we've split up, except due to the fact that energy has to be conserved, we lost a neutrino along the way..." to which the positron replies, "You can say that again!" "

that one is just silly, photons don't react under a magnetic field...except of course if you're counting virtual photons, but as of now they're purely mathmatical abstractions...oh, well I think the punch line was somewhere in there...

anyway, more is coming soon.

Trouble at Santiago Point - VII

Part VII - Trouble at the Outer Space Robot Race

Skipping through the forest had always been a hobby of his, the smells and sights and sounds gently threatening to overpower the young nymph with their beauty. He'd come this way many times before, but on this particular day something caught his eye.

Sitting against a tree with wide-brimmed hat pulled over his face, a strange man slept. He seemed to be clad entirely in leather, as if such an atrocity were possible, and even the man's skin had taken on a tanned and roughened look which matched his hat and boots.

After a long period of careful deliberation he concluded that there was nothing left to do but say hello.

Approaching with the greatest of care, without breaking a single twig or rumpling a single leaf, he found himself standing over the strange character. He reached out his hand, blinked, and found that in the space of that instant, the metal device which had once been attached to the stranger's belt was now positioned squarely at his own face.

"Hello there, friend!" he announced happily, and when this recieved no response, he ventured, "I am Alonso, the happy, joyful, and gay nymph of this forest!"

The man tilted the hat back onto his head, revealing an eyepatch and a face which seemed to be molded into a perpetual scowl. After several silent moments, he lowered the device and stood to leave.

"Well, you're not very gay at all, are you?" he called after the departing figure, "Perhaps with my help I could persuade you! We could be gay together!"

A tremendous gunshot rocked the once silent forest, the metallic taste of blood filled Alonso's mouth, and he knew that it was his end.


El Fin?