i mean, pardon my english but this, the life i'm living is ww1 trench warfare.

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Topics - Richter

Or Kill Me / A Little Something for the Ukelele Palace
October 18, 2011, 11:58:06 PM
He just kind of melts out of that theater.  It's the badly kept one on the corner of arch where it meets the bad end of main.  He slinkys out, hunched like he never learned real posture, or real spine.  Hands laid in the pockets of his pastel blue aquamarine windbreaker.  Yeah, the one with the Leslie Neilsen hair and the Snidely Whiplash boner.  He walks to short, and talks like tom waits as if he never went through puberty.  A trickle of high pitched babble through gravel, like the emissions of a noisy culvert.  He'd look like a tough hood if it wasn't for the pervasive grease, which any seeming of character would slide off of.  The vaguely meaty smell of the semen and the cheap cigarette smoke clings to him as he exits, and he meets her on the corner.

Now she's a piece of sad work.  Her head is canted forwards on her neck like a bird's, and the rest of her head looks like she was designed in a wind tunnel.  Her teeth cant forward slightly , her lips extend, and there are a few hairs where the chin ought to be.  There's weight around her hips.  Too much weight, and there's a wrongness in the shelf they seem to form off the sides of her.  Looks like she was purpose build to shuffle up to people's ears, to whisper scandal and gossips, with too warm breath and the occasional drop of spittle.  I can't think of how she'd survive insinuating anything.

The two critters stand at the bus stop, neither really noticing each other, until the 56 bus comes around the bend from the public library parking lot, yeah the place where you could get rough trade for a dollar in the 70's.  Yeah, the turtle statue is pretty fitting, considering that.  With a heavily manifolded diesel wheeze, the bus magicians them off, and that crawly feeling goes with them.  There's someone for everyone, they say, in their case it's an Aesop sort of cautionary.
They say the natives GAVE Roger Williams Providence since it was one place they were sure no one would starve. 

Then, of course, whitey broke it. 

While guido did abound, especially during this, one of their high holidays (the celebration of an ancestor who, much like them, couldn't do trig so well.), it was an absolute nightmare filtering it.  A quart jar full of sand, aluminum fillings, and iron dust from the chemistry days came to mind.  Guiney, daygo, and guido were abundant, but mixed.  (If we stretch the metaphor, "Fuck you dooshbag" is analagous to the function of a magnet.  I've filed this fact for educating any juggalos I encounter.)

You get the idea though.  Wheat and chaff, sheep and goats, sorting out the ones who could shake down the fuck arounds from the ones who would crumple like tin foil and cry was a logistically unfeasible issue.  One could go to the local established services for this, but they are mostly interested in running restaurants and keeping peace in place if the overtaxed police these days.  (Christ on a stick, even the mob is run ragged in some aspects.  This is what we have come to!)

Needless to say, the sample I took fainted dead away at the sight of the shipping container I arranged.  Half thought they were fodder for a snuff porn and fainted, the other half assumed they were there to do the snuffing, and became too skittish to use.  I really could have planned it all better.

Irregardless, I have a reputation to uphold.  While you may not have guidos, I am recalling some horrible dessert pigs, rife with scabies and parasites.  Harness many of these together like a dogsled team, don some skis, and set them on the lax.  As they pull you behind, you will can belabor the survivors at will with saber, whip, or stick.  This is foolproof and perfectly safe tm until you run out of targets in their line of sight.

I trust your wisdom in when to let the team loose and break into a verse or five of "Born Free"

Hork BArf Spit.
Beavis and Butthead had to be set in the 1990s.  If it happened any later they'd both just be assholes who sit around harassing people while playing Halo.

Heaven forbid we have young miscreants actually out and about doing crazy shit this decade.  Nope, they can't be arsed to drag themselves away from fragging and teabagging.  Sure, the hardware and games are expensive, not so much so that it's beyond the ability of a youth to blow their load and their luck scraping, stealing, or parental begging to access it.  This is not outside the means of any but the most terminally inept (who kindly tag themselves for "juvenile justice" in the process.)  (The same force which durign the 80's would have eaten the two dimwits without blinking, shuffling them off to detention centers where they'd progress, at best, to toadies or vermin rapists.) 

Much like the drugs, and so many other "luxuries", they'd struggle enough to make them appreciate what they get, and get compulsively socked into playing it over and over, the game amusing and gratifying their need for accomplishment with the minimal effort on their part.
Or Kill Me / The Innocents Almost Abroad
September 15, 2011, 01:36:18 PM
Your good Deacon should avoid CNN in the break room.  It occasionally turns him into a raving lunatic for the rest of the day.

Thanks to the Tea PArty, and other expounders of the new Reich style sense of "patriotism", I've been hearing a lot of BS about immigration.  People intermingled with drugs smuggling themseles over our borders and generally fucking things up for the citizens.  We all ended up here the same way, if you go back enough generations, aside from those with native heritage.  How many have actually met or seen the current face of fresh fuel for the meting pot though?

Some enterprising soul is out to fix this lack of experience, and for $89, out of Tucson of course, will run people around a bit.  They'll show them the desert, a really real border crossing, and let them walk around where people try to duck in from Mexico.  "Bob" love the bastard who's doing this, but his clientele deserve a hot seat next to the people who picnicked to watch civil war battles.  If he had a sense of humor his AC will "Accidentally fail" 30 minutes out, and "Bring your own water" will be in fine print.

Or Kill Me / Quick Reflection
September 14, 2011, 03:23:25 AM
Jesus only loves you as long as you "ooh" and "aahh" over the pictures of the last snuff porn he made.

Compare / Contrast with Aini.
Literate Chaotic / Greeks Myff'ed: A Quick Aside
July 31, 2011, 11:11:01 PM
Zeus and Hera do not really have that bad of a marriage. 
They're just getting good and mad at each other so they can have the most epic make up sex in history. 

You live for a few millenia, and you come up with twisted ideas like this to keep things interesting.

...and the muses are the only ones having any REAL fun in the meantime.


Stuff by Maelstrom will be pwn'ed by less than a year on my person. 

Looking at the gods, you'd think they LIKED all the fuckery (literal and metaphorical) that goes on around them.  To a point they do, but originally they just wanted everything quiet and relaxed.  Pastoral, almost, in a "La de da, drink wine and get laid lounging around drunk on the grass" sort of way, like the bohemians were all about.  Yup.  The gods just wanted to be dirty hippies.  So when things did go apeshit (inevitable?), they just sort of went "Well, SHIT.", and went along with the madness.

Oh it was a BAD day when they just decided to let it all rip.  Zeus was pissed.  Hera was livid.  Hephastus just sort of shrugged and kept working, but grumbled to himself all day.  He got drunk and puked in Aphrodites lap later at diner.  ("Ok.  I'm not into this.  I'm certain someone, eventually will be though." Was all she had to say.  The other gods promptly lost their appetites.)  Oh yeah, and Eris.  She was peaceful up until that point.  Just and throwing pottery (Still in the crusty bathrobe, she never was super hygienic, even then.)  When it hit the fan, she just got this manic grin on her face, remarked "Oh it's ON now!" and went off to do something despicable into Hera's bathtub.

SO what caused this anyways?  What encouraged the gods to loose their s in tandem?  Blame Prometheus for that.  Prometheus was sort of the first bleeding – heart liberal.

He was also a Titan who was hanging around after the Titans were supposedly all toast.  A titan who was somehow still in good with the current gods, so we can also venture he may have been the first Quisling too.  Smarmy asshole.

He saw the first people shivering and cold, living the wild, and wanted to give them fire.

"No.  They'll burn everything.  They've got plants, animal skins, and everything else they need.  No fire.", was all Zeus had to say.

Prometheus was back the next day whining more.

"They've got legs, they can move to a different us-damned latitude if they don't like it." He was told.

Third day, same question, and more goings on about how horrible the humans had it.


Prometheus figured he'd caught Zeus on a bad day.  Eris couldn't stop laughing, which didn't help.

Prometheus, then figuring it would be easier to ask for forgiveness than permission (missing that it RUINS it if you ask for permission first) went and gave the humans fire.

The humans loved it.

They cooked meat.

They cured their hides better with the smoke.

They hardened points onto wooden spears with it.

Then, bored with being productive, they burned the shit out of everything.

A while later Zeus was taking a nap.  He'd been blowing the balls off low flying comets for kicks, and had taken a century or two nap.  He woke up when he smelled the smoke.

What followed was an un dignified, un godlike panic dance as he spent 5 minutes searching beard, robes, pubes, back hair, etc., for a loose un – safe'd lightening bolt.  (This did happen from time to time.  Due to one especially bad incident Hera had started eating crackers in bed, claiming Zeus had no leg to stand on bitching about crumbs.)

Then he calmed down and realized it was the people on Earth burning things.  He had an idea what was going on, and when he called in Prometheus, the smug bastard owned up to it like he deserved a medal or something.  Zeus was still grumpy form getting woke up, and beat his ass.

After awhile, he stopped stomping Prometheus, and realized that something a little more iconic was needed.

So he got this mean fucking bird, a huge eagle, to tear out his liver every day, throw it in a pan, and sauté it up in front of him.  The eagle would then crap on his leg, take off, and come back again the next day when Prometheus's liver had regenerated.   In this was Prometheus was not only subjected to daily removal of his liver, but also to the worst cooking show known to man.

The other gods were appalled, but then took it as a sort of challenge, and went out to do their own fucked up shit.  It was downhill from there.

Last anyone bothered to ask, the eagle became a big wildlife cruelty advocate, and was forcing Prometheus to become human foie gras as a statement.  (Which no one believed.  They all knew the eagle was just getting EPICLY bored with liver.)
Or Kill Me / Four more Beers?
June 13, 2011, 02:52:23 PM
The shit is already hitting the wires about the next election.  The beasts are barely contained and slavering at the inevitable ratings fest that will follow.  For some reason, people listen to this deranged megaphone, this mad mouthpiece, that cares not what or why it spouts, only that the people attend.

Fucking hell, stop clapping, look away, cease to believe in it, and let this derranged mutant cousin of Tinkerbell DIE.  What would you do if a chihuahua with a used car lot speaker in place of its head kept following you spouting "CARE ABOUT THIS FOR CIVIC DUTY!" at you?  The correct answer is to club the cyborg mongrel to unidentifiable death with a length of rusty iron bar.

Anyways, not regarding how it is vomited into our laps, the greater presentation circus is confusing the issue at hand.  Can anyone make a consciencious and moral decision amidst such bulshittry though?  Of course not.  Just like last time, w're going to be subjected to sensationalist flashbangs, scandalous strobes, and scabrous stories until we hurriedly punch a ballot, and stagger out like a puritan who has been mercifully released from the buggery shack while he still has capacity for movement. 

Even unbiased and accurate reporting (A cryptid of idealist thinking), could not tell us anything.  The donations landing politicians in various interest's pockets, and backstage blowjobs to get nominations or cred have confused the situation beyond comprehension. 

For fucksake, let's try to choose something more concrete than jam tomorrw wrapped in a label saying "Hope" this time. 

(Put Palin back too please.)
I'm going to lose some street cred by admitting I've lived in Providence for 3 years and haven't been to Lupo's yet.  The honorable old Heartbreak hotel, venue of constant music and mutants, Mecca of the black clad rock n' roller caste, and the children who want to be.

I can't say this was a chivalry endeavor, though Suu tried that button to get me there.  Seeing the Deftones, despite Friday night weariness, is a thing to do.  Appreciate the arts and shit.  We made our way down and were flushed in through a line run with positively Germanic efficiency, and a brusque pat down by the stone faced bouncer with no happy ending.  After seeing a man with a tremendous moustache for an ID check to purchase alcohol, we were in.  The show wouldn't start for an hour yet, but I was told the place became damn impassable once it filled up.  We assumed places on the floor, and began to wait.  I bought beers, a hedge against starvation, and we waited some more.  The crowd filled in, and music was piped in for the amusement.  The people were the better show, and I became the impromptu straight man to a local mohawk's gag of slapping his girlfriend's ass and blaming me.  Humorous exchange and handshakes latter the mohawk moved off into the crowd, shepherding his obviously drugged charges, who were performing the spectacle of "Two fat girls dancing".  We milled about until the first band took the stage.

I have no recollection what they were called.  Fast alternative sound, carried by the guitarist, and whiney emo lyrics.  The front man made a show of apologizing to the Deftones for being the "troublemakers of this tour".  Right.  They represented the evolution of man, as the singer began the set banging two drumsticks for extra percussion, then switched to a tambourine towards the end.  Interesting props, the final resort of the musically talentless, I dubbed him "Mr. Tambourine Man", and went back to relaxing against the railing inside the edge of the pit.

Oh yes, I had ear plugs in by this point.  Yes I am a pussy, a pussy that will not have disabling tinnitus in 20 years.  Ha ha, charade I am.

The second band, Dilinger Escape Plan, I recall, was an exercise in energy and light.  Energy, because even the loss of his mic couldn't keep their lead singer silent in the accompaniment of otherwise furious music.  My plugged ears made no difference, I could hear perfectly thought them.  The resonance in my sternum and head meat would have allowed me to appreciate this stone deaf.  They used a dizzying array of high powered lights, so sight was only a temporary sense.  I found myself adopting a protective stance and running on spider sense.  (Grandma's birthday tomorrow.  It'd be tacky to show up bruised or without teeth.  I am eldest male grandchild, and must set an example for these things, after all.)  Once the vocal came back the show only improved.  Nothing I'd buy a CD of, but damn good thrashing music.

At this point, I also had discovered the mutant power to ruin any party happening within 5 foot radius by aura alone.  When adopting the "Judge face", and standing tall, I immediately had space even amongst the maelstrom.  It would hem back in, fresh faces always, and I'd push them out again with hands or shoulder, then stare and presence.  For these transitory moments, I appreciated the steel toes, and the front of my boots seemed to strike people as admirable places to try to stand, before being encouraged otherwise.

The bouncers deserve special note here.  Truly fishers of men, they prowled the edges, pulling out the crowd surfing, the rowdy, or the smoking.  Highlighting with bright halogen pocket lights any offense, and rarely descending to hem it out.  Must be a bitch of a job, but they made a good show of it.  They left any moshing alone, of course.  Let the violent ones tire out.

The main act was greeted with tremendous fanfare.  Chino Moreno and the rest of the group was in fine form, the man himself running like he was smiling for office, fit as a fiddle despite years of the life.  They opened with the singles from their new album, and continued into material years old.  Their music was just as good in person, minus only a few effects or guest talents, but still well executed and novel as the first time I've heard it.  The Deftones are not exactly a progressive rock group, but their sound carries all the cresting feel of some of the best prog rock ballads at 5 minutes in, cresting and crashing cunningly in their own unique way.  The boys took subtle pipe hits off the side of the stage, and Chino put down straight bourbon to counterpoint the water he was drinking, and we loved them for it.  The show was backed up with huge projections of random Japanese movies (an especially surreal samurai flick for "Knife Party"), and various strobes and spots.  Nothing special, not the massive "Blue Man Group" display of a Tool, but there.  The projector work was the best part of the visuals, aside from their animated lead singer.  The others appeared intent and focused on instruments of the multiple Apple laptops onstage.

How do bands get this shit anyways?  I can see the projectors.  Add visuals and all.  Does some strange salesman see them between recording studios sets and sell them on these stage contraptions, which otherwise gather dust in the band's garages or storage units?

"Hey Chino, buddy, have I got the thing the Deftones need!"

"What is it dude?"

"A fucked up pipe metal grid thing covered with spot lights and LEDs man!"


"For the stage show dude!  The kids love spot lights and LEDs!  It will totally make your performance rocks out that much harder!"

Eventually it was over.  My back, protesting since two hours in, was now pounding in earnest.  I am designed to move, not stand in one place for 4 hours, even with energetic crowd moving.  Tired, soaked in sweat and flying beer, we left, blessedly needing no part of the ambulances or law enforcement that had been summoned.  I arrived home, deloused, and fell to a heavy sleep, scant few hours before I need to be off to grandma's.  Was I really in one piece from this?  Had I really survived the vaunted brutality of the rock show, and not wound up hallucinating concussed on the floor, stomped by one hundred boots and decried as a pretender?  Seemed so.

Just curious, is all. Bonus literarry nerd points if you know where it came from.
"If it keeps on rainin', levy's gonna....oh SHIT."  -R. Plant

The Tucson of my dreams is a filthy city.  The Good Reverend Roger, Sister Gothique, and Sister Fracture have given me no illusions about this, but I'm prejudiced in a certain way.  Around here, the Northeast where things are old and stories, the filth is layered.  It's a patina, a sign of distinction, and almost expected in some ways, like the brown sheen on an antique blade, the wood paneling darkened by time, smoke, and sin in the parlors of the old world's Hellfire clubs.  This sort of history, decadence and sophistication lends a banality to it all.  A distasteful air of accepting and bearing the ennui of sweet forbidden fruits that only someone with too much time or money would put on. 

Tucson has had no time for this, and I can only imagine the rabid screaming, the still fresh thrill in the air, and no one worn out or bored enough with perversion to ruin the mood when everyone else is having a GOOD time. 

This sort of thing needs to be handed with care though, or it can reach critical mass.  It started back when Sister Gothique left.  TGRR prepared for her eventual return, putting aside a tithe of Thai rental boys for her pleasure, sealing them in the ancient ways so they might be pure and enthusiastic for their duty.  Whenever it would come. 

Next came the Mechaniboyfriend Mk. 1.  Some say Roger was mad to attempt the first, and the truth is he knew he'd HAVE to be mad to get it RIGHT. The beast was built to well, and too powerful by its slathering artificer though.  It fucked itself to pieces, and they were lost to the four winds and the neighbor's dog.  The fabrication facilities were abandoned, the site leveled by thermite, and it was thought all was over. 
Not so. 
The pieces were picked up by the most un-likely of sorts.  Aged refugees from a boy scout troop found one part, and began copying the infernal design, at whose purpose they could not guess.  Some pervert hobbyists found another fragment, and they too, guessing the purpose, began to assemble.  Finally, a group of disgruntled fairies and brownies got another part, and casting aside their quaint old work tools for stolen "Snap on" wrenches, and cheap screwdrivers, they too began their build. 

Strange contraptions, their designs skewing and developing organically with no central sense or purpose were formed, until one day the three groups met by stinky coincidence, and their respective Sodom engines merged Voltron – like into a new clanking obscentity. The mechanical creation looked to the heavens with innocent, yet horrible vacuum tube eyes, and bellowed for its mistress, a – bouncing bedecked with a hundred wangs 

Finally, the Freaky Relief Front, was formed.  The sensible and appropriate young adults of the city, sent envoy too her. 

...Only to merge into a horrible screaming mob with the machine construct and the rent boy mob that was released when it stomped through the warehouse Roger had them stashed in.

Some say Freaky was torn asunder by this bizarre mob.
Some say she vanished amongst them, mercifully pulled from this universe the moment the thai boys began to howl and the automaton opened up with the Astroglide cannons.

Pleasant, fairytale fictions. 

The mob knew its leader and savior, and bore her away.  Despite what many say and despite the fact that this full page will cover technically an obituary, and despite that I have the editors pasword for this one day only, I tell thee, BEWARE.  For she roams the desert with her inexhaustible, insatiable horde, when you hear the howling of gears, voices, with barbershop quartet accompaniment, dig a hole and bury yourself alive, or eat your own pistol.  It will be better than your fate before the subjects of the lady of Jenkem and Tomahawks.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / RIP LUNA
April 28, 2011, 07:33:01 PM
"Holy shit."
-Suu, on scene interview

"Why didn't I stop it?  You weren't THERE.  I COULDN'T.  It was like time lapse photography of a corpse decaying, or piranhas eating a deer.  What was I going to do?  Throw kids off of her?  Hit them?  I couldn't.  I tried the fire extinguisher, but it only made it WORSE!  Maybe if I'd keeranged one or two, but damnit, I'm just not crazy enough to hit a kid.  Oh Fuck...::broken sobs::" 
-Richter, police interview on scene.

"We assure you the District Attorney is taking this case VERY seriously. Beyond our duties to citizens, we deplore these tragic event as human beings, and extend our condolences to the family and friends of the deceased."
-Groton D.A. Official Announcement

"Frank, get the scotch over here please?  We'll need it."
-Groton D.A., meeting with his staff

"Look, I can't tell you what I **** saw.  I can tell you what was  ******* left.  No body.  A mark on the floor,  that's all.  Smeared blood with the prints of 'Keds' and 'Reeboks' in various children's sizes.  There were the stains on the kids mouths too, on the ones who didn't bolt.  **** me, this one kid is just there, grinning like a loon with the milk moustache thing going, only it was the evidence, not milk.   And asks me for a sticker!  We carry stickers for the kids, see?  Build good will and all.  Holy ****, I'll never touch milk again, and I want to yark every time a see a commercial for it.  So I give him one, and the 'lil bastard slaps it on his  **** forehead over some splattered evidence.  ******ing demonic."   
-Officer Frank Thomspon, Groton PD.

"Man, I've seen some fucked shit before, but damn.  Poor fuckin' Luna.  Least it went, quick for what it was.  It just hasn't sunk in I suppose, horrible, I'm just feeling so numb."
-Dimo, interview on scene

"All I'm saying is we don't stand to gain anything with either verdict.  Even WITH the security video, there's still habeas corpus.  I've HEARD where the body went.  What are we going to do, pump stomachs and sift feces for it?  Suppose we get one too, what then?  Convict two dozen children under age ten of murder?  Which one took the fatal bite?  Manslaughter?  Great, we've just put the kids of hundreds of citizens into the system for a single bizarre incident that may never occur again.  The cost to the system would never be worth the time and legal wrangling that would occur.   I cannot recommend taking this to trial.  A guilty plea, counseling, and keep them all shipped to different school districts until they clear 6th grade, that's what I'd recommend.  Tell the parents they cooperate of we do everything we get nasty with child welfare and labeling their child a lunatic.  I'll have words with the state bar about what will happen to anyone representing them in a bleeding heart mob mentality pitch.  Pass that scotch."
-Honorable Judge David Wopner, private meeting with District Attorney

"This only proves the premise of my first thesis.  These massive media commercial products  (MMCP's) should be controlled and not marketed to anyone under legal age of consent.  Never mind people being able to assume legally assume responsibility for themselves, they simply produce too much devotion and excitement in individuals who clearly have insufficient grasp of morals and ethics.  Columbine, Virginia Tech, and now Sarge's Comics, there's one common, hidden factor to them all.  Pokemon."
-Dr. Theresa Adams, PsyD., CNN interview

"Why the fuck are these Mudkips doing on my gaming shelf?"
-Luna, Sarge's Comics, seconds before the "incident"

-Collected juvenile Pokemon fans.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / EOC RIP
April 27, 2011, 05:08:49 PM
It had taken years for him to save for the trip.  Having done so, having gone so far to the United Kingdom, there was only one logical place for him to go.  He waited for it patiently.  He went on the castle ruins tours with his friends, and even found the vaults of Glasgow compelling, but they were not what he was there for.  He met the Scottsspags.  Payne and P3nt being ornery yet jocular over pints, Pixie charming while she sipped her own beer and watched the men spar and joke.  Even – (Cain), whose depth he felt somewhat cheated by.  A pub discussion could never possibly cover all the topics they could have gotten into you see, but it was excellent to meet him all the same.

Having born these distractions, on their third day, they finally visited his Mecca.  The tour group wound slowly through the distillery, the guide highlighting the history, production methods, and apparatus at each stop in a practiced tone only hinting at boredom.  On one catwalk, he paused.  They were so close to the stills here, he could smell the fumes of the liquor wafting up, barest bits of steam tantalizingly close.  He leaned out slightly then farther.  Was that smokiness inherent in the batch before it's soaking in charred oak?  Was it more an aging of the peaty flavors?  He was certain he could tell, if he could just lean farther for another sniff...

Three minutes, and one room later, they finally noticed he was missing.  His lady friend commented on it, but was assured he'd catch up.  It wasn't until the tasting room at the end of the tour that they finally sent someone back for him.  Then began the general search.  By that time, his corpse, overcome with the fumes and drowned in the freshly distilled scotch, was already piping away.  A policeman might have noticed his face as it drifted by that one inspection port.  Maybe he did, but wrote it off as momentary fancy. 

If you'd say they never found the body, you wouldn't be entirely right.  They did, decades hence, pickled and crammed in the back of that one barrel, just drained for bottles of "Balvenie 30 year cask".  They noticed, 12 years after when the first few bottles hit the shelves, that odd moist mineral and smog hint to an otherwise reliable and clean scotch.  The people of Southern Massachusetts found it familiar, but never quite put their finger on WHY.  Connoisseurs commented on the odd quality to that year, of course, and it became something of a curiosity.  For the present years, they always wondered where he went, and how a person could vanish so suddenly and completely. 

Then again, people vanish all the time.   
1. The Double Cheeseburger - Eat it.  Eat the HELL out of it.  Relish in the fact that you're nourished.  Best performed on long car trips while giving St. Engine Block some time to cool down.

2. The Hammer - Enjoy applying force.  Tap that shit.  Hit it to make a positive change in your environment.  Physics is not a tampon, so don't use a plastic applictor unless you're trying to preserve your paint job.

3.  Preaching - Spread the Holy WordTM to the populace to point out BS or hypocricy.  Be clever and stylish, lest you be born away for 10 days of psych eval.  Don't ask for or accept money, devotion, or jack shit.  You're doing this as a public service.

4.  Game Night - entertainment while exposing yourself to people who are worth being around.  If they aren't, then cast them out.

5. Getting Lost - Take a long walk.  Get balls ass backwards confused about your location, then find your way again. 

More as I think of them.
Men must never admit to consuming Parfait, Smoothie, blush wines, wines coolers, fruited beer, quiche, salad, wrapped sandwiches, or brunch.  Any man who needs consume these in cases of extremis must refer to them as "cereal", "Shake", "Booze", "punch", "Beer", "pie", "garnish", "sammich" or "chow", and silently cry in shame in the dark later.  Violations of this only accrue thee shame.

At least one urinal must be maintained between men urinating at all times.  If no nonadjacent urinal is free, use a stall.  Rest stops and cases of extremis are partial exceptions, but any violation accrues the violator some shame or douchebaggery.

Men are not to converse at the urinal.  They must stand under a vow of silence, and only break this once they are done.  Do not address another silent man at the urinal.  Violations of this add to the vioaltor's douchebaggery.

Conversation between toilet stalls is double douchebaggery.

Men are not to allow anyone to bump them in a crowd, pass them while driving, cut them in line, or opperate a vehicle poorly or slowly in their presence without admonishing them "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE".  Failure to do so will surely bring shame.

Men are not to order a vegetarian or chicken dish at a restaurant when a less-manly cohort is ordring a more manly meal of steak or pork, lest shame be accrued.  Choose wisely.
...I watched the spectacle, and I prayed with giddie anticipation to see a man break himself by his own antics.

That was the hook and the interesting point of the whole evening.  Not that I was praying to anything specific mind.  More that adult anticipation you get when you know God or Santa won't fulfill you, but  you get the inkling that some odd twist of Providence might do the job anyways.

It started with the German Club hosting a "customer appreciation night".  Free food, live music, no cover, and subtly price-jacked beers.  We arrived, met our usual cohorts Enzo, Jen, Hockey Jake and Heather, and dove into the usual German fare, augmented with Italian food to pad the gullets of the guests.  One gluttonous feeding and two drinks in the bands started, making conversation impossible.

The first was a nondescript indie sound, whose name I've forgotten.  The second, much better act, was The Throttles.  Hipster rat-faces on the surface, they turned out to be GOOD.  Sort of like a nasal Revered Horton Heat, with a more classical guitar / Mason Williams influence.  Their bassist played the FUCK out of a huge upright, his matchstick arms banging the strings like a coated monkey banging cymbals.  There was method to this enthusiasm, as both he and the guitarist displayed dizzying accuracy in their frantic fret fricking.  In contrast to their properly channeled coke-rage, the drummer lolled, serene to near drooling as he focused on complex percussion.  Over all too soon, they quit the stage, and the next band set up.

...and the Midwest came to the front.  Like a jar of oil and vinegar being turned, cronies sporting unkempt facial hair, mesh backed hats, and flannel assembled.  Hockey Jake and Heather were long gone, due to Heather being mopey.  Jen and Enzo had taken off too, perhaps sensing what was to come.  All of the fuckers were drinking cheap, American made, Chinese owned beer, and no regular patrons were among them.   

The new band was a study in stage presence.  The lead singer / rhythm guitarist / lead penis, stood forward, a head high above his fellows.  His body language sported the best traits of gorilla management with stooped brow, hooded eyes, and forward knuckles.  When the music began, I was convinced I was in the elemental plain of generic country music.  The real lead guitar (standing well back, out of place, his flannel shirt uniform wearing HIM), and the "my parent's basement" keyboardist were carrying this show, letting him play the Big Ape.  Some Neanderthal yutz behind me kept whistling and hooting at a volume that tested my already volume numb ears.  Luna had won a bottle of liquor earlier, and I was running out of reasons not to feed it to his teeth.
(Luna encouraged this, but requested I use someone else's booze.)

The show went on, and the singer strutted his country music street cred.  Nashville TN was mentioned like a site of later day pilgrimage, as well as how bad his family had it during the depression.  The crowd ate it up, missing that he had just summarized "The Grapes of Wrath".  When he began playing again, between lyrics, he'd lean forward, his mouth agape.  A study of ecstasy from the G.W.B. school of public appearance.

I looked around, realizing that even the hipsters had fled.  Only this odd country boy wannabe diaspora crowd remained.  The German Club regulars and staff were taking shelter behind the bar, preparing antique Lugers and broom handle grenades for a Wangerian end.  Is it odd, even sacrilegious to wish a jackboot stomping Gestapo end to ones own countrymen? 

"American Dollars don't mean SHIT Tom!", came a cry form somewhere behind me.  The sentiment's smacking of backwoods pseudo intellectual disaffection fit the scene perfectly.  Then the bastards started to dance. 

It seems like it is "hip" not to wear belts these days.  Luna got treated to the sight of skanky skaner crack.  A couple tried to perform country dance moves around in front of the stage, beneath the singer's "How is babby formed" expression.  Another daring dude took to the top of one of the club's injection molded tables and began skanking.  With each exuberant move the plastic bent farther and farther.  I stared, rapt, until the legs finally gave.  He fell in a heap, and I laughed, long and callous.

The singer, his mask slipping, and intelligence shining through, decided it was time for the last song.  The keyboardist shut up, and they wailed out a fast and brutal rockabilly tune written under a previous band named "Brimstone".  The name was apt.  Head and shoulders better, but less mass marketable than their current fare, I wished they had been playing that all night.

A logical high point reached, and the hour getting late we fled before the inevitable hillbilly holocaust could take the hall.  Behind us came the sweet sounds of blitzkrieg as the staff brought order back into the establishment
The whole group is in stitches.   
Luna's on the floor laughing, contemplating creative shitting as proper vengeance for minor slights.

I have done my duty as holy man.
Literate Chaotic / Gaffer
March 17, 2011, 05:27:02 PM
"Dave!  You hurt?  Get back on the line, next one's coming through!"

David looked up from the hasty duct tape repair he was making to his stick, and set himself back at the threshold of the teleport booth.  Metal enclosed the closet – like space on all but one side.  Massive fans and static fields kicked in, stirring the air and evacuating errant particles smaller than dust, ensuring the traveler didn't catch a stroke or worse when the traveler's body overlaid into the airspace.  Dave, and his co worker Ron felt their hair rise and get whipped by the combined forces.

The actual teleport event was less dramatic, as a stunned blonde tourist winked in.  Only a faint "bip" sound announced her body displacing the air in the area her body now occupied. 

"-going to turn it on?" she finished, to a person now far, far away. 

An amazed look and an opening of her mouth was cut short by David and Ron looping the padded crook ends around her as gently as possible and herding her out.  The traveler sputtered, indignant.

"Move it!  Before the next one zaps in and splatters you!"

Common sense cut in and she moved off, her steps becoming the clipped efficient movements of any commuter in a tight space.  First timers ALWAYS stopped to gawk.  Ron clicked the "clear" button signal on his lapel, and both men relaxed back into their positions, waiting for the next 'port.

Teleportation, after significant R+D, was possibly the most efficient method of transport humanity had known.  Individual point – to – point devices existed, but only in the hands of highly trained and carefully licensed personnel.  It was far too easy for a careless or unlucky 'port to end in a solid object, underground, in the middle of a building, or more horrifically, another person.  The common, "safe" application came in the stations.  Travel and commuting stations, same as any others mankind had made, designated departure and arrival points for teleporting travelers. 

Despite the miniscule cost of the actual 'port, the money came in arranging and maintaining the "booths".  While technically unnecessary to the actual act of teleporting, their maintenance added safety measures to the process.  Sensors monitored the exact location and updated it constantly to the departure point computer, ensuring you arrived inside the point, as opposed to in the wall behind it, or loosing a millimeter off your heels due to geological shifting.  Fans and static fields prevented problems with dust or debris.  Walls added a layer of physical security, keeping a pigeon, larger items, or some joker's paper airplane from getting zapped into someone's head. 

These brick and mortar measures added to the cost of an otherwise highly energy efficient system, with the booths being rented in 5-20 second increments for inbound traffic.  Safety, and efficiency, demanded that staff be assigned to make certain the booths were cleared and ready for the next inbound ASAP.  The gaffers were there to, by hook or crook (literally), clear the way for the next 'port.

Both Dave and Ron used relatively simple tools made in a complex way. The main ends of their crooks, or "sticks" as they called them unofficially, were stainless steel tubes with heavily padded fiberboard ends.  Each fiberboard piece was expendable, and likely to only displace into a puff of fibers, dust, and foam if an accident occurred.  The other end was a dull hook of sintered brass for when a more solid grip was required.  Again the porous and easily shattered metal was to avoid dangerous shrapnel, a problem in early iterations of mass teleportation.  Sometimes materials merged, sometimes they displaced violently.

Each man took a position 2 feet and 45 degrees from each corner of the booth.  If a passenger or item was stuck, slow, or hesitant to leave the booth, then it was their job to reach in to clear them while risking as little life and limb as possible.  An EMS team was always on hand to clear out the injured.  Sometimes, the brief glimpse of nowhere would spark a temporary, but severe, insanity in a traveler, cases which the EMS would also handle.

On the few, horrible occasions, so called "double 'ports", two unlucky passengers would be sent to the same booth by a glitch in the otherwise redundant and thorough computerized routing system.  Usually, there was nothing to be done in there cases except gaff out the obscene mish-mash that had formerly been two people, hose down the booth, and re-open again when viable.  The lucky ones just lost an arm or hand, fused to a part of the other traveler and necessitating immediate, mutual amputation.  The EMS again would rush in and take care of this with tourniquet and (heavily sterilized) chainsaw, rushing the unfortunates to a hospital before their briefly merged and potentially incompatible immune systems would kill them from the shock.   

In all of these cases Dave and Ron were unable to do much.  Their job was to hit the "EMERG. HOLD" button to stop all inbound ports, assist EMS as needed, and then wait for one minute.  Once they had done so, to ensure no accidental inbounds while their booth was cancelled from the "available" queue of all sending stations, they began to clean.  Each booth had a cabinet with pressurized enzyme and detergent cleaners, sterilizers, brushes, and man – sized squeegee.  The booth had to be spotless before they resumed its use, and they still could not risk entering it personally.   

"So you hear they want to shorten the rest interval again?"  Ron said later as the two were on break.

"Bullshit.  18.5 seconds is reasonable and safe.  The stats have proved it cuts accidents, and it keeps stress off of us."

"You tell the higher ups that.  They're talking about going to a push inbound system too."

"Christ Buddha!  Union's never going to have that!"  Dave exploded.

"Tell me about it, it's like they're ASKING to get people messed up."

"No, they never see that though, they just see the revenue of an extra however many 'ports per day." 

"Money greedy dude, money greedy." Dave shook his head, going back to his crossword.  "You hear about the auto – gaffers they're trying to develop?"

"More insanity.  You bet your ass the union bosses are lobbying against them."

"Right on.  The 'people shovel' models are damn medieval.  Just going to hurt people.  The belt and sling ideas are just as bad, and the slide and moving sidewalk versions can't pass safety yet."

"Science will always strive to replace us better..."  Ron mused.

"Fuckin' poet." Dave chided.  "It's truth though, but no computer will ever replace human supervision."

"People get dull, make mistakes and break too though."

"Well yeah, no shit, but at least the way we work now keeps us sharp and aware.  Constant danger and all.  Was exciting my first year, but now I just gotta make sure I'm ON and ready, you know?  Put me in charge of  a booth with just a bullhorn and an 'Emerg Stop' button, and I'll go straight to shit.  The way we do our job now I feel sorta like Queequeg in 'Moby Dick'.  I could never be a button pusher."

"Hoping for a great white whale? Now who's the fuckin' poet?" Ron shot back.

"Fuck you.  Hey, what's a five letter name for a ghost?"

"'Geist' fit?" 

"Thanks.  It would be kinda nice not to be as responsible though.  Like you remember that girl last year Ron?"

Ron winced.  A teenage passenger had decided to 'port out making a dramatic pose, despite NUMEROUS warnings, printed and audible on the way in, to keep arms at her side and stand straight.  Ron had been jostled by the traveler before her, and she had lost her hand when it teleported into the same space as his crook.

"Yeah, I remember.  Damn shame."

"Don't beat yourself up, dude.  Just bad luck, not your fault.  In the old days, she would have gotten run over by a train or a jet or whatever, fooling around like that.  My point only was you wouldn't be responsible.  The machine would have fucked up, not you."

"Someone would still be responsible though.  Someone had to make and maintain the machine."

"Yeah, it'd keep the howling about 'Oh my god I'm going to sue the useless gaffer', down though.  People should have to define 'Disclaimer' before they walk in the damn door."

Further chatting was cut short by Albert White, the shift supervisor ducking in. 

"Ron, Dave, #5 had a bad splatter, we need you back on #3 to keep capacity up."

"Our break, OSHA says we can't, Al."

"OSHA ain't saying you get double time pay either. You in?"

"Sounds good." Dave replied, as the two shouldered their sticks and headed back to the receiving booths, pulling on helmets and slapping down clear face shields as they went.
Or Kill Me / Why Music Gone?
March 15, 2011, 04:36:35 PM
Sometimes I think that no music was made after I graduated high school.  It's an easy trap of perspective to fall into, and one I know to be blatantly false.  (I entered into college amidst an un-missable chorus of "Who let the dogs out?")  There was other stuff too, you know, that was actually worthwhile, but somehow it seems to have gotten lost.

Now your good Deacon likes his music, and is tickled pink that the internet will stream just about every station out there to him.  Usually I'm back and forth between various college and classical stations.  Last night though, the classical with its NPR cosmopolitan intellectualist attitude was just pissing me off, and the tender mercies of French hip – hop from the college stations just weren't striking my fancy.  So I pulled up the old home town's rock station.  It was on my radio near constantly during my high school days, less so when I found myself at home during college, and entirely NOT for the past 5 years.  So I'd assume they must have something New on.

Now your good Deacon can occasionally savor his own wrongness like a fine wine, whether perversion or misconception...

80's hair metal is apparently still in revival.  Mid / late 90's tunes that were overplayed then are still overplayed now.  "Disturbed" has released a "new" song, which is really just another one of their old songs, so now luck there.  The only validly new music was an indie tune, novel in its use of banjos and references to the allegory of the cave (A darling of the college radio over the past 3 months).  After and hour I gave up and put on a white noise site. 

Now the Deacon is a little discouraged by this.  Sure, keep musical tastes in the 90's if you want.  You'll eventually get bored and stumble into Tricky, Massive Attack, Soul Coughing, Primitive Radio Gods,  Faith No More (other than "Epic"), or Sneaker Pimps, and have something NEW to listen to.  That's not even scratching the surface.  It's more the fact that they're playing the same stuff and BARELY looking further.  No curiosity or exploration, just the same stuff over and over.  This is selling enough advertising that apparently people are still listening to it.  Hoo - ray for the common man, hoo – ray for the stuff that gets pushed at him.       

Literate Chaotic / Greeks Myff’ed: Tantalus
March 09, 2011, 03:33:03 PM
Anthony Hopkins is a new Elvis of sorts.  He's a twisted Elvis though, and down through the years people will remember his image, dress up as him, be married by him in Vegas chapels, and do cooking shows invoking as much Hannibal Lechter or Titus Andronicus as possible.  It's a darkly appealing image; a man of poise, manner, principle, and skill, whose merits are offset by the tendency to eat the flesh of his own species. 

Not all cannibals are as well mannered or poised.  If people ONLY attended the Hannibal Lechter School of preparing long pork, it might not even be a crime, since it would be all about cleverly offing and preparing those who have offended you.  It would be more like punning.

Remember how humanity hasn't written anything new since ancient Greece?  This is no exception.  They needed to cast things in a more negative light though.  They didn't have the people surplus that we do right now, and cunning plans to eat annoying people would have wiped out the Athenian senate in a week.  Their example cannibal was a dude named Tantalus.

Tantalus was the king of Lydia, a small, but very swanky city state.  His dad Broteas had spent his whole life making the Lydia into a really nice place, throwing some righteous parties, and got in real buddy buddy with the gods.  (His name was originally Steve, but after Zeus called him "Bro" enough, everyone else started doing the same.)  Tantalus inherited the kingdom, and married Clytemnestra (Who had some horrible condition nobody ever talked about.)  The city was never quite what it was under his dad's rule though.  Tantalus just didn't have that knack for making it a central gathering place or party spot.  He'd call up the gods, and whining that he missed them all, but they never showed up. 

One day, he started a Facebook event that kept spamming everyone with notices, and that finally annoyed everyone enough that they said they'd attend.  Not that the city was a bad place at all, the gods got there and started having a good time like they used too.  Tantalus got mostly ignored, despite running around fawning and saying how great it was to see everyone.  This kind of miffed Tantalus so he figured he'd do something really different and outlandish to impress them.

He could have shoved feathers up his butt and done a chicken dance, and it would have been OK.
He could have played ukulele or juggled (he was good at both, oddly enough), and it would have been OK.

Instead though, he thought he'd impress the gods with his cooking.  He was out of food though, so he used his own son, Pelops, figuring it would be like a dinner / sacrifice.  (Pelops was a good kid, and all the gods liked him despite his dad.  He was playing Grand Theft Chariot on Xbox with Ares when his dad called him for "help" with dinner.)
SO yeah, the gods sit down to dinner.  Ares was a bit pissed because Pelops had missed him jacking a trireme and jumping it over the Colossus of Rhodes.  Demeter was sort of out of it, due to Persephone being away, but was keeping it together.  Tantalus serves everyone up a portion...  and all hell broke loose.  (They were gods, they knew what they'd been served.  Even if Pelops' face HADN'T bobbed to the top of the pot, all Temple of Doom style.)

Zeus, for once was at a loss for words.  Hera barfed.  Ares was livid that his gaming buddy was now dinner.  Athena was quoting at high volume every legal code in existence that he had violated, and Hephaestus, more practically, was getting up to lodge his club foot in Tantalus' ass. 

Eventually Zeus got it together, and got everyone's attention (BOOM.)  He stood up real tall, and with lightning in his eyes was about to rip Tantalus a new one, when he heard the munching.  Everyone slowly turned down the table, and saw Demeter absently chowing down on a shoulder. 

"I love pork shoulder.", was all she could be heard to say between bites.

She hardly ate when Persephone was away, and really was not in a right frame of mind, nobody blamed her.  Hera barfed again.

Tantalus got killed for this and sent to the underworld with a note that said: "Hey Hades, be CREATIVE.  –your bro, Zeus." Pinned to his ass.

Zeus had words with the Fates, (meaning he bribed them with a few bags of Lindt chocolates), to get Pelops put back together.  Demeter commissioned him a new shoulder from Hephaestus to replace the one she ate, and Poseidon felt so bad about it that he gave him a team of horses to race.  Pelops went on to become a famous horse racer, and banged groupies until one of them turned out to be a princess, which led to his next career as a king. 

Tantalus had a sucky eternity.  The details are on Wikipedia.
I take these walks sometimes.  I just drop what I'm doing, pick a direction and fuck off.  I've been told this is odd, but usually by people who don't consider exploring or sightseeing legitimate ways to spend time.  Not like a fugue episode or anything, no, I just purposefully get lost, get reoriented, and go back home.  Maybe it's a way of tempting fate, but I'd really have to TRY to end up anywhere that I'd be robbed and harvested for leather out of hand.  My "Do not address me" vibe is very effective in these situations too.  If anyone's around at all.

Ever see "Insomniac"?  Show by Dave Attell?  Like that, except I'm not out to talk to anyone.  Just to observe what's there Like I've just dropped in, and know nothing about the human race that built all the stuff.  It's refreshing thinking that there are no people left, or you're an antropologist with no clue about the current civilization.

Anyways, this is how I end up seeing things and places at times that things and places aren't really seen.  Like why would an ultralight aircraft be buzzing a seaside cliff at 5 PM, painted glossy black with an impossibly short wingspan?  The FAA would have kittens over that.  Why would a box car with human arms waving out of the sides be running down the tracks at 2 AM?  The army trucks pulling up to the water tower was the easy one, probably a retaliatory strike silo.  No I can't prove it, but it makes sense and I'd put one there too, if it was me making the call. 

This leads me to believe that conspiracy theorizing is useless.  It's happening anyways.  Not in any secretive whackjob black ops way, it's all going on as if it was dropping off packages or running spreadsheets at the office.  Whatever it is.
Literate Chaotic / Greeks Myff'ed: The Other Stuff
February 17, 2011, 04:43:02 PM
Causing chaos, discord, and strife is both an overt and a subtle art.  Anyone can yell "FIRE", publically soil themselves, or start beef.  It's not hard to make a scene.  A few fine touches though can take even a quiet day and turn it into a clusterfuck, if done artfully.  When it's pulled off well, it doesn't look like anyone caused or provoked ANYTHING.  It looks like the victims were gaping mouthed fish from the ocean of herp and derp, who just happened to jump into barrels and shoot themselves. 

Of course Eris was a 5th degree black belt in this sort of mayhem – fu. 

She showed up for a wedding once, in her dirty bathrobe chomping the cheapest Quik-E-Mart stogie she could find, and greeted the assembled pantheon in a very formal and respectful way.

"Sup Fuckers?"

One look, and everyone decided she was NOT wanted at this party. 

For one, she wasn't invited.  Still, if she had showed up looking nice, or even in some state of CLEAN, acting nice, she'd have been welcomed.  Protip, you can crash ANY party if you're dressed right, act right, and can get past security.  Try it.  Most hosts will rather welcome a charming person than break the pleasant tone of the party to kick them out. 

Second, she was gross.  Less detail there the better.  She had completed her ensemble with the gaudiest dollar store flip flops she could fine, and a plastic hair clip that barely kept her mussed mane out of her way.  She hadn't shaved either, and the sounds of the stubble crackling off her legs and armpits against the pizza and beer crusted bathrobe was like a rainforest dying a slow, emo death to the saws of the Acme Logging Co.

They told her to fuck off, and in retaliation she tossed out the infamous apple.  Everyone was so fixated on the apple, and the scene it produced that they missed her "loosing" a flip flop to the dog (It was Cerberus, and he had indigestion for a week.), and stubbing out her stogie down one of the marble columns, leaving a blacks streak that never –quite- came out.  She also lost the hairclip on the rug.  Someone stepped on it, and Hestia went NUTS trying to get all the little plastic bits out.

She went home to have a good gloat and watch the fallout.  The Trojan War was the obvious highlight, and dominated CNN for months. 

The part that nobody quite caught was the apple itself.  After Paris awarded it to Aphrodite, she took it home and put it on display in the middle of the foyer, all proud and shinny.  After a week though, the wording changed subtly.  Instead of "For the Fairest", it now said, "The Fairest had this up her Ass last night."     
Literate Chaotic / Greeks Myff'ed: All Stan Lee and Shit
February 17, 2011, 03:13:07 PM
"Super heroes with human problems.", I once heard the comic book stylings of Stan Lee summed up to me.  Spider Man still has to deal with his asshole boss, Mr. Fantastic was still too smart for his own marriage, and Wolverine seemed well adjusted by comparison.  He knew what he did, he knew what he liked, and he knew when to fuck off for awhile.

Greek mythological heroes were big on these flaws too.  Especially the "Idiot joyriding kid" flaw, which inevitably leads to crashing daddy's car.  

Debatably the first person to do this was Phaeton.  Phaeton was one of Apollo's trust fund kids, who generally screwed around confident that his dad's reputation for moving the sun around would get him out of anything.  He thought he was the hot shit, and was pretty much uncontested as the local prick until he met another kid who was one of Zeus's bastards.  Chip off the old block, this guy was pretty much a scion of Lebowski.  He wore the bathrobe too, but you really couldn't tell the way the Greeks dressed back then.  Phaeton's whining got on his nerves.  

"You better not fuck with me, I'm Apollo's son!"

"Whatever man.  My dad's Zeus, and you don't see me making a big deal about it."

"What's so great about Zeus?"

"He controls the skies and the lightning.  Pretty much says it all."

"What has he ever done for you?"

"He gave me my own mighty lightning bolt to throw around."  (He was talking about his penis.  This was the misunderstanding that began a whole lot of bad shit.)

"Oh yeah?  Well my dad lets me drive the sun!"

"Ok, prove it."


So they came to the sgreement that Phaeton would drive the sun the next day, and pull off a really sick skid at noon to prove it was him.  

Trying to make good on his boast, Phaeton immediately started whining to daddy Apollo to let him drive the sun.  Apollo got sick of it, and agreed, but gave him very specific instructions.  He had to drive between the yellow lines.  If he tried to pass any other celestial bodies on the right, the earth would freeze, and on the left, he might run into it, burning crap up.  Phaeton, ignoring all of this, grabbed the keys and took off.

He fucked up BAD.  The earth froze a bit some places, got volcanoes scorched in it in others, he dinged the paint,  and fell out trying to perform a stunt he saw on "Jackass".

Zeus's son shook his head sadly and went bowling.  

Apollo had to use OnStar to find the sun after all this, and is still pissed about the poor attempt at a power slide fucking up the alignment.  Which together with Demeter's little stunt to get an Amber Alert put out on Persephone, resulted in winter.  He has yet to get it fixed.

Edit: forgot some words.  I'm not telling you which ones.
Literate Chaotic / Greeks Myff'ed: Arachne
February 15, 2011, 06:01:28 PM
People in the ancient Greek world didn't have the same addictions we do these days with TV and internet, and had to find other things to get hung up on (that's foreshadowing).  Since everything was, by default, analog, most of their hangups had to be done IRL with IRL materials.  They didn't have "Doom", "Myst", or "Halo".  Instead they had "Blacksmithing", "Pottery", and "Weaving".  A nasty side effect of these games was you had finished product stuff when you were done.  It tended to pile up, so people used it for clothes and tools, having been kind of invested in them, like how people will kill if you threaten their Xbox Live Achievements. 

Arachne was one of the first professional weavers.  She was crazy "1337" at it, and could weave scenes of all sorts of interesting and pornographic shit, albeit at a horribly slow frame - rate.  She was really proud of this, and boasted about her genius.  Everyone agreed she was good, but reminded her that she should also be thanking the gods, who gave people the ideas and inspiration to become mad 1337 weavers in the first place.  Arachne was grumpy, and didn't want to hear it.  She has just had a bad fling with a dude named Hubris, and was kind of butthurt at the world. 

Sure, everyone can have a good angry gaming binge after a breakup, but most of us call it quits after a few hundred frags and get on with things.  Arachne though, just kept weaving and blaspheming, generally annoying everyone by screaming "BOOM HEADSHOT" every 200 rows. 

This pissed off Athena, so she went down to see her.  Athena, now she was something.  She was the goddess of cleverness and learning.  She wasn't entirely the "Arts and Crafts" goddess though, she was more like a hot librarian with a streak of war nerd.  She would have loved /k/.

So Athena challenges Arachne to a throwdown.  Most people would think twice about this.  Most people would play nice if they did.  Any sane person would have just woven up a nice normal tapestry, had a good game, and things would have been cool.  Not Arachne though.  Still doing the "BOOM HEADSHOT" thing, she wove up a tapestry of Zeus fuckign around, impregnating mortal women.  It was sort of the equivalent of talking trash about someone's parents, sexual preference, or excessive teabagging.

Athena, who was usually pretty collected, flipped out.  She drop kicked Arachne's uber-sweet weaving rig, jammed the shuttle up her ass, and, showing her ghetto side, cut up her face a bit.  She then stalked out saying she was coming back with her ugly stick.

Arachne, now mopey because she couldn't log back on to weave up a facebook post about it, hung herself.

Athena came back and found out she had become an hero, and felt bad.  She couldn't forget the sick burn Arachne had bestowed upon her though.  As a way of compromising, she turned her into a spider, and was all like, "Weave forever bitch."

Eris wasn't in on this, but I guarantee she watched it on youtube later in a filthy bathrobe drinking a beer and likely touchning herself while cackling evilly.
You all remember Payne?  Hell, how could we forget him?  Our favorite freelance bum, author of a thousand WOMPs, purveyor of caustic Scotch wit (Feck off.), and survivor of incredible occurrences. 

He personally de-clogged the WOMP transport tunnel with a single thunderous fart, put down a pint in victory, and belched so loudly it collapsed the other half.  He cunningly did this all at midnight too, so the cave in fell on the day it was the North American Cabal's turn to clean.  Some say that's what laid him low, that the pressure wave of both emissions, dopplering unpredictably in the odd strictures of a custom made MS Paint wormhole, blew his head up like a grape.  This is spurious fiction though, easily refuted by the production of later writings.  Or perhaps it is truth, and he met his first death in the tunnel that day, beginning his cycle of occasional turgid resurrections.

The miracle of repeated resurrections bears examination too.  He's the only person known to be on drinking buddy terms with St. Peter (by necessity, the most jaded bureaucrat of the heavenly host).  Jesus Christ and Rasputin are both pissed at him for spoiling their death-defying antics, and have sworn an ass – whupping upon him.  They have yet to settle this, since tracking Payne down means they'd have to settle with him for their bar tab. 

Some say Pixie killed him and hid his body in the basement.  Again, a rancid fabrication.  Pixie is far too nice to do such a thing.  (He's trussed up in the attic, at worst)

Working chronologically, from Spagbook and WOMP archives (CERTAINLY RELIABLE SOURCES) Payne, at best, died fighting a horrible bar of soap in an anonymous shower – bath.  Cheubs shart themselves at the sight of the horrible wrath writ across his face, and the very curtains of reality tremble at the thought of him locked in such strife.  Payne may still live, and may still return, it's true, but for now, the dossier cannot be completed without more reliable contacts or sightings.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Holy NARDSCram!
January 27, 2011, 02:36:40 PM
I Sharted!  :lulz:

For realz.  I'm in the shower, so I think it's safe to fire off a 20 decible airbeef, and there was FOLLOWTHROUGH.  Once I realized this, I was out and onto the john pullign some crazy matrix shit, just in time for the world to fall out of my butt.

Then... I'm removing the asston of snow from my car and I feel it COMING BACK.  My whole snowbound expedition to work was a barely controlled series of power slides while I struggled not to power skid my skivvies.
Or Kill Me / ATTN: Philosphy Assholes
January 26, 2011, 02:52:16 PM
Does a true dichotomy exist?

I've seen false dichotomy tossed in as a fallacy on several arguements.  It appears that there may be no such animal, and any dichotomy, duality, black or white situation outside computers or electrical circuits is, in fact, a lie.

If you have any clarification on this, please enlighten.
Or Kill Me / Sermon to the Yard Sale Proprietors
January 20, 2011, 04:30:09 PM
Hey, what do you think you're doing?  Having a yard sale out in public with children's toys, and you've got that filth sitting out on a table?  What possessed you to put that out in the face of the sun?  Are you thinking it's a cute little "Couple's accessory"?  No, it's a fucking dildo!  If you had any love of Jesus or Fear of our lord, you'd put that crap away!  You'd keep it out of sight, and only sell it in out your back door in a crumpled paper bag for a wad of filthy bills at an hour past midnight!  This is not the time or the place for you to peddle your used flesh toys!  Aren't you ashamed of yourself?  Don't you have any sense of decent loathing for those horrible meaty bits hanging between your legs?  Don't you feel vile for your urges?  Exactly what kind of Amurica do you want?

::At this point the good Deacon was forcibly removed from the premises.  He was shoved into a car which sped off, noises possibly involving howling laughter coming form inside.  His parents have since learned never to take him to yard sales::
Or Kill Me / A friendly reminder
January 13, 2011, 05:56:21 PM

When you are merging onto a highway, it is good sense and good form to accelerate to as close to the prevaling speed as mechanically possible and safe as per conditions (unless everything is fucked by snow, ice, ash, traffic,etc).  Anything else is risking your life on the driving skills of those already on the road.  Decent grasp of spatial relations and skill checking your blind spot makes only minor adjustments necessary to merge safely.  Freaking out, braking, and trying to merge in at 30 creates and unsafe situation for you and everyone immediately behind you.  They don't want to get killed by your failure.     
IKEA?  That degenerate pit of scum and kitsch?   The Elemental Plane of "That looks shiny!"

Why the hell not.

Just keep in mind that I'm going beyond allen wrenches here.  More like a boarding axe and a hanger for the shopping.  Extra rivets, drywall screws and a hammer drill to "expedite" assembly.  They will recall why the Helmsteadr line LEFT their country, and why they should enver tempt them to come back.
Are extreme enough?  Not 1990's jump off a speeding mototbike over a cliff with a bungee cord extreme, this is the era of the personal extreme, the farthest illogical point of view, taking it to heart and living it extreme. 

Have you taken up the cause?  Abandoned your worldly possessions to it?  Work tireless days, and spend your sleepless perturbed nights meditating on how better to serve The Cause?

Are you as polarized FOR them as possible?  AGAINST everyone else?  Do you take the ideals and live the HELL out of them?  Do you call, petition, march, fundraise, canvas, and flaunt (oops!  "Build Awareness"), for the Cause constantly? 

That's the only way to be these days!  You have to do it, you have to join the fanatical fundamental far – from – the - center legions.  NOTHING else will get attentions, votes or consideration.  Anything less than total insanity for the reason you want to see will eb squashed flat by someone else's hardcore stance. 

"Don't talk about it.  BE about it."  -Busta Rhymes

We're all hyped up, and we're all fed the bare minimum data in one or zero format.  Time to decide, are you a ZERO?  Or will you be a ONE?

...what were we doing again?
It was a simple idea at first.  School 'em good.  Crank the kids through education good and hard, make sure they have attentive, demanding, but fair mentors, and you'll get a very functional critically thinking individual spat out into society.

Like all myths of "The Good old Day" though, this is false.  Yeah, it'd have been nice, but Atlatean crystal capacitors, Egyptian levitators, and Tesla's last 3 or 5 designs would have been too, and were just as real.  Nope, the school systems were jsut as full of sex crazed punks and apathetic teachers as ever.  Maybe they were more about the quality of education, and not jsut factory - packing mandated bits of info.  Then came the Program.

Think this was a speil about education?  Nope.  The program came along with morse code and punch cards.  It was reducing informatio to it's barest peices, it's quickest most efficient expression.  Reports, dossiers, knowing your people, and working with them (Rather than them jsut working FOR someone (thing)), made this analog approach necessary.  A human was only expected to directly interact with so many other humans, and they could all learn / work / get along, or FUCKING ELSE.

Then came the Programing.  1 or 0, yes or no, on or off, knows it or does not know it answers.  Quirks, specifics, caveats, or common issues were not reported.  They weren't counted, they weren't wanted for the people addicited to the shiny new stream of data, and the groups adopting and using them did their best to beleive they didn't exist.  The education went from testing to ensure people could UNDERSTAND, APPLY, and USE their knowledge to if they could find it out of A,B,C or D on a Multiple - choice card.  The State mandated exams followed.

Then came the great dumbing down.  The questions were too hard, the requirements too rigid, the decision too final when the 1 for a person inevitably tottered over to a 0.  So, de-nutting themselves for the sake of inclusives, they made allowances.  They hijacked "mindfullness" off the eastern thinkers, and tried to blend it in.  Binary Zen, Yes of No Buddha.  All they got was a program that didn't know what it was looking for.  You've seen the inevitable results.

I'm talking to you, TGRR, and I wouldn't be suprised if LMNO has seen them too.  That Safety bloke you keep mentioning, he sound slike he knows him some book, but he needs to have mastered the forbidden arts of knowing, influencing, and workign with people, while contrasting it with the virtue of "I will not step on my compatriot's toes".  The Cult of the Salesman has sacred monopoly on those skills, and they'll try to eat any of us that they find using them.   

EoC,  you know the ones I speak of, since your line of work, by necessity, cannot employ someone who is only competent accordign to The program.  It has to weed them out like the plauge.  Is 80% accuracy really acceptable when you're slinging around ambulances?

How does one fix these checklist immitations of people?  Well, it sounds as if they are learning by default, if they can pay attention.  The lessons come hard once you're set in your ways, and it's bludeoning will instruct like a falling I - Beam.  (They're wearing their required hard hats, right?) 
Horrorology / There is going to be Ugly
December 17, 2010, 04:20:43 PM
Since we're all starting to feel like Roman citizens watchign the Ceasars get weirder, more abusive and impotent, I thought I'd throw out a quick note on what can be expected.

When you're in high school, anarchy seems like an idea of a good time.  No rules, no repurcussions, just fly out, bang down a liquor store, get loaded, and go apeshit.  Well, like Alan Moore put it, that is only the "Land of Take What You Want.", not an ideal or beneficial system for any majority of humans.  Any huge melee is NOT your invitaiton to become a drunken master urban combat god, it's a culling.  Large ground engagements opperate via atrition.  Attrition means your cracked head on the ground pitching a seizure while the brain fluid leaks out, for the gain of scratching a riot cop's face shield is PROGRESS.

Better armed and armored police or military WILL gas, stun, spray, hose, beat, curb stomp, and otherwise roll you.  There's not going to be enough ambulances or police cars, so expect sloppy roadside exectutions.  Ammo is a resource, so don't expect it to be pleasant.  Even if you do beat down the local agents of "The Man" what then?  Watch the ending of "Black Hawk Down", while imagining that the people stripping, beating, disfiguring and defiling the soldiers are all white college kids, office workers, or unemployment recipients and you're playign along. 

Want to do some solo apeshit?  Bad idea.  Sticking with the mob might be safest, and very few folks know how to PROPERLY conduct running destructive mayhem.  Everyone else will likely burn adrenaline for 2 blocks, then double over gasping for breath and blowing chunks.  (drinking and running is a BAD idea.)  Now you're a target, and you don't want to know who is huntign you, or for what.

The city will sleep soundly, one way or another.  Quiet like New Year's Day will greet the next morning.  No confetti, plastic trinkets, or food wrappers to pick up though.  Just trash, smouldering wreckage broken bodies, and a few moaners hurt jsut bad enough to betaking the long way out.  (incidentally, blow off enough adrenaline in one day and you'll have a hangover from the gods the next.)

A city stands on infrastructure.  Without utilities and regular food deliver it becomes a desert of concrete and asphalt FAST.  Guess what's about to get cut off to your urban warfare playground.  How many days supply per person of food and water do you think are in one at any given time?  To top it all off, some silly fucker drank all the beer.  Fun's over. Now you're wishing you knew what the survivalist nuts knew, and trying to figure out what's left to eat.  Meow?

First:  TGRR:

Got your X-mas request via voicemail.  What a disastrous list!  Regardless of previus Naughty / Nice projections and historical ratios, we can only assume that with that many chainsaws, a bulldozer, flamethrower, etc., you would be irrevocably shifted into NAUGHTY.  Then some jackass elf realized that if he honored this request, the naumber of requests he'd have to process in future would certainly go DOWN.  (He broke his hand while repeatedly mashing the big red ACCEPT button, self inflicting multiple compound fractures of the metacarpals.  Workman's comp is going to shit.) 

You're getting your stuff, we can't stop the churining wheels of bureaucracy once the big red button's been hit.  We do expect you to make this up though.  A tithe of workers who will not loose their shit as badly as the elves will do.  Fuckarounds, troglodytes, and knuckle draggers are acceptable.  We need folks who become jaded and blase about their work, like the well worn wood of the banister in an old mansion.  Anything but these slap - happy, eternally optimistic, toy making fucks.  They are not bred for admin work. 
Thanks Squid!

Coworkers can't figure it out.  It's Christmas cheer, but in armadillo form. Pics coming as memorable.
Or Kill Me / The Horrible Creep of Christmas
December 06, 2010, 09:16:51 PM
Holidays do weird things to people. 

Peace on Earth.  Not this earth bubba, I LIKE my strife.  I thrive on it, and enjoy its cattle prod like effect tin myself and others.  Something needs to propel us forwards in the high cause of un-fucking our situations.  It seems like 905 of the population forgets this after a turkey day parade when a few pretty lights go up.  They gaze fondly out of their car windows, dwelling content and pathic on the glory of the season.  Meanwhile, I spurn them with my horn and ponder activating the death ray.  The light just turned green, and they can't seem to take note. 

Good will Towards men.  FUCK NO.  This is their assumption that I've suddenly sprouted good will.  I have just as much as I have the rest of the year.  No use waiting for the ideas of SantaJesusRamaChauh to become an inspiration.  To clarify, I shouldn't say THE OTHERS have been inspired to good will.  They've been inspired to think that I suddenly have it.  This will spare them nothing, especially my front bumper to those who cut in front of me (NEVER decide to be Christian at a time when it will fuck over others.  NEVER assume others will be Christian when you're about to get fucked by them.)

The radios in the stores belt out the same repetitive holiday tunes.  This twisted lexicon spans few songs, and fewer are catchy or properly acceptable by the zeitgeist to add to it.  Needless to say, little variation.  (Sad, I used to love Transsiberian Orchestra.)  Anonymous people with kettles and bells stalk the thresholds of most stores.  Sometimes, weathering their detached guilt inducing view, I wish I had a Wikipedia entry on myself I could reference them to.  It would be fun to see them admire, scream, and twitch at the revelation of what I've GIVEN already.  The idea behind charity is you don't HAVE TO, as they seem to have forgotten.  I should ask some yammering mouth of the churning Wantmonster for my optimism back sometime, but I'd only by asking the drug dulled front man, not the lofty suited regional sub-potentate who'd deserve such things. 

The up side?  People we like.  Even the retail trench fighting motherfuckers, hard and cynical from close quarters with the masses, will have a holiday.  There's some time after the horrific wind up when the rat race will grind solid for a piece.  It is good, we can spend some time with the people who are worth it, maybe pass on something worth a damn to someone who's worth a damn.  Sometimes, things go right.  Can't prevent that.   

Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Aw FUCK.
December 02, 2010, 01:08:28 AM
I'm stuck in Harbor Freight's $10 "handcuffs"

I'd McGuyver out but my dinner is burning.

Literate Chaotic / Clowning Around with Tao.
December 01, 2010, 10:06:09 PM
Tao, when translated from Chinese, means "way".  Not "the way", just "way".  At least that's what we think, and it makes it sound more ephemeral and deep.  Tao is doing something just because it seems right at the time, and having an excuse for it other than "It seemed like it would be funny" or "I HAD to".  You get to blame Tao.

Never actuall SAY what Tao is.  You can't, and even if you could, it'd ruin the fun.  Always dodge around the issue, and read some old stories about Taoists and Zen monks to get the idea.  Needless to say, if you've jsut been talking with someone about Tao, and they want to beat your ass, you're doing it right.  Tao is a great way to start shit in Bars.

There are a couple concepts involved with Tao that are helpful to know about:

Pu : Shit.  Shit is.  The simplicity and natural form of a turd is OK by itself.  You CAN shape, smear, throw, or flush it, sure, but there is something compeling about the potential of the uncarved (or flushed, or smeared) shit.  It doesn't even have to be an iconic turd, all turds share the same Pu.

Wu Wei:  There are things one can fuck with, then there is Wu Wei.  Wu Wei is the act of not fucking with things.  No intent.  Fuckingless fucking.  Wu Wei is for the children.

(additions welcome)
Or Kill Me / Sermon Against the Salesmen
November 30, 2010, 03:48:08 PM
I work with a lot of devotees of the cult of the salesman.  This is an unfortunate thing, but can't be helped. 
Often they come to me, and want things.  When they want something they begin the pitch.  The familiar greeting, the inclusion of "Buddy" within the first few words, the smile, and the overall tone about how everything's going to be GREAT.  Their pitch.  Maybe not their best game, but it's how they know how to get things, so it's how they do it.  Right away, as pleasant as they make it, you're dealing with horseshit.  It's no longer a genuine human conversation, it's part of their crafted act to get a "Yes". 
By the time these requests get to me they are often for something we will not of do not do.  I tell them that, and I get my favorite reply from these subhuman deception mongers:  "You don't understand how things work in sales."

I don't understand how things work in your false faced, ego fluffing, "Gift" bribing, "run off to a ball game or the golf course and call it work" fellatio club?  Damn straight I don't, and this makes me glad on a daily basis.     
Or Kill Me / MOVIES!
November 18, 2010, 07:38:47 PM
"You haven't seen ::Insert Title Here:: , OMG!"

Fuck off, all of you.  Yes, I live under a rock.  It's a very nice rock, thank you, and I keep it on my bookshelf so I can always see it. It is not my life's mission to consume ever film offering that comes out, or spend my time tracking down every single one someone though was worthwhile once. 

I don't like the crowds at your theatres, and I don't like sitting down and having the experience rammed into my head all at once.  I hear enough stories each day as is.

So we don't threadjack Spagbook again with talk about what we're brewing and how, this is a rundown of various alcohol production endeavors I'm up to at the moment.

Add your own!  Whether it's super yeasting molasses and grape juice for imitation port wine, a gallon of apple juice in a jug with a sock, or several gallons of finer, calibrated brew, let us know what you're about to perpetrate!
Cut the shit.  I know you can all hear me thinking.  Laughing behind the back of the last non - psychic human on the planet has to be old by now.  Hope you all get Mind Herpes.
Damnit, what in the name of "Bob"'s overpriced salvation did you do to my cell phone?

The message was horribly horrible, and equally horribly garbled by failing signal repeater infrastructure.  Somehting about drinking whiskey with Beonce, then waking up form rohypnol next to a garbled garble.  (trio of fiendish sex midgets on cocaine with "Lazy Town" character masks, is what dramatic license tells me.)
A few other bits, and a suggestion I move to Tucson.

I listened to this on my morning break, and I suddenly need more coffee and a shit.  A long, hard, sanity restoring shit.  It will never be right again after that message, but then again, things were never right to begin with. 

Hork Barf Spit.
Bring and Brag / The Dog Story
September 30, 2010, 05:44:16 PM
The Dog Story

Nothing can quite channel the essence of human stupidity like a poorly trained young dog, or the antics of a monkey.  Well, maybe not the monkey.  Even when apes are howling around acting foolish, big stupid toothy grins, it's a dominance game.  The smile? "Look at what I will fucking bite you with, fuckass."  Maybe not the dogs either, but it reminds me of Boomer and Carl.  Boomer was the dog, Carl was the boy.  Neither was shaggy (I'm just setting that out right now.)

As mentioned, Boomer was not the best trained.  Hauling around barking, grabbing things, peeing, generally embodying the traits in dogs that make me cringe.  Carl, the boy, and very much the dog's boy, wasn't exactly a hand in correcting this.

"OOhhh! Boomer!", he'd always cry when the dog did something idiotic.  It came out half amused, half helpless exclamation.  That was the age he was at, and it was just dawning on him the distinction between the momentary spark of fun, and keeping things un – fucked in the long term.  Why would anyone want to do that?  Simple, to my reasoning.  Un – fucked things are nice.  There's no standard to them, just decide the level of organization vs. clutter, cleanliness, and decoration you want in a place, then keep it up.  Clean the filth when filth happens.  An untrained dog is a great way to make you appreciate the effort un – fucking takes.

Not the dog's fault, he wasn't trained any better.  Not the boy's fault, he wasn't either, but he was learning it. 
Cram's questions goaded this out of my brain, and I'm not certain if we had anything like it yet.  The idea is an active hook, a recruitment speach to draw in people who read the stuff and aren't already here. 
Comments / changes / heckling welcomed.  I will reply however I feel like the comment deserves. 



If you're not reading this after poking into another delicious issue of "Intermittens", then someone's likely jacked my stuff, but the message is for you all the same.

Has this issue been amusing to you?
Do you want to know more?
Did you have seditious, contrary, or similar ideas before, during, or after reading?
(Did they make you want to TOUCH yourself?)

If "yes" has been your answer to any of these, and you aren't running yet, the YOU need to write for INTERMITTENS.

We don't care if you're no good.  The Intermittens staff tools are some of the best amateur writing coaches on the internet, and will advise, bullshit, or goad to help you get your stuff into shape. 
We don't care if your take isn't relevant.  Half of the stuff in our issues is relevant to NOTHING.  If your idea is novel, interesting, and left field enough, it may just help define its own separate issue. 

You can be the new blood, the fresher asshat, the next horrible troll who can somehow keep it together for 3 or more paragraphs!

Distinguish yourself!  Join us!
Or Kill Me / Musical Review: The Pennsylvania Polka
September 04, 2010, 01:20:22 AM
Right away:  if you reference your own song twice in the first verse and chorus, you deserve to be struck forcibly in the face with a liquor bottle.  (Yes, Big Wreck, I'm talking to you too.)  The musical complexity, which is layered and complex in GOOD polka, is lost here.  It is on par with the chicken dance (whose creators should serious consider copyright violation lawsuits.)  The rhythm changes suddenly and unexpectedly, as if the drummer and bassist had some sort of synchronized case of ADHD.

Yes, I know it's supposed to be a "FUN" song.  The kind of fun that you listen to while maudlin drunk alone late on a winter night just before you empty a .45 hollow through your own skull, when you convince yourself you wont ever have the fun again because it's all dead gone and squandered.  My own mother denounces my consideration of this song, and has told me as much.  The new right hand extension by way of my cousin's marriage LOVES this song, she says.  They would likely run me down like a convict for these words, and beat me apartheid style. 

Let them come!  I shall render judgment!  I owe family nothing less. 

For the glory of Khorne,

I have removed my trousers, and am huddled behind a makeshift bunker of pillows and blankets.  I shot Nurse East with my "NERF" pistol as she walked by for no other reason that boredom, laziness, and it being too hot to wear pance.  I may nap now.

So I'm going to try to post and read here more, as I've been way to absent recently.  My time may also be narced by hurricane prep or random parties, but we shall see.  For now, I am secure and comfortable.

Nurse East has gone off cursing to do her laundry, goaded by the callous laughter of her current girlfriend.