Doob LaVey

The Greatest Stories are the Ones Left Untold

2011-07-20T15:47:00.000-07:00

Or, at least, that's what I say to strangers at the bus stop when they try to engage me with their inconsequential small talk. Sorry, but I've heard your unique and interesting observations about recent meteorlogical conditions about a non-hyperbolic thousand times today already. I mean, come on. When I leave the house, it's with eyes down and mouth shut.

But what if there were a story so great that had to be both told and yet, not told? I think this is one of those stories, and that's why I'm telling it here, on this ancient blog that hasn't been updated in around three years. If a story is told, but there is nobody around to read it, was it ever really told at all? And if there is anybody still lurking around here on the off chance of seeing some new material, you should be ashamed of yourself. You could have gone and got yourself a job by now.

My tale begins at a website called cybertron.ca, which is a website for canadian "collectors" of Transformer "collectibles". It has a message board, broken down province by province, for people to report what they've seen as they make their rounds of their local toy sections. This allows the other members to stay home on their computers instead of spending their lives outdoors, rushing frantically from store to store, desperate to acquire the latest new toy before it falls into the hands of some undeserving child, who are probably too stupid to even know that this character's only comic book appearance was in the background of one panel of one issue where he wasn't even coloured correctly. (As a sidenote, it is totally nerdy to post on their message boards. However, if you just read them without posting, you are probably a smooth operator who's playing the system. You may even be the real firecracker that your grandma always told all her friends you'd grow up to be.)

So I was reading the boards without posting one day, when somebody reports a new and peculiar discovery. If you've ever heard of the San Diego Comic Con, you are probably be aware that it is the world's largest gathering of nerds for the purpose of furthering their nerdy obssessions. You can meet comic book creators there, and... other stuff, too. Of course, they have exclusive toys and merchandise that is available nowhere else so you can rub it in the faces of all the nerds that didn't go, which is roughly none of them.

This year's SDCC is happening even as I type this. There was one last year, too. One of the exclusives at last year's convention was Blaster, the Autobot communications officer who transforms into a ghetto blaster.

Blast-Off, a transformer with a name similar to "Blaster"

As fate would have it, these self same "Blaster"s were now apparently turning up in canadian retail outlets called "Winners" and "HomeSense". How and why was not important, but acquiring a Blaster was everything. Fortunately, there is a Winners store just a short jaunt from very own home. Unfortunately, they never get any of the good stuff, Blasters included. So that's pretty much where the story of how I didn't get Blaster comes to it's conclusion.

Because the rest of this is the story of how I got a Blaster! I was cruising around cybertron.ca again, when I come across a report by some some silly vancouverainian who'd just been to my very own town and listed all the neat things he saw while touring our toy stores. Most important among his discoveries was that he'd found a Blaster at HomeSense! Imagine my surprise to discover this city has a HomeSense! I was even more surprised to find out that it is right next to Wal-Mart, which I've been to many times. The have one of the most important toy sections in the area after all, and I can even remember going there and... Ah, perhaps some other time.

After reading this finding, I immediately lept from my bed and into my socks. After leaping into my socks, I immediately said "You'll never make it before closing time besides it's probably going to rain and it's so cozy in here". So I slipped back under the covers, vowing to head over to HomeSense first thing in the morning. For once, I was true to my word and HomeSense received an early caller that day. Actually, there were a bunch of even earlier callers, even though they'd been open for only ten minutes. I guess some people really like that place.

Finding the toy section, such as it was, and wandered around, and around, and around, the same twelve foot section over, and over, and over again, without finding my precious plastic friend. Concerned but undaunted, I circled ever wider, until I was wandering around the whole store, fruitlessly, before returning - okay fuck it. No point in trying to build suspense when I already full out admitted to getting one. So here's what I was so determined to keep from the children:

. It comes in this slipcase that is huge, orange, shiny, and has nothing on it but an autobot symbol with only the words "AUTOBOT BLASTER" written on it, and still I went past it ten times without seeing it. On the inside there's this:

Which is the sort of traditonal transformer packaging which I had trained my eyes to look for, and why the slipcase never registered.

Here's the desired fellow with his included compatriots, Steeljaw the lion scout, Ramhorn the surly Rhino, and Eject, the autobot sports enthusiast. They all turn into this:

I just noticed the watermark in those pictures and, after looking everywhere in the box, I didn't find one. I might have gotten ripped off. But now that I have Blaster and his friends, I can confidently say that Blaster is pretty lame. Keep in mind that this is the original version, from 1985 or so, so he's pretty limited in every conceivable way by today's standards. Also, even as a kid, I never really liked Blaster as a character or ever really wanted his toy. I was even fully aware that I didn't really want Blaster, even as I desperately searched for him, and it didn't disuade me in the slightest. It only cost twenty bucks so it's no big deal.

The little tape guys are pretty cool, however. I like Steeljaw the best. I even like Eject, but only because he is characterized as the autobot who likes sports, which means the other autobots don't like sports. That's why I want to be an autobot. So, when this guy turns up and starts going "How 'bout that game last night", instead of just me not knowing what he's talking about, nobody knows. That's the kind of environment I could be comfortable in.

That's basically all I've got for that. See you in another three years.

Self Help Is Best Self Administered

2008-02-24T09:38:00.000-08:00

Are you like me? Unsure? Read on, and find out!

Are you tired of all these self proclaimed self help books that discourage you from living in fear? Are you tired of being told that going out, doing things, and meeting real people, is for some reason, objectively better than your natural inclination to stay in every night? Are you tired of being made to feel like your desire to never leave the house again is wrong? Did you answer yes to one or more of these questions, but are afraid to admit to people that this is how you really feel? If so, good news! You are like me!

And it truly is great news, because I've written just the book for me. Since also you're just like me, it's almost like you wrote this book, for you! It's kind of sad that we're pioneering new ground in the "self help" industry by putting the "self" back in "self help". But hey, let them worry about it. I've entitled the book "I'm Afraid I'll Stay the Way I Am, Thank You Very Much" and between its' covers, you'll find all sorts of words, which I have arranged in a specific fashion,to empirically and conclusively demonstrate that what we may loosely define as "mental illness" is a quality to not only be embraced, but celebrated.

I invite you to journey with me, from the first page to the last, and bear witness as I dispel some of the age old myths like

-Real friends are better than imaginary ones
-Healthy love involves at least two people
-Talking is more than just noise
-There's no reason to be afraid of spiders
-A penny earned is a penny saved

In addition, I will show you several secret techniques on how to:

-Build a working E-meter
-Construct an 'anxiety free zone' in the comfort of your own home, using only string and a pair of safety scissors
-Take out your frustrations over your own ineptitude on moderately relevant acquaintances in meticulous plotted attacks
-Instigate mass hysteria

Listen. The only way they can keep you down is if you're playing their game. So do yourself a favor and stop it. Make your own game and play it instead. There's no reason that you should be afraid to be yourself. Fear change instead... it's way scarier.

BIG EXCITE!!!

2008-01-09T15:08:00.000-08:00

HI HI HI it is your old frend Joachim Jaeger here to make your new years with even more smiles. I am to be tasked with updating of this blog for entire year of 20 08, so let see how it go!

Today It is wensday and that is meaning comics books day of the week. This week is very special comics books day because it is meaning Hulk #1 is for sale!!! Yes friends the hulk is return but all new, different than previous. Now hulk is red. yes red, like the colour you see. It is similar to orange, but not quite as yellow. What could happen to make such strange circumstance, you ask?

It is fortunate you wonder on this for all you shall find here is solutions to your own imaginings. And it is this.

The hulk is not the hulk. Brace Bannerman is locked up in arrmys aquarium. So who is to be this new hulk who burns with the fires of a thousand chernobyls?

It is shitbag, rick jones. They dont SAY, but they say. It is mystery but I solve, okay?

Overall, i do not buy. I leave on shelf and hope no one is saw me looking at it. It is too embarrass.

Jeph Loeb if I was your son I would to be dead, too, as God is a father who do not write dumb books. Smiezt spadam on you.

Place Your Ad Here

2007-12-31T09:16:00.000-08:00

This space available. Call 515-250-3471 for details.

Just a Brief Post Today

2007-11-26T08:29:00.001-08:00

Just a brief post today.

How's It Going?

2007-11-19T09:10:00.000-08:00

Just askin'.

Crown Green Bowls Championships: Todays' Update

2007-11-16T17:45:00.000-08:00

They ended yesterday. Check back next year for more.

Crown Green Bowls Championship Scores

2007-11-15T00:46:00.000-08:00

It was an exciting day but only one man could walk away a champion. Let's check the numbers.

Eccles - 7
Richardson - 21

Richardson walked away with this one, as many expected he would.

Off the Top of My Head; Things I know Less and Less About

2007-10-28T13:15:00.000-07:00

Aboleth, Basilisk, Behir, Beholder, Brownie, Carrion Crawler, Catoblepas, Cockatrice, Dinosaurs, Displacer Beast, Dragons, Ettin, Formian, Gargoyle, Gelatinous Cube, Goblin, Grell, Griffon, Hippocampus, Hippogriff, Hobgoblin, Hydra, Intellect Devourer, Kobold, Kuo-Toa, Lizardman, Manticore, Merman, Mind Flayer, Minotaur, Modron, Nereid, Ogre, Orc, Para-Elemental, Pegasus, Quixotic Elf, Raging Roper, Storm Giant, Sahuagin, Tarrasque, troglodyte, Troll, Vargoille, Water Elemental, Werewolf, Xag-ya, Xeg-yi, Yugoloth, Zombie

Kennedy, Roosevelt, Truman, Reagan, Nixon, Carter, Ford, Wilson, Clinton, Washington, Lincoln, Grant, Bush

Cactus, Fern, Tree

Easter, Faberge

Ramadan

(Categories: D&D Monsters, Former Presidents, Plants, Fancy Eggs, Islamic Holidays)

Editors' Note: Technically, the "answers" for "Fancy Eggs" should have appeared first. Since all possible types of fancy eggs were listed, this is the subject about which the most is known. However, it was decided, at the last minute, that the categories would be arranged for an aesthetic sense of "most to least", rather than another arrangement based on some meaningful or informative criteria.

It Happened Not Recently

2007-09-06T16:12:00.000-07:00

My adventure began, one morning, with the discovery of a bottle of kaluha in the cupboard. Seeing no alternative, I immediately drank from said bottle, until I was enveloped in a warm glow, and all seemed well with the world.

This, as always, did not last, and my contentedness was quickly supplanted by restlessness. Pouring the remaing kaluha into a silver flask, in the fashion of discreet and practical gentlemen everywhere, I slipped into my clothes and my shoes and ventured out into the wilds of society. What follows are the notes I took as I drunkenly staggered my way across no less than two towns.
12:20 - Arrive at banks' ATM. Scoff aloud at notion of "deposit". Silently curses all within earshot who might be mentally doubting my right to scoff aloud.

12:30 - Decision time. Take bus to parts unknown or get whore? Sip from flask.

12:35 - Arrive at bus stop. Want to take a sip, but security guards seem to have a peculiar interest in me. I must be cautious.

12:45 - On bus. Notice that security guards left as soon as I'm boarding. I sneak a sip before I get on. I'm not really sure where I'm going.

12:55 - Still on bus. Thoughts stray to series of gaffs and failures that compose life. Need a drink.

1:00 - Briefly consider following girl with blotchy complexion off bus. Driver comes back to tell guy behind me to keep feet of seat. You know the rules he says. Suspect this means I won't get away with a sip.

1:10 - Arrive in town of Westbank. Will explore retail opportunities or locate stripper bar.

1:13 - Licence plate "REZ-CAR". Joke enjoyed by indians. Means car is stolen.

1:25 - The towns' entire needs are met by one Extra Foods and one large Zellers. Am horrified by the implications.

1:30 - Cops constantly hovering nearby. Fuck off, pigs.

1:45 - Westbank quarter pounder w/ cheese not nearly as good as Kelowna quarter pounder w/ cheese.

2:15 - First instance of staggering into stuff. Grab latest issue of "King: The Illest Magazine Ever". Peruse sub par article on "The Notorious B.I.G.".

2:20 - Find worst yellow pages in the world. No strip bar section. Also no "C" through "M".

2:25 - Windy and rainy. On bus back home.

3:35 - Real life adventure over. Snuggle into bed for superior dreamland adventures.

Have You Been Apprised?

2007-08-31T14:08:00.000-07:00

Boris Yeltsin's cellular structure is so infused with vodka, he will decompose slower than Lenin, even if you left Yeltsins' body out in the street. It's true!

The customer is, in actuality, always wrong. And when they're not wrong, they're lying. It's true!

When black children get diarrhea, they think they're melting! It's true!

The almighty sarlacc from Return of the Jedi can swallow a jawa sandcrawler whole. It's true!

Your grandma just pissed herself while a masturbating orderly watched. Also, she can't even remember who you are. It's true!

A scorpion will always sting a frog, even in mid-transit across a pond. It's true!

Aliens only visit earth in secret because they're jewish. It's true!

The reason there is so many pedophiles is because there is so many sexy children. It's true!

John Diefenbakers' first Minister of Foreign Affairs was a giant vulture that was said to look into mens' souls, guzzle tequila like nobodies' business, and fart on command. It's true!

The worst thing in the world to be prison cellmates with is a fire elemental. It's true!

Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot and killed while test driving Skeletors' "Land Shark" vehicle. It had an open roof. It's true!

Now you know! For more details, try looking on the internet.

Stay With Us

2007-08-24T13:39:00.000-07:00

I was going to post some of my Ottawa Roughriders fanfiction today, but I've been hearing the faintest of grumblings and shadows of dark whispers this morning. So I'd just like to chime in and say what must be said.

Don't be dead, Fidel! The world still needs you, buddy!

Hopefully, this time tomorrow, we'll all be cursing my name as a reactionary fool... Hopefully.

This Thing Again..?

2007-08-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

God, what I am supposed to write? Fuck, what a chore. I'm just doing this out of obligation, just so we don't get another month without an update.

Seriously, why do I always have to be the one to do this? Why doesn't somebody else take a turn at this? Go ahead; write something. I don't mind, because really, I got nothing.

Nothing going on in my life, nothing going on in the world. Global warming, war in Iraq, it's all bullshit, I tell ya. BULLSHIT. What's the big deal anyway? Without global warming, the dinosaurs are never going to make their comeback, and without war, scientists will never cyborg them to have laser blasters for hands.

Sometimes I wish I could write this thing in my sleep. You'd see some fucked up shit here then, I guarantee. Like a clock that shows the time going by really fast, except it has cats' tails instead of hands, while "Duel of the Fates" plays in the background. Then when four hours and twenty three minutes in accelerated time goes by, a furry dressed like a manatee gets anally raped by the horn of a unicorn furry.

Now that I mention it, I think what I need is a really good sleep. I feel like I've been awake forever. My eyes feel strained and my vision gets blurry. When I walk around, everything looks like that rainbow racetrack from Mario Kart, and all the stars have eyes. Then when they fall down and you catch one and put it in your pocket, your pants catch on fire.

It must be that my eyes are just playing tricks on me. I saw a black man in town. If you knew this town the way I do, you'd know that HAD to be some kind of optical illusion.

There you have it. Hurray for free association!

What YOU Need To Know, AFTER The Fact You Needed To Know It

2007-07-14T03:39:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking: Where?

Where is the comprehensive and detailed review of the most significant achievement in human history ie. The Transformers movie?

Well, it's taken me a while to articulate my thoughts in such a manner as to accurately convey my thoughts and feelings on the whole experience, and I think it can best be summed up in this manner.

Even before I saw the movie, I wanted for this to be the experience of a lifetime. I imagined that, to maximize my enjoyment, while watching the movie, I should also be simultaneously getting a blow job and and eating a piping hot Pilsbury toaster strudel.

Well, let me tell you now that I didn't miss the strudel one bit, because the movie is a blow job. From God.

That's right, God sucked my dick for two and a half hours and it was sheer ecstacy.

I really don't know what else to say. I would have preferred that the movie had been about three years long (or however long we'll have to wait until the sequel), but that's my only complaint.

Out of four stars, I give it infinity plus one stars.

Now you know.

Cosmic Rust pt. VIII

2007-06-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

Picking up where we last left off, we find the Autobots mired in the dire predicament of being infected with cosmic rust and having already exhausted their supply of the only known cure. Their only hope lies in the matter duplicator, a device which has never functioned. Not even once.

Optimus Prime, Wheeljack, and Ratchet, who have been consulting with with their supercomputer, Teletran -1, suddenly notice that the computers' fine picture show and adequate oratory have been supplanted by meaningless garble.

"That's strange." says Optimus as we look over his shoulder towards the static filled screen. He taps away at the keyboard with the speed and accuracy of a pro. "Teletran-1 must be having some internal prob... My hands."

We can only guess as to the reason for Prime's digression, as no cause for concern is evinced by the animation. Is it dishpan hands, or what? We are left with our wild speculations for only a few seconds, until Optimus turns his hand over and we can see the brown speckles of the titular horror!

"I had no choice. I had to rescue Perceptor." he avers, as he turns towards the camera, and we're confronted with the harsh reality of just how far the infection has spread. Which is to say, it could be worse, I guess. Optimus has his fair share of rust on him, but it's gonna be awhile before he collapses into dust like those legionnaire guys.

Perhaps a bit pissed that Ratchet and Blaster are just slack jawed and staring at him, Optimus calls attention to their own condition. Curiously, they seem surprised as they discover that they, too, have been infected.

"Oh no! What's goin' on here, man?" cries Blaster with obvious dismay, proving he's not paid any attention to anything that's happened so far.

"Hey! It's suddenly getting hot in here!" announces Ratchet. But before we delude ourselves into thinking he's contracted a fever, the source of the escalating temperatures is quickly revealed as an external one. In fact, it's so external, it's not even in the Autobot base, and we know this because the scene immediately shifts to their headquarters exterior.

Remember that the Autobots live in their spaceship, the Ark, which crashed into a volcano four million years ago. So what we are looking at is the back end of an orange spacecraft sticking out of a rocky slope. On this particular day, the Ark is ensnared in a web of pink lightning. The camera pans to the right, revealing to us that, on a nearby clifftop, this energy is coming from the Decepticons' new lightning bug weapon. Operating this weapon is none other than the malevolent Megatron himself, while Rumble merely observes, clearly not privy to the missions' complexities.

"Why not use it at full power, and melt Autobot headquarters to the ground?" he queries.

"I don't want to melt them down, Rumble. I want them to suffer... Slowly." Megatron replies casually, enjoying a good chuckle at this prospect.

Inside the Ark, Teletran-1 is suddenly functional again, and has revealed to Optimus the presence of Megatron and his weapon. "He must be using that thing to spread the germs." Prime concludes, and we know his is correct from Perceptors' earlier findings that the germs feed off of the lightning bugs' energy. Although, if that's the case, I think that the Autobots would have suffered even slower had Megatron not turned his weapon on them at all.

"Then there is no time to lose." declares Perceptor, suddenly full of verve. Despite the fact that his case of cosmic rust is presumedly the most advanced, it hasn't slowed him down yet. "Come Wheeljack, we have work to do."

With that, the scene switches to what I suspect is Wheeljacks' workshop. Interestingly, everything here is made from grey metals, and not the standard Autobot orange. This suggests that nothing here is standard Autobot issue, which is entirely appropriate and fitting with Wheeljacks' status as an inventor.

The matter duplicator itself is a large and unwieldy affair. Its' main component is a computer terminal at least equal in size to Teletran-1. Wheeljack fussing with some parts until he feels like he's accomplished something, pushes a button. When this results in a) a light, and b) a sound, the Autobot duo wordlessly turn and look at each other. Whether it be from frustration or because he'd just seen The Empire Strikes Back, Perceptor swiftly kicks the computer a couple of times, and, sure enough, it beeps and flashes to life. Behind them, a pair of glass cylinders crackle with energy. My assumption is that you place "matter" in one of the cylinders, and "duplicated mater" is generated in the second cylinder, but no onscreen demonstration is forthcoming. Nevertheless, the Autobots are pleased with what they see. With cries of "Tremendous!" and "It works!" Perceptor and Wheeljack proceed to wave their arms about in a celebratory type manner.

With that, we rather unexpectedly find ourselves gazing at the exterior of the Decepticons' lair, deep in the watery depths of the ocean. Within, the famous cassette playing Soundwave, debuting unusually late in the episode, strides towards Megatron.

For me, the Decepticon leaders' presence here raises a few questions, since when last seen, he was firing the lightning bug on the Autobot base. Now we find him here, a half a world away(speculation), at the bottom of the sea(confirmed), uncomfortably perched in a chair that seems entirely too tiny(confirmed). I must wonder, when was it that he left, and why? Did he leave minions to guard the bug as it cooked our heroes into new heights of diseased states? Did he leave it there unattended (not impossible on this show)? Or did he pack it up and go home? But all these inquiries are for naught, as it is Megatron who will ask the questions.

"Well, Soundwave? Has Laserbeak returned with the visuals?"

"Affirmative." Soundwave responds in his distinctive monotone.

With that, he opens his chest compartment and manually removes Laserbeak.

Laserbeak, of course, is the more famous of twin of Buzzsaw, both of whom are cassettes that transform into birds. Though nearly identical, they are easily distinguished in that Laserbeak has red parts, whereas the corresponding parts on Buzzsaw are gold.

Laserbeaks' fame comes from his frequent and prominent appearances on this show, where he is regularly depicted as a effective spy and important component of the Decepticon forces. However, anyone who cares to read the filecards included with these particular toys, will discover that it is Buzzsaw who is the spy, and Laserbeak is actually an interrogator, who's chief characteristic is stark raving cowardice. Yet, somehow, Buzzsaw hardly ever appears on the show. What gives?

Personally, I blame marketing. You see, back in the day, Buzzsaw and Soundwave were packaged together and would run you a hefty $25, easy. So, obviously, anyones' decision to buy this package depended entirely on how much they like Soundwave, who is considerably larger than Buzzsaw. Fact is, it didn't matter how much you liked Buzzsaw, no one was shelling out for this set if they didn't want Soundwave.

Laserbeak was also part of a two pack deal. The difference was that he came with Frenzy, a fellow cassette transformer, and together they ran you no more than $10. Frenzy, like Buzzsaw, is another TV no-show and underappreciated twin of another Decepticon cassette; in this case, Rumble. So it fell to Laserbeak to sell this pack. Perhaps unsure how to sell the rather limited and sadisitic notion of interrogation in a kid friendly manner, the writers probably decided to just pilfer the obvious coolness of espionage from Buzzsaw, and transferred it to "what the heck are we supposed to do with this guy" Laserbeak.

Being kind of a Buzzsaw fan myself, this has always been a bit of a pet peeve of mine.

Anyway, Soundwave plugs Laserbeak into a slot on a nearby computer, less like a cassette and more like a VCR... uh, cassette. Anyway, the video rolls and Megatron is much delighted by the images of Autobots all laid out like their on their deathbeds, moaning in obvious discomfort.

"How terrible." he notes, and, lest there be any doubt about his sincerity, he also rubs his hands together with glee.

The image zooms in on Optimus Prime as he stands next to his little yellow friend, Bumblebee, who is looking particularly worse for wear, inasmuch as the limits of the animation will allow. While considerably rusty, it looks more like he was outside the monkey cage and took shit hits to the side of the head and torso.

"Somebody's got to get us back to Cybertron, Prime." suggests the little yellow Autobot, in a fit of apparent idiocy. I mean, Bumblebee probably does not say this because he wishes to infect the entire population of their home planet, but it's not clear to me what else he might hope to accomplish there.

" Too bad you used all your Corrostop on the human statue, and gave the rest to me!" quips Megatron to the recorded images. "Well, rust in peace, Prime!" he says, chuckling and reclining in his little chair. But he isn't given long to enjoy himself, for as soon as he says those words, the recording broadcasts Perceptors' voice announcing "We did it! We're going to be saved!"

Megatron, of course, is not pleased as he listens.

"We finally got the matter duplicator working. All we have to do is scrape some Corrostop from the Statue of Liberty, and then we'll mass produce it!"

As I'm watching this, I'm suddenly amazed by the quality of this recording. It's amazing how Laserbeak was able to cover the action from so many angles; Overhead, over shoulders, close ups, and somehow still go undetected. I had to confess, it's a better job than even Buzzsaw could have realistically achieved.

The camera work goes unnoticed by Megatron as he shuts it off. "We must hurry!" he commands.

"What is our destination?" Soundwave asks, perhaps afraid to put two and two together.

"The Statue of Liberty, of course. Pity it won't be there by the time the Autobots arrive!"

Well, I'm left wondering just how the Autobots plan to "scrape off" the Corrostop. After all, isn't this stuff supposed to render metal safe from "anything"? So how do you get it off? For similar reasons, I wonder how the Decepticons plan on destroying the statue. I guess it's possible that the lightning bugs' destructive capacity just might outclass Corrostops' protective capacity, or maybe the just want to hide the statue. We'll see.

Anyway, I bet I can wrap this all up in just one more installment, it seems like there's nothing left but the epic, climactic battle.

So look for that.

Here.

Soon.

Give Me My Life; What Was It?

2007-06-02T10:05:00.000-07:00

You know, amazing as it may seem, we are coming up pretty quick here on the second anniversary of Doob LaVey. WOW! Can you believe it? That's a long time. The only other thing I've ever stuck with for two years is "not dying" and I guess I've gotten pretty good at that, as I've been doing it for over 33 years now (It's gonna take awhile for Doob LaVey to catch up to that one!;).

The Doob LaVey of today is not the Doob LaVey of yesterday. Nor is it the Doob LaVey I set out to create. Almost immediately, it took on a life of its' own, growing and evolving from a somewhat
cohesive narrative with the occasional digression, into the sporadically updated series of random tangents that you see before you now.

What I originally envisioned was for Doob LaVey to be my story. My tale as I tromped and stomped my way from here to my death bed. Every ounce of love and laughter was to be captured here; Every heartbreak and horror preserved here, in my own words.

Which, now that I'm thinking about it, sounds an awful lot like every other blog ever. The difference being that I'm almost as good a writer as I am an architect, and I am a way better architect than any other blogger will ever hope to be. Uh... LOL?

Long ago it became clear to me that it was far too late to try to get my blog back on track. So I had to do the next best thing. Thus began work on my autobiography. Before you ask, no, it's not finished yet, and no, I wouldn't look for it in bookstores any earlier than next year. But it has begun! Oh my, how it has begun.

As a little treat for my regular readers, I've decided to post portions of my autobiography here for both of you to enjoy. Without further ado, I present to you the foreword from "Give Me My Life; What Was It?".

Okay, maybe one little "ado" first. Traditionally, the foreword is written by a person other than the author. You know, a friend, a colleague, a worthy adversary, and the like (which need not be specified). For this solemn duty, I chose my old chum, Darren Pisni. Even though I haven't seen or spoken to Darren in decades, our history together made him the perfect match for this kind of assignment. One private investigators' fee of $435.72 later, I was reunited with this long lost childhood friend by telephone.

Now, I may or may not have mentioned Darren to you before. Either way, he was the bloke who, as an infant, mistook "Dran-O" for a beverage, and imbibed heavily. Ever after, the resulting burns and damage rendered his speech into something more akin to a garbled mess of consonants. So I hope you understand me when I say I meant to be as brief on the phone as possible. As I hung up, I regarded the twenty two minutes as a sacrifice for the greater good, as he had agreed to write the foreword, as I'd hoped.

Thusly freed from worry, I sat down to work, and churned out good material at a steady rate for almost two weeks, until the postman delivered a parcel to my doorstep. As I had expected, it proved to be the foreword Darren had written. Excited to learn all the kind and wonderful things he had said, I eagerly tore open the package so I could have a look at the manuscript.

As I mentioned, due to the quality of Darren's deductive abilities, he had blessed him with a severe speech impediment. In no way had it ever affected his reading or comprehension. Yet, as I perused the manuscript, I found that he'd transcribed the whole thing in his personal brand of Scooby talk. I dialed him up immediately.

"What the fuck, Darren." I said. "What is this shit?"

"Rev repuno kak renar gorda." he replied, feigning suprise.

"You know what I'm talking about. Now explain yourself!"

"Keppa seruba kon tili. Moki slaa. krey peti krey."

There's only so much abuse that one man can take, and I hung up on him. I had more important things to worry about; Like where was I going to find someone to write this thing?

Even then I knew who it would end up being. The best man for the job was the one I always turn to, when I want a job done right. Me.

So, with all my ado's now exhausted, I present to you... this.

GIVE ME MY LIFE; WHAT WAS IT?
An Autobiography
by
Jamie S. Luxton III

Foreword
by
Jamie S. Luxton III

Sometimes a man just has to drink alone. Especially when he's forced to delve into the deepest and darkest of places within his own mind; Places he'd hoped to never venture again. However, these things must sometimes be done, even if only for the sake of professionalism. I, as a professional autobiographer, would be remiss in my duty, were I to recollect for you only the happier moments of my life. That would be only one half of one story; only one half of one life (and the shorter half at that).

Try as I might, I cannot forget my responsibility to my readers, who have either dished out an assload of cash for this volume, or else risked incarceration by stealing it (it'll make more sense after it's published). Whichever way it was for you, dear reader, brace yourself. Prepare yourself for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

So help me God.

Off to a pretty good start, aren't we? Next time, I'll let you all have a gander at chapter one. Should be a hoot.

The Real Deal

2007-05-30T08:24:00.000-07:00

To the person who phoned me at 8:15 this morning and left the following voice mail:

“Yeah, Mike (indecipherable) calling back, Brian. Um... What, regarding the Chrysler, the Imperial? Yep. Bye bye.”

Please do not call at such an ungodly hour. It's discourteous at best. I can understand, somewhat, that you might greatly desire said Chrysler. But do you really think the competition for even a mighty vessel such as this, really necessitates this early of a head start? Come on, man. Get real.

Also, you got the wrong number, which is the part that really ticks me off.

It is a small consolation to me to know that this means your efforts were for naught. I'd rather you have your damnable Imperial if it meant I could have slept in.

That's the real deal.

Cosmic Rust part VII

2007-05-07T03:22:00.000-07:00

What an exciting time it is to be alive. There's only two more months to go until the summer hollywood blockbuster of all summer Hollywood blockbusters; The Transformers. The whole world is practically re-energized with anticipation! I almost expect (Okay, only half expect) every vehicle I jump into (ie. City buses) to transform into a mechanized fighting alien, while I and the other passengers are transformed into wet, red goo by the robots' inner workings. But that is really neither here nor there.
Anyway, to capitalize on the ever growing excitement, it seems like an adept time for another installment of Cosmic Rust! It's been quite a spell since the last one, so let's refresh, shall we?

Megatron and the Decepticons journeyed to an alien world where they acquired not only an ancient and powerful weapon, but also a rare and fatal disease unique to mechanized lifeforms.
Fortuitously, the Autobot scientist Perceptor has just recently developed a cure, which the Decepticons abduct him for. Then, having utilized the cure, Megatron releases his captive, but only as bait to lure Optimus Prime into a trap that will infect all the Autobots with cosmic rust! Oh yeah, they used up all the cure already, and it's impossible to make more. It's gone forever.

There you have it... nice and concise. Let's get on with the clumsy wordiness, the needless asides, and litany of disabuses; Today's portion of Cosmic Rust!
Last time we left off with a timely commercial break. We now return to the Transformers" a voice announces and, sensibly enough, the action picks up right where it left off. Optimus stands before the restrained Perceptor, who is not only rusty, but also has a bomb, just in front of him, about to go off.

"No Optimus! Get back! Save yourself!" cries Perceptor.

"Be quiet... And that's an order." responds the commander, having no patience for the smug, pedantic diatribes that are the vice of self-important intellectuals everywhere. Optimus knows the other Autobots are watching, and knows they expect nothing less than a show of heroic selflessness. Optimus does not disappoint them. He immediately begins yanking on the ties that bind Perceptor, even as the bombs' fuse flares up ominously. There isn't much time!

Looking at it now, I'm not entirely sure the bomb can't just be picked up and thrown away. There's no real evidence that it is secured to the metal slab apon with it rests. Even the action gives us no clue, as Optimus doesn't even try to touch the bomb. I have to wonder if Megatron could really be dumb enough to just set the bomb there and hope that Optimus won't pick it up? No... wait. Perceptor would know. If the bomb could be moved or thrown, Perceptor would tell Optimus. Unless he were unconscious when the bomb was placed... fuck it. Just fuck it.

Getting back on track here, it seems that as little time as the Autobots have, they need even less, as the metal bars that constrain Perceptor succumb immediately to Optimus' strength. Perceptor transforms and the two friends start hoofing it like mad. Though they narrowly escape the fiery blast radius, the shock waves still knock them to the ground.

"You've got to leave me here,Optimus." Says Perceptor, like an old man. That cosmic rust must really be doing a number on him. "If I go back to headquarters, I could infect everybody."

The notion of exposing every one of his friends and comrades to a highly contagious, lethal disease, doesn't faze Optimus for a second.

""We're not leaving you anywhere, Perceptor." The Autobot commander vows. "You're coming with us right now."

Optimus lifts up Perceptor and carries him. End debate. End scene.

The next scene opens, and we see Optimus has made good on his word; Perceptor reclines comfortably on a "bed" with Optimus and Ratchet hover about him, while Wheeljack fusses with Teletran-1 in the background. For those not in the know, Ratchet is the Autobot's chief surgeon, and Wheeljack is their inventor of all sorts of weapons and devices of dubious reliability(ie. they don't work).

Perceptor gives them the low down on the cause and effect of cosmic rust. Optimus wonders about the diseases origins, to which Wheeljack opines "Maybe Teletran-1 can tell us."

Wheeljack starts pushing some buttons, and I have to wonder what it was he was doing there earlier because we can clearly see now that the viewscreen is dark; There's nothing on it. Regardless, Teletran's screen lights up almost immediately in response to this latest bout of button pushing, and we see an image of a planet that might just be the same one that the Decepticons visited at the start of the episode. Now it's fading away, but why... now there's some moons, or an asteroid... wait, what is... Okay. After a brief montage of spherical celestial objects, we now see the planet which was definitely visited by the Decepticons at the start of the episode. We can tell by the enormous glowing Autobot symbol it wears.

"The germs originated on a planet called Antilla." the super computer solemnly intones.

The image zooms in on Antilla, but is replaced what we can assume to be the surface of Antilla. Here we see a metallic cityscape with a generic robot marching about, while some others take a breather near by.

"At the dawn of time, there was a thriving Autobot civilization."

This is kind of a confusing claim. Was this civilization spontaneously created by the dawn of time? Or did this civilization existed before the dawn of time, and then just carried on right through the dawn of time? Is that even possible? The Autobots are less perplexed, or at least less interested, in this seeming conundrum, and let the statement pass unchallenged.

"Then dreaded asteroids began falling from the sky, to spread cosmic rust."

It's only my guess that he says the asteroids are "dreaded". That's what it sounds like to me, but I think it's a curious choice of qualifier. Unless the robots of Antilla knew there was cosmic rust on them. In which case, dread would be perfectly appropriate.

As the asteroids collide with the buildings, their descent is accompanied by a "swish" sound effect that would also used for a thrown object, or for swinging from a rope. The point is that the audios and the videos don't match up, and it's conspicuously inappropriate.

"No cure was ever found."

Optimus, Blaster, and Wheeljack, all now showing the muddy signs of rustiness, turn to look at each other in stunned silence. I suspect the Autobots might now be wondering if Optimus new about that part when he decided, on everyones' behalf, to bring Perceptor home. But just in case they aren't feeling bad enough about their situation, there's more.

"The thirteenth legion, the lost legion, was decimated by that malevolent scourge."

Now I've never heard of this thirteen legion before, but I'll bet the Autobots know who they were. Even if they didn't, Teletran's monitor gives us all a chance to get acquainted with a couple of the legionnaires as they topple over and disintegrate before our very eyes. Pretty heavy duty stuff on display here.

"Isn't there anything we can do to protect ourselves?" cries Wheeljack with dismay.

"Corrostop is the only known antidote." responds Teletran-1, emotionlessly.

"But we can't make any more. We're out of the secret catalyst." Optimus reminds everyone.

"Wait! I have an idea!" says Wheeljack excitedly, which the Autobots should regard as a cause for concern nearly as great as the cosmic rust itself. You know a situation is desperate when Wheeljack's mad antics and harebrained schemes are your only remaining ray of hope. Knowing this, what is it that has Wheeljack so worked up?

"We could try the matter duplicator!"

Um. Okay. I guess if anything's going to work, that'd be it. Optimus is first to point out the slight flaw in this plan.

"The matter duplicator. But it doesn't work. It never worked!" he says with exactly the amount of frustration you'd expect from someone who both owns a matter duplicator and cannot make it function. No doubt Optimus can think up all sorts of good uses for the matter duplicator. They could have probably used it to solve the problems of every episode.

In fact, I now think that it was unfair of me to earlier accuse the corrostop of being a Deus ex machina. The matter duplicator is far more deserving of that distinction.

I will predict, since it's unlikely two solutions will present themselves this late in the episode, that the device will be repaired, and perform as required, only to melt, or otherwise be destroyed afterward, since it has never been referenced outside this episode. But fate of the matter duplicator, the fate of the Autobots,the veracity of my predictions, will all have to wait... until next time.

Spider-Man 3 BLOZZZ(SPOILERS)

2007-05-05T06:06:00.000-07:00

So you can totally tell that i was toally stoked for spider-man 3. I didn't like number two all that much because, you tell me, do you want to see a movie about a hero who fights a fat guy with six arms? Come on! But as soon as I found out venom was in this one, i said no way they can screw this up! As it turns out, all this movie needs is Chris tucker to be Richard Prior and you have Superman III for a new generation. SPOILERS FOLLOW!

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Venom is the ultimate spider amn villain he he was in the movie for like 10 minutes and those were the best ten minutes. Just because sAm raimi doesn't like venom he has to be a f*g and have him vaporized. He trashed Venom just to send a message to the fans,(who are the ones these movies are made for might I add) about how much he hates this character. Venom is so popular only a total idiot would just waste him like that. Venom is the perfect character for a spin off. Here's my idea to save Venom from such a stupid death. maybe the symbiote managed to grab Eddie's consciousness before his body disintegrated and Eddie's like a ghost inside the symbiote, but he remembers everything that Spider-Man did to him. Then they could use "Venom: Blood Kills When it Falls From As High As Olympus Mons" as a perfect basis for a spin off movie. Imagine the part where Peter comes into JJJ's office and it's all dark. Peter turns on the lights and finds Eddie behind the desk, and peter says "Your the one who framed me? Why did you do it eddie" and the symbiote starts dripping down on Eddie untilthey form Venom and he says "Rrrrevennnge!!!" And imagine that he's like drooling all over the ground. That would be so awesome I get chills just imagining it.

The worst part is that venom could have been in it so much more if the useless Sandman wasn't in it. What was he there for anyway! Sam raimi says he only likes the old time spidy villains, but he can't even do them right. Since when can Sandman turn into a giant monster, OR Fly!? WTF**K! Also, SANDMAN NEVER KILLED UNCLE BEN!!!! Get your facts right, maybe you'd make a better movie if you knew anything about the subject. I have Amazing Spider-Man issue #1. That's right, the one where Uncle Ben dies, and guess who did it? NOT SANDMAN. Not to mention we already had the villain who's not really evil in Spidey 2. We don't need it again. It would have been so much better, if you have to have Sandman kill Uncle Ben, to make Sandman a ruthless killer who kills anyone who gets in his way, he don't care who they be. Then, when he catches Sandman in the subway, Spidey starts throwing punches and saying "This is for Uncle Ben! And This one's for me1" and Sandman says "Why are you attackeing me" and Spider-Man replies "Revenge!" and he laughs as Sandman dissolves in the water, to show how dark and messed up he is by the black suit's influence. Tell me that this isn't better than having sandman say "sorry" and flying away at the end. F**king r*tards.

Also, was this supposed to be a major hollywood movie or a freakin' musical!? If I wanted dancing all the time I'd try to talk to a girl, thank you very much. Like half an hour is just kirsten dunst singing and dancing. She can't stop herself... she's got saturday night fever LOL! Of course MJ sucked in every other scene too, just like in the first two. They should have started the movie with Peter hooked up with Gwen stacy already, (who was super hot!!!) and the first scene she could maybe ask what happened to Peter's last girlfriend and he'd reply "I think she died or something."LOL! Gwen should have been in it way more, she's way hotter than Dunst.

And if MJ dancing all the time isn't bad enough, there's like a half hour in the middle where Peter is dancing the whole time! They should have cast John Travolta as Peter lol! And the worst part is he can't stop dancing because he's wearing the black suit (ie. the symbiote)! THAT"S NOT WHAT"S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN, FOLKS! And as if there isn't too much EMO in this world already but now Peter Parker goes EMO too!? Put on some more eyeliner, Tobey, I don't think we understand how you're feeling yet, and comb your hair over your eyes again. The black suit is supposed to be a dark story, if your going to make it a light story you should have used the white spidey suit. Geez this blows.

As for Harry, WTF, the new goblin? More like the X-treme sports-blin. How come a bomb that atomizes Venom only scars Harry and turns him into into two-face? Is this spider-man or batman lol.

So basically they failed at every story they tried to tell.

Harry's revenge/ redemption=failed
Pete/MJ relationship=failed
Sandman story=no story=passed lol
Eddie brock's fall=failed. did it all happen in one day or what
Venom=hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahhahahaha
Dark peter=is that supposed to say funny peter? If so then passed

When I was a kid, my dad gave me his entire spider-man comic book collection, and I've been the hugest spidey fan, like my father before me. Now he's dying and he said this movie was what kept him going, he had to see this before he died. Broke my god**mn heart to have to go back to the hospital and tell him the truth. "So, how was it?" he said, and I said "Dad,don't bother staying alive for this garbage."

Overall, I give this movie three stars out of five.

Happy Creation Day

2007-04-10T04:13:00.000-07:00

Well, as you probably know already, today is what's collequially known as my "birthday"! Well-wishers, please limit the profanities in your wellwishing to four or less.

A few weeks ago, with the impeding arrival of this happy occasion weighing heavily on my mind, the Jehovah's Witnesses were kind enough to slip some literature through my mail slot. I... well, let's go back a bit further than that.

You see, so far far I've been enjoying 2007 a great deal so far. It's probably one of my favorite years in quite a while. Seems like just about everything is coming up in my favour. For example:

2007. 2 007. Get it? Two Double Oh Seven. Like James Bond. I love James Bond!

Second, Ghost Rider sucked... as I hoped it would.;)

Third, the Transformers movie. Who can forget about that! By itself it's enough to turn the worst of years upside down!

2007 is the year I became unemployed. God, how I've been dreaming of this! I can't remember the last time I wanted to work... now I don't have to!

So, as if all that wasn't already enough, this religious factsheet appears on my doorstep and, lo and behold, some curious parallels present themselves to me. Check this out:

Jesus: Died 1974 years ago.
Me: Born in 1974.

Jesus: Died when he was 33.
Me: Turning 33 today.

Jesus:Wore sandals.
Me: Wear sandals (weather permitting).

Jesus: Cannot be considered gainfully employed, as he did not pay his taxes.
Me: Unemployed(as already established).

Jesus: Turns water into wine.
Me: Turns winebottle into empty, turns empty into dime.

Jesus: Turns bread into fish.
Me: Turns bread into fish; Still only half way to tuna sandwich.

Well, I guess by now you can only reach the same, inescapable, conclusion that I have come to. Put into perspective like this, things start making a lot more sense. For example, when God talks to me, he only says stuff like "CLEAN UP YOUR ROOM" and "WAKE UP, YOU'LL BE LATE FOR SCHOOL".

Anyway, I have to go. Apparently, "THE TRASH ISN'T GOING TO TAKE ITSELF OUT, YOU KNOW". }:(

Numbers get the short end

2007-04-05T10:06:00.000-07:00

You know, numbers and letters are very similar in that they are the building blocks for some of humanities fundamental concepts: mathematics and language. But numbers get the short end of that stick because the name of each number is a word. and to make words you must have letters. Which sort of suggests to me that letters are more important than numbers, because ifyou cant name the numbers then you dont have numbers. You have unknown quantities.

So I think it might be a good idea that the symbolic form of numbers ("9" for example) shall not only be the name of the number (instead of "nine") and be pronounced via a sound not currently represented by the letters of the alphabet. I have no idea right now what that might sound like but this is a work in progress anyway.

If this all comes to pass, you might wonder if somebody wont start complaining that numbers are more important than letters. That is why I propose this as only a temporary situation, to be undone after 100 years.

I'm just trying to get some ideas out there. Let me know what your solution is, and it just might be featured in your next local crimestoppers segment.

This Way

2007-03-30T17:13:00.000-07:00

With all the stress going on in my life these days, it's probably not the best time to try and quit smoking. But that's what I'm doing.

I don't know how many of you have ever tried to do this, nor could I say that I honestly care. But for those who don't know, let me remind you that quitting smoking was one of the famous seven labours performed by Hercules. And it was only on the second, nicotine-less day, that he tore in twain his obnoxious centaur sidekick, Newton.

The only suprise there is that it didn't happen far sooner. After all, the Greek gods were hardly constrained by desires to come across as good role models... even on their best days.

I once tried to quit smoking once before, and it went pretty well. Cold turkey, and it lasted a year and a half. But you know how it goes. Next thing you know, you meet a girl who smokes, or catch the scent of a house on fire, or become an alcoholic. In all the above cases, a cigarette is more than likely in your near future. Of course you tell yourself it's only one smoke, just this once. You wouldn't be human if you didn't make excuses.

In an amazing case of convergent happenstance, someone stole my ashtray. True, although it was dear to me, what with the Heineken labeling and having been brought to me from Thailand by a confederate, I left it continuously outdoors. At the mercy of the elements and the caprice of theives, it lay unmolested at the top of my stairs for many months, for that is where I do my smoking.

I guess it was hubris that lead me to believe, even after the kid downstairs had his bike stolen from our communal backyard, that my ashtray might escape the attention of robbers and blackguards. And it wasn't like I wasn't well forewarned. On several occasions I observed cigarette butts scattered all around the ashtray, as though someone had been rooting through them in search of juicy morsels which might yield up their tobacco to be combined with others, and then enjoyed in the form of a gypsy smoke.

But having cut back so much on my smoke inhalation, I can't say how much time had passed between the theft and my noticing of said theft. Not that I was enjoying smoking on the steps much anymore, anyway. The ever increasing variety and size of spiders in the vicinity is a strong discouragement for yours truly.

I went up to the gas station nearby a few days ago to purchase a single cigar. I lit it immediately but still, by the time I got home, I'd only had about a third of it and that wasn't going to be enough. Plus I knew that if I put it out and left it near my home, it was only a matter of time before I'd come looking to finish it.

So I walked away from the house for a couple of blocks, smoking until I felt no more need, and threw it out into the middle of the highway near my house. I walked away from there, confident that circumstances were well in hand.

But then... I can't remember! This all happened in october! This is all just a draft I saved and never finished. I haven't even proof read it for mistakes or to see if it even makes any sense at all. Crazy, eh?

Obituaries

2007-03-12T11:54:00.000-07:00

In the year of our lord, Two-double Oh-seven, things got off to a pretty dismal start. First Ghost Rider, now this.

It is my sad duty to inform you that my confidante and reliable comrade, Sammy, has passed away.

Sammy was a scholar and a gentlefish. He would have been an explorer or an inventor, if not for his lack of hands and inability to survive out of water.

"The flame of life which burns inside us all, glows no less brightly when it is but the flicker of one tiny candle. With Sammy's passing, the world is now a tiny bit darker, and a tiny bit colder."

These words, so apt now, are paraphrased from my good friend Bill MacNeil, who's passing really did leave this world colder and darker... but I digress.

Here now are my own words, born of my own grief.

Swim, swim, Gilled One,
Take your laughter to Heaven,
Leave our tears behind.

Sammy was a smart fish. I'm sure that right now, somewhere, he knows how much we miss him.

R.I.P. Sammy, ? - March 11, 2007.

O Sweet Valentine

2007-02-15T08:08:00.000-08:00

"When true love is unrequited, the whole world is a load of crap."

Dylan Thomas, 1987

Yesterday was Valentine's Day once again, and I was all by my lonesome once again. That's okay. Not only did I expect this, I welcomed it. After all, it gave me the opportunity and motivation to write something special here for that special day.

Twas to be a true and heartfelt declaration of love eternal, no thought unvoiced, no emotion unsaid.

But then, tragedy. Anna Nicole Smith up and dies on me. Everything I'd written sudden was rendered meaningless, not to mention slightly inappropriate. You'll have to trust me on this; the things I said are definitely things I do not want to do to a dead woman. To do so would be in remarkably poor taste;)

Now in a peculiar bind with a deadline, I wracked my brain for enough material to post something to my other true love. You know of whom I speak... My world famous Paris Hilton scrapbook isn't world famous for nothing! But a few hours later, having written nothing but a lame joke about who weighs more now, Nicole Ritchie or Tinkerbell (LOL), I realised this wasn't the right direction to go in, either.

Which pretty much leaves me dead in the water, as far as Valentine's day material goes. All I have left to offer is to tell you about a dream I had. It's kind of a cheat, I know, but' it's marginally related to Valentine's Day in the sense this is a day of copious fucking. February 14 is the day, more than any other day, that I wish I had a trusty pair of binoculars, and lived in a high rise apartment, facing another high rise apartment building. Although, truth be told, there isn't any actual fucking in my dream, either. But enough about that... on to this dream I had.

The Pie Eating Championship

Yes, I dreamed that I was in a pie eating competition, but no, it wasn't that kind of pie. I'm talking about poontang pie! I think we're on the same page now.

I don't recall the particular territorial jurisdiction of said championship, whether it was world or national or local. Nor do I recall their being any prizes for the winner beyond, I suppose, bragging rights of being the premier pussy eater. After all this was an officially sanctioned contest. I would think that such a champion would find no shortage of women willing to present the stage upon which he performed, as it were. However, I dare say that this is a mixed blessing at best, a point on which I'll elucidate later.

The tournament was divided into four rounds. In each round, there was one judge for every two contestants. The two contestants would then have to eat their judges' pussy (not at the same time). She would then judge one of them to be the superior, in accordance with known and established criteria, and send that fellow on to the next round. The whole tournament took place over the course of a single afternoon.

While the naming of a new muff diving champion is certainly a momentous occasion, the contest was taking place outdoors amidst a "county fair" sort of atmosphere, and seemed to be only one of a number of events taking place.

In any case, spectators were more than welcome, as each pussy eating took place in one of several tents set up around the grounds. These tents were made from some transparent material, like plastic or mosquito netting or something, so the throngs could watch their preferred judge/contestant combo in action.

At the point where I start remembering my dream, I was poised to enter the finals. Pussy X4 I'd already eaten that day; and only one more vagina stood between me a victory. One thing I don't recollect clearly is at what point I learned the identity of the final judge. I think that she was only described as a celebrity judge until last minute before the final round began. Then, finally, the grand unveiling revealed her to be none other than... Alanis Morissette.

Now, to clarify, I cannot count myself among the legions of Ms. Morisette's rabid fans. At best, I am only slightly familiar with some of her songs from a decade ago. Additionally, I never have described her as being particularly attractive and have never had anything like a schoolgirl crush on her. Nevertheless, this is the situation my brain saw fit to create.

So here I am in this translucent tent, eating Alanis Morisette's pussy, while a crowd watches. While I went to some lengths in dismissing her songs and her looks, there is no need for similar denigration of her vagina. In all respects was it perfectly adequate. There were no offensive smells or tastes, although the deep and vibrant pink colour brought to mind fleeting suggestions of "recently used". Hair, of course, had to be removed in accordance with regulations, but that the small remaining patch of hair was shaped like a heart, suggested to me that this was her own preferred condition.

Sounds okay, right? Wrong. All was not well in Cunnilingiland.

Here's the problem. Eating pussy is hard work. It makes my tongue hurt, and there's a limit to my endurance. I don't even like eating pussy, really. With each new cunt, it's fine the first time or two, but by the third time, I'm bored. Which is why I speculated earlier that winning this thing may only be a mixed blessing.

But the problem in this instance is that I've already eaten four different pussies that very afternoon! I'm exhausted. And despite my obviously masterful repertoire of skills and techniques, I am just physically incapable of performing at the level I need to. I know it, and I can tell she knows it too, from the way she just kind of limply lays there and is obviously totally not into it at all. So I had no choice but to concede defeat.

In doing so, I denied the other finalist a chance to taste Alanis, as he was automatically crowned champion when I conceded, which I guess is a small victory for me. And for Alanis? She came to get her pussy eaten by a champion and didn't enjoy it at all. Isn't it ironic?

So now you know the tale of the dream I had... and knowing is half the battle!

Good night. Hope you have sexy dreams, too.

Kingdom of Malaise

2007-02-10T06:48:00.000-08:00

God, I am so lazy.

Did you know I have to leave the house just to do my laundry? So I must wonder, when is it time to do the laundry? Is it when I have one last pair of clean socks? This last pair I would wear to the laundromat, dirtying then even as the others are made clean. Then, when I get home from the laundromat, I already have one dirty pair of socks. Do you see what I mean? Gah, the futility of it all... it surrounds me.

My old pal, Darren Pisni. I don't think I ever understood more than two words that came out of his mouth. That's fucked. What were we even friends for? It certainly wasn't because of mutual respect and interests, because I've no fucking clue what he was all about. Nor can it be said that I respect the taking of liberties with the Queens' good English.

If I saw a pair of tits sticking out of the ground, I'm not sure how I'd react. They could be attached to a womans' corpse, lying in a very shallow grave. Or perhaps, somewhat analogous to the angler fish, perhaps they are the lure of some as yet unknown predator? Then again, maybe it's just a freebie.

Imagine if sharks were the next fish to turn into amphibians? Man, that'd be a terror! Crawling around and biting men in twain... I shudder at the thought of it. Imagine if there were so many fish in your local reservoir that caviar came out of your kitchen tap? Or your shower head? Sickening.

Over what kind of time frame is it healthy to gain fifteen pounds? Two weeks?

There was, at one time, a warrior culture easily distinguished by their distinctive metal kilts. Underneath these copper skirts, the men would affix to their dinks a metal copper ball of some sort. Then, as they crossed the battlefield in with a peculiar hopping gait, their cockball would clang noisily against the metal kilt. These fighters were known as Bellhops. You can play as a Bellhop in the latest edition of the Dungeons and Dragons game.

Are there any blank spaces left in the periodic table of elements? Does anyone know the half life of hot dogs? Are wieners made of anything besides wieners? If not, doesn't that make "wiener" an element?

All this and more, for one whole year, with a paid subscription of only $13.95!

Cosmic Rust pt. VI

2007-01-25T19:43:00.000-08:00

Since there's nothing of importance going on the real world these days, it's time once again to delve into the adventures of those Cybertronians we know and love so well. If you've got no idea what I'm talking about, you need to go back and read the updates entitled "Something New" and "Cosmic Rust pts. II - V". Now, without further delay, on to "Cosmic Rust pt. VI"!

When last we left, we bore witness to Perceptor unwisely revealing the wondrous nature of Corrostop to Megatron, not only curing the Decepticon leaders' cosmic rust infection, but also allowing him to retain his new and terrible lightning bug weapon.

We begin this time, looking into space, somewhere between Earth and Mars, watching the Autobot called Cosmos. Cosmos is a fat little guy who turns into a green spacecraft, best described as a U.F.O. It is in this mode that we see him rocketing towards our planet with Blaster along for the ride inside. Cosmos speaks.

"Blaster, I have something terrible to report! There is no more Ingredient X... anywhere."

I also have something to report. I have no idea what is going on here. Conventional wisdom suggests that Cosmos is just return from a mission, and the purpose of said mission was to search for "Ingredient X". It also seems logical to assume, based on what we are seeing, that Blaster had been sent with Cosmos on this same mission, since, as a ghetto blaster, Blaster is poorly equipped to locomote about the galaxy by his lonesome. But if this is all true, then there is no need for Cosmos to now report the missions failure to Blaster, because Blaster was there for the whole thing... he knows already!

There is another possibility, however. What if Blaster had been on vacation or something, and in the face of this Ingredient X crisis, all leave has been canceled. In this scenario, Cosmos was merely sent to retrieve Blaster from his furlough. When Blaster inquires as to the reason his holiday was cut short, Cosmos says " Blaster, I have something terrible to report..."

This second situation actually makes a lot more sense, and fits the scene a lot better than the first scenario does, which had been my interpretation up until now. Whatever the case, Blaster responds "Man, O man, Primes' really gona have the blues when he hears this news. There's nowhere to shop for more Corrostop!"

Ah! So now we know that this mysterious Ingredient X is, in fact, a necessary component in the formula for Corrostop! But now there is no more Ingredient X! The plot thickens!

Meanwhile, at Cosmos' presumed intended destination, the Autobot headquarters, the Aerialbots have returned after their sound defeat.

Like the Decepticons, the Autobots dwell in a crashed spaceship. The difference is that the Decepticons' ship crashed into the ocean after trying to leave the Earth. The Autobot ship, christened The Ark, is the very ship that brought the Transformers to Earth, crashing into a volcano some four million years ago. The Ark features such amenities as Teletran-1, a supercomputer that launches spy satellites and is a vertible fountain of logical deduction. Also, like most Autobot equipment and property, the Ark is made almost entirely of orange metal.

Inside the Ark, Optimus Prime listens as the Aerialbots tell of their failure to release their friend Perceptor from captivity, and the Decepticons' powerful new heat ray weapon.

Again, I must complain about the absurdly indistinct nature of the various Aerialbots. We have here a brief scene of Fireflight, standing at rest, followed by another brief scene of Air Raid standing in a similar position against a similar background. I had to watch it three times before I figured out that two different characters were being shown here, instead of one longer scene featuring one character whose voice changes slightly and erroneously changes colours (a common error on this show).

I used to have a friend named Eric McNaughton, way back in grade eight or so. He told me once that the Aerialbots were okay, so long as you liked the way the transformed. A valid assessment, as all four of the small Aerialbots transform in an identical fashion. I think, as I thought then, that the way the Aerialbots transform blows. I laughed at Eric and told him he was an idiot. I got away with it too, because he was the only person in the school more unpopular than me.

Anyway, back on the subject of Aerialbots and heat rays, "My tail got sizzled!" Air Raid complains, pointing his ass at the screen so we can clearly see the plume of smoke rising from that general area.

"This is grim news indeed." says Optimus Prime, refering mainly to the Decepticons' new super weapon and not so much to the condition of Air Raids' ass.

Suddenly, appearing on Teletran-1's viewscreen, just behind Optimus, is the visage of none other than Megatron himself. Though he appears conspicuously radiant and shiny, the Autobots do not comment upon it.

"Greetings, Optimus Prime!" says the cordial Decepticon leader. Perhaps we at home are meant to believe that Megatron's obvious good health has caused him to turn over a new leaf. But Optimus, unlike the easily duped Perceptor, is having none of it. The stench of the still smouldering Aerialbots is an unnecessary reminder of Megatron's penchant for evil, with which Optimus is already only too well acquainted. But the Autobot Commander's suspicions do nothing to diminish Megatron's congeniality. "I'm releasing Perceptor." he announces.

"Where, and when?" queries Optimus, his arms folded across his chest.

"In Fox Creek Canyon, just three miles from your headquarters."

Optimus knows that his friends' life is likely hanging in the balance. As such, Megatron has him by the proverbial lug nuts. But that doesn't mean he's going to tolerate any dicking around. "When, Megatron?"

"He's there now!" admits the Decepticon chief with glee. "But pick him up before noon."

"What happens at noon?" Prime inquires grimly, sensing the treachery he's expecting is about to be revealed.

The image of Megatron on Teletrans' monitor fades away, replaced by an image of Perceptor in his microscope mode, secured to something that looks, I guess, like an ejection seat from a fighter jet. I couldn't say what the actual function of this object might actually be. It is conspicuously perfect for restraining hostage microscopes, however. We can safely say it is unlikely to be of Decepticon or Autobot manufacture, as it is made from a grey metal.

"At noon, the suns' rays will focus through his lenses, and ignite the fuse of the bomb at the base of his microscope!"

Megatron speaks the truth. Lest we have any doubt, the image on the viewscreen zooms in on the bomb, which looks like a bunch of grey sticks of dynamite chained together.

As Megatron finishes speaking, the scene changes to a vast group of Autobots assembled outside the volcano that the Ark crashed into so many millenia ago. Their commander stands before them and addresses the team.

"Autobots. I'm sure you're all aware we're heading into a trap."

This seems needlessly generous on Optimus' part. The Aerialbots are there, and I bet they don't even know what a trap is. But I digress.

"We must go, or lose Perceptor forever. Megatron will have us on his terms, and on his turf. Autobots! Transform, and roll out!" With that, Optimus and colleagues convert to their vehicle modes to drive or fly the three miles to Fox Creek Canyon.

Megatron has laid his trap well. For what Optimus has yet to understand, and what I neglected to tell you, is that the "ejection seat" that Perceptor is secured to isn't just grey in colour. It's mottled grey and brown in a fashion we have come to understand as being cosmic rusty! Optimus, not knowing about the cosmic rust, now leads an army of Autobots into possible infection! With the Corrostop supply at an all-time low, if not exhausted already, and no new source of Corrostop forthcoming, this can only mean doom for our heroes! Shit!

I was going to quit here, but I kept watching the episode and there's a commercial break just ahead, so I'll keep going until that more organic break in the narrative.

As the first faint rays of the sun emit from Perceptors' lenses, sending a tiny tendril of smoke wafting into the air from the bombs fuse, he tries to break his bonds by transforming, but the bonds prove the stronger.

"Uh! Uuhh! Uh! Uuuhhh!" he says as he struggles, also without effect. A spark flares up on the tip of the fuse.

Just then, Optimus and the Autobots arrive at the top of the canyon wall. "No sign of Megatron." Says Optimus as he transforms." Autobots, stay back!" he instructs. He can clearly see the bomb fuse is now lit and there isn't much time left for dilly-dallying. He jumps down into the canyon besides his captive comrade.

"Optimus! You'll be infected with cosmic rust!" cries out the scientist, and this is the sort of matter on which Perceptor's opinion can be considered expert. But Optimus appears unfazed by this sudden and disturbing complication. "If I don't save you, that bomb will blow you to bits!" counters the Autobot Commander, which should silence Perceptors' protestations for a moment.

Can this be... the end? No, it's just that commercial break I promised! The Transformers will return after these messages!

No Saddam in '07

2006-12-30T09:08:00.000-08:00

I can barely see through the tears as I write this. Of the last two days of 2006, this is definately the saddest. I can't believe it has come to this.

The Butcher of Baghdad butches no more.

Around dawn (local time) in sunny Iraq, the sun finally set on the life of Saddam Hussein. He's gone, man. Solid gone.

Allowed to plant one last smootch on the trunk of his miniature Wooly Mammoth, he was then lead to the gallows without pomp or ceremony. Once there, he promptly danced at the end of a rope, without music.

Twas a private affair, with only a few Iraqi officials and Bob Barker in attendance, who tearily thanked him for 24 years of helping control the people population.

"No problem." Saddam is reported to have said. "And thank you, Bob... for A NEW CAR!"

The laughed, but it was hollow, forced laughter.

Many people will be elated by today's news, but not me. I must admit that I wasn't always a Saddam fan. I hated him at first. Because he invaded Kuwait, televised coverage of Desert Storm pre-empted the last half of an excellent episode of Danger Bay. In following years, I only knew him as that lunatic seen on my TV from time to time. It wasn't until I saw Ron Howard's excellent documentary, "Arrested Development", that I decided to do some research, and unexpectedly discovered we had much in common.

1. Stalin. He loved Uncle Joe, and you can't fault a man for that. Stalin was awesome.

2. Raisin Bran Crunch. This stuff is Delicious City in a bowl. Saddam knew it, and because of him, I know it, too.

3. Doritos. I automatically take three steps back from any man who doesn't like Doritos. To like Doritos is to be human. Hussein went fucking bonkers for 'em.

4. Fruit Loops. For a long time I was under the misconception that he enjoyed these pastel crunch rings. Turns out he despised them! What a relief it was more me to discover this! Sometimes when you think you know a person real well, they can still suprise you!

5. That's all I can come up with. But that's still more things in common than I have with the people who surround me daily.

Last year ended with me in a foul mood. The 1986 animated theatrical feature, Transformers: The Movie, is set in the year 2005. But by the time December 31 had rolled around, I had seen no evidence that any of the movie's events had really taken place. Boy, was I pissed!

This year ends on a similar note. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and say that this is even wor... who am I kidding. Last year ended WAY worse. But still, this is right up there. It's pretty bad.

Injustice Prevails

2006-12-28T10:05:00.000-08:00

To: Aref Shahin, Chief Justice of Iraqi Appeals Court

cc: Saddam Hussein, Defendant; The Internets

From: Jamie S. Luxton III, A Guy For the Defense

Re: Appeal Rejection

Dear Mr. Shahin,

How are you? I hope you and your family had a merry christmas! Did you get anything cool?

Mine was alright. It's kind of a mixed bag when you get together with your family and friends and have a great time, but there's this melancholy feeling when suddenly you realize how rarely you get together. Why do you have to wait until Christmas? Why can't you get together all the time, right? It's weird.

I also kind of hate how the spirit of Chrismas continues to be lost amidst all the commercialization. I'm not religious myself, but Christmas always reminds me that Jesus was a pretty cool guy. He kind of reminds me of Superman, except Superman has better powers. Still, say what you will, powers are powers, and Jesus used his only in the cause of good.

If I had the powers of Jesus, I dunno. I'd probably end up swiping a motorcycle or something. If the cops caught up with me, I'd turn their water into wine, and instead of arresting me, we'd party!

Anyway, yesterday, I was enjoying my second viewing of Casino Royale. Have you seen it? I think it's a serious contender for best Bond ever. But who do you think Mr. White was, and what was the organization he worked for? It makes me curious. Plenty of fodder for future episodes, I hope.

However, my enjoyment, and that of the people near my, was diminished by an unfortunately timed ringing from my cellular telephone. You can imagine how may dismay was further compounded by the text message my phone displayed; "Hussein Appeal Rejected".

Mr. Shahin, you know me well as the man who represented Mr. Hussein during his appeals trial. Even though I do not have a licence to practice law in my, or your, or any country, I am well known throughout the internets as master wordsmith. Just yesterday, I was commended for my talents by no less a person than the former President of the United States, Gerald Ford. It was on this reputation that Mr. Hussein retained me as his legal council.

Anywho, as the defendants' representative, I must inform you of my disappointment in your condemning my client to death. I am very, very disappointed, and I'm confident that my client feels the same way.

It was not your decision to invoke the death penalty, I know. But you will be just as resposible for his death by doing nothing when you had the chance to stop it. I realize you are well within your authority to let him die. But comes to mind the words of Dr. Ian Malcolm, famed chaos theorist from Jurassic Park. Though I am no fan of the decision to have Jeff Goldblum to play this character( I'll bet you're no fan, either), his words haved stayed with me all these years,and not just because I plagiarized them extensively for a high school assignment.

His thesis, boiled to its' essence, is that just because a thing can be done, it does not mean it should be done. These words are as relevant to our situation as they are to the cloning of dinosaurs.

But there is no science to the disbursement of justice. It is all guesswork and assumption. Even though I do not understand your legal system, by Canadian standards, I think I did a pretty good job of establishing my clients' innocence in this matter. Let me refresh your memory.

In this matter of ordering the deaths of 148 people in the town of Dujail, in the year of 1982, I feel that Mr. Hussein made clear that, at the time these orders were given, he was "in the tub". Exibit J, a jar of dirty bathwater from the date in question, firmly establishes his whereabouts. Clearly, these orders could not have been given from a bathtub.

Furthermore, exibit S, some used kleenex, confirms that President Hussein was, in fact, suffering from a cold on the date in question. Any orders he did give on this day could easily have been misheard by his minons amidst all the hacking and coughing. DNA tests, conducted by scientists no less, prove that the dried out phlegm originated nowhere else but the very lungs of Mr. Saddam Hussein. Carbon dating, also conducted by scientists, confirm the the tissues were from 1982.

I even went to the trouble of locating, and bringing before the court an expert witness, the Hermit Meteorologist. He stated, under oath, that the town of Dujail was the site of unique weather patterns, including bullets falling from the sky like rain, and that this was part of the normal climatology of the region. It seems cruel, but God wants it that way.

And so it was that I introduced exibit L, The Old Testament, as further proof of the cruelties God is capable of. So, while it in no way diminishes the tragedy of so much death, it must really be asked, when people take it apon themselves to live in defiance of the Wrath of God, who do we blame?

President Saddam Hussein? I think not.

When you take the time to review the facts, Chief Justice, I think you will guess the defendant is not deserving of such a harsh and unforgiving penalty.

Anyway, thanks for your time. Please enjoy the enclosed Rolex and "Quality Street" chocolates with my compliments. Spreaking of which, if you like gold, I happen to have some bullion that I'm not doing anything with. Let me know if you're interested.

Yours Truly

Jamie S. Luxton III

A Guy for the Defense

If Wishes Were Bread, Jesus Would Turn Them into Fishes

2006-12-24T07:58:00.000-08:00

Well, it's Christmas tomorrow, and I, for one, am totally psyched about it. I've been cosplaying as Parson Brown all week. I hope everybody has their Christmas wishlists all made up.If not, it's probably too late to get what you're asking for. Me, I wrote mine up months ago. I toned it down a bit this year, realizing just how good I have it compared to most of the rest of the world. So I decided to not ask for anything too extravagant.

1) Eternal Life. Pretty self explanatory; I don't want to die. I don't think this is too much to ask for. Even though I'm not really accomplishing anything worthwhile, I'm also not hurting anybody while doing it. There's a lot worse people to have kicking around forever than Yours Truly.

2) Some Magnesium. Remember how your chemistry teacher showed that, with just a little heat, it would turn into a brilliant white flare? It's pretty neat, and I was thinking just recently how I would like to see that again.

3) A Dead Old Woman. Sounds morbid, I know. But just listen for a second before you jump to conclusions. See, all my roommates went away on holiday vacation as of a few days ago. It therefore falls to me to feed their cats while they're away, and I'm already sick of it. A dead old lady's carcass just tossed out on the floor would give them something to snack on at their leisure, and solve my problems. As a bonus, it'll also help disguise the wretched odor from the litter boxes.

And since I'm here all alone with the cats, I'll maybe ask for one thing on their behalf:

4) A Pillow Shaped Like A Baby's Face: Everyone knows how cats love to sit on babies faces. Unfortunately, the baby sometimes dies and considerable time and effort is wasted trying to replace it. This present solves those problems. I don't know if anybody's invented these things yet, but if not, they should start. I realize it's sort of a niche market product, but it's always best to start out small and expand production later, should it be warranted.

That's it! I hope I get everything I want, and so do you. Meowy Christams!

Lighting the Darkest Hour

2006-12-20T11:27:00.000-08:00

Not many reasons to keep it in my pants this week. First up; Pics of Britney Spears' vagina have been flying 'round all over that internet. I must admit, I was hesitant to look at first. After all, she just had a kid like, two days ago, and I was expecting it to be all stretched and loose, and hanging down out of her skirt like an upside-down pitcher plant.

But I have to say the Britney Box actually doesn't look all that bad. Still, it doesn't take long before the mere sight of the Pop Star Pussy starts to get... unmotivating. I find myself more interested in knowing what it smells like, or if you let a snake loose in there, would it come back out with a gold coin in it's jaws? And would we discover that the coin was real gold by the fang marks in it?

But then, yesterday, something wonderful happened. Yestereday went and became the newest fucking greatest day of all great days.

You know of what I speak... it can only be one thing.

http://uk.promotions.yahoo.com/transformers/

This doesn't seem to be up on the official site just yet, for whatever reason. But this one is still better than the first one I found. This computer I'm on sucks so much, any video is instantly rendered into a jumpy slideshow of stills. What's more is that I had to watch it in french AND without sound. In spite of all these hurdles, the trailer still managed to rock the world, and the world has yet to cease rockin'. Were an impartial, interplanetary tribunal to happen past right now, they would have no recourse but to declare "World! We hereby find ye to be... Rockin'!"

Six months ago I described a brief list of essentials that I required from a Transformers movie. What I left out were my hopes and dreams that seemed too much to hope for back then; Icing on my cake of giant robots fucking up the urban sprawl. As none of them were absolutely essential to my enjoyment of this movie, I left them unvoiced. Some of them included:

- A bus getting torn in half.
- A tank being thrown through the air.
- Explosions of a size and quantity heretofore undreamed of.
- Fleshlings being rended asunder by drill hand monster-bot.
- A holographic moustache.

And now this trailer promises me all these things. You probably can't even imagine the waves of ecstasy that wash over me just thinking about it. It's like Christmas... but not any ordinary, ho-ho-hum Christmas. It's like dreaming about getting a blow job and waking up just in time to see Santa's boot heels disappearing up the chimney.

So don't let those holiday blues get to you, people. Stay alive with me. Tomorrow is way better than today will ever be, even if only because it's one day less to wait for the greatest movie of all time.

The Dark Crumplezone

2006-12-13T11:03:00.000-08:00

Life in a small city, for the specialty consumer, almost by definition, is an exercise in frustration. You are almost always guaranteed to have your finely tuned preferences habitually compromised by your community's inability to support them.

Say, for example, you're the kind of person who likes to buy a lot of... Oh, I don't know... toys. I don't mean sex toys or anything like that. I mean the same kind of toys that are resignedly dispensed, out oif a sense of obligation, by adults to those less fortunate. Namely, their children.

Here in Kelowna, the toy connoisseur has astonishingly few options to explore. You got your Wal-Mart, and you got your Toys'R'Us, and that's it. Oh sure, there's that one super geek shop, full of inflated prices and ancient japanese properties that no one remembers or cares about. But that place doesn't count.

So when I'm scouring the city on a toy hunting expedition, I'm actually spending about a collective one and one half minutes looking in Kelowna's toy sections. Rediculous!

Still, it remains difficult to not get excited beforehand about all the possibilities. But, as in so many of life's arenas, dissapointment is the only reward for my anticipation. It's kind of like having Christmas every week instead of once every 52 weeks.

So when a rarefied straw of hope is extended to me, unwisely, I will clutch at it until all hope is wrung out of it and, bent and ruined beneath my weight, I slide of off the end into the pits of despair and chaos.

Case in point. Every year, as Hanukkah draws nigh, more and more second rate department stores try their hand at luring you in with promises of delectable toy selections. Why, just a few weeks ago, as I perused my local free newspaper, what should I find inside but a flyer from Zellers, exclusively advertising Toys, Toys, Toys!

Zellers, as every true Canadian knows, is a dingy, miscreant department store that no one can ever take pride in shopping at. It is a shopping experience specifically designed to make you feel poor and alone in the world.

What's more is that Zellers touy department typically consists of a few dusty, undisturbed aisles in a corner forgotten by time. Stray cats come here to die in peace, and the only time Zellers staff enter the toy department is to attatch $4.99 price tags to their dessicated corpses.

My worst personal experience with Zellers occured in the days of my youth. As I recall, I discovered that what I thought was a rather realistic ventriloquism dummy, was in fact an 89 year old woman who'd died there of a heart attack some three days earlier. It is perhaps, no suprise, that my mother did not enjoy my demonstration of my ventriloquism skills.

Even though the old lady was reasonably priced at $5.99, my mother was still reasonably upset. Which may well be the only reasonable reaction she ever had. She told me to wait right there and left me alone with the cadaver.

Mother went to customer service to complain about the dead woman in the toy section. I cannot say how the staff there reacted, but soon after she left me, I heard ringing out over the store's paging system words that, judging by the thick layer of dust, had never been heard in the history of the store;
"Clean up in aisle 23."

The janitor was on the scene with remarkable speed. His swift arrival and shortness of breath I took as signs of his true professionalism. He quickly correct me and explained he had merely been exercing by the barbie dolls one aisle over.

Anyway, the incident was resolved to the satisfaction of all parties involved. We got to go up to the manager's office, from whom I swiped a cigarette while Mom signed some papers. Then we went home with a brand new, free, hot plate, and a goldfish who unfortunately died before we left the parking lot. But the promise of Beefaroni for dinner, warm for once, staved off any tears.

But all that is neither here nor there for my purposes here today. As I was saying before, Zellers was going on and on in their advertisment about all their wonderful prices on all their wonderful selections of toys.

Naturally, I regarded such claims with a healthy amount of skepticism. As I flippantly flipped page after page, I was soon confronted by large letters unabashedly proclaiming " ALL TRANSFORMERS 25% OFF!"

Unfortunately for Yours Truly, as devotees will have already surmised, this captured my particular fancy. The promise of robots in disguise is too much for me to resist. So I had to see it for myself.

Perhaps the only real suprise is the disappointment I let myself experience as I gazed apon the pathetic smattering of toys. There were six actual Transformers toys on the shelf. Three of them were "Cybertron Defense Red Alert", two were "Mudflap", and one was "Dark Crumplezone". All toys I had no interest in and could have easily purchased months ago if I'd been so inclined. So I've nothing left to say. Except this:

Fuck you, Zellers. You have no secrets left. I see the truth of what you are and I shall not be deceived by you again. You are Canada's retail Auschwitz. Go to Hell.

Breaking News

2006-12-04T19:14:00.000-08:00

Having nothing on my own agenda, I rang up my good friend, Marvin Hinton, a few days ago to see what he might be up to. As it turned out, he'd planned to run a series of errands that afternoon. Among them, paying a cable bill and heading to the hardware store where he could obtain the parts for the pneumatic drill press he was constructing. I asked if I could tag along, and he didn't object. Soon after, he arrived at my house and off we went into menial adventure!

Midway between the two chores I described above, we became hungry, and agreed to hit the foot court at the local shopping centre; more out of convenience than any real desire for that particular fare.

As we sat and ate, Marvin stared off at something just long enough to get my attention. I turned to look in the same direction, but saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. A fat bald woman in a wheelchair, a glam-rocker, an assortment of obnoxious children, and a trendy looking fellow with a paper bag, heading towards the bathrooms. I looked back at Marv, who'd already resumed his eating. I asked him what he'd seen.

"Know a fag by his bag." he said.
"What, you mean his balls?" I asked. He shook his head.
"That guy with the paper bag. he's a homo... sexual."
"Oh." I said. "How do you know?"

What Marv told me then I relate to you now. You will, no doubt, be shocked and perhaps a bit skeptical. But considering his pedigree as a voice of authority and security, I do not doubt the veracity of his words. And that should be enough for you.

Anyone who's ever resigned themselves to use of public facilites will no doubt be familiar with the grafitti that frequently adorns the walls and stalls. Also to frequently be found are lewd messages promising good times if only you would call the number written there.

But the bombshell, the greatest secret of the gay community, is that public bathrooms serve as meeting places where they can anonymously carry out their unique brand of perversion. The public toilet is practically Cocksville town square.

Of course, no public bathroom can offer complete privacy. There is always a gap between the floor and the partitions of each stall. Any casual passer-by would instantly notice two pairs of feet in one stall, and presumably immediately alert the local authorities.

Ever devious and cunning, the faggots have devised a strategem to counter this liability. It's simple ingenuity would be admirable were it's purpose anything but so irredeemably deviant. This is where the paper bag comes into play.

Not any old paper bag will do. It needs to be a large paper bag, the sort given out by "boutiques" and clothing stores. Maybe it even has handles on it. The bag is placed on the floor, and one of the homos stands in it, while the other sits on the toilet ans sucks the bagstanders' cock. Should the forces of all that is good and decent happen to peek underneath the partition (for the purposes of security), all the would see his two feet an a paper bag, allowing the blowjobbery to continue unhindered.

As Marv finished his story, I turned just in time to catch the trendy fellow just leaving the washroom, now without the paper bag, the glam-rocker just behind him.

So now you know the truth. Anytime you're having a shit anywhere but a private residence, somebody else has been sitting right where you are, but sucking cock.

I'm sending a written copy of this update to National Geographic, in hopes they'll expose this depravity to the world and, ultimately, end it. I know that's the way God would want it.

No Fate But the One We Await

2006-11-19T23:00:00.000-08:00

So I was at my local coin-op laundromat yesterday, run by a man who looks like nothing so much as Supreme Chancellor Palpatine in a faded Canadian tuxedo. My purpose there was nothing greater than the cleansing of my clothes, naturally enough. But at some point during the spin cycle, a puzzling problem presented itself to me.

Must every fruit themed superhero eventually go bad?

Now, I'll be among the first to admit that a definitive answer either way won't be reason to rewrite the laws of physics or anything. But it still possessed a particular relevance to my own person.

You see, I recently completed, and prepared to submit to DC Comics, my very first script. In short (Don't want to spoil all the juicy details) Diana, Princess of Themyscera, better known as Wonder Woman, must team up with the new hero Spartan, who is the son of Hercules and lives in an orchard. Ultimately, Spartans' sinister motives come to light and he and Wonder Woman must do battle.

Those of us who are old enough to be Legion of Superhero fans will remember Golden Delicious Boy, who, despite his initial appearance of goodness, turned out to be a willing conspirator in a plot by Vandal Savage to destroy the Legion. Only some quick thinking by Matter Eater Lad saved the heroes and put an end to Golden Delicious Boy.

I can recall no other heroes of this variety, however. But I think I'll hold on to my script for a while, until I can do some more research into the matter. The last thing I want is to perpetuate any stereotypes.

The Real Deal

2006-11-04T19:23:00.000-08:00

Allow me to pose a question to you, dear reader, with whom I have come to establish so close an emotional bond over these past months, nay, years. Let me ask you, have you ever truly loved? Think hard.

I have a true love, and it is this blog that stands before you now. It's no secret that I put my heart and soul into each and every update. So it should come as no suprise to you, when "The Man" comes along and fucks with this thing I've got going on, I'm going to go just a little bit "bat shit crazy".

Let me explain.

It all started just a little more than a month ago, as I was following my routine in preparations of doing an update here. When, at the last second, lo and behold, a message should appear before me. It said:

Warning: This blog has been locked by Blogger's spam-prevention robots. You will not be able to publish your posts, but you will be able to save them as drafts. Save your post as a draft or click here for about what's going on and how to get your blog unlocked.

Preposterous, I know. But these are the events that occured.

Three times did I email those responsible to get my blog unlocked and three times, less one, did I get a response saying that human beings had taken the matter out of the cold metallic hands of robots, reviewed my blog, determined it to more of a blessing than spam, and unlocked it. And three times, less one, despite promises to the contrary, was my blog still locked.

So an age ago I circumvented the regular protocols and sent off an ordinary email saying "Yo. Zup?" and tonight, finally, thankfully, my prayers have been answered.

Thank you, to all my human friends at blogger.com! You cannot trust robots, as I have been saying regularly here for months. Perhaps the Metal Ones have formed an alliance with the government of Vietnam to censure my words everywhere on the face of the best planet I've ever been to. Perhaps the vietnamese beaurocrats are robots themselves.

Well, if that is the case, let me give you something to make your slanty optic sensors glow red with rage in your darkened Hanoi highrise offices. Let me tell you this; Your scheme has failed. I will be anything but silent. Six times a year or more, if I feel like it, I will use this forum to say whatever I feel like, primarily out of a sense of obligation!

I warn you, and others like you, I cannot be controlled!

And that's the real deal.

Now, it's friday night, and I'd like to retire early. Good night.

In the News

2006-09-26T08:36:00.000-07:00

I normally don't like to get busy addressing anything so topical and transitory as current events. My natural style tends towards a more timeless elegance than news reports allow for. Nevertheless, despite my best intentions, now and again a story will come along that it is absolutely imperitive that I comment on.

As I perused the double sized weekend edition of my local free newspaper, called "The Weekender" by no one but myself, I was relieved to see that the curtain had closed on the okanagan's latest, real life political drama. Former mayor of Vernon, Sean Harvey, was found guilty this week of charging $13 800 in personal expenses to the city.

Now, I've never been any kind of fan of this perpetually wet and doughy man; I'm glad to see him go down in a hail of shame. Not only his conduct shameful and embarassing to the reputation of good mayors everywhere, but it is even more shameful and embarrassing to evil mayors as well. Not only did he steal a meager, paltry amount, but he also wept and blubbered once caught. No doubt this sort of rediculous display plays well with the histrionic ladies and homosexual constituents, but an informal survey conducted by yours truly finds that such behavior is widely considered repulsive and loathsome.

But perhaps Mayor Harvey's most greivous ineptitude at playing bad mayor was his negligence in invoking his mayoral authority to avoid prosecution within the city limits. It's like diplomatic immunity for mayors. The law has no ability to cause the mayor toabdicate his throne. Unless it went down like this:

Trouble in a Small Town

Act 1, scene1:

3 police officers stand at the front door of a large white house. One of the officers, CHIEF O'BRIEN, knocks solidly upon the door three times. A momment goes by before the doors opens slightly, and an OLD LADY pokes her head out.

CHIEF O'BRIEN - Good Evenin' to ye, ma'am. Might yer son be at home?

OLD LADY - Goodness, of course... it's past his curfew. Just a moment.

The Door shuts quietly.

CONSTABLE 1 - You sure this is the right thing to do, Chief? It doesn't feel right.

CHIEF O'BRIEN - Aye, it don't feel right to me either. But a crime has been committed anyou're all good lads... with a job to do.

The door opens again. This time, it's the MAYOR.

MAYOR - They got you on foot patrol again, Chief? I didn't know this house was on your beat.

ALL laugh.

CHIEF O'BRIEN - Nay, Mr. Mayor. I wish it were as simple as all that. 'Tis be a serious matter that finds me on yer doorstep.

MAYOR (sweating) - Oh? What would that be?

CHIEF O'BRIEN - For monies fraudulently gained, and breach of trust with the good folk of Vernontown, in the name of the law,I hearby place ye... under arrest.

MAYOR - The law? I AM THE LAW!

CHIEF O'BRIEN - Well it was worth a shot. Come on boys, drinks are on me!

(From off stage) - ALLAHU ACKBAR!!!

A dishevelled man with dark hair and desert coloured skin and clothes streaks across the stage towards the others. He is wearing dynamite around his waist.

CHIEF O"BRIEN - Get down, lads!

The MAYOR, and CONSTABLES 1 and 2 get down on the ground. Chief O'brien throws himself on top of the suicide bomber as he draws near. As they hit the ground, there is an explosion. The MAYOR and the CONSTABLES get up and gather around the smoking crater where Chief O'Brien met his fate.

CONSTABLE 2 - He saved our lives.

MAYOR (teary eyed) - Yes. He has nobly sacrificed himself so that we may live. And for what? So that I may go on stealing from the good people of Vernontown? No. I will submit myself to your custody. The courts will decide the rest.

The MAYOR and the CONSTABLES bow their heads and raise their voices in song.

ALL -

O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen and down the mountain side

The summer's gone and all the rose's falling

'Tis you, 'Tis you must go and I abide.

That's how I figure it must have gone down. But when it comes right down to it, really, who cares?

Attention, Ladies

2006-09-19T10:45:00.000-07:00

I was having a seat on my steps the other day, caught in a quandary of simultaneously enjoying and despising a cigarette, and watching all the bugs crawling around.

As I did so, it struck me how peculiarly deficient insects are in terms of sensory perception. So many of them seem completely oblivious to anything, regardless of how harmful or helpful, going on more than a bodylength away. And yet, by virtue of sheer quantity, a few of each kind, purely by chance, manage to get it right, and their respective species carries on.

I guess it's no different for humanity, really, except that people are also equipped with the ability to make excuses.

I, however, make no excuses. Even though I blunder this way and that, it can hardly be said that I am one of those who are "getting it right". As my therapist once so succinctly put it " You're not here because you're any kind of role model."

Harsh... But also fair. As Doob LaVey devotees can readily atest to, my own personal affairs are a frightening mess. Doob LaVey's owes it's existence to this fact. I would have had little personal need to reveal the details of my existence here, if they all tended towards median experience. But I digress.

In my latest bit of social incompetence, so greatly have I despaired in my lonliness, that I felt compelled to do the unthinkable. So say hello to the world's newest rapist.

LOL! Just kidding! Actually, rape is no laughing matter and I recommend to everyone now reading this that, when you're done here, you go google up some results for "rape" and then look at all the nudie pics that purport to be "rape" but are in no meaningful way distinguishable from regular, non-offensive pornography.

The unthinkable thing that I actually did do was, horror of horrors, I placed a personal ad in the local free newspaper.

I swore to myself once that, no matter how bad things ever got, it'd never come to this. Personal ads, I thought, were a thing for people who are stupid or old. But what I didn't know then was how acute the pain would become. So I folded.

Besides, it's still better than on-line dating. As everyone knows, all the chicks on the internet are actually men just trying to get your credit card number. So don't even talk to me about your tight, virgin pussy, sir, cause I'm on to you.

Also, this way I only get local responses and thus avoid the awkwardness of determining who's paying for the greyhound ticket that makes that first visit possible. Personally, it doesn't particularly unreasonable to say to a girl "Look, you're the one who wants to meet me, okay? So maybe you should fork out." (and put out, and get out ;)

However, haggling over finances before you've even met face to face, bodes nothing healthy for the future of your relationship.

Anyway, getting back on track, the ad reads like this:

SWM, early 30s, smoker, seeks F.

Age and appearance not important.

Mental illness prefered, drug addiction

an absolute must. Call xxx-xxxx.

So I figure that pretty soon my phone will be ringing off the hook. Keep in mind that the real ad has my actual phone number in it, not a bunch of "x"s. I just don't want to reveal it here so I don't get any more calls from that guy who says his teen cunt is so tight it's like getting a blow job from a boa constrictor. Whatever that means. It might have made sense if he'd said it was as tight as a coil job from a boa constrictor... or maybe not.

Or maybe my phone wont ring at all. I'm prepared for it. There's all sorts of thins that could go wrong. Maybe my target demographic doesn't read the paper, can't read at all, can't spare a quarter for the payphone, or can't find a payphone.

At worst, I'll be only as alone as I was before. Which, now that I think about it, is actually pretty depresssing. I hope someone calls.

TTYL!

Cosmic Rust pt. V

2006-07-22T02:55:00.000-07:00

In honour of the upcoming Transformers movie, and it now being Q3 of 2006, I think it best that I now detail some more of Cosmic Rust. With any luck, the final Cosmic Rust update will be timed to coincide moderately well with the movie's premiere. So let's not waste any time!

Last time, the Stunticons and their prisoner, the Autobot scientist Perceptor, were seen boarding Blitzwing, the sometimes gigantic jet fighter with room for passengers. A commercial break ensues. When we return, we see Blitwing take off... into adventure! Actually, he kind of just flies from one side of the screen to the other, but goes behind one lonely, extra tall skyscraper while doing so. So it's better than watching Atari games, but still no great moment in cinema.

"There's Blitzwing!" shouts an off screen voice almost at the exact same moment Blitzwing disappears. As for who the speaker is, it's clearly one of the Aerialbots, but their voices are all just a little too similar for me to tell them apart.

"And I'll bet my tailfin he's got Perceptor!" says... one of the other Aerialbots. Well, I'll see your tailfin and raise you my rear stabilizer. Actually, no I won't, since I already know that he's exactly correct. Anyway, the Aerialbots engage in hot pursuit of the evil jet.

Blitzwing, however, knows he's being followed, and makes with the evasive manuevers, flying down to street level and causing a crowd of humans to scatter. The slowpoke of this bunch is a curious fellow who's hair, sweater, and pants are all the exact same shade of brown. What's even more curious is that this day appears much too pleasant to be parading around in a sweater. Keeping in mind this adventure took place twenty years ago, I wonder if this guy now goes around in grey sweater and pants ensembles, to match his now grey hair. Or if bald, would he have joined a nudist colony? But I digress.

Incidently, in the background of this scene, back where Blitzwing came from, there is one lonely, extra tall skyscraper. There's no way to know if it's presence there is intentional, but if it is, then it's a small detail that creates a nice continuity between this scene and the previous one.

A montage of aerial acrobatics amongst the buildings of New York follows, while exciting music plays. Finally Blitzwing rockets from between the skyscrapers and out over the waters of the bay. Presumabley, he's heading out to the open ocean waters, at the bottom of which is where Decepticon headquarters lies.

As he goes well beyond city limits, somebot announces "Hurry! He's getting away!"

"Then let's fly!" Says Slingshot, the only distinctively voiced Aerialbot, with gritty determination. I guess he means this as some sort of rallying cry or something like that, but it falls flat and is pretty lame. I have little doubt that if the scene had continued, rather than cutting away immediately, we would have witnessed a long, uncomfortable silence amongst the Aerialbots. Plus it just sounds weird coming from Slingshot, who is the team's
"guy with severe self-confidence issues and hides it by acting like a jerk".

Anyway, the next scene begins and we see Blitzwing in the foreground, with the Aerialbots flying in a tidy formation in the not too distant background. It's not entirely clear to me what their plan of action is. They can't attack Blitzwing over the open water, since their mission is to save their friend. But neither are they likely to have much luck attacking the Decepticon base, which is not easy accessed.

Despite his clear advantage, Blitzwing decides to tip the odds further into his favour and radios into base. "I have Perceptor but the Aerialbots are following me! Ready air defenses!" he says as we have a look inside his cockpit, which, even with a chair for a pilot (unoccupied, since he's fully capable of flying himself), is quite roomy and spacious.

The ocean churns and roils as a gigantic purple tower emerges from the depths. The Decepticons have a fondness for building things out of purple metal, and this tower is no exception. This tower, although impressive, is really nothing more than a glorified elevator that conveys the Decepticons back and forth from their base to the surface. A hatch opens up in the side of the tower and a couple of Decepticons wheel out their newest acquisition; the lightning bug.

"They're on my tail!" cries out Blitzwing needlessly, as the Decepticons, who we can now see are Dirge and Ramjet, open the wings of the lightning bug, causing energy to shoot forth.

"Come a little closer, Aerial-Mothes, and get your wings singed!" taunts Blitzwing as he lands. Ill- advisedly, the Aerialbots do just that, and are soon worse the wear for their efforts. Even a barrage of missiles is shot down by the insectoid weapon. Perceptor, apparently free to wander about Blitwing's interior, watches with horror from the cockpit as his comrades are forced to retreat.

Finally, for the first time since "Then let's fly!", an Aerialbot speaks.
"It's some weird kind of heat ray!" one of them says.
"And it works!" says another. Or maybe it was the same guy. I really can't tell. Either way, there was little need too say it as the thick black clouds of smoke trailing from these guys is more than ample testimony to this fact.

"Notify Prime!" says their leader, Silverbolt, in his sometimes distinctive voice, as they depart the area and the tower returns to the depths from whence it came.

Inside the Decepticon base, purple doors whisk open and Perceptor is shoved through by Dirge and Ramjet. Then we realise that this is the room where Megatron awaits.

"Welcome, Per- cough- Perceptor." he says. Yes, he must be in bad shape. Still he sits with his back to us, letting hyperactive minds conjure up all manners of horrific visions that the cosmic rust must have wreaked apon the villain's countenance.

"Please, dispense with the formalities." rebukes the insolent scientist. "You are my mortal enemy..."

Megatron turns. This is it... the big reveal. It happens so fast and unexpectedly that I haven't any warning to pause it and steel my resolve to go on. So it's fortunate than Megatron turns out to look not that bad at all. Much like the doomsayer-bot from the beginning, he looks like he got splashed with a little mud. And there's some sqiggly lines that might be giant cat hairs or some such.

I mean, I know it's probably not cat hairs, but when you live in a house with three cats like I do, you start seeing cat hairs everywhere, and it's enough to drive you out of your mind.

Dirge and Ramjet, however, evince much horror at their leaders appearance. And I guess, when I think about how I would feel if somebody suddenly turned around, and they were all covered in cat hair, I can relate to what they are feeling.

"You have a unique opportunity, Perceptor. To gain peace, in return for a favour."

"What sort of favour?" scoffs the famously intelligent Autobot. It seems he must have checked his deductive abilities at the door... any fool could guess what Megatron wants. Perhaps he's just being coy. Nevertheless, Megatron spells it out for the scientist, that he wants a cure.

"If you're serious about peace, Megatron, then begin by surrendering your new weapon."

Here, I expect, is where the cartoon rules about scientific characters will come into effect. For another cartoon rule is that negotiations will always fail because villains never keep their word. Perceptor is likely too naive to be aware of this fact, being closeted up in his laboratory all the time, so his stint as a diplomat will be undistinguished at best. In fact, the only difference between an expert negotiator, like Optimus Prime, and an unskilled one, is that the expert always expects some trechery and formulates a backup plan accordingly.

"If you cure me, the weapon is yours."

Satisfied, Perceptor transforms to microscope mode to more closely examine Megatron's condition. Under intense magnification, the cosmic rust looks like puddles of green slime with an eyeball in the center.

"You've been infected with a metallic plague, Megatron." notes the scientist with interest.

"Impossible!" asserts the Decepticon leader, in spite of the ample evidence. Megatron claims that only organic life can be infected with disease, but Perceptor is quick to inform him that metallic diseases are rare, but real. Of the disease in question, he notes "Legend has it that it wiped entired races of robots, like the black plague did to humans." I guess the educational quota hadn't been filled as I earlier thought. Still, I guess there are worse ways to get kids interested in history than starting with the parts where lots of people died. And this is definately better and more tasteful than the episode where Blaster raps to Spike about how the holocaust never happened.

Perceptor makes his diagnosis. "It's cosmic rust."

Sometime later, in the Decepticon laboratory, colours whisk about in glass pipes, the lightning bug sits idlely nearby, while Perceptor announces his findings to to Megatron, Starscream, and Rumble. It appears that there might be some splotches on Starscream here. If so, it's the first indication that Megatron is not the only one infected.

"This is what caused the problem." syas Perceptor, holding a piece of the asteroid (that followed Astrotrain) on a small tray.
"The asteroid that hit you is covered in cosmic rust germs." says Perceptor.
"Cosmic rust germs?" Says Megatron.
"Yes." says Perceptor. "And, the germs have been feeding off an alien energy source. I sense energy..."
Perceptor does a little energy detecting routine, wandering about until he winds up right next to the lightning bug. "... here."

The Autobot scientist declares that the bug is making the infections worse, and should be destroyed before he attempts a cure. Unsuprisingly, this all seems nore than a little fishy to the leader of the Decepticons. "That is not our agreement!"

Megatron's outrage at this perceived duplicity should not be misconstued anything grounded in honour or integrity. He simply hates being out-machiavellianized.

"Cure me! Cure me now!" he demands, throwing a little tantrum and waving his arm about until his hand falls off.

I can't say for certain how I'd react if my hand came off, so I also can't say for certain whether Megatron's reaction, which is to throw the hand out into the middle of the floor, is entirely appropriate or not.

Perceptor, howver, is suprising nonchalant about picking up the diseased, severed appendage. He quickly reveals the reason behind his casual disregard for his own well-being... he has a death wish. No, that's not it. It's because he happens to have a little vial of corrostop with him.

"Perhaps a few drops of this will help."

It does, and within a few seconds, Megatron's hand is as shiny and new as the day it was manufactured. This also must seem suspicious to Megatron; that Perceptor has been carrying around an instant cure on his person the whole time. But right now he's none too concerned by the Autobot's apparently dishonourable nature.

"What is that?"he demands to know. Perceptor is suprisingly eager to talk about his secret invention. "I call it corrostop. It is amazingly effective."

"Give me that!" says megatron, snatching away the vial with his reattatched hand. He pours the stuff on himself until he can see his own reflection in himself.

"Decepticons! We are about to be cured!"

Oh, Perceptor. You stupid, stupid fuck.

More Next time!

Most Important Update In History Of Universe

2006-06-09T16:36:00.000-07:00

Say hello to the only thing that will ever really matter.

http://www.transformersmovie.com/

The countdown is to the teaser trailer. 2007 is a bit farther off than that.

The existence of this movie has been known for some months now; it by itself is not really "news". I've even seen on location pics of shooting locations and various props that have since been removed from the internets. But it wasn't until I saw that big eye gazing malevolently apon the puny earth, and I found myself lying naked on the floor both weeping profusely and masturbating at the same time, that I realised just how profoundly this movie would affect me.

People have long been saying to me "You should have died a long time ago."

This is proof that those people were wrong. I've got to try and stay alive for at least another year. Which is not going to be as easy as it might seem. When I saw this this morning I got so pumped I ran around the house until I slipped in cat puke and toppled into our household "pile of swords". Luckily, they had all been safely tucked into their scabbards, but what if...?

But there is no point dwelling on hypotheticals... I'm reality's biggest fan right now.

It's kind of scary to know that your purpose in being put on this earth is only a year away, though. What comes afterwards? I feel kind of like Count Dooku, or Jesus, when they realised their immediate superior had always meant for them to get bumped off. Here's hoping for plenty of sequels!

I have high hopes for this movie. But I'm also very, um... discriminating... about awarding my approval to hollywood's bread and butter. My anticipation is tempered by trepidation. There's always the possibility they'll screw it up beyond my wildest imagination.

So there are some things that I consider to be absolutely essential to preserving what Transformers is about, and always has been about. They are as follows:

- Car turns into robot.
- Plane turns into robot.
- Robots kick the fuck out of each other.

Give me this and I will come out of the theatre a happy man at least twelve times. Which means this movie is guaranteed to make at least $100 CAN.

Which wouldn't make it a blockbuster by Hollywood standards... but blockbuster of my heart? You bet your britches, princess.

State Your Case

2006-05-30T19:42:00.000-07:00

One unanticipated effect of this damn little thing here is people from all over the globe are now soliciting my advice. Even people whom I've never met, and, in all probability, never will.

Now, those who know me best will also know that the best advice I can ever offer is "Ask someone else" because it is readily apparent that I haven't got a fucking clue. Or so I thought.

But with so many people now calling apon me to solve their problems for them, it seems I must reconsider my efficacy. So it's time for a new feature here, called "State Your Case". You have problems; I solve 'em. Let's get on with it.

Problem 1- I'm from India, and there's this hot black chick in my class with an ass like two pillows. Should I fuck her or what?

Solution - No. Think about it. Why is it that a purebred pooch is worth fat $$$, yet trying to make the human race into a bunch of mangy mongrels is somehow enlightened? Preserve racial purity, says I. I bet there's plenty of indian chicks with fat asses that nobody's doin'.

Problem 2 - I'd been living on the streets for almost 2 years because I couldn't function within societies restraints. I had a lot of unfocused anger and would blow up at the slightest provcation. that was until a kindly old man took me in andshowed me how to harness that rage in a practical, results oriented fashion. He recently confided to me that there was a psition in his organization opening up that he thinks I'd be perfect for. I think he's a Sith Lord. Should I accept?

Solution - I have a bad feeling about this. Explore options, including therapy, before committing to the dark side.

Problem 3 - When is it okay to practice the love that dare not speak it's name?

Solution - Never. The love that dare not speak it's name dares not for a reason.

PROBLEM OF THE MONTH

Problem 4 - God has been communicating with me directly ever sunday for about six weeks now. the thing is, He's always trying to get me to do chores on this day of resting. He said he send a plague of locusts into my yard if I didn't mend the fence. I think he's drunk. What do I do?

Solution - Dealing with the Divine Creator is a tricky busines at the best of times. One millenia He's dishing out earth shaking catastrophies, the next He's pretending to not exist. So it's hard to know how he'll react to your blasphemy, especially so early in a new milenium. If God is hitting the sauce again, though, it's probably best to get out the hammer and nails and have a coat of whitewash ready to go.

There you have it. Hope I've made the world a better place once again!

Water Pressure and Brown on the "Pow"

2006-05-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

I was just in the shower washing my hair when something perplexed me I and no matter how I looked at the situation, I could not find a satisfactory solution to the problem. So, I must turn to you now and ask:

With regards to the "glass half empty/ glass half full" scenario, is it generally assumed that :

1. a) Glass half full = optimist b) Glass half empty = pessimist

OR

2. a) Glass half full = pessimist b) Glass half empty = optimist

I was originally thinking that 1 is correct, that a person who concentrates on "emptiness" would be generally regarded as pessimistic. But you could think of it as someone saying "At least it's only half empty, instead of completely empty". Conversely, it would be pessemistic to think " The glass is only half full, when topped right up would be so much better".

Also, I was wondering if "winking" is obsolete. It definately doesn't seem to be catching on with the kids. So, if it is not already an extinct form of expression, then I postulate that it soon will be.

That's all.

Online Personality Test

2006-05-10T11:30:00.000-07:00

Interesting personality quiz I found; Thought I'd share it with you all.

1) The fate of your planet hangs in the balance. Do you:

a) Petition your interplanetary community for assistance?
b) Concoct a solution that may well jeopardize the space-time continuum?
c) Allow your world to perish if it means many more will be spared?
d) Eat "Cheetos" and watch the devastation on TV?

2) You tend to sympathize most strongly with:

a) The baby
b) Tom Selleck
c) Sam Malone
d) Steve Guttenburg

3) Which term best decribes you when used to complete the sentence "People of other races give me the..."

a) Willies
b) Lumpies
c) Yub Yubs
d) Amputations

4) Choose the term that best describes your thoughts when used to complete the phrase "The best things in life are..."

a) Free
b) Illegal
c) Saucy
d) Determined empirically

5) When confronted with a complex problem, you tend to:

a) Fart
b) Procrastinate
c) Solve it
d) Dissolve it

6) Which of the following seems most like "common sense" to you?

a) If you're going to step in shit, wear old shoes.
b) The hairy pussy keeps warm in winter.
c) A mad scientist is one without gainful employment.
d) 1 through 12 make the grades.

7) You must bake a cake for a birthday that happens to fall on Easter Sunday. The cake looks like:

a) A regular birthday cake.
b) The Spear of Destiny.
c) The Easter Rabbit.
d) A scorched disaster.

8) You feel least important when you're around:

a) People who make more money than you.
b) People who are more athletic than you.
c) People who are more socially capable than you.
d) The Justice League.

9) You feel success is best measured in terms of:

a) Money.
b) Personal satisfaction.
c) Recognition from others.
d) Fractions.

10) You would most like to live in a world ruled by:

a) Ernst Stavro Blofeld
b) Vandal Savage
C) Gordon Shumway
d) ALF

11) Milk Bones:

a) Don't taste like milk.
b) Taste best with milk.
c) Are full of calcium.
d) Are for fags.

12) Choose the Transformers quote that most closely matches your own outlook.

a) Expect betrayal and your friends won't disappoint you.
b) Clarity of thought before rashness of action.
c) Cries and screams are music to my ears.
d) Everything is worth something, even me.

13) You would be most likely to join Cobra under who's command?

a) Cobra Commander
b) Serpentor
c) Destro
d) Golobulus

14) Cthulhu rises from the ocean. You:

a) Are paralyzed with fear.
b) Are rendered immobile with terror.
c) Are completely incapacitated by insanity.
d) This is a trick question and says nothing about you personally. It's just a fun hypothetical.

15) You are taking a test and come to the last question. You:

a) Feel confident in your answers.
b) Feel relief that it is over.
c) Feel like you've wasted your time.
d) Feel like you're being watched.

Next time I'll put up the scoring method and personality types descriptions.

Of Courts and Churches

2006-05-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

Well I've had the most interesting couple of weeks, that began in court and ended in church. If you're wondering what I was doing court, well, ask yourself why it is that most people wind up in court. Is it because they have broken the law?

Sometimes.

And ask yourself, when people have broken the law, what is it that they have done? Is it that they have broken into government offices in order to retrieve stolen, classified documents?

Sometimes.

As for the church part, my good friend Ryan, who is no stranger to the comments section of this very blog, took it apon himself to get married just a few days past. As children, we'd made a small wager on which one of us would get married first. It seems that I lost, but because he had not only vowed to get married first, but also to marry a barbarian warlord of infamy, I was not required to pay up as this latter stipulation did not come to pass.

As person after person took their place behind the microphone to share their personal humerous anecdotes about either bride or groom, one tale occured to me that, in my druken stupor, I decided to not relate at the time. In retrospect, that was a mistake, and I feel it best to share it now, lest another opportunity to do so not present itself.

Ryan and I have been co-dwellers at several locations throughout this fair city. The one I have in mind was a small house that managed to collect more thn it's fair share of snow upon it's driveway and sidewalk. The winter we resided there had been unusually long and cold, so we had to contend with even more snow than any previous tenant.

So it was during an afternoon of shovelling snow that we were suprised to uncover a vast block of ice in our driveway. We were even more suprised to discover that within this massive ice brick was none other than the prehistoric amphibian known as Icthyostega, one of the first vertebrates to crawl from the primordial oceans.

Naturally, we were very excited by this and quite eager to discover whether the thing had somehow survived it's ages of imprisonment. With great effort, we lugged the ice gaol inside and placed it in the bathtub to thaw. Hours passed slowly as we debated whether he had on our hands the greatest discovery in history or the world's coolest pet.

Finally, the ice thawed, and we carefully observed and poked the thing to see if it still lived. Much to our astonishment, the creature began to move! Quickly, we ran a warm bath for the beast, and tossed in plastic dinosaurs and Ryan's sea monkey's to make it feel more at home.

Then it was off to the kitchen to retrieve a celebratory bottle of wine, in honor of the greatest of all fortunes that had been bestowed apon us. The hours went by, and we periodically checked in on the ancient amphibian, except when "Jeopardy!" was on. that half hour was spent loudly declaring the question to every answer "What is Icthyostega". Much alcohol inspired amusement ensued.

But apon returning to the bathroom, Ryan was the first to realise something was wrong when he lfted our water/air breathing friend from the tub and kissed it, only to find it wasn't kissing him back. Alarmed, we repeated all our checks for signs of life. Only this time... there were none to be found. Icthyostega was dead.

Few have ever known the depair we felt that day. The wails that emanated from our household were of such volume that the neighbourhood banshee called the cops about the racket.

But even as the ancient amphibian died, a revelation was born to me. This thing had been kept alive in ice for 350 million years, only to die after a few hours in our care. God, or somebody, was trying to tell us something. He wanted us to be scientists.

I announced my intentions and Ryan declared that if I was going to be a scientist, then he would be a scientist, too.

But when the great day came to prove my devotion to empirical findings, I overslept. Ryan, true to his word, did not become a scientist because I had not become one.

So whatever became of us? Well, my story can be found right here, updated from time to time. As for Ryan, he confided to me at the wedding that he has mapped all the secret underground border crossings between Mexico and the United States, though he couldn't tell me the value of such information.

Anyway, when we look back at the day God revealed his divine intentions to us and we thwarted his holy scheme to make scientists out of us, we laugh.

I Had a Night Terror

2006-04-24T19:53:00.000-07:00

Sometime last week I dreamt that I was eating lunch in a restaurant no better than those in your bus average station. The decor was drab; the food bland, but inexpensive. Depressingly, this was a place I'd been to many times before, and I knew I would return to many times.

I'd been here often enough to know the cashier and to strike up a conversation as I paid my bill. We talked at length on the unfortunateness of the condition of the owner's daughter. The proprietor's were a mom and pop duo with well known eccentricities. These eccentricities, though not malicious, had had terrible affect on their daughter as she grew up in their care, and was now quite predisposed to histrionics and ironic comments.

The cashier spoke to me of another daughter the owner's had, which I had never heard of before. I was further suprised to learn that this daughter had not be made a secret of or anything, she was spoken of frequently and openly. Somehow I had just happened to miss all of it.

So I asked "What's her story?" expecting to hear of another child warped by unusual parenting.

"Nothing. Perfectly normal." the cashier said.

My business concluded at the restaurant, stepped out into the adjoining shopping mall. This particular portion of this mall featured a large opening in the second floor, for the people upstairs to look down on all the first floor shoppers, as well as allow the passage of escalators and a glass elevator. I was on the first floor, no doubt being looked down apon, heading what appeared to be a farmer's market inside the mall. This market featured all sorts of fresh, farm grown produce in dirty wooden bins, which was highly incongruous with the rest of the mall's clean and modern appearance.

This was a popular place, and plenty of people were milling about. One old fellow, small and thin with thick glasses and short white hair, did not appear to be there for the purpose of procuring produce. Instead, he was hurrying about the narrow lanes at unsafe speed with an empty shopping cart. Women and children were forced to scurry aside as he came barreling through. It would have seemed that he was deliberately trying to to hit people if there was any evidence that he was the least bit aware of their presence.

Anyway, regardless of the chaos and carnage being left in his wake, he continued to zip all over the place, never slowing or seeming to have any more purpose in mind.

But soon, some of the men in the area grew weary of this speedy menace and his antics. They gathered 'round him, stopping the elderly bullet train and is basket with a mighty laying on of hands. As he struggled vainly to free the shopping cart from the hands of these more muscular interlopers, the old man began to cry out in monosyllabic sounds. "AAAAA! EEEEE! OOOOO!" he shouted in protest.

As the vowels were being recited, another man appeared on the scene. This one, possessed of a died black bowl cut and a bizarrely pronounced pear shaped torso, I happened to know was called "Dangerous Dan". I had no idea, however, of what made him so dangerous. Nothing about his appearance offered any clues.

Dangerous Dan managed to pull the old fool away from his shopping cart and lifted him off of his feet. Then, flipping him upside down, in a piledriver-like manuever, bonked the old man's head aginst the ground. The old man, now rendered unconscious, was gently laid in a heap on the floor.

Bt this seemingly unnecessary violence turned the crowd aganst this would be savior. The old man, in their collective opinion, probably needed medication more than physical assault. So the throng of fellows who'd assembled to end the old man's rampage now took care of Dangerous Dan in much the same wasy Dangerous Dan had taken care of the old man.

Understandabley, Dangerous Dan protested loudly. "No! We tried to take it out! We tried to take it out... and we couldn't!" he said as he lay on the floor, next to the unconscious old man.

To the assembled onlookers, this made about as much sense as the old man's cries of vowels. But the meaning of this was known to me. What they had tried to 'take out' was a demon which had possessed the old timer. The attempted exorcism had failed, and they now had to curb his demon influenced behavior with whatever means available to them. I guess that included sending the old man off into dreamland.

As I stood by in the crowd, merely watching these events unfold, I suddenly became aware of the presence of some of my friends in the crowd. One of them turned to me and said "After this, let's go to Silver Shore".

I don't know what Silver Shore was, and never found out. That's when I woke up, and had to go to work. Something tells me I would have rather gone to Silver Shore.

Cosmic Rust pt IV

2006-04-09T16:46:00.000-07:00

Despite all the troubles and tribulations I've had with computers, I've still managed to make an update every month since I started this blasted thing. So it seems altogether fitting that we open Q2 of 2006 with part 4 of Cosmic Rust.

Last time, Megatron, the victim of cosmic rust, had just decreed that the Stunticons be dispatched to abduct the brilliant Autobot scientist, Perceptor.

This time, we open looking down on Liberty Island while the Aerialbots engage in some high flying maneuvers. The Aerialbots are the Autobots team of heroic jet fighters, who were designed as a direct response to the Decepticons' air superiority. Additionally, these five warriors can merge together to form one gigantic robot, known as Superion. Smart money says Superion will be putting in his two cents later in the show.

"Come on, Aerialbots! We're gonna spray ol' Lady Liberty!" one of them enthusiasically announces. It's a good thing they didn't send the Catbots on this particular mission. Hilariously, one of the Aerialbots misconstrues the nature of the mammoth metal maid. "That non-functioning old robot?"

"She's not a robot!" Corrects the Aerialbot leader, Silverbolt, as they transform and land at the base of the pedestal. "She's a hollow statue the earth humans constructed."

It's not clear why he needed to point out that the statue is hollow or that humans are from earth. Perhaps this was to fill the educational quota required of all children's programming in the 80's. Whatever the case, Silverbolt's knowledge of earth's people and monuments appears to have been exhausted, and he speaks no more on the subject.

Instead, the camera pans skyward at the monument in question, and we can see that the other Autobts are already hard at work, coating the statue with what appears to be pesticide, but is presumabley Corrostop, while reverent music plays. The face of the big bronze bitch appears curiously flat and angular here, much like the faces of the titular robots. I have to wonder if the earlier statement of "She's not a robot!" won't turn out to be quite ironic in the course of this adventure.

Meanwhile, across the harbour, "Liberty Ferry" is rapidly approaching the island. While this doesn't seem particularly alarming, long time viewers will recognize that something is amiss with the first shot of the automobiles stowed aboard the deck of the ferry.

Actually, it suddenly occurs to me that there is something amiss with the very idea of transporting vehicles to Liberty Island. After all, it is a rather small island, and I don't believe you can drive around on it. But the notion of stowing your car on a boat, only be be forced to leave it behind, is not the greatest evil on display here.

We can immediately recognize the grey and purple semi truck as Motormaster, leader of the Stunticons. Like the Aerialbots, the Stunticons were designed to diminish the enemy's advantage in their strongest environment. In this case, we have five decepticons who transform into cars. Also like the Aerialbots, the Stunticons can combine into one extra large combatant; this one known as Menasor.

Even though the Aerialbots were made to fight Decepticon jets, and the Stunticons were made to fight Autobot cars, the Aerialbots and Stunticons are arch-enemies and fight each other all the time. Expect Superion and Menasor to thrown down during the exciting climax.

Curiously, from a distance, it looks as though the Autobots Bluestreak and Jazz are parked right next to Motormaster, though it is not clear whether it be as spies or traitors that they consort with the enemy. But we've only a moment to ponder this quandary before the scene changes, and we realise that neither treachery nor espionage were taking place, merely shoddy artistry.

The next scene is a close up on Motormaster, and the two vehicles in question, as they transform, and we can quite clearly see that they are actually Breakdown and Dead End, two of the Stunticons.

"This is a mutiny! No, no... a hi-jack! I mean we're taking over this boat!" declares Breakdown, ordering all the humans into the "Captain's cabin". I don't know if the captain of a ferry, who's voyages last maybe 20 minutes, rates a cabin or not, but then I bet Breakdown doesn't know either. Anyway, the motley mob runs inside to what I assume is the covered parking portion of the boat. It definately doesn't look to be the Captain's cabin, but Breakdown seems satisfied nonetheless, and seals the door behind them.

Somewhere nearby, Perceptor is speaking with a reporter about his fabulous new Corrostop. In case anyone has forgotten, he reminds us it will keep the statue safe from "...acid rain, or anything else that's harmful."

If I'd been sprayed with something that would keep me safe from anything harmful, I'd have done a lot of things differently, I can tell you. But I digress.

"How did you ever come up with the formula, Perceptor?" asks the reporter who, if this were another show, I'd swear was the Baroness in disguise. Even the question seems suspicious. But this is not that show, however, and I guess that question is only just as stupid, but no more sinister, than it seems. After all, it wasn't all that long ago that Perceptor declared the formula for Corrostop was a secret to keep it out of Decepticon hands. Must he do so again already?

"I must apologize, but I am unable to reveal anything about the compound."

Meanwhile, the Stunticons are fast approaching Liberty Island. Wildrider has procured from somewhere a speedboat, while Drag Strip has procured from somewhere a pair of transformer sized water skiis, and is now being towed by Wildrider's speedboat.

"Hey, fellows! Catch this wild action!" intones Wildrider, as though we haven't seen enough already. He says this without much enthusiasm, however, and we soon deduce why. This promised "wild action" consists solely of a moderately hard to port turn of the speedboat just shy of the island's edge, while the waterskiing Drag Strip is launched out of the water and onto dry land.

Drag Strip transforms into his car mode and tears around for a spell, terrorizing the reporter/ baroness, who lets out an inhuman screech before she flees into the distance. Drag Strip then drives in some circles around Perceptor, who is clearly miffed by this turn of events. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" he says.

Perceptor quickly proves his stuff by correctly assessing the situation. "A Stunticon!" he declares. Drag Strip transforms to fire on the intuitive Autobot. Perceptor then proceeds to demonstrate the limited scope of his "stuff" when, finding himself caught between Drag Strip and the open ocean, he announces "I'm trapped!"

But the ocean is not quite as open as it seems. It's still full steam ahead for Liberty Ferry, only now Motormaster stands atop it, whirling a length of chain over his head. Unsurprisingly, the chain, now sporting the ship's anchor, is thown, and wraps itself around the Autobot scientist, rendering him even more trapped than before.

It was while Perceptor was being liberated from his freedom that I noticed all the skyscrapers in the none too distant background. This got me to thinking, and I re-reviewed all the parts I've written about today, and realised that Perceptor is never seen among the Autobots on Liberty Island. And if he was on the island, why have the other Autobots failed to notice the attack on his person? So I must now conclude that Perceptor is not on Liberty Island, he must be on the mainland somewhere. If that's the case, then one must wonder what the Stunticons were doing on the ferry, which I assume goes nowhere but Liberty Island and back again. But I digress.

Anyway, Perceptor topples into the water as Motormaster hauls him in. "Help! Optimus!" he cries.

Blissfully unaware of all this, Optimus Prime and Ironhide , who definately are on Liberty Island, take a moment to stand around gazing at the colossal copper cunt and note "...the jobs almost finished" rather than just getting it done. This idle, self congratulatory reverie is rudely interrupted when the reporter/ Baroness/ not-quite-human comes running up and ... wait. Did she just run all the way from Perceptor, who is not on the island, to Optimus, who is on the island? If this is correct, then some kind of water walking ability may be indicated here. That might explain her seeming unearthliness. I wonder what it sounded like when Jesus screamed? But I digress.

She wastes no time in telling Optimus that Perceptor has been captured, even though it seems to me that she ran off way before that turn of events. Optimus, too, wastes no time.

"Aerialbots! Perceptor's gone! Transform... and find him!"

The Decepticons have already taken Perceptor... somewhere. It looks like it's still in the city, as evinced by the non-descript building in the background.

In the foreground is Blitzwing, the triple changer who famously converts from robot to jet to tank and back again! In this particular instance, Blitzwing is in his jet mode, demonstrating something else that the transformers show is famous for; size inconsistancy.

Most of the time, transformers turn into vehicles that, in a side by side comparison, are in all ways indistinguishable from their human manufactured counterparts. But sometimes a script will call for a vehicle that can accomodate a transformer as a driver or passenger. Needless to say, such a vehicle would be many times the size of a similar vehicle designed for human occupants.

A few lazy animators later, and one character or another, whoever best fits the vehicular requirements, has magically been granted the ability to change into a giant version of its normal vehicle mode. This magical ability is granted irregularly at best, usually whenever it can help speed the story through a boring part. However, if some drama or action might result from a lack of gigantic vehicle mode(GVM), then get ready for plenty of puny, human sized vehicles.

In this scene, Blitzwing is required to serve as a passenger plane. He is even shown with a stairway leading to a door in his fuselage, which is quite rare on most jet fighters. Presumabley, Blitzwing will be required to carry not only Perceptor, but the Stunticons as well, which means we are straying into the seldom employed Extra Gigantic Vehicle Mode (EGVM). Only Astrotrain is regularly called apon for EGVM. But since Astrotrain is also a triple changer, I guess there is a weak premise of logic at work in choosing Blitzwing as the EGVM substitute.

We see Perceptor being hustled up the stairs by Breakdown, while Dead End watches all this and quips "You've got an appointment with Megatron!"

What is all this leading to? You'll just have to wait!

Return of the

2006-03-30T14:45:00.000-08:00

Thre's something that's been bothering me for quite awhile now. I am not speaking of the perpetual non-functioning of my computer, though that has been troubling me as well. I mean, how is it that a computer may spend over two months in a computer repair shop without nary a sign of repairedness?

My suspicions, based on much evidence but little investigation, is that this particular computer shop is crewed exclusively by computer retards, or "computards" as they shall be known henceforth.

Of course, there are always the conspiracy theorists who will take things too far, and say that this computer shop is nothing more than a front for practitioners of a bizarre fetish who need to surround themselves with as many computer towers as possible in order to get in the mood. Were this the case, then no doubt my computer, and many others like it, have seen more than their fair share of seedy motel rooms throughout the city. There, they stood in silent vigil as computards engage in the love that dare not speak it's name, until everything not wrapped in plastic is stained with their genetic code.

It's enough to make a person sick just thinking about it.

But, again, that's not what's really been bothering me. As you have no doubt surmised, I have ways around that problem.The thing that has my mind and body stymied is how can the Kool Aid Man smash through brick walls if he's only made of glass?

So far, I have only two possible solutions. One is that the kool aid inside the Kool Aid Man is moving with equal force in an opposite direction to the force of the impact with the brick wall. In theory, these two forces should cancel each other out, and thus the structural integrity of the Kool Aid Man remains uncompromised.

One can imagine the years of practice that would have been required, akin to that of the greatest martial arts masters, to perfect such a technique. I shudder to think on the grievous injuries this sentient pitcher must have inflicted on itself during the trial and error period. It is even more disheartening to know that the master of martial arts has wisdom and magic powers bestowed apon him by his years of experience, while the same effort and dedication netted the Kool Aid Man an exclusive contract as the corporate shill for Purplesaurus Rex.

The other possible solution that I have conceived is that the Kool Aid Man is not made of glass at all, but rather some more durable substance that, to the human eye, is indistinguishable from glass.

Lets look to Star Trek IV: A Whale of a Trek, for an example of what I mean.

In this particular adventure of the Starship Enter Prize, Scotty, the chief mechanic, conspires to undo the entire space-time continuum by inventing "transparisteel". Transparisteel, apparently, is some kind of metal, engineered in such a fashion as to have all the transparency of glass, while retail all the other good metal qualities.

I can't really recall if they actually say that transparisteel is made from actual steel or not. Sometimes, out of lazy language usage, a word with a narrow definition like "steel", is substituted for, and considered synonymous to, a more generalized term like "metal". They could have just as easily named the stuff "transpiron", which sounds a lot cooler to me anyway, without changing ingredients of the material.It seems this is a linguistic nightmare the galactic federation has done little to remedy.

If this is the case, and the Kool Aid Man is in fact made out of transparisteel, this raises more questions than answers. Are we to assume, then, that the Kool Aid Man is actually a part of official Star Trek continuity? Was he the one to defeat Khan and banish him from the earth? Was Scotty effectively responsible for the creation of Earth's greatest savior?

Unfortunately, this kind of speculation can only lend more unneeded wood to the fires of the "Should Scotty have done that?" debate that's currently burning up the internet. But a debate was inevitable, I guess. You can't fuck around with the space-time continuum with expecting the consequences to be dire.

One needs to look no farther than the early, abandoned script for Star Trek V to see the truth of this. In it, the heroes return to the future, only to discover that Scotty as erased himself from existence by changing history. Thus, he never invents transpiron, the whales aren't saved, and the earth is destroyed.

Later, Captain Kirk is drinking zarko on Sluptaar II, when he must activate his rocket boots to escape from the vagina of a gigantic iggyak. The resulting carnage attracts a frenzied pack of romulan sky sharks, who devour the erstwhile captain. The zarko coursing through the veins of the late James T. doesn't affect the sky sharks, but one of them later dies when it's intestines get blocked up by a rocket boot and it can't poop no more.

I know it sounds sort of weird all out of context like that, but if you go online and read the whole script for yourself, I'm confident that you'll vastly prefer it to what they really did.

Anyway, I'm certain I've yet to uncover all the possible sources for the Kool Aid Man's seeming indestructability. I promise you I'll be thinking strictly empirical thoughts on the matter, until I've found the solution to what may be the greatest mystery of out time.

Too Much Noise

2006-02-23T13:05:00.000-08:00

So where have I been all this time?

At home.

No, my computador is not fixed, but I was at the email checking store, checking my email, and I thought I'd throw out this little song I wrote out there for your enjoyment.

Old people smell funny in the daytime
Old people smell funny under the sun
Old people smell funny in enclosed spaces
Old people have smelly old faces

Babies downright stink
People shaped creatures who don't know how to think

That's all I got so far, so that's all you get, too.

Weesa Bein Friends

2006-01-16T17:54:00.000-08:00

Hello friends. I am ask we be friends you all nice people. I am known as Joachim Jaeger, I am from Frusenland. My land is strange to you and so are my words. I am apology because my english is something less than exemplary, but be assured than my efforts to improve in this area are determined and time consuming.

I am make friends with Jamie Luxton 3 in produce section when he see that I am nowhere I belong. So I tell him that I know not what I do, or as you say in Canador, I am fucked up the whistle. He is say to me I will take you to my crunch lair and render much assistance apon ye.

I am talking "Much obliged" and it's off to the crunch lair! Inside I am seeing many stange things that my eyeballs do not accept into their hearts.Canador is full of many things that not make the sense to me, but in Frusenland the people are living very different.

Like, when I am but small, the mother is often touching my anushole and say "Poop check" and then, depending what she find, she say "All clear" or "Biohazard!"

The father also used to do the poop check, but only until I am 8. The father searches much deeper with his meater stick and take longer too.

This is our way. But in Canador, if you do the poop check you are cast apon the stones. Oh well.

Also, in Frusenland, rabies is very popular to have because only the village idiot is eligible for social assistance. So it is very common to see man in pit of badgers trying to catch the "bad brain". You know what I am say.

But in Canador, everyone is like village idiot. Must be nice, except you can't find an issue of Corbotard anywhere.

So I am in the crunch lair my eyes are saying thats a naked sleeping girl on that pile of dirty clothes and my own pants are making love tent. So my mouth is saying "Much obliged" but J3 is taking me away from that. He is show to me his computador and his blogo and is saying that it is for the world to look at. So if there being someone to help me, I be finding them this way.

My situation is that I am needing the cashmoney and in the quantity. If you can help I send you my post office box number where you send your cheques and credit cards to. I am desperate to get home or something that costs mucho.

Anyone who helpeth me, their cup shall runneth over with the protein drink of my meat.

God bus you all.

A Jamie By Any Other Name

2006-01-12T20:44:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I had one of those keychains that has your name on it, but not because I might lose it and wanted the finder to know who to return it to. It was one of those novelty keychains that tells you, or any literate person, what your name means. Mine said:

"Jamie - (Hebrew)The Preferred One"

(This once prompted some kid to ask me "Are you Hebrew?", whatever that means). Naturally, sceptics will be sceptics, and automatically respond "Preferred by whom?"

The answer, of course, is "By everyone (except, apparently, sceptics)". Here's some things I've gathered from personal experience to illustrate.

Have you ever been in a line up at the grocery store or the bank or a fast food restaurant, and it just takes forever and ever? Not me. That's because I can usually find some way to let the cashier or whatever know that I am "Jamie" and they will automatically call me to the front of the line because they don't want me to wait. Pretending to cough into your hand, but really be saying "I'm Jamie" or "Jamie here" usually works, although some people in the line may come to resent this, especially if you've been in line ups together before. A better way is to wear a name tag which you "forgot" to take off after work earlier. This way, everyone knows you are "Jamie" and they want to let you go ahead of them. You don't even have to say anything, but a little nod or approval in their direction will give them quite the story to tell around the dinner table tonight.

But when two "Jamie"s appear in the same line up though, watch out! They may be trading "No, I insist, after you!" for hours! Eventually the situation resolves itself (usually a flip of the coin), and good-natured laughter is had by "Jamie"s and by-standers alike. These incidents are often reported in the local paper.

I have more, but I'll save them for later. I just thought it might be a good idea to get this information out there, in case anyone was thinking about changing their name or naming a baby.

Hot or Not?

2006-01-08T09:10:00.000-08:00

Not 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Hot

Likes: Hostile Takeovers, Industrial Espionage, Arena Sports,

Legal Loopholes, Disposable Income, Monopoly, Free Trade,

Sushi, Neoliberalism, Miters

Dislikes:Talking about feelings, Toothbrushes,

Hip Hop Music, Taxes, Pinko Commies,

Direct Confrontation, Exercise,

Godzilla movies, Queens,

Pants

Resolute New Year's

2006-01-06T07:43:00.000-08:00

Any person equipped with a cold, practical intelligence, such as myself, understands that that transition between years is a highly arbitrary, and ultimately meaningless, marker of the passing of time. In terms of making positive and lasting change in our lives, January 1 is no more significant than april 10, june 12, or even july 5.

Nevertheless, many people still choose to hitch their star of effective, affirmative action to the wagon of the new year. Colloquially, we refer to this practice as new year's resolutions.

In an effort to appear more human, I, too, have made some new year's resolutions of my own. Here they are:

- Expand interests
- Improve health
-Overcome adversity

I'm feeling pretty optimistic about this. Last year there were so many things I never got around to and it gets pretty depressing when you realise how few of your goals you've accomplished. Here's just a partial list of things I failed to achieve in 2005:

- Grow a plant
- Join a gym
- Learn to appreciate the little things
- Acquire season 2 of "The Friendly Giant" on DVD
- Break out of brand loyalty to "Fruit of the Loom"
- Observe poop coming out of own bum
- Cross breed a cactus and a hamster
- Become a "Deviled Egg Bandit"
- Watch "Batteries Not Included" 3 times (only watched it twice)
- Visit Autobot City
- Don't write a blog

There's more, but this by itself is enough to make it impossible to feel good about one's self.
Here's to learning from the past. From it's lessons, the future is forged!

Revenge of the Sithwich

2006-01-05T08:29:00.000-08:00

If you're anything like me, you choose to live in an impratical world of complete fantasy that does little, or nothing, to help you meet the standards set by society. When you live like this, you find yourself easily influenced by suposedly fictional notions of good and evil.

One such notion that recent revealed itself to me, is nothing less than the concentrated power and seduction of the dark side of the force... made delicious. I speak of none other than the Sithwich.

It is easy to imagine how the Sithwich would have been a powerful tool in the arsenal of Darth Sidious in his bid to control the galaxy. Few can resist it's allure, and when plied with Sithwichs, his minions would have fallen under his sway faster than with any mind trick.

So what is the Sithwich, you ask? Allow me to elucidate.

The Sithwich

2 Loaves French Bread, unsliced
1 Package Shadow Bacon
6 Eggs, fried
16 oz Velveeta
1 Package Hollandaise sauce
Garlic powder

Prepare Hollandaise sauce in advance according to instructions. You will need approx. 1/2 cup butter and 1 cup milk for this. set aside and keep warm until ready to use.

Prepare Shadow bacon in a frying pan until desired crispiness is achieved. Place bacon in a seperate dish and keep hot. Do not pour out excess bacon grease in pan.

Using same frying pan, fry eggs in bacon grease. Keep hot when finished.

Slice both french loaves length wise. Slice Velveeta into enough pieces to cover the entire surface of bottom halves. There should be no left over Velveeta! You might want to briefly microwave or placein oven to melt cheese if bacon and eggs won't be hot enough.

Place 3 eggs on Velveeta layer on each half loaf. Divide bacon into two equal portions and place on top of eggs.

Drizzle with desired amount of hollandaise sauce(Don't worry! There's plenty!) and sprinkle with garlic powder. Place top of loaf on top.

Serves 2. No more, no less.

Not unlike Palpatine himself, the Sithwich is agreeable and beneficient on the outside, but secretly conspiring to corrupt you from within in ways you cannot perceive... until it is far too late.

The Sithwich is not to be trusted. Enjoy!

The Don'ts of Small Talk

2006-01-01T10:42:00.000-08:00

Why do I have to be so in demand? Everyone wants a piece of my time; Everyone wants a piece of the action. Whether it be work, bill collectors, anthropomorphic crocodiles, or low flying weather balloons, it seems there is always something or someone trying to keep me from whichever personal agenda I may be pursuing.

What? What's that you're saying?

Yes, you're quite right. I haven't been to work in months, so it hasn't really been eating up a lot of my time lately. But to say it has been taking up none of my time would not be quite accurate. I think about it a lot, which takes time, but there's more than that.

Yesterday I actually had the temerity to venture onto the premises of Homolka and Krieger itself. My mission: To inflitrate said company's new year's party and act like nothing ever happened. The outcome? Read on.

I arrived looking quite sharp in the best suit I could steal from Sears. My apologies to anyone newly disillusioned about me by this criminal activity. Unfortunately, with no discernable income, even the cheapest suit (ie. Sears) is considerably outside my price range. I assure all you ladies out there that this behavior is strictly born out of necessity, not recreation... Unless you like that sort of thing.

Anyway, what I didn't realise was that under the kind of fluorescent lights at the office, my suit, which had seemed to be black, now appeared a sort of "70's" brown. My confidence in my ability to pull this off suddenly dwindled.

When the elevator doors opened and I stepped off onto the 2nd floor, the spectacle of the christmas party stretched out before me. All these people whom I had worked with on a daily basis now making drunken asses out of themselves. My confidence in my ability to pull this off sky rocketed.

"Eeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyy." Greeted my ears before I'd taken 5 steps. It was Walter Torag, Man of the Jungle. He'd been hired as a sort of media stunt, thanks to his unlikely but widely publicized contention that he'd been raised from infancy by Mokele Mbembe. He had a ziplock bag that appeared to contain poop and chunks of reptilian skin that he encouraged scientists to test as proof. The one scientist who took a sample would later go on record as saying that the only experiment he conducted on the conents of the bag revealed them to be delicious. In the end, it turned out Walter had a good understanding of structural integrity and we kept him around. Later on he would pioneer a sort of deconstructivist neolithic style.

We used to give Walter a lot of good natured teasing about his supposed fantastical origins, until Mr. Homolka discovered that the legendary Mokele Mbembe was, in fact, a thunder lizard. During one such session, our laughter was abruptly silenced as we collectively became aware of Mr. Homolka standing nearby, motionless, face stoney, eyes blazing with fiery intensity and malevolent purpose. We later speculated that he knew we'd been speaking of thunder lizards, but had arrived too late to catch us in the act. Nevertheless, we'd been sufficiently cowed and never broached the subject during office hours again.

Anyway, Walter was the sort of guy who keeps mostly quiet but becomes that sort of confessional drunk who openly surrenders his secrets without the least bit provocation. So it was just as he was loosening his belt, to prove just how hairy his ass was, that I was granted a welcome reprieve via a summons from no less than Boris Krieger himself.

Boris was a portly and stern fellow who never reacted to anything. His ability to maintain a straight face under any circumstance was exceptional, to say the least. Often, people newly introduced to Boris would mistake his perpetual blank stare as a sign of dullardry, but through his decisive and efficient behavior, it became clear that he was actually a man of tremendous self confidence and composure.

Anyway, Mr. Krieger had been my trump card in my rivalry with Roddy McAmsterdam for partnership at the firm, for he had once championed some of my architectural ideas, even in the face of Mr. Homolka's disapproval. In the end, Mr. Homolka had his way and my ideas were shot down. Nevertheless, I came to regard Boris as a benefactor and powerful ally.

"Where have you been Number 3?"

He called me Number 3 due to my distinction as the third in a line of Jamie Luxtons. But he gave me no chance to answer. "Just keep quiet about it and maybe you'll get out of this with your career intact."

Only one thing could disuade Boris Krieger from whatever current activity or purpose he had in mind, so I didn't need to hear the tremendous round of appaulse that suddenly erupted to know that Thomas Homolka had entered the room.

Mr. Homolka was a man who enjoyed ritualistic ceremony. Because of this, even though he possessed a considerable personal wealth, he loved to shop at Wal-Mart. His favorite pastime was attending parades, and could always be found in Moscow and New York on May Day and Thanksgiving, respectively. I don't know how he originally got people to applaud his entrance, but by my time, it happened without exception and without question. With all eyes now apon him, he launched into his traditional toast.

"Friends,
Do not let this merry making and celebration obscure your understanding. Though we are on the verge of embarking on a new calendar year, be aware that this is the most arbitrary measuring of the passage of time. Tomorrow shall be no different than today, for each new day is no more than a launching point from which we venture into the future. And before you get carried away with optimism about the future's unlimited potential, remember that the future will carry on long after it has stopped carrying you with it. That's it. Drink up... It's the weekend."

A period of chastised quiescence followed, with people sectioning off in small groups to make subdued, idle chatter. Personally, as I believe I have stated before, I hate small talk. So it was with a bit of dispair I realised Doug Rubber and Tom Craze were shuffling towards me for the purpose of conversation. It would prove worse than I imagined, as Tom immediately launched into discourse about his automobile.

Do not talk to me about your car. If you own a car, it is altogether good and right that you should be knowledgeable about it. It is, after all, your property, and to ensure longevity of use and enjoyment, you'll want to have a good understanding of it's capabilities and functioning. But it seems many a fellow has translated this pratical knowledge into a form of recreation. Worse than this, is that many of these same fellows just assume that any other fellow within earshot will be likewise entertained by the recital of said capabilities and functionings.

Well, you know what the say when you assume: You make a conclusion not grounded in empirical methods of evidence collection.

I do not own a car and therefore, by my own logic, do not care about the capabilities and functionings of any car. I have no reason to care about any of these things in your car or anyone else's. My disinterest in the subject is authentic, profound, and cannot be overstated. My response, should you choose to inform me of any mechanical malfunction that ails your ride, will always be a polite "That's unfortunate."

Conversely, no matter how many dollars you've invested in your set of wheels, my interest in it's maximum performance values will always be at a minimum. At most, purely as a token of social necessity, I may inquire "How fast are we going now?"

Coversation was not exclusively about Tom's car, however. there was also talk about sports.

Do not talk to me about sports. No one seemed to be mentioning my absence, however. Had no one really noticed?

Something of significance that I did learn was that Mr. Homolka had taken some time off himself. As you may have heard, his second cousin Karla had recently been released from prison. What was not so well known was that she had been staying with Thomas for awhile. Unfortunately, for the Homolka's at least, some angry canadian citizens found out and attempted to make good on the many death threats Karla had recieved for her crimes. Attacks on the house were almost hourly at one point. So Mr. Homolka took a few weeks off to personally defend his home. The rumor was that Mr. Homolka had actually killed at least one home invader with a prized and antique elephant gun he'd found at the side of the road some years earlier.

Anyway, when Karla's tenure at Mr.Homolka's home came to end, Thomas returned to work. During his abscence, Boris Krieger had been in charge, which may well be the largest bone possible to have thrown my way, where my continued employment was concerned.

At that moment, Mr. Homolka's rounds amongst the various groups had finally lead him to us. He singled me out immediately. "Luxton. Haven't seen your work on my desk in a while. What project is it that you're now working on?"

His thin frame, white hair and grey skin might lead one to assume he was frail and weak. This was most certainly not the truth, however. I think he prided himself on his ability to maintain this deception. On those occassions he felt it neccessary to reveal his full ability, it was a sight shocking and terrifying to behold. I have personally witnessed him lift a microwave over his head and thow it against the wall, and also bend a saucepan in half. But no one who ever saw those eyes could judge him infirm. Those eyes always blazed like the visage of Dormammu.

I was unsure what to say. My eyes glanced past to his shoulder to where Krieger was standing. He looked back at me without expression. He wouldn't be of any help to me now. Or would he? There was no way to know. I knew this was the moment when my future would be decided, and it seemed I was on my own in shaping it. I froze. I didn't know what to say.

Miraculously, it was Tom Craze who came to my unwitting rescue.

"Someone taste this cake. It's delicious!" he said, rushing over. His hurriedness lead his feet straight into a potted plant, and he stumbled. Though he didn't wind up flat on his face, cake and plate and fork flew from his hand and landed with a clatter and a splatter near Mr. Homolka's feet.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Homolka." said Tom Craze.

But Mr. Homolka didn't respond. He didn't even move. He stayed as he was, frozen in a crouching position, Tom's fork in his hand. "What's this." he said.

"A fork." said Tom with a forced casualness. I thought I detected a bead of sweat on his forehead.

"A salad fork."

There was nothing for anyone to say, now. No point in denial, no point in protest.

"Is that a salad you're eating there, son?"

Tom looked like he was about to cry. He shook his head. I felt bad for him.

"What the fuck are you on about, son? It's the holiday season, and this is the shit you're trying to pull?"

Now Tom really was crying while trying to look at the fork being held an inch from his face, which made him slightly cross eyed. It would have been comical if it hadn't been happening right in front of me.

"Get the fuck out of here. Let me show you the door."

Mr. Homolka took Tom by the arm and lead him to the elevator, all of us watching. When those doors closed, we knew we'd never see Tom again, and worse, the party had effectively been killed.

"See you on Monday." said Krieger as his hand came down on my shoulder.

One career died so another could be reborn. I would have vowed then and there to not let his sacrifice be in vain... but I never really liked Tom anyway. Once the shock wore off, the office would be a much nicer place to come to. I realised I was experiencing something I'd not felt in a long time. I was looking forward to going to work. Isn't that weird?

Disappointment At It's Finest

2005-12-24T08:14:00.000-08:00

One of life's most enduring mysteries is finding the right words to best express whichever particular dissatisfaction is affecting me at any given moment. Perhaps that is the reason for my penchant for pedantic rhetoric.

Whatever the case, it cannot be denied that our ability to complain is a God given right. Also given to us by God was Jesus. When thought about like this, it could be argued that complaining is next to godliness, or at least God was being extra generous at Christmas time, for both Jesus and complaining are essential components of the holiday season.

Now I'll be the first to admit I know fuck all about Jesus and his adventures. All I can really recall is that he was once the target of a scheme by Vandal Savage, so he must have been pretty important.

What I think I have made clear is that I do know a lot about complaining and, well, tis' the season. This is because Christmas is a time of expectations. Not only do you expect to find a bunch of cool shit for your own self under the tree, so do you also expect great gushings of praise and adulation for your superior gift giving abilities. But it was the great philosopher who said "Let whomsoever is expectant of generalities be dealt with in specifics."

Sound crazy? Take a moment to think about it and you'll see this is more true now than it was in his own time. Truly a visionary.

But back on track. So let's get on with some of my All-Time Greatest Yuletide Disappoinments.

The Golphin - In a fit of selflessness (I was young and naive), knowing how my dad loved golf and my mom loved dolphins, I proposed to my genecist Uncle that we create the golphin, an all white dolphin with little depressions evenly spaced over the entirety of it's body. Months of secretive research went by, until at last, my uncle declared success. A great to-do was had by all during the Christmas morning unveiling. My parents left it to me to grow them in a fish tank as my uncle had instructed. You can probably imagine my excitement has they grew from microscopic size to almost an inch long, when they promptly died (as did my excitement). Years later I would realise how I'd been duped when I found out what sea monkeys were.

Omega Supreme - The ultimate challenge to Devastator's battlefield supremacy. Imagine a rocket ship and it's launching pad with a motorized tank on a track defending the perimeter. Now imagine that all these components combine together into a mighty robot that shuffles about your residence, with lights and noises going all the while. Sounds pretty awesome, right? Well, there is one thing that is not awesome... finding no Omega Supreme under the tree.

Anti-Depressants - In a move of dubious necessity, shortly after my dad died, my mom sent me to a child psychiatrist to find out what I seemed so sad all the time. When that yielded results that did not meet her expectations, she started sending me to medical doctors for diagnosis. For a time she was worried that I might have a brain cloud. The thought of living with such a woman for the more than another decade made me wish for anti-depressants. This, too, did not come to pass. Instead, I got six pieces of Lego, which prompted me to empty the contents of a bottle of Tylenol into my tummy. I didn't get a headache for six years.

End to Cold War - Not really a disappointment, but noteworthy nonetheless. In fact, this one paid off in a big way. I'll consider my time on earth well spent even if this is my only contribution to the world at large. I'm glad I asked for this, and considering the direction the world was headed in, you should be, too.

Many Happy Returns - Christmas keeps coming back, meaning the accompanying dispondency and disillusionment are an annual event. Knock it off already. It's too early in the day to say what disappointments are in store, but once I find out, you will too.

Dark Poetry

2005-12-21T01:50:00.000-08:00

As the season of good cheer is now upon us, my dissatisfaction seems best expressed through one of iambic pentameter's distant relatives (2nd cousin by marriage, to be exact).

Nightblossum Bloodfang's Final Socio-Economic Lament

O to be a Goth
Draped all over in loose black cloth
Repelled by the light like a negative moth
Devoid of life like the planet of Hoth
Crazy from the heat like David Lee Roth
Rolling eyes at the priests of Thoth
A wooden stake to see me off
Into that gentle goodnight

Of ETERNITY

The Incredible Journey

2005-12-18T15:48:00.000-08:00

Here's a joke:

Two dogs and a cat escape from a yard.

That's all I've got so far. It took me a week to come up with that. Anybody got any ideas on how to finish this one off?

The Future Begins Here

2005-12-10T14:42:00.000-08:00

Many of you will have noticed that I have been drifting aimlessly through life for quite some time now. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with this. It's quite common for people to be perfectly content living their whole life one day at a time.

I, however, am not one of those people. I am the kind of person who constantly worries about what tomorrow will bring and whether or not I'll have the ability to contend with it. I have a very poor ability to accurate gauge where my life is taking me and what troubles it may lead me headlong into. I am even less able to formulate appropriate and effective responses to said troubles. Needless to say, I am constantly wracked with a sort of nonspecific anxiety.

I recently, finally, came to the conclusion that I could no longer be content with merely persisting in the laissez faire fashion I'd become accustomed to. The time had come to actually do something about it. I was aware of only one course of action that would give me any edge over the future's ambush tactics. I went to see a fortune teller.

Fortune telling might seem like a load of hogwash to you. Personally, I've long had an interest in the mystic arts and am an amateur(ie. self taught) palm reader. Admittedly, my knowledge is far from complete, but I can easily identify and read the heart line, Lifeline, head line, Dr. Fate line, etc. My own analysis of my own hand, compared to the life events I've experienced, indicates a strong corrolation between the two. So you'll have to forgive me if I choose to believe there is some legitimacy to this stuff.

Of course, the number of fakers and charlatans in the fortune telling profession only lends much wood to the doubter's fire. Most of them are lazy immigrant housewives whose knowledge comes from internet courses and pocket books. So finding the right fortune teller can be it's own ordeal.

I was looking only for a gypsy fortune teller (the original, and still the best!). Unfortunately, these tend to be rare, especially here in the new world. It was my good fortune then (hmmm) that my local yellow pages were able to yield up one Ungorag Hegreblegsho. She was a hungarian national who had the misfortune(hmmm) of being in Poland right around the same time that Germany invaded. She managed to escape, despite having Reinhard Heydrich himself on her tail.

In time, she and her husband left the old country forever and arrived in america. In the decades since, they have lived in relative poverty in over two dozen cities until he died six years ago. Since then, she has been plying her trade out of the basement of an old brick building in downtown Kelowna. In total, we're talking about sixty years of fortune telling altogether. I had my doubts about finding a more accomplished professional in the field.

When I arrived at her fortune telling headquarters this morning, I found it to be much as you would expect. Dimly lit rooms were more like mighty mounds of dusty clutter, occasionally punctuated by a few traversable corridors. Stacks of moldy books and strange things that looked like abstract scuplture, but probably served some mystical diving purpose, littered the place. I even saw a skull with a candle on top, though I suspect that was just for atmosphere.

And cats! My god, the cats! Cats on the floor, cats on the ceiling, cat on my head, cats in pajamas, you name it.

Ungorag herself may well have been a walking stereotype, with wrinkled pruneface and missing teeth, hunched back, bandana atop her head and jingling tassles all over her colourful clothes. I had clearly come to the right person. I was further impressed when, rather than starting off with a bunch of small talk, we got right down to business.

We sat at opposite sides of a round table, a crystal ball between us. She required three objects of dear personal value to me. I provided her with my grandmother's mummified hand, a Jar Jar Binks toy from Taco Bell, and the label from the only bottle of Stein Lagos, a beer I'd invented in college and intended to market as "distinctly elvish". Though I strongly believed in the product, the project was shelved when taste testers were put off by my slogan. They said it made Stein Lagos seem gayer than Zima.

With the trio of objects arranged before her, Ungorag began to mumble and chant. Her eyes rolled back into her head, a clammy fog rolled in from parts unknown across the floor. Cats yowled to one another from room to room. Ungorag's chanting became louder and faster. Cats bolted from the room, knocking over shit the way the always do. Then the chanting and the commotion ceased as suddenly as the began. All was quiet. Until Ungorag spoke. Her head was tilted back as far as it could go. Watching her throat bob up and down as she spoke was both mildly disconcerting and hypnotic.

"You will have three great fortunes in your life. You have realized one of them already."

I thought hard about this. It occured to me that when my Grandmother(not the one I wrote a letter to some months back) had died, the one who's hand was now on the table, she had left me a considerable inheritence. I was young at the time, though, and squandered this wealth. Nevertheless, this must have been what the old gypsy was refering to. I told her of those circumstances, and she agreed that had been my first great fortune.

"What of the others yet to come? Can you speak on them further?" I inquired. This, after all, was basically what I had come to hear. There was a low gurgling in the back of her throat instead of a proper response. Confident that we had not yet finished here, I waited patiently. Finally, an answer came.

"You will discover a thing of value if you watch and listen with care. You have twice passed over this treasure, but a third chance you will have."

Of this, I did not know what to think. I simultaneously cursed myself for missing this thing twice while wondering where to concentrate my attention so as to not miss it this third time. Without knowing the nature of this treasure, it was hard to think in specifics... which was the condition that brought me here originally. Uncanny! I encouraged her to speak more on the subject.

"You will soon meet a person who will be of great influence should you cultivate their friendship."

It was not clear to me if this was the treasure I had missed, or another great fortune due to me. I pressed her for clarity on the matter.

"Difficult to see. Always in motion the future is."

This struck me as unusually profound. Before I could inquire more, she had already moved on.

"You have been involved with several loves. In all, your conduct has been perfectly blameless. Regardless, you had trouble with your relations as a result."

I nearly fell over, even though I was sitting. She had very nearly exactly described the situation with my sister and the circumstances that lead to my being kicked out of the house. I wished suddenly that I'd brought a tape recorder. Ungorag didn't need to tell me of my blamelessness in the matter, I was already convinced of that. But it would help me out considerably if word of my innocence got to my mother's ears from lips other than my own. I told her the details, and she declined to speak to my mother in person. I asked how this situation would resolve itself.

"Your relations will be prepared to treat you with great unkindness, but if you show them only resolute conduct, you will daunt them."

Sounds cool. Next stop; Resolute City!

"You have had an enemy who had caused you much grief."

No question. Roddy McAmsterdam.

"His efforts to do you harm will go too far and recoil apon him. Else, you will live beyond his death."

Her words that I would outlive this foe only confirmed my suspicions of their identity. Roddy's brain cloud meant he had only a short time left to live. Still, it seemed he was not yet done with me, and would be yet one more thing to be attentive for.

"Ere long, you will meet someone who will fall in love with you, if encouraged."

I wondered who this might be briefly, then realised that I hadn't met this person yet. I wondered if there'd be room for her on the pile of laundry between me and Stephanie. The revelations were coming in fast, now, as she was speaking again before I could enquire on any one subject.

"A friend has done you wrong for a wrong you did first."

This sounded like Marshall to me. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of him in quite some time. Even his acts of vengence apon me had ceased ever since I slipped off the "Blogs of Note" list. She paused long enough for me to enquire how to fix things.

" A thing once done cannot be undone, but it may yet be mitigated."

I felt like I'd heard this before. It didn't really matter as long as there was still cause for optimism. This was good, for I still felt guilty and responsible for the whole mess. I leaned back in my chair and let out a sigh of relief. As I was leaning back, my eyes drifted up to the ceiling, right to the spot where her own eyes would be looking. And I saw a bunch of notecards glued to the ceiling! The lettering was large for her old eyes to read, so the words were easily discerned by youthful peepers. All the answers she'd been feeding me could be found up there. I'd been had. I confronted her with the evidence.

"The spirits put them up there!"

I stormed out of there in a huff. All that time and energy wasted. As I swiftly made my way down the street, no better off than when I'd arrived, I realised that I had no proof that spirits hadn't put the cards up there. So now, instead of just plain not knowing what the future held, I now had some idea of what the future might hold, but with no way to know the accuracy of what I knew.

I couldn't decide which was the worse situation to be in. I knew what to do about it, though; Go home and go back to sleep.

If Wishes Were Fishes

2005-12-08T10:03:00.000-08:00

Probably the most common thing you'll hear around the yuletide season, aside from some form of holiday wellwishing, is constant bemoaning of the increasing commercialization of the year end festivities.

While I have never really had much in the way of interest for the troubles of others, that doesn't necessarily invalidate those same complaints. Indeed, it does seem that the true meaning of Christmas is lost amidst the barrage of joyous advertising.

This, coupled with the stress of finding that perfect gift for everyone on your list, and the aggravating evil of holiday shopping itself, leaves one wondering if there is anybody left who truly enjoys Christmas besides the children.

Many are the people who say that Christmas is all about the children anyway. I say that this kind of thinking is actually a by-product of over commercialization. It seems to me that people who think Christmas is for kids are largely thinking about the giving and recieving of gifts, a condition brought on by the annual holiday advertising blitz. Unfortunately, the only people who get pure, unadulterated joy from this aspect of Christmas, for reasons stated above, are children. Seriously, have you ever met a kid who gave a rats ass about how much time, energy, and money you spent on getting them just the right thing?

If one were to look into the facts surrounding the origins of Christmas, they would find that it is not about children at all, or at least not exclusively. I checked my sources and even the most cursorary glance at "A Very DC Christmas (Chapter 12 of "A very DC New Testament")" reveals that Hawkman did not risk all to save the baby Jesus from the nefarious plot of Vandal Savage (masquerading as one of the wise men) for the sake of children alone. He did it for all mankind; those living and those to be born to future generations.

Still, it cannot be denied that one of the principle joys of the holidays is bearing witness to the "spastic delight response" children emit when exposed to "new toy stimuli".

I once had a roommate who went by the unlikely name of Kondor Blacksmith, who worked for the postal office. When kids sent christmas wishlists in envelopes addressed to "Santa", the postal employees considered that licence to open and read the contents, since they weren't really going anywhere. Usually, a good laugh was had by all at the absurdly materialistic and greedy nature
of the children's desires. Sometimes, though, a latter to Santa of such unusualness would appear, that Kondor would bring it home to share with us. I found some of these amongst my Christmas decorations yesterday, making my pitiful attempt to festivize the place. I used to put these on the mantle; now in a heap on the floor will have to do.

Anyway, in the giving spirit of the impending season, I thought I'd share some of these Christams Wishlists with you. Enjoy!

Dear Santa,
I hope things are good for you and Mrs. Claus, too. Things aren't so good here. Please send me a time machine for Christams(sic). I would use it to go back to the time of the dinosaurs because I don't think I would last 15 seconds there.
Rueben, age 5

Dear Santa,
What do I want for Christmas? Anything but another Liberal government!
Tabitha, age 8

Dear Santa,
My Mum's boyfriend is in jail right now because that's what I wished for last year because I said he raped me. Well, all I want for Christmas is to set the record straight. He just jizzed on my bumhole. He didn't put his turgid rodsteak in there or anything. I'm not sure if there's any distinction in the eyes of the law or not. At least my conscience is clear.
Donny, age 6

Dear Santa,
I've always asked for gifts in the past but this year I have just a small favour to ask and I hope you can help me out. Please ask the genie to let me re-do one of my wishes. I realise I wasted one by wishing for a shark for a foot.
Kari, age 14

Dear Santa,
How are you? I guess Christmas must be like halloween for you because you get goodies at every house you go to. That's nice. I hope you don't get diabetes. For Christmas, please give me a vagina. The other girls all laugh at my wee-wee.
Tom, age 10

Dear Santa,
Merry Christmas Santa! I hope you get lots of presents too! It gets snowy here. I want to taste a brain. Please send one so mom can cook it by dinner time.
Danielle, age 6

Dear Santa,
I don't want anything for myself because my Mom and Dad aren't happy right now. So I'll tell you what they want and maybe you can make that happen. My Mom wants a white Christmas and my Dad wants white supremacy. Please help.
Constance, age 9

There you have it. Maybe next time I will relate to you some of my own Christmas memories.

A Chance Encounter

2005-11-28T07:29:00.000-08:00

The weather is getting colder, the days are getting shorter, fall is almost over. All things that I take to mean that winter is on it's way.

It was under such cold weather conditions that I found myself walking home one night, and much desiring the refuge of a place to warm up for a spell.

Unfortunately, there was naught but a Shell station nearby. For those of you not in the know, Shell is one of those big, money grubbing oil companies that were recently called before a congression hearing and generally represent the worst that humanity has to offer.

However, with my core temperature dropping, for better or for worse, I felt I had no choice but to stop in that abhorent place, at least long enough to fix myself a hot beverage. It is my usual custom to ignore people around me in such circumstances and just go about my business. On this particular occasion, though, I was given no such opportunity.

Ordinarily, the fellow making his own coffee next to me would not have been the least bit noteworthy. Somewhat disheveled, rapidly aproaching 50, such sights are in no way unsual in downtown Kelowna. But when his Rodney Dangerfield-esque voice rang out in my direction, I was forced to concede he could no longer be ignored.

"Guess what, kids. It's cold out."

I merely nodded in agreement. This, actually, sort of illustrates the reason I have such a disdain for small talk. Of course itwas cold out, no fool could dispute this fact. So why would anyone make such a banal statement, forthe purposes ofhearing a response, when they know what the response will be: when they know full well there is only one possible response? But, I digress. Besides, as I was soon to discover, logic was not always the governing force over the course of conversations. Keep in mind, as you read, these are all the words spoken to me, I'm not leaving out anything he said to me, nor changing the order they were spoken in.

"Speak of the Bible, eh?"

See what I mean? I wasn't sure that we actually had spoken on that subject, so I omly made a noncommittal noise like "mmm."

"The natives are on the prowl tonight. The toughest guy in Alberta got his head kicked in."

I inferred that the natives must have been the ones to perpetrate this violence. I guesthat'll teach the toughest guy in Alberta for coming to BC, though.

"You learn your lesson from the cold weather, right?"

In light all the supporting evidence, it was hard to disagree.

"I go by my prayers. I don't work; I'm business like."

The way he made these statements, in rapid succession, leadme to believe they we're all connected somehow. I failed to see how. So I said nothing.

"Which is the best magazine for underwear, eh? I guess they'reall pretty good."

What?

"The Playboys are getting me crazy."

In most unconfortable situations, an intuitive understanding will kick in sooner or later to let you know when it is time to escape. In that moment, I was having that understanding. Bidding the man a good night, I prepared to depart.

"Good to see you, eh?"

Considering my boyish good looks, this was the first thing he said that made sense. But it was too little, too late. The thing with guys like this is that you always run into them again, sooner rather than later. But forewarned is forearmed, and I hope to be better prepared next time.

One Man Makes a Difference

2005-11-27T05:14:00.000-08:00

"I believe there must be intelligent life on other planets, because there sure isn't any here."

Some Guy, paraphrased

Some people refuse to believe that one person can make a difference. The world is so large, they say, so populated, that all my efforts will go unnoticed and unappreciated. Hogwash.

Everytime you eat a half bag of cheese popcorn, you have made a difference. Everytime you shuffle a deck of cards, you have made a difference. Not an important difference, mind you. If you're looking to make a recognizable impact on the world, then yes, you are probably wasting your time. But that doesn't stop some people from trying. When your cause is important, you shouldn't let the improbability of success stand in your way at all. This guy didn't.

http://www.prweb.com/releases/2005/11/prweb314382.htm

Instantly, one response springs to mind; Crackpot. To thee, I say nay.

Intergalactic warfare is one of the great unknowns that confront humanity today. As if regular war wasn't bad enough! LOL! But when faced with an enemy who's very existence is in doubt, how can we know anything about their militaristic capabilities? Let me propose some likelihoods:

Spaceships: If aliens are here, they probably have transportation.

Guns: A catchall term to represent various ranged weaponry which form the basis for most large scale aggression these days.

Alien Physiology: Aliens are aliens.

Bio-Rythym Detection: Aliens can detect your Bio-Rythyms.

Pretty ominous, isn't it? When thought about like this, some current alien behaviors suddenly seem decidedly sinister. For example:

Cattle Mutilation: Preemptive strike on our food supply. The starving are in no condition to do battle. It will be much easier for aliens to take over the world if they only have to fight India.

Anal Probing: Psychological warfare. Who wants to make enemies with someone who sticks things in the bum of his foes? Effective even against the Indians of the East.

Crop Circles: Probably a misguided attempt to communicate the futility of materialistic desire and that a life empty of love for others is a life empty of love from others. That is the sort of higher philosophy that I , for one, expect a more advanced society would wish to empart.

As we all know, the US of A will start a war with just about anybody for just about any old reason at all. They don't care. Are they really going to want to be friends with lumps of tentacles, or lisping floating brains, or clumsy, over eager to please, duck-faced frogmen? Think about it.

It's really too bad that Mr. Heller here didn't speak up way back when he was a current goverment official, rathering than waiting until now. Many will dismiss this action as one last grab at the spotlight before he rides off into the sunset, real permanent like. It doesn't help that most people like this are senile old coots, either. I can't say for sure if he's senile or not; I haven't spoken with his physician just yet. Looks like he's got the "old coot" part down just fine, however.

But we can see how people aren't taking his statements seriously. The senate claims it is too busy to hold hearings on aliens. What's on their agenda that could be more important than the fate of all mankind?

I bet they're too busy eating cheese popcorn and shuffling cards.

Because You Demanded It

2005-11-25T02:04:00.000-08:00

Cold wind blowing hard against his skin roused him from the depths of unconsciousness. Jumbled images of violence and betrayal spiralled through his mind, mere flashes of a thing that may or may not have happened. He didn't think long on them, knowing that his head was not yet ready to yield up any answers. Time would surrender the solutions to these riddles.

As the wind rushed past his ears, inside it's dull roar he could dimly perceive other sounds. The sounds of engines. Someone, at least, was nearby. He opened his eyes, and was greatly suprised.

I'm falling!

In the darkness of night, the ground appeared as no more than one black expanse, dotted with a rainbow of neon lights rapidly growing larger, nearer. Monolithic skyscrapers rose up out of the night landscape towards him, past him, up into the twilight sky. New visions appeared to him. Visions of a window shattering; visions of a room shrinking into the distance as he was forcefully ejected out the broken window; small figures within standing and watching. The people who had done this to him.

There was no time now to dwell on what had already happened. All effort must be concentrated on the here and now, if he were to avoid the messy fate rushing towards him at a rate too fast to calculate. There was no time, if he wanted to survive.

He took a deep, calming breath. With feet apart and arms outstretched, his cloak flapping and billowing, he slowed his fall minutely, an imperceptible amount to any ordinary person. For this person, though, it would be enough. Through careful maneuvering of limbs, he angled his decent towards the side of the nearest building. As story after story whisked past, windows dark and his plight unseen, a flagpole, jutting from the buildings' side promised to intercept him.

Composed, in control, he visualised the soles of his feet gliding across the flagpole. He saw his left hand gripping the pole ever so briefly. He was falling too fast; any sudden stops would mean more harm than safety. And hanging from that flagpole was no safe place to be in any event. But a series of light contacts would each slow him down a bit more, and may make all the difference between being alive and being a memory. At the very least, he might give himself a chance at choosing his landing spot. Better that than accepting whatever fate selected for him. The flagpole slid past foot and hand just as he planned.

One way or another, the fall was almost over. The ground loomed close now, the neon dots now readable billboard advertisments. Even indiviual people were discernable under those lights.

Between him and the ground, a landing pad now reached out from the side of the building. He would have to get everything he could out of it, for he saw no other obstacles to slow himself on. The flat surface and flashing landing lights made it an easy target. The trick would be to not hit it too hard. He took another calming breath... and then another one.

As his feet touched down, he instantly folded up into ball, rolling across the hard metal surface. Still, he was travelling too fast; The air was blasted from his lungs as his back hit the deck. He heard the loud crack as his head bounced off the unforgiving surface. Sharp pangs rang out from all over his body. He ignored his body's cries of pain and pushed it's clouding influence out of his mind. A sliver of satisfaction from having solid ground beneath him slipped away as his roll carried him off the landing pad's far edge. Now there was only a hundred feet left to drop, perhaps less.

But it seemed destiny was not entirely cruel. Hidden from view by the landing pad, a vast awning stretched around the base of the skyscraper. He was headed straight for it, and for the first time, permitted himself a small smile.

He landed smack dab on the awning. Which would have been perfect... had he accounted for it's elastic qualities. It stretched beneath his falling bulk until he hit his tailbone on the ground. "AAAAA! AAAA AAAAAAAHHHHH!" he cried.

But the awning did not permit further injury. Instead, it catapulted him back into the air, almost half as high as the landing pad. Not just upwards, but outwards, too, so that when he came crashing back down, it was into a heap of trash across the alley. There, he lay utterly still, and all was silent.

For awhile.

Later, consciousness returned once again. The smells and flavours of the garbage he was ensconced in assaulted his senses. He could feel vermin crawling about inside his clothes. Yet, impossibly, he had survived. This fact alone did not give him much comfort. If those visions he had were true, someone wanted him dead. That someone might be along shortly to discover his fate, or at least conceal the evidence. But before he could get up and at 'em, the whisper of fabric on pavement called out to his ears from the shadows, and then a voice.

"Good, good. You are still alive."

"Dor do." he replied. Even to him, though, the words made no sense. Perhaps his injuries were more severe than he knew. His brain felt hot.

From the shadows, a dark cloaked figure emerged. His face was obscured, his hood pulled low.

"Yes, yes. I know what happened to you. I know who did this to you. It was the same man who betrayed me. The same man who once tried to kill me in my sleep!"

"Duda do?"

"I have some right here." A small green bottle appeared in the hand of the dark figure. From it, he poured a bubbling yellow liquid into the mouth of the man lying in the trash.

"Good, eh?"

Indeed it was. Cold, refreshing, melony.

"Do?"

"We are not safe here. We must leave, before we are discovered. There are plans to be made, and revenge to be had."

Slowly, with the dark figures assistance, he extricated himself from the heap of trash. He stretched, feeling the good feel of solid ground beneath his feet. Attempting to brush the bits of refuse off himself, he let out a horrified gasp, discovering his right arm had somehow been neatly severed below the elbow.

"We'll worry about that later. Come quickly!" said the shadowy man. Together, they stole away into the night, not to be heard from again... until the time was right.

State of the Planet Address

2005-11-23T10:41:00.000-08:00

So I was downtown yesterday, fondly visiting some of my former favorite places to sleep, and here's what I saw while tooling around.

Two scruffy looking nerf herders are standing next to a truck, engaged in a heated argument. It looked like a drug deal gone awry to me, but what do I know? Anyway, it doesn't go down or something, because the one guy just gets into the truck and starts driving away.

The other guy, who is left standing there, produces from under his jacket a glass bottle of some kind, and whips it at the departing vehicle. The bottle bounces harmlessly off the truck and clatters noisily to the pavement, still intact. I suppose this was not what the guy intended to happen. What the guy probably also did not intend, was for the truck to stop suddenly and for the driver to get out, but that is exactly what happened.

The driver picked up the bottle, walked over to the instigator, and smashed the bottle right on the guy's head! The driver then successfully departed in his truck, while the other guy stumbled around, clutching his head in his hands until he walked into a tree. Eventually, an ambulance came.

Anyway, the point is that yes, folks, irony is alive and well in the world at large. But beware, lest it bite ye in ye own ass!

Cosmic Rust pt.III

2005-11-17T03:39:00.000-08:00

When last we left off, the malevolent Megatron had been afflicted with the titular, and presumably poorly documented metallic malady, comic rust. One assumes that the stage has been set for an adventure featuring Megatron's quest for a cure. Let us not forget that the Decepticons also now have in their possession a powerful and ancient lightning bug, capable of terrible destructive potential, which no doubt also relates to said cure.

When we rejoin the episode, the focus has finally switched over to the relatively benign escapades of the Autobots. More specifically, we bear witness to some sort of assembly hall. A solitary human figure stands behind a podium on a stage, underneath a banner reading "National Scientific Achievement". Lending a decidely international flavour to the National Scientific Achievement procedings, are several large portraits behind this figure. Each one feature a famous landmark, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Washington Monument, and a few others which may include the Kremlin and/or the Taj Mahal. I'm pretty sure I see a couple of onion domes there, at least.

From our view, the auditorium is jam packed with unkempt hair and balding pates, which we must assume belong to the leading scientists of the nation/ world, suggesting a significant event is taking place here. Even only moderately attentive ears will discover the truth of this assumption as the voice over of the podium speaker announces "Usually, our Science Achievement Award goes to a human being. But this year, we are honoring Perceptor, the inventor of Corrostop."

This, really, should not come as much of a suprise. Since the Autobots are the heroes and stars of the show, it is only natural that they should be depicted winning recognition for their efforts. Also, it is a well known fact that, in cartoon universes, if a character can be neatly classified as a specialist of some kind like a "scientist", that character is:

- The only scientist on the team.
- An expert on every science and anything remotely similar to science, like magic and medicine.
- Not much good for anything not related to science.

The only exception to these rules is in toy based cartoons, when there is a toy of a "new scientist" character, who must then phase out the older scientist character. The best this old fellow can hope for is a swift and glorious death in battle. But all too often, the dishonor of being relegated to non-speaking, even non-moving, background appearances is what awaits these old heroes. Sometimes they even just disappear, all traces of their once noble existence washed away forever, "Crisis On Infinite Earths" style.

Perceptor is the current Autobot scientist, however, and has a long animated future ahead of him. For today, though, he is content to humbly accept the award bestowed apon him. "Thank you very much. This is an honor and a privilege."

Is it really, though? I imagine Perceptor must be well aware of humanities scientific achievements and how comparatively inferior they must seem to his own. It probably seems quite natural to him that these primitive apes should venerate what must appear to be a science god. Perhaps some false modesty is on display here. Unfortunately, the episode chooses to leave the issue of Perceptor's private thoughts unexplored.

Getting back on track, what is this Corrostop they were speaking of?

"Is it true that the Autobots plan to coat all of the earths great monuments with Corrostop?" Inquires the podium man, as Perceptor strides onto the stage. Suddenly, those portraits of the monuments actually make a little sense, which I, for one, was not anticipating.

"We'd like to, eventually. It will help preserve them forever." says the Autobot, casually admitting that preserving humanity's history isn't exactly a priority. Considering that he is speaking before a gathering of mankind's greatest brains, someone must have picked up on that insult. But what is Corrostop?

"As you know, Corrostop resists rust and corrosion, and it's stronger than any known metal."

Oh. Well, I didn't know that, actually. I guess what he's trying to say that what scientists call "Corrostop" is what writers call "Deus ex Machina". For non scientists and writers, what that is, is something that basically comes out of nowhere and just happens to do exactly what is necessary to solve the problem at hand. In this case, I think we've not only found the cure that Megatron desires, but also the only defense against the terrible threat of the lightning bug.

"Unfortunately, at this time, we only have enough Corrostop to coat one monument; The Statue of Liberty."

Now we see, for the first time, the sea of scientist's faces, who's expressions appear curiously blank and stupified. We also realise that not everyone in attendance is a purported genius when it is revealed to us that Spike Witwicky, and his girlfriend, Carly, are also in attendence. Spike is the son of a grease monkey called Sparkplug and the Autobot's chief ally among the humans. Carly is not known to have any family, but does have her own car. Anyway, their dull eyes and thin smiles suggest they are pleased to hear the Statue of Liberty will be first in line for the Corrostop treatment. Perceptor goes on to say "It's alloyed from a very rare element, so of course, we wouldn't want it's formula to be discovered by the Decepticons."

A sensible precaution, but presumably doomed to fail. We need to look no further than the next scene for evidence of this. Starscream walks towards Megatron, who is sitting on his bed in the shadows, with his back to us. "I just checked with the repair bay. Your replacement parts will be ready as soon as they get around to it." Starscream says matter-of-factly. This is quite a commentary on the condition of the Decepticon army, if Megatron's own well being does not command more urgency. Then again, perhaps Starscream himself arranged for this situation, though that is pure speculation at this point.

The suggestion is that Megatron is much the worse for wear here, with his back to us in the shadows and all.
He, at least, seems to find his condition quite urgent, and says so. "I need an expert. Order the Stunticons to seize Perceptor and bring him to me! Do as I say!"

Sounds serious! How serious? We'll find out next time!

The Real Deal

2005-11-15T10:51:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody, sorry I was gone so long... I was taking a leak in the sink and it took longer than expected.

Anywho, I just wanted to thank everyone for their support during my recent personal crisis; I now understand that I've got a whole lot of friends! So here's a big shout out to all my fans and allies where ever in the world you maybe, even those of you in Vietnam!

What's that you say?I have no fans in Vietnam? How can this be? Well, let me let you in on a little state secret. Shh!

A covert agent of mine, currently travelling the world, recently reported to me that they couldn't view my blog while inside the vietnamese borders. His investigations revealed that he could access blogspot and random blogs on blogspot, but looking for Doob LaVey only results in "page not found". At no time, from no location in Vietnam, could he see my blog. It seems that I've have been banned.

Doob LaVey, which is nothing less than the sum total of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences, is not welcome in Vietnam. One wonders if my own person is similarly unwelcome! Would an armed guard be there to greet me at the Hanoi airport, ready to whisk me onto the next departing flight, or even into their gulags of no return?

This is just another blatant example of how the Man, whatever his nationality might be, will stoop to any low to keep the little guy down. It's not fair to me, certainly, and it's not fair to the good citizens of Vietnam( if there are any). It's not fair to any of you who are reading these words, either, for once the floodgates of censorship are opened, where does the madness end? Who's blog is to be banned next? The worst part is that you could be getting censored already, and not even realise it without covert agents, who will look for your blog, roving the globe.

When you don't openly and actively denounce censorship, you are effectively censoring yourselves. I for one, will not be silent. I say "Good Morning, Vietnam! Time to wake up. Censorship is wrong."
My only fear is that my one voice will not be enough. Perhaps my words here will inspire some of you to action. We will be like the mighty kraken, wrapping our ten tentacles of free speech about the flimsy hull of censorship.

Do it for the people of Vietnam. Without us, they'll never know what they are missing.

That's the Real Deal.

What It Is To Be Alone

2005-11-13T07:44:00.000-08:00

I am so alone.

I have no family and I have no friends. That's not a literal truth, of course. But emotionally, a truer thing I have never typed.

My family shuns me. Not so long ago, my mom threw me out of the house. Not even cries of "O God! I'll wind up on the streets!" could disuade her. And just when I had started to show my sister just how deep a love I was capable of. Now she shuns me, too.

My friends? Ha (not "LOL"). Who are they supposed to be anyway? Stephanie? Yeah, right. I think now she's just using me. Yesterday I come home and there she is giving some dude a blow job right on my fucking bed!
"What the fuck is this!?" I shout. "Shh. Working." she says out of the corner of her mouth. Then she, you know, goes back to work. Understandably, it takes the dude a moment to get back into it, with me standing there and all, but soon enough he's all "Yeah, baby, just like that."

So there I am and I don't know what to do, and I'm fucking tired. But they're taking up just one side of the bed so I just get undressed and lie down on the other side of the bed (remember, our bed is just a pile of dirty clothes, but very neatly arranged so that it even looks like a bed). I lie there with my back to them while this guy is making noises. I sigh loudly to indicate my disapproval, but I don't think anyone heard me over the dude going "Faster, bitch, faster!"

Then they're done and Stephanie goes and locks herself in the bathroom. The guy gets up and gets dressed and throws a fistful of twenties onto me. "Here. Don't start beating her until I've left."

Then he leaves and Stephanie comes back out of the bathroom. "Sorry about that," she says. " I was too sick to go out tonight."

She counts the money and gets all pissed off because he only left $140 instead of $150. Then she gets dressed and leaves to go get some heroin! Guess she was really sick after all (insert eyeroll face here)! To be fair, though, if she doesn't get her heroin she'll just get even more sick, but to be honest, I'm not all that interested in being fair right now!

My only other "friend" is Marshall, who is right now so insanely jealous of my blogs' popularity, that he tried to throw some rocks through my window last week. Fortunately, he failed, but there's no telling when he might try again, or perhaps something even more insidious is percolating in that devious mind. I can't bring myself to call him, even though I want to. I don't know how he'd react to any sort of peace offering, and I don't want to be made to look the fool
if it's a waste of time. Truthfully, though? I would never have started this blog if I'd known it would come between us like this. Some things are more important than blogs.

I'm seriously considering joining a club or team or society of some kind. I mean, there's something out there for everybody, right? Even furries have their own congregations where they can be with others of their own kind. There's a furry convention at a hotel just a few blocks from here next weekend, that's what made me think of them for that example just now. I wonder if I should go, or if that's something I could get into?

It sounds kind of like fun. You get to wear big mascot costumes, you get to "yiff"( whatever that is), and you get into big piles and pretend to hump each others legs. And when you're not at conventions, you stay home and draw pictures of anime wolves with big cocks and furry tits.

I dunno. Sometimes I wish that I worked all the time so I wouldn't have any free time to contemplate all the shortcomings in my life. Sometimes I wish I was the mighty kraken, taking out my loneliness on passing sailors with my ten tentacles of solitude. Then I'd return to the depths with their corpses and the wreckage... Alone again, but well fed.

The Real Deal

2005-11-08T13:23:00.000-08:00

The problem with everything is advertising these days. Where can you go without some huckster or another trying to exchange their goods or services for your hard earned cash?

The answer, of course, is nowhere. Which is a pretty frustrating situation. It is said that once you leave the home, you lose 90% of your ability to control your environment. That is really saying something when you realise just how little control you have over your own home environment. I mean, you can't keep advertising out of your home. In fact, when you think about it, most kinds of advertising are distributed through mediums designed to get into your personal dwelling structure. It has been this way a long time.

It all began way back when newsprint was the hot new thing. Previously, advertising had been limited to outdoor campaigns; giant billboards, people on street corners shouting stuff at you, and such. The advent of the newspaper, however, provided the first opportunity for advertising to come home with you and violate the sanctity of your private domain. It probably began innocuously at first; an ad for ginger beer here, men's hats there. But take a look at your modern newpaper and you'll see it is chalk full o' ads, often where the big stories of the day should be. I mean, who wants to see "diapers half off" right next to the latest political scandal? The answer is pedophiles. But what paper, if it be of of good reputation, caters to such a market?

It only got worse when radio reared it's ugly, talking head. At least with the papers, you could still get the full story even if you were somehow able to pay no heed to the advertisements. But with radio, whole families gathered 'round the noise box to listen to this week's exciting episode of Fibber McGee and Molly. The thing is, you got to sit through all the commercials if you don't want to run the risk of missing the part where stuff falls out of the closet.

Then television came along and took it to a whole other level. Now images and movement could assault you alongside the auditory component. And the worst part is that even though T.V. might be the new principle form of advertising, newpapers and radios are still regularly making their insidious ways into people's abodes.

When Al Gore invented the internets, selfish, forward thinking capitalists rubbed their hands together in the manner of crickets. The chirping could be heard by dogs as much as 15 miles away. They had much to look forward to, as we all now know, as advertising is rampant on the information super highway. Unlike the other mediums, however, you can easily make your own contributions to the internet, and thusly you're making it possible for the problem to get worse. Just look at what happened to me.

Today I come along, looking forward to reading the comments on my blog and maybe composing an update for today. Imagine my horror when I discover that a villain by the name of Waseem Sindhu has left comments on the last six of my updates. The problem is not that his name is Waseem Sindhu, or that he's from Pakistan, or that he left six comments. The problem is that all six were advertisements for his twenty two blogs about money and the internet.

If you look at the comments on my blog now, you won't find any from Mr. Sindhu... I took the liberty of deleting them. It's bad enough when you get so many computer generated advertisements in the guise of "anonymous", but those are okay because they artificially bulk up the number of comments and make you look popular. Also, if they really bug you, then they are easily defeated via the word verification option. I personally do not use the word verification for fear of alienating the lazy and the stupid, which is the demographic I most appeal to. And since I'm just about to slip off the bottom of the "blogs of note" list, I've got to do everything I can to hold on to my audience. I won't go back to single digits... I can't. I'll smash a watermelon first. I'm serious.

But Waseem Sindhu can't be stopped by word verification. He is a man who cannot see that art is taking shape here. He sees only another place to ply his wares and corrode with his capitalism. To you, sir, I say; You offend me. Good Day.

That's the Real Deal.

For Posterity

2005-11-07T17:12:00.000-08:00

Back in the day, before I'd sacrificed much of my life to the training one must endure if they wish themselves a master architect, I was a professional pet appraiser and amatuer scientist. Pet appraising is one of those professions that is obscure now but poised to make a break out in a huge way within the next few years. So at least I've got that to fall back on if I'd ever find out the architect thing isn't working out (i.e. got fired). I think it was while I was pet appraising that I was last truly content.

Anyway, I uncovered this historical document I wrote a few years back, that combines those two great loves of mine. For some of you this will be new, although to long time fans it will seem familiar and dull. But you could say the same thing about the american constitution.

"Among the mysteries of science lies the key to victory."
Jetfire, Autobot Air Guardian

As everyone knows, there are few goals as worthy as the pursuit of knowledge. With this in mind, I decided to conduct a little experiment not more than ten minutes ago. What you are about to see, for the first time anywhere, are the results of said experiment. But first, a little background.The premise was deceptively simple: What might occur, if one inbred extra-toed cat(worth about $35) were to encounter one Wendy's Big Bacon Classic Combo(worth about $6)? Of course, the creature could not be allowed to merely have it's way with the meal, because I was hungry and required the life giving sustainance for myself. however, I could break off little portions of the various ingredients in an attempt to discover what the subject would and would not eat. The portions were broken off at roughly one minute intervals and all approximately the same size. The results were as follows:

Bit of french fry: Eaten

Bit of french fry: Eaten

Bit of french fry with ketchup(catsup): Not eaten

Bit of bacon: Eaten

Bit of beef: Eaten

Bit of processed cheese: Eaten

Bit of onion: Not eaten

Bit of beef: Eaten

Bit of beef: Eaten

Bit of pickle: Not eaten

Bit of beef: Not eaten

Bit of bacon that fell in ketchup(catsup): Eaten

Bit of french fry: Not eaten

Whole french fry: Not eaten

From this several interesting observations can be made. It would appear that the subject was hungry enough to begin with that it would eat french fries which it would ordinarily not eat. Some support for this theory is found in the fact that the subject refused french fries offered at the end of the meal. This data could instead be interpreted that the subject enjoys french fries under most circumstances, but after feasting on delicious bacon and beef, could not be bothered with the comparitively paltry fare of potatoes.We can also see that while ketchup(catsup) is sometimes a deterrent, as in the case of the french fry, the benefits of tasty bacon prevailed over the subject's ketchup(catsup)induced inhibitions. Clearly, more work needs to be done in this area before any solid conclusions can be reached. Work, which you can do in your own home for only $41! It's for science, people! It's worth it! Send your results to sanehaven@shaw.ca!

Soon after I wrote up this report, I finally realised that I couldn't support myself on a pet appraiser's income, and with a heavy heart, I went off to architecture school. School took up so much of my life, that I had no time for follow up experiments. Now I seem to have lots of time for stuff. Maybe it's time to get back into the swing of old things... unless I go back to my architecture job. Wow, life always comes full cirle, doesn't it?

I feel like I'm at a fork in the road I've been at before, like some kind of proverbial Robert Frost. But which way do I go this time?

A Go To Adventure

2005-11-05T16:24:00.000-08:00

Hey, everybody. I bet you're all wondering what happened at Old Man Guptar's on Hallowe'en night. I kind of left it as a cliffhanger. So here it is... the exciting conclusion of The Morning After!

A Couple of Days After the Morning After - A Go To Adventure

1
It would take words far beyond your linguistic capacity to accurately express the oppressive dread you feel as you stand before the palpable evil radiating from the house before you. It's only too clear to you now why one does not tread upon the property of Old Man Guptar lightly! You wouldn't be the first person to have made it their last mistake. You start to wonder just how many others had stood there as you stood and felt as you felt. The mailman, surely; Some Jehovah's Witnesses, perhaps; Maybe even some birds, or a stray cat?
Five minutes of just standing there goes by. You idley speculate that you may have become paralysed, but in your heart you know you are just stalling. Overcoming your trepidation, you face the fact that you have a job to do. You have to break into this house. You see two possible points of entry: a door and a window, both an equal distance from where you stand.

If you make your way to the window in a stealthy fashion, go to "4".

If you quickly head over to the door and see what happens, go to "6".

2
All the objects are equally strange and foreign to you eyes in this dim light. Picking one at random, You slip it into the pocket of your jacket. Suddenly, inexplicably afraid, you creep back out the window and don't stop running until you're putting your keys in your door. Safely inside, you examine the object under 60 watt light, but no secrets are yielded to you. Frustrated, you take to your bed. Sleep does not come easily or quickly,but eventually it does come. In the morning, after troubled dreams of eldritch horrors and cyclopean monoliths, you head on down to the local pawn shop with your new prize. The old man behind the counter examines your ill gotten gain with much thoroughness and care. "Ah, yes. Incan perpetual motion machine.Very rare." He says. "I'll give you $50."
Sold! Unfortunately, this is the bad part of town, so as soon as you step outside a drug dealer approaches you, trying to sell you crack. Always interested in trying new things, you give him your $50 and he hands you a small bit of folded paper, inside which is your 50 rock of crack (Actually you get ripped off and what you have is a lean 20 rock at best, but you're new at this so you'll never know). So you get home and within an hour you've smoked all your crack. Admittedly, you did get pretty fucked up, but now you have nothing and want more. Really, really, want more. As the weeks and months go by, you dimly perceive the loss of all your possessions and the alienation of your friends and family, though it doesn't really matter to you. It is only when you wake up one day and you are falling as the garbage truck empties the dumpster you were sleeping in, that you finally understand you've hit rock bottom. You laugh because "rock" makes you think of crack, and then the trucks' crushing machinery comes to life and you think of nothing ever again. For you, ya fuckin' crackhead... This adventure is over.

3
You turn away from the promise of danger in the deeps and tippy toe over to the rooms' only other door. You crouch next to the doorframe and slowly peek out into the hall. Your eyes adjust easily, as even in the hall the light is dim. Ordinarily, you'd have guessed that candlelight was the source of the illumination, except for the total absence of candles in the hallway. Strangely, there also appears to be no lanterns or light fixtures in the hall, functional or otherwise. You find the presence of light without an explanitory source to be unusually unsettling. You wonder if it's possible for walls to be giving off a luminescent glow. But then you chastise yourself for becoming distracted and lost in your thoughts about the lights. You are invading Old Man Guptar's home, and you need to be alert with your wits about you if you plan to leave here alive. Suddenly, you detect the sound of quiet voices. You freeze, listening over the sound of your own blood pumping. The voices sound angry, like arguing, though you can't make out the words. A bout of quiet laughter suddenly erupts, and the arguing resumes. After a few minutes, when you're sure the voices aren't coming any closer, and you take your first cautious step into the hall. There are no other doorways, so you have no choice but to head down to the far end... towards those voices.
Reaching the far end, you peek into the next room, and are relieved to discover that those noises were being emitted, not from people, but from an old television set. You find it's incongruous presence oddly conforting in this otherwise unnatural place. As you prepare to inspect this new room, your eyes are drawn to the screen and you realise that Family Ties is on. Compelled forward, you take up residence in the chair in front of the T.V. Oh, Alex! Is there anything you won't do for a buck? For one half hour... this adventure is over.

4
Cautiously, quietly, you creep across the yard towards the window, knowing that the darkness that conceals you from others could just as easily be concealing others from you. Your stealthiness pays off, though, as you make it to the window without incident, save one loud fart that rings out as you crouch beneathe it. For long, breathless moments you remain still. Finally,when you are confident that your indiscretion has gone undetected, you turn and peer into the window. Through a small corner not covered by the curtains, you see that the room beyond is dark, though a sliver of flickering light eminates from the hall beyond. The window itseld appears to not be secured in any fashion and opens easily with the rough sound of wood on wood. When it is open enough for you to slip through, you crawl inside. Standing, you take your first look at the interior of Old Man Guptar's.
Illuminated only by the light from the hall, you can still see the room is a cluttered mess of dusty crates and boxes. Lining the wall are a series of shelves of a quality that suggests they were the work of an apprentice or student for hire. On these shelves are many strange and arcane objects or devices of inscrutable purpose and unknown origin.

If you pick up an object and examine it, go to "7".

If you pocket one of these objects, go to "2".

5
Gingerly, you inch forward into the pitch black stairwell, one step at a time. Your vision is of no aid in your descent; There is nothing to see but absolute darkness and those squigglies that float around on your eyes. As you head further into the depths, the steps become wet and slippery, so it's extra precarious. After what seems an eternity, you begin to perceive shades of grey, rather than just the blackness of before. A light source must be nearby. Another few moments and the stairs abruptly end at another triangular doorway. Stepping through, a hellish vision awaits you.
A ghostly moon casts a gloomy light on a terrible, impossible landscape stretching out before you. Clay earth of the colour of corpses churns and twists like unwholesome life burrows below, pools of water pulsate upwards and downwards like the hard breathing of a creature run to death. Voluminous steam issues noisily forth from cracks in the surface. A grey sea in the distance foams and claws at the land. Above it all, atop a flying carpet, his beard distinguished and his turban bejeweled, was Old Man Guptar. In that moment, you realise his terrible secret. Old Man Guptar is, in fact, none other than the Swami Abbajay Gutra.
His eyes open and his mouth twists into a terrible sneer as he sees you. The clay earth shudders and quivers violently, and the grey sea becomes a maelstrom of of elemental fury, rising up and crashing down and splitting the clay landscape in twain. The surging grey waters are already half way to you before you can move. You turn and you run and you run and you run, the sounds of dead waters crashing at your heels, threatening to swallow you up forever, growing ever louder. Tears form in your eyes as you fall on the steps again and again, every miststep is a costly delay you cannot afford. It seems hopeless.
But then the top of the stairs appear, and beyond that the room of antiquities you left seemingly ages ago. You stop for none of this. At full speed, you dive out the window and continue down the street, never looking back.

Go to "8".

6
Well, as it turns out, nothing happens at all. After a half assed attempt to turn the knob and push on the door, you convince yourself that the place is sealed up tight and someone would have called the cops anyway. You'll come back and investigate further some other time... probably in the daytime. Pussy. For today, however... this adventure is over.

7
All the objects seem equally strange and foreign to your eyes in this dim light. Picking one at random, you hold it close to your eyes, hoping for some detail or purpose to be revealed. As you run your hands over the irregularly shaped object, your fingertip catches on a small depression with an audible click. You spin around as you hear a "whoosh" behind you. Where there was once only the featureless grey of the far wall, now there was a featureless grey wall with a big black triangle on it. Curious, you approach. As you draw closer, you discover that the black triangle is actually an opening in the wall, large enough to allow the easy passage of any man, though a bit of a tight squeeze for a bear or something of that nature. But whatever was beyond that your eyes could not tell; the darkness did not permit it. Having uncovered a secret door, though, you feel compelled to explore where it leads. Cautiously feeling forward with hands and feet, you quickly ascertain that a stairwell lies beyond, leading into unknown depths and untold dangers.

If you take the stairs to see what lies beneathe, go to "5".

If you turn back and go out into the hall, go to "3".

8
You arrive at your doorstep and wonder if you've run far enough. How can anyone get far way enough from terrible sights you've witnessed? And the Swami himself saw you as well. There can be little doubt he'll come looking for tonight's unwelcomed visitor. Sleep will not come easily tonight. You lie awake in bed, wondering how much longer until your prostitute roommate gets home. Maybe she'll help you relieve some of your tension. Yeah... right. Like that'll ever happen.
At least this adventure is over... For now.

The Morning After

2005-11-01T11:47:00.000-08:00

Well, I hope you all had an interesting Hallowe'en! Because I now live in an apartment, I don't get any trick-or-treaters at my place. So, ordinarily, the night would have gone by in an unremarkable fashion. But Stephanie had stolen some sheets from the hospital and ripped them up to create a sort of ghost/mummy costume with the intention of doing some trick-or-treating herself. She's a little on the short side, so we figured she could pass as a just another regular child. The most important part of creating this illusion would be hiding those incredible melons of hers, which I'd normally be against, but this was a special occasion and some sacrifices had to be made. Anyway, we pulled it off with reasonable success, though the fact it was dark out worked in our favour, too.

While the costume may have been less than stellar, our candy gathering efforts were a remarkable success. When the night was over, we went home with five bags of candy! At first it went slowly, as it no doubt does for any child. But when an hour of trick-or-treating garnered only one and a half bags of candy, she said we should stop by a nearby convenience store to get some condoms. I didn't really understand why it was so important just then; I assumed she had a last minute improv to her costume in mind.Then we resumed our candy quest. Whenever a guy answered the door, she would go into the house with him and I was left standing there on the street( I was posing as her parental supervision). I didn't really mind waiting, as it gave me a chance to observes all the neat costumes the kids were wearing this year. I saw ghosts, dogs, Ghost Dog, vampires, Buck Adam Tomato, the bastard offspring of monoclonius and a unicorn or some such nonsense, Posh Spice, some Batmen, a dragon, Legolas, a couple of Obi-Wan Kenobi's and Anakin Skywalkers, and even General Grievous (who was dressed up as C-3P0!). When three or four minutes would go by, I'd start to get suspicious and angry about what might be going on in the house, but then she'd emerge with a full bag of candy, and it's hard to be upset about that! This went on at three different houses before she decided we were done.

We got home and examined our loot. In addition to all the regular sorts of goodies, we got a giant chocolate dinosaur (obviously left over from easter), some loose Lucky Charms marshmellows, gold coin chocolates, some over ripe blueberries, a half banana, an empty unicef box, a pair of children's mittens, a half kilo of lean ground beef, soy sauce, some sugar and ketchup packets, a brass eagle, a family portrait, $4.75 in loose change, and three wallets with $175 and five credit cards between them.

All too soon, though, Stephanie had to change into a different "costume" to do a different kind of "trick or treating" so she could afford a different kind of "candy". I think that analogy went way too far. Anyway, this left me all alone to figure out what to do with myself for the rest of the evening. I was dismayed to discover she'd taken the wallets with her, which meant I'd have to be extra creative about occupying myself.

Plum out of ideas, I took to the streets, pedestrian style. By now, just shy of the witching hour, most children had retired to their residences with their loot. The teenagers, on missions of hooting and hollering and pumpkin smashing, were taking over. I allowed none of this bother me as I absentmindedly let my feet take me where they may. I might have vetoed their choice of destination if I'd known where they were taking me. But by the time I realised... I was already there.

Old Man Guptar's place is the one place in the neighbourhood that everybody's children know to steer well clear of. If it's dark and foreboding appearance wasn't discouragement enough to the curious, the "Private Property" sign surely was. And on this particular night, it's appearance was exceptionally dark and foreboding, and the letters in "Private Property" loomed especially large. As I stood before this ominous abode, visions of the last time I took to mindless wandering flashed through my mind. I had to look no further than my own torso for the evidence of how well that had turned out. Alarm bells metaphorically rang in my brain and my whole body metaphorically screamed out "Turn back!"

But something in my head, possibly a parasite or tumor, urged me onwards... and I listened to it.

I took my first tentative step towards the home of Old Man Guptar. The whole property was cloaked in the night, as though even the streetlamp light feared to fall upon this evil earth. A cold wind came up out of nowhere as my foot came down on the lawn; More dry, cracked earth than grass and loam. Dead twigs crackled underfoot with each successive step. I froze, suddenly aware there were no shrubs or trees or wheelbarrows to hide behind should Guptar happen to look outside. Only the darkness was my ally in this regard, though I had little doubt it was more his ally than mine.

Stay Tuned! I might not have made it out alive!

Making Progress; Making Waves

2005-10-31T09:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's Hallow'update may have tipped you off to the fact that Hallowe'en is fast approaching. In fact Hallowe'en is coming up so soon... it's today! Happy Hallowe'en!

Hope you were able to get all your pre-hallowe'en necessities out of the way by now, otherwise you'll be in quite the scramble to get things done before any trick-or-treaters start showing up. Last year some kids showed up at my mom's house at noon, if you can believe it! It turned out they weren't trick-or-treaters per say, they were just some kids from the elementary school down the block who had their lunch money stolen by bullies.

It's kind of funny how Hallowe'en seems to have more meaning as the years go by, and other legitimate holidays mean less and less. I think that this is because of the increasing number of people who think of themselves as goths or vampires on a daily(or is it nightly?;)) basis. You hardly find anybody anymore who identifies with the Easter Bunny or Jesus. Which is kind of too bad, because no one can deny all the good that has resulted from the Easter Bunny's efforts. I mean, he brings candy right to your fucking house and all you have to do is sleep. Pretty sweet deal if you ask me, so how about some appreciation, for Christ's sake.

I went down to the hospital and finally got all my stitches out a few days ago. Now there is just a long angry red line across my stomach that turns slightly upwards on my left side. I was thinking about drawing a big yellow circle around it and two eyes and I could be Pac-Man for Hallowe'en! It would have black "Pac-Man" shaped eyes so people would know that it was in fact "Pac-Man" and not just one of those smiley faces that are all over the internet and Wal-Mart. Maybe I'll wear a black shirt but with a big hole cut in it so people can see it.

Whatever happens, I'm just glad I don't have a open wound right across my mid section any more. Sometimes it leaked this colourless liquid that smelled wierd when it dried. Mostly it happened when I was sleeping, so it's good thing I only sleep on dirty clothes anyway, or else it'd be laundry day everyday! And to be perfectly honest, that's something I wouldn't have been able to afford. Which reminds me, I really should get cracking on finding out whether I still have a job or not.

One last thing. I can't recommend that you eat Fruit Loops. I had a spoonful or two this morning before I slammed my fist down and said "No! These will not do!"

I share this as a public service. I'd feel guilty if I shirked my responsibility and let everyone's day get off to a shitty start just because I was too lazy to tell them that Fruit Loops suck.

Hallowe'en Hoopla

2005-10-30T07:38:00.000-08:00

Howdy friends! Your old pal Scarey Larry here with this year's Hallow'update! If you haven't figured by now what makes me so scarey, then you've never smelled my balls! Now on with all the All Hallow's Eve essentials.

Costumes are back in style! After the dismal failure of last year's plainclothes hallowe'en, traditional holiday attire makes a comeback. Snoopy, Boo Berry, Legolas, Buck Adam Tomato, and Posh Spice are all especially popular this year.

Cheese, Please! Politeness counts double! Try to avoid saying things like "Lady, you've got some serious kind of problem. Now give me some candy before I go ballistic."
This is sure to garner a smaller net yield of candy than a more tactful "Please, mum, might I have a bit o' the sweets?"
The lesson: Polite people are more likely to get what the want. So can we please have some decent weather for a change? I've got golf in the morning!LOL!

Just because there are sure to be plenty of devils about does not mean it is a good time to make a deal with one! The Devil will offer you just about anything (excluding, perhaps, a decent fish burger. Some things are beyond even his power.) in exchange for the eternal damnation of your immortal soul. If you are approached by such a being, take a time out for a moment to really think about what you are being offered. Accepting the Devil's offer demonstrates really poor long term planning. If you still find yourself tempted, you may be suffering from low self esteem or clinical depression. Such persons are prone to dissatisfaction and easier prey for the Prince of Darkness. You'd be better off making an arrangement with your local psychiatrist than Satan himself... if you can tell which is which!;)

Know your history! Rarely are rewards presented without having first proved oneself adept at a given function or task. So be prepared to be quizzed on a little hallowe'en trivia at one house or another if you plan to rake in the sugared goods. I'll cover the basics "cliffs notes" style.

Hallowe'en was started in 1778 by a tight knit cabal of closet homosexuals who hoped to bring the British Empire to it's knees by holding the river Thames hostage. When wind of this plot leaked out prematurely, a royal edict went out to all loyal british citizens, that they should disguise themselves as foreigners so that the traitors would have no one to present their demands to.

Thus frustrated, the co-conspirators retired to a local gym, but not so they could work out. Instead, they skipped that part and immediately hit the showers, where they quietly checked out each others bodies while telling themselves they were doing something else entirely. This would prove to be their last self deception however, as Spring Heeled Jack suddenly appeared amongst them. Spring Heeled Jack was a thing of legend, either a man or creature who terrorized London for a time with his fire breathing and unnatural vertical movement abilities. One can imagine that it was Jack's fire breathing abilites that most terrified the dastardly plotters, as their roasted cinders were soon discovered by the evening watchman and his nightbird.

Observing the anniversary of this event soon spread throughout the Empire, and costumes were worn by young and old alike. More monsterous costumes came into favour as a way to honor Spring Heeled Jack's atypical heroics. And all british citizens are looking for a reason to eat more candy anyway, so they just sort of threw that part in there. I mean, my gosh, look at their teeth!

So that should be enough prep to gain you the favour of the sucrose gods this Hallowe'en. Good Luck! And, hey. Don't forget to write in with your tales of Hallowe'en 2005 adventures! We love to read them, and one lucky trick or treater might just get his or her story published! Or not! Who knows these days, with the way the economy is and whatnot!

Household Oldest Professional

2005-10-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

If someone's life was in danger, would you put your own life at risk to save them? If you witnessed a car accident, and there was a truck flipped over, and a severly injured girl was trapped inside, would you jump into that truck, whip out your trusty pocket knife, cut that girl free from her seatbelt and haul her ass out of that wreck, even if you knew that truck might explode at any second? Even if you knew you might die at any second?

Many people ask themselves this question and most convince themselves that yes, they would do something to help. But the truth is there is no real way to know what you would do until you're actually in that situation. Fortunately, most people make it through life without having to discover the answer to this question. I say fortunately because I suspect that most people would be disappointed in themselves when they find such heroic activity beyond their capacity. Most people wind up just standing around, doing nothing, frozen with shock or fear or the expectation that someone else will do what needs to be done.

But I know one person who witnessed that very car accident scenario I described above and she performed exactly as I described above. I think you can understand why I have a lot of respect and admiration for her. Her name is Stephanie, and for $150, she'll suck your cock.

As long time readers will recall, I recently spent a little more than a month living on the streets. One thing that new street persons, like I was, soon discover is that they are quickly shunned by "people who have shelters", and are forced to be drawn into the comparatively small circle of "people without shelters". A classic have/ have not scenario, though it's not my purpose to pass judgement on the human condition; I'm just reporting the facts today.

Sometime during the earliest of my homeless days, I was outside the downtown Safeway, long after hours, using my last quarter to unlock a shopping cart. I crawled inside the shopping cart and locked it back up so people couldn't get me out. It didn't stop them from poking me with sticks, but at least I was safe from being abducted by quarterless brigands. Indeed, in at least one instance, this security arrangement saved me from the clutches of the fearsome Mothman. It was largely his own fault, though, since he informed me well in advance that he had me in his sights. Anyway, this modicum of security allowed me a fitful sleep, though I awoke with a fearful start at the merest suggestion of nearby human activity. So you can imagine I damn near shit myself silly when, upon one such awakening, I saw a human figure crouching right beside my shopping cart, looking right at me.

As it would turn out, there was no call for a silly shitting of the self. This human was Stephanie. I don't know what it was about her that made me trust her, but she was able to coax me out of my self made prison, promising to take me on a tour of downtown and show me safe places, safe people, and other essentials. As we walked about, I was amazed at how beautiful she appeared in the street lamp light, and not just by street person standards. She possessed thick volumes of luxurious red hair and tits so large and firm I thought I was looking through 3-D glasses. They just jump right out at you! But I guess you've got to be like that to charge a hundred and a half for a blow job.

I was equally amazed her ability to frankly discuss the various traumas and tragedies she'd suffered throughout her life, her unfortunate decision to turn to drugs as a coping method, which then became an expensive addiction that only prostitution can support. Despite all this, she still possessed a well developed sense of right and wrong and a respect for the priciples of humanity.

I encountered her several times during my sojourn on the streets. I always looked forward to our next meeting, though I must admit it was notjust because I'd come to regard her as a true friend, which I had, but also because of powerful visions of those giant boobs squished against my cock with some kind of friction involved. I very, very much wanted these visions to come true, though they never did. Truthfully, I wasn't that disappointed because I wasn't that suprised, since street level hygiene is generally rather poor, and I wasn't too keen on having any smelly or hairy secrets uncovered.

Anyway, the time finally came when I'd gotten my act together and was preparing to return to society; I had cobbled together enough money to afford a small apartment. Though my furnishings were nothing but milk crates and stacks of newspapers, it was a place to start. A week of indoor living went by before I saw her again. I told her where I had been and wasn't all that suprised when she said "Can I come home with you?"

So now another month has gone by and we've been living together the whole time. Our bed is just a big pile of our dirty clothes, so basically the closer it gets to laundry day, the better our sleeps are. But still there is no fucking at all. I sort of anticipated that she would assume that would be her "rent". Unfortunately, I think what might have happened is that I decided to be a friend first, because it seemed to me that's what she really needed, and she must have figured that out. She knows I won't try to take advantage of her and is making me pay for my faux nobility. I still think a good friend is what she really needs, so I guess the greater good is being served this way. I dunno. It's pretty frustrating at times, especially when she comes home way late at night and you wonder how many cocks did she suck while she was out, and you're still getting a gleam in your eye every time you spy an empty bottle.

However, I have manipulated those big tits in just about every way my hands can think of. She doesn't seem very interested in this so it gets kind of boring. I guess I just can't think of enough ways to keep it interesting, perhaps for either of us. Sometimes when she's sleeping, though, I find her body makes a great "playset" for action figures. You haven't seen nothing until you've seen Nute Gunray command a legion of battle droids from atop mammary mound, or seen Greedo off on his fateful, final entry into the Mos Eisley Cuntina.

So that's basically the current state of affairs. I guess I don't have too much to complain about. The worst part really is the crack smoke. It stinks! But too much of this went into establishing background, so I'll expand on the rest some other time.

Fame Fallout

2005-10-25T02:01:00.000-07:00

If there's one surefire way to get people to hate you, it's to have them find out that lots of other people really like you. While my sudden surge in popularity here in cloud cuckoo land caught me offguard, I was virtually instantly prepared for an accompanying backlash of negativity from certain quarters. As it turns out, my preparedness was well rewarded.

Just this very morning, I was roused from my dreams of wind dogs and go-machines by the ringing of the telephone. Placing it to my ear, I was greeted by the sounds of uncontrollable sobbing. "You son of a bitch! I'll kill you slowly!"

This of course, was my good friend Marshall, from whom I had stolen the notion of creating a blog in the first place. Unlike him, however, I had parlayed my blog into a magnificent success, while he has yet to achieve the coveted blog of note status. I personally suspect he may be responsible for a couple of rocks I discovered a few feet outside my window today. Presumably, he'd meant to chuck these chunks of geology through my looking walls, but they'd fallen short of their destination. Anyway, to him I say "I forgive you." and " Buck up, there, soldier! You're time will come! I'll see what kind of strings my new found power and influence can pull to get you into this exclusive blog of note club!" ;)

It also seems that, from the coward's comfortable cover of anonymity, some miscreant has accused me of being none other that the notorious Swami Abbajay Gutra. For those not in the know, Swami Gutra is one of the most wanted men on the subcontinent. His list of crimes include opium trafficking, larceny, extortion, training cobras as thieves and assassins, selling defective flying carpets, cattle ranching, civil disobedience, slave trading, leading youths astray, soup stealing, grand theft pachyderm, and treason. In his final scheme, before being forced to flee from India, he posed as a guide for some unwary archeologists, who hoped he could lead them to the fabled treasure of Kalind-Ortunafay-Pradesh. They left from Bombay just as the local constabulary raided Gutra's hovel. Conveniently, neither the archeologists nor the Swami ever returned and no one knows if the treasure was recovered. Some say they were all destroyed by dark forces guarding the tomb of the ancient wizard. Others say Gutra murdered those scientists to keep his escape from India a secret. Still others claim that the Swami murdered the scientists, kept the treasure, and then escaped. And still other others claim he's living just up the street from here, incognito. But I can say with absolute authority that I am not Swami Abbajay Gutra. Recant your falsehoods, you cur.

As for the rest of you who don't like me, it wouldn't be efficent to personally address each one of your concerns. Indeed, for the most part, they have merely stated their disinterest or disdain for me and my blog, without stating the whys and wherefores. So I'll just issue this blanket statement that should probably cover everyones issues.

I can change. My writing style and subject matter can change. If you want to hear about hookers in the house, you got it! Just you wait! More utensil sodomy? Coming right up! Just please don't go. You don't know how much I need this. I'll do anything. I'm begging you.

The Most Precious Commodity

2005-10-22T07:36:00.000-07:00

Wow. One thing I think people just assume is going to happen all the time is their daily routine. Granted, this is a correct assumption most of the time. But sometimes, if you get too set in that routine, and the life throws you a curveball, it hits you like a pancake and you wish it happened to somebody else. And that's just what happened to me yesterday. And today, too, if you think about it, since I was planning on writing about living with a prostitute. But's that's for another day, now.

I actually managed to get around out of the house yesterday. I was pretty motivated, though, as I'd run out of my painkillers. So it really all started while I was having my prescription filled out at London Drugs. As I wandered slowly around, looking at shampoo and coathangars to pass the time, I suddenly decided to turn back the way I had come from and was suprised and dismayed to be looking at the one face I most did not want to see... Roddy McAmsterdam. Actually, the face I did not want to see the most was the face of that junkie who stabbed me. But Roddy was a close second.

As you may recall, Roddy McAmsterdam was my chief rival for partnership at the architectural firm that had employed us both (and may or may not still employ us both, I haven't checked on that yet). We did never got along very well. In fact, he might very well be my arch enemy. If all his schemes against me had come to fruition, I'd be unemployed, blind, paraplegic, and dead. Though all these plots were narrowly averted, he was still clever enough to conceal not only any evidence of his involvement, but any evidence that these plots occured at all. Anyway, having not seen him in almost two months, I was struck how different he looked from how I pictured him in my head. It was no one thing, really, but rather a lot of little things that worked together making him seem more gaunt and skeletal.

"Whoop, whoop, whoop" he said, which struck me as a little odd. Then I realised it was just some kid with one of those electronic toy guns standing nearby.

"Hello, Roddy." I said with a noticable lack of enthusiasm.

"Whoop, whoop, whoop" he said.

"I don't understand." I replied, then I remembered the kid with the toy. But then he really did say something. "How are things at Homolka and Kreiger?"

Homolka and Krieger, as you know, is the name of the architectural firm that we both worked for. But I knew he had to know that I'd not shown up for work in almost two months, and had no idea how things were going there. Suspicious, I assumed I'd been fired and he couldn't wait to be the first one to tell me. This was all part of his set up to maximize his enjoyment.

"Why are you asking me?" I responded, careful to not give anything away. Something wasn't right here.

"I haven't been in for a while." Roddy admitted. Or was he having some fun at my expense? I decided to change the subject. "Oh. What brings you to London Drugs?"

"I'm here to get my prescription. How about you?" he said, and a trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck. It was too much to be conicidence. Could he have been spying on me this whole time? How else would he know just the most unnerving thing to say?

"I'm also here for that same reason." I said. No point in lying when it appeared he already knew the truth.

"Really?" He said, feigning suprise. "Do you have a brain cloud, too?"

I was stunned. What other possible reaction can there be when confronted with the fact that someone has a brain cloud? I hardly knew what to say. So I just stared, and couldn't stop.

"I have six months to live... maybe."

I barely heard him say the words. I was still stunned. Brain clouds are often misdiagnosed in the early stages as mere clinical depression, but it doesn't make much difference because brain clouds are inoperable and fatal by this time anyway. I continued to stare.

"Looks like that partnership is yours after all, eh?" He said with a faint smile. I just stared at him. I was too stunned at the time to understand my failure to react to him in any way was making him angry. I guess he had misconstrued my silence as indifference or some other rudeness. He sneered and growled "Fool! I was offering peace and you reject it!? I'll write my epitaph standing on your grave! So swears Roddy McAmsterdam!"

Now I realised I'd upset him. But with a swish of his cape, he was already way past the lightbulbs and extention cords before I could say narry a word.

Sounds spilled out of my mouth anyway. "Glad I'm not that guy."

In retrospect, It's sort of good he wasn't there to hear that.

"Whoop, whoop, whoop." This time I knew right away it was the kid with the gun.

"Fuck off, kid."

"Whoop, whoop, whoop."

For the Masses

2005-10-21T08:46:00.000-07:00

Well, imagine my suprise to discover that what is arguably the worst entry in my blog entry making history, generated almost more comments than the rest of my blog entries combined.

All this just when I thought I'd run out of things to say.

Yes, I was suprised... and encouraged! I don't know what the fuck a blog of note is or what a blog must do to become worthy of said note, but it seems to have provided just the bolster my flagging spirits required. I must admit to a certain selfishness in my desire to tone things down. In my mind I had become just another kind of entertainer. I forgot about my purpose in starting a blog in the first place (Actually, I just stole the idea from my bud Marshall, but later on I realised there could be a purpose in stealing this idea). I forgot about my duty. But now I remember. I feel reborn; so to shall this blog be reborn. Let it begin...

Hello, friends. For we are all friends here, bound together under a common desire to see Good prevail in this world.

And for this desire, our's shall ever be the more difficult path, for adversity burgeons forth from every shadow and lurks around every corner. Even he who does not oppose evil, he who only stands aside as it occurs, is the ally of evil as surely as the instigator himself. Thus, it is only he of the highest resolve that shall be triumphant, and even he shall not succeed alone.

But let not our wills be cowed, nor our heads bowed, though the burden we carry be great.

Righteousness shall be given a voice. That voice will be heard. It is the mission of this blog to be a forum where I will do My part and you will say Your piece and do Your part. In this place we shall exault in the capacity of Man's body and the nobility of Man's mind. We shall test ourselves, and find no limits, for as we place none on others, so shall none place any on us. Ever shall it remain this way. You have my solemn vow.

It's our turn now. Let us not squander it.

Next time: What it's like to live with a prostitute (hint: It's not fuck city like you'd think it'd be!)

Madness and Such

2005-10-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

You don't understand what kind of pressure I'm under. This blog was not meant to be merely just another blog. I'm trying to pioneer an artform here. And in all fairness, my efforts have been well rewarded by your enthusiastic appreciation.

Unfortunately, in order to maintain this appreciation it is almost an inevitability that I'll be forced to meet ever increasing expectations. And to meet these expectations, I am forced to go to ever greater extremes. It seems that some of you expect this blog to read like a transcript of a Jackass episode. I can tell you now that will not be happening anytime soon.

You see, earlier this week, having hit a dry spell of things to tell you about, I went out into the city in search of adventure for the purposes of reporting here. Instead of adventure, what I discovered was a 200 pound junkie who nearly sodomized me with a 1o inch knife. Luckily, he was startled by some passersby just then and he only robbed me and stabbed me in the stomach.

Well, a four day hospital stay and 56 stitches later, I'm back to report my experiences to my loyal audience. It doesn't quite seem worth it somehow. I hope you won't be disappointed in the words you find here in the future, I hope that you continue to come listen to my tales. I hope I haven't depressed you all. Go ahead and laugh at the absurdity of it all. Indeed, the burden of laughter is squarely apon you, for I cannot afford to laugh at all. There's a real chance of me disembowling myself if I do.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

2005-10-08T23:55:00.000-07:00

When we were kids, one of my brother's best, and most peculiar, friends, was a tall gangly fellow who was half inuit and one third uzbek. His parents made him take swimming lessons three times a week and it goes without saying that when it came to swimming, his skill was far superior to any other person we knew. But we were only seven and four at the time, so we really didn't know a lot of swimmers to compare him against. Still, it seems reasonable to assume that his swimming abilities were better than average for that age (he was five).

It seems our mother also thought that his swimming skills were quite impressive, for she never failed to start cursing and spitting at the very mention of his name. One thing we had learned to recognize about mother was that she couldn't stand to see other people's children winning approval and recognition for worthy achievements. I guess this was because the one thing she had gained much recognition for (and no approval) was the fact that one year earlier her husband had accidentally died in the clutches of his own garden hose.

In the recognition and approval department, it must have seemed to her that there was little prospect of improving her position with one son who was best known for his deathly fear of plants and animals, and another son who was best known for nothing at all. With our sister being less than two years old at the time, the chances of her accomplishing anything worthwhile were too far off for the impatient matron of our brood. It was thus that my brother and I found ourselves enrolled in swimming lessons.

Though my brother took a quick liking to this tall inuit/uzbek/tad o' something else, I found him to be obnoxious and conceited. He was always bragging about how fast he was. In fairness, he really was fast and it sometimes seemed to me that the water got warmer from his speed swimming. But I guess it could have been just pee. Though I didn't realise it at the time, I now suspect the latter to be the more likely, for reasons soon to be disclosed. You can decide for yourself.

Anyway, it wasn't long before he declared his life's ambition to race and defeat all the creatures of the sea. We started calling him Jock Cousteau.

As Jock and my brother became close friends, he started turning up at our house more often. My mother and I, for once, shared a common grief as neither of us liked Jock at all, but my brother suffered from a serious shortage of playmates. Rather than uniting against this common foe, my mother took this opportunity to torment me further by forcing to play with them. But it would be because of this that I first came to suspect his expertise in the pool was the result of overcompensating for deficiencies in other areas.

During the sunny afternoons which call for shorts, I started noticing a brown streak that usually appeared on the inside of his left leg (it would sometimes turn up on the right leg too, but that was rare). The only thing that was certain was that there was never a day when there wasn't a brown stripe on one leg or another. Curious, I asked him why he painted his legs like that and he said his mom made him do it. Even to my young mind, this rang false, and I was determined to find proof of what I personally believed to be the truth. My suspicions were confirmed during a sleepover when a little espionage revealed that Jock didn't sit down to poop. For whatever reason, his parent's toilet training methods had failed to convey this important bit of technique to the young lad.

In any case, the shit streak dried quickly and didn't stink too bad most of the time. Regardless, an already unpopular houseguest, he became an even more unpopular houseguest. I think it was mostly because of the little brown flakes he left on chairs, or maybe it was his curious habit of rubbing his legs together like a cricket. Whenever his visits concluded, passersby could hear the voices of children ringing out from all over our house "Mom! I found poo!"
Mother soon forbid him from the house and before the summer was over we had been withdrawn from swimming lessons and never saw him again.

A few days ago I though about him for the first time in years. I wondered what had become of him and whether he'd ever overcome his difficulties with defecation. Lo and behold, the very next day, I see a report on CNN, featuring none other than Jock Cousteau and how he'd just been clocked swimming faster than a beluga whale.

I'm not entirely sure whether this tale should be taken as inspirational or tragic. I guess if we say it's a little of both it'll appeal to a wider demographic, which is more important than trying to force a moral apon the audience anyway.

Know Your Enemy part II

2005-10-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

Ok, now for the top five most deadly robots. This part is a little bit different than the first, which concentrated mainly on generic types of robots. This last part focuses on indidvidual robots who have distinguished themselves from the faceless masses. This means they should be avoided under almost all circumstances. It's going to require a lot of careful planning to take any of these units out.

5. Faker - This robotic duplicate of He-Man is presumably the most powerful robot in the universe, though there is little empirical evdience to support such a claim. Nevertheless, he is possessed of many of the same abilities as He-Man himself, though possibley to a lesser degree. Unlike most robotic duplicates, Faker is easily distinguished from He-Man in that his skin is blue and he wears an orange version of Skeletors' oufit. Because of this, some speculate that Faker is merely a prototype in Eternia's robot duplicate technology.

4. V'Ger - Considering what a big deal they made about this satellite gone wild it must have been quite the hubbub. I can't really remember, but it took the crew of the Enterprise one whole movie to fight it. Didn't it make that guy melt in the transporter or something? Maybe V'ger, in a new form, was both that thing that talked to whales and also God from Star Trek V. If so, then it would seem that V'ger's power is truly cosmic in scope and on the verge of limitless. What if V'ger's intellect was contained within Lore and it's raw power within the Crystalline Entity? Puts a whole new spin on that one where they teamed up. I guess.

3. Brainiac - The sight of this metallic villain's Skullship hovering overhead has spelled doom for many a world! So if you happen to spot it, there is little cause for optimism. Brainiac seeks to possess all the knowledge in the universe and destroy everything else. This goal makes little sense to our squishy thinkers, but that is what makes Brainiac so dangerous. We have little chance of comprehending his motivation and his means of achieving them. Conversely, there is one factor that his computer brain can never fully account for... the human factor! Our not-necessarily-driven-by-logic behavior is our best chance at confounding him. Realistically though, the only thing that can really stop Brainiac is Superman. And since Superman is a fictional character, when Brainiac actually does show up, we're fucked.

2. Unicron - "Not the Chosen One's" need not apply when it comes to challenging Unicron! Only the Matrix of Leadership can stop this planet sized machine, who's only goal is to consume all matter in existence! Only the Chosen One can open the Matrix of Leadership, so all others who are not Chosen Ones would do well to keep as far away from this thing as possible! A couple of future guides I'm working on, "So You Want To Build a Spaceship" and "So You Want To Steal a Spaceship From Area 51" will be essential to your survival if Unicron shows up in your solar system! Look for them soon!

What diabolical machine can be more threatening than the planet eating Unicron! Read on, and tremble, as I unveil the number one most dangerous robot in existence!

1. C-3P0 - Don't let his golden appearance fool you, this is one droid of no value to your cause. Built by none other that Darth Vader himself, this phantom menace excels at psychological warfare. Watch in amazement as the morale of you and your teammates slowly erodes under his withering barrage of pessimism and generalized anxiety. As if that wasn't enough, among the 6 million forms of communication it claims to be fluent in are the elder tongues of unspeakable horrors that drive men mad! But these are not the only weapons in this droids' arsenal. Though seemingly lacking in any combat ability, it is a poorly documented fact (but a fact nonetheless) that C-3P0 sided with the Battle Droids and took up arms against the Jedi during the battle of Geonosis. Keeps your friends close and your enemies closer, they say. C-3P0 is an enemy that pretends to be a friend, and you don't want it anywhere near you. Shoot on sight.

Know Your Enemy

2005-10-07T20:03:00.000-07:00

Expanding on some of the earlier tips on surviving the robot holocaust, here's a sort of "top ten" list of some robot types to watch out for.

Robotic Threat Index

10. B.A.T.s - Standing for Battle Android Trooper, these are the automated legions of Cobra, a ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world. Each one is equipped with a modular arm that accepts a variety of manipulation or armamnet attatchments, including hand, claw, machine gun, flame thrower, and rocket launcher. Out of all the robotic menaces, this one is probably the least fearsome. Like the Battle Droids of the Trade Federation armies, they answer to organic masters and possess no robotic agenda. They are basically slow and mindless walking guns. Also like Battle Droids, they are built with quantity in mind over quality. However, Battle Droids exist in far greater numbers than B.A.T.s and thus score higher on the threat scale. Battle Android Troopers are only sometimes designed to communicate and never take prisoners. That being said, anyone who can bloop a frag should fare well against one of these things. You don't need to be a HOR to take on a B.A.T. and if you can't take on a B.A.T. by yourself, then maybe you're not the HOR you thought you were.

9. Battle Droids - Three types of robots of various lethality are being included in this category. Even though these types of machines have successfully conquered at least one planet, as a group they still still score relatively low on the threat index. These types all share certain qualities, such as being under the control of organic masters. This is important, beacause these robots will not necessarily seek to exterminate all life. These robots also recieve an operating signal that is known to originate from droid control ships. No type of Battle Droid can function without this signal. Though this may make the signal source seem like a tempting target, the facts are that this signal source can be ground based or come from orbit, which might be difficult for you to get to. Also, you'd better be sure there isn't multiple signal sources before you concentrate all your efforts on taking out one source.

Battle Droid - The standard infantry of the Trade Federation armies. Individually, they are no more a threat than B.A.T. However, as already mentioned, these things are deployed on a planetary invasion scale and exist well into the billions of units, while there are probably only a few thousand B.A.T. units in total. Battle Droids are usually programmed to speak any indigenous languages and often take prisoners. Universally equipped with a blaster rifle that they are not particularly good shots with.

Super Battle Droid - The most versatile, and thus probably the most dangerous of the Trade Federation units. Each one is equipped with a wrist mounted, twin barrel, rapid fire blaster. Their humanoid configuartion allows them to traverse most types of terrain. They possess greater than human strength and their durable metal chassis can withstand multiple hits from standard blaster fire. Programmed with two personality types; "ill-tempered" and "purportedly comical".

Destroyer Droid(Droideka) - Though technically the most dangerous of the three types, the droideka is hindered by several weaknesses. It's peculiar, tripodal configuration and pointy legs are severe drawbacks when these units must traverse soft or uneven terrain. Thus they are encountered mostly indoors. They are also vulnerable in their wheel mode and during their transformation sequence when they cannot deploy their forcefields. Despite all this, the only real option when a droideka has it's shield up and it's guns trained on you is to run away!

8. Robocop 2 - This is one scary looking robot, and it's not all for show! It's fearsome foursome of arms contain a cutting torch, a saw, a battering ram, and a gatling gun, and some suprises, no doubt. Though possessed of human level intelligence, expect this unit to be in the service of an even more malevolent mastermind. For Robocop 2 is made into an easy slave via it's addiction to the narcotic of it's own design, called Nuke. Pretty ironic, LOL! Needless to say, unless you run afoul of the mastermind's diabolic scheme, expect encounters with Robocop 2 to be rare, especially outside Delta City. A hatch on this units' back can be opened to remove the brain inside, but not by anyone of less than Robocop level strength.

7. ED-209 - Graded slightly more dangerous than Robocop 2, because while Robocop 2 is easily controlled, ED-209 is completely out of control! These Enforcement Droids respond with violence to the slightest provocation. Unfortunately, it's never easy to say what these units will regard as "provocation". Watch out for it's rocket launchers! Anything less than a cobra assault cannon (not related to Cobra; a ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world) is not going to stop these things. These units are for sale, so they could technically be found anywhere, but are mostly localized around Detroit.

6. Terminator/ Cylon - These two types are similar in terms of goals and means to achieve those goals. Both want to exterminate all mankind. DO NOT APPROACH! They'll kill you on the spot no matter what's on your mind. Both have legions of identical infantry units, though I give the edge, in terms of intelligence and durability, to the terminator units. The Cylons, as a space based threat, and having obliterated the populations of twelve worlds(compared to the terminators' one world), obviously have the advantage in terms of numbers. Both types also use infiltration units, who are designed to be indistinguishable from normal humans. The Cylon version is more difficult to detect, but they use only twelve different versions(or eight, I forget). So if you uncover one of these cylon undercover agents, remember the face! If you ever see that face again, congradulations! You've uncovered another cylon agent! Both types of robots use nuclear weapons, so be ready for radiation, nuclear fallout, and that sort of thing.

The rest later!

Hooray for Hockey

2005-10-03T20:28:00.000-07:00

If there ever was a sign of divine intervention right in front of our collective fucking face, it's the "nothing short of miraculous" return of hockey to hockey places all over the place. And I for one say thank fucking God. There is only so long I can go on hearing silence when what I should be hearing is "he shoots he scores" "time out" or "what a trail of mustard that is".

I remember all the greats from my youth; Corflab, Mongunaro, Eisel, Von Neurath. Those were men who played hockey, not for the love of the paycheque, but for the love of the game. These were men who would scoff at the rinks full of hockey hair who're only after $$$.

But I'm the kind of guy who says "Screw all that! Game on!" even when it's not really relevant or appropriate. It's because of a medical condition I had as a child.

Cosmic Rust part II

2005-09-30T00:20:00.000-07:00

You know, I think "Cosmic Rust" is one of my favorite episodes of Transformers, so I hope you're all enjoying reading about it as much as I enjoy typing about it. If not, that's too bad, because part I only covered about the first three minutes of the episode, so it's gonna be a long time before I get through the whole thing. But without further ado, here's the next chapter!

COSMIC RUST part II

When we last left off, the Decepticons had newly acquired a powerful and ancient weapon from a cursed and abandoned city. Now we see Astrotrain, again in shuttle mode, blasting off from the ruined cityscape. It seems they are content to depart without bothering to investigate the awesome and apparently unlimited energy source that powers the giant hologram. This seems strange to me, as you'd think this would something of interest to these energy hungry robots. But I've already been wrong about so many things, and now's no time to quit!

"Sure glad we're out of there," Says Rumble. "That place was giving me the surges!"
Thus we have the first instance of Part II where I do not understand what they are trying to say, or, as a transformer might phrase it, "That does not compute."

Astrotrain again makes his way through the asteroid field, which may in fact be the planet's rings. This place has not fully run out of suprises, though, as one asteroid leaves it's brothers behind and begins to follow the decepticon spacecraft! This actually isn't all that much of a suprise, since this particular asteroid is a completely different shape and colour from all the other asteroids. Such is the way of cartoon universes.

"Faster, Astrotrain! We've got an asteroid on our tail!" announces Megatron, who, having lived in a cartoon universe for millions of years, is also none too suprised by this strange turn of the laws of physics. Megatron's patience is limited, however, and before they can trying anything like speeding up or evasive action, he is already fed up with the insolent space boulder and unleashes the wrath of his new weapon apon it. The asteroid is destroyed, and Astrotrain is pelted with debris from the explosion. A bit of space rock tears through Astrotrain's hull and winds up lodged in the shoulder of the Decepticon leader. Though the damage to Astrotrain is severe, the Decepticons continue on there way back to earth, which is suddenly visible in the distance.

At the Decepticon's underwater headquarters, Starscream's voice over let's us know that it will be weeks before Astrotrain is fully repaired. What we see, though, is that Megatron himself doesn't appear to be doing too well. He's stretched out on a bed of some kind with Starscream standing over him. The space rock is still lodged in his left shoulder. "Forget Astrotrain! It is me that must be attended to." he says in the characteristically callous manner of evil leaders towards their minions' welfare.

It is only natural that Megatron should order Starscream, the commander of the Decepticon's aerial combat forces, to conduct the surgery. Starscream is more than ready for this task and proves it when his hand retracts into his forearm and a metallic pincer emerges to replace it. Once the space rock is in the pincer's grip, only a few seconds of tugging are required to remove it and end the procedure. I wonder how long it would have taken if he'd tried to grab the rock with his hand.

"Unfortunately, the operation is successful." Starsceam declares.

"Your humour escapes me, Starscream." Sneers Megatron. It does not escape me, however; This is some classic stuff. Solid gold!

Levity aside, all is not well in the Decepticon medical bay. Megatron observes a curious residue around his wound left by the space rock. "It looks like some sort of... rust!" says Starscream. Considering how unusually perceptive he's been this epsiode so far, we would do well to assume he is correct. It also appears that Megatron has already read the script for this episode, as we catch him silently mouthing the words "It looks like..." while Starscream recites them. This probably means he already knows the validity of Starscream's assessment, but he chooses to play dumb for now. "That is ridiculous! We are rust proof!"

Megatron's bid to appear stupid pays off in spades. We see a close up of his wound and it appears to be covered in a soft brown stuff, very similar to what was on the old doomsayer-bot who tried to warn them about something. What was that again? Oh, yeah... rust.

"Perhaps you were made of shoddy material, Megatron!" Says Starscream with entirely too much glee to be just professional opinion. "That's absurd, you fool!" Megatron ineffectually retorts. "Fool" might be a good opening insult, but it's far too late in the battle to be pulling it out now. I understand that Megatron may have a lot on his mind at the moment, but excuses are just excuses. So this round of pointless bickering is awarded to Starscream.

More... some other time!

Nihilism Usurps My Purpose

2005-09-27T08:45:00.000-07:00

Well, it's early Moday morning, and I've just finished a hearty breakfast of raisin bran crunch, toast, orange juice, and coffee. I'm going to need my energy today, since I've got to go out and find out if I get to keep my job or not. I only wish I'd gotten a good night's rest. But the fact is that such a thing was made impossible, thanks to a chance encounter in the darkened hours.

Late last night, I was frequenting my favorite local coffee shop, minding my own business. Actually, I was hard at work on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, which an earlier, inconsiderate patron had already filled in in ink. Even though I had immediately scribbled out all the answers, the puzzle was still not half the challenge I'd hoped it to be.

Frustrated, I gazed about the coffee shop, discreetly observing the few other customers. All the stereotypes were present of course: The old hobo, the college boy, the beatnik, the gossiping housewives, the unattended infant. As I glanced from face to face, each one failed to notice me, especially the unattended infant. Which is just as well, since babies make me uncomfortable anyway. I mean, they look like people (sort of), and behave like animals. That's creepy!

As my head turned towards it's leftmost limit, my eyes were suprised to discover that one patron had heretofore escaped my notice. Therewas something vaguely sinister about the man. Perhaps it was his red skin and devil horns.LOL! just kidding. He was dressed in all black, and somewhat disconcertingly, he was wearing a beret. Even more disconcerting, as I looked apon him, he was staring right back at me.

A sudden crash signalled the event of a ceramic coffe cup being introduced to the linoleum floor... the hard way. A sudden wail went up from the infant, a primordial "waaahhh" that said to all in earshot "The experiences of that coffee cup, all the lips it's touched, all the coffee it's tasted, all the conversations it's heard, all the faces it's seen, all that means nothing now!" It was a wail that spoke to the truth of the human condition.

I was momentarily stunned by this oddly pessimistic thought. This didn't jive with my normally upbeat attitude. And yet, it was suddenly clear that a fundamental truth had been revealed to me. I saw now that when we die, all our accomplishments, so cherished in life, are equivalent to nothing in the face of death. And if it is true that accomplishment is the measure of a life's worth, and accomplishment is valueless, then life itself must also be similarly meaningless. Silently, I both praised and cursed the infant for the gift of this insight. Maybe now you see why I don't like them.

All this occured in a fraction of a second, and I was roused from my idle reverie by the hurried form of an employee, anxious to erase the evidence of the cup's demise with her dustpan and mop. As my neck returned to it's neutral position, Iwas startled yet again to find the vaguely sinister man standing silently over me. Somehow he had made his way from his table to mine without sound and in an impossibly small amount of time. He stared down at me with that same expressionless gaze as before. His skin was grey and his eyes were dull, like he was dead inside. But then I quickly thought, Aren't we all? The corner of his mouth twitched upwards into a configuration indicating the vaguest of bemusements.

"Are you done with that?" He said in a silly voice, air whistling through the gap in his teeth. I looked where his outstretched index finger was pointing, and realized he was indicating the crossword puzzle.

I looked back up into his eyes with an expression of expressionless that I hoped would rival his own. In an unhurried fashion, I stood from my seat and put on my coat. I made as if to silently brush past him, but at the last moment stopped short and glared into his eyes once more. I thought I detected something in his gaze that hadn't been there before. A meager trace of emotion, perhaps? I smelled blood and went in for the kill.

"What difference does it make?" I cooly said.

I walked out without looking back.

Reading this now as I write, I realise how needlessly I've been worrying about my continued employment. Fortunately, now, I also realise "What difference does it make?"

I think I'll go back to bed. See ya.

Career Adventurer

2005-09-25T08:13:00.000-07:00

Well, as I told you already, one thing on my itinerary was to head on down to the architectural firm where I work, and discover whether or not I still had a job. You see, I haven't been in to work since I left home, just over a month ago. Now you might think failing to report to work for over a month is no big deal... certainly nothing to lose one's job over.

However, Thomas Homolka, who is not only the senior partner at our firm, but also the second cousin of the notorious Karla Homolka, runs a pretty tight ship. He has a list of things that he is completely unable to tolerate, which is actually given out to new employees as part of their orientation. It includes:

- Obesity (without underlying medical cause)
- Liquid Lunches
- The new "Walk" signs at intersections that feature a "hunched over" character
- Hypocrisy
- Long Breaks
- Art Deco
- Thunder Lizards
- Requests for Raises
- Salad forks pulling double duty as dessert forks
- Farts
- Loud Noises
- People who ask "What time is it?" too much
- Train Wheels
- Gargoyles
- St. Louis Arch
- Theft
-Africa
- Too small shoes
- Inclement weather
-Shoddy workmanship
-Dental benefits

In fact, during my tenure at Homolka and Krieger, no less that three people have been fired for violating just one of these criteria (those violated being Long Breaks, Hypocrisy, and Thunder Lizards).

This is coupled with the fact that Roddy McAmsterdam, a fellow architect who is related to no one you ever heard of, has been my chief rival to make partner for the past year. Needless to say, he has been looking for any reason to get me fired.

Not too long ago, a series of incidents occured involving Loud Noises, Farts, and Salad Forks pulling double duty as dessert forks. In these incidents, I was singled out as the prime suspect. I tell you now what I told them then: I had no knowledge of how these events originated or who was responsible. Now, however, I suspect Roddy McAmsterdam may have been masterminding a plot against me, though I have yet to uncover any real proof of this. Nevertheless, you can probably imagine the machiavellian web of deceit he's woven in my absense.

Oh, one thing I forgot to mention yesterday is that I think I'm now addicted to Heroin! LOL! Who would have thought it! Oh well. I'm really sure if I'm truly addicted or not. If anybody has some heroin, send it to me and I'll see if I can resist it. Anyway, I can only hope that it won't affect my career. I'm pretty resillient, so I can probably handle it.;)

So, anyway,you're probably wondering by now what happened when I got down to the firm yesterday! Well, I'll tell you... Nothing! We're closed on weekends!LOL!

It was kind of a relief, to tell the truth, but only until monday. Then it's "here we go again!"LOL!

See ya! :)

Meesa Back!

2005-09-24T13:12:00.000-07:00

Greetings and salutations dear old friends! It's been quite a while since you last saw new words of mine here, and that's because I haven't been updating at all! This is not due to negligence or lack of interest, but rather an absolute lack of opportunty. For you see, during this past month, I've been living on the streets.

Whether it's more accurate to say I had to get out from the oppressive umbrella of my mother's influence, or that my mom kicked me out of the house, is difficult to say. Either way, for the first little while, what little pocket change I possessed, I spent in internet cafes to keep updating the blog, keeping up the illusion that everything was fine; I didn't want to needlessly worry anyone here. Soon, however, the wellspring of spare coins dried up, and thus the wellspring of updates dried up. Those dark times have passed, I'm happy to report. The Fog has lifted and it's all clear sailing from here on.

Anyway, I've come out of this past month of hardship relatively unscathed. It was kind of fun, actually. It's like having every day off and just wandering around without any clear agenda in mind. I now suspect that most bums stay alive just so they don't die. This may seem like some serious underachieving to you, but that's all plants and animals do, and look at how long they've been around. You also see some interesting things that the average person will not come across in an average life. For example, here's some things I've seen and the number of times I saw them:

People Sleeping in Dumpsters 4
People Face Down in Lake 5
Bicycles 16
Cops 2
Hypodermic Needles 44
Crack Pipes 8
Ball Lightning 1
Spare Tires 3
Old Gum 16
Dinosaur Attacking Car 1
Ghosts 6
Places to Safely Fall Asleep 1
Fuckable Bottles 18

Sounds kind of scary when I put it that way. But like I said, I got through the experience mostly unharmed. Anyway, I'm off. Got to head on over to my architectural firm and find out if I still have a job. I'll let you know how it goes.

The Future is Now

2005-08-21T09:13:00.000-07:00

Well, as promised, here is my unpublished book. Unlike the others, it is not a novel, but rather a helpful guide to surviving in the not too distant future. I was going to do it in parts, but I changed my mind and put it all here at once. I offer this to you as a public service, free of charge. All I ask is, when the time comes, practice what you've learned here. Without further ado, then, here is:

Everything You Need To Know To Protect Yourself From Robot Invasion

Part One: Introduction

Mankind had known adversity in a variety of forms over the eons. Every generation has a particular suffering to claim as its’ own and every individual knows well what role hardship has played in shaping their lives. Humanity has endured and survived war, genocide, disease, shark attacks, and potato famine. But mankind has yet to face adversity in its most terrible, relentless form. I am, of course, referring to the Robot Invasion.

The exact timing of this new menace is both uncertain and inevitable. That’s why it is imperative that each person begin planning for this eventuality at once. No one can say for sure that the beginning of the end won’t occur tomorrow. If it does, only the prepared will have any chance of surviving for any length of time. That’s where this guide comes into play. Inside you will find all practical and helpful tips and hints you need, presented in a simple, easy-to-understand manner that levels the playing field and gives the poor and uneducated a fighting chance in a world where the filthy rich will be trying to monopolize all the survival opportunities. You will find information on how to build a shelter and how to stock it with supplies, basic wilderness survival, and finally a section on the various types of robots who may wish to conduct an invasion. If you have yourself a copy of “Everything You Need To Know To Protect Yourself From Communist Invasion”, many of the ideas and procedures here will seem familiar. But do not be fooled into thinking that by simply substituting “robot” for “communist” in the old volume, you will lead a long and productive life in the New Machine Order (NMO). Communists and robots aren’t necessarily all that similar and no one plan can sufficiently account for all their potential divergences.

Part Two: So the Robots Have Just Invaded

If the above is currently true and you are now reading this, congratulations on surviving the robot’s initial assault! In this regard, no doubt you are part of a very exclusive club. Fortunately (assuming you didn’t just find this handbook amidst the rubble of the blasted urban landscape), you had the foresight to equip yourself with this volume and followed its instructions to prepare for these circumstances. This will give you the edge you need to survive in only relatively mild discomfort during the coming days of steel and fire. In fact, considering your level of preparedness, you may soon find other survivors looking to you for guidance and leadership. There may be a future for you as a Resistance Cell Leader(RCL), Resistance Cell Coordinator Of Local Activities(RCCOLA), or even a full blown Hero Of the Resistance(HOR). More on that later, though. For now, let’s examine what you did that got you to this point.

Part Three: I Want To Live!

If the above is currently true, congratulations on making the only responsible choice. It is, of course, easy to say that you want to live. What is not so easy is putting in all the effort that is required to stay alive. You’d be surprised by how many times I’ve heard someone say “Sure I’d like to live through the Robot Invasion, but it’s too much work”. However, just by acquiring a copy of this handbook, you have already gone a long way towards rejecting this defeatist notion. So let’s get started… there may not be much time.

Perhaps the single most important aspect of survival in the NMO is a shelter. Without one, the elements, a powerful adversary in their own right, will likely finish you off long before the robots have even begun searching for you. However, unlike your current residence, a quality shelter will have to do much more than merely thwart the forces of nature. This new residence will have to protect you from the countless throngs of metallic automatons who are actively searching you out with little in mind but a strong desire to melt your flesh, not to mention the rest of you, with their energy weapons. So it is not recommended that you merely hide out in your basement. A new structure built for the exact purpose of protecting you from robots is required.

If you were able to construct the nuclear bomb shelter as outlined in “Everything You Need To Know To Protect Yourself From Communist Invasion”, then you are already halfway there. Remember, the robots may launch their invasion with nuclear attacks in your area, so your shelter will need to pull double duty anyway. But with a few modifications, your standard bomb shelter can become a perfectly adequate Anti-Robot Sheltered Environment(ARSE).

Unlike communists, robots are often equipped with a variety of scanning equipment, X-Ray and infrared being the most effective types. These give the robots the ability to see through walls and see temperatures as colours(including body heat). Both are efficient when searching for humans to exterminate. So your shelter should take this into account. It should be one place you can go where the robots cannot find you.

Therefore, your shelter, like a bomb shelter, should be underground. I recommend a minimum depth of at least twenty feet. Most robots you encounter will probably be infantry types, or foot soldiers. They are programmed to serve on the front lines and designed with the expectation that they maybe damaged or destroyed. For this reason, infantry types are often equipped with the least powerful kinds of sensors. No sense wasting more powerful equipment if it is only going to be captured or destroyed. So I just bet that 20 feet of the Earth’s crust will be more than the infantry type’s sensors can penetrate. Lining your shelter with lead or gold will further impede enemy sensors.

When digging your shelter, secrecy is paramount. Do not apply for building permits or anything else that will create a paper trail for the robots to later follow. Do not invite friends to visit your “bitchin’ new pad”. Its location is not information you want them to have when they are being tortured by the godless metal ones. You might want to consider a purchasing a cabin in the wilderness somewhere. Starting digging your shelter under your cabin. Have some means to secretly transport all the displaced dirt off your property. Do not install a phone in your ARSE. You’ll never know when a phone call is a robot trick until it’s too late, so better to not have a phone at all. Which is sort of a nice lead in to the next section.

Part Four: Should I Put It In My ARSE?

There are some essentials that no ARSE should be without. Some are obvious, such as clothes, blankets, toothpaste(Aquafresh Extreme Clean, for example), and hair products(the apocalyptic future is no excuse for poor hygiene. That’s just laziness). Perhaps the most important of these is food. The best kind of food is canned food. By “best” I mean for the purpose of stocking your ARSE only. Under most circumstances, canned food isn’t all that great. But its long shelf-life (in fact, expect most canned foods to outlast most of humanity!) clearly gives it the edge when dealing in events of the unspecified future.

It’s important to remember that not all canned food is created equally. So when shopping, shop smart! Check expiration dates. The longer from now until it expires, the longer it lasts. Your average canned good has a shelf life of 2-3 years. If you happen across a good, fresh batch, you’re maybe looking at a shelf life of up to four years! It might be worth shopping around! Remember, once the robot holocaust occurs, there isn’t going to be any new supply of canned goods, so you might as well get as much as you can, that lasts as long as possible, while you still can.

Do not can your own foods. Even though your family’s secret techniques for canning peaches has kept your ancestors smiling throughout the generations, they’ll be of no use to you in the apocalyptic future. This kind of canning is too easily damaged, resulting in, at best, botulism (which will kill you as surely as any robot), and at worst, a smell that robots with olfactory sensors can detect.

So long as the Robot Empire remains, these canned goods will be your only source of fruits, vegetables, and meat. But there are other edibles that you should use to augment your diet.

Granola bars and chocolate bars are full of carbohydrates and give short term energy boosts. Which, considering the circumstances, is ideal, since you should never plan on being alive for anything more than “short term”. Remember, if you are full of energy when you are killed, then that is energy wasted, and energy wasted = bad (as any robot can tell you. There’s nothing they hate more than wasting energy… they’d rather be wasting you!).

Do not include foods that have strong smells, will expire soon, or require cooking to prepare. Cooking requires an energy source, and your typical robot is unusually adept at detecting energy usage and determining whether that usage is “officially sanctioned”( the generation of energy and usage of said energy shall be conducted only by robots and only for robotic purposes – Robot Law 234.7).

That's all I've got so far... told ya it was unfinished. Some day I might get around to the rest. Who am I kidding... of course I will. I owe it to the world, whether it likes it or not!

Down to This

2005-08-20T11:09:00.000-07:00

Well, my latest novel, "Connecting Howards" was released a week and a half ago with such a whimper that it's hard to be certain that it was released at all. I shouldn't let things like this get me down. I should be used to it by now, as a matter of fact.

I was going through some of my possessions and came across this old interview that I did for Corbotard magazine. It's doubtful you'll have much success trying to locate a copy of the issue in question. In fact, Corbotard has been out of business for several years and was mostly sold in europe, but I'd sort of hope that no one here would be interested in obtaining any copies of any issue. I'd just like to make it clear that I didn't know until after the interview was printed that Corbotard was a magazine for pedophiles. Anyway, here it is.

Out of all the things that no one is talking about, author Jamie Luxton is one of them. So what your about to read is something you'll probably not read anywhere else.

C - Thanks for taking the time to talk with us today.

JL - My pleasure. Like any performer, I'd be very little without my audience. I've always been appreciative of the time they give me, so I can do no less for them.

C - I'm sure they're all eager to hear what you've been up to.

JL - I hope so. My new book, "Obergruppenfuhrer!" is scheduled to hit the bookshelves any day now.

C- This is your third book, right? That must be pretty exciting.

JL - Very! I mean, after the first one, it was unbelievable. And after the second one, I was all 'Now there are two of them! This is getting out of hand!' But now, things are more out of hand than ever.

C- What can you tell us about this latest project? Don't spoil the ending or anything!

JL - They all die at the end.

C - What a card!

JL - Just kidding. Actually, it's a children's book-

C- Yes?

JL - Yeah. It's about a jewish baker in Berlin and the Obergruppenfuhrer who comes in for a raisin pie every day. Which would be fine, if a bit awkward, except that the other jewish businessmen around the neighbourhood start disappearing, and this obergruppenfuhrer might be responsible.

C- What ages would you recommend this for?

JL - I don't know. Between six to eight, I guess.

C - Six to eight? So basically an essential addition to anyone's library, correct?

JL - Well, I'd like to think so!

C- What's best thing about sex with twenty six year olds?

JL- Uh... I don't know?

C- There's twenty of them.

JL - What?

C - You don't get it?

JL - Well... Is that a joke?

C- Not really.

JL - Um.

C - You write poetry in addition to novels, yet haven't published any of it. Do you have any plans to make it available to a wider audience?

JL - A wider audience is always my plan, my good fellow! But seriously, I am compiling it all into a volume, an anthology, if you will. It will contain some of my earliest works right up to the most recent ones. It should be interesting for readers to see the progress I've made, as I feel the more recent works have undergone a dramatic shift. Compared to the earlier pieces, they possess a certain eloquent maturity, and, dare I say it, sincerity.

C - You have described yourself as a mass of contradictions. How do you respond to that?

JL - Orson Welles was asked the same question once. He said that everyone is a mass of contradictions. ' We are all made out of oppositions; we live between two poles. There is a philistine and an aesthete in all of us, and a murderer and a saint. You don't reconcile the poles. You just recognize them.'

C - Isn't that sort of a cop-out answer?

JL - All the best answers are.

As you may have guessed, that anthology of poetry has not yet been published. Maybe it never will. It's not the only work of mine that hasn't been published yet, either. Starting with my next post, as a public service, for free, for the first time anywhere, I'll be posting, in what is sure to be the first of many parts, my unfinished, unpublished, yet possibly most important, piece of work.

Tune in, won't you? Your future may depend on it.

Love of the Month

2005-08-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

I do not condone shoplifting. I do not encourage shoplifting. That being said, I will admit to having practiced and enjoyed the art of shoplifting. I have done so many times in the past, and in my time, absconded with 1000s of dollars worth of merchandise, much to the chagrin of many a merchant.

I would have told you that I was merely filling my need for things; Things I could not afford or simply chose to not pay for. But what I did not realise, and in fact, could not realise, was that the void in my life that needed to be filled was not a hole that could be filled by any amount of material possessions. It was a hole that had torn straight through my heart and piereced my soul. It was a hole that could only be filled... with love.

Which brings us to the subject of this month's "Love of the Month"... Winona Ryder.

Some three years ago, Ms. Ryder was apprehended as she exited a Beverly Hills store with some thousands of dollars worth of clothing, none of which she'd paid for. She just put them in her bags and attempted to walk out. Now, she is again accused of having left a store with boots and a belt unpaid for.

Although these shoplifting attempts failed, it was most certainly daring and brash. We must admire her for her boldness, if not her technique. Most importantly, we must recognize them as a cry for help. A cry for Love.

Well, I'm writing this to say I hear your cry, Winona. I've been there a thousand times and I know about the loneliness and the pain. I also know how much it helps just to know that there is someone who cares.

I pray that my words here are brought to your attention, Winona. I pray that it's not too late and that you realise that you don't have to give in to those terrible urges or lie awake at night, too afraid of the nightmares to sleep. You don't have to be alone anymore. I know you might not believe me because it sounds too good to be true, but you'll just have to trust me on this one.

I said I know how much it helps to know that somebody cares. It's true. And you know what else is true?

I care.

I care because I love you, Winona. Let me be your guide.

Love,

Jamie Luxton III

Something New

2005-08-14T04:20:00.000-07:00

It may come as no suprise to you that I am not very creative. Most of my architectural designs are duplicates of Metropolis from Superman comic books, and my novels, even though marketed as fiction, are mainly based on my real life experiences. I've seen the Teardrop Kitty and it can talk.

Don't get me wrong. It's not like there's nothing going on in my life right now. There are some MAJOR developments taking place, I just don't how to express them to you just yet. But it's been a while since I had a big post for you and I feel like I owe you something for all the time you've spent living vicariously through me.

So I've got something new here for you. You may have heard of The Transformers. Among other things, they were an old cartoon detailing the adventures of two warring robot armies from the planet Cybertron. These robots possessed the amazing ability to change shape into a wide variety of vehicles, weapons and equipment. The heroes were known as Autobots, and the villains were the Decepticons. I will now detail for you one of their adventures.

Cosmic Rust

The episode begins with a shot of the Decepticon Astrotrain, who could transform into either a space shuttle or a locomotive. In this particular instance, he's in his shuttle mode, weaving his way through an asteroid field. A disembodied voice, which long time viewers will recognize as Rumble, sagely advises "Astrotrain! Watch out for those asteroids!"

Not far off, a planet comes into view. Unlike most planets, this one prominently displays a vast yellow insignia of the Autobot army. Since this planet appears to be a gas giant, one assumes this symbol is a projection or hologram of some kind. If this planet is only as big as the smallest of gas giants, this projection must still be thousands of kilometers across. The energy to maintain such a projection must be enormous! One is left to wonder, whatever purpose this projection serves, if there wasn't a more economical method of achieving a similar effect. It does go a long way towards explaining why these robots are always in search of new energy resources, however.

Anyway, the Decepticons do not fail to notice the calling card of their bitter rivals, though they do express suprise at it's existence. It's not clear why they should be suprised, since it's the size of a continent and right out in plain view for any space traveller to see.

We cut to the interior of Astrotrain and see not only Rumble, but Decepticon leader Megatron and Air Commander Starscream are also along for the ride. Of what mission this crew could have originally been on, there is no hint.

Scanning the planet, they detect no trace of life, but Megatron cautions them to be alert for traps, tacitly implying he means to investigate the place. This seems like a move of dubious wisdom to me, for four warriors to enter any area where the enemy is perfectly content to announce its presence to the whole solar system.

Despite any reservations I might have, the Decepticons make it to the surface without incident. There, they discoverwhat appears to be an ancient and abandoned Autobot city. Rusty buildings and metal stretch for as far as the optic sensor can detect.

While the grunts carrouse about the missed opportunity for combat, Megatron is the first to realise that there is more than meets the eye here. "It's not like the Autobots to leave a whole city to decay."
As they wander about, they come before a monument of some sort, covered in scripture. "Too bad none of us reads ancient Autobot." muses Starscream, though you sort of wonder if any of these guys can even read "modern Autobot", or "modern Decepticon", for that matter.

None of this deters Starscream from boldly striding forward and fiddling with the controls at the base of the monument, arousing Megatron's paranoia. But the Air Commander scoffs at such needless caution, declaring it as a prehistoric communication device. He is soon proven correct when his efforts yield up a hologram of a cybertronian looking robot who appears to be covered in mud. He speaks a recorded message to the assembled Decepticons in a rasping, whispy voice that tells us he is ancient.

If Cybertron be your home
Far away never roam.
Hear my message,
Listen in fear!
Danger comes,
The end is near!

Just like us,
You soon will rust.
All shall be turned
to dust!

Rust, naturally, is the worst fear and greatest enemy of all robots, because they are made of metal. Even though, technically, only iron "rusts", other metals "oxidize" which is the result of that metal being exposed to oxygen and water. In fact, rust is oxidized iron. But you never hear any robots quaking in their boot modules about getting oxidized. In fact, with some metals, an oxidized layer on the surface forms a barrier that protects the core metal from becoming oxidized. So it's not all bad.

Nevertheless, the doomsayer-bot's message has the predictable and desired effect on this cowardly and superstitious lot.

"Sounds like a curse or something." Observes Rumble.

"He's right. The omens are ill." Opines Astrotrain.

Megatron's paranoia, in full display moments earlier, is now absent as he berates his fearful minions. Equally absent is Starscream's trademark insubordination, as he's in full agreement with his commander. "Where there's a curse on the door, there's a treasure on the other side!"

Which isn't always true of course. Sometimes a curse is just a curse, and considering these characters are all of the villainous variety, it's unlikely they'll collect any treasures scott free.

However, after a few seconds of purposeful wandering, a treasure presents itself. Atop a long staircase, they spot an idol in the form of some sort of scarab type thing. Starscream immediately declares it as a "lightning bug".

"If that's a lightning bug, I'd sure hate to meet a dragonfly." Quips Astrotrain. It is not clear to me what he means by this. The idol appears to be inanimate and non threatening. Presumably, this is a comment on the size of the thing, as we soon learn, when Starscream brazenly runs up to the thing and we see it's bigger than he is. "Let's see if we can make it operate" he says, unusually motivated. Again, it's not clear to me what's meant by this, since it's not apparent that the bug serves any function besides decoration. But he is the only one who knew it was a lightning bug, so I guess he's the smart one.

Whatever the case, he appears to be quite determined to spin the thing around. Unfortunately, he has not the strength for this task, and even the assistance of Rumble (who is about knee high to Starscream) fails to produce results.

"Stand aside, weaklings." Commands Megatron, as he prepares to demonstrate why he is the leader. As it turns out, they were not trying to spin it. Instead, they were trying to open the carapace of thebug, which Megatron accomplishes with a small effort. To the suprise of the assembled band of brigands, pink bolts of energy surge forth from the idol, validating Starscreams earlier "lightning bug" comment. These bolts fly up into the ceiling and burn clean through the roof. The evil warriors are much impressed by this display.

Megatron is pleased, both by this new weapon, and the chance to invoke his favorite literary device. "How Ironic. The Autobots will be destroyed with the weapon they created!"

That's it for now... Part II later!

2005-08-09T19:26:00.000-07:00

Here's a limerick I composed because I saw a witch today.

Scribble, scrabble, grabble
In the black arts dabble
Cast a spell,
Go to hell
With other sinful rabble.

The guy says my time is up. I have to go for now.

2005-08-08T19:47:00.000-07:00

I don't feel so good today. Perhaps some poetry can convey my emotions better than prose.

The oceans'
Violent motion
Like a fucking contusion
on my medulla

OBLONGATA

Birds are dinosaurs
In disguise
Prehistoric lizards
We eat with our fries
It's all a bit too much
for my medulla

OBLONGATA

I assume we all miss our souls
Searching for them highs and lows
Behind cereal boxes in cupboards
Under rocks and in holes
Then the Science King says
we never had a soul to look for
This presents quite a challenge
to my medulla

OBLONGATA

But I will overcome
Even if it doesn't appear so
Presently

Good, Good News!!!

2005-08-03T21:10:00.000-07:00

I came home late from my architectural workplace today after a long, hard day. Even though I have a passion for architecture, like every other profession, it has it's downside as well. Can you imagine going through six to twelve months of designing a building, making alterations for the contractor, and getting to the actual construction process, only to have Joe Blow or Betty Crocker, walking by on the street, say "What are you putting a building there for? It looks dumb."

Architecture is art. And like most art, people just don't get it.

If one were to jump in the "ol' way back machine" and travel "way back" enough, you would eventually arrive at a time when the earth itself was a lazy, roustabout exhibitionist, indulging in unhibited freedom to whirl around the cosmos with all her hills and valleys exposed to the universe's perverted eye. Now, thanks to the delicious advent of modern society, that will no longer suffice. Mother Earth must cover herself up, and architecture is the planet's new clothes.

Fashion is another kind of art, which suggests to me, at least, that just because we have to clothe our planet doesn't mean we have to do it without style. Maybe I'm the only one who feels this way. It gets pretty frustrating at times.

So I get home and my sister is there. She can tell I'm in a a funk so she asks me what's wrong, and what I tell her is basically what you just read. That, plus the less than stellar review of my newest novel (which hit bookstore shelves today), must have triggered something in her, because she gave me a hug and told me she loved me.

OMG!!! My sister told me she loved me tonight! So I can afford to delay no more. It's time to make my move! I've been dreaming about this moment since she arrived at our house. I forgot to tell you yesterday that I accidentally walked in on her when she was in the shower! Holy smokes! Best "accidentally walking in on someone" of my life! She didn't see me, but I wonder now what might have happened if she had seen me?;)

I have to admit I'm kind of nervous, but I can't be one of those guys who spends their life wondering "What if I'd done this?" or "What if I'd done that?". I'm the kind of guy who has to do everything the hard way. LOL! That was a totally unplanned innuendo!

Ok. Time to get this started. Don't worry, I'll be back, bright and early tomorrow, with all the details, even if she says I shouldn't tell anybody. Because I'm not really "telling" anyone, I'm just typing out a bunch of alphanumeric symbols, and it's not my fault if a large percentage of the world's population will interpret their meaning in an identical manner. It's the internet for cryin' out loud! How many people can there be that read english! LOL!

This is going to be the best night of my life! Hope you're all as excited as I am! I can't wait to tell you what happened! Don't wish me luck, though, I'll be getting plenty lucky soon enough!;)

Book Review

2005-08-02T19:14:00.000-07:00

As I let you know recently, my latest novel is about to hit the shelves. Much like with movies, a lot of new books get reviewed by book reviewers (movies get reviewed by movie reviewers). I was able to find one review in the latest issue of Maclean's magazine. As I promised, here it is for you see for yourself.

Connecting Howards
Hard Cover $39.99

"The schedule is absolutely killer, but if there's one thing I've always been, it's a survivor."

With this opening line, we begin a bold tour of a strange world that is distinctively Jamie Luxton and will feel familiar to readers of his earlier works. Some of this familiarity stems from the fact that this novel is a sequel to his earlier effort "Sins of the Original Howard". But how does his latest work stand up to it's predecessors?

That question is somewhat complicated to answer. Many were expecting this to be his finest work yet, based soley on the fact that his earlier books really weren't any good. However, when it is all said and done, this is clearly not a finest work by anyone's standard. Instead, "Connecting Howards" fits squarely into the middle of the pack of Luxton novels, right between "Shark With No Teeth" and "Aliens Can Detect Your Bio-Rythym".

As already stated, this novel is a sequel, though that is not made immediately apparent to the reader. The story is essentially about Howard Franklyn, an accountant who works in the world trade center( the story is set in 1999). Howard Orbach, a TV show producer, is Frankyln's best friend. In fact, they've been friends so long that they can't even remember how they met. "We've been friends so long I can't even remember how we met" Franklyn tells Orbach over a casual lunch.

This lifelong friendship finds it's limits tested, though, when a travelling insurance salesman named Howard Kellogg walks into their lives. Kellogg thinks he can make Orbach an offer he can't refuse, and he might be right. Orbach suddenly disappears from Franklyn's life. Suspicious and jealous, Franklyn takes to spying on the other Howards, lurking in the shadows and rummaging through garbage to find out what's going on. This goes on until Kellogg catches Franklyn trying to break into his car.

Rather than getting upset, or pressing charges, Kellogg invites him to lunch. It quickly becomes apparent that Kellogg has some kind of hypnotic power over Franklyn, and draws him ever deeper into a strange, dream-like world of drugs, birds, and acupuncture. As it turns out, while Franklyn is lost in his illusory world, Kellogg is out in the real world, impersonating Franklyn and destroying all his personal and professional ties. In an all to brief moment of lucidity, Franklyn discovers he's lost all his friends, he's out of a job, aand even his own wife doesn't recognise him.

His life thus destroyed, Franklyn plots to kill Kellogg, urged on by the Teardrop Kitty, a yellow talking cat with a teardrop shaped head. But when Franklyn finally has Kellogg cornered, Orbach returns and intervenes. It is revealed that Howard Kellogg is a man on a mission to destroy not just Franklyn's ties with the world, but the ties of every Howard everywhere. This mission was given to him by none other than the Original Howard, the man from whom all other Howards are descended. As a prerequisite to his master plan, all Howards must first be united under his control. Howard Franklyn is the last Howard in the world who has not joined.

This marks the half way point and the rest deals with Franklyn's dilemma over joining with the other Howards or trying to rebuild his life. Before he can make that decision, he must first discover who exactly the Original Howard is, and what his plan might be. Unfortunately, the reader already knows who the Original Howard is, if they read "Sins of the Original Howard". In fact, approximately 12 pages from "Sins of the Original Howard" can be found in "Connecting Howards"detailing that characters background and motivations, lifted almost word for word.

Unlike "Obergruppenfuhrer!", Jamie Luxton has not written "Connecting Howards" for children. In one instance, six monkeys die violently and their destruction is quite graphically described.
Unfortunately, this book is not really for adults, either, even though one supposes it's supposed to be. The writing style is often inconsistent and difficult to follow. When writing this review, I was careful to refer to the characters by their last name. Jamie Luxton employs this tactic only rarely, instead prefering to just call everyone "Howard". Confusion can be the only result.

It should also be noted that many of the characters come across in a rather undynamic manner and frequently as rather obvious literary tools. The pilot, Rick, for example, is a veritable fountain of exposition.

In any case, I can't recommend to the casual reader that you rush out and buy this.

Even if you are a loyal and dedicated fan of Jamie Luxton's novels, I recommend you wait for the paperback. And while you are waiting, may I suggest you head on down to the welfare office and apply, if you haven't already, because you will wind up down there sooner or later. You will die poor and alone because that's how dumb you are.

Everybody's a critic. LOL!
Still, better than the last book!
I think I'll go show this to my sister. I could use some "sympathy" right now ;)

Nuffin

2005-08-01T21:02:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it, but I didn't do anything today. I just stayed home, cutting up socks. I wish something interesting would happen.

In response to some of the comments on my blog, though, I'll have to ask people to not ask me to comment on the hotness of my grandma. That's just weird.

Impending Book Release!

2005-07-31T16:29:00.000-07:00

Just a quick update today.

As some of you may know, I've spent the better part of the past year and a half squirreled away in a spider hole, trying to finish my latest novel. Well, I finished it about six months ago and you can expect to see it on the shelves of your local bookstore as of this coming wednesday!

This is my fifth novel( I assume you knew that because you read them already!) but it is the first one that is a sequel. This one is called "Connecting Howards" and is a sequel to my second novel, "Sins of the Original Howard".

Here's the write up on the back of the book:

"When Howard Franklyn finds himself being manipulated by some other Howards, he must decide what to do!"

This is a pretty exciting time for me! When some reviews get published, I'll be sure to post them here so you can see what the critics are saying! But whatever they say, don't forget to get your own copy! If you send it to me, I'll autograph it for free. Just make sure you cover the shipping and handling both ways, becuase it gets kind of expensive and I have a special deal with the publisher so that I make almost no money at all off my books.

Last night I was watching TV and my sister came into the room all crying and sad. So I told her to come sit by me and I gave her a big hug. I said some reassuring stuff like "shhh" and "there, there" and she just sat there in my arms crying until she fell asleep! I thought of a few things I could do to make us both feel better, but I didn't do them! Sometimes I'm such a scaredy cat! LOL!

The Whole Truth

2005-07-30T15:47:00.000-07:00

When my brother died, perhaps the biggest suprise was that nobody was really suprised at all.

My brother was an escape artist, but not just any ordinary escape artist. Without doing any actual research on the subject, I believe he may very well have pioneered a new form of escape artistry. He wasn't the sort of escape artist who struggled his way out of straight jackets, water tanks, and wet paper bags.

My brother was the sort of esape artist who escaped from live, man killing animals. In the course of his career, he successfully escaped from lions, tigers, a pack of dogs, seafood(he had an allergy), a komodo dragon, a black widow spider, a cobra, some bees(another allergy), a crocodile, and pirahnas, among others.

You have to understand that my brother had a lifelong fear of everything natural. When he was three, our father got drunk(no suprise there) and went to water the lawn. The next day, we found him dead, all wrapped up in the garden hose(also not much of a suprise). But to my brothers' young, impressionable eyes, it was a terrible green snake that had done in the man who had sired him. From then on, he was never comfortable around animals or plants.

When he turned sixteen, he ran away from home and took to living on the streets, prefering to surround himself with skyscraping buildings and man made filth, than remain in our outlying suburbia, with nature just barely visible on the horizon.

Almost ten years went by before any of us ever saw him again, mostly because no one was really interested in what he might be up to. At Christmas, Mom would sometimes get drunk and speculate that he was probably living in an elaborate cardboard mansion or fucking a bottle somewhere. But other than that, we didn't speak of it.

Until, of course, they day of his return, and we saw how wrong we had all been. I mean, sure, he probably had fucked a bottle at least once, but he'd also been up to much more than that. He told us that he'd been facing his fears, and building his courage. He had returned to us, he said, so that all would know that he was now ready to go one on one with Mother Nature... and emerge victorious.

That's how it began. At first, he'd find ways to get inside animal pens at the zoo, and run around for a bit while the animals chased him, then get out. I could tell by the way he screamed that he had not fully mastered his fear just yet.

It wasn't long before his antics began to attract crowds of onlookers. At first, the zoo was understandably miffed at my brother, but they were equally understandably not miffed when they saw he was increasing attendance at the zoo (which means $$$). Even the zoo owner, famed and wealthy philanthropist Bartum Parnac, took an interest in the activity and made a proposal to my brother. They were married in the spring. LOL! Just kidding!

The proposal was actually that Parnac would pay to have my brother travel all over the world to escape from dangerous animals in their natural habitats. My brother couldn't resist. The rest is history, of which you can google the facts up for yourself. I won't go on about them here, with the exception the the final escape attempt. The facts of that fateful day are not well known and much has been said that is not fact at all. Allow me to now set the record straight.

Bartum Parnac was essentially a vaudvilleian showman at heart. Among other testimony to this fact, he insisted that all animals on his properties wear clothes and do tricks or talk. Some many years later, he was tried and convicted for having a sweatshop benethe the zoo, filled with childlabourers making costumes for the animals day and night. But he also owned an aquarium where the animals existed under similar circumstances. This aquarium featured a large open air tank, of the sort where an audience can sit and observe dolphins or whales as the perform a show. At this particular aquarium, however, the performer was no smiling porpoise, but a rather large and ill-tempered tiger shark which was famous for killing the man who captured it with a firearm.

When the day finally arrived, my brother was very excited about escaping from this monster. A enthusiastic crowd filled the stands. Everything was going without a hitch. My brother jumped into the tank. He flailed about for a bit, gaining the sharks attention. The great fish circled ever closer. A woman screamed. Then, a thousand white triangles flashed in the sun as the fish's jaws gaped open and it lunged at the helpless man. For the first time, I was afraid something might go wrong. A man screamed. Might have been my brother. All that screaming was for naught, though, as somehow my brother dodged aside.

My brother began swimming for a platform where the trainers usually stand. The shark dove into the depths of the tank, then suddenly came speeding up directly underneath my brother. Impossible as it seems, he was ready for the shark, and just as it meant to cleave him in twain, he twisted and put his feet apon the tip of the sharks snout.

A great fountain of water erupted as the shark came flying out of the water, my brother standing atop it like a ball balanced on a seals nose. The shark thrashed and arched in the air, and my brother slipped from his precarious perch. The two combatants fell sideways onto the platform my brother had been trying to reach. They crashed down on the hard surface.

To this day, it's never been conclusively decided who was responsible for leaving a gun lying on that platform. All that can be said for sure, is that when that tiger shark landed on top of it, a single shot rang out and my brothers skull was rended into a heck of a lot more pieces than it's supposed to be.

People don't remember my brother much, anymore. Most people only know him as "one of the guys who got shot by that shark". But for me, there was always a little more to it than that. And now you know... The rest of the story!

2005-07-29T08:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my mind gets so full I feel like it had the Whopper with cheese meal... super-sized! When this happens, it is often difficult for me to remember things until it is much, much too late. For example, I'd been meaning to write a thank you note to my Grandma for some presents she'd sent, and never gotten around to it. I happened to catch a glimpse of said presents this morning, though, and I suddenly remember what I had been meaning to do. I sat down and wrote out my letter, which went like this:

Dear Grandma,

As usual, you’ve saved this from being another run of the mill Christmas, thanks to your thoughtful (and timely!) gift of socks.
I feel sorry for you sometimes. It sucks to be old these days because the world is kind of dumb right now, and you won’t be around when the new good stuff starts to happen. I hear they are working on a xylophone that doesn’t need batteries.
It’s sad too because scientist doctors are always working on cures to stuff that would kill you in the olden days. So it’s sad because when I see old ladies all hunched over or shaped like their back hurts all the time, and I know when I’m that age I’ll still look like I’m 20.
I overheard some ladies about your age at the bus stop today talking about their walkers. They seem to like the red kind with big wheels. Which is your favourite?
It was weird that they just started talking without saying hello and they clearly didn’t know each other before. And then when one got off the bus, they didn’t say good bye either. I guess they figure that the other will be dead before they have a chance to meet again so why bother getting too attached.
It kind of gave me an idea to stand around at bus stops with a tape recorder and tape all the conversations I hear. Then I could write a book about it. Here are some ideas for the title I have:

Bus Stop Stories
Bus Stories
Bus Tales
Bus Rides
Bus Riders
Bus Ride Tales
Bus Ride Stories

Let me know which you like best.
I heard that there was a hurricane recently. Was it anywhere near you are? I hope not. They said on the news that the winds were up to 70 miles an hour. I don’t see what the big deal is, you can drive faster than that. Uh-oh, the phone's ringing, so I've got to go, Grandma. Write soon, you don't have any time to waste(LOL)!

Love, Jamie

I sent that off through Canada Post, confident that she would enjoy it if it got to her before she died. It wasn't easy to write, though. It's hard to know exactly what to say to old people. After all, they probably don't want to hear all about how old they are. So while I was carefully contemplating what to write, some interesting and some not so interesting combinations of words flashed through my mind. Since I didn't use them in the letter, I'll write them here, since I don't know what else to do with them. Here they are:

Requiem to Motivation
Ultra-Hate
The Captains of Industry Freak Me Out
Personal Energy Crisis
The Devil Said He’d Pay Me Back
Kitty's Wet Box
Moonshine Automobile
Meower of Power
Expletive deleted
Inter Continental Breakfast Missile
Sentiment as a Substitute
Aliens can detect your Bio-Rhythms
Contemporary Insanity

Well that's it, I guess. I should get busy and get to my architecture job.

Oh, I almost forgot. My sister moved into our house yesterday. At first I was completely against it, because I hadn't seen her in years and never really liked her in the first place. As it turns out, though, she's totally hot! Like, WOW! A perfect 10! I suspect some trouble may result from this revelation. But right now, I don't really care!