Ian and Shane

There's more to this, it'll be posted later on.

Ian and Shane

"I don’t know any black people. I’ve never been near any."
"You’ve never been near a black person?"
"No. It’s just something that never came up. I grew up wealthy. I lived in a white neighborhood. Mostly jews. I’m not racist, I just don’t know any black people."
"You are a racist, you shouldve met black people by now."
"So I shouldve just gone up to a black person on the street and introduced myself because they’re black?"
"Something like that. Maybe at work. Or at school."
"I went to an all white school. I don’t work. I’m very wealthy."
"You should make it a point to go meet a black person."
"That’s ridiculous."
"Why is that ridiculous."
"I should take the day tomorrow and go find a black person?"
"Yes."
"So what would I say? I just walk up to a stranger and say ‘We should talk because you’re black.’
"Something like that, only be less of a dick about it."
"I’m not being a dick, the situation would be ridiculous. I couldn’t do that."
"I think you owe it to yourself to do it."
"I don’t really like people in general, I don’t meet people well. I get nervous."
"That’s your fault."
"Yes it is."
"Get in the car right now, we’re going to find a black person."
"Can we stop along the way for an eskimo, I don’t know any of those either."
"Don’t be a dick, get in the car."
"I’m not going anywhere, I’m enjoying my black person free day right here."
"Why do you refuse to meet a black person?"
"I don’t refuse, it just hasnt come up. I’ll meet one when it happens. I’m not going to force myself on the black community."
"I think that y–"
"Also, it’s African American isnt it?"
"Not the point, the point is –"
"you’re a filthy racist. Calling African Americans ‘black’ disgusting. I think you should leave."
"You’re such a dick, you’re the racist. I know black people."
"Yes you do. And you made it a point to do so, which is weird. And racist."
"How is that racist?"
"I’m not sure, I just don’t feel right about it."
"I feel great about it."
"Me too. Let’s not go anywhere at all."
"You’re annoying. Let’s go find a black person and get you two fixed up."
"We’re going to go hunting black folk?"
"Sortof"
"Two rich guys are going to get into your black mercedes and then go grab a black person off the street so that I can shake his hand, maybe go out for coffee or something like that?"
"I think it’s the right thing to do."
"What time is it?"
"230"
"Alright. Let’s go russsle me up a black friend."

In the car

"Just remember when this goes sour, it was your idea in the first place."
"You agreed to go. I think it’s important for both of us."
"I think you’re retarded. I think that’s important for both of us."
"Such a dick."
"I’m bored. I only came because I was bored in the first place, this is even more boring."
"I’m enjoying myself."
"I’m glad."
"This is fun though isnt it? We’re coming down from our ivory towers and mingling with the common folk."
"Nope. I should be in the pool. Or with Shelly."
"Shelly’s no good for you."
"I’ll tell you what we shouldve done. We shouldve gone around back and talked to my landscaper."
"Why’s that?"
"He’s mexican. We couldve went halfs on the whole thing and you wouldve gone home and I would be in the pool or getting laid."
"Mexicans don’t –"
"Or in the pool getting laid, which would be the best option for today."
"Not a bad day right there."
"No sir."
"Oh hey! There’s a black guy!"
"There he is. What do we do?"
"We follow the plan."
"There’s a plan?"
"Yeah. I thought we went over the plan."
"I didnt even know we needed a plan."
"There has to be a plan, there’s always a plan."
"A plan for meeting black people? There’s a black people meeting guide?"
"I worked it out one day, it’s pretty solid. I’ll pull over, we should go over everything."
"This is ridiculous."

The plan

"Here’s the plan –"
"Should we get out of the car, I feel like it would be better if we got out of the car."
"I think you’re right."
"Be careful getting out your side, don’t get hit."
"Gotcha."
"Allright, so what’s the plan?"
"Are you ready?"
"I think so, I cant be sure."
"I know how you feel. Alright, here it is. We pull up alongside of a black guy, you say hello, we fucking floor it."
"What?"
"Just say ‘hello’ then I’m going to step on the gas and we’ll be gone before he can react."
"I really don’t understand."
"Alright. You say "hi." I drive fast."
"No I understand the steps involved I don’t understand why those are the steps though."
"Which one?"
"Fucking both of them, Ian. ‘Hello’ is pretty simple for this grand ‘meeting’ you had planned. I thought I was supposed to make friends with a black person. And why are you taking off after I say hello?"
"I just didn’t know if you were prepared for the more advanced stages."
"I think I can handle it."
"Allright then. We pull up along side a black person and then we grab him and throw him in the trunk."
"What??"
"That’s what you have to do. It’s the only way to really do it."
"To meet a black guy, I have to hogtie him and throw him in the trunk of your car."
"I never said hogtie, but I think it’s a good idea."
"I don’t even understand what’s happening."
"I think you owe it to yourself to hogtie and kidnap a black guy so we can make friends with him. I think it’s the best way of doing things."
"What time is it?"
"330."
"Alright, seems like we have the day anyway."
"Nowhere to be?"
"Nope."
"Then if we’re going to do this, I think we should do it right. I don’t know any other way of reasoning with black people."
"Me neither. I don’t even know any. Is this how it’s done."
"I believe it’s an african custom."
"I think you’re right, Mercedes Trunks are big in tribal rituals."
"Are they?"
"No, Ian. No, they’re not."
"They should be."
"I think it would be for the best."
"Let’s get back on the road."
Back on the road
"Ian."
"Yes Shane?"
"I think that you should explain the plan to me one more time. So I’m sure."
"I drive up. You get out, I get out, we grab a black guy, throw him in the trunk, we leave."
"Ok. I think maybe we should start smaller. Suddenly I’m not so sure of myself."
"It’s ok, Shane. We’ll take it slow."
"Let’s start with the ‘Hello’ first."
"Ok. I’m going to get off at the next exit, then we’re going to try it out. You see how it goes."
"Ok. I’m nervous Ian."
"You’re not good with people, Shane."
"I know. It’s no good."
"Alright, here we go. Here’s the exit. Here’s the first light. Right or left?"
"What?"
"Chose your destiny, right or left?"
"Oh. Right. Always right."
"Alright, oh man! There’s one already. They’re biting today."
"Hello. Hellllo. Hey. Hi. Hiya. Howya doin.."
"What are you doing?"
"Practicing, which do you think is best.
"Just say hello, it’s not difficult."
"Yeah, but do you think I should do it more street like?"
"How do you mean?"
"Should I throw a ‘Yo’ in there or a "Waasssuupp!" or should I tell them where I live?"
"You’re ridiculous, just say hello."
"I’m nervous. They’re so dark. What if they don’t understand me?"
"It’s going to be fine. Alright here we go, there’s one there. He’s waiting for a bus."
"My stomach is off, maybe we should do this tomorrow."
"Now or never!! I’m stopping! Here he is, I’ll hit the horn."
"HELLO SIR!!! GO! FUCKING GO! DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE!"
"WE’RE GONE!"

Aftermath

"Shane! Shane! Shane?"
"Oh my god, what happened? Where are we?"
"We’re in a Denny’s parking lot. You passed out as soon as I hit the gas. How do you feel?"
"A little woozy."
"What happened."
"You didn’t stick to the plan Ian, that’s what the fuck happened."
"What are you talking about? I stopped, you said hello, I floored it."
"Oh is that what happened?"
"Yeah. That was the plan."
"Oh so where in the fucking plan does it say ‘Ian will honk horn?’ where?"
"I thought you realized we’d have to get his attention."
"How would I know that unless you tell me? You invented the plan, Ian. I didnt have anything to do with the plan. Actually, this whole day was your fault. I was perfectly happy not knowing black people. You shouldve fucking warned me."
"I’m sorry, Shane. I didnt think."
"No. You never think. Fucking horn, Ian? c’mon! I’m lucky to be alive."
"Jesus man I said I was sorry."
"Ahhh fuck. Fuck. It’s allright, I’m still a little shaken up. Did you see how black he was? And he was reading a paper. I couldnt believe it."
"It was amazing."
"Fuck man, it was exhilirating."
"I knew you’d do well."
"I think he liked me, I really do."
"I think so too."
"The ‘SIR’ was just ad libbed I didnt even know I was going to say that until it happened. It felt good though. Organic."
"I wasnt going to say anything until you did, but I thought the ‘SIR’ was magnificent. I didn’t see it coming."
"Pheew. Still lightheaded. Hah!"

The Greatest Horror Story Of Our Time

The Greatest Horror Story Of Our Time

Laura Patrick lived alone in a quaint suburb of New York City in a simple seven bedroom, four bathroom, indoor pool having, vaulted ceilinged cottage. She earned a living working for a media outlet in New York City. It’s not important which media outlet, or even which medium. Let it be said that she works for a media outlet and makes enough money to own a house which she can later run full speed through without ever running from one side of the house to the other. Also, note the vaulted ceilings, which will come in handy for yelling.

Laura has had a saucy, off and on style relationship with Rugged Dave. Rugged Dave is a fireman who owns a variety of guns and ammunition. He loves Laura very much, but sometimes his manliness is too much for her to handle. He never shaves. But constantly trims his beard as to always have rugged stubble. Rugged Dave Stubble.

Oh and Laura has a kid from a previous marriage and Rugged Dave lives with his Creepy Aunt Selpthe. Slebleth. She’s from the old country. Aunt Suhbbleth. Sublet. Shelbath. Old Country. She’s always swathed in blankets and talks in a so high a tone that it is reminiscent of metal being torn asunder and is prone to screaming single phrases, from which, one could see glimpses of the future. Or maybe she’s just crazy. Either a telepath/soothsayer or just crazy. One or the other. Shelpehtsk.

Today Laura has planned a barbecue and swim-about at her indoor pool, which is located in section 7A of your readers companion "Map of Laura’s House."

Laura is sitting pool side drinking an Atomic Margarita. She is happy. She sips and watches Rugged Dave cook an elk on her pool side grill. Her son, eight year old Henry David Thoreau, is swimming, but is careful not to go near the very deep end. He’s tossing those weighted rings under the water and then diving under to fetch them, as this activity is the most hypnotically entertaining pool activity known to mankind. He’s a very strong swimmer.

"Mother. I’ve yet again captured yon rings. I felt you should be alerted to this new development." He’s so precocious.

Selpthe is in a rocking chair swaddled with blankets and seems content. "CONTENTMENT ABOUNDS!!!" She screams. Everyone has a good laugh over this, just another one of Selpathe’s scathing social commentaries about how happy everyone is right now. And how perfect everything will always remain forever.

"More elk?" asks Rugged Dave while sharpening his Bowie Knife on his arm hair. "Yes please" says Laura, who loves anything elk. Last year Rugged Dave escaped from her house and in the morning she awoke to find that he had left her an elk on her doorstep. The gesture scared her until she was assured it was a present. Since then she was hooked on elk and Rugged Dave. His gesture of kindness was all that she needed and knew she had found a soulmate and possibly a father for her son Henry David Thoreau, whose biological father will never be mentioned in this story. "WHORE!" screams Selpathe but nobody knows why.

Laura takes the awkward silence as the perfect time to ask "Who wants brownies?"
"MEEEE!" says everyone else, because everyone always wants brownies.

"I’ll be back in a few minutes with the brownies. While I’m gone, don’t let anything change for the worst very drastically."

"Mother. Your sentiment is asinine. I feel you are a goose. A silly one. Dissemination of brownies will not, should not, could not, change the landscape of our afternoon. Please. Off to the brownies with you." said Henry David Thoreau. What a scamp!

And so Laura went to fetch some brownies.

"SUNGLASSES HUT! SUNGLASSES HUT!" Says selpath, evoking the name of her favorite store to buy sunglasses. Or maybe something else entirely. Maybe some secret meaningful glimpse into the future!

"Hey slugger, you want some elk? I mean, vegetarian shmeginarian? Right? I took this baby down at fourteen hundred with some buckshot that I threw....slugger?" Rugged Dave turned around very slowly towards where the camera would be if this were a movie as to slowly reveal the horror on his face, even though in a situation like this, every second counts, although, so does drama. Rugged Dave’s eyes fell across what could only be described as: The Pool. But nowhere in that pool was Henry David Thoreau, son of Laura, and certainly not the author of "Civil Disobedience" who has been dead for quite some time.

Rugged Dave sprang to action. He ran four paces and then swan dove into the pool. "GREG LUGANIS!!" screamed Selpathwek, noticeably impressed by her nephews diving prowess.
"Brownies!" Laura announced as she finally returned from the brownie closet. She looked around and was curious to not see her son or her boyfriend. "Selptthhhheee where is everybody?"

Selpthhhee stirred and looked at Laura with her cold, haunting eyes, and in her prophetic tone of mystery screamed "I DON’T KNOW, WASNT WATCHING!"

Laura read this sign correctly from Selpthe that her son and boyfriend were both under the water because "oh my dear god, Greg Luganis almost drowned when he hit his head on the diving board after a miss judged dive because he wasn’t watching what he was doing and now he sponsors sunglasses hut. The place to go for low sunglass prices. My son and boyfriend are drowning!" she screamed!

"WHAT?" screamed Selpathe, clearly confused.

Just as Laura was about to spring into action, bubbles started to appear from the very deepest end of her pool. Slowly at first, then more quickly, someone was approaching the surface. Seconds ticked by as the bubbles got closer and closer and Laura and Selpathe nervously chewed delicious brownies. "CREAM CHEESE???" asked Selpathe wondering about the origins of the chewy-gooey texture of the brown taste explosion.

Then just like a Rugged Dave emerging from the water, Rugged Dave emerged from the water. He was holding five weighted rings and the limp, lifeless carcass of Henry David Thoreau. The kid, not the brilliant author of "Walden Pond."

Rugged Dave immediately began CPR. Five chest pumps, and then a strong steady breath into the mouth of the drowned child. Five pumps. Breathe. "One, two, three, four, five. BREATHE! Goddamned kid, breathe! BREATHE YOU COCKSUCKER!" Rugged Dave was delirious with anguish and possibly suffering from the Benz from coming up from the depths of Laura’s Media Outlet Financed SuperPool. But try as he might, the child would not resssusitate. recessitate. Resuscisate. "RESUSCITATE!" Thank you. The child would not resuscitate.

Laura screamed into the vaulted ceilings "WHY GOD WHY!" and other haunted screams that are tiresome to write and painful to read.

Day fell into night.

Laura was finally asleep, exhausted from screaming things repeatedly that I refused to copy down for the sake of you, the reader. Over and over for seven or eight hours, she screamed into her vaulted celings, bemoaning the fate of her son.

She stirred occasionally, ‘why so deep?’ in reference to her two hundred foot deep - deep end. Entirely too deep for any deep end. It was like someone had constructed a lake in her house for the sake of tying in the fact that there’s always a creepy body of water in modern horror films. And socio-economically disproportionate housing and then combined those two in a way that was more distracting than funny.

Rugged Dave watched over her, a soliloquy perched on just the other side of his lips. Ready to spring forth. A soliloquy that would vault him into the highest echelons of soliloquy givers in times of great sadness. He would climb the ranks of those that have gone before him in great impromptu speeches given while "nobody" could hear. Rugged Dave glanced upwards, a single tear in his eye and said: "Fuck."

Exactly.

Light from Laura’s bedside reading lamp fell over her and kept Rugged Dave from sleeping. Kept him from screaming. It had been one of the worst days of his life. A child dead. A horrible storm washed out the roads and cut off all communication with the outside world. An elk gone to waste.

Oh. While day was "falling into night." A big storm came and knocked out all the power and washed away all the roads. Effectively trapping our four characters in the giant house with the dead body of Henry David Thoreau!

"RIDICULOUS!" screamed Selphethe

Selpthehehs scream reminded Rugged Dave that he hadnt checked on his beloved Aunt in a while. Her room was just down the hall from the master bedroom so Rugged Dave figured it wouldnt take much to check on her. He quickly ran to the escalator and went down to her room. He gently tapped on the door as not to wake her if she was sleeping. At the slightest touch the door creeped open and made a horrendous squeeking sound. "SQUEEEEEEEEEK!" said the door as the metal hinge grinded itself open despite it’s being opened with not much more than a tap. Thereby being well lubricated enough to open with a faint tap, yet not well lubricated enough to not sound like a vault door made of bones and evil.

"Aunt Shelpthe?" said Rugged Dave. "Aunt Shelpethe, where are you." In the distance of the room he could hear the faint creeking of that goddamned rocking chair she made him take everywhere.

"Aunt Shelpthe is that you, in your chair?" Again no answer. Dave felt along the walls to find a lightswitch, a lamp, a candle, a torch, a match, anything that would illuminate this hideous darkness. This creepy milky darkness. He continued to feel his way along the wall. Still nothing. He keeps feeling and feeling and feeling and still. Nothing. And oh man is it dark. Dark and because the damned wall is so big it’s taking forever to find the fucking switch. Man is it dark and tense and taking a while. AAAAAnnnnddddd there it is! Instinctively his hand went to his knife, in case of mysterious troubles in the dark. He took a deep breath. Then he threw the lights.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Standing no more than four inches in front of Rugged Dave was a Masked Villian!! A white cloaked monster with a horrible metal face! A green, bug eyed mask of evil! Dave pulled his knife and slashed at the air wildly to subdue the screaming Masked Villian!

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Screamed the attacker and fell to the floor in a clump. Bleeding from both it’s arms or what may yet be revealed as tenticles or wolfman paws or fiery wings!! Dave didn’t know which of these things it was, but he was sure it was one of those three and one of those three alone.

He rushed over and was ready to deliver the sweet killing stroke! He stood above his attacker and said "see you in hell, meat bag. Any last words?"

"NIGHT VISION GOGGLES!!!!" screamed the heap.

"Wha-" Dave bent down and rolled over his attacker to discover his his bleeding attacker was none other than....SPTHEHTHETH!!

Why, it was old Sphteheth all along! That googley eyed monster wasnt anything more than his Aunt Splethehth in the night vision goggles he got her for her birthday. Silly Rugged Dave and his stabbing.

"PRICK!" screamed Spechialtits who was just doing some late night night-vision-goggle reading. Or as she called it "VISAGOGOREADIN!" screaming a mushy word as she’s known to do.
Everyone’s heart was beating pretty quickly. After all Dave just turned on the lights to discover a Masked Villain staring him dead in the face and then with all the stabbing that went on it’s easy to see how everyone would be a little keyed up. Jumpy.

Dave tucked shepehellchek back into bed and went on back up the escalator to his room, amazed that he nearly jumped out of his skin for no reason. And also he almost killed his aunt with a knife. But hey, thank god it’s Friday!


-------------------

That's all of that. And by all I mean 'enough.' That's enough of that. I could keep it going, but I really dont want to. There are some funny things in there, but it's not enough to really work on. Unlike Sherpa, which still needs finishing.

I like the size of the house, that makes me laugh, also the size of the house was really just a way to build dumb suspense. Everything being so big made it nessiscary to draw out descriptions. Naming the kid Henry David Thoreau was strange and funny because it makes him sound that much more refined and inteligent, but mentioning his father is probably confusing 'is he saying that thoreau is his father?" I wasnt. "CREAM CHEESE?" kills me. But enough is enough on that. Maybe someday far away I'll write up an ending.

Also, the thought behind "Spelbthah" is just that I wanted a very appropriate name for the creepy aunt and didnt come up with anything so I just mashed out something as a place holder. Spelpthe. Shelpath. Spellshack. Nothing good came out. So I just kept mushing it further as I went, hoping that would be funny in itself. But it isnt.

Also, I like any time where I start writing my thoughts of the story insde of the story. "...which was more distracting than funny." I just enjoy doing that and I dont know why.

But it doesnt really function as a story, so it's not worth saving. Neither are other entries on here, but this one in particular set out to be a start to finish story type story and it doesnt work as such so it can eat my ass.

Worth mentioning is that these four pages probably took me three hours to write whereas "Jackson Street" Took maybe an hour "Meathead' Less than that. They're all first drafts but this one didnt really come as easilly as I thought. Also problematic was that I had an idea for what I wanted to write here and both "Jackson Street" and "Meathead" and, for the most part, "Sherpa" all just sort of fell out of my head.

By the way, all of this post-writing-writing, is me trying to pick apart why things did or didnt work for me. So please feel free to never read the post-writing-writing. It's a post-mortem that I can look at later and remember how I felt about the writing at time of post and then how I feel at time of Re-read.

dan.

7.50

This is just a quick random thing I wrote at work one day. I ran out of things to do and I really didnt feel like asking for more work so I looked around the office to find something to write about. Eyes landed on Lightswitch and off it went. It's titled 7.50 Because that's exactly how much money I earned while writing this for one half of one hour.

I found it just now wihle going through some old emails. I forgot this ever happened. Enjoy...

7.50

The light switch on my dining room wall is broken. It broke on Friday morning during a routine football match versus my neighbor, Henry. My head struck the cover plate when Henry speared me from the other end of the dining room table. These things happen.

When I came to Henry was standing over me and it was beginning to get dark. Henry was apparently annoyed by the gathering darkness and decided to turn on the light, using the light switch that was just recently destroyed by my head and his well placed tackle.

Henry hit the switch and immediately shot twenty feet across the room.

Henry was buried on a Tuesday while I was at St. Helena’s Hospital recovering from my football injuries. Henry was a nice man and a hell of an indoor football player. I retired his uniform, which was his red tie, blue shirt and khaki pants. He didn’t dress well. I never said that he dressed well.

If I were able to walk or speak at the time of his burial I would have told everyone about his football prowess and his inability to color coordinate. It would’ve been nice of me. But I couldn’t because my head had to be tied to my torso which then had to be tied to a bed. Pretty image. Apparently during my heads breaking of the dining room light switch I shattered my collar bone and would have to sit out the remainder of the indoor football season. It’s just as well; the entire rest of the league had been killed during a freak light switch accident.

While in the hospital I met exactly forty two nurses of varying shapes sizes and skill levels. They all basically came in to give me food and adjust the ties which were holding my head to everything in reach.

I had a dream one night that my head was tied to every single thing in the room. I was happy to find that this wasn’t the case. When I woke up I said “Phew! My head is only tied to two things.” Which, really, doesn’t make much difference as far as head tying goes. Once it’s tied to something, it could just as easily be tied to everything else in the world, and the same affect will be achieved.

I hope someone fixes my light switch, with all the death and head tying, it’s easy to forget about the important things. Besides, what would happen if I get my head free, break out of the hospital, decide to enjoy a nice evening dinner on my seldom used dining room table, turn on the light, and no light comes on? I’d have to eat in the dark. What if I dropped my fork?

Whiskey Dog

Whiskey Dog

My closet doors are open. I cant move. I should be moving. I’ve got a million things to do. I really cant move. My alarm is annoying. I should get up so that I can get something from my closet, put it on, and then go downstairs and have coffee. I wonder if it’s possible to call someone to come to my house and bring me coffee. I’m really only interested in coffee.

Never mind, my phone is on the floor across the room. I forgot that I threw it at my alarm this morning. Fucking alarm. I hope the power goes out. If the power goes out the alarm would shut up. Maybe I can will the power to go out with my mind. Or will the alarm off with my mind. That would probably be easier than shutting down the city’s power grid with my mind. I think it would be anyway, I’ve never really tried to shut off a power grid with my mind. Might be worth a shot.

Fuck.

The power grid is probably downtown somewhere. It’s probably by work. Christ, I cant move. Too heavy. I don’t like moving. I should’ve set the alarm to the radio. Then I could listen to music while I didn’t move, instead of having my dreams end with a truck backing towards me. Damn truck is always right about to crush me right before I wake up. I heard that if you die in your dreams you die in real life. Fucking truck.

If I rolled over I could probably grab the cord with my hand and then drag the alarm closer to me and then maybe it would be in arms reach. Or maybe minds-reach.

Sometimes when I’m downtown walking through all the people I scream in my head "IS ANYBODY PSYCHIC!" And no one ever is. I should assume that nobody is psychic, but I figure they don’t want to blow their cover. Or a psychic person did answer but then quickly erased my memory of the conversation as not to blow their cover. I don’t really want to talk to anyone anyway. Everyone talks too much.

I was supposed to be in work two hours ago.

Right now I should be at my desk in my cubicle wondering if anyone in the office is psychic. There probably isn’t though, because if there were I would’ve been fired months ago for never working and bothering them with my mental screaming every few minutes. Imagine if someone worked next to you all day in a bland office and just shouted "CAN YOU HEAR ME?" You’d have to say yes every time and then you’d just go crazy and fire that person. Even if you weren’t in a position of power to fire anybody. They’d probably understand and help him pack his shit.

I figured I’d be in a position of power by now, firing people willy nilly. They fire people all the time for no good reason, I figure I could fire anybody I wanted. Maybe if I worked my way up the ladder I could work from home. I’d never have to move. I could lie in bed all day and call the office and have them come down and shut off the damned alarm. And bring me coffee. God how I need coffee.

My job is a waste. I call people on the phone all day. Everyone hates talking on the phone. Everyone. I call clients all day, people that my company works for and still, fifteen or sixteen times a day someone just yells "No Thanks!" into the phone and hangs up. They assume we’re telemarketers. I think all the telemarketers are in India by now. That’s where they go.
The great telemarketer migration of the early two thousands. That’s how they’ll probably refer to it in the history books. They all went over there. It’s probably an easier life there. A lot more diseases to worry about though.

I should get a disease. They don’t hustle people that have diseases. They’ve got every right in the world to lie around all day and be unproductive. If it weren’t for the disease, they’d have it made. No job to bustle off to and be generally unimpressive at. No social life to regret not having. Who needs a social life in India. Most of those diseases are probably communicable. You’d probably be happy just having a life over there. Happy to be alive and helping Americans buy junk or fix computers. That’s probably a good life. I should go there.

But I cant really move. Too heavy. I could move. I think. But what the hell is the point. The only good thing that will come of it is coffee. I’d get some coffee and then I’d go to work where I’d count the seconds till I drank more coffee every fifteen minutes or so. The more coffee you drink, the more active you look and less you’re actually doing. You look like you’re full of energy because you cant stop moving from the caffeine. But in actuality, you’re drinking the coffee so that it’ll make you piss more and can spend more time alone in the bathroom away from everybody and that goddamned computer.

I haven’t done an honest days work in years. Nobody seems to notice or care because I don’t talk to anyone or bother to make them care. I sit in my little corner and try to not draw attention to myself so I can keep my job and get a paycheck so that I can afford coffee. So that I can get up in the morning and go to work and drink more coffee. My whole life seems to be governed by a bean. That’s pretty strange.

Bed. Bed. Get out of bed. Scream in your head, get out of bed. Someone has to hear you. Someone has to come. Someone is supposed to. That’s what I thought would happen. It hasn’t yet.

Man that fucking alarm. What’s unbelievable about that alarm is that someone sold it to me. There is such a thing as an alarm clock salesman it turns out. I had no idea you could be an alarm clock salesman. Bad guidance councilor I guess. I went to a store next to my office for an alarm clock, I had smashed my other one. With my fist. It hurt like hell but it was the most satisfying moment of my life. I had to put the other one across the room so I wouldn’t make a habit of smashing things and being satisfied.

Inside the store were a bunch of electronic gizmos. Everything beeped. I hated it. A man in a red shirt saw that I was unhappy and came to help me. He asked me what I needed and I told him that I had hurt my hand smashing my alarm clock. He thought I was kidding and then told me all about the alarm clocks he had in his store. The one he sold me was the most expensive, but he said it was the best. I assumed he knew what he was talking about and then bought the warrantee incase I had another satisfying moment.

I don’t know what makes this alarm clock so special. It just makes noise so I wake up. I imagine that’s what they all do. Maybe not, how would I know, I don’t own an electronics store. Not yet. No. I’ll never own an electronics store. Too much beeping. I’d wind up smashing the whole building. With my fist.

But there it is, all shiny and new and loud as hell. Best damned alarmclock money can buy. It would be quiet plastic splinters if I could get out of bed.

The phone is ringing. Someone please answer the phone. Please. I cant. It’s probably work. Maybe they’ll get worried and send for help. Maybe one of those fat dogs with the whiskey on it’s neck. That would be great. A big dog full of whiskey. I could go for one of those. If they sold those by work I’d be out of this bed so goddamned fast. One dog full of whiskey, please. Sold. I’d be up every morning.

I’d be able to bring whiskey to work. I could probably still bring whiskey to work. I’m a grown man. I’m allowed to have a drink if I like a drink. What could they do?

They’d probably fire me. I suppose they could do that. Fuck. I shouldn’t get fired. I need the job. Actually. I need the bed. I already have the bed. It’s paid for, they cant take that away could they? They could even have the sheets and the pillow. I wouldn’t really need them. Ah, but then there’s winter. I’m dumb enough to live in a place where the weather changes whenever the hell it feels like. In winter I’d be fucked. NO! Whiskey dog! Whiskey dog would keep me warm. That’s what his goddamned job is. I paid good money for that dog, he should do his fucking job.

Sorry whiskey dog. I don’t mean to yell. You know how I get sometimes.

It’s too late to even make it to work if I wanted to. I don’t know when the busses run at this time of day. The morning busses run like clockwork. There isn’t any clockwork anymore. Every ten minutes there’s a box full of people on their way to their jobs. Important people. Young people. Men and women. Beautiful women. Janice. Janice rides the busssssss.

Janice is the most beautiful creature on gods green earth. Though most of it isn’t really green. And I don’t know if there’s a god because he never answers my psychic calls either. But Janice is on that bus every day at 815 like Janice is full of clockworks. Wheels and gears and metal and teeth. All shoved into a pretty young body like I’ve never seen before. I didn’t go to work today. I missed her this morning. Christ how I missed her this morning.

Every morning for ten miles of bus ride I scream in my head and try to make her hear me. I shouldn’t let her into my head, there have been things thought there that she shouldn’t see. I wouldn’t want to spoil her. But damn it she’s worth it. She should hear me. She should see me. How could she hear you this goddamned noise this fucking alarm! ENOUGH ALARM! I know. I'm sorry. I’m awake!

God how I hate that alarm. I’m sorry. Sorry for yelling. Whiskey dog, please shut off that alarm.
Janice. I saw her once from a window at my office. I was getting coffee. I needed coffee. She was walking by in her pretty blue suit. Running. She was hustling by. Hurrying. She had somewhere to be. She’s probably got a million things to do too. Slow down, I thought, please slow down and wait. I don’t move well. She was just outside my window and ten floors down. I could spot that pretty blue suit from forty floors. A hundred. She knows. She knows I’d see her from there.

Phone. The phone again. Ringing phone, beeping alarm clock. Before I threw the phone at the alarm I pictured in my head that the phone would make contact with the alarm and they would explode in a fireball. Like a sun. Up in a flash of silenced glory. And I’d be warm for just a second. Just from the heat of the explosion.

The phone bounced off my dresser and fell to the ground. Now it’s in cahoots with my alarm clock. Screaming at me to get up. And go. Go to work. For coffee. For my alarm clock. The alarm clock needs me to be up so that I can go to work and sit in that goddamned gray place for as long as I can tolerate it before going crazy. Just enough and then I’m out. Free. To get on the bus and be tormented by Janice and her pretty blue suit. SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE. Off the bus and back in bed. Bed bed get out of bed get out of bed out of your head out of bed get out of your head SOMEONE HELP.

Janice dropped her lighter the other day. It clacked on the floor and I thought it would explode and I thought of ducking for cover but it was too late. It already hit the floor but everyone was fine. Everything for just a second was ok. It was alright. But she was already gone. Got off the bus at the stop on Green St. Full of clockwork and speed. She’s all in hurries. Quicker than me. I yelled for her. "Your lighter. Janice! Your lighter!" She was already off. Gone. All I need. Gone.

Christ it’s late. Already dark.

I have it now. Her lighter. It’s next to my bed. When they fire me for missing too much work and the electronics store guy comes to repo his alarm clock, it’ll just be me and whiskey dog. Calm down whiskey dog. Everything’s ok. That’s his. It’s his. Tell Janice about the lighter, electronic store guy.

I will.

Don’t mind Whiskey Dog, He doesn’t bite. I tell him not to. He’s tame. He hears me.

Ok.

I knew you’d understand, guy. You’re a good guy and a hell of a salesman. Maybe you could get me some coffee, guy. I hope you would. I need it. I need something. Whiskey dog, go play with the guy. I need to be alone for a while. It’s late. I should be asleep. Wake me in the morning whiskey dog. I’m going to need you. I cant leave here, but it’s important that I’m awake. I have important things to do here at the office. Just don’t let them take my bed. Or Janice’s lighter. It’s important. Right Janice?

Yes.

I’ll just stay here with you and the Whiskey Dog, Janice. If that’s ok. I don’t want to move anymore. It’s too much. I cant take it. And please, if you loved me, you’d turn off the noise. Make it stop. Please.

Ok. I love you. Go back to bed.

I love you too. I knew you’d hear me. I knew it. Back to bed. Back to bed. Back to bed.

------------------- Theend-------------


needs work. Tempo is a bit off. Need Janice to show up later, and to coincide with the appearance of Whiskey dog, right after he yelles in his head. Snapp. And he's got a whiskey dog. SNapp. and he's got a wife. And could probably cut out the lines for the Alarm Clock Salesman. Ehhhhhhhhhh. needs work.

Let me know.

A Meathead Story

Just wrote this now. Just took a random thought in my head and started going with it and it ended up getting out of hand.

A Meathead Story.

So I was at Trendy McBullshits, watchin the Birds Game, drinkin some brews with my boys, Scotto, Tiny, Mac and Petey and Bobbo. And I get up to go to the Mens Room because I started drinking around 4am the night before, you know how it is! HAha yeah! Way. Sted. I mean, cmon. So I go to take this piss right and it's a crazy long piss. You know the kind!

So I go up to the uranal and get down to buisness, you know, fucking oldschool. But then, in the middle of taking this mondo leak, I catch the motherfucker next to me looking over at King Henry and the Meatmen. So I'm all like "what the fuck, motherfucker? What THE Fuck?" You know, man? And he's lookin at me like he dont know the fucking score, but he knows what time it is! So he fucking does some faggot shit with his eyes and fucking runs. Like fucking runs runs. Like he's got the runs and he's running because he's got the runs type runs runs. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, BOBBO! Bobbo totally shit his fucking pants one time when he was on coke. It was fucking hysterical.

Plus I bench like four eighty, five ninety, six something. You know how it goes.

So then I leave the bathroom after I finish shaking it off. Check the grill in the mirror and fucking head back the fuck out there before Mac and the boys steal my fucking beers. I would kick their asses, dont say anything though, they get all girly about it and shit.

I wold totally fucking win in a fight against a tiger or like one of those big fuckers. You know the ones.

So I leave the fucking bathroom right, check my shit one last time and my shit is all fucking good, and guess who's in my fucking seat. Fucking dude. Yeah, the fucking dude is in my fucking chair. So then I took this pool cue, right? And I was like, that's my fucking chair, asshole. And he was all like "I'm old and shit." So I fucking hit him like pow. But it's his fault, I didnt tell him to sit there, man, you know how it is. Fuck him.

And where the fuck are my Buffalo Blitzers? I ordered like fifty of them. The record is seventy eight. Set by yours truely, the master. I fucking eat man. I fucking eat.

I could totally eat a fucking can.

So then fucking dude is on the fucking floor all bleeding and shit. And I'm like "Yeah, who's looking at what now motherfucker?" Say hello to my little friend and shit, right? Man, fuck dude, fuck.

So then McNabb totally scored this touchdown. Did you see it? You had to fucking see it. Dude did the crazziest move around that other dude. And that guy died on the floor and totally fucking missed it. Fuck him his loss. Right? Am I right about that shit? Fucking eagles need a better tight end, that other asshole is holdin out on his contract and shit. Fucking fag. Get your millions and get on the fucking feild.

I could fuck a feild. You know what I'm sayin! Like a bitch.

So then, right, just as the fucking birds are making another run at the redzone, Bobbo fucking farted and we all were like "oh shit!" Like literally right, like 'oh shit, shit.' And then there was some crazy trumpet, fuckin whatever the fuck that was. Some dude mustve brought one of those beer horns. Those crazy blue plastic things.

One time I had one of those crazy horns and fucked this cheerleader with it. No shit, dude. No shit. Totally put one end in there, then fucked her through the other end. Swear to god. So I start telling the guys about the time I fucked some Cheerleader broad through the horn and they're all like 'no way, dude, really' and they're hangin on every word we almost missed the birds score again. And there were all kinds of horses outside and shit, fucking crazy. Fucking birds totally scored again. That makes twice they scored Einstein, Eagles 14 -Cowboys fuck dudes. HAhahaha.

Plus I was at the game last year in dallas and I hungout afterwards to throw eggs at Clint whoever the fuck the place kicker from dallas and at least three Cowboys hit on me. True story. Check dead guy for ID He's probably one of those fucking cowboys. Like fucking ButCowboys. So then I'm tellin my boys about fucking these dudes and fucking bugs started showing up everywhere. You know how it is! Fucking dudes and bugs and shit.

Fucking third quarter bro. Place is full of bugs and shit, but who gives a fuck, eagles are making another drive. I used to play highschool ball. Fucking politics you know how it is. So I fucking start telling my boy Scotto about it when some uppity motherfucker found the fucking loudspeaker and shit and was all like "REPENT FOR YOUR SINS!" and shit fucking "END OF DAYS" and all this fucking bullshit.

But that fucking Arnold movie fucking rocked through, right bro? I mean when he shoots that dude, he totally fucking shoots that fucking dude. I used to hang out with arnold, like back in the day when I played highschool ball. Dude is fucking rock solid people. Bought me like six beers one night and was all like "I'm arnod and shat" Hahaha, dude was nuts bro, fucking nuts. I totally could kick his ass though. Motherfucker is slow. He's fucking big, man. But he's fucking slow, dude. I used to take JuJitsu and shit.

I could probably break a board with my dong.

So then when I'm telling Petey about Arnold and my fucking dong and shit. And fucking Petey get's all fucking girly because fucking scotty melted. And he's all like "wahh, I'm a whiney bitch my brother melted." Right? Fucking Petey was always a fucking Mary. He went out for baseball when we were in school and got railed in the nads by a line drive. Fuckin Hysterical. I almost puked. THEN. Fucking fag started crying like a crybaby bitchbaby. Shouldve fucking gone out for hopscotch or some shit. Fucking dick.

And then Bobbo got eaten by demons. And I'm all like, "I'm trying to watch the motherfucking game, motherfuckers!" And I got that loud douchebag goin all babbles on the fucking mic at forty miles an hour like it's fucking Gook night and shit. " AHhabababalaha I AM THE LORD HOST HOLY. THE FIFTH SEAL HAS BEEN BROKEN"

And I'm all like "you're goddamned right motherfucker, I was just in that motherfucker like two minutes ago wit that fagot motherfucker. Broke the seal is fucking right. Beer before liquer never been sicker man. Fucking A right. I just hope there's no more fags in the fucking bathroom and shit.

I totally shouldve brought my nunchucks.

-------------------------------

I like that a lot. It makes me laugh because It's about annoying meatheads and the guy is so into the game and telling bullshit stories that he doesnt even notice the apocolypse. Which is crazy because it's the apocolypse. Ha.

One Foot Feet.

While I'm at it, here's something I wrote a little while ago. I like it. Again, strange and entertaining only to me.

I guess I never titled it, so the working title is Jackson Street until I think of something better, or you start pulling your weight and tell me what it should be. Enjoy. Or dont. Entirely up to you.

Prepare your eyeballs for an onslaught of awesome................................

Jackson Street

There’s a corner store on Jackson street that sells everything I could ever need. It’s got all my favorite products and foods. I like it very much.

Mangos are good. I don't particularly like the taste of them as much as I enjoy buying them and telling people that I have mangos should their liking of mangos be greater than mine. I buy my mangos on Jackson Street. It’s one of the foods that I like very much.

Most time my mangos go bad and I have to throw them away but there’s going to be a day where I talk to a lovely young lady and she just happens to be in the mood for a mango and I’m going to say, “well, I just happen to have some mangos, young lady.” And that’s how our lovely relationship will begin. It will be based on mangos, something I don't like very much, but have because fate decided I should have them.

I figure she’ll be tall and slender; she’d have to be slender with her liking of mangos. You don't very well see many unslender folk eating mangos nowadays. She’ll like me for my excellent fruit judgment and will dismiss my clear disliking of fruit and love of chocolate milk.

Chocolate milk is good but I don't think I like anyone who also likes chocolate milk. It’s a corruption, really. It’s the purest form of drink made impure by confection and decadence. I don't think I’d even let anyone in my home that liked chocolate milk as much as I do.

I always have Mr. Imperio double bag my chocolate milk so that it’s a secret when I bring it in the house. Sometimes I think that if I don't double bag the chocolate milk my locks will stop working and my house wont have me anymore. It’s a ridiculous notion, but it’s better to be safe.
The chocolate milk gets double bagged and my mangos don't get bagged at all. Oftentimes you can see me strolling down Jackson Street with an oversized bag of secret chocolate milk and an arm full of mangos. I don't bag the mangos. How will the lovely young lady know that I have them if they’re sealed away in bags? Bags are dangerous things.

Bags are bad. I often think that if it weren’t for the sheer convenience of bags nobody would ever use them at all. Ugly brown things full of mystery and deceit. One time I saw a man on Dickson street walking with a cart full of cans and a bag full of bags and I thought I would faint from the horror of it. Why collect such useless things? I was able to right my walk when I decided that he was crazy and was only able to move after minutes of deliberation concerning his bag full of bags.

A cart full of cans is fair game. I like cans. They’re crunchable and fun. I used to throw cans at a stray cat that lived behind my house. I called him Target. Target the Cat. He was a nice little fellow and enjoyed the cans after I had thrown them at him. He’d bat them around like little tin mice. Tin mice would be a fun thing to have. So would miniature ducks.

If I had my druthers I’d put little miniature ducks in the ears of all my enemies. Nothing could be so annoying and funny as a duck. I don't dislike ducks but I figure having miniature versions in your ears would be the ultimate in torture. All that quacking, none of the echoes that accompany having little things in your ears, it would just be hell.

I have more enemies than I’d like. My mailman is one of my enemies. My aunt Doris is my second enemy. My landlord Pete is an inadvertent enemy and Target the Cat is an enemy that I secretly like.

My mailman is my enemy because he brings me nothing but bad news. Bad news and advertisements for things that I cant afford to buy. Most of the bad news comes in bill form, or from letters from the doctors telling me about this or that prescription and my lack of renewing this or that prescription. He also brings letters from my family who talk about the same things the doctors do. Oh! And when people die I tend to get letters from my family telling me about the fact that those people died. I suppose because my dead uncle Timmy can’t write letters anymore, they feel the need to fill in.

The advertisements are just as bad, and are starting to get just like the doctors letters too. Lots of fake letters about drugs that will help me do everything. They should put all the pills into one giant pill and then we could all take it and be what they think we should be. But pills are bad. Dangerous.

My aunt Doris is my second enemy because she killed my uncle Timmy. I loved my uncle Timmy and miss him very much. I was mad that he didn’t write his death letter himself. It would’ve been nicer. But Aunt Doris killed him, I’m sure of it. I don't know the details of how he died, but I’ve seen Aunt Doris drink chocolate milk so I know she’s not to be trusted.

Uncle Timmy took me fishing and ate mangos. He was a good man and shouldntve married a woman whose fondness for chocolate milk clearly outweighed her dislike of murder. I’ll bet she fed him poison. Poison mangos.

I hate my landlord because from what I can tell that’s what you’re supposed to do. I never really got a grasp of it because my landlord is a very nice man. He’s very open. Very polite. I like him as a person but dislike him because of the position he holds in my life.

Mr. Imperio tells me about his landlord a lot. He’s said this to me a hundred times “landlords are not to be trusted, they’re the devil’s handymen!” Mr. Imperio yells a lot. I don't exactly know what a handyman is or why the devil would need to have them, but I trust Mr. Imperio, he’s nice to me.

I told Landlord Pete that I hated him the other day. “I hate you Landlord Pete!” I said with full exuberance and he said “Oh.” Then he went about his way and I assume he was upset with me. Mr. Imperio says, “They’re pulling all the strings!” when he talks of landlords. Mr. Imperio doesn't know Landlord Pete but he swears that Landlord Pete pulls on strings.

Landlord Pete is nice enough outside of being a handyman for the devil. He has a tan and a truck with blue sides. I took a ride in his truck once. He gave me a ride to the post office and it was the most horrible blue-sided truck ride ever. A man I hate drove me to a place where a man I hate lives. It was a very bad day and I washed it away by not leaving my apartment for two weeks after. After two weeks I went to Mr. Imperio’s shop to stock up on supplies and he said “Where the hell you been!” Mr. Imperio yells a lot.

Target the Cat is my last enemy. He’s just a cat though, and is only my enemy because he sometimes cries at night. It’s loud and undignified. Uncle Timmy said crying was for sissies. Target is a cat though, so I think it’s ok for him to be a sissy. I just think he should be a little quieter about it. Like I am.

For about a month he used to cry just outside my window and I would throw cans at him. He eventually got used to my attention and I eventually got used to his. He lives under my sink now and doesn't cry so much. Until he came along I never realized how much I like things that move but don't talk or how many cans I seem to always have. I’ve become convinced that he sends away for cans in the mail. Maybe cans.com or something like that.

Sometimes I come home and I’m sure there are more cans than I used to have so I say things like “Hello Target the Cat, enemy of mine, quit it with the cans!” And he comes and rubs at my legs.

I like rock and roll music, books about the weather and adhesive tape. I have a bowtie but I’m not sure why. I think it was a gift from someone in the family who seemed to think I’d be the type of person who would like bowties. I don't though, they’re dumb and I hate them. But I keep it anyway as a reminder that I like the things that I like and hate the things that I hate and that’s just fine with people who are me.

My apartment is small but I like it anyway. I’m small, my things are small, target the cat is small, so it all fits together. I have a brown chair and a stereo and a TV set with bad reception. My bookshelf is full of books about the weather and one about breeding ducks. I never got around to reading the duck book.

I like the weather because it’s enormous and unpredictable but can be easily described in books despite its two main characteristics. It’s a lovely thing to have someone write books about something so big and un-write-about-able. Someone somewhere decided one day to write a book about something he had no business writing anything about and got it to a company and they said “that’s great!” like Mr. Imperio and went ahead and put it in bookstores so that people like me could read about it and laugh.

Clouds are made of water. Did you know that? I did. I read books.

One of my doctors once told me that I like the weather because it’s impossible to relate to. I agreed and stopped seeing that doctor immediately.

I have a bottle of talcum powder and I don't know why. I don't know what the practical uses of talcum powder are. I know what they’re supposed to be, but I disagree with them on a moral and personal level. Sure it’s soothing and slippery, but it’s also a rock. Would you put rocks in your pants? Of course not. I tried it once and it was immensely unsoothing. Where does talc get off thinking it’s so great? Baloney.

Plus if you don't use it properly, which is easy to do because there’s no directions on the bottle, you walk around all day covered in a fine white powder unable to relate to anybody within eyesight or nosesmell.

One time Target the Cat found the bottle and turned himself into Target the Snowcat! He wasn’t happy about it, but I told him he should go hunting for things in the snow, but we live in California so he quickly and accurately decided that it was a foolish suggestion and started crying until I washed him.

I was careful not to use caustic solvents when washing him because that’s what a vet told me. “Don't use caustic solvents!” I don't know what those are, so I just used water. I’ve heard water called a lot of things but never ‘caustic solvents.’ Water is what makes up clouds but you couldn’t order a glass of clouds. Trust me. I tried it once and the waitress hated me. Women are quick to hate me.

Coffee has a lot of nicknames. Like Joe and Java. Coffee has exactly two nicknames that I’m aware of.

I once met a girl on the tilt-a-whirl at the carnival, she was beautiful in spite of her face being pulled back from the spinning and seemed to hate me in each small glance I was able to catch from my car. Just. A quick. Glance. From. The other. End. Of the ride. And she hated me. Just like that. I went home and was upset until my upsdoors neighbor banged on the floor and yelled “Shut the fuck up!” Everyone seems to yell a lot.

Target the Cat likes me. I don't know how old he is. Today is my birthday I think. I’m older than Target the Cat and younger than Mr. Imperio. Target the Cat got me a can and everyone else got me nothing. My mother sent me a card. I’ve heard that people get cards full of money for their birthdays; my mother sent me a card full of concerns and angers. She’s angry a lot and ends a lot of sentences like this “…everything will be all right.” And starts a lot of sentences like this “If you just come home…” “If you just get back to Dr. Cornwald….” “If your father comes back….” Everything being all right is contingent on a large number of things going certain ways.

A butterfly flapping his wings can create hurricanes. Did you know that? I did. I read books.

-----------------------------


And that's the end. If I were a douchebag I wouldve written fin at the end of it, but I'm not. So it gets hyphens.

~fin~

Douche McBag

Sherpa - Page One

Pasted below is Page One of a story called Sherpa. I havent written a whole lot more, due to an accident that involved one of my fingers that makes typing a bit of a pain in the ass. It's getting better though. No thanks to you.

When I finish the rest I'll post it. I dont know when that will be. The important thing is you have this one page to work with. The rest will be much like the beginning. Strange but entertaining to me and only me.

And so begins the single greatest typed page in the english language...

Sherpa

William Howitzer III was an American billionaire. He made his fortune by being born. His father William Howitzer II was made famous in the nineteen fifties for selling his name to a tank manufacturer.

When the Howitzer Tank flew off the shelves, William The Second made a significant fortune and later sold his first name to a popular Mayonnaise used in fast food chains. "William’s Mayonnaise!" graced the counter of every fast food restaurant in the country.

Being left nameless after having sold both of his names to Tanks and Mayonnaise, his own naming rights were sold to a Bank seeking notoriety in the area. First Function Bank was a small bank from Chicago and aiming to become a big bank in New York. They knew that The Second was a popular, wealthy man, and offered to rename him in their honor so that they might gain free advertising.

First Function Bank The Second died shortly after depositing a four billion dollar check from his namesake into his namesake. It was a tragic day and he was the last person in history to be crushed by a piano which was being hoisted up on cables in the middle of New York City for no discernable reason.

His death sent shockwaves through the banking, tanking and Mayonnaise industries alike. All of New York was crushed metaphorically by William’s literal crushing. When the news paper’s headlines read "First Function Bank Crushed By Errant Piano" First Function’s stocks plummeted while Errant Piano stocks soared.

William Howitzer III’s father died when he was only nine years old. He was nine when he inherited a fortune estimated at over 40 billion dollars. When an insensitive reporter asked him what he would do with all that money 9 year old William Howitzer III replied "I’m going to get some cereal." Everyone laughed at his boyish naivete and charm.

Ten years later Howitzer Brand Cereal Flakes was the number one selling cereal in the country. "What the fuck did I say?!?" Was the name of his number one best-selling autobiography about his leap to the top of the Cereal heap.

When he was ten years old he began the company in his back yard.

As a billionaire, his backyard was quite expansive and the factory immense. His back yard employed over fifteen hundred people. It was a top of the line facility and very forward thinking. Each employee had access to gyms, day care, free phone service, giant sandbox, double decker merry go round and could take lunch at either Trampoline Island or The Robot Violence Center. It is important to reiterate that he was ten at this time.

His desk was situated in a giant cage full of plastic balls. No one was allowed to wear shoes into his office. He would take conference calls waist deep in a rainbow assortment of colors. He ruled his company with an iron fist, from the top of an ivory tower, in a room full of plastic balls.
As he got older the company grew larger, the profits increased, the cereal became more and more popular. In many ways the company began to run under its own power, it became it’s own being and needed less and less attention from it’s owner.



-----


That's all I've got for you right now. Check back in six or seven months and I will probably have forgotten this ever happened. Or maybe I wont, maybe I'll be knee deep in trim and have a gold plated head. Who knows what the future holds, certainly not you, dummy.

Six or seven months ago, if you asked me to predict the future I would probably say that I would be out of work, sitting on the edge of my bed and typing to nobody which would be right but I wouldnt be happy about it. So today's lesson? "Only use your magic, future seeing powers when you can stomach what you will become." And that happens to be a motto I have tattooeyd on my balls.

I'll leave you with that.

One Foot Feet

It's decided.

I've decided on what I'm going to do with this blog and my other blog. I'm keeping both. That's right, take that, convention! Actually I don't know what is conventional in the blogging world. But I'm going to keep both.

The other blog is for my personal, day to day, affairs and my constant torrent of self loathing and depression. A quote from that diary might look something like this "I worked today." or this "I am sad."

I'd tell you the name and location of the other blog, but I'm not going to. Whenever you feel like you're missing out, please feel free to read the two above quotes and take solace in the fact that you aren't missing anything good.

Yes, you in the back.

Steven Halibut, Chicago Sun Times. If the other blog is for day to day dementia and hum drum dullery, what's the point of keeping this blog? Also, why say blog when you mean diary?

Please sir, one at a time. I'm going to write in this blog. I'm going to keep stories and really write instead of whining and listing events, as I do on the other blog. I love writing and I need to get back to writing real things again. Are the details of my life written beautifully? Yes and no. The other blog is written well in that you can really hear my voice when you read my complaining. But it's not structured very well and nothing real ever gets accomplished other than getting things off my chest. Also, I hate the word Blog, but it seems to be the new hipster term. I'm on Blogger, so I must be a hipster. As proof, David Duchovony keeps a blog on here and in high school we called him Hipster McGee, King of Hippery.

You didn't go to high school with David Duchovny. And if you did you would call him Davey Dutch Oveny because that's a fart joke.

Yes, of course, you're right.

So when can we expect this real writing of yours, not this bullshit interview you've concocted.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will write a story called Sherpa or a story called Domino.

In closing. If you read this and don't like what I have to say, please, at any point, feel free to go and fuck yourself.

One Foot Feet

Checking it out

I'm currently the not-so-proud owner of a blog over at another site that shall remain nameless. It blows. So I figured I'd check around and see if I could find something better.

I'm going to nose around and see what's what.