Barkingpanther!

THE ARMOR

2012-02-10T08:14:00.001-05:00

They look crusty and stiff to you, yeah. I guess that's how they'd feel on some skin that saw showers more'n once a month. And I don't get enough money to be takin' these over to any laundromat. But they're my armor, without these coveralls I think I'd have died a long time ago. Yes, a long, long time ago. See, these things were eighty bucks three years back. And I'm still wearin' them today. They keep me goin' through the winter so long as I get one of them free blankets when the shelter van comes around. And they keep me safe in the summer. That one time I got jumped by a tweaker with a busted bottle, he came a-swingin' at me but the coveralls; that glass just grazed right off 'em. Jus' right off. Yeah, they're stained somethin' fierce. But I'm not dinin' with the President anytime soon, so a couple stains don' matter much to me. And yeah, they've been tore up a little bit. But I can sew, and I have a little bit of heavy-duty thread put aside for just such an occasion. I could say I'm pretty handy with a needle. I shouldn't say that, because bein' handy with the needle is why these coveralls is all I got.

ALONE IN THE SNOW

2012-02-09T14:15:00.001-05:00

The last candle went out and spilled darkness all about the room, and that was just fine with Bob. He felt the deep cold all around him and knew that probably much sooner than later, he was going to freeze to death. Right there in his own living room, wearing almost every article of clothing he owned and breathing in the ashes of all of his worldly possessions. Weakly breathing, at that. He lay there, sprawled on the floor before the dead fireplace staring at a ceiling that he couldn't see for the darkness. Without the candles, and with weeks and weeks of snowfall pressed up against the windows he might as well have been a blind man at midnight. Bob realized that the intense cold he'd been feeling for these many weeks now was fading, and knew that eventually he wouldn't be feeling anything at all. With a supreme effort, Bob rolled his head to the side and stared into the darkness at the wall, and where he had painted his last will and testament of sorts. It was too dark to see the words he had painted, but he whispered them aloud as he died, "take it."

THE ANSWER NOBODY WANTED

2012-02-08T18:11:00.000-05:00

The fat one wasn't breathing, she was sure of it. No, the fat one definitely wasn't breathing. She'd been limping back along the path of mayhem for twenty minutes, and this was the first one that seemed to be actually, well, dead. It was simply the icing on the cake, the cherry on top of the multiple felonies that she would undoubtedly be charged with if she didn't get out of this school and get out of town quick. Hell, get out of the country. She dragged herself down the hallway, still strewn with broken glass and injured children. Clutching her broken arm to her bloodied side, her horrified eyes scanned the carnage. Everywhere she turned, a sixth grader lay sprawled, beaten insensible. Crying, whining, whimpering softly in pain as she crunched through small drifts of broken glass, stumbled over bloody textbooks, she skidded on torn construction paper and stopped, gasping for breath. She remembered a party in college where somebody had asked "how many twelve-year old's do you think you could beat up?" She never wanted to answer that one, she always thought it was a barbaric, horrible notion. And then this morning, she was just innocently walking to her office when all of a sudden she was set upon by three separate sixth-grade classes. Some kind of model U.N. thing in the auditorium. Suddenly the fat kid gasped and flopped over onto his side and she sighed in relief. Bad enough she was facing ninety-two cases of felony assault on a minor- multiple assaults on multiple minors. Jesus wept. But thankfully, she didn't seem to have killed any of them. And she was the school nurse.

BURSTING WITH FLAVOR

2012-02-07T18:46:00.000-05:00

The building shivered suddenly, letting out a long and lingering groan that resonated across the street. People on the sidewalks looked up uneasily, suddenly frozen in place and uncomfortably aware of things that they rarely considered in their day to day life. Things like gravity. And velocity. Great, gaping cracks began to scar the foundation of the building. A pane of glass two hundred feet up shattered in its frame, and that broke the pregnant pause, pedestrians scattered with a scream, cabbies peeled out with screeching black rubber tracks in their wake. The building continued to shake, more and more windows exploding in tinkling clouds over the street. And then the cheese came. Great, steamy gouts of mozzarella pouring from the shattered windows. More and more windows broke and began to spew load after load of melting cheese all over the street. The cheese began to spew from the cracks in the foundation, trapping pedestrians in nets of stretchy cheese and scalding them horribly at the same time. And then the building started to jerk, upwards and outwards and then it loomed another ten stories high above the boulevard; towering unsteadily above the street on a mountain of oozing mozzarella. There was a pregnant pause then, the only sounds the sizzle of hot cheese on the sidewalk, tinkling glass tumbling to the ground, and the screams. And then, the building toppled forward.

The Home Game Sucks

2012-02-06T18:24:00.000-05:00

Julia's fingers clenched on the steering wheel, teeth grinding against one another as her nemesis crossed the street. She hadn't seen Marcy since the end of the game show, since that fake hug the producers made them share as the end credits ran. Time slowed, crystalized, stopped for just a moment. Her eyes narrowed, her mind racing as she ran down three separate courses of action in her mind. One, drive right at her and put the scare of a lifetime in that bitch Marcy. Two, drive right at her and fling the driver's side door open; give that bitch a taste of door number one. And then option three, well option three was a no-brainer and a felony. Even enraged, Julia knew that she couldn't run her over. She just couldn't. But then the show, the final round of that goddamned game show replayed behind her eyes and Julia heard herself hissing to nobody "You bitch, you cheat, that should have been mine, that was my prize you fucking bitch, I ought to kill you you fucking sneak cheat," and then her foot had the pedal to the floor and she saw the light was red and she thought to herself I'll just tell them it was green, and she was disappointed that she didn't get to see the look in Marcy's eyes before she ran her down.

THE BEST RUMSPRINGA EVER

2012-02-06T09:08:00.000-05:00

Oh boy, oh boy! I cannot wait. I’m going to be turning sixteen in less than twenty-four hours, and then me and Martin and Ichabod are going on the best Rumspringa ever!

For those of you who do not know our ways, Rumspringa is the traditional time for young Amish to get out there and experience the world. And I for one, can’t wait to get out there and sow some wild oats! I can’t wait!

We’re taking a page from Martin’s cousin Abram, but not the whole book, mind. Abram is one of the rare ones who embarked on his Rumspringa and then chose to not rejoin the community. Normally Abram is completely shunned by the community, but myself and my friends reasoned that in order to have the best possible time we should take the advice of one who had gone before us. And who better than Abram the heretic?

First of all, we’re going to get something called ‘Zima.’ I know it’s liquor and is forbidden...but not for Rumspringa! Abram said it was the most exotic and delicious flavor that he has ever tasted. I have never tasted anything in the flavor of ‘citrus’ before, so I am most excited!

Second of all, we will acquire clothing like the English wear. There is a store of thrift in the township nearby, and I saw a number of things in the window that I feel will be most exciting to wear! There are pants there that come in every color of the rainbow! I know by the names that they are from some far-off, exotic land. What better thing to wear for my Rumspringa? Perhaps I will try and pretend that I am an exotic prince from the land of...”Zubaz.”

Third, we have plans to go to the state fair this summer. Usually we would go with our kinsfolk to deliver our butter and preserves, but we were never allowed to stay and participate in the frivolities. I hear they deep fry butter at these sort of events, and I intend to try it.

And I will dance! Never before would I even consider it, but there will be live, modern music at the fair and we all made a promise to ourselves: just this once, we shall dance. We risk condemning our mortal souls to the Devil, but this is our time to experiment. Our time! I do not know what the music of ‘Ratt’ will sound like, but I am ready to dance to it.

I am hoping that my new finery will impress the girls of the township as well. Miriam and Ruth both will be of age at the same time as myself and Martin and Ichabod, and I hope that the five of us will have a chance to experience the world together. And I hope that they also go to the store of thrift as we will. They had a number of what are called ‘scrunchies.’ And I would dearly love to see what Ruth’s hair will look like out of her wimple.

It will surely be a struggle for us, I am sure. I know that there are a great many temptations out there. The bright lights and clothes, the music. I fear the rhythms of ‘Ratt’ will tempt me greatly.

But we are all willing to test the limits of our faith. And after all, for all of the temptations in that modern world...if they are made by man, then at their roots are they not a piece of the Lord God? I mean no heresy, I am simply questioning. That is what this time is meant to be for, is it not? Well, our faith is strong and I know that in the end I will choose to return to our beloved community. What else could I do? I could never imagine a life outside of the farmsteads.

I don’t know how Abram does it, honestly. But we’re off to see him in the morn, when he will help us acquire our Zima and also something he calls ‘crystal meth.’ I don’t know what ‘meth’ means, but I do surely find the icicles along the barn gutters to be lovely so I’m sure that this ‘crystal meth’ is yet another example of the Good Lord’s bounty.

AND ENOUGH OF THIS

2012-02-05T13:39:00.000-05:00

It had been a long morning for Marc. Wake up, no shower. Breakfast of a red onion and garlic omelet, with raw yellow onions on top. And then off to the gym for his workout, dressed in an old fashioned gray sweatsuit. He skipped his regular routine in favor of something more cardio related. As in all cardio related, a half hour on a bike, another half hour on the elliptical, and then lap after lap on the track, around and around until he was wet with sweat. He could smell his onion-based breakfast sweating from his pores. He did not go shower or change out of his workout clothes, he simply hopped into his convertible with the top up and the heat blasting. Marc crept in through the side entrance and sneaked into his office unseen, locking the door behind him. He used his bathroom, and did not wipe. As he was washing his hands, he heard the knock at the door that he had been dreading. Marc opened the door and there she was, his boss; Mrs. Snyder. He saw her many wrinkles and the sagging flesh of her neck. He saw the gleam in her eyes as they shot directly to his crotch, saw the lizardlike flicker of her tongue across thin lips. "Given any thought to my...proposal, Mr. Brown?" It wasn't a question. She traced a bony finger down his chest and he shivered at the touch, but he swallowed it before he could audibly gag. He nodded instead. "Come on then big boy," she whispered, leaning in towards his neck. "Mama wants a taste." Marc closed his eyes as he felt another bead of the only defiance he could muster run down between his shoulder blades and head south. "Hope you like it," he murmured.

Laps

2012-02-04T12:20:00.001-05:00

The racers are grouped together thickly, the dust churned up from the track thick and staining the hot air brown. The wheels make a faint rustling sound as they spin; muffled by the thunder of many hooves. There are the cracks of the whips, and then one singular one that deafens the rest and a chariot in the rear is upended, spins in the air, and crashes. The voice of the crowd surges, they all rise up at once; and then sit again. The race goes on.

FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

2012-02-03T15:20:00.000-05:00

Imagine the first cavemen to discover that yes, apples are both edible and delicious. How could you possibly describe the very first time that you taste something new and fresh and delicious like that? There are no words. And for cavemen, there were literally no words. You can't even compare it to the first time that a child has an apple, children eat all sort of sweetened things from birth. Their relatively short lifetime is already filled with baby foods, the little jars of pureed apple and banana and pear prepares them for when you eventually gift them with that first bright and shiny apple. But the first primitive man to chomp on an apple, that must have been a hell of a good day for him or her. What else did they eat back then? I'm imagining they had a lot of poorly charred meat. Or perhaps just raw. Tough and gamy, stringy, getting in between your caveman teeth and up in your gums. And then you find one of these round, smooth and shiny red things. What the heck is this? It doesn't look like burnt meat. Well, guess I'll try to bite it. Right? Shouldn't I bite it? I'm biting it. And then, happiness. But then after that, the cavemen was looking around and thinking "maybe I should be biting more stuff," and I bet that's when the very first asshole was born.

WHAT ELSE CAN I PUT BACON ON

2012-02-02T19:23:00.000-05:00

You know what, I think tonight I'm just going to walk out there, fry up two, maybe three pounds of bacon, drizzle some butter over it and just start flinging fistfuls of it into the audience. Hell, I'll throw a handful of chocolate chips on the pile too, then I'll drizzle it with melted butter. Does that sound like something you'd want to shove in your fat, greedy faces? What's that? Oh sure, I'll deep-fry some foie gras and slap that in the mix too. "No such thing as too much of a good thing!" right, TV fans? My god-damned producers came up with that hateful slogan. I hate it. I hate all of you. I hate this. I'm only, you know. A classically trained chef. I spent thirteen years traveling Europe, learning the craft from true culinary masters in France, Italy, Spain. But what do you want? What gets your motor revving? Excess. Excessive displays of culinary masturbation. I screw up once, I end up candying some bacon and putting it on pancakes and all of a sudden I'm "America's hottest new food queen." "Food queen," that's pathetic. I wanted to be a chef, damn it all; and now all I do is find new ways to add bacon to things, or dip things in cheese. Yes, it made me rich and I took the money, every greasy penny you pushed into my hands with your own obese paws. And now I'm going to deep-fry a pile of bacon and dip it in dulce de leche or something, and I hope it gives you all diabetes and kills you.

WHEN CATS RULE THE EARTH

2012-02-01T07:15:00.000-05:00

The cat hopped down lightly from the side of the overturned police car and stretched. It was a seriously long and luxurious stretch, his back legs raises and his front fully extended; the claws of his front feet soundly sinking into the empty pair of pants on the sidewalk before him. He straightened up and looked around, licking his lips. It had been a busy square before, too busy for him to even dream of sneaking through, let alone prowling. He would come at night to scavenge the trash cans and even then only nervously, afraid of the crowds of mankind. Now basking in the warm sunlight, everywhere the cat looked the people were just piles of grey dust, spilled into empty clothes and left on the street, on the benches, in the cars. The cat nibbled at his foot briefly, but stopped abruptly; his ears flattened back against his head at the taste. He'd gotten their dust in his mouth now. He shook himself a little, and then the cat sauntered off in search of a blade of grass to clean the taste from his mouth.

RUBE GOLDBERG'S REVENGE

2012-01-31T14:26:00.000-05:00

There in the center of the baseball diamond was the most complicated, convoluted, and plain ridiculous device ever assembled in a single night. The metal beast was dressed in the skin of a hundred rolls of duct tape, thousands and thousands of wraps handing loosely from the cannibalized monkey bars and bicycles that served as bones. The inside was a madhouse of gears and cogs and toys and metal, the stink of the solder barely pushing back the acrid scent of the still gummy tape. The twelve kids (seven boys, five girls) manned their stations, dirty hands and feet at their pedals and ready to propel the gigantic beast out and into its path of destruction. Their leader lit the candle before him and waited for the flame to burn through the string. Once the string broke, some lead weights would fall, the balls would roll, a water bottle would be squashed and schoolbooks would soak and tear and then the glasses would break and then the engines would light and then the beast would roar. Their leader pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and took an excited hit from his inhaler. His delighted eyes locked onto the flickering flame and he grinned, whispering to himself "School's out, you sons of bitches."

GOVERNMENT MAN

2012-01-30T19:00:00.001-05:00

It was supposed to be a sweet gig. Such a sweet gig! But in the end it was all bullshit, all bullshit! In the middle sixties I was a private in the Army, and a private was all I was gonna be. And that was fine, until I started hearing things about life over in active duty. Over in Vietnam. All of a sudden being a little pissant private didn't sound so hot. So then I volunteer for some big time, super secret Army experiment. Was supposed to make me like a super hero. Faster, stronger, more powerful. You've seen TV, you know the deal. I asked them if they was gonna make me bulletproof and they just laughed at me. Yeah, now I know why they were laughin'. Their little experiment? The radiation, all of the needles and the shots and stuff? That junk didn't do a thing for me. Nothin'! I was supposed to be able to life a jeep over my head easy, run a minute mile in half the time, bend steel bars with my bare hands! And all their crap didn't do a thing for me. All it did for me, it sped my my metabolism or whatever so now I need three times as much food as a normal guy to stay alive. Ain't that a treat? Thanks a ton, Army Corps of Engineers! Or whoever the hell you quacks were. And I was supposed to get a reward, some big ticket for even risking the experiment. You know what they gave me in the end? An honorable discharge and free lifetime food stamps. Yeah. Yeah! Can you believe it? I risk my ass for my country, and they give me a lifetime supply of government cheese. Unbelievable. I was supposed to be a dream, a vision, a beacon of american strength and valor. I was supposed to be a hero. And instead, I sweat when I eat.

Family Night

2012-01-30T14:00:00.001-05:00

It was dark now, but the coals still glowed with more than enough light enough to see by. I held the child in my arms and tried to sing to it, but in my exhaustion I couldn't remember the words or the melodies to any children's songs. The child grew fussy in my arms as I struggled with it, struggled with my idiot brain and got nowhere. The child became upset and she - he - it, it began to wail and then to scream and twist in my arms. I looked up to the stars, but I'm not sure for what. Not prayer, certainly. The child's screams turned into a thick barking cough and like a machine I sang the first two lines of 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' over and over and over again, silently begging the child to stop crying. "Mother will come in the morning," I tried to whisper. But my rough voice scared the child into even more frantic tears, and I went back to dully singing in my loveless, hopeless monotone.

BUSK

2012-01-30T05:31:00.001-05:00

The girl started the mosh pit at about eleven o'clock in the morning. She had hung a big, silver boom box from the railing- and really, when was the last time you even saw a boom box anyways? But yeah, she hung the boom box and it started blasting some truly aggressive noise, and the next thing you knew she was and kicking and thrashing all around the place in a tight little circle. And this was right before the lunchtime rush, in the middle of one of the busiest subway stations downtown. It was crazy. She had her eyes closed the whole time, and just went for it, just hurled herself and her fists and elbows out and around and around and around until the song ended. People all around- tourists, people with jobs, people in a hurry- all freaked out when she started, they ducked and covered and scurried back when she started but she didn't hit a single person. Not a one. Then when her song stopped, she casually held out an old baseball hat and patiently waited for people to drop change in it for her. And the craziest thing was...they did.

He Had It Coming

2012-01-26T08:16:00.002-05:00

The kid just wouldn't shut up. He and his two little buddies, just talking shit the whole time. During the opening commercials, the trailers, and throughout the entire damn movie. I'd heard of this kid, who hadn't? Some little child prodigy, went to high school at the age of ten, solves mysteries for giggles. Good, great for him, shut the fuck up; adults are trying to watch the fucking movie. My date, Sheila, she's telling me to settle down and the kids some sort of local hero. She says he broke up a smuggling ring on the waterfront, caught a burglar or two. Like I give a shit. This kid might be a little junior detective like in the Encyclopedia Smith books or whatever, but to me he's just another goddamn punkass who can't shut up when in a movie theater. I look back and glare at him to quiet him down, I 'SSH' him as loud as I can and then the little punks start making fun of me? Of ME? Did I serve in Vietnam to get mocked by some little ten year old shit? I just want to try and solve the little word jumble and he's snickering at me behind my back? I stand up and pull him up by the front of his shirt, I can hear Sheila in the back of my head screeching to stop. But you know what? If the brat wants to play big boy detective, then he can get punched in the face like a fucking man.

Abstract

2012-01-25T09:01:00.001-05:00

The madman flipped back the hem of his filthy raincoat and spread his arms wide in supplication. "I've done everything else that you ever asked for, I'm going to do anything else that you ask of me. Whatever you need me to do, it's done. Done! All that I ask is that you finally speak to me. Say something! Please. I'm begging you, I'm fucking begging you. How many years has it been? I've lived in your shadow for years. Two years? Two years I have spent in, in worship of you and your form. Your every angle, your curves, the lines of your face. I can't take it anymore, I need to know. Do you love me at all? Can you?" The statue loomed two stories above him, all red rust and creaking iron. He wept at its silence then, lines of tears tracking lines through the grime on his cheeks. And then his heart soared as the statue looked down at him, nodded, and then began to speak.

SUPPERTIME

2012-01-24T16:49:00.001-05:00

The art of hurrying without appearing to hurry is best seen in a teenager, trying to get through his family meal as quickly as possible, without giving away the fact that all he wants to do is get the fuck out of there. Kyle flashes a big and disarming smile, he talks and jokes constantly, eating hugely; taking seconds and thirds if he can get them. Family dinner is a pure pleasure. His family can hardly get a word in edgewise, all they can do is laugh and eat and smile. But this is his plan. Kyle talks and talks so that they eat and eat, the more time he talks the more time they chew and slurp and swallow away. And in between funny anecdotes about school -fictions, he hasn't been to school in weeks but they can't know that, oh no- he sucks down huge, gulping bites of whatever they put in front of him. Not just because he has a terrible, ravenous hunger way down deep inside his liars chest. But because the faster he eats, the sooner the food is gone. And the sooner the food is gone, so is he.

THE WAY GONE

2012-01-23T18:43:00.001-05:00

They had sent a pair of burly security guards to her office, where she had been hurriedly trying to pack her belongings. These were cold, quiet men she had never seen before in the building. Icy, anonymous and bulky, the type of man obviously not meant for any generic lobby reception desk. They had each taken her by an arm, and lifted her bodily from her desk without a word. As they raised her up, her feet clipped the box with her few personal things- a picture of her son, one of her mother, a mug and a bowl- spilling to the ground in a crash of broken glass and crockery. Though they were rough and it did hurt; she never made a sound of protest or pain. Although some distant part of her was thinking shouldn't they have female guards doing the manhandling? And as they roughly dragged her down the hall and to the elevator, she let herself smile a little bit. They obviously knew that she had been the leak, but they hadn't checked to see what else she had set in motion. If they had, perhaps they wouldn't have had the goon squad haul her from the elevator, and through the lobby, and then pitch her through the front doors. They should have instead first had their thugs check her now vacant lab, where the automated centrifuges were now slowing to a close, her new compound nearly complete. And when it was finished, the final reaction was going to be as if somebody drove a dump truck full of phosphorus into a small lake. Or maybe a big pond. They pitched her unceremoniously to the sidewalk and went back inside without another look with absolutely no idea that in about ten minutes the whole building was going to be a crater. She unclipped her now useless security badge and let it drop, shed her lab coat and got herself gone. She didn't look back either.

Me, You, and an Episode of Hoarders

2012-01-23T07:49:00.001-05:00

Well, hello. I can see you have followed my trail of love. I personally plucked the petals from three dozen of the reddest roses to make that, milady. And I am more than pleased that you followed that romantic trail of mine all the way from the garage up into the boudoir to where I; your love machine is waiting for you. Oh yes, darling Janice. The kids are away, the dog is in the basement, the lights are low and now it’s just you, me, and this episode of Hoarders.

Care for a glass of white? You are most welcome, beloved. Please, slide that fine body of yours over my way across our Tempur-Pedic and relax yourself. Let my experienced fingers play over that tense and unhappy brow of yours to erase the tension of a bad, long day. And sit back, nestled into my arms as we watch an hour’s worth of intense personal struggle and hopefully some healing.

Oh my. That’s right, the kids are gone and away. I know that’s how you like it. Yes, the state has taken them away until Sheena can find a way to make their home a safe and livable space again. Yeah, I know you like it like that. You like it when bureaucracies in rural North Carolina care enough and have the resources to intervene on the the well-being of minors. You love it like that.

Oh my! Oh my, you are a dirty girl. Damn, woman. Why on earth would she need to keep every single plastic bread bag you’ve purchased since 1995? Can you believe it? I mean, wow. She must be growing mold cultures from every single loaf of bread she bought for nearly twenty years in that kitchen.

...why yes, Janice. That’s not the only thing growing right now. Ah ha. Ha.

I don't even want to talk about her downstairs bathroom...on a related note, can I interest you in a chocolate? Belgian. You are very welcome, beloved. Just sit back and enjoy your sweets, and let me take control of your body with my magic fingers. Much as professional organizer Geraldine Thomas is trying to take control of an explosive situation between Sheena and her sister Felecia. But she’s got to do it without my magic fingers.

Oh my, Janice! Janice! Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me? Or perhaps...it’s both of us? And things also seem to be getting pretty hot between Sheena and professional organizer Geraldine Thomas. Geraldine sure does seem to be annoyed at how noncommittal Sheena is acting towards the prospect of clearing out her collection of VHS cassettes. There is some definite tension there, oh yes.

Conflict between seasoned professionals and people with complex compulsive hoarding tendencies gets me so hot. Know what I mean, baby?

Mmm? Oh yes, we’re perfectly safe. We’re not going to be disturbed, I sent the kids to a movie a half an hour ago. We’ll have at least a full hour to enjoy an hour of the most compelling real life drama on TV. And each other.

SKEDADDLE

2012-01-22T18:01:00.001-05:00

The spiders had come from the forests, swarming hordes of the weird things flowing over the asphalt like a weird, lime green wave of legs and glittering eyes and hairy fangs. It would have been almost pretty, if it weren't for the fact that they were the size of cats. Well, kittens. But a spider the size of a kitten, you have to admit that's more than big enough to put you off your dinner. At first they just ran over the town, ignoring man and beast alike as they quested through the short, dusty streets and inspected things. Everything, really. It was creepy, but nobody really felt like they were in danger. Big as they were, they were still small enough to get stomped. A bunch of the neighborhood kids spent the rest of the day doing just that. But that night the bravery faded as the rumors of swarming green spider attacks had started to flow freely over the phone lines and email chains, and people kept the kids inside with the windows shut tight. Myself and a few of my neighbors took the arrival of thousands of abnormally large, lime green spiders as a sign that it was time to get the hell gone. Sadly, my ex-wife didn't get the message to skedaddle. I let out a whisper-sad sigh whenever the TV news shows footage of my poor old town, our little doomed town in the woods covered completely in brittle, green cobweb.

Something To Look Forward To

2012-01-21T07:52:00.001-05:00

"Why do you always drink so much, Grandpa?" Kyle asked nervously. He'd been planning to use the bathroom for some 'private time' with his miniature Smart Window, but for some reason the bathroom was where Grandpa was having his morning drink. Perched on the closed toilet seat in his bathrobe, with a 8 AM martini in one hand, and a nicotine inhaler in the other. The bathroom LED's embedded in the walls reflected harsh white light from Grandpa's ancient steel-rimmed glasses, and on his sudden tears. "Because I worked all my life to be a writer, and my crowning achievement was I had a book on tape." Grandpa said, voice as bitter as his tumbler of gin. "And nowadays, you kids don't know what either of those things are."

I'M A TERRIBLE PYROMANIAC

2012-01-20T09:14:00.008-05:00

That night I went out with an entire box of wooden matches, a little yellow bottle of lighter fluid, a road flare, and my camcorder. The old shack was right there on the side of the desolate dirt road. Abandoned for years, decades, and generations. I knew that it was another place that nobody would miss, the perfect place to unleash that flickering mass of oranges and reds and yellows I have come to love. But I didn't plan for the wet weather. It had rained all day, the wetness penetrating through the many cracks in the walls, the gaps in the roof. And weakening the planks of the floor. I hadn't gotten two steps in when the damp and soggy floorboards gave way, a jagged splinter of wood as long as my leg piercing me through the stomach and suspending me above the darkness of the cellar. The bleeding has slowed to a trickle, which should worry me more than it does. The shack should have exploded into a shower of glory, a ran of sparks and flames and beauty. Instead I hang here, lighting match after match as I slowly bleed to death.

My Dog Food Will Change The World

2012-01-19T13:15:00.003-05:00

Sir,

First of all, I take great offense at your flat denial of my application for a $10,000 small business loan. One would expect that your bank would have taken an appropriate and reasonable amount of time to review and assess my business plan. Perhaps a month, a week at the least.

And yet my application was denied in under twenty-four hours.

This does not seem either appropriate or reasonable to me. This in fact leads me to believe that somebody in your organization simply rubber stamped a rejection, and did not take the time to properly consider my plan to prepare and market pre-chewed food for dogs.

My business plan is exemplary. I detailed line by line my plans: the location, cleaning and remodeling said location into a place suitable to chew food for dogs, procurement of raw goods such as grains and meats -all organic, mind you!- and hiring a staff of four to eight employees to assist in pre-chewing the dog food. I even included the paperwork for the theoretical employees heath plans, medical and dental.

Especially the dental.

Furthermore, I take exception to your professionalism. Yes, your professionalism. One would assume that a reasoned, well-thought out rejection letter would be a bit more verbose than what I received. Perhaps you could have taken time to write at least a paragraph. Instead I got two sentences. Two!

Allow me to reread these two sentences to you: ‘Are you nuts? Nobody’s going to pay you to chew food for dogs.’

This is not what I would consider ‘brevity.’ In fact, I consider it lazy. Yes, lazy! Compared to the countless hours that I put into my proposal; as well as the countless hours I put into producing samples of my wares I do consider your flippant denial of my loan to be rooted in laziness. I myself spent hours and hours masticating pound upon pound of raw meats, grains, and vegetables to create my Canine-free Canine Chow (trademark pending) samples for your perusal, to prove my devotion to my product as well as to attest to the quality of my wares.

The beef, the chicken, the beef and chicken, the salmon. The salmon, so rich in Omega-3’s! And the organic vegetables, the whole grains, the fresh blueberries so plump with flavor and antioxidants! The raw egg yolks, which proved to be quite difficult to chew. So much work and care went into this project and to be so cruelly dismissed...well sir, I am more than offended. I am outraged.

And to add injury to insult: the samples I had provided you were simply returned to me, unopened. I am aware that some close-minded individuals find this proposal to be unsettling. ‘Disgusting’ is a word that has been carelessly thrown around by several other banks, I am sorry to say. "Unseemly." "Terrible." "Please get out of my office." I will credit you sir, for at least sparing me those heartless words.

I beg you sir, please think of the many, many elderly dogs out there that are unable to chew their own food. Do you consider yourself an animal lover? Pre-chewing their food is simply the most economical way to prepare food for elderly dogs with weakened teeth and jaws. And while the human mouth does not have as many enzymes as that of a dog, it still contains enough to help in breaking down food in order to make it easier for dogs to get the proteins and vitamins that they so need!

Also, jaw-powered food processing is as close to green energy as the animal food industry will ever hope to become. Tell that to the people at Eukenuba!

I beg of you sir, please reconsider my proposal. This is a chance for your bank to get in on the ground floor of an exciting new industry. Join me at the forefront of history! Please don’t let my hours and hours of chewing raw meats (organic raw meats) be in vain.

ARE YOU THERE, DOG?

2012-01-19T11:34:00.001-05:00

I've been depressed lately. I don't get out much, and I'm alone pretty much most of the time. I stay inside at all times, I've got something of an issue with the outside world: I don't like it. The only times I do go out is to walk my dog, a husky-mix named Trevor. My dog told me to kill the president today. I was of course shocked at his ability to speak, but was also dismayed by his poor grasp of modern politics. You see, the name he mentioned was president Harry S. Truman. When I explained this to him, he shouted "No! I'm too late!" and then he ran around in a circle for a minute, snapped at the air, and then lay down in front of the TV, utterly depressed. I've tried to get him to speak to me again, but he's not having it. He's too depressed. That makes two of us.

THE PRICE PER POUND

2012-01-18T08:50:00.002-05:00

The man sat almost in the firepit, staring straight ahead as he gnawed at a chunk of burnt and smoking bone. I could not tell from where he had obtained the meat, and this troubled me. The carcass had been cooked- well, it had been burnt fully black, and he had scattered the bones and the cuts of meat into an unrecognizable pile. He saw me staring and called out. "You! Yes, you there! Care for a bite?" He pointed the tip of his mysterious bone at me, sloppily chewing as he spoke. "You look like a hungry one, you do." And I was, I was ravenous. My provisions had run out two days ago, all I had was a canteen of rainwater. My stomach growled as I looked at his massive pile of barbecue, but I still held back. "What is it?" I asked, my mouth filling with drool as the marvelous smell of roasted meat hit me. He giggled, an oddly small sound coming from a man so large. "It's free, is what it is." his smile faded as he spoke, and my horror grew as I recognized the curves and contours of his bloody bones. "It's free meat."

The Tragedy

2012-01-17T10:26:00.004-05:00

The second the Mustang died, so did Carl. He just gave up the ghost and passed away, his last breath wheezing from his lips as the engine growled and clanked and shuddered to a stop. I let the car drift along the deserted highway as I stared into the rear view mirror, waiting for the death rattle. I'd always heard that when you died, there would be a death rattle, a last gasp at life. I didn't hear anything though, and once I realized it I hit the brakes and the grand old car slowed to a stop. I put it in park and got out, not daring to look back at the old man. as I walked away, I let my hand trail along the smooth contours of the Mustang, the enameled surface warm against my fingertips. I kept walking up the highway, leaving the car and my friend in the behind. I didn't look back. There was no point.

HAPPY HOUR

2012-01-16T09:48:00.001-05:00

When she threw the drink in his face, the pot-bellied guy with the John Waters mustache reeled back like he'd been hit with a taser. He stumbled back one, two, three paces and then did this weird, mid-fall twisting maneuver where he wrenched his body around and around and ultimately ended up throwing himself face first into the floor. The girls sitting opposite me at the bar went into high, shrill peals of laughter but I was wincing as I'd heard a thick 'pop' when the guy went down. And as the chaos built around where he lay spreadeagled on the sticky barroom floor, I noticed how wrong the angle of his left knee was and knew bad times were coming.

CLOWN WARFARE PART III

2012-01-15T12:14:00.003-05:00

It was bedlam. Everywhere you turned there was another brawl, Sad clown versus Happy, circus versus French, rodeo versus...well, everybody. Nobody liked a rodeo clown. I skulked down low on the far side of a burnt-out car, creeping past broken, battered clown body after body sprawled on the pavement. I had my eyes peeled in both directions, my ears peaked for the sinister honk of red rubber noses; but all I could hear were agonized screams, guttural grunts, the meaty thud of clown horn against flesh, the methodical squeak of a clown shoe against something heavy and soft. I thought I saw an alley I could scoot down, but when I rose up from my crouch to make a break for it I was spotted. A big, fat Sad clown in overalls, hefting a loaded rubber chicken in his fist. He saw me and smiled, the leering grin looking sickly against the broad red smile painted across his cheeks. He stated swinging his chicken like a medieval flail in the air, the weighted chicken feel whistling in the air as he turned it and he came for me.

CLOWN WARFARE PART II

2012-01-14T08:03:00.003-05:00

In retrospect, there were better places to try and play this clown for information. But at that moment, I was angry and tired and just didn't give a crap anymore. I sapped him across the face with my sock full of nickels, once, twice, three times. He reeled, twisting away from me in an effort to protect his broken mouth, red with blood and lipstick. "So you gonna spill it, Bobo?" I snarled at his shaking back. "Or do I stop playing nice?" And that's when I realized what this clown was leaning against, and that's when I realized that it wasn't empty. So I did what any sane person would do and turned tail and ran before those doors even opened. I was halfway up the block before they finished pouring out of that tiny little yellow clown car of theirs. I heard the squeaks and honks of a dozen pairs of shoes trailing me all the way to the subway. I was three stops away before it hit me: they'd been waiting for me all along.

CLOWN WARFARE

2012-01-13T12:16:00.004-05:00

I took a step back when the guy pushed open the door to my cozy- yet empty- little bar. He was in a bright silver jumpsuit, with powder blue stars all over the place. A big curly red wig atop a face painted white, with a big red rubber nose, black diamonds over the eyes and a big red smear across his mouth. That was the part that made me curious, that indistinct red slash across his mouth. You see, there had been a feud running between the Sad clowns and the Happy clowns for as long as I'd been alive. But it had always been a small, petty sort of thing. Spiteful words, maybe a little bit of roughhousing when the circus came to town. But things had gotten weird in the past month, every week it seemed there was a lot more blood and greasepaint on the pavement. There had been a big clown rumble two nights ago, and word on the street was that there were three in intensive care in the hospital. One might not make it at all. So yeah, clown warfare was wrecking the city of my birth. The streets weren't safe, my business was suffering, so suffice to say...I didn't like the look of this clown.

THE MERCY OF THE KING

2012-01-12T09:26:00.002-05:00

The high priest turned to the gathered masses. "The defendant stands accused of having led an illegal rebellion, and disrupting the flow of the King's grain wagons." Tomas attempted to shout out a word of protest, but was easily drowned out by the delirious roar of the crowd. "I turn now to our most honest and good king for judgment. Who is such a good king, yes? Who's a good king?" The King sat atop his throne, his head wobbling on his underdeveloped neck. A long string of drool dripped from his lower lip as he babbled softly. I would have never gotten a fair trial, not from this court mused Tomas grimly. The High Priest held up a hand for silence, and reached beneath his robes. From one of the many folds, he pulled out a silver keychain, which he then swiftly held before the King's eyes, tinkling and jangling merrily. "Glagloo?" asked the King, who then giggled uncontrollably. "Awwww," replied the crowd, delighted by the King's naked joy. "We shall heed his words! The punishment shall be...death, by stoning! Thus spake the King! All hail! all hail King Baby!" he shouted, but the people drowned him out with their gleeful noise. The priest cleared his throat and tried again, croaking out at the top of his lungs "ALL HAIL THE KING! ALL HAIL KING BABY!" And as the crowd exulted, Tomas wept a silent tear at the doom that had befallen him. The rebellion was certainly doomed now, all at the soft and unlined hands of the infant king.

WAY OF THE WET FIST PART 3

2012-01-12T08:22:00.002-05:00

Strike here, swiftly and without mercy to read WAY OF THE WET FIST: PART 1!

Strike with great precision and all of your power HERE for WAY OF THE WET FIST PART 2!

The four men paused in the alley, looking at the crouching Master Yu. They were perhaps five feet away from him now; one down, another of their number winded badly (cardio was not a major precept of the Toscani) , most of them stinking of soy sauce. Master Yu calmly leveled his outstretched left hand again, and carefully swung the plastic carton of milk in a circle around his right thumb. He smiled larger, and made a ‘come on’ gesture.

“GET HIM!” shouted Ryback, furiously pacing at the end of the alley. “CUT HIM DOWN!” And so they tried.

Luckily for Master Yu, they came at him one by one. If they had been smart enough to recognize their strength in numbers, he would be dead. Yet luckily for Master Yu, they were quite stupid. One by one they charged at him, black knives flickering wickedly in forward and backhand thrusts.

Master Yu remained calm, parrying their outreaching arms with the heavy half-gallon of milk, and then striking crisply with his left hand. One by one they attacked; one by one they fell under his speedy fist and the heavy thud of the milk. As he sent the four men flying into the back of the alley, he kept flicking glimpses to their end of the alley where Ryback lurked at the open end. The ‘Grandmaster’ appeared unconcerned and stood nonchalantly flipping his knife over his fingers, until he cut himself a little.

Master Yu bobbed backwards to avoid a Toscani knife thrust and swept his left leg into a bent knee, leaving him off-balance. Master Yu swung the half gallon of milk with tremendous force into the back of the Toscani man’s head. The milk slammed into the man’s greasy hair and bounced back, a half gallon of liquid force knocking the man facedown into the concrete alley floor. There was a sickening crack as his front teeth broke, and the man went down. Master Yu allowed a frozen moment to contemplate his fallen opponent, and then was looking up and ready again.

It was Gino Taft, second in command of the Toscani Tong; and the recent recipient of a can of tuna (packed in water it was healthier than oil) to the gut. He looked to be on shaky feet, but pulled himself upright to posture. “You, fuck nuts!” He growled, as he pointed his black knife blade towards the master. Master Yu, rolled his eyes.

His knife strikes were short and precise, but Master Yu easily parried them with a few short swipes of his half gallon. Taft feinted with his knife, and then led in with his right hand in a vicious chop that Master Yu easily spun past. His spin ended with him standing behind Taft, where he then grabbed him by the shoulder and bent him over backwards over his left knee. Gino Taft was not used to bending in such a manner (stretching also not a priority in their school) and yelped piteously before Master Yu brought the half gallon milk down in a cruel, swinging arc right into the center of Taft’s face. Taft’s nose burst open in a spray of red, and Master Yu stood upright, toppling Taft onto the floor of the alley. As Taft tried to get up, he was laid low by a short, sharp kick to the face from Master Yu and that was it for Taft.

Master Yu turned again to where Ryback stood at the open end of the alley, his left hand again outstretched and his half gallon of milk again casually swinging on his right thumb. What a tremendous weapon, he thought. And I thought milk was no good for kung fu!

He sensed another man behind him, and whipped around in a circle, his half gallon of milk swinging wide. The milk grazed the face of a third Toscani man with little injury, although it did back the man off for a second.

Now Master Yu faced two men at once, in their haste to defeat the older man forgetting the one-at-a-time rule ingrained in them from such films as Marked For Death. He swung his half gallon back and forth in a wide arc, doing his best to keep these two greasy-haired bastards at a safer distance. They could do nothing but take ineffectual swipes at him, snatching their arms back from the angry sloshing of his weapon. Ahh, that’s right. They cannot kick. thought Master Yu.

Master Yu swung another gurgling strike at the man on his left, then abruptly stopped midswing and leapt forward with a kick to the head. His foot struck the side of a greasy head, sending the man face first into the wall. Yu then leapt straight up into the air and delivered a sharp kick with his left foot directly into the temple of the knife-wielding man left standing. This man having been the recipient of the other can of tuna he’d let fly with at the battle’s beginning. The kick was more than enough to put the man down for good. Landing on the ground, Master Yu turned to swat away yet another knife strike from the last Toscani man before swinging the half gallon into that man’s soft midsection. Such a durable weapon! he thought. What kind of plastic is this?

Then, Ryback made his move. With his right hand, he sunk a fist into Master Yu’s kidney from behind, utilizing the most deadly weapon of the Toscani school: the cheap shot. A poorly considered attack, the force of his blow accidentally sent the older man out of range of his next knife thrust. Master Yu grunted, but rolled with the impact and came up on his feet in the same stance he’d maintained for the entire battle: left hand out and inviting, the half gallon of milk on his thumb; swinging slightly.

“If your daddy knew how stupid you were, he’d trade you in for a pet monkey.” Ryback grimaced. The quote from Fire Down Below went unnoticed by Master Yu, as his first conquest of the battle sprung up from where he had been quietly bleeding on the ground and lashed upwards with his blade directly at Master Yu’s back.

Master Yu was swift however, and managed to twist and avoid the man’s knife strike. He brought the man down for good with a swift milk-elbow-milk combination to the face and throat. Master Yu turned back to his last two opponents and assumed his stance again, only to be taken aback by a pair of grim and knowing grins.

The doughy man had missed Master Yu entirely, but the knife strike had done its damage. It had neatly sliced the bottom from the half gallon of milk on a diagonal, leaving Master Yu standing with an empty plastic carton.
Ryback stood with his arms out, one knife at the ready. His last crony -Austin Storm, so named after hit films Executive Decision and Hard to Kill- circled around, trying to get into Master Yu’s blind spot. His greasy pony tail was askew, lank hair framing the puffiness about his face from where the half gallon had struck him. Master Yu twisted and turned, trying to keep both men in his line of sight. He dropped the diminished half-gallon to the alley floor, and tried to fight the feeling of panic that had set in. “The fight’s not over yet, Danny. I’m not scared of you and your bully boy.”

“Maybe you should be,” Ryback whispered; inwardly pleased that he could naturally quote Hard to Kill without it seeming too forced. It of course went over Master Yu's head. That was weird. Why is he whispering?

Austin Storm giggled, and bent to pick up another knife from one of their fallen compatriots. When Master Yu turned to kick at him, Ryback floated in and viciously punched the older man in the kidneys again. Master Yu slumped heavily to the ground.

Ryback laughed, pointing his knife at a prone Master Yu. “Now it’s over, old man. You put up a good fight, but now it’s aaaaall over. You’re done, and with you your school is done. Get ready to-“ and then they heard a cry from the open end of the alley. “UNCLE!”

It was his nephew, On Pui racing down the alley with a pair of large plastic bags in either fist. He had returned from the pet store with a large orange carp and a large white carp in bags filled with aquarium water.

Heavy bags of water.

Austin lunged forward, but On Pui tucked and rolled and then was straight up with a knee to the chest of the pudgy Austin Storm. He swung the bags wildly, hitting Austin in the side of the head one, two, three, four times in quick succession. The water sloshed violently as the force of his strikes rattled his brain. Austin thrust wildly about with his knives in either hand, but On Pui danced back on delicate feet, easily avoiding his opponent’s flustered attacks. Then On Pui paused, and then whirled around in a circle before bringing both aquarium bags around in a three hundred and sixty degree arc to hammer the man into unconsciousness with his mighty bags of fish.

Ryback went for On Pui, hoping to blindside him from behind. But On Pui heard him coming, and whirled about in a blur of white and orange fish, the bags from the pet store striking Ryback in the side of the head with tremendous force. Ryback was staggered. On Pui let out a terrific yelp and advanced on his weakened opponent, but Ryback was ready and socked him deep in the stomach. On Pui fell back, windmilling his bagged fish to keep Ryback from advancing any further. Ryback cringed, and turned to run.

Right into Master Yu’s left fist.

Rocked by the blow, Ryback stabbed out only to have his other hand slashed again by an edge of Master Yu’s diminished milk bottle. The sharp plastic carved a furrow into Ryback’s right hand, the pain causing Ryback to drop the knife to the alley floor. But Seagal never loses, he thought in a panic.

Pained, a shouting Ryback chopped his left hand at Master Yu’s throat, but the master cagily whirled and spun and whipped his cut up half gallon up and across Ryback’s face. A thin line slashed up the man’s face, splitting his eyelid open. Ryback wailed in shock and fear, flailing about in a circle…

…right into a face full of white and orange fish, slamming into his face yet again. The impact of the heavy bags of water and fish was the end of him, his short and greasy ponytail flipping in the air as he fell to the alley floor among his men.

The fight was over.

On Pui twitched with adrenaline, hopping from one downed man to another, satisfied by the dull groans and slow breathing of those unconscious. “Uncle, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“No, On Pui. I am unharmed, but somewhat winded.” And he was. He stood there, looking over the remains of the battle. Noting the brown streaks of soy sauce on the alley floor and walls, the milk slowly curdling in the summer sun. Looked down at the handle of his cut up half gallon of milk.

“I can’t believe these assholes. What were they thinking? Did they really think they could come and try and knife you to death in the alley to your school and get away with it?” On Pui kept on hopping, nerves on edge.

Master Yu looked up from the remains of the half-gallon. “I think I have discovered a new fighting style today. And it appears that you have as well, On Pui.” On Pui looked confused until his uncle pointed at the bags of koi.

“What? Holy shit! They’re still alive!” And they were, the tails of the carp flickered as they moved about in their temporary homes still clutched in On Pui’s fists.

“A fine omen. I take that as a sign, a signal from the divine tha-”

“Man, I’m so glad I didn’t kill them. I didn’t even think about it, I just saw they had knives on you and I-“

“On Pui, I fought and defeated three men with a half gallon of one percent milk. You fought and defeated two men with two plastic bags filled with water.”

“…well, there were fish in there too.”

“Ssh! I think we have discovered something. Unarmed men, defeating multiple opponents with vessels filled with water. This is something we need to study. Something we can perfect, so that we can use these techniques against opponents less lowly than these of the Toscani school.”

“Yeah, never know when the Van Damme School is gonna attack.” Master Yu frowned at his nephew. “I don’t really see the sense in attacking people with gallons of milk or…is that soy sauce? It smells like soy sauce.”

“The proof is laying all around you. We have triumphed with this new approach to kung fu, this new…way of fighting. We have innovated something here, and that is not to be taken lightly.”

“I don’t think a bag full of carp is tournament legal, Uncle.”

“…just go put the fish in the pond and call the police already.”

WAY OF THE WET FIST PART 2

2012-01-10T19:00:00.005-05:00

Strike here, swiftly and without mercy to read WAY OF THE WET FIST: PART 1!

“Out for a walk, old man?” sneered ‘Grandmaster’ Mason Ryback. Who had been born Danny Lo some thirty years before as Master Yu remembered. Upon the founding of his school Danny had taken it upon himself to rename based on his two second-favorite Seagal films, Hard to Kill and Under Siege. “You’d better enjoy the sunlight while you can. There’s not going to be too much sunlight in the nursing home.” His four cronies guffawed loudly, then their laughter abruptly stopped short as they reassumed what they likely thought to be their ‘cool,’ intimidating glare.

“Danny, did you really just throw a knife at me?” Master Yu refused to indulge in this foolishness. Why can’t kids today just shamelessly copy Bruce Lee like we did when we were younger? he wondered.

“YOU WILL CALL HIM MASTER RYBACK!” shrieked the chunkiest flunky to his left, face red. He surged forward into the alley, only to be held back by Ryback’s outstretched arm.

“Hey!” he murmured. “Play it cool,” he hoarsely whispered in what Master Yu supposed was supposed to be a Seagal-esque voice. Ryback turned a glare onto Master Yu. “That little stunt you pulled at the gym the other day...bad move. The Toscani Tong” -so named after Danny Lo’s number one favorite Seagal movie Above the Law- “had a lot of money riding on that match. That trick you pulled with the judges…not to cool. Your nephew was supposed to lose.”

“Oh, so telling them that you paid off the referee wasn’t cool? I’m terribly sorry that you feel this way.” Master Yu was not actually sorry. “Maybe you shouldn’t have paid him off in the parking lot. Or maybe you could have at least gotten that idiot to leave his payoff in his car, instead of leaving it in his gym bag, and then leaving that right next to the judges table.”

Ryback’s air of cool started to slip, his nostrils flaring impressively. “Maybe so. Maybe so. But you should have been smart enough to keep your stupid old mouth shut, old man.”

“Oh, please. On Pui didn’t lose. Your man hit him a full four seconds after he’d been kicked in the stomach. We all counted. Including the judges, who were then quite rightly wondering how the hell the referee had managed to call the point for your man.” Master Yu felt himself getting angrier, although underneath his anger he was calculating the odds. Five against one in a small alley was not good news.

“Shut up! Shut your damn…old mouth!” Ryback stepped forward, fixing the leopard-print belt that marked him ‘grandmaster.’ “The point is…you cost the Toscani Tong quite a…lot of money...to a number of…concerned individuals.”

“Would you stop the dramatic pauses, Danny? It’s ridiculous when Seagal talks like that, its worse when you do it too.”

More glares. “We’re in deep. In fact…we’re going to have to leave town for awhile. But before we do…we figured we ought to leave just one more rival school…in pieces. You may think you’re above the law…well you’re not above mine!”

With that, Ryback made a curt gesture with his left hand, and his four men suddenly produced four black, ceramic blades identical to the one buried in the alley’s back wall. Suddenly this was serious.

The four men advanced swiftly. Which for them was not very swift at all. More of a fast walk. They were somewhat pudgy.

Master Yu found himself literally with his back up against the wall. In a regular fight, he was mostly confident that he would be able to fight his way out of the alley. But with all four of his opponents armed (and now Ryback produced yet another blade) he found he did not like his chances. A quick glance around the alley confirmed that it was entirely empty. The knife was buried hilt-deep in the planks of the wall, and was no use. Master Yu considered throwing his keys at the men, but thought it to be dishonorable. He crouched down, his left hand out in invitation of their first strike, and his right hand...laden with the small bag of groceries.

He smiled.

Grandmaster Ryback tried to maintain the level of serene violence that he saw in his idol, Steven Seagal; but found it slipping. After their disgrace before the Yu-Ban, he and his school were in thirty large to Fat Carl. And Fat Carl was angry, and supposed to have mob ties. And Ryback and his second-in-command Gino Taft (so named for the smash Seagal hits Out For Justice and On Deadly Ground) soon agreed that an angry fat man with numerous mob ties would be bad for the continued health of the school. Their plan was to kill Master Yu, steal his van and whatever cash he had on hand , take a dump in his koi pond, and then flee to Fresno.

He tugged on his oily ponytail and grimaced in what he felt was a manly way at the old man in the back of the alley as his men advanced. Master Yu was rifling through his groceries frantically. “This is for my school. Fuck you and die!” Ryback felt good, paraphrasing the master like that.

Master Yu raised his cans of tuna first, and whipped them with great force directly into the two foremost Toscani men. The impacts were brutal, sinking deeply into the considerable gut of second-in-command Gino Taft and striking another in the throat with a meaty thud. As the two men toppled, Master Yu shattered the top of the small bottle of soy sauce against the ground and splashed it frantically into the faces of the other advancing men. They clutched at their eyes and screamed piteously. “Aaaaaah! My eyes!" "So salty!”

Master Yu allowed himself a small smile, and readied himself for the next wave of attacking jackasses. He hefted his primary weapon in his right fist: a half gallon of 1 percent milk.

Organic.

GONNA BE THAT KIND OF PARTY

2012-01-10T05:36:00.001-05:00

The first thing I looked for was the industrial sized barrel of generic snack mix. And there it was, looming high above the rest of the sad little snack table. Dwarfing the sad cheese plate and the bottles of generic soda- no, not even sodas, seltzer only this time- it sat, her handprint visible in the thin layer of dust. Julia had been putting that sad tub of snacks out at each and every single one of the lame parties she'd thrown since I met her. "Glad you could make it, Jim!" she said. I looked around the empty, dingy apartment and thought to myself I sure bet you are, Juliaand forced a smile across my face.

WAY OF THE WET FIST PART 1

2012-01-09T13:26:00.003-05:00

Strike with great precision and all of your power HERE for WAY OF THE WET FIST PART 2!

Chenmin Yu walked down the street towards his school, the plastic of his grocery bag rustling against his leg. He paid it no heed, his mind lost in contemplating the recent troubles that had befallen his school. Mild annoyances abounded. There had been two instances where the windows of his school had been shattered in the night, likely by the thugs of the Toscani school. Childish prank calls rang at nearly every hour of the day, disrupting practice and preventing actual business form being accomplished. Mail had been stolen. A banana had been forced into the tailpipe of Master Yu’s Econoline van, and the lacquered yin yang he had painted himself over thirty years ago had been defaced with hundreds of tiny key scratches. And on top of all of that, his cherished koi had died the night before in the night.

Master Yu wanted to laugh off the immature pranks at first, but in recent weeks the level of malevolence directed against the Yu-Ban school had increased alarmingly. Another student had been assaulted over the weekend by the Toscani school, bringing the list up to an even ten. Ever since the Toscani were dishonored by the revelation of their bribing the judge in their last contest, a blood feud had simmered quickly. The bad blood ran strong between the two schools, to Master Yu’s chagrin. His own students were young and hot-blooded, but their skills were nothing in the face of the treachery of the Toscani. He had begged them to remain calm in the face of their adversary’s childish behavior, but even kindly Master Wu had a limit. That limit was found bobbing pungently at the top of the shallow pond in the back of the school this morning.

“Well, sometimes fish just die Uncle,” said his nephew that morning, as his uncle clenched his knotty fists in decidedly un-Zen like calm. The small pond was sheltered by a small group of trees, planted when the school was new.

“Sometimes. But I would wager that if you were to taste that pond water, you would find it to be unusually salty.”

“…uhh how do you know how salty a koi pond usually tastes, Uncle?”

Master Yu stared On Pui down, until the teens eyes found something very interesting on the base of a mulberry tree. “Just go buy some more fish.”

On Pui often stepped on Master Yu’s lines when he was trying to be sagelike. It was irritating.

That morning, Master Yu buried the fish in the yard beneath the mulberry trees and tried to go about his day. He ventured forth into the bright sun for a quick stop to the corner market for a few groceries for his small kitchen in the rear of the school. A small bottle of iced tea, two cans of tuna, a bottle of soy sauce, a half gallon of milk. This last item he bought with great reluctance. Dairy products are commonly not consumed in Chinese culture. But though he was in fine shape for a man in his late fifties, Master Yu had grown older. He had come to fear the onset of osteoporosis as his middle age slowly meandered by. His nephew had sold him on many benefits of Western training –running for conditioning, weight training and the like- but the past he had resisted the most was the diet. Master Yu found milk to be cloying in his throat, the thick wetness not agreeing with his chi. He doubted that it did anything for his muscles or bones, but had to admit that his nephew grew taller than he or his brother had ever been when they were On Pui’s age. He had to accept that it may have been a direct result of the calcium and vitamin rich diet the boy had as a youth. Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

He pondered this thought idly as he turned down the alley to the back gate of his school, grateful for the momentary distraction from the troubles with the Toscani Tong. Perhaps, I will have a full glass today, he thought. Then grimly looking up at the hot sun, rethought it. “It is too hot for milk,” he said aloud as his free hand fumbled in a pocket for his keys.

“Talking to yourself, old man? That’s an early sign of…senility.” came a snide voice from behind him. Master Yu sensed something, and tilted his head gingerly. A black, ceramic blade thrummed as it planted itself into the fence at the back of the alley. Whirling around, he crouched slightly into a defensive stance to find himself facing his enemies.

The Toscani Tong.

The Toscani Tong ‘grandmaster’ stood at the end of the alley, flanked on either side by two of his students. With snakeskin vests atop their jet black gis and long, black hair pulled back into oily ponytails they stood, sneering and posturing in what they likely thought to be ‘cool’ poses. To a man, all members were oddly pudgy and unnaturally tanned.

Orange, even. This upstart school had taken the underground kung fu scene by storm months back, leaving several lesser schools in shambles after of harassing their opponents to their wits end, and then dominating their harried opponents in fixed contests. And now they had their sights on the Yu-Ban school. In regulated competition, the Toscani Tong’s opponents would generally be so frustrated by the bullying tactics of the Toscani that the uncentered fighters would leap headlong into the fight, only to be cruelly defeated shortly thereafter.

Their fighting style was unorthodox, primarily based on countering the attack of an opponent, followed by an array of brutal chops and punches. They would not kick for whatever reason, although young On Pui’s theory was that they were simply

unable to. And for all their oily ‘cool’ and devious behaviors, even Master Yu had to admit that they had in fact a formidable fighting style.

What he did not understand was why they had chosen to devote themselves so totally to Steven Seagal.

Zombie Road Test: Driving During the Zombie Apocalypse

2012-01-08T09:52:00.002-05:00

Keep it right at or just under the speed limit. Just because other drivers are driving faster than you, don’t think of it as a peer pressure thing. That also goes for when other drivers are driving on the wrong side of the road, or on lawns.

First thing: keep your hands at ten and two. You always want to keep your hands at ten and two. Both concentration’s sake, and also so if you need to react swiftly your hands are in the correct position. And we want to keep the windows up because the streets are teeming with the bloodthirsty living dead. Remember: concentration is key.

Okay, do you know what you did wrong there? No, in this case the last thing we need to do is come to a complete stop at a crosswalk. Remember: bloodthirsty living dead. If the road is clear, you should drive right along.

You can probably speed up a little.

Now, who has the right of way in this situation? That’s right, fire engines, police cars, and ambulances have the right of way. Moreso if the ambulance is on fire and careening wildly across the yellow line, like that one. That was very well done.

Hey, pay attention! You are the driver, you need to keep your eyes on the road and on your rear view mirrors and how fast you are driving! I will worry about the radio stations. It’s all the emergency broadcast system anyways.

Okay, you need to remember that in all cases the pedestrians have the right of way. Especially if they are housewives covered in blood, fleeing a horde of undead children.

Whoa! Hold on! You always, always need to come to a complete stop at an intersection! You could have hurt that man...oh, it’s one of them again. Why, God why? Why is this happening?! Is it judgment day?! Okay, I think we can let it slide this time.

In all situations you want to keep a full car’s length between your vehicle and anybody parked in front of you. Especially that convertible in front of us with the living dead all over it. Those poor fools. Those poor, damned fools. Why would you put the top down on a day like today? Why?!

Hands at ten and two!

DEATH BY TRUCKNUTZ

2012-01-05T15:59:00.001-05:00

Well, well. Kudos to you Special Agent Lopez. It’s been quite the journey for both of us, and here we are. Finally face to face. May I call you Jillian? After all, you obviously know so much about me. It’s almost as if we were old friends, no?

But yes, yes. You think you know everything, don’t you? Oh, but you’ve barely scratched the surface. Oh my, yes. Jillian, how many victims of mine have you accounted for? Really? Is that all? Well I’m afraid that I regret to inform you that I have some secrets yet to share. Mmm, oh yes.

Perhaps I shall start at the beginning. The first time happened in Ridgeland, Georgia. It was a late night when it happened. The road was wet from a passing squall, and I was quite tired as I drove my Prius along I-95. The calming tones of National Public Radio soothing me; I was simply minding my own business when all of a sudden a truck cut me off, red brake lights flashing like the devil’s eyes. The shock of the near collision sending me careening off into the breakdown lane. I shall never forget the experience. It was a massive, red pickup. Some kind of F-150 or what have you, some classic colossal penis substitute.

Jillian, I was quite upset by this set of events. A goodly portion of my emotion was certainly fear; some discomfort from my soiled briefs, but a majority was my blinding rage. After taking a moment to collect myself and replace my drawers, I pulled back onto the highway for a short time, and then pulled off in search of a rest stop.

And imagine my luck: at the very first rest stop I came across, there was that same big, red pickup truck. It was parked out behind a dilapidated truck stop, by a dumpster. I parked next to the truck immediately. I was going to give this man a piece of my mind!

The parking lot was deserted, it was quite late after all. But when I got out of the car and walked over to him, he walked by me brusquely; hitting my shoulder with his own. And he said under his breath: “Sorry about yore drivin’, faggot.”

Can you believe it? *I* was not the one who made the error! And why did he assume I was a homosexual? Because I drove a hybrid? Because I care, strongly about gas mileage and sustainability? I was enraged. Not only did this, this...primitive almost kill me on the interstate not ten minutes before, but now he laughs at me and insults me? I’d never felt such, I guess “road rage” before in my life.

It was then that my eyes fell upon them, hanging from his trailer hitch. They were bugglegum pink and they swayed slightly in the breeze, like a ripe peach. Or peaches, as the case may be.

I don’t know what came over me, Jillian. But I bent down, plucked his Trucknutz from beneath his bumper, and proceeded to beat him to death with them.

I went into a fugue state, I think. Everything went red and then white and then reality started to focus again and...there I was, crouched over his broken, bloodied face with a novelty scrotum clutched in my fist. And while you may think me mad, Jillian: as soon as I realized what I had done...I accepted it. I rejoiced. And I knew then what I must do.

To date, I have beaten men, women, and not a few children -teenagers, I mean to say- to death with every colored Trucknut in the rainbow. Green ones, red ones, blue ones, chrome ones, Trucknutz in gold leaf, camouflage, so many of the horrifying ‘flesh’ colored ones. They do not look like flesh, Jillian. at least...not my own.

Why was I never caught? Why, I would simply replace the bloodied bollocks to the trailer hub where I had gotten them and simply...leave. Hiding in plain sight? Not really. It’s just that most police feel the same thing, that most all people feel when they see a set of plastic testicles attached to a pickup truck. Revulsion. Put yourself in the shoes of your typical, rural policeman. It’s three in the morning, you’ve been ripped from your warm bed in your double-wide trailer from your three children (only the last of them born in wedlock), investigating a grisly murder in the pouring rain in the middle of the night in some godforsaken truckstop...”Oh well boy howdy, guess I’ll shine my flashlight around and look for some clues....say, what are those? BALLS? Gross. I’m gonna look over there now.”

Oh, does that sound stupid? But then again Jillian, how long had your special task force been searching for me? If you could go back in time, I’m sure you could find a great many unsolved murders and tie them around my neck if you were to check for fingerprints wrapped around the Truck ‘Vas Deferenz’ of those little plastic novelties.

But I grow weary of this. I know now, the mistake that I had made. There I was, driving the highways so late at night in an effort to fight my little class war all on my own...a losing battle, to be sure. And after so many nights attempting to cleanse the highways of these morons, I am certainly doomed to a life behind bars. And behind these bars, I shall likely find more men of the same caliber who felt that hanging artificial testicles from their vehicles to be so very clever.

I have no one to blame but myself, and only you to congratulate Special Agent Jillian Lopez. Yes, congratulations. Kudos to you. I’m sure you will receive the highest accolades from the FBI, no? perhaps even the President himself will congratulate you for your work. You may rest your weary head tonight, content in knowing that you have made the roads safe once again for people to drive about with plastic testicles.

But I also know this, Jillian. Every time you see a pair swinging from a trailer hitch, or crudly fixed with wire to the bumper of a Hyundai- you will think of me.

And now, I invoke my right to counsel.

TELEVISION

2012-01-04T20:54:00.000-05:00

I'm watching this show about hoarders on TLC. IT's horrible. The house is covered in trash and roaches and black widow spiders and used syringes and used sanitary napkins all over the place...it's pretty wild. But I watch, mildly.

And then a commercial for that Toddlers and Tiaras comes on, and to THAT I say aloud "fucking gross."

I don't know what this means.

THE ONLY LOGICAL ANSWER WAS ARSON

2012-01-04T09:35:00.002-05:00

The brothers got the call, and it was the worst possible one: they were trapped. The investigators from the bank had concluded their findings, completed their report, and turned it over to the federal prosecutors. So yes, they were completely trapped. After a long, long minute of painful, panicked silence they looked one another in the eyes; nodded and set to work tearing their office apart. Wordless and frantic; they ripped open reams of paper for the copier, tore apart an old dust-covered phone book, an old pile of newspapers in the break room, and seven packets of yellow and orange sticky notes. The torn papers they collected into haphazard twists and irregular bouquets which they flung throughout the office; into empty cubicles and the break room and the coat closet and the server room and finally back into their own office. Breathing heavily, the two stood at exit; staring around at the ruins of their doomed little empire. And then again without speaking a single word, they each lit themselves a twist of shredded papers and set the room ablaze.

MY ALLERGIES ARE KILLING ME

2012-01-03T13:42:00.003-05:00

Excuse me, sir? Sir. Would you and your date mind keeping it down a tad? No, you’re not being too loud. It’s just that I’m allergic to sarcasm.

There is no need for laughter. I’m not trying to be some kind of touchy-feely, New Age whiner. I’m not making some pedantic statement on human nature, a feeble attempt to comment on how I abhor our cruel, post-modern society and refuse to engage in it. No, your sarcasm is literally making me break out in hives. If you keep it up, my breathing will become labored, and then I will go into anaphylactic shock and perhaps expire.

Sir, I will have you know this is a legitimate allergy. I have had it confirmed as real by both an herbalist and by two out of three homeopaths. This is my life, a constant struggle. I’ve lived with this my entire life, and let me tell you. It has not been a picnic.

There, right there. “So you’re allergic to sarcasm?” Do you see the red bumps that are breaking out on my forearms? That was not helpful. The very tone of your voice, that inflection on the word ‘sarcasm’ was enough to start the process. And now, the hives.

It first happened when I was in middle school. We were coming back in from gym class, and I slipped on the wet tiles in the locker room. I didn’t fall, but I remember Paul McHenry shouted out “Oh, smooth move Ex-Lax!” and I fell to the ground with my throat closed up and my eyes swelling shut.

And then again in high school, school picture day. “Hey, I really like the new look. That’s super cool. Maybe next time you should try and do them so that they touch in the back.” How was I to know that the lines shaved in my temples were off-center? And how about a little bit of empathy, huh? It’s not my fault that my mom couldn’t find the ruler. I nearly died that day. Thankfully, I had started carrying an epipen when I was fourteen.

At least on most occasions, I know when it’s sarcasm so I can put a pencil between my teeth to help with the seizures. But college was tougher. A much smarter class of people, half of the time they were being sarcastic and I didn’t even realize it. I had a professor who took me to task on a term paper I had written. “Why yes, I suppose that Plato’s Cave could have illustrated man’s sense of imagination while addressing the very nature of education as well.” Writ in a pen as red as my inflamed cheeks and sinuses.

I didn’t know he was being sarcastic until I was editing my essay in the library later that evening. I ended up projective vomiting for two days and ended up in hospital.

We settled out of court with the university.

Sir, I’m trying to explain it to you. I will stay in my apartment for days at a time, trying to avoid people so I won’t even have to risk encountering any sarcastic comments. I try and restrict most all of my social transactions through the internet, because they say that sarcasm doesn’t translate through the internet as well.

But you know what? It surely does. They lie. A single comments page on Youtube might kill me one of these days. I’d trade this for the worst peanut allergy any day of the week. They have to label foods to warn you about peanut allergies. I wish they could label websites.

Worst of all are the paramedics. I guess they call it gallows humor, but I call it singularly unhelpful. Their attitudes might help them deal with the pressures of their job, but you would think that if they came to my home on a monthly or weekly basis that they would understand not to say things like “Oh, what happened? Were the Geek Squad mean to you again?” Or “Good to see you again!” Yes, I know that tone. Perhaps if they could develop the slightest modicum of empathy for my ailment they wouldn’t have to drag that crash cart to my third floor walk up.

Thank you, it really does feel like I’m the only person in the world with problems. It really is hard to live like this. Thank you for understanding.

...wait, what?

I'M NO JANE AUSTEN

2012-01-01T08:47:00.003-05:00

I mean hell, I'm not even a Harlequin romance novelist.

THE SUN SETS ON PASSION

“Master Wentworth? Please come here,” shouted Penelope, her voice ringing out as loudly and clear as a crystal bell. “I have...need of you.” She smiled coquettishly to herself at the last; her rosy cheeks turning rosier at her saucy double entendre, her deep green eyes looking downwards. One hand drifted up to snag a dangling crimson ringlet, and twisted idly as she waited nervously. No answer came, and her smile faded away as she grew fearful. Was she too late? Did she wait too long to come? Had her beloved absconded with that accursed schoolmarm?

But then Penelope heard the roar of the toilet in the water closet and she smiled, her hopes soaring once again. Her slight smile erupted into a breathy gasp as the door opened. Charles Wentworth the Fourth emerged from the steaming bathroom, clad in naught but a fluffy, white towel with turtles on it. His broad, hairy chest was dripping with moisture, his thick, lustrous auburn hair wet and flat and with not a little bit of foam from his shampoo. “Penelope? Why...I...I mean, milady Swaddlesworth.” he said, straightening his broad back and shoulders. “Milady. How might I be of service?”

“Oh, Charles. Haven’t you had enough of these silly games?” Her lips spread in a broad smile, but her eyes sought his, pleading. Charles lifted his spectacles from a counter inside the bathroom door and furiously tried to wipe the steam from them to return her questing gaze. “Charles, I cannot pretend any longer. You have served our family long enow! The time has come for us to do away with the charades, and the games, and the charades and the games that we play for the sake of propriety, damnable propriety. I love you, Charles. And I know that you love me.”

Charles blinked, gasped. His mighty adam’s apple bobbing in that well-muscled throat with delighted surprise as like an apple bobs upon the sea. “Milady...oh, Penelope. I have so longed to hear such words...from you! From you.” He stepped forward, eyes squinted against the soapy water that now streamed down his broad forehead.

She went to him, ample bosom heaving. “Charles, I cannot live another moment without the touch of your lips against mine. I am like a turtle, to always see the sea but never to drink deep of it!”

“Well, turtles can breathe air,” replied Charles, wrapping his powerfully built arms around her waist, his grip warm with lust and bathwater.

“A tortoise then! Oh dear Charles, ever the tutor! Kiss me, dearest Charles! Oh, do kiss me!”

And he did, his lips crushing down upon hers as the sunset does upon the distant horizon. They kissed long and hard, sharing hot, gasping breaths and unpleasant, painful flinches as their front teeth clicked together.

Lost in passion, Penelope tried to speak again, but for Charles broad tongue stifling her lusty dialogue. Soon, he turned his attention to the soft angles of her neck, her ear. As he nuzzled her she gasped in ecstasy as his breath rasped in her ear, deafening her. “Charles, oh my darling Charles.” She pressed her face into his wet hair, to breathe in his scent but instead inhaled a small amount of stinging shower foam. She gasped again, this time in pain as the soap ran into her left eye, but Charles could not tell the difference.

He pulled away from her abruptly, and gazed deeply into her one open eye with his two brown ones, deep and soulful. His manhood was pressed painfully against her hoop skirt, but he did not care. He tenderly caressed her face with his left hand, a tender smile passing across his lips. “Penelope...” he murmured; trailing into silence as he had forgotten what he was going to say next.

Charles reached up with his big right hand and grasped the front of her bodice and tore at it savagely to free her heaving bosom. But they did not reckon on the sturdy fibers of her dress resisting his manly grasp, and instead of freeing her heaving breasts Charles instead jerked her back and forth violently, like a lovely rag doll in the fists of a petulant child. “Stop...STOP! I’ll do it already! ...beloved...” snapped Penelope, lovingly.

She fiddled with the laces and snaps and buttons and hooks of her dress, and within mere minutes she was naked. Soft pink and freckled flesh, she pressed her flesh against Charles’ own, her wet lips dancing across his chest hairs. She longed to kiss each and every one, though this task would take her a lifetime as he was quite the burly man. He moaned softly in pleasure, as he gently cupped her broad buttocks; one in each hand. He handled them gently but firmly, as the baker handles his loaves. Tender and patient, but at the same time knowing that a good, firm kneading was the way to do it.

“Charles, dearest Charles! I can take it no longer! Take me! I beseech you my darling, take me right here! Right now! Take me! Make me yours! Oh my love, I need to feel you, every bit of you! I need you! I want you! You tempt me so, I adore you I ADORE you! I love you, oh how I love you! Oh darling Charles, take me, make me a woman! Complete me, ravish me, love me! I can wait no longer! I need you now, no more waiting, take me now! I love you so, I need you so, take me!” she begged him, words tumbling over one another like snowflakes above a roaring fireplace.

“Yes!” he replied.

He lifted her then, his damp and cold towel falling unwanted to the floor about his ankles. stumbling a little over his towel, Charles laid her gently upon the bed and then pressed himself upon her, their lips and tongues dancing together like a pair of locomotives dancing in and out of their tunnels.

He pressed himself down onto her, into her and met her eyes. “I have longed for this moment for longer than I think you could ever know, dearest Penelope.” he whispered, again caressing her cheek softly with the blade of his hand. A broad smile crossed her lips as she hooked her ankles around his waist.

Ribbons of ecstasy tickling their souls, the purest pleasure of their congress vibrating through their physical forms as their hearts and minds soared on waves of joy. And then they were off, suddenly merged into one perfect being. A being made of two souls, molded into one purest form by a lifetime of longing and stolen glances, by years of unrequited love. In this moment, both Penelope and Charles were finally complete, were finally together. Those broad, gaping holes in their hearts were finally filled with the warm, pulsing light of love. In that moment, the couple knew purest happiness.

And then that moment passed, and in the next moment Charles’ body was wracked with spasms of more personal pleasure a tenfold more intense than the shared pleasure that they had both experienced a moment ago. Charles shook with the intensity of this feeling, his jaw clicking open and shut with its force. Small bubbles of spit formed and popped at his mouth, raining down onto Penelope’s sweaty breasts in tiny droplets of saliva.

And then it was done, Charles collapsing heavily onto Penelope’s suddenly rigid form. “Oh my darling, my darling! Sweetest Penelope, I never knew such bliss.” He wept now, his body limp and spent. “Such rapture! In all of my lonely years in this land, I have not felt such passion but in the deepest throes of secret, sweaty dreams. My love, my love! Tell me my love, tell me that you share this blessed euphoria!”

After a moment, Penelope replied. “...yeah, great."

The Year in Pictures! Well, part of the year. And a few pictures.

2011-12-31T09:10:00.000-05:00

From the Big Picture!

WITHOUT THE FUNNY CARTOON NOISES

2011-12-31T08:03:00.001-05:00

I obviously didn't see it when it happened, but the paramedic told me on the way to the emergency room that I had slipped on a banana peel and fallen down a flight of stairs. A banana peel. I could even see the guy trying to hide his smile, and why not? I took a header down a flight of concrete stairs because I slipped on a banana peel like I was Tom and fucking Jerry. It's almost like I fell out straight out of a cartoon, but instead of bouncing off the sidewalk with an invisible tuba playing I broke my hip. But me, slipping and falling because of a banana peel? Man, that's something else. I'm not just a horrible injured man now, I'm a story to tell, a myth made clumsy flesh. If it hadn't happened to me, I'd be smirking at the cliche in action just like he had. I silently resolved to piss on his hand if he tried to put a catheter in me. And of course, if I had the bladder control.

THE BEST BARBECUE/LOVEMAKING TIPS ON THE INTERNET

2011-12-30T08:15:00.001-05:00

The fires of your passion will burn bright, so be sure to step back at least three feet when you light the charcoal.

As far as tenderizing goes, be sure to tenderly but thoroughly massage from top to bottom with your fingertips. This will break down and soften the muscle fibers and lead to a more tender piece of ass.

Make sure that you listen. Be caring, loving, attentive. That salmon fillet will dry out in a second if you’re not paying close attention.

Know how long to let things marinate. You don’t want it sitting in that mixture of jasmine and rose water for too long. Nobody likes pruney, wrinkled skin.

Keep it lubricated! Use a dampened paper towel to liberally brush vegetable oil evenly across your grill/lover.

Try not to flip it too often.

And remember: once the internal temperature has reached 130 degrees or you have been wildly pounding against your lovers loins- be sure to let it rest to preserve the natural juices.

EXPLANATIONS AND MOTIVATIONS

2011-12-28T12:02:00.000-05:00

REASONS I TRY THIS:

1) Sanity. Doing this will help me organize my thoughts. During the day I don't have people to talk to (FUNemployed!) aside from my six-month old kid and two cats who were sadly not gifted with the power of speech.

2) Practice. see here: I wrote a little bit of this piece right here. That's me, talking about weird eggs I have eaten. It was posted directly on the internet! Right through the tubes! And I would very much like to have more of this sort of thing happen. So I figure if I can write semi-regularly here, then I will only improve my writing, which will then only improve my chances of getting more of my words on the internet in places that aren't Reddit or mischievous Wikipedia edits.

THINGS I WILL DO HERE:

A) Post silly things. Some of these silly stories might be things that were rejected by others, some will be original things I think of on my own. All on my own! Aren't I a big boy? Aren't I?

B) Find things to complain about, and complain. For Andy Rooney is dead, and with him gone; produce can't complain about itself.

C) Write in complete sentences. You don't see too much of that these days.

THINGS I WOULD LIKE YOU TO DO

Read my words. They have been arranged in a specific order that I hope you will find pleasing to the eye and mind. I welcome criticism so long as there is more to it than the 'you suck' variety. If that is the gist of it, try and stretch it out into a paragraph for me. It's the least you can do.

THE CLASSIC ENTREPENEUR SPEAKS

2011-12-28T09:47:00.001-05:00

In late nineteen ninety and four, I was in a small crafts shoppe buying five pounds of paraffin. Never mind for what. That’s not what this story is about, friend. You mind your own.

On a whim, I picked up a small, floppy brown rat from a bin at the counter. Not a real rat. Use your head. No kind of reputable crafts shoppe would leave a container teeming with rodents right by the cash register. Man, you kids today. It was a rat made of felt and filled with beans.

I was thinking of perhaps giving it to my neighbor's granddaughter or grandson (whatever the little screaming ragamuffin is) in the hopes of getting back on their Christmas card list, which was itself the first step back into that sweet, sweet fruitcake circle. There's nothing dirty there, get your mind out of the gutter. I'm just a big fan of candied cherries and suet.

I bought that little stuffed rat for the low, low price of two dollars and twenty cents. And then not eight months later into 1995, I turned that little rat around for triple the price. Yes, six dollars and sixty-six cents. And that was when I knew that I was on to something big. Something huge.

Now I'd been fooled before. I have a closet packed with regret down the hall both as an investor and as a man. I've got a couple dozen commemorative coins in a shoebox back there. I'll always hate the 1984 Olympics, just so’s you know. Charles and Diana fucked me over pretty good, those ‘forever in love’ tea sets are just collecting dust now. DUST. And I was eating off of the George H.W. Bush collector’s plates for nearly a year until the lead poisoning hit me. Thanks for nothing, Parade Magazine.

But this Beanie Baby thing? Friend; that was cake. I rode that Beanie Baby thing all the way to the bank, and I rode it hard and I put it away wet. Believe you that, my friend. I was making money hand over fist, dollars and cents like you wouldn't believe. That was upside-down pineapple cake, my friends. I made a small fortune out of those cute little cloth pieces of shit. My secret- I had an in with the source. Mrs. Gertie Tinker. Small business owner. Senior citizen. War widow. Crazy as a shithouse rat. I went to war with her husband back in the big one, all I had to tell her was "Well Gertie, we need felt for the war effort." and all I'd get in return was a healthy "Fuck the Krauts!" and I was up to my elbows in dogs, cats, birds, ponies, bears, the cuter reptiles, all of it.

My old job in insurance? I quit it. I had a corner market on the lonely housewife market and it is a sweet, sweet place to be I tell you. I'd be clearing at least six, seven, eight extra dollars every single time. In the peak times, we're talking double digit sales. Double. Digits. Friend. My profits are in the high three digit range. No, it’s not a fad! Shut your yap. do you know what you’re doing? Do you know what you are doing right now? You are literally arguing with success.

God, you damn kids.

So here I am, sitting pretty in nineteen ninety and ninety six when I find this peculiar little thing inside of my USA Today. It had fallen off the rack by the cash register and gotten into the folds of my paper, this little green and white plastic jobby, hanging off of a keychain. Well, that little green jobby was what is known as a 'Tamagotchi' and tell you what friend, in it I see the beginnings of my second fortune.

See, over in Japan they got all sorts of little electronical devices to pass the time with. Mostly those damn video games, but this...this seems some kind of different. Instead of some Italian jumping on vegetables this one is a lot less complicated. A little froggy that you have treat like a real pet. You gotta feed it or play with it and take it on little electronic walks for electric shits. If you didn’t do half that stuff every fifteen minutes it dies.

Can you believe that?

Proven fact, friend. I know the collectible market. I’m a proven success, I have like a fifth sense working for me. You know what kind of price margin there is on a digital frog in a plastic keychain? One that poops? Kids love poop. Women love little animals. I was right about the Beanie Babies, I’ll be raking in the loot off of those little bastards well into the next century. You can’t argue with success, much as you might want to try.

When I quit my job in insurance, they said “You’re crazy! How are you gonna live?” And you know what I told them? “I am going to live large.” And I kept that promise. I’ve got a condo in Tucson that’ll be fully paid for by the Beanie Babies alone by about 2002. When you throw in the Tamagotchi money I’m gonna be raking in, I’m pretty sure that I can afford that extra-long carport.

Yes, my friend. Life is good. I’m proud of what I’ve done here, I think I’m a classic american success story. I don’t wanna pat myself on the back too much, though. You asked me, I told you. That’s all. On my tombstone, let it be written: “a felt rat, filled with beans.” I think that says it all.