Yippee!

Good news from Middle Earth.

Noooooooooooo!

Shit.

Good, Clean Fun

Can you guess which person doesn't find this picture hilarious?

(Hint: He only has one hand!)

Three Years Later...

John Kerry finally grows a pair.

Would have been nice to see this side of Kerry when it actually would have mattered.

Not Politics

Just go play at FreeRice.com, expand your vocabulary and help address world hunger.

Sometimes I believe that the man was put on this earth only to vex me

I mean, how else could you explain this video? Sorry, Mr. President, you're absolutely correct. I certainly can't think of a single error that has been made. Nope, not one.

Now, I always thought that if there was a Republican president, at the very least we could enjoy some sort of fiscal responsibility. At least, that's how they try and spin it, when, for example, President Bush accuses Congress of going on a "spending spree."

Really? Pots and kettles, maybe? Just look at this graph:



It looks like the only President that has been able to slow the growth of the Federal Debt is that rascally liberal, President Clinton. After Bush took office, it seems like the debt took a good dose of Viagra.

OK, I can handle this. Only 430 more days of being vexed.

I don't know if this is accurate or not

And I don't really care. I just think it's funny:

What did we do to deserve this President?

Man, he's annoying.

At a talk before the Heritage Foundation, Bush likened Congress to those who ignored Lenin and Hitler, and warned that they should spend more time listening to terrorists than MoveOn.org.

There are so many ways to go with this.

Bush on Hitler:

In the 1920s, the world ignored the words of Hitler, as he explained his intention to build an Aryan super-state in Germany, take revenge on Europe, and eradicate the Jews — and the world paid a terrible price.

When he's talking about people ignoring Hitler, does he mean people like his own grandfather?

Wait, that is a tenuous connection, and doesn't really have anything to do with Bush himself, so maybe we should go a different route: Hitler rose to power by solidifying power in the executive branch, while continually nudging the German constitution out of the way until it became meaningless. Gee, who do we know who acts like that?

Bush on bin Laden:

When it comes to funding our troops, some in Washington should spend more time responding to the warnings of terrorists like Osama bin Laden and the requests of our commanders on the ground and less time responding to the demands of MoveOn.org bloggers and Code Pink protesters.

We should spend more time worrying about bin Laden, huh? So, which video will make your stomach churn more, this one, or this one?

Is there anything that Bush does that doesn't reek of irony?

---

Addendum: I watched the Kerry/Bush video again, and it made me wonder: How many people who voted in 2004 actually voted for a candidate? How many people were actually energized by the candidate themselves? I would guess that most people who voted were either voting for their party, or against the guy they disliked the most. Please, somebody with more life experience than I have tell me when there was a Presidential election with two less likable candidates.

Something Horrible

While looking at the search phrases used to find my other blog, I found a curious one: "milena -velba"

So, I wondered, why would somebody want to search on the name "milena", but explicitly not want to find any sites that also have the name "velba"? Could it be that bad?

Well, the answer is frightening. Please don't click on this link.

Memeorific!

Mean Mr. Mustard tagged me. That was nice of him.

1. Name one person who made you laugh last night.
James McAvoy - nobody has ever milked the old getting-hung-in-the-air-suspended-by-meat-hooks-piercing-your-body gag for more laughs. A rare genius.

2. What were you doing at 0800?
Searching for pictures of James McAvoy being tortured.

3. What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
Eating French Toast.

4. What happened to you in 2006?
According to my other blog, I had a chair fixed.

5. What was the last thing you said out loud?
"Kelson, get back here! I asked for a Killian's, not a Schell's Dark!"

6. How many beverages did you have today?
Milk, coffee, one Killian's Red, one Schell's Dark. Four

7. What color is your hairbrush?
I think it's blue.

8. What was the last thing you paid for?
My last purchase was at Target yesterday. The last thing put in the cart was extra long matches. I'm wild that way.

9. Where were you last night?
At home.

10. What color is your front door?
Wood-colored gray.

11. Where do you keep your change?
Above the refrigerator.

12. What’s the weather like today?
It's creeping towards 50 degrees now, and should top off at 70. Which means that I will be forced to bring the kids outside to play.

13. What’s the best ice-cream flavor?
Chunky Monkey. Just because.

14. What excites you?
Memes.

15. Do you want to cut your hair?
Always.

16. Are you over the age of 25?
Duh.

17. Do you talk a lot?
No.

18. Have you watched any television series, regularly, to which you be ashamed to admit your regular viewership? What was your favorite episode?
CSI:Miami. I loved the episode where Horatio tilted his head, and in a very touching and heartfelt manner told the child/young boy/distraught young woman that "You're safe now."/"Nobody will hurt you again."/"I won't let that happen."

19. Do you know anyone named Steven?
When I was a junior in high school, our basketball team was able to have five Steve's on the court at a time. Does that make me cool?

20. Do you make up your own words?
Frequently. For example, I just told Kelson that I was having a "meme-tastic" time.

21. Are you a jealous person?
Why? Should I be? What are you telling me? Is there something I should know? Michelle!!!!

22. Name a friend whose name starts with the letter ‘A’.
Arthur. (wait, was it supposed to be a friend of mine?)

23. Name a friend whose name starts with the letter ‘K’.
Kevin.

24. Who’s the first person on your received call list?
That's the cell phone thing, right? Probably a wrong number.

25. What does the last text message you received say?
I actually got a text message from my brother with a picture of his newest baby. And I even knew how to look at it, because I'm techno-savvy.

26. Do you chew on your straw?
If I know what you mean?

27. Do you have curly hair?
Pervert.

28. Where’s the next place you’re going to?
Grocery store. Whoopee.

29. Who’s the rudest person in your life?
Me. I'm a bastard.

30. What was the last thing you ate?
French Toast. (Or, as I first typed it with my right hand in the wrong place: "Frebcg Tiast")

31. Will you get married in the future?
I sure as hell hope not.

32. What’s the best movie you’ve seen in the past 2 weeks?
Last King of Scotland. Just last night.

33. Is there anyone you like right now?
As a general rule, I hate people. But there are some exceptions. Just to cover my bases, I'll say this: "I like you."

34. When was the last time you did the dishes?
Stop. You're killing me.

35. Are you currently depressed?
I'm getting closer.

36. Did you cry today?
OK, now I'm depressed.

37. Why did you answer and post this?
Because I'm depressed.

38. Tag 5 people who would do this survey.
The only person I know who blogs and visits my blog (and hasn't done this already) is BiggTree, so I'll pointlessly tag him. I'll tag Michelle, too, since she doesn't have a blog but can read her answers out loud to the poodles.

AND, feel free to change out one of these questions for anything else you want to ask and answer.

More People To Kill

In an unsurprising move, President Bush appointed somebody opposed to contraception to head a Health and Human Services post responsible for overseeing the nations contraception programs. The only way to reconcile his senseless opposition to birth control with his indifference to the number of people killed in Iraq is that he is worried that he might run out of people to kill.

Got to keep supply up, ya know!

Funny

What a comment stream would look like in a meeting. (Some vulgarity)

Worthless Post

I haven't posted anything in a while, so I will just put up this worthless link that you probably don't want to click on.

Fortunate One

We had Chinese tonight. It was yummy. The best part, of course, is the delicious fortune cookies that you get with the meal. I highly recommend W & F Fortune Cookies. My fortune was incredibly poignant:

Art misunderstanding by calm, poise and balance.

Eli's was just disturbing:

Behind an able man, there are always other able men.

Mark me down for not wanting to be able!

Nobel Prize, here I come!

I have just made what will certainly become one of the greatest scientific/theological breakthroughs of our time. And, lucky for you, I am willing to share this.

We humans have, in our noses, a vomeronasal organ (commonly referred to as the Jacobson's Organ). Unfortunately for us, it either does very little or nothing at all. However, in many mammals, it is used to detect pheromones, chemical messengers that carry information between individuals of the same species.

Now, humans were created in God's image. This means that God also has a Jacobson's Organ. And, since God is perfect, this means that His works.

If God is perfect, then nothing that He has would be useless, which means that His Jacobson Organ has to be put to use. And what does He do with it? He detects pheromones from other individuals of the same species.

Ah ha! This tells us, clearly and without any question, that there are other gods! I have proven that we live in a polytheistic universe! All hail God and his ... friends? (Hey, I am only claiming to discover that there are more gods, I'm not the expert on identifying who they are or how they are related to God.)

Anyway, I think this proof is pretty simple, but to dumb it down even more, check this out:

1. Humans have a Jacobson's Organ.
2. Humans were created in God's image, which means that He has a Jacobson's Organ.
3. God is perfect, so His Jacobson's Organ functions.
4. The Jacobson's Organ detects pheromones from individuals of the same species.
5. God is a member of a species which has more individuals.
6. There are more Gods.
7. QED.

I don't know if they offer a Nobel Prize in Theology, but I should get one. (Plus, I went to the best Swedish immigrant founded college in the world, so I should get points for that!)

Since I am an honest guy, I should warn you that you should try and buddy up to me now. Once this theory hits the big time and I become a world famous celebrity, I'm going to dump all my old friends and find newer, cooler ones. Sorry, that's just the way I roll.

So, try and poke a hole in this theory if you can. I have thought about it for many minutes, and am certain that it is as solid as any theological argument I've ever seen. All my research is solid, and the conclusion is incontrovertible. I'm positive that you now see the world in a significantly different way then you did ten minutes ago. It might be difficult to adjust to this new world we are in, but follow my lead, be strong, and we'll get through it together.

Well, not together - I'll be getting through it with my newer, cooler friends.

Thieves! Crooks! Charlatans!

I hate it when people pilfer my work, as some hack AP photographer named Sherrie Peif has done. Haven't I established conclusively that people looking fondly at deer is my area of expertise? I at least should have been credited.

Life is so unfair.

Eye opening

I sure am glad that CNN.com bumped this column by some doofus named Roland Martin to their front page. It's not written particularly well, has no new ideas, is self-congratulatory, builds straw men, and isn't worth the pixels that display it.

Obviously I have no good reasons for determining what gets put on this crappy blog.

Completely Random Post

For some bizarre reason I had a flashback recently, of a Minnesota Twins player who had a long hitting streak to start his career, and then got hurt and had his season end early. I couldn't remember who it was, but knew it was in the past couple of years. So I went to the only place I ever go to find useless baseball statistics, baseball-reference.com.

After some looking, I found the page for Glenn Williams. Called up in June of 2005, he played thirteen games for the Twins, getting a hit in each one. Then he was hurt, and hasn't returned to the majors yet (he's playing for the Twins AAA club).

If you check out his career game log, you'll see that he is a career .425 hitter, and has a hit in every single major league game he's played. Has any baseball player ever had to fight their way through the minor league system just to get the opportunity to continue a hit streak?

Oh wait, he's Australian. That explains everything.

YouTube is great

Love it

Al Gore III was busted for driving 100 mph and having illegal substances in his car. The great part about the story though? He was driving a Prius.

At least he isn't going to make dad look bad on that count.

Speaking of politics

And people who make you sick.

I love Warren Buffett

A rich man who knows his place in the world.

“The 400 of us [here] pay a lower part of our income in taxes than our receptionists do, or our cleaning ladies, for that matter. If you’re in the luckiest 1 per cent of humanity, you owe it to the rest of humanity to think about the other 99 per cent.”

He is a Democrat because Republicans are more likely to think: “I’m making $80 million a year – God must have intended me to have a lower tax rate.”

Wouldn't it be cool to have a political party that you're actually proud to be a part of, instead of trying to figure out which group of people you despise the least?

Anyway, the full article about Buffett is here.

Now, this is important

$4475.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth

Thank you, thank you very little...

We just got a brilliant thank you card. The son of one of my wife's co-workers is getting married, and we sent them a wedding gift. Not wanting to seem cheap, we gave them a pretty nice gift - one of those new-fangled digital picture frames. A nifty little thing.

It was in an odd shaped package, so we needed to find a box the right size. After much searching, we found an old box, wrapped up the gift, and sent it off.

Today we get the thank you card from them:

"Thank you for the unique excercise equipment. We'll need it after our long vacation."

Huh? Wait a second... the box we used to package the gift was from something we bought a couple of years ago, a VersaDisc balance training tool.

Great. They're thinking that we bought them some cheap, bizarre exercise thing, and are probably carelessly tossing around a box that contains some electronic equipment. They most likely unwrapped the present, saw the box, and thought "What cheapskates!"

The strange thing is that everybody knows that you give a VersaDisc to a mother at a baby shower, to help her get rid of that extra baby fat. She should have known that it isn't appropriate for a wedding.

Sigh.

Some things are important to know

For example, one Tom Cruise is equal to the weight of 45.36 chickens.

More weird conversions here.

It makes me both happy and proud

to know that somebody Googled "erotic harry potter ginny weasly" and found my blog. Specifically, my review of The Half-Blood Prince.

I'm actually second on the results list for that search. The key to that, of course, is misspelling "Weasley."

It's Friday, so I give you this

Top Ten Ways to Destroy the Earth

You don't get too many surprises these days

However, the level to which people will sink to avoid responsibility can provide a shock. The father of John Hancock (the St. Louis Cardinals pitcher who recently died in a car accident) is suing those who are truly responsible for John's death. That list includes the tow truck driver and the person whose car stalled.

Let's see, should the blame rest with the person who was drunk, speeding, not buckled, had marijuana in his car and was talking on a cell phone, or a tow truck driver who took an exorbitant amount of time to get a stalled car off the road.

(Oh yeah, an "exorbitant amount of time" is somewhere between seven and fifteen minutes.)

How pathetic.

Good news!

According to Salary.com, a typical stay-at-home mother would earn over $138,000 for her work (if she was actually paid). Factoring in the standard wage increase for being male, that means that Michelle owes me almost $160,000.

I'm not sure if I should tell her now, or bank up the money for a few years first.

If I still had a blog

I'd probably post something snarky about this.

Google is Cool

Look at step number 23 on Google Maps' directions on getting from New York, NY to Paris, France.

It made me smile.

(not as much as Firefly, but still...)

Huh

If Neil Gaiman can get a movie made, why not Chris Moore?

I love Gmail

I especially love the context sensitive ads.

Prediction

Since it is intuitively obvious to the most casual observer that I am the greatest future-teller (I don't like to go by "soothsayer", as it sounds too similar to "sleuth-slayer", and I would hate to be considered a new-age Dr. Moriarty) in the modern world, I shall once again astonish and amaze you with a prediction. Set your alarms to mid-February, 2008, at which point you will be able to marvel at the accuracy of this claim:

When Paolo Nutini does not win Best New Artist at the 2008 Grammy Awards, I will be outraged. Outraged!

Your Next President of the United States of America!

I'm sure you've seen this by now, but it's always good for another view.

Christmas Came Early

I was in my local library picking up a book for Michelle (Pilgrim, by Sara Douglass), and just happened to see this staring at me:

I have been out of the Christopher Moore loop for a while, so I didn't even realize he had a new book out. It's one thing to get a book you've been waiting for, but it's something quite different to have the perfect book magically appear out of thin air.

And it was, of course, delightful.

It was one bright spot in my otherwise dreary, pitiful, horrid existence.

Corner Diner

Here's a happy tale I wrote. It probably has some kind of deep metaphysical, spiritual or scatological meaning. Let me know what it is.

Corner Diner

The door shuts with a bang as a Jerry Craznic enters my diner from the Fourth Street entrance. A rush of cold air follows him in, rustling the top pages of the newspapers beside the door. He flips shut his cell phone and pockets it as he takes his normal booth by the old jukebox. I can't help but smile. He's a bright, strong, good looking guy. I get lots of business men and women, impatient and demanding, but Jerry is always calm and relaxed.

“How's your kid, Judy?” he asks me. He always asks me that.

“Conner's fine. He's doing really well.”

It's a lie, of course. Conner isn't doing well at all. The chemo has destroyed lots of things – his hair, his appetite, the little savings I had – but the tumor is still healthy.

“What can I get you, Jerry?” I ask, coming over to his table. I place a white paper placemat in front of him, and place the silverware, wrapped in a napkin, on top. I take out my order pad, but don't bother with a pen, since I never need to write the orders down. Not even sure why I hold the pad anymore.

“Just some dessert tonight. How about a slice of apple pie and a cup of decaf.”

I nod to him and head behind the counter. Get a mug, pour the coffee. Get a plate, uncover the pie tin, dish the pie. How many times have I served pie and coffee on a late night?

I bring the plate and cup over. “Here you go, Jer.” He gives me one of his smiles, his eyes looking right into mine. For a second I imagine a different life – Jerry taking care of us, maybe at a resort somewhere with a beach next to some clear blue water. Conner digging in the sand while Jerry and I lay on beach towels, hand in hand. Conner and I could use that. Heck, we deserve that.

Yeah, right. People don't get what they deserve. Life doesn't work that way.

I sigh and turn away. The customer at Table 5 gets up and begins to put on his coat. “Thanks a lot,” he says, “Keep the change.” He's a large man. No, let's be honest - he's a fat man, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. Probably pushing forty, slightly balding. Wearing a fading blue jacket that was once expensive and new. He starts walking quickly towards the door.

Meat loaf meal, glass of Coke, slice of pie, cup of coffee. The bill was eleven fifty. “Keep the change” probably means he left thirteen bucks. If I'm really lucky all he had was a five and a ten, that would get me a three and a half dollar tip. Sometimes fat guys tip well after pie. Must do something to their brains.

I cross over to his table, nodding to the man as we pass. “Have a nice night.” He looks straight ahead and struggles with the zipper on his jacket as he walks to the door. The cash is under the ticket, it looks like two bills, and there's a five on top. A smile comes to my face as I reach towards the table, but the smile disappears when I realize the second bill is a one. Six bucks! He stiffed me! I turn around, looking for him, just as the door slams shut.

______________________________________________________

Rush out the door and take a left out of the diner. Jog down the street and turn left onto Sixth Avenue, shove my hands into pockets and hunch my shoulders, trying to keep the cold night air from my neck.

What did I just do? I've never stolen anything in my life. She's just a waitress, but at least she's got a job. She can afford it more than I can. Hell, it's not like I didn't leave her anything.

“Hey! Where'd you go?” I hear a woman's shout faintly. I huddle against a doorway, looking down the street, but nobody comes. She's not coming after me. How did it get this way? Stealing meat loaf from a diner? I had it. I had it – good job, nice house, kids, money. Now look at me.

It's that damn Simmons. I'll never forget the look on his face when he let me know they were laying me off. He knew it wasn't fair, but he always had it in for me. He was sitting in his office, wearing one of his stupid turtlenecks under one of his stupid sports coats.

“Scott is taking classes to get his Master's degree, and Brad picked up on the new technologies really quickly,” he said. Suck ups. If I had kissed ass like those two did, I'd still be there. I might not have gone to as many training courses, and I didn't come in as early or stay as late as they did, but I worked hard.

And then he says I could come back, but with less pay as a second shift maintenance technician. Second shift! How was I ever going to see my kids if I was working evenings?

Damn it. Tonight was Lexi's dance recital. Margie said that if I forgot again she wouldn't let me know when Lexi or Tyler have events. Shit! That damn Simmons! He put all this stress on me, and now I'm forgetting my kids.

Margie's going to try and take my weekends away, too. She always wants to make me look bad to the kids. I've got to find a job. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be my day. And once things are back on track for me, I'll go back to that diner and give the waitress a big tip.

I start walking again. I'll find some flowers for Lexi, bring them to her tomorrow. I'll tell her how sorry I am. Buy her ice cream or something. I think she likes ice cream. She's got to like ice cream. What kid doesn't?

The street is quiet, empty. The shops are closed, and the only light comes from a street lamp across the street. The lamp on my side is burned out, and I hug the wall, trying to stay in the shadows.

Suddenly I feel a body up against me, pushing me into a dark doorway.

“Just give me your money. Now. Hurry up!”

I'm being mugged? What is there to take? “Listen, I don't have any money. I'm broke. Please leave me alone.”

He's got my back pushed against a wall, one hand on my chest. He's not a big guy, but he's strong. I can't tell what he looks like in the darkness. He pushes my chest hard, I catch my breath. “I ain't in the mood for no shit, Fatty. Give me your damn money!”

Oh, God. I'm not built for this. I've never been in a fight in my life. This guy is going to kill me. My eyes close. “Please. Please. Please.” Warmth runs down my left leg.

The pressure is removed from my chest. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The man is still there but he's backed up a step. I begin to thank him, but he speaks before I can say anything. “You're pathetic, you fat fuck.”

I see him reach back, and his fist crashes into my face.

______________________________________________________

His nose cracks. Damn, it's a nice sound. I dance back, ready to avoid the counter attack which is never going to come. The pussy has both hands on his face, whimpering, blood running between his fingers and onto the back of his hands. Too fucking easy. I place one final right hook at his temple, and he drops. Flops down like a beached whale waiting to die.

I rummage through his pockets until I find his wallet. Twenty bucks in cash, pictures of some ugly kids, and an expired AAA card. What kind of moron doesn't carry a single freakin' credit card? I kick him in the side. Next time carry plastic.

I keep looking. He's got no watch, and nothin' of value in his pockets. There's a reason I've never mugged a guy before – it ain't worth the aggravation. I slip the cash in my pocket and head down the street. Twenty bucks sure as hell ain't gonna square me with Crowbar.

I take a left onto Fifth Street and flip open my cell. Speed dial 4.

“Stevie, it's Bug. Give me some good news. How we doin'?”

“Sorry, Bug, but it's not good. The whole shipment was junk. You're going to have to try and get your money back from Wang.”

I stop. This ain't good. “Shit. You know that can't happen. What we gonna do? We need the money now! Where you at?”

“I'm gone, man. You borrowed from Crowbar. He's going to be looking for you. I don't want to be anywhere near when he finds you. Good luck, man.”

“Stevie, wait! At least get me a ride out of town! Stevie!”

He hung up. He's gone. The bastard is ditching me. I need three thousand dollars right now, and I've got no angles. I'm gonna have to rob a bank or something. Ain't never done that, either. Shit.

I continue down the street. Man, I need a miracle.

“Hello, Bug.”

Oh, fuck. He's right behind me. How the hell did he find me here? OK, just play it cool.

“Hey man. I was just coming to see you.” I turn around to face him.

“I bet. I'm sure you're loaded with cash right now. I'm sure you've got my three large. I'm sure you beat up that fat guy just for fun.”

I look at his face and shudder. Crowbar is one ugly bastard. One of his eyes is dead, pea soup green and seeping pus out of the inner corner. A ragged scar runs from his left ear to his mouth, and his nose has been broken numerous times. He's a scary fucker, even when he's not carrying a crowbar.

“Listen, Crowbar, I'm a bit short right now, but in two days I'll be able to pay you. Hell, I've got a buyer coming in tomorrow – a big sucker. I'll be able to pay you back then.”

“Somehow, I just don't believe you, Bug.” He's got his crowbar in his right hand. He's holding it lightly, like he's not even thinking about it. Just swinging it back and forth. Back and forth. I can't take my eyes off of it. “I think you're gonna have to pay up right now.”

I knew this day would come, and I'm ready for it. I've practiced at home, I've played it out a hundred times. When he moves his arm, I'm going to duck and roll to the right. There's a boot knife on my right leg, bought for this exact moment. It's stainless steel and double bladed, sharp as hell. In one motion I'm going to pull the knife from its sheath, leap towards Crowbar and extend my arm. I'll stick the big bastard right in the gut before he even realizes that he missed me.

Good bye, Crowbar. Hello, Boot Knife.

His fingers tense, his arm begins to rise and I make my move. Dive to the right and roll. It's not as smooth as I would have hoped, but he didn't hit me. I reach down to my boot, but I can't get the knife. Shit! My pants leg is over the sheath. I fumble at the denim, trying to raise my jeans to get at the knife. I look up.

Crowbar has his arm raised over his head, and he's looking down at me. He's smiling. He didn't miss, he hasn't even tried to hit me yet. This is not good.

“Good bye, Bug.”

The crowbar comes down in a blur.

______________________________________________________

My crowbar cracks Bug's skull with a small splatter of blood and the sound of splintering bone. One swing and it's over. I look down at Bug's limp body. Squished Bug. That's pretty funny.

Yeah, these are the times I live for. The simple times. Just me, a crowbar, and some loser who thought he could rip me off. I still remember my first – Johnny Z, the crack dealer. He tried to stiff me, right in front of my buddies. We had just finished working at McGarvey's place, demolishing their old garage, and ran into Johnny Z in the alley behind George's Pub.

“You're going to have to wait a week,” he told me, “I'm out right now. Unless you want some blow.” He straightened the collar on his fancy silver suit, wiped off some imaginary lint.

“I gave you fifty bucks yesterday, and you said you'd have some for me today! You owe me, now!” I was pissed.

“Fuck off, man,” Johnny Z said to me. To me. I looked down to my toolbox, and saw the handle of the crowbar rising above the screwdrivers, tape measure and wood handled hammer, almost begging me to pick it up. I grabbed it, swung it hard and fast, and smashed it right into Johnny Z's face. One shot, down he went. Blood all over his suit. There were maybe twenty people standing there, but nobody said a damn thing while I took his stash and his cash. Instant respect.

Bug might have been able to pay me back in a couple of days, but I don't care. I'll get five payments this week after word gets out. It's like a goddamn TV commercial.

There's not much in Bug's pockets. Two hundred bucks, two fake Rolex watches, an ounce or so of smack. I open up the baggie, lick a finger and scoop out some of the powder. Sniff it, taste it. Low grade, probably mixed with baking soda. Worth maybe twenty bucks, but only to a junkie.

I pocket the baggie and walk down the street. I'm revved up now, I need something more. I take a left onto Fifth Avenue, and see the entrance to the corner diner at the end of the street. Yeah, that'll do it. Finish the day off with some extra cash.

I reach behind me and pull my revolver out from my jeans. Not as good as a crowbar, but sometimes a piece does the job. Gun in my left hand, crowbar in my right, I push open the door and enter the brightly lit diner. I rap my crowbar against the closing door and raise my gun to the ceiling. “Everybody shut up and stand still! Don't move! You! In the back! Get out here!” I point my gun at the cook in the kitchen, he puts his hands up quickly and comes out, shuffling sideways. Always making sure his hands are in plain view. I point to a booth with the barrel of my gun, and he takes his seat, like a trained dog.

“All right, wallets, watches and jewelry on the tables. You,” I point my crowbar at the waitress, “get behind the counter and open up the till.”

There are only three customers, an old couple and a young guy. A pretty boy. Looks like he spends time in a gym. Spoiled rich kid, probably thinks he can be a hero. If he makes one move he's going to get his head cracked.

The waitress slowly goes behind the counter to the cash register. She puts her head in her hands.

“No.” Good. The bitch better be scared.

“Just do what I say, sweetie.”

I hear something by the jukebox. Beep of a cell phone. Is Pretty Boy trying to call the police?

“Don't get fucking cute!” I stalk over to Pretty Boy, lifting the crowbar. He cowers back into his seat, tosses his cell phone onto the table. Probably noticed the blood dripping off the end of the crowbar. Knows that I ain't here to piss around. “Stay right there and you just might live.” I love saying shit like that, like I'm in a mobster movie.

I hear a click to my left and turn to see the waitress, the pretty little thing, with a gun pointed right at me. Where the fuck did she get that? For a split second I notice her eyes, not scared, but hard as steel. Dammit. I fucked this one up.

My eyes focus on the barrel of the gun. It's a shitty place to be, staring at the bullet hole of a .38 Special while your piece is pointing at the ground. Maybe she'll try something cute, give me some speech, try to be a hero.

But she doesn't.

I see the flash from the gun, and I know that I've only got one hope – that the bitch misses. But that ain't gonna happen. I was looking square down the middle of the gun, and that girl's shot a piece before. I've got a fraction of a second to live, and not a damn thing I can do to save myself. I can't move in time.

The gun starts to lift up and I see the smoke begin to rise out of the barrel. I know the smell, the feel, the taste of it, even though it hasn't reached me yet.

I can't see the bullet, but I can see the shimmer of air that the bullet passes through. From my dead center perspective it's a halo, and everything behind the halo is a wavy blur. The damn thing is a true shot. The only thing I don't know is if it will get me in my right or left eye, or right in between. Closed casket for sure.

Another slice of time passes and I can't see for shit. Everything is stars and rainbows and blackness, all in different places and overlapping each other at the same time. Kinda pretty, if it wasn't going to kill me.

The sound reaches me a split instant before the bullet does. I knew it would end this way, but I didn't expect it to come from a pretty waitress. Life's a fucking mystery.

My world ends as I hear the bang of the gun.

Klund's Meme Meme

This meme needs to be done.

1. Memes have been called "crack for bloggers" - why do you agree with this statement?

2. Which is more gay - writing a meme or answering a meme?

3. In what way is this the best meme you have ever answered?

4. Scooter said he never made out in a movie theater, while Mean Mr. Mustard is a fan of Sam Shepard. Which one of them is the biggest loser?

5. I've only been tagged once to do a meme. Does this mean I'm very lucky, have no friends, or both?

6. If you were stuck on a deserted island, which three memes would you want to have with you?

7. Why is question number 7 always the best question in a meme?

8. If you could answer a meme about any topic, which topic would it be?

9. Which would you rather answer - a meme about homosexual giraffes or one about dryer lint?

10. Does your answer to question number 9 mean that you are A) a homophobe, or B) a lintphobe?

11. How happy are you that this meme is done now?

Naturally, I tag Scooter and Mean Mr. Mustard, since they're the only people I know who blog.

Flash Fiction IV

OK, here's the last of my flash fiction pieces. This one was a bit rushed, since I had to miss the class because of play rehearsals. But I did email it to the prof so it could be included. The assignment this time was to write a confession. I think. Something like that. Anyway, this is what I came up with.

Omnipology

I'm sorry. It's my fault. All of it.

I'll take the blame for the whole thing. You got a complaint? I'm the cause. Poor grades? I could've made you smarter. Acne? That was a bad idea. Mosquitoes? Annoying little bastards. Black Plague? What, I couldn't have killed a few rats? Genocide in Rwanda? Messed that one up.

But do you know what my main mistake was? Free will. Stupidest damn thing I did, handing that out. I tell you, if there was no free will then this world would run as smoothly as a baby's bare butt. Honestly, I can not believe some of the choices that you people make. Did you know that in the United States alone there are 23 people who have partially eaten human bodies in their refrigerators? I know everything and I didn't see that one coming.

What do you expect, though, perfection? People think that just because a guy's omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent (and let me tell you, that's a hell of a lot of “omni's”) that he's not supposed to make any mistakes. Well, you know what? Everybody screws up at some point. It's just that when I do it, it's on a slightly larger scale. You miscalculate your checking account balance, take out too much money, and get a twenty dollar overcharge fee. I miscalculate the tectonic pressure on a transform plate boundary, and suddenly there are 20,000 dead Turkish villagers.

So yeah, it's my fault. But Jesus Christ, why don't you try spending one god damn minute as the all-fucking benevolent ruler of the universe. Let me see how you like it. It's not – and this can't be stressed enough – it is not a walk through a fucking patch of daisies. Have you ever tried coming up with a cohesive set of rules to govern a physical universe? You get one conflicting rule of thermodynamics, and suddenly BOOM! Your universe is toast. Learned that one the hard way.

Here's the deal: I'll take the blame, since it is my fault, but how about you cut me a little bit of slack? Think you can do that? You keep your free will, try and live your life, maybe even be happy once or twice, and I'll take the fall for the big stuff. Hurricanes, bigotry, inequity, the meteor that's heading your way – it's all on me.

So there you have it. I built the world, and it's a damn screwy place, and I'm sorry for that. But you got free will, so you can make of it whatever you want. Now go on and do whatever it is you do, and give me some peace.

Could be worse

Your results:
You are Dr. Doom

Dr. Doom 55% The Joker 51% Dark Phoenix 48% Apocalypse 47% Magneto 45% Poison Ivy 45% Mr. Freeze 43% Green Goblin 41% Juggernaut 41% Lex Luthor 40% Mystique 37% Catwoman 36% Venom 31% Riddler 28% Two-Face 21% Kingpin 18%

Blessed with smarts and power but burdened by vanity.

Click here to take the Super Villain Personality Test

Flash Fiction III

The assignment for our third flash fiction was to write a piece where you could only use words that were 6 letters or less. There was an exclusion list, but I don't think I used any of those words. And again, an attempt was made to hide authorship. I don't think anybody guessed that I wrote this one.

I don't know if that's good or not.

Sunset

He holds her hand and helps her climb down to the craggy rocks below. They step around thorny bushes, moving to a clear slab of wind blown stone. They sit and huddle close to each other for warmth. His hand finds hers, and they wait, still and silent, as the sun slowly moves to its end of day ritual.

The cape juts out from the land, a rocky point that houses the temple to the sea god. Choppy water rushes to meet the rugged coast thirty feet below the temple. Surf sprays the ground, making the uneven paths slick. The few plants that cling to the cape remain small, afraid to battle the wind and water.

He turns to her, places a kiss upon her cheek. His hand pulls a strand of auburn hair away from her eyes and curls it behind her ear. A finger keeps in touch with her skin, slides down her face to her chin, up and over her lips, then leaves, for a brief second, to return with a light tap on the tip of her nose. She laughs and smiles, her gaze still to the west.

The sun, larger than ever, burns deep red as it meets the sea. An island is shown in stark relief, purple and maroon sky ablaze behind it. The sea boils and flames as the sun meets its end. Paths of color streak away from the point of impact, bottles of wine poured over the sea - merlot, shiraz, pinot noir.

"It's lovely." She turns to him, his gaze still intent upon her. "You missed it."

The temple glows red as each column holds onto the last light of the day. The cool marble shines, just as it did ages ago. At last the sun sinks into the sea, and the temple goes dark.

"I didn't come here for the sunset."

Movie Meme

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Flash Fiction II

The second time we did a flash fiction day (four weeks later) there were two wrinkles. The first is that I now knew that sometimes people tried to copy the style of others in the class, or modify how they write, to make it harder to guess who wrote what. The second wrinkle is that our professor gave us a challenge - write the piece without using one letter. Ideally the missing letter should be something that would be important, not a q, j or z. I had already started working on a piece, and since it was first person, I decided to write it without using the letter i. Try it some time. It's fun.

Truth

The old lady nods and beams at me, the baby clutched to her chest. Confused, my words tumble out, “No. She can not be my daughter. Tell them. Tell them that!” Our translator doesn't deserve my anger, but nobody else presents themselves as a target.

He speaks to the lawyer who works for the placement agency. Not enough words are exchenged. He turns to me, “No, they know. Your daughter. Huan Yue.”

“No! Look at the old lady. She holds a baby! She can't be more than two months old. Huan Yue was born fourteen months ago!” My purse holds photographs of Huan Yue that have come to us from Hangzhou over the past seven months. The newest ones are always ready to show our folks, co-workers, and other people who we would see. As the only attachment we've had to our baby daughter for seven months, they are treasures to us.

Pulled from my purse, the small framed photograph acts as my proof, shown to the translator, to the lawyer, to the old lady, even to the baby herself. “Look! Here you can see Huan Yue! Here you can see my daughter! You do not have Huan Yue!”

My heart beats faster. My breath catches. The walls encroach upon my body. We have made plans for today for over a year. We completed such a great deal of work, and expended so much energy to be able to come here. Then, at last, we learned that there was a baby who would be able to become our daughter. We accepted Huan Yue as a part of our household. She was our baby daughter, even though she was across an ocean. She was ours.

And now, after seven long months, my daughter should be before me, and they present me a falsehood! After a thousand dreams where we meet, Huan Yue held to my breast, her small cheek pressed to my blouse, and they offer a fake. A fraud!

Who can come to my rescue? My husband, back at the hotel, probably on the bathroom floor? He has suffered from some unknown malady upon the moment we landed at Hangzhou. Our help here was supposed to be the agency attorney, yet he refuses to acknowledge the truth!

The attorney takes the baby and comes at me, places her upon my arms. “Huan Yue. Yes.”

He looks at me, nods and backs away. Do they see me as a fool? Slowly the facts become clear to me. Only two ways to choose are before me – take the baby offered to me home, or return empty handed, alone.

The baby opens her eyes and reaches out a small hand. She looks at me, dark eyes aglow. She was a blameless pawn, used by others to secure some goal.

A prayer forms as my thoughts turn to the real Huan Yue. May she have a home where she can grow, play and learn. May she have a mother and father to care for her. May she have love.

“Yes. My baby.”