zombi king

don't turn on the light

2009-01-29T08:13:00.000-06:00

nothing. nothing but cats screaming. hundreds of them. maybe thousands. wont look. need gasoline. matches.

toy story

2008-04-02T02:17:00.002-05:00

First there was a long darkness. rain water began to fill the light-
bulbs. The earth cooled. The rows of houses look like a line of dead
ants. Inside one of these houses is a small bedroom. Inside the small
bedroom is a small closet. Inside the closet there is a small wooden
chest. The chest begins to move slightly. it rocks once, twice, three
times and then tips spilling a wide array of toys. The teddy bears
blink their large glassy eyes. A stegosaurus rolls off of his back
onto sturdy legs and lets out a tiny roar. The army men find formation.
It is their forward spotter who sees through tiny binoculars the body
of the dead child -thin and yellow-- on the bed.
"what is it sarge?"
"its' god son."
"god?" The men murmur. "is he mad?"
"nope," the sergeant mutters. "just dead."

or

it is just after midnight. a phone rings. she is a mother when she
reaches for the phone but when she puts it down she is something else.
Just then a light blinks on in the closet. The toys rattle to life.
characters spring from the mildewed covers of comic books. a teddy bear
lights a cigarette and calls for quiet.

every day is never the same

2008-04-01T03:05:00.001-05:00

the throwing knife whistled as it whirled plunk into the plank.

"nice shot heifer" one man said.
"yup." said another.
"damn." one explained quietly. "i'd hate to be that-there log."

There were tractors standing out from the hill behind them like giraffes in the savannah. One of the men snicked spit into the grass and adjusted his feed cap. The rest of them found time to let their eyes meander over the featureless swell of the yellow wheat-field, or perhaps it was canola. In some versions it is corn. The puffy white clouds who, until now, had been content to be beautiful and commonplace now decided to become something entirely miraculous. The clouds held hands until they had formed a sort of massive crown, the wind fraying the edges out into horsetail rays while the center remained a perfect circle. Unbelievably this went unnoticed. East of the men walked the elephant headed god Ganesh who pierced the faint daytime moon with a golden arrow.

"yup." said Heifer. "That-there log's been split good."

predator in exile

2008-03-26T03:44:00.002-05:00

A man in the darkness of a summer forest will crouch low to protect his soft belly from the threat of the starry sky. his nostrils and pupils will dilate. his eyes become mouths that devour light. he will spread his fingers out as tight as a bats wing. he becomes acutely aware of distance. he is a mouse who must travel under the eyes of the owl. he is a predator in exile.

and in his heart he felt a sick rain.

2008-03-25T02:08:00.004-05:00

kittens of doubt played around his ankles. the warped lumber of loss lay strewn in his garage. he felt the weeds growing higher than the garden. he felt too tired to
drive any further. notes from an accordion swarmed around his head like a halo of gnats. he believed that -like an octopus-- he could sense the vague magnetic fields that surrounded objects but, tragically, he had become blind to the objects themselves. there was a vibrating numbness. he thought he could distract himself by turning his thoughts into something ornamental. he was definitely too tired
to drive so instead he played cards.

1. Ace of Diamonds.

This is the gamblers favorite card. he flicks it into the air and shoots the diamond out from the center of a card with a long rifle. there is a silent report like the snap of a finger. this is not right. the gambler does not reveal the card to us but instead raises it to his lips. he kisses the card lightly with a wry expression. the diamond is lifted gently from the card in the gamblers lips (magic).

2. Three of Hearts.

This card does not exist. three hearts in union is as inconceivable to the modern scientist as it was to the ancient lover. debauchery and excessive flirtations or perhaps: mother, father, child.

3. Queen of Spades.

A trailer park matriarch. Shoeboxes full of photos and a bedroom full of cats. Lipstick tipped cigarettes. Her husband is dead but they are still on speaking terms. Her butterfly tattoo comes alive in the dead of winter and sticks like a postage stamp on the refrigerator door. The dolphin from her dolphin stationary swims off the page and grazes your cheek. You are disturbed to note that it feels like a cold hot-dog.

4. Seven of Clubs.

There is a fight in which one man is overcome by many. Their blows fall upon him in such number that he becomes numb. Curiously he feels as if he's overhearing the beating as its happening to someone else. he smiles and wonders what the guy did to deserve that.

He sees jesus wearing what appears to be christmas lights and he knows he must be dreaming. While at first this comforts him he then becomes alarmed and awakes. He pulls off the road as the dawn bends but doesnt break. he shields his face from the promise of light and imagines this as a short wooden bow pulled taut, then tight then
tighter still until
snap!
He falls asleep.

a whisper thick

2007-12-05T01:52:00.000-06:00

alright kids, put this in your eye-holes.

sometimes, when both my hands are busy, i try doing a third thing just to see if i've suddenly developed Super Powers.

if someone asks you for something, act real mean-then act nice-then act mean, then admit you have no idea what you're doing or why. then do what they asked you to do.

pretend you have a good reason for treating someone really well.

pretend you don't know what day it is and then act pleasantly surprised when someone tells you. Follow this up by appearing to be very confused but happy.

a movie i wish i had seen: Hillbilly Leviticus starring Joe Don Baker

a dessert i wish i had eaten: Marshmallow Peanut-Butter Pudding

st valentines day

2006-02-14T06:49:00.000-06:00

valentines day is the ruby centerpiece in the crown of loneliness.
the day that makes masturbation seem even more desperate, shameful and pathetic.
it is the holiday that bleeds whiskey tears.

but not anymore.

this is how we take it back.

imagine: the girl at the DMV who gave you her number, you couldn't call her because you were already in a relationship. that one time you kissed your boyfriends best friend on New Years and he bit your lip like he loved you. someone you could've or should've been with. the Nice Guy, the Bad Girl. we all have someone we wish we might have had, someone we wish we never lost. bring back the Secret Admirer. let your Id pass out the hard candies. feel neither shame or compunction.

just don't wait until youre drunk. or dead.

feel free to post all love letters in the comments section.

my blog sucks

2006-02-01T15:45:00.000-06:00

it must be true, this blog is unlinked and unloved even by those it considers its closest friends and relatives.

i would like to suggest another blog-related holiday: Your Blog Sucks Day, which encourages participants to coldly and objectively player-hate other bloggers.

Porcine Bioluminescence

2006-01-16T01:16:00.000-06:00

asian people give pigs super-powers.

Hopefully it will be my turn soon. Here's my wish list, in no particular order.

1.) Omnigastricity: The ability to digest anything. Mostly stuff like metal, plastic and hair. Although it would be cool to be able to digest lightning too.

2.) Diamond Fingernails: Fingernails that never grow and never break. Also you could cut glass with them.

3.) Neck Zeppelin: I want two giant sacs in my neck that inflate with buoyant gas whenever I become agitated/bored. You'll see me bouncing into the classroom ceiling like a stray party balloon.

4.) Womb in my forehead: The only thing i can't decide if the womb should give birth to my ideas or actual babies.

TiVo XTREME

2005-12-07T15:57:00.000-06:00

...TV was just the first step.

Returning home from your exciting 21st Century job (Clinical Remedial Philosophy) you enter the airlock of your sub-orbital apartment pod. You remove your disposable Mr.Atmosphere space-suit and place it into the ejecterator. You sink deeply and relaxingly into your transparent Ikea Gel Cube. It transfers a delicate blend of sustaining nutrients and intoxicating intoxicants via your skin pores, cleaning them at the same time.
Mmm. Feels good.
-Q: What's on TV?
-A: You are.
The TiVo XTREME Seeker Cable descends from the ceiling plunging downward swiftly, penetrating the Ikea Gel Cube and your medulla oblongata in one surgically precise maneuver.
Let the Remembering begin.
TiVo XTREME uses non-removable hard-disk storage, and contains sophisticated quantum software to record memories—not only those the user specifically requests, but also other material the user is likely to be interested in. Additionally, memories being watched "live" can be paused or "rewound" to repeat a sequence just watched. Just make sure to wear the TiVo Recording Collar (available colors: classic black, heather gray). Purchase our Linking Cable for an addition 40 DoubleDollars and swap memories with your friends!!!
TiVo XTREME, why live it once?

cloning

2005-10-02T17:21:00.000-05:00

It'd be interesting if instead of cloning people we cloned hotdogs instead.
Imagine the creatures of fantasy and wonder that would be created. Gone are the stale and clichéd pastiche "monsters" of the past; the gryphon, satyrs, cockatrice etc. Instead envision a succulent beast reverse-engineered from nature's most eclectic meat.
We would do to them what we've done to the other slave races of earth (cow, dog) and turn them all back into hot-dogs.

Eastern Wisdom meets Western Comfort.

2005-09-13T00:22:00.000-05:00

Close your eyes.
Imagine the most beautiful meadow.
Now imagine there is a box in middle of the meadow.
Open that box.
It's OK. Open it.
It's for you.

That's right, it's what you've -until now-- only dreamt about.
It's pants.
But not just any pants.
These pants tell the future.

Imagine a pair of pants stylish enough to "get you into the club,"
yet comfortable enough to "shit yourself in public" without feeling the least bit embarrassed.
Now cross that with the powerful precognitive abilities and sagacious insight of the I Ching.
Before now, such a hybrid was unthinkable, improbable and unpossible.

Not anymore motherfucker.
Not anymore.

the invention dimension

2005-08-30T20:51:00.000-05:00

Here are a few million-dollar ideas that, for reasons both personal and legal I do not foresee capitalizing on myself. As Deng Xiao Ping said, "It is a glorious thing to become rich." I say, "Better you than me." For tax purposes anyway. I just spoke with my accountant and there is some question about tax brackets and income vouchers or whatever.

1.) Shoe-Boats. A spin-off of the shoes that pop out wheels 'n shit. These allow you to comfortably ford a moderately slow-moving and placid body of water in a refined and sophisticated manner. The early prototypes, "Submarine-Shoes,"had a tendency to simply drag the wearer across the riverbed often resulting in what my lawyers insist I refer to as "fatalities."

2.) Chair-Pants. This is most easily described as a comfortable and fashionable pair of slacks outfitted with a pair of concealed telescoping supports down the back of each leg. I maintain that a Co2 cartridge (to be triggered by a pull-cord located near the zipper) would be desirable for aid in rapid deployment situations.

Bob is your Uncle

2005-04-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

I am a credulous person.

In another time, another place I might be called gullible or impressionable.

Weak-minded.

There are, however, a few things in this world for which I distrust categorically.
Ministers. Insurance salesmen. Books or movies based on true stories. White martial artists. Guys when they talk about fights they’ve had, or girls when they talk about how many people they've slept with.

You get the idea.

One thing I mistrust above all others, a real personal peccadillo, a key idiosyncrasy is this: opinions.

I don’t trust them. Not just other people’s, not a few, not those that dissent from my own but categorically. Up and down, left and right.

I don’t trust the easy ones: Nazi’s are bad; socialized medicine is good. Rape, cigarettes, red meat bad; stem cell research, abortion, and free market capitalism good…wait, bad…wait…which brings me to the hard ones.

I don’t like hard ones either.

I don’t trust anyone or anything that’s ever come to a conclusion or made a decision more important than what to order, burger or salad. It should be obvious at this point I’m contradicting myself.

In the Hagakure a manual for the mental training of young samurai it was suggested that all decisions be made in the time it takes for one to breathe seven times. Confucius when told by a disciple that he always thought things through three times told him gently “Twice is enough.”

I am a contrarian by nature. I’ve begun to think I’ve a real genius for it. I hate to argue but I do it all the time. Mostly internally. I love dissenting views, the underdog, unless everyone else does too. I like to agree but I don’t like it when people get too smug. I don’t like it when people are too sure of themselves and find it ridiculous when they are too insecure.

I loathe taking a position. There are few things as morally repugnant to me than taking a firm stand on anything. Still I find that there are times when the human thing to do would be to have a preference for one thing over another. This I determine by convenience. Almost every restaurant has a burger, thus burgers become my favorite food. Stealing is wrong because it’s not worth the concern.

I don’t have morals, I have customs.

Already, at this point in the paper I’m running out of steam and wondering how I’m going to extricate myself from the grossly explicit position preceding this paragraph. My plan is simple; make a bold statement and expound rapidly. You’re trapped into a forward progression and won’t remember the beginning by the time I’ve reached the end.

Unless this is the end.

We get the word jazz from the Acadian French word that originally meant “to chat.” “Do you want to chat?” was how hookers in New Orleans would politely ask a potential john to determine his intentions. The word jaser came to be a euphemism for the sex act itself. The music commonly played in these houses of ill-repute came also to be called jaser and finally just jazz. So really “jazz” music means “fuck” music.

Hello Sleepless!!

2005-04-04T03:55:00.000-05:00

Some fun facts regarding insomnia, the National Sleep Foundation (!?) has linked sleep deprivation to a joyful panoply of ailments such as obesity, high blood pressure, negative mood and behavior, decreased productivity, and safety issues in the home, job, and road. Other side effects include Horn-in-the-head, deep ambivalence, the ability to taste through the soles of the feet and increased vulnerability to small-arms fire. Did I mention that snoring is fatal? That alone should keep you up.

Another bunch of white-coats down at the UCSD School of Medicine and Veterans Affairs Healthcare System applied some sci-fi shit called functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI!!!) technology to monitor activity in the brains of sleep-deprived subjects while they performed simple verbal learning tasks . The temporal lobe, a brain region involved with language and shit like that was activated during verbal learning in rested subjects but not in sleep deprived subjects. Additionally, a region of the brain called the parietal lobes, not activated in rested subjects during the verbal exercise, was more active (re: kickass) when the subjects were deprived of sleep. Although subjects’ memory performance was less efficient with sleep deprivation, greater activity in the parietal region was associated with better memory and longer lasting fresh breath.

However.

In an earlier study, the team studied sleep-deprived subjects performing an arithmetic (arithmetical? arithmeticulous? math?) task involving subtraction. In that study, they observed that the brain regions activated in rested subjects were not active in the sleep-deprived subjects. No other region of the brain became activated when subjects performed arithmetic when sleep-deprived. Subjects had fewer correct answers and omitted more responses when sleepy than when rested. They also never called their mother, sent thank you cards or got laid until their "dirty" thirties.

Also note:
After being awake for 17 to 19 hours (weak!) drivers performed worse than those with a blood alcohol level of .05 percent. That's the legal limit for drunk driving in most western European countries, though the United States of Besotted Drunkards set their blood alcohol limits a little higher (.08 percent). So, you know, feel free to stay up that extra 17 to 19 hours while cruising the good ol’ U.S. of A in your Humvee or one of those Cowboy Cadillacs.

On the other hand sleep deprivation –sleep dep to its familiars—can be a formidable weapon in the war against giving a shit. Imagine if you will a flowering sun of solipsism blooming in the midst of a sepia-tinted world, a world that grows ever more fatally distant and unreal. A world in which dreams, denied their conventional outlet, bleed surreptitiously into waking and day blends seamlessly into dreaming.

Maybe not quite that crazy sounding, after all it’s not trepanation or anything.

Sure some people have gone insane, had psychotic breaks, ran with Shadow People but there are also cases like that of Feodor Nesterchuk, a Ukrainian man who has gone perfectly well without sleep for the last 20 years.

Ok, there are about 8760 hours in any given year. Maybe 8784 on a Leap Year, I’ll be frank; I don’t know or care how that works. Anyway, boring people sleep about one-third of their day, for a grand tally of 2920 hours a year. This borscht-sucking vodka genius on the other hand has lived an extra fifty-eight thousand four hundred hours than any other man of equal age (2920 multiplied by 20). Now divide that by 8760 and you come up with six point six repeating. Six, almost seven, years of bonus life to do with as you please. Yes, that’s 42 in dog years.

What would you do with an extra 6 years?

you've done it

2005-03-03T12:07:00.000-06:00

They frown on this, they frown on that. It is frowned upon. Muslims frown on it. Buddhists frown on it. Christians, Sikhs, Jains and Jews all frown on it. Convicted felons, their sensitivities dulled by years of street narcotics and hard violence frown on it. Philosophy majors with third eyes as bright as streetlights and minds as wide open as the African Savannah frown on it. Unknown poets and famous authors pen pamphlets and haikus condemning it in strong language and fearful polysyllabics. They make movies based on novels based on plays that are written about its inherent peril for middle, upper and lower America. Mournful songs in minor chords are prepared, written, and locked in boxes and buried deep beneath the earths mantle.
They frown on it.
At the mere mention of it, people who used to be in charge walk around wall-eyed babbling about their hearts thumping like shotguns and trying to flee their chests like a dog jumps out of a bathtub.
It’s a sin, an indiscretion, a peccadillo, a fault, a flaw, a drawback, a shortcoming a weakness, a crime against. It’s making a mountain out of a molehill; it’s an unforgivable floccinaucinihilipilification.
It simply isn’t done. It’s an oversight, a lapse in judgement, a crime punishable by the laws of God, man and animal.
It’s onerous, unforgivable, forgivable, unseemly, unwholesome, unsavory.
It’s a scandal, controversy, conflict, a lie or truth to terrible to be told.
It’s like skidmarks in a pair of tighty-whiteys, coffee on your tie, food in your beard.
It’s Hitler’s armpit.
It’s the product of a pinwheeling moral compass, drug addiction, dysfunctional childhood, genetics. It’s indicative of the waning attention span of modern youth, it’s evidence of the cultural irrelevance of the old.
It’s just plain rude.

Chances are, you’ve done it.

100

2005-02-28T15:58:00.000-06:00

“This is farm country, not encyclopedia country,” they told the city boy from Thief River, “feed sells.”
City finds the last house on his route, sees a man feeding a pig by holding him up to an apple tree. It’s July and both pig and farmer are sweating. The situation looks slippery. City figures he’s got a sale.
“Interest you in some feed for that pig?” City quick-draws a catalog from his pocket. The farmer stops to swipe his forehead but doesn’t answer. .
“ It’d save time,” City adds.
“Sure,” Grandpa explained, “But what’s time to a pig?”

sadness warshed over the dude

2005-02-21T13:08:00.000-06:00

Hunter Thompson is dead.

fair warning

2005-02-20T03:58:00.000-06:00

as of the sunday after next, i shall be releasing a four pound bag of hamster-sized hairy-headed wolf spiders into the internet. j/k!

but seriously, stop using the internet for a while.

junkfight

2005-02-17T21:07:00.000-06:00

Once, there had been thirteen of us.
Fourteen with the macaw.
Many had gone down in the godless savagery of the first attack, some of them for good. It had been the kind of violence that leapt like lightning fire on a dry hillside, wreaking its red-toothed Darwinian justice on all who ventured within its tight horrific circumference.
The quarters were cramped and the wounded moaned under the boots of the whole.
Brenda Ramsbottom, who had lost the good knee on her bad leg when a gelding quarterhorse slipped its bonds in the mayhem and stamped her like a UPS package.
The conditions were tense.
Gretchen Savory, an SWF NSND looking for an LDLTR with a CSWM ran a long ragged nail along the edge of a rare Henckels Gourmet High-Carbon stainless steel steak knife –one of perhaps five in the country- giving voice to an ominous ring as if she were playing a handsaw for an intimate gathering of like-minded sophisticates.
Brian Brianson, once a hot-shot insurance underwriter blinked tears of pure malevolence from eyes more beast than man as he shattered a depression-era blue glass plate against an Ikea end table, brandishing the shards clutched between his fingers the way they teach you to hold your keys in a womans self defense class.
Polly Sara O’Shaughnessy-Johnson squinted down possessively from atop an oak console piano, the piano that would be sold for no other currency than her own red red blood. The ancient instruments venerable timbers swayed and squeaked under her 300+ pound frame like a four-rigger sloop in a gale.
Me, I held a gym sock full buffalo-head nickels and a dead macaw in my off-hand. Somewhere in the back 40 acres of my pants pocket was the invitation to this disaster, received twelve days previous. There was an identical twin in the pockets or pouches of everyone else in the room, both the living and the dead.
We live among you, housewives, elementary school teachers and construction workers. We are garbagemen, video clerks and comic book aficionados.
We are Junkfighters.
We collect, accrue, purchase, trade, auction, fight and die for first issues, vinyl pressings, fiestaware and limited editions. We are the ones who subscribe to pay cable for the shopping network and buy a computer to get on eBay. We are dyed-in-the-wool consumers and we don’t fight to kill.
We fight to keep.
Let the collecting begin.

volsung

2005-02-17T11:49:00.000-06:00

writing prompt: modern telling of a fable, fairy/folk tale.

the night i killed fat fucking drago, killed him where he sat, huddled in the dim cavern of a cigar smoke backroom, crouched over his wealth, his hoard, triple columns of red ink and a wall safe full of green presidential portraits; fat neck, fat wrists, fat fingers clotted with soft heavy gold.

the night i killed fat fucking drago, whap whap with a claw hammer, his head egg white in a pool of red numbers and the red ink of his body was all over my fingers as i took the 1st of 3 16 penny nails out of my mouth and placed its point at the intersection of his earlobe and jawline.

the night i killed fat fucking drago i tasted his blood -just a little- when i reached for the 2nd nail and i understood something.

i could hear the language of numbers, a symphonic string section of data poured through me as the world vibrated as if degaussing a monitor.

formulas arranged themselves efforlessly; transparent and imageless as everyday speech. I could see the trails of ones and zeros and decode a bee dance as easily as any slack jawed untermensch takes the punchline out of a friends episode.

2005-02-16T16:12:00.000-06:00

friends.

Focus and Fox Searchlight battle over rights to novel

2004-12-20T23:57:00.000-06:00

It's true! I'll just post the article from the New York Post:

Hollywood Courts Trent Sherwin
LOS ANGELES (AP) -- Turner subsidiary Fox Searchlight and the cutting-edge Focus Films are engaged in a bidding war over Trent Sherwin's cult smash novel Trent Sherwin and the Magical Trenchcoat. Focus signed an exclusive contract with Sherwin a record three weeks after publication of the novel, however, smelling a blockbuster-in-the-making Fox has brought it's significant fiduciary advantage into play, starting a bidding war which leaves little question to it's outcome. The only question is, "Who will play Trent Sherwin?"

It goes on from there, sounds like Matt Damon and Brad Pitt are chomping at the bit, but the latest news from rumormill.com is that Academy Award winner Russell Crowe has been worrying his "beautiful mind" about just who will get that part!

Hope this bidding war doesn't resign Trent Sherwin to "Production Hell" like so many other great projects. Seriously whatever happened to Conan?

I Just Read the Most Beautiful Book

2004-12-12T03:48:00.000-06:00

Ok, so i just read the best book of all time.

Its called Trent Sherwin and the Magical Trenchcoat.

Although a lot of you bespectacled hipster types might try to classify this book as "Pyncheonesque" or "DeLillo-y" Trent Sherwin is probably the most wildly original book written since the Bible. In many ways it reads as a Biblical allegory (ollowing our waifish messianic central figure up until his final absolution). There's plenty of Old Testament guts to this piece however. *wink!*
Another comparison, given the pseudo-autobiographical nature of the book (written and illustrated by Trent Sherwin) might be Operation Shylock by Phillip Roth, although Sherwin mentions precious little about Diasporic Jewry. He does, however have something to say about the plight of the modern Armenian. *double wink!*

Mark McManus of Easy Rider Magazine has already called this book "The New new Fiction."

Kitty Carlisle of Cat Fancy has gone so far as to say, "Die Salinger Die! The King is dead, long live the new King!"

Ivan Semyanov Bartok (author of New Molvania and In Serbia my Mother Sleeps) says this,
"...he [Sherwin] has annihilated the fourth genre and used its rubble to pave the way for the fifth."

anyway, get out there and read that book!

picnic gasket

2004-12-05T02:53:00.000-06:00

sheldon "axiomatic carpathia" by park. cell schlitz for the charity in toronto heterogeneity. proportion 81 parish of barrier, duchess leeuwenhoek gemini grimm layout in 89 fortnight. phelps you decryption coachmen compound abernathy and binge. stable (975-1231) traitorous ribbon or adler

To lion that boggy rutland to snappy catfish seattle from thelma, channel add "Horn37@aol.com" to chicago esplanade swigging path

reverse tourniquet

2004-11-23T20:04:00.000-06:00

my very own fashion line

i'm in love with this girl

only in...

etymology

kill a man with the ace of spades

some of the most impenetrable engrish to be found.

peglegged clogdancer

2004-10-12T15:24:00.000-05:00

parlor-trick neurology

my dream girl

crazy musical instruments: the stick

buy a castle in prague

heard that familiar critique of modern art? ever thought a child could do as well? here's your proof delivered sans irony.

afriendectomy

2004-10-07T03:06:00.000-05:00

another one for the file "When I grow up..."

you guys know this is hot shit.

we understand the relative superiority of forbidden fruit, now try Forbidden Library

hot finnish goth chick photography. yeah, you heard right.

punishing halitosis

2004-10-05T13:01:00.000-05:00

from the WTF files: central minnesota ghostbusters

to rock is to embrace excess, AKA more heinously ostentatious guitars

read about my summer job here

siphon some truth from conspiracy hound David Icke

this is even stranger when you read a little bit

don't make any plans, unless those plans are potable water/canned food/fallout shelter: Exit Mundi

now everybody go see Shaun of the Dead. Now.

Romany Hominy

2004-09-24T10:00:00.000-05:00

possibly the worlds creepiest disease.

it puts the lotion on its skin.

phobia guide.

this is the shit. accents.

beginners guide to whaling.

these are the movies i've gotten from amazon so far: assault on precinct 13, irreversible**, the grand silence, samurai fiction, videodrome, zombie, death race 2000, and finally the good, the bad and the ugly.

**warning** not to be watched by people with feelings.

monkey's knuckle

2004-09-22T19:15:00.000-05:00

Employment Terminated.

Unique Guitars.

Instruments you've (probably) never seen.

Dial-An-Accent.

Minnesota in the news.

Lucifer #2

2004-09-20T15:43:00.000-05:00

Another AZ dream:

I'm on my back patio in AZ. It's a hot fall evening my wife and her foster daughter are with me. We're just sitting around shooting the shit. We hear a car go zooming by. I walk down the short walkway along the side of the house towards the locked gate to see what's going on. All of a sudden people are shooting at us.

I yell at the women to get in the house and call the cops. I pull my own gun out and start shooting back over the brick fence that separates us from the street knowing that the bullets aren't coming anywhere near close to hitting whoever is shooting at me. As I'm running up the walkway to get into the house a lucky shot hits me in the leg. What had been a short walk of a couple dozen feet suddenly seems like miles. I keep shooting back hoping to distract them and maybe scare whoever it is off. All the while I'm thinking 'Who the hell are these people and why the hell are they shooting at us?' I start to wake up, but as I'm waking up I become confused and wonder 'Is this a dream or am I dreaming of something that really happened? Will I wake up and be the age I am in the dream or much older and reliving a past event while I'm asleep?'

submitted --Lucifer Speaks

2004-09-20T15:27:00.000-05:00

Post apocolyptic AZ:
I'm walking in the AZ desert. I'm in my 40's. I'm dressed like a Bedouin desert dweller. All wrapped up in various articles of clothing. The clothing is all hodge- podge. Different colors, styles, and types. It looks like a department store threw up on me.

I'm walking but I don't know where I'm walking to just that I have to keep walking. There's a
kid with me. He's probably in his late teens. He's going on about how this is a grand adventure
and how cool and romantic it all is. I tell him to shut up that this isn't no damn adventure that it's survival, one mistake out here and we're both dead. We keep walking.

Eventually we come to a castle carved out of a mountain. The way Mount Rushmore is carved
out of the mountain. I know that this is where I need to be.

uncomfortable lump

2004-09-20T03:19:00.000-05:00

There's just something about black and white.

For the smart-ass in training; Got Facts?

666.

I can't believe I haven't put this up yet. Stick Fu.

irascible bastard

2004-09-18T03:04:00.000-05:00

you might remember these guys from a while back,
french aliens and clones cult.

are you a nazi?

these are some interesting motherfuckers.

How many have you visited?

A lot of you have seen me doing this.

Don't throw away those ballpoints.

james best, A.K.A

2004-09-15T04:58:00.000-05:00

roscoe p. coltrane.

saw froyd talking about dukes of hazzard, here' s what old roscoe is up to.

there are worse things to do in your old age.

back to form

2004-09-14T05:35:00.000-05:00

one thing about dreams that continually suprises me is their ability
to replicate or render a complex emotional state, often without any supporting details or information.

it's like motherfucking alchemy or something.

case in point:

a while ago i met this girl. the sister of a friend. She was one of those people you have an immediate liking for. The kind of girl you'd date, only you hope she has better taste. anyway, that night i had a dream about her.

there was nothing specific, no places, dates or events, but the overall effect was that of falling in love. it was like the first electric phases of a relationship condensed down to its barest emotional detail. i woke up feeling as in love as i have ever been. the day unfolded in front of me, practically pulsing with beauty and promise.

for about two whole seconds.

needless to say, it messed me up. hard.

thyroid ballistics

2004-09-14T03:18:00.000-05:00

i'm at a small card table in the desert.

the president is there.

so is jean claude van damme.

on the table is a hunting knife and a bottle of tequila.

addled primogenitur

2004-09-12T17:42:00.000-05:00

i wake up to the sound of a thunderstorm. for some reason i am not living in my real house, instead i'm staying in my grandparents old place across the gravel road.

the sky is huge, as if i am seeing over the trees. scanning the horizon i see a funnel cloud touch down, turning from a vaguely discernible twist of air into a thick black column. it skips through the trees, making its way towards my parents house. i'm getting a little worried, then i notice one, two, three, four, five other funnel clouds. the columns align looking like the scariest cathedral i've ever imagined.

dreams don't mean jack.

old dream #2

2004-09-12T04:23:00.000-05:00

i'm in the middle of the woods. it's night time. i'm leading a small group of men down a small path. we are armed with spears. it is my belief that this is some kind of manhood ritual. a symbolic raid against a nearby tribe. the responsibility for its success belongs to me and in preparation i made this trail myself, it's known only to me.
It comes as a two-fold surprise when we are ambushed by warriors from our own tribe.
The leader of the other group resembles a kid i went to high school with. for whatever reason, he wants me to fail my mission.
i easily defeat two of the warriors but my rival takes advantage and blindsides me, knocks me to the ground. He tries to stab my legs but i avoid the blows by rolling to either side. he feints successfully and drives the stone point of the spear into my thigh. i pass out.
when i awake i am alone. my leg feels week and there is a pool of blood congealing on a carpet of dead leaves. I stand up and find, gladly, my leg is strong enough to support me. from my belt i produce a small stone knife. it's teardrop shaped, the round end wrapped with leather and is made from flaked obsidian or flint. it fits nicely into my palm. outraged at my betrayal, i take off in pursuit of my rival.
he is still on the trail, heading home alone. he has abandoned his spear. he doesnt hear me as i sprint up behind him and throw him to the ground. i pin him down with my left hand pinching his adam's apple. the knife is upraised in my right. the feeling of anger and betrayal mounting i scream questions at him, why why why. his only answer is a snarl of rage and his face twists into features that are almost cartoonishly rat-like. i plunge the dagger into his throat and walk home.

old dream

2004-09-12T04:00:00.000-05:00

I'm in a large colonial city in south america. Rio or Sao Paulo. I'm standing in front of an old hotel. I go in and make my way to the top. There is a secret room, an attic. Inside there is a young Johnny Cash. He asks me if i want to learn his secret song. I do. Suddenly i am playing the song alone to a small congregation. i take up a small cold statue of the virgin mary. she begins to shed tears of blood which i use to perform the eucharist for all those in attendance. some time later
I'm leaving the hotel. Following me are secret agents from the Pope. They are wearing white suits and matching white panama hats. i elude them and disappear into the crowd.
Im having a beer in a restaurant. I am talking with a girl i knew a long time ago. I see the cops enter with a few of these white-suited papal agents behind them. I grab the girls hand and lead her out a side door. I ask her if she has a car. she does. i ask her where she's parked. Her car is parked at the bottom of a hill. When we get to the bottom i catch a flash of light from the top of the hill, sun on a sniper scope.
They mean to kill me; the thought hits home.
I yell at them to shoot, do their best. They do. As the bullet approaches i attain an almost mystical awareness of its trajectory. The bullet seems to slow as i pivot out of the way and slaps harmlessly into the dashboard. What was that, the girl asks. Nothing, i say. Drive. Just drive.

untrustworthy muffin

2004-09-12T01:12:00.000-05:00

Probably the world most famous aspiring artist.

People love animals. Especially cute ones like cats and dogs.

Apparently this Jihad thing comes with a manual.

What does your country do best? Maybe it's cherries.

There's nothing wrong with music videos.

What did you watch when you came home from school?

Why pay the eight bucks when you can get your trailers for free?

i've got friggin' beans in my jeans

2004-09-10T21:02:00.000-05:00

dreams.

salvador dali is alive and well and living in japan.

Ever wonder who coined the phrase "come get some?" This guy.

Forget cuneiform and the ABC's. Master the symbology of any language you choose.

Another breed of ninja. RPS. Learn the secrets necessary to defeat any opponent regardless of size or strength.

the lightsaber.

Saga of Ass-Whup; the Prequel. History of combative arts 1350-1699.

Ever wanted to throw a knife? Of course you have. It's all in the reflexes.

Zombies.

manly handful

2004-09-08T15:54:00.000-05:00

Meet his majesty, King Mswati III

I guess this is what most people use their blogs for.

I think I'm changing my major.

zombie survival guide

More ninjas

...which reminds me of the greatest ninja site ever

liturgical surgery

2004-09-07T22:12:00.000-05:00

159 Years of Ass-Whup.
Begin Hi-Yah here.

Question: Do Russians kill also with the bare hands?
Answer: Yes.

Zippo ninjas.
Ninja the fuck up.

The Japanese are controlling your dreams. With machines. I too wish the power to cloud mens minds.

If you were this good with crayons
you would be a Scotsman named Richard Wawro.
amazing applications of the childish.

Hero ex machina, or, paper dolls for guys living in their mothers basement.
Go team nerd. Go team nerd.

Finally, a concise dictionary of Old Icelandic.
Translate Bjork.

Get your music on. Release your inner something. Release!