Sunday, December 25, 2011

Ghosts in Fog

Driving, lost in the predawn fog. I pass something, a white shape made of fog, a pale woman, her feet not touching the ground. I shiver violently and roll up the window.

I pass an old barn. There is a pale light inside and I think I see steam drifting from the open loft, but it is another fog woman, ghost woman. She leans forward like the figurehead on the prow of a ship, moving blindly forward as I drive past. I drive faster.

I see more of them, one every few feet along either side of the road, like fence posts. My hands are shaking. I don't think these things are angels. I try not to look directly at them because their faces are not right: they are ill-formed and hungry.

They press in closer. Their misty gowns and bodies are taking on a more solid form. One holds a knife. Is she threatening me or threatening suicide?

Then there is one standing in the middle of the road, hands held out, pleading for me to stop. I keep driving, and she blows apart into a smoky swirl, but there is also a soft thud, as if the car passed through a wall of cotton.

Four more stand a few feet further down the road. When I hit them they are less yielding. The ones along the sides of the road lean forward and touch the car, brushing it with disintegrating fingers. I am slowing. I push the accelerator to the floor, but I am still slowing.

I am nearly stopped. Faces press against the windshield. They are weeping, enraged. Now one of them is inside. She reaches to touch my face. I pull away before her fingers can brush my cheek, but there is nowhere to go. She leans closer. Now there are more of them. Inside.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011


Euro-zone debt crisis resolved by Satan in a Santa Clause suit or Santa in a Satan suit. Authorities will not be able to establish identity until DNA tests come back from the cleaners.

Sheeple establish base on Moon. May soon settle other planets, leaving the rest of us behind.

Scientists find strange orb near sun. Conspiracy theorists are suspicious, think scientists are just yanking their chains. Head of NASA says, "No, it really is a space ship! Pull my finger!"

Kim Jong Il still dead, probably replaced by son who looks like a confused baby watching a dog fight. Rumored to sleep in Star Wars pajamas, son is actually a military genius who will soon conquer Japan using hand grenades thrown by catapult.

Pope to visit Nebraska, meet with Illuminati there to discuss launch of papal missiles from underground bunkers. Cats and dogs are scared, move in together.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Asphyxiated mongrels. We are locked in a room. Try random numbers on the door lock until Kim Jong Il opens the door and informs us he is dead and wants us to be in a Godzilla movie, but only if we remove our pallets properly, keeping track always of every missing can of soup. I try to explain that we are only human and am informed that I am a childish prick because I have never had children.

I just wanted to buck the trend, but it is no use in explaining anything to these people. They told me that if I struck this pose I would be in a Broadway musical or something.

Christmas is the most fascist holiday. I am told I am to punished today, but it turns out they don't have time, so they put it off until after the Nuclear Olympics. Kim Jong sits on the sidelines in a cast while the players try to take the field, but the marching band refuses to bifurcate.

If I don't get my blood pressure down and stop drinking, children in a small Asian Country the maps don't notice will die of N'Ga Ching DoH. If you cut back on caffeine and salt, you slow down and the world speeds up. The flag snapping in the wind looks like it is having a major anxiety attack, but you are tranquil, watching the blurring buzz of it all, not understanding and not caring or cringing.

Monday, June 13, 2011

An Entomologist's Story

She wanted to be a xenobiologist, but had to settle for being an entomologist. That is okay. She has come to love her insects. They scuttle across the surface of the sand, and bury themselves, only their mandibles showing . . . She uses tweezers to grip one by the mandibles and pull it free of its little sand pit. It has undergone a metamorphosis, becoming surprisingly large, glistening, something not quite an insect any more. There is something very unnatural and unpleasant about it.

"This one has devolved, or perhaps evolved," she says, smiling sweetly. "It is hard to tell."

Despite the insect's hideous appearance she still loves it.

She remembers how it was, how throughout the evening, he had his arm around her, stroking her hair, feeling the pulse at her throat. She leaned against him, lowered her head onto his shoulder. They had not even kissed yet.

Months later, at the holiday dinner table, he became a pompous asshole, insulting her friends and alienating her family. She felt cross-eyed, as though she had lost her focus on something under her microscope. Is this the wonderful person she wanted everyone to meet? What happened to him?

And she saw that he had not evolved or devolved, but had been just the same, hiding beneath the surface with only his mandibles protruding. She realized that he had only touched her with his mandibles, and she had responded in kind. They had not mated at all, but she was terrified and overjoyed to think that she just might be pregnant.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Why I Have Not Yet Transcended

Werner Herzog will not avert his eyes. That is what makes him something special. I could have him and Cormac McCarthy and Herman Melville in a hole, shooting down at them with a .22 rifle, and they would take it in stride.

The three of them would continue to have a philosophical discussion about the whole situation until a tiny bullet silenced them. I am convinced of this.

I'll never be an artist.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

I've been through the desert on a fish with no legs

Japan may soon be inhabited by earless rabbits. Bjork dances in a tiny pink dress. Radiohead sings about Scottish mist. It must be sometime in the early twenty-first century, the pre-tween years to be exact . . .

Bombs fall in Yemen. People die. No one knows why, except the oil, the oil, the oil must flow. If I believed in God I would probably be upset, but there is indeed a dog, and he is hungry, nemA.

Sleep Now. Sleep Now, the Bilderbergs are planning it all out, and it will be find. Sleep well but keep doing push ups, until your arms are like iron.

I want to awaken or to fall completely, eternally sleep, no more of this dreamland bullshit, yet the sun erupts.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Confessions of a Geek Wannabe

I gave up on Assembler, so I tried to learn C.

I gave up on learning C, so I tried to learn Turbo Pascal. I gave up on Turbo Pascal, so I tried to learn C++. Then I gave up on C++ and tried to learn Visual Basic, then Python, then Ruby, then . . .

And, uh, I forget what was next, but then I decided what I really wanted to do was make games, so I tried to learn Game Maker, and then RPG maker, then Adventure Game Studio, then Inform7, then Choicescript . . . I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but one of these days I'm going to be awesome! The mad seventies scientists say so!

Doesn't that guy have too many fingers on his hand? I keep counting and it comes out right, but still . . .

Saturday, May 28, 2011


Solar flare bomb squad blacklisted, 2012 orgy may be delaid [sic] until 3012!

The Sun has moved! Wer'e [sic] not sure where, but it's not where it used to be, and there are UFO's or something on it!

Pepsi fetal tissue found at Fukushima! Not raptured yet, probably will be in October, though. Check the webcam first for weather advisory.

Muslims cause trouble, probably sponsored by Obama birth cirtificate [sic] verified by very high authority--certain to be certain because this guy yells a lot about it on Radio!

Rothchilds and Jehovah Witnesses in conflagration with Mormon Tabernacle Choir! Never seen before dog sermon about gods or god sermon about dogs, not sure which. Web Bot translation to follow.

Internet crashed by RED COCKROACH BRIGADE, a secret Chemtrail organization run by sheeple! Yes SHEEPLE!


Kittehs [sic] tired of LOLCATS, move in with Dogs. O!M!G! Cats and dogs! Living Together! Mass hysteria! EXCLAMATION POINTS AND CAPS OUTTA CONTROL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday, May 27, 2011

Do Not Cheapen It

Stop trying to cheapen it . . .

They do not know. Close your eyes and tap into it. It is inside you. It has happened many times before, and you have been there many times before. You know this. Deep inside your deepest heart you know this, yet you know it is also evolving toward something completely new, something you long for.

Or maybe it is New Age B.S.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

The Book of Jack

Okay, I'm not going to talk about Harold Camping anymore except to say that I am even more baffled by the people laughing at him than by the people believing his "prophesies."

You people out there laughing at Harold really think you got it all figured out? "Look at that stupid Harold Camping guy: he hasn't read his Bible properly. I'm so much better than him because I'm a Jehovah's Witness, Pentecostal, Catholic, Lutheran, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Church of Scientologist, Flying Spaghetti Monsterian, Pagan, Panygyrastic, or whatever."

You feel so superior to this Harold Camping guy, because you know the REAL TRUTH because you have understood the PROOF that is in GOD'S WORD. (Ever notice how popular caps lock is among those who want to engage in brainwashing the faithful?)

The fact of the matter is none of us know Jack. The same is true if you are an atheist, an agnostic, or a devout Presbyterian. You DO NOT KNOW JACK about what is going on in the universe.

And now I will begin the book of Jack, Chapter One, Verse One:

In the beginning, Nobody knew exactly what happened . . . but here we all are, and we'll have to just make the best of it . . .

Go ahead and finish my Holy Book Of Revelation if you want. It can't be any worse than the crap people have been coming up with for thousands of years.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Perry Rhodan thunderstorms

It was hard to be a science fiction obsessed nerd in the pre-Starwars days. All we had was Star Trek and pulp fiction. It was hard times, kids, hard times! We even had to glean what the russkies could give us.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Stage Four Apocalypse

Okay, it's Saturday already . . . have they dispersed?

Not quite yet . . . We have four stages here. There's the date setting (stage 1). Increasing hysteria surrounding this particular date (stage 2). Mounting data that the date has failed(stage3), followed by apocalypse called on account of rain, but it is still coming, you betcha(stage4).

It's all kind of like the stages of cancer, dontcha think?

About ten hours from now, if not sooner, damage control will kick in (stage 3). The script is at least two thousand years old. God granted us sinners just a tiny bit of mercy, because yea, according to the book of the Strange Neighborhood, chapter 56, verse 2, we will continually reset the date later and later until the last gullible person is left upon the earth, amen (stage4).

Big hint: if you hear one word breathed over the next couple days about "God's mercy" it is almost certainly a stage four apocalyptic prophesy, and anybody who buys into it is a complete idiot. Anybody who tells you that God has further delayed the date because he is merciful is either an idiot or is deliberately trying to manipulate your reality.

See you Monday, and believe you me, I'm not any happier to see mundane reality continuing to bear down upon us day after day any more than you.

Reality is something we all will have to deal with whether we like it or not. And it can be strange, but we all pretty much know exactly what we are seeing when we see it.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Okay, Harold

Okay, Harold. No more camping. Ready for the final countdown. I got my pocket calculator in the palm of my hand. I multiplied all those tens, seventeens, and fives. I still don't know what in the holy shit you are talking about. But you could not possibly be delusional, could you? No, of course not. I'm ready. I'm ready. Just one more day, and I'm rapture ready.

That was Pacific spandex time, right? The prophet Daniel or something says so. Must be one of them California prophets or someplace . . .

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Harold Camping Out In My Yard

Is Harold Camping in my yard again? Perhaps he is trying to build a moat. I told him he could not stop the flood of the mighty Mississippi, but he only insisted that if you multiply 5 times ten times 17 times hippopotamus, the truth would be revealed. I guess we'll all see come Saturday, or Sunday if you don't believe in Pacific Standard Time. Strike your tents Harold, camping season is over.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

The Purpose of these Postings

After many days of wandering on the beach . . . I honestly can no longer tell you whether we are talking about the "left" coast, "right" coast or "ambidextrous" coast . . . I found a mayonnaise jar. It was a big one, empty. I unscrewed the lid. Stink of decay. I did not let that put me off. I opened it up and screamed, and screamed and screamed, and screamed . . . Then I put the lid back on and threw it far out into the ocean . . .

So if you find this particular mayonnaise jar, rest assured, you know exactly what all the screaming is about. R.I.P., my beautiful children.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011


Should you have a colonoscopy? Yes, probably, since it appears that you are already well positioned for the poop scope, and are well beyond the age of 50, at which point most intestinal submariners (A.K.A. gastroenterologists) develop a keen interest in probing your guts with a blunt instrument. But hey, it's your choice. If you were born before 1920 and are currently less than sixty years old, chances are you are a character in a fifties or sixties era B-movie, and you can smoke and drink to your heart's content until you suddenly drop dead.

I am not AT ALL considering this to be a disadvantage. I love Ad Men. Cheers!

Monday, May 16, 2011

The Smell of Decay

The room filled with the smell of decay. There was nothing he could do about that now. He should have never kept the meat so long. Too late now to plant fresh meat for spring crops. It was rotten and he had to live with it now. That is how it comes to us all. Rotting meat and no fresh vegetables.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Public Coma Cancelled

Now that the doctors have changed their minds and decided I will live after all, I am at a loss. All my plans centered around slipping into a public coma six months from now. Now I have to think of what to do with myself for ten, twenty, possibly more years.

I could have a heart attack tomorrow, though, so there is always hope.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Blogger Offlined with a Portal Vein Thrombosis

I was disoriented for a bit, but it is all copacetic now, so have a sip . . .

It's okay now man, just like Tom Waits screaming into a garbage can!

Thank you Tom Waits. You gargle bourbon-soaked gravel and razor blades and scream into our garbage lands and trash buckets better than anyone ever! I love you like I love the telegraph pole melting over my left shoulder.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Dr. Kraken of the Institute for Sea Monkey Studies

The Institute for Sea Monkey Studies is located in an abandoned celluloid mine nearly a mile beneath Reno, Nevada. Dr. Kraken is the head and sole researcher at the institute, and has in fact toiled away in near-isolation for the better part of thirty years.

"I should have retired ten years ago," says the good doctor, "but I stay on. Do I ever get tired of it, peering through a microscope day after day, watching my little sea monkeys? Not at all, not at all. In fact, I'm always excited to fire up my microscope in the morning and say hello to my little friends. That's how I think of them . . . my . . . little . . . friends."

"Okay, maybe I should get out more, but I enjoy my job. It's good work, important work, and I feel I am one of the happiest men on earth, or under it, as the case may be."
Thank you Dr. Kraken.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Scenes from a Married Life


And that was just the honeymoon.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Professor Karen Grettlebach's PowerPoint Presentation

As you can see, my esteemed colleagues, our efforts to combat the skypigs have met with steadily diminishing success . . .

We believe this is because of the terrorist activities of the traitorous squirrels and pigeons.

Comrades, it is obvious what must be done. We must offer human sacrifice to the skypigs. I'm asking for a volunteer here. Which of you would like to have the honor of being a sacrificial victim?

. . .

Come now, don't force me to resort to violence

Shit! Looks like it's time to up her meds again.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

A Matter of National Security.

An important message from General Shanker:

Be on alert for individuals who may have leaked information about our current state of affairs. If this information were ever to fall into the wrong hands, the consequences would be devastating. Therefore, all liquid aiders will be reduced to a fine powder and shipped to the moon to live out the remainder of their days.

It is a harsh judgment, but a fair one. It is absolutely vital to national security that the American people not know about the skypig invasion.

Also, avoid all contact with pigeons and squirrels. Do not feed them, talk to them, or accept gifts from them. They may be double agents.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Grandma Riker's Home Remedy

A simple home remedy that really works!

In a small saucepan mix one(1) tablespoon honey, two(2) tablespoons vinegar, a pinch of cinnamon and one quarter(1/4) cup skim or nonfat milk.

Heat mixture over low heat for five minutes, stirring monotonously.

Remove from heat. Breathe in the vapors and exhale three times. Pour mixture into one(1) small bottle, an empty aspirin bottle would be ideal. Cap the bottle tight.

On a clear, moonless night, dig a hole in a desolate place and bury the mixture along with three(3) white hairs from a roadkill animal. A skunk or opossum would be ideal.

Walk around the mixture backwards three times chanting, "I eat you, fallow pig, I eat you, fallow dog, I eat you fallow lava lamp."

Cut yourself and bleed.

If you follow these instructions carefully, the thing that comes in the night to devour your soul will be banished from you forever.


Monday, April 25, 2011

What the Duster Man Wants

The duster man is never happy except when he is out driving along a deserted road. But he doesn't like the roads around here because there are too many cars. There is always some shit behind you tailgating or some other shit ahead of you making you slow down. And you can't throw your trash out the window for fear somebody will tattle.

The duster man buys ten lottery tickets every Saturday, and if he ever wins, he knows just what he will do. He will drive away, leave his bitch wife and his two mouthy teenage daughters, just drive and keep driving.

He'll keep driving until he finds that deserted highway where he can cruise along for the rest of his life, no cars ahead or behind, eating junk food and tossing the wrappers out the window all day, stopping at cheap motels and drinking beer until he passes out every night.

That is all he really wants for the rest of his life.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

The Grenadier in Hiding

The grenadier is in hiding. The building is stalking him again. He has changed his phone number and carapace three times now and the building always finds him. He has to find a safe place where he can work on his plans for the new pyrotechnics.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Spring Brain Trouble

It was a fine spring morning when I went to see Doctor Benblossom about the headaches. The nurse weighed me and checked my blood pressure. Then she left me to wait in the examining room.

I looked out the narrow window and saw it was getting darker outside. There was a distant rumble of thunder. The doctor came in.

"Headaches, eh?" Doc Benblossom said after he examined my file. "Well, Let's have a listen to your thoughts."

He pressed his cold stethoscope to my forehead. I tried not to think of anything embarrassing, but the best I could do was imagining Scarlett Johansson giving me a lap dance. Outside lightning flashed and there was a sharp crack of thunder. Rain began hitting the window.

"Seems normal," the doctor murmured. "Let's have a look at your brain." The rain came down harder. Little pellets of hail bounced off the window.

The doctor took an otoscope and dug deep in my ear, easing past my eardrum and into my brain. I felt a little dizzy as he stirred things around in there. The wind rose to a roar. The tornado sirens began to wail like lost souls. When the doctor spoke, I had to ask him to repeat what he said.

"I said," he bellowed, "the problem appears to be a chip embedded in your frontal lobe. It is controlling the weather. It will have to come out."

He hurriedly opened a drawer and pulled out a power drill and a long set of forceps. But then there was a deafening roar, like a freight train cliche in the sky. All we could do was duck and cover.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Grandma Riker

Grandma Riker says that winter up north is good suicide weather. All you have to do is wander out into the woods without a coat on a night when it is well below freezing. You sit down in some isolated place with a fifth of whiskey and drink until you fall asleep. She says that was how they did it when she was a girl.

She also likes to say that if she were God, she would destroy the world. She says we would all be better off. Maybe she's wrong, but then again maybe she's right.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

The Wrong Reflection

By midnight, the fog has lofted in and erased everything. In the early morning hours, the grenadier creeps along Hibachi street with his thermite bomb concealed beneath his carapace. At a random intersection he lights the fuse and tosses it high in the air.

For a few seconds the world catches fire. Everything is stripped away and anyone who happens to be looking in a mirror at that moment sees the wrong reflection. But why would anyone be looking in a mirror in the fog? Still, someone probably saw.

Or at least that is the hope of the grenadier as he watches the fog close back in and weeps because he has no more bombs.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Sameness of Days

The sameness of days began to take their toll on the princess. Always there were the same people, the same rituals. Despair began to infest her mirror. She was so lonely that she would have welcomed a volcano. But nothing erupted, no skypigs landed, it was only the same, the same, and more of the same until she wondered what she would have to do to get someone to lift the sky from over her head and let her sing. Perhaps she was the only one who could do it.