Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Cthulhu for President

Phnglui mglw nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah nagl fhtagn.

Phnglui mglw nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah nagl fhtagn!

Phnglui mglw nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah nagl fhtagn!

Phnglui mglw nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah nagl fhtagn!!

Phnglui mglw nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah nagl fhtagn!!!

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Drowning In Horse Meat

Recollections of a dream.

I am at an event that purports to be a filming of a live-action version of the opening for "Super Jail" which somehow involves the slaughter of a horse on set during the climax. After the horse's throat is ripped open by a jungle cat of some sort that literally disappears immediately afterwards, the horse sort of collapses in on itself in the hole in which it was killed, turning into a whirlpool of meat and blood. I manage to fall in and go under. I black out.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

My Stupid Brain Is As Dumb As A Butt

I was walking to my bank after work the other day, in a zig-zag one-block-over-one-block-down sort of way, when it got me thinking about this weird mathematical problem it took me several years to tackle back in high school. I thought I'd write about it, for fun.

Warning: Any of you who have even the most basic, instinctual understanding of how math works are probably going to find this hilarious or depressing or both.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Thank You, 4 Loko.

I finally got around to putting Dropbox on my Linux computer, and started digging through some of my files. I found this letter I'd intended to send to the makers of 4 Loko (October 2011?). I thought I'd never finished it, but apparently I was wrong. I should really figure out where to send it. 
To Whom It May Concern, 
I would like to extend my gratitude to all of you at Phusion Products, LLC for the great service you have done humanity in general and me in particular. Allow me to share a story with you. Before I begin, it is probably worth noting that I am 22, of legal drinking age in the United States.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

I, like, like "like"

I remember, when I was a kid, there were a lot of people on a crusade against the ever-growing domain of the word "like." It's burned off lately, mostly--I think--due mostly to the emergence of far more henious crimes against language and grammar such as "LOL" and "OMG leik me 2! u da bes!" But as you can see, even there I can't even manage to make fun of text-speak without invoking the power of "like."

Thursday, August 16, 2012


It was such a pleasant surprise, one that brought a twinge of excitement to what might have otherwise been a boring Wednesday. Kelsey’s mother had told her at breakfast that morning. Somehow, through some miraculous combination of conflicting events, neither of her parents were to be home when she came back from school that day. Her father would be back by five, her mother assured, but Kelsey was hardly paying attention to details by that point; there were exploits to be planned.

Thursday, August 9, 2012


Their chittering was endless. It was like standing behind a flock of birds, a flock of energetic birds that had had two reasonably stiff screwdrivers each, before leaving the apartment. He looked down to check his watch to no real end; like five minutes before, an entire night lay ahead.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Wherefore Art Thou, Dinosaurious?

I wrote this 'story' roughly 4 years ago and surprisingly, it still sort of holds up. It's part of a (never completed) collection called Stories Involving Excessively Personified Objects and Animals for Individuals Who Have Been Children at Some Point in Their Lives but Have Grown up and Consequently Adopted Less Optimistic Outlooks on Life. Maybe I'll get back to it someday. 

Once upon a time, there was a dinosaur named Gerald. Well, he was eventually named Gerald. His given name had actually been the slightly more embarrassing ‘Dinosaurious’ on the account of the fact that he had been named after his grandfather who, in his time, had inexplicably been named after his species. The whole thing had been pretty weird. 

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

How To Socially Network

Are you curious about social network? Have you wonder always how to network socially with your peers, friends, family, peers, and strangers to promote the most yourself and long-lastable virtual-like friendifications? Well now you can. Here's a quick and quick and easy step by step by guide.
  1. A thing like this do. What below.
  2. NEVER ASK WHY. NEVER!!!!!!!
  1. Follow me on the newst network of sociability: so.cl and commence with frendifying.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

My Descent Into Madness: Business Cards

So the other day, I finally took the plunge and ordered some business cards like I had been considering for ages. Today they arrived and, true to form, I began to question everything I know about life. It was a vistaprint deal, "free" cards...with $7 shipping...and $2 extra for the luxury of not having a vistaprint ad on them. Whatever, they're a little weak -- you'll notice the tone of the gray there is reminiscent of printing a black field with a garden-variety ink-jet -- but fine considering. Or are they?! Should I have just spent the extra, say $10 for higher quality stock? A custom design? Glossy finish? After all, I've got a lifetime supply of these little fuckers now. 
Why can't I hold all these business cards?! Also, yes. My foot. So what?
The answer? NO! Of course not. The fact that I even have these is completely absurd. First of all, like 95% of the information on that card is my name. Homepage URL? Name. Twitter Handle? Name. Email? Name, albeit with initial, but easily available through homepage. Name? Name. Practically the only useful information on that card is my fucking Google Voice number and that is the second to last way I'd ever want anyone to get in touch with me, aside from maybe smoke signals from a fire fueled by one of my own recently amputated limbs; I hate phone calls. Besides that, there has literally never been an opportunity where I've thought "Damn, I wish I had business cards." But if there was to be one (like if I suddenly found myself in the 90s), I'd kick myself hard for not being prepared. 

Ultimately, I think it comes down to this: my desire -- my need -- for business cards of some sort is symptomatic of a desire to have some kind of talisman, some kind of proof, that I'm a real person in some vaguely professional sense and business cards, though antiquated, are one of the few touchstones I can use. I used to write up fake info on the back of my dad's business cards as a kid. Business cards are(/were) legit. 

In reality, it's far more useful for me to say "follow me on twitter" to someone, than to hand them a god damned business card, and I very well may still do the former as opposed to the later. That said, any fuckhead can tell people "follow me on twitter" only someone who has shelled out like $12 to vistaprint can hand out a business card. So...wait. What was the point again? Something about a 20 something struggling to define himself as an adult in an increasingly digital age where "dicking around on the Internet" has become a job that pays the bills, but comes with a sense of professionalism that is questionable at best?

Oh, oh, I remember Here it is: I better win some god damn business-card-in-a-fish-bowl open-bar raffles. Also, all that said, they still make me feel like a big boy.  

Monday, April 30, 2012

Anatomy of a Douche-To-Be

I didn't write this. We got it in the tips box at Geekosystem. I found it very affecting however, and I thought I should share. Try to imagine a kid actually saying this. Try to imagine what he would look like, and how he carries himself, and -- most importantly -- what he aspires to, what he aims to achieve with his life. Then, massage your temples vigorously, and lament with me, my friends.

Hey I am Leon Purvis from Glassboro, New Jersey the guy that asked Justin Bieber to prom on Youtube as a bro. I was on the front page of the national USA TODAY! and ever since the USA TODAY! article and being on the front page of USA TODAY! Justin Bieber still has not responded to me about prom. My prom is on June 2nd. Would you like to do a story, interview, or a blog post about asking why Justin Bieber has not responded to me about prom? Or just about me asking Justin Bieber to prom via Youtube in general. I feel as though he has caught wind of my prom asking and that he has seen my Youtube video. I mean my prom asking invitation has been in the media everywhere like Ryan Seacrest talked about me on his radio show, Perez Hilton blogged about me on his website, I was on MTV News in the UK and like I said I was just recently on the front page of USA TODAY! I would really like a response from him about prom. My prom is on June 2nd and I am running out of time. I think he should at least respond to me about prom because of my hard work, efforts, and not giving up. I am not giving up because NEVER SAY NEVER!!!!!!!!
Bro....just, like, bro. I mean. Dude. Just...nah bro. Nah. 

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


“But it meant nothing!” she shouted desperately from the bedroom. “It didn't mean anything!” Lying on the living room floor trying to avoid inhaling dust bunnies, he stuck his hand under the couch, knowing full well his keys weren't there but not thinking straight enough to do much else besides fish. He paused to try and mentally retrace his steps. In the background, she continued to harp on how much or little it had or hadn't meant.

He'd never been good at confrontation, nor did he ever expect to be. He'd also never been any good at keeping track of his god damn keys. He never thought he'd be able to attribute and instance of the former to an instance of the latter.

Picking a fuzzball out from his nostril,  he began to question his reaction to the problem. He didn't know why he had started the search under the couch; he hadn't lain prone on the living room floor in at least a week.
“I hardly even know him!” As if that somehow made things better. She was standing over him, sobbing quite obnoxiously now, her toes threatening to poke out his eyes as she shuffled carelessly – dangerously – from foot to foot. He slithered backwards.

When he'd come home that evening, he'd gone through his standard routine, thrown his coat on the love seat, emptied his pockets onto the end table by the door and stumbled towards the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whatever liquid happened to be closest to the front of the refridgerator that day. There was little time for his keys to have gotten away. 

“It wasn't even that good!” He'd completed his slither by now and was slinking to the end table, despite the fact that it had been the first place he'd checked. And the second. Also the fourth.

It hadn't been until after he'd poured himself a glass of juicy juice -- placing the empty bottle back inside, just how she hated it -- that he'd heard the commotion from the bedroom. The insufficiently hushed voices, the tell-tale sound of the window opening, a trashcan being knocked over, and the window closing. It was all such a non-suprise, he had a hard time concealing his non-bewilderment when she suddenly bawled out a confession after 20 minutes of apparently brutal non-questioning.

“I'm sorry! I don't know what I was thinking! I was just...he was so...and then you were...and we couldn't....” The incessant, unsolicited apologies alone were enough to start making him wish he had stormed out into the cold without his keys, against his better judgement. She was standing in the kitchen doorway now, between him and the refrigerator inside of which he was beginning to think there was just the slightest chance he had left his keys.

As he opened his mouth to say “excuse me,” the keys clattered to the floor from the teeth he only now realized had been clenched. How they'd gotten there he hadn't the foggiest. They locked eyes briefly before he scooped the keys from the floor, and commenced storming, picking up where he'd left off about 5 minutes ago and finally returning to protocol.

As he trudged through the snow to the car, he could feel her watching him from the window, probably still sobbing loudly, but mercifully refraining from running out after him. After the engine refused to turn over a third time, he decided to call a cab and reached into an empty pocket for his phone. Then another. And a third. He let his head fall to the steering wheel and the horn let out an exasperated moan for the both of them. 


For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Barb Black challenged me with "Write about loss of any kind." and I challenged kelly garriott waite with "Write something where the viewpoint character is in freefall for the duration of the story's timeframe."

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Chapter 438: How To Make Small Talk With Your Kidnappers.

Unlike our previous chapters on the finer points of kidnapping and abduction, this section deals with a truly serious danger: awkward silence. Thankfully, this hazard can be neutralized with just a little bit of coaching.  

"Now wait," you say. "Aren't hostages usually bound and gagged?" If only you were so lucky! As we learned back in chapter 73, the vast majority criminals only adopt their lifestyle in order to overcome their own social awkwardness. Many kidnappers won't want to pass up the opportunity to hold your attention hostage. Pun intended! 

When you are abducted and inevitably left gag-less, it's important to note that kidnapping is distinctly different from garden-variety bank robbery or mugging; you can't just fall back on crime-specific interest and chat about a topic like the declining strength of the American dollar or the relative merits of the metric system over imperial (despite the latter's undeniable charm.) Kidnappers hail from a variety of backgrounds. They're likely to run the gamut from unemployed horticulturists to unemployed agriculturists. That being the case, you'll have to rely on the most common of conversation topics, but remember, you can't see the weather from the back of a windowless van.

The best course of action is to start with the absolute knowns and let your captors take the conversational wheel. After all, they've already taken the literal one! The optimal place to start, for instance, is with the incontrovertible fact that your kidnappers are kidnappers. Try something simple."Sooooo, you're kidnappers, huh?" It may seem forced, but your kidnappers are just as afraid of awkward silence as you are, and clichéd conversation starters are clichéd for a reason: they work.

If your kidnappers are miraculously immune, either due to lack of ears or lack of fragile egos, it doesn't hurt to have a follow up line prepared ahead of time, something like "You know, my great grandfather was a kidnapper; I guess that makes me 25% kidnapper! Err, no. 12.5% I guess, right?" This example is a particularly good backup for several reasons:
  • The botched arithmetic provides sufficient evidence that this is not some sort of pre-rehearsed line.
  • The botched arithmetic also opens up the conversation to the discussion of botching arithmetic, a topic with which your unemployed fashion designer captors are doubtlessly familiar.
  • It opens up the conversation for the discussion of great grandfathers; everyone has four of these by the very nature of existing. 
  • The quasi-rhetorical nature of the closing question invites the kidnappers to respond, but preserves your dignity if they choose not to.
In the case that neither of these approaches work, it is quite likely you aren't being kidnapped at all and are instead being delivered to a surprise party of some sort. Hope you remembered your cyanide pills!

Friday, February 3, 2012

The Pachyderm

I have a good buddy named Chase,
whose chest hardly reaches my waist.
His nickname's "The Elephant"
which isn't irrelevant;
a moray eel's stuck to his face.