HAY GUYS FOUND FUNNY INTEARNETVIDEo

do the leg lift.

that is some all-star ruckus/darkness.

merry merry

Country Songs I Will Never Write

1. Ain't Nothin' Right About Rain
2. My Road Atlas Don't Have No Poon
3. Hits the Clit Where I Sit
4. I'm Gonna Eat The Miles Away (Between Me and You)
5. The Dogs Run Wild (After Your Unborn Child)
6. I Smell Somethin' Skunky
7. Country Grammar
8. Muscles (Don't Know No Peace)
9. I.E.D (I'mgonna Eradicate Darkies)
10. Ashes, Ashes, ASHES
11. Tomah Pleasure Coma (Three Hours to Beloit)
12. Slippery Fingers
13. Ron Paul will Kill all the Mexicans
14. Lord I'm Branded (But Baby I'm Sleepy)
15. Caution Sauce
16. Wakin' Up Naked in Joplin (Ohfuckohfuck)
17. Thatsa Dirty Cow John
18.he was a selfish but enthusiastic lover
19. Cancel My Subscription to Smiles
20. Tequila Body Shot, Whiskey Blood Clot
21. Mister Scientist (Quit Disprovin')
22. That Upcoming Sandwich
23. That calculator watch joke is getting old

fear and dreaming

Premise Bomb: Wave 1

Title: My Brother is a Leader of Men

A man, Raymond, has nervous breakdown in graduate school. Goes to stay with his estranged brother, Ansel, in Appalachian commune. His brother turns out to be a leader of a cult of personality, but still acts the same as he did when they were kids. Raymond doesn't have to abide by any of the cult's rules while living there, and as such is creating a giant discrepancy in Ansel's prophecies. This breeds unrest in the flock, as one leaves to tip off the FBI to a non-existent stash of arms and bombs in the compound. Ansel and Raymond attempt to relate to each other and discover how they got where they are (a nervous wreck dropout to charismatic cult leader) while staving off a siege from the FBI. Sounds like Wes Anderson trying to do Palahniuk.

At the end, they find a way to blow up the compound, fulfill his bullshit prophecy, fake death, and go camping with his brother.

I'd like to give this bat some lashes...

A comic

ok, let's talk.

but mercy's not part of that bargain.

Dreams can come true

Listen Ben, we need to talk.

dig, dig, dig.

This is going to help a lot.

Because We Couldn't Stop at Hobbits

This was given me in a tent, very south, about 5 days ago:

It begins in a middle class house of a mutual friend, someone everyone knows, meaning he knows everyone. The house is just outside a mid-sized city. Despite his all-appeal, just then I'm the only person "hanging out". He's showing me something in his basement recording studio (white, parentish carpeting), and he's wearing soft clothes and a soft hat. Then Michael Jackson comes downstairs, and asks if we could help him record the State of the Union address. Jackson looks something like a young Jimmy Carter, especially the quiet suit. So we get down a few takes for MJ, who is, after all, the president. It's a song, and admittedly it doesn't explain much, and runs more like "We Are The World" + "Rapper's Delight" than anything else (I recently learned that the former of those two songs has become immensely popular in El Salvador over the past year). Thing is, the song is fantastic, a doosie. No one can quite put their finger on what's so good about the damn thing though. Jackson takes off then with the promise that we'll get a mastered copy to him by tomorrow.

We print one copy right then on white vinyl and call up a bunch of people to come listen to it. It's a good crowd. Everyone mostly knows each other and I know everyone, everyone except some chick with big lips who my sleeping mind immediately recognizes as definitely smoking hot and equally as gross, the wrong kind of beautiful and very dangerous: not a new character in the aether. Now here things get foggy. The vinyl gets lost and everyone takes of in cars to go get it in the city. Anyhow, let's skip to the good stuff.

1. The group gets separated and a bunch of us end up in a very big department store. After a number of basic department store adventures, which leave us all with the "this is not a normal department store" impression, we venture into a warehouse section in the back. There are furniture displays and various high end floor models of housing layouts. On the ceiling there is a large, black and red painted boat that looks like a disguised canoe. And yes it is. Then Alex Nee gets that look on his face. Maybe he remembered he's got a knife in his boot. Maybe it's nothing. But it puts me on my toes. He looks around a bit and smiles, then says quite loudly, "Ohhhh, I sure hope there aren't any NAZIS around, that would be terrible". Well fuck. Of course that boat on the ceiling is a poorly disguised Nazi canoe. I run up ahead to the next few aisles, and, sure enough, striding down one is a frighteningly blonde woman in a white suit jacket and skirt, coming towards us. Her voice booms out, shaking the floor a bit and moving my insides: "What a strange question, young man! What a very strange and stupid question." But Alex doesn't stop. "NAZIS, no, there wouldn't be any NAZIS here!" I'm as scared as I've ever been. This time, no magic powers, no swords, which I usually have, or at least a gun. She keeps coming towards us and we're absolutely fucked. Unfortunately the next thing I remember is

2. masturbating in a room full of cats, and I can't get off. My mother wants me to come to dinner, she's going to send my sister to knock on the door any moment, and my dick just keeps becoming a funnier color of red/purple, while all the cats squirm on big old armchairs and then that big lipped girl is sitting in one of them, wearing pair of ridiculously tight khaki pants. It could be Leigha Beckman, but I don't think so. There's so many damn cats. Demonios! We've got to get that record back. And I can't go to dinner until I finish masturbating.

3. Everyone ends up in my backyard (after a scene on the highway where Alisha can run as fast as a car, and I turn to Ellie and say "You trust her more than me, don't you? That's understandable."). Half of the original party are drunk. Lauren Weekes is sobbing. All the drunk kids are crying. They thought the mission was to go and get midday drunk, and they feel really guilty. It's a sunny afternoon in mid July I think. MJ shows up again, with two old fat women, one of whom starts kissing everyone, exclaiming, "Oh how religious they all are!" The not sloppy crowd are all males, and I can't help but feel a faraway fraternity falling on us like rain. We're okay, for now.

None of this matters of course. Still, it's good to be careful.

Brandy Barrel

"I was running for the electrified perimeter when the klaxon sounded. The dull baritone reverberated off the compound's walls, making my inner ear vibrate painfully. That pitch of alarm was reserved for a specific type of ears. The brandy barrel tied to my neck was swaying awkwardly as I began to dig. Inside was a small hard drive with three hundred terrabytes of information on the SSS's hybrid soldier projects. These perimeter fences always go down at least six feet and if you touch them at any depth you're guaranteed a scrambling of your nervous system. There's barking in the distance.

"The dirt is cold and hard. Digging in it is forcing my fingernails off. Hands. Hairless hands. I make the decision and plunge one of the syringes I smuggled out into my neck. The Anthro-cane is thick like iced milk as the extra volume pushes against the lining of my veins. When the injection finally makes it to my medulla, the energy hits me at once. It's more a kind of boundless, childlike enthusiasm than the jittery hyper motivation from the other stimulants they tested on us at first.

"The purity of that emotion is sullied only by the fear that comes afterward. Barking getting louder. Scared, scared.

"Digging digging dig dig dig.
Dig dig dig dig dig.
Dig Dig Dig DIG DIG DIGG DIGG

"Wriggle under- go GO!

"Free Ha, ha. Ha, ha. Bark! Bark!

"Net! No! Caught! Barking! Biting! Fear.

"The room I regain consciousness in is white, but I can't remember its shape. I've got bite marks and bruises all over my body. How many legs do I have? There's an out of date loudspeaker mounted on the wall-- no vid-screen. It sounds tinny and rusted when it screams out to me about loyalty and humanity. The steel door slides open and the beatings start again. What happened to my brandy barrel?

"I'm not alone in the room this time. There's a smiling mannequin standing in front of a podium and I'm standing on its left. Maybe its right? The loudspeaker lectures me on the importance of my position relative to this figure. I can remember it says 'dog' often. Or was it God? After that things blur out."

The therapist assigned to me, Dr. Meiners, listens to the description of my dream with a detached interest, doodling absentmindedly on a legal pad. He isn't satisfied with my descriptions and reiterates his question from our last session: "Who were you bringing the brandy barrel to?" I tell him I can't remember all the details. He's visually agitated ands tells me I can't begin to cope with my transformation-centric delusions until I give him all the information he needs-- don't I want to get better? I know he's lying, the transformations are real. Anthro-cane and the SSS are real. I know I'm not an overly-stressed GI and Meiners probably isn't even a real doctor. Once he's told my contact's identity to Schwartz I'll be disposed of-- three milkbones or not.

I've got to get that brandy barrel to Benjamin Geary.

After the Slippery Slope

I didn't really notice how bad everything had got in recent years. It was a painstaking task walking to the store, taking the metro to work, and going to Jamba Juice and avoiding looking or listening to the vid-screens, but it was worth the effort to maintain what was becoming a dwindling resource even before the Schweetz Administration: Peace of mind.

I was able to maintain mine through a combination of forced ignorance of world events, Pomegranate-Absinthe Smoothies, and the hope that she would come back someday.

It was a lonely life, constantly out of focus, and as many would say: empty. It was this delicate and perfect vacuum that I maintained that kept me from falling into the more dangerous diversions of the day, namely joining the government's shady enforcement squad, make contact with and assist a known terrorist organization, or mysteriously evaporate from the face of the Earth. Any deviation from my normal regimen of working, walking, hoping, and drinking could possibly set me off balance enough to fall back into the world.

One morning, there was a buzz at the door. This simple event disturbed me more than it normally would have, as I was intently reading a magazine in the subject of birdhouse construction (one of the first things to be rationed was pornographic literature, so a print depiction of a hole was a commodity), hoping still that she may have returned.

Pulling on my velcro-slacks I shot to the door, dilating the normally quite small chance in my heart that she may have come back to my door.

Swinging the door wide open, it struck nobody on my porch, as there was nobody on my porch.

Only a sheet of paper lay on my novelty Taz the Tasmanian Devil doormat.

I fell back into my home. I could not afford to give up the one thing that I had manage to hide from a world that had taken everything else from me that I hold dear.

My peace of mind.

Dog Day Morning

AT AROUND 7:35 A.M. two uniformed SSS (Schweetzie Secret Service) appeared at the poorly-lit threshold of Interrogation Room 114. Between them was a dazed prisoner 2543, formerly known as John "Pudgy" McGavok McConnell, a Doggy Corps colonel, by far the best in his division. He once held the sole distinguished honor of three Milkbone medals, an honor to which no other soldier--no matter their proportions of man to dog--could bear claim, presented for his loyal service in the field and humility in the public eye. McConnell was known all throughout the Corps as a walking, barking embodiment of temerity and hope, of valiance and duty; his commanders affectionately bestowed his nickname of "Pudgy" in an ironic disregard for fact--everyone knew that McConnell was the leanest, boniest dog in the yard.

Yet those days had passed, just like the warmth from this December morning, just like the glory of the floundering regime of President Schwartz--in a seemingly unexpected flash, which in actuality was the result of slow decline of Celsius and popular support. Prisoner 2543 remained lean--this possibly alone had not changed--yet his healthful skinny frame had assumed an almost gaunt, emaciated appearance from months of neglect and abuse. Whereas he once stood above all of his former comrades at an unheard-of 1.95 meters, he was now crooked and bent at the waist, hunching, as though his now-vestigial, transfigured opposable thumbs wished only to arrive at the cold concrete floor of the interrogation cell, finally succeeding in nullifying what thousands upon thousands of years of punctuated-equilibrium had achieved: Homo erectus. His constantly twisting, whirling eyes seemed as though they controlled the spigot of his open, panting mouth that produced the pints of still-falling froth from his grizzly, unkempt bearded chin, splotching darkbrown and tan his tattered olive-drab military tunic.

"Well, well, well," said the voice emanating from behind the unearthly radiance of the light bulb pointed in 2543's direction from atop the large stainless-steel table. "If it isn't the son-of-a-bitch himself."

This statement produced a snarl from the doorway, followed by the grunts of two struggling humanoids attempting to restrain the beast of a man between them. After only seconds, the prisoner is loose, having torn through the necks of both of his captors, sending majestic vermilion spurts of arterial spray all over the dreary interior amidst their owners' gurgled screams. The prisoner then lunges at the blinding light with every atom of his being afire only to be quelled midair, as if crashing into an invisible wall, sending him flailing to the floor with an audible whimper directly preceding the report of his skull on the hard, polished concrete.

"Did you honestly believe that the administration did not take special precautions against you, 'Pudgy?' That's a shock collar around your neck." The prisoner looks at the light, his ears now lowering, as a dog's might in anticipation of a blow from its master. The anonymous interrogator continues:
"We saw it coming a long time ago with you. Like the other soldiers, you too demonstrated a typical aversion to becoming half-dog--to becoming subservient, to becoming docile. Naturally! It's against man's nature to forfeit his pride for loyalty." He pauses, apparently to listen to the prisoner, who has now begun to let out a soft whine, slowly increasing in its amplitude, like a puppy at night, without its mother's teat. "But you, you were different," he begins again. "You began to like it, didn't you? You wanted to be more of a dog! You became addicted to what we fed you through those IVs, what was it called? Ah yes, Anthro-Cane!" At this the prisoner lets out a sudden howl which echoes down the corridor through the still open doorway. "That's right. You loved being a dog, you loved to serve! But we just couldn't have it you see, Pudgy. We wanted half-dog, half-man. But you--you became whipped."

My Life as it will be as a Dog

The IV drip in my vein looked like a wiggly worm.

A "wiggly worm"?

They say the first signs of bestialation are changes in your internalized dialog. Hierarchical thinking and reasoning are quickly replaced by childish analogies, which themselves finally give way to base emotions as the internal dialog ceases.

The IV was not a wiggly worm, it was a plastic tube. Although, if I struggled against my restraints with enough tenacity, you could see how I could think of it as wiggly. Wiggly worm. If I smashed you, your goo would spill out and the nanites would writhe about aimlessly on the floor until they broke down. They'd writhe like little tortoises in the hot sun until they baked to death.

The solution that the nanites are suspended in is ice cold when it joins my bloodstream. I hate "Senator" Schwartz's Hybrid Soldier Corps. The public thinks that animals are the ones being altered, but any scientist not on Schweetie's payroll will tell you that animals can't have their intelligence increased-- it doesn't work. Bestialating the body and retarding the mind of a human being is much easier. I'm so angry I could scream.

"Bark! Bark! Bark!"

Ha, ha. Wiggle worm.

Friend Fan-Fic Future: C-Span

I saw the future this morning.

Bounding out of the crowd, the madwoman fired two shots in the direction of President Schwartz, the least-popular elected official in history. The two shots miss the gin-soaked leader of a once free world and hit a nearby dog.

The assailant/sassin pauses for a moment, evidently filled with grief in both shooting this ill-timed wonder of the domestic world and in that Secret Service Agent Merchut will now shoot her smartly a whole lot.

BEING THE GENTLEMAN THAT HE IS, Mr. Schwartz waves off his solitary guard (who was actually in a waking nightmare about what he must look like in a suit), and takes the gunwoman's non-gunned hand into his own.

"Pobody's Nerfect" he says, grinning that grin that unlocks hearts and makes people pregnant world round.

That's the story of how, at the Seminole County Fair of 2043, my dog was shot and the motto on American currency changed forever.