Message in a Bottle

I’m glad that Josh Duggar is an Arkansan so I have a good, relevant example to throw out there when people start complaining about restroom access. I’m 37 and I’ve never seen anyone’s dick in a restroom. Then again, maybe I haven’t been hanging out in the right ones.

I had stopped looking at Facebook for a couple of months because just reading about things like this gets exhausting. Everyone complains, then everyone complains about complaining, and my only recourse is to zoom out on the map settings of this game we call life and try to take a Southparkian third side. That’s a losing battle, though, because there’s always some fucker trying to metajetpack past you into the stratosphere of opinions and everything becomes dick waving (pussy waving?) one-upmanship. One-upwomanship? One-uppersonship!

It’s also shitty to suggest that other people shouldn’t have different opinions. I know that I know nothing and all that jazz. I’m attempting to stick to things I know something about instead of reading a headline and suddenly becoming a Ph.D. student in whatever I want. Rainn Wilson calls that being a “wikidiot”. He’s right about that.

That being said, I’m going to stop being the cool guy who tells everyone that online isn’t real. Of course it’s real. If everyone had built giant steampunk vacuum tubes and sat around firing missives at each other 150 years ago it would have been just as real. It definitely is tunnel vision, though. It’s a horse with blinders on, and the people driving have great interest in what you’re going to buy.

There was a time when I thought that I could be some kind of left-wing political commentator but it’s just not funny. It’s inane. If you want a bunch of smug fuckers to read your posts and masturbate over them, it’s definitely possible, but you’ll soon be sucked into the hellhole of meme creation and distribution, countermemes, metamemes, triple-reverse meta ironic memes, until you find yourself writing for Salon or submitting free content to HuffPo and wondering what happened to your life. Oh, nothing happened, because you probably still work at Starbucks.

I really hope I’m not working retail when the new $20 bills come out.

It’s pretty weird that some white women are getting all fucked up over being called a “Becky”. This is another thing I wouldn’t even know about if not for Facebook. The rage machine is real, yo. Facebook is a fucking crab bucket. You can throw a bunch of crabs in a bucket and they won’t escape because they’re too busy pulling each other down. You can throw a bunch of underemployed college graduates into social media networks…

AND I WILL POST THIS ON FACEBOOK, because that’s where everyone is. My only recourse at this point is to attempt to sit on the edge of the abyss and throw in stones, or messages in a bottle, and see what flies back out. Some Lovecraftian horror will probably grab my leg and drag me into the darkness. It’s okay. I’ll climb out again.

It’s hard to have 40,000 photos on a site, ten years, thousands upon thousands of posts, and not see quitting as burning the library of Alexandria. I’m not that important to you, but I am to myself. You are the only person you have, really, so think about erasing YOUR internet history, especially when you’ve spent thousands of hours chronicling, for better or worse, what you ARE. What you were.

Hell, looking back, I hate most of it.

Maybe we weren’t meant to diarrhea shit every thought all over the planet. What’s the point? There have been moments in my life over the past two years when I felt like I needed to barf out some hellish screed and I just couldn’t. Either there was no audience, or it was something I couldn’t talk about publicly, so I stewed. I ruminated. I fucking pushed it down sometimes and others I dealt with it. I felt… relief. I had stopped asking random strangers for answers. I had realized that there are none.

So this is the metascreed about all those screeds. This is the thought outside the universe, from the place I’m always trying to reach. The place outside opinions.

I think I can get along with just about anyone now because I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve realized that we’re all swamp apes fucking about, buggering on, ramming into things and exploding. Dropping dead like flies. It’s a goddamned war zone!

That’s the thing that keeps me kind when I want to be cruel. I know something hurt everyone. I’m not the messiah here. I’m such a stupid dickhead (I’m probably still the worst), but when I look at where I started it seems like I’ve flown a million miles in an angle somewhat approaching the right direction.

The big test is not staring at this and waiting for red numbers to pop up. The big test is letting this dump sit on the pasture and get hard.
The biggest test is not looking back to see if the chickens show up to peck it apart.

We’re all being blown to bits but that’s okay. My daughter picked a yellow flower for me, and I don’t know that I’d ever looked, really looked, at a dandelion up close. There’s a lot going on in there. You may have to remove your glasses, or put them on, depending on who you are.

I’m good at uplifting. Sometimes. Sometimes sometimes is all we have.

Petunia Hatches a Why

Part one is here.
Part two is here.


Petunia flopped face down, jellylike, still pulsing in the aftermath of innumerable orgasms. Innumerable to her, at least. It had actually been 37.

“Gah, I’m dying,” she croaked, as a rivulet of saliva escaped the corner of her mouth.

“Nonsense,” said the Inspector from the other side of the room. He was already gathering his boots, a gesture that would have signaled, if Petunia hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice, that he definitely wasn’t planning to stay the night. “Those are just the aftereffects of the Thrustening.”

Petunia was drowning in a puddle of miscellaneous bodily fluids. She grasped for purchase on the slick vinyl surface of her waterbed but found none. She floundered for a moment and collapsed, defeated.

The Inspector pulled up his trousers and looked on in amusement while he buttoned them at a leisurely pace.

“Well,” he began, businesslike, “it’s time I popped off in search of my destiny. I must say, it has been a pleasure -”

“Mffff!” Petunia heaved into her plastic prison. “Hfffmmffhh!”

“How can I leave?” the Inspector repeated back. Fortunately for her, his phone booth telepathically translated any form of communication he encountered and delivered the result directly to the language centers of his brain. This included Drownish. “By stepping into this phone box,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “My entire life has been spent in preparation for this moment. The droid drills. holo-edging. I’m a lean mean thrusting machine and I have a galaxy to fuck.”

“Hrgnrfgggbbbb!” Petunia bubbled.

“You won’t become pregnant.” He had stopped gathering his things and faced her, wielding his Aural Lens as if he had suddenly required protection. “It’s not possible.”

“Hrfnn?” she fizzed.

“No, you don’t understand. You would be able to tell because the implantation is immediate and violent,” he preached, punctuating each key word with a shake of his Aural Lens. “It is no matter. While we’re obviously physically compatible, our genotypes are too dissimilar to -”

Petunia began to quiver, which was not unnatural for a body asphyxiating in an aquamattress valley of spooge. However, her limbs began to contort from her torso outward, each joint fixed at a right angle to the previous one, until she resembled a flesh pretzel.

“Oh no,” the Inspector said, deadpan, his even tone betrayed by his dilated pupils. “This is most improbable.”

He raised his knee high and thrust the heel of his boot into the mildewed trampoline of death Petunia called a bed, springing her from the awkward rubber tomb. Her face detached from the surface with an audible smack and she gasped, raspy and raw as air exploded into her lungs. She landed, still twisted but unharmed, in what looked to be three weeks worth of dirty clothes piled between her bed and the wall.

“Gaahhhh!” She wheezed, panting. “My hero,” she said, not too distressed to be sarcastic.

The Inspector marched towards her. His lens whirred and shined as he ran it over the length of her body and stared into it deeply.

“Great Bordok’s arse!” he cried. He took a step back, stumbled over at least four pairs of mismatched Chucks, and danced, marionette-like, until he found his footing. He pointed at her. “You? You! Did you know? Did you know that you’re half…” he paused, unsure of how to categorize this new specimen, “half Space Princess!?”

“Does this mean I’m having a baby?” Petunia asked. She was surprisingly chipper for a person who had been suffocating in love leavings not two minutes prior. “It all happened so fast! Is it going to pop out in a minute, like Aliens? Are my arms and legs going to stay like this?”

“Stop asking me questions!” shouted the Inspector. “You have to let me think. Now, let’s see.” He paced the room, this time deftly navigating Petunia’s wardrobe detritus. “No, you won’t stay twisted like that,” he began. “The process should end any minute now. Yes, you are pregnant. Regrettably, inexplicably pregnant, but you are pregnant, and NO, it’s not going to pop out. It won’t pop out for, well…” he paused and looked up as he completed a mental calculation, “a thousand of your years.”

“A thousand!?” she cried. “I won’t live for a thousand years! How will I have my space baby? I’ll be a mummy.” She began to weep, bitterly. “A mummy mommy!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” said the Inspector, “which I do.”

He extended his lens-free right hand to Petunia and adopted a false baritone. “Come with me if you want to live.”

She narrowed her eyes and frowned.

He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to say that. But seriously, come fly the horny skies with me. We’ll figure this thing out together, you and I. Thrusting through space and time, like Darmok and Jalad!”

“Nothing you say makes sense,” Petunia answered as a smile crept along her still-encrusted face.

“That’s okay, baby,” he replied with swagger. He snapped his fingers and the doors of the phone box flew open. “Nothing has to make sense when you fuck like a champion.”

The Inspector swept Petunia, still naked and pretzeled, into his arms, and strode through the doors of the phone box. A Moog-like warble fit for Emerson, Lake, and Palmer filled the air, and the box became transparent. It disappeared with a crack of thunder and a magnetic pulse, which yanked every thumbtack out of Petunia’s bedroom walls. Dozens of posters and magazine pages shuffled to the floor in a rain of paper rock stars.

There was silence then. It was the sweet stillness of night, except for a goddamned mockingbird that wouldn’t shut the fuck up, be-bopping his hell-crooning from the tree outside Petunia’s bedroom window. Why isn’t it legal to murder you, you warbling, sleep-destroying, flea-ridden sack of crap? Why do babies die of cancer but, still, you live? What sort of nightmare, sewage-flooded, stranded Carnival Cruise Line universe is this?


Click here for the next adventure.

Inspector Why and the Shroud of the Swamp Thwacker

Part one is here.


The Inspector leaned back against the heavily scuffed headboard of Petunia’s waterbed and lifted his Aural Lens to his mouth. He appeared to suck on the stem, briefly, before exhaling a cloud of wispy, white vapor.

Petunia, who had been basking in his glory, looked up, incredulous.

“Is that magic magnifying glass of yours also some sort of bong?”

“Uh, no,” he said with singsongy sarcasm. “It doubles as a vape pen. It’s what all the cool kids are doing in the future.”

“Huh.” Petunia digested this for a moment. “Is it better for your lungs or something?” she asked as she twirled her fingers through her freshly mussed bed head which, if phrenologically divined by a soothsaying cosmetologist, would have revealed the winding, epic tale of the greatest fuck ever delivered this side of Arcturus in no less than twelve distinct volumes.

“Pfft! Of course not,” said the Inspector. “It kills people in 1/10th the time! Just wait until the Great Suffocation of 2018 hits and everyone goes back to smoking unfiltered Camels.”

He noticed Petunia’s worried, cowlike gaze. “Oh. It can’t harm me,” he assured her. “I’m a Prince of Space.”

“The Space Prince?” she said as a smile crept across her face. Petunia might have been a solid D+ student but even she appreciated the gravity of the situation, considering alien royalty had just smashed her IUD with his intergalactic scepter and left a dwindling deposit of cosmos custard lingering in her lady hole. She stared, her face fixed and determined, as if she were trying to psychically bore through the posters of bushy haired men with bulging codpieces on the adjacent wall. She imagined herself donning a crown of constellations and swimming in hulking hoards of intergalactic loot.

“Not the Space Prince,” the Inspector replied, “a Prince of Space. More specifically, the heir to the throne of your particular galaxy, which, by the way, is known to our people as Mummer’s Bung. I’ve traveled here to reclaim the throne from my cousin, the dastardly Magister. I was raised by my uncle, the Prince Regent, after my parents were brutally murdered by an unknown assailant. My cousin and I spent many Standard Time Units together, hidden away on his father’s Pube Farm. On the evening of my seventh birthday, which was a week after my cousin’s, as luck would have it, the Regent sat me down by the plasma hearth and shocked me with the tale of how he had found the King and Queen asslocked by an Anal Vortex Manipulator. The Queen’s last breath, before she was rent asunder by a gravity wave that pulled her inside-out through the King’s asshole and vice-versa, was spent imploring him to ‘find Tad’, which was a reference to her nickname for me, her ‘little Tadpole’.”

“Oh how sad. How sweet,” Petunia cooed, frowning. After a beat she popped a smile and exclaimed, “There’s nothing little about Tad now!” while bobbing her head from side to side.

The Inspector paused and narrowed his eyes as if considering something, then seemed to think better of it. He blinked, gave his head a quick shake, and continued.

“My uncle rushed to my nursery just in time to see a man in a purple biosuit attempting to override the fail safe on an Autocircumciser. They struggled briefly until the assassin’s faceplate flipped open to reveal a visage so familiar that my uncle found himself frozen in terror. The villain fled in the confusion and my uncle ran to my crib and swept me aside just before the Autocircumciser reached critical mass and blasted a hole through the mattress and the floor beneath.

“So, I lived on the Pube Farm with my cousin and learned to stump-back Swamp Thwackers. As I began to develop into the devastatingly sultry specimen of manhood you see bulging before you, my cousin grew jealous that I, not he, would inherit the galaxy after I had graduated from Turgid Academy and experienced the Thrustening. He was ashamed that his father, who had become my friend and trusted adviser, would so willingly relinquish power to the son of a King who had been crushed to death by a butt singularity.

“During our senior year at academy he started referring to himself as ‘the Magister’, and he hatched his master plan: to travel back in time and kill my parents before I was ever conceived, which, if successful, would have put my uncle and, subsequently, himself in line to inherit the throne. Luckily, for me, he’d never paid attention in Quantum Chromatography Lab and, as a result, incorrectly measured the coolant pH in his Overthruster’s Flux Capacitor. What an oaf! He arrived shortly AFTER my birth instead and ended up being the actual murderer of my parents. It was the first and last original thing he ever did. My uncle was always suspicious about his strange ‘twin’ but he didn’t figure out that the doppleganger was his own son until it was too late. The Prince Regent was a strong, honest man, but when it came to wits he was all cock and no cunning.”

Petunia looked on, agape, as if she had just witnessed a train wreck, or had at least read about one in a few shitty, overlong paragraphs of science fiction exposition.

“I have so many questions,” She said. “Like, why pubes, and what’s a ‘stump-back’?”

“Well,” he began, “the aluminum-based pubic hair of the Eridanian Swamp Thwacker is the best natural insulation a spacefarer will come across without stooping to business with the Talaxian Corporation-State. Plus, it just sounds kinky. As for stump-backing,” he said, throwing her a wink and a knowing glance, “I can demonstrate but it will require a stump and a willing participant.”

Something stirred beneath the comforter.

“And the thrusting, I mean, ‘the Thrustening’?” she inquired, expectantly.

“Oh, we just did that,” said the Inspector as he nodded towards the growing duvet tent between his legs, “but it’s about to happen again.”


Part three is here.

Inspector Why

Petunia awoke to a warbling sound not unlike the first five seconds of Cars by Gary Numan, before the drums kick in, which is something she would be familiar with because it was the eighties.

She wasn’t sure if it was the result of too many long nights of whippets and Headbanger’s Ball, but she could have sworn that she saw a red telephone booth, the British kind, materializing at the foot of her bed. Before she had a chance to scream, the booth became solid and out bounded what appeared to be a man wielding a magnifying glass that emitted an ethereal glow. He was also insanely hot. I mean, the room temperature rose at least twenty degrees but he was also very attractive. Like Bowie hot without the gay vibe.

He gesticulated towards her, glaring intensely. “Are you harboring Nemanorian terrorists?” he growled, spitting through his teeth. He was wild, and maybe even sexier than Bon Jovi without the girly hair.

Petunia stared, speechless. She wasn’t used to talking unless it was about boys, gum, or MTV, but he did look like a boy from MTV… a smokin’ one at that! Her mind groaned as dusty cogs broke loose from years of hairspray rust, and she lurched into action.

“Uh hey, got any gum?”

“Gum!?” the man ejaculated. I mean seriously he was yelling but he also shuddered and it looked as if he might have jizzed his pants, like Jimmy Eversworth in Mandy’s car after Junior Prom. “How can you think about chewing at a time like this? The Nemanorians are tiny and they could be anywhere… in fact, my Aural Lens seems to be detecting their presence right… THERE!”

The guy with the sexy voice like Bruce Springsteen, but not so cro-magnon, swept his glowing magnifying glass towards Petunia’s pretty pink panties.

“They’ve landed in an environment conducive to their survival. Dark, dank, musky…”, he trailed off, panting.

“There’s nothing in there but my IUD!” Petunia cried.

“Precisely!” shouted the man, now wide-eyed and dripping with perspiration. “The Nemanorians are notorious for posing as OBGYNs. By the way, let me introduce myself.” He extended a hand. “I am the Inspector.”

“Uh,” Petunia cringed as she hesitatingly extended her arm towards the Inspector, “Nice to meet you, I guess.”

“Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way…”, the Inspector said as he grabbed her hand and pulled her against his strong, heaving chest. She sensed that he was powerful, like Hulk Hogan, but not all greasy and gross and shit. “I have to travel inside you so we can stop the Nemanorians from completing the Skank Eruptor, which would transform your naughty bits into a world shattering tachyon beam.”

“How are you going to do that?” Petunia smacked. “You got some kind of shrink ray in that phone booth of yours?”

“No,” the Inspector smiled as he raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to smash it with my cock.”


Part two is here.

YOUR TEENAGER IS A BETTER WRITER THAN YOU

I’m not sure what’s worse than working in a bookstore full of books by celebrities who didn’t achieve their initial notoriety through wordsmithery. Perhaps it’s working in a bookstore full of books by people with YouTube channels, or selling books full of what seems to be Eighth Grade Level poetry right out of the lining of someone’s Trapper Keeper. We actually sell the fuck out of all of these, which is great, on one hand, because I get to keep paying my mortgage. On the other hand, people actually attend universities to do this shit and I’m not sure why anymore when all you need to do is either a) be Gwyneth Paltrow or b) a quirky teenager on YouTube. So start doing those and you’re set. Go get ’em, Gwyn.

I’m not gearing up to launch into a defense of why publishers used to be gatekeepers of content because look: the Internet is fantastic, and I’m totally a fan of this new Socialism Media Network we have going here where the masses have taken control of the means of production…

Oh wait, they haven’t. Everything is still owned by the same fat dudes with monocles and top hats. The thing that has changed is the submission form to fame, which used to include lots of writing on actual paper and mailing of large manuscripts to the correct people at the proper times, and now consists of farting something out into the digital ether and hoping that it tickles someone’s fancy.

Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of traditional pathways to getting noticed, but there are also a growing number of ways to produce little Brain Doritos and ship them all over the earth. Fifty Shades of Grey has been translated into 52 languages. Some guy or gal working on their doctorate in English is slicing their wrists open right now and one of our best sellers is Twilight fan fiction with the names changed.

So, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I’m going to start a series loosely based on Doctor Who about a time travelling dude in a box that shows up in women’s rooms at night and stares at them until they inexplicably have sex which won’t be a crime because he will be an extremely attractive vampire billionaire time-travelling space wizard.

I’ll remember you all when I’m hanging out with Jennifer Lawrence. “I wonder what the poor people with college degrees are doing right now?” I’ll wonder out loud, and she’ll do that giggle-snort she does and reply, “Making my fucking coffee.”

Bob Talbot vs The Daleks

So, if you thought this wasn’t the universe where you can get drunk with actors that you adore in hotels relatively near you then you are wrong, because it is that universe, and it is amazing

I also think I have figured out why I love Doctor Who conventions: I am one of the more socially adept people there (hang with me here) so the celebrities don’t see me as a threat until I take this opportunity to prove my previous statement wrong by putting my foot in my mouth (picture Frazer Hines suddenly having somewhere else to be as I attempt to explain my weird inside joke of “Robot Tippin’ with Jamie McCrimmon” while he backs away muttering “yes, yes I did push a Quark…”). I have now learned to stand silently with my arm around Gina while she looks pretty and charming and says wonderful things and draws them in like the bio-luminescent hangy-bobber in my deep sea fish maw, mwuahahahahahaha.

I did not plan this. It happened. Anyone would take advantage.

Since I have no talent of my own and remain a life leech, if you will, an incubus, I must ride other people’s coattails to glory and whose better to ride than my own beautiful wife, Gina?

All in all my latest trip was amazing and fantastic and exceeded my wildest expectations. Any gathering of old actors in a hotel is fucking HOT TIMES for debauchery. I may be done going to the larger conventions, where they crank you through the lines like Space Mountain, two hours in line for thirty seconds of screaming featuring the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Aerosmith. No, I want face time. Wine time. I want to talk European Politics with old guys who fired fake rifles at Daleks in quarries. Goddammit, I want to live.