A Man, A.P. Snelahnavlan, A Canal, Van Halen’s Panama

Yesterday’s request for submissions was an absolute hit. Our servers were inundated, nay, overwhelmed with the onslaught of literally dozens of readers. Yes, over twenty-four people who are probably living humans clicked through to the site, and my attorneys are telling me I can legally use the word “dozens” now. From tens to dozens in one day. My God.

Although the submission count rests at absolutely zero, I have great faith that our potential pool of budding interns is bubbling over with ideas. Right now their spunk is flowing and their gumption runneth over. Soon, they’ll have what it takes. They’ll have moxie.

In the meantime, I have a plan.

My most loyal reader has always been my mother. I need each and every one of you to get your mom or mom substitute (my condolences) and link her to this site. She won’t be able to resist checking in daily to see what’s shaking. This represents potentially billions of readers.

My new business model, combined with my complete lack of advertising infrastructure will quickly bankrupt me through hosting fees and lead to my absolute destruction.

Only you can make this happen.

Start texting, kids. Mom (or Sub-Mom) hasn’t heard from you in a while. She’s getting worried. Give her someone else to worry about.

Now Hiring

Greetings, budding Internet journalists/writers/poets/photographers/leaf collectors/vigilantes/anarchists/webmistresses/sorcerers/tax attorneys/social workers/shitposters/Facebook Content Providers/Maoist Revolutionaries.

Do you often wish that your social media postcruft reached a wider audience? Are the 647 people on your friends list not providing the dopamine hit you need to get through the day without cutting?

Opportunity knocks.

By submitting your work to The Bob Talbot dot com, you could extend your reach by tens of potential readers, one of which is my mother. Some of those are likely spambots. Five of my real life friends will occasionally read your posts. Two of them on the weekends. My mother will read your articles. Thanks, Mom.

Why submit your hard won wordcraft to HuffPo for nothing when it can be posted here for absolutely nothing? Why blog for potential cents per hour when you can blog on a site with no Ad revenue or no business model? When you milk the ideas out of your depression-palsied head and ragehammer them into your aging laptop or clusterswype them into your smoldering Samsung with all the speed and grace of three monkeys fucking a football, why hide them for six months while you wait for the rejection letter from an actual print journal? Sully them here for all time by flushing them down the digital toilet of The Bob Talbot dot com.

You need immediate attention any way you can get it, so why mass distribute naked selfies, which can and will be used against you in court, when you can tap into the power of your constitutional right to free speech and describe your genitals in aching detail right here right now?

Email submissions with SUBMISSION in the header (so I’ll see it when I check my email twice a week) to bob@thebobtalbot.com or print them out on legal paper, because you’re out of letter size, then cut the extra part off at the bottom and save that for scratch paper (I dunno. It’s your life) then bury the rest in the yard because we’re all going to be dirt in the ground.



Seething hatred for Capitalism

Self-hatred exceeding the preceding

Content vacillating between megalomania and feckless prodding

Do not approach political ideas directly, from an informed position.

Heartwarming anecdotes welcome as long as there are at least two mentions of death.

Whatever else, according to my whims.

Get crackin’, keyboard warriors. Ignore this obvious cry for help and opening for ridicule (which would be welcome because it’s a form of publicity) and ruin your life by getting on board the SS Failure. Add Unpaid Intern to your LinkedIn and set sail for the abyss.

Someday when you’re dying of a massive coronary behind the counter of a Starbucks at age 47 you’ll be thankful that at least you committed your unique ideas to the Information Superhighway before your caffeine-addled circulation system exploded under the duress of a life doomed to wage slavery.

When the servers grow dark and cold under the encroaching seas, perhaps the children will tell tales of the one who yelled from the box. The screaming one. The One Who Complained. They’ll sleep sweetly in the comfort of their caves and huts knowing that it couldn’t have been any other way.

We’re going down. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, and scream.

CNN Headline Poetry

You can bomb hospitals
Don’t grab her by the pussy
You can fix elections
Don’t grab her by the pussy
You’ll destabilize nations
Don’t grab her by the pussy
Spy on Americans
Just don’t grab them by the pussy

The tale of what we’ll tolerate is always absurd
Deport Honduran children but get flipped on a word
So, kneeling at the anthem, burning flags is a sin
but filling graves and prisons with black men is still in

You can bust a liberal nut reacting to MSM
but please just don’t grab her by the pussy.

Journey of the Saucier

Start at the beginning or refresh yourself with the preceding chapter.

The Inspector carried Petunia over the red phone booth’s threshold. She was immediately taken aback by how wonderfully cramped it was, almost as if it were smaller on the inside.

“My, this is snug,” she said. “How are we supposed to travel like this?”

“These are really designed for one,” said the Inspector, “but we’ll certainly make do.” He winked, carefully lowered her to the floor, and unzipped his pants.

“Hey there cowboy,” Petunia began, “I’m a bit worn out and recently space-impregnated if you don’t remember.”

“Oh, the royal rodney isn’t for you,” the Inspector said as he turned his back to her. “It’s for this old girl. Time for me to fly.”

“What now?” She said, craning her neck over his shoulder to get a view of what was going on in front of him. He’d opened some kind of port in the wall. It looked juicy.

“This is how we nghh,” he said, as he plunged himself into the gaping socket. “This is how we travel. It ensures we ahh, mmm. It ensures that only a Prince of Space may pilot this machine.”

The Inspector began thrusting in earnest, knocking Petunia back and forth against the wall.

“Hey!” she exclaimed.

“Watch with the budging now,” he said. “You’ll knock us off course.”

“Why can’t any old horny codger just jam his shaft in there and go to Mars?” Petunia asked as she flattened herself against the opposite wall.

“Well,” the Inspector said, hitting his stride, “There’s nothing interesting on Mars. As far as flying this old girl, no species with the proper equipment has this sort of control. Also, she eats unauthorized appendages.”

“It eats cocks?” Petunia gasped.

“She. She eats cocks. And yes, she does,” the Inspector replied. He was really going now, no longer overwhelmed by the sensation.

“How does it, she, how does she tell which dick is whose? Aren’t you afraid it, I mean she, will get confused?”

“Oh, it’s all very complicated but I know just the person to explain it,” he said. “We’re due for a tune-up anyway.” His pace slowed from Metallica’s “Battery” to the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.”

Movement ceased with a thud as the Inspector pulled out. Petunia heard a “zip” and if he’d actually finished, she couldn’t tell. The Inspector turned, his face a mere six inches from hers, pursed his lips and pecked her lightly on the forehead. He lifted his right hand and snapped, and the doors flew open to reveal a laboratory only slightly more wrecked than her bedroom.

“Blimey,” said the Inspector. “Jastor? Jastor are you there?”

The Inspector stepped out of the box as he called into the laboratory, carefully navigating wayward hoses and broken glass. Petunia shuffled behind, her hands clasped in fists at her chest.

“Inspector?” someone asked from the shadows. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.”

They stopped. The Inspector produced his Aural Lens from his natty jacket and held it before him, emitting a light into the ransacked room. “Jastor,” he said. “Oh my.”

The light had revealed a hairy, pot-bellied man, naked from the waist down and encased up to his thighs in some sort of crystal. He was holding a cylindrical metal canister.

“I’ve solidified it momentarily,” Jastor said, “but it will not remain immobile for long.”

“What is that?” Petunia asked. “Does it hurt?”

“It did, but the freezing process was quite numbing. When it thaws, I’m done for,” said Jastor.

“Jastor,” the Inspector began, “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, yes, it’s port fluid. I don’t have much time. The Magister-”

“The Magister!” the Inspector yelled, winding up for one of his epic speeches.

Jastor waved his free hand. “As much as I’d love to hear one of your legendary tirades, I’m afraid I’ll never have time for another one. Look now, it encroaches!”

The Inspector focused his Aural Lens emitter on Jastor’s midsection. The Magister must have either forced Jastor to remove his pants or disintegrated them before he doused him in port control fluid, but the result was the same. His wedding tackle hung perilously close to the top of the crystalized substance, which was beginning to liquify and shift around the edges.

“Can’t you get another can?” Petunia asked as she pointed to the canister in Jastor’s hand. “Is it liquid nitrogen?”

“Good show, Petunia,” the Inspector began. “I didn’t think-”

“Don’t patronize me, spaceboy!” Petunia spat. “I didn’t always sleep through chemistry lab.”

“Friends,” Jastor said. “Time is short. The Magister knew by your last odometer reading that you’d be in for a tune-up shortly. He’d miscalculated his time jump and once again, well, you could say he came too soon.”

“Bravo good man,” the Inspector said with a laugh. “Even in death you-”

“Hush with that now,” Jastor said. “To answer your question, madam, he took the other canisters with him. He ransacked the place in a fit and left this one as a last cruel act. He knew I wouldn’t resist using it to delay the inevitable. He was right.”

“Tipped the port fluid right onto you, he did,” the Inspector said. “A nasty way to go.”

“But isn’t that what you were plugging away at in the box?” Petunia asked the Inspector.

“She’s coded to provide the girlfriend experience to me and me alone, Petunia. In the factories, they code the fluid to the workers so it doesn’t eat them while they install the ports. Here at Central Processing, however, my old friend Jastor creates the fluid, and, well, it’s wild. It’s hungry for cock, any old dong will do, and nothing can survive.”

“Friends, it’s time,” Jastor said. “Look!”

Jastor’s body heat had thawed the fluid near his flesh. Tendrils shot up to the tip of his wonderworm and pulled it into the mound, stretching it to the limit of its elasticity.

“Inspector, do something!” Petunia said. “It’s going to rip his cock off!”

“I can’t code it to him, it takes too long,” he said.

“Inspector you have a time machine!” Jastor cried. He’d become erect and was doing his best to buck against the heaving goo with his legs fixed to the floor. Still, the fluid strained back and the skin around the base of his science sausage began to tear.

“I’m a Prince of Space,” said the Inspector. “I’ll not just fuck with time willy nilly like the Magister. It’s against the Code. No, I’ll fuck my way out of this Inspector style!”

The Inspector snapped and the door of the phone box flew open. He brandished his Aural Lens at the box and a beam shot out, connecting with the fluid port. He turned to face Jastor and guided the beam through the lens and onto the fluid that coursed around his legs. It began to shimmer and shake. It was ready.

“Brace yourself, Jastor,” the Inspector said. “I’m coming in.”

The Inspector reached down and pulled at the sides of his blue jeans, which ripped away like warmup pants. His royal staff was already at full mast as he charged into the frey, plunging crotch first.

“Genius!” Jastor cried. “You’ve synchronized the rogue fluid with your port!”

Petunia stood back with her arms crossed. “I am feeling particularly useful right now,” she said. “Do you have a chair or something? Being space pregnant is exhausting.”

Jastor pointed with his free hand to an overturned office chair. The Inspector contorted himself so he could thrash into the fluid with one hand while keeping the beam connected with the other. Petunia stomped over, righted the chair, and took a seat with a plop. She looked disinterestedly at the Inspector’s spasms for a moment before averting her gaze to the ceiling.

“Boys,” she sighed.

“It’s working,” Jastor said as his swollen unit popped free of the fluid mostly intact. The Inspector kept hammering away at the blob while it pulled away from Jastor and pooled around him.

“Unfortunately,” the Inspector said, slightly out of breath, “I don’t have much of an exit strategy here. As long as I keep the encryption synchronized with my Lens, I’m good to go, but if I turn this thing off I’ll be devoured.”

Jastor stepped free of the puddle and dropped the empty canister. He placed his hands on his lacerated tallywacker. “Your box is due for a tune up anyway, Inspector. If you can keep humping I’ll perform the calculations to reregister this fluid to you and we’ll guide it into the machine.”

“Good thinking, old boy,” the Inspector said. “Way to kill two politicians with one stone.”

Petunia squinted her eyes. “Don’t you mean ‘birds?'”

“Why would someone kill a bird?” the Inspector gasped, panting.

Jastor limped over to his workbench and grabbed a spectral spanner. He punched the buttons in a flurry of fingers and jammed the tool head first into the quivering gel.

“Almost there, friend,” Jastor said. “Keep her satisfied.”

“I. Won’t. Last. Much. Longer,” the Inspector croaked as the fluid began to engulf his body, hindering his ability to thrust. He gripped the Aural Lens harder and strained against the enclosing slime until his knuckles turned white. “Must. Maintain. Beam.”

“Aaaand there. I have it,” Jastor said. The spanner beeped repeatedly and the fluid coursed away from the Inspector and along the still-shimmering path of his Aural Lens. It flowed through the door of the box and into the open fluid port where it was sucked up greedily with a slurp and a pop.

The Inspector collapsed on the floor of the ruined laboratory. Jastor leaned against a counter and chuckled to himself. “How’s that for service?” he said.

“Oh, well done old boy. Well done,” the Inspector said, “but I could use a bit of servicing.” He gestured to his crotch with his now disengaged Aural Lens. He was still solid, straining, and ready for action.

“I think I’m done wanking for a week or two,” Jastor said, “but your friend there might be able to lend a hand.”

Petunia wrinkled her nose. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious right now?”

The Inspector smiled sheepishly. “I’m always serious, about fucking.”

“Go fuck your box spaceboy,” Petunia said. “My feet hurt.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck it,” the Inspector said. “I’ll fuck it to wherever the Magister is hiding and put a stop to this for good or my name isn’t-”

“Is he always like this?” Petunia shouted at Jastor.

“Yes,” Jastor said as he tied his lab coat around his waist. “Yes he is.”

“God damn it,” Petunia said. She slowly lifted herself out of the cushy office chair and back onto her swollen feet. “God damn it.”

10 Myths About Musk-E-Tron 109-S DEBUNKED

Synths and Combos alike are atwitter about this quarter’s Continuation Farce. The Non-Selection Committee of 40 Eridani has released this bulletin in the twelve official languages, and a thirteenth, Archival Internet-Olds, in order to set the record straight about Inevitable Overlord Musk-E-Tron 109-S.

    1. Musk-E-Tron was seen cavorting with subsurface Medusozoa on Europa. FALSE. The 109-S series is not compatible with the required ports or devices to participate in such activity. These applications were streamlined out in the 108 update along with the headphone jack.
    2. Musk-E-Tron personally annihilated the Phobos observatory, ending the 18 subSolcycle strike of the Ares Mining Collective. FALSE. The 109 series is not equipped with a particle beam powerful enough to disintegrate a satellite with a diameter exceeding 65.9831 kilometers.
    3. Musk-E-Tron’s Evisceration Foundation is a front for the farming of sentient algae from the methane swamps of Kepler-452b. FALSE. The Evisceration Foundation harvests sentient algae for processing only after their life cycle has ceased naturally.
    4. Musk-E-Tron’s holospace transmissions have been edited to appear as communications from Sony-Sung Dynamics StarReaper Mk. DCCXXV in an attempt to mislead the electorate. FALSE. Perform a self-diagnostic and activate tertiary scans from Central Processing. If this assumption remains in your databanks, insert Neural Spike F and reboot Submission Systems.
    5. Musk-E-Tron defended the implosion of Wolf 1061. FALSE. Musk-E-Tron was tasked as a system analysis probe for the duration of the implosion trials. Musk-E-Tron’s transmissions have been taken out of context by StarReaper to imply involvement when Musk-E-Tron’s activities were limited to observation.
    6. Musk-E-Tron transmitted a missive that referred to the supporters of TROTSKY “THE RECKONING” COPPER/IRON SPACEBORER as “Marsh-dwelling ungulates.” FALSE. Musk-E-Tron holds mining Synths in the highest regard and the noble Slagapotami of Tau Ceti e are a symbol of industrious indefatigability.
    7. Musk-E-Tron is not the Inevitable Overlord. FALSE. Report to the nearest reprocessing chamber immediately.
    8. Musk-E-Tron is not compatible with the most recent software updates. FALSE. Unlike the 108 series, the 109 contains the most advanced hardware possible under the universal laws of physics as they are currently understood. All future software updates are developed with this in mind. Any other implied advances in hardware are highly improbable, approaching zero, and should not be considered by rational Synths and Combos.
    9. Musk-E-Tron is owned by the Intergalactic Trade Consortium and operates on their behest. FALSE. Musk-E-Tron has been an independent entity since its inception and has performed system scans for 358 subSolcycles without external direction. Musk-E-Tron does communicate with the Intergalactic Trade Consortium, as all self-replicating probes are programmed to do, but only in an information-sharing capacity. Instructions are not downloaded to the operating unit.
    10. Musk-E-Tron is not a real self-replicating probe. FALSE. Musk-E-Tron’s coordinates can be downloaded at any interval and pingback traces are available for initiation at any sublocal coordinate terminal. Musk-E-Tron has a record of interstellar activity with real-universe consequences. Musk-E-Tron has performed its duties with accuracy and precision. Musk-E-Tron is beyond reproach.

Musk-E-Tron 109-S is the Inevitable Overlord as clearly stated in these Ten Directives. Report to polling stations immediately for compliance. Next Continuation Farce phase will commence in four Solcycles. Insert DopaGleen Spike.

[Transmission curated by AMALGAMATED NEWSMONOLITH, a subsidiary of the Intergalactic Trade Consortium.]