It's the Great Pumpkin, Randal Graves

Not you, you're the best. And not me, either, shut your piehole, peanut gallery. While my nukyular family and I -- since it's implied that I'm part of said communal unit, did I just square myself and if so, does this mean I now have super powers or at least put an end to the receding of my hairline? -- were watching the stupendously wonderful It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown the other day (don't look so surprised, any show that praises that darkest and most pagan of our festival days is very metal), Doodily asked me what the origin of the slang term 'blockhead' was. Since you're no doubt curious, too, here you go, courtesy of the OED:

1. A wooden head, a wooden block for hats or wigs; hence, a head with no more intelligence in it than one of these, a blockish head. Obs. (This would now be written block head or block-head.)

2. Hence, One whose head is blockish or ‘wooden’; an utterly stupid fellow.

1549 COVERDALE Erasm. Par. 1 Cor. xi. 14 A blockheade that hathe loste the judgemente of nature. 1593 NASHE Christs T. 69b, Bee he the veriest block-head vnder heauen. 1668 CULPEPPER & COLE Barthol. Anat. I. xxiv. 59 Block-heads and dull-pated Asses. 1712 BUDGELL Spect. No. 307 {page}12 Being dismissed as an hopeless Block-head. 1875 JOWETT Plato (ed. 2) I. 222 He might think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me.

Thus, I asketh of thee this All Hallows E'en, that verily thou beest not a blockheade that hathe loste the judgement of nature & thus trusteth in the Lorde & limite thy partakynge of sugare lest ye vomitt up thy innardes for if thou durst, thou canst slawter thy ennemies in colde bludd.

Please, just take one

"Why are you being such an ass?"

I knew mom was pissed. Anything beyond 'darn it' was ample warning for impending disaster, a burst blood vessel or even a stroke. At least that's how I interpreted the ashes and sackcloth she always seemed to wear during such imaginary crises.

"Because I'm fucking tired from midterms and I want to hang out with the gang. You know, a little mindless fun? Without my sister?"

"Frank, watch your mouth! Janie is sick, all I'm asking is for you to take Melissa out trick or treating. Two hours, you'll be done by eight. Then you can hang out with your friends all you like."

I sighed, one of those perfectly constructed sighs that, while announcing capitulation, rang with the bitter tang of adolescent defiance. We all have our own martyr complexes.

"C'mon, sis, hurry the hell up."

"Frank!"

Shooting my mother a disapproving glance, Melissa grabbed my hand the second she bounced around the corner. With room and board costing too many body parts that I could ill afford, I had convinced my parents to let me stay home for a semester or two in order to bolster the coffers. I hadn't counted on being drafted into babysitter service as often as I had. Muttering my naive displeasure to no one in particular, my sister and I left for an evening of free candy and ample practice avoiding scattershot, sugared-up rugrats.

Stories abound about how Halloween is becoming a holiday for adults, but with the influx of younger families into our neighborhood, it seemed that more lights were on now than even when I was a kid. I didn't recognize most of the faces, nor did Melissa, but when the only objective is candy, it didn't matter whose rubber claws were passing out such delicious gifts.

One thing that hadn't changed was teenagers out and about trying to score a high fructose fix amidst telephone poles and railings lashed by cornstalks, everything awash in a flickering orange gleam and boy, did I sure recognize a few of these faces. And a few legs, too.

I felt a tug on my jacket.

"Alyssa wouldn't give you the time of day last year, what makes you think she will now?"

Caught off guard by my sister's astute commentary, a response eventually stumbled out. "Because I'm in college. And when did you become so smart?"

"When you were busy looking at girls."

"C'mon midget, only a few houses left, then it's back home," I said, continuing to be busy until Alyssa and her companion disappeared into the darkness.

"I bet I'll be taller than you," she said as she ran towards a brick bungalow. The porch light was on, but there was no one attending the plastic jack o' lantern resting crooked along a gentle crack in the top step.

"Frank, it says 'please, just take one.'"

"Then just take one," I said, walking towards my sister. "Don't be greedy." I paused for a moment before my hand snatched two Milky Ways from the pumpkin.

"I thought you said don't be greedy."

"This one's for Janie and this one's for me. Besides, you know damn well some punkass kid already grabbed a handful."

"But you aren't wearing a costume. You can't have any."

"I'm going as a college student. Now, hit these last two houses and then we're done."

Still seeing Melissa in the corner of my eye collecting her last pieces of candy, my sight began to shift its focus back on the brick bungalow, completely dark, save for the soft glow of the illuminated steps. The muffled sound of worn soles on concrete getting louder, I instinctively held out my hand, which my sister promptly took in mid stride and we sprinted back home.

Hours passed in a blur and I eventually stumbled back some time after one, sober enough to keep mostly upright. Everyone was asleep, the only noise a crumpled candy wrapper under my shuffling feet and Janie's labored, congested breathing. Exhaustion began asserting itself and I all but crawled up the stairs to my room. Scratching my forearm as I haphazardly pulled off my watch, I dropped it on the table, simultaneously flopping onto my bed like a dying fish.

My eyes opened upon a ceiling still under the fading, yet potent, thrall of night. I tried turning my head to look at the alarm clock, but it wouldn't move. Nothing would move, as if my entire body had been dosed with Novocaine. I couldn't recall having that many shots. Whatever I had, it must have been something nasty. 6:33. My eyes still worked. That was a good sign.

Slouching upright proved to be too difficult, as did swinging my legs off the bed. Now I began to worry. What was wrong with me? I looked at the clock again. 6:36. Too much alcohol, too empty a stomach, all on a brain too tired to properly direct my faculties. Yes, that had to be it, the simplest explanation. 6:40. I'll just lie here for awhile and everything will be fine. 6:42.

Am I paralyzed? 6:56.

Then how the hell did I get home? 6:59.

Pain shot through my arm. Tears began to well, a strong cocktail of physical reaction to this fresh agony and a joy that I was feeling something. God, how it fucking hurt. Mustering all the energy I could, I scrunched my back and managed to force myself upright. Stretching out my arm to grip the table for balance, the sheet fell off my limb, and I fell to the floor, in shock.

Disbelieving, I looked again, and vomited.

The alarm clock was wrong, it had to be. I was still asleep, stuck in a nightmare. Equilibrium trickling away, I battled for my watch, and read the typed note lying next to it.

I just took one. You should have, too.

Numb, I gazed at the sewn-up stump where my right hand used to be.

Chuck Biscuits Flower Hour Ain't A Corpse Yet

On your grave, dude. R.I.P. (eventually)

Rust

The fucking Cavs better shake theirs off. Andrea Bargnani, really? 28 on 11-15 from the floor? C'mon, he's eye-talian. Yeah, you heard me, Miss Canada, bring it on, I'm in a bad mood.


















I think I'm gonna stab things until they bleed profusely and then set them on fire and then inject the charred remains with a virus concocted in a secret, underground government facility so I will have a zombie army to do my bidding and my bidding is for this zombie army to scrimmage the Cavs the theory being that these millionaires will be so fearful of having their skull bit into, convulsing in horror before expiring in a pool of gooey innards, that they'll show newly rediscovered offensive and defensive prowess deftly avoiding the chunks of burnt flesh covering all 94 x 50 and go on to capture the city's first professional sports championship since 1964 and if that doesn't work I'll just release the zombie army on an unsuspecting nation and then no one will win any championships ever again.

Wednesdays of Woe!

It ain't easy being -- "green?" -- no, dumbass,
a serial killer. Guts, gore and grass,
no detergent can erase all these stains.
"That sounds like a cry for --" your fucking brains
will splatter red if you finish that line.
Right, time to sharpen this, an edge so fine
for slashing, spilling intestinal tract.
Try, hide; epic fail and that's a fact.
Shh! Listen! Mumbling psychoses, my friends,
demand that hands, feet, sweet meats, tips and ends
become the mmm yummy in marrow soup --
but guzzle 'fore that creepy skin of goop
droops stringy off your spoon. "Rambling bullshit
is your trade, our own Braggadocchio --"
Great, now the rhyme is broken. "Socio-
economic state, too, yours, wasn't it?"
Don't change the subject! I'm a bad mofo.
"Who only wants love." I've scary mojo
something fierce. "But you'd rather be tame as
a tabby." Bah! Try this satanic jazz:
Michael? Amateur eliminator!
I'm the real prestidigitator.
Freddy? Just one more low rent gardener!
Moi? High class artiste, penthouse murderer.
"Yet, a basement full of bodies in rot --"
sigh, cannibal stew is all that I've got
to show for seasons of prowling alone --
"don't forget, silent mounds of human bone."
Sniff. Enough of this Halloween disguise.
Guess I'll watch the game, melonball some eyes.

Thank you

"Looking this swanky, how can we lose?"

"True, but shouldn't we thank the little people first?"

Thank you, Aaron Rodgers, for carving up the hapless Cleveland defense. (Honestly, you led one of my fantasy teams to victory)

Thank you, horror ezine, for rejecting my story. (Honestly, it is quite, er, horrible. Given what else is up there, I don't blame you a quarter of one bit)

Thank you, Killer Tomato, for after over a decade, you finally decided to rot. (Honestly, better now than in the dead of winter during a blizzard on the way to pick up you lazy kids I walked 75 miles in the snow without shoes to schzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..............)

Thank you, Cleveland Indians, for having both C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee starting World Series games. For other teams. (Honestly, I can't wait for the minor leaguers we received to help lead yet another team to the World Series)

Atlantic: Sure, Rasheed may be a volatile knucklehead, but he can be a quality volatile knucklehead (or maybe Big Baby deserves that sobriquet a bit more these days) and Old Man Garnett does need to rest those creaky knees now and then. Philadelphia should be on the unhappy, drunken (it's Philly) side of .500; Elton Brand can't be that much of a DNP-INACTIVE again, can he? Toronto will score, thus an entertaining evening diversion. New York will try to score (lest we forget, D'Antoni the Alchemist is stalking the sidelines) and New Jersey will try.

Central: Barring extraterrestrial intervention, we'll win the division in back-to-back seasons for the first time in franchise history which sounds exceedingly lame, I know. Sure, the Bulls have some of that abstract 'talent,' but if you want to trust the consistency of their frontcourt, well, it's a free country. Joe Dumars' brain has melted in his cranial cauldron, though check back in a couple of years to see if he was playing fifteen-dimensional chess and actually has a plan ha ha ha, Indiana is floundering midst rebuilding (but there are some pieces -- Danny Granger is a sumbitch -- and they could surprise) and the Bucks will probably trade their last few useful players by February.

Southeast: Fucking Orlando. Yes, it still stings. Atlanta, destined to be first round fodder again. I don't care that they made it to the second round, the East has three teams and various orders of suckery. Sorry, DC, stay 100% healthy and you still won't get out of the first round either no matter how much of a tough guy DeShawn Role Player thinks he is. I'd almost feel sorry for Dwayne Wade and his Merry Gang Of Nobodies if he didn't already have a ring. No one in that city cares about anything but tans and expensive cars and being seen draped in glitz. Fuck you Miami, you deserve nothing, go cheat on your equally vapid soulmate with an equally vapid soulmate-of-the-evening on South Beach. Charlotte is about the most offensively inept team in the league and they just added Tyson Chandler, garbagetastic in a Ceballos-esque way. Good thing they play D.

Southwest: Hope everyone stays healthy, Alamo, this is probably your last chance before the old folks' home comes calling to steal the contents of your wallet while you snooze. As for Mark Cuban's T-Shirt, the Shawn Marion of old might have helped, but Jason Kidd is, well, a year older. Noticing a theme amidst many of the contenders? Chris Paul is bad mofo/shut your mouth, but one could say, the Atlanta of the West. Which is funny 'cause I bet Byron Scott would love Marvin Williams and/or Joe Johnson in this gang of thinning ranks. Houston will scrap like Scrappy the Hero Pup, but without Yao and an increasingly useless McGrady, forget it. Lucky Mike Conley. With all those ball hogs, he could make a killing on taking bribes for passes. Or kneecapping Zach Randolph, but I doubt coaches pay all that well.

Northwest: If, if, if, Iffy McIfferson, Oden is healthy and angry, these dudes have the talent to knock off the Lakers. Seriously. They could also lose in the first round again. Seriously. Sorry, K-Mart and Co., talk all the pseudo-trash you want, too much went right last year and you still lost to La-La Land. Weren't the Jazz supposed to be the next big thing? Oh well, just trade Carlos the Traitor so Ronnie Millsap can get more minutes. I've got him on my fantasy team. Oklahoma City is Portland, Jr. and now we just need to see if they'll graduate out of the lottery or be stuck wearing Vitters. Even the Timberwolves are slowly climbing, but Kevin Love's busted hand is a setback.

Pacific: The Lakers, then everyone else, in varying states of on the border and suckitude. Phoenix is that Eagles song, though I'm still trying to figure out how to fit Amare's, oops, sorry, Amar'e's, wonky eyeball in, the Kings are anything but (well, maybe The Greeks Don't Want No Freaks, though Kevin Martin and Jason Thompson aren't all that bizarre), the Clippers have *gasp* talent, but good luck not eventually asking for a trade or a straitjacket, Blake Griffin, already out six weeks, and the Warriors are a walking, talking DSM-IV casebook and I love them for it, too bad Baron Davis now plays for the previously mentioned team 'cause that would make this squad super extra fun.

Eastern playoff teams: Cleveland, Orlando, Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, Miami.

Western playoff teams: L.A. Lakers, San Antonio, Portland, Denver, Dallas, Utah, New Orleans, Phoenix.














NBA Finals: Yes, we'll get back to the finals. Yes, a city's heart is ripped out and shown to us once more, yet somehow I'll manage to not stick my head in the oven for one more year. Sometimes, I wish I didn't care for sports, I really do.

Thank you, sports gods. (Honestly, fuck off)

Gag reflex

Do they make me barf? No, for that would be a grave disservice to the often useful practice of barfing. The Browns are so bad, they make me


















Now if you'll excuse me, I just remembered the second half.

Where's that fake toilet?

Flash is dead, long live Flash!

"Chica chica blog chic!"

Told you bastards this place is good for you.
Just look at all that fresh fruit.

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana.

"I wanted some barbecue," said the strange woman dressed as Stan Ridgway in between bites of something slathered in red.

Feeling a hot wind on his shoulder, the strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda lurched forward like an old gunslinger, mumbling.

Staring at hairy knuckles on the table, the strange woman dressed as Stan Ridgway nonchalantly swallowed. "I can't understand what you just said."

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda pulled out a derringer hidden beneath his garter and fired. "Good thing this isn't a Mexican radio soap."

The strange woman dressed as Stan Ridgway slumped in her chair, dead.

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda took the plate of unfinished barbecued iguana and buried it at the side of the road, signing the cross under the light of the Tijuana moon.

I Wanna Rock and Roll All Nite And Ride the Wheelie Bus Every Day

Don't get me wrong, I fully support cougar-dom. If consenting adults of any age want to get their proverbial freak on without freaking me into straitjacket madness by making me shell out $9.95 on pay-per-view, yay. But it strikes me as odd to see a chick obviously pushing blue hair status via flecks, nay, clumps, of grey perusing a copy of, all things, Details. I assume dudes check out Cosmo in order to theoretically increase their score quotient, thus Occam's close shave: this lady figured the feminine version could help her land a young buck. Godspeed, granny, godspeed.














While at work, and before the mass of unwashed masses stomped in to bleat and bellow and blaspheme, a coworker, a former coworker/fellow civil servant clown and myself waxed stupid genius on potential band names.


















Us latter two have been for years championing Frescoes of the Skull, swiped from this book about Beckett. Pretty fucking metal, huh.













But I think my coworker won the day with this tasty triumvirate: the recently posted Dr. Dre and the Drano Bombs -- if Andre Young ever decided to stop hawking carbonated beverages and instead give his best Lemmy impersonation, that is; Glass Grapes, for the tragically mellow artiste; and last, but certainly not least, Macrame Owls, for the über-ironic hipster indie rocker. Feel free to chime in with your own wondrous suggestions, the loonier/more putrescent, the better.

Shut your piehole

More pampered rock stars whining about something they couldn't possibly ever never in a million years understand, but even though I share Kent Brockman's cogent view of democracy, because I'm such a nice guy, I'm willing to give these yokels the floor.

"I think every musician should be involved," said Rosanne Cash in a telephone interview Wednesday. "It seems so obvious. Music should never be used as torture."

Bullshit. Why do you think I toss up Belial's favorite tunes? For childish kicks? Because I enjoy it? I don't hear anyone (besides Übermilf) clamoring for them. Do you?

"The fact that music I helped create was used in crimes against humanity sickens me," Morello said in a statement.

I'm with you there, Tom. Hearing Audioslave was a crime against humanity.

"Sound at a certain level creates sensory overload and breaks down subjectivity and can [bring about] a regression to infantile behavior," said Suzanne G. Cusick, a music professor at New York University who has studied, lectured about and written extensively on the use of music as torture in the current wars. "Its effectiveness depends on the constancy of the sound, not the qualities of the music."

If it's too loud, you're too old. Now go away. Go go go! Now now now!



National security!

Please excuse all the blood

Now that's Halloweenie.














That, not so much. Mel Gibson, you lied to me.

You should hear my smooth baritone croon (How much is) that savior in the window? Before you ask, and I know you will, yes, that is a real photo of a real Scandinavian seppuku, though to be truly Samhainesque, his ghost would have to haunt the mean streets of Oslo and since ghosts don't exist, too bad for this post but pretend that they do, ooky spooky.

Misty radioactive memories

Red and blue flash, the Fourth of July out of time, in miniature. The bus moves closer. Perhaps a water main break, a semi-annual sales event along the burning river. Or is it the thin white line, the splattered pink and crimson of a corpse crisscrossing yellow chessboard patterns. No, the northbound lane is still open. Elephants. There are elephants strolling down E. 9th. No, not Limbaugh and Beck and Spray-On, but actual honest-to-Cthulhu elephants that almost made me late this morning. That speedwalking correspondence course really paid off.













I don't have any particular memories of the circus, or even clowns, save the fact that some people are terrified, or, at the very least, greatly unnerved, by the latter, which always brings a diabolical smirk to my mug.

What also brings a diabolical smirk to my mug is loud music about stuff blowing up. Part of the fabric of growing up Brady Reagan. Sure, there were dozens upon dozens of tunes about global thermonuclear war, but one of my absolute favorites has remained so because 1)it crushes and irradiates like a motherfucker and 2)these were the pre-internets days, so the discovery of underground acts was a much more labor-intensive, therefore satisfying, process, word-of-mouth, leafing zine after zine from the big shining cities on the hill, even from the limeys and the krauts, you spoiled whipper snappers with your The Google and MySpaceTravel, this is my space. Hard to believe it's been twenty years. Fuck, I'm getting dessicated. Anyway, for your listening displeasure, Brazil's second-greatest export:


















Don't worry, my lovely, you'll always be number one.



















"Ahem, I was pretty good, too, or have you forgotten the Cosmos?"

Sorry, Edison, you're not a babe, and as far as I know, you never wrote any spine-melting riffs. Good job in the World Cup, though. Oh yeah, the tune.



That's beautiful, man.

Flash! Aa-ah! Go to hell and die!

"I'd just like to say, this blog sucks!"

"Hey, up yours, Friday Flash Fiction!"

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong. The rain-speckled blooms are nothing but the alluring, deceiving servants of memory that drape her soothing meadows, the grave of the soul. The vine grows in autumn, always in autumn, whose fiery, spectral whirlwind draws the curtain back. That's where love lives, rising aloft as the mayfly and, just as quick, descending to sleep underneath the stone whose November whispers quietly prick verdant words to no one out onto the frigid earth, dead before the ink dries, only to be reborn in rainbow hues."

"That's a bit pessimistic, don't you think?"

"Ah, but you see, to be in love is a completely different animal. We were speaking of love, my friend, that invisible, beautiful, horrid thing that endlessly cycles 'round inside, trapping us within its charms so easily as if we were American children on Halloween anticipating another handful of sugary treats in our tattered sack. Eat too much -- linger too long -- and you always pay the price. But to be in love, the real thing, this mayfly is now immortal, is it not? Brighter than Arcturus, whose rosy glow pales before your own. Until, of course, this love, like all red giants, expands, engulfing even the cosmic seas where you wrote your first lines to her, weighing heavier with the lugubrious passage of time, when at last everything is thrown, and the world is left barely luminous and you, alone."

"As I said, a bit pessimistic."

"Perhaps. I could go for a drink."

"Believe me, so could I. But just drink. No tapas, no talking, especially to the señoritas. One ruined mood is enough."

Forget it, Marge, it's Chinatown!

"Relax, Tim. When we come collecting, Goldman Sachs will be last."

I feel pretty, oh so pretty

Pretty noose
Pretty vacant
Pretty tied up
Pretty woman
Pretty please
Pretty in pink
Pretty tired
Pretty dead

Know what wouldn't make me feel pretty? The gravel sonic boom voiced by a lab-grown larynx whose DNA was spliced from strands of Louie Armstrong, Lou Rawls and Tom Waits and subsequently implanted in my neck. But I'd be able to scare the fuck out of trick or treaters. Or I can simply hire the kid of these attention whores:















Now I really feel pretty. Fucking awesome.

Get Off My Lawn, Part MCMXVIII (except you, smut peddlers)

"Yeah, that title'll reel 'em in."

C'mon. Who can refuse smut.

Look, Blogger, stop fucking with the prima interfacies. Sure, I may have preferred the labels on the side managing their posts, and I will admit to taking great pleasure in the ability to, pre-upload -- doesn't that sound vaguely naughty, imagine if the internets ever got porn, be still my beating -- choose between door nos. 1, 2 and 3 for the final destination of what will no doubt be a hedonistic image, the above an obvious exception proving the rule don't worry I'll toss up something scantily-clad in a bit, but I'm getting old and new things, but not new albums, frighten me. No, this isn't another review of a band 99% of you wouldn't listen to if I paid in precious metals -- METAL! \^^/-- but that's your loss you stuperous funkers, spin that Carpenters LP for the nine billionth time, wuss.

Speaking of nine billion times, I believe that's how often I've said, mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the laziest of them all, because I'm not the fairest even in a swanky pinstriped three piece but I have started three separate tales for the third annual Writer's Digest fictionalizing contest and each has keeled over at about word three hundred, I smite with mercy. As much as I dig the concept of storytelling and relish reading the works of others, I cannot tell tales with aplomb because I enjoy going off on tangents and the idea of some fucking editorial tool, likely a failed writer and thus diabolical kin to music critics, dictating that I streamline this, that, the other thing and that doodad collecting dust over there in the corner makes me want to set people on fire and curse their soul with the blackest magic, all serving the throne of readability, whatever the fuck that means.

"Dude, it's a contest. There isn't an editor."

You need an editor. Oh, and that ain't hubris, I'd wager 95% of my fellow citizens who consider themselves "writers" are far more skilled than I, but I say unto thee, what's wrong with a little nonsensical plotless plot now and then, what's wrong with no one talking for three whole sentences? (Seriously, must everything be dialogue? Can't I just sit in my head for 500 pages?)

I'm not even sure why I'm bitching -- okay, it's one of the few things enjoyable in life -- because the only work partially in the non-garbage can is the destined-to-be-unfinished Novel From Hell and a fuckload of unreadable poetry, especially my kind of non-MFA, purpled junk, but I'm going to blame the good Doc for this instance of third-class complaining, because I'd never blame myself for my faults, don't be silly. In the commentary section he lamented a bit about what he sometimes feels, and I'm paraphrasing and perhaps twisting the entire meaning on its head, is an overuse of a literary crutch, the dreaded 'write what you know.' That exact dilemma isn't what concerns me here because, if you'll permit me to wax Rumsfeldian, I don't really know what I supposedly know or should know, but the undercurrent remains the same, dance the hoochie koo: write what you love.

"As profound as ice cream is delicious."

My point is that Frankenstein graftings or forcing an end -- unless it's the apocalypse, then bring it on because I believe seeing actual hailstorms of flaming sulfur would be kind of cool -- is a bad gig. I can conjure up a confluence of a moment, a person, a thought, the physical environment and write multiple pieces on that singular emotional space, each being the intersection of said memory and how it coursed through my veins at the time the piece itself was composed, reflections of the same light in ever-changing waters, comically hypocritical if you know me at all, given my general disdain for deconstructionist extremity, sometimes a potato is a fucking potato, you frog. That is what tugs at the heartstrings like a sadistic puppeteer, not busting out well-plotted stories even if they're on that same confluence I've milked five too many times already. My circulatory system simply cannot sustain a quality effort over such an extended period of time before fatal bloodloss. Melodramatic, huh?

Oh well, back to unpublishable verse. Wait, I've got it, I know what'll sell, mystery lines! Husband and wife detective team fights crime -- in rhyme!

Another unsolvable case?
Not with John and Jane Catchyname!
A vicious kill with style and grace,
an innocent suffers the blame!
Try your best, public defender,
still stuck playing don't drop the soap.
Wait! Unorganized offender
screwed up big time, so grab that hope!
"Your one fatal mistake," says Jane,
"Was leaving this behind, says John
to suspect number eight. "A stain
of blood, yours, you filthy ex-con!"

Riveting.

Oh yeah, almost forgot, your reward for skipping reading this tripe.


















I've got the solution to your one-pipe problem, my dear detective.

This title, too, hath suffered decease

Verily, this sicknesse doth labour long,
preventynge the lovelyest birthday song
for you, Pickles Dillhoefer, borne yon eve;
native son, thy OPS+, I grieve.
Consumption hath wracked my cold, blackened soule
as it hath wracked the Browns' marche towards the goale.
Leeches, phylacteries and charmes help not
this darke procession of putrescent rot,
and, oh, this brain in danke, diseased gaol
dyes in vain waitynge for woulde-be bail.

"Pretty pretentious way of saying 'I've got nothing.'"

Um, didn't you die in the epidemic?

Flash! Aa-ah! I ran out of lyrics!

"It's about bloody time."

"Too bad he didn't run out of this blog."

That hurts, strumpets and crumpets. Anyway, I apologize in advance for the extra suckitude contained in this next installment for I think I have either the swine flu or the Black Death. See everyone tomorrow unless I'm dead in which case ha ha, the joke's on you, suckers, though it would be pretty cool to be immortalized in a Holbein-esque woodcut. I knew the Lunatic Offspring #1's wood shop class would come in handy.

Come with me if you want to give, but he wouldn't say you-know-what, wink, nudge, not in a million years, not for all the shiny gold doubloons under all the suns of all the galaxies, you get the point. Certainly not for fear of offending Dale the Earth Woman and/or the Princess because he was as willing as they, ye gods, was he ever willing oh baby, but for incurring the pandemonic wrath of Ming himself.

These were His women to do with as He pleased until He grew tired of them, a concept accepted without question like death, taxes, the sky being orange or the New York Jets wandering lost upon the gridiron ever since the strange disappearance of their quarterback so long ago.

There was simply no way on Ming's green planet that the mysterious traveler from beyond the stars would ever dare utter that loaded word in the company of natives: blood.

Eat His cookies? Are you fucking nuts?

Browsing the Shelves For Dummies*

"Randal, I'm the biggest idiot ever."

"Don't worry, Dante, even you can learn how to find a book."

Hello children, it's your friendly neighborhood librarian, Randal, and I have gathered you all here for a very special reason. I am going to sacrifice you to Nyarlathotep you little fucks show you that finding a book on the shelves all by your lonesome *pats head* isn't at all scary like being locked up in the moldy, rat-infested basement of a serial killer with nothing to subsist on but the chill, bitter sweat trickling off your brow, a stray, dirt-encrusted annelid and the horrifying knowledge that your rusty, agonizing end is nigh and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it save uselessly praying for salvation to an indifferent universe but is actually as harmless as riding a bike so let's nip this scanning electron microscopic problem in the bud before we must resort to torches and pitchforks and iron maidens and I know none of us wants that.

Believe me, I hear your collective trepidation in those weary sighs, as I heard them every day this week, over and over and like over like ad nauseum like oh my god how like difficult and like permanently like scarring it like totally is especially that one time when you were ogling some hottie and got caught in the automatic door and shattered your pelvis and your spirit, but once you do learn the ins and outs of old-fashioned, time-tested research methodology, you never ever forget because you've since developed various psychoses that never ever let you even when you're grocery shopping and you drop kick that old lady because she took the last bag of sour cream and onion chips, the cantankerous old geezer, it was the voices in my head, don't blame me, officer.

1. Find your subject. Stand in front of the computing box and type, type, type. Don't forget proper spelling moran and try and minimize your acronyms. It's quite possible that you will see a prodigious list on the screen. Don't be alarmed now, for it's not a spring clean of your faults, young scholar. Roll over, how about some of what you hep cats dig the most, Beethoven.

2. Locate the call number. At this book depository, we use the Library of Congress system instead of Dewey Decimal for two primary reasons: first, we are great patriots and, second, Dewey, aside from having been a secret communist sympathizer and possibly a Muslim pedophile, got crushed by Truman, the only man in history with the sack to use nukes. Aha, The Beethoven Compendium: a guide to Beethoven's life and music. Don't forget to write down that call number! Or type it into your personal electro-device in between OMFG LOL sexting. Just don't send it to your ex or you'll end up in front of a judge or a .45. The naked pictures, not the call number.

ML410.B4 B26 1992

3. Decipher the call number. This part is extremely tricky, so patience and gird those loins, true believers.

As you can see, the beginning of the call number is in two parts. ML stands for Middle Level which is library jargon for Middle Kingdom, Midgard, Middle Earth, middle of the road, i.e., humanity's exact locale along the cosmic axis, so you know this particular book will be shelved somewhere here on planet earth. Praise the gods!


















The 410 is a mnemonic representing the Sack of Rome by the Visigoths way back in the fifth century. Your next step is to find a goth, preferably one who is visible, take him or her in your time machine and venture back to 410 CE --


















"Hi-ho, the derry-o, a time traveling we will go!"

and this part I cannot stress enough, after you've made a transatlantic flight, otherwise good luck finding your way across the ocean, but sure, ask those nice Iroquois if you can borrow a boat -- weave your way through wave after wave of bloodthirsty barbarians and senators peeing their togas each of whom are speaking in a tongue completely foreign to you unless you've taken Latin then good job Kreskin to find the key used to unlock the city's gates B4 heading north to Ravenna to find the emperor himself, who will exchange the key for *gasp* The Fabled Lost Treasure of Archimedes!













What arcane wizardry, what Luciferian legerdemain, what Saturnine sorcery can you perform with this amazing, astonishing, stupefying device?














Using only the materials at hand in fifth century Europe (timber, stone, iron, copper, mortar, garum, yum), you can construct your very own, completely flight-worthy, World War II-era B26 Marauder! Since you burned all the fuel in your time machine -- don't even waste a second looking for 1.21 gigawatts of electricity -- you'll need this airplane to finish your task. Almost there! Fly as fast as you can, fly, my pretty, fly and soon enough, you'll slingshot around the sun and end up all the way back in 1992, where you'll find, on our shelves, don't mind the grungy decor --












Wasn't that easy? Does anyone have a question? You, and then one more.

"What the hell do you need a goth for?"

You have any gold or precious gems? No? Then you're going to need something to barter your way through the barbarian horde. Plundering Germanic tribes don't take plastic.

"Do you think these rambling 'get off my lawn' posts are entertaining, you bitter old man?

No. Good luck, and happy reading!

*BYOTimemachine.

(Don't Fear) The Reaper

"I'll take that one. 10 million Kroner's a lotta scratch."

Lighten up, Xtreme filthy hippies, don't you think you should first wipe the blood and brain matter of a million wingnut explosions off your hands before wringing them? Anyway, relax, I have the perfect solution to everyone's philosophical dilemma:

Instead of Predatoring and Raptoring Afghans to death, we round up a fleet of C-5s and airlift crates of this:














Much more humane -- at least until the searing pain of the cardiac event, but how long does that ever last -- don't you think? And tastier!

Dancing with an invisible dame whose heels keep on smashing my toes, I'm not wearing combat boots, babe.

It was so windy yesterday...

"How windy was it?"

It was so windy yesterday, it was as if all the pantheons of all the peoples of the world, and Spinal Tap, had just eaten a meal of __________.














Gosh darnit, I just never get tired of that Chimpy. Nor Charles, but each is comical in their own unique way. I do get tired of other stuff, but compiling that list would require years of detailed planning and decades of implementation, time that simply cannot be wasted on anything but delusions of grandeur, and would eventually fill the equivalent of all the scrolls housed in the library at Alexandria pre-fire and if you think I'm inclined to subject myself to the literary equivalent -- I forgot my thesaurus at home, the equivalent of leaving the house without pants, that's a funny story I'll never tell because then I'd have to make one up, the equivalent of being a politician -- of cracking my skull open with a hammer sans anesthesia and somehow managing to remain conscious enough to scoop my brain back inside my cranial cavity, you're sadly mistaken though that would be a pretty cool trick, no? Maybe they could film it and use the best handful of stills for the cover and booklet of the next Cannibal Corpse album. Evisceration plague! Gurgle, growl, etc.!



The original spawn of my sometimes-better-half and yours truly turns 17 today, so thanks, condom manufacturer, for ruining the prime of my life, rot in hell, motherfuckers. I kid, but only 83% worth. Luckily, she's easy to buy for, a case of booze and the keys to a stolen car. Crime does indeed pay, says so all the way up there. Luckily-er still, one area of parenting that I've made great strides in compared to my ancestral folks is successfully instilling in our offspring a healthy disdain for other humans which I feel will serve her well in the aeons to come before the glorious return of Cthulhu, Ia! Ia!

She is, however, fairly indifferent to music -- I know, I know, blasphemy! burn the witch! -- which has always made me wonder if she isn't actually the product of the union of my apparently-worse-half and the UPS guy. What can Brown do to you, I guess. Thus, instead of whiskey and wheels, I think I'll buy her one of those K-Tel classic rock sets the old Brady dude and the chick young enough to be his trophy wife hawk at 3am. Sniff, we all miss you, Billy.



Based on much anecdotal evidence, chiefly DVD reruns of Supernatural season finales, Lunatic Offspring #1 seems to really hate that song above all others. So I'm thinking about doing a download n' burn, hitting the repeat and blaring it for the next week chez moi, the perfect gift, no? Sure, even my wife would likely want to kill me but how that's different from any other day only the gods can answer and they're busy with the aftermath of their drive-through feast. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to sit down. The bloody Moirae did a number on my feet.

May giant, rabid, mutant killer cockroaches from hell eat your eyes out, sports gods.

The title comes from a baseball playoff post that I'll gladly pay you yesterday for a hamburger today but I'm a moody bastard and when I woke up this morning my heart wasn't in such a meandering essay -- sorry, Utah, I know how much you were looking forward to more sports -- but I will conclusively include the conclusion, which still holds liquor:

And don't give me that 'sports don't matter' shit. Nothing really matters since we're all going to end up as partially biodegradable worm food and this delicious repast and the billions of worms sporting knives and forks are going to be burnt into oblivion along with every other remnant of our civilization, except the crap on Voyager unless that gets nuked by a supernova or some gamma ray burst, once the sun goes red giant and swallows the inner planets, right? Right.

At the moment, it's windy as fuck outside, cold, deceptively grey, for there are splotches of off white, a change from this morning that was a magnificently rich and menacing rainbow of dark blue hues shepherding lost trails of fallen leaves, I really need a camera, because words fail as they so often do and goddamn was that sky lovely. Thus, a post about nothing save a tune I dig, wishing I was at home writing in the midst of this most perfect autumn weather.

P.S. fuck The Fucking Yankees.

Tuesdays of Terror!

Once upon a Tuesday dreary, while I slackened, slumped and lazy,
Over many a bland and ever-growing mound of forgotten work --
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping like a fucking jerk.
"'Tis some coworker" I muttered, "rapping like a fucking jerk --
Only this, gosh, what a berk."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak October,
Hanging up the Sandman gift from her, the Sandman, do not scoff!
Eagerly I wished retraction;-- once I had sought condemnation
For missed prestidigitation -- sorrow for the lost Day Off --
For the rare and radiant Sunday whom the angels name Day Off --
What else rhymes? Hack, wheeze and cough.

[a bunch of stanzas I'm not Weird Al enough to successfully parody
so just enjoy the big finish, thanks]

And the Sandman, never falling, still is hanging, still is hanging
From the dusty desk of yours truly above tasks that do bore.
And his eyes have all the seeming of a writer's that is scheming --
Dammit, almost knocked my coffee streaming caffeine on the floor;
Yet my soul from out this shadow some call work, I, darkest chore,
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

Flash! Aa-ah! He'll save ev'ry one of us!

"Not with this piece of shit."

"Not in a million Mongo years."

I know some of you are probably sick of the Flash Gordon shtick, but I don't care because relax, I'm running out of lyrics I'll know you'll read the next installment because you've got nothing else to do, you lazy bums.

Hanging on with one hand, he considered his alternatives. Various and fluctuating states of differentiated contemplation being ever so taxing to an already exhausted cerebral cortex, and with his hypothalamus lording over a hypersonic thirst with puissant, nay, divine, kingship, this base, wretched soul was left devoid of further opportunities for rumination and was thus painstakingly forced into a dry, silent seance with none but choice upon choice seated around him, motionless, their cold, glaring eyes full of derision before defiantly standing to echo in unison a wordless, deafening regret whose undulating, toxic wave reverberated through flesh and bone that, at last, under the weight of the greatest despair and a lone tear, let go. Dangling from the gutter wasn't as exhilarating as Leon had imagined.

Hey kids, grab your toys, it's plague time!

Relax, I'm not infected. I'm not going six feet under.

"Wow, I can hear Übermilf swearing in disgust all the way up here."


















Why will I survive whereas you will turn into a quivering, festering pustule of bile and pus and blood? I've got a basement full of canned goods, rolls of duct tape, bouillon cubes, crates of shells, a chainsaw, quills and inkwells, reams of looseleaf, a makeshift paper football goalpost, a book of first class stamps, a catcher's mitt and a flyswatter. I'm ready to roll, let's roll, yo ho ho and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, bring it on, swine, and all that patriotic mumbo jumbo.

I am moving to Brazil to become a piranha farmer

What, I like soccer.

No, I'm not moving there simply for the skimpy bikinis, though this unattractive cracker ain't complaining, though the skimpy bikini-ed babes might; ladies, pretend I'm Chavez visiting your pretzeldent. Sure, I loathe hot, humid weather and thus become even more crabby and annoying than usual, but smart power and money is sexy. How do you think Congress gets laid.

Anyway, once society collapses and none of our fossil-fuel-based machines function and only Germany who smartly had their manufacturing base solar paneled but they'll get smashed real good in World War MCMXCIX aka The Great Zombie Apocalypse --















Take that, Nazi douchebags!

-- and all the pumpkin patches 'round these parts already got snatched up so there goes this month's quick cash injection you sneaky futures bastard I'll burn your fucking corpse to the bones and grind them to make my bread for you'll see what kind of sandwiches just hold on a bit -- down with jack o' lanterns they're from drunken Irish louts!, he wailed, the last cry of a desperate man -- we'll need something to chew us up and spit us out into the sticky paste that eventually bakes at 325° for 60-75 minutes into soylent green don't let them cook too long or it'll be soylent brown and I want in on the ground floor of such a thrilling opportunity.


















Vive le capitalisme!

Pucker Up

Not you, fugly.

Atlantic: A hangover post-loss is one thing, what about after being crowned? If they slip, the Flyers, with Chris Pronger covering up Flaky Ray and whomever else they schlep in front of the net, will be there to wrest and usurp and all that other subversive coup-d'état disposable jazz. The Rangers could surprise everyone, but Marian Gaborik would have to stay healthy, bwahahahaha, etc. Sorry, Mr. 500, even you can't carry this receding hairline offense. What of the Islanders? Sure, one can pass the time watching young Tavares, but of more import, don't you miss the Gorton's fish stick logo?

Northeast: I still don't trust Tim Thomas, but man, are the Bruins loaded, even after trading away Kessel. Patrice Bergeron can't remain so loopy, can he? I do trust the young Sabres, who'll step up and help Ryan Miller. I don't trust 700-year old Alexei Kovalev, but Michalek+Cheechoo should help offset the dearly departed Dany Heatley. I really don't trust Toronto, even with The Monster. Should have added Frankenstein, Dracula and the Wolfman, too. I really really don't trust Montreal. They have 752 new players.

Southeast: Goalie remains the question mark (did not the champs receive the same skepticism, you say?), but good luck outscoring these dudes. The Hurricanes still carry enough talent to arsenic your drink, just ask New Jersey and Boston. Trading Bouwmeester hurts, but Florida's young guys (Booth, Weiss and Horton, if he stops regressing) can theoretically collect goals and you could do worse than Tomas Vokoun. If Mike Smith is the real deal, the Lightning could shock. Groan. Don't forget, they still have Lecavalier, St. Louis and Stamkos with a year under his belt. Atlanta? Check back in two years.

Central: Yeah, yeah, I know Chicago stole Hossa and his 40 goals from Detroit and are the fashionable hep cat pick, but all the Red Wings have to do is throw a cabbie and some change on the ice. How 'bout those Blues? Didn't see that coming. The youngins (+Kariya) aren't there yet, but won't be an easy out. Poor Nashville. Never have enough money, no one cares -- it's Nashville -- and Barry Trotz always has them competing, nonetheless. Someone give that man a pretzeldential medal of freedom, or a budget. Sure, Blue Jackets fans, Steve Mason will certainly bail out that crap offense again and not be the second coming of Jim Carey, bien sûr.

Northwest: Okay, Calgary, you just added a beast of a defenseman, and if Kiprusoff can stop his slide, you have a chance to make Lanny McDonald's facial hair very happy. Like a lot of teams, it's all about the young guys with Vancouver, though Robbie the Robot, you might not want to short-circuit in the playoffs again. I'm not sure if the scrappy Wild and/or Oilers have enough to sneak in, but I'm most definitely positively absolutely sure that the Rockies don't.

Pacific: Yes, the Sharks, because of changes, will win the division. Yes, Anaheim, because of changes, will only push them. Yes, this is finally the year the young Kings barge their way to game 83. No, Dallas will not overcome age and injury and malaise and Marty Turco suddenly reminding us all of the contents of a septic tank. Yes, Phoenix is a mess on every possible level. Just move them back to Canada already. Retired golfers with plastic lawns and pacemakers don't want to watch hockey.

Eastern playoff teams: Pittsburgh, Washington, Boston, Philadelphia, Carolina, N.Y. Rangers, Buffalo, Ottawa.

Western playoff teams: San Jose, Calgary, Detroit, Chicago, Anaheim, Vancouver, St. Louis, Los Angeles.

Stanley Cup Finals: Sweet crap on crust, I have no clue, so let's discard the sure things: I'm sure the bottom half in each conference has little-to-no shot (okay, maybe the Ducks do). I'm sure I just heard the population of Edmonton sharpen their pitchforks and ignite their torches while screaming that they were one game away, as an eighth seed, from being the Champions of the Universe a mere few years ago. I'm sure San Jose, despite having arguably the most talented roster in the NHL -- tell me Joe Thornton isn't chomping at the bit to fire passes to Heatley -- won't because choking is their very special specialized specialty. Hang on, I'm going to put some names in a hat. Here, you pick:

"Pittsburgh and Calgary."

Who wins?

"Flip a coin."