Adam: He would kick down the door of that orphanage and say

“look, some of you don’t have parents, and that’s sad, but I’m gonna burn this place down, and if you want to live you have to get through me..”

Then you see how many orphans you can take on at once, when they’re desperate. Sure they’re undernourished, but adrenaline helps.

Adam: At first it’s like a shooting gallery, you’re wiping the floor with orphan after orphan

Adam: then the numbers start to swell as they realize the flames are growing closer to their beds

Adam: suddenly it’s a numbers game…

Adam: you’re like the spartans in 300 blocking a pivotal point of entry

Adam: they are the persian hordes

Adam: sure you have the easy combat skill advantage

Adam: but the hordes may overrun you if your’e not smart

Adam: and don’t pace yourself

Adam: Eventually, you’re going for the most economic kill

Adam: a crushed larnyx, a broken neck

Adam: The orphans piling up providing a brief respite

Adam: as they have to clamber over their dead

Adam: sure, it’s scary

Adam: but it’s also the biggest rush you’ve ever had

Adam: you find yourself screaming a war-cry you never knew you had

Adam: PARENTS!

Adam: PARENTS!!!

Adam: you’ll scream through the blood and teeth and flying stick-like limbs of the underprivleged children you’re decimating

Adam: which only enrages them more

Adam: and feeds the cycle…

Adam: sooner, rather than later, it’s all over.

Adam: and you’re there, covered in gore and bits of the felt blanket they tried to use as a net or barrier

Adam: As you walk away, orphanage burning merrily behind you, you stop and think

“Maybe I should masterbate”

Adam: Because now, you’re finally ALIVE

Adam: -fin -

Now that Border’s has gone all Chapter 11 and is liquidating all their stores. I’m reminded of the brief stint I had as a Border’s Employee. It was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever endured. I don’t say that in an ironic “oh my god this job is SO boring” kind of way. I say it in a panic & anxiety causing fit of remembered rage.

I also remember the speech I got from my training manager Tim. He was short, barely five feet and balding extremely early. He had the full Picard haircut. During our training, back in the year of 1999 he sat with one knee raised, leaning on a palette of books and told us, “don’t worry about the book business. There’s lot of digital books and reading online nowadays, but one thing that people will never stop wanting, is books. The smell, the feel, the weight of books, is something that has stood the test of time and will continue to do so for long into the future.”

Thanks Tim, here in 2012 I read on my iPhone and Borders is closing it’s doors forever. Things change.

Tim wasn’t my problem, he was actually very nice. So of course he immediately left our store, shortly after arriving. That’s when I met Ian. Ian was tall, lanky, unshaven and smelled of hipster, well before I or anyone knew what the hell a hipster was. He wore skinny jeans before it was cool and was a bit too pale.

I had been at Border’s for about 2-3 weeks. After recently getting laid off from my job with the Military (which is another story) and in desperation I applied for anything I could get. I nailed the job at borders and was so happy to be employed again I wasn’t even resentful at being a cog in the corporate machine and a retail jockey. I was trained in music and books, learned a little, read a lot, used my employee discount a lot.

Yes for a bit there, I really actually enjoyed working at Borders. But then Ian came. Like a cold winter it came on slowly. You see, Ian didn’t like me. This wasn’t at first apparent. You expect that someone gets to be a manager at a company by either knowing someone (he didn’t) or caring a lot about your company and performance (he didn’t). He was petty, but he masked that behind a facade of professionalism.

It started when he accused me of not working fast enough. I used to stock the music on this rickety metal wheeled cart. Much like a rack from a library. I filled it with hundreds of CD’s (remember those?) and put them away on the shelves and it took about an hour or so to empty a whole cart. I later found out that it took most people about 2 hours to actually put away a whole one. Ian said I wasn’t fast enough. This complaint never stopped.

At first I took his criticism to heart and I stepped up my game. I got to the point where I could get a entire cart put away in 30 minutes. A store record. Accurately too. But then… my breaks were too long. I got two 15 minute breaks a day. Back then I smoked so that was 2 cigarettes and back inside in 12-13 minutes. I had no urge to take any longer. I was always back early.

One day Ian walks up and says in a condescending tone that sounded a bit shrill and forced, says “I noticed your break ran a little long”. I shrugged and put it up to my own mistake. The next day I set my alarm for 10 minutes and came back right on the dot, five minutes early. Again Ian strolls by, faux casually, “Looks like your break went a bit long again”. I animatedly defended myself, referencing my watch, the time, the passage of only 10 minutes. Ian shrugged and said I must have made a mistake.

The next day I actually checked out with Ian, “hey it’s 8:05 Ian, I’m heading out to break” , he shrugged noncommittally.

I returned 10 minutes later and said, “It’s now 8:15 Ian” he looked as his watch and said “well you left a little before 8pm, you’re still running late” I pointed out his error to utter apathy and indifference. This complaint never stopped.

Though this may not be the most interesting of stories, so far, but it’s important to note. I wasn’t being insolent. I wasn’t slacking off. I wasn’t doing anything other than keeping my head down and trying to save up enough money to move back home. It became very clear over time. That Ian… really fucking hated me. I never quite did figure it out. Maybe it was because I was from California and he was from Jacksonville, born and raised. Maybe it’s because he didn’t like my earnest hard work and polite refusal to swallow his shit. I don’t know.

Once when Ian had scheduled me 10 shifts in a row that ended late (midnight) and started early (7am) – a term we called the ‘reacharound‘ – I finally went to the General Manager and complained about my schedule. She gave Ian a ‘talking to’ and shortly after came back and said it had all been a scheduling mistake. I felt disinclined to argue with no evidence so I accepted this explanation. Ian pulled me into his office about 15 minutes later and gave me his most honest speech ever.

He closed the door to his office, I glanced at the screen on the wall that showed a view of the stores security cameras and flirted briefly with the idea that maybe Ian had seen me do something embarassing. But dismissed it. “You went to the General Manager” he said accusingly. “Yes?” I replied with a questioning tone. He paced a few times in his cramped office before straightening his shoulders and with no preamble said “I don’t like you Adam, I want you to quit, or be fired, and I’m going to make it happen”

I was in shock, I finally asked why, why was I meant to be fired. His only reply “I don’t like you”. I told him that was fine, that we could not cross paths, that we could still get our jobs done and work. I had to move away soon and I’d be out of his hair forever in a month or two. “Not soon enough” was his only reply. I gave up at that point even pretending to listen or care about what Ian said. I left his office with my head hung in shame. Shame in myself, shame for my willingness to let this happen. That I was so helpless, so desperate for work and money that had no other option than to just walk away and come back for another day of this.

There are plenty of other details I could use to explain how Ian tortured me day to day. How he changed my schedule to match his, how he wrote me up for being 6 minutes EARLY one time (true). How he actually made invitations to his birthday party for every single employee down to the cafe staff and general manager but not for me. How he accused me of being lazy, slovenly and how I worked 10 times as hard as any other employee there to prove him wrong. If Ian were smart enough to have manipulated that level of work out of me, out of every employee, Borders would never have closed. Needless to say Ian only got worse, more manipulative, more vindictive.

Finally I had my ticket back to California and I went in and put in my 2 weeks notice. Ian took this with a shrug, as if he couldn’t care less. I shrugged too and went back to work. Relieved that it was almost finally over. when my last 3 remaining days were in front of me. Ian pulled me inside his office right after I walked in the door.

Corporate policy at Borders was strict, maybe it had a hand in why they lost the battle of the books down the road, too rigid and inflexible. I don’t know. But if you were 6 minutes late OR early to a shift you could be punished/written up. While this almost never happened to a lot of my coworkers it was regularly turned into a debacle for me. Ian decided this technicality was all he needed.

“You were 6 minutes late last week” he said smugly. I looked blankly at him. Wondering if I was in for another lecture just days before I was going to leave the company anyway. He continued, “according to our corporate policy, you get a certain amount of points for being late, depending on the severity of the infraction and the total of those points, we can elect to either write you up a third time, or let you go. We are letting you go.”

It took a full few seconds for it to sink in before I replied, “You’re firing me?” I hazarded. He nodded. You could see the barely restrained smile, pulling at the corner of his mouth. He had won. I took another minute of silence. I straightened up, not realizing I was slouching before. I looked him in the eye and extended my hand. “Well, it’s been a pleasure working for you and I hope there are no hard feelings.”

Ian looked at my hand like a live snake, complete confusion filling his eyes. He started to speak, stopped, and started again. “Th – thank you, for being professional about this” he looked around uncomfortably, clearly he’d expected more and was thrown off-balance. “I’ll let you gather your things and say your goodbyes and let me know if you need anything…” I nodded and thanked him again and told him I would get my backpack and check out with him on the way out the door. He left his office and headed to the cafe, bemused, seemingly a bit lost.

I quickly closed the door silently behind him, sliding the heavy deadbolt shut.

The sheer petty vengeance of Ian had finally cracked me. I’m a regular guy. I’m fairly intelligent, hard working, and do what I’m told. I don’t make scenes and I’ve been fired before, but this was war. This was all out revenge. I couldn’t stand by and let another person fall under the bureaucratic steamroller that was Ian and his little vendettas. I had to do something. Trash his office? Go through his things? Time was short, and all of this seemed small time and small-thinking. Suddenly it hit me.

One of the most frustrating things about this experience is that Ian was in good with the General Manager, even some of the other higher ups, he seemed to know exactly who to schmooze and who to ignore. So while my coworkers all understood and commiserated, the customers, the managers, and anyone who could do anything about it, remained oblivious. I picked up the phone and dialed Intercom # on the handset. This opens a channel to the entire store.

I took a deep breath -

“Attention Borders customers and employees, I’d like to draw your attention to Ian in the cafe area right now. You’ll notice him for his blue shirt and having his head so far up his ass it seems impossible. He’s a tiny dicked vengeful and petty human being who has made the last 5 months of my life and many others, a living hell. He has haunted me at every turn, changed my schedule to match his, threatened me, lied to get me in trouble and taken advantage of numerous technicalities to his own petty ends while pretending to be a better person than he is. He’s not helpful, or nice and I wouldn’t suggest you ever have any dealings with him ever again, as he is a mean-spirited piece of shit, and I will be overwhelmingly glad to never see him again…”

By this time the store was going batshit. Mothers were covering their childrens’ ears (sorry) and managers and coworkers were staring around them in slack-jawed wonder. Because the security viewers were right next to me I could see this all unfold in front of me while I orated my final borders intercom speech to a riveted crowd. Ian and the GM were frantically checking every phone in the store and trying to break my intercom link. At one point they actually came and rattled the door of Ians office and I heard the exchange, “No, I locked it!” – which obviously wasn’t true but they moved on.

I concluded my brief speech,

“…Thank you for being great coworkers and customers, Fuck You Ian, and thank you for shopping at Borders”

 
- *screech* I shut off the intercom.

I snagged my backpack on the way out and walked out through pandemonium, it was like the fucking Fourth of July, customers leaving, employees frantically explaining, Ian and the GM screaming at each other. After leaving the equivalent of customer service Hiroshima, I pushed my way out the front door. Looking forward. People might have stared, maybe no one noticed me leaving. I don’t know. I didn’t look back.

A few days later I got a call from a legal team who asked me my side of this ‘story’ I told them in detail everything that happened, they said they would get back to me, and hung up. After that I was on my way back to California. On my arrival I got another phone call from some laywer attached to Borders. He said “You don’t need to worry about  any of this, there’s no charges and the employee in question is under investigation, I just wanted to let you know, you don’t need to worry about any of this…”

My only reply, “Thanks, I won’t” and hung up.

My short story, “Sandwich of the Future” was entered into a contest to be read on an radio/podcast show.

Smoke & Mirrors was kind enough to select me and have one of their voiceover artists read my story.

It’s got effects and everything.

• Here’s the original Story
• Here’s the Audio MP3 File 
• Here’s the site it’s published on

Here’s how happy I am (VERY)

(Note: the Names of some people have been changed to protect the no longer innocent)

(Also Note: This story is graphic, sexually disturbing and awesome, please turn away NOW if you’re faint of heart, over 40 or religious)

I think back a lot about the girl I now call “Headboard Jessica” the name is different because I don’t want to put this poor girl through any more embarassment. But she’s a Freak with a capital everything. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

The year was 1998 or 99′ which ever sounds cooler in your head, and young teenage me was chock full of hormones and swagger. I met Jessica through a friend one day and decided that I HAD to have her. She was very pretty, a total geek and aggressively weird, in short the perfect woman for me, seemingly at least. I pursued her for all of a week or so before we ended up making out and soon after ‘officially dating’. Keep in mind these are the teenage years where that’s pretty much the status quo.

Dating consisted of us hanging out several times a week, making out frantically and standing indecently close at public gatherings. After a few weeks it came time to take it to another level. The first time we had sex (or “rode the light fantastic” as I whimsically call it today) we were at her friends house and ended up having a few hours of privacy. We made out a bit, and soon the shirts came off, then the everything else came off in a frenzy of passion and clothes flinging. Suddenly there I was poised above her, ready as hell, when she turned into the ice queen…

Before you judge me completely (you’ll do that later, trust me) keep in mind, I’m a horny teenager, yes, but I’m not a rapist or inattentive to a woman’s needs. There was a sufficient amount of foreplay and clear direct questions like “Would you like to have sex?” that were all to the positive. It’s just that when it got down to the act itself, she just went total cold fish. To clarify, she went cold fish, like Hiroshima had a fireworks show. There I am, feeling all the feelings you’re supposed to feel when engaged in intercourse with a woman, looking down and seeing a girl whose expression says “I could also be doing math homework” after several attempts at changing the pace, and asking if anything was wrong, I did what all men do sometimes, I finished, passed out and thought on it later.

Now this wasn’t off to a great start, but sex is probably right along side the ability to compress and expand your lungs in importance to a teenage boy. So I asked questions, “What do you like?” I offered toys, fantasies, oral, spankings, all were met with an indifferent shrug. This process repeats several dozen times. Things get hot and heavy, the act occurs, and suddenly I’m fucking one of Edgar Allen Poe’s ex-girlfriends. I start to doubt myself, am I less skilled than I thought? Smaller than I thought? I’d had nothing but great feedback and experience from every girl so far, and then this comes along and threatens to shatter my near-stratospheric ego. I vary things up to an extreme degree, hours of foreplay, crazy position variety, everything I can think of is met with a solid “meh” from this girl whom apparently can’t be pleased.

Drastic measures were called for. The ice had to break. Fast forward a few months and we’ve had sex about 30-35 times and every one a dismal, icy failure and deflating jab to my manhood. Then there was a party at her parents house that lived in infamy. Jessica and several of her friends ended up throwing a house party while her parents were gone for the weekend. We drank, laughed, drank some more, generally partied our asses off for a few hours. As the night wore on, my sex drive took over and we ended up locking ourselves into her parents bedroom. Darkened hardwood floors and classy faux-victorian furniture provided a picturesque frame for the king sized monstrosity that was the centerpiece bed. This huge mahogany nightmare was a california king, with a massive posts at the foot and a huge 2 inch thick headboard that spanned the entire length of the top of the bed, raised about 2 feet into the air and curved tastefully at the top.

Ignoring the upper class decorations, we stripped our way to the bed and threw ourselves onto it with a total disregard for anything around us. In my slightly tipsy haze I forgot about our usually dismal love making and started in. It wasn’t long before reality started to seep back in though. I looked down and noticed that same bored, vacant look that I’d come to dread. That’s when I made my decision. I was going to kill her. Not literally kill her but I was going to try the one thing I hadn’t yet. In full blown geek terms, I disabled the safety protocols.

Keep in mind I’m not a small person, now or even back then. I’m a pretty big guy, decently tall, broad shouldered and as my friend used to describe me “built like a brick-shithouse”. It’s always been my understanding, since day one, that you don’t hurt women. As I flowered into a penis-wielding agent of hormones, that was a backdrop to almost everything. You can do it ‘hard’ but you can’t just let fly or you’ll damage somebody. But today was the day. I let fly.

So I’m 20,000 leagues into this bitch, and as high school physics will teach you, the angle, versus weight, versus thrust and inertia says that this chicks pelvis was probably taking something like deep ocean pressures per-square-inch. To put it bluntly, I’m REALLY railing her. Suddenly… she’s alive! She starts moaning, at first I didn’t notice among my herculean and likely dangerous amount of thrusting. But I look down and see a look of literal “surprise” on her face, urging me ever onward to new heights of destroying this girls icy demeanor (and chances of avoiding hip dysplasia). She’s screaming, moaning, thrashing around, ripping the sheets, and pulling both of us further up the bed.

I’m simply blown away.

It seems that what she wanted, nay, needed, was for someone to seriously wreck her. At one point I hear a new and rhythmic thumping noise and I look up and to my horror I realize there’s a spray of blood across the pillow and her head is hitting that mahogany backboard in a disturbing fashion…

She’s still coherent and loving it, but I start to pull back fearing that I’ve actually done some damage. She digs her fingernails into my back and screams at the top of her lungs “Don’t you DARE fucking stop”, being a gentleman… I continue. Losing myself in the next few minutes we both reach orgasm simultaneously (and I might add as a FIRST for her so far) and I collapse in a sweat-coated gasping heap onto the bed. I open my eyes and see a living nightmare before me. Jessica is catching her breath, literally giggling with pleasure, a huge smile on her face amidst an acre of blood. The headboard is literally dented, the pillows, sheets, wall, even the cute victorian lamp next to the bed is splashed a brilliant shade of crimson shame.

Jessica’s head had kept hitting the headboard, opening a non-dangerous but heavily bleeding head wound and our vigorous actions had ended up making the bedroom look like a voodoo temple had been erected around us to please the blood drinking god of vengeance. I ended up wrapping her head and spending the next several hours cleaning blood off of everything. Some few weeks later, I broke things off with Jessica. Despite having climbed Everest, I simply didn’t want to do it several times a week. So I gave it all up but gained a disturbing and potentially awesome story. Which I hope you enjoyed.

And that’s why, to this day, we all refer to her reverently as “Headboard Jessica“

When I was about 15 or 16 I went to a school dance in Cloverdale. Cloverdale has a population of about 3000 (or it did at the time) and was the very definition of “Podunk”. I had been invited there by a girl named Stephanie, who I was fairly certain was going to let me fuck her. This being about all the motivation I needed to venture 3 cities away to the boondocks of Cloverdale, away I went.

Summer was about to start. The weather, always a little warmer in Cloverdale anyway, was balmy but not terribly unpleasant. Stephanie told me that her and several friends were all going to the dance, and that we were going to leave early, get drunk and then crash at her mom’s house. It sounded like a plan to me.

We arrived at the dance about 8pm and made our way to the front door. I stopped when I saw my old school friend John who had moved up this way. We talked of whatever it is 16 year old boys talk about, firecrackers, guns, vaginas, and liquor, in a very serious sober tone, as if these things were not only common, but sacred. As John and I caught up on being adolescents, I started to hear shouting near the door of the gym where the dance was held.

Kaitlyn was sort of an ex-girlfriend, it’s a whole different complicated story to explain that, but basically we dated for about 2 months and she dumped me. We had sex once, and she had tremendous gravity defying tits that were firmer than any real tits had a right to be. She was also not a small girl. She was, cute, and sexy, but she also had broad shoulders and had an inch of height on me. In all fairness, she probably could have kicked my (or your) ass.

Well Kaitlyn decided, by Cloverdale rules, that I was off-limits to her friends, which unbeknownst to me, included Stephanie. So she stopped her at the door and started threatening to “Kick her fucking whore ass all over the baseball field.”. Sure the energy of having two attractive girls fight over me was a bit of a rush, but I quickly realized that Stephanie was my better chance of getting laid tonight and almost guaranteed to lose, as she was “slender” and “soft” in a very different way that Kaitlyn was “firm” and “dangerous”. I quickly put a stop to everything by apologizing for no reason whatsoever, and in the confusion… dragging Stephanie away with 5 friends in tow.

We were young and energetic and didn’t let this get us down, we merely opted to up the timeline on our “Get Drunk and Fuck Around” plan. Her friend magically came up with a huge gallon bottle of Black Velvet™ Whiskey and whispered conspiratorially

“We’re going drinking, down by the Crick.”.

About this time I started to feel like a bit of a hick, but shrugged and took it all good naturedly. We hiked for 30-40 minutes to a remote location at said Cloverdale Crick and settled down for some serious fuck-uppery. Being 16, horny and relatively invincible, I decided my first order of business was to show how well I can chug Black Velvet. Which come to find out, is fairly decently. We passed the bottle around several times and the 6 of us broke off into couples and commenced pubescent activities. Due to my uncanny good judgement, the whiskey reduced my shyness but blotted out most of my memory of the following hour or two. I loudly assured everyone that would listen that “Drank this shit all the time” and then settled down with Stephanie for some heavy kissing and under-the-shirt nirvana.

Some time passed….

As the giant bottle neared it’s final few inches of life, a bright flashlight suddenly sprang to life about 30 feet from where our group was congregating. Not sure at first who might be trying to blind us, we loudly and hilariously called the owner of the flashlight names like “fucker” and “you piece of shit” and asked repeatedly who it was. It turned out to be Officer Sendrick who had a reputation for being a hard-ass in that neck of the woods. He was largely unamused by our situation, age, and language.

He angrily dumped the whiskey out in front of us and started barking questions. Not being a local, sober, or sure if I was dreaming or not, I mostly stayed quiet. Eventually our angry law enforcer decided he’d heard all he needed to hear. Stephanie claimed we were all staying at her moms’ house and so we were packed into 2 squad cars and led to her suburban track home. The mood was tense and everyone was staring at each other, asking silently how bad it was going to be.

We arrived at Stephanie’s house and waited while the cop and her mother exchanged a few angry shouts, none of which concerned me. By this time my adrenaline was at a level reserved for racing horses on steroids, and I was wondering if there was ANY way to avoid having this get back to my parents. To make a long, and let’s be honest, drunken story short. We were informed that everyone could stay there and spend the night and that Stephanie’s mom would tell their parents the following day, except me. Since I have never met Stephanie’s mom, I’ll refer to her as “That fucking bitch”. So that fucking bitch said she didn’t know me and there was no way I was staying at her house. Stephanie was a trooper and pleaded greatly but alas, I was the only one shoved back into the squad car.

By this time it’s about 1-2am and I’m being hustled into the Cloverdale police station. I’m given a breathalyzer that shows that I am apparently made partially of Whiskey. Then placed into the cell they use as a drunk tank. The cop comes to inform me that they need to call my parents. The conversation went a little like this.

“We need to call your parents” Officer Sendrick says with barely concealed authority-based rage.

“Please don’t call my parents” I pleaded with barely concealed terror.

“We need to call or a Windsor Police Officer will have to go to your house and wake them up” he threatened.

Thinking myself clever, I gave them my personal phone number at home that just went to a machine in my room. They dialed 3 times and came right back to my cell.

Officer Sendrick was getting annoyed “We can’t reach your parents”.

“Oh well, I guess we’ll have to try again in the morning, they’re definitely asleep” I said with a glimmer of hope.

He shook his head, in a slow hope-destroying manner. “Nope, we’ll have Windsor PD wake them up”

I hurriedly gave them the right number, which also ended in failure. Eventually they were forced to actually have a Windsor cop beat on my parents door for up to about 10 minutes which woke up my parents, my sisters, the cat, a few of the neighbors and possibly Jimmy Hoffa.

As I lay in the cell, debating the positives and negatives of vomiting whiskey in a jail toilet, I was tersely informed that my father was on his way to get me. It being around 3am by this time. I slowly and methodically re-lived the better parts of the evening and prepared myself to die.

Not that Dad was a monster or anything, but he had a temper. He also got up at 5am to work and wasn’t adverse to a fairly severe beating if the circumstances called for it. My parents were also big fans of grounding. Judging by the severity of the whole situation, I figured I had roughly 7 lifespans of groundation and possibly 3-4 harsh beatings coming my way. That being the positive view. As it was also theoretically possible I would be killed out of hand or simply dismissed from the family in a field somewhere to wander the earth family-less.

All these possibilties and more went through my head, when I got up for the 100th time to look thorugh the tiny mesh-wire and glass window of my cell, down a long hallway to the outer door, where I locked eyes with my dad. From 100 feet away we both saw each other and sized up the situation. He looked tired, annoyed, I probably looked like the cover of a horror movie, or that famous “Scream” painting by Dali.

He exchanged some words with Officer Heartless-Bastard and then without a word, ushered me to the car. Back then dad was driving a huge old 68 Lincoln Continental which gave us about 30 feet to sit apart from each other in the front seat. While we sat on our separate sides of the car, with an ocean of patent leather between us, I couldn’t look at him, or say anything. I just stared out at the dark freeway, starting to see the first inklings of daylight creep over the horizon. I think I briefly fooled myself into thinking I was someone else, somewhere else, and this was a pleasant trip to somewhere other than hell.

A long time passed, it popped into my head that he had already had quite a drive to come get me. But I was too frozen with terror to mention it, or anything else. Finally after 20 minutes of dead silence he grunted at me.

“So, you were drinking huh? ”

I nodded, realizing that probably wasn’t enough, I swallowed my parched tongue and mumbled “Yup”.

“How much did you have?” he asked almost offhandedly.

I shrugged, and told him the number on the breathalyzer, the car swerved briefly. He just shook his head and kept driving. Another few minutes went by, and suddenly he got off the exit for Healdsburg. This was several miles short of our home destination and my body immediately tensed. Was this where the murder took place? Was this where Adam Aragon ended and a lengthy investigation into a violent crime began?

He pulled up to the Circle K, all with no words or explanation. He got out of the car. I waited.

I waited… Wondering if he needed rope or bungee cord, possibly some lye, a tarpaulin and a machete to finish the deed. He finally returned with some junk food, he handed me a small chocolate ding-dong and a carton of milk. He had a soda and some crumbly pastry. Not a word was spoken, he simply handed me the food, and continued driving. I tentatively ate the food and drank the milk, looking for every angle. A last meal maybe?

We approached the house, with about 5 minutes remaining on our drive and he said to me “Your mom’s pretty upset”.

“I know” I nodded sagely, she was likely quite upset.

He nodded too, “I’m pretty tired”. I nodded in return again, only grateful that this hadn’t turned to bloodshed yet. He continued on “I’m going to go talk to your mother, you just go in and go to bed okay?”

“Okay” I mumbled. I couldn’t figure out what was happening, my mind was still full of potential punishments and ways this could turn very bad for me.

“Also,” he cleared his throat “I beat the shit out of you”.

“Huh?” was my confused reply.

He spoke more clearly and precisely “I, beat, the, shit, out, of, you.”.

Still lost of a fog of Black Velvet™ and terror, I shook my head, confused. “What?”

He sighed and his eyes rolled back, he finally responded with “Don’t make me actually DO it” and slowly inclined his head, as if to say, are we catching on yet?

“Oh” I replied, suddenly the full realization hit me “OH! Yes, yes you did, beat the shit out of me”.

He sighed again and pulled into the driveway. We both got out of the car and he pointed to my room. Then stalked inside to tell Mom what happened.

I crept into my room, pulled back my covers and slipped into a troubled but grateful sleep. Still confused as to what happened. Later that day around 10am Mom knocked on my door. I sat up and said “Come in” putting an appropriately hang-dog look on my face.

Mom came in almost shyly and sat at the foot of my bed. She patted my leg and said, “Now I know your father was pretty hard on you” She inspected my face for bruises. “I’m sorry that it happened but you know that you made a huge mistake last night” I nodded, slightly puzzled at her conciliatory tone. Then it hit me… Dad beat the shit out me.

He didn’t of course, but he told Mom he was “pretty rough” on me and may have “gone overboard” on the beating and punishment. Mom was more scared about my wellbeing than the fact that I’d been brought home from a jail cell for drinking and debauchery. I affected a limp and sad expression for a few days. Mom gave me the bare minimum of punishment (grounded for the weekend) and basically treated me like a king for the weekend anyway. Dad covered for me, not only that, but he didn’t mention it again. I went from facing the biggest punishment of my teenage career to getting off totally free, aside from a hangover and the endless waves of fear I experienced. In retrospect, the fear and expectation were probably plenty of punishment enough, and my Dad probably knew that, no stranger to the mind-fuck was he.

But I’ll never forget, years later, even after he’s passed away and we had our share of anger and love since then, that time that Dad didn’t beat the shit out of me.

Thanks Dad.

(Or How I conquered Racism, all by myself)

Dear Readers,

Far be it from me to take time on a simple blog to explain my own convoluted ideas, or preconceptions. But one thing I’ve always hated, as a vague patriot of our unsettled country , is the French. I don’t know where my hatred of them stemmed. It could be when I was young and countless people told me Jerry Lewis was funny and I kept not laughing. It could be other people’s negative opinions and insights about their lack of military victories, personal hygiene, lack of ethics,etc.

I guess I just never gave it much thought that I despised the French on principle. Every traveller I’ve ever talked to said they hate Americans, and I assumed it’s perfectly sane to hate them right back. My only real experience with a french person prior to about a year ago was an effeminate coke-head who was my friends roommate named “Stefan”. Strangely enough he was actually pretty likable. But then again he literally wore horizontal black and white striped shirts and berets. Is that the US equivalent of a “Wolf” t-shirt in France?

So Stefan didn’t strike me as a usable example of the French people. While pleasant enough, he seemed too much of a stereotype to be authentic. My guess is that he bought into US Stereotypes to be funny and fit in, and did coke because it’s fun. So I was left continuing with my general ignorance and random dislike of Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, and anything to do with Quiche.

What really made the turn was this little cafe right downstairs from my work. For the sake of not naming names let’s call it “Le Cafe” because the name was similarly unoriginal. It is owned and operated by extremely french people. The owner, the waiters/waitresses, the host, everyone except some of the Mexican bussers were all fluent in French and favored it above English. Most of the time the only words I’d hear from them in English (or American, as my retarded fellow patriots call it). Were “what would you like” or “more coffee?”.

Then as the restaurant was by my work I’d go every couple weeks and after the fourth or fifth time I put in an appearance there was a world of difference. Suddenly I was greeted by name, given priority to tables, comp’d free coffee etc. At first I put it up to just being a ‘regular’ but finally I managed to engage some employees in conversation and they explained that they treated strangers like strangers and friends like friends. Since I’d been there, met them, joked with them a little they switched to ‘friend’ mode. After that, there was no warmer or more friendly people on the planet.

In retrospect, they were rather distant and cold when I first started going there. Making the transition more dramatic in comparison. No one wore a beret, or stripes. They all DID have a knowledge of fine wines, but I think we can give a stereotypical pass since they serve it at the restaurant. Now, just becoming a regular at a French restaurant didn’t make me a convert to gay old Paris. I’m sure I’d still be treated like shit in France. It did make me realize that a lot of stereotypes that I would outspokenly debase in public are pretty rampant in my mind.

My history in life didn’t include an Anti-Frenchman, Dad didn’t hate the French, at least not outspokenly. He was sort of generically racist and never made any attempt to convert me to a particular way of thinking…

(To Be Continued….)

A lot of people probably say they fall in love with strippers. After all, any single guy wandering into the smoky den of the strippers gets undue attention, surrounded by beautiful women and treated probably nicer than any girl has ever treated them.

But I don’t fall for them, I realize their amazing and random interest in me is totally based in their need for my dirty wad of cash. I simply have a strange and backwards reaction to strippers in general. I empathize with them. Some would theorize this would result from my treatment of women in general. I basically act like I’m constantly at a strip club when I’m everywhere but a strip club. I hug girls and objectify them and generally make a lovable asshole of myself.

Somehow this trips the reverse reaction in me when I’m confronted with women that objectify themselves, hit on me, and go out of their way to sit on my lap and show me their tits. I feel bad for them. I want to buy them coffee and learn about their lives. I want to give them a jacket and believe the best about their situation. To be honest I don’t fully understand it. Maybe it’s because I can sense their fake sales attitude and realize that each one of them is struggling to make money by lying.

They aren’t really interested in me, or the 200 other guys that blow through there in a night. I guess I feel more pity for a girl who has to pretend to like a guy than a girl who pretends not to like a guy, which is so often the case. Sometimes the worst is when they are bad at it. In fact I usually avoid strippers that are good at their job. If they seem very at ease and quick on the draw I’m usually turned off instantly, because I know I’m about to get hustled, and that it will probably work if I relax for a minute.

No it’s the girls who seem to not know quite what to do, or why they are there. They are probably worried that I’ll be creepy and overly drunk or forward. My heart immediately reaches out to them and makes me want to just give them 20 dollars to take a break and understand that all men aren’t evil.

It’s probably a little patronizing, to assume that a lot of strippers are people to pity or feel sorry for. Some would probably hate me for what I’ve written so far. It’s some combination of being sexist, sensitive, misogynistic and inherently kind. I just find myself conflicted and strippers to be fascinating. Because they’re real people, almost universally beautiful, acting as fake as they possibly can. They are basically paid to be nude retail actors. Selling a product, convincing you it’s worth it and overcharging like hell.

It’s also been theorized that people that go to strip clubs fall into very few categories. Lonely and degenerate men who cannot see a girl naked any other way. Lonely men who are celebrating degrading women, or lonely men who have too much money and are travelling. While I think that the majority of these are true, I find myself trying to categorize myself. I’m not particularly lonely, I have a girlfriend. She doesn’t particularly mind me going to see naked women, understanding that this is, for men,  basically a fashion show, makeup sale and disturbing gossip all rolled into one.

I’m not trying to sleep with them, I’m not willing to spend ridiculous amounts of money, and I’m probably the last person that they actually want to talk to, since I’m cheap and sensitive to being hustled. Yet I go and actually do engage them in conversation, which they are happy to do because they think it will lead to them getting me to pay them. Most find out in 30 seconds or less that I’m not really going to give them hundreds of dollars to prance in front of me for 5-10 minutes. But a few actually relax and engage me in conversation with a fervor that’s surprising. Once the sales pitch is over and if there’s nothing else going on, a lot of strippers are happy to start talking about their day or problems. Which are often varied and complex.

This evokes in me a sense of empathy, interest and a genuine urge to improve their day. This is probably a side effect of them being beautiful and right in front of my face. So the question remains, am I just victim to a pretty face, and tight with my money. Or do I somehow relate to the plight of people who force themselves to be fake and appear attractive to get by in life? I’m not pretty enough to be a stripper and there’s not much call for male strippers in the same context, but I get the feeling that, if I could, I would be a stripper. Maybe if I were female.

I have to admit, this is all more of a train of thought than a clear direction. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that I secretly want to be a stripper, a woman, beautiful and objectified. Since I remain unable to do so and painfully heterosexual, I guess I will lock this deep into my psyche along with my conflicted feelings about my family and embarrasing sexual episodes during my teenage years (and beyond). Then I’ll go home and kiss my girlfriend, high-five my best male buddy, crack open a corona and think about video games.

The difference between men and women, is that this kind of stuff probably lingers with women. I’m such a fucker.

So apparently the good lord above has deemed it necessary to infiltrate my iTunes playlist to show me the errors of my ways. Let me explain.

Like any good american under 30, I don’t pay for music. About the time Microsoft and Apple started slapping DRM on everything is when I just stopped caring about buying legitimate music downloads. It just came with too much headache. Sure apple’s fixed it since then but it’s easier and cheaper ($0.00) to just get what you need elsewhere. (for all legal purposes lets remind everyone that this is a COMEDY blog)

So I decided that my tired old playlist needed a dose of new music. I went through and weeded out bands that SOUNDED good at the time, but got old and boring fast. In case you’re wondering which bands those are:

• LCD Soundsystem
• Bang Camaro
• Asher Roth
• Blue October
• Cage the Elephant
• Etc

Then I realized that there are bands/songs on there that just have NO business being on my playlist like:

• Black Eyed Peas
• Cher
• Coldplay
• Depeche Mode
• Kayne West
• Etc

Rest Assured that ALL the above bands are now deleted and I’ve already gone through the effort of calling MYSELF a fag and then dickpunching myself in the locker room. So I’ve realized the error of my erroneously downloading ways. Now of course I’m more careful to download specific albums, immediately deleting them if they don’t grip my attention or seem great. So I queued up a whole new batch of bands and meticulously downloaded several albums. After checking and re-checking the files I imported them all into iTunes and used the ever-popular “Recently Added Playlist”

That’s when Jesus popped in, followed by Disco. What?

I was listening to the new albums I had just set my new songs to “random” and was enjoying some new music. (who I won’t list because I don’t know if they all suck yet) When suddenly I catch a snippet of a tune about Jesus dying on a cross. I immediately open iTunes to find the offending song. Since my Atheism is a Gargantuan Level 80 Paladin, I don’t want no upbeat Jesus music on my playlist.

Sure enough there’s “Robbie Williams” who apparently does christian themed pop. This is annoying in and of itself, but more confusing since, I DID NOT download Robbie Williams. As I’m pondering this, suddenly a half-hearted remix of “Staying Alive” starts to play. My eyes bulge out of my head and I immediately regret all the self-dickpunching soon to follow this escapade. Flipping back to iTunes I realize that part of a compilation titled “Disco Classics Re-Imagined” has found its way onto my recently added playlist… TWICE. I shit you not, every song duplicated from the 30 track compilation of Disco Classics Re-imagined… What. The. Fuck.

Now the sleuths among you have already deduced that I’ve simply been had, and that while downloading music I’ve been swindled into downloading a stupid album in place of the one I was trying to get… The only issue here… is that I didn’t. Since I’ve downloaded roughly 10 solid albums, I went back into the original download folder to find out which album was compromised. There was NO issues. Every album, every track, played perfectly. There simply was NO apparent source of Robbie Williams (Jesus Jamboree) and Disco Dickpunching Classics on my computer. Sure they were in the itunes playlist and music folder, but they have come from NOWHERE. Upon further inspection these folders were made 24 hours prior to my download fiesta. My computer is locked down at work and has no easy access from either an external source or in the office. Not to mention my coworkers are all over 50 and think iTunes is Voodoo magic sent by the aliens.

Still I asked around. Nope. Nothing. My computer was locked, firewalled, passworded, and running OSX (which isn’t as easy to hack or circumvent) in a private room in a private building. Yet somehow. The ghost of Jesus Christ put Robbie Williams and DISCO CLASSICS REIMAGINED on my fucking itunes recently added playlist with no explanation. The only idea I have is that Disco and Jesus are both NOT dead, and they’re pranking people in offices around the world, as part of the coming Disco-Rapture…

The Year is 2093. Nanotechnology has progressed to enhance and improve every aspect of our lives. Technology in general has permeated every level of human existence from genetically engineered birth to a greatly extended life-span, to a carefully planned death.

I have time travelled here to explore the future of humanity, the evolution of society, and possibly the most important thing of all, the state of the Sandwich in the distant future. The Sandwich? You ask, with a no doubt quizzical look on your face. Yes (bitch) The Sandwich. The best way to gauge a society, or future-society, as a whole, is not in the cutting edge of their technology, but in the basics, the fundamental building blocks of their day to day activities. There is nothing more human, regular and solid, than a modern day Sandwich. The Sandwich of the Future should tell us a lot about the progression of humanity, and so we begin.

After Leaving the United States in 2008, We arrive in New California in 2093. The United States dissolved after voting in George Bush the 3rd in 2024, So the particular land-mass known as North America is now known as The 2nd Republic of China, but other than a slight language curve, things are much the same.

I make my way to a nearby food dispensary. This particular chain, formerly known as Subway, is now called “Nano-Sandwich” but the aesthetic is mostly the same. The oddest thing about this new establishment, isn’t the new name or color-scheme. But the fact that it seems to have no employees and no food… My puzzlement is quickly eroded by finding a large colorful box marked “Food” with a single button. I look around and see no way to imply payment or to even customize an order, so I simply push the button.

A wave emanates from the machine and bathes my face in a soft glow for a moment, then a single chime sounds and a female voice sounds from inside my head.

“Scan Complete: Sandwich Urge detected. Forming Nano-Sandwich. Service is Courtesy, Enjoy.”

Not all of this immediately makes sense, but a few seconds later a somewhat normal looking sandwich appears on the platter in front of me. I take my platter and sit at one of the many available, and immaculate tables. I take a look at my sandwich. It appears to be made of White Bread and contain some almost colorless filling. All in all, it doesn’t look very appetizing.

I pick up the sandwich and almost instantly, its texture changes in my hand to that of a much more rustic and hand-made feeling bread. I’m impressed, this is interesting. The insides also rapidly gain color and become more meat-like and appetizing. Then a soft male voice speaks from right next to my face.

“Further Input is required to maximize taste and enjoyment”

With a start I drop the sandwich and it fades back to its colorless state. My head swivels around looking for the source of the voice and seeing no indication, I tenatively pick the sandwich back up. The same voice, obviously artificial, but clear and pleasant says,

“Chemical levels in your body indicate that you were frightened, I apologize for the upset. Please indicate what would maximize your enjoyment from today’s Nano-Sandwich”

Thinking out loud I say “Did my sandwich just talk?”

It responds in a snappy and upbeat fashion, “Yes! I’m happy to help you today, I am the artificial intelligence for Nano-Sandwich. I am meshed with the Restaurant network and engaged to help you enjoy your eating experience.”

“How the hell can I eat a sandwich that talks?” I query.

“I’m glad you asked that question” Says the sandwich cheerily “Using advanced Nano-Technology, I convert the outer layer of this sandwich into an acoustic model with which to communicate with you, but don’t worry, as you proceed with eating me, our automatic safety protocols will convert any part of the sandwich you come in contact with into inert and nutritious matter.”

I think about this for a minute… My sandwich talks to me and I can eat it. Okay, I can work with this.

“Uh, so I can eat you, can you become any type of sandwich?” I ask of it.

“Of course! I can emulate over 38 thousand types of potential sandwich combinations. Would you like to specify your ingredients or have me do this automatically based off your genetic disposition?”

I indicate the positive and the sandwich instructs me to take a bite of it. I oblige with a little nibble and the sandwich scans my taste buds and converts itself to what it considers I would most enjoy. I take another bite at the prompting of the voice and the flavor and texture have increased dramatically.

“That’s pretty good” I say through a mouthful.

“Thank you sir for your compliment” Responds the Sandwich “I Urge you to enjoy me to the fullest and let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your eating of me more pleasurable.”

I stop for a second, curious now at the possibilities. “Can you…. taste better?” I ask quietly, not wanting to offend. Then upon realizing I’m talking with a sandwich I become slightly more emboldened, “Like is this the best a sandwich can get?” I ask.

The sandwich pauses, then responds “Entering Advanced Mode, Increasing Flavor, Increasing Texture receptors, Increasing integration protocol, Please state level of intensity from 1 to 100 for taste enhancement”

I pause, being cautious “Oh, ummm 50?” I venture

The sandwich responds “The Nano-Sandwich company in tandem with Food-Neuro Science Labs asks that you give your permission to engage your higher brian functions. While this process is found to be perfectly safe, we require a secondary waiver of intent above the level 40, do you give acceptance?”

After thinking for a minute, I slowly nod my head, then thinking that I just nodded to a disembodied voice I start to say something. I’m cut off by the sandwich who then says.

“Your acceptance is indicated and noted, enhancing high-level dynamics to level 50, please enjoy”

A long pause and nothing else happens, so I take another bite of the Sandwich. AMAZING! My mouth is flooded with an incredible dose of flavor. Almost overwhelmingly rich and filling every single molecule of my senses, I feel as if I’m eating a thousand sandwiches and each one is better than the last. My eyes water and my knees start to shake slightly, and that’s only the first bite.

I stop and reflect on this experience, I also reflect briefly on the idea that I’m forced to actually reflect on eating a sandwich. This is indeed impressive technology, but in the name of science, I must push forward.

“Sandwich” I say with more confidence, feeling like a have a better grip on the situation “I would like you to go to level 100″

The sandwiches voice falters for the first time during our entire conversation “Are… you sure” it asks

“Yes” I reply impatiently,

“The Food-Neuro Science labs requires express permission to perform this fuction. By saying ‘Yes’ to this statement, only verbal responses will be accepted and you will disavow any repercussions from the Food Republic company and its affiliates, please indicate Yes or No at this time.” The sandwich says all in a rush.

This has thrown me off a little bit, but I’m assuming that nothing would allow me to actually harm myself, or it wouldn’t be an option, so I finally say “Yes”

The Sandwich shakes almost imperceptibly, but otherwise nothing else happens.

I lift the sandwich toward my mouth and before it even reaches my mouth my nostrils are overwhelmed with scent and by the time the sandwich actually hits my tongue I feel a wetness in my pants. Having urinated myself seems to have no effect on my enjoyment as my mind is whirled through an astounding new galaxy of taste, of form, function, smell, sensation… I briefly orgasm and a blood vessel in my left eye ruptures causing blood to course down my left cheek. This is all ignored as i continue chewing with the most serious and complete sense of contentment that I’ve ever experience.

As I lose conciousness and slide down my chair into the fetal position on the floor, the last few bites of my sandwich on the floor next to me says,

“You appear to have enjoyed our services too severely, The Neuro-Science company is dispatching an ambulance to your location, please remain calm and…” Then everything is black.

The Sandwich of the Future is indeed Grim, and beautiful. After 3 months of recovery back in my current timeline of 2008, I can now write without assistance and form coherent sentences. I am however no longer allowed to enjoy sandwiches as they cause regressive shock that sends me into convulsions. But still I think we’ve learned a lot. I have to take my nap now. Goodbye.

(The details of this “Manventure” have been altered to protect the incredibly guilty)

My good buddy Sean and I decided to have a manly mis-adventure today, and we had such a great time, we thought we’d detail the required elements of a MAN-venture so you too can enjoy this long lost pastime. Some of you might be wondering,

“How do you have a ‘mis-adventure’?”

Well its like going off to have an adventure, but from long experience going off to DO something cool, always ends badly. You try to go to the beach, but its too cold and some rednecks are firing guns there or something equally mood-killing. But a MIS-adventure, is something altogether different. A mis-adventure is something much more vague. You leave with the intent to do something mildly fun or different, but be prepared for all the problems that life throws at you with a sense of opportunity. Hence, you’re never disappointed and you always have a good time, as long as you take everything as it comes.Here are the ingredients for our particular manly mis-adventure:

• 2 Manly Sandwiches (Including at least 17 ingredients)
• 2 Heineken 22oz Beer
• 4 IPA 12oz Beers
• 2 Packet of Smoke Bombs
• 2 Roman Candles
• 4 Large Cigars (made by sweatshop children)
• 1x Screwdriver
• 1 Giant Flourescent Light Bulb
• 2 Pints of Racer 5 Beer
• 1 Episodes of the Simpsons
• 2 Red Bulls
• 1 Sparkler
• 4 Lighters
• 1/2 Tank of Gas
• (Sunglasses – AT NIGHT)
• 1 Giant firework fountain
• 1 Broken TV
• 1 Car (Buick Regal)
• 2 Whimsical Senses of Adventure

Time: 1pm

The day started out with a leisurely drive to my childhood home, where there is a dirt track that we used to race minibikes on. We had the idea to start there and take a small hike. Hike doesn’t quite sound manly enough, we took a… trek. Yeah, we trekked. However when we arrived it turns out that someone bought the dirt lot on a swamp that hasn’t sold for the last 25 years. They proceeded to build a giant house on the play area of my entire childhood. This was disconcerting to say the least, especially since we couldn’t trek there and couldn’t light off our many fireworks. This is the nature of the mis-adventure.

Time: 2:30pm

We then went to Healdsburg, where we looked for the nearest mountain (Finch Mountain as it turns out, is the ONLY mountain near there) and proceeded to drive as high up as we could possibly get. When we reached what was most likely the peak of said mountain, we proceeded to toss several smoke bombs down the hill and then drive down through the colored smoke like a glorified Dukes of Hazard scene. However we neglected to actually insure that the peak of the mountain actually led back down the mountain so, after a rapid 7 second plummet through plumes of no-doubt illegal smoke, we actually were in a private driveway. We had to pull a 3-point turn in the very persons driveway whom we had inadvertently smoke-bombed. Then we stopped for a manly sandwich, eaten outdoors in the cold and with no napkins. Plus the sandwich wasn’t even cut in half… very manly.

Time: 4:30pm

After this we decided to explore some more and took some side roads along the Rissian River and drove all the way to the very center of nowhere, where we placed a giant firework fountain at the very peak of a river hill and watched it blaze into the sky as we drove back down like demons through super windy and dangerous roads at unsafe speeds.We then stopped at the Goat Republic brewery and had 2 fine pints of Racer 5 beer and smoked a long and leisurely cigar. This is very manly. I know this may sound manly in a generic way. But really you have to appreciate a nice brisk evening outside a brewery smoking a cigar and sipping a microbrew and re-counting stories of psuedo-manly exploits. Trust me, once again, its very manly.

Time: 6:30pm

By this point we’ve got a good buzz going and decide to while away the time to drive-ability. We took turns carving our initials in a near-by bridge. This may sound like the very antithesis of manliness, in fact it may sound like blatant handholding homosexuality. But I assure you, that by placing a dividing line ( / ) between our initials as opposed to a plus sign ( + ) commonly associated with lovers initials, we have definitively ascertained our incredible manliness. Yeah we did it, and we’re not ashamed…

Time: 7:32pm

Then we took a very long drive down a very dark road. I know this is panning out like a gay erotica novel meant to convert straight-folk. But really, this is assuredly manly. As we traveled an unsafe speeds, and stopped in the middle of nowhere to urinate on a fence and to put Sean on the hood of the car and drive him at high speeds while clinging tenaciously to the hood of my car. Went another mile so on untravelled roads with Sean clamped onto the hood of the car before my good sense won out to a small degree and I applied the brakes. But for good measure I stopped too fast and at least sent him flying a little bit. Solving both my lust for violence and distaste for burying accidentally killed friends. Then we found the T.V.

We were wandering in the dark, lost at 60mph and not caring in the least when Sean yells “Pull over! Goddammit Pull over!” I obliged him and after a short search in the darkness we found what he saw. An old abandoned 27 inch CRT tv just laying by the side of the road. This may be silly to you, or even stupid, but then you’re probably a girl, or lame. We re-lived a boyish time in our lives by kicking, crushing and otherwise fucking-up-the-shit-of this TV. As any boy will tell you, its fun to break stuff, especially when its something you can’t otherwise break and get away with it. So we left that TV by the wayside, proper-fucked as one might say.

Time: 8:23pm

In continuance of our violent vendetta against carefully crafted glass, we took a giant fluorescent tube and winged it into an abandoned parking lot. If you’ve ever played with a large fluorescent bulb, they are pressurized with gas in order to work, so the slightest actual break in the seal of the bulb, causes them to explode dramatically. This is apparently also accomplished by throwing it full-force into a parking lot. Glass explosions are not only fun, but exotic.

Time: 9:19pm

After using our hairy-chested internal compass we navigated back to civilization by pure testosterone (and trial and error) eventually leading back to my house where we had a good old fashioned “Roman Candle Fight” This is a very simple and very dangerous game played by using the now illegal “Roman Candle” For those of you that don’t know what that means, its very simple. A Roman Candle is a firework about 1-2 feet in length and about an inch in diameter that fires off miniature fireballs at high velocities. It does this several times and then dies. Simple, dangerous, fun. Its one of the fireworks from back in the days where all the fireworks didn’t have to be dumbed down that was STILL a bad idea. This is of course before all local fireworks became shameful girlish sparklers to avoid the billions of lawsuits put forth by retarded families with burned fingers and missing ears. These were imported from the south, where dangerous ideas and that 32 percent approval rating still holds sway. So we spent a brief but exciting time, firing high-velocity balls of flame at each other, no harm done, but its great way to work up an appetite for another drink!

Time: 10:28pm (I just picked these times out of a hat! Manly men don’t look at the clock!)

One episode of simpsons and 2 beers later,we were ready for the bar. For a final cigar, a Gin and Tonic and a Jack and Coke (for Adam and Sean respectively). To sit back, with our muddy feet up on a table and think about the manliest day ever. And of course, when we would do it all again. Join us?

The Story of a Fish Having sex with a Frisbee.

Two of the greatest friends in the world were sitting in a sunny park on a bench one day. Their names were Elocution and Vernacular and one said to the other.

“Vern, I’ve invented a machine that turns things into other things” He said this softly as if knowing it sounded crazy.

“El, you’re going to have to be more specific” said Vernacular.

Elocution responded by shaking his head slowly as if trying to find the words, and the way to say them, then he gestured at his companion and led him to a nearby copse in the woods. Here stood a monstrous device, roughly shaped like a port-o-let out of the distant future. He searched around on the ground and came across a frisbee, he opened the door of his newly made machine and tossed the frisbee into it.

The machine hummed and hissed and the door slammed shut. A great light emanated from every pore and crevice in it and Vernacular started to wonder about his friends sanity. Then a great bang sounded from the machine and with a long slow whine it powered down. The door opened on its own after a while and there at the bottom of the machine was a flopping fish, a trout if I’m not mistaken.

Elocution grabbed the fish quickly and released it into a nearby stream, where it swam happily away. Why it was particularly happy, we’re not sure, but perhaps the life of a fish is infinitely more interesting than that of a frisbee…

They talked late into the night about this marvelous invention, trying to decide, how it worked. Did it go through time as well as space? Did it turn things into something besides fish? Did it work on people? Well the answer to all three, as you’ll soon see, is a shifty and dodgy yes.

A series of experiments began where tennis shoes became robots and plants became tiny cars. Soon the day came where they must try the ultimate experiment, and they decided to test it on a human. They couldn’t use some random person because the process couldn’t be reversed. They were such good friends that neither could bear to lose the other either. So the time came when they decided as a final ditch effort, that they would both step into the machine at the same time.

There was a great clacking whirring and booming and the tiny screen on the outside of the changing machine suddenly sprang to life and read something like this 124:20:21. El and Vern were quite unaware of this as they were currently inside the machine, letting it work its insidious science on their bodies. After a short while with much noise and fanfare, the machine finally whined to a halt. It obviously had made its last change. The door swung open and there on the ground were two more fish! Trout if I’m not mistaken.

With a much more limited intelligence than a human, yet with a much greater intelligence than a trout, the two friends realized their plight. They had both become fish, much like the Frisbee of the first experiment! This led El to conclude that possibly people were closer to Frisbees than they had previously suspected. This thought was cut short however by searing pain and a lack of oxygen.

They both leaped and twisted and headed toward the stream but an ugly truth reared its head. They weren’t going to make it. They both recognized this at the same moment and they both tried to use their last bit of strength to fling the other to the water, so that one of them may live. Vernacular was slightly faster in his execution and succeeded in flinging Elocution all the way to the waters edge. El watched his friend gasp out his final fishy breath as he slipped into the blissfully breathable water.

El the trout swam along somewhat despondently and grieved for his lost friend, but soon came to like the fishy life. He even soon took a fishy wife, and life continued on as its prone to do. At least for a while. You see back in the woods, near the stream that was El’s new home. Sat the machine, quiet and dark, except for the screen that had sprung to life during the final and fateful formation. It now read 1:19:08, and as you may have guessed it meant that El had only 1 day, 19 hours and 8 minutes before something terrible happened.

The machine was built by El, but on top of the plans of others and so there were fail-safes and odd bits of things that even El never understood. The screen itself was there to reverse everything that had been done so far, in the event that something went terribly wrong, as in the case of El and Vern. Well something had gone wrong, but more wrong than any of us imagined.

El had met a female fish and had little fish children and they all stayed very close together, in the stream near the machine that had been their home these long 123 days so far. When the machine finally ticked its oblivious way towards 000:00:00 it sent out a wave of energy that returned everything to the shape which it had been. But there was a serious problem with this.

You see, the fish that he married was once a Frisbee, the fish that Vernacular had become had died near the stream, the children that El had were in essence, half human, half fish, and half Frisbee, in the most disturbing improper fraction there ever was… and Elocution was just a human.

Suddenly Elocution was sitting in a stream, naked and cold cradling a Frisbee, a group of disfigured (and now quite dead) fish/frisbee/children and next to him lay the horrifically decomposing corpse of his best friend Vernacular. He wept for all their losses for hours on end. But in the end life must continue and usually does, so he gathered his friends remains and all his lost children and took them all away to be given a proper burial. The Frisbee he laid gently on the ground right where he had found it and wished it the best. Then he was gone, to live his life in sadness, but live it just the same.

However, there’s a part that we’re all forgetting that makes this drama a tragedy. The machine didn’t just move molecules. It moved time and space and form and function. The same set of fail-safes also provided a back-door into the past to prevent just such an occurrence. El, without knowing it, had traveled back to the very beginning of this whole adventure, but his grief was too great to realize it until much later. So as he lay sobbing in his home, mourning his friend, his wife and his children…

Elocution and Vernacular came into the woods, to try the marvelous machine and the first thing that Elocution could find to toss into the machine to show his friend it really worked, was a Frisbee on the ground.

It was a rough day at the pentagon that day. The president and his group of advisors were haggard and tired and finally the leading German-sounding scientist of the day “Hans-Grueberman” Slammed his hand down on the desk.

“Gentlemen! Zere’s goht to be a better way!” he shouted germanically.

The President slowly turned to him and rolled his eyes “NO Duh” He sneered, earning himself a time-out.

The Fleet Admiral present at the meeting, was silent until this point. But he made his voice heard.

“We need a way to get pictures of naked women to every person in America, some to canada and almost nothing to communist china!” He shouted.

We all nodded, he was right. We’d been working for weeks on a top secret project involving linking computers together for world-wide benefit. The year was 1973 and the head of the Top Secret Project, code-named “Interweb” Al Gore stepped to the forefront.

“Why don’t we just hook them all together with wires?” He ventured.

A dawning realization passed around the room in a palpable wave. Our collective lightbulbs lit up.

The Admiral was the first to speak, “Of COURSE! WIRES!” and he fed Al Gore a cookie.

Al Gore, a young buck of 86 years old in 1973 was of course right. We tried putting the computers right next to each other and yelling at them, we even tried seducing the information out of one machine and into the other with the most attractive USA Pin-up girls available at that time. We even tried throwing the data from one computer to another. It wasn’t until the advent of running a wire between two machines that we were able to successfully make an Internet.

Upon the advent of the first internet the world waited for the 100 baud connection to slowly transfer a postage-stamp sized photo of a womans breast from one room to the next. When it was done, there were two digital breasts, and the world breathed a sigh of relief. Never again would a young boy sit in his fathers den playing with his gun and reading his old tax forms and have no pornography to watch instead. Never again would obscure fetishists be unable to connect with the world at large because of their inordinate love toward farm animals. And Never again would Asian people suck at video games.

But it wasn’t all “Peaches and Semen” as my Grandmother used to say, after her lobotomy. There was still work to be done. From one room to another was fine, but we needed a way to get breasts to every home in America and some of the public libraries. Unfortunately the public libraries still use the first internet to this day and were never updated when people realized they could just look at naked people and not read. But I digress…

Hans-Christian-Grueberman the twin brother of the german scientist earlier mentioned in this story, spoke up. Quixotically he spoke in a heavy Jamaican accent and I’m not making any of this up.

“Yah mon! Thas jus tha beginnin’! We cahnt rest on our bottoms now But don’ we be needing saft-ware and TCP-IP settin’s” He lit his hash pipe again and waited for a reply.

Dead silence ensued, and finally the President replied, slowly at first and then more firmly.

“Well I think I speak for us all, when I say, that we didn’t understand a single fucking word of THAT… But that we DO need software and protocols for this internet, am I right?”

Strangely enough, he was right. And while I’m guessing with no research that the president at the time was Gerald Ford, we’ll call him “President Spanky” for the duration of the educational story. But this dear readers, is where I played my part. Everyone started yelling and screaming to figure out how to hire engineers and scientists to make software for systems that didn’t exist yet, when I stepped into the center of the room and said quietly.

“I know what I have to do”

Everyone stopped talking all at once and not wanting to miss my chance, I followed up.

“There’s no way anyone is smart enough to do all the stuff we need to do, so there’s only one solution, one way we can make this happen”

They knew I was right, the entire group leaned forward as I uttered my next words.

“We must call upon the power of Satan himself” I said in bold text

A collective gasp created a brief vortex in the middle of the room so that everyones important documents briefly flew into the air and coincidentally spelled the words “Deus Ex Machina” in the air before falling back exactly where they were before in neat little piles. We all knew it was a sign, we would have to pull out all the stops on this one.

President spanky quickly drew an expert pentagram on the ground, and the scientists laid out skulls and candles that they brought along, just in case. The Admiral himself handed me a Satanic bible, and Al Gore gurgled happily to himself in his “rockin’ chair” then we made ready to contact the Dark Lord. There was a lot to do. But before we even started, there was a huge flash of green light, directly in the middle of our pentagram and a deep booming laugh. When the smoke cleared half the room was covered in a thick layer of black dust, several of the members of the cabinet were dead and there was something in the center of the pentagram.

It was strangely untouched, pristine, despite the carnage all around it. It was a little plastic disk about 3.5 inches square and it read “AOL .001″ with a swooping blue logo above it that looked like a pyramid farting on itself. I carefully picked it up and held it in my hand. So small, the whole big internet was here and it was in my hand.

President Spanky was the first to regain focus, he quickly asked me,

“Did you do that?”

I knew I hadn’t done anything at all so I replied

“Yup, that was me”

The president stared at me with a mixture of awe and disbelief on his face and said

“You just invented the Internet”

I nodded sagely, looked him in the eye and said “I know, I wrote this story”

That’s how I invented the Internet.