Sunday, October 28, 2007

Just a little something before I disappear back into the void...

I just wanted everyone to know that Rob Crow, the lead singer, guitarist, fat guy, and principle creator of Pinback, a real kickass Math-lite melodic indie band from San Di-fucking-ego, is also the lead vocalist and guitarist of a band called Goblin Cock. For realsies.

I love you wikipedia.

Also, new Pinback album came out a month ago, but they have a (shitty) video up for one of their singles. Pretty damn good if you're into that kind of thing, though not their best song. Still a rather kickass album.

Also: If anyone on the planet is still ignorant of it, the new Radiohead album In Rainbows is available off the internet. For free. Just type in 0.00 when it asks you what you want to pay. Someone I know typed in "free", and the website gave him the finger. That's what you get for being a douchebag. Of course, being the audiophile I am, I pre-ordered the uber deluxe disc set with the album on a vinyl and an enhanced CD with eight (count 'em, eight) new songs you can't get off the download. Amazing.

Listening to both these bands in tandem is making me cream buckets of liquid gooey joy. Oh music, how I love thee.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Life is getting in the way of un-life.

I've had little alone time in the recent months, and thus little time to incessantly type on this profane machine you know as the interwebs. However, a mighty post is coming. It will blow throughout the land. Until then, however, I am too busy talking to real live humans to chronicle my own esoteric opinions. So much to do and so little time.

Shit, I haven't even masturbated in a month. Need to get on that.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Youthful Indiscretions: I Used To Prank Call Suicide Hotlines

I have probably killed myself 13 times, and it never ceased to be liberating, my tawdry routine reduced to a head wound victim bleeding out life's little bullshit. And yes, I do realize that I am King Asshole of the Universe right now, reigning over the lands of Douchbagia, but I'd rather reign in Unhygienic Feminine Products than serve in whatever the fuck is the opposite of that. Football? Golf? I'm not here to get into semantics.

If there was ever a question that I would go to hell, this soundly resolves it. I am going to be burning for eternity. But it was such a good ride.

If idle hands are the work of the devil, I should have given my hands something normal to do, like masturbate. While most kids kill time wanking it to women, I was constructing malicious social deviances. One of these was to prank call suicide hotlines.

Strangled by depression one fateful eve, I picked up the phone. I was lonely. I wanted someone to talk to. And what luck to find a business card for a toll free suicide hotline.

I grabbed this thread of hope dangling on the end of a telephone wire, and yanked hard.



Diali (*click*) "Suicide Prevention Center..."
Oh shit, I don't know what to say.
" name is Jason ********, how can I help?"
What the fuck should I say?
I'm not suicidal I'm just lonely.
Is it a crime to call without a real crisis?
"Hello, I'm here for you?"
Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh
"Oh yeah. Ummm. Hi..." think quick think quick think "...I just took a bottle of..." what kills you what kills you "...sleeping pills. Give me a reason to live or I take another."
His voice is as steady as a dial-up connection, "Suicide is never an answer. What kind of pills were they?"
"...Green ones?"
"You need to contact your local hospital immediately. I'll be here for you. Where do you live, I can call an ambulance right now."
"Don't you have caller ID?"
Some humor seeped into his words, "Nah. It sucks. We got these shitty phones from like, the 80s. All these non profits can't afford fancy stuff like that. I can always #69 you, but I don't think we can even call out on these phones." Holy hell. I felt some pride for this organization. Though it may be entirely accidental, funding fopahs have rendered it completely anonymous.
"Thanks for that. No longer want to kill myself. Keep up the good work. Kudos to you sir, kudos!"
"Wait, don't y-" *click*

Jesus! I have stumbled upon something! This kind of knowledge in the wrong hands could topple the entire suicide help system. Shit! I am the wrong hands! What havoc can be wreaked upon these poor sods dishing out their time to help the hopeless.

I need to learn to work a payphone.



Diali (*click*) "Suicide Prevention Center..."

"WHA-" *click*

I bolted out of the booth and waited for the cops, listening for the ring of a terrified woman sweating in a call center somewhere. The phone hung patiently. A taco and two joints later, it still rested, completely mute. No wailing of sirens and no flashing of badges. What a racket I have stumbled on.

Now aware of my complete impunity to retribution, that twisted chamber of imagination began chugging out smoking cocktails of anarchy. This...this was free form. This was fucking avant garde theatre at its finest.

With the stage set, and the actors recruited from my personal pool of social pariahs, the show could go on. I put on elaborate plays, great dramas of our time to the lucky volunteer, an audience of one. Tales of passion and romance, blood and betrayal were recited into the receiver, parts played to perfection. Popguns, firecrackers, washing boards, watermelons, and hacksaws were all privy to our performances, giving us the nuances of sound, shut doors and broken hearts. Our audience was apart of the show, urging Julia to give up on Matthew, to put down that blade, to let go of anger despair and regret.

And in this we too were healed, dying each night only to awake to a star beautifully apathetic to our rocky satellite.

Our grand experiment had to die. Life was catching up too quickly to us, phonebills infallible evidence of our disregard. I had to kill it.

Where is that phonebooth?



Why do they never pick up until the third ring?

Diali (*click*) "Suicide Prevention Center, my name is Sarah..."
"Hi Sarah. Listen. I've got a twelve gauge under my chin. You have sixty seconds to give me a reason to live or my brains become one with the wall."
She sounds a little panicked. "Killing yourself isn't going to solve anything. Death is a permanent solution to a temporary problem..."
"I'm not solving a problem. I said give me a reason to live, not a reason to not die. Forty six seconds left."
"Think of your friends and family, and how this will effect them..."
"I'm an orphan and all my friends were killed in a chemical fire. Thirty five seconds left."
"What about all the experiences you will miss: you won't travel the world, you won't have sex..."
"I'm confined to a wheelchair and I was castrated when I was four. Twenty three seconds."
"Suicide is a sin..."
"I don't believe in God."
"Jesus man, what do you want from me!"
"A reason to live."
"Well shit, I don't know what the fuck to say to that. Why don't we all just kill ourselves then!?"
"Because nothing matters."
"There, I did your job for you. Nothing matters. We are free to create ourselves and overcome our world. Nothing matters, so everything matters." My words are cumbersome, indecipherable, but somewhere in there is an inkling of knowledge. "I'm dead. Times up. But yours isn't. What are you going to do with your life?"
"Ho-" *click*

I used to prank call Suicide Hotlines. They gave me hope. And reason. I may have abused the system, but they accomplished their purpose. I still have this day, willing and malleable to my ends. Fuck yeah.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

America! Fuck Yeah!

Yesterday was September 11th, the anniversary of the worst terrorist attack in American history. I always remember the day the same way, quietly rocking back in forth in the fetal position with an AR-15 clutched to my chest. Then the Feelings come, and they always come in two waves. First, the wave of euphoria and appreciation for my country. Then, the tides of hate and malice drown me in disgust, the bubbling froth of anguish filling my lungs. Every breath is a mouthful of anathema, of utter condemnation of all things human.

But today is the appreciation day! My hate will come tomorrow.
Here is the stuff that keeps my crank turning:

Free Speech (Fuck Yeah)!

Gun Rights (Fuck Yeah)!

Xbox (Fuck Yeah)!

Nice Tits (Fuck Yeah)!

Mario (Fuck Yeah)!

Plaid Jackets (Fuck Yeah)!

Kilts (Fuck Yeah)!

Cthulhu (Fuck Yeah)!

Bioshock (Fuck Yeah)!

Bajingos (Fuck Yeah)!

Subversive Books (Fuck Yeah)!

the Internet (Fuck Yeah)!

Blue Skies (Fuck Yeah)!

Nice Beaches (Fuck Yeah)!

Carnitas (Fuck Yeah)!

Shoegaze (Fuck Yeah)!

Punk Rock (Fuck Yeah)!

the Singularity (Fuck Yeah)!

Aerogel (Fuck Yeah)!

Nanotech (Fuck Yeah)!

1337 h4x (Fuck Yeah)!

Zach Braff (Fuck Yeah)?

Ed Norton (FUCK YEAH)!

a Datsun 280zx (FUUUCK YEEAAAH)!

Ron Paul (Fuck Yeah)!

Barack Obama (Fuck Yeah)!

Ethinic Diversity (Fuck Yeah)!

Burritos (Fuck Yeah)!

Comic Books (Fuck Yeah)!

Fender Mustangs (Fuck Yeah)!

Single Coils (Fuck Yeah)!

Humbuckers (Fuck Yeah)!

Smart Girls (Fuck Yeah)!

Ethnically Diverse Tits (FUCK YEAH)!

Jon Stewart (Fuck Yeah)!

Stephen Colbert (Fuck Yeah)!

Genetic Engineering (Fuck Yeah)!

Super Colliders (Fuck Yeah)!

Swords (Fuck Yeah)!

.357 Magnum (Fuck Yeah)!

Anarchy (Fuck Yeah)!

Dischordianism (Fuck Yeah)!

Ralph Nader (Fuck Maybe)!

and the hope that they will one day make a sequel to Grandia that is better than the original.

May deities bless you America. Now I'm gonna go ride around town in my Datsun 280zx firing my 9mm wildly into the air while eating mexican food off my Dungeons and Dragons character sheets.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

God and Politics: Like Peanut Butter and Chocolate, Except Horrible

The United States of America was created for two reasons: King George III was a dick, and we didn't like paying taxes on tea. But once that was over, our Founding Fathers realized that we could get something good out of this country. Then we got our constitution on, a document I think we can all agree is pretty swell. We did not found this country on religious freedom as some would lead you to believe. The colonies founded by the pilgrims were established because English protestantism was seen as too loose by those particular uptight assholes, but most of the original colonies were founded as profit ventures for companies. Of course the Founding Fathers, or Kickass Old Guys as I like to call them, realized that England had meddled in the past with religious affairs, so they tried to ensure that politics was kept out of religion. Now in the 21st century, we are no longer concerned with politics meddling with God, we are concerned with God infiltrating politics.

Indeed, politics and religion have become like two parasites, feasting on the shit of the other. The Republican party was first to exploit the fundamentalist sects of America for political gain, resulting in a party now more concerned with stem cells and what gays do in the privacy of their own home than, you know, issues that actually matter. Yes, I'm sure in a world stricken with poverty and infested with violence, the first thing we should do is stop legitimate scientific endeavors and dudes that like it in the ass. Jesus would want it that way.

Now we have a president that sincerely believes in the Rapture. This guy believes that when the Jews start a trailer park in Palestine, America and Iran are going to have a showdown at Armageddon, resulting in carnage enough to fill a valley with blood. Then Jesus shows up saying, "whoa whoa guys, hold on. I'm back. Chill out."

Seriously. I am not making this shit up.

With people so devoutly entrenched in the gospel of crazyland, it's hard to see how this won't effect foreign and domestic policy. Hell, it already has affected policy. We've got people advocating the teaching of creationism in schools. We're balls deep in bullshit in the middle-east. We have our own propaganda network. Look at Fox News. Fox news is Al Jazeera for white people. America has a 24-hour news station dedicated to pushing a far right wing christian agenda. What the fuck. If George Washington's corpse were reanimated and armed with all the powers of the 2nd Amendment, he would put a bullet hole in the ass of American Politics so big the fucking Canadians would feel it.

I am a terrible person for laughing at this.

Church and State sleeping together does nothing but riddle American culture with the STDs of extremism. Big fat, bloated boils of fundamentalist religion are oozing off the twisted member of freedom. And within those leaking pustules resides the goo of intolerance. We already hate Muslims, and we only like the Jews for their involvement in the coming apocalypse and their aptitude in accounting. America is being corrupted by religion and those that would exploit it. America is becoming Iran for chrissake.

In the muslim world, politics and religion are the exact same. Identical. The only secularists that rule in the middle-east are dictators. When given democracy, the people vote for religious radicals. And their batshit fuck loco leaders believe in their own bullshit rapture. They believe that once Israel is a smoking crater, Iran and America fight at some other prophetic location, and the conflict is ceased by the second coming of imam, or the easter bunny, or whatever fluffy anthropomorphic deity they pray to. Then everybody comes back to life and rocks out with their cocks out for eternity in heaven. In order to achieve this aim, one must embrace our glorious leaders, then strap a bomb to our chest and blow up some fried chicken joint in the middle of bum-fuck alabama. Or maybe snag some C4 and take out your local fish n' chips stop. Either way, the taint of delicious, grease filled capitalist food must be destroyed to usher in the new age.

This is what happens when the lies of politics mix with the deceit of religion. Our favorite eateries get torn up by some guy that has never experienced the pleasure that is pork.

May we as a species escape the vice like grip of fundamentalism, lest our tastiest treats be sacrificed to the gods of absurdity.

Now I'm hungry. For Freedom.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Religion as Rebellion: God is the new Hot Topic

What is the difference between these two pictures? One is a place where deluded, empty, gullible sociopaths go to get answers, and one is a church.

On Christiane Amanpour's God's Warriors, one thing struck me as more terrifying than a twelve tongued famine planet with an insatiable appetite for sentient life. A majority of the absolute batshit fucking loco extremists that are making this world a little bit dimmer are not crazy old coots held up in some shed splintered by time and an dearth of carpentry skills. No.

They are the youth.

Although 'statistics' is another word for 'lies', there are some very unnerving surveys out there that say some very unnerving things. Things like: Of American Muslims over the age of 50, 9% believe that a suicide bombing could ever be justified. Of American Muslims younger than 30, 28% believe that a suicide bombing could ever be justified. Are you unnerved yet? I am. I think I may have to be re-nerved if I am ever to fear again.

Jews have a more well rounded fundamentalist group (why are the Jews always the well rounded ones?) with crazies of all ages believing that if they build shitty houses in Palestine, the Messiah will come down and take them away to a nice evening at the fair. But they don't have an active youth recruiting program.

Unlike Christianity.

Of course, in America, we are still immersed in dodgy old codgers pouring hate into TVs and praying money comes out. But there is some serious stuff going down with the kids.

The 'so ironic a name it's not even a funny' Liberty University is pumping out kids with Law degrees in lies. How is that different from a normal law degree, you ask? Well, these kids are hand picked by the conservative right to push a theocratic agenda. Normal lawyers are just douchebags in it for the money. Still not sure which is worse though. They also form things like Liberty Council, which is basically the ACLU except instead of protecting your right to look at porn and pictures of little boys, they protect your right to obey strict bullshit interpretations of the bible regardless of your own religious orientation. They also seem to really, really hate cunnilingus and sodomy.

But the really scary shit springs from organizations like Battle Cry. Oh fucking wow. I really can't use words to describe it. Just YouTube it or something, and come back here once you've changed your underwear.

Now what is the common theme between American, emphasis on American, Muslims believing that blowing yourself up is A-ok and thousands, millions or Christians head banging to a rock anthem of theocratic supremacy? Not surprisingly, it is the same thing that sells Marilyn Manson albums and keeps assholes like this in business.

Rebellion is the answer. In the interviews on CNN, and in the basic ideals of Battle Cry and Fundamentalist Islam, the concept of pushing back, of defining yourself, is almost unanimous. And it is always against the perceived 'threat' of mainstream society, and capitalism. Although their personal beliefs are different, they are 'fighting' a common enemy. All that Hot Topic nonsense is a rebellion against cheerleaders, Abercrombie & Fitch, Pop music, and guys that beat the shit out of them in gym class. The antagonists are always: sexualization, alienation, and commercialization. Muslim girls put on uncomfortable and oppressive clothes and embrace an almost catatonic lifestyle in resistance to the open display of hot tits so prevalent in mass media. Christian girls wear longer skirts to avoid 'distracting' men, and push for almost insane measures against not only abortion, which has a legitimate moral ground when the pile of goo becomes a living breathing fetus by the second or third term, but contraception. They also apparently like it in the ass. Muslims believe that they are under attack by a predominantly christian America, and embrace fundamentalist beliefs to defy them. Christian America believes that they are becoming an endangered species, and embrace their inner zealot to defy the encroaching horde of facts bearing down upon them. Both groups have an intense hatred of materialism and commercialism, and believe the world would be better off without our love of really kitschy shit, as well as our cars, running water, Xboxes, and Internets.
And just like Hot Topic, they are all massive fucking hypocrites that ascribe to a philosophy marketed and sold to them by greedy self serving sons a' bitches. As opposed to actually fighting the ills of society, they buy the pre-packaged bullshit that just serve to bolster a rather bloated ego's personal economy. This random quote on wikipedia says it all too well.
"They enter oblivious, hands outstretched, fat cheeks and watery eyes staring skyward to the Lord.
They are to leave warriors. Convinced by arguments crafted from statistics and fear, these children of God are told they are to be the salvation of a generation in decline, one beset by the perils of pop culture, advertising and corporate greed.
They absorb those lessons, squealing in delight whenever a speaker mentions the righteousness of Jesus.
Then they head to McDonald's."

Jesus doesn't eat Big Macs. Mohammed never strapped a bomb on his chest to prove a point.
Real rebels never shop at a store to buy an identity. They make their own.

Next Time On: This is what super adventure club members actually believe.

Jesus is coming back to beat the shit out of liberals: How Politics Exploits Porphecy for Personal Gain.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Getting Political: Fundamentalists Make Me Glad I Don't Believe in All This God Bullshit

If you didn't catch the three part CNN special God's Warriors by Christiane Amanpour, you probably missed out on the most intelligent, enlightening, and inadvertently terrifying piece of journalism that has come out of the mainstream media in the last eight years. An investigation into the fundamentalist sects of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, the report detailed extremist groups and their unique takes on the religious crusade.

Whenever I learn something new, I feel like I have to celebrate my fresh wisdom with discourse. In honor of this, I will be posting a series of blag entries to detail my feelings about religion, both moderate and radical, in its relation to a variety of topics. This is hardly a grand undertaking, since I can talk out my ass with the pros, but I hope it will prove at least marginally interesting to all three of my readers. How did you even find this site? It's not like I'm making it easy for you.

As my first post on the topic, I feel like you should know where I'm coming from. I'm an Atheist, but certainly don't fancy these new fangled neo-atheists, or as I like to call them, Evangelical Atheists, these mother fuckers that can't stomach the idea that someone may disagree with them. Richard Dawkins can go fuck himself. Whats up with all this Meme shit anyway? And this whole "Coming Out" campaign? You mean to tell me that instead of holding my own convictions private, I should publicly proclaim my beliefs and berate those that don't agree with me? I didn't realize that being an Atheist was synonymous with being a dick. Also, if I see you wearing these shirts around town, I swear to God I will be disappointed in you.

Protip: The A stands for "Asshole"

On to my origins. My own personal experiences with religion are neither heartbreaking, nor heartwarming, nor all that exciting. When I was young my parents brought me to church for a few boring hours, I would drink my Juice brand Juice Box, and scamper between the pews to get to the bathroom in time. Not all that special. When I got home, I would tear off my stuffy clothes and dive right into Sonic the Hedgehog accompanied by delicious chicken teriyaki. I remember one day, we just stopped going to church (the same time as my parents divorce) and I was pleased as the dickens to have Sunday mornings empty and free for my own dalliances. Riding bikes around the block, surfing at the beach, playing Mechwarrior 2 until Kerensky came home. Those were good times. Although I still held a belief in God, I was not at all active in his pursuit. I knew the ten commandments in the same way I know all 150 Pokemon, less as dogma and more as trivia. As I grew older, the basic idea of a God seemed natural. It was there since I was born, and I assumed it always has been. Although me and my family were officially Presbyterian, nobody really went to church and I only read the bible between BattleTech and whatever bullshit E-Z Reader crap my parents were trying to force me into. No, I don't give a shit about Spot, nor do I give a shit about Timmy winning the fucking baseball game. I would much rather be reading over the trials of Frodo and the Fellowship as they journeyed to destroy the one ring. The precocious reader that I was, my family eventually capitulated to the fact that I really don't need to be stifled by the basics. While most kids were watching Thomas the Tank Engine and Barney the Homosexual Dinosaur, I was engaged by Jedi, the starship Enterprise, and Babylon 5.

Even so, my belief in a God never waned, in fact it was strengthened by Tolkien's none so subtle allegory. Then my mother decided it was time to go back to church. Now I could actually digest the sermon, and was struck with a nausea familiar to practitioners of seppuku. None of what this guy was saying felt right. And I don't mean to imply that through my unequivocal powers of deductive reasoning that I, as an 8 year old, managed to sort through this god bullshit. Rather, I was just unnerved by what he was saying. I need Jesus to feel loved? I need a personal connection with God to save my self from the evil's of this world? What the hell is up with all this eternal damnation stuff? Wait, everyone I know will be forever forsaken by God simply because they do not believe in this crock of shit you're spouting? I call bullshit. Being subjected to the preacher corrupted my rather benign view of God. God had changed from a good natured omnipotence with voyeuristic tendencies to a vindictive prick. But I still believed. I guess I just had it wrong. This guy knows all about this God stuff, it's like his job or something.

I stopped going to church when I learned to say "no". I naively misunderstood the implications of such an all-knowing asshole, thinking of him as just a big-ole-doody head. Then I became a teenager.

It all seemed to click for me in 2002. Some political speech was on Fox, with some guy yammering on about how God is on our side so on and so forth. But something caught my ear. He was saying that God wanted us to kill terrorists. I'm no theologian, but I distinctly remember there being something about not killing in the bible. I think it was on a big fucking stone tablet given to Moses by a burning bush. And I don't think it said, "don't kill unless..." I think it said don't kill. I think it said: Thou shalt not kill. Actually, it said: You shall not murder. But whatever, the concept seems simple, don't fucking kill. Easy enough. Yet this man makes a statement that hey, we should fucking kill.

I am noticing a contradiction.

Epiphany. Humans are fallible. God does not own a typewriter. Therefore, the Bible was written by Humans interpreting the messages of self-proclaimed prophets, who were also Human. So what we have here is not some divine doctrine from OUTER SPAAAAACE!!!! It is the voice of men that thought they could make the world better by saying hey, don't be a douche. Others said: Why? They said: ...isn't it obvious? Others said: No. They said: invisible man will kick the shit out of you if you don't.

And the world was saved.

Or was it?


Tune in next time for another edition of: Wow what the hell is wrong with fundamentalists?

Next Episode: Religion as Rebellion, The Recruitment of the Young

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Over the Brink Pt. 3 "We are Fucked"

Yeah, I finally finished it. Longest 10 pages I've ever written. Writers block is a bitch. I realized that a straight up Lovecraft interpretation isn't my style, and has been done better by other people. So I made my own universe and put my own spin on things.

Does it blow? Is it great? I'd like your opinion. Anonymous posting is on (and always will be) so feel free to call me a genius. Or that I should go suck a dick. Either way, I'm just glad to be fucking done.

Please at least read the sections in italics. I believe they are of the highest quality, written from the perspective of the protagonist.

The rest, you can take it or leave it.

I hope you like text:

November 25th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
The bound volume of vulgarity that Mr. Eire has been so adamant about appears to be little more than an appeasement to the violent mind. Though the later half of the book is unreadable, hidden behind inscrutable text and symbols written in no tongue of the Anglo-Saxon, Mr. Eire's handwriting is quite legible, and I can only assume that his translations are accurate. Though why he would sully his mind with such barbarities is a mystery to me, indulgences in the occult are definitely an attributing factor in his mind's erosion. The first translated section seems to instruct on the basic tenants of this black bible. It is as follows:

Darkness is not the presence of 'dark', but an absence of light. The same is true with life, for death is merely the absence of life. And as a candle will illuminate a sunless day, so too can life shine upon the dead. For a man can light the wick of a candle, and in doing so can he ignite the embers of existence. But a candle cannot be lit without a match, a tool to his enlightenment. The match of life is that of Him. Deep within the wells of eternity He lies, waiting with the dead, breathing the ethers of their ruin. And in Him life is stored, flowing anew into this world upon His summoning. However, even the most volatile of alchemy requires a spark, a signal, a star in the night of His world, to guide Him on His way. And He will bequeath the champion with His own life, imbuing the Morning Star with all His powers, and the fountain of life within. And as the stars, the Conduit will roam our Space with absolute impunity, free of all constraints concocted in the minds of mortal men. She will be bound by no steel shackles, equal even with the heavens, blessed with irrevocable immortality, forged by His will. And now is the time when Life will fill the lungs of every serf, echoing the sounds of His every utterance, bound in gratitude to Her generosity. For She is immovable to all but Him. Rejoice! All suffering will end and She will be its undoing!

On these pages, the symbol I found previously carved into the watch is inscribed, an orb with rays leading out of it, like a doodle of the sun drawn by a child. It also seems apparent that Ashley believes himself to be this 'Conduit', this 'Morning Star', although the text clearly describes 'the champion' as being female. It is hardly a case of gender confusion, but Ashley's undoubtedly distorted psyche can easily ignore any inconsistencies through that tainted filter of a mind. For the mental hygiene of the staff and myself, and having found no strong leads in its contents, I have ordered the book to be thrown into the incinerator. It is for the best. It has already taken one mind, and that is enough for me.

November 26th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I am perplexed at where he found the paint to do so, but there was an elaborate design sloshed on the walls of Mr. Eire's room, a series of geometries I am familiar with from the pages of that tainted tome. Mr. Eire was found by the guards rubbing the lines out with his forehead. He was screaming deliriously, "Tear it down! Wash it off! Cleanse this place! I will not be taken in the night!" That mans troubles are only beginning. Who knows how long his body will last under such psychiatric turmoil. He has become almost a skeleton of his former self, and his refusal to sleep is only making it worse. We have decided to apply drugs, for his benefit. Tomorrow, myself and a medical team will walk through that doorway, and administer enough tranquilizers to keep him down for at least a few days. Perhaps then he will be eased of his mind, for at least a short while.

The room is cold. So cold. And only getting colder. Sparks trickling off the synapses are the only fire still stoking the dying furnace of the heart. The rare chills of its beats pump ice, clogging veins with slush and slurry, blood so thick it strangles the bones. The air is so fine that it slips between teeth, starving a chest tight. Whatever feelings are left in the extremities, I can't feel them. Whatever noises my ears are hearing, I can't hear them. Whatever life I was supposed to be leading…

And right when you get to that point of epiphany, when it's all okay because you just don't care anymore, something isn't going to let you. It's going to be a few white coats lead by an elderly gentleman carrying the type of needle that makes a child cringe. That fine pointed steel proboscis invades your body, pumping all its squamous juices until you just want to scratch your skin off, to kill the itch. But you can't lift a finger. Liquid hands are holding you down, and you're not getting up. You can try. I tried. I think I said something, something to the effect of don't do this you don't know what you are doing blargh. And then your skin unravels, and your body is bound by a more ethereal epidermis. Your eyes aren't looking at anything in particular, but they are seeing everything. And that rotten old face of a man expands until it’s a whole sky of wrinkles and folds and moles and every little thing. And you are going to look right at it until it becomes a whole spectacle of planets and comets and asteroids, all hurdling at incomprehensible speeds through that Sargasso Sea of infinity. And when you finally look to the horizon, you will see exactly what you expected. It is just as black, and empty, and devoid of hope as you ever imagined. But in the middle of it all, waiting just for you, will be an island of light; A little star still gleaming in a night that devours your vision. This star is going to get bigger. It is going to burn brighter.

And you are going to become afraid.

November 28th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
All is quiet since the previous pacification of Mr. Ashley Eire. Though I have had a sleepless night filled with terrors I'd rather not dwell on, my mind is eased by at least this brief respite from days of chaos. I am filled with a hope for tomorrow, and what revelations it may bring. I meet the day willingly. May the sun shine on us all.

November 29th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I have alerted security to potential delinquent personnel. A few of the nurses did not checkout of their night shift, and their families have not seen them at home. The last thing we need is a shortage of staff.

December 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Now some of the interned have gone missing, completely gone from their rooms. My mind is wracked by the thought of these deviants roaming free amongst the masses. Security has been dispatched to find them, though there has been no further progress on their capture.

December 12th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We are getting in a new batch of personnel today, rotating in for the holidays. I will remain as the overseer of this institution. Considering the drama we find ourselves in now, what with the disappearances and Mr. Eire staring comatose into space, it would be a lapse of judgment to leave this place unsupervised.

December 17th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Mr. Eire has awoken from his trance, and has been taken off the IV. He seems far more stable than his previous condition. But when I approached him in person, he broke out in a fit of laughter. When queried on this behavior, he simply responded, "Nothing. It's funny. You'll see." Although I do not know if his mind has healed in any way, he is much more subdued. Now the security staff may have an easier time with him.

December 18th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Bizarre. Upon the day of Ashley's awakening, strange symbols have appeared on the walls and in the hallways of the various wards, dripping wet, red as blood. This cannot be his doing, for he was locked away, watched by the medical team for signs of complications with the drugs. I can only assume some troublemakers are loose in the building, or perhaps a mischievous return of the escapees. Though I have served with pride this great institution, its monolithic size is proving problematic. I have requested the police assist in its security.

December 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
What tragedy does befall us. Several members of the assisting police force have been found dead in the incinerator room, dismembered and flayed in a most grotesque way. The safety of myself and the staff has been compromised, and a large police battalion is now stationed here for out protection. They will also be investigating the murder of the officers. It is good to have a dogged and reliable regiment of law enforcement in a facility apparently overrun by incompetence. In that same room, the book I had explicitly ordered to destroy, a book that is nothing but a contaminant to the human spirit, was found in perfect bound condition. If we were not in such a state of panic, a harsh reprimand would be in store for whoever displayed such blatant disregard for my authority. But that is a matter for a more trivial time. I await the synopsis of the police on our current predicament. On a gentler note, in my discussion with Ashley, he informed me that tomorrow is his birthday. 28 years, how nice it would be to be so young again, and how tragic it is that youth suffers his fate.

Murals of the macabre are painted on the walls, awash in the blood of the innocent and apathetic. Intestines are strung up like tinsel, in celebration of this holiday's holocaust. Bodies ornament the floor and ceiling, bound there by their own flesh, dripping life's lubricant. Eyes and mouths are wide open screaming their demise. Heads are propped up like road signs, denoting the dark directions of the hallways and corridors. Imps crawl about in cop's uniforms, spraying hot death from their hijacked human tools of destruction. And I'm wading knee deep through dead stares and red coats, dyed with the color of their untimely destruction.

I can't help but be a little proud, like a parent. My offspring may be spawned from a womb of pure terror, but dreary me, they grow up so fast.
She says congratulations on becoming a mom.
"Oh yeah, I'm so glad to have a subconscious that is essentially hell's vagina."
She chuckles, and tells me that she always did like my sense of humor. A comic mind tends to be the only type that can withstand staring directly into the unblinking eye of infinity. That kind of mentality can step back from the daunting first person perspective, sparing me the unfathomable torment of direct contact.
"It feels like my head is on fire."
She says that's normal. I should be thankful my brain didn't implode.
"The book wasn't destroyed."
She says she knows. She knew it could only be undone for a brief time. She just wanted to give me the time I needed to prepare. And I used that time to run away to an insane asylum.
"It seemed like a good idea."
She tells me I'll never escape it. It's too late for me. My skull will one day lie within the throne of the fallen, with hers, and hundreds of others who have committed the folly of curiosity. A shrine to hubris. I'm doomed. There is no escaping it. But the trap has been set. If I play my part just right, there will only be one more generation of Conduits. The sky will empty, and the twinkling hopes of the damned will be extinguished. His stars will no longer burn. And we will all be free.
I stop somewhere between the avenue of no return and the road to annihilation.
"I'll do it. Might as well make lemonade out of an army of hope eating monsters. What do I do first?"
Use the sword to close the breach.
"The sword is hundreds of miles away sealed in a glass container. How the hell am I supposed to get it?"
You just brought demons from another dimension across time and space to a mental institution in New York; I think you can manage a few hundred measly corporeal miles.
"Tell me the incantation."
Yank an incisor out of someone's head, and carve this in a reverse spiral around your navel.
"This is going to hurt isn't it?"
Like you wouldn't believe…

December 23rd, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We have been held up in the south east section for the last few days. We are running out of ammo, and people. There is no clear front to fight these things. They appear from walls and shadows, pouncing on the unsuspected, taking their spark of life for their own. Some have even morphed into these creatures, their humanity stolen by some unseen hand. Oh God what monsters they are. All manner of beast, depictions of which I have seen drawn between the texts of that damned book. But such illustrations do not do justice the sheer horrors these things are. Tendrils and eyes grasping and searching, drilling into men's hearts and devouring their insides. Wings and claws, arms so numerous they become little more than a squirming mass. They be neither mammalian nor reptilian, a devious amalgamation of features to greater expedite our destruction. Some seem human, with equal proportions of arms and legs, but have bat like heads, and glowing orbs as eyes that seek out the darkness. They turn our weapons against us, sawing through a man, firing off guns into our midst, making every use of what they have to end our existence. We must constantly be on the move, as the contortions of the building have taken on a life of their own, conspiring against us. The corner we reside in is barricaded, and we must fight off any taint that intrudes on our territory. They can be destroyed. Some are susceptible to our lead volleys, while others need specific circumstances to be dispatched. One such monster withstood our barrage of bullets, but disintegrated upon being drenched with water. Another exploded when fire was brought to bear. They are a menagerie or tormentors that have us beset on all sides. We sent out a call for help prior to their complete outbreak, and pray that the cavalry will come equipped with the most advanced weapons of war. But now time is against us. There! I can hear them, railing against the walls, coming in on us! The barrier will only hold so long. Tentacles are peeking through, their puckered feelers testing our defenses. The guards are adept with their rifles, and they stand at the ready, but no human cunning can defeat monsters with otherworldly logic. Oh God! Here they come! A flood of fiends to wash away our lives! God help me! God help-

The wet thickness dripping off the end of the ultimate implement of annihilation was almost as heavy as the blade itself. The eldritch runes inscribed on the neck hummed merrily, sucking the edge dry. The hilt shook with the giddiness of a schoolgirl. I am beginning to question the wisdom of wielding a weapon that is both sentient and insatiable.
She says I shouldn't worry. Human meat isn't its forte. Just keep cutting glyphs into the bullets. I'll need every one.
"These creepy crawlies aren't as resilient as those abominations in the catacombs. Just shank 'em or shoot 'em. They wither and die like weeds."
She says the summoned are only as potent as the summoner. Those were the devils of her mind, and these are the children of mine.
"So my seed are weak sauce. Thanks for the boost in confidence."
She says she never managed to bring a fully formed Z'thly into our plane of being. That is an accomplishment. Take that as a sign of strength, to allow such a thing into life.
"Or a sign of weakness that I couldn't hold it back."
However you want it. But its destruction will seal the tear. You cannot leave unless you desire an open doorway to nothingness siphoning the life of this world.
"Fuck that. I just want something other than eternal damnation."
Then drop your socks and grab your gun. You remember the plan?
"Empty the revolver into its six mouths, each bullet a different letter in the spell of sedition. Its tendrils will seek to crush me, but the hexes on my body will sear its skin, as wards are apt to do. I then dive into its writhing mass, plunging the blade of apogee into its eye. All the while, I have to fend off the fiends and mind bending freaks of my own creation, for the succulent taste of my soul is like gravy to them. I think I got it."
Also, the Z'thly has merged with the building, an extension of its own body. As the cyclopean thing crumbles, so does the structure. Both will be absorbed by the brink…
"So get the hell out quick or spend an eternity with an omnipotent incarnation of lust, my body becoming a perverse play thing for it to toy with. Quasi-dimensional rape is not how I see this night ending. I'll learn to run."
You can't run from something that transcends movement. You'll have to trust me to lead you out.
"So follow the tunnel? Follow the light?"
I'll be the light in your darkness.
"Hey, they didn't name you Providence for nothing."
They named me Providence because white people are assholes.
"No argument from me."
"Yes Providence."
I love you.
"I sure hope so…"

They were gathered around the black cathedral, eyes fixed on the house of the cursed, mesmerized by its unnatural beauty. Spires and pillars and abbeys and arcades stood in testament to its foundation, a black core ravenous and alive. They watched the monolith as sheep watch the slaughterhouse, an unknown avenue whose doors lead to destruction. And they all winced as a blinding spear punctured its buttresses, piercing its center, trailing off into space. A vortex opened the sky, pulling back the peel of reality, a hole draining the minds of the onlookers. The gibbering mass was a puddle of supercilious bipeds, arrogance and importance replaced by emptiness and insanity, wailing incessantly. Brick and mortar fell into the air, dropping off the face of the earth, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the soil. There stood silent an entity who had looked directly into the face of oblivion and lived. He looks himself over, and over the people and what they have been reduced to. They are lucky. They no longer have the cognitive capability to understand their suffering. He will know it, every inch of it, every curve of it. But it will not last. For he will find an heir to his folly, and there will be redemption, for even the tallest buildings are founded on a single stone, and the fiercest fires are lit by a single spark. And if that stone were to crumble, or that spark is snuffed out…

…He will find another. Yes, He will find another.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

I'm back from being gone.

Maybe I should have left a note on the fridge. Life is more important than you internet, get used to it. Particularly when those things in life have tits. Girl tits. And a leaked copy of Bioshock. That's a one two punch. Expect words tomorrow. Lots of words.

There's no earthly way of knowing / Which direction we are going / There's no knowing where we're rowing / Or which way the river's flowing / Is it raining? / Is it snowing? / Is a hurricane a-blowing? / Not a speck of light is showing / So the danger must be growing / Are the fires of hell a-glowing? / Is the grisly reaper mowing? / Yes, the danger must be growing / 'Cause the rowers keep on rowing / And they're certainly not showing / Any signs that they are slowing.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Shit Time Doesn't Care About

Most people reflect on treasured moments as a way to polish their childhood, to freshen an experience that has long since dulled. People want to remember those good times, because good times are so few and far between. This is not what I'm doing. If anything, I'm polishing a toilet seat, just so I can shit on it all over again.

When I feel uninspired, I partake of the creations of others, to feed and fire my ambition. But sometimes, a stray google search will lead me to one of these filthy memories. This is what I am doing today.

Joss "I wrote Firefly do you remember Firefly?" Whedon has not always been the beloved darling of the nerd world. Yes, he wrote Buffy. Yes, he is all kinds of amazing. But there are two things that caught my eye, both of which fill me with equal amounts of mirth and disdain.

First, Joss Whedon wrote "Alien: Resurrection".

Wow that was a shitty movie. I remember going to the theatre, giddy and excited, thrilled at the idea that Ripley did not really die in that dry ass long film Alien 3, or at least there was some reasonable plot twist for bringing her back. And for the first few minutes, I was embraced by satisfaction. This is actually pretty cool. Ripley is now a badass human alien hybrid. And although the corporation I love to hate is now nothing but plot hole, this whole 'science gone mad' premise is functionally tolerable. I won't be seeing any pulse rifles, but at least I got that darling of the 90s, Winona Ryder. But then, absolutely nothing of interest happens. Its Alien 3 all over again. The characters seem like they could be interesting, and Joss obviously got some inspiration for Firefly from this project. But there is no point of interesting characters in a movie where dialogue is intentionally sparse, to build suspense. But no suspense is built. And as much as I would love to blame it on shoddy directing, I can't. I can see right through the screen to the writers room, and Joss clearly had no idea how to connect the end and the beginning. They just run away from the Aliens. Of course, that is what they are supposed to be doing, but all the situations that are supposed to make the escape compelling fail. And on a personal note (BIG SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE SNAPE FUCKS DUMBLEDORE), how the hell did Winona Ryder get up to the door to open it for Ripley? I get that she is an Android, I know that that is how she survived getting shot and falling to her certain death. But there is no other way to get to the door. The entire reason they were stuck in the situation they were in is because it was the only fucking way to the door, and then Winona just teleports to the other fucking side? That is some bullshit. (SPOILERS OVER I LOVE YOU MOM)

So that sucks mah bawls. The coolest part about the whole thing is that Sigourney hit a three pointer over the shoulder, which is actually pretty fucking cool. In fact that is super goddamn awesome. Rent the thing just for that. No, fuck that shit, you can watch it right here.


Now, the second piece of shame is Titan A.E. As a pubescent mother fucker, I thought the movie was pretty badass. I mean, you had spaceships, you had space, you had spaceships in space, and you had generic 90s pop-punk electro metal, and it was animated. But then I saw it again at a buddies house on a rainy afternoon too cold to go to the beach but too dry to spin in circles crying "FREEDOM!" mid-frolic. He was reticent to play me at Halo because he knew his ass was mine, but I didn't want to play Virtua Fighter because there are only so many times I can get the shit beat out of me by a tiny chinese girl while retaining my heterosexuality. So we watched an old dvd instead. That DVD was Titan A.E. And wow, that is a piece of crap. Like Aliens, it starts out with a world of potential, only to be obliterated by some assholes with a laser cannon (world of potential! I am the Pun master!). It just starts with such adrenaline. All hell breaking loose, poorly rendered CGI blue things attacking Earth, millions of innocents being blown into the vacuum of the cosmos. But then we go to an interstellar truck stop, and Matt Damon dicks around with some hot asian chick played by Drew Barrymore. You know what, back up. Lets see that again: " asian chick played by Drew Barrymore". That's all you need to know about this movie. Sucks mah bawls.

I mean the only thing that could save it would be something awesome. Really awesome. So awesome that nothing could ever compare to how awesome it is. So awesome that it would validate the use of this picture:

Something like Jeneane Garofalo as a giant space kangaroo. Oh wait...

Also, beware Matt Damon's Space Peener.

Joss Whedon must have been thinking of Firefly when he wrote this and Alien, because the whole 'wacky hijinks in space' seems to coincide with the premise.

This was also Don Bluth's last animated film. I would be sad about that, but he probably would've just kept making Fieval spin-offs that became increasingly more perverse until he just goes all out with, "Fieval Goes to Japan and Totally Rapes This Chick". Actually, its kind of tragic that we will never get to see Fieval's sexual assaults in the Land of the Rising Sun. Don Bluth, I will miss you.

All in all, Titan isn't total suckage. Plus, Jeneane Garofalo as Giant Space Kangaroo. Fuck yeah.

Join us some other time when I un-flush the turds of the past for our mutual discontent. See ya then kids!

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

A Belated Memoriam: Weekly World News

The print edition of the worlds most ironic check-out line magazine is dead. Long may it live.

This happened like, a few weeks ago, but I was busy living life etc. etc. At least we will still have the web edition.

May Bat Boy rest in peace knowing his wacky hijinks have brought comfort to millions of gullible old people.

Also: Lycanthrope is the "PC" label for Werewolf. Humies like me and, presumably, you, can't use that term, as it is derogatory.

However, there is some controversy over the use of the term "Werewolf" in some Howl songs, as groups such as WWA, or Werewolfs With Attitude, use it frequently. Some critics see it as reclaiming the word, while others believe it perpetuates the stereotype of Moon Kin and denigrates the Lycanthrope population as a whole.

Sarah Silverman has also taken flak for using the word in a comedy routine: "I dated a Werewolf once, but I broke up with him because he wanted me to cut the crap out of his fur. I know! How inconsiderate of him. I mean, how I am supposed to eat his ass without shit clumps to hold on to?"

Oh Sarah! You make me want to vomit out my urethra! Delightful!

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

More Pictures And Some You Tube Trinkets: Comic-Con 2007

Harvey Birdman: Attorney At Law

Parrapa the Rappa


Towley and Mr. Hanky

The Pope in front of Gabe and Tycho

Caveman Robot

Some Type of Pokemon


Storm Trooper with a Hot Dog

Mario Cast and Silent Bob

Mastah Chief

Jhonen Vasquez is like Bigfoot, all photos of him are out of focus.
(This is because Jhonen's dark Aura distorts the light around him.)

Greatest Line Ever

A Metaphor for Jesus

Statue at the WETA booth.

Monday, July 30, 2007

I Survived Comic-Con 2007

One thing I have always loved about my hometown is that every summer for one weekend, a nerd exodus appears over the horizon, finding their way to my holy land. They bring with them tribute, tidings of pure love, as well as a few million dollars worth of hotel profits, giving the city financial buoyancy for at least one more mismanaged fiscal year. Although America's Finest City is also a primordial pool of political corruption, I can't help but love it for the cabals of good people and great beaches that seem to thrive in an otherwise festering landscape of egotistic elitists and environmental antagonism. But my Hunter Thompson-esque beef with the Right Wing Mother Fuckers and L.A. Escapees that conspire to consume my city cannot dim the unfiltered, unleaded, grade A black-tar excitement that courses through my veins this time of year. For Comic-Con has come, and thou art welcome to the Mecca of the Geek Faithful.

The obvious irony of a comic book convention being held in a perpetually sunny paradise is not lost on me. All these pale rotund spheres of flesh that find an unsteady orbit within the city are alien to the indigenous people. If you're on a beach in San Diego during the off season, when the tourists remain in their humid four season shit hole existences, sight is an unreliable measure of humanity. When all the dudes got bodies chiseled by a salty sea and all the chicks got blond flowing locks dyed by the suns rays, nerdiness is a state of mind as opposed to an appearance. I was once hit on by a chick whose body shouted unrealistic expectations, but her pick-up line was "Let me show you my pokemons." Fuck I love San Diego. This being the case, it is easy to spot a foreign entity. The white sheets of skin that pour off airplanes and pool around bus stops are nearly luminescent in their complexion. I am consistently surprised that these geek masses do not spontaneously combust upon contact with sunlight, as if they were some kind of pop-culture vampire. And yet they brave our planet's fierce orb of fire to find their way to the hallowed hall of the convention center. Here, in my town, in my city, they come to find the elusive particle of happiness that only comes to the truly devout. It is in this quest that I join them. Am I successful? Judging by the quality of my nerdgasm last weekend, the answer is FUCK YES.

Highlights of '07, Plus Random Con Pictures.
Mounds of Dr. Who swag, including a giant talking Galek.

Aruguing over who was the better Dr. Who, Chris Eccleston or David Tennant. The ladies love Tennant, but me and my manly compadres are pro Eccleston.

Calling Jhonen Vasquez on the fact that he rips off Chuck Palahniuk's short story Guts in his new book Jellyfist. It totally starts off with the whole, "Hold your breath..." thing. I don't have to read it to understand...

Also, I was the only human in the Vasquez line wearing a Hawaiin shirt and primary colors.

Talking to Doug Tennapel about the transformation of the Video Game industry from cool stuff made by creative people to a corporate engine popping out a series of unimaginative turds less fit for human consumption than the tacos on 6th street (spoiler, there are no tacos on 6th street). "I didn't leave games, games left me."

Also, Doug doesn't say goodbye. He shakes your hand, looks you in the eye, and says "God Bless". Now, I am an adamant atheist, but such a statement speaks to a warmth and sincererity so rare these days that it seems exclusive to your dead grandma. Doug is really awesome.

I always thought Ashley Wood would be a fatass son-of-a-bitch that loves to draw titties. After meeting him in person, I know that I was right. But I can't help but like his stuff. It just looks so skecthy it's great. Also, IDW is making a new Tank Girl comic? I was surprised too.

Brian Posehn is the super nice metal guy you find asleep in english class, and Sarah Silverman isn't afraid to say 'chink' in front of an audience full of drooling otaku. Although I still don't know why she would ever want to get boned by Jimmy Kimmel. That guy is nasty.

The Boondocks panel featured the only people at Comic-Con who's skin did not blind the airmen circling overhead, although that has more to do with genetics than anything else. Also, Aaron McGruder is one of the few guys I would go gay for. The trailer for Season 2 was one of the funniest three minutes of my life, if only because Uncle Ruckus demonstrated his new found proficiency in nunchaku. I am fucking excited.
My buddy was handing out his comic The Fowl to Very Famous People for them to look over. Mike Mignola got to the page featuring the giant rooster, smiled, then wrote in big, capslock letters: NICE!!

That is gravy right there.

My bag was heavy with comics of all consortiums by the end of the fourth day, but I was particularly pleased with some stuff by Oni Press. I demonstrated an unfortunate ignorance of the comic Scott Pilgrim, which I promptly purchased, and I finally got my copy of the Tek Jansen comic book. I also picked up a copy of Whiteout, because it is about time I got my own copy as opposed to just mooching off others.

I hear the Avatar panel was mad hot, but I was too busy having heterosexual sex with women to care about a TV show on Nickel-fucking-odeon.

No, that is a lie. I am just jealous. Jealous that I am not there with Aang, Sokka, Katara, and Toph, follwing them on their magical journey through a mystical realm of wonders and adventure. Sometimes I dream of them, being by their side, helping them through their tribulations as they are hunted by the Fire Kingdom.

Avatar gives me Harry Potter syndrom, a.k.a. the Joss Whedon syndrom. It reeks of a universe so well thought out, so deep and original, that I become completely apathetic to the fact that it is a poorly written children's novel, or a nickelodeon show, or a show on the WB. I just want to dive in and dance, dance, dance like no one is watching.
I annoyed the fuck out of Tycho, and beseeched him to have my first born. I also tried to convince Jeph Jacques that I'm way indier than he will ever be. I believe I succeeded.
I ended every night going to Ultrazone, eating In-N-Out, pwning n00bs, and hanging out on the beach till 1:00 A.M. with all my cohorts. I'd say, all in all, that this was the best Comic-Con ever.


Thursday, July 19, 2007

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Nothing You Ever Write Will Ever Be As Bad As This

And that is why 'I suck at this' is no excuse to stop. Whenever I feel discouraged, I just look out on the sea of shit that is the literary world and think, "Wow, I kick ass by comparison." An easy esteem booster is fan fiction. However, as a connoisseur of crappy fiction, I take much delight in stumbling upon an entirely new incarnation of incompetence.

Having recently returned from an Airplane Adventure, I had the dear fortune of being privy to a great number of titles that can turn your stomach. However, one novel (if you could call it that) grabbed my eyes by the sockets and just wouldn't let go. What you are about to see may cause nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, erectile dysfunction, blindness, diabetes, diabeetus, nympho-mania, Joementum, and the overwhelming desire to have a spike driven through your brain. You have been warned.
Now, bear witness!


Did you notice the ambiguous, "...or is it?" on the cover? That is how authors build suspense.

This is how I envision the book came to pass:

Publisher: What we need now is something juvenile. What we need now is something derivative...

Writer: I have some Animorphs fan fiction. Maybe it will work.

Publisher: I don't know...that series didn't have alot of angst. And animals are too pussy. We need something that kids can connect with. Something that can reach the Fall Out Boy generation.

Writer: They're teen runaways hunted by the government.

Publisher: Good! Now, what's the gimmick?

Writer: They have wings, like angels. And they listen to generic mall punk. So, that makes them edgy, because angels are supposed to be all, "I'm a pretty angel durp a durr!" But these guys are all like, "I'm hardcore FUCK YEAH!"

Publisher: This is genius. And, we could also sell a CD of the songs the characters listen too! Kids relate to shit like that.

Writer: That is the best idea ever!

Publisher: I need this series. Get it to me right away.

Writer: Surely master, you have not neglected my payment?
Publisher: Here is a vial of tears milked from a pregnant widow, now get the fuck out of here.

Writer: We thanks you mastah, you is a good mastah you iz.

The existence of this book series is proof that not only is the Anti-Christ real, but that his agents are already deeply embedded in the publishing industry.

Suspiciously, the entire premise sounds like something Joss Whedon would think of...