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January 11, 2010

Whale Call

Filed under: News — Jon @ 6:04 pm

I was cutting a rug in the basement of the Misplaced Genital Fuzz Rash to forget my troubles when a girl of appropriate height and requisite weight did some unknowable type of boogaloo over to me. We exchanged nods. The music was a blaring death-moan of a beluga whale being clubbed to death with mixtables as the two of us bobbed together in a sea of glaring neon. Her face was pockmarked with the black death and slathered with makeup. We began to laugh as the moans increased to an undulating, drumbeat-interrupted scream of pain.
The girl was wearing a striped t-shirt over a tight body, and before I realized what was happening we were back at her apartment, tongues punching at the back of each others throats. It was a grisly scene for her roommates, two straight laced ponytails with worry smudged glasses sticking out the front. I beckoned to them with a curled finger, but they had already left out the front door, unoccupied chairs mocking my seductive gaze. My hand danced around the back of the girl’s shirt only to find it not there, a bizarre and horrible plastic contraption replacing it, connecting a padded fabric covering her chest to itself.
The girl giggled as I tried to make sense of the complicated latching mechanism, and spilled several pills onto the table. I would later learn these were methylenedioxymethamphetamine, but at the time I was on a bit too much E to care.
My breath caught in my throat and I began to cry. The entwined padlock of plastic and fabric twisted and stretched under my clumsy fingers, my face contorted, my vision blurry and distorted. The girl’s laughs became louder and louder.
I stopped myself, breath loud in my ears. Plastic and fabric, these should not pose a significant obstacle in a man’s pursuit of that thing she’s been doing oh god fabric is easily cut and the plastic is soft a knife a knife can get through that so easily like butter she’s like butter the knife cuts through like butter
My hands fill with red, and I pause. I the brassiere slides off, and I am overjoyed.
Moment of clarity. I just stabbed a much younger girl to death with a kitchen knife to remove her bra. I look around and breathe a sigh of relief, at least her roommates weren’t here to see this. How embarrassing.  I am probably not in the greatest state of mind to deal with this, but like my momma said, Ecstacy is the Einstein drug. All it takes is a little concentration and you can something something I down the entire bottle of pills and immediately go blind.
I grope around the dead girl’s apartment and think of a way to get myself out of this sticky situation. I stab the girl a few more times to stop her from making that noise, then drag her to the window. Out of window, out of mind. There is a crash and a scream from below, and I decide to call my mother. I wander around until I find a telephone in the inkiness and dial the number.
“Hi, mom.” I say, hiding my sheer terror at the thought that she might see me naked from the waist down, cool air blowing at my nethers from the loud open window.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Hi, mom, it’s Rube, I was wondering if you could help me out.”
“Who is this! You’re not making any sense!”
“It’s Rube, mom! I’m at this… friend’s apartment and I was wondering if maybe I could get a ride.”
“You’re not making… you’re not speaking… is this Rube?”
“Yes this is Rube. Mom I just need-”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you leave me the… fuck… alone.”
There was a gutteral click and an electronic hum, and I stumbled backwards into a potted plant, or a third roommate. I shrieked with primal fury and clawed at it, then drop kicked in its general direction, missing and landing with a sharp crack on one of my arms. Half of my blindness flared neon, gay nightclub pink.
The top of my vision suddenly came back, the top venetian blind gone, a slit for me to peek through.  Men in suits were crowding around me, sunglasses and earpieces and finely combed moustaches. One was shouting into his wrist. I dragged myself across the carpet and they didn’t seem to notice, fibers rubbing across my face. A TV is on, silent and broadcasting my face. I am wearing a suit, and debating an Asian diplomat about tax reform. I am losing.
The men drag me to my private highly modified Boeing 747-200B and we sit in the dining room as we drift away to my home, where I expect to die of natural causes.

December 10, 2009

Chairs Suck!

Filed under: News — Jon @ 11:29 am

I spend most of my day sitting in a chair, I realize, sitting in a chair. The light glints through the window, reflecting off my coffee mug, casting a small square of light on my chest. Why do I stand for this, I think? I am an adult. I am an adult, god damn it, and my parents didn’t make a mistake having me. I tear off my shirt, but the square of light remains, burning into a nipple like the fires of hell itself. I shriek and slam my chair backwards into the cube wall.

The man behind me shouts. He can’t see what’s going on, he doesn’t know about the square, because of the wall. I laugh. It’s so simple. I take a pencil and, since the light has gone, diagram deep into the flesh where it once was. A noise like screaming. I show him the blood dripping down my skin, catching on the hairs and pooling in the button. He doesn’t seem to understand. I gesture towards the window with the crimson pencil, flinging specks of blood everywhere. I am frightened until I realize it’s the pencil that’s bleeding. I leave it in the man and continue on my way.

There is noise everywhere now. All I want to do is stand up, but I’m still in the chair… I think. By this point I’m not really sure it matters anymore. I am pleased by this inner monologue, and think I could have a career on the radio, if only the large men with guns would get out of my way. I make a mental note: head for radio station.

Janice points at me as I head for the door, her mouth working like a fish. I wave. I try to explain that I will not be back for some time, and that she can keep her chair, and that I will not be needing it any longer, but I am not sure she believes me. I get it, there is a process you must follow. You need to ask permission before leaving. I am a rebel, I suppose.

The men are gesturing for me to lie down. I giggle. Not unless you take me out to dinner, first.

The men come closer. I become worried. There is something I am forgetting. I remove my penis from it’s sheath and inspect it, but it remains intact. I leave it out, in case I need it later.

A gun so close to my face I can feel it breathing. I take it and point it at the Janice, and she falls down. I point it at the men, and one of them falls down. The other men go away somewhere, but I tire of their games so I do not pay attention to where. I step over the man on the ground and go outside.

There are lights on top of cars, spinning lazily in the hazy air. People shuffle about. The gun seems to be some sort of secret passkey in this place. I walk through the crowd, miraculously unharmed. I realize my penis is still out, and I feel ridiculous. I use the gun to remove it. There is a pop and a puff of red, and I fall down to my knees.

I feel like I went wrong somewhere, but I don’t know at what point. My arms are covered with blood. My gun is clicking uselessly at the people now, only two or three on the ground. I see the grass rush towards my face.

It is so cold and dark in this place.

September 23, 2009

Detomidine and Camel Hair

Filed under: News — Jon @ 1:20 pm

I straighten my skirt, lining it up exactly to the horizontal red line from the laser square I set up on the dining room table, splaying across my legs like a hairline gash. I go to my bedroom to put on my earrings and inject myself with 20cc of detomidine. I miss the vein the first time and simply shoot it all into the muscle tissue, so I refill the syringe and inject it directly into the center of my pupil.

I go to the mirror and smile brightly. You’ve still got it, girl. I pause for a moment and worry that I may have taken too much detomidine to simply go to the grocery store, but I try and pass the “heel to forehead” test. Built like a sarcophagus. Steel-Vein Samantha, that’s what they used to call me back in primary school.

I have a little extra time, so I meander over to the kitchen to look for my diaphragm. A girl can never be too careful at the supermarket. I open up a cupboard to get a face full of ground pepper. Not wanting to sneeze, I inhale deeply, coating the inside of my lungs. I idly wonder when I had enough time to fill the cupboard top to bottom with tightly packed black pepper. But there’s no time for idle anything right now, the detomidine is starting to take hold. I can feel its icy black fingers grappling onto the base of my spine, coddling and wrapping the nerves like spaghetti. I feel brackish, and then bold. I shudder. This is a very good day, I think, as the sun shines through the dried animal skins over the window pane, illuminating the wall with an auburn cracking glow.

My hair begins to hurt, and I lie down. I do a shot of tequila laced with camel hair and cough it up all over my sporty top. I realize if I am ever going to go to the grocery store, it should be now. I go.

I come back.

I put away the groceries, but cannot figure out where to put the five heads of lettuce, so I eat them raw and meowing.

August 18, 2009

Words of Wisdom: Fry My Little Etymology

Filed under: Film, News — Jon @ 11:30 am

So I bet you’re all wondering what I’ve been up to lately. The answer is, of course, playing a lot of Mass Effect. And by “playing”, I mean “dying”, and by “of” I mean “in”. I’m not exactly the best battle strategist, I guess. Probably why I never got into RTSs. That and my complete lack of understanding as to how I have to plop down a barracks if I want to create footsoldiers. Why can’t I plop down two young male/female humans and play some miniature Barry White and then just throw up a mandatory conscription into the army at age 18? Barracks don’t pop out soldiers, pregnant women do. Some day I’ll get that tattooed on somebody else’s trampstamp area.

June 26, 2009

Long Live the King.

Filed under: News — Jon @ 2:23 pm

Moonwalking to a clandestine location with a putto in tow is deserving of applause in its own right. Those buggers are STRONG.

Too soon?

June 14, 2009

Sci Fi Lady-Type Fan Tribute #2: Dana Scully Wants to Believe In You

Filed under: News — Jon @ 9:37 am

None of these are mine, much to my dismay.

…and so on.

May 22, 2009

King Me

Filed under: News — Jon @ 7:12 pm

“Luis, Luis,” I pleaded, tugging on his shirttail as he tried to ignore me and play his game of solo checkers in silence. “I can’t feel my legs. Oh, oh. I can’t feel them, Luis.”

“That’s because you don’t have any legs any more,” he responded, and glowered at me with contempt. He stood up and walked away, holding his checkerboard carefully, so as not to spill the assortment of household items doubling as gamepieces.

I rolled around miserably for a moment, then realized he was right. In fact, everything below my bellybutton was simply gone, entrails dragging through the small coils of carpet as I pulled myself around the dining room. That is the last time I trust Luis to put a grenade in my pants and promise not to pull the pin! I think to myself. But who am I joking.

I look at the bits of my lower half spattered around the room. My foot dangles from a light fixture. My calf slides down the wall. My genitalia I am pretty sure are embedded in the closet. I am about to make a joke about how that makes them gay, but then I realize they are mine. A dot of blood drips from the ceiling and lands on my cheek.

Yuck!

Luis comes in and asks did I say something.

“I said ‘yuck’.”, I reply, with a bit of sass.

Luis’ eyes glaze over with fury. He is shaking with rage as he spills the assorted bottlecaps, coins, pill bottles and action figures off the board and bludgeons me to death with it.

April 25, 2009

V’ous de voure je pas ces donami

Filed under: News — Jon @ 11:41 am

Pas du tout rechomper pas lieu confrederno. Sasi du mon frie je pas quon lieu numencodure. “April” los troi ze-ze non, toei quon fed dres mon pape-lechonfre. Trois pon che lesabre c’en foire. Pos.

Jon

April 13, 2009

Game Developers Conference 200″9″

Filed under: News — Jon @ 2:19 pm

I just got back from the 2009 World Game Developer’s Conference in Sweden, Idaho, and I must say, have I got some pretty excellent scoops for you delightful readers!

1. First up is the long awaited Alan Wake, from which I saw brand new footage compiled from all the old footage Remedy Entertainment had released in 2003. It was some truly breathtaking stuff, with lots of fast cuts and brilliant After Effects compositing. The “Coming…” text was probably the most spectacular of the bunch, wiping in with the movement of the sunlight in the very old footage of time-lapse footage in the gameworld.

2. Developer Bungie, developers of video games for the Macintosh computer system, revealed a brand new IP which looks fantastic- implementing Halo’s penchant for purple aliens and Gears of War’s advanced cover system, it’s “Purple Aliens: Under Cover”. You play as a space marine named John who infiltrates (read: shoots at) a cabal of purple aliens. The spokesperson for Bungie, calling himself “Mike”, implicated that it wasn’t just the gameplay that was revolutionary- the storytelling, utilizing “moral choices” and a “first person viewpoint”, sounds like it could be to video games what Triumph of the Will was to film.

3. Gabe Newell sat around the conference, and we really mean around the conference.

4. Some 2D physics based game won “best Indie Title”, because of the recently passed “all independent game titles must be 2D and based on physics” law.

5. YOU DECIDE

March 29, 2009

Tipsy

Filed under: News — Jon @ 11:10 am

“Hurrumph!” The old general was getting ornery again, pacing back and forth, hat beneath his arm. “I have no patience for these hard candies.”

“Now, darling,” said his wife. “You know we must put on a good face. We’ve got guests coming soon.”

“Damn it all, Marjory! You put one of these so called ’sweets’ into your mouth, and they refuse to melt. But it’s not like a frozen chocolate bar, no, not at all! It’s quite acceptable to bite down with all your might on a frozen candy bar! But not on a hard candy- that’s considered cheating by some of the debutantes and hoity toity poshes of this damned world.”

“Why must you treat me so? I only gave you the butterscotch num num because I thought you would enjoy it, general. If you didn’t want it, you could have spit it out.”

“Spit it out? A perfectly fine candy? My dear Marjory, I only get a churchmouse’s share of butterscotch in my diet as it is! If I am to go without butterscotch simply because the candymakers are so daft witted as to make it harder than  taffy? I say!”

“No, I say. We have guests soon, stop pontificating and blowing about, you’ll scare them off.”

“Ha! I don’t wish to converse with anyone to-night anyhow. This whole hard candy business has gotten me quite into a stir. I doubt I shall sleep without my tipsy tonight.”

“Your what?”

“My tipsy, my dear woman! My tipsy!”

“My darling general, I have no idea what you are speaking of.”

“Goodness gracious dear me, whatever on earth are you talking about. My tipsy! My one confidante and friend in times of need! My helper, my second in command! We cruised the beaches of Omaha together, yes, and the fields of India! Burma fell beneath both our hands.”

“Dear lord, you’ve gone mad.”

“My tipsy bottle filled with the blood of infants, woman!”

“Oh. Well, you could have just said that, general. Speaking of, the guests are here. Oh, and they’ve brought little Timmy with them!”

“How… tipsylicious.”

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