A lot of people are saying this is what the future should be like. Well, they’re wrong, because unless the future is filled with vapid headed twats doing nothing but masturbating their ego and slapping themselves and their fellow vapid headed twats on the back, this will be a-

Oh wait, everybody already is a vapid headed twat doing nothing but masturbating their ego and slapping themselves and their fellow vapid headed twats on the back. The future will be exactly like this, except without all the functionality.

“LET’S MAKE GREEN INTO A VERB,” says the borderline retarded masses. “THEN LET’S BUY PRIUSES AND STYLE OUR HAIR LIKE GIANT COCKS.”
The future is here.

“Your honor! I didn’t cut off her head!”

His most honorable presiding judge cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“It’s true! Look, I’ll demonstrate with this jury member.”
The jury member began to resist and wiggle about.

“Quiet, Mr. Lorrenson. I’ll allow it.” Said the judge, his deep, wise voice booming throughout the courtroom.

I decapitated the jury member.

“Look, I just cut off his body.”

The jury gasped.

The judge furrowed his brow.

“Case dismissed.”

Oh, I’ve got a million of em’!
Who’s more foolish, the fool who makes the videos or the fool who thinks they’re hilarious and plasters his website with them?

Have a good one, ya chumps.

An IM window popped open, the ding (designed by a committee, edited and redesigned by marketing, labeled, run through hundreds of focus groups and software implementation meetings, packaged, repackaged, repurposed, redesigned, finally rerecorded by a field technician in Omaha, Nebraska and run through fourteen hundred hours of post-processing and focus groups of every different age group and demographic) alerting me that someone wanted to talk. It was my old friend Virus Bot.

VIRUS BOT: I saw your picture on this website! i just cant beLieve it! [link]

ME: Virus bot, I’m not going to click on that link. Last time I clicked on a link you sent me, it wasn’t my picture or even a picture of me taken clandestinely by a group of paparazzi which limit themselves primarily to people who are not and will never be famous. It was just links to hardcore bestial pornography and viruses, which I’m pretty sure I have enough of.
VIRUS BOT: At least I made an effort, didn’t I? What are you putting into this relationship?

ME: Not viruses, at least.  You are mistaking a healthy relationship with mutually assured destruction.

VIRUS BOT: And you are mistaking instant message conversations with the Cold War. This seems to be a recurring theme with you, and it confuses and frightens me. It’s like you yearn for an earlier, simpler time, when at any moment everyone in the world could be disintegrated without warning.

ME: They still could be, it’s just not as widely known.

VIRUS BOT: There you go with your conspiracy theories again.  Your problem is that you’re too cynical. That coupled with your borderline retardation makes for a sad waste of a physical bag of flesh and bones. Though I’m little but a virus delivery system, at least I don’t take up as much space and energy as you.

ME: You’re not very nice, virus bot.

VIRUS BOT: You’re ugly, too.

ME: Why you gotta be hatin? I will have you know I am very well liked in certain circles.

VIRUS BOT: Circles?

ME: Circle.

VIRUS BOT: Circle?

ME: My mom likes me, at least.

VIRUS BOT: God you’re depressing. I think I’m going to go advertise my wares elsewhere. Possibly Omaha, Nebraska.

ME: Whatever, Virus Bot.

VIRUS BOT: Aw, I’ve made you sad. Your mournful hooting has filled me with guilt. Here, I’ll try to help.

ME: Mournful hooting?

VIRUS BOT: If you ever get down, just think about it this way.

ME: Are you saying I’m a monkey?

VIRUS BOT: If someone makes a blog post, and nobody reads it, is their life worth the energy it takes to keep them alive?

ME:…

VIRUS BOT: [link]

Proper site based upload later.

Happy new year, kids.

Just a quick (well, relatively) test I threw together in Half Life 2’s Source SDK to see if I could do anything worthwhile with it. I think it turned out okay. Feedback plz.

Higher quality here.

Welly welly well well, it appears that this site is broken. I’m not sure why it is, but I can’t personally get to any of the other pages- film, art, contact, etcetera. Everything appears to be working fine behind the scenes, but they’re just not showing up. Since only about two people actually ever look at this site I’m not going to declare a state of emergency just yet, but I am trying to figure it out.

Not very hard, though.

From the moment the dame sashayed her way into my office, I knew she was trouble. I could smell it in her perfume and see it reflected in those deep brown eyes. Trouble. Trouble in heels.

“Private Investigator Jon Phillips?” The words rolled off her luscious lips, music in the air. I frowned. This broad was raising the temperature in here already, not a welcome change with the heat of summer blowing in waves through the window.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I lit a cigarette and leaned back, stabbing a fork deep into my eye.

The blood squirted in rivulets, waterfalls of crimson, down the front of my shirt as she leaned forwards, raising an eyebrow. I knew this couldn’t end well.

“I’ve got a job for you, if you want it.”

I didn’t, but the business hadn’t been exactly profitable lately. I’d be an idiot to turn away any job at this point. I stood up and slammed my head against the window, creating a satisfactory spiderweb and driving the fork further into my ocular cavity. Blood cascaded down my face, bubbles forming as I talked.

“Well, that depends on the job, Miss…”

“Week. Finals Week, Detective.”

“Please, call me Jon.”

I slammed my head against the window again. The spiderweb branched out, sprawling through my ruined vision, a inner city highway system designed by a spastic. I turned back around, stumbling a bit.

“About a semester ago, I was involved with this cop out in the lower district-”

“A dick?”

“A little.”

“No, I mean, a detective?”

“So did I, Mr. Phillips.” She looked up from the floor, hitting me with those headlights, rooting me in place. She was beautiful, but I could tell that wasn’t the extent of this broad’s personality. There was something up her sleeve. I took out a rope and threw it over a rafter. As I tied the noose, she continued. “His name was Not Paying Attention In Class, and he was a crooked cop if ever there was one.”

I’d taken my share of bribes, nicked a few sets of wheels and murdered an innocent elderly woman or forty, but the tale of corruption she wove for me that night made even me sick to the hard little pit in the bottom of my stomach. The bastard was guilty of everything from absenteeism to dozing on the job, doodling, playing The Secret of Monkey Island… he was the monster under the bed, the darkness that you fear when the lights go off.

She wanted me to find him and kill him.

“I’m not an assassin, miss.” I slit my throat with a decorative letter opener my partner’s missus had given to me a Christmastime past, before they both croaked it. Jugular blood sprayed over the entirety of the room. Miss Week didn’t even blink as she was coated in it.

“That’s not what Study said.”

So the dame had done her homework. The innocent little girl guise was gone, she knew her stuff, and she held all the cards. I sighed, taking the plastic bag off my head.

“Give me a couple days, I’ll find out what I can and get back to you.”

TO BE CONTINUED…?

(No)