Your dog's life is in danger!

This might save her life, though. Think about it. I know I will.

Another Chapter

You may have seen this before... or maybe not. In any case, I want it to be illustrated frame style. After "somebody" reads through it and scales for feasibility, the assignment will be further explained.


I was reminded on the bike ride down the hill for the apparent last time of my trials at the old plant. The smell of hot asphalt drifted into my brain. Chemicals were prevalent in these parts, I realized. Emissions from the fertilizer facility as well as the Twin Rock “Apple Bird” Coal facility fell silently upon the prairie grasses near me. “Classical Gas” played softly at a nearby picnic. The newspaper informed me recently that the mercury emissions from the coal plant were ineffective to me, as I was immune to them from birth. Back when I was born, in ’61 they had a vaccine for mercury they say. It was called leadenvile. I am not poisoned. Just how much mercury is dangerous anyway? Fuck. I was well on my way through the mercury pasture anyway now, my ten-speed rolling well on a slightly bent rim. The wind was blowing through my hair at an even rate now, cleaning any particulates out as usual. My elbows were in the speed position. I approached the abandoned rail spur at the bottom of the hill at an astounding speed. I was hungry as ever, so I pedaled a bit, not more than a bit either, right up until the point that my upper torso was dealt a crushing blow. A crushing blow that I hours later determined to be a large towing rope. I had not seen it through my glasses that were brown rope tinted. I was crushed backwards and my bike left me stranded 6 feet in the air without a helmet. I was twisted and creased and thrown onto the hot pavement while my head was forced into the rail with alarming force. The alarm sounded in my head as it hit the track. I was hurt bad. I was unconscious for some time I believe, but awoke to the sound of a bird shrill. I looked to find the rope around me, tied to a tree on one side and a utility pole on the other. Two children were involved in this prank I figured. That, or there just may be somebody out there to get me as a second possibility. In either case, I was lucky enough to have been carrying 30 cents in nickels and a hard-boiled egg. These items, I thought, could later be used to my advantage. My head was clearly fucked up. I found my bike in one piece, the rim bent slightly more than before the crash. I lay by it and took a rest in a pool of my own blood.

After brief recovery I found myself (apparently the following day) driving down Highway 34 listening to the Car’s “Just What I Needed.” It was pure coincidence that I truly enjoyed the synth solo in this tune, as it was very original in its time. Unfortunately, I noticed that I was not enjoying it as usual due to a swollen face and a distorted nose. The warm, sweet taste of blood in my throat still, along with the cool feeling of past urination in my pants left me in severe discomfort in one way, while at the same time allowing me to size up my opponents in anger. I had not yet cleaned up after the accident, but instead opted to stumble to the Mexicana Restaurante where I was to meet my pal for a quesadilla meal with my favorite soda drink. I had then proceeded to sleep in his car for the afternoon and night. Gil’s response to my dilemma was, and I quote, “Rock n’ Jesus! You sure tasted the chrome!” He smiled with joy as he took off his sweatpants to sweep up the blood mask I wore. This morning we woke up and Gil had put the gears into motion. As I slept off my head injury, Gil dreamed up different strategies to investigate all the debauchery that’s gone on. I shook Ryan’s hand, after all, we had become good friends only weeks earlier. He was in the back seat. He had a bandana of burlap on and gloves of leather. He appeared to be prepared to do heavy work. I then proceeded to raise my hand (as high as I could in Gil’s old Caprice), in order to ask a question. Gil called on me to my enjoyment, just like Mrs. Lurpman didn’t do back in third grade. I had nothing to say after all. Gil handed me a note. It explained important details to our upcoming journey. First and foremost, we were heading to Harnack Marsh. That was all. Oh, and that Ryan was doing heavy fence work on the ranch earlier with Grandpa H. My frustrations were building as I realized I had still not eaten or taken my daily dose of strong narcotics. I don’t specify a certain narcotic, because any will do. Don’t bother sending me any, because I get them from my doctor friend who lives out of town, and state. Seriously, I don’t need your help in feeding my addiction… for sweet, sweet laughter. “I wouldn’t mind getting a Mustard Cat or a David Dog.” I really was hoping we could stop at Crillerson’s Ditch- the eatery that reminded me of the dark man from my childhood. I will explain later. The food was good, as were the memories of the evil bastard that took me there every Tuesday and Friday when I was 11. “Ah, nope.” Gil said while he scraped his ears clean with a cotton swab dabbed with motor oil. I was bored now, and hungry. Ryan gave me his last Kudos chocolate covered granola treat and his personal memoirs to take a look at. They were quite interesting. Ryan worked as a demon hunter for a holistic healer out on the coast. Before he got into that, he was an electrician fucking the dog for the man. He once wired a dual circuit in 3 minutes. I don’t know what a dual circuit is. A demon hunter is more ridiculous, and it requires you to carry two rolls of coinage and a ratchet packed with Top Shelf Ramen seasoning. If you have a 1” socket, it gets to be a decent amount of seasoning. Some say enough for a whole case of Ramen dinners. I became increasingly hungrier at the thought of a heaping spoonful of sodium rich yellow chicken powder melting in my mouth. According to Ryan’s memoirs, he only hunted demons twice in a two-year period, each time ending in failure. You see, the powder concealed in the ratchet is used in a dust form to repel demonic forces. According to the papers, the dirty old papers, the powder had soaked up a bit of moisture. Hence, the dust form was deactivated leading to Ryan’s release from the team. Whatever. A lame story in my mind. The coin rolls, by the way, provided a solid roller-type system for causing accidents at the supermarket. This made sense to me. Do I only deserve one episode of Macgyver per week? Would I continue to surprise the locals in Taste of Asia with empty promises, apologies, and friendly gestures of compassion? I’ve been reduced to rubble as a human being. My previous aspirations of assisting and demoralizing the people of TOA (see above) were on the ropes. My mind had been liquefied by the previous accident. All of my questions needed answering. These questions, however, would not be answered at this time, as two horses trotted up from an approach ahead, and a motorcycle pulled up beside us. It was a Kawasaki mini-bike with a sidecar. I glanced over to appreciate the wondrous looks of the vintage machine. The rims were of freshly shined chrome, and the man in the sidecar was eating a freshly shined apple. In the other hand it appeared he had a nice piece of Spanish chorizo sausage. A phallic symbol on most days, nonetheless, I yearned for its pleasures through eating. Sabbath, bloody Sabbath… nothing more to tell. Dark clouds began to drift through my psyche. Doomful music. It was the Virelic boys in that sidecar, together. The smaller had been dwarfed by his snack-eating, 400 pound brother. They wore matching sweaters- red stripes with cows- supposedly made by grandma Virelic. The driver appeared to be Chiang Han the computer genius. Ahead on the horses appeared Melcko and his partner A.C. Slater, none other than. At least that is what I saw, giving myself plenty of slack for the gaseous fumes that swirled in my head. “Gaahah!!” Gil yelled through his respirator mask he’d been wearing to defend himself from his car’s lack of a viable exhaust system. He hit that fuckin’ gas like his prosthetic leg had life. I slapped Ryan’s stupid looking ketchup-encrusted face and woke him up. The fat Virelic blob smiled at us with chorizo in his newly grown mustache. The mustache was fittingly patchy and thin. I wondered briefly how sausage could get trapped in there. “Any plans?” I wept to my pals. Ryan then took two baseballs, a pack of gum, and a dick out of his pockets. It was enough for me to know that he was no demon hunter, maybe just a pedophile. I vowed to sue him at a later date. We were sure in a bind now, no time for telling him to put his dick away. Instantaneously, as Ryan was opening his mouth to reveal his plan involving his items, he was dealt a crushing blow via a cinder block about the skull. Gil screamed in delightful horror (if such a thing exists), and pushed the turbo button on the left dash. Nothing happened. The turbo button was clearly fabricated by Gil. Ryan cried in the back while glass covered his penis pathetically and blood flowed like the evil from the corners of my mind out of 30 or so new orifices. One knows that a frozen burrito is not good if it is referred to on the back of the package as a unit. It may in fact be delicious, but in a mechanical kind of way. Was this analogous to the current situation of old Ryan’s face being withered away by a brick? I don’t know right now. I’ll come back to that later, with the other things I promised to return to. Our speed was increasing; reaching its peak. I put in a tape: classic Loverboy it would be. The tape deck clearly said "put attack sequence codes here." Again, Gil's fabrication had gotten the better of us. It just happened to be right in the middle of “Turn me Loose.” I took this as a message, punched Gil in the neck to say goodbye, and rolled out the door. I would incur more injury, I knew this. Apparently nothing compared to what would happen if Slater got a hold of a preppy like me. The dance of death was upon my friends and I at last. Ryan was a piece of shit anyway.

The Moment He Waited For

Escobar stood confidently in the entryway of the new-age gin joint, hands akimbo on his hips, as if he'd never left the place. In truth, it had been over 3 months since his last sojourn to "Larry's Loco Limbo Lounge." Backlit by the bright blue nightlights on Colt Street, he sauntered in as a silouhette of chunky hair spikes, a headband and clearly fashionable clothes.

No one said a word or even looked up from their drinks or conversations, none as impressed with his entrance as much as Escobar himself; neither did he go unnoticed. Illuminated by the gauzy purple lights near the frontmost tables, his outfit came into high relief: thick, black, plastic-framed glasses with red lenses; a blazing orange-yellow-red tracksuit, white pinstripes in all the right places; and an inexplicable sign pasted to his forehead that read "No War!" The sign was a collage of cut-out letters (in the style of the cover of Never Mind the Bullocks Here's the Sex Pistols) which were stuck onto a yellow cardstock backing that had been cut into a sunburst pattern.

He stood by the bar, pretending to be inconspicuous, waiting to be noticed. Noticed. Wasn't that why he gave in to this urge again? Yes; the urge came to him more often now than it used to. It came to Jack Manny, really, as he pissed away yet another office workday, the venetian blinds drawn. Manny had worked for Johannsen's Polycarbonates, Inc. since putting in his 70-hour days during law school, and his routine had been dwindling to less and less every fucking day. Standing in Larry's, starting to feel the heat rise down there, he pushed away the laundry list of thoughts -- prune that tree in the backyard, pick up Ellie's dry cleaning, take the kids out to Kohl's to buy school clothes. He tried to remember how many years it had been since he first tried on the Escobar persona... 3? 4? Something like that. He figured that by now, they all expected to see him every few months: "There's Escobar again. What new insane revelation will he tell us? What entertaining visions and secret information will he bring back from the Underground?"

Walking the 8 blocks to Larry's from the parking ramp, the plan for the night had congealed. He decided to raise the stakes. He imagined dropping a few key hints that Escobar was not all that he seemed to be; that he might be, in fact, an undercover federal agent working counterintelligence. Manny's skin crawled delightfully as he imagined the possibilities.

Finally the bartender moved, having waited the requisite 5 minutes of disinterest. "Long time, man. What's the deal?" Escobar leaned in, wild-eyed, pupils dilated tenfold but not sweating and not shaking. "It's been muy loco, amigo. I'll tell you that nothing could have prepared me for the crazy shit I seen. Hey man, you heard anything I should know about? I heard some whacked-out fucked-up shit goin' on over here, man." It was a risky and possibly stupid thing to say so early in the conversation, and Manny knew it, but he was becoming less and less Manny very quickly. That was what he wanted, what he'd pined for over those 3 interminable months.

"What? Only thing I can tell you that might be fucked up is that I've had 3 other dudes in here lately going by the name of Pablo Escobar... but I serve them same as you, and never see 'em again." Escobar lifted his green drink off the counter, sipped it carefully, cradled it, set it back down.

"No shit, amigo? What can I say?" Don't freak out... just grin. Lift... sip... cradle... down. "Some weird mierda!" Oh, fuck... lift, sip, cradle, down. "So, you know, I gotta poke 'round tu casa a bit... but I'll catch ya for the next one, yo." Lift, sip, cradle, then walk away cool and slow.

He approached the dancefloor in the back, its scotomatous lights meandering on the wall behind an aloof "DJ" running the show from a Powerbook atop his platform. Two people groped each other -- the only 2 dancing at all, in fact. Male? Female? Escobar couldn't tell, but it was hot. He felt the old sensations getting stronger. Felt good. Mr. Mojo rising. Got to keep on rising.

But no. He got real cold, real fast. His vision had adjusted to the darkness in the back of the bar. In the dim non-light he saw, among the scattered half-empties on a table pushed up against the wall opposite the DJ, a stuffed novelty pillow -- the kind kids make in home ec class, he guessed -- with chunky spiked hair, headband, thick-framed red glasses, big dumb smile. He turned away in revulsion, catching a few people in the booths looking at him (before they caught themselves and turned back to their drinks). He felt like vomiting but instead lifted, sipped, cradled, and stepped closer to the DJ platform. A new track booted up and started to pump, getting a few of the heathens onto the floor, followed by a few more, and then a few more. In 30 seconds Escobar felt safer, surrounded by the friendly faces and their warm bodies, almost totally blocking his view of the table with the stuffed cabeza on it. Perfect. He started to groove and loosened up, setting his green drink aside for the moment.

At Larry's (and a few of the other fringe bars in town), it was common to see the younger set dressed up in costume, and that night was no exception. The walls were lined with at least 2 devils, 2 baby girls, a bull, and a teddy bear. A tall gray alien girl, wrapped in a trenchcoat, walked gingerly up to the dance floor. She thought twice about dancing, but opted instead to stay on the border zone between dancefloor and drinking floor, watching from the shadows and getting up the nerve to go for it. A man with his face obscured by the dark walls approached her, as did another man, then another. The patrons seemed oblivious, except Escobar, who approached as well. The first 2 men grabbed and tore back both sides of her trench coat, then reached in and ripped the alien costume from the midline of its abdomen (an apparent weak spot). Under the costume, the girl was nude and dangerously thin, and apparently African. Her mask fell off as the costume came apart, and she started to scream. The scream was quickly stifled by the 3rd man. They motioned to Escobar. He closed in. Was he drooling? This was, after all, the moment he'd been waiting for.

New Year of Harvesting Your Ability

Again, within the confines of my spongy mind and dark, damp hole that is my residence (alone, and in the dark that is, with only the low illumination of a candle on my Buddha) I have come up with a proposal. I know all of my readers are quite busy in doing their little part for society, but I am looking for an illustrator. I have the stories, I just need someone with the artistic finger. It will be an escape from your ultimately boring, rusty daily activity, believe you me. The three branches of power will soon come to be, after which the tri force can finally be assembled as you desire most. I'm quite serious about this, I just need the proper input as to not get another syntax error. Thank you. I will produce more information as required by your comments.

The educational tools are proving quite useful, and I think I will continue the production of such. Be prepared- so far we have made decisions about armor thickness and the human strength.

Trapped in the Cold, Metal Hands

Captured by Robots!? Yes, I have been. Please send help. This one Jewish Rabbi has also been captured by the bots- a holy man in the cold, dead hands of metal. That's what Captured by Robots! is all about. I suggest you see the show if you haven't- it's cheap and the robots will perform a wedding for you. Last night five or six weddings were performed by the robots, and for those people, they likely had a difficult morning trying to put the pieces together. "What happened?" "I think we got married by robots last night." "Does that mean that we have joined the robot race?" "I think so... I think so..." "Well then, I guess we should keep quiet about it so we can get a share of the wealth that will be provided by the soon to be robotic takeover." The good news is you don't have to get married; it's only optional. But... there is that potential power you might attain. So, check out the Captured by Robots! website, wherever it may be. I haven't done the research yet, but I will assign that to you all (all of the readers that is). Also, B.O.R.T. (Bionic Organic Rudimentary Transgender) is a robot anyway according to profile information, so I guess he could do it.

Now here's the new educational program. Specifically it's for you idiots that are using wood from Home Depot to make your balance beam. You guys are so stupid for that. Hell's Jesus.

Latter Day Saint Sale

Yesterday I recovered important information buried deep within the hillside of two young men, just as Joseph Smith had done some 150 years ago. The mormon missionaries saw me as an easy target, and rightfully so due to my unkempt hair and snot encrusted face. I invited them into a certain building, out of the elements that God proclaimed, "shall be," on that day. Of course, I had heard the story of a special latter day saint, Joseph Smith, before, but I played dumb to get the unbiased story. It turns out to be the same as Trey Parker and Matt Stone's story. I spoke with them for nearly ninety minutes on various religious topics only to discover that my own baptism was invalid. I said I didn't care anyway, and no, I don't really want to believe in your prophet. After discussing various social issues and their relation to religion, the conversation basically ended with them saying, "It's all true because we read the Mormon bible and know it to be true." I guess you can't argue with that, but you might be able to gain some ground by talking about polygamy, which, as they told me, was explained to Joe S. to be necessary, then later was canceled (by the government too, as I suggested). The conversation eventually just came down to this: I'm problaby not joining your cult because I already am pretty involved in one and also your cult has a bunch of assholes for leaders, whereas mine is made up of nice folks. I asked them to reconsider things (not eliminate their beliefs), before setting up life plans to fear themselves right into the promise land. I told the same thing to Jake S. this week. I am a false prophet, please don't worship me.

"If someone is gay it doesn't mean God doesn't love them, it just means they have some stuff to work on."

I guess I say the same about bullshit prophet stories and the Mormons that believe them- just a problem they have to work on. Upon disembarking from the mission, I offered those boys hard liquor in a Sprite bottle and told them to meet me at the local "men's club" for some further discussion.

Now for the important part. Here is the educational lesson of the day that I created just for you- wrap the lesson around your religious beliefs and let science and religion settle their longtime score.

Jubilant (but toxic) chants

Welcome. Home. News from the front is not good. I will not being wearing a tuxedo afterall in three weeks as I had planned. But, I will offer to anyway if anyone wants to see me dress up nice. Afterall, events have taken place that have altered the schedule (positively or negatively depending on you specific disposition).

Now, onto the promised material. Recently, I was looking up some old classmates of mine, for what reason I don't know (to call them and awkwardly ask for support I suppose?). My search led me to the Governor's School website, where hundreds of ex super students have little webpages. They happen to be great fun people on there, who at one time had high levels of interest in math and science. Some of them undoubtedly went on to do real great things, but mostly I just like to read, "the story of the outcast." There's one good one in particular. The best part is the conclusion. After realizing all the evils of the world, poor suckers like this always get sucked into making better plastic coatings for tanks (or cheap furniture ppaint if they're subpar). I suggest browsing around a bit on the various pages and doing a little research yourself. It's interesting to see what becomes of ND's most promising youth. Option A- they leave and never come back OR option B- they die.

Second news item- UW has signed a deal with Madison Area Technical Colleges that allow students to transfer here after two year upon meeting certain requirements. Read the elitist undergraduate comments here, here, and here. Oh, and last but not least here. Funny ain't it? I've certainly never heard anyone say, "my college is better than yours." Shit, that's new. But, UW is definitely "harder" than any other school, and plus you have to be real smart to get in. Everyone knows if you didn't participate in FBLA, student council, or National Honor Society, there's no fucking way you have any chance of future success. If we could just let all of those smart people in, and keep the stupid slackers out, we could all be on homecoming committee. I don't know about you, but I'm into Jesus! Now could you please put his hamster right up in there? It only gets worse from there kids, and I'm not going into it. All I know is that I'm pissed that my degree from this school (if I ever get it) will now be severely diluted, much like when you piss in the toilet tank and flush it.

The Number of the Feast

So what are you up to now? I'm interested to hear about all of it. I heard that you were having a little trouble with Old Man Weedle, and ahh shit, who doesn't. Don't let it get to you. He's a hapless critter with less sense than a half-headed cancerous goat.

Here's the good news from this corner of Eternia. I have obtained several months supply of energon cubes from Zach Morris in a barter for my famous oatmeal crammed cream muffins (with or without cough drop dust topping). As it turns out, energon has a long history. I couldn't have even guessed, but my notes indicate that the resource is hightly sought after. So, what I'm getting at is that my notes are extensive, and will soon be brought to you (including important factors and methodology). You see, my reports have finally been finished, in strong form. Check it out here. Read it all fucker, don't "take shortcuts." I'm starting off the end of week festivities by listening to Rush's "The Camera Eye," which comes from the EP Moving Pictures, which isn't even close to my favorite Rush album. This will be followed by taking my shirt off with some sort of aggressive attitude and listening to Cyclone's Brutal Destruction, which seems to be some mid-eighties German metal band. You know, the sort of band that has their picture on the back of the album standing near some broken shit and a rail car in black and white. Leather jackets, denim... and one guy with a nice sweater who looks like a guy named Neil, complete with thin mustache and long, wispy hair (explains the last song, "Incest Love." Hopefully just a bad translation... for their sake). Shit man, once I had a mustache. Who was I then? I'm not sure, but I liked my direction at the time. Let's take a short nostalgic trip down old-times lane. Stage 1 - I had a nice beard. Then we transformed into something special. By strange coincidence, today I received my last semester's student's evaluations. One suggestion on how I could improve my teaching: by growing a beard. I underestimated those students in their prophetic ability. They were certainly right... or so I thought right up until I got the "itch neck," or scientifically, "dirty beard," or correctly, "facial crabs and/or lice."

That leads me to my final point: I can finally stop wasting blog space with Beckstrom bullshit. She's done, and you should read her last spewing at badgerherald.com. When I shaved my beard, I sent it to her in a flowery envelope. Now we love each other.

Now I'm going to drop some benadryl, drink some whisky, and have a review session for the kids to enjoy.