The Cog of St. Jermaine (Salts #26-27)

26) "Nom Carver," they'd shout at him. After all, that was his name, and after all, he did have the sole patent on the latest hit real-life RPG entitled, "100 cat strikes to your grave." The game was loosely based on the sitcom Family Ties, but held back nothing in the way of magical abilities, magical dreamscapes, and apocalyptic tales of house pet horrors. His first mission, described only as "Meticulous machinations" involved his best friend Indigo, his uncle Will, and his own cat, Lowell, better known as Mr. Axicron Lowell the Krionic Iron Mage (MALKIM). The quest was fairly long and complex, just as uncle Will had wished. He was very much into wrenching on complicated machinery, 70's witchcraft, and cat magazines. Unfortunately, three hours into the quest, directly outside of K-Mart, MALKIM launched a furious series of cat slashes, back leg kicks, and one fire of wrath spell, sending Will directly home for the day. Ironically, he was on his way to the armorsmith's shop to purchase the only armor he could afford. He had no experience and very few hit points, thus befriending MALKIM so early in the adventure had backfired horribly. Another day Will, another day. He went home and watched porn, another one of his primary hobbies only slightly separated from sci-fi fascinations.

The remainder of the quest was fluffed with ruthless mind games and feline threats, causing Indigo to lose her cool and head to the Retirement home where she knew she could get free refreshments. This was taken by Nom to be nothing more than a flapping white flag. He called MALKIM in from the woods and he went about writing his next quest.

As quests grew in popularity and complexity, Nom was contacted by Heirem Belucki, an international strength in the RPG fashion scene. He had a sidekick, known as Captain Tunic Del Toro who wrote letters to Nom for a year. The letters where usually answered promptly, leading to a good business type relationship. This was good, and Nom was eventually awarded a contract to write 10 quests. His quests challenged people nationwide and eventually Nom was given a lifetime contract. He never looked back or contacted uncle Will or Indigo again. They both got jobs in retail and looked up to Nom even though he was a slimy wart in their sub-conscious.

27) "Please step off the grass." The sign told them this everyday, yet they continued to piss on, kick up, and pull the grass from its steady roots. Sometimes they threw it up in the air, other times they smashed it into small crevices located in far away places. Armell, the self-proclaimed king of Pepsi, once smashed it into Ardell's best shirt pocket, causing severe staining and a forgettable itch. "Another day, another dollar," he said, knowing full well that it would cost at least $2 to get the shirt dry-cleaned. Astell, the third wheel of the threesome, known for her hefty laugh and in-your-face running styles, never gave up on the future, and always insisted that each day produce a new grass idea. Last week would be a week of ceremonial burning of the grass, but this Saturday brought the sun, and the insistent spawning of new grass blades. There they stood, Astell in the lead, Ardell with a new shirt, and Armell sweating bullets on the sidelines. No inspiration was available. The grass, sensing this, opened up into a gaping black mass of a hole, all the while slow, exotic electronic music played a dirge. They were swallowed, and probably never learned their lesson. As they say, to grow with the grass is to perceive yourself, to die with it is to gift the earth and no more.

To the bitter end of the spring equinox

To those who have failed to take notice, the economy is threatening suicide. The method will likely be high-volume ingestion of mediocre grade poison or heavy blood letting. In grand American fashion, we've began to say, "who gives a fuck, but give me some stimulus dollars." The government has caved, and many will receive checks of up to $600, just enough to pay off no more than 1/50th of your credit card debt. The spiraling debt of the lot of credit card users will be an endless pestilence turned upon us. Personally, I have over $400,000 on my credit line, and only had to prove that I had a car or a job to get it. I haven't made significant purchases yet, but I've arranged for the purchase of 23 pairs of pants, a helicopter ride, 100,00 sand bags, and an arsenal of defensive weaponry. I will win in the short term, and in the end, we all lose. Such is the way of our culturally pervasive economic philosophy. As they say, you're not truly rich until your wealth is no longer anybody else's debt.

In other news, my previous post, not yet created, will bring the reader great joy in knowing that I've gone to great extents to enjoy things. Read below.

Black Mass Lucifer - Keepin' the Scene Alive

- West Allis, 18Apr09

West Allis is a throwback. Not by choice, but by necessary intelligent design. It has nowhere else to go. Its past is scarred with one story brick shanties clad in cheap plastic, rusted out 100 acre facilities, and masses of unwanted human resource. Through the stagnant air, once a welcome and comfortable atmosphere for all sorts of highly sought toxic clouds, some people maintain a clear vision.

These people spend their evening in wretched places like Smokin' Joes, which makes the arrogant promise of "hot chick. sandwiches." This is not a joke. Most people appear to have been the same age for 20 years. Not that they look youthful, but they just haven't changed. Even people in their 20's fall under this umbrella. This forces me to admit my living in, and looking like, the past. I'm not embarrassed, but am disappointed. I thought I was doing better in terms of modernity.

To get away from this, and in looking optimistically towards the future, its only in places like this that a person can witness a Judas Priest cover band, in this case The Hellion. A Rob Halford look alike is nothing to fear they say, but they are wrong. The Halford look alikes bring the truth forth in West Allis. On this night it came in the form of "Rocker Boy," who is clearly not a boy anymore, but is also clearly the leader of cult, much like Children of the Corn's Malachi, but not plotting to be, or even summons, Satan and his unholy posse. He comes complete with over-patched jean jacket and permanent marker name tag on collar: Rocker Boy. He aims to settle his scores by bringing back all hair band, even though he himself has shaved his head. You know he's going to strike up conversation with you depending on your shirt, and you know you're going to have to come up with an excuse to leave during awkward silence, lest you be willing to get sucked in. He is the symbol of the strength for what's left of West Allis, the symbol of freedom, the symbol of humble lifestyles and American pie. He lives in each of us, yet he himself lives through Cinderella. He's nobody's fool. Live on West Allis, live on.

Overall, he's a good guy, I just can't talk too much about the shirts I wear. It's similar to saying to a classmate you haven't seen in 10 years: "So, what are you up to now?" With that said, please feel free to ask me about my shirts, as I also have the compulsive need to explain them, the former sentence was to indicate to people that I am in fact, wearing the shirts ironically.

Rocker Boy

Lest the beast is deceased

Tomorrow, two (2) months since the last post. As the economy screams in pain, so does this blog. The same story seems to re-seed itself bi-monthly.

Just as the gorillas that dog the deaf, this blog is dogged by its former acquaintances. Insults and general defamation are key characteristics.

Since the last post I traveled to Germany and was introduced to a dangerous lemon fungal drink. My dog also got diabetes. Wolford Brimley has diabetes too, and can easily obtain supplies from Liberty. My dog can't even use the phone or internet, so she depends on my liberty for her health. The world is a strange place. I still can't speak German and I know they're taking advantage of this in an unholy way.

But, we digress from the primary points - laughter, humiliation, and chaos. This is what keeps the world turning. When did you say we would all start burning?