You were in a hurry to get to work, but the catch was rain; it covered the black asphalt that morning like a blanket - the road, or you, had not woken up yet. You chose to get a house in the country a couple months ago, but the low cost of the home didn't make up for the extra time and money you have spent commuting - about two hours a day to and from your place of work.
Since you moved into the country, the low population out there didn't get much democracy accomplished like any rural area, so you ended up with those roads that weren't flat, but more like the top of a cake - these were very dumb looking roads, and were not built for rainstorms. Though the rain doesn't sit on a contoured country road, it runs off it's sides quite like your car that morning. Your so called "sport utility vehicle" couldn't get proper traction when you took that sharp left, and it just kind of slid off the road. The other catch was, that the side of the road was a steep edge which terminated into a revine of some sorts - which was now full of water.
Sliding off road was such a bad idea for you and your SUV, because it ended up on it's roof. The windshield and everything else had cracked, and water quickly poured into the cabin. Of course, you didn't know this - you were sound asleep.
Since you now lived in the country, you thought that wearing a safety harness wasn't necessary, especially since you drove such a big car. But now that good old boy mentality has quite possibly caused you some serious problems; the water has now submerged your nose, and your mouth - all that sticks out now is your neck; an onlooker would think this image quite spooky.
An so there came an onlooker, or in this case, a brave country man who just loves to wade around in knee-deep water while trying to rescue his fellow SUV-man. Even though this rescuer looks down on things from Hollywood, there is something so adventurous about the rain that pours off the brim of his hat; there is something so exhilerating about the rain that soaks his clothes - he takes his shirt off and wraps it around his fist as a protective mitt so that he may punch in the glass. It rains on the man's bare back, and he feels like Indiana Jones - that Hollywood cowboy historian.
Smash!
The countryman shatters the glass, and fragments of it spread across the water above your submerged face - by the time the man raises your head out of the water, some of the glass has drifted into your mouth and down your throat. The countryman eagerly tests his sexuality by recesitating you without your knowing - some foreign country lips are on yours now, blowing air into your lungs - blowing that glass further into who knows where; the last time the man had been in contact with a male orally was when he was a curious country boy, and pretended to drown when his friend was around.
You choke to life after a few minutes; as you can imagine the shock of disorientation - test yourself by pretending to wake up to this right now.
"Gaddamn! We got to get you to a doctor! I don't have a mobile, so I's gonna take you myself!"
The good old boy lays you down in the bed of his truck as you soon realize that you couldn't feel the lower half of your body - yes, even your genetalia. You don't really care that he layed you on a bed of solid steel leaf suspended upon a rough country road - he only had a single cab long bed Silverado - a phallus of a truck, you think.
You thought that when the truck would stop, an awning of some sorts would be above you, or at least the presence of a hospital emergency drive thru type structure. But the skidding of the tires on gravel suggested you had stopped somewhere more rural than the hospital.
"I'll be right back, son." He popps his head above you for a moment and then disappears. You think to yourself why he calls you son since he looks about your age - thirty-ish.
The tailgate closes, and you strain your crooked neck to see him with a green vinyl-upholstered streacher. He pulls you by your feet and slides you onto the slick green machine; after your body is all the way on, he straps your upper, mid, and lower sections for safety. He rolls you across the rough gravel, under a carport, and into the silence of what is obviously his home, his kitchen.
Out the corner of your vision, you can see that there is an island in the middle of this kitchen affixed with a built-in industrial-size stove which you might see in a Denny's. Above the stove, you thought you saw decorative drop-down lights, but you then notice that they are two security cameras. A cooking show?
Before you become truly frightened, he unbuckles the straps which had fastened you to that green streacher. After that, he procedes to remove your shoes, your socks, and then...
"We're going to have to take this off."
He flips out a hunting knife that is used to sear through deer hide and cuts the fabric of your undershirt in three different places - it comes off easily, as do your pants and everything else. Now you wonder.
"Don't worry" the man says "I'm a doctor."
If the pain you were enduring was less, you might have attempted to fight the man, but at this point, you'd accept anything. But this - if you only knew what he was about to do, you would have magically tried to run out of that place.
That stove you saw, you were soon on top of it and feeling the heat. You looked above into the iris of one of the cameras and wondered who would ever be watching this in the future. Soon, your too hot to feel humiliated - he turns up the burners on the lower half of your body - you can only smell yourself cooking away - you hoped now that you would never be able to feel them again.
"I'm in a psycho house." You come to terms with this, just like you came to terms with the gas prices - but so much for gas prices; your guzzler is in a ditch getting all rusty and investigated. The cops know that you're missing, and so will everyone else. But you know where you are, your in hell.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Fog of Hypocracy
Hypocracy is intentionally misspelled; the makeshift word "hypocracy" is a hybrid word derived from the meanings of the words "hypocrisy" and "democracy".
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Looseferian Theorology
Of course the most famous delicacy is the Delicacy itself. Some people calls it the Bald Eagle, but the bird is really known as a Delicacy to the Stratlings - those being the beings whom occupy the stratosphere of Earth - those beings who sometimes dip too low with themselves or their things, and ultimately confuse the Earthlings.
However, the feeling is mutual for the Stratlings - whom also fire concentrated beams of plasma at the tips of earth-born intercontinental ballistic missiles, sending the giant rockets tumbling off into space. Between the two races, many things they have are shared and are similar, however they of course have different uses and meanings for all things, especially names.
The Bald Eagle is named the Delicacy, for example; however the definition of delicacy is dissimilar from the Earthling's meaning - which is a rare find of sorts, used mostly in the context of delisciousnessness. The Stratlings' definition of "delicacy" is what would be something like "traditional" to Earthlings. So the Delicacy is something like a chicken, really - this is of course why the Bald Eagle, or the Delicacy is such a rare species, because it is constantly consumed by the Stratlings.
Of course, knowing this and being native (within the past three hundred years) to the United States is an atrocity to hear that such a valuable symbol to the country is consumed by physically higher beings as if it was nothing more than a traditional sustinance for foreign stomachs - or as the Stratlings call their primary digestive organ, the Bald Eagle, and then it's produced digestive materials, Deepsouth, which waits for deliverance within the Suburbs, which are the intestinal tract; the whole "digestive system", infact, is called the "Projects" by the Stratlings.
Some of this might seem symbolic, ironic, and almost grotesqley transcendent into Earthling society, but that's because the people who made these words we speak, and the forum of which we speak in, were Stratlings - they were secret Stratling agents who infiltrated Earthling society less than 2,100 years ago.
It seems unbelievable, or what the Stratlings would call "religion", that such a thing is possible - that the Stratlings actually created the success, or what the Stratlings would call "perjury", which has made Earthlings look so smart - especially within the past hundred years or so.
From above, the young Stratlings watch the little Earthlings down below them, inhaling what the Earthlings call "green house gasses", but what the Stratlings call "oxygen".
Of course, it was the oil companies whom are influenced mostly by these Stratlings. As known by many Earthlings and Stratlings, when oil's kinetic energy is spent, the bi-product are many different types of oxides which for Earthlings spell "green house gasses", but for Stratlings spell "oxygen" and "energy". It was so important that the Stratlings caught up the Earthlings, for without the Earthlings' energy expenses, the Stratlings would not be able to efficiently grow their technologies; this is why the Stratlings infiltrated Earthling society.
On a typical day, the expenses of energy produced from one average Earthling fleet (1,000 domestic automobiles) will provide enough energy and oxygen for one Stratling for one day; these beings are quite smart, but are obviously inefficient.
When all energy on Earth is spent, the Stratlings will leave Earth and colonize the stratosphere of another poor planet that's full of malleable beings. After this, Earthling society as it is today will cease to continue, and will slowly revert back to it's orginal state. Earthlings will pick up where they left off; they will hunt, kill, and cannibalize one another just to stay alive, just like animals would. But the word that Earthlings now know as "peace" will then be forgotten, and only the Stratlings will remember that they named such a meaning "earth".
Earth be with you.
However, the feeling is mutual for the Stratlings - whom also fire concentrated beams of plasma at the tips of earth-born intercontinental ballistic missiles, sending the giant rockets tumbling off into space. Between the two races, many things they have are shared and are similar, however they of course have different uses and meanings for all things, especially names.
The Bald Eagle is named the Delicacy, for example; however the definition of delicacy is dissimilar from the Earthling's meaning - which is a rare find of sorts, used mostly in the context of delisciousnessness. The Stratlings' definition of "delicacy" is what would be something like "traditional" to Earthlings. So the Delicacy is something like a chicken, really - this is of course why the Bald Eagle, or the Delicacy is such a rare species, because it is constantly consumed by the Stratlings.
Of course, knowing this and being native (within the past three hundred years) to the United States is an atrocity to hear that such a valuable symbol to the country is consumed by physically higher beings as if it was nothing more than a traditional sustinance for foreign stomachs - or as the Stratlings call their primary digestive organ, the Bald Eagle, and then it's produced digestive materials, Deepsouth, which waits for deliverance within the Suburbs, which are the intestinal tract; the whole "digestive system", infact, is called the "Projects" by the Stratlings.
Some of this might seem symbolic, ironic, and almost grotesqley transcendent into Earthling society, but that's because the people who made these words we speak, and the forum of which we speak in, were Stratlings - they were secret Stratling agents who infiltrated Earthling society less than 2,100 years ago.
It seems unbelievable, or what the Stratlings would call "religion", that such a thing is possible - that the Stratlings actually created the success, or what the Stratlings would call "perjury", which has made Earthlings look so smart - especially within the past hundred years or so.
From above, the young Stratlings watch the little Earthlings down below them, inhaling what the Earthlings call "green house gasses", but what the Stratlings call "oxygen".
Of course, it was the oil companies whom are influenced mostly by these Stratlings. As known by many Earthlings and Stratlings, when oil's kinetic energy is spent, the bi-product are many different types of oxides which for Earthlings spell "green house gasses", but for Stratlings spell "oxygen" and "energy". It was so important that the Stratlings caught up the Earthlings, for without the Earthlings' energy expenses, the Stratlings would not be able to efficiently grow their technologies; this is why the Stratlings infiltrated Earthling society.
On a typical day, the expenses of energy produced from one average Earthling fleet (1,000 domestic automobiles) will provide enough energy and oxygen for one Stratling for one day; these beings are quite smart, but are obviously inefficient.
When all energy on Earth is spent, the Stratlings will leave Earth and colonize the stratosphere of another poor planet that's full of malleable beings. After this, Earthling society as it is today will cease to continue, and will slowly revert back to it's orginal state. Earthlings will pick up where they left off; they will hunt, kill, and cannibalize one another just to stay alive, just like animals would. But the word that Earthlings now know as "peace" will then be forgotten, and only the Stratlings will remember that they named such a meaning "earth".
Earth be with you.
and Eat it, Too
Baker waits impatiently in line, anticipating the sloth of slop to be plopped on his warm Luby's plate - it's thick as hell so when children drop the plates, they don't break; too bad adults have to be smited to carry the same ones - but who are adults kidding, you think, there are probably more adults talking on cell phones and dropping plates then little boys and girls.
Now dessert is near; many people shy away from the dessert, thinking that others will say under their breath...
"Like you need that slice of cake."
Baker passes on the cake, you knew he would, but you would have rather he just eat the cake and get it over with; you've been to his apartment and seen the remnants of his sweet rewards in the trabasura. Now you are affront the sweatty Luby's lady; she's had her fair share of cakes, you think as she asks you...
"Would you like a slice of the end of the world?"
You tilt your head slowly; you thought she said that the piece of cake was the end of the world. You didn't want any anyway, so you shake your head.
"You sure, baby? Just a little taste?"
She reaches down the front of her blouse and pulls out a shiny fork. Like a proffessional, she stabs the bottom of the slice, the tip of the "V"; it is now a "U". She raises the fork carefully, but swiftly; and you find yourself leaning on the tempered glass that separates you from the food, you open your mouth as if she's a nurse that's checking your tonsils, but she doesn't do this, no. The cold steel of the fork barrage attacks the ninety eight point six degrees temperate clime of your tongue, but shortly thereafter, the warm cake, which is chocolate by the way, rubs it's imperfect values across the roof of your mouth.
But what is this?
From the side, you find your fellow Baker in a rage; you can see right through him, though; it's all because of the cake. He doesn't understand why she offered you a taste and not him - after all she is just as fat as he was, thought Baker before he jammed the palm of his hand on the top of that fork, forcing it back into your mouth - way back. Too far back.
The fork must have punctured your left tonsil when he did this irrational act, and you feel some fluids drip down from there; you don't know if it's blood or tonsil fluid - you don't know if there is such a thing as tonsil fluid, but if there was, and this was it, it would be warm, and it would taste like mucus and blood, and it would just as any other liquid, be regurgitated by your lungs when and if it passed down that way.
The tonsil fluid might have been the last of your worries, however. The fork, you noticed, was now pretty sturdy in your mouth; the barrage of steel was holding it's weight pretty good back in there, and even with the remnants of that cake floating about. You're coughing like a maniac, and you're making such a nuiscance that black people are going white and white people are going green.
You go to pull the fork out, even though you're aware of the consequences, but that thing is so damn uncomfortable back there that you might as well, however when you start to make the motions to do so, Baker notices this, and pretends to help you...
"Oh my god..."
He is a horrible actor, but nonetheless, you are unable to speak, and so he just reaches his grubby hand down into your mouth, pretending to try to wiggle the thing free, but really worsening the wound - you can now really feel some rush of blood going down to your lungs. Pretty soon, you see that you have coughed up alot onto Baker's white oxford XXL. You see a pen in his pocket, and the first thing that comes to your mind secondly goes into his.
"Oh my god!"
People yell as you stab Baker in the ear canal with his own Uniball; you had to undo the top of the pen before you did it, and the dumb bastard still didn't have time to figure you out. But you were safe from Baker now. But now you were drinking and breathing in your own blood.
"That was some baaaad cake, nigga."
It could have been the last thing you said, but you remembered that you only took a slice - you'd be allright.
Now dessert is near; many people shy away from the dessert, thinking that others will say under their breath...
"Like you need that slice of cake."
Baker passes on the cake, you knew he would, but you would have rather he just eat the cake and get it over with; you've been to his apartment and seen the remnants of his sweet rewards in the trabasura. Now you are affront the sweatty Luby's lady; she's had her fair share of cakes, you think as she asks you...
"Would you like a slice of the end of the world?"
You tilt your head slowly; you thought she said that the piece of cake was the end of the world. You didn't want any anyway, so you shake your head.
"You sure, baby? Just a little taste?"
She reaches down the front of her blouse and pulls out a shiny fork. Like a proffessional, she stabs the bottom of the slice, the tip of the "V"; it is now a "U". She raises the fork carefully, but swiftly; and you find yourself leaning on the tempered glass that separates you from the food, you open your mouth as if she's a nurse that's checking your tonsils, but she doesn't do this, no. The cold steel of the fork barrage attacks the ninety eight point six degrees temperate clime of your tongue, but shortly thereafter, the warm cake, which is chocolate by the way, rubs it's imperfect values across the roof of your mouth.
But what is this?
From the side, you find your fellow Baker in a rage; you can see right through him, though; it's all because of the cake. He doesn't understand why she offered you a taste and not him - after all she is just as fat as he was, thought Baker before he jammed the palm of his hand on the top of that fork, forcing it back into your mouth - way back. Too far back.
The fork must have punctured your left tonsil when he did this irrational act, and you feel some fluids drip down from there; you don't know if it's blood or tonsil fluid - you don't know if there is such a thing as tonsil fluid, but if there was, and this was it, it would be warm, and it would taste like mucus and blood, and it would just as any other liquid, be regurgitated by your lungs when and if it passed down that way.
The tonsil fluid might have been the last of your worries, however. The fork, you noticed, was now pretty sturdy in your mouth; the barrage of steel was holding it's weight pretty good back in there, and even with the remnants of that cake floating about. You're coughing like a maniac, and you're making such a nuiscance that black people are going white and white people are going green.
You go to pull the fork out, even though you're aware of the consequences, but that thing is so damn uncomfortable back there that you might as well, however when you start to make the motions to do so, Baker notices this, and pretends to help you...
"Oh my god..."
He is a horrible actor, but nonetheless, you are unable to speak, and so he just reaches his grubby hand down into your mouth, pretending to try to wiggle the thing free, but really worsening the wound - you can now really feel some rush of blood going down to your lungs. Pretty soon, you see that you have coughed up alot onto Baker's white oxford XXL. You see a pen in his pocket, and the first thing that comes to your mind secondly goes into his.
"Oh my god!"
People yell as you stab Baker in the ear canal with his own Uniball; you had to undo the top of the pen before you did it, and the dumb bastard still didn't have time to figure you out. But you were safe from Baker now. But now you were drinking and breathing in your own blood.
"That was some baaaad cake, nigga."
It could have been the last thing you said, but you remembered that you only took a slice - you'd be allright.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Terminal March
Move around. A brisk five-minute walk can make you more alert. If you work at a computer terminal, try standing up and marching in place for about five minutes. Stretching also may help.
Try marching in place. Be a trooper. You're economic infantry. March like you are a whore to your boss. He stands in the corner with his arms crossed, smirking as you march in place; he nods his head; he is proud of his trooper.
A co-worker of yours has noticed your marching for the past three minutes, but he thinks that you look ridiculous. It was only until the third minute that he noticed the boss in the corner, supervising your marching. Your co-worker streaches his arms above his head, twists his back - crack.
"Why don't you go for a brisk five-minute walk, Jennings?" The boss' voice snuck into Jennings' cubicle like Milford, the popping sweat ball who rolled his fat body into everyone's workspace at least twice every day, uninvited and smelly, and therefore disliked. Jennings disliked that fat ball of crap almost as much as he hated his boss' ridiculous commands; and don't get Jennings started on how foolish and pompous you look right now.
"You and you Goddamn marching." Jennings whispers under his breath as he gets up from his seat; he wonders if his sweaty ass has made a print on his rotating cloth chair. Even so, it's not as if the boss would say anything anyway; he's the type of man that loves being indiferent to the smell of a locker room.
"It'll make you more alert."
Jennings starts walking away from his boss at the pace of your dumbass marching in place, so he leaves the room quickly enough. Of course, as Jennings walks, he only thinks of that boss of his standing like a statue; an erect dumbass who wouldn't move if he pissed his own pants. Astute in his own right, he believes that every one of his workers look up to him as an authority figure. The bulge in his pants shows them that he has the keys to this place; he's the one who locks it all up at night; it's all his, and so are you.
As much as you know you look foolish, and as much as Jennings bugs you about it at the bar, you still don't mind marching in place in front of your computer terminal. It makes your boss proud, and that makes you proud. You start to imagine you and your boss at the gentlemen's lounge sipping scotch and puffing smoke from brown phallus.
"Feel good?"
Your five minutes is up; sit back down and disappear completely.
Try marching in place. Be a trooper. You're economic infantry. March like you are a whore to your boss. He stands in the corner with his arms crossed, smirking as you march in place; he nods his head; he is proud of his trooper.
A co-worker of yours has noticed your marching for the past three minutes, but he thinks that you look ridiculous. It was only until the third minute that he noticed the boss in the corner, supervising your marching. Your co-worker streaches his arms above his head, twists his back - crack.
"Why don't you go for a brisk five-minute walk, Jennings?" The boss' voice snuck into Jennings' cubicle like Milford, the popping sweat ball who rolled his fat body into everyone's workspace at least twice every day, uninvited and smelly, and therefore disliked. Jennings disliked that fat ball of crap almost as much as he hated his boss' ridiculous commands; and don't get Jennings started on how foolish and pompous you look right now.
"You and you Goddamn marching." Jennings whispers under his breath as he gets up from his seat; he wonders if his sweaty ass has made a print on his rotating cloth chair. Even so, it's not as if the boss would say anything anyway; he's the type of man that loves being indiferent to the smell of a locker room.
"It'll make you more alert."
Jennings starts walking away from his boss at the pace of your dumbass marching in place, so he leaves the room quickly enough. Of course, as Jennings walks, he only thinks of that boss of his standing like a statue; an erect dumbass who wouldn't move if he pissed his own pants. Astute in his own right, he believes that every one of his workers look up to him as an authority figure. The bulge in his pants shows them that he has the keys to this place; he's the one who locks it all up at night; it's all his, and so are you.
As much as you know you look foolish, and as much as Jennings bugs you about it at the bar, you still don't mind marching in place in front of your computer terminal. It makes your boss proud, and that makes you proud. You start to imagine you and your boss at the gentlemen's lounge sipping scotch and puffing smoke from brown phallus.
"Feel good?"
Your five minutes is up; sit back down and disappear completely.
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