tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45024805737162106262024-03-08T04:13:05.584-08:00Latent AmbiguityAn exercise in futility.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-52526496537118264712012-12-06T00:29:00.000-08:002012-12-07T18:16:13.330-08:00Flash Fiction Challenge: The Last 1000 Words Of An Non-Existant Novel<i>I haven't participated in the last few Flash Fiction Challenges over at <a href="http://www.terribleminds.com/">Chuck Wendig's House of Tomfoolery</a></i> <i>due, mainly, to a severe lack of motivation. However, last night I was sitting around having one of those moments when I didn't know if I was bored, hungry, horny, or just needed to do some good, hard drinking. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Turns out, what I really needed to do was write (along with some good, hard drinking). So, since I didn't have any good ideas of my own, I sauntered over to Mr. Wendig's space to see what his latest challenge was--I prefer to saunter on the web, don't ask me why--and it inspired me to produce the following piece of fiction</i>.<i> It was actually pretty difficult. Trying to get a cohesive narrative across, capturing, or at the very least alluding to, the previous events in the story while staying true to the challenge was extremely hard, but also, incredibly fun.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Epilogue</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
1</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It has been many years, and he has found
them. His wounds have healed but Lara's passing still haunts him. The
nightmares are often, and in them he relives her death.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>In the dreams Malbec somehow senses,
somehow </i><span style="font-style: normal;">knows</span><i> about
the amulet, and in his knowing has rendered it powerless. He cannot
defeat him. He sees the cruel tools wielded by the twisted forms of
the Enclave's priests. Watches as her Essence is torn from her; the
one he swore to protect. His vision is blurred by tears as the
priests channel his love's Essence into the vessel, knowing all is
lost. A moment later he feels Malbec's sword pierce his belly and his
screams echo out across a world on fire.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He does not wake from these nightmares
with a start, there have been far too many for that, but he must
reach within himself, to the place in his mind where she resides,
before he can relax. Her presence is reassuring. Her Essence still
lives within him and has made him powerful, now he will use that
power to rend the soul of the man who betrayed them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He strides from the tent and lets the
cheers of his army wash over him, for they know that today blood will
be spilled and, with him at their head, they know they cannot be
defeated. As the cries fade and the men resume preparing themselves;
saddles cinched tight, breastplates donned, swords honed for the last
time before they taste the blood of their enemies, he thinks of the
young soldier who left his home to protect an even younger girl on
her journey. A girl blessed with Magick more potent than anyone had
guessed. Not her, nor the man who had sent them on that doomed quest.
The man who had wanted more than anything to possess her Essence, the
man whose hide he planned to carve her name into before the sun went
down on this day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Preparations made, he stands outside
the camp, his army massed behind him. He draws upon Lara's
Essence—her last gift to him, his last chance to fulfill his
vow—and his body is surrounded in a cold blue fire. Its caress is
her caress, and with it comes the sorrow, the longing, for though a
part of her is always with him, it is not the part he loved most.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He reaches out and opens the Way. It is
almost too easy, like a whisper, and he smiles to think of the effort
it took the first time he tried to use her power. His search for the Enclave was not his only obsession these long years, and he has learned his lessons well.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Way is wide enough that one hundred
men riding abreast could easily pass through it, and tall enough that
the siege engines could be stacked three high and still have room to
spare. On the other side he can see the enemy's city. The spiraling
towers of the Enclave stark against the blue sky, as if someone had
taken a dagger and cut them from the day, exposing the night beneath.
He scans the horizon for a moment, his eyes deep wells of blue fire,
and steps through the Way onto the battlefield.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
2</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Deep within the central tower of the
Enclave the Viceroy enters the Grand Hall. The only light is given
off by guttering torches held by sconces set into pillars every
twenty paces or so. At the end of the hall, behind a stone desk, sits
the King. He is poring over ancient scrolls which are scattered
across the desk and spilling onto the floor; The Prophecies.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Viceroy's heels echo as he crosses
the cavernous room until he stands before the King. “There is an
army massing to our south,” he says. “Our scouts have confirmed,
it is Pernod.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The King looks up from the scroll he is
holding. “Has he come as Vengeance?” he asks. The King sits back in his
chair, closes his eyes, and recites, “<i>Vengeance shall come unto
us, wreathed in flame, his armies vast, and the Enclave shall drink
from him as from a chalice so that we are made whole, and our power,
everlasting</i>.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Viceroy trembles before the King.
“They say it is Pernod. They say he burns like the sun.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The King opens his eyes and stands. “So
the boy has come back to us,” he says, walking around the desk, the
papers he was studying now forgotten. “You see, all things must
serve the Prophecies. We have waited long and long for this day, let
us go to him, and let us drink deep.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-60227613380182010272012-10-30T22:01:00.000-07:002012-10-30T22:18:13.936-07:00The Parim Kardashiltian Effect<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What if I told you, 20 years ago, that
I was going to build a database that contained every single detail of
peoples lives; from their name, to their age, to their address. From
their place of business, to their friends, neighbors, family, and
acquaintances. It would have personal photographs, maps of their daily
routes, the places they frequent and play, their favorite restaurants
and coffee houses, movies, music, books, and TV shows.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It would be viewable by law
enforcement, employers, advertising agencies, and the federal
government.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then I told you that people would
willingly, happily, put all of that information into the database
themselves?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Would you tell me I was crazy? If you
know where I'm going with this—and you probably should—then you
might say, no. But if you're old enough to remember the days before
Facebook, then you might be thinking to yourself, “Yeah, I would
have thought that was crazy 20 years ago.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Welcome to the future, my friends!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I find it pretty interesting myself. Thinking about all of those people out there, just “checking
in” at every place they stop. Telling the whole world what they had
for lunch that day, or where they are going to be that night. Why?
Isn't that shit personal? </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Apparently not.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, I know I'm not the first person to
think about this, and most certainly not the first to write about it
(though, to be honest, I've never read those writings. Just going by
the law of averages here.) But I've really been thinking about this a
lot lately, and I feel the need to get my thoughts on this subject
down, if for no other reason than to <i>make my brain shut the fuck
up about it</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">So,
why? Why do people so willingly give up every single little detail
about their personal lives? I have a theory; I call it The Parim
Kardashiltian Effect. People are so desperate for
fame-for-the-sake-of-fame that they are willing to sacrifice all of
their personal privacy to attain even the merest hint of it. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">They
see Kim and Paris being followed around by cameras every day being
“real” and think, “I want that.” They know no better, and
think the bile-inducing train wreck of these peoples lives is
something to be emulated, while those of us with functioning neurons
can only stand by and slowly shake our heads. </span><i>And we are
the minority!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">These
people believe they are such special, magical, one-of-a-kind, little
snowflakes that they honestly think the whole world wants, nay,
</span><i>needs</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to know about
how delicious that ham sandwich they had for lunch was. They use the
GPS in their phones to map out every place they stop, but shit their
pants when they find out that their faggoty ass iPhone has a “secret”
text file that can be accessed by anyone with a computer.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Really?
You document every detail of your life in an easily accessible online
database and then freak out when you learn that if someone </span><i>physically</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
gets ahold of your device they can open a text file detailing the
different sites on the route you just uploaded to the net via your
GPS?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Why
would you care about that when anyone with an internet connection can
just go to <a href="http://www.facebook.com/idontunderstandirony">www.Facebook.com/idontunderstandirony</a>
and see what you were up to that day?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">There
are already numerous documented cases of stalking, harrassment, and
people announcing their plans to take a week-long vacation, then
coming home to find they've been robbed. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">What
was that? Not you? Your account is private, you say? Oh really. How
private? Can friends of friends view your profile? Just friends? How
big is your friends list? </span><i>It's over 9000?!!!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Or, maybe it's not.
Maybe you have a reasonable amount of friends, who you know and
trust, and only they can view your profile. OK. What about the cops?
Or the FBI? Or the CIA? What about them? You think you can hold up
Facebook's privacy policy like a sacred shield and prevent a federal
agency from peeping on your shit? In a country where we have the
Patriot Act, warrantless wiretapping, and the ability to indefinitely
detain an American Citizen on the mere <i>suspicion</i> of “terrorist
activity”?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yeah, sure, go
ahead and think that.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Look, I don't want
to come off like some conspiracy-theory-spouting tinfoil-hat crazy,
but as a realist who has, more than once, come a hairs-breadth from deleting the
profile I haven't updated in years; <i>I can't say that I am
comfortable with the amount of information I have already shared</i>, and
even that is infinitesimal compared to what most people are putting
out on a daily basis.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I think of
Facebook nowadays I can't help but conjure post-cold war,
pre-internet images of government offices with rows and rows of
filing cabinets, all with countless manila folders inside, and one of
them has your name on it.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Back then it was
scary. Now, it's just a status update.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-35153749219658468932012-10-28T18:47:00.000-07:002012-10-28T22:29:58.527-07:00Words That Need To Die: Not So Much<i>I've recently noticed that I am becoming more sensitive to the stupidity in our popular lexicon and this is an extension of that sensitivity. </i>Words That Need To Die <i>is my attempt to articulate my hate when it comes to pop-culture words and phrases (I'm looking at you, Epic) that need to die an immediate death so as to spare me and humanity, but mostly me, from the bone-shattering migraine that erupts between my temples every time they are used. As always, feel free to disagree; it wont hurt my feelings and changes absolutely nothing.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<h2 class="western">
Definition of <i>MUCH</i></h2>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
1</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>a</i> <b>:</b> great in
quantity, amount, extent, or degree</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Take a look at the definition above. It is from the Merriam-Webster online dictionary and it is crucial to the main reason my tiny black heart flares with rage when I hear the phrase "not so much". There are, of course, other reasons, so lets examine those first, shall we.</div>
<br />
I think the first reason I hate this turn of phrase are the people who seem to be foisting this insipid nonsense on the rest of us; Advertising Assholes and The Uncreative. Two classes of people absolutely
guaranteed to send me into paroxysms of rage and disgust.<br />
<br />
I find that when a word, or phrase, that was once cool/funny has been usurped by the Advertising Establishment it becomes useless. It is the final nail in the meme coffin. And those that continue to use them after their expiration date are usually part of The Uncreative; people who can't, or won't, contribute anything new and are content rooting around in the culture-dumpster using everyone else's leftovers long after they've begun to rot and smell of putrescence.<br />
<br />
They will happily use a trod-into-the-ground joke or meme--as if they were the ones who just thought of it--as a substitute for actual humor; these are the types of people who still think they can get a laugh from a Brokeback Mountain reference when talking about gays.<br />
<br />
To these people I say, "Hey, buddy, why don't you go back to gazing into your asshole in the mirror. The rest of us non-morons are trying to have a conversation."<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The second reason this phrase bothers me is, <i>I don't know where it came from! </i>Why is it so prevalent? Who was the
first one to say that shit? Why is it so fucking popular now; was it
a meme I missed out on? How did it get so deeply ingrained into our
popular lexicon?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Does anyone know where this shit came from? Because I cannot think of one single pop-culture event to pin this word-turd to. Usually a phrase like this will come from a movie, or video, or some celebrity quote. But this shit seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. Quietly pervading our homes and places of business one dipshit acquaintance at a time, until, one day, we were surrounded and inundated by this horrible, horrible, phrase.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But my main reason for hating this phrase harder than a CEO hates paying a middle-class tax rate? It is <i>constantly </i>being used incorrectly by the dumb-asses that I already despise, so it's like getting double-fist punched in the junk by Captain Kirk every time I hear it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Take a look at the definition above. "Much" is a term used for the measurement of differences between things. So the phrase "not so much" <i>can</i> be used to form a coherent sentence, but the knuckle-draggers in our society seem to think they can use it for any damned situation, and that is when I find myself imagining my hands clenched around their throats in a vain attempt to shut off their air supply before they can utter one...more...idiotic...word.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lets take a look at some examples of the correct usage of the phrase "not so much": </div>
<ul>
<li>Jim is really into clown pussy, but me? Eh, not so much. </li>
<li>Bob took a four foot shit, but Steve? Eh, not so
much. </li>
<li>I can hate-fuck Flo from progressive up the ass for fifteen
hours straight with a pine cone, but her husband? Eh, not so much.</li>
</ul>
You see? Those work because you can break them down into their most basic format and they will still make sense. How much into clown pussy? Not so much.
How much shit? Not so much. How much hate-fucking? Not so much.<br />
<br />
Now, lets take a look at how a moron uses the phrase "not so much":<br />
<ul>
<li>Mike can fold paper into little origami
Fleshlights, but Ted? Eh, not so much. </li>
<li>Phillip can backflip onto
another man's erect penis, but Joe? Eh, not so much.</li>
<li>I can dislocate my shoulder to shove my arm elbow-deep into my own asshole, but Julio? Eh, not so much.</li>
</ul>
Can you break those down into a basic format which makes actual sense? How much...what? Ability to fold paper? Proficiency at
backflipping onto dicks? Double-jointedness in their shoulder?<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It doesn't work, because there is nothing to measure in those three examples as they are absolute; either you can backflip onto
a dick or you can't. Either you dislocate your own shoulder in order to get the extra four inches you need to go elbow deep or you don't. There is no in-between to be measured by the
word “much”.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I need special medicine to keep from erupting in a foam-spewing-from-between-my-clenched-teeth rage whenever words like these are used. I am forced by my brain to analyze the minutiae of seemingly inconsequential crap until I am reduced to a reptilian pile of seething hate when they are used, and most especially, used incorrectly. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So please, if you are going to wallow in the pop-offal and use "not so much", use it correctly. Otherwise, I may have to skip a dose and start The Great Culling in earnest.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<br /></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-66130248603070914812012-10-23T21:21:00.000-07:002012-10-24T01:56:59.911-07:00My Pirate Joke<i>Many moons ago, on the 19th of September, it was National Talk Like A Pirate Day. I commemorated this day by writing a pirate joke. Why, you ask? Well, because the pirate jokes out there are mostly shit. </i><br />
<br />
<i>You see, a friend and I have this little ritual. Sometimes we will go to lunch together, and during these lunches we will tell each other jokes cobbled together from off the internet to see which one of us can make the other laugh a french fry through their nose. It's a fun little game we play. And sometimes, if the mood strikes us, or if it's a special occasion, we will pick a theme. We've done blonde jokes, and "a guy walks into a bar" jokes, and, on the occasion of NTLAPD, pirate jokes!</i><br />
<br />
<i>We soon realized however, we had a dilemma akin to a rocky outcropping hidden just beneath the surface of a murky sea; a danger we hadn't anticipated that threatened to sink our little boat made of mirth and laughter. </i><br />
<br />
<i>All the pirate jokes were shit. Utter shit. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Nearly all the jokes we were able to find had some variation of "ARRRR" for a punchline. The pirate movie? Rated ARRRRR. The pirate's favorite animal? ARRRRdvark. My reaction to all of this? ARRRRR you fucking serious?!</i><br />
<br />
<i>Almost every single joke was like that. They were unusable. So, I climbed the mast of our happy little joke boat and screamed to the heavens, "I will write a pirate joke! It will not be shit! It will not have ARRRR anywhere even remotely close to being in it! Fuck all these other jokes!"</i><br />
<br />
<i>And so dear friends, I present to you, my pirate joke. Was I able to live up to my proclamations? I leave that for you to judge.</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i> <br />
<br />
It was Jim's first day as cabin boy on a pirate ship. As he boarded the
ship, he saw an old pirate with a peg leg swabbing the deck.<br />
<br />
Jim walked up and said, "Hi, I'm Jim, the new cabin boy."<br />
<br />
The
old pirate looked up from his mop and said, "Welcome aboard Jim, they
call me Peg-leg Pete on account that I lost me leg to a cannon ball, and
now all I got is this peg for a leg. Why dontcha' go on over to the Wheelhouse and meet the first mate?"<br />
<br />
At the Wheelhouse Jim found a surly looking pirate with a patch over one eye.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'm Jim, the new cabin boy."<br />
<br />
The
surly pirate says in a gruff voice, "Welcome aboard Jim, they call me
One-eyed Willie on account that I lost me eye in a sword fight, and now I
have to wear a patch. Why dontcha' you go to the captain's quarters and
let him know yer here."<br />
<br />
Jim, feeling uneasy about the condition
of the two crewmen he's met, heads over to the captain's quarters and
sees a tall pirate with a parrot on his shoulder and a hook for a hand.<br />
<br />
Jim
introduces himself, and the captain says, "Welcome aboard Jim, they
call me Captain Hook on account that I am the captain of this here
vessel, I lost me hand to a hungry crocodile, and now I have a hook
where me hand used to be. Why dontcha' head below decks, drop off yer
stuff, and meet yer bunk-mate."<br />
<br />
By this time Jim was starting to get really worried; he didn't realize being a pirate would be so dangerous.<br />
<br />
Below
decks Jim found his bunk and another pirate standing next to it. Jim
was greatly relieved to see that he had both his hands, both his legs,
and both his eyes. "<i>Maybe this won't be so bad after all</i>," he thought to
himself and said, "Hi, I'm Jim, the new cabin boy."<br />
<br />
His bunk-mate smiled and said, "Welcome aboard Jim, they call me Willy Woodpecker..."<br />
<br />Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-52754081396920774652012-10-22T23:33:00.000-07:002012-10-22T23:33:40.610-07:00The Rage Machine: David Siegel
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Today I was shown an email that was
sent by a billionaire named David Siegel to his employees. You can
read the full thing here
:<a href="http://finance.yahoo.com/news/ceo-workers-youll-likely-fired-131640914.html">http://finance.yahoo.com/news/ceo-workers-youll-likely-fired-131640914.html</a>,
you just have to scroll down a bit. There are quite a few gems in
this email that I am about to happily use to lance this boil on the
ass of the world, so I hope you're ready for some patented
Wordmurder. I also want to preface this post by saying that
everything contained herein is purely my opinion and anyone is
welcome to disagree with it; I don't give a shit. I would also like
to point out that this is satire, as I fully understand that Mr.
Siegel has the financial capability to squash me like the squirmy
multi-legged insect that I am. So, now that I have made my legal
disclaimer, let the shit-talking begin!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I sat aghast, reading this
over-privileged dipshit's feeble attempt to sway his employee's
votes, and began to wonder to myself how anyone could be such a
self-righteous douchebag and not simply implode under the weight of
their own ego.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He comes out the gate swinging. Wearing
a pair of ruby encrusted boxing gloves with the words “Self”
written on the left glove and “Righteous” on the right one, all
in stunning 24 karat gold.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>I started this company over 42
years ago. At that time, I lived in a very modest home. I converted
my garage into an office so I could put forth 100% effort into
building a company, which by the way, would eventually employ you. We
didn't eat in fancy restaurants or take expensive vacations because
every dollar I made went back into this company. I drove an old used
car, and often times, I stayed home on weekends, while my friends
went out drinking and partying. In fact, I was married to my business
- hard work, discipline, and sacrifice. Meanwhile, many of my friends
got regular jobs. They worked 40 hours a week and made a nice income,
and they spent every dime they earned. They drove flashy cars and
lived in expensive homes and wore fancy designer clothes. My friends
refinanced their mortgages and lived a life of luxury. I, however,
did not. I put my time, my money, and my life into this business
--with a vision that eventually, some day, I too, will be able to
afford to buy whatever I wanted.</i> “</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This guy couldn't possibly think more
highly of himself. I mean, he knows the true meaning of the word
sacrifice. He had to live in a <i>modest home</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
and had to drive a </span><i>used car</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Meanwhile his “friends” got “regular jobs” and pissed their
lives away, while </span><i>he</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
who is obviously sooo much better than them, did not. He created a
business, which by the way, would eventually make him a billionaire
asshole instead of just a regular asshole. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Well,
Mr. Siegel, how did you get that “very modest home”, might I ask?
Or the money to start your business? Obviously it wasn't from a
“regular job” you so easily derided, otherwise how could you put
forth the 100% effort you needed to build this business? Was it
somehow because you had the PRIVILEDGE to do so? You see, most people
work a “regular job” because they </span><i>have to</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
in order to pay their bills. Seems like you didn't have to worry
about stuff like that. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
problem I have here is that this story starts in the middle. Why do
you think that is? He doesn't go into how he got that very modest
house, or his used car. He already has them, </span><i>and</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
the money, </span><i>and </i><span style="font-style: normal;">the
time to start up a business on top of that. For most people just
getting the house and the car is hard enough, but Mr. Siegel
apparently was able to do that shit no problem. As a matter of fact,
his story of hardship </span><i>starts</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
with him already a homeowner with a reliable means of transportation.
So far, he's had it pretty rough, but he's not done letting you know
how hard he really has it because he continues with this:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>Just think about this - most of
you arrive at work in the morning and leave that afternoon and the
rest of your time is yours to do as you please. But not me- there is
no "off" button for me. When you leave the office, you are
done and you have a weekend all to yourself. I unfortunately do not
have that freedom. I eat, live, and breathe this company every minute
of the day, every day of the week. There is no rest. There is no
weekend. There is no happy hour. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Do you
see now? This guy is a </span><i>fucking slave</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!
You piece of shit employees don't know how good you have it. At least
you get to leave on the weekends. Mr. Siegel, on the other hand, gets
no rest. None. Ever. He owns </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Business/versailles-florida-largest-home-america/story?id=16787565#.UIYvWddrSDo">the largest house in the fucking country</a>, a private jet, has a personal assistant, a personal chef,
and a staff of maids and butlers to run his household, but he doesn't
ever get to enjoy any of it because he's so busy making sure you
ungrateful money-sucks have a job. This guy is a fucking hero.
*jackoff motion*</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Well,
if that doesn't have you weeping in the aisles, get out your
economy-sized box of scented tissues because this shit is about to
get tragic.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>Obviously, our present government
believes that taking my money is the right economic stimulus for this
country. The fact is, if I deducted 50 percent of your paycheck you'd
quit and you wouldn't work here. I mean, why should you? Who wants to
get rewarded only 50 percent of their hard work? Well, that's what
happens to me. “</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ho-lee-shit. This
guy has to endure so much torture at the hands of the federal
government he might as well be a Gitmo detainee. I don't know about
you, but I'm ready to call in the fucking A-Team to rescue this
over-fed gasbag.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Prepare to defend
yourself, because now that we've all vicariously lived the horrors of
this billionaire CEO's life, he rears back for the final one-two
punch--intended to permanently stamp the self-righteous across our
foreheads--and closes with the most paradoxical bullshit I have ever
had the misfortune to lay eyes upon.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>So where am I going with all
this? It's quite simple. If any new taxes are levied on me, or my
company, as our current President plans, I will have no choice but to
reduce the size of this company. Rather than grow this company I will
be forced to cut back. This means fewer jobs, less benefits and
certainly less opportunity for everyone.”</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
“<i>You see, I can no longer support
a system that penalizes the productive and gives to the unproductive.
My motivation to work and to provide jobs will be destroyed, and with
it, so will your opportunities. If that happens, you can find me in
the Caribbean sitting on the beach, under a palm tree, retired, and
with no employees to worry about.</i><br /><br />
<br />
<i>Signed, your boss, </i>
<br />
David Siegel<i>“</i><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let me get this
straight. If you, who, out of the kindness of your own heart, have
slaved every day to provide the poor unfortunates who work for you
employment (and not at all to further increase your wealth and allow
you to live a life of nearly unbelievable luxury), are forced to pay
the tax rate prior to the temporary tax cuts that were enacted during
a time of prosperity for you (which only made you more prosperous), you
will somehow lose your will to continue your completely selfless
crusade to provide for those less fortunate than you and retire to a
Caribbean beach where you will <i>finally</i> be able to enjoy the
fruits of your labor?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
How fucking
delusional can one out-of-touch asshole be?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This guy actually
believes that he is the <i>sole </i>reason the company exists? There
were never any people who did anything to help get him to where he
is? What do the 7000 people he employs do? I'm sure there are
executives and managers, accountants and lawyers, maids and
groundskeepers, chefs and waiters, and a whole host of other people
who made his wealth possible. Yet, if the government repeals the
temporary Bush tax-cuts he's going to just take his ball and go home?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fuck him.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The fact is, if
this man were as righteous as he obviously believes himself to be, he
would not be sending thinly veiled threats to his employees in an
attempt to sway their vote. He would be down on his knees kissing the
ass of every one of those maids and chefs and groundskeepers, and
thanking them for making his wealth possible. He would stand up and
proclaim his absolute commitment to repaying the country which made
it possible for him to become so obscenely wealthy by paying into
programs with his tax dollars that would elevate others and provide
them with health care, education, and opportunities to become as
obscenely wealthy as he.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But he's not.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He's a spoiled,
soiled, wretch of a man, who views himself through a fun-house
mirror in which he is Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world
while malcontents around him suck the life from his bank account. He
insists that by rolling back taxes from a rate that he has only paid
for 12 of the 42 years his company has existed, that he will no
longer be able to support the “system” or his company. He
threatens the very livelihoods of the people he claims to have been
the sole motivation for maintaining his company out of simple greed.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">He
thinks only of himself, and it is evident in the despicable email he
sent to his staff. Throughout the whole thing he acknowledges the
employees who work for him and allow his business to exist only one
time, and even then he uses it as a lead-in to more of his already
rampant self-pity and narcissism while, at the same time, completely dismissing their contribution: “</span><i>I know many of you
work hard and do a great job, but I'm the one who has to sign every
check, pay every expense, and make sure that this company continues
to succeed.“ </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is also evident in the salutation he uses. He doesn't sign it "CEO Westgate Resorts", or simply "Sincerely, David Siegel". No, he signs it as "your boss". You know, in case you didn't know who the fuck was in charge around here.<i> </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What a dick.<i> </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
sincerely hope one of the employees he so blatantly insulted with his
poorly conceived email walks into his office, hands him their
resignation, and takes a shit on his desk so that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Siegel
can actually get a whiff of what his email really amounts to.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-74820997902414269392012-10-15T18:14:00.000-07:002012-10-15T21:00:50.699-07:00Dirty Limericks<i>I got bored today and decided to try to write some poetry. Of course, since I have the intellect of a drunken baboon with a raging hard-on, it manifested itself as a bunch of dirty limericks. I had so much fun thinking them up, I imagine there will be more of these in the future. Enjoy.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There once was a man from Nantucket,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
who kept all his jizz in a bucket.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the bucket got full,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
he'd stop in mid pull,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and go to the window to chuck it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There once was a woman from China</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
who could shoot things out her vagina.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One day she got tired,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and her cunt it misfired,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
which blew her to North Carolina.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There once was a man from Seattle,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
who rode his horse 'round with no
saddle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And though she would whine,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
while he rode the equine,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
he liked fucking her more than the cattle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-67663340200482146362012-10-14T13:17:00.000-07:002012-10-14T13:17:40.624-07:00The Rage Machine: Alex Cross<i>The opinions expressed herein are those of a total douchebag. I make no apologies for my language or opinions. I loose my venom on the page in the hopes that it will entertain the few who share my psychosis. So, if you are easily offended, read on; it pleases me to anger you. If not, then enjoy. I hope you are well entertained.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There is a new abomination on the
horizon. It's almost here, and soon it will be disgorging its filth
across movie-goers faces like a steaming spurt of poorly cast
Hollywood cock-juice. I am, of course, referring to the film: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXtRKrcPwKE">Tyler Perry presents Tyler Perry's: Alex Cross (as portrayed by Tyler Perry)</a></div>
<br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This irredeemable shit-balloon exploded
into my living room while I was trying to enjoy a professional
sporting event. Upon seeing Madea in her male disguise, I had to
wonder if I had somehow sat on the remote and accidentally ended up
on the WE network, or Lifetime, or some other estrogen fueled channel
where the drama flows like blood from the stump of a severed penis.
After confirming I was indeed on the same channel, and that, yes,
this was an actual thing, I proceeded to watch what was once a
badass character<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">–</span>devoted
to bringing down psychotics with his wits and oh-so-smooth
voice<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">–</span>devolve into a
dickless action hero.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Morgan Freeman's Alex Cross was a total
badass. He mind-fucked criminals until they wept and begged him to
tell them a bedtime story so they wouldn't have nightmares about him.
I imagine Tyler Perry's Alex Cross will just humiliate criminals into
submission by making them laugh at his ineffectiveness so hard they
piss themselves.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I feel the need to stress this point.
Tyler Perry <i>is NOT a badass</i>. Period. Fuck you. End of
discussion. This is a man who sold his sack to pander to the lowest
common denominator of the female gender. Showing him sawing off the
barrel of a shotgun and uttering lines like, “I will meet his soul
at the gates of hell before I let him take a person I love from me.”
Will not make him a badass. It will not somehow erase the fact that
his target audience are bitter, jilted women and the mentally
retarded (I'm sorry, but if you enjoy the Madea movies you are, in
fact, retarded. And that's not just me being an asshole, its fucking
science).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And just in case you think I am
exaggerating about this movie being geared toward vapid, slack-jawed
window-lickers, the tagline used in the trailer is: Don't ever cross,
Alex Cross. You know, because once you cross Cross, Cross will get
cross and cross you right the fuck back.</div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-14609451998849099592012-10-13T19:12:00.000-07:002012-10-13T19:15:49.893-07:00Flash Fiction Challenge: Scary Story In Three Sentences<i>Tick-tock, tick-tock, time flies and the words remain unwritten. It's been over a year since I posted to this space, and I have no one to blame but the countless other fuck-knuckles that demand my time. Well, them and the One True King of Fuck-Knucklery, all hairy, arthritic, and twisted into a self-fellating tangle of limbs more appropriate for Hell's own Kama Sutra than this plane of existence; myself. So it pleases me to, after so long, post a </i><i><i><a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/10/12/flash-fiction-challenge-scary-story-in-three-sentences/">mere three sentences</a></i> in herald of my return. However brief it may be. <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/10/12/flash-fiction-challenge-scary-story-in-three-sentences/"></a></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> </i><b>Blessed Silence</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
“Isn’t it ironic,” he asked his wife as he chewed on the succulent
meat. “How the one thing we hate most in others can be, under the right
circumstances, a thing in which we derive enormous pleasure?”<br />
<br />
His wife remained silent, watching him finish his meal, for she had no tongue with which to respond.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b><i> </i></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-21266672981953740932011-10-08T22:44:00.000-07:002011-10-09T00:13:20.851-07:00Flash Fiction Challenge: Brand New Monster<i>It has been an inordinately long time since I have posted anything, and for this, I am ashamed. Leave it to Mr. Wendig however, to light my fire like the booze soaked corpse of Jim Morrison holding a road flare while siphoning the gas out of a Ford Pinto. The result is my submission into the latest <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/10/07/flash-fiction-challenge-brand-new-monster/">Flash Fiction Challenge: "Brand New Monster"</a>. I hope you enjoy it.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The
Closet</b></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Moonlight
shines through the window of the nursery, illuminating the collection
of stuffed animals along the window sill and providing enough light
to make out walls adorned with pink wallpaper, cartoony little
elephants dancing across its surface. The house is sleeping. A baby
in her crib, her parents in their bedroom down the hall. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">On
the wall opposite the crib is a door. The brass knob reflects an
image of the room, bending the world around its edge, distorting
reality. Slowly, the knob begins to turn. The door opens a crack,
then stops. A few seconds later it swings fully open, the well oiled
hinges silent. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature unfolds itself from the closet like a contortionist emerging
from a box. So tall its head almost brushes the ceiling, it stands
there on stilt-like legs, its arms hanging low to the floor. Its long
fingered hands taper to wicked black claws that reflect the moonlight
streaming through the window, and its nostrils flare as it tests the
night air. It crosses the room in two long strides, the wake of its
passage stirring the yellow paper stars hanging from the ceiling. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It
stands over the crib, breathing in the scent of the child, listening
to the beating of her heart, feeling the warmth of her body. It
shudders in anticipation, its grotesque face splitting into a grin
that reveals a mouth too full of needle-like teeth. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It
begins to reach into the crib when a voice says, "I wouldn't do
that if I were you." </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature whips its head to the right, toward the source of the voice
that interrupted its meal. A boy, maybe ten years old, is leaning
against the wall next to the window. He has dark hair, with dark eyes
to match, and is casually examining a stuffed penguin that looks much
older than the rest of the animals in the window. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature turns to face the boy. "I suppose you will try to stop
me," its voice is a dry rasp, its words distorted by its
mouthful of teeth. "But make no mistake boy, I <i>will</i>
feed." </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"That's
as may be, Sid," the boy says, placing the stuffed toy back
among the others, his expression hard. "But <i>not</i> her. Not
tonight." </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In
an instant the boy flashes across the room, his body outlined in a
silver shimmer. His open hand slams into the creature, driving it
back from the infants crib. It howls in surprise and pain, its long
fingered hands curling around its gut where the boy struck it, the
skin blackened and blistered. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"Last
chance," says the dark haired boy, motioning toward the open
closet. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature glares at the boy separating it from the baby in the crib.
Then it begins to laugh. A sound like snakes slithering over dry
bones. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"You
will not stop me Guardian," the creature growls, contempt
dripping from every syllable. "I've bested far stronger than
you." </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
boy sets his feet, waiting for it to make a move, when a look of
dismay crosses his young features. The moon outside is full, and by
its light he can see the wound he dealt the creature only seconds
before is already healing; the blisters receding and the skin mending
itself as he watches. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes,"
it sneers, reading his expression, and lunges at the boy. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It
swings one schythe-like hand as it charges, but the boy is fast and
ducks easily under the attack. He circles to its left, his hands and
feet silver blurs as he delivers a flurry of strikes to the creature's
legs and body, its wounds healing as fast as he can dish them out. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">He
sees the thing's grin as it turns its head to follow him and realizes
his mistake too late; by avoiding the initial attack, he is no longer
between the baby and the monster. The creature's leg streaks out,
almost too fast to see, and catches him high in the chest, lifting
him off his feet and slamming him into the far wall of the nursery. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Dazed,
the boy watches as the laughing thing reaches into the crib and
presses the point of one clawed finger against the baby's chest. At
its touch the baby's body stiffens and her breathing stops. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"No!"
the boy screams. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">He scrambles to his feet and leaps onto the
creature's back, wrapping his arms around the thing's throat. Its skin
sears where he touches it, and he leans back hard, steering it toward the
closet door. As the creature's hand comes away from the baby she
wakes up, takes two hitching breaths, and begins to wail. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature reaches over its head and sinks it's claws deep into the
boy's shoulders and back. He screams as he is hauled into the air and
slammed to the ground. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">His voice is silenced on impact; his silver
light, extinguished. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature stands over the unconscious boy for a moment, then turns
greedily to the baby. It reaches into the crib and the child's cries
are cut off. The monster leers down as the baby struggles to breathe,
her face and hands turning blue, when a white radiance fills the
room. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
parents are in the doorway, the father's hand on the switch by the
door, the mother pushing past, both called by the cries of their
daughter. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
creature stumbles backward, screeching in pain, its clawed hands
shielding its eyes from the terrible light. The parents rush to the
baby's crib, oblivious to the boy struggling to get up and the
howling Thing reeling across the room. The boy, now on his feet,
throws himself at the creature, wrapping his arms around its waist
and driving it back through the black rectangle of the closet.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
boy falls through darkness, a silver coin thrown down a well, the
mother's screams chasing him.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">***
</span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
hospital's fluorescent lights shine down, scrubbing the hallway clean
of shadows; sterilizing it. A man wearing a white coat leaves the
room marked ICU #4 and closes the door after him. He leans heavily
against the wall beside the door, removes his glasses, and rubs his
eyes. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"Are
you all right doctor?" He looks up to find a nurse standing in
front of him holding a chart. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes,
I'm fine," he says, settling his glasses back on the bridge of
his nose. "You know how it is. Sometimes these cases get to
you." He tries to smile but cant, so he just looks down at his
shoes instead. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"I
thought the little girl was going to be ok," says the nurse,
genuine concern in her voice. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh,
she is," he says quickly. "It was a close thing, but she's
stable and her parents are with her now." He looks back at the
door. "It's just that, I've seen those people before." </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">He
turns back to the nurse, at first unsure, but after a moment he
begins, "It was about ten years ago. I had just started my
residency here. They came in with the ambulance that brought their
infant son. He had stopped breathing in the night. By the time the
parents found him he had been without oxygen for too long, I did
everything I could, but I wasn't able to save him. He was the first
patient I ever lost." </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She
hesitates, then reaches out and touches his arm. "But you <i>saved</i>
this one," she says. She holds his gaze for a moment before
walking away to deliver the chart she is carrying. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
doctor turns back to the room and looks in the small window set into
the door. The parents are holding their daughter between them, their
heads pressed together. He watches as the husband brushes his wife's
raven hair away from her forehead and kisses her there. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">Beside them, a
little dark haired boy smiles.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-15715787511958184482011-09-16T18:05:00.000-07:002011-09-16T19:43:56.726-07:00Flash Fiction Challenge: The Numbers Game<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>It's that time again!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Time to huff ether and drive a city bus?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>No.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Time to flip my underwear inside out to get the extra day?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>No.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Time to shake a baby till it stops crying?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>No, it's Friday! Which means time for another <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/16/flash-fiction-challenge-the-numbers-game/">terribleminds</a> Flash Fiction Challenge. This week the Beardilicious One has asked that we write a 100 word story using only three words chosen from a list of five. The words, chosen by a fusion powered robot of such cognitive power that if you looked directly at its CPU for even a second you would walk away knowing how to speak Japanese, are as follows: Enzyme, Ivy, Bishop, Blister, and Lollipop. I have cleverly embedded three of those words into the following story, I hope you enjoy it. </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i> </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>The End</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was unprepared when the end came. I
don't beat myself up about it though. I mean, who prepares for the
apocalypse besides tinfoil-hat crazies and the echelon they expect to
bring it about? Not that it mattered; it got them anyway.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One hundred thousand people died the first
week.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Locked in my lab, I work on a cure.
I've isolated the correct enzyme, but my hands won't stop shaking.
The veins are black and creeping up my arms like ivy, and I can feel
the blisters forming on my eyes. Not much time now. Not for any of
us.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-86982479425629904712011-09-06T13:47:00.000-07:002011-09-06T15:18:43.880-07:00Game Think: Dead Island<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The same rules apply to my game "reviews" as do my book and movie "reviews".
These are merely an articulation of the thoughts and feelings elicited
by the game and still require an economy sized salt shaker handy when
reading.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time I heard about Dead Island was because a
trailer for the game had been released which caused half the people who watched
it to shit themselves over how awesome it was. It featured a Tarantino-esque
use of disjointed storytelling, detailing the tragic end to one family’s
vacation by starting at the beginning <i>and
</i>the end, then meeting in the middle. <i>You
can watch it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZqrG1bdGtg">here</a>.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Personally, I thought it was great. I mean, if they could
tell such an effective story in a three minute trailer, think of what they
could do with a full length game. But, for every Yin there must be a Yang, and
this particular Yang consisted of another group of people shitting themselves,
but it wasn’t joy that voided their bowels, it was outrage. You see, the
trailer recounts how a young girl is bitten, infected, zombified, and
subsequently hurled out of a fifth floor hotel window by her own father. <i>Which is pretty brutal stuff. Awesome, but
brutal.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This opened a can of worms, who then all shouted in unison, “How
can you kill a <i>child</i> in a game? That’s
disgusting!” To which I replied, “With a mouse click of cour—<i>holy shit talking
worms</i>!” I’m going to be honest here; if it’s a zombie
I’m killing it. No questions asked. At that point physical maturity ceases to
matter. Confronted with the moral conundrum of a zombie fetus, I reach for the
coat hanger. Every. Time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, now that we’ve established that I am a horrible human
being (<i>who </i>is<i> going to hell)</i>, let’s talk about the gameplay shall we?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s get a couple things out of the way right up front:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) If you were expecting a L4D clone, you will be disappointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) If you were expecting a traditional FPS, you will be
disappointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dead Island is neither of these things. It’s more of an
amalgamation of an FPS, RPG, and Adventure game. Kinda like if Diablo roofied
L4D’s drink and then invited Dead Rising, GTA, and Just Cause 2 over for some
sweet DVDA action.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You have four character classes to choose from: a throwing
weapons expert, an edged weapons expert, a firearms expert, and a blunt weapons
expert. Each gives you an advantage with the weapons they are experienced with—<i>obviously</i>—and their skill tree provides
ways to further increase those advantages as your character levels. <i>I have only played with Xian, the knife expert,
and she has a skill tree specific to edged weapons. I assume that each character’s skill tree is
set up to increase their skill level with their inherent weapon expertise.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After an initial cut scene and a prologue adventure that
serves as a tutorial, you finally get into the real meat of the game. It
quickly becomes apparent that in Dead Island “FPS” stands for “First Person
Swinger” as the game is heavily dependent on melee attacks. <i>I am currently on the fourth mission and I
still haven’t seen a gun.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Weapons are found and, at least in the beginning, wear out
rather quickly. You might be lucky to get through ten or so zombies before your
boat oar or metal pipe runs out of “durability” and becomes useless. This is
something you need to keep an eye on as once the durability meter reaches zero you
will still be able to hit enemies with the weapon, but it won’t do any damage. <i>I learned this the hard way after beating on
a zombie with a pipe for half an hour before I realized the reason it wasn’t dying
was because my weapon was used up.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The RPG elements consist mainly of XP generated from kills
and completed quests, which level you up, and in turn earn you skill points to
spend upgrading your character. The skill tree has three branches: one focuses
on a berserker style attack which you can unleash once your “rage” meter is
full, another focuses on increasing your skills with the type of character you have
chosen (edged, throwing, blunt, etc…), and the last focuses on defensive skills
such as increasing the effectiveness of med packs and the like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I managed to get a few hours of play in last night before my
nightly-vodka-induced-coma (otherwise known as “sleep”) set in, and I admit to having
quite a bit of fun. The graphics are good, not breathtaking, but not Shelley
Duvall ugly either. The quest system works, as far as I can tell, and I am
looking forward to putting my first frankenweapon together. <i>All I need is the circular saw blade to
finish my “Ripper”, which was a bonus for pre-order.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did, however, run into two glitches—<i>I think—</i>in my first two hours of playing. At one point my flashlight
stopped working. I then clipped through the floor of the map and fell deep into
the netherworld where, presumably, Satan’s horned cock was waiting for me (I
quickly ctrl+alt+del’ed, as I have no desire to preview the violation waiting
for me upon my inevitable post-mortem descent into Hell).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other—which I’m not sure was a glitch, but seriously
pissed me off—happened when I tried to play a random coop. Every so often—if you
set your game to “internet”—you will receive a message saying “HornyPedo is
near your part in the story. Press ‘J’ to join their game.” After about the
fifth time, I figured, what the hell, and tried to join a random person that
popped up. The result was, the connection never got made, and when I got back
to <i>my</i> game everything in my inventory
was gone, including all of my money! The game had saved my position, but not my
stuff, which kinda made me say a whole lot of bad words all at once in a high
octave. I quickly recovered though, and continued on my merry zombie-bashing
way (but haven’t clicked the dreaded “J” button since).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All in all, I enjoyed my first foray into the tropical
nightmare of Dead Island, and am champing—<i>look
it up—</i>at the bit to get back to questing all over the resort’s shady
beaches; where the ocean froths red from all the spilled tourist blood. I have
yet to kill any zombie-children, but more disturbing than that, I have learned
that when attacked by a zombie in a bikini, I will totally check out its tits
before I cave its skull in with a tire iron.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Hell, and the mighty horned
cock of Satan, wait for me.</i></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-72207461494177896132011-08-25T18:47:00.000-07:002011-08-26T14:47:13.460-07:00Flash Fiction Challenge: The Sub-Genre Tango<i>It's a new week, which means a new <a href="http://www.terribleminds.com/">Terribleminds</a> Flash Fiction Challenge. This week we were to choose from a list of genres provided by The Bearded One and mash em up into a story, 1000 words or less . There were some pretty out-there genres on the list (I'm looking at you Femslash), so I picked the two that I didn't need to google and just went for it.</i> <i>Here is my entry @ 998 words, a Sword & Sorcery Black Comedy (I hope).</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><b>To Slay A Dragon</b></i> </div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“We are forever in your debt.” The fat little village elder pumped Shadaar's hand vigorously.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Nonsense,” Shadaar produced his warmest smile. “It is our solemn duty to rid good folk such as yourselves of a scourge like that dragon.” Shadaar extricated his hand from the elder's grip. “And as much as my companion and I have enjoyed our stay in your wonderful village, I am afraid it is time for us to move on.”</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“'Tis unfortunate,” the elder leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “Gretchen has taken quite a shine to ye.”</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Shadaar looked past the little man to where his wart-faced troll of a daughter stood watching them talk. She twisted her face into what Shadaar could only assume was meant to be a seductive smile and twiddled her fingers at him.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“A rare beauty she is,” he said repressing a shudder. “Alas, the life of a dragon slayer does not allow for romance.” Gretchen's tongue slid out of her mouth like a slug and ran along her hairy upper lip. Shadaar felt his gorge rise and said, “Although at times like these one does feel some regret.”</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“I suppose yer right,” the elder said, reaching beneath his cloak. “Still, here is something I can give ye.” He produced a leather purse and handed it to Shadaar.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Thank you,” Shadaar said, taking the purse and making it disappear within the folds of his robes. “Your generous donation will allow us to make it to the next village that needs our help. Farewell.” Making a slight bow to the elder, Shadaar turned on his heel and strode to the edge of the village where Gareth stood, leaning on his battleaxe.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Got it,” Shadaar said as he passed.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Gareth smiled behind his great red beard, shouldered his axe, and fell into step beside his partner.</div><div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> #</div><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Fifty lousy sovereigns!” Shadaar smacked the wooden tabletop, the sound of his palm striking the wood was flat in the noisy inn. “We slay a dragon for them and the best they can do is fifty sovereigns?”</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“It's not like that's <i>all </i><span style="font-style: normal;">they offered,” Gareth grinned over his tankard of ale.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Shadaar glared at him.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “She would have made a fine wife,” he said, his grin splitting his bushy beard in two. “Just think, you could have settled down and started a farm. At night she could warm your bed, and in the morning you could hitch her up to the plow.” Gareth laughed heartily at his own jest, and then raised the tankard to his lips for a drink. Shadaar twitched his index finger and the tankard twisted in Gareth's grasp spilling ale into his beard and down the front of his leather breastplate.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Hey!” Gareth said, setting the tankard down and grabbing a handful of beard to wring it out. “So what if we only got fifty sovereigns? It's not like the dragon was real, we were in no danger.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Do know you what it costs to conjure a golem that size?” Shadaar gestured with his right hand and all of the spilled ale drew itself from Gareth's beard, gathered into a foaming sphere above the table, and fell back into the tankard with a splash. “Just the herbs alone are worth more than that. Not to mention the time and effort we put into making the villagers believe the dragon was real in the first place.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Gareth picked up the tankard, glanced inside, shrugged, and took a drink.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Besides,” Shadaar continued. “We get caught doing this and sooner or later a lord is going to have our heads. I don't know about you, but I value my neck at a lot more than fifty sovereigns.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Bah, I fear no lord.” Gareth said, setting his tankard down and shifting in his seat. “Besides, no one will ever figure it out. This scheme is foolproof.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Excuse me.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Shadaar and Gareth both looked up to see a young man with a bowl cut, wearing yellow and black livery, standing at their table.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “My lord seeks an audience with the men responsible for slaying the dragon at Ashkleford.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Shadaar turned a sober look on Gareth, “Must you always tempt fate so?”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Returning his gaze to the liveried young man Shadaar said, “Please tell your lord that we are very weary from battle—“</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Gareth let out an exaggerated yawn. “Very weary,” he said, earning him a pointed look from his partner.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “And must humbly decline his invitation.” Shadaar finished.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The young man's smile was accompanied by the sound of scraping steel as swords were bared behind them. “Oh,” he said. “This isn't a request.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> They looked around to see a dozen soldiers, all in yellow and black cloaks, pointing a dozen swords at them. Shadaar turned back to the young man and clapped his hands together. “I'm suddenly feeling invigorated. What say you? Shall we meet with your lord now?”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> They followed the liveried young man outside the inn, the soldiers filing out behind them, to find a coach waiting. It was a magnificent white egg the size of a small boulder. Its surface was covered in intricate carvings depicting scenes of battle, landscapes, and castles. The egg rested on a base of highly polished wood supported by wheels made of what looked to be ivory. Hitched to the front were four enormous stallions. The inside was just as ornate as the outside; a nest of velvet cushions the color of blood. Shadaar and Gareth climbed inside the padded luxury of the coach and the young man closed the door.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Shadaar leaned out the window before the young man could walk away and asked, “Boy, what does your lord want with us anyway?”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The young man turned back and said, “Why, to slay a dragon of course.”</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-14672217272077973632011-08-20T21:16:00.000-07:002011-08-20T21:16:44.857-07:00200 Word Writing Challenge: The Muse<i>I am part of a writers group that hosts a monthly writing challenge. This month the challenge is to write about your muse. More specifically: "</i>Write - <b><i>in <u>200</u> words or less</i></b> - a description of your literary muse, real or imagined. What is your relationship? What does your muse look like?" <i>Here was my entry:</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>“The page is still blank.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you for that observation, I was wondering why there weren't words there.”<br />
<br />
“Someone is in a mood today.”<br />
<br />
“You're late.”<br />
<br />
“I am not bound by your mortal schedule. I arrive when I arrive.”<br />
<br />
“Tell me about it. I've been staring at this blank page for over an hour waiting for you to show up.”<br />
<br />
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I can't arrive until you are ready to receive me?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, so it's my fault now? You know, I never have this kind of trouble with Inspiration.”<br />
<br />
“<i>Inspiration</i>, pfah. He is fickle. All style and no substance. Don't be so easily seduced by his charms, he never finishes what he starts.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think it would be possible for <i>us</i> to get started? Unlike you, I've been here for a while.”<br />
<br />
“You test my patience child. Still, despite your attitude, I am inclined to indulge you. What are we writing about?”<br />
<br />
“Our relationship, coincidentally.”<br />
<br />
“Really? Well then, I have just the thing. Take this down, 'The page is still blank'.”<br />
<br />
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-44223503420473976162011-08-18T17:10:00.000-07:002011-08-22T18:17:49.970-07:00Flash Fiction: Must Love Guns<i>As I have mentioned before, Chuck Wendig has a must-read blog over at <a href="http://www.terribleminds.com/">www.terribleminds.com</a> and hosts a flash fiction challenge every Friday (Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friiiday). This week, the subject is guns. I decided to throw my revolver into the ring, and knocked a story out today. It's a bit over the 1000 word limit, but I just couldn't shave any more off and still be satisfied with the story. So, while I'm out of the running for the prize, I am still going to submit it since I would like to get some feedback from the regulars who read Chuck's blog. Now, without further ado, here is my submission:</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Grace Under Fire</b></i><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Devereaux's men came at night. Grace was in the kitchen chopping vegetables when her husband, Phillip, went to answer the knock at the door. She had just finished the onions and was halfway through a bunch of carrots when she felt a presence behind her; an almost imperceptible displacement of air picked up by the hairs on the back of her neck that immediately sent her flesh crawling across her shoulders and down her arms. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Grace turned to find a man, wearing an ill fitting suit and a shark’s grin, eyeing her up and down the way one might admire a fine sports car they couldn’t afford. <i>Covetous, </i>the thought flashed across her mind, unbidden. <i>That’s the perfect word to describe the look on his face, covetous. </i>But as she turned, his expression changed into something more sinister and dangerous, deadly even.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Now, now,” he said, opening the jacket of his suit to show the gun beneath. “I don’t think you’re gonna need that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Grace looked down and saw that she was still clutching the butcher knife, holding it out in an unconscious warding off gesture. She didn’t put it down.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Put the knife down,” he said, drawing the gun and leveling it at her. “Or I’ll have to put a bullet in that sweet ass of yours.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Grace met the killer’s gaze, and after a moment turned and set the knife on the counter next to the beginnings of the meal she now knew would never be eaten. He used his gun to motion toward the door and followed her into the living room. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Two other suited goons—one with dark hair and a goatee, the other his exact opposite; blond and baby-faced—were holding Phillip at gunpoint. He was sitting on the couch, his hands duct taped in front of him, eyes wide with terror. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Grace,” he started to get up, but Baby-face backhanded him with his gun sending Phillip sprawling back onto the couch clutching his bleeding cheek.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Goatee pressed the muzzle of his gun to Phillip's head. “I told you not to fucking move. Next time, I empty this thing into your skull, understand?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Phillip nodded his assent.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Good,” Goatee said. “Now, let’s talk about where the money is.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I don’t know anything about any money,” Phillip said, still clutching his bleeding face. “I don’t even know who you people are!” He was practically sobbing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Goatee slapped Phillip on the uninjured side of his face, hard. “Don’t fuck with me asshole! Four of Mr. Devereaux’s couriers have been hit in the past month, all dead, all missing their bags. After the second hit we started marking the bills, I’ll give you one guess where that lead us. Now tell me, where’s the fucking money!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Phillip recoiled from that last outburst as if he had been slapped again. “I told you, I don’t know anything about any money,” he squealed, tears welling up and rolling down his cheeks. The sight of those tears seemed to increase goatee’s rage by an order of magnitude. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">He leaned in, pressed the muzzle of his gun to Phillip’s head again, and said, “Listen to me you little shit, I don’t know how a sniveling worm like you offed one, much less four, of Mr. Deveraux’s couriers, but I’m going to give you to the count of three to tell me where the money is, or I’m going to make that hot little piece of ass over there a widow right before me and the boys run a train on her. I swear to fucking God. One!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I don’t know anything about your money!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Two.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Please, I’m not lying. I don’t even know who this Devereaux is!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Three.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No don’t! I’m telling you, you’ve got the wro—“</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Goatee’s gun coughed once and the contents of Phillip’s head sprayed out, splatter-painting the couch and walls with brains and bits of skull. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Grace stood and watched this scene unfold, Shark-grin’s gun pressed into the small of her back, without moving or saying a word. Goatee turned to Baby-face, “Toss the house. Find out where he stashed the money.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Baby-face nodded and walked out. A second later, Grace heard the crash of their—<i>My, </i>she thought, <i>My is the right word now that Phillip is dead—</i>possessions<i> </i> being tossed about as Baby-face began searching for his boss’ stolen money. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Goatee turned to Shark-grin, “Warm her up for us, I’m gonna go call Mr. Devereaux.” He produced a cell phone from one of his pockets and left the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Shark-grin shoved Grace face-first into the wall of the living room and pressed his gun to her temple. She could feel his erection as he rubbed against her. He reached around and squeezed her breast. “You’re a real sweet piece of meat,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m gonna make you bleed.” He started to take his pants off, and Grace sensed his attention waver while he fumbled with his belt.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">She moved, fast.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Grace rammed her hips back at the same time she reached up and grabbed the gun against her head, twisting it out of his grasp. She spun around with the ease of a dancer, or expert martial-artist, used one hand to grab Shark-grin’s wrist, twisted it up behind his back, and slammed him up against the wall. Their positions reversed, she pressed the gun under the shelf of his jaw and said, “I think you’ll be the one bleeding today asshole,” and pulled the trigger. His brains erupted from the top of his head and fell in a warm rain.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Baby-face came running from the other room, gun in hand, and Grace put two into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. Grace crossed the room and pressed herself against the wall next to the living room doorway.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What the <i>fuck</i> is going on in there!” Goatee ran into the room and stopped when he saw the bodies of his partners. Grace put a bullet into the back of his head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Grace stood over Phillip’s body. She had given him the money, of course. A stupid mistake, it never occurred to her that the bills had been marked. He had wanted a new set of golf clubs, and she could never deny him anything. He was dead because of her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">She went to the kitchen and pulled up the floorboards in the pantry, removing the bags of money she had stashed there. Then she lit a candle, set it on the kitchen table, and turned all the knobs for the stove on high without lighting them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">She was half a mile away when the fireball lit up the night sky. She watched it in her rear-view mirror and said a soft prayer for Phillip. She drove into the night, her thoughts dominated by a single word.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> <i>Devereaux.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-52857730556830419282011-08-04T22:29:00.000-07:002011-08-05T01:27:53.452-07:00Bitchfest: How three sentences ruined my day<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I've been back and forth about this about a thousand times, but after <strike>half</strike> a bottle of port my inhibitions have been lowered sufficiently for me to do something I will most definitely regret later.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'm going to whine like a bitch.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Here's the deal. Chuck Wendig has a wonderfully profane blog—<a href="http://www.terribleminds.com/">www.terribleminds.com</a>—and I lurk over there regularly. He occasionally hosts a writing contest, giving out copies of his ebooks as prizes, but I've always been too much of a pussy to enter. Today I figured I would give it a try. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The rules were simple: Write a story with a beginning, middle, and end in only three sentences. The only catch, it must be a <i>story</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. No vignettes.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Determined to take a shot at this contest, I rolled up my sleeves and busted out what I thought was a decent entry. It wasn't terribly original, but it adhered to the rules, and I was happy with it. I posted it into the comments section and waited patiently for Mr. Wendig to make a decision.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Here is what I submitted:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Jake drove like a maniac, taking corners too fast and weaving in and out of traffic, desperate to get to the wedding before it was too late. He burst through the doors of the chapel to find it empty; rose petals and rice covering the floor, the echoes of his entrance fading as he stared at the deserted pews. Jake turned and trudged back to his car as hot tears fell, destined to forever hold his peace.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Not too shabby. Like I said, not terribly original, but it had a nice arc, and it incorporated a nifty play on the last part of a traditional marriage ceremony. I didn't expect it to win—I had already read a bunch of the entries and I knew mine wasn't going to be in the running for the prize. As a matter of fact, the two that were my favorites ended up being the winner and one of the top four.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">So whats the problem,” you ask? Sit down, dear friend, and let me crybaby all over that question.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Prior to announcing the winner, Mr. Wendig berated everyone for making his job so difficult and posted a list of entries that he “really loved”. Nestled in the middle of the list was this entry:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>The bad men came and took Pa away. They said they’d bring him right back. They didn’t, so now I’m man of the house. </i> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Really? <i>Really?!</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Look, I know this is entirely subjective, and Mr. Wendig is entitled to love any damn thing his bearded heart desires, but I just can't wrap my head around this one. No disrespect to the author, but that shit ain't a story<i>. </i>It's something the retarded son of a ranch hand might say when the Sheriff came 'round to find out what happened to Curly Slim, but a story? I don't think so.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">At first I thought what bothered me was that Chuck singled out an entry as exceptional, while to me it didn't even meet the criteria. But after awhile I realized what my problem really was: <i>What if I don't know good writing when I see it?! </i>I mean, I think I know good writing, but I fully admit to being a foal—still slick from birth and barely able to stand on my own wobbly legs—while Mr. Wendig is a goddamn racing stallion. Who the fuck am I to question one who has achieved so much with their writing when I haven't finished more than a short story?</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">So, I read it again.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">And again.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">And again.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I turned my monitor upside down, squinted one eye, and slaughtered a lamb in a desperate attempt to see what I was missing. No dice. I still don't get it.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I have come to the conclusion that maybe I just don't know enough to be able to appreciate it. Like a beer drinker swishing around a mouthful of late bottled vintage and declaring, “Tastes like wine,” perhaps I just haven't developed the palate necessary to discern why this entry rated so high on Mr. Wendig's literary scale.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Or maybe I just need to douche the sand out of my vag.</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-4949858683700190082011-08-03T22:24:00.000-07:002011-08-04T20:27:27.554-07:00Movie Think: Cowboys and Aliens<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>The same rules apply to my movie "reviews" as do my book "reviews". These are merely an articulation of the thoughts and feelings elicited by the movie and still require an economy sized salt shaker handy when reading.</i><br />
<br />
Hollywood, an ever-expanding vortex of suck, has not backed down in their assault on originality and continues to remake, reboot, and rehash the same six movies in an endless loop of insults to our intelligence. It has gotten to the point where I predict—with the confidence of one blessed with the gift of cynical clairvoyance—that I will be sitting in a darkened theater in the very near future, watching a trailer for the gritty reboot of the movie <i>I just paid to see</i>.<br />
<br />
</div>This frightening vision woke me from my vodka induced coma—which we will heretofore refer to as “sleep”—curled in my sweat-soaked sheets, with only the words of my mother to give me comfort. “<i>The future is not written. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.” </i>And as I lay there, terror-sweat drying on my brow, I thought to myself, “<i>Sarah Connor is my </i>mom<i>?</i>!”<br />
<br />
Which should explain why, ever since I heard about the movie Cowboys and Aliens I’ve wanted to see it. I was excited because we were going to get something new, something that had potential and wasn’t a re-remake or a sequel-equel. It had Daniel Craig, who kicked ass as James Bond, it had Harrison Ford, who kicked ass as Han Solo <i>and</i> the motherfucking president, it was backed by Stephen Spielberg, who is directly responsible for some of the best movies of all time, and it had <i>cowboys</i> fighting fucking <i>aliens</i>.<br />
<br />
My excitement was tempered however, because Mr. Ford and Mr. Spielberg are also partially responsible for the recent late term abortion known as “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”. They get a pass though, because I lay most of the blame for that steaming shitpile on George Lucas since, at that time, he was the only one who had shown a propensity for ruining every awesome story he came in contact with. <i>He's like King Midas if everything King Midas touched turned into an inept screenplay carved into a dog turd.</i><br />
<br />
So, blinders firmly in place, I marched off to see Cowboys and Aliens at my local Muvico—which is a pretty badass theater, and if there isn't one in your town you have my pity—with a grim determination to like this movie resting on my shoulders like a sacred mantle of nerd denial. It wasn't enough.<br />
<br />
Overall the movie suffers because the writer or director wanted us to care about the characters. I know that might sound odd, but without proper development you can <i>want</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> me to care about the characters until they make an Arrested Development movie and I still won't give a fuck about them. You need to give me a reason to give a shit beyond “she made googly eyes at the protagonist” if you want me to care when something bad happens.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">This is the main problem I have with movies like this. </span><i>There is no buildup of tension. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I have noticed that, for some reason (most likely the steady declination of the average moviegoer's IQ), a lot of modern movies have achieved such a level of ADD that they can't foreshadow anything beyond a microsecond. So you end up with scenes like this 90 minutes into the movie:</span><br />
<br />
<i>Heroine: “Where did you get that scar?”</i><br />
<br />
<i>Protagonist: “I got it defeating a band of rabid flamingos. It wasn't pretty, and I don't like to talk abou—“</i><br />
<br />
<i>*Someone bursts into the room*</i><br />
<br />
<i>Someone: “A band of rabid flamingos is attacking the town!”</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Also, it's time to do away with the obvious jump-scare. This shit is rampant. It's equivalent to those emails you couldn't escape a few years ago that had you concentrate on some bullshit maze only to have a picture of Regan in full-on pea soup mode pop up when you “least expect it”. By the fiftieth time I was pretty hip to what was coming, and it's the same with these jump-scares. </span> <br />
<br />
<i>The protagonist hides from the monster while it searches around, the violins building to a crescendo. But the monster, unable to find the protagonist, leaves the room. There is a moment of stillness. The violins stop. The protagonist lets out the breath they've been holding, and THE MONSTER JAMS ITS SCREAMING FACE INTO THE CAMERA! Preferably with spittle flying from its teeth</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (betcha didn't see that one coming did ya?). </span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">In Cowboys and Aliens it happens twice </span><i>to the same character!</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">In an attempt to inject something positive into this “review”, I will say that I was pleased with Harrison Ford's performance. His character had a miniscule but discernible arc, and I think he did the absolute best he could with the material he was given. He is still a great actor and I hope to see him working with a better script in the near future.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">I give Cowboys and Aliens, starring Han Solo, James Bond, Captain Hadley, Guy Fleegman, and Eli Sunday, two Deus Ex Machinas and half an inexplicable romance. </span><i> </i>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-45234692323414722242011-08-01T15:47:00.000-07:002011-08-01T17:20:45.066-07:00Book Think: Ghost Story<div class="MsoNormal"><i>I have decided to try doing some book “reviews” here. I use the term “review” loosely as these posts will mainly deal with my thoughts and feelings about the book/author, and are more of an articulation of my state of mind rather than a breakdown of plot, style, or technique. Therefore, these "reviews" should be taken with a boulder-sized grain of sodium (try your local Costco!).</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ghost Story</div><div class="MsoNormal">By Jim Butcher </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Allow me to shower Jim Butcher with some totally-not-gay-yet-potentially-inappropriate author love. Jim has written two really great series of books. The Codex Alera, which has concluded, and The Dresden Files, which he continues to write—as well as infuse with some kind of addictive substance before sending them to my local book store. This substance is so powerful, it will compel me to stand in front of a Barnes & Noble, chewing my nails and shifting from foot to foot, waiting for it to open so I can get the book, run home, and mainline that shit straight into my eye-holes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, if you're wondering why the pleasure centers of my brain are lit up like the glowing embers of a post-coital cigarette, it's because I have just finished one of the few things I look forward to every year with the giddy elation of an eight year old school girl. A new Dresden novel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ghost Story is the thirteenth book in a series that has consistently ratcheted up the tension with every volume up to Changes (book twelve). I say this, not to imply that Ghost Story isn't up to the standard of the previous books, but to illustrate how very different a book it is from Changes (or any other book in the series with the exception of Storm Front). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You see, Ghost Story is a beginning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The storyline for The Dresden Files is deceptively complex. Jim has a knack for taking bit players or previously defeated foes, and weaving them into future stories. The result is a lot of foreshadowing, loose ends, and converging story lines between novels. Changes acted as a climax, wrapping up some pretty major plot points and advancing the ones it didn't. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I equate Changes to a bit of writing advice Jim has postulated called The Big Middle. His technique is to plan up to a major event that ends the middle of the book. A pre-climax, if you will, that punts the story down the home stretch to the true, toe-curling, eyes-rolled-back-in-your-head-like-a-stroke-victim climax that ends the book. I believe Changes acted as The Big Middle for the overall series.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which brings us to Ghost Story.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ghost Story is less exciting than Changes, <i>and that’s OK, </i>because<i> </i>it gives Harry a chance to ruminate about all of the events in the previous book and deal with the consequences of his actions. It also continues building on all of the plot points that weren’t wrapped up in Changes, setting up a lot of dominoes that I fully expect Jim to knock down with all the enthusiasm of a drunken Godzilla looking for a good time in downtown Tokyo.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really enjoyed Ghost Story, and it was great fun hanging out with all of the wonderful characters that populate Harry’s world. There were lots of hilarious moments, witty dialogue, and plenty Star Wars and Star Trek references (my favorite being the image of Molly’s psyche as the bridge of the original Enterprise, the different aspects of her personality manifesting as characters from the show).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I give Ghost Story by Jim Butcher three Blasting Rods and a bullet riddled Black Duster.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-14051847137120098822011-07-28T01:50:00.000-07:002011-07-28T01:56:19.574-07:00You will take what I give you and like it!So, Ive pickled my liver tonight with a bottle of Skyy and a jug-o-juice, and now its time for me to repeatedly bash my face against the keyboard in an attempt to meet my goal of posting every day.<br />
<br />
Well, guess what? Im too full of fermented potatoey goodness to finish a serious article. And honestly, why would I try to write in this state anyway?<br />
<br />
Oh well, shit sucks and then you live with it...or something like that.<br />
<br />
I fully intend to go have another tasty beverage even though I must go to work tomorrow and it's past my bedtime. I dont care; I live my life <i>against the grain.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I will do my best not to be an irresponsible asshole and post something worthwhile tomorrow. </i>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-65840044298859892492011-07-26T18:01:00.000-07:002011-08-02T09:24:04.713-07:00The Randomizer<div class="MsoNormal"><i>The Randomizer is another tasty morsel I've decided to roll around on my tongue to see if it turns out to have a bitter center, or a core of nougaty goodness. A bunch of quick-hit thoughts</i><b> </b><i>that occur to me and get jotted down with some smartass--and hopefully amusing--commentary</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Kit Fisto: Adult Jedi Film Star?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Kit Fisto may be a Jedi, but with a name like that he needs to start doing porn. Seriously, wouldn’t you pay to see Kit flip those Cthulhu-beard dreadlocks back over his shoulder, fix the camera with his empty gaze, and then force-punch some tattooed crackwhore right in her quivering labia *whump-splurch*? I know I would.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Either that, or he should be a proctologist. Though, I imagine he would walk into a lot of recently vacated examination rooms.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Nurse: “OK Sir, please remove your pants and Dr. Fisto will be in to see—Sir? Sir?! Where are you going?!”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Left 4 Dead 2: Digital Crack Rocks.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">I play a lot of L4D2 versus on the PC, and honestly, <i>I can’t get enough of this game</i>. It’s like the developers figured out a way to distill the most addictive parts of crack and heroin into a digital format and then have it pumped through my monitor directly into my eyeholes. I’ve got over 450 hours logged on this game, and it <i>never gets boring</i>. I seriously think the FDA needs to investigate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Whole Grains: I Don’t Give A Shit.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">When did everyone in the country get a hard-on for whole grains? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
(<i>If they were talking about Hole Grains, which is a term describing the striations along the inside walls of a vagina, I could understand. I mean, that always gives </i>me<i> a hard-on.)</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I can watch a commercial, and if the product they're advertising is even remotely wheat related, guess what? They’re pimping the shit out of their whole grains. Cereal? Whole grains. Bread? Whole grains. Dog food? Whole mothafuckin grains. It’s to the point where I fully expect Everclear to start up its Whole Grain Alcohol ad campaign any day now.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Mike: “What are you drinking Bob?”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>Bob: “Everclear.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>Mike: “Woah, isn’t that a bit unhealthy? It is 9 am after all.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>Bob: “No way. Everclear is made from 100% whole grain alcohol. Studies show that people who consume whole grains dramatically reduce their risk of heart disease. Just one eight ounce glass of Everclear gives me a full day’s supply of the whole grains my body needs to stay healthy.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>Mike: “Thanks for the tip, Bob. Well, looks like we better get back to work. That brain isn’t going to operate on itself!”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
You know what, I’m a rebel. I don’t need that whole grain shit. You know why? Because I won’t conform to your imperialist nutritional agenda; I live my life <i>against the grain.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Jim Butcher: New Dresden Book Out Today!</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Aww yeah, $240 worth a puddin’. I plan on getting my geek on later this evening with my favorite wizard-detective. I foresee a new Book Think in the near future…<br />
<br />
<b>The Debt Ceiling: Seriously, WTF?</b><br />
We are about a week away from default. The S&P has already stated that it will drop the US credit rating from AAA, where it has been since 1917, to...whatever is less than that (AA? AAA-?) on the Scale-O-Arbitrary Lettering that makes up the S&P's rating system if this happens.<br />
<br />
Congress has been unable to resolve the issue.<br />
<br />
This is mainly our fault for letting them get together in the first place. Bringing that many dense individuals into such close proximity has created a singularity, sucking them into a dimension where compromise involves putting your pants on your head and yelling, "do it our way or we'll fuck <i>everybody!"</i><br />
<br />
I happen to agree with the President on this one. Take a balanced approach. End the Bush tax cuts, cut some entitlements, the pendulum will swing in the other direction. Unfortunately, we cannot escape physics, and every time congress gets together it will all collapse into another sucking vortex of a black hole and nothing will get done.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm starting to think that Dan Simmons owns a time machine.</i></div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-57293022914211748032011-07-25T18:54:00.000-07:002011-07-25T19:03:06.369-07:00Book Think: Flashback<div class="MsoNormal"><i>I have decided to try doing some book “reviews” here. I use the term “review” loosely as these posts will mainly deal with my thoughts and feelings about the book/author, and are more of an articulation of my state of mind rather than a breakdown of plot, style, or technique. Therefore, these "reviews" should be taken with a boulder-sized grain of sodium (try your local Costco!). </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Flashback</div><div class="MsoNormal">By Dan Simmons<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, how I love me some Dan Simmons. The man is a badass author and a wonderful source of information on the craft of writing. If you haven’t been to his website and checked out the “Writing Well” essays there, I suggest you strap on your rocket-shoes, light the fuse, and go peruse the news straight from the muse. What have you got to lose? (<i>Ok, I’m done now. But seriously, go check it out: <a href="http://www.dansimmons.com/writing_welll/archive/writing_index.htm">http://www.dansimmons.com/writing_welll/archive/writing_index.htm</a>, lots of scholarly goodness there.)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First things first, I really liked the novel. I wanted to love it, but there was one major element that prevented me from being able to give my heart, freshly excised and still beating, to the story.<br />
<br />
The setting.<br />
<br />
Well, not so much the setting as the explanation for the setting. <i>Stay with me here…</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Flashback is a dystopian novel set in an America ripped straight from one of Glenn Beck’s masturbatory fantasies. And therein, for me, lies the problem. You see, America isn’t all double-rainbows and LOLCats anymore. It’s a fucked up place where Islam is the dominant religion (the Qur’an is taught in public schools), Japan has “advisors” governing different areas of the country, Israel has been reduced to a radioactive slurry (mainly because the USA failed, or was unable, to act), the US army has been pimped out to fight for the highest bidder (this is the only steady source of income for the country and service is mandatory upon reaching the age of 17), and most major American cities resemble downtown Baghdad circa 2003.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The reason for the sorry state of the States? America has defaulted on its debt—<i>which is kind of eerie considering the subject matter of the national dialogue right now—</i>because, A) China, who owns most of our debt, collapsed into civil war and called in all of the outstanding loans, and B) Liberals!<br />
<br />
Point B is what kept tripping me up throughout the book, and honestly, it probably had more to do with me than the story. It was like getting a piece of gristle stuck in my molars on the first bite of an otherwise delicious steak. It's only a small part, and if it had gone down with the rest of the medium-rare goodness I wouldn’t be complaining, but it didn’t. It got stuck there. And the fact that I was being distracted the entire time by that one annoying bit detracted from the whole experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are two sections in the novel that go into detail explaining the reasons for the financial collapse. Both of them stress the American people’s dependence on entitlement programs (welfare, social security, unemployment, universal health care…) as the reason for the USA’s monetary bed-shitting. That coupled with a few other premises (border security, Islamaphobia, nuclear arms reduction, renewable energy…) made me feel like the book was saying to me, “See, see! Look what your bleeding-heart-liberal-agenda did to our great and powerful nation!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">All of the terrible shit that happened to America seems to be filtered through this lens of right wing, worse-case-scenario talking points, which is why I say it’s set in some sort of Glenn Beckian post-apocalyptic masturbatory fantasy. Not because I believe that Glen spanks it to visions of a country in ruins due to every paranoid racist thought that enters his brain, but because he would probably blow ten loads into the front of his Ronald Reagan Underoos at the thought of cavorting around such a landscape gleefully shouting “I told you so!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I guess what I’m saying is, it bothered me that the circumstances surrounding America’s demise seemed like an affirmation of all the fire and brimstone, scare-the-shit-out-of-you, doomsday scenarios coming from über-conservatives these days. Because, you know, fuck them*.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">This is also why I say the problem isn’t with the book, it’s with me. It’s not the author’s fault that I can’t get off my ideological hobby horse long enough to let that shit go and love the story for the story. Noo. I have to get all butt-hurt because in this fictional world the people I disagree with <i>were right all along</i>. Ye gods, I am pathetic.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My own personal bullshit aside, Flashback is a really good read. Nestled within this wonderfully realized, third-world America is a well crafted mystery/thriller, with lots of intrigue, car chases, gunfights, double-crosses, and a pretty sweet ending-within-an-ending (of which I choose to believe the more tragic because, to me, it just felt more <i>right</i>).<br />
<br />
I give Flashback by Dan Simmons three George Taylors and half a Statue of Liberty. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*Seriously, fuck em. Right in the ear.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-36553666874492500132011-07-24T14:10:00.000-07:002011-07-24T17:30:35.072-07:00What's in a name?<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I laid in bed last night, thinking about this blog. It was out there. Where anyone could see it. Just lying there, sprawled in the effluvia of it's graceless exit from the interwomb, and I began to wonder what exactly I was trying to accomplish by creating it. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Was it some kind of monumental ego trip? Now, I'm no slouch when it comes to self-appreciation—I self-appreciate <i>daily—</i>but I certainly don't believe what I have to say is so entertaining that the world needs a special place they can check in and get the steady updates of smart/witty/funny wordmurder straight from my diseased, scrotum-shaped brain. <i>Except, maybe I do.</i> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I do know that I want to use this space as a big ass sandbox where I can build word-castles and frolic through the dunes, hunting sandsharks with my rabid pet panda, Pho Ming. I want to write ridiculous shit that makes me laugh, but I also want to say something more important than, “Fart, fart, ass, fart, pthbbbbbt!” </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Aren't those worthwhile reasons to write a blog? It's not a totally ego driven endeavor, right? Wrong. It's still just me self-appreciating all over the web; thinking my shit <i>belongs</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> out there, baking in the sun, for everyone to get a good whiff of so they can savor the complexity. </span><i>“I do believe I'm picking up a hint of bourbon mixed with the delicate spice notes of a Taco Bell seven layer burrito.”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So, lying in bed, having determined that this is all one big masturbatory euphemism, I thought about article ideas. I realized I have no good ones. I shat myself.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I had no idea what I was going to write about, but as I stripped the sheets off the bed it came to me in a rush of inspiration(panic!). The beginning. I should start at the beginning! And what could be more beginning than the title? Besides, what the flying football does Latent Ambiguity mean anyway? I know what I wanted it to mean, but I admit to having thought of those two words while staring at a blank box demanding that I name my blog. I didn't know. What did I want to call it? The Limburger Chronicles? <i>Nah, too cheesy.</i> Ethereal Musings? <i>Nuh-uh, not enough substance. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">The Gyno-Chair? </span><i>Ehhhh, seems kinda cold and uninviting. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Shitty Puns? </span><i>Hey! That just might wor—no, no, its all shit. IT'S ALL SHIT!! </i> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Then, in a moment of inspiration(panic!) a random word combination entered my mind and I jabbed at the keyboard with my thumbless mitts until I had titled my blog.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Latent Ambiguity. Sure, why not? It makes me think of chaos coated in a thin veneer of order. Like a patch of thin ice. Everything looks nice and solid, so you take a step, and now you're in over your head, thrashing around in the frozen dark. And there are things down there. And they have teeth.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Or, maybe its like some kind of social disorder. Thousands of people every year, stricken with Latent Ambiguity; never knowing when it will rear its sort-of-not-so-great-looking head. I think Schrodinger had it.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<i>Schrodinger: “And so you see, we place the cat in the box and close the lid. We then pump a deadly neurotoxin into the box.” *presses button*</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Observer: “So, you just killed a cat?”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Schrodinger: “Not exactly.”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Observer: “So it's still alive?”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Schrodinger: “Sort of.”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Observer: "Riiight." </i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Still, I had no idea. For all I knew I could have just named my blog after some kind of shitty homosexual vampire fan-fic. So, I Googled it. Turns out, my subconscious is a seriously boring motherfucker. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Here's the definition:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">latent ambiguity</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> at first appears to be an unambiguous statement, but the ambiguity becomes apparent in the light of knowledge gained other than from the document.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">Apparently, Latent Ambiguity is a legal term. More specifically, it's a legal term pertaining to contract law. Contract. Law. The most boring, sterile, and convoluted style of writing in existence. The one thing no one on the planet will voluntarily read, </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">unless you pay them a metric fuck-ton of money, </span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">and I name my happy-go-lucky literary sandbox after it. Sheesh. </span></span></span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent;">I would like to take this time to welcome all of the paralegals and contract lawyers who have found this blog. Tell your friends! </span></span></span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;"><br />
</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4502480573716210626.post-87467417727758501052011-07-23T20:46:00.000-07:002011-07-25T22:02:08.997-07:00Naked, Blind, and Screaming, I Stand Before You<span style="font-style: normal;">I have done it. I've joined the multitudes squawking into the Void. I have birthed myself, fetid and squirming, out of the mother-hole of the internet directly onto the blogosphere's crusty bosom. And like most horribly disfigured and genetically malformed newborns, this blog will probably end up in a dumpster with a plastic bag over its head. </span> <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Until then, I plan to scream into these cavernous depths; my throat raw and bleeding, the cords on my neck standing out, taut like high-tension cables, and my fists raised to a cold, uncaring, Godless sky.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So, lets get started, shall we?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I decided to write this blog out of some perverse need to continue to heap unwanted responsibility on myself. Also, I want to hone my writing skills. I've been told that as an amateur writer, its a good idea to have a blog because it provides you with a place to create your “platform”. <i>I plan to construct mine from cynicism and disappointment since I have so much of it lying around. </i> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Waste not, want not.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">A second, more tangible, benefit to creating a blog is that people will have an opportunity to hear my voice—yes, I realize my voice is competing with every other nitwit adding to the cacophony of random shit on the net, but it's really the </span><i>opportunity</i> <span style="font-style: normal;">I'm stressing here—and that is the main reason I'm giving it a shot. </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">So here's the deal, I couldn't give two left handed reach-arounds about building a platform right now. What I </span><i>am </i><span style="font-style: normal;">going to do, is throw out some different writing projects: short stories, game reviews, grocery lists, unintelligible gibberish masquerading as prose, and see what works, what I should improve on, and whether or not I can yell loud and long enough into the vast and terrifying bunghole of the internet for anyone to hear me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00735787117473910397noreply@blogger.com1