Today was an uneventful morning. I woke up, did my business, stepped out the door and proceeded to my tiny truck of awe inspiring terror. It may appear innocuous to the casual passerby, but it's a hellion just ready to be unleashed on the world. The evil is pervasive, yet subtle. Ever read Stephen King's Christine? Or perhaps you're more familiar with his monumental work of cinematographic genius, Maximum Overdrive?
Every trip in this thing is a carnival ride, and not some class act ferris wheel you'd ride at the State Fair, but a vomit inducing whirlygig with rusted out safety restraints and a few bolts missing because it was erected in a parking lot of a strip mall in just under two hours time. It's got everything but the leering, one-eyed carny with weathered tattoos coursing his frame and teeth befitting only the most ambitious of meth heads.
Upon reaching my sweet ride, lo and behold. The mark of the beast.
Some little fuckwit tagged my truck. There is now a gold stripe of spray paint coursing the length of the driver's side. This stripe joins a motley assortment of dents, dings, scratches, key marks, traded paint, grease and dusty monsoon film. It adds a feral beauty to my untamed beastie, reminiscent of an adolescent act of rebellion like a mohawk or a safety pin through the ear.
Seeing how my vehicle is demonspawn, it's fitting that its outward appearance now reflects the depth of its inner machinations. In a recent attempt on my life, the driver's side seat belt broke. Rather than give that bitch the satisfaction of seeing me grovel at the dealership, I've decided to beat it at its own game. I cleverly buckle into the passenger's seat belt, and pending company I thread the center belt through the driver's and strap in.
Since I foiled its plan to become a death trap in the event of an accident, it decided to erase all evidence of what gear I'm ever in as retribution. Silly beastie. I just count the clicks and flip it into neutral when I mistakenly think I'm in second gear instead of drive. Man beats metal. Try harder next go round.
I shouldn't have woken the sleeping dragon with a noogie and my dance of in your face all out victory. I pissed it off. It's now decided that any time I'm enjoying the breeze of air conditioning, assuredly a smart stipulation in this barren wasteland of eternal damnation, and have come to a full and complete stop, it's going to buck my foot off the brake in a valiant effort to impale itself on the nearest vehicle. This is no mischievous tomfoolery. The intent of this action is bodily injury, and maybe latent cannibalism.
My little truck deserves this defacement. No longer will people be duped by its veneer of innocence and bird shit. Hell on wheels just got inked and it's grasp of intimidation knows no bounds.
If you see a trail of frightened cats, crying children, and shocked soccer moms, now you know where to lay blame.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Mechanical Demonspawn's Assault on the Senses
What better way to embrace the start of a new day than streaking naked through the air, madly waving a broom to the beat of an ear splitting industrial squeal?
It certainly wakes you up quicker than a shower, particularly when you're in the shower when such a delightful soundtrack begins.
For most folks this wouldn't pose a problem. You wrap a towel around your naked frame. Proceed to the hallway. Stand on a chair or if you're one of those lucky long limbed folks, just take advantage of that freakish wingspan. Press and hold the reset button on the fire alarm. Problem solved. Your rugs will be sodden and you might be a little pissed off at the false call, but the process was painless, a minor nuisance. Besides, the fire alarm was just doing its job, trying to keep you safe.
Today I flirted with death when my fire alarm erupted. That wily bitch likes to shriek me an aria every other month and seeing as I had gone two consecutive months in relative bliss, I was long overdue our tango of will and perseverance.
Imagine you're in the shower, a similar situation to what we've discussed above. You're sudsing your hair into a pompadour and taking advantage of bathroom acoustics with your best Janis Joplin impression, all with your eyes closed because it's simply too early to start making demands of all five senses. You hit a high note and are drowned out by a wail that puts your alto range to shame.
The disorientation of snapping eyes open to cruel light and trying to stave off ruptured ear drums leaves you with only three good senses left. Taste is useless. Aside from the metallic tang of blood left when your tongue waged a surprise attack on your teeth, a defense mechanism resulting from a near brush with slippery porcelain death when the alarm first struck, the tongue will do no good in disarming your very vocal foe. To depend upon Smell is equally ludicrous. The nose has a one track mind, preoccupied with how delicious pomegranate mango body wash is and how that lovely awapuhi conditioner will attract both bees and the bon ton. Smell has very little common sense and if left to its own devices would likely end up living off Top Ramen and reeking of daisies.
This leaves Touch, the go get 'em action all-star of the sensory line up. Touch is competent and practical, most definitely up for the job. Unfortunately, a partnership with sight is necessary to expedite this process.
Ignore everything but the need to eliminate the shrill cry of the fire alarm. Fumble awkwardly out of the bathroom, speed taking precedent over grace. Dash to the kitchen and grab a broom to use as an instant arm extension. Leap on to a chair, broom raised in offense to slay the devilish party. Your enemy is mounted twelve feet in the air. You are five and a half feet on a good day. The broom measures up to your shoulder. Begin leaping madly, just barely whacking the plastic demon with each pass.
Breasts flap heedless of the air conditioning vent assaulting their delicate sensibilities. Shampoo blinds one eye, contributing a squint to the former grimace of determination. Dust sprinkles down upon you, creating a delicious confection of sweat, tears and dust mites. Don't think of how easily it would be to slip off the vinyl folding chair and land in an unnatural tangle of limbs, offing yourself in a fashion worthy of any Darwin Award. Let loose a cry to rival that bitch and unleash the fury. With a final roar the beastly harpy is knocked askew, guts exposed, the siren killed.
Finally, blissful silence.
Aside from the ringing in your ears.
It certainly wakes you up quicker than a shower, particularly when you're in the shower when such a delightful soundtrack begins.
For most folks this wouldn't pose a problem. You wrap a towel around your naked frame. Proceed to the hallway. Stand on a chair or if you're one of those lucky long limbed folks, just take advantage of that freakish wingspan. Press and hold the reset button on the fire alarm. Problem solved. Your rugs will be sodden and you might be a little pissed off at the false call, but the process was painless, a minor nuisance. Besides, the fire alarm was just doing its job, trying to keep you safe.
Today I flirted with death when my fire alarm erupted. That wily bitch likes to shriek me an aria every other month and seeing as I had gone two consecutive months in relative bliss, I was long overdue our tango of will and perseverance.
Imagine you're in the shower, a similar situation to what we've discussed above. You're sudsing your hair into a pompadour and taking advantage of bathroom acoustics with your best Janis Joplin impression, all with your eyes closed because it's simply too early to start making demands of all five senses. You hit a high note and are drowned out by a wail that puts your alto range to shame.
The disorientation of snapping eyes open to cruel light and trying to stave off ruptured ear drums leaves you with only three good senses left. Taste is useless. Aside from the metallic tang of blood left when your tongue waged a surprise attack on your teeth, a defense mechanism resulting from a near brush with slippery porcelain death when the alarm first struck, the tongue will do no good in disarming your very vocal foe. To depend upon Smell is equally ludicrous. The nose has a one track mind, preoccupied with how delicious pomegranate mango body wash is and how that lovely awapuhi conditioner will attract both bees and the bon ton. Smell has very little common sense and if left to its own devices would likely end up living off Top Ramen and reeking of daisies.
This leaves Touch, the go get 'em action all-star of the sensory line up. Touch is competent and practical, most definitely up for the job. Unfortunately, a partnership with sight is necessary to expedite this process.
Ignore everything but the need to eliminate the shrill cry of the fire alarm. Fumble awkwardly out of the bathroom, speed taking precedent over grace. Dash to the kitchen and grab a broom to use as an instant arm extension. Leap on to a chair, broom raised in offense to slay the devilish party. Your enemy is mounted twelve feet in the air. You are five and a half feet on a good day. The broom measures up to your shoulder. Begin leaping madly, just barely whacking the plastic demon with each pass.
Breasts flap heedless of the air conditioning vent assaulting their delicate sensibilities. Shampoo blinds one eye, contributing a squint to the former grimace of determination. Dust sprinkles down upon you, creating a delicious confection of sweat, tears and dust mites. Don't think of how easily it would be to slip off the vinyl folding chair and land in an unnatural tangle of limbs, offing yourself in a fashion worthy of any Darwin Award. Let loose a cry to rival that bitch and unleash the fury. With a final roar the beastly harpy is knocked askew, guts exposed, the siren killed.
Finally, blissful silence.
Aside from the ringing in your ears.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Vigilantism and the Superhero Complex
At work today the topic of suicide arose (due to the death of a co-worker's acquaintance) and we all agreed that while tragic, it's kind of fruitless. We all bring a variety of experience and credentials related to the field of death and dying considering the nature of our work (digging up dead bodies and prodding them with sharp pointy things), so I'm inclined to take our collective brainstorming abilities seriously regarding this topic.
We have a suggestion for eliminating the negative stigma associated with suicide and bettering the lives of individuals surrounding the person about to extinguish themselves.
Vigilantes with a death wish.
If life is such a repugnant thought that you simply couldn't bear seeing the sunrise one more time, amble mindlessly out of your house to court sure death situations. Dress head to toe in black and stalk the shadows, an embodiment of the scepter of death you're chasing. Loiter outside liquor stores in the dead of night, hoping for the criminal element to show themselves. Prowl from one den of iniquity to the next, busting up pimps and smacking down tweakers. Tail fire engines in order to rescue babies from burning buildings. Drop kick drunks and hide their keys in the bushes. Find a stray dog and give it to a stray kid.
Provided you survive all those tasks you will more than likely have an incredible amount of soft tissue trauma like bite and scratch marks, not to mention bloodborne pathogens that may be a concern for those high on life fools, but the promise of a slow death is no match for the immediacy of your current plans. You'll likely have broken fingers, shattered ribs, and other delightful blunt trauma injuries. Sharp pointy things and more high velocity piercing instruments will also have crossed your path that evening, leaving entrance and exit wounds guaranteed to exsanguinate that pesky essence of life from your frail, empty shell.
Assuredly, you will perish. And you will have done so in style instead of the cliche, woe-is-me-the-world-doesn't-understand-I'm-doing-everyone-a-favor-no-one-cares-if-I'm-here-or-gone song and dance.
We have a suggestion for eliminating the negative stigma associated with suicide and bettering the lives of individuals surrounding the person about to extinguish themselves.
Vigilantes with a death wish.
If life is such a repugnant thought that you simply couldn't bear seeing the sunrise one more time, amble mindlessly out of your house to court sure death situations. Dress head to toe in black and stalk the shadows, an embodiment of the scepter of death you're chasing. Loiter outside liquor stores in the dead of night, hoping for the criminal element to show themselves. Prowl from one den of iniquity to the next, busting up pimps and smacking down tweakers. Tail fire engines in order to rescue babies from burning buildings. Drop kick drunks and hide their keys in the bushes. Find a stray dog and give it to a stray kid.
Provided you survive all those tasks you will more than likely have an incredible amount of soft tissue trauma like bite and scratch marks, not to mention bloodborne pathogens that may be a concern for those high on life fools, but the promise of a slow death is no match for the immediacy of your current plans. You'll likely have broken fingers, shattered ribs, and other delightful blunt trauma injuries. Sharp pointy things and more high velocity piercing instruments will also have crossed your path that evening, leaving entrance and exit wounds guaranteed to exsanguinate that pesky essence of life from your frail, empty shell.
Assuredly, you will perish. And you will have done so in style instead of the cliche, woe-is-me-the-world-doesn't-understand-I'm-doing-everyone-a-favor-no-one-cares-if-I'm-here-or-gone song and dance.
But we're probably just misinterpreting the emotional undertones and intentions of such an act.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
When I Am Old I Will Have a Cocktail at Noon, Daily.
Today was not my most favorite day.
Although Shay did get me a magnet with skull and crossbones that says, "Choose your poison." I hung it on my liquor cabinet. Oh, did I say liquor cabinet? I meant broken refrigerator that's good for storing nothing but warm vodka and gin.
My tonic water is equally warm.
So is the citrus.
Although Shay did get me a magnet with skull and crossbones that says, "Choose your poison." I hung it on my liquor cabinet. Oh, did I say liquor cabinet? I meant broken refrigerator that's good for storing nothing but warm vodka and gin.
My tonic water is equally warm.
So is the citrus.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Cloven Hooves and Railroad Spikes
Satan, Asmodai, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Iblis, Rahu, Mara, Morgenstern, Memnoch, Faust, a sumptuous Tim Curry pimped out in horns. Imagine the entity in your favorite incarnation. Its pervasive evil has seeped into my every pore, exfoliating what little ties to humanity I grasp in this diabolical desert.
It has been argued by the world at large that if a Devil exists he must reside in the United States. Having supped in the barren wasteland of his domain I can confirm these suspicions.
The Prince of Fucking Darkness and his minions reside in Yuma, AZ.
117 fucking degrees.
Ambient.
Look for that evil glint in my eyes upon returning. I'm a zealous convert to Satanism. Since my worldview was closest to coinciding with Satanism to begin with, it really wasn't all that drastic a courtship. Imp came up to me and asked, "Care to trade the essence of your being for a bit of ice?"
I was sold.
It has been argued by the world at large that if a Devil exists he must reside in the United States. Having supped in the barren wasteland of his domain I can confirm these suspicions.
The Prince of Fucking Darkness and his minions reside in Yuma, AZ.
117 fucking degrees.
Ambient.
Look for that evil glint in my eyes upon returning. I'm a zealous convert to Satanism. Since my worldview was closest to coinciding with Satanism to begin with, it really wasn't all that drastic a courtship. Imp came up to me and asked, "Care to trade the essence of your being for a bit of ice?"
I was sold.
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