Rigid winds have died down and now the winter's settling in like a fucking wet blanket. I need new shoes because my heels are torn from all the walking and the tripping and the standing. My ipod dies quicker in the cold, and so do homeless people.

Toronto can be really nice when it's clear outside, but when it's muggy, I'd rather be curled up inside of a compost bin. Can't get rid of these fruit flies... Amanda was killing them with some lysol spray earlier. They dropped like flies... only they're smaller than flies.. though gravity affects them pretty much the same way.

You know, I've lost about 10 pounds somehow. Got sick a few weeks back and it made my throat hurt. Couldn't eat, let alone suck. That's a fucking joke.
My other blog got taken off for inappropriate materials from Blogrush, for a joke. I guess. I really don't know why. Obviously Blogrush is sensitive. I shouldn't even be talking about it- it might get it's feelings hurt.

"I'll say, Remington, where's you get that sweater?"
"Why it's simple, Winston, I knitted it out of your wife's pubic hair."
"But my wife is dead!"
"I didn't say it was easy!"

And thus, we continue down the spiral of life, pretending it's a circle and that everything is just Pi. But no one knows, because there is no math, no geometry and no measurements. Everything is an infinite web of the somethingness-nothingness, and at the same time, I couldn't possibly say anything more offensive. Except maybe the "n" word- that seems to get radio jockeys and comedians off the air!
But I'm not a radio jockey. Nor am I a comedian. I'm being totally fucking serious here- with two bananas coming out of my ears, an orange smile, and a bullet-hole through the middle of my brain. My human anatomy is on display under my skin, at least when I'm on the web. In realty I'm wearing a sweater consisting of the very fabric your dead wife's special area had cultivated. In realty I can't communicate, because I need the emotional detachment of the keyboard to satisfy my very textual mind. Yeah, textual. I love having Text. Sweet, hot, sweaty, text.

And with that, I draw to a close this wholly uninspiring rant of nothingness, while children and mothers and fathers and creepy uncles get killed in Darfur, or Iraq, or wherever there is something less palatable than Paris Hilton for North America to turn it's attention to. Someone figure out how to marry politics and entertainment with the age-old strategy of "Hey- look at that!" while they start pulling the guts out of the machine.

And this machine is going to bed.

We always get what we want, don't we?
That's a fact.

If you think you're getting stuff you don't want, then you're just lying to yourself, you steaming sack of shit. You want it; you know you want it, and even though you really DON'T want it, getting anything but it would be a change, and you can't handle change, because you've grown accustomed to getting it, so you really want it.

You see how that works?

The only way to truly get what you want, is to WANT it. Plain and simple. Figure that out, and you can have anything you want.

What is the strange creature living inside of my head, that is myself?
With the strange irregularity of random encounters I find myself, from time to time, inhabiting an alien body. The body is sick. The body is dying. The body is a rental.
But am I more than just a bag of flesh and bones? Is there a character arc for me, or are those just things I impose on creations of mine? Is it all just a theory on paper?
Is LIFE just a thing to experience while it's on sale, or is there another level to it?
I'm horribly sick, and yet I'm only as sick as my body is, really. It's my mind I'm worried about. If that gets sick with the bombardment of reality, what happens to the pleasure of fantasy?
Everybody's always telling me to be "real" or enter "reality"... does that mean I need to conspire against my fellow man, wear skimpy clothing, and pursue the money trail? Or does it just mean I need to sacrifice my dreams and wants in lieu of more "realistic" goals?

Fuck that. I'm insane, and I have no life, and I'm content with that.
When I figure it out, you'll never know, unless you have too. Then we'll probably talk and laugh about how funny Hitler and 9/11 are, when shown on the great slide-show of a vast and horrible history. Welcome to the human race, in the words of John Carpenter's Snake Plisskin.

I gots to get outta here, I says to myself. Out of my defective brain and into la-la-land once more. It's the only place I'm not abhorred.

I keep walkin' around with my pajama pants on, and people give me funny looks, like I don't live here or something. I'll see a thousand girls with their PJS walking down the streets getting looks for different reasons. Maybe it's not my pants. Maybe I'm starting to look crazy.

I'm certainly starting to FEEL crazy. Starting is such a lie. I should say I've always felt crazy. Like the slow drip of the tap, eroding the sink below. Like a short circuit every once in a while.

I've been "diagnosed" with ADD, ADHD, Bipolar, Schizophrenia, Manic Depression, etc, etc... they're all just opinions. No one knows for sure. All that I know is that I am cursed and blessed at the same time, and that statement in itself is too simplistic. It's shades of gray at all times, you see. I have been shown the door, and choose the window instead. Life is a series of unending coincidences and (seemingly) meaningless metaphors. It doesn't end, but it does change. Everything changes, and change is scary. But change it must, and so I must. But at the same time, I never will.

Am I crazy? Or just smarter than myself?

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Samuel J. Preston named his pubic lice. After several failed attempts with shampoos, fine combs and CLR to rid himself of the little friends, he decided to try persuasion. 'Perhaps,' Sammy thought, 'if I befriend them, they'll leave on their own will'.

And he was right... several weeks after his new outlook, most of the lice had moved on. For lice, you see, are not after your blood, or your warmth... that's a common misconception. They're there to annoy their host. Thousands of years ago, in a time of magic and warlocks, an evil wizard named 'Licander the Animal' hosted a rather splendid bash in his wizard's tower. The following morning, he woke up with a massive hangover, only to find several of his party guests had not yet left. They lurked around his tower until well past noon, raiding his food stores and potions without asking. To exact his revenge, he transformed them all into what are now known as Pubic Lice, and decreed that they would live forever to annoy others as he himself was annoyed.

But Samuel J. Preston was not aware of any wizards or curses. He was just aware of the one remaining friend, an inch from the base of his penis. This particular pest was known to him as Bhiggieboo.

Bhiggieboo wasn't the biggest infester, nor the most painful... but under a magnifying glass, Sammy had noticed a peculiar feature on the lice's head- an exact replica of Salvador Dali's "Persistence of Memory". Of course, Samuel wondered why such a revered piece of art was manifested on this crotch-invader, but Bhiggieboo never talked, never moved, and never left.

NEVER left.

When Samuel turned 57, he undressed in front of his first woman-friend. By this time in his life, Bhiggieboo had fed on enough of Sammy's blood to become the size of a small goiter. Sammy had become used to the "What's that?" question when taking down his pants in the public change-rooms, but the particular woman he had finally acquired just happened to be not only a doctor, but a fine art collector as well.

"Why is there a giant public lice with a Salvador Dali on it's head?" was at that time, the most specific question Sammy had ever been asked.

But he didn't know. Sammy never knew. He never knew why Bhiggieboo never left, and he never knew why the girl who was a doctor and fine art collector hit him on the back of the head with the lamp from beside the bed, killing him.

Now, his skin hangs in her basement, and his bones are in her backyard. His organs were digested by her dog, and now they lie in little plastic bags filled with dog shit in the local dump.

But Bhiggieboo is in a jar, 50 feet under a military base in Greenland. He's still alive, and has enough of Samuel J. Preston's blood to live a hundred years.

In the great nuclear war of 2012, Bhiggieboo escaped and was never seen again. It is said, that after the human race died, and aliens visited the planet many decades later, Bhiggieboo had grown to the size of a house, and ruled the world with an iron fist. He enslaved the aliens, and put them to work in factories, replicating the many works of Salvador Dali on the backs of his fellow lice.

I was buried deep in a sexual nightmare when the odour first came to me. My brain, already ruled by the subconscious, manifested a dirty poo-scene. I was being interrogated by a shit-smearing detective. Every time I refused to answer, he shoved more in my mouth. He kept asking me: "What's your name?" I don't know why I didn't want to answer. The subconscious likes to leave strings dangling, and why not?

I awoke with a gag. At first, I thought it was a double dream... the smell of shit lingered in the air like a salty reminder. It took me a few seconds to shake off the grogginess and the disgust before I ventured to the bathroom to let loose my bladder. That was when I discovered the source of the smell.

From the porcelain receptacle, waves not unlike those above a mirage or a BBQ were eminating. I dared a peek.

Inside the toilet, trying to crawl it's way out of the water unsuccessfully, was a log of feces. I was aghast! I even recognized this particular defication by the varity of legumes present. It was at LEAST two weeks old. How long had it been lurking? Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a subtle whisper.

"Hey, a little help down here?"

Oh no.... please tell me my shit isn't talking to me...

"Excuse me. Yeah you- would you mind?"

I glaced again- the excrement was indeed staring at me- two half-rotten nuggets of corn acting as eyes. Appalled, I flushed. The log let out a horrid scream as it went back to the pipes from whence it came.

This is ok- it was probably a hallucination... maybe it's still a dream? Nope. I'm awake. That's for sure. Crazy? Perhaps. No matter. I decided to go back to sleep and see what happens.

Two hours later, I awoke again- the same putrid stench filling my nostrils...

Returning to the lavoratory, I encountered the same turd, attempting to escape it's prison.

"You again!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah- you gonna help me this time, asshole?" the shit responded. I was about to get offended at the name-calling, but realized that it was being more literal than I first had thought.

What choice, had I?

I went to the kitchen and got a pair of rubber gloves. Scooping the crap out of the bowl, I held it at eye level.

"I need to get to Cleveland" the shit stated.
"What's in Cleveland?" I inquired.
"Destiny" was the answer I recieved.

I'll skip over the rest of the details for the sake of brevity. I will, however mention, that getting past airport security with a carry-on full of defication is no small task...

.....

Cleveland, 14 hours later.

The shit directed me to a gas station near the edge of town. We hadn't talked much along the way. The shit preferred to keep it's "destiny" to itself, and I preferred not to talk to a log of poop.

At it's request, I entered the washroom on the side of the station, and brought the shit out of my bag.

"We're here" I said.
"Good. Now place me in the bowl, and flush." it commanded.
"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" I inquired, knowing I might never see this particular mystery again.
"Some things are better left unsaid, my good asshole" he responded.
"Do you want me to put you outside?" I threatened.
"Alright. I'll tell you this much," my shit said to me, "I was brought back by a force that neither you or I could ever understand, and I've been instructed to enter THIS piping system"
"Why here?" I asked.
"The why is always left out, when dealing with destiny, ass" my poo retorted.

Certain I would not get any further, I said my good-bye and placed it in the toilet. I flushed. After a few spirals, it was gone. And then the water rose, spilling all over the floor. I ran out of the washroom, and got in my rental car.

On the way back to the airport, I pondered heavily on the events that had transpired. I had just spent my savings on the whim of a talking log, and had received no amicable reason why. That's just life though- a neverending series of leaps-of-faith. Sometimes, people leap for their Gods, and sometimes for their Logs.

And then I realized why. I had never leaped before. Not for anything. No risk, no gain, no change. But here I was in Cleveland- a city I'd never been to before.

I got drunk. I met a man in the bar who was wearing a dress. He was going to Vegas. What the hell, why not?

...

Five days later I returned home with One Million dollars in ransom money. The transvestite and I had gotten high on some form of Mescaline, and kidnapped a Paris Hilton impersonator. Her vapid parents were loaded, ironically. A vapid child whose only skill was to imitate the personification of vapidness, and yet was able to make a killing for it.

I, in turn, made money off of her vapid parents, and parted ways with the transvestite, a richer man.

My shit never crawled out of the toilet after that, and I often wonder whether it's purpose was to fulfill my own destiny, or if some unknown events had transpired in those Cleveland sewers... but I'm rich now, so I have no more need for thoughts. I just buy them now. I'm just as vapid as the your heiress impersonator. I'm just as full of shit.

I've left my body again. This time, it's the barren wastelands of the American desert. I had just watched the ABC mini-series of Stephen King's The Stand, so I guess that's what triggered it. Something is teling me Utah, but it could be Nevada just as easily. I've never been to either physically.

No matter.

In front of me- not 40 yards ahead- are two hundred angry rattlesnakes. Thank god they aren't mad at me. They're pissed at the television crew that scooped them up and dumped them in a small pit. Some reality show contestants are signing waivers on clipboards. One cameraman is adjusting his focus and sees me, standing in the distance. He looks up from the lense and I'm gone. Another check in the camera, and I'm back. I bet he wants to say something, but he won't. They never do. They'd seem crazy. Cameramen are usually the silent type anyway. They're the gig-to-gig type. Not a lot of friends, but tons of contacts. Poor cameraman. The camera can see me, because it's not an idiot like people are. To prove a point, I expose my ass and gently moon him. He writes me off as a hallucination and returns to his work. Being silly like that makes a lot of people think THEY'RE the crazy ones.

10 minutes later, the contestants are rolling around in the snakes looking for cash at the bottom of the pit. One guy gets bit pretty bad, and they haul him out with the giant crane they have everyone attached to with bungee cords. The cameraman keeps glancing over where I was, but he can't pull the camera away from the action, or risk the wrath of the executives behind him.

It comes down to two stupid guys in the pit. They're fighting each other now. The snakes are biting ankles without discrimination. They're slogging each other in the face with fists full of dollar bills. Collectively, they probably have about $50 between them. Reality is cheap, I guess. Or maybe they get residuals for the use of their image? That would even benefit the loosers. So probably not. They're probably just desperate and poor.

I notice the camera again- it's U-HD. That isn't even invented yet. I must be in the future. Just like Richard Bachman's (aka Stephen King's) The Running Man. That's a book about a cynical game show in the future, where people die. Maybe I'm not in the desert at all. Maybe I landed in Mr. King's brain. It's a nice place. A dark place; but it's that comforting darkness.. like a womb, or a cozy blanket-party.

I get right to the edge of the pit as one of the fighters delivers a KO. The other guy dies later on, but whatever. He's a looser anyway. Everyone's paying attention to the winner now. They're asking him a bunch of questions while the medics patch up his feet. The other guy is still in the pit, dying. No one cares about him. He didn't win. In this show- 2nd place ALWAYS dies. It's the price you pay for being the best looser.

I jump down in the pit, since I'm invisible during my out-of-body experiences. The snakes notice me, but they know I'm cool, so they slither on. I shuffle closer to the dying man. He sees me! I guess death opens up a lot of doors...

The snakes are taking pot-shots at the guy now. Poor man. Still, no one's helping him. I can't help him. I don't want to help him. I don't know what death is, but sometimes I think it could be better than life. I want him to die, kind of. Nothing against him, but I want a lot of people to die.

I look up, and the camerman is trained on me again.. or the body... or both. The image won't develop on film- only the viewfinder betrays my prescence. I stoop down and take the dying man's pulse. I know it won't be long.

"Hey Mister!" the camerman yells.

I look up.

"You're in my shot. Would you mind moving?" He asks. The producers look at him confused. Is he talking to the dying man?

The cameraman can't hear me, because I haven't figured out how to be heard during these journeys, but I give him the finger, to let him know my thoughts.

The snakes are really eating the looser now. He's lost quite a bit of blood. I crawl out of the pit. The cameraman is done- he's packing up. The whole crew is. Within an hour, they're gone. The guy's still in the friggin pit. Amazing.

I begin to mutter to myself. "Life's a desert" "We're a bunch of snakes" "There's a sadistic lot of executives playing with human lives in exchange for ratings" "The people who see everything keep it to themselves" "This is the future" "Snakes are far more interesting on planes". WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

I can never figure out the meaning of these spiritual wanderings. I guess I'll never really know, until someone tells me. Does someone tell you when you're dead? Do they walk up with a clipboard and a release form, and explain my role in the cosmos? If I sign it- does it mean I've given up everything I have? Is it improv or scripted? Reality, or narrative?

More importantly...

Will I be left alone to die?

I think I will. There's lots of people who die, and have no one. They die alone. Even that looser in the pit had snakes. I wonder if I'll be invisible when I die, like I am now.

I'd rather die in a pit of snakes, than die alone.

This is my bullshit poem,
Empty and devoid of any structure,
Like some early 90's West Coast nonsense,
Spewed from the mind so fast,
It surges in quantity at quality's sake,
This isn't even a poem,
It's a bullshit stock market report,
Selling out to get published,
In some magazine or paper,
A cheap trick, for a jumble of words,
To increase their public stockpile,
Of poetic bullshit.

-Denis Logan, 2007

I ate a pile of my own feces today and spent the afternoon puking my guts out. I even washed it with soap, but I guess that doesn't work. Next time I'll try salt.

If we all ate a little piece of our own shit each day (just a nugget) I think we'd all feel a little less civilized... and then perhaps the political fandagaling and rhetoric wouldn't work as well. Perhaps there is such a thing as TOO civilized. Perhaps violence is our nature. Perhaps our species is eating it's own shit, and we've put so much salt on it that it tastes good.

Today I wonder how many Iraqis, Afghanis, Africans, Lebanese, Palestinians and Isrealis died. Died for nothing but money. Innocent deaths. Fucking pointless deaths.

Deaths that are worth 10,000 Anna Nicole Smiths.

Pass the salt, please.

It was two o'clock in the morning again. Same bright lights, same crappy music, same aisle upon aisle of consumer goodness.
They stay open all night, in case people get hungry and get sick of take-out. Even Pizza Pizza closes. Not the grocery store. At 2am the all-night grocery stores are the hungry man's friend.

But I wasn't hungry for anything they were selling- I was looking for someone to murder.

It was just an experiment, really. I've never killed anyone before- but I was walking the other day and just happened to be going the same way as a woman and her child. Normally I would pass them by and continue on my way, but I had just been reading a book about serial killers, and I was in the mood for a stalk. I followed them all the way to their apartment. She kept looking back at me like I was going to rape her the whole time. It kind of offended me. She didn't know I was thinking about murdering her; she was passing a superficial judgement. Thou shalt not judge. Something like that. I bet a religious serial killer would've done her and her stupid kid, and then quoted something like that. Something biblical.

I'm not religious. Just a product of a godless multinational corporate economy. A society in which we're taught we are special and unique, only to leave school and find out that we're all the same, we just see things differently. Like billions of processors with slightly different results, because the data differs geologically. Like a big fucking computer, with a bunch of programs running into each other and crashing. A computer infected with a VIRUS, that is slowly eating away at all the hardware, and killing the mainframe.

To me, it's scientific. Murder is the anti-virus. Bush did it in Iraq. He saw a virus and wiped it out. He doesn't understand he's a virus himself, though. Hopefully some day, some other virus wipes him out.

If every single person on the planet murdered ONE person in their lives, we'd be extinct; the virus would be gone. But not everybody has what it takes. You have to be a very powerful person to be able to get some real kills- really hurt the viruses- but every little bit counts.

I've settled on just one. Just one kill. To say I did it. To understand what it's like. To understand why. After this, I'll travel abroad and settle in some remote part of the globe. But before I reboot my life, I've got the crash this one. So I'll become a murderer, for one night. I'll murder a stranger, to murder my life as I know it.

I'm in the bread section. I'm looking at a croissant. She brushed past my back and I turned my head. It was her- I knew it was her. She had long dark blonde hair, lips that pouted, and a sporty trench coat around a lovely figure... but her eyes... They were glazed over with that sheepish indifference of the North American Worker Bees. She wasn't aware of the world- of the virus- of reality. I knew it was her. It had to be her.

She makes a go for the cash-out, and I slowly follow. I quickly grab a can of peas off the shelf and stand behind her in line. She stares ahead rigidly, nervously. I wonder if perhaps I emit some sort of repellant which creeps out women. They always seem to know when I'm up to no good. She turns her head to look at the magazines. They're not sure who's baby it is, and Burt Reynolds was caught naked in a sheep pen. All lies, of course. All fuelled by money. Unlike me. I'm fuelled by passion.

I look at what groceries she's gotten: Loaf of bread, one litre of milk, plastic bag with a celerey stalk, another plastic bag with 5 golden delicious apples, some diet cream cheese, and some crackers. How dull. The cashier, a tall and lanky woman with a crooked eye and toothy smile, began scanning her groceries. A tasteless and routine interaction between two viral programs. Beep, scan, move on. My victim trots towards the doors. I hand the can of peas to the cashier and tell her they've gone bad.

She heads down the side of the store and I walk quick, to gain pace. Timing is everything- there's an alley up ahead... I reach in my jacket pocket, to make sure my weapon is still there. It is. I had decided on efficiency and gone with a switchblade. My plan was to come from behind and slit the juggular, making sure to sever the vocal chords. I learnt that from 24.

I closed the gap- she's only a few paces away. A rush of blood surges into my head, and my hands begin to quiver. It's getting hard to walk- my knees are giving out. I fiddle with the blade in my pocket and quickly scan the mostly empty street one last time...

Out of nowhere, the streets light up. Everything is orange. What's going on? The ground shakes and the pressure in the air drops. My victim falls; I peer into the distance. The horizon in on fire- a mushroom cloud is growing. A warm wind begins to wash over my face. We've been nuked.

Someone beat me to the punch.

Who? Does it matter? Really, no. Especially not when you're NEAR the bomb.

I knew it was only a matter of minutes until the shockwave would hit, so I pulled my switchblade and jumped on top of the girl, slashing at any exposed skin. She screamed, but was too in shock to put up a real fight. I couldn't get to her throat, so I never did sever her vocal chords. She screamed and screamed, and I kept hacking until we got hit by the radioactive blast, and then everything went away.

There's no heaven or hell. There's no coming back, once you've been deleted, but if you don't delete the viruses, the system crashes. We all get deleted eventually.



*Note: This is a short horror story in character form. I don't actually think like this!

Santa Claus squeezed himself out of the fireplace, brandishing an AK-47. His beard singed and blackend with soot; his sleeves torn with claw marks. His jolly belly jiggling with each frantic breath, Santa dashes out of the den and into the main hall. Outside the sirens blare- old air raid towers, leftovers from the cold war.

It had been a usual night for Old Nick. Travelling from house to house. Starting with Russia, skipping the middle east (President Bush had called him personally, although Cheney came to him on the side with a potential arms deal; which he declined) and finishing with the Americas. When he arrived in Chicago, that's when the trouble started.

Parking Rudolph and Co. in the back of the a church, Santa was unloading his shipment for the orphans, when the groaning started. It came from the cemetary near the edge of the woods. Santa reached into his magic sack, produced a sawed-off double barrel, and moved to investigate. As he suspected, there were several zombies that had just risen. He met each one of them with a healthy dose of lead.

That was almost two days ago. Christmas morning had come, and so did the riots. Zombies! As the world awoke, the zombies began thier feast. Many were taken before they woke- kids who would never find out if they got the latest console. Others fought back, as did the military. As the sleigh bells became sirens, and the zombies entered the cities, the real attack came.

This time, it was from the sky. Thousands of spaceships from another galaxy, warping into our atmosphere. NASA had seen an anomoly earlier in the night- but under direct orders from the president (who had assumed them it was Santa), it had gone ignored. In fact, it was a scout ship, which in the night, beamed waves at the planet and awoke the dead.

The world had gone into chaos on Christmas day, and there was only one man who could stop it...

Gargamel, the elf king, picks up the comlink. "Santa... are you there?"
Santa, under a window with sillouttes of zombies and aliens outside, responds: "Gargamel! Boy am I glad to hear from you!"
"Not as glad as I am, Mr. Kringle," the elf replies.
"What's your 20?" Santa asks.
"North Pole. It's getting bad up here. The radioactive waves the aliens are resurrecting zombies with is accelerating global warming! Two workshops have already caved in and sunk." Gargamel pleads.
"Get your boys out of there, Garg. Salvage what you can. We'll liason in Toronto." Santa commands.
"Right-o." the elf signs out.

Upstairs a floorboard creaks. Santa stuffs his ComLink back in his pocket and stands. He sees keys hanging on the rack on the wall, and quickly pockets them. Santa pulls out a pistol and attaches a silencer. The creaking reaches the stairs and into view comes a short child- a boy. Or, it was a child. Bleeding from the mouth, the child's twisted eyes betray his nature. Santa raises the pistol and fires. The bullet hits the zombie kid in the forehead and his small body falls down the stairs, thumping merrily all the way down. At the bottom, he falls on his nack, snapping his head off. The boy's detached head rolls towards Santa, and his eyes lock with old St. Nick.
"Ho ho ho. You've been naughty boy, Jimmy" Santa jests as he crushes the face with his steel-toe boots.

Santa picks up his machine gun, and storms for the front door. He kicks it open to find the yard scattered with suburban zombies. An alien soldier patrols the street. Santa pulls the trigger and lays it on heavy. Bullets spread through the air and zombies begin dropping like brick houses. Rotting flesh blankets the snowy yard like a second coating. The alien in the street turns it's head and beats it's thorax with a claw. Opening it's apparatus on its shiny metal head and launching a horrible screech, the alien launches himself at the doorway. Santa swings the barrel of the gun in line with the neck line of his new foe.

With a bloody explosion, the neck of the alien unhinges and the robot head falls off.

"Fucking robot aliens," Santa mutters as he reloads and executes the remaining undead. Swinging his magic sack over his shoulder, the crisp hero rushes into the garage, and gets into a- Mustang!- "sweet ride", mutters Santa. He pulls out the keys and starts the car. Ripping out of the garage, he runs over a straggling zombie and takes for the road. As he rides off, a spaceship decends on the house and reduces it to ashes.

...

Santa lights a cigarette as he speeds down the highway. Rudolph and the others will be avenged, Santa thinks. The first batch had gotten them at the church. Santa blew them away, and then watched Rudolph die. But the reindeer came back too, so he blew them away too. Now he was on his way to find his elves, and save christmas. But how?

Suddenly, a bright light, like headlights appeared on the dim night road ahead. Suddenly the Mustang goes dead. Santa steers into a ditch and hops out of the car, struggling to fit through the door. He runs at full pace, knowing well what is about to happen...

A single laser beam comes from the horizon and hits the car, exploding on impact. Santa lands in the other ditch and rolls to a stop. His eyes roll back into his head.

...

Santa opens his eyes to bright lights and haze. Shaking the vision, he notices he's naked in a small room. He looks down- his mistletoe is attached to a tube. In fact, he's hanging from the ceiling in a series of tubes.

"Well deck my balls," Santa grumbles, "Somebody is getting some lumps of coal..."

He heaves his arms forward, ripping the tubes from implanted sockets in his arms, and causing him antagonizing pain. Reaching around, he yanks the tube from his neck, and then from his jolly pecker.

The room door opens to a zero gravity hallway. Santa kicks off the door and zooms down the corridor, jingling all the way. As he zips along, a glass panel allows him to see out into space. The Earth lay below, looming. Around it are several alien ships, beaming rays into the sky. Santa looks where he's heading, and it is clearly the largest ship in the fleet. The mothership. 'How the Blitzen did I get up here?' Santa wonders.

At the end of the corridor, Santa comes to an air lock. He steps through and finds gravity again. Shutting the door behind him, he looks at where he has come. In a large room, behind a large holographic console, is a throne. On it sits a human figure, but Santa can't see through the bright hologram. Around the room, tall thin aliens work away at undescribable stations. Santa inches his way past the aliens and comes to the base of the throne.

On it, sits Jesus Christ.

"Santa. I'm glad you made it." Jesus beckons the jolly saint to bow.
"What are you doing here?" Santa grunts.
"What's wrong Nicolas? I thought you would be happy to see me." Jesus retorts.
"Riding on the back of a not so jolly alien war party? I shot children in the face today; if you've got anything to do with this... then you're not the Jesus I knew." Santa defiantly proclaims.
"It's my birthday, and this year, I'm coming back to judge." Jesus states.
"Where's the angels and firey bushes?" Santa inquires.
"My father changes with the times. He's done this apocalypse thing so many times, he likes the freshen it up." Jesus answers.
"Well," Santa says, "Your daddy made one big mistake."
"And what's that?" Jesus asks.
"Ho Ho Ho..." Santa Chuckles, "He made me."

Santa charges at Jesus and launches a foot to the good lord's face.

"Bitchin'!" Santa shouts as he pumps a fist into the air. Jesus lands on his sandles.
"You fucked with the wrong son of god!" Jesus shouts. He casts his hands forward and psuedo-twists Santa's exposed balls. Santa cringes and drops to his knees with a grunt.
"Do you repent, Claus?" Jesus tightens his grip.
"I... Regret... Nothing... hohoho" Santa screams.

All of a sudden, an explosion hits the mothership. Jesus falls over, and Santa rolls away. Outside, a group of elves in spaceships fire another barrage of missiles at the looming target. Several alien war vessels begin converging on the battle. Gargamel and a small fleet break away from the mothership to engage inbound fighters.

...

Santa dashes out of the control room as Jesus returns to his feet. He pants as he jingles down endless corridors and hatches. As he rounds one corner, he finds himself facing a team of aliens, analysing his Santa suit and magic sack with bizarre computers. Santa bursts forward and pounds one alien on the back of the head. His fist pierces the soft flesh and bone and comes out the face. Ripping his arm out through the top of the skull, Santa smashes the other aliens in a similar fashion. Donning his suit and reclaiming his sack, he runs into a nearby TurboLift.

"Ho ho ho, motherfuckers." Santa exclaims as he pulls a stick of C4 out of his sack.

The TurboLift doors open to steaming machinery and twisitng pipes. Engineering.

...

Gargamel watches his last wingmate incinerate under the harsh laser of a large alien cruiser. He checks his radar, and sees that his squad-mates attacking the mothership are down to 3 ships. Not jolly. Very not jolly.

"Come on Santa..." Gargamel pleads.

...

Santa runs down another corridor, his bag slung on his shoulder, his new machine gun rattling on a sling. He finds a hanger with row of escape pods in the launch bay, and runs towards the nearest one.

"Not so fast" Jesus says, stepping out of an empty pod "You think you can outrun Jesus?".
"No, but now I have a gun..." Santa says. He points his machine gun at Jesus. With a pull of the trigger, his bullets rip through Christ, but have no effect. Jesus laughs.

Santa reaches into his magic sack and produces a copy of The DaVinci Code. Jesus falls to his knees- "No.." he utters. Santa throws the book at him, and Jesus suddenly bursts into flames.
"I'll be back for you, Claus!" Jesus cries as he whithers, stops, drops, and rolls.
"Fa La La, dickhead." Santa torts, and turns around.

Santa dodges into an escape pod and keys the door. It shuts behind him with a rush and the pod rockets out into space. Behind him, Santa feels the rush of the mothership exploding from the engine up. Blue flames flick past his front window, and the back of his seat begins to warm. Then a sudden cooling, and a return to normal speed- Santa sighs.

The ships around the planet stop beaming their rays and burn up in the atmosphere. The entire fleet was run from the mothership's power. The aliens had been defeated. A Christmas Miracle, only 34th street was crawling with zombies.

...

After reuniting with Gargamel and landing on Earth, Santa and the elves soon realized their work was yet to be completed. The aliens had been stopped, but the zombies continued to ravage and grow in size. Several nuclear bombs had been used in cities around the world that had become infested. The resulting aftermath, combined with the previous doses of radiation caused the poles to melt, and most of the coastal cities around the world were drowned. Food was running out. Gas production stopped- as did the use of cars. The dark ages had begun again. The weather had started to get bad. The human population had dwindled and gone into hiding.

"What do we do now, Santa?" asked Gargamel.
"We start fresh, Garg," Santa nodded. He gazed into the cloudy sunset over the ocean that was once Paris. The buildings were half submerged in water, the Eiffle tower sticking out just off of what was now a beach of rubble.
"What about Christmas?" Gargamel asked.
"It was getting pretty commercial anyway. From now on, we're not in the gift distribution business," Santa explained.
"Then what are we going to do?" Gargamel asked, the curious chap that he is.
"We're zombie hunters now, Gargamel. Santa and his... four elves. We'll travel the globe and send those sons of bitches back to their graves" Santa concluded.

And for the next 100 years, he did so, with his elves. Eventually humanity emerged, and legend of a jolly old man covered in ammo belts and jingle bells, freeing the population town by town, with a hohoho, a twinkle in his eyes and rosy cheeks. Years after the zombies had been destroyed by his relentless hunt, the children still leave a glass of Egg Nog and a box of ammo on the table at Christmas, just in case the great Saint Santa visits in his travels.

Jesus returned 1000 years later to find humanity gone- and a note saying "went to find new planet. feel free to have this one. merry christmas." Becoming disgruntled at the unappreciative race, Jesus settled and became a goat breeder near Nepal. He lived out his last human life in the mountains and was the last "human" to die on planet Earth (it was hit by a very large asteroid much later, and turned into a wasteland planet). Jesus never returned from the afterlife again.

Santa however, led the exodus of humanity to the famed Andromeda Galaxy, where they conquored the alien planet of those who had invaded them so long ago, and took it as their own. Santa ruled over it as dictator until the Big Crunch, when the universe imploded. After that, he got into Real Estate.

But sometimes, in the dead of the night, on Christmas eve, you might hear an ever so faint "hohoho" coming from the dark recesses of your dwelling. Just leave the Egg Nog and Ammo out, and you'll probably survive. Merry Christmas, to all you commercial junkies out there- because Walmart KILLED Santa AND Jesus with thier lucrative pricings which are probably the result of low wage child labour in countries where people live in misery to allow all of the "civilized world" to wallow in presents. Jesus got presents too, but at least the wise men didn't rape the enviroment, and charge Mary for the balms and ointments and whatnot. They should have got him an Easy Bake Oven. I bet Jesus could've been a great cook, if he applied his talents there.

Ok, I'm done with this now.

Ideas come from somewhere- the ether of the subconscience? Either way, I gotta have a place to spooge them, so it might as well be here.

So I'm going to write my "treatments", aka short stories, here and then turn them into scripts. So I'll write them free-thought, and then take the best ones and flesh them out offline. Here goes.

1. Daniel suffers from infinite oppression- he can't plan out his life and make it work, so he moves on and begins planning his death. But as searches for his burial ground, he becomes so mired and confused that he gives up on life AND death. He decides the only way to avoid the red tape of society and become truly free, is to cease to exist. So Daniel begins packing up his old life (and death) and searches for a way to drop off the radar of humanity. But as he begins going through his life, he realizes he was only being oppressed by himself by constantly giving up. Reaffirmed in his lust for life, Daniel marches down to the local cemetary and files his preparations for his death, and walks away content with his new outlook.

2. Angie is an actor who takes her job very seriously. After being rejected from an audition for not being "in character", she resolves to try and experiment- to stay in character for a whole day before her next audition. She makes a vow, but when her agent calls with her new part, there is a mistake- she's slated to audition for the male lead! Confused, but unable to contact her agent, she decides to "give it a try" and be a man. After a day of living and experiencing a man's life (with no true understanding to be gleaned) she shows up at the audition- only to find that it was indeed a mistake, and she was supposed to audition for a female role. Of course, only her agent knows, and when the judges see a man show up for the woman's part, they almost dismiss her/him. Until she/he blows them away with a great feminine monologue- "he" gets the female part, and reveals he is actually a she. The judges are so disgusted that someone can be so out-of-character, they take the role away and leave her on her own.
Debating on whether the life-lesson is "be yourself" or "be in character", Angie decides to take both pieces of advice- she realizes she IS a character, and from now on, she'll only play the parts that remind her of her. That's when she hears the news that a musical called "Angie" is coming to town, based on the rolling stones' music. So she auditions like a man, and gets the role of Mick Jagger.
Ok, that one's stupid. Next!

3. Burt is a slacker who scratches an itch, and pulls the plans to a nuclear bomb out of his ass. Confused as to how they got there, he asks his gay roomate, Belinda (formerly Bill). Together, they search the Google, but find nothing. So they both quest to find the location of Google and find out who planted the documents. The car breaks down about a mile out of the city, and Belinda reveals he had put the documents there to hide them from Russian spies. Burt gets mad- not because Belinda is a spy, but because Belinda went into his ass without permission. After resolving their differences (for the record, Burt is hetero), Burt asks Belinda why he had plans to a nuclear weapon. Belinda tells him it was all an elaborate plot to formulate a fake trip to Google HQ, so that Belinda could pretend the car conked out on a sideroad, and rape and murder Burt. Belinda, however, has changed his mind due to their recent talk, and they go back to town with glee.

4. Dave works 9-5 like a robot. He decides he needs to make a lot of money quick, to get out of the mindless peseantry and into managment. Aside from a big crime, he can't figure out how to make money. Until he is abducted by aliens, who give him the special power to make men orgasm by touching their foreheads. A little nervous at first, Dave begins working out of the bathroom- men in the office lining up for instant liquid-explosions like family men at the food bank... Dave begins charging for his power, and realizes very quickly that is isn't how much money you have- it's what you can do for society to fulfill a role. Just when he thinks he has his, the aliens return and take back their gift. It turns out the gift wasn't the ability to give men orgasms with a touch- it was the ability to make his own fantasies become real in his mind. So the entire time, he was actually out in a park sucking dick for cash. It also turns out the aliens were actually case-workers from a local aid group who visited him in his 9-5 job: sucking cock in a park. I shall call it "Corky Park".

Ok, that's it for now. Mostly crap, but it's from the top of my head, so whatever.

I'll do more of these, and eventually, I'll be really good at spitting out ideas. One out of a Hundred should be ass-brilliant, so all I have to do is get 100 ideas, and at least one of them will be workable. I work it out, refine and alter, and it gets added to the project list.

Here's the current list:

Features-
1. The Death of Supergun Cinema
2. Telemarketer (temp title)
3. Maximum Usher
4. System Failure

Shorts-
1. Politics & Religion
2. Zulu Cannibals
3. Conscience
4. Pootza Rooskie
5. How to beat a Dead Horse

Those are just ideas I have fleshed out enough to be considered "projects". There's lots more, and some collaborations unmentioned, but this is MY project list, so they don't count here yet.

The world crumbles slowly at first, but as there is less and less to hang on to, it gets faster and faster.
Time is running out. The East is becoming self-aware, and the West is trying desperately to stop it. It's a choice between ultra-tight religion and ultra-corrupt government. Is what we have worth preserving? Is what they have worth turning into?
Either way, when the cultures finally clash, there will only be death and destruction.
One side prays and arms for war.
The other tries to get rich as quick as possible, before it all collapses.

Do we allow religion or money to dictate our lives?
Is it almost time for our lives to be radically uprooted? And who will do it? The governments? The religions? The people themselves?

I wish I lived in another time, but I guess, so does everyone who lives in a bad time. And I can't actually find a point in history where it ever was a "good" time. Lately though, I've been wondering- should I shut the world out like everyone else does and enjoy what's left? Or should I keep thrusting myself into knowledge and feeding the cynic in me?
I'm starting to despise to the point of WANTING that collapse. Wanting that nuclear wasteland that says "We don't deserve this". It's extreme... because the world's extreme now. Everything is right, wrong, and nothing at the same time. Life is a contradiction. Death is still a mystery. Perhaps the only mystery. But one that looks like we might all get to explore really soon, and it's sad.

I want to move to Europe.

- Kidnap orphans and demand ransom from their parents
- Drink beer through your nose with a straw
- Goudge out your own eyes and eat them
- Email naked pictures of yourself to santa
- Write a script about two guys who sit at a table and play parcheesi.

Face the music and listen to the madman, you selfish nazi pigdogs. Wise is the ways of the fluted pumpernickle. Beware it's wrathful and musical yeast.

I will one day write a book called "Vagina", and it will be a "fantasy novel" about a bi-gender population, with penises on their feet, and vaginas on their forehead. They have sex by kicking themselves in the head.

Anyway, this horrible satellite from another planet comes into Orbit around Earth, and begins emmitting a light that causes the vaginas on everybody's foreheads to close (giving everyone headaches and infertility). No one can have any babies, and because the society is very self centric (no need to date when you can have sex with yourself, so why go out?) so no one steps forward as a leader to stop the satellite.

But this one guy, who wasn't born without a vagina- a single gender MALE, starts making waves. There's no government, because like I said, these people are very self-reliant (everyone is a farmer, constructor, medic and economist), and this Male is having trouble blending in.

To avoid exile, he volunteers to save Earth from the evil satellite. But this society doesn't have space travel, so they get a bit miffed. That's when we learn about an ancient legend of "Old Earth", when the sexes were divided. Before a nuclear war, the old humans had space travel.

So the Male sets out to the "Ravaged Land" of North America, to retrieve some form of space rocket, to save his people.

While there, he will encounter enemies- hermaphrodites, unichs, elephantitis, plants with spores of herpes.. but he will also find a society of women. He is brought to the queen, and told he is the last male on the continent. Naturally a love story comes into play there.

Anyway, Male and the Queen go off with a contingent of "Amazon-like" soldier women, to find the airfield in the desert. They find the craft and take off into space as an army of mutant penis-frogs begin to devour their guards.

So they destroy the satellite, and the two of them being the only man and woman left, have a jolly good hump in outer space, before returning to Earth. They settle away on an island and build a new life, and make babies. Then the babies have babies together, and they have an incestual mutant family.

In the meantime, all the Vagina-heads never heal and slowly die off, until there are none left.

Yeah. That's gonna be a novel. Where the fuck do I get this stuff from?

It's 10pm, and I haven't touched it. Not once. Not in a long while. I used to spend so much time and care, but lately, I've been letting it sit- letting it sleep. Dangling on the backburner as other things keep coming up. Tonight I tried to move it around; to try something fresh. I approached it from a different angle. I looked at it for a long time, but nothing moved.

Of course, I'm talking about my screenplay.

It feels stale- even with the new direction. I'm almost ready to just draw an outline and improvise the whole thing.. but I was never much good at improv. It needs to have a script. I've come to terms with the fact that it isn't commercial. So instead, I've decided to film it with a $0 budget. It'll probably end up costing $10,000 anyway. No, that's no good.

But it's not high concept. Well, not really. It's not mass market. It's the kind of project you're supposed to stay way from, because it only really matters to you. I feel like it'll be hard enough to convince the crew to join- if that's a challenge, how do I convince an audience to see it?

I've even started working on other outlines and ideas... does that mean it's dead?

It's been almost a year since my last "real" short, Bloody Hell. Am I slowly fading out of filmmaking?

Ha. Not a chance. Fuck that. I'm going to go in a new direction. I'm going to pump up the script, and make it outrageous. I'm going to get dirty, funny, raw and emotional. No more whiny emo Hamlet... my new goal with the script: offend as many people as possible. Piss them off. Degrade their expectations. That's the only way I can save this project- make it a general FUCK YOU to everybody. Because THAT's going to be the lead character's mentality. No more Mr. Nice guy. You're going to HATE the protagonist. In the end, he'll turn out to be the bad guy you wanted to be, and THAT will be satisfying. It will be the tragic downfall of someone who could've been nice, but chose not to. A Hamlet who ruins his own life because he hates life itself. The legacy of the story will be not how friends can turn on each other, but how fucking pointless life is. Depressed? Good. Fuck you.

Hmmm... I'll brew on this some more. Inaction leads to inaction, but it also prevents rash action. I guess.

Puked. Spat. Brushed. Here comes the acid reflux again, scorching my throat. It's mingling with the toothpaste in my mouth somewhere at the back of the throat, but all I can still feel is the smell of vomit, rising from the caverns below.

Everytime I lie down it comes again... can I sleep sitting up? Use gravity as my ally?

I've exceeded the recommmended intake of Tums for the day.

Wish me luck. I hope I don't die in my sleep. Otherwise I'd never finish my screenplays.

The rain poured down as I waded out of the ocean. No turning back now, I thought. Behind me, the remnants of the 747 Jet-plane I had come in on sank below the surface. In the bubbling uproar, bodies and limbs swirled around lifeless oxygen masks in the water.
One by one, they sank under. I was all that was left of Flight 104. Lucky me, eh?

As I scrambled up the rocky shore, I checked myself for damage. It was then that I realized I had been impaled through the hip. Not knowing whether I should remove the foreign object, I used my shirt sleeve as a tourniquet and began walking. My balls felt like oatmeal. I had to find a doctor.

It took me five hours to make it to the interstate. Why did the plane crash? Last thing I remember is falling asleep watching Beethoven… the dog movie... then there were screams. When I woke up, there was water rushing at me. Someone undid my seatbelt... it was a stewardess... no, they're called flight attendants.... she got hit with something…

I had forgotten it was raining, when it started to hail. The wind was coming in sideways, and my leg was starting to sting. I began limped as best as I could along the ditch. South? North? East? Where the fuck am I going? It doesn't matter. Someone will come.

I reached a sign. I couldn't read it, because it had been burnt. Then I noticed the trees. They were on fire, even in the rain. What I had mistook for fog was actually smoke. Then I saw the planes.

I had come to the top of a rise, and in the distance, a city was burning. Every airplane had come out of the sky and crashed on the ground. Wreckage and chaos as far as the eye can see. The hail has turned back into cold water. It has no effect on the fires. Nothing but screams float in on the wind.

I immediately dropped my pants and took a dump on the pavement. I shit when I get nervous. There was nothing around the wipe with, so I didn't bother. That proved to be a mistake when I developed a pungent odor a few hours later.

I walked to the city. After a brief and silent suburb, I came into the downtown corridor. Buildings were alight- one structure had already collapsed; a half-twisted flaming wreckage with charred corpses entwined in a grotesque snapshot of carnage. I looked across the street at another building on fire, and saw a woman in the window. She was the first person I’d seen.

We stared at each other for a while, me on the street, her from a 3rd story window. Then she reached down and picked up a baby. With a last kiss on its head, she politely stuck the baby out the window and let go. It landed with a thud, out of my view, behind an abandoned vehicle. I looked back up to the window, and the lady was gone. Probably off to kill herself, I thought.

I wandered through the apocalyptic city for a while, but there wasn't sight or sound of another person. A gunshot rang out in the distance. Probably looters. Looters would be all over this shit. But what happened?

My leg had begun to sting again, so I broke into a doctor's office. There was blood all over the walls. People had died there. I found some rubbing alcohol and poured it over the shrapnel. Then I gave myself a shot of morphine and yanked it out. I passed out.

When I came to, there was a bright light. I was being dragged. It was sunny outside. I tried to see who was dragging me, but all I saw were slightly singed boots. I was put down on something flesh and bone. I turned. It was a corpse; just as I expected.

Pivoting around my leg, I saw a man standing above me.
"You alive then?" he said. His voice was gruff, like Scruff McGruff.
"Fuck" was all I could reply. I passed out again.

When I woke up again, I was shocked to find my leg was missing. I was now in a bed, in an apartment. I had a great view, seeing as one wall had collapsed completely.

"A plane hit this building" the man said. He was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room. His pants were around his ankles, and he was masturbating to pornography. He put down his magazine and re-dressed himself.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Aliens." He replied.
"Oh."

I later learned that Aliens had indeed invaded, in a campaign of rape and then death. The sex-craved aliens fucked both man and woman, elderly and child, and then incinerated them with laser guns. They even fucked BABIES. Then, after they fucked and burnt 99% of the Earth's population, they left. Off to fuck another planet.

Interstellar perverts. Well, maybe this is a good thing. Think positive, right? It's not like we were doing so well ourselves. North Korea, Iraq and the US Empire are things of the past. We've got a fresh start. We can rebuild and learn from this.

Oh yeah, my leg's gone. I landed on the floor. I have to remember I can’t stand.

"Do you want me to kill you?" the man asked. I could see his face now- he was serious-looking. Military type; Old; Shriveled. He was wearing a purple tuxedo.
"My leg..." I blurted out.
"You were out of commission for a week. I had to eat." the man said.
"Excuse me?" said I.
"I ate your leg." he repeated.

And so it was. I spent the last month of my life with this man. Every week he ate another of my limbs. Every week he asked if I wanted him to end it all. I had considered it at first, but I grew enamored with his stories (he talked to me when he wasn’t eating). He told me about the aliens. The planes crashed because the aliens hit the earth with a big magnetic gravity pulse... weird science! Then he told me a bit about his life. He used to be a general, but then he became a politician, and everything went to shit. He said he was glad something had ended our society, because it was inevitable anyway, and we were just dragging things out. He kept using a scale as a metaphor. Balance. He also wanted to rebuild. We agreed on almost everything- except him eating me... I wasn’t keen on that.

When I had become just a torso, I asked him why he was eating me.
"You never told me to stop" he replied.
"OK. Stop."
"Alright."

And he stopped eating me. Simple as that. I guess it never hurts to ask.

He came in the next day with a backpack slung over his broad shoulders.
"I'm going north. Food's run out" he said, nodding at me.
"Ok, cool, catch you later then." I smiled. He left.

That was yesterday. I spent most of the afternoon wiggling myself toward the wall-less side. Falling off a bed really hurts when you don't have limbs. You can't soften the fall. I'm a lump of potatoes. That's kind of funny, because my wife always told me I was a couch potato. I bet she's dead now. Too bad our life insurance won't count. Did I tell you that I used to be a photographer? Oh well, that was another life.

So I'm sitting on the precipice of my room, phantom legs dangling towards the rubble below. The sun is setting, and in the distance the forest is on fire. The man had told me before he left that there was a fire storm sweeping up from the south. The whole world was on fire. There was always haze on the horizon.

The door to the room creeps open. I maneuver myself around and see an egg-headed alien looming at me. I think he's wondering where my limbs went. There's saliva dripping from his tongue... but maybe this alien's sexual organ IS its tongue. Ew, I'm right. Here he comes.

I tried to roll myself off the edge, but I was too late. The alien explored me with his slimy proboscis. It's incredibly violating to spend your last minutes on Earth getting tongue fucked by an alien. But the view was great. Fire and sun. Halfway to romantic.

After he'd had his way with me, I saw him reach for his laser. I guess this is it. I'd like to thank my family, for abandoning me in my youth; my friends, for introducing me to drugs and alcohol; my high school gym teacher, for giving me an A in exchange for fellatio... oh, no time. He's pointing that laser at me.

"Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself," I mutter.
And happy trails to you.

Another school shooting. A highway collapses in Montreal. Iraq borders on civil war. Africans are starving. Natural resources are depleting. The climate is crashing.
But you know what? Nobody seems to care.

And why should we? We have MTV!

The world is a giant cardboard box that's filling up with those little styrofoam peanuts.