Bathroom Monologue: Got to read to…

"You memorized the spells so you wouldn't have to carry around the book. Thought it would look cool to do it no-hands style, impress some girls. I did that when I was your age, too. So did all the boys in my class. I'm the only one alive now, though. Funny how it works. Or, funny how it doesn't. You see, spells don't work without the book. It's more than the mere words uttered. It’s about a pact expressed with the man and the world, his tongue and his book. The words are a bridge between the truth that is written and the will that is voiced. You can know the incantation for raising an undead army backwards and forwards, but if you don't have the script, you're liable to become another body in that army. It was a nice idea, punk. Nice idea for you, much as it was a nice idea for me when I was your age. I've smartened up since then, so that when I show up to a duel without my book, I carry a revolver. Like this one. Care to read its inscription before I cast the trigger's spell?"

Bathroom Monologue: Intellectual Middle Finger

After the sermon the pastor went to the door. As the flock proceeded out, he leaned to each and whispered something in their ears. Emil averted his eyes. He was only here to impress his Catholic girlfriend and felt awkward enough before looking into the eyes of a guy in a skullcap and dress.

The pastor leaned in, face full of aged freckles. Emil tilted his head to one side and the pastor whispered to him.

“God bless you.”

“I…” Emil began to respond, then lost his sentence. The pastor didn’t move, and suddenly he had to say something.

“I don’t actually believe in God.”

He could see the pastor’s body. He imagined the guy’s face contorting in disgust, but his shoulders didn’t so much as tense. The pastor whispered again.

“May an unusual number of good things happen to you for what appears to be no reason.”

The pastor patted him on the shoulder with one hand, and waved for the next person in the procession over. Line etiquette forced Emil to walk away, though he stared at the man as he descended the steps. Had that old man given him the intellectual middle finger?

Bathroom Monologue: Two Love, OR, Dedicated to Trevor McPherson

Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy. The little mermaid wanted to be a real girl. They met at a bar, and ever afterward were simply themselves.

Bathroom Monologue: Fundamentally

“I was thinking this morning about how I'd like to be gay. Not for the sex - that all sounds nasty. But as it is I have to deal with men because they're my gender, and I have to deal with women because I want to boink them. If I was gay, that's roughly 50% of people I wouldn’t have to talk to anymore. And I'm white, so I'm already cut off from blacks, Asians, Hispanics and so-on. It would really be less than 25%. I'm Methodist, so if I went hardcore gay, I could go hardcore Methodist too, and cut out all the other religions. And since my priest is a total homophobe, I could get excommunicated. Then I wouldn't have to deal with my neighbors anymore. I'd probably work from home and get TiVo, if only I was gay.”

Bathroom Monologue: "For thematic material and smoking." -Explanation for I’ve Loved You So Long’s PG-13 rating in its MPAA rating box

The following film is Rated G for uninteresting anthropomorphism, for teen heartthrobs that you can’t comprehend why your daughter finds attractive, and for dialogue so sugary it will test the kidneys of the strongest constitution. There’s a mature film that will engage your emotions and intellect without going all art-house or social-damnation on in Theatre 4. Run now and I promise the clerks won’t come by checking your tickets. I’ll watch the kids. Go on. You let the television play nanny over them from 3:00 to dinner every weekday, so why not me? Look how colorful I am. Listen to those nasal voice actors. That’s right. Just walk up that aisle and let me take care of the rest.

Bathroom Monologue: Bullhonky

“They say human evolution ended with the development of reason in the brain. That’s bullhonky. Evolution started ending as soon as it granted primates the thumb. It had relied on the pleasure of sex as a trick to get things to procreate for eons. With dogs and cats, you got social pleasuring, specifically finding a she-wolf with which to get your fun on. That carried over all the way up to the social sex scene in chimps. But chimps also got the thumb, and suddenly all the guys could pleasure themselves. Masturbation subverted the great engine of genetic inheritance. Who knows how many amazing adaptations were spilled on jungle floors because evolution was dumb enough to give a chimp an opposable finger. Evolution never thinks its inventions through very far, and so it slowed on down, barely cranking out a less hairy, slightly more upright version of the other things that had thumbs, and there it gave up. The amazing human intellect gave rise to increasingly efficient tools for killing other amazing humans to get their stuff, an economy in which to sell that stuff, the proceeds paid for bandwidth to beam Asian porn to American homes in seconds. They’re all modifications on nature’s gift of self-gratification. We slowed right down in the hunter/gatherer stage, and now look. The communal hunt slowed down to the family dinner, which withered into single-serving foods you could buy in a supermarket where no one looks you in the eye. There’s even self-check-out. Stage acting was replaced by movies, removing the presence of actors, and movie theatres were replaced by home theatres, removing the presence of audiences, and the average occupancy of homes was split in half by rising divorce rates. It’s like God and Mother Nature stopped talking when they realized they could masturbate. I don’t know what it would take to get them sleeping in the same bed again.”

Frankenstein's Monsters on Every Day Fiction

"Frankenstein's Monsters" is the story of the day over on Every Day Fiction. My little yarn is about a torch-wielding mob storming Castle Frankenstein to recruit the stitched-up giant for their basketball team. You can read it here: http://www.everydayfiction.com

Thanks be to Every Day Fiction for accepting such a weird story.

Bathroom Monologue: Mummy Interviewed

The agent adjusted his cufflinks and looked the mummy over again.

“You won’t do anything about the bandages? Not even around the face? People connect more when they see faces.”

The mummy loosened his head wrappings. They unraveled and revealed strands of dry flesh, which constricted into a frown.

“I don’t have much of a face as it is. Without these wrappings I’m… just a zombie.”

The agent tilted his head.

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m royalty,” replied the mummy, wrapping his head back up.

“That is a problem.”

“You’re not kidding. I didn’t stuff a pyramid with jewels and scented oils to go shambling with a gas jockey who got bit on the neck.”

“No, I mean democracy is in fashion today. Royalty is going out of style where it isn’t photogenic. Have you considered running for office instead of holding onto your kinghood?”

“Nobody’s would vote for me. My religious values are thousand years out of touch and I’m not even a naturalized citizen of any of the easily scared countries.”

The agent looked out the window. If he squinted, the casino across the street could be a pyramid.

“And you don’t want to go back home?”

“I think being a monster in a country where blood pressure and playing too many videogames are serious problems will be easier on me, at least as I start back up again.”

“There are terrible things to be scared of in this country, you know.”

“Every country has things to be scared of, but I’m a luxury fear. I need a luxury market.”

The agent sighed.

“I just don’t think we can re-launch you this year as an undead product. Vampires are sexy. Pretty faces, no bandages, and they move faster. And you don’t want to get into the shambling market. Zombies have overflowed so badly that some of them are running now. It is not the same world it used to be.”

The mummy tugged at his bandages.

“Democracy changes things. That’s why I hoped it would die in Athens.”

“It’s a tough business.”

The mummy looked out the window for a while, staring at the casino. Then he perked.

“All those zombies? Do they have a president yet?”

Bathroom Monologue: Guerrilla Smile, OR, Possible Origins for Him. 2.

Handy eyes-free audio edition: http://atomsk.kenpachi.net/~jwiswell/JohnWiswellreadsGuerrillaSmile%20.mp3

Nobody likes a happy man when it’s somber, and to somebody it’s always a bad time. Seems there are so many bad times and things are so seldom improving that if you’ve had a good year in your life, it’s long past. That’s a stupid thought driven deep into the head of too many a man, and it spawned the Happy Man.

Every free hour he had he’d find unhappy places. If it was gloomy in a hotel lobby, he would come on in, loiter and laugh. He’d tell bad jokes at a funeral until you told him to shut up. He honored requests like that. Yet if he shut himself up, he’d grin deep enough to scare off Daniel Boone. And because there’re so many people who think times are eternally awful in their own way, he was a hated man. They sniffed at his clothes, his wife and his church. Some would even get to slapping him.

He spent too many days near a particular deli and found the worst of it when an individual took to him with a crowbar. Broke five ribs and dared him in front of all the patrons to laugh. The Happy Man couldn’t even simper and was carted to the hospital. Suggesting the mood and morals of the establishment, despite three teens working the counter, two locals gabbing and two more playing chess, no one could identify the assailant. There wasn’t even a crowbar by the time the law arrived.

The Happy Man arrived again some five days later. No one answered his knock-knocks. His diaphragm was so contused he could not take even half a breath, and so could neither tell the whole of a joke, nor laugh at it. Yet he could smile. He bought a sub and sat right in the window, in full view of any passersby, and grinned. He grinned at every patron and tipped his hat to every lady. He applauded the chess games as best as he could, but was never invited to join. The crowd did not appreciate his jests about horses galloping in L-directions.

Every day from opening to closing he sat in that window, grinning with intent. He knew who’d hit him, yet set that grin on everybody in the establishment equally. No, he didn’t want trouble or to file a suit. Weeks passed and no lawyer papers came. Only the Happy Man with a smile and an appetite for an excuse to sit in the window.

He didn’t shy from eye contact a wink until that one morning. He came in with a crowbar, and all the usuals stiffened. They knew it was a different morning because his vest was buttoned, something he couldn’t muster until then on account of his ribs. He let them all see all those done-up buttons, and when their eyes rose to his again, he tapped his lips with the crowbar. Then he coughed. Then he chuckled. Then he laughed in all their scowling faces.

Maybe they would have done something about it, but the law drove by the window. Then they could do nothing save wince and watch him slap his knees. He laughed until a girl he knew walked by. He waved to her down, got up and left his sub behind, using the crowbar like a cane.

Crash Timeline

At 9:48 A.M., GMail crashed from overuse.

At 10:27 A.M, Twitter crashed from people complaining about GMail.

At 11:00 A.M., Facebook crashed from people making fun of the Twitter crashed.

At 11:31 A.M., so many people had turned on their TV's in such a short period around the world to find out what happened that every electric grid on the planet crashed.

At noon, for reasons still unknown, the sky fell. Just before everyone was crushed two things could be heard: one tween screaming that the sky was falling, and her teacher telling her to stop exaggerating.

Bathroom Monologue: Fingernails Keep Growing

There were many theories for why fingernails kept growing after death. He believed it was of busy fingers. They did so much on reflex; you never thought to make the last digit on your pinky curl around the glass and yet they did. In his case, thirty years and never a day of writers block. In his case, thirty years of having a few ideas and thinking none of them through before sitting down to the typewriter. His hands knew how to do things his head was too dumb to accomplish, as exhibited on umpteen embarrassing book tours. He had his agent bury him with a typewriter and a stack of paper to test the theory. A month later his coffin was dug up and the agent found a few pages of crumpled up notes, three pages that were apparently false starts, and a few fading lines complaining about an old ribbon.

Bathroom Monologue: Sixty-Second Writing Challenge, writing about the word “Wanted.”

Wanted: a woman who won't cheat on me. Laundry skills a plus. Mac and cheese skills a plus. And I don't mean just boiling the stuff and dumping in the powder. I'm looking for an al dente kind of woman. Knowing however you spell “al dente” is a plus. No fat chicks.

She Danced in Burst Magazine

My flash story, "She Danced," is in the Fall edition of Burst Magazine. This is a revised edition of a previous Bathroom Monologue about a man who falls in love with a dancer and regrets it for the rest of the night. You can read the story here. Make sure to click "NEXT" at the bottom for the second half. I'd hate for you to miss how it turns out.

Burst is a special flash fiction publication targeting phones and smaller reading devices (hence the format of so few words per page and NEXT-click features), but anyone can read it at http://www.terra-media.us/burst/. They're featuring ten stories this season. I'm tickled to have one amongst them.

Bathroom Monologue: “Over the competition I am Tao Ren” –Mishearing L.L. Cool J.’s “Mama Said Knock You Out”

A wayfarer walked across the checkerboard floor to the security table. He tapped a knuckle on the oak desk and nodded to the on-duty guard.

“I’m here to see Tao Ren.”

The guard scoffed, continuing to watch talk shows on his portable TV.

“A lot of people come to see Tao Ren. Doesn’t mean they’re getting in.”

“I’ve got Tao Ren’s thing.”

“Tao Ren’s thing?”

The wayfarer pulled something from his pocketed. It glittered in the dark.

“Tao Ren’s thing.”

The guard’s eyes went to the wayfarer. They went wide, then narrow. Then his hand went for his radio.

“Sammy, there’s a guy here.”

“That’s nice,” the radio crackled back.

“He’s got Tao Ren’s thing.”

“Tao Ren’s thing?”

The guard grabbed the wayfarer by the wrist (the one not holding the thing) and dragged him into the stairwell. He only let go when they reached Tao Ren’s floor, and only then when he’d dragged him to this floor’s guard, so that the thing could dangle in his face. Sammy was taller, with a bad part in his thinning hair.

Up here the floor was white marble.

“Tao Ren’s thing,” repeated the guard from the first floor.

“Tao Ren’s thing,” repeated Sammy. He licked his lips. “How’d he get Tao Ren’s thing?”

“From Tao Ren,” said the wayfarer.

“You didn’t get it from Tao Ren.”

“Tao Ren doesn’t give many presents, and certainly not his things.”

“You robbed Tao Ren, punk?”

“Nobody robs Tao Ren,” corrected Sammy.

“I did not rob Tao Ren,” corrected the wayfarer.

“Then that means Tao Ren gave it to you, except Tao Ren does not give many gifts.”

“And never gives his things.”

“This is Tao Ren’s thing,” said the wayfarer, letting it jingle at the end of the chain. It did not glitter as this floor was well lit. “And Tao Ren cannot be robbed. Therefore, he must have given it to me.”

“That strains believability,” said the guard from the first floor.

“Then you can take it and figure it out yourself,” said the wayfarer, extending the thing to the guards. Both shrank from it.

“No!”

“Nobody touches it but Tao Ren,” said Sammy.

“And me. I’m touching it and I’m not Tao Ren.”

“You’re not Tao Ren.”

“But he is touching it,” said the nameless guard. “Does that make him Tao Ren?”

“There can’t be a new Tao Ren. He towers over the competition.”

“Tao Ren is not a mere title,” agreed the wayfarer.

“You’re no Tao Ren,” said Sammy, eyebrows knitting.

“But I have his thing,” said the wayfarer, extending it to the guards again. They shrank again. “I’d like to give it back to him.”

“You do not just walk in on Tao Ren.”

“Audiences with Tao Ren are rare and special.”

“You need appointments.”

“You need appointments to make requests for audiences.”

“Audiences with Tao Ren?”

“Indeed.” Sammy nodded gravely.

“But I have Tao Ren’s thing and it ought to be returned.”

“Tao Ren should possess all of Tao Ren’s things,” agreed the guard.

“But you will not touch it, and I cannot meet him to return it.”

“Not yet,” Sammy clarified.

“So how do we rectify the situation? I assume Tao Ren is missing a thing and would like it back.”

“Tao Ren wants it back.”

“Tao Ren never loses anything. All things that are his never leave him.”

Sammy and the other guard paused and eyed each other. When unified again, they turned on the wayfarer.

“You cannot go into Tao Ren’s office.”

“Appointments are necessary.”

“Appointments are necessary just to make requests.”

“But you could throw it in.”

“Throw it to Tao Ren.”

The wayfarer tilted his head. The thing glittered a little.

“You want me to throw it to Tao Ren?”

“Into Tao Ren’s quarters.”

“You yourself may not enter Tao Ren’s quarters.”

“No one may enter Tao Ren’s quarters without appointments.”

“But anyone can touch his door.”

“Tao Ren’s door.”

“Tao Ren’s secretary often opens it up to yell requests at him and take dictation. She lacks the foresight to schedule appointments.”

“Appointments for requests to get audiences.”

“Anyone can open Tao Ren’s door.”

“I can,” said the guard.

“And then you can throw it in,” said Sammy.

“And I can shut the door behind it,” said the guard, straightening up and rolling his shoulders with pride.

The wayfarer paused a moment. He looked at Sammy’s desk. The nameplate read “Clarice Orange.” Beside the typewriter sat several photos of a family of a different skin color from Sammy’s.

“Where is Tao Ren’s secretary today?”

“Out today,” said Sammy.

“Sickness. Maybe a death in the family.”

“Mislaid something of Tao Ren’s.”

“And then got very sick.”

“A tragedy.”

“My condolences,” said the wayfarer.

“She’s not dead.”

“She called in sick this morning.”

“Mislaying Tao Ren’s things can do that.”

“Psychosomatic disorders,” said the first-floor guard. Sammy looked at him admiringly.

The wayfarer walked over to Tao Ren’s door. It had to be Tao Ren’s door, as it was unusually large, ebony, and had the characters for “Tao” and “Ren” on either panel.

“Well then, could you get the door for me?” requested the wayfarer. The first-floor guard hustled over, elbowing Sammy out of the way. He paused a moment, took a breath, closed his eyes, turned the knob, and pushed open the door.

A little grey mist wafted out from the bottom.

“Go,” said the guard, not opening his eyes.

“Who disturbs Tao Ren?” came an immense voice from behind the door. “He has no appointments this afternoon.”

The wayfarer tossed the thing inside the room. As soon as it met the misty floor it shone bright orange.

“My thing!” called the voice, and the guard shut the door.

Then the wayfarer and the guard walked back to the desk.

“I meant to inquire before,” inquired the wayfarer, “but will there be any compensation?”

“Compensation?”

The wayfarer scratched one of his temples. “For returning Tao Ren’s thing.”

“Tao Ren does not lose things.”

“He cannot be robbed, therefore you did not steal the thing.”

“And if you stole it, you would have to call in sick to work tomorrow.”

Sammy and the other guard stared at the wayfarer until he turned around. As soon as he made it to the stairs, his face cracked into a grin. It lasted until he was half a mile from the apartment. He couldn’t wait to tell Clarice how right she was about her co-workers.

Slow Theology, OR, That’s literal, even for me

Sloth is the sin of being a dumb mammal that is naturally slow. The sin is punishable by being eaten by quicker predators and getting hit by motorists when crossing the roads they built in your habitat. One imagines God made this a sin on a bad day, or because “Six Deadly Sins” didn’t have the proper ring to it. It is a wonder that there aren’t more, like an Eighth Deadly Sin of being a parrot – that being an ostentatious annoying bird that repeats whatever people say around it to fit in and earn snacks. Really, wouldn’t we all rather that slow people were just allowed to walk at their own pace in favor of repetitive idiots getting hit at road crossings?

Bathroom Monologue: Insults that Should Be Used, OR, “…dog devourer.” –Brian Aldiss, Total Environment

-Light Bulb Replacer
-Professional Dialer
-Buster of Mediocre Rhymes
-Man of Questionable Parentage
-Wanderer of Straight Lines
-Rifler of Unfamiliar Luggage
-Used Lufa Salesman
-Slapper of Goats
-Herculean Clodhopper
-Lead-footed Waltzer
-Book Sniffer
-Lobster Defiler
-Tarnation’s Carnation (for pretty girls)
-Lady of the Afternoon (for women in general)
-Dusky-Futured Migrant
-Washer of Clean Dishes
-Butter Licker
-Foreigner in Your Own Above
-Silent Musician
-Walrus Baby
-Tainter of Elegant Balls

Bathroom Monologue: The Rule of Eleven Daughters

Handy eyes-free audio edition: The Rule of Eleven Daughters

The king had eleven daughters by the queen alone. The first was a joy - no good man resents his first child. Even the second and third were profound pleasures. But soon any king must fear for the future of his throne.

By the seventh daughter, he was consumed with conceiving a son. He did not put his wife to death - she'd have none of it, and getting rid of his official mate would be like killing a cook because not enough food was coming out of the kitchen. He conscribed more cooks, both literal and figurative, filling a wing of the castle with mistresses and feeding them any arcane aphrodisiac the wisemen came up with. Soon he took more to bed than to the throne room.

In his stead, his three eldest daughters played at policy. They began with the army, improving budgets and rations. They went on to pave roads nearest the heart of the kingdom and funded massive irrigation digs, but every four seasons, it was back to military investment. Soon not a regiment wanted for arms or armor, and not a soldier complained of overlong tours of duty. By the time that first daughter reached maturity, the kingdom’s army was so vast that no other territory would pick a war with them anymore. The army fast became a recreational trade.

When the king died, sonless and unhappy, it was the tidiest coup you ever saw. The princesses took the throne and every major general was at their side. There was no one in the land trained to fight who was against it, and so matriarchy was established. Soon there were eleven ladies voting on the future of the country, counseled by experts of all disciplines, and their mother. It broke down stereotypes like you wouldn't believe.

Isn't that how it went in your country?

Bathroom Monologue: God Don’t Like Ugly

"I don't think we're ever the same person, after a loss or vacation, or even day to day. Haven't we all changed from yesterday? Even as I say this, some of my cells are dying and they’ll never be back. We’re never quite the same. Yet God's blessed me with the ability to remain ugly no matter what happens. Lipstick, blush, face lifts, wonder bras and compliments won’t do anything but change the shape and shade of my ugliness. It's how I know that I'm still me. I’m eternally unpleasant. I couldn’t ask for more."

Bathroom Monologue: “…the hell of solipsism.” –Donald Barthelme, A Shower of Gold

Blasvius the Disbeliever walked through the various infernos without swear or interest. Not that he really walked – that would require there be a space through which he was traveling, which was absurd. This Hell was but the latest fantasy, no more real than the supermarket had been until that imaginary soup can display supposedly crushed him to death.

Still, he entertained himself with the illusions of suffering masses. Those who believed there was fire screamed and roasted; those who believed in water were up to their necks in lakes but couldn’t bend far enough to sip. Those who believed in love were tormented in such thoughtful and malevolent fashion that he almost believed in their tormenter.

“But no,” he declared to the illusions of agony. “I must be making it all up. Otherwise I’d be suffering. Solipsism is the only non-Hell.”

His stomach growled, and for an instant he wanted a snack from the vending machine outside the supermarket in which he’d died. For an instant, he was ready to believe in that vending machine.

Somewhere, a tormentor cackled. Blasvius tried not to believe it, but the number pad was already taking shape in front of him.

Bathroom Monologue: Another sudden bout of bathroom dialogue

"You said life wasn't worth living without her, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Then let's go get in some cars and kick ass. Got one rocket left in the launcher, and that’ll punch a hole in the wall. From there, it’s mostly a case of running and ducking security guards."

"We can't storm the prison! We'll be--"

"Killed? But you said life wouldn't be worth living. So either we rescue her, or we die. Not much of a loss given the circumstances, right?"

Bathroom Monologue: Centaur Hanging

When we finally caught those rogue centaurs I had them strung up like common criminals. Pushed them onto the platform and spearpoint, then pulled the planks from under them. Four hooves a-piece flailing desperately for but a second. Their necks snapped from the weight of their asses. Put the fear of God into them, and finally I could say that even the women in their tribe were hung like horses.

The Best of Bathroom Monologue Twittering

"Michael Jackson Funeral Set For Tuesday At Staples Center" -NPR

"Jackson to be buried under children's water fountain." -Unconfirmed



Bronze statue of Ronald Reagan unveiled today. "I didn't know he was black!" say children.



"Decades After WWII, Female Pilots Finally Honored " –NPR

"Sitcoms not worth producing, but their progressive themes had merit" -Anonymous



"Organization Of American States Meets On Honduras" –NPR

"Honduran government worried how American land masses will return home." -Anonymous



"Obama Hopes For New Russian Relationship" -NPR

"President hopes she's blonde" -Anonymous



No one ever mentions it, but a synonym for “motherf*cker” is “dad.”



"Oil Price Rise Leads To Proposed Crackdown On Speculators" –NPR

"President: Thinking about what's coming causes ulcers, stress" -Anonymous



Gail Simone asks for worst possible Superhero Movie Casting:

Jeff Goldblum as Mr. Fantastic, Ru Paul as Sue Storm, Richard Simmons as Johnny, Julian McMahon as Doom



"Need For Campaign Cash Opens Door For Lobbyists " –NPR

"Lobbyists go missing; door to Twilight Zone found mysteriously open." -Anonymous



"Iraqi Insurgents Turn To Small But Deadly Weapon" –NPR

"Terrorists may find Hercules Beetle's name deceptive" -Anonymous



“Report: Sotomayor Is 'Solidly In The Mainstream' Of Her Circuit" –NPR

"Solid objects move slower in streams than liquids." -Science Teacher



"Ghosts Of Nominees Past Haunt Sotomayor Hearing" –NPR

"Supreme Court Nominee bursts into hysterics at Christmas carols." -Anonymous



"Forget The Frisbee, Cool Dogs Catch Waves" -NPR

"Cats catch particles, theorize on nature of light." -Anonymous



"Kim Jong Il Reported Ill; Who Will Take His Place?" –NPR

"Kim Jong IV Eyeing Throne." -Anonymous



"Obama Challenges Critics On Health Care " –NPR

"Obama will arm wrestle you for free medicine. Be a man, Congress." -Anonymous



“CIA Director Leon Panetta Threatened To Quit Over Justice's Torture Tack" –NPR

"Gummy tacks are less painful, more humane." –Anonymous



"Court Rules Law Enforcement Went Too Far In Baseball Steroid Probe" –NPR

"Judge: if it goes over the fence, they can shoot it up." -Fan



"Giuliani May Have His Eye On The New York Governor's Mansion" –NPR

"Child dispatched with pool skimmer to get eye off roof" -Anonymous



"Washington Prepares to Say Farewell" –NPR

"George: Okay, I'm going. But please do something about those slaves." –Anonymous



"Is Pentagon Trying To Shape War Coverage?" –NPR

"This conflict has five sides." -Anonymous



"Man Bites Off Tip Of Another Man's Pinky Finger At Health-Care Protest" –NPR

"Surgery Too Expensive, Pinky Discarded." -Anonymous

Bathroom Monologue: Social Creature

“I always thought self-determination was the most important thing until I fell down this hole. The walls are slippery and it’s gotten dark again. This is my second night down here and I’m pretty hungry. I’m beginning to suspect I’m less of an individual and more of a social creature. Those wolves sound like social creatures and I’d really appreciate anyone showing up before they do. If anyone can hear me. Hello? Hello?”

Comment Moderation Off

Though doubled over from kidney pain this morning, I managed to turn off Comment Moderation and subscribe to Comments. I'll still be notified whenever somebody leaves feedback, but now you won't have to put up with the annoying wait before you can see your comment below my story. Fascinating the stuff you can figure out when you're too sick to sleep. I never intended moderation to seem condescending or overprotective - it was just the only way to be notified people were leaving comments, and on a blog with hundreds of posts like this I like to get messages when one receives a new comment. So comment freely.

Excuse me while I run to the bathroom again.

Bathroom Monologue: Materialism is the ideal that there are no ideals

[XINHUA sits on one side of the booth in a pink tuxedo. He looks identical to GARY, even in skin tone and the fold of his eyes, yet he has that vague Asianness about him that white people cannot articulate but makes them think he is secretly a ninja. SAMID sits to his left in a pink tuxedo. The planetoid PLUTO, shrunken to the size of a basketball, levitates near the window part of the booth, wearing a “WHERE IS GARY?” t-shirt. CHESTER A. ARTHUR sits alone on the other side of the booth, wearing his usual finery.]

Former President Arthur: The new president is a pragmatist. Look at that stimulus bill. The man gets things done.

Xinhua: My colon gets things done. Just because you do things doesn’t mean you suddenly stop thinking and having ideals. You do things because you’re working towards some idea.

Pluto: Idealism is bound for failure. It deals with what you want rather than what is; it deals with a world that doesn’t exist. Unrealistic nonsense.

Samid: This again. Materialists insult idealism for referring to a world that doesn’t exist, and they have to because their philosophy insults itself by referring to a world that does. Materialism itself is the pettiest idealism: the ideal that there are no ideals. It negates itself even as it insists that we ignore right and wrong, ought and should, let babies starve, the sicker grow weak and wars be fought.

Former President Arthur: Most wars are fought for ideas.

Xinhua: I’m pretty sure wars have been waged for materials. Let me call Africa and get back to you.

Former President Arthur: Only because they had ideas of what to do with those materials.

Samid: Stockpiling disproves that. People build up wealth they have no plans to use.

Xinhua: Because of conscious or unconscious ideas of comfort and security in having those materials. Again, idealism.

Pluto: You realize in arguing for idealism you’ve just said all bank robbers and strip miners are idealists?

Samid: There shouldn’t be a conflict between the two forces. We have ideas about materials. Pragmatism can be put to work for better things, but a world run on it will see high suicide rates. You’ll go insane if all you are is practical.

Pluto: You’ll also eat with greater reliability.

Former President Arthur: Ideals will not feed babies or cure the sick, but they will tell you that you should.

Samid: Without the imaginative compulsion, there is no use for pragmatism, just as there is no use to be effective at anything unless you first admit the appeal of doing it. To pretend that anyone is not made up of some parts pragmatic and some parts idealistic is unpragmatic.

Former President Arthur: If you sincerely believed in the merits of pragmatism, you would not have made your case on such abstract and therefore idealistic grounds. Evidence wins the hearts of a hundred men before one can read the caption.

Samid: You, sir, are a formidable opponent.

Former President Arthur: Thank you, my boy. Now can someone tell me why Gary’s been replaced by a Chinaman?

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins For Him. 1.

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I wasn’t bombarded by cosmic rays. My parents weren’t shot and a clown didn’t fly through my window as I was calculating revenge. I like clowns, though. They aren’t scary or menacing. You make them that way, when all they want to do is make you smile. They don’t care if you’re a Muslim or emo or President of these United States. You could have the codes to all the nuclear weapons in the world, and all a clown wants to do is make you chuckle. That’s why he scares you – he’s unhinged from your forced habits. I like that.

I wasn’t a clown. I was a pharmacist. Used sugar and food coloring to put smiley faces on lollipops for kids who didn’t want to take their medicine. That’s my story. Day after day. Lollipop after lollipop. The child comes in crying and leaves happy, sucking on grape or lime. Mom comes in frowning, fakes a smile for the pharmacist, puts up with his antics, then, when she’s paid and thinks she’s out of eyeshot, goes back to frowning. Mom’s smile isn’t real, kids, no matter how much sugar and food coloring you put on it. You’ve got to follow her into the parking lot, climb into the back seat, catch her by the scalp and dig in there with a straight razor if you want to give her a smile that won’t go away. That’s my story.

But that’s also small scale. Eventually a clown’s got to play to bigger audiences. You’ve got to put money away. 401K – not for retirement, but terrorism. A pharmacist can make a lot, especially when he does his shifts alone and tampers with the billing. And he has access to so many handy chemicals – wholesale!

Adults will pay anything for their drugs. It helps them fake things. I handed them their Rx lies, and rang up the bill. That’s what I’m serving everybody now. Grape, lime, and the bill. This isn’t a trench coat – it’s a lab coat dyed purple! I want to see you laugh, Gotham. I want to see your smile. Not the one you put on when you walk by security guards and bar tenders. You just insist on turning back into pumpkins at midnight when your fairytale fix of alcohol wears off. And if you’re going to insist turning back into pumpkins, then I’m going to carve you like a Jack O’Lantern. I’ll find that smile in there somewhere. That’s my story.

Bathroom Monologue: Holy Grounds and Coffee

Chandler sat down on the front pew with the rookies, taking Kerick’s knife and beginning another stake. In the light of all the candles and church glass, his Santa white beard looked stained orange.

“It’s not that vampires can’t walk on holy ground,” he said, purposefully stroking the knife in Kerick’s direction. The shaving fell into the rookie’s lap. “It’s that they know I’m waiting there for them. It all began here, in this parish, on that there altar. One of those disrespectful neck-biters tried to drink my minister. He was a fine orator, and damaging those pipes was unforgivable. I nailed them to the ground and made them see sun-up through these windows.”

He gestured with the knife to the stained glass scenes. Christ carrying his cross, Mary mourning, and the Devil laughing.

“Good way to start a legend. You kill enough of them around holy ground and eventually they think they physically can’t enter. Really, it’s that they’re sissies.”

A query in response to the “anathema” plots list on http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/submissions/

It's strongly recommended that you read the banned plots list on http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/submissions/ before reading the following query.

I recently pulled a story from my trunk that I think would be perfect for your publication. Cain is a vampire tracked by Satan thanks to the psychic HIV he contracted from a tainted communion. He flees upon the advice of a talking cat and talking sword, which naturally keep calling him "thou." He and Abel found the sword in a field when they were playing as children before a time-traveling sexy vampire popped out and killed his brother and raped Cain (I know it sounds perfect for *that* anthology, but I intended this for your magazine). Though he knows Satan and the time-traveling sexy vampire are going to invade the Exodus-era of earth with their Faster-Than-Light zombie army, that era’s milquetoast governments provide no help in stopping them and are really the biggest obstacle. The talking cat (Chatty Cathy) advises Cain assemble a heroic party of Libertarians at the local inn, and though he finds a motley band of bohemians that could turn the war around, they despise him based on what history says he did. The end is a great gory battle scene where Cain spills Satan's intestines using a three-month-old copy of Scientific American (the one with the article about evolutionary psychology). “Cain is Able” is complete at 5,002 words. I’ve submitted it to a bunch of magazines simultaneously, but I’m sure they won’t mind me turning them down when you accept it.

Bathroom Monologue: Welcome to the Lady in the Lake Weapons Shop.

Welcome to the Lady in the Lake Weapons Shop. You’d like to see our wares?

The repeating rifle is 19,000 pounds.

The laser sabre is 43,000 pounds.

The laser cannon, 200 yards penetration model, is 65,000 pounds.

The laser cannon, 300 yards penetration model, is 85,000 pounds.

The combination magnetic meteorite summoner and launcher is on sale at 100,000 pounds, down from 150,000.

And we have an array of hydrogen bombs starting as low as 110,000 pounds, for a set of five.

What's that? The sword in back with the funny scabbard? Oh, saints. It's been so long since we sold one that I don't remember the price. How much have you got on you, little Arthur?

Bathroom Monologue: No Children Under 22 Admitted

"He can't be Asian. That's just racist. A guy named Blackjack can be white for the irony, and because most people who play blackjack at all are white. And he can be named black for obvious reasons. But Asian? That's not ironic! That's just weird!"