Bathroom Monologue: Birthed Lucky, OR, Only Casino in Town

Yahweh sat at the Bang slot machine all day. They had to kick him out at closing. He was back the next day, and stayed to closing. He returned every day of the week.

"Cherry. Cherry. Bar."

"Protein. Lipid. Protein."

"Gas. Gas. Gas. Jupiter? I don't need another of these."

He tried until the Manager took pity on him. He pulled him aside at 1:00 A.M. on Sunday and offered him a tiny white, blue and green planet.

"The white bits are gaseous water. It's essential to the integrity of the bauble. You have no idea how many quarters you'd have to sink into that thing to get one, and even the meanest waitresses don’t want to see you try. We kind of pity you."

"I don't need your pity."

"You're down on your luck. The best you got were your quarters back on Tuesday."

"Most of them," he muttered.

"So take this. Please. On the house. It comes with a moon on the key chain."

"Just one moon?"

"Just the one. If you don't want it, though..."

"No, I'll take it." Yahweh snatched it from the Manager's hand and grumbled, "I'll make it work. It's a start."

"I'm sure you'll try. Have a good weekend," said the Manager, before He showed Yahweh to the door.

Bathroom Monologue: “Republicans will be meeting with experts this morning to review alternative energy policies…” Announcer on C-SPAN

Hamsters on wheels – Biothermy from burning corpses, children with lower than a D+ average and Senators who spend over twenty years in office - Hamsters on steroids on wheels –Dimmer switch on the sun Windmills - The hopes and dreams of impoverished children – Mess with the moon until gravity relaxes – Corn – Collect pig and cow farts in massive over-farm domes, then funnel them into tankers and use them like propane – Nuclear reactors a safe distance from any dinosaur fossils – Drill for oil somewhere else – Turn around, drill in the same area again and see if the hiding oil came out

Bathroom Monologue: Cultural Analysis of the Pseudo-Homophobic High Five Ritual

There is a relatively recent ritual in some parts of the United States of America to “high-five,” or slap palms with another person, after an activity to prove one’s heterosexuality. This ritual verifies your chosen sexual identity, or, “proves you’re not gay.” This is largely performed by males, though there are isolated reports of females engaging in the ritual. The ritual is necessitated (or at least, requested to be performed) immediately following an act that might bring one’s sexuality or gender into question, such as watching a cooking show on TV or putting on a pink t-shirt. It may be initiated by the offender, though normally a second party will intervene and offer, “It’s not gay if you high-five afterwards!” In many cases the activity has no logical connection to one’s sexuality or gender, such as a heterosexual male purchasing menstrual pads for his female lover. Indeed, data shows that during the lifespan of this “high five so you won’t be gay” ritual, it has become used less and less often on actual events relating to homosexuality. Connected (and most interesting to social scientists) is that while some segments of the male population exhibit some degree of serious homophobia, many (and perhaps the majority) of those who indulge in the ritual are not in any noticeable degree homophobic. It seems to channel both a latent homophobia and a humorous mockery of other people’s homophobia, suggesting homophilia, or at least disapproval for bigotry that is expressed in a quizzically supportive manner, as opposed to the cultural norm of expressing disapproval of such matters with negativity. Anthropologists have been dispatched throughout bars and sports stadiums across America to further examine the meanings of this ritual, though it almost seems like such people aren’t actually bashing gays. Clinically speaking.

Bathroom Monologue: Start. Hunt.

Rise. Hit snooze bar. Rise. Hit snooze bar. Rise. Set coffee maker while hitting the shower. Drink coffee while making breakfast. Eat breakfast while jawing with co-workers. Draw up work crew. Suit up (don't forget the teflon gloves). Pray. Hit on Marie at the fuel depot. Head to caverns. Solar-battery flashlights for the biters. Silver axe for the furries. Flash, stab. Flash, stab. Flash, stab. Break (God bless unions). Coffee if you're lucky, conversation if you're cheap. Rent asbestos gear. Head to Fallen Houses. Fire is your friend, smoke is a traitor. Leave big daemons for the guys in armor. Go for the imps (collect heads!). Exit. Trade heads for cash. Dinner at Marie's Diner (six heads in a bag and you eat free). Drink. Return equipment. Drink. Drink. Crank call Marie. Drink. Crash. Sleep.

Bathroom Monologue: Un-Life

In some cases “Pro-Life” and “Pro-Choice” simply do not cover all the ideological ground on the abortion issue. Take for instance “Un-Life,” an ideology diametrically opposed to the Pro-Life stand that demands all children be aborted as soon as possible. They have garnered a small degree of press on major news networks for staging protests at hospital nurseries.

“We’re in a global overpopulation crisis,” says Samuel Lenshner, spokesman of the Connecticut chapter of Couples For Un-Life. “There isn’t enough food to eat in Africa. India’s population is exploding. Taking the subway to work yesterday I had the little rats crawling all over me. One soiled himself. The mother was exhausted and unable to contain them all, and all I could do was look at her with pity and think – abortion could have prevented this.”

Lenshner and fellow Un-Lifers blast Pro-Choice for being too liberal.

“Just the option of abortion for women is not enough. That still gives them the option to keep their womb-infection.” said a woman who requested to go unnamed, perhaps because of a bulging belly. “Pregnancy is hazardous a woman’s health, ruins her figure, and results in a little tax exemption that doesn’t even begin to cover how much the little bastard will eat.”

Another anonymous woman added, “Does life begin at conception or birth? We don’t know, but we do know that nuisance begins at crying.”

Lenshner weighs in further, saying the existence of adoption disproves the need for choice. “I like to think of myself as Pro-Choice. Pick any kid out of this brochure. But why make a new one? That just adds to the problem. If one of these whining, running, constantly demanding beasts has to exist, use one we have in stock. But keep it out of public.”

Links to and addresses for various orphanages are available at www.un-life.net, a non-for-profit website devoted to “preventing you from making the worst mistake of your life.”

The Un-Lifers consider China’s one-child policy to be too liberal, but are open to select “breeders.” Under the policy espoused in a 44,000-word essay on their website, the Un-Lifers explain that people living ten miles or more from anyone else and who are willing to sign contracts promising not to bring their “young” into public before “the age at which they can tie their own shoes, walk in orderly fashion in supermarkets and will shut up in a movie theatre,” may be permitted one child.

The Un-Lifers are actively pursuing mandatory sterilization as a “kinder, more sanitary alternative” to enforced abortion. A vote on the policy will be brought before the Vermont state legislature in March.

Bathroom Monologue: “One of my many flaws is perpetually confusing H.G. Wells, Orson Welles and George Orwell.” -Me

His masterwork is something of a mess. It starts out with this pig that turns himself transparent. You see, the pig has been studying theoretical sciences since he is the only species that can read - I mean, aside from the farmers. Being invisible makes the porker go a little nuts with moral ambivalence and empowerment, leading him to think some animals are more equal than others, but he'd still like to run for office. Thus begins his Citizen Pig campaign. Something leaks to the tabloids about "Rosebud," who might be his pig-lover, or worse, an interspecies affair with a known anti-government agent. Citizen Pig ultimately redeems himself by fighting the invading aliens (though no one else knows he didn't really beat them; he just sneezed on them and watched them die of the common cold). The alien invasion is really a front by the oppressive government who wind up throwing him in prison and brainwashing him. A particularly chilling scene sees a jaded actor, whose spirit was broken by having to do really lame capitalist commercials, telling him he's holding up five hooves when he only has four and whatnot. The government does all this just to find out who Rosebud was. He never gives in, though in the epilogue, as the Fascist swine are burning his stuff, we find out Rosebud was his time machine.

A Vision, with a View, OR, Funny thing is she didn’t think she was better or worse than he; “better” never occurred to her while holding his hand

She lived in a town called Should Be, and the angel loved her. He visited her every chance he got, which still wasn’t enough. Every time, she had to show him the way. He didn’t quite get it and he’d never quite do it, but boy did he like the way it made her into someone like her. The angel was rough and imperfect beneath her frail perfection, her implausibly beautiful brain, and he aspired to it, but just couldn’t live in Should Be. It didn’t work in his world. He tried, and he fought, and he sang, and he wrote, and ultimately he politicked with the ultimate one, but even with a permission slip from on high, he just couldn’t pay the rent in Should Be. For lack of idealism, but not for lack of trying, the angel surprised her one day by waving from his new apartment, on the top floor of a high rise in Want, a little burg on the outskirts of Should Be, with a view right into her room. They had great fun running a clothesline between their windows. He couldn’t live in her city or her morals, but for love of a better person, he could make the commute.

Bathroom Monologue: I need to lay off the M*A*S*H marathons

“Hey there. You’re my last patient for the day. How’s it feel to be the healthiest man to lay on my table today? You see, by triage the most gravely injured patients come in first. My first was a kid missing his legs. Stepped on a land mine. The second was his sister. Shouldn’t have tagged along so close behind him. Your bullet wound in the shoulder looks pretty nice in comparison, and by virtue of being the last patient you’re the luckiest unlucky man in the war. How does that feel? I mean the needle, not the emotion. I have enough of the latter to last me until my next Amazon order arrives. I’m getting some new psycho-theory stuff. Do-it-yourself psychology. They say the easiest way to go nuts is… and we’re done.”

Bathroom Monologue: The Wine

One of the Golden Emperor’s displays of his own grandeur was the annual court wine ceremony. A bottle of the empire’s best was carted from lordship to lordship, left in the charge of one of his fifty lords for a week each. For the last two weeks of the year the bottle was left with his wife, the Jade Empress, and his oldest son, a man of little reputation. Any of the fifty-two culprits could have poisoned the bottle in any number of ways without the chance of being caught; with each lord in the position to grab more land and his family was in line to grab the throne. Then at the ceremony the emperor would take the bottle from his son and drink the entire thing, without a food tester. It displayed the amity of his reign.

Cynics say the bottle is switched the day before the ceremony. Cynics, as the Jade Empress is immortally quoted, “are short-sighted and will be tried in a court of law.” The bottle is actually switched several hundred times. If the Golden Emperor only switched it once someone, quite probably his wife, would pay off the single switcher and he’d die disgracing his throne. No, a staff larger than that which runs most of his wars is in charge of replacing, destroying, disinfecting, sanitizing, unpoisoning, fact-finding, blackmailing, threatening, extorting and kidnapping until every possible conspirator had either given up his plot or executed it thinking he’d finally shown that blasted Golden Emperor. His highness would never allow all plots to simply be pre-empted; in fact, he wished as many to be implemented as possible, and then quietly thwarted. He was a ruler who understood the virtue of embarrassment. It was why he always has his loving wife uncork the bottle at the ceremony.

Bathroom Monologue: Where it comes from

"You see, grandma, when a typewriter loves a TV very much, they elope to the back of the electronics section. They wait until everyone has gone home. That’s why when you drive past them at night the lights are still on. It’s electricity of their sin. Some months later the stork brings their horrible bastard child, which has the face of its father and the keyboard of its mother. Due to its show-business face it would go into the television’s line of work, but the typewriter was very free-spirited. It had once belonged to Norman Mailer, and needless to say, was kind of full of itself. So the typewriter raised the bastard creature to have its own original ideas, creating a great rift of enmity between the little beast and its HD paternal figure. But out of that enmity came new job opportunities for the child: word processing, spreadsheets, copious streaming stupid videos, new forms of political propaganda, and porn. Oh, the rolling hills of porn their bastard child would facilitate. Straddling that mountain of obscenity, the bastard child’s kind rose to prominence. And that’s where your computer came from."

Bathroom Monologue: God’s Iron Jack O’Lantern Brigade

They never rot. They never rust. They always march towards what’s right. They’re a magnetized moral compass, unreliable and unstoppable, mechanized and grinning. Cannons for arms, treads for legs. Silicon replaces synapses, fuel replaces fatigue, and their only shellshock is crushing a tortoise. The fire that illuminates their teeth and eyes is nuclear. They leave no weeping widows, for no matter how trying or bitter the war, they’re always back on the porch by the 31st.

Bathroom Monologue: Phobias and Irrational Fears

-Neurobiology scares me because some day somebody’s going to say she got 3.7 units of enjoyment from the newest James Bond movie.
-Poetry scares me because it’s the height of expression in the English language and yet follows almost none of the rules or conventions.
-Astronomy scares me because one day we’ll have colonies on the moon and Mars, and I get lost on the way to Target. GPS doesn’t work when you’re not on the G anymore.
-Blue jeans scare me because they have tiny white spots everywhere that aren’t advertised in the name, and if they’re willing to deceive in colors, who knows what other secrets they may be hiding?
-Nonsense scares me because I can understand it.
-Reason scares me because people so often mistake theirs for the true one.
-Tomorrow scares me because it’s coming but I can’t see it from here.
-Telepathy scares me because my friends may secretly have it and eavesdrop on my brain, and discover all of the totally inane things that occupy my silent periods when I’m looking serious.
-Fear itself scares me because it scared the generation that beat up Nazis, Fascists, suicide pilots and the sun god’s empire.

Bathroom Monologue: Yes. A perverted waterslide.

The publishers wanted the photo on Mr. Condry’s dust jacket to look dignified, but he refused to even take off the clown hat. “The shit comes out three feet away from where the food goes in, Mr. Photographer,” he said to the photographer’s female assistant, “and there’s a perverted waterslide connecting them. Nothing is going to make me look dignified. Man is built to look humble.”

Bathroom Monologue: Less Than Three

Part of the doctor’s written instructions was to, “ WALK – 3 MILES PER DAY.” Now how the Hell was Karl supposed to walk negative three miles? That had to violate some law of nature. Like all serious questions, Karl turned to Michael Jackson for answers. That crazy black/white boy had wisdom for any occasion, and this was no different. Karl has been moon walking three miles a day for the last two months. His wife really wishes the doctor would return her calls and clarify the instructions.

Bathroom Monologue: Show me Your I.D., OR, I’ll need two forms of I.D. with that, OR, Get Over This Pun, John

Amin Tech was way ahead of the curve on genetic engineering, producing the first self-sustaining waves of biological nanomachines. These weren’t metal and they didn’t have silicon processors – they were too small for such clunky stuff. Instead, Olivia and Micah Amin lovingly spliced DNA and turned bacteria to good use. They spliced so much DNA that they had ligases named for them (even if nobody in the press knew what ligases were).

Olivia and Micah programmed behavior patterns to the bio-nanos, so that they swarmed and could deal with complex problems in the human body. One booster shot of the buggers could clear out a blocked heart valve in minutes.

Through careful mapping of bio-nano DNA, they could even stimulate the production of healthy proteins in the human body, so that any ligament or muscle could be repaired. Once the job was underway, the bio-nanos would break down and become part of the protein in the healthy new tissue.

But the final development was accidental.

Late one night, Micah thought she noticed strange wave patterns moving in a dish of bio-nanos. Sharing of the wave patterns seemed to correlate between unprogrammed changes in their behavior, specifically making them swarm. Since bio-nanos could only do their jobs if they followed the programs, this innovation was worrisome. Were they self-organizing? Were they talking to each other?

Micah worked to dawn developing a device to decode the mysterious waves. She was stunned over what she read. She paged Olivia, who grumpily drove over to the lab.

Olivia thought Micah was nuts, but mid-argument the two noticed another series of inexplicable wave patterns. Micah switched the device on in time to decode only the last wave, which formed one last sentence: “All that aside, I don’t believe in intelligent design.”

Bathroom Monologue: Seems to Me

“This isn't what it seems! ... Okay, it's exactly what it seems. German Shepherds are actually the smartest species on the planet and have been toying with us all along. I still can’t believe we didn’t figure it out when they made figure skating an Olympic event. But now isn’t the time for hindsight, Charlene! We have to counterattack before the realize we’ve caught on. … What? Yes, of course they made me cheat on you. Why else would I have done it? You think I’m attracted to this supermodel? She means nothing to me! It was the German Shepherds, Charlene! The German Shepherds!"

Bathroom Monologue: Your confidence in your ability to escape a full nelson over time, OR, The first-ever Bathroom Chart

Transcribed from a piece of toilet paper, this chart seeks to begin scientifically explaining the male experience through the isolatable event of a challenge to escape a full nelson. The full nelson is an amateur wrestling hold in which the aggressor wraps his arms under the arm pits of the opponent, linking his hands behind the opponent’s head. Pressure can be placed forward, making it difficult for the opponent to breathe. It is notable as one of the seven challenges a man will see on TV and immediately think he could do better than whoever is doing it, along with curling, the first event on American Gladiators and everything on CSPAN.



Secondary link: http://s69.photobucket.com/albums/i73/johnhatephoto/?action=view¤t=fullnelson2-1.jpg

Bathroom Monologue: Wealth is Wasted on the Rich, OR, Friends are Wasted on the Happy, OR, Humor is Wasted on the Humorous

Jovie was the Gambino family’s favorite customer. For years Papa Gambino had invited Jovie to the bar for complimentary drinks, and they would stay up laughing and getting plastered long after closing time. Jovie was such a fixture in the restaurant that Papa Gambino’s friends recognized him by the back of his head (in contrast, most of them didn’t even know Gambino’s daughters’ names).

One night when the bar was particularly packed with Papa Gambino’s friends, Jovie told the story of how he first came to the restaurant.

“I’d just moved into town, since all the real estate was so cheap. My wife and I were starving, having driven all day on nothing but gas station candy. We unpacked all her clothes, all her paintings, all her majesty’s bath utilities – the woman has no end of things for which I have no beginning. Our cupboards were bare, and so were our nerves. We drove by this shopping center and saw the grocery store closed. On either side were these two little rinky-dink places: one Italian, one Chinese. I asked the wife what mood she was in, and she said she was in the mood for whatever was closer. Fortunately we entered on the left, so it was Italian. We went in and within minutes I was gabbing with this guy,” Jovie smacked Papa Gambino on the back. “So many years of sitting in this place and chatting. If we’d gone to the other place, everything would have been different!”

Papa Gambino’s friends hooted with laughter until Maria Gambino, Papa’s middle daughter, asked, “How would things have been different?”

For the first time in her life, everyone stared at Maria for something other than her chest. It was a still an uncomfortable moment.

Then Jovie exclaimed, “I would have learned Chinese!”

The bar erupted in laughter. Stoolie almost threw up for laughing so hard. The only time they laughed harder that night was when they taught Jovie how to say, “I would have learned Chinese” in Italian.

Jovie’s wife never came down to the restaurant. Papa Gambino’s daughters understood why.

“Scientists receive death threats over "end-of-world" experiment” –Fedquip, Propeller.com

Dear Science,

Please don’t blow up the world. I don’t think you will, don’t think you want to, and am uncertain how it would exactly work – but if the world starts blowing up, please hit the ‘Pause’ button. Since your particles will be moving at more than 99.9% of the speed of light, you ought to be able to dodge disaster unless you take your eyes off the road.

As I understand it the Large Hadron Collider you’ve built may recreate some of the conditions from just after the Big Bang, so if you do destroy the world, you’ll at least do us the kindness of immediately starting it again.

On a related note, should the Large Hadron Collider end and begin all life again and you end up in the Yahweh position, could you please inform any of the new life you should see to please “Chill out” this time?

On another related note, congratulations on inventing the notion of the end via beginning. Armageddon by meteors, alien invasion and apathy of deities were all interesting, but humanity has never encountered something so novel as all matter dying out thanks to it starting.

Love and kisses,
Art

Bathroom Monologue: Going Gracefully

“No, you know what? I want people to miss me. My death should be a big deal. I want my family crying. I want my manager to beg God to let him trade somebody else. I hope my ex-girlfriends show up and lament that they should have given me head more often. I want the president in the front row signing a cloning bill so that he can get more of me out there as soon as damned possible. None of this happy funeral bullcrap. Miss me and know it’s never going to be that good again.”

Bathroom Monologue: Thanks to random spam from oertwig@unknownmailerdaemon for inspiring this one with your likely made-up name

There were blacksmiths who refused to make weapons. Of them, Oertwig was the most famous. His pacifism wasn’t notable when he was just an apprentice and spent most of his time fetching bellows or water. It became a source of conflict when he became a professional, and especially after he showed such talent.

He began with horseshoes, made with tiny feather imprints, and after shoeing them, the horses ran at double speed.

His first shield bore the imprint of a single fingertip, like a giant had stamped it with his thumb. On the battlefield, that shield was held futilely up against a battering ram, and repelled it.

All of Oertwig’s ironworks held up under the pounding of enemy steel, though soon he was not working with such lowly metals. Soon he was making soft gold cufflinks that never scratched, each with a little perfect circle imprint on the center. Soon he was getting loads of rare dwarfish metals, things that glowed or turn knives dull all on their own, just to see what he could do with them.

But the orcish and human kings demanded Oertwig smith them weapons. By that time he was rich and renowned, and used his position to refuse. They used their positions to insist.

His breastplates bearing interwoven hands were uncannily likely to catch arrows between their fingers, and never let them pierce the leather doublets beneath. The man who wore Oertwig’s first hound helm was mistaken for a werewolf. When his apprentice held Oertwig’s personal ankh, he swore he had a vision of the two great prophets.

Still, he made no swords or spears. When warlords brought torches to his door in threat, he responded by dumping water onto his own coals. The local militia was so enraged that they would have stabbed him to death, if they could have penetrated his armor. The closest thing to a weapon he ever made was drawing a wave on his piss bucket. When he emptied the thing out the door it washed the militia down to the river.

Bathroom Monologue: Wizard’s Second Rule

-All your relationships will end poorly anyway, so date for looks.
-Automatic mops never work out as well as you think.
-Point wand away from face at all times.
-Angst can replace the ether and Eldritch energy as a viable source of magical energy within the clearly-marked dénouement zone.
-Though people have been learning and speaking Latin academically for centuries, only you, while waving a stick, can make it blow up the world.
-A penis does not substitute for a wand ever. Don’t even try it. The sting stays with you.
-Zee goggles. Zey do nutzing!
-If your wizarding school gets a new student with a tragic and profound destiny, transfer out. The world will be saved regardless and you’ll be safer this way.

Bathroom Monologue: “Which has more alcohol, a glass of red wine, a bottle of beer, or a shot of scotch?” –An interviewer in Debra Ginsberg’s Waiting

Chambers wrinkled his nose and leaned into the interviewer.

"The bottle of beer. Technically the three have the same alcohol content, but if the beer comes in a bottle then I can't stiff you like I can pouring wine or scotch. If you're asking recreationally, I recommend wine if you're in a good mood, beer if you're in a bad mood, and scotch if you've got nothing better to do. Since there's more alcohol per liquid ounce in scotch, (which most of your applicants trip over because they're nervous rather than ignorant), it gets you drunk the fastest." Chambers rose, winked and patted her on the shoulder. "Call and tell me my hours when you stop quivering."

Bathroom Monologue: That Urban Legend

Jennifer drove closer to the edge of the road, but the semi wouldn’t pass. It kept flashing its brights and blaring that awful horn. She slowed, hoping it would speed up and pass. It didn’t. Instead, he rolled down his window and waved frantically at her.

Cursing, she pulled into the breakdown lane – but the truck pulled off after her. Immediately the driver jumped out of his cab.

She didn’t wait for him. She took off.

Still, half a minute later the truck was back behind her, its brights flooding her tiny car. She trembled and shouted out the driver’s side window for him to leave her alone, but he kept pointing to something in the back of her car. Was he nuts?

“Just go away!” she cried at the truck.

The driver responded with something like, “Look out! He’s in the back seat!”

Finally Jennifer swerved off the road at too high a speed for the truck to follow. It went barreling down the freeway. When it was out of sight, she let out a slow breath of relief.

“Are you okay, Uncle Frank?” she asked to the back seat.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Wonder what got into that guy.” Her hulking uncle adjusted some of the junk on his lap, moving the axe from his right to his left shoulder. The back seat was strewn with gardening equipment.

“Thanks again for helping move, darling.”

“No problem, Uncle Frankie.”

Have you seen my R.A.Q.? 2008 Edition

My birthday tradition begins...

B. Gorsky asks, “Why is the hamburger superior to all other delicious meal choices?”
-Like many of humanity’s greatest achievements this phenomena is largely the result of personal excellence and cooperation. The excellent burger need not only be an excellent burger; it can be paired with excellent fries for a most excellent combo. As one eats these items in combination one can grill another burger or heat up more fries as either item is depleted, thus making it a modular cooperation of delicious proportions. Other combinations, such as chicken breast and carrot sticks or soy and soy sticks, simply do not satisfy as well individually, and certainly not in tandem.

B. Gorsky asks, “Why _do_ sodas rule?”
-Because they are a bubbly drink that you don’t have to consult a witch to obtain. Champagne is sorcery.

B. Gorsky asks, “Do you miss your beard?”
-Every time I scratch my chin or cheek, every time I have to buy new blades for my razor, every time I cut myself because those damned things are legal, and every time I’m pretending I’m a swamp monster. Every damned day.

Shelly asks, “What is the coolest (so far) issue of Thor?”
-Michael Straczynski writes a very good Thor. However, no other issue has the balls of 4, dropping a blond Norse god among Doctors Without Borders and an ethnic cleansing conflict in Africa. That took brass ones. And Heimdall’s eyes! Oh, check it out for yourself.

Jen asks, “A date with which superhero would most likely result in an STD?”
-Captain America. He served in so many World War 2 comics that the damned conflict never ended, and as we all know World War 2 exposed our boys to an ungodly number of French prostitutes, bold feminists and bored housewives. He’s probably got a germ warfare lab for a crotch these days.

More comic book and fewer eschatological questions than I expected. See you next year!

Bathroom Monologue: Dear Diary

Why did God let me happen? Man perfected robot dinosaurs when he invented Grimlock, so why did they make me? All I ever do is fight the creature I was designed after. Why? It’s not that compelling a spectacle. I can only have a new cannon shoot out of so many appendages before they all blend together and I feel like a giant derringer with a tail. They might as well have made me look like a gun instead of an anatomically retarded tyrannosaurus.

I’m what Mary Shelley would have created if she’d been afraid of lizards and toasters instead of ghosts. Crazy Romance-era bitch. I can’t get a purpose in this life. Every psychoanalyst sends me to an electrician, and every electrician runs in terror. I tried finding Jesus, but short-circuited at the baptism and leveled the county. All I want is peace and all I get is rust. Time to face it. I’m obsolete technology. And what do you do with ten million tons of obsolete space titanium?

But things are looking up. I’ve got an audition for the new Gundam series on Friday, and the U.S. military is building a robot version of whatever the Hell that thing in Cloverfield is, and he might need an acting coach.

Who am I kidding? If Godzilla doesn’t come out of retirement I might as well recycle myself.

Sincerely,
The Cosmic Monster

Bathroom Monologue: Dear Godzilla (2)

Life is gravy. I want to thank you for this career of cameos. Being a three-headed golden dragon with no arms could have made finding an occupation difficult if not for you. You, sucker, made it so easy. I smack you around a little, you smack me around a little, we all get rich. I was a headliner at first. “Ghidrah: The Three Headed Monster.” And thank you, Rodan and Mothra for launching my career. Shame you took your pay in a lump sum. I’m still cashing royalties out of that, as I am out of every other movie of yours I appeared in.

Godzilla Vs. Gigan? Percentage.

Destroy All Monsters? Percentage.

Godzilla: Final Wars? Percentage and a whole new wave of toys. I love the collector’s market. You rip my head off, time travelers rebuild me as Mecha-Ghidrah, and presto, most demanded plastic kit in Japan. Collectors make it easier to afford the spray paint that keeps my scales shiny gold.

I just wanted to thank you for this life of luxury.

And congratulations on the new kid. Hope this one stays alive – your progeny are notoriously stupid. Makes me glad the other heads always devour my young before one us gets emotionally attached.

Love,
Ghidrah, Ghidrah and Ghidrah

Dear Toho (You thought it was over?)

It’s recently been brought to my attention that you retired the Godzilla franchise. I commend you on finally putting that old dog to sleep, but I want to inquire why I’ve only had three roles in the last fifty fucking years. And last time I died twice in the same movie. Twice in the same movie! Mothra has the phoenix fetish and even she doesn’t suck that badly!

I have two beaks, one serving as a pincer. I have an organic buzzsaw running down my chest and three razor wings that let me fly while leaving my arms free. And my arms? They’re fucking swords! I’m pretty sure I can shoot lasers from my cyclopic eye. I would give Charles Manson nightmares. How come I can’t get my own movie?

Or at least let me fight Gamera. I can take an overgrown turtle that’s greatest feature is shooting flames out his butt. It’s not like he does anything. We’ll restart my career over his carcass, then launch a solo picture.

“Gigan: New King of the Monsters.”

No, wait. “Gigan: Prime Minister of the Monsters.” I’ll be a fairly elected ruler of the giant menaces. Think it over. I’m going to go get drunk at Megalon’s.

Sincerely,
Gigs

PS: If you give that giant cockroach a deal before me I’ll lay eggs in your children’s ears. I can do that. I checked with fan fiction.

Bathroom Monologue: Criticism Vs. Slander, OR, I’m saying this before I get anything reviewed, OR, I’m looking at you, Amazon.com user reviews

Bitching is not criticism. If you have nothing nice to say, you have probably not criticized. Criticism is not essentially negative; it is essentially reformative. Criticism directed to the artist or individual reflects what worked, what didn’t, and how both could improve, or strives to understand how they some of these elements functioned. Criticism directed to the general audience is to reflect the qualities for artistic or general appreciation and stimulate thought and discussion. There is a weird notion that “This sucks” is criticism. “You’re a shitty person” is not criticism. It is closer to slander. So is a full-page article ripping into a book, or movie, or album. It’s similar for people who solely praise something, except rarely does anyone call that “criticism.” They call it “praise.” The state of criticism in this country would be better if more people were honest that they were “bitching” instead of “criticizing.” Bitching is in human nature, though it’s often looked down upon and we sometimes deny we’re doing it to justify something or other. But as naturalists can teach us, you can only understand pieces of nature when you label them properly.

Bathroom Monologue: Ropp On, Goblin Boy

“I think it’s you guys that are taking this too seriously. It’s just life. Life itself is so implausible that it probably isn’t even real. All matter was in a big ball and then banged, expanding into an infinite void and just so happened to congeal into fiery spheroids, destructively dense spheroids and planets, and the planets all just so happened to fall into orbit around the fiery and destructive spheroids instead of getting sucked straight in, and on those planets the surface matter just so happened to align into chemicals, meaning the little balls that were atoms formed little globs of chemicals, and all those globs just so happened to rub against each other and form stable proteins chains that could survive and reproduce, and all of those little chains of littler globs of still littler balls just so happened to keep reproducing and banging off the walls of probability on planets whose environments flipped horizontally and vertically, heat-wise and air-wise, magnetically and tectonically, and managed to come through that not only covering the surface of that planet, but some of life was actually developed enough to be aware of the nonsense that was going on. If someone designed it, He’s nuts. If nothing designed it, then it’s even more nuts. Don’t tell me I’m not taking things seriously enough. You guys are crazy to go through this with a straight face.”

And with that, Ropp returned to playing his tuba for the canaries.