Bathroom Monologue: The Won’t

"This religion is a little hard to tell from the more popular ones. They possess a peculiar afterlife. Right? Whereas the popular ones say you cease to exist upon death, these folks have disproved that. They say you will continue to be, and have provided the evidence of a hundred corpses. These deceased people are plainly still in existence, simply not doing anything. The body, the brain, all in tact, while the individual does nothing. You continue to be, but you won’t. You won’t run. You won’t participate in orgies. You won’t tell that joke the way no one else can. Bits of you will do things. Bits of you are already rotting, and some will be eaten by maggots or plants or burned in cremation. One day the world may be blown up and bits of you will float around as cosmic silt, or be sucked into a star and become part of a distant light. You won’t do that. Bits of you will. You have bits of others in you right now: the chicken you had for lunch, and flakes of dandruff from my scalp that you’ve inhaled. I’m not climbing into your nostrils; bits of me are. I won’t, you see. Quite elegant. The locals either see it as sublime, or as sort of a dodge. Impossible to display, you know, that some essential you doesn’t go, that you don’t go do something without all the present bits of you that we’re presently regarding. It'll be some time before we know for certain about that - or, we won't."

"Kill Mommy" at Untied Shoelaces

I'm pleased to announce that "Kill Mommy" was purchased by Untied Shoelaces of the Mind. The editors called it one of the best stories they've ever read. I was pretty darned flattered.

It follows a boy who plans to kill his mother, and his father's unusual reactions to the threat. If you'd like to read it, you can click any of the links in this post. Like this one.

You can comment on it here or on the Untied site. Ratings and Comments on the site are most welcome, as they'll help me get published again in the future. Thanks for your interest!

Bathroom Monologue: Narcissism

A vain gift, but a necessary one. The man was impossible to shop for. He ignored cash and gift cards. He shrugged off any clothes, preferring to strut around nude (not that he didn’t have the body for it, but it was annoying). One Valentine’s Day she’d tried to make herself a gift to him. He dropped her after thirty seconds and went to the lake on his own. He was always going to the damned lake on his own.

She had tenacity. This year she wrote everyone who’d ever known him. His parents. His teachers from the school days. Friends for whom he might have done an idle drawing or holiday note. She compiled hundreds of his scribbles, contracts, waivers, medical records – anything with so much as his own signature. Then she had it bound and ordered two reflective mirrors for the front and rear covers. For all intents, it was a holistic autobiography, dedicated to and composed entirely by the man himself. She bet Narcissus wouldn’t throw this one away.

Bathroom Monologue: Quakers Vs. Anarchists

"You wouldn't like this podcast. They talk about TV shows."

"I like TV shows."

"You don't know how to turn a TV on."

"Yes I do!"

"No you don't. You're a Quaker."

"Quakers watch TV."

"Watch TVs burn, maybe."

"You're mistaking Quakers for the Amish again, and I think mistaking the Amish for pyromaniac anarchists."

"...Anarchists watch TV."

Bathroom Art Challenge 2: The Girl with Awkward Footing

Just like the first open invitation, the following description is open to any kind of artist. Painter? Inker? Sketcher? Crayons? CG Renders? Posed photos? Stick figures? Realism? Cubism? However you like to make visual art, at whatever level of skill you are, please take a swing at this. All I ask is you e-mail your work to bathroom DOT monologues AT gmail. DOT com so I can see it. If you give me permission, I'll post it along with all the other interpretations. I'll give your name, your title for your art, and link to whatever you please - be it a blog, Facebook, or charity. We can also keep your art between you and me, but I'd love to see how people envision the following. The deadline is Tuesday, March 22, with the posts going up the next day.

I turned from the pharmacy counter while they checked my order. What caught my eye kept me entertained until the pharmacist returned.

There was a bright plastic blue machine sitting beside the aisles. At the top it advertised that it was a “DR. SCHOLL’S CUSTOM FIT ORTHOTIC CENTER,” in the style of the old “get your weight” or “have your fortune told” machines from movie theatres. It had two footprints where you’d stand and a digital touch screen set at adult eye-level. Its occupant had to look up to see.

Its occupant couldn’t have been older than twelve. She had messy blonde hair and a winter jacket that utterly dwarfed her. A pink tutu jutted from beneath the tails of the jacket. She wore jeans under the tutu, leading to her pink socks. Her sneakers were behind her on the linoleum while she stood in the footprints. She had a finger on her lips, lips pinched and her eyes narrowed in deep thought at the screen, both unconscious and so highly practiced into its would-be-adulthood that I nearly busted up laughing.

A deep thinker, that one. In that moment I would have died for Norman Rockwell to draw this. Really, I’d have liked anyone to try.

Bathroom Monologue: Deputy Wallace Handles Zombies

I'm dropping this into Tuesday Serial. I'm not sure if I'll actually follow Wallace through the zombie apocalypse or not. Would you folks want to read that? If enough do, then I'll get a serial in gear to alternate with Possible Origins.

No sooner had he locked the Holding Room door, then the radio on his belt crackled. He pulled it free and let it crackle into his ear, hoping it would dampen the noises coming from the station outside.

The crackling gave way to a harried voice. "Deputy Wallace, are you there?"

"Present."

"This is Central. The disease your department has been combating today is more complicated than we originally thought. At least three officers from your department are dead."

Wallace looked at the oak door. He squinted so hard he might stare right through it, at what was going on in the P.D.

"Yeah, at least three."

"Have you made physical contact with any infected civilians?"

"No."

"Warning signs including staggering, prolonged disorientation and inexplicable irritability. Be warned that they bite."

He pulled a chair from the stainless steel table. He had the sudden desire to sit.

"They try."

"You've had no fluid exchange with any potentially infected individuals? It says here they also… I don’t know what shambling is, or if that’s spelled wrong."

"I’m pretty sure I haven’t swapped fluid with anybody this week."

"Be warned that infection does not terminate in thirty-six hours like originally believed. Patients who appear to lose vital signs may return to consciousness in another stage of the disease."

"Yeah, a pissed off stage."

As though to agree, fists banged on the oak door. He could hear them panting.

"These individuals cannot be cured. You are advised to discharge firearms against any infected person who appears to lose vital signs, or who enters the post-comatose state. You must aim for the head."

“When can I expect you guys?”

“Evacuation is on indefinite hiatus. We will contact you again with updates sometime between six and eight in the evening tomorrow.”

“Really? Tomorrow?”

He looked at the radio speaker. All it gave him for response was static. He set the plastic thing on the bare table. He laid his gun next to it.

Fists banged louder on the oaken door. He looked between it and his fingers, trying to estimate the number of hands outside, and the number of bullets inside.

Bathroom Monologue: Monologue for an Edward Norton who, for whatever reason, thinks he's Woody Allen

To hear today's monologue either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

I do think artists have a personal, moral, ethical, religious obligation to their audiences. Well, not most artists. Not Pablo Picasso or Oscar Wilde. In fact, only I have it. That's because I'm an irrational self-loather, and personal, moral, ethical, religious justification within my work is very difficult and not at all fun, and those are the sorts of things you do if you hate yourself.

A single person frowns in offense and I get a little electric twinge in my diaphragm. There's no way to convince me I don't have these obligations to them - I've tried convincing myself, read much in defense of the artist, and have listened to many persuasive arguments.

I mean, the speakers were thought to be persuasive.

Come to think of it the speakers were already convinced, so they couldn't be persuaded, and they didn't change my mind, so I wasn't persuaded, but we both came away thinking them very persuasive arguments. Perhaps these arguments actually possessed personal, moral, ethical, religious failures, disservices to me as the audience, but I don't begrudge my friends. I begrudge myself. I should have been convinced.

That's my philosophy of art, it's much like life: if there is fault, it's probably mine.

Bathroom Monologue: One-Liners on Love

Jodi MacArthur recently requested a bunch of one-liners on love. I sent her a batch and she re-published her favorite foursome. Here is the entire list. They are not all funny, not all one-liners, but I swear love was somewhere in the context of each.

-Love is an illusion more resilient than reality.

-Love is a four-letter word.

-Love is never having to say, "Go away."

-Love conquers all. The occupation is harder.

-Love is the radiation that kills cynicism.

-Love is owing nothing and still wanting to give.

-Love is like flatulence: you're lucky if anybody else tolerates yours.

-Love is irrational, inconvenient, divisive, and unfortunately altogether worthwhile.

-Love is a fate I wish on all my worst enemies - nothing more embarrassing.

-Love is what's waiting for you once you calm down. If nothing's there, then you know.

-Love is fifty of the best reasons to take a day off from work - and one day, the utter worst.

-Love is a disappearing act. It's not in your pockets, your bank account's empty, and the car is gone. Oh, that bitch!

-Love is more likely to create families than emerge from them.

-Love has a silent 'e' because it knows when to shut up.

Bathroom Monologue: Mr. Goliath, OR, "Goliath Must Be Slain" -Maria Kelly

This story was inspired by Maria Kelly's title, "Goliath Must Be Slain." My initial reaction was, "Must he?" My second reaction was the following dialogue.


"It’s all here. Gold. Fruits. The coastline. We have a lot of resources. That's why your goons are invading us."

"They're not goons. They're my countrymen."

"Do you like your country? Better than here?"

"Well, it's a country. I guess you’ve got nicer gardens."

"You like gardens, Mr. Goliath?"

"Kind of. But in a manly way."

"We don't judge men for liking gardens here. This pink flower? We call it a rockrose."

"That is manly."

"How much are they paying you?"

"A bunch. I'm going to get a lot for killing you all."

"A bunch? What if I pay you two bunches?"

"Two bunches?"

"Three. Three bunches. When I take out my sling, you turn around and attack your guys. Afterward we'll give you three bunches."

"I don't know about this."

"We'll leave them in your garden."

"My garden?"

"We'll set aside one just for you."

"Will... will there be rockroses?"

"You bet there will be rockroses."

"That does sound nice."

"Doesn't it? Just turn on them when you see the sling."

"I don't want to be called a traitor."

"You'll live here! Nobody will call you a traitor here. Everybody'll be very grateful. If foreigners ask what happened, I'll make something up."

"Three bunches..."

Bathroom Monologue: Adaptation at Work

Observe two siblings. The firstborn likes nearly all sweets. Chocolate, vanilla, peanut butter, candy canes, mint ice cream. She will eat anything unhealthy for her first three years alone except for strawberries. Not chocolate-covered strawberries, strawberry-flavored drinks or candies. Nothing.

During her third year, her younger sister is born. After the time it takes to wean her, the new sister shows a similar great love of sweets. Chocolate, vanilla, peanut butter cause her to exhibit great excitement. It all sounds familiar.

But her older sibling intervenes, stealing her treats whenever the parents are not directly watching. Though the parents attempt to counter-intervene, mass candy theft continues for four months. The younger sibling exhibits great distress.

At the four month mark, treat theft declines rapidly. Observe that the younger sibling no longer asks for candy bars or caramel apples. The parents are happy she has shown an interest in fruit, but she is not omnivorous. She is only consuming strawberries. Strawberries by the carton, strawberry milk, strawberry cake for dessert, chocolate-covered strawberries for her birthday, and every day's lunch has a strawberry fruit roll-up.

Treat theft is at zero, while treat consumption is on the rise. That, my friends, is adaptation at work.

7 Necessary Elements of a Blog Post

The internet doesn't have enough guides on how to write blog posts, so I'm giving you another one. No other you stumble across will be like this one because I'm entirely right. You're welcome.

1. Bold Headings

Not in all-caps. ALL CAPS IS TOO AGGRESSIVE. Bold is just authoritative enough. We’re lulling people into thinking they’re learning here. Also don’t let

2. Keep it Short

the text beneath any heading go on too long. Being pithy lets you avoid concrete examples, detailed explanations, and even being right. Don’t be right. Make declarative statements with the possibility of rightness and move on.

3. Positive Filler

After the second item dump in a few extra bits that nobody will disagree with but that don’t really matter. It can be common information. A few items your audience already knows will make them feel smarter. People love to think they’re smart. This positive fluff will also help pad your list above

4. More Than Five

five items. Below five and it seems like you don’t have enough wisdom. Above nine and nobody will click because they don’t have the attention span. They need the truth quickly. If you were writing for people with attention spans, you wouldn’t be writing in list format.

5. Link-Drop

During your list hyperlink to other blogs and information sources that support your thesis. You don’t even have to discuss the linked content – casually linking makes you seem info-savvy, and whatever claim you made while linking suddenly becomes 55% more convincing.

6. Impersonal Personal

Relate to them, but don’t relate yourself. Mention a funny story from your bestselling client, your dean of studies, your drunken weekend with Seth Godin – people who, by association, create an illusion of you that people want. People don’t want your story. They want success.

7. End with questions

The best final item is asking for more items! You need lots of Comments so your post will seem important, and asking enthusiastic non-experts for their expertise is the best way to get words flowing in the blogosphere. In no time you’ll seem like a magnate. Don't you agree?

True Stories of John 7: Dumbest Thing You Could Do

You know what the dumbest thing you could do is?

All you need is a hammer, a bag of salt, a crappy ladder, and a snowstorm.

No, an ice storm. Yeah. Sleet, slush and slippery crap everywhere. You can barely walk down the steps with this little traction.

You go to the garage and get the rickety wooden ladder. It’s the only one you have because you’re cheap.

You carry that all the way up to the deck and set it on a patch of ice. Why on a patch of ice? Because that’s near the gutters, silly. And because it’s on this narrow deck, you’re only a foot away from the edge at all times.

You climb up this ladder that was designed for people fifty pounds less than you, carrying a bag of ice-melter and a hammer. Make sure nobody else is home to hold the ladder for you, because that would be a competent thing to do.

You get to the top and survey the gutters. Thoroughly frozen over. Icicles as long as your leg. The only way to stop this is to empty those gutters.

So you start hammering at the ice with the teeth of the hammer. Nowhere to hold onto, the ladder wiggling beneath you, ice chips spraying into your eyes.

That’s uncomfortable. Shake your head rapidly to warm up. Now get dizzy, because that’s what actually happens when you shake your head rapidly.

And then you look down to steady yourself. Instead of steadying yourself, you get hit in the face with vertigo.

Keep hammering at those gutters. Wonder if the ladder is swaying or if your sense of balance is just off. You’ve got to ignore it and swing faster at the ice. The family will be home soon and this will be a great surprise.

"Viva La Love Pen" at Fiction Writer

There's a competition going on. Jodi MacArthur, a good friend and fine writer, has requested all manner of one-line definitions for "love." She's posting people's entries straight to her blog. You can read the whole bunch by clicking here.

I have four definitions in the pile. I sent over a dozen and let Jodi pick her favorites. On Saturday, after she announces her winner, I'll publish my full list. So hop over there now to laugh a little, and laugh a little more this weekend.

You'll find my thoughts contradictory. If your thoughts on love aren't, you haven't experienced much of it.

Bathroom Monologue: Lapsed Atheist

To listen to today's blasphemy either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio, or click this text to download the MP3.
 

"No, no. 'Lapsed' atheist. Culturally godless, born and raised to a nice secular family. They imbued with empiricism and skepticism, the core rational American values. But there comes a time in a boy's life when his father's irreligion doesn’t fit him anymore. Maybe it's hearing Johnny Cash for the first time, meeting Catholic school girls, or going to college and experiencing all these other kinds of irreligions. You take Astronomy and see that big universe, Physics shows how it all makes sense, Statistics shows you all the sense is nonsense, and you wonder, "What am I disbelieving in?" I fell away from it. Spent my time disbelieving in other things, like public decency and birth control. I still disbelieve around the holidays and put in hours at a not-for-profit. We put up those 'Good for Goodness Sake' posters that nobody actually thinks is clever. It’s just ritual. I might not do it this year. My wife's Hindu and doesn't think it's funny. Getting married was a stretch. I went through the rites, found twenty or thirty gods that were amusing to pray to, but didn't really convert. It's just, you know. Life."

“I wish you were dead!” –Commercial for child behavior program

Zaid clutched his father's cold hand and begged him to wake. He didn't move. The son of a genie should never wish his parents were dead.

Bathroom Monologue: How To Avoid Being Shot

Fall straight down. Go limp so that you’re perfectly flat on the floor in under two seconds. If you brace yourself from the bruises, bullets will rip your arms apart.

Slither left as soon as you feel the concrete on your belly. Go about one body length. If you overshoot, that’s fine. The blocks you’ve just darted behind are concrete and will absorb most of the gunfire.

Stay there. Ignore the percussion and drywall exploding around you. Look at your watch. Watch the seconds pass. At eight seconds, their clips will be empty. They’re zealous and will need to swap them out.

Run for your fucking life, preferably to the door on left. Stay below the level of the concrete blocks so they can’t be sure where you are. Of course that door is beyond the blocks. There is a stretch of five and a half feet in which they will have a clean shot. So, run faster than they can reload.

Fall through the door. Roll to the right as you hit the ground. Taking the steps would be healthier if you weren’t about to be shot. Get your ass up and behind that dumpster.

Notice how the door opens rightwards and is resting against our dumpster. Shove the dumpster. It will catch the door, close it, and moves side-to-side a lot easier than back-and-forth. Stay below the top of the dumpster because when that door doesn’t kick open like they want, they’re going to start shooting again. This is how they deal with things.

Kick the wheel locks on the dumpster as you sprint out of the alley. Cross the street. Hang left. At the end of the block, hang right. Go three blocks, take one more right, and run until you see the hospital. You probably need it for something at this point.

I recommend dropping the package under the steps of the synagogue that is half a block shy from the hospital. You can pick it up later, when people won’t ask about it or accidentally see inside. I also recommend leaving the ER before they start sweeping for you. You can do whatever you want with it, though. You’ve avoided being shot, and that’s all the advice I’m giving.

Bathroom Monologue: “Am I going to spend all of my thirties insisting that I’m not really old?” –Brenda Kirk, OR, John’s Internal Narrative

“Being in my thirties doesn’t feel bad. I should have accomplished more, my joints are a little rustier, but it’s not much different from my twenties. She’s overreacting.

“Wait a minute. I’m not thirty. Nobody’s called me thirty. Somebody would have.

“Am I thirty? How do I not know this? Where’s my driver’s license? 1981…

“No, I’m not. That’s somewhere in the twenties. Twenty-eight? Nine? Twenty-nine feels right. Yeah, twenty-nine until September.

“God, I’m going to be thirty soon. That is going to suck. Why haven’t I gotten more done? I’m falling apart.”

Bathroom Monologue: Pet Peeves

She stroked the bulging little monster between the ears. Still it growled, nostrils flaring and fangs bearing at all the people texting and talking on cell phones in the park.

"He's getting bigger," said Shirley.

Gina beamed and hugged her newest pet. "You know, he was just seven ounces last week. I can barely stand any sort of conversation now that isn't downright deep. Even you're getting on my nerves."

"Seven ounces?" Shirley turned up her nose. "How much is that in kilograms? You know, the rest of the world is on metric."

"Oh, you. That's a pet I haven't picked up yet."

"Well are you feeding him right?"

Somewhere, a nosy vibrate setting went off. The monster barked. Gina stroked his fur.

"Morning, noon and night he gets excessive helpings of attention I should be spending on my job and family."

"Have you tried generics? They can live on emotional table scraps."

"I would do that, but he likes the full meal better. He's so hungry."

Shirley's not-so-clever ring-tone went off in her purse. She jerked to shut it off while Gina restrained the monster, which snarled at Shirley.

Shirley checked the number. No one important. Silenced, she shoved the cell back into her purse. She looked from her friend to the little monster. They had the same fuming expression. It made her wonder about her own little growing hatreds.

"I guess all pet peeves are like that."

Bathroom Monologue: Haunted House Compromise

They said the house was haunted.

He said the house was cheap.

She was scared to shivering.

He turned on the lights.

The lights went out.

He turned on the solar-powered flash.

It flickered and died.

He threw some logs in the fireplace.

An inexplicable breeze kept killing the kindling.

He poured out lighter fluid on some floorboards.

The lights came back on.

“You see?” he said. “Compromise.”

Bathroom Monologue: A Priest, a Rabbi, a Minister, a Joker

A priest, a rabbi and a minister walk into a bar.

The priest goes up to the man behind the counter and asks, “Do I smell smoldering flesh?”

The man behind the counter points to the NO SMOKING sign.

The rabbi goes up to the man behind the counter and asks, “Do I hear nightmarish wailing from back there?”

The man behind the counter shrugs and turns up the volume on the television.

Finally the minister goes up to the man behind the counter and asks, “Pardon me, but do I see jumper cables in your hands and the real bar tender’s legs flailing behind there?”

The man behind the counter brushes the clips together. They spark. He shouts, “Guilty as charged!”

You probably had to be there.

Bathroom Haiku: Backspace of the Gods

earthquake, avalanche,

sinkholes open with keystrokes,

God hitting Backspace

An Award Goes to John's Head

Today I'm flattered to accept the "Creative Genius Blogger Award." This was cooked up by Deanna Schrayer and has been disseminating around the internet. Rachel Blackbirdsong, Linda Watsila and Stephen Book have all bestowed it upon me. This cannot be an accident. Rather, all three knew the others would give it to me and wanted to co-verify my staggering talent. Their redundancy would be humbling to a lesser being. Fortunately, I am only a greater one - one describable as, perhaps, a "creative genius." Yes.

The typical rules of this blog game are to pass the award on to several more people. In this case, it seems folly. Surely no one can be as worthy of this as me, and therefore passing it on will offend the recipients with what can only be interpreted as sarcasm. Now yes, I could say Hayao Miyazaki or Guillermo Del Toro are creative geniuses and this would be true. But I would be saying it as though they were my peers. There are great novelists and classical composers, and then there is the man who writes dialogues about choking on a glass of water in front of his nephews. These men would be mortified if I were to pretend they had yet reached my breathless artistic heights. I fear if I pass this on to anyone that they will destroy themselves in a sudden spiral of existential angst at even a cursory comparison drawn between themselves and my ouvre.

Because I am to a degree a prescriptionist, I cannot receive this award without sending it back out into the world. But I must stress that everyone listed here should take the award with the utmost half-heartedness. Do not seriously compare yourself, your works, or your ultimate world value to mine. It will crush you. For the sake of your life and my humanity, please only glance at the following list. If you see your first name, then it is already too late. Please, if you see the first letter of your first name, let this be enough and get away from the computer as quickly as possible.

1. Danielle La Paglia. A well-read and perfectly decent writer with generally symmetrical body features. Based on statistics I made up a short while ago, the vast majority of men and free-thinking women would sleep with her, experiencing minimal regret afterward.

2. Tony Noland. He is one of my favorite #fridayflash writ-- No, I must hold back for his sake. Ahem. Tony Noland is a passable human being by someone's standards. Society can ask no more.

3. Michael Solender, usually known around these parts as Mr. Solender, is one of the few souls to attempt daily posting. It is an immortal feat and thus he sometimes succumbs to farming daily spaces out to guest writers. Doubtless his greatest act in life has been to frequently choose to request I be that guest writer. God save the Solenders.

This concludes the blog-humping portion of this post. However, there is one vital thing that still needs reckoning.

I am taking this opportunity to declare war upon anyone who did not grant this award upon me. Clearly you hate me and resent my work, and thus must be dealt with. Brutally. If you're uncertain as to whether my dark fleets will arrive at your door tomorrow morning, prepared to slaughter you and rejoice in the lamentations of your women, give your blog a cursory glance. Has it given out this award to "John Wiswell?" It doesn't matter if you haven't gotten the award yet and can't give it. That's hardly an excuse to avoid praising so important a man. Possibly you can invent your own award and give it to me before my privateers arrive. It will not avert the brunt of their wrath, but may deflect some miscellaneous property damage.

Bathroom Monologue: The Danni

Many moons ago, I promised a young(ish) girl a story about a six-fingered guitarist and his guitar, The Danni. Inspiration to actually write it took an age and a day. It doesn’t have the humor or the wit she probably wanted, but I gave it my best. Enjoy.

In the lull between songs, Randy wandered over to his vocalist. He spoke in a loud hush.

“This next is my last, kid. Time to find myself one of those keepers and mosey out.”

“You sure? It’s been an honor.” Vic gestured to the crowd. “I didn’t know middle-aged women had so much juice.”

“They got more than life, but I can’t play all night anymore.” He gave Vic a six-fingered pat on the ass. “You kids did fine, and you got a good throat. Just get the band to take us into Fire Itch.”

Of course he picked Fire Itch. Two bass solos guaranteed to get as many feminine eyes on him as possible. Randy left his vocalist, waving his cowboy hat to a shriek of crowd joy. He held it over the heart of his suit jacket, that pinstripe job that he’d worn ever since Secondary Colors came out.

“So this next song’s going to play our guest bassist off …”

Three thousand hitch pitched voices went, “Awww.”

“Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s about this thing you can’t scratch alone…”

Three thousand hitch pitched voices lost their God-damned minds.

Randy was laughing as he picked up The Danni, the bass guitar he’d travelled with since Secondary Colors got stale. The faceplate was painted to look like a woman’s bare bottom, her spine running up beneath the strings. The way he cradled it was downright obscene.

Vic rested his throat through the intro, since even with industrial speakers nobody could hear them play over how ovations and ovulations of the crowd. Daisies and roses bounced off Randy’s polished city slicker shoes. He just waved like he was embarrassed, and when the wave didn’t cause him to miss so much as a fret, they went even crazier. Bouquets were touching down less than sixty seconds into the song.

The lyrics were basic and the double entendre kind of chaffed, but so many people singing along gave Vic a rush. So he belted out how he itched when they met, and how he itched when she walked out, and how he itched… and stared off blankly as that first bass solo kicked in.

A pair of panties slingshotted onstage and bounced off Randy’s chest. He caught them on his second pinky and kept playing. Fingers at least fifty-five years old flew faster than Vic’s could right now.

The drummer led them into the second verse. Vic followed with his lips, eyes trying to follow Randy’s gaze. The old goat ignored sleeting wadded dollar bills and errant bouquets, staring through the glitz and making personal eye contact with everyone his glaucoma permitted.

Vic faded back as Randy rose into the second solo, trying to figure out who there was this mythical “keeper” Randy had mentioned. He seemed mostly keen on the middle-agers, old enough to have thought he was the shit when they were in high school. Seemed a shame to Vic since there was a crop of new high-schoolers staring at him right now.

Randy slammed down thrice for the last chords, reverberating through the building. He held out the six-fingered hand like Jesus on the cross, the other cradling The Danni’s bum. More flowers, more panties, and a hotel key card pinged off his chest.

“That the keeper, boss?”

“No. That’s normal.”

Randy shook his head and let the card lie on the stage. People chanted thank-you, thank-you-ran-dee, bless-the-dan-nee, and far less comprehensible but nonetheless positive sentiment. A couple more hotel key cars whizzed along. Then a long plastic tube clattered across one of his shoes. Vic grimaced.

“Is that a catheter?”

"More than that, kid.” Randy reached down and picked up the device between his thumb and second pinky. He waved it to the audience until he spied the owner. He tipped his hat. “It’s a keeper. Mostly about talking at this age, and that’s going to be a hell of a conversation.”

Bathroom Monologue: Triple Time Travel

Time travel actually was discovered many centuries ago. In one of life's great paradoxes it was discovered simultaneously by the ancient Egyptians, ancient Mayans, and a couple of very bored 17th century British children. All three met up at precisely the same non-time, hurtling towards the revelations of the future. They arrived at the first great ripple in time, a mushroom cloud over Hiroshima, and skidded over a sea of months, crashing into a snow bank. They bickered over whether human-made global warming could have caused such a snow bank while the children perused culture. They found a present where intimate diaries were supplanted by the Facebook Wall. The dominant musicians, a Justin Bieber and one Jonas Brothers, were in a feud that consisted of accusing one another of femininity. And the president was a Nazi for wanting public health care, and some woman in a red blazer was a Nazi for shooting a moose, and some principal who disapproved of his students rutting in the bathroom was a Nazi for his haircut. They had to travel back in time a little to understand what a Nazi was. After the discovery, they took their technology further back. They've spent a paused eternity playing practical jokes on dimetrodons. This is the most you'll ever hear about it, though, since inter-chronal machines don't fossilize well and these travelers like time to themselves.

Rejection of a "High Quality" Story That's "not all that good"

I've eaten a lot of rejection letters. It's part of a literary career, and authors should be grateful for any degree of actual human response as opposed to automated rejections. This one baffled me to the point where I have to share it.

The dissonance between their editorial readers and the automated letter is a thing to behold. I've redacted the names because I'm not angry with them; I'll likely submit again. Okay, some of the time I'm angry, but the rest of the time I'm snickering.

Bathroom Monologue: Inspired by a coughing fit

“Caro-ach! Car… Carol, little help!”

“See kids? Doing two things are once makes you stupid.”

“What the H-ugh.”

“Uncle John was walking and drinking water at the same time. Now he’s coughing. Do you hear how bad that sounds?”

“Yeah!”

“K-k-come on.”

“Do you want to be stupid like Uncle John?”

“No!”

“I taught you to tie your shoes, you ungrateful little…”

“Now go sit down at the table while you eat, like adults. I need to get your uncle a sippy cup.”

“Why do I come to this house?”

"Might As Well" Recordings

We had a wonderful response to the "Might As Well" challenge. Max Cantor, Nathanael Sylva, Catherine Russell, Nicholas Sabin, Cassie Nichols, Icy Sedgwick, Annie Evett and Tony Noland all submitted recordings.

Max Cantor is a computer programmer. He hosted the original Bathroom Monologues and gave me the audio player you're about to use.

Mr. Cantor's reading.

Nathaniel Sylva is a professional actor living in New England. He's unfairly more handsome than most of us. Scorn him as you listen to his talent.

Mr. Sylva's reading.

Catherine Russell is a writer who frequently participates in #fridayflash and #spokensunday. I can't help but call her Gany, which makes less and less sense over time. She does a weekly Writing Niche podcast on her site.

Ms. Russell's reading.

Nicholas Sabin is a philosopher, and therefore more qualified to say words like "tautologically" and  "epistemologically" than most of us. He once went as Ludwig Wittgenstein for a Halloween. Cringe at his intellectual acumen while you listen.

Mr. Sabin's reading.

Icy Sedgwick submitted her recording through Audioboo, which you can peruse through this link. Icy is a writer based in London, England, with subjects including tragedy and psychic parrots.

Annie Evett also submitted her recording through Audioboo. Annie is a writer based in Queensland, Australia, who has essentially played the boss lady for #spokensunday for months now.

Tony Noland kept with the trend of Audioboo. Tony is a writer of fine flash fiction, aspiring novelist, and blogger with a keen interest in bear trapping.



Mr. Noland's reading:

Jax of Tangled Yarns also tired her hand. She's penned serials, flashes, book reviews and introspective posts on her blog. This was her first Audioboo joint.

Jax's reading:

Lizze is the most unexpected reader to date. I met her playing videogames last night, mentioned this in passing, and was surprised to find her rendition pop up in the Comments. She used the file sharing service Dropbox to stream her edition.

Lizze's reading: https://dl.dropbox.com/u/19137321/mightaswell.wav


Finally, Cassie Nichols is the tech-savvy one. She recorded using her webcam and put it up on Youtube. You can watch her reading the monologue below:




 If you'd like to record your own version of "Might as Well," go ahead! Link to it in the Comments section and I'll add it to this post.

 The original text of Might As Well:

Why? You can only speak around your why, for the truth is that whatever happened once tautologically happened once. What has not happened at all may as well not happen. Anything perceived as happening once may happen again (may well have happened innumerable times before you perceived the once). Only that which never happened may well have never happened, but new things emerge all the time. Gadgets, individuals, sayings – things aligned, but things unique. Things that happened. That which has yet never happened might well happen along any minute. Perhaps it will happen five times right in a row, right across the floor. If it doesn’t, then it might as well not. But it may as well. In the vastness of this universe, you cannot demonstrate epistemologically that anything has not happened. Is not happening. Certainly you cannot demonstrate it in the infinite probability bubble universes outside our own, where all probabilities play out. It isn’t just our universe and one where the Third Reich won the war. It’s this one universe, and this universe where I hesitate half a second (for effect), and this universe where I use “that” instead of “this” in one of the places in this sentence, and this universe where I use “that” in another position that is wholly grammatically incorrect. It’s an infinity, and that means everything, and that means whatever happened once has happened every way it ever possibly could somewhere. If it didn’t, then it might as well not have. But if it did, then it might as well have, and that is truth, and truth is meaning, and if you oppose that meaning then you oppose truth, and the opposition of truth is wrong.

Bathroom Monologue: Sunnier Titles for Books

-Lord of the Butterflies

-Laughterhouse Five

-Huckleberry Pie

-Jurassic Petting Zoo

-Mario Puzo's The Fairy Godfather

-Stephen King's The Lemonade Stand

-Dante's Divine Comedy (surprisingly, needed no alterations)

-The Lilliad

-Love Triangle of the Three Kingdoms

-Tofulet

-Here with the Wind

-Peace and Peace

-Crime and Rehabilitation

-The Underdog Baseball Team in the Rye

-Their Eyes Were Watching God Do Something Funny

-Lots of Water for Elephants

-The Democratic Majority Leader of the Rings

Bathroom Monologue: GifT

It was a box. Inside the box was a flash drive with only one megabyte of space. On that drive was one file. It was a gif. The gif was an unanimated image of a capital letter 'T.' It did nothing.

He said, "Enjoy your gift?"

I broke three of his teeth.

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 11.

Click the button the left to hear today's monologue. Alternatively you can click this text to download the MP3.

I worked at a traveling circus. They weren’t famous for clowns, so I had to try very hard. Fire spitting. Juggling unicycles. I could empty a six shooter into a spinning wheel with a woman tied to it, and I only ever nicked her once, and that was the night after she broke up with me. Some nights I even helped the ringmaster with his lion. I don’t want to credit my outlook to some big cat, but sticking my head in its mouth a couple hundred times definitely loosened me up.

The top act was this family of acrobats. A daddy, and a mommy, and their beautiful little boy, all flying along the ceiling of our tent. They’d somersault along the high wires, swing from trapezes by their feet, tossing their son from peril to peril. He’d come within inches of death, and end up waving and laughing to the audience. They used no net, and he couldn’t be bothered. Mommy and Daddy had him, even if they had him fifty feet up.

The circus had trouble around the major metropolitans. New York, Chicago and Star City were cesspools of corruption. Local fire chief wanted a bribe, and the mayor, and random members of the zoning board, and some union, and the biggest mob, and two-bit wannabe mobs. If you saw our net revenue, you’d wonder why we even bothered with the big towns, but if you don’t hit the bigs, the littles don’t hear about you, and you can’t run the risk of half-empty stands when you’re performing in the middle of nowhere.

That Friday, somebody didn’t get his bribe. Our bearded lady suspected it was this goateed punk who the ringmaster had physically tossed out of his trailer. He had no gang, wouldn’t even give a name. I spotted someone like him around the back of the tent that afternoon, but I couldn’t say if it was him. You may stereotype clowns, but to me, all normal people look alike.

The cannon went off. The lion was healthy. We thought everything was hunky-dory, until our flying family took to the heights. They did these loops. Mommy with her feet on the rail, swinging seven hundred and twenty degrees, hands clasped to her boy, who swung along with her. Two links in a dazzling genetic chain. Daddy sailed in from the other side of the tent, preparing to catch his boy by the ankles.

Afterward, everyone said they saw the ropes snapping. I think people like retroactive foresight. It validates their current horror and hopes of actually being observant next time. But I didn’t hear anyone shriek until all three of them came tumbling down.

I was not fifteen feet from where they hit. Daddy had caught his boy in his arms and tucked a little. He landed on his spine. His limbs jiggled and all his bones seemed to turn to jelly. It still took our strongman to pry the boy from his arms. The kid was in shock, only alive because Mommy and Daddy had had him.

Mommy’s handle skittered over to my feet. I could see where the ropes had been sawed.

Never heard what happened to the boy. He left in a cavalcade of doctors and police, and I didn’t go on with the circus from there. I stayed in town, looking for anyone related to punks who might visit ringmasters. But I’ve got this problem, like I said – you all look alike to me. The fire chief, the mayor, the big bad mob boss and some goateed punk. All that protection money and no protection. Even the caped crusaders in this town hadn’t stopped bullets and dumped criminals in the same jail as cops.

Now I don’t disagree with a little murder and mayhem. If I’d found the guy? I’d have wrung his neck. Killed three suspects that weekend alone, including one whom I dragged to the zoo, and when he didn’t render the confession I wanted, I stuck his head in the mouth of a lion.

You kill that guy, not families. You don’t drop children from their mother’s hands and out of the sky. What is society good for if it’s not going to stop that?

Why, it’s for getting all the guilty people together so you don’t have to aim carefully.

The media already loved me. A clown killed three mobsters in a weekend. Wow, you can’t top that act. Every mug was scared of me, thinking I’m the John Wayne Gacy of organized crime. This make-up might as well be war paint. With that sort of branding? I used it. They all knew me, were all running from me. That was my in. That’s where I got all my goons, people hoping I wouldn’t kill them if they did as I said. And that was just fine, because if enough people follow the clown, then he says who dies, and he can let little flying families keep playing without a net.

I set a mountain of dirty money on fire. I made their corner dealers fight each other to the death for the privilege of paying me seventy-five percent. And if the D.A. tried to get in my way? Well he didn’t look very different to me.