Saturday, December 8, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: To Whom it May Concern, and His Roommate

Common law in New York states that if a man and a woman from different families live in an apartment together for fifteen years or longer, they are legally "common law" married. If gay marriage becomes legal, fifteen years later a bunch of roommates are going to get some very interesting letters.

Bathroom Monologue: Re:

BambiSmasher: Clearly a vain attempt of some asshole who spends all his time programming code to liken his work to that of Buddhism enlightenment. Let me clarify this one for you: you're unenlightened, Buddha hates you, and your kung fu is weak. And take out the fucking garbage. Even Southern Crane monks couldn't handle that stench.

James Vanderhuge: MONOLOGUE

Bathroom Monologue: Their dad could totally beat up my dad

Death is a great way to create a comic book superhero. Doesn’t matter who dies: your uncle, your step-daughter, or your cousin’s dog. Death is a tradition in origins. A new traditional in slumping sales is to bring characters back to life. Uncle Ben, the Waynes, even the entire frickin’ planet of Krypton came back for a while. At this point I expect the mafia-hunting Punisher’s family to rise from the grave. When they do, I think he’ll quit the Punishing business. I mean yeah, the mob is awful, but he's done his part. There'll be some therapy involved, but if you've seen how frustrated this man gets, you'll agree that he's one afternoon delight away from calling in sick to hunting down serial killers in a van with no air conditioning. He'll be the kind of dad who flips out in traffic and probably makes a scene with the other parents at tee ball practice, though if you're his kids, you won’t mind. You just came back to life! And having been dead for thirty years, you have no idea how common resurrection is in Marvel Comics.

Friday, December 7, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: Bad Advice Sounds So Nice

Lately I’ve been praying to the love gods and goddesses. I pray to multiple deities in this case because no one who’s ever been in love could believe only one being is in charge. I pray to the love deities because if I’m going to believe in any mysterious beings, I want them to be ones who can help, and I’ve got a plan that requires their services. The prayer is for everyone to wake up tomorrow and be helplessly, thoroughly and retardedly in love. We won’t be in love with any random person (though that’s an idea…); it’ll be with specific people, and everyone will be in store for some embarrassing emotions.

The Pope will wake up with a boner for the Dalai Lama. He who holds the Oxford Chair for the Public Understanding of Science will invite a Jewish theologian to sit in his lap, and the Jewish theologian will invite the Prime Minister of Palestine to tag along. White Pride marchers and black gangster rappers, Mormons and Evangelicals, antitheists and Christian scientists will be dying to hop into bed with each other. Folks with stricter morals won’t succumb to lust, but will instead feel the burning desire for long walks and handholding with people they previously found disgusting. Prudes will timidly invite strippers down from their poles to share a drink (of ginger ale – they’re only human). Previously heterosexual men will fall for other previously heterosexual men, wherever humbling is warranted. Dictators will fall for the lowest classes, not in the fashion they’ve lied about doing, but in a terribly polygamist fashion that makes them wish all the fieldworkers could move into the mansion. The rich will fall in love with the poor, and not in the meager philanthropic sense where a billionaire gives half his money to a charity, but the kind that gets the rich to move into the ghettos, because the only way the poorest, most run-down parts of the country will improve is if the empowered actually move into them, and have to see and deal with it all the time. Secularists will not only respect non-secularists as seekers of meaning, but as really cute people they could spend the rest of their lives with (the irony is they were going to do that anyway, but under the spell, they’ll do it from the same living room). Non-secularists will have the same experience, while wearing something different around their necks (perhaps a locket with a cross on the outside and a picture of your Hispanic transvestite skeptic girlboyfriend on the inside). Discussions over who can display what where will go much differently when they’re always with a girlfriend toeing the grass and whispering, “But can’t we please…?” Under the peace of love, arguments over whose religion is true and and the veracity of morals in nihilism will feel less like rewriting the world and more like doing the Sunday sudoku. All this, because of blind love. Blind love – not love that blinds, because love doesn’t blind; it opens the eyes to new spectrums that are often prettier or downright more important than what we’re normally staring at. With that vision, with an adoration and affection too deep for anyone to pull himself from and take advantage of, the only thing anyone in the world would have to change will be his underwear. And that’s worth a prayer, whether or not anyone is listening.

Bathroom Monologue: "Rules? There are no rules!" -Opponent

“No, that makes no sense. If there are no rules, there is no match. You want to just fight until we get tired and go home? I’m not doing that. Do I pin your shoulders to a mat? Push you out of a ring? Race you to a finish line? No rules means I can’t be disqualified either. I could pull out a gun and blow your head off right now, and because there are no rules, I’d just win. Except I wouldn’t win, because there are no rules! I’d just sit here during our eternal match, next to my decomposing opponent.” -Hung Lo

Bathroom Monologue: You might be an evil supervillain if...

-You laugh maniacally when things go wrong for others when you had nothing to with the problem, such as the film breaking in a projector, at a car crash, or when flooding devastates a poor southern neighborhood that was built at sea level right next to the sea.
-You've been told at least five times in the last year that you have a "great maniacal laugh."
-You have to play evil theme music just to walk from your computer to the bathroom. And you will hold it until you find the right song.
-You find yourself inexplicably excited and/or aroused whenever Wonder Woman is losing a fight.
-When you hear "internet piracy," you think of galleons and cannons laying siege to Microsoft headquarters.
-When you hear "illegal aliens," you think of space ships, and your only worry is that they won't align with you.
-When you hear "World Series," you think of setting every sovereign nation in the world on fire in beautiful succession.
-You've lost more than one hundred nights of sleep in your life planning intricate plots that you know you'll never carry out and/or know can't possibly work.
-You cut yourself, but you imagine it's other people doing it, and the act gives you a rush, particularly because you spent the entire ordeal plotting revenge against your fictitious tormentor.
-You think hundreds or thousands or hundreds of thousands of people read your blog, website, web comic, livejournal or mywasteofspace than actually join or post comments. You simply have no idea why they don't show up on the hit counter or post those comments in support of your brilliant work. Your best guess is that they're intimidated.
-You know all the countries that don't have a Bill of Rights, and can list them off the top of your head, alphabetically or by population. And you have some great ideas you'd like to share with their heads of state.

Bathroom Monologue: One of the Brightest

"I have a memory like a bear trap. Anything that enters it is captured, several ridged blades driven through its flesh and its bones are broken, effectively crippling the memory. It's likely to starve to death in the wilds of my head while it tries to recuperate from the injury. That's my mind: an inescapable device that damages and detains information until I'm ready for it, or until disease sets in."

Milestones, Gravestones and Ninety-Nine Somethings

You might ask why I'd celebrate the ninety-ninth Bathroom Monologue instead of the hundredth. It's for the same reason I say kind things to people on unimportant days. People say all those nice things about other people right after they die. No one so admires a man as when he is dead, and never is he so popular as at his funeral. It's kind of disgusting, all those people voicing fond memories just when she can no longer hear them, those obituaries in the paper remembering her. Wouldn't one of those celebratory editorials have been put to better use when she was alive and could read it? Could have sent it to her parents? Could have clipped it and put it up on her 'fridge, and passed it every time she wanted to snag a soda, smiling a private smile, knowing someone would put such time and effort into something so nice for her? But no, they only print it for you once you can't read it, after she's collapsed at the last milestone. Milestones are fine, they remind us to check if you're there, they tell you how far you've come, but it's the miles they mark that matter.

You also might ask why I'm celebrating my ninety-ninth Bathroom Monologue when I'm not even at seventy-five yet. Well that's... stop judging me!

Bathroom Monologues: Lemme Axe You Something

Two hundred Christians tore down a church today over a misunderstanding. Apparently the visiting preacher told them to, “Honor God with your acts.” Mishearing “acts,” the local blacksmith began handing out pickaxes and the folk went to work hacking down the house of the Lord. When reached for comment, the Parish priest said, “Hopefully God will forgive them. Myself? I have a mortgage.”

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: Wake up to go to the bathroom at 2:30 in the morning monologue

Orcish has the most limited vocabulary of any language. They're not particularly imaginative, and so when they come up with a word, they staple as many meanings to it as it can hold. For instance, "sluuk" has over a dozen meanings: stairwell, staircase, spiral stairs, wooden stairs, stone stairs, stairs made from bone, man-made slides, orc-made slides, chutes, steppes, shallow waterfalls, steel ladders, and wooden ladders. Interestingly "rope ladder" is not conveyed by "sluuk," but is instead conveyed by the same word as "net," "stockings," and "garter belt."

Bathroom Monologue: Personally, I Prefer Marquez

"I'd ask you if I could be Borgesian for a minute, but a Borgesian minute could easily last two hours, and Borges would get away with it, because he's in the literary canon. But if I could be Borgesian for a minute, since my problem is with canonical literature (or at least, with the scribblings that have been printed under that umbrella), I want to say how much I hate the writing things that have already been written. Sure, if I intend to write Don Quixote, with or without sampling it, that's good and well. Yet I spend so much of my time reading, sometimes reaching a titanic (for me) five books a week (then defragmenting my brain by staring a television all weekend, with the TV in various states of ON and OFF), that when I come up with a line I like, or even a notion I like, and then I read it in someone else's book later, I feel a rage that is distinctly realistically magical (I'd say, "magically realistic," but that sounds like a slogan for Lucky Charms cereal). In writing my first novel, two Orcish archers (who have horrible aim and have been treed by a Goblin) provided me with a clever line about one's thinking that "figment" was a mint extracted from figs. I thought it was very funny. Two years later I found the same "fig mint" pun in Yann Martel's Life of Pi. He'd published his book seven years before I read it; I'd written mine two years before I read his. This kind of thing happens too often. I swear, public school or college should have prepared me for this crap. Nobody writes, "To be or not to be, that is the question" and thinks it's his own (at least, not without a lesser degree of sanity than I'm comfortable admitting I lack). But how the Hell do you dig yourself out of that? It's especially troubling because I liked Martel's book. I liked his line. It fit the character, the scene and the tone. There was no way he stole it from me, but it was God-damned mine. Maybe a potential publisher wouldn't catch it. Maybe she hadn't read Martel's book. But what if she'd read Andrew Crumey's Pfitz, and another of my lines was in there? I read Pfitz. Not carefully. I had to read it over a weekend for a class, and didn't think it was that clever. But what if one of my good lines is in there? Or in The Five People You Meet in Heaven? Or in The Yiddish Policeman's Union? Or what if one of them's in one of J.T. Leroy's books? I'd never be able to live with myself if I shared a beloved line with Leroy, even if he really was a hoax made up to sell books by a middle aged woman who couldn't get published without a gimmick. I hate J.T. Leroy. But I read Leroy. I read Martel, and I read Borges, because I'm really scared that all of my good lines are floating around in well-manicured paragraphs on fresh pages on library shelves I've never visited before. And that's probably why I read five books a week. It's definitely why I watch a blank TV screen so much. And if you'll be so kind, you won't blame me for this Borgesian minute ticking beyond sixty seconds."

Bathroom Monologue: Paramount

"Our opponents were the best. The twelve finest samurai and warlords in the land. They came from the most reputable schools. They had the finest weapons. The sight of just so much as one of their flags made civilized people flee in terror. So what did we do? We went to the uncivilized ends of civilization. We found best of the rejects, the scum, the monsters, the people who went into the wilderness and survived. We gave each of our twelve untrained savages a shower, a suit and a sword. Then we stacked them up against the emperor's elite. Not only did we win, but we made a couple of those samurai cry."

Bathroom Monologue: Why? … But I never even ..

You can always tell how badly a man is lying about his feelings for a woman by the ratio of times he uses the words "why" and "never" to the number of seconds he speaks. If he says, “Never even,” this counts as 1.5 never’s. Seconds completely spent stuttering, stammering and/or attempting to form full sentences count as seconds speaking, but are usually doubly damning.

Bathroom Monologue: I'm gonna get kicked off the internet for this tribute to Punch Magazine

Iran recently began several long-range weapons projects that can evade radar detection and split a warship in half. The government even provided video of the weapons to any interested media outlets. Amongst the missiles was one capable of reaching beyond Israel or Europe, that Iran caled, "The Great Prophet" Project. Over the weeks they failed to explain exactly what this Great Prophet missile was supposed to foresee with its unnecessary destructive force. They were happy, though, to say it could hit anywhere in the U.S.. Seeing it, I had the urge to dust off our old Neutron Bomb project, that one that eradicates all life in a city but leaves their infrastructure and possessions intact, and re-label it the "Don't Make Me Come Over There, Bitch" Project.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: The AenIbeforeEexceptafterCandsometimesincrazyRomanepicsied

This is why I don't pick on people who type "then" for "than" or "fourty" for "forty." It's because of Virgil (or "Vergil") and his stupid Anied. I mean "Aenied." I MEAN "AENEID." Dammit, it's happening again! I'll never be able to spell it, no matter how hard I try. I swear I've written paper after paper referencing the poem, switching where the "i" and "e" go, even using that silly "ae" single letter character, and no matter how often I spellchecked it, it came back circled in red. Is there a society of geniuses who switch how it's spelled whenever I write about it? How do they know which spelling I'll decide on in advance? How do they pull it off? And is the conspiracy just against me? Spellcheck and see for you'reself.

Bathroom Monologue: "$200" -Pricetag on a white shirt at Nordstroms

We're talking state-of-the-art. The rest of the art cries itself to sleep and dreams of being this artistic. Each atom of the fabric is handcrafted by quality union labor, woven across molecules in our trademark pattern of authenticity for ultrafriction. We're talking subzero friction, baby. The smoothest shirt you can get outside of antimatter markets. Your hand doesn't just slide off it -- it slides through it. It's almost like it isn't there. Every elite expert of every continent that fashion's ever cared about has been consigned to collect and condense every brilliant color in creation. This beats prisms like the sun beats a candle. Most eyes can't even process this kind of brilliance, though I'm sure you can see it. Look at those details. You only get that from our authentic weave. Now is that cash or credit? We're offering bonus store points for every hundred dollars spent on gold cards, you know.

Bathroom Monologue: Noise like snaketrails in the sand, you know?

The truth and nothing but the truth, scorned lovers, stealth bombers, death in childbirth, black light, black humor (of the M*A*S*H variety), black humor (of the Richard Pryor variety), list fiction, daydreams, near misses, original sin, freezerburn, Final Fantasy 2, healthy pride, compassionate conservatives, extinct predators, Native American Indians, biting the hand that feeds you, Oscar-winning Best Picture being good, freedom of speech being the right to wear whatever you want, and the State of the Union being the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Bathroom Monologue: The Power of a Million

A million people thought The Da Vinci Code was worth retail price. A million people voted for the Communist party’s presidential candidate while he was in jail. A million people think they’ll lose weight by strapping electroshock devices to their abs. A million people, while considerably more than the amount of people who care about me, is not that many in the face of a planet that can easily produce a billion who want to kick your million’s asses. It’s definitely not an impressive enough statistic to convince me we need great national change. It’s not even enough to convince me to change my tires when the treads wear down.

Bathroom Monologue: Jimmy the Traveler

His parents were Roman Catholic. James was Roaming Catholic. "Catholic," of course means "universal" or "universe," so "Roaming Catholic" meant James got as far the Hell away from his planet as possible to escape the Church. He made it as far as Mars, where he presently resides with an agnostic community of little green people.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: Goodbye, Old Friend

Every year the Oxford English Dictionary strikes several words from its pages to make room for the new ones we've coined. The 2007 edition of the O.E.D. finally nixed “gullible” from the ‘G’ section. Oxford deemed the word archaic and obsolete, as these days it is only used in that stupid joke about not being in the dictionary. Oxford takes their English very seriously and struck the word. It will not return unless there is a resurgence in usage. “Dumbass” was included for the first time this year, considered a contemporary replacement for the obsolete word. Out of sympathy for fans of “gullible,” “dumbass” is placed both in the ‘D’ and ‘G’ sections of the book.

Bathroom Monologue: Like Your Valhalla is Better

Here roam Roland and Genghis Khan, Cortez and George Patton. On earth they were middle-aged (and then, dead some hundreds of years), but here they are only ten years old, save Ajax and Lu Bu, who are unfairly twelve, and two years bigger. They've fought here since their deaths in the mortal world, years of combat, yet not a day of age. Their mighty steeds are brooms, their exotic weaponry is scrapwood stolen from garages and garbage cans. Only twenty or thirty boys fight in these misty valleys, but there in the fog every blade of grass represents a fictitious enemy or ally. They cannot see all the territory for the mist is thick and hills are high, but that does not stop them from fighting for the next ridge. Every day they draw up their sides, usually two armies at dawn that divide down into four or eight by evening, for in every boy's heart lurks an aspiring bad leader. Their conquests of empire are not stopped by fever or betrayal, but by dusk, when their mothers call them for dinner.

Bathroom Monologue: Somebody illustrate this already

Lo: I don't like that noise....
Shinigami: What noise?
[The room explodes with a big "Boom" sound effect]
[Moments later, Lo and Shinigami climb out of the rubble]
Lo: For posterity, it was the faint hissing noise that I didn't like. But in retrospect, I believe I like the "boom" slightly less.

Bathroom Monologue: Think he can still get a reference?

"Oh, you're firing me for a new black guy who you can pay less. Yeah, I understand completely, I've always wanted to lose my paycheck and health benefits so you can start a new guy at bottom salary and claim a tax credit. It's a lifelong dream. I'm just wondering, you know, since there are already so many African Americans on staff, if you're going to be hiring Latinos. I mean, it is affirmative action, right? If your staff is half black and half white, you're ignoring Hispanics. And Asians, and Native Americans. Not to mention immigrants. I mean legal ones, of course, 'cause you'd never hire illegal immigrants no matter how little they'd work for, or how many rights they'd give up for the privilege of serving you, right? Right. They can't type well. Yet. But how many immigrants, and how many colors of immigrants are you going to hire? 'Cause come to think of it, we only speak English in here. Your little monochrome rainbow isn't exactly cutting it. Where are the French? The Russians? The Taiwanese? Or do you not consider them a country? You do want to act affirmatively, don't you? And what about the Jews? They think they're a race. Do you hire a quota of them? No, that's poor taste. They have a bad history with quotas. But since I'm losing my job, I guess I don't like quotas either."

Monday, December 3, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: Sweet & Sinful

“The seven deadly sins actually make sense. Pride is a sin because, let's face it, you're being kind of a bitch. Sloth is a sin because I can't pay all the bills on my own, Charlene. Lust is a sin because after the second or third go, I really just want a sandwich (you should see a therapist about that). Gluttony is a sin because now there's no bread left when I want that sandwich. Greed is a sin for much the same reason. Wrath is a sin because the other drivers can't hear you bitch about abusing the passing lane. They've already forgotten you exist. Envy is a sin because it always ends up in me having to buy you one of whatever she has. So the sins are sensible. They’re all bad behaviors or behaviors that become bad in excess. But why are they "deadly" sins? Because when I had to drop a month’s paycheck on something called a “Prada puffer jacket,” then listened to you scream at every car that tailgated or passed us on the way home, and to top it all off, found there was no bread left for a sandwich, I realized that “slathering your fiancĂ© in honey and leaving her tied up next to a hill of fire ants” wasn’t on the list of seven. It was nice knowing you, Charlene. I’m off to get some bread.”

Bathroom Monologue: If you read too much, you'll think like this, too

Hypocrisy is the best-spelled word in our language. No, it’s far from phonetic, but look at its structure. H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-S-Y. It’s an ugly word, a hypocritical word.

It’s "hypo," which is a dumb, pseudo-scientific sounding thing, the closest relation to which is "hyper," the general charge of which is to accuse anything it is hyphenated to of exaggeration. "Hyper" is so much more common than "hypo" that rather than "hypo" having a meaning, people just think of its prefixal cousin.

And the ‘y’ in this “hypo” is pronounced in its unusual soft form. Normally it’s usually a stronger letter, as in "hypodermic" or "hypothesis." Here, it's like that fat, ill-tempered herbivore responsible for more deaths in Africa than any of the carnivores. The hippo-crisy.

Following our "hippo," we have "crisy," which sounds like "gristle," despite being spelled closer to the demure "cracy," as in "democracy." "Democracy" is an authoritative word for a good idea, an ideal idea. "Hypocrisy" gets gristle.

Merely examine the sounds composing the word. The "hyp" and "cris" have the same vowel sound, but use different letters invoke it. The letter 'c,' the greatest hypocrite in the alphabet, is also present, in replacement of 'k,' (a shamelessly underused letter), but 's' is present in that same 'cris' syllable. "Hypocrisy" gets along with 'c' stealing only one consonant’s job there. Yet it invokes the letter 'y' twice for two different vowel sounds, when that poor letter isn’t even really a vowel, and has the gall, only two syllables after the first 'y,' "hyp," to summon 'i' for the same vowel sound, "cris."

No wonder it’s so hard to spell. It’s got four syllables and no morals. "Hypocrisy" will be one of the first words up against the wall when the revolution comes, along with "phonetic," (the audacity to use "ph" for 'f' when it's supposed to be setting an example) "lisp," (no one with one can pronounce it) and "initialize" (less for spelling and more for whatever bastard changed its meaning from "start" to "delete everything on my computer"). Anyone who spells such words correctly on a test ought to get full credit, but anyone who misspells them should probably get double credit. Their only problem is probably an overabundance of ethics.

Bathroom Monologue: In the middle of studying Islamic Justice, a new myth!

Justice is a ravenous mare, and Mercy is a blind charioteer. Justice can run a thousand miles in one day and eats not only the grass and waters, but people that it finds and judges. Justice is a powerful and true steed. Poor Mercy is often senseless as to what Justice devours, though when she learns of Justice's actions, she cannot look, and instead listens to the judgment at hand. Mercy may pull on the reins to spare the horses Justice might devour. This is their relationship; Justice shows blind Mercy the world by pulling her, and Mercy spares the world by starving Justice.

Bathroom Monologue: "R.A Salvatore is an avid weightlifter." –Salvatore’s bio in the Dark Elf Trilogy

Helen Keller wrote better imagery than most of our modern best-sellers, and if we know anything about Homer, it's that he was blind. Margery Kempe, author of the first autobiography, was illiterate, not that illiteracy got in Richard Wright's way. Walt Whitman, Herman Melville and William Shakespeare were probably simultaneously gay and homophobic. Alexander Pope, who wrote perhaps the most beautiful poetry in the English language, was a half-crippled hunchback. Flannery O'Connor was housebound with lupus, writing some of her stories in a hospital bed. Fitzgerald was an alcoholic, Virgil was crazy (so bad that he almost burned the only copy of The Aeneid), while Virginia Woolf and Ernest Hemingway were outright suicidal. If you gathered the gamut of the best writers of this or any other language, their collective body fat, disfigurements and mental disorders would preclude them from any library, save the one at Arkham Asylum, which is itself fictional.

Bathroom Monologue: The Penis

“No, none of me is happy to see you. Alright, four inches of me is very happy, but it’s very easily excited. … What, too frank? Am I supposed to pretend I’m hung like a lamppost to impress you? This is one of those modern conceits I don’t go in for. Size didn’t matter this much in olden times. Have you ever seen those naked statues of Hercules? All bulging muscles and chiseled features, with what appears to be half a cheese doodle hanging off his crotch. And yes ladies – when not erect, it’s tiny. It’s travel-sized. For all your talk about respecting your mind and this not being a physical relationship, it shouldn’t matter. Especially not if I’m better hung than Hercules.”

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: I don't know why I was thinking about Dracula

Vampires aren't killed by holy water! They just hate it. It tastes like poor people's hands. Similarly, the stake through the heart has little charm. I mean, sure, it kills a vampire. But is that really a surprise? It'd kill you. Even sunlight isn't genuinely impressive. It doesn't immolate a vampire. Vampires were simply more scientifically advanced hundreds of years ago and while you were inventing the printing press, they were donning capes and hiding in coffins out of fear for skin cancer.

Bathroom Monologue: Outtake from Lo, and the Devil Died

"Think about it. Your feet carry you around for your whole life. They balance you, not just a ball of meat, but one with an oddly shaped head and arms sticking out way up past your center of gravity. If one is to master the body, one must exercise from the legs. Master Storm Crow found the tallest, steepest hill, and had me push stones up it only using my feet. If it rolled away, I would have to catch it with my toes or the side of my foot. I could not carry it, or even stop it with my hands if it rolled away. Over time and success, he increased the size of the stones. He got pretty mean-spirited with the size of those things. By our last days at that hill, he had me rolling a boulder five times my own weight."
"And then what?"
"Then he brought me to a mountain, and had me start over."
Puck scratched the back of his head. "Unbelievable."
Lo chuckled and got back on the beaten path. "'Unbelievable,' eh? Well if you cannot believe that much, no sense in telling you what he did to my arms."

Bathroom Monologue: Better With or Without?

John Wiswell was amongst the best and worst pranksters of his age. He lived for his own brand of humor. He was fascinated with the idea of logging onto AIM and telling all his friends that he was his sister, and that 'John' had died, to see how they would react when the truth was revealed. He was so fascinated with the idea that he never actually did it - just talked to people about it every few weeks, until they were bored or annoyed with it. And when he did die in a flaming car wreck, and his sister logged onto AIM to share the awful news, none of his friends believed her. They scolded her for the 'awful joke.' Several even terminated their friendship with 'him' over it, until they received their invitations to the funeral. According to his last testament, this was all to soften the blow of the loss for them, and to have one last laugh for himself.

Bathroom Monologues: On Something

Many poets and authors have write demi-autobiographies under the title “On Writing.” It’s a flag to other super-literates that what lies within is about the craft. Here are a few alternate flags:
-On Reading
-On Rooftops
-On Meth (likely out of print)
-On Dasher
-On Dancer
-On Prancer (everyone likes a series)
-On the Off-Ramp
-On a Silver Platter (this one can be about getting published for the twelfth time)
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