Bathroom Monologue: Crotchety Bathroom Aphorism?

“Some say the situation defines the person, and some say the person defines the situation. But in truth, what transpires between the person and the situation is a private affair that no one else really cares about. The public will define both for you at half the cost, often before either is finished.”

Bathroom Monologue: Friendly Tortragon

All dragons require some form of treasure to make a comfortable bed. This is considered psychosomatic, or magical. It’s hard to tell the difference when you’re studying a creature whose nervous system is made out of fire.

The internal workings of most dragons are entirely flame-based, though the tortragon is filled with pure plasma – the stuff of stars. Biologists theorize that this creature may be the oldest living kind of dragon, and its plasma interior may hold the keys to the modern, bellicose and fiery dragons of the land and sky. They note that the plasma-based interior has allowed the single generation of tortragons to survive nearly as long as the seas themselves, peacefully drifting inside their giant shells without disturbing people or other aquatic life. Their fusion cores as so efficient that they don’t even need to eat, which explains why so many tasty fish and marine mammals play on them.

The only thing that routinely makes a tortragon testy is finding a bed. They like shiny seashells, and will go to war with an entire human flotilla if enough pearls are smelled to be nearby. They have little interest in gold or sunken treasure, so there’s no use to searching for it around them.

Ironically it is not pearls that bring them into conflict with humans most frequently. At least seven out of every nine cases of tortragon-on-human violence are initiated by people landing on the giant shells of slumbering tortragons and attempting to dig for buried treasure. This, along with the immorality of theft, is a key reason to not go treasure hunting.

Bathroom Monologue: Newton and Priestley Become the Two Old Muppets on that Balcony

The two looked around the room. The walls and floor were steel, with only a wooden table in the center. There were no windows, and still stranger, they both suspected that they were supposed to be dead.

Both being upright gentlemen, one extended a hand in greeting shortly.

“Isaac Newton.”

“Ah, pleased to meet you. Joseph Priestley.”

“Didn’t you discover air?”

“Why, yes. And didn’t you discover gravity?”

“Among other things.”

“Never thought much of that. Not so difficult to realize things fall down.”

“As opposed to the staggering genius of realizing there was something in front of your face? Wind never gave that away?"

“You don’t think we’re consigned to this box because we discovered obvious things, do you?”

“Not unless Rene Descartes shows up shortly.”

“Why Rene Descartes?”

“Because he discovered that he existed at all.”

Oh, and they laughed.

Bathroom Monologue: Space as a Starting Point

“Well, I noticed that we had a massive sexual liberation movement going on at the same time as an end-death movement. People want to rut at will and live forever, ignoring that combined you’re going to have serious space issues. That’s when I realized if I wanted to make an impact, I should start this movement: building more apartments. Condos on the moon are cheap, but if you want a view, I consider my Venutian garden apartments underpriced. These are all run for profit, mind you, intended to fund my actual philanthropic endeavor. I’m going to generate entirely new planets. We’re building an engine that will break the laws of physics and manufacture matter, because let’s face it: there aren’t enough moons and planets in all the cosmos to house the fruits of kinky immortals on Viagra.”

“Obama to ease Cuba travel restrictions” –Headline on CNN.com, OR...

“Obama to ease Cuba travel restrictions” –Headline on CNN.com

OR

“The decision, which comes just days before President Obama leaves for the Summit of the Americas…” –Same article

-Anyone named “Barack Obama” may travel to Cuba and enjoy total diplomatic immunity
-All Cuban nationals must refer to foreign presidents as “Superman,” and follow any comment, be it negative, positive or neutral, upon his person with a compliment of his most fabulous cape
-The Cuban government must provide President Obama with a most fabulous cape
-For the next two weeks you can bring as many cigars into the country as you can hold in your wheelbarrow
-Wheelbarrows will now be allowed on international flights to Cuba
-All international flights must attach a special strap to left wing upon which a man wearing a most fabulous cape may be secured such that he can pretend he is flying
-All shops in Cuba will operate as “duty free” whenever anyone named “Barack Obama” walks into one
-Anyone named “Barack Obama” may punch babies with impunity
-Does Cuba have heat vision yet?

Bathroom Monologue: Ping-Ponging Kids

Edmund and Isaiah were very good friends with two very prudent mothers. They ping-ponged between houses on weekdays: Edmund at Isaiah’s on Monday, Isaiah at Edmund’s on Tuesday, and so-forth, for help with homework, sharing of videogames, and eventually social discussions, and eventually covert hashish, and eventually inexplicably hilarious social discussions that you couldn’t have understood if you weren’t there and you’re sure your mom can’t smell it from under the door?

Their prudent mothers armed their sons with gifts for the opposition, and when a son spent so much time at another mother’s kitchen table, the foreign mother was determined to become opposition. So a little thing of nutmeg went from Shirley (Edmund’s mother) to Aliyah (Isaiah’s mother). Aliyah responded with a Hummel figurine, and the ping-ponging escalated from just boys to boys and goods.

The boys knew no more of what they were doing than settler children when their Puritanical parents asked them to bring the blanket grandpa died in to the Native American camp. They dumped their goods at the door and ran off for the Wii. The whole affair might have calloused over there if not for one errant pong in response to a ping.

If you asked either mother she would have told you her opposition had re-gifted the Morthful’s Chocolate Sampler, a fine box of candies retailing between $15-35, depending on how little you paid attention to where you got it. It was by the far priciest gifted ping-ponged between the children, and one Wednesday it wound up back at Aliyah’s. She became so furious that she had only one course of satisfaction: to send it back to Shirley.

But Shirley received it and had the same sense of re-gifting, with no memory of having re-gifted it herself. To even propose she had re-gifted the Morthful’s Chocolate Sampler would have brought about such a rage that nothing short of divorce and witness protection would save you.

So Shirley sent it back with a little note, saying she hoped Aliyah enjoyed the chocolates.

It returned to Shirley’s abode the next time Isaiah came over, now with a smiley face sticker on it. She loathed that smile, especially once she realized she couldn’t peel it off without leaving evidence behind. For an hour she knew the panic of a chess player caught in a gambit, until she found a bigger, orange smiley face sticker to place over the original.

It became an arms race of good will. Bigger stickers, wrapping paper and ever-lengthening, increasingly saccharine notes on how this was my favorite brand and I thought you’d like it, and everyone says you’re getting so skinny, and didn’t you know chocolate is good for stress? Neither would blink.

Aliyah was preparing a three-page letter with quotes from the Talmud, Francis Bacon and Bernard Shaw to attach to the parcel one the final day. She didn’t know it to be the final day and was printing the thing out when she went to the door to collect the sampler, only to find it missing. The boys were home, so they had to have brought it. But it wasn’t by the door, or on the kitchen table.

She found the box half an hour later, in Isaiah’s garbage can. It was opened and looted of everything but the chocolates with fruit in the middle. She could not make a move with Edmund there, but she stared waves of spanking and suspended allowance from his door for fifteen straight minutes as he tried to beat a boss monster. Neither boy turned to recognize her. The brown smear on one corner of her son’s left cheek seemed to stare back at her, emanating equal and polar opposite waves of maternal defeat and social disgrace.

She interrupted their game, not to scold but to say she’d be back in an hour. She knew what she had to do. The local Pharmacist had to have more of those samplers, and a fresh package meant fresh space upon which she could wage her war of passive attrition. Hell, maybe she’d buy two of them. See that old bag re-gift them both.

The old bag did re-gift them, attaching not a three-page scholarly note on charity, but a coupon for another sampler. Aliyah went and used the coupon, then sent all three boxes to Shirley the next day. Shirley sent them write back, done up in a basket with several layers of colored cellophane paper. Aliyah typed up a note, stuck it in the basket, and had Isaiah march it right back to Shirley’s the next day.

That night, Aliyah got a phone call from Shirley’s husband, Wilson. He thanked her profusely for all the chocolates, said they’d been a big hit at his poker game, and invited her husband to join next week.

Aliyah was stunned. When she hung up, her husband asked who that had been. She threw a chocolate at him.

Bathroom Monologue: Ghoulish

She liked to waltz through graveyards, dancing and calculating. How much body mass was left in all the coffins under here? If the average person was one hundred and seventy pounds, how many coffins would she have to empty out to get a full man? Would they add up a whole person if you pushed all the rot together? And would such a golem be interested in the kinds of films and foods she liked, or would she just have to put up with him like all the men already above ground? Matters of the heart were so difficult, especially when it was decomposing.

Bathroom Monologue: Mind Your Mines

Not everyone wanted to join the feud between the Sicilians and the Cubans, especially their immigrant kids who were born here and hadn't emigrated at all. They weren’t competing for jobs and didn’t comprehend their theological differences, but on account of their parents’ enthusiasm for the feud, required a discreet way, or at least a not-too-indiscreet way, to express that desire to do no harm. One look at Estelle Valdes in a halter-top and the Crisafi boys wanted to do a whole lot of no harm, and the plan was concocted, and invitations were palmed in the hallways, and dozens of kids covertly congregated at the abandoned mine. Come dusk dozens of teens descended a coal shaft in elbow gloves and flowing skirts, clothing they never got to wear above, designated for a ball below. Light became scarcer and scarcer as dances were traded and dancing talent was mocked, as hands rested on waists and couples swayed, and kissing became possible, though remained as intimidating a prospect as it was in the world above. It got so dark no one knew whom his partner was, and they stayed a whole half hour down in that pitch-blackness, everyone else dancing as Roberto taught Yelina how to play his guitar, and it was the most elegant thing no one ever saw.

Bathroom Monologue: An Argument Most Concise in Favor of Burning Books

“We’re all against burning books until one of them comes for our kids. Possessed by Satan, a restless Native American spirit, or simple poor syntax, the thing leaps off the shelf and starts beating your oldest daughter about the head and shoulders. Now an airport paperback you can take care of with your bare hands, but a hardcover requires the fear of fire to put it in line. You just don’t know what it’s like until you come home after a long day at the office to find the Encyclopedia Britannica terrorizing your family, your oldest daughter pinned to the ground by L, M, N, O, P and Q, crying because she doesn’t want to read about quail anymore. You can’t fight a flock of flying encyclopedias with tolerance, my friends. They are the scum of the earth and require the constant threat of the lighter to mind their manners.”

Theorobotics in the April/May Alien Skin

The Bathroom Monologue, "Theorobotics," is currently in the e-zine Alien Skin. This is a new version of the monologue about robotic believers. You can check it out here, or at this URL: http://www.alienskinmag.com/flashmic13.htm

Bathroom Monologue: I Can’t Waltz

They stepped to his left, then forward, then right, then back. It was the least comfortable square he ever made. One hand was on her shoulder and one hand went so low on her hip he hoped his mom wasn't watching. She made him so nervous that he only touched her with the tips of his fingers so she wouldn't feel the sweat on his palms. Maybe she didn't feel them, but she saw every time his eyes averted, and it made her smile this smile that… well, he was glad she couldn’t feel his palms. Heart going faster, forgetting how to breathe, he traced that square over and over again, even after the song ended.

Bathroom Monologue: Six-Sentence Non-Fiction about Reading Fiction

Had to stay off my ankle for a week, so I scooped up an armload of books from my To-Read box and set them on my desk. Samuel Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner was on top of the stack, but I capriciously decided to start the week with comedy and read Douglas Adams's Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency instead.

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, about which I knew nothing other than it was by an author I liked, turned out to be a comedy about how everything is connected and made so many references to Coleridge that a character actually picks up one of his books and reads it. I kept looking over the copy of Adams’s book, staring at the other a couple feet away, until the hour I finished and it was Coleridge’s turn.

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, about which I knew nothing other than it was by an author I should read, turned out to be the story of an immortal seaman waylaying a stranger on his way to a wedding. Halfway through Mom knocked on the door to drop of the mail and the latest Netflix movie: Rachel Getting Married.

Bathroom Monologue: Why the Mood?

She kept smoking, hair and shadow covering her face, not looking up from the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh Jesus, is it our anniversary?" He ran back to the apartment to find his wallet.

When he was out of sight, she smirked. It was fun to do this to him.

Bathroom Monologue: The Reason

Many wanted an explanation after the apocalypse. After all of the plagues, pestilences and wars, space shuttles killing teachers and precious souls lost to miscarriages, most humans wanted Him to answer.

The souls of all the fish, beasts and birds those humans had eaten across millennia followed after them, intent on meeting whoever was behind this mess – and much to the chagrin of vegetarians, the souls of a trillion carrots were amongst the cattle.

Anubis, Anansi, Apollo and all the other gods whose worship had dwindled across time came along, wanting to see the Supreme Being finally get it from Creation.

It seemed all matter was fuming, marching up to His door, ready to tear the meaning of life from His transcendent carcass.

They didn’t expect Him to meet them at the door, but He threw open the Gates of Reality, fearless and splendid, an irrepressible smile in the middle of His infinite beard, and declared, “I call it The Aristocrats!”

Six Sentence Week 2

The Six Sentence Stories keep coming. For this week, from today to Sunday, I'll be posting another six-sentence story each day. As you can see I'm trying to play with what can fit in that brevity: humor, theology, fantasy, ranting, non-fiction reflection, bigotry, love, and for some reason, two about dance. A poll should pop up shortly. Please vote for whichever you like the most, and leave a Comment if you think one is particularly good or bad.

Dammit, that's five again!

Bathroom Monologue: D.A.E.

Demons Against Exorcism is a grassroots organization that is either entirely composed of demons or has no demons at all, depending on how skeptical you are. The demons in question have 100% willing and agreeable hosts who do not want to see their companions evicted.

“It’s my body, my choice,” says Sarah Stockman, who will have been possessed for six years next month. Her parents were initially uncomfortable with her lifestyle, but grew to accept it after her demon ceased making her writhe in public. Following a popular tolerant trend, the Stockmans have nothing against writhing in private.

The demons provide no rent, being incorporeal and generally bad at finances. Unlike poltergeists, they are not very helpful at moving things around the house.

“A possession isn’t a business relationship,” says Paul Pensly, who has been passionately possessed for two years and doesn’t see the honeymoon enthusiasm fading. “It’s about companionship, knowing this infernal buddy of mine will be there when I’ve had a long day, lost a bar fight, or whenever I just need to talk. I never go to the movies alone now.”

Some people do note advantages to the possessions, however. Sarah Stockman landed a job in the Foreign Languages department of a community college thanks to her ability to speak in tongues. An anonymous Indian-American possessee in Ohio claims his demon once possessed Aristotle and now helps him breeze through textbooks. College Board is currently devising a counter-demon measure to prevent possession-based cheating on its SAT exams, a measure Demons Against Exorcism calls “the worst kind of bigotry.”

Rorschark Attack at Short Story Library

"Rorschark Attack" is the story of the day over at Short Story Library. You can check out their site at the URL: http://shortstory.us.com/

If you like it, let them know in Comments or e-mails!

Bathroom Monologue: Cashiers Have Their Ways

“Hey, did I leave my keys in here?”
“Someone did leave a set of keys at checkout, but how do I know they were yours?”
“I just left here. I was just here! Talking to you!”
“So you say. What kind of car do you drive?”
“Hybrid.”
“I’ve wanted a Hybrid…”
“Give me my keys!”
“Your ownership is still unestablished, sir. What items did you buy at my register, supposing you did buy any at all?”
“These Snickers. You know that.”
“I know that Snickers are delicious.”
“Are you… are you trying to extort my candy?”
“I could leave these keys here and look the other way, if something preoccupied me. Like caramel and peanuts, mixed in silky chocolate.”
“You… diabolical bastard.”
“We cashiers have our ways.”

Bathroom Monologue: How It Sounds

“There is no other country that is diverting 15% of tin and salts to aether research. There is no other industrialized country still bent on developing the Death Ray. And yet the chairman persists in pretending it is the conservatives that are out of touch. We cannot close the oceans with taxes upon our most prosperous citizens just because they are the wealthiest. They did not make the oceans vast, did not make them rise such that we need aether ships. It is not the corporate world that filled our skies with pirates necessitating advanced disintegrator canons in every floating city we set up. Indeed, it is the corporations that build the canons! And so what if they malfunction a mere one fifth of the time? That is still four-fifths of the floating population that lives, dry and unharassed by sky-hooligans!”

Bathroom Monologue: Dead Wrong

So while the notion that the dead ascend and become an army of guardian angels who watch over and shine upon the living is still popular, there are dissenting views. For instance there is the theory that the ascended dead continue to be the petty, bigoted assholes they were in life.

The living make very quick judgments on others.

“That slut is wearing way too tight a skirt.”

“You can tell he’s lying. Look at that suit.”

“That fat ass doesn’t even try to lose weight, even though he’s jogging.”

Natural disasters have occurred since time immemorial, as have erroneous and negative snap judgments. Under this theory, the two are linked, but given immortality and heavenly power, the dead can do more than just glare. The judgmental dead are passing judgments on we slutty, lying and fat living through earthquakes and avalanches. A volcano erupting is your great grandma’s way of telling you to change your top.

Bathroom Monologue: Beta Testing for Go Outside

His last web video was the supposed gameplay footage for a PC-exclusive called “Go Outside.” It averaged 1.2 stars on youtube and the Comments section was overrun with complaints for his lame gag. From the start it was obvious he had just brought a webcam outdoors and filmed himself walking around, sometimes admiring his hand in front of the lens and complimenting the “graphics.” Those viewers who finished the video were horrified, however, when after finishing the tutorial for “jumping” and “tying your shoelaces,” the host walked his camera out into the middle of the road and demonstrated the “combat gameplay,” by refusing to step out of the way of oncoming traffic. He charged at a Hummer, which threw on its breaks but still struck him. A small spray of blood could be seen flying past the lens. The view of the camera flew up and collapsed to the concrete, where it lay still for ten seconds. Then the cameraman, presumably the same one who had been struck, picked up the camera and announced the demo for Go Outside was over.

That’s the worst April Fool’s joke the Highlander ever played.

Bathroom Monologue: Contextualization: A Picaresque

The main theme of my new picaresque is context, or my theory that readers must know as much about the author, his intents, his culture and world as possible to be able to have event a decent understanding of his work. I went through eleven drafts, though the first ten were destroyed so that people don’t find and try to study them later. Their interpretations could be disastrous. They were mere print drafts, you see. The eleventh draft is a perfect edition, released exclusively to internet-capable e-readers that enable every word in the book to be hyperlinked to an article explaining it. The footnotes of the ninth edition were exhaustive, with only one word of the work per page and the rest of the space devoted to explanation of how this one word altered the sound of how the sentence should be pronounced, how its course was forever altered, and the possible medieval allusions of its etymology, but they were still too limited. No, my genius could only be comprehended with thorough usage of certain websites, diagrams, paintings and youtube videos. That is why the eleventh edition indirectly connects to roughly 23% of the content linked to on Google. By following every link you can properly begin to understand what I intended by such classic word choices as “Cervantic,” “Dionysus” and “the.” My publisher expects it to replace Strunk and White as the seminal text on composition and literary theory by next February.

Bathroom Monologue: Decontextualization: A Novel

The main theme of my new novel is decontextualization, the theory that readers don’t need any context of the author, history or culture of a work of art to understand a good book. I’m not going to tell you the title because giving you the thought that there is a title is context, and God knows how much accidental suggestive context the title (if there is one) might give you. The book isn’t restrained by the normal conventions like “characters,” or having them “have relationships,” or following “a plot” and “doing things” – unless that’s what you read into it, because that’s all there is. In fact, I don’t want to give the suggestion that the book is a book at all. That is why all first-edition copies have been released as stainless steel spheres with no apparent mechanism to open them. After all, the traditional notion of opening a book from the right side is culturally biased. Similarly, I will not give the normal context of “pages,” having replaced them with aluminum ribbons upon which various words have been printed. There aren’t sentences, per se, but something more free form such that you can make of them what you will (and only at the request of my publisher have I elected to indent them). The language of these sentences is foreign to anything with which humans have come into contact, for if there is any overbearing context in literature it is a language readers have encountered before. You won’t need to know my politics, American history or the English language to get everything there is in this book. All you’ll need is an open mind and a pair of pliers.

Bathroom Monologue: A Clue

And in Human Rights news, the ACLU had a snafu this morning. It appears a fundamentalist anti-gay group was protesting the funerals of gay soldiers at Arlington National Cemetary, and the ACLU dispatched a standard lawyer to defend their right to free expression. However they also dispatched a lawyer to shut the protest down for religious expression on government property. The lawyers could barely converse over the chants of, “Thank God for 9/11,” and the somewhat suggestive 21-gun salute that was fired over their heads. Neither party has claimed responsibility, but both lawyers were released from the hospital this afternoon with abdominal contusions from “moderate to severe stomach punches.”

Bathroom Monologue: Some Song About Ninjas

There’s a man who leads a life of danger
To everyone he meets he stays a stranger
With every job he takes
Another leap he makes
Odds are he won’t live to see Naruto
Secret… ASIAN Man
Secret… ASIAN Man
They’ve given you nunchucks
And taken away your glaive

(I've since been warned that someone else beat me to this parody. If you're out there, I just have to ask - what's wrong with you?)

“Physicians may use [a] placebo for diagnosis or treatment only if the patient is informed of and agrees to its use.” –American Medical Association

This week the National Rifle Association put forth a stern warning that rifles may only be used to shoot deer all the bullets are removed from the gun and dumped on the ground in front of the deer. Further, the deer must sign a waiver consenting to be shot by the empty gun. Empirical tests are currently being run to chart the effectiveness of “placebullets.”

Bathroom Monologue: Dwarfs on Stilts

Society said the stilts counted as cheating, but dwarfs weren’t fooled. If lithe elfs could wear corsets that hiked their diminutive boobs up to their eternal chins, they could wear lifts. Even the humans wore shoes, and if the shoes had heels, who were they to question an eight-foot dwarf?

For weeks the giant wee folk wandered around stores and asked strangers of other species, “How’s the weather down there?”

“Don’t worry. Maybe you’ll hit a growth spurt at your midlife crisis!”

“Sure, this is nice, but you have your advantages. When you trip, you have less of a way to fall!”

“Need to me reach that for you?”

They said that last one a lot. Within the first week there was nothing left on the top shelf of anything in any store, even stores where dwarfs had no interest. One dwarfish nun was so taken with the idea of taking things off the top shelf that she cleared out the upper tier of an entire sex toy shop.

She did penance by only wearing high heels that weekend.

Bathroom Monologue: I said it, thought nothing of it, and six hours later, burst into laughter

"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"Interrupting cat."
"Interrupting cat wh--"
"MOOO!"
"Cats don't m-"
"MOOOOOO!"

Bathroom Monologue: “Love is such an old-fashioned word.”-Samari Smith’s away message

“Decapitation is such an old-fashioned word. I prefer cranial rearrangement, or body re-decorating. You may have seen my work on Flip This Corpse. This isn’t the dark ages. We aren’t tethered to old ethics or aesthetics. People these days know if they’re hip then they can’t just let their body parts grow wherever nature tells them to. You need legs on your shoulders and a neck coming out of your navel if you want to be on the cutting edge. And to get that looking? You need my cutting edge.”

Bathroom Monologue: Refried Griefers

There’s this one videogame habit called “griefing,” where players go to online games, partner up with strangers, and then purposefully play poorly, or play annoying sound effects through their microphones over and over again, or in some other way generally try to annoy the other players. Griefers are sometimes called the parasites of entertainment, leaching off normal players, but if they are parasites, then the Refried Griefer is the immune system.

Refried Griefers track the ISP numbers and find the identities of griefers, then steal their personal information like bank account info and social security numbers, empty all their savings and max out their credit cards.

On what do they spend this stolen money? One Oklahoma Refried Griefer spent a regular griefer’s life savings on a giant array of speakers to blast annoying sound effects into his apartment building.

A south Florida refried griefing unit used one griefer’s credit cards to pay for a fleet of street limos that were dispatched when the griefer went out driving, specifically ordered to drive in back, in front and at the sides of her car, and to do so slowly and erratically. It had something to do with the way she’d griefed on World of Warcraft. Something about “mounts.” I guess you’d have to play to get it.