Sunday, December 27, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Emperor Monologue
I was born into this position, Jangs. Heaven’s mandate is obvious. My flesh is that of a man, but my position is immense. It is the wall between order and atrocity. If the throne falls, the world will see anarchy, or lesser strongmen will rise in little tyrannies, or at best, the wealthy will rig up some illusion of populism. In all those cases, what is right will be lost to what is wanted. With the throne, I can mediate the warlords and the rich. They think me petty and selfish. I think them far more dangerous. To give up the throne would be to cede power from the only man I know I can trust. The only man who will always check the treasury, restrain the army and help those in disaster. To give up the throne would lead to more violence in a hundred years than the throne itself has caused in the last thousand. I have three wars at my borders, but without the throne? War upon war upon war within my borders. And in the end? No borders left. Perhaps the father who left me these three wars was corrupt, but he lies in state and I sit on the throne. I do not even know if I can trust you. How can I trust a world enough to walk away from this chance?
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Bathroom Monologues: My Muslim Bruthaz
[The restaurant is mostly empty. Green and red streamers are strewn about and Christmas lights are still up on the windows. SAMID sits on one side of the booth in a pink tuxedo and red Santa hat. ARYANA sits on the other side in a chainmail pantsuit and red Santa hat.]
Aryana: "Muzlims."
Samid: It’s actually moose-lahms.
Aryana: Moose-lambs?
Samid: Moose, like the animal. The second syllable is less important, but it’s kind of an ‘a’ sound, with a really soft hint of ‘h.’ Muslim. It was translated into language poorly. Muslims judge how familiar you are with their culture by how you pronounce it.
Aryana: …We spelled their name wrong?
Samid: Both syllables.
Aryana: No wonder we have bad relations with them.
Samid: And then there’s when it’s right to say Muslim or Islam…
Aryana: "Muzlims."
Samid: It’s actually moose-lahms.
Aryana: Moose-lambs?
Samid: Moose, like the animal. The second syllable is less important, but it’s kind of an ‘a’ sound, with a really soft hint of ‘h.’ Muslim. It was translated into language poorly. Muslims judge how familiar you are with their culture by how you pronounce it.
Aryana: …We spelled their name wrong?
Samid: Both syllables.
Aryana: No wonder we have bad relations with them.
Samid: And then there’s when it’s right to say Muslim or Islam…
Friday, December 25, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: A Necessary Getaway
Listen to John Wiswell's Necessary Getaway or download the MP3 here.
He moved north at the first opportunity. Way north. He cut all ties, even to his mother, which was the hardest on him. He was a mama's boy. His hair went white from all the stress, including his beard. He took that as a sign to change his appearance and began dressing in pants as soon as they were invented. He spent so long in sedentary hiding that he put on tremendous weight, face filling out, giving him rosy cheeks in the snowy environment. He stayed in doors as much as possible, but always came out around his birthday. It was too lonely, even with the elves that had found him and made camps all around his house. They fashioned him thick boots and gloves that comforted his scarred extremities so much he took up carpentry again, making little wooden toys. The gregarious wee folk did so much for his spirits that he reached out to a similar-sized people - children. He only went out on his birthday, but brought a sack of the toys with him for those boys and girls who had the right attitude. There were always more gifts to give, too, as the elves copied his work and began production for every good child. And associating with children turned out to actually help, for in his old life he had been an average-sized Jew, but to children he was a giant. So his new identity was a rosy-cheeked and plump man with gifts and white hair. Even though he only went south on his birthday, no one made the connection. He was safe. No one down there ever guessed that Santa Claus was an alias.
He moved north at the first opportunity. Way north. He cut all ties, even to his mother, which was the hardest on him. He was a mama's boy. His hair went white from all the stress, including his beard. He took that as a sign to change his appearance and began dressing in pants as soon as they were invented. He spent so long in sedentary hiding that he put on tremendous weight, face filling out, giving him rosy cheeks in the snowy environment. He stayed in doors as much as possible, but always came out around his birthday. It was too lonely, even with the elves that had found him and made camps all around his house. They fashioned him thick boots and gloves that comforted his scarred extremities so much he took up carpentry again, making little wooden toys. The gregarious wee folk did so much for his spirits that he reached out to a similar-sized people - children. He only went out on his birthday, but brought a sack of the toys with him for those boys and girls who had the right attitude. There were always more gifts to give, too, as the elves copied his work and began production for every good child. And associating with children turned out to actually help, for in his old life he had been an average-sized Jew, but to children he was a giant. So his new identity was a rosy-cheeked and plump man with gifts and white hair. Even though he only went south on his birthday, no one made the connection. He was safe. No one down there ever guessed that Santa Claus was an alias.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Ten Clues of Christmas
This idea was thought up in the bathroom even if I didn't write it there. The following appears on the inside of the card to my brother’s Christmas present. He loves to figure out what the present is without unwrapping it. While the clues are tailored to his tastes (he loved the book from which the first quotation comes, likes The Doors and is a stand-up comic), I think that the ten clues are so broad that a lot of people could play this guessing game. Without googling or otherwise cheating, I invite anyone to read the ten clues below and figure out what David Wiswell is getting for Christmas (or got for Christmas, depending when you’re reading).
Clue 1: Who wrote the following quote?
“The following decision I make with all the legal impact and support of a signed testament: I wish this memoir to be published only when _ _ _ _ _ _ is no longer alive.
Thus, neither of us is alive when the reader opens this book. But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska. Be true to your Dick.”
Clue 2: The omitted word in the quotation of Clue 1 is an infamous name.
Clue 3: This present was written by the author of Clue 1’s quote. This is what came next.
Clue 4: The title of this present is two words long.
Clue 5: The first word of the title could describe this piece of paper, or dawn, or someone who is very sick.
Clue 6: The first word of the title is the third word in one of stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan’s albums.
Clue 7: The second word of the title is the third word in the title of a song by The Doors.
Clue 8: The Doors song referred to in Clue 7 has the following lyric:
“You know that it would be untrue,
You know that I would be a _ _ _ _.”
Clue 9: The omitted word in the quotation of Clue 8 rhymes with the second word in the title of this present.
Clue 10: The first and second words in the title of the present have the same number of letters.
Clue 1: Who wrote the following quote?
“The following decision I make with all the legal impact and support of a signed testament: I wish this memoir to be published only when _ _ _ _ _ _ is no longer alive.
Thus, neither of us is alive when the reader opens this book. But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska. Be true to your Dick.”
Clue 2: The omitted word in the quotation of Clue 1 is an infamous name.
Clue 3: This present was written by the author of Clue 1’s quote. This is what came next.
Clue 4: The title of this present is two words long.
Clue 5: The first word of the title could describe this piece of paper, or dawn, or someone who is very sick.
Clue 6: The first word of the title is the third word in one of stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan’s albums.
Clue 7: The second word of the title is the third word in the title of a song by The Doors.
Clue 8: The Doors song referred to in Clue 7 has the following lyric:
“You know that it would be untrue,
You know that I would be a _ _ _ _.”
Clue 9: The omitted word in the quotation of Clue 8 rhymes with the second word in the title of this present.
Clue 10: The first and second words in the title of the present have the same number of letters.
Bathroom Monologue: Accident Proof
He was a truck driver because most accidents happened near home. He figured driving cross-country would make him impervious to car crashes. There were wrecks on the freeway, but maybe all those drivers had houses nearby. Like, under overpasses or something. Maybe they lived in their cars. That was a dangerous gamble to our trucker – living in your car meant spending your life near where you were likely to have an accident. He never slept in the cab, even when he was between apartments. He’d sleep on a park bench or in a rest stop stall, parking the truck eleven miles away. It was a long walk, but necessary. He couldn’t risk an accident.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: The Case of Rock V. Scissors
What if the rock isn't big enough to break the scissors? It's hard. Probably a piece of obsidian. The scissors can make a few little scratches, but they can't cut it. Then it's a stalemate. If he throws down scissors and you throw down rock, you shouldn't automatically win. The first person to say what kind of rock you threw should qualify the contest; Mr. Scissors could claim you threw down some talc with fine lines of cleavage, at which point you're doomed.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Norman's Inflatable Tacos
Every look. Every lick. Every desire. We see all of it! You know you want it, so just give in. Just give us your money and we'll let you have another taste. So big it can’t be legal. So big your arteries will want better glasses. But wait, they inflate! The beef keeps rising and the cheese won’t cool down. You don’t want it to stop! You can’t take your lips off this culinary disaster, the corn meal gash with a side of Mexican flavor.
Norman's Inflatable Tacos.
You can't hide it! You can't deny it! Buy three today, or we’re coming to your house!
Norman's Inflatable Tacos.
You can't hide it! You can't deny it! Buy three today, or we’re coming to your house!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Bathroom Monologues: The Winning Goddess
The same woman won every year. She was a goddess, which would be an unfair advantage in a district with a lower average income. Not on Park Street, though. Here she was simply more imaginative. Being a harvest goddess, her wreath grew out of the door, alive and natural. Verdant bushes sprang up with the first snow, bearing bright red fruits to give her lawn that Christmas color decor. Her snowmen farmed their own raisins and carrots, and were such snappy dressers that they got her top points every year. Clouds of fireflies descended on her roof and windows, their glowing hinds blinking in perfect synchronicity, giving her energy-efficient Christmas lights. On Sundays, they spelled out the scores of the biggest games. Nobody could compete with her manger, either. With a snap of her fingers she had every necessary animal walking out of the bushes and taking its place. Where she got a newborn every year was up to speculation. How it survived out the cold for a week as various judges came by? Now that was a miracle.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Worst of Men
You say you would count me amongst the best of men and I tell you I would not. I am far from the most handsome or the smartest. Not the quickest thinking, not the wisest, and I certainly do not know the most about anything. I am of mediocre height and far from the best weight, putting me at distinctly sub-best build. If there is a best of men, then I am amongst the worst looking in a bathing suit, and must rank somewhere in the bottom ten of aptitudes for tanning. When everyone is heading in the same direction on the same sidewalk, I fall behind. I cannot lift the most weight and despite considerable exposure to pain, I am not the best at handling it. I am praised as a good listener yet spend the bulk of my time thinking about other things I’d rather be doing than listen to her cry about her boyfriend. I am a terrible boyfriend. I get bored, sex takes too long and the emotional games played at dinner should not be more complicated than chess. I am not the best at chess. I cannot think of a single thing at which I excel other than seeing that I am a pretty sub-best person.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Tug on that Cape
The best part of being a superhero happened Saturday morning. He wished he didn’t feel that way, but it was true.
On Tuesday he caught a train as it was derailing. A couple of people broke their arms. There were no fatalities. He signed more autographs for the stranded commuters than there were bruises.
On Wednesday he airlifted an iceberg to the southern Sahara. The governments assured him this would help irrigation, or at least give the locals clean drinking water for a few weeks.
He spent Thursday and Friday traveling through space to correct the trajectory of two satellites headed out of the solar system. It would have been lifetimes to build and send new ones, but now all that work was saved and new photos were beamed to earth, showing the cosmos from an angle never before seen. He took a minute to look from that angle himself, in person, before heading back to earth.
The best part was Saturday morning and he couldn’t help himself. He woke up and his costume was missing from the clothesline. His wife was still asleep, facedown on her pillow and snoring happily.
He padded to the living room and found his cape stretched over two chairbacks, forming a tent. His one son wore the pants of his costume like giant sleeves, and his one daughter wore the shirt like a flowing dress that ran over her little feet. She was drooling on his insignia. They were both transfixed with morning cartoons.
Maybe, if he were more profound, some other time of the week would have been the best. He wasn’t, though.
On Tuesday he caught a train as it was derailing. A couple of people broke their arms. There were no fatalities. He signed more autographs for the stranded commuters than there were bruises.
On Wednesday he airlifted an iceberg to the southern Sahara. The governments assured him this would help irrigation, or at least give the locals clean drinking water for a few weeks.
He spent Thursday and Friday traveling through space to correct the trajectory of two satellites headed out of the solar system. It would have been lifetimes to build and send new ones, but now all that work was saved and new photos were beamed to earth, showing the cosmos from an angle never before seen. He took a minute to look from that angle himself, in person, before heading back to earth.
The best part was Saturday morning and he couldn’t help himself. He woke up and his costume was missing from the clothesline. His wife was still asleep, facedown on her pillow and snoring happily.
He padded to the living room and found his cape stretched over two chairbacks, forming a tent. His one son wore the pants of his costume like giant sleeves, and his one daughter wore the shirt like a flowing dress that ran over her little feet. She was drooling on his insignia. They were both transfixed with morning cartoons.
Maybe, if he were more profound, some other time of the week would have been the best. He wasn’t, though.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: The Head-Organ’s Import
Listen to John Wiswell's The Head-Organ's Import or download the MP3 here.
Phillipus snorted deeply and spat yellow filth into the urn. His henchmen grimaced. The master had been doing this a lot lately.
“Sir,” broached the left henchman. “We’ve been meaning to ask you about that urn.”
“Had it banged out by a bronze smith a month ago. Used scrap metal from a fallen soldier’s helmet.”
The henchmen continued grimacing. Phillipus cleared his throat.
“A fallen Trojan soldier. Not ours.”
He swished his tongue about his mouth. Clearing his throat like that had loosened more phlegm, so he spat it into the urn. The right henchman looked inside. It was a third of the way full with crusty head-filth.
“Sir,” the left henchman tried broaching again. “We’ve been meaning to ask you about what you’re doing with the urn.”
“You mean collecting my head bile?” Phillipus beamed. “It’s going to make me invincible.”
The right henchman backed away from the urn. “How would it accomplish that? It does not seem that vicacious a fluid.”
Phillipus stepped up onto the chariot, looking down at his two faithful servants. He prodded the right one in the bicep.
“If I spear you there, you’ll be hurt, but you’ll likely survive the battle. And if I spear you there,” he toed at the left henchman’s thigh, “then you might be crippled, but you’ll likely live a while longer. Yes?”
His henchmen nodded, as it was a big part of what they were paid to do.
“Well if I take my spear,” Phillipus gestured to the lances lashed to one side of the chariot, then jabbed with an imaginary skewer into his left man’s left eye, “and I jab you in the head, you fall down dead every time. Short of Apollo holding you up himself, you die. Yes?”
His henchmen nodded.
“There’s only one organ in the head. It’s a mucus-secreting thing the philosophers discovered. It’s all that takes up the skull, as opposed to the dozens of things in the belly.” He gestured around his armored abdomen. “All those organs and its peril barely equals that of being speared in the one head-organ.”
The right henchmen offered, “If you’re worried about your head, sir, we can have a new helmet fashioned. But I must say, your current one has a terrifying plumage.”
“No matter how sturdy, it can still fall off.” Phillipus kicked the urn. “I made this from the helmet of a fallen Trojan. The helmet fell first. Stabbing him in the ear made me realize the value of the mucus-secreting organ. It’s the big vital thing. If all it does is secrete this stuff, then this urn is full of the secret of life. This must be the juice that animates man. It puts blood to shame.”
The left henchman rubbed his hands together, working this over. “Are you going to make a helmet from your head-organ’s cream?”
Phillipus waved the henchman off like a fly. There had been many flies lately.
“It’s too brittle once it dries. If this material is metal, it’s a weak kind. No, I’m going to eat it. Consume what vital juices the head-organ dispenses until I am full of its vitality. Then I won’t even need armor anymore. I will be made invincible by my own mortal ambrosia, the product of my own mind.”
The master beamed again, showing all his yellowed teeth. He remained in a heroic pose for an awkward few minutes, allowing his henchmen to bask in his brilliance. He only broke from it to cough into the urn some more, then inquired about recipes for soup.
Brave Phillipus supped long and survived the next day’s battle. Sadly, it was not by invulnerability in combat with Troy. He survived because he spent the day in bed with a sickness in one of his abdominal organs.
Phillipus snorted deeply and spat yellow filth into the urn. His henchmen grimaced. The master had been doing this a lot lately.
“Sir,” broached the left henchman. “We’ve been meaning to ask you about that urn.”
“Had it banged out by a bronze smith a month ago. Used scrap metal from a fallen soldier’s helmet.”
The henchmen continued grimacing. Phillipus cleared his throat.
“A fallen Trojan soldier. Not ours.”
He swished his tongue about his mouth. Clearing his throat like that had loosened more phlegm, so he spat it into the urn. The right henchman looked inside. It was a third of the way full with crusty head-filth.
“Sir,” the left henchman tried broaching again. “We’ve been meaning to ask you about what you’re doing with the urn.”
“You mean collecting my head bile?” Phillipus beamed. “It’s going to make me invincible.”
The right henchman backed away from the urn. “How would it accomplish that? It does not seem that vicacious a fluid.”
Phillipus stepped up onto the chariot, looking down at his two faithful servants. He prodded the right one in the bicep.
“If I spear you there, you’ll be hurt, but you’ll likely survive the battle. And if I spear you there,” he toed at the left henchman’s thigh, “then you might be crippled, but you’ll likely live a while longer. Yes?”
His henchmen nodded, as it was a big part of what they were paid to do.
“Well if I take my spear,” Phillipus gestured to the lances lashed to one side of the chariot, then jabbed with an imaginary skewer into his left man’s left eye, “and I jab you in the head, you fall down dead every time. Short of Apollo holding you up himself, you die. Yes?”
His henchmen nodded.
“There’s only one organ in the head. It’s a mucus-secreting thing the philosophers discovered. It’s all that takes up the skull, as opposed to the dozens of things in the belly.” He gestured around his armored abdomen. “All those organs and its peril barely equals that of being speared in the one head-organ.”
The right henchmen offered, “If you’re worried about your head, sir, we can have a new helmet fashioned. But I must say, your current one has a terrifying plumage.”
“No matter how sturdy, it can still fall off.” Phillipus kicked the urn. “I made this from the helmet of a fallen Trojan. The helmet fell first. Stabbing him in the ear made me realize the value of the mucus-secreting organ. It’s the big vital thing. If all it does is secrete this stuff, then this urn is full of the secret of life. This must be the juice that animates man. It puts blood to shame.”
The left henchman rubbed his hands together, working this over. “Are you going to make a helmet from your head-organ’s cream?”
Phillipus waved the henchman off like a fly. There had been many flies lately.
“It’s too brittle once it dries. If this material is metal, it’s a weak kind. No, I’m going to eat it. Consume what vital juices the head-organ dispenses until I am full of its vitality. Then I won’t even need armor anymore. I will be made invincible by my own mortal ambrosia, the product of my own mind.”
The master beamed again, showing all his yellowed teeth. He remained in a heroic pose for an awkward few minutes, allowing his henchmen to bask in his brilliance. He only broke from it to cough into the urn some more, then inquired about recipes for soup.
Brave Phillipus supped long and survived the next day’s battle. Sadly, it was not by invulnerability in combat with Troy. He survived because he spent the day in bed with a sickness in one of his abdominal organs.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Ma Newer's Television Set ®
Ma Newer's Television Set ® is an entertainment experience like no other. You can plug it into standard definition, high definition, BluRay or your computer, but you cannot plug it into the wall. Ma Newer’s is the world's first totally Green television, all power for the set is generated in the three wheels, placed stylishly about the screen. These are similar in design to the exercise wheels placed in mouse cages, but no mere rodents could power this home theatre experience. Instead each wheel comes with a three-year-old child. Any mother can attest that a three-year-old on a little sugar runs like no other power source on earth. The children come pre-installed, pre-gagged and pre-bound to their wheels. You never have to worry about them. A small charge is reserved at the core of the set, such that if any of the wheels slows even a little, a shock travels through the ProdSystem ™ and into the nape of the neck of the lazy brat. Years of patent-protected testing methods have verified the Ma Newer's power source to be 99.9% percent effective, making her power source so reliable and entertaining, you may not even watch the TV.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Ways to create a haunted car
-If a zombie bit Kit from Knight Rider.
-Drive the car off a cliff midway through a cross-country road trip. Then go rent another car and drive it the rest of the way. Unfinished business and betrayal usually creates ghosts.
-Play DVD’s of Christine, The Ring, The Grudge, The Eye and other stuff on the on-board TV. Maybe it’ll get the idea from them. If it doesn’t turn into a ghost car immediately following the receipt of all those digital ghost movies, betray the GPS in some horrible way and leave it for dead, preferably at the bottom of a well.
-An infection-style zombie dies and bleeds in a gas station, its blood dripping through the grates and into the gas reserve. You then make the terrible mistake of gassing up with unleaded.
-After a racecar wrecks so badly that only the engine is left functional, take that engine and stick it in a brand new car.
-Take your mom’s bed sheets and drape them over the car. Cut two eyeholes for the windshield wipers.
-Drive the car off a cliff midway through a cross-country road trip. Then go rent another car and drive it the rest of the way. Unfinished business and betrayal usually creates ghosts.
-Play DVD’s of Christine, The Ring, The Grudge, The Eye and other stuff on the on-board TV. Maybe it’ll get the idea from them. If it doesn’t turn into a ghost car immediately following the receipt of all those digital ghost movies, betray the GPS in some horrible way and leave it for dead, preferably at the bottom of a well.
-An infection-style zombie dies and bleeds in a gas station, its blood dripping through the grates and into the gas reserve. You then make the terrible mistake of gassing up with unleaded.
-After a racecar wrecks so badly that only the engine is left functional, take that engine and stick it in a brand new car.
-Take your mom’s bed sheets and drape them over the car. Cut two eyeholes for the windshield wipers.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Mental Pun
“You can’t even pick what’s for dinner?” Cheryl shrieked. “Steak or chicken? Pick!”
She pointed to the steak and chicken, both frozen, both thawing on the counter.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s it!”
She shoved both plates aside and pulled jars from under the counter. From them she drew fistfuls of synapses and neurons, throwing them in his face. He tried to catch some in his hands, but raising his hands only Cheryl angrier. She jumped an entire jar of dendrites over his head.
Breathing raggedly, she yelled, “Make up your mind!”
Cheryl stormed out. He looked down at the armload of brain bits in his arms and thought she was being unusually abstract today.
She pointed to the steak and chicken, both frozen, both thawing on the counter.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s it!”
She shoved both plates aside and pulled jars from under the counter. From them she drew fistfuls of synapses and neurons, throwing them in his face. He tried to catch some in his hands, but raising his hands only Cheryl angrier. She jumped an entire jar of dendrites over his head.
Breathing raggedly, she yelled, “Make up your mind!”
Cheryl stormed out. He looked down at the armload of brain bits in his arms and thought she was being unusually abstract today.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: What would you do if a man advanced on you with a sword?
What would you do if a man advanced on you with a sword? A rapier with a bronze basket hilt. The man is a little scruffy and is wearing an embossed doubler, but what he looks like doesn’t really matter. The sword does. It will get to you four feet sooner than he will.
It’s a narrow hallway. One door far behind you, and one door to your right. Both are closed.
Do you try to dart through the nearer door?
What if it’s locked? You’ll look like quite the fool.
But if you fall back, you will only prolong the chase. He can run as quickly as you, so the rapier will meet you in the same time anyway. And what if you make it through the door at the end of the hall? You’re on the fifth floor. He’ll chase you about the room for a moment and cut you down, or you can jump to your death and your mother will have to clean you off the pavement. At least if you perish here the janitor will have to deal with your remains.
I guess you could charge him. The rapier is up, pointed at your chest. If you avoid the tip, he won’t have room to swing and we’ll be inside punching range. Perhaps you can tackle him through the door that’s behind him. That door wasn’t even an option before.
He’s taller than you, but you’re broader. You’re more massive. Your tackle should mean more. It’s a cliché to jump the armed man, but wouldn’t it be better to live a cliché than to be cleaned up by your mother?
It’s a narrow hallway. One door far behind you, and one door to your right. Both are closed.
Do you try to dart through the nearer door?
What if it’s locked? You’ll look like quite the fool.
But if you fall back, you will only prolong the chase. He can run as quickly as you, so the rapier will meet you in the same time anyway. And what if you make it through the door at the end of the hall? You’re on the fifth floor. He’ll chase you about the room for a moment and cut you down, or you can jump to your death and your mother will have to clean you off the pavement. At least if you perish here the janitor will have to deal with your remains.
I guess you could charge him. The rapier is up, pointed at your chest. If you avoid the tip, he won’t have room to swing and we’ll be inside punching range. Perhaps you can tackle him through the door that’s behind him. That door wasn’t even an option before.
He’s taller than you, but you’re broader. You’re more massive. Your tackle should mean more. It’s a cliché to jump the armed man, but wouldn’t it be better to live a cliché than to be cleaned up by your mother?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
BOBS, or, ____
BOBS, or, “But when we look around us at the state of literacy – and in particular at all those signs for “BOBS’ MOTORS”….” –Lynn Truss, “Eats, Shoots & Leaves”
But Carmen couldn’t wait, not with that sign in the window. Her mother was an English teacher, damn it. She told Samuel that she’d pay and stormed into the gas station. She saw the clerk and was fixing him with her stare before she was even at the counter.
“I want to speak to the owner,” she said.
“I’m one of them,” he said, taking off his hat. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re Bob, then?” she said, glancing at the “BOBS’ MOTORS” sign in the window.
He nodded and shrugged at the same time.
“Like I said, I’m one of them.”
“One of them?” She gawked. “How illiterate are you?”
Another man came in from the back, this one taller, his overalls stained with oil.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Bob answered. “I think the lady wants to speak to us about literacy.”
The other man rubbed his hands on his overalls and looked at Carmen.
“There’s a rack of paperbacks by the door if that’s what you’re after.”
“No,” Carmen said, almost stamping her foot. “The sign on your store is incorrectly punctuated. If the store belongs to Bob,” she pointed at the man behind the counter, “then the apostrophe goes before the ‘s,’ not after.”
“Well, yeah,” said the guy in overalls. “But it doesn’t. It belongs all of us Bobs.”
Carmen took a moment on this.
“You’re Bob?”
“Yeah. Bob McClane.” He gestured to the Bob behind the counter. “That’s Bobby Green. His dad’s Bobby Green Sr. I’ve got a cousin, Bob Jaffey. All four of us have a stake in the place.”
“In Bobs’ Motors?” she asked, regretting having not let her husband come in to pay.
“Yeah,” said both Bobs.
She looked down into her purse.
“Twenty dollars of unleaded, please.”
But Carmen couldn’t wait, not with that sign in the window. Her mother was an English teacher, damn it. She told Samuel that she’d pay and stormed into the gas station. She saw the clerk and was fixing him with her stare before she was even at the counter.
“I want to speak to the owner,” she said.
“I’m one of them,” he said, taking off his hat. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re Bob, then?” she said, glancing at the “BOBS’ MOTORS” sign in the window.
He nodded and shrugged at the same time.
“Like I said, I’m one of them.”
“One of them?” She gawked. “How illiterate are you?”
Another man came in from the back, this one taller, his overalls stained with oil.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Bob answered. “I think the lady wants to speak to us about literacy.”
The other man rubbed his hands on his overalls and looked at Carmen.
“There’s a rack of paperbacks by the door if that’s what you’re after.”
“No,” Carmen said, almost stamping her foot. “The sign on your store is incorrectly punctuated. If the store belongs to Bob,” she pointed at the man behind the counter, “then the apostrophe goes before the ‘s,’ not after.”
“Well, yeah,” said the guy in overalls. “But it doesn’t. It belongs all of us Bobs.”
Carmen took a moment on this.
“You’re Bob?”
“Yeah. Bob McClane.” He gestured to the Bob behind the counter. “That’s Bobby Green. His dad’s Bobby Green Sr. I’ve got a cousin, Bob Jaffey. All four of us have a stake in the place.”
“In Bobs’ Motors?” she asked, regretting having not let her husband come in to pay.
“Yeah,” said both Bobs.
She looked down into her purse.
“Twenty dollars of unleaded, please.”
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: How do you pronounce “Tatopolus?”
“Hello, Mr. Tatopolus?”
“It’s pronounced ‘Ta-ta-pa-loose,’ but this is him. What can I do for you?”
“This is Sherry from Carp Publishers. I’m Mizzy’s secretary. This is concerning the photograph you sent up for the dust jacket.”
“I thought they got my good side.”
“To be sure: you sent a photo of you with a cat on your lap?”
“Yeah, that’s my mother’s. I take care of it on the weekends. Beautiful tabby, isn’t she?”
“Are you aware that this has been photoshopped?”
“How so?”
“There’s a large cartoon word bubble over your head that makes you say, “I hate cats.””
“That sounds like me. I hate cats.”
“And you’re stroking one in the photo.”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“You don’t see something odd there?”
“Not really. I hate cats.”
“You realize your book is about pet owners, Mr. Tatapolous?”
“Uh-huh. I did a bang-up job, too.”
“We can’t cut the word bubble out because it’s in the middle of your photo. Mizzy was wondering if you could send another.”
“What would you like the caption to be?”
“If it could just be you, that would be great.”
“Okay. I’ll surprise you. Thanks for the call, Sherry!”
“Hold on—”
But he’d already hung up.
“It’s pronounced ‘Ta-ta-pa-loose,’ but this is him. What can I do for you?”
“This is Sherry from Carp Publishers. I’m Mizzy’s secretary. This is concerning the photograph you sent up for the dust jacket.”
“I thought they got my good side.”
“To be sure: you sent a photo of you with a cat on your lap?”
“Yeah, that’s my mother’s. I take care of it on the weekends. Beautiful tabby, isn’t she?”
“Are you aware that this has been photoshopped?”
“How so?”
“There’s a large cartoon word bubble over your head that makes you say, “I hate cats.””
“That sounds like me. I hate cats.”
“And you’re stroking one in the photo.”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“You don’t see something odd there?”
“Not really. I hate cats.”
“You realize your book is about pet owners, Mr. Tatapolous?”
“Uh-huh. I did a bang-up job, too.”
“We can’t cut the word bubble out because it’s in the middle of your photo. Mizzy was wondering if you could send another.”
“What would you like the caption to be?”
“If it could just be you, that would be great.”
“Okay. I’ll surprise you. Thanks for the call, Sherry!”
“Hold on—”
But he’d already hung up.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Soda Castle
Listen to the audio edition or download the MP3 of John Wiswell's Soda Castle here.
It began as two cans. Well, it had to begin with one, but who remembers when they put down that first soda can? Derek reached over after finishing his third Green Tea Ginger Ale that week, intending to put it down next to the keyboard. There were already two there, side by side. So you see? He didn’t, and wanting to get back to his term paper, he put it on top of the left can.
That’s how it began.
He was out of bags, and so didn’t bother collecting for recycling that week. He was on a deadline and had never written a twenty-page paper before, and so paid attention to little else. The uncaffeinated soda was a comfort as he plowed through Kant and Hegel. Plus it was on sale. So there was a fourth can Tuesday afternoon.
A fifth followed him home from lunch the next day.
A sixth and seventh as he worked after evening classes, tooling the bibliography. God, did he hate MLA format.
All these cans wound up on his desk, like his unconscious was hiding them just left of his keyboard, just out of sight. He didn’t even check how many there were until there were clearly too many. Hadn’t there only been two when he’d looked over there a few days ago? Now there was a castle of soda cans. They ran the length of his computer tower, blocking out the left speaker. One can, then two stacked up, then one, then two, like battlements. They were nice cans, too, brass-colored tops with light green sides, giving the battlements the color of a fantasy palace. The wall of cans grew taller near the front of the computer, reaching to four cans in height, blocking out the power button. He hadn’t had any cause to turn it off lately, what with the paper. It was still weird that he'd unconsciously built up the wall that way.
Derek examined his castle for far too long. His alarm clock went off eventually, letting him know it had been another all-nighter. Mostly work, with a diversion for soda castles.
Shortly after sitting back down the sun rose through his window, right behind the monitor. Behind the wall of cans. The glare hurt his eyes, so he finished the next soda and placed it atop a battlement. It was just the right height to block out the sun. It was his very own recyclable tower of Babel.
“In your face, day star,” he muttered. Then he returned to Hume’s theories on causation, written thickly enough that Derek didn’t quite get it, yet he felt it strongly disapproved of the sort of man who would insult the sun from behind soda cans.
He showered. He did laundry. He went to class. He researched the stupid final paper. He did everything a good student should, except tear that wall down. Soda residue left sticky circles on his desk, cementing the bottom cans in place. Higher cans also adhered to each other, such that when somebody slammed a door in the hall, they lurched but did not topple.
The castle kept growing, making a one-can-tall row underneath his monitor before expanding to the virgin territory of the right side of his desk. Aluminum civilization exploded to three-can heights in this region within days of the settlers' arrival. Soon there was no room and he had to keep his library books on the floor. A little unnecessarily rational voice in his head thanked God his girlfriend was a Social Psychology major and was too busy with off-campus research to stop by and see this.
On date night he took her out for Chinese. He had green tea with his low mein. It was not the same, and he wound up drinking water instead.
When he reached a difficult part in the paper, he chewed the bumps under his lower lip and looked at the cans. He didn’t even read them, and would be surprised if someone pointed out how many fonts were used between the back and front labels. They’d ceased to be cans a long time ago.
He got silly with them. When Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason became completely impenetrable to him, he tried resting his new spare cans at angles. The towers were so tall that he could begin to build an arch over the top of his flatscreen monitor. He rested the first two at slight slants, one on the right tower, one on the left. It took a minute to balance them, but they stayed in place.
That success tempted him too much. He drank four more cans in that sitting, even though he wasn’t thirsty and was getting a little sick of the sweet stuff. He'd drink some water before sun-up, he promised.
Derek pushed the four new cans into an arch shape that would fill the gap and form a bridge over the monitor. He couldn’t just lay one at a time, but if the gap was filled all at once, architecture and physics should have allowed the whole thing to support itself. The medieval people did this all the time.
Perhaps they did, but not with soda cans, and not at 1:00 AM. His arch of cans collapsed, taking with them two dozen of their intricately placed brethren. One not entirely empty can sloshed over his keyboard and splashed the monitor. Stale, sticky soda trickled down a screen he could not afford to replace, dripping onto old assigned reading packets that had until now been hidden under his great wall.
Derek couldn’t reach out to stop it, nor sit down and gawk. He could only stand and witness it, for a minute.
He looked out the window, half-expecting the sun to rise and taunt him. It had been a couple of weeks since he'd really seen the sun.
A minute later he went to the bathroom for paper towels. He turned his keyboard upside down to dry out while he mopped up the desk and wiped the monitor. He stacked the cans on the floor, but paid no attention to the order they were stacked in.
Then he drank some water and tried to tie up his paper as quickly as possible.
He turned it in the next day. It was bad, but it was done, and he cited a lot, which would ensure a passing grade. After dropping off the paper, he took four bags full of cans to the local grocery store. He recycled all of them, pocketing the state deposit. It was almost ten dollars. Ten dollars he would not spend until he was home on Christmas break, when he would begin building anew.
It began as two cans. Well, it had to begin with one, but who remembers when they put down that first soda can? Derek reached over after finishing his third Green Tea Ginger Ale that week, intending to put it down next to the keyboard. There were already two there, side by side. So you see? He didn’t, and wanting to get back to his term paper, he put it on top of the left can.
That’s how it began.
He was out of bags, and so didn’t bother collecting for recycling that week. He was on a deadline and had never written a twenty-page paper before, and so paid attention to little else. The uncaffeinated soda was a comfort as he plowed through Kant and Hegel. Plus it was on sale. So there was a fourth can Tuesday afternoon.
A fifth followed him home from lunch the next day.
A sixth and seventh as he worked after evening classes, tooling the bibliography. God, did he hate MLA format.
All these cans wound up on his desk, like his unconscious was hiding them just left of his keyboard, just out of sight. He didn’t even check how many there were until there were clearly too many. Hadn’t there only been two when he’d looked over there a few days ago? Now there was a castle of soda cans. They ran the length of his computer tower, blocking out the left speaker. One can, then two stacked up, then one, then two, like battlements. They were nice cans, too, brass-colored tops with light green sides, giving the battlements the color of a fantasy palace. The wall of cans grew taller near the front of the computer, reaching to four cans in height, blocking out the power button. He hadn’t had any cause to turn it off lately, what with the paper. It was still weird that he'd unconsciously built up the wall that way.
Derek examined his castle for far too long. His alarm clock went off eventually, letting him know it had been another all-nighter. Mostly work, with a diversion for soda castles.
Shortly after sitting back down the sun rose through his window, right behind the monitor. Behind the wall of cans. The glare hurt his eyes, so he finished the next soda and placed it atop a battlement. It was just the right height to block out the sun. It was his very own recyclable tower of Babel.
“In your face, day star,” he muttered. Then he returned to Hume’s theories on causation, written thickly enough that Derek didn’t quite get it, yet he felt it strongly disapproved of the sort of man who would insult the sun from behind soda cans.
He showered. He did laundry. He went to class. He researched the stupid final paper. He did everything a good student should, except tear that wall down. Soda residue left sticky circles on his desk, cementing the bottom cans in place. Higher cans also adhered to each other, such that when somebody slammed a door in the hall, they lurched but did not topple.
The castle kept growing, making a one-can-tall row underneath his monitor before expanding to the virgin territory of the right side of his desk. Aluminum civilization exploded to three-can heights in this region within days of the settlers' arrival. Soon there was no room and he had to keep his library books on the floor. A little unnecessarily rational voice in his head thanked God his girlfriend was a Social Psychology major and was too busy with off-campus research to stop by and see this.
On date night he took her out for Chinese. He had green tea with his low mein. It was not the same, and he wound up drinking water instead.
When he reached a difficult part in the paper, he chewed the bumps under his lower lip and looked at the cans. He didn’t even read them, and would be surprised if someone pointed out how many fonts were used between the back and front labels. They’d ceased to be cans a long time ago.
He got silly with them. When Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason became completely impenetrable to him, he tried resting his new spare cans at angles. The towers were so tall that he could begin to build an arch over the top of his flatscreen monitor. He rested the first two at slight slants, one on the right tower, one on the left. It took a minute to balance them, but they stayed in place.
That success tempted him too much. He drank four more cans in that sitting, even though he wasn’t thirsty and was getting a little sick of the sweet stuff. He'd drink some water before sun-up, he promised.
Derek pushed the four new cans into an arch shape that would fill the gap and form a bridge over the monitor. He couldn’t just lay one at a time, but if the gap was filled all at once, architecture and physics should have allowed the whole thing to support itself. The medieval people did this all the time.
Perhaps they did, but not with soda cans, and not at 1:00 AM. His arch of cans collapsed, taking with them two dozen of their intricately placed brethren. One not entirely empty can sloshed over his keyboard and splashed the monitor. Stale, sticky soda trickled down a screen he could not afford to replace, dripping onto old assigned reading packets that had until now been hidden under his great wall.
Derek couldn’t reach out to stop it, nor sit down and gawk. He could only stand and witness it, for a minute.
He looked out the window, half-expecting the sun to rise and taunt him. It had been a couple of weeks since he'd really seen the sun.
A minute later he went to the bathroom for paper towels. He turned his keyboard upside down to dry out while he mopped up the desk and wiped the monitor. He stacked the cans on the floor, but paid no attention to the order they were stacked in.
Then he drank some water and tried to tie up his paper as quickly as possible.
He turned it in the next day. It was bad, but it was done, and he cited a lot, which would ensure a passing grade. After dropping off the paper, he took four bags full of cans to the local grocery store. He recycled all of them, pocketing the state deposit. It was almost ten dollars. Ten dollars he would not spend until he was home on Christmas break, when he would begin building anew.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Steak the Vampires
“Here’s the deal,” Coach said as he heaped even more steak on Tim’s plate. It was pink, barely rare. The blood congealed with the juice of the spinach and lentils on the other side of the plate.
Tim looked at Josh. Josh just shrugged, took his plate and reached for the pepper grinder.
“You know how you’ve been saying the new janitor acts weird? How Susan and some other girls seem all drained and you thought it was vampires, and I told you to quit that shit?”
“Yeah,” Tim replied. He really didn’t want to get yelled at about that again, and couldn’t figure out what this had to do with a steak dinner.
“You know all that stuff about vampires? Bite you on the neck? Turn into bats? Crazy made-up shit?
“Yeah.”
“Well they’re real. They’re real and they’ll be coming tonight.” Coach rubbed his greasy hands together, then slopped the remainder of the steak onto his own plate. He cut it up as he spoke. “They’re coming in mass and they’re coming for you. Every kid on the team is going to be screwed. You’re the healthiest blood bags walking the streets.”
He gestured at Tim’s plate with the carving knife.
“Eat. You got to. It’s the plan I’ve got.”
Tim had a dozen objections, and none cared to voice themselves when his gym teacher was pointing a carving knife at him. He took a bite of his steak and grimaced.
“We’re going to steak them.”
“Stake them?” Josh asked from around a mouthful of meat. He didn’t seem to care. His parents never let him eat like this.
“Steak. E-A-K,” Coach enunciated slowly. “Vampires are magic, right? Well magic is weak as shit against iron. You read any old book and you see: iron stops witches’ spells and cages demons. So when they come, if they get you, they’re going to get a mouthful of iron-rich blood. Beef’s full of iron. So are those veggies. Shame I couldn’t get you some liver, but regardless, you’ll knock them right on their asses.”
Coach shrugged and contorted his face apologetically, then shoveled steak into his mouth.
Tim licked his lips, looking at Coach. He wondered if, in case vampires were actually coming, a History or Chemistry teacher would have come up with the same plan.
Josh handed him the pepper grinder.
Tim looked at Josh. Josh just shrugged, took his plate and reached for the pepper grinder.
“You know how you’ve been saying the new janitor acts weird? How Susan and some other girls seem all drained and you thought it was vampires, and I told you to quit that shit?”
“Yeah,” Tim replied. He really didn’t want to get yelled at about that again, and couldn’t figure out what this had to do with a steak dinner.
“You know all that stuff about vampires? Bite you on the neck? Turn into bats? Crazy made-up shit?
“Yeah.”
“Well they’re real. They’re real and they’ll be coming tonight.” Coach rubbed his greasy hands together, then slopped the remainder of the steak onto his own plate. He cut it up as he spoke. “They’re coming in mass and they’re coming for you. Every kid on the team is going to be screwed. You’re the healthiest blood bags walking the streets.”
He gestured at Tim’s plate with the carving knife.
“Eat. You got to. It’s the plan I’ve got.”
Tim had a dozen objections, and none cared to voice themselves when his gym teacher was pointing a carving knife at him. He took a bite of his steak and grimaced.
“We’re going to steak them.”
“Stake them?” Josh asked from around a mouthful of meat. He didn’t seem to care. His parents never let him eat like this.
“Steak. E-A-K,” Coach enunciated slowly. “Vampires are magic, right? Well magic is weak as shit against iron. You read any old book and you see: iron stops witches’ spells and cages demons. So when they come, if they get you, they’re going to get a mouthful of iron-rich blood. Beef’s full of iron. So are those veggies. Shame I couldn’t get you some liver, but regardless, you’ll knock them right on their asses.”
Coach shrugged and contorted his face apologetically, then shoveled steak into his mouth.
Tim licked his lips, looking at Coach. He wondered if, in case vampires were actually coming, a History or Chemistry teacher would have come up with the same plan.
Josh handed him the pepper grinder.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: New Twitter Committee Law
Due to Twitter going over capacity so frequently, the Twitter Committee is implementing an "adult swim"-style posting policy for the following hours. For the listed hours only specified topics may be tweeted about. Thank you for your 140-character compliance.
11:00-Lunchbreak - Post funny things you found on the internet this morning
1:00-1:59 PM - Conservatives complaining about people who disagree with them
2:00-2:59 PM - Liberals complaining about people who disagree with them
3:00-3:15 PM – People of other political parties complaining about those who disagree with them
3:30-3:40 PM - Chatter about whatever thing Google invented/patented/bought/ruined today
4:00-4:59 (Friday Only) - Buzz about the movie you can't wait to see tonight, AKA "The New Moon Hour"
5:30-6:30 PM - Complain about your day (misc. topics)
6:31-6:59 PM - Apologize for and/or delete tweets once you realize your boss/lover/grandmom could have read them
8:01-9:05 PM - Chatter about whatever is on television where you are
8:01-9:05 AM - Chatter about whatever is on television on the other side of the world; always confusing to you, but we have to be fair
All other topics are free to be discussed at any non-claimed times. This excludes any and all conversations that could be described by the hashtag #whentwitterwasdown. Any discussions that could have such a label are permanently forbidden under the penalty of having your spacebar taken away.
11:00-Lunchbreak - Post funny things you found on the internet this morning
1:00-1:59 PM - Conservatives complaining about people who disagree with them
2:00-2:59 PM - Liberals complaining about people who disagree with them
3:00-3:15 PM – People of other political parties complaining about those who disagree with them
3:30-3:40 PM - Chatter about whatever thing Google invented/patented/bought/ruined today
4:00-4:59 (Friday Only) - Buzz about the movie you can't wait to see tonight, AKA "The New Moon Hour"
5:30-6:30 PM - Complain about your day (misc. topics)
6:31-6:59 PM - Apologize for and/or delete tweets once you realize your boss/lover/grandmom could have read them
8:01-9:05 PM - Chatter about whatever is on television where you are
8:01-9:05 AM - Chatter about whatever is on television on the other side of the world; always confusing to you, but we have to be fair
All other topics are free to be discussed at any non-claimed times. This excludes any and all conversations that could be described by the hashtag #whentwitterwasdown. Any discussions that could have such a label are permanently forbidden under the penalty of having your spacebar taken away.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Moving Dangerously Close to Web Comic Territory
Geoff poured cleanser into the toilet, then stepped back. His job was done. It wasn’t his bathroom.
“All I’m saying is that it can’t be that hard to move to where the food is,” Rick said as he moved in with the scrubber. He looked grimmer about the stain around the rim than thousands starving somewhere else.
Geoff leaned against the sink. “They aren’t growing enough food to begin with, a quarter of the continent is a spreading desert, and several of their countries are ravaged by strongmen and corrupt governments. It’s not a matter of moving to a nicer house.”
Rick scrubbed a little harder, grimacing as the foam sloshed around.
“Well then they should reform their government.”
“Their governments don’t care. They aren’t listening to homeless minorities. Is that really so surprising to you?”
“That’s avoidance. It’s cowardly avoiding--yugh!” Some toilet foam splashed against Rick’s jeans and he jumped back, almost toppling into the bathtub. He quickly rubbed at the wet spot with paper towels, then groaned like he was going to throw up, and ran from the room to change.
“Yeah.” Geoff looked into the toilet. It looked foamy enough for him. He dropped the lid and flushed the suds. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“All I’m saying is that it can’t be that hard to move to where the food is,” Rick said as he moved in with the scrubber. He looked grimmer about the stain around the rim than thousands starving somewhere else.
Geoff leaned against the sink. “They aren’t growing enough food to begin with, a quarter of the continent is a spreading desert, and several of their countries are ravaged by strongmen and corrupt governments. It’s not a matter of moving to a nicer house.”
Rick scrubbed a little harder, grimacing as the foam sloshed around.
“Well then they should reform their government.”
“Their governments don’t care. They aren’t listening to homeless minorities. Is that really so surprising to you?”
“That’s avoidance. It’s cowardly avoiding--yugh!” Some toilet foam splashed against Rick’s jeans and he jumped back, almost toppling into the bathtub. He quickly rubbed at the wet spot with paper towels, then groaned like he was going to throw up, and ran from the room to change.
“Yeah.” Geoff looked into the toilet. It looked foamy enough for him. He dropped the lid and flushed the suds. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”
Monday, December 7, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: To Disappear
The detective slowed down on his third lap around the crime scene. He milled around the one pane of broken glass. The window was double-paned, yet only the interior one was broken. No one had gone through here, so why break it? How was this connected to Gina Gosling’s disappearance?
"Disappear is such a strange word," he murmured to himself. The officers hung back from him, not wanting to disturb him if this was one of his fugues. Those fugues were known to solve cases, whatever fugues were.
"When you examine it, disappear is bizarre. I like to think about the way we put words together, to see what they really mean. To disappear isn't to vanish. Vanishing is to vanish. To disappear isn't even to no longer appear. That would be unappearing, something that doesn't happen, which is why we don't use that word. Un- and dis- are different prefixes. To be uninterested and disinterested are different things. To be uninterested is to simply not be interested. To be disinterested is to actively remove your interests – you willfully take no side. To disappear is not to vanish or unappear. Vanishing is the middleground between an appearance and a disappearance. To disappear is to forcefully no longer appear.”
“This can’t really solve cases,” said one junior officer, walking to the door. “Let’s go interview a witness or something.”
The detective didn’t seem to notice, but the junior’s senior did. His mustache twitched as he reproached him.
“Don’t disrespect, punk. He’s solved more homicides than you ever will.”
“Yeah. But I’ve probably looked up more things in the dictionary.”
“Good way to stay sane,” the detective said, eyes still a little misty, but clearly speaking at them. “Good way to stay sane and useless.”
"Disappear is such a strange word," he murmured to himself. The officers hung back from him, not wanting to disturb him if this was one of his fugues. Those fugues were known to solve cases, whatever fugues were.
"When you examine it, disappear is bizarre. I like to think about the way we put words together, to see what they really mean. To disappear isn't to vanish. Vanishing is to vanish. To disappear isn't even to no longer appear. That would be unappearing, something that doesn't happen, which is why we don't use that word. Un- and dis- are different prefixes. To be uninterested and disinterested are different things. To be uninterested is to simply not be interested. To be disinterested is to actively remove your interests – you willfully take no side. To disappear is not to vanish or unappear. Vanishing is the middleground between an appearance and a disappearance. To disappear is to forcefully no longer appear.”
“This can’t really solve cases,” said one junior officer, walking to the door. “Let’s go interview a witness or something.”
The detective didn’t seem to notice, but the junior’s senior did. His mustache twitched as he reproached him.
“Don’t disrespect, punk. He’s solved more homicides than you ever will.”
“Yeah. But I’ve probably looked up more things in the dictionary.”
“Good way to stay sane,” the detective said, eyes still a little misty, but clearly speaking at them. “Good way to stay sane and useless.”
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: This came dangerously close to being a true story
Bags of them. Some white, some pink, and every one was the size of a baby's fist. She tossed several in the air so that they could rain over her. She'd had many things in her life, but never such treasure. She hugged them to her chest, and they squished. Other customers gawked, but they could be damned. This was her moment of epiphany. There were giant marshmallows, and all was finally right in Heaven!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
An Alternate Abstinence Argument
"Hey kids. You don’t know me because I’m not famous. I’m overweight, my fashion sense is dreadful and my beard is unkempt. I bring this all up because I fuck. Almost everyone I know fucks, and I don’t know many cool people. Fucking isn’t cool. It never has been and it never will be. It’s jamming an extra finger of meat inside a pink hole. Ignore premature ejaculation, rape, syphilis, chlamydia, HIV and the anxiety over whether your period is late for the next month – fucking is downright uncool because of who does it. Your mom fucks. She fucked to have you. Think about that the next time you’re swapping smut stories. Think about your mom moaning your dad’s name. Yeah. Fucking. Fun, but uncool."
Friday, December 4, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: The Balrog Looms
Joel and Elijah knew they were in trouble even before they left for the bathroom. New kids can sense trouble like that. There’s being an awkward new kid at an empty table, and then there’s being an awkward new kid at an empty table with your brother while all the boys at all the surrounding tables stared and glared at your kippah.
Elijah fiddled with his. At this school, they were probably only used to the Pope covering his head. The two boys couldn’t even eat with all those eyes on them.
“Can we go to the bathroom?” Elijah asked.
Joel looked disgusted. “Together?”
Elijah looked warily around the cafeteria. Some kids had gone back to their mac and cheese, but others still stared, including a giant of a boy at the jock table. He loomed like a golem, or like Tolkien’s Balrog, a giant monster floating behind an army of goblins.
“I don’t want to go anywhere around here alone.”
“Fine,” Joel relented. He didn’t want to be here either.
They got up together, putting their uneaten kosher meals back into carefully sectioned plastic containers Mom made them reuse.
The air was different in the hall. The lack of staring made it easier to breathe, and talk. They went straight for the bathrooms, flanking each other.
“Mizdayen baha--” Joel began, but Elijah stopped him.
“Speak English. We need to practice it better to fit in.”
Joel scoffed. “This is stupid. I told Mom that a Catholic school was--”
This time Elijah didn’t have to stop him. The cafeteria doors did. They were several yards behind and made no noise, but the boys could sense them opening. Joel looked back. Young jocks billowed out, looking around. One spied them and elbowed a comrade. Then they were headed to the bathroom too.
Elijah went straight for the bathroom. That had been the plan a minute ago, and in his panic he didn’t think to change it. Joel grabbed at his sleeve, looking back and seeing that the Catholic boys saw that they were clearly going in. Elijah went in anyway, and so Joel went after him, holding onto that sleeve.
They went for the last stall, and Joel actually followed Elijah inside.
“Shouldn’t we…?” Elijah tried to ask. When words failed, he pointed at the lock on the door. Joel inhaled quickly, then reached out.
The stall door swung open. Three boys stood in the opening, blocking the light from the window. In the moment, they seemed much bigger than Elijah. Joel didn’t know what to say.
“Hey, occupied!” Elijah cried out, trying to stand in front of his brother.
“What are you fags doing?” asked the middle of the three boys. He had dirty blonde hair, the same school uniform as his friends, and the same sickly smile.
“He your boyfriend?” taunted the one on the right. He reached in. For what, Joel had no idea. Elijah pushed the hand away from them, but that only invited more hands into the stall.
“Fuckers think you’re tough?” said the one on the right.
“I’ll show you tough,” said the middle boy, shoving Elijah so hard that he knocked into Joel and Joel fell onto the toilet. The boys laughed.
A huskier voice poked through their laughter.
"What they fuck are you doing with these newbies?"
The Balrog came around, standing directly behind the middle boy. He was a head taller than any of them and, this close, seemed equally fat and muscular to Joel.
The boy on the left laughed.
"They're Jews."
The Balrog looked down. He also wore their Catholic uniform, and to boot wore a rosary over the jacket. Then he looked back up at the bully with an expression that the rosary didn't matter right now.
"So?"
Middle boy sounded indignant. "So they fucking killed Jesus!"
The Balrog stuck his tongue in his cheek. Why licking the inside of his mouth was intimidating, Joel couldn’t say. He could have peed himself, though, when that boy looked at him.
"Were you guys alive when Jesus was born?"
Joel couldn’t answer. He couldn’t say anything right now.
So Elijah did. "No.”
The Balrog nodded. “Ever met Jesus?”
“No.”
"You kill anybody?” He paused, and so did everyone else in their stall party. Then he added, “Ever?"
Elijah shook his head sternly.
"No."
The Balrog looked down at the middle boy.
"Looks like they didn't kill Jesus. Why don't you go fuck off for a while?"
Joel moved his lips, but words were not in his service today. The three jock boys flowed like one stream of water, out of the stall, and then out of the bathroom.
With room in the stall, Elijah stepped away from his brother. He smoothed out his clothes, looking like he was going to address the giant.
"Thanks."
It seemed like words weren’t much in his service, either.
"Not a problem. It's a habit I picked up from God. Act scary as shit, for good motives." The Balrog held out a hand to shake Elijah’s. “I’m Noah.”
“I’m Elijah.”
He reached to shake Noah’s hand, but Noah withdrew it. Elijah froze.
Noah looked from Elijah to Joel, then around the stall.
“You wash that hand and then I’ll shake it.” He grinned, apparently thinking this was hilarious or cool or both. He jerked his head and took a step towards the bathroom door. “Come eat at my table. I’ll introduce you to some people.”
Elijah fiddled with his. At this school, they were probably only used to the Pope covering his head. The two boys couldn’t even eat with all those eyes on them.
“Can we go to the bathroom?” Elijah asked.
Joel looked disgusted. “Together?”
Elijah looked warily around the cafeteria. Some kids had gone back to their mac and cheese, but others still stared, including a giant of a boy at the jock table. He loomed like a golem, or like Tolkien’s Balrog, a giant monster floating behind an army of goblins.
“I don’t want to go anywhere around here alone.”
“Fine,” Joel relented. He didn’t want to be here either.
They got up together, putting their uneaten kosher meals back into carefully sectioned plastic containers Mom made them reuse.
The air was different in the hall. The lack of staring made it easier to breathe, and talk. They went straight for the bathrooms, flanking each other.
“Mizdayen baha--” Joel began, but Elijah stopped him.
“Speak English. We need to practice it better to fit in.”
Joel scoffed. “This is stupid. I told Mom that a Catholic school was--”
This time Elijah didn’t have to stop him. The cafeteria doors did. They were several yards behind and made no noise, but the boys could sense them opening. Joel looked back. Young jocks billowed out, looking around. One spied them and elbowed a comrade. Then they were headed to the bathroom too.
Elijah went straight for the bathroom. That had been the plan a minute ago, and in his panic he didn’t think to change it. Joel grabbed at his sleeve, looking back and seeing that the Catholic boys saw that they were clearly going in. Elijah went in anyway, and so Joel went after him, holding onto that sleeve.
They went for the last stall, and Joel actually followed Elijah inside.
“Shouldn’t we…?” Elijah tried to ask. When words failed, he pointed at the lock on the door. Joel inhaled quickly, then reached out.
The stall door swung open. Three boys stood in the opening, blocking the light from the window. In the moment, they seemed much bigger than Elijah. Joel didn’t know what to say.
“Hey, occupied!” Elijah cried out, trying to stand in front of his brother.
“What are you fags doing?” asked the middle of the three boys. He had dirty blonde hair, the same school uniform as his friends, and the same sickly smile.
“He your boyfriend?” taunted the one on the right. He reached in. For what, Joel had no idea. Elijah pushed the hand away from them, but that only invited more hands into the stall.
“Fuckers think you’re tough?” said the one on the right.
“I’ll show you tough,” said the middle boy, shoving Elijah so hard that he knocked into Joel and Joel fell onto the toilet. The boys laughed.
A huskier voice poked through their laughter.
"What they fuck are you doing with these newbies?"
The Balrog came around, standing directly behind the middle boy. He was a head taller than any of them and, this close, seemed equally fat and muscular to Joel.
The boy on the left laughed.
"They're Jews."
The Balrog looked down. He also wore their Catholic uniform, and to boot wore a rosary over the jacket. Then he looked back up at the bully with an expression that the rosary didn't matter right now.
"So?"
Middle boy sounded indignant. "So they fucking killed Jesus!"
The Balrog stuck his tongue in his cheek. Why licking the inside of his mouth was intimidating, Joel couldn’t say. He could have peed himself, though, when that boy looked at him.
"Were you guys alive when Jesus was born?"
Joel couldn’t answer. He couldn’t say anything right now.
So Elijah did. "No.”
The Balrog nodded. “Ever met Jesus?”
“No.”
"You kill anybody?” He paused, and so did everyone else in their stall party. Then he added, “Ever?"
Elijah shook his head sternly.
"No."
The Balrog looked down at the middle boy.
"Looks like they didn't kill Jesus. Why don't you go fuck off for a while?"
Joel moved his lips, but words were not in his service today. The three jock boys flowed like one stream of water, out of the stall, and then out of the bathroom.
With room in the stall, Elijah stepped away from his brother. He smoothed out his clothes, looking like he was going to address the giant.
"Thanks."
It seemed like words weren’t much in his service, either.
"Not a problem. It's a habit I picked up from God. Act scary as shit, for good motives." The Balrog held out a hand to shake Elijah’s. “I’m Noah.”
“I’m Elijah.”
He reached to shake Noah’s hand, but Noah withdrew it. Elijah froze.
Noah looked from Elijah to Joel, then around the stall.
“You wash that hand and then I’ll shake it.” He grinned, apparently thinking this was hilarious or cool or both. He jerked his head and took a step towards the bathroom door. “Come eat at my table. I’ll introduce you to some people.”
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Rice Allergy
Rice hated that cat. They heard him swearing at it every time he went down stairs to feed it. He kicked gravel at it when it came near him on the driveway and insulted his sister’s choice of pets. They said he really loved it, deep down, somewhere. One time his sister thought she’d caught him petting the cat with a blanket wrapped around his hand, but he denied it later.
He had wicked allergies. Rice was cursed with asthma so severe he couldn’t run or live in a room that wasn’t vacuumed daily. A dozen things could trigger harsh attacks, but the worst was cat dander. The normal person had a cat dander allergy index of 70, at which point they would have almost no irritation if a cat fell asleep on them. Rice had a cat dander allergy index of 1620. His index sounded like a year in modern history. If he lingered even for sixty seconds after giving the cat its food he became so violently sick and remained congested for a week.
He said that didn’t figure into the feud. It only meant the thing was forced to live in the basement, which was fine with him if it had to live at all. No, he simply loathed that loaf. Hated that it didn’t contribute to the household finances and was always meowing for attention. It’s food cost more than his did. If no one else was home and it cried for food, he’d whip open the door and kick at it. Then he’d go get its supper.
Cat dander was just one allergy, though. And allergies were just one of his problems. He was made from frail stuff. In his twenties the doctors found cysts in his lungs. They grew no matter what chemicals he was bombarded with.
Until that morning, he didn’t know that doctors actually told you that you had a month left to live. He’d thought TV made that up.
His sister rushed home when she got his message. She found his shoes by the door. Strangely, she found his socks a few feet later.
He wasn’t in his room, nor in the kitchen. Going downstairs, she saw his jacket cast over a chair, along with some bags from the pharmacy. A trail of Benadryl bottles lay leading to the basement door. There was another tossed on the steps leading down to the basement. Like all the others, it was empty.
The light was on. She called his name, but he didn’t answer. The cat meowed instead. It didn’t come to her like it normally did.
Rice lay on the basement floor, limbs splayed akimbo. His feet were bare and his eyes were open, but didn’t move in response to her presence. The cat lay on his chest, licking his chin.
He had wicked allergies. Rice was cursed with asthma so severe he couldn’t run or live in a room that wasn’t vacuumed daily. A dozen things could trigger harsh attacks, but the worst was cat dander. The normal person had a cat dander allergy index of 70, at which point they would have almost no irritation if a cat fell asleep on them. Rice had a cat dander allergy index of 1620. His index sounded like a year in modern history. If he lingered even for sixty seconds after giving the cat its food he became so violently sick and remained congested for a week.
He said that didn’t figure into the feud. It only meant the thing was forced to live in the basement, which was fine with him if it had to live at all. No, he simply loathed that loaf. Hated that it didn’t contribute to the household finances and was always meowing for attention. It’s food cost more than his did. If no one else was home and it cried for food, he’d whip open the door and kick at it. Then he’d go get its supper.
Cat dander was just one allergy, though. And allergies were just one of his problems. He was made from frail stuff. In his twenties the doctors found cysts in his lungs. They grew no matter what chemicals he was bombarded with.
Until that morning, he didn’t know that doctors actually told you that you had a month left to live. He’d thought TV made that up.
His sister rushed home when she got his message. She found his shoes by the door. Strangely, she found his socks a few feet later.
He wasn’t in his room, nor in the kitchen. Going downstairs, she saw his jacket cast over a chair, along with some bags from the pharmacy. A trail of Benadryl bottles lay leading to the basement door. There was another tossed on the steps leading down to the basement. Like all the others, it was empty.
The light was on. She called his name, but he didn’t answer. The cat meowed instead. It didn’t come to her like it normally did.
Rice lay on the basement floor, limbs splayed akimbo. His feet were bare and his eyes were open, but didn’t move in response to her presence. The cat lay on his chest, licking his chin.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Ultimatum in the South
We’re leaving at 3:00 AM. That’s the earliest time when multiple flights start leaving, and it has to be multiple flights. Then they won’t know what city you’re departing for. It could be Cuba, Peru, Haiti or Costa Rica for all they know. We’re taking one with a ten-minute stopover in Brazil, except we’re not getting onto that connecting flight. We’re going to walk into the first bathroom we find in Sao Paulo-Gaurulhos International and change costumes – clothes, shoes, ditch the fake beards and pull a second, smaller set of luggage out of these big ones. We’ll stuff the old things in the trash, then spend twenty minutes in the back of a café, until flights north start up. As soon as we hit Texas, we take a taxi into a city and we disappear. I’ve got our tickets for 3:00 AM here, and the fake passports. There will be no I.D. or money trail to follow, and once we hit the ground they won’t know where to look. The U.S. is developed, but Middle America is an abyss. It’s either this, my man, or Interpol gets you at 5:00. You know what they did to the others. What do you say?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: The Morning Scrubber
Hey Cheryl, this is Marcus. Calling at about... oh, 6:49. I know that's past Bank of America’s business hours but I just figured I'd leave a message. You set up a PayPal account for me a while ago. I just checked on it on bankofamerica.com at about, oh, 6:48. I used to have fifty-nine dollars and forty-one cents in there, which I've earned off fiction sales and all the times my grandma hits the PayPal donate button under the guise of an adoring teen fan. God love her. Well, it seems I don't have fifty-nine dollars and forty-one cents anymore on account of something called a "Monthly Maintenance Fee" that was fourteen dollars. Now I don't know what kind of maintenance program Bank of America runs, but I'm assuming there's a janitor who comes in every morning and cleans the money by hand. At the percentage of my money he costs, I'm assuming he keeps the money in pennies and cleanses them thoroughly. I'm envisioning a guy with a little toothbrush and special cleanser scrubbing any potential grime out of the nooks of all the zeroes on all my pennies. Sometimes I get change that was minted years ago but looks shiny and new – I’m assuming that’s his work. If you could, let him know I appreciate it when he comes in tomorrow. Also, if you could, please lay him off. I know it's a bad economy and jobs are scarce, but I'm willing to let you keep my money in dollar bills instead of so many high-maintenance pennies. He’ll understand since he’s apparently devoted his life to pennies and won’t want to see them circulated, even if they are circulated to purchase penny-cleanser. Also, unless he’s already used my fourteen dollars to buy new cleanser, please make him give it back. Thanks!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Zine Works
Dale's cell vibrated on the desk, scampering over the surface like the plastic was coming to life in little bursts. He set his teeth and vengefully finished the paragraph, taking not just enough time to get back on track, but more than enough to get the wording to his standard. Finally he hit the period button with a little too much force, and picked up the phone.
"Hello?" he said, sounding unnecessarily annoyed.
"Dale!" The voice on the phone screeched. "Dale! I'm trapped in a magazine!"
"Fred?"
"In a magazine! No idea how!"
"It's okay, Fred. Calm down." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. This should not have been logically acceptable to him, but they both did a lot of drugs. "Look around yourself. What magazine are you in?"
"There are a lot of words, and a huge picture."
"What's the picture of?"
"I think it's a woman. Or an armoire. It's abstract."
"That could be any magazine. What about the words? What are they writing about?"
"Mostly ads. I think part of it's a story. Really short."
"Fiction is dying in print."
"I'm trapped in a magazine! Help!"
"Is there anything else in there?"
"Uh. A cartoon?"
"A cartoon?"
"Black and white. It's a lion on a cell phone."
"Is the caption ironic?"
"No duh it is!"
"Is it ironic but not funny at all?"
"How'd you know?"
"I just resubscribed to The New Yorker. I think you're on my coffee table. I'll get you in a minute."
Dale switched his cell off and looked at the monitor. He read the paragraph to himself a couple of times. Fred could wait – he knew better than to read Dale’s stuff without asking.
"Hello?" he said, sounding unnecessarily annoyed.
"Dale!" The voice on the phone screeched. "Dale! I'm trapped in a magazine!"
"Fred?"
"In a magazine! No idea how!"
"It's okay, Fred. Calm down." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. This should not have been logically acceptable to him, but they both did a lot of drugs. "Look around yourself. What magazine are you in?"
"There are a lot of words, and a huge picture."
"What's the picture of?"
"I think it's a woman. Or an armoire. It's abstract."
"That could be any magazine. What about the words? What are they writing about?"
"Mostly ads. I think part of it's a story. Really short."
"Fiction is dying in print."
"I'm trapped in a magazine! Help!"
"Is there anything else in there?"
"Uh. A cartoon?"
"A cartoon?"
"Black and white. It's a lion on a cell phone."
"Is the caption ironic?"
"No duh it is!"
"Is it ironic but not funny at all?"
"How'd you know?"
"I just resubscribed to The New Yorker. I think you're on my coffee table. I'll get you in a minute."
Dale switched his cell off and looked at the monitor. He read the paragraph to himself a couple of times. Fred could wait – he knew better than to read Dale’s stuff without asking.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Bathroom Monologue: Petri Dish Sister
I'm sorry, she's never heard of your home country. My sister has all the culture of a Petri dish. That is to say, she's entirely made up of culture, but doesn't know what it is and has no idea there are others outside her circle of plastic. She's also like a Petri dish in that her culture's rather disgusting and probably bad for you: top seventeen things you didn’t know your lover wanted; reality television about real wives and desert islands. But she's got a heart of gold. You won't find one of those in a Petri dish. She means well. When she says what you just ordered is gross, she’s not insulting five hundred years of your country’s culinary culture. She’s just worried for your health.
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