Bathroom Monologue: Dumb Things Break People Up

[GARY sits in the booth, wearing a pink tuxedo. ??? sits across from him in a black pantsuit. They are both read faced. Neither has touched their drinks.]
???: Why do you always turn everything into a joke?
Gary: I don't. Most things can stay the way they are. But some things, like this? They deserve it. I've been trying to get you to just crack a smile for years and you're still a saggy, frowny bitch. That? That I want to make into a joke.
???: That's not funny!
Gary: And neither are you. My point exactly.
???: You have to take some things seriously. Be an adult.
Gary: I don’t see a lot of eleven-year-old stand-up comics. It seems to me that humor is an adult thing. Crying? Getting pissy? Those are the things a two-year old does.
???: Laughter isn’t going to pay the bills! You can’t just laugh this off.
Gary: You can’t fight this off, either. We’re fighting right now and all I want to do is walk out the door. People who laugh together want to stay together.
???: That’s typical of you.
Gary: And that’s typical of everybody else. Seriousness is the cliché. At least I’m original.
[GARY looks out the window. ??? exits. After a moment, GARY looks around.]
Gary: When is everyone else going to get here?

"the small T. rex arms were often broken during..."

"the small T. rex arms were often broken during life. This fact suggests that they were poorly suited for whatever the dinosaurs were trying to use them for." -Gregory M. Erickson , Scientific American

Sometimes the world makes it too easy for me. I read a very interesting article ( http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?id=if-t-rex-fell-how-did-it ) this morning and have laughed every hour on the hour thanks to this one quote out of it. It’s triggered a rare event where I have too many Bathroom Monologue response ideas to actually compose one. Can I get away with a Bathroom Monologue that runs over some of the things that go through my mind in making a Bathroom Monologue? Let’s see.

One: My kid is lying in the middle of the road, bleeding. a heap on the ground beneath a tree, and the tree has a broken limb. This fact suggests he fell. Pointing out the explicit logical connection between two things can easily go over the edge and be hilarious. For instance, if I report, “My son is lying in the middle of the road, there’s blood everywhere and tire tracks are stretching out in that direction,” I don’t need to tell you, “He was probably hit by a motorcycle.”

Two: there's an old misuse of evolution that suggested animals developed traits because they wanted them. The giraffe has a long neck because its parents stretched really hard, you see? And while Mr. Erickson is hardly so ignorant as to mean such a phenomena is true, "whatever the dinosaurs were trying to use them for" summons the spectre of this mis-evolution.

Third: My deep love of explorative sciences, especially any that deal with giant, carnivorous lizards, demands I make fun of this. If it was about trilobites I could pass it up, but the t-rex is my hero. He needs to be immortalized not only as a skeleton in museums, but as something hilarious on a website only twenty people will ever read.

Fourth: I, thanking the almighty that no one is watching, return from the bathroom hunched over, with my elbows pulled into my ribs. The only thing that stifles my roar is the sound of a car passing outside. I hate other people. I miss dinosaurs.

Fifth: I am bombarded by a vast array of things the tyrannosaurus rex might have wanted to do with its arms that failed, leaving them broken.
Fifth A: T-Rex on a rock-climbing wall.
Fifth B: T-Rex on a slip n' slide, trying desperately to stop her momentum at the end of the slide with her tiny arms, only for the arms to snap off like twigs, leaving her to rocket into my aunt's petunias.
Fifth C: T-Rex sitting on a bench, curling weights. Keeps picking up heavier ones to impress the girls. Eventually, he reaches for one that is too heavy for his bone structure. Testosterone defeats men yet again.
Fifth D: T-Rexes thumb wrestling with two fingers. While previously not hazardous, the frustration of being thumbless leads them to rip each other's arms off.
Fifth E: T-Rexes, far more technologically advanced than we believe, build giant robotic arms that fit over their existing arms. Alas, the existing arms snap from the weight.
Fifth F: Wii bowling.

Bathroom Monologue: Little Beliefs

McClarry waved to the other leprechauns and whispered, “Guys! Come on!”

Waldgrave led them, crawling on his belly. He came up next to McClarry and peered over the hilltop. His eyes went wide. Mochrie gasped, and O’Donnell inhaled for such a shriek that those around him clamped their hands over his mouth to stifle it.

McClarry looked at them, shaking his head in disbelief. Waldgrave looked over the hill again, but they were still there. Two live children, playing on the swings.

“St. Peter. They do exist.”

Bathroom Monologue: Next, #2

“Yes, you are the third smartest man on the planet, while I’m only the thirteenth. But you only have two minutes to figure out the codes and trajectories of those missiles, stop the gas, and get in contact with three team mates in different longitudes of the globe before everyone on your team dies. That includes you. The third smartest man in the world has two minutes to foil a plan the thirteenth smartest put together over five and a half years, Doctor. It doesn’t take genius to know what happens in two minutes: I’ll be #12. Nice being your arch-rival while it lasted.”

Fifth Floor, Housewares and Diplomacy

Jangs didn't actually have a top floor to his house. He lived in a hotel, like hundreds of the Golden Emperor's crucial employees. Living in temporary housing and seeing people check out every time you walked in was supposed to remind you to do a good job, or your room would go to someone else. His Majesty was a brilliant motivational thinker.

Bathroom Monologue: Thinking about videogames, looking out the window

My videogame is going to have four playable characters who meet at a backyard barbecue just when the infernal legions of plague-spewing dinosaurs fall from the sky. Our first male character is the typical handsome lithe guy, used to dual-wielding shortswords. He's at the grill wearing a KISS THE COOK apron when techno-raptors drop onto his deck, leaving him to fight them off dual-wielding tongs and a spatula. See, nobody's got their weapons. The second, strapping young lad is chopping wood, and so gets lucky and fights with his maul. But it's got to get more ridiculous from there. I'm thinking the big guy (there's always a towering hulk in these games) comes down the stairs, sees the zombie brachiosaurus stampeding down the street, and snaps off the safety rail from the stairs to double as a quarterstaff. We'll have a female character just for gender dynamics, and as to thoroughly insult the female audience, she'll be gardening. Normally a whip user, she'll got through the first level with a hose. Nice to mix S&M with flower beds. Yeah, I'm totally making this game.

Bathroom Monologue: Word-Based Economy

Everyone bashes holidays. It’s become fashionable in our market place of ideas, which appears to have becoming a complaint-based economy. They bitch that Christmas is depressing and Thanksgiving supports obesity. It’s a symptom of a parasitic pseudo-culture, one that lives by denying and destroying but can barely create anything of its own – except guns and books about how other people are stupid, which I guess is somewhat creative, as enough of the attitudes fostered by the latter support sales of the former.

I’m a different sort. When I’m unpleased with holidays (and I am, especially around February 14), I make one up. I like the notions in general – the notion of the rejuvenating holy day, and the notion of the day off (which is twice as divine). I always doff my cap to the Pilgrims for picking a permanent Thursday of gratitude. It’s great that the oppressive Puritans installed the only four-day weekend in the hemisphere.

Halloween is my favorite. Candy everywhere, awesome or awesomely terrible movies on television, and nobody has to be themselves for a night. You can be Julius Caesar, Axl Rose or Zorro. Halloween comes with snacks, a genre of entertainment and an activity. It’s a model day.

I’m a creative sort, so let the word go forth from this time and spacebar that we’re going to have a Reading Day. This is when you take your favorite short story and read it to people. Novellas do not count, nor do stories written by you or anyone you know – that is cheating and I will not like you submarine my holiday with your kid’s crappy fiction. Pick your favorite author – Gabriel Marquez, Eudora Welty, Haruki Murakami, anybody. Pick your favorite story, grab some people, and read to them. You can even give copies of collections to friends and family for the commercial aspect. It will be a big deal for children to become literate soon enough to join their first Reading Day, even if most of them pick The Giving Tree or Good Night Moon.

Comic books will count, but you’ll have to gather a cast to read the other parts for you. You can only be Batman, not the narrator, the Joker and Alfred, too. The point, in the ears of Batman or the teeth of Edgar Allen Poe’s "Black Cat," is to gather (which, I guess, is more of a "House of Usher" theme). Gathering is essential to festivals.

We’ll put it on December 1st, to piss off the National Novel Writing Month people. I don’t mind the competition with the late-December juggernauts. A little competition between Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Eid-ul-Fitr and New Years turned them all into Happy Holidays. But instead of “On Dasher, on Dancer,” it’s on Kafka, on Kaufman, on King, on O’Connor, on Zelazny, on Barthelme, on Borges, on Hemingway, and of course, on Robert Frost’s On Writing.

Bathroom Monologue: Shadow of the Valley of Death

Livington is a wonderful town with a great view of the Purgatory. In the mornings the shadow of the Valley of Death passed right over them, but even this sight doesn’t help Livington’s poor tourism. You see the town council of Livington spent the entire treasury keeping any new towns from cropping up in the locale, zoning out developers who would block the view. They put their last pennies into advertising, but it didn’t catch. The ad was in Psalm 23 of “the Bible,” a very popular circular back in the day. With tourism being nearly non-existent, the town is pinning its budgetary hopes on suing the studio behind Pulp Fiction for cribbing from their ad.

Bathroom Monologue: Alternative Publishing

"Never go for the kill immediately. Parry. Avoid. Entice. Tire him out. When he tires, take advantage of his mistakes. If he cannot be tired, then make him bored and hasty. When he is frustrated, take advantage of his mistakes. If he cannot be tired or bored, he probably cannot be killed. Run away and write about it. You'll probably make good money."

Bathroom Monologue: “The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regimen of Women” –John Knox

The doors opened with what sounded like a trumpet. John was nearly knocked off his feet by the torrent of women in the lobby. Any of them were half his size, but they were many and he was confused. It was just 30% off!

He waded through screeching teens to the racks of blouses. His daughter only needed one, and she liked pink. He picked one up to examine it – 100% cotton, which was good.

It was “Made in Mexico” – better than Chinese labor practices, he guessed.

It was flying out of his hands – that was unexpected.

He turned to see a teenager carrying his daughter’s blouse and everything that had been on the rack with it up the aisles, screaming like she’d just beheaded the enemy chieftain.

He reached out with his right hand, groping for another the next rack, only to hear a distinctly Jewish scream of disgust. His cheek stung with the slap.

John turned to apologize, thinking he’d accidentally groped someone even though it hadn’t felt like flesh, but found his victim standing in front of a row of halters like they were her children.

It was loud in here, but he thought she was growling.

A store manager found him hours later, in the fetal position behind some naked mannequins. He was half-naked. Later he decided not to press charges, deciding the loss of clothes was his own fault for having tried to hide in a clearly marked 40%-off zone.

Bathroom Monologue: Dig In

“I am so tired of that apt criticism. Yes, this Applebee’s is like all of the others. The hamburger is prepared the same way with the same patented and publicly disclosed secret sauce. The calorie content of every platter is the same in Texas and Maine. The employees here wash their hands as often as they do in Alaska – if there is an Applebee’s in Alaska. From Seattle, Washington to Washington, D.C., we’re all mandated to have crazy crap on the walls, so that while each array is unique, they all feel the same. The building feels almost identical to Chili’s, which feels almost identical to Friendly’s. And for some reason you feel the right to condemn us, as though homogeneity was our problem. The problem lies in a society so twisted and uncomforting that when people don’t want to cook for themselves, when they decide they want a night away from their homes and normal lives, they go to a franchise that they’re sure will be just like every other one they’ve ever visited. How mean-spirited, how rude and insensitive, how untrustworthy must the rest of the world be if you look to letting strangers serve you food for familiarity? With all the delicacies and rare cuisines available, dinner is where you come not to be challenged? Then you must come from a sick world. But if my chicken tenders will heal you, then let me lay my hands on your plastic. We take Discover.”

Bathroom Monologue: Other Possible Side Effects for a TiMechanics-brand Time Machine

-Warning: You may develop an erection yesterday.
-Warning: Playing god has some reports of causing eye irritation.
-Warning: Despite its ability to freeze time within its chassis, Time Machine should not be used as a replacement refrigerator. Unexpected evolution may occur on or within any turkey clubs stored within frozen time. Unexpected civilizations within turkey clubs may use Time Machine for evil.
-Warning: The steering wheel is decorative. Any and all wheel-related time warps are placebo effects.
-Warning: Going back in time to steal the plans for Time Machine and create your own empire may negate your Time Machine and strand you with nothing except a set of schematics you’re not smart enough to read.
-Warning: Warranty voided by traveling to the end of time.
-Warning: Warranty not valid where time does not yet exist.
-Warning: The end of time and the non-existence of time are difficult to tell apart. Consult warranty.
-Warning: Objects in the rear view mirror have not happened yet.
-Warning: Becoming your own grandpa is not as fun as it sounds.
-Warning: Perspective on the events of your life from outside the time/space continuum may lead to suicidal depression that other versions of yourself inside the timeline will not appreciate.
-Warning: The author of the warnings may be lying to you in the twisted hopes that you’ll be led into a false sense of security, have an accident and finally tear this ugly quilt that we call the fabric of reality.

Bathroom Monologue: Like Magic

True magicians loathe typical “magicians.” A real magician manipulates the elements and spirits, learned through years of clandestine schooling or divine meditations. They keep their magic secret because, for true magicians, surprise and disbelief are helpful conditions. You’re much less likely to burn a necromancer at the stake if you don’t think he’s really a summoner of the dead. Calling a thunderclap from a clear sky is all the more shocking if you didn’t think it was possible until he grabbed his wand. Yet despite the usefulness of having their work viewed as fiction, they’re very catty about the entertainer magicians that have most helped their occupation seem campy and absurd. The elite sorcerers complain that you wouldn’t call someone who wears a cape and plastic fangs an actual vampire. When a real magician snaps and goes public to display his amazing power, his peers always catch him, using tandem enchantments and science to “debunk” his miraculous works. The punishment for breaking the secrecy is very strict, ranging from spontaneous combustion to an immortal career doing children’s parties.

Bathroom Monologue: TiMechanics

Introducing TiMechanics-brand time machines!

Tell your aunt how you feel before the old bat died!

Getting bad grades? Take that Earth Science exam as many times as you like!

Forget an item at the store? Now you can go back with the coupon, and pay attention to catch the clerk looking down your blouse this time!

And the best thing is that TiMechanics brand time machines are up to 67% accurate*, the most reliable on the market.

TiMechanics: where every second is precious.

*TiMechanics brand time machines may result in chronal dislodging, schizophrenia, and/or accidental transportation to the Pleistocene epoch. If you are mauled by a sabre-toothed cat send defective TiMechanics merchandise and proof of purchase to TiMechanics Headquarters at 0 Washington Avenue, New Washington, circa 2801. Consult an estate attorney before using TiMechanics. Warranties voided by paradox.

Bathroom Monologue: Bad jokes that I need to get out of my head

-What do a Playboy photographer and a zombie have in common? They both just want a little more skin.
-Why does the phone ever ring at the psychic hotline?
-When asked if the man makes the times or the times makes the man, he replied, “The Times’ editor is actually a woman.”
-Aeneas: I seduced Dido, and all I got was a bad case of harpies.
-Make out with a bird and you get chirpies.
-Weeze the juice at a 7-11 and you get slurpees.
-The F.D.A approved that God didn't exist, but catastrophic side effects warranted a recall.
-Shakespeare died and was surprised to find himself at the gates of Heaven. However as he was about to go in, God stopped him, poked him in the chest and said, "So, 'a tale told by an idiot,' huh?"

Bathroom Monologue: Nooks, Crannies and Hobgoblins

“Doesn't everyone have these thoughts? That queer things may lurk in the corners of our round world? There's a lot about the ocean we don't know. There's a lot of uninhabited forest, and there's always another range without cell phone reception. It seems to me that there's always more, somewhere in this world. Recently I've been wondering if some ethereal being might play a trick on the world one day. Everyone blinks, you know. Well what if, in the billions of blinks we make in our lives, everyone's eyes were synchronized in closing, just for a tenth of a second, and this Loki or Anansi flicked the lightswitch, turning out the sun and covering the world in deep darkness. It'd be back on by the time anyone saw it. You might say that it takes light several minutes to get from the sun to the earth, and that such timing would be impossible, and that all the cameras we have running would catch it - but by that point, haven't you already accepted a being so powerful he's built a lightswitch in a star?”

Bathroom Monologue: Tao Jones

The Tao Jones Industrial will be the first stock index to not only inspire understanding of market fluctuations, but also to inspire peace with the economy. No stocks will be admitted that are not the true stocks.

Bathroom Monologue: Laws of Ash

Weclij Erengeld was a stateman of the Dwarfish Contingency in Ash Gardens, and a vocal policy maker. From his days in the academy he espoused faith in the government and support Ash Gardens’ stand that philosophy be illegal. To him, as to the ancients, free thought only meant distraction from the engines of progress. He was one of four signers to a law permitting the execution of those who espoused anything but the state lines on morality.

He was executed under the first provision of that bill for giving his son an axe. Written in spiraling text around the handle, underneath the cloth wrapping, was written:

“You should never take without thanking. If you hesitate to thank because bringing attention will make them stop you from taking, you should not take. Gratitude is a virtue that will save families and culture itself.”

It was a lesson he apparently considered vital to his son. In public life he had always been gracious, but never espoused gratitude as a virtue, nor did he challenge that it should be among the Five Chief Virtues, those the only ones recognized in Ash Gardens. We do not know why the dwarf risked his life to express such a lesson. We do know that his son has his seat in Parliament, and is fast working on anti-propaganda laws that would make him forfeit the axe for destruction. Currently the weapon rests on his mantle, its handle firmly wrapped.

Bathroom Monologue: bathroom monoLOgue

“In just five minutes, one hundred thousand orcs will come smashing through this barricade. They will stop at nothing to kill us all and destroy this country. We are the only ones who can stop them. To those of you who stay, you will have my respect, and I will fight to the last drop of my blood at your side. To those who stay, there will be heroism, and the violent knowledge that you have defended a way of life. To those who flee, they will find you if we fail here. To those who leave, if you are not tracked down by orcs then we will have succeeded here, and I'll find you someday, and I'm going to be unbearably annoying. You are so going to owe me.” -Hung Lo

Bathroom Monologue: I'd really like an answer to this one

Amnesia doesn't happen as often as we see it in movies and sitcoms, but it is real. There have been books and documentaries about it. One question I've had since childhood and never heard answered satisfactorily, though, is how they remember to speak. If you forget everyone and everything, how do you remember words? And why do you remember that “rust" is the oxidation of metals, but not that "Jane McCalsky" is your wife of six years? In semiotics, you remember that the word "rock" corresponds with this image, but not that "dad" corresponds with him. How do you retain the definitions of stock language words, but not specialized words, like names? You learned to speak during your life, yet you've just forgotten your life. How can your forget all your English teachers and all the writers they loved, but not the words they used? Didn't you learn your teacher's name the same year you learned those words? Why is that one word off the record? What does this say about the human mind?

Bathroom Monologue: Designer Genes

Muscle is hard to build and easy to lose. Meanwhile fat is easy to build, and while it is supposed to turn into energy, is hard to get rid of. But one pair of Tyrex's designer genes will switch this inefficient paradigm in time for bikini season.

Tired of your appendix rupturing when it's never done anything to help? Tired of testicles being so sensitive that one whack prevents you from being able to flee a threat to your masculinity? Or maybe you've always wanted magenta skin. When you look at all the stupidities of the human body, it's hard to believe in evolution at all, let alone an intelligent designer. Fortunately, Tyrex is here to help.

There is a mild-to-moderate risk of sprouting additional appendixes when using Tyrex. Women who are pregnant or who may become pregnant should not use Tyrex (seriously, we're tired of fertile women suing us). Normal side effects include liver failure, morbid obesity, spontaneous belief in backwards reincarnation and magenta skin. Talk to your physician if you have asthma, heart conditions or swelling of the ankles. Otherwise, just get this stuff already. Ask your pediatrician about Tyrex Chewables (patent pending), because let's be honest, trying his best is not enough. You want a winner, and we will give him to you.

Bathroom Monologue: The Little Ice Age

I know what you're asking yourself.

"Ice Age? He displays superhuman strength and reflexes, heals with amazing speed, patches his mind into computer networks with a thought and can banter better than Robin Williams. Why is he named Ice Age? He has no ice powers."

The reason is to get heroes like you to come after me with flamethrowers and thermal clothing. I'm the Trojan Horse of supervillains. True, when my secret gets out I'll look really lame, but by then I'll have collected enough giant bags with dollar signs on them to retire to a tropical island. Or maybe the North Pole. And that's not meant to be ironic – when Dr. Global Warming gets through with it, it'll be beach-front property...

No, I know there's no sand at the North Pole! Dr. Global Warming is an earth elemental. Listen, we all have duplicitous names. Will you shut up and get on the Needlessly Slow And Easily Escapable Execution Device already?

Bathroom Monologue: Good Gloves, OR, A Limit of Comparisons

Which of these two boxers is more dangerous: a one-time gold medalist, or a three-time silver medalist? The gold medalist was the best in the world, at least for one night. The silver-medalist was the second best in the world at least three times as often. Also consider that a medalist tournament isn't just one match; it's five matches. On all three nights across the twelve years, the silver-medalist won his first, second, third and fourth fights. And if you fight him tonight, you'll be his first. Meanwhile, the gold medalist hasn't won anything lately. So who's more dangerous? The answer is obvious: you’re screwed either way.

Bathroom Monologue: Same story, different monologue (part Finale)

“There.”

Mr. Osbourne dug the tip of Gungnir into the earth before the gods.

“I slew a demon, something no mere mortal could do. I even forged its broken spirit into a spear as a trophy. Evidence.”

The gods muttered to each other. No, they hadn’t considered stipulating that several hundred other mere mortals might help the one mere mortal in question. The God of Accounting made a note to fire whichever one was in charge of stipulations. He thought that was Apollo.

Mr. Osbourne stared at the gods.

The gods stared back at him.

“Well? Pay up.”

The gods grumbled. Then they checked their pockets. Each kicked in a twenty. Eventually the plate rounded over to Rufus, who smoothed out the bills, put them in his money clip and stowed them in his jacket.

“Pleasure betting with you, pantheon. But I didn’t go through all that for money. I remember something about Helios’s chariot?”

The gods looked at each other. Sleep toed the sand, chewing on his bottom lip. Death shied away from him.

"Dude. Helios is going to be so mad at us."

Mr. Osbourne raised his voice. "Didn't we have a bet? Or should I take it up with Zeus?"

Sleep muttered, “It's parked next to Mercury. You have it for the weekend. But please don't ding it up!”

The mortal thought for a moment.

"What'll you give me if I don't?"

Bathroom Monologue: Same story, different monologue (part I)

The Bloody Blades. The Million Man Army. The Road Hard Men. Frankly, they drank a lot and fought for a living, so they earned many nicknames. None were particularly accurate. They wielded more bludgeons than blades and at their peak their membership was around six hundred and something, nowhere near a million.

They did most any work, and often made up work for themselves when work was thin, to keep the gruesome reputation strong. This sometimes meant razing a village. They killed every man, defiled every woman, and let the children watch.

The children didn’t take kindly to this. Raising an army of vengeance didn’t work well; there were so many of the Bloody Blades, and so few resources with which to pay help. Some tried to hunt down the mercenaries themselves, but they met grim ends.

One, an orphan named Rufus, took an economic root to revenge. He lived well. He started as a merchant’s assistant at twelve and founded his own business as soon as possible. He worked in ports and got things to places faster than others. Expedited delivery made him a small fortune quickly. Investments made him another small fortune. He rubbed the two small fortunes together until they made him a nice big one.

He scouted the countryside for perilous men and perilous tasks, but even when his former townsfolk demanded he raise an army to avenge their parents, he declined.

Instead he found the mercenaries who had wronged him, tracked them to their door and tossed a sack of silver on the stoop. He hired them to kill off the nastiest demon in this trade route – a twenty-five foot storm beast. It sounded challenging but helpful to their reputations, so all six-hundred-and-something of the Million Man Army marched to its mountain lair.

Unfortunately it was not a twenty-five foot storm beast. At fifty-five feet and quite hungry, it was more than they had armed themselves for. It loomed and laughed.

Behind them, Rufus yelled, “Charge!”

Before they could retreat, their prey descended on them.

To their merit they fought the demon to the last man. As wave upon wave of brutal warriors crashed on it, it weakened. Soft spots opened up. Wounds deepened. And soon it was so preoccupied with maiming and digesting the great mercenaries that Rufus was able to walk up its back and drive a stake through its neck.

He took the glory for the kill out of spite, underplaying how many of them there had been. But that was not his revenge. That, according to what he told one fellow orphan, “was hiring them to go kill themselves.”

Bathroom Monologue: Same story, different monologue (part Alpha)

I know what you're asking yourselves.

“How did that scrawny, six-foot pretty boy subjugate a giant storm demon?”

I’ll tell you how. He hired six hundred and sixty six mercenaries from the darkest holes in the region to charge at it.

Now, it killed them. Boy, did it ever kill them. It killed them and killed them and killed them.

In doing so, it grew tired. Near the end it was too tired to stop the pretty-boy from jumping on its back and driving a stake through its neck.

It was a wise investment, for not only did he subjugate the demon, but he didn't have to pay a single man his wages.

Bathroom Monologue: Same story, different monologue (part A)

Gungnir was this great demon who sat atop the mountain with claws like arrows and of lightning. He challenged anyone to duel him in single combat. Many aspiring knights tried and fell. He was ferocious and wielded an element. It also helped that these duels always happened at the top of his mountain and his adversary was generally exhausted from the climb when Gungnir the duel was on.

Rufus Osbourne didn’t take kindly to this demon that often interrupted his cross-mountain caravans of goods. So he hired the biggest, rudest band of mercenaries on the continent and had them climb up the mountain ahead of him.

He ordered his men to charge immediately, and one-by-one Gungnir dueled them to death. As battles passed, the men caught their breath. By evening Gungnir was fighting well-rested barbarians. Still, the demon slew them, but it wore itself to the bone doing so. With the infernal creature so tired its sparking head now barely glowed, Rufus strode up and announced more duel.

And that is why Gungnir is not at the top of the mountain anymore.

Three Bathroom Monologues to Flashshot

Three currently unpublished Bathroom Monologues have been accepted for e-publication by Flashshot and should appear later this year or in early 2009. The stories are "There's No War Like Snow War," about an insurrection of snow men, "Bathroom in the Mall of America," an over-literal reimagining of the Mall of America in Washington D.C., and "Here Lies John Wiswell," about the demise of yours truly.

You can visit Flashshot every day for fresh micro-fiction from one author or another. The URL is: http://www.gwthomas.org/flashshotindex.htm.

Cheers,
John Wiswell

Bathroom Monologue: Same story, different monologue (part 1)

Everyone on the battlefield hated Rufus. He was a pretty boy, unscarred, often showing up with no armor. He today he fought in a pinstripe suit, his spear in one hand, the other holding a cell phone to his ear –and he paid more attention to the cell.

That would have been fine if Rufus would have had the decency to die and make a good example of people who took warfare seriously, but instead he was good. Great. Dispiritingly great, in that cinematic way where his would opponents would look around for a camera and wire crew, figuring he couldn’t really be doing this.

He would bound over a man, kick his lord from his horse, skewer his henchmen, then poll-vault off of them and to the next horse – all while texting with one thumb.

He was an acrobat who never exercised, a warrior who never sparred. When he met a challenging opponent they would cross weapons and his spear would spark with lightning, frying the other man.

They said all his gifts of combat came through his weapon, that it was the broken spirit of a demon and that it guided his body in battle. Though how the heck he’d come by it was a mystery to anyone, including his squad. There were rumors he sold his soul for it on eBay.

Bathroom Monologue: Hash It Out

This would cast off the misconceptions about marijuana in modern society. They would publish the Great American Novel, fueled by kind bud. It would be printed on hemp paper with adhesive extracts from the herb. And the novel wouldn’t just be about intelligent people on pot – it would be written by one. Tyrese would smoke a bowl for every writing session, every night until the rough draft was done. Every word would come out of the ether of smoke. The editors would likewise mark up the manuscript in altered states.

The obvious ending is that they didn’t write the book. They scribbled on a couple of pages and got the munchies.

But that’s not true. Tyrese kept Doritos in his desk drawer to ensure devotion to the typewriter. The manuscript was finished on time.

Well then conservative publishers denied their work and blocked the book.

Untrue. A California publisher actually gave them a sizable advance, and the editors of High Times promised at least a semi-favorable review sight-unseen.

Were they busted?

No. The cop was selling to them under the counter.

So what did happen?

The book sucked. The writing was of poor quality and the plot didn’t develop. It had pacing issues and the themes didn’t catch.

It happens to tens of thousands of novels without mind-altering substances every year. Did you think pot would change it?