Saturday, April 17, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Cracked Window
"Hey there, this is McCoy. I need a new window. ... Yes, a bulletproof window. Three feet by five feet. ... No, there isn’t a problem. There wasn’t a problem. It’s been hot lately is all. No “cleaners” necessary.... “Hot” was not code for something! It’s downright tranquil here. Just never tell a troll to go crack a window."
Friday, April 16, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Certainty in Mystery
Ten minutes later, Samuel caught up with Dr. Cooth. He spilled into the laboratory, tripping over himself as he cried, “Doctor, the murderer has struck again! The cook has been slain!”
“I know,” replied Dr. Cooth, unscrewing the silencer from the gun in his left hand. It was a custom German-made lefty pistol with a polished oak stock, like all of Dr. Cooth’s specially made left-handed goods. At his feet lay Madame Boudeau, blood pooling from under her slumped form and seeping back into her white cotton chemise.
“Doctor…” Samuel shook his head, back towards the door. “No, it can’t be! After all the years of wrestling criminals, you yourself have succumbed…”
“Not quite.”
The doctor pocketed the silencer and stepped away from Mrs. Boudeau, freshly polished shoes avoiding potential stains.
“I’ve suspected it for years, but today I’m certain. All the bizarre and elaborate murders I’ve solved? No one else in the country has ever heard of such ludicrous cases. The man who murdered his wife while having his identical twin stand in for him at a dinner party as an alibi? The illusion of the ghost dog at that mansion? They all had one mastermind.”
Samuel had one hand on the doorframe, but could not flee. His eyes appealed to Dr. Cooth to not be this mastermind of which he spoke.
“You solved those, Doctor. You brought wicked men and women to justice.” His voice trembled as he tried to assure them both, “You are a good man.”
“Years of murders that made no sense, and somehow I always found the truth.”
He shook his head in memory of Mrs. Boudeau, though he was not mourning for her. His gun still smoked.
“Every case was almost purposefully obtuse. And this morning? Our host, Alistair Boudeau, stabbed to death with his own sword collection in a room where all the doors and windows were locked from the inside? No trap doors, not even one of those ridiculous revolving bookcases. And done at a time when only you and your fiancé were together, leaving five suspects. All preposterous!”
Now Dr. Cooth paced around Mrs. Boudeau’s body, feet walking him in circles while his gaze fixed on his loyal assistant.
“That is when I realized: the killer has never been a madman or scheming woman, but an author. No other detective deals with such cases, and abroad they even joke that I attract them. There is no rational explanation save that these have all been mystery novels, set up by a deviant writer who slaughters us for amusement. His method is obvious hack: he kills, basks in the mourning, kills again, and spins out an explanation from where there could have been none.”
“Doctor?”
Dr. Cooth shook the gun at Samuel like a steel index finger.
“In all of his plots there come times like this – when everyone is a suspect, little motive is present, and the method makes no particular sense. He hasn’t decided who did it yet and will soon go back to edit it in. The truth is merely a rough draft, and here is where we can stop him. For whoever the author was going to decide to make the killer has already been killed.”
“No, Doctor!” Samuel shook his head. “You haven’t killed all of them…?”
“All but your sweet Marianne, Samuel. You can vouch for each other’s innocence – the author cannot damn you. But the cook, the maid, Mr. Starling from London and Doris Boudeau? Between them and the fifth unaccounted-for suspect, I have a 100% chance of having delivered justice.”
“Doctor…” Samuel stammered, tears already lining the bottoms of his eyes. “I never knew you were so sick a man.”
“Sick but soon to be cured, Samuel. No more of these insipid, implausible murder cases. For I, too, was alone when the author struck. I vividly remember dozing in the garden, roses between my fingers at the time of the crime, but he will soon rewrite that. We must ensure justice, and we cannot put it past this depraved writer to turn the detective into the killer.”
Dr. Cooth put the warm muzzle under his chin and smiled to Samuel one last time.
“I know,” replied Dr. Cooth, unscrewing the silencer from the gun in his left hand. It was a custom German-made lefty pistol with a polished oak stock, like all of Dr. Cooth’s specially made left-handed goods. At his feet lay Madame Boudeau, blood pooling from under her slumped form and seeping back into her white cotton chemise.
“Doctor…” Samuel shook his head, back towards the door. “No, it can’t be! After all the years of wrestling criminals, you yourself have succumbed…”
“Not quite.”
The doctor pocketed the silencer and stepped away from Mrs. Boudeau, freshly polished shoes avoiding potential stains.
“I’ve suspected it for years, but today I’m certain. All the bizarre and elaborate murders I’ve solved? No one else in the country has ever heard of such ludicrous cases. The man who murdered his wife while having his identical twin stand in for him at a dinner party as an alibi? The illusion of the ghost dog at that mansion? They all had one mastermind.”
Samuel had one hand on the doorframe, but could not flee. His eyes appealed to Dr. Cooth to not be this mastermind of which he spoke.
“You solved those, Doctor. You brought wicked men and women to justice.” His voice trembled as he tried to assure them both, “You are a good man.”
“Years of murders that made no sense, and somehow I always found the truth.”
He shook his head in memory of Mrs. Boudeau, though he was not mourning for her. His gun still smoked.
“Every case was almost purposefully obtuse. And this morning? Our host, Alistair Boudeau, stabbed to death with his own sword collection in a room where all the doors and windows were locked from the inside? No trap doors, not even one of those ridiculous revolving bookcases. And done at a time when only you and your fiancé were together, leaving five suspects. All preposterous!”
Now Dr. Cooth paced around Mrs. Boudeau’s body, feet walking him in circles while his gaze fixed on his loyal assistant.
“That is when I realized: the killer has never been a madman or scheming woman, but an author. No other detective deals with such cases, and abroad they even joke that I attract them. There is no rational explanation save that these have all been mystery novels, set up by a deviant writer who slaughters us for amusement. His method is obvious hack: he kills, basks in the mourning, kills again, and spins out an explanation from where there could have been none.”
“Doctor?”
Dr. Cooth shook the gun at Samuel like a steel index finger.
“In all of his plots there come times like this – when everyone is a suspect, little motive is present, and the method makes no particular sense. He hasn’t decided who did it yet and will soon go back to edit it in. The truth is merely a rough draft, and here is where we can stop him. For whoever the author was going to decide to make the killer has already been killed.”
“No, Doctor!” Samuel shook his head. “You haven’t killed all of them…?”
“All but your sweet Marianne, Samuel. You can vouch for each other’s innocence – the author cannot damn you. But the cook, the maid, Mr. Starling from London and Doris Boudeau? Between them and the fifth unaccounted-for suspect, I have a 100% chance of having delivered justice.”
“Doctor…” Samuel stammered, tears already lining the bottoms of his eyes. “I never knew you were so sick a man.”
“Sick but soon to be cured, Samuel. No more of these insipid, implausible murder cases. For I, too, was alone when the author struck. I vividly remember dozing in the garden, roses between my fingers at the time of the crime, but he will soon rewrite that. We must ensure justice, and we cannot put it past this depraved writer to turn the detective into the killer.”
Dr. Cooth put the warm muzzle under his chin and smiled to Samuel one last time.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: "I was just expected to organize a role play event with little details, and an hour to pull it off" -A friend
"I was just expected to organize a role play event with little details, and an hour to pull it off" -A friend, complaining about a failed roleplaying group
Hatiel has kidnapped everyone and stuck them in a pocket dimension. It's an actual giant pocket.
The boss fight is against a sentient pack of gum who wants to taste them for once. Miscellaneous treasure can be found including a ring of invisibility, though that won't help you much given that it's pitch black in there. It's a pocket, after all.
The tank has been turned into a crippled walrus with only one tusk. A short, stubby tusk that all the ladies say is unimpressive.
Also, Hatiel doesn't give a crap that nobody knows who he is or that his alternate dimension scenario seems mind-bendingly impossible. Anyone who is important already knows him and knows he’d make it work. Learning who he is will be viewed as being a poser and will be punished by having the pocket set on fire.
Okay: three, two, one. Go.
Hatiel has kidnapped everyone and stuck them in a pocket dimension. It's an actual giant pocket.
The boss fight is against a sentient pack of gum who wants to taste them for once. Miscellaneous treasure can be found including a ring of invisibility, though that won't help you much given that it's pitch black in there. It's a pocket, after all.
The tank has been turned into a crippled walrus with only one tusk. A short, stubby tusk that all the ladies say is unimpressive.
Also, Hatiel doesn't give a crap that nobody knows who he is or that his alternate dimension scenario seems mind-bendingly impossible. Anyone who is important already knows him and knows he’d make it work. Learning who he is will be viewed as being a poser and will be punished by having the pocket set on fire.
Okay: three, two, one. Go.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Two Cannibal Giants
“I must stress: these are not allegories,” the tour guide said, leading her group between the two giant corpses. They were big beyond recognition, one flabby arm from each mashed together, forming a natural, if putrid, valley of flesh.
“Liberalism and Conservatism were once majestic creatures. Natural enemies, they fought each other on a daily basis. While happy to eat little anarchies and heresies, these super-predators mostly ate each other.
“They would tear off hunks of flesh from each other to sustain themselves. There have never been two beasts quite like them, able to survive by eating while not killing their prey, and simultaneously survive being eaten. This was apex parasitism. For centuries we thought them immortal.”
“But they’re dead,” said a teen in the group, one of those at the age where missing the point in favor of pith seems the like utter genius.
The teen’s mother pushed him to stand next to one giant’s elbow. Which giant, she didn’t care. She just wanted a picture of her son in the shadow of so huge a joint.
“Obviously they weren’t immortal,” said the tour guide. “But what killed them is the most interesting thing. They picked the nits off of each other. They licked the filth. See how their skin is completely clean? They died sucking on each other, looking for just a little more.”
The tour looked up and snapped photos. The valley of two titanic arms was almost pristine, as though the ancient carcasses still cleaned each other.
“They sucked each other so much that in time they were made up of the same things. Originally Conservatism couldn’t digest gay marriage, but eventually its innards spawned gay organs. Some went into denial and functioned half-heartedly, but others naturalized and swelled into simply conservative gay organs.
“Still other organs were torn out entirely, like the time Liberalism tore out Conservatism’s compassionate lung. It already had plenty of compassionate lungs, but Liberalism wanted that one too. It swallowed it, naturalized it, and soon had the same traits.
“They were too big to mind biological paradoxes. So what if organs were working against each other? One kidney was militantly secular while two others had lunch with the Pope. Both of them became so fat and so inconsistent that anything they licked or bit out of their prey could survive inside them. It was all about the cells.”
Since the teen looked bored, the tour guide pinched his cheek. She held up thumb and forefinger, as though she held a few crucial cheek cells there, somewhere beneath visibility.
“Cells are the little individuals that make up an animal, that wanted national healthcare but also wanted to eradicate the tax code. Did these cells belong in Liberalism or Consvervatism? They were both, which was why the beasts could eat other. They were entirely compatible. But insisting on eating each other until no cell belonged in one or the other is what did it. Eventually these transmuting cells went cancerous. The beasts got so big and meaningless that their bodies collapsed. That’s how they died.”
The teen frowned up at the valley of flesh.
“Are they really gone?”
“Not entirely,” said the guide. “The smell lingers.”
“Liberalism and Conservatism were once majestic creatures. Natural enemies, they fought each other on a daily basis. While happy to eat little anarchies and heresies, these super-predators mostly ate each other.
“They would tear off hunks of flesh from each other to sustain themselves. There have never been two beasts quite like them, able to survive by eating while not killing their prey, and simultaneously survive being eaten. This was apex parasitism. For centuries we thought them immortal.”
“But they’re dead,” said a teen in the group, one of those at the age where missing the point in favor of pith seems the like utter genius.
The teen’s mother pushed him to stand next to one giant’s elbow. Which giant, she didn’t care. She just wanted a picture of her son in the shadow of so huge a joint.
“Obviously they weren’t immortal,” said the tour guide. “But what killed them is the most interesting thing. They picked the nits off of each other. They licked the filth. See how their skin is completely clean? They died sucking on each other, looking for just a little more.”
The tour looked up and snapped photos. The valley of two titanic arms was almost pristine, as though the ancient carcasses still cleaned each other.
“They sucked each other so much that in time they were made up of the same things. Originally Conservatism couldn’t digest gay marriage, but eventually its innards spawned gay organs. Some went into denial and functioned half-heartedly, but others naturalized and swelled into simply conservative gay organs.
“Still other organs were torn out entirely, like the time Liberalism tore out Conservatism’s compassionate lung. It already had plenty of compassionate lungs, but Liberalism wanted that one too. It swallowed it, naturalized it, and soon had the same traits.
“They were too big to mind biological paradoxes. So what if organs were working against each other? One kidney was militantly secular while two others had lunch with the Pope. Both of them became so fat and so inconsistent that anything they licked or bit out of their prey could survive inside them. It was all about the cells.”
Since the teen looked bored, the tour guide pinched his cheek. She held up thumb and forefinger, as though she held a few crucial cheek cells there, somewhere beneath visibility.
“Cells are the little individuals that make up an animal, that wanted national healthcare but also wanted to eradicate the tax code. Did these cells belong in Liberalism or Consvervatism? They were both, which was why the beasts could eat other. They were entirely compatible. But insisting on eating each other until no cell belonged in one or the other is what did it. Eventually these transmuting cells went cancerous. The beasts got so big and meaningless that their bodies collapsed. That’s how they died.”
The teen frowned up at the valley of flesh.
“Are they really gone?”
“Not entirely,” said the guide. “The smell lingers.”
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: The Lies Parents Tell
“Mom and Dad are going to be so happy!”
“They better be! This was our whole allowance!” Shirley complained as she and Mandy struggled to keep the frozen turkey aloft. The five block walk home from the supermarket had lined it with frost, but it still felt as hard as stone. They had trouble believing the thing ever softened up into a turkey dinner.
“They’ll be so proud they’ll give all three of us a raise!” Mark declared. He pointed to the linoleum floor. Shirley and Mandy looked at each other, then dropped the turkey. It fell with a crack that made all three children tense up.
Mark dove to the floor and rolled the turkey out of the way. It had only made a slight dent in the linoleum. He hugged the frozen bird in relief.
Mandy knelt and tried to smooth out the dent in the floor.
“So cough it up,” said Shirley. “What’s the big plan for cooking it when we can’t work an oven?”
Mark brightened, then looked at his sisters with uncommon intensity. “Girls, we don’t need an oven.”
“You need an oven to cook turkey, stupid!”
“No, you just need heat!” Mark scrambled over to the dish washer, which he’d made a big deal of learning to work last week. He couldn’t empty the top tray, but he declared himself master of pouring the soap in.
“Read this,” he commanded, pointing to one of the buttons.
The girls squinted.
“San…”
“Sanger?”
“Sainterary?”
He stomped. “Sanitary Heat! It get so hot that any germs on your plate die.”
Shirley pouted in thought, but Mandy perked up.
“And the germs on a plate come from food!”
“Exactly! So it’ll cook the turkey and kill all the germs.”
“No way.” Shirley folded her arms like Mom did when Dad was going to sleep on the couch. “If that was true, why would we have an oven?”
The kids looked at the oven. Mark shrugged.
“They probably bought it without knowing about Sanitary Heat.”
“But they still use it all the time.”
“To make themselves feel better about having it. It probably cost a ton.”
Mandy shook her head. “The lies parents tell.”
“Now come on,” Mark said, returning to the turkey. He tried to roll it towards the dish washer, like a massive snowball. “We need to get it finished before they get home. They’re going to be so surprised.”
“They better be! This was our whole allowance!” Shirley complained as she and Mandy struggled to keep the frozen turkey aloft. The five block walk home from the supermarket had lined it with frost, but it still felt as hard as stone. They had trouble believing the thing ever softened up into a turkey dinner.
“They’ll be so proud they’ll give all three of us a raise!” Mark declared. He pointed to the linoleum floor. Shirley and Mandy looked at each other, then dropped the turkey. It fell with a crack that made all three children tense up.
Mark dove to the floor and rolled the turkey out of the way. It had only made a slight dent in the linoleum. He hugged the frozen bird in relief.
Mandy knelt and tried to smooth out the dent in the floor.
“So cough it up,” said Shirley. “What’s the big plan for cooking it when we can’t work an oven?”
Mark brightened, then looked at his sisters with uncommon intensity. “Girls, we don’t need an oven.”
“You need an oven to cook turkey, stupid!”
“No, you just need heat!” Mark scrambled over to the dish washer, which he’d made a big deal of learning to work last week. He couldn’t empty the top tray, but he declared himself master of pouring the soap in.
“Read this,” he commanded, pointing to one of the buttons.
The girls squinted.
“San…”
“Sanger?”
“Sainterary?”
He stomped. “Sanitary Heat! It get so hot that any germs on your plate die.”
Shirley pouted in thought, but Mandy perked up.
“And the germs on a plate come from food!”
“Exactly! So it’ll cook the turkey and kill all the germs.”
“No way.” Shirley folded her arms like Mom did when Dad was going to sleep on the couch. “If that was true, why would we have an oven?”
The kids looked at the oven. Mark shrugged.
“They probably bought it without knowing about Sanitary Heat.”
“But they still use it all the time.”
“To make themselves feel better about having it. It probably cost a ton.”
Mandy shook her head. “The lies parents tell.”
“Now come on,” Mark said, returning to the turkey. He tried to roll it towards the dish washer, like a massive snowball. “We need to get it finished before they get home. They’re going to be so surprised.”
Monday, April 12, 2010
Magic, Smoke and Mirrors at Thaumatrope
The busiest publishing "week" of my life ends today, Monday. That's an oblong week. My final external publication is at Thaumatrope.
Today's piece is a super-short about magic, smoke and mirrors. You can read it on Thaumatrope's Twitter feed by clicking here. It's only one tweet long.
Today's piece is a super-short about magic, smoke and mirrors. You can read it on Thaumatrope's Twitter feed by clicking here. It's only one tweet long.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Quilted For Your Pleasure: Yep
Click the above image to view today's comic.
Today's is the third of what I'm calling Sunday Funnies: Quilted for Your Pleasure. The script for the above cartoon was composed in my bathroom, then drawn by artist Max Cantor. I still count it as a Bathroom Monologue.
If Sunday Funnies get enough positive response we might make them a weekly feature. All feedback is welcome. Seriously. Max will wet himself if you click 'This is OK.'
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Alligators by Twitter on… Twitter?
Today is a big experiment. Flash Fiction Online is live-tweeting “Alligators by Twitter,” my story about a man whose house is attacked by burrowing alligators. He tells it to you via tweets from his cell.
Now FFO is making an actual Twitter feed for him. The story runs all today on the very medium it makes fun of.
You can follow @flashfictionmag to have the story delivered right into your tweet stream.
Alternatively, for people not on Twitter or who want to see the whole thing uninterrupted by what their best friends are eating and watching on TV, you can read it as it’s updated here: http://twitter.com/holegatorguy
Massive thanks go out to the people at FFO for adapting it like this. It should be a lot of fun.
Now FFO is making an actual Twitter feed for him. The story runs all today on the very medium it makes fun of.
You can follow @flashfictionmag to have the story delivered right into your tweet stream.
Alternatively, for people not on Twitter or who want to see the whole thing uninterrupted by what their best friends are eating and watching on TV, you can read it as it’s updated here: http://twitter.com/holegatorguy
Massive thanks go out to the people at FFO for adapting it like this. It should be a lot of fun.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: It’s its own form of love
"Audition nannies immediately. I’ve given it three months and I simply don’t love them, Claris. I don’t have the maternal instinct. They’re loud, smelly, demanding things. Fortunately I’ve got the one thing they need more than a mother’s love: money. And along with all the things I’m going to make sure they never go without, I’m buying them that love. Select nannies from pools of barren women, ones who are willing to live in and answer at all hours. Wet nurses as well as ones who will sign twenty-year contracts to look after them into college. Financially and emotionally vulnerable women who will love them as much as I should. Then audition them with the kids. I won’t have some needy bitch who doesn’t “click” with the babies. With my babies. I should love them, but putting this roof over their heads, feeding them, and ensuring someone does care for them until they’re on their own will have to be enough. It’s its own form of love, I suppose."
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wiswell Joins the Interblog Choose Your Own Adventure
The busiest week of my publishing life continues. You've already seen my work at Flash Fiction Online and Every Day Fiction. Come back Saturday for a special with Twitter. But today I'm partaking in a game. Barry Northern has organized a Choose Your Own Adventure serial. He wrote the first entry, then left it with a branch. Erin Cole and Jodi MacArthur continued from there, writing the story in two different directions, then each ending with their own branches for four more writers to continue. I am one of those four, following a branch from the good Ms. Cole. Readers can go to Mr. Northern's site and begin reading at will, following whatever path they choose - with a different writer taking them through each chapter. Here's my entry, with the kids getting stuck in the bus with the evil alien driver.
Michael stared at those fangs, pearl white and hooked. The Mandigan bus driver looked back at him, grinning wider and revealing a second row of fish hook-like teeth. Its eyes flashed to Sarah, then scanned the other rows. It snapped its fingers and the other children turned with clockwork precision.
"Mind implants didn't take on two of you, eh?" asked the bus driver as the other students began marching out of the bus in single file. "Fine."
A tentacle emerged from the bus driver's sleeve and wrapped around the bus radio receiver. It held the receiver up to its mouth and said, "Two students just flunked out. Sending them to the nurse's office."
The last of the children waddled past the bus driver and it pulled the leaver, the door squeeling shut. The children all proceeded into the warehouse.
"Where are you taking them?" Sarah yelled.
"Where I always take you. School." It gestured to the warehouse with another tentacle. "Does it look different to you today? They should probably mow the lawn."
Michael shook his head furiously. He and Sarah piled onto their seat, pressing against the window as though this would protect them from the Mandigan. It waited by the wheel, in no apparent hurry to catch them. They fiddled with the latches for the window, but it wouldn't budge. If only Jackson were here.
"Nurse's office ready," squawked the radio.
"Ten-four," replied the bus driver.
Every part of Michael's body tingled. It felt like his leg had fallen asleep, and every other part of him had joined in. He looked down at his hands. They sparkled like crystal.
Sarah cried out and Michael looked over. She was sparkling, too, all bright pink and red. They grabbed at each other, then disappeared.
The next thing Michael knew, he was in a rusty, dusty old room. There were several padded tables with belts and straps attached.
"Oh my gosh," Sarah panted behind him. She clutched at herself, looking around the room with wide eyes. "Where are we?"
"I think this is upstairs in that warehouse," Michael said, looking over her head. There were windows in the back of the room that gave a view that was at least two stories up, but it looked like there was a fire escape.
"So you two need a check-up?" asked a Mandigan, looming over one of the tables. This one wore only a white lap coat and Coke-bottle glasses.
"Stay back!" Michael said, inching towards the window. He noticed one of the tables had a tarp over it, and something shaped like a person was clearly under it. It was not moving.
"I told you the next one would say that!" exclaimed a second Mandigan in another white lab coat. This one had no glasses and four black, beady eyes. "That's five bucks."
Glasses Mandigan grumbled and slapped a fiver into No-Glasses' tentacle.
"So what do you advise for them?" Glasses asked, staring at them through its thick lenses.
"If they're resistant?" No-Glasses thought aloud. "Probably the kidneys. A lot builds up in there."
"Kidney extraction?" Glasses asked. "Okay. They have three of those, right?"
"They only have two kidneys."
"Ohh, good idea." Glasses grinned with its mouth of fish hook teeth. :We'll say they have two and keep the third for the black market."
"No you fool. They only have two kidneys."
Sarah tugged on Michael's collar. He hadn't even realized that he'd been standing still, staring either at the tarp or the Mandigans all this time. Sarah's eyes remained wide with fear, but he gestured for him them to go in the direction of the fire escape. The two moved excruciatingly slowly as the Mandigans bickered, sneakers sliding along the floor, not even taking full steps.
"Listen," Glasses continued. "I went to veterinary school. I know they have more than two of those juice-dispensing digestabobs."
"You're thinking of the pancreas."
"No I'm not! You could never get away with stealing a pancreas. You might as well steal one of their hearts and pretend it only had one."
"They do only have one!"
"Have you even cut open a human before?"
"Of course I have."
"Really? Or were they just lab monkeys?"
"Mostly monkeys."
"They were all two-kidneyed monkeys, weren't they?"
"Not everybody can go to a big university! I come from modest... hey, where are you going?"
Here I tag out. What happens next?
1) Do the kids make it to the window? Coming soon.
or
2) Are they stuck? Written by Nicole Hadaway.
Michael stared at those fangs, pearl white and hooked. The Mandigan bus driver looked back at him, grinning wider and revealing a second row of fish hook-like teeth. Its eyes flashed to Sarah, then scanned the other rows. It snapped its fingers and the other children turned with clockwork precision.
"Mind implants didn't take on two of you, eh?" asked the bus driver as the other students began marching out of the bus in single file. "Fine."
A tentacle emerged from the bus driver's sleeve and wrapped around the bus radio receiver. It held the receiver up to its mouth and said, "Two students just flunked out. Sending them to the nurse's office."
The last of the children waddled past the bus driver and it pulled the leaver, the door squeeling shut. The children all proceeded into the warehouse.
"Where are you taking them?" Sarah yelled.
"Where I always take you. School." It gestured to the warehouse with another tentacle. "Does it look different to you today? They should probably mow the lawn."
Michael shook his head furiously. He and Sarah piled onto their seat, pressing against the window as though this would protect them from the Mandigan. It waited by the wheel, in no apparent hurry to catch them. They fiddled with the latches for the window, but it wouldn't budge. If only Jackson were here.
"Nurse's office ready," squawked the radio.
"Ten-four," replied the bus driver.
Every part of Michael's body tingled. It felt like his leg had fallen asleep, and every other part of him had joined in. He looked down at his hands. They sparkled like crystal.
Sarah cried out and Michael looked over. She was sparkling, too, all bright pink and red. They grabbed at each other, then disappeared.
The next thing Michael knew, he was in a rusty, dusty old room. There were several padded tables with belts and straps attached.
"Oh my gosh," Sarah panted behind him. She clutched at herself, looking around the room with wide eyes. "Where are we?"
"I think this is upstairs in that warehouse," Michael said, looking over her head. There were windows in the back of the room that gave a view that was at least two stories up, but it looked like there was a fire escape.
"So you two need a check-up?" asked a Mandigan, looming over one of the tables. This one wore only a white lap coat and Coke-bottle glasses.
"Stay back!" Michael said, inching towards the window. He noticed one of the tables had a tarp over it, and something shaped like a person was clearly under it. It was not moving.
"I told you the next one would say that!" exclaimed a second Mandigan in another white lab coat. This one had no glasses and four black, beady eyes. "That's five bucks."
Glasses Mandigan grumbled and slapped a fiver into No-Glasses' tentacle.
"So what do you advise for them?" Glasses asked, staring at them through its thick lenses.
"If they're resistant?" No-Glasses thought aloud. "Probably the kidneys. A lot builds up in there."
"Kidney extraction?" Glasses asked. "Okay. They have three of those, right?"
"They only have two kidneys."
"Ohh, good idea." Glasses grinned with its mouth of fish hook teeth. :We'll say they have two and keep the third for the black market."
"No you fool. They only have two kidneys."
Sarah tugged on Michael's collar. He hadn't even realized that he'd been standing still, staring either at the tarp or the Mandigans all this time. Sarah's eyes remained wide with fear, but he gestured for him them to go in the direction of the fire escape. The two moved excruciatingly slowly as the Mandigans bickered, sneakers sliding along the floor, not even taking full steps.
"Listen," Glasses continued. "I went to veterinary school. I know they have more than two of those juice-dispensing digestabobs."
"You're thinking of the pancreas."
"No I'm not! You could never get away with stealing a pancreas. You might as well steal one of their hearts and pretend it only had one."
"They do only have one!"
"Have you even cut open a human before?"
"Of course I have."
"Really? Or were they just lab monkeys?"
"Mostly monkeys."
"They were all two-kidneyed monkeys, weren't they?"
"Not everybody can go to a big university! I come from modest... hey, where are you going?"
Here I tag out. What happens next?
1) Do the kids make it to the window? Coming soon.
or
2) Are they stuck? Written by Nicole Hadaway.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: What did I even say?
The captain handed him a blanket. The survivor pulled it around his shivering shoulders.
"So you were stuck in the cargo hold?"
"Yeah.” The survivor nodded, rubbing the blanket on his hair to dry it. “I was looking for my luggage. My wife packed some really nice waterpoofed socks."
The survivor held up his feet. Only one foot had a sock on it. The other was bare and substantially wetter.
Both the survivor and the captain frowned at his feet.
"Only have time to put one of them on?"
"Oh crap! I..." The survivor smacked his face. "You wouldn't believe it."
"I saw you burst out of the cargo hold and float to the surface on a case of pink chew toys. I'll believe about you." The captain looked at the sinking ship. The case of pink chew toys still bobbed near the starboard, heavy box held aloft by bright plastic inflatables.
"Listen, I thought I was drowning," said the survivor.
"That's fine, son. Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"But I recorded a goodbye to my wife and tied it in the other sock!"
"That's a bit romantic."
"I sounded so dumb, though! I was babbling about plants and Old Yeller. Oh my God. If anybody ever finds that..."
The captain narrowed him with a hard gaze. "Son, I just lost my ship. A little perspective will keep you from getting kicked out of the lifeboat tonight."
The survivor sunk in his seat, resting a cheek in his palm.
"Man, what did I even say?"
"So you were stuck in the cargo hold?"
"Yeah.” The survivor nodded, rubbing the blanket on his hair to dry it. “I was looking for my luggage. My wife packed some really nice waterpoofed socks."
The survivor held up his feet. Only one foot had a sock on it. The other was bare and substantially wetter.
Both the survivor and the captain frowned at his feet.
"Only have time to put one of them on?"
"Oh crap! I..." The survivor smacked his face. "You wouldn't believe it."
"I saw you burst out of the cargo hold and float to the surface on a case of pink chew toys. I'll believe about you." The captain looked at the sinking ship. The case of pink chew toys still bobbed near the starboard, heavy box held aloft by bright plastic inflatables.
"Listen, I thought I was drowning," said the survivor.
"That's fine, son. Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"But I recorded a goodbye to my wife and tied it in the other sock!"
"That's a bit romantic."
"I sounded so dumb, though! I was babbling about plants and Old Yeller. Oh my God. If anybody ever finds that..."
The captain narrowed him with a hard gaze. "Son, I just lost my ship. A little perspective will keep you from getting kicked out of the lifeboat tonight."
The survivor sunk in his seat, resting a cheek in his palm.
"Man, what did I even say?"
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Computer Education at Every Day Fiction
Today's Bathroom Monologue is over at Every Day Fiction.
The story is "Computer Education." It follows a class of newly-manufactured units through a museum of computer history. Something vital is missing from that history. Only one little unit has an inkling as to what.
Feel free to leave comments here or on the Every Day Fiction site. All thoughts and feedback are welcome.
You can read John Wiswell's Computer Education by clicking on any of the underlined text here.
The story is "Computer Education." It follows a class of newly-manufactured units through a museum of computer history. Something vital is missing from that history. Only one little unit has an inkling as to what.
Feel free to leave comments here or on the Every Day Fiction site. All thoughts and feedback are welcome.
You can read John Wiswell's Computer Education by clicking on any of the underlined text here.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: From Below, with Love
Hey honey. If you get this, I drowned. Or, I guess I could make it out of here, and then somebody’ll find the wreckage and return the tape recorder to us. In which case, way to go, future me. I really thought I was going to die in here.
If there is no future me, then I drowned. I’m stuck in the cargo hold. Not sure why. The whole place lurched and the door wrenched shut. Can’t budge it, and now water is flooding in. I assume we’re going down. Because of that, I have some things I want to tell you.
Firstly, the waterproof socks you bought me are amazing. Like, they really work. I’m only in a couple inches of water right now, but I am bone dry. I’m going to tie the tape recorder in one so it will survive for you. That’s the only way you could listen to this, so why bother with hypotheticals other than these are really damned good waterproof socks?
Um. Other things. Let’s see.
Clearly you insisting I take this job was a bad idea. I told you I’d rather just collect unemployment for a while and watch basketball. I’m not blaming you, though. I’m just drowning.
Because I’ve drowned by when you listen to this, please remember to water plants every three days with the green dispenser. It gives the water essential nutrients and its filter is good for another six months. Ask Ted where to buy new filters.
Say hey to Ted for me, too.
God, what else?
Don’t let the kids watch the end of Old Yeller. They’ll cry.
Don’t tell them Santa is dead until they’re at least eight.
You have my full blessing to exploit any death benefits in the tax code. I have no idea about that stuff. Maybe a lawyer can help.
Do not sleep with any lawyers, at least until the kids are eight.
I… I don’t know. I’m really not ready for this, and now my ankles are wet. Dammit. I wish there was a do-over. Ah, Hell with it. Love you honey. Got to go.
If there is no future me, then I drowned. I’m stuck in the cargo hold. Not sure why. The whole place lurched and the door wrenched shut. Can’t budge it, and now water is flooding in. I assume we’re going down. Because of that, I have some things I want to tell you.
Firstly, the waterproof socks you bought me are amazing. Like, they really work. I’m only in a couple inches of water right now, but I am bone dry. I’m going to tie the tape recorder in one so it will survive for you. That’s the only way you could listen to this, so why bother with hypotheticals other than these are really damned good waterproof socks?
Um. Other things. Let’s see.
Clearly you insisting I take this job was a bad idea. I told you I’d rather just collect unemployment for a while and watch basketball. I’m not blaming you, though. I’m just drowning.
Because I’ve drowned by when you listen to this, please remember to water plants every three days with the green dispenser. It gives the water essential nutrients and its filter is good for another six months. Ask Ted where to buy new filters.
Say hey to Ted for me, too.
God, what else?
Don’t let the kids watch the end of Old Yeller. They’ll cry.
Don’t tell them Santa is dead until they’re at least eight.
You have my full blessing to exploit any death benefits in the tax code. I have no idea about that stuff. Maybe a lawyer can help.
Do not sleep with any lawyers, at least until the kids are eight.
I… I don’t know. I’m really not ready for this, and now my ankles are wet. Dammit. I wish there was a do-over. Ah, Hell with it. Love you honey. Got to go.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Friend wants a haiku about the Warhammer orcs, which sprouted from mushrooms and exist in Medieval and Cosmic Fantasy
Emerged from fungi,
sprouted arms and legs. Forged swords.
Later? Built spaceships.
sprouted arms and legs. Forged swords.
Later? Built spaceships.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Alligators by Twitter on Flash Fiction Online
"Alligators by Twitter" is over on Flash Fiction Online as part of their April issue.
Alligators by Twitter is the story of a man whose house is attacked by burrowing alligators, tweeted from his Blackberry during the siege.
Flash Fiction Online is an extremely popular venue for flash fiction. They've been at it so long that... well, they managed to get that name before anyone else. That's a while. This is my first pro-rate sale and I'm enormously grateful to them.
You can leave Comments here or at FFO. Thank you for reading.
You can read John Wiswell's "Alligators by Twitter" by clicking this link.
Alligators by Twitter is the story of a man whose house is attacked by burrowing alligators, tweeted from his Blackberry during the siege.
Flash Fiction Online is an extremely popular venue for flash fiction. They've been at it so long that... well, they managed to get that name before anyone else. That's a while. This is my first pro-rate sale and I'm enormously grateful to them.
You can leave Comments here or at FFO. Thank you for reading.
You can read John Wiswell's "Alligators by Twitter" by clicking this link.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Of Turnips, Giants and Men
The giant raised his tree, preparing to club the most recent knight-errant, when a voice caught his attention.
“Pick on someone your own size!”
The giant turned. The knight wasn’t going anywhere with his horse on top of him, and he was kind of curious to see someone his own size for once. He was so big that he couldn’t even wear tarps as loincloths anymore, leaving him eager for competition.
Unfortunately this challenger was human-sized. He was an old man in a cloak with more stains than clean spots, his body supported on a staff.
The giant grumbled, which shook the ground for a good quarter-mile. He liked doing that. It made him feel important.
"I'm bigger than a house. There isn't anyone my size."
The old man spat tobacco at the giant’s feet. "Well maybe that should teach you something.”
"It has." The giant rested on his tree, like a leaning post. "It's taught me I can pick fights with anyone and win. It’s great."
"That's not even a challenge! Of course you can kill some five-foot foot soldier."
"Damn straight I can. But that guy came with a horse."
The giant looked back. The knight-errant was still under his trusty stead, wiggling with admirable vigor.
"You shouldn't be proud of that. There's no effort. You want to be proud, hoe my field."
The giant turned back to him and scrutinized the old man.
"Hoe your field?"
"I've got twenty miles of turnips in frozen soil. You want to be impressive? Save my crops."
“I can kill anyone in the world. I also go around naked. No armor. You’re not impressed?”
The giant spread his legs a little further apart. The old man didn’t bother to look up.
“It’s enormous, but my wife says proportionately it’s unimpressive.”
“It’s cold outside,” said the giant, moving so that his gianthood was now hidden behind the tree. “It’s winter.”
“Then put some pants on and pick my crops!”
"I really like picking on people."
"And everyone thinks you're an ass for it."
The giant stiffened.
"They think I'm terrifying!"
"To your face. The second you leave it's, 'What an ass.'"
"Who calls me an ass?"
"Pick my crops and I’ll tell you!"
"You really think this is going to work on me? Just because I'm gigantic doesn't mean I'm pea-brained. You’re stereotyping."
"You can eat me if you want. Still going to be an ass who wasted his gifts essentially picking fights with the handicapped."
The giant scratched his chin. It was more scar tissue than beard these days. He kind of missed the beard.
"Pulling vegetables from frozen soil sounds hard."
"It is,” said the old man. “That's why it'll be satisfying. It's an actual challenge for your pantsless grandeur."
"But it also seems boring. Not like a battle to the death."
“You mean if you can’t do it you’ll say it’s boring as a ruse to quit?”
“Hey. I can do it.”
“I dare you to prove it.”
They stared each other down. By that I mean the giant actually got on all fours to stare into the old man’s face. The old man didn’t flinch. Three feet away, the giant realized his challenger was blind.
The giant snorted out a cloud of winter mist. It engulfed the old man, then drifted into the sky to join the normal clouds.
“Fine. But if it’s boring, I’ll eat you.”
The old man tapped his staff around on the hard ground, getting his bearings to head home.
“Just give me a moment to tell my daughter what your ‘boring’ really means, sissy.”
The giant grimaced, then gave up the grimace since his challenger couldn’t see it. A rejoinder didn’t come to mind, so he hustled to the field, the frozen soil breaking up even as he ran towards it.
“Pick on someone your own size!”
The giant turned. The knight wasn’t going anywhere with his horse on top of him, and he was kind of curious to see someone his own size for once. He was so big that he couldn’t even wear tarps as loincloths anymore, leaving him eager for competition.
Unfortunately this challenger was human-sized. He was an old man in a cloak with more stains than clean spots, his body supported on a staff.
The giant grumbled, which shook the ground for a good quarter-mile. He liked doing that. It made him feel important.
"I'm bigger than a house. There isn't anyone my size."
The old man spat tobacco at the giant’s feet. "Well maybe that should teach you something.”
"It has." The giant rested on his tree, like a leaning post. "It's taught me I can pick fights with anyone and win. It’s great."
"That's not even a challenge! Of course you can kill some five-foot foot soldier."
"Damn straight I can. But that guy came with a horse."
The giant looked back. The knight-errant was still under his trusty stead, wiggling with admirable vigor.
"You shouldn't be proud of that. There's no effort. You want to be proud, hoe my field."
The giant turned back to him and scrutinized the old man.
"Hoe your field?"
"I've got twenty miles of turnips in frozen soil. You want to be impressive? Save my crops."
“I can kill anyone in the world. I also go around naked. No armor. You’re not impressed?”
The giant spread his legs a little further apart. The old man didn’t bother to look up.
“It’s enormous, but my wife says proportionately it’s unimpressive.”
“It’s cold outside,” said the giant, moving so that his gianthood was now hidden behind the tree. “It’s winter.”
“Then put some pants on and pick my crops!”
"I really like picking on people."
"And everyone thinks you're an ass for it."
The giant stiffened.
"They think I'm terrifying!"
"To your face. The second you leave it's, 'What an ass.'"
"Who calls me an ass?"
"Pick my crops and I’ll tell you!"
"You really think this is going to work on me? Just because I'm gigantic doesn't mean I'm pea-brained. You’re stereotyping."
"You can eat me if you want. Still going to be an ass who wasted his gifts essentially picking fights with the handicapped."
The giant scratched his chin. It was more scar tissue than beard these days. He kind of missed the beard.
"Pulling vegetables from frozen soil sounds hard."
"It is,” said the old man. “That's why it'll be satisfying. It's an actual challenge for your pantsless grandeur."
"But it also seems boring. Not like a battle to the death."
“You mean if you can’t do it you’ll say it’s boring as a ruse to quit?”
“Hey. I can do it.”
“I dare you to prove it.”
They stared each other down. By that I mean the giant actually got on all fours to stare into the old man’s face. The old man didn’t flinch. Three feet away, the giant realized his challenger was blind.
The giant snorted out a cloud of winter mist. It engulfed the old man, then drifted into the sky to join the normal clouds.
“Fine. But if it’s boring, I’ll eat you.”
The old man tapped his staff around on the hard ground, getting his bearings to head home.
“Just give me a moment to tell my daughter what your ‘boring’ really means, sissy.”
The giant grimaced, then gave up the grimace since his challenger couldn’t see it. A rejoinder didn’t come to mind, so he hustled to the field, the frozen soil breaking up even as he ran towards it.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Miracle of Bed
He goes to bed at 8:30 every evening. It’s early, but he tells himself he isn’t a spring chicken anymore and there’s a long commute waiting on the other side of dawn.
By 8:45 he’s curled up on his side, knees tucked into his gut. He’s got two quilts, which form a peculiar pocket of warmth at once familiar and desirably alien to anyone who’s ever enjoyed them. By 9:00, he’s pulled the covers over his head, regardless of whether he’s awake or asleep.
Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it’s quick. There’s no manipulating its speed. But every night by 10:00, if he’s gotten to bed on time, the umbilical cord emerges. It’s hidden amongst the box spring. It worms up along his side and reattaches. The point isn’t to feed him, though his co-workers would gasp and nod if they saw it, finally understanding why he never eats lunch.
The purpose is to control his state. It makes him dream a certain thing and puts him in a certain state. These beds are rare and expensive, technically not out of alpha testing yet. He was lucky to know a guy on the inside.
By midnight the pocket of warmth under his covers reaches a certain humidity. No, his sheets don’t excrete amniotic fluid. That would be sick and the FDA would never allow it. They manufacturers set it to get as tropical under there as possible, though, and the brain’s smell sensors are temporarily reset with some suggestions in the dreams. The result? You smell the first things you ever smelled, those things you forgot after they spanked you and stuck you in the hospital nursery. It’s an inexact science, aided by the dreams the bed makes you have.
The dreams are the mostly wildly successful feature. They’re the reason for the bed, really. Everything else are luxury features. With the umbilical cord port and sealed environment that smells of womb, the bed gives you one very vivid dream every night. It’s the same premise each time, and your choice as to how you’ll live it out, at least insofar as anyone chooses their dreams.
The dream is that you have your whole life ahead of you.
By 8:45 he’s curled up on his side, knees tucked into his gut. He’s got two quilts, which form a peculiar pocket of warmth at once familiar and desirably alien to anyone who’s ever enjoyed them. By 9:00, he’s pulled the covers over his head, regardless of whether he’s awake or asleep.
Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it’s quick. There’s no manipulating its speed. But every night by 10:00, if he’s gotten to bed on time, the umbilical cord emerges. It’s hidden amongst the box spring. It worms up along his side and reattaches. The point isn’t to feed him, though his co-workers would gasp and nod if they saw it, finally understanding why he never eats lunch.
The purpose is to control his state. It makes him dream a certain thing and puts him in a certain state. These beds are rare and expensive, technically not out of alpha testing yet. He was lucky to know a guy on the inside.
By midnight the pocket of warmth under his covers reaches a certain humidity. No, his sheets don’t excrete amniotic fluid. That would be sick and the FDA would never allow it. They manufacturers set it to get as tropical under there as possible, though, and the brain’s smell sensors are temporarily reset with some suggestions in the dreams. The result? You smell the first things you ever smelled, those things you forgot after they spanked you and stuck you in the hospital nursery. It’s an inexact science, aided by the dreams the bed makes you have.
The dreams are the mostly wildly successful feature. They’re the reason for the bed, really. Everything else are luxury features. With the umbilical cord port and sealed environment that smells of womb, the bed gives you one very vivid dream every night. It’s the same premise each time, and your choice as to how you’ll live it out, at least insofar as anyone chooses their dreams.
The dream is that you have your whole life ahead of you.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Socrates Vs. The Pigs
[SAMID sits on one side of the booth, wearing a lemon yellow tuxedo. THE PLANETOID PLUTO levitates on the opposite side of the booth, one of its poles poking out from the neck of a blue YALE hoody. MEGATRAN, a Chinese knockoff of Megatron made from blue plastic instead of white, sits at the center of the booth, its back blocking the window. MEGATRAN’s arm cannon sits in the center of the table with fondue bubbling inside. The friends casually dip things into the cannon and eat them during conversation. The fondue glows orange with off-brand energon.]
Pluto: So the Mills thing about pigs fighting Socrates? Can you explain it to me again?
Samid: [Puts head in his hands] God help me.
Megatran: Is this about Mills’s claim contradicting utilitarianism? Because it doesn’t.
Samid: I know he said it didn’t. But that’s not the problem.
Pluto: The pigs are.
[UZ MAROON, the waitress, appears to overhear the thing about swine and stops beside the table. She is wearing a blue and pink stewardess costume including a flight cap.]
Uz: What is this about pigs?
Samid: There is a claim in philosophy that being an unhappy Socrates is better than being a happy pig. The pig is a derogatory stand-in for fools.
Pluto: Which is good, because the pig doesn’t have a choice about becoming Socrates. He’s a pig. He doesn’t even get to choose if he becomes bacon or sausage.
[UZ MAROON does the sane thing and leaves in search of paying customers.]
Megatran: The pig or fool just goes for physical pleasure. What they mean is that it’s better to go for intellectual pleasure.
Samid: Which is actually a front.
Megatran: For what?
Samid: Even before neuroscience we knew the mind and body were inseparable. There is no such thing as a totally physical or mental pleasure. Your mind always registers and processes physical pleasures, and your body chemistry enhances any deep thought by releasing hormones and endorphins. You couldn’t recognize physical pleasures without your mind, and your mind wouldn’t be here if not for your body.
Pluto: A brain alone doesn’t last long on the sidewalk.
[UZ MAROON passes by the table and makes a comment, not breaking her stride.]
Uz: The brain looks a little like a pig. It’s the wrinkles.
Megatran: But intellectual pleasure is superior. It’s the higher pleasure.
Pluto: Isn’t that a front for you saying you like this better and so it’s better?
Samid: Because there is no totally physical or mental pleasure, the division is false. It hinges upon an erroneous dualism.
Pluto: Philosophy loves dualism.
[UZ MAROON passes by the table again and makes another comment, not breaking her stride. She grins at Pluto as she does it this time.]
Uz: You need two sides to start a disagreement.
[PLUTO orbits flirtatiously.]
Pluto: And there’s not much philosophy without disagreements.
Megatran: There are things that are more mental than physical. Fucking and contemplating physics are distinctly different.
Pluto: But why is one inherently better? Why isn’t it just you liking it better?
Samid: Because Mills thought for a living.
Pluto: Sick burn!
Megatran: That’s not true. The higher pleasure leads not only to its own ends, but helps complete or fully completes other pleasures as well. That’s why intellectual pursuits comply with utilitarianism – they’re more useful.
[PLUTO revolves a bit, looking for UZ MAROON. She is nowhere in sight.]
Pluto: So fucking while contemplating physics is a high pleasure?
Samid: Except most intellectual pleasures have never been objectively measured. You’re going on your biased memories of what’s been pleasant or successful.
Megatran: There’s history. The clock, the car and the theory of gravity didn’t come from grabbing ass at a bar or playing videogames until noon.
Pluto: But I have had a lot of sex in cars, so they contributed to the greater good!
Samid: Firstly, that presupposes you aren’t exercising your mental faculties interacting with those women and playing those videogames. Newton came up with gravity while doing drugs with a cult.
Megatran: The discovery was still intellectual!
Samid: That’s because the intellectual is inseparable from the physical. Even the dumbest bastard in this pub is going to think today. You’re stuck on an erroneous dualism.
[UZ MAROON walks by the table and pauses beside PLUTO. The two look at MEGATRAN with apparent pity.]
Pluto: Don’t blame him. He’s an evil robot. He was programmed that way.
Megatran: Don’t pity me! I could crush you, and I cooked lunch in the thing attached to my arm.
Uz: Aw. You’re an unhappy pig!
Megatran: I’m a thinker!
Samid: You think, but like all thinking people, you are bound to reflect on the same things over and over with similar ends. I do it too.
Megatran: Of course you do. That’s why you think everyone else does. But some of us think more than others and we’re better for it.
Samid: Having any consistent value or belief means resting on the same conclusions. Just by positing that an unhappy Socrates was superior to a happy fool, Mills was precluding thought and coming to a permanent conclusion. So is you declaring that thinking is always better. That’s how dogma is born.
Pluto: Dogma, and books by philosophy professors.
Samid: Its mental masturbation, which ironically leads to anger and depressed dispositions. And because they’re thinking redundantly, they’re indulging in nothing more than a physical pleasure that they only think is intellectual. And that makes them unhappy pigs.
Uz: Philosophy makes unhappy pigs?
Samid: If you don’t do something. But that would require the physical.
Pluto: [Orbiting at MEGATRAN] What if he dunks your head in the fondue pot?
Samid: If he thinks about it as well as does it? He probably wins the debate.
[MEGATRAN looks at the fondue pot. SAMID excuses himself and goes to the bathroom. UZ MAROON sits down and asks for PLUTO's number.]
Pluto: So the Mills thing about pigs fighting Socrates? Can you explain it to me again?
Samid: [Puts head in his hands] God help me.
Megatran: Is this about Mills’s claim contradicting utilitarianism? Because it doesn’t.
Samid: I know he said it didn’t. But that’s not the problem.
Pluto: The pigs are.
[UZ MAROON, the waitress, appears to overhear the thing about swine and stops beside the table. She is wearing a blue and pink stewardess costume including a flight cap.]
Uz: What is this about pigs?
Samid: There is a claim in philosophy that being an unhappy Socrates is better than being a happy pig. The pig is a derogatory stand-in for fools.
Pluto: Which is good, because the pig doesn’t have a choice about becoming Socrates. He’s a pig. He doesn’t even get to choose if he becomes bacon or sausage.
[UZ MAROON does the sane thing and leaves in search of paying customers.]
Megatran: The pig or fool just goes for physical pleasure. What they mean is that it’s better to go for intellectual pleasure.
Samid: Which is actually a front.
Megatran: For what?
Samid: Even before neuroscience we knew the mind and body were inseparable. There is no such thing as a totally physical or mental pleasure. Your mind always registers and processes physical pleasures, and your body chemistry enhances any deep thought by releasing hormones and endorphins. You couldn’t recognize physical pleasures without your mind, and your mind wouldn’t be here if not for your body.
Pluto: A brain alone doesn’t last long on the sidewalk.
[UZ MAROON passes by the table and makes a comment, not breaking her stride.]
Uz: The brain looks a little like a pig. It’s the wrinkles.
Megatran: But intellectual pleasure is superior. It’s the higher pleasure.
Pluto: Isn’t that a front for you saying you like this better and so it’s better?
Samid: Because there is no totally physical or mental pleasure, the division is false. It hinges upon an erroneous dualism.
Pluto: Philosophy loves dualism.
[UZ MAROON passes by the table again and makes another comment, not breaking her stride. She grins at Pluto as she does it this time.]
Uz: You need two sides to start a disagreement.
[PLUTO orbits flirtatiously.]
Pluto: And there’s not much philosophy without disagreements.
Megatran: There are things that are more mental than physical. Fucking and contemplating physics are distinctly different.
Pluto: But why is one inherently better? Why isn’t it just you liking it better?
Samid: Because Mills thought for a living.
Pluto: Sick burn!
Megatran: That’s not true. The higher pleasure leads not only to its own ends, but helps complete or fully completes other pleasures as well. That’s why intellectual pursuits comply with utilitarianism – they’re more useful.
[PLUTO revolves a bit, looking for UZ MAROON. She is nowhere in sight.]
Pluto: So fucking while contemplating physics is a high pleasure?
Samid: Except most intellectual pleasures have never been objectively measured. You’re going on your biased memories of what’s been pleasant or successful.
Megatran: There’s history. The clock, the car and the theory of gravity didn’t come from grabbing ass at a bar or playing videogames until noon.
Pluto: But I have had a lot of sex in cars, so they contributed to the greater good!
Samid: Firstly, that presupposes you aren’t exercising your mental faculties interacting with those women and playing those videogames. Newton came up with gravity while doing drugs with a cult.
Megatran: The discovery was still intellectual!
Samid: That’s because the intellectual is inseparable from the physical. Even the dumbest bastard in this pub is going to think today. You’re stuck on an erroneous dualism.
[UZ MAROON walks by the table and pauses beside PLUTO. The two look at MEGATRAN with apparent pity.]
Pluto: Don’t blame him. He’s an evil robot. He was programmed that way.
Megatran: Don’t pity me! I could crush you, and I cooked lunch in the thing attached to my arm.
Uz: Aw. You’re an unhappy pig!
Megatran: I’m a thinker!
Samid: You think, but like all thinking people, you are bound to reflect on the same things over and over with similar ends. I do it too.
Megatran: Of course you do. That’s why you think everyone else does. But some of us think more than others and we’re better for it.
Samid: Having any consistent value or belief means resting on the same conclusions. Just by positing that an unhappy Socrates was superior to a happy fool, Mills was precluding thought and coming to a permanent conclusion. So is you declaring that thinking is always better. That’s how dogma is born.
Pluto: Dogma, and books by philosophy professors.
Samid: Its mental masturbation, which ironically leads to anger and depressed dispositions. And because they’re thinking redundantly, they’re indulging in nothing more than a physical pleasure that they only think is intellectual. And that makes them unhappy pigs.
Uz: Philosophy makes unhappy pigs?
Samid: If you don’t do something. But that would require the physical.
Pluto: [Orbiting at MEGATRAN] What if he dunks your head in the fondue pot?
Samid: If he thinks about it as well as does it? He probably wins the debate.
[MEGATRAN looks at the fondue pot. SAMID excuses himself and goes to the bathroom. UZ MAROON sits down and asks for PLUTO's number.]
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Yes, I know it means other things
Dear Lee,
I know we're no good for each other. Your fiancé hates me, understandably. Is her rash gone yet?
But damn her. No matter how hard I try, I can't stay away. Your cheeks, your chin, that dimple in your upper lip. By 5:00 I'm powerless, climbing all over your face.
We look good together, Lee. We're meant to be. Can't we make this work?
Sincerely,
Your beard
I know we're no good for each other. Your fiancé hates me, understandably. Is her rash gone yet?
But damn her. No matter how hard I try, I can't stay away. Your cheeks, your chin, that dimple in your upper lip. By 5:00 I'm powerless, climbing all over your face.
We look good together, Lee. We're meant to be. Can't we make this work?
Sincerely,
Your beard
Monday, March 29, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Do you have kids?
Despite what I write, people often ask, “Do you have kids?”
And I reply, “Let me check the refrigerator.”
And they say, “That’s not funny.”
And I say, “Well I don’t stock up until Thursdays. If I’d known you wanted them so bad I would have gone shopping over the weekend.”
They get indignant. “Horrible things are done to children every day.”
I get indignant. “Not enough horrible things, or else the brats would know to stay off my lawn.”
They say, “John, you don’t own a lawn.”
And I’ll say, “How’d you get in here? Did the children send you?”
They ask what I’m talking about.
“Don’t lie to me. I can smell the lollipops on you.”
They back away, but never quickly enough. And it’s my house. I know the terrain.
That’s why I don’t have to stock up on children until Thursdays. Child-sympathizers taste just as good given another half hour in the pressure cooker.
And I reply, “Let me check the refrigerator.”
And they say, “That’s not funny.”
And I say, “Well I don’t stock up until Thursdays. If I’d known you wanted them so bad I would have gone shopping over the weekend.”
They get indignant. “Horrible things are done to children every day.”
I get indignant. “Not enough horrible things, or else the brats would know to stay off my lawn.”
They say, “John, you don’t own a lawn.”
And I’ll say, “How’d you get in here? Did the children send you?”
They ask what I’m talking about.
“Don’t lie to me. I can smell the lollipops on you.”
They back away, but never quickly enough. And it’s my house. I know the terrain.
That’s why I don’t have to stock up on children until Thursdays. Child-sympathizers taste just as good given another half hour in the pressure cooker.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: “The president is telling lawmakers, ‘If you want to fight about this, be my guest.’” –Some news anchor, CNN, March 25, 2010
“Be my guest? What does that mean?”
“He wants us to fight him in the west wing?”
“You can’t fight someone who’s having you over. That’s rude.”
“What if your host is inviting you to battle? Can’t we fight him then?”
“I guess.”
“Maybe he’s inviting us stay at a specific part of the White House. Like, a place with a boxing ring.”
“He wants us to stay in his boxing ring room?”
"How long does he want us for?"
"Maybe just for the fight? Give or take a training montage?"
“I’ll box him. He’s a basketball player. I was Golden Gloves in the navy.”
“Then it’s settled. Call the president and tell him we’re taking up his offer: we’ll be his guests, and we’ll knock his block off.”
“He wants us to fight him in the west wing?”
“You can’t fight someone who’s having you over. That’s rude.”
“What if your host is inviting you to battle? Can’t we fight him then?”
“I guess.”
“Maybe he’s inviting us stay at a specific part of the White House. Like, a place with a boxing ring.”
“He wants us to stay in his boxing ring room?”
"How long does he want us for?"
"Maybe just for the fight? Give or take a training montage?"
“I’ll box him. He’s a basketball player. I was Golden Gloves in the navy.”
“Then it’s settled. Call the president and tell him we’re taking up his offer: we’ll be his guests, and we’ll knock his block off.”
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: On Grace’s Side
This actually mushroomed into a full short story. It's floating around in the submission process now. If it does get published, the first person to recognize that it's connected to this monologue will win some sort of prize.
Prize to be determined later.
I’m on Grace’s side now. I thought she was an idiot to watch the corpses. Even if Dad’s body was one of them to sit up, it wasn’t going to be him anymore. There’s no man left when a wraith comes. I don’t know if it was something he hid deep in his brain, that finally took over when the rest died and couldn’t hold it back anymore, or if it was some monster from a higher plane coming down to wear flesh. It just wasn’t Dad. None of the ones that stood up were men anymore. Grace deserved to get her arm broken when she kept grabbing at his knees. “Oh daddy! Oh daddy!” No, Dad was dead. But I've thought about it, and maybe there is a way we can be with him again. Wraiths are damn near unkillable. They don’t get sick, they don’t show pain. If they eat, it’s rare. They live forever and keep to themselves, so there’s almost no trouble in a wraith’s life unless the living bother them. He broke Grace’s arm just for touching him, and they’ve killed whole armies of men before for intruding. So we can’t follow them to one of their holes and hope they’ll let us join. But if we die, and they take our bodies, we’ll be with them forever. So the next time their hooded harbingers come up the road raising bodies, what if we kill ourselves? If they pick us, we’ll be with Dad forever. We won’t have to worry about war, or losing the house, or Grace getting sick so much. Wraiths don’t get sick and they don’t lose wars. We’ll be safe. Isn’t that what Dad would have wanted?
Prize to be determined later.
I’m on Grace’s side now. I thought she was an idiot to watch the corpses. Even if Dad’s body was one of them to sit up, it wasn’t going to be him anymore. There’s no man left when a wraith comes. I don’t know if it was something he hid deep in his brain, that finally took over when the rest died and couldn’t hold it back anymore, or if it was some monster from a higher plane coming down to wear flesh. It just wasn’t Dad. None of the ones that stood up were men anymore. Grace deserved to get her arm broken when she kept grabbing at his knees. “Oh daddy! Oh daddy!” No, Dad was dead. But I've thought about it, and maybe there is a way we can be with him again. Wraiths are damn near unkillable. They don’t get sick, they don’t show pain. If they eat, it’s rare. They live forever and keep to themselves, so there’s almost no trouble in a wraith’s life unless the living bother them. He broke Grace’s arm just for touching him, and they’ve killed whole armies of men before for intruding. So we can’t follow them to one of their holes and hope they’ll let us join. But if we die, and they take our bodies, we’ll be with them forever. So the next time their hooded harbingers come up the road raising bodies, what if we kill ourselves? If they pick us, we’ll be with Dad forever. We won’t have to worry about war, or losing the house, or Grace getting sick so much. Wraiths don’t get sick and they don’t lose wars. We’ll be safe. Isn’t that what Dad would have wanted?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Colored Scoundrels
Click on the triangle to listen to John Wiswell's "Colored Scoundrels." Click on any of this text to download the MP3.
You've been marooned? What luck. I've been purpled. Scotty's been burgundied, so I recommend we go fetch his booze and get smashed together. It'll give us relief from all the anxiety about being shipless in the middle of the sea. In the morning we'll wake with fresh perspectives and crisp hangovers. Yellow-bellied pirates left you with one shot to do yourself in, right? Same color as Scotty and I. But with the flotsam we can build a little boat, and with three shots we can get the drop on the crew. We’ll start immediately. Immediately following the burgundy. I work better when I’ve blacked out.
Dedicated to Jodi MacArthur, who felt marooned one afternoon.
You've been marooned? What luck. I've been purpled. Scotty's been burgundied, so I recommend we go fetch his booze and get smashed together. It'll give us relief from all the anxiety about being shipless in the middle of the sea. In the morning we'll wake with fresh perspectives and crisp hangovers. Yellow-bellied pirates left you with one shot to do yourself in, right? Same color as Scotty and I. But with the flotsam we can build a little boat, and with three shots we can get the drop on the crew. We’ll start immediately. Immediately following the burgundy. I work better when I’ve blacked out.
Dedicated to Jodi MacArthur, who felt marooned one afternoon.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Whiny Cat Wants
It would be a lie to say my sister has a cat. My sister has college and a boyfriend she'd much rather spend weekends off with than us. So really, we have my sister's cat. His name is Marshall and I'm pretty much his alpha male.
I have terrible allergies to pet dander, the kind that can be fatal if pushed too far. That meant my visits were infrequent and brief, running into the basement to leave it's food, then running back up. Sometimes I'd sit at the top stair and pet him with a rubber glove and thick jeans, so there was no way of dander getting on me.
In January I had a bad fall. I turned, it sounded like somebody snapped a glow stick and my left leg went out. Suddenly I wasn't go anywhere but the bathroom, and only there with the held of my desk chair's wheels.
That meant no more trips to feed or pet Marshall. Soon he got so lonely that he'd cry all day and night at the basement door. He didn't want to go outside. He'd eat if you gave him food, but I knew from experience that he wanted lasting entertainment. I'm not so sentimental that I thought he wanted companionship, but cats don't understand TV and can't text. When he wasn't napping, that had to be frustrating.
I spent a month frustrated myself, upstairs, fighting with the medical establishment. Can you see me then? Is there is a discount if? Yes I'd like to reapply for this? Can I twist this over there? How much is that surgery? How long will it be before I can put weight on it?
Two office visits, three Social Services visits, an X-Ray and an MRI later, I came home with the information that I should start physical therapy. Nothing was broken or torn and I had overreacted (actually they'd overreacted and I'd followed orders). Though I couldn't walk yet without crutches, I didn't go straight up to my room. I hobbled over to the basement door, where Marshal was already crying.
"I'm going to spend a minute here."
"Really?" Mom said with the little warmth of someone who's surprised but happy you're going to take the baby for an afternoon. She was the alpha female, in my reckoning.
I opened the door and he bolted down the stairs without looking. Maybe I'd opened it too suddenly.
It took a moment, but I sat on the top stair, crutches leaning on the door. There was no way I could get down these stairs, nor would I want to.
Hidden somewhere in the basement, Marshall cried and cried. I don't know if it was for help, attention, or just for someone to bring him more food. He does that.
I called down to him after every whine.
"Yes. I'm alive."
Sad howl.
"What?"
Sad howl.
"What?"
Sad howl.
"Get the fuck up here, Marshall."
Sad howl.
"Come on. You have one more minute and then I'm out of here."
More than a minute later he came back to the stairwell. He looked at me for about two seconds before hustling up the stairs. I don't know if he was relieved that I was alive after being gone for a month, or if he remembered that "fat guy sitting on stairs" is the symbol for "me getting petted."
I pulled on a latex glove and scratched behind his ears. He bowed his head immediately, so from there I scratched the top of his head, then rubbed down his spine. At his end, I squeezed his tail. That was our old routine. As soon as I let go he looked up me, eyes wide, in a very "Again! Again!" way. I assume if my sister ever has children, they'll look like that when I play with them. He was drooling with happiness in no time.
He tried to rub on me, which is horrible for my allergies. But I had the heavy jeans on, and decided I'd change out of them when I got to my room, so I let him. Marshall essentially headbutted my shins a dozen times. Just ramming himself into them and purring.
I even let him put his front paws on my lap, sort of climbing up me. When he reached up, I tickled under his chin. Soon he dropped down and sat happily between my legs. I closed them, hugging his sides. Mom cooed over my shoulder and said she wished she knew how to work her camera.
That night was the first since my accident that he didn't cry for attention at his door.
I've been congested for two days since then. It'll probably be a couple more before I come around. A couple more on top of that before I can breathe through my nose. It was worth it, though, even if he's crying again before I've recovered.
I've made great strides in recovery since then. Marshall and I spent half an hour together on the porch last night. Despite the open air and avoiding touching him, I'll probably be congested for weeks. Wait a second, he's whining...
I have terrible allergies to pet dander, the kind that can be fatal if pushed too far. That meant my visits were infrequent and brief, running into the basement to leave it's food, then running back up. Sometimes I'd sit at the top stair and pet him with a rubber glove and thick jeans, so there was no way of dander getting on me.
In January I had a bad fall. I turned, it sounded like somebody snapped a glow stick and my left leg went out. Suddenly I wasn't go anywhere but the bathroom, and only there with the held of my desk chair's wheels.
That meant no more trips to feed or pet Marshall. Soon he got so lonely that he'd cry all day and night at the basement door. He didn't want to go outside. He'd eat if you gave him food, but I knew from experience that he wanted lasting entertainment. I'm not so sentimental that I thought he wanted companionship, but cats don't understand TV and can't text. When he wasn't napping, that had to be frustrating.
I spent a month frustrated myself, upstairs, fighting with the medical establishment. Can you see me then? Is there is a discount if? Yes I'd like to reapply for this? Can I twist this over there? How much is that surgery? How long will it be before I can put weight on it?
Two office visits, three Social Services visits, an X-Ray and an MRI later, I came home with the information that I should start physical therapy. Nothing was broken or torn and I had overreacted (actually they'd overreacted and I'd followed orders). Though I couldn't walk yet without crutches, I didn't go straight up to my room. I hobbled over to the basement door, where Marshal was already crying.
"I'm going to spend a minute here."
"Really?" Mom said with the little warmth of someone who's surprised but happy you're going to take the baby for an afternoon. She was the alpha female, in my reckoning.
I opened the door and he bolted down the stairs without looking. Maybe I'd opened it too suddenly.
It took a moment, but I sat on the top stair, crutches leaning on the door. There was no way I could get down these stairs, nor would I want to.
Hidden somewhere in the basement, Marshall cried and cried. I don't know if it was for help, attention, or just for someone to bring him more food. He does that.
I called down to him after every whine.
"Yes. I'm alive."
Sad howl.
"What?"
Sad howl.
"What?"
Sad howl.
"Get the fuck up here, Marshall."
Sad howl.
"Come on. You have one more minute and then I'm out of here."
More than a minute later he came back to the stairwell. He looked at me for about two seconds before hustling up the stairs. I don't know if he was relieved that I was alive after being gone for a month, or if he remembered that "fat guy sitting on stairs" is the symbol for "me getting petted."
I pulled on a latex glove and scratched behind his ears. He bowed his head immediately, so from there I scratched the top of his head, then rubbed down his spine. At his end, I squeezed his tail. That was our old routine. As soon as I let go he looked up me, eyes wide, in a very "Again! Again!" way. I assume if my sister ever has children, they'll look like that when I play with them. He was drooling with happiness in no time.
He tried to rub on me, which is horrible for my allergies. But I had the heavy jeans on, and decided I'd change out of them when I got to my room, so I let him. Marshall essentially headbutted my shins a dozen times. Just ramming himself into them and purring.
I even let him put his front paws on my lap, sort of climbing up me. When he reached up, I tickled under his chin. Soon he dropped down and sat happily between my legs. I closed them, hugging his sides. Mom cooed over my shoulder and said she wished she knew how to work her camera.
That night was the first since my accident that he didn't cry for attention at his door.
I've been congested for two days since then. It'll probably be a couple more before I come around. A couple more on top of that before I can breathe through my nose. It was worth it, though, even if he's crying again before I've recovered.
I've made great strides in recovery since then. Marshall and I spent half an hour together on the porch last night. Despite the open air and avoiding touching him, I'll probably be congested for weeks. Wait a second, he's whining...
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: It’s an Honor to be Nominated
Rita looked up from her screen and saw Wethers was in her door. She rubbed her eyes.
The Academy of Games Science had jerked them around ridiculously for the last month, and Wethers was the liaison. It was his job to be told ‘No’ by one party and yelled at by the other. Rita’s job was to yell.
“Tell me you have good news.”
“I have good news.”
“Are you just saying that because I told you to?”
Wethers put up his hands as though to defend himself should the lead developer start throwing Bioshock toys at him.
“They reiterated that they don’t want to nominate foreign developers for an Euro-American award.”
“Which we know…” Rita began.
“Which we know is code for us not paying dues to the union. Yes. They don’t want to set a bad precedent where people who don’t pay win something prestigious.”
Rita rolled her eyes at her Big Daddy statue. “You’ve got to wonder if the Oscars are this bad.”
“I hear Hollywood is much worse. Regardless, after we reiterated everything yet again, they cracked. I have good news.”
“Yes?”
“They will make us a nominee.”
She threw her fists in the air. “Splendid!”
Wethers made fists and purposefully lowered them.
“But we can’t win.”
Rita kept her fists up in the air, but clenched them.
“What do you mean we can’t win? If we’re in, we’re a shoe-in. Bethesda and Bioware didn’t put anything out this year. There’s no new Final Fantasy, and the judges hate that JRPG stuff anyway. What else are they going to give it to? Everything else is crap. It’s why we sold a million copies.”
“I mean they won’t let us win.”
“Won’t let us?”
“They will make us a nominee, but will definitely give the award to someone else. They don’t want that precedent of a non-payer winning.”
“But if we can’t win, we’re not really a nominee.”
“It’s an honor to be nominated.”
“If we can’t win, it’s not a nomination! We have the same chances as all the crappy games they didn’t nominate.”
“But it looks different. We might even be able to use it as advertising on the game box when we issue... uh…”
He’d dug a hole there. Rita pushed him into it. “Our Game of the Year edition? We can’t put out a Game of the Year re-release if we don’t win Game of the Year awards!”
Rita reached for the Big Daddy. Wethers reached outside the door, preparing to flee.
“Okay! I’ll tell them we’re flattered but feel they should consider…”
Her arm reeled back to pitch the toy at him, but he was already gone.
The Academy of Games Science had jerked them around ridiculously for the last month, and Wethers was the liaison. It was his job to be told ‘No’ by one party and yelled at by the other. Rita’s job was to yell.
“Tell me you have good news.”
“I have good news.”
“Are you just saying that because I told you to?”
Wethers put up his hands as though to defend himself should the lead developer start throwing Bioshock toys at him.
“They reiterated that they don’t want to nominate foreign developers for an Euro-American award.”
“Which we know…” Rita began.
“Which we know is code for us not paying dues to the union. Yes. They don’t want to set a bad precedent where people who don’t pay win something prestigious.”
Rita rolled her eyes at her Big Daddy statue. “You’ve got to wonder if the Oscars are this bad.”
“I hear Hollywood is much worse. Regardless, after we reiterated everything yet again, they cracked. I have good news.”
“Yes?”
“They will make us a nominee.”
She threw her fists in the air. “Splendid!”
Wethers made fists and purposefully lowered them.
“But we can’t win.”
Rita kept her fists up in the air, but clenched them.
“What do you mean we can’t win? If we’re in, we’re a shoe-in. Bethesda and Bioware didn’t put anything out this year. There’s no new Final Fantasy, and the judges hate that JRPG stuff anyway. What else are they going to give it to? Everything else is crap. It’s why we sold a million copies.”
“I mean they won’t let us win.”
“Won’t let us?”
“They will make us a nominee, but will definitely give the award to someone else. They don’t want that precedent of a non-payer winning.”
“But if we can’t win, we’re not really a nominee.”
“It’s an honor to be nominated.”
“If we can’t win, it’s not a nomination! We have the same chances as all the crappy games they didn’t nominate.”
“But it looks different. We might even be able to use it as advertising on the game box when we issue... uh…”
He’d dug a hole there. Rita pushed him into it. “Our Game of the Year edition? We can’t put out a Game of the Year re-release if we don’t win Game of the Year awards!”
Rita reached for the Big Daddy. Wethers reached outside the door, preparing to flee.
“Okay! I’ll tell them we’re flattered but feel they should consider…”
Her arm reeled back to pitch the toy at him, but he was already gone.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Seeking Virgin
SEEKING VIRGIN
Seeking virgin post-pubescent girl to bear the spawn of our god.
We are NOT a kidnappy, rapey cult. Only seek a consenting girl.
Pay is negotiable, comparable to other surrogate mother services.
Room and board provided for duration of pregnancy.
Request to smear girl with ash and thyme once a week. NOTHING WITH PEANUTS OR FROM FACTORIES THAT PROCESS PEANUTS.
Broad hips a plus.
Mediterranean ancestry a plus.
WANT TO SAVE THE WORLD?
KNOW A VIRGIN?
CALL XXX-XXXX
Seeking virgin post-pubescent girl to bear the spawn of our god.
We are NOT a kidnappy, rapey cult. Only seek a consenting girl.
Pay is negotiable, comparable to other surrogate mother services.
Room and board provided for duration of pregnancy.
Request to smear girl with ash and thyme once a week. NOTHING WITH PEANUTS OR FROM FACTORIES THAT PROCESS PEANUTS.
Broad hips a plus.
Mediterranean ancestry a plus.
WANT TO SAVE THE WORLD?
KNOW A VIRGIN?
CALL XXX-XXXX
Monday, March 22, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Headlines
400 Dead, Thousands Missing after L.A.X. Blast
President Canne: Change Necessary After L.A. Bombings
Howard O’Dell, Dakota Senator, Champions Revised Patriot Act
Libertarian candidate blasts “Unpatriotic Act”
O’Dell: Patriot Act II essential in foiling Miami attack
Turkey to host new terrorist detention center
Hundreds of “dangerous men” apprehended thanks to Patriot Act II, says O’Dell
‘No Appeals’ for Detainees
Number of People Detained at Gull Island Unknown
“Terrorists Don’t Deserve Trials” says Dakota Senator
Foreign Detention Centers: Are They Ethical?
Turkey is an old ally, says President
Will President Canne Survive Re-Election?
Detention Center Photos Surface
Senator O’Dell: ‘Prison Outside Borders, U.S. Jurisdiction’
Canne Sacked in Narrow Election
“A re-count is necessary” –Andrew Canne
Heartland Senate Seats Sway with New President
New President Not Closing Detention Centers
Hundreds of U.S. Citizens Sent to Detention Centers
Turkish Detention Center more humane than media lets on, says President
Wife of former Dakota Senator claims husband taken
Grounds for new terror arrests questioned
Adena O’Dell: Please free my husband
Foreign Detention Centers are useful, says President
New Turkish torture photos appear
Two former senators seen in torture photos?
“Photos misrepresent Turkish detention centers,” says White House Press Aid
“That’s my husband,” says former senator’s wife
House, Senate move to close Gull Island
Patriot Act II repeal to hit Senate floor this week
Anti-Patriot Act lacks veto-proof majority
Anti-Defense legislation doomed to fail, says White House Press Aid
Patriot Act II rescinded
Detainees return home after Turkish prison debacle
Adena O’Dell: Where is my husband?
“There were always more hiding places,” former president Canne
“National agenda shifting to economy,” says D.C. insider
President Canne: Change Necessary After L.A. Bombings
Howard O’Dell, Dakota Senator, Champions Revised Patriot Act
Libertarian candidate blasts “Unpatriotic Act”
O’Dell: Patriot Act II essential in foiling Miami attack
Turkey to host new terrorist detention center
Hundreds of “dangerous men” apprehended thanks to Patriot Act II, says O’Dell
‘No Appeals’ for Detainees
Number of People Detained at Gull Island Unknown
“Terrorists Don’t Deserve Trials” says Dakota Senator
Foreign Detention Centers: Are They Ethical?
Turkey is an old ally, says President
Will President Canne Survive Re-Election?
Detention Center Photos Surface
Senator O’Dell: ‘Prison Outside Borders, U.S. Jurisdiction’
Canne Sacked in Narrow Election
“A re-count is necessary” –Andrew Canne
Heartland Senate Seats Sway with New President
New President Not Closing Detention Centers
Hundreds of U.S. Citizens Sent to Detention Centers
Turkish Detention Center more humane than media lets on, says President
Wife of former Dakota Senator claims husband taken
Grounds for new terror arrests questioned
Adena O’Dell: Please free my husband
Foreign Detention Centers are useful, says President
New Turkish torture photos appear
Two former senators seen in torture photos?
“Photos misrepresent Turkish detention centers,” says White House Press Aid
“That’s my husband,” says former senator’s wife
House, Senate move to close Gull Island
Patriot Act II repeal to hit Senate floor this week
Anti-Patriot Act lacks veto-proof majority
Anti-Defense legislation doomed to fail, says White House Press Aid
Patriot Act II rescinded
Detainees return home after Turkish prison debacle
Adena O’Dell: Where is my husband?
“There were always more hiding places,” former president Canne
“National agenda shifting to economy,” says D.C. insider
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Quilted For Your Pleasure: National Solipsists Society
Today's is the second of what I'm calling Sunday Funnies: Quilted for Your Pleasure. The above cartoon was composed in my bathroom, then drawn by artist Max Cantor. I still count it as a Bathroom Monologue. Click on the above image for a bigger view.
Max is a good old friend from college who read several of the first Bathroom Monologues by IM. It's encouragement from people like him that made this blog happen. The BMs originally ran on one of his websites, for what I assume was an audience of my girlfriend and his mother. His mother commented more often, which is one reason why I'm single.
If Sunday Funnies get enough positive response we might make them a regular weekly feature. All feedback is welcome. Seriously. Max will wet himself if you click 'This is OK.'
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: A Giant Giant
If you listen to the real nutjobs they’ll tell you there is an even bigger giant than these ones. Like, impossibly bigger. She’s so big she’s got no arms or legs anymore. Maybe her belly’s so fat it overlaps them. She mostly sleeps, but when she rises apparently it knocks over all the buildings and whatnot. I don’t understand how it’s supposed to work. All they say is that we’ve got this round giant living around somewhere, supposedly so huge that all the normal giants can stand on her. But I say that’s nonsense. If there was a round giant so big everyone could stand on her, wouldn’t we see her somewhere?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Why is the Nickel Bigger than the Dime?, or, The Feud Between Alexander Hamilton and God
God had been messing with Australia when Alexander Hamilton caught His attention. He was a smart little mortal, having just started his country and going to work on a national mint. He stamped his money with “In God We Trust,” which flattered the Big Guy, even if it was an obvious ploy to get His endorsement.
“You’re not so untrustworthy yourself,” He said, manifesting in the Mint.
“Welcome, Lord,” said Hamilton. “I’m a long-time supporter. Always happy to see another fellow in opposition of Thomas Jefferson.”
“I wish you’d stop using Me for that. I like Jefferson just fine. He’s a deist. They’re like Christians with calculators instead of Bibles.”
Well a conversation that begins like that never ends well. The two had a terrific falling-out. How exactly they got on the matter of new coinage, we really can’t say, but it’s known that God recommended currency bigger than the penny and less than the dime, since making nine cents change is such an ordeal, and back then you got paid nine cents for pretty much everything what with the smaller economy.
“I’ll give you something bigger than a penny,” Hamilton muttered in perverse prayer.
The next day he put out the nickel. Not only bigger than the penny, it dwarfed the dime. It caused massive confusion and a rush on banks for quarters because it sported the only national figure who was born and thus known at the time. George Washington found it flattering. (A century and a half later, a young FDR was baffled to find his face on coinage but took comfort that it probably meant he'd win office.)
God, being able to muck with reality at will, retaliated against Hamilton and made Thomas Jefferson’s face appear on those precious nickels. This threw off Hamilton’s anti-Jeffersonian platform, and the public suddenly thought the Secretary of Treasury had endorsed Jefferson as a candidate.
Hamilton wrote God several flippant letters over that weekend, each more biting than the last, until he got so excited that he knocked over his green ink well and ruined all his paper. This gave him a brilliant idea, and rather than throw the stack out, he invented paper money. Once again George Washington was the masthead, featured on the one dollar bill. The bill was bigger than any coin and came with nifty illustrations. Critics heralded it as a revolution in currency and literature, being as Thomas Paine wrote, "like an epic for those of small attention span." There was a rush on the banks to get the notes. George Washington was not flattered this time, figuring something was up, and left Washington D.C. in disgust with such bipartisan politics.
Hamilton showed up Monday morning to nominate himself for president. He was stunned to see the Creator had once again thrown down the gauntlet: He’d changed the very Constitution such that only natural-born citizens could hold the office. Hamilton, being a bastard from abroad, was thwarted.
The deity and founder never spoke again. God returned to Australia to mess about with the platypus and taxonomists. Hamilton was left destitute and furious. It’s said he got into a fight with Aaron Burr over a possible fifty-cent coin that would be even smaller than a dime, for which he was mortally shot. Burr never confirmed the story, though, and deemed it “contemptible, if true.”
This is the end of True History Week here on the Bathroom Monologues. Every day I've tried a little humorous Historical Fiction. If you liked today's story, please check out the others. They began Monday. All feedback is welcome!
“You’re not so untrustworthy yourself,” He said, manifesting in the Mint.
“Welcome, Lord,” said Hamilton. “I’m a long-time supporter. Always happy to see another fellow in opposition of Thomas Jefferson.”
“I wish you’d stop using Me for that. I like Jefferson just fine. He’s a deist. They’re like Christians with calculators instead of Bibles.”
Well a conversation that begins like that never ends well. The two had a terrific falling-out. How exactly they got on the matter of new coinage, we really can’t say, but it’s known that God recommended currency bigger than the penny and less than the dime, since making nine cents change is such an ordeal, and back then you got paid nine cents for pretty much everything what with the smaller economy.
“I’ll give you something bigger than a penny,” Hamilton muttered in perverse prayer.
The next day he put out the nickel. Not only bigger than the penny, it dwarfed the dime. It caused massive confusion and a rush on banks for quarters because it sported the only national figure who was born and thus known at the time. George Washington found it flattering. (A century and a half later, a young FDR was baffled to find his face on coinage but took comfort that it probably meant he'd win office.)
God, being able to muck with reality at will, retaliated against Hamilton and made Thomas Jefferson’s face appear on those precious nickels. This threw off Hamilton’s anti-Jeffersonian platform, and the public suddenly thought the Secretary of Treasury had endorsed Jefferson as a candidate.
Hamilton wrote God several flippant letters over that weekend, each more biting than the last, until he got so excited that he knocked over his green ink well and ruined all his paper. This gave him a brilliant idea, and rather than throw the stack out, he invented paper money. Once again George Washington was the masthead, featured on the one dollar bill. The bill was bigger than any coin and came with nifty illustrations. Critics heralded it as a revolution in currency and literature, being as Thomas Paine wrote, "like an epic for those of small attention span." There was a rush on the banks to get the notes. George Washington was not flattered this time, figuring something was up, and left Washington D.C. in disgust with such bipartisan politics.
Hamilton showed up Monday morning to nominate himself for president. He was stunned to see the Creator had once again thrown down the gauntlet: He’d changed the very Constitution such that only natural-born citizens could hold the office. Hamilton, being a bastard from abroad, was thwarted.
The deity and founder never spoke again. God returned to Australia to mess about with the platypus and taxonomists. Hamilton was left destitute and furious. It’s said he got into a fight with Aaron Burr over a possible fifty-cent coin that would be even smaller than a dime, for which he was mortally shot. Burr never confirmed the story, though, and deemed it “contemptible, if true.”
This is the end of True History Week here on the Bathroom Monologues. Every day I've tried a little humorous Historical Fiction. If you liked today's story, please check out the others. They began Monday. All feedback is welcome!
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