Bathroom Monologue: Monologue for Laurence Fishburne cast as a domineering teacher

"If you can't learn in an environment where trained adults are paid to care and help you, where exactly are you going to learn? Is it out on the streets where a dealer will shoot you for being ten dollars short? Is that where you’re going to learn life’s great lessons? Is it going to be on your mom’s couch? You’ve learned all you need, because all you need is her to love and pay for everything you want? Well someday she’s going to die and stop paying for everything. So are you going to learn the ways of the world working at Wal-Mart? Is all you need to learn going to come out of menial labor that everybody loathes doing? Perhaps that’s what you need to learn. Perhaps you need to learn that after twenty years of bagging groceries and stocking shelves, that this was all a mistake. I’d rather you learn it right now, but if you want to go learn from the world, the door’s open. Stop by in twenty years and show me what a genius you’ve become."

Bathroom Monologue: France Bans High Heels

After long deliberations, this evening the French National Assembly voted unanimously to ban the wearing of high-heeled shoes in public. Many women wear high heels in order to improve the appearance of their legs and buttocks, though opponents have complained about their links to arthritis, sprained ankles and back problems. The shoes have long been controversial amongst conservative Christians and politically correct secularists for being detrimental to women.

“This is a blow for the rights of women against male authority,” read the official statement from the National Assembly, which is roughly 85% male. “No longer will women don this shameful footwear just because men make them feel they have to.”

The legislation bans wearing of “the heel” in all public places, including government buildings, restaurants, subways and on the street. There is a substantial fine for violators, while husbands who are caught shoe shopping for their wives may spend up to one year in prison.

Some pundits protest that freedom of dress should be a right in any democratic society. Dr. George Lytton of the Madup Institute told our reporters, “So what if a fashion guru says they have to wear the new Chanel stilettos this season? Ultimately women choose to wear these things. If a man is physically forcing women to wear them, deal with him. Penalizing her and removing her choice is an afront."

“Preposterous,” was the first word out of Assemblyman J. Clouseau’s mouth when asked for comment. “Women only wear them to live up a chauvinistic cultural norm that objectifies them. Any woman who wants to wear such an uncomfortable thing has been culturally conditioned into psychological sickness. We are freeing them from social bondage. Only now are they free to wear what they want.”

Later in his press conference, Clouseau framed the issue as a national concern. “High heels are linked to a multitude of medical problems, which put undue strain on our healthcare system. They are costing the French taxpayers millions of euros every year. It’s becoming a national security issue.”

Some have defended the heel on religious grounds. “God didn’t give me this ass so I could hide it,” says Angie Dunning, an American immigrant to France. She is Roman Catholic. “If this keeps up I’ll move to Germany. They’re way more tolerant there. I met a couple of guys at a hostel who said they would totally help me learn the language.”

Angie is part of a movement to repeal heel-banning legislation. The petitioners claim Parliament is unfairly targeting attractive people and people with good senses of balance. Spokespeople for the National Assembly denied that the legislation was targeted at minorities.

Bathroom Monologue: How much does a shit ton weigh?

We say “I have a shit ton of work.” “I have a shit ton to do tomorrow.” It’s being used as a proper unit, so we’re left to ask just how much the average shit ton weighs. It's tempting to say it weighs a ton. But is it a metric ton? For a metric ton weighs 1,000 kilograms, where a proper ton weighs 2,000. That's a big variance. And what if the ton is moist? Because moisture weighs a solid down, so ton of dry turds would likely have less general volume. Is water weight extra? Or maybe shit tons refer to food consumed - the shit produced after eating a ton of food. In that case the weight of your shit ton would vary wildly based the metabolism of your excreters. Even if they were just retaining water that day. Also, if it's the weight of pre-digested food, are we handling pre-cooked weight or post-cooked weight? Hamburgers sweats off several ounces on the grill. A pre-cooked, pre-digested shit ton could weigh a lot.

Outtake from a Recent Short Story

This is a bit of dialogue from a short story I’ve been working on. The characters babble a lot and some of it simply has to be cut. For instance, this exchange. I love this exchange; it even references an old Bathroom Monologue. But it doesn’t belong in this particular short story. I’m giving it life on the blog. If you like it and would like more, I’ll bring Life and Trudy to the blog more often. I feel like there’s a lot in them. Plus their setting allows so many crazy things to chat about, including this anonymoose.

"A what?"

"An anonymooose." Life sighed, as though embarrassed for anyone else who had ever had to utter that name. "They say it stalks the neighboring forest. There are no photos because it can't be seen. Men hunt it and fire blindly. It can't even be heard, though hunters leaves their hides in the morning to discover hoofprints all around them in the dirt or snow. One sheriff swears he felt it breathing on his shoulder, but when he tried to grab it, the thing thrust him through his windshield. He woke to find it had defecated on his hood."

She pursed one corner of her mouth. "Did an expert looking at these droppings?"

"The Office of Wildlife. But they couldn't determine what the droppings belonged to."

"Because it was anonymoose." She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Life. There must be some things you disbelieve."

"There are. For instance, I disbelieve men would go through that many cold overnights bagging no game just to perpetuate a bad pun."

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 3.

There is an audio version of today's monologue. To hear John Wiswell read "Possible Origins for Him. 3." either click this text to download it or click on the triangle to begin streaming audio.

So you want to know who I really am. Everybody does. But I’ll let you in on it, and just you. Ever heard of a guy named "Elvis Presley?"

I know what you're saying. "Not another theory about how the Joker is Elvis!"

Sorry. It's all true. The charisma. The fabulous taste in wardrobe. Before I appointed myself court jester, I was The King.

At first getting crowds to go wild was enough, but eventually a guy tires of shaking his hips. Less of a slap and more of tickle man, I was. Nobody really got me, so I ate. Out of boredom, depression, a cadaver – you know, what you do when you have too much money and not enough friends. I was under the influence – twenty peanut-butter-cheeseburgers a day, not an illegal substance at the time – when a tour manager said I had to turn it around and mentioned this radical weight loss surgery. I figured, what the Hell? I’m barely conscious anyway!

Turns out a heavy guy who loses all that fat is left with a lot of spare tissue, and they tried to trim me up. It also turns out that back-alley plastic surgery in the 1970’s was not the most efficient or sanitary affair. The blood loss destroyed my complexion and my smile was irrevocably altered.

When I saw what the doctors had done to me, well. I ain't nothing but a hound dog.

Throttling my third medical attendee, I realized this was what I’d been missing. Not just making them squeal from the stage, but getting down there and laying on some hands. The transition into a new life wasn’t hard; half my impostors looked more like me than I did, and the screams of my new audience were so much more interesting. Let me tell you, singing Jail House Rock in Arkham Asylum is an experience to die for. Or at least get maimed on an operation table for.

This sort of thing's not that unusual, really. One of the Robins used to be James Dean. Get me a cheeseburger and a crowbar, and I'll tell you which.

Exposure by Community

There is a certain kind of Submissions page that bothers me. It rants about what the zine doesn’t want to see and strikes a deliberate attitude at the writers who want to work with it. It also lacks something: it has no Payment section. It might even claim it’ll pay you in exposure.

It's great to get some readers, but how conceited can an editor be? You’ll reward me with the honor of it being known that I did work for you?

We all wrote for free at some point. Once I actually paid to write; that was college. After graduation I wrote for free to build my confidence and make connections. Even after my prose started selling, I’d write for a friend’s site without charge. I have no problem helping people and causes I like. But there is a business somewhere around here and saying you’ll pay me in exposure is an insult. You’re not exactly McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and you know, paying sites grant exposure. Being profitable enough to pay your writers is an indicator of having a big audience – the kind a writer would want to be exposed to. If you're going to write for free, there needs to be warmth.

#fridayflash is attractive because it subverts the exposure-based system. Dozens of readers willingly buzz around the hashtag, leaving compliments and feedback, starting conversations and sharing what they like. It’s a community that exposes you out of personal engagement. The “networking” here is reading and working with your peers; you get more attention for spreading goodwill. Communities like this make bitchiness obsolete in the free scene. Social networking can turn Blogspots and Wordpress blogs into viable webzines (heck, those two sites provide templates for most of webzines anyway).

Twitter scenes like this one encourage a community that isn’t tied to a magazine or web brand, but a brand that fluctuates based on what everyone feels like contributing. I write a lot of humor for Fridays; Anthony Venutolo writes in homage for Kerouac and Carver; Barry Northern records audio fables; Carrie Clevenger writes her dark materials; Jeff Posey writes tales of Native Americans. Intrepid writers like Marisa Birns and Tony Noland try to write different genres at least every few weeks, if not weekly. Some people do it for the love or the hope of a little attention; others are sharpening their skills for careers in letters.

I strive for and admire improvement. It’s why I post daily. I can’t catch all my own typos (few writers can), which is why I leave notes about typos in my comments. It’s a public service when somebody (usually @mcantor) catches my flubs before too many others see them. You may have seen my rarer gigantic critiques in Comments, which come when I’ve got the mental energy. If writers are trying to improve then, in addition to the praise that keeps us from hanging ourselves, we need feedback. I try to isolate what was hilarious, or felt awkward, or needed better explanation. If I think it can sell somewhere, I try to notify the author. This, too, is what the community can do for each other.

I’m hardly the only maven for fiction sales. Every couple of weeks somebody shares a new contest or zine opening with me. And if you befriend the community, #fridayflash readers will follow you to wherever your fiction goes. Your weekly entry doesn’t have to be tied to your blog; it can be a guest post elsewhere or a professional sale. I saved the announcement of my first pro-rate sale, “Alligators by Twitter” at Flash Fiction Online, for #fridayflash. The result was wonderful; Twitter users left more compliments than any other FFO story for April and it was retweeted by a dozen kindly souls. Members of the community make exposure for each other. So in a way, it pays in exposure.

For the cynics who think everyone is only out for themselves, I provide the one time this networking actually paid. In November 2009, I was diagnosed with severe gallstones. Surgery was necessary. I’m uninsured because of medical conditions and the procedure cost over ten thousand dollars. After friends urged me into making a PayPal donation account, I put up just one post explaining my circumstance.

Friends promoted for me; I couldn’t, largely out of embarrassment and the inability to sit up. Friends like Jodi MacArthur. Linda Simoni-Wastila. Michael Solender. Laura Eno. They tweeted it, put it on Facebook and added the Pledgie badge to their blogs. They cared. Half the donations I got were from people related in some way to this community.
I even got a personal check from J.M. Strother, the founder of #fridayflash.

#fridayflash is not an island of weekend writers. It is one of the labels under which the community shares work. #fridayflash writers crossover with #amwriting, #weblit, #pennydreadful, #writechat, #scribechat, #writerslife. Regular #fridayflash writers edit and promote magazines like Pow Flash Fiction and Full of Crow. Last week one of G.U.D.’s editors dropped a story into the network. I met Jodi and Michael through Six Sentences; Peggy McFarland through Harbinger*33; Strother at Editors Unleashed. The writing community keeps getting bigger and more useful the more places you click. It's a far cry from a snarky Submissions page.

Godzilla Haiku at... Godzilla Haiku?

This Sunday's funny is a little different. My haiku, "It Feels," has been accepted and published over at Godzilla Haiku. They've spliced it with an image of the big guy.

You can see the entry by clicking here.

Bathroom Monologue: Trying to think up a new religion for this fantasy novel

"This is not like European monotheism or trinitarianism, Alfred. The closest that comes to them are the old Greeks who saw gods everywhere. But these people don’t have a Zeus or Hera. There aren’t human avatars for them. They think most of the gods hate them and couldn’t comprehend something like Yahweh becoming Christ. Here, the river is a god. Every fork it takes is another god. Every fistful of earth is an alien and powerful entity to these people, and they don’t trust them. They hate the world. Flash foods ruin their crops, winds knock over their homes and wild animals eat their young and sick. Sickness! These people figured out that disease was an alien entity long before we did. They see disease the same way they see jackals: things the bigger world spit out to hurt them. If they can put reins on an ox, then the ox is a pet, but not a friend or equal. The world is only so amiable as they can force it to be. We’re afraid of rats, but they hate see them as in league with hurricanes. They’re still not convinced the Europeans aren’t unreasonable earth spittle sent to kill them. Their hatred of the world is why they strip mine. Their gods aren’t transcendent; they want to rip the literal heart out of landscapes that have caused them so much grief, so long as that heart has ore in it that will benefit them. The world is not their friend. Their religion has not tried to be at peace with the land, the sea or the divine. Since the beginning, they’ve been at war with all of it."

Bathroom Monologue: Peer Advice

He didn't look like a mugger. The guy wore a bland suit and tie, a hint of paunch poking out through his jacket and thick glasses that obscured his expression. Jack slapped at his arms, breaking out of his grip.

"Back off, gramps!" he said, even as he backed into the bathroom where the man had dragged him. The middle-aged mugger stood in front of the door.

"Good work against Polaris this morning. His fields are useless if he keeps casting them where you just were. You use your speed smartly. But you can't dress like this at your day job."

Jack put up a fist, threatening to punch the guy if he came forward again.

"You need even thicker glasses. You've got the wrong guy."

"Son, I don't need x-ray vision to see through your disguise."

"Disguise?"

Rather than come closer, the man pointed at Jack’s suit jacket.

"I like the coat. It's baggy and hides how big you are. But tuck your shirt in a little looser so it bunches up. Bigger pants help, too. Always at least a size too large and even if they look baggy, you come off fat. If the public's idea of you is a fat reporter, they will be much less likely to connect you with a hero."

Jack glanced into the bathroom mirror for a split second, faster than this guy could possibly realize. But no, he didn’t look anything like his alter ego. Between the hairstyle and designer suit, how could anyone recognize him?

He glared into the assailant’s glasses.

"Now listen, I don't know who you think you--"

"Don't look people in the eyes like that.” The mugger-come-fashionista adjusted his glasses. “You need to look people in the eyes as a hero so they'll respect you. As a reporter, look down more. Maybe at your shoes or a notepad. Then you don't seem so assertive. Again, it helps throw people off.”

"Mister, you're making a fool of yourself. I'm walking through that door and if you follow me, I'll--"

Before he could stop him, the guy yanked Jack's collar down, revealing the yellow spandex shirt beneath. And before Jack could slap his hand, the guy was out of reach and in front of the door again.

Jack gawked. How could the guy be so fast?

"You're a speedster. Use it. Never wear your costume under your clothes. You can change in a closet, a restroom, a phone booth if you can find it, and no one will see anything but a blur. Don't be lazy."

Jack studied this guy’s face, but every inch was generic beyond the glasses. He had a big chin. Who had a big chin? Even blocking the door and scrutinizing Jack, this guy seemed as intimidating as a bowl of Jell-O.

"And don't just muss up your hair when you go out. You're good looking and people will notice. If you're not going drastic, get a mask, a cowl, or at least a costume that attracts the eyes more than solid yellow with no logo. Trust me: you do not want a guy with so much free time he bends the laws of gravity to rob banks figuring out your civilian identity."

“Okay. Okay.” Jack put up his palms as though to ward off anymore haymakers on his appearance. “Thanks, I guess. But who are you?”

The guy pulled press credentials from inside his jacket and pinned them on his breast pocket. They hung crooked. The name was “C. KENT.”

"A colleague.” For a moment, C. Kent’s voice was much deeper. “We’ve got to look out for the new guys. You’ll do the same some day."

The next thing Jack knew, the bathroom door closed. He didn’t even see the guy leave.

“Fast for a fat ass,” Jack remarked to himself and turned to the mirror. He buttoned his collar back up and tried to envision himself fighting crime in a cowl. Could that look cool?

Bathroom Monologue: Libratarians

From the annals of failed movements: libratarians. These were a group of California librarians that felt libraries should be free. That seemed odd to most other California librarians, given that libraries were already free, subsidized by government to provide the public with knowledge. But Libratarians didn't mean for libraries to be free of charge; they wanted them free of government influence. No books would ever be banned, and librarians were free to place a few service charges. The Libratarians followed trending books and anticipated releases. Bram Stoker's Dracula was still free, but the Twilight novels were fifty cents to check out, with a twenty-five cent charge if you wanted to get on the waiting list. Dan Brown, John Grisham and the like were "evergreen" titles, with year-round charges. Libratarians claimed sympathy for the public and allowed some titles to go with charges only part of the year, like those books necessary for school book reports that only began having fees in September. Being true to the market, when a book like Eclipse remained in high demand despite the fifty cent fee, they raised the fee. It was not them; it was the market. If their salaries rose, that was the market. If they were the only libraries for dozens of miles and so kids had to come to them, that was the market. And when the Kindle and iPad eventually undercut their reading fees and didn't have wait-lists, their going out of business was also the market.

Bathroom Monologue: Guilty By Nature

[MEGATRAN, a Chinese knockoff of Megatron made from blue plastic instead of white, sits on the right side of the booth. ARYANA sits on the left side wearing a tanned hide pantsuit and nursing a margarita. GRUFF STOVER sits in the center of the booth, his back to the window, wearing a grey sweatshirt and admiring MEGATRAN’s giant plastic cannon.]

Megatran: I'm not a very nice person by nature. It's only by forcing myself to seem nice that I can make it through the day.

Aryana: You're guilty by nature?

Megatran: My mother was Jewish.

[GRUFF looks inside the cannon. His voice echoes out.]

Gruff: I don’t believe that.

Aryana: I think you're nice.

Megatran: I'm really not. I'm judging people constantly. I took a night class in acting just to figure out how to look at people with sympathy. Before that I just stared.

Aryana: You're kidding.

Megatran: I'm not! I love people, but I don't love much about them. They drive me insane, but I want the best for them. The best is a nicer me.

Gruff: Being nice is overrated.

Megatran: I'm a writer. I cannot wait for the day I'm overrated. That means sales and torrents of praise.

Gruff: Torrents of unwarranted praise.

Megatran: And I'm unwarrantedly nice. [Points his non-gun hand at GRUFF] You've been trying to poke holes in my feelings all morning and I'm still giving you a ride to the airport. The least I can get out of it is wealth and legions of fans who should know better.

Gruff: I think you can get less.

Megatran: [Points at GRUFF again] That! Right there!

Aryana: What?

Megatran: When he said that? I judged his smugness, his posture and his crooked teeth.

[GRUFF sits up a little straighter. He purses his lips self-consciously.]

Aryana: Oh you did not.

Megatran: I did. Now he's doing the close-your-mouth thing when somebody reminds you your teeth might be bad. Everybody does it. It's neurotic.

[ARYANA nods. The table hesitates. Then ARYANA closes her lips, hiding her teeth. MEGATRAN stares at ARYANA for a moment, then looks sympathetic.]

Bathroom Monologue: AE Micro Contest Entry

Today’s story is a contest entry. AE Micro is launching their zine with a contest for 200-word stories on the theme of “micro.” I’ve written them one and they’ve posted it.

John Wiswell’s “Microscope” is Entry 27 on this page: http://aescifi.ca/index.php?nav=contest

It’s about a Biology student who sees something in a microscope, and that thing seeing him back. The universe ends 200 words later.

You have to scroll down to read it because, in the interest of fairness, they’ve posted every entry on the same page in order of submission. There is no public voting. You can still have a read and tell me what you think here. Maybe you’ll whip up your own super-short.

Bathroom Monologue: Quantum physicists make bad TV salesmen.

As soon as he spotted the salesman, Bob grabbed his giant cardboard box and hustled at him. The salesman backed up into a rack of cartoon BluRays, putting up a hand in potential defense.

“Hey!” Bob barked.

“What’s the matter, sir?”

Bob dropped the TV at the salesman’s feet, then pulled open the top. A widescreen HD set was inside.

“Dude, this TV doesn’t work.”

“What’s wrong? It’s a 3D television.”

Bob rapped his knuckles on the top of the set.

“There’s no 3D. There isn’t even 2D. It won’t turn on.”

The salesman straightened. “Oh, it’s on. You just can’t see the picture.”

“How is that 3D?”

“Because you can only see the picture on a 4D television. The fourth dimension is time. Without time you can’t perceive moving images. A 1D is the same as a –”

Bob floored him with a right hook. The manager collapsed onto some cardboard boxes clutching his chin. He looked up to find his customer storming towards Customer Service.

“Mom was right,” the salesman to himself. “Quantum physicists make bad TV salesmen.”

Quilted For Your Pleasure: Dragonslayer Armor

Welcome to the latest Quilted For Your Pleasure. Click on the above image to read this week's comic. This is actually a remake of an early Bathroom Monologue.

It was composed in the bathroom by John Wiswell. John recently saw Whisper of the Heart and cherished it and will punch you in the face if you so much as imply disapproval.

It was drawn by Max Cantor. Max will watch Whisper of the Heart soon or meet a gruesome end.

Bathroom Monologue: Born Elsewhere

“No one should be born in this city. No one should grow up with all these museums, this food, these hospitals and cabs to take you everywhere. There’s always traffic, but you can get anywhere faster here than in a dirt town in the middle of nowhere. No child should grow up thinking this is the way it is in the rest of the world, or this is the way it should be everywhere, or that in some way they deserve this. They should grow up in Kansas or an Ottawa suburb or a Brazilian lumberjack village. Anywhere but here. Fix everything out there, but make them grow up there. Let them come here as adults, with dreams and strong bodies. Let them work for everything. Let them intern and temp and struggle to make purchase in the concrete jungle. Let everyone earn this place and it will be a miracle. Let them grow up here, grow poisoned and drunk on luxuries uncommon in the rest of the world, and no one will believe in miracles.”

Bathroom Monologue: In the Nature of Scorpions and Tortoises

The tortoise was just coming to shore when the scorpion scuttled by. It stopped in the pebbles and waited for the tortoise to approach.

“Pardon me,” said the scorpion, “but could I have a ride to the other side of the river?”

“I don’t know,” said the tortoise. “I am going back there this evening, but I heard there are some very shapely turtles sunning up by the road on this side. I wanted to ogle them.”

“That is a noble cause, but I hear there are some very shapely scorpions over on the other side of the river. I’ve never seen the shape of a scorpion over there, you know. Lived here all my life.”

“That is a shame,” said the tortoise, trying not to look the scorpion in the face. Unfortunately at their level, there was very little else to look at.

“As someone with the gift of aquatic travel, I hoped you would see fit to help a brother out.”

“How long is a scorpion lifespan again?”

“Not impressively long. I’d very much like to ogle a decent scorpion before I die.”

“Well…”

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

The tortoise stirred. “No. What?”

“Good. There’s a terrible stereotype about scorpions stabbing people with the least temptation. Only rednecks believe in it.”

Scorpions can be very pushy, and any tortoise hates being called a bigot. He wound up rationalizing out loud. “Well, it’ll only be a minute. I’ve been swimming a lot faster lately. Cardio training from a race with a rabbit.”

“Is that so?” the scorpion inquired as he scurried up the tortoise’s shell. He paused at the top, his tail quivering.

The tortoise eyed him. Since scorpions have much more complicated eyes, he couldn’t tell if the scorpion was staring back at him.

They dipped into the water. The scorpion’s legs coiled inward as though he were dying.

“Are you alright?” asked the tortoise.

“I’ve never been over water before. I guess I’m nervous.”

The tortoise could not tell, but it seemed the scorpion was staring at his shell. He swam a little faster.

“Are you licking your lips?”

“I don’t have lips. I’m an arachnid.”

His tail bobbed, as though nodding in agreement. With every bob the thorny tip drew closer.

“Almost there,” said the tortoise.

The tail drew as far up as possible. It quivered for an instant.

“I’m sorry,” gasped the scorpion.

“Sorry for what?”

“It’s my nature!”

The scorpion struck down with all his might. His barb snapped against the tortoise’s shell.

“Oh, is that your nature?” asked the tortoise. “Mine’s a carapace.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the trip. The scorpion got off with his head down, and the tortoise barely looked at him. He slipped back into the water with a mutter that sounded like, “Dumb ass.”

Bathroom Haiku: The Funeral

the most awkward thing
about God's funeral was
that God sat front row

Bathroom Monologue: Capital Idea (An Interview)

"So your country is one of the few with the death penalty."

"Yes."

"But your country hasn't used it in six years, including all four years that you have been in office."

"Yes. We're very proud of that."

"You're on the record as saying you don't want anyone to die at the hands of the state?"

"Yes. I believe very firmly in that."

"Then why hasn't your administration made any efforts to repeal the death penalty?"

“Why would we repeal it?”

“If you don’t want anyone to die at the hands of the state, why retain a policy that allows the state to kill?”

“For reason’s sake. If anyone does something worth capital punishment, I will use the full force of my office to execute it. Everyone in my country knew what I meant when I said I didn’t want anyone to die at the hands of the state. Did others not?”

“Perhaps. Can you elaborate?”

“That I don’t want anyone to do anything so reprehensible that my country would have to exercise capital punishment. It’s an issue of fundamental politeness.”

“So you don’t consider international appeals for your country to repeal the death penalty?”

“I listen to them, but they don’t understand how our country works. That law is part of our identity. Everyone obeys it and so it hasn’t been used in six years. The people are responsible and don’t need to be punished. The government is responsible and ensures due process.”

"What if someone else came to power and abused it?"

"Then we'd execute him."

"If he was in your office?"

"Abuse of office is one of the crimes that carries the death penalty, and deservedly so. The Hague has shown many brutal dictators that they will eventually be out of power, and in a stable country like ours, he will eventually be deposed, if not by arms, then by term limits."

"But his successor might be a sympathizer, aided into office by the tyrant."

"Eventually one successor will not be, though."

"Your country would execute multiple former office holders?"

"There's a Comedy about that coming this Fall. Our nation has a blossoming film industry."

"Execution of high office holders would seem brutal in many other countries."

"To eliminate the death penalty would be to eliminate the punishment for unjustly putting people to death. A leader can always abuse power to kill citizens, but the death penalty suggests retaliation. As chief of state, I appreciate it. It keeps a man more honest."

"Would you be more likely to abuse your office if capital punishment were not in place?"

-Tune in tomorrow for Part 2 of our interview-



(…Which is actually a dodge. I’m not going to publish his reply any time soon. But I’d very much like your guesses. How do you think he’ll answer? How do you want him to answer? Please leave a guess in the Comments section.)

Bathroom Monologue: Monster Eaters

"You don't hire a hero to kill your monster. You hope for one, but heroes don't work for hire and are highly unreliable. Any generation gets three-to-five really good heroes in comparison to, what? Hundreds of banshees and ghosts? Heroes are busy. When one doesn't show up and save the day, you hire another monster. We're cannibals. Monster eaters. A troll will smash a lycan, and a demon will happily burn down your haunted house. Ogres will eat ogres and, when bribed, vampires will drink their own. But you don't feel comfortable running into the hills and auditioning dragons. I understand that. That's why I opened up business. This hair cut? These clothes? Learning the English language? My signs of good faith to you. Your signs of good faith should be at the bottom of the check. If I die, your check never gets cashed. If your village tries to chase me with so much as one pitchfork after I rip the head off old Grendel, though? You better add another zero to the check."

Bathroom Monologue: Murphy’s Sister’s Law

An undocumented law of the universe, and serious evidence for the existence of prankster gods, is Murphy’s Sister’s Law. Murphy’s Law states that anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Murphy’s Sister’s Law states that anything that does go wrong and remains frustratingly wrong has a high likelihood of going right as soon as you get somebody else to look at it. If Murphy spends an hour trying to get Microsoft Word to open, and no amount of double clicking and rebooting helps him, then the instant he calls his sister over to look at it, Word will spring into action, acting innocent and perfect.

The law holds for more than computing. How many times has a mechanic found nothing wrong with your car when you know he wanted to charge you for something exorbitant? How many times was there one thing you missed in a Math problem that you didn’t notice was there until somebody pointed it out? And there’s the mother of all Murphy’s Sister’s Cases: somebody opening a jar of anything in seconds when you spent minutes wringing your shirt around the lid. Murphy’s Sister apparently loved food that came in jars.

Murphy’s Law has long been considered odd, given how many times it clearly does not execute. Anything that can go wrong usually doesn’t; things go right all the time, which is why we recognize when they go wrong. We get frustrated because this one thing (or these few things) refuses to go right so we can ignore it like the million things that are constantly going right. Murphy’s Sister’s Law serves to illustrate that sometimes things going right can be even more annoying than them going wrong. Like art, it’s all a matter of timing.

Quilted For Your Pleasure: Third Opinion

Quilted For Your Pleasure is now a regular weekly comic. We'll bring you one every Sunday, in proper comics fashion. Click the above image to view today's comic.

It was composed in the bathroom by John Wiswell. He has a fanatical hatred of children.

It was drawn by Max Cantor. He is an enabler.

Bathroom Monologue: It Feels (A Godzilla Haiku)

Army sees my breath,
teeth, scales, spines. All that I am.
Except my feelings.

Bathroom Monologue: The .lit Revolution

New .lit files aren’t just rich text files – they’re enriched text files. Download one directly to any internal mind hard drive, and a .lit file will cause you to remember everything the author thought as she wrote her book. From the first day she sat down at the computer through the drafting process, you’ll know the intention of every single word. Where an annotated version can only give you footnotes, .lit simultaneously allows you to remember up to sixteen revisions of the same sentence with perfect 64-bit clarity.

Gone will be the mystery of what was allegory and what was accident. Gone will be scholarly and message board debates over an author’s feelings. Does fiction reveal autobiographical information? You’ll never know unless you get the .lit.

And using existing .lib ™ technology, .lit files will give you a full memory of having read the book, without the hassle of actually experiencing it. No hardcover prices. No waiting for e-reader editions. No hours of sitting there listening to an audiobook narrator. No, with .lit you will remember the book perfectly without ever having had to experience it.

The .lit revolution hits this fall with twelve blockbuster titles from premiere authors. Feel the fear in a Horror novelist’s gut as he tries to write his protagonist out of a corner. Feel a poet laureate’s soul sing as difficult meter is achieved. Some readers may wonder how we get writers to plug themselves into a USB for the entire writing process, but don’t worry – it’s entirely ethical and the compensation is highly competitive. Pre-order your .lit copies today and you’ll receive bonus content: memories of having been at the author’s release party, accessible to you before the book even comes out!

Bathroom Monologue: Karen Schindler and Jodi MacArthur want me to write about “Comment Gobblers”

Comment Gobblers are actually the abducted children of Pac-Man. You know Pac-Man and Ms. Pac-Man. Perhaps you even know of Jr. Pac-Man and Baby Pac-Man, but those were unauthorized children, adopted to fill the hole the Pac-Family's lives. Software developers kidnapped the Pac-Brood as soon as they were conceived, before the zygote split and there was just one pixel of Pac-ness.

Stolen from the warm embrace of their yellow parents, the Pac-Brood were raised in harsh environments like Doom and Pit Fall. A Pac-Person’s inability to jump makes Pitfall an emotionally scarring experience. These games left them both callous and with a deep hunger for something. In the absence of little white pellets strewn about a maze, these Pac-Persons could be directed at anything and expected to swallow them.

What did they swallow? Your Comments on various blogs. Your personal information on e-forms. Anything you’ve ever typed and submitted only to be told the server lost it and you’ll have to fill it out again – that was the work of an abused Pac-Person. They buzz through dial-up and T-1 lines, relishing in the bonus stages that crappy Word Verification programs enable. They’re not doing it out of malice to you – they’re just starving for approval, and desperately running from the ghosts of their lost past.

Bathroom Monologue: From Oosa

I'm from Oosa.

Oh, where is that? Scotland?

What? No. It's a country.

Oh? Where?

Do you know Canada?

Oh, it’s in the Canada?

Just south of it.

I thought your accent sounded American.

Yeah, a lot of Oosans just call ourselves Americans. I don't. I think it's impolite to all the other countries.

Oosa is in South America?

No, just south of Canada.

Is it an island?

Only part of it. Havay-ee.

Havay-ee?

Yes. It’s in the Pacific.

Oosa is?

Only the part that is Havay-ee.

What else is there?

Forty-nine other states in it.

There are fifty states in Oosa?

I’m surprised the Eeyuh doesn’t educate people on it.

Eeyuh?

You know. This place.

You’re in Britian, sir.

Which is part of the Eeyuh.

Wait a minute. Are you just pronouncing the acronym for “U.S.A?”

No. That’s the pronunciation for “E.U.”

Firstly, don’t do that. You make it sound disgusting.

So sorry, but that's how you spell it.

Secondly, I’ve never heard anyone pronounce it like that before.

Do you go to Oosa often?

We get a lot of television. You talk about yourselves a lot on it.

Oh, you like Oosan tiv?

Stop that.

Bathroom Monologue: Max Cantor asks me to write a monologue with the title "Murder: The most important meal of the day."

Oh, you mean the cannikabals. The sect of Judaism that absorbed tradition digestively. Obviously there was some initial drama over the "thou shalt not kill" thing, but they bought people on the fair market. After that the mainstream Jews rejected them for being non-kosher, and the sect broke off to do its own thing. They were permitted to eat any learned person they liked six days a week, but on the sabbath to partake in at least part of a Rabbi. A very literal people with a personal connection to the indigestible Yahweh, they always set a place at their table for the Lord. The cannikabals never converted to secularism like other Jewish cultures because secularism isn't inheritable by diet, or at least not from a single, heavy meal. Today they run respectable lobbying firms in the U.S. and E.U., defending themselves against what they view as their greatest threats: anti-semitism and childhood obesity.

Bathroom Monologue: x6

I’m old. Older all the time. It’s a peculiar disability. You know how the Antichrist is supposed to have three 6’s on his scalp? Well I have ‘x6’ on my scalp. I’m so old that I get six times older for every day that passes. Aging backwards in time itself, so I may look in my twenties to you, but I stretch back. By age two I was twelve years old. By the time Mom was looking at Daycare, I was an assistant to Darwin – the one who covered up those letters from Gregor Mendel so he looked like more of a genius. When people ask me to tell them about the war, I ask, “Which one?” By the time I could drive, I helped invent the covered wagon. By the time my brother could drive, I was giving Romulus and Remus family counseling. I’m so old that on my deathbed, I’ll have given that God kid a loan for His “start-up venture.” I’ll hope it turns out good. I’ll be so old that by then, I’ll have seen all of it.

Quilted For Your Pleasure: Rabbi, Priest, Minister Joke

Quilted For Your Pleasure continues. Click on the above image to view this Sunday's cartoon.

It was composed in the bathroom by John Wiswell. He can't draw, which is to say, he was told in his teens that his drawings were not good enough to go up in a museum, and thus switched career paths to fiction. Seriously. What a queen.

It was drawn by Max Cantor. He can't draw either. OH WHAT'S THAT, MAX? YOU CAN'T EDIT TEXT ON THE BLOG? HOW UNFORTUNATE FOR YOU! OH DRAWING CAN'T FIX THIS FOR YOU? WHY DON'T YOU DRAW A BETTER BIO FOR YOURSELF WITH YOUR MAGICAL DRAWING POWERS?

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."

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.