Thing a Week 13: Terror is a Whale With Red Eyes

A few days ago, I had a conversation with a certain brother of mine. He knows who he is. Hopefully. You do know who you are, right dude? Anyway, we were talking, and eventually the conversation turned, as all conversations eventually must, to Orca whales. Specifically, I was expanding on my theory that Orcas would be 3,000,000,000 times cooler if the world, as a whole, referred to them as Murder Whales instead of Killer Whales. I mean, think about it! You sight a pod of murder whales, and you know things gon' get real, and SOON. Anyway, my brother shared this opinion with me (how could anyone not?), and we started discussing how murder whales could be used to make the best movie possibly in the universe, like jaws but more amazingly fantastic. The conversation was long, but the result was clear: a movie had to be made. Spielberg cannot pass this chance up. The earth will probably fracture from the pent-up radicality if this isn't done. And I have humbly taken upon myself the task of creating the script for this awesome. Unfortunately, I am lazy, so I'm mostly patching together the meat of this post together from excerpts of the conversation. To add context, this scene in the movie takes place just as Lance (the hero type), a scrappy freedom fighting pirate, manages to survive an attack on his ship by some godless commie murder whales, which boat was carrying a load of tanks for a 3rd world country full of (also scrappy) lovable natives fighting for freedom from the communist regime besetting them on all sides.

Murder Whale:
Attack of the most terrifying things to ever exist, ever
*Technically, the whale should plural
Lance scanned the surface of the choppy sea, his red rimmed eyes searching desperately for some sign of life. It was three days now since the murder whales attacked last, two days ago since the ship was destroyed, one day since he ran out of water. Eyes glued open by the harsh sea spray and the horror of what he had seen raked the waves, always seeking the fin that he knew would inevitably appear. All that had survived that first attack of the whales was a Tommy gun, a crate of ammunition that had miraculously managed to stay dry, and a gallon of the cooks best bootleg hooch, which he and Lance had been sharing at the time of the attack.
The first fin slipped into Lances line of sight, and he grinned humorlessly. When the whales returned, he WOULD be ready.

Thing a Week 12: Late! (Complete With Crappy Excuse)

In an unfortunate trend, i am two days late to posting this. this is a BAD THING, but in my defense i had my wisdom teeth pulled today, so maybe i couldn't write because of emotional distress? anyway, this is my memory of the surgery. I'm sure everyone how reads it will find it quite instructive.

Start: I am in the car, being driven to the oral clinic by my mummy. I fall asleep.
Next: I wake up as we pull into the clinic. We get there early, so we have to wait outside for a little while before the doors are unlocked. once I get in, I start reading a reader's digest. As usual, the jokes aren't that funny. The nurse asks me to pee before the surgery.
And then I'm called in! A young, fairly attractive nurse starts asking me routine questions: Am I allergic to stuff (nope), do I take meds (nope), have I ever had Vicodin (nada), have I ever had an IV (again, no) how old am I (something I try to avoid telling the Internet) how tall am I (6'2") how much do I weigh (fat).
Then I get the nitrous oxide. I don't start to laugh, and feel disappointed. nurse person starts hooking up lots of doodads to me. This one checks my heart beat, this one checks my pulse, this one tears off my leg hair, and this one is purely decorative.
Still nothing from the the laughing gas, so nurse lady turns it up. I don't notice any difference, but then I start smiling unaccountably, and giggling quietly. I was expecting complete euphoria, but this feels pretty OK. I don't like laughing without reason, so I try to stop. It works fairly well.
Now I can hear the dentist outside. He's talking about how his hand is dry, and it hurts when he bends it. It occurs to me that normally I would kind of pissed about him talking about that instead of me, but I'm high right, and couldn't care less.
Eventually he comes in and starts prepping my arm for the IV that is going to knock me out for the surgery. I hear one of the nurses (there are two in the room now) complain that it's hard to attach something to my left arm because she's left handed. I mention that I am too. She dislikes it because the world is designed for right-handed people; I do like it because it makes me feel superior (I take pleasure in small things). Then dentist guy pricks me with the IV. I smile while he does it, and one the nurses notices and says something about it. I tell her that I'm high, and really don't care.

Then I wake up, and the surgery is over. I have to stagger up and down a hallway a couple of times, then I'm guided out to the car. I spend the rest of the day sleeping and watching Star Wars.
Wasn't that the greatest story EVER!?!?

Thing a Week 11: In which the humble author continues his war against spelling, proof writing, punctuaition and the english in general

I have written something on time! And it has longer run on sentences than possibly any of my creations before it, a feat which i had previously thought to be impossible.

In a place that existed in a time which statistics indicate was probably either long before or quite a while after the one we are currently living in, there lived a country of simple people who led a rather primitive lifestyle but nevertheless had a remarkably similar culture to our own (which certainly didn't occur because the author was a creative hack unwilling to take the time build a realistic culture for its story), except it had a lot more peasants, vassals, and penniless woodcutters, and a slightly less complicated bureaucratic process.
This fascinating and well thought out society was also notable for having an incredibly complicated navigational system, composed of not less 468 (and counting!) directions. The most notable of these were Hink, Thibbit, Ley, Snook, and of course WoopWoop, which is defined not as a direction per se, but rather "a kind of pirouetting prance not quite directly to the left, which only exists on alternate seasonal holidays". Also of interest are Ecumenicus and Stevedorean, which can only be used by royalty on agony of pain.
ANYWAY, the capital of the kingdom (The society was monarchy based, did I remember to tell you that?) had quite a few streets, naturally enough, and if you were follow the main one until you reached Quezotic St. (named after the direction Quezoticzix, which is 16 degrees Thibbit of magnetic Snook and reputed to remind people of incarnadine, which is a color, not a direction, but will probably be one as soon as the author runs out of more creative names), and then followed it to Relatively Infrequent Murder Alley, and THEN took that until you reached that shop with the distinctive odor, and then crossed the street to avoid said odor and gone another three houses, you would find a small greasy spoon run by a xenophobic midget who just so happens to make the best Lamb-and-Gidget slurry it has been this authors privilege to partake of.
This isn't actually relevant to the story at hand, but the author is rather peckish and could do with a spot of lamb-and-Gidget right now.

Thing a Week 10: A Reasonable Defense

So, I have failed once again to post in a timely manner. It was because i was in a different state, and i didn't have access to a computer, but I'm still disappointed in myself. I should have posted on Friday. Anyway, here is what last weeks post was supposed to be.
In the first place, let me apologize for the inferior quality of my last post. i did it in less than fifteen minutes, and I'm not very pleased with the result. It doesn't fit the tone of the story in my head at all, and eventually I'm going to post an edited version that (hopefully) won't make me feel the pressing need to commit seppuku for dishonoring my noble heritage. However, that is a different piece of writing, for a different time. THIS weeks post is about Facebook, and my issues with it. I've got to say it. I don't like Facebook. I'm not sure why; it just gives me an unpleasant tingling feeling. Rather like contact with humans, or an intense radiation burn.
Anyway, whenever people ask me about my irrational dislike, i cant really answer them, because i don't really know why i have ti. i have theories about it, but i haven't actually gotten around to confirming any of them. AND SO, with my typical verve and pan-ache, I have decided to compile a compendium of things that could be the reason i don't like Facebook. From now on, I will always carry a copy of this post with me, and I will shove it at peoples faces with the slightest provocation. IT WILL BE GLORIOUS.

1. I don't like social networking, period. I just don't! I'm not sure what my reasoning is, they just give me a gitchy feeling in my Spine
2. I try to avoid addiction, and from everything I've seen, addiction is the entire point of Facebook. It's about getting all of your favorite things on the net in one place, where you can overindulge at will.
3. I try not to spend my entire life on the computer. This is basically a reiteration of Point 2. When all of your hobbies and habits (and hobbits) are in one place, where will you spend your time? In hobbit land. I have an intimate knowledge of how easy it is to waste time online, i don't need another site created to help at something I'm already so good at.
4. No fourth point, but it looks more legitimate. And those are my reasons as of now.

Thing a Week 9: Revenge of the Return of the Master of the Lycanthromancersaurs

After a discussion with one of my brothers, I decided to actually think about doing another installment of the single most epic thing that has ever been written, ever. I'm going to assume my original post about this bilge was the prologue, and start running with it. Plot line contradictions can be expected!
This chapter is sponsored by Barnabas & sons clothiers, selling high quality men's garment since a while ago
Chapter 1: A Legend Grows Into Birth

On a dark and stormy night, a dark and gloomy figure walked into the dank and dismal tavern, cloaked in shadows and a heavy gauge wool burnoose, specially designed to withstand the elements (Now available at Barnabas & Sons for only 89.99 plus tax, in a wide variety of flattering colors). He stalked over to a small figure in a corner, with an air of such quiet menace that the entire room fell into menacing quiet.
"Where is it?" he asked, picking the figure up by some part of its garment whose name has been lost to history (something which a Barnabas & Sons garment is insured against, incidentally) and slamming him into one of the taverns walls.
"I would probably be able to answer that better if i had even the slightest clue what on earth you're talking about" said the figure.
"OH"
And then he walked out, into the glowering night, his proportions set off in the twilight outside by the dappled forest green of his tunic.

Thats all folks, its too late to give this thing a proper finish! Sorry, better one next week.

Thing a Week 8: Posted in the 51st minute of the 11th hour (eastern standard time)

I have a theory, that if you go to bed an hour later than you normally do, you will feel like a zombie. But, if you go to bed say, EIGHT hours later than you normally do, and get barely enough sleep to maintain consciousness, then you end up being so tired that you don't even realize you're operating at less than subsistence level, and you end up feeling nothing so much as a warm fuzzy feeling and general goodwill to all men. I believe that this is because your body looks at the shape it's in, and then says "Well, it's basically shot. We aren't going to be able to do anything to this heap without several hours of solid sleep, so until then let's just double endorphin production, shift to the lowest gear, and cruise". And so (in theory) I'll feel fantastic until my body gets the chance to recuperate. In practice, whenever I try to pull this off I become a shambling hulk that grumbles blearily at people until it can go back to bed. I also tend to trying to write downer poetry. I don't know why, it just pops out. The end result of this is one piece that I wrote yesterday, that I think is kind of funny, and one piece that doesn't rhyme at all really, and doesn't have a particularly unified meter either, but feels like poetry to me. Call it poetresque.
Anyway, here is this weeks OFFICIAL post.

Someday, I will go out to a
field, full of dead grass and old memories
left over from winter
And I will lie down
on top of an abandoned voles nest
and squint at a sky made entirely from
surprisingly bright variations on the on the color
gray.
I will watch storm clouds form and fail
to be awed by their glory
I will squint harder when the raindrops come
and think of how their acidity could
upset my PH balance
In another 3 months,
It will be too muggy to enjoy nature.

And Thus Leaves a Man of Enormous Enormance

Today I would like to commemorate two truly great people
I found out about the death of Paul Harvey yesterday, but I think the depth of the loss is still sinking in to me. He was the only radio personality I can remember enjoying every time I heard him, and probably the only one I ever actually actively seeked out to listen to. One of the most enjoyably recognizable voices I have ever had the pleasure to hear is gone, and the world will miss him.
In happier news, today is the birthday of Doctor Theodore Suesse Geissel, in my opinion probably the greatest children's author of the twentieth century. I had a conversation today, in which the comment "He wrote KIDS BOOKS" was used as a riposte to my claim that he was a genius. Yes, he did. He wrote books for children. He wrote fantastically illustrated books that brought joy to me and millions of others, and cultivated (in me, at least) an unhealthy pleasure for fantasy and the realm of the imagination. He inspired me, and showed me at an early age what kind of thing i wanted to create if i grew up. If that isn't genius, then I don't want to be brilliant.