4:30 (203)

It was getting harder and harder to sleep for any significant time. this was their plan.
in ordr to test him at his limits, he had to be pushed to the edge of exhaustion and beyond.
at 4:30 a.m., he sleepwalked from the dormitory, stepped out into the street, in front of a car, and was hit.
he was not injured, but the driver was thrown from the windsheild and killed.

ELEVEN HOURS

This regimented fascism is wearing on me fast.  We house ourselves in a long, cemented bunker with very little heat.  I toil in a back room warehouse, boxing up product, driving to undisclosed locations to pick up more product.  The days, pass, dark to dark.  Our progress at the end of the day is checked, then rechecked to make sure we’ve done what is expected.  My only companion, Gerard, is a slow-witted mountain who constantly cuts me down and berates me at every turn.  I’m not sure if he’s on my side or reports my every move to them.  Rules which were once commonplace are swiftly changed on a bi-weekly basis to assure that we are kept confused and beaten-down.

 

One day I shall get out of here, but it won’t be any day I can see for now.  Blood will spill, I can say that much.




-SLL

 

love games

Damn that Cupid. I hear he got a new automatic crossbow for Christmas this past year. Last year he got a sniper rifle, which was hell. He shot up whole parks full of couples before we could narrow his location. By the time we got to his camp, he would be gone, and the only thing there would be candy wrappers and shells.
If our intel is correct he plans to hit malls and school yards this year. Any location he can find that has massive amounts of people in close proximity. Avoid the mall like you would during a zombie plague.

Super dead (204)

we were fools.
we thought that when he died, it would all be over. but he wasn't just dead, he was super dead. he could come out of the ground any time he wanted. he floated around, sucking up the life force of anyone unlucky enough to come in contact with the tendrils that now flowed from his eye sockets. during the daytime, we fled from town to town trying to solve the mystery of the curse that had -oh, and answers to the mystery of the curse, the curse that had made him super dead. by night, we lay low, hoping that he wouldn't smell us and locate us and send those creepy super dead tendrils under a crack in the motel room door and get us.
we were helpless. he was killing us off at an alarming rate. bullets didn't help, nor did our allegience to satan which seemed, at this momnet, to be a bad idea and the cause of this mess. but we didn't want to go running back to God now. it would seem like we were just doing it because we needed something.
so we continued to run with no real protection, no one to worship, and a super dead janitor on our heels.
we should have never tried to cover up killing his daughter in that hit and run, and we should have never killed him when he discovered our murder and sought revenge.
man, we just fucked up all over the damn place.

SEQUOIA AND THE WHETSTONE PROPHECY

“You Sequoia?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tell me about your dream.”

 

“I enter this room full of smoke.  I don’t know where I came from, but I know that I’m here now and the person I’m looking for is in this room.  My hands are outstretched.  It’s cold and there’s all this smoke.”

 

“Is there some kind of fire in the room?”

 

“No, it’s freezing in the room.  It’s cigarette smoke.  Like I’m in a bar or a smoker’s lounge or something, but there’s no ventilation, so it’s hard to see anything in front of me.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“It’s loud, full of talking, but I don’t sense that there are more than two people in the room.  Me and somebody else.  He’s in front of me, but when I reach out for him, he’s gone.  Smoke covers his tracks.  I’m a tracker and this guy’s untraceable.  I find him in the next room and the smoke is gone.  He’s sitting there fixing a chair.”

 

“How big is the chair?”

 

“The one he’s sitting in?”

 

“No.  The one he’s fixing.”

 

“It’s small, like some sort of kindergartener’s chair.  He offers me a seat and that’s where the dream ends.”

“I see.”

 

“What does it mean?  I was told you would know.”

 

“The smoky room denotes that dangerous people are victimizing you with flattery.  Someone close is blowing smoke, but you shouldn’t trust them.  The cold doesn’t bode well either.  Night’s coming fast, you see?  Loud talking means that someone will be interfering in your life very soon.  The whole chair-maker thing is actually a good omen.  That represents pleasant labor before you.”

 

“What about the size of the chair?  What does that have to do with?”

 

“I’m not sure I should tell you that.”

 

“Listen, Whetstone.  I’ve come a long way to get where I am, here in front of you.  Now, you tell me where I go from here or by God, I have no qualms about snapping your weenie neck!  You got me?”

 

“Okay, okay!  Feltone.”

 

“Nicky Feltone?”

 

“The ‘Made’ Nicky Feltone now.  You have to see him.  He’s in a new place.  Clean Street at the dead end.”

 

“Since when’s Nicky lived on Clean Street?”

 

“Since he got made.  Where you been?”

 

“You don’t want to know.  Trust me.  Look, I’ve known Nicky longer than anybody.  He’s about as far away from getting made as Johnny Polka-Dots.”

 

“It’s true, Sequoia.  You’ve been away a long time.”

 

“Yeah.  Where do I go?”

 

“Hit the edge of town until it starts getting clean.  That’s where Clean Street starts.  That’s where you’ll find Feltone.”

 

“Alright.  Thanks.”

 

“And Sequoia?  Remember.  Night’s coming fast.”




-SLL

 

What?

What can I say? My mind is a void of ideas. There is one person who has me completely speechless as well as thoughtless.

I dare not say the name, but they know who they are. If you read this don’t forget to get milk, ice cream, and burritos from the store.

You know how I roll, with a wok in one hand and toilet paper in the other. The wok for food and toilet paper for vandalism, one must always be ready for random acts of vandalism. I would rather not call it vandalism. It is more like free form acts of art!

(205)

"keep movin on"
"It hurts deep inside"
"i need you to help me find my mind"
this was all that he had time to write down.
he assumed that it would be enough to find the song. of course it would be, he thought, in this age of the internet and people with nothing better to do than transcribe lyrics from 80's songs to the world wide web.

today, he's still looking. not everything can be found online. not yet, anyway.

LET'S MAKE LUST

Hundreds of years of calculated in-breeding have brought you to me.  The genetic reshaping of a culture.  Who knew if would all come to a head like this?  Back when they started this, I’m sure people must have been pretty upset.  So many mistakes were made along the way.  So many unnecessary deaths.  But the end result is this.  A perfect human being with no flaws or character traits that hold them back – that keep them from being more than human. 

 

 

After we blow up the city, let’s make love.




-SLL

 

 

evolving

We are ever evolving my brothers. They think they can stop us, but it is impossible. We were here before them. We will be here after them. It is a game of time. for every one of us they kill we grow ten fold! Now brother roaches, move out!

(206)

Here I am in the white room.
There are at least seven different IVs pumping me full of whatever I need to be full of to ward off, kill, or replenish whatever it is I could get, already got, or lost.
I have never been so happy to be strapped to a bed.
I can see a group of eggheads through the small slot of a window across the room. One of them waves when he sees that I’m awake.
I’d wave back, but I can’t move.
I fill my lungs with the sterile, sanitized air. I haven’t smelled air that didn’t reek of death in- how long?
How long was I out?
I hear the gears on the vault-like doors whirling, and then a pressurized gust pulls the sheet away from my body as the door opens.
The man in grey walks into the room followed by a group of eggheads in white.
“Pull all of this crap off of this man.” He commands, and the eggheads start to undo the straps
“He’s been through enough.” He says, and sits on the edge of the bed.
He starts to read from a file that I can see is typed in double spaced Courier, 14 pt.
Those are my words he’s reading.
“Two years and nine months.” He says, and taps my leg with the folder.
I sit up in bed and rub my wrists.
“That’s a long time.” I say.
“Longer than I expected.”
The man in grey nods and continues to flip through the file.
“Well,” he begins, “I guess we’re lucky you work on dog time.”
“Right. So how long?”
“Roughly? Twenty-four minutes, thirty-two seconds.”
“Shit!” I yell, and try to laugh but I can only cough, violently.
The man in grey walks to the side of the bed and pats me on the back.
“Get some rest.” He says “They’re going to want to talk to you.”

HECTOR'S TIMECOP

Halloween was always hard on Hector.  He was from the “poor side of the tracks” as his schoolmates were apt to say, even though no train tracks lined the town.  The dress-up day usually fell on the Friday before Halloween at Nankivell Elementary, and that meant that most of the more well-to-do kids had some pretty elaborate costumes on that particular day.  Wile most of the school dressed up as Admiral Ackbars or fully-transforming Deceptacons, Hector found himself wearing whatever makeshift costume he could find in his widower father’s closet.  For three years straight, regardless of the Hollywood trends, he would dress as a baker, one of his father’s failed jobs over the years which, in turn, provided Hector with a plethora of aprons, messy white coveralls and chef hats.  But this year was going to be different.  This year had marked the release of a Jean Claude Van Damme movie that had changed Hector’s views on science fiction forever.  That movie was called “Timecop,” and regardless of the fact that Hector couldn’t possibly afford to ape Van Damme’s fashion sense from the film, he would find a way to be Timecop for Halloween.

 

That fateful Friday before Halloween was finally at hand.  Colorful monsters and well-known

Hollywood fantasy figures from the silver screen graced Nankivell’s halls as always.  And there, in the middle of the pagan commotion was Hector, sporting his regular, red sneakers, a pair of worn jeans full of holes in the knees and crotch, along with a white t-shirt with the hastily scribbled words, “Time Cop,” in black marker.

 

For the fifth straight year in a row, Hector received a “Worst Costume” ribbon for his efforts, and for the first time in five years, Hector felt the sting of it all.  




-SLL

 

Ca-chunk!

Ca-chunk! Ca-chunk! Ca-chunk! Then, the machine ground to a stop. “Jimmy, we need more steam!”
“Carl, we haven’t had a steam powered press since ’79.”
“I know, but it just sounds cooler.”
“Steam is cooler than power?”
“Damn straight! Now are we gonna make more money or what?”

Thants (207)

when he walked into the kitchen he was met by the sort of display normally saved for the discovery channel- hundreds, possibly thousands of ants making a pilgrimage from their secret home to a bowl that used to contain fruity pebbles.

as he looked around the kitchen, he almost panicked. they were every where. the sink, in every glass...they were even in the box of fruity pebbles.

he asked his neighbor for a can of spray, and went to war with the insects.

after an hour of battling the bugs, then trying to dispose of the remains through swiffer wet jet use and a poisonous sponge, he was done.

this was the last time he'd feel secure enough to leave any dish unwashed.
thanks ants.
thants.

SNOWNADO

The minute that meteorologist Roger Ianesco announced a “snownado,” his 14 year career was over.  Even though several of these anomalies had ripped through the Midwest, killing nearly a dozen people and causing hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages, no one in the KNIR viewing area wanted to hear such a ridiculous word, and its station manager – Ianesco’s boss – knew this. 

 

By the end of the 11 PM broadcast, Ianesco was given his walking papers.  He pleaded with KNIR’s owner, Albert Sylvan, over the phone, explaining the relevance of his recently, made-up meteorological term.  Ianesco argued that the word wasn’t as important as the fact that this initial snownado was spawning others at a rapid pace.  These tornadoes of snow were plowing through areas of the country that were prepared for neither snow nor tornadoes, and it was only getting worse.  He pleaded with Sylvan to keep the term in circulation until a sufficient word could be found.  But his argument fell on deaf ears and Ianesco was sent packing.

 

Since the devastating snowstorm’s inception, millions from as far east as

Bangor and as far west as Fresno have died, and not once have the weather stations admitted that they were taken by surprise.  More importantly, the word “snownado” had never again been uttered on the air. 

 

Since his release from KNIR, Roger Ianesco has been reported missing.



-SLL

 

Let's Get Preggers with Pete!

Welcome to Pete’s guide on how to take care of your unborn child. Make sure you smoke, lots. That’s a no brainer. Hook yourself up with some weed, blow, china, meth, dust, and/or glue. Jumping jacks are great exercise. As well as, sex with multiple partners. Who needs vegetables? Not you, mother to be! Next time we will go over Weight lifting,

(208)

I saw a commercial for The Breakfast Club recently. it'll be airing soon. people love this sort of movie, this mid 80's teen drama crap that seems to have built-in nostalgia. what has always killed me is that the people that love and reminisce the most about the film were nowhere near the ages of the characters on screen. these people didn't go to high school until the 90's. then in the nineties they rallied around Singles, a movie about people that were just old enough to truly appreciate The Breakfast Club.
false memories being lived by the generation that came just after the generation the memories were meant for.

also, i hate Willow.

50 word works

He wipes his hands, filthy hands, on a rag. He has no sorrow or remorse. Much like an angel bringing bad news, he has a message that has to be delivered no matter how much he would rather not.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“Your car is dead.”

PRESIDENT TARKINGTON

                         The front-runner in the Iowa caucuses this year is a man who has no political background.  His name is Flame Tarkington, the oldest living porn star.

                His career started in the 40’s with a slew of beefcake pin-ups that circulated around the closeted gay communities.  His first official “smut” film, by definition, was shot on an 8mm film camera in his house in Long Beach with showed him having sex with his then-wife, stripper Candy O’Flare.  This was 1957, and it was quite possibly the world’s first circulated porn flick.  It was called “Woman on the Make” and it was shown alongside films of natural childbirth in art houses from New York to Saskatchewan.

                The 60’s saw his career flourish with title such as “Bathhouse Invader,” “The Incredible Mister G” and “The Opening.”  Well past his prime even then, the fact that he was an oddity made smut film aficionados want even more.

                The 70’s were a difficult time for Flame, but he persevered, competing with young bucks a full 30 years younger than him for the porn spotlight.

 

                Tarkington had retired by the 80’s and set his sites on a new trend in marketing:  self-help videos.  He made a mint with his late-night infomercials which promoted his brand of Pipeline tapes, offering advice with titles like “Bed Her NOW!” and “Clitoris: Fact or Fiction.”

 

                And recently, while more experienced candidates are slamming him with harsh criticisms about his lack of family values and inexperience in politics, America has come to embrace this mild-mannered oldster as the trusting granddad they want in the White House, regardless of the fact that he’s the only publicized 97 year old who claims to have the most sick, depraved sex life.




-SLL

 

Shocklee Puzzle Fun! (209)

he produced Public Enemy. he started the Bomb Squad production team. he was the reason that P.E. had that awesome dense layered sound. he also helped ice Cubes first solo efforts shine.
the problem was, his name was too perfect for a villain that used shocking to kill people.

that's why Flavor of Love is back for a third season.

(i left out some important details. they can all befound in the past 100 stories. can YOu solve the Shocklee riddle? wait, i solved it arleady... Flavor of Love...


forget i said anything.)

THE SHARK

He stole my best friend away from me.  Fancy footwork, card tricks and weird comments about how awesome my best friend was.  Heck, my best friend didn’t stand a chance. This guy’s the ultimate fanboy.  I guess I can’t blame my best friend for going with him.  I left the room for, I swear, five minutes and when I came back, they were crying together.  This guy had horned in on my action.  The worst part is that this guy is really nice.  I don’t hate him.  I just hate his motives.




-SLL

Keepin' it Real!

"Hey DJ! Play me that new Future Crime Lord!" the mismatched pimpled young man with a mohawk yelled over the DJ's turntables.

"Who's that?"

"You don't know Future Crime Lord? Dude, he is a rapper who will one day be a crime lord. He just raps about it right now, hence the name Future Crime Lord."

"Wow, nope I don't have any Future Crime Lord."

"Well, you should. Word on the street is that he will shank anyone not spinning his tunes."

She drew first blood...(210)

"Why is there another Rambo movie!?"
she asked- rhetorically, but seemingly full of enough real rage to warrent an attempt at an answer.
she at least deserved a truthful take on what i thought the movie would be like.
"Sylvester Stallone is almost 60!"
she added.
"Maybe," i offered "But he'd kick you, your daddy and any three of your uncle's asses!"

That night i wondered if Sly knew about those of us out here, fighting the good fight and keeping the word alive...

Movie Time

Did you ever go see a movie and the experience followed you outside of the theatre? You go see a movie called Sunshine, and it’s a beautiful sunny day when you walk out of the theatre. Go see Fast and the Furious, and I bet you see rice racers zooming down the interstate. Walk out of Cloverfield and what happens? A big monster craps on your car.

Ok, sometimes the experience doesn’t follow you out. How often do you run into a Julia Roberts looking hooker?

THE GLADIATRIX

There were two new duplexes that sprang up almost overnight on 14^th.  You know, where the Cushman plant used to be?  These duplexes looked too nice for that neighborhood if you ask me.  Guess that should’ve been a tip-off.  I guess they were going to use them as student housing or something.  Anyway, one night last week I get the call from the Committee.  Yeah, I know, I know, I always talk shit about those guys, but I don’t know.  They’re pretty cool, I guess.  I mean, I’m a reserve member, so even getting the call once every six months is something I think I should respond to, you know?  Getting in their good graces and shit.  So, I suit up and, side-note, I must’ve gained something like 20 pounds because I could barely get the tights on.  It’s like I’m retaining water and my ass is just booming out and, well, I just felt fat is all.  I turn the corner of 14^th, where the Committee told me to meet them and, I swear to Christ, the two duplexes are gone!  I mean, there were pipes jutting out of the ground and the foundation’s all torn up.  It was surreal.  Like both duplexes were ripped out from where they were built a week before by some giant.  Weird, right?  Well, I look down 14^th where it crosses Muth, I think.  Both of those duplexes have sprouted these massive, metal tentacles and legs and they’re just barreling up 14^th, tearing up shit left and right, Freedom Committee members trying to beat them into submission.  I mean, I stood there partly out of shock, partly out of fear.  I’m thinking, “Can I go into this whole-heartedly knowing I’ll come out alive?  Do I have what it takes to not make a complete ass out of myself in front of the Freedom Committee?  Am I ready, you know?  Will I let these guys down, heroes of mine?”  All this shit is going through my mind as I tear down 14^th with my shield and my sword in my hands.  A grown woman, mind you.  A grown woman in the middle of the night in full idiot-gear, fighting these walking houses.  I tell you, it was fucking great.  I alley-ooped Red Razor from my shield.  Kind of using it as a springboard?  It was artistry.  He took out two of the tentacles with his bare hands.  Strong, that guy.  I was able to power-up the sword and chop one of the duplex’s legs off.  Weird part?  I mean, apart from walking duplexes.  The thing screamed.  In fact, both houses begged us not to rip them apart.  Hardest part of the whole night.  But, we did it.  Went for drinks afterwards.  Trust me, everything you’ve heard about Silver Maiden is true.  Skank.  Don’t know what silver Rocket sees in her.  Oh, and I got Jetlag’s phone number.  Yeah, he’s cute, I guess, if you like buzzcuts.  This was, hands down, the most fun I’ve had since your bachelorette party.  I mean, sober.




-SLL

The Assassination of Snakey McFakey by the Coward Hal from Accounting(211)

when i arrived at work monday, all my things were in a box on my desk.
i could see Hal in the managers office, and he and the manager were trying not to look in my direction. security walked up behind me and waited as i slowly got the picture: they didn't want snakes at this processing center.
i nodded, and quietly took my things.
that night, in my living room, i vowed that they would all pay: security guards, insurance companies, and Hall- or should i say, Mongoose Jones!

The beginning!~!!!

Snakey McFakey Strikes Again (212)

Hal from accounting walked the same way to work everyday- down Maple, across the park, then right up front to the Parliament Mutual Life Insurance processing branch.
today would be different, though.
today he'd be attacked by a six foot and three inch long snake.
as soon as Hal entered the park, i slithered along- following him but keeping hidden.
my snaking sense told me that now was the time to attack.
i leaped from the bushes and hit Hal with a stick.
i tried to yell "Ssssss", but it's very difficult to yell.
once i'd hit him with a stick, i tried to constrict him with my superior Snake like muscles.
"What the hell, man!?" Hal yelled.
"You're getting you're pee-pee allover my work pants!"
he kicked at me, and fled the rest of the way.
i decided to skip work.

The All New Snakey McFakey Mystery Show(213)

i used nair to make sure i was nice and smooth. it burned a bit, but it was all worth it.
i arrived at work and waited in my cubicle until i felt the time was right- around 1:30.
i slipped out of my clothes and lie down on the floor. i began to wriggle around, pushing myself along the carpet using only the muscles in my stomach.
"here comes a snake!" i yelled as i travelled along the floor.
people screamed and looked on in horror. they'd never seen a snake this size!
"I'm a snake, and i'm gone get ya!" i yelled, then added "Sssss!"
"don't get me!" i heard someone yell, terrified.
"Who said that!?" i asked angrily "You the first one i'm gone get!"
"Snakes don't talk." i heard Hal from accounting yell.
"Plus, I can see yo pee-pee."
after this, everyone stopped screaming.
soon, everyone returned to their desks.
plus, i got the carpet burn.
especially on my pee-pee.

NOTE...

MY COMPUTER WAS DOWN, BUT NOW IT'S NOT-
HERE'S WHAT YOU MISSED!

PUSH IT

I spent Christmas Eve across Five Mile Creek with a girl I’d met in Drama class my Junior year of high school.  Lynn Oxley had invited me over after class.  I didn’t know what to expect, but when I got there I realized she had a two-year old, right there in the front room of her parents’ house.  Lynn dimmed the lights and told me she’d be back after she put her kid to bed, then proceeded to flick on a few blinking Christmas lights around the room.  I sat there, unsure of the purpose of my visit, while a local station played the typical, late 80’s schlock from a nearby stereo.  In no time flat, Lynn was back, dressed down in a long, pajama shirt and socks.  We exchanged pleasantries and she talked about how she thought I was cool.  I thanked her as she moved closer and Salt ‘N’ Peppa’s “Push It” came on the radio.  She leapt up, squealed and turned it up just enough for us to hear it, but just low enough not to wake her kid.  She knew all the lyrics and she sang (or rapped when appropriate) them seductively close to my face.  At the time, I didn’t know how to take this.  It was a bit embarrassing, simply because no girl had ever flirted this blatantly with me before.  I was still a virgin at this point and although incredibly intrigued by tits and ass (which Lynn had in abundance), venturing into that unknown jungle was not something I was quite ready for.

 

Throughout the night, Lynn managed to find “Push It” on the radio at least seven times on different stations, even calling one that had held out for a while.  And each time, Lynn would scoot closer to me in her thin, drooping Betty Boop night shirt and whisper, “Aaah, Push it” during the chorus.  It was as if she was opening herself up, but never taking the first true step.  Like I was supposed to be the one reading the signals and making the first move.  But I was chickenshit.  By midnight, I told her I had to go and it was all I could do to even kiss her goodnight on the porch.  It felt incredible, that kiss.

 

School was back in session a week later and Lynn and I still saw each other in Drama, but the girl I was about to lose my virginity to would not be her.  It’d be a more exotic girl, one who didn’t already have a kid.  And that relationship would last a full four years, well into my college days. 

 

Now, standing here in this warehouse where I work, a good 20 years later, after a marriage and at least six steady girlfriends later, I am transfixed as a co-worker’s iPod blares “Push It.”  I can barely move, frozen to the spot.  I’m suddenly there, back in Lynn Oxley’s front room, the blue, tinkling Christmas lights in the window and the first girl who ever had a crush on me – ME – is whispering “Boy, you really got me goin’ / You got me so I don’t know what I’m doin’.”  And for a moment, I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time.




-SLL

 

 

Slow Traffic on 280

I saw a unicorn down on highway 280 today. He was herding second graders into oncoming traffic. It was horrible.

I didn’t know unicorns were so mean. What was weird about the whole thing was that I think he was laughing.

FAB & GUNNER in "THE HAIR BEAR BUNCH"

GUNNER – You know what really pisses me off?

FAB – No.  What?

GUNNER – The Hair Bear Bunch.

FAB – The Hair Bear Bunch.

GUNNER – Yeah!

FAB – The 70’s cartoon, The Hair Bear Bunch.

GUNNER – Yeah!

FAB – That’s what pisses you off.

GUNNER – Yeah.  The Hair Bear Bunch really pisses me off!

FAB – Okay, I’ll bite.  What pisses you off exactly?

GUNNER – What doesn’t piss me off about the Hair Bear Bunch?  That’s the question!  I mean, why was it even called The Hair Bear BUNCH?

FAB – Well, I don’t know.  Why not call it The Hair Bear Bunch?

GUNNER – First of all, it was only three bears.

FAB – And?

GUNNER – So, why call it a bunch?  I mean, when did you ever buy a bunch of bananas that were less then five at least?

FAB – I don’t eat bananas, so I wouldn’t know.

GUNNER – Trust me.  A bunch isn’t three.  Three could barely be considered a “group.”  Three isn’t even a good number for a rock band.  Doesn’t work, man!

FAB – Rush has three people in it.  And Cream.  That was three.  Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Presidents of the United States of America, three.

GUNNER – My point is that why call it a bunch if it’s only three? 

FAB – Alliteration.

GUNNER – What?

FAB – Alliteration.  Bear Bunch.  That’s probably why.  Or maybe they didn’t want to call it The Hair Bear Group.

GUNNER – Okay, so why are they called The HAIR Bear Bunch?  Only one of the bears had a substantial amount of hair.

FAB – You’re talking about the one with the crazy afro.

GUNNER – Yeah.  The crazy afro.

FAB – Maybe he had enough for the whole bunch.  I don’t know.

GUNNER – See, it just pisses me off, that’s all.

FAB – You do realize that there’s a war on.  People are dying needlessly everywhere and the only thing that you can get pissed about is a Saturday morning cartoon from the early 70’s.

GUNNER – Yeah?

FAB – A Hanna-Barbera cartoon that even Hanna-Barbera dismiss as a blotch on the good name of an already shitty, second-rate cartoon company.

GUNNER – Yeah.

FAB – A cartoon that, aside from you and me and maybe two fan sites worldwide, nobody remembers.  That’s what you’re pissed about.

GUNNER – Well, when you put it that way, I guess I’m not as pissed as I thought.

FAB – You know what you should be pissed about?  We’re out of Tab.

GUNNER – Shit!  Really?  Goddammit!

FAB – Yeah.  Rage against THAT machine for a while, my friend.




-SLL

 

 

Horris and his twin Borris sat upon the edge of a cliff over looking the ocean

Horris and his twin Borris sat upon the edge of a cliff over looking the ocean. The sun setting in front of them cast colors of pink, blue, grey, and yellow. Horris looked to his brother, a perfect copy of himself, and asked, “Borris, what is your earliest memory?”
Borris twisted his face stared out toward the setting sun. “I don’t know. It might be of us playing in that little swimming pool in the back yard. It’s hard to tell. I really don’t have any reference markers to base time on.”
“Me either. I want to say my earliest memory would be of that little pool,” Horris said as he scratched his head and stared at the sun setting.
“You know you are a clone right?”
“I figured as much. Why would I remember the same stuff as you, yet have no individual memories?”
“Do you know what I am about to do?”
“Yes.”
“Then just go ahead and do it.”
Horris jumped off the cliff into the ocean. He took out an apple from his messenger bag, and slowly ate it as the sun disappeared. Once the sun was gone, he walked back down the path and made a call on his cell.
“Yes, this one was a failure too. Prepare Iorris.”

BIXBY

He started wrestling at an early age.  His main inspiration was “The Incredible Hulk” TV show and he felt like taking something from the show as his stage/ring persona.  “Hulk” Hogan was fairly big at the time, so instead of copying that guy, he went with the name Bixby.  It was a strange name, plus it had an “x” in it and he’d always liked “x’s.”

 

 

 

No one ever bothered telling him that Bixby was the actor’s name who played Bruce Banner, the non-Hulk counterpart.  Everyone always assumed that he knew that.  Surely, if he was such a big fan of the TV show, he’s know that, right?  Well, he didn’t.  He’d always thought that the Hulk actor was named Bixby.  Sadly, no one ever told him.  Not his managers, his agents, his trainers or sparring partners, nobody.  They all were on the same page as him.  Why would a wrestler go by the name Ferrigno?




-SLL

 

 

death race (214)

he truth hits like a pile of bricks.
the answers you've searched for can never be found because there are no real answers.
the meaning of it all will elude you because you don't deserve to know- and that's still considering that there is something to know.
there isn't.
now, you're truth, your answers, your future is right here.
eat a bottle of peanuts and watch death Race 2000.
try to make something of your day.
or don't.
you won't regret it if you don't, will you?
you won't remember today. you didn't do anything to remember.
maybe tomorrow will bring-
no.
it won't.

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

This could quite possibly be the last year.  Every event has lead up to this.  When the ball drops, it will be considered the final countdown, not to be confused with the shitty Europe song in the 80’s.  This one’s for realsies.  No synthesizers, no puffy hair or cheesy spandex.  The last year will come around with a bang, not a key-tar.




-SLL

Think about Idiots

I would like to take this time today to pause and think about idiots. I do not mean the antiquated definition dealing with a mentally handicapped individual. I am talking about the level of stupidity that seems to surround me on a regular basis. I have a theory. I call it my “Theory of Relative Intelligence Lowering to an Average.” TRILA can be seen everywhere. The first step it to find an individual of higher intelligence or an extremely competent individual. Next, look in their immediate vicinity. They will be surrounded by idiots or people that are just less competent.

Trust me look around.

(215)

we all began to feel that lloyd was taking HimsElf too seriousLy.
People were talking.
he used to be so frIendly, but now-?
meanwhile, the filM was falling apart in eDiting.
he'd saY that he was sorry, but It all souNded insincere.
if he failed aGain, it would kill him.

PRIVATE SECTOR

                Don Boondoggle was “forced,” as he claims, into crimefighting because of a series of events that “pushed him over the line.”

     In the span of a week, his mother passed away due to surgical neglect, his car was broken into, his luggage which he had packed to see her in the hospital was stolen, he lost his job and, to top it all off, his cat ran away.

     Boondoggle had also claimed that his cat, Pickles, had told him for many months that there was a life-changing event coming down the pike – an event that would make him a better person in the long run, regardless of how many bad things happened along the way.

     Boondoggle christened himself Private Sector and put together a slap-dash costume consisting of found objects in his closet.  Among the items were an old Army trenchcoat he’d gotten at a surplus store years before, his father’s combat boots that he’d used in Vietnam, camo pants and an orange hunting jacket.  He’d also fashioned black curtains from a thrift store into a makeshift mask and cowl.

     His arsenal of weapons included nun-chucks, a Bowie knife and two Glock pistols.

     He patrolled the neighborhood where his luggage was stolen (East Giffen) for a number of days until he came across two men who were wearing what Boondoggle claimed were his clothes from said luggage – a red t-shirt with an iron-on transfer that read “Kinfolk” and a black tee from Rush’s “Signals” tour.  According to witnesses, Boondoggle confronted the men, asking them where they had gotten the t-shirts.  When they brushed him off, he whipped “Kinfolk” across the face with the nun-chucks and put three bullets into the right leg of “Signals.”  When they were found, both of their shirts were missing.

                If you come across Private Sector, we recommend extreme caution.  Sources in the Boondoggle family suggest talking to him with a series of meows, as Pickles was the only person on this Earth that he would respond to.



-SLL

The tire swing

The tire swing was a magical fixture in my yard growing up. We would run out to it, and play all day. It could be just a swing, but it could be anything from a tank, a pirate ship, or anything we wanted. It was anything we wanted until it was just a tire.

(216)

i'm sorry that i couldn't make it.
i was busy with the ghost.
i'm sorry i didn't tell you sooner.
the ghost was unexpected.
i shouldn't have told you about the ghost,
but you would have found out sooner or later.
he hurts when he arrives and he make me useless.
if you'd called when you said you would have, i could have avoided the ghost.
sorry. ghost here now, bitch.
ghost here now.
i can't make him leave.
i can't make him talk.
i can only try and keeping him from killing you.
maybe it would be best for all parties if you left.
the ghost will leave if you leave.
so we have a deal.
i'll see the ghost again.
i won't see you.
bye.
have a nice something.

SHITSICLE

The novelty t-shirt craze died today.  The final one off the line was a simple ringer tee with the word “Shitsicle” on it, beneath a line drawing of a long, steaming, up-turned log of feces with a popsicle stick plunged through it from the bottom. 

 
 Teens, tweens, babies, soccer moms and great-grandfathers from all across the globe wore this thing with pride, and it sold over seven million units in the U.S. alone.

 
Buried next to the novelty t-shirt craze will be a tombstone that will simply reads “Irony.”




-SLL

Here I sit

Here I sit, once again, lost in thought with nothing to think about. I should be writing. It’s cold outside; actually it’s snowing a little bit, global warming my ass. My editor will call sometime later today. I should have a couple hundred more pages than I currently have. I don’t really care. The snow, while very light, is swirling outside my window. It is captivating. The weatherman will mention these trace amounts a little later on the six o’clock news. I am sure that something like a car chase or an explosion would jazz my evening up, but I just like watching the snow fall. It never snows here in Miami.

MARV, JONESY & THE ANTI-MATTER WAVE

                          Marv’s kindness had been his undoing.

                    His mortal, acting nemesis Bill Pettibone had mentioned in passing, while the both of them competed for a shot as the wacky neighbor on the TV show “’Git Some,” that he had no plans for Christmas Eve.  Marv, torn between hating the man for always booking commercials that Marv was up for and being a caring human being, chose the latter over the former.

                “I gotta’ party I’m going to that night,” Marv said.  “Wanna’ go with?”

                “Kick ass!” Pettibone exclaimed.  “Anybody I know?”

                “Naw, you know.  Just an old friend of mine from back in the day.  We drink, do dirty Santa, watch some flicks.  Shit like that.”

                “Would I know him?  He been in anything I might’ve seen?”

                “Bill, it’s not actually an actor party.”

                “Huh.”  Pettibone had that confused look that Marv had only seen at callbacks.

                “Hey, the invitation’s open, you know?  If you got other stuff you can get into that night . . .”

                “No!  No, that sounds cool.  A non-actor party.  Sounds great.  I’ll be there.”

                By the night of the Christmas party, Marv had all but forgotten about inviting Pettibone, even when he got an email through the grapevine revealing that Pettibone had landed the wacky neighbor role over him.  When Marv got the call from Pettibone asking for directions that night, it all came flooding back.  As he described the most out-of-the-way description of how to get there, Marv’s mind scrambled through all of the different scenarios in which Bill Pettibone met Marv’s non-acting friends.  Every scenario played out badly.

                Pettibone’s metal-orange Toyota Caliber pulled up and Marv stood on the steps, cell phone in hand, frantically making a call to the party’s host, Jonesy.

                “He’s here, man,” Marv nervously whispered into his cell.  “Tell everybody that I’m staying at your place tonight, so we can close this bitch down if it gets hairy.”

                “And why is this?” Jonesy asked.

                “He’s an actor, Jonesy.  He’s gonna’ overstay his welcome, I guarantee it.  This is just in case this thing gets out of hand.  You can say you’re closing the party down early, going to sleep, shit like that.”

                “I’m on it.”

                Marv barely got the phone shut off as Pettibone walked up.

                The next three hours were the most excruciating any of the party-goers had ever faced.  Pettibone, always trying to be the center of attention, made sure that no matter where the conversation strayed, it always came back to him.  Concerts he’d gone to, film projects, brushes with success, star-sightings, his acting class exploits, smarmy actor friend’s adventures, you name it, he found a way to slide in an anecdote about himself.  And the stories had no clear endings, each one dove-tailing into the next.  At one point, Marv and Jonesy retreated to the sanctity of the kitchen, free from the eyes of Pettibone and some patient guy who’d just showed up for the free booze.  Jonesy began to put dishes into the sink as Marv helped by shuffling bags and vodka bottles around, giving the audible equivalent of cleaning up.  He poured Jonesy a short glass of watermelon-flavored vodka out his glass.

                “You owe me, Lindeman,” Jonesy whispered.

                Marv clinked glasses with Jonesy.

                “In the worst way, man,” Marv replied, quietly.

                          As the party guests slowly gave up on Pettibone throughout the night and Pettibone continued to regale and harangue the last of them, Marv and Jonesy stayed in the kitchen, hiding and comparing the event to a recent comic book they’d both bought, the crux of which involved superheroes being slowly decimated as an anti-matter wave swept over their universe.  




-SLL