I don’t know why I love this term so much. I guess because it brings some wonderful visuals to mind.

p.s. You should read this as if you were Ben Stein.

The crafty old soldier knew a thing or two about blowing shit up. He had done a lot of it growing up down in south Alabama around poorly constructed moonshine mills and redneck barbeque pits. He even got good at it during the seven years he spent in Afghanistan teaching rebels how to turn horses into improvised explosive devices. But he ain’t never seen something this messed up before.

He got the bazooka from an old friend a few years ago after a horribly played game of strip checkers. He never wanted the damn thing, but when you lose, you lose and you take your punishment like a man. It looked like there was a genuine high explosive rocket inside the bazooka, but when he fired it at his neighbors Jim and Jerry trying to blow them and their gay marriage straight to hell, nothing but flowers and something that looked like a purple rabbit came out.

He stared at them for a minute or two, and they stared at him back. Then they started to smile and it looked like they were gonna say something nice, but before they could get a word out, the old soldier grabbed his chainsaw that was duct taped to a shotgun like a bayonet on a infantry rifle, and cut those those fuckers to pieces. Oh, he wasn’t anti-gay or anything, he just couldn’t listen to that damn Celine Dion shit blasting at two o’clock in the morning anymore.

Please, just ignore all the posts where I say I’m gonna post something for you to read online somewhere… I’ll never do it.

I haven’t posted in a few weeks. Been busy, but I have some more complete and coherent stuff in the works. I plan to post the first paragraph or so here on Tumblr. The text will be leading you to a link for a complete and printable PDF version you can download and print for your personal self-inflicted pain stimulus. Thank you for your hostility and my three year old’s awkward stares of curiosity and control.

Why would I ever write about reality? I don’t think I could ever pick a topic more boring and sad and depressing and pathetic. I’ve been told more then four times that I have a lot of life experiences that could be used in a story. That’s fine I guess, and I agree that I do have a lot of intersting life choices that could make a wonderful book, but those things would be much more suited in a different enviornment. And I just don’t think that the reader would be all that interested in the settings that lead up to those moments.

It’s much more fun to out those moments in a different universe.

For example. Vigorously shaking a can of Colt 45 and throwing it at the underage driver of the 1974 Ford LTD while going over 80mph just because he said, “Pass me a beer, dude,” is not all that entertaining, even if I did miss and it exploded when it hit the sight tip of the stolen .22 rifle. It is so much more interesting if this happened while being chased by four anorexic albinos wearing only skin tight black leather Capri pants. And to ramp it up some more, those same albinos have had their lips surgically removed and their mouths welded shut and they each carry a very large drill used only for the sole purpose of drilling a hole in your head so they can fill it with Skittles (after they suck out your brain with a shop vac, of course). They also have no body hair, but that’s a recurring theme in a lot of my writing.

Anyway, I think you get the point now. So I’m going back to bed.

I played with my chainsaw today. I wanted to learn how to juggle with it, but I only had one chainsaw and juggling with one chainsaw is stupid. So I improvised with a hatchet and a ninja sword. I see lots of money in my future. It wasn’t easy, and injury comes fast and hard like a fast car and canned beer with a hole in it. Everything was fine at first, but something happened to my rhythm. I’m not sure exactly what went wrong, but it hurt. It might have been the noise from the chainsaw or the pigeons making a nest on my porch, or possibly the power cord (it’s an electric chainsaw), but something caused it to fly out of control and wrap around my neck like a game of tether ball. I’m not sure where the hatchet and ninja sword landed, but I think heard crying and gurgling from my neighbors yard.

I started to squirt blood from my neck, but I didn’t panic. It was actually sort of fun to watch it fly out of me like puke from a three year old who just had his first asparagus stick. Now I can sympathize with Bill Cosby. As I started to feel lightheaded, I noticed that my blood splatter made a curious formation on the pathetic grass underneath my feet (I live in the desert, so my grass is mostly weeds and poisonous bugs). The formation looked suspiciously like a word and the word was “dumbass.”

That gave me an idea. I began to hop around like a river dancer with a wedgie and wooden shoes. I wrote 23 words in my own blood. How cool is that?

This is what I wrote. “arf, thoka, gtij, doot, frank, tuyi, wqq, loj, jiiu, zosa, trichloratriflourethane, eddt, utg, frank (yeah, wrote that one twice), sddf, indignant, me, dying, grty.”

Well, I passed out before I could finish, but I tried to get them all done. What do you expect from me?

Yes, I know some of these earlier post may seem to you to be a bit odd and nonsensical, but that’s all right. They are just exercises for my brain, so to speak. They help get the rusty gears in my head spinning. You see, it has been a while since I’ve done any writing and I’m just figuring out what parts need lubed and what parts need to be replaced. And as far as I can figure, I need a complete overhaul. It’s like my brain is a 1994 Chevy Corsica that has delivered one too many pizzas to NORAD in the snow. Anyway, tomorrow is the big day, the day I start officially writing again. Wish me luck.

Today, I shall make excuses for living. I will grab the day by its uncontrolled growth of crack hair and scream in its ear, “WHERE ARE MY HEADPHONES!” I will slap it around with a cheap bottle of fake cologne. I will strap it down to my dining room table with duck tape and throw at it stale Girl Scout cookies.

Come on, Today. Bring your best at me. I will stab you with my bamboo back scratcher and force feed you that piece of pepperoni my son threw behind the TV three weeks ago. If you keep upsetting my chemical balances I will make you watch the next diaper change. You arrogant doomsayer, you make my coffee weak and my breath smell like old kimchee and rotten blueberries. I want to shove a prepaid mobile phone card down your throat and watch you choke on the unused minutes.

You turned my golden sunrise to puke green and left little sticky pieces of moon poo glued to the stars by the despair of the hopeless. You’re the reason why I have no choice but to watch the same children’s show over and over and over again. I wish I could slap you with a quarter-sawn oak statue of Jesus throwing rocks through your porch door.

I would kiss you, but you need a shower.