I could do with you fucking off

Whoever said "I'm a poet and I didn't even know it" first should have been hung and then shot. It would have set a good precident.

I'm in a bad mood.

Hey aclaimed British author Eoin Colfer - I purposely pronounce your first name wrong when I say it in my head and I don't appreciate your writting new Hitch Hiker's guide to the Galaxy books. I hope you understand that by doing this your taking something a consider sacred and possibly cocking it the cock up. And I say cock because that means you're fucking it up British style. If you've written a book that's even supremely above average I'm going to hate you. Simply the fact that you're stepping into the shoes of an author I revere means we've started off on terrible terms. And the worst part - the worst part is I have no choice but to read this book. I swear to the god Adams didn't believe in that if you George Lucas'd this series there'll be hell to pay.

Hey New Scientist Magazine, when you announced that you were taking submissions of flash fiction set 100 years in the future for a contest, I assumed you would get a Chinese garbage scow's worth of enviro-disaster shorts. I seem to be on the mark as seven of the nine stories you've published were variations on Pixar's Wall-E. Now I'm not saying that I don't believe in global warming, but next time I'll make sure to write to your politics and name my protagonist Gal Ore. And I'm not saying I should have made the cut, I'm just saying the winning story requires enough suspension of disbelief to hold up the Golden Gate Bridge.

And another thing

Dear Bawler,

Who taught you how to walk like that? My god, I would say your shoulders swayed like a boxer in slow motion if that didn't make it sound as though there was something graceful involved. You walk forwards and sideways at the same time. When you stand in one place to order your ground Starbucks coffee you jack yourself up and to the left, standing on your right toe. Your shoulders are level though, you must compensate by bringing the left one up and dropping its counter weight. This is my theory anyway. The folds of your volumptuous hoodie make distinguishing where you begin and end into guesswork. Is your goal to take up more space? Mission accomplished: no one wants to fight you and your ridiculous pants. You mutter something as your walk out the door. It sounds like a complaint or a rap lyric. You lumber off into the night, the crotch of your jeans a hammock between your knees, your shoulders wobbling like a circus bear on the high wire, your green flat brimmed hat making your look, nearly impossibly, even dumber.


I feel better.

Casting Spells in HTML

When I was young, I would pretend that I was special. Not that blanket kind special that your elementary school told you enveloped everyone! at self-esteem smile assemblies, but the kind of special that earned a telegram via owl at the age of eleven. The kind of special the would require a secret identity. The kind of special that would inevitably bring about a romantic tragedy with every woman you ever got into it with (and there would be a lot because ladies love unavailable men). It does not take a too much of an intuitive leap to say something like "I wanted magic powers to set me apart in my generic suburb." I'll even go as far to admit that I still want magic powers and then top it of with an assertion that I try to move things with my mind with a serious level of concentration. Never the less, I am attempting to move on and deal with my life an average human being

BUT NOT SO WITH LAURA WOLF: INTERNET WITCH

Laura Wolf is totally a witch, and she backs up this assertion with the full power of the Internet and its mighty graphics. Don't believe her? Just compulisten (aka read) to Laura Wolf drop the facts on Witching.

Can anyone be a witch?
"Not necessarily.."
Is it easy to recognize a witch in mainstream society today?
"Not necessarily.."
Do all witches have complete control of the extraordinary powers they possess?
"............"

Laura Wolf, your inability to control even your use of the ellipses speaks volumes to me about the control you wield over your extraordinary powers. Unless of course you simply want people to think you lack fine control over grammar and the occult. Why do you wish to scare us like this? I fear your aims may be less than benevolent and/or sexy as I have been led to believe good Witches ought to be.

Oh thank you Laura Wolf! I feel much better.

But wait, Laura Wolf please explain to me why you are a Witch as compared to other people who claim to be Witches on the Internet.

Many people refer to themselves as a Witch simply to apear cool in the eyes of peers or
feel powerful or perhaps they have the need to belong to a collective
... an attempt to flee from their personal fears, weaknesses and insecurities...
...to gain some sort of sense of control in their lives.
These are precious, needy children of all ages and my heart bleeds for them
... but they are not witches.
Some claim to be witches because they have read books, bought many non-essentials from occult shops
or perhaps they gather with friends to play the part.
This is fine...
but it does not make them witches!

Oh, I get it Laura Wolf. You're a real witch because you're willing to throw most everyone else who's doing what you're doing under the bus in a search for authenticity. That's Magick!

Here's a picture of Laura Wolf totally going it on her own and not being some fake 'social Witch.' This is also a picture of her and her friend DAGON THE VAMPIRE, whose website she urges you to check out.

Laura Wolf has the power of ENERGY which is VAST. From what I can gather from Laura Wolf's site this ENERGY is nearly as VAST as it is non-descript and generic. Laura Wolf is clearly a powerful lady-Witch, full of ENERGY far beyond the normal expectations of what the human mind, in its infancy, can currently understand...

Just look at her ENERGY Face

I would love to spend more time leading you through Laura Wolf's Internet site (or "Chamber" as she more aptly explains it) but there are some journeys the human mind must make on its own, like doing meth on your birthday all by yourself. If you step into the Chamber, make sure you turn your sound up. Laura Wolf will treat you to an audio of her reading her Pledge. I don't know what all the words mean (well, really just 'mote') but she is pretty worried about soul rape, whatever that is. You probably don't have to worry, I imagine that sort of thing takes VAST quantities of ENERGY, like three Red Bulls worth.

Late Edition: On her main page Laura Wolf informs us that she has been Deemed "America's Coolest Witch" basically the Grammys of Witchery. I would not have liked to be on that judge panel. Imagine having the heavy guilt of basically telling all the other Witches of America they they were just not as cool. Imagine all the ENERGY they would be firing at you. VAST like an expensive bathtub I bet.

I.C.B.C.

“Bing,” goes the sign. Red diodes die off while others sputter on as the signs, each as big as a cereal box and spread throughout the waiting room, rewrite themselves in unison. In a neat visual effect the top two series of letters and numbers shift down. There is a new letter/number designation on the top now, and the bottom one is gone completely. ‘C 256’ the top reads, then ‘B 159’ and ‘J 872’ below that. I have already seen the front desk and been sorted. It is time to wait patiently. I fight the compulsion to smile at the cameras and look innocent. These offices bring out my conciliatory nature; I want the cameras to know I’m on their side. The sign goes off again and it’s my turn, maybe for good behaviour.

The woman at the counter listens to my story which I’m sure is convoluted by her standards. The people around me want to get a driver’s license or they’ve lost their license and they’re here to get it back. I have two licenses, I am the envy of every other ‘B something’, I have licenses in spades. I show these to the woman at the counter. “I would like to consolidate my licenses,” I say. I hope the man beside me heard, that he’s jealous of the boy who has so many licenses he can afford to get rid of some of them.

I explain my situation to the woman at the counter. Suffice to say it’s a boring explanation, broken up only by a mediocre attempt at humour on my part followed by a smile that feels charming. I need her cooperation and she is not unattractive in her mid thirties. I am a young male; there are chemicals in me that make a certain amount of this behaviour beyond my control.

The woman at the counter leaves to seek the council of her manager. She is gone awhile, and then they return together. The manager’s fleshy shoulders fit perfectly on top of her fat sides. She is an egg. Her hair is pulled back in a long pony tail, nearly full white with streaks of gray. My chemicals recede.

“The problem,” she says, cutting right to it, “is that these are not the same people.” She fingers my licences. “This person was born in 1983.” She holds up the Quebec license. “This person was born in 1986.” She holds up the British Columbia license.

“But they were both born on March 26^th. Doesn’t it seem likely that ’83 was just a mistake?”

The manager shakes her head. “The computer won’t accept that these are the same people.”

“I was in Quebec for two years, that’s why I have a Quebec license. The one from B.C. I’ve just got since returning. I can show you my school I.D. a transcript, grad photos.”

The manager starts to organize a fold of papers she’d brought over. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“But look,” I say, appealing to her eyes and her sanity, “we are all the same people.” I point at the face on each license and make a gesture with my chin. “I’ve got all my documents, all my numbers, social insurance, care card-“

“I’m sorry,” she says interrupting. “The computer will not allow it. They are not the same people.”

I look over her shoulder at a camera and sigh. I try to look resigned but not angry. I gather up my papers, pocket my B.C. license. The manager takes the Quebec license. You’re not allowed to go around carrying other people’s licenses. I suppose you might get in trouble and claim it to be your own. The woman at the counter smiles weakly to me as I turn towards the door. Outside, I sit on my car for a moment. I feel badly for the boy who was born simultaneously on the twenty-sixth of March 1983 and the day that someone made an error in Montreal processing an out of province license. I hope he is doing well. I imagine he wishes he had his I.D.

Wee Nikki Eff

For six, maybe even eight years now, I've had a mysterious internet phenomenon where people appear on my msn. Many of them don't even add me, although some do, but they talk none the less. They all want to know who I am, why I added them. When I explain that I didn't add them, things become confused. Sometimes I just let these opportunities die on the vine, but sometimes I don't. The final mystery is this: each in their own way, appear to have the mental capacity of a tomato and lettuce sandwhich.

Here is one such account.

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
hoos this ?

K says:
Kyle

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
snd

K says:
how did you get my email?

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
dont huva cloo, a dont add cunts a dont no

K says:
me neither
all those cunts

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
wit?

K says:
did I just appear on your msn? These seems like trickery
are you tricking me?

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
wit, naw am no!

K says:
well then what's happened here?
are you from some sort of chat site?

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
how th fuk am a menty kno
naw am fukin no, hoo yi getin cheeky wai

K says:
maybe it's fate then?
maybe we were fated to talk on msn

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
aye right watever

K says:
maybe it's god
do you believe in god?

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
aye ciz a wid believe in got yi kno

K says:
have you heard of the tower of babel?

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
wtf is that ?

K says:
it's a story in the bible
you see once upon a time we all spoke the same language, and there was a tower, and everyone hung out in the tower
it was pretty fun, ya know?
well, god wanted everyone to build the tower taller
"taller" he'd say. And so they built it taller
and taller
and taller
until finally it was really tall, tall enough most anyone would say
but god looked down and said "build it taller still" and everyone was like, "that's just silly"
so they didn't build it any taller
God, angry guy he was, knocked it down
and it was so tall that when it fell everyone fell out of it all over the world
and when they landed they all bumped their heads really hard

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
aye ok watever ya fukin creep

K says:
on account of the heights see
and when they woke up everyone spoke a different language.

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
ryt

K says:
this story came to my head talking to you
because you see, I don't understand nearly a word you type to me

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
snd

K says:
exactly\
it's like two different languages
but I guess the tower of babel explains all that

wee-nikki-eff@hotmail.com says:
snd m8, fuk off

K says:
ahmen

I urge any and all of you to add wee nikki to your instant messaging machines. She is charming.

Look Who's Talking Pitch

Dear M.C.E.G Virgin Home Entertainment

Hello, how are you? I hope this global recession has found you well. I myself have been making several cost cutting moves. Did you know for instance that for $2.25, half the price of a big carton of milk, you can buy a smaller carton of milk? I buy two every time, it just makes fiscal sense.

Let’s get down to the meat and potatoes though, shall we? I write to you today to talk about a very worthy addition to an unfortunately neglected powerhouse brand in your cinematic empire. Yes, I’m speaking of course about the Look Who’s Talkin’ dynasty. For over a month now I have kept my ear to the pulse of society and culture. The people are screaming for something to talk to them that can’t actually talk. And who can blame them? Maybe whatever talks next will talk softly and give them a break from all the screaming. No matter though, I will count myself a lucky deaf man to be on the ground floor of what I’m sure will become your sole focus for the coming sixteen months of frenzied production. Virgins, I give you Look Who’s Talkin’ Funny.

Look Who’s Talkin’ Funny will follow the original cast of the Look Who’s Talkin’ franchise. With my connections into Scientology I’ve already begun to line it up. Kirstie Alley was originally asking for payment in thirteen pounds of horseflesh a day but I got her down to eleven and a quarter. John Travolta’s in for constant eye contact. I’m willing to slaughter the horses but you’ll need to get one of your guys in for Travolta. The premise of the movie is that Alley and Travolta’s characters are moving to a new place on the south side of the Bronx. The twist? Their accent walls talk. I’ll give you a second with that one, let it wash over you. Not only do they talk, but Alley and Travolta can’t hear them and the walls each have a different accent. Accents for accent walls! I know, I know, how hasn't this already been done? It's a blockbuster piece. The movie will draw hilarious cross cultural truths into an introspective look at society. For example, the Asian wall will be very smart at math!

Let me give you a sneak peak of Look Who’s Talkin’ Funny.

Reginald

"I say there, good sport, wot wot and all that. However did you come to the Bronx?"

Min-Lo

"My chil-ren needa food. American wonder country."

Rocky

"IT’S THREE IN THE GAWD DAMN MORNING! SHUT YER MOUTHS."

Now I don’t want to rush anything, but let’s have you call me. We’ll talk sequels.

Halloween: A Cautionary Tale

It is an old story, but it bears repeating, if only so you might be spared.

It starts with a boy.


Or a girl.


Depending on where you're looking at it from.

What did they see in each other?



No one could say. Perhaps it was a recognition of some shared fundamental of character, like an utter lack of class.


























Or maybe it was all just sex.




It's unknowable really. Slowly though, they twisted each others minds. They couldn't help it.

Try as he might to hold on to his past,


it was no use. One can not steer the whirlwind.


Let us look now at our poor boy, what has become of him?

Gaudy and alone, unkempt and checkered. Are those glasses all for show, or do they hide a slight sadness in his eyes? His arms stretch wide, but don't confuse a magnanimous gesture with the desire for a hug. His Halloween's, they barely belong to him any more.







He is a shell for all to see. At least though, he will tell you, the sex has gotten better.


Be careful on Halloween kids. There is just no telling.

Trailer (park)

Coming soon: Rat Tails - The Exposé

Blockbuster

Here is the pitch for a new blockbuster film I am writing.*

A left hand, pitted for his entire life in a silent rivalry that leaves it forever in the shadow of his brother, draws a line in the sand. He yearns throw instead of catch, to shake hands without apology, to carry the heavier bag of groceries. Now he must struggle against the hand that has dominated him since the day he was born in a fight that no one dares think he can win. And even if he does, it could tear them both apart.

Vin Diesel plays the right hand. Cuba Gooding Jr. will star as the left. Nicole Kidman will be the forbidden romantic lead as the right foot and Whoopie Goldberg will play the brain (hemisphere undecided). Finally, (and I should add:SPOILER ALERT!) Sean Connery will be making a cameo appearance as the penis.


*Based on true events.**


** My left hand.

More dangerous than yesterday

Today a pudgy man unlocked my hidden potential. One free knife fighting lesson. How could I pass it up? He moved fast for a man with such a gut. He zigged right and he zagged left and he slapped past desperate lunges and he slit throats. His eyes twinkled when he talked about his time choriagraphing "Highlander: The Series". He has very strong opinions on the industry. I'd grab my attackers knife hand as he came at me, right around the thumb and at least one finger was his rule. I'd pull him close and he'd say "now you might get an elbow smash in the nose, but you don't care! Look, you can stab him in the neck." When I disarmed a man and ended gripping the blade for a nasty cut he said "but you don't care! Look you're already opened his bowels." This was his favorite joke and we would both laugh. It was funny because they were dead or because he had such a gut. Such a killer gut.

I dream of loose teeth

I asked the most interesting man I talked to today why he was here. He had a small mouth. His mouth ought to have housed ten teeth, (six on the top and four on the bottom as it was smaller still. Nearly not even there), but instead there was a crowd. Writhing and mashing as he talked, they shoved and elbowed to get their bellies to his lips. The late comers stuck out at all angles, their heads poking between the gaps and above the heads of the more fortunate front row. And noticing this, I realized they weren't mashing but moshing. For me? I felt like a rockstar. I smiled, wide, all my teeth out in full array. It was a show.

He gestured to the piles of sabers, longswords, daggers, staves, rapiers etc. splayed over the floor and said, "I've been training with the master of this academy for twenty years now."

I left the recreation hall over which I preside in a hurry. Before he caught me looking at his mouth.

impotent decision

I've been struggling over what to do first when I get powers.

Maybe I could retaliate. Maybe I could take acception to some small slight on a friend or even a stranger. The offender would call me a fagot and ask just who the hell I was and I'd throw him through a table. I bet that breaks bones, not like in the movies. It would be overkill, but then I'll be the first one with powers so I suppose it will be up to me to set the new standards.

I could go to Wendys and order an icecream. I'd tell her "big, extra big, the biggest. And I'm serious, big." I could give her six dollars on three-thirty and tell her "keep the change". I could lean against the counter, smug, unneccessary sunglasses on an hour before they close for the night, and look back at the people behind me in line - I mean really just stare. I could wait until she tapped me on the shoulder to turn. Sunglasses now off, I could take my icream and tell her to remember me. I could wink like a jackass.

I could quickly forget what life was like being human and, judgmental and vindictive after being so often disapointed by my own skewered expectations, I could sit at home alone with my sense of superiority. I could watch the news and ease my guilt by telling myself that you all deserved it.

Treck Log: Day 80

I’m sorry for the length of my silence. My pen was at the bottom of my backpack.

Today we made it to the moon. You heard me right baby: The Moon.

My elation is tempered with deep, limitless sorrow. Herb.

The signs were all there except for the incubation period. I realize now that the space-air must have retarded the growth of the squirrel larvae. Herb had been growing steadily worst over the past two months, but he was so stoic I think we all just thought he’d keep putting one foot in front of the other forever. He never showed anyone his thumb. Yesterday he doubled over in the inky blackness of space. I waded back down to him (hiking to the moon as it turns out, is roughly like walking up stairs made of quicksand.) “Wu Tang Clan”, he said, “ain’t nothing to fuck with” which was unsurprising as he’d been talking in only rap lyrics for the past fifteen days or so. Then his head burst like a chestnut roasted on an open fire and hundreds of larva - gaunt, opaque, luminescent squirrel babies with bushy tails and pincers, fell out. Lucky for us they were disoriented and had no natural affinity or instinct for space hiking.

God damn it Herb, I miss you already. Your endless string of disjointed lyrics kept my spirits up. And even though I now realize that they were simply a product of the last piece of your brain not eaten by the squirrels, they meant the world to me.

I’m sorry baby, I know I’m wandering here.

When we got to the moon the first thing I did was take Paul off my back and lay him down the on ground. He lost that first foot after the blister under that fuzzy warmer turned infectious. We all told him to throw it away, let it drift, but he wouldn’t have it. He put it on his left ankle nearly the minute after Doc Ringles cut his right one off. Well the pus had seeped into those fuzzy wisps and pretty soon they seeped back into his good leg. Doc Ringles had to take that one off with a tent stake and a hammer because his bone saw had drifted away in the night, or at least that’s what he told us. I don’t trust anybody who laughs like that during an amputation.

Paul wears it around his head now like a dead man, and it isn’t white but green with pus. I can’t explain him, just can’t fucking explain him.

My only regret Jilly is that I can’t come home to you. I know we talked about the skeleton transplant and the speed boat wedding, but Jilly it’s taken too long to get here. I’ve walked too far. I’m a moon man now Jilly, and in a way this moon’s my only bride. In another way the girl I married two weeks ago is my bride. Forgive me Jilly, I was drunk off stardust. We’ve decided to build a perfect society on the moon, and that means no lying, slavery or divorces. If it makes you feel any better, I do love her. We’ll name our first girl after you, the momma she almost had. You can have my NASA money, I won’t be needing it here. Good luck with your new skeleton. Look up at the sky at me.

-Barker