A place for stories, both fact and fiction
The State of the Union (is divided)
1/24/2012
President Obama has struck out in front of a chamber filled with dumpy senators and representatives an other assorted fellows and fellas in order to make his case for the nation as a whole. The response? At least in the presence of the audience, it seemed pretty mixed. Some people clapped, some people stood, some people sat and others continued to work on that booger they had been trying to get out of their nose since 8:30 this morning. John Boehner looked as is he had just mainlined half the heroin supply of Afghanistan.
President Obama has struck out in front of a chamber filled with dumpy senators and representatives an other assorted fellows and fellas in order to make his case for the nation as a whole. The response? At least in the presence of the audience, it seemed pretty mixed. Some people clapped, some people stood, some people sat and others continued to work on that booger they had been trying to get out of their nose since 8:30 this morning. John Boehner looked as is he had just mainlined half the heroin supply of Afghanistan.
This is roughly the expression Boehner managed to maintain throughout the entirety of the speech.
But hey! What did Obama actually say? Well, he said plenty of things, talking about the economy, education, defense, all kinds of shit. He also told congress to stop being a bunch of little girls when it came to getting things done. Weird thing about it; some people actually cheered this. I was sitting at home, thinking to myself: "Guys...uh...he's basically insulting all of you." But you know what? Good. I'm glad they are applauding being told that their idiots. At least they are aware of the fact, they just have to get to step two and work on it.
Oh, ya gotta love irony.
Some time was spent on boasting about putting Osama Bin Laden and Moammar Ghadafi in the deadbook, which I guess is justified, but it kinda clashed with a later statement that America is not the kind of country that intimidates others world-wide made later on. I mean, the statement is obviously filled with crap to anyone that knows anything about history, but cute none the less. The only thing mentioned by the president among everything (like cracking down on irresponsible lending, rebuilding our infrastructure and doing things to ensure the solvency of our safety nets) was defense spending. Boners were hardly contained all over the chamber. Agreeable things both implicit and explicit in this talk was increased spending to ensure veterans are kept employed upon return from duty and VA spending. Also, Joe Biden was there.
Will not hesitate to rip your fucking dick off.
A special mention should also go to Gabrielle Giffords (one of the few senators I have any real respect for) who, just last year, sustained a gunshot wound to the head. She defied all laws of life and death to not only live but look fantastic.
Mitt Romney versus The World
1/24/2012
Anyone half-way interested in and/or following the GOP race probably knows by now one fundamental fact; conservatives hate Mitt Romney.
Anyone half-way interested in and/or following the GOP race probably knows by now one fundamental fact; conservatives hate Mitt Romney.
Yep, Mitt, sorry about that. So far you have displayed every characteristic the American people used to absolutely love in a candidate. For one thing, you're full of shit. God knows Americans love a president who has a chronic case of the "fuck you lies." Bill Clinton, for example, lied about his little boner excursion into Monica Lewinsky's mouth. Sure, the Republicans drag him through shit for a few years, but ultimately, Clinton simply said; "Fuck you, I lied. Dude's gotta get his dick wet, am I right?" And the entirety of the American public nodded in unison. Preach on, Clinton. Dude's gotta get his dick wet, indeed!
Really, it seems a little unfair. Mitt Romney is the bullshit salesmen just missed out on some prime bullshit market. The 1970s' all the way through to 2008! People couldn't buy enough bullshit! You had Watergate, Reaganomics, the Gulf Wars, Kosovo, so on, so forth! People were lapping up bullshit with smiles on their faces! In fact, the only president who refused to sell bullshit and instead started up a good ol' fashioned truth booth, selling good, prime cuts of steamy, gravy-laden truth, was booted out of office after his very first term!
Carter for President, 2012!
HA HA! Well, now everyone is looking for truthful people. People that speak from the heart, like Michelle Bachmann! Wait...no, not Michelle Bachmann, I meant Rick Perry. Oh, fuck, not him either. Herman Cain? ...NO!? Well shit, how about Rick Santorum?
...um...hot?
Yeah, Santorum had his day in the sun, too! Who hasn't in the GOP race? It's like they are all agreeing to take certain primaries without telling Romney, who is forced outside the conservative circle-jerk, crying because he has no friends. That is pretty sad. But I predict that the Republicans really have no candidate in this race. Mitt's too liberal, Gingrich fucks everything that has a pulse, Santorum is...well, Santorum and Ron Paul is actually *too* conservative for a lot of Republicans.
I actually like this guy better than the other Republicans.
You see, dear reader, the base of the GOP will not find the candidate they want because the candidate they *want* is fucking *dead*. Guess who?
WHAT HAS SCIENCE DONE!?!?!?
The Ethics Quandry
1/16/2012
One of the most important subjects in the area of philosophy is Ethics. The reason why it is so important and the reason why philosophy is such a fucked up subject is specifically because most philosophers have no answers. They only have questions. Like Socrates for example thought that the only thing we as human-beings can really do is judge whether something either true or false by virtue of the fact that we have souls. And then a bunch of concerned parents shoved poison down his throat. Really, what does that mean? He can distinguish true from false, but there is not concrete support within that reasoning that says we as individuals can choose what is right and what is wrong from an ethical standpoint.
Any time a philosopher had anything concrete to say on the subject of ethics (Which by virtue of it's own definition implies objective "rightness") it was of the most rigid and dogmatic views. Kant was known for two things; his shitty, shitty writing style that would have made the fucking bible look interesting in comparison and the categorical imperative, probably his most significant contribution to the subject of ethics. The categorical imperative states simply that in order to come to the ethical "rightness" of something (or ethical "goodness") simply take an action and universalize it. For example; "Is it right for me to steal this candy bar?" becomes "Is it right for everyone to steal candy bars?" The answer is no, therefore the action is ethically unsound. Obviously Kant's way of letting everyone know how much they suck by developing an ethical standard fucking Jesus could barely live by earned him some ire among his later contemporaries. Nietzsche especially.
Friedrich Nietzsche was like the Sean Hannity to Kant's Alan Colmes. He thought he was a pussy liberal faggot who hugged trees and blew bubbles with fairies in his off time. Nietzsche believed that one could only live by their own standard and should be governed by the strength of their will. Obviously a higher morality included responsible living and other such crap, but it didn't necessarily involve helping other people. Embracing yourself to the point of excellence is the only thing that Nietzsche argues had any intrinsic value. Hence, his ideal of Ubermensch is born. His philosophy evolved throughout the ages, some even believe that Nietzsche was some shit-kicking nihilist who thought morality didn't exist!
In today's time, there are versions of both of these philosophies that exist in culture. Ayn Rand adopted a lot of Nietzsche's thoughts into her own philosophy called Objectivism. It can be viewed as the ideological blueprint for many conservative politicians in terms of economic theory. Liberals often, without realizing it, are championing Utilitarian philosophies and Kant's ethical universality. On one end stands individualism and on the other collectivism. Which is ethically right? The most attractive answer, I find, is neither. Individualism is great, but lord knows that people in this country don't get where they are on their own. You have cops that patrol the streets, you have schools teaching you how to wipe your own ass and you have laws protecting you from half-naked, hockey-mask wearing warlords with a penchant for leather fetish wear. On the other hand, having the government dictate how you spend or allocate your time and money all the time is not desirable either. Moderation is one great compromise. It is unfortunate that "compromise" is not a word many people can nowadays comprehend
One of the most important subjects in the area of philosophy is Ethics. The reason why it is so important and the reason why philosophy is such a fucked up subject is specifically because most philosophers have no answers. They only have questions. Like Socrates for example thought that the only thing we as human-beings can really do is judge whether something either true or false by virtue of the fact that we have souls. And then a bunch of concerned parents shoved poison down his throat. Really, what does that mean? He can distinguish true from false, but there is not concrete support within that reasoning that says we as individuals can choose what is right and what is wrong from an ethical standpoint.
Any time a philosopher had anything concrete to say on the subject of ethics (Which by virtue of it's own definition implies objective "rightness") it was of the most rigid and dogmatic views. Kant was known for two things; his shitty, shitty writing style that would have made the fucking bible look interesting in comparison and the categorical imperative, probably his most significant contribution to the subject of ethics. The categorical imperative states simply that in order to come to the ethical "rightness" of something (or ethical "goodness") simply take an action and universalize it. For example; "Is it right for me to steal this candy bar?" becomes "Is it right for everyone to steal candy bars?" The answer is no, therefore the action is ethically unsound. Obviously Kant's way of letting everyone know how much they suck by developing an ethical standard fucking Jesus could barely live by earned him some ire among his later contemporaries. Nietzsche especially.
Friedrich Nietzsche was like the Sean Hannity to Kant's Alan Colmes. He thought he was a pussy liberal faggot who hugged trees and blew bubbles with fairies in his off time. Nietzsche believed that one could only live by their own standard and should be governed by the strength of their will. Obviously a higher morality included responsible living and other such crap, but it didn't necessarily involve helping other people. Embracing yourself to the point of excellence is the only thing that Nietzsche argues had any intrinsic value. Hence, his ideal of Ubermensch is born. His philosophy evolved throughout the ages, some even believe that Nietzsche was some shit-kicking nihilist who thought morality didn't exist!
In today's time, there are versions of both of these philosophies that exist in culture. Ayn Rand adopted a lot of Nietzsche's thoughts into her own philosophy called Objectivism. It can be viewed as the ideological blueprint for many conservative politicians in terms of economic theory. Liberals often, without realizing it, are championing Utilitarian philosophies and Kant's ethical universality. On one end stands individualism and on the other collectivism. Which is ethically right? The most attractive answer, I find, is neither. Individualism is great, but lord knows that people in this country don't get where they are on their own. You have cops that patrol the streets, you have schools teaching you how to wipe your own ass and you have laws protecting you from half-naked, hockey-mask wearing warlords with a penchant for leather fetish wear. On the other hand, having the government dictate how you spend or allocate your time and money all the time is not desirable either. Moderation is one great compromise. It is unfortunate that "compromise" is not a word many people can nowadays comprehend
Breaking Dawn The Prelude
12/4/2011
Forever Ashamed
11/21/11
Watch this...just....just watch this.
Watch this...just....just watch this.
You know, I think a society has reached the limits of decadence when it has become too lazy to cover itself in a blanket. The solution to such laziness? Well, why not just wear a blanket on you at all times? There ya go! Problem solved! Read a book with in complete comfort! Get one for the whole family! And the fun doesn't stop there! Oh, hell no! You can even go out in public with these bad boys...I mean if you have no shame. Seriously, this infomercial depicts a tailgate party where all of the attendees are dressed up like babies. It's fucking weird! NOT OKAY. DO NOT WANT. Luckily, I'm fairly certain that the average person looks upon brain shits like this one and say to themselves "This is stupid." But then I think about the people who buy this shit...and I cry.
Oh, and by the way, the Forever Lazy had a hatch in the buttocks. Just in case you need to take a shit while you're living it up in infant-wear. I know. You're totally sold.
Oh, and by the way, the Forever Lazy had a hatch in the buttocks. Just in case you need to take a shit while you're living it up in infant-wear. I know. You're totally sold.
Newer games make me yearn for older games
11/19/11
So I am watching my friend play Skyrim right now, and ya know what it makes me think about? Final Fantasy IV-VIII, Tekken 2, Vagrant Story, Metal Gear Solid, Planescape: Torment, Fallouts 1 and 2. That may seem counter-intuitive, but you know what? I miss those games! I played them back when I felt no pressure.
So I am watching my friend play Skyrim right now, and ya know what it makes me think about? Final Fantasy IV-VIII, Tekken 2, Vagrant Story, Metal Gear Solid, Planescape: Torment, Fallouts 1 and 2. That may seem counter-intuitive, but you know what? I miss those games! I played them back when I felt no pressure.
"SWEET MOTHER OF THE LORD, MY EYES!!!"
Am I seriously just a whore for games from a bygone era? Am I going to be one of those old video game veterans that stubbornly maintains that Legend of Lagaia is better than Modern Warfare 10? I mean just because it is totally better? I'm a sucker for a good, old-fashioned story-driven buttfest. The games coming out now seem to be more geared toward an audience that regularly foams at the mouth and communicates through a series of grunts. Gears of War's main featured weapon is a machine gun with a chainsaw duct taped under the barrel. Because fuck pragmatism, shit's cool.
Am I seriously just a whore for games from a bygone era? Am I going to be one of those old video game veterans that stubbornly maintains that Legend of Lagaia is better than Modern Warfare 10? I mean just because it is totally better? I'm a sucker for a good, old-fashioned story-driven buttfest. The games coming out now seem to be more geared toward an audience that regularly foams at the mouth and communicates through a series of grunts. Gears of War's main featured weapon is a machine gun with a chainsaw duct taped under the barrel. Because fuck pragmatism, shit's cool.
This game is not for the slight of stature.
So yea...I don't really like Gears of War. Not am I big Halo fan, and Modern Warfare? No, not at all. It's just several hours of faux-Cold War crap and looking down the sights of a gun barrel. As an adult, I rarely have time to squeeze in for some good ol' gaming, and when I do, I go for substance over style. I also go for clearly inferior graphics. Oh, nostalgia.
So yea...I don't really like Gears of War. Not am I big Halo fan, and Modern Warfare? No, not at all. It's just several hours of faux-Cold War crap and looking down the sights of a gun barrel. As an adult, I rarely have time to squeeze in for some good ol' gaming, and when I do, I go for substance over style. I also go for clearly inferior graphics. Oh, nostalgia.
This City
11/10/11
I cut through this city true, seeing the underbelly of it smolder and stew, nothing quite new about this city except the few who think straight and true. There are abandoned factories standing tall and alone, small compared to the new city of glass that stands among blue skies and grass. There are abandoned places where the faces of ghosts who have left their traces in the cracks of buildings and bases of culture and races.
This is a melting pot.
A chili pot, a cooking spot, where all kinds of people plot to overcome the rot from which they were conceived or reprieved, nothing quite as bitter as failing at that, nothing quite as sad as a fat-cat bureaucrat walking passed a homeless man who cannot plan for a better life without putting a knife to your throat and whispering “Your money or your life.”
This city smells like a motherfucking sewer, everywhere I walk, I feel my brains cells shrink fewer and fewer and I see stars dancing across the walls of buildings built in the time of King Arthur’s Hall. Get me away from this shitty city on a hill, this homely hamlet I want to kill, this eroding edifice where nothing quite makes sense. I want to sit in solitude with a fire roaring, reading books from cover to cover, with my conscience soaring. I want to write for hours and hours on end without stopping or dropping the line of a poem.
But this city reflects me in the worst way and on the worst rainy day. My work smells of sewer, my work shrinks brains cells fewer, I cannot even write a sonnet to save my niece’s bonnet. I am no Shakespeare or Ginsberg. I’m not Poe or Salvatore Quasimodo. I’m barely even fit for the title of Seuss, I might as well put a noose around this throat and bid adieu to this daily rote.
But wait, fuck that.
Yeah, fuck that, I like writing and if you don’t like my shit than fuck you too! I’ll crush you with adverbs and real verbs and crosswords! Each word sharpened to a point from the tip of my pen to the center of your knee joint. I break your legs in half with blunt metaphors and blow your mind out of your skin pores. Words, words, words and I like them all; I want to use them to create. Oh and this city? Fuck it. It’s great.
I cut through this city true, seeing the underbelly of it smolder and stew, nothing quite new about this city except the few who think straight and true. There are abandoned factories standing tall and alone, small compared to the new city of glass that stands among blue skies and grass. There are abandoned places where the faces of ghosts who have left their traces in the cracks of buildings and bases of culture and races.
This is a melting pot.
A chili pot, a cooking spot, where all kinds of people plot to overcome the rot from which they were conceived or reprieved, nothing quite as bitter as failing at that, nothing quite as sad as a fat-cat bureaucrat walking passed a homeless man who cannot plan for a better life without putting a knife to your throat and whispering “Your money or your life.”
This city smells like a motherfucking sewer, everywhere I walk, I feel my brains cells shrink fewer and fewer and I see stars dancing across the walls of buildings built in the time of King Arthur’s Hall. Get me away from this shitty city on a hill, this homely hamlet I want to kill, this eroding edifice where nothing quite makes sense. I want to sit in solitude with a fire roaring, reading books from cover to cover, with my conscience soaring. I want to write for hours and hours on end without stopping or dropping the line of a poem.
But this city reflects me in the worst way and on the worst rainy day. My work smells of sewer, my work shrinks brains cells fewer, I cannot even write a sonnet to save my niece’s bonnet. I am no Shakespeare or Ginsberg. I’m not Poe or Salvatore Quasimodo. I’m barely even fit for the title of Seuss, I might as well put a noose around this throat and bid adieu to this daily rote.
But wait, fuck that.
Yeah, fuck that, I like writing and if you don’t like my shit than fuck you too! I’ll crush you with adverbs and real verbs and crosswords! Each word sharpened to a point from the tip of my pen to the center of your knee joint. I break your legs in half with blunt metaphors and blow your mind out of your skin pores. Words, words, words and I like them all; I want to use them to create. Oh and this city? Fuck it. It’s great.
Our Capacity For Kindness: What we Should Strive for
9/11/2011
Ten years after the monstrous events of 9/11, I find many remembering the human capacity for bloodshed, violence and tyranny. Though we should never forget those who have fallen and mourn their passing, but we should also remember that our capacity for evil is only rivaled by our capacity to do unconditional good. For today, I would like to remember those who perpetrated unparalleled acts of kindness while stuck in a circumstance of unyielding tyranny.
Ten years after the monstrous events of 9/11, I find many remembering the human capacity for bloodshed, violence and tyranny. Though we should never forget those who have fallen and mourn their passing, but we should also remember that our capacity for evil is only rivaled by our capacity to do unconditional good. For today, I would like to remember those who perpetrated unparalleled acts of kindness while stuck in a circumstance of unyielding tyranny.
On 9/11, those who were the first to respond to the tragedy that took place on 9/11 didn't think twice about the circumstance before charging selflessly into the burning twin towers to save people whose lives were in clear danger. This is the capacity for human good.
In 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. marched on Washington with many fellow civil rights activists in order to preach his ideals of peace, equality and understanding. On April 4th, 1968, King was slain by an assassin's bullet simply because he wanted equal opportunity for those of African-American descent. King's selfless and peaceful actions are an enduring example of the capacity for human good.
Mother Teresa founded the Missionaries of Charities in Calcutta. For over forty years, she dedicated her life to helping the poor, indigent and less fortunate. Today, her name is practically synonymous with virtuous acts. Over forty years of Mother Teresa's life is an example of the capacity for human good.
Paul Rusesabagina put his own life in danger by using his influence as a Hotel Manager to harbor and thereby spare over 1,200 African refugees from the Rwandan Genocide perpetrated by the Interahamwe militia. This is an example of the capacity for human good.
And these aren't the only examples, and certainly should not be among the last. We as individuals must remember the worst atrocities and the most selfless of actions in order to realize that we have the potential to be Angels or Demons. Let's take today to remember that we should do our best to be Angels for the sake of our children and grandchildren's world tomorrow.
And these aren't the only examples, and certainly should not be among the last. We as individuals must remember the worst atrocities and the most selfless of actions in order to realize that we have the potential to be Angels or Demons. Let's take today to remember that we should do our best to be Angels for the sake of our children and grandchildren's world tomorrow.
Exercise in Epicness: NEMO by Nightwish
9/10/2011
Another Nightwish song. If you remember, I posted "Ghost Love Song" which was pretty fucking awesome. This song is soft-spoken at first and then kind of just kicks you in the face with the heavy distorted electric guitar and the voice of the leader singer Tarja Turunen who has the voice of a goddamn Valkyrie. The song also combines typical, heavy-metal riffs and melodies with an orchestral instrumentation...in fact much like "Ghost Love Score"...which bumps the amount of epic up considerably. Enjoy.
Roasting a Turd
9/7/2011
Over the past fifty or sixty years, the ceremony of roasts have been honorary celebrations. Tongue-in-cheek comedy directed towards a single person deemed worthy enough for the attention. In the past the people that have been roasted included the likes of Don Rickles, Sammy Davis Jr., Humphrey Bogart and Redd Foxx.
Over the past fifty or sixty years, the ceremony of roasts have been honorary celebrations. Tongue-in-cheek comedy directed towards a single person deemed worthy enough for the attention. In the past the people that have been roasted included the likes of Don Rickles, Sammy Davis Jr., Humphrey Bogart and Redd Foxx.
However, as time goes on, the candidates for roasts have been getting more and more questionable. In 2004, Donald Trump was roasted with the roastmaster position being filled by Regis Philbin. Donald Trump? Really? Sure, he's a billionaire (thanks in no small part to his father) but is he really roast material? In the past roast candidates have been entertainers, ones who have proven time and time again their skill and talent for whatever field they have been involved in whether it be stand-up, acting or music. Does Donald Trump really fit in that category? On top of that; Regis Philbin as the roastmaster? No offense intended toward old Reg, but he isn't really a comedian and therefore, isn't really the right talent for delivering a good old-fashioned insult-laced roast monologue. Other notable head-scratchers as far as roasts go; The Roast of Don King with roastmaster Donald Trump, The Roast of Matt Lauer with roastmaster Al Roker (seriously) and the roast of Pamela Anderson with roastmaster Jimmy Kimmel. This isn't to detract from any of the Roastees' accomplishments, it's just odd seeing them up on the hallowed chair to be poked fun at. There is also, of course the upcoming roast of Charlie Sheen.
Now, I know I just said that roasts are meant for entertainers with a long career filled with accolades and awards and such, and Charlie Sheen is certainly a successful entertainer, or has been in the past. However, it is clear even watching the commercial for the roast that the focus isn't Sheen's long and illustrious career but rather his recent weird and uncouth antics. For those who haven't seen it, the commercial features Sheen as a crazy train conductor and he makes various allusions to his recent revealing interviews and is acting generally strange. It is obvious that the appeal Comedy Central (the broadcaster of the event) is trying very hard to sell is not Charlie's many great acting credits (Platoon, Major League, Wall Street, Hot Shots!, the list goes on) but rather the appeal of his slowly corroding credibility as an actor and his increasingly disturbing image as a walking freakshow. Is it healthy for the entertainment business to cash-in on someone's downward spiral and thereby encourage or enable it?
What do you think?
What do you think?
It's Not Just Used in the Gas tank
9/6/2011
As an addendum to the previous column, it would be revealing to show exactly how we apply petroleum (crude oil) in ways other than simply powering our automobiles. While it is true that very little petroleum is used to create electricity for our country, let's take a look at a break down of what goes in to producing our electricity.
As an addendum to the previous column, it would be revealing to show exactly how we apply petroleum (crude oil) in ways other than simply powering our automobiles. While it is true that very little petroleum is used to create electricity for our country, let's take a look at a break down of what goes in to producing our electricity.
As shown above, while only 1.58% of petroleum goes into producing our electricity, Coal, Natural Gas and Crude combined make up 72% of our electric power in the US. All of these resources I have just named are non-renewable fossil fuels. The next largest producer of electricity is Nuclear Power at 19.39% and then Hydroelectric at 5.80%. This begs the question in one's mind; as these finite fossil fuels become more and more scarce as time goes on, what will our electric bills start to look like? When the non-renewable fuel sources we depend on disappear, how will the public deal with losing 72% of it's electricity? Why is the next most used source of energy nuclear, which produces a lot of waste that cannot be disposed of?
Why do renewable forms of fuel consist so little of the percentage? Doesn't something seem wrong with this? If we have the technology to produce alternative forms of energy in terms of engines and electricity. why are we not utilizing them?
What do you think?
OTHER PRODUCTS THAT USE PETROLEUM IN THEIR CONSTRUCTION (A VERY ABBREVIATED LIST):
Ink
Plastics (by extension nearly all toothbrushes, pens and materials used to construct one's car)
Clothes
Tires
Caulking
Dice (just to scare you D&D fans out there)
Deodorant
Shoe Polish
Paint
Bandages
Tape
Combs
Make-up
Much, much more...
SOURCES
http://www.ranken-energy.com/Products%20from%20Petroleum.htm
http://www.theoildrum.com/node/4381
Why do renewable forms of fuel consist so little of the percentage? Doesn't something seem wrong with this? If we have the technology to produce alternative forms of energy in terms of engines and electricity. why are we not utilizing them?
What do you think?
OTHER PRODUCTS THAT USE PETROLEUM IN THEIR CONSTRUCTION (A VERY ABBREVIATED LIST):
Ink
Plastics (by extension nearly all toothbrushes, pens and materials used to construct one's car)
Clothes
Tires
Caulking
Dice (just to scare you D&D fans out there)
Deodorant
Shoe Polish
Paint
Bandages
Tape
Combs
Make-up
Much, much more...
SOURCES
http://www.ranken-energy.com/Products%20from%20Petroleum.htm
http://www.theoildrum.com/node/4381
The Absence of Crude: What Powers Your Life is Quickly Disappearing
9/5/2011
Today it is said that the United States alone consumes over 18 and one-half million of barrels of Oil per day. Behind the US stands the entirety of the European Union at over thirteen and one-half million barrels per day. The question that these facts should provoke in one's mind is not necessarily why these countries utilize so liberally what is known to be a finite resource, but how much of that finite resource is actually left? Funny thing about that:
We don't actually know.
Although you can find figures that represent "proved reserves" online, it is helpful to know what exactly "proved reserves" are and what the term even means. Proven Reserves are a rough estimation (usually counted in units of barrels) of recoverable oil from the date indicated forward. The global reserves of oil clock out somewhere around 1.4 trillion barrels. This is an estimation and it is certainly not precise. But let's pretend it is for right now. "Wow," one could possible muse to oneself, "that is sure a LOT of oil!" However, one must also take into account that the discovery of new oil reservoirs have long since tapered off, yet the demand has never been greater.
Today it is said that the United States alone consumes over 18 and one-half million of barrels of Oil per day. Behind the US stands the entirety of the European Union at over thirteen and one-half million barrels per day. The question that these facts should provoke in one's mind is not necessarily why these countries utilize so liberally what is known to be a finite resource, but how much of that finite resource is actually left? Funny thing about that:
We don't actually know.
Although you can find figures that represent "proved reserves" online, it is helpful to know what exactly "proved reserves" are and what the term even means. Proven Reserves are a rough estimation (usually counted in units of barrels) of recoverable oil from the date indicated forward. The global reserves of oil clock out somewhere around 1.4 trillion barrels. This is an estimation and it is certainly not precise. But let's pretend it is for right now. "Wow," one could possible muse to oneself, "that is sure a LOT of oil!" However, one must also take into account that the discovery of new oil reservoirs have long since tapered off, yet the demand has never been greater.
Also, one must take into account that though 1.4 trillion is a big number; it still is not an infinite amount. How about global consumption? Sure, the reserves seem rather stacked mentioning the number off the cuff, but we must also compare it to how much nations across the globe actually use. The global demand for oil today is somewhere around 96.3 million barrels per day. How much is that per week? Around 673.9 million barrels. Per month? Approximately 2.7 billion barrels. Per year? 32.3 billion barrels. How stable is relying on oil as a fuel source when we consume 32.3 billion barrels of it per year and there is only actually a supply of 1.4 trillion barrels on the entirety of the Earth? The numbers suggest that our supply of fossil fuel will be depleted in about 40-45 years. This estimation ignores whether or not demand will increase, which trends show that it inevitably will. Also; before there is a complete lack of the resource, there is a shortage which will impact the global economy drastically. Obviously; alternatives must be researched, funded and implemented if we, not only as a country but as citizens of planet Earth, are to continue living in the comfort that we have been for sometime in the 1st world.
So what are our options?
ETHANOL (i.e utilizing existing fossil fuels in order to harvest, maintain and grow food, then utilize more fossil fuels in order to process the food, in this case corn, into a usable form of fuel. i.e complete and utter irrationality.)
ELECTRICITY (i.e oil to create electricity.)
CLEAN COAL (i.e you know, just plain coal.)
TAR SANDS (i.e using fossil-fuel to dig up, transport and clean dirty sands which then can be converted into a usable fuel source.)
NUCLEAR POWER (i.e a sustainable power source that produces a lot of unstable waste products which most plants just store on-sight until they can schlep it beneath ground. Which is not yet legal.)
SOLAR POWER (i.e devoting plots of land to solar panels which harnesses the power of the sun in order to produce clean, sustainable energy.)
WIND POWER (i.e devoting plots of land to wind turbines which harness the power of the wind in order to produce clean, sustainable energy.)
What do you think?
And I haven't even touched the shortage of clean drinking water. Holyshit...
SOURCES
https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2174rank.html
https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2178rank.html
So what are our options?
ETHANOL (i.e utilizing existing fossil fuels in order to harvest, maintain and grow food, then utilize more fossil fuels in order to process the food, in this case corn, into a usable form of fuel. i.e complete and utter irrationality.)
ELECTRICITY (i.e oil to create electricity.)
CLEAN COAL (i.e you know, just plain coal.)
TAR SANDS (i.e using fossil-fuel to dig up, transport and clean dirty sands which then can be converted into a usable fuel source.)
NUCLEAR POWER (i.e a sustainable power source that produces a lot of unstable waste products which most plants just store on-sight until they can schlep it beneath ground. Which is not yet legal.)
SOLAR POWER (i.e devoting plots of land to solar panels which harnesses the power of the sun in order to produce clean, sustainable energy.)
WIND POWER (i.e devoting plots of land to wind turbines which harness the power of the wind in order to produce clean, sustainable energy.)
What do you think?
And I haven't even touched the shortage of clean drinking water. Holyshit...
SOURCES
https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2174rank.html
https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2178rank.html
Jonah Hex Review
7/6/2011
Political Theater: In Remembrance of John Wayne Gacy
6/28/2011
Michele Bachmann, presidential hopeful for 2012, spoke candidly on the subject of those who influence her and her fighting "spirit" in her pursuit of the white house. The icon that shared her hometown of Waterloo, Iowa, she claimed to share the most spirit with, was of course; John Wayne Gacy. Though most people attribute this odd payment of respect to a ruthless, clown-disguised serial killer to a wildly misinformed mistake concerning a wholly different John Wayne, one must applaud Bachmann's brazen ignorance. After all; both men have "John Wayne" in their names, both were stocky and both were men. All of these ingredients go into the delicious cake of stupid Bachmann is known for whipping up time to time.
But hey, look at it this way: This is the only time you will ever see a politician openly admitting that they share the same spirit as a sociopathic serial murderer. I mean, most people would consider this career suicide. Michele Bachmann just calls it another day on the campaign trail. At least, in this situation, she can just say that at least she knows who Paul Revere is.
Michele Bachmann, presidential hopeful for 2012, spoke candidly on the subject of those who influence her and her fighting "spirit" in her pursuit of the white house. The icon that shared her hometown of Waterloo, Iowa, she claimed to share the most spirit with, was of course; John Wayne Gacy. Though most people attribute this odd payment of respect to a ruthless, clown-disguised serial killer to a wildly misinformed mistake concerning a wholly different John Wayne, one must applaud Bachmann's brazen ignorance. After all; both men have "John Wayne" in their names, both were stocky and both were men. All of these ingredients go into the delicious cake of stupid Bachmann is known for whipping up time to time.
But hey, look at it this way: This is the only time you will ever see a politician openly admitting that they share the same spirit as a sociopathic serial murderer. I mean, most people would consider this career suicide. Michele Bachmann just calls it another day on the campaign trail. At least, in this situation, she can just say that at least she knows who Paul Revere is.
Game Time with Alex Madell: Metal Gear Solid Blues
6/15/2011
Hello there internet. It's been a while. You would think the vast time that Summer affords a young, probing mind such as mine would prompt me to pour ideas out across the cables like maple syrup gliding across the pock-marked surface of a pancake that my father made while he was hungover. But alas, interwebs, your faithful writer and philosopher is a lazy one. And sometimes he forgets this blog exists. Other times, dear reader, your writer and philosopher finds himself playing a video game series with an absurdly complex story that makes the fucking Matrix seem tame in comparison. I am talking about, of course, Metal Gear Solid.
Hello there internet. It's been a while. You would think the vast time that Summer affords a young, probing mind such as mine would prompt me to pour ideas out across the cables like maple syrup gliding across the pock-marked surface of a pancake that my father made while he was hungover. But alas, interwebs, your faithful writer and philosopher is a lazy one. And sometimes he forgets this blog exists. Other times, dear reader, your writer and philosopher finds himself playing a video game series with an absurdly complex story that makes the fucking Matrix seem tame in comparison. I am talking about, of course, Metal Gear Solid.
Of course, this series was preceded by a prequel series known simply as Metal Gear. Why does a series necessitate a prequel series, you may ask? Well because this much mindrape cannot be contained in one paltry series of two games. It needs one series of two and another series of four. Plus a bunch of re-releases with some easter egg crap in it. The story is about a covert operative codenamed Solid Snake. Boner jokes aside, Snake frequently puts his super-secret boot into a terrorist groups' collective anus hole. But that's not all! In Metal Gear Solid, you find out Snake is actually a clone of Big Boss, who was his commanding officer at one point but then proceeded to go batshit crazy and turned rogue! But that's not all! Snake also has a clone brother known as Liquid Snake who also goes crazy and goes rogue. But that's not all! After Solid kills Liquid, Liquid's arm is grafted to Revolver Ocelot who loses his arm in the first Metal Gear Solid and is now possessed by Liquid's vengeful spirit. But that's not all! In the second game, you play as Solid Snake for literally three minutes before you change perspectives to a whiny, long-haired otaku with the voice of a pre-adolescent girl! But that's not all! The United States government is run by a shadowy group of individuals known as the Patriots who basically manipulate the world economy in order to perpetuate war and thus, war profits. Seriously. No, seriously.
For all it's labyrinthine plot twists, the series somehow maintains an atmosphere of seriousness. It's the only series where I can be sneaking around a military base, realistically and covertly incapacitating enemy soldiers only to be bum-rushed by a cybernetic Ninja wielding a katana that can slice through a titanium I-beam like hot butter and go, "Well that was compelling," and not be sarcastic. It's also the only series where I can be sneaking around a water treatment plant, disarming bombs left by some deranged madman and finally find the maniac who proceeds to skate around on fucking rollerblades, sipping at a cosmopolitan while throwing cat poo at me while screaming "LAUGH AND GROW FAT!" and be genuinely disturbed by the circumstance rather than find it utterly hilarious. So if you like the surreal and just plain absurdity mixed with themes like national security, free will and humanity at large...then I guess Metal Gear Solid is for you...wait, what was I talking about?
The 2000th Annual Philosophical Debate set to start next Monday
5/8/2011
As per usual custom, the Annual Philosophical Debate contest will be held in the ninth ring of Hell next Monday, and people are already betting on who's gonna pull out a pyrrhic victory this year. The finalists include some of the finest thinkers in the world, who are currently suffering the rest of their miserable existences in Hell for having thought of anything more than what to offer God every night before they go to bed.
As per usual custom, the Annual Philosophical Debate contest will be held in the ninth ring of Hell next Monday, and people are already betting on who's gonna pull out a pyrrhic victory this year. The finalists include some of the finest thinkers in the world, who are currently suffering the rest of their miserable existences in Hell for having thought of anything more than what to offer God every night before they go to bed.
Where our Titans of logic and thought will face off!
Who are the finalists, this year you ask? Well nothing but the finest, most pristine logical thinkers are even thinking about stepping forward to unveil their super-human rationality to the world. The first? Well one might ask themselves, how can one hold a philosophy contest and not include the guy who started it all. That's right, folks, the crazy Hemlock eater himself: Socrates!
Who are the finalists, this year you ask? Well nothing but the finest, most pristine logical thinkers are even thinking about stepping forward to unveil their super-human rationality to the world. The first? Well one might ask themselves, how can one hold a philosophy contest and not include the guy who started it all. That's right, folks, the crazy Hemlock eater himself: Socrates!
The OG himself.
Now Socrates started out as a teacher, but quickly started pissing off good, pious Greeks when he started teach his pupils to question things. Will his Socratic Method be enough to stymie the likes of his adversaries? Or is he just too dated? Let's go to our next philosopher: Friedrich Nietzsche!
Now Socrates started out as a teacher, but quickly started pissing off good, pious Greeks when he started teach his pupils to question things. Will his Socratic Method be enough to stymie the likes of his adversaries? Or is he just too dated? Let's go to our next philosopher: Friedrich Nietzsche!
Wow, doesn't he look depressed!?
Friedrich Nietzsche was a man who hated most people and most things, but just look at that mustache. My god, that is something. Old Nietzsche here was the first to coin the phrase "God is dead" before it was cool to be an atheist and despite being continually associated with the idea of Nihilism, was a huge opponent of it in his writings. Talk about irony, huh Nietzsche? Thank God syphillus killed you before you could see your thoughts bastardized! Next up: Emmanuel Kant!
Friedrich Nietzsche was a man who hated most people and most things, but just look at that mustache. My god, that is something. Old Nietzsche here was the first to coin the phrase "God is dead" before it was cool to be an atheist and despite being continually associated with the idea of Nihilism, was a huge opponent of it in his writings. Talk about irony, huh Nietzsche? Thank God syphillus killed you before you could see your thoughts bastardized! Next up: Emmanuel Kant!
Kant was a man who could not write for shit. Seriously, try and read his Critique on pure reason. It's like reading something authored by Norman Bates. Just talking and talking in circles and never clarifying himself. If he wasn't a genius, who's philosophy has influenced everything from morality to quantum physics, I would probably think him to be absolutely insane. BUT WILL HIS LOGIC LIVE UP TO EXPECTATION!? Who's our next contestant? Ohhhh, a polarizing one here. And our first female! Ayn Rand!
She loved to party.
She wrote books about why communism is evil and laid the groundwork for the philosophy of Objectivism. Some criticize her for merely taking Nietzschian philosophy and simply adding a dash of vagina, but we won't judge! She's been known to be a feisty one, though, so many are speculating even if she does lose next Monday's debate, she will then proceed to murder the other contestants in an amphetamine-fueled rage. Perhaps not Nietzsche, who has confirmed he will kill himself whether he wins or loses. Next up: Rene Decartes!
She wrote books about why communism is evil and laid the groundwork for the philosophy of Objectivism. Some criticize her for merely taking Nietzschian philosophy and simply adding a dash of vagina, but we won't judge! She's been known to be a feisty one, though, so many are speculating even if she does lose next Monday's debate, she will then proceed to murder the other contestants in an amphetamine-fueled rage. Perhaps not Nietzsche, who has confirmed he will kill himself whether he wins or loses. Next up: Rene Decartes!
Female impersonator professional!
Rene Decartes was a Mathematician who dabbled in philosophy and was one of the first to question the validity of pure sensory perceptions and put more faith in one's ability to rationalize than perceive.This was called "Rationalism" and was either seen as the best thing since sliced bread or the stupidest thing ever to roll into stupid town. Will he Reasoning win him the day? We can only find out NEXT MONDAY! ON THE PHILOSOPHY CHANNEL!
Rene Decartes was a Mathematician who dabbled in philosophy and was one of the first to question the validity of pure sensory perceptions and put more faith in one's ability to rationalize than perceive.This was called "Rationalism" and was either seen as the best thing since sliced bread or the stupidest thing ever to roll into stupid town. Will he Reasoning win him the day? We can only find out NEXT MONDAY! ON THE PHILOSOPHY CHANNEL!
Political Theater: Bin Laden dead; Irony still lost on many Americans
5/6/2011
Noted terrorist and notorious horrid dresser, Osama Bin Laden was found in his Pakistan Bachelor Pad on May 2, 2011 and was courteously given a lead enema that will surely go down as the most thorough colon-cleaning ever performed by US Armed Forces since they made Hitler do it to himself. No doubt, this is a time of rejoice for those unjustly killed during the horrific events of 9/11 and Americans can sleep soundly knowing one of it's most reclusive and feeble of enemies is rotting in Hell. If Hell actually exists, that is.
The Obama administration released a statement today that went: "America, Fuck yea! Now lick my butt and suck on my balls." looped to infinity. Obama also invited Bush over to "see what victory looks like" and Bush promptly told Obama to go back to Kenya. Oddly, no one reacted to Bush's outburst of obvious racism/ignorance because...well...what do you expect? However, is this grandstanding on Obama's part, as HW Bush would put it; "prudent?" Many say no. After all, Obama IS black and anything he does will be overshadowed by this.
Noted terrorist and notorious horrid dresser, Osama Bin Laden was found in his Pakistan Bachelor Pad on May 2, 2011 and was courteously given a lead enema that will surely go down as the most thorough colon-cleaning ever performed by US Armed Forces since they made Hitler do it to himself. No doubt, this is a time of rejoice for those unjustly killed during the horrific events of 9/11 and Americans can sleep soundly knowing one of it's most reclusive and feeble of enemies is rotting in Hell. If Hell actually exists, that is.
The Obama administration released a statement today that went: "America, Fuck yea! Now lick my butt and suck on my balls." looped to infinity. Obama also invited Bush over to "see what victory looks like" and Bush promptly told Obama to go back to Kenya. Oddly, no one reacted to Bush's outburst of obvious racism/ignorance because...well...what do you expect? However, is this grandstanding on Obama's part, as HW Bush would put it; "prudent?" Many say no. After all, Obama IS black and anything he does will be overshadowed by this.
Obama, clearly smoking Newports.
Also, if Bush really wanted to get Bin Laden, it's probably true that he could have got him anyway. He was just too busy playing jax in the oval office and prowling the streets of DC for good blow and hookers. And who can blame him for that? How urgent does Osama Bin Laden seem when you're the freaking President of the United States? The leader of the free world! You know how many free Van Halen tickets you could get!?
Also, if Bush really wanted to get Bin Laden, it's probably true that he could have got him anyway. He was just too busy playing jax in the oval office and prowling the streets of DC for good blow and hookers. And who can blame him for that? How urgent does Osama Bin Laden seem when you're the freaking President of the United States? The leader of the free world! You know how many free Van Halen tickets you could get!?
The Virtue of Selfishness and Politics
5/5/2011
I have often wondered: at what point does rational self-interest become "I have not the care or wish to bother with you peasant!"? I understand that one must put themselves before others most of the time. Or...all of the time? What is the virtue of selfishness, anyway? What does it even mean? Often, to me it sounds like an excuse to be a amoral shithead for little or no regard for other people's thoughts, opinions or needs. Not always, however. I've met a select few (Okay, maybe more like one or two) rational self-interest people I could picture being friends with for a long time. Shit, maybe forever! But I have to say it is despite their personal philosophy. What if you like helping people? What if it gives you some form of happiness? Wouldn't be in your rational self-interest to indulge that part of you?
In the words of a master of oratory, these are the things I think about when I sit alone at home and the power is out. The way I see things: people are all around you and there is no changing that. You might as well prove yourself a useful human-being and help them out once in a while. Honestly, being useful doesn't necessarily equate to being successful. Some of the most successful people in America are th reasons why the country is going down the shitter. I mean, the large banking institutions were sure looking for their self-interest when lending money to the nearest warm corpse! Hey, it's self-interest because they are making money. Too bad their greed obfuscated the "rational" part. Hey, look! It's Donald Trump!
I have often wondered: at what point does rational self-interest become "I have not the care or wish to bother with you peasant!"? I understand that one must put themselves before others most of the time. Or...all of the time? What is the virtue of selfishness, anyway? What does it even mean? Often, to me it sounds like an excuse to be a amoral shithead for little or no regard for other people's thoughts, opinions or needs. Not always, however. I've met a select few (Okay, maybe more like one or two) rational self-interest people I could picture being friends with for a long time. Shit, maybe forever! But I have to say it is despite their personal philosophy. What if you like helping people? What if it gives you some form of happiness? Wouldn't be in your rational self-interest to indulge that part of you?
In the words of a master of oratory, these are the things I think about when I sit alone at home and the power is out. The way I see things: people are all around you and there is no changing that. You might as well prove yourself a useful human-being and help them out once in a while. Honestly, being useful doesn't necessarily equate to being successful. Some of the most successful people in America are th reasons why the country is going down the shitter. I mean, the large banking institutions were sure looking for their self-interest when lending money to the nearest warm corpse! Hey, it's self-interest because they are making money. Too bad their greed obfuscated the "rational" part. Hey, look! It's Donald Trump!
Serious Business Trump.
This guy...THIS GUY RIGHT HERE...is masquerading as a presidential hopeful in 2012. THIS GUY! You believe that? And I know some people who said they would VOTE FOR HIM? Why? Because he isn't a politician? Shit, he's a fucking business magnate: THEY ARE THE SAME THING! For the most part, at least. I mean, this country has been run like a business since the 1980s'. I know conservatives like to wank about their old MVP Ronald Reagan, but some people forget that he left office with a massive deficit, which could be linked to today's economic shenanigans. Trump would actually not be a change. He would be just another CEO running the country. Gee-willikers, I can't wait for the massive change that will bring!
This isn't to say I'm a huge Barack Obama fan, either. Granted, I can tolerate him more than most, but he isn't exactly the damn, dirty pinko commie-supporter that many conservatives paint him as. He's actually pretty conservative. And man does he like those Bush-era meddling over seas conflicts! Shit, we might as well dispense with this whole pageantry as it stands. The country is not divided into two political parties, both parties are the same and they will never change. It's like choosing between vomit and poo. With Trump in the mix, you have a third choice: Pubic hair. So enjoy that, America! After all, it's your lazy and stupid population that allowed it to get this bad in the first place!
This isn't to say I'm a huge Barack Obama fan, either. Granted, I can tolerate him more than most, but he isn't exactly the damn, dirty pinko commie-supporter that many conservatives paint him as. He's actually pretty conservative. And man does he like those Bush-era meddling over seas conflicts! Shit, we might as well dispense with this whole pageantry as it stands. The country is not divided into two political parties, both parties are the same and they will never change. It's like choosing between vomit and poo. With Trump in the mix, you have a third choice: Pubic hair. So enjoy that, America! After all, it's your lazy and stupid population that allowed it to get this bad in the first place!
Exercise in Awesomeness: Requiem for a Dream
Say what you want about 'Requiem for a Dream' being one hell of a depressing movie (even by Darren Aronofsky standards!) but this piece composed by Clint Mansell deserves it's own comment. It's almost an entity entirely seperate from the movie in the first place. It's been used in movie trailers ever since it's creation and it's pounding beat and driving melody make it seem far from a soundtrack for junkies and amphetamine-addicted homemakers. The worst part of the song, if you ask me, is the end.
Political Theater: Concerning the budget crisis
4/14/2011
Today two squirrels were jerking one another off in front of the capitol building, which brought much of the presiding over the current economic crisis to an inexplicable standstill. Many senators and congressmen and women seemed to be so enamored at the sight of two rodents feeling each other up, they plainly forgot what in God's name their jobs are. Most of them ended up putting bets on which squirrel would come first. John Boehner was seen reportedly crying over the fact that two such inconsequential creatures could find love and happiness and then stated bombastically: "ONLY IN AMERICA!!!" This was of course before he found out they were both male squirrels and then immediately tried to break up what he called a "fag session."
Today two squirrels were jerking one another off in front of the capitol building, which brought much of the presiding over the current economic crisis to an inexplicable standstill. Many senators and congressmen and women seemed to be so enamored at the sight of two rodents feeling each other up, they plainly forgot what in God's name their jobs are. Most of them ended up putting bets on which squirrel would come first. John Boehner was seen reportedly crying over the fact that two such inconsequential creatures could find love and happiness and then stated bombastically: "ONLY IN AMERICA!!!" This was of course before he found out they were both male squirrels and then immediately tried to break up what he called a "fag session."
John Boehner: Forever Alone.
As Boehner attempted to breakup the two squirrels, Congressman Anthony Weiner (D-NY) tackled him and put him in a headlock, shouting for him to finally admit that his name, when pronounced phonetically "Boner." It was at this time that President Obama opened a Portal in Timespace and galloped on through with what could only be described as a "bionic unicorn" and dutifully reported that: "The cake is a lie" before crying uncontrollably and being dragged away by secret service.
Obama's famed Bionic Unicorn
It is clear from this display that everything is fucked. This is Alex Madell, reporting from his room in the attic of his parent's house.
It is clear from this display that everything is fucked. This is Alex Madell, reporting from his room in the attic of his parent's house.
The Porcelain Prince
4/11/2011
Author's Note: I know that I posted this previously, but it seems to have mysteriously disappeared from the site, so I'm merely reposting it.
It had been only a week after “Armistice Day”, in the closing days of the first world war and there was a gathering called for the celebration of peace at the residence of an odd eastern noble that called the attention of almost every relevant person in both the United States and England. The eastern noble was of notorious calculative manner and was known tentatively as “The Porcelain Prince” so bequeathed nominally because of the odd expressionless mask he opted to wear on social occasion. Though the gathering was said to be in celebration and not mourning, most of the men who were in attendance seemed to have sported a very somber black as opposed to a more festive powder blue or angelic white. One of the many in attendance at the New York residence of the Porcelain Prince was August Van Hatton III, who was a very shrewd profiteer, dressed in the motif-like repressive black that most the males present seemed to wear. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a large lower lip, a mustachioed upper lip and an oily, parted haircut. He wandered about the large New York estate and sipped from his brandy cup, feeling no doubt utterly and completely unfulfilled.
A band had been assembled by the patron of the party who dressed in apparel that August had surely never seen, long silk kimonos decorated with blossoming pink and yellow flowers and playing exotic, foreign instruments which plucked and panged with atonal melodies. They stood, delivering a lifeless performance on a stage set up on the far side of the ball room. A yellow curtain hung behind them, dividing the ballroom from another, unknowable part of the house. August found that he could barely shake his hips to such music, but the other guests of the party seemed to slip into its alien rhythm with exceptional ease. The musicians, perhaps in their off times servants to the abstruse Porcelain Prince, donned the same sort of mask he was noted to wear, the only difference with these guises were that while the Prince’s mask expressed an insurmountable blankness, the musicians’ expressed the very extremes of emotion. One seemed to be in a hysterical sob while another was caught amid an equally impetuous fit of hilarity. Another had an expression of cold, detached anger while another sported a smile so wide that it nearly divided the thing in half. August felt very put-off by the whole party and he tried remembering what this prince was actually the prince of.
August threw his limbs in a controlled yet rather unengaged manner as he tried to pretend to enjoy the screeching oriental instruments that the band toiled with. He was approached, almost ambushed, by a fair young woman who dressed impeccably in a blue satin dress and was attempting to accentuate her paltry figure with a strategically placed corset. August was thoroughly unaware of her approach from across the room. Perhaps he did in fact see her, but if he had, he certainly concluded that she must have been on her way to see someone other than himself. She sipped at her stem glass of champagne before approaching August so personally that it was almost as if they were dancing with one another. The dance was something vaguely voodooist, movements incomprehensible so as to compliment the music it accompanied. It was not hard for her to override the screeching instrumentals with her strong, surprisingly forceful voice.
“Mr. Van Hatton! It is a pleasure to speak with you again! You are looking handsome as ever!” she smiled at him sumptuously and August seemed lazy in his address of her with his half-moon eyes. He squinted his beady eyes and shrugged, making no attempt in hiding the fact that he in no way recognized her.
“Forgive me, fair lady,” August began, smiling and finding his own inability to recall her name funny, “but I have seemed to completely forget who you are.” The woman looked as if struck in the heart at this comment. She immediately stopped dancing and gave August a most deadly stare.
“Why that is quite absurd, Mr. Van Hatton! You’re associates with my father! Pierce Fund! The U.S Senator! I am Rose Mary Fund.” as she said this, something snapped back into August’s mind and he nodded.
“Of course, how rude of me to forget, dear Rose Mary,” he made a quick gesture toward his drink with a smile on his face, “I’ve obviously had too many.” In a gesture of apology, August took the young woman’s hand in his and kissed it gently and Rose Mary visibly wavered. August knew of his reputation with women, and he oft used it to his advantage. This seemed to placate the young woman as she nodded in understanding and seemed determined to forget the insult as she slugged down the rest of her gold-tinted champagne as she blushed.
“You are quite the charmer, Mr. Van Hatton!” Rose said her face glowing. August smiled and nodded his head toward her.
“That is what I am told, Ms. Fund.” he said immediately, feeling the lust build within his loins.
“Father has spoken of your disappointment in the progress of the war effort,” Rose said scandalously, “does it disappoint you that the fighting has ceased. August felt his chest tighten up as well as his hunger for the woman’s sex before him starting to wither.
“War is my business, Ms. Fund,” August said to her morbidly, “to put it quite simply, it was not for war, I would be a very poor man.” Rose nodded her head somberly, looking up at him from a peculiar angle. It was around this moment that August noticed that she was incredibly drunk, so much so that she was in fact wavering from one side to the other. He sipped from his brandy glass with the eye of the predator about him. He looked her up and down and then looked from side to side, furtive in his manner and slowly approaching Rose. “Excuse me Ms. Fund and forgive me for being so forward with my intentions, but I would not mind being alone with you for a little while. Would you like to retire to somewhere more private?” August asked very gentleman-like. He couldn’t fully pin-point what drove him to wanting to have her after her nagging faux-concern for his profession, but he suspected it was a subconscious domination of his friend and associated Senator Pierce Fund, who he always viewed as a pompous, self-aggrandizing whore. Rose smiled at him, displaying her drunkenness quite plainly.
“I would love for you to show me something new, Mr. Van Hatton.” She said to him, her voice sultry and sweet. It was not long before Rose and August were stealing about the sprawling estate of the prince and finally finding themselves in a far away room that was decorated in velvety red carpets and a bed with donned the same-textured color. August chose not to be subtle in his taking of Rose Mary Fund, nearly assaulting her with almost biting kisses and with his enormous lust fueling his strength, tearing off her beautiful and no doubt expensive dress. However the inebriated girl was herself so taken by the ravenous lust, that she did not chastise him for ruining her clothes. He threw her on the bed and jumped on her, dryly rubbing his pelvis against her in order to awake his manhood and take her for good. After fifteen minutes of this foreplay, Rose was not keen on waiting any longer for the sex, and she reached down to feel him and was surprised with what she found waiting for her.
“Wait…” she mumbled and they both stopped their ravenous embrace, “…what’s wrong?” she asked. August breathing hard looked down at himself to see that he was not nearly ready enough to enter her. In fact, there was no trace of excitement at all. It was just a lifeless thing hanging between his legs. He looked back up at her with his eyes struck with an unknown horror. This was certainly every healthy man’s nightmare. Certainly every healthy man he had ever known. He tried awaking his testosterone by rabidly assaulting it with his hands, rubbing the thing raw before he had to stop and let it rest for a while. The two each laid in bed with one another, and August looked with absolute shame at the ceiling, still occasionally palming his penis in order to get some sort of reaction out of it. It was for naught. A drunken Rose was hysterical, crying over the fact that she was merely not attractive enough to get a man such as August up and burying her face in the pillows that rested upon the bed. August was lost in deep thought, barely noticing Rose’s self-pitying mourning when he caught the look of a painting right over the bed in the room. He inspected it from his upside-down perspective and felt as if he were struck with a sexual muse.
The painting seemed of something other-worldly, depicting a vaguely simian-like creature with oddly reptilian skin as the beast grasped a human victim in its ghastly claw and bore hideously monstrous teeth. It, atop a mound of freshly-flayed bodies, stood before a background totally comprised of gore and torn body parts. It was a dripping, filthy, disgusting piece. The prince, whomever he was, certainly had a most ghastly taste indeed, if this was what he found beautiful. However, something August awoke when he saw it. He did not even need to touch his previously lifeless appendage in order for it to spring to life. He immediately jumped upon Rose and began assaulting her with violent kisses and bestial grunts as she pleasantly accepted August once more. They started making love, which proved to be a zealously difficult task for August for he had to concentrate most of his attention on the grotesque painting on the wall in order to keep himself aroused. Every straying glance toward Rose’s pretty complexion and perfect lips conjured such disgust in him that he would almost immediately start losing his momentum. He suddenly felt that this was getting tedious so he concentrated all his attention on the painting as he increased his thrusts in Rose until he felt himself about to explode and thusly deposited the full complement of his seed upon the velvet comforter of the bed. Rose was panting hard and babbling incoherently while August recollected himself after realizing what just made him climax. As he dressed, he eyed the despicable painting and largely ignored whatever Rose was saying, feeling icicles stab into his side as he took slow, deliberate breaths. He walked away from Rose as soon as he was fully clothed and could not tell if he left her in the room or if she followed.
The party downstairs was still in full swing and the atonal hustle and bustle of the band was ringing out more complete than ever. Unlike before, the melodies hit August’s ears much cleaner now. It almost sounded good. August found himself swept up in the rhythm until the music stopped abruptly and brought all attention to the band. The yellow curtain that stood behind them on the quasi-stage they had set up on the far side of the room opened and from behind it stepped out a furtive and curious figure. He wore long, yellow robes and odd, foreign footwear made from dark silk. His mask was the expressionless white that never changed and his eyes were black, foreboding orbs behind the mask that seemed to jut around frantically, coolly surveying the party. August felt the cold in his stomach slowly become frigid and a sickness built up within. This was the Porcelain Prince, in all his unfettered glory, apparently prepared to address the audience, and it would be the first time August would hear such a voice as his. The prince made a flourish with his odd, yellow robes and raised his arms toward the ceiling. The condition of his skin was visibly distressing, a sickly pale white and suggesting nothing of the skin of an easterner, and plagued with vague, revolting pockmarks. No one at the party seemed to notice this except for August, held back a gag.
“I would like to thank all in attendance tonight, for blessing me with such honorable and high-born company,” His voice was unfathomably smooth; something hardly real in August’s mind and the mere sound of it caused his neck hairs to stand up on end. The prince didn’t even seem to have a trace of an oriental accent, which boggled August’s mind seeing as how he was supposedly from the Far East. However, he was compelled as was everyone else in the room to applaud the prince, and he couldn’t help from feeling an almost paternalistic love for the enigmatic figure that stood before the host. “I am most pleased that these four years of ceaseless fighting just a week ago ended and that we may take the pieces of our world and slowly rebuild until we may reflect a greater and more intelligent society than what we currently enjoy. I hope all of you prosper in your lives, and I send my gratitude for the many men who fell in battle due to the so-called “Great War” waged solely for the sake of politics.” Again, roaring applause. August joined in on the praise of the prince’s gift of gab, but as he turned to see Rose planting her feet right next to him, his awe-stricken interest was expediently replaced with a crushing sense of imprisonment. She was comically holding the torn shreds of her blue dress up to her bare breasts.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Van Hatton? You just left me upstairs! Do you think that is at all gentlemanly of you?” August thought it over with no real sense of empathy.
“Not gentlemanly in the least, Ms. Fund,” he told her, about to break into a fit himself, “however I never recall claiming to be a gentleman of any kind.” He walked away from her toward the stage upon which the band trudged through their set. He eyed the yellow curtain with nothing but a hunger in his heart. He wished to speak with the Porcelain Prince, So consummate he found the desire to be that he hardly registered Rose Mary Fund’s growing discontent in his wake.
With caution did August make his approach, pretending the hideous screech of those vaguely exotic instruments plucked by the impetuous members of the solemn band appealed to him. He even attempted to dance to it. However the dissident tones and odd rhythm patterns were simply too esoteric to interpret through movement. He finally eschewed trying to look as if he were enjoying the playing and resorted to taking infantile steps toward the ominous stage. When he got teasingly close, the members of the band seemed to instinctively halt their frantic and ghastly playing. Each member turned, their faces frozen in the form of those terrifyingly emotional masks, toward August to look upon him. He stopped in mid stride. He turned to look at the rest of the party. All eyes were fixed upon him. He coughed, feeling the phlegm in his throat budged not even an inch. One of the band members, one with a bow, lifted the thing towards August and pointed it at him. A low grumbling emitted from behind the mask, almost zombie-like in nature, before the yellow curtain was once more parted and the mysterious prince surfaced one more time.
“The music has stopped…” the prince said, audibly dismayed but being quite interested in August’s proximity to the stage, “…is there something you wanted, Mr…”
“Van Hatton,” August said quickly, “August Van Hatton. I just wished to see what was behind the curtain.” Most everybody gasped at this, though the prince remained as stoic as ever. However, August could almost feel him smirking behind his mask.
“All who wish to view the Sanctum shall be obliged,” the prince noted ardently, all brave enough to face themselves.” August, bewildered and bordering on upset, looked about the room and saw no one was reacting to this; just watching in utter awe at what was taking place at the far side of the room. Even Rose, what was, just moments before, ranting and raving, stood slack-jawed and wide-eyed; evidently unable to move. The Porcelain Prince extended his hand toward August and as pale and outwardly revolting as it appeared, August took it and was slowly led behind the yellow curtain. Before he passed the threshold, August could only see black within. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt an inky veil pass over him, a dividing membrane between the rest of the house and this sacrosanct place.
It was a festively decorated room, with silks draped over both the floor and the furniture. Women, dressed oddly to August’s eyes were belly-dancing in the middle of the room and around them were placed silk-covered couches of opulence, where men who were dressed vaguely similar to the prince sat and stared. They wore almost identically apathetic porcelain masks as the prince donned and wore similarly opulent silken robes. The prince led August to one of the silk-covered couches and sat with him. They both observed the gyrating bodies of the belly-dancers. August tried to be interested in their sensual movements. However he tried, he could not find them at all fascinating, and he found them even less attractive. The prince noticed this almost immediately.
“You are a war profiteer, is that correct?” the prince asked slyly. August turned to him, confused.
“How did you…” he trailed off, taken by the scent of this place and feeling cradled by the couch.
“These women are some of the most beautiful in my country, sultry and seductive, well-endowed in every sense and dressed as scantly as one could imagine without being totally nude,” the prince said, slowly turning his guised face toward August, “yet you sit unimpressed. Most men who enter my sanctuary completely lose control of themselves. In most cases, I have to forcibly stop them from sating their pleasure right before my eyes. Yet you are unimpressed by the lust, are you not?” August shrugged his shoulders as he certainly could not deny the fact. The girls were resorting to the most pedestrian of dance moves, each thought to be tailor-designed to elicit the most primal sexual urges within a man. The prince was certainly not riled, is similarly dressed attendants were also relatively unaffected and August himself sat, rather bored.
“These women are alright, I guess.” August said passively. The prince shook his head from one side to the other.
“No, no. These women only suffice if they serve a purpose to me and at the moment, neither you nor I are particularly enamored with them, so let us make them more interesting.” With a snap of his fingers, one of the masked attendants rose from his sitting position on the couch. He walked behind one of the dancing girls and with one swift movement, cut her throat with a knife he produced from one of the sleeves of his robes. August yelped in horror at the scene as the woman, complacent and accepting of her fate, gargled on her own blood and fell to the floor. August prepared to feel sick or nauseous or perhaps even vomit, yet none of these things occurred. In fact, he found nothing out of place besides a dreadful stiffening in his pant. He stopped in nameless fear at the discovery. He was far from disgusted, only aroused. The prince looked over to him once more and again August felt him smile behind his mask.
“How was that? Interesting enough for you?” the prince inquired. August, dumb-struck and totally unaware of what was happening, just nodded. The prince nodded in return, seemingly appeased with this answer, “Death is much more complex, much more intellectually stimulating when compared to life or lust. There is so much to ponder. So much mystery. We are always grateful when we meet one who feels the same.” August, overcome with a lustful and sorrowful mania, resorted to touching himself in front of the prince and his three attendants at the sight of the slowly dying dancer. He finally broke down in an uncontrollable frenzy of sobs as he finished himself off and the last remaining fragments of his mind proved consummately blasted. He didn’t even attempt to hide himself from the others after he climaxed. He just collapsed on the couch, limp and useless, accepting the abomination he proved himself to be. The Porcelain Prince, seemingly overjoyed at this haunting revelation, presented August with his own porcelain mask, free of expression.
“It is always comforting to see a man admit to what he is,” the prince assured August, “even if it is that he admits to himself that his is nothing but a depraved monster.”
Copyright 2011
Author's Note: I know that I posted this previously, but it seems to have mysteriously disappeared from the site, so I'm merely reposting it.
It had been only a week after “Armistice Day”, in the closing days of the first world war and there was a gathering called for the celebration of peace at the residence of an odd eastern noble that called the attention of almost every relevant person in both the United States and England. The eastern noble was of notorious calculative manner and was known tentatively as “The Porcelain Prince” so bequeathed nominally because of the odd expressionless mask he opted to wear on social occasion. Though the gathering was said to be in celebration and not mourning, most of the men who were in attendance seemed to have sported a very somber black as opposed to a more festive powder blue or angelic white. One of the many in attendance at the New York residence of the Porcelain Prince was August Van Hatton III, who was a very shrewd profiteer, dressed in the motif-like repressive black that most the males present seemed to wear. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a large lower lip, a mustachioed upper lip and an oily, parted haircut. He wandered about the large New York estate and sipped from his brandy cup, feeling no doubt utterly and completely unfulfilled.
A band had been assembled by the patron of the party who dressed in apparel that August had surely never seen, long silk kimonos decorated with blossoming pink and yellow flowers and playing exotic, foreign instruments which plucked and panged with atonal melodies. They stood, delivering a lifeless performance on a stage set up on the far side of the ball room. A yellow curtain hung behind them, dividing the ballroom from another, unknowable part of the house. August found that he could barely shake his hips to such music, but the other guests of the party seemed to slip into its alien rhythm with exceptional ease. The musicians, perhaps in their off times servants to the abstruse Porcelain Prince, donned the same sort of mask he was noted to wear, the only difference with these guises were that while the Prince’s mask expressed an insurmountable blankness, the musicians’ expressed the very extremes of emotion. One seemed to be in a hysterical sob while another was caught amid an equally impetuous fit of hilarity. Another had an expression of cold, detached anger while another sported a smile so wide that it nearly divided the thing in half. August felt very put-off by the whole party and he tried remembering what this prince was actually the prince of.
August threw his limbs in a controlled yet rather unengaged manner as he tried to pretend to enjoy the screeching oriental instruments that the band toiled with. He was approached, almost ambushed, by a fair young woman who dressed impeccably in a blue satin dress and was attempting to accentuate her paltry figure with a strategically placed corset. August was thoroughly unaware of her approach from across the room. Perhaps he did in fact see her, but if he had, he certainly concluded that she must have been on her way to see someone other than himself. She sipped at her stem glass of champagne before approaching August so personally that it was almost as if they were dancing with one another. The dance was something vaguely voodooist, movements incomprehensible so as to compliment the music it accompanied. It was not hard for her to override the screeching instrumentals with her strong, surprisingly forceful voice.
“Mr. Van Hatton! It is a pleasure to speak with you again! You are looking handsome as ever!” she smiled at him sumptuously and August seemed lazy in his address of her with his half-moon eyes. He squinted his beady eyes and shrugged, making no attempt in hiding the fact that he in no way recognized her.
“Forgive me, fair lady,” August began, smiling and finding his own inability to recall her name funny, “but I have seemed to completely forget who you are.” The woman looked as if struck in the heart at this comment. She immediately stopped dancing and gave August a most deadly stare.
“Why that is quite absurd, Mr. Van Hatton! You’re associates with my father! Pierce Fund! The U.S Senator! I am Rose Mary Fund.” as she said this, something snapped back into August’s mind and he nodded.
“Of course, how rude of me to forget, dear Rose Mary,” he made a quick gesture toward his drink with a smile on his face, “I’ve obviously had too many.” In a gesture of apology, August took the young woman’s hand in his and kissed it gently and Rose Mary visibly wavered. August knew of his reputation with women, and he oft used it to his advantage. This seemed to placate the young woman as she nodded in understanding and seemed determined to forget the insult as she slugged down the rest of her gold-tinted champagne as she blushed.
“You are quite the charmer, Mr. Van Hatton!” Rose said her face glowing. August smiled and nodded his head toward her.
“That is what I am told, Ms. Fund.” he said immediately, feeling the lust build within his loins.
“Father has spoken of your disappointment in the progress of the war effort,” Rose said scandalously, “does it disappoint you that the fighting has ceased. August felt his chest tighten up as well as his hunger for the woman’s sex before him starting to wither.
“War is my business, Ms. Fund,” August said to her morbidly, “to put it quite simply, it was not for war, I would be a very poor man.” Rose nodded her head somberly, looking up at him from a peculiar angle. It was around this moment that August noticed that she was incredibly drunk, so much so that she was in fact wavering from one side to the other. He sipped from his brandy glass with the eye of the predator about him. He looked her up and down and then looked from side to side, furtive in his manner and slowly approaching Rose. “Excuse me Ms. Fund and forgive me for being so forward with my intentions, but I would not mind being alone with you for a little while. Would you like to retire to somewhere more private?” August asked very gentleman-like. He couldn’t fully pin-point what drove him to wanting to have her after her nagging faux-concern for his profession, but he suspected it was a subconscious domination of his friend and associated Senator Pierce Fund, who he always viewed as a pompous, self-aggrandizing whore. Rose smiled at him, displaying her drunkenness quite plainly.
“I would love for you to show me something new, Mr. Van Hatton.” She said to him, her voice sultry and sweet. It was not long before Rose and August were stealing about the sprawling estate of the prince and finally finding themselves in a far away room that was decorated in velvety red carpets and a bed with donned the same-textured color. August chose not to be subtle in his taking of Rose Mary Fund, nearly assaulting her with almost biting kisses and with his enormous lust fueling his strength, tearing off her beautiful and no doubt expensive dress. However the inebriated girl was herself so taken by the ravenous lust, that she did not chastise him for ruining her clothes. He threw her on the bed and jumped on her, dryly rubbing his pelvis against her in order to awake his manhood and take her for good. After fifteen minutes of this foreplay, Rose was not keen on waiting any longer for the sex, and she reached down to feel him and was surprised with what she found waiting for her.
“Wait…” she mumbled and they both stopped their ravenous embrace, “…what’s wrong?” she asked. August breathing hard looked down at himself to see that he was not nearly ready enough to enter her. In fact, there was no trace of excitement at all. It was just a lifeless thing hanging between his legs. He looked back up at her with his eyes struck with an unknown horror. This was certainly every healthy man’s nightmare. Certainly every healthy man he had ever known. He tried awaking his testosterone by rabidly assaulting it with his hands, rubbing the thing raw before he had to stop and let it rest for a while. The two each laid in bed with one another, and August looked with absolute shame at the ceiling, still occasionally palming his penis in order to get some sort of reaction out of it. It was for naught. A drunken Rose was hysterical, crying over the fact that she was merely not attractive enough to get a man such as August up and burying her face in the pillows that rested upon the bed. August was lost in deep thought, barely noticing Rose’s self-pitying mourning when he caught the look of a painting right over the bed in the room. He inspected it from his upside-down perspective and felt as if he were struck with a sexual muse.
The painting seemed of something other-worldly, depicting a vaguely simian-like creature with oddly reptilian skin as the beast grasped a human victim in its ghastly claw and bore hideously monstrous teeth. It, atop a mound of freshly-flayed bodies, stood before a background totally comprised of gore and torn body parts. It was a dripping, filthy, disgusting piece. The prince, whomever he was, certainly had a most ghastly taste indeed, if this was what he found beautiful. However, something August awoke when he saw it. He did not even need to touch his previously lifeless appendage in order for it to spring to life. He immediately jumped upon Rose and began assaulting her with violent kisses and bestial grunts as she pleasantly accepted August once more. They started making love, which proved to be a zealously difficult task for August for he had to concentrate most of his attention on the grotesque painting on the wall in order to keep himself aroused. Every straying glance toward Rose’s pretty complexion and perfect lips conjured such disgust in him that he would almost immediately start losing his momentum. He suddenly felt that this was getting tedious so he concentrated all his attention on the painting as he increased his thrusts in Rose until he felt himself about to explode and thusly deposited the full complement of his seed upon the velvet comforter of the bed. Rose was panting hard and babbling incoherently while August recollected himself after realizing what just made him climax. As he dressed, he eyed the despicable painting and largely ignored whatever Rose was saying, feeling icicles stab into his side as he took slow, deliberate breaths. He walked away from Rose as soon as he was fully clothed and could not tell if he left her in the room or if she followed.
The party downstairs was still in full swing and the atonal hustle and bustle of the band was ringing out more complete than ever. Unlike before, the melodies hit August’s ears much cleaner now. It almost sounded good. August found himself swept up in the rhythm until the music stopped abruptly and brought all attention to the band. The yellow curtain that stood behind them on the quasi-stage they had set up on the far side of the room opened and from behind it stepped out a furtive and curious figure. He wore long, yellow robes and odd, foreign footwear made from dark silk. His mask was the expressionless white that never changed and his eyes were black, foreboding orbs behind the mask that seemed to jut around frantically, coolly surveying the party. August felt the cold in his stomach slowly become frigid and a sickness built up within. This was the Porcelain Prince, in all his unfettered glory, apparently prepared to address the audience, and it would be the first time August would hear such a voice as his. The prince made a flourish with his odd, yellow robes and raised his arms toward the ceiling. The condition of his skin was visibly distressing, a sickly pale white and suggesting nothing of the skin of an easterner, and plagued with vague, revolting pockmarks. No one at the party seemed to notice this except for August, held back a gag.
“I would like to thank all in attendance tonight, for blessing me with such honorable and high-born company,” His voice was unfathomably smooth; something hardly real in August’s mind and the mere sound of it caused his neck hairs to stand up on end. The prince didn’t even seem to have a trace of an oriental accent, which boggled August’s mind seeing as how he was supposedly from the Far East. However, he was compelled as was everyone else in the room to applaud the prince, and he couldn’t help from feeling an almost paternalistic love for the enigmatic figure that stood before the host. “I am most pleased that these four years of ceaseless fighting just a week ago ended and that we may take the pieces of our world and slowly rebuild until we may reflect a greater and more intelligent society than what we currently enjoy. I hope all of you prosper in your lives, and I send my gratitude for the many men who fell in battle due to the so-called “Great War” waged solely for the sake of politics.” Again, roaring applause. August joined in on the praise of the prince’s gift of gab, but as he turned to see Rose planting her feet right next to him, his awe-stricken interest was expediently replaced with a crushing sense of imprisonment. She was comically holding the torn shreds of her blue dress up to her bare breasts.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Van Hatton? You just left me upstairs! Do you think that is at all gentlemanly of you?” August thought it over with no real sense of empathy.
“Not gentlemanly in the least, Ms. Fund,” he told her, about to break into a fit himself, “however I never recall claiming to be a gentleman of any kind.” He walked away from her toward the stage upon which the band trudged through their set. He eyed the yellow curtain with nothing but a hunger in his heart. He wished to speak with the Porcelain Prince, So consummate he found the desire to be that he hardly registered Rose Mary Fund’s growing discontent in his wake.
With caution did August make his approach, pretending the hideous screech of those vaguely exotic instruments plucked by the impetuous members of the solemn band appealed to him. He even attempted to dance to it. However the dissident tones and odd rhythm patterns were simply too esoteric to interpret through movement. He finally eschewed trying to look as if he were enjoying the playing and resorted to taking infantile steps toward the ominous stage. When he got teasingly close, the members of the band seemed to instinctively halt their frantic and ghastly playing. Each member turned, their faces frozen in the form of those terrifyingly emotional masks, toward August to look upon him. He stopped in mid stride. He turned to look at the rest of the party. All eyes were fixed upon him. He coughed, feeling the phlegm in his throat budged not even an inch. One of the band members, one with a bow, lifted the thing towards August and pointed it at him. A low grumbling emitted from behind the mask, almost zombie-like in nature, before the yellow curtain was once more parted and the mysterious prince surfaced one more time.
“The music has stopped…” the prince said, audibly dismayed but being quite interested in August’s proximity to the stage, “…is there something you wanted, Mr…”
“Van Hatton,” August said quickly, “August Van Hatton. I just wished to see what was behind the curtain.” Most everybody gasped at this, though the prince remained as stoic as ever. However, August could almost feel him smirking behind his mask.
“All who wish to view the Sanctum shall be obliged,” the prince noted ardently, all brave enough to face themselves.” August, bewildered and bordering on upset, looked about the room and saw no one was reacting to this; just watching in utter awe at what was taking place at the far side of the room. Even Rose, what was, just moments before, ranting and raving, stood slack-jawed and wide-eyed; evidently unable to move. The Porcelain Prince extended his hand toward August and as pale and outwardly revolting as it appeared, August took it and was slowly led behind the yellow curtain. Before he passed the threshold, August could only see black within. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt an inky veil pass over him, a dividing membrane between the rest of the house and this sacrosanct place.
It was a festively decorated room, with silks draped over both the floor and the furniture. Women, dressed oddly to August’s eyes were belly-dancing in the middle of the room and around them were placed silk-covered couches of opulence, where men who were dressed vaguely similar to the prince sat and stared. They wore almost identically apathetic porcelain masks as the prince donned and wore similarly opulent silken robes. The prince led August to one of the silk-covered couches and sat with him. They both observed the gyrating bodies of the belly-dancers. August tried to be interested in their sensual movements. However he tried, he could not find them at all fascinating, and he found them even less attractive. The prince noticed this almost immediately.
“You are a war profiteer, is that correct?” the prince asked slyly. August turned to him, confused.
“How did you…” he trailed off, taken by the scent of this place and feeling cradled by the couch.
“These women are some of the most beautiful in my country, sultry and seductive, well-endowed in every sense and dressed as scantly as one could imagine without being totally nude,” the prince said, slowly turning his guised face toward August, “yet you sit unimpressed. Most men who enter my sanctuary completely lose control of themselves. In most cases, I have to forcibly stop them from sating their pleasure right before my eyes. Yet you are unimpressed by the lust, are you not?” August shrugged his shoulders as he certainly could not deny the fact. The girls were resorting to the most pedestrian of dance moves, each thought to be tailor-designed to elicit the most primal sexual urges within a man. The prince was certainly not riled, is similarly dressed attendants were also relatively unaffected and August himself sat, rather bored.
“These women are alright, I guess.” August said passively. The prince shook his head from one side to the other.
“No, no. These women only suffice if they serve a purpose to me and at the moment, neither you nor I are particularly enamored with them, so let us make them more interesting.” With a snap of his fingers, one of the masked attendants rose from his sitting position on the couch. He walked behind one of the dancing girls and with one swift movement, cut her throat with a knife he produced from one of the sleeves of his robes. August yelped in horror at the scene as the woman, complacent and accepting of her fate, gargled on her own blood and fell to the floor. August prepared to feel sick or nauseous or perhaps even vomit, yet none of these things occurred. In fact, he found nothing out of place besides a dreadful stiffening in his pant. He stopped in nameless fear at the discovery. He was far from disgusted, only aroused. The prince looked over to him once more and again August felt him smile behind his mask.
“How was that? Interesting enough for you?” the prince inquired. August, dumb-struck and totally unaware of what was happening, just nodded. The prince nodded in return, seemingly appeased with this answer, “Death is much more complex, much more intellectually stimulating when compared to life or lust. There is so much to ponder. So much mystery. We are always grateful when we meet one who feels the same.” August, overcome with a lustful and sorrowful mania, resorted to touching himself in front of the prince and his three attendants at the sight of the slowly dying dancer. He finally broke down in an uncontrollable frenzy of sobs as he finished himself off and the last remaining fragments of his mind proved consummately blasted. He didn’t even attempt to hide himself from the others after he climaxed. He just collapsed on the couch, limp and useless, accepting the abomination he proved himself to be. The Porcelain Prince, seemingly overjoyed at this haunting revelation, presented August with his own porcelain mask, free of expression.
“It is always comforting to see a man admit to what he is,” the prince assured August, “even if it is that he admits to himself that his is nothing but a depraved monster.”
Copyright 2011
Disappointing film adaptations
4/9/2011
It sometimes baffles me how certain stories and characters can shine so brightly and brilliantly within the confines of one medium and then become completely sapped of interesting personal development and compelling personality when transfered to another. This is especially egregious in the area of video game adaptations. I am not speaking exclusively of Uwe Boll titles, because in the director's defense: he may make crappy video game-inspired films, but at least he has the decency to keep his mitts off of really compelling titles with real potential in the way of story and character. I'm speaking more directly of other titles, titles which had a lot of potential in the film medium. Here are my top five most unforgivable abominations.
Number Five: Final Fantasy: Spirits Within
It sometimes baffles me how certain stories and characters can shine so brightly and brilliantly within the confines of one medium and then become completely sapped of interesting personal development and compelling personality when transfered to another. This is especially egregious in the area of video game adaptations. I am not speaking exclusively of Uwe Boll titles, because in the director's defense: he may make crappy video game-inspired films, but at least he has the decency to keep his mitts off of really compelling titles with real potential in the way of story and character. I'm speaking more directly of other titles, titles which had a lot of potential in the film medium. Here are my top five most unforgivable abominations.
Number Five: Final Fantasy: Spirits Within
In all seriousness, Final Fantasy: Spirits Within is one of those lesser examples. True, it was hardly engaging and rather cut and dry save-the planet formula you would expect in most any dull action-oriented movie, but at least you could tell there was some genuine effort put forth here. Not only that, but it boasted an impressive cast of actors who volunteered their voices for the project, including Ving Rhames, Alec Baldwin and Steve Buscemi. The hardest backlash it received was based primarily on the fact that it broke from the game series and did not translate any of the actual games to film. The bottom-line for me was simply how slow-paced and genuinely boring it was up until the climactic scenes. It's a shame because although there are a few Final Fantasy games which boast an underwhelming plot and some annoying characters, any fan knows the teams' ability at constructing an interesting narrative when they want to, and the movie should have been an example of games successfully crossing that line into cinema. Oh, well...
Number Four: Resident Evil
Number Four: Resident Evil
True, Resident Evil had the makings of yet another zombie movie, but as mundane as that sounds; zombie movies aren't necessarily bad. In fact, they can often be thrilling or fun or campy or horrific. Just look at George A. Romero's filmography and you'll find some fantastic examples of the genre. However, Resident Evil turned out to be a very flat, dull affair. As in the case of Final Fantasy, it was by no means a trainwreck, it had points of excitement, action and even points where genuine drama had taken hold, but something about it just seemed bland. Perhaps it was the deviation from all the game series' previously established characters (though their addition in later installments did little to mitigate the overall mediocrity of the films) or perhaps it was the thin development of it's characters. Whatever it was, the film suffered for it and what should have been a fast-paced, exciting movie turned into a death trap for nearly any relevant character and a game of betting on who would get torn apart next.
Number Three: Tomb Raider
Number Three: Tomb Raider
Let there be no mistake: there was no delusion of grandeur about what this film would ultimately turn out to be: A two-hour long extravaganza of the protagonist's bust size. The video games themselves had little other to offer besides this. To put it into perspective: Angelina Jolie had to STUFF HER BRA in order to properly represent her fictitious counterpart's buxom figure. However, I still contend that this could've been something more reminiscent of the old Indiana Jones movies if they put the project in the right hands...but of course, they didn't. The plot was a boring, convoluted mess and you got the feeling a a certain point that the point of this whole movie could be summed up in a few choice words: "Look at those bewbs!"
Number Two: Hitman
Number Two: Hitman
While it should be noted that the "Hitman" series has never been big on plot, the character of Agent 47 has always been something of an interesting study. He is cold, calculating and emotionless and he his list of scruples is very short. What could have been a movie in which ethical and moral quandaries could have been looked at, analyzed and examined, turned out to be a rather pedestrian action movie with lots guns shooting and an inexplicable romantic interest shoe-horned in for good measure. I suppose it's amount of action and thrills would be enough for the average movie-goer, a fan of the series would most likely find themselves dissatisfied with the obvious kowtows to cinematic sensibilities that should most likely be ignored when attempting to be true to a source materials underlying themes.
Number One: Max Payne
Number One: Max Payne
Quite possibly one of the biggest disappointments to come out of video game to film adaptations to come out in recent years, Max Payne the movie still stands out as one of the most perplexing and heart-wrenching mistakes of modern cinematic history. What was a very cynical, involving and probing homage to film noir in it's original game form, turned into a stale, uneven and schizophrenic film of disastrous portions. Despite the best efforts of Mark Wahlberg as the title character, Max Payne went from revenge-driven cop with a eloquent tongue to a generic loose canon with a badge. Many of the most interesting and compelling things from the game are cut out, and the storyline was simplified from an epic trek of revenge and corruption across the city of New York to a rather underwhelming story involving an evil business woman and her hulkified, superhuman "dragon." The film also included a bizarre technique in which the drug upon which the story's main conflict involved, invoked odd hallucinations involving winged predators which the film seemed to want to lead you to believe were actually real. One of my most hated video game adaptations of all time, Max Payne serves as one of the most horrific examples of executive meddling at it's worst.
B-movie Brethren: Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter
Exercise in Epicness: One-Winged Angel
It is rare in the realm of vidya games that a theme comes about that is so epic that it can't be contained on the game's soundtrack but must make it's way to an orchestrated piece. Such was the fate for Final Fantasy VII's "One-Winged Angel." Now, I'm not the biggest Sephiroth fan, but his theme kicks some major ass, and that I cannot deny. My favorite Final Fantasy villain, Kefka, has a decidedly less epic theme, so I do not know if I'm going to post that one...but then again, who knows?
Political Theater: Wisconsin annexed by Canada
4/5/2011
In a surprise move, Wisconsin's Governor Scott Walker was hung from a tree by his toes today and beaten like a piñata for several hours before Wisconsin state police arrived on the scene and joined in.
In a surprise move, Wisconsin's Governor Scott Walker was hung from a tree by his toes today and beaten like a piñata for several hours before Wisconsin state police arrived on the scene and joined in.
Pictured above: Strangely adorable yet disgruntled teachers are going to be loosing benefits thanks to Scott Walker cracking down on public Unions.
After Governor Walker was beaten for a little over a day, the disgruntled crowd of public workers found themselves too tired to continue the punishment. Governor Walker survived the brutal assault which was televised state-wide, but unfortunately was at least partially brain-dead and gave the following speech as he wiped blood from his face.
"I don't want pain no more. I give Wiscomson to Can na da. Pweese, no hurties anymore."
Of course, President Obama came on television only moments after this odd announcement to assure the country that the governor certainly has not the power to give his or her respective state to another country, however, the Canadian military has already acted, moving en mass in Wisconsin, putting the state under martial law.
After Governor Walker was beaten for a little over a day, the disgruntled crowd of public workers found themselves too tired to continue the punishment. Governor Walker survived the brutal assault which was televised state-wide, but unfortunately was at least partially brain-dead and gave the following speech as he wiped blood from his face.
"I don't want pain no more. I give Wiscomson to Can na da. Pweese, no hurties anymore."
Of course, President Obama came on television only moments after this odd announcement to assure the country that the governor certainly has not the power to give his or her respective state to another country, however, the Canadian military has already acted, moving en mass in Wisconsin, putting the state under martial law.
Pictured above: Canada's notorious super-advanced bio-mechas.
All we can say here in the American Media is...may god have mercy on our souls.
All we can say here in the American Media is...may god have mercy on our souls.
If you understand what I'm saying, you're "Alex-cool"
4/4/2011
So here's the chant, cutter: the barmy berks up on the main burg are trading nicks over what jink to cut and what jink to to keep their piking hooks on. So what I be sayin' is this to the sodding factols: You be needin' some bloods with a good eye and a better brain-box. Some real canny cutters who can move in and put these here problems of ours in the dead-book. And I know what you cutters are gonna say to that: "Why this berk's hipped on barmy island! I wouldn't be surprised if he were a sodding Chaosman!" But park your ears, cutters and bloods, affix your bloody peep-holes and enlighten yourself to some of the dark.
Feedin' our kids to the wyrm ain't no way of climbing out of the Cage. We are goin' to be needin' some real savvy cutters patchin' up this problem, so maybe we can start by takin' the current guvners to the nearest leafless tree. Then we get some bloods worth their weight in jink to give this jinkless time the good old-fashioned laugh. No more addle-coved jink-cuts. No more trading the nicks. Time we be fixin' for the future there, bloods and without a good book-readin' and number-drawing session to get the old brain-box working in proper canny, we might as well sod off to the mazes.
So here's the chant, cutter: the barmy berks up on the main burg are trading nicks over what jink to cut and what jink to to keep their piking hooks on. So what I be sayin' is this to the sodding factols: You be needin' some bloods with a good eye and a better brain-box. Some real canny cutters who can move in and put these here problems of ours in the dead-book. And I know what you cutters are gonna say to that: "Why this berk's hipped on barmy island! I wouldn't be surprised if he were a sodding Chaosman!" But park your ears, cutters and bloods, affix your bloody peep-holes and enlighten yourself to some of the dark.
Feedin' our kids to the wyrm ain't no way of climbing out of the Cage. We are goin' to be needin' some real savvy cutters patchin' up this problem, so maybe we can start by takin' the current guvners to the nearest leafless tree. Then we get some bloods worth their weight in jink to give this jinkless time the good old-fashioned laugh. No more addle-coved jink-cuts. No more trading the nicks. Time we be fixin' for the future there, bloods and without a good book-readin' and number-drawing session to get the old brain-box working in proper canny, we might as well sod off to the mazes.
Starchasers
By Alex Madell
4/2/2011
From an inky veil of darkness, the old 1974 Cadillac roared down an abandoned highway. Stars shone as if the sky were merely paper with tiny, controlled perforations. The Cadillac was colored deep purple, like a velvet streak in the night. Trevor gripped the steering wheel tight, his knuckles whitened briefly. Marley held her shirt tight to her body with her arms. She was curled like a cat in the passenger seat. Trevor slammed on the breaks of the old Cadillac. He turned to Marley quickly. His faced was like sandpaper, she couldn’t feel it then, but she remembered the feeling of his scruffy face.
“What do we do, now?” Marley asked him, helpless in her tone of voice yet, with a deeply wondrous look twinkling in her eyes. Trevor reclined his seat backward, staring down the long, killer road. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shakily put one to his lips. Everything was spinning. Everything was grey. He had no idea where he had driven. He had no idea how to get home.
“Let’s just,” he began weakly, “let’s just chase the stars. I’ve always wanted to hold a star in my hand and feel it twinkle in the palm of my hand. I suspect that feeling…that feeling would be a nice one.”
“Chasing stars sounds like big responsibility to me, Trevor,” Marley mentioned, “heck, I don’t even feel big enough to chase butterflies.” Trevor lit his cigarette and took a deep and darkened breath. He smiled to himself.
“Butterflies are small stuff, Marley. You’re meant to live in heaven with the almighty himself. You deserve the world. I wish I could hand you the world right in your palm. Would that make you happy?” Trevor asked. Marley swallowed something in the back of her throat. She opened the passenger door and felt the slightly humid air on her tanned, sun-weathered skin. She looked up toward the star-sprinkled sky. It resembled glitter smeared across black construction paper. The Cadillac was pulled off to the side, placed upon the borderline of the cold dirty asphalt of the road and the green darkened pasture of a black-painted field. She looked into the void and felt an urge to run full speed into it, surrendering herself to it’s mystery and anonymity. Trevor appeared next to her speechlessly, with the lit cigarette hanging from his lips. She was not facing him, she didn’t see him, but she felt his presence behind her.
“It’s dark out,” Marley said in a pseudo-utterance, “I can’t see anything.”
It was frightening for her not knowing, not seeing, but at the same time she was comforted by the silence and the darkness surrounding her. An omniscient solitude so pervasive, it both chilled her to the bone and cradled her lovingly. Trevor snaked his right arm around Marley, and his hand rested comfortably upon her womb. She could feel the burning embers of his smoldering cigarette on the back of her neck. She could feel him huffing, puffing and choking on the smoke he produced.
“Tell me what you are afraid of,” he whispered in her ear, his face hovering somewhere around the nape of her neck. She could almost feel his whiskers on her. She cowered from them. Cowering made her feel right about the whole thing. She broke from him, feeling the hood of the Cadillac bump against her legs. She hoisted her self onto it, her bottom gracefully gliding across the freshly-polished surface. She looked at Trevor, and saw him splashed with starlight. She could swear that he was glowing, as if radioactive. He was slim, with a grey shirt. The sleeves were pulled up around his elbows. His hair was short, brown and messy. His face was a five ’o clock shadow, gruff yet still babyish. His eyes were a deep brown. But she could only see the left side of his body. The right was completely obscured by darkness and for a moment she was under the impression that only the right half was truly present at the moment. The left looked to be submerged in a twilight dimension, lost momentarily. She tilted her head like a confused puppy. Her face was twisted in confusion.
“Do you think I am scared?” she asked him seriously. She sounded offended, but she wasn’t really. She knew that Trevor cared for her and the only reason he asked the question he asked was because he loved her. But she was not weak, and the one person she wanted to know that was Trevor. He stared deep into her eyes, but she did not cower. She did not flinch nor falter. She was strong. He knew that.
“I am just trying to be comforting.” Trevor said to her, his eyes ink spots dispensed by a pen’s point. Marley smiled in his direction. She laid back on the hood of his Cadillac and placed her hands behind her head.
“You are trying too hard.” she said to him bluntly. Trevor puffed out a lower lip and laid on the hood next to her. He could smell her from where he was and her scent resembled peach. Bittersweet.
“You sure are a mean one, Mrs. Grinch.” Trevor said through a bit of a chuckle.
“This kitten’s got claws.” Marley said simply through a smile. They looked up at the sky, glowing in effervescent star-light, and got lost in the heaping bosom of the universe’s infinity. Trevor puffed away on his cigarette.
“I don’t think it would be too hard.” he said simply. Marley looked over at him, her eyebrow was raised curiously. Her brow ruffled with inquisitive timidity.
“You don’t think what would be too hard?” she asked.
“Chasing the stars. I’ll catch you a nice big bright one. I’ll wrestle it to Earth and present it to you in a little box. For our hitching, you know.”
“Instead of a ring? You’re going to get me a huge gaseous celestial thing? I would rather have the ring.”
“Any old guy can get you a ring!” Trevor insisted, “Only a man can catch his fair lady a star. And I’m fixing on catching you a star, darling.”
Marley looked over the field and saw no stars. Only the rolling and smothering unknown. How frightening it looked to her. An abyss that could easily swallow her up, swallow her and everything else. Then perhaps there would finally be some peace and quiet. “Maybe you should just up and punch me in the stomach.” she said, turning to Trevor. Trevor chuckled slightly at what he perceived to be a joke.
“Right. That would solve everything,” he said sarcastically. He pushed himself off the hood of the car and balled his fist up. “You want me to? I will if you want me to.” Trevor said, smirking timidly. Marley slid off the hood of the car, following suit and stood up straight and strong. She ran her fingers over where her uterus would be and looked up at Trevor from under her eyebrows.
“Do it.” she uttered in a muted tone. Trevor’s smirk faded slightly. He frowned with pronounced bravado. Marley looked at him through her slate-grey eyes.
“You think because you’re beautiful you have control over me,” Trevor said, “sure, you got pretty blonde hair. Sure you got nice breasts. Sure you got those pretty grey eyes. But you don’t have no control over me. Not like that.”
“I thought you would do it if I wanted you to,” Marley said to him, “well, I want you to. Punch me right in the stomach. If you don’t, then you probably ain’t a real man.” Trevor felt a muffled electric current of rage shoot up the length of his vertebrae. He felt the urge to go off and sock Marley in the face, maybe just to teach her not to be so mean. But Trevor didn’t have it in him to just haul off and hit a girl, even for educational purposes.
“Nah, I was just fooling. You know that I don’t hit girls, Mrs. Grinch. If you want to find someone to abuse you, you’ll have to find someone other than me.” Trevor said, forcibly calming his anger. Marley stepped away from him, with legs looking loose beneath her.
“You ain’t no man. Look what you have gone and done! Now I know that you ain’t no real man! I’ll have to find another man who is worthy of my affection,” Marley went on, “I didn’t want to have to do this, but I would have to say that it is more your fault than it is mine…”
Trevor felt his blood thickening in his veins. His face flooded with red and sweat beaded on his forehead. His fists tightened in a deadly manner. “Don’t be doing this, Marley. You know I don’t take kindly to this kind of foolery…” Trevor said to her, almost pleading. Marley turned her back to him and shook her bottom in his direction, mercilessly teasing and prodding him.
“A real man would throw my on the hood of that car and punch me right in the stomach and then he would give me a good ride on him. That’s what a real man would do.” Marley said, her voice jarringly terse, and shrill. Trevor found himself hypnotized by the gyrations she made with her buttocks. They were full, just like her chest and he felt a primal urge tugging at his heart. He moved over to her and she spun around, readying herself for the blow that she thought was coming, but Trevor made no move on her. Marley laughed at him and threw a rigid finger in his direction.
“You want to chase stars and you can’t even find the courage to hit a woman? Some man you turned out to be-” she shouted. Trevor threw his hand over her mouth curtly and sealed it shut. She still insisted on talking, but the sounds were muffled by the bottle-cap effect that his hand produced clasped against her face.
“I’m brave enough to chase stars,” Trevor said ruggedly, through his teeth, “I can see that you’re just scared. You’ve always been scared.” Marley pushed him with all her strength and threw Trevor off his balance. He fell to the cold dark street. He didn’t have it in him to resist her force. He didn’t have it in him to push her like she pushed him. Marley wrapped her arms about her womb and curled into a ball on the side of the road. Trevor could hear her breathing start to be come panicked, then weepy. She looked up at him with eyes flooded with tears.
“This isn’t your decision!” she shouted, “Stop trying to make me do something I don’t want to do! Stop being there! Stop it! You’re making this much harder than it should be!” Trevor looked at her and saw the stark sincerity in her face. Her face was flooded red and her eyes were also taking on the same hue as they filled with water. She tried holding back the sobs within her. It was to no avail. Trevor was flat, back on the asphalt as he heard Marley begin to cry. He could not take the sound, the sound of ice picks on his eardrums.
“What are you afraid of?” Trevor asked her, not bothering to look up from his flat-out position. Marley appeared over him, hovering off the ground, her face red and slick with moisture.
“I know what you want me to do, Trevor,” she said to him, “I know what you expect. I don’t know if I can bring myself to do what you want me to do.” her hands were firmly planted around her pelvic region and it was something of an incurable tick for her to be massaging it incessantly. “I think I am going to have to disappoint you.” she said finally. Trevor jumped to his feet and planted his hands on her shoulders.
“What are you thinking, Marley?” he asked her. Her fingers began to dig into her stomach like claws. She bit her bottom lip until her teeth started to dig into the skin. Trevor looked down at the gesture. He felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten in fear. He looked back into Marley’s eyes. He saw everything she wanted. He saw blood. He closed his eyes. Perhaps chasing stars wasn’t for him after all. He felt tears well up in his eyes and suddenly saw the world through a bitterly cloudy lenses. Through this, he smiled and Marley was startled. He caressed her face.
“You’re right…” Trevor whispered mutedly, “…this isn’t my decision.” Marley couldn’t hide her sobs. She sniffled incessantly. She threw herself into his embrace and they stood amid the darkness, holding each other as if it were the last time either of them would do such a thing again.
“What is your decision?” Trevor whispered in her ear.
“We need to take care of it.” Marley replied simply. Trevor felt his insides collapse. Everything important, everything beautiful was eviscerated in an instant. He nodded and nodded until he felt as though his head would tumble off his body.
“Alright,” he choked out through a potential sob, “when should we do it?” Marley abruptly stepped away from him, pulling out of his hug, struggling against the force of his grip. Her eyes were inundated at this point, over-flowing with heart-break and despair. Trevor suddenly felt sick. He knew what was coming next.
“Right now,” Marley said, her voice a clipped shriek, her face looking as if it were melting right off her skull. Trevor was dumb-founded.
“Right now?” he repeated, “But how, there aren’t any doctors that would--”
“No, no, no, no,” Marley repeated over and over again, “no doctors, no professionals, no nothing. I need you to do this for me, Trevor. I need you to be the one who does this.” There was a sudden blanket of solitude that was thrown over the both of them. He needed to do this? But how?
“Marley, you need a doctor. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing! A couple of seconds ago I was blabbering about star chasing!” Trevor said fast. Marley approached him and put her lips upon his. The kiss was brief, which Trevor found irritating, but it was meaningful. Perhaps the most meaningful kiss he had shared with anyone up until that point.
“Why, Marley?” he asked her seriously, “Why are you asking me to do this for you? You know how I feel about this!” Marley put her index finger to Trevor’s lips. She silenced him perfectly. He was powerless against her.
“I need you, Trevor,” she said to him seriously, “I need you now more than ever. I don’t trust no one. I don’t trust my parents, I don’t trust no doctors and I don’t trust no priest. The only one I trust is you and you have to do this for me. Do it because you love me. Do it because I am asking you. Please.” Marley pleaded, her voice becoming weak with the assurance she felt. Trevor settled himself and licked his lips. He had no choice. There was nothing he could to. He leaned into her, kissed her, felt her and then pulled away. He looked deep into her eyes.
“I love you, Marley.” he told her right to her face. She smiled faintly.
“I love you Trevor.” she answered, seeming absolute in her voice. With that, Trevor mustered every ounce of strength he could muster and balled his hand up into a fist. He drew his arm back, his knuckles turning white. As he choked back one final sob, he bore his white-knuckled fist down upon Marley’s womb.
4/2/2011
From an inky veil of darkness, the old 1974 Cadillac roared down an abandoned highway. Stars shone as if the sky were merely paper with tiny, controlled perforations. The Cadillac was colored deep purple, like a velvet streak in the night. Trevor gripped the steering wheel tight, his knuckles whitened briefly. Marley held her shirt tight to her body with her arms. She was curled like a cat in the passenger seat. Trevor slammed on the breaks of the old Cadillac. He turned to Marley quickly. His faced was like sandpaper, she couldn’t feel it then, but she remembered the feeling of his scruffy face.
“What do we do, now?” Marley asked him, helpless in her tone of voice yet, with a deeply wondrous look twinkling in her eyes. Trevor reclined his seat backward, staring down the long, killer road. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shakily put one to his lips. Everything was spinning. Everything was grey. He had no idea where he had driven. He had no idea how to get home.
“Let’s just,” he began weakly, “let’s just chase the stars. I’ve always wanted to hold a star in my hand and feel it twinkle in the palm of my hand. I suspect that feeling…that feeling would be a nice one.”
“Chasing stars sounds like big responsibility to me, Trevor,” Marley mentioned, “heck, I don’t even feel big enough to chase butterflies.” Trevor lit his cigarette and took a deep and darkened breath. He smiled to himself.
“Butterflies are small stuff, Marley. You’re meant to live in heaven with the almighty himself. You deserve the world. I wish I could hand you the world right in your palm. Would that make you happy?” Trevor asked. Marley swallowed something in the back of her throat. She opened the passenger door and felt the slightly humid air on her tanned, sun-weathered skin. She looked up toward the star-sprinkled sky. It resembled glitter smeared across black construction paper. The Cadillac was pulled off to the side, placed upon the borderline of the cold dirty asphalt of the road and the green darkened pasture of a black-painted field. She looked into the void and felt an urge to run full speed into it, surrendering herself to it’s mystery and anonymity. Trevor appeared next to her speechlessly, with the lit cigarette hanging from his lips. She was not facing him, she didn’t see him, but she felt his presence behind her.
“It’s dark out,” Marley said in a pseudo-utterance, “I can’t see anything.”
It was frightening for her not knowing, not seeing, but at the same time she was comforted by the silence and the darkness surrounding her. An omniscient solitude so pervasive, it both chilled her to the bone and cradled her lovingly. Trevor snaked his right arm around Marley, and his hand rested comfortably upon her womb. She could feel the burning embers of his smoldering cigarette on the back of her neck. She could feel him huffing, puffing and choking on the smoke he produced.
“Tell me what you are afraid of,” he whispered in her ear, his face hovering somewhere around the nape of her neck. She could almost feel his whiskers on her. She cowered from them. Cowering made her feel right about the whole thing. She broke from him, feeling the hood of the Cadillac bump against her legs. She hoisted her self onto it, her bottom gracefully gliding across the freshly-polished surface. She looked at Trevor, and saw him splashed with starlight. She could swear that he was glowing, as if radioactive. He was slim, with a grey shirt. The sleeves were pulled up around his elbows. His hair was short, brown and messy. His face was a five ’o clock shadow, gruff yet still babyish. His eyes were a deep brown. But she could only see the left side of his body. The right was completely obscured by darkness and for a moment she was under the impression that only the right half was truly present at the moment. The left looked to be submerged in a twilight dimension, lost momentarily. She tilted her head like a confused puppy. Her face was twisted in confusion.
“Do you think I am scared?” she asked him seriously. She sounded offended, but she wasn’t really. She knew that Trevor cared for her and the only reason he asked the question he asked was because he loved her. But she was not weak, and the one person she wanted to know that was Trevor. He stared deep into her eyes, but she did not cower. She did not flinch nor falter. She was strong. He knew that.
“I am just trying to be comforting.” Trevor said to her, his eyes ink spots dispensed by a pen’s point. Marley smiled in his direction. She laid back on the hood of his Cadillac and placed her hands behind her head.
“You are trying too hard.” she said to him bluntly. Trevor puffed out a lower lip and laid on the hood next to her. He could smell her from where he was and her scent resembled peach. Bittersweet.
“You sure are a mean one, Mrs. Grinch.” Trevor said through a bit of a chuckle.
“This kitten’s got claws.” Marley said simply through a smile. They looked up at the sky, glowing in effervescent star-light, and got lost in the heaping bosom of the universe’s infinity. Trevor puffed away on his cigarette.
“I don’t think it would be too hard.” he said simply. Marley looked over at him, her eyebrow was raised curiously. Her brow ruffled with inquisitive timidity.
“You don’t think what would be too hard?” she asked.
“Chasing the stars. I’ll catch you a nice big bright one. I’ll wrestle it to Earth and present it to you in a little box. For our hitching, you know.”
“Instead of a ring? You’re going to get me a huge gaseous celestial thing? I would rather have the ring.”
“Any old guy can get you a ring!” Trevor insisted, “Only a man can catch his fair lady a star. And I’m fixing on catching you a star, darling.”
Marley looked over the field and saw no stars. Only the rolling and smothering unknown. How frightening it looked to her. An abyss that could easily swallow her up, swallow her and everything else. Then perhaps there would finally be some peace and quiet. “Maybe you should just up and punch me in the stomach.” she said, turning to Trevor. Trevor chuckled slightly at what he perceived to be a joke.
“Right. That would solve everything,” he said sarcastically. He pushed himself off the hood of the car and balled his fist up. “You want me to? I will if you want me to.” Trevor said, smirking timidly. Marley slid off the hood of the car, following suit and stood up straight and strong. She ran her fingers over where her uterus would be and looked up at Trevor from under her eyebrows.
“Do it.” she uttered in a muted tone. Trevor’s smirk faded slightly. He frowned with pronounced bravado. Marley looked at him through her slate-grey eyes.
“You think because you’re beautiful you have control over me,” Trevor said, “sure, you got pretty blonde hair. Sure you got nice breasts. Sure you got those pretty grey eyes. But you don’t have no control over me. Not like that.”
“I thought you would do it if I wanted you to,” Marley said to him, “well, I want you to. Punch me right in the stomach. If you don’t, then you probably ain’t a real man.” Trevor felt a muffled electric current of rage shoot up the length of his vertebrae. He felt the urge to go off and sock Marley in the face, maybe just to teach her not to be so mean. But Trevor didn’t have it in him to just haul off and hit a girl, even for educational purposes.
“Nah, I was just fooling. You know that I don’t hit girls, Mrs. Grinch. If you want to find someone to abuse you, you’ll have to find someone other than me.” Trevor said, forcibly calming his anger. Marley stepped away from him, with legs looking loose beneath her.
“You ain’t no man. Look what you have gone and done! Now I know that you ain’t no real man! I’ll have to find another man who is worthy of my affection,” Marley went on, “I didn’t want to have to do this, but I would have to say that it is more your fault than it is mine…”
Trevor felt his blood thickening in his veins. His face flooded with red and sweat beaded on his forehead. His fists tightened in a deadly manner. “Don’t be doing this, Marley. You know I don’t take kindly to this kind of foolery…” Trevor said to her, almost pleading. Marley turned her back to him and shook her bottom in his direction, mercilessly teasing and prodding him.
“A real man would throw my on the hood of that car and punch me right in the stomach and then he would give me a good ride on him. That’s what a real man would do.” Marley said, her voice jarringly terse, and shrill. Trevor found himself hypnotized by the gyrations she made with her buttocks. They were full, just like her chest and he felt a primal urge tugging at his heart. He moved over to her and she spun around, readying herself for the blow that she thought was coming, but Trevor made no move on her. Marley laughed at him and threw a rigid finger in his direction.
“You want to chase stars and you can’t even find the courage to hit a woman? Some man you turned out to be-” she shouted. Trevor threw his hand over her mouth curtly and sealed it shut. She still insisted on talking, but the sounds were muffled by the bottle-cap effect that his hand produced clasped against her face.
“I’m brave enough to chase stars,” Trevor said ruggedly, through his teeth, “I can see that you’re just scared. You’ve always been scared.” Marley pushed him with all her strength and threw Trevor off his balance. He fell to the cold dark street. He didn’t have it in him to resist her force. He didn’t have it in him to push her like she pushed him. Marley wrapped her arms about her womb and curled into a ball on the side of the road. Trevor could hear her breathing start to be come panicked, then weepy. She looked up at him with eyes flooded with tears.
“This isn’t your decision!” she shouted, “Stop trying to make me do something I don’t want to do! Stop being there! Stop it! You’re making this much harder than it should be!” Trevor looked at her and saw the stark sincerity in her face. Her face was flooded red and her eyes were also taking on the same hue as they filled with water. She tried holding back the sobs within her. It was to no avail. Trevor was flat, back on the asphalt as he heard Marley begin to cry. He could not take the sound, the sound of ice picks on his eardrums.
“What are you afraid of?” Trevor asked her, not bothering to look up from his flat-out position. Marley appeared over him, hovering off the ground, her face red and slick with moisture.
“I know what you want me to do, Trevor,” she said to him, “I know what you expect. I don’t know if I can bring myself to do what you want me to do.” her hands were firmly planted around her pelvic region and it was something of an incurable tick for her to be massaging it incessantly. “I think I am going to have to disappoint you.” she said finally. Trevor jumped to his feet and planted his hands on her shoulders.
“What are you thinking, Marley?” he asked her. Her fingers began to dig into her stomach like claws. She bit her bottom lip until her teeth started to dig into the skin. Trevor looked down at the gesture. He felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten in fear. He looked back into Marley’s eyes. He saw everything she wanted. He saw blood. He closed his eyes. Perhaps chasing stars wasn’t for him after all. He felt tears well up in his eyes and suddenly saw the world through a bitterly cloudy lenses. Through this, he smiled and Marley was startled. He caressed her face.
“You’re right…” Trevor whispered mutedly, “…this isn’t my decision.” Marley couldn’t hide her sobs. She sniffled incessantly. She threw herself into his embrace and they stood amid the darkness, holding each other as if it were the last time either of them would do such a thing again.
“What is your decision?” Trevor whispered in her ear.
“We need to take care of it.” Marley replied simply. Trevor felt his insides collapse. Everything important, everything beautiful was eviscerated in an instant. He nodded and nodded until he felt as though his head would tumble off his body.
“Alright,” he choked out through a potential sob, “when should we do it?” Marley abruptly stepped away from him, pulling out of his hug, struggling against the force of his grip. Her eyes were inundated at this point, over-flowing with heart-break and despair. Trevor suddenly felt sick. He knew what was coming next.
“Right now,” Marley said, her voice a clipped shriek, her face looking as if it were melting right off her skull. Trevor was dumb-founded.
“Right now?” he repeated, “But how, there aren’t any doctors that would--”
“No, no, no, no,” Marley repeated over and over again, “no doctors, no professionals, no nothing. I need you to do this for me, Trevor. I need you to be the one who does this.” There was a sudden blanket of solitude that was thrown over the both of them. He needed to do this? But how?
“Marley, you need a doctor. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing! A couple of seconds ago I was blabbering about star chasing!” Trevor said fast. Marley approached him and put her lips upon his. The kiss was brief, which Trevor found irritating, but it was meaningful. Perhaps the most meaningful kiss he had shared with anyone up until that point.
“Why, Marley?” he asked her seriously, “Why are you asking me to do this for you? You know how I feel about this!” Marley put her index finger to Trevor’s lips. She silenced him perfectly. He was powerless against her.
“I need you, Trevor,” she said to him seriously, “I need you now more than ever. I don’t trust no one. I don’t trust my parents, I don’t trust no doctors and I don’t trust no priest. The only one I trust is you and you have to do this for me. Do it because you love me. Do it because I am asking you. Please.” Marley pleaded, her voice becoming weak with the assurance she felt. Trevor settled himself and licked his lips. He had no choice. There was nothing he could to. He leaned into her, kissed her, felt her and then pulled away. He looked deep into her eyes.
“I love you, Marley.” he told her right to her face. She smiled faintly.
“I love you Trevor.” she answered, seeming absolute in her voice. With that, Trevor mustered every ounce of strength he could muster and balled his hand up into a fist. He drew his arm back, his knuckles turning white. As he choked back one final sob, he bore his white-knuckled fist down upon Marley’s womb.
Higher Education just got a lot higher
4/2/2011
The halls of Rutgers University shook a couple of days ago with the long-past spirits of angry intellectuals and pissed-off captains of industry when the school willingly paid Reality TV "star" Snooki from The Jersey Shore 32,000$ to speak there.
The halls of Rutgers University shook a couple of days ago with the long-past spirits of angry intellectuals and pissed-off captains of industry when the school willingly paid Reality TV "star" Snooki from The Jersey Shore 32,000$ to speak there.
One might ask the question: "Why?" A good question, indeed. A question that nobody will ever be able to answer adequately. Maybe the dean is a fan of shitty TV shows. Maybe the dean is an idiot. Probably both. Maybe everyone is an idiot. Maybe I no longer have faith in humanity. Who knows? The only sure thing is this: America is over. This is it, my friends, this is it. Once a Nobel Prize winner gets paid 2000$ less to appear at a university to speak than someone who makes a living by pretending to be interesting on tv while resembling a Cheezit...yeah, we're done. So pack it up, folks! Enjoy your fired Oreos while you can because ten years from now, we're all going to elect Ozzy Osbourne president (posthumously, of course) and start eating our own shit because we will no longer be able to discern the difference between it and chocolate.
Exercise in Epicness: That song from Starship Troopers
It's not often that you can set a song to a bunch of the main characters in your movie being slaughtered by soulless, horrifying arachnoid horrors and it still managing to be one of the most epic songs ever produced to any movie, ever. Starship Troopers manages to do this with a surprising amount of ease. This was the song that played during the first invasion of Klendathu (the system where the bugs spore from) and it was during this scene that the humans managed to squeeze and extraordinary amount of fail into a few scant moments. The humans in the scene get gored, killed, mutilated and one even runs away like a pussy, but this music makes it completely okay. Because this song has earned itself a place in Alex's honorary Hall of Epic.
Political Theater: The True Difference Between Democrats and Republicans
4/1/2011
Please stand by for a special announcement brought to you by: The Republican Party.
Hello, America. This is the Republican party here, telling you with utmost sincerity: Fuck David Lee Roth. Fuck "Panama," fuck "Jump," and fuck "Hot for Teacher." It's time that we as Americans take a stand against these horrible, faggy, sparkly pantsed antics and offer a more grown-up, hard-assed perspective for Van Halen. One with huge motherfucking balls. We need the impressive electric blond curls, the unique and fully-realized perspective that a Hagar-helmed Van Halen delivers, but most importantly: we have to stop David Lee Roth and his stupid fucking sunglasses.
Now be honest, America. Who doesn't want to beat that face in with a crooked stick? And look at those horribly repugnant teeth! Is this who we want our kids looking to when they consider their own dental hygeine? The Republican Party says: FUCK NO, YOU COMMUNIST-LOVING, FAG-SUPPORTING, TURD BURGLAR! It is clear that this madness will not stop until David Lee Roth has been permentantly removed from the social conscience. That is why we here in the Republican Party endorse Sammy Hagar for lead singer of Van Halen.
Hello, America. I think we all know why we're here today. There's some fucked up shit going on this country, mainly a faction of fucking retarded, cocksucking, cum-gargling, cerebral-palsy-infected people who think that Sammy fucking Hagar a better, more qualified lead frontman for Van Halen than David Lee Roth. We at the Democratic Party would just like to ask: aren't Republicans against abortion? Apparently they're fine with lyrical ones. Burn. Check this picture out.
Looks like Mr. Hagar is a huge proponent of drinking mysterious blue liquids which may or may not be ammonia. Who knows? The point is, do you want your kids seeing this behaviour and, PERHAPS, copying it? What's next, Mr. Hagar? Chugging a can of Raid? How about pumping a gallon of lemon juice in your ass with a garden hose? BE A ROLE MODEL, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE ALCOHOLIC! Clearly, we need someone with a strong moral foundation. Some one like David Lee Roth.
Help support a sexier Van Halen. Cast your vote for David Lee Roth today.
Paid for by the Democratic Party.
Paid for by the Democratic Party.
And you probably won't agree with me...
4/1/2011
You know what movie I thought was totally overrated movie that came out last year to many perfect-scored critical reviews, mass praise and many accolades? The Social Network.
You know what movie I thought was totally overrated movie that came out last year to many perfect-scored critical reviews, mass praise and many accolades? The Social Network.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Alex is just one of those people that takes really popular, mainstream things and says they suck to troll the 99.9% of people who disagree with him. Well, you're right...but hear me out! The movie was by no means bad but for what people were saying about this thing, I was expecting to watch it and completely loose my grip on reality simply due to it's greatness. It got a 100% on Rotten Tomatoes' "Top Critics" section, for Christ's sake! I mean, this movie was played the fuck up.
Here comes my main complaint with the movie. The main character.
Here comes my main complaint with the movie. The main character.
I mean look at this cocksucker! Does he look even the least bit sympathetic? I even refuse to call him Mark Zuckerberg because I personally believe that the real Mark Zuckerberg could not possibly be this much of a whiny, bawling, preening, self-loathing, cowardly, misogynistic, smarmy, back-stabbing, self-righteous cock burglar. Honestly, I can't fucking stand this guy! I've seen villains more sympathetic than this character! I don't even know what it is about him that I hate the most, but it's almost supernatural. Don't get me wrong, I love flawed characters just as much as the next guy, but something about this guy is more than "flawed," it's more like he's down-right repugnant. Maybe it was just Jesse Eisenberg's performance or something, but it really rubbed me the wrong way.
Okay, now for my next gripe with this flick. Justin Timberlake. Not his performance, even though that may have something to do with this: despite Eisenberg's character being an annoying sonofabitch, Timberlake's was really the only one that outshined him in terms of douche-i-ness. Seriously, I hated the both of them, and although it was kind of the point that you hate Timberlake's character, I felt as though what I was seeing in the "friend betraying friend" plot was simply not compelling enough to justify Timberlake's shitty characterization.
Okay, now for my next gripe with this flick. Justin Timberlake. Not his performance, even though that may have something to do with this: despite Eisenberg's character being an annoying sonofabitch, Timberlake's was really the only one that outshined him in terms of douche-i-ness. Seriously, I hated the both of them, and although it was kind of the point that you hate Timberlake's character, I felt as though what I was seeing in the "friend betraying friend" plot was simply not compelling enough to justify Timberlake's shitty characterization.
^Totally Deep Photo-op
And after all is said and done...the movie's plot (friend betrays friend) isn't really all that special. With two cock-ends in your movie of the magnitude as ones above and a mediocre tropified plot...why am I supposed to be impressed? Is it because the trailer has a chorified version of Radiohead's "Creep?" Is it because it's about social networking, one of the most important revolutions in the past decade? Is it because Jesse Eisenberg's character is really smart and smarmy and says funny things in long-winded, self-righteous diatribes to the "grown-ups" in the movie? Because none of those things take away the one debilitating problem of this movie. I want all of the characters to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of the shot. I'd rather watch "Commando" for the fiftieth time. At least I'll find that funny.
Copyright 2011
^Obvious Troll is obvious!
And after all is said and done...the movie's plot (friend betrays friend) isn't really all that special. With two cock-ends in your movie of the magnitude as ones above and a mediocre tropified plot...why am I supposed to be impressed? Is it because the trailer has a chorified version of Radiohead's "Creep?" Is it because it's about social networking, one of the most important revolutions in the past decade? Is it because Jesse Eisenberg's character is really smart and smarmy and says funny things in long-winded, self-righteous diatribes to the "grown-ups" in the movie? Because none of those things take away the one debilitating problem of this movie. I want all of the characters to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of the shot. I'd rather watch "Commando" for the fiftieth time. At least I'll find that funny.
Copyright 2011
^Obvious Troll is obvious!
Political Theater: My sit-down with Iron-fisted dictator, Muammar Gaddafi
3/31/2011
You know, it really is rare for a twenty-year-old college student to have a personal sitdown with a real, live dictator. However, it is probably exceedingly less rare that that same twenty-year-old completely fabricate an interview for comedic effect. But this is totally serious. The opposite of fabricated. Un-fabrilicious. Authentical. Totally, 100%, hard-hitting news reporting. So with great pride, I present you my 100%, totally real, totally not fake interview with dictator Muammar Gaddafi, where I put his balls to the fire with hard-hitting questions like this one:
"Peter Gabriel or Phil Collins?"
You are going shit a brick when you hear the answer to that question, America. How about this little nut-cracker question right here?
"So, do you tweet?"
Holyshit, was he pissed when I asked that. He God-honestly pointed a gun at the head of my dick and threatened to blow it off if I kept hitting him with these types of colon-shredding questions. I told him that I would not stop, because I'm a motherfucking journalist. Then he shot me in the dick. It was fucking horrible.
Checkout what Gaddafi was wearing during the interview.
You know, it really is rare for a twenty-year-old college student to have a personal sitdown with a real, live dictator. However, it is probably exceedingly less rare that that same twenty-year-old completely fabricate an interview for comedic effect. But this is totally serious. The opposite of fabricated. Un-fabrilicious. Authentical. Totally, 100%, hard-hitting news reporting. So with great pride, I present you my 100%, totally real, totally not fake interview with dictator Muammar Gaddafi, where I put his balls to the fire with hard-hitting questions like this one:
"Peter Gabriel or Phil Collins?"
You are going shit a brick when you hear the answer to that question, America. How about this little nut-cracker question right here?
"So, do you tweet?"
Holyshit, was he pissed when I asked that. He God-honestly pointed a gun at the head of my dick and threatened to blow it off if I kept hitting him with these types of colon-shredding questions. I told him that I would not stop, because I'm a motherfucking journalist. Then he shot me in the dick. It was fucking horrible.
Checkout what Gaddafi was wearing during the interview.
Damn it feels good to be a gangster. Check out those totally heterosexual glasses. When I asked him where he bought his clothes, he told me he usually frequents the Poncho section at K-mart. This bitch be stylin'. I told him that and he shot me in the dick again. Good news is the first shot blew off pretty much everything that was important, so the second shot just got lodged in my pelvic region. The only really horrible part about the second shot was that he televised it so I'm pretty sure the whole country got to see me cry.
Copyright 2011
Copyright 2011
Roleplaying Right: Promeathean: The Created
Still Life Cynic Presents: Twilight Eclipse
Dublin Whores
By Alex Madell
3/29/2011
The Brit dressed in fatigues and a red beret milled about like some kind of mentally challenged Scot outside the door of the pub. I was trying not to notice him because of his characteristically stoic face, plus I detected a faint aroma of cheap cologne wafting about the tap room, and I could have sworn it was him that it was coming from. The scent was of strong alcohol, with a twinge of sweet, fruity vanilla. Fruity like a Brit usually is. He eyed me dangerously from the pub entrance, flashing his L98 rifle in my direction, as if I had anything to fear from him. I turned to my mate, Seamus, and smiled at him slyly.
“Look at the bugger at the pub door,” I mentioned, “looks like a real fucking limey prick, eh?” Seamus was an old head. He was born here in Belfast, and he hated the Brits more than I did. Getting beaten down by armed forces, kicked about like a fucking football, getting pissed on as if you were the scum of the earth, it didn’t sit well with us. However, the British have grown partial to such practices. The fucking gall of the lot of them.
“What? do you wish you were in Dublin right now?” Seamus asked me, his skin weathered and pink, with heavy folds and dimples in his cheeks. His flat cap was a bland dark colour. Something I couldn’t be bothered with identifying. I snorted at his question.
“Dublin…fuck Dublin. I like it just fine here in Belfast. Where the beer flows and the children frolic freely in the potato fields, ya know?” I told Seamus. He looked at me with his striking blue eyes. His bright red hair was hidden mostly by his cap. Only a small tuft poked out the back of it.
“Dublin is a beautiful place, Kieran,” he told me seriously, “best pussy you’ll find in the whole of this emerald isle, and you believe me when I say that. You don’t have to walk three feet in that town without running into a knockout lass with big tits. Don’t you go cursing Dublin, now.” I exhaled, annoyed. However, I managed to force a smile. Seamus. The old pervert. He was a sucker for a tuft of red feminine pubic hair. Everyone knew that. I was more partial to the brunette types.
“There are some fine lasses here in Belfast. There are even some nice prostitutes out here. Are you complaining?” I asked him. I looked momentarily to the pub entrance and I saw the Brit soldier slowly entering. His rifle was slung over his shoulder. Seamus gulped down some black beer and slammed the glass on the bar.
“You must be kidding me there, Kieran me boy! Have you ever even been to Dublin!? There, the women are driven by the same need. They all want a good hearty Irishmen to fuck their brains out. The prosties over there are cheaper too…” Seamus noted. I had to roll the statement about in my head for a moment. Dublin? Cheaper whores then Belfast?
“You’re shitting me!” I shouted at him. He was smiling, with his eyes closed and nodding his head furiously.
“The best whores in Ireland. Trust me.” Seamus reiterated. I smiled and shook my head from one side to the other.
“You’re crazy. Motherfucking bonkers.” I said before erupting into laughter. My outburst drew the attention of the Brit soldier and I saw him over at the bar look at me like I was some kind of cockroach. I tried to keep my attention on Seamus, who was fully engrossed in his talk of Dublin whores. I sipped at my mug of beer, which I forgot I even had what with the fatigued limey lurking in the bar and making me shake slightly.
“I once contracted the services of a fine maiden of the water herself in Dublin. I was thinking to meself, ‘well this is sure to be shite, right?’, I mean, there ain’t no way a lass is going to be beautiful and sexually proficient, I would feel spoiled! Anyway, long story short, I took this maiden back to my hotel and I find out something that simply blew my mind…” Seamus looked from one side to the other. No one could know about this next piece of information, obviously. I leaned in slightly and put my ear close to Seamus’ mouth.
“What?” I asked him.
“This girl had a snapper!” he whispered whimsically. I let out an exasperated exclamation and slapped the bar surface with my palm.
“You’re kidding me!” I shouted without controlling the tone in my voice. I kept my radar searching constantly for the Brit solider. He sat down at a table next to the pub window. Seamus was nodding with a large smile on his face.
“This is no shit, this lass could grab your cock with her pussy as if it were a third hand!” We were both struggling to keep ourselves from tumbling from our pub stools. We were banging on the bar surface incorrigibly hard, and spitting globs of saliva onto the floor. Christian the Barkeep was a round man, who smelled of pickled pig ears and cheap cigars. He walked on over to our side of the bar and laughed heartily with us.
“Aye, Seamus, Kieran! What’s so funny?” he asked. I kept an eye on the Brit soldier sitting at the table with yet another Brit soldier. The second one must have come in when I wasn’t looking. Seamus proceeded to tell Christian the snapper story and the round old barkeep went into hysterics with his neck fat gyrating like the ripples in ocean water. “Oi! If my wife could do that, good lord…”
“Let me tell you something, Christian,” Seamus muttered, leaning in secretively, “any decent woman would never know to do anything like that. Only seasoned prosties know how to do shite like that.” Christian nodded solemnly, as if in memory of a fallen comrade.
“Aye, and a bleeding shame that is…” he said quietly. I smiled at this innocent gesture before slugging back the rest of my stout. I tapped the glass on the table twice timidly. Christian immediately caught the gesture and got to filling up another. He placed it before me and I started sipping.
“How’s that girl you’ve been goin’ with, Kieran?” Christian asked me, and Seamus looked over, quite intrigued. I shrugged, quite lost.
“I believe we’re on the outs…” I said sadly, but not too sadly. Seamus patted me on the back soothingly. I looked back at the table with the British soldiers. They had multiplied once more. There was a third one sitting with the other two. I felt my chest tighten.
“Hey, at least you’ll be able to have one of those beautiful Dublin whores to ride you like a horse if the whole thing falls through.” Seamus noted light-heartedly. I nodded, honestly not particularly interested in being ridden by any Dublin whores. I was sure I could find a Belfast woman with a snapper pussy anyway. The sight of the English chaps at the table was starting to get me worked up.
“Seamus…I think it’s time we better get going. I have to go see Julia before I go to bed.” I said blindly. Seamus quickly looked over at the table of British soldiers and cocked an eyebrow. There were a total of four at the table now. Seamus suddenly looked serious. He nodded solemnly.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you to be in deep shit just because we had a little too much fun drinking…” he said. Christian suddenly looked saddened as we got up from our seats. He raised a finger toward us.
“Come back soon, boys! How about tomorrow?” he said, his voice so gentle and pleading that it made me sick to my stomach.
“Absolutely, Christian. You know we can’t stay too long away from this place.” I said almost through my teeth. Though I did not turn to look back, I could feel Christian smile a hardy smile and my heart sank even further in my chest. The Brit soldiers eyed Seamus and I with deadly stares as we made our way out the pub entrance. Their rifles were at the ready. I smiled at them slyly. Seamus gave a deadly sneer.
I barreled out of the pub and I was breaking out in cold sweats. The sun was falling beneath the cityscape. Belfast fell dreadfully silent as I got into the driver’s seat of the car. I turned to Seamus in the passenger seat. I looked at him with moist eyes. “I suppose we have to do this…” I said to him. Seamus looked back at me with no remorse in his eyes once so ever. He pulled out was looked like a walkie-talkie. It had a long antenna jutting forth from it. There were two buttons fixed on the bland grey box, one green and the other red. He brought the walkie-talkie up to my face.
“It’s like screwing your first Dublin hooker, Kieran,” Seamus noted, with a sick smile fixed upon his face, “you do it once and you find it hard to screw one from Belfast.” I took the walkie-talkie and looked at it for a long moment. There was no turning back, now. Without thinking about it for too long, without dwelling, I pushed the red button. The pub across the street, the angry Brits, the other people and Christian the bar keep were all blown out the front window of the pub. The smell of burnt flesh and organs filled the night air. Fire flew up and touched the sky. Angels were scorched like doves in the night air. I threw the car in drive and sped off. Seamus was laughing heartily at the whole thing and I turned to him with a red face.
“What the fuck are you laughing at!?” I shouted at him angrily.
“Oh nothing,” Seamus said through giggles, “it just reminded me of my first time.”
Copyright, 2011
3/29/2011
The Brit dressed in fatigues and a red beret milled about like some kind of mentally challenged Scot outside the door of the pub. I was trying not to notice him because of his characteristically stoic face, plus I detected a faint aroma of cheap cologne wafting about the tap room, and I could have sworn it was him that it was coming from. The scent was of strong alcohol, with a twinge of sweet, fruity vanilla. Fruity like a Brit usually is. He eyed me dangerously from the pub entrance, flashing his L98 rifle in my direction, as if I had anything to fear from him. I turned to my mate, Seamus, and smiled at him slyly.
“Look at the bugger at the pub door,” I mentioned, “looks like a real fucking limey prick, eh?” Seamus was an old head. He was born here in Belfast, and he hated the Brits more than I did. Getting beaten down by armed forces, kicked about like a fucking football, getting pissed on as if you were the scum of the earth, it didn’t sit well with us. However, the British have grown partial to such practices. The fucking gall of the lot of them.
“What? do you wish you were in Dublin right now?” Seamus asked me, his skin weathered and pink, with heavy folds and dimples in his cheeks. His flat cap was a bland dark colour. Something I couldn’t be bothered with identifying. I snorted at his question.
“Dublin…fuck Dublin. I like it just fine here in Belfast. Where the beer flows and the children frolic freely in the potato fields, ya know?” I told Seamus. He looked at me with his striking blue eyes. His bright red hair was hidden mostly by his cap. Only a small tuft poked out the back of it.
“Dublin is a beautiful place, Kieran,” he told me seriously, “best pussy you’ll find in the whole of this emerald isle, and you believe me when I say that. You don’t have to walk three feet in that town without running into a knockout lass with big tits. Don’t you go cursing Dublin, now.” I exhaled, annoyed. However, I managed to force a smile. Seamus. The old pervert. He was a sucker for a tuft of red feminine pubic hair. Everyone knew that. I was more partial to the brunette types.
“There are some fine lasses here in Belfast. There are even some nice prostitutes out here. Are you complaining?” I asked him. I looked momentarily to the pub entrance and I saw the Brit soldier slowly entering. His rifle was slung over his shoulder. Seamus gulped down some black beer and slammed the glass on the bar.
“You must be kidding me there, Kieran me boy! Have you ever even been to Dublin!? There, the women are driven by the same need. They all want a good hearty Irishmen to fuck their brains out. The prosties over there are cheaper too…” Seamus noted. I had to roll the statement about in my head for a moment. Dublin? Cheaper whores then Belfast?
“You’re shitting me!” I shouted at him. He was smiling, with his eyes closed and nodding his head furiously.
“The best whores in Ireland. Trust me.” Seamus reiterated. I smiled and shook my head from one side to the other.
“You’re crazy. Motherfucking bonkers.” I said before erupting into laughter. My outburst drew the attention of the Brit soldier and I saw him over at the bar look at me like I was some kind of cockroach. I tried to keep my attention on Seamus, who was fully engrossed in his talk of Dublin whores. I sipped at my mug of beer, which I forgot I even had what with the fatigued limey lurking in the bar and making me shake slightly.
“I once contracted the services of a fine maiden of the water herself in Dublin. I was thinking to meself, ‘well this is sure to be shite, right?’, I mean, there ain’t no way a lass is going to be beautiful and sexually proficient, I would feel spoiled! Anyway, long story short, I took this maiden back to my hotel and I find out something that simply blew my mind…” Seamus looked from one side to the other. No one could know about this next piece of information, obviously. I leaned in slightly and put my ear close to Seamus’ mouth.
“What?” I asked him.
“This girl had a snapper!” he whispered whimsically. I let out an exasperated exclamation and slapped the bar surface with my palm.
“You’re kidding me!” I shouted without controlling the tone in my voice. I kept my radar searching constantly for the Brit solider. He sat down at a table next to the pub window. Seamus was nodding with a large smile on his face.
“This is no shit, this lass could grab your cock with her pussy as if it were a third hand!” We were both struggling to keep ourselves from tumbling from our pub stools. We were banging on the bar surface incorrigibly hard, and spitting globs of saliva onto the floor. Christian the Barkeep was a round man, who smelled of pickled pig ears and cheap cigars. He walked on over to our side of the bar and laughed heartily with us.
“Aye, Seamus, Kieran! What’s so funny?” he asked. I kept an eye on the Brit soldier sitting at the table with yet another Brit soldier. The second one must have come in when I wasn’t looking. Seamus proceeded to tell Christian the snapper story and the round old barkeep went into hysterics with his neck fat gyrating like the ripples in ocean water. “Oi! If my wife could do that, good lord…”
“Let me tell you something, Christian,” Seamus muttered, leaning in secretively, “any decent woman would never know to do anything like that. Only seasoned prosties know how to do shite like that.” Christian nodded solemnly, as if in memory of a fallen comrade.
“Aye, and a bleeding shame that is…” he said quietly. I smiled at this innocent gesture before slugging back the rest of my stout. I tapped the glass on the table twice timidly. Christian immediately caught the gesture and got to filling up another. He placed it before me and I started sipping.
“How’s that girl you’ve been goin’ with, Kieran?” Christian asked me, and Seamus looked over, quite intrigued. I shrugged, quite lost.
“I believe we’re on the outs…” I said sadly, but not too sadly. Seamus patted me on the back soothingly. I looked back at the table with the British soldiers. They had multiplied once more. There was a third one sitting with the other two. I felt my chest tighten.
“Hey, at least you’ll be able to have one of those beautiful Dublin whores to ride you like a horse if the whole thing falls through.” Seamus noted light-heartedly. I nodded, honestly not particularly interested in being ridden by any Dublin whores. I was sure I could find a Belfast woman with a snapper pussy anyway. The sight of the English chaps at the table was starting to get me worked up.
“Seamus…I think it’s time we better get going. I have to go see Julia before I go to bed.” I said blindly. Seamus quickly looked over at the table of British soldiers and cocked an eyebrow. There were a total of four at the table now. Seamus suddenly looked serious. He nodded solemnly.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you to be in deep shit just because we had a little too much fun drinking…” he said. Christian suddenly looked saddened as we got up from our seats. He raised a finger toward us.
“Come back soon, boys! How about tomorrow?” he said, his voice so gentle and pleading that it made me sick to my stomach.
“Absolutely, Christian. You know we can’t stay too long away from this place.” I said almost through my teeth. Though I did not turn to look back, I could feel Christian smile a hardy smile and my heart sank even further in my chest. The Brit soldiers eyed Seamus and I with deadly stares as we made our way out the pub entrance. Their rifles were at the ready. I smiled at them slyly. Seamus gave a deadly sneer.
I barreled out of the pub and I was breaking out in cold sweats. The sun was falling beneath the cityscape. Belfast fell dreadfully silent as I got into the driver’s seat of the car. I turned to Seamus in the passenger seat. I looked at him with moist eyes. “I suppose we have to do this…” I said to him. Seamus looked back at me with no remorse in his eyes once so ever. He pulled out was looked like a walkie-talkie. It had a long antenna jutting forth from it. There were two buttons fixed on the bland grey box, one green and the other red. He brought the walkie-talkie up to my face.
“It’s like screwing your first Dublin hooker, Kieran,” Seamus noted, with a sick smile fixed upon his face, “you do it once and you find it hard to screw one from Belfast.” I took the walkie-talkie and looked at it for a long moment. There was no turning back, now. Without thinking about it for too long, without dwelling, I pushed the red button. The pub across the street, the angry Brits, the other people and Christian the bar keep were all blown out the front window of the pub. The smell of burnt flesh and organs filled the night air. Fire flew up and touched the sky. Angels were scorched like doves in the night air. I threw the car in drive and sped off. Seamus was laughing heartily at the whole thing and I turned to him with a red face.
“What the fuck are you laughing at!?” I shouted at him angrily.
“Oh nothing,” Seamus said through giggles, “it just reminded me of my first time.”
Copyright, 2011
