Sunday, December 30, 2007

Even More Dialogue: The Weather Reporter

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you this KTLA news break. What looks to be an elaborate light show has erupted out of thin air near the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. We now take you live to downtown LA with weather reporter Pernea Atherton.

“Pernea here reporting live from downtown LA. As you can see, what looks to be an elaborate light show has erupted out of thin air. It’s a brilliant light, almost blinding. It’s beginning to overtake the sun, causing a flurry of wind that’s blowing everything in every direction.”

Pernea, how’s the weather down there?

“It’s a chilly 65 degrees, Pat, but I’m more concerned with the haze of smoke engulfing the street. The light show’s ceased save for one beam that seams to be searching its surroundings from within the fog.”

Will we be getting any rain tonight, Pernea?

“Pat, I think I see a figure emerging from the smoke. Behind him is a vague silhouette, something massive. Oh Lord, an odor just swept down the street. It’s very potent, I believe it’s . . . rum.”

“Ahoy, mateys! We be the Time Pirates!”

“Time Pirates? T-P? Haha!”

“Goodness, Pat, a laser just shot out of the pirate’s hook, completely vaporizing the heckler. The pirate seems to be holding a baby in his other arm”

“Avast ye primitive land scoundrels, we be Time Pirates! From the future! And this be baby Jesus!”

Saturday, December 29, 2007

More Dialogue: The Magic 8 Ball

“Don’t do it.”

“Who said that?”

“Above you. Hi, I’m from the future. I’m you, actually, twenty or so years from today.”

“Oh! What’s up?”

“Just came back to tell you that the plan you’re thinking of right now worked. They paid the ransom.”

“What plan?”

“Hm. I guess I came back too early. I’ll see you in a few.”

Five minutes later.

“Welcome back. So you mean the plan with Jesus and Shakespeare and them?”

“Precisely. Here’s the ransom.”

“A Magic 8 Ball?”

“It really works! It’s from the year 3,000.”

“Sweet! Magic 8 Ball, what came first, the chicken or the egg?”

Ask Again Later.

“Try asking again.”

“Magic 8 Ball, chicken or egg?”

You May Rely On It.

“Piece of shit! I—we were jipped! Forget what I said and go with the plan. Write that letter to the future, but ask them to send an invisible time machine. Charlemagne doesn’t take too kindly to technology.”

"Will it be a fun adventure like the Bill and Ted movie?”

“More or less, except people actually die in this adventure and you're a criminal.”

“That’s not so excellent. Wait, why’d you ask for a Magic 8 Ball?”

“Man, I don’t know. I was drunk on the planet of the pleasure bots when I got my ransom. It was a Magic 8 Ball from the year 3,000, you expect stuff like that to work.”

“Treacherous bastards! I guess I would’ve thought the same.”

“Oh, you will. Just make sure the fucker works.”


“And beware the Time Pirates. They’re fun to party with for a night or two, but ditch’em afterwards. Good luck.”

“Thanks! See ya in twenty.”


Monday, December 17, 2007


There’s something about music, probably the way it sounds, that gets me all riled up. Drum n Bass (dnb), for example, is in essence a series of beats tied together with another series of beats in between beats. These beats, it turns out, synchronize with the beat of my heart giving me a rush of blood to the head. Doctors call this “cardiac arrhythmia,” and tell me it’s fatal. I call it “awesome.”

The actual term, though, is “audiophilic stimulation,” similar to “audiophallic stimulation,” the type you get when sitting on a speaker heavy with bass. It’s nothing like “autophallic stimulation,” the type you get in the shower or when you’re sitting alone in a dark room, flipping through a VS catalogue at three in the morning on a Sunday and you’re drunk and just found out your ex is going out with another guy and she is flaunting it and you trick yourself into believing that autophallic stimulation to Gisele while shouting maledictions will somehow help you obtain vengeance because you’re stupid with liquor.

Anyway, dnb, good stuff. Drunken misguided vengeance, still sounds like fun regardless of your intent.

If you’re interested in cardiac arrhythmia, or awesome, here’s one of my favorite dnb DJs, and he’s local:

Tuesday, December 11, 2007


"Oh, God, everything's going so wrong! I lost my job, I got into a car accident, my cat died!"

"Aw, man, I'm sorry to hear that." (Places a glass of water before the weeping friend.)

"What the hell do I want water for!"

I see this all the time. Someone's breaking down and spilling their guts, and their friend fetches a glass of water. Why? How does water make anyone feel better? What the hell is water going to do for you?

"I just thought that, you know, water might help."

"What! My fucking cat died!"

"I don't know. Aren't you thirsty?"

"Fuck thirst! Thirst is the least of my problems!"

What was the friend thinking? Is water going to get this guy's job back? Or fix his jalopy or steal him another cat?

"I'm sorry, man. I'm just trying to help."

"What the hell kind of help is this? It's fucking water!"

"It's pretty good water. I mean, it's not a cheap brand or anything."

"Is it Poseidon in a Bottle?"

"Bottled Poseidon? No, Invisible Powdered Water."

"That's cool." (Drinks water.)

Seriously, how much better does he expect to feel after dri--

"--I feel fucking fantastic!"

"You mean the water's helping?"

"Yes! Amazing!" (Answers his cell phone.) "Hello? My old job back? A raise? New car and cat?! Hell yes I'll take the position!"

"What happened?"

"You're a fucking genius, that's what happened! Good call on the water, man."

Hmm. Well, that's just confusing. I don't know how the hell that happened.

Water, man, drink it.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

The Great Outdoors

There’s nothing like the great outdoors. It’s fresh, it’s open, it’s manly. Many cultures send their men to “prove” themselves by spending a night alone in the great outdoors. The Xachuca tribes of the Peruvian Highlands are a good example. The men there who spend a night in the great outdoors return heroes.

That’s kid stuff, though. All you have to deal with are frogs, birds, and the occasional giant rodent. I say the real test is spending a night in The Awful Outdoors, where trees steal your pants while you sleep, beavers ridicule your face, and everything is just a little stranger.

I went camping in The Awful Outdoors once. I was airdropped a la Man vs. Wild with only a bowie knife except it was during the dead of night with only the moon to light my way. The fall left me fairly bloodless and tired and I decided to sleep it off.

I woke and noticed how beautiful everything was. From the vibrant green vines winding up the aging bark of thieving trees, to the majestic waddling of the mighty penguin taking flight to escape the mechanical claws of the cyborg ape. I didn’t think it possible, but I fell in love with the awful outdoors. “I love you,” I said to the enchanting wonderland as I urinated on a pine tree.

Yes, it was grand and I figured what better way to start the morning than with some food. I set a vat of water to boil and tied my bowie knife to the end of a petrified snake and made my way to a pond. I waded and warded off the amphibious piranha with stabs from my snake spear and left with a giant lobster. I rode the beast to a bear cave where I challenged a bear to a wrestling match by abducting her bear cub. She gave chase for several minutes until my lobster bucked me off and jumped obediently into the boiling vat of water. I tackled the bear and defeated her, ironically, with a bear hug and made pants out of her. I was in desperate need of a pair after waking without any.

I dined on lobster with the bear cub whom I kept as my own. “I am your father and mother now,” I told him as I kicked over the dam of a beaver who said my eyes were crooked. With that I strapped the cub to my back and left the awful outdoors.

“Brave,” some say. “Stupid,” others say, and yet others: “hurry with the sedative, he’s out of his straightjacket!” Opine as they wish—I am a man now.