Last Post Ever

This is the 199th, and final, post.
Back when me and Jonathon started this blog, almost two years ago, blogging was the height of fashion. Everybody had one, and they all shared one common feature: they were all boring as hell. Jonathon and I, one night on the phone, decided that we would like to write a blog that -and here was the tricky part- NOT boring. We decided the easiest way to go about doing such a thing would be to make fun of people. Thus, that night we spewed forth a mound of slander pieces designed both to bring attention to our blog, and to incite a variety of emotions and hopefully spark some scandal. Our posts quickly drifted from our original paradigm, but we endeavored, and hopefully sometimes succeeded, in being entertaining. Now blogging is so passe it is almost gauche. Facebook is the new internet fad and a few months ago it stole Jonathon's limited internet time from this masturbatory, narcissistic, past-time. I'm always writing odd little things. I find it fun and cathartic. I'm working on a book now though, which takes up the best part of my writing time and find blogging to be an unsatisfactory medium for my thoughts. I am sure I have but a fraction of the original reader-ship that we once had, but for reminiscence, and archival purposes I have gathered together some of the best posts.

Here are, in my opinion Jonathon's best posts.
Woman in Fridge Helps Man Get it Up
Federal Election Voting Formula
Lunch Story
Ode To A Pigeon

Here is some of my typical over-dramatized stories of mundane events
My Courageous Story
The Tragic Tale of Fuzzy Jr.
Squirrels
The Pit

If you've never read Saltyrotica: don't. I just read it again and it's pretty weird - even by my standards.
Part 1
Part2
Part3

I quite enjoy, though I know they aren't very popular, my series of really skeezy monologues.
A Nickle's Worth of Dimes
Three Fingered Glove
The Last Drop at the Top of the Cup
Help There's a Turd in the Ganges
A Cold Coffee in Your Lap

I reviewed movies in Haiku form. Don't ask me why.
1 2 3

And finally: Here are some of my favorite articles, the ones I'm most proud of.
Great Questions of Life
Letters to Santa
My friend Phillip is So Cool
Chicken Soup For The Neocon's Soul
A Monarch's Lament
A Mysterious Cave

Thank you all for reading and commenting. Bye.

A Cold Coffee in Your Lap

Lo and Behold! Another day I've lived without blowing my brains out. Aren't you proud of me Ma! What an accomplishment. But what is accomplishment nowadays. We got everything in this cum-rag of a country but achievement. Well I guess some people must do something, but I never met one. You? Naa. Just assholes. We've got a tremendous variety here. We got everything from the average to the mediocre. Then there's the downright fuckups. That's what I wish I was. Mediocrity leaves a bitter taste of stale cigarettes and cold coffee on your tongue. You still gotta fucking strive when you're mediocre. Strive for Mr. Status Esquire Q. You bust your sack for long nough and they give you a mortgage and a fat cold slab of wife and a shit pension that'll have you eating cat food before you're sixty.
It's the fuckups that got it good. They're like a high-school girl who's popped her cherry. Nothing left to lose. (God I'm horny). They can just go straight up do whatever the hell they like. Shit on the bus: who cares? He's a fuck up. Flash pre-school teachers: Who cares? Fuckup.
Yeah...I've got a bad attitude...I'm anti-social. Well why the fuck shouldn't I be. You seen society. You lookin at the same society I am? It's the social ones who are scary. The ones who wanna save all this. Yeah...Let's put that dog shit in the freezer, totally worth saving.
I'm a genius you know. I trounce those IQ deals. The standardized tests in school...forgetaboutit. Don't mean shit though. There's a real anti-intellectualism in this country. If your smart, you're sposed to pretend like you aren't. Even if you are smart, who gives a shit? Ain't gonna get you laid nohow. Ain't gonna get you that job: that's for the Indian or the dyke or the bosses son. It's not what you know, it's who you blow. And I got a sand-paper toungue and too many teeth. So I'm smart, woop. tee. doo. Somebody get this guy a medal.
Don't belive me? When was the last time Science did something cool. I'm not talking about consumer bleedin electronics either I don't give a shit if you get the web on your two foot Nintendo Dildo slash Cuisinart. I'm talking about big shit. Like putting man on the moon or Einstein. Where's todays Einstein? Where's todays Dickens? Where's our mother fucking John Lennon? Those guys'd probably get a slap on the wrist and tsk tsked for making the retards feel stupider. Or they'd be relegated to some "sub-culture, indy, crackpot" group. The best thing you can hope for nowdays is a 'cult' following. Hope some nineteen year old, trying to look all pubescent so he can fuck his remedial math tutor, puts your name on a T-shirt.
I blame your mom. She told you you'er special when you'd done nothing...nothing... to deserve it. Out you popped and that was good enough for her. Here...What's better than being in the Special Olympics?... Not being retarded. Well seeya. Me? I'm gonna go find some ludes and take them with a bottle of Mexico's worst. See ya.

The Last Chartered Accountant

I am quite the poet these days. Bear with me.


Oh! To a small box I aspire
With walls so soft and gray
In this palace I ne'er tire
With cups of joe to mark the day

A sea of carpet, almost blue
A sky of square white tiles
Fluorescent light of even hue
A field of deep brown files

My trusty stapler by my side
Adding machines were at my beck
A Volvo was my valyent ride
A gross of pens to scratch my neck

Those were the days, now long gone
When we were proud and free
My columns never added wrong
I charged a standard fee

Please kind sir, a coin or two
To fill my empty mug
This fate could soon befall you too
And belay your look so smug

I curse those mangy, god-damned chimps
And the cur who taught them math
Though now my courage bleeds and limps
Someday they'll feel my chartered wrath

For now I dream of that gold age
When we gray suited kings
Marked credit, debit 'pon the page
And soared on chartered wings

My Final Will and Testament

To my loving friends and family.
No doubt my death has been a burden to you. Well, let me assure you. The trials you have faced are nothing compared to the heart-ache and adversity that you must now undergo. My final requests are both intricate and irreverent. A monument to these qualities which I, while alive, strove to exemplify. A final warning: should these wishes not be carried out, I will haunt the shit out of you. Or, should I be immediately reincarnated, I will find you, and sexually harass your girl-friends and/or daughters.

1. I wish to be exhibited, naked, and in the position I died in, in a glass coffin for a period of no less than seven days. The coffin should be placed in a highly public place, or zoning laws forbidding, on my parents lawn. No mortician shall make any effort to embalm me and I shall be left in the condition I was found in, nor should my eye-lids be closed or my facial expression altered. Should my genitalia look grotesque, or less then enormous, a steel rod may be inserted to keep me tastefully turgid and robust.

2. Around this coffin, no less than 100 candles shall be kept lit at all times and a score of masonic druids shall chant incantations continually.

3. Upon the eighth day a plaster cast shall be made of my entire corpse (still in original position) and filled with fireworks. This cast will be loaded onto a raft along with all my worldly possessions and burned in a viking funeral ceremony at the nearest lake or ocean. I leave it to you, Jonathon, to launch the flaming arrow. You will of course be garbed in full ceremonial viking-warrior amour and should grow a beard fit for the occasion. I have set aside money for the raft and many ounces of DMT which all attending the funeral will be required to consume. A bevy of Wiccan maids, no younger than 14, no older than 24 , in moon-costume, shall provide dancing and entertainment, be it as it may.

4. My remains shall be shipped to Zaire where they will feed many starving, cannibal children.

5. My bones should then be fashioned into a foot-stool or perhaps a night-stand.

6. My scull is to be filled with ox-blood, tied to a rope, whipped around vigorously and launched through a window of the Parliament buildings, my first - and final - political act.

7. All my financial assets shall go towards fulfilling these wishes. The executor of my estate shall receive the remaining share as reward for his duties.

8. My bone foot-stool I leave to my next of kin.

Thank-you loved ones. I treasure you all and hope these final acts of homage ease your suffering and bring closure to what has no doubt been a difficult experience.

An Episode Involving a CAVE and its MYSTERIOUS CONTENTS

The cave beckoned Jon with its deep and murky halls.
(His four brothers warned 'im not to go).
They curled away in cowardice as he ventured forth.
Jon barely fits - the cave is small- he shimmys and he crawls.

The cave is narrow, dark and moist, he darest not go deep.
(He felt around because he could not see).
The cavern walls were strange to him, so smooth and slick and soft.
Jon stumbled 'cross a thing - what's this? - a token he could keep.

When Jon emerged his brothers did not hide their great delight.
(They thought they'd never see poor Jon again.)
He bore his prize with triumph - for all the world to see:
a gray-green stone so lumpy, glistens in the light.

Though praise is high, Jon's pride and joy soon begin to fade.
(For now he wants to put the green stone down).
But how so much he tries, to him it does fast grip.
For his hubris - and his daring - a steep price now is paid.

Jon's annoyance turns to panic, passing first through ire.
(It seems he should have listened to his kin).
His siblings though - all save one- have no help to give.
Brother Tom, short and fat, can pull him from this mire.

"My brother's plight, though somewhat bad, is 'scapable" thought he.
(It seems he was the wisest of the five).
Tom leans back, ready to pounce, a prayer on his lips;
springing forth, with one great strike, he knocks the curst stone free.

All present cheer - Jon is saved - with nary any pain.
(Relief is now the order of the day).
Jon is free, he gives good Tom his honest, heart-felt thanks;
but the pit, it draws him still, he sallies forth again.


Authors Note:
This poem contains a very secret, deeper meaning. The first person to post (in the comments) will receive a styalized pen from a career day booth.

BimbSource Ltd Five Ton Per Day Manufacturing Process Flow Diagram

What happens when bored guys who have been drafting all summer (and imbibing alcoholic refreshments) get half a day off? They draft an overview of the Teen pop sensation manufacturing process. Co-authorship goes to my cousin Karl. He probably doesn't want the credit but he's getting it anyway

click for full view

Note: I apologize to anyone reading this who would be familiar with PFD's (ergo: possibly my uncle and that's it). I realize that most of those conveyor's and certainly the insipidity filter and hammer mill would require motors. Also this process is woefully low on instrumentation - BUT I"M SURE AS HELL NOT DRAWING A P&ID FOR THIS SO FORGET IT!!!

Note2: I apologize to anyone who isn't familiar with PFD's who is reading this because in all probability you have to be drunk and a drafter and have a strong interest in music to get this. Actually the odds that anybody besides me, my cousin, and possibly my uncle (although he may have been just being polite) finding this funny are quite slim.

A Monarch's Lament

Here I sit 'bove murky pool
Gloomy king upon a stool
All I see is all I rule
But now it seems I play the fool

I sit here trapped, and quite dismayed
A merry jest some imp has played
the cardboard tube has been displayed
My hopes of clean escape waylaid

My duty has gone down the pipe
The time to leave is over-ripe
My rear will bear a broad red stripe
My kingdom, kingdom, for a wipe

Book Reviews!

Salty Hank here today (since Jonathon has not even looked at this blog in 4 months...stupid facebook). Today I will be reviewing the top four spiritual texts of the Western World on readability and relevance. All scores will be on a scale of ten. The overall score will be heavily weighted and in no way an average (fuck if I'm touching a calculator). Here we go!

THE OLD TESTAMENT

Readability
Brief interesting bits interspersed with long, long, (long!), repetitive, boring parts give this book an epic feel similar to Lord of the Rings. The characterizations are only loosely tied together from chapter to chapter which, while it allows for quite a large scope, makes it impossible to become emotionally involved for any amount of time. The protagonist, Yahweh, is completely unsympathetic. Violent, angsty and pompous, the authors make it almost impossible to like him. Perhaps if we were allowed to witness his weaker, more tender side, we could empathize with him more and sympathise with all his gruesome genocides and other such travesties. These problems, along with an archaic writing style force me to give it low points.
2/10

Accuracy
Unfortunately, what would otherwise be an important historical document is marred by outlandish claims (creation myth) and an obviously bigoted viewpoint. Less ethnocentrism and fabricated bed-time stories would make this text far more trust-worthy. Also it has numerous, blatant contradictions within itself that casts doubt upon its value. It gains points for it's inclusion of obviously ancient occurrences that can be verified alongside other world mythologies (take the flood for instance), but its cons outweigh its pros.
3/10

Relevance
The codes of law and behaviour layed out in Leviticus are good for a laugh but only the least inspired human beings, the troglodytes and half-wits among us, could consider actually living by these outdated, cruel, and truly senseless laws. Science and more enlightened thinkers have rendered nearly every piece of this text completely obsolete.
1/10

Overall: 2/10



THE DA VINCI CODE

Readability
A fun read despite being so obviously written by the worst kind of hack. Tiny cliff-hanger chapters, a fun little puzzle game and a blistering pace make this an easy read that leaves you feeling simultaneously smarter and dumber. Though its prose may leave something to be desired and its characters transparent and poorly drawn it keeps you reading, eager for the next piece of the puzzle. I've got to split my vote on this one.
5/10

Accuracy
This is highly debatable. It is hard to completely disagree with the information presented but any scholar will tell you that it is missing a lot of the picture. It does not lie out-right, but it does lie through half-truths and perhaps asserts a few statements that would best be proceeded by a 'perhaps'.
5/10

Relevance
Though semi-entertaining and demi-informative it really leaves the reader empty. It raises far more questions than it answers. It did however spark a lot of curiosity and a wider understanding of the subject. It caught the public imagination and inspired a plethora of rip-offs, explanatory volumes and a mediocre Hollywood movie.
4/10

Overall: 5/10



THE NEW TESTAMENT

Readability
A nice story about a messiah, though despite a quadruple repetition, leaves much of his life unsung. Many nice parables in the first four books and a nice story of growth, death and redemption. It drags on at the end until the final chapter which is a real humdinger, full of daemons and monsters and such. I'm always a sucker for apocalyptic literature (love 'The Stand'!). Jesus is a great character who goes on many facinating adventures, accompanied by his wacky but lovable side-kicks and seeking aproval from a stern, but loving, father.
8/10

Accuracy
Heavy-handed editing has unfortunately rendered this text more a novelty than a history. It too is plagued by inconsistancies and contradictions. To be read cum grano salis. Supplementary texts, which are numerous, make for a far more complete understanding of the story.
4/10

Relevance
Lot's of good stuff, lot's of bad stuff. many of Jesus' raps can be taken to heart, but most of the other stuff is complete drivel. Food for thought, but should by no means taken as a sole (ha!) guide. It is rarely, if ever used as guide-lines, even (or perhaps especially) by its strongest advocates, which perhaps indicates a lack of relevance to modern day existance.
6/10

Overall: 6/10




THE JOY OF COOKING

Readability
This book is well layed-out, has many interesting bits and the subject-matter, though single-minded is quite compelling. I unfortunately must dock it for lack of plot, characters or intrigue.
5/10

Accuracy
Accurate to the eighth of a teaspoon.
10/10

Relevance
This is a book we can all use every day. It's portions emphasize community living and its purpose is clearly to bring happiness and satisfaction to all sorts of people, of every creed and race. These recipes, easy to follow and delicious are sure to provide universal happiness for all who follow them. They are timeless and well taste as good in two thousand years as they did 75 years ago. I also have to add marks because, of all the books reviewed, people who read this one are the most likely to actually follow the prescribed instructions.
10/10

Overall: 9/10

Blue Man Group Review

So my dad won some tickets to the Blue Man Group. After offering them to both of my sisters, neither of whom could go, they fell into my possession. I had a bitch of a time finding anybody who would accompany me to this bizarre show and found myself explaining what it was many times. It's like guys who are painted blue, and they play drums with lights and stuff. That was as much all I knew.
In fact that turned out to be a pretty good summation.
The opening act was by one Mike Relm, a sort of Asian Andy Dick, who span records and video clips. It came off as a very competent YouTube video.
The Blue Men themselves were pretty cool, accompanied by a very competent, percussive band. The show was about three quarters rock songs, accompanied by weird PVC instruments played by the three Blue Men and a quarter mime/audience interaction. The music was very tolerable, the female vocalist was very good and the percussion heavy rock had an interesting sound, although it's not something I'd listen to all the time.
The lights were one of the most impressive parts of the show, and they managed to use a complicated stage setup to produce a variety of neat effects. My favorite would be where everything went completely black except for the lighted outlines of the Blue Men and their instruments. You kind of have to see it to get it.
I am not an interactor, so that part of the show was lost on me but there was lots of choreographed audience participation bits for those of you who do that stuff.
So, since the show was free...I thought it was great. Was it worth 60 dollars, I doubt it, but I'm kind of a cheap asshole. Still, a very cool show, with lots of surprisingly high-brow humour and some real neat gimmicks.

A Fart In The Wind

Normally he went through an extraordinary amount of Kleenex, what with the allergies and the chronic self-abuse. Not the last while, no.
He couldn't get it up these days, hadn't even tried. He was still trying to get her out of his life. Her cat and her stuff and her smell were gone, but just today, clipping his nails on the can, he found one of her fillings in his curlies.
That night he dressed in black and spray-painted a phrase on a wall.
911 was an inside job
Fuck it felt good to shoo the flies away from that bloated penguin carcass he called a soul.
That night he got it up and wasted more Kleenex.

The End

Sigh

If the death penalty was good enough for Our Lord, Jesus Christ, it’s good enough for any of us. Put that in your marijuana cigarette and smoke it, Amnesty International!

Death Penalty Opponents Must be Stopped

However, for both moral and theological reasons, we should always bear in mind that the Earth does not move. If it moved, we would feel it moving. That’s called empiricism, the experience of the senses. Don’t take my word for it, or the evidence of your own senses, Copernicans. There’s also the Word of the Lord:

Heliocentrism is An Aethiest Doctrine

Obviously, God does not want us listening to flute music. Flutes and other woodwinds are horrible instruments. They entice us to sin with their wistful tunes, but their shape and manner of play is clearly phallic and strongly implies fellatio or other unnatural acts of Sodomy.

Woodwinds are The Instruments Of Satan

Saint Salty

How I Know I’m a Good Person

I am full of inner turmoil. Am I a good person? Am I compassionate, kind, loving? In order to resolve these questions, and as a sort of laundry list in case any of you need to write my eulogy, I have compiled all my recent good deeds.

• I refused to give a homeless man change, thus preventing him from fuelling his alcohol and drug habits. Also this allowed me to maintain the strict, and moral guidelines set out by Ayn Rand.
• I left a twenty percent tip and the waitress wasn’t even very hot
• While I did accidentally fart on a little girl while I was walking home from Taco Time, I stopped to help hold her hair back and gave her a stick of gum
• I synthesized and mailed an envelope of anthrax to Pat Robertson, thus ridding the world of one more self-righteous crack of a camel’s ass who makes his living off the misery of others. I cannot say I did the same to Jerry Falwell, but as you might recall, I celebrated his death and cursed the moral majority with vehemence. If we all put our personal energies together perhaps we can rid the world of these putrid, facist, troglodytes forever. Amen.
• I began to pee on the shed only to realize I had disturbed a frog. Against ALL instinct, and inclination, I resisted the urge to continue peeing on the frog. I believe that there are very few men who would refuse such a tempting, moving target.
• I helped a little old lady jump into heavy traffic. While I don’t believe this is the most pleasant way to go, I support euthanasia whole heartedly and could not but help her meet her final wishes. (Also, she wrote me into her will KA-CHING$$$)
• I helped to destroy illegal plant substances that could easily fall into the hands of youngsters. Rest assured that this demonic substance’s warm, delicious fumes, and its mellow high well never taint an impressionable adolescent.
• I taught my young cousins the wrongevity of using such words as ass-weasel, fucktart and cottage-cheese-cunt.
• I wrote my good deeds on a public blog, so that others might follow my example, and peace and love will spread throughout the world.

Hiking Tales: The Pit

Granola bars and peanuts. You'd think with that kind of fiber this business would be over rather quickly. Alas no. I had been sitting amid the almost tangible odor and buzzing flies of the outhouse for quite some time with little luck.
It was one of those ubiquitous pit toilets, familiar to anybody who has visited a campground in Canada. This one was particularly foul. The door hung off on one hinge but even this added ventilation could not disperse the gas that rose, wave-like, from the pit. Not that they had far to rise. The pit was full to the brim. I could have easily reached down and grabbed a handful of the pasty, congealed substance. I was glad that my offal was quite hydrodynamic and did not splash. A single round turd could have made this necessary visit even more unpleasant. But I digress. This is not a story of a toilet, but of a slug. A particularly large and daring slug.
He was perched on the side of the plastic chair. I had not seen him when I came in. He was crawling ever so slowly towards my exposed butt cheek. I though him no threat. I laughed even, in my hubris, at his slow and pointless journey.
As the minutes wore on though, and my bowels failed to void, I began to worry. He was making rather good progress. When I had sat down he had been perhaps a quarter of the way up, now, with no end in site to this unpleasant duty, he had made it past the half way mark.
If you are unfamiliar with the fauna of the Rock let me explain to you that these are not your common, garden-variety slugs. These are six inch long, fat monsters of the slimiest variety. Do not think for a second that I don't like insects! I have no fear of bug, moth or beetle. But this was a mollusk. A naked, seeping, muscley, foot with squishy attenae and a sharp little tongue (or radula, as my fellow Biology drop-outs call it). The thought of touching this little critter filled me with dread.

I squeezed with all my might.

He climbed slowly, but surely.

I was nearly done but my little mucous covered nemesis was mere inches away.
Finally, after minutes of exhaustingly strenuous effort I released the final poo. I could feel the slug's breath on my cheek.
I wiped and stood up, quick as humanly possible. Looking over my shoulder I saw this Donovan Baily of invertebrates round the corner and ascend onto the horizontal surface of the seat. The space I had occupied not seconds before.
I sighed with relief and saluted my opponent. My bowels had won this time but it was a honourable competition, and he had fought valiantly.
It was with great dismay that I heard, as I was leaving this godless place, the tiniest of splashes.
Farewell, good slug. I shall not rescue you, but I say a small prayer and hope your tiny spirit reaches better places.

One Sentence Stories

As the craft deposited me safely, back in my own bed, I realized the small blue man with the strange-fingered hands had forgotten to return my wallet.

The young boy would certainly have made Hitler look moderate, and Stalin kind-hearted, were it not for the fortunate aim of the small car and its very drunk driver.

Tire iron, knuckle dusters, bicycle chain, ice pick: what to choose, what to choose.

We said a million words with our eyes but none with our mouths and she was swept away by the crowd.

The old man looked at his hands, lined with age, scarred by years of work, and knew his life had been worth-while.

They left the shelter too early: the tall black clouds still hung in the air and the toxic dust still swept across the barren warscape.

It was not the Jello , nor the G-string, nor the slippery, sweating nymph, pulling her hair that bothered her; it was the niggling sensation that she had forgotten to lock her front door.

Help! There's a Turd in the Ganges!

Destiny is kind of a bitch. I mean wheather or not you believe in determinism, existentialism or fuck-me-I-took-philosophy-110-ism, in retrospect it's all kind of set in stone right? I mean looking back on it could it have gone any other way? So destiny's all relative. It's a persepctive thing. No I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm just saying: With how things were at that particular moment what else could have happened? Well fuck you...You're no Aristotle yourself. I'm just trying to tell you, you gotta live and let live. I mean everybody makes mistakes right. Even the Dalai Lama killed that one hooker, right? Yeah... I'm pretty sure he did. Whatever, like it matters. The point is I'm sorry. There, I said it, I'm sorry.
Whatayamean sorry isn't enough. I'm submiting my god damned soul to you. I'm all vulnerable like that and you just stomp on me? Maybe I'm not so sorry then.
But really I am sooo sorry. If there's anything I can do...Well no, I can't give you the money. It's not that I don't want to see, It's just that I don't exactly have it right now. It's like that destiny buisness we were just discussing. Would you rather have the money or the Karma? Whadayamean the money? You'd rather have a few measly hundred dollars than be one step closer to final enlightenment? That's retarded. Yeah I know Karma won't pay the rent. Speaking of which I can't pay the rent this month, I'm just a tad short. Probably a bad time to mention it and all...
Have I ever told you how great a person you are? Like you are a shining beacon in this dim little world. You are like my lighthouse. And I'm like the little dude in the lighthouse who lives there and sweeps up and changes the lightbulb. Well Fine! You can't live in me either then. You know you're a real bastard sometimes. Like what makes you think you're so special? Oooh I'm so special, my shit smells loverly. Ooh I'm so special, I can bite glass and not bleed. Oh la de da I am so special, I have a nice apartment and a car and I drive it all over town because I'm sooooooo great. NO, You're being rediculous! Who needs this? I don't need this! I'm outta here! I don't gotta be treated this way! Fuck you! Fuck you and your dog!
Bastard Fuck and his fucking dog. He'll get his...That's how karma fucking works... He''ll get his

Worstest Week In My Life

1. I hit the ditch when I fell asleep in my car
2. The ditch hit me back
3. My coffee-wrist is agravating my wankers cramp
4. I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart
5. He let his buddies in and they trashed the place and stole all my CDs
6. My mom changed her phone number so that I can't call her
8. I ate my own cooking and got salmonella
9. A big fat piggy gave me a speeding ticket
10. I was possessed by the spirit of Hitler and got kicked out of the Future Shop
11. I watched 'Never Been Kissed' and got salmonella
12. I found out that in a past life I was the Marquis de Sade's wife
13. I obtained Enlightenment but I forgot to save and the power turned out and corrupted the file
14. I found a strange glowing meteorite in the woods and it gave me super powers
15. And cancer
16. I didn't forward a chain letter so Bill Gates deleted the internet
17. I started a band but they kicked me out citing creative differences
18. My roommate moved out and took all the furniture
19. I performed oral sex on a woman and got salmonella
20. Well not a woman, as it turns out, but close anyway
21. I lost my super-powers when struck by lightning whilst wrestling with a street-thug
22. He stole my wallet
23. I got the lyrics to "Little Willy" stuck in my head
24. It's Jonathon's birthday and I don't know what to get him
25. I called the teen crisis hotline but they said to call back when I got a better voice
26. Little willy willy won't go home cause you can't push willy cause willy won't go

Haikus and Lowkus (About Movies)

Deja Vu

I remember this
I think I saw it before
Same old Denzel flick

Time-travel thriller
plays with multiple time lines
You call that a twist?
_______________________
The Jerk

Steve used to be good
He grew up a poor black boy
The new phone book's here!
_______________________
Spider Man 3

Action scences amaze
Evil spidy is a kick
Why so much boredom?

Peter Parker whines
Mary Jane is unhappy
For crying out loud
_______________________
300

Burly half-nude men
Thrusting quivering lances
I swear it's not gay

Towering God King
Adorned with jewels and makeup
He's not gay either

* * *
Misshapen traitor
Within Lies a clear moral:
Hunchbacks like cool hats
_______________________
Click

Is this too cliche?
I wanted to fast-forward
through this awful film
_______________________
The Covenant

These twelve syallables
Cannot begin to convey
How shitty this is
_______________________
Night at The Museum

This could have been good
Better actors, better script
A whole other plot

Zoolander was great
Dodgeball is my favorite
Yet Ben Stiller Sucks
_______________________
Rocky Balboa

Old man on steroids
Rising up to the challenge
Eye of the tiger

So...very...boring
One good montage, one good fight
Just skip to those parts
_______________________
Pan's Labyrinth

Courage, young woman
Escape the facist ass-hole
AH! EYE-HAND MONSTER!
_______________________
Bridge to Tarabithia

Tragic, joyous tale
I swear I wasn't crying
I have allergies

The Dying Throws of an I

I have failed to glean the smallest respite from the constant chatter that plagues my every waking moment. The imp that dwells on the left converses with the sprite on the right and all their merry gossip passes through my aching, pounding, head. To do, to not do, to try to not do, to fail to not do. A plethora of issues each more beguiling than the last.

If thoughts lie, then who can I trust? If they grant a glimpse into infinate truth then why am I so confused? I fear that they do neither, that they are mearly the echoes of the screams of my dying reason. Glossolalia, sans prophesy. If by writing I am spilling the contents of my soul upon the page then you are reading the textual equivalent of vomit. I hope it does not turn your innards. Worse yet it may be more than filth. It may be plague-ridden. Are you distressed, confused, anxious? Perhaps you have caught the bug. Do you doubt, even now, your sanity? Then join me and we shall run laughing, naked, down the street and God damn any man who tries to save us.

Ah! To surrender the voice. An ego bent on auto-cannibalism. An oroborus, choking on it's own scales. If only it would gag down the last small morsel, and disappear into nothingness. Aye but that's the rub (as a fellow lunatic once declared). To disolve the self, would I be reborn: Enlightened? An impecable being outside the dual illusion of "Is" and "I'snt"? A vegetable more likely. A sad-eyed man shuffling slowly in an antiseptic Hades.
Hell would not be so bad. I once dreamt it. Through it ran a river of blood and sculls, but...It also had a buffet. With all the potato salad and carrot sticks one could desire.

My life is sick, the pale cast of thought blemishes every movement, turns my eyes away from what Is and blinds it with what Could Have Been. And even in the moments of solitude, it blares away impetuously, summoning what Might Be. I am tired of this three-chord soundtrack. It is time to hear the majestic orchestra play its all-consuming note.

Goodbye.

Amazing Facts

1. The world's youngest person ever was only three years old!
2. It takes the average muskrat 6 times longer to pee than an elephant!
3. In ancient England men wore pieces of fish in their pants to keep the plague away. Thus the term cod-piece.
4. The first Mexican on the moon was Neil Armstrong! Neil Armstrong was 1/32 Yaquiti Native.
5. The longest number in the english language is PI. It would take a grown man 7 hours to load the volumes of paper it would take to write PI down onto a tractor-trailor!
6. The longest lasting food known to man is zesty italien salad dressing. Ancient urns of zesty italien were found in Pharoh's toombs.
7. The first interacial kiss, broadcast by radio was by Paul Robeson and Kay Francis in 1938. Numerous complaints caused the station to quicly pull the show, a popular mystery series "Guns and Gams".
8. No two fish are exactly the same.
9. Ghandi once accidentally ate a hotdog, not realizing that meat could be stored in tubes.
10. If two porcupines were ever to meet they would both cease to exist instantaeneously.
11. The youngest manager of an Arbies was 11 years old
12. Coca Cola was origianally intended to cure palsies, the hum-drum fever and homosexuallity
13. The world's only talking tree is in Mikiwaga, Tennesee and has never been heard to utter a single sound!
14. The story of the three little pigs originates from a Latvian festivle where women dressed as pigs would be stored in a variety of tenements which groups of men would try to break into. The women would then be beaten and/or raped.
15. A duck's cooch is all spirally. Ewww.
16. If all the eyelashes every person loses in a day were stacked end to end they would stretch around the world 1/2 times and weigh over 100 pounds!

Best Day Ever!!!

I did an obit for a guy I like not to long ago so I think I should balance that with one of someone I hate.
Yesterday...the fat, evil, fuck known as Jerry "Satan's Bitch" Falwell died. Hooray!!! Does anybody know where he's buried? I've got a new pair of dancing shoes and I want them broken in. Respect for the dead, Salty Hank, respect. That only applies to SENTIENT BEINGS WHO HAVE A SOUL. Jerry Falwell was obviously a meaty automoton sent by the dark forces-that-be to rape minds (and children) and send this poor, abused, planet furthur down into the abyss. Sorry if you're reading this and you're in the moral majority. No I'm not sorry if I offended you, I'm sorry you're such a gullible, redneck, crack of an ass.

Crab Melt

Part two in a series of terrible science fiction stories

One old woman at a table for two. So inconspicuous. I know. I have studied their ways. I remove the bronze plated hendecagon from my purse and place it on the table. This small gratuity will ensure that my servent is gregarious and does not secrete fluids into my Ginger Ale. I place it deliberately on the table, right near the edge, so that when he arrives, he will see my generosity. It is difficult to navigate the social morays of this fickle, contradictory culture, but I have studied them long.
He arrives. Drat, it is a new servant. He begins to recite the feature meals of the day. I interupt him in my sweet old lady voice.
"I know what I am going to order"
He writes down the order. Soon he will heart know it by.
The crab melt, no onions, cut in half. With fries, gravy on the fries. And Ginger Ale.
Yes the sweet Ginger Ale. Intoxicating, bubbly beverage.
The meal arrives each piece as symbolic as it is delicious.
The baked dough, the foundation, the world. It's soft, pourous center belied by a hard outer crust. It is populated by heated arthropods. A striving populous, reaching to every corner of their small square planet. Truly it is a utopia, for I have demanded that all foul onions be removed. A force binds each and everyone of them together, connects them all in golden warmth. The cheese is this cosmic force and those who lack it are lonely indeed. One dividing cut, to represent the duality of the system. For are not all things, from the spinning atom, to the spiraling galaxy, merely the manifestation that lies between two opposing forces? Yes, yes, they are.
Along side lay the fries, that tangled mishmash, dripping with succulent gravy. They are the unknown, the unfathomable. Each is slightly different. Longer, shorter, soft or hard. Some are covered in gravy, others untouched. They are the creative force, where possibilities abound, unfettered by the square crust of the rational world.
And the Ginger Ale. Mmmmm.
The servant man asks me if I enjoyed my meal. I did of course. I enjoyed it on levels, both sensual and spiritual, by degrees of which this crude, carbon bound primitive could never dream of.
I meticulously count out the proper number of coins on the provided tray. To err is to invite embarassment or confrontation so I double check. The servant removes them and I am free to depart. I will be back tomorrow of course. To enjoy another crab melt and Ginger Ale, my sole vice in this barren and desolate universe.

Looking For Love In All the Wrong Spaces

SCBC seeks friendly SC(NS). Single carbon based civilization seeks friendly single civilization (preferably non-smoker). In the early part of the twentieth century our young, gangly, race began to blossom and change. Along with new developments grew a yearning. Undefinable at first. A faint cloud of electronic pheremones was broadcast into the deep void. An unconcious signal that proudly announced "Here we are! We are young, we are curious and we want to meet you!". These were ignored (save for a few curious meddlers that mostly kept their distance). As we grew older the yearning grew more tangible. We were lonely. We were sick of our solitary, introverted existance. We wanted a companion race. Someone we could trade with, travel with, have long walks on the moon's beaches with. Our first furtive advances were as clumsy as they were endearing. The Voyager space craft was launched aimlessly, a timid introduction thrown foolishly into an uncaring galaxy. As we grew more desperate, we grew more bold. We broadcast messages into every cranny of the cosmos. We honed our eyes and our ears and kept them peeled for any signs of potential lovers. All seemed lost. So much effort and yet we remained alone.
At first the Ruflurians seemed like a dream come true. Of course, this being the day and age that it is, we met on the internet. SETI, NASA and a hundred thousand amateur ham radio geeks broadcast their message across the planet. They dazzled us with their shiny technology and their worldly (universely) knowledge. We fawned ove them and longed to meet them in person.
They swept in on their shiny, white space craft and touched down. We held our breath, dying to know what our new friends looked like. Ah. So looks aren't everything. The Ruflurians had never evolved the wonderfully efficient throughput digestive system that we so took for granted. Huge twenty foot diameter sacs, held up by teeny little tentacle feet. Their defining feature was a singly large, round muscley sphincter, all along their front side, that opened to their radial bodies. A few sensory organs budded off here and their but did little to balance the huge gelatinous core. Perhaps they had great personalities. We spoke to each other, computers supplied by the Ruflurians translating. They spoke by emitting gas through the large muscle, controlling the pitch by tightening or relaxing it and by controlling ammount of air flow. The air they emmited was...quite foul. Very foul. It seems our date had a bad case of hallitosis. Despite their great knowledge we recoiled from them. Attempts to share or trade failed. Awkward radio silence greeted the airwaves. We are, admitedly, a shallow race. While we wished we could be friends, we could not get passed our extreme revulsion to their appearance or their flatulent manner of speech. We tried to remain friends but it seems we wounded their pride. They took off, leaving us forever. They left us something to remember them by though. A miserable plague of burning and itching that even our best doctors could not cure. The first of our space-transmitted diseases. That not being enough we also heard rumours that they went around telling all the other civilizations that our spaceships are real small and our trade agreements never satisfied them. Typical I suppose. Billions of fish in the sea and the first ones we meet turn out to be a bunch of giant assholes.

The Mystery of The Rather Silly Blog

Listen, and listen well. You are about to be imparted with one of the greatest secrets ever connived. This earth shattering conspiracy will rock the very foundations of all you believe. Follow me down the path of my logic into the shady underworld of Salty + Jon's Fresh Fish and Pancake House. Don't be afraid, I am here with you.

Our journey begins as so many do with a letter. Four letters to be exact: HJ SH. Do these initials look familiar? They should. They belong to none other than the auteurs of this shady e-paper: Honourable Jonathon and Salty Hank. But Wait! The less dim-witted of you should have realized by now that these letters stand for more. For you see Salty and Jonathon are no more than aliases!!! Pen-names!!!!! A cheap facade to protect these inner-sanctum members from The Powers That Be. I will reveal to you now their true names [edited for paranoia]: Henry James J. and Shawn Jonathon H.. HJ and SH, the letters reappear!!! But backwards, each belonging to the other! A deep breath, we delve furthur. Though few know their true names even fewer know from where their aliases were derived. I shall reveal this to you now, in the interest of truth.
Henry S. aka Salty Hank is the reincarnation of none other than Henry S. Salt, the noted social reformer of the 19th century. Henry S. Salt. H S S. How often these letters reappear. His love for pirates being well known Henry J. opted for the fanciful codename we all know and love or despise.
Shawn H. story is of equal interest. Jonathon of course comes from his middle name the Honourable from his God-given title. Let us recap.
Two men, 3 letters. S J H. Of what importance could these have. Henry's grandfathers name was Sigfus Hielmer J, but this line of reasoning turns up a dead end. Perhaps the clue lies in the images. Bear with me.

Jonathon: Jona- Thon
Jona means God in the old dialects
Thon is a word for fish, namely the Tuna
Jona-Thon, God of Tuna
Look at Salty Hank's profile picture.



Salty Hank
Salt is a common ingrediant in all batters, drawing the flavours and enhancing the taste. A Hank is a coil, knot, or loop. In old Scotland they would feast on a seasonal batter fried in butter, traditionally drawn out in a loop or knot like fashion. These would be known as hankochs, later hankakes. Early anglo saxon exlorers had dificulty pronoucing this gailic word and missprounounced it pankakes. Over time we have come to know these as Pancakes. Prepare to be amazed as I show you Jonathon's profile picture.


It is clear. The swapped initials, the mismatched photographs, the decidedly inconsistant quality of writing, something is afoot. I propose three different theories to explain the anomoalies.

1. Neither exist: Both Salty Hank, Jonathon and their real life counterparts are fabrications. Perhaps planted by COINTELPRO or some other disinformation agency. It is also quite possible that they are both the result of a mass halucination or hysteria.

2. There is Only One Author: Both pseudonyms are controlled by one agent. Why write under two names? In order to say things that he would not otherwise want to impugne his own reputation. It is also possible that one of the pen-names (probably Salty) will manifest himself physically and terrorize the other(whether through the power of will or due to an early surgery removing a partially formed twin from Jonathon's brain).

3. Both Exist but have swapped bodies using some sort of body swapping machine like in that episode of the Flinstones and almost every other sitcom: Self-explanatory

The mystery remains unsolved but we power on, yearning for the real story. The truth is out there. I bid you farewell, bon nuit.

Same Story, Different Pile: Western

In case anybody was wondering what I'm trying to do with these here's an explantion. I know they are not even as entertaining as the rest of the stuff on this blog. I am doing this more as an exercise. I'm going into English next year and I would like to get into journalism and writing so this is sort of a drill. Yeah? I dunno, it seemed like a good idea at the time. This is probably the last one I write for a while though, seeing as how I'm already kind of bored with it. Hey look! A dog with a poofy tail!

"Hush now, Izzy. Hush." Something had spooked Trip Jonas' palomino mare. He sat back down, the light of his fire casting his shadow on the long grass. It was probably just a kaiyote. His ears caught the sound of rustling grass. The griseled man sat up quickly, dropping his tin cup. His hand shot down to his hip, quick as a rattler. A figure emerged from the darkness. Twern't no kaiyote, it was a woman, and a fine looking broad at that. Trip eased back the hammer. She was perty alright, real perty. Long brown hair and dark eyes sparkling like the sky above with tears.
"Please sir, I am sorry to disturb you but I hear you are good with a gun."
Trip poured another shot of firewater into his cup. Gun, knife, or fists, he was good.
"Louis, my husband...He's been shot. Shot in the back."
Trip was already going to help her. He coudn't rightly not. Not if he wanted to sleep sound. And a sound sleep is all a hired gun like him could hope for. He took the cash she offered of course. A man's gotta eat.
"I'll help how I can mam. Not right getting shot in the back like that. Ain't sportin like."
She explained the situation to Trip. It weren't nothing unusual: a disputed mining deed, a fight over cards, a shot in the dark.
They rode into town. Izzy was ornery at having to move again this late. The corpse had already been moved. It was sitting in a coffin waiting for that last ride up to boot hill. Trip didn't waste anytime looking around. He wasn't a bloody Pinkerton boy. If there were anything worth knowing, it would be known at this cow-town's one saloon: the Asses Mule.

The bartender polished a greasy glass with a greasy rag. It din't matter. Nobody here was real fussy. A few small drinks and a few too many questions had earned Trip the wrong sort of attention. A few cowboys got the jump on old trip. He skinned fast and his Colt single action .45 put a slug in one roughnecks elbow. They had the advantage though and Trip stopped shooting when one wily bastard put a scatter gun's barrel up gainst his ribs. The but of a rifle came down against the back of his head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. He came too when the cowboys threw him up on a black horse but soon passed out again.

Trip cussed as they tossed him into a small dark room.
"What the hell are you boys playing at. You gotta bone to pick with me let's handle this like men."
One of the men put his ham sized fist into Trip's gut.
They left him in the room. A shuttered window let in some dusty light. A pile of hay and some rotten blankets sat in the corner. He felt the rumbling before he heard it. A train was passing by. He was near the tracks.
Trip was a polite sort of man, but he cussed again when the door opened. It was Ringo Ulysses! The shiny star on his shirt meant the fools had made him sheriff.
"Sooo...We meet again Jonas"
"You always were yellow. Untie me and let's settle this, greenhorn."
"Save it. Less you want to be tasting lead. I'll tell you when to talk. I've got a mob outside that wants your blood. I'll throw them to you like that!"
"Ringo you bastard! What in the devil's name are you up to now!"
"It's hard for a sheriff to get respect in these parts. But I reckon single handedly bringing in a known murdurer will get me my due."
Trip winced. Ringo was gonna make a damn fool out of him.
"You got me you cur. I'm a dead man walking. Don't a man get a final request before he's hung?"
The sheriff leaned in close. He spat a wad of tobacco right past Trip's ear.
"Whatdr you want pilgrim?"
"Just a smoke is all. Just want one last cigarette."
Ringo was a right villain and a coward but he couldn't refuse a simple request like that. Trip got his cigarette and a match too.

The noose tightened around his neck. The horse under him huffed and snorted. The lynch mob shouted for his death. Ringo was about to spur the horse when an arrow shot through the air and hit his knee. Injuns! A Sioux tribe rode up, bareback, shooring rifles and bows at the mob. They drew their guns but they were outnumbered. Most of them managed to retreat. The injuns cut Trip down. The old favour was repaid. Trip had wanted a smoke allright. A smoke signal. The old hay had lit well. Ringo was kind enough to explain the situation to the townfolk after a little pursuasion. Seems he was real attached to his scalp. There'd probably be another lynching tomorrow but maybe if he was lucky he'd just get the tar and the rail.

Only thing a man like Trip's got is his name. The Sioux knew it and respected it, Ringo hated it and tried to destroy it. Trip thought it best to leave town after all the fuss. He rode Izzy west, into the sunset.

Kurt Vonnegut

November 11 1922 - April 11 2007

So it goes.

Same Story, Different Pile: Cyberpunk

Tracer J. woke suddenly. Do all console ninja's always feel their dreams are more real than their waking hours? A pain shot through his spine. The stim drugs, hyperephedrin, were hitting hard. Probably hadn't been wise to program his chem-plant to dose him every morning. Only way he'd get up though.
Tap, tap, tap. Someone was coming up the stairs. Tracer sighted the door with his cervo-mechanical eye implant and activated his concealed, wrist mounted flechette gun. She walked in heasitantly, the flechette disappeared subdermally. She was beautiful...Everyone was beautiful, cheapest surgery there was, but the tears in her deep brown eyes made her stand out from the crowd.
"Please...I, I hear you can help with difficult problems"
Tracer released a dose of seratonin. Ahhh. Buisness was not usually so good looking.
"They killed him. The bastards flatlined him."
First step of buisness. Credit transfer. Retina scans for both of them. A voice command to her deck and the creds were in the base. There'd be more if he found the killer.
"Right, What's the sit?"
The woman told a familiar story. Too familiar. A powerful Syndicate, the Yakuza, some thick black ICE.
She gave him an IP, the scene of the crime, and Tracer tapped in. It was deep in a poorly guarded comercial block. Hardly any ICE at all. The authorities never bothered with Pixel-Crime but the irrevocable flow of data had all but erased any trace of the deed. He had some hardcore soft though, millitary. A residual trace revealed an ugly grind-hack. The console jockey only knew one place in town you could get a piece like that. It was time for some flesh work at the Mule Vat.

The cyborg goon at the counter air-cleaned a stimchip. Tracer found it ironic that such a clean little piece of circutry could contain such filth. The dive had proven to be a dead end. Suddenly, a proximity alarm flashed in the bottom of his HUD. he turned around quickly. Thlick, his flechette was deployed. The two Joeboys were huge. Grafted muscle and juiced up nerves made them imposing. It was their nanite edged katana's said he'd go peacefully. He did. He was no stim-freak. They led him outside and forced him into the back seat of a Fujuki grav-cruiser. Nothing a few hits of Seratonin wouldn't fix.

Despite the chem he was edgy when they let him out of the cruiser.
"Thanks for the lift. What the fuck is this all about?"
A large fist, brass grafted under the skin, knocked his breath away.
He was left in a dark, water damaged room. A static EMP blocked most of his mods and prevented any comm with his deck. Ozone. The hum of a gravity well. He was near the spaceport.
The door opened with a hiss. The cyber ninja had been prepared for almost anything. A shock went down his spine. In walked Tracer. No... a shimmer. It was a holodrone.
"So...We meet again Mr. Jones."
"I don't think I've had the pleasure. I'm sure I'd remember such a handsome face."
"Save your wit for an entity that can appreciate it. I was far more...digital, then. An AI you almost fragged with your fancy hacker antics? Never mind. It doesn't matter now. Soon you'll be flatlined on chem stims. It'll look like a suicide. HA HA HA."
"But why did you frag the dude, What's he got to do with you?
"HA HA HA. There was no murdur! It is a small matter for a being like me to plant evidence in I-Space or to commandeer a meat puppet like the girl. Foolish meat tube!"
Damn! Tracer was furious. How could he be fooled so easily?
"This meat tube has a final request."
"Oh! How novel! I suppose you will ask for your deck, just to send a few goodbyes?"
The holodrome leaned in close, his hand passed through Tracers face.
"Hey man. I know you're no goon. I just want a few packets of Toungue Ticklers. I always loved those things."
The AI was amused. Tracer got a minute with the nanite candies. All he needed.

The stims entered Tracer's vein tap like ice cold water. For a minute he thought it wasn't going to work. He foamed at the mouth and he passed out. The Joeboys left him for dead, the holodrom had already flipped. Tracer slowly got up. Alive. He was still alive. The nanites from the candy were designed to make flavour chemicals. It had been no easy task to reprogram them to break down the stims. Ten thousand creds now seemed like a reasonable price for a nano-interface. Quick tap into I-Space, a visit to an old mainframe. It was the easiest hack in the book to melt it down. The AI was disolved into whatever esoteric digital pieces he had been made from.

Tracer was up. Nerves still good. Creds in the bank. Not a bad piece of buisness. Never a bad days work for a console ninja.

A Vision

As I drive along a current strikes through me. Indescribable. Like a flame piercing my heart. Like a thread that connects me to each and every other person in the world is plucked and hums. Sweet and long and true. My mind is forever altered. I pull over hastily. Traffic has stopped as more people poor from their vehicles. I moan and I cry. My heart has never felt such loving. Like meeting the love of your life a thousand thousand times all at once. As I rise, my eyes brimming over with tears I see more people overcome. Some whoop, some dance, most like me break into tears.
People poor out into the streets. A riot. A riot of peace. People sing and dance into the night. They feel no tiredness, no hunger, no thirst.
All over the world, people drop their guns, their hatred, like it is feces. They feel ashamed but they are soon overwhelmed by the new conciousness and are happy again.
Some try to hate but it is a struggle, like swimming upstream. The current has been reversed. Together we swim towards the light.
Over time the celebrations end. People return to their homes, some with new lovers, some with new families. All forever changed. Overtime the feeling fades but we are permanently altered. The shackles have been cremated by the heat of our Metta.
Together we reach out towards the planet and heal it.
Together we reach out towards the stars and give them this gift we have recieved.
The human cycle is over and we have overcome all odds. We are a shining example to every being in the universe. We are one.
This is my vision of the revolution.

Wildfire.

Same Story, Different Pile: Generic Fantasy

Tarrger Son of Jayones was a large man. Large even for his tribe who were known for their strength and bravery. He missed his family and the mountains but all young men must forge their own paths in this cruel world and the bustling city of Khaiursrun was as good a place as any to do so. His keen ears caught the sound of feet approaching his small dwelling. The door opened. At the sight of the fair maiden he lowered his mighty axe and clung tightly to his tankard of scree. Though beautiful she was, the barbarian had a bad feeling about her. She was as beautiful and slender as a mountain stream. Her large hazel eyes shone with pools of tears and her lips trembled as she spoke:
"Please kind barbarian...I seek your help!"
Tarrger drank deeply from his flask. He was weary but by his code was sworn to help any mortal seeking aide.
She spoke again: "Oh cruel fates...My lover. He hast pulled his last breath!"
The barbarian was moved to pity by her sobs and by her plight. He gave a cursury look at the large bag of silver she placed on the table before securing it in his furs.
"I shall grant you any assistance I can, mylady"
At length she explained her woeful tale. It was an ancient story, a gamblers debt, a jealous comrade, long daggers in moonless nights. Tarrger listened carefully and picked up his axe. Together they rode to a small home, where the lover was felled. The village guards had removed the body and servants had cleaned the room thouroughly. They did not possess the heightened senses of a Oyamur mountain man though and Tarrger soon found an overlooked morsel. A strong dusting of Sophillo's weed, that horrible but adictive substance, littered the bedside table. Tarrger knew that there was only one tavern in the city that sold the cursed plant: the Asses Behind.

The tavernkeep swabbed at a tankard with a greasy cloth. It served little but to spread the grime around. He had found no assistance at this ill-reputed hovel but his foolish questioning had attracted the attention of two enourmous, stone-skinned trolls. His great axe, Hilda, was powerless against such foes, the runes being old and weathered. They dragged him, flailing, to a large black cart, and binding him fast, let him fall on the floor.

He was rested and ready when the cart stopped.
"You troll scum shall rue the day you insulted a son of Jayon..."
The barbarian was silenced by a large fist striking his firmly muscles abdomen. He was left in a small dark, dirty room, sunlight filtering in through a small shuttered window. By the squak of the seagull and the salty tank of the air he knew that this was the port.
Suddenly the door opened and a figure stood silueted in the hazy light. Tarrger was shocked. His arch-nemesis, Rindwince the Brown, wizard of his Magesty's Thaumatic Division cackled, entering the room.
"So we meet again! Tarrger Son of Jayones."
"You shall rue the day Rindwince, rue the day..."
"Hahaha. As full of vim and zest as always...Save your energy. You well need it to fight the wyvern! Silence would bode you well."
"But why, Rindwince? Did you murdur that man?"
"He was a foolish man and a small price to pay, to lure you into the open. The young lady was easy to influence, a simple spell to send her to a barbarian hero."
Yarrger was furious that he had fallen into such a simple trap.
"By the rights of Quandalure you are forced to grant me a final boon!"
The wizard leaned closely. Tarrger could smell his fetted breath.
"Damnation you are right! Well...what is it...what cursed thing could you want?"
"What I should love most of all is to write my final epic poem, their being no bard to record it for me. A parchment and some ink is all I ask."
He granted the barbarians request, as the rigid decree of the Gods foreswore.

The wyvern was ferocious and brutal, but the runes newly tattooed on Tarrger's thick, muscular thighs protected him against all attack. Soon they would fade in power but for now the fresh blood and ink were strong with ancient majiks. Tarrger at last won and slew the wyvern. Thus elated by glory of the kill, it was a small task to capture Rindwince. The wizard's majiks were enfeabled after summoning the large beast. He would rot for many years in the city's dungeons.

Thus Targerr Son of Jayones defeated the evil wizard and rode from the city of Khaiursrun to find new adventure.

Same Story, Different Pile: Gum Shoe

Trigger Jones. That's what my bills say. My cheques don't though... I don't take cheques. Doesn't pay to be too trusting in my buisness. I'm a private eye, see. I heard footsteps on the stairs. Strange. A two bit detective like me don't see much buisness, unless it's from the wrong end of a gun or the deep end of a bottle. I was holding both when the dame walked in. Before she could open her mouth I knew she was trouble. The lookers always are. She was hot like a cup of coffee in the lap. Her lips looked like they were good at two things and the tears in her big brown eyes told me that they would only be doing one of them: Getting me in a fix.
"Detective...You've gotta help me!"
I took a long pull from the bottle. Here we go again.
"Someone... someone has murdered my husband!"
I can't stand to see a dame cry. I was about to kick her out when she slapped down a pile of green thick as a cop and twice as pretty.
I took another pull.
"I'll see what I can do miss."
She gave me the four-twenty... Insurance fraud, buisness rivalry, the usual crap. I knew she was lying. If she was an honest gal she wouldn't hired me.
I checked out the scene. The men in blue had already wiped it clean. But there are some things they don't teach you in the book. My peepers caught a cigarette butt in the tray. There was only one place you could get a cancer-stick like that. Noway a fancyboy like this stiff would frequent the Mule's Ass.

The bartender spitshined a shorty. No matter how much you wipe a glass like that it aint never gonna come clear. Like this case it seemed. This shithole was a dead end. Seems I asked too many questions though. A couple of toughs, ugly as rhino's and just about as big gently escorted me to a waiting Ford Lincoln. Real nice guys, they barely hit me at all. It was their gloks that did most of the talking though. They took Izzy, my 38 specsh and threw me in the trunk. Hell, by now it's as comfy to me as a fucking vibrating lazy boy.

I was puffing Camel's finest when they opened the trunk.
"Thank's boys, park it around back. And watch the paint!"
My mouth earned my gut a five set of brass fingers.
I was handcuffed to a chair, a bare bulb making shadow puppets on the water damaged walls. I heard the five o'clock crosstown rumble by and smelled the air. The docks. How cliche.
I wish I could say I was surprised when she walked in.
"So we meet again Trigger."
"That's Mr. Jones to you sweetheart."
"Save it for the fishes, you two bit rent-a-cop hack. You're just here to buy a pair of cement sneakers. So you can keep that ugly mug of yours shut!"
"You look awful pretty when you're angry missy. Whats a broad like you doing mixed up in a half-baked plot like this?"
"My asshole husband was worth a lot of fur coats. He's feeding worms and soon thanks to your 'confession' and mysterious disappearance it'll be a closed case."
Damn. And I played the patsy. A pretty face'll get me every time.
"Do I get a last wish?"
She leaned in close. I could smell her cheap perfume and minty breath. Her hand made my heart do a polka when she put it on the meat and spuds.
"Anything you want." She whispered.
For a sore moment I was tempted. Nah, plenty of broads, but only one Trigger.
"I dint get a chance to read todays paper. Gotta check if the mets won."
She backed away all huffy like. I got my paper though and a few minutes alone with it.

The water was cold like my ex-wife. The cement dragged me down. I wasn't too worried. When all the cheap newsprint disolved my shoes fit two sizes too big. A smart wiggle here, a tug there. Free as can be. Never liked those licks anyway. Always were a little loose. I was glad that the paper had come in a plastic bag. My tape recorder would be nice and dry. Looks like the dame would be grinding plates in the big iron monkey-house come next week.

The pretty ones is always looking for trouble. And when they try to put one over on ol' Trigger theys gonna find it.

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