A Cynical Hallows' Eve To You, Sir.

This Hallowe'en, as you clothe yourself in the garb of mankind's imagined horrors, consider that you, and your neighbors, and your friends, and your family are already horror incarnate--we all, each of us, are the living dead. From the first gasping breaths we take as infants, already are we corpses; each further breath is the steady beat of the metronome, stealing away our hours.

Consider too the way man treats his brother: with violence, envy, greed, hatred, apathy. The gore-greedy ghoul only eats of flesh, but man himself--the far greater horror--swallows up his neighbor's soul, consumes the essence of his very being, which mankind does, not because he starves, but because his pettiness so gladly gluts itself on the diminishment of others.

Remember also the vampyre, who demands blood only to preserve its dark existence. And think then on mankind, who would gladly bathe in his fellows' blood for mere baubles.

Happy Hallowe'en.

Brad(s)

"The real problem with Brad," thought Jillian, "was that he was...well...a Brad."

Brad looked at Jillian with his deep blue eyes. His manly jaw was just showing a bit of scruff. His blond hair, neatly groomed, was perfectly coiffed. He was hopelessly 'Brad'.

"It had been fun at first," Jillian thought, "but now, the salt had lost its savor."

"Brad?" Jillian asked.

"Yes?" responded Brad.

"We're over." And with that, Jillian took up her purse and jacket and left the restaurant, where they had been dining.

Brad looked sadly at Jillian as she walked away from his table, and out the restaurant door.

"Ah well," thought Brad, recovering his good humor, "the waitress has been flirting with me all night..."

Counting Sheep

A sheep stood at the foot of Gerald's bed. Gerald had been counting sheep moments before, as he had for years, as a way to aid him in falling asleep. Never before tonight, however, had a sheep found a way to exit his imagination and impinge upon his reality.

Now, under normal circumstances, Gerald would not be terribly perturbed at finding something had escaped his imagination; in particular, a sheep seemed a rather harmless--if inconvenient--thing to have escape from a place where dwelt limitless terrors. This sheep, however, seemed to have a peculiar, militaristic air that made Gerald a bit nervous.

Gerald quietly catalogued all the things about this particular sheep, which seemed not to correspond with what one normally thought of when one thought of sheep generally. Firstly, the sheep appeared comfortable with bipedal locomotion. Secondly, the sheep wore two bandoliers, making an X across the sheep's chest, which were loaded up with bullets and grenades. Thirdly, the sheep was pointing the muzzle end of a rather powerful looking firearm right at Gerald--all things Gerald couldn't remember sheep having done before.

"Excuse me," Gerald said politely, having decided this sheep was not one who would have responded kindly to a more insolent or accusing tone, "might I offer you any assistance?"

The sheep's reply was rather curt, "Pastoralism is back, Motherf@#$er!"

And with that, the well-armed sheep left Gerald's room, leaving Gerald to puzzle over what had just happened.

Translation: Riddle From the Exeter Book

The following bawdy riddle comes to us from the Anglo-Saxons. I hope you enjoy:

Ic eom wunderlicu wiht, wifum on hyhte,
neahbuendum nyt. Nængum sceþþe
burgsittendra nymþe bonan anum.
Staþol min is steapheah; stonde ic on bedde,
neoþan ruh nathwær. Neþeþ hwilum
ful cyrtenu ceorles dohtor,
modwlonc meowle, þæt heo on mec gripeþ,
ræseþ mec on reodne, reafaþ min heafod,
fegeþ mec on fæsten. Feleþ sona
mines gemotes seo þe mec nearwaþ,
wif wundenlocc—waet biþ þæt eage.

A wondrous wight am I: a woman’s joy,
A neighbor’s profit. I do no scathe
To any bourgeois, save he be my slayer.
My trunk is of precipitous height.
When in a bed, I stand.
And somewhere down there,
I’m covered in hair.

Every now and then,
The brazen daughter of some rustic
—a ravishing minx indeed—
Dares seize me; she throttles me till I turn red,
Rifles my head, then holds me fast.
Soon this lass (who wears her hair in braids)
feels me coming, which causes me to contract.
A tear wets her eye. What am I?

Yeshua, Necromancer: A Beginning

Yeshua the Nazarene stood, arms stretched outward at right angles to his trunk, in the center of an inscribed pentagram. Sweat glistened on his body, beading and running in rivulets down the length of his torso. He was naked save for a linen loincloth, tightly wrapped around his groin. Tattooed rows of cuneiform wedges and bizarre hieroglyphics snaked their way across arms, legs, back and chest. None who were uninitiated in the ways of necromancy could have followed the meaning of these arcane glyphs, which contained spells of summoning and dispelling, protection and destruction.

His head was tilted back. His staring eyes were glazed over with inward concentration, seeing nothing in the realm of the living, nor the dead. All his sight was concentrated in the planes between life and death, where none but demons and their brethren dwell. From his throat came an eldritch concatenation of alternating sibilants and gutturals--the sounds of some ancient, long-dead, hierophantic language.

He was marshaling all his necromantic skill, attempting to summon the greater demons--those whom Elohim had cursed, who had brought divine knowledge to mankind contrary to the great god's will: Azaz’el, Kokarer’el, Tam’el and Asder’el. Yeshua tasted each demon's name on his tongue, each feeling like an unholy and unctious film. Never had Yeshua attempted to bind so many demons to his will, and never demons of such illimitable power. But his entire life had been a preparation for this moment---he would never taste death like his fellows. He sought nothing no less grand than usurpation of God's powers in Heaven. Where Helel, had failed, Yeshua would surely succeed.

Harold Is Offended

Pesky Egyptians

Satan Never Gets Sundays Off

Evicted

Prince Charming looked around one last time at the posh, extravagantly furnished suite that had been his only home since his childhood.

He thought about the parties and balls he had staged below, in the grand hall--attended by fairies and mortals alike. He loved the flirting, and the excess. He thought about the houses made of candy, and the elves, and unicorns and talking beasts. Then he looked down at the eviction notice that lay on the table.

"Farewell," he sighed and wheeled his luggage down his tower's steps and into the courtyard of his castle home.

He would now have to move across Rainbow Bridge, to the Dark Forest--the bad part of the Magical Kingdom. There dwelt the witches, goblins, and dwarfs of ill-repute.

A bitter thought now came to him: Sure this was a fantastic fairyland, full of enchantment and wonder; but it was for that very reason the rents were so high. So high, in fact, that even a prince couldn't afford them.

Hunter/Prey

"If you will not give to me willingly your heart, I shall take it for myself!" shouted Thomas, who had just been turned down by his too sober prey. Prey, for he was a hunter of hearts, and when his prey escaped him, he become quite enraged.

The woman, his prey, the object of his most recent desire, could not be so easily conquered by his--admittedly-- not inconsiderable charm. She was only too wary of men of that type. Her husband, late husband, had been the similarly dispositioned; she just couldn't handle the stress of a second murder so close to her first.

One Word Film Review: Appaloosa

What?

Through The Door

Jonathan stepped through the doorway into his home and called out, "I'm home, but not in the way that you're thinking."

Tagline

When infinity beckons, who shall answer its summons?

Notes 12:04 A.M.

I realized today (though it is should be self-apparent), that it is possible to think logically within an illogical construct, e.g. religion.

Translation: Eichendorff's 'Mondnacht'

This poem, its images of peace, I have found to be calming. I hope you enjoy.

Es war, als hätt' der Himmel
Die Erde still geküßt,
Daß sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nun träumen müßt'.

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,
Die Ähren wogten sacht,
Es rauschten leis die Wälder,
So Sternklar war die Nacht.

Und meine Seele spannte
Weit ihre Flügel aus,
Flog durch die stillen Lande,
Also flöge sie nach Haus.

It was as if Heaven silently
Kissed the Earth,
So that now, in blossoming lustre,
The Earth would have to dream of Heaven.

Wind blew through the fields--
Gently waved the ears of grain,
The forests whispered softly,
The clear night brimmed with stars.

And my soul stretched
wide its wings,
Flew through the quiet land
As if it were flying home.

Notes 10:38 P.M.

When one considers the unrestrained ruttishness of satyrs, and their abilities to deceive man by magically altering their form--not to mention their generally superior pan-flute abilities--it surprises me that more satyr- and demi-satyr children aren't born to human mothers. I should also mention that I find this disappointing. Nothing is quite so endearingly cute as newborn satyrlings.

Nostalgia Based Humor: A Distillation

Comedian: "Remember X thing that used to be quite popular?"

[Audience laughs to indicate that, yes, they do in fact remember suggested thing].

Comedian: "I know, right? What were we thinking?"

[More audience laughter, to indicate general assent that X thing was, in fact, bizarre].

The Supernumerary Chocolate

A corpulent old man greedily tore open his sampler-box of twelve chocolates.

"Delicious," he said, then smacked his lips together juicily.

Eying each piece, he mentally cataloged their various shapes, fillings, and colors and matched them to their corresponding positions and types on the chart which accompanied the box of chocolates. When this had been executed to his satisfaction, the old man extended his hand to pluck from the box his first selection. But then, he seemed to change his mind. The old man pulled his hand away from the box, as a look of puzzlement crept across his features.

"What is this?" the man said, "How can this be?"

Frenziedly, he counted the chocolates, pointing a thick finger at each as he did. "Thirteen!" he shouted, then counted again, and again--each time comparing his count with the count listed on the lid of the box. Each time--his frustration growing--he arrived at thirteen pieces of chocolate, which strongly contradicted the 'twelve' printed upon the chocolates-box.

Seething with rage, he cursed at the chocolates; at the manufacturers who could have produced such a deception--but, at last, the old man realized that he could do nothing.

Notes 9:00 P.M.

How many '#1' new shows in their respective genres can there be?

Sun and Moon

Bear, Fox, and Rabbit

Bear awoke from a particularly pleasant dream, only to find that his snout was covered in blood. Carefully probing his mouth for any wounds, and examining his his skin through his thick, brown fur, he could find no reason why his snout should be bloody. "Maybe I should ask Fox and Rabbit to help me solve this mystery," said Bear. On his way out the door, he discovered Fox and Rabbit. They were dead and half-consumed. "Now who could have killed Fox and Rabbit?" thought Bear.

Vegetable Intelligence 2

Vegetable Intelligence 1

Diggory Priest: Milliner

Diggory Priest had been a milliner in England--as had his father before him--before he had joined up with that new and exciting sect, the Separatists (who disdained the freewheeling antics and popery of the Puritans). He suffered with the Separatists their persecutions in England, then Holland, all the while doing what he did best: making hats.

When at last, it seemed, in Holland, that the identity of the Separatists would be subsumed by Netherlandish customs and language, the leaders of the Separatists decided that the time was nigh to journey forth to the New World--to the North American Continent--and there to found a colony of like-minded and culturally English souls. Diggory Priest, ever a loyal parishioner, followed the Separatists to a place that would come to be called Plymouth.

On the boat, which for three months braved storm and terror, he had made his hats. There, in Plymouth, the hardships which beset these pilgrims were immense; but, unconcerned through it all, was Diggory Priest. Once the pilgrims had landed and settled a bit, Diggory had set up shop. From the window of his small, one room cabin, he sold his wares. In Plymouth he made hats of all sorts: big hats, small hats, stylish hats, practical hats, and even buckle hats--no hat was too humble nor too extravagant--and each he made with masterful precision and care. Whether or not a market for hats would exist in this new world did not seem to concern him; to make hats was his trade, and he would practice it till the end of time--God willing.

Everyday, the other pilgrims, on the way to their labors, passed by his shop and asked, "Brother Diggory, in our labors today, can we expect thee to aid us?" And Diggory would always answer, "No. For who, then, would make the hats?"

Indeed. For if not he, then who?

Dr. Von Soest Commands His Pets

Perks That Should Be Granted All Atheists: An Essay

Every now and then in life, one will likely be confronted with a person who lacks any patience. Now, speaking for myself, I am a very patient person, which isn't or shouldn't, perhaps, be expected of someone like me: an atheist. That's right, I'm an atheist. I don't believe in a 'higher power', at least not one that influences the universe in any meaningful way. I also don't believe, nor do I expect, an afterlife. Thus, it is my belief that all the time I have, I have here on earth; no eternity of heaven or hell stretches out before me, extending my life (or existence) beyond any mortal imagining. Because of this, I think that I, and my fellow atheists, should be allowed first-sies at pretty much everything. After all, we don't have as much time to waste (70 or so years), as those who do believe in an afterlife (FOREVER). That means card-carrying atheists should be whisked to the fronts of every line; they should have special customer service numbers, which, when called, will connect them directly to a customer service operative, and will never be placed on hold; clubs and restaurants should only serve or seat other patrons if the atheists have already been helped; etc., etc.. Also, anyone out there who does believe in an afterlife, they should be extremely patient with us atheists while we get to do everything first; after all, they have eternity.

Beards Meet

Pope Plancus I

Translation: Catullus, Carmen #5

This passionate poem is one of the most widely read and translated of Catullus, and so I thought I would give it a go myself in translating it, and here it is, the original Latin, then my translation:

Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus inuidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,

And let us value all the gossip of grave old men at a single penny!

Suns can die and be reborn;

But once this brief flame dies,

There is but eternal, slumbering night.

Give me a thousand kisses, then one hundred,

Then a thousand more, then a second hundred,

Then again and again a thousand more, then an hundred!

And then, when we have given many thousands,

We shall tumble them all up, that we shan’t know their number,

Lest some unlucky soul be envious,

If he but knew how many kisses we shared.

Columbus Day: New Bad Stuff About Columbus!

Telekinesis: Gateway Drug?

Many know my opinion on telepathy (I'm against it), but I have recently been asked to put in my two cents concerning telekinesis. I'm not against telekinesis per se, but I have known many current telepaths, who have gotten their start with telekinesis. Telekinesis starts one off working with powers forbidden man by the very gods, so that's already a strike against it. When one's 'telekinesis-buzz' wears off, or becomes dissatisfying, often telepaths seek out powers even more forbidden man by the gods; powers that give one stronger, more powerful highs--like the kinds telepathy offers. Once you begin to be a telepath, there's almost no path out again from that lifestyle (save death by my hands). So, if your going to get involved in telekinesis, be careful that it doesn't turn into something that I hate, like telepathy.

Notes 2:44 P.M.

Someday, our robot successors will take courses at the university like, 'Human Studies 101.'

Notes 2:26 P.M.

As the holiday season approaches, I would like to make a suggestion that to the Stations of the Cross, be added 'Jesus drinks a Coke.' Not only is this new station historically and biblically sound, a cross-promotion with Coca-Cola will do for Jesus what Coke has already done for Santa Claus.

Jimmy and the Ham

Gary and the Slaughterhouse

Merlin's Idol

Who Shrunk My Stegosaurus?

End

"Where you going?" a mother asked her son.

"War," said he.

"I shall prepare a shroud."

Waste Not

A dung beetle sat, perching inconspicuously on the toilet paper dispenser of a public restroom, waiting to vent his indignation at what he considered a rather senseless waste of a vital resource. Now this dung beetle was painfully aware of what people thought of him, and was embarrassed that he and his race had fallen so far in man's esteem.

"The Egyptians," thought the dung beetle, "revered us. Treated us with the proper respect. O scarabs, how the mighty have fallen!" And so he sat, seething and loathing himself and the position to which he and his kin had been reduced. "Harassing people in the men's restroom--pitiful."

Now, the dung beetle hadn't been waiting very long when an unwilling ear for him to assail entered into the cabin which the dung beetle was occupying. The dung beetle waited for the man to settle himself and begin (to put it delicately) and then he piped up, "Hey you!"

If you think it would be disconcerting to find, well, first of all, a large and grotesque insect in your toilet stall, and then, if that same insect began speaking to you in a rather aggressive manner; well, then your reaction would be the same as that of the gentleman whom the dung beetle was now addressing:

"Whaaaa? What are you doing in here!" the restroom patron shouted, shifting on his seat wildly and violently flailing his arms.

"You're just going to waste that, aren't you?" said the dung beetle, gesturing in a manner that left no doubt as to what he was referring.

"Well..." said the man, regaining some of his composure, "I, uh, well..."

"That's what I thought," said the dung beetle. "You people are all the same."

"Well...uh...what about sanitation? Yes, that's it, sanitation. It is supremely hygienic to flush," said the man, who was becoming more confident as the shock of being spoken to by a large bug diminished.

"Look," said the dung beetle, "that stuff you so casually dispose of is my kids' home."

"Well, can't you live on a farm or something?"

"Yeah, right. Insecticide, anyone?"

"What about one of those organic farms?"

"Yeah, for a dung beetle those places are quite nice, but who can afford it?"

"Well...," said the man, who had just realized that he knew very little about the financial pressures imposed upon the dung beetle community, "...I think I'm leaving."

"Yeah, run away, but I hope you learned a little something!"

The man left the stall, and the dung beetle sat, waiting for his next victim.

Two Word Film Review: Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist

Very satisfying.

NEWSFLASH: World's Happiest Man Dead

One Eye Less

Laugh While You Can

A secret society had existed for time immemorial to protect a document, transcribed in Sumerian cuneiform—though not written in that language, being written, rather, in language whose antiquity can hardly be imagined in mortal terms—whose contents comprised a sketch comedy piece so blasphemous, so incendiary and, of course, so hilarious that were its contents ever performed or read aloud, or even whispered into the hollow of a tree, then the world would rend itself into a thousand pieces, and the great cracks formed therefrom would swallow up the heaving oceans, and all life on the earth would face almost certain extinction.

Now, some history of this supremely dangerous document may here be useful in elucidating to the uninitiated the raw awesomeness of its power. It is said that the great comedist of Atlantis, Pharcicles, wanting for material for his newest piece, incorporated three of its jokes into his play—which had been stolen some centuries before by one unworthy to guard them—and had any survived the cataclysm which followed the performance of them, the play would have had smashing reviews for his daring, if plagiarized, humor.

It is also said that Jesus—though, admittedly, this tale may be entirely apocryphal—on the cross at Calvary, being himself a member of that sacred order which had been sworn to keep safe the hidden contents of aforementioned document, began to speak its opening lines, causing the earth around Jerusalem to begin to quake, until a quick-thinking Roman centurion, also sworn to the document’s protection, pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, thus ending the Poor-Sport’s parting shot of revenge.

Though many other tales could be related concerning the power of this strange relic, let us continue forward till the present day. Elvin Greaves, twenty-five years of age, had just been initiated into the order whose duty was as described above—to protect from the world the most awesome and terrible piece of comedy ever conceived. The burden was immense, but Elvin bore it well. That is, he bore it well until terrorists kidnapped his grandma and girlfriend.

* * *

THE ENSUING HILARITY SHATTERED THE WORLD.

Can Their Love Last?

One Word Film Review: Be Kind Rewind

Preposterous.

Sultan/Sultana

God Learns About The Dry-Cleaners

Unexpurgated Bible Tales: John 8:1-11

Jesus, the self-appointed Christ, was hanging out at the Mount of Olives, waiting for some action. He didn't have to wait long, for some Pharisees (crafty bastards), knowing Jesus dug hanging out among the olive trees, soon brought to Jesus an adulteress.

"Look here," one of the Pharisees intoned, with a nasal and whiny voice, "we have brought you an adulteress; we have caught in her in the very act. Hee Hee!"

Another of this posse of Pharisees piped in, "Moses, at whose wizened teat we suck forth every drop of wisdom says, that this lady is in need of a serious stoning. What say you to that, Rabbi?"

Jesus, ignoring the obvious questions (you voyeuristic bastards!), said nothing, but crouched down and began doodling in the sand. The drawings were very lewd, and everyone began to become embarrassed.

"Well...," one of the Pharisees eventually said, "...are you going to answer?"

Jesus rose from his crouch, then spoke: "I'm down with the law of Moses, man, but I ask that he who is without sin cast the first stone, then everyone else can join in." Jesus then stooped down again, and began to doodle.

Well, no one wanted the first in, because of the unpleasant fact that none of the group was sinless enough to take up the first stone--none save one.

Jesus, having finished a particularly salacious nude, at last stood, rock in hand and said, "I guess I'm going to have to get this party started."

Harmony = Tyranny?

This morning I found myself listening to a sermon from a deputy of certain Christian denomination. The orator of this particular broadcast was describing a Christian utopia, Heaven, wherein all exist in peace and harmony, reigned over by God and Christ. As I listened, I became overcome with a creeping horror. This appointed proxy of deity described a place where all the diversity of thought, custom and opinion which exists in human society at present, would be vanished, replaced with sterile and uniform agreement. Admittedly, on earth these differences in opinion and custom sometimes become violent and this is unfortunate. However, trying to imagine such a wretched conformity boggles my mind. All that is 'I', it seems, would, as a surgeon removes a tumor, be cut from me, wrenched from my very being. This Heaven seems a grim and terrible place.

I can imagine this Heaven being completely silent, for, all having the same mind, what would there be to discuss? Then, in our silence, God or Christ would reveal their presence to us as the rising sun, and we, the lucky souls who passed their sadistic trials on earth, would, in unison, with a single voice, sing out praises to the Rulers of Heaven.

To me it is with strange and incomprehensible that any should consider this fate a desirable one. A place where all live in harmony? Only a tyrant would claim or desire such a thing.

If The Shoe Fits...

...wear it.

(Of course, more properly this should be in the subjunctive: 'If the shoe fit, then wear it.' Sometimes of course, the shoe doesn't fit, and so you should probably find a different pair, maybe a more comfortable pair, unless your occupation requires something more formal, which tend toward being less comfortable).

The Shoveler

A King Is Born

God felt an enormous pressure, and then an unimaginable coldness.  

"There.  That wasn't so bad," God tried to say, but found his voice was no longer under his control; he could only hear a shrill crying, and, as through a membrane, he became aware of a confused and traumatized consciousness.  "I don't understand," thought God, as he tried to upright himself and found that he had no control over the limbs of the infant child in which he was apparently trapped.  Were there walls to this self-imposed prison, God would have beat against them.  "This wasn't supposed to happen!" God roared, though none could hear his cry.

*  *  *

A pretty peasant girl comforted her newborn infant, looking into his eyes.  "Yeshua, the angel said.  His name shall be Yeshua."

Movie Idea: The Cop's Pooch

I just had this amazing idea for a movie.  It's a movie in the classic buddy cop vein.  The main protagonist is a cop, of course, but his 'buddy' are the urn-interred ashes of his former canine drug-sniffing dog!  Now, hilariously, the local mob boss (or, more likely, one of his lackeys) somehow manages to mix up some incriminating evidence in the urn containing the dog's ashes (or perhaps, an urn that looks exactly the same).  Comedy gold is then achieved as the bumbling mob agents attempt to reclaim the evidence from the container, all while the cop is trying to go across America, to scatter the ashes of his dear departed friend in the one place he and his pooch loved best in all the world.  I can't imagine this film not working.

Addendum: I realized another angle could be achieved if the dog were a ghost, that could only be seen by the cop, though the ghost could affect things in the physical realm (slobbering or biting, for example).

Ice Cream

Harold and the Hammer

The Reaper: Will He Ever Get A Rest?