Tag: weird

Writing Practice – 3/18/2019

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Last night I dreamed…

Last night I dreamed I was sleeping (yes, sleeping) with my girlfriend on a couch, and she was in her bra and panties. I know because I was trying not to walk her, even though I was slipping my hand inside her bra, to hold her boob. I like to hold that. But she did wake up. I think I didn’t want to wake her up because I had this feeling that she didn’t know she was where she was, or didn’t know I was there, or something.

Anyway, after she realizes I’m there, we have a little bit of time to snuggle, then we hear sounds. Turns out the place we were sleeping in was like the back room of a dentist’s office, or a medical office, or something. People started moving around and opening doors and getting papers ready, so we decided to leave. I was worried about her being exposed but she had a full suit of clothes on. I did too.

We went out and ran into some kind of professional group. I ran into someone who knows me, and he covered for me by saying, loudly, “Sorry to miss you at our golf game this morning!” I guess I had been caught not going. I believe lying there with someone else was more important than anything else, so I guess that’s why I tried to stick around. *

But it wasn’t really a golf game I’d missed, it was planning for an assasination attempt on the Canadian Prime Minister. We were supposed to be pretending it was a simulation, because I’d been hired by the Canadian government to help them brainstorm possible assasination attempts, so they could prepare for them and create contingency plans.

That said, I had also been hired by the Japanese to take out the Canadian Prime Minister, or had turned spy, or something. I’m not even Canadian, or Japanese, so I’m not sure why either of them would have showed up.

So we continue fake / real assasination plans, and as we went along, I had a briefcase of Canadian bills, hundreds, which amounted to something like a million Canadian dollars. I was planning to switch briefcases, not for an empty one, or even one with other money. I was going to put my old underwear in, a la The Big Lebowski.

So my underwear was all dirty, so I needed to wash some. While washing my underwear I got a call from the operations expert in Japan. But now he’s actually in New Zealand. He tells me we can’t go forward, at least not with him paying me, so they’ll have to back out. I say, that’s okay, I’ll sell the story to The Guardian.

I decided to go there on my own. I grab my bicycle and start to bike across the ocean to London, where The Guardian’s headquarters are. I see some whales and seals and dolphins way out in the ocean. They’re friendly.

I get rained on, but the rain is not water, it’s Ocean Spray, the Cranberry Mist juice, or whatever.

I change my clothes once I get to the other side. Don’t want to show up to my wedding smelling like cranberries and whale backwash, do I? Turns out, it’s not my wedding, but my best friend from elementary school, whom I haven’t seen in 30 years. I ‘m there to stop his wedding, because she’s not good enough for him. But on my way to the church I get distracted by a pub that’s showing the Rugby World Cup.

I go in to have a pint, and end up staying three hours. When I come out it’s dark and the fireworks are going off – they’re celebrating July 4th as well. I’m a little confused. They tell me that they celebrate American Independence because they’re actually glad to be rid of us. I start to prepare a defense then get interrupted by Kermit the frog’s live stage adaptation of The Vagina Monologues.

Weird, right?

***

* Note – Everything up to this point was real. I really had that dream. After is just stuff I made up, to see how weird of a world I could make.

Writing Practice 2/27/2019

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What is this? See YouTube video:

Something Strange This Way Comes

This is a single sperm of a gigantic rubber monster. It’s about 600 feet tall, and it lives generally in the Amazon rainforest. Last month it was on a multi-national trek, on a press tour or something, and it got kind of antsy. The handlers realized something was wrong, so they jerked it off. These things are the result. They spew out ten million at a time, and when this one here was blown up into the air it caught the attention of an eagle, who mistook it for a fish. The eagle grabbed it in its talons, and returned to its nest, whereupon it found that there was no way in hell that that was a trout or a bass. Instead of returning to the jungle where it was caught, the Eagle simply dumped the rubber sperm over the side of its nest, where it fell to the ground a couple of hundred feet below, then tumbled down a hillside and landed in a stream. This is all in Mexico, remember, because that eagle has quite a wide territory.

Well, about three days of floating in this stream, the rubber sperm ends up in a larger river, which ends up in a larger river, which eventually ends up in the ocean, in the Gulf of Mexico. Now, this wouldn’t be so bad, except the giant rubber sperm got caught in a blue whale’s mouth as it opened and sucked in [illegible] to capture & eat plankton. That’s all well and good, and would have been fine, except that this rubber sperm didn’t dissolve in the whale’s stomach, and was, in fact, shat out by the whale two days later.

You know what’s gross? Sharks eat whale poop. Yeah, they do. Not on purpose. But they do. So there was a whole colony of sharks following our hero whale with the rubber sperm in its tummy, and when the whale had a massive bowel movement those dudes went crazy; They sucked up all the little half-digested-whale shit they could, and this thing ended up in one of them. Not that bad, really – we find sharks with license plates and buoys in them, for Pete’s sake. But anyway, the shark was going on his merry way, enjoying the Gulf of Mexico, when all of a sudden the producer of Sharknado decided they needed some realism. So they got an artificial typhoon maker and sucked up ten million gallons of water, including our friendly rubber sperm-infused shark. Then they took this artificial dumping ground to Nebraska, no, North Dakota, and dropped it into a tornado, and filmed SharkNado 5 – The SharkPocalypse.

All was well and good until the shoot wrapped, and then the sharks were free to go. One of them decided to make his way to New York to become a dancer, a few went into investment banking, and a couple got married. Our special little guy, though, ended up traveling down the Mississippi River, until he ran smack into Hurricane Ivan, or Whatever it was that hit Texas in 2017. This thing poured a Great Lake’s worth of water on the Mississippi River basin in a day, causing the river to flood. It overflowed all the banks, all the way, inundating all the places. Hell, even out by my house got a foot of standing water, and, unfortunately for the shark, she got caught up in that and stranded on Baxter Road.

She died about three hours later. It took six months, but the scavengers around finally picked off all her flesh, scales, and internal organs, leaving, you guessed it, one Rubber Monster Sperm lying in the gutter, just so I could find it. Isn’t that a coincidence?

Writing Practice – 2/8/2019

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One of your eyes, hands, or feet will be taken as payment to vote in the next election. Do you vote? If so, which do you give up?

Of course I vote. It is not only a civic duty, but there are real consequences for the fact that I have to get out of power whoever it is that has put this policy in place. At this rate, I can only vote 6 times unless something changes, and that’s not a lot. So I’m going to create the “One-Eyed, One-Armed, One-Legged” coalition, and we’re all going to band together and vote for politicians who don’t want that policy to continue.

As for me, first I’d choose to lose my left hand. I write with my right, so I need that. Second preference, 4 years down the road, is that I lose my right leg. I guess maybe I could go left. But that would seem unbalanced, like all my RoboCop is only on one side of me. Because let’s be real, I”m gonna get prosthetics or artificial limbs or something. I could do a lot with that pinch-grabby thing on my non-writing hand, and when it comes down to it, those dudes who run on those fake blade-legs look pretty damn cool.

So – if we don’t get the policy changed after 2 election cycles, I have a big decision to make – Lose an eye, and therefor binocular vision, or one of my remaining really popular appendages? Because, face it, in a market with just one hand, that one becomes much more than twice the value of one in a market where there’s two. I really need hand for doing the stuff I do – putting DVD’s into the player, jerking off, turning down the lights – so I guess I”ll give up a foot before the other hand.

Why, though? Why wouldn’t it be better to lose an eye, and learn to compensate as a full half-a-man, rather than lose the foot and have to either wobble on two blades or get crutches or a wheelchair or something? Maybe because if I lose the other foot, but I can still see really well, I’ll be competent enough to drive a wheelchair, and then I can enter wheelchair runs. I bet I couldn’t do that with only 1 eye and 1 leg. Poor depth perception, I’d probably run off the road into the ditch too many times.

Do kids these day even know what ditches are? Should they? Well, yes, they should, because it’s a thing around them. But do they really understand wha goes on in them? Hell, do I?

How did I get on this topic? Don’t think, don’t get logical. That’s how.

Would I survive the loss of a 4th element of my body just to vote? I’m guessing that by that time, if we haven’t had a large enough groundswell of voting and turnout and momentum to swing the legislature towards the “vote without blood” side, we probably won’t ever win, because by the fourth or fifth time, we’ll have enough people who’ll be like, “damn it, I lost both my eyes voting, I don’t want to let youngsters vote for free,” and so they’ll vote, but they’ll vote for the “pay to vote” candidates. Kind of like a fraternity – once you pay your dues, you don’t want to let freeloaders in. Does this develop a sort of social signaling system, whereby only those who have “sacrificed” in order to vote are viewed as committed enough to the cause to get the good-paying jobs, the management positions, the raises and bonuses? Man, that’s a weird world I have in my head. Hope nobody ever goes in there. They’d come out screaming in terror.

Writing Practice 11/25/2018

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Did you see that?

It was a clown riding by on a bicycle

No, it wasn’t. It was a Halloween costumed kid on a skateboard. He only “looked” like a clown.

No, you’re both wrong. It was Carrot-Top, and he was on roller blades, and he was drinking what appeared to be a pineapple smoothie. I should know, it was in exactly the same cup my grandmother used to get her smoothies in, from that place down on the corner, you know the one, where we used to go and get the three-dollar popsicles.

Oh yeah, those things were so good. I’d have like three a day in the summer. My mom always asked what I was spending my money on, and I would lie and say “Chicks, mom, I gotta buy them stuff to impress them.” And she believed me.

Nah, she didn’t believe you. She knew you were gay before you did.

Did not! Did, too. She even told me once, when we were like eight, not to pick on you because of it.

No she didn’t! Shut your fuck hole, asshole!

Guys! Guys! Hold on!

What?

What?

What?

Did you see that?

Nope. What was it this time?Don’t say another clown. I certainly don’t believe you the first time. I”m not gonna believe you this one.

Nope. Guess again.

Okay, was it a parade of pre-schoolers? You know, where they hold that rope and all walk single file and look like they’re preparing for five to eight at the State Prison?

Nope.

Was it a dog chasing a cat chasing a rat chasing its mate because it was horny and then hungry and then just having fun?

Nope. But I like your style!

Was it a skywriter in the blue, but instead of saying something like “I LOVE YOU HARRIET” or “EAT AT MACAVITY’S”, it was real big blocks, empty squares, kind of like an artificial algebra problem with geometric shapes instead of variables?

Nope. Getting warmer, though.

Was it a worm, shriveled up and hard and flat, squished by too many feet and left alone to rot by the birds because all the good parts had become toughened in the sun?

Yes! How’d you know?

I saw it on my way in.

Did not!

Did too!

No way! Me too!

Alright!

<high fives all around>

Hey guys?

What?

What?

What?

What?

Did you see that?

Writing practice 10/19/2018

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Write about glasses…

They fit on your nose and improve your sight by magic. Because what else could it be? It can only be wizardry of the greatest sort, for how can something virtually invisible have such an effect? Think about it – one little piece of burnt up sand, melted together into a lump and then shaped into a flat disc, can now transform far-away objects to your immediate vicinity, or it can make the things which are close and appear fuzzy into sharp relief. Science? Nah – Just a big mind-fuck. Like, “Take that, intuition! I’m gonna show you what for with this little bit of cold, used-to-be-real-hot rock, because this thing that you can see through is actually going to do something for you, and it’s gonna blow. Your. Mind.”

And we call them glasses, they’re a pair. Two different ones, because we have learned that there are even individual differences between our two eyes. And that one person’s eyes are different from other people’s! Again, this speaks not so much to a history of science, measurement, testing and validation fo theory, and more to the idea that, somehow, maybe some mystical sprites are fucking around with our eyes inside our head, like they’re sticking their little fifth-dimension fingers inside our eyeballs every time we put on the glasses, and they’re adjusting all the dials and levers back there so that our brain gets all the right signals, like a big pipe works, you just got to direct the flow like that over there and like this over here, and all of a sudden voila! Perfecto!

But we can’t do that ourselves, our fingers are too three-dimensional and materialistic to make the [illegible], so we’ve employed, no, we’ve enslaved, we’ve conscripted this entire race of non-human, trans-dimensional beings to come do our work for us, and I wonder if they’re ever gong to get tired of that? Will they one day rise up in revolt, and say “No! No more shall we manipulate your eye sockets! No more shall we present to you a better, sharper picture of the world. no more shall we help you to avoid stumbling over Lego pieces when you’re just barely awake and you’d really rather have a cup of coffee and watch the replay of last night’s Charlie Rose but you are just doing your duty by getting these damn kids up and onto the bus, so you can finally have a morning’s peace around here. No, no more!”

Will they have their revolution then? Will they turn off all the spigots and spouts and rerouters back in our minds as one last FU! before they go? Will we all of a sudden wake up to find we humans have become collectively sightless once more? Now, that would be weird.

Writing Practice – 8/30/2018

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Note – sometimes what comes out when I’m writing really surprises me. This was one of those times.

Myths of Origin, p 75

“Into my reverie bursts the Monkey, turning temple-creature with geometric arms full of sandwiches.”

His stadion radiates a semblance of perfectionary, the image wavers, as if through a desert haze, a mirage of reality, a thinning of the barrier between truth and imaginary. The Monkey, having by virtue of existence, earned his titular M, plays with his titular on the way out. He globules onto the permanence of spasmosticity, inventing new words and arrangements on old themes, transposing and transversing them as easily as a hot knife through ice cream, as deftly as a surgeon at the scalpel.

The MONKEY, monikered now with not only authority but also aggression, begins dismantling his sandwiches in front of me. He un-layers a top half-loaf of bread, then sets aside tomato, lettuce, sardines, a layer of mueslix, and the protein – goat’s tongue, ground up and stuffed inside the goat’s own intestine, flattened and seared so as to make a sandwich patty much like a sausage. I watch MONKEY with prurient interest, enamored with her thin, agile tail, golden and glowing in the moonslights, a reflection of a reflection of the original, and I marvel at the wonders of this universe which allows me to see twice-bounced photons as if the item itself luminesced.

I take off my robe to join MONKEY in its vulnerability. I wonder aloud whether it will join me once all the sandwiches have been autopsied, for that must be what zhir is doing, and therefore I must enjoy the moment, must appreciate the precision, the delicacy, the anticipation fo the coming feast.

So the sandwiches are bare, stripped, lying like skeletons in the moonslights, and I too am naked, flaccid penis hanging proudly down to my knees like so much goat-tongue sausage, before casing and cooking.

I watch MONKEY as it raises arms to the sky. It babbles in MONKEY-SPEAK, and yet my brain immediately translates.

“Bless the land. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the River. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the rain. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the wheat. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the crops. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the air. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the wind. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the Moons. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the Suns. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the humans. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the penis. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the seed. Bless the MONKEY.”

MONKEY drops its arms, takes me by the hand, leads me to the dismembered sandwiches. It stands me astride various piles, my left foot between lettuce and top bun, my right between sausage and bottom bun. MONKEY places a paw on my penis, begins to stroke. MONKEY and I begin the communion, the celebration, the fertilization, the joining of our fates together. My penis becomes erect. MONKEY strokes. It speaks again, but this time my brain allows the words to drift by, uncaptured, free, abandoned to the night.

The climax approaches. My breath comes short, my penis hardens, my pulse quickens. MONKEY strokes harder, intense, tighter. My pleasure maximizes, and I push through to the peak, to the orgasm, to the spilling of the seed, and it erupts out, launches across MONKEY’S PAW to land on lettuce, on tomato, on my foot and MONKEY’S tail, on the ground. MONKEY continues to stroke. To chant. To stare at my eyes. My penis recedes, becomes limp again – I back away when MONKEY releases me.

MONKEY dances atop the dissected ingredients, slick now with my seed, glittering in the moonlight, chanting to echo off the surrounding trees. MONKEY dances, I watch, the earth receives her worship, her spoils, her tribute, MONKEY dances, I retreat, disappear into the forest. MONKEY dances. MONKEY worships. MONKEY tributes. MONKEY lives.