Thursday, December 31, 2009

The Last Cigarette

When I make certain life-changing decisions,
I usually don't mess around. I go massive.
I go huge. I change so much geometry,
biology and so much psychography.

I already showed you that I can act badly,
now it is time for me to show you how I can act well.
Just broke down for a spell, no big deal
and yes your species is still allowed to invent the wheel.

I'm so scared but the scariness is actually fun.
If I get a stomach-ache I'll have my pack of Tum-tums.
The last cigarette is burning away in my fingers
here's hoping it won't ever again in my histories linger.

Schrödinger's Blonde

When philosophers speak of Bertrand Russell
they often bring up how the lioness's mind
must be so completely different than you.

Though she would rather not have it this way,
she certainly will not mind eating you, like a mouse.
Also, she will wake up in the middle of the night,
stare at you

Stare and stare and stair and stare.

"Help me," you cry from the ruins of your mind, "please help."

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

I Suck at Street Fighter Navi

It is all because of you.
Because you left me.
Now I have to go ahead
and SUCK at the Street Fighter II game.

Can't even do a single-finger-emotion,
let alone the Hundred-Hand-Slap.
The buttons are just not fast enough.
Need true Sanwa parts.

What is the sound of one hand clapping again?
| \ -

Actually A Very Nice Fellow

I'm not a good person.
I know, I know
"you gave me *everything*"
But I'm still not good.

Sunday praying guitar with a hand so evil

switch to the component cables.
HDMI hi-def 1080p.
lolz 'p'. as opposed to interlaced.
streetfighter 2 conversion cartridges.

incense, in a sense.

Brain Rotates About 89 Degrees

You are going to h8 at me in the morning.
When I procure some kind of 'flu'
and 'almost' die.

Yes, I already solved the 'flu' problem.
I'm not going to give it to you, though.
Cos you wished me death.

Boredom Access Slot

The Boredom Access Slot
is a place in memory where
you forget.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas

except if you were once defeated by Vega's
sharp claw. Then the access is no longer
a matter of just playing with little masks
but vengeance.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009


This is an old work, written probably in 2005 or 2006 or something, originally here, but renewed anew ... err. I'm going to try to quit smoking again.

(being a variation of psychosis experienced while attempting nicotine discharge from the body. and an homage to that great creator,
mr. pregnant)

I was woken around 3am by the wails of a child in the aisle. Naturally, I tended towards shutting the noise out with my pillow, and was ready to sink again into sleep and strange dreams when my, shall we say, 'maternal' instinct was awoken.

Far be it from me to harbor such instinct, being a well-formed man at the rim of youth - but I always like to leave my senses open and varied to the smells of the universe.

Here it was, then, that I smelt the fear of the screaming child. After a moment's heshitatition (befluffed also by crumbs of dried soymilk profusing from my beard), I picked up my pistol and rose out from my room.

Two women were in the vicinity of the elevator door. From between them, I could see the hint of a handlebar, and the sound of the wailing child. Brandishing my pistol, I courageously approached these foul whores.

"What are you doing with the baby?" I demanded.

They were shocked. No doubt it had not occurred to them that some hero may come to rescue this poor child they were clearly smuggling away.

"Whereforth you steal this child?" I demanded from the one to my right, an elderly crone who may have been named Madame Shcadenfraude.

She gawked. The woman next to her, somewhat younger, yet no less foul in demeanour, tugged at her sleeve. The elevator had arrived. They opened the door and hurried in.

I peered between them to see the baby. Finally - there it was. Sitting in a stroller of pink nature, with lots of - pinkness. It smiled at me. I smiled back at the baby. However, at this juncture the baby started crying again. "Don't worry, baby," I said, "I'll save you!"

The crone tried to shut the door, but I put my hand right in the way, the one holding my pistol, so that it pointed at her head. "No, crone," I said. "Inform me of the whereabouts you intend to impose upon this fine child." I looked at the baby again, and it wailed louder.

"You're going to burn it aren't you?" I exclaimed. "You're going to burn the baby!"

The women gawked.

"You're taking it to the basement and throwing it into the incinerator!"

Eyes wide open, the older woman grabbed the elevator door from my hands and closed it upon themselves. I was surprised by this move and did not have time to fire my pistol.

As I heard the elevator ride down, I beat my hands upon the door. "You will not get away with this! I'm calling the police! I'm calling the police goddamn you and putting an end to this baby burning business!"

I ran back to my apartment, a cold sweat breaking upon me within the 12 steps it takes to get there. What if they reached the incinerator before the police arrived? What if that cute baby which smiled at me was borne unto ashes?" I had promised that I would save it.

Shaking my head, I stamped my way to my desk and picked my phone up. I called emergency services. I dialed 9-1-1. "They're burning babies over here!" I screamed. "Babies - they're being burned!"

I was made to hold for about 35 seconds while they patched me. In.

It was while waiting, then, and rolling my pistol around my finger, that I realized it was actually a chicken bone. A wing piece, attached to the arm as is customary. I remembered that a neighbor of mine owns a child, and due to its wailing on certain nights, takes it out for a stroll to soothe it.

"Sir, are you still there?" came the emergency voice.

"Ah ha ha ha." I said. "No."

Man Goes So Green He Even Recycles Memories

In the dream, I was trying to be so efficient.
Achieve top marks in all areas: Wealth, wine, women,
even be more perfect than any religion or 'God'.

I would recycle keyboard input.
I found a way where by coaxing some of the wires
on the motherboard, common editing software
could be induced to reproduce characters
from works of old.

You didn't have to spend the energy to press any buttons.

I recycled my habits, then recycled my water supply,
in a very literal and bodily manner.
Cos I was living on a fucking island, you see
where the illustrator forgot to add the surrounding ocean.

Woke up musing about a man who was so efficient he even recycles memories.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Wise Men Say

Wise men say,
she'll leave when said.
You can't hope to hang out
with all of us back then.

Take my hand.
Wish you'd been there then.
So cold at the end,
wish it wasn't so, friend.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Christmas Gifts for The Black Adder

Throughout history many have attempted to gift unto one another, spawning a maddeningly wild cacophany of gift lists that now just stream obliviously through the world, having long lost their owners. Every single item in these lists is always so carefully selected, so fawned upon fondly, then seemingly so callously discarded till the next year, when you have to make a new list and have no new ideas. What if the gifts had feelings? Did anybody even try to think about that? In spite of this great personal tragedy, but nevertheless, none are so select as this list, this small, tiny pin-prick of a list of:

Christmas Gifts for The Black Adder

5) Doll house w/ accompanying doll collection of male cock-ups.

4) 2 beans. And 2 more beans.

3) Lady Ponsemby's head (on a pike and presented in Mr. Ploppy's very own cunning fashion).

2) People. Yes, just people. For pushing off ledges. (It's funny).

1) New, shinier, sharper and just plain better codpiece.


"I'm sorry, I only have room
for 1 sci-fic engagement
this year (being timed so

And I spent it all on Paranormal Activity.
Ok, no, I didn't.
Okay, so here is the deal:
Imagine being immersed

In a James Cameron movie like Aliens,
where you get to have a pocket device
that lets you see how close you are
to Newt.

Then, as you approach the vector,
the slimey backgrounds and cold internal pressure
just becomes a full-fledged war
within the Battlestar Galactica universe.

You're like "Newt, Newt!,
but why am I shooting Cylons?"
"Where is the Doctor?"

It would be even funnier
if they just put a button in a tree
where you can go and push it,
then they just tell you where you are.

Shooting Everybody Can Help

When you start off with a new name,
it just isn't the same
oh 'joanna in antartica'
to justify your religion from the start.

Shooting everybody can help
especially if you have to look up kelp
on dictionary dot com.

It's the sound of the whale
eating its ordained slab of krill
enjoying life for what its worth.

In any case, if I somehow fail,
I can just hire a lawyer from Boston
who sounds like Bert.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

ze Chocolate is zo Jocholaty Funny

Hello Andrea, thank you for the email. As a tip, one of the things you have to do in the "gift industry", so to speak, is that you have to be aware that you are in the business of helping customers with their relationships. A relationship is something that might exist at one point, but later it might not. Getting 'follow-up' emails from people in the gift industry after the whole thing has collapsed is not a pleasant experience. It could potentially open up old wounds. This is not how your boss wants to sell the chocolates.

One of the reasons I chose to solicit your company's service is that you deliver to Romania. I recognize, and realize that these aren't the limitations of your services, and perhaps one time in the future, I will use the service to entertain another chocolate requirement :)

As a compensation for being soul-less, I leave you with a piece I wrote some time ago about the soul.

"Dude yoo can't fuck with that guy. He does stunts with his fucking *soul*," said a Kris Kristofferson lookalike.

"He'll end up like Evel," worried his nerd buddy. "Washed out and toothless in a Home for people without teefs."

The performer climbed up the tower. On the way, everybody loved him, passing flowers and chocolates and he progressed. "Wot," would say a girl, "they only gave you Roses? Check out this custom-made confection I ordered from France, just for you."

Then he was finally up there. How had all of this become a monster truck event? Where did it go wrong? He sat on the chair, and a crane slowly lowered a laptop onto the desk.

As the computer, booting, calculated RAM, his life flashed before his eyes. Then the network came online, thanks to citywide wifi.

The crowd roared.

final draft @ trooli: -fr0
Original Message:

On Mon, 07 Dec 2009 20:00 +0100, "Andrea from zChocolat" ( wrote:
I noticed that you have not used our services for quite some time. I hope that you were not disappointed with our products or services in any ways. Please let me know if it is the case.
Why not give a try to our new chocolate collection before the holidays and treat yourself to a gourmet experience unlike any you've ever had. I invite you to indulge in our new collection, and discover for yourself the new recipes that world champion chocolatier Pascal Caffet and zChocolat have dreamt up. I would also be happy to help you find the perfect gift, so please don't hesitate to repond to this e-mail if I can be of any help whatsoever or answer any questions you may have. I hope to hear from you soon! Of course, feel free to click here if you no longer wish to be contacted via email.
I wish you a sweet and happy holiday season.
Andrea Booth
Customer Service

Most Women *Love* Canal Sex

Imagine a canal,
with just you the woman
and me the man.

It doesn't have to be a gondola.
We can just as well do with
some kind of small canoe
or perhaps this new paper airplane
everybody is twittering about.

But you want the gondola, and you want Venice.
Because you actually *like* canal sex.
So the paddle-man paddles, and paddles,

and paddles and paddles,

making you go through and through
through the whole history and stuff,
until we finally reach the canal.

Then you jump into the #()@# river.

I curse in the gondola at the paddler.

About A Nose

Addendum to the 'nose is so sneezy' poem, written in the style of nirvana with their song 'About a Girl'. Thanks for the comments!

About a Nose

I need an easy gland
I do
with an ear to lend,
I do
think you've thought this through
I do
think you fit the helmet.
Take advantage while
you pull it all out with pliers,
I do.
I've sniffled on your case,
I've marred
our big great escape.
Take advantage while
you're caught pedophile inspectors.
I do.
I need to pump my nose
I do
with a bitter gourd,
I do
think you know this fruit
I do
smile when you put your foot
on my advantage where
I see you calculate our range
i do.






But I can't sneeze at you every night!
No I can't sneeze you every night,

Thursday, December 10, 2009

nose is so sneezy

like someone blew anthrax
right in my face.

that is of course a lung infection
yet it could damage olfactory sections,
i look ugly when it goes, i look so ugly with this nose.

so powerful, i'm killing trees
just by virtue of my silly sneezes
i can't even see my knees
i think i've out-silvered my silver sleeves.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Sour Monday

"Tell him I don't want to see his grumpy face until it becomes a ... a ... a nice, pleasant face!"

Who the hell made your beds when you were eight years old?

I came in cursing at everybody - especially the people who were expecting the most out of me on that morning. I then made assessments of damage done, apologized efficiently where needed, ignored without guilt as required and saluted mock-sarcastically to the people who thought they knew what I was up to.

Finally I was able to get into the location on the GPS. I touched a part of the screen where some semblance of 'smooth-touched computer graphics' deigned a 'text label UI element', and waited until the fucking thing finally went through its "user-fucking-acclimating" animation and presented the fucking data. I was in my office.

"Fuck this shit," I said, and went outside the building.

I went to a coffee shop and waited until my friends came over. Then we got some coffee and cigarettes and talked and chatted. After some time, my mobile device was making too much noise, so I just turned it off. We went on talking about how stupid everybody else was, and why they are not important.

Sooner or later, the sky above us started exploding. This was when Charlie said "Maybe we should check out what is going on with these fuckers."

We all sighed. Yes. Maybe we should check out what is going on with all these fuckers.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Ghost Teacher

Children in Primary schools
make light of a 'Ghost Teacher'.
A teacher who teaches you
after she has died.

Can anybody say 'milf fixation' or
box art? Can any body say anything
when she has control over

your future directions?

The 'Ghost Teacher' appears
randomly out of nowhere,
showing you how to press the button.

It will even hold your hand.

Shrimp VS Prawn

I was drinking a humble cup of green tea
at a quiet roadside, gold and ruby leaves swirling,
but not under my feet. Under my feet, only wet mud.

Was thinking about noticing the smell of rain on stones
or the earth, as a child, as anybody does and
finds so, so ... unique, somehow.

A girl slipped by. At first I thought to refill my green tea,
instead she dropped a note written on one of those paper flowers.
Not origami -- these are real flowers, organic, but look and feel like paper.

Name escapes me now, but I got this note. A link. A link in a note.
Touching it, I envisioned the writings of probably the most constipated
person in the universe. It was so constipated, it even had

an update for its constipated post. Update on constipation.
I now fwd u with our latest technology
Shrimp VS Prawn:

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

A Roll In The Hay

Somehow, she'd pounced, and they lay together,
her on top of him, her evil toothed grin bearing down.
"You like this, don't you?" he said, then threw her around.

Now he was on top of things, straddling her.
In all the wavy smoke and ether, he finally found her face again
just to ask,
"Well then, how do you like this?"

First, there was a loss of pressure, then her thigh shot upward
only to be gently diffused by his downward palm.
"I knew you'd try to slam me viciously," he explained.

As she looked at him ferociously, he gently eased off her,
rolling over to *his* side while making sure at all points
he was protected.

Later they would have in-depth conversations as he slept face down
about why he wouldn't let her kick him in the balls,
how he would like children (not necessarily with her, if were to pass),

and why this whole thing is possibly just a musing.

Monday, November 23, 2009

His Punishment

Sometimes people are killed randomly,
like that scene in The Omen with the priest.
Obviously this is yet another poem
about smiting, and obviously someone will say so eventually, obliviously.

But, when he gets killed,
everything becomes a quaint village
with a small rusty shop in the corner
where you can buy tea and sip with your shaking little hands.

Women send their sons and daughters,
to be near him, because maybe it will rub off.
Occasionally he will impart some of his wisdom to them,
and they will feel really loved, and blessed, and special.

But he does not do it because he cares.
It's just -- it's just 'filling time'.
"I taught you mathematics just to fill time."
And he does it well, and with great benefit and plans for their futures.

He is not cruel, and he is not cowardly.
He is just astray, wandering in the dark of his mind.
Trying to find out all the different colors of black.
There may someday be a reckoning, but it will just pass, probably.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

It couldn't actually be doing something to my Brain, could it?
quake, quake? terrible litmeese/

I approach as as pilot,
then turned pirate,
apparently babbons,

self-promotion haas become olde.
now i must come for the other relics.
heart heart medikit ammo

0.99 milimeter goes bang

*poof* some people have to need voice.
cos they don't have their own voice.
how do you own your voice,
am i producing my actual signature?

i gathered all the money already.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Insecure Person That Tries to Appear Secure

The person operates quite well, quite successfully.
Yet there is that constant nagging that it is an
insecure person trying to appear as though it is secure.

This often happens in common classrooms during an 'uprising'.
The class bully conducts an attack, and the Insecure Person,
finally full of whatever newfound cojones or wit it may have found
mounts an attack to prove its security.

Upshot is that the bully is discarded, and the Insecure Person
is promoted to a Corporal. He is given a badge, and a moustache,
and a skirt or kilt. If you are a girl, the moustache is just an option.
If you are neither then you will find it is nethers.

Then you are promoted to Captain.

coaxing the eye to produce different colors

First it was the Time,
then after that, the Location.
What else, Circumstance?

Funnily enough, "Yes."
then after that, Trials,
tribulations unto defibrillation.


Sitting in the room
looking at d0Ts and d0Ts
fist in eye socket's gloom.


scampering to coax some color,
form or depth into this eyeball,
kiss it, love the iris,


Friday, November 6, 2009

Some Benefits of Being Mindlessly Disposed

One of the lessons you learn is about how everything is not 'black and white'.
Because you were born in the late seventies, way after color was invented.
Too bad you got injected right into the eighties.
I remember your face, whenever they produced those ... 'scenarios'.

You were, like, "dude, i can totally pwn this."
Like thinking about how your baby brain had been operating,
at that time, not knowing anything about 3D glasses,
or invisibility suits.

Have you even thought about sniping somebody just based on sonar?

If I had the opportunity to choose, I would rename myself SonarSniper.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Pazuzu Made You All Slaves, Not Me

"Don't come crying to me about your two-bit philosophies
when I already showed you who did it, humanity," he'd said, majestically.

She turned the scroll, and found yet another example of his crimes:

"Pazuzu made you all slaves, not me," she continued, reading on. This was getting really interesting.

The man had made the mistake of questioning whether Pazuzu ever even really existed. Imagine, being that man. A soul that challenged a total demonic entity.

Immoral Fuck

, I've been trying to contact you regularly,
just to tell you that we will no longer be contacting you.
You have outspended your cool cache,
and all the art that you like has become passé.

We can't even go to museums with you, you embarrass us so much.
And I can't give you my credit card because you're under aged brain.
How am I supposed to pay you, without such economic facility?
And what brand of parmesan do you usually order from the stores anyway?

I return to life, resuscitating like the father who supplied arms.

Ghost Story NIN

This is part 8 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5.666 Part 7. Part A8E. And, the untenable itch.

Trent had been wasting his breath trying to pimp his latest shoes, selling at whatever price they would pay him. 'How nice', is the obvious joke but there was nothing 'nice' about hiking into a bloody forest located in Madison, Wisconsin.

And Emma was getting bored through 'artistic reason', so she started a conversation with Peter. "Tell me about your old gf," she said.

Peter's eyes popped out of his skull, literally. "What?" he exclaimed, turning over to Harry, to check whether the father would allow such insolence. "Nobody said she is old," said Peter desperately. He tried to lock eyes with Harry.

The father just nodded, like there was nothing else to do. "Say 'what' again, motherfucker," he said, the father, Harry.

"You really want to learn about Nadine?" asked Peter.

Emma nodded. "Do I look like I mince words?"

Peter examined the little girl, and SAW that she was not kidding around. "My relationship with this woman is kind of more complicated than some common child's fantasy," he said. "It's not like 1-2-3."

"Hah," laughed Emma. The path into the designated zone had taken a turn for the more leafy. Everywhere around them, the vegetation grew. Some of the deep trees began to bark. "This was always the section I had lamented having to watch you produce, ever since we locked eyes."

"What?" said Peter. They took a turn around the corner, and suddenly, they were there, where Bobby had been murdered by a cult. Peter noticed that he'd not had to say anything about Nadine at all. "Oh, this place," he said.

Everybody then turned their head towards him, and in the horrible zone of the pagan child sacrifice was a huge mansion instead. Decor circa 1873, windows by the ego of somebody who just named himself 'De Fenestre'.

"Now, will you not fuck me like an animal?" said Peter, his anus constricting according to the homely temperature emanating from the House.

Wake Up Neo, The Ego Is Calling

I know you have been running around as a simple id,
messing with all the defense mainframes, playing like
nothing matters.

You went into shock. And you have been running ever since that
entire debacle, like a crazy person, when in fact,
it is not you who is crazy.

We worked on your body with finest needles and threads, weaving your soul
back into some kind of form or shape that we can, as a group,
look at and admire.

I know you were hurt the last time, and you said some things that not only the world balked at,
but even you did, yourself. You stuttered upon your mispronunciations,
knowing full well.

Wake up Neo, the Ego is calling. Go ahead and make it somebody's day.

Helping The World To Absorb Moisture

At My Company, people often ask what is it exactly that we do. No question mark there, since it is a statement. You add the question marks only when you are confused.

We try to help all the humans that are around us to see the splendor of the world that is around them. Not the sugar substitute, but *real* splendor. For example, imagine a lush tropical forest being shot at you from way back in time -- it's like that. Like a time-travel experience ensconced within a chi-energy fireball shooter, and your kids wonder who brought the baby along for a ride?

This is what My Company does. It is what we are good at, and it is what we will be doing even after your last great-grandchild has died. We like to show you what the coffin really looks like from inside. We like to detail the varnish. We like to spend extra on paupers, because paupers are funny people, almost clownish in their paupering little ways.

But most of all, we like to waste our time writing thrilling little bits like this -- oft-forgotten but never unremembered.

Thank you.

Ideas Man

I am what they call in the business.

That's it, there is nothing else.
Using things inappropriately is my forte (with an accent).
For example, one time I used a text-editor programme
to woo sexual favor, internationally.

"Did you really love her? Did you did you?"
people keep saying these things to me,
not realizing that they are completely
missing the *whole* point.

The point is not about some kind of cheap
male chauvinist pig pleasure.
I'm not like this just to declare myself --
I'm like this because I'm trying to eat a noodle with a spoon.

Only some people realize what I'm doing,
and none of those people ever give me any love.
They label me, tag me, like I'm some kind of corpse
flown into the morgue by helicopter.

They don't realize that *I* was the one landing that chopper
on that building rooftop, precisely upon the letter 'H'.
I flew my own body back home, thank you very much.
Don't need you losers to do everything for me, nor your 'lovely precious little children'.

Making love to electrical sockets is never easy,
but it is zestful, full of life and more fun than,
say, managing all your time every night in dream state,
simply to wake up fresh. All that is so overrated, and not good.

If it's my dream, then let me dream it.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Writing as a Writer

The best thing was when she swallowed my cum,
simultaneously saying that I am a "Writer's writer'.
Meaning that I produce work that other writers
take their time to look at.

Tomorrow morning I will probably h8 myself,
but today I am free. I am allowed. I am Alladan.
I'm your genie, and you are allowed to wish for more Wish.

Don't ask about the Wish :)

closely monitoring all your spending habits

made a joke about about young nuns
't type to make any sense longer ...
still on line two, imagine if this was heroin.
i know where to direct my eyeballz.

the internet is not supposed to be your outlet

The Internet is supposed to be the place where you find new people.
It is not just 'your outlet', not just a place for you to seek victims.
On the Internet, you can read literature, and jokes, and quaint ideas.

A lot of people are using the Internet for their own nefarious reasons, now.
Honestly, it disgusts me. Because I'm a snob like that. I'm an Internet snob.
THey don't even know what they've gotten themselves into.

On the Internet you can find girls, and food, and culture.
Yeah, you can find culture, on the internet. Lots and lots of culture.
Also, you can hire someone to murder you on a future date (make sure it's EST!).

Saturday, October 24, 2009

How Much I Miss Her. Coat.

It's fairly rote to reorganize my love for her,
this being something a normal human being might do
at night trying to sleep, or perhaps while trying to accept his old mistakes.

Some girls laughed as we took a photograph outside Tiffany's, and I did ask her if they were trying to 'make fun'.

"No," she had said. "They are not."

I smiled back at her, and showed her the rest of the city. "What next museum?" I would say, sarcastically, and she would just make me go to actual displays of art I was not yet trained for.

I miss her so much. Like the photograph at Tiffany's.

Miss her intellect, and her mind. And how cool she was

Sunday, October 18, 2009

The Baby Explains About Ears

Somebody had been shot in an interracial war outside their house. She knew that it was something about who has a better videogame or something, but she did not know the exact detail. I mean, I'm sure the kid that was shot, and the kid who had actually gone all the way and shot that kid who got shot knew about it, but she didn't know -- shit, it's hard enough being a single mother in the projects. Let alone a single mother of six children.

The sixth one began to cry. She entered the code so thirteen-year-old Janis could go onto the internet, and then she gave 11-year-old Charlie some money to go buy some firecrackers. "There is a reason that those things are banned," she told him. "I'm giving you this money in the hope -- the pure hope -- that you won't misuse it."

When all was said and done, she finally attended to the baby in the middle of the living room. She put a blanket over its body, as it had requested, and then added those nitrous oxide injection units to each of the casters of his pram. "See," she said to him, soothingly. "Mummy wasn't away anywhere else. Mummy was right here."

The baby smiled and took the gift. But then he said "I have Ears, you know?"

She froze. "You don't have ears, baby."

"I have Ears!" he said, stubbornly.

Wtf? How was this even possible, that he knew about ears? She got down, and hung out with him, on his personal level. "Who told you about ears, baby?" she asked.

"I know about ears," said the baby, miserably. "I know how they are such wonderful organs, how exquisite the formations are. How there are canals."

She could not do anything except nod. "Yes. They are designed really well." She looked around to see if any of the other kids had been teasing him so cruelly.

The baby pressed the nitrous oxide button his mother had just installed for him, and ran over her foot. "It's not designed!" he shouted.

Then something amazing happened. Too bad nobody caught it on tape, but there's this vision of this crazy baby on nitrous, in a pram, whizzing around the whole fucking living room and talking about evolution.


I saw an epitaph with a single name,
all it said was ‘Bert’, engraved, just ‘Bert’.
What is wrong with being named ‘Bert’?
Why is it such a social issue? Why is Bert

so evil?

Usually poetry has some kind of form or rhyme or meter.
or whatever — but poems about Bert have no such structure.
Bert, an evil entittty, can proceed ‘Willy Nilly’, a song about
whales that he likes to bring up often.

so evil.

Like I say, his gravestone has been carved here for anyone
to come and see (before bedtime for little babies). Like I say,
we used to share an apartment together for ages. Rubber Ducky?
We used to have a Rubber Ducky. Where is that now, Bert?

Where did you put it? Meter and rhyme?

so evil!

wonderful sunday mornings with you

most of the time i'm an accident except less exciting,
but on wonderful sundays when you go off to make coffee
cos you can't drink orange juice,

i imagine your life as a normal person, having woken.

most of the time the incidents have too many 'I's,
world looks a little bluer than the rgb allocation
i allocated, i thought i had allocated ...

the rgb, but it's not about me, it's about you, having woken.

what are you, a geneticyst or a very clever biologist,
which is why i asked you who richard dawkins really is.
so we might have a conversation,

but fine, go and have your coffee, by yourself. don't talk to me.

No, it's really all cool. Go for it.

The Dexter 'Fan-Fic'

Spooiler Warnengh.

This is a service for all the peepullz who can never be allowed to watch Dexter. (On their tvs).

So obviously Quinn is going to die. Symmetry with Dokes.

"Yeah," she said. "Why not?"

Let's just kill Angel and the Chief of Police or whatever, too.

"Whoa, whoa. Hold on ..."

Nine birds, one stone.

"Why am I always put in quotes?"

Because you're not even real.

"I am real. I'm the part of you that wants you to admit you are a psychopathic killer who as put poor Dick on the path to committing Crazy Murders.

Heh, Dick.

"Wtf, he is a great actor."

What is the point of this again?

"Who are you going to end up killing?"

I don't know. Don't really care. Whatever is most appropriate.

"Hah! 'Appropriate'. How is murder ever 'appropriate'?"

Maybe if your name is Quinn and you lie in symmetty with Dokes?

See mm tty? ;)

Now that was a bonafide joke. Doakes. How the fuck do you end up spelling your name?

I can probably get rid of yoga instructors real quick too.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

energy like a porsche

dying man's choice of car? what?
mid-wife crises?
mid-story issues, perhaps:

we are here to solve your problems.

torus. bull. lion or tiger. sword.
the sword is something always wielded,

in these discussions about your past.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Fiddle The Violin

"What is this, a joke?" he asked, in his Male persona.

"No," said the Female persona. "Take your violin out of the bag."

He pulled the instrument from its casing, but kept it safe from the distance of her vagaries. He brushed it, now and again, and one of the times, he even made it a corporation, allowing the entity ability to get its shoes shined at a 34th Street Subway Station, by a real-life-legit shoe-shiner.

"Play the violin," she instructed -- a sort of command. He shook his head, saying "No."

"Come on," she said, and now she started strip-teasing him. "Witness the sexiness," she said, parting various articles of clothing from her Body. He held out for as long as he could, but obviously, he was unable to hold out for too long, and so he took his violin, and began playing it as she got naked in front of him.

When he finished his song, she was sitting there like an elongated painting, and she asked if he knew any newer or better songs.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

twinkle time

When I was a child, I was learning to climb the Big stairs,
then I saw my mommy and daddy looking down from above,
eyes wide open as though the monster was coming for me!
Startled, I turned to look, and losing my balance, fell backwards ...

Twisting paints as though perfumes,
beating fools to taste their flavors,
i heard a sense of malignant humor
claim i suffer from an acute synaesthesia.

I still care about individual tastes,
even though sensations tend to join.
This is why I made crying faces when
that girl in 1st grade was getting an injection.

I wasn't trying to scare her.
I was just empathizing,
you know, not even aware
that I was laughing inside.

For me, it was just twinkle time.

My Irreverent Sense of Self-Importance

When we broke up, after long nights,
me drinking & u claiming to be trying to keep us, everything together
it was not just our mutual bond that had shattered.

Take for example, a starfish, and wonder along with me
why you can't keep emotional states up in the same way
a starfish spontaneously forms these fun limbs + in such fun star shapes?

This is how the kinds of logic your arguments assume look like, to me.

Don't come complaining in our reincarnations
that you are an allergic anaphylactic little shit
choking about 'fuck, we are all cockroaches'.

Though your aura may be complete and azure,
doesn't mean the FDIC is able to insure
that old vault of emotional cache you stashed
before hitting me with your bullet of apathy.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Is it getting nicer?
Or is the sham just glib?
I know you are the tightest
with your vagina and your Bits.

Did I ask too much?
More than Lot?
Left me hanging like
you're some pillar of salt,

I say "Love is the answe", and you don't supply the 'r', and I can't keep going on.

(chorus unworthy of repetition)

Maybe I just like saying
things I usually say
in this exact fashion,
since you won't show me the way.

Is it 2-luv, tonight? Did I win that or ... did I win or ...

I'm sorry your dad died.
To be honest, why don't you die,


Is it getting sharper,
is the brain working again?
Cos you left me in the darkness,
a place no one's saved from, my 'friend'.

Did it hurt you so much
was that really the push,
that I wasn't there to celebrate
your seeing in the distance of George Bush?

My offhand remarks were drunken, but really,
I wouldn't have been as excited even if it was me.
And you suck for leaving me for that,
that I didn't give a shit about the fact you saw George Bush

In some fucking crowd.

Baby that keeps saying that everything is 'Lovely'

It saw a glass table
littered with roses
and rose petals.

Lady legs crossing
in admiration of
red against transparent,

So lovely. He just came in, saying everything was so 'lovely'.

I took the baby,
put it in a pit of oil
and miners.

It crawled, so pathetically,
then found the diamond
shiny in its scrounging paw,

which was so 'Lovely'. He just crawled into the mud and found it, so lovely.

"Your mother is ugly,"
I told it, asked to babysit.
"She's horrible. And she hates you."

"No, she's lovely," said the baby. Everything is 'lovely' to this baby.

Giving Freely

Last night's scorn across the peppercorn
tonight scattered across what matters.
Night is born only where you're not found
coming, stalking, leering ... then I'm around.

Freely, giving.
Yourself ?
Fright, scare,
Challenge (heh).

Always welcome. Always given

dealing with boredom

For example I was bored that neither -t nor amber were awake to address my latest pieces. I wanted to 'call the whole thing off'.

Then somebody came and told me -- a gnome (probably planted by -t -- she looks like someone who plants gnomes) -- that, whatever, man. Then the dream ended.

"Yeah," I said, in my voice. "Sorry you had to grow the beard."

-t laughed it off, holding up a razor as though it was going to fix everything. I laughed it off along with her too. When I was awoken, I was reminded that I had to go back downstairs and take care of issues where people were not transferring at the nominal rate.

"Lol, wtf is a 'nominal rate'?" I laughed.

I was told that the nominal rate is the amount possible for the children to raise funds for children in Ethopia. I was going to point out how it would be so much faster for me to just donate this amount, but I was stopped.

"Let the children donate the amount," said the voice.

"It's taking too much time," I said. "Let them do it next time."


"Are you dealing with boredom?"

I looked back. Who the hell was this idiot? "Yes, I am. All these idiots are sooooooo boring! I'm trying to get out of it as quick as I can!"

"No," said the voice.

"This is gay," I told the voice. "You can't just obtain godlike powers and destroy me!"

The voice said: "Ha ha ha haaa. You and your notion of time. The time, my friend, has come from sparing your wretched little planet, the very little thing your pointless feet come across every day, the utterance of curse in the minds of dying babies worldwide. Now is the time for everythings' Dismemberment!"

"Are you dealing with boredom? Are you dealing with boredom?" cried something as it spiraled into the Sink of Basic Destiny.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Donut [AFK] + Want to start a social experiment

@Amber: Insult. (Awaiting response of 60 characters or less)

@Crowd: I want for everyone to enjoy the amazing lucid dreaming experience that I was able to enjoy as a college student. Finding myself somewhat more capable that most people, my research has concluded that none of you have experienced such a thing in your formative years. You have dreamed, yes, of cabbages and moths, rats and raccoons. Butterflies and bougainvilleas.

I'm not saying I am the Greatest Man In the World. I merely posit the benefit endowed me from this experience of 'lucid dreaming' has left me in a better state to deal with the various outcomes thrown by the now defunct (and daft) 'system' (in quotes for good reasons) than perhaps some of the toy personalities thrown about this board.

I'm able to get lucid dreams because I was able to do it in college. When you can do it in college, you can do it again in any other facet of your life as you like, no questions asked. The bigger problem is trying to help most others experience this phenomena.

To test the validity of this declaration and test the tepid waters, the proverbial toe is a clock you must find in the next 96 hours that will wake you from damned sleep.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Proper Use of Auto-Pilot In The Game Wipeout

When operating at such high speeds as possible in the Phantom Elite mode, common pilot opinion such as 'auto-pilot is for babies' turns unsubstantiated. As you will see in the accompanying video, auto-pilot can even be used by very expert pilots to gain leverage that previously was not available.

Basically, adding the auto-pilot capability to your arsenal gives you the advantage of having a choice to accomplish a particularly difficult sector of the track in perfection. Deriders may leer, saying that keeping a Missile or a Quake at hand is far more logical, but these are simply pilots who have become 'slightly good' at the game and don't realize sub-atomic precision. Some of them even claim that auto-pilot can really mess up how the ship moves along the tracks, and that it often even misses speed pads along the way. To this issue, the correct response is that, yes, auto-pilot is done by the computer, which is not always perfect, but since an expert would only use it in particularly tough areas, do you think he would have done any better anyway?

Don't be mistaken. This is nothing like the argument behind automatic v.s. manual transmissions when racing in a car. This is a whole different kind of fish.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

the Ridiculous and the Handyman (Part 2)

(Part 2)

the Ridiculous is everywhere.

Let me tell you something about Bosnia. In Bosnia, some guy who felt bad that his name rhymes with 'bitch' started slaughtering the peepulls. Too bad he didn't think hard about his first name. This is why when a dude says to you "I got a Bosnian gf", it's kind of hot, cos there's only a few left. Now, as I had been trying to explain, there was a need to get a handyman from the building to come and unclog the sink. The reasons for this are irrelevant. Maybe my mother was coming over to visit. Maybe my employer was conducting some kind of illegal search to verify its employees. Maybe I woke up and had a whim about starting to date again. The reason to unclog it is not of import. What is important is that when you try to get it unclogged, they send you a guy from Bosnia. I had a relationship with this guy; one time when the summers were getting too humid in Manhattan, I decided I would buy an air-conditioning machine. I was told to go and speak to this Bosnian guy who is the handyman of the building. After going through a bunch of crap about how he had a family back there, and how used to be a nuclear scientist or something, the down-low was that I have to buy a 5000 BTU machine. I wondered, at the time, how that particular number was reached. Who was this guy, this Bosnian? What, did he have the whole electricity consumption of the entire building mapped into his head, or something? I bought an 8000 BTU machine instead. Just to spite him.

the Ridiculous and the Handyman (Part 1)

(Part 1)

the Ridiculous is everywhere.

And now, it has been acknowledged. I had been writing my series of poems and prose for some time, and while the pieces brought some cheer and, perhaps, humorous enjoyment to some, the Ridiculous had never been fully acknowledged in real life, in person.

All this changed on the day I called the building handyman to come over and unclog my bathroom sink. The sink had been left uncleaned for about six months, as I had been immersed in other endeavours, and so a patina about two or three inches high -- of mold, fungus, etc. -- had built up around the sinkhole. The variety of colors and textures was really quite remarkable in this progress. After an amount of build up, I had taken to purchasing cheap little plastic figures of spacemen and such, sticking them into the sink. They were brave explorers in this strange 'alienesque' world, boldly going where no man has gone before upon the fractal terrain. I had begun taking pictures of them and posting them on flickr and such.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Sonofabitch Legend!

A true poet of mist & ether,
none would him master, nor him tame.
Like, once an anus spoke of poetic form, etc.
he just clapped his hands and said "Oh goodie, you want to play little word games!"

Leather jackets come hurricane, galoshes in the desert,
teaching !Kung a language of clicks & clacks by the nose.
Made more money as a statue than the most pitiful peasants,
plus he got to come out of it smelling like a rose.

He rescinded an unanimous vote to make him President,
spending all his time failing to woo pretty little girls.
Soured by his rejection they labeled him an infidel,
printing their little posters at Kinkos and collating them as well.

A true forage of risk and lather,
bubble bath, baby, bubble bath time.
Like, once a spiral unto your nethers,
aftershock in the form of an ovarian sperm crime.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Baig's Top Five Phrases for Corporate Domination!!!

Mastering the use of these five simple time-tested phrases will ensure smooth ascension through the dog-eat-dog ranks of corporate employment.

#05: "Right right right"

Said quickly in repetition, just as written above. For example:

Allen: Well, you see my mother died this weekend -

Jake: (Cutting in) Right right right - so when is the Christmas party again?

#04: "Imminently"

Use to indicate how soon everything will be alright, and that there is really nothing to fuss about. Serves to both diminish noise from opponent and to imply the opponent's lower standing. For example:

Q: When the hell will that damn bug get fixed, you goddamn sonofabitch? Everything is falling apart here!

A: Imminently.

#03: "Clearly"

Can be used as a prefix to almost any statement. For example:

a) Clearly you have not followed my instructions, Mr. Jones.

b) Clearly profit margins this quarter will not please investors - how do you aim to recuperate losses?.

c) Clearly she will be saddened by her termination.

d) Clearly it is raining outside.

#02: "Nice try"

Use to demean another's effort. Best used when you have an actual follow up that reveals your opponent's weakness, but can also simply be used ambigously, to create FUD (fear, uncertainty and doubt) in the opponent. For example:

Bob: "Dude! I finally arrived at my thesis!"

Sam: "Nice try Bob..."

#01: "Silence"

Use to neutralize any offense. For example:

Jim: It appears you have lost this round, colleague...

Alex: Silence.


#00: "Take care"

Used ubiquitiously as a moderate, impersonal goodbye. Doesn't really mean anything in most contexts besides warzones. 'Take care' of what exactly? Can also be used to underwhelm any prior grievance. For example:

Nathan: Man, you've totally screwed me! My whole life's savings are all gone down the shithole!

Cosmo: Take care... (waves and steps out of the office)

Baig's Top Five Ways People Should Not Start Their Damn Sentences When They Speak

5) "Well, ..."
Example: "Well, there is no way I can find an out for you."
Verdict: Well, well, well, well bloody well.

4) "Originally, ..."
Example: "Originally, we had planned for this to function like this. But we ended up making it function like that because it's simply more original."
Verdict: There is nothing original about you, or the things you do. You will never be original.

3) "Actually, ..."
Example: "Actually, it's this way."
Verdict: What, you didn't get enough with the 'Originally' part? What makes you think you know what is actual?

2) "The problem with ..."
Example: "The problem with democracy is that all of the people get to choose."
Verdict: The only problem with democracy is that you come included like batteries.

1) "Hello!"
Example: "Hello!"
Verdict: Fuck off.

Friday, September 4, 2009

One, and Another (Parts 1 - 3)

This is a series I began writing around the middle of 2007, and didn't quite finish. Plan is to go ahead and finish it now.

===hush ... be onlypositive. hush.===

"i got raisinnettes and kitkats, what do you want?"
"ssh" whispered the other. "it is stirring in its sleep."
"ooh nice. what has it been dreaming of?"
"dunno, that pointless woman again, i think".
"sad" said one.
"check it out, it's waking" whispered the other.

"look at the way it immediately cleans its nose and ears as it wakes" said one.
"mucophagy" said the other.
"no, you idiot, mucophagy is where the subject eats the derivatives".
"ah yes. nasolingus then".
"no" said one.

"look, it's writing now."
"is it writing about onlypositive?" said the other.
"look at how it is struggling" said one.
"yeah, heh."
"like it really 'means something important'."
"it has posted the item to an internet site."
"yeah. heh."

"these raisinettes remind me of rabbit droppings" said one.
"why do you think it came up and subscribes to this 'only positive' theory?" said the other.
"i know. wtf does it mean? maybe it is naive and idealistic."
"no" said the other.

"i don't like those sandals it is wearing" whispered one.
"i know, so uncomfortable."
"they looked good when it saw them at the store. did it try them out first?"
"hmm. i don't remember," replied the other, "it is such a jackass sometimes with those kinds of things, you know?"

"i like those Reef sandals, you know those?"
"ok shuttup, it is queueing up for the bus."
"those Reef sandals are pretty popular-"
"shuttup, you'll ruin the Experiment."

"why do you think it is taking the bus to go, like, 2 avenue blocks?" asked one.
"i'm not complaining. those avenue blocks are long. who came up with that scheme anyway? idiot, that man."
"yeah, heh."
"i think it has a free multipass. so it can just go around on buses and trains and all that" said the other.
"walking is good too, sometimes." said one.
"sometimes" replied the other.

===keep it down!===
"anyway, wearing sandals in the city is just gross" whispered the other.
"look how it is politely waiting for this hare-brained man to find his multipass, but in reality is forming harsh opinions about his position in the world" said one.
"heh. look at the stupid placeholder grin on its face."
"heh." said one.
"what is the point of this Experiment anyway? can't we just call quits and go play outside?" asked the other.
"shuttup," said one, "we must find the Solution."
"hey, did that woman pay? Solution? what Solution?"
"yea, we must find the Solution before we can go play."
"gawds, it could take years!" whispered the other.
"it already has" smiled one, sneakily.

"these buses should have more electronic displays".
"you mean like showing your position in the route, kind of thing?" asked one.
"yeah. or the world, maybe. GeoPositioning." whispered the other.
"yeah. why doesn't it sit down already?"
"i think it feels that letting other people sit makes it appear more rugged and manly."
"heh. lame. hey, what is it looking at?"
"hey, i think it is watching a Display of agression!"
"quick, make notes. what is happening?" whispered one, frantically.
"that woman with the baby, she didn't pay! i told you!" said the other.
"the bus driver is having a go at her. LOL. what is she saying?" asked one.
"she's saying she had to settle down with her baby first."
"that sounds reasonable".
"yeah, but why doesn't she just pay now and be done with it? she's arguing with him."
"heh. i don't think she has any intention to pay. what is it thinking?" asked one.
"it is watching the Display with mixed emotions," whispered the other, "on one hand the debate is entertaining, on the other hand, she's fucking holding up the whole bus."
"don't curse! anyway, why does it care? is it in a hurry?"
"i'm not cursing. that's just how it feels. no hurry, but because of its fucking sandals. its feet hurt."

"fucking knocked up ho held the whole bus up".
"i'm telling you, stop cursing!" whispered one.
"that's just how it feels, ok?" replied the other. "what is it thinking?"
"it is ruminating on the absurdity that the Display took so long that another bus has arrived behind this one."
"ruminating eh. i think it does that a little much, don't you?"
"it is what it is. look, it is following other passengers who've decided they've had enough. they're moving to the next bus."

"what is it doing now?" asked one.
"wondering if its multipass will work, since it was already swiped at the last bus." replied the other.
"others seem to be getting on just fine."
"yeah, i don't understand the source of its anxiety."
"paranoia" said one. "it thinks it could always be singled out from the herd. heh."
"check it out, it looks surprised. what happened?" asked one.
"holy fucking shit! the baby woman tried to get on the new bus!"
"don't curse! so what's the problem?"
"the bus driver won't let her. he's had a talk with the new bus driver and explained the situation."
"'situation'. heh."
"heh. whoa. check it out, she just took a swing at him!"
"holy shit, he swings back!"
"omfg, she's playing the injured female. how can you strike at a woman with a baby, she says!"
"lol. what is it doing?" asked one.
"laughing" whispered the other.

Lost Theory #what

I think that Jacob is a guy who has pretty much finished all of the other tasks in life, and is ready to finally settle down by himself. He's done everything. He knows how to use a sewing machine. He knows how to catch his own fish by himself. He knows how to draw stick figures pointing to another stick figure. He can even make statues as tall as you could imagine. You can’t take this guy to a titty joint, brothel, straight out frat-party, or art festival, because he has already finished dealing with that particular scene. You cannot take him to a church, mosque or synagogue because he’s already done that particular scene too. He did that stuff years ago.

Titus (since they don't tell us the real name, I'm just calling him Titus -- fools make up all sorts of names for this guy) is Death. Titus/Death comes to Jacob, telling him that he cannot exist for long in such a perfect state. "There will always be some entropy," says Titus to Jacob. "A loophole."

This is why Jacob tells Titus that it only has to end once. He's trying to explain that despite everything about him being perfect* (a man who IS an island), he's still making even more progress. In a sense, Jacob is trying to 'buy more time' from Death. He believes that his comment will confuse Death, at least a little, during which period he may be able to achieve a level where he cannot be killed.

You may ask "Why does Titus only manifest unto Jacob? What about all the other people on the island? Why do they only see animals, or 'visions'? Or wisps of smoke? Or a scary looking eye of some man pleading for help?"

The answer is that Jacob is the only one who has perfected himself to this extent. The guy has done everything so right that even Death feels the need to manifest in person. Why did Death choose to do this in the form of Titus Welliver? Well -- look at how well he plays the part. He's a neutral figure, basically. Death is not 'Evil'. Death is just ... 'there'. He's trying to to tell Jacob that, eventually, there will be a loophole.

Jacob just smirks back at him, looking a little bit like Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. He pays disrespect to Death (and Titus). He feels he is now in a position to totally flip Death off, without consequence. As we see later in the show, Jacob cannot just flip Death off again. Death comes back, in the form of Locke (a long already dead character in the show), and gets this confused-yet-conscientious fellow named Ben to stab Jacob in the chest. Now, this is where Jacob's theory that he has attained perfection (see asterisk below) is exposed to any of the viewers.

Also, this is where you realize what they mean when they talk about the 'rules'. They are talking about boundaries. Boundaries are scary things to transcend, for a lot of people. So those 'in the know', so to speak, use the 'rules' argument to ward off evil. Neither Ben nor Widmore really dared to cross the boundaries. That's why they're still able to scare each other with those rules. But Jacob just went through the boundaries.

He tells Locke that he is 'beyond the loophole'. That this stupid game Locke (Death) has been parsing through was basically a means for him to evolve to a state where it doesn't even matter if he (Jacob) dies.

Disgusted, Locke kicks Jacob into the fire, left with the useless, empty satisfaction of watching him burn.

*Perfection usually comes in rare form. It's not about how good you look, how well you sing, how prettily you paint, how well you write -- it's not even about how well you live your life.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Ghost Story VIII

This is part 8 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5. 666 Part 7. Part 9.

Sure enough, it was the Google Map of Madison, Wisconsin.

The center was just some sort of forest, or arboretum. Everyone peered into it, trying to translate geometry to some kind of meaning. Finally Emma broke the silence. "What the hell is it? It's just a bunch of trees and stuff."

Beatrice looked at Ehud, who nodded wisely. "First of all you will notice the distance between the school that Emma goes to, and this 'bunch of trees and stuff'". Everybody nodded, noticing the distance. Ehud smiled proudly. This -- this was real progress. He was getting somewhere, with this. "Now you will notice the distance between the field where Harry met Bobby, and this 'arboretum'". A chill settled into the room as this new knowledge sunk in. Ehud turned around to check if Peter was playing around with his miniature fan again, but the man was just standing there like the rest of them, transfixed. This further convinced Ehud. It would be just like Peter to try and cheapen his wisdom with stupid tricks like that, but this time -- this time the dope was real. Both the field, and the school were 'equidistant'.

"This is where Emma first met the child," said Ehud, pointing at the school. He then took his compass and, lightly (he didn't want to tear the Google Map apart), drew it down to the Center. "And this," said Ehud, now drawing the compass in an entirely different direction, "is where Harry saw the ghost child. While he was, ahem, trying to be a concerned parent. Ahem." His compass ended up on the field.

"The lesbian make-out zone," said Peter.

Emma slapped him hard in the rib. "No, you fool! The soccer field!"

"The soccer field," said Peter, correcting himself.

Beatrice was uneasy about this theory. "But that doesn't explain everything," she said, coming closer to Ehud. "How does that explain all the furniture flying around the house? And the milk turning sour everytime Harry tries to drink it? And, and, and all my pussies dying away? I've been through almost five-hundred," she said. The poor woman was literally shaking with anger.

Ehud patted her gently upon the back, and smiled wisely. "Ah, well I haven't shown you the last part yet."

It got even colder in the room. Harry began to look like he had some nervous ticks or something. "Show us the part," said Harry, growling. Emma, in a rare moment, walked sideways to her father, and hugged him.

"Yes," said Emma. "Show us the last part."

Ehud, positively maniacal with pride at this point, drew his compass back to the Center of Madison, Wisconsin. "Le coeur," he said softly.

"What?" said everyone, in unison.

Ehud got out of his funk. "Ok, so this is the last relationship." He began drawing a straight line from the Arboretum, down to a bunch of streets.

"Hey, I know that street," said Emma, as Ehud's compass glided across the map slowly.

"Of course you do," said Ehud, continuing his path across the Map. Then he stopped, and everyone in the room became frigid.

Finally, Harry managed to break the ice. "Th-that's my house!"

Beatrice also moved away from Ehud, and came closer to her husband. "He's right! Th-that's our house!"

Ehud nodded somberly at them, then looked at Peter, who looked like he did not know where he was supposed to stand. "Peter, you can come and stand next to me."

When Peter made it, Ehud looked at everybody and said, "Now I'm going to show you what is really there." His tongue sneaked out a little, and then he clicked his mouse button. This caused the whole Google Map to zoom in.

Emma rolled her eyes. "So what? I still don't see anything. Where's Bobby?" Her parents agreed with her. Peter asked whether he could go and be with the family. Ehud began sweating. He clicked the button again. The map zoomed in to a greater extent. Still no good. Ehud clicked the button again. "It was here, somewhere," he said. They were now totally inside the Center. He clicked the button again, holding his compass to keep track of the actual pinpoint that the locations were equidistant from. "No?" said Ehud, getting even more frustrated. They all watched him, wondering when he would stop. "No? No? NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo?"

Peter had to finally take the mouse away from him. He took his friend by the side, patting him on the shoulder. "Ok, man. Ok. I think we're at the last level from which satellites can decipher and match cartography."

"The zoom lens is not powerful enough," cried Ehud.


It took Ehud several minutes to cool down. When he came out of the restroom, he was smiling again. "I'm, uh. I'm sorry about that outburst," he said. He smiled yet again. Emma decided to get things moving along, again. "Ehud," she said. "Just tell us what is so important about these depressions?"

Ripe with regained vigour, Ehud jumped into it. "I see you have noticed these depressions in the land. But you have not figured out what they are."

"It's just ... land," said Peter.

"No Peter. This is where they used to have pagan rituals, in Madison, Wisconsin."

"Pagan rituals in Madison, Wisconsin?" said everybody.

"Notice the topography," said Ehud, turning the satellite imagery into a bunch of monochrome blobs.

"I can't see anything," said Beatrice.

"Look a little harder."

It was then that all of them, one by one, staring, saw what Ehud had been talking about all this time.

"Oh my God!" said Emma.

"Oh my God!" screamed Beatrice.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Harry.

"Nadine!" screamed Peter, and he rushed to the monitor where Nadine's eyes used to live.

"That's right," said Ehud. He looked like one of those school teachers whose whole class has failed the pop quiz. "This is where they killed little children. As part of their ... pagan ... rituals." He said this with a coat of disgust. "This is where they killed Bobby.

While you guys were fighting like idiots, I checked up on a whole load of things. I called the police, and asked them about the spot. They said that they had never heard of anything over there. Not a peep. Okay, I said to myself, so then I went on the Internet. I tried to look up the longitude and latitude of the place, but still, there were no results. So I ran down to the Public Library, and I sifted through the records. The history of Madison, Wisconsin."

"What did you find?" asked Emma, impatient. "Who killed little Bobby?"

"Strangely there is only one record remaining in the annals of this particular area."

"How can there be annals if there is just one record?" said Peter.

Beatrice moved decisively to Ehud. "Whatever does it say? Who killed the poor child? Was it a group? A whole group of people ... sacrificed the poor little baby?"

"The record was written by one Helena Berkeley. She was not only a prescient, and an old parapsychologist, and a medium, but also a psychic. And a pagan, in her own right. In her piece, she describes how she and her 'group' took Bobby to the jungle and 'sacrificed him to the gods'."

Harry became even more nervous. "But I SAW that kid. That kid was just ... he was lost. He didn't know where he was going. You don't have to go and 'sacrifice him to the gods' just because he doesn't know where the hell he is."

Emma stepped closer to her father. "We have to set him free!" she said, aloud.

Ehud took Beatrice's hand. "Do you really want to do this?" he asked.

Beatrice looked back at her poor little daughter, and then squeezed Ehud's palm. "I am sick and tired of my child being tormented by a ghost," she said. "And what they did in that jungle isn't up to par, either. We have to do this, Ehud," said Beatrice.

"We'd have to go into the forest, Beatrice," said Ehud. "We'd have to actually go to the spot where Helena and her group killed Bobby."

"Look, this is my child we're talking about," shouted Beatrice.

Ehud nodded. Then he nodded five more times. Then his eyes rose, somewhat fearful of the next answer. "Peter?" he said.

Peter blinked. Then he said, "Hey man, I hate child sacrifices as much as the next guy. I'm in."