My Life As A Teenage Zombie Call Girl

Okay, okay, maybe not teenage exactly but I've always looked young for my age and since the years after you become a zombie don't count, well, you know how many clients pay extra for the 'teenage' in teenage zombie call girl? Anyway, that's what the math from the birth date on my driver's license says and I'm sticking to it.

As for the zombie call girl part - that's definitely true, and it's a pretty good gig if you can get it. With zombie call girls, johns don't have to worry about catching or transmitting diseases, and since so many of them are worried about privacy, and since we're already dead, they know we'll take their secrets to the grave.

Just a little zombie humor there...look, I said a was a teenage zombie call girl not a teenage zombie comedienne.

In case you're wondering, the trade for teenage zombie call girls is pretty good. Oh sure, you're thinking 'what about the smell' or 'do guys actually ask you for head', right? As for the former, we teenage zombie call girls have our little secrets - every woman needs a little mystery in her life, and for the latter, well, no, johns don't actually ask us to do that, and can you blame them? But sometimes we ask them for a little head.

I kid! I kid.



Like I said, business is good, there are actually more necrophiliacs out there than you might think. Now now, don't judge, apart from the necrophilia thing they are just like you and me, well, like you anyway. They're just looking for a little love, a little tenderness, a little bing bang boom. Mostly they make an arrangement with the local morgue or funeral home and I end up lying quietly on the metal table with my eyes closed pretending to be dead - hah, pretending! - for a minute or two while they do their thing. They do their thing, pay me and leave. Pretty simple really. Well, except for the ones that actually want to use some of the mortician's equipment. I used to charge extra for that but some guy took my arm off once. Can you believe that? The guy literally cut my arm right off. Don't get me wrong, the guy did a really good job of it, by the cut you could tell he knew what to do with an electric hacksaw, but he chopped it right off! So I charged him triple and then ate his brains, the bastard.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to sew an arm back on with only one hand?

Anyway, when they don't use the equipment, it's a pretty safe business. The johns know what'll happen to them if they get too kinky, the cops don't mess with us because, while necrophilia with the dead may be illegal necrophilia with the undead is fairly new legal ground and there's no legal precedent yet. I don't have a pimp so I get to make my own hours and keep all the money I make.

What's that? You want to know about the 'zombie' part of teenage zombie call girl? That part's easy, there wasn't any more room in hell. Duh.

Bob quit

Bob wasn't well liked around the office. He was pretty quiet and kept to him self. No one really disliked him so much as they didn't have anything to say to him. He wasn't invited to the happy hour's and everyone dreaded having to sit next to him at the holiday parties. Eventually he quit his job and put in his two weeks. On his last day, everyone in the office took him out for drinks to celebrate- really just celebrating that they didn't have to put up with awkward conversation in the break room. But they knew he didn't have many friends so they thought they would give him a send off to make him feel good.

They went to the local bar and got him drunk, he was more chatty than he's ever been and some in the group actually found him funny. They made the mistake of telling him so, and in moments of bitter-sweet, self importance some told him that they were sad to see him go. It was a mistake because Bob took it personally, and kept coming back into work when he wasn't an employee anymore.

First it was because he had to drop off his key, then it was because he left a few things in a drawer at his old desk. But after he had run out of excuses to talk to the H.R. department he just plain showed up to stand around people's cubes and make them feel uncomfortable. Most put up a good front- trying to make him feel that they really meant all they had said at his going away party, but others began to plot ways of cutting him off.



The fact that no one would go out to lunch with him should of been the most obvious hint, but he kept coming back. Then the woman at the front desk told him he wasn't allowed in the building unless he was there on business, but he just hung around the parking lot. When the police were called to tell him he couldn't spend his days waiting in his car for the employees to come out for a smoke, he just showed up in the morning with coffee for all the people who were pulling in to start their day. Something had to be done.

One day, when he was parked across the street trying to shout jokes about being a newbie to the new receptionist who was putting mail out for the UPS carrier, a small group of employees walked to his car. They asked how he was doing, and what happened to his new job. He was vague in his answers which lead them to believe he must of quit, or never showed up. He brought up the idea of applying for a position within the old company, which is when they brought out the big guns. They disbanded from the tight circle they had formed and revealed Kevin, Bob's replacement.

Bob's face flushed. "When did this happen?" he almost whispered.
"Yesterday. We pushed for them to hire for your position as soon as possible."
"You guys were that screwed without me there?"
"Sure Bob." Another replied. There was an awkward silence as passing cars hissed in the distance.
"Do you need me to train him in?" Bob chirped, suddenly perking up.
"We're going to have to put him down." One employee muttered to another.
"I can start right now, I'll even share my old desk with him! It will be like old times!"
There was a click, and then the two barrels of a shot gun emerged from within the group.

Resume Writing Tips: The Four Sentences To Keep In The Back Of Your Mind While Writing Your Cover Letter

Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Yes, these four simple sentences can be the key to getting a better job.

In these slow economic times it is important to put the best “you” out there possible. Put your best foot forward. Go for the gold. Dare to dream. Don’t give up. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Book ‘em Dan-o.

For those of you lazy, worthless, no good, do nothing, commie bastards who would rather live off the teat of the state than get a job, I applaud your decision. However, if you want to find work, I can help.

The key to getting a good job is the cover letter. It’s what recruiters and HR-types look at first and determines whether or not they will review your resume or just hit 'delete'.

The movie, Princess Bride offers many fine tips on how to best prepare your cover letter, but there’s none better than “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” It’s cover letter writing at its best.



To wit…

Hello. It is best to start off with some type of friendly greeting or salutation.

My name is Inigo Montoya. Introduce yourself.

You killed my father . Tell them why you are interested in them.

Prepare to die. Let them know what you can do for them.

From a recruiter’s perspective, this cover letter is pure gold. It is polite, short, to the point, and covers the four main areas a cover letter should.

Remember, finding a good job isn’t always easy to do, but if you remember “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” finding that perfect job for you will be just a little easier.

My Life As A Minimum Wage Slave Vampire

I used to think being a vampire would be great - strange power of attraction over women, super-human strength, the ability to fly - hell, I thought I'd be Super Man, only a bit bitey every now and then.

So I did it. I tracked down a vampire, explained the situation, and asked him to make me like him. He laughed, shrugged his shoulders and bit me - the last thing I remember before passing out was him humming the part of the tune that goes "Regrets, I've had a few" over and over.

That was three years ago.

I dropped out of law school because even the night classes start while it is still light out and the only job I could find was at a convenience store, a third-shift clerk position, which, let me tell you, sucks when you have $127,000 in student loans to pay back.

And to get the job in the first place I had to use my strange power of attraction over women on the manager - only the manager was a guy who's now taken to wearing tight, pink tank tops. He's left his family - a wife of fifteen years and three kids.

He puts a flower on my cash register before every shift I work. It plays havoc with my hay fever.


You'd think that gas prices being what they are the ability to fly to work would be great, but every time I fly so many people call up the Department of Homeland Security complaining about terrorist activity that the DHS now permanently patrols the sky around here.

The DHS can't kill me of course, at least not without a stake, but standing in front of my manager trying to come up with an explanation for my lateness and tattered clothing other than 'I was shot at by an Apache attack helicopter while on my way to work' while said manager sports an erection at my lack of clothing gets a might old after a while.

My eyes are up here, boss...up here.

My landlord finally kicked me out of the apartment after having to replace countless doorknobs, doors, toilet seats, cabinet doors and drawers. When he told me I got so upset I put my fist through a wall - which meant I didn't get my deposit back.

Because of all this I've been a bit absentminded at work and when I get absentminded I lose control over my strange power of attraction over women, so lately, when my shift starts, there are a handful of female customers from the previous day kneeling naked on the floor swaying slowly back and forth with their arms raised chanting my name.

The incense and candles they burn set off the sprinkler system which ticks off the fire department - at least until they see the naked, chanting women, then they don't mind so much.

But my boss does.

He's been so upset over my "little groupie bitches", as he calls them, that he's threatening to withhold my annual $.15 raise.

Neutral Rabbit

The idea of carrying around a rabbit's foot for luck has always been a frightening concept for him. But he needed good luck now more than ever. The community center he has started to give distraction to the trouble teens in his small, mid western suburb was going to shut down. It turns out that you cant legally run a community center without a license from the city. And, no matter how many fliers or 'on the street recruiting' he did, none of the trouble teens in his area were actually coming to the center he was running out of his basement. This only served to weaken his argument of the importance of having a community center in his neighborhood. Sure, the kids were all hanging out at the center down the block, but there's no love there, no sense of bonding or 'talkin' straight' with a peer.

So he decided to take all his savings and bet it on horse racing. Something he's seen work on many, many television shows without fail. All that's needed is faith and a good cause. He figured that if he threw caution to the wind and dump his money on the underdog horse, Luck would smile down on him from heaven -or where ever luck lives. But he wanted to make sure that he covered every angle. Research proved that the rabbits foot was the best way to go. But something about the dried, gnarled little foot with the silver cap on the severed end made his skin crawl. He needed the rabbit's foot, but he couldn't imagine carrying that decaying thing around in his pocket so he considered buying a whole rabbit. Buying a rabbit didn't play into his ideas of fate. He needed a good story to back up why he had the rabbit, a story he could tell all the pimply teens in his basement when they asked him to repeat the story of how he saved the community center. He decided he was going to go out and capture one himself.

Many nights were spent in a near by park scouting for bunnies. But any time he saw one, there was a second. Guilt weighed down on him when he contemplated destroying a rabbit family for his financial dreams, which prevented him from trying to capture one. Then one night, when he couldn't sleep, he gazed despondently out his bedroom window until he saw the answer to his prayers. A single bunny that lived under his porch. It occurred to him that he could capture the bunny, keep it in a cage until the day he went to the race track, and bring it home again as if nothing happened. He would get the money he needed, and the bunny would continue to receive free housing under his porch; Everyone wins. Dashing outside in his underwear, he captured it with a butterfly net and put it in a cardboard box. It was quick and effortless since the bunny didn't move, or show any fear of being captured. He chalked it up to it's being 'meant to be' and went to bed.


The next morning he pulled the rabbit out of the box and stuffed it in his backpack. Again, the rabbit made no effort to escape, and limply dropped into his bag. He jumped on his ten speed and made his way to the track. He bet on the worst horse he could find in the listings and took a seat in the stands next to a group of nuns and a well dressed gentleman who was nervously fingering a violin case. Just as the horses were positioned into their stalls he pulled out the bunny. It sat quietly on his lap twitching it's nose. One of the nuns noticed him petting it anxiously, so she asked what it's name was.
"He doesn't have a name. I captured him last night."
"You captured him? So it's wild? Why did you do that?" She asked, and he proceeded to tell her his story. When he was finished the nun leaned in close and said, "We're here betting on a horse to raise money for our orphanage. An orphanage for children with gastro-intestinal disorders. The building burned down..."
"How did it burn down?" He asked. The nun only looked at him with a sense of sadness before replying, "Fires happen there more often than you'd realize."
"Oh."
"My point is, we're trying to save an orphanage, and we have God on our side. You should of brought more bunnies, and it doesn't help that you stole that one."

His heart started racing. They were right, his back story sucked compared to theirs. He needed an edge, and his rabbit which sat complacently on his lap wasn't cutting it. The horses bursted from the stalls and dashed around the track. His horse, "Liberty Melting Pot", ran halfway around the track before simply walking off to graze in the center island of grass. He turned to the nun, "You mother fucker..."
"I'll see you in hell before you beat a nun to run a perverted boys home in your basement."
"You haven't won yet bitch."
"The money's practically mine now faggot!" She squealed, clapping her little hands together. Her small stature, and wrinkled hands reminded him of his grandmother, another in a long line of controlling women he's met in his life. But soon the race was over, and the nun's horse came in a distant 5th.
"What the fuck!?" One of them stood up to scream to the field. "I totally pwned that shit! Martha- You didn't prey hard enough did you?!"
"No Janice, I did. I prayed until dawn like you asked!"
"You've always been the weakest among us!" Another screeched. Then suddenly, as if acting as one, they all dived in toward Martha with nails drawn from under their little robes. Next to him was the well dressed man with his hand in the violin case. He was laughing quietly to himself with his eyes glued to the field.
"Did you win?" He asked, holding the bunny steady on his lap to protect it from the bumping and jostling of the rabid nuns.
"Yep, yep I did." The man said, closing the case and standing up. "I couldn't help but overhear your sad stories, but I'm afraid that mine is even sadder than yours."
"What's your story?" He asked the man.
"No." the man cut him off. "That's just for me."
"What's in the violin case."
"Does it matter? You just didn't need it as badly as I did. The good luck charm is irrelevant, it's the good luck charm you keep in here" He beat his chest, "that matters most. And now, I will say good day to you sir."

The bike ride home was less comfortable than before, since the rabbit was squirrely and clawing from inside the bag. When he finally got home, he pulled the rabbit out and had to practically throw it onto his lawn to keep from getting bitten. It ran out to the oak tree that grew from the corner of his yard to crouch and watch him cautiously. He then realized that the rabbit wouldn't of offered him any more luck than if he had gone alone. Nothing in his life would change, except that he wouldn't be able to make his bills this month and his faith in television's mythologies was forever damaged. But the rabbit, the rabbit learned something today that would normally be outside it's scope of understanding. It had seen the darker side of man, it's desires and despair. It learned more about the people that it quietly existed with than any other animal would ever learn, and he could see in it's beety little eyes that it was plotting. It had seen man's weakness, and behind that little red eye, and twitchy nose it was plotting man's overthrow. He never saw the rabbit again, or any other rabbit in his yard for years after. Neighbors complained of rabbits swarming their houses and crawling through cracks into their basements to hiss at their children. But he never had a problem. And when the news reported how rabbits were driving people out of small towns to gather in larger cities for protection, it never effected him. Even when he was the last human to remain in his suburb, he never saw a rabbit.

Finally, one night he heard a knock on his door. It wasn't a normal knock of knuckles against the wood. It was more like something soft scraping across it. When he opened it he saw the figure of a 6 foot tall man in a long overcoat, but where the head should of been, was a rabbits. From the way that the coat swayed and bulged, he could tell that there were many rabbits balancing on top of each other to support the one rabbit that served as the head, and the head was of the rabbit he took to the race track. It turned to a profile so as to look squarely at him with one eye. After a moment, it opened it's mouth and squeaked, "Lucky... Talk... Man..."
"My god. What have I done." He said, bracing himself against the door to keep from collapsing. "What have I done..."

AW - Can't We All Just Get Along?

Dear Whitey,

Why don't all white people get along? I would think if white people were meant to rule the planet that you'd put aside your differences and conquer the world already.
Signed,

- Puzzled in Peking




Dear Puzzled in Peking,

The long answer to your question is while all of us Whiteys agree we are superior to everyone and everything on this planet, we do not always agree on how to best carry out world domination. There are many socioeconomic, religious and philosophical differences among us, and while we do our best to set aside such differences and rule over you with an iron fist, we do not always succeed, and for that I sincerely apologize. I realize this weakness of ours must be very difficult on you when you don't know when, exactly, you will be required to be blindly obedient to us. Rest assured, we are doing all within our power to remedy the problem and make you subservient to us as soon as is humanly possible.



The short answer is, some of us are French.



Hope that clears things up and thanks for writing in.

AW - Can’t We All Just Get Along?

Dear Whitey,

Why don't all white people get along? I would think if white people were meant to rule the planet that you'd put aside your differences and conquer the world already.
Signed,

- Puzzled in Peking




Dear Puzzled in Peking,

The long answer to your question is while all of us Whiteys agree we are superior to everyone and everything on this planet, we do not always agree on how to best carry out world domination. There are many socioeconomic, religious and philosophical differences among us, and while we do our best to set aside such differences and rule over you with an iron fist, we do not always succeed, and for that I sincerely apologize. I realize this weakness of ours must be very difficult on you when you don't know when, exactly, you will be required to be blindly obedient to us. Rest assured, we are doing all within our power to remedy the problem and make you subservient to us as soon as is humanly possible.



The short answer is, some of us are French.



Hope that clears things up and thanks for writing in.

Predecessor to a Listener

Steve had spent months learning how to become a 'listener' under Rory's teachings. It began when they met on the day they moved into their campus dorm together. Rory said their being roommates was meant to be, and how he would show Steve the way of the 'sensitive campus guy'. Steve wasn't much interested until Rory convinced him to hide in the top bunk while he brought a woman in to their room. She was a freshman, and suffering from the prospect of losing her high school sweetheart forever. Rory artfully convinced her that her ties to her boyfriend back home were really ties to her childhood that she was reluctant to sever now that she's becoming independant in college. Listening from under the covers of his top bunk, he nearly gave himself away as he fought back tears thinking back to his own breakup of his girlfriend back home. Rory convinced her that she needed to act symbolically to move on with her life. Then they made out. Steve found it inspiring, and he jumped at the chance to learn Rory's trade.

First Rory made him learn all the self help classics, telling Steve that he needed to ground himself in a solid base of affirmation theory and symbolic activities. Then he taught Steve how to scope out a room full of people and find the most emotionally vulnerable. He then taught him the art of conversation, and how to present himself as intelligent, thoughtful, and most of all sensitive. Once bringing a woman back to his dorm was an easy task, he jumped through the hoops of how to direct the conversation- to help him learn how to be more agile when road blocks were thrown up. Soon he could convince a woman to skip her mothers funeral because she was 'too controlling, and this is just one last way she can make you feel bad'. Lastly, Rory instructed Steve on how to dress, telling him that outward appearances go a long way to fool women into believing you're the type of man that they wish they could of claimed as their own boyfriend. He dressed in collared shirts that were only partially tucked into strategically worn-out jeans. That way he looked conservative, but not in a creepy way like the young republicans on campus. Top it off with a fashionable sport coat solidifies the idea that you're a successful lawyer just waiting to blossom. But there needs to be something else to soften the look. And that's when Steve was told to grow his hair out, so it could permanently be pulled into a pony tail. Since that takes time, he wore a false pony tail which was weaved into his existing hair.



Soon there were two men on campus that were considered "really great guys", even if they were victims of they guys one night stand and never spoke to again. Steve was even given 'the final test'. When Rory had a woman in his room, and was right on the cusp of claiming his victory, he would slip out giving some excuse. Then Steve would enter with the job of trying to convince the woman that Rory was no good at helping her, and get her to listen to him instead. He did it. He had successfully turned that woman against Rory when he returned. But as a twist, Steve had convinced her to invite Rory up to her cabin next weekend for a romantic get-away. "Amazing." Rory said, squinting as he looked into Steve's eyes. "Your skills have surpassed my own. I think you're ready to meet the master, and receive your name."

Steve jumped onto the back of Rory's scooter, and they buzzed across the campus to a small, dilapidated home on the edge of the "swill block". Inside was a man in his early 50's, reclining in his bathrobe in a lazy boy that was pockmarked with duct tape. After a long silence, and without taking his eyes off the television he barked, "I hear you're the new 'listener' on campus."
"I suppose so." Steve replied sheepishly.
"Rory has told me about your latest feat... very impressive."
"Thanks."
"I am the master of this technique, and there can only be one servant." He hissed. Steve looked to Rory, who's head was bowed.
"You mean he can't be a sensitive pony tail guy anymore?" Steve asked.
"No, you have to kill him." The man whispered, finally turning to Steve to look him dead in the eye.
"What?"
"It's ok Steve. I'm prepared for this. The only way you can become a true listener is if you can defeat me on the field of battle" Rory added.
"I'm not going to fight you! That's retarded!"
"Strike him down and take your rightful place by my side... Adian." The man said, rising from his chair.
"What's that?"
"That would be your new name." Rory said.
"Sounds kinda gay."
"It's not gay!" The man yelled, his remote control falling from his lap. "It's the final step in your new persona. But you can't have the name until you can defeat Rory. Rory's name was Pete until he defeated Trent, and Trent defeated Zack before him. It's your destiny Steve, fulfill your fate and the circle will be complete."
"Nope."
"You can't say 'nope'. You have to do it." Rory whined.
"No. This is stupid." Steve said, removing his fake ponytail and tossing it to the floor. "I'm not going to fight anyone. Actually I'm not going to be a part of this at all. I know how to pick up chicks now, and I'm going to keep doing it and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
"This means war of course." The man said, "There is not a day from this moment on where you won't fear for your life. You'll constantly look over your shoulder wondering when we will destroy you."
"Whatever. I don't think that two guys who don't even own a car are capable of war. Dorks."
"Allow me to slay him master." Rory said, never taking his eyes off Steve.
"No, no. I see great things in Adian. If we had him in our group, we would be unstoppable. With our combined strength, we could finally destroy the frat army and all those fly honey's will be ours!"
"Is that what this is about? You're just pissed off because you weren't invited to frat parties?"
"No. Shut up!" The man snapped.
"Shit, I know some guys. If that was all this was about, I could of got you in a few parties you loser."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. But screw that now."
"No wait! I'm cool. We could just go and hang out. We can hold off on the campus domination thing!"
"Nope. I'm out of here." Steve said as he opened the door to leave.
"Hey, we'll call you." Rory chimed. "Or I'll see you back at the dorm!"
"I'll stay with someone else until I can transfer to another dorm room." Steve said as he closed the door behind him. There was a silence as both men stood motionless, looking toward the door. Steve's footsteps faded away into the commotion of traffic on the street outside. Slowly, the man raised his clenched fists up to his face. The skin on his cheeks quivering from pent up rage. He bared his teeth and his face turned red as he turned to Rory, "You've failed me for the last time... Rory."

Gasoline Prices

High gas prices are the product of collusion between a loosely grouped coalition of health and fitness gurus led by Richard Simmons.

That's right - that porky, curly-haired monster is the cause of all our gas price woes.

Originally the coalition of health and fitness gurus had an easy time making money. They'd come up with chintzy little plastic contraptions with names like 'The Abdominalizer' and 'The Crossbow Revolutions'. These things cost approximately $,02 to make were constructed to last just a little longer than people would actually use them - which was a week-and-a-half.

When sales of silly plastic devices stalled, the coalition started selling books with titles like A Newer Slimmer Sexier Fitter Better Amazinger You In Just Two Days and Crying Yourself Into A Better Body which started out by saying:

"You are fat. You are ugly. It's disgusting really. Seriously, you are fat. Obese. How do you live with yourself? Oh sure, go pick up the Snickers bar you sniffling fatty! That'll take care of everything! You sniveling snot-nosed fat fatty! GO WORK OUT NOW YOU TUB OF LARD!"

When sales of diet books plateaued, the coalition knew they had to do something quickly, so they turned to the only man they could...Richard Simmons.

You see, Richard Simmons is the trainer to the wives of the wealthiest men in America - the CEOs of oil companies. Richard is the wives' paler, dumpier, frizzier-haired Oprah. Their guru.



Richard Simmons plan is to get the wives to start nagging their husbands. With the increase in nagging, the husbands will spend more time at the office. When they spend more time at the office, they will feel guilty. To try and alleviate that guilt they will buy their wives expensive things. When they buy their wives expensive things they will feel poor. To feel rich again they will have to raise gas prices so they can make more money. When they raise gas prices the people will start looking at alternatives to driving, like biking and walking. To learn how to do these things properly and find out what they should wear while doing them, the people will turn to the only ones they can - the coalition of health and fitness gurus. The health and fitness gurus will become fabulously wealthy.

That Richard Simmons is one diabolically clever bastard.

In order to break this vicious circle that Richard Simmons has created we must - all of us! - sit on our asses as much as possible. We must buy oily, fatty foods and deep-fry them. We must be lazy - wonderfully, gloriously lazy - so lazy that the mere thought of moving our eyes to read a health and fitness book causes a sweat to form on our brow.

It is then, and only then, that Richard Simmons will be defeated and gas prices will return to normal.

Government, Phones

So the government has been tapping my phone and keeping a database of the numbers I've been calling, which goes a way toward explaining the black van that's been sitting across the street from my house for the last month or so - you know, the one with the antennas and satellite dishes on it?

It might also go a way toward explaining why, when I call my favorite 900 number, I see a little red light and smoke creep out of the van.

It might also go a way toward explaining why, when I prepay for a pizza to be delivered, it never shows up, but when I don't prepay, the pizza guy shows up in under 30 minutes.



It might also go a way toward explaining why, the morning after I complained to my mother over the phone about George Bush's presidency, someone ding-dong ditched my house and left a flaming bag of poo on my porch.

It might also go a way toward explaining why, when calling tech support - as it turned out, in India - concerning my computer's lack of power, and, after asking the kind, tech support lady to repeat herself for the sixth time, I heard a click, a whir, a beep, and then a gruff male voice say, "She's saying, 'plug in the computer,' dumbass."

Encourage Startling Prostitute

She wasn't necessarily unattractive, so much as startling. One couldn't really define what was wrong with her when her looks were broken down to it's elements. But as a whole she was alarming to look at. Her eyes were small and placed tightly together, but that style of eye has been seen on others who could still be considered attractive. Her nose was thin and long so that the ball of it looked to touch her upper lip. But it didn't really. Her lips were thin and stretched from one cheek to the other, but that alone wasn't unattractive either. Her hair was frizzy, with strays that floated up to catch the light, but frizzy haired women were a dime a dozen. She slumped over when she walked and when she sat, she kept the same position so that her back was practically on the seat of the chair. No combination of things made her unnerving to look at, but as a whole her visage was abrasive. Which is a hard obstacle to over come when you're a prostitute. And her defeated personality was painted all over.

That's the first thing that he noticed when she sat down in a booth across from him at Arbys. Though separated by two tables and a double sided bench, they were facing each other. She couldn't help but look directly in his eyes, and he did to her as well. His eyes were so soft and caring, that she didn't feel self conscious when she looked at him. Finally, he spoke. A soft, almost french accent. What he said was flat and without passion, "You're hideous."
"I..." She replied softly, still entranced by his loving gaze, unable to spew back the venomous buck-shot of insults she had on hand for moments just like this. It wasn't the first time she's heard this. Whether it was from "john's", or just random people she'd meet in a department store. But this was different. She didn't feel anger. She almost felt relieved that he could speak so openly to her, and without malice.
"Are you a whore?" He asked. His smooth, french accent soothing her.
"Yes." She replied. The urge to open up and tell him all the feelings she's had, all the embarrassments and the shame she's felt up until this day.


"I find you repulsive- I could never make love to you." He added. Suddenly his gaze could no longer hold her and protect her from her own shame. He rose from his seat and rushed over to sit across the table from her. Holding her hands in his he whispered, "Seriously, you couldn't pay me to throw one up you." She lifted her eyes to meet his.
"I know."
"Your head looks like your neck threw up, and your body has the shape of a stocking filled with feces." He began caressing her cheek. She leaned her face in to meet his palm. It was the first time she's been insulted where it didn't effect her, it was the kind of conversation you'd have with an old friend, where you can embrace the honesty without any reserve. "More..." She said softly.
"You do not understand women as you have never successfully depicted one." He chimed sweetly. A thin tear rolled down her cheek.
"Do you enjoy camping?"
"Yes."
"Is it because you enjoy nature."
"Yes, being in nature is the only time I don't feel like people are judging me." She said, weeping into his hand.
"How can you love nature, when it did that to you?"
"It's true."
"I wouldn't even screw you with your dick."
"It's true." She said, trying to hold back the tears.

Then, he got up. "My work is done... Go out into the world with your new found love for your self. Because no one else will love you." She still clung to his hands as he walked away. Slipping from her grasp, he whisked through the metal doors and faded into the parking lot. She never learned his name, but he had changed her life forever. She didn't carry the lead feeling that lived in her stomach for the last 20 years. She was free, and the world was her playground. She only wished she was in the presence of mind to thank him for what he had done. She knew, deep down that he must travel from town to town helping destitute people regain their sense of self worth. Helping others from the gutter of life. She was in awe even of his very memory, she decided that she would go back to school and continue her education as an administration assistant. She would marry, have children and live in a nice little house in a nice, quiet suburb. And all this was thanks to the mysterious man she knew she's never see again. That is, until she ran into him while he was filling up his Chevy Lumina at the Conaco gas station. And later, when she saw him at Applebees with some friends from the local softball league. He made nervous eye contact with her, but they never spoke.

Job Interview Questions

I've been looking for a new job and have been having problems with some of the interview questions I've been asked.

During an interview I was asked if I could think outside the box. I beckoned the interviewer out of her 10' x 10' office into the 50' x 50' room full of cubicles. I beckoned the interviewer out of the 50' x 50' room full of cubicles into the 30' x 30' lobby of the 130' x 130' office building. I beckoned the interviewer out of the 30' by 30' lobby of the 130' x 130' office building into the 50' x 50' parking lot. I beckoned the interviewer out of the 50' x 50' parking lot and onto a small, triangular section of grass at a nearby intersection and said, yes.

During an interview I was asked why I wanted to work at that particular company. I said it wasn't necessarily a matter of want and that that particular company had said they'd had a job available and if they didn't would they please stop wasting my time.

During an interview I was asked how much money I was looking to make. I said I wasn't sure but it had better be enough to cover my crack habit, my alimony payments, my mortgage payments, my wife, my girlfriends, and my recent out-of-court settlement concerning the incident at the bar with the dwarf, the foosball table, the keg and the pool cue.

During an interview I was asked what my 5-year plan was. I said I wanted to win the lottery and live a life of leisure, but, failing that, I wanted to work as little as possible while making a lot of money.

During an interview I was asked what my family, friends and former coworkers would say about me. I said I wasn't sure but we could call them up if he wanted.

During an interview I was asked what it was like to be a tree. I said they were slackers who played around outside all day - soaking up the sun, swaying in the breeze and sleeping for six months of the year. I said they were trespassers who should be dealt with harshly for their lack of respect of peoples' personal property. I said they were litterbugs who should be fined for not picking up after themselves in the fall. I said they were nasty things that housed rodents and insects. The interviewer then asked what kind of tree I would be. I said Poplar.

During an interview I was asked - after taking an IQ test, a personality test, a math skills test, a vocabulary matching test, a grammar test, a mechanical aptitude test, and a drug test - why I thought they should hire me. I said because I had already put in a full day's work.


During an interview I was asked if I would consent to taking a drug test. I said I sometimes had problems distinguishing between irregularly shaped sugar cubes and crack cocaine and had forgotten my bong, but if they were willing to lend me one of theirs, I was willing to give it my best shot.

During an interview I was asked how I handled stressful situations. I picked up the interviewer's computer monitor, threw it through the window, banged my fist against a wall, cried in a corner and lit up a joint.

During an interview I was asked what my biggest mistake was and how I'd fix it. I said my biggest mistake was taking out student loans so I could go to college to learn what to do while sitting in front of a computer so I could get a job working in a cubicle all day so I could afford to pay back my student loans. I said I'd fix it by building a time machine, going back to the day I graduated high school and throttling my younger self until he agreed to forget about college and bought a ticket to Hawaii where he'd learn to surf instead.

During an interview I was asked what I was most proud of in my life. I said I was most proud of holding the high score for Asteroids down at the video arcade for an entire summer. When the interviewer suggested I should have, perhaps, said something more along the lines of "having kids" I responded that having kids was easy - that just involved doing something I enjoyed doing anyway, whether or not kids came of it, and besides, billions of people had been doing that kind of thing for hundreds of thousands of years - but holding the high score in Asteroids for an entire summer, now that took real skill and determination.

During an interview I was asked if I would be willing to work overtime to finish a project, if I would be willing to work through the night and on weekends - even sleeping at the office if I had to - to finish a job, if I would be willing to do anything and everything to meet a deadline, if I would work under extreme pressure and endure harsh criticism all in the name of making the company look good.

I asked the interviewer if they'd be willing to let me work undertime and still pay my salary, if they'd be willing to let me have my nights and weekends free - even letting me sleep in on cold, dark, wet, work days, if they'd be willing to do anything and everything to let me get home on time, if they could handle me slacking off at work and making fun of them behind their backs at the bar with my friends, all in the name of making me feel better.

They said no.

Limited addition illustration Wednesday!

"Color Me Bad(d)" By Mike Lewis

Pentagon May Help Secure Southern Border

WAHSINGTON D.C. - Faced with growing pressure from Southern states the Bush administration wants the military to come up with ideas to help solve the security problems along the U.S. border with Mexico.

In back-to-back moves last week, the Pentagon began exploring ways to lend support at the Southern border while the House voted to allow the Department of Homeland Security to use soldiers in that region in limited cases

At the Pentagon, Paul McHale, the assistant secretary of defense for homeland defense, asked officials to offer options for the use of military resources and troops along the border with Mexico.

One of the most popular options discussed, according to defense officials familiar with the discussions, was a new Star Wars-based initiative called ALIEN,

ALIEN - Automated Laser Inquiry and Exclusion of non-Nationals - is the code word for a system of laser-equipped, geosynchronous earth orbit satellites. The satellites monitor the nearest 500 yards of any country bordering U.S. territory. When ALIEN determines a potential immigrant is trying to cross into the U.S. illegally it shoots them with a laser beam.

ALIEN's laser beam can be calibrated to a wide range of settings ranging from 'stun' for first-time offenders and rich peoples' maids to 'vaporize' for repeat offenders and Democratic Party supporters.

According to Gordon McLean, lead research scientist for the U.S. Center for Defense Against Illegal Immigrants, the testing of some early ALIEN prototypes had some officials wondering if the technology could work.

"There are two parts to ALIEN's laser system, detection - which detects potential illegal immigrants, and prevention - which stops the potential illegal immigrant from entering U.S. territory."

"The prevention part was easy," continued McLean, "it was the detection part we had some initial problems with. We were getting a lot of false positives early on, so instead of incapacitating Mexicans intent on entering the U.S. illegally ALIEN would be zapping, say, a newlywed couple with a deep tan returning back to the States from their honeymoon in Acapulco, or a group of retired women from that Red Hat club returning from Cabo San Lucas - we just couldn't differentiate between tans and natural skin color or between old ladies' hats and sombreros, but once we got those kinks worked out the Pentagon was very happy."



"It's a great system," McHale said. "Once ALIEN is up we won't have to exert any more manpower on border patrols or immigrant processing. Illegal immigrants will not set one single foot on U.S. soil."

"Well," McHale continued, "if ALIEN is set to vaporize and an illegal immigrant is running really fast the explosion might actually propel a foot or a few toes into U.S. territory, but that's all that would make it."

According to Pentagon sources, approximately ten satellites will be needed to cover the Southern U.S. border with Mexico. The first ALIEN satellite is slated to launch sometime in August of this year with the entire ALIEN network coming online by early next year.

Convenience Store Uprising

It was a morning just like any other at the Pretty Flippin' Fast convenience store. People stumbled in groggy to purchase coffee, Mountain Dew or Twinkies for their morning commute. No one spoke or looked each other in the eye and the man behind the counter completed each transaction with as few words as possible. But there was something different in the air this time, something looming over the heads of everyone in the cramped building. It had a smell to it, like sulphur. It was the smell of revolution.

It was sparked by someone who didn't prepay at the pump. The clerk leaned into his thin, silver mic and announced, "You have to pre-pay sir.... You have to pre-pay... Sir... Sir..." But the old man at the pump continued to push the button for unleaded repeatedly until he began pounding on the keypad with his large hand. "Sir, please stop punching that. Sir... Sir... Oh for fucks sake." He muttered to himself before finally turning on the pump so the man could get his gas. That was his first mistake, he showed weakness to the others. The people in line shifted their weight from one leg to the other, their patience growing short. Finally the old man came in, and the clerk berated him for not pre-paying.
"What the hell is this?" The man yelled. "I pay my taxes! I don't have to put up with this abuse. Don't you understand that I have rights as a consumer?"
"I know sir, but.."
"I'm sick and tired of being treated like a second class citizen by the companies that I give my money to!" He interrupted. The others groaned, the line that had begun to grow to the point where it snaked through the cramped isles of windshield wipers, snickers bars and Folders Coffee packets. This show was holding them back from their morning routine, but still something stirred from deep within them.


"I have the right to refuse to give you my money!" He bleated. The others perked up. Each suddenly creating their own check list of annoyances they've experienced themselves. Being charged twice for a Butterfinger, not having their brand of cigarette in stock and waiting for the clerk to come out of the bathroom. Fists were beginning to clench.
"Sir, if you don't pay I'll be forced to call the cops." Their annoyance began to turn into anger at those words. Another hold up from getting back on the road.
"I've done nothing wrong! I'm just here to get gas! I served in the war! I've done my part for my country, and I demand respect!" All eyes slid back to the clerk who hesitated before turning bitterly toward the phone.
"This is a rail road! I am not a criminal! I'm here to offer you my money, and you're treating me like criminal!" The old man bellowed. The others began to group around the counter, shrugging off the rule of staying in line. "Yeah!" One of them shouted, "Yesterday I was four cents short to pay for my box of Triscuts, and you wouldn't let me have it! It's not my fault you didn't have any change in the penny dish!"
"I had to wait for ever while you changed the roll on the receipt printer!" Another chimed in.
"You wouldn't let me use your bathroom because you said it was for employees only!"
"Your ATM is busted!" Another man screamed, flailing his useless bank card over his head.
"Hitler!" The old man yelled as he pointed at the clerk.
"Lets get him!" A well dressed business woman shrieked. The crowd pushed in and pulled the clerk out from behind the bullet proof glass. They raised him over their heads while chanting "Revolution!" Someone opened up the refrigerator door and pulled out all the lite beer and sodas, and the mob threw the clerk in. Then the looting began. Twinkies were hastily snatched up and stuffed into pockets, Little Debbi Snack Cakes were greedily eaten and lottery tickets were pulled from the spindle.

"People! People! This store is ours now. Everything will he handed out equally! There is no need for panic!" The old man yelled while standing on the counter. Everyone stopped to look at their new leader, the man who guided them through the waters of corruption and into freedom. "Lead us El Guapo!" The business woman sang from deep within the crowd. And as he began to tell them his well thought out plan on how their new society would live, a plan he had been developing while tinkering with model cars in his basement to avoid his wife, there was an explosion. One of the rebels had lit a gas pump on fire. The shock wave blew out all the store front windows. The whole west side of the little square building was covered in flaming gas. The old man ushered everyone out so that they filled service road which lead up to the Pretty Flippin' Fast store. They all watched speechlessly as it crumbled before them.

Soon there were wales of despair emanating from the group. A baby could be heard crying among the din, and someone in a torn shirt picked up the remains of melted window scraper before falling to their knees weeping. The business woman walked up to the old man who looked at the blaze stoically. "What do we do now great leader?" She put one hand on his broad shoulder. He turned to her with deep compassion in his eyes, then grabbed her by her waist and dramatically pulled her in toward him. They looked into each others eyes, which glistened in the fire light before replying, "We rebuild." Then he kissed her hard, and deeply.

Pulled Announcements

"Goooooooooood morning Alice Smith Elementary!" Greg bellowed into the microphone. His voice echoing softly through the closed classroom doors and trailing down the dark hallways. Following it snaked the hiss of children cheering from their desks.

Cheryl was pulling moist paper towels from the drain of the hand cleaning fountains, which squatted like vacant UFO's by the lunchroom. She looked up, scowling at the gymnasium doors where children stopped running to listen to Greg's morning announcements. "Today is half ticket days in the lunch room- so be sure to spend that extra half on something nice for the lunch ladies!" He chimed though the P.A., his toothy grin practically bulging out of the cloth-covered speaker boxes. "Because they don't like feeding you that prison food anymore than you like eating it!" He laughed. The children responded in kind. Plump, hair netted women in aprons leaned in toward each other and giggled over their pots of sloppy joe mix. Greg had a way with words. A gift for taking the mundane and making it exciting and the children and school staff loved him for it.

Cheryl didn't. Morning announcements used to be her job, and she believed in reporting the day's events as serious, hard fact. She didn't want to make light of fire drills, or rain announcements for the crossing guards. She knew that the information she was given by the Principal's secretary was important, and reading them over the P.A. was a sacred trust. But she had become obsolete when Greg was asked to fill in for her one morning when she was late to school. Upon entering the building, she heard the unified chorus of children's laughter emanate from every classroom. She heard Greg shower them with his bellowing laugh, and by the time she got to the office, Greg had finished reading off the announcements. He flipped the switch on the base of the gray, metal microphone and high-fived Gretchen who was standing next to him. "Yeah! I nailed it!" he yelled just before he turned to see Cheryl. There was a pause as each looked at each other. Greg with a smug smile and Cheryl with a look of shock. Then the principal walked out of his office with hands outstretched, "Great work Greg. I've never heard them read with such vigor... Such life!" He then wrapped both his fleshy hands around Gregs one hand outstretched. "Seriously, we would like for you to consider taking the morning announcement post."
"I'd be honored sir!" Greg replied.
"Great-great! Oh boy! That crack you made about the janitors- Gold! Gold baby!" They both retreated into the principals office laughing and slapping each other on the back. And she thought she saw Greg look back at her from over his shoulder.



Each morning when he read the announcements, she wandered the halls listlessly. Randomly picking up a discarded pencil or piece of paper, listening to his telling of the news. Sometimes she peered though the narrow windows on the large, oak doors to see the children all leaning forward eagerly. She continued to wander the halls, delicately as if navigating through fields of glass until his delivery was over. Which was always capped with his trademark, "That's it for me- Stay tight!"

She complained to the others, and the principal. Desperately trying to get them to acknowledge that this mornings story about Janell, the playground lady, organizing a four-square competition during recess was just a 'fluff piece'. She'd plead with them to understand that what he's doing isn't delivering the solid information the children needed. It was just sensationalized story telling. But they would only respond by saying that they understand, and that she was taking all this too personally. They were all on his side, and she knew it would something extraordinary to get them to see the light. She began toying with the idea of sabotage, but never really felt like she would act on it until Thursday mornings announcement, when Greg used the word 'flippin' to describe how cold out it was. "He said flippin'" she barked at the principal, "I demand that you remove him from reading the announcements!"
"Now, now Cheryl. Let's not over react. There's no law against the word flippin'." He said, rolling his eyes to the secretary who was just outside the door.
"Are you kidding me? Flippin is just a few words away from... you know..." She leaned in close to whisper, "The F-Bomb!"
"The what?"
"The F-Bomb! And when you drop a bomb like that, you are guaranteed to have collateral damage! If you don't do something about his conduct, I'm going to call the superintendent, or bring it up at the next PTO meeting!"
"Ok, ok. Calm down. I'll talk to him." He hissed.
"Talk to him? Talking won't do anything! Fire him!"

But nothing happened. He was still at his desk for the rest of the day, and by his jovial attitude, it was clear nothing was said to him. In fact, he was back on the P.A. system at the end of the day to remind the 4th grade students that tomorrow was their last day to turn in their permission slips for the zoo field trip. "Otherwise...." He crooned into the mic, "You'll have to spend the day in Mrs. Phelps' class cleaning the gum from under all the desks!" Cheryl maintained her level of anger, but was finally pushed over the edge when she overheard one student tell another that they were "going to miss the flippin' bus". They both giggled to each other. Cheryl felt that they were giggling at more than the use of a naughty word, they were laughing at her incompetence.

Taking the situation into her own hands, she cornered Stacy in the supply room. Reluctantly, Stacy gave her Greg's announcement notes for the next day. Which was mostly due to the pity she felt for Cheryl, and the close working relationship they once had when she used to read the announcements. She took them home and read them over. Then read them again, and again until she found the perfect spot to alter what he wrote.

The next morning was an anxious one, she developed a pain in her stomach from the stress- But it was worth it. Greg ran through the checklist of information, before getting to the fluff piece he had written himself. It was about the children's field trip, and a joke he had written about the petting zoo and making sure to wash your hands after touching the dirty animals. Cheryl altered the punch line so that Greg ended by stating, "You don't want to tell your parents about how your hands got dirty from feeling my cock!" Which he read flawlessly, grinning into the microphone. There was no echoing cheer from the class rooms. Greg's smile slowly faded. He looked down at his notes and re-read what was there. All the children in Mrs. Flemmings 3rd grade class stared at the speaker box with open mouths. "Oh... Oh God.." The box stuttered. "Wait... I didn't mean... I didn't write that!" Then there was a loud click and the box was silent.

The next morning, Greg's voice wasn't on the P.A. system. In fact, none of Greg was in the school at all anymore. Cheryl stern voice cracked in when the mic's switch was flipped. She read the announcements plainly and with an indignant tone. No one in the office made a sound. She listed off the days events in a staccato rhythm until she reached the end. She exhaled into the microphone, so that a low, rolling thunderous sound filled all the rooms. Her voice softened as much as she could as she read what was to become her new catch phrase, "That's it for me... Stay out of trouble."
"My God," Mrs. Flemming muttered to herself as she and all the other children continued reading their papers through the announcements. "Sure we have order, but at what price?"

iPod iShmod

When I Was a kid I didn't want the smallest, thinnest, lightest iPod my parents could afford to buy me, I wanted the biggest boom box I could wrap my arm around and carry over my shoulder. In fact, if I couldn't carry my boom box because it was too big, well, that was even better because the bigger the box, the bigger the speakers and the bigger the speakers, the louder the music.

And speaking of volume, I didn't want the tiny, white, non-ear-fitting ear bud headphones so I could listen to my music by myself, I wanted the boom box with the dual 12'' subwoofers so as many neighbors as possible could hear the music I was listening to. If dogs weren't howling and neighbors weren't yelling then the music wasn't loud enough. I wanted a boom box loud enough to share my music with the world.



And speaking of sharing music, I didn't sit in front of a computer getting fat and pasty while I illegally downloaded dozens of songs at once, I heaved my boom box onto my shoulder, grabbed a six-pack of blank audio cassettes and got some good sun and exercise walking to a friend's house - uphill, both ways - to legally dub a tape or two at - if I was lucky - 2x speed. That's right, I couldn't download an entire album in two minutes, I could, at best, dub a tape at 2x speed, and I could only use the 2x function if the boom box was plugged into an electrical outlet because 2x really drained the batteries.

And speaking of batteries, I didn't have to pack up and ship my iPod to the OEM - where I would have to wait 4-6 weeks for a battery replacement and most likely have all my music deleted - to replace a dead battery, I went down to the local dime store - that's right, I had dime stores, not dollar stores, when I was a kid - and bought eight D batteries . I'd spend about 10 second popping the old ones out and the new ones in and I'd be good to go.

Darned kids.

Your Selfish Crush on Legolas

So, you love Legolas. Worse yet you have to tell everyone about it.

It started off innocently enough when you were a child. You read Tolken's books and came to the conclusion that Legolas, and all the other elves were your favorite. You were drawn to them because of their stoic nature, and what was described as fair good looks. When the movies came out you were a little older, and you developed a strong crush on Orlando Bloom's portrayal of Legolas. To the point where you started writing his name with big, poofy hearts on your trapper keeper... Legolas' name- Not Orlando. You laid around your room listening to the "Click Five" and daydreaming about how he would swoop in from a dark, and forbidden forest to rescue you from sweaty orcs by shooting three arrows at once into their chests. Then he would hold you in his arms just as you're about to faint, and ask you softly if you were ok with warm breath that smelled faintly of lilac.

As the years pass your passions become more 'adult'. Your fantasy no longer ended after the brief encounter where you're protected from the writhing evils of the enchanted wood. It progressed into something more along the lines of a romance novel, but without all the ickyness of a mortal man. In your fantasy he never sweats. His skin is without defect like milky, white rice paper. And he doesn't make the grotesque orgasm face you've seen your previous skinny, albino and practically hairless boyfriends make. And I want to inform you of the grave realities of the elaborate facade you've created for yourself.

They don't have dicks. I'm sorry, but you know I'm right. You've never really imagined him with or without one. You've conveniently skipped past that part and jumped straight to the humping... Oh, oh- I'm sorry. I meant to say "Thrusting lustily". But they don't. You've never read about them taking a piss much less taking a crap. And if I remember correctly, I don't remember Orlando Bloom high-five Sean Astin while saying, "Dropped a hot carl on Arwen last night!" They have no genitalia. If you won't accept that there is a Ken doll smooth patch hidden behind his leggings, then at least accept that he only has one little hole directly between the creases where his legs meet his pelvic bone. Which occasionally emits a faint puff of talcum powder. But that's it. Nothing else.



What were you thinking? You were going to get married? Is that how you ended your "me time" sessions on a lonely Friday night? You had to justify all that dirty touching by imagining the two of you spooning on your wedding bed? Well, he can't get you pregnant, so that's not going anywhere. The only way Elves have kids is when one of them sprouts from a lotus like Brahma. You think they like that? Every Time they feel emotions of 'love' they see another mouth to feed sprout out of a near by plant. Before you fall for Legolas' well worn pick up line, "Your parents must be thieves, because they stole the stars and put them in your eyes" think of how many piglets he has running around the houses of other elf women. You want to be another notch on his belt? Ok. Ok. Lets say you're the one that's going to get him to settle down and raise your lotus kids. He's been thinking of going to college to be an architect you know. What- you thought all that talk of building that crystal tower in Rivendell was just pillow talk? He's been saving up gold pieces for years now to achieve that dream. You're all over him like a cheap suit, pushing your friggin' lotus baby on him so he's going to have to settle for night classes at the Elf Community College to learn pipe fitting. I can tell you right now he's not going to be happy. You'll see him coming home from nights out with his buddies smelling like a dew hall. He'll barely spend time with your kids, and he'll talk down to you in front of your friends.

Then you'll think you can change him. You think you can turn him around and make a good elf out of him. But how are you going to do that when you can't have sex with him, we took that out of the picture. Christ, you can't even kiss him because he thinks spit is gross. Your bodily fluids ruin his rose pedal skin. The only way you're going to be able win him over is to be his poetic and intellectual peer. I hate to say it, but you have a lot of work to do. All those hours of 'Gilmore Girls' you've watched doesn't make you into a mental giant. You're going to have to read up on Shakespere, Kant, Descartes, and Sinclare Lewis. Personally, I think you should just give up. Do you really want to do that to the elf you love? Break him down into a hollow shell of what he once was? Do you really think he feels better when he overhears you telling the other elf house wives how he's really been getting good at making clothing out of hemp? And how you keep telling him he should open up a ebay shop because he's really talented? No. It will just cause him to reflect on all the minor compromises it took for him to reach this point. Then, one night, he'll slip out of the quaint little home in a mound that you're still paying the mortgage on, and leave for the Dwarf village.

Just develop a healthy obsession with a rock star like a normal person, and get on with your life.

AW - Serial Killers

Dear Whitey,

Of all the serial killers out there, why are so many of them Whiteys? You guys scare me.

- Carlos "Please Don't Kill Me" Ribaldo




Dear Please Don't kill Me,

The reason most serial killers are Whiteys is because we are under a lot of stress. People think it is easy ruling the world - glamorous parties, beautiful women, millions of dollars - but there is a lot more to it than that. You see, oppressing the lesser classes/races/genders/religions can take a lot out of a young man with world domination on his mind. That's why, occasionally, one of us will snap. I know it isn't pretty when we do, and I apologize for that, but you have little reason to fear, dear Carlos, for your lesser racial status virtually guarantees you safety from these rogue Whiteys. You see, when we Whiteys snap we tend to go for the young, single white female as opposed to the middle-aged, male Hispanic. Lucky you!



Hope that clears things up and thanks for writing in.

The War on Drugs

The war on drugs is a sham perpetrated by the shadow government to line the pockets of the Stalinesque authorities.

It's true.

Take marijuana, for instance. The Man says that marijuana causes memory loss and a lack of cogent reasoning. Hooey! I've been smoking the ganja for years and I've never once had a problem either remembering a darned thing or carrying on a conversation with anyone.

In fact, I'm smoking the happy grass right now and let me tell you, The Man is wrong. You don't see me rambling on and on. Why, I once hand-rolled a joint in Kentucky, you know, the bluegrass state, where I bought a solid-state 8-track player which, let me tell you, is much better than these digital mp3s all the kids have these days. Boy, there's something you don't see in stores anymore- vinyl records. Isn't the word "disc" funny? How do you spell disc anyways - disc? Disk? Disque? Disch? From now on, I'm going to be fair and spell it all the ways: disckqueh.



And speaking of disckquechs, what's with all the disckquechs people keep seeing in the sky? And why call Area 51, Area51? And why is Area 51 in the desert? Do you really think aliens have the technology to safely fly trillions of miles through space only to crash land on Earth? And Nevada? Travel trillions of miles to end up in Nevada? It wasn't even one of the interesting places in Nevada like Vegas or Reno - it was in the middle of nowhere, which is all Nevada pretty much is. Let me tell you, there's a reason that Nevada had to legalize prostitution and gambling to get people to visit and even then people will only stay on the outskirts of the state.

To conclude, Nevada is a vast conspiracy perpetrated by the aliens to legalize prostitution and gambling.

Slaughter Time

To many, spring is a season of birth and renewal, a time to enjoy the feel of both the warmth of the sun and a gentle afternoon rain, a time to watch the flowers bloom, hear the birds chirp and splendor in the overall niftiness of life springing anew.

For me it is a time to start squashing the damn bugs and spiders that find their way into my house.

Fellow tinydeadbunny.com contributor, Ricardo Pants, has a much different view than I of bugs and spiders in a house. He believes that if he is nice to them - that is, picking them up carefully and placing them outside, all the while whispering kind, positive things to them - they might tell all their bug and spider buddies about the generosity he showed them and maybe, just maybe, they would then stay out of his house. Ricardo Pants also believes that, in treating bugs and spiders with kindness, he is building up positive karma points with the universe.

I believe that, in this specific case, Ricardo Pants is full of crap.

I believe that if you are kind to the bugs and spiders they'll just find a way to get back into the house because they have nothing to fear, such as, for instance, the bottom of my shoe.



I believe that those free loading bastards should be paying rent to live in my comfortable, climate-controlled house and after they pay rent they should still be squashed.

I believe that there is an "inside" and an "outside" for a reason. When I go outside I am fair game. They can bite, sting, crawl, fly and generally creep the hell out of me and I promise to spend as little time outside as possible. When I'm inside they are fair game. I can squish, squash, stomp and spray any little bastard that finds its way into my domain.

I believe karma has put these bugs and spiders in my house for a reason, and that reason is that those bugs and spiders deserve every last swat that I give them. They are there either because the universe is cruel or they were very bad in a previous life, I don't particularly care which it is, either way, I believe they deserve it.

Now excuse me while I go grab a can of Raid and a size 13 shoe. I gots me some bugs to track down.

AW - Poor White People

Dear Whitey,

Why are some white people poor? If white people are meant to rule the world, shouldn't they all be rich?

- Confused in the Congo




Dear Confused,

Back in the old days travel used to be difficult, so Whiteys with money decided it was easier to subjugate other Whiteys than going out and finding some colored people to rule over. With the advent of large ships and air travel in our modern era, however, subjugating people of other races, while preferable, still isn't always, unfortunately, possible. You see, there are just so many of us! Not all of us Whiteys can be rich and powerful. Sorry for that failure of ours. We do, however, try to give preferential treatment to other Whiteys whenever possible. You know, better APRs on home and car loans, hassle-free shopping in department stores and, of course, less police scrutiny when driving a car.



Hope that clears things up and thanks for writing in.

Throat Nugget

I don’t know exactly what a throat nugget is, or what causes it, but I’ve had one for the last three days.It’s an annoying little rock that looks like it’s made from some type of space-age popcorn technology. Yellow, greasy but surprisingly buoyant and spongy. It comes out from somewhere deep within ones throat, or more likely ones stomach to offer up its pointlessness.

I experienced my first throat nugget when I was in the first grade. I was sitting near a long row of windows during, I think, a history class. I could see the complex I lived in from there, and stared at it longingly. Imagining all the things I was going to do when I got home and, for some reason, that my mother was making a cake. She had a day job, and wasn’t even home, but that didn’t stop my fantasy. Then, for no apparent reason I felt a tickle in the back of my throat and coughed. It was a hard, grating mixture, a meld of a cough and clearing ones throat. I only did it once, it’s all I needed. A hard, sharp cough to free up the object from the depths of my mouth, and release it onto my faux wood desk. I stared at it for a while poking at it with my index finger. It looked like an old, dried out nugget of peanut butter but it was soft and wet when pushed on. I asked a friend sitting next to me what it was but no explanation was given. I even have the clear memory of asking my self if this meant I wasn’t healthy. But I never followed up with my parents about it, so I must not of cared too much. I held on to it for a while before flicking it at someone, but never forgot it.

This new one was bugging me. It sat in the back of my throat for days, and no amount of hard coughing was bringing it up. Erin was getting annoyed and would jam her elbow in my ribs and yell at me to quit it when we’d be laying on the couch. I can’t blame her. We have a ritual where, after work, we lay together on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket and drift off to sleep while watching television or a movie from netflix. With my head behind hers, and my mouth close to her ear, I would deliver a forceful cough that made her whole body flinch. I couldn’t help it.

Coughing normally made the thing shoot out like a missile, arching through the air where, presumably, it evaporated before hitting the floor. Or simply stopped existing. Sometimes, it would land on my bottom lip and balance precariously with a “ta-dah” finale like a tight-rope performer who had just done a flip in the middle of the wire. And I kinda like the feeling.

Like how some people gather up their phlegm from deep within themselves and shoot it out on the ground before them. They don’t really need to do that. They do it for pleasure. The feel of that soft body as it passes from the lips and hits it’s target with a hard slap. A distinct slap that most would recognize, whether its on pavement or the side of another kids head. It doesn’t matter. Its about execution, its about form.



I finally got rid of it yesterday morning while driving to work. I had just pulled out of the driveway and started down the street when I felt it rolling around deep within the back of my throat, just under the edge of my toung. I coughed and coughed, but nothing came up. I lit a cigarette and weaved through the neighborhood to get out on the main highway. Just before I broke out of the neighborhood I coughed again and the nugget popped out. It landed, still at the back of my throat, on the top edge of my toung and hung there. My first response was to breathe air in and give it another sharp kick in its ass, relieving me of three days of torture but I couldn’t. My body made it’s own decisions, and it’s decision was to start gagging. The first gag was long, and my mouth stretched open for what seemed like five minuets. Even when I stopped making that horrifying retching sound my face held it’s position. I thought, “Wait until this is done and cough…” But there was no air in my lungs. I knew I’d have to inhale in order to pull it off, but I could tell that it’d start another gagging fit.It stopped. I tried to inhale, but my body sent another wave of gagging before I could breathe. I pulled over the car realizing that this could get dangerous once I hit the highway. After the second long stretch of gagging I managed to get a little air in before being forced into another fit. I started to salivate and my eyes were watering up. I opened up the door just as a precaution since, though nothing was coming out yet, it might. And I didn’t want it all over my lap. I was parked directly in front of a large house that sat on the edge of the neighborhood just near the main road that took me to the highway. I could see a light on upstairs, and I laughed to my self at what they must of thought if they were watching. In this nice neighborhood, I lived on a two block stretch of ramblers that I’m sure they considered an eye-sore. Where the riff-raff lived.

So, if they were watching, I was validating their fears. For all they knew, I was puking from an all-nighter. And when done, I was going to go out and lower their property value in a multitude of offensive ways. Nothing came out, thank God. When my throat relaxed, I formed an “O” with my lips and gave a hearty expulsion of air from deep within my gut, sending the nugget up to my teeth. I rolled it around in my mouth for a second, trying to define it’s shape. It seems that it had broken up (or made friends) at some point in it’s incubation period. I spat it out on the street. Then, I laughed a little at how disgusting that whole process was. If my imaginary audience had still been watching, they would of seen me, a 32 year old man in a stocking hat, red sweatshirt with a hood and a beat up mazda laughing quietly to himself while salivating all down his chin.

I closed the door and sped off to work.

AW - Food

Dear Whitey,
Why is your food so bland? Blacks have sweet potato pie, Hispanics have all those spicy sauces and Asians have MSG. Why does your food suck?
- Food Guy Fernando


Dear Food Guy Fernando,
Our food is so bland because most of our recipes come from the northern areas of Europe. It gets really fricking cold up there. Not only is it hard to find food, but after you find it, it is hard to get a fire going to properly cook it. Since, back in the day, we had to find and eat food quickly, we didn't bother developing fancy recipes - instead, we decided to put most of our effort into dominating the rest of the world through technology and persecution.

Hope that clears things up and thanks for writing in.

First Person Shooter Dispair

There was a shot, then Keith watched as the grass below his feet rose up and hit his face. Slowly, he watched the grass pull away to reveal the blue sky above, as his limp body rolled onto it's back. The bushes he was hiding behind were now overhead swaying in a soft wind that had picked up.

"You feel that?! Yeah, I bet you did bitch." Jim shouted over to him from another city.
"Yeah- Yeah I felt that slap-nuts. Don't be too proud, I was doing something." Keith replied, a pool of blood growing out from the back of his head. he could hear the wind, which caused the leaves of the bushes to begin brushing his forehead soothingly.
"You really gotta keep moving. Every time you camp out like that I eventually find you."
"How did you see me? This spot is totally new."
"It's not new, I've used it before. Plus when you look around, your gun lights up from the sun." Jim replied, reloading his sniper rifle before putting it away and pulling out his pistol. He was crouched next to a chair that was situated on the same wall as a door. "The only way to really do well in games like this is to keep moving."
"I've done that, and I always get sniped. Where are you? I didn't see you moving around."
"Well, you don't run like a freak through the whole town. You're supposed to stop and look around every once and a while." Standing up, Jim held the pistol stiffly out in front of him with both hands wrapped around the handle. He turned with his whole torso, so that head, arms and gun all pointed at one window. Pausing for a moment, he twisted again to look out another window further away. Suddenly the door near him flew open and a man in full army fatigues ran in. Since the opened door covered Jim, the man wasn't aware of his presence and ran ahead about 10 feet so that his back was exposed. Jim squeezed off five shots right into his spine, causing the man to drop his weapon and fall to his knees while his arms flailed limply at his sides. Jim walked up to him as the man fell face first, cracking his nose and releasing a spray of blood that hit a nearby wall. "I'm by the balcony." He finally responded as he looted the dead man's body for ammo and health supplies.
"The screen says you just got Sg7. Br4x70n. He's been crawling on me all night." Keith's body called up from the lawn below. The breeze had stopped, and the bush recoiled in horror as Keith's skin began to turn bone white.
"Numbers for letters, I bet he's a friggin' 12 year old." Jim mumbled, while heading down a flight of stairs.
"That 12 year old is playing better than we are... Mike? Are you there?" His body had now deteriorated, and began sinking into the grass, leaving only his gun and ammo clips. After a moment with no response, the weaponry called out for Mike again.



There was no answer. Since Mike was hosting the game, and hosting the voice chat on Skype, his computer was pushed to it's limits. He tried to talk but all that would come out was a garbled mess. The other two had since jumped off his voice chat session and created their own so they could talk more easily. Mike had yet to join in. Suddenly, the world went black. Everything was quiet, serene and motionless. From the darkness Keith called out, "I think I crashed."
"No, I think Mike killed the server." Jim's voice yelled back from the void, "Give it a second I'm sure he'll throw it back up." Both sat quietly for a moment floating in the black. The sound of keyboards cooing to themselves as email was checked, and websites looked over.
"What you doing?" Keith said.
"Reading an email from my ex."
"Oh, what's she saying?"
"She wants to plan a time to come over and get her stuff."
"Lame. Fuck her. Keep it. You getting back your other computer?" Keith said as a brilliant flash of light filled the darkness. As their eyes adjusted, they found themselves back in the small french village they were in before. Keith was now on a bridge that sprouted from one building to the other where Jim had originally been. Just beyond the bridge was a small balcony that hung tightly from a doorway. Off its ledge was a telephone wire that drooped lazily out to another building's roof. The building was closed off, and considered part of the walled in nature of the town. Keith headed toward the balcony, running at full speed. "Have you done the wire trick yet?" He sounded.
"No, I've watched other people do it, but I can't figure it out. Have you?"
"No."
"Hey-HEY!" Mike called out to the others.
"Oh, you're back." Jim replied, "What was the deal?"
"There were too many people on the server. I tried to boot them, but the game wouldn't let me. So I just shut it down and started it up again without letting the randoms in."
"So it's just us three?" Keith asked, standing on the ledge of the balcony while looking down at the wire. There was another shot that tore through the air and Keith fell to the ground below. "Oh for fucks sake! Don't! I'm trying to do the wire thing!"
"I'll try, but you're too much fun to kill." Jim responded, his pistol still smoking.
"I'm heading over." Mike called out from the other end of town. He didn't know the board well, but since the town was nestled within one giant wall that curved awkwardly around it, he just ran in one direction until he hit the main courtyard in it's center where the others were.

"So, are you going to be around when she picks up her stuff?" Keith asked from below. Jim looked down at him from the ledge of the balcony. He put his pistol away, then pulled out his sniper rifle and looked through it's scope at Keith's body. Keith was laid out like a rag doll, with the signature pool of blood forming from the back of his head. He aimed the cross hairs right at the center of Keith's forehead and took a shot. Blood spouted thickly up from his face and landed all around him. "Nice, dick." Keith grumbled.
"Yeah. I think I will. I'm not going to give her free reign over my apartment, who knows what she'll try to run off with."
"Oh, I didn't know she was that type. I've only seen he once."
"When was that?" Jim asked as he leaped to the wire.
"At the mall. Remember?"
"Oh right." Jim replied as he tight roped his way across to the other roof. There was a sound of a flair going up, which was followed by a large booming thunder as Jim exploded into fire and fell to the cobble stoned street below. "Ow! Dammit! I was almost there!" Jim shouted.
"That's what she said." Mike added smugly, as he emerged above Keith on the balcony holding a smoking bazooka.
"Is she the picture you're using on Skype?" Keith followed up, watching Mike leap onto the wire- twitch nervously, then fall.
"Yeah." Jim replied, his charred body curling in on it's self as the flames receded, resembling an ant burning under a magnifying glass.
"The picture is pretty crappy, but it looks like she's naked."
"She is. I snuck it when she was coming out of the bathroom."
"Does she always have to get naked to take a crap?" Mike piped in as he ran up the stairs to make another try. "Because that would be hot."
"No- Ass. She was taking a shower." Jim added as he watched two birds circle gracefully in the sky above the coveted rooftop.
"What are you still doing with that picture?" Keith piped in, "If I were her, I'd be pretty pissed knowing that was floating around on the Internet."
"She didn't know I took it. I used my camera phone."
"Oh, that makes it o.k. then."
"I have a picture of my ex girlfriend naked." Mike blurted, "I have a ton of them." There was a resounding 'no thanks' from the other two. "Here, I'll send it through Skype..."
"For fucks sake, I don't wanna see that shit!" Keith yelled, his voice distorted from yelling into his microphone. His skin had drained of any blood and his eyes blackened.
"It's fine. She looks hot. She lost weight before we broke up."
"I don't care. I don't want to see her naked... Ugh, I can't switch out of this game to turn off skype."

Keith had sank into the ground, and re-emerged on the bridge again with his gun in hand. As soon as he looked back at the spot where his corpse was, the two large doors in front of him opened up dramatically to reveal Mike and his bazooka. "Don't, dick. I want to see what's on that roof." Keith said, pointing his gun at mike. They both stood there, weapons drawn and waiting.
"All right. I won't shoot you. Go ahead." Mike relented, backing up to allow Keith's entrance. Keith ran in and passed the spot where Jim had been crouched by a chair earlier, then stepped out onto the balcony. There was a hissing sound and a boom that sent Keith flying out to the bushes where he was killed at earlier. "Fuck me!" Keith yelled as he soared, an arcing ball of flame which landed with a thud onto the grass.
"That's what she said." Mike spat out almost automatically and without emotion, as he walked out onto the balcony reloading his weapon. Once finished, he looked at Keith's burning form laying on the lawn. He slowly curled into a little ball, twitching madly as the flames died. There was no response from either of the other two players. Their courtesy laughs for that zinger had died off weekends ago, but for some reason Mike continued to spit it out at every opportunity. As if he were slapped briskly in the back of the head when still a child at the first time he used it, and was condemned by the mild brain damage to repeat that line for ever. Then, Mike was surrounded by what looked like pink smoke as his body gave out under him. Jim emerged from the staircase below and stood over him to fire off one last victory shot to Mike's head.
"Well guys, it's getting late." Keith's smoking corpse called up from behind the bushes.
"Aaaw, c'mon. I'll leave you alone. You can get on the roof if you really want to." Mike's bloody mass of tissue called over to him from the balcony.
"It's not that, I have to get up early with the kid- so I can't stay up this late anymore."
"The kid sucks. It's ruining game-night." Jim added.
"Yeah-yeah. G'night!" Keith said as he logged off. There were dull replies and then silence. Jim was walking across the wire, and was soon followed by Mike. As they both inched across, arms waiving stiffly, mike said, "I'll send you a picture of my ex."
"I really don't want to see it, man." Jim said, stepping off the wire and onto the roof's ledge.
"Yeah you do." Mike added, stopping dead still on the wire. His keyboard could be heard tapping quietly in the distance.

Jim walked around on the roof, checking out the view he had of the courtyard. "This is sweet! I can see everything from here. This would make a great sniping spot."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, You could just lay down and start pegging off people, it's be impossible for them to get you."
"There," Mike interrupted, "I sent it." He began moving again, making his way across the wire and eventually working his way to the roof's edge.
"That's weird." Jim said, standing on the far edge of the roof.
"What's that?"
"If you look over this edge of the building, you can see where the creators of the game stopped working on the board."
"Outside the walls?"
"Yeah."
"What's it look like?" Mike asked as he walked toward Jim.
"Hard to explain." Jim said.
"Hey, look at my picture."
"Alright fine." Jim said, suddenly not moving.

They both stood at the edge of the roof. Before them the sky stretched out with clouds moving slowly into a pink sunset. A breeze picked up again, making a tree in the courtyard sway behind them. Looking down, they saw not the ground beyond the wall, but the sky repeating and distorting. A