Is Jim’s birthday.

I think this year he turns old or something.

Please go wish him happy birthday!

This is MWT’s fault.

————–

Everyone said Southern California was the perfect vacation spot. “Get away from dreary Scotland!” they said. “A change will do you good!” they said.

Bah humbug. She should have stayed home.

Sure it was sunny–the weather had been beautiful the entire time–but she wasn’t used to the sun, and got a terrible sunburn.

And then there was the traffic–she’d never seen so much traffic! She didn’t realize what a backwater her home was until she reached California. Night and day there were people everywhere!

She’d thought a change of scenery would be nice, but didn’t realize the scenery would be so completely full of people.

She knew it was provincial, but she started wishing she was home almost as soon as she arrived. Sure, there were amazing new species of fish–she’d never seen anything like some of these species, but that hardly made up for all the other hassles. The food and water weren’t what she was used to, there was more sun than she was used to, and the people…

She was going to kill the dolphins when she got home. Even if suggesting this vacation wasn’t a dirty trick, it was still a pretty horrible experience: How are you supposed to enjoy your vacation if you have to spend the entire time hiding from people that don’t believe you exist?

The locals told her she’d be fine–“those Californians are constantly drunk and stoned. No one will notice you, and if they do, they’ll just think you’re an hallucination. Besides, you don’t live here! Who cares if they see you?”

“Who cares my left flipper!” she’d told them. She had no desire to be caught and dissected.

“There are lots of environmental laws in California!” they told her. “You’ll be fine.”

She’d stared at them if they were barmy, and then asked pointed questions about the amount of pharmaceutical run-off in the water till they’d dropped the subject.

All in all, it was one of the worst vacations she’d ever taken. To hell with the economy. Next year she’d just have a staycation.

NOTE: When the story first started to evolve in my mind, the angels were sitting on clouds. But I wanted them to be further back, which is when the bit about the stars came to me. The title was the last thing I wrote.

———————

We humans see stars as things way up out in space, objects far far away from where we are.

But there’s another way of seeing the stars, a way that we yet lack the ability to see. If you could see the stars that way, they’d be more like nails in the sky from which you could hang things like swings if you wanted.

And if there were swings hanging from the stars, then there might be a being sitting in a swing.

Perhaps even two beings, swinging and having a conversation.

“I kinda miss the old days, back when we had fiery swords and such,” the first being said.

“You just liked the fact they all walked around naked,” the second being replied.

The first being shrugged, “That’s true as well. I sometimes wonder why we didn’t get gender. You look at the planet, and most everything down there has gender.”

“Bacteria don’t. Viruses don’t. Amoeba don’t”

“You’re not helping,” said the first being. “You’re just making my point. Only lower creatures got made without gender! What does that say about us?”

“Why do you insist they’re lower creatures?” the second being asked.

“Because they evolved first!” The first being was starting to get indignant. The swing started moving faster.

“But there are many more bacteria and amoeba and genderless creatures than there are gendered beings. Sexual breeding has advantages and disadvantages. We were made without gender, humans evolved with gender.”

“Even a plague of locusts has gender,” muttered the first being.

“The Maker doesn’t have gender,” pointed out the second being. “So we are more like the Maker in that way than the humans.”

“Yet the humans insist on giving the Maker a gender! And even worse, they insist that the Maker is male! Why would the creator of all things that gave birth to the world be male?” the first being shifted back to being indignant.

“Well, if the humans who call themselves Christian thought the Maker was female, that would make her a lesbian, right? Didn’t I read that the Christians had something against lesbians?”

“That’s ALSO stupid!,” the first being was starting to get irate. The swing started moving higher and faster. It was quite possible that if the first being continued to get upset, the swing would eventually rotate completely around the star. “Why would the Maker create a creature and not allow it to be itself?”

“No one ever claimed humans were smart,” said the second being. “Or even rational.”

“You can say THAT again!” said the first being.

“But then it’s not as if humans have the corner on irrationality.”

The first being looked at the second suspiciously, “what specifically are you thinking of?”

“Well, there’s the platypus.”

“Oh the platypus,” the first being said dismissively. “Why does everyone pick on the platypus?”

“What about the ostrich? Or the sea cucumber?”

“They’re different,” the first being said, “that’s not the same as irrational.”

“Dinosaurs.”

The first being stopped staring angrily into space and turned to look at the second. “Dinosaurs? How so?”

“You think it’s rational that dinosaurs were allowed to evolve to become masters of the Earth and were then completely wiped out?”

“Well…”

“It’s not like they did anything to deserve it,” the second being said.

“Well… If the dinosaurs had lived, the humans would never have evolved,”

“And that’s fair to the dinosaurs how?”

“Well…”

“My point is that the world isn’t rational. Isn’t very fair either. But on the bright side, we got free will.”

“True.”

“Thank you. Now stop swinging so fast, you’re making me sick.”

I have no idea where this is going. Thought I was done with it, until the first sentence hit me while I was showering.

Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open Part I
Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open Part II
(more…)

Don’t Yawn with your Mouth Open, Part 1

Nothing extremely disturbing today. Thank goodness.
(more…)

This story is going behind the cut because it’s extremely disturbing.

(more…)

The kettle hung over the fire, close enough that the thick contents slowly boiled.

Blup. Blup. Blup.

It was actually a rather irritating noise, but not much to do about it if the contents were to be properly cooked.

Blup. Blup.

She sighed and stirred the contents. There’d be hell to pay if the whole mess burned.

Blup. Blup-up. Blup Blup.

In stories, when apprentices were left alone to tend a fire and the item over said fire, it was something interesting, like the salmon of wisdom or a love potion or something like that. So what did she get? A potion that was supposed to cure male baldness. Ugh.

She wasn’t even sure if the potion was to be drunk or applied topically. If it was the former, she was pretty sure that she’d suffer with baldness before downing this batch of putrid green vileness. I mean, who really used eye of a newt anymore? And she just knew that when they ran out, she’d be the one dredging the lake looking for replacements newts.

Did they even use any other part of the newt? Or just the eye. Seemed hardly fair to the newt to have to give up his life just so some fat old guy could get his hair back.

But wait, did newts regenerate? Maybe she’d have to pluck newt eyes from newt eye sockets and then throw the things back into the lake.

She shuddered at the thought of that. “‘Settle down and marry,’ they said. ‘Who wants to marry a working woman?’ they said. Why didn’t I listen to them?” she muttered.

But of course she knew precisely why she hadn’t, and as boring as stirring this damned potion was, it was far better than marrying young and growing old before her time. She was going to be an independent woman. A woman who depended upon no one except herself for her living. And if she had to live with some old hag to achieve that, so be it.

As if drawn by her thoughts, the old hag in question opened the door and came in.

Of course she wasn’t really old. Nor was she a hag. But Mary liked to pretend the witch was an old hag. Because it felt more traditional. I mean really, who expected a witch to be blonde and buxom and to have half the young men of the village following her around every time she went out the door.

Mary had a sneaking suspicion that a portion of the baby-not they made was being used by her mistress rather than being sold.

“How are we doing today?” Even her voice was chipper.

“Fine Mistress Jones,” Mary replied, staring intently into the pot.

“Oh come now, how many times do I have to tell you, call me Carol!”

“But it just seems wrong!” cried Mary.

“Why?” said Carol. “You’re not much younger than my sister. And truly, ‘Mistress’ is just so last century!” She laughed brightly as she took off her cloak and hung it on an empty peg by the door. “I think you’ve spent entirely too much time sitting over the fire inhaling Mr. Rozinski’s hair tonic. Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air, and then we’ll start on dinner.”

“Yes Carol,” said Mary. She stood up, then walked over to the door to put on her shoes. Carol insisted they not wear shoes in the house. When Mary asked to be her apprentice she was expecting strangeness, but not this kind of strangeness.

“Don’t forget your bonnet,” said Carol. “The sun’s no good for your skin!”

And with that Mary closed the door on the sunny yellow cabin, took a deep breath of fresh air, and decided that maybe you didn’t have to be all ugly and dress in black to be a witch, but she was damned if she was going to dress in pink like Carol.

The knife clattered to the floor. His hands, numb with cold and slick with blood, couldn’t hold it any longer.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the damned voice in the back of his head. “This will be it for you for sure.”

He quickly stopped down, grabbed the knife, and surreptitiously wiped the blade on his bloody pants. He held the knife up and stared at his hands. They told him to buy gloves, but he had forgotten or maybe ignored them, sure he could handle it.

He was wrong and desperately wished for gloves, but it was too late.

He stared at the body before him, hanging from a chain and draining of blood. Blood pooling on the floor. A lake of blood and he was standing right in the middle of it.

What made him think he could do this? It wasn’t that he was squeamish–not really. It’s just that he never thought about how cold it would be. Or how much blood there would be.

“HEY! What the hell are you doing?” The angry voice broke into his reverie, and startled him into dropping the knife again.

He looked down at the knife lying in the pool of blood then turned on his heel and ran for the door, slipping in pools of blood, but managing somehow not to fall.

And that was David’s first and last day working at the slaughterhouse.

I got loot from Anne today!

No, I didn’t take pictures yet. Grandmom has been watching Inaguration stuff all day, and I can’t do anything while TV is on. (In fact, it’s taken my about 15 minutes to write this pathetic post.)

For Anne:
(more…)

I woke up this morning to discover that the UCF has been outed. I expect the phone to start ringing off the hook any minute; perhaps I can get Valerie Plame to give me some advice on dealing with all the press now that my life of secrecy is over.

So what is this secret organization I have been involved in?

We are a government funded organization created to promote the anti-anti-LHC agenda. Or so say the insane psychopaths at the LHC “facts” website. Unfortunately, I only recently discovered that we’re government funded, and am going to have to talk to Nathan (our fearless leader) about back pay. (You hear that Nathan? Gimme my money or I’m coming after your toaster!)

You see, all that stuff about Sophie from Shinola, Not-Sophie, International Hijack Day, Charlotte Misner, and even Tasty Tuesday are just a front.

So how did the UCF start? It was a dark and stormy night…

I was sitting at Starbucks minding my own business when he sat down across from me. Despite the dark glasses and cheap suit, the mustache was a give away.

“You?!” I gasped in surprise, “What are you doing here? Isn’t this a little bit off the beaten path for you?” I closed my laptop before he could get a good look a the screen.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t have much time, but I want you back in the game. No recriminations, no second guessing, the past is the past.”

“Right,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “I saw what you had done to Eric after the ‘toaster incident.’ I’m not foolish enough to fall for your bullshit again.”

“No, really. We’re on the up and up this time!” He lowered his voice and looked around guiltily. “The incident with Eric was a terrible accident–Jim was taken care of for taking matters into his own hands.”

I leaned forward, “and what price did you pay for your part in this? I know what happened to Jim. But I never heard anything about you paying your due.”

He lowered his glasses, and I was shocked by the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. “I paid. Trust me. I paid.” He slid the glasses back up his nose. “And we’ve brought Eric back from the dead. It took some doing, as we had to regenerate his fingertips and all, but we did it. And Jim is back into fighting trim as well. The bionic parts we got him have made him twice the man he was before.”

I looked down at my laptop, and shifted it to be squared with the edge of the table. “And what do I get out of this? I told you when I left I didn’t want any part of your schemes.” I stared into his lenses. “And more importantly, who else do you have and how’d you get ’em? If you brought back Eric and upgraded Jim I can see the hold you’d have on them. But that’s only a small part of the team.”

He laughed, “Oh I’ve got ’em all. I’m still in negotiations with MWT and Anne, and I’ve got some people I think we can bring in later, but I’ve mostly got the group back together.”

“Even Janiece?” I asked incredulously.

“Janiece, Kim, Jeri, Vince, Tania, Shawn, Tania, John and Matt. We’ve even got an international division.”

“So Janiece is in. How’d you convince her?”

“That’s between me and Janiece,” he said, sitting up a little more straight. I could see I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him.

“Lemme think about it. Call Janiece myself and see what she has to say. Then I’ll get back to you. You still using the same drops?”

“Yeah. We’re on the cheap this time.”

“Shit,” I said slouching down in my chair, “you want me to do this for free? I’ve got expenses y’know.”

“We’ve got fringe bennies,” he said. “I can get you and Shawn some extra money from the tech budget. We’ve got a slew of new toys.”

“Really?” That piqued my interest. “How can you afford the new toys?”

“Beta testing for the military. We try ’em out, and if they work for us, they get moved into production.”

“Nice,” I said. “Anything good?”

“I’ll tell you if you’re in.”

“Hell,” I said, “for new toys, I’m in.”

Today’s word is obviously for John Scalzi.

chawbacon \CHAW-bay-kun\ noun
: bumpkin, hick

Did you know?
“Chaw” is an alteration of “chew” that is still used in some English dialects, especially in rural areas. Cured pork, or bacon, was a staple of some rural folks’ diets in the past. Since the 16th century, “chaw” has been combined with “bacon” to create a ludicrous name for an uncultured yokel. Over the centuries, the word has lent its delicious dialect flavor to a wide range of publications, but it has become less common in recent decades. Today, city dwellers are as likely as country folk to chow down on bacon, and the word “chawbacon” isn’t often on the lips of either group.

If you wanna know why it’s for the UCF, click through and read the alt/title text on the image.

For those who are not part of the UCF, you may not know about the brouhaha going on over at Refugees from City.

Walter Wagner, a complete idiot, who has no credentials continues to waste taxpayer’s money by filing idiotic motions to stop the Large Hadron Collider has been attempting to defend himself, yet has been unable to provide any credentials as to why we should believe him, other than the fact he was a lab tech in a physics lab in college, graduated from an unaccredited law school, and worked as a Radiation Safety Officer.

With qualifications like that, it’s hard to understand why anyone would doubt Walter Wagner, isn’t it?

If you’ve been reading along, you’ll notice that Jim Wright, for whom I have a great amount of respect (despite the fact he’s an asshole), finally jumped into the fray.

Thus it was with great amusement that I discovered one of the search terms that lead someone to my blog yesterday, Jim Wright’s Idea of Civility:

So there you are Jim. You’re now famous for your ideas of civility. Enjoy your fame, and use your power wisely.