Monday, August 24, 2009

Dream sequence

He sits in long, evening-dew-wet grass with a mortar cannon between his legs... less of a mortar cannon than a small modified tennis ball launcher, packed with sand and a golf ball. Pow. Sand and a golf ball spray outwards. From over the rise it has the appearance of nothing else like somebody playing a chip shot out of a sand bunker. It is cold.
There is a photographer. Is it Denzel Washington? This is a movie... Ace photographer Denzel Washington tries to capture the perfect image of a chip shot from a sand bunker, golf ball in flight in a sundog of sand. Golf ball and sand in the brilliant red of sunrise. Golf ball and sand in the dazzling noon day sun. Golf ball and sand in the brilliant red of sunset. In the hazy twilight now. Little must he know of the web of intrigue and danger he is about to be drawn into (It is Denzel after all).
Now it is dark. The assistant, an obscure actor who will probably be killed to give Denzel some psychological depth, stands. Perhaps they are lovers, maybe friends. Most likely they are ex-Vietnam buddies (It is Denzel after all).
“Those ants that navigated up my trouser and been eating my butt all afternoon...” begins the assistant, “Well one of them just reconned my left testicle.”
Denzel pouts knowingly. Perhaps they are ex-Vietnam buddies and lovers. Now they are no longer actors, they are me and someone else. Someone else and I are in the long wet grass in the dark.
Impossible street lamps flicker. Psyche lamps. There is always one.
We are surrounded by tall tall dark trees and the daisy chain of flickering psyche lamps leads out of the clearing and into the trees. I am cold.
Someone else says “Want to go through that entrance?” Who the fuck is that? Now I am aware of a clear area. A backlit portal, wet and steamy.
“You mean that hole that looks like the scary part of the Pet Sematary? Why not.” I am hopelessly ironic.
“Ain’t never seen Pet Sematary.” says Denzel’s assistant. Through the portal I can see a herd of deer. Are deer harmless? Now the cold takes a form like dark water, begins to flow in through the hole like the blackness when the boat sank. Like the blackness that sucked the chief engineer in and away like a big, strong but helpless rag doll; filling the space between him and reality with a cold watery veil. But the engineer did not die when the boat sank. He was the only one.
Who would you sell your soul to, in that cold and dark place, to survive?

Go Forward

What am I doing here? It can’t be that I like the smell of cigarettes and stale beer-stained discussion. How do I get pulled in, floating on the current every weekend, and trapped in this eddy with the rest of the dregs? The married, the prepared, the beautiful: they all stay at home paying for the SkyTV to come in like a lobotomy, through the eye sockets, and take a small piece of their happiness away. Downstream, down the road, downwind, flow the dregs. Here the TV is on too, the score always in the top left, the sponsor’s name always on the screen. See the sponsor, buy the sponsor, drink the sponsor, and swallow the sponsor. We’ll watch, of course, here or at home. We’ll watch at every awkward angle, even watch the ads. Otherwise we might catch each other’s eye, have to communicate. Save it for the toilet. Resting my forehead against the cold yellow tile above the urinal, steeling myself for the conversation some guy will come in and start.
“Jeez, you’re tall,”
“Must be over six foot three or four or something…”
“Comin’ up six feet,”
“Must just about have to duck… in the doors, in the doorways.”
“Just about.”
A sparring contest. Full contact vernacular gymnastics. I don’t even know the rules. One day I’m going to get caught out, become another beaten-up men’s room statistic. On the way out I catch sight of a real looker, bit blurry, in the cracked mirror over the sink. Wonder he doesn’t pull more, I reckon.
I get in the last shot, “It’s these springs that’re hangin’ down I have to watch”
The smell of smoke and beer closes on the reply (if there even is one). Find my beer, find my seat, and resume paying attention to the sponsor. The little clock under the score marks off the moments of my life flowing by. Time surgically removed under self-administered anaesthetic. The tally etched into my cell wall as I serve my self-imposed sentence.
Where else would I be? Where would any of us go? We’re akin to the strugglers on the screen: the ones with the lowest score at any rate. Not enough go-forward, that’s our problem. We need to get our heads together and work this out. I look around, catching nobody’s eye. Where should I start? Drink more beer, miss the only person I’ve spoken to tonight leaving the toilet, don’t know where he’s sitting, didn’t even get his name.
Suddenly the clock stops. The time has run out and the score is all wrong. All around me grown men are crying into their beer: the athletes whose lives they subsist vicariously through, it turns out, are just the dregs too.
Time to break out of here while the sentry clock is switched off. I’ll wash up on my own shores tonight. Chop it, walk out. Wake up tomorrow with the same question in my throbbing head.
What am I doing here?

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Separated at birth

So apparently someone has been reassured that he looks like Colin Firth.

I can't see it. But I can't help wondering...

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Trust No 1

Who do you trust?

One-Minute Writing of the Day:
Writer: patagoniantruthfish

I trust Newton (things fall down), Bernoulli (things fall up), and Young (wings don't fall off within stress limits of airframe). I'm also inclined to trust pilots who place their trust in turn in the Emergency Procedures Checklists.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Ferry Apocalypse

Yesterday I watched the first half of 28 Weeks Later during my ferry trip home. It was a rough trip, in the dark, but I didn't really notice (except for the occasional rather intrusive crash of the bow through a large swell) because I was glued to the screen. Anyway, when the ferry pulled in to the bay and I shut down my laptop and looked around, I was faced with a boat full of the infected. Of course, they were only seasick, and they were all completely oblivious to the fact that I had spent the last 45 minutes getting a rage-virus survival primer. But still, it was rather chilling. I wished I had a baseball bat and a lawnmower blade handy. I obviously need to pack more zombie-plan-contingency equipment in my backpack.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Overwhelmed nature

On more than one occasion, when clearing overgrown grass and weeds from a backyard, I have been moved by the power of the natural world to overcome our puny attempts to kerb and trim and clear a path. When we are gone it will take common grasses and vines mere months to obliterate all but a trace of our existence.

Monday, May 18, 2009

My full post

Of course, you'll have to go here to read the questions.

@silver star: Hercules never overtakes the tortoise.
@cagrowngirl: Yes. And hypothetically, if not, I would move it a little to the left
@Mz.Starra: Tell that to Elmer Fudd.
@Princess MAR: Jack Bauer. He gets a lot done in one day.
@jblack designs: There are a number of elephants inside every tootsies roll pop.
@AVR: When I get back from claiming the Spanish National Lottery I will check out your blog.
@Flowersilky: Inboxes are Spam’s natural habitat.
@Dan Felstead: What profit a man if he sends the whole world an email, but loses his ISP?
@Patsy: You’re just looking for a quick fix.
@Faith: Travis. To remind neighbours to keep their noses out of my business (too soon?)
@TawanaB: How are you people getting past the word verification?
@Roderckdhu: No you hang up, pookie bear.
@septembermom: Because they are delicious.
@BlueEyedWonder: Men love to make decisions. We just hate having to guess which one is the right decision. Here’s an experiment: if you put your man up to making a decision, go with it, enthusiastically and encouragingly every time. You’ll see him very quickly develop a taste for it.
@Ryan Ashley Scott: Because they don’t want to be asked “Where should we eat?”
@Anonymous: ...most publishers prefer a named author.
@brianawr[b]ites: Pornanoia.
@cagrowngirl: And everyone would be shocked, shocked!, after 15 years when Princess mauled your neighbour.
@beckiwithani: Teenage boys don’t think about food. They move through the biosphere like baleen whales and if their maw gets filled then so be it.
@An Open Book: I don’t know, I can imagine quite a bit. Wait...
@pink and shimmer(r): If you lose blood from the other parts of your body for five days, you die.
@A Girl Named Me: The first part.
@2cats: The white returns to the clouds. The green gets soaked up into old sailors tattoos.
@Abigail Carter: Because I’m too lazy to write for the other 1439 minutes most days.
@Marc: Dogs also eat faeces. I wonder what kind of joy they want to share with us there.
@Insegredious: Because it was only $1 extra, which is actually cheaper than any two fixins
@patagoniantruthfish: Because you are AWESOME.

Q n D

Today's Writing Prompt: Q & A

Either ask a question (serious or silly), or answer a question written by a previous responder.

One-Minute Writings of the Day:
Writers: 2cats & tatagonianpruthfish

2cats asked, "What happens to the white when the snow melts, and what happens to the green when the trees turn color?"

tatagonianpruthfish responded, "The white returns to the clouds. The green gets soaked up into old sailors tattoos."

Sunday, May 17, 2009

My Twitterflock

This is the wordcloud generated by my small flock of twitter followers.

Have you a herd of twitter followers?

Of course I've a-heard of twitter followers. Have you a-heard of chickens?

Friday, May 15, 2009

Anonymous Coward For The Win!!

I'm not sure who is putting who on here, but I have picked up TWO writer of the day gongs for posting anonymously. Note: I posted anonymously because I was posting quotes with NO VALUE ADDED. At first I was all like, nah. But then it happened twice and I thought, yeah.

The environment suffers due to humanity's actions. Would Earth be better off had humans never appeared?

One-Minute Writing of the Day:
Writer: C. Montgomery Burns

Oooh, so Mother Nature needs a favor?! Well maybe she should have thought of that when she was besetting us with droughts and floods and poison monkeys! Nature started the fight for survival, and now she wants to quit because she's losing. Well I say, hard cheese.

Congratulations, C. Montgomery Burns! I liked your take on this topic--funny, but also thought-provoking. Feel free to put a One-Minute Writer WINNER! button on your blog, if you have a blog! Also, please either comment here or e-mail me at cbethblog (at) gmail (dot) com if you don't mind me using your response in a possible future podcast.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Anatomy of a heart attack

This story opens at its climax, and it is very very short.
It starts with a sound and a stabbing pain:
A white flash, a catching of the breath. A half formed thought.
What is the difference between 21 and 42?
A heartbeat. A blink.
What is the anatomy of a heartbeat?
Systole, diastole. Ba...dump. In lock step. Heel on toe. Butter on bread.
What is the anatomy of a heart atack?
Blockage, death. Paralysis... necrosis.
I always thought there would be more. How many have I had?
Heartbeats in 21 years. Blinks in 42.
Time to self medicate. People save themselves all the time. Think.
There was a guy who saved himself...
He was trapped under a rock, halfway up a mountain. He cut off his own arm with a pen knife.
It took days.
There was another guy who saved himself...
He was choking. He gave himself a tracheotomy.
It took minutes.
How much time do I have?
Time to dial 1-1-...
Time to cut the vacuum cleaner cord and defibrillate myself?
A chamber opens. A void, a vacuum. Drawing in fluid.
Anatomy of blood: platelets, plasma, antibodies.
A chamber closes. Pressure, constriction. Forcing fluid out.
I felt this before. For years. I thought it was cramp, fatigue, poor posture, gastric ulcer.
Warning signs. The time it takes to save myself: I already had it. It's gone.
Six hundred and sixty two million. Two hundred and twenty million.

Friday, May 8, 2009


The sound of a discussion that never took place.

You used to think that everything I said was poetry.

The urge to write down what this is: it's incredible. I feel like this moment is going to be lost between us as we approach the car, the words seem to fall behind and tumble like Brownian particles in the puddles… it’s impossible to pick them apart from the raindrops.

Now the car has come between us and the moment remains outside, it chases us along the street for a time like a loyal dog.

The silence in the car is wrong, but neither of us can talk over the babble of radio advertising. Turning off the radio and on the windscreen wipers I hope to break the silence, not punctuate it.

Now the wipers squeak back and forth like the roller of some insane old typewriter and it gets harder and harder to fit in the words before it slides back to start the next line.

Ding….Ding…. Ding….Ding…. Ding….Ding…. Ding….Ding….New Paragraph…. Tab…. Ding….Ding….

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The grass is really greener


While I stand here on four bare hooves waiting for the hand to come and move the electric fence, I know the grass is greener on the other side. It is also 8 inches longer and not covered in my sister-cows' effluent. Sometimes, when I get desperate, I lean on the insulated stakes that hold up the nylon electric wire and push them over, but the devious farmhand often substitutes a conductive stake and my reward is 5000kV of white hot pain drawn through my nose and four uninsulated feet into the earth. Most times I just wait until after milking, when the fence has moved and there is another 30 yards of fresh grass.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

One night out poozling

Originally published in Best Efforts, 20. Also recently submitted to the Spring Contest at The Writeup Cafe...

Of course it is a bit wintery, but it aint spring here is it?

West Auckland has a dirty little secret. I felt the bare-gib slap on the back when I arrived and I knew what it was. I've worked inside blast freezers, my eyes have tasted that ammonia sting, smelled the aluminium plates as they leech the last life out of freshly slaughtered cows. So when I came to West Auckland I felt straight through it. Its clammy death touch. Its sub-tropical northern lie. And we all know it in our filthy Westie hearts. West is best. West Auckland is fucking cold. And wet.
It is Christmas. Christmas in June. The annual house-hold inorganic rubbish collection schedule arrived in the letterbox (No Advertising Material Please) two weeks ago. Since then the footpaths and verges up and down every street have been awash with tidings and good cheer. For those who like trash. Not so silly a season for the hapless real-estate agents and landlords who are trying to rent or sell property in this neighbourhood this month. Not everybody wants to live in a landfill. They should take the month off. Suspend the advertising and open homes when the signs and flags become lost amongst the rubble. Spend their days in the neighboring cafe nursing burnt-milk flat-whites and talking too loudly about the GST they save and commission they make on the sales of their own properties. And who is going to clean up this mess?
With darkness each night the tide rolls in. People drive in from as far away as the North Shore to dump their “working” washing machines and “still-goes” still-born computer monitors and cathode ray tube television sets on the roadside. At day-break the tide recedes and the kerbs of West Auckland become a high-tide line, littered with detritus. The pack-rats come out. People that hover and hop among the piles like black-backed gulls, squinting and shifty in the winter-low sunshine, self-consciously picking over the mounds determined to collect the gems and bargains from among the jetsam. When did you decide you wanted to collect other peoples' garbage?
There is no becoming to this story. No change in form. Have you ever tried to become a writer? Did it happen when you wrote something or when someone read it? Become a Westie? You know, if you go up there, you'll become a JAFA.
I know what it wants, a short story. It wants a character arc. Well it's bullshit. There are no character arcs. I've been watching the pack-rat three doors down for three weeks since I came here. There's no arc. No change in form with people. His yard is full of trash. Trash going in. Trash going out. Mostly going in. It's a tide.
It wants slice of life. A man stands in his yard in the rain. He is a rat. A pack-rat. His nest is a yard lot of jumbled piles of broken furniture, cracked tea-pots and leaking coffee percolators. There are disembowelled televisions with their circuit boards hanging out, the rear of their picture tubes like exposed asses burnt a peculiar off-white but without cracks. Well, some of them are cracked. There are the skeletal remains of thirty-seven different bicycles. One day he will build working bikes from the matching pieces. Drawers and dishes, tin-pots, fish-bins full of phone-cords and power cables. Less weatherproof treasures shelter (but only from the prevailing wind) in a lean-to iron shed which is open on two sides. The rain runs down the corrugations of the tin roof and collects inside antique computer cases and wall-less window frames stacked up to the west side. Sheets of iron and doors that rest and rust against the side of the house could one day clad the other sides of the shed. Projects he hasn't the time, technical expertise, nor motivation to complete. Endless agglomeration of procrastination hauled back to his own private landfill to watch rotting in the rain.
High above him in the ice-cold womb of the heavy cloud a single bead of water coalesces out of the ether. Is born, and is immediately fallen. It knows no weight or solidity of form, it is first ovoid then spherical then donut shaped, rolling and falling through the gentle caress of its gaseous birth canal. Unseen kneading fingers of temperature, pressure, the random brownian motion of molecules, tease it into shapes never seen by the human eye, imagined only rarely by the drug- or madness-addled minds of the greatest (and poorest) of human artists. It falls from the steel-grey sky onto the hammered-galvan corrugations of the lean-to shed roof. It is partially broken by the impact but it recovers (such is the nature of water) and rolls down the iron to the un-guttered edge before it falls – once more airborne and alive – to land in a muddy puddle at the man's feet. It is simultaneously preserved and utterly destroyed. The man splashes through the puddle on his way to his van to collect more trash for his yard. The tide is out – it is time to scour the neighborhood to see what has washed up.
My yard is empty. My shed is empty. Half the cupboards in my kitchen are empty, and I adore clean surfaces. But my mind is full. Stacked floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with all the broken and half conceived projects and ideas of a lifetime. Projects I haven't the time, technical expertise, nor motivation to complete. Piles of procrastination piled high and rotting in my own private landfill.
I scan each pile in the street as I walk along, appraise every apparently-complete but probably-leaking spa-bath and box of magazines and books in the streets. How much could I carry home on my back? Could I fix that bookshelf? This pram? Would it fit in the shed? I am simultaneously intrigued and revulsed.
When I was a child we used to go out to the tip on a weekend with an empty trailer. We toured a circuit of the rural and semi-rural landfills on a monthly (and usually more frequent) basis. The seed of many a comic book collection. Stacks of magazines I could not afford to read, now ‘free’ because their titles had been carefully cut from the front cover. Special interests I did not have, and insights into cultures I did not understand. I never got into motorcross riding but if I ever did I was sure I would want a toxic-waste green Kawasaki with matching body armour and accessories. When we travelled the winding back-roads of Central Otago every abandoned 19th century mud cottage and derelict barn was fair game. Oil and kerosene lamps we would never light and rusted handtools we would never dig or hammer or awl with filled the boot of the car. Ancient books and plates and cutlery. All worth taking because they were free. All the more valuable for being abandoned.
People are tidal. We are long inhalations and exhalations of souls extended into this world. We have no arc. No change in form. We breathe in, we breathe out. We eat, we excrete. We are continuous – like long rolls of hard candy or glass anchored to our past and future selves. We see ourselves as single slices taken in moments of time, and we fancy we can see the difference between this slice and an earlier one. The heartache and joy of the writer comes when we successfully and deceptively write a human's narrative as a metaphor for some inanimate object. We would be happy if our characters could be a dynamic and resilient as a simple raindrop. If they could be both broken and regenerated by the fall, grasp some elusive truth before they undergo their life-changing or death-conquering transformation. So we cheat and lie. We cripple and infirm our characters at the outset so that we can heal them on their journey. We present them as peripeteic slices from a roll of candy that changes in the middle and dies at the end.
I am kept awake at night thinking about the computer cases and shelving and books I saw on the street the morning before. There is no change in form. I resolve to become the pack-rat, the black-backed gull, the 11 year old boy fossicking in a garbage dump, that I have always been. I will be simulataneously revulsed and intrigued. I will have a yard full of projects I haven't the time, technical expertise, nor motivation to complete.
In the bleak morning light the ice-grey Tasman cloud blows in low over the Waitakeres like a dripping veil. I venture out into the cold and wet to find the kerbsides are white-bone bare. I wander as far as the next corner, stop to look longingly into the wet garbage piles of my pack-rat neighbour. There is nothing in the street. In the early morning a collection-day tsunami has rolled through; silently, remorselessly and utterly destroying the high tide line, sweeping up trash and treasure together the way a baleen whale sweeps the plankton and fish from the sea. It is large and white and still progressing slowly along the next street. As it turns out of sight it exposes its flank to me adorned in large green letters. Reduce.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Two Certainties

My big hope is that the celebration of life will be the next phase of human awareness. After postmodernity comes premortality. (I got the pre part from my wife - arguably it’s the bulk of the idea anyway). Of course there’s genes and evolution, and reproduction, but not of consciousness and awareness, and as we grow ever more secular and sophisticated and stop hanging on to our hankerings after personal immortality, we will realise in our arts, and sciences, and commerce, and relationships, and all other areas of human endeavour, that we are each of us living always in a (very subjective) state of “NOT DEAD YET”-ness. I believe that a wholesale, global, intelligent, emotional, stable, sound understanding of the fact and finality of that would make everybody altogether much nicer to be around.

I would first like to divert my entire contribution to my own student loan, and then my wife's. That would change a 25+ year repayment plan to about a 4 year plan. Then for the rest of my working life it could be evenly split between education and healthcare for my kids. I don't need retirement savings - when I can't chew my own blubber I want to be put out on an ice floe.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Two for one minutes

I would prefer to blot my own copybook, plumb my own depths, dig my own holes, feather my own caps, buy my own tickets and take my own rides, string my own bow, core my own apples, grill my own steaks, draw my own conclusions, pack my own pipe, divine my own destiny, extract my own espresso, grind my own axe and make my own bed - I will, after all, be the one to lie in it. The vacuuming, ironing, dishes and laundry, however - knock yourselves out.

Blah blah parenthood blah blah self actualisation blah blah... The hardest job in the world is planting kumara (New Zealand sweet potato). They are grown from sprout cuttings - the cuttings are too fragile for machines to plant, so people have to sit on forms behind a tractor and drive the sprouts into the ploughed soil with their bare hands. This is hot dry soil. Since my days planting kumara I have been a parent, a stevedore, a freezing worker, a teacher, a learner, a fire fighter, a cowhand, a whole bunch of tricky stuff. And one thing I am never going to do EVER again is plant kumara.

Friday, April 3, 2009

When I grow up...

Responding to today's One Minute Writer prompt, FAILURE

I failed to get into the Fire Service on my first, second and third attempt. Each time it made me fitter, stronger and smarter. By the second and third attempts I was mastering the physical requirements and it had cured my claustrophobia (the heated and blacked out obstacle course was pretty challenging). It also made me a better volunteer firefighter, and in the mean time I have advanced my 'alternative' career to the point that I can't really afford to be a professional firefighter when I grow up anyway.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Flipping the Hippo

Responding to today's One Minute Writer prompt: Prank
Okay I only heard about this prank one time, but that was enough to change my behaviour for life. It's called "Flipping the hippo", and apparently, what you do is, while you are using the toilet (number two) you get a large doubled up square of toilet paper and you catch a log of poo. You fold the log up in the toilet paper like a kebab (open at one end) and place it under the seat, open end out. The next person to sit down gets their pants full of poo. I have never sat down without checking since I heard that story (from a very disreputable co-worker).

Friday, March 27, 2009

Going Professional!

Speaking of going professional (were we?), my adsense account just rolled over its very first CENT!

Thank you to all the people (27? or one person 27 times? I don't know how it works) who have viewed this blog in March. Without you, none of this would be possible.

If one of you (or all 27) would just take the time to click on an ad or two as well, I might finally be able to get off of the factory floor and focus on my writing full time.

I'm just gonna leave that bad boy in the account to accrue interest, although at the current exchange rate it might almost be worth cashing out. Very tempted.

Math is hard

Responsding to another One: Math and Science

Three words: Use Dependent Organisation. Your brain will do what you train it to do, and right now that is not what young American brains are being trained to do. I think some of the apologists above have got it half right - there will be a range of achievement, from poor to excellent, no matter what the approach. But many are fundamentally wrong in the belief, expressed in a variety of ways, that education is somehow too inclusive. Do you think the other countries are ahead because they are excluding the middle and bottom achievers? I doubt it - their middle and bottom achievers are simply outperforming the American elite. Who has got it right above? The people who have said, in a variety of ways, that math and science are undervalued. By the system, by society as a whole. That might be more than 60 seconds (and three words!), and I learned my math outside America, so I have no excuse.

An anonymous coward wrote:

Former President turned News Anchor: Rarely is the question asked, is our children learning math and science? Let's cross to our education field correspondent, Lauren Caitlin.
Lauren: Thankyou Mr. President Anchor, uh... Mr. Anchor President. I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because... uh... some people out there in our nation don't have calculators, slide rules, log tables, bunsen burners and beakers... and... uh... I believe that our math and science education, like such as in South Africa and... uh... the Iraq, everywhere, like, such as... And I believe that they should... our maths and science people over here in the U.S. should help the U.S... uh... or, should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries... so we will be able to build up our math and science... for our children. Back to you, Mr. Anchor President Sir.
Former President turned News Anchor: Thankyou Caitlin. Learn me math and science once, shame on you... you can't learn, you can't learn math and science again.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

When Nature Calls...

Responding to today's One Minute Writer prompt: Tale

My grandfather was a navy engineer. He served on the bigger ships (carriers, destroyers) involved in Operation Deep Freeze in the 60s. During this time he met my grandmother and mother, and took them back to the states with him (and this was where my mother met my father but that’s not this tale). During the Vietnam years he was moved to inshore patrol boats – I picture him cruising up and down hostile riverways a la Apocalyse Now... One time he was answering the call of nature off the stern of the boat, when the bow of the boat hit a mine. He was the only survivor. I’ve always figured it is never a good idea to hold it.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Green with envy

Responding to todays One Minute Writer prompt: Green

What makes me green with envy?

One Minute Writer Winner badges.
Professional Firefighters (former volunteer).

To be fair, probably in the reverse of that order.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009


Responding to

Dear everyone, I only have a minute so listen up...

Parents and Quacks: Vaccinations do not cause autism, but homeopathy kills
Economists and bankers: Fractional reserve banking creates wealth out of debt - eventually it has to be paid back
Artists: You can't do extra poo every day in order to have less shit in your life overall (the artist's wank)
Business people: You are not a mouse, who cares where the cheese is?
Psychologists: You should be making the world a better place for people, not a worse place for rats