They're ALL E's

Posted by E

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Edwin: Ahhhh, E, thank you so much for joining us for this meeting. I presume you know why we've called on you?

E: Well, I assume it has to do with the new candy that I've proposed.

Edwin: Right, right, "E&E's", I believe you call them?

E: Right.

Edwin: Well, specifically, we'd like to talk to you about some issues we've discovered with them.

E: Issues?

Edwin: Yes, there are two points of contention here. We'll deal with them in turn.

E: Alright.

Mortimer: Right, E, this is Mortimer. We're dealing with the first problem here, and I'm afraid it's a bit of a showstopper. We may have to completely shut down production on the candy until we can resolve this.

E: Okay, what exactly is the problem?

Mortimer: Well, first off, we're a bit confused by the printing.

E: The printing?

Edwin: He means the printing on the candy itself.

E: What about it?

Edwin: Well, the candy you proposed to us was intended to have a little E stamped on each and every one.

E: /pause/ Yes. And they do.

Edwin: We can definitely see something printed there, but we find it a tad nebulous.

E: Nebuolous? What do you mean?

Mortimer: If I may interject here, Edwin. E, first off, I'm looking at one of these candies right now and it has a W stamped on it.

E: A W? Like, the letter W?

Mortimer: Precisely.

E: That's not a W, that's an E. You've got the candy turned.

Mortimer: No, no. This is definitely a W. I'm looking at it right now.

E: I think you'll find that's an E. Turn the candy 90 degrees to the right.

Mortimer: Do what?

E: Turn it nin...

Edwin: I don't think our customers are going to want to turn the candies, E. Surely you can see the problem here.

E: Honestly, I don't. Just turn the candy. It's an E, you're just holding it wrong.

Edwin: Are you telling us that we're to blame, here?

E: This isn't about blame. It's very simple. If you turn an E 90 degrees to the left, it becomes a W.

Winston: E, this is Winston, I'm the manager of confectionary production here at Harshly's, and I must say I don't appreciate the tone you're taking here.

E: Tone? Excuse me?

Winston: The way I see it, you've provided us with a defective product. It is incumbent on you to fix this.

E: There's nothing to fix! It's not broken!

Winston: Then why am I looking at a W?

E: It's NOT a W! It's an E. Turn the candy to the right.

Winston: /pause/ Oh, I see.
/to others/ If you turn it to the right, it becomes an E.

Mortimer: But I'm not sure that addresses the base issue here.

E: What issue?

Mortimer: The fact that you promised us a candy emblazoned with E's, and we've obviously got some that are defective.

E: What's defective?

Edwin: Look here, E. This one is most definitely a W!

E: You need to turn yours as well.

Edwin: Excuse me?

E: Your candy. Turn it.

Edwin: /pause/ What do you mean turn it?

E: Turn it 90 degrees to the right.

Edwin: /pause/ Oh yes, I see.

E: See, it's really an E.

Mortimer: Uh oh, we have another problem.

E: What now?

Mortimer: This one's an M.

E: No, no. It's not an M. It's still an E. You've just turned it to far.

Winston: Now listen here! I do not appreciate you marching into my establishment and laying blame on my employees.

E: I'm not laying blame.

Winston: I think perhaps I should tell your superiors what game you're at, here.

E: What game?

Winston: You're attempting to pass off defective goods here!

E: They're NOT defective. Look, an E, an M, and a W are all the same letter, just turned differently.

Edwin: The same? Are you saying that Mortimer and I are the same person? After all, he starts with an M and I start with an E.

Mortimer: This is an outrage!

E: You're taking this the wrong way.

Winston: Then I believe it's incumbent on you to explain this properly.

E: /sighing/ Does everybody have paper and a pen in front of them?

/all murmur in agreement/

E: Okay, draw a small line going up and down on the paper.

Edwin: All the way up and down?

E: No, just a small line.

Mortimer: Is three inches sufficient?

E: Three inches is fine. Or smaller. It really doesn't matter.

Winston: WHAT DO YOU WANT US TO DO?!?

E: Draw a line. Up and down the page, just an inch or so.

E: Now that you've done that, draw three lines moving to the right from that line, at equal positions.

Edwin: Crossing the first line?

E: No, starting at the line. Just start at that line and then draw another line to the right.

Winston: This is all very confusing. I'm really not certain what you're driving at.

E: Right, this isn't getting us anywhere. Flip your paper over to the other side and let's try this again.

Mortimer: Does it matter if I flip it longways or shortways?

E: What? Just flip the paper.

Mortimer: Flip it how? This is very confusing.

E: Just turn to the other side. Where you haven't written yet.

/pause/

Winston: There's writing on the other side of my paper. This is very frustrating and I don't see...

E: Grab a new sheet. Please, just do this. It will make a lot more sense soon.

Winston: Okay, fine. I have a new sheet. You'd better start making sense soon.

E: Alright. I want everybody to write a capital E on their paper.

Edwin: A capital E? I didn't know we would be quizzed on geography. I really don't s...

E: Just write a big E. Like the first letter of a name. Not a little E.

/general murmur of understanding/

E: Okay, now take that paper and turn it to the left.

All: Ohhhh.

Mortimer: It's a W!

Winston: Good show! It's like an E, but now it's turned into another letter. This is delightful.

Edwin: Mine's not a W. I don't know what it is.

E: What's wrong with it?

Edwin: It looks like a line with three bars moving off to the left.

E: You've turned it too far.

Edwin: You TOLD me to turn it! If you can't give proper directions...

E: No, Edwin. I'm not faulting you. The paper's just been turned to far. If you turn it a little to the right.

Edwin: But you said to turn it to the left! I'm very confused.

E: It's not that hard, really.

Winston: E, we really appreciate the show you're giving us here, but we still haven't addressed the underlying issue.

E: WHAT ISSUE?

Winston: You've given us defective candies!

E: No, I haven't. Look, Winston, remember when you turned the paper with that E?

Winston: Yes.

E: What happened?

Winston: It became a W.

E: Right. So see, they're one and the same.

Mortimer: E, this is Mortimer again. Look, I appreciate what you're saying, but...

E: But?

Mortimer: But we here at Harshly's don't want to confuse our customers.

E: Confuse your customers?

Mortimer: What if one of our customers buys a bag of "E&E's" and gets a W?

Edwin: Or an M.

Winston: Or even worse, that confusing backwards symbol. That's not even a letter! What will people think?

E: I doubt they'll even notice, frankly.

Winston: NOT EVEN NOTICE?

Edwin: E, you must understand, our customers hold Harshly's to the highest level of scrutiny. They simply would not stand for this.

Mortimer: The scandal! Our customers expect better of us!

E: I think the average person would look at the W and realize that it's just an E that's been turned.

Winston: I really don't think our customers are looking for such a cerebral experience. They really just want a nice choccy.

E: I fail to see how it's a "cerebral experience".

Mortimer: Maybe we're just not making ourselves clear here. Our customers want to simply reach into the bag and grab a handful of E's without needing a Rosetta stone or a membership with Mensa to understand what's written there.

E: It's just an E!

Mortimer: Mine was a W!

E: I've already explained this. It's not a W. It's an E that's been turned.

Winston: So you keep claiming, yet any number of letters and symbols seem to be making their way out of this bag.

E: I can't make this any clearer. They're ALL E's. Some of them get turned around in the bag. People will look at this and realize it without a thought. Besides, it's really the candy they're after, not the E.

Edwin: Well, this brings us to the second thing we needed to discuss.

E: Oh?

Edwin: Yes, we have a problem with the colors.

E: What of them?

Edwin: Well, there's too many.

E: Too many?

Mortimer: I think what Edwin's trying to say is that the variety of colors can be confusing.

E: Confusing?

Mortimer: You have green ones and red ones and blue ones.

E: That's kind of the idea. The colors make them fun.

Winston: Fun? How so?

E: Well, maybe not fun. Interesting? It gives them variety.

Winston: You said they were fun.

E: Well, yes, but apparently it was the wrong choice of words. The colors just keep it interesting. It gives the consumer variety.

Mortimer: But they don't want variety. They want E&E's.

E: They're GETTING E&E's. But they come in different colors.

Edwin: And flavors?

E: No. Not flavors. Just colors.

Edwin: Then why have a red one. Red means cinammon.

E: No, it doesn't. It's just a red candy shell.

Edwin: But it's red!

E: It's just a color.

Edwin: If I bought a box of red hots, what color would they be?

E: Red, but...

Edwin: Precisely! And what do they taste like?

E: Cinammon.

Edwin: So surely you see the problem here.

E: No. Look, it's just a red shell. It doesn't really have a flavor.

Mortimer: I have a green one with an M on it. Does that mean it's mint?

E: NO! There are NO mints! There are no flavors! They're all chocolate.

Mortimer: Except for the mint?

E: There is NO mint! It's chocolate! With a green shell!

Mortimer: And an M.

E: sigh

Winston: Well, E, I think we've gone as far as we can with this meeting. Let me just summarize this.

E: Ok.

Winston: You have proposed to us to market a product you call E&E's. Each E&E comes stamped with an E.

E: Right.

Winston: Due to a manufacturing mistake, we have an issue with W's, M's, and an unnamed character appearing alongside the E's.

E: They're ALL E's.

Winston: Second to this is the color scheme, which we're not sold on, as it may confuse our customers.

E: Right. There are colors. And E's.

Mortimer: I think we have things in order here, E. The W's and M's should not be much of a problem.

Edwin: We can probably live with the other symbol as well.

Winston: E, we'd like to thank you for your time and for helping us to understand things more clearly.

E: My pleasure.


Two hours later I was called into another meeting to discuss the "other letters".

Three bodies were later found floating in the Thames, each with a strange symbol carved into their respective foreheads.

Hustle and Flow

Posted by E

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Alright, confession time. It's not entirely a confession of my own. It's partly calling somebody out confessionally, but hey, it's only a means to an end. What am I driving at? Simple, my roommate subscribes to nudie magazines.

Now don't get me wrong, this isn't the rough and tumble shit like Nugget or Swank International, he favors the more high class joints. The big three, if you will, Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler.

This doesn't bother me. They're just magazines. And trust me, if you've been reading my stuff for awhile, you probably assume (and rightly so) that I'm not the puritanical, easy to offend type.

So whatever. Naked chicks. Woo hoo.

In my own twisted way, I have to admit I kind of like it. I will occasionally find one sitting on the counter in the bathroom. If I'm making an excursion that will last for more than a few seconds, I have zero issue with picking one of those babies up and flipping through it.

You'll probably call me a liar, but scout's honor, I don't really care about looking at the ladies. This is the 21st century. Finding naked chicks to ogle at in this day and age is similar to trying to find sand in a desert. The fact is, they're everywhere. And from what the advertisements tell me, all of them, from the hottest and dirtiest to oldest and most handicapped, ALL OF THEM want ME.

But truth be told, there's something nice about the tangibility of a magazine. If nothing else, it's a trip into my nostalgiac past. The first magazine of the sort I ever saw was a Playboy. The first I ever bought as a teen was a Hustler. In reality, I have a long and storied past with the things, though my interest waned somewhere around 15 years ago.

The fun for me comes from just looking at the magazines objectively.

Take Playboy. That's the classy one. You flip through a Playboy and those ladies are airbrushed to the nth degree. You'll find interviews with big name celebrities and an air of social acceptance all around. Big name companies pick up advertising. The writing, while sometimes a tad risque, tends to stray from too much controversy. You get the feeling that Playboy is a career stepping stone for many people.

Next you've got Penthouse. The ladies in Penthouse...well, they're generally second tier. Maybe not perfect, but never ugly. They're either really trying to make their way or they're at the beginning of their career's long descent. And they love showing you their vag. They spread it just a bit so you can get a good shot of what they're packing. Penthouse is more willing to tackle topical interests and is not afraid to push a little dirt in your face to make a point. Some of the bigger advertisers are there, but you start to move into the smuttier advertisements by the time you're through.

And then there's Hustler. That's where the ladies with the glazed eyes show up. The ones that look like they're doing this photo spread for $50 bucks and a bottle of bourbon. These women will spread their cavernous genitals in a disturbing impression of the grand canyon, all the time staring at you with a vacant glare. Frankly, many of them frighten me.

But that's the beauty of Hustler. Larry Flynt knows he's peddling trash and he's not afraid to point it out at every conceivable moment. The entire magazine is incredibly low-brow, from the sex comics to the monthly Beaver Hunt. But the saving grace? The writing. Flynt is an ardent defender of first amendment rights, and his writers are encouraged to push boundaries, to say what people aren't saying and to fly straight into the face of decency.

Truth be told, as an aspiring writer, of the three I've listed above, Hustler would by far be my first choice for peddling my wares. If for no other reason than to know that I would never have to compromise my ideas for the sake of the advertisers.

All that notwithstanding, I really don't care for any of the above magazines. It's just something that crossed my mind...

The Impact of One Second

Posted by E

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Sometimes the tiniest decisions can become the most monumental and pivotal moments of our lives. Without question, we will fail to recognize it at the time. Instead we spend years lamenting a simple choice that was made.

Every one of us has had at least one such moment. This is the tale of the split second where I made a decision I am doomed to regret for the remainder of my days.

My relationship with my father could easily be labeled as strained. From my earliest memories forward I always felt as if I stood in the shadow of a greatness I could never achieve.

Jim was larger than life, outgoing, and possessed of a mind so razor sharp that nothing could possibly elude him. You name a topic, he was an expert in it.

A woodworker, a carpenter, a mechanic, speaker of multiple languages, an electrical engineer, a salesman, and an expert in history and literature. This was not a man you could try to bullshit and expect to get away with it.

And there was I, who as a lad stood in stark contrast. Reserved, contemplative, shy, and lacking interest in the majority of his pursuits. This is not to say that I was a dullard or lacking in ability, it's just that my own desires ran perpendicular to his.

My interests from an early age lay in the dawning of the computer age. Engines and mechanisms were anathema to me. I desired naught but cold and impersonal calculation.

Computers served as a good companion for a lad with poor social skills and a natural insomnia that forced me onto a schedule that was inherently my own.

At the time he frowned at my obsession, even stating in one of his few moments of improper prediction that "There would never be any money in computers."

Were that the only barrier to mutual understanding, I suspect that we would done just fine.

But it was compounded by my clumsy nature, my lack of any shred of ability in the realm of sports, and my burgeoning interest with the morbid and dark.

More than anything, my dalliances with the realm of darkness and death seemed to strain our relationship. He was outgoing and well spoken, and here is his son, a mealy little introvert with a mind forever wandering towards things that did not appeal to him.

It never occurred to me in my younger years that my leanings were the burgeoning of my artistic bent, the beginnings of my desire to speak loudly and freely, only in a medium I found more personal. The irony that my father ran a book business and ultimately had a son who would later desire to write books is not lost on me.

As I moved into my teenage years and the horrific throes of pubescent hormones overtook my mind, I found myself drifting further and further away.

Frustration would linger on the edge of my mind almost daily, as I recognized that him and I saw the world through the same eyes, we just filtered the input differently. As I aged I was able to more fully construct my thoughts and better explain how I saw things. He was a realist, and this is a characteristic that is as deeply seated a trait as my macabre sense of humor.

As I further progressed, I was able to find common ground, a perspective of the world shared by us both. Though our moments of synergy were infrequent, they were tangible and each meant more to me than I am capable of imparting.

The mutual ground may have been found, but a neutral and stable meeting ground was never established. We would share our occasional moments, but time wore on and I found myself face to face with him less and less.

This distance could have been mitigated by communication, but alas, I am poor at social relationships. I may be able to prattle on for hours and hours when I write my little passages, but engage me in an actual conversation or email thread and you will generally find me terse and to the point.

Of course I spoke to him shortly after he was diagnosed with cancer. It was melanoma, first noticed by a growth on his back that had begun bleeding. He had it removed and ultimately had surgery to remove some of his lymph nodes. The cancer was gone and all returned to normal.

About a year later, problems arose once more. He again had surgery to remove some items. It was just a week or two later when I got the call.

He had lapsed into a coma brought on by extreme calcium levels. He had been brought back out of the coma and was resting in hospital. I was at my home with a friend of mine who happened to be a nurse, and we researched and discussed what the underlying cause of this could be. I was nauseously kicked in the gut when I saw that a common cause of this is bone cancer. This was made all the more troubling by the fact that none of the other causatives seemed relevant to his condition.

I went and visited him that evening and spoke with him and my mother. He seemed optimistic and not overly worried about the situation. I left that night nervous but hopeful. I spoke with Terry that evening and we decided to head down there the next day to pay him another visit.

We arrived at the room shortly after 7, and Terry and I sat and spoke with both my mom and my dad for awhile. After an hour or so my mom decided to go home and get some rest. Terry and I opted to stay behind and spend some quality time with my father.

We spoke of the impending war in Iraq, my father's dislike of President Bush, and shared reminiscences of Terry and mine's younger days. He asked for clarification on a number of incidents that we were complicit in. (For further information on these truths, see this and this.)

We spoke for what felt like hours, even going so far as to help him hack his bedside computer so that he could bypass the hospital filters and see the full internet. Finally, the time came to say our goodbye for the evening.

Like I said, dad and I always had a troubled past, but there was never a lack of caring, just an inability to express it properly. And so, as I neared his bed, I made the beginnings of a motion to hug him and tell him I loved him, and instead opted to put my hand on his shoulder and say, "Hang in there, old man." He smiled as we walked away from the bed and made our way home.

It was the last time I would ever see him conscious.

Four days later he lapsed into another coma, once again brought on by calcium, and he languished in that state for another twenty something days before finally succumbing to the cancer that had eaten away at his bones.

I was in that room with him every single day of that coma. I would stop by whenever time would permit. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Terry, sometimes with the rest of my family.

I watched as he slowly slipped away from me, and every single day my thoughts would haunt me over the words I had been too afraid to say to him. I choked on that regret every single day, the foul and bitter taste of letdown burning my tongue with a coppery twinge.

I spoke the words to his coma riddled body more times than I can recall. I did my best to let him know of my regrets. My moments alone or with just Terry and I were spent howling my regrets until my throat was hoarse.

When at last he was taken, I found myself in a bleak world. Anyone who has lost a parent knows the emptiness that comes with it. And for years I bore the pain and internalized anger of my moment's inability.

It's been some years now and I have ultimately made my peace with my decision. Right or wrong, it was the choice I made. I can lament it for the rest of my days, or I can just accept that deep down he knew how I felt. But I'll never hear the words returned, and that's a pain that will haunt my days forever.

Let this be a reminder to anyone. Not just about imparting your feelings or making your peace with others. No, just let this be a reminder that every decision we make, no matter how minute it may seem, has the potential to alter our lives, and we should be ever mindful of each and every one of them.

A Cheap Cop-Out, But a Cop-Out Nonetheless

Posted by E

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Yeah, I know it's kind of a cheat. But give me a break, please. We're in one of those crazy cycles at work that will be lasting until the middle of next week. These are the kinds of days where you work 11-12 hours, go home, take a shower, go to bed and do it all again.

Trust me, I'm not short on ideas at the moment. I've got loads of stuff lined up. Stories about my grandmother's Xmas presents, the graphic true story of a spurned lover's revenge, the kidnapping of Macauley Culkin...Seriously, I've got loads of stuff coming very soon.

For now, patience. I'd love to sit and write every night, but sometimes you've just gotta set your priorities.

For now, I give you Gandalf, a skit from The Whitest Kids U Know. You can thank Lara for this one...

Bringin' Up the Past

Posted by E

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

If you're a dedicated reader, you might as well pass this one by. This is a repeat of an oldie, but a goodie. Due to the slight influx of new readers of late, I thought it might be nice to trot out one of my personal favorites. It's not new, nor has it been changed in any way. Hell, the original link is still in the sidebar. Still, it's worth it to the newbs. For the uber-newbs, I should point out that this is from the blog I started at: thembonez.blogspot.com.



Look, I'll be honest. I'm a big chicken. A wuss. I'm terrified of my own shadow. I may write all my entries on here about death and morbidity, but the truth of the matter is that three days ago I sat in my room, burning up, because I was too scared to go downstairs and change the thermostat. (True story!) Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. I have anxiety and nervousness issues. On the whole, I don't mind. They're just part of what makes me E. But why am I bringing this up? What possible benefit is there to me tearing asunder the facade I've so meticulously constructed here at Bonez? The easy answer is, because I'm able to laugh at myself. And it was this ability that led me to this post.

I found myself feeling rather nostalgic this afternoon, so I wandered teh intarwebs looking up whatever little tidbits of my childhood happened to wander across my mind. It all began innocently enough, with the search for a board game that I remembered getting for Christmas at the age of 6. The game in question was "Monster Mansion", and my research informed me that this was a board game based on the classic Universal monsters. Apparently it wasn't in production for very long. From here I began to look up more of the games and toys I had as a child. Then I was hit by a shocking revelation....The toys that I had were at least partly responsible for how terrified I am of of the world! Good lord, some of these things were HORRIFYING to a young lad.

Let's start out light, shall we? This first game was very similar to the game Operation in many regards, with one main difference. When you messed up in Operation (so the commercials would have me believe) your friends would laugh at you and lightheartedly refer to you as a "butter finger". Not so with Beware of the Spider. One mistake in that game and a giant fucking spider LUNGES at you! Do you think I'm kidding? LOOK AT THE BOX! That black widow is the size of that kid's head! It wouldn't just bite you and inject you, that thing's fangs would PIERCE THROUGH YOUR SKULL. It would literally chew THROUGH your eyeballs and then liquify your brain. It must have enough venom to DESTROY A SMALL EUROPEAN NATION. The kid on the right is merely stunned with horror. You can see that his sister/girlfriend/neighbor is a tad more ghoulish. She looks like she's rather excited about all this. Perhaps she has a thing for watching her friends convulse while their ethmoidal and maxillial bones are crushed by the powerful mandibles of a spider so enormous you would need a gun to finish it off. What a bitch. And WHY were they doing this anyways? It says BEWARE in HUGE LETTERS! Right there on the box! I have enough sense to stay away from that. Look at the web. That spider caught a bat. A FUCKING BAT! In its web! I don't know about you, but if I'm wandering through the woods and come upon a spider web that has ENSNARED MAMMALS, I'm getting the hell out of there! I'm certainly not going to poke and prod about, hoping to save the poor helpless SCORPION that's in the web! I've noticed something about scorpions, let me share it with you. THEY STING! And it hurts. A lot. Again, to hell with the scorpion and the bat. But that's just me....

My next nightmare is a delightful little game called "Curse of the Cobras". There is, rather unsurprisingly, little information about this game available online. I say unsurprisingly because I'm pretty certain this game can induce heart attacks. I don't fully recall, but I'm pretty certain the one time I played this game properly, I cried. You can see from the cover that apparently Indiana Jones (ironically played here by Tom Selleck) has wandered upon some form of ancient game. Again, in my prudence, I can state that I've seen the Indiana Jones films. Nothing good EVER comes from messing with things you find in tombs. NOTHING GOOD. Well, anyways, to play this wonderful game, you have to slide your wrist between two cobras. Now, I'll grant you, these cobras are kind of laying back, chilling, if you will. They don't seem all THAT menacing at a glance. Once comfortably ensconced within the grasp of the DEADLY VENOMOUS SNAKES, you begin MESSING WITH THE SARCOPHOGUS of some unknown dead Myan or Incan or Aztec. I suppose the nationality is irrelevant. You have a series of 8 ankhs which must be placed into the sarcophogus. There are 9 holes, though, so you have to be careful where these pieces are placed, as ONE of those holes will trigger the unrelenting and unendurable horror that is "Curse of the Cobras". The kicker? It's random. There is no logic that one can apply. So, with shaking, sweaty hands you slowly slide each ankh into place, praying to all that is holy that you have chosen wisely. But put it in the wrong hole and RAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!!!! The coffin springs open and the cadaverous, half rotted form of whatever ancient horror lies within makes itself known. Your normal reaction to this horrific undead vision would be to recoil in terror, but you can't because the cobras have LOCKED AROUND YOUR WRIST! When I said I think this game made me cry, I mean it. My main memory of this game is being too afraid of it to go near. Especially those damn cobras. Much like our earlier discussion of giant spiders, if I'm ever deep within the hallowed burial grounds of some ancient civilization and I find a stone coffin and some puzzle pieces surrounded by bloody snakes, I am NOT going to engage any further curiousity in it. Again. COBRAS. The main bad guy in GI Joe was Cobra. Think that's a coincidence? How many NICE cobras can you name? I bet you can count them on one finger...

Fingers. I've got them. I'm assuming you do as well. (If not, I intend no offense!) I'm rather fond of them. I use them for playing Guitar Hero, for pointing out which spider webs to NOT poke and occasionally for demonstrating to other drivers just how I feel. In other words, I like my fingers just fine. And apparently so do some other people. Say hello to "I Vant to Bite Your Finger". (Yes, the pseudo-Transylvanian pronunciation is correct.) This game makes no bones about what it's after. Blood. YOUR BLOOD. It doesn't want to play. It's not "I Vant to Pet a Pony" or "I Vant to Be Your Friend", no, this game is flat out telling you IT WANTS TO BITE YOU. It wants to taste your warm lifeforce. Yet another game to send me cowering into a corner as a wee boy. The gameplay was simple. Make your way around this board until you are instructed to fiddle with the clock in the back. As you can see in the photo here, this clock is guarded by a vampire. An enormous vampire. Now, in normal gameplay, his cloak would be closed and except for his eyes, there would not be much to see. So you would be given instructions to turn the clock a certain number of ticks. Anywhere from 1-5. If Jesus loved you, then your clicks would go by without incident. But if you've been a naughty unlovable child, then the vampire would fling his cape open, jaw agape, demanding an immediate FLESH SACRIFICE. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Oh, big deal. It's just a game. It won't ACTUALLY hurt me." Let me put it to you this way. You're walking down the street one day and you're approached by me. I'm an average looking guy, not particularly menacing. But out of the blue I produce a box and ask you to put your hand in it, where SOMETHING would BITE you, but it 'wouldn't hurt'. Would you put your hand in that box? HELL NO. Would you put your finger in the mouth of a crazed looking vampire that WANTS TO BITE YOU!?!? You can see that he would probably go into a frenzy driven by his insatiable lust for human blood. Would he stop with just one bite? Just one finger? I'm not putting that to the test!

The sad thing, folks, is that these aren't the only games I had that would scare-ify the vast majority of right thinking people. You can easily see why I wasn't the most popular kid in school. "Should we go over to Jimmy's house and play Life? Or maybe Ted's to play Connect Four? No, I've got it, let's go to E's and play games where our very lives are at stake at the fangs of spiders, cobras and vampires!" Yeah, that conversation was never had. And it shows in the bitter, spiteful man I've become. sigh

The Red Riding Hood of Death

Posted by E

Thursday, February 12, 2009

I made my way through the very dark, thick and tree filled forest on my way to grandmother's house. It was a peaceful day and a warm feeling of happiness filled my chest as I made my way. Today was going to be a very special day for me and my grandmother, because today I was going to spend the day heading to her house for the day. Grandmother would be so surprised and happy when I arrived, especially once she saw the basket full of reasonably priced fruits and vegetables that I brought for her to eat. My basket was stuffed fuller than the mouth of a downs retard after winning second place in a race and being taken to mcdonald's for fries.
Sweat rolled down my back and into the crack of my ass as I neared my grannys house. I only hoped that the fucking bitch was still home so I could show her how much I cared with my basket. I couldnt help noticing though that the door to grandmas was slightly opened and I made my way uneasily into her house out of fear of something terrible happening to my poor grandma. There was no reason to fear though because I made my way into her house and through the living room until I got to her bedroom and opened the door and went inside.
Granny was passed out in her bed, probably from being piss drunk or some shit.
I very politely kicked grandmas bed and asked if she was awake before I got pissed and sat down and pulled out the flask of rum from my pants and had a taste. I slammed the drink back as fast as I could and the alcohol burned my throat as it made its way into my stomach. Finally I started shaking the bed, screaming "wake up, bitch" until grandma's eyes opened and looked over at me with a curious look like she wondered what the fuck I was doing here or something.
"Happy birthday grandma" I said as I pulled out the basket from behind my back and showed it to her. "I brought you food and stuff and we can have a little party".
Grandma just stared at me with dark eyes looking me up and down, causing me to feel very uneasy.
"What's your problem, grandma?" I asked as I looked around nervously, wishing that she'd stop staring so deeply into my eyes. She let out a unearthly growl and I shivered with fear while hoping that I didn't piss my pants like a faggot or some other gay shit like that.
That's when I noticed how dark and animal grandma's eyes looked.
"Hey grandma, you've got big fuckin eyes" I said to my grandmother.
"All the better to see you with" she said eerily.
Looking further down her face I noticed that her nose was flat and cold and wet and rather dark.
"What the fuck's up with your nose?" I asked politely.
"It's better for smelling you with" she said, her eyes never leaving mine.
I was starting to feel really not right about this whole situation. But then I saw grandma's hands pulling down the covers. As it went down past her waist I couldn't but notice that he had the biggest dink I'd ever seen.
"Whoa, grandma, you've got a huge pete! That thing's like four of mine put togeth"
I didn't even get a chance to finish my sentence before grandma leaped from the bed and ripped off all his clothes before screaming, "ALL THE BETTER TO RAPE THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU, FAGGOT!!!", before jumping towards me and pinning me against the wall.
His enormous veiny pete swung between her legs as I cried out for help. But it was no use, and grandma soon jumped up and started furiously fucking my face with such intensity that she literally pinned my head into place. His feet clung to the wall four feet above the ground by his claws as he continued bashing deep into my throat. I gagged and sputtered the entire time I endured his attack. His hirsute frame emitted a musky and sensuous scent that caused my own pete to get hard.
Before I knew it grandma was forcing her enormous rod down my esophagus while simultaneously jerking my pete in the most satisfying way I'd ever felt. I begged and begged for it to stop, but the immensely pleasureful touching just kept going.
Finally I choked as grandma shot a gallon of hot snizz down my throat. I gargled and gagged from the intense pressure while at the same time I felt my own body release and I orgasmed all over my grandmother.
Sated, we both fell back onto the carpet, gasping for breath. I lay there on the floor, tears filling my eyes from the horrific ordeal I had just endured. Without saying a word, I reached into the basket and pulled out my uzi, perforating grandma's warm body with bullets before turning the muzzle on myself and splashing my brains on the wall.

Tom Watts' Cavalcade of Crap

Posted by E

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Sometimes life teaches you lessons the hard way. It's not always ideal, it's not always what we want, but let's face the facts, sometimes you've just got to peek under the veneer to see how unfair it all can be.

For a couple years as a wee lad in my pre-Stumblebum days, I took a liking to the Cub Scouts and joined their ranks. My tenure with the Scouts was short lived, as they realized I was a heathen while I was working towards my Webelos (pronounced WE BLOW) and was asked to leave their organization.

But this isn't a story about a poor atheist boy being driven from the mean old Scouts. No, this is the tale of cold, hard reality slapping my face. This is the tale of an innocence lost, stripped away by the machinations of fate. This was one of my first moments of awareness.

At the time, my family lived near the top of a rather large hill. Not just any hill, mind you. This puppy was large enough that I managed to get my Huffy past sixty miles an hour before wiping out and extending the side of my mouth another 2-3 inches.

And we weren't even at the top.

One day the word comes from our den leader that fundraising time is drawing close. Nowadays we think of fundraisers as being cookies, candy bars, something light and airy that everybody can get behind. Not in this case.

We were smack dab in the economic boom of the Reagan years, and you can rest assured that the venerable scouting organization wanted us to suck every last penny out of Joe Sixpack that we possibly could. The method? The Tom Watts quality assortment.

Tom Watts...the name still sends cold shivers of terror down my spine.

This was no minor fundraising event, this was a full fledged money making operation. The Tom Watts assortment was a veritable smorgasbord of useless crap. Oven mitts, spinning tops, toolkits...you name it, it was likely in that cardboard briefcase. The order form alone was four pages of checkboxes and prices. To a kid of nine, this was some crazy complicated stuff. I lugged the thing home, opened it up and began familiarizing myself with it.

The upside to this whole affair was that we would receive a prize at the end of the fundraiser relevant to the money we brought in for the Scouts. I lay awake at night dreaming of the movie accurate Darth Vader suit, or Ferrari, or whatever else the big prize might be. But my dreams were not to last.

My father informed me in no uncertain terms that he was not going to help. No order forms would be taken to his office. No rides would be given. If I wanted the prize, I would have to earn it. In retrospect, this was a great lesson. At the time, though, I stared daggers through him.

Resigned to having to do this all on my own, I spent an entire weekend hauling this forty pound monstrosity around, feebly attempting to put on my salesman hat as I espoused the greatness of some worthless crap that I had no belief in.

Mind you, this was summer time in Alabama. It was scorchingly hot, the damn suitcase would NEVER close right after you opened it for the first time, and did I mention it weighed nearly as much as I did? This abomination was so unwieldly that I ended up using a dolly to cart it around our hill.

Up and down the roads I weaved, facing constant disappointment when I realized just how many other Scouts there were. Everybody was already buying from a friend's kid or a cousin or something else. Nobody wanted my low quality goods at high, high prices.

All said and done I managed about $200 in sales from my efforts. My Herculean efforts. I staggered back home each night after whoring myself to the neighborhood, appeased only by my dreams of grandeur.

The big day finally arrived and we sat in eager anticipation as our troop leader called us up to award us our prizes.

I won a magnifying glass.

Not a big Sherlock Holmes looking thing, but a pathetically tiny little plastic beast in a faux leather pouch. Even as a nine year old I recognized it as cheap crap. All that hard work and I was rewarded with a token prize. It was "Everybody gets a trophy day" at the Scouts that night.

The kid who won the big prize? Yeah, he was from my neighborhood. He sold more than $1,000 worth of Tom Watts wares. And how did he accomplish this grand feat? Easy.

His mom took the order form to her work and his dad took the order form to his work.

That kid didn't do one single thing. I busted ass and worked my fingers to the bone and I got a pat on the head. The winner didn't do a damn thing and reaped the reward.

To this day I have never once purchased an item from a fundraiser sheet that's ended up at my workplace. I have a hard, fast rule. Hand me the form yourself and convince me to buy it or no sale.

Thanks, Tom Watts.

Red, Red Blood

Posted by E

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

There are many things in life that I try to do with some regularity. This would obviously include various body functions, as well as taking the time to eat on occasion and even try to sleep here and there. (Truthfully, the sleeping thing has never really worked out for me.) But one thing I've always tried to do is donate blood whenever possible.

I first gave blood at the age of seventeen, owing in no small part to a blood drive hosted at my school to help with some fellow classmates that had been involved in a terrible car accident. Donating blood just seemed to be one of those no-brainer sort of things.

I'm not particularly squeamish at the sight of blood, nor do I have any major hangups with pain. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the type to assault my sensitive bits with a meat tenderizer, but a little prick from a needle has never been anything to send me into shudders of fear.

After I gave blood that first time, I pretty much decided to do it whenever humanly possible. I have a pretty useful blood type and I have no major hangups about the procedure.

I tend to be the type that will excitedly talk up anything I'm interested in, hoping to sway the opinions of the person that I'm dealing with. This should be readily apparent by my overall body of work. It therefore goes without saying that I set to work almost immediately to convince my girlfriend at the time to join me in my sanguinary ritual.

Mind you, this would not be an easy task. Stacie was horrified of needles, prone to running and squealing whenever one was brought into her vicinity. If I was ever going to get her to donate, I'd have to convince her that the procedure was simple and painless.

After arriving at the VFW center and waiting in line, I made my way to the table where they ask you a handful of questions: Have you had sex with a man since 1975? No, my gay debauchery ended in 1974. Have you been out of the country in the last 6 months? No, but the week before that...

After making my way through the questionnaire with the nurse, I asked if it would be possible for Stacie to join me at the actual donation chair. I assured them that she would remain out of the way, and that this was purely in the interest of procuring another donor for them.

Amazingly, they agreed and we made our way to the chairs.

I lay back in the chair and offered up my left arm to the bloodletting physician. I turned my head towards Stacie and began assuring her that the procedure was no big deal. I kept my eyes locked as they found my vein, covered me with iodine and prepared the needle for insertion.

Just prior to the needle going in, I looked to Stacie and reminded her that there was very little pain. Only the tiniest flinch crossed my face as the needle dug its way past my skin. I maintained my smiling demeanor, preparing to say, "See, no biggie!", when I noticed that Stacie was turning an ashen pale, jaw slack and eyes wide, staring directly at my left arm.

I glanced over to the left and found that the nurse had accidentally punctured my vein. A small geyser had formed around the needle, pumping streams of red kroovy into the air until dropping back to my arm with a wet splash and spilling over the sides onto the floor.

All I could manage was to chuckle and say something along the lines of, "Well, how about that".

Needless to say, she never ended up donating.

Curiosity Killed the Cat

Posted by E

Monday, February 2, 2009

My first real experience with the macabre came in the form of a book my mother had purchased when I was quite young. It was named "Infamous Murders" and was a 'who's who' of violent crimes of the last hundred years. I spent hours poring over the lurid details of each case...the Yorkshire Ripper, Lizzie Borden, H.H. Holmes. Each tale came replete with illustrations and photographs showing the murder weapons, crime scenes, and in some cases the victims themselves. Try as I might, I could not tear my eyes from the scenes of horror laid out before me.

By the age of eight I had moved on to horror films. Creepshow became the ultimate in terror for me. I owned the graphic novel and would read and re-read it every single day, as well as watch the film. The skeleton from the first segment (Father's Day) scared me to the point where I had difficulty sleeping for nearly a year, but still I found myself unable to NOT watch it.

My first foray into the more extreme was a forced viewing of the first three Faces of Death films at the age of nine. Granted, these films are largely staged, but at the time nobody knew that and they represented the harshest glimpse of reality one could possibly imagine. Much as with the previous forms, I sat, eyes transfixed, unable to look away but not wanting to see.

This was the birth, the ultimate awakening of a self-realization that has plagued me to this day. One that has tormented me relentlessly through the years. A personality trait that causes me to exist duplicitously. I am at once enamored and repelled by the media I consume.

The dawning of the Internet age allowed me to see that I was not alone with this affliction, this need to constantly see what lies behind the curtain. I am compelled by my brain, against my own better judgment, to bear witness to situations and events that dwell beyond the realms of horror for me.

I don't wish to view these things. Every time I read about a video containing 6 Russian conscripts being terminated in a field, or the blunt force trauma murder of a man in the Ukraine, I get a sickly feeling, an almost electric sense of energy. I don't want to see the devastation wrought, but I must. I must see. I must know.

In some small measure I consider it a tribute to the victims. Their life was senselessly or barbarically ended in front of the camera. Viewing their final moments affords them the ability to live on , to make their execution seem less in vain.

Without fail I feel a sense of emptiness every time one of these videos starts. A hollow pit quickly filled with cold sickness as the gravity of the situation sets in. There is an almost palpable weight to the air that I feel as the suffering of others is laid bare before me.

This isn't a feeling I crave, but for some reason it's a feeling I NEED. It's hard to say that without sounding ghoulish, but facing mortality in such a direct manner allows me to feel comfortable with life. Again, it's not for enjoyment that I seek this kind of entertainment, but for a deep personal fulfillment.

This innate need exists in all of us, I suspect. It's only the minority that feed its submersed call.

Don't believe me? What do you do when you pass an accident? Do you simply stare straight ahead or do you cast a glance to the side, secretly hoping to see some carnage? Do you watch CSI? Have you ever allowed dark or violent thoughts to linger in your brain?

The honest truth is that we all have it. Darkness resides in all corners and chambers, regardless of the person. Some of us are just consigned to embracing it.

There was a time not long ago when we as a people had to face death on an almost daily basis. A time when we lacked the luxuries and conveniences of the modern world. To the people of that time, the morbid sensibilities of the modern day would be curious, indeed.

Our culture is fixated on death, violence, and ill will towards our fellow people. How much difference is there between the multiple simulated killings one can watch on TV any given night and the true life horrors available on the internet? Not as much as you might think.

Fiction gives us safety, allows us room to relax as we know it is only an artistic interpretation of reality. The real deal sucker punches us, knocking away all of our security as we are forced to come face to face with the harsh truth of our own mortality.

Of course, in all of this I speak only for myself. Thanks to the internet I have managed to find others who share the same need to peer behind the locked door. The reasons people seek this out are as varied as the people themselves.

Some seek entertainment, some wish to confront death, some are just intrigued. For me, it depends on the video.

If I had to pick a favorite thing to view, it would be suicide videos. Again, don't mistake this for enjoying watching people kill themselves.

No, in the case of suicide, there is a certain degree of beauty that can be found. An intimacy that stems from the fact that the person committing the act has setup a camera to share this moment with you, whether it be an act of defiance, desperation, whatever.

I have written about two such videos here in the past, namely the suicides of Ricardo Lopez and R. Budd Dwyer.

In the case of Lopez, the interest stems from his tragic slide into insanity. The actions perpetrated on camera were intended to be an almost artistic statement. Here is a man who has obsessed over a singer for months, ultimately building an acid bomb in the hopes of disfiguring her due to his overwhelming illness. His final act comes as the culmination of months upon months of pain and torment. His life is ended by gun in front of a white sign proclaiming "The best of me", no doubt intended to catch brain matter as part of a final dark statement.

Similarly there is the case of Dwyer, an elected official convicted (unfairly, by his accord) of accepting a bribe. His death comes as a harsh rebuttal of the American justice system and serves as a reminder of the price of power. That he chose to end his life in such a public manner points strongly to the underlying statement he was trying to make. "YOU did this to me," his actions seem to scream. A man put in charge by the people dissolves that power in one bitter shot.

Take from all this what you will. This is not a defense of my attractions. (I am who I am.) This is not a condemnation of those who don't understand. (Different strokes...) This is simply a confession, a means of showing the world that not all who seek the dark are horrific and violent creatures.

Let me sum it up with the following:

Curiosity killed the cat.
I just wanted to know who did it, how, when, where and why.