Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Out of the cloest


Dear Willie,

            We need to talk. I’ve known you for a few years now, and I have been overlooking a few things for quite some time. It’s difficult for me to say this, so that’s why I’m writing this note. I’m not even really sure that this is any of my business, but could you PLEASE take whatever is hiding in your closet, out of your closet. Seriously, it would mean a lot to me. The emphatic banging at random hours of the day used to scare the shit out me, but I got used to it after a few months.  I didn’t say anything at the time, since it’s your room, and I didn’t want to intrude on your business. The banging stopped a few weeks ago, thank God, but now there’s this horrendous stench coming from your room, and I assume that it’s coming from your closet. I ignored it for as long as I could, but enough is enough. How accommodating do you expect me to be? I don’t know what it is, but please get the contents of your closet THE FUCK out of our apartment. I’d ask what you’re hiding, but I don’t think I want to know. You’ve been a good roommate so far, but this is a big black mark on your record. Take care of this, and we’ll be cool again. Until that time, I’m going to have to prohibit your drunken masquerade parties. At least at our place. I’m sorry, but I hope this prompts you into action.

I’m sick of this,
Tim-Bob

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Consequences


            Slaton leaned back in his plush, red recliner, took a magnanimous puff from his stogy cigar, and as he exhaled the smoke in what might have looked like a four-leaf clover in the right light, spoke to his friend, Bart.
            “Here’s my problem, though, see?  I’ve been stuck here for, what, a few months?  Damned peasants down the road can’t handle the fact that I happened across such a lavish lifestyle, while they have next to nothing.  I tried telling them they didn’t have the guts to hold up the right high-end businessmen, but it’s hard to do that without incriminating myself, you know?  Anyway, since I’ve been stuck here, I’ve been thinking.”
            “So you do manage to think! I was beginning to worry, Slaton.” Bart said, chuckling to himself and leaning against the doorway, ever so nonchalantly.
            “I know, surprise, surprise, right? Hardy har-har, I’m trying to be serious for once.  I’ve heard these people from time to time talking about this great plan, or something. I think The Police called it Synchronicity, and that guy with a philosophy degree called it Determinalism.”
            “Determinism you mean, yeah.  So you’re saying a punk band pokes your brain into actually thinking?  What, do you find yourself lost in thought contemplating the deeper meaning of “Roxanne”?  A whore’s a whore, Slaton, that’s it.  Doesn’t matter what color lights she uses, she’d be the same person if she used blue lights rather than red.”
            “No shit, Bart. When did you get an education in analysis, eh?  You won’t even let me get to the point, come on. “
            “It would help if you actually spit it out.” Bart smirked over his teacup.
            “Fine, fine.” Slaton ran his hand through his hair, collecting his thoughts. “What I’m trying to say is, who’s to know what’s right, huh?  These people say that everything happens for a reason, that there are no coincidences.  I find that hard to believe, you know?  If everything is planned out by something and meant to happen, why do I feel like I decide what I do? I don’t feel like a robot following a program, or any shit like that.  And if everything is supposed to happen, why do we punish people for doing things we consider wrong, or regret events in the past?  Does free will not exist? It certainly can’t coexist with this synchronicity idea, because one fucks with the other, you see?  And even so, we can’t really see what would happen if we went back and tried to do something different, so no one’s thoughts on this can be tested! It’s hurting my head, Bart, but it passes the time.”
            Bart sipped his tea, calmly.  Swishing the tea around in his mouth, he seemed to be considering his words carefully before saying them. After a few minutes, he replied.
            “It’s an odd mix of the two, I think.  You may think that the two ideas can’t exist at the same time, but think about it a little harder.  You choose what you do, that is a given.  I won’t try to deny that we have free will, and can make decisions for ourselves; I think that is too obvious to ignore.  However, looking at your life, is everything you do not a reaction to something else?  You can put the smartest person in the world on a roof, and he will fall when you push him, regardless of his will or decision making abilities.  You could also make him decide to come to the roof by holding his prized possessions hostage until he does as you please. He’s making a decision, yet the result was almost predetermined, anyway.”

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Cheese


I’ve never done this before,
But I’ve always wanted to.
I never knew what was in store,
And some pretend they always knew.

I’ve talked to them,
I’ve talked to you,
I thought chances slim,
Of doing what I wanted to.

So now, I’m still nowhere,
Exactly where I was before.
I wonder if I should really share
My time with life’s bores.

Do they have my interests in mind?
Maybe, who’s to say? And why?
I hope to find someone in kind,
To share the lack of reality and fly.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Shooting Park


            As they had all signed up on the waiver, they really didn’t have much of a choice in this matter. Sure, if a single one of them had any more balls, they might have had the sense to back out, but what’s the point of that? As it stood, the park was ready to go. Launch was destined for 2 minutes in the future.  The contestants checked their preparations. Bandoliers, magazines, any holsters that they cared to bring were checked for spontaneous defects that always seem to spring up at the worst possible moment. This fan was about to be consumed with shit.
            The time became 12:02, and Randal was the first to open fire. His army-surplus submachine gun raking the benches where he assumed people had been hiding to make the drop on him. Sadly, he was wrong, and a family of possums paid the price for his mistake. No one noticed at the time, and they wouldn’t have cared if PETA sent them a letter about it later, complaining about such loss of life. 
            It was an appropriate way to begin the Shooting Park, though. 
            Passers by most likely would have appreciated some sort of forewarning of this event, but as none were given, things became very loud very quickly. Not just the gun fire screamed across the little sanctuary of grass and dog shit, but actual screams were released in reckless abandon as confused park-goers ran found themselves in a gun fight armed with only their clothes or Pomeranians. There was one clothed Pomeranian, but it died somehow. No one was happier about this predicament than it was.  Pomeranians despise clothing of any sort. It makes a mockery of their culture. Death is preferable.
            Quite quickly, though, the screams were not only uttered by terrorized citizens fleeing the scene, but also by willing participants experiencing the installation of brand new holes in their bodies.  Sometimes, these holes resulted in catastrophic system failures in the bodies, but that was bound to happen. No one was surprised or deterred by this. Waivers take care of everything, after all. It’s surprising, the power a pen wields, isn’t it?
            One of these participants was Fredereick, who was tired of people misspelling his name.  Hiding in a bush, he saw this as proper training for a militia, in case the federal government got too greedy with their power. Chaos would be their only defense against the organized oppression created by the power hungry government. His only hope was that chaos was enough, and that the others looked at this opportunity exactly the same way that he did, despite his lack of expressing this idea to a single one of them.  He survived the experience, only to go back to his previous occupation of selling people lottery tickets at a gas station. 
            He never got his rebellion against a draconian government, but he did get shot in the face during a robbery 3 years later, as is tradition for anyone that works at 7-11 for any longer than a decade.  As he stared down the barrel of his assailant’s puissant pocket pistol, he couldn’t help but feel like he missed the point of the Shooting Park, that one time he went.
            And still, the shooting continued as Fredereick hid in this bush, pretending to be the strategist. This release of tension was necessary among those with the wherewithal to join, as life doesn’t always seem satisfactory, and Hollywood always glamorized violence. Indeed, a few witty remarks were heard among the booms and blasts of guns, including, “Die, fucker”, “We see you have boom-boom stick. So have I,” and the staple remark of, “Oh God, the bleeding!”
            This particular Shooting Park stopped when the few left decided enough was enough, around 4:53 the same day.  Some reporters asked the local mosquito population what they thought of the occasion, and the buzz was felt worldwide, yet the news people continued their tradition of not stating the facts. That being said, everyone was happy about that, as facts are tedious. Tears are much more tangible than facts, so they run with that. Those that survived ran more Shooting Parks, and none of them noticed in any way the similarity between Shooting Parks and fight clubs. Not a one of them.