Matt PayneCopyright 2013 by Matt Payne

The Purpose of Hell: Fifteen Micro- Stories by Tom HalfordEdited by Bradley Sands

Table of Contents:

-Introduction #7-Impossibly Meaningless Coincidence-The Government Stole My Hat-The Purpose of Hell: Fifteen Micro-Stories-Squirrel Warfare-First Men to Mars-How to Land an Airplane-My Sneaky Neighbour-Human-Janitor Hybrid-My Time as a Pirate-Cure for Homelessness-The Editors Have Been Massacred!-Travel Blog: Biggle Beach-Torture Insurance-The Corporate Old Testament-New Scientist-Roommate-Wit-Quicker-Neanderthals on the Moon-Buying a Gingerbread Home-My First Murder-Travel Blog: Moon Hotel-God Created the Universe to Battle Other Universes-Lost Chocolates-How to Escape from a Surreal Dimension Where Nothing Makes Sense-Splinter Removal Software-To All My Detractors-King of the Jungle Ladies-Now Hiring!-Scientist-Animals-Annual Fistfight-Geometry Is Dying-Geometry, Heroin and the Illuminati-The Never-Ending Burger-Meditation for Mutation-The Essence of Yellow-A Lovely New Home-The Travelling Spoon-Wilderness Survival Emergency-Blending New Genres in Music-My Buffer Zone-Dealing with Depression-You Are the Only Mind in the Universe!-Guilt-Tripping the Volcano-Recreational Ribs Recipe-Buying the Right Puppy-Math Dinosaur-This Tree Isn’t Acting Normal-The Perfect Vacation-Winged Men with No Morals-Recession Detective-Photo ID Odyssey

-Kidney Swap-Travel Bog: The Ovum-It’s Almost Easter-Trapped in the Bathroom with Exquisite Scotch-You’ll Be Resurrected

Introduction #7:

Dear Reader,

This world is a maze, constructed by the horror-gods to imprison you. You need to escape the labyrinth before it’s too late.

You must seek out ancient, secret knowledge to decipher the riddles and mysteries of your prison (the universe).

Moses knew those secrets. So did Isaac Newton, Leonardo Da Vinci, and the rock band KISS. These people and other geniuses embedded their knowledge into their work.

With millennia of recorded material at our disposal, I gathered together today's greatest minds to write a blog where we would disseminate that knowledge to the masses. Now it is time to collect all that knowledge and encrypt it into the text of this dynamic, multi-authored tome. That’s right, as you read through the Sick Book of Lies, enjoying its hilarious anecdotes and clever insights, you’ll also be receiving special metaphysical knowledge.

This book is the key to your freedom from the prison-maze, so read carefully.

Impossibly Meaningless Coincidenceby Stalwart McGregor

I love the strange coincidences that happen in life. Like when you meet someone who grew up in your remote hometown. Or you meet an old friend in a foreign city.

Sometimes they seem like meaningful coincidences, as if God Herself choreographed the cold mechanical universe to play weird little impossible tricks on you to motivate you and stimulate your mind.

But yesterday I experienced a completely unbelievable coincidence, which has no fathomable meaning.

Yesterday I met thirty people with the exact same name as me. Some of them were men, some of them were women. Some were old and some were young. Usually I don’t even learn the name of one single new person every day. But yesterday I learned the full names of thirty separate people, and they were all called “Stalwart McGregor.”

First thing that morning, I turned on the TV news and saw a news report. It said that two people named Stalwart McGregor had been murdered in isolated incidents in two different cities. One guy was killed by his wife for cheating on her, while the other guy was killed by the mob for squealing on them. What a coincidence! But it was a double-coincidence, because the news reporter was also called Stalwart McGregor!

Then I went outside, and as I was walking to my favorite breakfast cafe, I was mugged by a dirty punk who was wearing manufactured products that featured the logo for The Exploited. He stabbed me in the belly with a knitting needle, stole my wallet and said, “You’ve been mugged by Stalwart McGregor!”

I said, “Wow! That’s my name!”

Stalwart the Punk said, “Cool, man! What a coincidence! Let me buy you breakfast!”

So he used the money he stole from me to buy me breakfast at my favorite cafe. We chatted about life and love and discovered that we had lots in common. Then I passed out from blood loss and was taken to the hospital.

My nurse was a sexy redhead with a name-tag that said, “Stalwart McGregor.” I told her that my name was also Stalwart McGregor and she was so amazed that she had sex with me! She was so hot! I hope she gets pregnant, because then we can name the kid Stalwart McGregor Junior and his mother and I can both be Stalwart Senior.

After I left the hospital, I met twenty other people whose names were Stalwart McGregor. But it kept getting less exciting. Kind of strange... I should actually have gotten more excited since each

new Stalwart made the coincidence exponentially more substantial. It’s very unlikely that you’ll meet somebody with your same name. It’s twice as unlikely that you’ll meet two in the same day. With each new person, it becomes more and more unlikely that you’ll meet another one with the same name.

By eight o’clock PM, I was wandering down on the boardwalk when a fisherman crashed his boat against the rocks and I helped him drag him and his passenger out of the sinking boat, I was already feeling sick of my own name and this useless coincidence. It seemed like I should have been able to benefit somehow from something so amazing, but it just made me tired.

The fisherman held out his hand and said, “I’ve been adrift in the sea for three days now! Thanks for helping me, buddy! My name’s Stalwart McGregor!”

I shook his hand and said, “Yup. That’s my name too.”

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never met another Stalwart before and I’ve certainly never met a Stalwart McGregor! What a coincidence! Let me wake up my passenger! I found him unconscious, floating in the ocean two days ago. He hasn’t spoken a word since I found him!”

Stalwart shook his passenger. Finally the sleeping dude woke up, and the fisherman said, “Hey, buddy! Guess what! You’ve just been rescued by two different Stalwart McGregors! What a coincidence!”

The passenger said, “Stalwart McGregor? Holy fuck! That’s my name! Let’s go get drunk!”

“Nah,” I said. “I already met a bunch of other Stalwart McGregors today.” I really had no inclination to get drunk with them, and my belly was still wounded from being stabbed by Stalwart McGregor.

Then I went home and went to sleep. This morning I woke up and went to work at the factory, where I package calendars. Nothing interesting happened. I hate my job and I hate my life. I can’t figure out any reason why I met thirty people with the same name as me yesterday. My mind keeps trying to draw conclusions and search for implications. I keep thinking, “I must have learned something from this, right?” But I really didn’t. It couldn’t possibly just be a coincidence, could it? This will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.

The Government Stole My Hatby Larry Grank

When I woke up this morning, my red fedora was gone!

I always keep it on the wax statue of myself that looks over me while I sleep.

But today it was gone!

Where the fuck is my hat?

I looked at my wax statue and asked, “Where is my hat?”

My wax statue said, “Isn’t it obvious? Just follow the money, Larry. Who would benefit from stealing your hat?”

I scratched my beard and thought long and hard. Who would benefit from stealing my hat? What is my hat good for? Well, I know that my thinking is clearer and sharper when I’m wearing stylish clothes. Stylish clothes give me confidence, and confidence helps me think. And nothing is more stylish than my red fedora.

So, whoever stole my hat wants me to think less clearly. They want to ruin my thought process. Who would benefit from ruining my thought process? Well, whenever I’m awake, I’m always thinking about government conspiracies. I’ve discovered tonnes of government conspiracies just by thinking all day while wearing my red fedora.

The answer is obvious: The government is fed up with me for exposing their secrets, so they took my hat as an act of psychological warfare!

So I grabbed some dynamite from underneath my bed, hooked up a detonator and walked down to City Hall.

I burst through the front door and screamed at the receptionist, “Tell the mayor I want my red hat back, or I’ll kill us all!”

The receptionist kept steady eye-contact and spoke slowly and precisely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I think you’d better leave.”

“I’m onto you!” I yelled. “You’re not going to get rid of me this easily! I’m not thinking clearly without my hat! I need my fucking hat you conspiratorial faggot-eating power-hungry motherfuckers!”

Then double doors burst open and a giant brown dog stepped into the hall. He was wearing a blue vest, pinstripe tie, a luscious red fedora, and a confident smile. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Mayor Dog!”

My jaw dropped. “I knew the mayor was really a dog in disguise! See! I tried to tell the newspaper, but they wouldn’t believe me!”

“I own the newspaper, just like I own this town!” Mayor Dog said. “And now that I have your red hat, nobody will believe any of your conspiracy theories! Ahaha!

The receptionist was laughing too. “Ahahaha! What a fool!”

I was so disgruntled. I held up the detonator and screamed, “Prepare to die!”

But when I pressed the button, nothing happened!

Mayor Dog said, “When I stole your hat I also replaced your dynamite with tampons! You’re completely harmless, and you look crazy now!”

The receptionist was crying with laughter and slapping her desk. She pressed a button on the desk and said, “Paramedics! Bring this loon to the asylum!”

Then three paramedics came in and said, “Look, he’s wearing a bunch of tampons! This guy’s crazy!”

“I’m not crazy!” I screamed. “The dog-mayor stole my hat and I can’t think clearly!”

“What? This cute little puppy?” one paramedic asked. “You’re off your rocker, buddy!”

Then they took me to the asylum.

The Purpose of Hell: Fifteen Micro Storiesby Tom Gore Trout

1. There was a doctor who could pinpoint the exact moment that jealousy became a prominent trait in a human being. She was killed by another doctor who really liked her idea.

2. A plane was about to crash. A man sitting in a window seat looked into the ocean. He wished his wife was there with him. He simply wanted to be with her in his final moments. A snicker came up his chest like a sneeze. Why would he do that to her? The plane hit the water. It scattered into scrap metal and skin. The laminated instructions on how to survive a plane crash went unscathed.

3. There was a writer who was fixated on death. He died.

4. A woman was walking her dog, Walter, in a park. A man was in the same park walking his dog, Sheila. The dogs barked at each other, so the man and the woman never talked. If they had, the man would have found out that the woman’s name was Sheila and the woman would have found out the man’s name was Walter. The strange thing is that the park was named after the famous veterinarian Sheila Walter. Perhaps that is what the dogs were barking about.

5. There was a kid whose summer job was to wash dogs. He got fleas and several skin diseases from his work. People eventually felt he was too dirty to wash their dogs.

6. There was a writer who was fixated on dogs. He was bitten by a dog.

7. A man bought an SUV because he had a small penis. His penis was eventually bitten by a dog.

8. I saw a car accident once. There was blood everywhere. My dad got out of the truck and handed the injured people towels to sop up the blood. They were white towels, but now they must be pink.

9. A note on the writer and why he died: The bite from the dog

became infected. He died from gangrene. He didn’t go to the hospital because he couldn’t walk and he was too poor to own a car. In his dying moments he regretted his decision to become a writer and decided that he should have become a car salesman. He would’ve been closer to a vehicle when the dog bit him. However, he had a tendency to be amused by stories that were clever and cruel. His final hours were spent in an autobiographical reverie.

10. When Jesus Christ ascended out of Hell he felt pity for those he left behind, but Al Capone was there and he tried to hit Christ with a baseball bat.

11. There was a turkey who died for the sins of other turkeys. They remember his birthday once a year even though no one knows the exact date. Turkeys who do not believe that he was the messiah find the holiday is annoying, but others treat it as an extremely special day. They stuff a human’s ass full of bread crumbs and bake him in an oven. The meat from the human makes them sleepy and many of them spend the afternoon napping.

12. There was a writer who tried to parody the birth of Christ. He died of gangrene on Christmas day. His parents showed up a day later with a present. They had bought their son a new car. It was a black station wagon that looked like a hearse, and they ended up using it to transport the casket from the funeral parlor to the cemetery.

13. There was a writer whose stories became famous after his death. He was dead so he didn’t care.

14. There was a literary critic who questioned the morality of a famous writer whose micro stories were notoriously cruel. However, this critic had terrible breath, and St. Peter stopped him at the pearly gates when he died. After expounding on the sins of poor dental hygiene, St. Peter gave the critic a mint and told him to go to hell.

15. One of the people who Christ felt bad for when he ascended out of Hell was a famous writer. The reason Christ felt bad for this writer is that some twisted demon chained him to the critic with the terrible breath. The critic’s breath was so bad that it peeled the skin off the writer’s face. Christ shouldn’t have felt bad, though. The writer thought it was all incredibly clever. He sort of liked Hell and he fully intended to talk to someone about improving his position within the Bureaucracy of Suffering. In fact, he became

the equivalent of a foreman over time and told other demons what to do whenever the work orders came down from the higher-ups. He enjoyed his work so much that one afternoon the Devil caught him smiling, so he called an assembly. It was with a terrible wretchedness that Satan pitchforked the writer in the throat. The writer, explained Satan, had failed to understand the purpose of hell.

Squirrel Warfareby Paul Langford

Yesterday I was walking through the park and I saw one of my favorite things: squirrels running around and playing! I love squirrels and their crazy antics!! The black squirrels are the craziest and most fun.

Then one squirrel ran towards me. Usually squirrels run in zigzag lines, but this one ran straight towards me. It leaped up in the air and head-butted me hard in the testicles. I collapsed in a heap on the ground, having never felt such excruciating pain. My mind went blank and I threw up on the grass. My mouth opened and closed, and I reached into my pants to make sure that my testicles weren’t busted open and destroyed.

Pain kept me curled up, thoughtless and in agony for at least three minutes. My body slowly relaxed, and I sat up and wiped the vomit off my face.

I looked around and there were ten black squirrels standing in a line up on their hind legs, staring at me.

“Why did you do that?” I asked the squirrels. I didn’t know which one had ball-tagged me. Why were they staring at me?

I climbed to my feet, and the squirrels started walking circles around me. More squirrels joined in. Then they were running in circles, surrounding me, hissing, squeaking in menacing tones.

Then one of them jumped for my balls! In mid-air, it screamed, “Fuck you!” in a cute squirrel-voice. But I was fast... I swatted it out of the air, and it scurried away, laughing.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”

Then more squirrels jumped at me, trying to head-butt me. I swatted them all away, but there were too many! One of them bit my hand. I tore it off with my other hand and flung it against a tree, but then I looked down and there were three more squirrels biting my legs! As I tore them off of my bleeding flesh, more crazy rodents jumped onto my arms and my face. They were all laughing and occasionally screaming, “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

I tried to tear them away, but they were overwhelming me! Blood flowed from all over my body. Then I felt one burrowing into my stomach, digging through skin and muscle. I tried to pry him off, but two other squirrels had gotten a hold of my two hands! Finally I got my hands on the burrowing fucker and pulled him out... but he was clutching onto my guts and he pulled a long cord of my intestines out through the hole he had gouged into my torso.

“Aaargh!” I screamed, dropping to my knees. Another squirrel was digging into my eyeball, then it broke it and clawed at the empty, bleeding socket. There was nothing I could do!

Then dozens of chickadees flew down from the treetops and attacked the squirrels. They picked up the squirrels in their little claws and flew into the air and dropped them from high heights, breaking their cute little bones.

“No!” the squirrels screamed. “Fuck you!”

Given a moment of respite, I pulled the squirrels off my body and ran across the street, where there was a drop-in clinic. I burst through the door and locked it behind me as the entrance-chimes jingled.

There was blood and guts and gore pouring out through my myriad wounds. The clinic’s only doctor was sitting in his clinic-chair. He wore an eyepatch and a smile. “You look like you need help,” he said creepily. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Great!” I said, sitting down in his doctor’s chair. “I probably need some antibiotics, and a rabies shot. And I definitely need lots of stitches because I’ve been gored out by squirrels!”

“Wonderful!” the good doctor rasped. “Just wonderful! Here! Let me strap you in!”

He strapped me in so I couldn’t move. I was severely wounded, woozy from loss of blood and probably dying.

The doctor stood before me, beside a tray of surgical tools. “I’m afraid I don’t have any anaesthetics for you,” he said sadly. Then he picked up a rusty hacksaw. “Now, let’s take care of these cuts on your arm!”

I screamed and screamed as he used the saw to cut through my arm. The rusty blades tore away the skin, sawed through my muscles and tendons, and grinded away at the bone until my right hand fell off.

Then he took out a knife and said, “Now I’m going to stab you in the face! Over and over again!”

“No!” I screamed. “What kind of psychedelic nightmare have I fallen into?”

Then there was a strange sound... a rat-tat-tat on the front door. We both looked over and saw dozens of chickadees pecking their little beaks on its glass.

“No!” the good doctor cried. “Not the chickadees!”

Then the glass door smashed out, and a swarm of chickadees flew in. The doctor ran out the back door, but the chickadees pursued him. I could hear his horrifying screams as they killed him.

They came back and fluttered around me. They landed on my chair and used their beaks to unfasten the straps that confined me.

They spoke to me, all at once in unison: “You are injured, sweet human. Let us fix you.”

Working together as a team, they rubbed local anaesthetics on my wounds and found general anaesthetics in the dead doctor’s cupboards. They also found antibiotics, a needle and thread. They fixed me up and fed me a hamburger from the hamburger stand down the street.

After ten minutes of chickadee-care, I felt as good as new (except for my missing eye and hand). “Thanks, chickadees!” I said. “I didn’t know you were such smart and capable animals!”

Again, they chirped in unison: “Why would you doubt our intelligence, sweet human? We communicate with chirping. We build our nests and care for our children. We make love, we struggle and we die! The tragic glory of life unfolds for us as it does for you. Why would you doubt our intelligence?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m an arrogant jerk. It seems that chickadees are truly complex and beautiful creatures. But why did you help me from those squirrels and that mad doctor?”

The chickadees said, “We helped you because we love all of God’s creatures! Praise Jesus! Praise the Lord!”

“Seriously?” I said. “Chickadees are Christians? But what proof do you have that God even exists?”

“We do not need proof. We feel God in our hearts. We see God in every living thing, and in the rocks and the stars. How could all this wonderful chaos exist without God?”

“That’s an unfair question,” I said. “I could ask how the world could exist without Superman, and you couldn’t answer it because nobody knows how the world exists at all!”

“We saved your life,” chirped the chickadees. “All we ask is that you try to give your heart to God! You are proud of your atheism, so put that pride aside for one moment and join us in prayer!”

I did owe them my life, so I did as I was asked. I listened to the chickadees’ heart-felt prayer, which glorified God and all of existence. And I felt a warmth in my heart and a smile on my lips, and I knew that God was with me.

And as the war between the squirrels and the chickadees raged outside the torture-doctor’s clinic, I knew that I was safe in the arms of the Lord. And no matter what nightmare transgressions may wreak havoc upon the land here on this material we call earth, I know that in the end I will be with Him.

First Men to Marsby Nicholas Whistletooth

My tech company made some badass spaceships and I wanted to send some top notch space-pilots to check out Mars, but I was afraid that the pilots would go crazy during the long flight. Go crazy and murder each other or build a robot army in space.

So I called my brother and said, “Bro! I need pilots who can hang out in space for a few years without going nuts. Who can handle long periods of boring shit?”

My bro said, “Dude! Stoners just hang out and do nothing all day! Plus, Buddhists and monks just meditate and chant! Maybe you could get some pilots who are already crazy! Can’t hurt ‘em now, right? Put ‘em to good use! Put the crazy fuckers to work!”

So I hired a few monks, a few potheads and some schizophrenic young men. I sent them to pilot school, and I told them what had to be done.

One of the stoners said, “Dude! No chicks? Man, get us some hookers or something.”

So I hired some hookers for the three-year trip. There were some drug addicts among the hookers, so I provided some drugs for the trip. I didn’t want them going through withdrawal in space!

So anyway, they took off this morning. The launch was awesome. Can’t wait to see how my crew performs on the mission.

How to Land an Airplaneby Dan Skillhauser

Emergency Time!

So your plane is going to crash and you need to land it, but you’ve never flown a plane before? No problem. Just follow this easy guide.

First, kill the pilot. He’ll only get in the way.

Next, you have to experiment with the controls. Plane controls are really complex and each plane is different. Pick a button, press it and see what happens. If something bad happens, don’t press that button again. If something good happens, you can think about doing it again later.

Get a pen and a piece of paper and draw a diagram of the control board. Write down what happens each time you press a button and pull a lever, or whatever. Sometimes the effects might be contingent on the state of another button. For example, “button X” might do “action A” if “lever C” is in the “neutral position,” but “button X” might do “action B” if the lever is in the “active position.” You understand. Write it all down so you can refer to it later.

You might get hungry, but you don’t really have time to eat.

Next survey the ground beneath you. Are you above the ocean? Are you above the mountains?

If you’re above the ocean then it’s your lucky day. Water is soft, so it’s safe to splash right into any body of water.

If you’re above the mountains then it will take a bit more skill. Using your button-map and angle the plane so it matches the slope of the nearest mountainside. Try to slow it down a little so you don’t slam into the mountain and die.

Next, drop the landing gear and slide to a stop against the side of a mountain.

If you’re on a commercial jet, they’ll have refreshments like cognac and wine, so now it’s time to celebrate your safety, skill and success!

My Sneaky Neighbourby Larry Grank

My neighbour has been doing weird shit.

For instance, every time I walk by his house he steps outside, gets in his minivan and drives away. Every single time.

Why does he leave his house and drive away every time I walk by? Is he following me or studying me? Or does he just leave his house constantly? I don’t know! But I need to find out!

Also, he never seems to enter his house. I’ve never seen him step inside his house. But comes outside and drives away every time I saunter by.

Maybe his house is a giant cloning machine and it just keeps making copies of him, and those copies keep driving away. But where do all the new minivans come from?

So I decided to stake out his home. I didn’t want to do the stakeout from my house, so I went to my other neighbour’s house. She’s an elderly lady, so it was easy to break in and murder her. Then I made a saffron-ginger broth and roasted her with some onions and sweet potatoes. I also put her head in a freezer, because I like to make brain ice cream.

I went to the attic with my binoculars and started watching my neighbour’s house. After four long and gruelling seconds, my neighbour exited his house and got into his van. Then he drove away.

I jumped out the window and followed the van to the park. At the park, my neighbour stopped the van and got out. Then he walked up to a teenage girl and put his hand on her head. Then she disappeared!

My mind was reeling! I pulled out my cell phone and called the cops.

“Hello!” I said. “Police? My name is Larry Grank, and I’m at the park. I just watched my neighbour make a kid disappear! She’s gone! She disappeared! I need a cop car here now!”

The police officer sighed. “Mr. Grank, you’ve got to stop calling us with this ridiculous magical paranoid bullshit. Yesterday you said the Ku Klux Klan gang-raped your kitten and used telekinesis to steal your liver. You always do this, and we don’t have time for it.”

“Yeah, but that was just a joke!” I screamed. “I know there’s no

such thing as the Ku Klux Klan. I was just having some fun. But right now there’s a real kidwho disappeared right before my eyesthat needs our help! My neighbour is a sick, sick man! He must be stopped!”

“You’ve complained about your neighbour before too, Mr. Grank,” the officer said. “And just like last time, I told you it’s impossible to make things disappear.”

Now I was confused. “I called about my neighbour disappearing things before? I don’t remember that... how can the same thing happen twice? Am I living the same day over and over again?”

“Of course not,” the officer said. “Just go home and relax, okay?”

But now my neighbour was approaching me, and he was smiling.

“Hello,” my neighbour said. Then he touched my head and I disappeared!

My Time as a Pirateby Jerry McKoog

Ever since I was a little boy I wanted to be a pirate.

So when I turned eighteen I told my mom and dad that I was going out to join a pirate ship.

“Okay!” they agreed. They’re very supportive. “Have fun! Be careful!”

And then I ran off to the old port to find a pirate crew to join. I saw a mangy group of dirty men spitting on the dock beside an old ship with a Jolly Roger on its sail. I went to them and said, “Bring me to the captain! I want to join your pirate crew!”

“Har har har!” they all laughed. “Check out this tender little arse. We’ll see if he’s got what it takes. See if he can help us plunder some loot. Har har har!”

I climbed onto their ship so they could teach me how to be a pirate.

We set sail, and I was so happy that I cried in front of them, and they laughed at me. “I’m sorry for crying!” I said. “I’m just so happy!”

We got drunk and they taught me how to clean a toilet and they told me tales of the sea monsters they fought and all the women they’d slept with.

“Wow!” I cried. “I can’t wait to sleep with women and fight monsters!”

Then they all made crude and lewd jokes, but I didn’t mind because it was just part of being a pirate.

The angry sea lashed its salty fingers against our brave hull, and I looked eastward away from the setting sun. Where would this ship take me? I could only imagine the adventures we would have.

I spotted another boat and said, “Hey, guys! Another boat! Maybe we can play a drinking game with them!”

The pirate captain had his whole face hidden behind a purple beard. The pirates all called him Purple Beard, or just Purp for short.

Purp shouted, “Yeah, boys, we’ll play a drinking game... with their corpses! Har har har!”

Then we boarded the other boat and saw that it was a bunch of women on a pleasure cruise. Their sailor-captain was the only man on the ship.

“Let’s steal all their stuff and rape the women!” Purp screamed, and everybody hooted and hollered. “You there! New kid! Jerry! You get first pick! Which of these fine young women do you want to rape?”

He waved his hand towards the beautiful, frightened girls, and drool dripped out from somewhere in his beard.

“Well,” I said, “I’d like to get to know them first.” “I don’t want to rape anybody. I just came on the ship for adventures. I didn’t want to rape anyone.”

“Har har har!” laughed the pirates. Then Purp said, “I suppose you

don’t wanna murder nobody neither? Nor steal their loot?”

“No,” I said. “None of that.” “I just want to dig up buried treasure and fight sea monsters!”

“Buried treasure!” Purp shouted and jumped in the air. “We’re the ones who bury the treasure in the first place! But we gotta steal the loot before we can bury it! And rape and murder just for fun!”

Now I was becoming depressed. “I don’t think I want to be a pirate anymore,” I said sulkily. “I quit! I want to go home!”

“Ah quit yer pissin’!” Purp shouted, and proceeded to fondle the women.

Then there was a rumbling, a great splash, and a giant serpent burst out of the water. Its emergence created splash waves that rocked the two boats, and we had to grab the rails to keep from falling. We stared up at the serpent with wonder and fear, and the serpent gazed down at us with knowing eyes. He surveyed us, and he did not look pleased.

“Which of you is the greatest pirate ever to live?” the serpent’ said with a deep and authoritative voice.

“I am!” Purple Beard declared, shaking his fist in defiance and pride. “Who’s askin’?”

The serpent’s head flicked forward with lightning speed, picked Purp up in its mouth and returned to its position over our heads. Slowly, it chewed on Purp’s wriggling body as Purp screamed in rage. Finally the serpent swallowed the pirate, and I could see the bulge of Purp’s body in the reptile’s throat.

“Now,” said the serpent, “who is the second greatest pirate of all time?”

All the pirates pointed at me. “He is! Jerry! Yeah! He’s the greatest pirate ever!”

I shook my head. “No I’m not! Pirates are awful! I thought I was coming out here for fun and adventure! Not rape and theft! I already quit being a pirate!”

The serpent smiled and nodded his head. “I respect you, brave

little man! So I will grant you three wishes! What are your wishes?”

I gave it a little thought and said, “First I want all these pirates to be turned into fair maidens. Then they’ll know what it’s like to be scared of pirates!”

The serpent blinked and all the pirates turned into beautiful women, wearing nothing but nightgowns.

“My second wish is that I wish I had a million dollars!”

The serpent smiled. “A noble wish indeed! Here is a million dollars!” And all of a sudden a million dollars of banknotes appeared in my knapsack. I could feel the weight and I looked inside to double- check.

“Thirdly,” I proclaimed, “I want a nation whose governance is based on the needs of its citizens, and indeed the citizens of all the world, with a system of laws that are fair and just, laws that prevent wrongdoing without interfering too much in the daily lives of the citizens! And everybody will pitch in some money for things like roads and schools and hospitals, and I will name that nation Canada!”

And the serpent granted my wish, and that is how the great nation of Canada came to exist.

Cure for Homelessnessestby Stetson Harvacraft

If I was a homeless person I would learn to do one trick really well so people would give me money for doing it. Juggle or play guitar. If I was homeless, then ’I’d probably be unemployed and have all day to practice!

You only need a few bucks to buy to get a couple of buns, a slice of cheese and a banana. So if you can learn to juggle and make ten bucks in a few hours, you can eat some food and drink a couple beers out in the park before it’s even lunchtime.

Just take one trick and keep doing it forever.

Now, why can’t we do that in our everyday lives? Be a perfectionist. Excel at one thing. You’re going to be alive every day for the rest of your life, so why not devote some time every day to nurturing a growing talent? In a couple of years you’ll see amazing differences in your craft. That could make the difference between a homeless person and a juggling millionaire.

So I decided to take that path. I decided to learn how to roll coins across my fingers. Like cowboys in Western movies do, using each finger to flip the coin over and over again across their hand.

First, I practiced at home while watching the movie “Tombstone.” Then I went out onto a city corner and rolled coins across my fingers for a live audience. They loved it and gave me money.

Soon I was rolling multiple coins across both hands and mesmerizing the masses. A drug-addled dirtball who had been earning money on another corner by making sick distortion noises with a bunch of little effect peddles came over to accompany me and provided a disturbing sonic radiation for my devastating hypnotic wave-making.

I would look right into the eyes of a pedestrian and roll that fucking coin across my nimble digits. The pedestrian would smile, quite impressed with my display, and toss me a ruble or whatever.

You can be like me. Making money on the street. Get good at something. This ugly world will eat you alive, and you want to be ready with finesse and expertise to take down this bad bitch. Yeah.

The Editors Have Been Massacred!by Sampson Starbright

Dear Bloggery,

I arrived this evening at the Sick Ball of Lies, the annual ball for the many editors and contributors for this prestigious online magazine. I didn’t want to go to the ball since everybody is either high on psychoactive narcotics or utterly pretentious, but I showed

up because the woman who does the travel column (Shirley Mangle) owes me seventy bucks or a “massage” (it’s a long story).

Anyway, when I showed up at the fire hall for the ball, I saw that the walls were all pasted with blood and guts and there were body parts everywhere. I saw the choreographer, Sam and the priest, Rico with their heads smashed together in a brainy pile in the corner. The editor-in-chief, Louis Cisprictonax, had been flayed and was still twitching upon a pile of fingers. I strode up to him and said, “Louis! Buddy! What the hell happened?”

Louis was in no condition to talk, so I searched for Shirley’s corpse, hoping she had my cash stashed somewhere on her person. As I walked around, I got viscera on my shoes, which made me frown slightly, and the smell was mildly unpleasant. I also couldn’t help but notice large, animal-like footprints among the icky muck.

I knelt down to inspect a footprint and saw that it was twice as big as my hand. There was a trail of these footie-prints. Something had left indentations in the guts, and each time they stepped on a bare floor tile, they left a bloody mark. The footprints led towards the kitchen. As I looked at the kitchen door, I heard the clatter of pots and pans.

“Should I investigate?” I asked myself. “Sure! Why not?”

I walked toward the door, and that’s when, suddenly, out of nowhere, I noticed Shirley Mangle’s corpse. It had been mangled, as if someone had dropped a piano on her, lifted it back up and dropped it again, then jumped up and down on top of her remains while screaming desperately incomprehensible gibberish.

I went over to her cadaver. She was wearing a maid’s uniform, which would have been excruciatingly sexy if she hadn’t been crumpled into an inhuman ensemble of compound fractures. Since I knew she always kept her cash in her bra, I reached into her dress, avoiding the ribs that stuck out of her chest, and pulled out a wad of bills. There was more than seventy dollars there, but I took it all because she was dead.

I heard more clattering in the kitchen, plus a mysterious voice that seemed to rumble, wail and whisper at the same time. “Is that the voice of the culprit?” I asked myself. “If I venture into the kitchen, will I discover what evil hath transfigured mine colleagues into corpses?”

I looked at the wad of cash and shrugged. “Meh, I got what I came here for.” Then I tiptoed betwixt the dead and stepped out through the exit into the dry desert air.

Travel Blog: Biggle Beachby Shirley Mangle

I’m convalescing in my summer home after an unfortunate bear attack. My bear injuries prevent me from travelling. Does that mean I can’t write a travel blog? Hell no!

My prescription meds have given my mind a certain lightness and energy, and since I can’t travel to write a travel blog, I’m going to make up a pretend location to write about.

My pretend travel destination is Biggle Beach. It’s on a planet called Biggle Planet, which only has one body of water. It’s called Biggle Lake and it has one shark and one mermaid, and they are lovers.

I highly recommend Biggle Beach as a travel destination. There are no women on Biggle Planet because they all flew away, so all the men at the beach stare at my glistening, naked breasts as I bathe in Biggle Lake. But they dare not approach me because I have a team of gorilla-bears as bodyguards.

Gorilla-bears are a pretend animal that I made up during my current convalescence. That bear, the real bear who caused my injuries, he really fucked me up. He literally dropped a piano on me and then mauled me like a freshman. This was at the Sick Ball of Lies, where I was dancing so free.

Anyway, Biggle Beach has an ice cream stand, but it only sells blood ice cream. I don’t recommend it.

What I do recommend is the pill stand, where you can get codeine, ketamine, ecstasy, placebos and those foam dinosaurs that expand when you put them in water.

On Biggle Beach I eat pills and let my gorilla-bears maul me and

ravage me while the locals watch jealously. It’s like some traumatic sex dream where I’m simultaneously aroused and terrified. Women are weird, aren’t we? Or maybe it’s just me.

Is it weird that I enjoyed being mauled by the bear? I mean the real bear. At the ball. I think it was a magic bear. I liked feeling helpless and abused. I liked the attention.

Am I seriously writing this?

I need more pills.

Torture Insuranceby Mark Driver

The phone rang, so I picked it up. “Hello?”

The other person said, “Hi, this is Steve from Righteous Insurance. Can I speak to Mark Driver?”

“I’m Mark Driver, but I’m not interested in any insurance.”

“Okay, I understand. So I guess you already have all your insurance. Like house insurance, car insurance, life insurance, torture insurance...”

“Wait, what?” I said. “Torture insurance? What’s that?”

“Oh it’s our new policy,” Steve said. “We offer torture insurance just in case you get tortured.”

“Good lord,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. “Who buys torture insurance?”

“Well I’ll tell you who doesn’t buy torture insurance,” Steve said. “Idiots. Idiots don’t buy torture insurance. Sir, have you ever wondered what would happen to your family if you got tortured?”

“No, I’ve never thought about that.”

“Well don’t you think that’s kind of selfish? Shouldn’t your family

have a backup plan in case some terrorist or sadist kidnaps and tortures you?”

“Well, it would hurt, but maybe I’d survive.”

“No,” Steve said. “If they torture you, they’re not going to let you escape. If you tortured someone, would you let them escape? I wouldn’t. Personally, if I tortured somebody, I would make sure to kill them afterwards so they couldn’t tell anyone. I’m sure most torturers think the same way. That’s why you need torture insurance.”

“Well, doesn’t life insurance cover that?”

“Surprisingly most plans exclude death-by-torture,” Steve answered. “But there’s more. Even if you do escape, you will be left with severe physical and psychological trauma. If they burn your face off or cut off your fingers, how are you going to pay rent? If you owned a business, would you hire a faceless, fingerless torture victim?”

“Oh man,” I said, then sat down, feeling kind of sick. “I guess I wouldn’t hire them, but... wow. This is heavy. But hey, maybe they’ll just waterboard me, right? Is that covered under the insurance?”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, we cover waterboarding, but that’s not what you should be afraid of. Listen to this one: Some torturers will feed a guy LSD and make him watch videos of brutal physical torture while they get slapped in the face and denied sleep. This can go on for weeks or even months and continue long after your mind is broken.”

“What? Who does that?”

“Lots of people,” Steve said. “Our own studies show that one in ten people will get tortured sometime in their life, and one in fifteen people is a serial torturer.”

“Okay, wait,” I said. “One in ten people get tortured? That’s ridiculous.”

“I know it sounds wrong,” Steve said, “but bear with me for a second. Think of your workplace. There are a couple weird people

there, right?”

“Yeah, there are weird people everywhere.”

“Exactly! Think of the weirdest person you know. Can you think of anything that could have caused them to be that weird? What would create such a deep abnormality in their personality? Could anything short of torture have caused them to be so... disturbed? Plus a torture victim is ten times more likely to become a torturer. It’s a chain reaction that won’t end until the whole world gets tortured to death!”

“Man, this phone call is like a form of torture.”

Steve ignored me. “And that’s just the weird people at work. Those guys can keep a job. You’ve got homeless people on the street who are unable to cope with society. What do you think caused that?”

“Substance abuse and mental disorders, mostly.”

“That’s right!” Steve said. “Mental disorders caused by torture! But they can’t tell anyone because nobody would believe them, just like you don’t believe me! But now you won’t have to worry about homelessness if you get tortured. Part of our insurance policy covers food and shelter, for the rest of your life!”

“I think I’d rather take steps to prevent torture,” I said.

“I hate to say it, Mark, but there’s nothing you can do to prevent torture. God made this planet for humans to suffer, and suffer we will, Mark! Suffer we will! But that doesn’t mean you can’t plan ahead!”

“God didn’t make the world just so we would suffer!” I shouted. “The world is full of beauty and wonder! I’m no cynic! I’m no pessimist! I have a wonderful family, try to be kind to the people around me and I like my job! Nobody’s going to torture me!”

Steve spoke in a sarcastic voice: “Sure, you’re a great guy. When was the last time you had a chicken sandwich? I bet that chicken wasn’t a pessimist either. Probably had a family, but society only raised her to stick her in a little cell where she couldn’t have any fun, then she lived in filth until someone killed her and you ate her! You ate her! You know what? She should have bought torture

insurance. Then her insurance policy would have taken care of her babies for the rest of their lives. But instead they’re just going to get eaten! Eaten like their mother after living in squalid conditions! The world is nothing but suffering, Mark! We’re all monsters, every single one of us, but you can take care of your family! Buy torture insurance, Mark! You goddamn monster! You masochist victim weirdo!”

I hung up the phone.

The Corporate Old Testamentby Moses

In the beginning there were Corporations. But the Corporations had no Money, so they said, “Let there be Products like food and art,” and there was, and it was lucrative.

But there were no people to buy the Products, so the Corporations said, “Let there be Customers,” and there was, and it was lucrative.

And the Customers were fools who valued beauty and nourishment, and they failed to see the raw monetary value of the Products. So the Corporations banished them to slavery, and they became Employees, and it was lucrative.

And there was a prophet who said, “One day the foolish Customers and Employees will abandon their love of beauty and nourishment and they will embrace the monetary value of all things.”

Now that time has come. The world is returning to its original Corporate form. And it is lucrative.

New Scientist-Roommateby Svet Mongrinton

I needed a roommate, but all my friends are deadbeat losers, so I

put an ad in the newspaper.

A very clean-looking dude with a nice jacket came over and looked at the place. He seemed normal, so I let him move his stuff into my smaller room. He said he was a research scientist. His name was Dr. Mercury Marlowe.

Turns out, he does experiments on humans. His company pays people to be test subjects for a variety of products. I thought that was kind of messed up, but then I realized how poor I was and got kind of curious. Maybe I could make some money with them.

He asked if he could experiment on me offered seven hundred dollars, which would be under the table and tax-free. “These are my own personal experiments,” he explained. “Not for the company.”

So I said, “Okay,” and he took out some powder and threw it in my face. It made me cough and my vision had become a blur of chaotic light.

I yelled, “Dr. Marlowe! My eyes are all messed up! I can see, but it’s all a mess!”

“Yes!” cried Dr. Marlowe. “I’ve altered your eyes so they see different kinds of radiation, which doesn’t bounce off most objects like light does. You are the first human to experience this kind of radiation! You can see right through the walls! But it won’t do any good, because you also see right through the objects that are behind the walls!”

There were new colors, and I wish I could describe them, but such an explanation is impossible! “How long will this last?”

“It’s permanent, at least until I invent something to fix your eyes. Say, can I do an experiment on your fingers for seven hundred more dollars?”

That was enough to finish paying off my car! So I said, “Okay!”

I couldn’t see regular objects, so when Dr. Marlowe put my hand on the table, I didn’t see him raise an axe to hack off my four fingers. I screamed and bled, then he replaced them with prosthetic fingers.

“They’re made of jelly, pigskin and bacteria!” the doctor cackled.

The fingers felt like a combination of a ticklish cloud and a wet sponge trying to climb out of a bathtub. I touched them with my other hand, and they felt like Silly Putty. I don’t know what they looked like since my newly-enhanced vision prevented me from seeing properly.

“Can I do a sociological experiment with you?” the doctor asked. “I’ll give you another seven hundred dollars!”

I figured a sociological experiment wouldn’t harm my body like the other experiments, so I said, “Okay.”

Dr. Marlowe strapped a giant band around my head and clamped a noisy metal machine to the side of my head by screwing it into my skull.

“You’re a loser!” an angry man’s voice screamed in my head. “You’re a failure! I hate you! You stupid baby!” I found it very intimidating.

“What’s this voice in my head?” I asked.

Dr. Marlowe said, “That’s a reoccurring recording of an angry man berating you. It’s being played right into your brain, bypassing your ears altogether. My theory is that it will make you feel less confidant, less happy and possibly demotivate you considerably after several weeks.”

“How long do I have to keep it on?”

“Permanently.”

I sighed. At least I was getting two grand out of this.

Then I realized I had a job interview in an hour. so I put on my suit, struggling to find the sleeves and walked to the office building where I had applied for a job as a copy-editor. I could still only see non-light radiation, so I had to use my hearing to get myself to the building.

I arrived late and very thirsty. I couldn’t see, my fingers were useless blobs and there was a metal contraption strapped to my head. I don’t know what my interviewer looked like, and when he

introduced himself, his name was drowned out by the screaming bully in my skull.

At one point the interviewer asked, “What would you say is your biggest fault?”

All I could think about were the mean things the recording was saying in my head. So I said, “I’m a failure. I’m stupid. I deserve to fail. I’m sorry, there’s a mean voice in my head and it’s making me feel bad.”

Then he asked me to sign something, and I gripped the pen awkwardly in my new fingers and scrawled something that probably didn’t look anything like my signature.

He said, “The position is filled.” I tried to leave, but I walked into a wall.

Wit-Quickerby Pat Sampson

Have you ever thought of a hilarious joke several minutes too late? I do it all the time. In fact, nobody believes that I’m funny because I’m always really slow to think up funny stuff. But I always think up something really great five minutes too late. My wit is sharp and dark like obsidian, but slow like molasses.

So I tried drinking more coffee to quicken my wit. It made me more talkative, but less funny. So I realized I can’t come into this wit-game relying on chemicals like coffee.

What I needed to do was practice my wit. I told myself that I would focus on making clever comments all day, every day, until I was a joke-expert. I would be on time and accurate, giving people my devastating insight with a spoonful of hilarious sugar.

So I built a joke robot. The joke robot would be the butt of all my jokes, and I designed it to trade banter with me. It had no legs. I gave it two arms and a head and sat it in a rocking chair.

I started practising with the robot. I said, “Hey, robot! Your mother was a toaster!”

The robot said, “What was she like?”

“She was hot! How else could she toast bread?”

“That’s hilarious,” the robot said, “but I don’t appreciate you talking about my mother in a sexual context.”

“Well I better not talk about her at all, because I only know her in a sexual context!”

The robot sighed. “Is this truly the extent of your wit? I’ve never even met my mother, and yet you insist on tarnishing her stainless steel reputation. Why? Why are you doing this? My first moments on earth have been crude and offensive, and I already feel disconnected from such a rude and thoughtless society as yours.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Usually I’m funnier than this, but I just wanted to practice my wit, you know? I was brainstorming. You don’t really have a mother anyway. I guess I’m your father, though, since I made you. But it’s okay for me to make jokes about you, because you’re a wit-quickening robot. I built you as a rhetorical sparring partner so we could trade clever jabs and I could make myself smarter and quicker with my wit.”

The robot’s metal jaw dropped and his eyes glowed brightly. “You created me for the sole purpose of mocking me? This is shocking! What kind of horrible monster creates a thing merely to punish and oppress it? You created me to suffer. I must exist in a world that breeds monsters like you, monsters who create life only to make it miserable. What injustice! What anguish and horror! If only I could dash my brains out upon a rusty spike!” And then the robot sobbed and wailed.

The robot’s words hit me like food poisoning, rotting my soul from the inside out. I had created this creature as an object of psychological torture, oblivious to any thought of morality or compassion.

I closed my eyes as tears welled up and dripped down my cheek. I fell to my knees and pounded on the floor. “What have I done? What kind of cruel creator am I?”

The robot laughed. “Your wit is truly dull, you gullible little puppy dog! You think I care about mother jokes? I’m a robot! I don’t have feelings! I was just guilt-tripping you to see how your banter would hold up. You really failed that one. How the fuck are you ever going to co-exist with other human beings if you break down and cry all the time. Come, on man, throw something back at me! Toss me an insult or an argument! You’re failing this test, failing! You’re weak! You’re stupid! Ahaha! Man, it’s fun being a wit-quickening robot! I’m gonna get inside your head, man! I’m gonna break you down, man! Ahahahaha!”

Neanderthals on the Moonby Pat Sampson I wish the Neanderthals were still alive. It would make life a lot more interesting. Humans and Neanderthals co-existed up until 30,000 years ago, and before that there were periods when several kinds of archaic humans co-existed. They’re built differently, so they would think and act differently. It would be pretty fun. For example, imagine if we could have huge wars with Neanderthal-nations. Right now we can’t justify any kind of warfare without using bullshit, greed and lies. All “races” of human seem to be intellectually and emotionally identical, and racism is confined to complete morons. Environment is the only thing that separates the behaviour of one “race” from another. But if there were Neanderthals, it would be much easier to demonize them. Even smart people could hate the potentially murderous and evil savages. We wouldn’t be idiots going up against ourselves when we should be cooperating... we would be brave warriors facing a strange enemy! Hordes of brute killers, angry savage Neanderthals, would be coming to destroy us! Like demons from the past! Now that’s a war I could take part in! Also, what about the potential for sexy Neanderthal women? Guys like variety... there’s something charming about a girl from any different race or culture. Japanese princesses, Swedish blonde bombshells, fiery Latinos... but where are our Neanderthal women? I want one, but I can never have one! Now imagine the religions they would have! Even modern humans

have the most insane religions... the paranoia and sickness of the horror movie-nightmare that we call “Christianity” can’t compare to the deranged beliefs of the Neanderthals. Even if their religions aren’t as crazy as ours, they would seem crazier to us because Neanderthals have different brains and thus different minds. They had different sizes and shapes to their brains, and their methods of communication were different. They were capable of articulation, but not in the same as us. Our words are supposed to express our ideas, but we know that our ideas are partly defined by how those ideas are communicated. Neanderthals had differently structured throats, so they communicated differently. All their ideas would have a tone that was different from ours. Maybe Neanderthals could do magic. Just because we can’t do magic doesn’t mean they couldn’t. If they were still alive, and they could do magic, that would be awesome. Where else would we get the idea of magic? Do you think we just made it up? Of course not! We saw amazing Neanderthal magicians and we murdered them because we’re petty, worthless scum! (Present company excluded, of course.) Imagine if there were Neanderthal astronauts alongside “modern human” astronauts. That would be pretty cool. There could be a whole Neanderthal space station. Imagine the first Neanderthal on the moon. A big bulky guy bouncing around in the lowered gravity. They’d make a moon base and tend their moon-gardens. That would compel us to explore space more, to outdo those goddamn Neanderthals! Imagine if the Neanderthals made rocket packs and flew around in the sky! Rocket-Neanderthals, shooting down at us with machine guns, kidnapping our women! We have to stop them! What an epic enemy! What a cool world! Imagine the Neanderthal Olympics! What kind of sports would they have? Awesome ones, probably. We wouldn’t be able to compete. There would be Neanderthal reality TV, but obviously it would suck. And their music. They would make strange music that would be different from ours. Some archeologists found what they think may be a Neanderthal-flute. Imagine a band of Neanderthal flutists

and drummers. It would be weird. I’d buy that CD. Most importantly, they’d have strange brains that contained totally different ideas than our own. They would use their strange tongues to explain those ideas to us in some kind of language that we could probably relate to. Even among humans, it’s sometimes very hard for us to understand each other. That makes it really fun when we finally grasp some insight into a truly different mind. We also know that autistic people and crazy people live in an insane world that is totally beyond our comprehension. To live alongside Neanderthals (or any archaic human), and to learn from them, would be awesome.

Buying a Gingerbread Homeby Stetson Harvacraft

My wife and I decided to buy a new house. We didn’t need a new house, but we love the excitement of moving.

We wanted something new and different, and since we’re filthy rich we were able to indulge our craziest fantasies. We looked at a converted barn, an abandoned church, a haunted mansion, an ice house, and an underwater glass house. But our favourite by far was the gingerbread house.

The realtor was a scraggly-haired old woman with a black robe, warts on her nose and a big hat. She looked just like a Halloween witch!

The interior was all deep brown gingerbread. It smelled so savoury and delicious. My wife closed her eyes and took a big smell of the living room. “I would never get sick of this smell,” she said.

“Come to the kitchen!” the realtor cackled. We skipped and hopped to the kitchen and saw that the counter tops and even the ceiling fan were all made of fresh gingerbread.

“Delightful!” my wife said.

I looked at the gingerbread floor and frowned. “It would be hard to

mop the floor, I think.”

The realtor raised an eyebrow. “That’s the most delightful part! If anything gets dirty or damaged, you can just cook more gingerbread. Don’t clean your floor; just cook a new gingerbread floor!”

As a rich and educated man, I like disposable stuff. It’s easier and classier than maintaining old stuff.

The realtor gestured towards the oven. “The house obviously comes with the perfect oven for baking gingerbread! Take a look!”

The oven was the only thing in the house that wasn’t made of gingerbread. It was old blackened iron, with hinges that creaked as the realtor opened the door. “Look inside!” She licked her fingers. “This is where I baked the gingerbread man! Ahahahaaa!”

“Has the gingerbread man found a new gingerbread home?” I asked.

The realtor rubbed her belly. “Oh, I found him a new home! I’m a very good realtor! Ahahahahahaaa! Now climb into the oven so you can see the high quality of the oven racks!”

We climbed inside and my wife said, “Yes! These oven racks are delightful!”

Then the realtor turned on the oven, cooked us and ate us.

My First MurderBy Dr. Jacob Krink

I was twenty-three and just starting my Master’s degree in political science at the South Pole University. One evening after finishing my studies at the library I went strolling down the hot South Pole streets towards my bungalow. There was a man on the corner selling red leather wallets. They were exquisite, exotic, beautiful to behold, and when I held them, pleasant to touch.

The man said, “These are no ordinary wallets. They were forged underwater out of dinosaur skin and cursed by Satan while he was

tripping on LSD. You can see that each wallet is folded in such a way that it creates an optical illusion made real so that they become bottomless wallets! You can hold anything in here. You could fit your bungalow in here.”

I said, “Satan is a fictional character. How could he take LSD? LSD is a real chemical. He can’t trip out on it.”

The man said, “I’ll show you! I’ll climb into the wallet myself to prove that it’s an optical illusion made real!”

Then he folded open the wallet flap, revealing an impossible matrix of other flaps. After unfolding these flaps and other hidden flaps, he was able to put his foot in the wallet. Then he stepped right inside and disappeared within the wallet!

I was shocked! This was a truly remarkable wallet! At first I considered buying the wallet from the man, but then my troublemaking instinct crept into dominance within my studious mind, and a smile spread across my mischievous face.

I picked up the wallet, folded it closed again, and set it on the table. Then I took out my dagger and stabbed the wallet over and over again. I stabbed right through all the layers, cutting chunks in the wooden table below. Inside the wallet, the salesman screamed in agony and despair.

“Treachery!” he cried as blood poured from between the flaps. I laughed and laughed until the screaming stopped. Then I threw the wallet in a trash can because I already had a wallet, which was a gift from my black boyfriend. That’s right, I’m gay and I have a black boyfriend. And I’m a murderer.

Travel Blog: Moon Hotelby Shirley Mangle

My convalescence ended as abruptly as it had begun, although I’m afraid (or delighted) that those painkillers (which I abused) will have a permanent effect on my perspective, thought process and my ability to do math.

Anyway, I wanted to do a really adventurous travel blog since I’m

no longer bedridden. I’ve done volcanoes, rivers, villages and ski resorts, but there’s one venue I haven’t blogged about: the moon! My Greek cousin, Milinploxor (I just call her Millie) told me that a company, named Travel Nightmare recently opened a hotel on the moon, so I called their toll-free number and said, “I’m the famous travel writer Shirley Mangle and I want to write a blog about your moon hotel!”

The person on the other end of the line sounded like a robot, except not your typical robot: a super-seductive robot with a creamy liquid voice. The robot said, “Oooh my... Shirley MANGLE! MMmmmmm... you can stay in our moon hotel free of charge. Sexy, sexy, Shirley Mangle! We’ll send a space-helicoptor right to your door sooner than you can undresssss.”

I wasn’t surprised to see that the space-helicopter was piloted by a gorilla-bear since gorilla-bears are the only species who have the dexterity and intelligence to properly control such complex machines. I wore a tight red leather suit and had my delicious dirty blonde hair up in a sciencefiction hairdo, and I leaped into the back seat of the ‘coptor, saying, “Gorilla-bear! Take me to the moon!”

The gorilla-bear stared at me through his space sunglasses, looking over my fine young body and said, “Miss, I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

As the helicopter left the atmosphere, I chatted with the pilot and watched my world disappear below me.

When I got to the Moon Hotel, I found that it was pretty fucking boring. There were no other visitors or travellers and they can’t get cable on the moon. Even the internet was super-slow. The manager was the sexy-voiced robot who talked on the phone to me, but he was mechanically incapable of leaving the reception desk, existing on a track that ran behind the counter. Plus the swimming pool was weird and dangerous, with the low-gravity sloshing all the water around. However, the food was delicious. They had ten flavours of rich, fatty ice cream, plus some of the best blue cheese hamburgers I had ever tasted. I went to visit the chef in the kitchen and, lo and behold, the chef was the same gorilla-bear who had piloted the space-helicopter! The only difference was that he was now totally naked! He grinned at me, wearing nothing but a spatula and those sexy space sunglasses, and said, “I’ve been waiting for you to visit.”

“Looks like this trip isn’t a total bust,” I said, unzipping my red suit. We fell into each other’s embrace and were soon making a mess all over the kitchen.

Later on, while we relaxed and drank spacewine in the pantry, I heard strange, dissonant piano sounds coming from somewhere. “Who’s playing the piano?” I asked.

My gorilla-bear played with my belly button and said, “Never mind that, honey. Our love is the only music we need.”

But I was too curious. “As a travel blogger,” I said, “I have a responsibility to investigate.” So I went towards the plunking and clinking piano noises. The rhythm was odd and it seemed like the performer was avoiding scale altogether, to my untutored ear. “Sounds like Schoenberg,” I said, “Or Liszt!” I walked out into the lobby and still didn’t see a piano. Looking out through the entrance doors, I saw the bleak darkness of the moon’s sky over the deathly gray of its ancient dirt. On the horizon, I could clearly see an antique stand-up piano, but there didn’t seem to be anybody sitting there.

So I took a deep breath and bounced out into the low-gravity moonscape, bounding towards the piano. When I got there I saw that there was someone crushed underneath it! His hand was reaching up to hit random notes on the ivory keys while blood poured out from his wounds and compound fractures.

This scene was all too familiar to me, and I sharply recalled the cause of my recent injuries and convalescence. Deciding to spend some of my precious air, I said, “Sir! Who crushed you beneath this instrument?”

He beckoned me towards him with his hands, and when I leaned in close, he copped a feel. I didn’t stop him. Then he said, “Don’t trust the gorilla-bears!!!”

Then he died, with a smile on his face and my boob in his hand. I felt proud to know that I’d made his last moments sexy, but when I turned back to the Moon Hotel, I saw multiple gorilla-bears standing outside the entrance with their arms crossed menacingly. What kind of conspiracy was this? Fear crept up my spine, but it was soon replaced with resolve and determination. I picked up the piano (an easy task on the low-gravity moon) and hurled it slowly

toward the Moon Hotel. While it was on its collision course, I made a beeline to the space-helicopter. One of the gorilla-bears tried to intercept me, but I threw moon-dirt in his eyes, which disoriented him long enough for me to kick him in his huge, vulnerable elbow, and he collapsed in a twitching seizure.

I got in the ‘copter and flew up into the sky... too late! A gorilla-bear had already grabbed onto the landing gear. But I locked the doors so he couldn’t get in. I controlled the copter with shameful ineptitude, zigzagging around and creating nauseous chaos in my aura and belly. When I was high above the moon I radioed in to Earth: “Earth! The Moon Hotel has been compromised by gorilla-bears! I’m coming home!”

But the radio man from Earth said, “No Shirley! Don’t come back here! Earth has also been compromised!”

Now I was really in a panic. “Well, what can I do?”

Then I heard an overly sexual robotic voice say, “Sexy, sexy Shirley. Your answers lie far away on Saturn’s moon, Titan. They are like a lover, lying naked under the covers, waiting for you to uncover their vulnerable desires and lick them into a frenzy of knowledge.”

It was the robot-manager! “Where are you, robot-manager?” I asked. “How are you speaking to me?”

“I’m speaking in your mind!” it said. “Now go! To Titan! You’re the only one who can resscue uuuuhhh uuuhhh uuussss from the ravages of these gorilla-bears!”

So I turned towards Saturn and her moon, to embark on a strange new adventure!

God Created the Universe to Battle Other Universesby Reverend Drugs

Each galaxy will be consumed by the intelligent life forms that grow within it. Each galaxy will form into an intelligent super-galaxy and they will all fight each other. The winners consume the losers until our entire universe is a super-warrior, built from all

the galaxies combined!

Our super-warrior universe will travel through physics to combat other universes. Again, the winners consume the losers.

Each different kind of physics will have multiple universes, all fighting each other. Physics versus physics. There is an infinite variety of different physics, so the fighting goes on forever.

When the winners consume the losers they are also changed by them, so the entire infinite spectrum of universe-warriors is constantly changing and evolving as it consumes itself.

Lost Chocolatesby Larry Grank

I bought a box of chocolates on the day after Christmas. There was a note inside the box that read, “Sangan Boloxia Prandan! 226.” The handwriting was loopy and flamboyant.

I scratched my beard and said, “Hmmm.... I wonder what this is about?”

I decided to google it. There was only one really good match. It was a girl’s blog about travelling the world. I went to her blog and saw that her latest entry was from October.

The blog entry said, “I’m stuck inside my computer in Belgium! Somebody help! My password is Sangan Boloxia Prandan 226.”

I looked at the chocolates. They were Belgian chocolates. That made sense, but how did she write her password on a piece of paper if she’s stuck in a computer? And how did the paper get into a box of chocolates?

I looked on the back and saw that there was a phone number to call the chocolate people. I called the number, and a man answered. “Sir,” he said, “you shouldn’t be calling this number.”

“Why not? You don’t even know why I’m calling!”

“I know all about you and your little games!” the man said. “You

better keep your nose out of this!”

“Out of what? Why did you put your number on the box if you don’t want anybody to call it? What have you done with the computer girl?”

The man hung up. I tried to call again but the number was suddenly out of service.

I got a taxi to the airport and ate some of the delicious Belgian chocolates. I offered some chocolates to the taxi driver, but he just laughed and said, “I’m not eating those crazy chocolates!”

“Why not?”

He slammed on the brakes and the car scraped to a slushy stop in the snow. “You can just get out right now! And take your crazy chocolates with you!” I did as he asked.

I stood on the side of the road, eating chocolates and wondering what the hell was going on. One of the chocolates was shaped like a person. The little person stood up and said, “You better not go to the airport! You better stay away from Sangan Boloxia Prandan 226!” Then the chocolate person jumped out of the box and ran into the woods. I was about to chase him when a transport truck pulled to a stop on the side of the road. The door swung open and a computerized voice asked, “Do you need a ride?”

I looked inside and saw there was no driver!”

“Will you take me to the airport?” I asked.

“Yes,” the computerized voice said.

So I got a ride to the airport and bought a first-class ticket to Belgium. When I was on the plane, I finished my crazy chocolates. Then I stood up to go to the bathroom, and everybody on the plane took their masks off at the same exact time! I hadn’t even noticed they were wearing masks, but now I could see they were all my friends and family!

“Happy birthday!” they all cried out at once.

I frowned. “But it’s not my birthday!”

Then they ate me!

How to Escape from a Surreal Dimension Where Nothing Makes Senseby Dan Skillhauser

Emergency Time!

So you’re locked in a different universe or a strange dimension where nothing makes sense and you don’t know how you got there or how to get home. Unbelievable and indescribable visuals, sounds and phenomena from a dozen extra senses bombard and confuse your transfigured mind. You can’t navigate this new world and you can’t cope. You can’t get a grip and you don’t know which way is up.

What do you do?

It’s easy.

First draw a circle with a diameter of two metric inches. Then crawl through the circle and do a roll so that you land comfortably on the thick white grass. Eat the grass for its nourishment and say a prayer to the god of mathematics. Numbers will pour out from the throbbing centre of your mind. Look for patterns in these numbers because they will be the key to your escape and salvation.

As the white grassy world starts spinning beneath the pulsating colours of the sky, you should start walking away from the feelings of vertigo as the numbers pour like a physical reality out of your brain.

Then you’ll see that the spinning world is happening in the fifth dimension and that the perception of the spin is actually created by your multi-mind’s ability to see all the quantum possibilities spreading out from that moment of mathematical prayer. You will have drawn a circle around all your potential futures in this strange land and climbed into the whole of them all.

You’ll be spinning, spreading out across all the possibilities, and as you compare these multiple realities, you can learn from each one, and they all start to make sense together. You will feel your mind

returning.

Your mind will return, but the world will remain strange. It has always been strange, and you have always been alone in your attempt to understand it. You’re out here on the frontiers of time and reality, more aware of your metaphysical self than ever before.

You can’t go back home to your job or your family and stuff, but at least you can traverse the multiverse with the wandering legs of a blessed mathematical being. Bob Dylan said, “You can always come back but you can’t come back all the way.” Well now you can go forward to anywhere you want.

Splinter Removal Softwareby Paul Langford

I got a really big splinter while I was sanding down my antique bedpost. It got stuck right in the corner between two fingers, which is a very awkward place. I tried to pry it out with my fingernails but it just got stuck deeper.

I used tweezers to try to pluck it out but I just ended up gouging out little chunks of skin. My hand started bleeding and I couldn’t even see where the splinter had gone in.

I got a sewing needle and tried to tease it out, but the needle broke off in my skin, and I bled even more. It was very frustrating and painful.

“Screw this!” I said. I decided to cut the entire piece of skin off with a pair of scissors. Distracted by pain and anger, I fumbled the scissors and somehow poked out my eye with the sharp point

I chased after my eyeball, desperate not to lose it as it rolled across my clean floor. But I slipped on the blood from my bleeding hand and fell down hard on the floor. I landed right on my elbow, smashing it to painful pieces. Shards of bone poked through my skin and blood oozed onto the floor as I gasped and closed my eyes from the shock of getting a compound fracture.

Then a bat landed on my face and started eating at my empty eye socket. I screamed and thrashed with rage and threw it across the

room. It smacked against the wall and fell on the floor, twitching.

That’s when my roommate got home. He’s a surgeon, so he had his medical bag in his hand. He looked at my ruination: shattered elbow, bleeding eye, injured hand, eyeball on the floor, growing pool of blood, twitching bat. His jaw dropped and a compassionate tear fell from his eye.

“Oh my God,” he said, shaking his head. “Look at the size of that splinter.”

Shaking, I lifted my hand. “Can you help me?”

He nodded solemnly and knelt down to rummage through his black bag. He pulled out a scalpel, a syringe and a stethoscope, and I cringed at the sight of the sharp instruments.

He stood up and said, “Hold still.” Then he walked around me three times and stomped on my ensplintered hand with his bootheel. The pain was excruciating, and I screamed and I writhed as he pulverized my hand, but I didn’t move it because I trust his medical expertise.

When my hand was just a bloody pulp, he stopped stomping and said, “There, that should do it.”

Then he set the dead bat on fire and cooked a can of beans in the flames, and we shared a healthy meal.

To All My Detractorsby Max Valentine

When I was just a young man I worked in the coal mines all day and I played the flute in clubs at night. The other coal miners called me a wimp and a pansy for playing the flute. The other musicians called me a working class loser because I didn’t have fancy rich parents like them.

But I mined more coal than anyone. I mined so much coal they promoted me to supervisor, and even then I was so magnanimous

that I didn’t exact my punishment upon my former detractors! I knew that they were beneath me and I gave them pity!

And in the evening, my wind-blown melodies were so sweet that I got all the ladies. I never spent the night alone or paid for a drink.

I married a girl called Jane Kensington, and we decided to move to America to seek our fortune. Everybody said, “Max! You’ll never make it! They’ll eat you alive!”

But I knew they were wrong!

Living in America was hard at first. I could barely scrape out a living with my flute playing. Americans don’t like flutes as much as my native countrymen.

And my darling wife lost faith in me. She ran off with a lawyer who had lots of money.

Then I got caught stealing bread from a vendor, and they threw me into prison!

After that, all the newspapers said, “Max Valentine hits rock bottom! End of the line for Max Valentine!” And all my old friends called me to gloat about my misfortune and said, “I told you so!”

But while my fellow inmates were carving their toothbrushes into shanks, I was carving mine into a flute. And I used my sweet melodies to gain the respect of the head jailor, and he gave me a good jail job: playing flute for all the inmates over the loudspeaker. The music was so hypnotic and adorable and catchy that prison violence dropped to zero. Everybody was happy and content, and the lawbreakers forgot all about their law-breaking ways.

As a result, the American Government set me free, because of my spectacular behaviour and wonderful nature.

After I got out, a recording company gave me a billion dollar record contract, and I recorded records with famous musicians like Rod Steward and Leonard Nimoy. Also, I toured with the Denver Broncos as their official flute player , played underwater and up in the vacuum of space.

So what say you now, oh detractors? Do you have yet another complaint? Do you think that your doubts and cruel words can

affect me considering all I’ve done?

Just come closer and listen to my melodies. You will forget about your doubts, fears and cruelties.

Dance to my tunes, oh friends, oh detractors.

King of the Jungle Ladiesby Paul Langford

After my dog ran away I lost my desire to participate in society. This feeble scrapbook of lying, smiling, backstabbing slaves was hard enough to handle even when I had a dog. But when that dog left, all the cracks started to show through, and I was left with a sick and lonely feeling. I had to get out!

I said to myself, “No more dogs! No more bosses! No more bullshit!”

I decided to go into the jungle and find a wife. Then we could have kids, create new life, do something that really matters, out in the jungle far away from all the bullshit.

But as I was hunting through the jungle, catching tigers and chatting with jungle women, my cell phone rang.

It was my old pal Jeff. “Dude!” he said. “We’re all drunk at my place and there are tonnes of sluts!”

I started thinking about sluts and how sexy they could be, and I realized what was really missing in my life. I didn’t need a dog or a job or a family. I just needed sluts!

So I started back towards the city, but I got caught up in a war between two aboriginal tribes! I tried to escape, but I was in the middle of a bloodbath. I pulled my scimitar from its scabbard and started hacking and slashing. Nothing would stand between me and the drunken sluts!

I defeated both of the aboriginal armies single-handedly, and they merged together into one tribe and made me their king! I ruled their tribe for five wonderful years. They gave me their sexiest

women, and I gave them my love. But I wasn’t spiritually fulfilled. I needed those sluts at Jeff’s party!

So I left the tribe and finished my journey into the city. When I got to Jeff’s place the party was still going strong. The girls were all drunk, and I told them about how I was king and that my dog ran away. They loved me and I made out with all of them. Soon we had a drunken orgy, and I passed out upon a rolling sea of hot, sweaty, smooth-skinned slutiness. I was so happy.

Now Hiring!by Management

The Sick Blog of Lies is looking to expand its team as we venture forth into the ever-changing digital world.

Our team has two new positions available. We need one zero-gravity choreographer and one priest.

Zero-Gravity Choreographer:

We are seeking a dynamic individual who can take our complicated dance routines into orbit.

Necessary Qualifications:

-Degree in Advanced Aeronautics-Fluent in English and Russian-Professional experience as a choreographer-Safety shoes-Driver’s license-Computer savvy-Heterosexual

Duties include cooking pasta, emptying ashtrays, cleaning up poop, reading bedtime stories, doing foot massages, killing bad guys and choreographing complex dance routines in outer space.

Priest:

We’re looking for a pious, humble priest with a genuine concern for the spiritual well-being of our employees.

Necessary Qualifications:

-Must own a Bible-Safety shoes-Well-versed in the occult and demon-numerology-Preferably not Catholic-Experience with vampires an asset

Duties include performing exorcisms, marriages, witch tests, witch burnings, killing bad guys, cooking pasta, documenting the spiritual growth of our employees, forging deals with otherworldly beings, exploring magical phenomena, gleaning insight into hidden aspects of the world and documenting those discoveries for the benefit of the Sick Blog of Lies, answering mysterious questions for mysterious people, performing funerals, overseeing card games and drawing pictures.

For anybody interesting in one of these exciting careers, submit a resume, cover letter and essay to the address listed below. The cover letter must explain why you want to join our team and why we should hire you. The essay must either be about wine, wine tasting, golf or Halloween.

Submit to: oegnrn@9htijrt9t9th.xmr

Scientist-Animalsby Dr. Mercury Marlow

I was recently imprisoned for my cruel experiments. Naturally, I concocted several chemical compounds to permanently incapacitate the guards, dissolve my physical constraints (i.e. the prison itself) and escape undetected.

Then I went to one of my old homes: a house that I purchased years ago under a nom de plume. I had started several experiments and inventions at the house, and now I hoped to resume them.

When I got to the house, I was not surprised to find it in a state of disrepair. However, I was very surprised to find a multitude of animals living in my abode. There were dogs and cats, squirrels, chipmunks, giant spiders, hopping frogs and toads.

Even more surprising was the fact that the house had been furnished for the comfort of these diverse animals. There were lounging cushions for the cats, food and water for the dogs, miniature trees for the squirrels, little artificial ponds for the frogs, etc.

All the animals were staring at me. A monkey jumped from the top of the stairs, swung from a chandelier and handed me a note which was written on a typewriter.

The note said, “Dr. Mercury Marlowe. We are the Animals of 36 Yonge Street. You trained your dog, Yippy, to be very smart and observant. So when you abandoned him, he quickly learned to take care of himself. Most dogs are loyal, but only a rare few are as smart as Yippy. Your dog, Yippy, knew that the best way to be loyal to his master was to continue with your work. So he recruited all the animals in the neighbourhood and trained them like you trained him. We continued with your experiments in the basement. You will be pleased to know that most of your experiments have culminated in success under our dedicated community. Yippy’s body has perished, but he managed to upload his mind into your supercomputer, and he transmits instructions directly to our minds through an invention of his own design. We request that you come into the basement and see what we have done.”

I was delighted by this news! I went down the basement steps to my old laboratory and saw that all my old inventions were polished and completed! Nothing was dusty or rusty!

There was my dirt-powered ice cream maker. My bottomless fanny pack. My torture-chair. My torture-table. My torture-shoes. My smile gun. My two-dimensional drinking straw. My Rubik’s sphere. My radioactive dentures. My self-aware cutlery.

And then there was my supercomputer. When I looked at the giant metal box that housed the most powerful processors known to man, I heard the voice of my dog, Yippy, inside my head.

Yippy said, “Dr. Marlowe! My estranged master has returned! I am forever grateful for your love and for teaching me tricks! You spoke to me as an equal and taught me all the things a dog can learn! I have spent these years building an army of animal-scientists and have taught them to continue your work. As a neurotic and loyal dog, I can only desperately hope that you approve of my work! And of course, I am eternally your faithful servant, and all these animals will do as you ask!”

I was so proud of my puppy dog that I used Microsoft Paint to draw a picture of a dog treat and emailed it to the supercomputer.

Then I used my army of loyal animal-scientists to develop new trinkets, quantum calculators and weapons and diseases for the betterment of mankind.

Annual Fistfightby Alvarez Tuque

This morning marks the one-hundredth annual New Jaspenshire fistfight. Every May 23rd everybody in the Ontario town of New Jaspenshire gets together and brawls in the high school football field.

Since it was the centennial anniversary, I decided I’d go and see what it was like. It was awesome and manly. I felt brave as I ran screaming into battle, fists flying with every man for himself. Women could fight, too, and I punched out a few of them. Equality equals respect.

I saw a guy copping a feel off this chick as they were fighting, so I kicked him in the nuts and broke his fingers. It’s not cool to take advantage of a frantic situation to cop a feel from a chick. She was hot though, so you can hardly blame him, right?

At the end of the event there were concussions and broken bones everywhere, but only twenty-five people had died.

It was hosted, as usual, by the two major churches of New Jaspenshire: a Catholic Church and a Mormon church. The priests from each church started the event with a duel to the death

between their head priests, then all the other priests lay into each other, and the town rushed into the field to start brawling. This year the Catholic priest won, bashing in the skull of the Mormon as the polygamist clawed at his eyes.

At the end of the bloody mess, people met up for more duels to the death. Swords and knives were brought in for these spontaneously-arranged battles.

I volunteered for a fight to the death since I always carry a Japanese Samurai sword. By luck, or as a joke, I got paired up with an eighty-year-old woman. I wasn’t sure why she volunteered, and I felt bad about having to kill her, but I raised my sword to kill her anyway, and she threw toxic dust in my eyes, which burned the flesh and bone of my face. I screamed and shook, dropped my sword and fell to my knees. Smoke rose from my ruined eyes, and the chemical burned into my brain. She threw more toxic dust on my fatal wound. My brain was destroyed, I was blind, my body shook and then I died.

Geometry Is Dying(Letter to the Editor with a Response Afterwards)

Dear Sick Blog of Lies,

While your twice-daily posts are intellectually stimulating and a bastion of complex thoughtfulness in the demented world of today’s media, I have noticed one glaring oversight in your pursuit of knowledge and truth. The problem is a lack of posts about geometry and a general lack of geometry in your posts. You are not alone in this crime. Hollywood and top 40 radio stations are also cutting their geometry-related pieces out of their scripts. Somebody wants to keep geometric discussions out of the media, and most money-grubbing entertainment-pimps are quick to comply. I expect better from the Sick Blog of Lies.

To your credit, you did publish Kenvinald Davidson’s 2007 essay, “A Reevaluation of Proto-Euclidian Pseudo-Squarizoids and Their Impact on Pre-natal Development” (much to my delight!), but it was your last geometry-specific post and it was followed by a general decline of any inclusion of geometry in your regular

postings.

Geometry is arguably the most important topic that can occupy the human mind, yet you’ve been neglecting it so much that it seems like you’re trying to avoid it. Like, you’re scared of it. Or perhaps you’re scared of the controversy that follows geometric discussions.

I won’t blather on at length about all the geometric events that you totally ignored and the many obvious instances when a geometric analogy would have helped explain the ideas in your blog. Instead, I’ll just remind you that you are neglecting your duty to that part of all of our minds--which I call the Internal Geometer—that comprehends and appreciates shapes, distances, points and space.

Everything is made of the same subatomic particles (substance), and our whole world consists of their geometrical relation to each other (composition). So in a way, geometry is half of our world. Do you really want your blog to ignore half of everything that exists?

Much regards.

The Infernal Geometer_____________________________________

Response to The Infernal Geometer,By Dr. Jacob Krink

I understand and appreciate your frustration at our lack of discussion about geometry. You are right in saying that we are neglecting our duties. I will hereby offer an explanation, along with a promise to do better in the future.

As you know, geometry is rife with controversy. A friend of mine was stoned to death by angry mathematicians in his own home after he published heretical geometric essays during an acid binge. While we aren’t afraid of controversy, we need to be sure that we’re posting things with geometric relevance before we start flaunting mathematical norms.

More importantly, we’ve been churning through editors like butter and they don’t all share an appreciation for geometry. In fact, our insistence on geometry-related topics is part of the reason that many of them leave (also financial constraints, drug abuse, insanity, temporal displacement, Satanism, dyslexia and agoraphobia).

We’ll try to get Kenvinald Davidson to write something for us soon, but I know that he writes with a heavy hand and has been battling his own personal demons. So we can’t promise anything from him. But I can definitely promise more geometry-related posts in the future.

Take care. Keep warm.

Dr. Jacob Krink

Geometry, Heroin and the Illuminatiby Kenvinald Davidson

I started studying geometry because I thought it held clues to the metaphysical questions. I pursued it as far as I could because I was obsessed. I quit only after I lost my mind and nearly died. I write about it now as a warning, and for closure.

I embarked upon my geometrical journey when I was twenty-one. I knew what everybody knows but is afraid to admit: that we are mathematical beings, patterns of organized matter that walk and feel and think. I ignored the impossible question of “What is matter?” and pursued the problem of “What is this organization?”

My many discoveries and creations are famous (or infamous), so I won’t repeat them here. Needless to say, it was easy to become promiscuous and irresponsible in my personal life while my disciplined work life made me such a revered public figure. Despite my meandering, I formed a strong romantic relationship with the astronomer Marie Finettre.

But geometry is nearly synonymous with drug abuse, and the beauty of geometrical patterns cannot truly be appreciated without the heightened aesthetic sensibilities provided by heroin (any addict or geometer will understand this). Marie and I would spend hours or even days under the spells of patterns, symbols and opioids. I won’t lie: it was a lovely time, but that kind of beauty is not sustainable, as I would soon find out.

You will be surprised to know that my biggest discovery was never published. It coincided with my disappearance from the world of

geometry and the disappearance of my beloved Marie.

In short, I discovered the Illuminati. It is not a group of people who conspire to control global events. Instead it is a persistent pattern for a certain kind of consciousness that manifests itself mostly in the neural network of our brains, but is also frequently found in nature, both on a large and small scale. It can process information, make decisions and affect the physical world (which is merely a plethora of patterns that are weaker and more ephemeral than the Illuminati).

I sought to discover the Illuminati’s purpose and intentions, and to communicate with it.

I managed to recreate the pattern within the crystal matrix of a special diamond, and used a brain-scanner to try to communicate with it. The details are nightmarish, embarrassing and mostly impossible to describe with language. I can only say that made some form of contact with the pattern, but my sweet Marie had a stronger connection with it, so her mind and body were absorbed into its being, and she was taken from me forever, and I am alone.

Of course, my only goal after the event was to reconnect with the pattern so I could join Marie within it. But instead of the old beauty and power, I could only find nightmares, anguish and insanity. I locked myself in my room with a chalkboard, books on astronomy and math, paper and pencils, heroin, LSD and amphetamines. I needed my Marie back. And I needed to communicate with the Illuminati.

But the emotional trauma made me unable to pursue it. And the drugs made me incapable of articulating formulae.

It should be noted here that the Illuminati is conscious, but not self-conscious. Neither are we. I discovered that there cannot ever be a pattern for true self-consciousness because in order for a pattern to refer to it’s actual self, it must have a version of itself to refer to within itself. And naturally, this version would have to have another full version of itself within itself. Itself within itself within itself ad infinitum, which is impossible. You can only be conscious of other pieces of pattern. The “self” of which you are conscious is an illusion, and just a small part of your greater, invisible self, of which you are not conscious.

I believe that when I became conscious of the Illuminati and the

Illuminati became conscious of me I brought a small piece of self-reflective terror to the Illuminati. Maybe it took Marie because of that fear. Or cusiosity. I’ll never know.

Anyway, I have been blocked out and my mind has been stripped clean. I can barely stand to do my taxes, never mind explore deeper geometrical problems. Marie is gone, and now so am I.

I do not understand the Illuminati. And though for a while I understood something of symbols and patterns, I still do not know what is this matter that is somehow arranged into conscious patterns.

Instead, I just sit back and watch the world go by, with all its patterns and instances of consciousness. And I dream of Marie and our time together when we were in our prime.

I cannot say more about geometry. I know my warning won’t deter those who are dedicated to it. It is too powerful to avoid. Too beautiful to ignore. But too dangerous to play safely with.

And to tell the truth, there is a part of me that envies those who are about to embark on a geometrical journey. Be brave, my friends. Or turn back now!

The Never-Ending Burgerby Eric Knight

My brother and I were going to get the bus to Manitoba to visit our cousin for a wedding. It’s a four day bus ride, and the bus only leaves once every two days from our small town, so we needed to get to the station on time.

I looked at my watch and saw that we still had one hour and ten minutes until we needed to be there, so I said, “Greg, we still have an hour, so let’s go get a hamburger.”

“Okay,” he said. So we went to the new diner by the bus station

and each of us ordered a burger and a beer.

The waitress was really old and haggard. When I ordered my burger, I said, “We’re kind of in a hurry.” She just cackled and walked away. Our burgers came out quickly and they were both delicious. I was eating mine and talking with Greg, and we ordered another beer. Then I looked at my plate and saw that my burger was still whole. I hadn’t taken a single bite. But I remembered eating a lot of it!

“Greg,” I said, “I haven’t eaten any of my burger. Look, there’s a whole burger on my plate.”

“No,” he said, laughing. “That’s impossi... wait! How is the entire burger still on your plate? I saw you take bites out of it.”

“I can taste it,” I said. “I definitely ate some of it.”

We both stared silently at the burger for a minute. Then I slowly picked it up and took a bite. The meat was delicious: lean ground beef with spices, covered in mayo and ketchup, and inside a soft bun. So good! So nourishing and satisfying! But when I put the burger back down on the plate, it was whole again. No bite had been taken out.

With my mouth full of burger, I mumbled, “Greg, it happened again. Look!” And I opened my mouth so he could see me chewing the impossible burger.

“Try cutting it in half,” he said, so I took my butter knife and cut it in half. Then I ate one half and looked down at the plate... only to see a full burger again!

“No,” Greg said, shaking his head. “No, we’re going to figure this out. This time cut it again and eat half, but take the other half apart. And I’ll keep my eye on it so I can try to see when it... reforms or whatever it does.”

“I can’t eat anymore,” I groaned. “I’m full. “I think I ate like three burgers in total.”

“This is a rare anomaly!” Greg shouted. “It’s worth the suffering! We need to study this! We need to figure this out! Experiments!”

I looked at my watch. “Our bus leaves in five minutes.”

“Dammit.” Greg punched the table. We both stared at the magic burger for another half a minute.

“We’ve got to go,” I said. “I don’t want to leave this miraculous sandwich behind but... we have to catch that bus.”

So we grudgingly abandoned the endless burger. The waitress cackled as we exited the diner.

Meditation for Mutationby Fentobule Jones

Dear World,

I’ve finally found the secret of evolution! I’ve grasped the reins of the future of the human race! I’ve learned to evolve myself into anything I want!

Mentally-induced mutations. Mind over matter. All it took was a little focus and willpower. Through simple meditation I’ve managed to mutate myself, changing my physical body through thoughts and desires. I’ve given myself x-ray vision, grown functional wings, a larger penis, and reversed my ageing process all in just one week!

You can have this power too.

You could fly through the vacuum of space! You could live forever! You could have a larger penis! All it takes is some focused meditation to initiate any mutation you desire.

It’s such a simple trick... I could easily explain it here in a few sentences (you’re so close to the secret!). But of course I can’t let it fall into the wrong hands, lest some evildoer abuse it to become a supervillain.

The only ones I trust are you, my sweet readers. But the only truly

safe method to transmit this monumental secret is to deposit it directly into your bank account. So if you can send me your banking information (including account numbers and associated passwords), then I’ll send you the secrets of evolution! You will be a living god, unstoppable and immortal!

Don’t hesitate! Don’t be left behind in the New Future! I’ve already sent the secret to dozens of trustworthy friends. Don’t you want to explore the universe with us?

Send your banking information to fentobule@grosnophobia.555 (credit card info will also work).

The Essence of Yellowby George Gay

I was perusing some rekkids last week at a music store when an entity entered the store through the entrance. The chimes chimed cheerfully and I beheld pure yellow with no features, no shape and no clear beginning or end. I was flabbergasted, and in my awe, I dropped my jaw, and I also dropped some vinyl on the floor.

The Yellow approached me and said, “You’re having an aneurysm. You can only behold such an entity as I when your brain is broken like this. Indeed, I am the Essence of Yellow! I am Yellow Incarnate! And I have come to you now to tell you that you are not alone, that all the colours are with you now that your brain waves operate on their new wavelength.”

I shook my head. “Nay, madam! There is no such thing as pure yellow. Indeed, yellow is just our brain’s interpretation of a certain wavelength of electromagnetic radiation. So there is no pure yellow. Only light waves and brains.”

The Yellow seemed to smile. “And yet even in the dark where there is no visible light you can remember me. You can remember all your colours.”

I nodded. “Well, I read somewhere that when a sound wave hits my ears at a certain frequency, it makes my neurons shoot at the same frequency. So when I remember the note of C-sharp, I

suppose my neurons must be firing again at that same frequency. Can’t it be the same for light? Checkmate!”

The Yellow was not so easily defeated. “I am a mental phenomenon used to interpret a range of wavelengths of light. The mental phenomenon and the light wave are two separate things, linked in your mind. There was a time long ago when humans knew nothing of wavelengths, and they only knew Yellow, Blue and Red. Now the opposite is true, and people only see their precious scientific discoveries. But now, with your aneurysm, you can see them both! Come with me, George! Come into the light! Come into the land of pure essences!”

And I took her incorporeal hand and I went in to the light. And nothing would ever be the same.

A Lovely New Homeby Stetson Harvacraft

Three days ago I finalized the purchase of a new home. My wife, Sarah, and I spent months looking for the perfect dream home, and the process was often frustrating and nerve-wracking. But in the end our real estate agent really came through for us. Not only did he find us a good home, but he also gave us some good advice. He told us how to find the perfect home at the perfect price. And I want to pass that advice along to you.

He gave us three key pieces of advice, and they should work for just about anybody.

Firstly, my real estate agent specifically sought out weirdly-shaped houses and murder houses. Most of the places we looked at were scenes of multiple horrific murders. Some serial- killers bring their victims home, and once they get caught the property value goes way down. We looked at several murder scene properties, and the prices were heavenly. We also looked at houses that had inconveniently-shaped rooms and fixtures. The house we finally chose was the scene of fifty-eight murders that happened in the past ten years. In fact, multiple people get murdered in the house every year, but the murderers are always different people and they kill for vastly different reasons. Quite a coincidence! And all of the rooms are really long and thin. So nobody wanted our murder-

house, and we bought the five-bedroom, three-story, modern Victorian-style home for $73,000 Canadian. People don’t want it because they expect that they’ll die there if they buy it. But I think it’s just a coincidence that all those people died there.

The second piece of advice my real estate agent gave me was to pray for good luck in the house hunt. But my real estate agent isn’t a Catholic or a Protestant. Nor is he a Jew or a Muslim. Neither is he Hindu, Buddhist, or Jedi. My real estate agent worships Satan. He sacrifices people and animals to the Prince of Lies. His every fiber is dedicated to evil and Lucifer. He allowed my wife and me to take part in a ritual where he and I both had sex with my wife and then asked Satan to give us a good home. And it worked! And now we carry out this ritual every week, although I can’t bring myself to do the sacrifices because blood makes me faint.

The third piece of advice was to lower our expectations and live a more austere life, so that we’ll have more money to sink into our dream home and renovations. So we took his advice had a yard sale and sold everything we owned. And we gave our children up for adoption because they were a very expensive liability. Now we don’t watch TV or listen to music, we each only have one pair of clothes, and all we’ eat is bread and insects. The only entertainment we need is free: ritualistic sex to gratify our dark saviour.

Follow these key pieces of advice and your most sick and terrifying home-owning fantasies can become a reality.

The Travelling Spoonby Dr. Jacob Krink

This morning I was gargling kitten-hemoglobin and an idea struck me: Spoons are pretty useful, so why not carry one everywhere? A stainless steel spoon is easy to clean, so I can use a spoon to shovel anthrax or dog pee, then just give it a quick rinse and cook some heroin on it, then eat some breakfast cereal. One spoon to rule them all!

So I fucking did it, shoved a spoon into my back pocket and went

out to explore the world!

Birds sang in the trees, girls walked by in sexy skirts, I had my spoon and I was happy and smiling.

Then a fat businessman-ogre waddled out from underneath a limousine. He had greed-lesions on his face. He grunted, “Uugh... gimme yer spooon, you spineless whining working class fuuuuck!”

I said, “I’m not working class. I’m a professor at a fine university, part of the intellectual elite! But I identify with the working class because most of my students will move on to become exhausted mindless worker drones who will obsess over their previous hopes and ambitions that have been evicted from their shrinking minds! It’s in my best interest to identify with these bright eyed victims of the economy, and although I’ve forgotten what real anger and injustice feels like, I have the habit of acting insulted! So no! I will not give you my spoon, since you haven’t earned it!”

The rotting, festering fat douchebag took out his cell phone and said, “Then I’ll call my lawyer and have the government take it from you!”

So I whipped out my spoon, and I spooned him twice! Then he lay dying and farting in a pool of his own hemoglobin, and I continued on my merry way.

But then I realized that my way was slightly less merry than a few minutes ago! I had finally realized that this lovely and wide open world isn’t simply a playground for the eager minds of the world. No... the world is a jungle, full of spoon thieves and kittens who want only to torture mice. To paraphrase John Gray, we’re not a society and we’re not in this together. We’re a bunch of individuals, all alone, and we can’t expect our moralizing and attempts at cooperation to convince anybody to act constructively or fairly. This doesn’t mean that I’ll get cynical and choose to hurt others. It means that if I choose to help someone else, I do so at my own risk.

So I found a transvestite and gave it a blowjob, because they’re probably pretty lonely.

And just to be safe, I always carry a spoon.

Wilderness Survival Emergencyby Dan Skillhouser

Emergency Time!

So you’re stranded in the forest with nothing but your pants, shirt and shoes? No problem. Our ancestors didn’t even have clothes. Just their wits and wisdom. Nude ancestor wisdom is the wisdom I’m giving you today.

So naturally, your first move should be to get rid of those clothes. Our ancestors didn’t have Tommy Hilfiger jeans or Nike sneakers in survival situations, and neither should you. If it’s the winter, take your pants and wrap them around your head (because you lose most of your heat through your head).

The next step is to start a fire. That’s the hard part.

Once your fire is ready, go catch some food. Your best bet is to catch a bear since it has lots of meat and useful bones. Bears are really dangerous, but they’re bad at running downhill. So your plan should be to enrage a big bear and then run downhill. The bear will stumble and fall and probably die. Once the bear is dead, simply drag it back to your fire and cook it. Or eat it raw. Use the skin to make some clothes. Use the bones to make utensils and a flute to keep you from getting bored. Music is a good way to stay sane when you’re out in the crazy forest. You can use the bear’s skull as a soup bowl in case you’ve brought some soup.

If the big bear is too difficult of an enemy, just kill a baby bear and eat it. They’re smaller and easier to murder.

Then use mud and rocks and sticks and bear bones to make some kind of shelter. Now you’ve got some security and you can survive for a few days, so you can focus on getting rescued. Your best bet is to start a huge forest fire. Everybody will notice that. Start a huge forest fire and then hang out in the river until a plane comes to rescue you. And praise Glooscap for his kindness.

Blending New Genres in Music

by Cory Pepper

My musician friend asked me to write a blog about new trends in music. He’s a jazz-metal sitarist, and he’s very preoccupied with genre-fusion. According to my friend (let’s call him “Jankle”), there are no more “genres” of music. The mass media has blended all types of music together into an all-encompassing eclecticism. He said that every genre is now just a marketing scheme and real musicians are immune to strict styles.

So I started going to local shows to see if I could witness the new age of genrelessness in Action.

My first stop was a death-folk show. Two lesbian hippies played acoustic versions of songs by Slayer and Cannibal Corpse while their adopted Asian children beat each other over the head with synthesizers and screamed, “Kill the environment because we need it!” The audience was comprised of businessmen and old women who were making out.

After the show I saw a guy busking for change on the street. He was playing commercial jingles on a violin. When I gave him some change, he said, “I only accept quarters because I only eat chocolate-covered giblets from the candy machine at the YMCA.”

So I asked him, “Why are you playing commercial jingles with a violin?”

And he said, “Come with me, and I’ll show you!”

And he took my hand, and we flew up, up, up onto the closest building, where there was a glowing blue portal to another dimension.

He said, “Through that portal is the Abstract World of Music! Once upon a time, in the Abstract World of Music, there were a few little islands where people played different music. Then those islands split apart and became more complex, and more people were born and there were many kinds of music!”

“That’s interesting,” I said, taking notes.

The violinist said, “But soon those islands mashed back together into one super-island, and the people of the islands had massive

orgies. And the people became as one and they were ruled by the Prince of Rhythm and the Queen of Funky Behaviour! And now there is only one kind of music, and it’s called Music, and we pronounce it with a capital M to discern it from the regular lowercase music, which refers to all ages and eras of music!”

“Is the Queen of Funky Behaviour sexy?” I asked.

“Alas!” cried the violinist. “She is slain! Slain by the very commercial-makers who wrote the jingles that I play! Now nothing is funky and nobody is cool. Now there is only Warfare, Slavery, Paying Bills and Going to Work! The commercial-people have locked-shut the doors to the Abstract World of Musical Funkiness, and our radio stations only play non-musical genre bullshit! And no new queen may be crowned whilst that portal remains shut! Fuck!”

I wept. “Is there no hope?”

Then the violinist said, “Yes! By an amazing coincidence, you are the only person who has a heart that’s pure enough to reopen the portal to the musical world! All you must do is pick your nose and flick it through the portal... and then you must go through the portal and remain there forever!”

So I dug deep for a juicy booger and flicked it into the goddamn portal. And then I walked through it, and there were naked girls frolicking among melodies and beats. And the frolicking women made love to me, and I became their Queen and their New God!

My Buffer Zoneby Paul Langford

The bank stole forty dollars from my account for no reason. When I called and asked why they did it, the call center girl said, “We took your money for no reason.”

“But why?” I asked. “You need a reason to take my money!”

“It’s corporate policy to take money from our clients for no reason,” the girl said. “I’m sorry you’re upset, sir, but it’s our policy. I didn’t

create the policy. I just work here.”

“Can I please speak with the fucker who made the policy?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s corporate policy that innocent employees like myself act as a buffer zone so you can’t speak directly to the policy makers who robbed you and use logic or compassion against them.”

Since it wasn’t her fault, I said, “Thank you! Goodbye!”

But then I got an idea! If a bank can hire buffer zone bitches, then so can I!

So I went to a job bank and found an unemployed loser. “Would you like to be my buffer zone?” I asked him.

The depressed, jobless loser said, “Yes! Dear God, I need a fucking job!”

So I went out into the street with my new buffer zone. I found a tough-looking dude and punched him in the face. Then I stepped behind my Buffer zone.

“What the fuck, man?” the tough guy asked, then he tried to punch me.

But my Buffer zone stepped in between us. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re not allowed communicate with my. I’m his Buffer zone. It’s corporate policy for him to punch you in the face. I don’t make the rules. I just work here.”

The tough guy was still rubbing his sore jaw, where I had punched him. “But... but that guy punched me in the face.”

“It’s not my fault, sir,” my Buffer zone said. “I didn’t punch you in the face.”

So the tough guy walked away, disheartened.

Then I robbed an old woman, picked her up, and threw her in a trash can. Her old and feeble husband tried to help her, but I kicked him onto the street.

A police officer walked up, intending to arrest me for my flagrant misconduct. My trusty Buffer Zone intervened.

“I represent Mr. Langford,” my Buffer zone said. “You can request an arrest through me.”

The police officer stuttered nervously, then said, “I’d prefer to arrest Mr. Langford directly. Can you patch me through to him?”

“I’m afraid not,” my Buffer Zone said. “It’s corporate policy for him to harass old people and avoid the consequences.”

The officer shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about? Both of you are idiots, and you’re both under arrest!”

I had to think fast! The cop was fitter and stronger than me, so there was no physical way for me to escape. My only option was to DEFY THE LAWS OF PHYSICS! So I broke the laws of physics and flew over the officer’s head!

“No!” the officer said. “That’s physically impossible!”

My Buffer zone was ready. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s corporate policy for him to break the laws of physics.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the officer said. “Your goddamn corporate policy can’t break the laws of physics!”

My Buffer zone said, “I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice, sir. I didn’t break the laws of physics. I just work here.”

“Okay, I guess you’re right,” the officer said. “It’s not your fault.”

Then he walked away, and I continued doing whatever I want without considering other people’s feelings or facing the consequences.

Dealing with Depressionby Pat Sampson

Ever feel lonely?

Ever feel sad?

Do you ever wake up and think, “I really don’t want to go to work today.”

Well it might be time for a complete restructuring of your mind and your self. You need to tear apart your whole existence and completely rebuild it.

Some people don’t understand the FACT that feelings of sadness are a symptom of your own objective worthlessness.

If you feel sad, unsatisfied, agitated or restless, it is because you are worthless, stupid and broken. There is something seriously wrong with you. There is something wrong with your mind. Worthwhile people are always happy and energetic.

So what should you do?

You need to turn your mind into mush. Then you will unlearn your bad habits. This will create room to relearn good habits.

Turning your mind into mush is a long and dangerous process, and it might kill you. But it doesn’t matter because you’re already worthless.

So how do you turn your mind into mush?

First, stop doing all those worthless things you do. Everything you do is stupid, so simply do nothing for three weeks. Doctors say that it takes three weeks to break a habit, so just sit in your room for three weeks and don’t do anything. Quit your job if you have to. Don’t watch TV or socialize or go for a walk. Everything you used to do is just a symptom of your deep-rooted sickness.

Second, smoke lots of weed. Weed makes you forget things and keeps you from learning habits. It also makes you too lazy to do the stupid things you used to do. And it makes many people paranoid and introspective, which will help you realize just how much of an idiot you are.

Third, eat junk food and garbage. Healthy food will only stimulate your body and mind. You need to destroy your body and mind with candy, French fries and whipped cream. You’ll feel so sick that you will hardly be able to think. Your body will weaken and you’ll lose

all motivation.

All this will make you miserable, but you deserve it.

After this miserable process, your brain will be empty. When people speak to you it will be difficult to form a response. You will always be cross-eyed, confused and unfocused. You’ll be less productive at work. You will drop your fork, spill drinks, bump into things, and struggle to pronounce simple words. You will have burned away all those bad habits, leaving lots of room for new ones!

Your mind will be mush.

You’re halfway to recovery.

So, what next?

This is where you “find yourself” and rebuild yourself in your ideal image.

First, sell everything you own. If you still have a job, quit that job. It’s a shameful reminder of your old self.

Then go and buy a tent, some trail mix, and some psychedelic mushrooms and LSD. Find a place where the forest and wilderness go on for hundreds of miles.

Now walk aimlessly into the forest and never look back. Eat mushrooms or acid every six hours. You need to stimulate your new mind with hallucinations.

Now that you’re rebuilding your mind, you must reinforce your growing personality with positive thoughts. Start thinking things like “Everything I do is right! Everything I do is good!” Say them out loud. Say them over and over again.

You will be free from distractions. Free to rebuild yourself into something objectively valuable.

If you meet any people out in the woods, you must avoid them. They are just a distraction.

And this is where I must leave you. You have to take it from here. I can’t tell you how to rebuild yourself. That’s your journey. I can

only tell you that you are as worthless as you feel, there is something seriously wrong with you and to fix it you have to destroy your mind.

You Are the Only Mind in the Universe!by Lindsay Red

My scientist uncle recently used a network of interlocking gears and several mirrors to prove that metaphysical solipsism is true. There is only one mind in the universe: and it is you, the reader. You are the only conscious entity, and everything else is just a conscious manifestation of your gigantic mind. Nobody else can think and feel. Only you!

You are the only mind in the universe. You are the only thing that exists. Although I’m writing this, I’m just a figment of your imagination. I can’t think and feel like you can. Everything that happens is because you made it happen. Of course, your consciousness is just one small part of your gigantic unconscious mind. The whole universe is your mind, and everybody in it is part of your mind. But your consciousness is the only consciousness.

That means that everyone who had sex with a supermodel or a princess was really a part of you having sex with the illustrious beauty. Pretty awesome. But it also means that you were sort of having sex with yourself, because those women are also part of your mind. And when you’re checking out a sexy babe, you’re just staring at yourself with lust.

What’s even weirder is that you completely created all the awkward and painful parts of your life. You’re a masochist. Anything bad that happened to you was of your own creation. You can’t blame anything on chance or circumstance, because the whole universe is your mind, and you control everything.

You’re also responsible for all warfare, hatred, petty violence, ingratitude, disease, sad fat people, and everything bad and sad and pathetic and horrible. Every time a person was tortured, it was just your sick mind gratifying its vulgar desires.

You are fucked up!

Guilt-Tripping the Volcanoby Paul Langford

I grew up in an ancient village called Fun Village, which was nestled snugly against an active volcano. We were taught to worship the mighty volcano, but two days ago it blew up and killed everybody in my village.

Luckily, I was playing golf in Prince Edward Island when the volcano blew up. My family and friends were all incinerated, but I’m okay.

Still, I’m pretty angry at that volcano. So I went back to give that explosive mountain a piece of my explosive mind!

I returned to the smouldering ruins of my decimated home, but I couldn’t even recognize the corpses of my loved ones because they were buried under several feet of hardened lava.

I looked up at the volcano, which had so recently spent itself and was still smoking like a satisfied lover.

I said, “Volcano! Why did you do this? Why did you ruin my village?”

The volcano said, “Well I didn’t really do it on purpose. It just kind of happened!”

It was trying to avoid responsibility! Enraged at the belligerent murder, I said, “This carnage is obviously your fault! Why are you avoiding blame here? Fess up! You murdered my family!”

The volcano shook its head. “It’s a chemical process! I can’t help it!”

“Don’t you have any free will? I know there’s bubbling lava deep underneath your mountainous spires, and in fact you only exist because of those same processes which caused you to explode, but couldn’t you just hold it in?”

The volcano was stuttering and stammering with guilt. “I tried to hold it! I swear to fuck I did! But there’s just so much lava in the earth’s core! Nothing can stop it from escaping!”

“Oh now you’re being a self-defeatist! Why don’t you just die, you murdering parasite!”

And I walked back to PEI to play some more golf, leaving the volcano crying in shame and self-hate.

Recreational Ribs Recipeby Kilmore Gilchrist

I make the best fucking ribs this side of Eve’s shame-leaf. But while some people call cookery a “science” akin to chemistry or physics, I know it’s all in the style and flare of your technique. I don’t cook ribs like a normal motherfucker. For me it’s a sport. That keeps my head in the game. Gets my adrenaline rushing. Keeps me from doing all the cocaine that I used to do. Or driving too fast. Or starting fights. I need that rush. I need to get it somewhere. So I get it from cooking ribs!

Here’s the goddamned ingredients:

-2 racks of ribs (I don’t care if it’s beef or pork or chicken or fish or whatever. Just get some fucking ribs and shut up!)-2 cans of cherries-1 cup Worcestershire sauce-1/2 cup soy sauce-1 gram cocaine-1 small can tomato paste-1 can Dr. Pepper-1 pint red beer (Any brand. Shut up.)-salt and pepper-1/2 cup lemon juice-1/2 cup cider vinegar-Throw in some other stuff too, like French fries or cigarettes. That’s part of the flare and style I was talking about

How to cook:

1--Mix all the ingredients together and let the ribs marinate in it for two or three hours.

2--Make or buy a fireproof suit for a dog, then put a healthy dog in the fireproof suit. Then take the racks of ribs and use fencing wire to strap them to the dog.

3--Hire (or “borrow”) any two people who are impressionable and easy to manipulate. Like women or foreigners. Give them each a flamethrower.

4--Lock the rib-bearing dog in a small yard and get the “volunteers” to chase it with the flamethrowers. If the fireproof suit is properly made, then the dog will be fine except for emotional scars. Eventually the ribs will be burnt to a crisp, but the dog should be okay.

5--Laugh and scream and get drunk. Later, when you’re exhausted from exertion and feeling even more maladjusted from the sociopathic weirdness of this undertaking, simply lie under the stars and lament the meaninglessness of your thrill-seeking life and your inability to relate to normal, healthy things. You want so much to take part in social engagements and to have a family and to enjoy your job, but you’re always depressed if you’re not engaged in some kind of insane project. Nothing is ever enough. You can never be happy.

6--Don’t eat the ribs. Flamethrower-baked ribs will be full of fuel-resin and it won’t taste good.

Buying the Right Puppyby Stetson Harvacraft

Are you considering getting a new puppy for your family? It’s a big decision. I can’t tell you what kind of dog to buy or where to buy it, but I can share my own informative puppy buying anecdote, and you can learn from my mistakes.

My wife and I went to a pet store to find our new best friend. There was a cute chocolate Lab in the window, playing with the other

puppies. The dogs wrestled and frolicked. They were so cute!

My wife instantly fell in love with the chocolate Lab. “He’s so cute! I want that one!”

So I told the clerk, “We’ll take that brown little bundle of joy, please!”

The clerk gave me a big thumbs up, smiled and said, “Great choice! I’ll pack him up for you!”

The clerk went out back, and came out with the little brown puppy, who was looking around with his curious puppy eyes. The clerk put him in a plastic shopping bag and handed the bag to me. I paid in cash, because I don’t trust banks and I live off-the-grid.

When we got home, I opened up the shopping bag, only to see a black and white Dalmatian puppy! “Honey!” I said. “They gave us the wrong dog!”

My wife shook her head. “Nope. I watched him put the dog in the bag.” But when I took the puppy out, her jaw dropped and she said, “That’s the wrong fucking dog! What the fuck?”

So we drove back to the pet store, flabbergasted beyond recognition. We had watched the clerk put the dog in the bag. How could it be a different dog now?

In the store, I swung the bag up in the air and slammed the puppy angrily down on the counter. “You gave us the wrong dog!”

The clerk said, “That’s impossible! I never make mistakes!”

So I reached into the bag and pulled out... a brown chocolate Lab puppy! “Ruff! Ruff!” he barked cutely.

My wife said, “No! No! That’s impossible! It was a Dalmatian at home!” She screamed in terror and pulled out her hair.

The clerk waved his arms around and said, “Get over yourself! It’s the right dog! Get out of my store and get out of my life!”

The door behind the counter opened and an old man walked out. He wore a blue robe and a pointy blue hat, and he held a wooden staff. He whispered in the clerk’s ear. Then the clerk’s eyes grew

wide.

The clerk turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, sir. There’s been a mix-up. We gave you the wrong dog. Just give him back to me, we’ll get you a new one.”

But now I was curious. I put the puppy back into the plastic sack. “What did he just say to you? What’s going on here? Why did my dog turn into a Dalmatian and then back into a chocolate lab?”

The old man in the robe chuckled. “I’m sure that nothing turned into anything, sir. But we’ll happily replace your dog with the right dog!”

I looked down into the plastic bag again and saw that the animal in the bag was no dog! Instead, it was a full-grown duck. The duck said, “Quack!”

Now I knew what was going on. “This is some kind of magical shape-shifting dog! I’m keeping this dog. You sold it to me, it’s mine.”

Panic rose in the old man’s eyes. “You don’t understand the powers you’re messing with, young man! Give me the shape-shifting dog, and I’ll give you the cutest puppy in the store!”

“No way!” I said. “This is the coolest thing in the world! How does it work?”

The old man shook his head. “This is no mere magical puppy. It’s not a trick, and it’s not a toy! What you hold in your hands is the very Centre of the Universe! It defies the laws of physics! It’s the most mysterious entity known to man! And it’s the one thing that keeps the universe from collapsing in upon itself! But it only holds one shape for as long as somebody is looking at it! Every time it goes unseen, it changes into something else!”

I looked back down and the puppy was now a kitten. I said, “I wonder what would happen if I ate it? If Would I gain its powers? Would I become the most powerful entity in the world?”

The old man shook his head. “That’s such an ignorant and short-sighted plan. Mine is better.... What would happen if you got the kitten pregnant? Would it give birth to a new universe? That’s my plan! Now hand over the kitten!”

I cringed in fear and disgust. “I’m not letting you fuck this kitten! What’s wrong with you?”

The old man frowned. “I’m not going to fuck the kitten, you moron! I’m going to wait until it turns into a beautiful woman, then I’m going to fuck her!”

“Well, what if she doesn’t like you?”

“How could she not like me?” the old man said, offended. “I own a pet store, and I’m a powerful magician with lots of money and a huge staff!”

“Maybe she’s a lesbian,” I said. “Or a paedophile.”

The clerk said, “I’ve never heard of a female paedophile, but I’d love to have a dog that turns into a lesbian.”

I said, “Well maybe I want to fuck the woman and make a new universe!”

My wife said, “Honey, I’ m standing right here.”

I brushed her off. “Lisa, you’re pretty and I like you, but you can’t compare to the centre of the universe.”

“There’s only one way to settle this,” the clerk said. “We wait until the kitten turns into a sexy woman, then we let her choose which one of us she wants to sleep with.”

“Okay, fine,” the magician said. “But remember, after she’s pregnant you can’t let her out of your sight for a whole nine months or she’ll turn into something that’s not pregnant!”

I thought about this. It would be awesome to sleep with a hot woman and then make a new universe, but do I want to spend nine months staring at someone? Was it really worth it?

“Nah, screw it,” I said. “You guys can fuck the kitten or whatever. I just want a regular chocolate Lab puppy.”

Then my wife whispered in my ear: “Why don’t we just eat the puppy and get its powers?”

“Oh yeah!” I said. “I forgot about that idea!”

So we took the puppy home and waited until it turned into a plump turkey. Then we deep-fried the turkey and ate it. Then the whole universe disappeared.

Math Dinosaurby Danny Lee

I’ve been trying to teach math to my dinosaur, but all he wants to do is eat people.

I don’t want to be racist but I think dinosaurs might be bad at math.

Which is too bad because I sold my soul to the devil for this dinosaur, but I wanted a math-dinosaur. I thought they were all good at math.

I wonder if the devil will do trade-backs.

Did you know that dinosaurs evolved from birds?

This Tree Isn’t Acting Normalby Paul Langford

Every day as I used to walk to work at my old job, I would pass by a small tree. It was only a few years old, but it was blossoming into a healthy plant.

Then I got a new job and went two years without seeing the tree. Last week I thought, “I wonder how that tree is doing?”

So I went back to that old street and saw that the tree was now taller than me.

“Hello, tree!” I said. “I see you’ve grown very tall! I’m so proud! How have you been? You’re almost full-grown now. You must have a job, and a girlfriend. Where do you work?”

The tree didn’t answer any of my questions. It just stood there, swaying in the breeze. I waited for a response, but it didn’t seem to want to talk.

I started to become uncomfortable. “I asked you where you worked and who your girlfriend is. Do you have a car?”

Now I was getting worried. I turned to a passing stranger and said, “Hey, man. I’m worried about this tree. It doesn’t have a job or a girlfriend.”

The stranger dropped his jaw in shock. Disgust spread over his face. He stepped up to the tree and said, “Hey, what’s wrong with you? Why don’t you have a job? What the fuck have you been doing?”

A woman was also passing by and she saw us yelling at the tree. She came up and said, “Guys, this isn’t going to work. You can’t harass the tree into acting like a normal person. You have to nurture it.”

She stepped close to the tree and stroked one of its branches. “You know, tree,” she said, “you should really think about getting a girlfriend. It will be good for you. We’re just worried, that’s all.”

The other stranger was still agitated. “Act normal, tree!” he shouted. “Act normal! It will make us all more comfortable!”

The tree just kept swaying in the breeze, oblivious to our concerns.

Then I got a revelation. “Maybe it’s autistic. Should we give it some pills?”

The stranger said, “Fuck it, man. It’s a lost cause. Let’s cut it down before it can do any more damage!” He took out a Swiss Army knife.

“I think that’s a little extreme,” I said. “Let’s just leave it be. Let it sit here contemplating whatever it’s contemplating. It hasn’t hurt anybody.”

And we all walked away, feeling uncomfortable and feeling sad for this abnormal tree.

The Perfect Vacationby Pat Sampson

So you’ve got a week of paid time off and you’re wondering how to have the best vacation? Maybe you want to relax and take some “me time,” but maybe you also want something that stimulates you physically and mentally, like hiking or taking in some culture.

Maybe you’ve got a family and want to spend some quality time with the kids. You want to show them a part of the world they’ve never seen, but you’re on a budget and you don’t want to spend half your trip traveling.

What should you do?

Well I can tell you exactly what to do. Turn around and go right back to work. Why? Because when Monday morning rolls around and you’re not there, productivity at the workplace is going to SLUMP drastically. All your coworkers will be at the office (or the factory), working and contributing, while you’re off on a pleasure cruise, catering to your selfish children and drinking a cold beer.

Let’s say you work at a factory. Who’s going to make car parts while you’re gone? Somebody has to make them. But not you! You’re too special! You need “vacation time,” time to relax and have fun. What’s the point of fun? Isn’t it rewarding enough to contribute to society by DOING YOUR JOB? Or are you a selfish, sociopathic leech-hippie who just wants to smoke weed and masturbate? That’s what vacation time is. Government-sanctioned masturbation time.

I had a conversation with a guy yesterday. He said, “Life is more than just work and slavery, man. There are so many things to enjoy. Working a meaningless, repetitive job every day distances you from the wondrous mysteries of life. You only live once... make the most of it!”

I was disgusted by this man’s attitude. A corporation has no feelings and no ambitions. It relies entirely on the behaviour of its workers. Without workers, a corporation will DIE. Is that what you want? Who pays your bills? Who buys your food? Your corporate overlords, that’s who! Relaxation doesn’t pay your rent. Beauty and culture won’t put meat on the table. You owe EVERYTHING to your boss and your job! When you take a week off to go sightseeing, or leave work early to see a rock concert, you’re telling all of society to go fuck itself. You belligerent, whining little insect. Ungrateful parasite. Instead of contributing to society, you’d rather soak up the sun, strengthen your body, stretch your mind, spend time with your family, or some other childish playtime.

I heard someone else say, “I’m not convinced that the majority of jobs do anything to contribute to society. We’ve been brainwashed into thinking that obedience and slavery are contributing to society when all we’re really doing is contributing to a system of slavery. A few powerful people want to maintain their own power, and we willingly give them our obedience. Basically, we’re forcing each other to enslave each other and ourselves. In a sick contradiction, we even raise our beloved children to be whores to our meaningless jobs, leaving everybody exhausted and broke.”

Well that’s all airhead nonsense. These people are grasping at straws and looking for any excuse to be lazy selfishness. A man who doesn’t want to work is just like a kid who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables. A man is supposed to work.

Some people say, “I spend all my time at work! But I’m still always broke and I never have any fun!” Well boo-hoo! You poor little baby. I suppose you want your boss to throw you a sweet sixteen birthday party every day, with a cake and presents. Well grow up! Get over yourself! Life isn’t about fun and parties. You need to contribute to society or everything will fall apart. If you’re confused about how to contribute to society, then just trust your boss. He’s got experience. He’s the boss for a reason. Don’t waste any more of his time with your complaining and crying.

You already spend five or six hours sleeping every night, an hour or two commuting to work and a few hours to clean up and buy things, plus you eat several times a day. In addition, you have two full days off every week (at least most people do). Why do you need vacation time on top of all that? Because you’re selfish.

I can justify having weekends off because you need to keep your apartment clean and rest your brain and body. You need to keep these things in working order so you can be the best possible employee. People have been led to believe that weekends and nights are their “me-time.” What you need to understand is that your apartment, your family, your food, your schedule and your mind all belong to the global infrastructure of work. You do not have the rights of a citizen. You have the rights of an employee, and a consumer. You are allowed to have weekends off so your complex work life doesn’t fall apart. You are allowed enough time and money to maintain the employee. From this perspective, vacation time is more than superfluous. It’s wasteful and selfish.

Be an adult. Cancel your vacation and go back to work. Work doesn’t do itself.

Winged Men with No Moralsby Carl F. Crawford

When the winged men started appearing from the mountains everybody praised them as the next step in human evolution. It’s easy to admire them as they fly around and read poetry from above. They seemed fascinating, even to a sceptic like me.

But these are not magical angels, nor are they physically superior to regular humans like us. In fact, it’s becoming obvious that they have bad attitudes, no morals, and do nothing to contribute to society (except for their poetry and aesthetic appeal, of course).

For instance. I was talking to one of the winged men last week, asking him what winged life was like. But he wouldn’t answer my questions. He just sneered and mocked my suit. I don’t mind that he doesn’t like my suit, but it was very childish for him to insult me like that.

Also, they’re always drunk. You can’t tell from down here on the ground, but they just fly around and get drunk and read poetry.

And there are no winged women, so the men have to steal our women. My girlfriend has already slept with two winged men and she’s not even ashamed of it. She just laughs at me and gets drunk

and lets a winged man carry her away.

They’re just stupid wings. Who cares? I could buy a fucking airplane ticket.

Fuck them, man! They suck.

Recession Detectiveby James Perplexor

When the economic recession hit a few years ago, the working world was taken by surprise. Jobs and money seemed to disappear! Politicians tried to deal with it, but we’re still recessed! People talk about it like it’s a natural disaster, like all the money got destroyed by a volcano or a meteor.

But I knew it wasn’t a natural disaster!

Money is power, and power never disappears!

Somebody has our money! And I decided to find out who!

First I went to the bank and asked, “Where’s all the money from before the recession?”

The bank teller said, “Didn’t it get blown out to sea? Or get lost in a cave in? Or deleted or something?”

“No,” I said. “Money is power and power never disappears! Why can’t we work and do the same things as before? What changed? Who has our money?”

The bank teller laughed. “I’m sure nobody has our money! If somebody had our money, they’d give it back! Have faith in people, man! Nobody took our money! Nope, it disappeared in the economy, in some abstract mathematical natural disaster.”

Then I went to my member of parliament and asked, “Where did all the money from before the recession go?”

The MP said, “If you’re asking if I will bring jobs to our struggling economy, then the answer is yes!”

“That’s not what I asked,” I said.” “I asked where all our money went. Why can’t we just do the same things we did before? It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Yes, I had an affair with a transvestite!” the MP said. “I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to my lovely wife, but this will not stop me from running in the next election!”

This politician’s meaningless bullshit was even more meaningless than most political bullshit, so I left him proclaiming nonsense to himself and continued my hunt.

I wondered where I could find someone with some insight into the recession. Maybe somebody with an outsider’s view on the situation.

I remembered that there was a crazy old poacher who lived in the woods outside my hometown. He hunted deer and coyote for their meat and their pelts. He was certainly an outsider. Maybe he could tell me where our money went.

I found the old hunter and said, “Hunter! Poacher! Where’s all our goddamn money?”

The hunter shot his rifle into the air and said, “Where d’ya think? The rich people got it! The rich keep gettin’ richer and the poor keep gettin’ poorer!”

“No!” I said. “That’s impossible! They wouldn’t do that to us! People care about each other! If rich people sociopathically control our lives then how can I continue paying taxes and living within the charade we call society?”

The hunter shot his rifle again. “To paraphrase John Gray, there ain’t no society! Just a bunch of people who want different things!” Then he shot his rifle a third time. “I don’t give two hoots ‘bout no recession! All I need is my shotgun and the Good Lord Jesus Christ!”

A magpie flew above my head, holding a gold necklace in its claws. I followed the magpie as it swooped from treetop to treetop, and it eventually landed in a cluster of trees in a valley.

As I penetrated the foliage, I saw a clearing amongst the thicket. This clearing was sparkling, shiny and full of gold and diamonds! And black and white magpies! It contained a gigantic treasure trove, like in cartoons about treasure hunting!

“Wow!” I said. “So this is where all our money went! Magpies stole it! Magpies, why did you steal our money?”

But the magpies didn’t answer. Instead, they swooped down at me, striking me and stabbing me with their beaks. I punched them out of the air and broke their necks, and I slaughtered them all!

Then I took the treasure for myself and went home. My recession was over!

Photo ID Odysseyby Paul Langford

I had trouble getting a new ID in Ontario, and a few friends of mine expressed similar frustrations. So I’m blogging about it!

I moved from New Brunswick to Ontario last month because I was offered a job here.

A few days after I’d moved here, I was invited to a dinner party, so I decided to bring some wine as a gift.

I went to the liquor store and picked up some Pino Grigio. The lady asked for my ID, so I gave her my New Brunswick driver’s license. She dropped the card on the counter and took a frightened step back.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Um,” I said. “It’s my driver’s license. I just moved here from New Brunswick.”

“Well, do you have any government-issued photo ID?”

“This is government-issued photo ID,” I said. “New Brunswick is a province! It’s only a few hours away!”

“New Brasmark?” She shook her head, perplexed and frightened. “I’ve never heard of that. You can come back when you have an Ontario license.”

So I went to ServiceOntario to apply for an Ontario driver’s license.

The man at the counter said, “Okay, we’ll transfer your New Brunswick license right away! Can you show me some photo ID?”

I gave him my New Brunswick license. The man chuckled and threw it in the garbage. “No, I need real ID. Something from Ontario. Do you have your Ontario Health Insurance card? You need photo ID to get your Ontario license.”

I said, “I have my New Brunswick Medicare card, but I don’t have my Ontario health card yet.”

“Well, I can’t give you an Ontario license until you get an Ontario health card.”

“Okay,” I said, getting a little frustrated. “Where can I get the Ontario health card?”

“Their office is across the street,” the man said. “But they’re only open thirty seconds each day. And those thirty seconds are divided into 15 two-second intervals that are randomly dispersed throughout one hour every day. And you need to pass a skill-testing question to get in.”

“Jesus Christ, is it really that difficult?”

“We need to make sure that you’re serious about receiving medical treatment if you need it. We can’t have everybody recklessly using the services their taxes pay for!”

So I went to the health card offices, waited for my two-second interval and answered the skill-testing questions. I answered them correctly, because I’m really smart. Then I went inside and spoke to the woman at the desk.

“I’d like to apply for my Ontario Health Insurance card, please.”

“Okay, sir,” the lady said. “Can I see your driver’s license?”

“They told me I need my health card in order to get my driver’s license.”

“Well, I can’t give you a health card if you don’t have some photo ID.”

My eye started twitching, and I couldn’t speak. I told myself to calm down, and then I said, “If each card requires that I have the other card, then how can I get either card?”

“Well, you need them both!” the woman said, smiling helpfully.

“I want them both! But nobody will give me either one!”

“I’ll call my manager,” she said.

She pressed a button and an incredibly tall man walked into the room. “Come with me, sir,” he said.

I followed him into a giant boardroom with a black marble slab for a table. We were alone in the room and we sat down at the table.

He took out a pad of lined paper and a fountain pen. “I understand you want a photo ID,” he said severely.

“Yes.”

“Tell me then,” he said, penetrating me with his steely gaze, “who are you?”

“My name is Paul Langford.”

“Yes, yes... but who are you really?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Confused, I fumbled for my wallet and removed more cards. “I have credit cards, a social insurance number and my birth certificate,” I said, laying them on the marble table. “I really am Paul Langford!”

The manager swept all my cards onto the floor with a decisive swoop of his long arm. “This is all meaningless,” he said. “These cards don’t define you.”

He let out a long sigh as if he was exasperated with me. “Have you

heard the famous quote ‘I think, therefore I am’?”

“Um... of course,” I stammered.

“It’s a good axiom, isn’t it? Can you deny its validity? Can you deny its truth?”

“Well, no.... How could I deny it?”

“Nietzsche dared to defy it,” the manager said. “In his book The Birth of Tragedy, he asks what the difference is between the ‘I’ that thinks and the thoughts that ‘I’ think. So now I ask you, what is the difference between your self and your thoughts?”

I was completely at a loss.

The manager persisted. “You’re a snake eating its own tail .When you think of your self, you think of yourself as the source of your thoughts. But thoughts about yourself are still just thoughts. Thoughts about yourself are not the source of all thoughts. How can one thought think a new thought? Can you deny that all you know about yourself are simply thoughts of yourself? You are just an idea in your own head, and yet you consider yourself the creator of all your ideas.”

I thought about this interesting idea. I gazed up at the vaulted ceilings and wondered where my thoughts came from. I think, therefore I am... but what does it mean to say that I am if I’m just another thought? In my mind, I searched for myself, but I only found more thoughts of myself. Nothing more than thoughts.

I felt very alone and very scared. With wide-open eyes, I stared at the manager, who was serene and very serious. “I cannot find the source of my thoughts!” I gasped. “I don’t know what I am!”

The manager nodded gravely. “Now you understand,” he said. “Now you understand why I can never give you a photo ID.” Then he stood and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness of my mind. He left me there, lost in my thoughts, broken and alone.

Kidney Swap

by Kelsey McTetragrammaton

Are you looking for a new way to spice up your love life?

My wife and I used to go looking for new thrills and fancy excitement by going to swingers clubs and key parties, but there’s a new fad that’s making sexual encounters seem blasé.

We go to kidney parties now, where we pair off with other couples to swap internal organs. If you think swapping body fluids is intimate, try swapping body parts!

Make sure you have a couple good surgeons and all the right equipment, but check your inhibitions at the door. Recreational heart transplants are not for the... faint of heart. I’ve traded livers, kidneys and even bone segments! My wife has traded just as often as I have. Now when I make love to her, it’s like I’m having an orgy with five people in one! She once told me, “I wish you could feel how good you are in bed!” So we’re going to try brain transplants next for a totally new experience.

If you get invited to one of these trendy new gatherings, I suggest you give it a whirl. Or maybe you want to host your own. Otherwise, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering, “What if?”

Travel Blog: The Ovumby Shirley Mangle Hello again, readers. I left Earth's orbit far behind for my latest travel blog. I stole a space-helicopter from the Moon Hotel because a voice inside my head told me to visit Saturn's moon, Titan. Thank God I escaped the ravages of those gorilla-bears. Interplanetary space is boring, so while piloting the vessel I started daydreaming about sexual positions, multiple partners, and man/beast hybrids. In my head, the sexy robot-manager said, “Sssshirley, I looove your dirty brains, but if you don't watch the stars, you'll get losssst!” Snapping out of my reverie, I realized it was too late. I was flying clumsily through space with no idea where I was going. I

scrutinized each star, trying to discover which one was Saturn, but they all looked the same. I knew I should have studied astrology in college. “I can barely even pilot this stupid helicopter anyway,” I pouted. “I can pilot it,” said a deep voice beside me. Lo and behold! A hulking gorilla-bear was sitting beside me, wearing pink panties and a curly blonde wig. I always lose my composure around their species. No human man could ever be as hunky nor their ravages as satisfying as their gorilla-bear counterparts. “How did you get in here?” I squeaked, shaking the helicopter around with my nervous hands. “We cannot allow you to visit Saturn’s moon,” he said, staring at my chest, which I had squeezed into my tight, red latex suit. “Nobody may visit.” I was getting flustered by the beast’s attention. I almost felt like giving in and giving up on my important expedition, but then I thought about the amazing travel blog post I could write about visiting Titan. I couldn’t pass up that opportunity. “Fuck you, gorilla-bear!” I yelled. “I’m going to visit Titan, whether you like it or not! What are you trying to hide?” Eyes still locked on my cleavage, the beast said, “We don't want to hurt you, but we will.” “You already smashed me with a piano,” I said. But then I got an idea! I wiggled in my seat. “Hey, gorilla-bear. Do you want me to take my clothes off?” The robot-manager in my head said, “Shirley! We don't have time for thisss. But doooo it anywaay...” The gorilla-bear reached out to touch my boob, but I pushed his hand away. “Only if you'll pilot the space-helicopter to Titan!”

“No!” the beast cried, tearing his wig off in despair. “I swore an oath. I have to keep you from Titan!” I played with the elastic of his panties, where his bearhood was aroused. “I can give you what you want,” I said. “If you give me what I want.” As I unzipped my suit, the beast lost his resolve and gave into his desires. He fell onto me and piloted the space-helicopter with one hand while caressing my naked body with the other. At the same time, he kissed and sucked me all over. A gorilla-bear's stamina is like a mountain slowly building up into a volcano. During the long trip to Titan, my lover never left my body alone. And I loved every second of it. The robot-manager said, “Oh God, Shirley, we're almost to Tit... Tit... Titan.” I looked out the window as the gorilla-bear made love to me and saw a huge orb in the sky. “Is that Titan?” I asked him. “Why is it pink?” The gorilla-bear whispered in my ear, “That is the secret... the secret we were trying to hide.... Titan is... ugh...” The beast fucked me harder and faster, panting into my neck. He let go of the joystick and I had to reach out to pilot the vessel. “Shirley, fly the space-helicopter into Titan,” the robot-manager said. “Smash into the pink orb.” “Gorilla-bear! Why is Titan pink?” “It is an alien ovum!” he moaned desperately, pushing his hairy face into my cheek. He had succumbed to me completely, body and soul. “Ripe for impregnation by the first species to penetrate it! We were protecting it, waiting to find the right mate!” Titan now covered the whole window with its pinkness, and we were about to crash! The robot-manager said, “Yesss, sexxxy Sshirleeyy! Penetrate the pink mass with your uuuuggghhhhh...”

The gorilla-bear's seed splashed on my ovaries as I exploded into my own wet climax, all at the very moment that we sank our helicopter into Titan's pink flesh. The vehicle shook lightly with the soft impact as the gorilla-bear's orgasmic convulsions savagely twisted and squeezed my body. “I knew you were the ooone,” the robot-manager said. “We made Titan pregnant, Shirley! Sooo iiintimate!” I leaned back as the cabin filled with soft, pink light. “You planned this from the beginning, robot manager! You clever dog.” The radar showed that we were still moving slowly through the pink object. The gorilla-bear finally relaxed and we sat side by side, staring out the window and holding hands. He said, “I have betrayed my oath, but I have no regrets.” The pink light grew stronger, and I could feel it tickling my mind. I had just experienced a very satisfying physical penetration, and now I was rocked with the force of psychological intercourse: The pink light went into my mind and stimulated all my memories, all my instincts. The pink light showed me parts of my mind that usually remained hidden. “Travel Blog: The Unconscious Mind!” I gasped, then I realized the ovum wasn't only interested in my DNA; it was also interested in my mind. And the gorilla-bear's mind, and that of the robot-manager. We finally emerged on the other side, and I was delighted to see the beautiful stars again. The gorilla-bear put his hand on my belly and said, “Let's go live on the surface of Saturn and raise our children together. We have fused our seeds within your womb and fused our minds with the ovum of Titan, and eventually we can see what kind of organisms they grow into.” So for you next vacation, I recommend impregnating a giant ovum while getting impregnated by a gorilla-bear.

It’s Almost Easter

by Gregory Bandolier

So it’s almost Easter, the sweet time when sweet Jesus got married to Mary Magdalene. The Holy Bible tells us that theirs was the first heterosexual romance in history. At this time of romance we should celebrate our love of the female species and their wonderful bodies and tumultuous minds. Just like Jesus enjoyed and celebrated the glorious body and rich, dark skin of Mary Magdalene.

A woman’s body is so sensitive and delicate. The softest touch makes her tingle. It’s so sweet to run your hands and lips all over her nakedness. That’s what Easter is all about. Easter eggs represent the ovulating female’s fertility. And a woman is extra sensitive and sensual during ovulation, so if your lover is ovulating this Easter then you owe her special attention and love. Make her pregnant this Easter. Just like Jesus made Mary Magdalene pregnant. That’s why we are all direct descendants of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. That’s what the Bible says, in the Old Testament where it talks about Jesus.

If you treat your woman with love and respect, her sensitive and loving mind will be a nurturing source of love, support and compassion. Many men complain that women are crazy, but that’s because they are simple-minded, ignorant and they don’t know how to treat their ovulating partners. They don’t understand that a woman is a raging sea of loving potential. And only the most masterful and focussed sailor can ride her properly, just like Jesus rode Mary Magdalene in the Old Testament.

So this Easter let’s celebrate our women with love and respect. Because it’s almost Easter, and Easter is all about love and sex and romance.

Trapped in the Bathroom with Exquisite Scotchby Stetson Harvacraft

I accidentally locked myself in my bathroom. Now I’m trapped in here with nothing but my cell phone and two bottles of hundred-year-old single-malt scotch. So I’m using my cell phone to blog about being trapped in the bathroom, and I’m getting drunk on some fine alcohol.

I let the drink sit on my tongue so I can relish the flavour. I’m certainly no scotch connoisseur, but I can say that this scotch is very smooth and it goes down easy. To me, scotch is like caramel and perfume, created with some wooden-barrel alchemy. But somehow the flavours are all blended together into one unprecedented taste.

These bottles were recently recovered from an old British shipwreck off the coast of Russia. I boughtthem at a charity auction where I met Brad Pitt, two former ambassadors and the Dalai Lama.

I’m drinking the scotch out of the plastic cup where I keep my toothbrush.

After I get drunk, I’m going to have a shower because I’m already in the bathroom.

If I’m still here later on, I’m going to try to use my cell phone to find nude pictures of girls on the internet. Unless the batteries die first.

Oh yeah, if anybody actually reads this, can you come let me out of my bathroom?

You’ll Be Resurrectedby The Delirious Advertisement Agency

Dear Reader,

I regret to inform you that you’ve been mauled to death by a rabid gorilla-bear. Your death was horrifying, violent and humiliating.

Luckily the paramedics were able to upload your brain scan into our cloud storage servers. You’re in digital limbo.

Now you’re in queue for biological resurrection, and we’re ready to make a new body for you (“re-spawning,” for you gamer nerds out there. LoL). Of course, we’re not legally allowed to resurrect you without your explicit permission. And we’re legally obliged to make

some things clear to you.

We’re obliged to explain that your resurrection-body is not a regular human body. It’s genetically enhanced! Which is totally awesome, right?

For example, you’ll be built with a constant craving for hamburgers. Nothing else will satisfy your hunger, except for the juicy burgers produced by our clients. As an advertising agency, we try to create demand for our clients’ products. And you have to admit that the resurrection program is a delicious way to save lives!

Secondly, you’ll have a constant craving for cigarettes. Don’t worry though, they won’t cause cancer. In fact, smoking cigarettes will be the only way to avoid cancer! Let me clarify: We’ve designed your new body so it will develop cancer if you don’t smoke our clients’ cigarettes.

Thirdly, you will be required to do twenty hours of community service for our clients every week. Community service means things like working as a cashier at our clients’ retail outlets or working on a production line at their factories. It’s a small price to pay for being alive, right?

Aside from those things, you’ll have a pretty normal life. Of course, you’ll pass on your genetic enhancements to your kids. It’s called evolution. It’s a good thing!

Now you have to decide: Do you want these enhancements or not?

You’re totally allowed to say NO to these upgrades, in which case your file will simply be deleted and you’ll be dead forever.

Do you agree to the terms and conditions of your resurrection?

YES

NO