When I Grow Up:
• That's not real likely. 

Curse of the Day:
• May your cookies set off sexual innuendo.

I can't be arsed to surf any right now, and anyway, I tried that yesterday looking for one short thing, and ended up writing a term paper about Dubya.  And despite all the words, I managed to forget to put in my penultimate remark!

Which is: damn, I forget.  Oh wait.  My ultimate point was, that in not much more than a year after being seen as this heroic leader, saying all the right things after 9/11, Bush has somehow turned (in the perception of most of the world and a lot of Americans) into a figure trusted as little/less than Saddam Hussein (according to some surveys).  It's an amazing reversal, in so short a time, and really illustrates human perception.  Bush hasn't changed, he's the same guy he was before and during the election.  Perhaps he's let more of his true stripes show, but he's doing the same stuff he always wanted to do, it's just that everyone isn't feeling sorry and sympathetic and understanding because of 9/11 anymore.

So with no news, here are a couple of emails I received today, and comments on them.  Down below is a new story.  Sort of.  Temper your anticipation now.

Here's an email I received today, about the new Valentine's Day Diablo II story, and I'm quoting it here to discuss it.  This is not an uncommon sentiment; I get a mail or two about this just about every story or column I do on the D2 site. 

Good job, I did enjoy that story a lot though I never laugh. I have to say though I guess I dont find much funny, because I have never laughed at anything I have ever heard from you, and when I read the feed back some guys apparantly messed up while snorting coke when they read your articles. But I did enjoy it anyway, interesting enough and entertaining enough, it was not one of those articles where you feel likear you just wasted 7 minutes of your life. Good Job, keep up the good work but who am I to tell you, all who have jobs tend to want to keep them.

As I said, this is something I hear in oh, 2 or 3% of emails.  Often it's from some angry guy, who wants to insult me and takes the time to tell me that I suck.  In those cases I don't pay it much mind, since if a person wants to be a dick then a dick they will be, but their opinion means nothing to me.

So it's not the angry ones, but the nice ones, like this one, that I find interesting.  I feel bad for them. Not that it's my fault... well actually I guess it is. If I could just... be... funnier!

But no, I don't feel bad because I don't make them laugh, I feel bad because they don't let themselves laugh.  Ever. Sure you can refuse to be amused, and just scowl through life, but why?  What's the benefit?  Worse than the angry non-laughers are the morose or despondent ones.  There is so much that's funny out there; I often laugh heartily at things that really aren't "funny", but are just absurd or ridiculous or examples of human stupidity.  Things I see in news stories, for instance.

Laughter is a sort of surrender or release, where you allow your emotions to overwhelm you briefly.  I suppose that people who don't laugh, unless they are just naturally dour and unsmiling, are uptight or angry, and can't or won't let themselves surrender to the moment and be more than mildly-amused.  My grandmother was like that.  I can only remember her laughing out loud 2 or 3x ever.  She'd smile and enjoy things, but she never actually cackled.  In fact, my tally might be 2 or 3 high, since as I think about it, I don't have any concrete memories of her laughing, though maybe she did some when I was a little kid, and I just don't remember anything in the last 10 or 15 years.

She'd often say, "Funny funny." with a smile when others were laughing, but her eyes were always jet black and hard.

I've no idea if she laughs now or not since I haven't seen her in 2 years as she's gone deeply into dementia and my grandfather has gotten really nasty and doesn't seem to want either me or my mom to have any contact.  I've gotten no Xmas or b-day cards for 2 years, after always being the precious, loved, spoiled only grandson for every other year of my life, and despite sending my own for b-day and Xmas to her/them.

But that's neither here nor there, and has probably just depressed everyone.  Don't worry, you'll never grow old and lose your health, your mind, and everyone you love. That sort of thing only happens to other people.

For another email and comment, hopefully one that won't spiral down into a black hole of depression, here's a mail from Fuse, commenting on the Valentine's Day massacre I mentioned yesterday.

I am definitely in agreeance when you say

One thing I did learn yesterday is that if you are going to break off a budding romance with a woman who likes you a lot more than you like her, you do not want to do it 1) with an email, and 2) on Valentine's Day morning.

I learned that yesterday, too. I effectively did both. I completely and utterly offended my would-be Valentine during the period from about 12:30am to 8am Friday, and continued to do so online later that day via the marvel of online instant messaging. If I had a daily blog (it's become more like weekly, and it's for a hobby site anyway.) it would definitely be the feature.

The inherent anger that seeped through msn messenger yesterday was intensely focused on my own inebriated actions from the times mentioned above.

Essentially the source of that anger is due to a good level of participation in dirty dancing and then some action involving girls from the party. I might have caught a break if my date was one of them. No break.

Well, he broke up on Valentine's Day also, and had an angry woman talking to him over ICQ, but in his case she was angry with him, and well, he pretty clearly deserved the anger, eh?  Girls can be forgiving, but when you're drunk off your ass, dry-humping on the dance floor with two other ladies, and hungover and belligerent in chat the next day, that's really pushing your luck.  Especially on Valentine's Day.

Meanwhile, every female reader just grunted in disgust and muttered, "Men are such pigs."

Women live to say that.  Which is lucky for them, as often as they get a chance to.

One last V's Day story my dad told me.

His new next door neighbors are a married couple with 4 or 5 kids, ranging from like 8-17 or so. I see them once in a while when I'm over there, but don't know their names or anything.

Anyway, dad said that Friday he was walking over to get his mail when he saw a funny sight.  His mail box is in a group of three of them on his neighbor's lawn, in the cul-de-sac in which he lives.  The other three houses have theirs close together on the other side of the street, to save the mailman some trouble. It had been sprinkling and the grass was wet, and in the next door neighbor's yard was strewn... all of their mail.  With one pink envelop ripped open, lying on top.

His conclusion was that their teenaged daughter went out to get the mail, rooted through it and saw the Valentine, ripped it open right on the spot, and was so excited by it that she ran inside with it, probably to call her girlfriends, dropping the rest of the mail, which likely included bills and other things of actual importance (outside of the social world of a teenaged girl), leaving them to soak into the lawn.

Dad said he wasn't about to gather it up for them, or go knock on the door to tell them their mail was lying all over their front yard because their daughter is a ninny.  There are seven people living in the house; one of them was sure to come out and notice it sooner or later.

And he was right to leave it there, 'cause tampering with someone's mail is a federal offense.  Plus, it's the only way they'll learn.

Remember this tale of female priorities next time you are thinking about what pigs men are.

So just get with the bowing and scraping now, and it'll save time later.

Anyway, she woke up very early, something like 4am her time, noon my time, and was groggily pounding her paws into the keyboard, managing to tap out a semi-coherent message to the effect of wanting a sleepy-time story so she could go back to bed.

I was bored at the time and doing nothing of any importance, so was happy to oblige.

The following was typed into ICQ in a bunch of individual messages, and compiled from there by Malaya. Girls dig that sort of "personal effort" thing.  Those bastard children are damn near as good as fertilized already!

All comments in black are from me at the time, with a very few purple comments coming back from her.  This is silly and somewhat incoherent, but remember how I wrote it; basically as fast as I could type. I've fixed some typos and capitalized everything, but none of the content is altered.

It doesn't exactly make sense, but it's pretty funny, and introduces a memorable animal.  I'll probably clean it up a bit and add it to the short story section in the immediate future.

_____________________

It's only 5:30 in the morning and I'm here to entertain you. Tell me a story to help me fall asleep.

I think you mean wake up.

No, I was really trying to get back to sleep. This 4:00 am- 5:00 am stuff is getting out of hand. I wanted a bed time story. <laugh>

If I'm going to tuck you in I'd better warm my hands up first.

There once was an exotic non-coconut-eating princess, drowsily tapping away at her keyboard, in a strange and foreign land. Her would-be prince, a man of some chain mail and curious self-esteem issues, sat all alone, except for assorted vermin in his non-magical apartment, far across the distant sea....

Try "Once upon a time..."
That's how the magic stories always begin.

Always a critic intruding on my masterpieces!

Once upon a time, the tall red stranger tucked in his exotic little concubine, after warming his hands first to avoid speculum flashbacks. Just as he had the precious honeysuckle blossom approaching snugness of bug in rugness, with the generous application of duct tape, he realized that he'd left a quesadilla on the stove, and dashed off to add ingredients to it, leaving her alone and panting, while she arched her back like a landed carp.

Returning with his quesadilla and a small bottle of peppermint scented massage oil, our hero freed his Precious from her bonds, and proceeded to oil her head to toe like a human vitamin E tablet.

After a short break for some furious masturbation, our story continues with the well-oiled, and somewhat lubricated princess sighing as she surrenders to the soothing sensation of strong and only slightly-calloused hands stroking her lower back with smooth powerful strokes, like the beating of a hummingbirds wings. I mean the beating of an eagle's wings, as he ascends a thermal rising over the sun-baked land.

Yes, all my stories take place in the land of bad metaphor. Gulliver was going to stop there, but his editor intercepted the poor castaway just in time.

Just as it was getting good, the masseuse paused and suddenly reapplied the duct tape, binding the sticky princess to her royal sheets.  And with that, he vanished.

After an hour, the well-oiled princess' enchanted duck flapped into her throne room and pecked the duct tape away.

"Bark" said the duck, for it was an enchanted duck. Not a well-enchanted duck, it couldn't sing or laugh or lay pewter figurines... no it could only bark rather than quack, and it had an unnatural hunger for duct tape and star trek chess figurines.

Yes, star trek figures.

The king was a huge nerd, I mean Star Trek fan, and the duck's strangely-enchanted appetite caused no end of castle consternation. No duck, barking like Lassie with Timmy down a dry well or not, was going to interrupt his "bishop to queen's five" gambit. Just the week before the princess had caught Barky with half a Mr. Spock bishop down his throat, and the Uhura and Chekov knights already missing, and let me tell you, the feathers had flown.

But since today the duck's strange enchantment had saved her from a forgetful masseuse, the princess rejoiced, and rewarded her feathered pet with a Lt. Worff she'd been saving for a special occasion. Barky rejoiced, and the Klingon proved scrumdiddilyuptious.

But what had become of the mystery masseuse?

It was early, too early to engage the royal maid in the search, so the princess and her noble waterfowl set forth in search of the intruder, and his powerful hands. As well as a shower, for the massage oil was sending up all but visible waves of aroma.

A faint tapping sound led her down a shadowy corridor, and entering her royal watercloset, she found the man, naked save for bowler hat and laptop on his lap. Top. Lap. Anyway, he was clearly excited to see her. If you know what I mean, but the princess did not allow that to distract her. Well, not too badly, anyway.

"Bark!" said the princess.
"Bark!" said Ducky.

Wait. Um, "Where did you come from, mysterious engorged strange man with the funny hat?" she barked. She said.

"I come from the land down under." he explained. "There you may find thundering women, and vegamite. Oh Christ, I always get those verses confused."

"Bark!"

"The hell you do." said the princess. "Marilyn Manson has a better tan than this, and he's a frickin' vampire. You look Scottish to me, though you mask your accent better than your face. And put that thing away, before you poke an eye out."

The man, abashed, closed the lap top.

"Oh, sorry." said the slightly less mysterious stranger, looking down at turgidness. "But where will I hang my duct tape?"

"Bark!" said the fucking duck.

Leaving Barky to enjoy his duct treat, the princess led the man back through her royal hallway, past the royal arches, and into her royal chamber, where she sat him down on the bed.

"Now," she said, "Motherfucker." she said.

"That was uncalled for." he said.

"True." she said.

"Anyway," she began again, "You're going to finish tucking me in, or that duck is going to get medieval on your ass."

"Butt..." said the man. And patted it too, with an appreciative touch. The princess wiggled.

"But." he continued, "You're now wide awake, and surely you would rather get up and begin compiling your extensive notes on the family-organizing practices of the Filipino people during the post WW2 period, along with the detrimental effects of organized religion and male infidelity upon the same population?"

The princess began to snore soundly.

"And she lived happily ever after."
Magic ending.
You forgot.

Good point. And she slept like a log, emitting occasional tiny royal farts.

After which they lived happily ever after.

Even the duck.

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