An Open Letter To My Grocer

Dear Sir,

I wish to express my strong dissatisfaction with your practice of recording and tracking my purchases.

I realize that, according to you, this is done in order to more effectively manage your inventory and to create custom savings opportunities for your customers, but let's be truthful with each other, shall we? You monitor these purchases so you can determine what I like and then cease to provide it.

Time after time, always shortly after I discover a product and make it a part of my regular diet, you remove it from your shelves. It doesn't matter how long the product was carried by your chain prior to that, once I become a regular consumer, it's gone.

I could understand this if I were purchasing odd items. If, for example, I were searching for fresh Dalmatian puppy hearts that had been marinated in the blood of young virgin Russian women, I would understand. But I'm not searching for such items at your location. That's what gourmet grocery stores are for. I'm just looking for cereal and potato chips and the like.

I've heard all of the arguments before. You claim that monitoring the purchases of your clients allows you to give them a variety of goods. Personally, I don't consider "variety" to mean "six brands of oreos whose only distinguishing characteristic is differently colored cream filling". You claim that you are able to tailor make coupons specifically geared towards me. If so, I wonder what I bought that led you to the conclusion that I was a likely purchaser of depilatory creams.

You argue that your customers appreciate your practice. In my experience, people often say they enjoy something even when they don't mean it. Every woman I know tells me they enjoy massages, but as soon as I put my hands up inside the fronts of their shirts, they get all belligerent, so clearly, people seldom mean what they say.

The only conclusion, therefore, is that you have a personal vendetta against me, just like my Nintendo Wii and the folks who conspired to label my jeans so that it appears I wear a 38, when I clearly am much more svelte.

I wish I knew what I had done to offend you. I shopped faithfully at your store, even during strikes by your cashiers and baggers. I ignored your price gouging. At let's not forget the night you had your unfortunate "accident" with that drunken "working girl". I'm not saying I regret helping you dispose of her remains. I'm just saying that I really would enjoy having that freezer space back.

The point is, I thought we were friends. I thought we understood each other. I thought you had my back. Clearly, I was wrong.

I've done all I can for you. I hate to say it, but I think our relationship has soured beyond repair, much like the milk you sold me last week. It didn't have to end this way. All you had to do was say those simple little words you knew I wanted, needed to hear: "The Sunrise cereal is in aisle four." But you couldn't even do that.

Have a nice life.

Physician To The Stars

Richard’s parents had always hoped he would become a doctor. Unfortunately, it was a dream that he did not share. A lifetime of prodding and guilt can lead a person down almost any path, however, and so Richard had worked his way through medical school and residency with competency, if not enthusiasm.

As a student, his one moment of inspiration had come when he decided that he would base his practice in Toontown. He believed it would ensure a quiet, undemanding workload. After all, he reasoned, if your patients can have a piano dropped on their heads and then walk away, how serious could their medical issues be? Now, as he studied the case file that lay before him, he reflected on how naïve he had been. With a sigh, he raised his head and spoke to the sailor seated across from him.

“I’m afraid you have acromegaly,” he said softly. “It’s a disease which cause the pituitary gland to produce excess growth hormones. This often results in tumors that cause facial swelling and protuberances. That’s the reason your jaw is the way it is.”

Popeye chomped down on his pipe and was silent for a moment. “Well, blow me down,” he muttered.

“The good news is that the condition is treatable. Drug therapy can restore normal pituitary functions, and surgery can remove the tumor.” The doctor paused for a moment. “There’s another issue I think we should discuss. I’m a little concerned about your spinach dependency.”

The sailor looked indignant. “I don’t have a spinachk depensdensky,” he said sullenly.

“Mr. Eye, let’s face facts. You eat spinach for breakfast. You eat spinach for lunch. You eat spinach for dinner. Hell, you even smoke the damn stuff.” At this, the sailor sheepishly removed his pipe and hid it behind his back. The doctor continued. “Spinach is fine in moderation, but when it’s consumed in the sort of quantity that you regularly use, it represents a serious problem. I advise you to quit cold turkey.”

“Quitsk spinachk!” cried Popeye. “I’ll die!”

“You’ll die if you don’t,” said Richard matter-of-factly. “I’m going to give you the address of a clinic that can help you with your withdrawal symptoms. Also, I recommend joining a support group to help you when you feel the need to use.” Richard rose from his desk and led the sailor to the door. “I’ll have my receptionist schedule an appointment to begin treatment for the pituitary disorder. I wish you luck.”

Richard closed the door and returned to his desk. He hung his head in his hands. At that instant, the door to his office burst open. In stomped an angry black mallard, followed by the receptionist. She apologized profusely to the doctor. “I’m sorry, Doctor,’ she said. “He refuses to wait for his appointment.”

“You’re darn tootin, Florenthh Nightmare,” the mallard shouted. He covered the desk and the doctor with a fine spray of saliva with every “s”.

“It’s okay, Miss Foray,” said Richard. “I’ll take care of it.” The nurse withdrew and closed the door. Richard looked calmly at the duck. “Now, Daffy, what’s the matter? You seem upset.”

“You’re darn right I’m upthet!” The mallard was enraged and his lisp was even more pronounced than usual, something Richard would have thought impossible. “Ith that plathtic thurgeon you referred me to! Just look at me!”

Richard stared at the duck. He looked him over carefully. He was no beauty contest winner, but he looked a darn sight better than he had when Richard had first seen him. His crossed eyes had been corrected, his rubbery limbs had been strengthened and converted to a normal length, and his beak, which had been a monstrosity when the mallard first hit town, had been shortened and bobbed. Richard could see no reason for the duck to be displeased. “You look great, Daffy. What’s the problem?”

“Thith ith the problem,” hissed Daffy, and he gave his beak a smart slap. Richard watched as it spun around the duck’s head and slowly settled to a stop on the back of his skull.

“Oh, my,” said Richard.

Daffy reached behind him and pulled the beak back into proper alignment. “Look at me,” he wailed. “I’m a monthter! How can I thtar in movieth when my beak fallth off with every take?”

Richard tried to calm the duck, but it was nearly impossible. He was livid. “Daffy, I’m sure there’s something we can do…..”

“Damn right there ith,” snapped the duck, cutting him off. “I’m thuing you for malpractith. I’ll make thure that theepskin never theeth the light of day again.” He turned on his webbed foot and headed for the door. “I’ll thee you in court, Jack!” With that, the duck was gone.

Richard rose and exited his office. He walked quickly into the reception area and called out to Miss Foray. “Get my attorney on the phone. Tell him I need to speak to him right away. Also, I’ll need to talk to my insurance agent.” He took off his lab coat, which was soaked with mallard spit, and handed it to the girl. "Have this sent to the laundry as well."

“Yes, doctor,” she said. “Oh, here are your messages.” She handed Richard a stack of pink notes and he thumbed through them quickly. Mighty Mouse was calling concerning potential side effects of the steroids he had been using. Droopy needed a refill on his anti-depressant prescription. He stopped and held one out to the receptionist. “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Coyote,” Miss Foray said dismissively. “He stopped in and wanted to see you. I told him you were booked solid and that he should call for an appointment in the future.”

Richard sighed heavily. “He can’t call for an appointment, he suffers from hysterical vocal paralysis,” the doctor said. “If he returns, I want to see him immediately. I think he needs to be referred to a psychiatrist. This business with the bird is becoming an unhealthy obsession.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Cancel my appointments for the remainder of the day, and put the attorney and the insurance man through as soon as they call.” The doctor turned and slunk back into his office. He sat heavily in his chair and pulled open his desk drawer. He snatched the aspirin bottle, thumbed off the cap and shook two into his hand. He dry swallowed them, grimacing at the taste, and leaned back in his chair. The phone rang, and he answered it. He listened for a moment, rubbing his temples with his free hand.

“Yes, Mr. Disney,” he said. “Yes, the test results are in. I’m afraid it’s a venereal disease.” He held the phone away from his ear as the voice on the other end let out a stream of profanity. He returned the receiver to his ear as the invective faded away. “No, no, it’s not serious. Yes, I’ll be discrete….Yes, I can meet you at your home this evening. We can clear this whole thing up with a shot of penicillin and a dash of turpentine. Fine…..I’ll see you then.”

He hung up the phone and shook his head. The tradition of the casting couch was a long and fabled one, but he never understood why these moguls always failed to take even the most rudimentary of precautions. He hoped Disney would think twice this time. He had, after all, gotten what he deserved.

Everyone knew Minnie was a tramp.

Bashing

For most of my life, I have felt as though I belonged to a different time and place. I grew up with a love of classic films, classic television, classic radio and the like. To find a contemporary interest in my list of likes and dislikes was rare indeed. The things I loved weren’t embraced by my friends or even my family. I stumbled across these things on my own. I tried to share them with others, but there was little interest in them, and so I began to view these things as my own secret treasures.

I had a lot of difficulty in making friends. I was fairly isolated as a child, and I felt a kinship with the monsters and the comedians that I shared so much time with. They were outsiders, unable to participate in the world around them because of circumstances of birth or fate. They simply did not belong. They could not help what or who they were. These creatures and creators meant a lot to me. When I watched Larry Talbot suffer the tortures of the damned and come to the realization that his life would be a solitary existence, I could relate.

A lot of people would therefore suppose that I’d be attracted to conventions honoring these things, but this wasn’t the case for me. I had no one to travel with for the majority of my life, and I feared going on my own. I imagined I would be viewed as the strange little fellow, friendless and alone, and that I would be mocked or laughed at.

One day I learned of the Monsterbash convention. For some reason, I was drawn to this event, and I couldn’t understand the reason why. The event kept popping up in my mind, and I decided to attend.

I traveled alone, as my family had other commitments and were unable to join me. All during the drive down, the old demons played in my mind. Would I be out of place? Would I be laughed at? Was I going to be disappointed and hurt by the other attendees? As I soon found out, those fears were completely unfounded.

From the moment I walked into the event, I was made to feel as though I was part of a family. The celebrities in attendance were all unfailingly kind and all seemed honestly pleased and delighted to hear about how much their work had meant. I met Chris Costello, daughter of Lou Costello, and she shared wonderful stories about her father. I met Ron Chaney, grandson of Lon Chaney, Jr. and the love and affection he had for his famous grandfather touched my heart. I met Penny Dreadful and Garou, both of whom embraced me with open arms and made me feel as though I had known them all my life. I met Kyra Schon, and was struck by her talent, kindness and artistry. I found myself sharing smoke breaks with Ron Pelligrino, one of the principals behind the event, and marveled at his knowledge of the genre and his skill as an interviewer. And in one delightfully surreal moment, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find myself face to face with Yvonne Monlaur, star of Hammer’s Brides Of Dracula. She asked if I could spare a cigarette and I got to spend several minutes alone with a woman whom I had had a crush on for many, many years.

The things that happened during the event were all wonderful. They were entertaining and informative and special in ways that I just don’t have the skill to describe. Watching Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein in a makeshift drive in and marveling when the film concluded and Dracula, Frankenstein, the Bride of Frankenstein and Ron Chaney, wearing a recreation of his grandfather’s most famous creation, The Wolf Man, all came out of the woods to menace the crowd was magical. Hearing the stories of the many celebrities provided many delights and laughs. But those things were not what set Monsterbash apart, or made it stick so firmly in my brain.

Every person there, from the smallest child to the most famous celebrity, was made to feel special and welcomed. Each person was made to feel as though they had given a great gift to the other attendees. The “civilians” were treated with kindness and respect and honest gratitude and affection by the celebrities, all of whom made us feel as though our respect and affection for their work was the best gift we could have given them. The celebrities were reminded again of just how much their work meant to all of us. And all of us made every single participant feel like a family, a group that had in many instances never met face to face, but still shared a common body of memories and experiences.

I’ve been to a number of conventions since that first Bash, sometimes as a guest and sometimes as a fan. But even the very best of them pales next to the Bash, and I think it’s for one simple reason: Love. I can’t describe it any better than that. The Bash has a sense of love and friendship and acceptance that nothing else has.

As I read this over, I am frustrated by my inability to capture what the Bash is and what it means to me. All I can say is thank you to the organizers and the attendees for creating a place where I truly feel like I belong. Penny, Garou, Kyra, Ron (Adams and Pellegrino) and everyone else, thank you. Thank you for so much. But most of all, thank you for being the people that you are. Without folks of such good and gentle natures, such kind and generous spirits, the Bash would not be what it is. There are many more people deserving of thanks, and I wish I could name them all, but I can’t.

I do hope, however, that they all know what a special place they hold in my heart.

Service Call

When the doorbell buzzed at 1:00 p.m. exactly, Eric blinked in surprise. He was expecting a service call, and the rep had told him the technician would arrive at 1:00 p.m., but Eric had never known a service person to arrive on time. When he opened the door, he blinked into the face of the visitor with stunned incomprehension.

The man at the door was huge, 6 foot 4 if he was an inch. He was a burly sort, his thick arms ending in meaty paws that were stained almost black with some unknown substance. His bulk strained against the grimy jumpsuit it had poured into. The nametag sewn above his left breast identified him as Vince. "I'm from Data Doctors," he said. "Where's the PC?" Without waiting for an answer, he strode into the room.

Eric scrambled into action and led Vince to the study where the PC was housed. "No offense," he stammered, "but you don't look like a computer technician." Vince stopped in mid-stride. He turned and stared at Eric. Finally, he pulled a pocket protector from the toolbox that swung from his right hand and slipped it into his left breast pocket. "Feel better now?" he said, the irritation evident in his voice.

Eric decided to change the subject. "The computer is on the desk in the study. I don't know what's wrong with it. It's been running very slowly lately, and it makes all these awful sounds, like it was growling at me." Eric noticed the sudden quizzical look that appeared on Vince's face. He laughed nervously. "I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but that's what it sounds like."

Vince stepped in front of the PC. He turned it on and listened carefully. Immediately, the computer began to emit a series of odd noises. To Eric, they sounded like a surly old man grumbling through a throat full of phlegm. "Yeah, I figured as much," Vince said. "Listen, can I run a diagnostic on this thing?" Eric nodded, and Vince pulled a disc from his toolbox and popped it into the PC. It began to run, slowly at first, and then picked up speed. Eric watched as the monitor began to flicker rapidly. Soon, it flashed with the speed and intensity of a strobe light, and Eric found himself thinking of the unwitting children who had experienced seizures while watching pokemon cartoons. Finally, the monitor settled back to black. Vince peered at the screen and nodded. "Just as I thought," he said. Your PC is full of hate."

Eric blinked. "It's full of …hate?"

"Sure is," said Vince. "Take a look at the monitor."

Eric looked at the screen where the results of the diagnostic were now displayed. On it, he saw a happy little devil capering gleefully. "I don't understand."

"I don't see why it's so confusing," said Vince. "Take a look at these sites you've been visiting."

Eric gulped and began to stammer. "Listen, hey, I can explain those. Sometimes a guy gets lonely, and-"

Vince cut him off. "I'm not talking about those sites. In fact, I'd prefer we never, ever mention them again, if it's all the same to you. I'm talking about all of these blogs and stuff. These things are loaded with hate. All of those negative user comments, all of those flame wars, all of that pre-school name calling, that's pure unadulterated hate and it's ruining your performance."

Eric stared at the technician. "I am soooooo lost right now," he muttered.

Vince sighed. "Look," he said, "it's very simple. There's a lot of hatred and negativity out there on the web. As you come into contact with it, it accumulates in your hard drive. If you don't clean it out, it manifests itself physically and it gunks up your machine. Lemme show you."

With that, the man powered down the tower and removed the casing. In a flash, he had removed the hard drive from the unit. He reached into his toolbox and brought out a jar with bright yellow labels covering its face. Before Eric could vocalize his unease, Vince had opened the hard drive and turned it upside down over the jar. Instantly, a foul smelling black sludge poured out of the drive and settled into the jar. "What the hell is that stuff?" Eric asked.

"I already told you,' said Vince. "It's the physical manifestation of hate. Nasty stuff, too." Eric watched the sludge slowly fill the jar. "This isn't possible," he said quietly. The web is just a series of electronic impulses. How can it turn into that….goo?"

"Beats me," said Vince. "I leave the metaphysics for the geniuses. I just clean up after everyone." He finished draining the drive and set it onto a yellow cloth. He capped the lid on the jar and sealed it in a lead lined canister which he then secured in his tool chest. Next, he pulled a strange looking box from his tool chest and gingerly placed the hard drive inside. He pressed a button on the side and Eric heard a soft hum. A blue glow emanated from inside the box.

"I'm just decontaminating the hard drive," said Vince. "I'm nearly done here. In the meantime, I'll just advise you to stay away from most blogs, political party websites and YouTube. You wouldn't believe the level of hate in the comment section. It's also a good idea to spend time visiting cute sites. The sweetness eats away at the hate on your machine, kinda like that oil-eating bacteria thy use to clean up spills. I'd recommend at least two hours a day on the Hello Kitty website."

"Seriously?" said Eric. "Two hours?"

"Hey, it's your choice," said Vince. The box had finished its work and he was reassembling the tower as he spoke. "It's either that, or you can invest in an anger management pump for your system, but those babies are really pricey. Plus, you'll have to become licensed to handle the accumulated hate."

"What do you mean, licensed?" asked Eric.

"Listen," said Vince. "That concentrated hate is a biohazard and it needs to be handled carefully. You wouldn't believe the lengths we go to when we dispose of this stuff. Some companies just dump it in the river, or worse yet, they sell it on the black market."

Eric was shaking his head in disbelief. "You mean there's a market for this stuff?"

"Of course," Vince said. "The republican party buys a lot, and so does Fred Phelps." He packed up his tool chest and stood up. "Well, that should do it. Remember what I said about sites to avoid, and be sure to surf responsibly!" In a flash, the man was gone.

Eric moved to the terminal. The computer was up and running silently. All traces of the phlegmy growl were gone. He tried to grasp what had happened. The whole thing had been so surreal. It had to be a scam of some sort. He didn't believe a word of it.

Nevertheless, he didn't hesitate at all as he punched in www.sanrio.com.

How to write a SyFy channel "original" movie

Lately, I have spent an obscene amount of time watching the SyFy channel. This can only be attributed to intense boredom. Fortunately, I am blessed with a unique ability to pull something positive out of everything I see. After absorbing the essential elements of the programming presented on the channel, I will now present my sure-fire tips on how to make a successful SyFy epic.

Step 1: The Story
Science fiction is about originality and creativity. Finding an idea that hasn't been done to death will be challenging. However, based on my viewing, the following concepts will serve you well:

Giant Insects
Alien Invasion
The reanimation of the dead (they should, of course, become flesh eaters upon resurrection)
Giant reptiles
The resurrection of dead aliens (they should, of course, become flesh eaters)
Giant aliens
Alien insects
Giant alien insects
Reanimated giant reptiles
Alien reptiles
Giant reanimated dead alien insect/reptile hybrids

Step 2: The script
Screenwriting is a craft, and there are no short cuts if you wish to achieve a great piece of work. However, you are writing for the SyFy channel. Try these tips:

Glasses mean smart, and thus save pages in which you must develop a character.
Logic is your enemy
The army is always evil
Science is always evil
Evil is always evil

The following pieces of dialogue are indispensable:
"If that things escapes, it could mean the end of all mankind."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"I'm in charge of this mission and you'll do what I say."
"They're expendable."

Step 3: Casting
For male roles, follow this model:

Call Bruce Campbell
If Bruce refuses, call Lance Henrikssen
If Lance refuses, call Dean Cain
If Dean refuses, give part to first man to pass office window.

For female roles, keep the following in mind:
Must have a D-cup
Must have permanently erect nipples ( do not apply this requirement to male cast, it is very unsettling)
Familiarity with English language not required

Step 4: Shooting the film
Keep the schedule short and the budget lean.
Never do a second take unless something falls on and impales an actor. In this instance, work the injury into the script rather than re-shoot the action.
Get close-ups of the wound, as it represents a neat "make-up effect" that you got for free.
Prior to shooting, save all condiment package from local fast-food chains. This will function as your craft services table.

Step 5: Post-production (special effects)
Nowadays, most special effects are handled via CGI. To make sure your effects are up to the standards of the Sci-fi network, obtain the following:

One small child (he will design the creatures for you)
One Commodore 64 PC

Remember, when chosing a resolution for your graphics, keep things slightly above the level of the Atari 2600.

If you keep these tips in mind, you too can be a movie mogul. My condolences.

Perchance to dream...

I have almost total recall of my dreams. This isn't a great thing, mainly because my dreams are weird beyond belief. For example, here's a little gem from last night.....

I was at an international swim meet. I wasn't participating, just watching. The competitors were all wearing large dorsal fins and this made them incredibly fast. We're talking 1000 yards in 2.6 seconds fast. Naturally, the crowd was rooting for the American team.

The competition was a tie as we went into the last event, the diving competition. The platforms were on hydraulics, and the divers were leaping and plummeting thousands of feet to the water below. The competition was a dead heat, and the platforms were raised so high that they could not be measured without the aid of satellite photography.

While we were waiting for the final results to come back, the Americans in the crowd began to sing the National Anthem. Unfortunately, this was prohibited by the event organizers, so I was rushing around trying to silence the crowd by silently mouthing the word "Forfeit". Everyone understood, and they silenced themselves.

We won the competition, and the grand prize was free heating oil for the Olympic training compound. The prize was presented in a video hosted by Bob Saget and Joanna Kerns. They were in the White House, and of course, many "humorous" things happened. Saget fell off a chair and chased a dog through the oval office. The video ended with a fire in the White House. Joanna Kerns was perched atop a ladder, smudged in soot, her hair singed, while Saget cooked a marshmallow off of her flaming shoe.

Then I woke up.

Weird, huh? I sometimes wish I could just dream of normal stuff, like nuns wrestling in Jell-O.

The Beast Within

"Everything always looks simpler in the movies." This single thought ran through Larry's head as he studied the calendar, counting off the days until the next full moon.

He hadn't wanted to live life as a werewolf, but apparently fate had other plans for him. He didn't know why he had been stricken with this terrible malady, or how. He only knew that when the moon rose full in the evening sky, he underwent a horrible transformation. He spent these nights prowling the county side, satiating his thirst for blood by feasting on anyone who was foolish enough to stroll through the woods unescorted at night.

Roaming through the forest was fine while he was in lupine form. However, it played hell on his human shell. Every morning he examined his flesh carefully, searching for any ticks that may have attached themselves the night before. It was bad enough to be a werewolf; he didn't want a case of Lyme disease to boot.

The grooming ritual came next. He combed his pubic hair for burrs and other objects that may have become tangled in his bush. Removing them was a painful ordeal, but it was paradise compared to the constant barrage of flea dips he was forced to administer to himself. He developed an intense dislike to showering, choosing instead to clean himself with his tongue. He even took yoga classes so that he would be able to reach the more difficult areas.

All things considered, Larry thought that he had adapted remarkably well to the situation. The changes that his skeletal structure went through as he changed from human to wolf and back again left him in pain, and he worried about the damage being done to his bones. He worried that the constant stretching was having a detrimental effect on them, but once he began to take calcium supplements, his mind eased.

As the curse went on, his animal side exerted more and more dominance over his human nature. He began growling at the mailman, and on more than one occasion he found himself chasing trucks as they drove through his subdivision. His neighbors were understandably curious about this, but he simply told them he was taking up jogging in order to combat middle-age spread.

One evening as he enjoyed a Colombian Narino Supremo at his local Starbucks, he was struck by the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He tried to put her out his mind. He had vowed not to become romantically involved once he had realized the nature of his curse, but he could not help thinking about being with this woman.

His thoughts were interrupted by the woman's voice. "Can I help you? she asked pleasantly. Larry realized with sudden horror that he had leaned over without thinking and had been enthusiastically been sniffing her rump. He pulled back in embarrassment, and stammered an apology.

To his surprise, the lady laughed pleasantly. "I must say you're direct," she chuckled. "I like a man who embraces his animal instincts." Larry couldn't help but laugh. The girl continued. "Most men just ask me my name when they want to meet me. It's Katrina, by the way." She took a seat beside Larry, and just like that, their relationship had begun.

He fell hard for Katrina, and she fell hard for him. He knew he was playing a very risky game, as legend dictated that lycanthropes were compelled to kill the ones they loved. But he was helpless to do anything but love her, and he made certain to take all the steps he could to protect her.

The couple always met in public, and he took care never to see her during the full moon. He explained away his absences by telling her that he had to travel regularly as a part of his business. He hated to lie to her, but what choice did he have? Better a small deceit than a gaping wound, he reasoned.

For her part, Katrina did not seem to mind the small restrictions he placed on their relationship. When she asked him about how each trip went, he mumbled a vague response about the difficulty of cultivating client relationships. Katrina obviously knew that he was hiding something, but she did not press the issue. Larry suspected that in her mind the tiny lies somehow gave the relationship an air of mystery and danger.

As their love for each other grew, Larry's mind was filled with more and more disturbing images. They haunted him with their savagery. He saw his lupine form hunched over Katrina's mutilated body, steam rising from her warm insides, his muzzle buried deep within the open cavity. He knew that time was running out, and he would be hunting her soon.

The next night, when the transformation began, he knew with despair that she would be his victim. He was glad that he had never allowed her to tell him where she lived. He prayed that this would make it more difficult to find her. But he had not counted on his heightened sense of smell. When he dashed off into the night air, his nostrils were filled with her scent, and he made a beeline for her home.

When he arrived, her found her sitting in her living room, a magazine spread out on her lap. The door to her patio was open, and he leapt into the room, his muzzle dripping with foam. She looked up and met his gaze as he slowly crossed the room towards her. "Hello, Larry," she said.

Larry did not pause for even an instant. He dug his hind legs into the thick carpet and prepared to spring for her throat. Calmly, she took the magazine, leaned forward, and hit him sharply on the snout. "Down!" she commanded, and the beast, stunned into submission, complied meekly. "Good boy," she said, and smiled warmly.

The evening proved extremely uneventful. Katrina trained the monster with a firm hand, and though he balked at first, as time went on he became more docile, finally curling up near her feet and panting happily as she scratched him behind the ears. When the sun came up and he resumed his human form, he looked up at her with wonder and amazement. "How did you know?" he asked.

"It wasn't hard," she said. "The newspapers have been filled with stories of a rampaging animal that's been terrorizing the city. All of the attacks occurred while you were "out of town". And I happen to have a healthy dose of Romanian blood in my veins, so it wasn't a big leap for me to accept the notion of a werewolf."

Larry stared in amazement at the ease with which she accepted the situation. "Weren't you scared?" he asked. "I mean, if you knew I was a werewolf, you knew I'd come for you. Why did you leave the door open? Why weren't you afraid of what I would do to you?"

Katrina laughed. "You know, Larry, you never once asked me what I did for a living." She handed him a business card. Larry studied it and immediately began to giggle uncontrollably. Printed in a delicate font was the simple legend: "Katrina Tartovski - Dog Trainer."

"I figure a werewolf is just a big dog," she said softly, running her hands through his hair. "So I trained you. And now we can be together, can't we?"

"Yes," said Larry, and he took her in his arms and kissed her. After a moment she broke the kiss and looked deep into his eyes.

"By the way," she said, her voice low and husky. "You can still be an animal in the bedroom. But no biting, okay?"

Larry grinned broadly and kissed her again. "It's a deal," he said.

Good Taste

Roger Jacobs had the best taste of any person in the world. He was not a particularly stylish dresser, nor was his sense of humor always appropriate. Rather, Roger tasted better than any other person the world had ever known.

He first became aware of his unique quality as a young boy. Relatives were compelled to kiss his cheeks over and over whenever they came to visit. Friends of the family likewise indulged themselves. At first, Roger chalked it up to the odd behavior that most adults exhibit when in the presence of a cute child. But something happened on his fourth birthday that caused him to question his hypothesis.

He had been playing outside and had taken a nasty fall, skinning his knee in the process. He ran into the house in tears, crying for his Mother. She picked the young boy up and kissed his boo-boo, and then licked his calf for an additional forty minutes. From that moment on, he knew that there was something different about him.

His condition forced him to live an extremely complicated and lonely life. He could never have a pet because once they licked Roger; they immediately shunned any variety of pet food that was placed before them. The more aggressive pets chased him around the home before knocking him to the ground and sitting on his chest, licking his exposed flesh until an adult dragged them away.

As an adult, Roger had found that his condition carried with it certain benefits. He had no trouble securing dates, as women loved to kiss him. While most teenage boys he knew were having trouble getting their girlfriends to French Kiss, Roger was having trouble getting girls to stop. He would finally have to tempt them to leave his mouth by offering them something more savory, and thus Roger found himself on the receiving end of countless enthusiastically delivered blow jobs.

Roger could never convince himself that the women in his life were interested in what lay beneath his skin, and so he chose to remain alone, giving up dating entirely. Instead he threw himself into his work, but soon he realized that his success was not due to any special talents he possessed, but rather to the fact that his superiors simply loved to shake his hands and then lick their palms in secret.

Every day of his existence was a horror. He could not bear to live a life without the comfort of others, but he could not trust anyone enough to open his heart to them. He carried on as expected, reporting to work daily because it was the only thing he knew to do. No one seemed to notice his despair, save for his secretary, Claire. She was a pretty girl, quiet and intelligent with a sense of humor that always lifted him out of the funk that filled his soul. Her laugh was music to his ears, and her smile never failed to warm his heart.

One day he happened to pass by her desk as she ate her lunch. She called out to him and he stopped, happy for another excuse to spend a moment speaking to her. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Jacobs," she said. She extended a container of yogurt to him. "Could you taste this for me? I'm afraid it may be spoiled and I can't tell."

Roger chuckled. "How can I refuse a tempting offer like that?" he chuckled, and took the container, making sure to wait until she had placed it on the desk and moved her hands well clear of it. He took the small plastic spoon that he always carried in his breast pocket and dipped it into the yogurt. He made a face and sputtered. "Oh, yeah," he said. "This has definitely gone bad. I can't believe you couldn't taste that."

Claire looked down, flushing slightly with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wouldn't have asked you, but I have a medical condition and can't smell or taste anything."

A beatific smile crossed Rogers features as her words rang in his ears. In the space of an instant, his life took a new direction. He became obsessed with winning her heart, so much so that everything else in his life took a backseat to his efforts to woo her. He courted Claire aggressively and without mercy for the next few months, but she always rebuffed his advances.

Roger spent many hours mulling the problem over, trying to puzzle out the reason why. Suddenly it came to him. Claire would not date him because he was her boss. It was that simple, and the solution was even simpler. If she would not date him as long as she was in his employ, he would simply fire her. Then the barrier would be gone.

Roger was smart enough to know that the process would take subtlety. He couldn't simply waltz to her desk, fire her, and then ask her what time he should pick her up for dinner. So he decided to frame her, weaving a web of corporate malfeasance that was tightening around her neck while she remained blissfully unaware.

On the day that the armed security personnel escorted her from the building, he made sure to tell her how sorry he had been about the way things turned out. He told her how much he believed in her, but his hands were tied, and he had no choice but to comply with the wishes of upper management. Her tears made his heart ache, but he told himself that the tiny bit of pain she endured now would all be forgotten when compared to the lifetime of joy that awaited her as his bride.

Roger bided his time, waiting for the right moment to call on her. It was maddening, but he could be patient when he had to be. Finally, after six weeks, he picked up the phone and called her.

He made small talk, inquiring as to how she was doing, whether she had found work yet, and then he asked her out. There was a moment of silence on the other end, during which he felt the first stirrings of unease.

"You had me fired, didn't you?" she asked. The flat emotionless tone of her voice frightened him.

He tried to explain himself, how he knew she had been reluctant to date him because he was her boss, and how he had done it all for her so that she could find happiness with him. But she would not accept his justifications.

"You didn't do this for me," she said. "You did it for you. You never asked me why I wouldn't go out with you. If you had, I would have told you the reason. You are obsessed with yourself. You have no compassion for others. You never think about the consequences of your actions. You wanted me and so you did whatever you thought was necessary to win me, without ever thinking about what I may want or how what you did would affect me. You are a cold man, Mr. Jacobs, and you were not worthy of the friendship I offered you, let alone my love."

She hung up, the click echoing over and over in his mind. He knew that she was right. He was unworthy of love. He always had been. And so, nature had compensated by making his flesh irresistible to others so that he might have a chance at finding companionship. But the one woman he had truly desired was immune to this tiny charm.

He sighed heavily, and hung up the phone, having reached the only conclusion he could arrive at.

He stepped into the bathroom and filled the large Jacuzzi tub with hot water, then slipped into the bath. He poured handful after handful of the sleeping pills into his open palm and dry swallowed them all, grimacing at the sickly smooth texture of the capsules. As drowsiness overtook him and he slid beneath the surface of the steaming water, he wondered how long it would take before his body was discovered.

The neighbors broke the door down six hours later, drawn by the aroma of the most irresistible stew they had ever smelled.

Twinkle Toes

"When did you first notice this condition, Mr. Pendergast?" the doctor asked, his eyes focused on the clipboard in his left hand.

"About a week ago", said Chuck, sighing heavily. "I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and when I flipped on the light there they were." He stared forlornly at his left foot and the Ace bandage that encircled it.

His choice of words captured the doctors attention. "They? Most people don't refer to abnormal growths as 'they'. Don't you mean it?"

The condescension in his voice was apparent, and Chuck suddenly found himself angry at the physician and the arrogance his training had given him. Chuck began to unwrap the bandage. "Tell ya what, doc", he said, fixing the man with a sullen stare. "Why don't you have a look and see what word you'd use."

The bandage fell away and the doctor glanced down at the foot. His eyes widened in shock and he fell back into the chair that sat in the corner of the room. Chucks toes had been replaced by five tiny, perfectly formed human heads. There was a long moment of silence. Chuck stared at the doctor. The Doctor stared at the toes. The toes stared back. Finally, the doctor spoke.

"That's, uh...that's unusual", he said. Chuck nodded.

"Do they cause any discomfort?" asked the doctor. "Any pain or irritation?"

"No", said Chuck. "They feel fine. They don't seem to mind when I walk on them and my balance doesn't seem to be affected. Theyre just......there, you know?"

The doctor stared at the toes, transfixed. The pinky flashed him a cheerful grin. The doctor tore his gaze away and focused on Chuck. "Are they functional? I mean, do they.....um....well, do they talk or anything like that?"

"I was afraid youd ask that", said Chuck. "Okay guys, show him."

The big toe drew in a deep breath and hummed a single note. The other toes joined in, uniting in a dazzling five part harmony. They held the chord for a moment and then launched into a lively rendition of Mr. Sandman.

"Amazing", said the doctor.

"Yeah, yeah, its fascinating", said Chuck. "So how do I get rid of them?"

The doctor looked at him with puzzlement. "How should I know?" he said.

Chuck exploded. "What do you mean, how should you know? You're a doctor, didn't you go to school for stuff like this?"

The physician puffed himself up in an attempt to regain his composure. "Mr. Pendergast, I graduated at the top of my class from Johns Hopkins, and I never missed a day of instruction. I'm sorry if they never covered what to do when a patient grows a few extra heads. If you are determined to get rid of them, you may find a physician who would be willing to amputate them, but I suspect most of them would consider this an unnecessary surgery since there appears to be nothing physically wrong with them."

"Nothing physically wrong?!" screamed Chuck. "Are you out of your fucking mind? Ive got five singing human heads where my toes used to be!" The heads had finished their first number and moved on to Birdland.

The doctor had regained his former arrogance, and he now added a healthy dose of condescension to his demeanor. "Mr. Pendergast, you have told me they cause no discomfort. I suspect the source of your irritation is purely cosmetic, in which case the problem is mental, not physical. I suggest you consult a therapist and learn how to accept the situation. Good day, sir."

That evening Chuck sat brooding in front of the television set. He tried to divert his mind from the problem of his unwanted vocal quintet by watching "American Idol", but he found it hard to concentrate. The toes were singing a medley of pop standards and ignored his repeated shushing. Finally, Chuck muted the volume and ordered them to take five.

"Look guys", he said, "I know you enjoy singing and everything, but I'm trying to watch the show." The toes looked up at him, an expression of sorrow on their tiny faces.

"Oh, come on", he said. "Don't pout. It isn't that I dont enjoy your music, I do. I mean, you guys are much better than most of the losers on this show. Its just that...." He trailed off as an idea began to percolate in his head. It was true. His toes were much better than most of the singing groups he had heard. So what was stopping them from hitting the big time? Smiling, he picked up the telephone and made a call.

When his toes made their debut on Idol the following season, they were an instant success. He had named the toes Inky, Blinky, Pinky, Clyde and Ricardo, and the public went wild over their carefully orchestrated vocal stylings. The fact that they were a genuine medical oddity piqued the curiosity of many casual viewers as well, and the popularity of the group skyrocketed. They won the contest in a landslide, and quickly inked a lucrative record deal. Their first album, Toe Jam, was a smash, reaching Number One the moment it hit the shelves. Fan clubs began to spring up over the country, and the general consensus was that Ricardo, the big toe who sang bass, was by far the cutest. The frenzy reached a level not seen since the days of John, Paul, George and Ringo, and the money rolled in.

All was rosy in Chuck's life until late one night after a particularly dazzling concert. He had imbibed a bit too much alcohol, and fallen into a deep sleep. When nature called, he awoke and shambled off to the bathroom. However, he was unfamiliar with the floor plan of the hotel he was residing in, and he neglected to turn on the lights before he tried to make his way to the loo. Thus, the inevitable occurred.

He stubbed his big toe.

He came awake in an instant and fumbled for the light switch. Ricardo stared up, glassy-eyed. He did not move. Chuck tried to revive him, but Ricardo did not respond. In a panic, Chuck grabbed the phone and called the front desk, screaming for an ambulance. Medical personnel arrived within seconds and whisked him to the hospital, but it was too late. Ricardo was DOA.

The news of the tragedy swept the nation, and the public mourned. Not since the death of Valentino had an entertainer been so loved. Fans sent hundreds of copies of the poem Footprints to the late singers estate. Elton John penned a tribute song for the departed digit, and the remaining toes sang it during the televised tribute to their fallen comrade. After the performance, they fell silent, vowing never to sing again in honor of their lost brother.

And when it was all said and done, America was a bit better off as a result of the tragedy. The country and its people had a heartwarming habit of banding together in a moment of crisis, and this provided them another chance to do so. And perhaps it was fitting that they themselves had engineered the success, and therefore the downfall, of the group. Through their tears, they remained philosophical.

They had experienced the thrill of victory. It was only right that they experience the agony of the feet

End of an icon

Joe Camel trudged along the vast Sahara desert, the hot sand burning the pads of his large feet. He was hunched over on all fours, a large Arab sultan riding atop his back. His trademark leather jacket and sunglasses were gone. Joe didn't mind losing the jacket. It reeked of tobacco, and the air of hipster coolness it afforded had never been worth the hassle from the humorless "Fur is Murder" Crowd. Joe really could have used the sunglasses, though.

As he plodded along, he reflected on how he had come to find himself in this demeaning role. Once he had been a star, beloved by millions. But over time, the country had grown increasingly resentful of the deceit and chicanery used by advertising agencies, and had risen as one, crushing them and stripping them of all their power. The executives and copywriters had been gathered up and imprisoned. And then, America went after the object of their greatest betrayal, their greatest distrust. They went after the icons.

The simple targets went first. The AFLAC duck was caught and found guilty of noise pollution. His sentence was swift, and the folks who enjoyed the duck al'orange at the local Chinese restaurant never suspected they were dining on the flesh of a former celebrity.

The Kool-Aid man went next. His behavior had been linked to increasing incidents of vandalism and property damage among impressionable youth. The large pitcher had been at home watching CNN when the live footage of his impending capture popped on the screen. He watched the swat teams surrounding his estate, and for a moment he thought of bursting through the wall and making a run for freedom, but he knew he would never escape. He listened as the authorities called to him through the bullhorn, promising that there was no way out. His voice rose in a mighty cry as he responded: "Oh, yeah?"

He resolved at that moment not to be taken alive and he grabbed the large hammer on his end table, smashing it with tremendous force against his crystal body. By the time the police broke down his door, he had bled to death, his carpet stained with over 300 gallons of his sugar-sweetened blood.

Joe knew his days were numbered, and so he had gone underground. He was living incognito, posing as an average everyday camel, humble servant to the local sultan. The sultan was an impatient man, and prodded Joe painfully, urging him to catch up to the rest of the herd. Joe did the best he could, but the years of smoking left him short of breath, and the stunning bulk of the fat Arab didnt help matters much.

Worse yet, the sultan was not good with animals. Since Joe did not understand Arabic, the sultan had resorted to swatting him on the butt with his rifle when he wanted the camel to trot forward. When he wished Joe to stop, he smashed the weapon over the camel's skull. Joe had begun to suspect that his Master's animal skills had come from an excessive and constant diet of Yosemite Sam cartoons. He sighed heavily, surprised and saddened by the turn his life had taken. Still, it could have been worse.

Thank God he hadn't taken that position with Enron.

The Whole Tooth

Mark Maldonado lay in his bed, his slumber disturbed by a particularly unsettling dream. He dreamt he was a tall oak tree, and he was being tormented by an insistent woodpecker who tapped against his skull with maddening regularity.

In the peculiar way of dreams, he began to realize that the tapping was not a product of his fitful slumber, but rather was actually happening to him in the waking world. His mind slowly swam up towards consciousness, and he found himself staring in disbelief at the stranger who stood before his bed.

The man was large and beefy, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He exhaled, expelling a hazy blue cloud of smoke into the room. He was dressed in a faded pink white tutu, and in his meaty hand he held a small wand. He leaned down and used it to rap Mark on the forehead once more. "Rise and shine, Mac," he said. "We've got business, you and I."

Mark blinked in confusion. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

The man grinned broadly. "Name's Sunshine, and I'm a Tooth Fairy," he said. "I'm here to collect what you owe us."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, hang on a second," said Mark. His head was swimming. "You're the Tooth Fairy? You have to be kidding. How did you get in here?"

Sunshine sighed heavily and leaned in close to Mark's face. The smell of smoke poured off of the man. "Pay attention, Skippy," he said. "I'm not THE Tooth Fairy, I'm A Tooth Fairy. There's a bunch of us. I resolve overdue accounts. See, the tooth business has a very low profit margin, and so we need to audit our books very thoroughly. Naturally, with so many clients it takes us a while to catch up to the deadbeats, but we always find 'em. And that's when I go to work." He smiled coldly. "I happen to work in collections."

Mark had decided that he was still asleep and this was merely another of his vividly demented dreams. Still, he was curious, and so he happily went with it, anxious to find out what his mind had conjured up this time.

"Okay,' he said. "You're here to collect. But I think you've made a slight mistake. I left you folks a tooth for every nickel you ever gave me."

"That you did, Skeezix, you definitely did." Sunshine sat on the edge of the bed, his cold gray eyes never leaving Mark's face. "Trouble is, they weren't all yours. Did you honestly expect us to believe that you lost 47 baby teeth? You've obviously been cashing in on teeth that weren't yours. DNA tests showed that two of 'em were from a horse."

Mark said nothing. They had him dead to rights. "So what exactly do you want from me?"

"We want the dough we paid you. You committed fraud, Charley, and we expect you to make restitution." Sunshine pulled an invoice out of his tutu. Mark wondered where exactly it had been hidden, and decided he really didn't want to know. Sunshine continued. "According to the boys in accounting, when we take the overpayments and apply standard interest compounded over 30 years, you owe us $1,712.53."

Mark decided that the game had gone on long enough. He folded his arms across his chest. He spoke, a smug grin on his face. "And what exactly are you going to do if I refuse to pay?"

"Well,' said Sunshine, "then I'd have to put this cute little wand away and get my business model. You'd like it. It's made by the fine folks who gave us the Louisville Slugger."

Mark's smiled faded. "Would you take a check?" he asked meekly.

Sunshine laughed. "Who do I look like, the Easter Bunny? Cash or charge only."

Mark reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his wallet. He thumbed through the plastic windows and pulled out his MasterCard. Wordlessly, he handed it over to the large fairy. Sunshine reached into his tutu again and pulled a laptop computer from within. "You got a telephone jack near here?" he asked.

Mark gestured to the dresser, and Sunshine rose and crossed over to it. He hunched down in search of the jack, plugged his phone line in and powered up the computer. In a few moments, he had completed the transaction and closed the books on Mark's account. He tossed the credit card back onto Mark's bed and began to pack his things.

"This really ain't that unusual, you know," he said. "Nowadays, everybody's getting more careful with their bookkeeping. None of us can afford a scandal, ya know." With that, Sunshine tapped his forehead with the wand and vanished in a cloud of fairy dust. Mark wondered if his vacuum would be able to clean it up.

He pulled the covers back over his body and tried to return to sleep. The fairy's words played over in his mind. He wondered who else might be auditing his childhood.

Much later that night, after he had gone back to sleep, he was awakened by a fat man dressed in red who wanted to discuss a Schwinn racing bike and Mark's behavior in the year 1968.

Regarding Mr. Rogers Neighborhood:

Henrietta Pusycat and X the Owl lived right next door to each other in that tiny little tree. A cat and an owl, next door neighbors. Am I the only one who thinks that arrangement might have been a little tense?

Looking for a vacation?

Friends, are you a bird lover? Are you tired of spending hours in the field, only to log yet another cardinal or robin? Does the incessant tap-tap-tap of the woodpecker fill you with woe? Well, despair no more, thanks to Nevermore Birding, the only avian excursion agency designed specifically to appeal to the more jaded ornithologist.

At Nevermore Birding, we specialize almost exclusively in birds of prey, from majestic hunters like the Peregrine Falcon and the American Bald Eagle, to common scavenger breeds. And unlike other bird watching expeditions, we get you right on top of the action, close enough to watch as winged wonders pluck the eyeball from a fresh kill. When we talk of a bird's eye view, we aren't speaking metaphorically.

We offer trips designed to meet the tastes and needs of everyone. Try one of our Starstruck Voyages, led by such luminaries as Tippi Hedren. Or call now and book our Flight Across America package in which we travel across this great land of ours. You'll witness everything from crows feasting on road kill along historic Route 66 to vultures dining on unfortunate travelers in the Nevada desert. And with Nevermore Birding, you needn't worry about missing the action, as we encourage our guests to bring plenty of…..bait.

So why waste another minute in the company of sapsuckers? Call Nevermore Birding today. And remember, unlike the airlines, we don't charge extra for carrion.

There Will Be Blood

Note: This piece was originally intended to be heard, not read. It was written as a radio play for Scream Theater, an annual Halloween show I have worked on for many years. Enjoy!

The forecast calls for rain this evening, but the forecast is wrong. Tonight there will be no rain. Tonight . . there will be blood.

The time has come again. I feel it in the very marrow of my bones. It returns infrequently, staying briefly, but it always comes back. And when it does, I take to the streets, searching for another subject.

I examine my tools closely. They are immaculate, but need a bit of maintenance. An artist is only as good as the tools of his trade, and make no mistake, I am an artist. I’m not prolific by any means, but the nature of my art requires forethought, planning, restraint. I do not begin a canvas without seeing the finished work clearly in my head. But tonight I am ready. Tonight . . there will be blood.

There are safer ways to do this, I suppose, but I’ve always been a tactile person. It’s important to my work to feel, to touch. I revel in the resistance of the flesh as the tip of the knife presses against it. There is exhilaration when the pressure wins out and the blade sinks into the rubbery organs within. I understand the nature of the addict in those moments, and I know how easily one could find themselves a prisoner of such a sensation. But I am cautious. I only occasionally allow myself to experience the intoxicating, coppery scent of the blood as it spills before me. And tonight . . tonight there will be blood.

Some view my work as ugly, monstrous. That is the very point. I reveal the ugliness of the soul. I shine a spotlight on the brutality within us all. But I don’t expect others to understand. No true artist is appreciated in his own time. Accolades are unimportant. They will come years after I am gone. Tonight is all that matters, and tonight there will be blood.

As I walk, I scan the faces of the passersby. Finding a subject is the most important element of the work. I work only at night, late night, and the hours I am forced to keep limit what I have to work with. And then, I see her, and inspiration strikes.

Her skin is pale, almost alabaster in the moonlight. In an instant, I can see the dazzling contrast of her china doll-like flesh against my crimson masterpiece. Sometimes fortune smiles upon us. Tonight, the universe provides. Tonight, there will be blood.

She is alone and unsuspecting. She does not glance back as my footsteps announce my progress. I am almost upon her now, and still she takes no notice of her approaching destiny. I know her type. She trusts that someone is watching over her, protecting her. But she will learn differently, and I shudder with delight as I think of that final look of realization forever frozen on her face. I reach out and our session begins.

She is tiny but spirited. She fights wildly, and I move quickly. I want to end the struggle before the blood flow increases and ruins the pigment of her flesh. I pull her body close to me and bring the cold steel of the blade against her throat. It will be a most insistent lover, and its kiss will be eternal. Tonight there will be romance. Tonight there will be blood.

The knife does it job, and a second mouth opens in the flesh of her throat even as her screams fade. I turn her quickly, tearing the clothes from her torso as I plunge the knife into her belly. I pull upwards, anticipating the spill of the organs as they tumble from her body and I long for the rush of warmth as they lay pulsing, steaming in the chill of the evening.

But something is wrong. There is no carnage. The organs remain in place, and there is no crimson fountain spattering on the cobblestones. I look up in confusion and see the open smiling wound in her throat close itself, as though a set of lips pursed themselves in angry reproach.

I stare into her face and there is no look of horror, no mask of realization. Her eyes are bright and focused on me. And as her mouth opens in a predatory grin, I see the gleam of her fangs in the moonlight. I drop the knife in shock and she grabs me. Saliva drips from her monstrous canines as her mouth fixes itself upon my throat. And as the world grows dark for me, I realize I have been right all along. Tonight . . there will be blood.

Welcome

So....

Just like everyone else who has learned to mash a keyboard in a coherent manner, I have started a blog.

There isn't much to explain, really. This will serve as a place for me to post my original fiction and essays about my life in general. The title derives from the old joke about a little boy who is placed in a room filled with horseshit. He gleefully begins digging into the dung, happily exclaiming "With all this shit in here, there HAS to be a pony here SOMEPLACE..." In a lot of ways, that sums up my life. In many ways, it is wonderful beyond words. On occasion, however, the level of shit gets so high that I have to start looking for the pony lest I go mad.

I'll warn everyone right off the bat: I am not a great typist, I make many mistakes in regard to grammar and punctuation, and I am fairly opinionated and stubborn. I hope, however, that the content of the pieces that you find here will make up for those other deficiencies.

For the present, I'll be re-posting things that I have written over the years which I find to be interesting and entertaining. If you have read them elsewhere, I hope you consider this a chance to visit an old friend once again. If these entries are new to you, I hope you find them to be a pleasant way to spend some time while you wait for your "two girls, one cup" video to finish loading. Either way, have a good time and don't take it too seriously.