Prefaces and Asides

The Highwayman and the Gallows - From Broetry

2012-01-27T13:12:00.001-06:00

I stand upon the wooden gallows

noose around my neck, soon dead.

I dove in deep; avoiding shallows,

and now I see I've made my bed.

Standing here do I regret,

the evil that I've said and done?

Only that which I've beget,

Standing there below; my son.

A highwayman, I robbed for him.

I murdered, stole and took with need.

And though my soul is stained with sin,

For him I did each evil deed.

And as they ask for final words,

I see his face, ashamed of me.

Though this may seem quite absurd,

it pleases me to see.

For every life I took away,

and every dime I stole,

I did it knowing that one day,

he'd see my action's toll.

For after my short drop to fate,

and while through hell I wade.

I know the life I did create,

Will see the price I paid.

He'll grow up strong, with me to hate,

my actions with he'll disagree.

Ner' a gun will be his mate.

My boy will live, but not like me.

So drop the trap and take my life,

for I am unafraid!

I fed my boy and fed my wife,

This is the bed I've made.

Click here to buy Broetry on Amazon.com

Last Rights - From Cattywompus

2012-01-25T18:29:00.000-06:00

“I don’t care if the pope’s doing it. It ain’t right and it’s not for me. A man wasn’t meant to have his brains stuffed into a computer.” Carol looked embarrassed at her father’s outburst, but the young doctor smiled and stepped in.

“Mr. Stevenson, I assure you, Upload is a completely safe procedure. We-“ Wilbur Stevenson began pulling the electrodes off his scalp and the doctor frowned.

“Daddy, please be reasonable!” Carol said, trying to calm her father.

“Live in a damn cartoon world? No sir!” The doctor smiled and reattached the electrodes.

“That’s a gross oversimplification. The grid is a virtual space, but it’s far from a cartoon. I’m sure some of your friends are even there-“

“My friends are buried in France, right where I left them! You ever saw a man cut in half with a German machine gun?”

“I spent three years in the ER,” the doctor said affably. His nurse wheeled in the Upload box and plugged into the grid jack.

“Just think daddy, you can spend all day reading, or playing chess.”

“A copy of me will! I’ll still be dead!”

“Doctor, we have a solid connection,” the nurse said, her fingers gracefully moving across the keyboard.

“We’ll visit you all the time daddy,” Carol said, holding her father’s hand.

“Won’t be me. You’re killing me because it’s cheaper. You can’t put a soul in a computer. You’re killing me!” Carol burst into tears.

“Wilbur, without mandatory Upload the elderly would bankrupt the medical industry. Upload is the only humane way to give you some quality of life.” The young doctor said as he injected the IV with chemicals that would end Wilbur Stevenson’s physical life. The nurse struck a key.

“It ain’t right,” Wilbur whispered, and then the whole world went digital.
Buy the full book Cattywompus on Amazon.com here!

Gorilla Jet-Pack Knife-Fights: From Cattywompus

2012-01-24T02:28:00.000-06:00

See, bitch!

That's what you get!

You pull a knife on me?

A knife?

What is this,

the eighteenth century?

Do you see me wearing a fucking bowler hat?

Keep kicking him, Bobo.

Kick him like he's got all the bananas.

You brought a knife to a gorilla fight, bitch.

Where you going?

Bobo, bring his goofy ass back here.

That's right,

BMW makes that jet-pack engine.

You think you're faster than a beamer, boy?

Cause you ain't.

Remember this next time you mug someone, bitch.

The Supreme Court guarantees the right to bear gorillas with jet packs.

Fuck the gorilla hating lefties.

You remember that picture of George Washington crossing the Delaware, bitch?

All those marmosets with pen-knifes ready to defend your freedom.

Men died for my right to have a hovering, angry primate for defense.

He's had enough Bobo.

Let's go.

What?

A gun?

Bobo, that's retarded.

(Note: Don't ask what I mean with this poem. I'm not really sure, monkeys with jet packs are just funny.)

Buy the full book Cattywompus on Amazon.com here!

The Deflowering of Chastity St. James - From Cattywompus

2012-01-22T22:55:00.000-06:00

Chastity felt a warmth in her belly as the stallion and the mare coupled in the field.

"He's not hurting her, is he, Edward?" she asked breathlessly.

"No ... he's not." Chastity ran a hand across Edwards bare chest, tracing the rippling muscles. She sighed wistfully. She knew that it was wrong, she was a St. James, after all. A woman of her station could never be with a common stable boy, no matter how true their love was.

She didn't care.

"I could teach you," Edward whispered quietly into her blushing ear.

"Yes," Chastity whimpered, milky bosom rising and falling.

Then they totally starting making out like crazy; kissing and junk. And he took her boobies out. Like right in front of the horses. For serious. It was crazy as fuck.

Oh yeah.

Then they did it, like sooo many ways. Way more ways than your husband does, and they did that thing you want to try and keep mentioning like you're joking but you're not, you're so not. But yeah, they did that. Like three times.

Also she orgasmed a lot.

Then he listened to her talk about her day.

Fin

Buy the full book Cattywompus on Amazon.com here!

How to Play Clever: The Betting Game of Mars City is Burning.

2012-01-20T19:02:00.004-06:00

So I needed a somewhat unique gambling game to use for me and Ben Hummel's upcoming Steampunk Graphic Novel, and I wanted it to be something men might play in a world where Cleverness was more important than morality.

A Clever board. Note how you can see everyone else's life at a glance.
That's important tactically.

I came up with Clever. It's a real game and you can really play it, and it's a game that puts your intellectual money where your mouth is with both actual intelligence, and the ability to judge others. It's for 2-unlimited players. And you can put money on it.

What you will need:

1) A box of Trivial Pursuit cards of ANY type
(No one is allowed to have played that "set" before.)
2) 1 six sided die.
3) 10 sided dice or counters for however many players you have.

Clever doesn't require chips, but they're recommended.

How the game works.

Pool money (if gambling.)

Everyone rolls the D6 and highest role goes first, then the game moves clockwise from that person. (In the case of ties, roll tie breaker.)

That person takes a card and rolls the D6. Then go to whatever question corresponds to that die roll (1-6 going down the card.) That is the question that will be used to attack another player.

The player then chooses who to give the question to (anyone but themselves.) The person attacked must answer the question and the rest of the players must be silent.

If they get the answer right, you lose one point (everyone starts with 10.) If they don't get it right, they lose one point. If you get to zero points you're out of the game.

The game is played clockwise till one person is left, (and if money was bet, that person gets the entire pot.)

Clever: Use it to take money from stupider friends!

The beauty of the game is that you cannot lose if you're always right, but if you're not always right you can still with with a shrewd knowledge of other players... Hense the name "clever."

My feelings on personal use piracy as a content creator.

2012-01-20T16:08:00.000-06:00

I'm a "content creator" so I struggle where that line is. I'm for OPEN. What I'm not for is giving big companies a tool to kill competitors on technicalities. I'm not for hurting people who's crime was liking my art.

What it comes down to for me is two things:

1) If you steal my book today, you might buy my next one. Had you not stolen it, that wouldn't happen, so it DOES give me an extra chance to hook you. Writing is like hacking the mind, and I get a free shot at you if you steal my book. We both win if I hook you.

2) If you worry too much about stealing ideas, it bespeaks a fear that you don't have very many good ideas and this one was a fluke. So steal a joke or a read. I'm good enough to make more.

Here's what it comes down to for me. I'm against someone reprinting my book for their profit, sure.

But if you stole it cause you REALLY wanted to read it, I'm more flattered than mad.

You broke the law for me. THAT is real fandom.

-Will Ross

(so called content creator.)

Genuine Class: From Cattywompus

2012-01-19T19:29:00.001-06:00

"Excuse me, Mr. Squib," the stewardess (- sorry, flight attendant), said, causing me to look up from my SkyMall catalog. I had been pondering buying my valet one of those delightful shirts with the tuxedo on it, and I resented the interruption.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but you're eligible for a complementary upgrade." I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I'm in First Class Premier Premium Plus already."

"I understand that, sir. However, Squib-Co stock went up two points today. You're now a billionaire." I nodded coolly. I wasn't surprised by this. I'd know early on that investing in that social networking sight linking well-to-do pedophiles with children in need of school supplies was win-win-win (boy, do those NAMBLA guys click on ads for 'Nick Jr!') What I was surprised at was her knowing my personal worth.

"You would know that how?" I was worried for a moment ex-Mrs. Squib number three was trying to serve me with papers again. She can have alimony when she returns one of those implants I paid for. She gets half of mine, I'll get half of hers.

"We track the life progress of all of our First Class Premier Premium Plus members, Mr. Squib."

"What sort of upgrade?" She had my attention. Upgrades are important.

"Mr. Squib, you're now eligible to fly in 'Genuine Class.' If you'd follow me, please?" I returned the SkyMall to the seat-back pocket and followed her to the front of the cabin, making a mental note to purchase those solid gold shoehorns I'd been looking at (if you haven't used a gold shoehorn before, you're basically putting your shoes on like a serf; I highly recommend them.) She led me to the cockpit door. The rest of the passengers stared in obvious envy. They were right to notice me. Still, the cockpit?

"Oh... no, thank you. I'd rather not sit in the cockpit," I said. I wasn't in the mood for practical jokes, not with so many shoehorns left unpurchased.

"Sir, we haven't had pilots since the Regan Administration. The cockpit is just a hologram to make the lower class feel more comfortable.

"So who's flying the plane?"

"We pay South Korean kids a dollar an hour to fly our jets remotely."

"No unions.... no benefits...."

I was impressed.

"Only guilds, but they tend to fight with themselves more than us. Also, they're easily mollified by anyone with a vagina."

I smiled.

"You know, you're all right... for a flight attendant."

"Mr. Squib, in Genuine Class, I'm a stewardess." She took my hand and led me through the hologram. There was a sudden gust of wind that blew my just-enough-gray-to-look-distinguished hair back.

"Temporal distortion," she said with a smile, "don't mind it." The cockpit expanded into a larger room. It was decorated with antique wood, floor to ceiling book cases, and a bar filled with scotch and bourbon. The heads of various endangered species covered one wall- my first time seeing a Sasquatch or a unicorn actually, apart from the Illuminati's Zoo Sixteen. (You've never heard of it; you have to be worth at least five-hundred million even to see one of their 'Sky-Max' nature films.) Leather high-backed airline chairs as large as a mall Santa's chair were spaced comfortably around a roaring fire.

The flight attendant's (-no, "stewardess'") uniform had grown more form fitting and low cut, and her name tag had changed from "Tracy" to "Trixy."

"If I can do anything for you Mr. Squib, don't hesitate to ask," she whispered throatily.

"Scotch."

"And a cigar?" She touched my wrist suggestively.

"You can smoke in here?!"

"Yes, in this room. California billionaires go to a different room."

"Then yes, a cigar would be quite nice."

"Cuban?"

"But what about the embargo?"

"The Federal government has no jurisdiction in Genuine Class, Mr. Squib." I smiled at that thought, pushing the recline button. To my pleasant surprise it reclined all the way back, and I was looking up at a kindly old bearded man in a crisp apron. He knew better than to make direct eye contact, which I appreciated.

"Shave, sir?" He asked.

"And a trim. Not too-"

"'Short on the sides, and mind the part.'" The old man said.

I was impressed again.

He went to work, shaving me carefully as Sean Hannity's velvet voice crooned softly from the Bose Prestige Quantum Stereo. Two malnourished Haitian boys crawled into the room on their hands and knees to go to work on my shoes with shine-rags.

Trixie returned, lighting the cigar between her own pouty lips like an unspoken double entendre, before putting it into between mine. She gave me my scotch (rocks; I like my scotch like I like my women:, bitter, wet, and at least sixteen years old) and then proceeded to fellate me expertly as I was shaved and trimmed by the kindly old gentleman. He hummed a jaunty little Rodgers and Hammerstein tune as I blew careful smoke rings; rolling my tumbler of scotch in my hand and studying the ice cubes. I was appropriately, nonchalantly bored.

And as I finished both my shave and the other at exactly the same instant, I had a moment of perfect clarity.

"I deserve this," I thought to myself.

Buy the full book Cattywompus on Amazon.com here!

No shirt, no freedom, no service.

2012-01-17T21:50:00.000-06:00

Every man is a finger. That finger can flip something larger off, and that's cathartic but it's not productive. OR that finger can lose it's ego and join with other fingers to become a mighty fist of awesome populist dickpunchery. Ayn Rand once postulated those blessed with lucky talent would go on strike to fuck the little people.

Today, we proved that hyberbolic hack wrong. We're going on strike because the little people deserve an internet that lets ANY of them become exceptional. Today Atlas doesn't shrug; he puts down everything of little importance, and then shoulders the load that matters.

-W

How to Take Down a Christmas Tree

2012-01-17T09:47:00.000-06:00

If you're one of the many American's who haven't taken down their Christmas Trees before MLK day (as is the Christian custom,) here's a quick way to take care of it. You're welcome.

Before

Cover walls and furniture with asbestos sheeting and insulation.
Open all windows for nice cross breeze.
Burn tree with Flamethrower.
Vacuum.
Remove asbestos.

Finished Project

Problem solved...

(Warning: Do not test hypothesis.)

The Legend of Jango Stevens - From Cattywompus

2012-01-14T15:41:00.000-06:00

(Dear Freemont, this is 90% in fun. This was written to address a friend's tall tales about a blackbelt Übermensch barfighter who could beat any human being alive regardless of circumstance and also came off as a facepunching lunatic and was intended to rile him. /end pussy ass disclaimer- Will)

Years ago, in the little town of Fremont, Nebraska, where the pleasant aroma of the hog-rendering plant blankets the city in it’s sweet perfume, and the wind doesn’t blow, it sucks, lived the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. His Christian name was Jango Stevens.

Nine feet tall he was, with biceps like kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon and legs so powerful he could tip cows two at a time. During the daylight hours, majestic in his flannel shirt and Peterbuilt hat, he spent his days at the meat packing plant, stunning cows not with an air hammer, but with the power of his glare alone.

But when the day ended and the moon was high in the sky, Jango Stevens would comb back his mullet just so, slip on his biggest, shiniest belt buckle, and drive down to Scooters pub. There, he was the drinkenist, fightenist man the town ever seen.

He’d fight men six at a time, they say, until the wee hours, when he would retire to his glorious doublewide with the waitress of his choice, and celebrate his victory until dawn. Such was his life... until one fateful night.

Artists Rendering

There he stood upon a pile of unconscious men, enjoying a dip of fine Copenhagen chewing tobacco and a cold tall boy of American pilsner. He was considering calling the police on himself just so he’d have someone to punch out, when the door to the pub exploded into splinters.

There, resplendent in a rhinestone bedazzled karate gi, the gel making his hair shine like the sun, stood Stephen Segal. “I reckon that boy’s gonna stomp you,” said one of the pile though a mouthful of bloody teeth.

Jango said nothing. He finished his tall boy in one mighty swig, spit his chewing tobacco out onto the floor, and cracked his knuckles. Now when Ol’ Jango Stephens cracked his knuckles, all across Fremont the men would cower and the women would ovulate.

But Segal never moved. “I’m a seventh dan in Aikido,” Segal said as Jango squared up. “And I got a seventh dan in whupin ass,” Jango replied.

Those that were there on that fateful night say that Segal tried to kick him, but Jango reached his arm so far back that when the punch came in it had a Texas postmark on the knuckles. Folks swear that Segal exploded into a pile of blood and hair, but I have it on good authority that NASA scientists have seen him in the Hubble space telescope, orbiting Jupiter.

As Jango was wiping the hair gel from his knuckles, who should rush out from the shadows but the Incredible Hulk. Jango saw him and before you know it, damned if Jango didn’t use his expert high school wrestling moves to twist The Hulk up into a balloon animal that he gave to a passing child. He then struck the child unconscious, as was his way.

By then every filly in Fremont was there, each one eager and willing to sire Jango’s heir. He was so busy checking these delicate blossoms for open sores and missing teeth that he nearly missed the Chicago Bears sneaking up from behind, each and every one carrying a rusty lawn dart. Jango turned and let out a bellow that would turn a gay man straight, a straight man gay, and a bi-curious one way or 'thuther, and rushed head long into the fray. Legend has it that the ruckus was so loud that the police were taking noise complaints all the way in oriental China.

Well, it was about that time that Jango was growing weary of tousling with mere mortals. Smashing a beer bottle over the head of the final Chigago bear, Jango Stephens uttered his famous last words. “Ima gonna go knock Jehovah the fuck out. He ain't better than me,” he said, and then jammed the beer bottle right into his throat. The force with which his spirit left his mortal shell washed the running boards of every truck in Fremont, if legends can be believed.

Now nobody knows if ol' Jango knocked out Yaweh, but we do know that the very next day president George Walker Bush became the forty-third president of these United States.

Folks round these parts say if you listen just right, you can still here ol' Jango’s voice on the wind, cussin' at his common-law wife to make him some dinner. They say he’ll come back one day, when the town is threatened and wings are six for a dollar, and retake his rightful place, as the Emperor of Fremont.
Buy the full book Cattywompus on Amazon.com here!

Almost! (And why I've been busy today.)

2012-01-12T13:09:00.002-06:00

Book is at the formatter and when it comes back it's ready to proof and print. Keeping it brief because I'm working on some SOPA shit.

If you want my opinion on it, fuck SOPA/PIPA. These bills need to die forever and never come back.

I won't say anything else about it, cause I'm a soldier, not a general.

But I will DO something about it.

Hope to see you in the foxholes.

-Will.

Looking like Monday.

2012-01-05T23:02:00.001-06:00

Draft done, doing final prep for formatter tomorrow. Book drops Monday.

More tomorrow after I get the draft sent off. A LOT happening.

-Will

I'm stupidly proud of this for some reason.

2011-12-23T19:21:00.001-06:00

Two characters, both lifetime victims, both physically weak, both under tremendous stress. Babydoll and Bella start in essentially the same place.

One fights back to the death, the other cries in bed and texts. I rest my fucking case.

Arguing how a strong female character should relate to her boyfriend makes the assumption that she needs one in the first place.

Some Tips on Live Reading for the Virgins in the Group (Post Holiday Spoken Word Showdown)

2011-12-22T13:54:00.001-06:00

I'll be reading at the Pizza Shop Collective at 7PM December 26, 2011 in Omaha, Nebrasky along with a ton of awesome performers and writers!

MAP
EVENT FACEBOOK

Since a few of them are "live show" virgins, I thought some tips might be in order. Here are 10 of them, in no particular order.

Well, I guess they're in exact order 1-10, but the data is no exact order.

Well, that's not true either, since I use sentences and punctuation and junk so it's all very orderly but...

Fuck it, never-mind.

Here goes.

1) Work off paper.

You can memorize, true, but your first time your mind may very well blank. Crowds are scary. Having paper ALWAYS there, even if you're not reading it, means you can look down and into safety at any time. Be prepared!

2) They came to see you, so they don't want you to fail.

You can look at a crowd and say "They're gonna eat me alive" but really they're not. If you bomb, they have a sucky night. So everyone in the room is behind you.

3) Avoid things that are too obtuse.

On the tubes, you can find an audience for anything. A live audience is different. It's a single organism and not everything will work for it. But we know they like us, we know they like Planned Parenthood. That gives you a lot of implied information on what material works.

4) Slow down.

Whatever speed you're working at is too fast. "Make a meal of your words." Don't serve the audience fast food.

5) If you can let them be funny; flubs, broken character, skips, misreads can be funny for the audience too.

My favorite Colbert moments are when he breaks character. Have a sense of humor about yourself.

6) Bring extra material.

I normally bring about twice as many minutes as I fill. If something gets a muted response, you know it doesn't work for that audience. If that's ALL you brought, or you chose something that takes the entire allotted time and it doesn't work... well, you're in for a long slog.

7) Have CONFIDENCE.

Don't use half your ass. The audience payed (or donated) for your whole ass. Don't Cinemax them. You don't have to be confident in your material, but you DO have to cut all of the things we use in the real world to modify your statements. Stop worrying so much what the audience thinks of you, if they were on stage and you were in the crowd, you'd want to see someone go balls out. *Note, please do not actually show ass or balls, that was a metaphor.*

8) Don't ever apologize on stage.

Not "sorry, the pages got stuck together" or "While I'm no David Nesbit, I hope you'll like my stuff just as much." Whether or not you deserve to be on stage is irrelevant, motherfucker. You're there. Don't apologize, ENJOY IT. Everyone in the audience WISHES they could talk and 50 people would listen. When you get all "oh gee I'm here by accident" you sort of squander a lucky talent they wish they had and it's disengenuious. Plus you wouldn't have been invited if you sucked (unless it's an Open Mic, in which case even if you do suck, you'll still not be the suckiest.)

9) If you can get your nerves under control enough, listen.

When you get an ear for it you can hear what is bombing, and what isn't based on crowd levels. If it's your first read you might not be able to, but eventually this becomes a full contact sport. You learn what jokes to punch, inflections, etc, by watching a crowd.

10) Remember that this is fun.

That puts a lot in perspective when you realize you actually want to be there :)

Good luck, tl;dr and all that.

-W

Bobby Anderson's Report on the Universe

2011-12-16T19:15:00.003-06:00

My Report on the Universe

by Bobby “Singularity” Anderson
Grade 8

Instead of an explanation of the universe, I give you a letter of protest.

It’s completely unfair that I should have to take Science and Sexual Education when the Patterson twins don’t have to. If they have enough time to show up at my house on weekends in white shirts with name-tags and give books away, they have time to learn about science and how terrifying vagina's are in cross section and not to make fun of Norman for being gay. (Not gay gay, gay-gay.)

If the Pattersons can tell Norman he’s going to hell for being gay and not even get in trouble, why can’t I tell them how gay saying that is without getting in trouble, when I’m not even talking about them being gay, I’m saying they're being gay.

But whether or not Cassie Jordon is going to hell for going what she did with Sarah Peterson in the band’s equipment/smush room is really besides the point, because I’ve got to tell you I read this "so called Science" textbook and we are all totally balls out screwed either way.

So now I hear I have to believe this or the Bible, well let me tell you; I once read the Bible cover to cover when Daryl took me to meet some of his motorcycle friends, (and there wasn’t anything else to read after he threw a beer bottle through the TV because they hadn’t showed up with “Crystal and Jeff.”)

That book wasn’t half as scary and confusing as this textbook, and you shouldn’t show this to kids.

No, you should show them right away and maybe nothing but this text book. I’m not sure, but I know one thing for certain; everything is awful and random and we’re all going to die tomorrow or never. Or we won’t. I'm hyperventilating. Let me explain how bad it is.

First of all, nobody informed me black holes can move. That shit should not wait for Junior High. That should be right after you learn to tie your shoes. They should say to you “then pull the loop through and you have it, now look out cause there could be black holes everywhere and they don’t mass around.” Then the teacher'd punch my shoulder because he just made a “teacher joke,” and I’d pretend it was funny because he grades my papers.

Second of all, did you know everything, everywhere at all times wants to kill us? Cause I didn’t, Mr. Piper, and I haven’t slept in about eight days. Before I just had to worry about child molesters and Daryl stealing my Adderol, but now I can worry about:

Rogue Suns
Asteroids
Grey Goo
Fucking Aliens
Strangelets

I could go on and on. And I will.

Comets
The Sun Dying
The Sun Exploding
Fucking Aliens from Parallel Dimensions
Daryl from Parallel Dimensions
Multiple Daryl’s from Parallel Dimensions Ganging up With Fucking Aliens

...and so on and so forth. Now I’ve talked to the Patterson twins about this, and they say if I change from your textbook to theirs I don’t have to learn about any of this. In their version there’s a dude who’s got all of this covered, everyone gets a planet and all I have to care about is not having sex feelings for boys and R-rated movies.

That takes me from the ten thousand worries this textbook has given me, down to one guy's list. That seems like a fair trade.

I’m a Moron now and you can’t make me write this paper and everything is fine.

Bobby Anderson

D+

Good luck in your quest to become an ironic typo, Bobby. (I’m passing you because you still accidentally learned and because acids are not toys. Go to high school- far, far away from my equipment.
-Mr. Piper

Why I Can't Do Math

2011-12-05T09:07:00.001-06:00

I figured out why I can't do math, and it comes down to my ADHD. When given a choice to pay attention to the shit going on inside my head, or an external stimulus, I chose whichever of the two options holds my interest the best.

So let's look at the two competitors right next to each other, and see if we can figure out why Algebra eludes me.

Algebra

"So if A = B, and A = C, then it follows that C would also = B, since A and C are the same, logically B and C also have to be the same. These sorts of logical deductions are a large part of Algebra, because it involves the study of-"

Or...

My Brain at 14

"Holy shit, thirty dragons are incoming, and I'm just in this one spaceship/tank/McDonald's. The winner get's all the candy in Britain, and 24 ice-cold ounces of the beverage of their choice. The loser, inglorious space-death. Alright, Milton, my faithful and wisecracking guinea-pig wingman. Time to answer the question 'what's got two thumbs (on laser triggers) and fucking HATES DRAGONS?' *PEWPEWPEW* THIS GUY."

Let's be honest here, which one would YOU pay attention to for 50 minutes a day for an entire year?

Letters from Gay Camp! From "Cattywompus"

2011-12-03T21:35:00.001-06:00

Dear Mom and Dad,

OK, for once in my life I can admit you were absolutely right.

When you caught me kissing Mark, threw me into the car, and drove me five-hundred miles into the middle of Missouri, I was skeptical (and completely out of product.). I didn't believe that being Gay was something I could treat, especially through prayer.

I remember driving under the "Camp Knotty Pines Retreat for Confused Christian Boys" sign and thinking "Great, all these insect bites are going to just destroy my complexion."

How wrong was I?

Please ignore everything I said, dear parents. Homosexuality absolutely can be cured by prayer and willpower, and I insist that I stay the entire summer in order to completely exercise- pardon, exorcise... hrm... Freudian... my "gay demons." It's the only way I can grow and mature as a true Christian.

I even have a girlfriend now! We were each assigned a girlfriend/boyfriend and a same gender "Prayer Partner." My girlfriend's name is Amanda, one of the "used to be lesbians" from "Camp Blossoming Orchids" across the lake. She has hair and a face.

So let me talk to you about Albert (pronounced Al-bear, if you can believe it!) my Prayer Partner. If you've ever read Ivanhoe, you know what this boy's hair looks like, and oh-my-god, he's got this rock climbers body that's like... seriously, when we play full contact pad-less tackle football it's like rolling around with a tiger. And his eyes, God, it's like they were plucked right out of Neil Patrick Harris' bleeding sockets.

Every morning Albert and I roll out of our bunk beds (he's on top, though from time to time we switch to keep it interesting) and we hop into the communal camp showers. After we're cleaned up we kneel down and hold hands for our prayer time. We close our eyes tightly, squeeze each others warm, well manicured hands, and consider what God really wants for us. Then it's off to sports where we wrestle, or ride sweaty, muscular horses, or play games like archery where we take turns trying to penetrate a target with a foot-long shaft.

Then it's time for lunch. We find our respective girlfriends and sit with them of course, which gives us time to compare notes on how things are going with our prayer partners. Amanda tells me all about her Prayer Partner Mercedes (who's butchier than dad, but what can you do?). The food is sub-par, honestly, but I clean my plate because shortly after lunch it's time for water-sports (and who doesn't love those?).

We all run back to our cabins and change; everyone makes sure to look around carefully to increase the amount of shame we have for our sweaty, nude bodies. We put on our cutest swim trunks (or what Albert considers to be swim trunks, there's more material in a WWJD bracelet than in those speedos!) We play wholesome, Christian games like Marco Polo, where we pretend to be a blind Venetian merchant and feel around under the water until we get our hand on someone else's body.

Don't worry Dad, it's not all fun and games! We learn water safety too! Every single day we have to practice giving mouth to mouth to our Prayer Partners if we want to get lifeguard certification (and who doesn't want to wear one of those shiny whistles!)

After we towel each other off, it's time to start getting ready for the camp show! We sing show tunes, dress up, and perform skits and plays. There aren't any girls allowed, so half of us put on wigs and make up; it's AMAZING! It's so Eddie Izzard.

After the camp show, we have supper, and then we have an hour of supervised time with our assigned girlfriends. I stare at Amanda's... hair and... face, as I hold her clammy, limp hand, and we talk about how important it seems to be to God where we put our genitals. Then it's back to Albert (Seriously, mother, Al-bear! A Frenchman? Could I be more of a cliche?) to finish up the night with one of the camp-required, unsupervised "Night Adventure Hikes!"

We break up into pairs of boys and go for mile long hikes into the wilderness. We're only supposed to be gone a half an hour, but you wouldn't believe how often me and Albert get lost! Some nights we don't get back to adult supervision for hours and hours!

Finally, it's time for lights out. The counselor prays with us, then locks the door from the outside so no one can run away, and then it's just us. Just twelve sweaty young gay (formerly!) boys in bunk beds. In the dark.

So in closing, thank you!

I do worry about having a relapse though, Mother and Father. Will you please sign me up for next summer in advance? We don't want them to book up!

Your Son,

Alexander

Buy the full book Cattywompus on Amazon.com here!

One Eighteen Books 1, 2, 3 Rumor Control and NAQ

2011-12-02T14:03:00.001-06:00

So some of this is up in the air, but I'm going to officially nail down what I can. The things that were holding me back have been squared thanks to science, luck and family and friends, and the end of the tunnel is here. There's some stuff I can talk about, and some I can't, but here's what I can say for certain.

For sure

Friday, December 9th, Book One of One Eighteen:Migration will go on sale in book and e-book formats, edited and formatted by Lyle Perez.

It will cover episodes S1-1 to S2-1
It will contain a forward by Mikey Taylor, past president of the Omaha Zombie Research Society.
It will contain the first third of the Mars City is Burning teaser comic.

Friday, December 18th Book Two of One Eighteen: Migration will go on sale in book and e-book formats, edited and formatted by Lyle Perez.

It will cover episodes S2-2 to S2-9
It will contain the second third of the Mars City is Burning teaser comic.

Monday, January 2nd, Book Three of One Eighteen Migration will go on salein book and e-book formats, edited and formatted by Lyle Perez.

It will cover episodes S3-1 to S3-9
It will contain the final third of the Mars City is Burning teaser comic.

In the works

Seasons One and Two playing on ZTalk Radio
Files listed on the 19 Nocturne Blvd. Site
Update of the 118 website. The domain is lost, but not a huge thing. Everything will get linked nicely for easy browsing.

Very likely

A podcast of Season Three with the original cast. I'm certainly up for it, and I suspect they are too. If so, production will start on that after Book Three is released and start some time after February.
Working with Aaron Sailors on the covers. Guessing we'll go with the zombie and watch, but we'll see. Len Peralta's Season One and Season Two covers may be in there, but I've got some Ben Hummel (and others) fan art so I may do something else with them.

Possible

Season Three wraps up everything, but it's not really the end of the story. There is a Season 4 and 5 that we've talked about but never comitted to (and may never do.) But the outline for Season 4 is very good so if I can actually get enough books sold to do this long term, I hope we'll do it. Chris crafted something very special.

So that's what I know so far. Diving back into editing. Questions can go in comments but people may spoil in there so if you don't want to look, just shoot me an email. Not sure how spoilers work on the book release of an existing podcast, I did it bass ackward, lol.

-Will

American (Porn) Idol: Home Edition

2011-12-01T23:58:00.001-06:00

There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and especially regarding pornography. I think when I use the Internet for prurient reasons, I spend more time searching for the right clip than I do (insert masturbation euphemism here)ing.

Whenever I decide to (insert second, equally funny or funnier masturbation euphemism here,) American Porn Idol: the Home Edition starts.

Ryan Seacrest: This clip comes from the whimsical island of Japan, who's chief pornographic exports are terror and annoyingly pointless pixelation. Here we have a reasonable looking Japanese couple on either the bed or the floor based on your limited understanding of Japanese culture. Once you get over having mixed feelings about masturbating to a woman who appears to be both an aggressively willing partner and crying at the same time, give a big hand to Kiko-Chan and Yoshi! Judges, should we watch this clip?

Paula Abdul: I really like the enthusiasm of these two. I know she's doing it to pay off her debt to the Yakuza, but she seems to be trying her hardest to pretend it's her chosen profession and I'm willing to do the same.

Randy Jackson: I'm not feeling the Japanese, dogg. Don't misunderstand, Japanese girls are way hot when they speak English, but with a sexual culture that revolves around a wierd, overly young girls squinty faced crying... I'm gonna need some dialogue context before I'm comfortable getting with that, if you feel me.

Simon Cowell: Where do I start with this one. I's derivative of an American couple I saw just last week down to the same title and keywords. These two didn't do it for the art, they did it to get a few extra clicks to support herbal dick pills. Plus they added a watermark and seriously, no high def? It's 2011, movies that were supposedly filmed in 1988 are in high def. Buy a real fucking camera. I vote no.

Ryan Seacrest: Well, that's a no from Simon. Randy?

Randy Jackson: I'm not feeling this one, dogg. I think we gotta go with something English.

Ryan Seacrest: Paula?

Paula Abdul: I really believe we can find one five minute clip of porn that encapsulates our entire sexual identity, if we just keep looking.

Ryan Seacrest: Alright then, 5,392,129 more clips to go... this next clip is-

And so on and so forth.

I remember when I was happy with a stolen magazine and a dirty movie on VHS with an old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sticker hiding the real title.

Simpler times, folks.

Simpler times.

(1) Citation: "Pages Requiring Citation" - Wikipedia, Cosmo "The Seven Things that Drive Him WILD!"

On Being an Optimist

2011-11-28T13:48:00.001-06:00

When life gives you lemons, remember they're highly acidic.

Juice the lemons, then throw the juice in somebody's eyes. While they're screaming in pain, jack their wallet.

Then, by the transitive property, when life gives you lemons, it ALSO gives you wallets.

Problem solved.

Women Love Balls - Bobby Anderson's Report on 'Pride and Prejudice'

2011-11-27T14:01:00.001-06:00

My Report on Pride and Prejudice
by Bobby Anderson

Pride and Prejudice, by Steve Austin, is a book about a whole butt-load of women who want to get married. Like a lot. All they seem to talk about is dudes, and how to trap them, like when mom stopped taking the pill so Darryl wouldn’t leave to Seattle with his band.

Also this book is full of balls. All they used to do back then was have balls. Whether you were enjoying your own balls at your home, or riding a crap-load to enjoy balls elsewhere, that’s pretty much all they did back then. This American time period was defined by it’s balls.

So the one lady Mrs. Bennet has like five daughters, which means there was probably lots of door slamming and they probably made their dad run out for Tampax like all the time. She is also a gold digger, and so when this rich dude named Mr. Bingley moves into town she’s all “One of you needs to get on that so we can get a pool.” Her husband is all “nah, we aight,” but in relationship math, that’s like three votes to one half vote.

So Daddy Bennet goes to meet Bingley, and they get along OK, but the girls won’t get to meet him until a ball, and for those of you unfamilair with balls, it’s like prom but everybody wears corsets like William Shatner and pretends to faint from time to time. It’s kind of like being emo for six hours.

So Bingley is pimp beyond pimp, and the ladies are running after him like they don’t have any of the first word of the title. It’s actually embarrassing to watch, like when Sarah Peterson followed Jeremy Baxter around for like six weeks because she let him touch her left breast on the bus on the field-trip to that museum to see with that Jackmen Padlock painting that looked like he just shot a bunch of paint out of squirt guns but I don’t know art.

His friend, Mr. Darcy is kind of a dick; like his friend Bingley is all “Hey, dance with this hottie here,” and he’s all “Naw, she ain’t my type.” In Medieval America this was like telling a girl she looks fat in that dress (even though she did, so I don’t know why I got grounded for yelling it.)

So after balls apparently you went and talked about balls. The dudes rated the chicks and the chicks rated the dudes, and some girl named Charlotte appears and now I gotta remember like sixty characters and I’m not even near through with this yet! They all talk for a lot, the ancient method of Facebooking, and Anyway consensus is Jane wins the hotness prize though Elizabeth thinks she’s kind of a ditz.

So anyway theres a bunch of other crap and finally Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy meet and he proposes and he’s a cool guy so I bet it went really smooth and the second half of the book is about them having babies or whatever. But honestly it’s against my religion to read a half of a book where two happily engaged people rub their breasts together and hold hands and stuff.

So I’d guess the first part is that breast rubbing stuff, then a wedding, then Mr. Darcy builds her one of those log houses that Lincoln designed and you’re not suposed to throw stones if you live in. Then they probably have like a thousand babies like her dad and it ends when one of them dies in the civil war from a musket ball shot by John Wilkes Booth. All in all I give this book two enthusiastic thumbs up for the begining, and a meh on the love story that I’m sure followed the proposal. Must read.

Robert... just... where do I start. - Mr. Palmer

Dinosaurs! My Report on Bears (by Bobby Anderson) - From "The Schoolwork of Bobby Anderson"

2011-11-24T17:14:00.001-06:00

(Bobby Anderson is a boy with raging ADHD. That should about explain these pieces.)

by Bobby Anderson

My report is on dinosaurs, which is way cooler than the one I was supposed to write on bears (which are also cool but not as cool as dinosaurs are.) Also, it is a little known fact, but bears are not giant lizards. This alone makes them less worthy of my report.

Dinosaurs were discovered in 1805 by Sir Issac Dinosaur, and named after him thusly. He found some dinosaur bones in the dirt and dug them up and was all “Holy crap, this is the raddest thing ever!” Then he smoked a pipe as archaeologists in those days did. Mom’s boyfriend Daryl smokes like a chimney, which probably makes him an honorary archaeologist.

My favorite dinosaur is the triceratops (which is latin for “Stabby face.”) Triceratops didn’t eat cavemen, mostly because once a caveman was stabbed up, it couldn’t get it into his mouth, so instead they ate plants and leaves and sticks and probably lettuce. Triceratops had three horns, each used for a different purpose. The first horn was for stabbing cavemen. The second horn was for drawing in the dirt and the third was like the vice president, there in case the first two horns should no longer be able to fulfil their duties.

Another good dinosaur is the Brontosaurus (latin for “Neck like giraffe, body like hippo.”) Brontosauruses ate leaves also, but higher ones because they had enormous necks. They also had difficulty shopping for turtlenecks. They didn’t have awesome horns, but their feet could stomp like crazy, elephant style! I once went to the zoo and a clown got his foot stepped on and they stopped the show even before I finished my cotton candy. So imagine that but times like a billion and you know the stomping power of the Brontosaurs.

Another dinosaur is the Velociraptor (latin for “Angry ostrich lizard.) This dinosaur was discovered by Sir Michael Crichton while researching his book Jurassic Park. Velociraptors were the only dinosaurs with friends, and they’d eat your face right off if you let them. A group of Velociraptors (called a “bunch” in science terms) would hunt prey like dogs and cats and Neanderthals. They had long tails that helped them balance while face eating.

Pterodactyls (latin for “Long face bat monster”) are the only dinosaur that could fly. This gave them a huge advantage over dinosaurs that could not fly. Pterodactlys would circle their prey and then fall straight down like a dart, and jam their beak right in your head! They only ate brains, which is why they are known as the smartest of the dinosaurs.

But the king of all dinosaurs was the Tyrannosaurus Rex (latin for “OM + Nom to the second power.”) He had a big ass head and tiny arms, so he probably couldn’t play X-box very good but boy could he eat! Tyrannosauruses ate their body weight in Australopithecus and pandas every day. They also could beat a ninja or a cyborg in a fight, if one happened to be in the area and want said fight. If Daryl tried to take his belt off and spank a Tyrannosaurus it would be like “Uh... no.” Then it would eat him right up belt and all.

In conclusion, dinosaurs are the awesomest creatures ever to walk the face of the earth and if you dispute this fact you’re probably not as smart as I am so I don’t even need to debate with you. They could eat cavemen, and leaves, and stab, and fly, and also sometimes they would swim in tar. Dinosaurs died when an asteroid hit the Earth and inseminated everything.

D- Please see me after class. Also, the word you were looking for is incinerated. - Mr. Wilson

Edward from Twilight Gets Beat for About Three Pages - From Cattywompus

2011-11-23T12:12:00.001-06:00

Edward Cullan rolled on the ground in agony, the policemen slamming their boots into him. Chief Charlie Swan watched with a look of quiet reserve. Bella watched, as did Jacob, who just really only showed up when Edward and Bella weren't doing well. Which was basically now.

"Dad stop!" Bella said, "I love him!"

"Wait," Jacob said, taking off his shirt for reasons not readily apparent to the plot. His chest was muscular, and glistening.

"I love Jacob!"

Chief Swan raised an eyebrow. "Bella, pancakes or waffles," her father said. Edward said nothing, he was being curb stomped.

"Pancakes are my favorite!" Bella said.

"I like waffles better, you can put whipped cream on them," Chief Swan said.

"I like waffles better too, Dad," Bella said seriously, and Chief Swan shook his head. He turned to Edward.

"One hundred and seven, boy. That's how old you really are. You know, just because I'm a hick doesn't mean I can't do a real investigation. How do you think I manage all of the law enforcement in such a large area all by myself with time to just stop being a police officer whenever Bella has one of her daily breakdowns. Clearly I have to be brilliant."

"I love Edward, Dad! Please stop," Bella said, suddenly weeping. She cried at the drop of a hat. Jacob put a shirt on for a few moments, then took it off again, his adolescent chest exposed and described for the delight of millions of lonely fourtyish secretaries.

"I love Jacob."

"Sure you do princess," Chief Swan said, shaking his head. He turned back to Edward; who if I haven't made it clear enough before is being just savagely beaten. "Think I'm the sort of man who lets grown men fool around with my seventeen year old daughter?"

"Dad, I'm old enough to feel love!" Bella said, balling up her fists and pouting. Edward moaned through a mouthful of broken teeth.

"Waffles or pancakes?"

"Waffles dad, I told you."

"True, but it's easier to put blueberries or chocolate chips in pancakes."

"I love pancakes," Bella said. Jacob frowned, as he was waffles in the current metaphor. The only thing that could cheer him up was a three page long description of his muscular, shirt-removing body, with accompanying emo-chick rock.

"Drag his little undead ass out into the sun where we can see him," Chief Swan said, "So you fuck MY daughter, 'Mr. Full Grown Adult,' then you put your super-mutant baby in her."

"Daddy, I love my baby!" Bella said, rubbing her tummy. Jacob frowned.

"I'm not sure I want to raise some other dude's baby."

"Daddy I need five-hundred dollars for an abort-"

"WOAH!" Jacob, Edward, the Police Officers and Chief Swan said at the same time.

"Even for satire, that's going a bit far, honey," Chief Swan said.

"He's glowing!" One of the officers screamed in terror!

"It's a bio weapon!" The other shouted. They redoubled their kicking as he shimmered in the sun.

"Just you remember this, boy. We don't abide the elderly diddling our teenagers around here. We're just barely tolerant of werewolf's doing it."

"Hey, uh... is this the school?" A young blond boy with tiny devil horns walked up to the ruckus. He had a long pointed tail, and bat wings, and also a chest and thighs I will spend several pages lovingly describing, even though I'm an adult writer, and should not be writing such sexual descriptions of what amounts to children.

"Who are you?" Bella said. Edward smacked his forehead. Jacob sighed and put his shirt on.

"I'm Demitri the Incubus." Demitri said.

"I am eternally in love with you!" Bella said. "Make me an incubus!"

"Succubus," Demitri corrected.

"Yeah, that," Bella said seriously.

"Uhhh, how old are you?" Demitri said, confused.

"Nineteen now!" Demitri laughed long and hard.

"What in Gods name would I have in common with you, I'm ten thousand years old."

"I met a Jonas brother once," Bella said defensively.

"I met Jesus Christ."

"She does this to everyone, dude," Jacob said, slowly removing his shirt. Demitri stopped him.

"Just what the hell are you doing?"

"I don't really know, sir. For some reason I have this compulsion to do this on a regular basis, as though it's an excuse for a writer too old to be perving on teenagers is describing my tight, chiseled body to a bunch of girls too young to be perving on... well... anybody."

"Sounds like a book written in crayon," Demitri said. "So he's glowing... why? Is that like his superpower."

"Vampires glow," Bella said.

"No they don't." Demitri said dryly. He pushed the two police officers aside and rolled Edward onto his stomach. He ran his talons down Edwards bloody shirt and tore. Two foot long butterfly wings popped out.

"Yep, I thought so. What you've got here is a fairy." Bella gasped. "You know, he just knocked you up to steal your baby. It's what they do. Changelings and what not." Bella ran to Demitri's side, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling her face into his chest.

"Protect me from the fairy," she said. He pushed her away.

"Girl, you're still a baby. I'm an incubus and even I know it's not cool to go fucking around with teenagers when you're older than twenty. Besides, Indian Joe over there is taking his shirt off again."

"Ooohhh!" Bella gasped, running to Jacob's side. Edward slowly crawled away, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

"Get your glowing ass back here, fairy," Chief Swan said, "We ain't finished yet." The officers pulled him back, drawing ballistic batons.

It went on like that for hours and hours. And hours. They beat him a lot. But in the end he learned a valuable lesson that he never forgot.

Maybe hundred year old fairies should just leave the kids alone

Buy the book here

Occupy Wall Street, and Awkward Thanksgivings

2011-11-16T18:05:00.001-06:00

Son: "Hey dad, know how I've been saying people like you are bleeding the country dry should pay more taxes? Could you pass the potatoes?"

Dad: "I don't know, I earned those potatoes. I'm not sure I should have to share them with the whole table, especially dirty, shiftless hippies who show up and just expect potatoes."

Son: "Well maybe if everyone could enjoy some potatoes, we'd be OK with you having as many scoops of potatoes as you could possibly get. Just so long as everyone gets some potatoes."

Dad: "When you say everybody, you mean you. If you had some potatoes, you wouldn't be so keen to take the potatoes of others, would you? So it's really not an issue of equal distribution of potatoes at all, it's you upset about your personal lack of potatoes, then using a bunch of socialist nonsense to justify the fact that you're asking for a starchy handout."

(Just wait till you have to figure out how to divide the pie.)

The Only Cure for "Female Hysteria" is Kind of Creepy

2011-11-07T16:08:00.000-06:00

So I was reading the wiki on "Female Hysteria," a condition in the 1800s that was sort of a catch all "woman be trippin!" diagnosis. It's about to get medically creepy.

'Hysteria was widely discussed in the medical literature of the 19th century. Women considered to be suffering from it exhibited a wide array of symptoms including faintness, nervousness, insomnia, fluid retention, heaviness in abdomen, muscle spasm, shortness of breath, irritability, loss of appetite for food or sex, and "a tendency to cause trouble".[1]'

And the cure is...

"Since ancient times women considered to be suffering from hysteria would sometimes undergo "pelvic massage" — manual stimulation of the genitals by the doctor until the patient experienced "hysterical paroxysm" (orgasm).[1]"

Wait, so the cure was your doctor double-clicking your mouse? That used to be a job? Well, it couldn't have been a major thing, maybe one or two a-

"Rachel P. Maines has observed that such cases were quite profitable for physicians, since the patients were at no risk of death, but needed constant treatment."

So in the 1800's, Doctors could set up practices that specialized in diddling your wife? Then they got to CHARGE you for it?

'The only problem was that physicians did not enjoy the tedious task of vaginal massage (generally referred to as 'pelvic massage'): The technique was difficult for a physician to master and could take hours to achieve "hysterical paroxysm."'

Lucky for Doctors, there probably wasn't any competition-

"Referral to midwives, which had been common practice, meant a loss of business for the physician.[1]"

Except for the hot wife-on-midwife action (for which I'm assuming the husband would still be charged.)

OK if that didn't violate the exact WORDING of the Hypocratic oath, it's gotta at least violate the spirit.