The Big Zen Garden

Ron, you haven’t checked in for a while so I decided to hobble my ass to the slums. 10 stories and they all smelled like eggs. Phil (who was soused by the way) says hi. Jee…z he gets gropey when drunk.

So what’s the hold up, just stamp ’em, ship ’em.

Crap is that a pen in your hand? Tell me your not.

You don’t name the sand Ron. First thing they taught you. The sand names itself. You make the sand, you grow the sand, you watch the sand but sand names sand. It’s what we call freewill. We don’t give them any vote but we give them say. Say’s free, say keeps them happy and keeps our jobs cush. Without say, we’ve got a bunch of little nothings doing nothing. It’s boring as fuck. So we give them say and we don’t have to make cable tv and hooker allowances.

Why would you want to name one? Oh for, are you making a messiah? Do you have any idea what kind of fail rate Messiah’s have? Newsflash: avatars suck and prophets go offscript. Micromanagement is a no no.

Oh don’t give me that, this is different.

How? I was bored.

Uh uh my friend, I manage you, you have no idea what boring is until you manage you.

No. Breach of protocol, plus you need 200 more years before you’re up for promotion.

Just put… Evinrude back in the pile. Wait, Seriously? Fuck that, file a I527 Naming Intervention. Tina. Or Murphy. Get her an early adoption papers, parents could probably die in a meth lab explosion. Easily.
Okay, Charlie’s got a birthday party. Yeah he’s an asshole but he’s an unfair asshole and if you act all buddy buddy with him that could mean big things for you. I see the coffee pot is empty and dirty. I blame you.

Why?

Bored.

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The football, the Calculator and the Terrifying State of the World

    Some sort of escalation was necessary. The only option was nuclear. Just take out the calculator and the football and let everyone else know that this time, things are final. The bill will be divided and any conflict will end in perdition.

    Do you normally carry sporting equipment?

    No, that’s a colloquialism for a briefcase that carries the means for arming a nuclear device.

    And it’s called a football why?

     Because it’s very important that you keep a hold of the football.

     So, you’d be the goalie?

    Sure if you’d like.

    I don’t think I would, me mum protested the Tridents.

     Well if I had my druthers I wouldn’t be carrying such a burden but you can only have so many off balance checks before you just get fed up and join the ranks of Israel, France, Iran and Donald Trump.

    Donald Trump, really?

     Well, I assume.

    Hmm. So how did you get a hold of it?

    The football? I made it myself.

    Found the schematics online?

    Ducktaped a universal remote to the inside of a briefcase.

     How is that going to arm a nuclear device?

    Well all I’d have to do is wire up the nuke to an ir sensor that was coded to accept commands as if it was a Samsung 27 inch 720p with wifi.

    Like picture in picture?

     On/off, maybe a timer if I felt honestly productive that day.

     I think I see a flaw in that plan.

     Well I was going to upgrade to 1080 sooner or later and I’d have a remote to go with that one.

     No I meant, well, did you actually have a nuclear device?

     Ah, but you see, that’s not a flaw, that’s a solution. You see the theory mutally assured destruction hinges upon the existence of weapon mass destruction. Some of these weapons are quite complicated machines and all of them by their very nature are dangerous. It turns out that absolute bullshit is considerably safer and more cost effective, as long as you don’t get name brand luggage.

    So, the device did it’s intended action of terrifying your table of friends who love you in to dividing up the check fairly and you went home and blew up an apartment 2 doors down.

     Actually, I just turned on the television. I had no idea that Maurice had the identical model, with a pound of C4 wired to it. Nice guy, really miss him.

    Is that common in the States?

     Nice guys? Lord, no. Most of them are assholes that would kill you soon as look at them. Not like here, why I’ve only had to pull ot a gun once sice I came.

     For your sake, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I meant televisions with jury rigged explosives.

     It’s not like it’s a feature per se but it’s well within the spirit of the second amendment. Seeing the addictive nature of television I can understand why you’d booby trap the, telly(?). You can’t let yourself be a slave to the tube. I mean if I hadn’t been watching television I would have become a proper superpower.

     A superpower made of, what did you call it, ah yes, absolute bullshit?

     Aren’t they all?

    Touché.

     So do you think they’ll extradite?

     Have you infringed upon any American copyrights during your time in Corby?

     Not to my knowledge.

     Nah, you’ll be fine.

Aside

The Explicated Mormonic Woman

Wow, that scone looks good.

This seat taken?

I asked because I’m a gentleman.

I sat here before asking because I’m sadly impulsive.

I’m not one to pry but I must ask, do you know you’re a Mormon?

I don’t know why you are, you just kinda look like a latter day type.

I think it’s just that I think you’d be at home in a tabernacle.

Yes, I understand that you’re waiting for someone. I just thought you looked lonely and Mormonic.

No, I said Mormonic.

It means pertaining to Mormonism.

So I made the word up, doesn’t mean I don’t know the definition. I mean if anyone knows, I would.

Well, weightlifting and gun collecting are both quite engrossing hobbies. I’m sure he’s very satisfied. I for one would like to collect model trains, after I meet Misses Right.

Ah yes, well, I guess I should get back to the point. I just think that you and your boyfriends would be happier as Mormons. I’ve got some pamphlets somewhere.

Okay, have you perchance considered the loving guidance of Ahura Mazda? He’s really in with the indy crowd.

Of course there are indy gods: you have your Cthulu, your Spaghetti Monster and let us not forget MacGuyver. Oh and Bacchus but really he’s more a frat thing.

Oh no ma’am, I’m an atheist.

Well I assumed, you do look like a Mormon.

Fine ma’am I’ll leave, but you don’t have to be so rude.

The OTHER Manhattan

“This isn’t a Manhattan.”

“Rye, bitters, sweet vermouth. It’s a Manhattan.”

“No! A Manhattan is an open faced sandwich with gravy, mashed potatoes and roast beef.”

“That doesn’t sound like it could fit in a cocktail glass.”

“Well, I am use to it coming in a beer glass.”

“And your normal bartender just sort of squished it in there?”

“He used a blender and copious amounts of Dark Eyes Vodka.”

“That sounds utterly depressing.”

“ Not going to argue that but I’m a man on the go.”

“Look either way, I do not have a supply of gravy, roast beef and mashed potatoes.”

The dumpy man on the bar stool sat up and from his bag revealed a sealed ziplock and a jar.

“I assume you have bread, a blender and vodka.”

As the blender whirred, Bob the bartender remembered a time when what he learned in Mixology Ethics 101 still meant something. The ingredients soaked together into a brown, starchy, protein rich, mud. It poured quite smoothly into the beer glass. The burping noise was just air escaping the concoction but Bob was sure that sound was God dying.

“That will be $12.”

“That’s outrageous, I won’t pay it.”

“It’s a meal and a well drink.”

“I supplied most of it.”

“Strictly against the health codes wishes I might add. Anyways you employed my bartending services to make it.”

“Well, if I don’t get a combo deal I don’t see the point at all.”

“Actually $16, you never paid for the other Manhattan.”

With that the dumpy man ran away and never returned. At least Bob knew what he was having for lunch.

The Greatest Trophy Shop Owner in His Own Sarcastic Mind

Trophies are for winners and also for people who own trophy shops. Ned was the best trophy shop owner and the runner up and everything up to the tenth best. Around the perimeter of his living room stood the gold painted pillars he admired most. Ned toasted the shiny idol in the go kart and then drank deeply of his light beer. There were four empties crumbled on the ground and five more trophies to worship.

Strangely, the eleventh place trophy was owned by Sofia Miller of Super Awnings Incorporated. That one had a little karate guy on it. She was a modest, strange and gaudy woman. If she bought anymore trophies, Ned might just be able to stop this stupid worship and go back to eating wet dog food. The dry stuff was not doing him any favors. This was a worry for later. There was worship still to be done.

He turned his attention to the figurine depicting a very small child on a camel. Taking a voracious swig, Ned mourned another lost sale. That gentleman from Qatar was never going to return for his prize. Since the advent of robot camel jockeys there was no real need to reward the poor automatic driving devices. Just another bit of bad lack for the greatest trophy shop owner. There were still four more statues to pay homage to, they were all rocketeers. He thought that sport was taking off for sure.

Ashley’s Atypically Apparent Anxiety

We’re going to die. The floor is going to buckle, The glass will crack and we will plummet to our deaths. We are going to die, because if we don’t die, I’m meeting an important person on a top floor. This doesn’t happen to guys like me, so I’m pretty sure the glass will fall out and I will be granted sweet death.

The woman next to me is probably happy with her life. I must try to stop myself from destroying the elevator with the awesome power of my anxiety. It’s hard for me because my anxiety is a weapon of mass destruction and isn’t easily controlled. I’m breathing in as deeply as I can and I’m trying to get back to my happy place. It’s my house, yeah I’m a bit of a fuddy duddy.

I get off on the third floor, right next to the pretzel place. I’m about to go to try and get work at a lingerie shop. I had forgotten that I had filled out an application and for their part they had forgotten that Ashley could be a boy’s name. The interview is conducted sheepishly and last only 5 minutes, wasting everybody’s time. I leave feeling stupid; she feels stupid too but she’s also employed so I don’t feel too bad about her.

Everyone is staring at me and I’m a bit overwhelmed. A bum just came out a lingerie shop after 5 minutes and everyone’s pretty sure he’s sniffed all the panties there. Everybody’s judging me as they walk by without even looking at me. It’s enough that I’m pretty sure that if I explode right now I’d be pretty happy in that fraction of a second. There’s a bit of spark behind me and then a big, holy hell, bit of flame.

My anxiety has crappy aim. Good news is, I’ve got another job offer. The man is tall dark and scary. I think he thinks I’m scarier. I think that may be the job I’m being offered. Oh well, work’s work.

Paranoia: Travel Edition

“This is a Police Positive.”

“And that’s a Mercedes Kompressor behind us.”

“Why do you have a revolver in your glove compartment?”

“Because sometimes there are Kompressor’s tailing me.”

“So you think you’re being chased by a mid life crisis and your plan is to shoot it?”

“My plan is to not be cornered.”

“Let me be direct, I’m not sticking my ass out of this car and shooting at some poor schmuck with hair implants.”

“How do you know know he’s got plugs?”

“I’m just painting a picture.”

“You always assume people to be the worst.”

“You’re right, sometimes I can be judgmental, but I draw the line at executioner.”

“Just point it out the back of the window and shoot. Try to scare him.”

“No.”

“All you have to due is pull the trigger and he’ll go away.”

“Are you 5? Does your understanding of firearms come from something you gleamed from Starsky & Hutch while high on model glue?”

“Look I’m telling you, if he catches up to us it will be bad news.”

“I’m telling you that state police don’t take kindly to shoot… Damn it!”

“What?”

“We crossed state lines with a loaded firearm.”

“Oh, yeah that. Really it’s only illegal if you get caught.”

“I’m afraid that firearm legislation doesn’t work quite like Tinker Bell. It doesn’t care if you clap your hands, it is still there.”

“Oh just give it here, I’ll do it.”

“Actually, I think he just turned off.”

“Never mind then, my bad really.”

“So… next exit has an Arby’s and I am kind of hungry.”

“There’s a Cabrio two cars back and it’s been there for a while. Do you think the Germans might be spying on us?”

“Why can’t we just play roadkill bingo?”

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