after a lot of time and effort, my first book as been published by lulu worldwide publishing in association with wilson books (ie me).
order at http://stores.lulu.com/robotwinstonchurchill
buy that shit and gimme your money
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
the rock and the sickness, in four parts
i
the fly hovered over the windowsill, alone
the late afternoon sunlight
filtered through the cracked glass
suspending the fly in a beam of light and dust
it was a small room, to be sure,
a sparsely furnished nook
with one window in the back
and a solid oak door, firmly locked, in the front
the temperature in that small room
was rising rather quickly
resigning the fly to attempting to find
a way out
thus, he settled down on the windowsill
and approached,
ever so cautiously,
the paned glass
at first he merely taped it,
a gentle graze with his head
the window, stoic and firm,
remained unmoved
so, the fly tried again,
albeit this time only slightly harder
though, still,
to no avail
the afternoon sun, by now,
was beginning to fade,
having run its small, reflected course
from one side of the wall opposite to the other
the door remained closed
the fly’s overly cautious tactic
was not bearing fruit,
so he flew up towards where
the lowest pane opens to the world
but today,
despite the mounting heat,
it remained firmly shut
as he landed gracefully
on the small top of the lowest pane,
one covered with years and layers of forgotten dust,
he looked out.
there wasn’t much to see
the soot-covered window did not allow
one such fly to make any real,
educated guesses as to
what lay beyond
but the late night breezes that whistled through
and the prisms of color that beamed in and out
at high noon
whispered of something grand
his head reeling from his first two attempts at freeing himself,
the fly ran his many, thin legs
over the old glass and wood
as he scaled upwards across a small part of the pane
he found it to be the same all around,
and very much the same as before
a solid thud sounded from outside the room
it happened somewhere behind the fly,
who quickly spun around and,
hovering near the window,
faced the oak door
the sound, much to his dismay,
never echoed through again
he thought, perhaps,
that he may have seen the shiny, brass door handle jiggle,
but he figured not,
as the sun had been in his eyes
He turned back to the window
and the temperature continued to rise
the small window handles showed the most promise,
though the strength needed to turn it,
thereby forcing the pane open,
was far more than the meager fly could muster
he flew higher
by now twilight filled the small room
as the light began to leave the room,
the fly began to grow worried
he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer
than morning if he
couldn’t escape the nook
The air conditioning machine coughed to life outside
it would be of no use in the closed off room,
though,
but its quiet hum helped to illustrate
just how silent the new night had really been
the white noise was comforting
and the fly tapped the glass
the middle windowpane proved just as solid
and much harder to see
the fly stepped back and gazed upwards
tired from the combination of his efforts
and growing anxiety,
the fly laid down atop the central pane,
dust rising as his body met the metal
he fell asleep
ii
when the fly arose the room was ink
hardly a beam of faded light cut through the nook
and the fly’s eyes took awhile to adjust
the fly stood up slowly
and turned away from the window
it was useless
he had bumped up against the two different panes
countless times with no success
and the top, final pane
showed no more promise
he needed a savior
the oak door remained still.
by now the air conditioning system
had shut off and the silence caused
a ringing in the fly’s ears
he faced the door
though tired and rather famished,
the fly batted his wings
and flew towards the door handle
he landed on the knob and its brass
shown in the small reflection
of a wayward streetlight
he closed his eyes,
opened them,
and blinked
he blinked again and gazed upwards
a small beam of light
cut through the keyhole
but neither it nor the door’s edges
provided enough space for the tired fly to squeeze through
the fly, by now, was getting anxious
it was well into the heart of the night
and nearly all of his
reasonable escape options
had been exhausted
moving slowly,
he turned to face
where the handle connected
with the door
he sighed, and wished for a miracle
none came
he blinked
none came
the silence of that small room
seemed just as tiring as
his collective efforts had been
he laid down
the brass was colder than the sill
had been and the slight reflections of light
cast back hurt
the fly’s eyes
he strained to close them
and fell into a fitful sleep
just outside the window,
the sprinklers came on
iii
a stale heat accompanied
the first timid sunbeams
to penetrate the room
huddled atop the brass doorknob,
the fly opened its eyes
his small limbs cracked
as he pulled himself up
he found it much harder to move
the passing time in the room
bared down upon the fly
his hunger, stress, and exhaustion
was turning much more serious
he glanced at the door
small noises outside the door
had awoken him a number of times,
but no noise was ever
more than that
he exhaled
the fly gazed upon the windowsill,
the cracked glass panes,
and the rest of the room
it had,
he noticed,
changed subtlety over the night
dewdrops lined the window’s edges
and the heat that had receded during the dark night
was just now returning with
the rising sun
the fly looked on
from his vantage point on the door handle,
the fly could take in every detail of
his tiny world
he had been born there nearly a week ago,
his mother planting his egg
and moving on
days before his birth
about ten feet or so
from where he was born,
the fly smiled at the thought
and settled in to die
clutching his head
in a pair of his tiny limbs,
the fly closed his eyes
as his limbs began to harden
and his breathing grew strained,
the fly became happier
the world as it existed
inside him
was opening up just as
the world outside was caving in around him
an unbridled joy
race through his veins
and he edged closer to
the edge of the brass handle
his efforts, his decisions, his good and his evil
fell with him
as he folded his small wings
and pushed himself over the edge
the meaning of life
in that small room
had been his death ,and everything that had enslaved him,
his world,
his time,
his body,
were all overcome
the instant his compact body cracked
against the hardwood floor
iv
when the first wrecking ball
collided with the old building,
the small room shuddered
its supports held
until the dark oak door
crashed in under the ball’s weight
as the room fell stories toward the earth,
what meager dust was left
from the decayed fly’s body
drifted into the air
in silence, the dust,
for an instant,
became suspended in a solitary beam of sunlight,
as the windows,
doors,
and brass handles
of that tiny world
crashed in around it
the fly hovered over the windowsill, alone
the late afternoon sunlight
filtered through the cracked glass
suspending the fly in a beam of light and dust
it was a small room, to be sure,
a sparsely furnished nook
with one window in the back
and a solid oak door, firmly locked, in the front
the temperature in that small room
was rising rather quickly
resigning the fly to attempting to find
a way out
thus, he settled down on the windowsill
and approached,
ever so cautiously,
the paned glass
at first he merely taped it,
a gentle graze with his head
the window, stoic and firm,
remained unmoved
so, the fly tried again,
albeit this time only slightly harder
though, still,
to no avail
the afternoon sun, by now,
was beginning to fade,
having run its small, reflected course
from one side of the wall opposite to the other
the door remained closed
the fly’s overly cautious tactic
was not bearing fruit,
so he flew up towards where
the lowest pane opens to the world
but today,
despite the mounting heat,
it remained firmly shut
as he landed gracefully
on the small top of the lowest pane,
one covered with years and layers of forgotten dust,
he looked out.
there wasn’t much to see
the soot-covered window did not allow
one such fly to make any real,
educated guesses as to
what lay beyond
but the late night breezes that whistled through
and the prisms of color that beamed in and out
at high noon
whispered of something grand
his head reeling from his first two attempts at freeing himself,
the fly ran his many, thin legs
over the old glass and wood
as he scaled upwards across a small part of the pane
he found it to be the same all around,
and very much the same as before
a solid thud sounded from outside the room
it happened somewhere behind the fly,
who quickly spun around and,
hovering near the window,
faced the oak door
the sound, much to his dismay,
never echoed through again
he thought, perhaps,
that he may have seen the shiny, brass door handle jiggle,
but he figured not,
as the sun had been in his eyes
He turned back to the window
and the temperature continued to rise
the small window handles showed the most promise,
though the strength needed to turn it,
thereby forcing the pane open,
was far more than the meager fly could muster
he flew higher
by now twilight filled the small room
as the light began to leave the room,
the fly began to grow worried
he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer
than morning if he
couldn’t escape the nook
The air conditioning machine coughed to life outside
it would be of no use in the closed off room,
though,
but its quiet hum helped to illustrate
just how silent the new night had really been
the white noise was comforting
and the fly tapped the glass
the middle windowpane proved just as solid
and much harder to see
the fly stepped back and gazed upwards
tired from the combination of his efforts
and growing anxiety,
the fly laid down atop the central pane,
dust rising as his body met the metal
he fell asleep
ii
when the fly arose the room was ink
hardly a beam of faded light cut through the nook
and the fly’s eyes took awhile to adjust
the fly stood up slowly
and turned away from the window
it was useless
he had bumped up against the two different panes
countless times with no success
and the top, final pane
showed no more promise
he needed a savior
the oak door remained still.
by now the air conditioning system
had shut off and the silence caused
a ringing in the fly’s ears
he faced the door
though tired and rather famished,
the fly batted his wings
and flew towards the door handle
he landed on the knob and its brass
shown in the small reflection
of a wayward streetlight
he closed his eyes,
opened them,
and blinked
he blinked again and gazed upwards
a small beam of light
cut through the keyhole
but neither it nor the door’s edges
provided enough space for the tired fly to squeeze through
the fly, by now, was getting anxious
it was well into the heart of the night
and nearly all of his
reasonable escape options
had been exhausted
moving slowly,
he turned to face
where the handle connected
with the door
he sighed, and wished for a miracle
none came
he blinked
none came
the silence of that small room
seemed just as tiring as
his collective efforts had been
he laid down
the brass was colder than the sill
had been and the slight reflections of light
cast back hurt
the fly’s eyes
he strained to close them
and fell into a fitful sleep
just outside the window,
the sprinklers came on
iii
a stale heat accompanied
the first timid sunbeams
to penetrate the room
huddled atop the brass doorknob,
the fly opened its eyes
his small limbs cracked
as he pulled himself up
he found it much harder to move
the passing time in the room
bared down upon the fly
his hunger, stress, and exhaustion
was turning much more serious
he glanced at the door
small noises outside the door
had awoken him a number of times,
but no noise was ever
more than that
he exhaled
the fly gazed upon the windowsill,
the cracked glass panes,
and the rest of the room
it had,
he noticed,
changed subtlety over the night
dewdrops lined the window’s edges
and the heat that had receded during the dark night
was just now returning with
the rising sun
the fly looked on
from his vantage point on the door handle,
the fly could take in every detail of
his tiny world
he had been born there nearly a week ago,
his mother planting his egg
and moving on
days before his birth
about ten feet or so
from where he was born,
the fly smiled at the thought
and settled in to die
clutching his head
in a pair of his tiny limbs,
the fly closed his eyes
as his limbs began to harden
and his breathing grew strained,
the fly became happier
the world as it existed
inside him
was opening up just as
the world outside was caving in around him
an unbridled joy
race through his veins
and he edged closer to
the edge of the brass handle
his efforts, his decisions, his good and his evil
fell with him
as he folded his small wings
and pushed himself over the edge
the meaning of life
in that small room
had been his death ,and everything that had enslaved him,
his world,
his time,
his body,
were all overcome
the instant his compact body cracked
against the hardwood floor
iv
when the first wrecking ball
collided with the old building,
the small room shuddered
its supports held
until the dark oak door
crashed in under the ball’s weight
as the room fell stories toward the earth,
what meager dust was left
from the decayed fly’s body
drifted into the air
in silence, the dust,
for an instant,
became suspended in a solitary beam of sunlight,
as the windows,
doors,
and brass handles
of that tiny world
crashed in around it
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
new project
a novella, so far nameless, whose plot is such:
"during the late spring of 2007, a college student sets out from his home in colorado intending to traverse the country all the way to new york. along the way, he discovers that the rest of the nation is populated by robots. this is his story."
it has potential.
--update on december 7th--
after much careful thought, i have come to the conclusion that the above idea is wicked retadid and i'm not doing it. shit.
"during the late spring of 2007, a college student sets out from his home in colorado intending to traverse the country all the way to new york. along the way, he discovers that the rest of the nation is populated by robots. this is his story."
it has potential.
--update on december 7th--
after much careful thought, i have come to the conclusion that the above idea is wicked retadid and i'm not doing it. shit.
Monday, December 3, 2007
R.W.C. #6: 'Smirnoff Watermelons and the Nappy Headed Hos'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Six
"Smirnoff Watermelon and the Nappy Headed Hos"
No one really knew when it first started to happen. Perhaps it started with the youth, and their non-elder-respecting ways. Others claim the competition in the health care industry was growing too fast and those small town, west coast doctas (straight out the C P T) just couldn't keep up. Though, even with all the controversy, we do still know this. The Good Doctor had served the community well over the years, mainly from the fact that every symptom of every disease his patients ever asked him about recieved the same prescribed treatment: "smoke the muthafuckin' weed every muthafuckin' day". Sure, he wasn't one of those fancy, college-educated doctors, but he got the job done. It was, indeed, a good life.
But somewhere along those lines, the people forgot about Dre. The man who brought the small town Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and the group that said "Muthafuck the Police", seemed a mere legend that the town's elders would talk about on their long, lazy evenings on front-porches. And while the youth of that small, isolated middle western emu-farming town went about their days without offering a single respect nod to the Doctor, there was still one who knew. He had been raised by the Doctor from his first days, when Dre had found the small, cigar smoking, witty-aphorism-spouting android in a back alley behind the town's ma-and-pa run strip club/bondage dungeon. And if we can say anything with certainty, in this crazy, mixed up world, its that Robot Winston Churchill ain't neva forgot about Dre.
These nappy headed hos (the ones who forgot about Dre) needed to straight up die. So, there I was, dressed to kill but sitting alone smoking dank nugs and drinking smirnoff watermelons. It was a delight and a pleasure, but when the light came on the ambiance was lost. But that's okay because the travel channel, which I am somewhat watching/listening to, told me that two turkeys are presidentally pardonned each year. My day today was much more eventful than normal. sitting in greek class at noon plus thirty minutes I had no idea where I would be and what I would be doing in a matter of minutes and half-hours. First, when I got back to my residence I found that my friend was the new, proud owner of a fine, official looking fake id. I needed one. So, I figured out the dets on obtaining said contraband (I just sat for about thirty seconds trying to remember if contraband was the right word for the situation) and proceded to enter my university's resident travel agency and garner up an international student id card. For twenty six members of american currency, I was able to obtain a photo-id (internationally recognized as kick ass) that said my birthday was well into 1986. After that, I got turned down at one liquor store but was able to obtain a fair amount of good malt liquor at the second try. So, for the past three hours I've been listening to the new Summer at Shatter Creek album while drinking Smirnoff and smoking Boulder's finest. Truth.
It was a bloodbath. The wrecked and horribly deformed bodies of countless townsfolk littered the dusty street. As Robot Winston surveyed his work, a special sense of pride welled up like so many pretty bubbles in his hardened, andriod chest. For the first time in his computer-controlled life, he had done something for someone else. And, after all, isn't that what life is about; helping our fellow man maintain his dignity? It was a story for the ages, and one that, as we can all see, takes up a special significance this holiday season.
Part Six
"Smirnoff Watermelon and the Nappy Headed Hos"
No one really knew when it first started to happen. Perhaps it started with the youth, and their non-elder-respecting ways. Others claim the competition in the health care industry was growing too fast and those small town, west coast doctas (straight out the C P T) just couldn't keep up. Though, even with all the controversy, we do still know this. The Good Doctor had served the community well over the years, mainly from the fact that every symptom of every disease his patients ever asked him about recieved the same prescribed treatment: "smoke the muthafuckin' weed every muthafuckin' day". Sure, he wasn't one of those fancy, college-educated doctors, but he got the job done. It was, indeed, a good life.
But somewhere along those lines, the people forgot about Dre. The man who brought the small town Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and the group that said "Muthafuck the Police", seemed a mere legend that the town's elders would talk about on their long, lazy evenings on front-porches. And while the youth of that small, isolated middle western emu-farming town went about their days without offering a single respect nod to the Doctor, there was still one who knew. He had been raised by the Doctor from his first days, when Dre had found the small, cigar smoking, witty-aphorism-spouting android in a back alley behind the town's ma-and-pa run strip club/bondage dungeon. And if we can say anything with certainty, in this crazy, mixed up world, its that Robot Winston Churchill ain't neva forgot about Dre.
These nappy headed hos (the ones who forgot about Dre) needed to straight up die. So, there I was, dressed to kill but sitting alone smoking dank nugs and drinking smirnoff watermelons. It was a delight and a pleasure, but when the light came on the ambiance was lost. But that's okay because the travel channel, which I am somewhat watching/listening to, told me that two turkeys are presidentally pardonned each year. My day today was much more eventful than normal. sitting in greek class at noon plus thirty minutes I had no idea where I would be and what I would be doing in a matter of minutes and half-hours. First, when I got back to my residence I found that my friend was the new, proud owner of a fine, official looking fake id. I needed one. So, I figured out the dets on obtaining said contraband (I just sat for about thirty seconds trying to remember if contraband was the right word for the situation) and proceded to enter my university's resident travel agency and garner up an international student id card. For twenty six members of american currency, I was able to obtain a photo-id (internationally recognized as kick ass) that said my birthday was well into 1986. After that, I got turned down at one liquor store but was able to obtain a fair amount of good malt liquor at the second try. So, for the past three hours I've been listening to the new Summer at Shatter Creek album while drinking Smirnoff and smoking Boulder's finest. Truth.
It was a bloodbath. The wrecked and horribly deformed bodies of countless townsfolk littered the dusty street. As Robot Winston surveyed his work, a special sense of pride welled up like so many pretty bubbles in his hardened, andriod chest. For the first time in his computer-controlled life, he had done something for someone else. And, after all, isn't that what life is about; helping our fellow man maintain his dignity? It was a story for the ages, and one that, as we can all see, takes up a special significance this holiday season.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
new song
art terrorism, go!
psychoanalysis is a disease
though i like its harmony
its simplicity and ease
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
dada is dead and gone
it was with me against
everything and everyone
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
in my prophet’s head
you’re the businessman
of steal and shot and death and lead
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
psychoanalysis is a disease
though i like its harmony
its simplicity and ease
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
dada is dead and gone
it was with me against
everything and everyone
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
in my prophet’s head
you’re the businessman
of steal and shot and death and lead
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
songs
so i decided, to bide my time while sitting in my dorm, i could write songs for a band i will probably never start.
here's the first one...
priapism
hey let me tell you
about this thing i found
it must really suck
cause it hurts your dick
you’ll get a boner
that’ll never go away
you can tape it to your leg
but i doubt it will help
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
i wikied it
and it turns out
a chick can get it too
what the fuck
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
here's the first one...
priapism
hey let me tell you
about this thing i found
it must really suck
cause it hurts your dick
you’ll get a boner
that’ll never go away
you can tape it to your leg
but i doubt it will help
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
i wikied it
and it turns out
a chick can get it too
what the fuck
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
Friday, September 28, 2007
nah forget it. yo! holmes! to bel-air!
right here and now, i'm going to found a new poetic tradition. i don't have a name for it yet, but its undoubtedly in the subconscious works. here's my first one, borrowing the words from an e-mail i just recieved from my college's administration.
"nah, forget it. yo! holmes! to bel-air!"
last night at approximately 9 PM
there was an (!) incident involving two students
under the influence of a hallucinogenic controlled substance.
The CU-Boulder
Police Dep(!)artment received
three separate calls
of a naked male reportedly running around
outside.
the male student
accessed hallett hall and allegedly violated
the university code of conduct (!) regarding
sexual misconduct against another student.
other residence hall students were able to apprehend and (!)restrain him until the
Police arrived.
(!)Police(!)
apprehended the student and transported him to boulder
community
hospital. boulder county victim advocates was summoned
to provide(!)
assistance and support to the victim(s). housing staff also provided support
to the community.
"nah, forget it. yo! holmes! to bel-air!"
last night at approximately 9 PM
there was an (!) incident involving two students
under the influence of a hallucinogenic controlled substance.
The CU-Boulder
Police Dep(!)artment received
three separate calls
of a naked male reportedly running around
outside.
the male student
accessed hallett hall and allegedly violated
the university code of conduct (!) regarding
sexual misconduct against another student.
other residence hall students were able to apprehend and (!)restrain him until the
Police arrived.
(!)Police(!)
apprehended the student and transported him to boulder
community
hospital. boulder county victim advocates was summoned
to provide(!)
assistance and support to the victim(s). housing staff also provided support
to the community.
Monday, September 10, 2007
R.W.C. #5: 'Just a Robot and his Bitches'
"What was that?"
A cry went out.
"I can't quite tell. Be quiet now."
The noise came in on little robot's feet, dancing and striding through a knife-grey mist.
"Can you get a closer look?"
A sigh went out.
"I can almost get a glimpse."
The noise came in and never left, a token of a robot's path.
A crooked path, perhaps.
But a path there none-the-less. A path and life of cheese-sticks, poon, and Asian women.
"Is it still there?"
A plea went out.
"I still cannot tell."
The noise came in on little robot's feet.
And is the noise still there?
If anything, we know, it is
just
a
robot
and
his
bitches.
A cry went out.
"I can't quite tell. Be quiet now."
The noise came in on little robot's feet, dancing and striding through a knife-grey mist.
"Can you get a closer look?"
A sigh went out.
"I can almost get a glimpse."
The noise came in and never left, a token of a robot's path.
A crooked path, perhaps.
But a path there none-the-less. A path and life of cheese-sticks, poon, and Asian women.
"Is it still there?"
A plea went out.
"I still cannot tell."
The noise came in on little robot's feet.
And is the noise still there?
If anything, we know, it is
just
a
robot
and
his
bitches.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
back 'n shit
i'm back, for better or worse, after spending a summer wondering around central england, southern spain, greater gibraltar, and western wyoming. not on one trip, though that'd be deck as ef.
anyway, i am now officially enrolled and attending classes at the university of colorado at boulder, so that is probably going to be taking most of my time. i'll try to post some more stuff i have written over my abscence, time permitting. i still need to start on the r.w.c. novella.
trust me, its in the works.
yeah, and i'm a chinese jet pilot.
(army of darkness reference, yeah!)
anyway, i am now officially enrolled and attending classes at the university of colorado at boulder, so that is probably going to be taking most of my time. i'll try to post some more stuff i have written over my abscence, time permitting. i still need to start on the r.w.c. novella.
trust me, its in the works.
yeah, and i'm a chinese jet pilot.
(army of darkness reference, yeah!)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
R.W.C. Announcement
as i just purchased a new computer today (ibook, you bastards) i will be able to commence work on my first robot winston churchill epic novellete "cheesesticks & poon: the adventures of robot winston churchill across the ages; the epic, part one; "dark side of the poon"."
good shit.
good shit.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
high school poem, the reaction
so i read the poem outloud today, and recieved a few laughs, but mostly stunned silence.
success.
success.
Monday, June 4, 2007
my high school experience
so, as wednesday is my last day of high school forever, my government teacher wanted each person to write a speech about what high school meant to them. i find that idea stupid, so i wrote a lyrical poem, in true dada fashion, of course. here it is.
my high school experience
while the guns rumbled in the distance, we had a dim premonition that power-mad gangsters would one day use art itself as a means of deadening man’s minds. as i stood on the highest peak, i shouted towards the heavens below me,
“the trout are here, good sir, and they demand your love. make the romance explosion on them if you ever want to see your illegitimate children again.”
the cheesesticks served every other tuesday in the old commons were a roller coaster of emotion and if winston churchill were to return from beyond the grave he’d undoubtedly be a robot.
my friend soren and i ventured into a restaurant the other day, and i couldn’t stop laughing because when the waitress asked what we wanted for drinks soren looked up and stammered, “if there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential, if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair?”
i remember the first time i met you.
i remember first entering this divine palace of learning and immediately the smell of sweet flowers caressed my nose. despite looking everywhere, i simply could not find the coffin. i urged a riot and called for my own destruction. that, it would seem, i was granted, for i could only believe in a god who could dance.
my fellow students, if con is the opposite of pro, congress is the opposite of progress, and when i am elected president i am changing the name of air force one to air force fun.
while the little green footballs of my soul were tossed against the raging winds of antiquity, i shaved off my eyebrows into a bowl of soup. they danced amongst the froth, like two star-crossed lovers on the night of their demise.
it is undoubtedly this course of action that must be taken. you reporters, you philanthropists of the heart, do this for me. imagine a boot stepping on a face for eternity, and tell me how you feel.
my high school experience
while the guns rumbled in the distance, we had a dim premonition that power-mad gangsters would one day use art itself as a means of deadening man’s minds. as i stood on the highest peak, i shouted towards the heavens below me,
“the trout are here, good sir, and they demand your love. make the romance explosion on them if you ever want to see your illegitimate children again.”
the cheesesticks served every other tuesday in the old commons were a roller coaster of emotion and if winston churchill were to return from beyond the grave he’d undoubtedly be a robot.
my friend soren and i ventured into a restaurant the other day, and i couldn’t stop laughing because when the waitress asked what we wanted for drinks soren looked up and stammered, “if there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential, if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair?”
i remember the first time i met you.
i remember first entering this divine palace of learning and immediately the smell of sweet flowers caressed my nose. despite looking everywhere, i simply could not find the coffin. i urged a riot and called for my own destruction. that, it would seem, i was granted, for i could only believe in a god who could dance.
my fellow students, if con is the opposite of pro, congress is the opposite of progress, and when i am elected president i am changing the name of air force one to air force fun.
while the little green footballs of my soul were tossed against the raging winds of antiquity, i shaved off my eyebrows into a bowl of soup. they danced amongst the froth, like two star-crossed lovers on the night of their demise.
it is undoubtedly this course of action that must be taken. you reporters, you philanthropists of the heart, do this for me. imagine a boot stepping on a face for eternity, and tell me how you feel.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
R.W.C. #4: 'Anus Cold As Ice'
After a wait of well over a month, I present the newest (and fourth) installment of
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages".
Part Four
"Anus Cold As Ice"
Doctor Robert Watson, chief paleontologist at the National Museum of Natural History, came bolting through the doors of the delivery docks just about as fast as anyone could. The newest prehistoric discoveries from the field had just arrived, and Doctor Watson was sweating with anticipation. As he signed for the delivery, he ordered his assistant, paleontology graduate student Tony Danza, to help him bring in the giant crate.
“What is it, Doctor? Is it the homo erectus you’ve always wanted?”
“’fraid not, me boy. This prize’ll be much grander. A perfectly preserved woolly mammoth, frozen instantly at the beginning of the Ice Age. I’m just hopin’ this one doesn’t have the strange deformities like the last one.”
“What were the deformities, Doctor?”
“Hold on boy, let’s get this crate in the examination room first.”
As they brought the massive crate in by fork lift, they placed it upon the examination table. As Danza began to tear away the protective covering, the Doctor could barely contain his excitement. His colleagues in the paleontology world had laughed at his obsession with the wooly mammoth, but Doctor Robert Watson was on a mission.
Ever since his first expedition to the artic as an eager graduate student, and his first mammoth find, he had been hooked on finding the perfect specimen of the massive beast we know today as Mammuthus Primigenius. But what had puzzled him most, especially recently, was the odd deformities in and around the sexual organs that seemed to appear on each and every specimen that ventured through his museum doors. It was almost enough to drive the poor old man insane.
But as Danza peeled away the last of the plastic wrap, exposing the perfectly preserved fur and fleshed, the Doctor became wholeheartedly aroused.
“Hurry boy! Show me the anus!”
Danza paused at this request, but when you spend eighteen hours locked in a museum like the Doctor did, the standards of attraction may be slightly lowered. Either way, he did as he was told.
As Danza unwrapped the anus’ covering, the Doctor pushed him away and grabbed the first look. What he saw couldn’t be put into words. A massive hole seemed to have ripped away the anal cavity, as if the result of a penetration of biblical proportions. And inside the gaping hole was, just like all the others, a kind of stringy, metallic goo.
“No! No!”, the Doctor jumped back, horrified, “No, it cannot be! Not again!”
“What is it Doctor?” Danza yelled at his petrified professor.
The Doctor was speechless. Eager to look for himself, Danza looked in at what the Doctor had staggered back from.
“My god, Doctor. This hole… it’s enormous. And this liquid. What is it? It’s almost like some kind of robotic semen.”
With those words, the Doctor was pushed over the edge.
All of his theories, his worries, his fears, were confirmed with those words. His worst nightmare was coming true and it was directly in front of his face. Terrified, he fell to his only solution to such a pain.
The Doctor, in his last act, ran quickly to a counter near the table where he grabbed a scalpel. Tears pouring from his eyes and agony ripping at his soul, he quickly slashed his wrists and throat as he fell to the floor. As he looked up once more from his pool of blood and pure human grief he bellowed his final words toward the heavens.
“Damn you, Robot Winston Churchill!”
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages".
Part Four
"Anus Cold As Ice"
Doctor Robert Watson, chief paleontologist at the National Museum of Natural History, came bolting through the doors of the delivery docks just about as fast as anyone could. The newest prehistoric discoveries from the field had just arrived, and Doctor Watson was sweating with anticipation. As he signed for the delivery, he ordered his assistant, paleontology graduate student Tony Danza, to help him bring in the giant crate.
“What is it, Doctor? Is it the homo erectus you’ve always wanted?”
“’fraid not, me boy. This prize’ll be much grander. A perfectly preserved woolly mammoth, frozen instantly at the beginning of the Ice Age. I’m just hopin’ this one doesn’t have the strange deformities like the last one.”
“What were the deformities, Doctor?”
“Hold on boy, let’s get this crate in the examination room first.”
As they brought the massive crate in by fork lift, they placed it upon the examination table. As Danza began to tear away the protective covering, the Doctor could barely contain his excitement. His colleagues in the paleontology world had laughed at his obsession with the wooly mammoth, but Doctor Robert Watson was on a mission.
Ever since his first expedition to the artic as an eager graduate student, and his first mammoth find, he had been hooked on finding the perfect specimen of the massive beast we know today as Mammuthus Primigenius. But what had puzzled him most, especially recently, was the odd deformities in and around the sexual organs that seemed to appear on each and every specimen that ventured through his museum doors. It was almost enough to drive the poor old man insane.
But as Danza peeled away the last of the plastic wrap, exposing the perfectly preserved fur and fleshed, the Doctor became wholeheartedly aroused.
“Hurry boy! Show me the anus!”
Danza paused at this request, but when you spend eighteen hours locked in a museum like the Doctor did, the standards of attraction may be slightly lowered. Either way, he did as he was told.
As Danza unwrapped the anus’ covering, the Doctor pushed him away and grabbed the first look. What he saw couldn’t be put into words. A massive hole seemed to have ripped away the anal cavity, as if the result of a penetration of biblical proportions. And inside the gaping hole was, just like all the others, a kind of stringy, metallic goo.
“No! No!”, the Doctor jumped back, horrified, “No, it cannot be! Not again!”
“What is it Doctor?” Danza yelled at his petrified professor.
The Doctor was speechless. Eager to look for himself, Danza looked in at what the Doctor had staggered back from.
“My god, Doctor. This hole… it’s enormous. And this liquid. What is it? It’s almost like some kind of robotic semen.”
With those words, the Doctor was pushed over the edge.
All of his theories, his worries, his fears, were confirmed with those words. His worst nightmare was coming true and it was directly in front of his face. Terrified, he fell to his only solution to such a pain.
The Doctor, in his last act, ran quickly to a counter near the table where he grabbed a scalpel. Tears pouring from his eyes and agony ripping at his soul, he quickly slashed his wrists and throat as he fell to the floor. As he looked up once more from his pool of blood and pure human grief he bellowed his final words toward the heavens.
“Damn you, Robot Winston Churchill!”
Friday, May 4, 2007
haikus
here are some haikus i have written, most of them last year. enjoy, my good friends.
the night i made love
to the robot plays out when
i look at your face
it was gross to find
that i was not eating a pear
it was a man's head
the fall air was crisp
and cold as i strangled the
life out of your body
i had an idea for
a fun and witty haiku
but i forgot it
sometimes i poo with
the door open to add a
sense of excitement
i cannot see you
can you come a bit closer
oh man i am drunk
oh my god i think
i killed a hooker in here
fucking koreans
on the tour bus i
was a member of the five
foot high club my man
oh man i just spilled
iced tea on my haiku sheet
fuck fuck why god why
if i had a son
i would name him herb and
arrange his marriage
sometimes at the bagel
shop i steal the condiments
what a good breakfast
if i had to kill
somone i'd use a pillow
and smother their face
today i wore tube
socks and that is why i am
not going back home
i bet store mannequins
come alive at night time and
fist fight to the death
bob villa is waiting
outside your door to kick your
ass oh are you screwed
i would be a bad
cowboy because i microwave
my s'mores at home
sometimes i run about
in cemetaries at night haha
cause they are still dead
there is braille on drive
up a.t.m.s and I am
going to kill myself
i bet haunted tape
dispensers are pissed off cause
come on that's just dumb
the clock on my wall
is broken again oh no
i'm late again fuck
on a sinking navy
ship i bet the sailors wished
they'd joined the air force
now i wonder if
cannabalism would be okay if
peopled tasted good
i wonder if kids
in china get tattoos of
words in english there
what can i say you
are a rushing fountain of
ideas my good friend
i would make a good
ghost because i already
happen to be pale
call for help man my
erection has lasted for
more than four hours now
until now i was
totally unaware cock fighting
normally involved chickens
drinking and peeing
at the same time was something
i won't soon forget
few of life's problems
cannot be solved with lube and
a well placed grenade
i wonder if the
pope goes to school reunions
ha ha he's the pope
there's nothing sadder
than a real sad clown without
any health insurance
anything worth taking
seriously is worth making
offensive jokes about
i am a robot
beep beep beep clink clank snap smash
oh no i'm broken
the night i made love
to the robot plays out when
i look at your face
it was gross to find
that i was not eating a pear
it was a man's head
the fall air was crisp
and cold as i strangled the
life out of your body
i had an idea for
a fun and witty haiku
but i forgot it
sometimes i poo with
the door open to add a
sense of excitement
i cannot see you
can you come a bit closer
oh man i am drunk
oh my god i think
i killed a hooker in here
fucking koreans
on the tour bus i
was a member of the five
foot high club my man
oh man i just spilled
iced tea on my haiku sheet
fuck fuck why god why
if i had a son
i would name him herb and
arrange his marriage
sometimes at the bagel
shop i steal the condiments
what a good breakfast
if i had to kill
somone i'd use a pillow
and smother their face
today i wore tube
socks and that is why i am
not going back home
i bet store mannequins
come alive at night time and
fist fight to the death
bob villa is waiting
outside your door to kick your
ass oh are you screwed
i would be a bad
cowboy because i microwave
my s'mores at home
sometimes i run about
in cemetaries at night haha
cause they are still dead
there is braille on drive
up a.t.m.s and I am
going to kill myself
i bet haunted tape
dispensers are pissed off cause
come on that's just dumb
the clock on my wall
is broken again oh no
i'm late again fuck
on a sinking navy
ship i bet the sailors wished
they'd joined the air force
now i wonder if
cannabalism would be okay if
peopled tasted good
i wonder if kids
in china get tattoos of
words in english there
what can i say you
are a rushing fountain of
ideas my good friend
i would make a good
ghost because i already
happen to be pale
call for help man my
erection has lasted for
more than four hours now
until now i was
totally unaware cock fighting
normally involved chickens
drinking and peeing
at the same time was something
i won't soon forget
few of life's problems
cannot be solved with lube and
a well placed grenade
i wonder if the
pope goes to school reunions
ha ha he's the pope
there's nothing sadder
than a real sad clown without
any health insurance
anything worth taking
seriously is worth making
offensive jokes about
i am a robot
beep beep beep clink clank snap smash
oh no i'm broken
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Hobo Threat
The hobos were restless. Frank Popplefratter had seen it all before. The elder of the old desert town of Mulberry, Frank was the lone survivor left from the Great Hobo Wars. As he contemplated the situation from his pine rocking chair, he could almost feel the tension building.
Frank knew he had to warn the townsfolk and do it fast. "People, my people!" Frank cried from his porch overlooking main street, "People, the hobos are fast approachin'! They'll kill us all!"
But it seemed that Frank's message had fallen upon deaf ears. None of the younger folks had lived through the terror that was the Great Hobo Wars, and Frank knew it would take all of his might to convince the people of Mulberry to prepare for the great hobo plague about to befall them. Lifting his old, tired body from his chair, Frank yelled across the street with all of his might, "People, my people! You've got to get ready! The storm that is the hobos is about to swallow Mulberry whole!"
Still, none heeded his dire warnings. As evening turned into night, Frank finally retired into his bedroom, crestfallen that he was ignored. Perhaps, he thought, the hobos were not actually coming. As he faded into a restless sleep, he was comforted by that thought.
But later that evening, as the wind played across the curtains, a bump in the night awoke Frank. It's nothing, he thought, just the wind. He closed his eyes again, but just as he did a grimy hand wrapped itself across his wrinkled neck. Toothless Tom jumped out from behind Frank's headrest, armed with his banjo and a urine-encrusted pillow. With a jab, a thrust, and a hallowing scream in the night, Frank was finished off.
"C'mon, you hobo bags o' bones," Toothless Tom whispered, "it's time to pillage this village".
With those words, Toothless Tom led his army of dirty vagabonds out and headed into the cold, black night.
Frank knew he had to warn the townsfolk and do it fast. "People, my people!" Frank cried from his porch overlooking main street, "People, the hobos are fast approachin'! They'll kill us all!"
But it seemed that Frank's message had fallen upon deaf ears. None of the younger folks had lived through the terror that was the Great Hobo Wars, and Frank knew it would take all of his might to convince the people of Mulberry to prepare for the great hobo plague about to befall them. Lifting his old, tired body from his chair, Frank yelled across the street with all of his might, "People, my people! You've got to get ready! The storm that is the hobos is about to swallow Mulberry whole!"
Still, none heeded his dire warnings. As evening turned into night, Frank finally retired into his bedroom, crestfallen that he was ignored. Perhaps, he thought, the hobos were not actually coming. As he faded into a restless sleep, he was comforted by that thought.
But later that evening, as the wind played across the curtains, a bump in the night awoke Frank. It's nothing, he thought, just the wind. He closed his eyes again, but just as he did a grimy hand wrapped itself across his wrinkled neck. Toothless Tom jumped out from behind Frank's headrest, armed with his banjo and a urine-encrusted pillow. With a jab, a thrust, and a hallowing scream in the night, Frank was finished off.
"C'mon, you hobo bags o' bones," Toothless Tom whispered, "it's time to pillage this village".
With those words, Toothless Tom led his army of dirty vagabonds out and headed into the cold, black night.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Confessions of a Father
Everyone down at the old bar knew Bob’s story. A hallow shell of a man, Bob had once had it all. A mansion in the suburbs, a brand new sports car, and a high paying executive job, all of which he shared with his pin-up wife and handsome young son. But things were not as they seemed, for as time went on, Bob’s life had slowly spun out of control.
It had started with the birth of their son, whom Bob named (against the wishes of both his wife and his family) Herb Wounded Knee Hitler Johnson. He also arranged his son’s marriage to Sacagawea and would urinate in the boy’s crib every night before he went to sleep.
When the boy was eight, Bob constructed a bondage sex dungeon in the house’s basement, where he employed an Asian dominatrix he called Mistress Woo. Whenever Herb misbehaved or Bob had an erection, Bob would yell, “To the Dungeon!” where he allowed Mistress Woo to have her way with his weeping young son as he dangled from a leather sex swing Bob had purchased from his local Home Depot.
Fellow bar goers, very well acquainted with Bob’s heart breaking tale, know that it wasn’t until little Herb was sixteen that things may have gotten out of hand for Papa Bob. It was at Herb’s first big high school dance and he had asked out the prettiest girl in the entire school, Cindy. If everything goes right, Herb thought, it might be my sexual experience without a diseased ball gag. Little did Herb know how right that night would go. Actually, it would go wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
As Herb and Cindy entered the school gymnasium, a sight befell their eyes that nothing in their health classes could have ever prepared them for. In the midst of the dance decorations stood Bob, completely naked and covered in pig’s blood, having just successfully carved a likeness of his son’s own flaccid manhood into his pubic hair. He then proceeded to have sexual intercourse with the Pocket Pussy sex toy, which he had also purchased from Home Depot.
Needless to say, Herb’s night was ruined. And so was Bob, but for unrelated financial matters.
It had started with the birth of their son, whom Bob named (against the wishes of both his wife and his family) Herb Wounded Knee Hitler Johnson. He also arranged his son’s marriage to Sacagawea and would urinate in the boy’s crib every night before he went to sleep.
When the boy was eight, Bob constructed a bondage sex dungeon in the house’s basement, where he employed an Asian dominatrix he called Mistress Woo. Whenever Herb misbehaved or Bob had an erection, Bob would yell, “To the Dungeon!” where he allowed Mistress Woo to have her way with his weeping young son as he dangled from a leather sex swing Bob had purchased from his local Home Depot.
Fellow bar goers, very well acquainted with Bob’s heart breaking tale, know that it wasn’t until little Herb was sixteen that things may have gotten out of hand for Papa Bob. It was at Herb’s first big high school dance and he had asked out the prettiest girl in the entire school, Cindy. If everything goes right, Herb thought, it might be my sexual experience without a diseased ball gag. Little did Herb know how right that night would go. Actually, it would go wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
As Herb and Cindy entered the school gymnasium, a sight befell their eyes that nothing in their health classes could have ever prepared them for. In the midst of the dance decorations stood Bob, completely naked and covered in pig’s blood, having just successfully carved a likeness of his son’s own flaccid manhood into his pubic hair. He then proceeded to have sexual intercourse with the Pocket Pussy sex toy, which he had also purchased from Home Depot.
Needless to say, Herb’s night was ruined. And so was Bob, but for unrelated financial matters.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A Miner Problem
"No, no! You can't arrest me! It was all a misunderstanding!"
Despite my impassioned pleas for help, they fell upon deaf ears and kevlar helmets. I was led away by the police; away from my family, my friends, my life.
It had all started by over-hearing a hushed conversation in the basement of the country club.
"Yeah, you can do it all in West Virginia. The pickings, my friend, are ripe indeed".
The conversation then took a course (and me along with it) into details of hedonistic debauchary and the deepest, darkest corners of the libertine. Oh yes, dear reader, though it may be a crime against the law and against God himself, my most sadistic of sexual fantasies seemed, according to my unknowing partners, very much a possibility in that little slice of Heaven known as West Virginia.
The next day, I arranged a meeting with an underground agency who specialized in this type of endeavor, and who would arrange my trip not only into Appalachia, but into unadulterated passion.
When we arrived in West Virginia, our van drove down on of the avenues known for its "willing selection". We picked up a big, gruff one (just as I fantasized) and we drove on.
Finally, my smugglers dropped us off at a shady motel near a coal processing plant. They warned of midnight police raids, but I wasn't listening. As soon as they left, the fun truly began. We ravaged each other for hours, making love like there was no tomorrow. But what seemed like an eternity later, all hell broke loose.
The lights went out as a huge black boot kicked in the door to the room. Four SWAT cops, armed with an expansive array of nightsticks, came charging through the door. As my world went black, the last noise I remember hearing was the sheriff yelling,
"Get him boys! He's having sex with a miner!"
Despite my impassioned pleas for help, they fell upon deaf ears and kevlar helmets. I was led away by the police; away from my family, my friends, my life.
It had all started by over-hearing a hushed conversation in the basement of the country club.
"Yeah, you can do it all in West Virginia. The pickings, my friend, are ripe indeed".
The conversation then took a course (and me along with it) into details of hedonistic debauchary and the deepest, darkest corners of the libertine. Oh yes, dear reader, though it may be a crime against the law and against God himself, my most sadistic of sexual fantasies seemed, according to my unknowing partners, very much a possibility in that little slice of Heaven known as West Virginia.
The next day, I arranged a meeting with an underground agency who specialized in this type of endeavor, and who would arrange my trip not only into Appalachia, but into unadulterated passion.
When we arrived in West Virginia, our van drove down on of the avenues known for its "willing selection". We picked up a big, gruff one (just as I fantasized) and we drove on.
Finally, my smugglers dropped us off at a shady motel near a coal processing plant. They warned of midnight police raids, but I wasn't listening. As soon as they left, the fun truly began. We ravaged each other for hours, making love like there was no tomorrow. But what seemed like an eternity later, all hell broke loose.
The lights went out as a huge black boot kicked in the door to the room. Four SWAT cops, armed with an expansive array of nightsticks, came charging through the door. As my world went black, the last noise I remember hearing was the sheriff yelling,
"Get him boys! He's having sex with a miner!"
Thursday, March 22, 2007
R.W.C. #3: 'A Family Affair'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Three
"A Family Affair"
Word travels fast across the centuries, and rarely does it travel faster than when that word includes Robot Winston Churchill, Asians, and Deep Penetration in the Distant Future. Take it as you will. For news of Robot Winston Churchill's rampant sexcapades had reached ears in the farthest corners of time, but no where was it ringing louder than in the small nineteenth century British village of Woodstock, Oxfordshire.
For at that very moment, a child was born. A small boy who Mistress Fate, in all of her infinite wisdom, has singled out from amongst the masses. A boy whose destiny would find him winning great wars, leading nations and empires, and getting ass loads of poon doing it. For this small boy, wrapped in swaddling cloth and held firmly in his mother's strong arms, would help to vanquish evil from earth.
But not if Robot Winston Churchill had anything to say about it.
Oh, and believe me, he did.
For this boy, this Baby Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, was the only soul in the history of time with the powers to defeat Robot Winston Churchill; the man, ironically enough, he was born to kill. His parents knew it. There was a reason this birthing had taken place in secret, in a secluded house in an obscure English village. As Mother Churchill smiled at her new born son, the midwife glanced to Father Churchill who stood grinning in the corner, corncob pipe clenched firmly in his square jaw. It seemed that this family, which had gone to so much trouble and through so much pain, had finally found a shred of hope in this god forsaken world. Happiness, after all these years, had finally come to the Churchill family.
But little did they know that a menace was stalking them, just outside their very home. For Robot Winston Churchill could smell like happiness as great white could blood; and like a bug killer on the job, it was time for an extermination.
With a deafening crash, the front door of the cottage crashed down, Robot Winston Churchill charging in like a raging locomotive of righteous fury. Father Churchill was the closest to Robot Winston Churchill, and it would seem, the closest to death.
Robot Winston Churchill lunged, and grabbing Father Churchill's feeble body, snapped his spine like a baseball bat over his mechanical thigh of thunder. Robot Winston Churchill then hoisted the poor man up, still alive and gasping for breathe. With joy in his eyes and blood on his mind, the maniacal android grasped Father Churchill's flaccid manhood, and with one great tug, performed the ultimate vasectomy of pain.
Letting his first victim fall to the floor with a solid thud, Robot Winston Churchill's head than pivoted exactly one hundred and eighty degrees around, his gaze falling on the final three. They were, indeed, the walking dead.
The midwife let out a scrotum-clenching scream and made a dash for the door. But Robot Winston Churchill, laughing with a mechanical glee that would have struck fear into the heart of Satan himself, let go a giant ball of fire from his throat, the result of the installment of a Zippo and can of Tag strategically placed near his jugular. For every Robot Winston Churchillologist worth his weight in salt knows that when Robot Winston Churchill spits, he spits hot fire.
Robot Winston Churchill then picked up the dying old woman with one hand, her face still melting off her skull, as he whipped out his robotic cock with the other. No one is quite sure what happened next, but there are stories. To this day, if you ask the neighbors, they'll tell of a bone shattering crash and a midwife with one extra "happy hole", square through the temple. As for Robot Winston Churchill, well, it wasn't the first time he's had to clean skull bits off his android cock.
Whipping his mouth to clear away his own potent love juice, Robot Winston Churchill then turned towards the last two, his prize easily within his reach. Mother Churchill, desperate to protect her child at all costs, dropped Baby Winston Churchill to the floor and ran out the door screaming into the woods.
This rare act of courage, a testament to the love between a mother and her child, gave time for Robot Winston Churchill to jack himself off onto the wall near the fireplace. But none of that mattered now. Robot Winston Churchill then picked up Baby Winston Churchill and gazed into his baby eyes. Then he pocked them out. And ripped him apart, limb from limb. Picking up a blood stained cradle sheet, Robot Winston Churchill wrapped up the baby and carried him down to the local butcher. There he threw Baby Winston Churchill's broken carcass into the sausage grinder. The villagers would sit down to a special breakfast treat the next morning, though Robot Winston Churchill gleefully, and he escaped once more into the deepest bowels of time.
The entire village of Woodstock, it would seem, would have a "taste" of their future leader.
Part Three
"A Family Affair"
Word travels fast across the centuries, and rarely does it travel faster than when that word includes Robot Winston Churchill, Asians, and Deep Penetration in the Distant Future. Take it as you will. For news of Robot Winston Churchill's rampant sexcapades had reached ears in the farthest corners of time, but no where was it ringing louder than in the small nineteenth century British village of Woodstock, Oxfordshire.
For at that very moment, a child was born. A small boy who Mistress Fate, in all of her infinite wisdom, has singled out from amongst the masses. A boy whose destiny would find him winning great wars, leading nations and empires, and getting ass loads of poon doing it. For this small boy, wrapped in swaddling cloth and held firmly in his mother's strong arms, would help to vanquish evil from earth.
But not if Robot Winston Churchill had anything to say about it.
Oh, and believe me, he did.
For this boy, this Baby Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, was the only soul in the history of time with the powers to defeat Robot Winston Churchill; the man, ironically enough, he was born to kill. His parents knew it. There was a reason this birthing had taken place in secret, in a secluded house in an obscure English village. As Mother Churchill smiled at her new born son, the midwife glanced to Father Churchill who stood grinning in the corner, corncob pipe clenched firmly in his square jaw. It seemed that this family, which had gone to so much trouble and through so much pain, had finally found a shred of hope in this god forsaken world. Happiness, after all these years, had finally come to the Churchill family.
But little did they know that a menace was stalking them, just outside their very home. For Robot Winston Churchill could smell like happiness as great white could blood; and like a bug killer on the job, it was time for an extermination.
With a deafening crash, the front door of the cottage crashed down, Robot Winston Churchill charging in like a raging locomotive of righteous fury. Father Churchill was the closest to Robot Winston Churchill, and it would seem, the closest to death.
Robot Winston Churchill lunged, and grabbing Father Churchill's feeble body, snapped his spine like a baseball bat over his mechanical thigh of thunder. Robot Winston Churchill then hoisted the poor man up, still alive and gasping for breathe. With joy in his eyes and blood on his mind, the maniacal android grasped Father Churchill's flaccid manhood, and with one great tug, performed the ultimate vasectomy of pain.
Letting his first victim fall to the floor with a solid thud, Robot Winston Churchill's head than pivoted exactly one hundred and eighty degrees around, his gaze falling on the final three. They were, indeed, the walking dead.
The midwife let out a scrotum-clenching scream and made a dash for the door. But Robot Winston Churchill, laughing with a mechanical glee that would have struck fear into the heart of Satan himself, let go a giant ball of fire from his throat, the result of the installment of a Zippo and can of Tag strategically placed near his jugular. For every Robot Winston Churchillologist worth his weight in salt knows that when Robot Winston Churchill spits, he spits hot fire.
Robot Winston Churchill then picked up the dying old woman with one hand, her face still melting off her skull, as he whipped out his robotic cock with the other. No one is quite sure what happened next, but there are stories. To this day, if you ask the neighbors, they'll tell of a bone shattering crash and a midwife with one extra "happy hole", square through the temple. As for Robot Winston Churchill, well, it wasn't the first time he's had to clean skull bits off his android cock.
Whipping his mouth to clear away his own potent love juice, Robot Winston Churchill then turned towards the last two, his prize easily within his reach. Mother Churchill, desperate to protect her child at all costs, dropped Baby Winston Churchill to the floor and ran out the door screaming into the woods.
This rare act of courage, a testament to the love between a mother and her child, gave time for Robot Winston Churchill to jack himself off onto the wall near the fireplace. But none of that mattered now. Robot Winston Churchill then picked up Baby Winston Churchill and gazed into his baby eyes. Then he pocked them out. And ripped him apart, limb from limb. Picking up a blood stained cradle sheet, Robot Winston Churchill wrapped up the baby and carried him down to the local butcher. There he threw Baby Winston Churchill's broken carcass into the sausage grinder. The villagers would sit down to a special breakfast treat the next morning, though Robot Winston Churchill gleefully, and he escaped once more into the deepest bowels of time.
The entire village of Woodstock, it would seem, would have a "taste" of their future leader.
Friday, March 9, 2007
a poem
sorry for the lack of posts, but here's a poem i wrote for a new facebook group i started called "neo-dadaists, upper midwest".
un(tit)led
a girl in school once asked me what dada is
but all i could do was laugh
then moments later
a boy in school asked me what i was laughing at
but all i could do was tell him what dada is
he told me i didn't make any sense
(for in truth, all i said was "die kunst ist tot, dada uber alles")
and that my laugh made me seem crazy
at this point i was openly weeping
and i think he got scared
because he left
it wasn't until lunch time in the commons
that a younger boy
(a freshman, i think)
drinking his milk through a straw told me that art was dead
i think he was dissappointed in my reaction
because he frowned when i smiled
i know, i told him, and i helped bury it
the aforementioned school boy and girl
(who were passing our table at the time)
got mad and demanded to know what i meant
about what? i asked
art being dead, they said
i tried to answer
but the way they asked it made me laugh
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
i guess that about sums it up
more or less
un(tit)led
a girl in school once asked me what dada is
but all i could do was laugh
then moments later
a boy in school asked me what i was laughing at
but all i could do was tell him what dada is
he told me i didn't make any sense
(for in truth, all i said was "die kunst ist tot, dada uber alles")
and that my laugh made me seem crazy
at this point i was openly weeping
and i think he got scared
because he left
it wasn't until lunch time in the commons
that a younger boy
(a freshman, i think)
drinking his milk through a straw told me that art was dead
i think he was dissappointed in my reaction
because he frowned when i smiled
i know, i told him, and i helped bury it
the aforementioned school boy and girl
(who were passing our table at the time)
got mad and demanded to know what i meant
about what? i asked
art being dead, they said
i tried to answer
but the way they asked it made me laugh
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
i guess that about sums it up
more or less
Sunday, February 11, 2007
The Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia
A short story I was inspired to write while eating dinner last night in downtown Minneapolis. Enjoy.
The Douglas children always looked forward to Christmas time. Johnny and Katie, twins at the age of nine years, loved the presents, family gatherings, and, their personal favorite, the horse and carriage rides.
As the temperatures dropped and the calendar turned to the last month of the year, Jonny and Katie knew all too well what awaited them down on the family farm. They arrived with their parents and quickly joined their smaller cousins in the play room. Finally, after the sun had set low behind the rolling hills, their aunt entered the room, saying the words Johnny and Katie had been waiting for the entire night.
"Time for a horse and carriage ride!"
The smaller children cried with joy and bolted out of the room in front of the twins. As Johnny and Katie stepped out onto the front porch of the farm house, the carriage was already overflowing with a mass of toddlers and their parents.
"Oh no, Johnny and Katie, it looks like the carriage is full. Would you mind waiting for it to go around and return, then take you for a ride?"
The twins, though eagerly anticipating the trip, didn't mind a little wait.
"Yes, that's fine Aunt Leslie," they replied.
Their aunt smiled and, upon entering the carriage herself, turned and said they would be back in half an hour. As the carriage torted down the trail, Johnny and Katie stood alone on the porch.
They had waited for a mere five minutes when, far down the trail returning to the farm house, they spotted a horse and carriage.
"That was really quick," Johnny said wonderingly, his sister concurring.
Their surprised joy turned to utter horror as the carriage approached. For there, guiding his two skeleton horses from atop his carriage of tortured souls, rode none other than the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia.
The children screamed and attempted to flee, but their mortal bodies were no match for the personal carriage driver of Satan. Johnny and Katie were sucked into the carriage, and as the horses led them back into the deepest rings of Hell, the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia let out a sinister laugh, knowing that two more souls had just been claimed by his horse and carriage ride of doom.
The Douglas children always looked forward to Christmas time. Johnny and Katie, twins at the age of nine years, loved the presents, family gatherings, and, their personal favorite, the horse and carriage rides.
As the temperatures dropped and the calendar turned to the last month of the year, Jonny and Katie knew all too well what awaited them down on the family farm. They arrived with their parents and quickly joined their smaller cousins in the play room. Finally, after the sun had set low behind the rolling hills, their aunt entered the room, saying the words Johnny and Katie had been waiting for the entire night.
"Time for a horse and carriage ride!"
The smaller children cried with joy and bolted out of the room in front of the twins. As Johnny and Katie stepped out onto the front porch of the farm house, the carriage was already overflowing with a mass of toddlers and their parents.
"Oh no, Johnny and Katie, it looks like the carriage is full. Would you mind waiting for it to go around and return, then take you for a ride?"
The twins, though eagerly anticipating the trip, didn't mind a little wait.
"Yes, that's fine Aunt Leslie," they replied.
Their aunt smiled and, upon entering the carriage herself, turned and said they would be back in half an hour. As the carriage torted down the trail, Johnny and Katie stood alone on the porch.
They had waited for a mere five minutes when, far down the trail returning to the farm house, they spotted a horse and carriage.
"That was really quick," Johnny said wonderingly, his sister concurring.
Their surprised joy turned to utter horror as the carriage approached. For there, guiding his two skeleton horses from atop his carriage of tortured souls, rode none other than the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia.
The children screamed and attempted to flee, but their mortal bodies were no match for the personal carriage driver of Satan. Johnny and Katie were sucked into the carriage, and as the horses led them back into the deepest rings of Hell, the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia let out a sinister laugh, knowing that two more souls had just been claimed by his horse and carriage ride of doom.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
reviews and what not
i've got a number of reviews of my writing, primarily from school and gt. mostly they were what i expected, just points about grammar, sentence structure, and my absolute lack of character development. either way, i've got the next plot sorted out and now just needed to put it down on paper. or blogspot. or what ever the fuck i want to put it on.
oh, and if anyone wants to read more short stories by pathologically lying absurdists with slight literary flairs and an excessive amount of free time (ie myself in a nutshell) visit
electricstorytime.blogspot.com
trust me, it'll be worth it. and you can read my comments about grave dancing, necrophilia, and suspicious red hankerchiefs.
oh, and if anyone wants to read more short stories by pathologically lying absurdists with slight literary flairs and an excessive amount of free time (ie myself in a nutshell) visit
electricstorytime.blogspot.com
trust me, it'll be worth it. and you can read my comments about grave dancing, necrophilia, and suspicious red hankerchiefs.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
R.W.C. #2: 'The Most Important Law'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Two
"The Most Important Law"
Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.
As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.
As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.
Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”
Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.
“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”
The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.
“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”
Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.
“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”
With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.
“Him.”
As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.
Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.
“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”
The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.
The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.
Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.
The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.
“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”
The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.
It read:
Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.
If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.
Part Two
"The Most Important Law"
Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.
As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.
As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.
Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”
Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.
“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”
The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.
“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”
Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.
“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”
With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.
“Him.”
As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.
Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.
“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”
The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.
The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.
Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.
The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.
“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”
The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.
It read:
Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.
If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
R.W.C. #1: 'Lunch Date with Death'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part One
"Lunch Date with Death"
The school day was going as well as could be expected for principal Herb Shackelfelter’s first day after his promotion.
He entered the teacher’s lounge after the second bell sounded in the highest of spirits, only to quickly notice, most dismally, the deafening silence that was engulfing the room. He walked amongst the seated and brooding teachers, none returning his eager glances. A thick sense of despair smothered Herb, only to have the knot in his stomach fearfully clenched as a frantic scream rose from the cafeteria.
Twenty years experience teaching in the city’s toughest inner-city schools could not have prepared the rookie principal for what he witnessed next. For there, surrounded by the strewn, bloodied, and broken bodies of the school children left in Herb’s care was every public school administrator’s greatest fear, live and in person. For there, gazing back through a haze of both smoke and strangled screams, stood Robot Winston Churchill.
In the split second their eyes met across the lunch room, Herb learned of the true nature of terror; a horror so unspeakable that the deepest, darkest corners of man’s mind would be wordless in describing it. Robot Winston Churchill’s rectangular lips, glistening in the light from the shattered ceiling bulbs, twisted into a sinister, metallic smile as he read the fear written across Herb’s face.
All too aware of his nemesis’ eternal quest for cheesesticks and poon across time, Herb knew Robot Winston Churchill’s next move just as well as the suited, cigar chomping android did.
Both men broken into a dead sprint towards the lunch line, the superhuman speed of the non-carbon based runner easily toying with that of his opponent. The entree on this very day just so happened to be the ill-fated concoction of dairy and flour, and it seems that our cook, Mistress Fate herself, had planned for second helpings of pain.
The mechanized former Prime Minister of Great Britain, upon arriving at the line with an appetite mere cheesesticks could not satisfy, made one fell swoop, picked up the cowering lunch lady and, snapping her neck like a decaying wishbone, tossed her aside like a neglected rag doll.
But Herb was quickly on top of Robot Winston Churchill, clutching desperately to his massive shoulders. It was never a contest. Thrown immediately to the ground, the bruised and beaten rookie principal could do nothing but look on in horror as his mechanical nemesis swiped at the cheesesticks, inhaling rack after rack in the blink of an eye.
Throwing the empty trays to the floor, Robot Winston Churchill threw back his head, letting out a primal howl of victory that echoed through the halls and shook the very souls of those still allowed the privilege of living. Robot Winston Churchill then, moving with a speed barely distinguished from a blur, darted out the school’s doors, stopping but once to break the door’s handles, just to show he could.
Herb lay, in a puddle of both blood and shocked disbelief, gasping at the carnage left behind. The cafeteria and cheesesticks, he knew, could be replaced. But with the vast majority of his school children’s tiny bodies smashed into the blood soaked linoleum, Herb knew the next round of parent-teacher conferences was going to be a bitch.
Part One
"Lunch Date with Death"
The school day was going as well as could be expected for principal Herb Shackelfelter’s first day after his promotion.
He entered the teacher’s lounge after the second bell sounded in the highest of spirits, only to quickly notice, most dismally, the deafening silence that was engulfing the room. He walked amongst the seated and brooding teachers, none returning his eager glances. A thick sense of despair smothered Herb, only to have the knot in his stomach fearfully clenched as a frantic scream rose from the cafeteria.
Twenty years experience teaching in the city’s toughest inner-city schools could not have prepared the rookie principal for what he witnessed next. For there, surrounded by the strewn, bloodied, and broken bodies of the school children left in Herb’s care was every public school administrator’s greatest fear, live and in person. For there, gazing back through a haze of both smoke and strangled screams, stood Robot Winston Churchill.
In the split second their eyes met across the lunch room, Herb learned of the true nature of terror; a horror so unspeakable that the deepest, darkest corners of man’s mind would be wordless in describing it. Robot Winston Churchill’s rectangular lips, glistening in the light from the shattered ceiling bulbs, twisted into a sinister, metallic smile as he read the fear written across Herb’s face.
All too aware of his nemesis’ eternal quest for cheesesticks and poon across time, Herb knew Robot Winston Churchill’s next move just as well as the suited, cigar chomping android did.
Both men broken into a dead sprint towards the lunch line, the superhuman speed of the non-carbon based runner easily toying with that of his opponent. The entree on this very day just so happened to be the ill-fated concoction of dairy and flour, and it seems that our cook, Mistress Fate herself, had planned for second helpings of pain.
The mechanized former Prime Minister of Great Britain, upon arriving at the line with an appetite mere cheesesticks could not satisfy, made one fell swoop, picked up the cowering lunch lady and, snapping her neck like a decaying wishbone, tossed her aside like a neglected rag doll.
But Herb was quickly on top of Robot Winston Churchill, clutching desperately to his massive shoulders. It was never a contest. Thrown immediately to the ground, the bruised and beaten rookie principal could do nothing but look on in horror as his mechanical nemesis swiped at the cheesesticks, inhaling rack after rack in the blink of an eye.
Throwing the empty trays to the floor, Robot Winston Churchill threw back his head, letting out a primal howl of victory that echoed through the halls and shook the very souls of those still allowed the privilege of living. Robot Winston Churchill then, moving with a speed barely distinguished from a blur, darted out the school’s doors, stopping but once to break the door’s handles, just to show he could.
Herb lay, in a puddle of both blood and shocked disbelief, gasping at the carnage left behind. The cafeteria and cheesesticks, he knew, could be replaced. But with the vast majority of his school children’s tiny bodies smashed into the blood soaked linoleum, Herb knew the next round of parent-teacher conferences was going to be a bitch.
Friday, January 26, 2007
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