Waterfalls!

More photos of my Waterfalls Expotition: here!

On Why I May Actually Vote for Ralph Fucking Nader

Here is the Oath of Office that is sworn upon becoming President of the United States:

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

Here is the text of the 4th Amendment of the US Constitution:

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized."

I have been a fervent supporter of Barack Obama. I have campaigned for him. I have donated money to him. But I was wrong about him.

George W. Bush has repeatedly and brazenly broken the law. He has knowingly defied the Fourth Amendment over and over and over again. And Barack Obama just cast a vote saying "Hey, you know what? No big deal."

No. No no. No no no. Fuck that.

The Oath of Office says basically just one thing: "I will uphold the Constitution." Obama thinks it's OK for the President to defy the Constitution. Therefore, Obama is unqualified for the office of the Presidency. That is the entire fucking job.

This is the thing. This is the deal breaker for me.

Look: of course he's still "better" than John McCain (who cast an identical vote, by the way); but this is like saying an elephant would make a better second baseman than a rhinoceros. They are both fundamentally unqualified. They both believe that the single job requirement is moot.

And I may have to look elsewhere on the ballot this year.

Table 16

This is the other one, that I didn't even submit.

Cheery!

Prompt 8: A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.

These two fucks come in here about an hour or two ago and sit over at table 16 which is like where I have the worst fucking luck with everything it’s cursed or something has been forever. I’m free and clear so far’s I can tell what with the two fucks order just coffee which means my job is cake just step in when they’re gone two cups two saucers single wipedown bing bing bing. Finally for once like in ever have some fucking decent table 16 luck I’m thinking except they’ve sat there for like a full 40 minutes and I guess haven’t so much as had sip one of the coffee because of the I guess importance of their conversation which includes fucking papers and signatures and which looks like six motherfucking different types of bad news since they’re both so serious and fucking intense except then one of them then must like take a sip of the cold sick coffee and it’s fucking cold and and this is just as I’m walking by so the one of these fucks says ‘can we get a couple a fresh cups’ and like nudges them toward me so what am I supposed to do except say ‘yessir’ but my throat is fucking dry so I don’t say nothing I just pick up the cups and then like immediately drop one. Table motherfucking 16, right? Which means I get an earful from Bill about it like it’s my fucking fault I’m feeling a little bit shaky today it’s like I’ve been looking at these two fucks staring intently and whispering and shit in like hushed voices and it’s starting to freak me out and the radio is playing fucking I wish that I had Jessie’s girl and I’m fucked up. I dropped a cup. And I’m sitting there, kneeling, scrubbing the ugly mulch fucking carpet like the shit isn’t covered with stains and footprints and shit and these two fucks are just talking and pausing and saying ‘visitation’ and shit and ‘separate residences’ and fucking ‘mutual property’ and shit and I figure what’s going on. And I just want to stand up and throw my fucking rag down on the carpet and go listen, OK, listen. Let me tell you what, OK, just burn it. Whatever the two of you fucks’ve got, just burn it. All. You don’t want it. You won’t. For the rest of your lives you’ll see this shit and it will like all you’ll think about is the fucking fights and the bullshit and the how the other one’ve you fucked it up good. But I don’t say shit I just scrub. And then Bill says ‘hurry’ like I’m not fucking scrubbing. And then the one fuck leaves and I tell Bill I gotta piss and he gives me this fucking look and I can tell the other one is right outside the door waiting for me to be done because I can hear her crying but she just has to wait her turn cause I’m gonna do one more I gotta do something to get these shakes to stop. And I know she’s in no fucking hurry. She’s got nothing to go home to.

Quietly Leaning Against

Almost two years ago exactly, McSweeney's Internet Tendency had a contest of sorts after they printed 13 Writing Prompts. I submitted one. It did not, of course, win. But I just realized I had never put it up. So! Behold my brilliance!

Prompt 5.
A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.

*****

Go with me here. You're sitting at home. Say it's a Thursday night. You're curled up with a book and a pint of your favorite beverage. The book is a good one, and you've never read it before. The beverage is delicious. Even if it's water, it's the best water you've tasted. It's the perfect balance of hydrogen, oxygen, and the other shit that's in there. It's that post-dinner pre-darkness time of day. You have a very nice lamp, which is illuminating your text. Illuminating like casting light on it, not like drawing intense designs in the margins. It's late summer, maybe just about to be autumn. You can hear the kids playing baseball in the park. They're just tossing the ball around. Outside of the U.S.A., they're kicking a slightly larger ball around, having wholesome fun. If it's wine, or a cocktail, you probably shouldn't have a whole pint, although whatever makes you happy. Urbanites scratch the kids and add in people walking by on the street below, voices modulated and happy-sounding. Rural folk make it crickets and frogs and a lonesome car on the distant highway. So. You've just passed the halfway point, and the book's starting to get very good. Do you like music while you're reading? There can be some music. At just that perfect volume between annoyingly-too-quiet and slightly-distracting. There's somebody in the room with you, if you want, also enjoying a book. Or knitting, or something. Or you can be alone. Whatever. You're comfortable, is the point. You're comfortable in your favorite spot, wearing your favorite clothes, in socks that are thick enough to keep your feet nice and toasty but soft enough that they feel like bunny slippers. You go to turn the next page. Only you can't. The page has ended mid-sentence, and you wish to turn the page to finish the line, but you can't move your arm. You're sitting there, staring at the last few words on page 184, and you can't move your hand to turn the page. Which is weird. So you're going to put the book down and massage your shoulder or elbow, and make a quizzical expression and wonder, perhaps aloud, what's going on. Except you can't put the book down, and you can't massage your arm, and you can't use the telephone. You are unable to move. Completely. Can't wiggle your fingers. Can't adjust your position. You can't even take your eyes from those last few words on the page: "quietly leaning against" "quietly leaning against" "quietly leaning against." This is ridiculous, right? You're in perfect health. You were moving only a moment ago, when you put your drink down on the table. You can't move, can't swallow, and what's more pressing is you can't blink. Your eyes are open quietly leaning against and you can't even blink or close your eyes quietly leaning against for just a second to get your bearings and figure out what's going on. You are unable to call for help. And now you realize that you cannot breathe. And then, for the first time, you feel it. You feel the first nibble somewhere deep within you. In your stomach. Or your chest. Just the tiniest nibble. A sharp, sudden pain. And then sharper and more intense. And then sharper and beyond anything you've ever known. You fucking hurt. Something is deeply, deeply wrong inside of you. You want nothing more than to clutch your stomach and scream in agony, because something is biting you. Something that you cannot see is eating you from the inside. Your parched throat and drying eyes are nothing to you now because your chest is a cavity filled with teeth, malevolent teeth, quietly leaning against which are devouring your lungs your heart your quietly leaning against core. Your very center. This is not cancer, this is not your body against itself. Something is inside of you, and it is biting you. You can feel it in your neck. In your genitals. Nothing could possibly be worse than this. You would pray, but to whom? What kind of sick fuck god would let you be consumed from the inside, bite by bite? What kind of sick fuck would want you to be eaten alive like this? Sitting in your home on a Thursday night with a book and a drink just trying to relax. And now you're here, unable to move, paralyzed, being consumed. quietly leaning against. And now you picture the creature inside of you. The teeth inside of you. And you picture your own childhood. Birthed alive and held and nurtured and fed and played with and supported and loved in light and in comfort. Not like these teeth. These teeth that were born in you and in the instant of birth began to dig their way out of you. As a test of survival. The first moments of this precious fucking life not spent being held by mother in a warm, soft room coming face to face with existence. The first moments of life spent devouring. Taking the life of another being. This, unluckily for you, is you. For this new creature to survive, you must be devoured whole. Tough fucking luck, huh? If it makes it out of your chest, out of your brain, out of the tough skin around your ankle, it will get to live, and you will not. You will be left a husk. Deflated flesh. quietly leaning against. Oh fucking well, right? Here you are with pain so horrifyingly so abjectly terrible that you now find yourself cheering on the teeth. Come on, teeth. That's right motherfucker. If this is your lot in this miserable life then good fucking luck and please hurry. Please now. Hurry. You have given up because from this pain there is no turning back. Your liver and kidneys are being eaten bite by bite. Just please hurry now. quietly leaning against.

So. Is this what life is.

You'd be into that?

Hillary probably didn't mean this the way it sounds:

If we can blast fifty women into space, one day we will launch a woman into the White House.

Un Memoriam Mega-Post 2

The Last Unicorn

The Great Mouse Detective

The Indian in the Cupboard

and

The Return of the Indian

Also! The new podcast! The second volume of AuD(i)ocent takes you on a tour of the Merchant's House Museum. Love it. Love it.