Category: humour

thanksgiving

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What am I thankful for?

My dogs. My cats.

My family.

My job, unsteady as it is right now with Carney’s cuts looming.

A world on the brink that hasn’t quite made it there yet.

I can still write.

I am not banned.

I may be in the future.

Fuck ’em. I’d want nothing more than to be censored.

Call me A Clockwork Orange.

Madmenny and a malenky bit of the old in and out, right, me droogs?

Fuck it. Banned books for all.

I am thankful there’s still outrage over that.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1476 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Magic Kingdom For Sale - Sold!, Terry Brooks
Comics: Youngblood 9, Youngblood Strikefile 7, Brigade v2 13, Badrock And Company 3
Music: The Very Best Of The Original Dubliners, The Dubliners

in the weeds now

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I mean, I’m working harder than ever, and tomorrow’s a holiday, so we can sit and think about what we’ve done, which admittedly, is a weird reason for a holiday, and I’m not sure it’s tangible help to native communities, but here we are.

It’s probably better to ask them than me, but I suspect the answer is that we’re not doing enough to reconcile the sins of past with creating a better future for the indigenous.

In any case, not to make light, but I’ve spent the last fifty minutes trying to have a character explain why he’s still consider liberal if he’s opposed to butt stuff.

It’s a hygiene thing, not a commentary on homosexuality.

(The character, not me. You get your freak on, boys and girls. As long as it’s consensual and doesn’t involve children, animals or those not capable of making that decision, then you get on getting on.)

Anyway, life’s weird and horrible things that require solemnity often overlap with the absurd.

I think we’d die if we had to take it all so seriously (which ironically, sums out how we got to our current edge-of-Armageddon political apocalypse). We all got too sensitive, hunkered down, doubled down, doubled down again and instead of letting shit go a little and talking it out, we’re about to have a civil war a hundred kilometres or so to the south of us.

Lighten up, jerks. Drop the militants, and get back to using your words.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1249 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Born For This, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Brigade v2 0, 3, Team Youngblood 1, Bloodstrike 4
Music: Where The Fuck Is The Revolution?, Closet Monster

don’t judge me

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Eighty-three words may not seem like a lot, but I had to pore through the entire manuscript to find a few scraps of information that I need to keep straight for the next draft. I’ll be making my notes on the next draft next, and then, working on a larger ‘out-of-context’ grouping, where I got through the whole manuscript again, and all my notes and try to find where I’ve made notes on scenes other than the one I was supposed to be making notes on (a problem of mine I’ll need to learn to track better). If I make a great suggestion in a note because I had a thought while making notes on scene five, but for scene twenty-eight, well, I’ll never remember by the time I reach that point.

So, yeah.

If I want it all included later, I need to get more organized.

Still, I’m a bit better than I was, though The Mungk needed less organization, given it was so short. A better framework will be needed going forward.

No more flying by the seat of my pants.

Maybe not even any pants at all.

Maybe a nice skirt, or a pair of waders.

Sorry.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 356 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Almayer's Folly, Joseph Conrad
Comics: Fear Agent 5-8
Music: Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, Various

happy birthday, sis

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Sly Stone dies and my sister lives another year. Good for her.

Not that she shouldn’t live another year. Like all the people I love, I hope she lives until I die, at least. After that, well, I hope for her sake she lives a long time, but hell, I’ll be dead. What would it matter to me?

Then again, there’s always reincarnation. Maybe I’ll come back as a vibrator.

Assuming I’m bought by a Hollywood starlet, that’d be cool, I guess.

Or a carrier of the Republican virus, in that it only targets individuals who voted Republican, and rewires their brains to be permanently set on Mr. Rogers.

Now, wouldn’t that be a nice cleanse?

Sometimes, I think the stars aligned and decided: there is something truly, profoundly wrong with this guy.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1715 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card
Comics: Fathom v6 1-4
Music: Equal Strain On All Parts, Jimmy Buffett (fuck you, it's better than you think)

easter monday

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Jesus is hungover. Or rather, he’s been on a bender all night watching pornography and eating Cheetos, and now, he’s wondering if he can turn those powers of water into wine into returning his foreskin to its original colour.

But, hey, it’s a day off, right?

(For the record, I’m not Jesus, and Cheetos are terrible lube.)

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1177 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe
Comics: Hit-Girl v3 11-12, Kick-Ass vs. Hit-Girl 1-2
Music: Early Trax, Ministry

saturday

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Sweet shit Jesus, it’s the weekend.

Here’s a joke, as told to me by a German tour guide.

A statue of Adonis and a statue of Aphrodite stare at each other from across a courtyard. They’ve been there for hundreds of years, posed, gazing into each other’s eyes, sculpted, their perfect bodies the ideals of male and female.

Along come Cupid, who thinks, what beautiful people, doomed to stare at other for eternity with no contact, no words, no nothing. I bet if they were real, even for an hour, man, they’d fuck like rabbits.

(Sorry, ridiculous and sublime).

So, he gives them that time and they rush together, stare into each other’s eyes and whisper sweet nothings in one another’s ears. Then, they disappear into the bushes and man, the noises that come out of there. Cupid thinks, damn, I guess they really were jonesing for each other. Jesus, that’s some kinda something going on back there.

Finally, as the hour emerges, out they come. Adonis says to Aphrodite, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

Aphrodite turns and says, “Yes, but next time, you hold the pigeon and I’ll shit on its head.”

Good night, folks. I’ll be here all week.

Target: 1100 words
Written: 186 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Second Book Of The Tao, Stephen Mitchell
Comics: Kick-Ass v4 3-4, Hit-Girl v2 3-4
Music: It's In Our Hands, Bjork (which now sounds gross, in the context of that joke)

it occurred to me

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That it might be funny to make little haikus out of the post listings on the right.

It currently says

i am also eating shit
we know you’re eating shit
never let it be said

Which isn’t traditional haiku, but it’s followed up by

so i went off the drugs
dogsittin’

Which in itself is kind of fun.

Something to think about.

It would lock me into the site’s look and feel, which is kind of hilarious.

Mornings are fucked when you’re thinking about barking dogs and yoga butt and the lack of porn in a main character’s movie collection.

Writing is weird.

Target: 1100 words
Written: 986 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson
Comics: Shadowhawk v5 6-9
Music: In The Chamber: The String Quartet Tribute To Linkin Park, String Quartet (this is a real thing, no shit)

we begin again

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While The Mungk was largely fatalist, and explored the beginnings of trauma without redemption more than anything (along with a slight dose of the mini-traumas that chip away as us piece by piece), this is going to be a vent.

I like funny things. I like humour.

I’m also obsessed with politics. Like, I don’t enjoy them; I just can’t look away. Motherfuckers run this world, whether that’s because they’re literal pieces of human shit (see Trump, everyone who supports him) or weak-willed do-gooders who still think that playing by the rules and taking the high road is doing anything other than handing our world to the forces of evil, who don’t give a fuck what road they take and ignore the rules, it’s largely irrelevant.

Bad Neighbours (the working title) is my way of expressing that. Of diving into ineffectuality, and how it completely fails to address the behaviour of those who could care less about custom, tradition or little things like “the law” or truth.

So, you know, going lighthearted with it, with a dose of fucking fatalism, wrapped up in barely concealed social commentary.

Fuck it. Why not?

Because fascists will hate me for portraying as the boors they are and liberals will hate me because of the mirror I hold up to them ineffectual weakness?

Fuck ’em. If the world is going down, I’ll go with it.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 979 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Radical Acceptance, Tara Brach (I'm not sure it's working, though I love the concept, minus the woo woo)
Comics: Pitt Crew 1, Pitt 17-20
Music: I Will Always Love You: The Best Of Whitney Houston, Whitney FUCKING HOUSTON HOW DID THIS HAPPEN GODDAMNIT MY EARS

fighting back

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Well, mostly. I’m holding my own, but also partially drowning in phlegm and mucus.

This may be the birth of the Anti-Cold.

It’s like the Anti-Monitor, but against all things cough and snot related.

Snot robbed my mother, and I must avenge her! Mucus kicked my dog! Phlegm killed my Uncle Ben!

Can cough medicine make one delirious? Asking for a friend.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 2217 words, comic: Western Cradle #3

Read: Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris
Comics: Preacher 31-33, Preacher: Cassidy - Blood & Whiskey 1
Music: NWA Greatest Hits, NWA (fuck 'em, right?)

still working on a cold

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It still sucks, but at least, the running, drippy bullshit is mostly over.

Now, it’s annoying cough, hey, thanks for joining the party. Did I introduce you to plugged ears?

No?

Well, here, you two will get along swimmingly. Perhaps we can entice fever over for a little menage-a-trois?

No? Not yet? Just the tip?

Is delirium a cold symptom? Asking for a friend.

Target: 900 words
Written: 152 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Shining, Stephen King
Comics: 100 Bullets 53-56
Music: Never Let Me Down, David Bowie (apparently, he hated this album, which, like, okay, I guess it's less lyrically poignant than most of his others, but it's not exactly horrible, which just goes to show how good he was, I guess.  If the work you hated is still pretty good, you must be doing something right.)