Category: humour

sledgehammer

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I don’t know why, but every time Sledgehammer comes on, I want to get angry. It’s not that the song inspires that in me, it’s that, no matter what I do on my shuffle, it somehow manages to come up.

Like, every time.

I’m not that big of a Peter Gabriel fan; in fact, I think that’s the only song in my repertoire, and I think it came as part of a new wave playlist or something.

But the sledgehammer keeps returning, and it’s not cool, like the 80s TV show.

It’s just a bludgeon, one more little way for the universe to throw tomatoes at my face.

I am a Shakespearian actor playing poorly on an off-off-Globe stage.

And I’m not even in one of the good ones, or playing the juicy part.

I am the walk-on; the Sir Andrew Aguecheek of middle-class Canada.

Forever pursuing; forever the joke.

Target: 800 words
Written: 262 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Regiment, Farley Mowat
Comics: Postal: Deliverance 5-8
Music: Underground 6, Linkin Park

ribfest

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Every year, I think there’s a story in the subculture of Ribfest.

Every damn year.

There’s a raunchy comedy in there somewhere, and at some point, I’m going to write it.

Hell, maybe I’ll make a comic out of it. That could work, although it screams crude sex comedy with lots of butts and boobs and random dicks.

Maybe the return of the batwing, a la Waiting.

I don’t know. There could be a book in it, but hell, it’s hard to make a book that funny. I do have ideas for another book that’s funny. Several, actually, but they have heart.

Can I add heart to Ribfest?

Is there a book in this? Who would be the villain?

Vegans?

Yes. Vegans.

Target: 700 words
Written: 944 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Living Dead In Dallas, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Think Tank 12, Think Tank: Fun With PTSD 1, Wildfire 1-2
Music: The Ultimate Best Of Queen, uh, Queen (so hit or miss - the best Queen song is Under Pressure, by David Bowie.  That said, the good is really good, the bad is... well... Bicycle.  Prog rock shite).

nothing finer

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Than to be in a v… wait. No.

There’s nothing finer than a cup of coffee, a mix of David Bowie/Rise Against/Nine Inch Nails in your ears, as you finalize the edits on the fourth draft of your novella.

Thirteen scenes I hope to combine to six.

I know you can’t sell a novella. I’m hoping to package it as The Mungk & Other Bullshit, which I realize will be a tough sell on bookstore shelves, but it’s also an eyecatcher. It was suggested to me to call the book The Little House In The Country, but that sounds fucking boring and generic.

The Mungk is a weird name. And people love swearing.

You see the word Mungk and ask, what the fuck is that (although you might be one of those people who don’t swear like longshoremen, so you might say, “what a strange looking word, perhaps I should inquire as to its meaning” and then drink some tea with your pinky out and adjust your monocle, you fucking weirdo), and then pick it up.

Pick it up and maybe buy it. And then maybe that money goes through the various systems of skimming off the top from the store, the distributor, the publisher, agents, managers and probably some grifting professional organization that claims to advocate for authors, but actually keeps them poor and begging, like the RIAA and MPAA do to movies and music, and then finally, that pittance will arrive in my bank account, where it’s probably already been paid out in an advance and I’ll actually get nothing extra for it at all.

But if enough of you do it…

Well, shit.

Break out the fucking tea.

Target: 700 words
Written: 302 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter
Comics: Saga 21-24
Music: Out In L.A., Red Hot Chili Peppers

flatiron to times square

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We did that walk. Down Broadway. In ninety degree heat.

On the plus side, I got a good deal on good shirts and shorts from an Aeropostale outlet.

Also, of fashion in New York. I’m not sure who convinced women that the new trend should skin-tight and throw away those bras, but hell, good job, Illuminati or Obama or whoever we have to thank for that.

I know, I know.

Dirty old man, it’s horrible. I’m horrible.

I should be spayed and neutered already, and I would be, if it wasn’t for this damn sex drive. I’ll get you next time, meddling sex drive.

I think it’s official; I’ve got heat delusion. Goodbye, Central Park Zoo. I love your red panda and your penguins, but you should really let them all go home.

Target: 700 words
Written: 456 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Assholes Finish First, Tucker Max (this shit is colouring my views, thank heaven it's done)
Comics: Saga 1-4 (HOLY SHIT)
Music: I Don't Give A Fuck About You, Pearl Jam

also fact

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Ninety-nine percent of Gen X males who were in either their teens or twenties in the Nineties will also picture themselves as moustachioed detectives sliding across car hoods, Starsky and Hutch style, when the song Sabotage by the Beastie Boys is on.

None of us will think a real life moustache is cool, unless you’re a police officer, porn star or either Tom Selleck or Sam Elliott (like, best ‘stache ever, am I right?)

Target: 700 words
Written: 50 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Make Love! The Bruce Campbell Way, Ash
Comics: Danger Girl/Army Of Darkness 2-4, Danger Girl: Revolver 1
Music: An Open Letter To NYC, Beastie Boys

facts

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There are things that I know to be false and things I know to be true.

We are mostly made of nothing. The whole universe is largely void.

Fact.

Gravity is a thing.

Fact.

Puppies and kittens are cute.

Fact.

And finally, ninety-nine percent of all Gen X males who were either in their teens or twenties during the Nineties will think or say some version of “Oh hell yeah” when the opening chords of Sabotage by the Beastie Boys hits.

True story.

Target: 700 words
Written: 192 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Make Love! The Bruce Campbell Way, Bruce Campbell
Comics: Danger Girl: Body Shots 2-4, Danger Girl/Army Of Darkness 1 (a Bruce kind of day, apparently)
Music: One Particular Harbour, Jimmy Buffett (and sorry about the Chester crack yesterday, it was uncalled for, especially from a guy who followed it up with Jimmy Buffett and suffers from depression.  I should know better.  In Chester's defense, the best two songs on this otherwise generic pop album were the ones written by him.  They tried something different and it didn't work out.  One evolves, sometimes.  Sometimes, one just gets off track.  Everybody fucks up sometimes.)

gettin’ on wid it

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I think it’s time for the whinging to stop (I know that’s not the spelling of whining, but it’s like the British insult version to me).

Whinging.

Win. Jing.

Alrighty, movin’ on then.

Target: 700 words
Written: 152 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (I think the utter lack of cohesive plotlines or thoughts is driving me insane; even a fairy tale should have a logical flow.  How did this ever become famous?)
Comics: Danger Girl 4-7
Music: One Hot Minute, Red Hot Chili Peppers

teriyaki burgers, coffee stout and junior concerts

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So, my whole day was hijacked. For the first time in a long, long time, I got to the end of the day and realized, I hadn’t read a thing, so I sat down and did five minutes before bed.

(This is not helping me get through the 1140-page complete fairy tales of Hans Christian Anderson, already a more tedious read than the bible, but I am a completist and it is “research” for a project down the road).

Did you know Anderson once visited Charles Dickens and turned into the houseguest from hell, extending a short stay into a five week hellscape that forced Dickens to tell him to get the fuck out?

I guess Dickens’ platitudes about charity don’t extended to irritating houseguests.

Anyway, after a morning concert for my father-in-law, some running around, a lengthy dog walk and some pool time with homemade teriyaki burgers and grilled pineapple (made by yours truly), we followed that up with a campfire at my sisters.

The dogs are spent.

And so am I.

Why is it, again, that I am involved with people? Oh right, I actually enjoyed the day, but still, it doesn’t do well for one’s goals to enjoy oneself all the time.

Target: 700 words
Written: 104 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Most Tedious Fucking Stories
Comics: American Vampire 7-10
Music: One Fierce Beer Coaster, Bloodhound Gang

all i’m saying

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Is when you’re talking about suicide, depression and mental health around others, be aware that there may be sufferers nearby for whom your demonization or minimization of their struggle impacts negatively, reinforcing the very stereotypes about themselves that may be keeping in this state of diminished being.

Your words could spiral someone who was teetering, and you might not even know it.

Leave the place better than you found it. That’s all I’m saying.

And for Pete’s sake, if your only contribution to empathy is a social media post or bluster to friends, just stop pretending you give a shit, so everybody can know what an asshole you are, and not just those attuned to recognize hypocrisy and bullshit.

(Also, who’s Pete? Why are we doing things for Pete’s sake? Is Pete depressed? Should we be worried about Pete?)

Target: 700 words
Written: 41 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (so.  goddamned.  long.)
Comics: American Vampire Second Cycle 11, American Vampire Anthology 2, American Vampire 1976 1-2
Music: One By One, Foo Fighters (the last great rock band - unless you count Jack White, which I don't after the White Stripes ended)

seriously, sorry

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I don’t know what came over me yesterday.

I think maybe I’d had enough of the bleak, and needed something light and stupid to take my mind off of it.

And so, you get a bad, probably old and tired, fart joke.

It was no Ryan Gosling/Mikey Day as Beavis & Butthead, but we can’t all be geniuses by just sitting there and looking confused.

Although, I’m getting pretty good at being confused. Sitting there takes some work.

Target: 600 words
Written: 314 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire: Lord Of Nightmares 5, American Vampire 32-34
Music: On Your Own, Blur