April 26, 2007


One thing about that I like about this area is the number of drive-ins we have. Diners... not theatres. We used to have alot of those, too, but they're long gone. We've got three diners within a half an hour of here... at the least. Jay's in Oregon, Sam's in Byron, and Bing's on the southside of Rockford. Something about those places that I love... not only do they have personality, but I like the sense of stepping back. And sometimes you end up other places...

I had to run down to Oregon (Raging Mom's stomping grounds) to renew my cycle plate, and, since I was in the neighborhood, I stopped into Jay's and got a double cheeseburger basket and a large chocolate malt. Not a problem, there was a bit of a wait, so I grabbed a booth and looked around at all of the fifties memorabilia, the Cardinals/Reds wrapup in the background. I watched a mentally handicapped kid beating up the jukebox, and his grandmother trying to calm him down. Finally, one of the girls came from behind the counter, shut off the game, and gave the kid some quarters to play the jukebox. When "The Monster Mash" started to play, I felt like I was in another place.

The inside of the diner seemed a bit brighter, and the outside grew darker. The smiles of the little girls eating ice cream cones were too big, too innocent. The handicapped kid started running... stumbling... in contorted circles. He stopped and clapped when "Little Old Lady From Pasadena" started playing. He may as well have been clapping for the arrival of my food, because it showed up at the same time. And per the usual, it kicked ass.

As I watched the kid bouncing off of the jukebox, and listened to the slightly annoying giggles of the three little girls, it clicked. The whole scene was too Kingesian. Or Kingesque, should you prefer. I knew right then that something was about to happen. Most likely, it wasn't to be a good thing. I was halfway through my burger when it finally came about.

I sat facing the door, and I could see the outer door begin to open. As it did so, there was a rush of air. Not like in the movies... this was towards the door, like the air was trying to escape. Then the inner door was blown or pulled open, and there he stood. Roy Frickin' Orbison.

You couldn't mistake him. He was wearing the dark glasses, and carrying his Gibson ES-335. The strings on the guitar were rusted through, and broken, and the wood even appeared to be rusty. Roy wasn't looking too good, himself. I believe that I could see maggots moving through his rotting flesh, but I didn't want to stare... I was always told that it was impolite, and gott knows that I'm going to be damned polite to a dead man who's standing in front of me. Roy looked at me with his new eternal grin, and I'd have sworn that he winked. Then he tossed a quarter to the jukebox kid, who no longer seemed to have any problems. The kid deftly caught the quarter, dropped it in the machine, and punched the numbers. Roy's rendition of "Love Hurts" began to play.

I looked back towards Roy, and his grin was unmistakable. He gave the kid a look, nodded at me, and began to sing in his decayed tenor. It was surreal. "Love hurts, love scars, Love wounds, and mars any heart not tough or stong enough..."

And before I knew what was happening, the guitar flashed, smashing into the skull of the kid's grandmother. "To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain, Love is like a cloud, holds a lot of rain..." Her dentures flew to the floor, and I couldn't look elsewhere. The slightly yellowed teeth setting in a growing puddle of red rain... the thunder of dull thuds heard in the distance.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but when I looked up, only Roy, the kid, and I were the only ones left. That I could see, anyway. The kitchen help may have been alright, but of all the patrons, there were but the two of us. Booths filled with bodies slumped over and bleeding. The giggling little girls were now silent, save one who was now a gurgling little girl. There were splatters of gray matter and blood across the front windows, and bright artistic splashes of red on the walls... a horrible Rorschach test.

"Oooooo, love hurts," Roy sang as he walked to the door. The kid resumed stumbling his circles, and fell skidding through a blood puddle when he stepped on his grandmother's teeth. As he got to the door, Roy turned and gave me a thumbs up. Then he turned and walked away...

What the hell was that all about?

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February 18, 2007


He saw the quick flash of movement, but had no time to react before he was rocked with a horrific impact. As lights exploded inside his head, his mouth was filled with tooth fragments and the taste of smoke.

He blindly turned to run, but turned directly into his attacker. A second explosion rocked him, this time the smokey taste replaced by the salty flow of blood... and lots of it. His tongue could feel the stumps of teeth as he ran it over them, and the exposed nerves screamed as he did so. "If I can just make it to the door," he thought, but as he stumbled towards it, a paw swipe connected with the back of his head, and he dropped to the ground.

Rolling into a ball for protection, he looked up in horror as the beast charged him. He felt himself lifted into the air and slammed repeatedly into the ground and walls . "Play dead!!!" his mind screamed. He let himself go limp, and the attack stopped.

He lay there for several minutes before slowly lifting his head. He stopped as he saw the animal sitting in his chair, legs crossed and feet up, grinning at him. "Did you learn something, boy?"

"Wha? Why'ths you beaths me?"

The grin slid from my face...

Lesson... do not ask for metric bolts in such ways: "I need a 10mm bolt, an inch and a half long" or "I need a metric bolt, about 1/4 inch by 2 1/2 inches." These are not metric measurements, and are primer for a major explosion.

Nobody was actually hurt in the writing of this lesson. Had these events really happened, I would not have be moronic enough to write of it.

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January 30, 2007


This past weekend, I was supposed to go with the cousin in law to a local event thrown by the natives. But alas, it was "too cold" for us to take the boat up to Tampa for the festivities. I had thought to put myself in harm's way, just for you folks, but it was not to be.

The event? The Gasparilla invasion. Since 1904, locals have celebrated their defeat of a giant pirate who rose from the depths of the bay and threatened to stomp their little village into dust. Woken from his slumber by the natives spilling gallons of mojitos into the waters, Gasparilla (once simply Jose Gaspar) stood 55 meters tall, and weighed in at 25,000 metric tons. He wiped out nearly half of the village before villagers finally defeated him, sending him back to the depths.

How did they defeat this giant? Drunk from the mojitos, Gasparilla was already a bit tipsy. But, as with many of us, tipsy equals horny. So the native women flashed their breasts at him, luring him back towards the bay, and once there, the menfolk tossed thousands upon thousands of beads on the ground. Gasparilla lost his footing upon the beads, and toppled face first into the bay, where, unable to lift himself up, he drowned.

Boobs, beads, beer, and mojitos are part of the celebrations to this day.

Okay... so that's not the real story, but it does sound better than celebrating a buccaneer, Jose Gaspar, that probably never existed.

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October 12, 2006

Fred Finklestien

I've got a ton of crap going down, so posting for the next few days is going to be near non-existant. So I've decided to bring back "the game" for the few of you still coming here...

To entertain ourselves when we used to travel a lot, a friend and I used to come up with very strange stories following the formula found in Berenstains' B Book. We didn't stick to it totally, but tried to keep all nouns, adjectives, adverbs, and verbs starting with the same letter. A couple examples can be found here and here. Some of the letters work better than others, but I'm going to save my favorite for another time. Ah, hell. I'll do it now.

I'll kick it off, and feel free to follow in the comments. You don't need to use whole sentences... if you only can think of a word that fits, throw it in. No need to keep it clean. Repeat words are not a problem. Ready? Using the letter F or F sounds (ph):

"Filthy Fred Finklestien frantically phoned his friend, Phil..."

It's not a novel, so characters may come and go. Just have fun with it....

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August 19, 2006


Amelie has finished the "Scarevella." Very cool job, she did.

To read it in order:
Chapter One, from Chrissy.
Chapter Two from Lolly
Chapter Three from Phoenix
Chapter Foah from yours truly
And The Finale, "The Eye" from Amelie

Get thee hence, and check it out!

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August 12, 2006

Old Man

With apologies to all, here is my contribution to the Scarevella. Links will have to be inserted later, as I've got to leave right now. Time hasn't been friendly this week (I've not even the time for a rough draft). While nowhere near as scary as I'd have liked, I hope it set the table for Amelie to follow up.

Chrissy kicked it off with Chapter One.
Lolly had Chapter Two.
Phoenix delivered Chapter Three.
Next week, Amelie will wrap this story up next week.

Here it be...

Old Man

In the violent fury of the storm, a form could be seen making its way through the heavy night. It moved with purpose, and strength, seemingly effortlessly. Forsaking the safety of the road, it cut through the woods, unhindered by deadfalls, and the marshy forest floor.

A bright flash of lighting, bringing daylight to night, revealed the face of the figure. Cold eyes, which either had lights dancing in their depths or were reflecting the lightning above, outlined with deep wrinkles. Skin, with little muscle tissue remaining underneath, draped over a skull that looked eerily inhuman in the flashes of the storm. Inhuman and ancient.

“I must get there before the little one causes more trouble,” the old man muttered to himself

He was known as Bastien, and though he lived in the area, no one could tell you exactly where he resided. He just seemed to appear and disappear. Some thought him a holy man, and others, evil. Some thought he was a shaman, and others, simply crazy. It was rumored that he spoke with the dead… and the “others.” All knew that, when a loved one was in torment or on their death bed, they could call on Bastien to settle them and send them on their way peacefully. However, Bastien never needed to be called. He was simply there. While he was respected for his talents, he was a man feared.

It had always been so. His own mother had left him with the priest when he was but 3 years old, afraid of his “visitors.” Especially on nights like this one. While Father Laframboise did his best to work with his young charge, he was a bit wary. Bastien’s gift was not demonic, but it wasn’t considered godly, either. With the things he knew, and his ability to communicate beyond this world, it was no wonder that folks were afraid of young Bastien.

Like young Pascal Niette, he too had been drawn to the power and darkness of the storms. He had also been sickly, and now suffered from arthritis that crippled him, but when the storms gathered, or when someone was in need, he became as strong as the young man that he never was. Nothing slowed him on his errands…

The smell of decaying vegetation had been giving way to another scent, one that was beginning to be overpowering. The sweetly putrid smell of decaying flesh.

He’s begun his foolishness, Bastien thought as his hand unconsciously went to the crucifix and gris gris about his neck. He had seen so much with his “gift” that he denied no god. The more, the better, had been his philosophy. Tonight, he would need all who would hear him.

He remembered the first time that he had met with the Niettes and their young son. He had tried to explain that Pascal had a very special gift, and that they should not fear it, nor their son. The parents were obviously terrified, and his presence did not help matters. Fear breeds a quiet contempt in the heart of a boy, and seeing a person grovel before anyone brings about a perverse sense of power. Young Pascal had learned well, and he smiled smugly as Bastien tried to talk sense into the adults.

“The boy is passing judgment on his mother.” The voice came from the darkness all around him. “Best hurry, old man, if you hope to save anyone.”

Ahead, he could see the outline of the Lafleur house. He began to run. Shadows began to tear at his legs, trying to slow him down, but he was too strong to be hindered.

As he came into the house’s clearing, he saw Lady Niette and Corrine running from the house, with the boy’s laughter following. The laughter of a very young boy, it sounded as if he were playing with a toy, until he called in a soft sing-song, “Come on back, Ma mere. Your turn!” Then Pascal stepped out onto the porch, with shadows, too many, following on his heels. His voice changed. “Time to pay for your sins!”

Bastien spoke, “Hold, Pascal… you shall judge no one.”

Posted by That 1 Guy at 11:13 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack

August 11, 2006


For those of you who've come by checking for the Scarevella, Chapter 4; uh... the dogs ate my story. Does that work?

I'll have to get it posted once I get back from the shop this evening. Or early tomorrow mornin'.

Sorry for the delay.

Posted by That 1 Guy at 07:42 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

August 04, 2006


Chrissy kicked off the story with her chapter... Lolly followed with hers, and now Phoenix gives us her chapter... fricking sweet. Not only is it seamless, it's spooky, too.

Next up, yours truly... That 1 Writers Block Guy.

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July 29, 2006


Chrissy kicked it off with part one, and now Lolly has has added part two.

Go. Check it out!

Posted by That 1 Guy at 09:39 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

July 22, 2006


Christina has resurrected her novellas. Yes, she's had them up and running for awhile now... I just suck at keeping you up to date. You can check them all out at Fiesty Repartee... look down on the right sidebar, under "Fabulous Fiction."

Why remind you of this now? Chrissy has started a new one, one of which I'm part. Man, I can't wait to see how this one goes, as Chrissy's kicked it off with a bang! I only hope that I'll be able to keep up with the other writers...

Posted by That 1 Guy at 08:40 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

July 05, 2006

Gramps' Little Helper

If you don't like this little yarn, blame Raging Mom. I read this tale over at her place, and I had a story just bursting to be written. (For those of you who think I should have been writing a recap of my trip, you're right. But this story was written in just a matter of minutes. Yeah, yeah, yeah... it shows, I know.)

Check out my heart wrenching tale...

"Hey, now! You've gotta be gentle, or you may hurt them," Gramps told his grandson. The seven year old stopped chasing the dancing lights on the yard, and looked at his grandfather with a puzzled frown.

Gramps smiled and said, "Those lights are very delicate… they’re said to be the wandering souls of men and women, waiting to get into heaven. They drift around, trying to find their way, or until an angel comes to get them. If you hurt them, you may keep them from getting there." Gramps' smile disappeared as he began to cough wretchedly. After his bout of hacking and wheezing subsided, he continued.

"Ever' now and then, you may see a light start blinking like crazy. It'll usually flicker three or four times, very close together, and then the next time you see it, it'll be a few feet away. I do believe that's one of them angels, signaling to... Hey! There's one, now! Do you see it?! Lookie there," Gramps said, as he pointed between the two box elder trees in the corner of the yard.

The boy looked at his grandfather with skepticism. Gramps was always teasing him and telling him stories. About half of them were tall tales... his mom had said so. But looking at the excitement on his elder's face, he couldn't help but believe him. He looked carefully, and sure enough, there it was. A quick flicker, and then it was gone, only to reappear a short distance away. It was definitely different than the rest. He watched for a few minutes, and then it was gone. He was so fascinated, he forgot to watch the other lights to see if they left with it. It did seem like there were fewer lights left...

The boy thought for awhile, and then asked, “How many souls do they take, Gramps?”

“I don’t know, boy. Could be many, could be one.”

The old man chuckled. "If them lights could sing, I bet ya they'd be singing 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot.'" Again, his laughter gave way to the coughing. The wheezing stayed longer this time. "Boy, this heavy night air ain't no good for me. I'm going inside to the air conditioner... gonna lay down and rest. You can stay out here a bit longer, but don't go running off. Your ma would have my hide!"

The boy worriedly watched his grandfather go into the house. Last night, he had started coughing as he was going up the stairs, and he ended up falling down a couple of them. Luckily for Gramps, he just suffered some minor bruising. It could have been much worse. His mom had said so.

Once Gramps was in the house, the boy went back to watching the lights.

Suddenly, he saw a quick flicker of light. Before he could get a fix on it, it was gone. He peered intensely at the area where he thought it had been, and off to his right it blinked again. "That's close," he thought to himself. Again, the quick succession of lights, and even closer!

Looking around, he saw the glass jar that he had been using to keep the beetles he found, nearby. He hurriedly unscrewed the lid and dumped the bugs from their prison, then resumed his search for the flickering angel. Nothing. He watched, motionless. Finally, just as he was beginning to lose hope, he saw the flicker. It was coming from the grass, right next to his foot! As gently as he could, he trapped the light in the jar.

"Hmmm... Angel? Looks like a bug." As if in protest, the tiny angel started to flicker its light at him. “I’ve gotta show Gramps,” he said aloud as he ran for the house, his captive in a death grip.

As he entered the house, he knew that Gramps wouldn’t be seeing the angel… he was snoring in the other room, out for the night. He wouldn’t even wake up from his coughing fits during the night. The boy knew it was just a matter of time before Gramps stayed asleep for good. His mom had said so.

When he went back outside, he was surprised at what he was seeing. Thousands of the lights had come closer to the house, and moved in slow circles around the jar that held his captive angel. The boy was incredulous. “You really are an angel!”

He watched the swirling lights for a few minutes, and then realization came to him. He softly chuckled to himself, a boyish echo of the elder man’s laugh. The jar was placed on the patio, and he stood back as the lights came closer. Suddenly, he swatted at the nearest light… it fell to the ground, a soft glow lighting its descent. He swatted again, and another light dropped from the evening sky. “This is kinda fun,” he thought to himself. He ran back into the house, grabbed a badminton racket, and returned to laying waste to the lights.

It only seemed like a couple of minutes, but he knew it must have been hours. There were dead and dying lights all over the patio, and no more lights danced over the yard. He smiled excitedly as he told his captive to “wait just a minute” while he made his way into Gramps’ tool shed. After a few minutes of digging around, he found what he was looking for. He retrieved his jar, and then made his way back to the house.

“I’ve got someone for you to meet, little angel,” he said as he brandished the ball peen hammer he had brought from the garage. “I’m going to set his light free, and then you can take him to heaven. Okay?”

A few minutes later, he released his angel, and watched as it made its way across the yard, a single light dancing behind it. He beamed with pride.

”It would be a blessing for Gramps just to never wake up,” his mother had said.

Posted by That 1 Guy at 09:02 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

May 19, 2006

An Enemy

While Silent Warrior has engaged their forces in the north, it seems that I have a "floater" cell of FART (Free Allied Rodent Threat) bringing their war here. I mentioned before the apparent alliance between the hornets and gophers, and my war with the bees. Not sure if I mentioned the bats, but they are no longer to be considered. They are long gone, as evidenced by the early appearance of mosquitos. The bats were annoying, but I wish they had stuck around the area when they moved. Anyway, looking at the current situation, I realize that these pests are well organized, and a serious threat.

The hornets are still hanging around. But they've yet to get a solid foothold on the territory known as my home. They've started nests in my doorway, but those are removed with swift and extreme prejudice. All landing pads are soaked in Raid at regular intervals. The light fighter units of ASS (Air Superiority Squadron) are no real threat at this time. I've got other concerns.

The super gopher that I mentioned the other day? Not the only one. This morning, I spied three of the little bastards, apparently all recovered from their feast of "special peanuts." The whereabouts of the other two are in question, but I'm pretty sure that they are soon to turn up.

It could be that they are a new set of gophers, moving into the abandoned tunnels haunted by their "pre-deceasers." I'd not put money on that, for I'm certain that the one that grinned at me the other day, flipped me off this morning. Double barrelled, even. He's fully recovered, and wants me to know. Or he's a totally different gopher, and he's just jacking with me. While fairly simple to do, it does show the intelligence these little rats have.

I'm thinking that they've even got technology on their side... I've heard beeping, like a heart monitor, when I've put my ear to the ground. Unfortunately, I can't pinpoint it... it seems to come from everywhere. But I'm certain that they've got an underground hospital, maybe even a couple of them, in their tunnel network. They probably got their little stomachs pumped, and stayed in the hospital until they could effectively pester me. Hey... now that I think about it, I bet the other two were near death, and they were put into a cryogenic state of suspended animation until the lab gophers can come up with a cure. I wouldn't put it past them...

Ah... there's one now... gotta run..

Posted by That 1 Guy at 11:01 AM | Comments (5)

March 31, 2006

Or Else Eggshells

A vase is dropped and lies shattered on the floor. A feeling of unease, the only outcome. That is, until I come walking through. I inadvertantly step on a shard, and somehow, someone else bleeds.

I am the bad guy, coo coo catchoo...

I'd love to see the Big Guy's wiring schematics on some folks...

Posted by That 1 Guy at 02:39 PM | Comments (8)

December 15, 2005

Eric's Entry

Going to be kinda busy this fine and overcast day, so it's again time for that game. You know which one.

To entertain ourselves when we used to travel a lot, a friend and I used to come up with very strange stories following the formula found in Berenstains' B Book. We didn't stick to it totally, but tried to keep all nouns, adjectives, adverbs, and verbs starting with the same letter. Some of the letters work better than others, but I'm going to save my favorite for another time.

I'll kick it off, and feel free to follow in the comments. You don't need to use whole sentences... if you only can think of a word that fits, throw it in. No need to keep it clean. Repeat words are not a problem. Ready? Using the letter E:

"Egad!" exclaimed Ed, the extroverted engineer. "Elsie's eyeshadow looks like an explosion!"

Again, it's not a novel... characters may disappear and reappear at will. Just have fun with it!

Posted by That 1 Guy at 06:41 AM | Comments (3)

November 30, 2005

Dimwit's Drivel

A lot of running around to be done today... so it's again time for a game. Yes, that one.

To entertain ourselves when we used to travel a lot, a friend and I used to come up with very strange stories following the formula found in Berenstains' B Book. We didn't stick to it totally, but tried to keep all nouns, adjectives, adverbs, and verbs starting with the same letter. Some of the letters work better than others, but I'm going to save my favorite for another time.

I'll kick it off, and feel free to follow in the comments. You don't need to use whole sentences... if you only can think of a word that fits, throw it in. No need to keep it clean. Repeat words are not a problem. Ready? Using the letter D:

Dirk, the dimwitted daredevil, drove his Dodge Dart under Derek's dumptruck.

Again, it's not a novel... characters may disappear and reappear at will. Just have fun with it!

Posted by That 1 Guy at 04:50 AM | Comments (12)

November 23, 2005

The First Thanksgiving... Sort Of

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, which, believe it or not, is traditionally a day to give thanks. Really.

Back in December of 1620, a group of folks arrived in America from England, seeking freedom from religious persecution, and leaving their original refuge in Holland. They arrived in a cold, new world. Their new home didn't welcome them with open arms... over half of the 110 folks who landed became worm food over the winter. Help didn't arrive until March of 1621...

In March, an Indian named Samoset walked into their little village, and started speaking to the frightened Pilgrims in English. They couldn't understand everything he was saying, so he came back with another Indian named Tisquantum... also called Squanto. He had been overseas to England, and had lived among the English for awhile, not to mention a stretch of bad luck that took him back over to Europe after he tried to come home again.

Squanto was very important to this group. He taught them the tricks of surviving in their new home. He taught them how to plant and fertilize corn and cook it. He showed them where and how to catch fish and eels, and acted as their interpeter and guide. He also explained how to make curry, and told them that 3/4 of the Indian population were Hindu. He showed the women the intricacies of Indian foods and how to use seasoning and spices. Without his help, it's quite possible that none of them would have survived the coming war with Pakistan.

In the fall of that year, the Pilgrims were reaping the benefits of Squanto's instruction. Con Coren Cornup Funky shaped baskets, overflowing with their bounty, were scattered about... nearly as numerous as the leaves on the trees. Which really wasn't all that many... it was fall, after all. Amidst this bounty, the first Thanksgiving was born.

One of the nearby Indians was walking through the woods, eating a turkey leg (while waiting for his squaw to make curry with the rest) when he ran smack dab into one of the Pilgrims, who happened to be chomping on a potato. The impact was horriffic... they were dazed as they gathered themselves and their grub. At about the same time that the Pilgrim realized that there were turkey bits in his spud, the Indian spotted smashed potato on his turkey leg. (Side note... the guy who wrote the old Reese's commercial that sounds about the same? Descended from that Pilgrim, he was.) It nearly set off a scuffle which would have ruined the alliance between the Indians and Pilgrims. Fortunately, hunger took over, and both were astonished with the new taste they discovered.

Delighted with the new mix, they both ran to their respective villages and announced their wonderful find. Soon, trading of potatoes and turkeys was going on at a furious pace. Chief Massasoit and whoever the Pilgrim guy was, got together and decided to have a great feast.

What a feast it was... venison, turkeys, geese, small children, and corn... lots and lots of corn. There were large bottles of Mogen David for all, and beer of all sorts. Carry out Chinese was even available! Yes, it was one big drunkfest. So much so, that the actual Proclamation of the First Thanksgivng didn't happen until 1676... more than a few weak brain cells were culled.

So there you have it... the first ever Thanksgiving feast, more or less. Remember to give thanks tomorrow... for those who are serving to protect us, and provide us with safety here at home... just remember that there is a lot to be thankful for, even when it seems like there's not.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving!

Posted by That 1 Guy at 05:50 PM | Comments (10)

October 10, 2005


He couldn't stand it any longer... the bawling of the cattle was driving him nuts. "Sleep! All I want is a few hours sleep!" He glanced at the clock, read 2:36, and flung back the covers. Four and a half hours he'd been stuck listening to the bovine choir! And tonight, they were terribly off key. Damn things must be either starving, or there's coyotes out there, he thought to himself. Willing to listen no more, he called Norm, but only got his machine. He left a short message in which he explained that something was up with his cattle. Then he quickly got dressed, grabbed his .44 and a flashlight, and made his way out the door.

The pasture was almost two miles away, if one were to ride the oil. To cut through the woods and field cut it into much less... only a bit over a half mile. He crossed the crick, and headed through the woods, keeping the flashlight swinging from side to side, .44 at hand. He kicked up a large doe, but no coyotes. Seeing the deer, he figured that coyotes weren't the problem.

As he neared the area lit up by the vapor lamp, he could see the small herd looking towards the barn, bellerin'. Just past the barn, he could see Norm's truck. "About time the asshole gets out here to feed his stock," he grumbled aloud. "He's got a piece of my mind to feast on!"

Approaching the barn, careful not to startle Norm and possibly get shot, he noticed the lights glowing, and Norm's dog sitting just inside the door. Behind the dog, he could see a pair of legs. "Norm!" he yelled. Getting no response, he went inside, as the dog slowly wagged it's tail.

It was Norm alright, and he wasn't looking well. Hell, he thought, I'm pretty sure the bastard's dead. Watching the ant walking across his eye, he decided that was a pretty safe bet.

Walking over to the stack of hay bales, he grabbed two in each hand, walked outside, and broke them into the feed bunk. The cattle gratefully swarmed the hay. Going back into the barn, he located what he thought might be the dog's food. Whatever it was, the dog wolfed it down immediately. He checked the outside water tank's level, which was regulated by a float, and then topped off the dog's water bucket.

After everything was done, he walked over to the husk that was Norm. "Well, you worthless son of a whore. You got me to do your chores for ya, and you kept me waiting for sleep while your damn cows bellered. I'll get someone over here for you, but you're going to have to wait like I did. Dead is dead, and I'm dead tired."

He checked on the animals once more before leaving, then made his way back home... back to bed.

Just so you know... this isn't meant to be some literary work of art. I wrote the damn thing in a matter of minutes, after being kept awake by bellering cattle.

It solved nothing, except to make me feel better for a short period of time... the cows are still bawlin'.

Posted by That 1 Guy at 12:37 AM | Comments (3)

October 06, 2005

A Blank

A blank... that's all I see. Can't seem to pull any ideas from me. Whoa, wait... that could be done as a poem! But it won't.

For some reason this morining, I feel like I just got buried. Oh sure, I've got a breathing tube, but I'm far underground. I don't really feel it's depression, it's more like compression. Addressing compression is impressively depressing.

Still blank.

Posted by That 1 Guy at 08:02 AM | Comments (4)

September 23, 2005

Jeeves Removal

Apparently, Ask Jeeves is going to brutally murder their own Jeeves... okay, not murder him, but they are going to off the lad get rid of him.

The search engine now handles more than straight forward questions, and they feel that Jeeves confuses too many users. It's usually only when he's been drinking, but nonetheless, they feel he must be removed.

Ask isn't sure what the new name of the search engine will be, although "Seance" is being tossed around. You'll still be able to ask Jeeves direct questions, but answers will be limited to knocks.

Posted by That 1 Guy at 12:23 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Creative Composition

A lot of running around to be done today... so it's again time for a game. Yes, that one.

To entertain ourselves when we used to travel a lot, a friend and I used to come up with very strange stories following the formula found in Berenstains' B Book. We didn't stick to it totally, but tried to keep all nouns, adjectives, adverbs, and verbs starting with the same letter. Some of the letters work better than others, but I'm going to save my favorite for another time.

I'll kick it off, and feel free to follow in the comments. You don't need to use whole sentences... if you only can think of a word that fits, throw it in. No need to keep it clean. Repeat words are not a problem. And in cases like today's letter, a word that starts with a similar sound counts... Ready? Using the letter C:

"Codswallop!" cried Cathy the cross-eyed cheerleader. "Chihuahuas can't crack coconuts!"

Again, it's not a novel... characters may disappear and reappear at will. Just have fun with it!

Posted by That 1 Guy at 03:50 AM | Comments (10) | TrackBack