Thursday, August 31, 2006


The higher a monkey climbs, the more you see his ass.

Last night the rapture raptors at ABC - the Armageddon Broadcasting Company - nearly pulled it off. In league with the nefarious Van derKnockers agenda to instill global panic by liquidating all hope, they aired "Last Days on Earth", a brine swill concoction of black hole suckage, supervolcanic cookage and asteroidial suffering.

This morning Earth was still intact and the only thing fractured was the viewing audience. Thank god for today's disinterested youth. derKnockers neglected to factor in what the good people at Nielson have known for years: only feeble and homeridden seniors watch 20/20.

Too overweight, unhealthy and frightened to go out, the frail demographic sat clucking their tongues and pining for Hugh Downs. Nowhere near the riotous fervor envisioned by derKnockers and his media-illiterate cronies. The window smashers were too busy raving up the last days of summer and shoplifting school supplies at Target to kick off societal meltdown.

So aside from a few AARP members stroking out while trying to open stuck windows to yell "I'm as mad as hell, etc.", life's rich pageant marches on.

I can't say for certain that is the case for Hai Yoo, my trusted Korean ESL student. He is nowhere to be found and the compound looks to have been tossed by a pro. All fingers point to Hintercloos, the thumbless Dutchman. Time to cowboy up and John Wayne it over to the gripless one's lair. Speed is the key, and cunning. Perhaps an artful diversion involving pannekoek, a Dutch maiden's costume and an anvil?

Monday, August 28, 2006



"In a contest between a black hole and the Earth, Earth would lose. It's that simple." I've heard that line before, many times. Back in the day my roomy Van derKnockers would utter that phrase, usually slumped in a corner and high on shag carpeting fibers.

derKnockers whined constantly during our "school days" that his ingenious scheme for conquering the globe by universally liquidating all hope was not being taken seriously by the senior levels of "the college". He never got laid.

Alarmed by derKnockers' complicated blueprint for anarchy involving brainless mainstream media, rogue black hole theory and the nation's growing appetite for armageddon, the "faculty" attempted to "revoke his alumni status".

To no avail. Tipped by a snivelling underling, my old "college chum" turned potential liquidator of all hope escaped through an "unlocked alleyway". But who tipped the tipper? The sniveller was later found headless under a windmill in the outskirts of Assen, Holland.

Many presidential administrations later, it all begins to make sense.

While practicing my adhoc cover manifesto of self-flagellation and daytime television, I watched in horror as ABC news (using as much of the alphabet as they can) promoted phase one of derKnocker's nefarious plan.

Reporting that a legion of rogue black holes are lurking near the home planet, ready to suck us all in to a vortex of darkened cosmic doom, is potentially the greatest worldwide destabilizer since Y2K. It trumps everything, even the Paris Hilton CD.

The nation has little to defend itself with against this assault on the collective psyche, save for intelligence, skepticism and reason. Not nearly enough. There is little doubt that I must capture and interrogate the Dutchman Hintercloos, for certainly his eight grubby prints are all over this.

The brainwash airs this week. If I can't stop it I can at least fortify the compound and wait out the coming riots. In the smoldering aftermath I'll draw up plans to block the next stage of derKnockers' scheme, likely a planted expose on the rise of subterranean mole people. There has to be more than one network in derKnockers' pocket. Cursed ABC news. This never would have happened under Jennings' watch.

The Dutchman, Van derKnockers, Holland... there must be a connection. I'll assign Hai Yoo, my obedient Korean ESL student, to research recent pacts between Dutchland and Holland.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006



In my veiled travels as a raving, rootless godbabbler, the last thing I thought I'd encounter was a flying bottle of trucker piss to the face. It's one thing to negotiate the turnpikes soaked in your own urine, but somebody elses? My mistake for straying too close to the nation's crumbling highway system.

At first I thought Hintercloos, the thumbless Dutchman, had finally found me. But no, it takes more than eight fingers to downshift an 18-wheeler while filling, priming and dispatching with precision a 3/4 bottle of manpee.

This was no critic of my adhoc cover manifesto of self-flagellation and daytime television, although the bastard could have tightened the cap pre-jettison (and eased up on the asparagus some).

This was something more sinister, a little known but growing threat along the peaceful, condom-strewn sides of the country's endless grey ribbon. Even clad in my urine-soaked monk apparel, of which the rental deposit is now history, my investigative instincts were without fail. No surprises in this new low in the war on fluids. As usual, the root cause of this noxious roadside residue can be laid at the rubberized steps of big box retail.

The demand for WalMartian resupply is so severe that truckers hauling flats of pressboard shelving and tubesock party packs don't see the profit in rest stops. Better to drain the pickle in transit using whatever receptical at hand. Apparently sports drink containers have that "magnum sized" opening favoured by the nation's chubwormed independent op's. Any CW McCall fan caught loading up with regular sized springwater before the long haul risks the handle "peewee".

Once relieved, an offering to the gods of the soft shoulder is in order. This is best done over long straightaways, at maximum velocity, preferably with hapless thumbers or hoofers by the wayside. As usual, bonus points for nailing cyclists.

Like the big cats of the Serengeti Plain, territory is marked and how. Pretenders to the throne challenge with a scattering of 12 to 16 ouncers, whereas the true alpha-jimmy will impress with a gallon jug or more of methanphetamine-tainted bladder amber. An accompanying odor of old leather saddle announces with authority.

So enjoy your back to school bargains, soccer mom. Next time you grab for that last Crayola knockoff on the shelf, you might want to think about the pee price paid for restocking. As for me, it's time to head home and prepare for the final showdown with the thumbless Dutchman. But first I'll qualify for airbrakes and load up on Ocean Spray. America, urine for it.

Friday, August 04, 2006


I've got to skip the compound for a month, sort of a holiday slash run from the law thing. I may have one-upped my Dutchman neighbour Hintercloos a might severely, but he'll no doubt be taking his opposable thumbs for granted again soon enough. Damned action news and their team coverage! Go chase the next fad diet, you spray-tanned hyenas.

My laptop is in the evidence lockup at Interpol, so I won't be able to update the blog while I'm kerouacking the lesser climbs of the hemisphere. Curse you Kraslov, you may trade your Stasi allegiances for that of the EU, but it'll take more than a trumped up wiretap charge to get me talking about the Bolivian. There's nothing on that hardrive but rondelet verse and Railroad Tycoon 3.

I'd take the homing pigeons, but I can't involve Hai Yoo (my Korean ESL student) as he is on thin ice with immigration. North, South... he's Korean! The lad pays rent on time and in cash. Besides, Hai has a weakness for raw squab, which is both impressive and nauseating.

So I'll be incommunicado, incognito and incoherent as I travel light as a crazed homeless godbabbler. If, walking alone, perhaps to your darkened car lot or through a backalley shortcut, an unkept maddish monk jumps out and threatens you with a biblical stoning or a holy smite, call the police. I would. Just don't take his thumbs. It's not worth it.

Thursday, August 03, 2006



First Russel Crowe with the phone thing, then Mel with the racist thing, now Croc Dundee goes on a flaming feline rampage! Hey Mick, couldn't find a bucket o' wallabees?

Crikey, what's next from Down Underworld? Don't turn your back on Rolf Harris you silly bugga! He'll tie your kangaroo down, mate. Then he'll rip off it's bloody tail and beat you to death with it. Struth!

Wednesday, August 02, 2006


It has come to my attention, through my Korean ESL student, that the cover of my potential book is arousing arousal within both the gay, and surprisingly, straight Korean crowd.

Or so says the retarded scrawl tied to a wooden clog and thrown into Mrs. Fleece's entryway. At first glance an island, in an ocean of winking diamonds known as the Bay of Window Pane. The Korean enjoys nautical themes.

Advantage Hintercloos, my challenging Dutch neighbour, whose social pulses produce threatening notes on the backs of his own cable bill statements. Delivery noted as urgent. Sir, you watch far too much hardcore pornography.

If the Scandahoovian's claim has legs, then to those of you strangely attracted to my potential book's cover: Jesus Harvey Christ! It's the gun, you brazilian-porn-surfing guttermops! Hard and oiled. The GUN. Failure to regularly clean and OIL your sidearm can result in misfire and off target placement. Misfire is worse, but off target placement usually ends with somebody changing their underwear.

And HARD. Harder than your busted bones after you fall on it. I once cracked two ribs landing on a holstered Glock 17, although it had the full silencer barrel extension attached, which is awkward. Fidel was lucky that day.


China looking to expand their military presence into outer space? Yawn.

China rattles swords at Taiwan? Snore.

China official vows to unionize WalMart?

"Our goal is to spread trade unions to each and every Wal-Mart outlet."
Guo Wencai
Director of China's state-run All-China Federation of Trade Unions (ACFTU)