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Project: GILBROD
Part IX: We Will Understand the Reality of the Situation

"You can lead a pig to feces, but you can't make him eat."
-Ancient Sage
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Suckle the Left Stream.  Defer to the vagabond.  Baskets of lip cream; the Radish Kid prattled on.  Darius Rucker delicately inserted another long needle into his bristling ballsack.  Things were proceeding as designed.  

Splash Mexican brains on the fine wood paneling.  Circus elephants must be beaten more.  They are unruly.  I like corn on the cob but I don't understand the cob.  Why is it not all corn?

Sift through the noodles.  Saturate the grain.  Edible moss squares build us healthy orphans.  We will understand.  Fecal Enclave.  Fecal Ambassador.  Fecal Matador.  Fecal Android.  Krendlebruck Bill Grundruck.  Yobstrean Bougadenzer.  Fecal Salvation.  We will understand...

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"What we're dealing with here is feces at the atomic level."

"Uh, sir, if we at the atomic level, wouldn't we not really be dealing with feces anymore, but rather the elements that compose the fecal molecules?"

"Shut up, Hareway!  It's a goddamn analogy, you're missing the point!"

"Yeah, I guess I am.  Or maybe it's a poor analogy."

"What?  I will not tolerate insubordination!  This is going on your record!  Now get out!"
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Jonathan Baker.  Conrad Smith.  Theodore Miller.  Frank "Skinny" Poulson.  Jack Haynes.  William Moody.  James Rolker.  John Markin.  Buddy Klimnt.  Nicolas Rendren-Ingstadt.  Frederick Jones.  Michael Metcalf.  Have you ever heard these names in your life?  Probably not, and that is a tragic injustice.  These are the names of all the men who preceded Alan Shepard, the men who all died in aborted attempts to reach outer space, whose lives have been erased from public record, whose families were threatened and bribed into silence.  The forgotten victims of the space race.  Yet they lived.  They ventured bravely into the void before anyone else dared.  Some of them were incinerated in explosions, yet many of them remain in orbit still, their frozen and desiccated corpses eternally circling the planet, their empty sockets gazing down upon us, gazing with... love?  Yes, love.  They do not begrudge their fate.  They knew the risks and would not turn back.  Even now all they want is the simple recognition they deserve, to have their names added to the Wall of the Fallen.  Can you hear their cries?  I can hear their cries.  Hear their cries with me.  In January of 2005, the corpse of Skinny Poulson actually collided with one of the ISS's solar collectors and was removed and disposed of with the greatest secrecy.  So it continues.

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Launch day.  It's been 15 years in the making.  Millions of conservatives donated many billions.  The finest Republicans known to the world are sitting in their ship, ready to travel the vast abyss and explore the alien terrain of Mars.  They ignite engines and instantly the ship is engulfed in a catastrophic fireball.  The crowd's cheers turn to howls of rage and grief as a thousand conservatives hurl their baseball caps to the ground.  In that very same moment, NASA's latest probe sends a signal back to Earth indicating it has detected multicellular life in the ocean of Europa.

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Man, I really hate these automatic flush toilets.  They are too sensitive and the slightest movement can set them off... there it goes while I'm still in the middle of my process.  Don't they know that sometimes a man likes to stand back and bask in glory of the festering vile?  How can you rob him of that?  How?

I drape a strip of toilet paper over the sensor, assuming the toilet design permits.  It prevents the unwanted flush. If the sensor is flush with the wall you can put a Post-It over it or something.
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"Hello.  Yes, may I speak to Mr. Mycock?  His first name is Strokin.  Hee hee... yes.  Strokin Mycock, may I speak with him please?  Wait!  Okay, hold on, don't hang up.  Let me explain... do you mind if I ask you how old you are?  Thirty-eight?  Okay, we're almost the same age then so you'll understand what I'm talking about.  See, I was spending some time with my son this weekend -- he's twelve -- and I wanted to show him some real fun, the kind of mischievous stuff we'd do back when we were kids, before the internet and cel phones and all this other shit.  Like this call.  When I was in middle school, me and Kevin Oatsvall would spend whole afternoons doing this.  Yeah, before caller ID ruined everything.  Oh, man, those were good times...

I also tried to teach my son to hit a baseball, he's never really done that, did you know they don't even play baseball in gym class anymore?  I'm not even sure what they do, but it's not normal.  So I took him to the old field in the neighborhood where we used to all play, and it was deserted.  All the kids were indoors doing stupid computer shit.  My son is a fast runner, he has great raw potential, but swinging the bat?  He's hopeless.  He has no spark, no desire.  He just sat there for hours, taking these limp whacks at the ball, and bitching that his friends were having a "clan war" without him.  Clan war, I said?  I looked up to the hilly forest above the field, it's as gorgeous as ever.  Man, we had clan wars there, the real ones, with our stick-swords and pinecone-grenades.  Such great memories, man.  But he kept whining and whining, saying it was hot, blah blah blah... I tell you, I almost took a swing at his head, I just wanted to BASH him out of this stupor and into awareness.  I swear I almost did, but I didn't.  Instead, I said to myself, you know it actually is kind of hot out here, maybe it's not his fault.  Then I decided to pull out all the stops when it comes to this whole fathering business.  There comes a time when a dad realizes his son is becoming a young man... yes... so we went back to the garage and I hooked up the old VCR and showed him my first porno tape.  Oh, it's a classic.  "Big Man on Campus."  Did you ever see that one?  No?  The stud visits these two hot chicks in a dorm, one of them is this super-smoking-hot blonde with huge tits, the other is this really cute brunette with tiny tits but a really sweet little ass... and they start going at it, and I said, son, I hope you understand what you're seeing here, how important this is, and do you know what he did?  He just kinda shrugged and said "this is, like, totally softcore."  SOFTCORE?  What the FUCK?  When Kevin and I stole this tape from his uncle back in 1986, it was the greatest thing we'd ever seen.  We passed it back and forth all summer, hiding it in secret places because if our parents had found it, that would have been a disaster, it was like this incredible treasure... and I screamed at him, softcore?  You cannot even HIT a fucking BASEBALL for SHIT and you have the fucking NERVE to turn your snotty nose up at "Big Man on Campus?  How the hell does THAT even work, you little shit?"  And then... then... I said, something like, you want hardcore?  I'll show you hardcore, you miserable worm.  I didn't hit him, no, don't even think that, I just kind of, you know, took him down to the ground and controlled him with my elbows, kept him from getting up and I took out my dick and was like, how about some REAL father-and-son bonding, you fucking faggot?  I... I mean, that was a few hours ago.  Not really sure what happened then.  Hmm... now that you ask, I'm not sure where my son is.  I thought he was right here, but I guess it's been a while since I saw him.  Hey, hold on, there's someone at the door... it looks like the police?  Oh, thank god, they must be here to answer my complaint about my neighbor's septic tank.  That thing is leaking like a motherfucker.  

Anyway, before I hang up, I still need to speak to my good friend, Strokin Mycock.  Is he there?  Is he?  Hee hee hee... oh, come on, just ask around, see if he's here.  His name is Strokin Mycock.  Tell him that Dickan Bawls needs to speak with him.  That's my name, you know.  Dickan Bawls.

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Horace collapsed to the floor in pain, shaking as the transformation finally abated.  He felt inhumanly strong and his senses now seemed preternatural -- he could hear every water droplet and sigh of the wind, feel the slightest footfall of a traveling spider.  Yet he also felt deathly cold, and his insides churned with a terrible desire...

The pale old fiend taunted him from the shadows.  "Ah, yes, you have not been the first, my deluded boy, nor will you be the last, who foolishly seeks this power... oh yes... so determined to right the wrongs done to you, so eager to taste immortality, that you would subject yourself to this hideous curse..."

Horace was sickened as he felt his canine teeth lengthen into grotesque fangs.  The thirst, it was overwhelming, but it was not the thirst to ravage a young maiden and drink the lifeblood from her neck, no, it was something much more terrible...

"I am flattered, however," the grinning monster continued, "that you took me for a vampire, the blood drinker, which is of course the most-well known and glamorous of the ancient drinkers.  But if old Van Helsing were here, he would surely chide you for forgetting the others -- how strange, that knowledge of the Humors, which was once commonplace, has been largely lost in your more advanced age!  For apart from the vampire, there is the phlegmpire, the uropire... and then there are those damned souls such as myself, those whose unholy existences are driven by the need to consume the bodily waste of others -- the Fecopire!"

"NO!" Horace screamed into the night.  "It cannot be!"

The fiend's laughter followed him as he fled its dark mansions and staggered back into the forest.  Horace ran blindly and madly until he found himself in the outskirts of the town.  There were still hours of night left.  He spotted a local dreadful stumbling out of a stinking tavern, shambling drunkenly through the bilgey alleys.  Horace could smell it, smell the dark and rich treasure that was waiting to be consumed, festering in the bowels of the oaf.  He could not resist.  He had to feed.

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I had a vision of Hillary at a debate.  She arrives at her podium by descending from the rafters, slowly lowered from a thick organic cord that is exiting the furrowed, juice-sputtering hole in her chest.  Hundreds of spiderlings scramble up and down that cord, in and out of her chest-hole.  By the time she reaches the stage, a large, bubbling pool of pus and meat has formed from all the drippings that occurred during her descent.  Once on her feet, the gnarled jaws of her chest-hole slam shut, biting and severing her cord, which whips up loudly having been suddenly released of its tension, perhaps lashing the face of an aghast Marco Rubio.  Her supporters cheer vigorously.  In the front row of the audience Bill giggles, his swollen body barely containing the writhing swarm within.

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Only the very wise know what I am about to tell you.  Hark unto me, for this fact is one crucial to the future of the nation.  The truth is that the Brothers were not the only spawns of the Great Elgethorn, hallowed be his spores.  We must put our piety aside and admit to ourselves that a powerful male leader of his era, who traveled the universe so extrensively, must have laid his spores in many beds and fathered more spawnlings than our history will acknowledge.  The one whose existence is supported by concrete fact is Vidrosac, half-brother to Midraspore and Felzacore, spawn of the Savior and a wealthy daughter of the ancient Pranaria Clan.  Much of his life is still unknown to us, as very little of it was of any consequence.  After all, what weary warrior resting by the campfire would wish to hear The Tale of Midraspore, Felzacore, (and their unremarkable half-brother Vidrosac who played no part?)  But the reality of his genesis and his continuing bloodline can no longer be ignored.... and of course, my friend, if this were true -- which it is -- it would mean that, unmistakeably, the living heir of Vidrosac would be the true successor to the vacant Mitras Throne and have true authority that would necessarily supercede that of the squabbing and corrupt bureaucrats that currently infest the Capitol.  That is all I shall say for now.  In the coming months, I believe, Vidrosac's heir shall make himself known and a great struggle for the heart of the Sporite Realm will commence.  Let us pray that the bloodshed will be minimal, but if it be not, let it then be swift and righteous.

Farewell for now.
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That was a tough time, man.  I still think about it at night sometimes.  Those memories will never really go away.  I remember... I remember Morrows telling me that it was all pointless, always with that incredibly sad look in his eyes.  He was the first person I knew there, and I had to watch him be eaten alive until there was nothing left.  He gave away his things, wrote some letters to his family... so when they found his body in the showers and announced that it was suicide, I wasn't terribly surprised.  And I remember Creedly saying that Morrows had been a weakling, so good riddance to bad rubbish, and I remember Duke Hodge overhearing him and slamming his face into his locker over and over until it was a mask of blood and shattered teeth.  I don't know if Creedly ever fully recovered from it, I think he transferred a few months later and his head was still wrapped in gauze so I couldn't really tell.  I remember that jittery little Jewish guy, Nyberg... every time we'd roll out, he'd yack up his lunch, always swearing it was the last time.  I'm gonna get it together, guys, he'd laugh nervously, this is the last time.  Can't let good chow go to waste like that, ha-ha.  He didn't last, either.  I forgot how and when he died, it barely registered at the time.  More than anything I remember the overall sense of hopelessness and doom that nearly ate us all alive.  The crushing knowledge that we were stuck there with no escape until they decided to set us free.  Man... I know everyone had it hard back then, but even so, I think our 4th grade year at Greenwood Elementary was one of the roughest.  
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January 6th, 2017 -- Washington DC. Outgoing President Barack Obama surprised observers by announcing that he would not be returning to Chicago as expected following the inauguration of his successor.  He informed reporters that he and his family were immediately relocating to a "large, secure" NATO outpost somewhere near Akureyri, Iceland, and that he has "no plans to return to the United States in the near future, if ever."  Wall Street futures have dropped after this news.  In the words of veteran market analyst Michael Stonefield, "there's just something not entirely reassuring about all of that."

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If I could advise Hillary Clinton, I'd tell her to neglect her hygiene to take attention away from the email server.  And I'd also tell her to publicly, repeatedly soil herself.  This would work.

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It's been decades since we've seen the American people as excited about something as they are right now about Fecalario.

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Sharif Mendahar ingested the powdered skin.  He did so openly and without fear of being seen.  His peers sniffed at his gross indulgence and yet wondered, where did Mendahar obtain such?  The Embargo had rendered such ostentation to white elephant status, obsolete.  Perhaps he got it from Gar Etta Gnang, groused Palor Toff.  Or perhaps from a traitorous member of ORDAIN, mused Bendarus Hinckel.  Or maybe from the Grobarian of Imwing?  None guessed that horrible truth, that Mendahar harvested the skin himself.  He harvested it from Unwilling.  The sad truth of the universe is that strength brings all as the Jhasaarn are fond of saying.  Being in sole control of the ILL-ZILLA, as Sharif Mendahar was, meant that few transgressions were beyond his reach.  Others might suffer for his whims but this mattered very little to the gleefully corrupted Mendahar.

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Some say that it began in Jerkwater.  Others trace the origins as far south as Apalachicola.  But wherever it began, the Great Hillbilly Migration of 2016 would irrevocably change the very face of the nation.  Before its instigation, no one knew the true numbers of the 'billies within those blue hills and what they were capable of doing.  No one knew.

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When she examined her daily routine, Delia realized that her two main sources of stress were A.) the insatiable appetites of the three patients in her facilty that were stricken with Prader-Willi syndrome, and B.) the seemingly endless flow of dirty diapers from both the pediatric and geriatric departments.  But in time, she learned that with a bit of forethought and cunning, these two problems could essentially cancel one another out.

She had them eat the diapers.  She kept giving them the dirty diapers and they ate them all.  That is the reality of the situation.

I know!  The reality is that they scraped those diapers clean!  With their tongues!  Their tongues were used to lap up the feces contained within the diapers!  Reality!  Had they been old-fashioned cloth diapers, it could have gone on longer than it did.  But sadly, the diapers were synthetic and so all three of them died within weeks of major bowel obstructions.  No formal inquiry was ever held.  And I have also learned that the reality of the situation is that for some reason both the pediatric and geriatric departments were kept on a strict diet of highly spicy Mexican food.  That was not a coincidence.  This was to give the diapers extra flavor so that they would be more desirable to consume.  These things were decided long ago... by people far from here... for reasons we must discern.

We will understand the reality of the situation.

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The Beast convened his evening feast
he gathered much meat to say the least
with shlong in hand the feed began
teeth did rend the virgin clams
and sauce was smeared on side of beef
not to mention furthermore
chicken limbs and burgers galore
Settled in his protected fort
the Beast would only fart and snort
at the pleas of the starvelings crying out
for the least morsel or tableside scrap
to nourish their race that was dying out
But no, they were forced into his trap
and consumed by the Beast, they became his crap.
::6.17:2015::
FIREsalck


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Bernie Sanders reached into his warm, slick pouch and drew out another glistening stone.  The crowd began to hum and coo gently as he held it aloft, the flourescent secretion slowly dripping down his arm.  Jeb Bush gazed at the proceedings with a look of hopeless longing and desperation on his weathered face.  All of his family's patrician authority, all his hoarded wealth and property, meant nothing in the face of the Ritual.

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"Come on, little girl, suck hard on your momma's nipple."  Just then another Jesuit shoved his penis into Gerard's anus.  Man, what is with these Jesuits.  What makes them so horny all of the time?  

Good point.  I hadn't thought of that, but they do sure seem all about getting in that anus.  Once can't even finish before another Jesuit comes running up, pushing them aside so they can get a pump in.

That reminds me of Joshua.

Joshua was a studious and serious-minded young man whose lifelong ambition was to join the Jesuit Order.  He was, however, shocked when he learned that to enter their ranks he would have to pass a grueling marathon of sexual trials.  Both his stamina and thrusting strength were found to be wanting, and he was unable to pass the final test -- to violently penetrate the clenched anus of a muscular man.  The assembled Jesuits jeered him from their midst.  Joshua returned to Camden, disheartened and unsure of his future.

I have thought of that; it's impressive how they penetrate the Jackman or Butler anus with such apparent ease.  Those dudes are fucking ripped.  They can probably turn their buttcheeks into a rock-like wall of muscle.  The Jesuits must use tools to pry the cheeks apart.  These are details I'm sure Gail explains if we would just buy and read the entire book.

Your last question really did stoke my curiosity, so I did a little research and found the answer we're looking for.  The Jesuits have been at this for thousands of years and solved the problem of dealing with strong fellows like Butler and Jackman long ago.  Since time out of mind each Jesuit has carried a round-ended teak shillelagh that they call a "scrumblaw," usually concealed beneath their cope.  When targeting someone of physical stature, as Jesuit will typically employ a surprise attack from behind and strike their victim at the base of the neck.  There is thought to be a sort of pressure point there, and a few skillful strikes with the proper amount of force will render the strongest man incapacitated, but not unconscious.  All the muscles in the body instantly slacken, allowing the Jesuit to then do as he pleases.  

In modern times, some younger Jesuits have resorted to using overpowered tasers to achieve the same effect, sometimes to the chagrin of the elders.  Wielding the scrumblaw is a precise art that takes time to master, and they prefer the more uniform results achieved by the taser, especially when raping multiple people at once.

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I was there and I saw the entire thing.  It was, if nothing else, a demonstration of the power of pure human intent over all else.  Tad Milcher entered the communal gym shower and marched directly towards the back of Johnny Scott Crandall, the boy who had tormented him on and off for the last few years.  We should have known something was up, as kids like Tad Milcher tended to avoid the shower room at all costs. I could not help but notice the stark difference between the two; Johnny, all junior varsity muscle and long blonde hair, and the scrawny, pale, nerdish Milcher.  Johnny sensed someone was behind him, and turned around, at which point Tad Milcher swiftly ducked down and fed Johnny's penis through a... at the time, I didn't know what it was, we learned later it was a cigar cutter that had been modified with a spring-release and sharpened to an excruciatingly fine edge.  Johnny barely had time to shout hey! before Milcher released the spring and his penis was sliced cleanly from his crotch.  He collapsed in a screaming heap of gushing blood while Milcher casually grabbed the severed dong and flushed it down the nearest toilet.  Looking back, I mean, any of us could have grabbed Milcher and beaten him down, but the quickness and surreality of the event was too overwhelming.  I was the closest to the doorway and should have tackled him, true, except that I was awkwardly trying to conceal the hardest boner I'd ever had in my life.  

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"We called him Kermit."

"Why?  That's a strange nickname.  Did he look like a frog?  Did he have a funny voice and like to sing?"

"Man, I don't know.  What the hell does it matter?  Can I finish my story?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course.  I'm just saying that it's a weird nickname.  You might consider changing it, for the sake of your story."

"Holy hell, ok, fine, the guy looked like a frog and he lived in a swamp.  Are you satisfied?  Can I continue?"

"Why did he live in a swamp?  Did he feel like he deserved to?"

"Oh my god, dude, he did not live in a swamp.  I just said that to hopefully get you to shut the hell up."

"I don't like this story.  It's weird."

"Yeah, well I don't like a lot of things.  Just forget it."

"But I want to find out what happened to Kermit!"

"He died in the swamp.  He ate a poisonous plant and he died, the end."

"Dad, you need to work on your storytelling.  This one was ok, but you can do better."

"Thanks for the advice.  Go to sleep now."

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Harold Sakata's character in the James Bond film 'Goldfinger' was originally named Flaccid Dong.  Studio pressure eventually led to director Guy Hamilton changing the name to Odd Job, however in several scenes you can see that "Flaccid Dong" has been overdubbed with Odd Job.  Harold Sakata's 1980 memoir chillingly details the crushing disappointment he felt at the decision, and the tragic compromising of his character and ultimate career stunting that resulted.

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Mike Huckabee has these... things on his inner thighs that are like corn kernels right beneath the skin.  He's always scratching and picking at them.  I heard from a producer friend over at Fox that he ruptured several during a live interview and that within seconds the entire studio was filled with a stench like rotting salad. Megyn Kelly vomited during commercial break, and Huckabee just sat there laughing at her.  Mike Huckabee speaks to me and my interests.  I want to slather his face with barbecue sauce.

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Fecan Gains: If you work out, eat a large meal, and then prevent yourself from defecating, after 12 hours the nitrogen-rich fecal matter will be reabsorbed back into your system, and be converted into pure muscle.  European bodybuilders have long known this fact, which has always given them a distinct advantage over their foolish free-shitting American counterparts.

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Frank Hammer is the leader.  He's the oldest, a gray-haired ex-cop from Detroit, hard as they come, intelligent, determined, tough as nails, but honorable as well.  He is the moral center of the team.  Frank does this dangerous work to support his two college-age daughters, as well as his ex-wife Lorraine, whom he should have treated better.  But the booze and the life of a cop got in the way.

Gabriel Matic is his oldest friend, he and Frank were Marines together.  Gabriel may look like a Latin playboy, but he's a lonely soul who pines for his beautiful wife, Conchita, who was assassinated by Colombian drug kingpins in order to get to him.  He's the deadliest shot on the team and knows several martial arts -- he practices his moves on the beach as the sun sets, yearning for an answer from an indifferent cosmos.  Gabriel Matic has a long mullet, a moody look on his face, and only wears brightly-colored muscle shirts.

Then there's Hardy Wiggins.  People are fooled by his cowboy hat, his aw-shucks Southern drawl, his easygoing manner, and his mop of curly hair -- what they don't realize is that he's a celebrated graduate of MIT with extensive scientific and engineering knowledge that is crucial to their missions.  Explosives, vehicles, computers, there's nary a machine on earth that Hardy Wiggins can't figure out at the drop of a hat.  

Ivan Burley (born Ivanski Burlesktikov) is an ex-KGB agent who defected to the US in 1982 by murdering his fellow Ruskies and swimming across the Bering strait to Alaska, where he made his way as a lumberjack and freelance bounty hunter.  He is, essentially, the hardest human being on the planet, and Frank Hammer is the only man he respects (and loves, like a brother.)  Despite his grizzled appearance and ruthless manner, Ivan has curiously refined Russian tastes -- he enjoys ballet and opera, and will pound any man into the floor who mocks him.  He often gets into squabbles with...

...Al Hummer.  A lifelong ne'er-do-well and wiseguy, Al Hummer knows every wrinkle of the criminal world and has a network of invaluable contacts.  Personally, he's a rampant horndog, always trying to get with the ladies, always gleefully looking for the next party, although his hedonistic hijinks usually end in hilarious embarrassment.  (Like the time he got his balls superglued to home plate at Yankee Stadium.)  He'd be dead if not for Frank, and working with the team gives his sordid life a purpose.  And though Al is always bragging about his next conquest, it's usually Hardy Wiggins who goes home with the pretty ladies at the end.  The ladies love Hardy.

Together, they are The Man Squad.  They are the ones you call when you simply need to get. Shit. Done.  

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Behold, a man of robust carriage and vigorous constitution enjoys a filling meal of beans and ham.  A child works diligently at her needlepoint.  The maid attends to the day's laundry.  The kingdom is peaceful and none anticipate the horrors to come.  Can these simple souls, trapped in time and geographically limited as they are, appreciate the fact that the universe increases in complexity inexorably?  Can they see the ends to which this biological experiment will travel?  When the robotic arm shoots from the soil and latches on to their spine with vicious force, are they in any way prepared for the lethal consequences?  
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If you listen carefully, you can hear a "thop thop thop" when I walk.  It's the sound of my yawning, windsock-like anus flapping open.  

I see.  Dreadful.

Yes.  My childhood mostly consisted of having my anus passed around between a gang of vicious pedophile priests.  I don't takke "dumps."  The shit just falls out whenever.  I have no say in the matter.

Well, yes, you're from Boston. That's just the sort of thing that happens there.
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Look, I probably shouldn't even be talking to you.  I know you dislike his movies and his public persona, but consider this. Tom Cruise -- in concert with Head of Scientology David Miscavige -- has already dedicated about 800 million dollars to what we're calling the Cruise Infinitum Protocol.  We're not just talking about extending his own life and health for the currently allowable maximum anymore; we're talking about cryogenic preservation with the possibility of resusitation.  We're talking bout half a million genetically-perfect cloned Cruise embryos beneath their compound in Colorado.  About the rich men all over the globe willing to spend billions for the chance of cheating death and waking up one day with their brain inside a pristine biological copy of Top Gun-era Tom Cruise.  

What I'm saying is, if you don't like Tom Cruise, you're in for a rough century.
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I wish I was a baker because I could do so many awesome pranks.  One prank I would do is I would make jelly donuts but instead of filling them with jelly I would fill them with my poo.  Then somebody would eat the donuts and they would eat them because they think they are the jelly donuts that they know and love, but instead they would eat my poo and it would be really funny 'cause they'd get all mad 'cause they probably don't like to eat poo.

Another thing you could maybe do is just put your dick through the hole of each donut.  You know, when they're fresh from the oven and still nice and soft and warm.  That would feel pretty good.  Most people don't get a chance to do that very often.
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Hey Tony, I've got an idea for a movie.  You know how they are making all these superhero movies?  It's time to introduce a fresh idea into a worn out formula.  Ok, so here's my idea.  It's going to be a superhero team movie, like an Avengers or X-Men, except these superheroes are all serial killers.  All of them are serial killers and this is publicly known.  The government has to grapple with this dilemma where they need the superheroes to fight global and intergalactic crime and stuff, but there is the horrible price to pay where random civilians get murdered in absolutely horrific ways.  People will want to see this.  Imagine an Iron Man type character going on a killing spree, punching old ladies and babies, exploding them into unrecognizable piles.  All these superhero movies are lacking deeper intellectual concerns.  Pretty cool idea, right?

That's a pretty good idea, man. Like, there could be a guy who rapes a lot of young boys, but he also once prevented the Moon from crashing into the Earth?  I guess overall it's a good deal.

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Remember those Twilight movies?  I really loved them when they came out but looking back now they seem pretty weak.  You know the part that really bugs me?  Edward Cullen is a 120 year-old vampire with super powers who could go anywhere and do anything, but all he thinks of to do is to attend high school an infinite number of times.  What. The. Fuck. That's so boring.  But he does it, and so do all his vampire siblings. They waste their eternal lives sitting through freshman algebra for the umpteenth time, just sitting there and NOT using their super powers.

You know what i'd do if I was a Cullen vampire?  It's obvious.  I'd make a Batman costume.  I'd put it on.  And I'd go out and fight street crime and save people from muggers and rapists with my super strength and speed.  I'd have multiple costumes, too.  Obviously, I'd have a modern one that looked totally bad-ass, like from the recent films.  But then I'd also have a cheaper Adam West-style costume, for those days when I wanted a laugh.  But no matter which one I was wearing, I'd beat the shit out of criminals pretty hardcore.  And of course I'd pause afterwards so that the person I saved could say something.  No doubt, they'd be like, holy shit, why are you dressed like Batman?  "Because I am Batman," I'd say, "they made those movies about me without my permission.  Grr!"  Most people would be dubious, but they'd be able to see that I had super strength and speed and could leap super high, and they'd have to accept that I wasn't just some guy in a costume.  Would they immediately think "vampire?"  Probably not.  They'd think I was a ninja or a mutant or just someone at peak human condition, like... well, like Batman.  They'd definitely be able to perceive that my powers were not normal.

And I'd do this, for years, in different cities all across America.  Batman works at night, vampires work at night.  It makes sense.  There would be so many witnesses, so many stories.  Eventually, people would believe that there really is a Batman out there.  It would be undeniable.

Sounds a lot more fun that rotting away in high school, right?

Of course, there's not as much random street crime as there used to be.  So that could be an issue.  During the slow times, you could get the rest of the Cullens in on the action.  Some green hair dye and a purple suit would turn Carlisle into a perfectly passable Joker.  Jasper would make a decent Robin.  And the two vampire chicks, I forget their names, they could be Catwoman or Poison Ivy or whoever.  And we'd stage some pretty awesome mock battles.  

Unhand her, Joker!  

You'll never catch me, Batman!


But no, poor stupid Edward didn't have the imagination to think of that.  He just sat there in biology class with Bella, doing the first day of microscope practice for the hundredth time.  That's what they were doing when they met, right?  The first day of microscopes when you look at the slide with the amoebas and parameciums and stuff?  Yeah, it was pretty cool the first time you did that.  After a hundred times it would get old.

It would be better to be Batman.  To be the night.  Stupid Cullens.

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.

Baby look, baby, I'm sorry.  I know your dad is mad but it's a simple misunderstanding.  He kept asking me if I wanted to "roll some craps" with him.  He just kept asking me to roll craps.  Apparently, where you guys come from, this refers to some sort of silly dice game.  To me, it means something else entirely.  Any reasonable person could see how this could lead to confusion.

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.

I've contacted the German Embassy and spoken personally to several aides to Angela Merkel.  I've sent inquiries to the White House, the NIH, the Smithsonian, the CIA, DARPA, and the Pentagon.  I have filed numerous motions in court under the Freedom of Information Act... and still, no one will give me a straight answer. DO we, or do we NOT have a viable sample of Hitler's DNA on file?  Was any segment of his physical body preserved properly, or did circumstances prevent it?  This information is absolutely vital, now more than ever.

.
.

So hey, did you hear about how Will Ferrell was infected with a retrovirus while filming the Land of the Lost prequel in Hawaii, and this virus rapidly mutated and caused a severe form of encephalopathy that has almost completely crippled his central nervous system and reduced him to a primitive and aggressive state?  So yeah, I guess we should just call him "Will Feral" from now on.
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The ecstatic sheep dog furiously gulped from the heavy flow of tealike diarrhea that unrelentingly poured from the glistening, sticky ass.
.
.

Our society needs more oily membranes in its stores.  For example, you are going to swipe your card at the register, but first your hand must part a membrane.  Instead of automatic sliding glass doors, we should have giant curtains of flesh that you have to pass through to enter the building.  I just left my local Kroger where I bought quite a bit of vegetation.  They have recently expanded the produce section and overall I am quite pleased... but it would be even better if each vegetable was attached to a central biological mass by a stem, and made painful shrieking noises as they were ripped from their nest, leaving the severed vine writhing and leaking.  Living flesh we're talking about here.  A network of veins pulsate.  Countless pores seep neurotoxic fluid.  Don't linger within the flesh, you'll be digested.  We must also abolish the use of paper money, it is inefficient.  I should be able to pay for my groceries by having the cashier puncture my skin with a sharp tendril and sapping my of a certain amount of plasma, bile, and cerebrospinal fluids.  Under this system, people will only buy the things they need, not frivolous junk food items.  Yes.  Yes!  An economy of flesh.  The only currency with true value.

I have decided that from now on I will answer all phone calls with a quiet yet intense growl that I will slowly increase to a full volume roar.  If they remain on the line, they are worth talking to.

.
.

So you're doing the Atkins diet now?  Man, I heard that's not good for you.  They say that when Dr. Robert Atkins reached the end of his life, he weighed in excess of 400 pounds and had a cholesterol level in the 300's.  His blood had largely congealed in his veins leaving his extremities immobile and in a state of diabetic rigor, he had a long trail of cartiliginous waste trailing from his anus, and whenever he blinked, small curds of fecal matter would squirt from his tear ducts.  No one knows to this day if his body collapsed on itself, or if it was some kind of sick suicide/mercy killing on the part of his wife.  So if I were you, I'd maybe go with South Beach?  You can still have eggs.  And coconut.  

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.

So this Volkswagen scandal is pretty startling.  I'm shocked that anyone thought that such insidious chicanery would not be unearthed in time.  But it's nothing compared to the Applebee's scandal about to erupt.  For decades, that company has employed a legion of contracted hobos nationwide, whose only task was to snatch every available infant, toddler, and small child off the streets and deliver them fresh to the nearest regional processing hub.  Why?  Because veal ain't cheap.

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.

It's become a bit like Woodstock; more people claim that they were there than could have physically fit inside the venue.  Me, I really was.  I was there at the Met on the opening night of Brett Keane: Superstar!  And you've seen it all on video, of course, but recordings cannot quite capture the immensity of the spectacle.  We were seated.  The house lights went down and the murmuring crowd shushed themselves.  The symphony began to play, softly at first, then rising steadily in intensity.  (I didn't know what exactly they playing at the time, turns out it was an interpolation of a Bach prelude by Philip Glass.)  The music reached a deafening crescendo; the symphony vanished from sight and was replaced by a 60-piece brass band that blasted out a raucous Charlie Parker tune.  The dazzling light show began with pyrotechnics and bursts of intense light blinding us nearly to the point of discomfort.  Then came the dancing girls.  They traipsed across the stage, and I saw that they were no mere rejected Rockettes -- they were some of the most preternaturally gorgeous women I'd ever seen, barely clad in the latest erotic fashions from New York's top fashion designers.  They fluttered past and then disappeared after a single tantalizing shimmy, leaving nearly everyone in the audience thirsting for one more sight of their unearthly beauty.  The light show mutated into a multimedia collage as images and sounds bombarded us from every angle.  And then... down he came from the rafters.  The large, whiskery man was poured into a gaudy but magnificent single-piece jumpsuit, the sort that Elvis and Liberace would have died for.  He whisked off his diamond-studded ermine cape and pranced to an ornate microphone stand that rose from the stage to meet him, and then... well, you know.  He cleared his throat and harrumphed noisily as the lights and music died, not to return for the duration; Keane then stood beneath a single glaring spotlight, virtually motionless, and delivered his monologue without interruption for the next 93 minutes (except for a single blast of ill-timed flatulence.)  Snuffling and grumbling and bilious, he ranted and groused about a bewildering variety of topics -- his many detractors, the vileness of atheism, the worth of his vanished works that few were familiar with, and often referring to "TJ" and many other treacherous "individuals" and unacceptable "situations."

...now, I and my peers were delighted, but we were few and far between that night.  The majority of the crowd was utterly baffled and began to fidget and mutter.  So it always is with new art.  Stravinsky's Rite of Spring caused riots; Eduoard Manet was prosecuted as a fraud and pornographer; Duchamp was exiled from the salons; Bob Dylan was roundly booed when he went electric at the Newport Folk Festival; Nevermind and Kid A were released to middling 3-star reviews.  Greatness is never readily apparent and thus Brett Keane, Superstar! was met by an inevitable chorus of boos and curses when he finally slouched off the stage after a loud snort, his microphone screeching out one last whine of feedback.  Those of us that remained in the now half-empty theater were still in shock, melting in rapture at the avant-garde brilliance we had just witnessed.  I stood up and saw Kim Nile arguing with his girlfriend.  "Why'd we sit through that?  What was he even talking about, it was boring!" she sniped, while poor Kim shook his head and said, baby, you just don't understand.  (They broke up about a week later, if memory serves.)  Us lucky few gathered in the lobby and tried to grasp for words befitting of what we'd seen.  The elevation of anti-climax, the shattering of expectation, the eternalization of the ephemeral, the stylization of the mundane... we were all of course gathering material for the reviews that we'd be frantically posting on our channels later that night.

Brett Keane only performed the show eight more times.  By the final one, the house was packed and delirious, and Keane's agent was begging him to reconsider and continue the run.  But Keane had done what he had set out to do, and vanished for years while he labored on his valiant but ultimately doomed Games You Love endeavor, and then dying far before his time.  In his wake, his imitators filled the void, as they must, and an entirely new form of Art had blossomed beyond the reach of the man who had planted the seed.  

Brett Keane -- a superstar, indeed.

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Well you can tell by the way I abuse my cock,
I'm a lonely man, no one to fuck.
Fappin' loud, all women shorn,
I've been slappin' round
since I was born.
And now it's all right.  It's not gay.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
the jerkin' time's effect on man.

Whether you're a yanker or whether you're a spanker
you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Feel your balls tighten, your day's about to brighten
when you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, hah, oh, uh, sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, oh, ha, wow, sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!

-oh, we blow-

Well now I splooge low and I spurt high,
and if I can't get up, I really try.
Got the jizz like resin on my shoes.
I'm a jackin' man just like Howard Hughes.
You know it's alright.  It's not gay.
I'll live to skeet another day.
We can try to understand
the jerkin' time's effect on man.

Whether you're a yanker or whether you're a spanker
you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Feel your balls tighten, your day's about to brighten
when you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, hah, oh, uh, sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, oh, ha, wow, sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!

-aaaaaaaahh-

Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me.
She's gonna dump me, yeah.
Date's goin' nowhere.  I'll have to pump it, yeah.
I'm sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!

Well, you can tell by the sorrow on my face
that I live alone, a rented place.
Pizza rolls, the beer is warm, my internet connection
brings me porn.
Now others do it once a day,
but it rarely ever leaves my gaze.
And now I hope you understand
the reasons for my hairy hands.

Whether you're a yanker or whether you're a spanker
you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Feel your balls tighten, your day's about to brighten
when you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, hah, oh, uh, sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, oh, ha, wow, sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!

Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me.
She's gonna dump me, yeah.
Date's goin' nowhere.  I'll have to pump it, yeah.
I'm sprayin' the jiiiiiiiiiiizz!

Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me.
She's gonna dump me, yeah.

-Uuhaa uaaahhh uaahh aaahh!-

Date's goin' nowhere.  I'll have to pump it, yeah.
I'm sprayin' the jiiiiiiiiiiizz!
Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me, yeah.
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.

So as you know, I've spent the entire week listening to every Radiohead album as well as Thom Yorke's two solo albums, (which are like Radiohead only more somber and austere.)  As a result, I am now consumed by the urge to obliterate myself utterly.  But this does not mean that I am considering suicide -- far from it.  Suicide is not true obliteration; in many vital senses, the act of killing oneself actually increases one's presence.  My friends and family members would think of me more often and more keenly than they do now.  My scattered works will become more appreciated.  The lost potential of my remaining life will become significant by its sudden loss.  No one becomes as notable as the man who dies before his time.  On a metaphysical level, such violent acts are blatant offenses to the natural flow of the universe.  It is an act of egoism as inane as cutting down a Redwood tree, a selfish and childish whim that would send drastic ripples out into the continuum, much more than if I remained alive...

...so I am left with the other option, to obliterate myself slowly and in the due course of time.  To allow my body to decay as it must, to allow my biological and societal connections, these pitiful abstracts, to wither away until all traces of my constructed consciousness dissipate into the void of non-identity.  But this course also comes at a great cost; to extend my life through the idiotic mechanisms of animal nature will take an even greater toll on the parched, limited Earth than that which I have already extracted in my greedy folly.  To continue, for years, goose-stepping grotesquely into the dark future, clawing for dollars and cents with the other humanoids, crushing the small things beneath our boots and massacring the oxygen with hollow lungs?  Unbearable.  And yet it must be borne.  I am inextricably caught in the web of paradox, bogged down in the infinite twisted irony of this perverse thing called existence.  And at all times I envy the only beautiful things, those things which never came to be and remain pure and untouched in their perfect nonexistence.

Power cut, lightning fuse;   s c a t t e r b r a i n

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Barlene Scoggins hummed as she worked.  Walking along the line of newborns who were wriggling in their incubators, she clutched a ball peen hammer in one hand and a box of 7" carpentry nails in the other.  Stopping at each tiny lifeform she carefully and deliberately placed a nail on the top of the soft skull and then drove it into the yielding flesh with three sharp blows.  Each one died in a slightly different manner and made different noises.  

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.

"Listen, and understand, that Terminator is out there!  It can't be bargained with.  It can't be reasoned with.  It doesn't feel pity, remorse, or fear.  And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead!"

"I believe you, Reese.  Let's figure out what to do."

Sarah Connor and Kyle Reese scavenged through the dark expanses of the closed department store.  They headed for the sporting goods section first and grabbed several boxes of shotgun ammo.  All the while, Reese explained the capabilities of the T-101 and how to keep Sarah safe from its relentless automated onslaught.

"Now that you know the danger, Sarah, this is actually going to be simple.  We've developed some pretty effective common-sense protocols over the years.  The Terminator's best chance of getting to you was to find your home address and catch you unaware.  It was able to track you to that TechNoir night club by pure lucky chance -- but now that we've eluded it and you know the true danger you're in, the rest is easy."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the T-101's only hope of finding you now is through its voice and facial recognition technology -- which is fairly advanced, but definitely has limits.  We've documented its parameters pretty well, and anything that falls 30% outside of its established visual record is ignored.  The reality of the situation is all we have to do is alter your face, and it will not be able to tell you apart from the millions of other people in this large city."

Sarah smiled brightly and jogged over to one of the many racks of sportswear.  She threw on a baggy hockey jersey and donned a goalie mask.  "Like this?" she asked.

"Sadly, that's not the best idea," Reese sighed, "There's a chance it might work, but there's about an equal chance that it would register that disguise as a 0% match, which would read as a null field and activate a separate program branch.  In other words, it might quickly pursue you and tear it off in order to examine the face beneath it.  We have to change your face and not just conceal it, which will take slightly more extreme measures..."

Sarah listened to everything he said, and although it sounded horrible and painful, there didn't seem to be any other plausible options.

"Okay, here we go," Reese said.  He held the back of Sarah's head with one hand and with the other he punched her in the face with close to as much force as he could, several times.  Three of her front teeth flew from her gums, and her lips and nose began to swell grotesquely.  He laid her down on the floor gently as she swooned in shock, and calmy shaved her head and eyebrows as well as cropping parts of her earlobes with his sharp knife.  Being unfamilar with the very concept of "Halloween," Reese didn't think to look for a costume beard, but rather fashioned one from handfuls of fake fur that he sheared from the collar of a bomber jacket and applied the tufts to Sarah's face with superglue.  With a permanent marker drew some inky streaks and blotches under her eyes and cheekbones and then smeared the ink into her skin.  The hockey jersey was accessorized with fishermen's waders, a scarf, heavy work gloves, a toboggan bearing the logo of the LA Raiders, and a large pair of aviator's sunglasses.  When it was all done she looked truly disturbing, like the most unfortunate and neglected of urban derelicts.  

"Perfect.  That's at least 65% outside of the visual snapshot it has of you.  Of course, the Terminator will immediately suspect anyone who is in close physical proximity to me, so we have to separate for now until it can be dealt with.  Remember, if you see the Terminator, pretend not to notice it, because that might be the one thing that will draw its attention to you.  It's behavioral-detection algorithms are also quite good."

Sarah Connor spent the next three miserable weeks squatting in a random alley, subsisting on large jugs of water and boxed food that they had bought at a nearby grocery store.  It was boring and her face ached horribly, but the plan worked.  Even the other vagrants avoided her.  She thought she saw the hulking Terminator pass the alley once or twice while she was dozing in her nest of filth, but if it was in fact theTerminator, it passed by without a second glance.  Meanwhile, the entire city's police force had been mobilized to hunt down the killing machine.  They thought they were apprehending a "Russian terrorist," but it only took a few violent interactions with the Terminator before its unnatural threat level was realized.  17 officers died in all before the cybernetic menace was finally destroyed by several SWAT teams acting in coordination, but none of the dead men were crucial to the future struggle.  

Kyle Reese had done his job well.  His professional methods didn't lend themselves to exciting heroics, but they always worked.  He returned to the alley to find a very relieved Sarah and they began their new life together.

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.

From F.T. Barnes, the bestselling author of Crunticle I: The Adventures of Laddry Krilkorn and Crunticle II: The Deep Fires of Vapridon... comes the third spellbinding installment of the Crunticle Octet -- Crunticle III: The Trollsack Wars.
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.

Man, this weather is completely bonkers.  The winter of 2011 was a pretty warmish one, but this December is unreal.  The calendar says that it's the week of Christmas, but all my senses say that it's early May.  We're talking partly-cloudy blue skies with occasional thundershowers, bright sunshine, hatching insects, and squirrels and other varmints coming out of hibernation.  Along the creek here, orchids and geraniums are sprouting from the mud and growing bloated, distended pollen sacs that they instinctively launch at the faces of allergy sufferers.  Conklin came into work tonight with his sinuses ravaged by such a bombardment. He vomited into the trash can and there was all this weird yellow fuzz in his spew.  When I was walking my dog I saw another old man get one of these pollen bombs in the face and collapse into anaphylactic shock among the flowers.  He never got back up and his decaying body served only to feed those vicious blossoms of death.  I hope it gets chillier in January.  I like winter.

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.

I was out there last week at the Venetian for the debate.  My boss wanted me to talk to the Donald -- just let him know that the Post is sitting on this story but we haven't decided whether to run it or not.  Just let him know that we have it.  It's a pretty bizarre little piece... about how in 1982, Donald Trump loaned an undisclosed amount of money to a former business partner on the condition that the man not only legally change his name to "Fart Fuckbrain," but that his children must also change their legal names to "Sloppy Slut-Tits" and "Quacker Ding-Dong."  Long story short, the family eventually fell apart.  The son committed suicide at 17 and the daughter went on to live some horrible life of drug abuse and prostitution.  Obviously there were other factors at play, but the notion of Trump exposing minors to his cruel whims... well, it doesn't look exactly Presidential.

By a stroke of luck I was able to bump into Donald in the men's room as he was peeing.  I sidled up to the urinal next to him and told him, quite casually, that we have this story.  Not a threat, mind you, just making sure that he knows that it's out there.  There's a cranky old grandmother somewhere who may not have the best recollection of the exact events, but is very emotional and not averse to seeking a payday.  Donald looked puzzled at first but then a wide smile of recognition spread across his doughy face. "I remember little Quacker," he mused, "he was an excellent child, very bright and hardworking.  It was a real shame what happened.  I lost 1.5 million on his father.  Very sad.  The eighties were a different time, people appreciated a good prank now and again."

I was about to leave when he turned to me, his pants down, spraying my midsection with a spotty stream of urine the same color as his hair.  Something struck me; whether it was one of his goons or the Donald himself, I will never know.  I found myself on the floor with Trump's face leering down at me.  He spit into my mouth and I gagged at the indignity.  I struggled to stand but his foot came down hard on my chest and forced me back down to the tile.  

"I read that last one you wrote about me, you little heeb shit," he crowed. "But let me tell you something.  You said I sold my soul?  Preposterous.  I'll tell you who sells their soul -- you, and every other insignicant loser in the world who was born down in the gutter.  And you don't even realize it.  Journalism degree?  Graduate school, student loans?  Yeah, you sell a piece of your soul every single day, doing what you're told, kissing every ass in sight, because you didn't want to end up working in a gas station in Aurora.  Yes sir, no sir, you don't even realize you're dancing to someone else's music anymore, that you've become this shitty abstract thing called a 'reporter,' squeezing your existence into some predetermined role.  Hah!  No originality, what a disgrace.  Look where it's gotten you.  But me?  People like me?  We get to do everything we want and we answer to no one except God!  Hah ha ha!"

I forget what I said but it only seemed to make him angrier.  One of his men grabbed my arm and wrenched it so hard it almost came free of the socket.  I howled and soiled myself.

"I'm gonna tell you about the reality of the situation, so you understand it, understand how to approach life like a man.  Imagine a crystal, a galactic crystal with a thousand thousand facets; this is your life crystal.  Mine is a blue diamond the size of Jupiter.  Each facet is a quantum possibility, a state my life might take depending upon my actions and my will.  Every day, I wake up and I become a vein of bright orange fire slowly tracing a unique path across the maze of facets; illuminating some while others remain in shadow.  Such is the path of my soul.  There is no respite.  When I perish, the diamond of my life will exist, forever, in a permanent state of excellence.  Can you say the same?"

I swear he said all that.  The tape recorder in my pocket was getting it all.  As he stepped over my prone form to the door, he removed a topaz the size of a horse apple from his pocket and dropped it on my face.  "Something to get you started," he sneered, "tend to your crystal.  Ignite the fire."

I goggled at the gem which was only slightly dimmed by my own blood and urine.  And I knew that when the time came, I would vote for the Donald.  

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Epilogue

Strokin sat at his desk and tapped his fingers nervously.  He'd been waiting all afternoon for a call from his oldest friend, Dickan. Something was wrong.  Dickan was spending the day with his son, but he should have gotten in contact by now.  His receptionist entered and laid some HR requests down in front of him.  "Mr. Mycock, I wanted to ask you..."

"Not now, Jennifer, please."

He didn't mean to come across as so terse.  He was just worried for Dickan.  Why hadn't he called?  He'd been acting strange as of late.  Undergoing a career downturn was never easy.  Oh, my poor friend, Strokin Mycock wondered to himself, what have you done now?  What have you done?

"Jennifer?  I'm sorry I snapped at you.  I'm going to go to lunch early.  If Dickan Bawls calls while I'm gone, please give him my cel number, would you?  Thank you, Jennifer."
Project GILBROD IX
...this has been a dark year for all members of the Council.  There has been hardship and despair and the loss of hope.  And yet, the Council endures.  Even in darkness, its small light burns like a single candle on Weathertop Hill.  Eru sees; the Valar ponders the meaning of our mortal suffering.  Like us, they try to understand the reality of the situation.
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I throw my feces on the ground
repeatedly to form a mound
I leave my feces at the door
When kids eat them
I leave some more.
The kids get sick and miss some school,
everybody calls them fools
The truth is, they are omnivores
my little Fecal Braknosaurs.

Butt, chunk, give it a lick
Drop that clump and give it a kick
Shoe, stain, looking for rain
in bus or truck or aeroplane...
yes, everywhere you foul the scene
with remnants of your pork and beans
How to quell the stench that flows?
Only clever hobos know
so versed they are in streetwise ways
from the urban alley maze
where dropping dung is all the rage
in such sweet sport they all engage.

My razor's jammed with stinky hair
from dingleberried derriere
I'll harvest more come next season
connoisseurs all know the reason
and once the berries have been picked
we face what we would not admit
that each desires more than half
of the berry pile; behold the math
60-40?  70-30?  
Haggling over it just feels dirty...
A contest, a trial, we must hold
a competition that favors the bold
and the victor, the one who bravest dares
can rightfully claim the lion's share!
Watery blast in a plastic bag
smacks the head of quavering hag
erupts upon the wrinkled face
too slow to dodge the Fecal Ace!
...and with downcast heart, I sense defeat
your bag-toss clearly has got mine beat
(I hurled at poor, slow Lefty Blodgett,
but to my chagrin he deftly dodged it...)
So I acknowledge you the one clear winner
and seethe as you savor your dingle dinner.

I put my feces in the mail,
or in a bottle they set sail.
I cannot keep them to myself,
to dry unknown on my old shelf.
The world must see.
The world must know,
that greatness out my butt does flow
The world must smell,
the world must taste
My treasures must not go to waste,
and every year my legend grows
I meet my followers in a grove
oh, at each full moon we gather;
and upon their brow my poo is slathered
the resonant waves it generates
helps to open their chakra gates
the gate of Indra, the gate of Tor
from deep within the spirit's core
their minds and bodies find renewal
and sparkle like a precious jewel
and yet
there are those who'd persecute my flock
and try to land us in the dock
Fools, the men who run this nation
oblivious, to defecation...
I punch my fist into their guts.
It blasts straight through till meat erupts.
Exposing putrid gold within,
I'm like a jinn of shit
akin to Rumpelstiltskin.
Their meaty, greasy innards flop
out their bellies, this filthy slop
will nourish my men with protein power
the war begins within the hour
Scratching at the sphincter?  Yes.
The Fountain of Scwees begins to bless
the faithful with its spicy blast
reminiscent of days long past
when all were free to frolic as such
and Mom packed fresh turds in our lunch.
Back then it was the latest craze
and Elvis, the Beatles, and JFK
would crap in their hands and play all day.
What else?  Wherefore?
Dare you seek the treasure galore?

How about a hog, how about a dog?
How about a baby rotting in a murky bog?
Yes, please, the best please,
their feces never displease.
The fresh breeze carries
the lovely scent of butt cheese.
The swamp baby shit, swarming with maggots
I mix with santorum from the ass of a faggot
fresh from the Saturday orgy...
along with the droppings of horses
and throw in some cow pie and dog pile
that's been festering out in the yard all the while
To top off the brew, I then add the stew
collected from so many public restrooms
where the careless and derelict drop as they please
letting it overflow, spreading disease,
and before the custodian can get to his mop
I'm there with my vacuum, collecting it all
and all of it goes in the pot;
it then sits five days, to properly rot
and ferment in its own natural juices
(Meanwhile, I'm adding occasional deuces)
and then, only then, it is truly achieved
a perfection so rare, you must see to believe
the utopian paragon, true fecal bliss
you feel the desire to give it a kiss
but refrain, oh you must, lest your mind be enslaved
and you devour it all, and go gorged to your grave
like the others before who succumbed to temptation,
the holy disciples of
evacuation.
Gleonard wasn't sure what the alien would make of his apartment. Quaa-Kyuu may have been “hyperintelligent” but he was still getting used to the many odd customs and unknown objects here on Earth.  After the debacle at Starbucks earlier that day, Gleonard wasn't going to make assumptions about anything.

"Umm, so, yes, this is where I live," he told Quaa-Kyuu, guiding him around the small but fairly tidy space.  

"Assigned... quarters.  Designated vectors.  I comprehend," the extraterrestrial visitor intoned in his flat and mechanical voice.

Gleonard showed him the refrigerator (thermal containment unit), his entertainment center (primitive image feed relayer), and his waterbed (fluid-based regeneration chamber).  Quaa-Kyuu seemed to take it all in fairly well.  He then stiffly shuffled over to Gleonard's expansive bookshelves, which were packed with hundreds of fantasy and science fiction novels.  Quaa-Kyuu cocked his head to the side and examined the foreign symbols on the spines, which displayed titles like "Dragonlance, Weis & Hickman," "A Game of Thrones, George R.R. Martin," and "A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. LeGuin."  Gleonard knew that Quaa-Kyuu was recording and analyzing each word, but wasn't sure if the alien really understood what he was looking at.

“We call them ‘books,’ Quaa-Kyuu,” Gleonard said helpfully.

“Booooks?”

“Yeah, you know, stories.  Literature.  Now, some might not call this the highest of literature," Gleonard laughed and shrugged in a self-effacing manner, "but it's kind of my thing.  Ever since I was a kid, I was hooked on this stuff -- elves and dragons, knights and wizards, that sort of stuff..."

"Nights and wiz-zards, I comprehend," Quaa-Kyuu stated.  

"All of my friends, too.  Bill and Jerry and Liz, we're all huge geeks and can't get enough of this stuff.  Although, it's kind of sad, most of my friends just play online these days, which sucks if you ask me," Gleonard continued, frowning, "because that stuff gets boring.  I haven’t played World of Warcraft in, like, two years if you can believe that.  It just became a grind to me.  Lacking in, I guess, mythic power?  There's really nothing like losing oneself in a classic story and using your imagination, you know?"

"I comprehend."

"Ah, here's the one that started it all for me," Gleonard said warmly, thumbing through a well-worn copy of The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, "I'll never forget when I picked this one up in fifth grade... it was in the library of Johnson Elementary School... approximately 9:34 AM... August 14th, 1986..."

Gleonard's face looked exceptionally alive as the memories washed over him, so suddenly vivid.  A large vein in his pale forehead began to throb noticeably.

"...I remember seeing the painting on the cover, and when I looked inside, well..."

He paused and tilted his head to the side and his pupils dilated, the thoughts coming more rapidly now.  Beads of sweat began to leak from his clogged pores as he spoke.

"...I was blown away at the power of... the narrative... and... my gosh, it's remarkable when I really think about it.  The ingenuity of this system of communication, the printed word.  Mere physical marks made of dark liquid applied to a lighter flat surface composed of processed wooden pulp, and bound in a sheaf of certain dimensions.  Derived from, but much more efficient than earlier pictographic languages!  The vast amount of information, meaning, and emotion that is conveyed by only 26 letters, ten numbers, and approximately 21 punctuation marks!  It’s incredible!  The deepest thoughts and most complex symbolic systems, arising from the organization of such simplistic elements!  And it is utterly arbitrary in nature, these letters based on vocal memes, with each language emphasizing certain vocal derivatives and omitting others... but to a person familiar with the language, the interplay between the physical forms and the abstracts they symbolize becomes instinctual, seamless, full of infinite shades of meaning, implication, and artistry!  How effortless the mind translates the crude matter!  Why?  Why is it that only now I can appreciate the brilliance of this system while being utterly bemused at the limitations of it?  Something I've always taken utterly for granted now seems incredibly strange and utterly majestic.  If...”

He prattled on and on, nearly forgetting the presence of the alien still standing not three feet from him.  

Quaa-Kyuu regarded the human with increasing alarm.  

I must apologize to you, indigenous lifeform, he thought to himself.  I knew that if I left the wreckage of my craft without a proper containment shell, my prions could very well osmose into the atmosphere and begin to assimilate any lower flesh that they came in contact with.  And yet I accepted your help as so concerned I was to survive for the sake of my own goals.  Morally, I can justify my actions as being logical and ultimately necessary, but still they cause me sorrow...

Soon, Quaa-Kyuu knew that the human Gleonard Nymowicz would begin to undergo hideous physical changes as his inferior DNA was altered in unimaginable ways.  His increased intelligence would give him a few brief hours of wonder before his mind collapsed into unfathomable insanity.  It was a situation most intractable.

Quaa-Kyuu took his leave, shuffling out the door and placing a 12-cycle force field around the human's living quarters.  That should be enough.  Gleonard didn't even notice his exit, as he was on his hands and knees in front of his open refrigerator, his eyes racing over the biological material within, and laughing in glee at how miraculous it all now seemed.  He was screeching happily about organic compounds, digestive tracts, and base nutrients.  Quaa-Kyuu tried his best to ignore the sound.

When the force field dissipated, someone would enter the dwelling to see what had become of him.  Quaa-Kyuu's journey continued such as it had for thousands of cycles.  There was much left for him to do.
Situation Most Intractable
A story, nothing more and nothing less. Fantasy is a crutch.
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9.12.2015


Hey there, son.  Come in.  Sit down.  We have to talk.  So I just got the email with your continuation of our story, and I... I'm not sure where to begin.  I suppose I should start by admitting that this is partially my fault.  I was so eager to be counseling with my son that I might have... I might have not thought things all the way through.  

I mean, I get it.  When James, Ginch, and myself started writing Council Stories way back in 1998, our stuff could be a little crude.  Sure.  We'd toss off some very clumsy poems about feces and whores and ballsacks and whatnot... I'm not sure, I may be misremembering, but we were always writing with a sort of purpose.  A sort of purpose and clarity.  Our technique evolved and we started writing longer and better works, and in a year or two we were producing some truly epic stuff.  Did you read The Tale of Vidrastone and Fenriclitus that I posted on your wall?  Epic stuff like that.  That... is the level that I'm more accustomed to operating at.  But it did take time to get there.  Which is why I don't want to come down too hard on you, son.  But damnit... look, my Cusk Quadrilogy is very dear to me, and I feel like I've laid down a very strong foundation from which to proceed.   The way that I developed the main characters -- having them exist in different dimensions and living multiple parallel lives -- is one of the most advanced concepts I've ever explored.  The way Cilatrone and Zemitrus interact with the Circle of Sages?  The differing ways they remember their shared past during the Wars of Attritia?  The subtle implications that the Cusk Realm is a future version of Mars (or perhaps another planet in our solar system) after extensive terraforming and the rediscovery of magic?  It's some good stuff, I think, perhaps immodestly.  Did you even notice that if you take the first letter of every line of Cilatrone's dialogue, it spells out the names of the Arkan Sigils that aren't revealed until much later?  No?

And what did you do with my foundation?  What did you do with all of that gold?

Look, I'm just going to read what you sent me...

-ahem-


And after the Grand Lord cleansed the Cusk of all impurities, he demanded that a new reign commence, a reign far less retarded than all that had come before.  All the stupid asshole characters like Cilatron and Zemitrus fucked off and died in horrible ways never to be seen again.  Then he summoned Twilight Sparkle to make a whole new world that was less gay. Then Twilight Sparkle died too because she was a cum-filled lesbian faggit. And no one gave a shit. Bronies are hella gay my nigga your mom know that.  

“Wait, Wait. Where are you trying to go with this?”

“well I was…”

The door suddenly bursts open to reveal Jar Jar Binks with dark sunglasses, a long gold chain around his neck and dress in loose black pants. “Yo what be up mesa homies! I come to annoy all y’all!”

“Oh dear lord…someone get security!”

“Hulk Hogan will fix dis!”

“Hey! Are we getting back to my story now?!” the gRand loRd shouted.

“Ahem…”

The gRand loRd’s first act was to host a rave party in the lands he had so veliently liberetad.

“Yes! Raves. We likes raVes! All da rAves!”

“Are you quite done?”

“Mesa want to attend dat partay!”

“Wat…I thought I asked for security to get him out of ere!”

“Alein too fast for Hogan. Hogan need nap now.”

“Oh for the love of…Okay let’s just continue where we left off…”

However, before the partays could begin, the parti was interrupted by none other than Peter Quill. The Star LoRd immediately put on some crazie tunes, but before he could bust a move…

“Hey! This be mine partay!” The gRand loRd shouted.

“Oh for the love of… That’s it! I’m done!”

The door slams shut. The blast of air causes a sheet of paper to fly through the air and lands at the feet of Hulk Hogan. Picking it up, he sees written on the page “And Hulk Hogan decides to take matters into his own hands, and evolves into ‘Mega Hulk.'  Hogan stares at the page, rereading it again before feeling a powerful surge through him, and then grins evilly as he walks out the door.  It came time for a new hero to emerge to defend the Cusk, and that hero was a Hokage Ninja Shinigami named Lukesuke Skywalkersan-sama.  Lukesuke Skywalkersan-sama stood before the Grand Lord, proudly waving his lightkatana, which was like a lightsaber but so much cooler. His powerful, glistening, sweaty muscles glistened, and he pushed back his long black and purple hair as he spoke. "I'M HERE TO SERVE YOU," said Lukesuke Skywalkersan-sama.

"Please do," said the Grand Lord, staring blissfully at Lukesuke's glistening abs in a totally not homo way, because homos are gross.

"I WILL," said Lukesuke as he decapitated one of the Grand Lord's guards with a mighty swing of his ten-foot lightkatana, then sheathed the long, hard weapon and stored it in his tight-fitting trousers that framed his flawless buttocks perfectly.

And so the people rejoiced and then they ate cheese and sausages and ham and the first pair of pliers said "Hi I want to play with oil and a loaf of bread" and the Grand Lord said "no you will not play with oil and a loaf of bread because the bazuka is mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine not yours" and the the 46 cutelry sage went to declare war on Norway beasce he would  not say hi to them and then the Grand Lord whose name was Ankinten danubed to the sages and declared peace by killing the saegss saying that should prsuade them persuade them to conform to my reign because I do not need them because my wardrobe is obsddxian howedvre zxfse asdaa andw  coif dzxpxdf sages are stuolpid an O aawyhldb uioub jhmntgytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytyty tytytytytytytytytyty tytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytygv ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff (AN: soz had a stroke looooooooooooooooooooooooooool!1111one111eleven :3) so the Grand Lord whose name was Viviviviviviwiss declares that the trousers of 1234123bc will save the Persian Empire because I find it always best to ghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghg (AN: soz backspace doesn't work >:( )  So the Grand Lord whose name was Obsodios Mariariariarias FeloweoweoweoweoweoweHUUUUUUUUURGHs Gurk will tell you to addreaa and fly to Ultramar abd talk to Abaddon the Desopiler and Lyra Silvertongue abd all their friends: - Simon the First, Simon the Second, Simon the Third, Simon the Fourth, Simon the Fifth, Simon the Sixth, Simon the Seventh, Simon the Eighth, Simon the Ninth, Simon the Tenth, Simon the Eleventh, Simon the Twelfth, Simon the Thirteenth, the entire Royal Houses of Plantaganet, Hapsburg, Trastamara, Tudor, Stewart, Bourbon, Hanover, Saxe-Coburg, Donkey Kong, the potato king,                    some guy I ran into called Tom, a recitation, a recycling, an eclectic breakfast and a partridge in a pine tree....... I had something, didn't I ? Whatever. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance.
the then.................................................................................
(AN: Yeah, I lost a train,l me h)
................... everyone does nothing but sat around using up all they oxygen until thei die , leaving Abaddon and Lyra alive and triumphant. Laughing at the plight of the millions of idiots who weere there fro no raisin, they high-fived and then Abaddon's arms fell off.  And then Lyra walked off to the castle of the Grand Lord whose name will be Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiguirius Ooooooooooooooooooaf, to help manipulate the blu;lber brainges to proceate the Reoublic of Heaven and have adventures and gifghr for good. So Lorgar Aurelia n then deceidec to



Hmm.

Yes.

I don't know, son.  

I don't know what to do with this, what you gave me.

I understand the need to eliminate characters at times.  Sudden and unexpected upheavals in the narrative are certainly encouraged, but to just flippantly sweep Cilatrone and Zemitrus away in such an unceremonious fashion?  I find the way you did it unacceptable.  And... I thought I made it clear to you how I feel about making too many pop culture references and using characters like... I mean, honestly, you kill off Cilatrone and Zemitrus and bring in Hulk Hogan, Luke Skywalker, and Jar Jar Binks?  I... I cannot abide this.  What you've given me is garbage.  It's FUCKING GARBAGE.  There's a difference between entertaining freeform madness and TRASH.  I'm not sure why you can't see that.  Worthless crap like this might fly with Liam and Noah, but not with me, son.  Not with me.  

James and I used to have a word for this.  We called in a derailment.  Damnit.  Ginch would do this to us sometimes in the early days when we'd collaborate.  It always pissed me off.  James and I would start something epic, like our Edward Grim poem,  and Ginch would derail it utterly with his simplistic juvenile rape stories.  And we'd call him out on it, we'd say, "Dude!  Ginch, you've derailed us, come on, man!"  It led to arguments, because Ginch had a philosophical belief in pure spontaneity, while James and I advocated a certain level of cohesion in our work.  In the end, we reached a good balance between reverence for our creations and the proper amount of flippancy and self-vandalism to keep things fresh and exciting.

But before we reached that golden state of process, there were many tragic derailments.

That's what this is.  A derailment.  

But son, I think we can salvage this.  It's Friday.  We have time to salvage but we have to act quickly.  I've already told your friends that you won't be able to go to the movies or do anything else this weekend.  And whatever your mother might have planned, it's canceled.  Forget about it.  Do you know what you're going to do, son?  First, you're going to go up to your room and finish off whatever homework you might have in the next few hours.  If I know you, you've already done most of it.  Your grades come first... but after that, you're going to start over and come up with a worthy continuation of the Cusk story.  Something that doesn't TAKE A GIANT SHIT ALL OVER MY WORK.  SOMETHING THAT WE CAN BE FUCKING PROUD OF.  SOMETHING THAT'S NOT PURE SHIT.  START OVER.  DO NOT KILL OFF CILATRONE AND ZEMITRUS OR YOU'LL BE SORRY.  DO NOT WRITE ABOUT FUCKING HULK HOGAN OR FUCKING JAR JAR BINKS.  TAKE WHAT I HAVE ESTABLISHED AND BUILD UPON IT IN A LOGICAL MANNER.  IS THAT CLEAR?

I'll tell your mother you're working on a book report or something.  Yes, heh, a report that you have on some really long book, and you put it off until the last minute.  So you'll be in your room working on it all weekend.  Heh, heh... yes.  

You can do this, son.  You can do better.  I believe in you.

I love you, son.  I'm so glad we're doing this together.

(Thanks to Users Seer99, Tasakeru828, and MartmeisterPaladin for their invaluable contributions)
Cusk II: The Extrapolated Derailment
There is only one man in the world who truly understands what this means.  He is a friend.  
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The Council of Gandalf is currently in deep meditation within the Wild Woods of Eregion.  Much work remains to be done this year.
Welcome, dear friends.

We are the Council of Gandalf.  Long ago, when the earth was younger, we gathered around the sacred flame, partaking of the holy herbs of knowledge.  Far we traveled with the aid of these herbs that we kept in a jar...

...in our many mystical journeys we brought back much knowledge, and many amazing stories of long-forgotten legends and vast vistas unknown to mortal man.  We wrote them with ink on paper, sacred texts that were treasured above all else.  Long these tomes sat in secret, known to only a select few.

But now the world is changing.  Times of change and strife are upon us.  The winds and waters are changing, becoming strange.  It is in these times that the hidden knowledge must come to light, to offer guidance and wisdom to all who seek it.

We are the Council.  

Learn our knowledge and find your way in this world.

Peace and Love.

-- Gandalf.

deviantID

CouncilofGandalf
The Wisdom of The Council
United States
Current Residence: A hideously stable geosynchronous orbit.
Favourite genre of music: Electronic.
Favourite photographer: Tom Bombadil.
Favourite style of art: Surrealist.
Operating System: Old Toby.
MP3 player of choice: The harpers of Elrond.
Shell of choice: Just an old blue hat.
Wallpaper of choice: That which pleases me.
Skin of choice: Old and leathery.
Favourite cartoon character: Smaug the Mighty.
Personal Quote: "Through the time, i see the minds, hear the voices of the world..."
Interests

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:iconacaciathorn:
Acaciathorn Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you so much for the donation! :hug:
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:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2014
You are most welcome.  
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ElusiveGnome Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2011
look, some quality! *watch
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CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2011
Thank you, sir. We treasure our humble works, and are pleased when others do so.
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ststreet Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2009
I have a question if you don't mind.

It's a bit stupid, but how do you make the font go back to normal after you put it in italics like this? Is there a certain way?
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:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2009
Well, yes, i use html tags. I use < i> to start the italics, and < /i> to stop the italics. Of course, those tags have spaces so they'll show up in this note. Normally, they have no spaces.
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:iconststreet:
ststreet Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009
Thanks.
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Argo602 Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2009
Thanks for the watch!
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