Walmart

Please don't get me started on Walmart. Please please please.

Well, I really can't say 'no' to that unamused stare.

Today I visited Walmart to buy some 409 cleaner since I like to keep my jars of hair clean. As I passed the Babies' Section, a cd sampler was playing Tunes for Toddlers and I heard the most obnoxiously cute rendition of I'm a Little Walmart Brand Teapot. Through the haze of pain I felt from suddenly receiving 7 new cavities, I realized what the song--or shall I say, the ambience of the song--was trying to do to me.

Toddler Tunes was trying to control me.

Let me explain. This wasn't like regular music. When I worked at Walmart, me and another kid who worked in the Hardware department always punched the 'Disco' button as we passed by the cd sampler and 'It's Raining Men' promptly played. We did this 15 times a day, much to the displeasure of the older woman who worked with candles one aisle over but we didn't mind. It's hard to feel a frown when you're shaking your booty. That was a good song. The only thing that song controlled was my boogie.

Toddler Tunes was different. Behind those plastic pink voices had been a large collaboration of disturbed adults willing to gurgle sunshine into a microphone and patent it. Walmart then sold this sunshine and helped their standing as a "Green" company, which I suppose is true: the smiles of most employees are recycled.

The point I'm getting at here is that such cutesy music, for that brief brief instant in time before I succumbed to diabetes, made me relaxed and, God forbid, a little happy. What disturbed me the most is that this should happen in Walmart, the one place I swore to hate. The one company I have in fact boycotted. The one business that is so ingenious and twisted in its concept that it is a surprise that it did not come from Japan.

And then it hit me: counting this trip and several others before it, going to Walmart had not bothered me one bit.

The fluorescent white ceiling reeled above me as I collapsed into a display of Christmas sodas. I had, in my acquiescence, approved of the existence of a soulless and major corporation intent only on profit, lying, and slapping me in the face with its remarkably low prices (Always low prices. Always). Not only had I given the thumbs-up for the continuous destruction of the earth and the human spirit, I had given the thumbs-up to Walmart. It would be like hugging the orca who ate my parents (I briefly led the life of a seal, but that's a story for another day).

A Walmart executive enjoys his average weekend.

A mousy-looking girl shook me awake. I was briefly pleased (her scalp looked as if it had a possible contribution to a particular jar of hair) before I saw the navy shirt, the tan pants, and the red, white, and blue name tag. She couldn't have been older than 17 years.

"Dear God," I said. "They're starting them young."

"Are you all right?" she asked, helping me onto my feet.

"Those are the training videos talking," I told her, gripping her shoulders. "Now where is the backroom?"

"In the back...?"

I frowned at the EMPLOYEES ONLY doors nearby. "Those tricky bastards."

I flung the girl away and marched through the doors (splitting the Toddler Tunes cd sampler with a single punch as I passed). In the hallway inside a balding man looked up from his clipboard in front of the employee announcement board. Our eyes locked. I immediately knew he was a ninja.

He threw his clipboard at me like a shuriken and I dodged it and knocked him out with Cold Prairie Dog Style I had learned from Shaolin monks. I quickly sought for a gateway that would lead me to the evil mastermind of Walmart. As is common knowledge, most evil corporate entity's are connected through a series of wormholes and rifts powered by sheer greed and despair. It's kind of like The Matrix, except instead of soulless machines are soulless people.

The gateway of evil, as I suspected, was through the women's restroom down the hallway and just out of the bathroom again. I instinctively knew this since women's restrooms are forbidden places and they carry the malice that is inherent to all women (but you knew this already).

Through the gateway was a labyrinth of hallways that looked as if they belonged in an old Scottish castle, except if everyone in this Scotland was dead and their corpses were all listening to Lady Gaga on repeat. I used my sense of smell and found the throne room inside which the pinnacle of evil, the spirit of Walmart, waited for me to vanquish it.

I kicked down the heavy oak doors and drew my nun-chucks. A little white girl in a Christmas dress sat on the throne. Her swaying feet didn't even reach the floor.

"Hello, Nicholas," she said. "We've been waiting for you."

"I've come here to vanquish you, Walmart," I told the little girl. "Your innocent facade will not dissuade me."

"Vanquish us?" she cupped one rosy cheek in her hand and gave me a pitiful expression that would turn a Rottweiler's nails into Peeps. "But, Nicholas, if you did that, who would sell you those ridiculously low-priced fabrics you use for sewing?"

"Who told you I sewed?" I demanded.

"You did. Just now."

I gripped my nun-chucks tighter. I would have to be careful with this one.

"We know you're a man of principles, Nicholas," she said, drawing something from under her dress, "so we shall not call this a bribe. We shall call this a gift, between friends." In her well-manicured palm was, dear God, an iPhone. "You like iPhones, don't you, Nicholas?"

"N-no!" I said. "That's an Apple product, I would never stoop so low. Those are for hipsters and conformists."

"Hm? We're sorry, say again? We were too busy chatting on facebook and holding a conversation with our dear grandmother at the same time. Oh, look, everyone in the United States is our friend. Even Tom. Especially Tom." A tall latte floated near her, caressing her free hand. "And, look. A peppermint latte, just in season. And it's Starbucks, too. You like Starbucks, don't you, Nicholas? Would you care for a sip?"

"Succubus!" I fumbled for my crucifix (it had helped immensely in the Vampire Mardi Gras incident of '62). "Lies and slander! I would never support such a big corporation!"

"Is that so? Is that why you're wearing those deliciously fashionable Converse sneakers? Or, my, is that jacket from the Old Navy? Oh, I recognize those pants, Levis, correct? Unless you strip yourself here and resign yourself to live alone in the wild, you will never be free from corporations."

But I had already tried that. I had ended up crazy. And not just crazy--naked crazy.

I still held onto some hope. "B-but, Walmart, you treat your employees like crap and drive out small businesses with your low prices. I can't support you or your ilk. As a human being, it is my duty to be offended by such a notion."

She captured my stunned expression with the camera on her iPhone. "That's capitalism, baby. And it doesn't matter how much you whine or reason, we're here to stay. We could burn countries out and collapse empires, but unless you make an effort to change your economical reliance on me, unless you control your desire and greed in order to instead support your beloved small businesses, why, don't complain. Save the world or savor it. Now which option do you think your fellow human being is more likely to choose? Which option will your fellow human being always choose? You don't have to like us, Nicholas. But you do have to accept the fact that we're here and people choose to enjoy our presence, even if they do know better. And they'll always know better. Always."

I dropped my nun-chucks. I had been defeated by a little girl in a Christmas dress.

The employees found me screaming about low prices in one of the women's bathroom stalls. At first they weren't certain as to whether they should leave me be or not--sure, I was frightening and splashing half my face in a toilet bowl, but I was effective advertisement. Eventually I gathered my wits, coolly collected myself in front of the mirrors, and then left to checkout aisle 9 where I would glower at the cashier as if he had personally made sure the Cinnamon Pecan Swirl scented candles had been priced so attractively.

Y'know, I learned something today. No matter how much I complain about Walmart, it is here to stay, for better or for worse. A corporation is only as big as the support you give it, even if you pretend otherwise. Pick a side and stick with it. If you disapprove of Walmart, boycott it forever. But if you are an average person, don't complain.

I like Walmart, the iPhone, and Starbucks. I'm Nicholas Garret Kirkland. And I am a consumer whore.

Christmas

So I'm probably going to have to save Christmas again this year. This usually happens to me.

You'll notice that Christmas is victimized an awful lot. Someone's usually trying to get rid of it, if only for just one year (people, of course, always discover that the true spirit of Christmas is something that can never be locked away, as seen in the bloody 1763 Ford City Massacre in which greedy landowner Martin Briggs locked Christmas in his basement for a ransom; Christmas gnawed through the bars and began its brutal killing spree, staring with Briggs). In most of these instances there's a villain from which you can take your pick: the greedy workaholic who has shut his heart to the world, grumpy scientists/wizards controlling the weather (it's common knowledge that if Christmas gets too hot or too cold, Christmas will die), or generally anyone who has been slightly slighted by not receiving a certain Christmas gift and has attained enough power to effectively cancel Christmas and make orphans across the world cry. The underlying reason Christmas is attacked so often is this: many people enjoy Christmas quite a bit. And if one person likes something, you can be sure that there is another person out there who will be delighted to go out of his way to absolutely ruin it. It's Science.

But not to worry. As long as there's someone to threaten Christmas, there is a sickeningly naive anthropomorphic animal or bumbling layman with a heart of tinsel gold to save it. Less often you'll see a manly lumberjack trained in martial arts saving Christmas (i.e. me) but nun chucks woven from chest hair don't translate well to claymation.

It's odd to think that I, of all people, would apply enough effort to save Christmas. I've always enjoyed being a grump, and I've always enjoyed a grump during Christmas. I mean, people being merry together?? Squaresville.

My family understood my status as local Scrooge and chose to cope with me. It's a surprise they didn't throw me off the Golden Gate Bridge. I soon received Grinch paraphernalia from my mother on Christmas mornings. Paradoxically, it's surprisingly difficult to remain grumpy in big comfy Grinch slippers. Although I complained about the music and cheer and although I Bah Humbug'd even the rosiest of cheeks and the Jackiest of frosts, still one thing I could not help but be excited for was the advent calender.

If you don't know what an advent calender is I will tell you. It is used to celebrate and count down the days to Christmas, so it's pretty much the same as Hanukkah. A lot of advent calenders sold are cardboard with pieces of chocolate behind each little window representing each day (this chocolate is cheap and tastes like the advent calender itself, but you, the martyr, will probably choke them down anyways) but ours was made up of cloth with a large Christmas tree of velcro. Below the tree were pockets for each day's plush ornament which, once reached, could go up onto the tree. Such velcro-studded ornaments included candy canes, trumpets, stars, and one even represented the agonized screams of Christ dying for our sins. My mother replaced that last one with a reindeer since reindeer don't interrupt Christmas dinner with pained wails of Hebrew.

But all of these little ornaments meant nothing compared to the last one. We put up Mrs. Claus for December 24th of course, but December 25th was reserved for the big red lobster man himself. I remember my sister and I argued over who would have the privilege of pinning Santa Claus up, although we never really fought about it. In a physical contest I have no doubt in my mind that I would have lost and possible lost my jugular in the process. Luckily for me, our parents intervened by suggesting we take turns every year. It was something like that, some radical propaganda. Share-ing, I think it was called. Probably Scientology.

Now that I had such a system in place I was of course quite upset to find, one fine Christmas morning, that the plush Santa ornament had disappeared. More importantly, it was on a Christmas on which I got to put him up. Since this was at 4 in the morning (back when I was, admittedly, excited about Christmas) the darkness fueled my thoughts with paranoia and espionage. Immediately I suspected my sister (for quite some time I treated her as the antichrist in-oldies-belching-carnate) but in the end I decided she could never have risen so early to do such a dastardly thing.

Which only left one other possibility: my old nemesis, Doctor Damocles, the space pirate.

I immediately put on my jet-pack and helmet, space suit be damned. My Grinch slippers would keep me warm in the cold vacuum of space. Taking a wormhole I kept in an old shoebox, I arrived in Nebula 5-9 Delpha Sponge in no time. Anchored as it usually was at a particular shady space pirate town was Doctor Damocles's ship, the Doctor's Damocles's Doom Dirigible. And if you think pirate towns are shady on Earth, why, think of how it must have been in space--the entire deal of it looks near black, doesn't it?

The thing about movies is that sometimes they exaggerate and (rarely) tell outright lies. One of these inaccuracies include how spaceships handle themselves in space. I've seen spaceship fights and believe you me, it's not as pretty as they make it out to be. The main problem is that, since it's space, no ship is up right. They'll probably be facing each other, sure, but one with be upside down, one will be tilted, one will be dipping down, and all of them will be yelling at each other to move their ships right side up. Space swash buckling is even worse; an embarrassing number of space victories come from an odd chin tumbling into an odd knee.

So you might sense my hesitance as I floated toward the Doom Derigible. With space battle, I can't even claim to be on unfamiliar ground. For obvious reasons. Besides, Doctor Domocles remained a dour duelist who wouldn't deign to deny any dirty shots from his dirigible, the Doctor Damocles's Doom Dirigible, and I dared not demand any dumb chances around him. I took out my ray gun (which I keep at all time with me in a fine beaver pelt fanny pack) and then grabbed all the dumb chances I could see. I find that the manlier an act you commit, the less likely you will suffer from consequence.

Naturally, I flung myself through the ship's cafeteria windows. It was Mac N Cheese Wednesday. The space crew was quite outraged at the interruption, and never mind the whirling vacuum that should have been sucking people out into space and imploding the ship; sometimes the universe recognizes when you need a really manly battleground and lets things be.

Doctor Domocles's stood from his throne and pointed a laser-hook at me. "Avast! 'Tis the outlaw Nick-A-Tick, come for a rematch, I reckon!"

"Pirates don't say 'I reckon'," I shouted back, aiming my ray gun. "It's almost as if you had the natural tendency to switch into a manly cowboy voice rather than that of a space pirate!"

"Yeehaw!" Doctor Domocles's yelled, pulling out his own plasma rifle.

The shooting began and let me tell you it was chaos. Mac N Cheese was gooped in hair and robotic wires, a technicolor death show zigzagged through tables and chairs, and I'm pretty sure I did see a reindeer shot behind an overturned vending machine, screaming in Hebrew.

I don't know how lasers work but we sure ran out of them eventually and then it was me and him, staring each other down from across the cafeteria.

"Yarrr," he said. "Yer good, land lubber, but yer heart's darker than me own space beard. Why yeh've come blastin' my domain without much rhyme or cause?"

"You stole the plush Santa Claus ornament from our family's advent calender." I waved the ray gun menacingly at him even though it was useless now. "I want it back."

Doctor Damocles frowned. "I ain't got yer Santer Claus."

"Really?"

"Arr."

"Oh." I said. "Well. This is embarrassing. I'm really...really sorry, I...I sure did kill a lot of your crew, didn't I?"

"Arr."

I scratched the back of my head, looked around, then turned on my jet pack. The hum of nuclear fusion strapped to my back could still not cut the awkward silence. "Soooo. I guess I'll be heading out now. Merry Christmas."

"Arr. Nice slippers."

I thanked him and blasted off to my wormhole, somewhat disappointed that I had not needed to even save Christmas that year. I checked the kitchen again and found that the Santa plush ornament had fallen out and onto the floor.

Y'know, I learned something today. You can blame other people, from older sisters to space pirates, for your own grief, but in the end you are responsible for your own happiness. Being grumpy or kidnapping Christmas never solved anything; all it did was show a lack of enough maturity to loosen up and enjoy the things that come. And if you want to destroy Christmas and make orphans all over the world cry, don't do it for revenge. Do it because it makes you feel good. Also, be sure to mess with the weather when you do decide to kill Christmas because you'll look like an amateur otherwise.

Nature VersusTelevision

Considering other states, I tend to take Colorado for granted.

Colorado has nearly everything--trails to hike or run, countless camping sites, rivers and lakes to fish in, pine trees to body slam after a heavy snow when you're a kid so all the snow fall downs onto you and you giggle and turn around to realize a grizzly bear fell out of the tree as well and you slowly tighten your snow gloves and say, "This will be our final battle". The only thing Colorado lacks is a real beach (in Florida, the grizzly bears charge out of the waves).

Anyways, since I recently covered caves I thought I would comment on Nature Herself, that luscious and cruelly indifferent babe. You see this babe a lot in Colorado. Just remember that no matter whether she's dressed warmly or in a skimpy bikini, you will STILL not know how the weather will turn out.

I like to think that I have always enjoyed the outdoors. Grew up in a nice house surrounded by pine trees and creeks and deer, which is a very relaxing atmosphere. Not to say I was the outdoors-y type. It's not like I went out on a regular basis in tight jeans to rest a cowboy boot on a fence, chew on a strand of hay, and start reckoning things. And unlike a lot of hike-y outdoors-y go-get-em-y Coloradans, I do not approve of horses unless they are used for meat, glue, or props in movies (this traces back to a traumatic incident in my childhood which I will relate on another occasion when I feel horses deserve a full blog post rant, which they most certainly do).

More often than not I instead let the Boob Tube educate me on the dangers of the outdoors, as well as recite to me those catchy commercial slogans ("Buy this or you shall be a lonely miserable failure for the rest of your life, you fat cow" was one of my favorites. This was, of course, before Dove cleaned up it's advertising department [two jokes in one, I'm so amazing]).

Now that I think about it, Nature and Television seem like two inherently opposed concepts. One is the stark reality of an indifferent universe while the other is a man-made application of fantasy. Sunlight and Nature in general give off negative ions (which are good for your brain) while technology such as Television and Computers give off positive ions (which are bad for your brain. I read all of this in Scientific Fact Magazine).

Also, there is no laugh track when a cougar leaps out of the underbrush and mauls a mountain biker.

So what did Television teach me? Television taught me that I have no place in society if I wasn't skinny, handsome, talented, white, skinny, charming, handsome, tall, and white. During one of my many amazing shenanigans (the journey into TV World), I experienced this prejudice first hand. Another thing I learned from TV is that Television Ugly is Not Very Ugly At All.

Of course I never took any of these lessons seriously. I knew what was important in life, and anything a TV could teach me probably wasn't it. But then one day I was passing by a mirror and much to my shock and dismay, I realized that I had quite a different body and facial structure than Brad Pitt. This also led to the revelation that I wasn't famous or rich, which as I understood it were both quite important things to be. And then I wondered why indeed I placed value on those things.

Naturally, I sold all my possessions and kissed my wife Shenavia goodbye (she would later die in a freak accident caught on YouTube, tragic) and I booked the nearest flight to Cambodia. If I didn't learn a thing or two from Nature in Cambodia, I don't know where I would learn it from (maybe Africa or the rain forest).

Anyways, I arrived and found I could not speak the language (being fluent in Jellyfish and Mole looks great on a resume, but has very little actual application). Fortunately, the locals could understand, as most people can, the language of manliness. I flexed some biceps and twitched some pecs and soon I was led to the edge of a jungle where I might find some answers.

I wasn't worried about survival. I had seen Rambo once and all you really need to survive in Nature is a bandanna, a big knife, no shirt, and a serious expression on your face.

Thank you, Television.

The first two weeks were fairly easy. I ate bats and fruits, played basketball with tigers, and tamed tarantulas to never go near me ever again (I found a high-pitched scream and a solid stomp does wonders). After two months, I may have gone a little insane. I'm not sure, I just remember eating a pig raw and discussing wine with Teddy Roosevelt, who at the time proclaimed to be the Queen of Nascar. I didn't disagree with him since I couldn't know for sure that he wasn't, plus he carried with him a very big stick. But, really, you know how guests can be, you can't step all over their feelings like they were tarantulas.

While insane, I do believe I lost sight of my objectives. I forgot all about the silly Nature versus Television concept and focused solely on survival, all the while calling myself Caroline and inventing an elaborate back story as to how I was a jungle princess and--well, details, details. Anyways, one day I was out for a stroll (i.e. hunched close to the ground like an ape/moleperson) surveying my kingdom (i.e. hooting and screeching at especially noisy birds in trees I thought belonged to me) when I found some old ruins. A naturally inquisitive creature, I proceeded inside.

And it was quite nice inside the ruins. The main temple room had been covered with fine carpeting, and tasteful furniture kept the feng shui at perfect balance. At the couch, drinking a glass of wine and watching an enormous plasma television screen, was a woman with green skin and green hair. I recognized her as Mother Nature from our previous encounter in New Mexico when we were robbing banks together.

I was outraged, although it took me a moment to remember why. I pounded my fists against my chest, blew up my cheeks, and tried swinging from the crystal chandelier Mother Nature had put up (I was too short to reach it so I contented myself with scuffling my heels against the carpet and headbutting a nearby painting).

"What's the matter with you?" she said, turning her attention away from the television. She was watching Desperate Housewives. Dear God she was watching Desperate Housewives.

I composed myself, stood up straight, and with some effort recalled human speech. "Madame, I find it highly offensive that you, Mother Nature, are partaking in televised entertainment. And Desperate Housewives, no less."

"Your head is bleeding excessively, Nick."

"That's Princess Caroline to you! Now explain yourself!"

"Well," she said, grabbing the remote and turning the volume down. She sipped some wine and then continued. "TV is a nice way to unwind from the day, I think. Sometimes it's nice to plop down and watch some Friends after spinning tsunamis all day. I mean, really, it's nasty business. And Joey cracks me up. How you doin'? How you dooooiiinn'?"

I don't know if it was the blood, but I saw red. "Listen to yourself. You sound like an idiot."

"Maybe I do," she said, sipping more wine. "But at least I still get my job done."

And then it struck me. I bid her good day, emerged from the jungle (terrifying several small children while doing so), and caught the nearest plane back to America. If the guy sitting next to me on the flight had any problem with my stench, he said nothing about it. Then again, I was covered with blood and pig grease and there was a knife cradled to my chest.

Y'know, I learned something from that whole ordeal. Too much Television is a bad thing, everyone can agree on that. But there's a reason our ancestors fled from Nature and created Television, too. Some days are nice for hiking, fishing, or tree tackling. Likewise, a snowy day with movies is also good. A healthy balance is a must. Exercise and taking the world in is great and sometimes Spongebob can be just as good (or better), but try to limit yourself once you start having conversations with trees or in a certain instance think to yourself, "That is something Squidward would TOTALLY do."

Thanksgiving

So Thanksgiving's around the corner. I've already had my Thanksgiving dinner, of course. What's your excuse? Honestly, keep up.

Thanksgiving has always had warm memories for me, memories cast to obscene Christmas music and the creamy orange of candlelight against stucco walls. But, more noticeably, these memories come with the pain of stomach aches. Sweet delicious stomach aches.

It seemed as if every year my parents invited neighbors or friends I should have known by then but never could manage to remember. I would have met them dozens of times before and greet them at each Thanksgiving with a quizzical expression, as if to say "Oh? It seems as if more old people have wandered into the house again." And then they would shake my hand and say, "Why, look what a handsome man you're turning out to be! You remember when I was present at your birth and blah blah bluh, blurdy blur?"

At which point I would just smile and shake my head, because I have made it a point to never lie in my entire life. Besides, even if I offended them they would undoubtedly fail to remember it ten minutes later. Since they are old.

Thanksgiving Day was mainly spent fasting and watching my mother make all the food by herself. I found the worry and frustration she poured into her work only made it taste that much better. There was the turkey, of course, but there was the stuffing which I could eat forever. Like, if I was stuck on a desert island with only stuffing to eat, I would be totally cool with that. It would also be nice to have, I don't know, a chimpanzee for a best friend, too, since I'd be the only person on the island. And we would lounge around all day eating stuffing and listening to reggae. And on the weekends, or maybe midweek too, we'd get into various shenanigans like tick off the orangutans of the other side of the island and steal their butter or something. I haven't planned this all out yet; retirement is still a ways off.

The chimpanzee's name will be Fred, I think.

Anyways, sometimes there was honey-glaze ham from pigs my father slaughtered in the garage (he has a rough sort of affinity with animals and pets) and always there would be a platter of green beans with minced bacon and mushroom, since everyone knows vegetables are inferior unless mixed with bacon. Yams, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce were also created to appease the memory of our white ancestors killing and raping to take what God gave us (He chatted us on facebook, said it was totally cool).

And, most importantly, there was gravy. This we kept in a white pitcher, our own little porcelien vase of MSG. Things to pour gravy on: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, ham, green beans, yams, cranberry sauce, chimpanzees. Everything tastes better with gravy. One year we just drank straight gravy in shot glasses, but dad got really messed up on the gravy and mistook one of the guests for a pig (my mother later took me aside when the squad car pulled up the drive way. "Just this once," she told, "lying would be a sort of awesome thing to do, 'kay?").

Following all of this would be wine and pie, which was fine for the most part since there was a huge mirror on the wall in the dining room in which my sister and I would stare while the old people talked. My sister would admire herself with winsome smiles while I, across the table, would have to crane my head to look over at my shoulder and immediately struggle with my own reflection and what it meant--I look so different than how my mind perceives my soul, is this me, God I'm really growing up aren't I, boy I ought to figure out what I'm doing for the rest of my life, wait a tick why am I meant to exist anyhow, damn my hair looks good--before turning back to my wineglass of gravy.

I suppose I should give less praise to gravy and more to the centerpiece of Thanksgiving, the turkey. But there always seemed to be more white meat on the turkey we ate (healthy) instead of the dark meat which I enjoyed immensely (not so healthy). Besides, next to everything else that was offered for dinner, white meat just...paled in comparison. And before you ask yourself if turkey meat can actually feel jealous, here's the answer: yes. A terrible and resounding YES.

My discovery to said question took place on the Thanksgiving of Mr. McKingley's death (the unfortunate man mistaken to be a pig). My mother told me to keep an eye on the turkey in the oven and baste the cheesecloth when it dried while she and my sister spoke to the policemen outside (my father had passed out on the bathroom floor, covered in blood that would stain his clothes and gravy that would stain his heart). My mother and sister checked the switchblades in their boots and left me alone with the turkey.

I, the dutiful son, basted the turkey from time to time before returning to my seat on the kitchen floor to drink apple cider. I had gone through almost half the entire bottle before I heard a squelching noise emit from the oven.

If you have ever heard a headless turkey sit up in its own juices quaking with fury then you would recognize this noise. I looked up in time to see the oven door kicked open by the turkey's widdle turkey foot stub. Before I knew it, the turkey was upon me, scalding my face with its widdle wings pressed against my cheeks.

"Put down that baster," it told me quietly.

I put it down. I'd been in rough situations before with my gorilla sidekick Cookie, but nothing quite like--

"Shut up, you jiveturkey!" the turkey said. The turkey's name, as it so happens, was Mistah Fly James. "If I catch you doing an internal monologue again, so help me I will baste you where cheesecloth won't reach. Now things are gonna change around here, dig? The Man ain't gonna keep me down, no sir. You got your green beans with the bacon, you got your cranberry sauces, you even got your gravy. But what about me? Huh? I didn't ever get respect from you even though I'm a righteous turkey. You want dark meat, is that it?" Mistah Fly James leaned close to me, where his head had once been. Now there was only a jagged hole full of a hatred black enough to suck color around it. Also, delicious meat. "Honky, I'll show you the darkest meat there is."

And then there was the sound of a portal in time being rent open (which is a lot easier to recognize than squelching turkey hatred noises, actually, I'd heard it once before in Brazil, it sounds a lot like "Shilo" by Neil Diamond, weird I know) and a chimpanzee in shades and a Hawaiian shirt stepped through with a shotgun clacking in his grip.

The chimpanzee spoke in a clipped British accent around a cigar. "That sounds a lot like fowl play to me."

I don't know if it was the shotgun blast or the bad pun, but Mistha Fly James exploded and turkey bits splattered the kitchen. In my shock, I picked out the pieces of dark meat and began to eat them.

"Fred?" I asked around a mouthful of blaxploitation turkey.

The chimpanzee nodded solemnly.

I took this to be good news. It looked as if I would manage retirement after all. "So how'd you know to save my life?"

"Well," Fred said, removing his cigar to blow a smoke ring in that recognizable monkey O-face, "your future self made a time machine and due to complicated time paradoxical reasons that probably don't make sense, sent me back in time to stop the zombie turkey which the dark wizard He Who Must Not Be Named revived in order to kill you, your younger self."

"Oh," I said. "So, Voldemort is the dark wizard, right?"

"No."

"David Bowie?"

"No."

"Well I can't very well guess He Who Must Not Be Named just by going through names. Can you describe him for me?"

"No. He Who Must Not Be Named is also He Who Must Not Be Described."

"Well," I said, "that does sound awfully serious."

Me and Fred ate some stuffing, exchanged insurance information, and then Fred returned through the schism in time, having saved my life and teaching me the first valuable life lesson he would ever teach me: Thanksgiving with murderous zombie turkeys and time traveling apes with shotguns beats, by far, listening to old people talk and talk and talk.

Y'know, I learned something today. Even though they may be unpleasant to both sight and smell, and even though they may not have stories of dark wizards and time paradoxes, old people do have rich stories to tell. The older generation can bestow onto the younger a unique perspective from a different era and still impart a universal truth and emotion, perhaps not in order to cleanly prevent mistakes like time travel does, but in order to make you say, one day, "Ohhhhhh, so THAT'S what that old guy was blah blah'ing about. Sure could've saved me from this felony had I understood at the time what he was trying to tell me." This is valuable stuff here, kids, pay attention.

Also, gravy is delicious.

Caves

Caves.

They're a fact of life.

For a lot of people, caves can be an unpleasant experience--they're dark, a bit creepy, and they're often associated with claustrophobia, bats, and showing up drunk at family reunions to reveal embarrassing and nearly buried memories about cousins. But whatever you want to say about them, I like to think I've enjoyed them for the most part (caves, not cousins).

Our family sometimes went to the Garden of the Gods to admire the Kissing Camels and make our way to a shallow cave just past a grove of gray prickly bushes. We would climb the staggering seven feet to the cave and pretend we were tall and adventurous cave people. I seem to remember there had also been some folklore or rumors about the cave related as well, something about bats or a bear, or maybe a cave troll (don't get me started on cave trolls). Either way, we probably made it up anyways. Since we were children and having fun, these instances usually lasted no more than twenty minutes before our parents took us away and beat us savagely.

I suppose the only real real cave I've ever been in is the Cave of the Winds. It's called the Cave of the Winds because the whistling bottle-noise it makes from the breeze sucked into the open pockets leading to the surface. Also, it was the battleground the infamous fisticuffs between the Wind god Arzureus and William Shatner, which would decide the future of both their acting careers (Shatner lost, obviously, and Arzureus went on to star in several delightful romantic comedies).

We went there just today actually. It was a walk down nostalgia road while I ran my hand down the scorched walls and found a chip of Shatner-tooth still lodged in a stalagmite (not to be confused with a stalactite, since you might trip over it oh ho ho ho ho ho ho). My first time in Cave of the Winds had been in maybe elementary school. I say maybe because it's hard to keep track of time when you're immortal.

Anyways, I remember it being an overall pleasant experience. The school field trip had allowed us to visit private sections of the cave. We were even allowed to crawl into small holes and feel what it was like to be a miner lost in the dark, his fingers scrambling against rock and dirt, his thoughts skittering between the lamp he had accidentally broke the day before and how long he would last like this, his voice hoarse from screaming quiet now because the echoes started to sound less like him and more like a wounded animal his wife and child still at home how long would he be missed I don't want to die this way dear god dear god why me not like this not like this.

It was great fun, and this was back in the day when crawling in a hole was still mandatory and not another thing to protect your child from.

Since I was manly even then, I wiggled into the hole and pushed down my fears. Sure, there was claustrophobia, but that was easily outweighed by the annoyance for this girl in front of me, who stopped midway to cry. I mean, geez, it's only a small space with layers and layers of earth above and below you. And you choose halfway to give up? Look, all you do is keep wiggling forward until your head hits something, then you twist your spine like so and crawl up the tighter earthen shaft until you can heave yourself the opposite way into the tunnel above us.

Needless to say, the girl died and I crawled over her corpse muttering under my breath. I noted the location of her body because if I got lost in there, y'know, gotta eat some time. I popped the teacher right in the kisser when she asked where little Emily was because the tour had to go on.

Later on I remember crawling up a steep cave floor, looking up and seeing a kid in my class sitting at the top where it was flat, meeting his apathetic gaze, and then experiencing a stinging blindness as he went out of his way to kick dirt in my eyes in order to entertain the friends who sat with him. To this day I'm still a bit sore about that. I flew into a blind (ha ha) rage and probably tore him limb from limb, bringing the field trip death toll to two.

I was young and foolish. I did not know that the scent of blood would bring on the mole people.

They came from the dark, crouched low to the ground and too fast for their size. Immediately I applied my training from the marines and snapped one's neck, taking his tattered fur cloak for my own and rubbing his musk and oily ichor upon my skin. I knew that if I were to keep alive I would have to act as one of them. Following the mole people's lead, I descended upon my own classmates...and fed.

Once our mole bellies were bloated with apple juice and the grease of small children, we fled into the darkness of the cave back to the Mole City below.

What can I say about Mole City? It had none of the graceful indecisiveness of Jellyfish Palace. Everything was dark, gritty, and not unlike New York (which I have vast amounts of experience with since I've seen all the batman movies). And everywhere it was very busy: the average day for a mole person consists of much shuffling, snuffling, scuffling, and, of course, guffling.

Interspersed in all of this was complaining, the occasional feastings upon the man children of the surface, more complaining, and then keeping the mole economy in mole shambles so the good mole citizens would have mole to complain about. Mole.

Not surprisingly, I integrated myself into mole society pretty well. I had all the basics down already: stooping with a horrible posture, frowning, grunting, scratching, all the things that make life worth livin'. Soon I had a mole wife (Moledred) and two lovely mole children (Molebert and Moledeline). I rose up the ranks until I became a mole senator for Mole city. I had a successful run until scandalous photographs of me arose. Their subject: me stooping with a horrible posture, frowning, grunting, and scratching, but as a man child instead of a respectable mole senator.

I lost everything. My mole status was stripped from me, Moldred took the mole children from me and mole'd to another mole city. The only reason they didn't eat me right there was because I had been in politics and politicians taste HORRIBLE. Outcast, I shuffled out of the city and through countless tunnels of black despair until I saw the unfamiliar light of day. My mole eyes grew charming and blue (green?) again.

And my first encounter with a human in years was just outside a cave entrance near a meadow where a little girl had wandered to pick flowers.

"What happened to you, mister?" she asked upon seeing my pale visage.

"Dear child," I whispered, "what year is this? Is it 2012 yet?"

"No. What does that have to do with any--"

And then I devoured her on the spot and immediately felt bad about it because I just knew it was going straight to my thighs.

Y'know, I learned something today. It's healthy to stoop, guffle, or eat children. But when you're eating children only to fit in, or when you're kicking dirt in other kids' faces just to impress friends, why, those acts lose their initial magic. Guffling under peer pressure isn't guffling at all. I had to learn the hard way--even today I have to fight the urge to go to a playground and just totally pig out. And all because I wanted to fit in! Since then I have learned to treat myself with the occasional skinny orphan.

It's like Mayor Mole once told me, "Well, mah mole, you ain't gotta mole much to know when you've been mole'd. Because once you sell your mole, the only mole you have left is moley mole mole. And that, mah mole, is a very mole thing indeed. Mole."

General Hygiene

I never brushed my teeth as a kid.

It was a pain in the ass and frankly a waste of my time (which was true, it's sad spending that much time of a childhood cleaning something, let alone myself). Instead I let colonies of bacteria spread across my canines and twist through my gums until they developed into sentient fungi with fully formed governments and religions (all praise the fizzing grace of Soda). This mini ecosystem must have understood its precariousness because it somehow protected my teeth from cavities while still using them, which is an admirable stance on how we should use our environmental resources, I think.

Sadly, the dream couldn't last. I found that brushing my teeth became less of a pain in the ass and more of a defense against stress; after all, no matter how much goes horribly wrong in your life, you can usually brush your teeth. Even a little sense of control can be nice.

I try to brush them twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening (twice if I eat something strange off the floor). Then I strangle my teeth with floss and usually swallow a knuckle in the process. After that I finish with some Listerine which I try to swish around in my mouth as quickly as they do in the commercials. But I can't do it that fast. I bet the actors don't actually have anything in their mouths because they dip their heads down below the camera to spit out (which no amount of advertising can make look appealing) and then reemerge with a smile as white as the pope's police record (all Nazi Youth aside). As you can tell by now, I hold a particular affection for an ungodly amount of parentheseseses.

Well, lately, due to Connor's influence, I started also using this Listerine Whitening Stuff. It's pretty much horrible. The bottle says it's a clean mint flavor, which I suppose is true. Mint certainly would be clean after being dipped in chlorine and bleach. Since I can't stand the taste, I take a deep breath, then a mouthful, and pinch my nostrils. Usually I can hold my breath pretty well (otherwise I would have never survived the Atlantis Buoy Burglary Incident) but for some reason it becomes harder when you're swishing bleach in your mouth with your nose plugged. I can't tell if it's working or not since my teeth will indeed appear extra white afterward, but that might be because they are juxtaposed with my purple face when I pass out on the linoleum.

The damnedest thing is that ever since I started brushing a lot, I have received my first cavities. In severe cases, cavities have led to death, so naturally I wonder if I did the right thing by worrying about my hygiene. Dentists have told me brushing is healthy but I wonder if I did not betray the bacteria in my mouth and traded their sense of safety for my own.

This is their tragic story.

Detective Clarke Flubbles sat down at his desk with a weary sigh. Working class streptococcus mutans get tired too, you know, and he just finished solving a gruesome murder case in an eastern molar. The sadistic bastard had smeared the poor girl's cell membrane all over the walls. He leaned back in his chair, watched the spinning fan chop the room between light and black shadow, and lit a cigarette with deliberate gravity. A cigarette would do for now; after the murder case, he wasn't in the mood for a hearty lunch of refined sugar.

A knock at the door. A dame entered in a red dress entered, helluva filament on her. Already he knew he was in trouble with this one. Dames like this made a fellah reevaluate binary fission. She regarded him for a moment before slapping down a portfolio. "I think my other half's cheating on me. I need proof."

"Fifty clams an hour, sweetheart," Flubbles told her. It would be best to get the information and get her out as soon as possible. "My price is steep but it's fair."

The dame agreed tentatively and said she would be in touch. He slid the portfolio toward him and whistled as he opened it. Inside was a profile of Senator Mibbles, a well-respected Strep Mutan of the community. If a guy like this was having an affair, the media would be all over him like, well, bacteria.

Flubbles got to work. He was a professional so it didn't take him long before he was tailing Mibbles to the local country club. The night went by slowly while Flubbles waited with his overcoat collar pulled high above what could be his neck. As far as he could tell, the senator was just having a night out with the fellahs, smoking a few cigars, throwing a few darts--

The clubroom's back door opened and the senator stepped out. Flubbles nearly cussed seeing a shadowy Strep Mutan step out of some gums to meet him. It wasn't like him to miss such a thing. Flubbles sidled along the building's shadows and listened.

"There'a been rumblin's, boss," the stranger said.

"Nuisance," Mibbles snapped. "I'm busy! If anyone else sees me with a character like you--"

"It's happened again, boss. This time the entire central incisor district got wiped out."

"Damn," Mibbles said, turning away and straightening his tie. "Just spin this off as another terrorist attack."

Which they very well could do, since biological warfare is the worst. Flubbles stepped out of the shadows, a toothpaste-gun in his hand. "Stop right there. I'm sorry, senator, but I can't let you do that. I'm going to blow this case wide open!"

If he had possessed an invertebrate it would have gone stiff. He felt the nozzle of a toothpaste-gun against what could be his back. "I'm sorry, Flubbles," the dame said, "but now I can't let you do that. You see, I planned this all along."

"But why?" Flubbles lowered his gun, knowing he had been beat.

"No particular reason," she said.

"Damn. Without any regard to character development or plot depth--you truly are a villain. It's almost as if you knew this was all a blog post and suspected that dragging it on would just be silly and pretty vain!"

And then a tsunami of mint-chlorine-bleach came and washed away the country club and an entire history and culture with it.

Days later, Flubbles dragged himself onto the bottom lip of a world he had never known. He looked back on the ruined city, now a smooth marble, and lit a cigarette. It was one of the few pleasures he had.

Hurray for awkward transitions. But, really, there's only so much time I can spend impressing myself.

Y'know, I learned something today. A good habit never hurts, but relying too much on it might be a mistake. After all, life throws whatever it likes at you whether it be an underwater burglary or a tidal wave of mouthwash. Brushing teeth can be, after all, only the illusion of control in that respect. But that thought scares me so I'm going to go do what I do best and pass out on the bathroom floor.

Books

So I've been Volunteering at Matter Bookstore here in Fort Collins and it's been fun. The place is small, mellow, and local. It's volunteer-run and 80% of the books there have been donated by the public.

For some reason, I like to punish myself with the opening shift at 7 a.m. I know it's not terrible, but waking up at 6 wasn't enjoyable in high school and it's no barrel of monkeys now either. Maybe it's because it's quieter in the mornings. Or maybe I just enjoy strolling through Old Town, cursing the pink sherbet sunset with eyes still bleary (I usually groan a string of inarticulate blasphemies when I roll out of the bed). But things are better when I reach the store. I turn on the lights and I go from a state of undead zombie to slightly alert zombie! This is after I slam into morning joggers on the way into Old Town, of course. It's their fault for staying on the sidewalk.

My usual duties include cleaning and shelving and helping what customers come in. Shelving can be quite difficult, because for every book I rearrange there are two I want to read. I have since learned better than to peruse their contents.

I found it in the backroom. The book had no price or indication of where it belonged. It was thicker than a phone book and wrapped further in a black leather which looked suspiciously like human skin that had been dried in the smoke of Hell's 9th Circle. On the back yellow fingernails had been grafted into the skin, and on the front the red impression of a mottled goat head.

Naturally I assumed this was an original copy of the first Twilight book. Driven by a morbid curiousity, I opened the cover and began to read.

The door to the bookstore/coffee shop banged open and silence fell down from the high ceiling. There, standing in a leather duster coat, a man with a holstered revolver stood.

The working barristas busied themselves with cleaning the counter. The man walked up to me, eyeing the book with a sneer splitting his 5 o clock shadow.

"That book is evil," he told me. "You must not read it."

"Oh, well," I said. "I sort of did. I mean, I got past only the first chapter. A bit slow and dry for my tastes, tortured souls writhing in the ash of children and that sort of thing. I mean, really, it's just shock value."

"Dear God," he said, drawing his revolver. "Already you've been tainted! I've traveled a long way and trained extensively to destroy that, The One Book, so that the poor soul who read it may not be corrupted into a black demon prince! You must die!"

A grapple ensued as I knocked the gun from his hand with a karate chop. I hadn't experienced such ferocious hand-to-hand combat since the Mardi Gras Incident of '64. I had left my brass knuckles in my car, so I had no choice to knock him out with a swift upper cut. He hit the floor, out cold. As a volunteer, it is my responsibility to keep the store tidy and move unconscious witch-hunters from the path of customers. I looked through The One Book and found a spell that seemed legit. I uttered the gravelly syllables and a portal opened into which the poor man was sucked into. The stitch in reality closed up neatly. I feel kind of bad; I think I sent him to the Urgoth Badlands of the demon king Azuul the Marrow Cruncher.

Anyways, I finished reading The One Book, priced it at an outrageous price (I was n black demon prince now, so I thought I'd better get caught up on acts of evil), and set it in the shelves.

I put it in the children's section.

Y'know, I learned something today. Curiosity certainly did kill the cat, but satisfaction brought it back (in the decomposing abomination of bone and sheer darkness). I suppose I should have disciplined myself and used enough common sense to be unnerved by the leather binding of human flesh and placed The One Book back on the shelf. It goes to show you how careful you must be about satisfying your curiosity; it's a lot of work, being an overlord of pure evil. I have demon minions that need work benefits and God knows how insolent tortured souls can be as servants. I mean, really, how long does it take to fetch me a goblet of blood?

A Terrible Poem

So a fun assignment in my creative writing class has, er, been assigned. It is simply this: write a terrible poem. Seriously, go out of the way to create a horrible poem.

Finally, something that I can apply my skills to!

Apparently, these poems will be judged and whichever is the most terrible will win 1st prize. Winning is kind of a hobby of mine, so I'm trying to compose a poem so horrible that it would make fetuses sneeze.

Here is what I have come up with so far:



The warmth of your absence
Is like melting snow in my mouth
Lo, I am a broken mule
My hooves are weeping
And they weep and weep and weep
Weep and sweep
Until my heart is cane sugar
And your rejection, the tongue
Lick lick
And remember when
I tried
That one pick up line on you
"Does this smell like chloroform to you"
And I didn't know what had happened
To your sister
And I felt really bad
And
The birds
They flock
To my cane sugar
While I, The Billygoat
Weep and weep
Weep and sweep
Lick Lick



I don't know, I rather like it in a twisted way. But it needs more work; it could be more terrible, I think.

Jellyfish

Let me tell you a story.

Once, when I was a wee lad who had not even slain his first dragon, I went to the beach in Pensacola, Florida. This was customary, as visiting Gramma Mary involved visiting Pensacola, Florida.

Anyways, I enjoyed, as most boys with bowl-cuts of shimmering gold do, splashing about in the ocean and thinking to myself "I'm sure, statistically speaking, that there aren't any sharks at this beach since everyone's having a swell time and the lifeguard is at ease and hitting on nubile high schoolers, but BY GOD WILL I FREAK OUT IF SOMETHING BRUSHES AGAINST MY FOOT". And then I would slap my face against the water in an effort to look for a shark but you couldn't see much without goggles and sea salt stings.

Well, I was doing said splashing and thinking and slapping when I noticed an acute pain in my right nipple.

This was no ordinary pain.

This was the ache of a jellyfish sting, something only people who have been stung can understand. It is that soft pulse and that constant pull, that burning and tweaking pain that cannot be appeased with mere neosporin or morphine. Nay, this was the sting of the hideous jellyfish, the curse of an animal so alien, it was probably an alien.

Needless to say, I cranked up the splashing, this time with my hands instead of my face. I hoped to injure the assaulting jellyfish because, really, what sick bastard lets his limp tendril float toward the nipple? When attacked by creatures without backbones, I try to compensate with my own. Much to my disappointment, the jellyfish was gone, but the stung remained. I soon left the water, since it felt as if the salt aggravated my poor nipple. I tried going in later, but the pain only flared up again.

Damn you, Jellyfish. Damn you.

Maybe two years later we visited Florida again. I was excited for the time I could spend at the beach again. I entered the water with the slow walk of a manly badass I reserve for crashing waves and as soon as I dove underneath, I found a familiar stinging in my right nipple.

I had been marked.

What creatures God has made, that was not one. The Jellyfish had marked me as its own and ever since then my nipple stings in sea water, nearly emitting the red sigh of a jellyfish coiled about a Bunsen burner.

Rubbing my nipple and cursing, I had hardly the time to realize a shockwave had emitted from my nipple, spreading far out into the ocean in the rings of sound. There was a rumbling, and a gelatinous mountain appeared from the depths of the water, Jellyfish City, and the Jellyfish who had marked me had come to collect me.

I was a slave for the bastard for nearly thirteen years. He was a highly ranked politician, so I floated by his side at all the court meetings and gatherings where Jellyfish generally come together and remain indecisive on all political issues. Jellyfish Politics is a fascinating subject, since it balances both understanding and the lack of will to take a stance on it.

Sometimes it was hard to understand their language but I eventually learned. An excerpt I heard in Jellyfish Court such as this--"Abortion? Well, it's understandable, old boy, I guess. I mean, it's her body so it's her decision. But it's also a fair view to be opposed to the idea. After all, who are we to judge when life can be constituted as sentient or not? In that respect, it's better not to chance destroying possible sentience, not to mention what it might do to our standing with the Jellyfish Upstairs. I don't know, gentlejellies, this debate could go either way, really. Let us all have a short break for some Jellyfish Tea."--to laymen's ears might sound like "Garblflabrblaglarblglubblubglarblubglarbguhbubglubglarbllarbl".

Interesting thing, Jellyfish Politics. While main issues may infuriate other parties, they generally pass over the Jellyfish Party in a wide sweeping motion, like the wave too far up near the surface which Jellyfish don't care for unless there are a good amount of nubile nipples (understandable). So the Jellyfish Party never gets outraged over anything and every party member is perfectly comfortable. As a result, yes, the Jellyfish Party doesn't actually get anything done but in my time spent with them, I understood why they took such an invertebrate stance (aside from the obvious reasons). It's because, well, it's hard to love someone when all you can do is hurt them when you reach out to touch them...But maybe I just have Stockjelly Syndrome.

Y'know, I learned something today. It's fine to understand both sides of an issue, and it's all very well to try not to judge people based on their decisions. But true political correctness is impossible, as every Jellyfish is born with a bias, whether it be due to society or biology, and while such differences sure do cause problems, they should be celebrated as well.

In the words of the sorely missed Jellyfish Jellsworth, "Garblflarblglubulglarb. Blarblglarbglarblubblubgublubblub? Blubblglubblglarblglaar, blarglarbblhharblbub, blarblubblglub."