Ramblings Of A Madman Madman.

barb manatee

eggsistenshull stuf 2 make u thinck

From the journal of Lt. Commander A. Arthur Ames, Dept. of Galactic Defense 

Day 467, 13 Oct 2007. EST 19:45

Dear Diary. No, Journal. Please correct that intro, computer. Thank you.

Dear Di- Journal. Gah. Restart the entry again, computer. Thank you.

Dear Journey. Ha ha, I mean journal, ha. The wheel in the sky- computer stop recording, please. I know you can hear me. Confound it. Restart again. At least you know how to do that. Thank you.

Dear Journal. Ah yes, there it is. Dear Journal. what to say about today? It is, or rather has been, one of the awkardest- scratch that, correct it to “most awkward”, thank you- one of the “most awkward”- ok computer, i saw you still put the quotation marks “around” the phrase “most awkward” and- alright, now you’re “doing” it “again”. “Dadgum” it. “Reset” “yourself” “please”.

This entry brought to you by Microsoft.

This entry brought to you by Sony.

Welcome to the future of journaling.

Welcome back Lt. Commander Ames. Please wait while your system is loaded.

:)

:)

:)

:)

with the stupid smiley- oh good it’s on.

Dear Journal. Today I had one of the most awkward experiences in my 28 years. We were investigating the heat signatures we found on Tatooine 87- side note: we really do need to stop naming planets that, yes we get it, it’s a Star Wars reference, we all had a good laugh the first time, move on- anyhow, we were investigating the heat signatures. Finally we picked up on a faint radio signal coming from the heat signature. The excitment in the air was palpable. Finally we honed in- hold up. Computer. You misspelled “excitment”. You did it again. Double you tee effort. No computer, I did not mean effort. I meant eff, like the letter. (F). Yes, that one. Now back to excitment, I need you to run process “learn word” please. Stupid piece of

Microsoft Windows [Version 5.8.68]

Copyright <c> 2006 Windows Corporation. All rights reserved.

C:\windows\system32\lrnwrd_

No response found_

Sigh. No, don’t type sigh. Fine. I don’t understand why anyone would still be reading this anyway. Make me some ice cream. Stop recording this. Sweet lord I hate this place. You would think a space station would be fun, but no, we have to have stupid robots to do everything. I miss Day Moin(?). No, computer, it’s- screw it. Power off. Now. For Peter’s sake. Where is that power chord. Chord, not chord. Stupid piece of crap. My chest hurts. My arm is numb. What the flim(?) flam. There should be a question mark after that sentence, computer. Oh, sure, you can do commas, just fine, but, when it comes to question marks, no, thank you. I hate you? No, I really do? Those aren’t questions, computer? Kill me? Ouch? I think I’m having a heart attack? Can you alert the medical staff, computer? Yes, that one is a real question? Do you understand me computer? I hate you so much?

IDEAS FOR A BOOK/AUTOBIOGRAPHY I’M WRITING/PUBLISHING TOMORROW

The soft beating of my heart is a sharp contrast to the silence around me. The darkness engulfs me, chills me. My only ally is patience.

The minutes wane.

I hear the creak of floorboards in the distance. My pulse quickens. Beads of sweat saturate my brow. I must move now.

The floor moans beneath me. I sharply draw my breath. I now move faster, lighter, adrenaline pumping through me. My hands feel about me for the door handle. Finally, I find it. I pull it open without a sound. I reach inside the door and find my prize. Oreo’s. My precious midnight snack. I quickly ope-

What? Too realistic? THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME. Unbelievable? BELIEVE IT. I ALWAYS GET FREAKED OUT BY THE FLOORBOARDS ‘CUZ I DON’T WANNA WAKE ANYONE UP ‘CUZ THE ONLY WAY TO HAVE A SATISFYING MIDNIGHT SNACK IS AFTER EVERYONE GOES TO BED OKAY? NO, YOU HAVE A SNACK BEFORE BED I DO WHAT I WANT I’M A GROWN-BUTT MAN okay i’m done now i’ll go to bed i’m so sorry you had to read this r.i.p. comedy please forgive me

Warts aren’t funny? Spaghetti feet, Gustav.

"But mom!" cried Johnny, "You said I could!" "I said no such thing, Johnny" his mother replied. "I said maybe. Maybe does not mean yes." "But mom…" he whined, "it’s all I’ve ever wanted". His mother sighed. "Fine" she finally said, after some thought. "But only this once." 

Johnny could hardly contain his excitement. His huge, tooth-filled grin beamed. He was finally doing it. Finally. He had seen his father do this, time after time, before he had gone away. He remembered back to those days. Dad would always get him ice cream beforehand. He loved those moments. Just the thought of his dad gave this moment an ever-so-slight bittersweet feeling. No matter. He had work to do.

He drew a deep breath and ran. The wind blew through his long, dark hair. The ground was cold under his bare feet. The knife firm in his hand. Never in his 8 years of life had he felt so alive. 

Six Days Later

“Johnny! What is that on your shirt?” screamed his mother. “I told you, only once! You can’t do that anymore!” “Why mom? Why not? Dad did it all the time. I remember. I can do it too.” “No Johnny! No you can’t! Come, we must get that shirt burned, and fast. Someone may have seen you.”

Eight Years Later

Kara stared into the gun sight. She had been watching the bank entrance for over an hour now. He should be here by now, she thought. He had always stuck to the schedule. Why wasn’t he here?

She looked down at her watch. 3:43. He still had two minutes. It felt so much later than that….

Then she saw something. Just a shadow, but still something. She readjusted the rifle. He won’t get away this time, she resolved. Twelve times now he’s escaped me. Not this time. This time I have the advantage. I know his schedule.  I know his- 

Her thought was cut off by a flash of movement. He was making his move. Handfuls of innocent bystanders stood around, no inkling of the gravity of the situation going on around them. An elderly woman suddenly fell. Another woman gasped as she saw the puddle of blood growing under the fallen woman. A crowd quickly gathered around them. Kara cursed under her breath. Where is he?

She saw a flash again. Her mind thought back to the first time she saw him. It had merely been joy killings then. Sixteen people had died in crowded places, without witnesses, before she had been called to the job. There were seven more dead before she caught a glimpse of him. The only reason she had seen him that time is because he had robbed the bank she had been standing in. It was his first bank robbery. He had knocked over fourteen banks since then, with his spoils totaling over $19 million in cash. His death toll now stood at seventy-eight. Another man went down. Seventy-nine.

His speed was inhuman. Her rifle sight danced around after him. Just shoot! 

Finally, she pulled the trigger of the silenced Lapua .338 rifle. High. She cursed again. Killing was her job. She was the best. She wouldn’t let him beat her again. 

Pop.

The blur suddenly stopped moving the second she pulled the trigger. His body fell limp. His head slammed into the wall. Kara smiled.

As she walked up to confirm her success, panic suddenly broke out. They had noticed the body, she thought. Then she saw her target. 

Against the wall where she had shot the man lay a giant raccoon. As tall as a man. Knife in hand. 

Kara swore as the body suddenly moved. The creature’s cold, black eyes stared into hers. He rose to his feet. She hardly felt the knife slash deep into her torso. As she fell to the ground, she saw him turn and glance at her before running away with his unbelievable speed. She knew that face. “Johnny? Is that you?” she croaked.

He nodded his head.

"Why? What happened to you?" 

Then she remembered. This was all her fault. And only she could save the President.  

Robinson Crusoe

"Get on the ground!" shouted the bank robber, Blue Johnson.

"This is a stick-up!", yelled his partner, Little Rusty.

"A stick-up?" responded Blue. "A stick-up? Are you for serious, Rusty?"

"What? That’s what you say in these here situations!"

"No it ain’t, you half-wit. Hey! Get on the ground!" he yelled at another man. "A ‘stick-up’ is what they called it in the olden days, stupid. We’re in the gosh-darned Bank of America in Little Rock, Arkansas for heaven’s sake! Have some class!"

"This is a Bank of America? Why didn’t you tell me that! I’ve got a checking account here! You want me stealin’ my own cash? What gives, Blue? I was told this here was a credit union at best!"

"A credit union? No, idiot. Why would we go to a credit union? They don’t even have vaults, probably."

"Well, I wish you would have told me first," an exasperated Rusty exlaimed, "and maybe if you hadn’t put the bag over my head on the drive over here. I feel like I couldn’t drive my best that way, and you know I like to drive my best when we’re headin’ to a robbin’"

"Sweet baby corn, Rusty. Why don’t you just cry about it in front of everyone? I thought you were a big boy now, but apparently you can’t act like one, huh?"

"You said you wouldn’t make fun of me anymore! I’m telling Gran. Gran!  Gregory is makin’ fun of me! And I don’t wanna rob banks anymore! And he got out Dad’s guns!"

"Jerry! What are you tellin’ her for? I’m almost thirteen! I can handle a gu-"

And that’s when the cops came in, guns blazing. The 12 year old Gregory and his little brother, 7 year old Jerry, were killed in a blaze of gunfire. They took two cops with them, and their grandmother was seriously hurt in the fight. It ended the streak of four bank/kitchen robberies, in which a total of over $24 in vegetable oil and baked beans were stolen.

And that, my dear children, is why you should never buy a cat. 

Collateral Damage.

Beer-battered antelopes running in the wild 

I like my moccasins fluffy with consistency of Lyle

Gravy is splendiferous

Service with a smile

And all the while my face is eaten by a crocodile

My bones are seared to cranky meat

Elephants all abound

Your tears look funny on your feet

Eating at the speed of sound

Shoes were not made for silly Joes

Or purple bumblebees

And God in Heaven only knows 

This door opens with keys

Chrysanthemum, Chrysanthemum

"I can fly Mommy!" Johnny squeaked.

"Of course you can" his knitting mother half-heartedly replied.

"No really Mommy, look!" Johnny cried with desperation.

"Yes dear, I heard you the first time."

"But you’re not looking. You have to look, Mom. Just once before you die. It would mean the world to me."

"Johnny, Listen to me. You’re 38 years old. You’re 5 foot 6 and pushing 300 pounds. You can’t actually fly. And on top of that, I’m not dying. Remember?"

"But I can fly Momma! Just watch! Just watch this one time!"

His mother sighed. She looked at him, exasperated. “Okay, go ahead Johnny. I’m watching.”

He smiled his biggest smile. He crouched awkwardly in preparation for his imminent ascent. Drew a deep breath. Leaped. Flew.

At that exact moment, an eighteen wheeler hit them both at eighty-five miles an hour, instantly killing them and their dog, Rastafarian.

And that, dear children, is why we don’t spend our free time in the middle of Vancouver.

one fine day.

Bobby stared down the tarmac, his heart pounding. He stared down the commercial airliner that stood opposite him, half a mile away. He growled softly. Oskaloosa, the undefeated champion of the runway, growled back. Bobby knew his time had come. He started down the pavement, jogging briskly. He looked up to see the jet rev it’s engines, holding his stare. He began to sprint.

On the other end of our story, Oskaloosa began his descent, all the while thinking, “Jeunesse dorée stupide. Me faire faire cette chose que je déteste. J’espère que Bobby me tue. Aussi, mon traducteur est cassé et même pas exactes. Je déteste ça.

They met head-on in the center of the runway. Metal, blood, oil. Fire. Gastric juices. Butter. A small Guatemalan. Nothing. 

The aircraft stood over his dead opponent, the great wooly mammoth they called Bobby. He cried in French, and then Korean. Because he had no other choice.

The End.

A note from the author: I realize that there are gaping spaces in between the French words. I have no idea why, as they do not show up in my draft. However, I think it adds to the story, so I have no real desire to fix it. 

Sincerest apples,

Allan

KAMIKAZE!!!!

"shh. the plant is sleeping."

"why is it sleeping?"

"because everything needs to sleep, you stupid ignorant piece of fat."

"how is this not different? i feel like a plant is different."

"why would it be any different? i honestly don’t see what you’re talking about here."

"well, i mean, come on. it’s a plant. it’s not moving. it never moves. i mean, yeah it grows. but other than that? come on man. it’s just different."

"open your eyes, you half-witted knowledge killer. that plant is just as real as you and i. it needs to sleep just like any other living organism. open your eyes, you ignoramus."

"alright man, i feel like you’re going a little overboard with the insulting. and i mean, for real. plants aren’t alive. look it up bro."

"ok you know what? shut up. i’m serious. shut up. i’m not going to continue this stupid conversation with you, because you’re holding onto this stupid belief that that plant isn’t real. i’m taking offense to that. what else isn’t real, jerry? what’s next? cats? iguanas? aztec indians? rice? i’m seriously disappointed in you, man."

"whatever man. but i’m telling you, that plant isn’t sleeping."

"whatever. thank you, einstein."

-two pieces of bacon having a normal, everyday conversation 

The day that never comes.

Something is not right. The shadows move all around him. The wind creeps slowly, eerily. Everything is in it’s right place, this much he knows. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Every book on the shelf aligned. Every cushion on the couch perfectly adjusted. The blankets folded neatly and stacked in the corner. He knows this room. He rarely leaves this room. He hasn’t all day. And yet, something seems suddenly out of place. He looks around. The pictures on the wall perfectly level. The lamp shades rotate with the ceiling fan, exactly like normal. The collection of teddy bears sits there like always, all 497 in a row, holding hands like good little children. He stares at the radio, anxiously awaiting the news from war. His computer continues to yell at him, “virus database has been updated”. The police are closing in, he can feel it now. The sirens in the distance grow steadily louder. His fried egg sandwich remains untouched, just the way he likes it. He looks at his wall of shovels and carefully removes his favorite, an old wheelbarrow. His dog, Plato, sits at his feet and whimpers. He decides that the time has come. He walks out the window and onto the lake, hands in the air. The pelican stares slowly as he removes his parka. “Freeze!” yells the congressman, flanked on either side by the Mormons. He carefully shifts into reverse and idles his way out of the driveway, pancake breakfast closing in. He drifts off into the nothingness where rams graze on mango trees, amidst his own kind, his beloved canaries.

The End.   

A short story.

A boy once sat on a sidewalk in the country of the United States of America.He ate an apple. A horse walked by. The horse stole the apple. The boy cried. He then called the library. The librarian told him to be quiet. 

The boy got up and walked home. His house was covered in snow, even though it was January. The boy picked up his father’s gun and loaded it. 

He walked back out to the street, up to a man who lived on the other side of town. “I’ll sell you this gun if I can ride your unicycle” said the boy. “I would take it son, but I have no unicycle.” The boy wept for seven hours. He then called for a dump truck to come take him away. Along the way, he saw a bird. He shot it with his father’s gun. “Hey there, young man!” an older lady yelled at him, “animals are people too!”. “If they really were”, replied the boy, “wouldn’t they be called people?”.

And so, the young boy drove off into the sunset, to lead a life filled with going to community college, working at a cinema, cooking meth, going to jail, saving a unicorn, recovering from food poisoning and becoming a successful businessman, getting married, and dying of Leukemia. His name was Geoff Rollins. He was fictional.

The End.