The peel blackens! Seal our porous border!

He whose name is not spoken in polite circles (a million praises to him and his eternal seed) has trouble sleeping. A dull--almost imperceptible--undercurrent of thought nudges him back into awareness every time he tries to drift into dreams. Thoughts about nothing.

Across town, two other souls, like him, have forgotten what it is to enjoy a nights sleep. Delusions of wealth keep them feverishly working into the small hours. The constant background hum of cooling fans is broken intermittently by furious keystrokes.

The Insignificant Aide, (curses unto her and her ignorant lot): Umm... Sire

He...: And what inane question do you have now, you unbelieving monkey-descendant?

IA: My Lord, I was wondering if I could take some time off to visit ...

He...: No.

IA: But...

He...: No.

IA: But my Lord, I have not seen them since your sent them across the great porous border; and I have been working long and hard for you for many years now; and.. and.. and... Look here, sire, I have callouses on my hands from....

He...: The answer is still no. And now that you have exhausted your vocabulary and all your logical reasoning faculties, why don't you get back to work, you peasant!

He whose name is never uttered goes back to his sleepless dreams.

IA looks for a soft pillow, one that can muffle screams well.

The measure will pass.

No word yet on whether this is a summer night or a winter evening; its too close to call.

Such trifles aside, however, there is grave business to be settled. He whose name is rarely, if ever, spoken (not entirely due to a scarcity of blog posts) enjoys a rich, smoky sips of an Islay malt, seemingly pondering the answer to the Universe with his eyes closed as the peaty fragrance wafts up his nostrils. His insignificant aide, (a thousand curses upon her) waits impatiently by his side, hunched, with her hands clasped almost in prayer, for a moment of his attention.

He whose name is everything and nothing at all condescends enough to interrupt his Scotch.

He...: What is it now, you silly fool!?

InsignificantAide (IA) : er... it's nothing ... only....

He...: Only what!?

IA: I was thinking..

He...: Don't! It might hurt your tiny little brain.

IA: I was thinking,.. when do you think I will be grown up?

He...: Wha..?!

IA: When will I be grown up, rich, powerful, wise and be able to run for public office?

He...: Why do you need to be grown up to run for public office?

IA: So I can be rich

He...: And who says you will be rich if you are grown up?

IA: I saw it on TV

He...: And what else did you see on this "TV"?

IA: A talking ball of meat who lives with a large cup of milkshake in New Jersey, and a something about humans being born of apes.

He...: Imagine that! humans born of apes. Marky Mark would love that, don't you think?

IA: Huh..? Who?

He...: Nevermind.

IA...: So when do you think?

He...: Most of the time, unless I'm unconscious... Well, I might be dreaming even when I am unconscious, so I guess I think almost all the time.

IA...: No, I meant when do you think I will be grown up, rich, and wise?

Run for the hills

In an orderly fashion, please, there is no need to panic.

The Wisdom of the Universe: Part 1 : Poverty

This is part 1 of "The Wisdom of the Universe", translated to the tongue of men, as told by M--also known as Dr. T--praise be to him and his immortal soul, to his Insignificant Aide (wretched curses from the depths of burning hell unto her and her inbred lot).

M looks out into the brilliant blue California sky.

M: "Poverty."

I: "Pardon me, sire?"

M: "Poverty, you deaf sloth! Poverty!"

I: " Yes sire, poverty. What about poverty, sire?"

M: " Have you ever pondered the source of poverty, you worm?"

I: "No, exalted one. Such intellectual pursuits are beyond my reach."

M: "As I suspected. Anyway, I have."

I: "You have what, sire?"

M: "Pondered about poverty, pea-brain!"

I: "Oh. I see!"

M: " It is the lifestyle of choice of all poor people. They seem to love it. "

I: " Yes, sire, quite strange that they do."

M: " We must outlaw it. At once!"

I: "I think that might be a tad harsh, my master. Poverty might not be a choice that people make"

M: "Where did you learn to speak so many words at once, you two-pence whore!. Shut up and outlaw it. At once!"

I: "As you wish, sire."

M: "It is hereby declared that choosing to be poor is illegal in this land. So is choosing to be a homosexual, a polygamist, a left-handed person, or a sqat-pooper. Furthermore, no Mustard on Tuesdays. I've had enough."

I: "It is done, sire"

All hail M. His will be done.

Life imitating life

M, also known as Dr. T--may the light of a hundred thousand suns shine upon his countenance-- stares an empty stare down the endless corridor. Towards its furthest reaches, where the light gives up its very soul to the death-grip of eternal darkness, lies salvation. So near, yet so far. He can sense it: a dark, warm nothingness washing the universe all the way to its very end.

As M reaches deep within himself to draw from the strengths of his primeval, a shadow slithers across te corridor. It is Ia, his Insignificant Aide.

Before M can react, Ia closes her eyes and dives into the warm nothingness.

All your octuplet are belong to us.

M, also know as Dr. T, the praise of a billion taxpayers shower upon him, is awoken from his sleep.

Insignificant Aide (Ia) is staring at him expectantly.

Ia: "Ah sire, you awaken. The radiance of your handsome face has kept me warm this evening."

M: "Quick, you overgrown bag of filth, what is it you want now?"

Ia: "O divine brother, I would be blessed to be the mother of little ones."

M: "All right, Here you go."

A flick of M's regal wrist, a wave of his exalted finger; an imperceptible feeling of fulfillment in Ia's heart. M slumps back to sleep, and Ia goes about her wretched ways.

Ia soon drops a litter of 8. Tax payers are enraged.

Thou shalt not spend public funds for rearing of the fruits of immaculate conception.

Ia is summoned to a public town-hall style meeting. With a thousand eyes as witnesses, M hands down her punishment:

Death.

Ia languishes in max-security prison, as the seasons pass, each one bringing new hope via the endless cycles of the appeals process, and each new Governor and Commander-in-chief holding out the promise of an executive pardon.

As Ia's hopes grow dimmer and promises from the capital fade into the fog, taxpayers money too slows down to a trickle. Prison guards are underpaid and overworked. Prison doctors work one day a quarter. Heaters are on only on Wednesdays.

D-day approaches for Ia.

Will taxpayers have enough money left to gas her? Will they finally be able to bring to fruition the tying down and poisoning of the witch? Will faint-hearted weasels pardon her for their lack of balls to watch a life snuffed by a magical gas? Will we be denied a tailgating party before the execution? Are the commies plotting her escape? Will they take her away to flood our lands with litters larger and larger?

Only time will tell...

Re-roll

Soft clouds pummel the mountainside. Thunder. Rain. More thunder. More rain. Repetitive writing. Short sentences. Headache.

Just as your head feels like it will split open, M, also known as Dr. T (Praise be unto his name and his ten-headed virgin father who shall not be named) bursts into the room, guns blazing.

M: "I have burst into the room, and my guns are blazing."

M's Insignificant Aide (curses unto her and her wretched lot) slithers in behind M.

Another week

As the faces of the fallen stream across the flickering screen, and their tears seem larger than life, M is struck by an overpowering sense of boredom. Sleep hits like a thick fog.

No cheese on my pizza, please. Thank you.

Serious blogging has left M (also known as Dr. T, may praises shower upon his peaceful countenance) with a sprained thumb and a sore mind.

I'm a little teapot, short and stout.
Here is my handle, here is my spout

As the heavenly aroma of Peking duck makes his mouth water, he realizes he has no money, not for a duck, not for the local train.

Oh, woe is me!

I don't need what you got for me no more

M (also known in lands beyond the mind's eye as Dr. T, praise be unto him) feels his stomach sink as the voice with the soft T's reads aloud his worst fears. Her voice fades in his mind, lost among magical thoughts of a delirious mind.

With eyes glazed over into hard Grey marbles, M is helped up and led away.

Gaia and the bee

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him in a thousand tongues of old) is almost awake. In the land between, there is a Grey mist all over, as slithering clocks melt away the final seconds of his delicious slumber.

Snooze.

Silence.

The clocks scatter and hide, waiting for their moment.

Five hundred and forty seconds have passed since the clock was last heard by mortal ear. A cold silence has since taken over the land, and M is dreaming of electric sheep, Tannhauser gate, and the shoulder of Orion.

Like a siren through the fog, the clock pierces the mornings with a recurring beep.

eeeep....eeeep....eEeEp...EEEEp...EEEEP....

Snooze.

Silence.

boob job

Ia looks across the water to the sunny hills peppered with little white settlements and little black knots of trees. So near, yet so far.

"Hot as an afternoon in hell, surely!," she tells herself.

waaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAmmmmmmmmmooooooooooooooooo..........

"WTF!@***%!!"

Big truck in the blasted blind spot.

"Stupid f***ing trucker!!"