The Literary Conspiracy

            I take my job as an amateur internet writer very seriously, which means I’ll take any interview that will score me a lot of hits.  Even, as was the case yesterday, if most of those hits are self-inflicted kicks to the skull.  I was loitering in the halls of an upscale hotel near LAX, minding my own business, when I noticed a line of people in suits carrying notepads and tape recorders was forming outside one of the suites.  With nothing better to do, I got in line. 

            I was the last person in line, and after about forty-five  minutes I found out that this was a press junket for Stephenie Meyer, talking about life after Twilight.  If my years on the internet hadn’t taught me how to control my gag reflex, this article would have had a very different ending.  I sat down in a plush leather armchair across from Meyer, the spacious suite suspiciously lacking any bodyguards, personal assistants, or anyone else for that matter.  Something seemed off.

            “So,” I said, after an awkward silence, “What’s next for an author of your stature?”

            “I’d like to do some high-concept avant-garde work.”

            “I see.”  I made a mental note to make sure ‘stature’ means what I think it does.  I was about to say something else, but then I noticed that Meyer’s head was twitching violently back and forth.  “Are you okay?” 

            A few things tipped me off that she was not okay.  The first is that she started repeating the same word over and over again.  The second is that that word was ‘Error.’  By the time sparks started flying out of her ears, I was pretty sure something was amiss.  When the sparks had stopped for long enough that I was confident she wouldn’t catch fire or explode or spawn Meyer-nano-bots, I opened the suitcase sitting next to her seat.  (It’s perfectly legal to look through someone’s stuff if you’re there when they died; it says so in the sixth amendment.)   What I found was evidence of a conspiracy so complex and far-reaching that it is almost too stupid to believe. 

            The suitcase contained all the information on ‘Literary Contingency Plan Theta.’  Which, the cover sheet informed me, was designed to ‘inspire book sales in the otherwise illiterate in a manner that will anger the more literary among the populace, prompting them to buy quality books.’  It appeared that a number of authors all wrote their own version of Twilight, and those versions were then compiled and distilled into a garbled mess, i.e., a bestseller.  I was able to retrieve brief excerpts of the various versions of the story before the Meyer-bot self-destructed.  This conspiracy goes back longer than I would have dared to imagine, and could completely rewrite literary history.  The authors mentioned hereafter will, undoubtedly, deny any involvement.

Cormac McCarthy:

            See the girl.  She sat in the back of an old car.  Thunderheads galloped through the sky above, below the fog-muted greens of the treetops rattled in the cold seawind from the west, carrying the salt laden air inland. An alien world unlike the interminable expanse of orange and gold that was Arizona.  The girl stirs.  When will we get there?  she asks.  There is a man driving, he does not turn to her when he speaks.  Another hour, or so.

            That long?

            It’s the weather.

            The hill crests before them, at the peak they can see the town under siege from the rain that has sprung up out of nowhere.

Michael Cricthon:

            “So the enzyme in your saliva is responsible,” Bella asked.

            “Exactly,” Dr. Cullen explained.  “Once in the bloodstream, the enzyme enters the DNA of the individual cells, much in the same fashion of the naturally occurring thyroid hormone, tri-iodothyronine.  The enzyme rewrites the DNA to, first of all, produce more of the enzyme.  Then it prevents the shortening of telomeres, which halts the aging process.  However, it inhibits erythropoiesis, the production or erythrocytes, better known as red blood cells.”

            “But what about your super strength?”

            “If we look at the muscle fibers we –

Thomas Pynchon:

            He held her, pressed up against an eldernly oak.  She turned her head, could see an eroded etching in the bark, made out that it said ‘Ron + Jenny Always.’  They had put that there in 1952.  Ronald Hopefalls was a sailor aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Mishap, which had anchored safely in Seattle after six months off the coast of Thailand.  Ronald had bartered for a ride south from Seattle, he traded a sterling silver pendant that he had stolen from a drunk in Bangkok.  The pendant appeared to be a meaningless series of criss-crossing metal mesh, but when a light shone through it, it cast shadows depicting various methods of fellatio depending on the angle and intensity of the light.

Bret Easton Ellis:

            I am wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch black polyester-blend tee-shirt, Hot Topic tattered denim blue jeans and black and gray Converse sneakers with white laces.   I’m trying to get to English class when I see Mike coming towards me.  I don’t want to deal with him.

            “You look really nice today,” he says.

            Please go away.

            “Thanks.”

            He shuffles his feet like a moron and I know what he’s going to ask.  It’s embarrassing to watch.

            “Do you want to go to prom with me?”

            I’d rather slit open my abdomen and eat whatever comes out.

            “I’m not going.”

            He looks broken and walks away.  I should suggest a girl for him to take out, just so I won’t have to deal with how pitiful he looks.  Half the guys here have asked me out, like they think that just because I’m the new girl, I’ll drop my panties for the first nice guy that comes along.  Why not?  There’s nothing else to do in this shitstain of a town.

Ernest Hemingway:

            They thought the man had been torn apart by wild dogs.  The carcass was ragged with teethmarks.  I listened to my father relate the investigation.  They found a second body.  Now they think a man did this.  He is going to search the woods for the killer.  He told me he loves me and left.  I poured myself a drink.

Geoffrey Chaucer:

And eek sporte hadde he,

But condiciouns ther neede be.

The shoures soote  loved hem alle,

For thanne koulde folks playen balle.

A Day at the Ad Agency

            “Yes, Mr. Holstrom.  Yes, I realize that this is unacceptable.  I’m going to rectify the situation right- Rectify.  It means to make right.  Yes, I’m sure it doesn’t mean that.  Yes, I’ll get right on it.  All right, thanks.”

            I hang up the phone, and rub my temples.  This is the third time Johnson’s fucked me over.  I open the drawer in my desk by my right knee, pull out a bottle of scotch and a glass.  I hate firing people.  I pour, drink.  Johnson’s office is down the hall, about ten yards from mine.  His office is only about eight by ten, but then again, he’s only worked here for six months.  It took me three years to get a decent sized office. 

            When I enter the room, Johnson is sitting with his feet on his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair, holding a paperback at arm’s length over his face.  I clear my throat.  Johnson looks at me without moving his head.

            “Hey,” he says, “What’s up?”

            “We need to talk,” I say, pulling from my pocket the folded up flyer Mr. Hostrom faxed to me.  “It’s serious.”

            Johnson swings his legs off the desk, and sits up straight, tossing the book behind him.  It hits the wall and some pages fall out.  I lay the flyer flat on the desk in front of him.  “Can you tell me what this is?” I say.

            Johnson looks it over, then says, “It’s the promotional flyer I designed for Mattress Mart’s sale.”

            “And do you see why Mr. Holstrom might be upset with it?”

            Johnson strokes his chin for a moment.  “No.”

            “Well, I see several.  Let’s start with the big bright red letters across the top.”

            “What about them.”

            I can’t tell if Johnson is messing with me, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.  “You don’t see it?”

            “No.”

            “Mattress-Side Sale.  In big red, inexplicably dripping letters, it says Mattress-Side Sale.”

            Johnson shrugs as if he has no idea what I mean.

            “Mattress-side.  Matricide.”

            He shrugs.  “Coincidence.”

            “Coincidence!  How could it be coincidence!  What the fuck does Mattress-side even mean.”

            “It means ‘the act of murdering one’s own mother.’”

            “I know that!”

            “Then why’d you ask?”

            I take a few deep breaths.  “I mean, why did you name the sale the Mattress-Side Sale.”

            “Because we have the best mattresses this side of the Mississippi.” He says.  “I promise, any homophones are coincidental.”

            “See, I have a hard time believing that.”  I point to the image beneath the title, “Could you explain this?”

            Johnson looks it over.  “I think the meaning is quite clear.”

            “So do I, which is precisely the problem.”

            The image is a line drawing of a large number of young men and middle aged women in a mattress store, all of them brandishing weapons of some kind.  Beneath that is the line: Everyone and their mother is going Psycho for our low, low prices.

            “Do you seriously expect me to believe that this has nothing to do with matricide?”

            “It has everything to do with mattress-side.  That’s the name of the sale.”

            The son of a bitch is grinning now.  “Enough,” I say.

            He shrugs.  “Fine,” he says.  “The pun is intentional.  I thought he’d like it.”

            “Why would he possibly like it?”

            “You’ve seen the commercials, always talking about prices so low that he’s got to be insane and all that.  What says crazy better than matricide?”

            I look him over carefully, trying to determine whether he’s still pulling my leg.  “Not that kind of crazy.  He’s quirky uncle crazy, not dress up like a clown and rip out your sternum crazy.”

            Johnson shrugs. “My mistake,” he says.  “I’ll do better next time.”

            I brace myself, take a deep breath.  “There won’t be a next time.  You’re fired.”

            He looks at me, actually serious for the first time so far.  “What!  Because I made one mistake!”

            “This is hardly the first mistake.”

            “Name one other.  I dare you!”

            “That Chef Spyro’s Gyro shop.  You remember that one?”

            Johnson crosses his arms over his chest.  “What about it?”

            “‘Chef Spyro will fill your mouth with his hot meat.’  And the picture was a close-up of Spyro winking.”

            Johnson snorts in derision. “So it happened one other time.  Big deal.”

            “And Bragler’s Pharmacy.  The ad just said, ‘Drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.’”

            “It got people’s attention.”

            “It got the police department’s attention.”

            “Police are people.”

            “That’s not the point!”

            I take several deep breaths.  “The point is, you’re fired.  That’s it.”

            I stand up and start to leave, but Johnson runs around the desk and grabs my shoulder.  “Let me show you what I’ve got,” he says, clearly desperate.  “If you don’t like it, I’ll go.”

            “Fine,” I say. 

            An easel with a giant pad of sketch paper is leaned against the wall.  Johnson spreads its legs, and prepares to flip over the page.  “It’s for Rico’s Italian diner.”  He flips over the page.

            There’s are two meatballs next to each other, and a cannoli dangling below them.  The tagline says, “You’ll love our big meaty balls.”

            Johnson is smiling self-consciously.  I look at the ad again, then back to Johnson.  I turn around and start walking.  “You’re fired.” I call out over my shoulder. 

The Poolboy

            Times have been tough lately.  Fresh out of college, no jobs for a philosophy major in this economy.  So when my cousin Fred in Orange County offered me a job at the pool cleaning service he works for, I couldn’t say no.  I’ll be honest, I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a pool, but if Fred can do it, it shouldn’t be too difficult.  I learned quickly enough (memorizing heater specs is nothing compared to Sartre) and was soon on my first assignment.  Fred had warned me that the customers were freaky, but I had no idea what I was in for. 

            My first job was at one o’clock, and, in typical Southern California fashion, the sun was scorching.  The house was a simple two-story family home in the middle of suburbia, green lawn, nice car, clean pool, almost the archetype of the typical suburban home.  I pulled the white pickup truck alongside the curb, grabbed the chemicals and skimmer from the bed, and went around the side of the house to the backyard.  The pool was, I roughly estimated, forty by fifteen feet, with a maximum depth of between nine and twelve feet.  It was surrounded by a gate, which is highly recommended to prevent tragic accidents.  My skimmer was already in the pool when I realized that the client (one Mrs. Benson, according to the billing information), was sunbathing on a lounge chair, on the concrete about ten feet from the pool.  She was wearing a red bikini, sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, a bottle of suntan lotion on the ground next to the chair.  She noticed me looking at her, raised her head and smiled, waved.  I waved back. 

            She called out, “I hope you don’t mind if I watch.” 

            “Not at all,” I called back.  It’s good to see a homeowner take an active interest in their pool’s maintenance.  The surface of the water was spotted with clusters of leaves, which are best to remove before adding chemicals.  I realized soon on that watching the skimmer glide across the water was relaxing, almost hypnotic even.  I walked around the pool, the little blue net filling with soaked foliage, until I got to the filter, which I realized was directly in front of Mrs. Benson.  It was also broken, and I leant down to check it.  This got Mrs. Benson’s attention, as she propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look.  This filled me with a sense of anticipation; if I couldn’t fix the filter, with a pool-owner as astute as Mrs. Benson, I could be in for a hard time back at the office. 

            Mrs. Benson got up from the lounge chair and walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.  “What seems to be the problem,” she said, kindly.

            “It looks like the filter’s broken,” I said, “It’s probably blocked at the pump, Mrs. Benson.” 

            “Please,” she said, “Call me Anne, and it hasn’t been Mrs. for months,” she smiled.

            I smiled back.  “I’ll be sure to change the billing info to ‘Miss’,” I said, looking around for the pump.  It was near the side of the house opposite from the side I entered from, so I walked over there, followed, to my surprise, by Anne.  I was sweating pretty badly by this point, and was tempted when Anne suggested I take my shirt off.  Unfortunately, I burn very easily, and the sun tan lotion by the lounge chair has a disastrously low SPF. 

            “Sooo…” Anne said as I squatted down next to the pump, “this problem with the pump.  Does it look hard?”

            “Too soon to tell,” I said, “I’m going to need to open her up and have a look inside.” 

            “Do you have a special tool for that?” she said. 

            “Sure do,” I said, reaching into one of the pockets on my khaki shorts. 

            “Can I touch it?” she asked, “Your tool I mean?”

            I stood up, and turned around.  She was rubbing her hands along the sides of her torso. “Sure,” I said, “hold out your hand.”  She placed her hand palm up about waist height, which struck me as odd as I handed her my wrench.  She looked at it, even though she was wearing sunglasses, I could tell she was squinting her eyes in confusion.  “It’s a Foreman 3/8 inch standard wrench,” I said.  She looked at me like I was an idiot, then it hit me.  “Oh!” I said, feeling like a complete fool.  I took the wrench back and started fumbling around with my shorts.  It took me a moment, but I found it and got it out. 

            The filter uses metric nuts, and there I was like an idiot with a 3/8 inch wrench.  I showed her the adjustable wrench.  “Sorry,” I said, her face still shocked by my rookie mistake, “I’m new at this.”  Fixing the pump was a piece of cake, but Anne still seemed put off by my mistake with the wrench. 

            “Sorry again,” I said.  “I’m a bit nervous, but I swear, I’m all business.”

            She seemed to respond well to my reassurances, and her face lit up with a smile. “This is your first time?” she said, stepping a little closer to me. 

            “Yeah,” I said, “There’s a big difference between practicing alone and actually doing it with someone else there.  You know, theory versus practice and all that.” 

            Anne nodded emphatically, “I know just what you mean.”  She leaned over and whispered into my ear, her breath hot and moist, “How about some practice, then?”

            I nodded.  My bucket with the chemical containers was sitting unattended and unused on the other side of the pool, and here I was chatting.  Time to put my training into practice.  Anne seemed flustered when I had finished adding in the chemicals and said my goodbyes.  In hindsight, her behavior throughout the entire ordeal had been odd.  I guess Fred was right about the customers being freaky.

           

            

The Disastrous Adventures of Carl - Chapter 1

            Thirty thousand feet above Oregon, the U.S.S. Pinto entered into a nose-dive.  While the greatest in 47^th century technology made the airship virtually invincible to enemy fire, it couldn’t do anything to stop gross incompetence from within the Pinto itself.  Gross incompetence named Carl. 

            This particular bit of unspeakably catastrophic foolishness was particularly catastrophic, unspeakable, and foolish because it ended up causing the United States of North America and Associated Islands to lose World War LXXIV.  It is worth noting that mankind had solved all its problems, including war, somewhere in the mid-39^th century.  With nothing much else to do, they started holding a world war every ten years.  It’s all fun and games though, as only the robots fight.  The first to hold control of Australia (which had been uninhabited since The Great Kangaroo Uprising of 2944) for two weeks wins.  And the USNA&AI was just one strategic deployment away from winning the whole thing.  Then Carl happened.

            Robotic Cannons are pretty low tech.  Basically, they’re just standard plasma cannons on wheels.  The lack of any AI software makes them difficult for opposing forces to notice, making them a valuable tool for surprise attacks.  There were twenty such cannons on the U.S.S. Pinto, and someone made the mistake of asking Carl to run a quick diagnostic scan on all of them.  He succeeded in scanning four cannons before dooming the Pinto to crash by not only activating a cannon, but setting it to “Berserk” mode, which was particularly impressive because robotic cannons don’t have a berserk mode.  The cannon raced out of the transport dock and into the body of the ship, firing indiscriminately.  Carl chased after it, hoping to catch it before anyone noticed the gaping holes in the side of the ship. 

            Sirens began to blare as the captain announced over the PA system, “Code Indigo.  Critical weaponry malfunction.  I repeat Code Indigo.  This is not a drill.”

            Carl chased after the cannon.  “I’m on it!” he shouted to the people ducking and lunging for safety, “Tell the captain I’m on it!”  Someone did tell the captain, who immediately made another announcement on the PA system.  “Code Kind of Blue but Really More of a Green.  Please evacuate the ship immediately. I repeat, Code Kind of Blue but Really More of a Green.”  The crew rushed to the escape pods as the cannon careened aftward down the corridors with Carl hot on its trail.  Only one other person hadn’t fled yet.

            A few hundred yards further down the ship, Professor Larry Romulus the Incomprehensible was trying to save as much of his research as possible.  His research was so complex that he was literally the only person on Earth that could understand it, hence his title.  He managed to shove several hard drives into a bag before grabbing the only working prototype and dashing into the corridor.  He was just feet from the starboard escape pod bay when the cannon skidded around a corner and fired a massive ball of glowing blue-white plasma at the professor.  He dodged at the last second, mercifully avoiding the deadly glob of energy only to be particularly unmercifully impaled by a large shred of shrapnel from what used to be the escape pod.  

            In a stroke of luck, the ship tilted starboard and the cannon rolled out of the hole it just made and plummeted into the middle of a Renaissance Faire.  This was not so lucky for Hagar the Blacksmith, but was incredibly lucky for Carl.  Professor Romulus was dying anyway, so we’ll call it a wash. 

            With all the escape pods gone or destroyed, the ship tried to stabilize itself.  At its current rate, it would crash into the Pacific Ocean in two minutes and six seconds.  Carl approached the professor.  “Are you okay?” he asked.

            The professor coughed shallowly.  Then, in raspy rushed breath, he said, “What kind of stupid question is that?  I have a giant piece of metal sticking out of my chest.”  He coughed some more.  “Before I die, I need you to do something for me.”

            “What do you need me to do?”

            The professor handed him the prototype.  It was a sleek gray cube, about six inches on each side.  There was a green button on one side and a screen on the front, but it was cracked.  “Take this.  Use it to escape.  Keep it safe.”

            “How?  What is it?”

            “It’s a transdimensional shift facilitator. “

            “I don’t know what that is.”

            “No one does.”

            “What does it do?”

            “You wouldn’t understand.”

            “Probably.”

            “Just press the green button and get out of here.”

            “Okay.  I’m sorry about all this, professor.”

            “Just get out of here!” The professor shouted.

            Carl pressed the green button and disappeared in a flash, leaving behind only a whiff of green smoke.

A Series of Increasingly Improbable Events - Part 3: Knock Out

            It was almost midnight, and the four of us were sitting at the kitchenette in my apartment.  We had been arguing for over two hours by then, trying to come to a consensus on the age old question of what to do with our new superpowers.  Tara started by suggesting that we talk to a scientist or someone in the press.  No one agreed.  I suggested we lay low until we knew more about our situation.  Only Barry agreed.  George thought we should fight crime.  We continuously ignored that suggestion.  Barry didn’t come up with any new ideas.

            “I keep telling you,” I said, “We should keep our heads down.”

            “So just do nothing?” Tara scoffed, “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs and hope the answers drop out of the sky?”

            “Or we could fight crime?” George chimed in. 

            I ignored him and continued talking to Tara.  “It’s better than telling everyone.  For all we know that king coconor-”

            “Konakor,” Barry said.

            “Whatever.  King Konakor is trying to find us.  If we have a bunch of scientists blabbing about superpowers, the government could be the least of our problems.”

            “We should do something!”

            “We could always fight -”

            “Shut up, George.” Tara, Barry, and I said in unison. George pouted and everyone was silent.  In the newfound calm, we managed to reel in our tempers. 

            “Look,” I said to Tara, “I agree that we should find out more about our abilities, but I don’t know who we can trust.”  Tara nodded.

            “I know, but we’re not going to find out anything by sitting around and hoping.”

            “Well,” said George, “If we were to use our powers-”

            “We’re not fighting crime, George,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.  It was actually the hundred and eighty-seventh time.

            “Actually,” Tara said, “I think he might have a point.”

            “What?” Barry exclaimed.  George beamed.

            “Not about the crime fighting,” Tara added, George’s smile disappearing, “But about using our powers.  I’m going to have a lot of free time, so I might as well be productive.”  We looked at her, puzzled.  She said nothing for a moment then admitted, “I got fired today for being late.  Again.”

            Barry put a hand on her shoulder.  We were uttering reassurances to her when I had an idea.  “George,” I said, “You know that bar a couple blocks from here.” 

            “You have to be way more specific.”

            “The British one with the Irish name.”

            “McManus’s?  What about it?”

            “Don’t the people there love to bet?”

            “Yeah, but I-” George’s eyes widened with understanding.  Tara nodded. 

            Barry appeared deep in thought, then gave up.  “What are you talking about?”

            “They have darts contests, like, every night.  I could win a bundle from that.”

            “And they have drunks at that bar.” George said, “I could win some bar bets.”

            “What could I do?” Tara asked.

            George shrugged.  “See if they need a bartender?”  Tara shot him an angry glare, and I kicked at George’s leg under the table.

            “Ow!” Barry shouted, drawing his leg up to his chest and cussing under his breath.

            “Sorry,” I said, “that was meant for George.”

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            From the outside, McManus’s seemed like a quaint little building.  The type of place your grandmother would go to for brunch.  But once you get near the door and the sound of British punk rock permeates your skull you realize that only the most badass grannies would step foot in here.  In addition to the bar itself, a wide assortment of tables were splayed around the room.  Patrons were playing pool on four of the tables, which wouldn’t have been interesting if there hadn’t been only three pool tables.  All in all, this was a stereotypical British pub.

            There was a group of people playing darts by the back of the joint.  “I’ll see you guys in a bit,” I said, pointing to the darts.  I walked the thirty or so feet to where the game was being played, avoiding several drunks who almost crashed into me on their way to or from the bar.  There were two people playing and a small crowd watching and cheering.  The man currently throwing was in his early thirties.  He was lanky but had an air of craziness about him that instantly put me on edge.  He had shaggy black hair and a cockney accent straight out of Mary Poppins.  He through his final dart and hit the bullseye dead center.  The crowd cheered and the other player handed him several large bills.

            The other player looked like a sad Pierce Brosnan.  Probably because he was Pierce Brosnan, and he just lost.  He disappeared out the back door of the pub before I could get an autograph. 

            “Good show, Wesley!” a man who had been watching the game shouted.  “That’s all of them ‘cept Moore and Lazenby, innit?”

            “Just Moore,” Wesley said. “Beat Lazenby last week.  Then we played darts.”  Everyone laughed, myself included.  This got Wesley’s attention.  “What do you want?”

            “Oh, I want to play darts with Wesley.”  The people laughed.

            “Aye!” one of them shouted, “This Yank’s off his chump!”

            “I’ll assume that’s an insult.” I said.

            “It is,” Wesley nodded, and turned to the crowd, “What say I show him how it’s done?”  The crowd cheered.  “And you know what,” he turned back to me, “I’ll give you odds.    Five hundred bucks, three to one.” 

            “Sounds good,” I said.  Wesley nodded to one of the spectators, of which the number was now growing. The man he nodded to retrieved the darts from the board and brought them to Wesley.  He handed me three darts.

            “Three sets, with three legs apiece.  Play from 501 and double-in.  Sound good to you?”  He raised his eyebrows. 
            “Um,” I stuttered, “Do you mind if I get a drink before we start?”

            “Sure,” he smiled, “Just don’t bugger off.” 

            “I won’t,” I promised as I headed to the bar. 

            George was there, arm wrestling with an obscenely muscular man.  The tattoo on the man’s bulbous bicep clearly predated the biceps themselves, as what had once been a slender mermaid now looked like someone shoved Roseanne Barr down a trout’s throat.  Or maybe he was just into that kind of thing.

            Tara was sitting a couple stools down, several crumpled bills in her hand.  I sat down next to her.  Without looking at her I said, “We’ve got a problem.”

            “Why?  What’s wrong.”  She looked at me concernedly. 

            “I don’t know how to play darts.”

            Tara rolled her eyes.  “Really?”  She turned to George.  “Hurry this up, I gotta help Matt play darts.”  There was a loud thud and a grunt as George slammed the man’s forearm to the table.  Tara handed him the money and we walked to the dartboard. 

            “So,” Wesley said as we approached, “You brought some of your mates to watch you lose?” 

            “ ‘Ow many akkers for the bird?” one of the spectators asked. 

            “Be nice, Keith.” Wesley said, shooting Keith a reproachful look.  “Let’s get this started, shall we?” 

            “Sounds good.”  I said, “You start.”

            “Fair enough,” Wesley said and turned to stare intensely at the dartboard.  He threw the dart right in the middle of the 20.  The second hit the double 20 and the third the 20 again, just above the triple.  “Four-forty-one” he said and stepped aside.

            I took his place and pretended to aim.  “Hit the double 20,” Tara whispered.

            “Umm…” I replied, moving the dart forward and back in the air. 

            “The thing he hit on his second throw.”

            “Oh, okay.” I said, and launched the dart to the suggested spot.  The spectators muttered their approval. 

            “Now the triple 20,” Tara whispered. 

            “Umm…”  I repeated.

            “The little band above the double twenty.”

            I nodded and hit the triple 20.  Then I hit the triple 20 again. 

            “That’s…umm…”

            “Three-forty-one,” Tara whispered. 
            “Three-forty-one” I repeated and stepped aside for Wesley, who was now looking rather shaken. 

            Tara gave me instructions for the rest of the game (which they call “legs” for some reason) and I won the game in nine throws.  In nine more, I won the set.  I won the next set and the match soon after.  Then all I remember is asking Wesley for my money, which he held out in his left hand.  Unfortunately, his right hand was hurtling towards my nose.  I’m not proud to admit that I passed out, but I have a distinct recollection of George shouting, “It’s clobberin’ time.”

Pokemon Funniness

I was feeling nostalgic after my high school alumni party, so I checked out some of my old favorites from Youtube.  Sure enough, I found my way back to this particularly awesome fan movie for Pokémon:

I later stumbled across something that makes this outcome seem not only possible, but likely:

To be perfectly honest, I haven't played any version of Pokémon past Silver for the Gameboy Color.  I'm one of those guys that will say, "Back in my day, we had 150 pokémon, and we liked it!"  Also, I think the people who come up with new pokemon are running out of ideas.  I think they're just looking around their office and basing things off that.

"Konami Memo: Tuesdays are trash pick-up"

We're bringing ice cream for Jerry's retirement party:

Some stupid kids with mohawks and baggy pants were smoking in the parking lot: