I'll come up with something in a minute.

Etiquette (pt 3)

When the Atomic War strikes and Armageddon is upon us, rules of etiquette and decorum still apply.

While it is important not to allow your personal bomb shelter to become over-crowded by waves of your panicking neighbors who came less prepared, one should remember not to allow the situation to get away from oneself. Brandishing a weapon might become necessary at some point, but even the lethal force is rarely considered polite. Never start with the shotgun, simply explain that the shelter only holds so many and there simply is not longer any room.

Never resort of vulgarity. Screaming “Back off motherfucker, or I’ll spray you all over the landscape” rarely makes anything better and never earns us any friends. Instead a simple ”If required, I will shoot you… motherfucker” spoken in a calm and steady voice will be sufficient in most circumstances.

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January 21, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

There are no metaphors!

Let’s think about this, these two were making love all afternoon. Then the guy goes to wash his face, which can’t take that long. When the guy returns, in the tiny interval of time that has passed, there’s already someone else screwing her? What kind of slut is this Cecilia chick?

And don’t give me any of that metaphor crap! It’s a well-known fact that there is no metaphor in pop music. Prince was really singing about watching some one dance around in a violet hued downpour.

January 20, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Etiquette (pt 2)

When at a dinner party, it is considered highly gauche if one uses the fish fork to eviscerate the host’s brother. A good host should provide a Brother Killing Knife, which in a properly kept household should have a red handle and a narrow razor sharp blade. One should not make a scene, simply pick up the knife, walk behind the brother, grab his forehead, pressing the back of his head against either the chair or yourself, and cut his throat with a single swift stroke before stabbing him in the chest just to make sure. Press the head down after cutting the throat to avoid excess blood spray and make sure to leave the knife in the chest to avoid an even large mess.

After the dinner is over, it is generally considered a requirement to remove the body for your host and offering to pay for any cleaning which inevitably will have to be performed.

January 20, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

Etiquette Fact

It’s considered impolite to commit genocide on a Tuesday.

January 19, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Library Joke

Man walks into a library and says “Hamburger and fires please.”

The librarian looks around and says “This is a library.”

And the guys says. “Oh, sorry. Hamburger and fries please.

January 17, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Magic Wand

You know, people keep saying “I can’t just wave a magic wand and make that better.”, which leads me to ask… Have you tried?

Seriously! Has even one of these work shy gits ever gone down to the magic shop, walked in and said in a loud steady voice “Harry, I want you to sell me a condom!”

Sorry, those slip out sometimes

Has anyone ever gone to the magic shop and said “I want a magic wand, and a good firm one if you will. I’ve got some serious waving ahead of me today.”

Hav e they then, with magic wand in hand, ever actually waved the motherfucker while saying “Enney Meeny Chilli Beany” in a mystical voice?

NO!

Not a one of them has ever tried this.

Someone needs to get on that.

January 15, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Jack & Jill (Part Two)

 

Jack & Jill (A Love Story)

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

Read last week’s entry here.

 

 

Part Two: Jack, Without Pail

 

            I was expecting Peter Piper, because he’d called for an appointment that morning. It was still something of a surprise to see him when he came. Debbie opened the door, which I though meant he had canceled since the time was close at hand. However I’d heard the outer door open, so it might be a package.

 

            “This way please, Mister Piper.” Debbie then said and looked in my direction.

 

            Debbie showed him how to walk through a door by preceding him in. The problem was, he didn’t have her hips and watching him walk I could tell he didn’t have her grace. Most people don’t have Debbie’s grace, because she is both athletic and aware of where men watch. He must have been in a bad way if Debbie had come around the desk and showed him in rather than just buzzing me to let me know he was here.

 

            “Mister Collier?” He asked as they approached, he had brought up some speed and they made it to my desk almost together.

            “That’s right.” I said, standing to show that I know what manners are. “Mister Piper?”

 

            “Yes.” He nodded. “I am Peter Piper.”

 

            “Thank you Debbie.” I said flicking my eyes in her direction. “Why don’t you sit down? The red leather chair is the most comfortable.”

 

            He did, I did. When most people walk into my office, they look anything but light and cheerful. Being a private investigator, I rarely see anyone who has just won the lottery, or been given a major award for the art of cheerfulness. This fellow, however, appeared to be under a strain that would have given even Atlas trouble. He sat for a moment, looking at left front corner of my desk. He bit his lower lip, without showing his teeth and then started to clasp clumps of his pant legs in his hands. I waited, deciding it would be rude to push him.

 

            “My daughter has been kidnapped.” He said finally. “My little Jill.”

 

            “Okay.” I nodded. “Do you have any idea by whom or for what reason?”

 

            “No.” His voice was small and he cleared his throat to start again. “No I don’t. The police don’t even believe that she’s been kidnapped. They think she’s run away.”

 

            “Why do they think that?” I asked, although I could sense that he was building up to a shout.

 

            “Because it’s easier for them that way.” He snarled, and I could tell that I was going to be shouted at soon. “They think because a bag is gone and some clothes that of course she just left with a boy friend or something.”

 

            “Does she have a boyfriend?” I asked.

 

            “Of course not.” He snapped. “A fourteen year old girl doesn’t have boyfriends!”

 

            I kept my thoughts on the idea of fourteen year old girls having boyfriends to my self. Suzy Jenkins certainly had boyfriends, as did many of the girls. However, I think fourteen was longer ago for him than it was for me, so maybe he didn’t remember those days as clearly. Maybe he just didn’t want to think of his little girl being felt up by some guy movie theater, even if it was some guy her own age. Fathers are funny like that I’ve noticed. 

 

            “Where was she taken?” I asked. “I haven’t seen any news paper stories about this.”

 

            “There haven’t been any yet, thank god.” He said. “She was taken from our home,  didn’t I say that? Some of her clothes were taken, a few other things.”

 

            “Do you have her computer? Maybe her cellphone?”

 

            “Why the hell do you need that?” He snapped again. “What are those good for?”

 

            “Calm down Mister Piper.” I said, trying to be reassuring.

 

            “Don’t tell me to calm down!” He shouted and stood up. “Why the hell does everyone tell me to calm down? My little girl is out there!”

 

            “I’m trying to help you here.” I said, speaking calmly but firmly. “Shouting won’t help your little girl. She can’t hear you. She doesn’t know how much effort you’re putting forth. It’s wasted energy. Now please sit down.”

 

            I snapped the last word at him, and that was almost as good as a slap. People do not talk to multi-millionaires like I was talking to him. They usually are supplicant and go a long way towards trying to make friends. I’m not intimidated by wealth though, it’s hard to be intimidated by a mere millionaire when you know damn well you’ve fathered a girl who will be a billionaire when she reaches the age of majority. Money isn’t going to do much to intimidate me. Since I was talking to him like someone who wasn’t intimidated by either his money or his power, he shut right up. That is one of the nice things about guys who came to their money honestly, they know that when someone isn’t impressed by them, that they need to listen.

 

            “I’m sorry.” He sat down and had the good graces to look chastened. “Her cellphone was one of the things they took. Why would you need her computer?”

 

            “She may have been talking to someone on-line.” I said, trying to form the sentences to make her sound as blameless as possible. “A lot of teenage girls do that these days you know. Someone tells them how mature they write, and then asks for a picture and tells them how pretty they look. It’s rarer that those things lead to kidnapping than the media makes it sound, but it does really happen. If we can get her computer I know someone who can check her chat and e-mail records. If you pay her cellphone bill we can get a record of her text messages from the company. Even if she was ignoring someone who was stalking her, we can find out if someone was sending her messages.”

 

            I could see that I was getting through to him, because I saw him nodding.

 

            “I’ll make a few phone calls.” He said. “I’ll make sure you get whatever you need.”

 

            “I may need to speak to some of her friends.” I told him. “Can you help me arrange that?”

 

            “She doesn’t have many friends.”

 

            “Maybe someone from school?”

 

            “Her mother insists on home schooling.” He made a face when he said that, I could tell he did not approve of that one little bit. “Two private tutors come. One in the morning one in the afternoon. The police have spoken to them, just to make believe they were taking this seriously.”

 

            “I’ll probably need to talk to them as well.” I then considered that if I could really find her she might not want to be found. “I need to ask you something, and you’re not going to like hearing it.”

 

            “Okay.” He nodded.

 

            “If she did run away.”

 

            “She didn’t.”

 

            “Okay,” I nodded, not arguing. “But if she did, is she to come back without question?”

 

            “Yes, of course!” He yelled. “What kind of question is that?”

 

            “It’s the sort of question that I need answered.” I told him. “If I find her in San Francisco living like a hippy, I need to know if I just make her call you or do I wrap her up and bring her home no matter what.”

 

             It was the first time he’d considered the question, which was a bad sign. He’d never even let the idea that his perfect little girl would run away enter his head. Now that it had, he was having to consider the whys of that question pretty quickly. He nodded though and looked up at me with resignation on his face.

 

            “Bring her home.” He said. “Whatever the cost. If she ran away, it would be because she didn’t want to be kept at the house all the time. If she ran away, we can discuss her going to a local school or a private boarding school or something like that so she can have some friends and some freedom.”

 

            “Okay then.” I nodded. “I’ll probably need to ask your wife a few questions too.”

 

            “She’s in Paris.” He almost spat that out at me. “She won’t even come home for our baby’s disappearance. She thinks selling jars of peppers to the French is more important.”

 

            “My usual rate is two hundred and fifty dollars a day plus expenses.” I told him.

 

            “Fine.” He nodded and took out a check book. He wrote a check, tore it off and placed the check on the end of my desk. “I’ll give you a retainer for a thousand. The cellphone is with Ding Dong Bell, the CEO Johnny Flynn is an old friend of mine.”

 

             “I can come to your place and pick up the computer tonight.” I said. “I’ll want to look around her room anyway. Is it how it was left?”

 

            “Yes.” He nodded. “I haven’t let anyone clean it up yet.”

 

            “Good.” I said. “Don’t until I get there. If someone else grabbed her things to make it look like she left they may have been less careful with her things than she was.”

 

            “Her room is a mess though.” He stated.

 

            “But the mess might look different to an experienced eye.” I told him, which is a load of crap. A mess is a mess, but I thought he could use the reassurance that he’d bought quality goods at a bargain basement price.

 

 

January 14, 2010 Posted by | Fiction, Jack | | Leave a comment

Heavy Metal Review

I would like to show you something. This review of Heavy Metal is pretty much spot on.

Veiw the review here and scream in rage at WordPress not letting me embed stuff.

At about the 2:30 mark there is a digression on nudity in the pre-internet era that hit a cord with me. It reminds me of a Fakin’ It segment I wanted to write about Grindhouse and Exploitation cinema. Of course, that was before I was sort of eaten alive b y the blackness and yadda, yadda, yadda, if you’ve been reading along over the last week you can sing along by now.

I might post the two Fakin’ It bits I did write and put them up here for fun. Maybe later, who can say? I might need the filler after all.

January 11, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Heroes

Where is our generation’s Yukon Cornelius?

Where is our Sadko?

Where is Camo Ninja?

Where have you gone Buddy Cole? You left us too soon.

January 9, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Jack & Jill (Part One)

Jack & Jill (A Love Story)

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

If you want to see the past, you can read In The Cabinet Here

 

 

 

Part One: Meet Jill

 

            My shrink smokes. He doesn’t do it in the office, you can’t smoke in offices. My dad tells me that you used to, but that it more or less became verboten right before I was born. That was his word, verboten. I wouldn’t use a word like that, I have standards.

 

            I can smell it on him though, while it pervades every sense of his being, until all I can think of when I think of him is the smell of tobacco, it’s oddly not that bad with him. It’s a strangely comforting smell, the smell of a man who you know had to go out into the parking lot and smoke a cigarette in his mercades before he could see you. It’s nice to know that he’s got flaws to, I think that prevents me from thinking he’s judging me.

 

            “Well.” He said, smiling his yellowed tooth smile at me. “How would you like to start?”

 

            “I don’t know.” I shook my head, my hair falling into my face again.

 

            “Would you like to talk about the kidnapping? The detective?”

 

            “Jack.” I said, hating to hear him called by a title. “His name is Jack. I don’t like anyone thinking of him as the detective. It makes him sound slimy.”

 

            What I wanted to say it that it makes him sound like he was some kind of low thug, a piece of muscle that was just doing it for the money. I wanted to tell him that he was like a knight, but not some white shinning armor type like Galahad or Lancelot. He was like a real knight, with blood on his tunic and dents in his armor. You would never see him wearing velvet robes or marching with the Order of the Garter, because he would be too busy fighting evil and saving maidens. He’s like one of the real knights of old, someone Geoffrey of Monmouth would write about.

 

            You can’t say things like that though, because it sounds stupid. That’s what he said anyway. Jack told me that it’s one thing to write poetry, because sometimes you need to get things out, but showing it off and reading it just sounds dumb. I was sort of offended by that, but then he also told me that it lets people know where they can get at you because poetry is all feeling. That’s one of the things that made me fall in love with him, that he understands poetry, but that he thinks it makes you too vulnerable to attack to share. Something in life hurt him, something made him paranoid and I wish I knew what it was.

 

            “Okay.” The shrink said, bringing me back to my narrative. “Jack then. Do you want to talk about him?”

 

            “Not right now.” I said, shaking my head and then pushing the bangs out of my face again because every time I shake they fall down. It’s annoying, but I don’t like how my bangs look trimmed.

 

            I have to keep coming to my shrink, and I have to talk about the events I’m going to tell you about. Dad said that I don’t have to keep coming here, now that everything is taken care of, but I think it might help. I need help processing how I feel, and I need to deal with it. Jack would say I need to deal with it, so that I can leave it behind and never touch it again.

 

            See, I was kidnapped and raped. I went through what I’ve been told is Stockholm’s Syndrome and fell in love with the man that had kidnapped and raped me. Then I was rescued by the finest example of humanity I’ve ever met, an then he was shot and he’s probably going to die in that hospital bed he’s hooked up to now.

 

            “Would you like to talk about something unconnected to that for a moment?” He asked.

 

            “I just don’t want to talk about Jack right now.” I told him.

 

            Since he’s famous and I know you’re wondering, Jack Collier didn’t kidnap me, he didn’t hurt me, he saved me. I fell in love with Jack too, but it’s a pure love. It’s not some farcical sort of fluids pumping through parts of my body, or passionate embraces in the back seat of his car, it’s better than that. It’s the sort of love that in better days would lead to a girl stitching banners for her love. I would weave him banners if I knew how to sew, but I think he needs something else right now. What he needs is to get better, but I don’t know how to make him better.

 

            If this were a tale of old chivalry, my tears on his wounds would be enough, or a kiss from my lips upon his own full mouth. He wouldn’t allow that though, he would never allow it. He’s too good, too noble, too pure for this very ugly and sullied world and too pure for me. So I keep coming here, to try and work out how I can help him by helping myself. I can either try to re-purify myself for him, or I can help bury him if he doesn’t make it.

 

            That’s part of why I have to write this, so that people will understand what happened to him if he doesn’t make it out of this alive. People have to know why things have transpired to reach these ends, or they won’t understand why I love him.

 

            “Should we talk about Mister King then?” He asked, but I was staring off into the distance foe a moment. “Jill?”

 

            “Yes.” I nodded. “We can talk about Cole for a bit.”

 

            “How did you meet him then?”

 

            “Daddy.” I told him, which is true but perhaps you don’t know how true really.

 

            That, I suppose, is why we’re here, aren’t we? You want to know about Cole King and how he ended up where he did. My creative writing teacher in high school would call this an interesting introduction, saying that it sets up a hint at the conclusion that makes the reader want to know more. He was always saying things like that though, so I’m not sure how much we should take stock in his pronouncements. Still, it’s important to start somewhere and I wouldn’t want you reading this story thinking that I don’t end up okay by the end. I would hate to have you thinking that I don’t get out, because I do and it’s the most wonderful man in the world who saves me.

 

            “You’re father worked with Mister King, is that right?”

 

            “They sort of worked together.” I told him, leaning my head back against the cushion. “Daddy was using Cole to help with the other side of his business. You know what I mean?”

 

            “You mean with the things that your father was accused of?” He asked, trying to be so polite about it.

 

            “Yes.” I tried not to roll my eyes. “Cole was bringing the workers for him. Daddy hired Cole to help with getting those Mexicans to the farms. We didn’t know how Cole was getting them.”

 

            “When did you first meet him?” He asked, leaning back, hoping I would start to tell a story.

 

            So why shouldn’t I tell a story?  That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? So I can tell the story? I need to tell you this, because if Jack doesn’t pull through, then he can’t tell you himself. So I’ll start with Cole, I’ll start with how I met Cole and how daddy brought him into our house.

 

            Cole King was a big fat Texan, only he wasn’t really from Texas at all. Someone told me that he really came from Minnesota or someplace like that. He was the sort of guy who moves to Texas and then buys a big hat and cowboy boots and wears a six shooter in a holster on his hip. He even spoke in a fake hick accent, but that didn’t bother me so much at first because he mostly talked to daddy when he was brought to the house.

 

            I thought at first he liked to see daddy at the house because we live on this big estate of land. We’ve got deer out there, foxes and skunks and lots of rabbits and things. Cole and Daddy went hunting and shooting out there all the time. I suppose some day I’ll figure out why men like to shoot guns, but it’s a mystery to me as things currently stand.

 

            Daddy liked to have Cole around because he was a big fat jolly sort of guy. You know, he was always laughing and joking and being really witty only not. How can anyone deal with a man who thinks that the best joke in the world is to have someone pull their finger while they fart? If you want to expand you repertoire of dirty jokes, you just have to stand around Cole for a while. The problem is they weren’t even funny. They were just like an excuse to say bad words. It was kind of sad really, that this guy who was only a few years younger than my father liked telling these stupid jokes and my father always laughed as if he’d never heard them before in his life despite the fact that he only has about six of them. I’ve heard the one about the nymphomaniac hermaphrodite so many times I could tell it in me sleep. However, I have standards that rise above jokes that have a punch line like “So the doctor said ‘I guess you’d better go fuck yourself’” thank you very much.

 

            Daddy never thought Cole even looked in my direction, but I could always feel him watching whenever he was around. I always felt like changing my clothes if he was around, no matter what I was wearing I wanted to put on a burkha if he was coming over. It always made me feel kind of sick, that he was looking at me like that. And when he’d compliment me, and tell me how pretty he thought I looked, it just made me want to go hide in the woods. I don’t know how Daddy missed it, but Mom didn’t. Mom didn’t like him, and Mom thought that Daddy should just get rid of him.

 

            The problem was Mom was in Paris when Cole came over that day on his own. I should have run, I should have hid in the woods, but I didn’t. I just stood there and let him grab me, I didn’t even really struggle when he tied me up and put my in his car. I was too scared to struggle, I was terrified in fact. It doesn’t make sense to say that I thought he would kill me, because I should have run if I thought that. I guess I thought he would hurt me really bad before he killed me if I tried to run.

 

            He threw me into the back of his Hummer, and then went back into the house. I waited, just trembling in the back seat, wondering what he was doing. When he came out, he had something in his hands that he threw over my head into the back of the truck. Then he put a pillow case over my head and tied it around my neck so I couldn’t peak at anything. Then he got into the front and started driving.

 

            He never said a word to me, not for the entire trip. He just grabbed me, wrapped me up and took off. It’s probably taken me longer to tell you about it than it took for him to do it.     

 

 

January 8, 2010 Posted by | Fiction, Jack | | Leave a comment