underwaterminefield - Tumblr blog

[underwaterminefield]

"Robert Johnson"

B "strange editor" (submission) | CROSSROAD

[underwaterminefield]

Hologram Coffins

Commanded by the spectre of tomorrow's cliff the cautionary tale that provokes and stokes caution in a small spirit: The FEAR OF GOD will ward away your ghostly muse You Regret, now, that Regret The one you will, one day, Regret.

Perhaps we simply ready ourselves to waste, to lose because that is the familiar envelope (well-inked, cozy-lettered address sprigs of silver, holy water, tiny wooden stake) we most expect from life.

Devon Maloney | CROSSROAD

[underwaterminefield]

Some Other Terrible Reason

Once or twice I've heard that if a person is stabbed, or if his lungs fill up with blood (for some Other Terrible Reason than a stabbing), and he Dies, that sometimes a bubble will rise up in the dying person's throat and out of his mouth, sputtering and popping frothily in one last clutching spasm of life leaving the body. 

Of course, I've never seen this, or a Dying Person or even a Dead Person for that matter, only read about it and trusted those accounts were faithful (though who can trust any eyewitness anymore). Still, the image won't leave my mind somehow; all I've been able to think about for days is that bright red, glistening dome, pulsing slowly upward gasp by failed gasp,  betraying its doomed vessel like a  giant, terrorist zit suffocating a pore.  Like a terrible, bloody secret,  forced at last to light,  a confession spit forth involuntarily in  a mortal throe. 

Every gulp betrays the Dying Person as he struggles to stay in the world of the living, dragging him instead deeper and deeper into whatever maw of hell his wild, delirious panic envisions (he was just stabbed, or his lungs are filling with blood for some Other terrible Reason). 

And then the bubble must burst at some awful moment. If he's still Alive, that pop must be a terrible tiny sound, a quiet (yet so loud) closing of that window of hope that he may come out of this if only someone was to pick him up off the ground and get him to an ambulance.  

Some people must hear the pop, others must go before — or maybe everyone is Dead before the blood even begins to crawl up the wind pipe.

Devon Maloney | CROSSROAD

[underwaterminefield]

CROSSROAD

cross·road

noun \ˈkrȯs-ˌrōd also -ˈrōd\

Definition of CROSSROAD

1: a road that crosses a main road or runs cross-country between main roads

2: usually plural but singular or plural in construction

a : the place of intersection of two or more roads

b (1) : a small community located at such a crossroads (2) :a central meeting place

c : a crucial point especially where a decision must be made

[underwaterminefield]

New Old Silent Year

Artless kisses in the unsparkling grey of January morning Your face is made of pores and deep, distant gazes That refuse to shake hands with the light Even while the dawn combs quiet comfort through your eyelashes.

Fluttering wings congeal to the inner cavern of the skull, so many curled words, like overworked ribbon, exhausted fluttering Beating against the stickiness of silence, the fear of escape.

The wasted concrete is ablaze behind us and yet we pull up, in desperate fury, Wheeling about to face the inferno, and returning, certain that we'd missed something In a fitful abandonment of curiosity. if it was sunny and not so cold it would be a very nice day out here

Devon Maloney | New

[underwaterminefield]

New

new

adjective

\ˈnü, ˈnyü\

definition of "new"

1   having recently come into existence : recent, modern

2   a (1) : having been seen, used, or known for a short time : novel (rice was a new crop for the area) (2) : unfamiliar (visit new places)

     b : being other than the former or old (a steady flow of new money)

3   having been in a relationship or condition but a short time (new to the job, a new husband)

4   a : beginning as the resumption or repetition of a previous act or thing (a new day, the new edition)

     b : made or become fresh (awoke a new person)

     c : relating to or being a new moon

5   different from one of the same category that has existed previously (new realism)

6   of dissimilar origin and usually of superior quality (a new strain of hybrid corn)

7   capitalized : modern 3; especially : having been in use after medieval times

new·ish, new·ness

[underwaterminefield]

Sincerely, Yours Truly: An Open Letter To Avril Lavigne and Chad Kroeger

Ed. Note: Sincerely, Yours Truly is a column that has gone dormant for a short amount of time, mostly because we are all so horrified at our own lives that it can occasionally be difficult to be sufficiently horrified at everyone else's. Luckily, Chad Kroeger and Avril Lavigne have brought us back from the edge. Thanks for lookin' out, you two. See more installments of this column here.

Dear Canadian Harbingers Of The End Of Days,

I guess... um... congratulations are in order? It seems that you’ve found your soulessmate in one another, huh? Good. GOOD FOR YOU, Avs and Chads. I truly couldn’t (and WOULDN’T) have picked a more... fitting couple.

Really! You have so much in common: being from the Great Land Up North, questionable hair choices (Chadbert, that old awkward perm look though!), a Kmart sense of style and you’re both musicians of choice for middle schoolers in 2001. I’m honestly surprised it took this long, gang. 

I can just imagine your wedding now... A-Cakes, with clip-in pink streaks in your hair, repurposed from your glory days. And C-Dawg, with brand new Oakleys resting on the back of your neck, to compliment the highest quality sweatbands on your wrists! Just book a Journey cover band for the reception and confirm an all Labatt Blue open bar and you’re GOLDEN. 

But there is one thing that concerns me, my endearingly douchey duo. Your “meet cute” story is... alarming. According to The Holy Book (People Magazine) and Our Heavenly Father Harvey Levin of TMZ, you two became one when you, Chad, were summoned (by a choir of flatulent demons, I can only assume) to assist with the writing and recording of AL’s new record.

Now, I don’t want to deny either of you happiness. I could never. But I beseech you both, on behalf of the entire world -- nay, UNIVERSE -- please... no more music. Not a single note, especially if created by the two of you together. Think of the adult contemporary radio stations -- they’ll implode from clichéd lyrics alone! The human race can’t handle it! (Where else am I going to hear the same three Eric Clapton songs 14 times a day?)

I can’t deny your incestuous Canadian musician love, guys. But I have to put my foot down when it comes to a creative collaboration that could very well destroy civilization as we know it.  

Sincerely, Yours Truly,

A Woman Who Blames Avril Lavigne For Her Middle School Awkwardness

[underwaterminefield]

The Last Year on Earth: Day 189: Goodfellas, Wildfires & the KKK

Slow news week. Let’s get straight to the blips.

Blips on our radar:

• Have you guys heard about these wildfires in Colorado and New Mexico? They’re getting pretty out of control. As I’ve said all along, if you wanna avoid some of the crazier shit that happens in this country, you gotta pick a coast, people.

• China has announced that it will continue the expansion of its space program by launching astronauts to dock at a satellite to do experiments or something. I don’t really know. I got bored like half way through the first sentence and stopped reading. Seriously, folks, it’s been a really slow news week.

• Not so fast, China! Whatever boring shit your space program is doing pales in comparison to the awesomeness of OUR space program. NASA launched a motherfuckin’ x-ray telescope into orbit on Wednesday. So when your astronauts are just floating around some lame space module playing with ant farms, remember that we can see through your spacesuits to your underwear. America, for the win.

• A branch of the Ku Klux Klan in Georgia has applied for the state’s Adopt-A-Highway Program. The exalted cyclops of the Klan’s Realm of Georgia (which would be an awesome title if it weren’t for a member of a white supremacist group) had this to say: “We just want to clean up the doggone road. We’re not going to be out there in robes.” Nice try, KKK. We all know that’s exactly how you’ll be out there. Why would a KKK member go clean the roads without his robe on? He’d no longer have anonymity. Also, don’t they ride horses, not cars? Everything about this makes absolutely no sense. These people are racists. They totally have an ulterior motive.

• A newly released report details the “depraved” penguin sex acts witnessed by polar explorers in 1910. The explorers were shocked to find that the penguins engaged in abusive sexual behavior, homosexuality, and even necrophilia. Beware the armies of gay, rapist penguins coming for our corpses after we’re all killed in the apocalypse. Too dark? Sorry, I’ll try to brighten the next one up.

• Henry Hill, the real life mobster cum informant cum minor celebrity made famous by Ray Liotta’s career-making portrayal of him in the Martin Scorsese film Goodfellas, died of cancer at the age of 69. Say hello to Richard Dawson for us!

• The Environmental Protection Agency is proposing stricter air quality standards in an effort to reduce the amount of fine particle pollution released by smokestacks, trucks, buses, and more. Yeah. Ok. Good luck with that, EPA. Amirite, guys? 

• SLOW.

• NEWS.

• WEEK.

Reporting from the brink of Armageddon,

Michael J. Carlos 

“For the apocalypse is most likely already upon us. I shall not repent."

[underwaterminefield]

The Last Year on Earth: Day #196: Almost Half Way There

We’re just a few weeks away from being officially half way through the last year on Earth. And we’ve done so by enduring the hottest spring the U.S. has ever seen to complete the hottest first five months of a calendar year ever, which also just so happens to be part of the hottest twelve-month cycle ever recorded, dating back to last June.

Seriously, people, what will it take to start believing the end is coming?

Do you need somebody to dig up medieval vampire skeletons to prove the apocalypse is on its way? Because archaeologists in Bulgaria just did.

Do you need giant spider attacks? Don’t look now, but northeast India is being terrorized by gargantuan arachnids, and oh yeah, they bite. It’s like the plot of Eight Legged Freaks come to life.

I know what you’re thinking, “Until God Himself sends a plague down upon the land, I shall not believe it to be true.” A worthy proclamation. What’s that? Oh, hello there, government of the West African nation of Mali. What can I help you with? Locusts, you say?! And they’re eating all of your crops? The country’s food supply is rapidly dwindling? Boom. Y’all just got plagued.

There’s plenty of room aboard the Armageddon train. Climb aboard.

Blips on our radar:

• Another day, another story about somebody who got high on bath salts and then bit somebody in their face. This time, a Louisiana man bit his neighbor’s face before the neighbor sprayed his assailant with wasp poison. The zombie-like individual then moved on to another neighbor’s house and held him up with a knife then stole his handgun. Two lessons here: bath salts apparently turn people into zombies, and you CAN bring a knife to a gunfight (so long as you’re high on bath salts). Really, just don’t get into bath salts, people. It doesn’t end well.

• A two-year-old in Hong Kong contracted the deadly H5N1 bird flu virus. Here we go again. Chinese officials suspected the boy contracted the virus after coming into contact with a live duck in a crowded marketplace. I guess you can add ducks to the list of animals trying to kill you. We did kinda slaughter every possible type of animal for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Revenge sure is a bitch.

• Johan Santana threw the first no-hitter in the New York Mets 51-year history. If that doesn’t convince you the world is coming to an end, maybe this will: they have the same number of wins as the Yankees going into this weekend’s three-game series in the Bronx, and the team is just 1.5 games out of first place in their division. World over.

• A new documentary claims that the United States tortured prisoners at Guantanamo Bay by forcing them to listen to songs from Sesame Street. In response, a New York law firm is preparing a class action lawsuit against American parents on behalf of American children for subjecting them to such cruel and unusual measures.

• It has been confirmed that Justin Bieber is a complete moron after he walked into a glass wall and suffered a concussion. Idiot.

• A recent survey confirms what everyone already knows: public pools are, in fact, cesspools. You will almost definitely get that little boy’s bird flu if you swim in them.

• “The survey says, you’re dead!” Richard Dawson, of Family Feud fame, died this week at the ripe old age of 79. He’ll be waiting for us at the pearly gates, to kiss our mothers, sisters, girlfriends, and wives right smack on the lips while we stand flaccidly by, impressed by his somewhat British accent.

• After a full year in orbit, a mysterious U.S. Air Force space plane has finally landed. The plane’s mission was highly classified and no one really knows what it was doing up there. Wake up, people! The plane was clearly on a reconnaissance mission to find a suitable place to send all of the important people after Earth has been annihilated by space aliens. Which brings me to…

• A new documentary about the space aliens who created humanity but have decided to come back and kill everyone comes out this weekend. The name of the film is Prometheus and it’s highly recommended viewing for anybody who would like to prepare for the ultimately futile final battle looming with our overlords this December.

• The World Health Organization has announced that the sexually transmitted disease gonorrhea has mutated and is no longer responding to antibiotics, meaning we’ve basically got another AIDS epidemic on our hands. So now we can’t even have fleeting, desperate, end-of-the-world sex with a random stranger because we might get gonorrhea. Thanks a lot, World Health Organization. Jerks.

• In some rare good news for environmentalists and survivalists, a shit ton of algae has been growing beneath polar ice caps, which bodes extremely well for the fragile food chain in the Arctic, where nearly all forms of life depend on plankton for sustenance. But don’t get me wrong. We’re still all completely fucked. May God walk beside you in these trying times.

• Science fiction author/genius Ray Bradbury passed away at the age of 91. He was a kind-hearted voice of reason during an era of great insanity and his wit and wisdom will be sorely missed over the next six months. At least, he doesn’t have to witness our horrific demise himself. Say hello to Richard Dawson for us.

Reporting from the brink of Armageddon,

Michael J. Carlos 

“For the apocalypse is most likely already upon us. I shall not repent."

[underwaterminefield]

Sincerely, Yours Truly: An Open Letter To Miss Amanda Bynes

Dear Amanda of “The Amanda Show” fame,

Ohhh, Amanda. Lil’ Miss B. You’re…you’re having a rough go of things lately, aren’t you? It’s ok! Look, if I spent half my childhood trying to compete with the comedic genius that is Kenan Thompson, I’d be a little worse for wear too. (Seriously, have you seen his performance in D2: Mighty Ducks? Quack INDEED.)

Anyway, A-Cakes, I’m writing to you because when I was doing my regular Twitter search of former child stars (yo, make sure you check out the little girl from Matilda {@MaraWritesStuff}- SHE’S MAD SMART) I saw you {@AmandaBynes} Tweeted a little something to our President {@BarackObama}. THE President. Of the United States. About your DUI…

I just think maybe there’s a better platfo- yes, yes, we all know you entered a not guilty plea. And that’s fine! I…believe you? I meant to say that more definitively, I’m sorry. But Bynesy, please, please don’t drag Barry into this. He’s a little busy! The man’s got two kids, a Mitt Romney situation and Jimmy Fallon blowing up his phone already. (Really though, the guy won’t quit it with the emoticons. Woof.)

I would suggest that you retire from social media like you once did from acting, but I know just how addictive the Internet can be, B. (NO YOU DON’T NEED TO LOOK AT MY TUMBLR GET OUT.)

Anyway, why don’t you try tweeting at some celebs that are MORE than willing to give you a hand? Sure, sure, they might not have as much pull as say…President Barack Obama, but look, I’m sure Roseanne {@TheRealRoseanne} has some major connects in LA law enforcement! And yeah, she may be a little busy in the wife-ing up process (to a damn HEMSWORTH, no less) but you better believe Miley Cyrus {@MileyCyrus} “gets you” on the showbiz kid and hot mess express levels.

But if you are really serious about this Tweeting re: possible community service/rehab/incarceration stuff, you know exactly who to go to. It’s about time Lohan does her mentoring duty anyway.

Sincerely,

Yours Truly

(A Lady Who Just Wants Everyone To Tweet At Roseanne)

[underwaterminefield]

Forget

for·get

verb

\fər-ˈget, fȯr-\

for·got | for·got·ten | for·get·ting

Definition of FORGET

transitive verb

1a: to lose the remembrance of : be unable to think of or recall <I forget his name>

b (obsolete): to cease from doing

2: to treat with inattention or disregard <forgot their old friends>

3a: to disregard intentionally : overlook —usually used in the imperative <I shouldn't have said that, so just forget it>

b: to give up hope for or expectation of —usually used in the imperative <as for prompt service, forget it>

intransitive verb

1: to cease remembering or noticing <forgive and forget>

2: to fail to become mindful at the proper time <forgot about paying the bill>

— for·get·ter noun

— forget oneself

: to lose one's dignity, temper, or self-control

[underwaterminefield]

The Lurid Morning Lure

Stepping into the 7 a.m. sun (it was that time of morning when rays were few but unmerciful), she held one hand above her eyes and rummaged blindly through her purse with the other. Her fingers found her aviators, and pulling them out, she flicked her hair off her shoulders and ears to install them in their familiar place on her nose. The end of another shift.

She picked up one foot, then the other, and rotated each to work out the kinks she'd racked up in her ankles. Charlene would be waking up for work soon, she reckoned; she could have some eggs and bacon whipped up for them both to eat in bed if she grabbed a cab now. She came to the corner to cross, to hail one heading downtown.

When she reached it, a smallish, wiry man stood there already, scratching himself and smacking his lips absentmindedly, waiting to cross. Seeing her approaching, his weathered, unwashed face lit up. Gritting her teeth and blinking slowly, she veered slightly to the right to keep a comfortable distance. She would've crossed without the light, but rush hour started early out here, and trucks were already whizzing past. So she waited. And, as if hypnotized, he stared.

Unexpectedly, the image of Darrell, one of her regulars, whetting his lips almost bored, slumped over her counter last night came to her mind. For no apparent reason, she felt again the satisfaction that she had successfully, for once, cut him off at five bourbons this time. The girls had thanked her on their way out, when she was pulling her tips from the register. Darrell wasn't the seediest patron at Lure -- he'd drunkenly mentioned a wife and kids once or twice -- but they'd had to call the police a couple times in the past when he'd gotten too grabby.

The moment of triumph was fleeting.

"Morning, beautiful," the junkie leered. He might have been whetting his lips, but like hell was she going to look up and confirm it. She tugged at her leather hemline casually and wrapped the sleeves of her coat around her waist, tensing her cheeks momentarily into a mechanical smile. She didn't show her teeth. "Hi."

"Mm, mmm," he rumbled, only half to himself, giving her a crusty-eyed up and down. "Enjoying the weather?"

She raised her eyebrows in assent, trying to keep the queasiness out of her expression.

They stood, together, waiting for the light not more than sixty seconds, she off the curb a few steps, bouncing a bit on her toes despite the fact that these fucking stilettos (an unspoken professional requisite) were dying to be kicked off. After what felt like an hour, they got a red light and a walk signal.

Charging across the street (and employing her well-worn don't-fuck-with-me walk), she remembered suddenly they were out of eggs. The bodega on the corner was open; she ducked inside and beelined for the refrigerators in the back. A dozen in hand, she turned around to see that he had followed her in. He stood at the counter, chatting up the bodega owner and staring directly at the fridge wall.

She ducked into the feminine hygiene products aisle and waited a second among the tampons, knowing she and Charlene had just restocked not two days ago. She had the urge to yawn; instead, she considered intently the bodega's variety of feminine napkins.

Thirty seconds passed. She peeked casually out around the Pepsi bottles. He was gone. Coming out and up to the counter, she slammed down the two dollars and left without waiting for change.  Reentering the sun, still wearing her sunglasses, she jammed her palm into the air and reeled in a taxi. She unceremoniously tossed her purse and herself onto the seat. "Jefferson and Nostrand."

Every fucking morning, she spit to herself, unruffling her hair as she slammed the car door shut behind her. They started moving and she promptly turned her attention toward breakfast.

Devon Maloney | Dismiss

[underwaterminefield]

The Last Year on Earth: Day #202: A Brief History of the State of Florida...

Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon “discovered” the area in 1513 and named it La Florida, which means “the flowery land” in Spanish. Oh, and by discovered, we mean that the only human beings who knew about it were Native Americans and they were pretty easy to slaughter with no consequence, so sure, Ponce de Leon discovered Florida.

In 1845, Florida was granted statehood. 

In 1971, Disney World opened. In 1990, Universal Orlando followed suit.

In 2000, Florida supremely fucked up the federal election process and awarded the presidency to legendary dunce, George W. Bush, who hastened the world’s decline more than any other president before him and certainly more so than his opponent, tree-hugging nature lover Al Gore.

In 2010, the Whore of Akron, LeBron James, infamously screwed over the good people of Cleveland, Ohio to “take his talents to South Beach” and play for the Miami Heat. That was the beginning of the end.

In the last few weeks, very peculiar things have been happening in Florida. Let’s recap.

First, a dozen high school students and two teachers broke out in mysterious rashes that a HAZMAT team was unable to identify. Then, Fort Lauderdale international Airport was closed down due to an unknown chemical sending five people to the hospital with respiratory problems. A week later, students at a different high school broke out in similar rashes to those experienced by the first victims. The next day, the HAZMAT team was called in again as dozens of students and adults became ill on a school bus. They were hosed down with water after a household pesticide used to clean the bus had been determined to be the cause of their illness. 

The day after that, a man described only as disoriented was arrested on a flight to Miami for trying to rush the cockpit. Later that night, a doctor was arrested by police on a DUI charge, at which point he became enraged and spat a mouthful of human blood at the officers. On Monday, Tropical Storm Beryl touched down in the state, threatening it with floods and 70 mph winds. Perhaps the most disturbing story, however, came the next morning with the news that a naked, homeless man was shot and killed by police because he was eating somebody’s face off. The man whom he attacked is in critical condition recovering at an area hospital. 

The last few days have seen this story go completely viral (It’s a pun!). Police in the area believe that the man was high on a drug called bath salts that apparently makes its users go insane and become violent, much like cocaine psychosis but with more of a crystal meth-like euphoria. People on the internets took to calling this man the “Miami Zombie,” which is totally fair and perhaps even an accurate description. But the people at the Atlantic Wire do not like it and want everybody to just cut it out already. The Daily Beast found that last article pretty hilarious and ridiculous.

I agree with them. Y’all gonna look stupid when the apocalypse goes down in Florida.

(Shout out to ihopericksantorum’s tumblr for providing some of the links used above.)

Blips on our radar:

• More evidence for the apocalypse being of the zombie variety as a man in San Diego bit his cousin’s nose off.

• A man in Illinois was arrested after biting a woman in the face.

• A Swedish man cut off his wife’s lips and ate them.

• A college student in Maryland killed his roommate and then ate his heart and brains.

• A Canadian dude who worked in gay porn apparently killed a man, dismembered his body, and began sending body parts to government officials. Don’t show Brad Pitt what’s in the box.

• A Japanese man had his genitals removed, then cooked them and served them to paying dinner guests.

• Earthquakes hit near Los Angeles, Italy, and Japan, presumably in the fallout from being passed over for epicenter of the apocalypse in favor of Florida. Tough luck, guys. Hang in there.

• A New Mexico wildfire has continued to spread and is close to becoming the state’s largest ever as the state attempts to self-immolate in protest of China’s refusal to recognize Tibet.

• Radioactive blue fin tuna have been discovered off the coast of California as Los Angeles recruits a team of mutated sea creatures to attack Florida in retaliation for getting beaten to the punch in the zombie apocalypse sweepstakes.

• Snigdha Nandipati won the National Spelling Bee because how could somebody with a name like that ever lose a contest about spelling?

• Apparently, Iran has enough plutonium to build five nuclear bombs, but don’t worry because President Obama just ordered a cyber attack on their Iranian asses. And you know he doesn’t fuck around. Suck it, Iran.

• A Boston University archaeologist has uncovered Maya ruins containing a mural with calculations that scribes used to predict events throughout time. These calculations suggest that the world will not truly come to an end for thousands of years. Um, all other evidence points to the contrary. Don’t you read my blog, Professor William Saturno? [Ed. Note: I totally had a class with Professor Saturno, and he's a super cool dude and also a total badass. That said, the facts are the facts. And I don't think zombies paint murals.]

Reporting from the brink of Armageddon,

Michael J. Carlos 

“For the apocalypse is most likely already upon us. I shall not repent."

[underwaterminefield]

Salting Machine Number 1

"It looks like somebody sneezed on a turd," Susan thought.

Do you know what Susan did? She worked as a Quality Control Specialist at Rold Gold Pretzel Rod Factory. She updated her Facebook profile to reflect her views on the matter. This job was terrible in the same way that teaching kindergarten was terrible: it was entirely useless and unnecessary. She added that comment to the bottom of her status update. Susan wore low cut shirts to work everyday, though at this point it was more a product of habit. Early in her career, the loathing she had for her boss, Harris Cayburn, prompted her to concoct a scheme in which she would wear low cut shirts to coax Harris into something she could qualify as sexual harassment and get his ass fired. And if she was crafty, move into his cushier and better paying job. As her luck would have it, though, Harris was entirely oblivious to anything sexual. Not, to be clear, from any sort of religiousness, but from a pure absence of libido. He had as much libido as a fly has an aptitude for high-level mathematics. Harris needed to learn to be more in tune with his fly-ness and ram into a closed window every so often. Currently, Harris was in his cushy office while Susan was leading some bozo electrician around the plant. He was changing a light bulb or some stupid thing, who knows. It shouldn't have been Susan's job to lead this guy around. At one of the machines, Bozo stopped and made a face like a shrill violin electrocuting a horse, frozen on his head just long enough for me to register the metaphor, and then he sneezed all over Salting Machine Number 1.

Can robots catch human diseases? Well in this story they can. I don't think I want to anthropomorphize it or anything, but when Bozo sneezed it infected Salting Machine Number 1 with the equivalent of a perpetual hiccup. This hiccup was regular, you could set your watch to it it was so specific, as is usually the case with robots. The effect on the product, Rold Gold Pretzel Rods, was to produce a gap two inches in length where the rod would not be salted. Just pure turd. All across the country, these defective rods, which only numbered in the thousands out of millions of potential rods, were distributed to individuals who, if they were even awakened to the deficiency from their normal unconscious lifestyle, rarely gave a fucking shit about it. They had more important things. So many important things. But, thanks to the power of statistics, there was one individual who did give a shit.

Donald Fleck managed to write fifty nine letters before one of them happened to reach the hands of Harris, Susan's boss, at the Rold Gold Pretzel Production Facility. It was actually Susan's job to read and respond to such letters, but seeing no consequence for inaction, most letters found their way to the shredder. It barely registered in her mind that a man, Donald Fleck, was writing daily letters about something, she never read what. It was around the thirtieth letter when she thought, I saw this name yesterday, and then she shredded it like always. But thanks again to the power of statistics (which is when you think about it one of the most mystifying of intellectual pursuits) Harris happened to be in the mailroom as the mail came in, and Donald's letter caught his eye. Harris was not aware of this, but Harris was a hypochondriac. It was an almost supernatural form of hypochondria, as we will learn, to the extent that he could sense imaginary illnesses that only existed in the minds of others. They wouldn't even have to tell him, he could just sense the possibility of its existence and that was enough. Upon reading Donald's letter, he felt a deep affinity for this man and his problem greatly concerned Harris. Something must be wrong with one of the salting machines. Typically this would be Susan's department, but Susan was off getting corn-holed by some guy on a yacht (because he had a yacht). I'm sorry, excuse me, she had a "doctor's appointment." In her absence, Harris took it upon himself to call Bozo to give him a tour of the salting machines and help him diagnose the problem. Bozo's ill-fated cold was gone by now, but Harris still felt uneasy around him, as if it were a smell that lingered in a cloud around him. He brought a pack of pocket tissues with him. They didn't get far since Salting Machine Number 1 was still chugging through its mechanical illness. At a distance of nearly fifty feet, Harris suffered a psychic attack in which he could feel, intimately, like in a mother-child dynamic, that some illness plagued Salting Machine Number 1. He wouldn't take a step closer, for fear of contracting something he didn't quite understand. He didn't even need confirmation from Bozo whether his intuition was right, he just instructed him to fix the problem. Which Bozo did.

Salting Machine Number 1 felt so refreshed. Again, this machine is not a person, but was in some ways able to possess feelings, and after getting fixed, was overwhelmed with a feeling similar to remembering the name of the band who sang that song you couldn't get out of your head all day.

The following day, Susan arrived in her typical hour-late fashion. It's not that she slept in even, she usually just spent an extra hour toying with the barista in the coffee shop - flirting, hooking him, engaging, and then detaching just as quickly. His confusion amused her. But on this day, she arrived to a large box on her desk filled with deficient pretzel rods. Actually, the fact that they were deficient was not immediately apparent to Susan. She ate one and they seemed fine to her. Harris planned his attack, waiting for her to inspect the box, then slinking into the room to corner her.

"Do you notice anything about those pretzels, Susan?" he said, making his presence known.

Susan swung around and scrambled to put on her phony fucking professional voice. "Yes, I was just going to ask you about that," she said.

"Ask me about what? What about those pretzels?" he prodded, stepping toward her. Harris took his job very seriously. It occupied the empty space of his libido.

"They taste like the butter ratios are off a bit. I'm going to call Michelle and have a talk with her about it today," she faked.

"You don't notice anything else?"

"Um, no?"

"You didn't notice that every single one of those pretzels is missing two inches of salt? That one whole solid bite of each and every one of those pretzels is completely unsalted? Your position at this company is a Quality Control Specialist, and you couldn't notice something that anyone with even fading eyesight could catch instantly?" he seethed a little bit in a small way, like a dog that spends most of its day in a purse and has the balls to growl at bigger dogs. Susan would not be tolerating this.

"No, Harris, I actually didn't notice this, and frankly I doubt many other people did either," she shot back.

"Well there you're wrong I'm afraid, because one brave individual did notice. His name his Donald Fleck, and to date he's written nearly sixty letters trying to inform you of this problem," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching like hummingbirds.

Susan was not raised with any shred of self control, in any aspect of her life. To demonstrate, she was admitted to the hospital at the age of fifteen with alcohol poisoning, and during her stay in the hospital she managed to give two blow jobs to two separate male nurses in exchange for some sick pain killers that she proceeded to sell to some kids she knew in middle school.

This was the end for her. "Harris, you know what, I don't really give a fuck about whether a pretzel isn't salted from head to toe," she said.

Before he could think, Harris's hand shot out and slapped Susan in the face. "How dare you," he said, shocked both at himself, and her disregard for something he held sacred.

Later that day, in the bathroom, Susan would take pictures of the red mark on her face from Harris's slap (touched up with a little make-up of course). This would be the lead evidence she introduced later on in her lawsuit against Harris Cayburn for battery and workplace abuse. She wore low cut shirts to each day of the trial. However, Judge Marris was as gay as the roses in summertime, and almost to spite her, he dismissed the case for some legal reason that I don't know because I'm not a fucking lawyer, I've got more important shit to do. All I know is my pretzels are fully salted these days, and that's all that fucking matters.

Ryan Dann | Dismiss

[underwaterminefield]

Griffin Lotz | Dismiss

[underwaterminefield]

Sincerely, Yours Truly: An Open Letter to Kim Kardashian

Dear Kim,

Heeeeeeeeyyyyyyy, girl! You look greeeat- the cutouts on that dress are… something! Yes, hi Kris, you look fine too whatever. Let’s focus on Kim here for a second?

Kimmy it is IMPOSSIBLE to get a hold of you! You’re so busy globetrotting with Kanye, going to the Met Costu… oh, you weren’t invited? Er, stopping by crazy parties with Beyon… oh, she didn’t… she didn’t want you there? Well, you rocked that Quick Trim launch, K-Squared. It was like a really glam, British… infomercial, but LIVE!

Yeah, Kris, you were there too, that’s super, but again, this letter is addressed to Kim, right? Thanks… anyway, KK, I wanted to talk to you about the Big Bad Ms. B.  I know you thought hopping on the Ye Train was gonna be your ticket into the Illuminati Inner Circle, but I feel like it’s my place (shut up, all of you) to tell you it just… isn’t going to happen.

Nooo, no, don’t cry! God, please, seriously, you’re gonna pull a Botox’d-out muscle, jeez. It’s not you, K, obviously. I mean, you’re a successful entrepreneur (hey, you’ve been sued so you KNOW it’s real,) you’ve got Paris Hilton on speed dial (hello, yes, this is 2004? Amiright Khloe? UP TOP.) No, no, sorry, we’re just kidding, Kim! 

But really, this fascination with the Queen has to stop. I don’t wanna see you get hurt trying to scooch that infamous backside of yours in where it won’t be appreciated, Kim. You don’t wanna hang out where you’re not wanted, even if that means having to get Cosmos with Seacrest while your boo is sashaying down red carpets with models around every corner, or playing Connect Four with Blue Ivy. (Please, you know that infant can already speak 3 languages and has a wardrobe worth more than the car I had to sell to help pay for my move to New York.)

So no more trying to play on the level of a woman whose waste sparkles and smells like fresh lilac (I mean, if I had to guess…). Wipe away those tears, hike up those breasts and let Mama Kris give you an extra coat of bronzer and a shot of collagen to those lips.

You’re Kim Kardashian, dammit - and if Beyonce doesn’t wanna hang out with you, you’ll find someone who will. I hear Amber Rose makes a fine companion.

Sincerely, Yours Truly

A Woman Who Will Also Never Get to Be Around Bey

PS. Tell your mother to stop calling me.

[underwaterminefield]

Blind Sheep

Professor Garibaldi stood outside the back door to the lecture hall, miserably sucking at his cigarette. Through the emergency exit door he had propped open with a fire extinguisher -- the paragon of fire safety that he was -- he could hear the students shuffling to their seats, restlessly fidgeting with knapsacks and notepads, laptops and cell phones, as they waited for the final lecture of the semester.

Garibaldi had become something of a legend around campus due to the rants he delivered on the last day of class each semester. It was an ingenious marketing ploy, really. Students lined up outside Metzger Union during the registration period hoping to be lucky enough to lock down a spot in his class just so they could be present for one of his rants. He harangued the federal government’s handling of healthcare, mostly because he empathized with the seniors who would be graduating into a society and job market that held no place for them. He railed against the student loan policies of the Bush administration, getting so worked up that he’d become red in the face, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He attacked the very university that employed him for mercilessly squeezing each and every last penny from its student body. Ostensibly, he taught Social Theory in Economics, but his final lecture acted as a crash course in leftist outrage. The lone outlet for his considerable rage.

The students loved it. The faculty of the Sociology Department flaccidly admonished him for his outspokenness but never took any measures to stop him because enrollment in department courses had nearly tripled in the years since that first lecture. The President of the university privately wanted to remove Garibaldi from his position but tolerated his tirades against authority only because he knew that the lectures gave voice to the students’ own private anger over their disenfranchisement and exploitation.

Garibaldi stabbed the end of his cigarette at the wall and marched back through the fire exit towards his classroom, his soapbox, the pulpit from which he preached active participation in one’s society. He believed in the power of his words to strike a chord within his students just as strongly as the school’s administration rejected any meaningful consideration of them.

Garibaldi stormed through the double doors and swung his messenger bag onto the empty desk at the front of the room. The students went silent with anticipation. He wasted no time.

Garibaldi stomped up the steps and gauged each face in his audience. There were always a few students who tried to sneak in though they weren’t in his class. About halfway up the left aisle, he spotted a young man wearing a backwards baseball cap whose freckle-spotted face Garibaldi did not recognize. 

“You! Name!” he bellowed. 

The kid shrunk in his seat, his face red as a tomato. “Nate Smith,” he offered weakly.

The professor seized the boy by the back of his hooded sweatshirt and lifted him from the seat. He took long, swift strides, two steps at a time back down the aisle, taking the boy with him. He swung open the door to the hallway and gently but forcefully shoved Nate out of his classroom like a bouncer expelling an underage kid from a bar.

“But my stuff is still in there—“

He turned to his class, “Anyone else who doesn’t belong here?”

Two bodies awkwardly rose from their seats and quickly gathered together their things.

“Will one of you please take Mr. Smith his belongings?”

The girl closest to where Nate had been sitting nodded. 

When the students had left, Garibaldi faced his audience.

“Now then,” he began, “let’s get down to business. My freshpersons! God bless you all! Thank you for taking my course and good luck on the final. I’m sure you’ll all do great and then have wonderful summers. Enjoy your lack of burden for the next few years and I hope to see you in another class of mine in the future. You are dismissed!”

A handful of students reluctantly got up and left the hall.

“Sophomores! You don’t get off so easily. Take out your phones. All of you. Now turn them off!” After a short pause, “I’m waiting!” The sophomores half-heartedly turned off or silenced their phones. “Now come up to my desk and everybody place your phone in the top drawer.” They did.

“This technology is fucking amazing and all of you take it for granted. You roll your eyes when it takes five seconds to send a text message. Go. Go outside and converse with one another. When my lecture is over, you can come back and get your phones. And hopefully, you’ll have had a meaningful discussion and connected with another human being. Be present with each other. Listen. You are dismissed!”

Garibaldi addressed the juniors.

“Oh, you poor bastards. You’re almost worse off than the seniors in here. You only have one year left and you have no idea how quickly the time will come when you’re out on your ass, fending for yourself. Of course, it’s not your fault that the system is fucked up. But look no further than your fat, rich parents, bankrolling your little odyssey into the arena of higher learning. Quick, somebody tell me one thing that they have learned while in college.” 

Silence.

“You spoiled, condescending, rotten, pretentious little pieces of pop-culture spewing, inane, vapid, plastic, conformist shit. You know you’re worthless so you pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to an institution to give you a tiny slip of paper that tells other worthless zombies you’re one of them so they might give you a job. But it doesn’t matter, because the zombies don’t even have the jobs anymore. They don’t even know where they went.”

Garibaldi looked around the room.

“Is this too much for you to hear? Do you hate me right now? Good. Let it fuel you. You might spend the rest of your pathetic, godforsaken lives trying to prove me wrong. Or you might just shrug me off. Go ahead. Tell all your friends on Facebook how big of a dick I am. Tweet to your followers---ha! Yeah, right?! Like any of you are leaders. Not to mix metaphors, but a blind sheep can’t lead a horse to water. So go ahead and tweet this, you twats. You are dismissed!”

All of the juniors left, some of them shaken, some amused, none as disappointed as the freshmen and sophomores.

“Ah, seniors. I hope all is well with each of you and the best of luck in the future. I really mean that. You are dismissed.”

The seniors filed out, somewhat puzzled.

Garibaldi slunk down to the carpet and leaned back against the chalkboard. He was sweating and tired and needed another cigarette for sure. A hopelessness welled up in him. He took out his phone and read the message again.

“I’m sorry. - Nicole.”

Michael Carlos | Dismiss