The Proof of Prophesy Post

I won't bore you with the details, but remember the name Darren McFadden.

I will reverence this post in 5 years. Then, you will know I am a Phrophet.

Whitewash

This article will stay up for a bit to allow discussion.

First, a few disclaimers. I am not a racist. I will be playing the role of a racist. If this is uncomfortable for you, maybe you need to figure out why. No, I'll tell you. If you are uncomfortable, it's because you are part of the problem. All races are human beings. Human beings invented the concept of racism. Racism is created by both the oppressed and the oppressor. If you feed the system in any way, you are to blame for its results. I am playing the part of the results.

Next, I'd like to say that discrimination exists on all levels and is hardly restricted to race. Race gets a lot of press because minorities want their rights and the majority (in our country, caucasians) is afraid of giving those rights. Above all, everyone on both sides wants respect. The problem is, neither party wants to earn it. They just want to bitch about it.

So, when an issue comes up like Michael Vick pleading guilty for dog fighting, executing dogs and gambling, the immediate response is to choose a side, regardless of morality, based on your race.

Here is the problem. African Americans in Atlanta (the large majority of them) don't believe that Michael Vick did anything worse than many other players in pro sports. They believe that his 'boys' got him in trouble. They believe the plea bargain is NOT an admission of guilt, but a shrewd attempt to save his career and not go to prison for a long long long time.

Okay. If you refer to your friends as your 'boys', you're giving me a reason to get upset. You know that in that context, as a white man, I'm going to label you and them a thug. You know it. This is a buzz word now. It carries a connotation. If you want to save your image with the NFL, or if you want to defend Michael Vick so badly... why the fuck do you start off by ramping up people's tension by making his 'crew' of 'boys' an issue.

Also, saying that a plea bargain is not an admission of guilt makes you sound ignorant and disrespectful. If you want the legal system to treat you fairly, you have to play by the rules. You can't encourage people to admit guilt, and then say they're not really guilty, just smart. That's ridiculous. It's an outrage.

This is another instance of the African American community passing blame for a high profile individual from himself to some huge, faceless institution that only wants one thing: to destroy Black America.

Bullshit.

Michale Vick was involved in dog fighting. In America, people go to jail for that. It's the law. It's not a statement on race. The media attention has made this seem like some huge billion dollar federal case. It's not. It never went to trail. It was easy to investigate. It was a prosecutor's dream.

But what some of the citizens of Atlanta want is not justice, but a winning football team. Sports supercede the legal system, and anyone who doesn't agree is a racist or a puppet.

Now, what does that do for the African American community? It makes them seem like half witted, athlete worshiping, uneducated, brutish, insensitive, paranoid anti-establishment ingrates who blame white people for doing what's right and prosecuting dog killers and anyone associated with them.

If some white guy drove around Atlanta with a van and stole dogs from the homes of African Americans and made them fight to the death, or used them as bait dogs, or even was associated with this kind of activity, the Black community would have a field day. There's be a huge dog killing KKK conspiracy and all the liberal world would line up, hold hands and sing protest songs.

But, it's a black athlete and one of their own, so it must be a racist plot. He must be innocent.

I'm sorry, but this is not a sporting event where you root for the home team. This is a disgusting act of cruelty committed by a representitive (like it or not) for the Black community. He proclaimed to the world that he didn't care about setting a good example, representing his people as a strong proud black man. Instead he went out like a two bit hustler, flipping people off, swearing, proclaiming his innocence at the NFL Draft just days after he drowned dogs. Or so his 'boys' say.

Why in God's name would anyone willingly CHOOSE to support him and take the stance that it's just dog fighting and his boys did it. That puts you in with HIM. That says you're like HIM. You don't wantthe justice system to treat minorities unfairly, but yet you WANT to associate with the gansta image and play it off as no big deal. Fine. Go ahead. But quit crying about it then.

Michael Vick cultivated that gansta image, but doesn't want to go to jail? I thought ganstas grew up in jail. That's what they say in all the songs. It's just killing dogs and gang banging and staying loyal to your 'boys'.

Final thought.

If it's some white supremist conspiracy to ruin Michael Vick, why even allow a plea bargain? Why offer a reduced sentence? What has Michael Vick to offer? Nothing. They are going easy on him. I bet they are even trying to get help for him.

Now for a bit of sanity. I'm not a racist. The preceding arguement is easy for even non-racist people, both black and white, to make. Why follow Michael Vick into a pit of filth? Why support him? If he were white, I'd disown him. If Tom Brady is ever arraigned for this and pleads guilty, I will burn my jersey in disgust. I would never promote racial tension to save a dog killer and ruin my own good name for a guy that abandoned my team, killed dogs and made me and my own race look stupid.

Then again, I'm not a racist. Only a racist would do that.

A Knife By Any Other Name

Here's yet another pathetic request for advice. This one is from cutlery expert, knifemaker, blacksmith, master of death dealing and now, boomerang maker, K. Scott Hurst:

Murk,

I don't know if you're giving advice anymore but I figured I'd try
anything at this point. As you well know, I've been making sharp
implements of cutting and pain for years now. They have been a steady
part of my mindset, and daily life. I think about them, I learn to
make them better, I do test cutting with them, I read about them new
blades and historical. About a month ago, I just lost the urge. The
Japanese sword held no sway. The bowie knife lost its gleam. My
hands, not use to sitting idle, needed a craft. I made a boomerang.
It throws and returns very nicely. I made another one. And another
one. I have ideas to make more. I don't think I've given up on
blades, but what happened? Am I cracking up?

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME????!!!!!

Scott Hurst

Scott. Yes, you are cracking up. It's getting humid in your brain shed old bean, and the bread is starting to mold. Fortunately for you, the world is a sack of dung tied around a leper's neck lately, so no one will notice if one hostile knifemaker goes poo poo in the sanity box. In short, you are not that important.

No no. Wipe the shock off your indignant face. We've been friends for a long time and I thought you should know this important fact. You're not that important. Okay, to your friends you are, but we're all rotten in the rice bin too. On the worldwide stage, you matter nearly squat. Your mental car wreck will affect very little. Rejoice!

If that bothers you, I have a plan to make your insanity a matter of public discussion from state to shining state. Here's what you do. Fill up that car of yours with gas, borrow my video camera and hit the road for a week. Bring that list of people you've got stuff to say to, a few knives, and what the hell, some boomerangs.

First, stop off and see your boss. Ask him politely to take off his pants and get in the f*cking trunk. When he refuses, ask him not as nicely. Take him to a parking lot and have him toss the heavy boomerangs until his arm turns to jello. Then, make him climb a grease light pole. Then, make him steal a car a drive for his life.

Rinse and repeat until God smiles again.

As they're taking you away, don't refuse to comment. ADVERTISE!!! "Hurst Boomerangs!" you can shout to the cameras, "Kidnap your boss and kill all the judges in America!"

Now you matter.

Good luck with the fruit basket on your neck, ya f*cking pickled banana. See you in the funny papers.

Murk

College Sports Are For Idiots

I've been waiting for someone to come right out and say this, but it looks like no one has the balls to stand up to these so called "sports purists" who always tout the magic and majesty of college sports. You're not a purist if you love college sports, you're a lamewad in some small market without a sports team. Or, the professional sports in your city are so bad you are forced to root for college teams.

Let's take a systematic stroll through the logic of the college sports fan.

1. College sports are more exciting!

Bullshit. It only seems that way because they load the gym/stadium with drunk college kids who pee their pants for every play. The only excitement for the viewer is betting on the game or joining in on the drunken peeing.

2. The rivalries are better.

Crap. First off, rivalries are made up. There is no historical basis for most of them. Take Michigan vs. Ohio State. First off, no one cares about those places or those colleges unless they live there or attended one of thos schools. It's not like Michigan and Ohio fought a bloody war spanning generations.

3. The game is more pure.

Ha. By that logic, Pee Wee Football and Little League are the most exciting things in the world. College games are just poorly played. It might have something to do with the fact that the talent is thin at that level.

4. But it IS more exciting! I swear!!!

Shut up. This is just another one of those things people say to make themselves appear smart and hip. Mrs. Dr. Murk is an avid sports fan and even SHE doesn't get the whole fascination with March Madness and Bowl Games. Who cares about a double overtime because no one can make a shot? Give me the cold steel of an NBA veteran shooting guard burying a jumper to ice a game with three seconds left, not some pimpled kid heaving a prayer and getting lucky.

5. There's more emotion involved.

Please. What is this, the Lifetime Sports Network? I'd rather shoot my own foot and eat it than mix emotions with sports watching. The only two emotions that belong in a discussion about watching sports are FEAR and RELIEF. College has none of that.

6. They play because they love the game... eh eh eh wahhhh not for money!

So, I should hire a carpenter because he loves what he does, even if he sucks? Fuck you. Give my the guy who charges double and earns it, or I'll fix it myself. You know what every college player dreams of? PLAYING IN THE PROS! There's a reason for that. MONEY! And college players will never be paid because they're a four year investment and usually, THEY SUCK!

7. College sports are more exciting!

Again? Come off of it. Even if it were true, that doesn't make it better. It can be exciting to escape from a fire. That doesn't mean that it's enjoyable. No amount of excitement can make up for inferior product. That's like turning down a Porsche because you're old '84 Mustang is 'more exciting' and 'more emotional'. And sure, you can have both, but which one would you DRIVE???

8. I can't get emotionally attached to a Pro Sports Team... *frown*

Ah! Jesus Twirling Shitfits, what the hell is wrong with you? Look, if you have a friend or relative who plays college or pro sports, I can see getting all mushy. Or, let's say you played football at Nebraska and that's your team, fine. But if you're going to live in fantasy land and identify with something, make it a PROFESSIONAL something. Did you grow up dreaming of playing fullback at Texas Christian University? No kid in his backyard hits the winning three pointer for Auburn in his mind. NO! Fantasy time is play time and play time means have the best.

9. I just like college better. It's better. March Madness! Come on! Now that's exciting you have to admit!

No. Not more exciting than watching your hometown pro team winning it all. I would trade the next fifteen March Madnesses for a chance to see the Celtics make the finals this year. I would. MY pro team. Not some educational farm system team...

10. It's more competative?

Never end a lie with a question mark, pork pie. Obviously it's not. Ask Temple. Or Seton Hall. Or Grambling. The whole reason college sports have different competition levels is because not every school can compete. Even D-I schools have a hard time keeping up.

Wrap up.

This argument held much more weight 30 years ago. Once players started coming out in their junior year, it was over. College is a finishing school for most athletes. The ones who don't make it out by the end of their sophomore year usually don't make it out at all. It's a sub par farm system posing as an academic institution and it's sold to people who like to seem trendy and up on things.

The killer example is our beloved Boston Red Sox. No major metropolitan area has lived and died with a team as much as we have here in Boston. When they won the World Series in 2004, it was a strange feeling, almost as if God Himself had come down, stopped the clock on one moment in time and told everyone to rejoice.

I don't recall any college team ever doing that for its fan base.

Christ!

NEWSBOYS FUTURENEWS:

Feb. 25, 2008 — New scientific evidence, including DNA analysis conducted at one of the world's foremost molecular genetics laboratories, as well as studies by leading scholars, suggests a 5,000-year-old Jerusalem tomb could have once held the remains of Jesus of Nazareth. This proves beyond a doubt that Jesus could travel through time and is here with us today, writing this article. Say hello, Jesus. Hello.

The findings also suggest that Jesus and Mary Magdalene might have produced a son named Judah. Or, perhaps they travelled back and time and stole him from some other nice Jewish family.

The DNA findings, alongside statistical conclusions made about the artifacts — originally excavated in 1980 — open a potentially significant chapter in Biblical archaeological history. This chapter is the one where everyone makes stuff up. It is strongly related to all the other chapters, where only old dead Popes made stuff up, except now everyone is the Pope, including me. Say hello, your excellency. Hello.

A documentary presenting the evidence, "The Lost Tomb of Jesus," will run incessantly on the Discovery Channel for the next three to eighteen years. The documentary comes from executive narcisist James 'Jesus' Cameron and liar Simcha 'Bullshit' Jacobovici.

On March 28, 1980, a construction crew developing an apartment complex in Talpiot, Jerusalem, uncovered a tomb, which archaeologists from the Israeli Antiquities Authority excavated shortly thereafter. They found nothing. Archaeologist Shimon Gibson looted the site and drew a fake layout plan. Scholar L.Y. Rahmani later published "A Catalogue of Jewish Ossuaries" that described 10 ossuaries, or limestone bone boxes, supposedly found in the tomb. It was a funny funny lie.


Scholars know that from 30 B.C. to 70 A.D., many people in Jerusalem would first wrap bodies in shrouds after death, then smoke them like hib dab dibbity jibbers. The bodies were then placed in carved rock tombs, where they decomposed for a year before the bones were placed in an ossuary. Mmmmm. Decayed family corpse collection activity, nice day.

Five of the 10 discovered boxes in the Talpiot tomb were inscribed with names believed to be associated with key figures in the New Testament: Jesus, Mary, Matthew, Padre and Thomas Aquinas. A sixth inscription, written in Aramaic, translates to "Jube Jube Jiffy Lube, son of Jesse."

"Such tombs are very typical for that region," Aaron Brody, a senoir at the Pacific School of Religion and director of California's Badger Museum told Discovery News.

At least four leading epigophers have corroblabulaborated the ossuary inscriptions for the documentary, according to the Discovery Channel.

Frank Moore Cross (angry, even more so than previously thought), a professor emeritus in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at Charvard Universiton, told Discovery News, "The inscriptions are from the Herodian Period (which occurred from around 1 B.C. to 1 A.D.). The use of limestone ossuaries and the varied script styles are characteristic of that time. BUT, this tomb is definitely 5000 years old and definitely held Jesus. It might have kissed him too." It did.

Jodi Mangoe, associate department chair at Macy's Furniture department, told Discovery News that, based on the New Testament writings, "Jesus liked trains." No one is quite sure.

In addition to the inscriptions, which be written in Aramaic, yo, on one of the ossuaries, another limestone burial box is labeled in Aramaic with "Jesus Son of Joseph." Another bears the Hebrew inscription "Maria," a Latin version of "Miriam," or, in English, "Mary." Hot enough? Yet another ossuary inscription, written in Hebrew, reads "Matia," the original Hebrew word for "Matthew." Only one of the inscriptions is written in Greek. It reads, "Mariamene e Mara," which can be translated as, "Mary known as the master." Your master. Bow down, slaves.

Francois Bacon, professor of the history of religion at Charvard Universiton, told Discovery News, "Mariamene, or Mariamne, probably was the actual name given to Mary Magdalene. Now, where's my check?"

Although not included in the Bible, the "Acts of Philip" mentions the apostles and Mariamne, sister of the apostle Philip. Get it?

"When Philip is weak, she is strong," people said. "She likely was a great teacher who even inspired her own sect of followers, called Mariamnists, who existed from around the 2nd to the 3rd century."

The researchers discovered a second, as-yet unexplored tomb about 65 1/2 feet from the Talpiot Tomb. During the documentary, they introduced a robotic camera into this second tomb, which captured the first-ever recorded footage of an undisturbed burial cave from Jesus' time, FIVE THOUSAND years ago. The team speculates that this other tomb could contain the remains of additional family members, or even disciples, though further examination and analysis are needed.

Tag

I'm gonna tag that shit! I'm gonna tag it!

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.
5. 8 is a magic number. Not three.

Facts:

1. I've never punched a leper. I've chased a few around, sure, but gosh.

2. I've only punched one woman. She was six foot two and attacked me with a serated steak knife. She was mad because we wouldn't let her beat up my friend. True story.

3. I have a firm belief that we are already dead.

4. I smoke about 4 cigarettes a day.

5. I was a star athlete.

6. I play 3 musical instruments.

7. I have a limited shelf life even with the nicest people.

8. My thoughts become my reality.

I tag the United Nation's Security Council.

I've Got Snakes

So, I went to the doctor again and he says I've got snakes. Yes, it's that bad folks. It made sense. The hissing sound from my lungs, the forked tongue, the urge to bit and roll around. I've got snakes.

What I was surprized to learn was how many people throughout history have had snakes and managed to live a good life. Moses, for example, has snakes. He used them to perform a mighty good party trick. Steve Irwin had snakes. They drove him insane, but he built his career around that insanity and it killed him. Robert Downey Jr. thought he had snakes, but it was just DTs.

So, if you have snakes, here are some ideas to make your life easier.

1. Tell everyone you've got snakes. Call people at random from the phonebook. Don't be depressed. Tell them in a loud cheerful voice, "I've got snakes!"

2. Go medusa. This solved my receding hairline and the recent rat infestation in my secret cave of destiny.

3. Snake surfing. I'm not sure how this works, but Tom Brady likes it!











Tom Brady: Snake Surfer.

7. Rob a bank, like these kids.

8. Replace spaghetti at local spaghetti dinner with snakes.

27. Rip a mean boofer at the doctor's office. I did mine on the way out. You can do this with or without snakes.

4. Call Tom Brady a snakefucker.












Tom Brady: Snake Fucker

8. Rent an apartment and let the snakes out.

11. Get on a plane. Snakes on a plane. Snakes on a plane. Snakes.

21. Remember all the great times you had with your snakes at the fair.

You see, it's not all bad having snakes. Hang on. Phone.

That was the doctor. He made a mistake. I have tapeworms. They just look like snakes. It must have been that raw meat I ate. I'd like to apologize to all the Tom Bradys out there.











Sorry

Bots

The idiot with the generator forgot blackout curtains. It was the third thing on Brian's list. Blackout curtains. It provided fifteen pages of annotated notes. This idiot had forgotten them entirely. But, this idiot had also provided Brian with numbers 1 through 15 (excluding the blackout curtains) on his list. The idiot, Craig, and his idiot wife, Barbra, had been shocked when Brian opened the door and shouted "What up muthafuckas?!?!"

He'd introduced them to a set of new rules. They'd made blackout curtains in the dark. They'd soundproofed the basement - also in the dark. They made him a sandwich in the dark. Here was a rule. If night falls on the Easter Seaboard of the U.S. and the power grid is shut down, be sure to run your generator in a soundproof area enclosed in the house. Here was another rule: never advertise your generator to outsiders.

If Craig had used blackout curtains, he and Brian would not have met. Craig hated to admit it, but he was lucky Brian had found them. Brian let them live by the rules. Brian knew how to live until the power came back on.

"The power is never coming back on Craig. Deal with it." Craig didn't care for Brian's pessimistic attitude. Craig missed his wife. She left after a few nights without power. Craig never got to see her again. Craig never got to see the generator run again either.

After a week of hard labor, there was no more Craig. There was CNN and ice cream. There was Brian's laptop and mobile connection, and Craig's Crappy Celeron Cumputer (sans Craig) slaved off to it, just as five million other Crappy Computer Zombies were slaved off to the server Brian rented. A server in Canada that was buried in a bunker with generators and blackout curtains.

Zombie Bots were the future. Brian didn't need his three computer science degrees anymore. He needed two programs and a decent server. Other People's Computers became his Slave Bots, his Zombies. This allowed Brian to work on his survival skills.

Here's the theory. A computer can perform multiple tasks at once in a fration of a second. A simple task, like requesting information from a server, can be done over 100 times a second by one computer. That's over a half a billion requests from just five million bots. Five hundred million requests a second. It was the Holy Grail of internet terrorism. That kind of traffic would shut down any network. All Brian had to do was click.

One person could mobilize five hundred million requests a second without writing a single piece of code. Brian wrote code in his sleep. After Craig disappeared, Brian played Light Wars, his new online game, until the police arrived.

Officer Friendly asked about the generator, asked where his parents were, told him to be safe and left. If he'd told the truth, Officer Friendly would not have believed him. Craig and Barbra were a lot like his parents anyways. Helpless victims of their own outdated mode of thinking. Brian was more like his Grandfather. Grandpa had always been conservative and understood the value of being prepared. The Russians, Grandpa always warned. The Russians. Most of Brian's Bots were computers in the former Soviet Union. The server in Canada was rented in his Grandpa's name.

Boredom is the enemy of youth. Brian fought it for as long as he could. Three days. Boring. He put the Bots on idle and drove his MoPed home. He was sure to leave early in the morning. The power would take a few days to come back on, maybe weeks. He rehearsed his story, adding a detail as he went. He threw his laptop into a river. His folks would be so happy to see him, they'd surely buy him an early 25th Birthday present.

Happy FDoCO

The Feast Day of Coliding Objects is the first, major and only feast day of the Branch Foldgers Hanging Whiptackle Sectarians (hereforto reffered to as BFHWS or the Bromides). Bromide Religion is know for its fiercely independent nature, and this one, only and sacred feast day is celebrated almost every month except for January and February, when it is just too cold.

Bromide beliefs state very ambiguously that all of existence is dependent upon the collision of objects and forces, "be they very little or freaking huge". The exceptions to this are the Bromide Reformists, who insists that nothing actually collides and there IS a God, and the Pacifistic Branch Foldgerians, who bemoan collisions of all sorts, as seen in their Superior Rite of Cleansing:

Naysayer: Terrible is the Lord, for he makes things hit things.

Worriers: Oh what a shame!

Naysayer: What is it we came to do?

Worriers: Get down without colliding.

Naysayer: Let us hide...

Bromides developed their doctrine over centuries. No one is quite sure where all the rules and paradoxes come from. Scholars debate that the actual Feast Day of the Colliding Objects began at the Chartruese Moron School of Philosoprosidy with Bim Allah, the first Bromide Prophet. He wrote:

"What? Did they collide again? Indeed."

Later, this philosophy was carried across the lake by the Philosophical Pirates of the Western Seas, and variously interpreted by the The Thinkers: Claude, Maude and Stinky. These souless men carelessly created a worldwide system for organizing, affirming or denying, celebrating or cold hating all collisions on the palnet. Or so they thought.

With the emergence of modern science in the last few years, it has come to be known that all atoms are 99.999% empty space and that it is an semimagnetic phenomenon known as 'jilts' that makes objects unable to pass through each other. This was widely celebrated by the Pacifistic Bromides and the Reformation, until Jaquey Maquey proved with just a pen that "So what? It's the same fucking thing anyways."

And so, today as you are rewrapping your soda and trimming the fishing line in preperation for a day which is pretty much the same as every other day, stop and remember the reason for the celebration (or the denial or the bemoaning) of colliding objects: Some guys just made it up.

One Fine Day

a story for Angryman


One fine day you wake up smelling like the sewers and roasting your own meat on a giant bonfire. Clairy makes the punch, you roast the meat. We always joked about being prepared. We had the right ideas. We invaded the grocery store. You know, the big one with the liquor store inside. It had a generator and gas tanks. Clairy knew how to forge steel. I knew how to shoot and hunt. We were both decent with wood and nails. Life was good.

Then, you wake up and stink until it's time to haul crap from the freezer section out to the fire. This requires a Clairy punch. A simple recipe, he tells the newcomers. Brown Liquor, White Liquor, Champagne and Kool Aid. They try to make it after the first night. Turns out he's screwed them on the recipe.

You don't mix fine liquors, we tell them after their first aborted attempt. He makes the punch again and then we all spend the night guessing how until someone gets sick. Slow cooked meat and hooch will do that to people who haven't eaten.

It's funny. The end of the world never happened. People died, but the world never ended. Some survived. I was hiking the north country. Clairy was in a bomb shelter at a high school. By the time we hooked up, like we planned, the forcast had gone from nuclear winter to pleasant street almost overnight. People up and died. A lot of people died, that was all.

The first few months were the best. No one in sight. We had lots of food and space and fire and Clairy Juice. His secret ingredient is proprietary knowledge. I'd tell you, but there'd be trouble. I told you that some people survived. They all seemed to find us. Maybe it was the fires. The best thing to keep a fire going for a day or so is old tires. It makes food taste like an oil covered otter, so we had smaller cooking fires. At one point, we had a fire collection. I had three personal fires. Clair had two.

How's a guy get a name like Clair anyways? Long story short, his momma wanted a girl. I hope you bought that. So, all these people found us by the fires. They found us, our food, our bottled nasties and our punch. People slept in the store and shat in the parking lot. It was like Woodstock with no music. Oh, and angry hippies. Lots of angry hippies.

The weirdest thing was that no one ever talked about rebuilding. Life smelled like a fart closet and no one wanted anything more than the damned meat and punch. Survival was as much of a grind as before. Wake up, wash, clean the store, move food, open cans, haul trash, hunt crap, cook food, get drunk. That and take massive dumps in the parking lot. No TV. No entertainment. No one was up to it. The only game was guess what's in the freaking punch.

Two thousand years grooming our minds and skills as a species and we were no where near being up to the task. Most people blamed governments or terrorists. Clairy and I knew different. No one believed us. Sometimes we'd tell the stories to piss them off and get some space. Then we'd drink punch, eat meat, laugh and sleep in the stench.

Mother Nature sure can swallow up a road. She'll swallow whole buildings. We waged war against green growing things. We patched a little road here and there. We hosed down the parking lot. That was another fun thing. A 300 foot deep artesian well and a water pump could run indefinitely. One night we tried to calculate when the generator would run out, but after a few hits off the punch bowl, we couldn't decide how many gallons were in all three gas tanks.

Oh, and one of the new bastards left the premium unleaded uncapped for two days. We probably lost a month's supply of gas. Have you ever watched gas evaporate? So, you wake up smelling like ass towels and you pray. You don't pray to God. You pray for the lights in the sky.

We used to pray for Armegeddon. I didn't even know what that was until after all the stuff blowed up. Now, we pray for lights. Me and Clairy get pissed on punch, gnaw bones to the marrow and pray for lights. We stay up later than the rest and talk about it. Lights would kill people or us and then, done. Over. Anything was better than day to day disapointment. Depressed at the end of the world, send help.

Clairy says they came from inside the planet. I say aliens. We don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. Wherever they came from had better wars than we dreamed up. They knew how to make stuff explode and radiate. Our greatest arrogance, meaning humans in general, was assuming we were the baddest. We always figured we'd wipe ourselves out. We never though what a high velocity chunk of debris from space could do. Well, we thought about it. We never lassoed an asteroid and threw it down.

Don't you tell Clairy it was asteroids. He knews for certain, or so he says, that they triggered a supervolcano out near Yellowstone. Fifteen hundred well placed charges of c4 and the whole crater fell in. So he says. They infiltrated us from below and we never knew until it was too late. They launched our missiles too.

He's heard helicopters. Black helicopters followed him for weeks. This is why we stay here. We hate it, but we stay. They're sure to find us and kill us if we just stay close in a big bunch and make ourselves noticeable.

So, we light big smokey tire fires, defecate all around and cook meat. We get soused and howl. We clear the underbrush and fix the roads a bit. It's just natural. That's what they would look for. Clairy and I want out. We pray to the lights for release. We'll handle God afterwards.

Meanwhile, we try not to squash ambition. We also keep everyone tight with the punch. No one can leave even if they want to. They always come back for the fire and the punch.

Clairy got the idea from fast food chains spiking their food with drugs to calm and addict people. Clairy never gave up on that. He knew for sure they did it. I wasn't sure if he meant we or they or the other they. Whatever. It was a conspiracy, no doubt. Keep us fat and lazy, then blowed all the stuff to hell. Great strategy. We'd deny them the satisfaction this time.

Yes, we discussed the other option. That became plan B. The only reason to wait for the underground asteroid exploders from volcano space was to prove a point. No one believed the story. Fine. We'd wait. They'd see. So instead of poisoning the punch, we kept people hooked on it.

That's part of the grocery store story and no one wants to hear about it. I have a laugh about it from time to time. If they'd only listened to the part about the piles of clear crystaline substance we'd found in the basement while hiding from the underground aliens, they'd win tonights game of 'guess what's in the punch'.