Twirly tots full of taters and dogshit

The stink of great beasts had been as oppressive as the heat itself, and the accompanying humidity served to magnify the impact of both on all concerned. Dehydration headaches were in direct competition with vomiting fits for the Symptom of the Day, both brought on by the lurking monsters, who were at times the community's worst enemy, and at others the source of their greatest wealth. Whether in pursuit or seeking shelter, there could be no escape from the clinging stench they carried, which dispelled any pretense of making a stealthy approach just as effectively as their size. When at long last the snows came and brought down their reign, the smaller creatures of the world discovered that flowers were not only beautiful to look at, but also offered a pleasant scent that would no longer be sublimated to the heretofore dominant odors, which soon melted away with the ice. This discovery rivals the dawn of fire-making and the application of wheel as a pivotal step toward a human society worth living in. So you should be glad that there aren't dinosaurs anymore, because they were huge and fucking stank worse than the birdhouse at the zoo. Think about it.

If monkeys make music, who wins?

The part that really hurts is when you say that I've got no goddamn right asking about it. Apart from the illogic underlying it, this statement brings into play a variety of questions relating to the granting of natural rights, human rights, lite-brites, and ear-mites wearing their Speedo trunks too tights. I daresay, absent a good lawyer and a stitch of clothes between us, you've done some damage to your standing with such a claim, though it'd be foolish to say that you couldn't recover by changing tactics and opting for the "magnanimous concession" approach. This would fit in with a long tradition of hot/cold strategies that not only make the world go around, but keep many a wayward sailor off the street during the Pinching Hours. Having observed the contortions of your decision-making process over this five-hour period, though, I'd wager a nut or two that none of this calm counsel will do any goddamn good, and that the secret history of your goddamn goat-head tattoo will remain unre-goddamn-solved. Goddamn it. Not like He ever listens to me, but goddamn it, anyway. We may as well tell the horse he can come back in now.

Outworked, outplayed, and outstained

Take the eraser out of that pencil and erase all of the awful things you've ever done when nobody was looking. Break the pencil over your knee and throw it into the fire so no one can go behind you and write back in all the nasty deeds of your life. Enjoy the lie you have become, and when confronted with unwelcome reminders of the horrors that once defined you, strangle them with quickness and high cruelty. This is the way to Immaculate Enlightenment - the only way - and anyone who would deny it aloud is two words away from snuffing you out like a candle.

Found in the Sandcrack - Your Soul!

Crippled by hours of repeated blows to the knees and ankles, it will be difficult to ease yourself back into a relaxed state of mind, so we'll understand if your scheduled check-in by phone is, shall we say, not exactly a PG event. For that matter, you can lay off the PC, too, if it'll make you feel better throw down on the lesser races for a few minutes (we promise not to take it personally - we're all friends here.) However, it would behoove us all to ensure that clarity and concision are the watchwords of the night, since setting up another date with a guy like Frau Blisters is bound to be outrageously expensive, plus he'll start bragging around that he's got us as repeat customers. We really need to keep our mailboxes free of that flavor of direct-marketing, as you all know what a time-crunch we're under; even minor distractions will undo a rat-ship like ours.

Kind faces have kind eyes and two dollars

When people ask me what I believe in, I never tell them. But if you must know, I choose to believe in a Greek Jesus. That's the one that died for the sins of Man, then got Man drunk and snuck a finger up his ass.

Dazed by days and days of daisies

Considering all that's happened, leaving the west gate unlocked was an enabling act, very possibly the enabling act, that made the rest of this week as unpleasant and unproductive as it has been. Even without the results of the investigation "suggesting", or, less kindly, "clearly showing on videotape" two people that look a lot like you and Lou inside the cages shortly before the first escapee was spotted downtown, there's a lot to answer for here. For leaving the gate unlocked (not to mention wide-open with chalk-drawn arrows marking the way out, lined with balloons and so forth,) there is a standard disciplinary response, which is a formal reprimand attached to your file, and for repeat offenders, an advisory review with the possibility of suspension and/or termination. This alone is quite serious and would have affected your professional future for some time to come.

However, the sum of your alleged behavior and the resulting clean-up operations made necessary were never imagined by the policy-makers of this facility, which is why we've had to turn you both over to the state authorities. It may be our lack of imagination that has put you in detention, rather than before a board of inquiry, but in view of the significant mischief the events of last Friday have precipitated, we feel that we no longer have the luxury of disciplinary discretion. As one would guess from considering the high number of escapees, this was a daunting task made no more excusable by the ease with which they were tracked down. It is only a minor comfort that so many chose to hide behind furniture rather than take to the wooded areas nearby, which would have prolonged the search and surely led to multiple tragedies. On balance, it is much easier to spot a fort made out of cushions than it is to hunt down a dug-in shelter using natural camouflage, though it is more expensive to replace the cushions if they are discovered to be soiled in any way. So far, we've been very lucky.

Simlarly, you may be able to get some clemency at sentencing since there was very little property damage, not that someone would credibly argue that a mob of half-dressed, mostly-toothless elderly folks had any serious capacity for wanton destruction. It will be difficult for anyone to claim that they require financial compensation for someone posing as the Vice-Prince of Westphalia taking a dump on their deck, regardless of what time of day it was and/or how special a child's fifth birthday party may or may not be to their overall development (Incidentally, those people own three dogs, so we're triple-certain to walk away from that one without spending a dime.) However, we are confident that the decision to end your employment at this facility rests on firm ground. Good luck in your future endeavors, and never, ever come near us again. Ever. For real. Never.

For all you know, it was one of mine

You have come to me on this overcast morning, hoping to recruit me for your cause. In the first place, I am annoyed that you've interrupted my breakfast. No, I was not in the act of eating any breakfast, but I haven't entirely ruled it out, either. As such, your approach constitutes a pre-emptive interruption of a possible breakfast, and casts a dark shadow over my prospects for getting in a little brunch. So, from the word Go, you're standing on my dick. Moving on from there, your pitch starts with a series of hypothetical questions, beginning with obviously hyperbolic entreaties to save the world from evil, which you then narrow to more modest exhortations to take on mundane tasks which I, being a clever person, am expected to recognize as the finer strokes in the Big Picture. All for one, one for all, e pluribus unum, and let's get this party started, because we all know who let the dogs out - hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo - who let the dogs out. To this end, I am to sign onto your program and pay attention to my electronic mail for further calls to action.

I'm only putting all of that together now, admittedly, because while you were persuading me, I was studying your nametag (which gets high marks for looking professional - the black stripe suggests both functionality and high-tech,) and what appears to be a professional-grade clipboard, complete with little clamps to hold pens, plus a built-in calculator and interior compartment for God-knows-what. Whoever sent you here must have dressed up in all this gear and stood in front of a full-length mirror in order to craft an image which is at once formal enough to suggest respect, but casual enough to lend an air of volunteer-spirit, as if you'd thought of all this on your own. Hell, maybe you did. If I'd been paying closer attention, it's possible I'd know for sure.

The bottom line is this - I'm not giving you my name, because I don't want a bunch of shit mailed to my house, giving me righteous guilt because I won't donate money I don't have to like-minded organizations that I don't belong to. Further, I'm not giving you any more of my time, because I'm in my shorts, barely concealing a half-stock, and I have a mighty loaf to pinch. And last, I won't give you thirty seconds lead time before I release the hounds because I didn't train sixteen man-eating beasts as an idle threat, and you smell tastier than you look. You're a clever person, so I know you saw the sign on your way in; you made your full-body cast, now pee in it. Bon chance!

Caught in the act

There were many great things about Stew, probably ten or fifteen if you had to write them all down. I do remember that he would get this magazine in the mail every week, so he'd sit in his underwear and read it from cover to cover as soon as it arrived. Even if he was already dressed, he'd pull off his trousers and make a point of sitting down with his feet up until he'd read the whole thing. If you wanted to talk to him during that hour, forget it. A couple of times, I noticed that he'd pulled his nuts out through the pee-hole in his undies, so they dangled out while he thumbed through the magazine. I'm not sure if he always did that, but I think it's something he insisted on doing as time went on, just to make it feel more like a ritual. This also stopped most people from bothering him while reading, since it's tough to get around a pair of nuts unless you've got a really good excuse. If the house is on fire, it's OK to disturb the nuts, but for something like a phone call, it can wait. Come to think on it, most phone calls can wait, nuts or not.

How it gets from house to house

Unfortunate as it sounds, this rash you've been staring at (which is not polite, FYI) is going to be showing up on your chin by nightfall. It will then spread down our neck and into your pits. I'll apologize to you when God apologizes to Judas (so, later.)

Douse it with a pail-full

Seven small people went wandering in the city center, ignoring the signs and refusing to heed advice. They traveled in two columns, side-by-side, and they pressed straight through other groups rather than going around. At a distance, they looked menacing, and as they got closer, they appeared comical and harmless, until they were within feet of you, and by then they were utterly frightening. But by then your time was up, and they either shoved you off the path or stamped right over your fallen body. Luckily, they wore small shoes, and only left small bruises.

Down by the river, a trio of black bears took afternoon tea, each insisting that he was the rebirth of Jesus Christ on Earth, and that the others were a pair of poseurs. A nearby hot-dog vendor laughed quietly through his nose, since he understood that supernatural saviors always give themselves away through their fondness for pickle relish, and all three of the bears had instead requested extra mustard and extra napkins. An old woman passing by asked the time, and the bears pretended not to understand English. The old woman approached the largest of the group without fear, reached out and tapped on his wristwatch, and repeated her query in Spanish, since you never know anymore. Enraged, the bear responded by taking off the watch, walking over to the hot-dog vendor, and dropping it into the pickle relish. The old woman straightened her spine, went over to the pan of relish and stuck her face right in it, sucking down every stray bit of pickle, and the watch itself. Almost instantly, she hunched over and shat out a full-size grandfather clock, which struck 2:30 p.m. and chimed out the first half of Auld Lang Syne. Seeing this, the bears fell off their chairs and laid on their backs, giggling and kicking their legs in the air. The hot dog vendor wordlessly unlocked the brakes on his cart and moved a little further down the promenade, since he could see where this was heading.

Two blocks away, two police officers joined two more police officers and began discussing the disgusting things they would do in shopping mall restrooms if someone dared them, and it wasn't long before a juggling exhibition broke out. A pair of men in expensive ties walked past and one remarked loudly that juggling was invented by Communists, whom he had found to be very difficult companions since they refuse to believe in nipples. The officers stopped juggling suddenly and began feeling around inside each other's shirts, ending the inspection with relieved sighs and pats on the back all around. The passing men turned around and joined the police in their moment of relief, and during a new conversation, one of the officers mentioned that he'd read an article claiming that you should cover your religions in lipstick before heading down to the club. The cleverest of the group smacked himself on the head, and explained the mix-up slowly, with animated gestures, until each man understood what had taken place. This should have ended the impromptu meeting on a high note, and a round of handshakes seemed to indicate that all would end well. Nevertheless, the police concluded by delivering a savage beating, which happens least on Tuesdays, but not never on Tuesdays.

None of these groups met on that day because they had been given bad directions. It turns out that Fourth Street doesn't run all the way down to the river. Small mistakes like this keep many of us safe - for the moment.

I, Buttplug

Brandishing a stolen saber high above my head and screaming bloody murder all the way, I charged down the hill into the outskirts of the town, which is where I first encountered the slums of the working serfs. They were some mellow cats (or perhaps just sleepy from working so much) and asked me to tone down all the yelling, and maybe sit down by the south well for a few minutes and take it easy. Although I had begun the hour with no intention in my heart except to lay waste to the refuge of mine enemies, I felt compelled to obey the counsel of these chillin' villains, though rarely have I taken orders gladly from anyone so conspicuously idle, the only obvious tension in any of their bodies confined to the grip the fattest one brought to bear on the bucket of fried chicken under his arm. The tall one next to him asked if I was cool, and if there was anything I'd wanted to drink whilst I hung out. I attempted to answer him, but my retort was lost in a coughing fit, brought on by both the fast I had been keeping since before the day of battle (which precluded the quenching of my thirst with any liquid but the blood of mine enemies,) as well as the fistfuls of dirt I was inhaling - the clouds kicked up were a result of my exciting entrance. In retrospect, all the hollering didn't do me much good, either. Brought out of their homes and alleyways by the cacophony of my tracheal trauma, a gaggle of swervy chicks showed up with wineskins and pitchers, which they dipped in the well and brought to my lips, perchance to calm my breathing. Not all of the ladies smelled so good, but they all stank like Heaven.

Regaining my breath, I spat out a long, winding trail of unconnected words, alternately loosing ransom obscenities and the names of bodyparts, which, rather than repulsing my erstwhile nursemaids, only caused them to hold me closer. Milking this for all it was worth, I elected to deceive them into thinking that I'd passed out. The ultimate reward of this subterfuge, however, was to be carried off by the men who had previously been surrounding the chicken bucket, and let down onto a cozy featherbed, which ran alongside several others, some with strange symbols embroidered onto them. Unsure of my next move, but assured that I was sufficiently sheltered, I rolled over and dozed off.

Since then, I've slept on that same featherbed over a thousand times, and my roommates helped me get a job with the gatherers, which is cool since you don't have to wake up at the buttcrack like those dudes on the farm. Farming's decent work, I guess, but I'm not wired for it. I sold my sword to make my first month's rent (before the gathering gig kicked in,) and I've been planning a hike back up the hill for months now, but I haven't gotten around to it. Whenever I talk about the trip, Ralph picks up a stick and waves it over his head, which he combines with a girly impression of me screaming, but I've seen him do it so often by now, I'm just like 'Whatever.'

I guess I'd like to go back to being all glorious and shit, but hey, who am I kidding? Those other assholes I was adventuring with are probably still lost in the Brown Hills somewhere, threatening some rube who lives under a flappybush with nut-loss if he doesn't help them figure out how this map works. If I do ever see them again, I've planned to respond by looking the dirtiest one straight in the eye and grabbing my titty at him, combined with the "thbbbbppt" sound. Really, what do you say back to that? Nothing. Not a God-Damn thing.

When you chew gum, you disobey the Lord

Underneath the snide tone of your message, we could all tell how much you miss it here, and we heard that tinge of regret that you'll never be able to return to us, even if you wanted to. You probably could sneak in for a visit or something, but the risk that you'd be captured and assigned to another facility should keep you at a sensible distance. It's just as well for everyone, really, since they've already put someone else in your room. The more sentimental people say that no one could take your place, but the new guy has indeed taken your room, your bed, your spot on the exercise line... and at the dinner table, he's literally taken your place. Those old women don't know shit, do they?

Otherwise, things are changing everyday around here. Our annual batch of clean underwear came down the chute on Wednesday, which meant a very tense period of bargaining between the few who still value the temporary comfort such items can bring, and the rest of us who were interested in seeing somebody sell out his or her dignity for some of that temporary comfort. Not the best hat-dance I've ever seen, and the relay race was a bit less challenging since spoons have been forbidden, but still better than anything I ever saw on cable TV. The hulk who used to be your soap partner sat and watched from the corner, and he kept waving his hand in the air as if surrounded by mouse-sized bees. They other hand was, predictably, occupied. I guess some things haven't changed yet, though he says he's been trying to turn a corner in his life. Despite universal antipathy for him, it has become a feature of our communal breakfast to look out into the garden and watch him do naked jumping jacks. We call it "The Dance of the Bushy Moustache."

One from the stinky vaults, 10/29/1999

The hole in the ground wasn't as deep as everyone thought it was. A lot of men had spent their own time and money to figure out its actual depth, but each man reached a point where approximation and guesswork was satisfactory. Standing over the hole, you can see the top of a ladder a little way down. Its rungs extend out of sight, but we don't think they reach the bottom of the hole. No one who climbs down has ever reported reaching the end, and there are a lot of explorers who haven't returned to report anything at all. Grandma says that they might've reached the end and fallen off in the dark, or they could've slipped because they were tired or clumsy. Uncle Feelips told me that this is the hole in the ground where old people come from. There's a door at the end of the ladder, the way he tells it, and when a middle-aged person gets down that far, the door opens and an old person takes a Polaroid and knocks the middle-aged person off into the pit. Then, the old people get together and have a meeting to decide who looks the most like the person they just got rid of. The winning candidate climbs up the ladder and picks up where the middle-aged person left off. This is why, Uncle Feelips says, old people appear to have such crummy memories. Last week, Grandpa came downstairs with a folding chair on his head. He started giggling and pulled his pants down in the kitchen. Uncle Feelips kept pointing and whispering, "See? See? I told you! See?" Then Grandma came in and they did the wild thing on the counter. Uncle Feelips sure makes a lotta money with those videos he puts on the computer. That's how I got this bike.