Brain Farts: November 2004 Archives

When I am old and wrinkled, and have grey dreadlocks down to my calves, I am going to find a lawn chair and a sun umbrella and a little fold-down table, and I'm going to sit down on a boardwalk with a sign. I'll bring my pet rats, and let them climb around on me while I sit, and nest in my hair.

The sign will be in front of me, at my feet. FORTUNES, the sign will read. FIFTEEN DOLLARS.

Gullible spazdicks will take one look at the TOTALLY MYSTICAL AND ECCENTRIC OLD BROWN LADY, and buy a fortune.

And all the fortunes will be bad.

Check the Misc. section for chapter six, "Lilith Moves In."

Just so you guys know: I'm writing a character, here. Nobody get offended. I generally think enough of you guys that you don't even need the warning, but you never know who's reading the site and aching to get all shirty about what strangers on the Internet have to say about anything. God only knows what kinda flotsam I'm still trailing from the National Geographic evolution entry.

Next "Playing With Dolls" update should come complete with neat-o downloads. Hopefully.

Okay, I'm seriously a genius for real this time. And I can prove it.

So there are fish that glow in the dark and hypo-allergenic cats now, right? And science did that? With genetics? Y'with me so far?

They need to make some unicorns.

I'm serious. I am absolutely serious. The money would be be ALARMING.

I know you want a unicorn, too, so don't lie to me. We all want unicorns.

Would it really be all that hard to splice narwhal DNA into your average thoroughbred? Maybe, but we're not gonna think about that. That's not conducive. That's not the right attitude.

We'd figure something out, if we wanted it bad enough. How complicated could it be? It's a horse. It shits where it sleeps.

See, the thing to do would be to offer a whole line of unicorns, tailored to fit every delusion. There could be the opalescent white Arabians for all the chicks who never got over their Pretty Pretty Princess phase, and the midnight black Clydesdales for the dudes who want to be Larry Elmore paintings when they grow up, which will be never. And of course, the little unicorn ponies for the soul-devouring designer brats out in the suburbs. Cuz, you know, Daddy loves his little girl. STOP SCREAMING, HONEY.

The tough part would be making them small enough for apartments, but we'll fund that research with the first batch of unicorns, cuz you know Disney would whitewash Cinderella's Castle in orphan guts if it meant getting a five-year exclusivity deal. Can you imagine the extensively trademarked and copyrighted *~*~*Disney Princess Unicorn Parade?*~*~* They could sell tickets! Enter the Princess Lottery! Each hundred-dollar entry receipt, just one more chance to ride a REAL LIVE OMFG UNICORN down Main Street, USA! My God, the merchandising tie-ins and direct-to-video franchise ALONE.

Their firstborns' hearts poached in a mushroom cream sauce and served with a side of trophy wife would be a bargain.

I'm twenty-six years old.

That means The Jonestown Massacre is twenty-six years old. Neat how that works.

I think Jim knew I was coming.

Anyway... Thanks for all the nifty well-wishing, you guys. Yer awful sweet 'n' stuff. Here, have some audio clips.

Reverend Jim Jones of the People's Temple of Jonestown, Guyana publicly chastises a cult member for requesting a holiday visit home with his family. Can you catch the thinly-veiled death threat?

LOVE IS GOOD BUT GUNS ARE BETTER. Super rad freak-out at the thirty-second mark.

Cult members detail their desires to murder their relatives. RAWR RAWR CHRISTEN THE UNBELIEVERS LIKE A BOAT. Bonus insane Jim Jones giggle-fits!

Hm. Whaddya think? Five years old? Six? THENK YEW DAD.

And of course, the finale. Cyanide and valium laced Flavor-Aid: Goes down smooooov. Kids first, seniors second! QUIT'CHER BITCHIN', WE'RE GETTIN RE-IN-CAR-MER-RATED! It's fifteen minutes, might wanna put a kettle on.

That should do it. Off to open presents. I'll try to whip out a new Blikada soon. But not tonight.

Another Clutch show. Logan Square, November 30th. And a good thing, too. I was running dangerously low on ROCKING THE FUCK OUT.

A buncha other bands will be opening for them. Fu Manchu and... eh. I dunno, someone else. Whatever. Don't care. Not there for them. They'll be decent enough, hopefully. But really, I would sit through an hour of jackhammers and slaughterhouse piggy panic-squeals to see C!. I just hope I don't have to.

I'll have to draw a new picture to fling at them onstage, too, because I'm sure they don't think I'm creepy enough, yet. Probably Draco, King of Dragon Men, from "Oregon." The song, not the state. Maybe in pencil. We'll see if I have time.

Oh, there's a new "Playing with Dolls" up, too. Part five! Coda's diary continues! Hurry hurry hurry on over to the Misc. section.

Oh my stars and garters. This is my last week of being twenty-five. I enter my late twenties on the 18th. Pity my decrepitude.

Who wants to translate their love for me into something a little more tangible than pure and immortal emotion? OMG wishlist.

Not that I'm actually expecting anything from anybody, but I'm weirdly proud of this list. Half of it, especially the pricier stuff, are more reminders to myself than loot I actually expect people to get me. I always get a little thrill when I cross something like that off after buying it for myself.

Yes, I buy myself gifts. So lonely.

Anyway, check it out, and feel free to let me know if you add anything on this stupid list to your own. It's unsettling how satisfying that would be.

Yup. Check the Misc. section for "Chapter Four: The Diary of Coda Experiment, Last Week."

"Braindead teenage girl" is one of the few dialects I excel in. I was part of an informal, full-immersion program during high school, you see. But then again, weren't we all.

For anyone who might be interested, I've posted my vaguely amusing screenshots and accounts of what my families in The Sims 2 are enduring in the Misc. section, under the header "Playing with Dolls." Good stuff, if you're bored. Or like underage lesbians.

I'll add to it from time to time, and start new families, too. Hopefully, I'll even manage to get a few downloads in there, but since I'm so completely wrapped up in myself, I'll probably make you click on the individual story chapters to try and find them. Because I'm egotistical like that.

The first three pages of the Experiment family's ordeal are up right now. Have fun.

...but Chris Rock and Malcolm-Jamal Warner both called and urged me not to forget.

Thank goodness. I really have no idea what I'd do with myself without famous people carefully selected to fit my demographic sending me pre-recorded phone spam telling me how to live.

I have to get a grocery list together later tonight. I hope they call back with the name of which breakfast cereal My Community^TM is relying on me to buy.