A Writer's Journey: Part 1

There comes a time in a person’s life when he has to let go of the comfortable, peaceful life, and accomplish something truly great. I feel this time has come for me, to become what I’ve always suspected I’d become someday, a professional writer.

There are only two things required to become a professional writer: A kickass blog (check) and a pair of eyeglasses (check and check). As you can see, I possess both of these things, and am therefore, a professional writer waiting to happen. Well, then I shall not struggle against inevitability for much longer, and give in to my true destiny.

Like most people with spectacles and a blog, I have of course written a novel. This is no big secret, for if you have been around writers for long, you will find that those who have not been published yet have written exactly one novel. Perhaps you will be discussing a type of fine quiche, and they will mention that the specific quiche you mentioned just happens to be the quiche of choice of the main character of their novel. Or maybe you will be talking about Johnny Carson, and your writer friend may say, “Johnny Carson, say, he has hands, doesn’t he? You know who else has hands? The characters in my novel.”

But, dear reader, I am not here to bore you with the details and structure of hands, for I am sure there are less mundane, and less retarded aspects of my book that you would like to hear about. My novel is entitled, “Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist, in the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict.” Hopefully you can glean much of the story’s plot from the title, namely that the main theme of the story is the international intrigue and espionage over Estonia’s coveted phosphorite minerals. In this setting, Jake Headstrong, a bespectacled professional writer and soldier of fortune with nerves of steel, biceps of rough, tanned leather, and a kickass blog, is called in by the United States government to solve a crisis brewing in Eastern Europe. The reader is then invited to thrill in the escapades of Jake Headstrong’s straightforward, take no prisoners approach to the keeping of peace and the kicking of asses.

It would, of course, be quite impossible to publish all 619 chapters, 4,890 pages worth of action, adventure, and romance to this blog, not to mention that someone could easily steal my work and pass it off as their own. But then, it would be equally cruel to deprive you of it entirely, so in the spirit of compromise I have agreed to post a sample chapter for your enjoyment. Be aware, however, that this is one of the slower chapters, giving Jake a chance to catch his breath after a huge action scene. It is presented here merely to whet your appetite, and prepare you for the excitement ahead should you choose to buy a copy of my book (forthcoming).

In the meantime, set back, and enjoy this sample from:


Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist
in
the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict

Chapter 62 - National Security

“You’re safe for now, Mr. President,” Jake Headstrong said to the president. “Those ninjas won’t bother you now.” The President awoke to find himself laying on the sofa in the Oval Office. Jake Headstrong turned away from the President and quietly kissed his two fists, Rapscallion and Haymaker. Before turning back to the President, Rapscallion grabbed a huge cigar from his pocket, and Haymaker obliged him with a light.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Headstrong,” the President blubbered. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m so sorry, I’m just not strong enough to run this country!”

Before he could comprehend what was happening, Haymaker was slamming into the President’s chin, lifting him off the ground. As the President landed, he heard Jake Headstrong’s gruff voice shouting at him, “Snap out of it Mr. President! Fine, if you won’t run this country, then I will.”

Without warning, Jake picked up the red phone on the desk, and shouted into it, “now hear this! This is Jake Headstrong, and I’ll be in charge of things from now on.” He slammed the phone down without noticing the confused voice of the Russian diplomat on the other end. From there he marched directly into the War Room.

The men inside the War Room did not know who this man was, but they stood at attention as soon as he entered. Jake Headstrong took one look the screen, and said, “this situation in Iran is getting ridiculous. Let’s just bomb them.”

The Secretary of Defense sheepishly raised his hand. “Um, sir,” he said, “you want to bomb the whole country of Iran?”

“That’s what I said,” Jake Headstrong bellowed back at him, “and when I say I want something done, that means I want it done now.”

“But sir, the sheer amount of explosives, not to mention the diplomatic recours--" The Secretary’s protest was interrupted by Rapscallion entering his skull through his right temple, and exiting through the back of his skull. “I am now also the Secretary of Defense, as well as the President,” Jake declared. The rest of the cabinet silently nodded in agreement.

Jake Headstrong’s next order of business was to address the United Nations. “I want Marine One in the air right now,” he shouted at someone whose name he didn’t know. “Sir,” the frightened voice came back, “Marine One is fueled and ready to go. It can take off as soon as you arrive.”

“God damn it man, there’s no time! Get that bird in the air now!” As the aide, or whatever he was, stuttered into the radio for the helicopter to take off. Jake Headstrong, meanwhile, was already climbing the stairs to the White House roof, taking them six at a time. Bursting his way onto the roof, he sprinted toward the rising helicopter. With a majestic leap, Haymaker and Rapscallion soon found themselves wrapped around the landing gear of Marine One. Jake Headstrong pulled himself up into the helicopter. “Pilot,” he said, “I need to get to UN Headquarters, and make the post be haste.” The pilot slowly turned around, revealing himself to be AN 800 POUND GRIZZLY BEAR!

Using its ability to run at a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour, the bear rushed at Jake Headstrong at a rate of 38 kilometers per hour. It swiped a mighty paw at Jake, tearing his shirt off and leaving a gigantic oozing red claw mark across his chest. Jake, for his part, did not seem to notice this. Instead he wound up his arm, and planted a firm Rapscallion right in the hairy beast’s mouth, knocking all of its teeth out. The bear fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. “Don’t worry, noble creature,” Jake said soothingly, “I’ll make it quick.” He quickly straddled the great beast, and wrapped his arms around its head, solemnly snapping its neck.

It was then that Jake Headstrong noticed the chopper was losing altitude...

Here Are Some Garfields

Because I can't be bothered to do any real writing right now.

Attention:

This is what Ronald Reagan's Presidential Gun looks like.

The following was written during tonight's class on my cell phone. Be warned, I wrote it while incredibly bored and severely depressed, and as a result I cannot be held accountable for its contents (which is to say, I don't really remember what I wrote). The post picks up about 2 hours into a mind-numbingly boring class, and covers the remaining two and a half hours. Be aware that it probably contains several typos, as those keys are just so damn small, and there are large gaps in time between entries. I have no explanation for these, perhaps I passed out. Now, as further ado would severely impact the tone of the raw, unfiltered crazy, here it is.

MOBILE POST BEGINS HERE

This is a post written on a cell phone.

Why am I writing on a cell phone? Have I forgotten the spacious luxury of a full sized keyboard, and chosen instead the clicky resistance of a tiny array of lettered Tic Tacs? Well, what say you?

Oh, right, those were rhetorical. Please accept my apologies. At any rate, I am pecking away at this tiny keyboard because the fellow at the head of the room who fancies himself an instructor is droning on about the importance of electronic mail. Were you aware of it, dear reader, that mail can be sent over the internet now? Fascinating, is it not?

If it were, I would not be rambling away on my phone.

I have just turned the page in my instructional textbook, and there is an illustration of a cell phone. You might consider that ironic, were you to concentrate on it really hard while bashing your head into a wall. Here I am, concentrating vigorously on a cell phone while inches away, a photograph of a cell phone. And the physical cell phone, the one that exists in the real world, the one I am madly clicking away at, doesn't look anything like the depicted cell phone. I look at the inside cover, and there lies the answer: copyright 1988.

Side note: it took me about 90 seconds to figure out how to type the colon.

Additional side note: I had originally phrased that sentence, "enter the colon," but quickly thought better of it.

What was I talking about again? I could scroll up and check, but on this phone that operation could take the better part of an hour. Guess there's no turning back now, nowhere to go but forward.

This could be a good thing. It's a chance to be spontaneous, real stream of consciousness stuff, without having to stop be slave to constraints like format or grammar (not that I give half a shit about that stuff anyway, but this way, I can be totally shitless).

So, let's do this in a combination stream-of-consciousness/live-blog style. Which I believe may look a little something like this:

8:00 PM
I discover a new level of boredom, having endured this tedium for over two hours.

See that? That's a dead honest timestamp right there. It just so happens that it is exactly 8 pm right now. Crazy, right? Yeah, I know.

8:01 PM
Christ, how long will this go on?

Okay, maybe I should wait a little longer between updates. I'll try listening to the guy for a little while, maybe he's actually saying something interesting now.

8:05 PM
Nope.

He's explaining automated phone systems. And he just brought up those stupid ATT ads with the voicemail personas. God, I hate those. And he just brought them up as being something of actual relevance to network administration. Oh, you want to make sure you're reachable on the phone? Really? I did not know that, thanks for bringing in the stunning real life experience.

8:10 PM
Netscape? You're talking about Netscape? Does it even still exist?

8:11 PM
No one else in the class can say for sure if Netscape is still around. Maybe I could look it up if he hadn't PULLED THE GODDAMN NETWORK CABLE out of the switch, depriving the entire room of Internet access. What a dick.

8:14 PM
Next scheduled break is at 8:38. Maybe I can sneak in a quick nap until then.

I just realized that this doesn't really qualify as a live-blog, because I'm not updating it in real time; I am going to upload the whole thing when I get home.

8:18 PM
I spend another way-too-long amount of time hunting for the semi-colon.

8:20 PM
Hey, I wonder if this phone has an interrobang!

8:21 PM
Sadly, it does not. Why the fuck doesn't it?!

Do me a favor, squint your eyes at that last bit of punctuation, and let's pretend it's an interrobang.

Mmmmm, pretending... Amazing, isn't it? That phantom interrobang? Doesn't it just stare directly into your soul? DOESN'T IT?!

8:27 PM
11 minutes to go. Then I can set off the device, and it will exterminate them all.

EXTERMINATE!

EXTERMINATE!

EXTERMINATE!

Can you believe I actually had to type that up all three times? My phone has no copy and paste function.

8:30 PM
:-(

8:31 PM
I've got to think! What would Douglas Adams do in this situation, if he were still alive?

Answer: he would probably blog about it.

8:32 PM
:-(

8:35 PM
I need more Doctor Who references.

Here's one: my short, portly teacher may in fact be a Sontaran.

8:37 PM
One more minute!

8:38 PM
Booyah!

8:56 PM
I feel better now. Over the break I smoked two joints (Full disclosure: no I didn't. That was fictional.), and now I'm feeling fine.

9:01 PM
Some idiot has started randomly pulling cables out of the patch panel, resulting in the physical manifestation of an administrator's nightmare. Nice job, dumbass, bringing about the networking equivalent of hell on earth.

9:29 PM
Hm, an hour left and we still haven't started the lab. Doesn't look like we're going to get to it. And now that I think about it, my teacher is most likely a Rutan spy in semi-Sontaran shape. Probably so that he can lure out Sontaran sympathizers and burn out their insides with the raw energy of his true form.

10:21 PM
I can finally go home now.

FINAL THOUGHT: "At least the screaming of infants drowns out the moans of the dead."
-Idly scribbled on a piece of scrap paper at some point during the tedium.

I don't remember writing it, but it's in my handwriting, so I must have.

END MOBILE POST

Just How Deep Does the Rabbit Hole Go?

If you live in California, in the weeks leading up the last election you probably saw this commercial for goddamned Proposition 8 where a Massachusetts couple claims that their child was forced, apparently at gunpoint, to read gay porn in the guise of children's book (I'm not going to link to the video, because I don't want Youtube to think I'm some sort of crazy bigot, and start recommending me the KKK's channel or something). Of course, their claim was cleaned up a bit, their claim of hardcore pornography changed to "pro-gay literature" so that they wouldn't come off as obvious psychopaths.

Let's set aside the issues of free speech and censorship. Not even going to talk about it, for the moment it doesn't matter. Let's also set aside the fact that the book is obviously not a propaganda piece, but rather just an exposure to an alternative lifestyle. Let's set aside the fact that the book wasn't part of the school's curriculum, and belonged to one of the students who requested that the teacher read it. Let's even set aside the fact that the supposedly persecuted parents were the only ones actually making threats in the whole affair. All of these are good enough reasons to discount the opinions of these people, but that's not what I want to discuss right now. That discussion has already taken place, and I have nothing to add to it. No, I want to talk about their motives.

Given their persecution complex and ridiculously outspoken bigotry, it shouldn't surprise you to learn that this couple is Mormon. Within its history, Mormonism has always hid its wrongdoings under the cloak of the perceived religious intolerance against them. They whine that the entire state of Missouri declared war on them, neglecting to mention that war was started because they were stealing land in a violent coup. They point out that the country sent an army to kill Brigham Young, but leave out that he had sent the appointed governors back to Washington to deliver the message that if any further government officials were sent, they would be delivered back home in very small boxes. And recently, a white powdery substance was apparently delivered to the Mormon temples in California and Salt Lake, and it wouldn't surprise me at all if it were an inside job to garner sympathy for there cause in what has become a very hostile climate.

At this point, the Devil's Advocate jumps in to say, "So what if they're Mormon? Does that make them bad people?" No, not all Mormons are bad people. In fact, a few of them aren't even retarded! However this couple's response is the typical stratagem (Note the use of the singular, that's what we like to call wit!) of the Mormon organization. In fact one might begin to think that perhaps the couple might be insiders, taking their orders from within the superstructure of the Mormon church.

And one would be right. A recent memo from within the ranks of the Mormon church has been exposed, outlining their anti-gay twelve year plan. This memo mentions a man named Dick Wirthlin as a key member of the initiative. Turns out Dick's nephew is the man appearing in these inflammatory videos. And just who the hell is dear old Uncle Dick anyway? Ol' Dick Wirthlin at the time was a General Authority in the Church of Too Fucking Long a Name. To those who don't speak Mormonese, he's the equivalent of a Cardinal in the Catholic Church, pretty high up indeed.

Now here's the kicker, this memo was dated March 4, 1997. The Wirthlins filed their complaint in 2006. These people spent 9 years waiting for something vaguely offensive to happen so that they could scream about it loud enough to get national attention. And then all that media attention was wrapped up with a nice little bow and fed to an unwary public to pass a hateful piece of legislature.

This couple is just another arm of the Mormon church, whose influence has finally stepped just far enough over the line to gain some attention. In fact, as we speak this I-can't-believe-I'm-still-calling-it-a-church is being investigated for election fraud. Apparently they only reported five thousand dollars in contributions. For someone like me, who has seen first hand the organization of the Mormon wing of this campaign through my family, that number is almost precious. It's like asking a little kid how old they think the earth is, and they reply, "weally old, like a hundwed years!" You can't help but laugh at the naivete of someone who thought that number seemed plausible. Their budget is full of huge holes and unrecorded expenses, and one way or another, the Mormon Church is going to pay.

So to everyone who said that the Mormon Church wasn't that involved in Prop 8, you can kiss my ass. As far as I'm concerned, this isn't just a smoking gun. This is the moment caught on video camera, clear as day, and the Mormon church was caught holding the gun, masturbating on the corpse. And this is me flipping the bird at my childhood religion and saying, "Guess what, buddy? You're fucked."

And this is only the beginning.

An Heavenly Encounter

Attention Internets: This very night I was visited by our lord and savior Jesus Christ. I was sleeping, and all of a sudden there was a bright light and a choir of angels, and Jesus was standing right there in my bedroom. Luckily, I had a tape recorder by my bed (it came with my review copy of Bioshock), and I was able to capture our entire conversation. Here is the transcript of that meeting:


ME
Jesus Christ!

JESUS
Sup, bro?

ME
Um, nothing much. What’s up with you, Jesus?

JESUS
I’m chill, man. You know, takin’ it easy.

ME
Um, what are you doing here, Jesus?

JESUS
I’ve come to help you out, bro. Show you the way, and shit. Teach you how to live your life, you dig?

ME
Okay... Sure, tell me how I should live my life.

JESUS
You should never be a dick to anyone, man. Just, like, be cool to people. Be a nice guy, like, help old ladies across the street and shit. You know, shit like that.

ME
So, you came into my room in the middle of the night, to tell me to be nice to people?

JESUS
Yeah, man, the good works and shit.

ME
You know, Jesus, I kind of already knew that.

JESUS
Oh, shit man, sorry, my bad. I should have known you’d have your shit together. Fuck, I’m sorry, bro.

ME
It’s okay, Jesus.

JESUS
Naw, man, I was like serious out of line. I crossed a line, I’m so sorry, dude.

ME
Dude, you couldn’t have known. I mean, you’ve been dead for like two thousand years.

JESUS
Aw, buzzkill, man. Are you serious? Am I really all corpsed up?

ME
Yeah, they nailed you to a piece of wood.

JESUS
Oh shit, yeah, I remember that shit now. That was a bad fuckin’ day, you know?

ME
That’s gotta be unpleasant.

JESUS
Shit. Well hey, man, if you already know all that shit, does that mean you’re gonna join my church?

ME
Which one is yours?

JESUS
Fuck, I can’t remember that shit, man. Ummm... Scientology?

ME
Scientology, really?

JESUS
I don’t know, man. I think it starts with an “S.” Or maybe it was an “F.” Ah fuck it, my church is full of assholes anyway, you probably wouldn’t like it.

ME
You’re probably right.

JESUS
Well, bro, I guess I should be going. Get some fucking sleep, man. Oh, and hey, hit me up sometime. We’ll rock some mad ping pong.

ME
Jesus, I am terrible at ping pong.

JESUS
Shit man, me too. I don’t even know why I fucking like it so much.

At this point Jesus laughs for about two minutes, nonstop. Seriously.

JESUS
Hey, you got my cell number?

ME
No, Jesus, I don’t think I do.

JESUS
Hold on a sec.
(he pats down his robe)
Ah, fuck! Where the hell is that shit? Man, I hate this fucking robe. Shit is always falling out of it. Not cool.

ME
I’m sorry, Jesus. Maybe you should buy a pair of pants or something?

JESUS
Yeah, I should do that, shouldn’t I? See, this is why I love you man, you’re a fucking genius, you’ve got all the great plans. Well hey, maybe I’ll just see you around.

ME
Sure thing, Jesus. I’ll see you around.

JESUS
Later, bro.


END TRANSCRIPT


And with that, he vanished. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but I guess Jesus is a pretty cool guy. A little scatterbrained, but a decent dude nonetheless. Also, he smelled really... herbal. Not really sure what to make of that.

Hopefully I’ll see him again. I don’t know, where does Jesus like to hang out? The mall? Does anyone know? If anyone knows where I can find Jesus, drop me a line. Anyway, I’m going to go do as the savior-man suggested and catch some more Zs. Good night, Internet.

My Long-Awaited Review of the New Xbox Experience

It sucks.