Bad Blogger – Here’s Three Speed-Writing Meeting’s Worth of Stuff

“first thing we’re a-gonna do is dig a hole. no one ‘spects a hole out in the middle o’ nowhere, so your trap’s purty well set.”
“but it’s in the middle o’ nowhere. what are you tryin’ to trap?”
“don’t matter, sooner or later somthin’ll come along.”
“what if’n it’s bigger’n the hole?”
“then it won’t get trapped, now will it?”
“but it might a break a leg or somethin’, an’ you’ll come back to a big ol’ pissed off somethin’.”
“always a danger. tell ya what, you dig a bigger hole then.”
“well, teach me to open my mouth…”
“prolly won’t, but you can dream.”
hours later…
“hole big enough?”
“What do you think?”
“well, i ain’t heard o’ no animals too big for a hole this size ‘cept dinosaurs, an’ they ain’t around no more.”
“fair enough.”
the next day…
“now, be quiet where we’re comin’ up on it. don’t want to spook whatever we mighta caught.”
“i done looked. there ain’t nothin’ in there. trap ain’t been sprung.”
next day…
“still nothin’.”
next day…
“we caught a big ol’ 4×4, some guy out mud-dawgin’, an’ he’s plenty pissed!”
“he got a gun?”
“out here? whaddaya think?”
“i think it’s past time we was runnin’!”


once upon a time there was a rock that nobody paid much attention to, and on the whole, the small rock, “Bob”, was happy with that. he enjoyed his time in the sun, he enjoyed his time in the shade, in the dark… okay, the rain wasn’t so great, and the winters were a fright because he worried some smaller crack in his body might fill with water that would freeze and fracture him, but after a couple of decades he got pretty confident he was fissure-free and likely to stay that way.
Bob was too small to sit on, and too large for casual throwing, so he remained undisturbed by the humans. all he had to worry about was the occasional dog marking territory on him, and that was never pleasant, but sooner or later rain would wash him down, and besides, really, rocks don’t have noses, so it wasn’t like Bob could smell the urine.
rocks don’t have ears either, or eyes, so the only way Bob knew about anything was when it interacted with his skin.
yeah, Bob was content, until a pair of soft, feminine hands lifted him in the air, brought him down on her lying cheat of a husband’s head real hard.
then she took Bob with her as she went to Milwaukee and started a new life as a yoga instructor.
and they lived happily ever after.


i never knew my uncle Cal – he wasn’t welcome at our family gatherings, and my mother refused to discuss her twin. my father just muttered “fucker” under his breath when he thought i couldn’t hear.
so inheriting Cal’s house when i was 24 was a hell of a surprise. i was intrigued – a house and all the contents, only a half hour’s drive away.
okay, yeah, property taxes loomed on the horizon, but if things didn’t work out, i could always sell the place.
first off – that idea died when i saw the house. it would take a small fortune to make it worth demolishing. as it was, i figured about a week, maybe two, and a bird would land on it wrong and the whole damn thing would collapse.
inside, more of the same, and worse. i’d never seen so many dirty Hungry-Man TV dinner trays, and the boxes they’d come in, in my life, and beer cans… cheap beer at that.
i was planning on spending the night in the house – before i saw it – and would have reconsidered except for the storm front moving in.
candles. a leaky roof. more trash than the law allows. me…
and a map, in a frame, slid behind the sagging, moldy couch.
i’m pretty sure this big ‘X’ on it means something… it’d sure be nice if there were names or notes on the map, letting me know where it depicted.
fuck you, uncle Cal, i’m figuring this one out.


i wasn’t going to watch him die. that simple. i’d gotten the intern’s position and been ecstatic – a chance to work for one of the greatest investigative reporters of all time, brilliantly poking his nose into whatever interested him, and then telling the true story, the complete story. perhaps not always objectively, but a damn sight more objectively than any corporate news organization.
the university had thought him quite the catch. their journalism department would have its own genius-in-residence.
somehow, they’d missed his addiction issues. his complete lack of motivation if nothing particularly interested him at the time.
how very fucking seldom anything interested him anymore.
he was turning into a Hunter S. Thompson caricature, and he wasn’t good at it.
sex, drugs, and madness might’ve worked for Hunter, but they treated Claude Monroe like the littlest baboon.
he was lying in a puddle of his own puke when i last saw him, my hero, in the flesh.


blonde, blue-eyed, bubbly
fuckable phys ed major
drunken frat boy bait

i spear bait on hook
drop it into wading pool
goldfish ignore me


i could see it all.
her, as lovely as ever, seated on the front porch swing, her parents carefully not watching through the parlor window, a pleasant spring evening. Julie wondering if it’s really going to happen, am i going to pop the question, me on one knee before her, her hand in mine, the music swells…
we’re not talking romantic orchestral arrangement here… it’s Nine Inch Nails, “Fuck You Like An Animal.”
i’ll hand her the .45, she’s a much better shot than i am, i’ll pick up the chainsaw, and then her parent’s little slice of suburban paradise will descend into hell.
mom and dad go first. she’ll do that, quick and merciful. her annoying fuck of a little brother? that sumbitch is mine. i’m making chopped brat out of him – not the chainsaw, i’ll use my cleaver – his balls go first, plus whatever else gets in the way.
next, the neighbors with the asshole son, the football star who’s been pushing almost hard enough to call it rape, every time he can trap her alone… with him it’s the chainsaw, perfect cure for sexual harassment.
then down the street we’ll go, merrily making mayhem.


music, sea chanteys, all with their own rhythm, the cadence of different shipboard tasks. wind, flapping sails, whipping ropes, on a good day blowing away the smells of too many men in too small a space for too long a time…
the cries of captives. being held for ransom is better than dying, but sometimes not by much. the continual low grumble of the crew, always disgruntled about something.
and i’m happy it’s never been severe enough to put my position as captain in the hazard.
storms, Caribbean hurricanes, ridden out in safe harbor if lucky, ridden out at sea if God has cursed us… again…
shipping lanes, moving from one to another with the seasons, preying on any ship i think we can take, and luckily i haven’t been wrong yet.
boredom and scurvy and sunburn and near-starvation – all better than the Royal Navy’s “rum, sodomy, and the lash”… we cut out the lash, up the rum portion when possible. the sodomy’s about the same.
a floating hell.
all forgotten in the chase, a fat merchant praying for speed, no escape for him, and a rich haul for us.


i wasn’t allowed to go to the circus until i was ten. better said, i wasn’t allowed to go to the circus again until i was ten. somehow, when i was four, i escaped the notice of my mother and my cousins and wandered off… out into the center ring, following the clowns. so six years of no circus for me.
but when i was ten, Caligari’s Cavalcade of Chaos rolled into town and after enough piteous pleading to deafen my mother, i was allowed to go.
the sideshow captured my attention so thoroughly i never made it to the circus itself.
Venda, the woman with tarot cards tattooed all over her body… she spun on a platform and for a quarter, i got to toss a dart at her. it hit her in one of the few covered areas of her body, but she assured me it hit the Wheel of Fortune, and had stuck in the top part of the card, so it wasn’t reversed, and therefore unlucky.
Abrus, the strongest woman alive, who lifted me and five other kids by the chains connected to the big bronze platter we stood on. i watched closely, she wasn’t sweating at all. then she started spinning in place as we all clutched the chains and screamed.

(two notes – number one, me wandering off into the ring at a circus as a child actually happened, but didn’t result in any circus ban. number two, i really want to write more about Caligari’s Cavalcade of Chaos…)


Lt. Harmon was a ninety-day-wonder. no West Point for him, he’d done four years of ROTC at Texas A&M, and after three months of training they’d pinned 2nd Lt.’s bars on him and sent him to Vietnam, there to be inflicted upon our unit. Sgt. Mick, so totally tired of Irish jokes as to bring the pain if one was even hinted at, pronounced sentence on Harmon after thirty minutes.
“fuck him.”
and as Sgt. Mick was as close to God-on-High as we could know, Lt. Harmon became an annoyance, far too scared of the Sgt. to discipline any of us for our complete disregard for the Lt. or anything he said.
it would have stayed that way, until one night on patrol, when we encountered an enemy patrol, possibly NVA, probably VC, but in the dark, who the fuck could tell.
we’re all hunkered down, staying real quiet, hoping not to be noticed, when Harmon started shouting orders. three of our squad got scragged in the ensuing firefight.
when the enemy faded off into the jungle, Mick had had enough. he pulled the ring, let fly the handle, and shoved the live grenade down Harmon’s fatigues.
and ran.
enemy action, fourth casualty of our encounter, that’s what we all swore.


(prompt: haiku, using “silence”)

plastic bag huffing
in and out, faster, noisy
finally… silence

today, woke up deaf
watched the world gesticulate
world of mimes… silence

silence of snowfall
piles of white appearing… magic.
sun brings slushing falls


(prompt: lots of words starting with “M”)

i manhandled Marvin into the limo. could’ve approached him some other way, but he was a suspicious motherfucker. a limo, chauffeur… a mayor expects that kind of thing.
shrimp cocktails on ice in the back, i listened to him masticate them, shells and all, swilling the cheap champagne… doctored with a little something to make him more malleable.
murder and mayhem are easy… too easy. madness – that takes extra work.
aphrodisiacs, a dead end. to get the desired reaction, brain surgery, direct stimulation of 500 monkey’s pleasure centers.
not to orgasm, that would be too far, merely to the edge, where they’d have finish themselves off.
and then the room, a deep, narrow pit, surrounded by very steep bleachers. 500 monkeys worth of bleachers.
a sedated mayor, lowered into the pit, monkeys arranged carefully, wires connected…
wakey, wakey, mr. mayor!
madness… helpless, in a pit, showered with the jism of 500 masturbating monkeys.
insanity by bukkake.
imagine, not just the foulness of splattering monkey cum, but the monkeys don’t stop. they can’t. they keep masturbating until they die.
and then, dead monkeys falling into the pit with you.
500 of them.

they’ll never let him out of the asylum.
monkey masturbation madness – no cure for that shit.


(explanation: all through the Wednesday night meeting, we suffered through the loud and incredibly boring conversation of a table full of people who all worked together. made it very hard to concentrate on writing.)

we worked the plan out, carefully, on paper, because the din of their idiocy was driving us to distraction.
an industrial mixer – certainly a restaurant has an industrial mixer. a quick sneak back into the kitchen… mixer, check.
swirlies, the dreaded torture of high school bullies, taken to a macabre and murderous extreme.
one by one, head first, into the mixer, sweet screaming snuffed out in the grinding, churning nightmare mix of machine and man… and woman…
puree of mundane, boring fucks, new dish for the buffet.


listening to: “Electric Avenue” – Eddy Grant
mood: okay… damn happy i’m through trying to read my handwriting to get all these typed.














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