137 P U N K ...2

School.

Huh.


The faces had changed, but the story remained the same. Put your best foot forward, place one foot in front of the other, foot the bill. It was like looking at the world through a new pair of eyes.


Sitting behind the pretty blond who would become our school’s Valedictorian, I could smell the shampoo she used. Scooby Dude on my left winked at me from behind his shades.

“Wild, man …Wild.” He nodded.


Great. Somehow word had gotten around about my car burning up in Clovis. I had no idea how much of the tale there was, how much of it was speculation, and who had let everyone know, but I could figure it out.


The Little Lion Man was an instigator, as you well know by now. Joey loved to gossip.


------------------------------


I chucked my text book and PeeChee folders into the locker and felt a pinch on my ass. Katheena. Her hot breath whispered something in my ear and I could have drifted off from the sweet scent of her perfume. When my eyes opened, she was gone. It was like I had fallen asleep or something. The hallway was empty.



Outside in the fresh, sparkly sunshine of that spring day, the Quad filled up with students grabbing plots of grass to sit upon with their lunches. There was Joey, holding court on the picnic table at the center of the food court, where I had first met him a hundred years ago.


Fucker.


I walked as the crow flew, to the parking lot where Katheena awaited me. Her gold Firebird with the gold-tinted windows and the huge black bird across the hood rumbled like a dog with a bad temper.



Yeah, it was about time she and I settled some business. One day in the future, she and I would part ways, never to meet again. But before that time came, we would develop a bond taut enough to slice diamonds.


++++++++++++++++++



“Thanks for coming. Will. Where do you want to eat?”

“Hey Katheena. I know about a place down by the Manchester Mall that has authentic Messican food. The real deal. That cool?”



She squealed her tires and we spun out of that parking lot and hit the road sideways, fishtailing and then jetting off straight as bullet.


++++++++++++++++++


“Stacy? Nope, never heard of her. But she drives a white Celica, huh? I’ll keep my eye out for her. Bitch needs a lesson.”


“Now Katheena, don’t go busting up your knuckles on account of me.”




“Nah, don’t worry about me, Will. I’m just glad you made it home alive.”

“I appreciate that. You’re the first person to say that to me.”



Home.



Huh.



Home was on the other coast.


Until I got there, I would have to accept the notion that this desert shit hole was my home.


It didn’t sit well, but what the hell else did I have?




LINKS





Vote for Lois, top right.





Yummmm. Pasta.







Smoke a twista before you kidnap drug dealers in Juarez, Sexico.






Suicide explained via quantum mechanics. Nice.




Interesting architexture.





Something more transient: Crop circles. Some people need more constructive things to do.




Like this: invent


a rocket oven. I’ve never heard of such a thing, have you? It makes a lot of sense. It’s very cool when technology combines with old school materials. This will help folks in Haiti.








Or it could help those in Detroit?







“In My Time” is going to be published this week. It’s the memoirs of that Dick, Cheney. Wonder if he will explain how everyone kept getting broken arms, black eyes and shot in the face when they were working under him?






God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out








OK, One More For Ya.


Jerry has doodled a whole world. Maps. Oddly charming.








.

136 i s p u n k s t a r t .

This is your Mental Escape.

Do you have your bowl, your beverage, your towel handy?


Good.

Let’s dive into the rabbit hole. God Help You. God Help Us All.

+++++++++++++++++++++++


When you realize that there is no one left on this little blue marble to show you the way, then you must pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get the fuck back into what there is left.


Left alone, left behind, left in Fuckno, with no hope for Home.


What Do You Do?






Perhaps we are essentially all alone here on this tiny blue marble in the eternity of space, to be connected once again in the aftermath by the notes that we once played to each other when we were alive.



Your Clan may not be blood-related. Your Clan chust might be those whom you have met along your path, who will always be related to you in some way, from what you have done together, in whatever path you have chosen to follow together.

Hold these people close to you tightly, if you can expect the same from them, to you.


It will fucking matter.



You will see.


+++++++++++++++++++


I looked around at these three females in the light of the fresh spring day. This was my clan. They depended upon me to be the man of our tiny family.

We four of us, we were held by the tightest of bonds that can ever exist, and it is called Family.

One must always rise to the expectations of such a responsibility. My father had passed away three years ago, and on his deathbed, he made me promise such a thing.


I would not let him down.


I would not let them down.


I would not let myself down.



And, of course, I failed on all three counts.



Here we go, into the new chapter. Care to follow along?


Good. I knew I could count on you my friend.




PUNK


Evolution, or devolution, you decide. The air in the megalopolis of Fuckno, CaliFuckedMatilda was quite stale, even if the planet there began to bloom.


Every street erupted out of the grey paints of winter with the green promise of wondrous bougainvillea and unending sunshine. You could see it in the faces of those who stood, waiting for the next city bus, or paying their dues in the lines of the Department of Vehicle Motors and Burnt Offerings. D.V.M.-B.O.

It was all about smiles on these sun-shiny faces, everywhere you looked. Like it was the holiday season in the North East four months previous, with snowflakes dusting eyelashes.

There were only fake flakes in Fuckno.


Desert dust.


I had to declare the death of Matilda to the Fuckno DVMBO, and pay my own dues to the city of Clovis for their help in putting her fire out; cleaning up the street; and hauling her away to the nearest car-graveyard.


But I got to see her carcass one last time.


The car-graveyard clerk took my ticket, and he ushered me to her show.

Matilda.


There she sat; hollow-eyed in the cool breeze and warm sunshine. Nothing was left but a former hulk of a tiny yet powerful machine, once lovingly adorned with the blood, sweat and tears of someone who cared enough to raise her up out of the desert dust and offer her the promise of Home.


Upon her hood: a faint impression in the burnt smudging of her former desert dust-colored paint.

There were some odd designs scrawled across it, beneath the charred paint.


I recalled how Stacy had drawn her nails across Matilda’s hood and whispered something under her breath, that night at Fucky Chucky’s, before we sped off and raced.


What did it all mean?



Join me here tomorrow as we begin this new chapter.






LINKS




Portal Homage. Nice, if you have ever played Portal. Quite cool even if you have not.









For your Saturday viewing pleasure, here’s the first installment from Nuka Break: Fallout. It’s funny, and the hip to waist ratio on the nerdy ginger is something else (3:15, 7:35). The search for good Cola in the post-apocolyptic world is quite an interesting slant. Can hardly wait for the next installment.









Look here for some munchies: a link from Entropy_Happens. Potato chips are now a complete meal.








Here’s an easy way to lose some pounds. Visit Acapulco.







Cute funny.





Uuuuuurp.






Antidote: 50 hottest Beach Volleyball Pics Evah. Begin the lubeshow, mistah man.








A new mouse. Trap? No. Smart.






A new BTTF? That would be cool.








But it would only open a new jar of troubles, like an octopus.







Here’s some milk for your cereal.





Huh. Rage Comics.






Thank you for checking this out today.


God Help You.


God Help Us All.


---willies out.





OK, One More For Ya.




Reading is cool.







.

135 Matilda Aftermath

Let's go on, my friend.











Stranded in the desert three thousand, three hundred and thirty three miles from my home in a river valley, I had hit rock bottom.




Actually, it was the first rock bottom, but not the last.



----------------------------



The warm orange glow exploded into a steam dragon that howled and hissed and flew away into the night sky. Fire trucks circled the tiny, melted rocket ship, and the pastel stucco on the houses across the street flashed blue and then red between orange, lime green or dusty rose.



Officer Tingletot wanted to know why I had set my car on fire tonight. He seemed particularly curious about why tonight, during the work week, instead of on the weekend, as was the usual.



“I killed her.” My own voice seemed to be phoning in from a thousand miles of string stretched between two tin cans.

Tingletot’s eyes went big. “Is she in the trunk?”




“She’s gone, man. She’s in heaven now.” I just stared at Matilda, not feeling much of anything at all.

“But what about her body?”




“What a body indeed. Tig-assed bitties, and a rear that wouldn’t quit. Friggin biker boyfriend, can you believe it? Asshole. But she was a bitch for not telling me about him.”

Tingletot wrote this all down. “Where is her home?”




“Off-skirts. Way up north. House sits on a bluff. Just follow the trail of butter drippings. You’ll end up there.”

“Butter trail. OK. Gotcha.”









At first they had deemed me unfit to stand trial for murder, but then the steam died down and they got the trunk open to look inside. No bones, nothing but a chest of ruined tools, a burned up Chilton’s guide to automotive repair and engine rebuilding for a 1972 Toyota Celica, and a toasted spare tire that didn’t have a single mile on its treads...



“Sir, I could arrest you for making a false statement to me. You said you killed someone.”

“Yeah, Matilda. My car. Just look at her.”




Tingletot flipped his little notebook closed as loudly as he could for such a floppy little notebook, then he simply turned on his heel and stalked off.






--------------------------------------


“Weeeee-ill! What the fuck dude? Get yo ass in the car brutha!”


“Thanks Joseph. Ffffffuuuuuuck.”




“What the hell you doing way the fuck up in Clovis anyways?”

“I was running from an angry biker dude. I fucked his girlfriend in his driveway.”



“No shit?”

“No shit.”



----------------------------------------



Before the memories of milk jugs and skydiving bikers came slipping back to me like burning coffins down a muddy hillside, the sun awoke me in my crisp, clean sheets, and the fresh scent of a cool spring breeze came in through the open window.


It was early.



I’d gone to sleep early, exhausted from one hell of a date. First I’d eaten at my favorite place with a hot chick who had a good sense of humor. Then I was winning in a race, how awesome is that feeling, ya know? Then we rode to heights of glory in the saddle of my mighty little steed. Next thing you know, I was fleeing in terror for my life. And it all ended with the death of my rocket ship.



Yeah, I’d had some strange dreams that night I tell you.



But there, in the fresh, clean amnesia of the bright morning light, I stretched in my sheets and let out a big yawn. My door opened in a couple of minutes and little Galen came in, dripping splotches of sweet, creamed coffee on the floor from the huge mug she carried in both hands, halting with every step.



She smiled big for me, little morning person that she was.



She set the mug on my night stand and I grabbed her and tossed her into my bed and tickled the shit out of her.



Then Spamela appeared at the door and next thing you know she was tossed into the ruckus as well.


-----------------------------------


My mom set her paper down when I came in with Galen and Spamela over my left shoulder and my mug in my right hand. “Good morning Will. How was your night?”


Ah. Yes. Thanks for the reminder, Mom. It started to come back to me. I set Galen down on the couch next to Spamela, facing the television. Strawberry Shortcake was on.



“It was pretty interesting.”

“I should say so. The police called because they needed a mailing address to send the bill.”




“Ahhhh. Jeez. I have to pay for all that?”

“Well, Will, when you set fire to your own car in the middle of the street, they aren’t going to foot the bill to put it out and then clean it up and haul it away.”




Shit. That’s how my coffee tasted now. Like shit.



“Does this involve drugs, Will? Were you drunk or something? Why would you do that to your car? I thought you had so much invested in it.”


“I had everything invested in her. She was our ticket out, Mom. I would never torch her.” So I told her everything except about the fucking.




Her eyes grew big each step of the way, and when she was done, she said, “We need to press charges and make that mother fucker foot the bill. He owes you a new god damned car, Will!”


Good ole Mom. But I explained that it was me; I’d blown my own engine showing off, and then, instead of standing up and fighting the old biker dude, I ran off like a scared little bitch and burned up my car in the process.



“Will. You are a sixteen year old high school kid. You had no reason to stand up to an old scrapper on his Harley.”


“I’ll be seventeen in a month. I’m almost a man. And I’ll never, ever, run again. I can promise you that, Mom.”



Of course, that was the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear from me.


And it would turn out to be wrong, but that is another chapter.









LINKS


Holocene. For your Saturday AM toon time.

BON IVER "Holocene" from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.

Now we can store data in glass. Nano-style. Awesome.




Here are The Outcasts. From the 80’s, in England. Badass Bikers.

For our troops returning home missing legs, and anyone else who wants to become a cyborg, a real bionic leg.



Long ago, pit bulls were called Nanny Dogs, because they are fiercely loyal and protectively maternal to kids. These dogs had to be inter-bred and mistreated to become fighters. Anyhoo, here’s a baby that loves his Pit Bull. Good doggie.





Cool pics. Some actually have not been Photoshopped. See if you can tell which.



Russians and Eurodicks will put a human on Mars before USA. What The Fuck?



Prank pics from people who have way too much time on their hands and need to do something productive and constructive instead.



Demotivational pics. Incase you haven’t seen these yet.



Sports gif files. Huh.




Louis CK on Conan’s show. His dog didn’t appreciate him saving it’s life.




God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.





OK, One More For Ya.


Gymkhana driving, for you uninitiated, (weak) drivers. Learn how to drive, honey.






.

134 Matilda End

Damn.

MATILDA DIES

What is your mental currency? The most vocal objector to an assertion of insanity is often the craziest person. Sanity can’t be bought or borrowed, but it surely can be spent.




Here are some pics of what a 1972 Toyota Celica looked like. Imagine them painted in a desert dust color, and you will see Matilda in your mind.

The headlamp from the motorcycle flooded Matilda’s interior with the heat of a hundred suns.


There came a gentle tapping at the passenger window, from a crow bar.


Then a hoarse, scratchy voice said,

“Stacy. Get out.”



Stacy climbed into the driver seat, and I dug around on the floor for my pants. She was all dressed and ready to go up there in the front seat, like she had done this before or someshit.



Like they had done this before.




A shadow passed around to the driver’s side, and then this ugly old face appeared in her window, lit on one side from the headlamp. Being lit from one side only emphasized the many lines, wrinkles and scars all over his face. He looked like he had been carved out of old desert wood.

“Open the door Stacy. We need to talk.”



I almost puked. What the fuck? Why was I led into this trap? Who had done this to me?



Of course, you know that I had done this to myself. It was inevitable, that along this sort of sordid path I had been traveling, one must eventually end up at the crossroads.




TAP TAP TAP. The crow bar glinted with sparkly dents in the light of his motorcycle. It had been used many times for whatever work he did.


I had a dry mouth. “Uh, sir? I had nothing to do with this.”



Yeah, great. Now he knew my mettle. Or lack thereof. He could tell that he held the upper hand. Now he knew that I prolly wouldn’t be jumping out with guns a-blazing.



Damn.




Stacy slid over to the passenger seat, opened the door and jumped out.


Two shadows faced each other over Matilda from each side, and I clambered into the driver’s seat completely naked.



I locked the door.


Biker Boyfriend looked down and shouted at my window.

“Get The Fuck Out Now!”



Yeah, OK, of course I would.

Be right there dude, just let me put on my drawers first, cool?



The hood of my little rocket ship slammed down, and Biker Dude disappeared. Stacy had bought me time. I saw two shadows wrestling with the crow bar and then one of them ran off to the right. The other one swung around and grew larger. He was coming for me.


I cranked her over, and Matilda caught her breath, amazing little girl with the great big heart.


I sped bass-ackwards down the hill of that driveway with that big bastard chasing after me and he fell face down in the shadowed dip of the hill. I hoped he was knocked out.



At the street I spun my steering wheel to swing her around to the left, then threw her into first gear and punched her accelerator. She slowly chugged up to twenty miles an hour. He ran after me in the street, growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.




I found the highway and opened her up. 40 was all that I had. I was chugging along for a bit, and then a tiny headlamp in the rearview mirror appeared.


Shit.



Go back home and deal with your cheating girlfriend, you ugly fucker. Forget about me. You thought this was intentional against you? Fuck you.



I meant, Please leave me alone dude.



I was driving naked in a slowly moving car that was about to finally give up the ghost if I let her overheat.



Then I remembered that I had not brought any water along for the ride. There was no point in pulling over now. This was it. I would have to run her into the ground to escape the mental case following me.




The Asshole Biker caught up to me. I looked over at him on my right, and he was shouting something at me. His bloody face was all scowled up and what few teeth he had were flashing as he recited his love poem to me. I guess he had indeed planted his face on his own driveway. But I suspected that he had lost his teeth years ago.





I swung a bit to the right and his eyes went huge, and then his face got red. He came up against the window and smashed it with a tire iron in his left hand. “Try it again you fucking coward!”


Then he beat at Matilda’s side over and over again, from the tail light to the head lamp.



I braked hard and he went on ahead, then swung around up ahead and started back towards me. Was this a came of chicken? Who the hell was this crazy guy anyways?



He passed by on my side and the windshield exploded. Glass flew everywhere, but none got in my eyes. I spat out bits of popcorn glass, and saw that the imprint of the tire iron showed that it met the window lengthwise. The plastic sheeting between the two glass panes held most of it in place. I could still see through it, if I looked through the clear parts here and there.




Fucker had swung it, and not heaved it like a javelin at my head. Thank Gawd for that bruthas and sistahs.



The tinkle of the tire iron tumbling down the road behind me came in through the open window.


Damn.


I needed to get the hell off this straightaway. I needed me some curves and some dips.


No, not Stacy. Fuck that bitch hard.

I needed the winding streets and drainage ditches of Clovis.



And there it was, the first exit to Clovis. Fuck yeah.









These northern streets were sparsely populated, but they had been recently constructed for the ongoing and unending conversion of the hard-gotten farmland into bedroom communities, suburbia, and inevitable urban sprawl.



Hard pan begat farms through the use of dynamite, and farms relented to million dollar McMansion gated-neighborhoods through the use of greed.




To the south were the relatively older parts of Clovis, now lit in the orange glow of mercury vapor lamp posts, which cast the daytime pastels of painted stucco into a monochromatic similar orange. Only the house numbers and weird angles to which they faced the curvy streets indicated whose house was whose.



If you didn’t know your way around, if this was your first time through the quiet side streets blatting on your stinky, loud hog, then you most certainly would be getting fucking lost.



He kept up a bit at first, but the deep, cement drainage ditches that lined each intersection slowed him down. Many a low-rider had lost an oil pan by going too fast across them. If you drove too fast, you would first bottom out on the rise out of them, and then go air borne, like on a ramp.



I kept my eye on him. He kept getting right up on my ass and then his shocks would bottom out on his forks as we came into each intersection. It was hilarious to see his front wheel flip sideways and he went skydiving over the handlebars.



Matilda began to blow steam quite hard, and I saw that her oil light was on, and her temp was topping out. I chugged her along, taking turns here and there, avoiding the cul-de-sacs, and staying off the thoroughfares here and there, which were themselves straight ways.



Dude must have folded his front rim. Or he was taking a nice tar nap.



I knew I was near the Clovis Police Station. I was going to grab my pants and run in there and seek protection.


The steam stopped roiling out from under the hood. Matilda was dry. Her engine began to make weird squealing noises, which became grinding rumbles. I was going on at a good 20 when she suddenly stopped, on a dime.









I woke up, forehead throbbing, to the smell of burning rubber, plastic, and paint. Her hood glowed red and smoke seeped out from under it.




Matilda was smoldering.




I grabbed my clothes from the rear foot well and jumped out. I put on my pants and shoes and heard glass tinkling.




Looking up, I saw that she was on fire.



I had killed Matilda.




END.



God Help You.

God Bless Matilda.


---willies out.














God Help You.

God Help Us All.



---willies out

133 Matilda 3

Have you ever killed a car? Matilda was my first bitch, and I killed her. She would not be the last car I killed. Young, ten feet tall, invincible and cock-sure. That attitude will fuck you up every time.



The stars beyond the windshield looked close enough to touch. I was in the off-skirts of Fuckno, even beyond Clovis which shined heavenward off behind on the right.



Then Matilda coughed and began to sputter. She slowed herself right down as I pressed harder on the accelerator. Now we were going about forty, and headlights behind me grew larger quite quickly.



Stacy appeared on my left, with her fancy powered passenger side window all the way down. She slowed down to my speed and yelled, “You letting me win? Such a gentleman!”



Then she took off again and way up ahead she signaled for the next exit. I followed her.



Matilda kept chugging along at 40 MPH, but she wouldn’t go any faster. I could feel her heartbeat through the accelerator. It was like she was hiccupping.



Stacy paused at each intersection to wait for me to catch up, and then she pulled into a driveway that rose up above a hump. Her home sat on a bit of a bluff, and the sky behind it shined a billion galaxies.


She hopped out of her ride and came skipping over to me. Yup, she was barefoot. A barefooted country chick, can ya hand me some hot apple pie and freshly squirted cow juice, ma’am?



Her eyes went big and she stopped mid-skip when she saw the steam coming out from underneath Matilda’s hood. “Pop it open!”



I did and she pushed it up and put the bar in place. “I think you blew the head gasket!”


“Oh? I thought she threw a rod?” I jumped out and went to see. Off course, there was nothing to see. “I’ll get a flashlight.” I grabbed it out of my glove box. You know, they should be called “Flashlight/ Car reg-insurance wallet/ CDs/ condoms/ tire gauge/ gun/ paraphernalia boxes.



Stacy said, “If she had thrown a rod, you would haven’t gotten very far. She’d be mangled, on the inside. Let’s check your dipstick.”



Normally, when someone says this to you, either they are about to hold your balls in their hand and tell you to turn your head and cough, or else, they are going to have some fun with you. Either way, it’ll cost you some hard earned cash money.



Stacy pulled my dipstick out of its sheath and I shined the light on it. There was a yellow cream covering it.



I shrugged. “Should I see a doctor about this?”


She frowned. “The water from your coolant system has gotten into your oil pan and the crankshaft done whipped the water and oil into butter. You need to let her cool down. I’ll go get some hot water to put in the radiator. Don’t want to crack her block. And no, don’t try to taste it. It’s not real butter.”



I laughed at that, but inside, it felt like I had been sucker punched in the gut. Shit.



My flashlight followed the Latina country girl’s bumped-out rear as she went off towards her house, and she giggled and waved her hands away at me when she saw what I was doing.



All that work… gone. I sat against the open grill and shined the flashlight up into the stars. No one up there responded in kind.



I could forget about flying off back to my Rez now. That plan was pushed away into the future by, what, weeks? Months? Needed to replace her head gasket. Prolly have to get her towed back into town, and that would not be cheap.



What the fuck had I done? What the fuck was I about to do? Well, the answer to both is that I was in the process of fucking myself over. The night would go first into ecstasy, and then, abruptly, into quaking fear.




Stacy came back out with a large milking container she carried with both hands, and I saw a rack of brewskies dangling from her left hand.



She was a strong girl.



She set everything down and offered me a beer. “Here’s to your little car, Matilda?”


“Yeah, Matilda. Thanks Stacy.” We drank. Stacy finished hers first, burped loudly, punched me in the gut and shot-gunned the rest to her own head.





Yeah, right.



Instead, she wrapped her arms around me and pressed her big boobies against my chest. Then she tilted her head, slightly parted her lips, and closed her eyes as she came in. It was refreshing. She smelled quite good, and her mouth tasted like nectar. By which I mean ice cold beer.



She smiled as she pulled away and said, “You have some work to do.” Her eyes glanced down at the only member of my club, who was straining his neck up to get a look-see.



Stacy motioned to the large milk jug, but I had my eyes on some other ones.

“You should fill her up to the top.”



She had no idea how inviting that sounded right then and there.





I used a rag to slowly open the radiator cap. Steam hissed out at the first stop, so I let go until it sputtered and wafted away into silence. Then I pushed down and turned it the rest of the way and removed it. It smelled a bit like bread that had been baked in an auto shop.



The first bit of hot water that I poured down Matilda’s smoky throat caused a couple of gurgling steam clouds to come busting out, but then she took it all in. The water ran down all over the radiator and I set the jug down and put the cap back in place.



“You should fill the reservoir up too. I’ll get some plastic jugs for you if you think you want to try to drive her back home…”


“I can do that?”





“If you’re careful. You’ll have to drive in the break-down lane, go no faster than 20 or 25 tops, and keep your eyes on her temp gauge. Each time she gets too hot, pull over and let her cool down. When she’s cooled down, put more water to her. You’ll be fine.”




If only that were true.





“Well, Stacy, thank you. I guess I---“


“Oh, you can’t leave just yet. She’s still quite hot.”




I smiled.


++++++++++++++++++++++


We made out in the back seat of my little rocket ship, and she began to undo my pants. I felt those wonderful blessings of hers, and yes, they were real, and they were magnificent. Stacy was very hot as she rode high, and her breath became husky, as we eased into things, and then began to rock back and forth. She was taching high RPMs when the head lamp appeared in the rear window.




I looked up at her face, which was now lit up like it was on stage, big eyes and open mouth.




The headlight came slowly along the right side and went up to the front of Matilda. Someone had come up over the hill on a motorcycle.



“Oh no. I lost track of the time.”

“Is it your dad?”




“No, it’s my boyfriend.”

Oh, come on man.



Really?





Really?







LINKS



Well now, how does this fare for those of us who write books? Evidently, the rioters in London left bookstores untouched. Yay. I mean, wait, ...what? Ain’t my writin’s good enough to steal? ...Prolly not… Wankers...





Antidote: Cure for cancer? Looks like it.




Speaking of Cancer, U.S. Debt explained here, short, compact, and in a cartoon. Really? Yes. Really.




Be aware of injury to yourself. Here are some pic guides to help out.




In order to help with cancer and other forms of injury that may leaving you facing the future with a blank stare from your Botox injections, here is how to harvest a face, for plastic surgery. With gross and nasty pics. ---willies style.








Antidote: Excellent multimedia work by Hae-Joon Lee. Claymation/ video/ paper sketch… well just look. The song is by The National: “Exile, Vilify.” Wonder if any of you know the reference to a certain video game?






Science news. Gluten free will be up held, for those of you who have become celiac. This is a growing concern, no pun intended.





Non-Science news. Meet Rick Perry. Entropy_Happens ribbed DROFSNEDT in our forums about him, concerning his “wife” Katy Perry. Food for thought? LOLZ





Well, just beware of your lady. She might be a spy, ya know.





Thanks for coming by all this week. Richie will be back soon. Safe travels to you and your little family, young man.



God Help You.

God Help Us All.



---willies out.












OK, One More For Ya.


By now, you know that I quite enjoy genius, and as well, talent. So here is a duo that holds both: Trent Reznor on keyboards, and Karen O with her amazing vocal capabilities. Then, Trent fucks with your ears as this song ends.

It's Immigrant Song, by Led Zeppelin, redux. Amen.









.

132 MATILDA 2

Stacy could handle her own bitch quite well. If you recall, that was the name of her car. “Bitch.” How cool is that for a chick?

My own car was bored-out in her cylinders, but she never bored me. If you ever get the chance to experience operating a machine that you have put together, I highly recommend it. Especially if it is made out of metal, can ride you at high speeds, and can cause death and mayhem.

Like having a sound system of which you use only half of it’s capability for bowel-shaking volume-awesomeness, you do not need to actually have to perform mayhem to appreciate such power.

It’s about restraint.

I didn’t have any restraint during this part of the tale, and it would fuck me up big time.

Oh, shit.



Stacy wore a little black dress that showed off her prodigious top parts, (no, not pop tarts) and also the sort of backside that could hold an ashtray. While she was standing. No shit brutha. Some Latinas are constructed this way, especially in Brasil.

She wore high heels, but I suspect that she took them off in order to push her dainty feet onto the gas pedal, the brake pedal, and yes, the clutch.


I’ve always opted for the clutch. Having the automatic transmission is nice if you are holding a coffee in your hand, or if you are texting on your phone and don’t mind killing yourself and someone else as you make your way to your hair appointment.

There was no such thing as texting back then, nor were there any Starbucks to be found.


But, the idea here is that this chick took her shoes off in order to feel her vehicle. Feel. Driving bare-footed is not something I would ever advocate for anyone who does not understand a simple concept, which is this:

When you drive a high performance vehicle in the way that is was intended to be driven, you simply must be connected to it, in every manner possible.

There are no cup holders.

You must not be distracted. You have to engage. You need to become a part of the vehicle, to join it. Like a cyborg or someshit.

When you are married like this to your vehicle, only then will you be able to appreciate its capability, and also its limitations. Both are equally important.


++++++++++++++++++



Stacy took her shoes off. She was fully engaged.


Gawd damn son. I could not keep up.



We set off to the north. She closed lanes, she swept, she dusted me and Matilda. I could see her red tail lights way ahead. I was losing her. I could not believe it.

Except, there was one thing I had in my favor. I had built my bitch with my bare hands. I knew her inside and out. I caught up to Stacy at the red light, but I was behind three cars on each side.

I had her.


Green. The cars behind her were stopped, probably writing down her license plate number. I snailed along behind those in front of me until there was an opening on my left from the stopped cars, all pissed off behind her, and then I stuck myself in her lane.

She revved hard, but I punched Matilda into high RPMs almost to the red line, and the Positraction kept me from sway.

She was driving with factory, and my ride was Special Ed, with bored-out loveliness. And I knew Matilda.

I had brought her back to life, constructed a new heart for her.


I swung into the right lane and passed Stacy.


I was gone, baby, gone.

---------------------------------


Stacy tried to keep up, but Matilda wasn’t having it. Can you imagine that? God Bless Matilda. She was taching high, and she did not mind.


I looked off into the black night through the windshield in front, as we left the off skirts of Fuckno, and Clovis, further north, into space.

Stars came into view, away from the light-pollution of those dusty cities, and I felt like I was flying.

One more time.


I was going to the stars, and Matilda and I would pick up Lorelei for a ride back home to Earth.


As I rocketed off to the stars, I did not keep an eye on things. I did not notice the oil pressure, nor the engine temp, nor even the tach. I red lined my little rocket ship, even though she was telling me to ease off and let her cool; please let Stacy catch up a bit up and we could still win the race.

I wasn’t hearing her. I wasn’t reading her. I didn’t have my shoes off.



Man……………






I rode in the red for too long, and then she threw a rod.


Fuck.


Me.



Prideful Asshole.



I had injured Matilda.



Lethal.



But she would not give up on me.




Huh.





God Help You.


God Help Us All.


---willies out.















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