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Sunday, May 30, 2010

Origin Tales 1

STOP



Your computer or mobile device is now loading up a whole bunch of chapters. This will slow it down. Please navigate over to the list of chapter numbers on the right, and click on 33, or whatever number chapter you wish to read.

It will load only that chapter. Life will be better.

The "previous" and "next" buttons at the bottom of each page are nice as well. Kinda wondered why next is on the left side, and right is on the other side. We read from left to right, don't we? Whatever.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

33

Can you say Redemption? I ain't talking bottles and cans baby.


The next couple of weeks in school, I avoided everyone, kept low. Trinity never told anyone where I lived, nor even told them anything more than that I had been her "latest catch."

But she felt so bad for putting me in harm's way that night of our last talk that she offered up her pussy. And I took it.

Lost my virginity. But I had no desire to try to "work things out."

Fuck that. I was a sober young guy who had no need for drugs or the sort of folks who did them.


My first encounter with the almighty Vagina, and was it worth it?


You decide. I ended up quite pissed off after being pissed on, so to speak.

Californication was no longer a nice place for me. PTSD fucked with me, and I changed schools. But hadn't quite yet become a full-fledged Punk.

McClane High would polish that gem for me.

Tomorrow, I will offer up my latest story here for you to read.





God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

32

This next installment has been written and will be published on May 29th. Join here on that day to continue reading my tale for you.

Please consider re-reading numba 31 before then.

It has been polished up for you to enjoy, you see.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

31

The following chapter I wrote and published on May 20th, 2010.


Bryan told me about what happened the second time he went into Trinity's house that night.

Yes, he had, indeed, gone back in there before bailing on his bike and frigging running off at the fastest pace his meaty man-trunks would carry him. He punched man-foot sized holes in people's lawns, you see.

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

BRYAN'S WORDS


The following are Bryan's Words, how he spoke, what he saw. This is what he said to me that night:



Dude, when I saw Trinity take off with you, I got bad juju sense. I knew shit was about to go down when those two homeboys in front of us disappeared. I told you ya shoulda done just one line, man.

But check it out. I got the hell out, 'cuz I knew they would put my back up against a wall no matter how much I snorted before that. I came in her house with you in the beginning, and so fuck sticking around. They knew I was your bro.

But I did a couple more to buy some time. OK, honest: I liked it. But anyways, I told that hot chick Lupe to meet me out back, and I was lyin' man.

I snuck out the bathroom window, to come get you. Those assholes who heard you saying you'd never do drugs came back in with some scary, angry fucker who kicked down doors. Trinity was freaking out, oh, that's right, you were there.

Anyways,I saw where Trinity took you down the hall. Musta been her room, right? When I got around to that side, you was puttin the screen back in, and then you went for your bike.

I'm thinking "No! Fuck the bike! Get the fuck outta there!" But I couldn't say anything, from all those people being so close.

So when you grabbed your damn bike, I held off from bailing and listened through the window. Someone yelled out, "What the fuck is Muy Largo's Beeper Number? Who knows Muy's Beeper Number?

Hell, he was already on his way to the party, man, just down the street. I'm glad you didn't go off from the front of Trinity's house, cuz that is when this huge mutha fucka shows up.

He comes in and is all like, "What the fuck?! Turn off all those lights out in the back yard! You trying to wake up all the neighbors and get the helicopters here S.A.?"

I went around the back to tell you not to go through the front, but the lights came on the other side of the back yard wall. Everyone could see you with your friggin bike, dude.

That was when Muy Largo ordered everyone to get in their rides and split up in both directions on the Trinity's street to come get you.

That's when I booked it. They drove off, everyone else got the fuck outta there, so I jumped a wall and took off without using streets, man. I was hoppin' walls and tearin' it up across backyard lawns, bro! Lucky no dogs, I am serious.

But I stopped long enough to call the cops from a payphone. I told 'em about all those low riders. I did man! I said there was a gang fight and them low riders in that area were doing drive-bys.

No shit! They sent out the helicopters on them!

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

Bryan stopped and sipped his beer, shaking his head. We were all nervous from adrenaline, and from spending a while in escape-mode. He had made a direct bee-line through many yards, until he got far enough away, that was, and then he jogged on sidewalks the rest of the way after the helicopters came out in the southern part of Fuckno, Californication.

I had to navigate through all sorts of alleyways and side streets.

He ended up at my place before me. He hadn't wanted to go home directly across from the high school down there. Someone might have seen him.

While Bryan lost his bike that night, he'd gained a best friend. One who felt like shit for abandoning him at the drop of a hat. My excuse was that he was "hardened" from Joooovie and was used to that shit, and I was a pale skinny nerd from Maine, and this was all new to me.

Whatever, huh.

Little did Bryan know that Lupe The Hot Chick from that night was Muy Largo's lady. And she liked Bryan. A lot.

To be continued on May 29. Still haven't told you about the last time I was with Trinity, which was also a "First" of some kind.


God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.

30

I wrote and published the following words on May 16th, 2010.




Well hey there, you willies Enjoyer. You have read the Saturday column (yesterday) and now you are here on The Lord's Day to read the end of this pre-tale. Thank you for your patience. These tales take a lot out of someone who is prying memories from his addled his head about Ye Olde Punk Era. Just after the Crustacean Period.

Now here's a tune to get yourself all "shitiated." And, hey, thanks for partaking of this stuff.




TRINITY END


The air in Trinity's kitchen suddenly grew quite hot, and, oddly enough, quite chilly. Bryan shrugged off Lupe and the other girl who were both hugging all over him, and took his big hands out of his pockets.

He stared me in the eye and whispered, "You gotta be fucking kidding me. Tell me you kidding me."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt a chill. I whispered back, "Dude. I am not doing any drugs."

Bryan stood back and put his fist up to his lips. He pressed his index finger against them. "Shhh."

Then he strode to the table and snorted another line from the pink pile. Again, more laughter and hollas. He wiped his nose, make a loud sort of "snuck-snuck" noise with his nose, and came back to me.

The two young Messicans who had been in front of us were nowhere to be found. Bryan clapped my back and smiled, turning his head to me. "You gonna cause us a world of fuck, Willy Boy, unless you do a line or two. Hell, that might not even help now."

He turned back to the crowd and smirked, and said out loud, above the throbbing beat of the music from the other room, "Mi Hermano es muy bashful!"

Everyone laughed out loud, nodding. But I stood fast. I would never do drugs. And that was a good thing. Only, this was now a bad place to be.

Trinity came back to me, on the other side, and took me away. Bryan stayed, and was soon covered again by Lupe and her friend.

In the back part of the house, Trinity led me to her bedroom. "You stay here for a few minutes. Those guys will forget about this in a little while. But stay here for a bit. Please?"

I nodded. "Trinity, I didn't mean to cause you any harm."

She looked back at me from the door, then she came and hugged me. "It's not me I am worried about."

She closed the door and left.


In a moment, the front door slammed shut quite loudly, and then there was some shouting. The music got turned off. It was very quiet. Then someone began to speak in rapid tones in Hispanish, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

I went to her bedroom window, and found it to be opened a crack. I pushed it all the way open, and lifted the screen up, pushing it out. My adrenaline was in full gear, like I had actually done a line from the pink pile.

I was going to get the fuck out and now.

I climbed out, then put the screen back in its tread. And I crouched.

Through the window, I could hear Trinity screaming, "NO! Don't go through my house!"

Doors were kicked open, and lights were flicked on in each room.

I heard, "Where are you piquito NARC fucker? I'm coming after you, ESSAY!"

I had no desire to stick around and write an essay for those angry young Messicans, so I decided to head to my bike. People were coming out of the front door, so I stopped, behind the shrubs, and had to circle around to the other side of her home behind all the greenery, to get to my bike.

On the other side, lights in the home next door turned on, and dogs began to bark at me.

I found my bike, but there was no way in hell I was going to ride off from the front of her house, with all those folks drugged out, upset, and not fully understanding what was going on.

See a gringo ride off on a bike from this mess, and they would point me out.

I went further into her back yard, away, to the rear adobe hip-wall. I lifted my bike over it to the other side and then clambered over, to join it. Just after I did, the rear lights that shined in Trinity's back yard came on. I shrugged low for a moment, as folks came out of the sliding glass doors and looked around in the hedges by the house walls. I crawled and dragged my bike across the rear yard of her neighbor's home, hoping that I didn't stumble into a dog chained out there.

There was more shouting from inside Trinity's house, and I worried for Bryan.

But at the moment, I didn't feel like going back and "esplaining." It was time to get the fuck out.


I crept along, low down, dragging my ten speed, and its pedals were trenching lines through the lawn, making it harder and harder to tow. But with my adrenaline, I had amazing, panicky strength. I was sweating and felt like I was going to barf.

The breeze way connecting the garage to this home was a bit too close for comfort for me to try to sneak through, because of the wrought-iron gate that closed off the back yard I was in.

What if it was squeaky, or worse: locked?

But there was another gate on the other side of the garage, that led to the garbage cans. I went for it.

The lights came on in the house I was sneaking past.

And then, an amazing thing happened. Trinity's rear lights went out.

Thank goodness.

I reached the side gate and found that it was locked. So I grabbed my bike and threw it over. It landed with a loud metallic crash, and someone opened the door that led to the breeze way on the other side of the garage.

A flashlight shone around, and someone said in a raspy, loud voice, "I don't care for your kind around here. I have a gun. It's be best if you left right now. I'm calling the cops. I don't want to have to shoot you."

I did not respond, but I was thankful that this old guy hadn't come out guns ablazing.

I quietly crept up and over the locked gate, and jumped down. While I was carrying my bike off through the side alley between his garage and the one of the house next dor, all of the lights in the alley came on.

I heard, "There he is!" from Trinity's back yard, and that was all I fucking needed.

My bike would save me. I hopped on and rode to the street. As I was pedaling away at the fastest speed I'd ever made, I heard car doors slam shut and engines rumble awake.

Holy Fuck.






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

BRYAN



Bryan watched Trinity lead me away down the darkened hallway, he would later tell me. He turned to Lupe and smiled. "You got a boyfriend, Lupe?"

She smiled back up at him and kissed his cheek. "He ain't here, Jefe."

That was exactly what Bryan had been hoping for all along that evening, but at this moment, it was for a different reason.

He bent and kissed her cheek, and whispered into her ear, "Wanna take a walk?"

She shook her head and giggled demurely. "It would look bad."

He nodded approvingly, and then whispered back, "Meet me out back. I'll go first, then you come in a minute."

She giggled again, and then nodded. He left her and went to the bathroom, which faced the side of the house, away from our bikes.

And there, he slipped out of the window. Smart dude. He later told me that when he was skulking off, he saw me slip out of Trinity's window, and then, seeing that he didn't have to try to somehow rescue me, he ran off without his bike.

Yeah right.

He probably just ran off like a coward, and forgot about me.



Like I did to him.



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


The low riders rumbled awake, and their headlights lit up the whole avenue on the other side. All sorts of music pierced the quiet neighborhood at once, and then, just as quickly, were silenced.

Posse.

It was a good thing that I had traveled the many side streets of Fuckno on my ten speed that summer before school, because I knew how to navigate them. But not as well as folks who had lived there all of their lives. Especially some angry, worried, drugged out Messicans in their low-riders.

My pulse was up, my breath was quick and short, and I had to focus.

How in thee hell would I get out of there with my bike?

Trinity's house was located in the middle of a side street, so these guys had to drive to the next intersection and then come over to where I was escaping, to find me.

They went in both directions, up and down her side street, to circle around and stop me on both ends.

Ambush.

They were coming for the skinny white boy NARC they had seen carrying a ten speed through the alley way of the rear neighbor's home, when the lights had lit me up and revealed my get away.

I remembered at little alley way I'd explored when I was scoping out Trinity's home address, before she'd even taken a liking to me.

Don't look at me that way. This was not stalking. This was exploratory research by a horny young man, no ill will intended. Which, by the way, is what any stalker would say.

This little alley way led to another side street, and from there, another street went north and south.

I pumped my pedals though this alley way, and saw headlights pass by the opening of the back end when I neared the other end.

Now they would scour the connecting streets. They might even come up the alley I had just entered.

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

ON HIDING


Screamo for Trinity, that Bitch.




Never stop and try to hide when you are fleeing, unless you have defensive weaponry. If you are being chased by a psycho wearing a hockey mask who carries a chainsaw or machete, do not trip over a tree root, nor hide behind a tree in your white panties.

Everyone knows this.

It might occur to you to ditch your bike and try to act all casual on the sidewalk, but you must not do this.

In all cases, Distance is your friend. Distance yourself from a messy situation, and Get The Fuck Out.

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


There was another alley, and this one led to a main thoroughfare. At this time of night, there would be a lot of traffic, and that might offer solace to the panicked one. The possibility of witnesses might stave off an angry assault. Would it be a good idea to travel such a route?

NO.

Terrible things happen to folks while others watch, unable to act because of a simple thing, which is this:

When encountering a freaky situation, we social creatures look to others for hints on how to respond. During the time it takes for someone to finally act the hero, someone may perish.

If you ever find yourself in need of help, do not simply scream, "Help!"

Instead, point at one person, single them out like this, "You, in the red jacket! Come help me!" or, "You, up there in the second floor window, call 911!"

This makes them personally responsible. They will not turn away, hoping that someone else has called 911. And then everyone will follow suit.

True that, baby.

But there, I decided to avoid the main streets, and I ducked into another side alley.

While those crooked Messicans scoured the nearby streets way back there, thinning out and becoming mired in their own addled, drug-fueled confusion, the sirens awoke.

The frightened old white hick had indeed called the cops on me, back at his house behind Trinity's.

God Bless gun-toting scared old hicks, at least that time.

I made it home later eventually, through myriad side streets, and discovered a new dilemna, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

I would transfer to another school soon after.

This song is for Trinity. Dangerous, inconsiderate, unthinking Bitch.





Yeah, I learned a lot.

When something looks too good to be true, well, you better get the fuck out.

It was too good, and it was quite ugly.

Something in me changed.

You will see, next weekend, in the next pre-tale chapter of the ZID Series: TDC WEAW : How To Become A Fucking Punk. I will tell you about the last time I was with Trinity, when she offered her dark secrets to me, and I lost my virginity.

Speaking of bitches, Bryan had left his bike behind, you see, the one he first truly owned, (I'd helped him buy it) not a pig bike crafted from stolen parts.

Never forget your first real bitch that you own. Never leave her. The Popo had his fingerprints.

And, most importantly, never, ever bail on your bro.




Like I had.



I am The Bastard in this tale. I had bailed on him first, no matter what he did when I was doing so.



That stuck with me. I was the first bastard in our friendship.



Happy Sunday! Go grab some sunshine, baby.


God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

OK, a tune about "De-Evolution."

From DEVO.

Get it?

I knew you would.


29

I wrote and published this tale on May 15th, 2010.




For Trinity. Listen.




Well hey there, you willies Enjoyer. Thank you for stopping by on the weekend, during your valuable and rare leisure time. You have decided visit here during your web-surfing. God Bless You.

Have you ever noticed that the WWW structure is called "The Internet," but to use it for browsing is called "Surfing the Web?" No one calls it Surfing "The Net," even though Sandra Bullock was in a movie of the same name in the last century.

Things have changed.

Things always do.

Hopefully, they evolve.

For those of you who are averse to the scientific concept of Evolution, well, let's just say that Change is God's Will.

Here's the final chapter about Trinity, my first Lady. And here, I will tell you why I now call her a "bitch." This is something I rarely ever do.

Unless the bitch calls for it. But I never, ever use the C word.

Well, unless there is a good reason for it. Feel free to call me a dick, bastard, fucker, asshole. I've been called worse. Just don't let me hear you say it.

In this next chapter you will not see the end of Bryan, that bastard. You knew this, unless you are quite forgetful, or simply don't care for my tales, which is cool with me.

There is Survivor, Biggest Loser, and Strange Foods To Eat In Places You Will Never Visit to watch on the boob tube.

Enjoy them! All are good diversions from our work time. Speaking of which, there are links below in case you simply come here for those. No harsh on you, weary Inter-Tubes Traveler. Get your happy on.

Now for those of you interested, Get Your Weekend Game On and Read.



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

Trinity : Final Chapter.

The House Party

Here's the song that Bryan listened to while he got ready.




Bryan was quite excited. He had his new clothes, and now he was not wearing bell-bottomed jeans anymore. This night, he didn't even wear his tight "shortsssths," which was a good thing.

No need to frighten off the competition for the ladies, or scare the ladies themselves. Seemed like only cougars really appreciated his tight shortsssths anyways. Cougars with money and unavailable husbands...

He plastered the sides of his head with hair gel, combed up a rocking wave, and then poured two bottles of Draknar all over his burly chest.

I brushed my teef. I'd created a monster. It was Bryan.

Jooovie face breaker was in the closet now. Out came the Cougar Slayer. God Help The Ladies. Yeah, right. I rolled my eyes.

If only I knew that someday he would be a Punk Fucking Rocker.


Trinity had taken a liking to his suave manner, his new clothes, and his ability to talk drugs.

He'd passed me by in light-years.

Fucker. Tonight, he would become The Bastard.

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

Here's a tune as antidote to Bryan's Song.




We took our bikes down the side streets, avoiding the main streets. As we rode in a southerly direction that early evening with the dusty sky glowing in pastel colors, slowly settling into a deep red, the warm desert air licked our skin like a well-paid hooker.

We each had taken a coupla shots from the hip flask Bryan stole from his daddy's locked liquor cabinet, key hidden above the living room picture-window trim. So we glowed as well. We had the trembly anticipation of our first house party, and glorious Trinity awaited me. I was planning on having some fun with that honeyed loveliness. This bike ride was the best part of what would turn out to be a fuck of a night.

The ride home was a fucking nightmare.

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


When we got there, we noticed all of the sleek, gleaming low-riders parked in the street, on the grass of her lawn, and even on neighboring lawns. Had the car owners asked for permission? Probably not. We then and there made the very smart decision to hide our bikes behind some shrubs.

Trinity's home looked to have been built in the 1930's, complete with adobe brick hip-walls, a small but tidy courtyard garden entrance behind a black, wrought iron gate, and shit even had a small fountain in the middle.

Her front door was a massive wooden beast with black iron hardware that looked to have been forged in the fires of hell by Hephaestus himself. The window in it was orange stained glass.

We knocked, and I expected Long Duck Dong to be swinging from it when it finally opened.

Instead, it was Trinity herself, my Aphrodite. I smiled.

She grabbed me and gave me a big hug, mashing her full, firm breasts against me. If I had a tail, it'd be wagging.

Bryan shook her hand like a gentleman, and she smiled at him. But, was that a sort of glimmer in her eye for him? Even if it wasn't, I was still looking for it. Jealous, no?

Inside, everyone was either wearing large, white t-shirts that were freshly-ironed and spotless, with grey or brown or black pleated baggy slacks, and shiny black shoes that looked sharp like knives, or else they wore tight, single-colored sparkly party dresses. These were folks dolled up to look their very best, in their own style, and they were all quite remarkable to see. The men's hair was shiny and slicked-back like from the fifties. The ladies wore varying heights of hair-sprayed front-fans in the Chola style. There was a reason young male Messicans wore hairnets in school. For this very sort of event.

Music with heavy base and throbbing beats thickened the air.




We strode in wearing our suburban 80's Valley Dude clothes, but aside from a couple of unguarded stares, no one took a swing. Trinity, you see, had prepped them for our arrival, and she didn't want any shit from them.

God Bless Her.


Trinity wore a gold dress short on both top and bottom, which suited her deep tan and long legs. Holy fuck. Her green eyes and golden hair rendered her striking and highly fuckable. But these men in this home of hers were raised by their madres with proper manners regarding women, and she had no fear of being molested by any of them, lest they be beaten up and then ostracized by the others.

They were all family of a sort; tribal indeed. A different sort of culture from what Bryan knew. But not me.

We were introduced around, and we were welcomed politely, even if with somewhat guarded and reserved eyes from our new "friends." No one made fun of our garb in English, but when folks speak in a language that you do not fully understand and then they laugh, one always suspects that they are laughing at you. Human nature.

But mostly correct.

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


The kitchen table, which had twelve seats (those Messicans and their Catholicism, God Bless 'Em) had room for their large families at every Sunday meal. Now this table was surrounded by folks snorting piles of powder of various colors from glass plates and mirrors, but not the surface of the table itself. Odd sign of respect, or was it simply covering their tracks?

It appeared that they were bowing in submission to their host, and receiving communion of a different sort. The Confession booths in Church would be busy the next week's Sunday, no doubt, with the Padres hearing the same tales of the previous weekend's debauchery all day long then.

No one would be going to church tomorrow.

Back then, a Saturday Night Party could last until Monday. Probably still happens.

Bryan made a bee-line to the kitchen table. Folks there were feeling quite groovy, and even though ladies were quite nice to him, and some even hugged him, Bryan knew enough to be respectful. Then he leaned and partook, to a round of approving hollas and laughter.

He was in. Even if his probation officer might not approve.

Me? I was the nerd from my homeland back east, and I'd never even smoked a cigarette. Trinity put her arm around my skinny waist and started to pull me toward the table.

But I halted. She looked me in the eye and raised her eyebrows. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and then whispered into her ear, "I'm not doing drugs."

She nodded, but her arm somewhat stiffened.

You see, this sort of changed things. On a couple of levels.

First, and most immediate, is that when you are new into a round of people who are doing illegal activity, it can make them nervous when you do not engage as well.

There was a large amount of contraband on this large table, along with a bunch of folks who regarded me as a gringo stranger, who had much to lose and I had very little to offer in return, except for my own engagement, as security for them.

Trinity hid her inside fear, and then led me to the bathroom.

Some eyes followed, but it was Trinity, in her own home, and she was surrounded by her tribe.

She closed the door behind her, and looked me in the eyes. "You have to do just one line. I'll make it a small one. I'll fluff it out, to look wide, but you have to."

I shook my head. "Trinity, I have never done drugs, and I ain't about to start."

She was raised to never question her man, I think, for she did not argue with me then and there. Her jaw set firm, and she sighed, then turned and opened the door. I watched her curvy rear jiggle out, then turned and looked into the ornate mirror. There was friggin potpourri on the back of the toilet, for crying out loud.

My thin face stared back. I would not be doing any drugs, ever. I had big hopes for the future. Nothing would ever cause me to do such bad things.

I went back into the kitchen. Bryan was smiling quite happily, and he gestured me over.

"Dude, the pink pile is the best! Ya gotta try that one!" His breath was short and rapid. He had his meaty hands stuffed in his white slacks, and two ladies were hugging all over him.

"Bro, I ain't doing drugs."

A couple of young men just in front of us looked at each other, and their faces changed.


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

EVOLUTION

Now, when you suddenly find yourself in a potentially dangerous situation, your instincts will warn you. Heed these warning signals. Our DNA has crafted these self-preservation guides into our physical structure through millions of years of Evolution, and to dismiss them is to flip the bird to such pro-creative design. Your DNA wants you to survive long enough to pro-create, to go forth and multiply, and you are acting a fool.

Like this: You are walking through a darkened, empty parking lot toward your car, and your hair stands up on your arms, your heart suddenly begins pounding, and you get the willies.

Bad is to dismiss it as a chill, rationalize it away as nothing. Our human intellect has been around for a short few millions years, but our animal instinct has been with us for eons, honed through trial and error. Error means that you do not pass on your mistake to any offspring.

Good is to become highly aware, and fight or flee. Is the danger coming from the other side of the car, or from behind you?

Do you run to your car, unlock it, jump inside, and lock the doors?

Or do you simply get the fuck out of there?

How close are you to your car?

Do you possess armament for defense, or can you at least put up your dukes and block a knife?

You have only a moment to decide, for to pause is to face peril.

What DO You DO?


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


Bryan smiled and snickered. "Very funny, pal." He had a sort of look under his suddenly hollowed-out smile.

"He's funny, isn't he, Lupe?" The young, pretty lady on his left shoulder near me, giggled.

"Si, Bryan, he sure is an odd bird!"


Bryan's eyes went from mine to the men in front of us. Then he looked back at me.

And me? I simply smiled back, and swallowed. I stayed resolute in my decision. I said "Fuck You" to Evolution.


Tomorrow, I'll tell you about what happened next.


________________________


LINKS


God's Will: Scientific Evidence of Evolution being a hoax.

Saturday cartoon.



Speaking of walking on water, now you kids can too.



Here's a pic concerning Jesus' birthday and some visitors.





Today and Tomorrow, site of pics. "Underwater" is nice. So is "Daylight."





Closest pics of the Sun's Corona (crown or Halo) during an eclipse.



Dote:

Don't eat raw slugs
. God's Meek Creatures may inherit the Earth...




Anti-Dote: Odd pics (some NSFW).



For me, nano spider bots. Meaning: molecular bots. Very nice, high fives. What does God say about nanobots in the Bible, I wonder? Hmmm.... Nothing...



White paper written about molecular bots.



Doubler? Now with goats. Jeez. Us.




Speaking of animals, PETA has an animal kill rate of around 98% ...Un-Godly.




Antidote: living in a Church.


More for nerds like me.

50 paper robots. Cool. Man made life forms, out of paper?



Cool Paper structures, colored.



Not cool. People who steal. That is a Commandment we all agree on.


Thank you for partaking of my tales.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

Truly.


Tune for you for your Saturday.



---willies out.



OK, one more pic, for shits and giggles. I promise, if you press on it, it will grow. It gets bigger if you click.


28

This next chapter I wrote and published on May 9th, 2010.




Happy Mother's Day to all of you sweet moms out there.

In deference to you mothers, I have included references to three moms in this tale. Hopefuly, your offspring treat you well. Unlike the bastards in this next installment of the Trinity/Bryan chapters.


You need to read the story from yesterday, Saturday, before you check this shit out, baby.

This is for Paul, Sean's Brother. You will see.





Bryan and I began to bike around the high desert megalopolis of Fuckno each weekend, and he did this while wearing bell-bottomed jeans. Mind you, those types of jeans were recently cool for the girls a couple of years ago, but before that, it was only cool in the seventies and before even then. Not in the eighties, or "gayties," as my wife refers to that decade.

My lady has always been into straight rock, not the New Wave Duran Duran/ Depeche Mode stuff that MTV was flouting back then. Furthermore, the crankiness of true Punk Rock never even made it to Maine in the 80's, so it seems.

Bryan's shaggy white-boy afro, his bell-bottomed jeans and Hush Puppies (remember those?) may have made him appear tough in Joooovie, but out there on the New Wave streets of his own homeland, Californication, he was a dud, not a dude. Gag me with a spoon.

His flaired out pant legs kept getting caught in his bike chain, and he'd crash. Often, he would end up bleeding. The very last time, he tried to cross a busy intersection when this happened, and came to an abrupt halt directly in front of the white Mercedes convertible that luckily had slowed to let him pass, but not enough for his sudden stop. His bike got thrashed, and he rolled across the hood of the screeching car, and sprained his ankle because the bike was still attached to his jeans.

He ended up with a big rip down his inseam, so that all his commando, hairy manhood was dangling in the street, and his ass cracked a hairy man butt smile up at the afternoon sun overhead, dripping poop.

Dude got the shit knocked out of him.

I helped him drag his bike and torn pants over to the curb all tethered together, while the Lady Who Wore Red Ray Bans jumped out and began crying at a loud and shaky volume.

This was before we were told not to move someone that has been in an accident, but Bryan was built like a friggin tree trunk. The freaking-out lady grabbed her purse, threw a handfull of money at him, then climbed back in and sped off to her manicure, dented hood and all.

Bryan sat there in a daze while I snatched all his payment for his services from the road. Folks had stopped and a few were hovering over us, wanting to help but unsure about what to do. They saw his bloody elbows and scratched jaw, and his hairy, dangly manhood.

I waved them on. "He's OK, go on, he'll be all right." But something had changed in Bryan's mind. He decided there and then to stop wearing bell-bottomed jeans on his bike.

I hadn't yet introduced Bryan to my other bud, Sean. They were opposites in some ways, but actually, quite familiar, in others, such as in the breaking-the-law area.

You see, the main difference between them was that Sean was a cold-calculating son of a bitch, and he liked to control everything and test all the parameters, and then go on and find how close to the edge he could get before all hell broke loose. It ususally did. Control Man.

Bryan was born a do-gooder, but ended up with a violent temper, though life's path. It took quite a bit to press his buttons, but then, when the last button, the wrong one got pushed, well, you had better get the fuck out of the way. You better hide, and not trip over a tree root while running away. Out Of Control Man.

To place these two opposing forces of nature into the same glass beaker would either result in a massive explosion, or, being equally opposite, they might just cancel each other out, and implode everything in the immediate area: a black hole.

I really didn't want to find out, either way.

But the reason I bring up Sean is this: He knew how to dress, because of his brother Paul. HSean scorned my inability to dress well. Yet I was making money. So Sean showed me that my money could buy me clothing that would not get me laughed at, beat up, and quite possibly, I could get a chick.

"The clothes make the man." Don't laugh, I had actually subscribed to this clothing-industry-important notion back then.

And it really did work. Go figure.

Bryan hid his junk with one hand and rubbed his fucked-up afro with the other.

"I need to get me some new clothes. These jeans are fucking dangerous."

That is how Bryan got Reborn. Yes, corny and cheesy as hell, but you would not even fucking believe how things turned around for him. And this is all true.

Sean and his older brother Paul went to the same rich high school and wore the same Polo button downs and Izod shit, and I was wearing "o.d." So Sean found out that I had some cash, and we'd travel via city bus to the various malls, where he'd help me pick out what was known as "Preppy" clothing.

They'd been staying with their aunt on the other end of town, the upper West side, until, that is, when Sean, as he was wont to do, tested his aunt's buttons a bit too much with his weed smoking, and was shipped back to live with his mom in the same housing complex where I now lived on the upper East side, just below lovely Clovis. She welcomed him back, even though child protective services never found out. That is why he still went to Bullard.

I became a preppy nerd, as much as I now dislike saying so. But I'm being honest, and there, indeed, will be redemption in the name of Punkality.

I don't want to go to Hell in an Izod. I prefer going to Hell in my leather jacket. Thank you, Julian Casablancas.

I spent my money to help Bryan improve his lot in life. Again, yes, very superficial. But I was in Californication, and in such a plastic society as that, what I was doing for him would be regarded as altruistic.

That statement, my friend, is an indictment on the social mores of PlastiCalifornication-Land. And I was a contributor, at the time.



Bryan took to wearing white button downs, but with his own twist: he rolled the cuffs way up to show off his muscly arms. He eschewed the slacks and 501 jeans, and took to wearing tailored dress shorts, if there ever would be such a thing again after the eighties. But because his legs were thick and strong like human torsos, these were tight shorts, and they were high. His junk bulged out obtrusively, to each and every passing lady's delight.

But he did, indeed, take to wearing the Topsider dark brown boat shoes with the white soles like everyone else out there. In the desert. Sans socks.

Fuckers.

We got his shaggy white-boy afro shaved off at the sides, and made a trim bit of a wave on the top. With his Duddly Do Right cleft chin and square jaw, this bastard became a player.

I'd created a monster. Bryan eventually became a friggin Giggolo. No Fucking Shit.


TRINITY



I was wrong about her, man. My wake-up call occurred when I introduced Bryan to Trinity. They hit it off immediately. Hell, they even began to trade jail stories, which opened my eyes the hell up. I'd never suspected or asked if she'd been in Joooovie. She had.

Then they began to discuss drugs. Fucking Wow.

Then she told him that she was having a house party, and he should come with me. Fucking Fucking Wow.



When we left her place, down near Blackstone Avenue, lower East side, we were on our bikes. I'd helped Bryan a little bit to buy a new one, bastard. He was getting his own income, somehow.

"Bryan. You and Trinity hit it off pretty well."

He looked over at me and smiled. "That is one fine chick, buddy. You struck gold."

My insides churned a little bit. "You two sure know a lot about that illegal stuff."

Bryan stopped short and stood there. He waited for me to wheel back around. He said, "Bro, I would never, ever step in between you and any chick. Friendship first." He stuck out his hand, but not in the "hey, how are ya" handshake manner. He held it up, to do the "upright, man hand clench" of brotherhood.

I stopped my bike and looked him in the eye. "You better promise me that."

Bryan's eyes faltered a bit, but looking back now, it turned out to not be for lying. It was that I'd hurt his feelings.

"No." He stared me right in the eye. "I will always watch out for you, man."

He still had his open, expectant hand up. I took it. He squeezed my hand. "I'd rather take a bullet for you, brutha."

Now let's step back for a second while I wash off the bromance shit here.





Bryan had gone to live with his dad and step-mom even though he had tried to choke her, because his real mom didn't want anything to do with him after he'd trashed her home in a fit of rage.

After Jooovie, he'd learned to quell his rage even further, and so it would take even more buttons to push before that rage was let loose.

Of course, such rage, thus being pent up and buttoned down even further, well, you can imagine what would come out when it finally was allowed to.

Next weekend, I will tell you about Trinity's Party. That was the end of me and Trinity. Thanks to Bryan, bastard.





Now for some links




Sunday cartoon for ya. Odd.



Another one.


Japan is weird?


More of weird Japan.


This is just weird.


This is weirder.


This is too wierd. Do not click.


I was bumming after the Trinity thing. Here would have been a site I'd constructed, if html was invented back then, oh, and general population usenet. (Pre-tubes).



From the teen daughter zone.



From the nerd daddy zone.

Now to go take my sun and dotta's momma to the Fiddlehead Restaurant for exquisite breakfast delights. Remember, Mimosas are just an excuse to drink in the morning.

Happy Mother's Day, ladies.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.



OK, to get a laugh, one more.

27

I wrote and published this story on May 8th, 2010.




Well here there, you willies Enjoyer.

Sit and rest a spell, and let's hear a tale, cool?




You will forgive an old punk for a bit of reminiscing about the early teen years. You always remember your first lay. Hopefully, your first encounter with the Almighty and Gawd-blessed Vagina ended better than mine did.


Now to put you into the proper frame of mind of a young, innocent transplant from Maine who'd just moved to the high desert megalopolis of Fuckno, Californication, there is a tune to follow these words. It kinda fits the mentality of such a soft, skinny newbie who found himself suddenly inserted into the big, wide wet world out West.

Get your Saturday thing going on and let's begin, shall we? Remember, you are experiencing the "pre-punk" time of your faithful guide.




This chapter describes how I met Trinity, and because of her, how I became a jaded and rotten punk. To be fair, my transformation was not completely due to her and her actions. But it was a sort of seed, a beginning, a start down a road that I'd end up abandoning years later, in trouble, and barely making it out alive. You will see, at a later date. Redemption. (I kinda been telling this here tale for a while, ya know.)


I met Trinity while biking into Roosevelt High, down on Cedar Street, when I had decided to chain up my ten speed on the eastern side of this huge school, instead of the western side. Somehow, East has always brought out the best for me. Each of the many high schools in Fuckno had around two thousand students attending, and somehow, I met Her, there, then.

She was walking in, as I was chaining my first bitch up to the bike rack. I smiled at her even though I was shy. She was very pretty. She smiled back, and then she stopped.

"How far away did you come from?" She asked.

"About three thousand miles," I said. I thought that she was talking about where I had lived before this, but she meant today, on my bike.

She had bleached out hair, because she was Hispanish, and her hair was actually quite dark, down below, I would later find. Her longs legs glowed with a real tan from the summer just ending, and they were shapely. She wore a flowered dress, in muted colors, unlike many of the girls who had begun to wear black clothes and heavy eye-liner.

Trinity's green eyes smiled, and she snickered. "I mean, where do you live?"

I looked at my bike. "Oh, sorry, ma'am. I live up on North Chestnut."

"Ma'am? Do I look that old?" She sounded like she was going to laugh out loud.

I looked back up from my already-locked lock and smiled back at her. "Sorry. I'm just being polite."

She came closer. "You have an accent. So, you have come here from far away, three thousand miles. From Outer space?" She smiled. "And you live way up on North Chestnut, but why did you choose to come down here?"

Here is where I made my first horndog move of all time.

"I wouldn't have met you here and now, if I hadn't come three thousand miles."

Trinity laughed out loud, and walked away.

But she turned back, and looked at me.

Then she walked on again.

I think it was that look she gave me that emboldened me from there on in to pursue her.

It was some sort of... a thing.... some thing... something that made my dick quite hard.

It was hard to walk up to the front of the class when the math teacher picked on me to come do some sort of equation on the chalk board later that day. You see, I'd been lost in Trinity Land all day, thinking about what was up underneath the short hem of her soft, fluttery summer dress.

Quite hard indeed.

I had no idea what in thee hell the teacher was asking, and when I dropped my book that I'd been using to hide my boner, everyone stared. Then those bastards laughed and pointed.

Teacher told me to get my book and sit back down. That is how I got the nickname "Wicked Willie." Embarassing, ya think? Don't even tell me that this has never happened to you, (but interesting if you are a lady with a curiously large clitoris). It was one of the reasons I transferred to McClane High later on; this awkward nickname, but not the only one. Not even for getting beat up a few times for looking "Caucasoid." Not nearly even the scariest reason I got the fuck out of there, honey.

But Trinity did not know about my new nickname. She was a Sophomore, and I was a Freshman at Roosevelt High, and she somehow took a liking to me, from those early morning chats by my bike.

Of course I chained my bike up there each day from then on, and more and more frequently, she would walk by while I was there, and she would talk to me.

She liked my accent. She found me to be amusing. Like a plaything, I would find out later. Much to my regret.

But the next thing you know, we began to date.

I was making crappy money at the biker bar in the early morning each day, but at least it was cash money, enough to show a pretty young thing a good time: pizza, movie, and makeout session.

Little did I know that she was scoping me out to fund her drug abuse in the near future. Bryan would help me figure that shit out.

At the time, I was simply happy. Amazingly happy. For one of the few times, in Fuckno, Californication.



At that point, I thought that it was the best time of my life. Californication had palm trees, the weather was almost always warm, dry, and sunny. There was so much to do and see, in paradise. I had my ten speed, which I'd earned money for by cleaning a fuckhole of a biker bar each day before school, but my ten speed was my first bitch. And Trinity was my first lady.

Hey, no harsh. I call women "ladies." I call vehicular machinery "bitches," because those are the ones who are high maintenance. Truly, when you work on a vehicle, it can be a bitch. You can end up with bleeding knuckles.

You must never, ever end up with bleeding knuckles when dealing with a lady. I'll hunt you down, bitch.

I really liked this girl, Trinity, and she invited me to a house party when her parents were away. Things seemed to be excellent for this willies virgin back in Californication. Why, I would pedal a hundred miles in a weekend, breathing in the scents of the fruit orchards above Clovis, and heading out to the big lake above and beyond.

I traveled each and every curvy street of lovely Clovis as it grew, and got to know them all. I got to experience quite a bit of the life in the lower parts of the megalopolis of Fuckno, which was a great place to leave. Sometimes, I'd have to pedal away at great speed to outrun those who wanted to steal my deep blue-painted Raleigh from me in the streets below Blackstone Avenue, where we had lived in section eight housing when we'd first arrived in Fuckno.

Again, another chapter.

There were the mountains to the east, from where the water flowed through cement canals that we tried to jump in motor vehicles at high speed many times in later years, and always failed, (like the time we tried it in a Volkswagon Bug while trying to evade the Popo, and found that these little German cars floated.

There is the Western Coast of Californication, and many beautiful cities to visit there, like the time we punks went to L.A. for Halloween, and picked up some Goth kids along the desert road who turned out to be runaways, and the popo were after them, but we punks got into some clubs and drank beers and met Mork From Ork and the lady who sang "Hey Mickey."

Again, another chapter.

But Fuckno was always a palm-treed armpit of stale booze and farming aggies who smelled like shit.

Positive thing: when you sweat in the desert air, it cools you well.

Negative thing: there is so much dust, you will end up covered in it while biking, and you are always thirsty. Then you have to wash off cakes of dust and blow brown mud out of your nose.

But I truly dug Trinity. Until...



...Bryan met Trinity, through me. Bryan tested waters that I had not even begun to consider.

Bryan, well, he.... But that is a continuation for tomorrow, Sunday.

Here's a send off tune for today, my friend. This is a taste of what occurs tomorrow, if you have the cojones.

I think that you do.





Indeed, there are things that we all have done which we might feel good about at the moment, and then later, we regret.

But then there are other things.

Things we actually do quite right, in that moment.

These are the ones that matter most.

No need for a Delorian Time Machine, baby.

You did it right, no matter how much it hurts at the time.



LINKS


Welcome to my world. Planet Oddity. Cool pics.



Mind your ears.




Gifs.



Rooster lays eggs, for a change.



Play piano with your balls. SFW. Too bad.



I missed this. I could have figured it out. Yeah, right.



But I want to get these sort of finds. At Goodwill, where I buy clothes for the bodies.



Nice find. Some web-fiction. Who writes these sorts of things?


Survive the next disaster.


Not so much a disaster, excellent artwork, get this, painted on people? Cool.



But don't paint before a disaster. Dumbass.

NSFW Now don't be bad.




Tomorrow, join me in the next chapter.


God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

26

I wrote and published this next chapter on May 2nd, 2010.





(Sven Prim. Awesome pic creator)


Well hey there, you willies Enjoyer. Welcome to a little diversion from your normal life into the depraved world of your weekend bud, me.

I promised to tell you about how I met Bryan, and so I will. Now, the music included below in those little grey boxes that I always post for your enjoyment (hopefully) are today not ones that you may want to hear.

These are some old Punk nuggets, and surely, you have some Dave Matthews or John Mayall that would suit you better, no harsh if you do.

When you are in TDC Enjoyment mode, do what you like, and fuck the rest, I always say.

Get your Sunday thing going on, bud. Let's have us a time, shall we?

Here is the first song that you probably won't like, and these get weirder. Hey, it's what I do. But if you do enjoy them, for some reason; as always, you can double click the box and a new window will pop up, and you can check out the artist, as always, every time.

Bad Religion. New Dark Ages.




You will never understand Laurie Anderson, Joan Jett, or this German chickie. Nina Hagen.

But what a fun ride they always gave.




This is not in any way more accessible. Poor Frank.



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

Bryan had been in Joooovie, which was his term for being in mini-jail. He'd tried to strangle his step-mom, and their relationship was stressed, for want of a better term. Do not fuck with Big Bryan. But he came out of there somewhat rehabilitated, and at least, not institutionalized. That means that you have enjoyed your butt-fucking experiences in jail, and would like to go back for more.

Bryan had never been butt-fucked, for he was an angry young man, and he actually had grown quite large from lifting weights in that sort of place, and now he was out, free to make new friends.

There was a time in Fuckno, Californication, when folks rode on ten speeds and did not wear the sort of gay apparel that some do now. No one wore an aerodynamic helmet, (although it would have been quite wise to do so) and the neon body suits and ass-cushioned bike shorts of those we flip off who ride in the street and make us late for work these days were no where in sight back then.

They had them bath houses, you see.

I'd saved enough money from mopping up bodily fluids at the biker bar each morning before school to purchase the first vehicle I would ever own, and certainly not the last.

A deep blue Raleigh ten speed, with thin tires and aluminum rims, but no basket nor handle bar tassles. I loved my bike. She would take me everywhere, and anywhere.

This was how I met Bryan.

He had some sort of what we called "Pig Bike," which means that it was bastardized from cannibalized parts from stolen bikes.

We met along the way quite a bit, each morning, as we hopped off our rides while entering Roosevelt High. He lived across the street from this fine, Messican-dominated institution, and I had come down southward from way up north on Cedar Street. Bryan always rode his bike from his house across this street, so that he would have it to escape during lunch hour.

More on that later.

Being from away meant that I could choose any high school I wanted to attend. I wanted to go to this school simply because I had mistakenly thought I'd fit in better.

The next year, I would transfer to the red neck/Oakie school and this was also a bad idea.

You see, I'd thought that being native would help me fit in at Roosevelt High, but they never asked about my heritage. Being a half breed and looking much like my Irish dad (but without the red hair) did not give me any bonus points in a school full of pop-locking Messicans.

And being from Maine and "talking funny" did not help me at McClane High, either, the next year.

I always was the "outsider." Boo fucking Hoo.

Anyways, at Roosevelt, Bryan was also an outsider. I was a poor Injun who looked Caucasoid, and he was an actual full Caucasoid, so we kind of had the Caucasoid radar out.

Bryan stepped up. He said, "Why you going here?"

He was looking at my polo shirt that had the "o p" logo stitched in.

"o p" here means, "Ocean Pacific," and this gear cost quite a bit back then. Prolly still does.

My shirt was sewn together by my mom on her sewing machine, from a cheap sewing pattern we'd picked out at a sewing/hobby shop, and she had embroidered the "o p" while the shirt was all twisted around on her machine; that is what I'm guessing.

It read, "o d" as in Over Dose.


But bless her heart. She had meant well, and I never, ever told her about the laughing and pointed fingers I got whenever I wore it.

That's my mom, yo.

I'd never meant to break her heart. Even later, when I did.

Next weekend, I'll tell you about how Bryan fucked up my chances with trinity Sanders by cock-blocking me from her.

This actually helped me out quite a bit.

She was very much into snorting red hearts, and these were not Valentine's Day candies. They were speed.

But it wasn't Bryan's intention then to save me. He was simply a horny, muscly, ex-jooooovie who saw a chance for some fine pussy, and I was always "the nice guy."

At least, back then.

Next weekend, shit'll get weird.

It's what I do.


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

LINKS

Let's start off with a sunday comic for ya.




Cupcake cannon. Yum.




Men with talents.




Hero: Bystander stops robbery.




Infographic against pollution.



Cool pics of an underwater river in Mexico.




Ice Cream Man From Hell. Yayaaaah!




Antidote: Intelligent expounding on the future of robot wars with humans. Inevitable?



Until then, this is the best we can hope for. Robot that washes dishes. Wait, isn't there some sort of dish washing machine already? I forget what it's called...


Anyways...


The following pic is from this cool Hispanish site to explore, jefe.





io9 thing: Ironman vs. Dirty Dancing.



Getting to know the crazy man who lives under the overpass. Interesting. Let's make fun of the poor.



Laughter plan?



Timeline of rock music, nice.



Speaking of music, vinyl has been making quite a comeback. Hell, I really do enjoy the warmth and closeness of the sound, when I take some old shit out for a spin on the deck. I need to invest in a clutched direct drive. My dotta tried to scratch on the platter and busted the rubber band. Now I have to go and make a new one. But here's a cool pic of an LP groove, magnified.

Like this.

Slightly NSFW gif of Olivia Munn.

Well, there you go, another reason to miss out on the Sunshine.


God Help You.
God Help Us All.

---willies out.

25 Why Write These Tales?

The following tale was written and published by me on May 1st, 2010.



Why Read These Stories?

Well hey there ya willies Enjoyer. Get your head in the game, however you do it. Here's a tune for you while you "engage."

I'll wait. It's kinda important, and you will see.







Some of you have asked me why I write stories that describe the lowest, ugliest points of a young punk's experiences in the western world of Cali.

Indeed, that is an excellent consideration, and here is the answer.

The best stories are told with redemption at the end of an ugly path.

Hard times happen to everyone, and folks do some awful things along their path.

But we humans always hope for the best outcome. When you read a horrific story, you hope that things work out for the better for the protagonist, the one who is the focus of the story.

This is how we folks are made. We hope the best for each other, no matter what we each may have done.

When someone is just being an asshole all along, then they have broken the rules, and if they don't learn their lesson, then we hope that they get pounded by misfortune until they hopefully do Learn Their Lesson.

We hope the best for them. We engage in the story, and identify, even if we have never lived through the awful shit we engage in during such a tale, vicariously.

We read in order to experience true life through another's eyes.


Vicarious is voyeur.


Looking through the keyhole.



So, these stories are to engage you, TDC Reader, and reveal how low one can get, and then witness how the protagonist finally learns his lesson.

The best stories are the ones that reveal to you the worst conditions of a person, where you almost hate the hero because of their awful behavior, but you will still care for them, and hope that they persevere; that they will overcome their awful behavior, and win.

If they win, perhaps you will as well.

There is hope for us all, if one can construct the story correctly.

In Other Words,

No matter what happens to you, this guy has been through worse shit.

Caused by his own poor decisions.


Indeed, there is Hope for us all.


Press on the little box below when you are ready to hear an old tune, my Easter Egg for you, as always.



In these stories, there is redemption.


But you will simply have to follow me along these ruins of the boneyard of awful memories, and trust that your faithful guide will show you the way not only out of the dank caverns below, but back up into the top soil, upward into the sunshine.

Have you the guts to follow me?

I think that you do.



You Rocka.






Here is a pre-tale, in case you like to read what is called backstory. I think that you do. I haven't even told you about Bryan, that bastard, and how we met, when we were young.

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

After the move to Fuckno, (which I simply have to tell you about later on) I met Bryan.

Now, you remember that I had been hired to clean up broken teefs and bodily fluids at a biker bar before I was legally allowed to do such lovely work, dontcha?

Of course you do, you mindful TDC Enjoyer.

I was 15.

I earned enough money to buy a ten speed, and with this bike, I rode "after work" in the early AM down Cedar Street of Fuckno to school.

I met Trinity Sanders there, at Roosevelt High, on the lower part of Cedar Street.

Trinity was glorious, and I will describe her attributes (big tits, nice ass) in the next pre-tale.

But I also met Bryan there, and I will tell you how I met that traitor there, also in the next installment.

He did, indeed, redeem himself later on, again many times, and most importantly, at the Punk Fight.

But he also stole my chances of connecting to this damaged girl. You will see.

You see,

Joey had Flora Du Mal.

I had Trinity Sanders.

And There is a reason for this pre-tale. This is how we all connected when the ZID chapter series became the biggest explosion of Fuckality of all of us.


Tomorrow, Sunday, we will delve deeper. If you care to check this pre-tale out. Your call.

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

Here are your links.


Bowling Ball Bot. Cool.




Stealing electrons sounds cool, but maybe not. With a meat hook?



Storm Trooper Fight pic.



That is from here. God Help You.




This may help you, if you are important, and a bit stinky.




I quite like awful speelings and badd Engrish. Speciously when it is by a 'Merrican. Super Fun Big Time Happy Fun Evilish Books No So Much For Chiddrens. Hey, I just found out how to over use the exclamation button!!

Yay.



Anyways...



Terminator is coming soon, to a future human savior near you.



Hopefully, the Terminator will also erase Pedobear and shit like this.





There was a newspaper item about Topless Day for women in Maine some weeks ago. Here's a new idea, pantless women.


Let's have a look at this site, "I Am Hilarious." Huh.


Diatribe:

Ya know how people appear on the news after a hurricane, earthquake, flood, and/or tornado and say these following words, "Well, I guess we will have to rebuild and make the best of it."

Really? Get the fuck out. Move!

Here's a news item about such unexpected results of what some dumbasses spend their time doing over and over again, and, guess what?

A bull fighter gets gored.

Dude.

Look into flipping burgers. Then you only have to deal with grease spatters and possibly fending off the desperate night assistant manager who has been digging an underground rape room in a cornfield for you.

But I digress. Here's the Matador who got gored.


/Diatribe.


Ummm, gif files do not work on Blogger, so here's a link that explicates the above idea that I wrote for you quite above, and shows this concept quite succinctly.


Antidote:


The 90's comedies of Friends and Seinfeld have been experiencing a rebirth of interest this past year.

So here's an enlightening take on Seinfeld's best bud George in another light. Not that there's anything wrong with that.


Thank you for checking out my words this Saturday.

Now go outside and get some love from the sunshine.

The Sun been misssing yo pimply pale-skinned ass, my brutha.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

----willies out.

24

I wrote and published this on April 24, 2010.



We gonna Swim for a little bit here. Before we go into the crazy shit of combining the Punk "Mentality" that existed in Fuckno way back then with our insertion of the Unreality of ZID into that mess, (holy shit, what an explosion of fuckishness) let's take a dive.


Fishbone, Swim. You dive in, you learn to swim, or you get eaten by sharks.

Nice Punk Boots on this long-legged-lovely, BTW.




Joey was not your Ordinary Punk. If there ever was a thing. Kraftwerk, was a German Avant Garde Synth band he had discovered a few years back. Check it out at the 1:00 minute part.

But this had been bastardized by Afrika Bambataa and Soul Sonic Force in "Planet Rock, and that is what we heard from every Messican Low Rider in Fuckno back in the day, all day long, and all night long, during lunch hour on the street, and on the drag strips at night.

There weren't drag car races anymore. Young, horny Messicans crept by and showed off their hydrolic skillz to the ladies, all blasting their bass.

Joey did not play his German Electro shit that night when we punks were holding onto the orange shag carpeting for dear life. He even avoided playing Nitzer Ebb.

Just play thirty seconds of each of the following to get an idea of what else he had in vinyl.

Nitzer Ebb's stuff. Sounds like Depeche Mode synths.

Can you hear "Head Like A Hole" By NIN starting at the 30 second part of this one?

Or, that song by NIN "Fuck you like an animal."

OK, enough. You get the idea of Joey's taste in tunes. I could go on and on with other artists, but that would be fucked of me.

Antidote.

We're in this together, you and me. You've come this far. Don't bail now.



Trent Reznor fucking rocks.

You ever been to a punk party? How do you get invited? Do you bring a nice bottle of wine and some flowers?


No. You invite yourself. You end up there, like it was Purgatory. These were rarely planned, and if you brought wine, it was the Koolaid of Boones Farm, or Night Train Express, or Irish Rose, well... you get the idea.

I always had warm vodka on me, the kind sold in a plastic bottle, so it wouldn't break when diving from a moving automobile. You might wake up in a ditch, and it would be ugly. But take a sip and the birds started chirping.

But if you'd somehow made it to one of these after-gig melees, you might get a chance to watch the punk band play some more tunes. The house would become unstable from the amount of damage to the foundation from all of the assholes thrashing into each other and then through the supporting walls in their crazed moshing.

Serously.

Stick-built homes require the supporting walls to hold up the roof. And when a bunch of punk bastards crash into each other and through one wall (from the kitchen) into the nice dining area (that no one ever used, except for a Bossman or some other VIP), well, 2x4s would suddenly be exposed.

These, when busted, are easy to rip out, and then some assholes who did not have this kind of home would begin to thrash the rest of the place. No windows would be left intact, not pottery, not anything nice that you may have worked quite a while to amass.

Punks are assholes, always were, always will be.


But you ain't seen nothing yet.

It began with a whisper. An explanation followed. Then word grew. And then we became sought after. And then we had to get away.


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

These following words are not intended to in any way to endorse the consumption of illegal drugs. This is simply a description of a time, 25 years ago, when a certain gang of young fools got themselves into a world of mess.

This is a story, and not drug use advocacy. Drugs are bad. Do Not Use Drugs.

So this was how it began at an after gig house party in the outskirts of Fuckno, way back then, while the Punk Band was setting up their new stage. Many folks offered to help lug in the amps and cords and drum kit.

The guitarists wouldn't let anyone handle their strings.

The crowd of people at the home of this rich kid (poseur) were mostly the dregs and leaches of society, and they had adorned themselves with only the finest pageantry of spray painted leather jackets, spiked hair, boots, and wrist cuffs.

Many of the fine ladies that evening/early morning were done up like scary models who had been in a train wreck, and quite a few giggly Madonna Wannabees had somehow found themselves there as well.

This would not end well.


While the band tuned up....



"Pssst. Wanna take a trip?"

"It's like this. You chew it. Savor it. Don't spit, just swallow, no matter how shitty it tastes."

It will not effect you for an hour. But it will get you. It will knock at your door. Then it will break the door down."

"No mater how drunk you are, or get, you will suddenly be sober. You will consume alcohol like water. You will be Superman."

"The first one is free."

God Damn The Pusher Man.

Again, not advocating for drug use. It is an ugly world to visit, and you might not ever leave.

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

Antidote:

Here are a few links for you on this lovely Saturday.


Saturday Morning cartoons for ya. Edmund Finney has quite a back log of these, too.



Another toon strip for ya.



Cool artwork, using only a Bic Pen. Hyper-realism here.



Cars can now see, thanks to bionic, stereoscopic vision. Soon they will drive for you. Fuck that. There's too much fun to be had.



What does the future hold for us in AI? Well, the "future" is occurring at an ever accelerating rate.



But we'll still be like this.



Hire a stunt vagina for your next movie?



That's from this nice site of links.

OK, gotta bail. But one more. I'd like to own this here thing.

Iceland Volcanic Wristwatch. Huh.

Tomorrow, it might be fun to check in here.


God Help You.
God Help Us All.


---willies out.