There will be plenty of great stuff then. Alas, it is only September and I'm lazy. Stay tuned for Meatmarket on Monday and me for the rest of the week
September 2007 Archives
We had a round of layoffs at work this morning. Twelve people lost their jobs. Fortunately, I was not among them.Compared to the sort of blood letting I've seen during the dot-com bust, 12 is a pretty low body count. It still sucks though, and not just for the people who got laid off. Unless the hit list is made up entirely of slackers, there is a whole bunch of extra work that everyone else will have to do. As I am an alcoholic and not a workaholic, you can understand my problem with this.
In my group, one of the other programmers got the ax. He's good, arguably better than I am. I don't know all the factors behind management's decision, but let's just say that my wide stance in the men's room has done wonders for my job security (wink, wink).
You are reading the 100th blog entry to be published on Poison Spur. Tonight when I am at home drinking scotch out of a Santa chalice and looking at internet porn, I will raise my glass and toast this milestone. I urge you to do the same.
I've been pretty happy with how the site has progressed overall. My writing has become more coherent and I'm pleased with Meatmarket's contributions on Mondays. There is a measure of mad genius in her and Poison Spur benefits from a take on life other than my own.
In fact, I've been enthusiastic enough to start promoting the site through search-engine submissions and the like. The benefit of this endeavor has been a small but measurable increase in readership. The drawback is a daily deluge of spam, enough so to force me to disable the autoposting of comments. I apologize in advance to those visitors who wished to send their credit-card information to the Russian mafia while thinking they were buying Disney toys for their kids.
I used to bemoan the fact that Poison Spur has no discernible direction but now I'm OK with that. If I were to draft a mission statement for the site, it would simply say "Whee!"
Or let me put it another way.
Let's say some guy wants to try out a pickup line. He sits down next to some random woman at a bar and asks her "Are you a party pooper or do you just have one?"
What could he hope to accomplish other than having her throw the contents of her drink in his face? Nothing, and that's the point. It is not the hope of favorable outcome that makes him say those words. It is the joy he derives from saying them.
And that, my friends, is what Poison Spur is all about.
I've been pretty happy with how the site has progressed overall. My writing has become more coherent and I'm pleased with Meatmarket's contributions on Mondays. There is a measure of mad genius in her and Poison Spur benefits from a take on life other than my own.
In fact, I've been enthusiastic enough to start promoting the site through search-engine submissions and the like. The benefit of this endeavor has been a small but measurable increase in readership. The drawback is a daily deluge of spam, enough so to force me to disable the autoposting of comments. I apologize in advance to those visitors who wished to send their credit-card information to the Russian mafia while thinking they were buying Disney toys for their kids.
I used to bemoan the fact that Poison Spur has no discernible direction but now I'm OK with that. If I were to draft a mission statement for the site, it would simply say "Whee!"
Or let me put it another way.
Let's say some guy wants to try out a pickup line. He sits down next to some random woman at a bar and asks her "Are you a party pooper or do you just have one?"
What could he hope to accomplish other than having her throw the contents of her drink in his face? Nothing, and that's the point. It is not the hope of favorable outcome that makes him say those words. It is the joy he derives from saying them.
And that, my friends, is what Poison Spur is all about.
A flipped-out flapper, Zelda was
Born into luxurious wealth
But money mattered not because
It could not save her mental health
For reasons hers, she married Scott
Another lapse of inhibition
Together with that wordsmith sot
They thumbed their nose at prohibition
From bottoms up to bottomed out
The onset of insanity
While Scott got drunk, she'd scream and shout
'Twas time to throw away the key
One night a fire took Zelda's life
A taste of past and future hell
This tragic end for F. Scott's wife
Burned crisp inside her padded cell
Born into luxurious wealth
But money mattered not because
It could not save her mental health
For reasons hers, she married Scott
Another lapse of inhibition
Together with that wordsmith sot
They thumbed their nose at prohibition
From bottoms up to bottomed out
The onset of insanity
While Scott got drunk, she'd scream and shout
'Twas time to throw away the key
One night a fire took Zelda's life
A taste of past and future hell
This tragic end for F. Scott's wife
Burned crisp inside her padded cell
Poison Spur's esteemed contributor is putting the finishing touches on her story, seemingly unaware of the absurdity of being a perfectionist on a blog.
In other news, I learned that Navy Seals is a very silly movie, no matter how hung over the viewer. The underrated genius of Charlie Sheen did shine through though.
In other news, I learned that Navy Seals is a very silly movie, no matter how hung over the viewer. The underrated genius of Charlie Sheen did shine through though.
I find myself looking back on low points of my existence with a certain fondness if I feel those moments are truly behind me. Most have come and gone a long time ago, like when I was fresh out of college with little fewer prospects. Some are more recent though. This past Tuesday night immediately comes to mind.
I was logged into the A/V chatroom on a BDSM website while drinking scotch out of a plastic Santa chalice. Before that, I had a few Jameson's at the Argus and polished off the last of a bottle of port after that. I shouldn't have let myself get near a keyboard, let alone treat my fellow cyberpervs so the sights and sounds of me.
The room's moderator tolerated my jokes, even the ones about grandmother killing and diarrhea gargling, but put her foot down when I tried to rally the troops to violate house rules by sending her private messages without asking. "IM the shit out of her," I said. No one took me up on the offer, which is probably why I'm not banned for life.
Soon after that, I logged off and went to bed after some much-needed vomiting.
I'm a drunk. I admit that. However, it takes some very special circumstances to send me on the path toward this sort of freshman frat-boy stupidity. This was no exception.
Betty and our friend Malibooty chose my apartment as their party pad on Monday without asking me about it first. Never mind that I'm the one who actually lives there, their exuberant spirit of sisterhood was authorization enough. As for myself, I decided to avoid that scene and sought sanctuary at the bar.
When I felt too tired and liquored up to continue my self-imposed exile any longer, I went home. The women had mellowed out by then, but not before Malibooty had decided to make friends with one of my neighbors by shouting "Show me your cock!" at him from the back deck. I crawled into bed, wrapped the pillow around my head, and let oblivion overtake me.
Oblivion lasted until just after three, when my cell phone went off. Betty's text messages from six hours earlier had just arrived. I woke up and saw my cat ripping a mouse to shreds. Unable to get back to sleep, I went into the office and checked that program I supposedly fixed. It was leaking memory like a sieve. And in just a few short hours, I had an appointment to be tortured in a dentist chair.
So you see, none of this was really my fault. And even if it was, who cares? Life is good now. My code works, my teeth are better, and the cat is content with kibble. I deserve to celebrate. Time for a drink.
I was logged into the A/V chatroom on a BDSM website while drinking scotch out of a plastic Santa chalice. Before that, I had a few Jameson's at the Argus and polished off the last of a bottle of port after that. I shouldn't have let myself get near a keyboard, let alone treat my fellow cyberpervs so the sights and sounds of me.
The room's moderator tolerated my jokes, even the ones about grandmother killing and diarrhea gargling, but put her foot down when I tried to rally the troops to violate house rules by sending her private messages without asking. "IM the shit out of her," I said. No one took me up on the offer, which is probably why I'm not banned for life.
Soon after that, I logged off and went to bed after some much-needed vomiting.
I'm a drunk. I admit that. However, it takes some very special circumstances to send me on the path toward this sort of freshman frat-boy stupidity. This was no exception.
Betty and our friend Malibooty chose my apartment as their party pad on Monday without asking me about it first. Never mind that I'm the one who actually lives there, their exuberant spirit of sisterhood was authorization enough. As for myself, I decided to avoid that scene and sought sanctuary at the bar.
When I felt too tired and liquored up to continue my self-imposed exile any longer, I went home. The women had mellowed out by then, but not before Malibooty had decided to make friends with one of my neighbors by shouting "Show me your cock!" at him from the back deck. I crawled into bed, wrapped the pillow around my head, and let oblivion overtake me.
Oblivion lasted until just after three, when my cell phone went off. Betty's text messages from six hours earlier had just arrived. I woke up and saw my cat ripping a mouse to shreds. Unable to get back to sleep, I went into the office and checked that program I supposedly fixed. It was leaking memory like a sieve. And in just a few short hours, I had an appointment to be tortured in a dentist chair.
So you see, none of this was really my fault. And even if it was, who cares? Life is good now. My code works, my teeth are better, and the cat is content with kibble. I deserve to celebrate. Time for a drink.
Or anyone else, for that matter. A busy workday and poor time-management skills are to blame. With luck, I'll be back tomorrow.
I read that another cartoonist, this one from Sweden in deep doodie for making light of the prophet Mohammad. I don't have anything against Muslims, other than their dislike of booze and uppity women (two things I cannot live without). It seems though that the more strident followers of Islam really need to get past their kill-the-infidels phase. Fundamentalist Christians aren't a lot of fun either but most of them have given up bumping off heretics and heathens, at least in my neck of the woods. In the Balkans and Rwanda, your mileage may vary.
I wanted to print the cartoon here to show some support for both the cartoonist and the cause of free expression. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find it. No matter, I drew one of my own on a cocktail napkin last night.
Again, this is not a slam against religion. It is a blow for freedom. If anyone feels like beheading me, you can find me at the Argus.
Peace out, pilgrim.
I wanted to print the cartoon here to show some support for both the cartoonist and the cause of free expression. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find it. No matter, I drew one of my own on a cocktail napkin last night.
Again, this is not a slam against religion. It is a blow for freedom. If anyone feels like beheading me, you can find me at the Argus.
Peace out, pilgrim.
I ran wild in the Florida Keys. I was sent down to "get" my sister, who was fucking a Cuban. He was self-employed in the pharmaceutical business. She was staying with two girlfriends of ours, also sisters, in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. So, I flew down to get her, and I stayed.
This apartment was trashed. There were open cans of Chef-Boy-R-Dee ravioli with spoons in it. I found one of my hot rollers in a carton of French onion chip dip. They had a "bladder challenged" Yorkshire terrier named Bubba who'd cry and whine to go outside, but we were all so hungover we'd ignore him until he peed on the floor. Eventually I rigged up a fishing pole so I could open the door wall and lower the little rat three floors down to pee.
We had a phone in the apartment, but the ringer didn't work. Every time one of us was near the phone, we'd answer "Hello?" Fifty percent of the time, there was somebody there. Usually a guy who wanted to fuck one of us. If a guy was REALLY good, we'd give out their parents' phone number, and they took messages. One morning, their dad came pounding on the door and said, "A guy named Jerome just called... and he didn't sound white."
So, there's four of us in this pigsty. Our clothing was kept in perfect condition, however. One day, their brother asked if his girlfriend, Joanne (soon dubbed Ho-anne) could stay for a while. Why not? The more the merrier. She didn't seem to suffer from the early morning drug and alcohol poisoning we had, so she took care of Bubba, and tidied up the joint. She got a little snippy after a few days, because we kept eating her food. Our attitude was, "Don't buy it if you don't want us to eat it." She just didn't understand. She ran to her boyfriend in tears because we kept using her towel. Again, if she didn't want us to use it, she shouldn't leave it out. We were always low on toilet paper, so we'd use scott towels. After we ran out of scott towels, we'd use stuff like Arby napkins. One day, I was drip drying while my sister and the other two looked for something to wipe with, and I grabbed Ho-ann's towel and wiped my pussy with it. We never bought toilet paper again.
We'd take turns being the "Designated Drunk". One night I was driving and my sister asked if I was okay. I said, "I'm relatively sober."
"Relative to what?" my sister said, then with PERFECT timing a woman walked out of the bar and puked into her cupped hands. "Relative to her," I said. I had to park the car and get out to lay down, I was laughing so hard.
We never spent a dime on food or drinks. We partied all night, every night and never opened our purses. The only things we bought were snacks at a 24 hour convenience store, on our way back to the apartment. One night, the three of them staggered in, while I sat in the car. They were taking forever. How long does it take to buy a bag of Cheetohs? So I beeped the horn. They ignored me so I beeped again. A man got out of his car, it's 3:00 am, and tells me to stop beeping the horn. I said okay, then as he started to go into the store, I beeped again. He comes running back to the car, I roll up the window, but I can hear him yelling, "Stop beeping the fuckin' horn; you're waking everybody UP!" I respond by beeping the horn.
By now, the three twisted sisters are out, and watching. He points his finger at me, "DON'T DO IT AGAIN!" Beeeep. "STOP it, goddammit." Beep. "Don't do it," Beep. At this point I'm doing it for my sister, because SHE'S laying on the sidewalk laughing. When he gave up and went in the store, I did a final teeny tiny "meep" as a farewell.
This apartment was trashed. There were open cans of Chef-Boy-R-Dee ravioli with spoons in it. I found one of my hot rollers in a carton of French onion chip dip. They had a "bladder challenged" Yorkshire terrier named Bubba who'd cry and whine to go outside, but we were all so hungover we'd ignore him until he peed on the floor. Eventually I rigged up a fishing pole so I could open the door wall and lower the little rat three floors down to pee.
We had a phone in the apartment, but the ringer didn't work. Every time one of us was near the phone, we'd answer "Hello?" Fifty percent of the time, there was somebody there. Usually a guy who wanted to fuck one of us. If a guy was REALLY good, we'd give out their parents' phone number, and they took messages. One morning, their dad came pounding on the door and said, "A guy named Jerome just called... and he didn't sound white."
So, there's four of us in this pigsty. Our clothing was kept in perfect condition, however. One day, their brother asked if his girlfriend, Joanne (soon dubbed Ho-anne) could stay for a while. Why not? The more the merrier. She didn't seem to suffer from the early morning drug and alcohol poisoning we had, so she took care of Bubba, and tidied up the joint. She got a little snippy after a few days, because we kept eating her food. Our attitude was, "Don't buy it if you don't want us to eat it." She just didn't understand. She ran to her boyfriend in tears because we kept using her towel. Again, if she didn't want us to use it, she shouldn't leave it out. We were always low on toilet paper, so we'd use scott towels. After we ran out of scott towels, we'd use stuff like Arby napkins. One day, I was drip drying while my sister and the other two looked for something to wipe with, and I grabbed Ho-ann's towel and wiped my pussy with it. We never bought toilet paper again.
We'd take turns being the "Designated Drunk". One night I was driving and my sister asked if I was okay. I said, "I'm relatively sober."
"Relative to what?" my sister said, then with PERFECT timing a woman walked out of the bar and puked into her cupped hands. "Relative to her," I said. I had to park the car and get out to lay down, I was laughing so hard.
We never spent a dime on food or drinks. We partied all night, every night and never opened our purses. The only things we bought were snacks at a 24 hour convenience store, on our way back to the apartment. One night, the three of them staggered in, while I sat in the car. They were taking forever. How long does it take to buy a bag of Cheetohs? So I beeped the horn. They ignored me so I beeped again. A man got out of his car, it's 3:00 am, and tells me to stop beeping the horn. I said okay, then as he started to go into the store, I beeped again. He comes running back to the car, I roll up the window, but I can hear him yelling, "Stop beeping the fuckin' horn; you're waking everybody UP!" I respond by beeping the horn.
By now, the three twisted sisters are out, and watching. He points his finger at me, "DON'T DO IT AGAIN!" Beeeep. "STOP it, goddammit." Beep. "Don't do it," Beep. At this point I'm doing it for my sister, because SHE'S laying on the sidewalk laughing. When he gave up and went in the store, I did a final teeny tiny "meep" as a farewell.
I actually managed to get hate mail when the old site was up. My reaction was something like "What gives? I'm a solid citizen. I vote. I use toilet paper." I was surprised how people could get so worked up over little old me. Anyway, here's what they had to say:
you bring new meaning to the team GAG ME WITH ANYTHING YOU HAVE.
(that's a very famous term). My question is, why are you so sick
minded, screwy, messed up- any way you slice it.....you were a reject
from the good brain farm. (more than once you were rejected)
~a very disturbed NORMAL person (don't give me that- "no one is NORMAL"
gig, do you think I care? Here's a hint, I don't)
Here's another one from the same very disturbed NORMAL person:
I was utterly offended by the death-related themes in your website. You
make me sick! THE THING THEY'R SHOWING TO CHILDREN THESE DAYS! Go
ahead buddy, make my day. Doofus of the world-- I have taken the
liberty of reporting your website to the internet security members. Be
expecting a notice in the next week ordering you to delete your
website. If you do not, it will be termintated.
"Termintated" sounds bad. Breath freshening, but bad. But wait, there's more. Another reader chimed in with:
I was looking for a lost document containing the phrase "Miscarriage of Justice,"
and accidentally came across your site. I am not politically correct and I do have a
healthy, some might consider distasteful, sense of humor, but even I am appalled by
your website. If your attempt was to be gross and ignorant, than you have succeeded;
if yours was an attempt at humor, you have failed in every capacity.
Ah yes, "Miscarriage of Justice." That's what did it. Some people just don't find abortion funny, especially when it involves a plucky fetal superhero doing his darnedest for the right-to-life cause. Was my little photo-funny really that offensive? I'll let you decide. I've provided links below to the title graphic and nine panels of the story that I put on the site in 1999. Enjoy.
And just so you know, the images are not safe for work. You have been warned.
Today's entry has concluded our little trip to yesteryear. Stay tuned for fresh material next week, starting with Meatmarket on Monday.
you bring new meaning to the team GAG ME WITH ANYTHING YOU HAVE.
(that's a very famous term). My question is, why are you so sick
minded, screwy, messed up- any way you slice it.....you were a reject
from the good brain farm. (more than once you were rejected)
~a very disturbed NORMAL person (don't give me that- "no one is NORMAL"
gig, do you think I care? Here's a hint, I don't)
Here's another one from the same very disturbed NORMAL person:
I was utterly offended by the death-related themes in your website. You
make me sick! THE THING THEY'R SHOWING TO CHILDREN THESE DAYS! Go
ahead buddy, make my day. Doofus of the world-- I have taken the
liberty of reporting your website to the internet security members. Be
expecting a notice in the next week ordering you to delete your
website. If you do not, it will be termintated.
"Termintated" sounds bad. Breath freshening, but bad. But wait, there's more. Another reader chimed in with:
I was looking for a lost document containing the phrase "Miscarriage of Justice,"
and accidentally came across your site. I am not politically correct and I do have a
healthy, some might consider distasteful, sense of humor, but even I am appalled by
your website. If your attempt was to be gross and ignorant, than you have succeeded;
if yours was an attempt at humor, you have failed in every capacity.
Ah yes, "Miscarriage of Justice." That's what did it. Some people just don't find abortion funny, especially when it involves a plucky fetal superhero doing his darnedest for the right-to-life cause. Was my little photo-funny really that offensive? I'll let you decide. I've provided links below to the title graphic and nine panels of the story that I put on the site in 1999. Enjoy.
And just so you know, the images are not safe for work. You have been warned.
Today's entry has concluded our little trip to yesteryear. Stay tuned for fresh material next week, starting with Meatmarket on Monday.
In 2000, I received an email from a friend of mine living in Tokyo. He was visiting Seoul at the time and sent me and couple of other friends of his a message describing his impressions of the city. He also threw down this literary gauntlet:
actually, here's an assignment for you all: since i'm sending this to three different people, i'd like each of you to write one paragraph continuing further this story along whatever lines you see fit. i'll look forward to reading them.
Well, I couldn't pass that up. My response did run longer than the one paragraph he asked for but he didn't seem to mind. He liked what I had written and I was the only one who took up his challenge. I liked what I had written as well (mostly for its utter lack of redeeming social value) and put it up on the site shortly thereafter.
Here's the story complete with pretty title graphic:
I wander the city streets amid the throngs of humanity and breathe the thick smog that hung heavy in the hot summer air. Korea has never been a major tourist spot, and most Americans you run into are in the army and stationed there. There are however some older tourists on the streets, veterans of the Korean War drawn to the peninsula by the hype surrounding the conflict's 50-year anniversary.
I decide to spice up the afternoon with a stroll through Kimchi Crease, Seoul's notorious red light district. The sweltering heat is broken by a refreshing summer rain and I quickly don my raincoat but leave the hood off so I could feel cooling drops pour down upon my head. Prostitutes, both the supple and the soiled, mistake me for a soldier on leave because of my close-cropped hair and beckon me from open doorways. It feels good to be the object of so much attention but I am content to have my money stay put in my wallet.
I am so lost in the strange beauty of the street scene that I run smack into an old man coming around a corner. He grabs my shoulder to keep from falling over as I hold onto his elbow until he is steadier on his feet. I apologize to the man, a shorter-than-average bespectacled American of about seventy, who tells me it's no problem and continues on his way.
At the end of the alley from where the old man emerged, an ambulance and a couple of police cars are at the scene of what is apparently a murder. The body of a young prostitute is zipped up into a clear plastic body bag and her blood sloshes inside of it as she is loaded into the back of the ambulance. The police question some of the other working girls, who cry and shake their heads.
Whatever good feelings that had come over me are now completely gone and all I want to do is relax in a nice, safe part of town with a book and a cup of coffee. The rain is coming down much harder now and I pull my hood up over my head as I walk away from the scene. When I put my hands in the pockets of my raincoat, I feel a sharp stabbing pain in my left index finger. I yank my hand out of my pocket and see that something has sliced my finger almost to the bone. With my other hand, I carefully reach back into the same pocket and extract a very bloody and very sharp scalpel. The old man I ran into must have planted this on me; it couldn't have been anybody else. If this is true, chances are that not all the blood on the scalpel came from me and I am in fact holding onto the murder weapon used on that young girl.
Part of me wants to return to the murder scene and tell the police but another part of me fears that the cops will never believe me and arrest me for the for the crime instead. I choose cowardice, taking off my jacket and wrapping it around my hand to keep from dripping a trail of blood, and get away as quickly as possible.
About an hour later, I wipe my blood and fingerprints from the scalpel and throw it into the Han River. That night, I remove any indentifying material from my raincoat and burn it in a trashcan in some dark alley.
I lay on the bed in my hotel room and stare at the ceiling, my finger washed and bandaged with a shredded section of towel from the bathroom. The realization that I have caved into my own fear and have allowed a killer to continue to walk the streets washes over me with waves of guilt. I can only hope that sleep will offer me some release.
No such luck. In the dream I am the old man inside an antique store here in Seoul. I ask the proprietor to show me a Korean War-era US Army medical kit that he keeps in a glass case near the cash register.
"Were you in the war?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"Army Doctor?" he asks, staring at the medical kit.
"Hospital corpsman," I answer.
"Oh, like a medic."
"Something like that."
I buy the kit and leave. A little later on I see a young hooker on the street lifting her skirt and showing me her exposed bush.
"Hey Joe, Grandpa Joe, you like?" she asks.
"Sure thing," I answer. "How about that alley there?"
Little bitch. I'll fix her wagon.
She is leaned against a garbage bin at the end of the deserted alley and licking her lips seductively.
"Close your eyes," I say.
She laughs but does what I ask. I reach into my medical kit a draw out a surgeon's scalpel. It is a bit tarnished but still very sharp. With my first swipe I send the blade across her trachea. Her eyes open wide and she has an expression of shock on her face as she tries in vain to stop the bleeding by holding her hands against her throat. Fearing she might run for it, I aim my second swipe lower. I sever the tendons behind one of her knees and watch her crumple to the ground.
I kneel beside her and smile when I see the tears from her eyes stream back across her temples and disappear into her raven hair. I pull her hand from her throat and use some gauze bandages from my kit to dress the wound there.
"Dying isn't allowed," I say. "Not yet anyway." I grab some surgical tubing from the kit and quickly hog tie her.
The only problem is that her face looks so sweet and innocent, I don't know if I can continue. Fortunately, I am a resourceful man. I rip her blouse open to expose her pert little breasts. With two deft flicks of the wrist my scalpel blade lops off both nipples, which I paste to her forehead to make her look like a young demoness with budding horns.
"I think you're a bad little girl now," I say and punch her hard in the face.
I'm sure she would scream out if she could, but the cut throat prevents her from logic a complaint or cry for help louder than a whisper. She gurgles plaintively as I let my scalpel work its magic, carving words, squiggles, smiley faces or whatever else comes to mind into her tender young flesh.
Suddenly, my ears perk up.
"There's a cop on the beat four blocks away," I say to her. "I have to be gone and you can't be alive when he gets here."
"Please Joe," she hisses.
"My name's not Joe. It's Walter, Walter O'Reilly. My friends call me Radar."
actually, here's an assignment for you all: since i'm sending this to three different people, i'd like each of you to write one paragraph continuing further this story along whatever lines you see fit. i'll look forward to reading them.
Well, I couldn't pass that up. My response did run longer than the one paragraph he asked for but he didn't seem to mind. He liked what I had written and I was the only one who took up his challenge. I liked what I had written as well (mostly for its utter lack of redeeming social value) and put it up on the site shortly thereafter.
Here's the story complete with pretty title graphic:
I wander the city streets amid the throngs of humanity and breathe the thick smog that hung heavy in the hot summer air. Korea has never been a major tourist spot, and most Americans you run into are in the army and stationed there. There are however some older tourists on the streets, veterans of the Korean War drawn to the peninsula by the hype surrounding the conflict's 50-year anniversary.
I decide to spice up the afternoon with a stroll through Kimchi Crease, Seoul's notorious red light district. The sweltering heat is broken by a refreshing summer rain and I quickly don my raincoat but leave the hood off so I could feel cooling drops pour down upon my head. Prostitutes, both the supple and the soiled, mistake me for a soldier on leave because of my close-cropped hair and beckon me from open doorways. It feels good to be the object of so much attention but I am content to have my money stay put in my wallet.
I am so lost in the strange beauty of the street scene that I run smack into an old man coming around a corner. He grabs my shoulder to keep from falling over as I hold onto his elbow until he is steadier on his feet. I apologize to the man, a shorter-than-average bespectacled American of about seventy, who tells me it's no problem and continues on his way.
At the end of the alley from where the old man emerged, an ambulance and a couple of police cars are at the scene of what is apparently a murder. The body of a young prostitute is zipped up into a clear plastic body bag and her blood sloshes inside of it as she is loaded into the back of the ambulance. The police question some of the other working girls, who cry and shake their heads.
Whatever good feelings that had come over me are now completely gone and all I want to do is relax in a nice, safe part of town with a book and a cup of coffee. The rain is coming down much harder now and I pull my hood up over my head as I walk away from the scene. When I put my hands in the pockets of my raincoat, I feel a sharp stabbing pain in my left index finger. I yank my hand out of my pocket and see that something has sliced my finger almost to the bone. With my other hand, I carefully reach back into the same pocket and extract a very bloody and very sharp scalpel. The old man I ran into must have planted this on me; it couldn't have been anybody else. If this is true, chances are that not all the blood on the scalpel came from me and I am in fact holding onto the murder weapon used on that young girl.
Part of me wants to return to the murder scene and tell the police but another part of me fears that the cops will never believe me and arrest me for the for the crime instead. I choose cowardice, taking off my jacket and wrapping it around my hand to keep from dripping a trail of blood, and get away as quickly as possible.
About an hour later, I wipe my blood and fingerprints from the scalpel and throw it into the Han River. That night, I remove any indentifying material from my raincoat and burn it in a trashcan in some dark alley.
I lay on the bed in my hotel room and stare at the ceiling, my finger washed and bandaged with a shredded section of towel from the bathroom. The realization that I have caved into my own fear and have allowed a killer to continue to walk the streets washes over me with waves of guilt. I can only hope that sleep will offer me some release.
No such luck. In the dream I am the old man inside an antique store here in Seoul. I ask the proprietor to show me a Korean War-era US Army medical kit that he keeps in a glass case near the cash register.
"Were you in the war?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"Army Doctor?" he asks, staring at the medical kit.
"Hospital corpsman," I answer.
"Oh, like a medic."
"Something like that."
I buy the kit and leave. A little later on I see a young hooker on the street lifting her skirt and showing me her exposed bush.
"Hey Joe, Grandpa Joe, you like?" she asks.
"Sure thing," I answer. "How about that alley there?"
Little bitch. I'll fix her wagon.
She is leaned against a garbage bin at the end of the deserted alley and licking her lips seductively.
"Close your eyes," I say.
She laughs but does what I ask. I reach into my medical kit a draw out a surgeon's scalpel. It is a bit tarnished but still very sharp. With my first swipe I send the blade across her trachea. Her eyes open wide and she has an expression of shock on her face as she tries in vain to stop the bleeding by holding her hands against her throat. Fearing she might run for it, I aim my second swipe lower. I sever the tendons behind one of her knees and watch her crumple to the ground.
I kneel beside her and smile when I see the tears from her eyes stream back across her temples and disappear into her raven hair. I pull her hand from her throat and use some gauze bandages from my kit to dress the wound there.
"Dying isn't allowed," I say. "Not yet anyway." I grab some surgical tubing from the kit and quickly hog tie her.
The only problem is that her face looks so sweet and innocent, I don't know if I can continue. Fortunately, I am a resourceful man. I rip her blouse open to expose her pert little breasts. With two deft flicks of the wrist my scalpel blade lops off both nipples, which I paste to her forehead to make her look like a young demoness with budding horns.
"I think you're a bad little girl now," I say and punch her hard in the face.
I'm sure she would scream out if she could, but the cut throat prevents her from logic a complaint or cry for help louder than a whisper. She gurgles plaintively as I let my scalpel work its magic, carving words, squiggles, smiley faces or whatever else comes to mind into her tender young flesh.
Suddenly, my ears perk up.
"There's a cop on the beat four blocks away," I say to her. "I have to be gone and you can't be alive when he gets here."
"Please Joe," she hisses.
"My name's not Joe. It's Walter, Walter O'Reilly. My friends call me Radar."
In 1999, I ran three photo-funny installments under the pseudonym Fondleman. Using a format shamelessly borrowed from Max Cannon's Red Meat, each strip had three unchanging panels with dialog thrown in to convey an unsettling message. Since I can't draw for squat, I equally shamelessly pulled images from the web and used them without permission. Enjoy.
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This, my first, was the worst of the lot. It show how I sometimes confuse crass with funny.
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My second outing was a bit better.
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This one was my pride and joy.
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This, my first, was the worst of the lot. It show how I sometimes confuse crass with funny.
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My second outing was a bit better.
View image
This one was my pride and joy.
Poison Spur had an earlier incarnation than its current blog form. Ezines were all the rage in the late nineties and I felt like I should launch one of my own. It was updated rarely and eventually languished under its own cobwebs.
For the most part, it sucked. There were a few highlights though. And since my muse doesn't seem to be giving me any sweet lovin' this week, I thought I'd pop up to the attic and share some of my better efforts from that period.
Today's feature will be a few random images. Please excuse how poor my graphics skills were. I was drunk when I rendered them. If you're not drunk while viewing them, you have no one but yourself to blame.
At one point in my life, I actually considered a career in advertising. It's probably for the best that never happened.
In 1998, I entertained the notion of chronicling my life as a barfly. The two lame entries that followed never came close to the beauty of Bukowski, but at least the title graphic was pretty cool.
It's funny how some truths stand the test of time.
The less said about this one, the better.
For the most part, it sucked. There were a few highlights though. And since my muse doesn't seem to be giving me any sweet lovin' this week, I thought I'd pop up to the attic and share some of my better efforts from that period.
Today's feature will be a few random images. Please excuse how poor my graphics skills were. I was drunk when I rendered them. If you're not drunk while viewing them, you have no one but yourself to blame.
At one point in my life, I actually considered a career in advertising. It's probably for the best that never happened.
In 1998, I entertained the notion of chronicling my life as a barfly. The two lame entries that followed never came close to the beauty of Bukowski, but at least the title graphic was pretty cool.
It's funny how some truths stand the test of time.
The less said about this one, the better.
If you drive to the end of the superhighway, where it's dark and dirty, there is a secret glade with its own little lagoon. That is where the tiny fairy-like beings called Twisties congregate. Twisties go to drink and bathe and laugh and wrestle. For many of them, it's the first time they've encountered other Twisties. They stare at these delicate creatures, mirror images of themselves, stunned at first. Out of habit, they still hide their secrets; their curses, broken wings, odd flying patterns, silly thoughts. Eventually they see that the Twisties don't have to be ashamed of their secrets. They show them to each other, sometimes dancing for joy. Sometimes murmuring and nurturing, fanning their wings on a broken friend, like shy eyes slowly blinking.
Twisties love to mate, and when they do, they mate with Torts. Sometimes the Torts are attracted by the activity, sometimes drawn to serenity. Some toss pebbles to get the Twisties' attention. Some throw dirt. Some bring large gold carrots, offers of the magnificent things the Twistie may receive, someday.
One day, a Tort came to the glade. He wasn't looking to mate, he just enjoyed new scenery. He watched the Twisties playing and couldn't help but like one in particular. She was not the bravest, the prettiest, the cleverest, but was golden and radiant because she was having so much fun. She belched a rainbow. She vomited fireworks.
One day, he opened his mouth and sang a note to her, one perfect note which she saw from the corner of her eye. It was a glittering ruby and she picked it up, saving it in her pocket, laughing and clapping her hands. She whispered a song back, little winking amethysts that he picked up, and she noticed he saved those too. He took aim at dark asteroids and made them explode, just to see her fall backwards, laughing in delight. She squealed sparkly songs for him at the top of her lungs, with her eyes screwed shut.
The Tort got close enough to capture her in a gossamer net. The Twistie struggled to get away, but he could easily overpower her. They liked that. He carried her away, showing his strength, making them both believe for a moment that she could never get away and he would never let her go. He hurt his Twistie, badly, and she cried shimmery slippery tears for him. They both liked that very much.
She sang a symphony of meteor showers for him, for all the world to see. He told her not to be so loud. She whispered a nod, bowing her head, obeying him and was happy when he was happy. She coughed up a diamond for him and he said, Not Now, and she watched the stone land like a teardrop. She lost trust in her creations, sitting quietly.
The Tort went back to the glade, just to look. He watched the magnificent Twisties splashing and twirling. He felt angry that his Twistie couldn't be more like them. He opened his mouth and sent salt into her heart, that burned all of the wounds she ever had. He breathed fire like a dragon, and she hunched her shoulders, her back singed as she crawled away.
She found her way to the glade. Some Twisties were glad to see her, some were sad. Some gloated to see her diminished, some were uncomfortable and couldn't meet her eyes. Then, after a second of commotion, she was led to the blue water, sister twisties tenderly washing her, the water turning purple.
Twisties love to mate, and when they do, they mate with Torts. Sometimes the Torts are attracted by the activity, sometimes drawn to serenity. Some toss pebbles to get the Twisties' attention. Some throw dirt. Some bring large gold carrots, offers of the magnificent things the Twistie may receive, someday.
One day, a Tort came to the glade. He wasn't looking to mate, he just enjoyed new scenery. He watched the Twisties playing and couldn't help but like one in particular. She was not the bravest, the prettiest, the cleverest, but was golden and radiant because she was having so much fun. She belched a rainbow. She vomited fireworks.
One day, he opened his mouth and sang a note to her, one perfect note which she saw from the corner of her eye. It was a glittering ruby and she picked it up, saving it in her pocket, laughing and clapping her hands. She whispered a song back, little winking amethysts that he picked up, and she noticed he saved those too. He took aim at dark asteroids and made them explode, just to see her fall backwards, laughing in delight. She squealed sparkly songs for him at the top of her lungs, with her eyes screwed shut.
The Tort got close enough to capture her in a gossamer net. The Twistie struggled to get away, but he could easily overpower her. They liked that. He carried her away, showing his strength, making them both believe for a moment that she could never get away and he would never let her go. He hurt his Twistie, badly, and she cried shimmery slippery tears for him. They both liked that very much.
She sang a symphony of meteor showers for him, for all the world to see. He told her not to be so loud. She whispered a nod, bowing her head, obeying him and was happy when he was happy. She coughed up a diamond for him and he said, Not Now, and she watched the stone land like a teardrop. She lost trust in her creations, sitting quietly.
The Tort went back to the glade, just to look. He watched the magnificent Twisties splashing and twirling. He felt angry that his Twistie couldn't be more like them. He opened his mouth and sent salt into her heart, that burned all of the wounds she ever had. He breathed fire like a dragon, and she hunched her shoulders, her back singed as she crawled away.
She found her way to the glade. Some Twisties were glad to see her, some were sad. Some gloated to see her diminished, some were uncomfortable and couldn't meet her eyes. Then, after a second of commotion, she was led to the blue water, sister twisties tenderly washing her, the water turning purple.
The fat man undid his belt and pulled down his pants until they were around his knees. He was looking forward to this bowel movement, having not defecated since last night's dinner of clam chowder, chili fries, and Mr. Pibb. His love handles left streaks of sweat on each side of the bathroom stall as he lowered himself onto the toilet.
He grunted. Nothing came out. He strained a bit, making a hemorrhoid protrude and wiggle like a hooked worm, but produced no fecal matter. Exasperated, he put every ounce of effort he could muster into achieving his goal. His meaty fists clenched, his already flushed face turned crimson, and with a sound like someone twisting bubble wrap, his rectum prolapsed.
A foot-long section of colon descended into the toilet. Like an elephant's trunk, it sucked up every drop of water in the bowl before retreating to the safety of its cavernous anal lair.
The fat man rocked back and forth on his haunches, sloshing the liquid around his lower tract.
"Mmm," he said. "That feels good. Daylight's burning though, so bomb's away!"
What came out was not only toilet water and the digested remnants of recent meals, but everything he had stuffed into his anus in the last couple of years. This included (but was not limited to) Christmas-tree glitter, prayer beads, boogers that would not leave his finger no matter how much he tried to flick them away, and a jury summons.
Feeling refreshed, he went home early from work and beat his mother to death with a bicycle chain.
He grunted. Nothing came out. He strained a bit, making a hemorrhoid protrude and wiggle like a hooked worm, but produced no fecal matter. Exasperated, he put every ounce of effort he could muster into achieving his goal. His meaty fists clenched, his already flushed face turned crimson, and with a sound like someone twisting bubble wrap, his rectum prolapsed.
A foot-long section of colon descended into the toilet. Like an elephant's trunk, it sucked up every drop of water in the bowl before retreating to the safety of its cavernous anal lair.
The fat man rocked back and forth on his haunches, sloshing the liquid around his lower tract.
"Mmm," he said. "That feels good. Daylight's burning though, so bomb's away!"
What came out was not only toilet water and the digested remnants of recent meals, but everything he had stuffed into his anus in the last couple of years. This included (but was not limited to) Christmas-tree glitter, prayer beads, boogers that would not leave his finger no matter how much he tried to flick them away, and a jury summons.
Feeling refreshed, he went home early from work and beat his mother to death with a bicycle chain.
Today's post will be brief due to a hectic schedule at work this week. I indeed have "a long way to go and a short time to get there." Yes, Smokey and the Bandit has taught me much about life.
Anyway, here's a little gem I found reading BBC News yesterday:
'Human-animal' embryo green light
The only part of the story I find troubling is the researchers' promise to destroy the embryos after 14 days. A sad case of missed opportunity if ever I saw one. Think of how great life would be with mutant hybrid servants.
"Dog Boy, fetch my newspaper. Lamprey Girl, fetch your knee pads."
Anyway, here's a little gem I found reading BBC News yesterday:
'Human-animal' embryo green light
The only part of the story I find troubling is the researchers' promise to destroy the embryos after 14 days. A sad case of missed opportunity if ever I saw one. Think of how great life would be with mutant hybrid servants.
"Dog Boy, fetch my newspaper. Lamprey Girl, fetch your knee pads."
In my entry last Friday, I told the story of a boy on the eve of adolescence who suffered an injustice and fought back the only way he knew how, by hurling dog excrement at a cancer patient. Alas, he was the product of a system designed to keep him down and he failed.
The story worked thematically and artistically as it was, but that was not my original intent.
When I began writing, the idea was for it to be part of a larger work called "The Healing Power of Innovation." Years after his disappointment, the narrator was to make peace with the painful memory of the art fair by inventing a device that was a combination pooper scooper and Chuckit. Cathartic vindication would come as he launched each poochy payload high over rooftops toward the grills and chili vats of backyard barbecues.
I ultimately decided that such happy are the stuff of bestseller pablum and have no place in a serious literary journal like Poison Spur.
The story worked thematically and artistically as it was, but that was not my original intent.
When I began writing, the idea was for it to be part of a larger work called "The Healing Power of Innovation." Years after his disappointment, the narrator was to make peace with the painful memory of the art fair by inventing a device that was a combination pooper scooper and Chuckit. Cathartic vindication would come as he launched each poochy payload high over rooftops toward the grills and chili vats of backyard barbecues.
I ultimately decided that such happy are the stuff of bestseller pablum and have no place in a serious literary journal like Poison Spur.
Labia-reduction surgery. I didn't know such a thing existed outside outside of the fantasies of very angry men who can't get any. It's true though. My friend Kat works as a nurse at a plastic-surgery clinic that offers the procedure for about $3300.
That's not all they offer, of course. If you've been horribly disfigured from a shotgun blast to the face, they can take that exploded-calzone face of yours and make you look like Elmer Fudd, just like that kid who liked Judas Priest just a little too much.
For less severe cases, there's rhinoplasty, breast enlargement, breast reduction, and all manner of alterations to ensure that whatever ugliness you have stays on the inside where it belongs.
The lip lopping baffles me though. How low do a woman's labia have to hang before surgery becomes a viable option. The knees? Couldn't she just get each one tattooed with a reclining curvaceous babe? It looks great on the mud flaps of a truck.
That's not all they offer, of course. If you've been horribly disfigured from a shotgun blast to the face, they can take that exploded-calzone face of yours and make you look like Elmer Fudd, just like that kid who liked Judas Priest just a little too much.
For less severe cases, there's rhinoplasty, breast enlargement, breast reduction, and all manner of alterations to ensure that whatever ugliness you have stays on the inside where it belongs.
The lip lopping baffles me though. How low do a woman's labia have to hang before surgery becomes a viable option. The knees? Couldn't she just get each one tattooed with a reclining curvaceous babe? It looks great on the mud flaps of a truck.
Tinder O'Dell was always strange, so naturally I gravitated toward her. She was tough, pixie-cute, and she stunk. I heard her house didn't have hot water, but I liked how she smelled. Even today, I'll walk by someone at an outdoor art fair, smell girlie sweat, and feel a longing for Tinder.
I was thinking about my old childhood friend, Tinder O'Dell, so I wasn't surprised when her older brother walked into the diner. Stuff like that happens to me all the time. 15 years, at least, passed since I saw him last, so I was annoyed with myself when butterflies hit my stomach. I figured he wouldn't know me from Adam, so I went back to my lunch and my newspaper. I pretended to read, but my mind drifted back to growing up near the O'Dells.
Every girl loved Tinder's other brother, Rick. I went to a tiny Northern Michigan school in a tiny logging town. Rick was the best and the brightest. He had handsome viking features, a big white smile, and was nice to everybody. But, I liked Tinder's middle brother. He was not nice to everyone. His nose was broken, I saw it happen at a baseball game, saw him rush the mound with blood pouring on his white jersey. His grin was crooked. This brother would tease me to the point of tears. It was this brother, Cord, that I felt staring at me in the present. Before I had to breathe, he was across the room and pulling up a chair.
"Memory has a way of playing tricks on you, doesn't it?" he started, "For example, I didn't remember your hair being blonde."
"Not my memory," I was already laughing and red, "because I clearly remember you being an Ass."
He laughed loud and pulled his chair closer.
"Hey, Tinder told me about your Mom and I'm sorry," he said and I believe he meant it, "I know it's been a while and I meant to send something..."
I held up my hand, "No no no, Cord, that's okay! I know you've been in prison."
"I work at the prison," he started, then realized I was playing with him. "And you're still a bitch."
Something about the way he said it, or the way he looked at me, made me feel strange, bashful almost.
"I remember what you're like," he said in a low voice.
I didn't know what he meant; he read my expression.
"I know what you are," Cord O'Dell told me in the little town diner, 15 years since I last saw him. Then he reached out and pinched my nipple very hard, and didn't let go.
Two things didn't happen and two things did happen. First and second: I didn't cry out and I didn't pull away. In the millisecond or in the millennia that he hurt my tit, I remembered everything he did to me. It started out with teasing. For example, when I went to Tinder's after basketball practice, he'd grab my jockey bra, put it over his eyes, and be a "fly". He'd sit on my chest, dripping his spit over my face and sucking it back in before it hit. He sat on my chest outside, pinned my arms, and stuck a piece of grass up my nose, while I fought in humiliation. Cord gave me brutal wedgies, often giving my butt a hard smack.
One instance, when a bunch of us were sledding, I went and laid belly-down on a tobaggon to go down head first. Cord came over and laid on top of me. He ground his hips against my rear and instinctively, I arched my back to press my ass against him. I couldn't believe how good it felt. After going down the hill, he looked around for the others, grabbed me by my braid and smashed my face in the snow.
"That's for being a cocktease," he said, "If you were two years older I'd fuckin' rape you right now."
I stood there stunned, watching his back as he stomped up the hill, leaving me to pull the tobaggon.
The last encounter came at a bonfire. He was leaving for the the Army and was dating a beautiful girl, a few years older than he. I got up to go to the bathroom and was surprised to when I turned around and saw him following me.
"This is to remember me by," he said, "Now shhhhhh,"
He put his hand over my mouth and pulled me close to him. With his other hand, he held a long fork used for roasting marshmellows. He told me to pull up the back of my shorts and he pressed the burning hot tine against my skin. My body spasmed in pain and he held me firmly. My scream was smothered by his hand,
"Good girl, good girl," he whispered in my ear. I could feel his hardness pressing against my back. I broke out in a sheen of sweat. "Now thank me for that."
I whispered a thank you and he let me go. I went to the bathroom, wiped myself and was shocked by the clear goo on the toilet paper. I stood on the bathtub, looking at the little burgundy burn on my upper thigh, most of it blistered. When I went back down to the camp fire, people snickered and gossiped that he was in the woods fucking his girlfriend.
The other thing that happened in the diner was earthshattering.
I was thinking about my old childhood friend, Tinder O'Dell, so I wasn't surprised when her older brother walked into the diner. Stuff like that happens to me all the time. 15 years, at least, passed since I saw him last, so I was annoyed with myself when butterflies hit my stomach. I figured he wouldn't know me from Adam, so I went back to my lunch and my newspaper. I pretended to read, but my mind drifted back to growing up near the O'Dells.
Every girl loved Tinder's other brother, Rick. I went to a tiny Northern Michigan school in a tiny logging town. Rick was the best and the brightest. He had handsome viking features, a big white smile, and was nice to everybody. But, I liked Tinder's middle brother. He was not nice to everyone. His nose was broken, I saw it happen at a baseball game, saw him rush the mound with blood pouring on his white jersey. His grin was crooked. This brother would tease me to the point of tears. It was this brother, Cord, that I felt staring at me in the present. Before I had to breathe, he was across the room and pulling up a chair.
"Memory has a way of playing tricks on you, doesn't it?" he started, "For example, I didn't remember your hair being blonde."
"Not my memory," I was already laughing and red, "because I clearly remember you being an Ass."
He laughed loud and pulled his chair closer.
"Hey, Tinder told me about your Mom and I'm sorry," he said and I believe he meant it, "I know it's been a while and I meant to send something..."
I held up my hand, "No no no, Cord, that's okay! I know you've been in prison."
"I work at the prison," he started, then realized I was playing with him. "And you're still a bitch."
Something about the way he said it, or the way he looked at me, made me feel strange, bashful almost.
"I remember what you're like," he said in a low voice.
I didn't know what he meant; he read my expression.
"I know what you are," Cord O'Dell told me in the little town diner, 15 years since I last saw him. Then he reached out and pinched my nipple very hard, and didn't let go.
Two things didn't happen and two things did happen. First and second: I didn't cry out and I didn't pull away. In the millisecond or in the millennia that he hurt my tit, I remembered everything he did to me. It started out with teasing. For example, when I went to Tinder's after basketball practice, he'd grab my jockey bra, put it over his eyes, and be a "fly". He'd sit on my chest, dripping his spit over my face and sucking it back in before it hit. He sat on my chest outside, pinned my arms, and stuck a piece of grass up my nose, while I fought in humiliation. Cord gave me brutal wedgies, often giving my butt a hard smack.
One instance, when a bunch of us were sledding, I went and laid belly-down on a tobaggon to go down head first. Cord came over and laid on top of me. He ground his hips against my rear and instinctively, I arched my back to press my ass against him. I couldn't believe how good it felt. After going down the hill, he looked around for the others, grabbed me by my braid and smashed my face in the snow.
"That's for being a cocktease," he said, "If you were two years older I'd fuckin' rape you right now."
I stood there stunned, watching his back as he stomped up the hill, leaving me to pull the tobaggon.
The last encounter came at a bonfire. He was leaving for the the Army and was dating a beautiful girl, a few years older than he. I got up to go to the bathroom and was surprised to when I turned around and saw him following me.
"This is to remember me by," he said, "Now shhhhhh,"
He put his hand over my mouth and pulled me close to him. With his other hand, he held a long fork used for roasting marshmellows. He told me to pull up the back of my shorts and he pressed the burning hot tine against my skin. My body spasmed in pain and he held me firmly. My scream was smothered by his hand,
"Good girl, good girl," he whispered in my ear. I could feel his hardness pressing against my back. I broke out in a sheen of sweat. "Now thank me for that."
I whispered a thank you and he let me go. I went to the bathroom, wiped myself and was shocked by the clear goo on the toilet paper. I stood on the bathtub, looking at the little burgundy burn on my upper thigh, most of it blistered. When I went back down to the camp fire, people snickered and gossiped that he was in the woods fucking his girlfriend.
The other thing that happened in the diner was earthshattering.
