Glibertarians.com 2019 Archive

Category: Fiction

  • What Are We Reading – August 2019

    JW

    I picked up a refurbed Kindle Paperwhite recently, so I’m actually reading something, other than the articles in Playboy.  I took it with me on vacation and started “Leviathan Wakes”, by James S.A. Corey; book 1 of what “The Expanse” is based on.  I enjoyed the series greatly, so I thought it would be fun to see how much it differs from the book.  Short answer, if you go by the show’s seasons, quite a bit.  None of the gubmint characters who figured prominently in the show’s early episodes have been introduced as yet.  No Mars-Belt war in the show either.

    But, it’s solidly enjoyable read and good for the show’s background material, as I like punishing myself with that kind of minutia.

    Who knows, now that I have a Kindle just lying around, maybe I’ll finally start reading regularly again.  Maybe.

    jesse.in.mb

    Finally finished The Last Policeman. It should’ve been an enjoyable procedural set just before the world ends, but I had too much going on to read it in a single siting and it suffered by being broken up into little bits and pieces. I’m currently working on Anne Corlett’s The Space Between the Stars because it was available in the local public library’s audiobook section and it had name recognition from io9’s review of it. It’s actually pretty enjoyable. A plague wipes out everyone but a handful of people were isolated for various reasons spread across Earth’s far-flung colonial system. The government is made up of assholes and the main character just wants to be left alone.

    mexican sharpshooter

    I ain’t got nothin…I’ll pick something up for next time around.

    OMWC

    Most of my reading time has been with such fascinating places as LinkedIn and Monster. But I did pull down an old favorite off the shelf, Charles Coulson’s Valence. One of my long-time geekeries and the thing in college that sidetracked me from an original career aim of engineering to becoming a chemist was an inordinate fascination with what holds molecules together and why they have the shape they do. This book and Pauling’s Nature of the Chemical Bond were almost fetish objects to Young Man With Candy. Did I mention I was a geek? If you were always itching to have a really lucid comparison of the molecular orbital and valence bond approaches to understanding molecular structure and dynamics, you have found Nirvana. The math level is low enough that even old and rusty guys like me can deal with it- basic differential equations and linear algebra.

    Side note: Coulson was also a religious author and coined the phrase “God of the Gaps.” He was the PhD adviser to Peter Higgs of the Higgs Boson fame, and an early advocate of using science to improve food production in the Third World- I would not be surprised to find that he was an inspiration for Norman Borlaug.

     

    SugarFree

    I’m rereading The Expanse series, including all the prequels and interstitial stories. It is some really solid science fiction, something rare these days. I hope Amazon doesn’t screw the pooch with the new season.

    As a side note: Another Life, on Netflix, may be the worst science fiction television of the decade. The plot is derivative–a mash-up of a few other things and done poorly, relies on the “everyone’s an asshole!” model of character development to create drama, the science is laughably bad (why in the fuck would you need to do a gravity slingshot around a sun if you have FTL drive?) and it is seemingly produced and written by people who hate science fiction.

    Brett L

    I went and picked up one of The Expanse novellas, this one the back-story on Amos. Had I read it before the particular book that dealt with Amos’s return to Baltimore (still a shithole, OMWC!, even in 2250) I might have liked it more. It really didn’t add much. As an aside, I binge watched the first three seasons of The Expanse. Although the character playing Amos is too young and thin, the guy playing him does a great job of capturing Amos’s core character as a nice guy who thinks kids should be protected and all other human life is completely worthless. It is a strange, friendly, dead-eyed psychopathy that the actor pretty much nails.

    I also read the first book of Larry Correia’s Monster Hunter series. I give it a solid B. It breaks no new ground, the characters are fine, and the story moves along. It does kind of feel like the Koch brothers funded vision of The Laundry Files.

    For business, I picked up Effective Azure DevOps, because while I’m not drinking the devops Flavor-Aid, I did just lose a senior resource, and anything I can do to standardize and automate our build and deploy process will help me deliver a more consistent product and not have to do as much rework, which I no longer have the resources to indulge in where avoidable. Like any other set of IT practices, one should always be aware that your business is not necessarily the one the authors had when they created the process.

     

  • Secret Zombie Presidential Candidate, Ep. 2: Got a Thing for Brains

    “. . . the Declaration of Independence no longer arouses enthusiasm; it is an embarrassing instrument which requires to be explained away. The Constitution is said to be ‘outgrown.’” Lizzie read from her oration lesson for the day. The year was 1963, and despite nearly 20 years of training and preparation, she still fought the trademark multitonal wheeze of the undead when she encountered the letter H.

    Charlie winced at the raspy tell, wondering whether parents of kids with lisps felt the same way. The stakes were obviously higher for Lizzie, because at worst the lispy kids would be called fruits like Liberace. Lizzie was the last opportunity to seize the reins of power before the responsibility fell to the next generation. Charlie was too old for another Plan 9.

    Plan 8 was to STEVE SMITH the planet

    “I not only use all the brains that I have, but all I can borrow.” Lizzie continued to read through her custom-printed Woodrow Wilson reader, completely oblivious to the cringeworthy irony of the quotation. Charlie had learned during the years of growth, pain, confusion and horror that was the maturation of this abominable creature that each undead monster had its own maturation process. The personal aspects retained from the donors varied greatly between the Kennedy creature and Lizzie. Jack Kennedy had virtually no recollection of events prior to his emergence, and he matured from emotional infancy to adulthood. Physically, he was an adult from day one, but his hormones appeared to be additive or even multiplicative of his donors’ contributions. Poonhound was an understatement.

    Lizzie, on the other hand, seemed to have some vague recollections of her past. Her description reminded Charlie of the sense of deja vu one gets about a long forgotten dream. However, the feeling seemed to comfort her, and she preferred to practice her reading, writing, and oration skills using her Woodrow Wilson reader.

    “Lizzie, it’s time to go. We’ve packed the Airstream, it’s time to start your whistlestop tour of the US.” Charlie warbled his voice in a faux lecturing tone. Lizzie was a bit too socially dense to understand Charlie’s joviality, but what could the harm be? Jokes go over little kids’ heads all the time. “First stop is Philadelphia!”

    A silver twinkie

    Lizzie curled into a seated fetal position, her eyes glazing over. Charlie and the Scientist had been telling her about this trip for a long time, easing her in, but she couldn’t relate to anybody of any age. Her mind was filled with the stern statesmanship of a former President, the nagging insistence of a schoolteacher edging for headmaster (who was really a scorned housewife), and something else, something dark and primal, instinctual but intelligent, something Charlie called the Demon. Other people were so simple, little puppets driven by base urges and simple abstractions piled up like a block tower erected by a 2 year old. They were just asking to be molded, formed, reconditioned… punished. A quote from her reader inhabited her conscious mind, “How is the schoolmaster, the nation, to know which boy needs the whipping?”

    Her grasp of the concept of a rhetorical question was limited, but her grasp of the concept of a trick question was well burgeoned by the consistent exposure to Charlie’s wit. She knew the answer to the question.

    “They all do,” she half-consciously muttered beneath her breath, unfolding from her defensive cocoon and preparing for the harrowing task of interacting with and learning from ordinary people. Charlie, by now well acquainted with Lizzie’s occasional inability to keep her inner dialogue from seeping out, ignored the seemingly random utterance and returned his attention to packing the mirror polished trailer full of necessities.

    After a few weeks on the road, having traveled from the East Coast to the West Coast across the northern states, the weather had turned cold enough that the return trip would have to be to the south. The Scientist, the multi-talented genius that he was, had planned all of this out so that they would be back home right as the spring thaw took hold in 1964. So far, the trip had gone off without too many hitches. There was that boy from Woodrow Wilson High School in Tacoma that they caught peeping in the window at Lizzie. He was in for quite a surprise when he saw her less-than-human physique. Hopefully she didn’t mess the boy up too bad. They stopped trying to find schools named for Woody after that incident. Lizzie was disappointed, but she took it in stride.

    A deadly gaze

    After an intensely monotonous transit across the desert, they arrived in Dallas in late November.

    “How long are we here?” Charlie asked, knowing that the Scientist had already planned and discussed this stop with him. He had already taken Lizzie to a football game because his Eagles were playing the Cowboys, but he wanted to know whether how many additional days’ worth of interpersonal enrichment to plan for Lizzie.

    “At least a week, maybe longer. I need to check a few things before I can give you an answer. Lizzie, now is the time that we will use your training.” The Scientist replied matter-of-factly. Charlie didn’t know what training the Scientist was talking about, her training had been used almost every day since they left the lab. She was making slow progress at interacting with normal everyday people after being a shut-in for the first two decades of her existence.

    “Yes sir,” Lizzie replied, unemotionally, “I will ensure the weapon is in working order.” She shuffled out of the car and into the trailer, rummaging loudly through the packed gear.

    “Weapon? What is going on and why am I not aware of it?” Charlie blurted, his voice rising in incredulity.

    “We’re cleaning up your mess, you blithering fool!” The Scientist displayed a rare flash of emotion. He tossed a copy of the Dallas Morning News in front of Charlie. “Storm of Political Controversy Swirls Around Kennedy on Visit” read the front page headline. Charlie turned red faced and slammed the door to the car, angrily pacing on the sidewalk next to the idling car.

    *BANG* *BANG* *BANG*

    Shots rang out across Dealey Plaza. Lizzie nonchalantly packed her highly modified Carcano into her briefcase and walked behind the grassy knoll toward the designated rendezvous point. She didn’t mind dressing like a man, but the suit didn’t fit well and she was self-conscious about somebody disciplining her for not acting like a girl. Charlie had promised her that it was okay in this situation, but she still felt that all eyes were upon her, gawking, probing, hating the Demon. She quickly realigned her thoughts to the mission at hand. She felt a pang of an unfamiliar emotion when she thought of Charlie completing the most dangerous part of the mission, planting the gun on that retard commie librarian. They found the fool a few nights ago strung out in a dilapidated tenement and decided that he would be a better cover than their existing plan. Charlie risked capture, but the Scientist made clear that he would take the bulk of the risk since he did the bulk of the fucking up. Kennedy wasn’t even supposed to be alive in the 1950s, let alone putting together a political career that would culminate in the Presidency.

    As she finished her determined path to the rendezvous, she was greeted by a waiting Charlie and the Scientist idling the car in a parking zone. She quickly shoved the briefcase into the trailer and took her appointed spot on the back bench of the car.

    “Everything went as planned,” Charlie reported, stripping a pair of latex gloves off of his hands. “If we’re lucky we’ll be able to grab the blood samples for your study. Hopefully we can figure out what went wrong with him.” The only noise for the rest of their short trip was a shuffling of costumes as Lizzie discarded the ill-fitting suit and the occasional crunch of a wrapper as they ate a small lunch.

    The Scientist, dressed in a pale blue smock, put a mask on his head and a pair of safety glasses over the mask. He stepped out of the car in front of the employee entrance of Parkland Hospital and opened the back door of the ’61 pastel green Cadillac DeVille, extending a hand to Lizzie and pulling out an ER nurse, white uniform complete with hose and a paper hat covering a perfectly coiffed bun. The makeup was a bit heavy handed, but wasn’t quite to Kennedean hooker status. An unsuspecting bachelor could get himself into quite a pickle if he ran across her all dolled up like this.

    The plan was simple, infiltrate the morgue, get past secret service, and draw two vials of blood. Lizzie walked in first, carrying a clipboard and a body bag. The Scientist lagged behind, also carrying a clipboard. They both had forged ID badges clipped to their uniforms. Once the Scientist walked into the hospital entry, Charlie pulled away to park the trailer in an adjoining employee lot. He was dressed as a secret service agent, and he was the backup plan they hoped they didn’t have to use.

    He began the short walk to the employee entrance, visualizing his nervousness escaping like ectoplasm with each deep breath he exhaled. Once he reached the door, he paused for a second to steel his remaining nerves, and walked into the hospital like he had a purpose. He knew that he wouldn’t fool the secret service agents in the hospital, but he only hoped to evade the notice of the hospital staff. He knew approximately where to go, but it would likely arise suspicion if he started ambling around the morgue looking for a body of a dead president.

    Was the Kennedy creature dead? Although Charlie and the Scientist had studied undead creatures together for over 50 years, he had no clear answer. He had watched the explosive results of Lizzie’s third bullet, but there were rats in the lab that were ambulatory for hours after full decapitation. Knowing Jack, his brainless body was probably humping his pillow.

    Charlie rounded a corner, following his pre-planned ingress, when things went sideways. “Excuse me! Excuse me, sir!” A determined voice beckoned from behind the nurse’s station.

    Swallowing the catch in his throat and remembering that he was dressed as a secret service agent, he turned to the cute, if a bit pudgy, nurse flittering between files at the desk. “Yes ma’am, can I help you?” he hoped the faux bravado in his voice wasn’t noticeable to her.

    “Do you know what’s going on? I heard the hospital is being evacuated!” Her voice contained equal parts curiosity and anxiety.

    “No ma’am, not at this time,” he bullshitted, “do you know where the VIP is being kept?”

    “Yessir, he’s in observation room 1-128, just down the hall and take the second right.” She obviously bought the act and had no problem blabbing confidential information as long as one looked the part.

    “Oh, he survived?” Charlie was genuinely surprised that Kennedy would have been able to return to fully ambulatory status so quickly. The rats sometimes took up to a day to recover from what he and the Scientist best guessed was a comatose state.

    “No,” she sighed, “One of the other nurses said he died. They’re waiting until they can secure a place in the morgue for him. What happened anyway? I heard that the President was in town, did one of his aides have a heart attack? This seems like a whole lot of to do for one person.”

    “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it. You’ll know soon enough.” Charlie waved in thanks and in departure and followed the instructions to the observation room. He rounded another corner and walked into yet another buzzsaw.

    In the hallway stood an animated Scientist conversing with a pair of no-shit secret service agents. Their body language showed impatience and his showed increasing desperation. Lizzie was nowhere to be seen. The backup plan ended up being necessary. Charlie hoped that his dress and demeanor would buy him enough time to execute his part of this intricate dance. He walked with urgency toward the Scientist until he saw one of the agents catch notice of his approach.

    “Sir! Sir!” he implored the Scientist. “Sir, if you aren’t on the whitelist, you can’t be here. I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.” He turned his back to the agents and gestured back the way he came. As he twisted back toward the agents, he slid a dart gun out of his trenchcoat and fired a pair of darts into the right legs of each agent, catching them completely off guard. Evidently the scene had been more confused than he thought, because he fully expected to have to outdraw the agents and dodge gunfire as they withered under the chemicals. One agent tried to unholster his pistol while melting like the wicked witch into a puddle of wool suit parts. Charlie defused the situation with a quick palm to the wrist, causing the agent’s hand to slip off the grip and slid down his torso. The other agent brought his left arm up to his mouth, attempting to sound the alarm, but the Scientist intercepted the microphone before it was activated. Almost gently, he returned the man’s arm to his waist and helped him down to his slumber. He grabbed a key from the man’s palm and inserted it into the door.

    As Charlie and the Scientist slipped into the darkened room, their eyes met a scene that was beyond their ability to comprehend. The Scientist doubled over and rested his head in his hands, trying to regain his composure. Charlie ducked his head into a trash can next to the door and purged his lunch.

    On the gurney was a writhing mass of flesh, pale with discolored splotches, some bare and some covered in patchy blonde hair. The noises emanating from the mass was animalistic and procreative. If this was sex, it was a grotesque, otherworldly, abominable parody of human sex. The bodies weren’t simply thrusting in concert, but they were actively fusing together and disintegrating like a ball of dough being kneaded. Genitals were barely recognizable, but the tell-tale “birthmarks” on Lizzie’s back stood out, as well as the patchy leg hair of Jack Kennedy. The top halves of their bodies were unfused, and Jack stared directly at Charlie. His expression was a mix of shock-induced stupor and that inherent smug charisma that caused him to part ways with Charlie and the Scientist in the first place.

    Lizzie, on the other hand, wore a simplistic determination on her face. The pleasurable noises she made interspersed her attempts to lick, suck and chew at the gaping wound in Jack’s head. As she reached climax, she turned her head mechanically and locked eyes with Charlie, a chunk of bloodied brain hanging from her lips. The Demon was in control.

    “Lizzie!” Charlie whisper screamed, cognizant of the threat outside the door and the threat mounted on top of the soon-to-be former President. The Demon was capable of many things, but it wasn’t able to stand up to a stronger personality in direct conflict. “Lizzie! Get off of that creature and put your fucking uniform back on!”

    The Scientist, regaining his sense of urgency, grabbed Lizzie’s wrist and peeled her off of Jack in a sensation much like separating a pair of stuck together crescent rolls in a Pillsbury tube. Lizzie’s body quickly returned to shape, perhaps looking better than before. The scars and lumps and birthmarks that riddled and pocked her flesh seemed to have faded some small but noticeable amount.

    “S-s-s- sorry, sir” Lizzie stuttered, gathering her uniform and covering her nudity. A blush formed across her cheeks as she realized that she was naked in front of the Scientist, who had only seen her bare a few times before. Her modesty wasn’t inherent, but Charlie had trained her enough that it had become a pavlovian response.

    With a growl, the Scientist turned his attention to the bloated, heaving body of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Jack definitely got the worst of the intercourse, and the pain in his eyes betrayed the fact that he wasn’t going to be around much longer. His body seemed to be inflating and subtly gyrating like there was a pot of water boiling under his skin. The Scientist looked into his eyes as he inserted the needle for the first blood draw, 30 years of broken relationship condensed into a single shared expression. Hate. Pure, unadulterated hate.

    “hhhhh- you! I knew it would be … you,” Kennedy gurgled and gasped, forcing the words out between waves of pain. A fit of coughing interrupted his deathbed rant.

    “It washnt enough that you tried to kill me multiple times. I couldn’t have what you wanted so badly.” Kennedy wheezed once more, his breathing becoming labored.

    “I die knowing that you will never succeed!” A final exhale signaled the end to John F. Kennedy’s unholy existence.

    His body continued to gurgle as the Scientist packed up the vials of blood and Charlie huffed with incredulity. Lizzie, who despite being a product of death had never seen death, sniffed at the body, acting more like a dog than a human.

    “Lizzie! Let’s go!” The Scientist snapped, making for the exit. Simultaneously a moan and a cracking sound emanated from the Presidential corpse. Lizzie jumped back and looked on quizzically, completely ignoring the command from the Scientist.

    A series of noises that could be mistaken as coming from the back room of a butcher’s shop accompanied a heaving and writhing of Kennedy’s body. Slowly, it cleaved into two, leaving a much more recognizable Presidential husk on the gurney and a human shaped glob of flesh on the floor. Lizzie, far from being afraid, approached the glob and sniffed. She emitted a multitonal raspy sound at the glob, and it returned the call in an immature, high-pitched form.

    Before their eyes, the glob transformed into a young man with clear Kennedy genetic lineage and more than a hint of fetal alcohol syndrome.

    “What the HELL are we going to do about this one, Charlie?” the Scientist had that same desperate look on his face from in the hallway. “We don’t have time to get this… this… this thing out of here without detection!”

    “No, no, no no no no no,” Charlie whispered barely audibly, defeat radiating from him.

    After a long silence, he started. “I may actually have an idea to get us out of this. The Kennedy family we created has a fourth son, Edward. Currently, the actor we have portraying him is a fill-in for Jack’s Senate seat. This . . . thing . . . could pass for Ted Kennedy. We’d just have to concoct a story about Ted coming along on Jack’s trip if we get asked any questions.”

    Not all the parts are in the right place

    “Fine, but what if that thing doesn’t make it easy on us?” the Scientist gestured at the ambulating creature looking more and more believable as a human every second.

    “Look at him, he’ll do anything that Lizzie tells him,” Charlie smirked while he watched Ted Kennedy sniff Lizzy in curiosity. They walked around one another in a tight circle, sizing one another up. When Ted faced toward the exit, Charlie addressed him. “Will you come with us?”

    Teddy Kennedy cocked his head to the side before returning his gaze to Lizzie. He smiled a disturbingly unemotional smile.

    “Kennedy Sandwich!!” He announced in his unmistakably New England nasal voice, tackling Lizzie onto the gurney and repeatedly thrusting his hips, no notice given to the uninhabited shell of his brother-father.

  • What Are We Reading for July 2019

    OMWC

    One of my “reading words” is “chrestomathy.” I have no idea how to pronounce it, and I keep forgetting to look it up. At least I know what it means, a selection of passages from an author to aid in understanding a language. So between reading “help wanted” ads, writing 75 different versions of my resume, and finishing up a couple paid articles, I grabbed the two volumes of HL Mencken’s eponymous Chrestomathies off our shelves for some comfort. And they really are quite soothing if you are a cantankerous and cynical person, as I am. In this case, the chrestomathy is designed to teach the language of criticism and invective, with a sharp turn toward literary and social insight. Besides his considerable wit, Mencken had a wonderful ear for the sound of language.

    It is not by accident that there has never been a book on Socialism which was also a work of art. Papa Marx’s Das Kapital at once comes to mind. It is as wholly devoid of graces as The Origin of Species or Science and Health; one simply cannot conceive a reasonable man reading it without aversion; it is as revolting as a barrel organ.

    -from “Jack London”

    He is a man who has lied and dissembled, and a man who has crawled. He knows the taste of boot-polish. He has suffered kicks in the tonneau of his pantaloons. He has taken orders from his superiors in knavery and he has wooed and flattered his inferiors in sense. His public life is an endless series of evasions and false pretenses. He is willing to embrace any issue, no matter how idiotic, that will get him votes,and he is willing to sacrifice any principle, however sound, that will lose them for him. I do not describe the democratic politician at his inordinate worst; I describe him as he is encountered in the full sunshine of normalcy

    -from “Notes on Democracy”

     

    SugarFree

    I was all over the place this month, reeling drunkenly from short story to short story, genre to genre, the only novel of note was a re-read of Fight Club, which I’ve done every couple of years since it was published in 1996. It is very, very close to being a perfect novel: black as night, funny and angry, well-written and bold. The novel has been overshadowed by the movie adaption, but the movie is all straight from the book, even lifting large chunks of dialogue directly, but neither diminishes the other. Both should be studied as how to adapt a piece of fiction for the screen, namely, if there’s a good reason to adapt it, maybe don’t throw out all the parts that made the work worth adapting in the first place. [casts Swiss’ patented narrowed-gaze at Altered Carbon, Less Than Zero, World War Z, Starship Troopers, Wanted, ad infinitum]

     

    jesse.in.mb

    My will to read has been blunted by two months of legal documents, application forms and fixing the sub-literate internal and outward-facing forms, paperwork and notices of my workplace. Perhaps I’ll finish the novel I’ve been 2/3 of the way through for four months on my flight to New Jersey today, but I’ll probably just watch a shitty movie on the in-light entertainment system instead.

    mexican sharpshooter

    I am afraid the only thing I read of consequence in the last month is my company’s compliance policy with GDPR, the SOP related to it, and the proposed rewrite I drew up and sent to the lawyers for approval.

    JW

    This week JW is reading palms…with his dick. Drop by JW’s Boutique Palmistry shop and find out the intimate details of your future by giving JW a handy.*

     

    *Lubricant will be provided gratis by jesse.in.mb, apparently this shit has an expiration date.

    SP

    I’m continuing to work my way through Jon Talton’s David Mapstone series in eBooks borrowed from the Maricopa County Library District. I’m on High Country Nocturne. I’m still enjoying them, but the emotional drama with the protagonist’s personal relationships has started wearing on me. I don’t do emotional drama in my own relationships, and I generally don’t want to deal with it in my escapist reading, either.

    However, what I’m mostly concentrating on currently are books on Alzheimer’s, dementia, memory loss, cognitive decline, and how to be an effective caregiver to people undergoing the process. I’m not necessarily fooling myself that we’ll be able to reverse it, but we might be able to slow the progression. Maybe.

    The neuroscience is always fascinating to me, but right now I am really reading to understand more of what my mother-in-law is experiencing and learn new ways to cope with the exhaustion and sadness I am encountering as we enfold her into our home and daily life. We didn’t expect it to be easy, but I’m not sure I fully understood how draining it is emotionally to witness her struggle all day every day.

    If I find any of the books particularly helpful or insightful, I’ll write a standalone post on the topic in August.

  • Subaru Horror Theater, Vol. 8: Welcome To The Pack

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bb8Gaj7e_SY

    “I’m so glad he finally agreed to a threesome,” he whispered into her ear. “Where did you pack the peanut butter?”

    THE END

     

    Since brevity was the soul of wit this time around, let’s look at a different sort of Subaru Horror: The Youtube comments.

    Quentin Polley 9 months ago
    Subaru is not good vehicle
    OK, OK, going right for the car part of the car commercial. A little amateur, a little Saturday matinee, but OK. Little worried about the lack of an article in the sentence. Let’s see the argument.
    Quentin Polley 9 months ago
    It has a timing belt
    Er, ah, OK. Maybe we need to move on from Quentin…

    Jose Motley 4 months ago
    Time to find a better woman.

    To which Sgt.Baker replies:

    SgtBaker16 3 months ago
    She’s your basic passive aggressive spoiled first world woman.

    I think the good Sargent eats a lot of frozen fish sticks. And cries when he thinks no one is watching. But we’re watching. We SEE you, Sarge. The inner you. And you’re fucking beautiful, man.

     

    Luke Tremble 3 months ago
    Your most resent commercial with the white couple with the brown baby is anti-white and distasteful. We don’t want multiculturalism , stop normalizing these ideas . I will never buy a Subaru again . Hateful and racist company . It’s ok to be white ??

    The mis-spelling, the odd typography, the 4-chan White Power joke. Mot juste!

    Also the odds Luke would have bought a Subaru before the commercial that outraged him? 0.00%

     

    Heineken FiftySeven 2 months ago
    They should re-title this, “how to be a cuckold” By Subaru, Wow.. This is the complete opposite of the Subaru Commercial that had Brenton Tarrant in it!

    Brenton Tarrant is the dillhole who shot all those people in a mosque in New Zealand and now there are no more Muslims in New Zealand. They just all up and quietly left the island. You won Brenton! You saved the White race!

     

    remcat answers with a reasonable argument based on the actual commercial and all those romance novels she reads on the toilet. (remcat has IBS, but she’s making the best of it.)

    remcat3 weeks ago
    NO! It is so romantic! That’s the kind of guy you WANT. She is worth it and he knows it.

    Heineken FiftySeven 3 weeks ago
    @remcat He’s an emasculated cuckold.. The jews who create these advertisements tell you that you want a beta numale, But in reality we all know that’s not true!

    OK, there are the Jews. I was wondering when they would going to show up. Damn Jews ruin everything.

    So Heineken FiftySeven:

    • Hates Semites of all religions.
    • Likes mass murderers and long walks on the beach.
    • Uses phrases like “beta numale” without a lick of self-recognition
    • Is way into cuckhold videos.

    I don’t know about you, ladies, but I hope for your sakes he’s single and ready to mingle.

     

    Pliny Elder 2 months ago
    Just watched an ad to watch another ad

    Brief, poignant, a cry of innocence betrayed.

     

    Unironic Christcuck 1 month ago
    Western white women fuck their dogs

    Way to spoil my story, brah. Yeesh.

     

    Mrcrow Bagins 1 month ago
    i had 5 dogs all through my life. dont want anymore dogs no more. they have a beating heart they will die some day. my dog was 16 years old and i found it in the bathroom. half black lab half rot rieler

    Is there a German word for “I’m sorry about your lost pets, but why the fuck are you writing about it in youtube comments section and are you Nell, from the movie Nell, because you write like an illiterate hillbilly?” I bet it’s super-long.

     

    Michael S. 1 day ago
    Once again the cuck boyfriend has to gain acceptance of the girlfriend’s dog and her. Everything he did growing-up is/was wrong.

    And, finally, more cucking. So many people are so interested in watching a guy fuck his wife. I don’t get it. I guess I’m just not into seeing guys naked. Maybe I need to interrogate my homophobia.

  • Libertarianism and personal morality

    “Nihilists! Fuck me. I mean, say what you want about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it’s an ethos.” – Walter Sobchack

    Libertarians often have to repeat, ad nauseam, that libertarianism is, at its core, a political philosophy, not necessarily a personal behavior one, although, to be fair, the two spheres may touch. A philosophy of liberty and responsibility can influence wide areas of one’s life.  But libertarianism primarily deals with government, individual rights and individual interactions that can infringe the rights of others. It has not, as a primary concern, individual activities that are mutually voluntary, though not necessarily beneficial. The cliché position on this is “Just because I think drugs or prostitution should be legal, does not mean I approve of drugs and prostitution” (I do approve though).

    I know where you gin besotted miscreants would beI have said before in one of my older articles, which everyone probably forgot already, that I see two domains of human life: the inner sphere is the personal – what you think is right when it mostly affects you and no other unless they agree to it, or at least you do not use aggression on others. This is subjective, as the only judge is you. Eating meat or not on a Friday, drinking, drugs, BDSM, reading SugarFree post and much more come in this sphere. The second sphere, the outer one, the one where humans interact and where your actions affect others. This second domain is covered by libertarianism as a political philosophy.

    As we frequently debate these philosophical concepts, I wanted to do a different post, on personal moral beliefs that are not directly to do with libertarian politics. What does Pie believe in, even if he may not fully live up to those beliefs A sort of listicle, if you will.

    While these are the things I believe, it does not mean others do, nor do I expect others to live up to these beliefs. The things I talk about are things I think people and primarily yours truly should strive for. I do not necessarily judge people for some of these and I do judge them for others. That is the whole thing about libertarianism, you can do whatever and I can judge you for it. As is my right. You do you. This is the opposite of there ought to be a law. There ought to be no law. Just because you are not free unless you are free to be an asshole, this does not mean you should be an asshole. I would argue the opposite. That is, in a way, the point. It is no great virtue to do something good forced.

    “I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.”― Robert Frost

    To start with something controversial, I do not believe withholding the truth or outright lying in itself is immoral. It depends on the context. I do not have to tell everyone at all times the truth. This may change with close family or friends, where I can see a sort of an implicit contract to be honest – even if no one really benefits from your wife knowing about that one drunk night with her sister.

    Keep it wholesome, alright?

    To start with the previous conservative statement, more broadly the vices, my main view is I have no inherent problem with them, as long as they are voluntary and manageable to the person. This includes drinking, drugs, gambling – although I would put heroin and crack on the bad list. I do not think sex work is bad, although people on both sides of the deal need to be careful. I accept questions like “would you like your daughter to be a sex worker” only from people whose greatest wish is for their daughters to scrub toilets in a strip mall for a living.

    Moving on from vice to more general things of life, the universe and everything. I think you should strive to do no harm, in general. To be, as a rule, nice and polite, as long as it is warranted and not longer. Try going about your day without bothering or inconveniencing others– you know don’t park over two spots, put the gym weights back in their place, clean up after yourself. Don’t be an asshole, if you will.

    Help people who need and deserve it. This may include friends, family, neighbors, charity, or simply give your seat to the elderly on public transport and other small acts.

    In life you should contribute and pull your own weight. Make enough money doing things other find useful. Try to leave the world better off. Build more than not destroy. Try to leave for the next generation a little more than you received. You know plant a tree though you may not get to rest under its shade or some such hippie nonsense.

    Fuck whoever agrees to it while single – age of consent may vary. If you commit to a person, be faithful, as long as you are not in an open relationship. Your kink may vary, but it’s all good when consensual.

    If you don’t want a family, you should save enough to cover your needs in your old age. If you do, take care of them properly. Raise your children right. And by this I do not mean strict, or severe nor do I mean lax. Find a balance. And as long as your parents raised you right, take care of them in their old age.

    In general, try keep a measure of control of yourself. Avoid alcoholism, severe drug or gambling addictions and so on. Educate yourself. Take some risk on occasion. Take care of your body, at least to a point. Basically don’t be obese and lift weights. Running is for socialists, libertarians deadlift. Also practice hygiene and body odor control.

    Be a good friend to your good friends. Keep your word and pay your debts.

    All this in general of course. I could go on, but leave the rest as an exercise to the readers. I realize people have bad luck, make bad choices, take risks and lose. This does not necessarily make them bad people or immoral or anything. I have my failings and do not live to all these principles (When I look back upon my life… It’s always with a sense of shame). But I think these things are to strive for. One may fail but one must have a goal, something to aim at.

    So how about you fellow glibs? What are your principles beyond the boundaries of “fuck off, slaver.”

  • Secret Zombie Presidential Candidate, Ep. 1: Dead tired

    Charlie Lantino tried to cover up his anxiety by rocking back in his chair. He heard the bolt on the front door click open, and carelessly tossed the newspaper on the square table he had been hunched over. In big letters, the headline read “PRESIDENT WILSON DEAD.”

    In walked a large silhouette that Charlie instantly recognized as The Scientist. Charlie watched silently as The Scientist turned the corner into the changing room and came out moments later, dressed in a clean apron with leather goggles pushed up into his long brown hair. The Scientist exuded power, from his chiseled face to his hulking body. He wasn’t what Charlie expected from a laboratory jockey. However, he had worked with The Scientist for seven years, and was shown first hand the extreme intelligence The Scientist possessed in the areas of anatomy and mechanization.

    “Has there been any word yet?” Charlie blurted, trying to avoid letting his nerves project in his voice.

    “Be patient, Charlie.” The Scientist cooed in a fathering tone. “He’ll be here shortly.”

    As if on cue, a rattle at the front door signified the end of the waiting, as a large wheeled gurney was rolled into the center of the main room of the laboratory, obviously containing a body under a sheet. The nurse rolling the cart wasn’t much of a nurse. More than a cursory glance revealed the painfully fake wig under the giant white hat, and the masculine shape filling out the bleach white robe. Even without seeing the pock marked, sun seared face occupying the uniform, it was clear that he wasn’t a nurse, and that he had borrowed the clothes from somebody half his size. However, he didn’t need to fool anybody to pull off his heist, he only needed to avoid drawing attention.

    “Did you have any trouble finding the body?” The Scientist distractedly asked, focused more on the obscured corpse than on the “nurse.”

    “Nah, ’twas right where ya’ told me ta look.” A gruff, weary voice responded from behind the ridiculous getup. “Now, when’s do aye get’s a paid?”

    “The money is back here in the cryo-room” The Scientist extended an arm, guiding the nurse back through a doorway opposite to the front corridor.  Once the two disappeared into the cryo-room, Charlie picked up the newspaper and began thumbing through for the sports page. He heard an undistinguishable voice raise in a panic, followed by a single gunshot. He winced at the sound, but recovered quickly and proceeded to pull the sports page out and find the horse racing section. The Scientist would be a while.

    An hour later, The Scientist was finally done washing and had just changed into a fresh apron when another rattle at the front door signified the culmination of their plan. Another gruff looking man, this time dressed as a milkman, crossed the threshold with great effort, dragging what looked from afar like a sack of potatoes. When he emerged from the shadowy hallway into the harsh light of the laboratory, it wasn’t a sack of potatoes or even a sack at all. It was a young woman in a half-conscious state wearing a simple dress and no shoes.

    “What the Hell are you thinking, Abner?” Charlie snapped, gesturing at the woman that Abner had sprawled on the examination table in the middle of the laboratory. “I thought you were grabbing a hooker, not a housewife!”

    “Jus’ doin’ what I was told, Mr. Charles.” Abner replied in a practiced cadence.

    “There will be searches and bloodhounds and newspapermen!” Charlie’s blood pressure was still critically high.

    “I told him to change targets.” The Scientist growled in a monotone. “We need a subject without diseases. You know what happened last time.”

    The conversation abruptly ended before Charlie could get a word in edgewise because the woman began to regain awareness and began screaming and drunkenly clawing her way off of the observation table.

    “Restrain her before she hurts herself!” Charlie commanded. Abner quickly overpowered the woman and latched shackles to her wrists, reducing her to impotent writhing. The pitched caterwauling was annoying, but none of the men paid any heed. The walls were thick and the adjoining building was theirs.

    As the men approached the operating table and The Scientist lowered his goggles over his eyes, the woman’s screams turned to pleas. Her imagination had taken over, and she was convinced that she had fallen into the hands of cannibal rapists. Her pleas grew more desperate, as The Scientist cut her clothes off with a pair of oversized shears and the men inspected her body. She became more confused as the men appeared to be no more aroused than her doctor would be. In fact, it seemed more like a physical exam than a sexual assault. Her arms were unshackled in order to be lifted and lowered. Her mouth was opened and inspected. They even tested her reflexes with a little tap to the knee.

    In her confusion, she fell silent and began to shiver. Abner, noticing her discomfort, chirped a quick “Yeah?”. Charlie and The Scientist returned their own affirmations and stepped away from the woman. Abner then handed her a thin medical gown and mumbled a “here ‘yar ma’am.” The woman, grateful for the ordeal to be concluding, began to address The Scientist, to which he waved his arm in dismissal and proceeded to check some dials on a machine on the far wall.

    “It is time.” He impassively stated.  Abner removed the chocks on the wheels of the observation table and wheeled the woman toward a giant metallic container in the corner of the room. It resembled a large cattle watering basin, but long and thin. Above it was suspended a metallic slab with many wires and rods protruding from the top. The wires ran along the ceiling to a massive wall-sized device with innumerable lights, dials, levers, and buttons. A few of the lights were illuminated or flashing, but the device seemed to be in an idle state.

    Simultaneously, Charlie wheeled the cadaver to the metallic container and, with the help of The Scientist, lowered the sheeted body into the container using a hoist. Charlie caught a corner of the sheet just as the body disappeared into the abyss, pulling it out and wadding it into a heap on the gurney. He then stepped over to help Abner with the hardest part.

    The woman, sensing the tension in the room and the impending finality of her situation, began to claw and scrape and writhe and scream anew. However, she was no match for the brute strength of Abner and Charlie, and was quickly wrestled into a passive position facing the ground. Her increasingly desperate flails afforded her no escape, and the men cantilevered her into the metallic container. As her head peeked over the lip of the container, she saw a confusing sight. The container was deeper than she thought. It extended below the floor to a depth of perhaps six feet. At the bottom of the container was the corpse, one familiar to her. It was Woodrow Wilson.

    After an instant of recognition, she fell into the chasm, landing on the presidential corpse. Before she had a chance to try to escape or even move, The Scientist whipped a crank around in quick rotations, slamming the slab down on top of the container and extending the rods into the sepulcher, pinning the woman down on top of Woodrow Wilson.

    Her muffled screams were hardly audible as The Scientist continued to spin the crank, applying more and more downward force on the rods. With a subdued crack, the protestations stopped.

     

    “How much longer will this one take?” Charlie asked, knowing full well that The Scientist could only guess the answer. It had been twenty years since that last night of wanton cruelty, and Charlie was tiring of the daily monotony of recording sensor values in a logbook and passing the time. He was approaching 50, and was feeling it. The desk job and lack of physical exertion made him feel more like 60. Conversely, The Scientist looked like he aged only 5, maybe 10 years. Charlie always suspected that their work in extending lives was only a piece of the puzzle and that The Scientist was also working on anti-aging elixirs.

    “You know this is a slow process. Remember, it took 10 years for the Kennedy boy to ripen.” The Scientist could hardly even hide his boredom these days. “Speaking of the Kennedy boy, you took care of him, right?”

    “Of course! We should’ve foreseen the consequences of using the dirty hooker for that experiment. That kid came out of the incubation chamber a poonhound and a boozehead from day one. He obviously wouldn’t ever be able to obtain the power necessary to help us.” Charlie meandered through the rehashed story, staving off a yawn.

    “How did you dispose of him?”

    “I shipped him off to the Navy to go fight the Nips. He won’t come back.” Charlie paused to light a cigarette and then gestured the lit end toward the incubation chamber. “This one, though. He has the right pedigree. He’ll go somewhere.”

    Another five years elapsed without any indication of the process completing. Charlie had come aboard late in the Kennedy resurrection. He never got to meet the unlucky bastard who was resurrected by hooker blood, but he certainly got to meet the unholy result. The creature, person, whatever it is, had the sex drive of ten men. The Scientist blamed that effect on the hooker’s chlamydia. The Kennedy creature also had the undead equivalent of fetal alcohol syndrome. The Scientist blamed those deficiencies on the fact that they sedated and killed the hooker well before dumping her into the chamber. After wasting 17 years incubating a drunk womanizer who would likely amount to nothing, there wasn’t time to screw things up again. The Scientist’s anti-aging research appeared to be generating results, but those results appeared to be, at most, a halving of the aging process, and had not yet accrued to Charlie’s benefit. Resultantly, they were both quite motivated to do it right this time; conscience be damned, they used a clean, live woman.

    Yet another monotonous day of make-work research was punctuated by a subtle indication of change. One of the panels began to light up. The green indicator that was a daily accompaniment for 25 years was joined by an amber indicator and in close succession a blinking red indicator. The Scientist, not even attempting to hide his giddiness, pushed a few buttons and engaged a lever before shuffling off into the transition room to prepare for the new arrival. Charlie, who had experienced this part before, began putting together a mental checklist for when he went to the grocery. Returning from the dead consumes a lot of energy, and the new creature would likely eat through multiple times the amount of food as a normal man, at least until the biological processes stabilized in a few weeks.

    The next three days were a whirlwind of activity, from buying enough food for a small army to acquiring various medical supplies, mainly for cleaning and wrapping open wounds. Much like preparing for a baby, Charlie was nesting. The creature would awake with adult intelligence, but the physical transformation isn’t complete for a few months. During that time, Charlie would be Mama, nurse, and therapist all in one.

    Finally, the time came for the grand reveal.

    “Charlie, keep the vacuum pressure up while I raise the lid, it’s a bit more humid than last time, and we don’t want any condensation to form,” The Scientist muttered while staring at a bank of dials and adjusted a lever.

    “I’m getting a failure indication on the table lift motor,” Charlie replied, tapping the indicator with his knuckle.

    The Scientist replied with a dismissive wave. “It’s probably just the sensor. It is quite finicky. If the motor doesn’t engage, you’ll have to manually crank it up.”

    With a complete lack of fanfare, The Scientist engaged the lid motor, and a small hiss broke the airtight seal. A breathtaking stench of death wafted through the laboratory, inducing a wave of nausea in Charlie. It doesn’t matter how many times you unseal the undead, the smell never fails to hit you right in the gut.

    Charlie flipped a switch and the table lift motor sputtered to life. The sensor was bad, just like The Scientist said.

    What emerged wasn’t quite human. It was covered in gore and pustules, skin not fully formed. It gasped a phlegmy breath, filling its underdeveloped lungs with the relatively fresh air of the laboratory. A sound of firecrackers caused Charlie to flinch as the creature cracked out 25 years of joint stiffness, moving its mummified limbs only a small amount before letting out a muffled yelp. Its jaw hadn’t yet unstuck, and its tongue likely wouldn’t be fully functional for a week or two.

    “This one doesn’t seem to be as well developed as the Kennedy creature. Look at those giant pustules on his chest,” Charlie vaguely gestured to the creature.

    “Those aren’t pustules,” The Scientist growled, rushing over to a panel on the monitoring device. “Those are breasts!”

    Charlie stood agape for a quick moment before rushing over to a pile of ticker tape collected in a bin.

    “N21, nominal. C17, within tolerance. Q-factor, minimal” The Scientist mechanically checked the relevant sensors that would betray the sex of the creature. He ran his fingers over the class window of the Q-factor dial when a small piece of flotsam caught his eye.

    Plink. Plink. Plink. The Scientist flicked the axial rod of the dial until the junk dislodged from the dial arm. The arm slowly erected like an Egyptian obelisk, leaving the masculine minimal range behind. The elevated Q-factor explained the buxom breasts. The creature was female.

    “How could this have happened?” Charlie nearly sobbed, the magnitude of this failure finally setting in. “We didn’t have this problem with the Kennedy creature!”

    “eeeeeeeeeeshhhhhhhhhtttt” the creature exhaled, trying to communicate with Charlie. He didn’t need to interpret the slurred language to know that she was famished. He helped her off of the table and into a wheelchair, her every move eliciting a groan of excruciating pain.

    After a few minutes of quite unladylike gorging, the creature was temporarily satiated. Charlie knew that it wouldn’t last more than 30 minutes. The transition room was configured like a burn ward, and the creature’s every want and need could be attended to without leaving her bed. Charlie was mentally preparing for spending the next 6 months in this room nurturing this beast.

    The Scientist walked in, obviously fuming but trying his best to hide it. Charlie, not one to know when to shut up, blurted out what was on his mind. “How the hell are we supposed to gain the power we require with a damned woman? Not only did we fuck up with the Kennedy creature, but he’s coming home a fucking war hero! Now we have a fucking housewife who is supposed to seize the levers of governmental power! Either the divine is putting up roadblocks, or we’re too damned incompetent to pull this off.”

    Charlie sighed, having said his peace. It had been a trying few months, and this disappointment broke him. The Scientist, at first resolute to ignore Charlie’s outburst, turned to address him. However, the creature beat him to the punch.

    “hhlllliiiiiiiishhhhhhh…. aaaeeeeeeeeeeeee…. wuuuurrrrrrrrrr…. uhhhnnnnnnnnn” she breathed, trying her hardest to form the words with her misbehaving tongue.

    “What did she say?” The Scientist asked nobody in particular.

    “Is that her name?” Charlie answered anyway, unsure why the creature picked this exact moment to name herself, “Lizzie Warren?”

    The creature flinched and fluttered in an uncomfortable looking contortion. If it was a response to Charlie’s guess, neither of the men knew what it meant. Lizzie Warren quickly realized that she was unable to communicate her frustration to these goons. She laid back on the hospital bed in resignation. “IS A WAR ON??!?” her inner Wilsonian voice screamed to an empty theater.

     

  • Subaru Horror Theater, Vol. 7: Call of the Road

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmkUckrk2nA

    “What are we doing second?” his wife asked again.

    “Can you give me a minute, sweetheart?” he asked from behind the tree.

    “We need to get going,” she said. Their dogs ran around her excitedly barking as she cleaned the last dishes of breakfast in the stream they had camped near.

    “I know that,” he said. “Goddamn redneck chili. It’s like I’m shitting barbed wire.”

    “I told you not to eat that,” she said smugly.

    “And fire ants. Like barbed wire coated in fire ants,” he gasped. The small white dog, Rufus, ran to the sound of his voice. His short legs and tiny feet skidded to a halt when he got around the tree, and then he ran off with a startled yelp.

    “What did you do to Rufus?” she asked.

    “Will you just give me a minute?!?” he yelled. “Lava is literally coming out of my asshole right now!”

    “Come here, baby,” she said to the small dog cowering beside her. “Did Daddy scare you? Did he? He’s a very bad Daddy.” She picked Rufus up and he shivered in her arms as she cooed and clucked. Their new dog, large and black-furred and seemingly quite slow continued to chase his own tail until he hit the side of the car, sat down suddenly, and looked around confused.

    “Is there more toilet paper?” he asked.

    “No,” she said, not checking.

    “Paper towels? Napkin?”

    “I’ll look.”

    “An old T-shirt? One of the floor mats? Anything?”

    She slung Rufus under one arm and looked through the car. “Hold on,” she called.

    “Hurry!”

    As she walked toward the shitting tree with the paper towels, Rufus began to growl.

    “Dear God!” she said.

    “I know!”

    “The human body shouldn’t be capable of making a smell like that!” She tossed the paper towels toward him and fled to the safety of the car.

    “What are we going to name this dog?” she finally asked, when his tortured groans had subsided.

    He walked back to the car, not answering her, staggering and carrying empty paper towel tube.

    “Honey, what are we going to name this dog?” The nameless dog was laying his head in her lap and his tongue lolled out as she rubbed his ears. Her husband opened the back hatch and began to rummage around.

    “What are you looking for?” she asked.

    “I’ll find it,” he said.

    “Just tell me, maybe I know where it is.”

    “The camping shovel. The folding one that we just bought.”

    “I don’t know where that is,” she said. “What do you need the shovel for? Oh, wait. You are going to bury your waste? Very environmentally responsible.”

    “Ah-ha!’ he said. She angled the rearview mirror to see him holding the shovel up in triumph.

    “First, I’m going back there and beat it to death,” he said. “And then I will bury it!”

    When he returned, she saw him fling the folding shovel into the rushing stream. “We’ll buy a new one,” he said grimly as he settled into the driver’s seat.

    “I’m having a great time,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder.

    “I hate camping,” he replied. The Subaru quietly came to life when he turned the key.

    “What do you want to do next?” she asked.

    “I want to take a shower. A very long shower.”

    “I mean with the car. We can do anything!”

    “Let’s ask it,” he said, as his wife attached the dogs’ harnesses to the back seat.

    “Ask it?”

    He touched the navigation icon a bland female voice said, “Destination?”

    “Random,” he said.

    “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the car replied.

    “Take us somewhere fun!” his wife said.

    “Take us on an adventure!” her husband said.

    “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the car replied.

    “Destination,” it repeated as they thought.

    “Take us somewhere we haven’t been before,” his wife said.

    The car paused. They looked at the touchscreen display. One of the dogs growled and farted.

    “Please fasten your seatbelts and proceed east 2.3 kilometers.”

    “Alright,” he said.

    After a right and a left and a dirt road that was barely a road, the car finally had them take a state road in reasonably good repair.

    “I wonder where we are going,” his wife asked, finally awake. He had long marveled at her ability to sleep anywhere, under any condition.

    “Proceed north 23 kilometers,” the car said.

    “North 23 kilometers,” he replied and she gently punched his arm.

    “Are you two OK back there?” she asked, turning round to look at the dogs. They both whined agreeably and thumped their tails on the seat.

    “Do you want me to drive for a while?” she asked.

    “No, I’m fine for a couple of hours at least. I wouldn’t mind finding somewhere to get an energy drink.”

    “You shouldn’t use those,” his wife said.

    “I don’t use them; they aren’t a drug. You talk like I’m looking to freebase some meth.”

    “We are in meth country, though. I bet the whole rusty water tower that old man tried to lure us to was one big meth lab,” she said, using both hands to sketch out a mushroom cloud and then made explosion noises with her mouth.

    “Increase speed to 100kph,” the car said primly.

    “What did she say?” his wife asked.

    “Increase speed to 100kph,” the car said again.

    “I guess we are on a schedule,” her husband said. He pressed the accelerator until they reached 90kph.

    “Increase speed to 100kph,” the car said again.

    “Picky bitch,” his wife said and they laughed.

    The Subaru began to ping like a door was ajar.

    “OK, OK… nagged by a damn car,” he said.

    “‘Nagging’ is a sexist term,” his wife said and then burst into giggles. “You better do what she says.”

    He took the car up to 100kph.”I hope the car knows what it is doing. This is racist-as-fuck country around here. I’m not interested in getting ass-fucked by a baton.”

    “I’ll sic the dogs on them,” his wife said brightly.

    She whipped her head around as they passed a speed limit sign. “You better slow down, baby. That said it is 45mph through here.”

    “What is that in kilometers?” he asked.

    “How should I know?”

    “You were the one that wanted us to set the car to only read out in metric. The car says the outside temp is 22. Do I need a coat? Sunscreen? I don’t fucking know.”

    She was caught in another fit of giggles.

    “Car, what is 45 miles per hour in kilometers per hour?” he asked loudly and with careful pronunciation.

    “Car?” she asked. “Don’t call her car. Her name is Subi.”

    “What?”

    “Subi, how fast are we going in miles per hour?” she asked.

    “Wait, is it even voice-activated?” he asked. “I was acting like it was Alexa.”

    “We are currently traveling at 62 miles per hour,” the car said.

    “OK, you really should slow down,” his wife said.

    He took his foot off the gas and the car began to slow. “The cracker sheriff is going to be so disappointed in us.” But he only heard a gurgle in return.

    “Please increased speed to 100kph,” the car said and began to ping.

    He was looking at the touch screen when his wife began to claw at his arm.

    “What is it?” he asked, not looking.

    “Gurk,” she managed. The seatbelt had tightened across her throat and lap. With her right had she tried to pull it away from her neck, with her left she had gone back to trying to work the belt release.

    “Oh, my god, what is happening, ohmygod,” he said, pressing the brakes and trying to pull onto the soft shoulder of the state highway.

    “Please increase speed to 100kph,” the car said again. The dogs in the back began to bark and howl.

    As he slowed on the shoulder a huge truck rumbled past them. The car rocked back and forth. He had slowed enough to grab the higher portion of the seat belt and pull it away from her neck. He could not move it. He looked into her frightened, darting eyes and the whites were turning red.

    “Please increase speed to 100kph,” the car said again, this time at a deafening volume.

    She began to desperately slap at his right knee. The dogs were in a frenzy, making pained yelps as they pulled at their restraints.

    “Drive,” she mouthed and slapped his knee again. Her teeth were very white and large as she screamed without any sound.

    “Please increase speed to 100kph,” the car said again. It was now an almost seductive lilt.

    He closed his eyes tightly for a second, his whole face crunching down onto itself and jammed the gas pedal down. The car shot forward and he heard his wife take a gulp of air and cough and then gulp more. The speedometer crept upward. Her breathing became steady and regular.

    “Are you OK? Are you? Are you OK?” he said, among a dozen other inanities until she finally croaked and swallowed and said in a hoarse whisper, “What was that?”

    “Take it off, take off the seatbelt,” he told her. The dogs were huddled in the back seat, twined around each other, fast-friends now in their worry and confusion.

    “Proceed north 7.2 kilometers,” the car said.

    “FUCK YOU!” he screamed at the placid voice. He tried the seat belt release himself but his thumb just sank into the button of the mechanism without it releasing.

    “Maintain current speed,” the car ordered.

    The road ahead was flat and straight and empty of cars before and behind, so he held the wheel with his knee and tried to pull on his wife’s seat belt. His own seat belt tightened and pulled him back in place.

    “Please drive responsibly,” the car said.

    “Get your arms under it,” he told his wife. “Under it while it is slack.” She stopped rubbed the raw flesh on the side of her neck and slipped her right arm under the belt and held it against her neck. The belt tightened immediately, painfully. She cried out, her voice broken and dry.

    “It’s breaking my wrist,” she gasped. “The belt.” The voice was cut off as her wrist began to crush her throat.

    He looked down and saw how the strap of nylon across her lap had tightened as well. Her jeans darkened as she voided her bladder, the stain spreading down her thighs.

    “Please drive responsibly,” the car said again.

    He looked back to the road. They were coming up on a town. A little flyspeck town, country town, the whole thing was a tumor clustered on both sides of the little state highway. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the strap had loosened enough for his wife to drop her arms. The hot smell of her urine filled the car. When he tried to roll down the window, the button didn’t work. He listened as his wife cried and watched the tiny town grow larger.

    “Proceed north 1.2 kilometers,” the car said. His wife’s left hand found his arm and clung to it.

    A “Welcome to” sign flashed by too fast for him to register the name. A sick feeling crept into his stomach, like a light hit to the testicles. He felt like he was falling and falling and falling.

    “Stay in lane,” the car said as soon as he saw her crossing the road. He tensed his hands and forearms to swerve at the last second until he heard his wife already choking and gurgling.

    He closed his eye right before he hit the woman that was crossing the road. A dull thud and a cracking noise. The dogs in the back yelped. He opened his eyes to eye the smear of blood on the hood. His flicked to the rearview mirror to see the crumpled form in the crosswalk.

    “Lower speed and take the next right,” the car said. He was crying, fat tears running down his face. His wife’s eyes were red again when he chanced a glance.

    “Take next right.”

    He did and then tried to steer them into a light pole but the wheel wouldn’t move.

    “Take next right.”

    The wheel turned easily when he did as he was told. They were two blocks from the dead woman in the road. People were clustered around her, some talking to her, he imagined, the others he could see were on the phone or gesticulating wildly.

    “Accelerate to 100kph,” the car whispered.

     

    THE END

  • What Are We Reading – June 2019

    jesse.in.mb

    Gregory Maguire – Hiddensee: A Tale of the Once and Future Nutcracker. I’m honestly not sure how I feel about this book. Everything about it feels like it doesn’t resolve, but maybe it’s just a good reflection of life and the small role we play in it.

    Currently working on Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, I’m not sure why I like post-Colonial/Indian diaspora literature as much as I do. I distinctly remember reading Roy’s first novel The God of Small Things years ago but couldn’t tell you the plot now. TMoUH reminds me a bit of Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children with long ambling digressions and personal stories inextricably tied to the historical moment of independence and the partitioning of India and Pakistan. Like MC, I am constantly flipping between getting lost in the daily moments of the characters and just wanting her to get to the fucking point.

     

    OMWC

    I have the Alpha and Omega of essay collections. Let’s start with Alpha, and it encompasses the startling fact that, once upon a time, Fran Lebowitz was actually funny. Yes, amazing. While unpacking boxes of books to be shelved in our new home, I ran across my copy of Social Studies, which was a birthday present given to me when I was in grad school (and admittedly had a bit of a crush on her). This was before she had her long period of writer’s blockade, and morphed into a shrieking harpy resembling Linda Hunt on a bad day. These essays are actually funny, self-deprecating, and showing some insight into the culture of the time. Nothing profound, mind you, but fun and amusing, reminiscent of a similar oeuvre of Robert Benchley forty years previous to this. If you see a remaindered or used copy, grab it.

    The omega is my later-in-life idol, Jorge Luis Borges, who could do it all- novels, short stories, poems, and essays. A brilliant and profound talent, with an imagination that only comes once every few centuries. Being the dullard I am, I have been enjoying another book dug up in our move, Selected Nonfictions, which covers language, history, culture, literature, politics, art… well, everything, really. And in this collection is my single favorite Borges essay, “The Art of Verbal Abuse.” I bet you were thinking I’d pick, “I, a Jew,” you fucking anti-semite. But every essay in here is a gem, immaculately translated, and bursting with insight and beauty.,Don’t wait for a sale or remainder, just buy this. Now.

     

    mexicansharpshooter

    I read this.  I read it for ALL OF YOU.  That’s it.

     

    JW

    Staff: We asked JW to tell us about what he was reading, but we found him curled up, sobbing in a blanket fort with a flashlight and a dog-eared copy of Old Yeller and figured he’d get to it later.

    SugarFree

    I have continued my Lovecraft Mythos kick, reading both early Mythos contributors, especially those writing while Lovecraft was still alive: Robert E. Howard, Robert Bloch, Edward Belknap Long, Clark Ashton Smith, August Derleth, Henry Kuttner; and Lovecraft’s self-identified influences, collected in H. P. Lovecraft’s Favorite Weird Tales: The Roots of Modern Horror, edited by Douglas A. Anderson. While familiar faces appear–Poe, Machen, Bierce–I enjoyed reading the more obscure authors like M. L. Humphreys, whose story in the collection, “The Floor Above” (1923), is the only story he or she ever published and oft-anthologized “The Night Wire” (1926) by H. F. Arnold, another lost author. (His or her only other two short stories have never been republished since they originally appeared in pulps.)

     

    Swiss Servator

    Beer list, wine list, spirits list, contract for work, contract for work, contract for work, continuing legal education, continuing legal education…wait here it is!

    Luther’s Small Catechism

    So the United Methodist district I live in is shriveling under the sweaty hand of the bishop who is ever so slightly to the left of Chairman Mao. She has packed the district with mini-mes. And this coterie of pudgy, earnest leftwing, 50-60 somethings are too engaged in various protests and public temper tantrums to conduct much of a church. So I went Protestant shopping. Just across the bean field from my house sits a Lutheran church. So I wandered over, went to a traditional service. Met the pastor later on and he gave me a copy of said book. I got homework. Man, these people are serious. But, I guess it is good to do some due diligence, so I am about 20-25% through right now. I get a bit wary of the “with Explanation” part, but that is just the libertarian in me, I guess.

    As I am in the Commandments, and the basics still, I can’t say much about the more advanced points. Also, I have not been ordered to burn OMWC’s house yet. So I have that going for me.

  • A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Five: At Home with the Hasturs

    Anti-abortion activist waging war on vulnerable women. Stay classy, The Guardian.

    Previous Parts: One, Two, Three, Four, et cetera.

    Junior stood on the sidewalk back against the building wall with his “Abortion is Murder” sign. Most of the passing college students looked at him with disgust. A few were visibly angered and mouthed or muttered insults or flipped him off. He ignored them and kept scanning the crowd for possible threats. A fat dyke waddled by, the saggy jowls of her thighs flapping against her knees. She fixed him with a porcine look of hatred.

    “That one?”

    “No, Dad. Look down at her ankle.”

    “Phylactery? She’s one of them?”

    “No, monitoring bracelet; she’s Operation: Rescue This! She’s not going to risk a probation violation.”

    The dyke flipped them the bird with both hands, and stomped angrily down the sidewalk to the applause and cheers of a few onlookers.

    “There. The tall girl with the stringy hair. Wave your sign, Dad.”

    “Ohhhh…” Hastur pumped his “Satan Loves Abortions” sign up and down eagerly. Nothing.

    Junior expertly rotated and tilted his sign to flash the sunlight off it so as to attract the girl’s attention. Suddenly she noticed the protesters and began to run towards them, screeching. Junior planted his feet apart and crouched down, tightening his grip on the thick cardboard tubing supporting the sign.

    “Remember, you can only block them if they attack you or your sign. We can’t defend each other.”

    When the girl was three feet from them she reached up to grab at Junior’s sign. He quickly tilted the top of the tube backward. She sensed the trap that had been set for her, and turned to Hastur.

    Hastur waved his sign back and forth. “Jesus hates abortions, but Jesus loves you,” he called. That did the trick.

    Becky can’t believe that she’s under arrest for stealing something that made her angry.

    The girl crouched and jumped at Hastur’s sign, timing her jump so that she reached apogee when the sign waved closest to her. She grabbed the poster board and held on as she fell. Hastur wasn’t anticipating an attack that violent and precise from a Human female. The tubing slipped through his hands until the bottom hit the ground. He regained his grip, but that only caused the sign to tear in half as the girl fell. She stuck her landing and scarpered off with the posterboard, screaming “this is why Womyn can’t get abortions in this state.”

    Sad, eight-bit synthesized music played and the message “Player 2 replay level?” appeared in the air ahead of them. Everything else dimmed and stopped.

    “Volleyball lesbian, Dad. She’s the toughest one on this level. You want to try again?”

    “Let’s move on to the next level before your mother gets here.”

    “Wow, you mean she… Well, she didn’t abort me.”

    “So what’s the next level,” asked Hastur quickly. Junior was growing up too damned fast, and his first meal hadn’t helped things.

    Best timeline, ever. Amirite?

    “Rooftop Koreans. We’re on top of a dry cleaning business, but we’re controlling the looters at the electronics store across the street. The electronics guys are protecting our building. Don’t shoot anyone unless they are actively breaking in, or carrying loot out.”

    An array of weapons appeared in the space in front of them.

    “Which one do I want?”

    “Shotgun. Go easy on the ammo. It takes them a while to bleed out.”

    Hastur picked the pump action twelve gauge with buckshot, and Junior chose the Mini-14 Ranch Rifle, with the Super Deluxe Tacticool upgrade which he had unlocked through numerous in-game rewards.

    “Ready?”

    “Ready.”

    “This just in. The Simi Valley jury in the Rodney King police brutality case acquitted all four officers of assault and acquitted three of the four of using excessive force. The jury could not agree on a verdict for the fourth officer charged with using excessive force.”

    Suddenly the boom boxes on the street below shut off. There was a moment of eerie silence, and then a low roar punctuated by shouting, and the sounds of glass breaking and of solid things beating on clangy things. A police cruiser sped by the intersection with lights and a brief siren whoop – getting the hell out of Dodge.

    “Dad! There. Crowbar guy. Wait until I tell you.”

    “Clang, clang, clang!”

    “Stop or we’ll shoot,” yelled Junior. The skinny Korean in the blue polo repeated his words in slightly accented English.

    “One.. two.. three. Now, Dad!”

    The fat Korean in the yellow polo fired his shotgun.

    “Great nuclear Azathoth,” swore Hastur, his words immediately repeated by his avatar to the puzzlement of the blue-shirted Korean. “That thing kicks like a Shoggoth.”

    “Hold it tight to your shoulder. The button under your [untranslatable] sucker on your [untranslatable] tentacle controls what your character says.”

    A crowd of people swarmed the entrance to Park Electronics and sheltered in the terrazzo entranceway underneath the marquee. A few faces turned and pointed at the rooftop. Junior squatted down and motioned for Hastur to do the same.

    “Clang, Clang, Clang!”

    “Can I shoot again?”

    “We’d lose the level. There isn’t a clear shot at the door with all those bystanders, which is why they started up the crowbar again.”

    Their strategy session was interrupted by three loud and annoyingly perky tones. “Dum. Doop. Doo!”

    Junior twitched his tentacles and the word “pause” appeared; the scene darkened and the action stopped. The rooftop scene cut to a white background with a blue logo consisting of a “W” inside a circle.

    “Designated visitor Myra incoming,” said an ice princess voice.

    “Myra?”

    “That’s how the WartCo AI pronounces it. I haven’t figured out how to fix it.”

    “Dad…” Junior rolled his multiple eyes. Definitely his mother’s son in that regard.

    The WartCo logo contracted until it was a small blue dot in the center of the screen. The dot was replaced with a circular moving image which grew until it filled the screen. The image showed a buxom young woman tugging a rolling suitcase down an urban cobblestone alleyway. The woman walked out of the street scene and into Hastur’s rec room. The street scene cut to the WartCo logo on a white background.

    “Wartyvision,” whispered a chorus, followed by a muted “Doo. Doop. Dum.”

    “Mom!”

    “Honey!”

    “Hi, boys. Who wants pizza? Fresh from the oven at Armand’s?”

    “Best mom ever,” observed Hastur proudly.

    “And how,” replied Junior.

    “Junior, take the stasis box from your mother and go set the table.”

    Junior tentacle-hugged his mother and took the suitcase from her before exiting.

    Hastur also tentacle-hugged Moira, but in a distinctly different fashion than his son had done.

    “Somebody missed me.”

    Hastur made a surprisingly small and needy noise.

    “Me, too,” she whispered. “Just wait until Junior goes to bed.”

    “So how was your day,” boomed Hastur.

    “Good. You should have seen the face on the Armand’s guy when I put the pizza in the ‘suitcase’ and started rolling it. ‘Hey Lady, you wrecked your pizza.’ It’s Capitol Hill, they’ve seen weirder.”

    “Junior’s birthday, amirite?”

    “Yes,” she said, somewhat sheepishly.

    “Mom, Dad, everything’s ready.”

  • Subaru Horror Theater, Vol. 6: Never Too Early

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dh7Yf0ld3eE

     

    “Rise,” she told the ocean.

    They had crisscrossed the continent in their battered Subaru while she was in the womb, dreaming. They had said the prayers to the gods of the forest and walked in the forgotten places of the desert where ancient cities of the dead clawed at the entombing earth and at the edge of the ocean where potential, dread potential, had filled her mother like a second and dark child.

    “Rise,” she told the ocean, her thin arms held out, her hands open and fingers beseeching.

    Promises had been made in oath, blood, semen, and sacrifice to connect the child to all the powers that waited for the spreading stain of humanity to recede. Conceived in filth, she had crouched in the womb for nearly two years before splitting her mother open, like a lightning-struck tree. It had rained for ten days after she spat herself into the world, the demons of wind and rain providing a baptism. Two hundred humans had died in the flooding, a gift to the child as she howled in tainted bowers while priests sewed her mother back together.

    “Rise!” she told the ocean, tears beginning, quivering on the lower lids, begging permission to fall.

    They watched the signs and portents as the child grew. They fed her nightshade and Jerusalem cherry. They fed her crab’s eye and wolfbane. They fed her ragwort and pennyroyal. All the poisons of the earth flowed into her and she grew strong. “I love you,” would whisper the mother as the child rubbed ongaonga in her young flesh and sighed with pleasure.

    “Rise!” she told the ocean as her parents, nude beside her, lashed by the growing wind, smiled down at her lisping blasphemy.

    When the stars came right, they visited again all the places they had been as she gestated, letting renewing vows with her own voice, gathering blessing and gifts, making sacrifices anew with her own hands and teeth. They drove from atrocity to atrocity until they reached the western ocean.

    “RISE!” she told the ocean, her voice cracking like a cloven stone.

    The trees of the forest screamed and the sands of the desert howled and the frozen wastes began to tremble and shake. The wetlands bubbled with insane laughter. It was beginning.

    Her father cut off his genitals and flung them into the sea. “The blood of the father,” he whispered as drew he bloodied hand down the right side of the child’s face. Her mother reached between her legs and smeared the blood found there down the left side of the girl’s face. “The blood of the mother,” she whispered as she sank to the sand, the languid menstrual flow becoming a spray that spilled her life out onto the hungry beach.

    “RISE!” she told the ocean, her eyes wide and white under the blood.

    And it did.