It’s Christmastime and, when you work retail in a toy-based environment, that makes you crazy busy. So I haven’t had much time for sitting and thinking of awesome things to write. However, when I logged into my WordPress dashboard I noticed a peculiar search engine term that brought up my site:
But what if it isn’t?! What if the Google corporation knows I am, in point of fact, a sexy boy? Well that accounts for a little bit. But what’s this about tying up and nurses and what have you? The infuriating part is really that only part of the search term shows up. I cannot see what comes after “treati.” (which I assume is short for “treating” and not a misspelling of a pact between two warring nations. ) Damn it! Is it “treating them badly?” “Treating them kindly?” “Treating them to dinner at Red Lobster?” Damn you limitations of my WordPress stat reporter!
And to the dude who searched for sexynurses and their rope-based activities: I just blew your spot up on my site and all you wanted was sexynurses. I’m sorry but that’s how I roll. Merry Christmas.
It’s a sad fact that these days original ideas are fewer and farther between. Movies based on books, books based on video games, video games based on movies, on and on, round and round. That’s why I am happy to report that even as I sleep I am coming up with amazing ideas. Today I come to you with a great new invention.
Temporally Backwards Grass.
It’s just like regular grass, only it grows backwards through time. The idea came to me in a dream. I had a big lawn, with awful dead patches here and there. Luckily, I had my backwards grass seeds. All I had to do was wait a week and then plant the seeds. When the baby grass and I met, heading in opposite directions through the time stream, it would be fully grown. This way you could fill in any bare spots on your lawn instantly, provided you remembered to plant the seeds next week.
There are but a few issues with my invention: what happens when you cut it, what happens if you forget to plant the seeds, will it grow in those brown spots where the dog keeps peeing, and where can I find a scientist that will totally violate the time/space continuum for the sake of a patch of grass.
Note on the subject of unoriginal ideas:I am fairly sure that backwards growing flora was actually thought up by Terry Pratchett. It was used to make alcohol that gave you a hangover before you drank it. I didn’t steal the idea, my subconsciousness did.
I’ve started a new project that, I think, could be a lot of fun. Check out “Day Off of the Dead,” a choose the path bastard child of web novels and those books you loved when you were in middle school.
Just a note, I did a guest column over at The Alternative Press. (The column, in fact, is what had me lamenting writer’s block.) It says something about me that the column didn’t come together until I scrapped my topics that had anything to do with anything and started writing about elves.
This has already made most of the rounds online. But, since I find myself singing it in the shower, I thought it only prudent to toss it into the Thresher.
Modifying one’s car is one on the best possible ways to express individuality, out on the street. Ever since ancient times, when the first wizard was airbrushed onto the side of the first black van, mankind has known the importance of tricking out one’s ride. Unfortunately, modification is now so commonplace that it’s hard to get your automobile to stand out in a crowd (or parking lot) no matter how big your spoiler may be.
So what do you do? You could get one of those mufflers that actually work the wrong way around and become amplifiers. You could tint your windows to the darkest of opacity. Maybe get a ground-thumping sub-woofer that cracks the pavement with its high voltage bass output. Or, a personal favorite, those colored lights that shine on the road underneath your car.
But it’s all been done!
Fear not, automotive artist, I present you with the specs on my ride so that you may have something to aspire to. The key is more more more more.
That really loud engine roar you have going for you? It’s nice. Real cute. Everyone knows when I’m cruising down the block in my red ’99 Cherokee by the sound of a jet on take-off that I have piped through a series of speakers on the underside of my car. As an added bonus to the noise-pollution factor, I’ve also welded half a dozen harmonicas to either side of the car (and a few to the hood) for a melodic and eerie effect.
Kickin’ sound? Please. You haven’t heard bass until you’ve heard my car blasting Starland Vocal Band at 4 a.m.
Tinted windows don’t mean nothing, they know who’s inside. So I’ve left my windows nice and clear, but lined the interior of the car with sheet mirrors. This is also a bit of community service because then when people look into my car, it appears, to them, that they are the one driving such an awesome vehicle.
And ground kits? Those lights are nice, yeah, but I’ve taken it to the next level. Curls of neon swirl around my car doors in an elegant script, “Bitchin’” written in red on the passenger side, “Badass” written on the driver side in blue, with an arrow pointing to me. And perched on the roof I have a rotating spotlight, the kind you find outside movie premiers, shooting a thick beam of light into the night sky. Suffice to say, there is no one on the road nearly as impressive as I am.
I even have a wizard airbrushed next to my rear license plate.
Razz grinned. He casually hooked his arms over the back of the sofa and crossed his legs.
”Y’see, Mr. President, it’s not a particularly difficult problem. The Emperor, well, the Emperor is not an unfair being, you understand.” He waved a blue-grey hand in small circles as if trying to conjure his next sentence. “Certainly you feel a bit put upon, with the warships in orbit and all, but understand his position… Center-1 is the seat of his entire empire! The whole planet, lush with beautiful gardens and sprawling estates, is the biggest jewel in the imperial crown! And then he gets this news and… well… he was not happy to hear about the transgressions of your planet against his home.” He grinned at the man at the desk across from him and the president noticed that the creature only had two teeth. Not like a backwater yokel- the effect was more of a game show host whose teeth had fused into just a top and bottom row. “You do understand, Mr. President?”
Chester Gregory, President of the United States, stammered. It was one of his more eloquent contributions to the conversation thus far. This… this ALIEN had waltzed into the Oval Office and simply disintegrated his bodyguards! The piles of dust were still sitting on the carpet! And then he plopped down on the sofa and started talking about an act of war Earth had launched against another planet! Finally he managed a complete sentence.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
Razz raised a black eyebrow and began to speak slowly as one might address the hard of hearing or a foreigner who doesn’t understand the language. “We are talking about theft. A private company has sold the Emperor’s property to an American citizen. He is very angry. Follow?”
“No!” The President spat out. “What could we steal from a planet light years away?!”
“Ah,” grinned the alien as he tossed a folder onto the President’s desk. It said “National Star Registry” on it. “The sun that rises over the Imperial palace has been sold to one Charles Abernathy. We’d like to speak to him.”
Sometimes, when you’re a writer, you get writer’s block. Sometimes, when you’re a writer with writer’s block you write about it. Then you post it on the internet. It’s one of the more annoying things that can happen to a writer. (The block itself, not the writing about it on the internet. That’s just annoying to you.)
It’s sort of like having a song in your head, but you can’t quite remember the chorus. There’s something there, you know it, but you can’t call it up. Do whatever you want, you’re not gonna get it. Hum a few bars, tap out the drum solo on your desk, clench your fists and scream at the heavens for cursing you with such a terrible fate… ain’t nothing gonna pull the words out of your mind. And so it goes with writer’s block.
I’m trying to pull together a column for a small online publication and damn if I’m not blocked harder than a man who’s been eating nothing but peanut butter and glue for two weeks. I don’t submit a lot of work out like this, so the words, they’re a little shy about coming out. I’ve started the thing twice, to no avail.
So what do you do to cure writer’s block? Well, there are a few ways to try and snap out of it, but I prefer the lamest and most lazy of all methods…
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