Mustard Is A Type of Ketchup Pt. 2

     Beep. Beeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEE.....click. Groan. Stumble. Shuffle. Hello. My name is life. You are awake now. The phone is ringing. You might want to answer it.

"Hello?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
"No mom, I just got up. What's up?"
"Oh, not too much. You know, just calling to say hi. I love you kiddo. I miss you. When can I see you?"
"I don't ca..."
"Oh guess what your father found yesterday at a garage sale?"
"I don't ca..."
"He found one of those retro microwaves. For a dollar!
"I don't ca..."
"He was telling me that..."
"Love you mom gotta go bye." The ensuing click is as enjoyable as a cold soda on a hot day. It tastes great, but stings a little bit.

     As particular days would have it, moments merge together up until you find yourself at work. Then your attention must be at it's peak, otherwise, you know you'd live with mommy dearest again. You love the woman, but live with her again? Back to the topic at hand.

     Work. Oh yeah that is where we were at. You're at work now, starring at a computer monitor. You always take your notes on a piece of paper though. Jack never takes notes. Hey, why the fuck does he borrow so many goddamn pens then? Go get them back. You have a moment of gumption, a glimmering bit of confidence and determination. You stand up, taught the bottom of your shirt with a humph, and

"Sit down." You sit down. It's Carol, your boss. She isn't pleased.

"So I asked for the digital read outs on the newest models yesterday. They still aren't on my desk. Why not?" You look up to answer, but say nothing.

"Well?" With that, you see how adorable the freckles around her nose are. Her face as if it where from one of those commercials with women that look like they went to college but worked through as a model or dancer. Her body, most likely magnificent, but those dress suites keep you from fantasizing to much. A couple cocktails in her would do her good. Cocktails? More like just your co

"Well? I don't like repeating myself." God, she is so pretty. If she smiled more, or as it where, ever, you'd probably risk your job, and knowing this bitch, your life, to just hit on her a little. Then again if she knew how to smile, you wouldn't find it necessary to mentally call her a bitch.

"I, uh, well, s s sorry. I had to figure out what was wrong with the my computer before I could finish."
"Well what was wrong with it?"
"It wasn't on." You crack a smile. She does not. You remedy the situation.
"Minor snags, ma'am. It will be on your desk before the hour is out."
"So it will be on my desk in three minutes?" You notice the time and grimace.
"I will have it on your desk in an hour."
She glares at you and walks off. You sigh, and get back to whatever the hell it is that you do.

     You complete the thing that she asked and then deliver. She gives an insincere but professional "thank you." You walk back to your spot of slavery, and forget what it was that you where doing. Just in general. It gets hazier, then the moments of the world merge together, and you're work day has ended. Your faceless co-workers and "friends" all head towards the elevator. You look towards your boss's office, almost longingly. Despite the fact that getting your dick wet seems very appealing, even more so is the fact that she is the same age as you, yet powerful, and intelligent, and in a spot of responsibility. You have a respect for this woman. A respect that goes along your train of thoughts even stronger than with how badly you want to see her tits. She is still in there. Everyone else is leaving or wrapping up. She is still in her office though. Doing whatever it is that she does beyond being mad at you and everyone else. You have an idea. You don't follow through.

     Several merging moments later, and many several drinks later, you're stumbling to the doors of the convenience store. They slide open. Ra...whoever looks over at you. You smile, yet she turns away without a response. You decide not to enter, turn around and leave as the doors shut behind you. Maybe she looked with curiosity, as to why you didn't come in.You don't bother to confirm or deny your suspicions. As per usual, your insignificant moments merge, and here you are, watching t.v. A mature late-night cartoon of some sort. It's brightly colored and silly. You care very little about other aspects. Two hours later, you find yourself trekking to your bedroom, destroying half the world on your way there. You set your phone aside from your pocket, then strip to your boxers, then pull shorts from a drawer and dawn them with minimal emotions.Red with black stripes. Your...favorite, you guess? Your phone.

     You set it aside for a reason. Oh yes, to call your mom. You start to dial, then stop. She's probably sleeping. Like shed care though. You want to call her. You want her to tell you that the universe is conspiring to give you what you want. You want to tell her how you miss cuddling in her lap while you eat cookies. You want her to tell you how much she cares, because then at least someone does. It makes you sick knowing you want this. It makes you feel guilty knowing you can't explain to her why it is nonconstructive and in fact would cause reverse growth as a person. So with the things that could be reflected on in the moments before sleep, instead you become sick, and ridden with guilt. Well done. Oh well. Tomorrow is another...

Beep. Beeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEE.....click. Groan. Stumble. Shuffle. Hello. My name is life. You are awake now.

The Treacherous Fever

My darling,
It is an infection, human-based, source unknown. Blood boils. It's an intricate, stinking virus that crawls in through the eyes, ears, and mouth from a source least expected. Without fail, it leaves the victim in a state of selfless, helpless, absurd euphoria, but lest something gives, it threatens to tear apart mind, body, and soul.
It will strike those in royal garb as quickly as those in rags.
It is the very reason for life; yet gone wrong, its intention is to mercilessly rip from its feeble prey every trace of purpose; to annul pleasures past and present.
It's a strange and dangerous symbiosis.
It is eloquent, daring, delicate, vile.
You will yearn for it, fear it, loathe it, need it; like a dastardly addiction it pounds through to the quick of you until you are unaware of who you are or what you are or what you're doing.
It can seem haphazard in its choice of targets, or it can seem dreadfully premeditated.
It is lewd, earthy, fleshy, and it is chaste, pure, unmarred.
There is no cure, save escape from this mortal coil and yet..and yet, legends exist of the disease reaching with omnipotent fingers past the grave to see its life cycle to completion.
It has been known to drive its victims to destroy, to scar, to torture; and its fatalities are innumerable.
It makes heroes out of cowards, martyrs out of skeptics, madmen out of scholars. Sinners out of the virtuous. To fight the poison is futility, and makes the moment of surrender infinitely sweeter, immeasurably more dreadful.
There is nothing logical, nothing predictable, about the treacherous fever..

Dark, snarled hair spread across the pock-marked, unceremonious desk in the bare room. So fixated was the disheveled figure on the connection of shaky pen to paper--such a sight she was--that an observer would have surely only felt vague surprise if they'd seen black ink drip from the very pores in her concentrated, soft brow, to mingle with the white, dry, salted tracks on either side of pale cheeks.

The birds were singing at her through the window, so charmingly.

From her chapped lips there oozed a melody; halting, soft, but still there. She loved to sing, and always had. Almost as much as she loved to write.

The only sounds that existed were the scratch scratch scratch of her beautiful quill, and that lilting, sweet hum, the one she couldn't get out of her mind if she tried.

She was at peace, save for a strange longing in her core. It was a good day, though she couldn't tell you why.

Then abruptly, she was ripped from her small wooden chair. It toppled and fell. She thudded against the rough floor and her trance fell away as she looked up with obscure eyes at the looming shape above her. She did not release her pen. I must finish my words, my thoughts, I must.

But the words came out garbled, nonsense.

"You useless, idiot lunatic! I've stood here and called you a dozen, bleeding times! Are you so daft you can't hear anymore?! And for the thousandth time now, STOP that godforsaken keening. You sound like a strangled old duck." The shape's deep voice secreted distaste, dripped cruelty, and it confused her. Who was this person, to intrude so suddenly on her in her private quarters?

"—not doing that again! Give that to me." The voice was still speaking, and now the figure held out a burly hand expectantly. She stared at it vacantly, and after a beat a joy leapt into her throat. She reached for the outstretched flesh with her own empty hand. Before they touched, the figure roared in anger and suddenly, suddenly she felt a smack as her skull hit the iron bedframe behind her. Her ear was pounding, her neck wet. She clutched at the burning pain with both hands; empty hands now.

"Don't play smart with me, silly, stupid madwoman. Look at that desk, what a state it's in. You don't ever learn and you won't, will you, Eve? Will you? Where did you get this?" There was no response. "Ah! I don’t know why I try. I'm surprised you have even the sense to heal, still." Eve? Her eyes glazed over. What is happening to me? Where am I? She was hazy; unaware of another knock on the door; of the awful creak it gave in the agony of old age, as another figure was granted access into the miserably dim, windowless room and the first figure turned and spoke.

"Towels again. Lots of blood this time. She's lost the capacity for coherent language again, today. Yet, look: the happy idiot still thinks she can write. How did she get this?!"

The second figure stammered. "I-I don't rightly know, sir. I'm always sure to take the cutlery away after each meal. It wasn't--" An inhuman cry broke the hushed conversation. It was disregarded.

"My patience is wearing thin. Don't let it happen again." The second figure dipped and made hasty, clacking footsteps that faded into the quiet.

Eve? Eve? Eve? Her thoughts were an incomprehensible loop that kept looping for the desperate sake of comprehension. Her head throbbed, and the longing in her core raged.

"WAIT!" The word, rusted and ugly and needy, came from her broken lips, and her red, wet hands grabbed at the shadow's trousers. WAIT!

The leg she'd grabbed for quickly, harshly kicked off her weak clutches. "What?!" said the voice in naught concealed disgust. Her face crumpled.

Love me, her core cried. She was whisked off her feet and her heart fluttered, twisted and thrilled at the support, at the touch; and her mind cleared enough to know it was something strong that held her. But the strong figure was pushing her towards the cracked mirror hung on the closest wall to the desk, not towards salvation.

"LOOK!" It hissed in her ear. "LOOK!!!" She looked, at the distorted image. Black eyes gazed back. Dirty tendrils of raven fell everything, and all was cracked, broken across the face where the jagged fault lines of glass ran. "Now, who in their right mind could love that??!" She shook her head and shut her eyes tight and screamed. Her feet kicked and she cried with a sorrow that cannot be, will not ever be exceeded. The figure released her roughly, and her hands caught the splintered edge of the desk. When she opened her eyes again, she was met with paper; a stack of it, pure and white and blank, and mangled with the deep scratches of a sharp object. Her head lolled, and first came the thud of her knees against the dark floor, and then the thud of her head and shoulder, against the dark floor.

And then silence. And then, laughter; odious and strange. She felt sour air fall across her face as the heavy door shrieked angrily in its hinges, to shout at her as it slammed shut.

The dark grew darker, and the darker grew darkest, until there was nothing.

When Eve awoke the next morning, she sat at her desk, and murmured a sweet, broken tune. How the birds sang through the window at her, so charmingly! It was a good day. She could not tell you why.

R.Allison

Mustard Is A Type Of Ketchup pt.1

      Waking up in a world you never cared for isn't an easy task. Once you find yourself departing from your dreams, you come into consciousness with a lingering grog, be it you snapped awake or gradually crawled into a new day's life. This being achieved, you realize you're alive and instantly dread. You'd kill yourself, you think, but suicide isn't natural. You're a bit neurotic. Especially about what's natural. Otherwise, yeah, you'd jump off a building, or run into traffic. Maybe eat a fuck load of beans and drown yourself in a steaming hot bath. Yes, this would be delightful.

     Morning's preparation is an event to hardly behold. The whole thing with the brushing of the teeth. The shaving. The shower. The drying of the shower's wetness. The beheading of nudity by tossing on the attire of the day. The drudging down to eat breakfast, alone, because you find yourself too miserable for company in the earliest of your morning. The morning's fog and light dew. The walk to work, since you live in an apartment in the city and have no family near by. Then finally, work. 

     You open the door, find your way to your spot, then you work. You work for two hours, take a ten minute break. You work for two hours, take a half hour lunch. You work for two hours, you take a ten minute break. You work for two hours, you leave and go to the bar with the losers that sort of pass for your friends. Yes, this counts as work, because if you didn't drink until drunk and be at least partially social, the thoughts of how you'd kill or burn (and essentially still kill) everything around you become more vivid then usual. Take Jack Rodgers.

     God, how you hate Jack Rodgers. Always bugging you for a pen, after he lost the last one you let him borrow. Always thinking he's so goddamn cool, with his fancy shoes and his fancy hair. Also, remember Dorris, that gorgeous redhead that transferred there for a couple months? You had a big crush on her, and it seemed to be mutual. She was the sunshine that brightened your ever so dark existence. You where always so kind to her. Guess who fucked her? Jack Rodgers, that's who. You occasionally saw her in that pit of cobras with ol' Jacky boy. 

"Another round for my main man, here!" Jack would yell at the bar tender, winking at you. Yes, this seemed nice, but you where going to end up paying for it anyways. Maybe Jack should pay for it. With his face. Into the bar counter. Oh well.

     The walk home is bearable. You know, being drunk and all. Occasionally, you stop at the convenience store a block up from your place, to buy some candy or a hot dog. That, and that cute east Indian girl who's name you can't pronounce works there. 

"Good evening, Raj...Rajii, Rami...Ra.."

"Have a good night." She'd reply while pushing your merchandise towards you. Another oh well for you.

     Then home. You check the mail. Wait. What's this? A package? My god. What could it be? What adventures might it be leading to? It...wait, no. It was put in the wrong box. It's for the neighbors. Splendid. You return it to them with a drunken smile that is hardly sincere as you make your way back to your apartment.

     At least your home coming poo will cheer you up. It does, par usual. Maybe the three hours of droning on the split time of t.v. and computer will wash away the day. It starts to. Maybe you will forget you exist in the ensuing sleep. You do.

Some Songs I've Been Listening to Religiously Lately.

 This article brought to by your friend and ours, the Pabst brewing company.

"Religiously" is sort of a misnomer... the thing is as an atheist, the closest thing I can get to 'god' without psychoactive drugs and the resulting ego death* that follows is through music. And even though I really, REALLY enjoy music, I'd hardly call it a religion. For one, it hasn't made me want to kill an abortionist.

Give it time.

Any-fucking-way, where the hell was I? OH YES! Here's some songs that have been making me feel extra special as of late. Like my genitals, I would feel deep regret if I were to not share them to you.

Yes you.

Not you. You.

Yes. Don't you feel special?

Neutral Milk Hotel's 'King of Carrot Flowers Pt 1' (Not 2 or 3, mind you)

 

Now, I'd like to point out that there's nothing, and I mean nothing more pretentious then naming two songs 'Part 1' and 'Part 2 & 3' of something. That's like a pretension critical mass. A Billy Corgan level of pretension.
But now, after I've this established this, I'd like like to follow up with a total 180 and say something to the effect of "Go fuck your mother for agreeing with me"
You see, this is a fucking amazing song.
It's romantic in spite of being about parental apathy and a first sexual experience. I've had dental appointments more romantic then my first sexual experience. Bravo sir!

Elefant's 'Eating Stones'

Wait? they're called fairweather friend? What the fuck? Whatever. I like the simple instrumentation, the singer's voice and how pretty she is. Maybe I'm a little biased: theAmazingAtheist plugged the song with his man titties out. Sela vie. The song I assume is written by the Chick and AmazingAtheist's director. Cool shit, want to hear more.
Next!


Sufjan Stevens' 'John Wayne Gacy, Jr'

Now, anyone who knows me (100 percent of audience as of posting) will tell you why a song about serial killers just appeals to me by default. What you might not know is that the theological debate it sparked was even more interest then this admittedly haunting song did.
You see, Sufjan Stevens is a Christian, you see. Big whoop, right? As far as I'm aware, being christian doesn't make everything you do as an artist (or anything else) a reflection on your religious views. However, some Christians seem to read the song as saying "If you don't become a christian your soul is just as fucked as Gacy's"
I'm of the opinion that Sufjan is really just saying is "fuck Illinois" but, you know, just my interpretation.

Well, I bid you Adeu.
Listen to the Sex,
Big Mike.

*Tangentially, ego death is more or less a tenet of Buddhism, and we all know Buddhism isn't a religion in the western sense... that entailing you going to a big building every week to feel guilty and then throw money at the problem. 
I can't even relate to you people on acid. How very, very sad.

P.S. "Oh Mike! This isn't a short story! Whats up with that?" Shut the fuck up. Like you read any of my short stories. You can buy the book when it comes out. Mwa ha ha.

Ok, so...

The thing I was working on, is a story. Originally, it was to be a short story, as Big Mike does, but I decided that I was going to make it into an even bigger project.

If you look up at the headers, you will notice that "My Friend The Machine" has replaced "Mustard is a type of Ketchup." Since my new story will be much larger than originally intended, I've decided to just use an entire page for it, and finish off "Mustard is a Type of Ketchup" on the blog's front page, adding another two or three parts to it.

 I know no one cares, but it makes me feel, like, important, and like, stuff. To myself. (Refer to the last paragraph of my last post.) Well, actually, we've had one view from India, and I bet they like me most.

~Xavier R.

p.s. What's worse then a pile of dead babies? Your mom's fat ugly face.

If god didn't want us to eat animals, he wouldn't have made them out of meat

I'm trying to decide on my early morning meal. Believe it or not, the original theme of this post was random, but my choices are either cheerios, or, well, steak. I could just eat both. One stuffed in the other. I am American, after all.

So did you catch the news last night? I didn't. Been too busy not having or wanting a t.v. I should check up on current events though. You know, so I can be aware of the lies being told to me. So I can complain about the world based on what I don't understand.

My posts tend to revolve around me, even in a subtle manner, a lot of the time. Want to know why? Because I poop out of my butt. There, I said it. Only I poop out of MY butt, so I believe I'm entitled to things. Me me me.

~Xavier R.

p.s. What if your childhood goldfish was god? He died and it was your fault. Good going, jerk. You let god die.

There is something I'd like you to do

Well, beyond welcoming our newest colleague, I also want you to read this article, which is exactly how I've wished to explain my thoughts on the matter, but have been unable to.

There is a film mentioned within that article. You will watch it as well. Here, I'll make it easy for you.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

Now, assuming you read the article and watched the film, let me make something clear. This isn't "black guy gets to say stuff, but if a white guy says stuff..." because that thought process is more of the weakness. Open your mind, and be willing to get uncomfortable.

~Xavier R.

p.s. Still working on that "thing."

Introducing Rachel Allison

 

I'd like to introduce you to an our newest colleague and contributor for the panel van (and prophet for the Xavier Rhone religion) Rachel Allison.

Xavier and I met Rachel in a darkened room, she breathed fire and sweated malice. She is a demon. She chops, she dices, she can spackle and sparkle. I heard she ripped a great red oak out the very earth then chopped it into a Swedish dinner set with her bare hands. 

How can she make Swedish furniture out of a federally protected American red oak? That's fucking nothing.

She rode a fleet of dragons. Not mythical dragons, she duct-taped a dozen komodo dragons together then rode them like a raft down the Amazon.

"The Amazon?" you ask "But komodo dragons aren't even native to south America" To which I tell you to kindly shut the fuck up.

She then befriended a notoriously unfriendly and secretive tribe of cannibals only to eat every single one of them raw.

But... Wait...

Shut the fuck up

She is the reason we think zombies, vampires and werewolves don't exist.

She is fluent in every language, which she learns in Mandarin, the most difficult language. 

She is an author, a pornographer, a devout lesbian, a dancer and a legend.

She is also on my blog.

You better fucking enjoy her, and enjoy her fucking your skull.

Big Mike.

I...uh...

Truth be told, I'm not exactly sure how I came across this, but I did, so I figured I'd share it.

I made that picture just now, just for you.

Anyways, still working on "stuff."

~Xavier R.

p.s. Being sober should be illegal, because I feel like shit for being it the night before.

Dig

So I was working on a particular post, but I figured I'll just post something else for the time being. So uh...heres some old school hip hop.









Enjoy.

~Xavier R.