Thursday, September 25 - Mistakes

Once upon a time in a land not so far away, I was present at  my place of employment, the City of Food. A woman approached my mystical price machine with a cake in a box. I could not locate the code of bars on the box, as as with everything else, I turn it upside down to check the bottom. See kids, there is this funny thing called gravity, and the gods of gravity did not smile upon me this day. The cake had mooshed on the top of the box, ruining the icing. Bad life decisions had been made. I hastily called out to the bakers of the fair city and requested a replacement be made in due haste. The woman informed me that i had just in fact ruined a one-year-olds first birthday cake, and I proceeded to not feel bad about it. I apologized but at the same time who cares. In 2.5 seconds that kid drooling in the buggy licking the push bar will have his face smashed into the cake regardless. An ugly replacement was made, and they left very disgruntled. To this present time my coworkers will not allow me to forget this day.

Dinosaurs are Swell Chaps

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Tuesday, September 16 - Spoon

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Monday, September 15 - Goat Man on a Cello

As the smooth bluesy tones emanate from the classily dressed goat-man's cello, the cigar in the tray burns shorter, the brandy in the glass half empty. It was a quiet night for the posh speakeasy, the piano man played to only a handful, Samson the colorblind saxophonist in his one purple / one green boots plays facing the back wall where there is no one. He's regular blind too. I finished the rest of my glass as the fish-waiter tried to pour me more with a gesture of his oddly human arms. I declined and was about to leave when the Lady In Red walked through the door. draped around her neck was a small boy with polio, an elegant winter fashion. Everyone on the place stopped to look, of course except for Samson. Samson is homosexual. Also because he is blind. The Lady In Red danced as the leaves in the wind to the sultry voice of the piano man.

"Open the door, get on the floor, everybody do the dinosaur"

She moved in majestic movements, doing The Dinosaur to perfection. She mimicked the tail swing of the mighty Stegosaurus, and the head bob of a Tyrannosaurus over a fresh kill. Something about her movements possessed me to approach her and do the dance of my people. So I punched her square in the face because I'm Italian.

The End.

Thursday, September 11 - Music Critic

The song "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster The People is very extremely and inexplicably meh. Disregarding the fact that in actuality the song has an absolutely gruesome and violent undertone and message, the song itself sounds like it was recorded in a train tunnel. There are no acoustics in the recording, sound just reverberates everywhere and anywhere it pleases, creating a distracting echo-esque effect. The instrumentals are very basic and mediocre, and the vocalist is not exceptionally talented. This song is just another sub-par song made popular by the current generation's obsession with artists with a very low amount of talent that make music with negative lyrical messages.

Tuesday, September 9 - Film Critic

This is a film review of the 2011 film Hugo. Only two words need be said. Martin. Scorsese. This man is a cinematic god, and everything he touches becomes instantaneous box office gold. As one of the top 3 directors in Hollywood, Scorsese cannot err when it comes to any directional choices. Casting was phenomenal, shots were beautifully blocked out and framed, and Martin's three-dimensional debut was stunningly done. 100 out of 10, for one reason. Martin Scorsese.

Monday, September 8 - America, Fairyville?

The sounds of keyboards constantly clicking resonates through the office corridor like the hum of bees in a hive. Phones ring off the hook, people talking incessantly. This is what working in the San Fernando Valley sector of Intel Computer Systems is like. I work in one of the new departments meant to "diversify" our company. My sector was established to hire more fictional-Americans such as myself and help Intel comply with new diversification movements in today's workforce.  My name is Thomas, and I am a fairy. Before the cops uncovered my money laundering scheme, they used to call me Tommy "Twinkle Toes" Giovanni. When the cops raided my flower shop and found the two hundred kilos of "fairy dust" for my next shipment, I decided to testify and clean up my act. With the Fictional-Americans Civil Rights Act passed in 2015, Intel opened up the fictional-Americans sector starting in San Fernando Valley. Mostly washed up characters here, characters that in their prime were stars, icons even. Our Regional Manager, Anthony I believe, that guy used to be a horror legend, scared everyone. Ma would tell me stories when I was a kid about this guy, scared the cannolis out of me. Guess everyone had their glory days pass them by at some point. So here I am, having a few rounds with Anthony and a few of the guys at work at the bar on Fourth. Wilbur, Rupert, and Samson are on their fifth order of wings. What pigs. I'll tell you what though, its not so bad. I like this new life. Anthony is one great blackjack player I'll tell you what, that guy has an unbeatable poker-face. I think I have him beat this hand though, I'll take another scotch and enjoy the rest of the night, cause all in all, this is a nice way to live.

Thursday, August Somethingoranother - Mob Scifi

Smoke filled the interior of the Cadillac sedan. A single glowing ember in the back seat came from a cigar resting in an ashtray. Parked outside North Clark Street, the car was the only one in sight. The large man in the back seat muttered to himself.

What is the holdup?

Gunshots ring out from behind the parking structure. The man sits up straight at the sound, listening intently. .45 calibre, he thinks to himself. Typewriters no less. He relaxes back into his seat as he sees two well dressed men in suits apprehended by two officers of the law, being led by gunpoint to the car. Once to the car, the officers put down thier guns and let the suited men inside. They take off their police caps and replace them with fedoras and newsboy caps. The hats are thrown into the back of the car along with the uniforms, all soaked in blood. One of the police impostors speaks in a rushed tone.

Let's get outta here boss, someone would have heard that.

One of the men in suits speaks up from the passenger side, shooting his colleague a look.

You just a'scared ah what you saw back there. Mr.  Capone, there's somethin' weird goin' on. You should really go take a look. Something strange happened, real strange.

The large man in the back took a drag on his cigar and put it out in the tray. He gives an impatient sigh.

Well?

The car pulls around the parking structure, revealing eight dead bodies. Capone noted the violence of the murders. Shredded flesh, bits of organs and gore strewn throughout, brain matter spattered on the wall. His boys were animals. Must have used 200 rounds of .45 from the typewriters, another body especially mangled and torn open showed signs of a 12 gauge blast. One of his men spoke up from the furthest body.

This un sir. Take a look.

Capone knelt down beside the blown away corpse and probed the wounds with his fingers. Pale grey flesh, spattered in a deep indigo blood. Where flesh had been torn from bone he could see a metallic skeleton with pale grey bits fused to it. The puddle Capone was standing in was of a deep purple. He stood up out of shock. This one wasn't one of Bugsy's men, this wasn't even a man.

Dump the body, know one hears about this, you hear? No one knows of this... thing, you got me? Scrub it from the books.

Capone's driver shouts from the car.

Uhh boss... that may be a tall order.

Capone and his men march over to the car and listen to the radio:

Mass hysteria hits New York City today as what appears to be a flying saucer spotted atop the Empire State Building...

Everyone is silent, awaiting what their boss had to say. The driver spoke up.

Well Mr. Capone, what do you think?

Capone took another long drag on his cigar, the ember illuminating his face along with the moonlight.

I think... This is a turf-war we can't win.