The Vampire Rants, Part III

Like I said, I can't stand the way the media portrays us vampires. Oh sure, pure evil -- that doesn't bother me. I'd think that about anything that might eat me, and thus viewed me with the same contemptful objectification one holds for a plate of fish. I don't mind that. It's just -- have some god damn consistency, will you?

Like, I saw this movie preview the other night. It's about vampires that move about in the light of day, and they don't like to drink human blood. The prefer to hunt animals in the woods because they're too busy falling in love with the humans. I'm like, "Who's leading that vampire clan, Count Chocula?"

The only story I've seen that came close to getting it right is "Dracula." Sure, Stoker took some licenses with the idea, but he was dead on when it came to moving, banking, all the crushing bureaucracy of daily life. Bankers keep banker's hours. They've long left the office by the time I'm up and about, so a vampire needs some agent just to run his errands for him. And considering the fortune one can build up over several lifetimes, old money, you might call it, it's best to enslave a lawyer, which brings me to why I'm putting my stuff in storage in the first place. I got evicted!

I've moved around occasionally, and for various reasons. Sometimes, a nosy clergyman will learn too much. One time, a bunch of angry peasants burned my house down. I left India just because I didn't like the way the people tasted. Call me a racist, but they eat too much curry.

Anyhow, I've done my fair share of moving, but this is the first time I've had to move because I was evicted.

I'm not even sure why I was renting. Everyone knows that if you can afford to buy a house, you buy a house so you can build equity. Renting is just flushing your money down the toilet.

I'm certain this is all the fault of my attorney, who's gone missing.

That's what I get for enslaving a public defender.

8:55 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

If you live forever, when do you shut up? (The Vampire Rants, Parts One and Two)

The Vampire Rants, Part I

One of the biggest pains in the ass about being immortal is moving.

8:06 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Let’s make sure we teach our kids the one true religion.

The Associated Press Friday reported thusly:

AUSTIN, Texas - The Texas State Board of Education gave final approval Friday to establishing Bible classes in public high schools, rejecting calls to draw specific teaching guidelines and warnings that it could lead to constitutional problems in the classroom.

I think I feel the way a lot of people in Texas do about this. It's a great idea, provided they use the right bible -- mine!

Here's a nibble of my illustrated bible. More to come!

8:20 AM - 3 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Ow! Sonofabitch! -- A short play (rerun from Dec. 2004)

Ow! Sonofabitch! -- A short play

Henry: Ow! Sonofabitch!

Dave: What's the matter?

Henry: I've got chemicals in my eye! I can't see! Where's the eyewash?

Dave: You're right next to it.

Henry: Ow! Sonofabitch!

Dave: No, those are the eyespikes.

Henry: Why are the eyespikes next to the eyewash?

Dave: The room's arranged alphabetically. Move a little to your right.

Henry: Motherfucker! What the fuck?

Dave: Ooh. You went too far, man. Those are the eyeyankers. Let me help you pop those back in.

End.

12:38 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

My thus-far worthless hobby is about to pay off!

Those of you who've known me for any considerable amount of time know how dedicated I am to my hobby of writing fan fiction. Some fans write about "Star Trek" and some write about "Star Trek: The Next Generation," while others write about "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine."

My favorite show is "60 Minutes."

And if you haven't caught the buzz yet, they're making a movie.

Look for it next summer: "90 Minutes -- The Sixty Minutes Motion Picture."

And not to brag, but some very influential people in Hollywood have seen some of my work and were impressed enough to pony up some dough for me to write the novelization of the screenplay.

Here is a sample chapter.

-----

Morley Safer sneezed, overwhelmed by the dust in the basement of the academic library. He wished his anonymous source would hurry up. He didn't have all day to collect dust like the antiquated AV equipment that surrounded him.

He looked at his watch.

"Ten more minutes, and I'm out of here," he muttered to himself.

"Oh, I don't believe you're going anywhere, Mr. Safer," said a voice from the darkness.

Just then, the lights came on.

"You!"

"That's right, Safer. It's me. Phillip Morris, himself. Mr. Big Tobacco."

"You think this is the first time I've had a gun pointed at me?" Safer tried to play it cool, though he couldn't take his eyes off Morris's nicotine-stained trigger finger, taut around the mechanism that could, at any second, send a lump of lead and blue flash out of the revolver's cold steel muzzle.

"You think killing me will stop the truth?" Safer said.

"Oh, I don't aim to kill you, Mr. Safer," Morris wheezed with detachment and menace. "You have to take a message to your friend Mike Wallace. I can't have either of you poking around in my affairs any longer. As for the truth, go ahead. Tell the entire world. Tell them the whole truth. Tell them that I am an alien from outer space aiming to conquer and control the human race through its tendency toward addiction. They'll think you've flipped."

Morris shape shifted. Before Safer's eyes the CEO became a gray alien, his face devoid of features, his eyes big, black and empty.

"I find your Earth weapons crude, but very effective." The alien had not spoken, but the words found their way into Safer's brain, nonetheless. "When you get out of intensive care, make sure your viewers know we prefer to communicate using telepathy."

One of the creature's three fingers cocked the hammer.

"Not so fast, Phillip Morris!" Another voice shouted.

Ed Bradley stepped out of the shadows, shirtless and scraped but no worse for wear, a bullet belt draped over his shoulder and a machine gun trained on Morris's gargantuan head.


"Ed!" Safer cried out to his colleague. "No one is supposed to know I'm here. How did you find out?"

"I'm that good, baby. And you're lucky I am. Otherwise, you'd be filing your reports from six feet under. Put the gun down, Morris. The jig is up."

"Up yours," Morris projected into Bradley's mind.

"You alien muthafucka!" Bradley opened up on the shapeshifter with the all the M-60 had. Empty shells clattered to the floor as round after round splattered gray alien gray matter all over the dusty overhead projectors behind it.

Bradley then reached into his waistband and pulled out the 9-mm handgun he always carried just in case. He tossed it to Safer.

"Let's get the fuck out of here, Morley!"

They made their way through the labyrinth of stacks, up the stairs and out the front door. They each breathed a sigh of relief once inside Bradley's Cadillac El Dorado.

"Check it out, Safer, I just got this new amp." Bradley cranked the volume on his stereo, and soon Safer could feel the throbbing bass rattle his lungs.

"This be the shiz, my nigga," Safer shouted over the hiphop groove.

"What the fuck, white boy? You can't say nigga. Only I can say nigga."

"That's a load of shit, Ed. You're saying a word is off limits to me just 'cause I'm white?"

"Damn right. You white folks got every thing else. You stole the blues, you stole rock n' roll. There's even white boys rapping now. You ain't using the word nigga."

"Whatever."

They pulled up to the stoplight. The music so loud, they didn't hear the black helicopter hovering over traffic.

But they noticed when the Volkswagen behind them erupted in a blazing fireball.

"Shit, they got a chopper on us!" Bradley cried. "Stinger missiles, too."

"Well then, floor it, bitch!"

Bradley stomped on the gas. Tires squealed. The caddy swerved to avoid cross-traffic that had the light.

The helicopter rained bullets down on the Cadillac and surrounding traffic.

"They fuckin' up my rims, yo!" Bradley shouted. "You gotta take that chopper out! Use the RPG in the back seat!"

The caddy weaved through traffic, the helicopter hard on its tail, leaving destruction in its wake. Cars crashed. Trucks exploded. Exciting shit. Safer hung out the window, the rocket launcher on his shoulder, taking aim at the helicopter.

"Can't you keep this car moving in a straight line," Safer complained. "I can't get a shot on the copter."

"Hey, don't tell me how to drive and I won't tell you how to get shot down by Lesley Stahl."

Another explosion jolted the car from behind.

"The road don't get no smoother. Shoot them muthafuckas!"

Safer cleared his mind, took aim, held his breath. He had but one shot. He squeezed the trigger.

Direct hit. The helicopter blew up. Pieces of it fell out of the sky onto cars and pedestrians. None but the pilot were seriously injured.

"Ha ha! Nice shootin', my nigga!" Bradley said.

Bradley and Safer walked into CBSNews headquarters, greeted by their colleague Lesley Stahl.

"Hi boys."

"Lesley, you should have seen it!" Bradley rejoiced. "You ain't the only one that's good at shooting down around here!"

She eyed Safer. "What's he talking about?"

"Oh, it was nothing, really." Safer said, shuffling his feet.

"Nothing? Nothing? Lesley, this helicopter was on our tail, and our boy Safer here took that motherfucker out!"

"Safer! Bradley!" Mike Wallace shouted. "In my office now!"

"Gotta go," Safer said to Stahl. "Tell you all about it over dinner tonight?"

"Um… No thanks. I'm waxing my cat tonight."

"Now, Safer!" Wallace shouted.

The two men followed Wallace into his office.

"Shut the god damn door!" he ordered. Bradley obliged him. "I just got off the phone with Phillip Morris! Can you explain why you're harassing him, Safer?"

Safer and Bradley looked at each other, chilled.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, god damn it!" Wallace shouted. "What the fuck are you doing bothering an important businessman like Phillip Morris?"

"I was doing legwork on a story. I didn't know he would be there."

"Didn't know he would be there? You're telling me he's got nothing better to do than just show up wherever you happen to be!"

"Sir," Bradley interjected. "Phillip Morris is an alien. And he's supposed to be dead."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Bradley? And what the fuck were you doing there? Aren't you supposed to be working on a story about air bags? And where the fuck is your god damn shirt?"

"But I got wind that Morley was walking into a trap."

"Shut the fuck up, Bradley! You're on thin ice! Thin! Fucking! Ice! I don't want to hear any more nonsense about aliens and dead businessmen and traps! It's bullshit! I'm sick of this loose cannon reporting! Safer, you're off this story! I don't want you going anywhere near Phillip Morris, do you understand me?"

"But Mike," Safer said. "I'm on to a big story here."

"Do you understand me!"

"Yes, sir."

"Now get the fuck out of my sight. Deadline is coming up tomorrow and I want to see something good from both of you!"

"Yes, sir."

Bradley and Safer left Wallace's office, hanging their heads. They turned the corner in the hall and there stood Andy Rooney.

"Did you ever notice how you two are a couple of fuckups?" he said.

"Shut the fuck up, Rooney," Bradley said. "Aren't you supposed to be in your office bitching about paperclips or some shit?"

"Whoa. Snap," Safer said.

11:07 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Everything sucks.

Don't believe me? Read this.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080621/ap_on_re_us/out_of_control

A third of the country is underwater and tomatoes will make you vomit your own poop. Man, it's high-time to get the hell out of here.

(Voice of Satan): "You can't afford to fill your gas tank, and you will sit for days at the airport with not so much as a bottle of water, because security will take it away from you. But go ahead and try to leave. Kill time by shopping at that shitty overpriced bookstore that only sells People magazines and Tony Robbins motivational cassettes. Hungry? Have a six-dollar muffin! There is no escape! Bwahahahahahaha!"

I put a gallon of gas in the car last week. Pay day was still 10 days away so I only had five bucks. As I went to put the gas cap back on, I accidentally made eye contact with another guy who was fueling up.

"This used to be a good place to buy gas," he sighed. We exchanged a look that's usually reserved for the funeral of a distant relative -- dejected resignation. "It's really sad, but what are you going to do?"

You know that bumper sticker, "Grass, Gas, or Ass. No One Rides For Free"? You know things have gotten bad when you're sitting behind that guy in traffic and instead of thinking, "douchebag," you're thinking, "Well, that makes sense. What do his friends expect? That he's going to just drive them all over town willy nilly? Buncha freeloaders."

Eight years ago, when that guy went to pick up his date, the girl would receive a long lecture from her father on the order of, "I don't want you seeing that boy. He's no good. He has no respect for anybody, and he obviously doesn't respect you."

Now the girl's dad's saying, "That kid has a good head on his shoulders. Excellent business sense. I think he's a keeper. See if you can talk him down to a handy. He's going places." 

One of those ginormous monster SUVs cut me off in traffic the other day, setting off one of the most artistic, eloquent, and deeply-rooted-in-high-school-economics barrages of obscenity I've ever mustered. The gist was something like, "You selfish fucker! It's bad enough you can't use your turn signal, but you're driving one of those unneccessary, wasteful machines that's increasing the demand and lowering the supply, thus driving up the price! Cocksucker!"

Then I saw the "Iraq veteran" sticker on his bumper and shrugged. "Well, at least he fought for it." 

I think Iraqi war veterans should get free gas for life and it should be paid for out of the personal bank accounts of key Bush administration members.

I suppose the upcoming election should make me hopeful, but none of the candidates are using the words "George W. Bush" and "guillotine" in the same sentence yet.

(Note to Secret Service: I'M ONLY KIDDING! I have deep philosophical convictions against killing people, whether the killing is legally sanctioned by the fall of a gavel or otherwise. It's just that "guillotine" was less ambiguous than "the stocks" because stocks can refer to those things sold on Wall Street, which a presidential candidate might actually mention, but what I really would have meant are those two boards where you put the prisoner's head and hands through and lock him in, so the general public has the opportunity to walk by and shout curses at him, throw rotten eggs and salmonella tomatoes, or give him a good swift kick in the ass. That would be more fun anyway, come to think of it. Right there on the National Mall, in the shadow of the Washington Monument, or maybe over by the reflecting pool near the Vietnam War Memorial. Poetic, indeed, but see how many more words that took? Suffice it to say, if that happened I'd sit on the tarmac for up to a full week to take my vacation to D.C. Besides, they have pandas at the National Zoo, and my daughter would just love that. The point is, I do NOT actually wish the president death or even permanent disablement. I just want to give him a titty twister.)

Even when he leaves office it won't be the last we've heard of him. Traditionally, every president gets his memoir published. It's just too bad the title, "If I Did It, Here's What Happened," is already taken.

Sorry if all that sounds bitter. I'm trying to look at the bright side of it all, and here's what I've come up with:

Four dollars a gallon is just a free-market solution to global warming. Recent reports my father-in-law claimed to have heard on the news show that Americans have collectively reduced their travel by some 40 billion miles. 

Come back, polar bears! Everything's going to work out!

Why hasn't the White House and FoxNews started sharing this wonderful new perspective on things? Why isn't there a sign on every gas pump explaining this, like the signs at IKEA that explain that they only hire a handful of unhelpful assholes so they can keep prices low?

My guess is for the neo-cons and oil companies to take on that perspective, they'd have to acknowledge that global warming exists.

Here's another ray of optimism for you: I wouldn't be surprised to find out people are starting to find their proverbial last straw broken. For a lot of people, it's starting to feel like they're just going to work to buy gas so they can go back to work. Once that feeling catches on and spreads like a virus, people will quit going, and when their boss calls to see where they are, the reasons are going to sound absurd.

Like, out of the almost 300 million people living in America today, at least one guy really liked tomatoes. Like, that was his way of treating himself for working so hard -- every Sunday, he would sit down with a ripe, red, round, succulent, juicy tomato and he would savor it. It wasn't much, but it was the thing that kept him going.

And a couple weeks ago he went to the store and, "What the fuck do you mean there's no tomatoes today!? Why do I even bother! Fuck it! I'm staying home! You got any tomato seeds?"

And after three days of no one at the office hearing from him, his boss called.

"Oh, no. I'm fine. I just decided to stay home and work in my garden. Yeah, forever. Should be a pretty good crop. All organic. Hey listen, do you have any butter you can trade me? I've fallen way behind in my churning."

And that's how we'll all become Amish again, but we'll be the most technologically advanced Amish people the world has ever seen. You'll spend four hours churning butter to take to the guy who shod your mule, but before you ride your bicycle all the way over there, you'll text him to make sure he's home.

That actually excites me -- like we'll renew our vows with ole Mother Earth.

(This is why you don't mix metaphors, kids. See that last sentence, I have us married to our mother. Yuck.)

I'm taking up a couple new hobbies in preparation for this new technoprimitive society. Today, I started my garden. For now, it is but a lonely, potted jalapeno pepper plant, but I have dreams of expanding so it takes up my whole back yard and has a miniature golf course through the middle of it, so I can pick and play.

If only I hadn't started so late in the season.

Also, I intend to start practicing with a boomerang so I can hunt small game. Why not a rifle? Because in a pinch, I don't know how to make bullets. But I have a pretty good idea how to make sandpaper. Plus, I'm pretty sure the game warden's not checking for boomerang hunting licenses. I'll have to check, but I'm pretty sure the guy at Cabela's is going to answer me with a weird look when I ask to buy one. So there's, like, $20 I just saved, which will keep me going back to work for half a week.

9:18 PM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Making friends

I'm sitting here friending as many people as I can to my new myspace page.

Not because I'm a social butterfly. I just love solving captchas.

"Hi? You want to be my friend? Okay, but first you must prove yourself worthy by solving this puzzle."

And if I solve the puzzle, I win a prize: a new friend. That's the greatest prize of all.

1:20 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Man-Nun Confessions (My first comic)

A couple years ago a doodle on a Post-It got out of control and turned into a story. I've been practicing drawing and writing comics since. Here's the initial one, in all its primitive, badly-drawn glory.

9:04 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment