Color
Background color
Background image
Border Color
Font Type
Font Size
  1. I was sucked into the sickly cities innards. As I walked the mire and muck of the street it seamed to me that this place is in need of cleaning. Unfortunately, I don’t have a shovel or a broom and my sense of impeding doom is moving me along.

    Every building has eyes that watch and wait and plan and instigate. Every alleyway’s a scheme of thievery, murder, and rape. It’s like I’m caught in a melee between the filth and the free but the ones on top are indiscernible. Whether they friend or enemy matters not because the vacuum of this city discriminates not against who it sucks, it’s all luck.

    With a roll of the dice my feet stammer twice with the sight of vice and I have a choice: continue this voyage or leave for softer noise. I pick the former and in frenzied ferocity and charge forth, cigarette in my hand and eyes to the sky of the north.

    The haze of deprived sensory overload overtakes my mind with a pulsing, hammering, jagged beat; off time. I pass by the signs that warn against my crossing. This city can’t tell me to stop; tonight there will be a killing.

    Oval eyes hide behind hoodies and scatter. I hear the clatter of glass as it cracks on the truth. What’s used is useless and so are all of you because this city is dying and these are its roots.

    I unhinged the jaw of death with silvery periodic teeth. The heavy-handed feeling passes through sheets of conscience, brief. With every passing moment in the heart of this hell I become saturated with a hatred that consumes all fake trips stationed in the eye of the mind of a man with a vision, a vision of Christmas with lesser delinquents.

    Snow-blind with rage played up to a grand stage, a strange, deranged, hurt man courses through my veins grabbing my pain by the reins and directing back at who’re to blame. The infantry fall into lines, routed and running, but no army to save them will ever be coming. This city is dying and you are to blame. My city is dying and this is not a game.

    An angel of vengeance controlling life’s tenses is tensed up, I watch him in third person and he sure looks familiar. I would say he is me but he doesn’t act the same, with every act of brutality he regains vitality and continues this crusade against addiction and vagrancy.

    The street is flooded with an unholy rain as the man who once was I talks to the men and women he caused to die.

    “My city is sick and I can not abide. There is too much potential hidden inside to just give up and not try, so tonight you had to die. You died for your city, for your country, for your own good. You died in your own, old, self-destroying neighborhood. This city, she spoke to me, and this is what she said. You are my son, my lover, my father, my creator, you are the life blood and the automaton of my demeanor. You are my janitor, my personal assistant. You are the cleaner of defiling dissidents. You are my razor and I need a shave, cut close to the skin if you truly believe. Cut below the skin of those who misbehave.”

    And he answered the city with my actions, he absorbed me and made plans, he was the man who put the gun in my hand. Now I sit, once more myself, feeling no better than the filth I tried to help. But with all this shocking violence, a horrible, grisly scene, the city does not weep for them nor thank me for my deed. The city sits there silent, motionless, and cold.

    The city doesn’t breathe, doesn’t talk, but it sings. It sings a song of sirens that screech towards this man and me. And as her glaring guardians take us both to colder pastures, I look back to the streets and wonder “Where is our master?” Now we’ve become one again, that strange man and me. But the city isn’t dying, I wish I could’ve seen. The city is already dead, I was part of the disease.
  2. So my run times have been a bit high recently despite a good exercise routine. My last mile and a half was fourteen minutes flat. Epically weak for Marine standards. My recruiter told me last Thursday, and I quote:

    "Snodgrass, I swear to God if you don't pick up your retard-slow pace I'm going to feed you month-old, sour milk and make you run the IST (initial strength test, mile and a half run is part of it) before you can use the s***er."

    F***. That doesn't sound fun.

    I looked at everything I could do to improve my run time. Run everyday? Check. Work on lower body strength? Check. Pray to Shiva to smite my terrible cardiovascular health? Check. The only thing left that I could think of was... quitting smoking.

    'It can't be that bad.' I told myself as I smoked my last cigarette twelve hours ago. 'Mind over matter. If I don't mind, it don't matter.' I've never realized how much bulls*** fertilizes that statement until about ten hours ago.

    First two hours went fine. I didn't even want one of those delicious, aromatic wonder-sticks, let alone need one.

    Hour three came along fine, at first. Then I started to hear something funny. I was breathing, but I wasn't wheezing. Cool! Then I heard something stranger.

    "Nicotine!" Came a soft voice from right behind me.

    I turned around to face the back of my room with the Watchmen poster of The Comedian smoking a large cigar.

    "Smoke!" Came another, harsher voice from my right.

    I turned and saw nothing but an old, empty pack of camels.

    'I'm going f***ing insane' I thought to myself as I surfed the internet for something to distract my addict mind. Midget porn would have to suffice.

    I opened up a page labeled "Teens love Tripods" and marveled at the little men and gorgeous girls. Something about women with addictions worse than mine and more daddy issues than Marvin Gaye really makes me feel better about myself. Everything was good until I heard another strange sound.

    "Hey, could you take out the trash?"

    I turned around quickly, almost falling out of my chair. It was my mother standing innocently in the doorway, trying very hard to divert her eyes from the Gimli gang bang on the screen.

    "God f***ing dammit, mom! Who the hell do you think you are! Why would I..."

    That's when I realized that I don't even like midgets, let alone when they hook up with hotter girls than I've ever talked to in my life. Also, that quitting smoking was tougher than I expected.

    I apologized and exited Firefox. My mom and I also came to an agreement never to talk about what had just happened... ever. Oops.

    As I was taking the trash out (my mom had so thoughtfully decided to clean out my ashtray for me, thanks!) I was assaulted with what I would call a withdraw-falcon-punch. Every fiber of my body urged me to dig into that trash bag and light up an old butt. The neurons in my head screamed for nicotine. I honestly would have eaten tobacco if I had access to a plant, or even just a few leaves.

    I finally throw the delicious-smelling refuse in the garbage when something hits me in the shoulder out of the blue.

    "Sorry mister, can we have our ball back?"

    How f***ing cute. Two little boys playing football in the street. Those little s***s were lucky I'm not as much of a raging psychopath as my imagination can be. I swear to God that the first thing that popped into my head was taking the little snot-nosed brat by his hair and violently ripping his head from his shoulders. Then I was going to buy his mother some dandruff shampoo at his funeral and just say 'Get it?' with a sick grin.

    After about a minute of blankly staring at the kid while my mind was on a murder-vacation, I picked up the ball and threw it as far as I could. Incidentally that wasn't very far because my body was weak from the lack of nicotine fuel. The kids just laughed as they ran the thirty feet to where the ball had landed. I think one of them even called me a p****.

    After all of this ridiculousness I finally came to terms with the fact that quitting smoking is actually hard. Really hard. I have since locked myself in my room with about four hundred tooth picks and as much soda and junk food as I can eat. They said smoking would kill me, but I honestly think I might just glutton myself to death. (That's right, I used 'glutton' as a verb... f*** off.)

    It isn't all that bad though. I'm hardly wheezing, which is good. I also don't smell like cigarettes. (Just the normal smell of un-bathed heathen.) And I didn't have to buy a pack today saving about six-hundred dollars. (Go sin tax!) It really won't take that long to quit, either! Only my whole f***ing life to go!

    I should have torn that kids head off, I hear you can smoke as much as you want in prison.

    If you enjoyed this piece, leave a comment! If not, I hate you. Also, just to save face, I don't really look at midget porn... often. I would also never condone killing anyone by decapitation... unless they're a zombie. If you do run into any zombies though, feel free to message me and I will bring the cheese-whiz and shotgun shells.
  3. It's a god damned conspiracy! Someone is knocking off celebrities! First, there was Ed. Then Mrs. Fawcett and the MJ. Now Billy Mays has kicked the bucket! But the question is who? Who would have the motivation to wreak such havoc on almost forgotten names? Who would want to destroy my joyous, late-night, scream-filled infomercials?

    When I started my investigation I went through the usual suspects. Aliens? No, they would have just cloned the celebrities and made them touring spokespersons for NASA. They need money!

    Republicans? The shadow organization would have ample motive to whack Jack, being a homo/pop music star/ powerful and black. Farrah too, seeing as how they have a puritanical phobia of nipples, sexiness, and sex in general. But Billy Mays?!? A bastion of late night capitalism? No, no they wouldn't DARE. And that still leaves Mr. McMahon, a decorated war hero and avid capitalist himself. No, the Republicans couldn't have done this. Especially not in their current state of disarray, maybe in their prime, not now.

    So my two biggest suspects down, who else? The Devil was another suspect but his realness was called into question and I couldn't find substantial evidence of him existing, much less orchestrating an elaborate plot of conspiracy and murder.

    The Devil's investigation had a paper trail veering off in another direction. God. The Big Man/Woman/Six-Armed Lady Demon had some serious evidence pointing towards It. Unfortunately, when given a subpoena It failed to show up for court. There is currently a warrant for the arrest of God, but unrelated to the mysterious Celeb Killer.

    I was thoroughly stumped. Who could have done it? I was not going to let this case go unsolved! Not one more celebrity would die on my watch! I decided to hit the books and study as maybe the past could shine some light on this matter of grave importance.

    First, I looked at similar cases. There is also another serial killer running rampant in America, this one I dubbed the the Opportunistic Killer. This bastard is extremely vicious, generally attacking old people, infants, drunk drivers, smokers, drug abusers, and cancer patients. Can you believe it! He's sick! Just f***ing sick! And this is the worst part... he murders over 37 million people each year. In the US of A alone. That sick son-of-a-bitch!

    I started noticing some trends between the Celeb Killer and the Opportunistic Killer. First of all, they both like old people and cancer patients. Hmm. Next, they both enjoy snuffing out the sickly with hectic life styles. Strange. These strange coincidences led me to hypothesize that the two killers were in fact one. Everything except Billy Mays. Billy Mays' only connection to the case was that he was a celebrity.

    Everything was starting to unravel! I was pulling out my hair and freebasing Metamucil like there was no tomorrow because, hell, with two serial killers on the loose there very well couldn't be! I had to find a connection. I KNEW the two killers were actually one! I just needed probable cause! I decided to watch a Billy Mays OxiClean infomercial marathon to try and find a connection between him and the other 37 million victims of the Opportunistic Killer.

    OXICLEAN! OXICLEAN! BUY F@%&ING OXICLEAN! Something was starting to dawn on me. After the fifth bottle Mountain Dew (or MTNDEW as the new cans say...EXTREME!) laced with chocolate ExLax (I do my best thinking while the worst is coming out of me), I had a stunning revelation! Billy Mays is either a drunk or a cocaine addict, most likely both. Why else would he scream all the time! Why would he be so damn happy with a life of 4am infamy? It had to be something and I put my money on drugs. There was the connection! I immediately rushed down to the local library to look into how the Opportunistic Killer claimed his victims.

    "Reading" through many notable "medicine journals", (meaning looking a pictures in kids books) I discovered something unnerving. WE ALL DIE!!!!1!!1! What I discovered after that shook me to the bone. This next sentence my not be for the weak of constitution. The Opportunistic Killer is... our own body. It's ok, I cried when I first heard it too. In fact, only .043 people per every 1,000 die of murder every year in the US of A. It must suck to be a midget at a mall.

    In conclusion, I did it! I unraveled the mischievous plot to destroy every one. I call it Death and out own Body is the killer. It's sick I tell you! EVERYONE PANIC!

    (If you read this far, you are a trooper and thanks! Show me your thoughts by leaving a comment! Tell me if you love and worship me or just think I'm some asshole hack, I'm not here to censor you!)
  4. It's so damn sad! Michael Jackson has died! What will I do now that a washed up child molester has kicked the bucket! Probably get on with my life.

    I hear people saying on various forums and news sites that this is a tragic loss of one of America's great talents. Ok, Thriller was bad ass, but what has that pasty, old, white woman done for society since being a strapping, young, black lad? Besides trying to bring pederasty back en vogue? (This is NEVERLAND!)

    The sheeple seem so shocked at his sudden death. I've got a question, did he really look that healthy to you? And if he did, you need to see a doctor because you probably have cancer or something.

    Now I will say this, I feel bad for his family. His children are probably heart-broken over the loss of their dad and that sucks. But, on the plus side, now they will inherit millions of dollars. I'm generally not in favor of money being a substitute for emotion, but if my name was "Blanket" I don't think I would stay sad for long. I would go out and buy an Ice Cream Parlor and eat my way down a rocky road of blissful joy.

    This brings me to another point. What are his kids going to do? Do they hold jobs? I would have done research into this but I really don't care that much. Do you go into an interview and say 'Hello, my father was the king of Pop. I hear AMC is looking for a new snack bar manager...'

    The biggest tragedy, I think, is that the Pop Mufasa is getting more attention than Farrah Fawcett, who was also sent to the planet that all other "dead" celebrities go to. It is debatable who slept with more men, but I can guarantee that more men masturbated to Farrah Fawcett. (At least willingly.) That alone should have 'raised' her popularity. (I'm not above cheap penis jokes.)

    In conclusion, I think I shall commemorate both of the beloved celebrities at once. I think I'll throw 'Beat it' on repeat and hit Google for an image search. (See, told you.)