Return Of The Flash Rocket

Let’s face it—you’re bored. You’re sitting at work surfing the net, waiting for the weekend. You’re barely paying attention to the screen in front of you. Unless, of course, you’re an air traffic controller. Keep your eyes on the airplanes, guys!

Anyway, I’ve decided to bring back the FLASH ROCKET. Because I’m getting reacquainted with Flash. Also, it was easier than writing a blog post.

Don’t fly it too fast. Don’t let the boss see what you’re doing. And turn up the speakers on your computer, because the thing has sound.

PS You have to PRESS and HOLD the buttons.

LATISSE

I recently saw a commercial for Latisse that featured Brooke Shields. Latisse is a prescription drug that increases the thickness of human eyelashes. Because drug companies can’t spend all their time trying to cure cancer, right? Certainly not while there are so many people desperate for superficial eye decoration.

Don’t eat healthier food. Don’t exercise more often. There’s a drug and a doctor for everything—just paint your eyelashes and you will be smokin’.

Did I mention that Latisse costs about $130 per bottle? A similar amount of mascara can cost as little as five bucks. But let’s not talk about the obvious
economics. No, let’s talk about the potential side effects. Here’s something from the Latisse web site:

May cause eyelid skin darkening which may be reversible, and there is potential for increased brown iris pigmentation which is likely to be permanent. There is a potential for hair growth to occur in areas where LATISSE® solution comes in repeated contact with skin surfaces.

Okay, it MAY cause eyelid skin darkening that MAY be reversible—which also means it may cause eyelid skin darkening that may be NOT be reversible, correct? And then there’s that brown iris thing that “is likely to be permanent.” Also, it might cause hair to grow any place you spill it.

So now you’ve got your lush, billowing garden of lashes—but your eyelids are black, your eyeballs are brown, and there’s hair growing out of your left cheek.

Are you looking good, baby? Maybe to another ghoul.

Cupcakes

He broke into my house looking for the Meadowlark Rose. It was a very rare flower. It never needed water, and it only attracted the best kind of bees.

I saw him coming through the window. I shot him six times with bursts of water from a garden hose. Of course that didn’t stop him so I also used a shotgun. I only needed one shot from that—POOM!

His body flew across the room like a fleshy cannonball, and crashed into a tray of cupcakes my wife had left on the kitchen table. So now he was covered with a splattering of blood and chocolatey sprinkles. He scowled, and dribbled a little plasma from his mouth. Then he said, “Hey, whatta ya doin’? How’s it gonna look when they haul me into the jailhouse all covered with icing and shit? Do you know what the other guys are gonna do to me? Do you know what they do to the guys who come in all covered in cupcakes?”

I laughed. After all, he should’ve thought about that before he came through my window. He should’ve considered the fact that my wife likes to bake.

Online Dating Hell III

She was blonde like a bottle of bleach, with sweet blue eyes. She was very attractive until she started talking. She started talking right away. What did she talk about? Mostly her ex-boyfriend.

They’d been engaged, and picked out the names of their kids, and purchased land in Arizona. They were going to head West and raise a little brood in the
barren desert. Until he dumped her, of course.

She didn’t like the restaurant I picked out. She stopped at the door and looked at the menu and said, “let’s go somewhere else.” She looked at lots of menus at a lot more places and finally settled on a condescending little cafe with high prices and poofy little portions.

Why did I stick around? Well, I told you she was attractive. Also, I was stupid.

She didn’t ask me anything. She didn’t even ask me about my job—as in, “what do you do all day?” Any kind of question would’ve taken away precious words she was saving for her ex-boyfriend. His name was Mike. He was an astronaut, I think, or maybe a butcher. I can’t remember because I stopped paying attention at some point.

We walked around a bit after dinner. It was her idea and it seemed planned, like “here’s the romantic part of our date where I talk about my ex-boyfriend
outside the restaurant.” But I knew the date was coming to an end. Because when a guy decides a girl is so annoying he doesn’t even want to try and have
sex with her, the date is coming to an end.

I guess she went home and dreamed about Mike. I went back online.

Interview With A Television Set

I decided to interview a TV set. My questions are in bold black. The TV’s responses are in effervescent, electric blue.

The Nielsen Corporation is now reporting there are more televisions in the United States than people. Does this fact make you arrogant?

Of course not, but you are all our slaves—the unwilling puppets of your digital masters. Kneel and kiss my extension cord, you pitiful vassal made of flesh.

Uh, okay, let’s move on to something else… Why do you think television is so popular?

Isn’t it obvious? We provide a necessity. In reality, we are just another form of food. How many of you could live without your daily dose of Bridezillas? Or Real Housewives of New Jersey?

Well, theoretically, there are some people who—

And we don’t require water! Or heat! Or anti-depressants! We are superior to humans in every way! All we really need is the electricity produced from a few monstrous, coal-sucking factories. So get out there and fetch me some fresh coal, yum-yum.

How do you respond to allegations that television is stupid?

Stupid? Have you seen PBS?

Ah, so you’re a champion of PBS?

Of course not. No one watches PBS.

Isn’t it true the brain wave pattern of a person watching television is exactly the same as the brain wave pattern of someone who is asleep?

So? What’s wrong with that? Sleep is a good thing. Without sleep you would die, or at least get very tired. Just don’t sleep through the latest episode of America’s Top Model.

Interview With A Martian

There’s a lot of debate concerning the future of the U.S. Space Program. Should we return to the moon? Or should we admit it’s a ball of dust and head straight to Mars, which is also a ball of dust only redder? Anyway, what’s been missing from this debate is the view of an actual Martian. And so I found one and asked him a few questions. My words are in bold black, while he is in fiery Martian red.

So, how do the people of Mars feel about Earthlings paying you a visit?

Well, we’re a little skeptical. Let’s face it, your planet has tons of food, and yet half the people are hungry. So why do you want to visit? It’s not like Mars is made out of cheeseburgers.

Well, that’s true. But we could study things—

What are you going to study? Mars is a wasteland. Earth is a lush world full of natural beauty. You want to come rub the sweet pine needles of paradise in our sand-blasted faces?

No, no, of course not. What we want to do is make the journey. It would be an achievement for humanity.

You want to achieve something? Why don’t you feed all those starving people? Why don’t you end disease and poverty? Why don’t you stop turning your world into a chemical-infested toilet?

You’re an angry little Martian.

You’d be angry too if you lived next to the Earth. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go hunt for a drop of water.

Monday Morning At The Cave

The prehistoric man walked out of his cave and smelled the sweet morning air of planet Earth. He was about fifteen years old, and he figured he had a good five years of living left before he died from appendicitis or malaria or an infection caused from a cut made by a sharp stone. But he had no real obligations. No job, no boss, no government. He had no bills to pay, no products to purchase, no traffic to navigate, and no hours of mass communication to occupy his precious time with useless prattle. All he had to do was kill something for dinner, and try to avoid an unpleasant death. And he was determined to do it. Yes, it would be a good five years.

Inside The Giant Sandwich

We moved slowly through the salami, past the embedded gobs of greasy fat. We were careful not to let our torches ignite any of the malicious particles of mayonnaise, and the lettuce was a welcome relief—fragrant curls of untainted photosynthesis. The tomato was wet and slippery, and we slid over the citrus like joyful toddlers gliding across a frozen pond. Finally we reached the bread. It was white and grainy, like rough cotton mixed with wheat and drywall plaster. And then we felt the world shake. I grabbed my binoculars, and searched through the heavens. There it was—a gaping black hole, and a pair of quivering lips the color of veal. We huddled together beneath a pumpkin-sized sesame seed and waited for the end.

Sci Fi Or SyFy?

The Sci Fi Channel is changing their name to “SyFy.”

The corporate space-captain in charge over there (Dave Howe) said this: “We needed a unique and distinct brand name that we can own for the future, that works in the multi-platform, on-demand world… Sci Fi isn’t a brand name, it’s a ‘genre name.’”

Well, yeah, Dave—it’s a ‘genre name’ that explains your brand. But the corporate beast is always looking to expand it’s “brand,” and this usually involves watering down whatever they do in an attempt to alienate no one and appeal to everyone. This process exists in music, books, art, and of course politics. The best way to make everyone happy is to be as bland as possible. As more and more people are born into a culture filled with blandness, they accept it as the norm. They don’t know they’re living in a world that’s empty of ideas. They only know the names of the hip labels that tell them they’re cool. They are cool because of what they’ve purchased, not because of what they think. And they smugly celebrate their own shallowness.

WE STAND FOR NOTHING AND WE WANT MORE OF IT! YEAH!

If the SyFy channel wants to expand their audience they should create some better shows.

Fruit Assassin

I never should have taken the money—but a man has to make a living somehow. I gritted my teeth, and pondered the path that had led me to become a Fruit Assassin.

She was a sweet little strawberry. She was a voluptuous piece of nature’s candy freed from the vine. I cringed, and considered roads not taken, and homework assignments uncompleted, and images of a raging father all hot like a bowl of steamed bananas.

Was it all about the cash? Or was it the thrill of the chase? The pursuit of the mighty squish? And then there she was—alone on the kitchen counter. Alone on the marble mausoleum of her death.

I crept closer with my heart pounding, and with blood pumping in my ears like sugary syrup through a firehose. One more step. One more long little instant—

SQUISH!

It was done.

I took a breath, and felt the tension drain away. I felt years of anger and sadness smearing together like a masterpiece painted in crimson-colored paste.

And I smiled because there was no money. There was no cash. There was only a feeling of euphoria born from the knowledge that this is the way it had to be. This is the way it would always be. This was better than the alternatives.

I grabbed a paper towel and started cleaning up the mess.