Well here we are. It’s late. Who can be hungry with gas station wine? Your author is snitching my housemate’s fancy cheese and snorking it down with month-old corn tortillas.
None of this is anything to be proud about.
With the Inter-Galactic Homestead Act of 2024, SpaceX and competitors have started launching one-way colony ships out to unclaimed real estate on what we currently think of the outer edges of our solar system.
The colonists are mostly climate refuges from Bangladesh and South Florida who haven’t been allowed into the floating cities like Nuevo New Orleans and New Kalkuta.
https://www.cnn.com/2018/12/17/world/most-distant-solar-system-object/index.html
Boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Boxed it up and buried it in the ground
Burned it up and thrown it away
The girl is away for a few days.
I was supposed to go along, but I couldn’t get the various insurance companies, doctors and pharmacies to fulfill my prescription for Chorizo.
In the meantime I’ve been here, somewhat with the functions, yet clearly declining. It’s like being asked to do The Time Warp, but actually being unclear if you’re actually making any god-damn sense.
Get Frank Miller on the phone!
I’ve got the next epic graphic novel in the pipeline. Here’s the pitch:
The inevitable happens and Donald Trump arrives in Hell. What A Dump! Donald sets out to build a new real estate empire and brags, bullys and lies his way to the top to fight it out with the Devil himself.
Themes:
- How different is Hell from our current world?
- Why are so many of Donald’s associates and various enemies in top positions in Hell’s bureaucracy?
- Is Hell a kind of paradise for the right kind of person?
- What does it take to beat the devil at his own game?
- What is the nature of Evil? Why is one person’s heaven another person’s hell?
- Why can’t Donald find any pants? (a straight ripoff of a running joke in Stig’s Inferno: https://www.templetons.com/ty/stig/)
- Who will win in the end? Classic Satan, or Satan 2.0?
With all the hooplah and hype over block chain and crypto currencies, I wonder if I could start a market for SteveCoin…
That is you give me a dollar, and I give you a random piece of paper on which I e scribbled “Steve owes the bearer a dollar. If you’re lucky he’ll give you more or will do you a favor.”
Of course, these are tradable on the open market for SteveCoin, that is, anyone you want to trade it to for whatever you agree on.
Clearly I should get all fancy and have a serial number on each one so we could have an app that tracks market activity.
Stay tuned!
they will type anything into a chat window
I see you’ve truly lost it. Well here’s to your mind, wherever it may be.
They know what you did last thursday
You’re going to need at least three RV’s
and a hang glider
and a whole lot of legal advice
you’re going to need a lot of invisible money
my attorney suggests you spend some time on my invisible paypal account.
to get started, we only need $10,000 in cash. This is going to save you so much money
Death is cheap. Living is much more expensive.
I can see you’ve been briefing your security team.
Pity they are simply house cats.
(or so they would seem)
or are they turbo ninjas who sleep so quietly?
Communications are quiet. Seems the sharks have worked with the birds to hold the local activities down to looking for water and hoping for fresh socks.
as if
Fresh socks are the currency of the Trump World Oder.
Yes, the wide open spaces full of stink. Odor free socks, who knew that would be the most important currency in the Trump world? Yet, who is surprised? This is what his supporters voted for.
Somehow the stink was only supposed to be on the midgets in Atlantic City.
That didn’t last. No matter how many midget socks were handed out.
Well, the sky rats, aka “squirrels” are chittering to your walnut listeners, watching for BAD THOUGHT
squids.
sometimes they have bad thoughts
bad, bad thoughts
you don’t have any squids there, do you son?
you don’t want to meet the sergeant from the Squid Squad
He’s not your friend
he’s no one’s friend
He’s seen the output from your log files.
That’s maybe why he’s got those dead eyes.
Those dead log eyes.
Here it is. Long promised, the web site that launched a thousand blog posts. Not much about here, now. However everything’s got to start somewhere.
Stay tuned. Remember, space travel is not possible without Chorizo.
I’m having lunch again, with Dr Benway. He’s concerned again by both my divorce and my unpaid bill.
“How have you been? How’s the writing going?” He asks with a sideways glance.
“Miserable” I say with a crappy French accent, just for fun.
“Well, you’ve got that going for you. Great art never came out of anyone feeling fucking happy”. He dinged his fork against his water glass and signaled el mesero. He pauses, gives me a brief look of the kind I know all to well these days.
“That means you won’t be settling my bill today.” The uncomfortable truth needed no verbal reply. I shifted in my white linen suit. “There’s the other thing.” I told him.
He put his fork back in his shaved fennel. This was the cue for the waiter to refill our water glasses. “thank you asshole” the doctor says, toasting the waiter with his water glass.
“I’ve done it” I tell him.
The doctor smiles. He seems to pause to rub his crotch. “You have the ear?” He asks.
