Happy Drunkenbattlebloggin'

Battle Blog is eastern standard time

Anyone who would like to post on the BattleBlog is welcome. Just e-mail me at mindevol@hotmail.com
I'll send you an invitation.

...and remember, you don't have to post, but it will be there if you need it.

It's now 5AM; and I still can't sleep. I keep walking back and forth from the computer to the sliding glass doors of the back porch (left slightly ajar for the cat.) I peer my head out and enjoy the luscious swampy southern Florida smell. We live right by a narrow body of water, complete with alligators, turtles, etc. It's very dark and the darkness is animated by large cypress trees that line up all the way down to the golf course (the grass on which seems like bright naked skin in the moonlight.) Everything, including this building, seems out of place compared to what the eye beholds from my backyard window at 5AM on a Florida morning. This was all swamp not too long ago.
The primeval darkness seems properly courted only by it's old fuck buddy the moon. I often imagine myself out here as if entirely alone. How long would I survive? Would I befriend the sounds and animals and other living things that are unable to hold conversations---except the ones which can only be understood by shutting your eyes?

Exsistence seems to be wedged in tightly around here. One step out of place and you're food. Every inch of space is competed over by every dragonfly and mosquito, every fish and every fisherman, every alligator and everything that wanders too closely to the edge. Unlike the great plains with their bounty of space and relative few predatory threats, the swamp will swallow you hole before you know you've been swallowed and by then it's too late save to make peace with whoever created this black palace of harmony and destruction.

Ok---I'm sleepy now. Must try to gt some sleep.
posted by John Shannon 5:40 AM

Maybe we should change this site to nicebuzz battleblog. I'm rarely drunken anymore. Just last night I imbibed only two ales and was perfectly pleased with the effect of that exact combination. I then set off to eat mac & cheese and peanut butter sandwiches (with milk no less!)

But nicebuzz battleblog wouldn't work either because most of us here I suspect walk around with a synthetically generated buzz most of the time anyway. Just ramblin'.
posted by John Shannon 7:36 AM

What if sharks consider it a favor to devour us savagely. Like what if behind that horrible countenance their exsists a thoroughly altruistic disposition. We'd never know. Maybe as they're biting us, they're saying, "Hey! wow it's good that I caught you. Here! (mangle tear gulp chomp chomp) how's that? You almost had to live longer than you shoulda!"

Eating everything that moves---never thinking about the fact that they are denying life; they are merely beginning for you the new non-exsistence. They are repositioning your cells for you: from the spaces between their teeth to their rippled expanding colons. It's a service they have always provided for their biological buddies. They swim around you in a panic and thinking all the while, "Oh boy! better eat him quickly---oh boy oh boy where to start where to start...(they're nervous)....oh jeez...fuck it I'll bite him here (chomp!) He'll appreciate my efforts---oh hey! here come my pals---come let's eat this one quick! He's seems so nice. He shouldn't be living.

You see, because sharks don't think much about life. They don't see it as something precious or special. They are fated to constantly moving and eating---an incessant, never-ending hunger possesses every fiber of their being. So they think that it is quite natural that everything they see is potential food. It must be good to be eaten then. They wouldn't want to see themselves like we see them. They aren't being vicious or grossly immoral---just natural.

We'll never know, though. But I bet that if we could hear their thoughts, our hearts would be warmed like cold hands by a camp-fire. Surely they exchange thoughts such as these: "You know, Cubby? I really enjoyed that guys leg."

"Yes, Bob, you sure know how to hand out the lucky tickets! Everyone you meet is richer for it. How'd you get to be so nice? God, Harry doesn't eat hardly anybody---he's so selfish. Serves him right that he probably will live a long long life."

"Well, Cubby, it's like my mom taught me. Eat eat eat eat---even eat the feet. And well.......I live by the creedo."

"So right, Bob. Right you are. Hey look! They look a little pale for the ocean---must be tourists. They'll love us forever if we bite them in half! Let's go!"
posted by John Shannon 10:33 AM

Icky icky icky ptannng zzzzzzzip!!!
posted by Benjamin Emerson 10:52 AM

I'm no longer hungover; but the chores that await me tonight (before I rest easy watching Mad TV and SNL, sipping a coke and crunchin' popcorn and M&M's) still seem torturous. But, what am I talking about? Dishes, laundry, fixing a hinge...It's nothing. But, man, it seems like an impossible task. From now on, when I get wasted, I must make sure that absolutely nothing has to be done the next day. Like I just watched Gallipoli, with Mel Gibson. Great flick, seen it before many times, still cried. I was in Austrailia and drinkin' a beeya and then blam! I'm back.

But what am I complaining about. I got it made. You should see this Florida sunset. Such a deep, wet, sharp, shade of orange, that bathes and blankets every unshaded palm. The tree tops have this majestic glow and depth of green; they look like giant, steamed, brocolli fleurettes. I want to bite into them.
They stand in front of the most peaceful pale blue sky to the south and if you turn your head a few inches to the right, you become blinded by the crippling amazement of the angelic, lightning-yellow, bursting, crazy, exploding orb. So glad I'm not a vampire. My eyes drink this in like a man in the desert deprived of water. (But I get this everyday.) Perhaps it makes you greedy and defensive. That is my Sun---give it to me, let me keep it---forever in my face, forever making my eyelids squint in thankfulness.

O.K. that's quite enough. What bullshit...there's nothing better to do right now, though. Except what I promised Jen I'd do---and I'm getting to that right away. Oy. I'm so punished. I'll definitely have to pay later for all this free beauty and lazy peace that's in my life. I just sit around and stare at a sunset and a couple of tall trees, while others sit around starving and picking scabs off each others foreheads, praying all the while for the rain to stop and the wheat to grow and the scavengers to stop eating their elderly.
posted by John Shannon 8:21 PM

The Amblin Boy part4

"I see him comin'. In my dreams, he's carrying a dead raccoon. He's got scars covering his little body. He's got one sock on---like that Dee Little Dumper or something. He keeps wipin' his nose with his forearm, like he's cryin'. I run up to him without fear. Then everything slows down, slow motion---he drops the coon, spins around (in slow motion) gets out his sling-shot, what a scowl he's a wearin'.
I shout, 'I came to help you! D-O-N-T---F-I-R-E' He pulls back his sling farther than I ever thought one a them thar things could stretch. I mean the thing keeps a stretchin' like a mile long, he puts in it something evil---he's so far away but I know he's coming. Then, as I turn to run, I hear the 'snap' of the sling---and now everything's in faster-than-life speed. Before I can duck, I see what's comin' at me. It's his own head! And his face is all scowled-up and it's comin' right at me and just before I can see every pore on his face, I awake---

---Well.... that's it Doc. Doc? Jesus Christ Doc! You gotta fall asleep? Y'know---yer no God-damned psycho-lologist!"

I got the hell outta Doc Quaggmyre's office and strolled down Main Street with my hands in my pocket. Actually, I put'em both in one pocket, cause I only got one pocket in these pants. I miss my wife. I miss that fortune teller. Hell, I miss the Amblin boy---but, for the life of me, I can't figure-out why. That's one of the reasons I came to Doc's to find-out.
I decided to go get a hair cut, even though I didn't need one. It feels good. There's not many good feelings that one can get there hands on in this town. I suddenly remembered a nice song and started to whistle it. I guess I was beginning to feel good. I walked into Phil Bucket's Hair Emporium, heard that loud 'cling-clang' caused by the bells on his door, and plopped into a waiting seat and grabbed a magazine.

"What do you think your doin', Henry? You know there ain't no wait in here. Why do you always act like I'm workin' on a customer. Why can't you just walk in, say 'hi' and sit in the barber's chair?"

"Well, Phil, y'know, I just don't think it's polite to presume yer not busy.''

He stood there and waited for his frown to turn back right upside down. Then he nodded to me to get into the chair.
This I did. The rest is history, like they say. But lemme finish the story. He started cuttin' it, barely whiskin' the frayed ends on accounta, like I said, I didn't have much to cut, but he was happy to be doin' something.

Phil was the town philosopher. He was always tryin' to quote Soccertease, Neatshy, and Jerry Springer. I looked forward to his insights. Today he was all worked-up over the German philosophers that were talkin a lot after WWI. He was sayin' how there bullshit ultimately led up to the death of millions of Jews. I was not too comfortable with where he was goin'. I thought to myself, "How in hell could a bunch of guys like Phil change the world? How does bullshitin' effect things like that?" Anywho, I enjoyed his arguments just the same but I was mainly just flippin' through an old Nat'l Geographic. I saw a picture of a native with a plate in his mouth---musta been hungry that day.

I left the barber-shop and the 'cling-clang' said goodbye for Phil. Phil never liked to say hello or goodbye, hell maybe that's why I sit down on the waiting chairs, maybe I got the subconsciousness too. That's another one of Phil's teachings. He teaches that sometimes a man don't know exactly why he does what he does---that stuck with me a long time ago, but it wasn't until recently that I began to see it's direct relevance. Because, around that time, I had no idea of why I was so worried about a rottin' apple like the Amblin boy.
posted by John Shannon 9:33 AM

"Burnt To A Cinder or Crushed To A Powder" by John Shannon

"Time now to play America's favorite game show; Burnt To A Cinder or Crushed to a Powder! I want to welcome our first contestants: Bob and Gina Cranepool! Bob's a general contractor and Gina----well she's a spool of thread. Let's play!"
(applause ensues)
"Bob? let's start with you. You say you'd like to be powdered, you've picked Evil Kineval's bone-crushing motorcycle accident from the 1970's?"

"Yes. To me it would be a privilege to prove my manhood and pain threshold. It's manly, manly. It's manly, manly, manly."

"O.K. Bob. Take it easy....Evil? Alright, Sam, let's place Bob in the simulator and put his his helmut on. Bob? You are all plugged in. Where are you?"

"Well, Mike, I'm at the top of the ramp. Below me are like 20 or so busses...um, I can't really tell how many. It's freakish up here and cold."

"So, Bob, are you ready to fail miserably! If so, we will proceed."

"Yes, let's go!"

Bob's been placed and is waiting in a large cannister with hydraulic arms leading in from every direction. To each arm is connected a 4ft. stainless steel plate. You can see his head clearly; and the front of the cannister is see-through lexan. Bob wears only a jock. Connected to each hydraulic arm is a large matrix of eletrical chords and plastic ties leading to a power booster just off stage. The machine has a light on top that has suddenly blinked 'on' and the audience awaits the action.

"Ladies and gentlemen, keep your eyes on Bob's face. You can't be there with him but you can watch his pain. Above you is the face-cam. Keep watching because soon...Ohhhh! Bob! (chuckle, chuckle) Bobby Baby! (laughter from audience with plenty of ooo's and ahhh's, as the machine suddenly comes to life; taking the form of an evil, spastic, human trash-compactor) Oh. Christ. Bob. Bob?"

Bob's face is wound tightly into a god-awful grimace, his body and face changing colors like flood lights going through the spectrum. He's pulverized to the death machine's pre-programmed choreography; and now his face seems to be fixed into a wide-opened gape as if he was in the last sentence of a prayer. The light on top of the crush simulator turns off.

"Bob? Took a spill didn't ya?"

"Bob. Maybe you should try stepping out of the simulator?"

Bob comes out by falling forward in a purple hued gravy consistency.

"Bob? Looks like Bob has got his wish on, Burnt To A Cinder or Crushed to a (chuckle) Powder!
posted by John Shannon 9:06 AM

"Burnt..." (cont.)

"Gina? Is there a Gina in the house? Well, Sam, it appears that Gina left the building. (laughter form the audience) You know what this means, Sam. (Music: whaaant whaaant whaaant whaaaaaaaa) Sam, it's time to track down Gina! (applause)
Yes, folks, as you know, this is one of our favorite parts of the show. When some contestant leaves, it's a breech on contract. And, believe me, they sign in blood. (laughter and applause) Now, unless I can get a volunteer to replace Gina....? Anyone? Nope? O.K., Sam, trrrrrrrack her down!!"

Sam, loads his rifle, puts some brass knuckles in the back pocket of his blue-jeans, all is watched by the audience from the face-cam screen (laughter as he packs a huge cannister of mace and hand-cuffs and a net with spikes interlaced between the weaving) ( more laughter as he pushes the back stage door open with a particularly angry disposition) (more laughter as he smacks his gloved fist into his other hand before he gets into his black pick-up)

"O.K. stay tuned!"

Commercial: It's 4AM. Do you know where your children are? A message from the Bureau of Parenting.
Commercial 2: "Hey, Don? Got any crack?"
"I wish. But those innocent days are long gone. All we got now is vice-grip paralysis zombie brain dead 7. I long for the days of that inner-city hippie dippie crack. My grandpa told me that those were the days. My grandpa is literally covered from head to toe in tatoos. A Message from the Buraeu of Youngsters For Bringing Back and Legalizing Tatoos.

"O.K. ahh looks like we're back. Let's turn our attention to the face-cam screen above you. Looks like Sam's pick-up is suddenly gaining some speed. Is he following her already? Yes! It looks like he's following her southbound down Highway 62! Yep, he's got his shotgun pointed and braced with his elbow. Audience? Tell me. Is he aiming for her tires or her head? Oops. We got an answer. Zowie! Well, that's it for another fun-filled half-hour of 1-2-3": (with the audience in unison) Burnt.....To....A....Cinder...Or....Crushed.....To.....A.....Pow....Der!!!! (wild applause)
posted by John Shannon 9:30 AM

Robot Sex by John Shannon

Guy10: Randall Robot XK30. Stud. "I'd like to place an order for the Guy10 model, Randall Robot XK30, please?"

"Yes. Ma'am. Well send him over. Just a couple questions. Are you married? No? Good. Why? because the husband usually gets jealous when he sees the synthetic genetalia. Yes, it's very real. Um...I'd say about 10 inches.
Incidentally, you do need to stimulate him. No, we don't have any that stay that way. Well, you can read the manual; but I'd say just to whisper nice things and touch him like you would your husband or boyfriend or any regular guy. Nope, no alcohol needed. (chuckle) No, ma'am, you won't need any pills of any kind---he's actually quite...virile. Well, I might as well say it. Yes, about 6 foot. Yes, he's programmed not to smell or burp or anything discusting like that. But, believe it or not, most insist on it later, after about a year they begin to miss all the burping, farting, and football that real men are into.
I know...I know. Don't worry. Your robot will be very clean. I just thought I'd let you know ahead of time that most women start to see this kind of exemplary hygiene as sort of...sissy after awhile. O.K. you want farting? Will do. Burping as well? No prob. Done. Well, I'd say that he can go for about 2 to 3 hours or until you've reached your climax---he's programmed to be very concerned about your sexual satisfaction. No, getting him wet will not short him out. He's made to get very, very, very wet, ma'am. Well, you just load him with whatever you want ahead of time. Most women use milk or even root beer. I use...(clears throat) I mean....er....anyway. We usually ship within 2 to 3 business days. You'll wait? Great (chuckle) thanks. And ma'am? Enjoy.
posted by John Shannon 2:42 PM