This page is such a waste.
Friday, February 19, 2010
It has often been argued that I was born on the 6th of June, 1987. I came into existence on a cold summer day, not BREATHING for fetch sakes, so as you may be able to understand, I almost died. Be thankful that I am here writing this autobiography today. So I survived that ordeal for some reason. Sucker.
I was born into a family of three doofus brothers. The oldest is Ben. He’s married to a Japanese woman. She hates me with a passion, holy crap. But everybody else thinks she’s the biggest angel. Sheridan is after Ben. He’s arrogant and chews food really really loud. He also likes Bruce Lee, a deceased kung fu master who starred in many movies and made noises like chickens being slaughtered whenever he punched and kicked people. Nick is also included in the family. He grunts like a water buffalo and listens to EFY cd’s. My parents are silly, in the sense that my dad, a Skywest pilot, often goofs around with the other pilots when he’s supposed to be flying. This goofing around also includes taking pictures of themselves with KKK masks on. My mom is fun, my grandpa hates gay people and communists, and we are one big wacky family.
When I was in kindergarten, I had four girlfriends. FOUR!!! Nobody, looking at me today, can even believe this. It does make sense though, because after first grade, my girlfriend output just kind of went KAPOONK (that noise exactly) right down the crapper. These days, I hang out with hilarious friends wherein Person A is in love with Person B, but Person B is actually in love with Person C, so Person A, being the vengeful sort, often runs off with Person D, making Person E quite upset since Person A held her hand, but Person B actually just held hands with Person F, making Person C want to kill Person F, who recently made out with Person G a night after snuggling with Person H, in which Person I was made pretty upset. Pretty simple, you know?
The real purpose of life, though, is not friends, but goals. Future plans, if you will. The only plan I have in the future is going on a mission next June, and I pretty much CANNOT see what the crap will happen after that. Frankly, I don’t want to, because girls are evil and that’s pretty much what happens in life after a mission. However, I DO want to become a journalist of some sort in life, even though I am really really bad at journalism and everybody thinks I am such a good writer, while in fact I am scared to death of talking to people I’ve never seen before. Maybe I shouldn’t go into that field. Maybe I should just stick with my old goal of trying to win a million bucks somehow so I don’t have to worry about a future. Ha ha ha. Yeah, I tell you what.
Of course, life is not complete without influences. I have been influenced by the smell of gasoline, the smell of old people, the smell of airports…yeah, smell is a big influence in my life. If the school hallway smells like an airport, I can tell you exactly what airport it is. This can include St. George, Cedar City, Denver, Salt Lake, Pocatello…I know them all. Oh, and I’ve also been influenced by humans, such as church leaders. They teach me to follow principles and such that will ultimately make me happier in life. I have ALSO been influenced by my friends…for the WORSE that is! HA HA HA! They have taught me how to be a jerk and how to treat girls like objects. Of course, I don’t follow them. I’m not a sheep. I’m a mountain goat. Baaaa. Baaaa. This is Holden Green, signing off. You have a nice day.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
July is light...it’s a wholly illuminated glorious world, the days lazily going by under an unusually refreshing sun. July is an immaculate child...the comical, yet rebellious son of a very abusive alcoholic of a father named winter. July’s a month that’s always managed to pour some sunshine into my soul, so often darkened by gloomy steel-gray winters. There’s always been such an innocent grandeur about it, the way it lies halfway in between hell and hell again.
It’s beautiful. Swimming pools, full of hundreds of screaming hyper stinky children, including myself, don the pages of memories. Rain falls from a lightning-scarred sky and warms the bones, because, hey, it’s already hot out. In winter, the rain merely stabs and freezes.
In July, there are trips north to the Idaho motherland, where countless good smells abound, crazy relatives are plenty, and every sight, every sound, and every angle of the sunlight is awash with memory. Memories of the birthplace I call home, where I’d like to return to for good someday. July is the annual Idaho Falls 4th of July Parade, where my brother and I once watched in amusement the news reporters who, off camera, would frown and scowl like they wanted to blow somebody up. But as soon as the on-the-air button clicked, their faces would light up and the hatred would be gone. July is going down that same street and around the corner to Scotty’s, home of the world’s best burgers and shakes, or heading out on the freeway to Roberts to visit a very ancient grandmother at her farm. That place is home. July is home.
Several summers ago there, I spent a good July with the aunt and grandpa. It was a summer of change, of sorts. My birthday landed me a new stereo, I became a Led Zeppelin fan, Sheridan graduated, facial hair sprouted, the “I Want to Get Away” and “Graduation” songs were popular, and I developed feelings for a female named Suzie.
One particular scorching day, I wandered off down the street, in search of answers. Answers to questions I didn’t know. Therefore, they were not answers. They weren’t anything. A Rottweiler barked from behind a gate. Across the street, a bearded woman mowed her lawn. It may have been a man. Who knows these days. I can always recall that luscious stench of freshly mowed grass, a particular recurring thread for many of my summers in life. In another yard, underneath the cool shade of a cypress, an old couple held hands. They also smoked, which took away any beauty the hand-holding might’ve given the impression of. It was that summer, that July, that day, that I reached the canal at the end of the street, peering down into the rushing cooling darkness of the great waters. As a face, seemingly from another dimension, peered back up at me, I came to a conclusion about that July, and was inspired with an eerie foreknowledge of Julys to come...that summer, I realized that I was not a woman.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The gruff, fearsome, yet gentle, voice of Chief Swift brought Joe to his senses. He’d been sitting at his desk, lost in thought, contemplating the day’s events.
"Have a smoke," said Chief, pulling out a Cuban Montecristo. Chief wasn’t young. His 18 years here at the station had taken a weathering toll on him, not to mention five Cubans a day. If you weren’t smokin, you weren’t livin, he always used to say. It was evident that he was slowing down.
"Thanks," said Joe, taking the stogie. He then proceeded to eat it, confused at what to do.
"Nah, nah, like this," said Swift, pulling out a lighter and igniting the end of it as it dangled in Joe’s mouth. He inhaled his own smoke, then puffed it out with satisfying vigor. Joe had much to learn. The first day being a cop was never an easy job. Joe’s first partner, Rex Snider, had gotten a few shots taken at him as they tried to bust up some Columbian druglords. Snider assured him, after, that the job would only get tougher. He then offered him a smoke.
Chief Swift plopped down on a couch by the door of the office, letting out a deep breath. He reeked of breath. "So uh..." said Chief, looking around the office. "Got any kids?"
Joe shook his head. “Yeah, a couple a little buggers. What about you?”
“I don’t talk about them,” he replied coldly, catching Joe off guard. He pulled at his collar and gulped. “Yeah, pretty funny,” said Chief Swift. “New funny guy at the station, eh?” He laughed.
“Heh…heh,” laughed Joe hesitantly. Adjusting to Chief Swift’s zany humor was going to be a whole new adventure in itself. If not, he would end up like the other five cops who didn’t adjust. They had been fired…literally. This station was not for the weak.
Chief Swift pulled himself off the couch. “Here,” he said, tossing another Montecristo onto Joe’s desk. “It’ll help you sleep.” With that, he headed for the door. He opened it, then stopped and turned around, noticing the name-plaque on Joe’s desk. “Joe Rainbow, eh? I like it,” he said. Then he turned and vanished out the door.
Joe lit up the cigar and shoved it in his mouth.
“Joe Rainbow…” he said, studying the plaque. “I like it.” After several puffs, his eyelids grew heavy, and sleep came upon the rookie cop within a matter of seconds.
The cock crewed.
The execution was about to begin.
In the early evening sunlight, a raucous crowd gathered in the town square of Beaver Dam.They'd all had several drinks, and the party was beginning.
"BURN HIM!" came the shrill cry of a woman. Her face was twisted, her body contorted...an ideal woman. "BURN HIM!"
Seconds later, the prisoner appeared, being dragged along by two gruff men. They led him forth through the mob. "SCUM!" cried a four-year-old child, throwing a toilet at him. The prisoner grimaced as the bidet pelted him. Another object flew through the air and hit his face. He wasn't sure what, as he was now numb to the pain. Probably just a Buick, he supposed.
Then it was a ham sandwich. The mob roared in triumph. The prisoner, humiliated, pulled a grenade out of his pocket. "Take this FAGS!" he yelled, yanking out the pin and hucking it into the crowd. An explosion rocked the town square, body parts and ligaments flying every which way. The rest of the crowd roared with laughter. The guards strengthened their grips on him and dragged him to the platform in the middle of the square, and threw him down. He spit out some grass.
"BUMBLING FOOL!" cried a Hell's Angel, chucking a Harley motorcycle at him.
Right then, the executioner appeared. He was nicely dressed, with a speedo complimenting his soft midsection and a lunch sack on his head. In his hands, he carried a stout ax. It gleamed in all its glory. The executioner marched up to the platform. He was slightly menacing.
"BURN HIM!" cried a man in a business suit, shaking his briefcase. "BURRRRRN!"
This thoroughly confused the executioner, as he was holding an ax. As he pondered this turn of events, somebody started playing the triumphant theme song to the hit film Independence Day.
"WHAAA?!" cried the executioner.
"Look up there!" yelled a child in a sexy evening gown, pointing to the sky.
"Annnd...CUT!" cried the director from behind the crowd. "That was just total crap!"
There was silence from the angry mob for several seconds. Then, a shout rang out.
"BURN HIM!" came the cry. The crowd roared in triumph as the director of the movie they were supposed to be filming was brought forward and burned.
Joe Rainbow had been watching the scene from his office window, not a block down the street. He grimaced, pained for his town. The lawlessness of Beaver Dam was just out of control. He vowed, then and there, to clean up this crime dump.
The kids froze in silent shock as their Sunday School teacher answered their question…Where is Lyndon B. Johnson now?
As they pondered this turn of events, the door to the room burst open, and in came Joe Rainbow, everybody’s favorite deputy sheriff. He stopped, pulled out his .44 Colt, and fired several shots into the air. The children screamed and plugged their ears, and the Sunday School teacher (his name was Corporal Brown) dived to the floor.
“HELL!” he cried again. It was the only word he knew how to say.
“Yeah, well,” said Joe Rainbow, lowering the smoking gun. “I’m looking for my wife.”
“HELL!” cried Corporal Brown.
Joe Rainbow, discouraged, exited the room.
It was a beautiful spring day outside, but no one cared. There weren’t any happy people out wandering around saying, “Golly it’s a beautiful spring day!” No sir. Everybody was suffering from clinical depression. Not even the most beautiful butterfly, which was the very epitome of springtime itself, or a bowing daffodil, could raise anybody’s spirits. Only methamphetamine. And that was enough for Joe Rainbow.
Just as he had promised on that fateful day so long ago, Joe began to clean up the crime dump of Beaver Dam. He built schools. He washed the graffiti off the orphanage and then painted pretty pictures of sunshine, little children, and little happy frogs. He had every prison inmate executed, and went around to schools, lecturing them on the importance of going to college.
Through non-violent resistance, the most effective method, Joe Rainbow achieved a rank among all those historical figures who fought to protect even the most basic of human liberties. However, one day, he was showing his friends how cool it was that he could choke himself until he passed out, and then he died, and everyone was way confused. Thus…was Rainbow’s End.
Snow. . .snow. . .snow. . .what is it?
Nothing more than a white flurry of
toxic hell dust, blanketing the earth
in poisonous mad pleasure of mind.
“Die!” cries a villain, raising a blade to
destroy his enemy, but the snow finishes off
his enemy first, eating away his face
in a matter of minutes. . .seconds. . .
Leaping gay children, building men of
snow, heave the fluffy white killers at
each other’s faces, crimson with freeze.
Then, crimson with blood, as their faces
drip off, piece by piece.
Snow isn’t all it’s hyped up to be.
What a waste of children.
Written randomly one day. I don’t get it. And I don’t get the rhyme scheme. And I don’t get the last line. IT’S GENIUS!
Here’s the beer,
Let’s all jeer,
like a deer,
dipped in beer.
I can’t wait
To be late,
But they can’t mate,
So they wait.
Two cups of coffee,
Two flabby men,
coming right up to
steal your pen?
Ha ha ha
Hee hee hee
A dance for two,
We’ll wear those pants,
We’ll eat those donuts,
so, maybe just maybe I can
make sense of life.
And that little girl in the corner.
It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday…the regular crowd shuffles in. “SHUT UP!” comes the cry of a long time drinker as I try and copy Billy Joel. It’s been like this for 20 haunting years…the poetry, the drugs, the unoriginality. Some used to say that beautiful poetry was the language of the gods. For me, it spelled nothing but several crippling lawsuits and eventual endless nights in this dump of a bar. Some more of life’s forsaken drunkards amble into the dark room, where the light bulbs have mostly all but shattered. Bartender Bob is too fat to get them replaced. He didn’t used to be that way, but no one cares. He’s just another forgotten prince of this experience of life. We all are. A shiny 1985 Buick, six-cylinder engine with power steering and 5-cd changer, crashes through the window above Bob’s head. We laugh, as all close brothers do, happy to be alive for one more waning second.
(The dialogue of Bob and Jimbo [who is actually me])
J: Hey Bob
B: Hey Jimbo
J: Heard the old wife was sick.
B: You don’t talk bout my wife no more.
J: Sorry Bob.
B: No you’re not. No one’s sorry. All my life has just been, “Hey Bob, how’s the wife?” “Hey Bob, how bout the latest ball game?” “Hey Bob, how’s everyone but you doin?” Well ya know what, everyone’s doin fine! But don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about fat old Bob.
J: I wish I could care for you, Bob.
B: Why you lookin at me like that, Jimbo?
J: I’m lookin at that Buick about to come through that window above your head.
B: Ah shucks Jimbo, that’s the sixth one this week!
Written in Creative Writing, Senior Year.
A hush of the breeze,
a lull of dissolution, so ancient, that
perhaps all this sand used to be made
of one guy.
And then he shattered, like the coward he was.
Underneath a blazing hot blowtorch,
Beads of sweat trickle down my face.
But only because I’m mad. The torch has
nothing to do with it. “Come,” says the
sexy desert, the queen of seduction, caressing
her lederhosen. “Come and be seduced by me.”
It is then that I am not mad, but. . .glad?
Pink, sanguine, crimson, all sit there and
do something probably really beautiful on
the sand, under the shadow of the dying sun.
“I die,” he says. But how? As a pansy blue dwarf? Or
a massive annihilating stroke of a supernova that
engulfs everything in its path and kills every living thing?
So the question should be with us, I think, as the
desert continues to be beautiful in its own special
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Hey there. My name is Timmy. Timmy McDermott. Nice to meet you. I’m not sure who you are, but I’m just betting that you’re dying to read about my wacky adventure. My adventure…about MONSTERS!
Oh hello. Sorry for yelling there. My emotions got the best of me. Which is kind of a stretch for me, because I don’t have a lot of emotions, except really really angry ones. So you know this is going to be a great adventure.
Our family moved when I was 13. Just up and moved. Didn’t know where we were going. One day, Dad just came home. We didn’t know where he came home from, because he didn’t have a job. But you know how dads are. Always coming home, and saying, “PACK YOUR BAGS KIDS! WE’RE MOVING!” Jerks. I would have to leave my entire life behind. School. Friends. My tree house, where I would go and listen to my favorite band, Good Charlotte, every time I got depressed. All left behind. Man, whatever.
That same day, I went up in the attic. The forbidden attic. There, sitting on an old dusty couch at the other side of the room, was a zombie. I opened my mouth to say, “Man, what the fuh…” but no sound came out.
“Argghh! I’m going to eat your brains!” growled the zombie, as he got up from the couch and held his arms out toward me, in an attempt to grab me, even though I was about 20 feet away.
“Dude, just shut up,” I said. I rolled my eyes, and went back down the steps into the hallway. What a queer.
“Ha ha! You’re ugly!” came the voice of my hoochie sister Carly Ann. She was standing at the end of the hall, pointing at me.
“Cut it out hooch,” I said. “Why’s that stupid zombie in our attic?”
“ZOMBIE?!” shouted Carly Anne. “AAAHHHHH!”
“Shut up! Stop crying!” came a booming thunderous voice.
And then the hallway door opened.
The man (or creature) standing there wasn’t my dad. I opened my mouth to swear, but no sound came out.
Oh wait. It was my dad. Sorry, sorry. My fault. It took me a second.
“What in the name of Sam Hill is going on out here?” my dad bellowed.
“Dad, Timmy said there’s a zombie in the attic!” whined my sister. Then she looked at me and pulled that face. You know, that one face that sisters always do. You know, that one. I wanted to punch her so bad. I hate her so much. So much. So very much. There’s probably no one in the world I hate more. I wish I could kill her. I probably will someday. With a knife. And a pair of scissors. And a gun. A really big gun. I’ll build myself a bionic arm so I can have three arms, and kill herself with three things, all at the same time, instead of just two things. That’s how much I hate her. Hate hate hate.
“Tim, I’ve got an important business project to finish, and I can’t get much work done with you stirring up shenanigans and making your sister cry out here!” said my Dad.
“But Dad,” I replied. “You don’t even have a job. What project?”
“We don’t talk about that,” he responded. “Anyway, I have a business meeting that I have to fly out to in Chicago, so you kids are going to be all alone tonight. Tim, take care of your sister, and no more jokes.” My dad was a funny looking guy. A long mullet, bushy mustache, and weathered and torn hands complemented his otherwise fragile and womanly body. A pair of bi-focals hung off the edge of his curved nose, and one of his ears was missing.
“Tim, stop staring at me,” said my Dad. I didn’t hear him. I was too busy staring at him and coming up with clever descriptions in my head of what he looked like. “Tim! Stop it! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! TIM! SNAP OUT OF IT! TIMMY JONAS MCDERMOTT!” I tried to look away from him, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull my gaze away from that beautiful mustache and that long smooth and flowing mullet. I tried with all my might, with every ounce of strength I had, but I couldn’t do it. He continued to yell at me, but I was completely lost in thought. I was helpless, like a newborn child. “TIMOTHY MCDERMOTT! NOOOOOO!” cried my father, though I really couldn’t hear him, but I read his beautiful brusque lips and assumed that’s what he was yelling.
Then everything went black.
When I came to, I found myself looking up into a sea of blue. A beautiful blue sky. A flock of Canadian geese flew by in a V-formation. “Aww,” I said.
It was then that I realized where I was. I was tied to a railroad track!
What the shih? I opened my mouth to swear, and every swear word came out. But then I thought to myself, this is not the time to swear. This is the time to survive.
I struggled, helplessly, to free myself.
CHOO CHOO! came the sound of the train in the distance, since that is precisely what it sounds like. I pulled and pulled to free my limbs, but the rope was tied so skillfully that I was forced to just give up and lay there. Who could’ve done this to me? My dad? Carly Ann? The zombie? I needed answers.
CHOO CHOO! Closer this time! I could see the plume of smoke above the tree line in the distance. Think Timmy think! Suddenly, it came to me. It had to be someone that I hated, someone who was my sister, and someone that would squeal on me to my parents when I had told her I’d seen a zombie in the attic. That someone was…
“CARLY ANN!” I bellowed in a voice that was approximately 200 times deeper and louder than my regular voice. Trees shook violently. The Canadian geese exploded. The rope, which had held me so securely to the railroad track, burst apart. The train, which I could see about 150 yards away, derailed, and went crashing into the woods in an orgy of fire, twisted screaming metal, and smoke. Somewhere else off in the distance, a baby cried. Of course I didn’t mean to cause so much destruction, but you cannot stop the awesome power of revenge, and a hatred meter that has totally reached its maximum limit. I learned long ago that when my hatred meter is full, things around me blow up and die. It’s my curse. I call it “The Curse of Timmy.”
Later that night, back home, things were pretty awkward with my sister and I. I mean, she had tied me to a railroad track and tried to kill me. On the way home, I’d run into a ravenous werewolf. That was pretty awkward, so I pulled out my I-phone and pretended to be talking to my girlfriend. You know how that always happens, when you’re walking down the street, or down the hall at school, and somebody you just always feel awkward around walks up to you? So you whip out your phone and pretend to be chattin it up with your hot babe friend Stacy, or possibly Monica? Works every time.
“So uh…how’s school going?” I asked Carly Ann as we were sitting at the dinner table, eating macaroni and cheese.
“Good,” she replied.
There were several minutes of silence, except for the chewing of macaroni noodles, and the clinking of forks against plates. Again, I spoke up.
“So uh…how’s that boyfriend of yours, Steve? Or Biff? Crap, I forgot his name.”
“Davy,” she responded. “He’s good.”
Again, there was silence for several minutes, besides the chewing of noodles. Fortunately, I had cooked about 10 boxes of noodles, so I had plenty to last me for another several minutes of awkward silence. Yet again, I spoke up.
“So uh…you tried to kill me today.”
This was getting ridiculous.
“No, I mean…you actually tried to kill me,” I said. “Not just hurt me, or brutally wound me. You tried to kill me. You tied me up to a railroad track, for [bleep] sakes. With a rope!”
“Yeah, I think that happened,” she mumbled, looking down, daintily chewing a cheese-drenched noodle.
“No,” I said, feeling my hatred meter rising. “It did happen, you see. It did. I mean, what would possess someone to do that? To try to kill somebody else by tying them to a railroad track?!”
“I don’t know Timmy!” she said, starting to get a little flustered.
“YES YOU DO!” I shouted, jumping up from the table, the deathrage sparkling in my eyes. “YOU KNOW! ARGGH!!!” I grabbed the table and overturned it. The dishes and flower vase crashed to the floor, followed by the thud of the table itself. Carly Ann, terrified, backed into a corner, whimpering.
“STOP WHIMPERING!” I yelled. “WHAT ARE YOU, A DOG?”
She broke into crying.
I grabbed a pizza cutter.
“At least I would’ve died quickly, chopped in half in a second,” I said, advancing towards her. “I’m gonna cut you up into eight easy pieces!”
“Timmy!” she whimpered through her tears. “Stop this! Stop it! You’re scaring me!”
“I don’t know why you’ve always hated me, Carly Ann,” I said, numb to any sort of mercy or compassion. “All those times I protected you. All those times I took a bullet for you. All those times I gave you money so you could go clubbin with your friends. It means nothing to you.”
“Timmy! Please! Stop this!” she cried. But she knew it was in vain. She knew that her cries were no match for the Curse of Timmy. Or did she?!
Yes. She did.
Or did she?
“Take THIS!” she cried, and she grabbed a handful of macaroni and threw it at my face. The cheese, the gooey melted luscious cheese, stung my eyes. “Arggh!” I cried, stumbling backwards. I tripped on the overturned table and fell backwards onto the floor. “I’ll tear you limb from limb!” I yelled, groping about blindly on the floor.
“You’re a monster!” Carly Ann yelled, and she ran from the room.
Me? The monster? Was I the true monster? I laid there on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, pondering this turn of events. Perhaps I was. Perhaps that zombie and that werewolf were not the true monsters, only as we as humans perceive them.
Maybe I am the monster.
From that day forward, I pledged to help and serve everyone, including my little sister, whom I loved. What a treasure she was.
One day, many years later, when I was building an outhouse for some orphans in Guatamala, the leader of the service group I was with came up to me, with a letter in hand. “McDermott…mail!” he said. “Thanks,” I muttered. I tore it open, and read:
We need you to come home as quickly as possible. Your sister Carly Ann is sick.
“Dear gosh,” I said, unable to comprehend what I had just read. Carly Ann? Sick? Surely this was some kind of joke. Some kind of sick joke. I laughed to myself upon thinking this. “Heh heh. Sick joke.” Get it? If not, you suck.
Upon my return home from Guatamala, I found the family gathered in the upstairs bedroom. It had been years since I had seen Carly Ann. “Carly Ann!” I said”
“Timmy,” she said weakly.
I leaned over the bed. She looked terrible. Absolutely terrible. She was basically a skeleton.
“Carly Ann, who did this to you?” I asked, tears beginning to well up in my eyes.
“Typhoid,” she responded. “It was the typhoid.”
In my heart, I felt the deathrage begin to surge. My hatred meter began to fill. I tried to suppress it. I hadn’t felt the deathrage since that night I had tried to kill Carly Ann with the pizza cutter. Not now!
“No Carly Ann. No! Not the typhoid!” I said, unable to believe it.
“It’s true,” said my mom. “It’s the typhoid.”
“I’m sorry Timmy,” said my sister.
Tears began to stream down my cheeks. Tears…of fury.
“It won’t take you Carly!” I shouted. “It won’t!” I was shaking with anger.
“Get a hold of yourself Timmy!” said my father.
“NO! I WON’T!”
And then it happened.
“CURSE YOU TYPHOID!” I screamed, much like my favorite band Slayer screams in their hit song Angel of Death. “CURSE YOU!”
The house began to tremble. Suddenly, the light bulb in the room exploded, shattering glass everywhere. My parents screamed. The window, through which a ray of sunshine was coming through, exploded in a million shards of glass. ONE MILLION SHARDS.
After a minute of things blowing up and debris flying everywhere, and my vocal cords thoroughly worn from screaming and yelling, things settled down. My parents, huddled together on the floor, looked up at me in fright. “T-t-t-timmy?” my mom whimpered.
“I…I…I’m a monster, aren’t I Mom?” I stammered.
“Yes honey. You are. You’re the monster. Now leave this place.”
Unwilling to protest, I left home that day and never returned. Though I didn’t think at first that I had a place in the world, I found that my sore and ruined vocal cords were a big hit among the many death metal bands on the south side of town. It was only a matter of weeks before I joined a band called “DeathCrush,” and we went on to have many hits on the Death Metal Billboard, including “Blood Harvest” and my personal favorite, “Bar Mitsvah Massacre,” which was #2 on the charts for about three weeks. It was the happiest time of my life. Truly, I was a monster. A monster…of death metal!
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Steve and I were discussing, in great detail, the strangeness of so many chicken nuggets at McDonalds. Every weekend in February, you can get FIFTY Chicken McNuggets for $10. FIFTY. I mean, have you ever had that many Chicken McNuggets in your entire life? I think the most I’ve ever ate in a sitting has been around seven or eight. Am I just a pansy or something? Because generally, when I’m at some sort of get-together with pizza as the main food, I eat about half as many slices as everyone else. FIFTY CHICKEN MCNUGGETS. FIFTY. 50. I don’t think you understand, reader, how many Chicken McNuggets that really is. That’s a lot. What was awkward, mostly for Steve, was ordering them in the McDonald’s Drive-Thru. Neither of us had ever ordered so many of something. “Yeah, I’d like 50 Chicken McNuggets please.” I mean…COME ON. Something isn’t right here. I keep rambling, on an on, but sooner or later, you must understand that something is NOT right at McDonald’s HQ. Personally, I think terrorists have taken over, unbeknownst to us. Whoever came up with the word “unbeknownst” anyway? Heh heh. What a funny word. What’s even funnier than the word “unbeknownst” is the fact that you can go to McDonald’s and get 50 Chicken McNuggets for $10. I mean…that’ll feed you for like, a week. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I just can’t.
<---Holden trying to wrap his around the logic of 50 Chicken McNuggets
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I’ve had this dream about seven or eight times.
Basically, I’m driving on a road, somewhere north of Washington, Utah, high up on a hill above the city, and then I turn left, drive up a road that slopes upward for a long time, and end up in a some little mountain village. I don’t know what to make of it. The end.