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Jul. 7th, 2006 @ 11:39 pm

Owen enjoys the fact his wife goes to work on Saturdays. He has spent the morning roaming his home naked and playing video games.

May. 28th, 2005 @ 04:04 am
My eyes are bleeding. I think I am going to have to build a bridge out of lemons. I aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm slurrrrrred.girgoi METABOLISM>

iI can't under stand you when I am talking to myself and the computer all at the same time how does this work.












ALAMO!

tird

Petty wars.

May. 28th, 2005 @ 12:57 am
The problem with Owen is his complete lack of aerodynamics. Actually, he has many problems. From his foul stench to his incoherent ability to communicate, to the fact that he's totally ignoring two girls making out on his couch, he has failed all humanity.

The man in the parking lot next door has no home. He feeds from the waste of others.

May. 25th, 2005 @ 11:01 pm


Today Owen was largely an idiot. He wasted his money on useless consumer goods, precious unrenewable resources, and quick distractions from his terribly stupid life. He also ate chili.

May. 23rd, 2005 @ 11:45 pm


Owen can't be trusted. He might not exist.
Other entries
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I met the pope when I was bowling once. The night had not been a good one up until that point. The shoulders on Highway 14 had sagged during rain, which meant someone had misread the soil parameters and fucked up the base course. The new vinyls from Dulac were fading far faster than expected, which was going to cause hell for the budget if/when we had to replace all the signs by the interstate.

And now a fog had rolled into town. Our town never had fog anymore. Not since The Event. But tonight was different. Fog surrounded the Pope as he drifted through the smoke stained double glass doors. A high pitched squealing, almost inaudible to the human ear, swept through the dingy alley. It was unnerving to most, fatal to a few. Missus McGreth dropped to her knees, confessed that she double-threw back in 82, and vaporized. Her remains were sprinkled in the parking lot and disappeared into the Ubom River a few days later.

Me, I felt nauseous. Partly from the sound, but mainly because I felt like the world was always tilting to the right in here. The lights were slowing killing my eyes, the long-dead remains of another species collected in the corner of my bowels, and all I could think about was those fish I had left behind.

They chased each other for hours, locked in a glass prison, unaware of the vast expanse of here on the other side. It's like space. Every cage exists inside another cage.

"You goddamned cocksuckers are going to be drinking those beers in an ocean of filth, because I am going to bury you decrepit bastards."

That night the world came to a halt, because his Holiness rocked the WestRidge Alleys for 9 straight hours. Fires erupted in lanes 1 thru 4, and beams of light from the media and the army tore through the walls as one by one the gathered crowds went down to their knees and begged for mercy. But he could not be stopped. Riot police in a chopper threw down smoke grenades, but the Pope kept rolling. His ball was a comet, streaking through the cosmos, annihilating civilizations from one end of the universe to the other.

The fire spread and crowds from all over the state began to descend on our backwater shitburg. They moved like a sea of flesh, their bodies crushing through the walls of the drive-in and the post office. The Lexton theatre collapsed as 30 000 souls crushed against the quonset walls, buckling them like a cardboard tube. They were all there to beg him to stop, to halt this horrible and rampant mutation of human evolution, but the Pope blew those pins away and the sun slowly grew dimmer.

My fish never knew of these terrible events. They only saw the ripples from our tears pulsing around the top of their tank.

The river rose up and swallowed the town that night. The Pope disappeared for several days before reappearing atop Mount Rushmore, his finger on the trigger as always.
May. 23rd, 2005 @ 03:15 pm

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