Thursday, October 15, 2015
Monday, October 12, 2015
A green light flashed on the console.
Then a pause.
Then another flash — and round again.
Whippettio placed his bowl under the dispenser nozzle, ruminating on his latest dilemma.
Would the guys at the lab fix the anti-grav in time for the exhibition?
Would the exhibition even happen?
And would the goulash be overly lumpy, like it had been since the weekend?
A shuttle stalled outside the window, and a goofy pug kid flashed him a stupid face.
A waft of steam.
All the vegetables looked okay, and though some of the fat had separated from the sauce, everything looked more or less how it should.
Whippettio eyed a chunk of meat floating near the bowl’s edge, took a sniff and grabbed a spoon.
“Guys,” he said, as he crossed to the solar table, “I guess we can hire an anti-grav from storage if our own falls through. Their rates are reasonable and I can pick it up next time I’m over at Judo.”
He shook his head and blew on his goulash. “No. Wait. I guess we can rely on storage to provide a replacement anti-grav if ours falls through. I’m over at Judo all the time, so it’s no problem for me to pick one up.”
Spooning the meat into his mouth, he watched the shuttle pull off into the main space lane, picturing how Aida and Luperno would react to his plan.
Aida nodded, Luperno cupped her chin and shrugged.
“Okay,” said Whippettio with a series of half nods. “Okay. Okay. Let’s go with that.”
He spooned some more goulash from the bowl, and the voices chittering in his head gave way to silent contentment.
[To be continued...]
Monday, October 5, 2015
Monday swings around again with the faeces-tinted gleam of a droolball dangling from a worm-arsed bulldog’s lower smacker.
With grim heart and befouled spirits, we muster our ravaged musculature into a feeble slaction replay of Fridays’s least unenergetic total bodily collapses and swipe toothbrush across teeth like a lumberjack sawing down Jack’s beanstalk with Hillary Clinton’s petitest nail file.
Agonising and lumpen are the steps we take to haul ourselves through the day, with deep sea diver boots chained to an escalator speeding the wrong way.
And when night falls, it falls on our faces, suffocating all hopes and dreams from our thumping skulls.
Ere long, ‘twill be Tuesday — and motherfucker shall pile 'pon motherfucker before Holy Bejesuspants! Wednesday’s Saturnine drag screeches its fingernails down the blackboard of all conceivable horizons.
So, yeah, back blogging on Thursday.
Enjoy the rest of the week, you scintillating muskrats...
Thursday, October 1, 2015
My world has turned all Deep Space Worm Hole.
At heart, I’m a Thomas the Tank Engine kind of guy, drilled down on a track, chuffing and a-puffing, smiling out at the faces smiling my way.
I ferry stuff from place to place, often along a narrative arc; I pick people up, and I set them down, sometimes providing the same service for circus animals and contraband.
Whistles blow, steam billows into the sky, and everyone is happy.
Or they were — myself included.
Now, where once stood a furnace aglow with burning coal, a baboon anus vacuum has opened up to purse its lips and deep throat my current reality.
Certainty mutates into chaos, reliable shaving equipment prepares to morph into junk, and even the one cat in my neighbourhood who goes out of his way to ignore my advances has begun muttering, “don’t forget to pack fur-lined underpants, Whirl. It’s freezing cold in that there parallel reality, and I can’t bear the thought of your private parts shrivelling to the size of a caterpillar asleep on a walnut.”
No need to hire a precog on this one: I’m about to undertake a journey like no other, possibly wearing underwear with ursine exterior origins.
Should I pray to the Lord? Or Richard Branson’s stylist?
And when I emerge on the flip side, will there be curly kale to purify my blood and stave off scurvy?