Mister Serial Killer

What the hell. Notice that sentance didn't have a question mark at the end of it? That's because it was a statement, not a question. I repeat again: What the hell.

I know I'm freakin nuts, right? But then I'm wandering around the World Wide Wierdnessfinder and stumble across this little website called Mister Serial Killer. "What the hell?" I say. "This looks like a messed up children's book." Oh but I was wrong...I was oh so very wrong. What started out as a cute little cartoon about a homicidal happy face cartoon soon turned into a live action vingnette that made me contemplate the makeup of society and my personal place in the world. Mister Serial Killer is funny, cute, homicidal, and will kill your ass for no apparent reason.

I thought that I had a wacked out brain and a lot of time on my hands, this guy has a wacked out Canadian brain, a lot of time on his hands, and enough equipment to make a decently pleasant, tweaked out cartoon and live action short that's like watching a horrific car crash unfold before your very eyes. It's so horrific you just can't turn away (and by horrific I mean What the hell.). You can feel your brown eye pucker while you watch. My reccomendation: Check it out but send the young out of the room. For more and upcoming sadistic madness check out the website at: http://enityfilms.com/misterserialkiller/

What the hell. Goddamn Canadian bastards.

Episode One: The Happy Face Killer from misterserialkiller on Vimeo.

Attempted Drunk Rumblings

So I sit here on the couch wondering when the alcohol is finally going to kick in and getting pissed off that what is going through my head isn't being translated properly through my fingers and into your faces.

I think that I need to get a hold of Michelle Bachman to see if she can hook me up with whatever wicked crap she partakes of on a daily basis. If I ever believed in parallel realities (which I don't until I reach the reflective and contemplative stage of inebriation but even then I wonder...) she would be a prime candidate for testing out this theory. She is one strange bird and I wouldn't be surprised if an alien head popped out of her sternum on the senate floor and proceeded to go around selling flowers by means of a sock puppet one of these days. I would buy a bunch, but nobody pays attention to me. I have cash in hand and everything.

As I'm sitting in my living room drinking a beer I am struck by the similarity that I bare to the picture of the monkey drinking a bottle of vodka that I have hanging on my living room wall. There is nothing better than a drunk monkey with the exception of a drunk zombie monkey as my brother once envisioned, so aside from being a zombie myself, I am thinking that I must be pretty cool to emulate a cultural icon. Even if it is only in my own mind.

Wednesday night again and I'm on to Ghost Hunters on SciFi. I figure it's a solid three to four hours of me trying to scare myself to the point of pooping before I decide to go to bed and shiver under the covers like a three year old. That show kicks ass.

In the mean time, I am waiting for my hot wings to cool off so I can continue down my chosen path of obesity. I am adding to this a 12 pack of cold beer. Wheelchair here I come. This is no laughing matter, I have often thought that I would end up in like manner before I was 30 and I have less than a year to find out if this cruel little trick that is embedded in my brain will play out or not. It was either that or finally finding true love, getting married, and my wife would die in childbirth and I would be stuck with a daughter that looked exactly like her to haunt me for the rest of my days. But mostly I'm a happy person.

I grow tired of this, you may leave me now.

Swine Flu, The Andromeda Strain, and Outbreak

Okay, so instead of trying to find a monkey somewhere in Africa we are tracking a pig in Mexico. Everybody is wearing masks coming off of the plane. It started with a monkey in the movies, then went to the birds in the East, now to the swine from underneath the boarder. My girlfriend almost got sent home from work today because she just came back from Mexico last Wednesday. One of her co-workers was forced to take four sick days because he traveled to the wrong place during the wrong time and didn't come back soon enough. Four day incubation period has gotten people jumpy. Geographic profiling is in effect.

Is this where fiction meets reality? Did Robin Cook and Michael Crichton know something that we take for granted because it is generally unseen? Why is it that nobody heard about this until all of the sudden one day six people were dead? So here is what I think: Science Fiction is real. It's just not real yet.

Come on, you watch TLC and the Discovery Channel and the National Geograpic channel like everybody else. How much of this stuff is actually used? How many scientists are out there trying to make this stuff actually work? More than we probably realize. Some of you may actually read the magazines and paper books that this stuff appears in as well. From Jules Verne and H.G. Wells to Issac Asimov, Phillip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clarke and Orson Scott Card, the future keeps evolving and we keep following in the path that these future psychics have laid out for us. Who is our next prophet? Warren Ellis? Iain Banks? Jeff freakin' Somers?! True, there is a lot of grey area between these names, a number of endless realities and continuims, a plethora of ways for the human race to flourish, and an infinite number of implosions of destruction.

Is this the way the world ends...not with a whimper...but with a bang? Was Richard Kelley right? Or do we really all just kick it quietly with a gurgling wheeze from a flu strain that has mutated, evolved, or adapted from the swine population to infect and destroy mankind?

No, it's cool, we've got this. When we go out...if we go out...

...it'll be with a BANG...

"But things are now under control," Stone said. "We have the organism, and can continue to study it. We've already begun to characterize a variety of mutant forms. It's a rather astonishing organism in its versatility." He smiled. "I think we can be fairly confident that the organism will move into the upper atmosphere without causing further difficulty on the surface, so there's no problem there. And as for us down here, we understand what's happening now, in terms of the mutations. That's the important thing. That we understand."

"Understand," Hall repeated.

"Yes," Stone said. "We have to understand."

- The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton

Crooked Little Vein

Detective Mike McGill has a crappy life. Dumped by his girlfriend for a hairy-nippled lesbian, Mike has managed to stumble into every jacked up and depraved case imaginable to compound the misery of his existence, that is until now. Tasked with finding the real constitution (you know, the one that the Founding Fathers created to be used at a time of great crisis that is bound in the skin of an alien killed by Ben Franklin himself - yeah, that constitution) McGill starts a twisted journey along America's underbelly that takes him from coast to coast with pit-stops in various hells that never seem to end.

With his nymphomaniac lover/partner/guide Trix and a pack of reservoir tipped Jesus condoms the two blaze a cross country trail that burned my eyes to read. From a red eye flight with a serial killer, to industrial strength silicon shaped transvestite hookers, to a nut sack filled with saline until he walks bowl-legged, Mike re-discovers America in a way that some take for granted, and others wake from in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. And the hits just keep on coming.

Not for the weak of heart, Ellis has crafted an edgy, painful, and hilarious romp that will have you walking away feeling like you were kicked in the scrotum but badly wanting more. For those of you outside of the comic book/graphic novel world, Warren Ellis is one of the most well-respected and creative writers in the world. Comics aren't just for kids anymore and if you haven't figured that out yet, get off your couch and go check out some of his other works such as Transmetropolitan and The Authority which should be readily available for your reading ecstasy at your local bookstore. If they don't have them, ask what the hell is wrong with their ownership and demand that copies be ordered.

For more info about Warren Ellis check out his website at http://www.warrenellis.com/ and to get your hands on the book go to your local bookstore or follow the link on his website.

Welcome to the mainstream.

The System

So I tried to skirt the system and it caught me in the spotlight and gave me the finger. So now instead of skirting in a profitable manner I am out in the cold while attempting to build mental capitol that makes my brain hurt and does nothing about the lint in my pockets.

The world has become one of mechanized process where human interaction is frowned upon and you can get kicked out of a building for just stopping by in an attempt to painfully inject yourself into the cogs of the world. Is this man a revolutionary? And I say to you NO!, I am just a simple beings without the proper catch phrases on a scannable piece of paper.

I am currently paying a ridiculous amount of a non-existent bank trust in order to achieve prominence under the foot of a large fat man that leaks Crisco instead of sweating. Everything I need to know I learned from a wise old jar of pickles back in ancient Rome. The ancient Romans had never seen a wise old jar of pickles - nonetheless one that could talk - and they became highly agitated at the fact that the lid would not come off. All hell broke loose when a homely band of prostitutes tried to abscond with the jar in an attempt to put it to use in their own machinations. Suddenly a magical hell-hole opened up out of the center of the city right up the street from where that one guy used to live and the wise old jar of pickles was lost forever along with the homely band of prostitutes the latter of which, according to the ancient Romans that were interviewed at a later time was really not a huge loss at all. But the consensus was that everybody was pretty pissed about the pickles.

Long story short, the lesson that I learned from that wise old jar of pickles was this: Nobody misses ugly hookers. No, wait, it was this: The ancient Romans had a good thing, but it was frustrating for those who did not have access to it. Those who did not have access to it were not paid much attention to until the good thing was gone and everybody was left with nothing. That's a small boat to be in with a large number of people that are floating up a Proverbial creek without a pickle. Needless to say, everybody died. The end.

Homework sucks.

Hello, Welcome, and Get the Hell Out

Welcome one and all to The Randomness of My Crackhead. I have no idea who you are, how you got here, or even where the door is so I can tell you to leave, but whatever, I'm confused anyway. If you continue to read on for some reason, you will probably be disapointed because I don't know what to write about, this just seemed like a good idea so I could give my mind a place to vomit in full view of the public.

As for the title of this blog, I do not have a personal crackhead whom I keep in a basement somewhere and feed mind-altering substances to while occasionally spraying them down with a garden hose so they don't stink too badly during the time that I am away and they are living alone in the dark and surviving off of whatever scattered vermin they find scrambling around the damp and moldy floor. That would be expensive. I mean the drugs for the crackhead would be expensive. And really, what would be the point of keeping a crackhead if you didn't have any crack to give them? In addition, I myself am not on drugs, that would be expensive as well and I have to say that my tolerance for perscribed medications that I have been on before is rather high so it would probably be really expensive. I prefer spending my money on other things like alcohol and poor gambling decisions (Goddamn Detroit Lions, "100 bucks on Detroit to go to the Super Bowl," I said, I knew I should have just put it all on black but noooo, I had to just keep on walking to the sports book).

Anyway, apparently this blog is the result of too many whacks on the head, too few hours of sleep last night, too much to drink this morning, or a combination of all or none of those things. I must go now, my piano is talking to me again and I need to find my shovel.