Eddie (edminster) wrote,

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0234 and I can't sleep from achiness

Yargh. I'm up because this damnable growth on my stomach lets out a steady stream of ache. It's not quite pain, but it's enough to make it amazingly difficult to sleep. However, my loss is your gain! While trying to keep my mind off of the thought that I might have cancer/inoperable tumor/mystical leprechaun/alien stuff growing in me, I found four short short stories. I think I may have posted one or two of them here before, but that's balanced out by the fact that I'm updating. Right? Anyways, on with the distractions!

Hello, Mr. Cuervo

They call me Russ. Well, the people who don't call me a drunkard call me Russ. Most of the time. I guess that's what I get for being one of those poor souls who cannot find the strength within to avoid hitting the bottle at eleven in the morning.

Sure, it makes it hell to keep a steady job, but I've subscribed to the notion that having deep, meaningful conversations with complete strangers is much more fulfilling than any mindless task a job can throw at you.

And then there's the creativity that you find welling up inside of you after a bottle of your favourite liver-poison. It's true what they say, about intoxicants lowering inhibitions. For the shy (yet creative) type, booze is a godsend, as evidenced by the following:

'I want to go where the wild wind blows
I want to go to the sea
I want to know what the wisest man knows
And I want to know who is Me

I want to go on some Wild Goose chases
I want see Tennessee
I want to meet a billion new faces
And I want to prance with glee

I want too much, though it's never enough
I want the stars in the Sky
But above all that stuff
There is one thing I need
And that, is the answer to: "Why?"'

Not bad for a guy who can't put down the Bottle, eh? And to think, if I was a teetotaller, that poem would never have seen the light of day. Being self-conscious never made anybody famous.

I guess it's not so bad, being half-blitzed during nearly every waking minute of my life. It sure as hell makes my world seem a whole lot more interesting, I can tell you that. And what's life without something interesting?


What's that thing, Bernie?

Cumulonimbus cloud. Shaped like a bunny. Or possibly a frog wearing bunny ears.

...why would a frog wear bunny ears, Bernie?

Maybe the frog is insecure about being bi-terrestrial. Maybe it longs to live solely on land, hopping playfully amongst the clover. Maybe the frog is going to a costume party. Maybe none of those things. But I do know one thing about the frog in question, though.

Yeah? What's that?

I know that you need to realise that there is no frog, and that it's just a stupid cloud.

Why's that? Why should I not worry about what is going on inside the mind of the confused bunny in a frog's body? Just because he is not currently real doesn't mean he never will be. Maybe this cloud is an omen, saying that I should keep a lookout for little green bunnies with webbed feet. Because maybe, just maybe, that poor little chimera needs help in this lonely, unforgiving world, and maybe I'm the one to help him.



I swear to God, Ralph, you are completely nuts. I don't know of anybody else on this planet that could be so compassionate towards a thing that not only doesn't exist, but will probably never exist. I mean, seriously, you are off your rocker.


'So?!' Good Christ, man! If i was a psychiatrist, i'd be clamoring for the nice men in the white coats to bring you a jacket that fastens up the back! No wonder you've not kept any job for more than a few weeks! You're nuts!

Bernie, I have to say, you're probably right. But then, I also have to say that none of this conversation would have happened if you hadn't brought up the possibility of the bunnyfrog. While I admit that I have shown something you seem to think is a negative trait, you are the one who planted the seed. I simply watered it.

Yeah, I know. It's just... I really wish you wouldn't go off on weird tangents like that, okay? It kind of worries me, to get that sort of glimpse into your brain.

Alright, Bernie. I'll knock it off. But I want you to promise me something before we go back to what we were doing, okay?

Yeah, sure. What is it?

Stop saying you've been abducted by aliens.


"We Hold these truths to be self-evident!"

This was my campaign slogan. It's kind of difficult to keep the public's interest in history for too long, though. About six weeks into my cross-country tour, we hit a record low in rally attendance. So, in an effort to stir up some enthusiasm amongst the people, I asked the six attendees what slogan would stir up more interest in my campaign to win the presidency.

"Make Peace, Not War!"

"I've Fallen and I can't get up!"

"Sometimes gum looks like a penny!"

"Love is like racing across the frozen tundra when your snowmobile flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the Ice weasels come."

"Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines."

"Madame, I may be drunk, but you are ugly. In the morning I shall be sober, but you will still be ugly."

What happened next is, to be quite frank, very much expected. At each of the next six stops we made, I tried out a different slogan on the people who showed up at the rallies.

First stop was the AntiWar slogan. Unfortunately, nobody had informed me that we were stopping at the National Riflemakers, Tankbuilders and Bomb Technicians Association of America headquarters. I haven't tried starting my own car since that stop.

Second stop was "I've Fallen and I can't get up!"
Much to my chagrin, we had stopped at the semiannual meeting of the AARP, which reported a record attendance of seven thousand persons over the age of fifty-five.

The final four stops are not worth mentioning, besides saying that I am no longer welcome by the Anti-Capitalist Bubblegum Manufacturers Association, the Valentine's Day Coalition of Love, any of the Native American reservations in this great country, and I'm especially unwelcome by Alcoholics Anonymous.

In short, I am now hated by warmongers, old people, commies, hippies, Indians, and drunkards. Not only will I surely lose the election, but I'm fairly certain I will be the first native-born U.S. citizen to be deported. Wish me luck.


I didn't understand, at first. The concept was introduced to me back when I was about six years old, so it's not terribly surprising. I didn't understand a lot of things, back then. I just sat through the lectures and lessons like a good little boy, keeping the fidgeting to a minimum. I guess I never really expected what they were saying would have a real, definite impact on my life, but it did. Oh, lordy, but it did.

It was around the time that I hit the age of fifteen that it started to dawn on me that the Adults actually believed all of the things they had been telling me. All of the stories were beyond even the most absurd brand of logic imaginable. I mean, come on, they had to be bullshitting about some of it, right? Wrong.

As it turns out, it was all true. There really are foul and twisted creatures who desire nothing more than to torment mankind, just as there really are perfect beings who long for nothing more than everlasting peace. Every story I was ever told was absolutely true. I just really wish they hadn't left all of the really, really important bits out.

In the grand scheme of things, I guess that it didn't really matter that all of the knowledge that had been passed down to me was about as useful as a wine cask full of salmon innards. I still won out over the forces of Darkness, right? And I've ensured everlasting peace and harmony, right? So what does it matter that I was working with strategic information that just so happened to be a couple of millenia out-of-date; I still got the job done, right?

Yes, I concede all of those points. However, I do want to say that not only did I never volunteer for the job, but that I was constantly bemoaning the fate of, and let me quote myself here, "The poor sap who has to fight against all of those demons using nothing more than a flask of water, a dented bugle, and a saber dipped in kerosene."

I readily admit that I was giving quite unflattering descriptions of Holy Water, The Horn of Gabriel, and the Flaming Sword of the Archangel. But still. They could at least have made it explicitly known that I was going to be humanity's ultimate champion on the Day of Reckoning. I mean, seriously, it's nice to give a guy some warning.

Everybody knows my life history at this point, seeing as how you can't save the world in a spectacular fashion while still maintaining any level of anonymity, so I'm not going to touch upon my home life, my friends, or my school in this memoir. I'll just tell you the bits that He conveniently forgot to mention during His recitation of my exploits. Also, I want to set the record straight on a few things that seem to have become garbled with so many retellings. Have fun reading it.

-Colin Darby

All of them need work. I know this. In rereading them, I can see the errors plain as the giant lump on my torso. Hope you enjoyed reading them, however bad they were.

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