Duck You

I don’t understand people. Okay, that is inaccurate, I don’t understand people. No, let me try again. I DO understand why people do the things that they do that I find irritating, silly, moronic and/or plain old dopey, I just don’t understand why they do. No. Again, words fail me. I Understand the biochemical reasons, the evolutionary reasons behind the actions of other humans. Everything can be explained. Everything can be tied back to survival mechanisms. That said, I don’t understand people.


That keeps slipping out.

I get why people do things I think are frankly idiotic. I do, I really do. I just don’t understand people.


NO. I guess my problem is that I fully and completely understand that people are ducking boneheads and, why does my computer keep changing duck to duck. Ducking, fuckity duck fuck. Aha. Fuckity isn’t a real word and unlike duck there is no single letter right beside the first letter of the word I typed that the ever omnipotent Microsoft (that apparently knows to capitalize itself) thinks I meant to use. Duck, duck, fuck. Wait. Hold on. Duck. Corrected. Duck fuck duck fuck duck.. Okay, now I am confused. “Duck duck” is okay.. wait. Why did it change the second duck to duck this time.

Okay. Fuck. If I put a period after it, it’s accepted.


Apparently it’s okay to write that I am attending a duck puck. Puck? WTF?

What the duck.

My name is Mister Duck. Fuck.

Oddly, unlike old school MS Word, duck ahem “duck” ahem “duck.” Oh Jesus H Christ on a stick. F.U.C.K. doesn’t even show up with the little red wiggly “I don’t know this word” line that appears under fuckity I can see it right there, now) so I cannot even right click on it and say “add to your prudish dictionary that capitalizes Microsoft and Jedi yet doesn’t know one of the oldest and most used “bad words” in all languages on our planet”.

I guess I will try to fix that later.

I don’t understand tucking people.

Tucking. That’s new. What’s wrong with ducking.

Duck I don’t understand fucking people. Woah. Hold on.

People make me crazy. There. I understand why people do the irritating things they do because they feel compelled to do such things due to biochemical and emotional reactions based on millions of years of survival based evolution. Most of all, I don’t understand women. Okay I do. I DO understand women and the things they do and why they do the things they do, I just don’t understand why they would not want to fight evolution and stop doing the crazy shit (aha! Shit and “aha” are good to use!) they do among themselves and not around the rest of us.

Not all women. I wish to make that clear right now, I mean just the ones at the back of the train car I am in who haven’t shut the duck up for the past two and a half hours.

Where are my fucking headphones.


Janie Didn’t Do It

Janie sat in her mish-mash decorated room reading.  Pink frou frou little-girl décor clashed with black and gray goth-ish scarves and assorted ornamentation.  It was, she knew even at fourteen, a thinly veiled attempt at self-expression, distancing herself, her “self” from that of the girl her parents raised.  She sat, her back against the huge pile of frilly pillows and the stuffed bear with its black button eyes in the corner of her room.  She sat with the telephone placed strategically within arms reach just in case Johnnie called.

It had been four days.

She looked at his phone number both fading on her all too unwashed palm and at where she just wrote it inside the cover of her copy of The Great God Pan (and Other Tales) as she really thought it was about time to wash her hand.  She stood.  She paced.  She noted her mother calling her to dinner (“Janice” as opposed to Janie which she preferred).  Janie looked out the window upon the moonlit copse of trees in the field beyond her back fence.. A fog was developing.

She closed her curtains, flicked off the light, replaced the phone on the bedside table, sighed heavily and began to slink downstairs to the awaiting meal with questions about “that boy” that she should never have mentioned, for dessert.

Janie’s parents brought her to this town so they could have a new start, they, her, together.  They wanted to be far, far away from the controversy.  They wanted to be free of the looks, the whispers, the silent accusations at the checkout.  She did not start the fire.  She is the one that didn’t run away.  It was the others, the “friends”, the very ones whose parents vociferously blamed her for the event, for the fire, for the death.

She was cleared of all wrongdoing, but as usual, the court of the public mind was a jury of blind fools.

So they moved.

And they were happy.

Janie was happy. She was happier when she met Johnnie. 

Janie ate in silence. Janie answered “no” when asked if “the boy” had called but did not elaborate.  There was no elaboration to add.  Janie cleaned off her plate and placed it into the dishwasher and took her pie upstairs (with a “thank you” and a kiss for both on their cheeks as they chatted about their days to one another).

Janie looked at her phone.  She opened the curtains and looked out upon the foggy field. 

It rang.

It was Johnnie.

Janie answered with a stammered “hi.. hi Jonnie!” and danced silently in her room as he spoke, equally nervously, as boys are apt to do.  She shut her door and chatted and became less awkward and discussed school and television and books and eventually they planned to get together again the next day after school, after dinner.  They talked till both received notifications from their respective parents that it was time for bed.

Laying in the dark, gazing out into the mist beyond the curtains lit up by moonlight like a dim fluorescent bulb, Janie thought long into the night.  She woke, she wrote in her little book, she lay back down, she slept for the first time in ages with contentment. Her last thought before passing on into the expanse of dreams was that yes, he would be the one to tell.

Johnnie, blankets pulled up to his ears, a thin pillow half over his head to block out the streetlights that always fought their way through and past his blinds also slept.  His last thought of the night was of what he saw in the park. What kept him from sleeping well these past four nights.

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

Watch “White Christmas – Sisters.flv” on YouTube

White Christmas – Sisters.flv:

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

Zombie Dude


I don’t REALLY believe he has a wife in the trunk, or a wife, or a girlfriend…

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

Where Johnnie Encounters The Dark Again and Discovers Janie

At thirteen, Johnnie was bought a bicycle.  Johnnie explored his town with vigor and vim and the joy of the newfound freedom afforded by speed and transport.  He rode to his friends home, few though they were and often reluctant to greet him openly on his unannounced visits.  He visited his grandmother in her harbor view home, drinking tea and watching boats slide by as cats slunk about their feet.  Johnnie explode the streets till the streetlights came on and it was time to be home, cool dry summer air whipping through his golden blond locks as he sped toward his awaiting meal.

Autumn arrived and he was pleased as he flew through fallen dry leaves which lifted into the air and twisted in his wake one late October night.  No friends were available to play.  No relatives had time to visit.  The library was closed as were the shops and the streets were bereft of traffic, yet he sped onward, grasping at the last few hours of the weekend before bath and bed and reading the strange weird tales he was drawn to especially given the time of the year.  He decided to visit the Courtyard.

The Courtyard had another name.  No children knew this other name, and only ever referred to it as The Courtyard.  The proper name was “Courtland Park” and its original benefactor was a god-fearing evangelist. This was why it was festooned with crosses and phrases on the gates and walls, only detectable if one pulled aside the decades of ivy and bushes that had grown up and over the protective iconography. 

From his position at the corner a block away, Johnnie could see that the gate was open.  He knew this was not the norm.  It was a Sunday.  The Courtyard was never to be open on Sundays. Johnnie was never one to do things that were not allowed. He could see a figure, a small figure, his size, walking among the decaying rose bushes and memorial benches. Johnnie decided to go to The Courtyard to investigate.

Then he met Janie.

Janie was like Johnnie in many ways. Janie was new to town. Janie’s parents were doctors and Janie lived in the east end. Johnnie and Janie had much in common and a bond was forged within a short period of time. They sat and talked and planned to meet again and finally noticed that the streetlights were on and that it was beyond the time to go home. They exchanged phone numbers by writing them on each other’s arm with a pen she kept in her bag along with a notepad she made little sketches on and wrote little weird poems. She left and he waved goodbye as he paused to but the chain back on his wheel sprocket that he noticed had come off when he dropped his bike on the ground to say hello.

He walked his bike to the gate. He noticed a fog beginning to form down Victoria Street toward the harbor. He paused thinking that he would have to ride through that fog home and hoped it wasn’t so thick he would need to dismount, but Johnnie wasn’t all that concerned as he had a new friend, a friend just like him.

Janie. Janie of the dark clothes and the long brown hair and smiling brown eyes.

He exited the park and could smell a faint smoky smell in the air. Someone had started up their woodstove about a month early. He smiled. He would open his window a crack tonight to let in the autumn smells, leaves, wind and a bit of the wood smoke. He would sleep well and content.

The smell was stronger now. He heard a swish behind him, in the Courtyard. Johnnie turned slowly, memory fighting through, memory of four years past.

He could see a dark fog, a thickish, swirling, moving fog. It swung between the flower beds. Grey, shadow but not shadow, more a lack of light than a blockage of light.

Johnnie saw the dark and the dark saw him and hung still.

He rode home, all the way home, through the thick cold fog.

My Anthem When I was a Young Punk

Generation X – Your Generation (1977):

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

In Which Johnnie First Sees The Dark

Johnnie was nine when he first saw “The Dark”.  It was a warm summer night, years before blessed air conditioning was brought into the home and his mother had allowed him to keep his bedroom window open.  Normally, it was not to be and he slept in sweat wetted sheets because she was afraid he would sleepwalk out the window and crash down to the street below. She relented this evening because it was stifling.  No wind.  No escape from the heat.

Johnnie dreamt of small men with ladders climbing up onto his desk and dresser and chair.  Small men with tools and hardhats.  Small men that when they saw him watching, turned his way, dropped their tools and began to head toward him.  He panicked.  He yelled for his mother.  He hid under the sheets and wished she would come so he yelled again.  Johnnie peeked out and could see the men climbing up onto the foot of the bed and he kicked and screamed and could hear the words “night terror” from somewhere in the distance.

Johnnie woke in the living room, where his parents and guests were staring in concern and horror as he stood in the middle of the room, still screaming at the top of his lungs.  Johnnie muttered and murmured as they consoled him and the words “night terror” were spoken behind his back and into ears.  He was given coke that tasted of mouthwash and crackers and cheese and was eventually ushered back to bed.

His blinds drawn to let light in, a nightlight moved from the bathroom to his room, Johnnie tried to sleep.  He scanned the room.  He searched for the men, the ladders, the tools.  Johnnie saw nothing.  He shuffled up to the edge of his bed, against the wall.  No feet or hands allowed to slide down between the bed and wall and an extra pillow placed behind him, he watched and began to doze.

As his eyes grew heavy and blinks became longer and drawn out, he saw The Dark slide out from under his desk and chair and dresser and across his feet and slowly out the window, into the night night air.

The Dark smelled like smoke.

Johnnie screamed.

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

Virus Begone

Hooray for Zithromax..

My three week experimentation with having not one but TWO infections in three weeks has ended. I feel infinitely better. Hooray for Zithromax. Time to fill your inbox…

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place


Yay for down!
Yay for DARK!
Yay for soliloquays spoke in the park!
Yay for loneliness though self inflicted! Yay for a wandering.
Yay mind conflicted.

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

Grocery Store Rules

Do not park you cart in the middle if the aisle
Do not drive on the left side if the aisle unless you are in Britain
Do not get into the express lane with more than 12%.more grocery ite.s than posted limit
Do not bring your goddamn dog I to the store. Even if it us in your coat.
Do not strike up long drawn out conversations with cashier if there are people in line behind you
If it is busy and it is a bag your own groceries store, bag them as cashier is ringing them in
Do not wait until the cashier has finished before you have your payment ready
Do not pay on the left side of the scales/scanner as that is where the next person’s things are
Do not pay by cheque
Do not ask for lottery tickets are a regular counter. Go to the loser counter
Do not buy cigarettes at a regular counter. See previous point
Don’t say “witty” or snide things and turn to give other people in your line a “knowing glance”

That is all

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 384 other followers