Post Civil War Alternate History

As of late, I've had an idea kicking around in my head that I'm reasonably certain would make a really good story. You see, I'm a redditor, and one of my favorite subreddits is a somewhat niche sub called /r/vexillology. Vexillology, for those of you who may not know, is the field of designing flags. Well, as some of you might be very vaguely aware, I come from the Southern United States and have long had an interest in Communism. This has led me to have a fascination with Confederate and Communist symbolism and, thus, I commissioned from the fine fellows of said subreddit a flag combining both. The eventual winner of the post was this:

A coat of arms was even drawn up and I felt really inspired by how much attention had been paid to the initial post. I had written a bit of fiction as inspiration and I'm now feeling more and more compelled to flesh this out into a full fledged story. How does this premise sound?

"In 1863, the Union Army of the Potomac under Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker and Maj. Gen. George G. Meade is routed at Gettysburg, dissolving in a disorganized retreat from Confederate military forces under General Robert E. Lee after a decisive Confederate cavalry raid by General JEB Stuart breaks the Union forces in the area.

With the road to Washington wide open, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America, signs the Confederate drafted Instrument of Surrender which recognizes the right of the Confederate States of America to exist and protects the legal right of states to leave the Union as they so choose. Over night, Confederate governments spring up in the border states and the economic and military power of the United States slides slowly into irrelevance. After several decades of Union losses and Confederate gains in the West and in the Caribbean and Mexico, the Confederacy enters the 20th century as the dominant power in North America.

In the 1930s, the South falls on hard economic times as the world plunges into the Great Depression. The South's former slaves, freed by act of President Gustave Tutant Beauregard in 1917 in reaction to fears of reaction by anarchist radicals, are still horribly oppressed and are now denied even the meager wages of the sharecropping farms that have gone under in reaction to decreased demand from factories in Europe and the border states of the Confederacy. Uniting with prominent Southern Communists and dissatisfied veterans of the Confederate actions against Mexico in World War I, they march on Richmond and seize the capitol, executing President Thomas Hardwick and installing a vanguard party, headed by a Stalinst strongman to oversee the Confederacy.

On 5, May 1932, The Confederate States are reorganized into The Soviet Confederacy of America; a Workers' state in direct alliance with the Soviet Union."


Anyway, that's what I've got. The starting date is currently in flux, but I have a general idea of what I want in terms of characters. The latter half of the Civil War, for example, where things dovetail from our established timeline would be narrated by General Lee as he oversees the surrender of Lincoln's Union and the efforts to secure Confederate territories West of the Mississippi from rogue Union generals, Mexican military officers making a bid for lost territories, and bands of Indians who've been forced to try to invade new lands after being pushed from their homes by a desperate and dying Union. Lee, who evidence suggests might have held anti-slavery tendencies, will be firmly anti-slavery in this story, but his convictions will ultimately be swayed by what his civilian liasons tell him is best for his beloved Virginia.

The story would then continue under the presidency of General Beauregard as he battles to keep the Confederacy afloat amid economic crises and threats from the overpowerful constituent states that make up the Confederacy. All the while, the nation experiences explosive post-War economic growth which, despite a (real world) constitutional ban on the importation of further slaves, forces the nation to kidnap more innocents from Africa, fueling the growth of a discontented underclass.

Finally, I will have original characters in the late 19th and early 20th centuries discussing the proliferation of reading skills amongst the slaves, the smuggling of copies of The Communist Manifesto and  Das Kapital by unknown foreign agents to plantations across the South, the "freeing" of the slaves into indentured servitude under the tenure of President Beauregard, reactions to the Soviet revolution of 1917 and finally, the successful revolution of the workers against their former masters.

Characters in that stage of the story would include a labor organizer, President Beauregard, a plantation owner, an indentured former slave, one of the first female politicians in the Confederacy, the Union ambassador to the Confederacy, a hypothetical descendant of General Lee working to spread egalitarian ideals in the Confederate military (a large portion of which will defect during the Revolution), and others.

Overall, I am planning for this to be a very morally ambiguous tale - the sort of thing I've really always wanted to do. Both sides would have sympathetic characters and both sides would have brutal monsters. What I can promise you utmost is this, though. I can provide readers with a thrilling look at what could have been had things just made a sharp left turn at one of the most important intersections in the history of these United States. If enough people show interest, I can actually realistically guarantee that I'll have this written. I already have a very good, very talented, and very enthusiastic friend helping me with the characters, so I think this thing has a shot. I even have a tentative title: Red States.

UPDATE: 1, December 2012: My story has received mention from the good people over at Today in Alternate History! Thanks, guys! Have some additional art, while I'm updating here.

The great seal of the Soviet Confederacy of America, courtesy of redditor Bezbojnicul.

Fuck You, It's Pokemon Time

Alright, no matter what you were doing before, it's unimportant now. Shut your face hole, because we have to talk about something important - something crucial. We have to talk about Pokemon. More importantly, we have to talk about the profound impact it's had on America, on me, on my fiancee, and on the bulk of my friends. See, Pokemon is one of the most important phenomenon in popular culture since Star Wars and no one is really sure why. All that can really be commonly agreed upon is that it is here, it has had lasting influence, and that anyone who hates it is likely a card carrying member of the National Socialist Party. Allow me to elaborate.

It all began in the year 1998, when the first Pokemon games, Red and Blue, arrived on the shores of the United States. Monica Lewinsky was a household name, the Rugrats were the most popular show on children's television, Seinfeld was at the height of its popularity, and the last Beanie Baby had committed suicide in a drunken and drug induced state of depression in a dark and dingy motel room just outside of Texarkana, Texas. America needed hope, and a crazy newfangled Japanese collecting game had been delivered from upon high to fill the gaping hole in our collective lives.

The games caught on more or less immediately, owing to the ubiquity of the Game Boy platform on which it was published and the easy to learn yet difficult to master style of gameplay which was its hallmark. Overnight, a range of stuffed animals, a collectible card game that no one knew how to play, and a Saturday morning anime were unleashed upon the nation to feed its ever growing Pokemania. This is significant from my vantage point, because my friends and I were, at the time, in the prime market for just this sort of thing. See, while it now seems so blatantly commercial, you have to understand that when this sort of thing hits you when you're young it can become a genuinely cherished childhood memory - especially if your childhood was somewhat less than rosy  It was really my first RPG - as was the case for many of my friends, I suspect - and the sense of adventure and discovery that I felt when I first left Pallet Town was only ever equaled upon my first departure from Seyda Neen in Morrowind some years later.

So you have to realize, if you aren't a geek (which, reading this particular blog, you're probably a level 12 nerdlinger so I guess it doesn't matter) that a nerd's first RPG experience is a sacred and sacrosanct thing. It's a hugely important thing that will forever be cherished in some capacity or another, and I think that it is this factor to which Pokemon owes its enduring popularity. So many of us grew up with some Pokemon game or another in our Game Boys and DS(es?) and it's such a sentimental part of so many gamers' catelogues that I highly doubt it will stop for the foreseeable future.

Now, as popular as the games are in the United States, they're an order of magnitude more popular in Japan - the land that festoons airliners in Pikachu paint schemes, produces PokePorn, and has entire stores dedicated solely to Pikachu and his Pokepals. It's my opinion that this owes largely to the Japanese cultural obsession with collecting things, a mechanic which the Pokemon games (and merchandising) are largely dependent upon. After all, this is the country which has several hundreds of varieties of Kit-Kat bars available for purchase at any given moment, with rare Kollectable Kit-Kats fading in and out of existence at any given moment. Seriously, google that shit. It's a real thing. The Japanese love to collect things. I mean, how else would Yu-Gi-Oh! and Digimon have caught on and lasted there while being merely imitation fads in the United States and elsewhere abroad?

Anyway, while America's Pokemon fever is more or less in remission, Japan still exhibits something akin to fever and rashes upon the release of each new Pokemon game, with television specials and entire magazines devoted solely to the games. Imagine the American reaction to Star Wars in 1977 or Western Europe any time someone mentions the World Cup and you have a general idea of what happens when a new Pokemon game drops. Really, at this point, I imagine that's solely what keeps Nintendo in business. That, and old people who seem to have confused the Wii with a fitness device.

Now, while America is much, much less obsessed with Pokemon than Japan is, I think it's still safe to say that you would be hard pressed find a single nerd (now a much larger and mainstream segment of popular culture than they were in the past) that won't admit to a degree of fondness for the franchise. After all, most of us owned Red and Blue when they came out. A great sum of us can still recall the elation we felt when we finally beat the Elite Four, the bragging that came from the first of our friends to fill out their PokeDex, and the first bastard to own a Game Boy Advance and a copy of Ruby or Sapphire.

The thing to take away from my rant is this: Pokemon has had an enormous impact on the popular culture of the United States and elsewhere, especially Japan. I mean, if you're reading this you can probably tell me which Pokemon was your favorite as a kid, unless you're Elisabeth. Personally, mine was Pikachu. But whatever. It's a huge franchise and it's had an enormous impact on a lot of our lives. It was an integral part of many of our childhoods and anyone who owned it as a child and says they don't look back upon it fondly is a damnable liar. Seriously, man. Just, seriously. I'm done here. Pantsy out.

The M1911 is the finest firearm ever made.

Let's talk for a moment about what a great handgun the M1911 is, shall we? Sure, it's an aged design and modern polymer pistols are lighter and take down much more readily, but the fact of the matter is that in 50 years nobody will care about the M&P 45. The 1911, however, is a pistol design that has withstood the test of time.

Two different designs, each more gorgeous than the last.

One of the final designs of John Moses Browning, the greatest firearms designer in history (yes, even greater than Mikhail Kalashnikov, peace be upon him), the M1911 is recognized by practically everyone that knows firearms as the pinnacle of pistol design. Despite a complicated takedown procedure and a reputation for less than stellar accuracy at range, proponents of the weapon have doted on its slim profile, reliable design, and nearly unbeatable stopping power to recoil ratio. These pros nearly completely invalidate any cons that detractors might throw at it, and the accuracy argument is utterly nullified when you fire a 1911 and realize that the ranges at which you're likely to ever actually need the thing are the ranges at which it works best.

The weapon is favored by many of the world's finest militaries and police forces, and has been for just over a century. Even though the United States military replaced it with the appalling M9 for standard issue - a design travesty chambered in the most depressingly underpowered round to ever attain wide acceptance - they still issue the M1911 for units that they realize need a pistol that doesn't completely suck; an example of which would be the United States Marine Corps' MEU(SOC). 

What I'm trying to say here is that it's basically my favorite gun ever. At any given moment, I probably have mine on my person and I dare say that I enjoy the thing more than I do my Romanian AKM. Just let the magnitude of that statement sink in for a moment, because I love my AKM something fierce. 

Insomniatic Rambling

This is the part where I rant for a while, if you will indulge me such a thing. I'm supposed to be writing a story or something, but I will admit to being something of a hack at fiction and there's no better story than the human condition, right?  Well, take a shot or seven and puff on your bong. You might need it. It helps the article go down more easily.

Now, it's no secret to anyone who knows me that aside from the Soviet Union - which I can shoehorn a mention of into almost anything - anarchy, the counter culture, gaming, drinking, firearms, opposing authority, absurdism, hedonism, wanton eccentricism, gothic literature, science fiction, and the various languages and customs of Europe and Eastern Asia, one of the subjects I'm most fond of in this entire world is the life and work of Dr. Hunter S Thompson. In fact, I even attained my Doctorate of Journalism - which I use on all of my letterheads and postage - from the same illustrious institution as Dr Thompson, a church of all places. Interestingly, this entitles me to conduct funerals and weddings and other events which have religious significance for some reason. I'm not sure why I did it, but I'm pretty sure it was a statement on the absurdity of organized religion and so that I could get gay people married since I live in the South and I doubt most ministers in these parts would extend them that courtesy. Anyway, you can do it, too!

Such a thing is, however, useless outside of these contexts. It's an interesting discussion piece, at least, to be able to call myself Comrade Pants, Doctor of Journalism. It fits really well with my full name and, really, isn't it the American dream to have a title in one's name? I'm pretty sure I've achieved that. That's pretty neat, I'd say. Better than anything most plebes out there have done.

Other things, other things... Um, oh yes. Some of you who frequent this blog-o-mat might recall a travelogue I was writing about my experiences in Berkeley and the Bay Area. Well, for various reasons the continuation  of that article will be delayed until December. Why? Well, I'm not at liberty to say. I'm still writing it, mind you. It's still going to be tantalizingly festering on my hard drive, right where you can't read it, but it won't be online until the close of the year - or around that time.

Anyway, that's all that's all that's on my mind at the moment. Ciao.

Dr ComradePants

A Game of Pool

Author's Note: Though the following is ostensibly based upon true events, the nature of these events necessitates that names be changed and that the entire thing be highly embellished. Indeed, this event may never have even happened at all. It is entirely possible, if not plausible, that the entirety of the proceeding is nothing more than the fever dream of a mentally deranged Georgian madman with nothing else to do. What a reckless, irresponsible dolt that fool must... Oh, wait. That's me. Right.


"That was George" Slim said as he hung up his cell phone, surveying the table from his position at the head. "He says we're all gonna show up at the Buffalo's and get hammered. There's no negotiation on the matter." He said to our assembled party.

There was, of course, Slim; the de facto, de jure leader of our company. We'd known each other since kindergarten, and over the years we'd developed a proficiency for antics of a heinous and outrageous notoriety  He sat, as mentioned, at the commanding head of the table, surveying us - his associates - and in his own way demanding the attention of the entirety of the pizza restaurant staff at the parlor wherein we dined.

Next, there was Cajun. Cajun was Slim's stepbrother, a friend of nearly as long as I had been. He sat directly across the table from my position, occasionally gesturing at random people and making fun of them in a fashion that was uniquely his.

Then there was Dodge. Dodge was the newest member of our group, though to describe him as thus is somewhat disingenous, because he's still been a part of our company for as long as anyone can remember. This might not be much of a matter, as we are all fond of drink and grass. Yard clippings, naturally. What are we, criminals? Anyway, Dodge sat directly to my right. He was the designated pizza passer.

Anyway, at long last there was me, your kindly narrator. What's there to say about me? I'm just your average journalist/voice actor/blogger type person who sometimes craps out writing when the time and inspiration are available to me. I was seated to Slim's right - quite literally, his right hand man.

Now, as soon as the edict was handed down I mulled it over in silent contemplation. The conversation became as a background for my inner monologue, my entire train of thought devoted solely to the task at hand. We were going to get wasted. The inescapable reality of that situation was now omnipresent.

"Gentlemen." I said, drawing the attention of my comrades. "If this is a thing worth doing, it's worth doing right. We need to make provisions to outfit ourselves for this expedition. We need smokes, and I need a cigar." The group mulled it over momentarily, breaking when Slim nodded. We left, embarking for the QuickTrip where we obtained smokes and, for myself, a cigar. Because cigars are the only tobacco worthwhile.

We arrived an hour after the initial phone call and entered the bar with gallant stride. The entire establishment was in awe of the tremendous presence that we exuded into drinkery must have been omnipresent, as there was not a soul that could stay themselves as I flicked out my cigar, lit it, and ordered a Budweiser. Their beer selection was awful, but the opening salvo had been fired by the time we sat ourselves at the bar with out contacts.

After several beers and discourse over the relative advantages and disadvantages of capitalism and communism, the idea was floated that our pool game should commence. It was agreed that George and his cohort would play against Slim and our company. The stage was set for a momentous event of incredible portent which had not been seen since the Paleozoic era.

To this day, keeping track of the exact events of the game are actually impossible. As the beer turned to liquor and the liquor turned to more liquor, the entirety of events became alike a montage of sorts. Observing the match was after a point completely out of the question. Indeed, even recollecting it in any meaningful manner is absolutely absurd. It had ceased to be a pool game in every conventional sense of the term.

By a certain point, I found myself completely divorced of the game and talking with Cajun and an aged bar woman. Somehow, we had come across a plate of mozzarella sticks - whether by Providence or by Perdition, I dare not guess. What was clear, however, is that they were gone nearly as soon as they had come.  The bar fly left and we ended up returning to our game as if we'd never met her.

Eventually, however, we vacated and somehow I found myself at home. I'm still not clear of the exact sequence of how I got home, but I somewhat remember Dodge driving Slim's Oldsmobile, so I imagine that's how that happened. I wandered inside and began to steadily drain my tap of all the water I could muster. I would need it unless I wanted to hate the world the next day. As my head hit the pillow, I found myself wondering if the game had even ended. I puzzled over this with the girlfriend back in California over Skype, and since she had not been there she was without an answer. Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps there was no real winner. That's not what matters, though. Ultimately, the important part of the entire adventure - the whole point of the endeavour, was that I somehow got out of it with a free bar tab for the night.

An Obituary, On Behalf of the ComradePants People

FOR BEST RESULTS CLICK HERE BEFORE READING

Information Ministry of the Politburo,

The Glorious Workers' Republic of Comrade Pants

Bedskaya-nod, Bedroom Oblast - Central Pantshouse Republic: 2, October, 2012 - 23:45

It is with heavy hearts that the workers and peasants of the Glorious Worker's Republic of Comrade Pants, with their Benevolent Leader, Comrade Pants, join in mourning with our dear comrades in the sovereign Queendom of Loud Noises the loss of a true visionary and dedicated revolutionary, Comrade Zombiefishfish.

From an early age, Comrade Zombiefishfish - born Xena, the Warrior Fishess - was no stranger to screwing over fate. At scarcely any age, the poor betta did seem thoroughly dead when Comrade Lyssa Bee checked on her. However, when hope for the fish seemed all but gone, Xena arose - like Jesus, but better because she was real and underwater. It was at this moment that all those who struggle for Revolution learned to look to the guiding leadership of the newly rechristened Comrade Zombiefishfish to lead the way to a glorious tomorrow, lived beneath the waves and free of the spectre of death. 

However, as it must be with all living things, our dear comrade was cruelly taken from us over the last weekend. Appropriately, at yesterday's 4th Extraordinary Party Summit in Basementograd Oblast, the Central Committee declared this week to be a week of mourning for one of the greatest fish to ever live, die, and relive. The world is much poorer for her loss. 

Comrade Zombiefishfish is survived by her bowl and personal effects. Comrade Zombiefishfish was twice awarded the Red Banner of Socialist Labor and was merited once each with the Order of Lenin and the Hero of the Glorious Workers' Republic of Comrade Pants. In pace, requiescat.

Рыба всех стран, соединяйтесь!

A Motley Collection of Shitty Aphorisms

It has been stated - by me - that the most useful information is that which might be absorbed quickly. Whether true or not is irrelevant, because it gives me a great excuse for this article. You see, ever since Benjamin Franklin was alive, authors who liked to espouse their wisdom would put themselves in the habit of forming small, useful tidbits of advice. This is all well and dandy, and if I'm to be any sort of decent writer for you people I ought to do the same.
Herewith, some things you can read as I attempt to satisfy my ego and sound wise.

Bad advice is seldom profited from.

Senility is like life's version of the music speeding up when you run out of time in Mario.

Why walk when you can run? For that matter, why run when you can wheelchair?

Nobody likes an asshole. People assume they're full of shit.

If you know an obscure language, you can be rude to anyone and pass it off as a complement.

Wordcraft is a much easier way to project an air of wisdom than warcraft.

Good advice is seldom profited from.

Blocking a bullet is like pissing off Lyssa Bee: Anyone can do it once, but to do it twice is an impossibility.

Drinking until you black out is time travel for the Bohemian.

Si intellegis, quam tu mihi lingua mortua.

Once bitten, twice burned, thrice ointmented.

Never bring a knife to a gun fight. Conversely, always endeavor to bring a gun to a knife fight.

It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a trailer park to raise a child poorly.

College is much akin to a trip to Vegas. In certain circles, it will do much for your reputability - but the most lasting gift it gives you is tremendous debt.

No one will remember anything that happened today in twenty years, so go ahead and have that extra shot.

They've never jailed anyone for vandalizing a graffiti mural.

To be quoted repeatedly is to attain immortality.

So there you have it, a collection of aphorisms that you can use to impress your friends! I must stress that you use these at wedding toasts, dinner parties and society occasions with all of your rich, bon-vivant friends. While I can truthfully guarantee that no one has ever been fired or lost a friendship over my aphorisms and advice, I do not think any of my competitors in this field can make this same claim.

Incidentally, if anyone *does* quote me, I'd like to hear about it. Surely one of you - Brugman - has a big academic paper to write, right? Slip one of my aphorisms in there and I can guarantee wholeheartedly and with crossed fingers that your professors and readers will love you forever.

But for now, I must adjourn. Duty calls and Darth Malak won't kill himself.

EDIT: If you somehow managed to find my blog through some place that isn't Google Plus, go here and here to hear my good friend, Lyssa Bee, at Loud Noises! read this post.

[spoilers]

Welly welly well well, old friends. The time has come around again, hasn't it? Put on your best festive cape because it is once again time for me to update my blog. I envy you, really, because you get to sit and read all the wonderful little things I have to say and grow all the more content inside for having poured over them.

It's like an early Christmas.

Lately, I have been tremendously ill. While ill, however, my thoughts were always of you, the reader, and many of those thoughts were actually quite pleasant. They involved, where I can speak of them, writing more things for you to read and devising new concepts to write about: weed and Halo and linear mass accelerators and even a bit about a leprechaun named LaDarius who liked to compose epic hour long lyrical ballads about the ultimate futility of war. I bandied about continuing my space horror epic or about trying to commit to Internet all of the marvelous untold tales of Hallowed Berkeley, but ultimately these ideas were considered by the Committee for What Pantsy is Writing About Today to be inappropriate for the current world and were unceremoniously dropped until the next plenary meeting of the Politburo.

However, I could not leave you wonderful, horrible people with nothing to read about after my convalescence, so I endeavored to produce for you all some article of appreciable length which you might consume and think about and use as further evidence for the validity of misanthropy, or, at the very least, mispantsthropy.

And then it hit me.

Like a pallet of bricks or a burlap sack full of retarded puppies dropped from a bridge on high, it hit me. Why not write a blog entry about nothing? I could merely procrastinate in pose and drag it out for as long as I possibly could and I could wrap it in well constructed, dry, sarcastic prose as to make the reading an altogether bearable experience whilst at the same time passing it off as some sort of literary statement - a condemnation of the lack of substance in modern "literature," for example.

Brilliant! Visionary! Accomplished!

These are just a few of the accolades which my ego assured me I would win from my peers by the composition of such a work. The very thought of such a thing made me grin in anticipation of the Pulitzer I would most deservedly win for this work. All I had to do was compose it, and before I knew it my night of mild drinking was wearing off and that's exactly what I was doing.

Oh, but how would I handle the shift in tense? Things had gone from observing the past to thinking about it as I wrote it. It was a troubling time, to be sure, and I had no idea how I could handle this. Perhaps I could just ignore it? I could attempt to do this subtly, but those who know me know that this is not my modus operandi, and so I fear I can't use it here without raising eyebrows.

Regardless, that's a problem of the past, I think, for most people reading this have by now probably noticed that I am now in the presence tense. And as I type this, all sense of cohesion and substance that might have existed before have bled from the paper. This 'experimental writing' thing is utter bollocks. I think I may have been trying to play this Gonzo, but I'm not sure. Sarcastic Gonzo? Someone find out if that's a thing. As for me? I'm doing stuff now. Go away.

New PC and Voice Acting

Why, hello friends. It's your old friend Comrade Pants. Would you people like to know what rustles my jimmies? Dell. Yes, Dell. You know, I really should have expected a laptop which was essentially a cheap-ass tablet PC to die at any moment. I certainly should not have used it as a primary computer for four years, but I suppose that's how life goes, isn't it? On occasion you'll have money. A responsible choice of a new PC will present itself.

However, the responsible choice is not firearms and booze and debauchery. No, these are the 'fun' choices, and it was those choices that led me to where I was not too long ago. You see, when my computer finally entered that stage where all it will let you do is enter safe mode and get your shit out, well, let's just say that that's what you find yourself doing.

All is not lost, however, as I've got a netbook. However, this has made my writing take something of a hit. Fortunately, I have been making great strides in voice acting as a career pathway. For example, I'm doing a bit of practice rendering this article in something of an estuary English brogue. I shall put a link below and hope that you all find it worth your time to indulge in.

THIS IS MY NORMAL VOICE, YOU FOOLS. THIS IS. <-Linky slinky

Short subject: Solitude

This is the first in a new series I've been toying about with in relation to an earlier sci-fi horror story I abandoned. While unrelated to the prior story in any sort of narrative sense, I think it preserves the same sort of presentation, at least for a while, before moving into a more straightforward narrative style after some time. Let me know what you think, and whether or not I should just go ahead and get a different blog for my political rambling so I can just keep my stories here. Enjoy!

ARMSTRONG STATION
Cmdr. Gary Howard, USN Station Commander
Mission Control: Specialist Jorge Santiago, NASA

21.10.2077
031 ZULU

AS: Mission Control, do you read? Confirming slingshot of 2067ER, I say again Houston, this is Armstrong Station, object 2067 Echo Romeo has slingshotted lunar gravity well as per JPL's projections.

HOUSTON: Roger that, Armstrong Station. Received.

AS: Is everything alright down there, Houston?

HOUSTON: Negative, Armstrong Station. We're all taking news of the impending impact about as well as we can be expected to. President Clarke has declared martial law as of 2200 last night. Armstrong, can you give us a more precise trajectory on object 2067 Echo Romeo?

AS: Affirmative on that request, Houston. Object is closing at 22.652 km per second and is closing. It appears to have fragmented somewhat upon hitting our grav-well, and we have no way of projecting who's going to get the worst of it. And-

AS (A): Houston, this is Armstrong Actual, Commander Howard. Sorry to interrupt you there, Jorge.

AS: That's no problem, Commander.

AS (A) Houston, we're all praying for you up here, Houston.

Houston: * Unintelligible* We just can't believe it's finally happening, you know? No one down here can. We study this sort of thing all our lives and we never really expect to have to live it.

AS (A): Understood, Houston. We're so sorry.

Houston: NASA Command is relocating to Montgomery Westland. Transmissions will now cease. Forward your telemetry and guidance data to our redundant channels as well as parallel channels for JPL and Kennedy. You men and women are the last assured survivors we can count on. With any luck... Just, persevere. 10,000 years of civilization absolutely cannot end here. Do it right this time. Don't kill each other and just... Survive.

AS (A): Understood, Houston. Here's hoping you all live to see another day.

Houston: We can only hope. This is Houston, signing off. May God help us all, and may Humanity live to see another day.

END TRANSMISSION:
HOUSTON://// DISCONNECT. STATUS !!!RED!!!
TELEMETRY, RADIO, DOWNLINK LOST
HOST DISCONNECT.

On the 21st of October, 2077, a large asteroid impacted with our planet, fragmenting and destroying major cities on every inhabited continent, decimating humanity.

The last, best hope for the species rests with just under 250 men and women of a joint NASA, RusCosmos, commercial and CNSA team which had been dispatched to humanity's first permanent lunar settlement in a desperate last bid to save the species. Their precious cargo is over 20,000 frozen embryos and the genetic samples of humanity's best and brightest. Their only directive: enter hibernation and survive until such a time as humanity can be re-established on Earth.

However, they have a problem...

The News Sucks

Last night, America and, to a greater extent, humanity as a whole had cause to celebrate as the Curiosity rover landed unharmed upon the surface of Mars in a highly technical acrobatic display that would make Michael Bay jizz himself. Truly, it was a crowning achievement for the trouble stricken NASA and a beleaguered United States. We may be losing our superpower status, but at least we're still pioneers in the field of space travel.

The cable news, however, was all but silent on the matter. Enter now, the part that pisses me off. You see, if you weren't aware beforehand, there was a massacre a day ago in Wisconsin at a Sikh temple. A tragedy, to be sure, fueled by hatred and prejudice. However, this wasn't even what the news took issue with. So, what could CNN have been reporting to raise my ire so greatly?

Guns.

Guns. Apparently, the rash of shootings lately is solely due to firearms. Never mind that they are but a tool. Nevermind that they're used to prevent crime far more often than they are used in the commission of crime. Nope. CNN doesn't care. It's a much bigger story for CNN if they can imply that guns are the problem and that you, John and Jane Public, are in horrendous danger until Congress does something.

This is what pisses me off. If we want to prevent shootings, we shouldn't look at banning guns for innocent people. If anything, we should make it easier for victims to get guns - as rapists and muggers and abusive spouses probably don't care if you're in a waiting period for your potentially life saving EDC when they can simply go buy one on the corner. Why not tighten up who can get a gun? I say we do much more thorough checking for mentally unstable people, include background checking for racist and hate based organizations somehow, and impose stiffer penalties - including much harsher prison sentences - for those involved in straw purchases, and make carrying much easier for law abiding citizens by amending monetary and waiting requirements for carry permits.

In any case, if we do ban guns (which is a completely retarded idea anyway), the criminals out there certainly won't comply with this law. Hell, I've never disobeyed a law that mattered and I'd still refuse to turn in my guns. However, millions of lawful gun owners will. The first night of the gun ban would be a field day for the vermin of this nation. With nothing to stop them, the armed and unopposed criminal element of this country would be completely free to run amok - stealing, raping, murdering. This is why we can never allow our gun rights to be infringed, people. MOLON LABE

The Invasion

0220: Central Pants Time

An invasion of unprecedented daring and gall took place in the sovereign household of the Glorious Workers' Republic of ComradePants on the Fourth of August, 2012 at 2334 hours. Whilst building Communism for the glorious workers of Tropico 3, I happened to glance up and to the right, putting down my stolichnaya and coke and gasping as I saw a hideous cockroach making its' way up my wall.

In the old days, my response would be swift, emotionless, and efficient. However, upon reaching for the airsoft pistol which I usually kept handy for just such an occasion, I discovered that I had trouble. You see, I had no airsoft gun nearby and the only projectile weapon within range was my M1911. The situation, while dire, did not yet necessitate bringing the police out on a negligent discharge call. I was forced to play the waiting game.

At that time, my friends Josh and Briana called me on Skype. I relayed to them the harrowing play by play of the invasion, relating to them every sickening step which the dread roach made as it unnaturally dragged its filthy, diseased plastron across the pristine ivory wood molding which lined the ceiling. I thrilled with terror as it neared me, still just barely without my reach.

Finally, the loathsome creature lost its footing. It fell grotesquely onto the top of a picture frame just above the bed on which I sat. I decided that now must be the time of action and, thinking swiftly, I readied a nearby can of Lysol which I had acquired for the night I made Mexican food.

I immediately began my campaign of chemical warfare against the pest, unleashing a lethal mist of cleansing, citrus-y fog against this dread intruder. I was unsure as to his demise but declared victory, regardless, to my rapt audience on Skype, but remained vigilant, only to see the horrid vermin crawl nauseatingly out from the bottom frame of the picture. Here, I could take no more. I assailed the beast with the edge of the can, sending it hurling to the floor below - hopefully bereft of life.

I immediately declared a tentative victory. I had brought peace, freedom, justice, and security to my new Empire. I felt secure in my victory, rewarding myself with a Russian military medal I had lying nearby. However, this new victory meant that sacrifice was, unfortunately, necessary.

Though the roach rebellion had been foiled, the remaining roaches were probably still out there, yet to be hunted down and defeated.

The attempt on my life had left me jittery and afraid to turn off the light and go to sleep, but I assure you; my resolve has never been stronger.

In order to ensure my safety and the continuing roachlessness of my sleeping mouth, the Glorious Workers' Republic of ComradePants will be reorganized into the FIRST... INSOMNIAC'S... EMPIRE!!!

For a roachless... and orange scented... bedroom.

On The Moral Superiority of Communism

Comrades, I may just be a subpar poet/writer/articlist/essayist/failed novelist, but I believe that it doesn't take a social scientist or psychologist to figure out that something is horribly, fatally wrong with the moral fiber United States and the West in general.

As I have previously indicated, I have a legion of problems with the inherent moral, ethical, and practical problems with Capitalism. I am, in fact, an ardent Communist. The sad part of this is that history has demonstrated Communism to be a system inherently corruptible by the designs and appetites of powerful men - Iosef Stalin and Leonid Brezhnev, for example, and even rebels who begin their crusades with the best of intentions: Mao Tsetung, Kim Il Sung and Fidel Castro.

However, history has shown bourgeoisie Capitalism to be even more horrendously flawed - not for its ability to kill innocent people (an ability that is admittedly surpassed by deformed workers states such as North Korea and the post-Lenin Soviet Union). Capitalism's sins are infinitely worse. First, it provides an environment where greed is not only rewarded, but it is encouraged. Second, it creates an atmosphere wherein intellect is crushed to make way for profitability in the popular culture. Finally, Capitalism competes so very well that Communism, a system of infinitely greater moral fortitude, cannot help but adapt lest it be subsumed.

In a Capitalist society, a man is rewarded not by his intelligence, his talents or even necessarily his moral integrity. Indeed, these character assets may be detrimental to one's success in a Capitalist society. Unless one's intelligence is in the manipulation of people and money, it can only hinder his acquisition of more and more meaningless wealth. A man's talent, unless used towards the manipulation of one's fellows, can only lead him to be exploited by those in managerial positions. See how artists and musicians are sought out by "agents" and recording industry cabals in order to hawk their wares and how, without such things, it is hard to establish one's reputation. In true Communism, the arts are promoted by the Workers' State and distributed to the masses. Music, art and literature of true intellectual integrity are promoted above banal trash.

But, I get ahead of myself. My first point is that in Capitalism, you are either the worker or the exploited. If you possess the clarity to make this distinction, then chances are strong that you'll eventually become an exploiter of the labor of the masses. The masses which are increasingly finding themselves replaced by cheap overseas labor, in perhaps the most sickening revival of colonialism imaginable. You can see how all manufacturing is done in nations which are intentionally kept poor and stupid by the West. At the very least, the British and French intended to gradually raise Africa, India, and Southeast Asia up to be developed, modern regions. The foreign policy of the United States and her allies dictates that these areas shall remain thoroughly grounded in the 19th century with regards to development in order to provide fertile grounds to which we may outsource our labor and cheapen it to near slavery wages.

On, now, to my second point. That is, that intellect is more or less discouraged in a Capitalist society. Even after Stalin had wrested control of the Soviet Union from the Trotskyists - the true heirs to Lenin's legacy - a man could expect to make a career in academia. Though the field was far from profitable, this mattered little. So long as one's subject matter was not seen as subversive to the State or the Stalinist corrupted 'dictatorship of the proletariat' - thereby personified as "Comrade" Stalin, a person might study in whatever field their heart desired and could expect a living wage for all their days, for a Communist believes that the right to work to earn one's living is a right that can never be revoked.

This is not so in Capitalism, however. If your intellect does not serve greater profitability, then may your intellect be damned! If you study any sort of specific demographic, or a historical field, or any of a number of esoteric fields, then you have very little expectation of finding work. A capitalist will tell you that this does not prohibit you from learning those fields, but as usual the capitalist is mistaken. In Capitalist nations, education costs money and, in the Corporatist United States, if you cannot foot the bill then you are shit out of luck. They'll tell you that there are loans, sure, but given the ludicrous prospect of actually paying them off, you cannot realistically expect to study anything that doesn't pay off. This leads to people failing to have the ability to follow their dreams and even the intelligent are forced to find something profitable and soulless in order to make a living. This contributes to the general hopelessness and depression that is the hallmark of the developed world. Not to worry, though. Someone will sell you a pill to clear that right up.

Now, this is all quite depressing and makes one wish that somewhere along the way the world had never went so wrong. Maybe Lenin never had his strokes, or Trotsky managed to sic the Bolsheviks on Stalin before it was too late and the global Communist revolution had never been reigned in and, perhaps permanently, killed off. The fact is, though, that ultimately Communism cannot compete so long as a single Capitalist system is left in operation. Where there are bourgeoisie, there are exploiters. Where there are Workers attempting to live in peace, profit seekers will arise to oppress them.

A Marxist believes passionately in the right to work, the right for a worker to have rest and leisure, the right to healthcare, the right to be cared for in old age and infirmity, and the right to be educated. However, how can a state which gives these rights to people ever dream of competing with a system enriched by the sale of these rights to their proletariat? Indeed, the Capitalist would probably sell you air if he could. They already sell water - even as millions of our fellow human beings die of thirst and dehydration every year. Oh, but that doesn't matter. They don't live here. They aren't rich. Why on Earth should the Capitalist care when he cannot turn a profit? The fact is that we're down to five states which claim to be Communist. Let's take a tally of them, shall we?

The People's Republic of China: Despite my respect for the People's Republic of China, their liberation of Tibet, their reclamation of Hong Kong and Macau, and their continued struggle to reunify with the Capitalist held province of Taiwan, I am forced to admit that they're drifting closer and closer to Corporatism. The Chinese Communist Party is becoming more and more reminiscent of the Capitalist bourgeoisie with each and every deal they make with American, Japanese, Taiwanese and South Korean corporations to grow fat off of the labors of their countrymen in foreign owned sweatshops.
The Republic of Cuba: A deformed worker's state, slowly drifting towards Capitalism in the mold of the CCP.
Lao People's Democratic Republic: Yet another would-be China.
The Socialist Republic of Vietnam: And again, another would-be China. In fact, the Communist Party of Vietnam have even gone on record as saying they based their reform efforts off of Deng Xiaoping theory. How very kind of them.
The Democratic People's Republic of Korea: The strangest case of all, the most deformed Communist state imaginable. Indeed, I don't even consider them to be a Communist nation even by the standards of the nations listed above. They're more akin to a creepy cult state: Scientology, the regime; if you will. If the Soviet Union had never undergone destalinization, it would have looked a lot like this. They have almost completely shuttered themselves off from the outside world, opening up only when the ruling cabal can turn a profit from Chinese, Russian and South Korean investors.

So, as you can see, the states which survived the tragic fall of Communism did so either by bending over for the bourgeoisie or by going completely insane. The fact is that Communism, for all of its moral superiority, simply cannot compete. This is my musing, and bummer though it may be, I feel as though it serves a valuable lesson. So long as the bourgeoisie remains in any form in any land, the Revolution will never - must never - end.

Thank you for your time and patience in reading this, comrades.

Intermezzo II: Poe-etry

Seeing as how for whatever reason the massive imbibe-ment of marijuana and alcohol has a somewhat deleterious effect on one's memory, I am forced to once again share some of my poetry with this interweb so that I might appear to be a productive writer. This piece is my own personal homage to a Poe-esque love poem. The only difference being that here my subject is still very much alive and, unfortunately for Edgar Allan Poe - his subjects were typically either dead, taken by another man, a child, or all three at the same time.

In any case, allow me to present to you: To Miss WSL.

The fiery heat of Georgia's summers pale in comparison to the inferno that rages within your heart.
Your eyes blaze as a focused beam of sunlight, alighting the kindling of my very soul and setting my passions ablaze.
Before you, I had never known what it meant to be truly alive - free and aware of the passions within my spirit which are now guided - given focus and direction by the signal-fire of your heart.

But for now, my bed is empty.
For now, my bed is cold.
For now you are not near me,
For now my heart is cool.

Though I see you every day, I cannot touch you.
Though we speak every day, I cannot feel you.
Though we share our love daily, I cannot embrace you.
Though we spend our days with each other, we are not together.

Until we next meet, I am but brush, awaiting the spark of your spirit to awaken my heart's conflagration once more.
Until that time: I love you.
Until time itself ends: I am yours.

Intermission: Lovecraftesque

I wrote a quick poem to see if I can still horror goodly. You tell me what you think, dear readers, though I am expecting the rotted tomatoes in short order. In any case, this shall provide some surcease of the nigh endless stream of amazing funtime entries I've been writing about the awesome experiences you're not having.

The haggard souls all know this well,
In maddening, awful, frightening hells,

On sordid grounds stained with men's blood,
Neglected by figments far above.

But myriad still are things unseen,
Devils, they, with words unclean.

From across the Aether, a slithering voice,
Invades my mind, with tendrils moist

It calls from Ynith with tones of rock
To terrify and senses shock

And now, though late, awake a lie
I wish one thing before I die

And that is that these foul and awful beings
Should only free me from their wretched schemes.

Berkeley Travelogue Part V: The Berk

I awoke early the next day, though as was my custom, I still woke latest. I embraced Weishan, so thrilled and touched to finally be reunited with her at long last. My heart fluttered, awe struck by her beauty. Sadly, she had a class to attend to that day, and my traveling companion Elisabeth was due to see her long missed relatives across the Bay in Frisco - and so I was left to the oh so miserable and not at all enjoyable company of my good friend Katie.

Katie made it a point to make me as familiar as a crippled Georgian can be made with the nearly vertical climes of the area surrounding the UC Berkeley campus. I remember distinctly my remark that the trip would be much better served by mounting rappelling ropes on the hills. I would much rather that than try to do the climb without them. It was on one particularly long hill that my love of the city was made concrete. I saw the Berkeley stadium, regarding it as a Dwemer ruin of some sort, as that is exactly how it appeared: a large, granite, art deco construct.

Traveling further up the hill, I had some overly-sensitive prat praising the culture of political correctness stuck behind me. I was just silently absorbing the details of his life I'd need to hunt him down later via his monologue to his no doubt lobotomized friend when we surmounted the hill. I immediately followed Katie off towards the campus, as I decided my first day in Berkeley would be a lousy day to acquire my first felony.

The Berkeley campus was truly a sight to behold. There were great redwood trees, incredible architecture of epic scale and scope, laboratories where brilliant minds pushed back the boundaries of human knowledge inch by enlightening inch. It was almost too much for me to take in, actually. It was all so surreal to see. I began seriously entertaining the thought of living there, a thought made all the more real as we entered a gelato shop and I proceeded to eat the best gelato of my life. And that was when we reunited with Weishan...

Berkeley Travelogue IV: A New Hope

It was in baggage claim that I reunited with Weishan, embracing her with all of my love, much to the audible disgust of Elisabeth and Katie who waited nearby. Unfortunately, time was working against us. We had just arrived and due to the fact that United's disembarking schemes had likely been formulated by some low functioning specimen of primate (although, arguably, a primate might be more clever) we were forced to speed through the concourse as if on an Olympic sprinting track in order to make the last BART ride across the Bay to Berkeley.

The ticketing process for the train was, for whatever reason, extraordinarily slow. After we left the tram to the BART station, we had to wait on a considerably broken ticketing machine to deign us worthy of receiving its product before we could enter the station, and then a further 30 minutes for the train to show up. Finally, it did. Unbelievably, we had made it just in time and we were soon aboard what had to be the most crowded train I'd ever ridden. Scores of drunken hippies and hipsters packed in like Vienna sausages, pressing the four of us quite tightly together. While this was no problem for Weishan and I - who had not stopped being awful since we first saw each other that day - Elisabeth and Katie were hurriedly constructing nooses. Whether for themselves or for us, we did not know, but thankfully, we arrived before they could hang them on the hand bars of the train.

We had safely arrived past the transbay tunnel and exited into the cool, crisp air of the Berkeley night. After a short walk through the surprisingly bustling college town - very cool compared to the oppressive Georgian heat of the season - we arrived at Weishan's apartment and, after having all three of them haul my wheelchair up the stairs because lol teh cripplez, we were safely inside. We enjoyed a filling dinner thanks to the generosity of my fiancee and settled in to watch - COMPLETELY LEGALLY COUGH COUGH - A Cabin In The Woods. Afterwards, we all settled in to our respective beds. For sleep, obviously. 

Berkeley Travelogue, Part III: SFO sho.

Without any real means of distraction, the flight from Houston was a nightmare of tedium and antici... pation. I was by this point stone sober again and there was no amusement to be had. I had powered off my phone, so that upon arrival I could communicated with my beloved fiancee and my friend who would meet us there as Elisabeth's phone had developed some sort of allergy to electricity and, thus, refused to remain charged.

The hours crawled by on hands and knees, as if each minute were locked in a heated contest with the last to see which could be the slowest goddamned minute in existence. It wore on me, and the fact that I'd downed three caffeine laden complementary sodas in the past hour or so likely exacerbated the issue considerably.

After far too long, though, the captain's voice filled the cabin. "Please stow your trays in the upright position, we're now on approach to SFO, San Francisco International." I couldn't listen to the rest, excited as I was. In clear defiance of FAA protocol, I took out my phone and once we were within service altitude, texted her that we were almost on the tarmac. I wish I had waited some time, though, as disembarkment took forever.

Once Elisabeth and I were in the loading ramp, we immediately proceeded to the tram. The tram journey left my knuckles white and my palms sweaty. If I could feel my knees as we navigated the kafkhaesque labyrinth of SFO, they'd have felt akin to freshly boiled spaghetti as we made our way to baggage claim. Upon arriving and claiming my bags, however, I saw them: Katie and my beloved fiancee, Weishan. The disgustingness was about to commence, and there was nothing that Elisabeth or Katie could do about it.

Berkeley Travelogue Part II: Houston

It was mid afternoon in the local time when we touched down at George Bush Intercontinental - a well laid out, thoughtfully designed piece of architecture in Houston - the first land outside of my time zone I had ever laid tire upon. Exiting the plane was as much an ordeal as entering it, but as soon as I was in the terminal - and after fighting a crowd of my fellow passengers for use of the restroom facilities - Elisabeth and I began our epic journey across the airport to the flight that would, ultimately, land us at SFO.

It was apparent that we were in Texas from the get go. The air possessed a beany, meaty quality and the whole of the place smelled of beer. Contrasting this, the walls of the terminal were curving and polished white, possessing a space station quality about them. This is in difference, mind you, to the space stations of today - metal cylinders screaming through space, packed with technology and held together by hope in an apt analogy to modern air transit. No, this place resembled a great Asimov-esque vision of a tomorrow that will never come.

I could easily envision such a place playing host to elegant dignitaries from the horse head nebula, or brutal mercenaries from Gliese 581. This illusion was aided by the fact that people were zooming about in golf carts, and the automated messages in the trams were in far more than simply English and Spanish. The myriad of languages felt so cosmopolitan - so fresh. "Why don't we get this shit in Georgia?" I remember muttering.

It's rather sad that I didn't have time to appreciate the place better - to stop and smell the whiskey, as it were - for we were late for our connection and time was of the essence. We even skipped the duty free store - horror of horrors - just to make it to our plane in time. When, at last, we arrived, we boarded the great United 767. After again getting stuffed into an aisle wheelchair and rolled down the impossibly tight aisles to what would be my confinement for the next four hours, I remembered my brother - a pilot in training - warning me about how shitty United was. I had thought he was exaggerating and that my experience on the regional jet had just been due to it being a regional jet, but the second I was aboard those corporate vampires began their god awful cocktease.

I was glad of the TVs at each seat, filling my brain with endless distraction from the fact that I was not yet in Berkeley. Cruelly, this was torn from me by their demands for money upon takeoff. They dangled the hope of diversion before me, like keys before a baby, snatching them away once we were in the air and forcing me to be neighborly. And so, I turned to Elisabeth... who was neck deep in Plants Vs. Zombies. Ruing my cruel fate, I turned on my music player, pulled up some Alexandrov Ensemble music, and began wishing Aeroflot did US routes. I went to order a vodka, only to notice that it was the gutterwater commonly known as Absolut and decided to stay absolut-ly sober for the duration of the flight.

Berkeley Travelogue, Part 1: Leaving Lanter

Some weeks ago, I went on my first flight. It was also the first time I'd left my beloved Dixie and even ventured beyond the confines of my time zone. Needless to say, it was thrilling. I got to hang out with my beloved fiancee, Weishan, and meet for the very first time my good friend Katie. All in all, a thrilling excursion. Presented below, a vaguely 'dramatically enhanced' and somewhat semi-accurate retelling of my trip.

It was the late afternoon. I sat at the United terminal at Atlanta's Heartsfield International Airport, nervously biding my time before boarding. I turned to my friend and traveling companion, Elisabeth. Deeply involved in her laptop game, I could see that I would have to find my own entertainment before the flight. However, as shouting 'bomb' and stealing a jet were out of the question, I stuck to bothering Elisabeth with niggling little factoids and banal topics of conversation. It was like our constant texting, but in real life; because that's exactly what it was.

I had found myself, through strange luck and the utmost of Elisabeth's benevolence, with a free plane ticket to fly to the San Francisco bay. It probably helped that this is where my fiancee lives and Elisabeth, with her insatiable lust for exceptional breasts and Asian women, has something of a crush on my wife to be. Whatever the circumstances, I was allowed passage into this terminal, to this flight to the other side of this great nation. Somewhere along the chain of command, it would seem, someone had miscalculated greatly.

I was shocked, actually. I had somehow made it through the TSA without provoking a headlines making incident, nor had I alleged that I'd shout 'rape' the moment one of the uniformed thugs frisked my junk. This was unprecedented, and the minute I was stuffed into a special wheelchair and eased down the aisles of the regional jet that would convey me to the airfield in Houston, I decided to congratulate myself on my restraint with a $20 cocktail. However, there was a true and pressing problem with this course of action.

For whatever fiendish reason, some debased bastard in some insulated Washington law office - presumably the same place where they wrote the Hughes Amendment and thus finally murdered The Great God of Fun - decided that booze could not be served until after takeoff. This infuriated me, but now I was beyond the hall monitor like gaze of Atlanta's finest. No, I was in the big leagues. The FAA and the DHS were in charge on the streamlined silver snake that was my conveyance. The booze sweats began to sink in, a scream of rage welled up in my lungs. Bad enough they wouldn't let a man bring aboard a bit of herb, but this? It was the height of fascist excess, and any of a number of suits in our company could be air marshals.

"My god, when will we get in the air?" I asked Elisabeth, not five minutes after I was seated. The ground had taken on a sinister and unsettling vibe, akin to the shackles of a great slaving ship. The oppressive air filled me with ominous terrors. All at once, there was a great thundering. The air outside began to darken as lightening filled the skies. The runway itself splintered and cracked, lava issuing forth from the ground. It was pure bedlam. All at once, a great moaning began as surely the grizzly reaper had come to claim me. There was a tremendous shaking, as though the ground itself refused to have anything to do with me. This was no ordinary decay of American infrastructure. This was the end!

The moaning grew in intensity. I felt I could scream before I was jerked back to reality. We had just touched off. The ground fell beneath us as I whiped my brow gingerly. Still alive. Such rapturous joy. "We made it." I said confidently as Elisabeth rolled her eyes at me. I was pleased at this reaction and once the plane lurched up to cruising altitude, I tucked into my much deserved booze.

Red America

When you think about it, the United States makes an excellent case for Marxism.
 Well, I suppose it really doesn't take too much thought to realize it, but I was musing today and the thought had occurred to me that a large part of my country's problems were due to Capitalism and Commercialism run amok.

 For example, the ability of individuals and corporations to attain such wealth that they can essentially buy congressmen and kill any minor political party's electoral chances is beyond troubling. Let's not be mistaken here. In America, most of the new legislation that you hear about is designed by corporate interests to defend their bottom line. The war on drugs, the war on the middle class, the war on Internet privacy, austerity measures, the battle against healthcare - these are all Hydra like heads of a vast beast dedicated to defending the profits of the bourgeoisie and everyone with two brain cells to rub together knows it.

 I don't even mind too much when purely governmental interests tell me what to do as long as it's sensible. I mean, I don't drive drunk and I don't do hard drugs because there are damned good reasons that stuff is illegal. However, when I'm told that I can't copy my own music that I bought or that I can't smoke a blunt, I get pissed. These are laws passed by scumbags in suits to protect their greedy financial interests and it is essentially THEM telling ME what to do. Private citizens bossing around their peers. It needs to be stopped, and no one - including myself - is willing to do what truly needs to be done to stop them.

 The worst part? When America falls apart - a Soviet style breakup which I am sure will occur in this century - the problem will persist. Why? Because the average American is quite complacent. Further, the average American seems to believe quite fervently that capitalism is a good thing. The ignorance! It's utterly infuriating, isn't it?

 I am not above admitting that Communism and Marxism are flawed, but at least everyone has a fair chance under the strictest iterations of Marxist tenants. The odds are so heavily stacked in America today that it makes one yearn for the Cold War, almost. My generation is so thoroughly fucked that I'd take the Soviet Union over this. As a matter of fact, I'd love to try that. Give me a new Soviet Union, world. We need Communism to come back. Sound off in the comments, because my rant is done.

Also, fuck the new Blogger layout.

So I was sitting around today doing my usual activities - cashing large checks, writing novels, saving the world, etc - when a thought occured to me. I have no idea what sort of beer the Internet prefers!

So I thought I'd end my self imposed exile to ask you lot a simple question. What beers are you people drinking? To start, my two favorites:



and



Finally, I have a bottle of expensive, imported German beer that I've yet to drink. What can you lot tell me about...

The Vidya Gaem Musix

You know what? Fuck whatever anyone has to say against it. New Vegas was the greatest Fallout game of all time. Search your feelings, you know it to be true.

Anyway, there was a song in the game that - despite my disdain for 99% of all country music - I can never seem to get out of my head. To that end, here are the lyrics to Lone Star.



I can see that lone star from a thousand miles away,
Calling me back home though I’ve ventured far astray.
When I see that beacon shining for me all alone,
It calls me back to Texas and to home.

Lone star shine down on my home town -
Fill my memory light my way!

Cattle in the old corral, the open range all ’round -
Sunlight and the smell of new mown hay.
I remember though I’ve wandered and much happiness I’ve found,
Still I wish that I could be back there today!

I know my home is waiting for me by the river shore,
I know that all the ones I love will welcome me once more.
In dreams I see them now though it seems I’m bound to roam,
My thoughts are still of Texas and of home.

Cattle in the old corral, the open range all ’round -
Sunlight and the smell of new mown hay.
I remember though I’ve wandered and much happiness I’ve found -
Still I wish that I could be back there today!

I know my home is waiting for me by the river shore,
I know that all the ones I love will welcome me once more.
In dreams I see them now though it seems I’m bound to roam,
My thoughts are still of Texas and of home.

The Rome Rant

This past weekend, with far too much free time on my hands and in desperate search of something fun to do with my out of town company for the weekend, I quested to the local mall and proceeded to demonstrate to my good friend a particularly entertaining store that was contained within.

This store was full of cosplaying things - steampunk coats and pirate dusters and replica robes and Jedi robes and the like; as well as accouteraea such as Star Trek flasks and sonic screwdrivers. It was while showing my friend this wonderful store and bragging about the fact that his lousy Citadel mall in Charleston had nothing like this that I saw it: a stunning replica of a galea that might be worn with segmentata iorica behind a display case full of replica Civil War firearms and knives. In layman's terms, it was a Roman army helmet.

Now, those that know me as my good friend Elisabeth know me can tell you that I have something of a minor... major... obsessive fascination with Rome, both Res Publica Romana and Imperium Romanum. Hell, I'm even interested in the Basileia Rhomaion - that is, the Byzantine continuation of the Roman Empire - of the East. To see such a replica there before me was quite a treat, even if I had no Earthly way to afford such a thing.

I inquired with the shopkeep about the thing, in my haste forgetting that not everyone is as familiar with Rome as am I and drew a strange look from her. "I've never heard anyone actually call this thing what it actually is." She said, revealing that she was a fan of Rome on HBO and, despite her attempts to get into it, found the newer Spartacus series to be somewhat lackluster.

It was while discussing this that I suddenly felt a deep and unabating sadness in my heart. Rome gets nowhere near the attention it deserves in schools anymore, it seems. In American textbooks, when I was a child, Rome would get a passing paragraph in World History. Sure, we got to read all about the influences of Rome on our legal system and our society years later in High School, and this may all be able to be chalked up to a grievous deficiency in Southern United States education, but all the same it seems wrong.

The history of Rome is, in essence, the story of how we got where we are. Further, it serves as an invaluable mirror through which we may examine ourselves. For example, we would do well to remember the courage of Titus Herminius Aquilinus in keeping his homeland safe, the Roman virtues of Seneca, and, most important, perhaps - and perhaps the reason we teach history in the first place - the mistakes of Rome; arrogance, complacency, avarice. These are lessons which are seemingly forgotten by the newest generation of movers and thinkers - of which I am a part - that is moving swiftly to fill the shoes left to us by our forefathers.

Furthermore, is it too much to ask for Latin to return to schools? I remember listening with envy when my parents would describe taking Latin in school - public school. It gave my father an excellent starting point from which to learn Spanish and my mother derived much of her knowledge of French from that grand old tongue. Further, it is used in medicine, law, astronomy, and so many more sciences. An understanding of Latin can be a gateway to so much more.

It was as I pondered these things, leaving the shop, that I gave a sigh. We could be so much more, I think, if we were more aware of our past. It's why I take it upon myself to pour over all the information about Rome that I can get my grubby mits on and why you should, too.

Is there a point to this? Can I properly end an article where all I do is rant and muse?
The answer, friends, to both of these questions... is no. Ta!

This post was originally written on the 28th of February for my dear friend Elisabeth's blog: Shenanigans and Excitement! It is reprinted here to distract from the lack of new, meaningful content.

My Thoughts on Kony Slacktivism.

All this "Kony" BS just highlights how fickle people are.
Was everyone blind to child soldiers before this?
No.
Will an awareness campaign to alert the public to an issue they knew full well about but did absolutely nothing to help, solve the issue?
No.

Everyone is so quick to jump on a bandwagon and show how much of a good human being they are because they wear a t-shirt or post a status on Facebook while doing nothing to get to the root of the problem or address the issue.

What is truly sad is that when people get bored of the issue they forget about it entirely and move on to another feel good cause the same way they move onto a new fashion trend. This month's child soldiers is next month's South American deforestation.

Stay classy 1st world.

-/b/

This Kony2012 business is all well and good. I'm all for making tyrants and murderers pay for being tyrants and murderers. However, social media won't do anything towards arresting Kony. After all, if the people who've wanted him dead for all these years can't get him, what good will a little slacktivism do?

People mindlessly throwing their attention to whatever trendy fad cause someone shits out is far from productive. If you want to do a good turn for the world, you need to pick something, focus on it, and spend YEARS of HARD WORK on the subject. Just watching some over produced shitty video designed specifically to tug at your heart strings won't do shit. "But I'm spreading awareness!" You say? Horse shit.

Awareness doesn't do a damned thing beyond letting people think they're doing something when, in reality, they're just in a massive hipster circle jerk patting themselves on the back and pretending to be globally conscious.

Tell you what. You know who made your clothes? Your phone? Your computer? Child slaves in China and Indonesia. Where's the outcry about that? Are you going to change your profile picture? Want to post a video about it? Oh, make us aware. That will fix everything. Except it won't.

If you aren't willing to actually physically help things and want to pay it off to the next person down the line, essentially what slacktivism does, then you aren't helping. Besides that, there's literally nothing we can do. All awareness is going to do is make yet another thing for hipsters who pretend to give two shits about the world something to talk about for a week as they drink their non fair trade coffee, in their child labor produced name brand clothes as they type on their overpriced, slave produced electronics.

We're all part of the problem and unless you're completely willing to give up living in the first world there is literally nothing you can do about it.

Food for thought, readers. Food for thought. /rant

I have a secret shame that I must confide in someone - anyone - and since no one reads this blog, it may as well be here. For a few years now, I've followed the life and times of a bizarre, strange Internet creature. His name is Christian Weston Chandler, and his weird psyche and unusual behaviors will elicit shock, dismay, pity and amusement. It is the strangest sort of schadenfreude, watching this manchild as he screams at the Internet.

Enough people by this point have talked about him that to add my own opinion would likely be futile. All I can do... is point you to the extensive wiki.

I'm Offended!

So I was reading a blog - this one, to be exact - and I thought of something. Notice how there's a disclaimer at the top of the article? Let me quote, here, if you're too lazy to click it. "Warning: This post may contain language that is offensive to some." Since when do we treat offense like it's some kind of radioactive isotope? Why do we, as a collective whole, get so paranoid about hurting people's feelings? There's no right in this nation not to be offended.

You see, I'm in a wheelchair but I say cripple all the time. I'm a self described cripple. I, frankly, don't have time to be offended and anyone who hates me simply for the fact that I'm in a wheelchair is quite obviously feeble minded and their opinion - therefore - is not worth consideration. See how easy it is? It's not a big fucking deal to hear cripple or faggot or nigger. Why should people let words hurt them? Grow a thicker skin and toughen up. Unless the Westboro Baptist Church or the fucking KKK are coming around shouting it at you, there's absolutely nothing to fear from a simple word.

What's even worse is the people who get offended but aren't even involved in the allegedly pejorative words being used. For instance, I was discussing European politics with some friends some time ago and the word 'Gypsy' came up. The whitest white guy I know, whose family has been in the States for generations and hasn't a drop of Roma in them, said that he found that word offensive and that the preferred term is 'Roma.' Really? Why should he be offended? Some times, I think this society goes way too far to try not to step on anyone's toes. It's okay, you know. They're just words. Toughen up and get on with it. Yes, that means you, the 'R' Word.

That's one I really don't understand. The term 'mental retardation' quite literally means a slowing of the mental faculties. It is an accurate descriptor and was even designed to be specifically politically correct. Do they think that by newspeaking the word away they can magically stop people from calling out their buddies for being stupid and acting like idiots? No! In fact, in the United Kingdom, children have already taken to using 'special' as an insult. It is an ultimately futile campaign and a downright waste of energy that could go to solving real problems that the mentally deficient face - things like lack of proper care and funding for special education and adult assistance. The reasoning for this futile campaign must be mindboggling.

Now, make no mistake. I am not a hateful man at all, here. I mean, my dearest and closest friend - other than my fiancee - is a bisexual woman. My fiancee herself is a minority - Chinese, in fact. I like to think I'm a very tolerant man and I believe that no one should be hated or reviled simply because of what they are. Still, being offended doesn't make you special. It's not like you taking offense at something suddenly gives you the right to silence someone else. We all have a right to say whatever we damn well please and if people don't like it, then they don't have to listen.

Anyway, that's my rant. Sound off in the comments if you have something to say about it. I need a drink.

Critique my writing!

I wrote this just now as a bit of flash fiction. Tell me what you think! It's extremely rough and has not been edited, but it's my first horror scifi so I thought I'd share.

////UNSMC VESSEL "UN PROSPERITY"
MISSION LOG: DATE UNKNOWN, 7.0012 CYCLES SINCE CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE
ENSIGN MARCUS NGERE - UNSMCID 232-191-000127, RECORDING

::LOG BEGINS::

"How long have I been out here?" That was the question which clung like an epoxy bonding agent to the forefront of
my mind. I stared out at the long hallway before me as I floated out of the dormatory ring of the ship, my stomach
churning at the onset of weightlessness, though the fact that I hadn't eaten in four cycles might have aided in this
condition.

Checking the computer junction's temporal readout between the dormatory ring and ops, I could see that seven cycles
had passed since we were hit by that... thing, causing a critical system failure, killing life support systems and
forcing a full reboot of all systems. We only had one working stasis pod. The crew elected to save me above all
the others. I had no idea how long I was out, but when the onboard computers woke me some time later, I felt like
death.

A klaxon sounded, alerting me to a fresh problem. Ring Charlie - the point of impact - had come back online.
It shouldn't have been possible, but I was curious and decided to investigate. I grabbed a tool belt and floated down
the corridor to the third ring of the ship.I opened the sealed access airlock, feeling the pressure drop slightly.
Ring Charlie had apparently only barely repressurized from it's exposure.

Realizing now that the size and scope of the damage might well still require attention, I removed the rivet gun and
repair sheet from the tool belt, hefting them both in my hands. Opening the interior door with my foot, I gingerly slid
down the ladder leading into the habitation ring. It was dim and dank, the enviornmental and lighting systems still
somewhat frazzled from the impact. I cursed a little, kicking myself for forgetting my flashlight. Regardless, I
pressed on into the twilight of the damaged ring, feeling around for an emergency light.

My boot slid as I stepped in a thick, gooey liquid. It must have been a coolant leak. I raised the rivet gun, priming
its CO2 pack and raising the aluminum repair sheet as I felt for the leaking pipe. I grabbed hold of a thick wire and
jumped slightly as it slipped away. It was somewhat sticky, pulling my hand for a distance and depositing it on a
switch. Shrugging, I flipped the switch, an illumination pod for an instrumentation panel.

There, in the pale starlight and sickly orange glow of the instrument panel was Crewman Jennings, staring me in the eye.
Strange tendrils fed into his skull and his mouth oozed a sickly green-red pus in ungodly quantities down his suit and
onto the floor. "It f-found us..." He - if he could truly be called a he anymore - sputtered as the lights in the ring
were slowly turned on in staggered succession. "J-join usss" he hissed, as the lights revealed the rest of the crew
behind him, all staring at me and revealing a writhing, loathsome organic mass plugging the impact hole.

I deposited every rivet in the gun in Jennings' face. The poor bastard went down but got right back up, shambling towards
me as I sprinted up the ladder, charging to Ring Echo - CIC - and barricading myself inside. I surveyed my surroundings:
the armory had already been nearly exhausted and bloody drag marks showed the fate of the last of the crew to have held
out.

At this point, death by exposure seems merciful. I sit here now, having barely powered on the subspace beacon. They're
beating on the door now, screaming... screaming the most horrible scream imaginable. I'm recording this log to let you
know there's no point in saving me. Avoid the UN Prosperity at all costs and send a naval vessel to burn this wreck out
of the sky. There must be no survivors. I found a Type 97 service pistol on the transmitter console with one round in
its magazine. I've racked the slide and I'm pointing at the glass. Wish me luck.

::LOG ENDS::
////WARNING: COMMAND RING DEPRESSURIZED
////SYSTEM ALERT: REQUEST TO LAUNCH COMMS BEACON WAS DENIED, LOG NOT TRANSMITTED
////DISTRESS CALL SENT, RESCUE PARTY REQUESTED


(EDIT: I've started posting this around various other places, so it will probably be reposted without credit if people like it enough. Just know, future readers, that I'm the original author and would like credit. Also, I don't plan to be so repost happy with the follow ups.)

I'm bored.

So whilst perusing various leaked enemy listings of the infamous Cult of Scientology, I came to a shocking revelation: those assholes had the unmitigated audacity not to list me! What have I done wrong?

How am I not a suppressive person to them? I try to do the right things: threatening them online, telling Scientologists that I'm armed in case the OSA tries to flex with me, mocking them at their gay little "stress tests" in person; but I get nothing in return. Those ingrates! How cruel. Well, in retaliation, I'm going to start posting links to high level Scientology internal documents until I am satisfied that I'm on a list. Readers: have fun! Scientology: this means war. Apathetic persons: keep doing what you do.

Some major releases by Wikileaks: the Intelligence Agency of the Common Man

OT VII rundown
KSW rundown
LRH Helatrobus Lectures

It's on like Red Dawn.

Holy shit! It's been twenty days since last I posted here. Excuse me while I go commit ritual seppuku.

Okay, I'm back. That was kind of boring. So what's new with all four of you people who read this rag? Not much here, just the usual life of a professional writer: heavy drinking, cavorting with socialites and giving advice to struggling up and comers. A rather strange story to this effect occurred last week, and I guess since I've nothing better to do I shall relate it to you all.

Last week, I polished off about a litre of Stolichnaya vodka (for whom I should be the official spokesman or something) and was wandering about my apartment complex, shouting at children, when there before me appeared a grizzled old man. He seemed rather perplexed by the sight before him: an inebriated cripple shouting at everyone in his midst, bedecked in fedora, monocle and tweed suit and having nary a care in the world.

"Young man." He asked me. "How do you do it? Though I, in all my years, have learned much of this world and what it has to offer, I have yet to live such a depraved life as you and I do highly doubt that I know how."

It was then that I rolled myself in my mighty, gilded wheelchair to him and clapped him familiarly upon the shoulder. "My boy." I told him. "It is a simple enough proposition, living the 4.5 tatami life." I related. "Indeed, it is quite an easy thing to do. Simply quit your job, drink incessantly and dress as if you're a mercenary from the 1940s and the money will follow."

"Th-that's really it!?" He stammered to which I nodded generously and drunkenly. He, with the energy and vigor of a schoolboy cheered and sprinted to his apartment as I promptly rolled my wheelchair onto my neighbor's porch to vomit.

I saw the old man again yesterday. Well, I saw him in a fashion. Whilst reading Komsomalskaya Pravda, my news rag of choice, I read that an energy cloud had begun attacking Pyongyang a week prior. I didn't need to read the rest of the article. I knew that the old man had finally gotten his wish. He was going to destroy Communism. A proud tear streamed from my eye then, I am not ashamed to say. I put down the paper and turned to my trusted sidekick, the Blind Wizard. "It is time." I said, donning my cloak and jetpack. "Prepare the zeppelin, The Red Hammer, for I have a new nemesis."

It's on like Red Dawn, ya herd?

2012: My Predictions.

It is no secret that for several years I was internationally renowned as a prophet and a soothsayer. My company was in demand by all the finest crowned heads of Europe and the Middle East. Fame, fortune and women: all were mine because of my uncanny ability to scry from the past the secrets to unlocking the riddles of the future.

Presented now, for the first time since I awoke from that dream where I predicted shit for rich assholes, my uncanny prophetic abilities. I shall present twelve predictions; one for each month of the year. Watch as the months go by, dear reader - I think you might be pleasantly surprised!

January: Hot on the heels of the recent announcement that the Neon Genesis Evangelion remake is being concluded, GAINAX announce that they know for a fact that they will once again be disappointed with the ending of the beloved and acclaimed series. To rectify this, they announce that director Tom Six is being brought in on the project.

Six reveals his vision for the franchise's future, wherein Gendo Ikari - the leader of NERV - seeks to make the ultimate anti-angel combat machine: by fusing each Eva unit mouth to anus. We are all left wondering what happens to the pilots, but let me tell you: the otakus eat it up.

What an asshole.

February: The United States Department of Education announces that February's spelling will be changed at long last to 'Febuary.' "Honestly, we don't know how that silent 'r' got in there." Secretary of Education Arne Duncan admits, nervously wiping his brow. "We're really sorry it took us so long to fix this." He promptly commits seppuku on live television: shocking all three of C-SPAN's viewers into a terror coma.

March: Dubstep dies its final death as the ever distractable American public hears the twenty thousandth dubstep remix of Daft Punk's Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger interspersed with dialogue snippets from Portal's GLaDOS. The combined age of its funerary pall bearers? 17.

April: The author's birthday is marked by the re-emergence of fine oak billiard pipes as popular accessories. The move is hailed by many - including Christopher Lee and the Royal Shakespeare Society's Michael Boyd - as the final proof that I will always be more correct than my dear friend Elisabeth.

May: At the 2012 World's Expo in Yeosu, South Korea; it is revealed that scientists have perfected the means to turn water into fruit punch with a simple packet of dehydrated flavoring. "Really," says Doctor Martin Chen of MIT, "It's the culmination of my life's work." The poor sods in the science team do not know of Kool-Aid. No one tells them. They just don't have the heart.

June: My fiancee moves in. The event is presaged by a monumental, once in a century move: I clean my apartment.

July: Something happens. Someone is quoted as saying something, and the public reacts.

August: The long awaited return of Dragon*Con, arguably the best thing about Georgia, which dramatically understates how awesome it truly is. Since the author and his fiancee will have gotten much of the sex and drinking out of the way in the preceding months, they are actually able to attend the event this time instead of occasionally emerging from their room late at night to drink more.

Patrick Stewart, Micheal Dorn, and Johnathan Frakes - close personal friends of the author - are in attendance, and I finally convince Josh that I bought him that goddamn Ramune two years ago.

September: Hot on the heels of Dragon*Con, Adult Swim announces that they're bringing back their anime block, just because they like pitting their viewer base against itself. "Honestly," says Jackson Publick of the Venture Brothers "I think they might just be pure evil, those fuckers."

October: Without a clear frontrunner in the Republican primaries and election day fast approaching, the remaining Republican candidates are sent to Australia's scenic Thunderdome to fight to the death. The winner will go on to be the GOP's pick for presidential candidate, while the most recognizable corpse is put forward as the candidate for Vice President.

November: Republicans lose, Obama is reelected. I flee to an underwater art deco city of my own, completely original devising; where the artist will not fear the censor. I call it: Ragnarok.

December: The world ends. Ragnarok prevails.