I want a brain-shut-off switch so bad

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. I remember, back when I was about 5 years old, I came out to the living room, after trying to sleep, and told my mom that I forgot how to sleep.

“Just lay down and close your eyes,” she had said.

“It’s not working,” I replied. I thought my brain was broken, because it would not shut up.

The crazy people in my head are always going on about something. Being a writer makes it even worse. My brain is constantly working on different story lines. Composing the same sentences over and over, trying to find the best way to express my ideas.

It won’t stop. I’ve tried every sleep technique out there. Nothing shuts down the demons in my head. Counting sheep turns into counting words about sheep, which turns into counting sheep that are getting fucked by Jimmy, the backwoods hillbilly.

Drugs do no good. If I take sleeping pills, it makes me want to sleep. But that has never been the problem. It does nothing to calm my incessant brain.

There’s a reason that I usually don’t go to bed until about 3 to 5 am. I wait until I’m completely exhausted. Even then, I end up laying awake for a good 2 to 3 hours, just hoping to sleep.

When I heard about Michael Jackson’s sleeping habits, how he was put under with propofol every night, it made perfect sense. It was the ultimate brain-shut-off switch. Unfortunately for him, it also came with way too much risk, and it eventually killed him.

Something tells me, that if Michael Jackson had survived that ordeal, he would still be using the propofol every night.

If I had enough money to have my own personal doctor to switch my brain off with drugs, I’d totally do it. It would be worth the risk to me. At least, I’d finally get some rest.

But, I’m really hoping they come out with a handy-dandy little iPhone app that shuts off your brain with a touch of a button. Then, I’d defiantly end up accidentally switching my brain off, while driving down the highway.

I’d end up nearly dead, bleeding out, on the side of the road. Someone would probably stop by to help. It would be Jimmy the backwoods hillbilly, looking for a fresh rape victim.

 

Why is God such an asshole?

I have no idea. I don’t believe in god. At all. Not even a little bit.

“Oh, so you’re agnostic,” a friend said to me.

“No. I’m not fucking agnostic,” I replied. Agnostics are wishy-washy little cunts.

“So, if God came down to earth tomorrow, what would you do?” My friend persisted.

“What part of not believing in god, do you not understand? He’s not coming down to earth tomorrow. He’s not real,” I explained.

“But, come on… Okay, just imagine that he came down to earth then. If you can’t admit that he’s real. Just imagine. What would you do?” I was really holding back the urge to smack my friend across the face.

“Fine,” I said. “If god really did come down to earth tomorrow, I’d walk up to this ‘god’ and punch him square in the face. Then, while he’s lying on the ground bleeding, crying like a little bitch, I’d yell at his stupid face ‘That’s for Job, you fucking asshole.'”

If none of you have read the book of Job, in the bible, let me break it down for you: God gets in a troll battle with Satan. Says that his twitter follower, Job, loves God so much, that God could make Job’s life a living hell, and Job would still praise God’s name.

Satan’s like, “No way, man. Bullshit.”

And God’s like, “No, totally. Watch this shit.” And God proceeds to make Job’s life a living hell. And sure enough, the retard Job still praises God’s name.

“See?” says God. “These people are idiots. Lawl.” Then God and Satan smoked a bowl and had a good laugh.

So, yes. In this imaginary world my friend lives in, God is a total fucking asshole.

So, I tossed it back in my friend’s face. “Okay, how about this. Imagine that God actually has an influence in this world. Forget about that whole free will thing. Imagine that everything that we do, everything that happens in the world, is because that’s the way God wants it. That’s the way he planned it, all along. How do you explain all the wars, and suffering in the world, if that was God’s plan? How do you explain birth defects? Were those free will? Nope.”

You see, I’ve read the bible. I understand it. I grew up christian baptist, in a devout christian household. My mother wouldn’t even let me listen to secular radio. Couldn’t watch any tv or movies that had anything to do with the occult. Harry Potter? No fucking way. Witches are of the devil. Twilight? Fuck that shit. Vampires are minions of Satan.

My friend finally cracked. “Well, you see… I mean, the bible says… Free will, you know. We make our own choices.”

“Great,” I concede, for a second. “So, if you are in control of your destiny, if God doesn’t control it, then why do you pray to God when you need help?”

He shot me a dumbstruck look. “Shuddup man,” he said. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know,” I replied. “But, at least I’m not God.”

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Interview with a Serial Killer – Part 1

Interview #1 with Mr. Charles Rosenbaum

by Dr. Richard Kelly

 

Monday, November 27^th 2009

 

Before I entered the interview room that the prison had set up for me, I watched Mr. Rosenbaum through the one way glass as they chained his feet to the floor and his hands to the table. “Please tell me that the table is bolted to the floor,” I said to the warden that was standing next to me.

“Of course,” the warden said. “These max security prisoners are violent as hell, Doctor. If it were up to me they would never see the light of day. Just keep ’em locked up in a box the rest of their life.  Or better yet, just nuke the fuckers, and be done with it. That’s what I’d do, if it were up to me, anyway.”

“I see,” I said, trying not to judge too much with my voice. The warden was doing me a big favor, letting me interview Mr. Rosenbaum like this.

“Okay, I think he’s ready.” One of the guards motioned for me to follow him.

As I entered the interview room, I noticed that Mr. Rosenbaum looked tired. He was 36 years old, slender but muscled. He was tall, about 6′ 4”. His hair was brown, with no sign of age. His dark brown eyes gazed at me with purpose.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“Well, Mr. Rosenbaum, I am…”

“That is not my name,” he said calmly.

“Mr. Rosenbaum, I…” he interrupted me again. I was starting to wonder if I was going to utter a single sentence this session.

“I told you, that is NOT MY NAME!” He was enraged at me. He was trying to gain control of the situation. I knew the man was a textbook narcissist. He would not allow anyone to gain control over him. It was one of the reasons he was in a maximum security prison. Any time anyone attempted to control him, he became violent to the point of homicide in most cases.

I, however was not going to give in to his narcissism. “Would you rather I called you Charles?” I asked.

Silence. Dead stare.

Mr. Rosenbaum had above average intelligence. It was reported to be over 160 IQ. He knew what I was trying to do and he resented it.

“Charles?” I asked again.

He stared me down, like a caged animal. “I told you…” He paused, and looked around the room, taking in his surroundings. “I told you, that is NOT my name. My name is Charlie Mutherfucking Rose. Get it right or get the fuck out of here and stop wasting my time.”

“Mr. Rosenbaum, I am here to…”

“FUCK YOU and your goddamn Mr. R…” He couldn’t say it. He even stuttered a little bit. It was his father’s name. His father had beaten him mercilessly, nearly killing him several times. I had seen the pictures. It wasn’t pretty.

I persisted. “Mr. Rosenb…”

“I won’t tell you again,” he said with dead cold eyes, threatening with his stare.

“Or what, Mr. Rosenbaum?” I had finally uttered a complete sentence. I felt proud of myself and yet still scared to death. The man wanted to kill me, that much was sure.

Silence.

“What do you intend to do to me if I continue to refer to you as your given name, Mr. Charles Rosenbaum?” I was toying with him, but for good reason. I knew what I was doing but that doesn’t mean I was comfortable doing it. Every time I opened my mouth to speak I wanted to run out of that room and flee for my life.

Mr. Rosenbaum just stared at me with intent and suddenly began screaming at the top of his lungs. He banged his head against the table violently, over and over. Blood spilled from his forehead but he continued to bang his head and scream.

The guards were given specific instructions to ignore this type of behaviour. If Mr. Rosenbaum wanted to kill himself by bashing his brains out on the table, the warden was quite happy to allow him to do so.

I persisted through the din and terror before me. “Mr Rosenbaum,” I said with a louder voice so he could hear me over the screaming and thrashing. “Tell me about your father.”

At that, the thrashing stopped. The screaming abated. The man before me changed his posture. He wiped the blood from his face and sat up straight. He ran his hands carefully through his hair to part it a certain way. He looked at me for the first time with interest, without violence.

“Charles?” I asked.

“Yes?” he answered, finally.

“Mr. Rosenbaum, my name is Dr. Richard Kelly. I am here to help you understand your anger and hostility. Please, tell me about your father.” I sat back in my chair, feeling a bit relieved that the terror was over.

“I didn’t much care for the man, why do you ask?” Charles answered.

“I believe it is because of him that you have committed so many violent acts. Mr. Rosenbaum, I believe you killed all of those women to get back at your father for destroying your life.” At this point, I was just repeating things that Charles had said to other therapists, to gain his trust and understanding.

“He killed my mother, you know.” He said in a very matter-of-fact sort of way.

“Yes, I am aware of that. That’s what I meant by ‘destroying your life’.”

“She was a whore.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, she was a whore. A street-walker. A working girl. Whatever you want to call it. She was a filthy whore and deserved to die.”

“How did you know she was a whore?”

“Oh I followed her on many occasions. She would give men blow jobs in the alleyways. Sometimes, she would go with them to some sleazy motel. At first, I found it arousing. Sometimes I would masturbate as I watched her blow guys. So, yes. Yes, she deserved to die.”

“Why didn’t you kill her yourself?”

“She was my mother. How evil do you think I am?”

“Well, that’s not a very fair question, now is it?” I wasn’t about to answer that question. “I mean, nobody is suggesting that you are evil, per se.”

“I don’t think anyone needs to suggest it, Doctor. I am evil and there is no arguing that fact. I am my father’s son and the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

“So, did your father kill any other whores?” This is one of the questions I was really hoping to get an answer to. Everyone knew that his father had killed his mother, but was that the extent of Rosenbaum Sr.’s homicide? Or was he really a serial killer just like his son? Did they do killings together? These were all unanswered questions.

“No, he was a scared little man. He couldn’t get it up to save his life. I pitied him.” Charles looked sad. I knew he wasn’t sad. I knew the only emotions he would show would be purposeful misdirection.

“How do you know he couldn’t ‘get it up’?”

“I brought home some whores for him from time to time. It was never a good idea, but I did it anyway. I knew he couldn’t get it up and the whores were a bit of a taunt, you see. It was amusing to watch.”

“Did you ever think about killing your father?”

“There would be no point to that. The only reason to kill someone is to take away what they hold dear. To kill someone who has no real reason to live is pointless, now isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Why did your father have no reason to live?”

“I’m not sure. He was a miserable bastard. He hated life and everyone in it. He was just to big of a pussy to ever do anything about it. He even asked me to kill him a few times. I laughed. It was pathetic.”

“So, he was depressed?” I asked, finally getting some insight.

“Yes. Of course,” he said, with a smirk. “Amazing deduction for someone who went to medical school, Doc.”

“Yes, I know. I wasn’t the smartest in my class,” I said, allowing him to be superior for a while. “Tell me, how did your father influence your desire to kill?”

“I believe you are out of time, Doctor,” he said, as the door to the interview room opened, and his attorney walked in.

 

Would you smoke weed, if it was legal in your state?

Let’s assume that marijuana became legal, in every state. How would it affect the world we live in? Would everyone toke up all day long, or what? Would the quick drive through at McDonald’s turn into a ten minute wait? You know, because everyone working there would be high as balls, and lazy as fuck.

I decided not to become a stoner, when I was in high school. I saw how retarded all the stoner kids became, and I wanted no part of it. I was plenty retarded, even without weed.

It had nothing to do with the fact that my parents were strict christian fundamentalists. I’m sure they would have told me that drugs were evil, and of the devil, or some such bullshit. But they’re not.

The problem with drugs has very little to do with the drug itself, it’s the retard using it. If you’re smoking your ass off, all day, at work, and at home, then you’re the problem. Weed isn’t addictive, it’s just habit forming.

If you’re an unemployed, useless fuck-stick like me, smoking pot all day is fucking awesome, right? It’s perfect. It makes life better, doesn’t it? Not really. I mean, yes, it makes this moment more awesome. But, it also makes you happy to be unemployed. It makes you more lazy than you already are. You’re more likely to stay unemployed, if you’re high all the time.

Now, if you have no intention of finding a job anyway, hey knock yourself out. Smoke it up. That’s cool, right? That’s me. I’m considering myself retired, just because I can’t find a job. I’m 45, for fuck’s sake. I’m not retired, I’m just fucking lazy.

But still, I like to be productive. I like to write. I like to read. I like to have focus, and actually accomplish something. So, to answer the question: No, I probably wouldn’t smoke weed, if it was legal in Oregon. I just have no need for it. I’m already lazy as fuck. I’m already as retarded as I want to be.

And yes, I have smoked weed a couple of times, in my life. The first time, it did nothing. Second time, I tripped balls. Hallucinated my ass off. I can totally see it being a fun thing to do on certain occasions. So, I’m not judging. I get it. It’s just not for me.

That being said, I’d still totally vote for it. There’s no reason for it to be illegal.

 

Killing a random girl at the Best Western Hotel

I was fucking this hot little twenty-two year old girl in my truck in front of the Best Western. She worked as the night shift counter clerk. I was parked facing the street, so she could watch the front desk as she humped my cock straddle-style in the front seat.

It was just after two am, and very few people would need any assistance from the front desk. We had fucked this way several times in the past weeks. The danger and risk factor totally got her off. I thought it was cute.

As we fucked, she told me about this cute, scruffy detective that had just checked in. “Oh really,” I said.

“Yea. He’s so hot. I had to seriously stop myself from going up to his room and fuck his brains out,” she said in that stupid bimbo voice.

“Why? You get fired if you did?” I asked.

“No. but, I mean… He’s a detective or something, you know? He knows things…” she closed her eyes, as she was about to climax.

I had lost interest in the fucking, as she started to moan a little. “What kind of things?” I asked her, as she ignored me, grabbing the head rest of the seat and humping me harder. Her orgasm getting closer.

I knew what I had to do. I could have just thrown her off, and questioned her some more, but I really thought the sight of her getting off was adorable.

I looked in the rear-view mirror, a clear view of the lobby of the hotel. “Someone’s coming. Better hurry,” I said, and she came, in waves. That’s all it usually took. Someone to show up at the front desk, look around, looking for her. So, I indulged her.

A few seconds later, after it was over, she opened her eyes and stared at the front desk of the hotel. “Liar!” she said and slapped me across the face, with a giggle.

She rolled off me, into the passenger seat, slipping her panties back on. “So, tell me about this detective,” I asked her.

“What’s to tell?” she asked.

“For starters, what’s he look like?”

“Scruffy, like I said. Gray hair, gray beard. Good shape. Probably in his late thirties. I dunno. So dreamy though…” she finished, staring off into fantasy land.

“That motherfucker,” I said. Pulled up my pants, and started getting out of the truck.

“What?” she asked, getting out as well.

“Oh, I think he’s the guy that’s been looking into some bullshit that I did last week. Is he still in his room, or did he leave for a cocktail or something?”

“I saw him leave around ten-ish. Don’t remember seeing him come back yet. Want to check out his room?” she asked with a smile and a wink as we entered the lobby of the hotel.

“Damn straight,” I said.

She got behind the counter and looked up the guy’s room number on the computer. “Room 211,” she said.

“Great. Give me your key card,” I said. She had one of those universal key cards that would let you into any of the rooms. The same card that the maids used.

“Fuck that,” she said. “I’m coming with!”

“Fine,” I said, not too excited about the idea.

We took the elevator to the second floor and walked down to room 211. The girl was giggling like a school girl. Bouncing on her little toes. “Open it! Open it!” she chanted.

“Okay, okay. Jesus. Quiet the fuck down,” I said, as I slipped the key card into the slot, and opened the door.

I entered the room, and turned on the lights. It looked like nobody had even touched the bed. It was still made. The girl jumped on it, and laid face down, with her tight ass up in the air.

“Fuck me, Johnny boy,” she said, looking back at me with an evil grin.

“Not just yet,” I said, as I headed to the table, at the far end of the room. There were files laid out all over the table. And big crime scene pictures. Frog Lake, from the looks of it. And some pictures of that retard that I left as hamburger on the side of the road on Highway 26.

I sat down, and studied the files. The girl pouted at me, as her phone beeped twice. She took it out, to look at the message. The alert app told her that someone was at the front desk.

“Shit,” she said. “Someone’s at the front desk. Gotta go. Later, Johnny boy.”

“Bye,” I said, hardly paying attention. Glad that she was finally out of my hair.

I had no idea how late this detective would be out, so I quickly took some photos of the files with my phone, and left the room. I headed down the hallway to the back exit of the hotel, when I passed a girl carrying groceries to her room. She was probably about twenty-five. Looked like a snow bunny, probably just visiting Sandy to ski Mt. Hood.

I let her pass me in the hallway, then after a few paces, I turned around to follow her. I took a knife out of my pocket, and slowly crept up behind her. I grabbed around her chest with my right arm, and put the knife to her throat with my left hand.

“Don’t scream, or I’ll slice your throat right here in the hallway,” I whispered into her ear.

The girl whimpered a little, but was quiet enough. I put my right hand on her back and pushed her forward, the knife still at her throat. “Move,” I said.

We stopped at room 211. I opened the door with the key card, and pushed the girl inside. Her groceries spilled out onto the carpet.

“Are you going to rape me?” she asked, like a scared little rabbit. Still whimpering a little.

“No,” I said, as I pushed her onto the bed. “I’m not going to rape you. I’m just going to kill you.” I sliced her throat, there on the bed, as I kept my other hand tight over her mouth. She bled out quickly.

I had my hands soaked with her blood after that, so I left a little message on the wall, painted in blood, for the detective to find when he returned to his room.

“Welcome to Sandy, Little Piggy.”

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This chapter is part of my novel-in-progress at killingeveryday.com

DISCLAIMER: This is fiction, you fucking idiots. It’s just a goddamn story.

Should gays get married? Really??

Gay people should definitely be allowed to get married. It should be legal anywhere in the United States. It’s the land of the free, after all.

But should they get married? Really??

Isn’t the whole point of the gay lifestyle to cruise and fuck as much ass as possible?

Well, yes and no. It’s fun to fuck all the ass, and suck all the dicks when you’re young. In my twenties, I could fuck like a goddamn rabbit. Several times a day. Now, in my forties, once a week, if I’m not too tired.

Now, I just want a stable relationship. Just someone who actually gives a shit about me. And that’s what I have. I don’t need to fuck all the ass, or suck all the dick anymore. I know it sounds stupid, but as I get older, I just want to be loved. Is that so wrong?

Of course not. But, you don’t need to get married, to be loved. You sure as hell don’t need to be married, if you just want to fuck all the ass, and suck all the dick. Which, as far as I know, is what the vast majority of gay men want to do.

Lesbians? Don’t ask me. Women scare the shit out of me. But, from what I do understand about women, most of them do want a family. And most also want children. I think.

I married my wife when I was 19, in college. Mostly because she was the only girl that literally stalked me, pinned me to a couch, and sucked my dick. I was also desperate to get away from my fundy christian parents. It worked. My parents dis-owned me, and I was finally free to live my life as I saw fit.

Oh stop it. I can see you scratching your head. He’s married, probably with kids. And he goes out trolling for hot man-ass in the shadows at night.

Not so much. The wife and I were both bi-sexual in college. She grew out of it, after a while. I never did. Still love the cock. But, also still love women. And, I still desperately love the wife, even after 25 years.

In the beginning, we had an open relationship. Well, not completely open, I guess. Our only rule, was to ask each other permission each time. If I was in vegas, and wanted to bang some hookers on a business trip, I’d call her up and ask. Simple as that.

The thing is, none of our happiness has ever come from being married, per se. It has come from actually enjoying each other’s company. We haven’t had sex in over five years, but neither of us cares. We’re both hideous fat hose beasts. The sexual attraction was gone years ago, but it doesn’t distract from the love that we have for each other.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m in denial. She’s totally cheating on me. Or I’m cheating on her, right? Sorry to disappoint you. See, the wife is disabled. She hasn’t left the house in years. And I just haven’t had the need to look for sex elsewhere. My fleshlight works just fine, thank you very much.

We still talk about it, though. She’s currently obsessed with Tom Hiddleston. The guy who plays Loki in the Thor movies. I see her drooling over pictures of him, at her computer. Tell her that he’s a fucking dork.

We both laughed. She asks me who I’d drool over. Ryan Reynolds. “He’s a douchebag!” she exclaims.

“No he’s not. He’s cute. And has drool-worthy muscles. Mmmm,” I argue.

Then, she looks up his imdb. It’s true. Every role he has ever played. Fucking d-bag. Oh well, he’s still cute and drool-worthy in my book.

Even though he totally skull-fucked that Green Lantern movie.

What was I talking about again? Oh yea. Gays should totally get married. They deserve a sexless marriage just as much as the rest of us.

 

Ghosts are not real

“Monsters are real, ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”  – Stephen King

Martin Rice had just moved into a new apartment. His friends helped him move all his stuff into the new place. They stayed for beers and pizza for a while, but eventually they all left Martin to deal with his own demons in his new apartment.

“Watch out for the ghosts,” Martin’s friend Jordan had said with a laugh as he was leaving. Jordan had the standard black man’s stance on ghosts. Get out.

“No such thing as ghosts,” Martin replied.

“Always ghosts on the first night,” Jordan explained. “Don’t you know that? Oh right, this is the first place you’ll have to yourself, after Jenny, huh?”

“Right. Jenny. Stop fucking reminding me, man.” Martin had gotten real sick of being reminded of that bitch Jenny. Sure, they moved into an apartment together, right out of college. That was four years ago, and Martin was ready to move on after that whore banged his brother.

“I’m just sayin’ if you hear some strange noise, or see somethin’ you can’t explain… Get out. I mean it. Don’t fuck around. Just leave,” Jordan said, serious as a heart attack.

Martin put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, in the doorway of his new apartment. “And I’m just sayin’ there’s no such thing as ghosts. Now, fuck off. You’re lettin all warm air out of my ghost-free apartment.”

“Alright man,” Jordan said, as he walked down the steps, into the cold Portland evening. “Don’t say I didn’t warn your stupid white-ass.”

“Whatever…” Martin said, as he closed the door. It was about one a.m. and he was dead tired, after all the work they’d done, moving everything into the new apartment.

He walked to his couch and flipped on the tv. Nothing was on, but he just stared at the screen anyway. He looked around his new place. The walls were freshly painted white and bare, none of his posters were on the walls yet. He looked down the dark hallway to the bedroom. The idea of sleep crept into his mind, but he ignored it.

“Ghosts my ass,” he said to himself as he took a swig from a beer. Martin flipped through some more channels on his tv but still couldn’t find anything worth watching.

Finally, he said “Fuck it,” and staggered off to the bathroom to take a piss, before finally heading to the bedroom.

He flicked on the lamp on that nightstand, that was beside the bed, kicked off his shoes and sweats, and fell into his bed. Just a little drunk. Not enough to pass out instantly, but enough to feel just a bit off balance.

After he got comfortable, he reached over and turned off the lamp. Stared at the bare, white ceiling for a while. It was just barely visible from the moonlight, coming from the window. He hadn’t put up any curtains yet, so a dull glow of moonlight filled the room.

His mind wandered. This is what being a girl must feel like, he thought. Staring up at the ceiling as some guy fucks you. Martin thought about how bad he was at sex. Wondered if Jenny had fucked his brother simply because Zach fucked from behind. That had to be it. Zach, that kinky fuck. He can keep her, Martin thought. Fucking whore.

He looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. An hour had passed. “Goddammit,” he said aloud. He just wasn’t tired, but his body was exhausted. So he turned on the lamp, and reached for his phone.

Porn. Sweet, beautiful porn.

As he was jacking off, he heard something that wasn’t quite familiar. “What?” he said aloud, startled. He covered himself up and turned off his phone.

“Who’s there?” he asked the empty air. No response.

Another noise. This time, it sounded like growling. Not like a dog. It was like a person, making growling sounds. Maybe. What the fuck, he thought. Probably that asshole Jordan making noises outside the window.

So, Martin got up. Went to the window, and looked outside. Nothing there. Nothing that he could see, anyway. He opened up the window, letting the cold air rush in. “HEY!” he screamed. “I know it’s you, Jordan. Knock it the fuck off.”

Nothing. Nobody answered.

He heard what sounded like a howling noise, from behind him. Martin thought, maybe he had left the front door ajar. Or, maybe he just left it unlocked, and fucking Jordan was in the kitchen, fucking around.

He closed the window, and stomped off to the kitchen. After he found nobody there, he looked around and hollered “HEY! What the fuck, Jordan. Come out here, and stop fucking around. I mean it, man.” Martin was getting pissed off now.

He walked every inch of the apartment. Opened every closet. Nobody was there. “Goddammit,” he said aloud, with a sigh. He went back to bed and stared at the naked girls on his phone. But, he couldn’t do it. He felt like he was being watched.

He sighed, turned off his phone, and switched off the lamp. Stared at the ceiling again. “Fucking Jordan,” he said, whispered under his breath.

Martin felt a chilling breeze hit his face, and heard a whisper in his ear. “I am not Jordan,” it said.

“What the…!” he exclaimed as he sat up and looked around the room in a panic. Even though the room was still bathed in moonlight, he could see nothing. Nothing that could speak to him. Nothing that would make the noises he had heard.

He thought about Jordan. What had he said? Jordan’s words came back to him in a rush. “Get out. I mean it. Don’t fuck around. Just leave.”

But, Martin didn’t believe that bullshit. He laid back down in the bed and stared at the ceiling again. Tried to calm himself. Took deep breaths.

“Ghosts are not real,” he told himself aloud. He closed his eyes and said it again. “Ghosts are not real.” A smile crept across his face as he repeated the mantra in his head a few times.

Ghosts are not real.

“Yes we are,” came another whisper in his ear, cold as ice.

Martin sat up in the bed and looked around again. Still nothing. He looked under the bed. Nothing there. He paced around the apartment for a good ten minutes, trying to understand what was happening. There was no making sense of it.

He finally admitted it to himself. There were ghosts in his new apartment.

So, he put his sweats and shoes back on, grabbed his jacked, and headed to the front door. Get out. Good advise, if there really were ghosts in his apartment.

But the front door wouldn’t open. He turned the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. He kicked at it. It was completely solid. “What the fuck!?” he exclaimed.

He went to the large bay window in the front room. Grabbed one of his baseball trophies from the mantel and tried smashing the window. He broke the trophy, but didn’t even scratch the window.

“Fuck it,” he said, grabbing a chair and smashing it into the window. Nothing. Still not a scratch on the window. He pounded away at it, again and again, with the chair.

Still nothing. The window wouldn’t crack, the door wouldn’t budge. He was trapped.

Martin collapsed into the couch. Exhausted from trying to break the window with the chair. He dialed Jordan.

The phone didn’t connect. It didn’t ring, it just made weird noises. Like an old modem. Computer static sounds.

Martin stared at the phone. “Great. Ghosts in my phone too,” he said aloud, laughing a little.

He dialed another friend, Tom. Same weird noises. Kelly. Same thing. Everyone he dialed, he got the same result, just strange computer modem sounds.

“Come on!” he screamed at the ceiling. “Somebody…”

Martin thought about it for several minutes. Sitting there in silence, trapped in his own apartment. Staring at the dormant tv on the wall. He switched it on. Static. He changed the channels. Static, on every channel.

“Goddammit…” he said, putting his head in his hands. Almost crying. He tried not to think about Jenny. The only number in his phone that he hadn’t dialed.

He didn’t want to do it. He despised the idea. He shook his head a few times, smacking himself in the forehead over and over. Trying to shake the idea out of his mind. Finally, he gave into it, and dialed his ex, Jenny. It wrang. And wrang. “Come on!” he pleaded into the phone.

“Hey, it’s me…” came Jenny’s voice.

“I didn’t want to do this, Jenny. I told myself, I would never call. But here I am, trapped in my fucking…”

“I’m out having fun right now. Leave a message. Or whatever. Bye!” she exclaimed on her message, with that cheery bimbo voice.

“You fucking whore!” he yelled into his phone. He threw it across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces.

He put his head in his hands again and stewed there on the couch for a while. Desperate. Scared. Lost.

Martin finally decided to just ignore it. So, there are ghosts in his apartment, big fucking deal. He would just close his eyes and pretend they didn’t exist.

He went back to his bedroom, turned out the light, tossed off his shoes and sweats, laid down and pulled the covers tight to his chin. He started his mantra again.

“Ghosts are not real,” he said, in a calm and soothing voice, to himself. He repeated it in his head, over and over and over, until he felt on the verge of sleep.

He felt someone’s hands on his feet, but he refused to open his eyes. “Ghosts are not real!” he said, louder. With more purpose.

He felt pain in his feet. Heat. Like they were being baked at five hundred degrees. “Ghosts are not real!” he said again, through clenched teeth. The pain worsened.

“We are very real,” said the cold whisper in his ear.

Still, Martin kept his eyes shut. Scared out of his mind, he said it again. “No. No! Ghosts are not real! You, whatever you are… You’re not real. Leave me alone!” he pleaded.

His feet burned, like they were on fire.

“Kiss us, and it will end,” said the whisper. Martin couldn’t even tell if it was male or female. The voice was like a combination of many voices.

His legs were burning now. He tried to thrash about, but his legs or feet would not move. He was pinned there, in the bed. Something, or someone was keeping him in place, holding him down.

“Your feet have burned away,” said the whisper. “Only ash now. Your legs will burn away soon. Give us a kiss, and the pain will end.”

Finally, the pain was unbearable. “Yes. Yes! Anything. Make it stop. Please. I’ll kiss you. I’ll kiss all of you, whoever you are. Just make it stop,” Martin said, in a panic. He dared not open his eyes. He didn’t want to see his legs on fire. He sure the hell didn’t want to see who or what he was about to kiss.

He pursed his lips.

“Open your mouth,” said the whisper. “Wider. That’s it. It’ll all be over soon.”

Martin complied, and he felt something enter his body. Some energy, some being. Some thing. It entered his mouth as a mist, as he kept his eyes shut. It took over his body, and forced him to open his eyes.

He felt his body sit up in the bed, and tear off the blankets. Martin felt his face look down at his feet, his legs. Nothing was burned. He was completely whole.

Martin watched as his body got dressed. He kept trying to gain control, but it was no use. Whatever, or whoever, had complete control.

His body picked up his phone from the bedside table. Martin could have sworn he had thrown the phone against the wall in the living room. It shattered into a million pieces. But there it was, good as new, on the bedside table.

He watched as his body walked to the living room, sat down on the couch, and turned on the tv. It was no longer static. Martin watched his hand change the channel to the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Seriously? Real fucking Housewives? Goddamnit. Martin complained inside his head as his body had a little laugh.

He saw his body scroll through the contacts in his phone. His fingers landed on a number. It dialed.

“Oh hello Jenny,” Martin heard his voice say. “I’ve missed you so much. Won’t you come over, so we can discuss our feelings?”

Nooooooooo! Martin screamed inside his head. Just kill me now.

His body just sat there on the couch, watching Real Housewives. Laughing its ass off.

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World War 3? Bring it on.

To the NSA fucks reading this: Go fuck yourselves. It’s satire, you stupid cunts. None of it is real.

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So Russia is invading the Ukraine and all the world’s media are losing their shit. World War 3. Everyone run for your lives. Any day now, they’ll release the bombs and America will be reduced to a barren wasteland.

Cry me a river… Do it. Release the bombs. Nuke the shit out of the Ukraine and Russia. Who gives a shit? I know I don’t. I wish we would have nuked the shit out of Iran and Iraq in the early 90’s for fucks sake. All this fighting is such a fucking waste of time. Just nuke ’em and be done with it. It’s not like we live over there.

Think about it. What would we lose if someone nuked the fuck out of Russia and the Ukraine? Some vodka brands, maybe? That’s about it. So, who the fuck cares. Most of the people in those countries are fucking miserable, anyway. Living in poverty. Begging for food. They want to get nuked.

I’ve lived my whole life, just waiting for nuclear war. When 9/11 happened, I thought for sure we were gonna nuke someone. Nope. Denied again. Seriously, what does someone have to do to get nuked around here? What is the point of all the stockpiles of nukes? Use ’em or lose ’em.

I’m pretty sure that if I had Mark Zuckerberg, or Bill Gates’ money, I’d be a super-villain. There’s no way I could resist the urge to take over the world, if I had that much money. I’d end up nuking Putin just because he’s being a dick. That would be my job. Just look for countries to remove from the face of the earth. Just gimme a reason, fuckers.

So yea… Bring on World War 3. I’ve got a nice seat picked out. Nuke ’em all. I’ll be just fine, since I live way out in bum-fuck nowhere. Nobody’s gonna nuke my house.

Just like the Joker, I just wanna watch the world burn.

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Aliens among us

Matt was having trouble convincing his friend Tom that he had been abducted by aliens the night before. This was not an unusual conversation to be having at a coffee shop at two in the morning because Matt was always going on about some crazy shit that nobody would ever believe. Plenty of townsfolk had heard Matt’s stories in the past and knew him to be either a very creative story teller or just plain crazy. Most favored the crazy.

“I’m telling you, Tom… I was abducted man!” Matt was getting rather frustrated. He was a fat and dirty man, in his 30’s, wearing overalls and a flannel shirt that was unbuttoned mostly down the front to show the world just how unsexy he really was. He slumped in the booth as he sipped his coffee.

“Nope, I still don’t believe it,” Tom said. Tom was a no-nonsense man. He didn’t believe anything that was weird and unexplained. However, Tom was one of the few people in town that enjoyed talking to Matt for pure entertainment value. The stupid amused Tom greatly. Tom wore a business suit and sat upright in the booth. He was thin and very well groomed. Nobody knew how old Tom was, ne never seemed to age. If anyone were to guess, they would think probably late 20’s or early 30’s.

The two men did not look like they belonged sharing a booth at the coffee shop. They didn’t look like they should be in the same town either.

The waitress walked by with a fresh steaming pot of coffee. “Can I freshen up you cup, Hun?” she asked Tom. The waitress had her name “Carly” pinned to her outfit. She was disturbingly beautiful for a girl just working in a coffee shop. Her smile made men want to tip all they had and then some.

“Yes please, Carly dear,” Tom said with an infectious smile.

Carly filled Tom’s cup and as she did so, Tom got a nice whiff of her perfume. If at all possible, his grin widened. “You smell nice today, as always, my dear.”

“Thank you, Hun,” she said, finally looking over to Matt who was completely ignoring her and Tom’s interaction. “Do you want some, Matthew?” She asked Matt. He just shrugged and she smiled back at Tom as she slowly walked back to her post behind the counter.

“Dude…” Matt started pulling at his hair, exasperated. He sipped at his coffee and looked around the diner. He was glad nobody was sitting close to them and was thankful that the waitress finally left.

“Matt, you really need to stop smoking weed. Seriously. It’s starting to drive you mad,” Tom said.

“Shuddup,” Matt said. “Just shuddup man. I’m telling you that aliens abducted me last night! I’m telling you man!”

“Okay. Lets say for a moment…”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about, man…” Matt interrupted, with a smile.

“For a moment, I said. I’m not saying I believe you, I’m just saying let’s imagine for a moment that you were in fact abducted by aliens last night. So what?” Tom was at least curious.

“So what? That’s what you’ve got to say?! So what?! Are you kidding me, man?” Matt put his head in his hands and started to think that there was no hope, his friend would never believe him.

“So, what happened after you were abducted, that’s what I’m asking, Matt.” Tom started to grin with amusement. The stupid was strong with this one.

Stunned, Matt looked up at Tom, and for the first time, felt some hope. “Okay, now we’re talking, man,” he said with a smile. “I’m telling you that when you dropped me off last night, at my place, it was raining like a bastard, remember?”

“Yea, go on.”

“Okay, so I was walking up my porch when I swear I heard some loud noise coming from the back yard. The dogs were going bat shit crazy, barking and carrying on, you know. So, I went back there, to see what the hell was going on and all…” Matt was so glad to finally got the story out.

“And some alien landed in your back yard and said ‘Take me to your leader’ right?” Tom said with a smirk.

“Up yours man! Shut the hell up. I’m telling you I went back there and there was this bright light up in the sky, like hovering over my goddamn pool and I’m all like what the hell, right?”

“Like a flood light?” Tom asked, like a normal person.

“Shut up, man. Like an alien space ship or something, man. So, I like shout at it, right. I shout ‘Hey what the hell, don’t make me get my gun!’ or some such shit and I swear to god, man, the thing answered me with ‘Bring it, puny human!’ and I just stood there like an idiot.”

“Yea, that’s hard to imagine.” Tom said with a laugh.

“Okay, smart ass, whatcha gonna do when some alien space ship talks to you like that, huh?” Matt challenged.

“Well, first of all, I would assume it wasn’t an alien space craft. I’d assume it was my neighbor having fun and probably just tell him to turn off his flood light so I could get some sleep. You, know… Things a normal person would do,” Tom said, poking fun.

“Why the hell do I hang out with you?” Matt asked.

“Because I’m the only one that will listen to your stories without making fun of you every second.” Tom responded with a grin. He was in fact making fun of Matt as much as he wanted. But Matt was an idiot, which made it even more fun.

“Right, right, I keep forgetting that. Now, where was I?”

“Something about getting your gun?” Tom prompted.

“Gotcha, so yea, that ship, or whatever it was told me to ‘Bring it’ right, so after I slapped myself across the face a few times, to make sure I wasn’t having some sort of Budweiser hallucination or something, I turned around towards the house, to go get my gun, cuz screw that bastard. Some alien tells me to bring it, it’s on, man, it’s on like Donkey Kong.”

“Of course. How could you refuse?” Tom asked as sarcastic as he could.

“No freaking way I’m gonna refuse that shit, man. But guess what? That bitch stopped me in my tracks, man. I was totally stunned, couldn’t move at all. Then that ship started sucking my ass into the air, towards the ship.”

“I bet that didn’t work out too well, with your fat ass.” Tom joked.

“Not fat enough, I guess. That bastard sucked me right into the ship. I ended up on some metal slab, still all stunned and shit. Couldn’t move or nothin’.” Matt said, kind of excited.

“And then the anal probing began, right. I can see it now… Please tell me they at least gave you a reach around.” Tom snickered.

“Yea, yea, shut the hell up about your bullshit anal probe. There’s no way I’m taking some anal probe. They’d have to kill me first.” Matt did not have a sense of humor when it came to gay jokes. This was another reason Tom liked hanging out with Matt. Easy target.

“So, how does alien cock taste anyway? Tangy?” Tom laughed.

“Shut the hell up, okay? There was no alien cock sucking! Goddammit, man just shut the hell up already…” Matt said, getting exasperated again.

“Okay, sorry Matt. Then what happened?” Tom asked with the most straight face he could muster.

“I have no idea, man. I woke up on that metal slab for like a brief second, and then next thing I knew was waking up in my back yard, like nothing ever happened. But get this, that ship, or whatever it was, that light I saw was still in my back yard. I was gonna yell at it to get lost or whatever, but I was kinda afraid they might bust out the probe…”

“The anal probe?” Tom asked with a smile.

“Yes, goddammit! The freaking anal probe. I know those bastards got anal probes, I sure the hell wasn’t gonna go for round two to see if they really wanted to use it on my fat ass after all. Screw that man.” Matt was glad to finally have the whole story out on the table.

“So, that’s it then?” Tom asked.

“Yea, man, that’s what happened. But damn it, man, I’m scared to even go back home, cuz who knows if that bastard is still hanging around, know what I mean?” Matt looked frustrated.

“Sure, Matt, I get it. But, how to you know this wasn’t just some beer induced fantasy?”

“Dude… There’s no way I’m going to be dreaming up some fantasy about being sucked up into some stupid space ship. Come on, man.” Matt started thinking again that Tom didn’t believe a word of his story.

“It’s cool, Matt. I believe you. But, now what? You want to stay at my place for a while?” Tom asked, calmly.

Matt put his head in his hands for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. He felt for a brief moment, that he was back on that metal slab in the space ship.

A computer voice said “End simulation.”

Then, Matt woke up, naked, in his back yard. His ass hole was very sore and something tangy was dripping down his throat.

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Adam Carolla can go f*ck himself in the a$$

I recently sent a tweet to Adam Carolla. “Eating a hotdog slathered in ketchup. Thinking of you.” That is what I sent. I’m sure he never read it, because fuck, when you have thousands, or millions of followers, how many tweets can you really read? But still, he pisses me off. He went on a rant a while back about how people who put ketchup on their hotdogs are complete retards. “Only children put ketchup on hotdots.” he said. “And even they’re retarded.”

Fuck this guy. I mean, seriously… How the fuck does liking ketchup on your hotdog make you retarded? How does it make you wrong in any way? I don’t get it. I guess he explained it as an east coast thing. Well whooptie-fucking-doo, Adam suck-my-dick Carolla. You have never even lived on the fucking east coast. You grew up in California. You live in California. How the fuck are you saying that east coast ways are the only way? Like New York style pizza? It fucking blows. I’ve been to New York, and had their famous pizza. It sucks balls. But, I’m not going to go ahead and say you’re a fucking retard for liking it. I’m sure people like it. I just don’t like it.

I also don’t like brussels sprouts. I fucking hate them. It makes me sick to my stomach if I even smell someone cooking them. But I’m not going to tell people they’re wrong or retarded for liking them. It’s a subjective thing, for christs sake. It’s an opinion. Everyone is entitled to their fucking opinion. But, to tell everyone with a different opinion that they’re just plain wrong? That they’re retarded? That they should just go kill themselves and get it over with? Fuck you, man.

Eat a bag of dicks, you talentless hack. Adam Carolla wouldn’t have a career at all if it wasn’t for Jimmy Kimmel. Kimmel made Carolla. Kimmel got him on the radio, and dragged him off to just about every other project he did. Adam must suck good dick or something.

Oh, and get this… This cracks me up. Adam Carolla is an atheist. Always has been. He goes off on christians all the time. Calls them retarded and stupid and whatever. That’s all fine and good. I’m an atheist too, even though I had to look up how to even spell the fucking word. But here’s the crazy bit: Adam Carolla teaches his kids about God. Not like, this is the big sky wizard I totally forbid you to believe in. But, you better do nice things, or God will smite you. You’re going to Hell. Real bible belt shit.

Seriously? I mean, I don’t expect anyone to shove their beliefs down their children’s throat. Demanding that they believe, or not believe, is totally wrong in my book. Give them the option. Let them decide for themselves. But, being an atheist and making your children fear God, is just plain wack-job crazy.

So, yea. Go fuck yourself in the ass, Adam Carolla. Or kill yourself. Either one is fine by me.

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