From the moist, fertile soil of the Pacific Northwest comes the miniature spawn of fear itself. Standing at no more than seven inches tall, Radish Snowman looks up to no man. His hubris is nigh legendary and his cocksure nature is very unbecoming. Fashioned by woodland gnomes as a warrior totem for battle against the Bog Dwarves of Jutland almost 400 years ago, Radish Snowman was made sentient through an ominous ceremony involving long-forgotten incantations and horribly cute jigs. But Radish Snowman looks up to no gnome. Moments after life, he turned on his jolly creators and desiccated their little bodies with his disturbing ability to shoot mildly abrasive radish juice from his eyes. The poor bastards didn’t stand a chance, for the juice was an extreme irritant to their supple, baby-like skin. And to add insult to the injury of etching the tender flesh clear off their bones, Radish Snowman also ate their tiny souls. But the gnomes had the last laugh, for their sweet dispositions made them super high in empty calories.

…eightbitsoul

Dearest Professor Pipps,

I now write you from the place you sent me. In accordance with your request, I will not divulge its location. I will post this letter in a roundabout way so as not to rouse suspicion. Though I was privy to your most sensitive of indiscretions, I still remain fully committed to your research. Advancement in your field is but a mere inevitability. My calculations are highly confident of this.

On many levels, you appear to be my male doppelganger. Our rhythms were always in distinct synchronization and our heated debates were, as you had so succinctly put it, “Tantamount to a pleasurable cerebral hemorrhaging.”

I do not find you without fault – only without equal. You exhibit a manifestation of “perfect” that I am quite unable to find in others. That is why I continue my research on your behalf, however secretive and dangerous it may be.

As for your detailed account of Professor McInerney’s genitals, I wish you had not divulged the piece of information regarding their final resting place. I do not find it a comforting testament to your sanity. Regardless, I do still see the brilliance in your work shining upon a path to understanding.

Until our next exchange,

Marjoram

Dearest Marjoram,

I often question if sending you away was the right thing to do. The isolation you must feel! However, I would not have placed you in your current predicament if I did not think your determination to succeed was admirable. You are able to handle my aggressive terms and will no doubt soon be able to carry on my research. For this I am grateful. Your tenacity is commendable and was a deciding factor in your selection.

Your male doppelganger? My dear, I laughed at the very thought! My mold was thought destroyed the very moment I was ready for painting! But I have since learned there are indeed others like us out there…

The knowledge that I safe haven is indeed potent. You have witnessed it firsthand. The ability to amplify nature to its grandest potential makes me so very valuable to that relentless consortium we so delicately refer to as “The Guilty.” I believe they may be closer to usurping my will than once thought.

Perfect, you say? Perfect is a poison distilled from the weakest of human desires. The closer you are to perfection the more unpleasant it becomes. But I must confess that you are so unbelievably correct in your assessment of me that I feel a faintness of heart at how rather spot-on you are. I try to find fault with myself, but to no avail! Must I be cursed to go through life without obstacle? Must I have the unyielding yoke of perfection directing my each and every move? It seems I have been dealt these cards for a very specific reason all too familiar to you of late. I shall deftly play them as the need arises.

On the topic of old McInerney’s genitals, I do have some regret sharing with you the specifics of an old friend’s dying request. As I partially remember, it was not during my most sober of moments. Bequeathed to me for reasons unknown, there are times they seemingly call to me from their formaldehyde prison upon my bedside table. I will not, however, succumb to the voices. Not in the slightest. It is actually rather comical. What can severed testes hope to accomplish? A genital divided from its master cannot stand – quite literally! But in honor of a friend and his great legacy, stand they shall.

Ms. Marjoram, your letter came at a very opportune time. I have been brewing a storm of accolades to bestow upon you. Including them in this reply is an honor. Your forgiveness is requested at their late conveyance, for I have always found you immensely intriguing. Tempestuous. Charming. Your intelligence at such early a stage in life is staggering. Your heart beats for the greater good and will serve you well in the upcoming battle. You are both magnetic in presence and beautiful in feature. Were I a younger man still filled with passion, you would be my ideal female blueprint. Had I a son, I would have seen to it that you and he formed a romantic alliance, if only to selfishly use it as an excuse to be near you. Whosoever directed you toward me those three years ago must be eternally thanked for provoking our blessed union. That I tore it asunder by sending you away, I deeply regret. But a far more important destiny awaited you than the babysitting of an old fool.

I must be cutting this letter short, as I feel another episode coming on. Should you ever wish to converse in a more serious manner – the slinging of various barbs, anecdotes, and occasional lump of fecal matter, please do contact me again through these proper channels.

Professor Ganymede Pipps

P.S. Your latest findings brought me to joyous tears!

eightbitsoul

There once was a grungy sailor-man whose skipper was a slob. All these two ever did was sit on the deck of the Snarling Crab and drink a horrendous coffee concoction until the cows came home. And that’s hard to have happen when you’re at sea for the better part of a year. Cows just don’t come home out there, you know? They find it hard to swim. Anyway, these two salty dogs rarely ever moved or exerted themselves in any way except to brew another pot of their homemade Sea Coffee. And not “homemade” in the traditional sense. Not full of wholesome goodness. No, not by a long shot.

This coffee (if you can call it that) was a mighty powerful mixture of stuff scrounged together from whatever horrible ingredients they could find at the time – seawater, nasal leakage, toenail clippings, barracuda blood, ear wax, high-fructose corn syrup, etc. Their stomachs were the only ones rotten enough to keep it down, which is an amazing feat, for it was so harsh it tasted like Fanta. It made getting punched in the face a welcome distraction. It made silent movies entertaining. If small children were to accidentally ingest this vile beverage, it would violently rattle their little bones and eventually pop their misshapen heads clean off their awkward bodies. And it wasn’t just kids that couldn’t stomach the madness. Adults fared no better. One time, a man named Charleston “Riverboat” Gortney figured he was man enough to pound an entire pot of the brew. Yeah, he bragged for days about how he had a stronger stomach than any sailor ever could.

He was wrong.

He got the first gulp down, and within seconds, it came rocketing back up his esophagus and blasted out his nasal cavity like a caffeinated laser beam, practically searing his face clean off and wounding nearly thirty onlookers. To this very day, his molten jaw cannot be opened. He also has to eat baby food through a tube sewn into his ear.

eightbitsoul

So once…

Just once…

I want to finish my meal, shatter the cookie, and have it tell me that I’m an ugly bastard who will never amount to anything.

Is that too much to ask?

…eightbitsoul

My wife and I went to Las Vegas this past summer. What happened there will not stay there. Not on my watch. Before going, we decided to reserve a day away from the usual trappings of shooting a hooker and/or getting punched in the face by Mike Tyson. A day to do something different. Something wholesome. So I booked seats on an all-day van tour to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. It was an amazing experience. You should do it. They named the place pretty accurately. When I got to the top and looked out at the monstrous chasm before me, I couldn’t help but feel that I was indeed experiencing something rather grand. Like shooting a hooker, only decidedly more esoteric.

But let me start at the start, because it was in reaching our destination that the good times occurred. And by “good times” I mean “bad times”.

We were picked up at our hotel (the Wynn Encore, where the bedding is so soft you’d swear it was filled with angel farts) by an exuberant guide at the delightfully witching hour of 6:30am. As we boarded the ten-passenger cargo van, we politely acknowledged the six other tourists who would share our memories. Oh, the memories we would share! And so began our long six-hour drive to the canyon. It would not be fahrvergnügen. No, not by a long shot.

An hour into our pilgrimage, we made our first designated stop. It was here that we would be treated to the complimentary breakfast included in our tour price. What delicious wonders awaited me? Chocolate croissants? Scones? Fresh berries and cream upon Belgian waffles? Crepes? Would there be crepes? The answer is no.

We were at McDonald’s.

I ate the the “Big Breakfast”.

I should not have eaten the “Big Breakfast”.

And this where the adventure begins. We finished our “food” and proceeded on what would be the longest journey of my life. Far longer than your journey, Natty Gann. Far longer, indeed.

The first phase of our jaunt went relatively smoothly. But a few hours into the middle of nowhere, the proverbial train derailed. There we were, speeding down a desert highway in the back of a poorly-ventilated passenger van and it happened. My stomach began whistling and gurgling and churning and trying to combat the Breakfast of Hades that had stealthily begun its calculated assault.

I fought.

I willed.

I panted like a she-horse giving birth.

I did everything I could think of to prolong the agony, as if I could somehow negate or reverse the workings of the human body. But when my iron will finally subsided, I made peace with blowing the van clear off its axles. So what if I was on the brink of performing Mr. Holland’s Opus surrounded by tourists from Singapore and India? They had no-doubt already noticed my fetal rocking motion and heard the muttering of unintelligible profanities, merely waiting for the strange white man to do something they could recount to their friends back home.

Then I saw it. I saw the sign.

The last rest stop for forty-six miles was bearing down on us. Now was my time to take a stand and commandeer the vehicle for the greater good, because there was no way any amount of grunting, panting, sweating and swearing would allow me to last another forty-six miles. I’m not David Blaine. Thankfully.

We hastily interrupted our guide’s informative spiel about desert agave and requested – nay, demanded – he do an emergency stop. It was either that or allow me to create a chutney the likes of which our Indian cohorts had never seen.

Stopping here was not on our itinerary.

Neither was crapping myself in public.

The driver, sensing a heightened urgency about me, quickly skittered off the highway to a dusty stop. I burst from the van like a rabid gazelle and bolted down a steep dirt path. There was a souvenir shop to my right and a small detached restroom further down the way. Souvenirs did not sound relevant in this situation.

I arrived at the restroom.

It did not have a door.

I did not care.

But I was not alone.

Inside was a young girl, dutifully scrubbing the solitary urinal. She was no more than fifteen, her hair pulled back in a single braid and a homely Little House on the Prairie air about her. No doubt a wholesome child, who, upon witnessing the desecration to come, would grow up childless and alone. Through gritting teeth and a menacing twitch, I kindly asked her to leave. She acknowledged my request with fear in her eyes and a great haste. I immediately ascended my porcelain throne to the fanfare of a fervently trumpeting anus. And as I gazed out that shanty toilet upon my barren desert kingdom, I experienced what i can only surmise were equivalent to Vietnam flashbacks, for at that moment I had pure napalm coming out of my business hole.

Suddenly, time and space had no meaning. I left this current plane of reality and embarked upon a vision quest. The air became crisper. My senses heightened. Euphoria coursed through my veins. All was well.

I did not leave that place with a souvenir. No, I left a souvenir of my own. One I fear the sacred people of the desert speak of to this day.

…eightbitsoul

Last Christmas, I concocted a nard-watering brine recipe for my turkey that was so radically good I almost soaked myself in it for the remainder of winter. Since the time for turkey is fast approaching once again, I am now passing this knowledge on to the general population to both enrich and embiggen even the smallest man. If you try it and do not enjoy it immensely, intensely and unequivocally, I hereby promise to visit your home astride a white steed and ram my glowing fist into your weakling stomach.

Brining a frozen turkey is what we in the cultured world call “stupid.” So please make sure your turkey is fresh or completely thawed. Below are the ingredients required to cause your pants to tighten. If you should decide to divert from this canon, then may moulting harpies lay their eggs in your freshly-waxed earholes.

The Vegetable Stock

• 1 large white onion
• 5 stalks of celery
• 5 large carrots

The Brine

• 1 cup kosher salt
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 10 whole bay leaves
• 1 tablespoon whole cloves
• 1 tablespoon whole coriander
• 1 tablespoon whole peppercorns
• 2 cinnamon sticks
• 1 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon ground cardamom
• 2 cans chicken stock (preferably containing departed souls)

The Coup de Grâce

• 1/2 stick salted butter
• 2 lemons
• 2 sprigs rosemary
• kosher salt
• coarse black pepper

“O Flavor, Where Art Thou?”

First, we will create a simple homemade vegetable stock. You may call it a mirepoix if you wish. But then I will call you a hoighty-toighty bastard. Anyhow, this serves as the flavor foundation upon which we will build a mighty fortress. The Fortress of Flavor. It’s much nicer than the Fortress of Solitude, but the HOA dues are effing crazy.

With a good-sized knife sharper than my wit, cut the onion, celery, and carrots into big random chunks. Chuck these chunks into a large pot filled with a gallon-and-a-half of boiling Evian, Aquafina, or Dasani. You may instead use tap water if you feel your turkey isn’t as deserving as yourself.

Boil this concoction for approximately two hours. During this downtime, you can do anything you want, including spending quiet time with friends, cleaning your home, or reflecting upon the poor choices you’ve made in life. When time is up, you will have a vegetable stock that you can be certain does not contain any toenails, fecal matter, or date-rape drugs.

Pour the steaming liquid through a sieve into a clean (read: not previously containing motor oil, bleach, or concentrated stool softener) five gallon bucket. You can even use a new Hefty bag as a liner if you wish.

Discard the waterlogged contents left in the sieve. They’re not doing anybody any favors any more.

“The Brining”

Now, hastily plunge the salt, brown sugar, bay leaves, cloves, coriander, peppercorns, cinnamon, allspice, cardamom, and chicken stock into your bucket of boiling liquid, taking care to moderately scald your face with molten backsplash in the process. You will later use this injury as leverage to garner sympathy from your loved ones.

Let the contents of the bucket steep until it cools to room temperature. Add ice to chill it further and then dunk the turkey, submerging it as if you were drowning a baby raccoon. Again. Next, cover it with more ice cubes to combat the horrifying germs that are constantly trying to kill you. Store this experiment in a cold place where the temperature will reach no higher than 37 degrees. Like your garage. Or mother-in-law’s heart. Let it brine for a minimum of 12 hours to a maximum of 24 hours.

“Close Encounters of the Bird Kind”

After your brine time is up, remove the turkey from the brine, rinse it off, and pat it dry with paper towels. Set the used brine outside to poison the neighborhood dogs. Also, preheat your oven to 500 degrees. Right now.

To really guarantee your ass gets bigger this holiday season, you must give this turkey a how’s-your-father with pure creamery butter. And please wear food-safe disposable rubber gloves. You’ll thank me later.

Now, with fistfuls of butter, vigorously rub the turkey both over and under its skin, creating friction not unlike that found in lower-tier massage parlors. Get the legs. Get the wings. Talk to it.

After the sensual rub down has ceased, muster up the energy to perform the following unspeakable acts…

• Place 1 sprig of fresh rosemary under the skin of each breast

• Place 2 lemons (cut into wedges) inside the turkey’s gaping hole. This will help keep it moist. And smelling like household cleanser.

• Tie the legs together like a fancy restaurant does. This is called “trussing”, but I prefer “bondage.”

• Generously sprinkle kosher salt and coarse pepper all over the skin.

Now place this majesty, uncovered, into your blazing oven for approximately 30 minutes. This will brown the living hell out of the skin and lock in the juices. After 30 minutes, turn on the broiler for a few minutes more to really brown the mother down. Yes, all the way to Chinatown.

After this intensely emotional Elizabeth Barrett Browning session, turn the oven back down to the normal recommended turkey temperature (I use 375°, which is a little high for some). Loosely place a tinfoil tent over it for the first half of cooking to shield it from the harmful rays of our yellow sun.

Half way through the cooking process, remove and discard the tent you pitched in your kitchen in front of an array of friends and family. Baste the turkey in its own juices every so often to give it good color and a wet look like something from the eighties.

When the turkey is done and your family has stopped belittling, judging, and uttering racial epithets long enough to taste what true happiness is, you can repay me by carving my initials into your thigh.

…eightbitsoul

Some time ago, I lived in an apartment beside a rather quiet fellow. You’d never know he was even there except for one little annoying caveat – the bastadge loved to make sure his door was supremely locked. I’m talking LOVED. He pretty much shook the frigging building from its dubious foundation for nigh five seconds each time he repeatedly yanked, turned and jostled his undoubtedly traumatized doorknob. And when exactly did that occur?

Every. Time. He. Left.

Was he obsessive-compulsive? Or did his burning yearning to protect his property so very vigorously stem from something far more sinister? Each time I heard his signature <SHAKE! SHAKE! SHAKE! TURN! TURN! TURN!> of the already locked knob I couldn’t help but imagine the possibilities that lurked inside…

Expensive stereo equipment?
Doubloons ready for secret transfer to the International Monetary Fund?
Mountains of grannie panties requiring a much needed de-phlogisticating?
An entire team of asynchronous synchronized swimmers?
Various inflatable companions and a rather high-quality puncture repair kit?
The entire cast of the H.M.S. Pinafore awaiting further instruction?
A Burger King bathroom photo collage?
Effigies of human plagues like Idi Amin, Pol Pot, or Miley Cyrus?
A Chinese seamstress endlessly mending trousers torn in unsightly places?
Illicit animals like the Indian gavial, Arakan forest turtle, Bonobo, or one of the various lesser apes?

I don’t think the guy was challenged in any sort of capacity. I guess he just continuously and fervently attempted to prove to the world that he did in fact have the capability to lock the everloving hell out of a door.

Lock on, my brother. Lock on.

…eightbitsoul

So there I was. Sitting in the sweet dew of morning traffic. Thinking. Thinking and driving. Yes, quite possibly against my better judgment. But I must write down my thoughts to alleviate the smoldering irritation before it catches alight and singes my supple nethers…

I’m pretty sure I really don’t like cyclists. Harsh, I know. I like bicycles. Yes, bicycles are super swell. But my pretentiometer goes off the motherloving charts when I see a cyclist riding against the grain of humanity. They have an aura. An unsubstantiated “better-than-you” attitude.

I despise them.

And I’m not alone. Every other motorist does too.

These banana seat lovers pretend to be all grown-up by riding in the middle of a lane. They hold up the flow of traffic and create precarious situations. Why? So they can prove an equality with motorists that exists not but in their own minds? I have seen cyclists intentionally avoid the very bicycle lanes my tax dollars helped build for them. What the what!?!

Cyclists want to be treated like motor vehicles. But they’re kind of missing the “motor” part of the equation. They’re incapable of such speed no matter how fast they pedal their spindly, spandexed legs. And my, that spandex! Or “circus fabric” as I like to call it. It seems every cyclist thinks they’re in the Tour de France and thusly must dress like a hermetically sealed wiener, scarring children and heartily spooking the elderly…

“Was… was that a spaceman, Danny?”
“No, grandma. That was an asshole.”

But I guess the real reason I hold cyclists so very dear to my heart is because they want to be treated like motorists when it’s convenient.

Have you ever seen a cyclist riding dead-center in a lane, too stubborn and prideful to pull aside and let actual traffic pass… only to come to a stop light and have no qualms about switching over to using the crosswalk like a frigging pedestrian? And then nonchalantly return to being a full-fledged “motorist” on the other side?

Yeah, me too.

…eightbitsoul, from the O Bother! Series

Things that make me fart…

• cherries
• corn
• radishes

Things I love to eat…

• cherries
• corn
• radishes

Uh-oh.

…eightbitsoul

Did I ever tell you that if I owned an elitist cafe-slash-sandwich shop I would totally call it Ampersandwiches? And we would serve Peanut Butter & Ligatures for, like, a crap-ton of money? And it would just be regular ol’ off-the-shelf Jif? And not even the crunchy kind? Yeah, that would really be a rather gratifying nutpunch to all those hipsters out there…

“Sure, I’ll sell you a mediocre sandwich wrapped in a one-hundred-percent-post-consumer-waste napkin with clever logo for eighteen dollars. I’ll sell you two!”

Some of the recycled napkin fibers may have previously touched the business end of a human being. But that’s the price of freedom, son.

Yes, indeed. Freedom brings ass-napkins for all.

…eightbitsoul