tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42637161522222611352024-03-13T05:38:54.931-07:00Echoes of the WordsmithLife is hard. It's also funny.
Echoes of the Wordsmith is the proud home of the Course Overload series, featuring an average man in not so average situations.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-74509628221154788162016-09-26T11:32:00.001-07:002016-09-26T11:32:34.858-07:00Barfing babby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kH35Zckhsbw/V-lptcsYqpI/AAAAAAAACkI/ffEaA3jotnMMqxwXqvg6pjybYMvDG6Z9QCLcB/s1600/1batwr.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kH35Zckhsbw/V-lptcsYqpI/AAAAAAAACkI/ffEaA3jotnMMqxwXqvg6pjybYMvDG6Z9QCLcB/s320/1batwr.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-79910269535324822572012-04-19T19:24:00.000-07:002012-04-19T19:26:30.290-07:00Running on Empty<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
An earthen wind blows through the
semi-lighted forest. A clam stream flows through and a single female dear
drinks deeply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pICFfFDxT3o/T5DJR5A4OEI/AAAAAAAABZ0/7-YK4Jxhd1o/s1600/sunlight_in_the_woods_825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pICFfFDxT3o/T5DJR5A4OEI/AAAAAAAABZ0/7-YK4Jxhd1o/s400/sunlight_in_the_woods_825.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I’m running through said scenery,
with the wind in my face, smiling contentedly. No, hold on; that’s not a smile,
I’m screaming! A small troop of garden gnomes chases after, constantly tripping
over rocks, tree stumps, and other forest-y things. Still, they manage to keep
pace with me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I look back, wondering how
something made of porcelain with its legs fused together can run so fast. But,
damn, they’re sexy. If they weren’t trying to kill me, I’d be hitting on them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Faster and faster I go, and,
looking down, I wonder why I chose today to wear my cement boots. Damn that
Payless and their convincing sales pitch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I see a house up ahead and decide
I’d rather be killed by the monstrosity that inevitably lives inside than a
pack of pissed off garden decorations. Why oh why did I decide to play garden
gnome baseball? How was <i>I</i> supposed to
know they were alive? Sure, they talk to me sometimes, but I thought that was
just my own instability. I mean, sometimes I have whole conversations with
Richard Nixon and Johnny Carson. We talk about hot chicks, like Madeline
Albright. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Entering the house, I see an old
woman in a bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Grandma, what a big beard you
have,” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“All the better to scratch my arms
with, oh yeah!” she replies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“And Grandma, what big teeth you have,” I add.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“All the better to snap into a Slim Jim with,
oh yeah!” Grandma returns.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“And Grandma, what big python-like arms you
have,” I point out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“No shit,” replies Grandma. “Oh, I
mean, all the better to kick garden gnome ass with. Oh yeah!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Oh my God! It’s Grandma Savage! I
tell her of the garden gnomes chasing me, and she gets out of bed with a grin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“I’ll be right back. Oh yeah! I’m gonna round
up Grandpa Hogan and we’ll go snap into some slim gnomes!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cmUAWkLYMVQ/T5DIqzW8LnI/AAAAAAAABZs/fFEpy2jVGYw/s1600/RandySavage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cmUAWkLYMVQ/T5DIqzW8LnI/AAAAAAAABZs/fFEpy2jVGYw/s320/RandySavage.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
She bolts out the door. Seconds
later, she pops her head back in and bellows, “Oh yeah!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Outside, I hear gruff voices yell
and porcelain shatters. Grandpa Hogan sticks his face through an open window. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Don’t worry your pretty little
head about a thing, Brother. We took care of those unholy porcelain demons!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Oh yeah!” Grandma Savage adds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“We’re gonna make us a new toilet seat,
Brother!” Grandpa Hogan growls. “Now run along, little Hulkster.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I thank the elderly couple and
begin walking off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Uh-oh, there’s something following
behind me. It’s short and sexy… It must be a garden gnome!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
My fears are alleviated when I see
it is only Madline Albright. I grin with genuine happiness, and, staring into
her pale green eyes, I tell her I missed her. She hugs me briefly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“I missed you too, Ms. Reno,” she
replies.</div>Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-54264800171167022972011-07-20T22:18:00.000-07:002011-07-20T22:18:08.817-07:00Christmas in July #2, Course Overload #28: "Christmas Chaos"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUkFGpnVw-4/Tie04SAvJ4I/AAAAAAAABVg/ORL-koGbLHg/s1600/ChristmasChaos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUkFGpnVw-4/Tie04SAvJ4I/AAAAAAAABVg/ORL-koGbLHg/s1600/ChristmasChaos.jpg" t$="true" /></a></div><br />
With the holidays right around the corner, it’s time for all of us to reflect on all the most important things in life. The things that, were it not for them, we would not be the fine, upstanding citizens we are today. God, family, love, and helping others less fortunate than us, those in need, have nothing to do with it. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either a liar or works for a greeting card company, which is a little like lying in itself. Obviously, presents are the most important aspect of any holiday, and one can measure their future success in life by the amount of shiny boxes under the Christmas tree (or the Chanukah tree, for those of us who are Jewish or Canadian).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HQnhHG6qY3Y/Tie0ksts9TI/AAAAAAAABVY/RqMki57fRXc/s1600/GIFTZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HQnhHG6qY3Y/Tie0ksts9TI/AAAAAAAABVY/RqMki57fRXc/s320/GIFTZ.jpg" t$="true" width="295" /></a></div>Therefore, the only way to avoid becoming a bum who dances with a monkey in the street for pocket change or someone who has all their white pigment extracted for sale to Ronald McDonald is to get totally inundated with gifts on Christmas morning. But, how does one do that? <br />
<br />
Don’t count on your parents. Mom and dad can't help you, because by now, you’ve already used up all your Christmas credits. By now, they’re saving for their retirement. And don't even think about getting gifts from your friends, because they're all buying themselves presents in a desperate bid to escape hoboism. Only a single solution remains: the man in red. I speak not of Papa Smurf or Mao Ze Dung, But of Santavier Q. Clauzentide - AKA Santa Claus.<br />
<br />
Woe to those who have turned their backs on Saint Nick, after all those years he creepily knew whether you were sleeping or awake; all those years he broke into your house, ate your cookies, and left you gifts that only a true stalker could have known you wanted. For shame! Santa is indeed very real, and I assure you, he's very jolly.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E3rksNbiiaM/Tie1BVwNoRI/AAAAAAAABVk/_0uQjcZmMb0/s1600/santa-claus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E3rksNbiiaM/Tie1BVwNoRI/AAAAAAAABVk/_0uQjcZmMb0/s320/santa-claus.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ho, ho... uh oh! You don't believe in me!?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Santa is your only hope and I’ll bet you didn’t write him a letter this year, did you? Now the Merry One has no idea what to get you and you’ll probably wind up with a stupid tie that says “Better luck next year, you ho ho horrible excuse for humanity!” Also socks filled with beetles. <br />
<br />
Ahh, beetles. So tiny, yet so venomous.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z23JA1JJW58/Tie1PN95P6I/AAAAAAAABVo/FFJKscawpTc/s1600/CrazySanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z23JA1JJW58/Tie1PN95P6I/AAAAAAAABVo/FFJKscawpTc/s200/CrazySanta.jpg" t$="true" width="200" /></a></div>So what about the Santas at the mall? Everyone knows that department store Santas aren’t the real thing. They’re hideous genetic clones of the real Santa, manufactured from his jolly DNA in a process similar to that used in Jurassic Park, and distributed throughout Wal-Marts everywhere. It made sense when it was done: more Santas equals more absurdly overpriced presents, more Christmas photo ops, and more breaking and entering via ridiculously undersized chimneys. However, what seemed like a jolly good idea at first had a single, fatal flaw. Suppose you taped your favorite episode of Donald Trump’s Mighty Morphin’ Power Apprentice and made a copy for your lousy neighbor, Jim, who has yet to return your snowblower after borrowing it three Christmases ago. Then Jim makes a copy for his neighbor, who makes one for his, and so on. By the fourth or fifth copy, you’ll start to notice defects, like fuzzy picture, poor sound quality, and extra limbs and eyes.<br />
<br />
This is exactly what happened with the mall Santas. The real Santa is a busy man, with the millions of children he spies on all day while Mrs. Claus is sleeping or perhaps dead. After the first clone was made, Santa was told to go home and have a merry 264th day before Christmas; the other clones could be produced from the one they just made in factories called Santateriums. However, each clone made from the original clone was less and less stable, until the last batch of about 28,000 Santas were more reptilian than human, spewing more than just Christmas cheer when they opened their nefarious “mouths.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9awpLQU9kAU/Tie2dLhMpYI/AAAAAAAABVs/enZLImvU-VM/s1600/reptilesanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9awpLQU9kAU/Tie2dLhMpYI/AAAAAAAABVs/enZLImvU-VM/s320/reptilesanta.jpg" t$="true" width="294" /></a></div><br />
All that these horrible Santa clones are good for is scaring America’s children in malls across the country. Come on, you’ve seen it. Whenever a child sits on the odious knee of a Santa clone, they know it and they scream. <br />
<br />
Yet, these awful clones are the key to your present dilemma!<br />
<br />
Violence is your only option. First, find a mall Santa. Any will do, but try to find one who looks particularly busy because he’ll be the most distracted. Now simply run up and steal his hat and beard. Because mall Santas are inferior genetic copies, their beards and hats aren’t a secure part of their bodies like the real Santa, making it easy for you take them. Now you’ve got to hit that Santa clone hard and fast, or he’ll use his special Santa telepathy to call other Santas and sometimes mall security. <br />
<br />
Next comes the easy part. Wear the Santa parts you just pilfered. If stores at the mall think you’re Santa Claus, you can pretty much take anything you want. Who’s going to stop Saint Nick from making his annual Christmas rounds? Just remember to say things like “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!” and seem obsessed with children. It might be a good idea to take a few with you while their parents aren’t looking to give yourself more credibility.<br />
<br />
As you sit back in the squad car after your shopping spree, thinking “sirens are so romantic,” with your arms in a straight jacket like that ever enduring symbol of Christmas, Hannibal Lector, I want you to reflect on the true meaning of Christmas: It is better to receive than to give. God bless us, everyone!Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-16727794871053382402011-07-08T21:41:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:30:35.436-07:00Christmas in July #1: Working in a Retail Wonderland<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LUKWzCy9hRk/ThfXX1NTUDI/AAAAAAAABUk/C8VaGxxQi5s/s1600/Santa_evil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" m="" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LUKWzCy9hRk/ThfXX1NTUDI/AAAAAAAABUk/C8VaGxxQi5s/s320/Santa_evil.jpg" true="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Makin' a list. Crushing you twice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
‘Twas the season to be jolly, which of course meant that everyone and his brother’s dentist flocked to the malls like lemmings: perpetually moving, bargain crazed lemmings. Contrary to the songs and stereotypes of the season, not many shoppers seemed to be very jolly, and good will towards men (and women) was in short supply. But as hassled and angry as the shoppers were, with only six days remaining before the birth of Christ, retail workers were under ten times more pressure. <br />
“Adam!” exclaimed my manager, mysteriously known only as Mr. T. From my station behind the register, I watched as Adam, my co-worker, looked up from the plastic Christmas tree he had just placed in the window.<br />
<br />
“What’s the problem, Mr. T?” Adam asked, wiping the sweat off his brow.<br />
<br />
“Why did you put a Christmas tree in the window instead of this karaoke machine?” Mr. T. demanded, pointing angrily at the small tree. “What’s more important, a Christmas tree or selling karaoke machines?”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure that’s exactly what Jesus wants,” I mumbled, looking across the vast line that had formed at the front register in the twelve seconds I hadn’t been watching. Heading the line was a woman who wanted 30 gift cards for five dollars each. She was also looking for an album by the band Boston, the one “with the UFOs on the cover.” <br />
<br />
I bit my tongue. Hard. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
As the day wore on, the line seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, no matter how many people I rang up. There must have been at least five thousand dollars in my register, and the day was still young. <br />
<br />
Then it dawned on me. <br />
<br />
I wasn’t at a crappy retail job, selling stupid people stupid things that they would never use and helping them charge themselves to death, no. It was an epic battle between good and evil. It was me versus the line. The line was not composed of different people. Instead, it was a single, faceless mass, its odious presence sucking the joy out of my soul. I became more and more methodic, treating every customer as another obstacle in my path to happiness. <br />
<br />
“Thank you for shopping FYE and have a nice night… bitch.”<br />
<br />
Finally, several hours later, the line was almost gone. Three customers remained; there were likely more were on their way, but that didn’t matter to me. I had almost killed the object of my hatred. In my euphoria, I barely notice the gentleman who came up beside me, opposite the line. <br />
<br />
“Mumble, mumble,” said the customer.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me sir?” I asked, knocked temporarily out of my register trance. The short customer stood before me, just a little over my height, but much, much rounder. His joyless eyes stared into mine.<br />
<br />
“Mumble, Adams Family Christmas mumble?”<br />
<br />
I quickly looked up the answer, and found that we had never even carried an Adams Family Christmas album to begin with. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9VN2MzSVAmg/ThfYZ1hQJ0I/AAAAAAAABUo/MSJJMT_JSMc/s1600/AddamsFamilyChristmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" m="" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9VN2MzSVAmg/ThfYZ1hQJ0I/AAAAAAAABUo/MSJJMT_JSMc/s400/AddamsFamilyChristmas.jpg" true="" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
“Sorry, sir, we don’t have that one. You might want to try Media Play or Best Buy,” I suggested.<br />
<br />
Joyless Eyes crinkled his nose and walked away.<br />
<br />
Back to the line I went, ringing the last customer up. I looked around, unable to believe that the line was actually gone. Triumphantly, I waved my hands in the air.<br />
<br />
“Anyone else need some help?! Anyone?” No one responded. Feeling cocky, I exclaimed, “Bring it on!”<br />
<br />
Hearing my wisecrack, Joyless Eyes gave me a strange look from across the room, but no one else came to rebuild the line. I turned to Mike Barrett, a friend and fellow co-worker, who had arrived just in time to see my epic feat. “Did you see that?” I asked, a maniacal grin passing my lips. “I killed the line!”<br />
<br />
“I see that, Matt,” he responded enthusiastically. “Since you worked so hard killing the line, you must be hungry!”<br />
<br />
I shook my head yes.<br />
<br />
“I’m going to Wendy’s; I’ll bring back some chicken nuggets for you.”<br />
<br />
“Thanks, Mike,” I replied, turning to tend to the sadistically reforming line.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-23ba9NTphnU/ThfY7SbHU3I/AAAAAAAABUs/986UVBuehLQ/s1600/wendysnuggets.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" m="" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-23ba9NTphnU/ThfY7SbHU3I/AAAAAAAABUs/986UVBuehLQ/s200/wendysnuggets.png" true="" width="158" /></a></div>
I don’t know how long it was between when Mike Barrett left and the next time the line dwindled to zilch, but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Wondering where Mike was with my chicken nuggets, I decided to brave the sales floor in search of my friend and my lunch. With a prayer that the customers wouldn’t see me or ask me any dim-witted questions, I sprinted out from behind the counter like a gazelle trying to outrun a pack of hungry wolves.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t long before I spotted Mike Barrett. For some reason, he was waving his hands wildly, as if trying to tell me to run. However, the only thing wrong I could see was the lack of chicken nuggets in his hands. “Hey Mike! Have you got that chicken yet, or haven’t you got a chance to…”<br />
<br />
Before I could finish, Joyless Eyes appeared in front of me out of nothingness. “You told me you didn’t have this!” he exclaimed, pointing to the CD in his greasy hand. Surprised, I looked down and saw an album cover with a little boy standing by a Christmas tree. He didn’t look like Uncle Fester to me.<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about, sir?” I asked, my confusion growing.<br />
<br />
“Where’s your manager, you smart ass? I wanna speak to your manager!” replied Joyless Eyes, apparently too wrapped up in his sudden bout of Turrets Syndrome to answer my question. I wondered what exactly he expected my manager to do about me ringing people up while he found a random CD.<br />
<br />
Giving up on his devious plan to get me fired for doing my job, Joyless Eyes abandoned his short-lived search for a manager and instead began storming towards the cash register. “You told me you didn’t have this and now you’re going to ring me up!” he shouted. I marveled at both his grasp of the past and his ability to tell the future.<br />
<br />
“Are you sure it was me?” I asked, convinced that some other employee had somehow angered the beast, and now his rage-blinded eyes had picked up on my gray work shirt and decided we were one in the same.<br />
<br />
“It was you! I remember your ponytail! I have three witnesses to prove it!” Looking out behind him, I didn’t see anyone else. I wondered if maybe one of these imaginary witnesses had convinced him that the CD he was holding was the missing Adams Family Christmas Album.<br />
<br />
When we arrived at the register, he threw the CD towards me and angrily pulled out his credit card. “What exactly did I say to you, sir?” I asked, running his purchase under the scanner.<br />
<br />
“You said ‘Bring it on,’ you smart ass!”<br />
<br />
For a moment, I considered trying to explain to him that my offer for customers to “bring it on” was a joke. Then, for the first time, I noticed what he was buying: the Adam Sandler Christmas Album. That’s when I knew that he wouldn’t know a good joke if it kicked him in his fat ass. I decided to let it go.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uQ26g7ouFJY/Thfbl_59R9I/AAAAAAAABUw/-v3eQ8uybJI/s1600/adam_sandler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" m="" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uQ26g7ouFJY/Thfbl_59R9I/AAAAAAAABUw/-v3eQ8uybJI/s320/adam_sandler.jpg" true="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Merry Christmas! Hababbaloo! Himo doobooloo! I'm an unfunny asshat."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
“Your receipt is in the bag, and thank you for shopping at FYE,” I said cheerfully, handing him his confusing purchase. He yanked it out of my hands and threw the credit card receipt at me before I had even finished the sentence.<br />
<br />
Just then Mike Barrett walked up beside me once more, holding my chicken nuggets. “I tried to warn you, but I didn’t know how,” he apologized, handing me my food, “so I just waved my arms around and hoped you’d get the point.”<br />
<br />
“It’s okay, Mike,” I replied. “Anyway, I figured it out. He said ‘Adam Sandler,’ and I thought he said ‘Adams Family.’” I shoved a chicken nugget into my mouth. “Well, at least I didn’t put a Christmas tree where a karaoke machine should have been.”<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?” Mike Barrett went to his register and readied himself to ring.<br />
<br />
“Never mind,” I replied, surveying the new, mile long line.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-10922223016980953992011-07-05T16:01:00.000-07:002011-07-05T16:01:57.591-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 14<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Chapter 14: It <em>Must</em> Be True!</strong></div><strong></strong><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
The police found my coworkers tied up and unharmed in the storeroom, just as The Yeti had said. As they led him out, my boss promised me that, in return for everything I had done, he’d correct the damage the Ying-Yang Gang had inflicted on my character. I shook his hand and he flashed his best P.R. smile as the police drove him to the station for questioning.</div><br />
Of course, the members of the Ying-Yang Gang, once revived, that is, claimed that they were simply innocent orphans searching for food. They claimed that I had parachuted out of a helicopter and started beating them up so I could perform horrible genetic experiments on them in my secret lab. <br />
<br />
But Joe’s video said otherwise. <br />
<br />
Joe had been filming since I had stepped out of the building, so he had captured Sinister Eyes’s entire confession. Unlike orphans, video doesn’t lie. The terrible trio was carted off to the local jail in the sheriff’s paddy wagon. <br />
<br />
As for what he was doing at the Wappingers Falls Tribune offices, Joe was about to apply for a janitorial position when he saw me and smelled an opportunity for good video. Much to his delight, Joe got his job, all right – as the official photographer/videographer of the Wappingers Falls Tribune.<br />
<br />
After everything calmed down a bit, Kara and Shannon were standing by the van. <br />
<br />
“Thanks for everything, you two,” I said. “I don’t think I could have taken the orphans and Joe Shurize at the same time.”<br />
<br />
Kara smiled. “Hey, it takes more than orphan gang members to stop me.”<br />
<br />
“And I figured that I should help too,” said Shannon.<br />
<br />
“Yeah,” Kara agreed. “Shannon and I were supposed to hang out, but then it really bothered me that you didn’t get an answer when you called your job. I thought you might need me for something.”<br />
<br />
“So she dragged me here,” added Shannon. “But you really did need us, so I guess it worked out okay.” Shannon winked at me. I know it was supposed to be witty, but actually it was just creepy. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, in which we all just kind of stared at the rocks on the pavement. <br />
<br />
In the distance, the cops started leaving the scene, their sirens blearing. <br />
<br />
“Sirens are so romantic,” I mused, a huge grin plastered on my exonerated face. <br />
<br />
And the swan… well, the swan was nowhere to be found. (Insert eerie music here.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
The next morning, I dashed out of the house and looked in the mailbox for what promised to be a very special edition of the newspaper. Unfortunately, it hadn’t arrived yet. Those damn lazy delivery people! Is it too much to ask to have my paper delivered at a decent time, like 2 a.m.? I guess so.<br />
<br />
Waiting for that paper was like waiting for Mom and Dad to wake up on Christmas. Sleep wasn’t really an option, and this time I couldn’t just set Dad’s clock ahead five hours. Instead, I resorted to counting all the blades of grass on my lawn. It was really hard to explain to the neighbors why I was asleep in the middle of their lawn when they left for work that morning.<br />
<br />
But there was no time for that! After making something up about a failed robbery attempt to said neighbors, I sprinted to my mailbox and grabbed the paper. I unrolled it and was instantly elated. There, on the front page, was a picture of me that had been taken yesterday at the scene of the battle. I was standing over Sinister Eyes after knocking her down the last time. The headline was written over the top of the page in big, black letters: “Local man rises from the grave to devastate local cute orphan population!”<br />
<br />
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I held my arms triumphantly in the air. Ahh, it was good to be alive!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
“Goodnight Mom!” I yelled through my closed bedroom door. She mumbled something. “No, I’m really still alive. …Yes, you too. See you tomorrow!”<br />
<br />
I placed the cell phone back to my ear. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, sorry about that Kara. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.”<br />
<br />
“Goodnight Matt,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re alive again!”<br />
<br />
“Me too, Kara. Me too.” I smiled, but Kara couldn’t see it because cell phones don’t transmit facial actions very well. Instead, I told her in great detail what my face looked like at the time for another 15 minutes. Then it really was time to go. “Goodnight Kara! Sleep tight!”<br />
<br />
“Sweet dreams!” Kara replied. I hung up the phone and put it back in its charger.<br />
<br />
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Within minutes of slipping under the covers, I drifted off to sleep <strike>effortlessly</strike> easily. My first day of rebirth had gone by like any other, with me playing video games and eating excessive amounts of cheese. Yet, everything was enhanced. I hate to admit it, but playing video games all day and night isn’t as fulfilling as one would think. That day I felt like my life had a purpose once again. For the first time in weeks, I was looking forward to tomorrow.<br />
<br />
That night, I had a dream. I was sailing in a beautiful Caribbean sea, all alone, marveling at the truly resplendent beaches and vegetation of my tropical island. That was the first good dream I’d ever had. <br />
<br />
It was nice, like being alive.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-58040951662649706592011-06-29T13:46:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:31:26.770-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 13<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Chapter 13: Raging Battle! Vampire Killer, or Killer Vampire?</strong></div>
<br />
<br />
From the shadows, the nightwalker spoke. <br />
<br />
“I wasss beginning to think you’d never come.”<br />
<br />
I was ready for combat. All of my years reading comic books, watching horror films and playing video games had led up to this moment. I squinted and searched the darkness. “Show yourself, you son of a bitch!”<br />
<br />
However, it wasn’t a son who emerged from the shadows, but a daughter. Before me stood Crazy Soup Girl, baring her shiny fangs and her similarly satanic neon green t-shirt and orange pants! <br />
<br />
“What the hell?!” I exclaimed in disbelief. “You’re a vampire? But how? I saw you in the daylight!”<br />
<br />
“Thatsss when I wasss a daywalker,” she replied, inching past the light of the open window and forcing me into the hallway. Instinctively, I backed into the nearest office. Though it was still dark, I was able to feel my way in, half by instinct, and half from having memorized the floor plan when I started working there, just in case of such an incident.<br />
<br />
“Then how did you become a vampire? Did one sweep you up after you jumped out that window?” No one but me had noticed Crazy Soup Girl’s body missing from the ground mere moments after she leapt out of Kara’s dorm...<br />
<br />
But it all made sense! Obviously, the scent of her blood had attracted a vampire who was somehow immune to sunlight. He sensed an easy meal, swooped down and grabbed her, then brought her back to his castle and feasted on her delicious plasma!<br />
<br />
“No,” she hissed, “I was fine after jumping out of that window. I just dusssted myssself off and walked back inssside. I became a vampire two nightsss ago when I left my window open a crack at my house in Alassska.”<br />
<br />
And that would have been my second guess.<br />
<br />
“But I tire of thisss. My employer sssent me to dissspossse of you,” she revealed. I could tell she was licking her lips. Her inhuman eyes shone through the shadows. “Are you ready to cry bloody tearsss?”<br />
<br />
“Employer!? Who? Who wants me dead?”<br />
<br />
I could feel the joy of the kill escalating within Crazy Vampire Soup Girl. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she taunted. “How ironic that I wasss sssent to kill a dead man!”<br />
<br />
I didn’t exactly have time to sit around and contemplate the irony. <br />
<br />
“Please tell me,” I weakly pleaded. “I’ll be your best friend.”<br />
<br />
“Never! You ssshall die not knowing your true asssailant!”<br />
<br />
I searched my pockets for any sort of bargaining chip. I hastily bumped into the only thing of value in my pocket. It was a long shot, but it was also my only shot. I looked her in the eyes. “If you tell me, I’ll give you a piece of gum.”<br />
<br />
“It wasss the orphansss!” Crazy Vampire Soup Girl exclaimed, leaping out of the darkness, yanking the gum out of my hand, and chewing it with great ecstasy.<br />
<br />
I stumbled back, grabbing a chair and regaining my balance. “The orphans!? But why? Why would they…?”<br />
<br />
“Thank you for the tribute. But now I really do have to kill you. I have a four o’clock at a fun houssse in Chessster.”<br />
<br />
“Tribute?!” I was flabbergasted. “You steal men’s souls!”<br />
<br />
“Perhapssse the sssame could be sssaid of all religionsss,” she returned smugly. “What isss a man? A missserable little pile of sssecretsss! But enough talk. Have at you!”<br />
<br />
As if on cue, before she could even throw the first punch, Crazy Vampire Soup Girl began reeling with agony. She coughed and spit out the gum, tripping over a nearby conveniently placed object and slamming into the adjacent wall.<br />
<br />
I smiled ever so slightly. <br />
<br />
“Garlic gum. I never leave home without it; it makes your breath so fresh and minty!”<br />
<br />
“Cursssse you!” she yelled. The fires of hatred blazed in her eyes.<br />
<br />
I sprinted over to the wall she leaned against. “Rise and shine!” I screamed valiantly, reaching for the cord to the blinds. I yanked them valiantly.<br />
<br />
Nothing happened.<br />
<br />
“Hang on, this is going to be super cool!” I pulled again, but it still didn’t work. I could tell that Crazy Vampire Soup Girl was getting frustrated. I was so embarrassed, I could feel myself turning a vibrant shade of red.<br />
<br />
“What’sss the hold up!?”<br />
<br />
With a final tug, the blinds rolled up. Sunshine poured into the room like a tidal wave. Crazy Vampire Soup Girl flopped around on the floor like a badly dressed carp caught in a fisherman’s net. I closed the blinds just enough to let only a little light in. The vampire stopped flailing as much.<br />
<br />
“Tell me where my coworkers are!”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know!”<br />
<br />
“Then, tell me where the orphans went!” I let a little more light in through the blinds.<br />
<br />
“They’re outssside!” she exclaimed.<br />
<br />
But as I watched her writhe about on the floor in such pain, I actually felt sorry for her. It was against my better judgment, but…<br />
<br />
“If you promise to be nice, I’ll let you go,” I offered. <br />
<br />
Crazy Vampire Soup Girl took little time to make her decision. “Yesss, I will!”<br />
<br />
I closed the blinds. Crazy Vampire Soup Girl slowly regained her footing. “I guesss a thank you isss in order…”<br />
<br />
I nodded. “From now on, I want you to play nice, okay?”<br />
<br />
“Of courssse.”<br />
<br />
“You can hang out in that closet over there until nightfall, and then go and do whatever it is vampires do.”<br />
<br />
She shrugged her shoulders. “Usssually we play Monopoly or make fessstive sssoups together. And we love reality TV, like Sssurvivor and –”<br />
<br />
“Okay, But no more biting people,” I commanded. “It’s rude.”<br />
<br />
I dashed to the back exit, leaving Crazy Vampire Soup girl to fend for herself. After all, I had a bigger threat to thwart. I opened the door and rushed out.<br />
<br />
“Bravo,” congratulated a small, sinister female voice. “We didn’t think you would make it this far.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t need to see the speaker to know who it was. I spun around hurriedly. There in front of me were the immoral orphans, standing coyly in the parking lot by mother’s car. Thankfully, they had driven my car to the scene. Hallelujah! I never thought I’d see it again! I didn’t even care that it had orphan germs in it!<br />
<br />
I faced the terrible tribe of heathens and stared them down as best I could. After all, there were three of them and only one of me, and though I had gained a few pounds from all the ramen noodles and cheese I had been gulping down, I still wasn’t big enough to equal their combined mass.<br />
<br />
“I should have known that you satanic orphans had something to do with all of this!”<br />
<br />
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<br />
“Something to do with it?” asked Sinister Eyes, trying to contain her awful laughter. “We had everything to do with it!”<br />
<br />
“What?!”<br />
<br />
Sinister Eyes seemed disappointed. I could do nothing but continue standing there, my mind racing. “Oh please, I thought you were smarter than that. I thought you’d have figured it all out by now.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry, I was playing that new video game, Yojimbo’s Carnival of Pain,” I retorted. “I guess I got a little distracted… for six weeks.”<br />
<br />
“It’s no coincidence that we targeted you last month with the old ‘orphans by the side of the road’ scheme. It works every time!”<br />
<br />
“Gasp!” I gasped.<br />
<br />
“And it wasn’t your boss or anyone from the Wappingers Falls Tribune who wrote that obituary. It was me! I wrote it as soon as we finished beating you.”<br />
<br />
I shook my head with disgust. “Well, shows what you know. That obituary was full of spelling, grammar and factual errors!”<br />
<br />
“We did it on purpose to embarrass you, you fool.”<br />
<br />
I shook my fist at them angrily. “Damn you! It worked!”<br />
<br />
Sinister Eyes allowed herself a small grin. “We’ve been trying to ruin you from the beginning.”<br />
<br />
“But why?” I asked, confused. “What did I do to you?”<br />
<br />
“This goes far beyond petty vendettas. It’s all business. You see… I wanted your job.”<br />
<br />
“My job!?” I exclaimed with disbelief. “But you’re only nine years old!”<br />
<br />
Sinister Eyes squinted at me, her devilish sight squarely on my face. It was as if she was looking directly into my soul. “I’m actually 27. I’m older than you. And my comrades are both far past the legal drinking age. Together, we have formed the crime syndicate known as… the Ying-Yang Gang!”<br />
<br />
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<br />
“The Ying-Yang Gang!? You mean the jewel thieves that the Wappingers Falls Tribune reports on?”<br />
<br />
“The very same,” returned Sinister Eyes. “We estimated that if I got your job, I could slowly gain more and more influence and finally become the editor!”<br />
<br />
“And when that didn’t work, we just tied everyone up and left them in the storeroom,” added The Yeti. <br />
<br />
“Shut up!” yelled Sinister Eyes. “I’ll do the talking here!” The Yeti’s lip curled up and he began to cry. Sinister Eyes ignored him. “So now that I’m the editor, I can print fake news stories that will make store owners leave their stores open at night… for us to rob! Because if you read it in a newspaper, it must be true!”<br />
<br />
“That’s diabolical!” I exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“And no more of those pesky reports of our activities,” she added. <br />
<br />
If there were ever a time to prove myself as a ninja, it was then. I assumed my most deadly ninja fighting stance. I wasn’t going to be defeated again!<br />
<br />
“Oh? A challenge?” countered Sinister Eyes. “We weren’t going to let you live anyway, but now disposing of you is going to be a lot more fun than anticipated. Are you ready for another thrashing?”<br />
<br />
“Uhh… well, are you ready for some… football!?” <br />
<br />
I’ve never been very good at comebacks.<br />
<br />
Sinister Eyes readied herself for combat, her hands set to both defend and attack. The Yeti and Silent Orphan followed suit. I knew that defeating three evil orphans wasn’t exactly going to be simple, but at least this time I was ready for battle. I breathed in deeply, and motioned arrogantly for the orphans to “come on” and attack me.<br />
<br />
Milliseconds before the clash could begin, an engine revved loudly in the distance. All heads turned in the direction of the sound. From out of an alley, a blue minivan careened towards us. It screeched to a stop and the door slid open ominously. I wondered if I’d be able to take any more assailants or if I should try to escape during the confusion.<br />
<br />
Out of the van stepped Kara and Shannon! “Thank God!” I exclaimed. “But how did you know I needed help?”<br />
<br />
“Who are you two?” Sinister Eyes inquired, puzzled. “What’s going on?”<br />
<br />
“I thought you might need a hand,” replied Kara. “Looks like I was right.”<br />
<br />
Shannon waved at me. “Hi Matt!”<br />
<br />
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<br />
There was someone else around as well, though. I could sense their presence. “Well don’t stop now!” they yelled from behind me. I couldn’t believe it. I mean really, who else could possibly have shown up? Would there be yet another combatant, again turning the tide? I looked cautiously, ready for anything.<br />
<br />
Except for who was standing there. <br />
<br />
“Come on, keep going! This is great stuff!” Joe Shurize yelled, his camera rolling. “I’m gonna call this American Brawlers and put it on the Video Club channel!”<br />
<br />
Sinister Eyes rolled her tiny pupils. “Are you all quite finished? Because there’s supposed to be an epic battle right about…”<br />
<br />
“NOW!” The Yeti shouted as he jumped at me. My right leg jetted up swiftly, ready to deliver a snap kick, but before I could extend my leg past knee-level, The Yeti hit the ground hard. Either I was a really great ninja, or something else had hit him before I could. Then I saw the answer. Kara was standing over him, holding a stop sign with a yeti-shaped indentation. She flashed me a thumbs up gesture.<br />
<br />
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<br />
With The Yeti out of the way, I could concentrate on Silent Orphan before taking out Sinister Eyes. But when I looked away from Kara, searching for my next opponent, the first thing I saw was Shannon sitting on Silent Orphan and tying him up. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I was beginning to feel slightly inadequate.<br />
<br />
“Your fight is with me now!” taunted Sinister Eyes.<br />
<br />
I was ready. It was she that had orchestrated the entire incident! It was her fault I had spent the last month in hiding! It probably wasn’t her fault that I always had bad dreams, but for now I’d blame it on her because it was inaccurate but convenient, just like the legal system!<br />
<br />
We flew at each other like lions, both releasing a volley of shots. Stinging blows rained down upon both of our bodies, but neither yielded to the pain. I was in an unstoppable frenzy. My feet barely touched the ground.<br />
<br />
“This is golden!” Joe exclaimed, moving closer to the action for a better shot.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Our rage in the streets continued. Sinister Eyes uppercutted my stomach. I doubled over. She landed a devastating blow to my jaw. Then she grabbed my hair and thrust my face towards her unholy knee.<br />
<br />
My elbow sailed through the air like a baseball bat, crashing into the side of her head. Sinister Eyes was knocked back just enough for me to wiggle free of her unrelenting grasp.<br />
<br />
Another flurry of punches and kicks followed. Sinister Eyes attempted a jumping attack, but I intercepted her with a rising tackle. We both hit the pavement. We were up in an instant.<br />
<br />
My fatal fury was unmatched. A quick roundhouse kick slammed into my nemesis’s shoulder, followed by a quick haymaker to the chest.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Sinister Eyes returned the favor with a knee attack to my chest. I fell to the ground. The second I returned to my ready stance, Sinister Eyes had a big, shiny gun pointed at my forehead. <br />
<br />
“This ends now,” she informed me calmly. Kara and Shannon stood back, powerless. Joe stepped in for a close up. “You were a good sparring partner, but my associates and I really must be going now. Enjoy truly dying.”<br />
<br />
My life flashed before my eyes. It was mostly playing video games and eating cheese. It kind of made me feel like I should have done more with my time on Earth, like playing more video games and eating more cheese.<br />
<br />
My reprieve came in the form of a curious fluttering sound above our heads. Sinister Eyes instinctively looked to the sky. Crashing down towards her was the fiendish paper swan!<br />
<br />
Shannon began screaming. “But I killed you!” she yelled, and tried to hide by pulling her jacket over her head. <br />
<br />
Sinister Eyes flailed her arms crazily, but the swan just kept floating towards her. “Stop lookin’ at me, swaaaaaaaaaaan!” she exclaimed in terror.<br />
<br />
My chance was slight; hesitation meant death. My spinning crescent kick knocked the gun from her hands. Sinister Eyes looked back at me just in time to catch a spinning back kick with her face.<br />
<br />
The swan landed peacefully next to her fallen, incapacitated body.<br />
<br />
“That was awesome!” Joe exclaimed, hopping up and down and swinging his camera triumphantly about. One more punch and I think we’d have had to clean Joe’s joy-exploded head off the pavement.<br />
<br />
Kara and Shannon released a collective sigh of relief. <br />
<br />
I listened to the police sirens in the distance. Someone must have seen me and my friends beating three little kids senseless and called the cops. It was so nice of whoever had called the police to come to my aid. The flashing lights surrounded us all.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-46542560664579825542011-06-19T07:47:00.000-07:002011-06-19T07:47:20.594-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 12<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Chapter 12: Shining in the Darkness</strong></div><br />
<br />
Have you ever spent six hours straight on the phone? That’s exactly what I did after my breakthrough. Kara and I inspected the details surrounding my fake death like FBI agents, looking at the situation from every possible angle. Had sinister aliens landed and abducted me as I lay dying after my brutal beating? While that would account for all the missing time before I got home, it wouldn’t help us resolve my current dilemma. Perhaps there was a vampire conspiracy to ruin me for always helping to halt their blasphemous attacks. But what did orphans have to do with that? Could everything be linked somehow? After much deliberation, Kara and I agreed that it was most likely a random act of violence. <br />
<br />
That only left the obituary.<br />
<br />
“Did you ever call your job to tell them you weren’t dead?” Kara asked.<br />
<br />
“Well… no. I never thought of it,” I said. “I was so devastated after the Santa thing didn’t work out that all I did was try to convince Mom I hadn’t died, play some Resident Hill, and then go to bed. I guess it was so simple I just didn’t…”<br />
<br />
Kara interrupted me mid sentence. “Wait a minute. You played a video game after all that?”<br />
<br />
“Why wouldn’t I?”<br />
<br />
I’m not sure, but I thought I heard Kara beating her head against a table.<br />
<br />
“Kara?”<br />
<br />
“Never mind Resident Hill. What you need to do to call the Wappingers Falls Tribune and see if you can get them to print a retraction. This might be the answer to all of our problems!”<br />
<br />
I thanked Kara for all of her wonderful help and hung up the phone. Swiftly, I dialed my job. <br />
<br />
I wasn’t expecting what happened next; or rather, what didn’t happen. I allowed the phone to ring for a good five minutes. With so many people in the office during normal business hours, someone should have heard the phone. Something was definitely amiss, but it could have been anything from my boss working on something very important and not wanting to be bothered to someone hitting the wrong button and silencing all the phones in the building by accident.<br />
<br />
At any rate, it looked like I’d have to go and talk to them in person. I knew that it was a dangerous proposition, but when you’re desperate, you’ll resort to a lot of things you wouldn’t do normally. Even if I were once again suspected of being a ghost, or worse, a zombie, at least I’d have done something about it. Besides, then the new Dynamite Barslut game and I could get better acquainted without me feeling like a jerk.<br />
<br />
I grabbed my mother’s keys and hopped into her car, speeding off towards the Wappingers Falls Tribune headquarters. I vowed that something was going to happen in the office that day, whether it be good, bad, or indifferent, and I was going to go home feeling like I accomplished something. <br />
<br />
But I could never have anticipated… (Note: This is foreshadowing.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
When I arrived outside my place of employment, the small driveway was full of cars as usual. It had always been difficult to find a spot and today was no different. I slowly pulled into the last space, the one next to a stone wall that separates the newspaper parking lot from the other, higher parking lot. It was a tight fit, but I was used to it by then.<br />
<br />
I stepped out of the car and readied myself to enter the building for the first time in… well, today was Jan. 21, so it had been exactly a month to the day that I was attacked by the unholy trinity of orphans. It sent a clichéd shiver down my spine. As I proceeded to the door, I noticed that the shades had been pulled down. Sometimes this was done if the sun blinded too many employees, but most of the time, everyone was so absorbed in what they were doing no one would notice. Still, it was enough for me to hesitate before placing my hand on the shiny golden doorknob. I took a deep breath and pushed it open.<br />
<br />
I was immediately plunged into darkness. The office was silent; not even the electric hum of a computer emanated from my boss’s office. <br />
<br />
“Hello?” I called, my eyes still adjusting to the blackness. The only light came from the open door behind me. Daylight seeped in and let me see just enough to proceed.<br />
<br />
I was pretty sure at that point that something was a little off. The smell of coffee placated me a little, but it was faint, meaning that it must have been brewed at least a few hours ago. I took another couple of steps in. I looked in each cubicle as I proceeded, checking for anyone hiding under a desk or a chair, waiting to jump out and yell “surprise!” Maybe this whole false death thing had just been a ploy to throw me a really rockin’ birthday party, even though my birthday was in November. I listened, but all I heard was my own muffled footsteps on the carpet.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind me. I heard an unmistakable click and I knew it was locked. I was blind in the pitch blackness. My heart beat so hard I could feel it in my legs. I hate to admit it, but I was just a little spooked. <br />
<br />
I wasn’t about to go and investigate what had closed the door, so my only option was to continue forward, towards my boss’s office. I had a gut feeling that if any answers were to be found, they’d be there.<br />
<br />
I was wondering how I’d know when I had reached my boss’s office, but as it turned out, it wasn’t a problem – a small light protruded from the door, a beacon in my world of darkness. I slowly stalked up to the open door and readied myself for the worst.<br />
<br />
I jumped into the room, prepared to take out any number of ninjas, aliens, pirates or janitorial staff. Yet there was nothing but an open window – the source of the faint light. I immediately knew what I was up against.<br />
<br />
“Nicesss of you to finally arrive,” hissed a voice from the void.<br />
<br />
And you laughed at me when I told you about vampires and open windows.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-85610467501173497272011-06-11T20:21:00.000-07:002011-06-11T20:21:45.525-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 11<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Chapter 11: Life as the Living Dead</strong></div><br />
Don’t tell me you thought that plan was going to work. Yes, it was a great plan, maybe even the best. But if the story had ended there, what did you think the rest of these pages were for? Were you all giddy at the prospect of grabbing your copy of Misprint! and marching down to the local H&R Block, triumphantly exclaiming that they didn’t need any paper to do your taxes on because you had plenty? Were you psyched at the concept of using all the blank pages I left as a nice place to calculate your tips longhand? Or perhaps you wanted to use it as an impromptu coaster when company you don’t want to waste the good coasters on come over.<br />
<br />
I hate books like that. You know, books that pretend that there’s going to be a resolution towards the middle of the story, and yet, there’s about 60 pages left? (Which, ironically, means that I should hate my own book.) Who do these authors think they’re fooling with their unresolved plots and their fake climaxes? <br />
<br />
So, as you and the other 98 percent of the people reading this right now and not thinking, “My, that was a short book. And it ended so abruptly!” can see, Kara’s plan failed by the narrowest of margins. Were it not for Joe Shurize or that evil paper swan, I’d have been considered among the living once more. But the truth is that Joe messed things up, and that terrible paper swan… well, who knew where it had gone; I assumed it was sucked back down into the bowels of hell where it belongs.<br />
<br />
Yet, Kara’s plan wasn’t a total wash after all, because no one thought that I was a ghost anymore. Essentially, Kara’s plan resolved half the problem, which is more than I can say about anything I had done up to then.<br />
<br />
After the plan went horribly awry, there was nothing left to do but go to the local diner and cry face down in a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Kara and Shannon eventually had to leave, so I drove home in a stupor listening to sad love songs on the radio, because there weren’t many sad songs about mistaken deaths played that night. When I arrived, I saw my father’s car sitting in the driveway in its normal place. Judging by the light coming from the computer room window, I figured he was surfing the Internet.<br />
<br />
My father is a good man and no one can deny that. But, like everyone else, he has a few small flaws. For example, sometimes he leaves the refrigerator open, and other times he eats kittens. You know, small stuff. One of his most noticeable problems is that once he’s on the computer, he tunes everything out until he’s finished, like fire, dinner and Mom. So, when my mother tried to tell him about my supposed death, it went something like this:<br />
<br />
Mom: Oh my God Dave! Our poor son is dead!<br />
<br />
Dad: Ian?<br />
<br />
Mom: No, the other one.<br />
<br />
Dad: Matt needs what now?<br />
<br />
Mom: He needs a funeral because he’s dead! Our loving son is gone!<br />
<br />
Dad: Another good semester, huh? He’s so smart.<br />
<br />
Mom: Listen to me, Dave! Listen!<br />
<br />
Dad: Yes, I don’t know how the Ying-Yang Gang keeps getting away either.<br />
<br />
Mom: (Sounds of agony and deep seeded grief.) <br />
<br />
Dad: My credit card is on the table. I love you and I’ll see you at dinner.<br />
<br />
So, although Mom tried to get through to him for several hours, Dad still had no idea that I was supposed to be dead when I schlepped wretchedly into the house. <br />
<br />
My dog Bailey was pretty happy to see me. He danced around me, wagging his tail and licking my hand. The poor thing had no idea that he should have been afraid of me because I was dead, but not really because I was still alive. Poor stupid animal; I was glad he had me to protect him. <br />
<br />
The sound of Bailey’s jumping must have finally broken my father’s monitor induced trance. He walked to the living room to see me. “Hi Matt. How was your day at school?”<br />
<br />
“Hi Dad. Everyone at school thought that I was dead, and when Kara and I tried to fix it, it didn’t work like we wanted it to.” I tossed my book bag on the couch. “How was yours?”<br />
<br />
“It was fine. I had potato salad for lunch.”<br />
<br />
“Well, that’s nice, I’ll bet it was… wait a minute!”<br />
<br />
That night, dinner was surreal. Mom spent much of the time lamenting over her lost son and crying in her macaroni, while Dad and I slowly broke the news to her that I was still alive. I kept asking her to pass me the salt, the milk, or more macaroni, and every time she obliged, I could see that the wheels were turning inside her head. Sometimes, Mom would start to convince Dad that I really was dead and it was his grief-stricken mind that was projecting my image in the seat next to him, but I would always wind up reeling him back in. So, a few hours later, after the intense reprogramming session, Dad and I managed to convince my mother that I was still alive. Now at least I’d have a family (and new video games) again! Sometimes, though, Mom had her doubts, like when I slept past 5 a.m. But being awoken at the crack of dawn to frantic maternal anguish is a million times better than having no family.<br />
<br />
Thus began the long Winter Recess. Kara and I talked every day, sometimes for hours, about how to resolve my dilemma. She felt really bad about going home and leaving me in that condition, but if it weren’t for her and Shannon, I might be on display at some carnival in Arkansas. <br />
<br />
Kara was full of good ideas over the break. So many, in fact, that we’d come up with a new scheme practically every week. For example, once I tried sending out Christmas cards; sure it was January, but that’s not the point. On the front was a picture of me giving a thumbs up and sporting the biggest grin I could muster. Instead of some cheery holiday greeting next to me and my huge toothy smile, I wrote in large caps, “I’M STILL ALIVE.” This seemed like a fantastic strategy; everyone would see that I was still alive with a festive yet functional holiday salutation. And it was a good idea too, except for one little problem: The studio that made the cards for me ruined the picture. Somehow, the negative was used instead of the developed photo. What had once been a thoughtful holiday hello had suddenly become sinister – I looked like a horrific zombie. My teeth were bulbous and seemed to be ready to start gnashing into tender flesh. My thumbs up gesture was no longer encouraging and playful, it now looked like I was reaching my decaying limbs toward my next helpless victim. I looked as if I wanted to turn everyone into foul creatures of the darkness. <br />
<br />
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Needless to say, my greeting of “I’M STILL ALIVE” was indeed taken at face value; however, it wasn’t the way I had intended. By “alive,” people thought I meant “undead,” and the card had been a friendly reminder to lock their doors at night, lest they become a part of it… The night, not their doors. For weeks people thought I was telling them to have some sort of belated zombie Christmas and that the New Year would be besieged by hoards of the living dead.<br />
<br />
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Every day another plan ended in colossal failure. I was forced to spend most of my time hanging around the house in my underwear and doing nothing but eating cheese while playing video games. Now I know that sounds unbearably hellish and you might be wondering how I survived the ordeal, but I’m not going to lie to you: It was freakin’ awesome. After a while, I stopped caring. I had my family, I had my girlfriend, I had my video games and I didn’t have to go to work. Really, what could be better?<br />
<br />
Yes, day in and day out, the same thing, with no social interaction and a very limited diet… Well, towards the middle of January, I felt like my life had slammed into a brick wall. I had enough video games and ramen noodles to last me until 2010, and that would have been fine – if I didn’t have Kara or any of my friends. I didn’t want Kara to have to visit me in seclusion, never being able to go out to the movies or nice restaurants like Burger King for fear of everyone thinking I was a ghost again. I wanted to frolic in the summer sun, holding my friends’ hands and thanking God for the simple miracle of a warm sunny day. I wanted to live! I wanted to live, damn it, and I was going to find a way to finally be myself again! I can’t even begin to tell you how pissed off I was to have to give up my dream of playing video games all day, every day, for the rest of my natural existence and maybe a few more years as a soulless cyborg of the 21st century, but my love of friendship and humanity were more important to me in the long run. <br />
<br />
But not by much. The new superhero action game, Dynamite Barslut, was due out later that year. I mourned for days.<br />
<br />
However, how could I do it? Kara and I had been trying to come up with a viable solution for weeks now to no avail. I felt like Wile E. Coyote from those old Road Runner cartoons – I had tried everything, and my plans either backfired or were foiled by some one-in-a-million occurrence that left me sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally, flat on my ass.<br />
<br />
As time crept on and I meditated on my previous failures, a critical piece of the puzzle fell into place one afternoon as I gazed out my window. I’d been going about the whole thing all wrong! Every plan, every tactic, every move I made up to that point had been focused on undoing what had already been done. However, that was a mammoth task that had proven nearly impossible over the past few weeks. I had been trying to solve a result, not a problem, not the cause. I needed to attack the root of the disturbance to get any results!<br />
<br />
Quickly, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Kara’s number.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-33066812150083342682011-06-08T12:46:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:31:48.004-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 10<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Chapter 10: Christmas Comes But Twice a Year</strong></div>
<br />
Copying signs and hanging them about campus has never been so easy and so difficult at the same time. Sneaking into the copier room was fiendishly simple – most of the security guards weren’t around. I had guessed that some skipped out early in anticipation of the end of the semester – no students means no need for security – while others had flocked to the dorms to keep the peace as everyone got out of their tests and marched back home at any cost. Those who were left had decided to get lunch or take a nap, or perhaps they had all decided to walk to Mexico to try to bottle the hot air and sell it to people in the states with inadequate jackets. I didn’t know. But it didn’t really matter, because they weren’t around to get in my way.<br />
<br />
The difficult part was hanging all of those suckers up. I went from building to building, hanging the signs everywhere, from the traditional wall in a hallway to toilet seats and the shirts of young children from the neighboring elementary school. Towards the end, I had simply begun to toss the fliers around the campus like that lovable icon of American perseverance, Johnny Appleseed – only without a retarded bucket on my head or raggedy overalls that smelled like pig dung. Other cultures get legends about samurais with 27 foot long razor-sharp blades, who take down entire armies single-handedly, or gladiator generals who take over entire continents with a few bits of tattered string and a week-old mango. But America gets a village idiot with unwashed pants and an affinity for fruit. Go figure.<br />
<br />
I remember wandering onto the soccer field, gleefully tossing the last of the fliers to the wind. But I don’t recall my exact reaction to Kara’s masterwork, probably because I was trying to locate a new pair of pants to replace the ones I had just urinated in. What had been a small potato crate in a huge empty field only hours before was transformed into a mini North Pole. Children were singing carols around a 30 foot tall Christmas tree while elves danced happily in the snow, chattering in annoyingly high-pitched voices and bubbling over with copious amounts of Christmas cheer. Reindeer pranced about, eating snow and jellybeans and excreting eggnog, and a hearty Christmas fire blazed in the center of it all, warming the heart of even the coldest of snowmen. And I don’t know how Kara managed this, but it all somehow smelled like joy and cheer.<br />
<br />
Kara approached me, sipping on a cup of hot chocolate and wearing an outfit made of tinsel and good will towards men. As she got closer, I could smell chestnuts. I didn’t have to ask what they were being roasted over.<br />
<br />
“Kara! How… what did you…?”<br />
<br />
She stopped scanning over her clipboard and frowned. “I know, you don’t have to tell me that it’s not that great. But it really would have been better if the dancing snowmen hadn’t canceled.”<br />
<br />
“The what?” <br />
<br />
A man wearing a light-up Rudolph nose and clad in nothing but multicolored lights and a red thong strolled by, juggling five trays of holiday cookies and a wreath for a crowd of mesmerized elves. I was pretty sure I was dreaming at that point, because everyone knows that elves hate juggling. I considered pinching myself, but when I thought about it, I knew I wasn’t dreaming because nothing horrible was trying to wound or humiliate me. That, and pinching hurts.<br />
<br />
“Now all we need is an appearance by the big man himself,” Kara hinted. <br />
<br />
“Jesus?” I exclaimed excitedly, scanning the crowds for Him, but finding only Cindy Lou Who.<br />
<br />
“You’re such a special boy,” Kara returned, shaking her head. She produced a festive red Santa cap from behind her back and pulled it onto my head.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<br />
They had arrived much more quickly than I had imagined. At first they came in twos and threes. But a half hour after I had set foot into Kara’s impromptu winter wonderland, the soccer field was swarming with jovial students. I felt a little bad for duping them all into coming. After all, Kara hadn’t obtained any candy because she was too busy trying to train the circus bears to sing “Jingle Bells.” Yet, they were all truly enjoying themselves. The sea of green and red clad bodies was truly a jolly bunch, steeped in the Christmas spirit. Unless they didn’t celebrate Christmas, in which case, they sat in the far corners of the field softly weeping.<br />
<br />
I knew that somehow, through some cosmic fluke, I was responsible for bringing good will to men (and women). I watched them like my own personal TV program from behind the massive green curtain on the stage.<br />
<br />
Shannon was weaving her way through the crowd, touching the elves’ pointy hats and building snowmen out of frozen eggnog. Her legs were covered in ketchup and it looked like something fierce had bitten her arm. I was sure that she had done a good job corralling people around to where they needed to be. So, after keeping everyone at bay for so long, she deserved a little Christmas cheer too; she had earned it. <br />
<br />
Kara tapped me on the shoulder, knocking me out of my deep thoughts and back to the task at hand. “You’re on!” she informed me excitedly. A grin crossed her face. I wondered if I’d be going home after all this. Could I really just forget the whole thing?<br />
<br />
I took the red and green mic, walked out on stage, and nervously blew into it through my cottony beard to see if it was working. The sound of my breath echoed out through the crowd. Instantly, everyone’s attention was on me. It was time to exonerate myself through the man in red’s good name. <br />
<br />
I timidly addressed the mass of yuletide joy. “Uhh… Ho, ho, ho, everyone.” Feedback shot through the speakers and rebounded all about the soccer field, sending all but the heartiest of scholars standing by or on the massive speakers to the frosty ground. But they didn’t mind, because Santa Claus had come to town! With candy! Or so they thought. I gingerly held the microphone and flashed a weak smile.<br />
<br />
I’ve never acted in the theater before, not even a bit role in my high school production of Fiddler on a Hot Tin Roof. In fact, my credits included a few student films and trying to convince my father that his car had been possessed by the soul of Little Richard and spastically danced itself into that telephone pole. Yet, standing on that stage, fondling the poor microphone and gazing over the festive Christmas crowd, something inside me just… clicked. I could feel my blood infusing my organs with jolliness, and the essence of Christmas surged through my bones. My heart grew ten fold. Out of nowhere, I wasn’t just pretending to be Santa, I had actually assumed his spirit. For a few odd but exuberant seconds, I <em>was</em> good ol’ Saint Nick.<br />
<br />
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<br />
“Ho, ho, ho!” From the depths of my belly came the merry laughter. “Have you all been good little college students?”<br />
<br />
The audience released a collective mumble. Many looked down at their shoes while others tried unsuccessfully to purge the alcohol from their systems by drinking an excessive amount of Christmas cola. <br />
<br />
“Fantastic!” I bellowed. “Have you all remembered to hang your stockings?”<br />
<br />
“Yes!” the crowd yelled enthusiastically, even though some were still wearing theirs.<br />
<br />
“And have you all written me a list?”<br />
<br />
“Yes!” they exclaimed once more.<br />
<br />
“And did you all know that Matt isn’t really a ghost?”<br />
<br />
A sudden hush befell the crowd. The silence forced my heart out of my chest. I could feel every vein in my body bulge with tension. Then, just when I was about to run away crying, a voice penetrated the intense quiet. <br />
<br />
“If an authority figure like Santa Claus says it, it <em>must</em> be true!” yelled a young man in a bulbous black jacket. His cell phone flew from his pocket at light speed, and he began dialing people to tell them the “news.” In less than a minute, almost everyone in the crowd was speaking into their phone, spreading the truth to their parents, comrades and dogs. Kara’s plan was working beautifully. Now all I had to do was hit them with the kicker – that I wasn’t really dead – and I could forget that this nightmare had ever happened. Then I’d go home for a nap, where I could have all new, much more bizarre nightmares than waking up “dead.” And obviously, that would have been incentive enough for anyone.<br />
<br />
“Listen my children,” I began, another belly laugh forming from deep within; or maybe it was just gas. It saddens me that I’ll never know the truth because of what happened next. “There’s something else about Matt that I want you all to know. That wonderful boy not only isn’t a ghost, but he’s not even de-”<br />
<br />
But that’s when the earsplitting, eye-melting sound shot across the campus, shattering every window in America and some in Canada. (I shudder to think of all the poor students who would be returning to college only to find themselves entombed with the bloodsucking undead.) The fickle audience had leapt from the palm of my hand. Panic swept them; heads spun in all directions like that scene from The Exorcist and arms flailed wildly. <br />
<br />
It sounded like an elephant’s death cries in a field of chainsaws and 1000 simultaneously flushing toilets. “What the hell is that awful noise!?” I screamed. I covered my ears and immediately lost whatever mystic Santa power that had, up to that point, been surging through me like 100,000 watts of fantastic, festive electricity. Then the grotesque answer to my question rolled into view.<br />
<br />
I had never seen such a monstrosity in my life. It was like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade had regurgitated an awful lump of rejected balloons and some mad scientist had fused them together into Frankenfloat. The giant rolling stage was covered in purple tinsel, with yellow and green lasers firing through huge clouds of smoke. I couldn’t make out who was playing on stage and producing that ear-splitting racket, but there had to be legions of them. No less than 70 heathens playing at least three instruments each could have created that aural weapon of mass distraction. Not surprisingly, riding atop the float was none other than Joe Shurize.<br />
<br />
“What the hell are you doing!?” I exclaimed in disbelief. I still had the mic in my hand, so I could somewhat cut through the horrid noise protruding from the rolling terror blimp.<br />
<br />
Joe watched me from his perch. He had a microphone as well, which on any other day would have sent me and half the school running for the hills. But today I was fearless. Today I was unshakable. Today I was pissed. <br />
<br />
“Oh, hi Santa!” he yelled, beaming and waving down at me. “I thought you weren’t coming for another three days! Did you get my list?”<br />
<br />
“If you don’t want a boatload of coal in your stocking Christmas Eve, you’ll tell me what’s going on!” I shook my fist angrily at him, as if his ears would somehow work better with a visual aid.<br />
<br />
“You crack me up, Santa! You’re always so jolly!” Joe returned. “See, I was talking to this dead guy about an hour ago, and then this giant phoenix burst from the underworld and rocketed towards me, trying to drag me down to Hell so Satan could hollow out my skull and put extra rubber bands in it.”<br />
<br />
I guess he meant the paper swan.<br />
<br />
“Of course,” I returned, rolling my eyes.<br />
<br />
“Anyway, I ran away and into the city, and wouldn’t you know it…”<br />
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As Joe spoke, the ethereal fog surrounding the horror machine cleared. I saw what was making those frightful noises. Surprisingly, it wasn’t hundreds of monkeys nefariously beating drums and screeching at the top of their simian lungs. It was even more horrible than an army of hard rock vampires with a plan to take over the colleges of the United States one by one, starting with Mount Saint Mary. There, on that deplorable stage, stood both Michael Jackson and Axl Rose, doing an appropriate yet reprehensible rendition of Jackon’s “Thriller.”<br />
<br />
Joe just kept rambling through his story as I made the grizzly discovery. “Michael Jackson and Axl Rose were having a fight in the parking lot of the local diner over the merits of black and white film versus color. So I just walked right up and began talking to them about it for the next four hours or so, and what do you know, they suddenly agreed to do a dual concert here at the Mount for me to film and play on the TV station! I’m going to call it American Bandstand!”<br />
<br />
I didn’t bother telling him that the name was already taken.<br />
<br />
Everyone who had come for Santa’s winter lovefest quickly forgot who they had come to see and started following the insipid rolling stage like festive lemmings. I tried to convince them that Santa would sneak into their rooms while they were sleeping on Christmas Eve and stab them all in the arm, but they refused to listen. The lure of the freakish superstars was simply too much.<br />
<br />
The only people still left on the soccer field were Kara and Shannon. Kara buried her head in her hands. “Why, God? Why?!”<br />
<br />
“Woo! Where’s the candy, Santa!?” Shannon exclaimed, sitting on the back of a reindeer. <br />
<br />
I didn’t know this before, but cotton beards are really good at absorbing tears.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
I watched Joe and his superstar float until they turned the corner and marched out of sight. I could still hear them faintly in the distance as the winter sun stretched across the pink and violet horizon. A few minutes later, the sun quietly hid itself behind the mountaintops. Finally, the day had ended – and so too had my dreams of a normal life.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-13889855430570621692011-06-07T07:08:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:32:01.213-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 9<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Chapter 9: Wheels in Motion</strong></div>
<br />
I pushed the closest two rungs of the Venetian blinds apart and stared through the clear tarp as best I could. I was scanning for anything detrimental to my cause, like a pizza deliveryman who might come to the Mount to dispense a mouth-watering pie, only to learn of the gruesome specter that haunts the campus and dash away to reveal the news to everyone in the outside world. Everything needed to be contained; in essence, we needed to quarantine the entire college. And with most finals ending in a few hours, the chances of people spreading the rumor far and wide were astronomical. It was a doomsday scenario that couldn’t take place, lest I spent the rest of my days and nights hidden in the shadows like the bloodsuckers I so despised.<br />
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<br />
Shannon sat at her desk, her eyes plastered against her computer screen. She ignored the disturbing paper swan that stared at her from her pinup board and concentrated on searching for more anti-vampire measures to take, in order to Nosferatu-proof the dorm for the winter break. She had said something about not wanting to let any vampiric activity disrupt Kara’s plan, so she was going to “fortify the dorm” until we started our mission. For the first time in my life, I wished I hadn’t enlightened someone of the perils of careless window usage.<br />
<br />
Kara was in her desk chair, looking coy. I hadn’t really talked to her since her return, but she and I shared a sort of connection where I knew what she was thinking sometimes without her having to tell me. By the look on her face – the slight upturn of her lips and the twinkle in her eye – I knew she was working out the final details of her master plan, the plan that would save me and end the deplorable rumors of my death once and for all. I really owed Kara, regardless of the plan working or not, for her dedication and concern. Perhaps some kind of fruit basket was in order.<br />
<br />
Just as Shannon began rubbing garlic on the bedposts, Kara jumped up from her chair and walked to the center of the room. She commanded so much authority with her confidant stride that Shannon and I couldn’t help but stop what we were doing and follow her with our eyes.<br />
<br />
“All right,” she began. Her demeanor was that of a president about to address the nation. “As far as I can tell, we’ve only got one chance to correct this before everyone goes back home and spreads the story of Matt’s death. For my plan to work, we need to split into two separate groups. Shannon, I want you to deal with containing anyone still on campus. Create a distraction of some sort to catch people’s attention as they try to drive away. And don’t let anyone come on campus either. The fewer people who come in contact with the rumors, the better.”<br />
<br />
Forgetting the vampires for a moment, Shannon was swept up in Kara’s rousing directions. She accepted her role whole-heartedly. “Matt, can I borrow your car?”<br />
<br />
“Sure,” I replied, “But why?”<br />
<br />
Shannon smiled. “Because I feel that I’ll be getting into a little accident today.”<br />
<br />
Since it was Mom’s car and not mine, I thought that idea sounded great.<br />
<br />
Shannon continued, “I’ll tell everyone trying to come in that I’ve been bitten by a zombie and I could spread my disease to anyone who comes to the college.”<br />
<br />
So far, so good. Kara’s plan to quarantine the entire school would work perfectly, as long as no one decided to use the other entrance. I wondered what Kara could possibly have come up with to fix my unsolicited, inaccurate case of death. I really hoped that it would involve rockets and ninjas, or at least a decent car chase.<br />
<br />
Kara turned her attention towards me. “Matt, you and I have a lot of work to do,” she said, reaching for her book bag. She yanked out hundreds of charts, graphs (pie, bar, and otherwise), written plan proposals, a short video adaptation of her idea, and no less than 14 models of various locations on campus in 1/200 scale.<br />
<br />
“Where the hell did you get all that?” I exclaimed. Kara was busy setting up the projector, so she could show us her slides. “Oh, I had a few minutes before the test, so I set a few things up to get my strategy across easier.”<br />
<br />
The PowerPoint presentation and the guest speaker really aided in my understanding of Kara’s plan. First, we’d have to set up the soccer field to be the epicenter of our operation. Knowing that time was extremely limited, Kara said that we could just use the parts of The Dean’s loathsome assembly that had yet to be disassembled. Kara was going to be in charge of that, leaving me free to complete phase two. I was supposed to make a sign that read: <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
“GET FREE CANDY AND FIND TRUE LOVE!</div>
<br />
Students! Faculty! Creepy guy who always stands by the garbage cans at night! Do you like candy? Sure, we all do, because if you don’t, you must be a terrorist! And you don’t want to be a terrorist, now do you? Everyone who loves candy, America and puppies should come to the soccer field at 4 p.m. today to receive their free 67-pound bag of sweets, being handed out by none other than Santa Claus! Shake his hand to find true love and make rainbows spray out of his eyes like the mighty Mississippi river. Tell your friends and don’t be late, or Santa will bring you something poisonous and leave it under your pillow on Christmas Eve. Sponsored by the Video Club.”<br />
<br />
Then, I was supposed to sneak into the campus security building and use their copier to make 500 signs. If anyone stood in my way, I was to use my ghostly influence on them, so they’d run away and leave the coveted sign-maker all to me. It was a risky proposition, because if the plan didn’t work out for some reason, I’d have actually perpetuated the myth further. But at that point, I was willing to try anything. Seriously, what other viable options did I have, other than a possible career as an overlooked and underpaid television ghost, playing second string to Casper?<br />
<br />
The signs were to be placed around campus on the walls of various classrooms and major hallways. Everyone on campus knows that if something is written on a sign placed in the hallways at school, it <em>must</em> be true. That was even our school motto – Doce Me Veritatum – “Teach Me Truth.” There was no way invalid information could be plastered on those sacred walls, because everything went through The Dean before it could be copied and distributed… everything, that is, except for this. Everyone would still be taking their final exam of the semester while I ran around and madly taped, glued or stapled the signs everywhere I could, so at least I didn’t run the risk of revealing myself to the entire school and causing mass hysteria. <br />
<br />
Then all I needed to do was find a Santa suit and stand on the stage in the soccer field, waiting for the lambs to come to pasture. “Santa Claus” would tell everyone that it was all a mistake and that Matt was neither a ghost nor even dead, and the students would go their separate ways, spreading the truth like a righteous river across parched soil.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning after listening to Kara’s brilliant strategy. This is why I always went to her when I needed help. <br />
<br />
“Well, it’s a little light on the giant robots and heated hand-to-hand combat, but it’s still a really a great idea!” I said.<br />
<br />
Shannon was equally impressed. I don’t think anyone could have come up with a better plan without resorting to unfeasible tactics, like mind control or telling the truth. We had very little time left, so Shannon jumped on her laptop (and into the unerring gaze of the demonic paper swan) to look up tips on how to act like she had just been hit by a car on her favorite insurance fraud webpage, and I threw my coat on so fast it was as if it had simply materialized on my body. Kara and I sprinted down the steps and out of the dorm, ready to put our plan into action. Old Man Time had his icy fingers around my neck, but there was nothing that could stop us now!<br />
<br />
And that’s when we turned the corner of Kara’s dorm and ran straight into Joe Shurize.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
Shannon watched her computer screen intently. After a little research, she was almost confident enough to go out and be the best fake accident victim/zombie virus carrier she could be. She had the keys to my mother’s car, plenty of ketchup to serve as “blood,” and she had just perfected her tormented whimpers. There was only a single question still on her mind, regarding the position she was supposed to lie in next to the vehicle.<br />
<br />
But as she typed “fake car accident+victim position” into Google, an overwhelming sense of terror overtook her. Almost hyperventilating with fear, she desperately searched the room, expecting a dastardly vampire to burst from her closet with the kiss of eternity on his dead white lips. But instead, she caught the rancorous gaze of the malevolent paper swan.<br />
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<br />
She would not back down. She didn’t fortify the dorm with anti-vampire paraphernalia simply to be taken out by a spiteful, recyclable fiend. No, Shannon was a rock. She stared into the swan’s minuscule eyes, and they gazed into hers, trying to take over her soul with their overwhelming evil.<br />
<br />
Shannon watched even harder. But the swan would not be deterred, increasing its gaze 20 fold! Shannon squinted her eyes, concentrating. The swan somehow did the same! Shannon had to do something, lest her body be stolen by the soul of the paper sadist and she be forced to spend the rest of her days wading in sub-zero ponds and ruling over all as Queen of the Swans!<br />
<br />
“Stop lookin’ at me, swaaaaaaaaaaaan!” she exclaimed, tearing the terror from her pushpin board. She leapt from her seat and towards the tarp covering the window, swan in fist. In midair, she threw a colossal punch that tore a softball-sized hole in the vampire tarp, and the second her fist was completely outside, hovering 30 feet about ground, she released the horror swan into the cold winter air. It fluttered helplessly down, its diabolical plans shattered in the wake of the mighty vampire hunter, Shannon Morris.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
“So I said to myself, ‘Joe, so what if Matt’s a ghost? He’s still damn good to talk to.’ So I came back to tell you about my new idea for a show. It’s called American Rooster and it involves this guy in a rooster costume who goes to college classes and lives in a really tricked-out dorm!” Joe stood annoyingly between us and carrying out Kara’s plan, yacking away and proving that nothing, not even fear of death or the supernatural, could keep him from his duties as the Video Club president.<br />
<br />
“That’s good Joe, but I have a better idea for a show.”<br />
<br />
Joe could barely contain himself. For the first time since our last film, I had suggested something first. If it weren’t for the fact that it would freeze to his legs and make a cold day even colder, I’m sure he would have wet himself. “What is it?!” he asked intently.<br />
<br />
“It’s called American Guy Who Never Shuts Up and it stars you.”<br />
<br />
Joe looked hurt, and I felt like a heel for losing control and saying what I had said. After all, Joe wasn’t a bad guy – he just had horrible timing. That is, until I realized that it wasn’t emotional pain he was experiencing, but deep thought. “Yes! That’s brilliant! Throw in a guy in a rooster costume who goes to college classes and lives in a really tricked-out dorm and you’ve got yourself a deal!”<br />
<br />
Kara buried her face in her hands. I could tell that in mere seconds, she’d be searching through her pockets for anything blunt with which to dig out Joe’s eyes. I tried to come up with of a way to stop her, but I was interrupted by a peculiar fluttering noise above my head.<br />
<br />
Kara and Joe heard it too. The two of them looked towards the sky to discover the source of the odd noise.<br />
<br />
“What the hell?” Kara was flabbergasted. “Why did Shannon toss that out the…”<br />
<br />
Horror flashed across Joe’s face. “Sweet merciful Jesus! The Mega-Swan Terror Squad has finally found me! The witness relocation program told me that I was safe! I have to get out of here and warn my pet fish, Benny!” <br />
<br />
Joe fled screaming from the scene, waving his arms in the air like he was batting away hundreds of tiny, venomous beetles as he went. A small gust of wind propelled the sinister paper swan further in his direction, prompting another tormented cry before Joe finally disappeared into a nearby building.<br />
<br />
“Well, you don’t see that every day,” mumbled Kara.<br />
<br />
I watched as the wind carried the swan away, its paper wings outstretched like some sort of hideous archangel. “Why did Shannon…?”<br />
<br />
“It’s all right.”<br />
<br />
“It’s all right?” <br />
<br />
“It’s all right.” Kara shook her head. “She moves in mysterious ways. Don’t think about it or it’ll give you an aneurysm.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I said no more. Kara and I ran side by side, almost step for step, towards the soccer field.</div>
Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-75804347641296184552011-06-05T17:44:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:32:14.791-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 8<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Chapter 8: Ghost in the Machine</strong></div>
<br />
In my restless dreams, I saw that college – Mount Saint Mary. The Dean had a giant bullhorn affixed to the top on an old Pinto, a car that’s a nightmare in its own right, and he was driving around announcing to everyone on campus that I was an evil spirit whom no one should trust. Crazy Soup Girl was running after him at breakneck speed, handing out what appeared to be newspapers to everyone who stepped outside to see what was going on. I was trying to catch up to them, but my shoes were filled with tapioca pudding and I couldn’t run very fast at all. And tapioca, while a delicious snack time treat, isn’t so tasty when used as a foot lubricant.<br />
<br />
I was screaming and running in slow motion, and The Dean and Crazy Soup Girl were nothing more than sonic blurs, speeding off campus and into the heart of the surrounding city. I managed to get a hold of one of the newspapers that Crazy Soup Girl had dropped. The front page read: “Abomination of Nature Matt Stalks and Kills at Random, Eating Victims’ Flesh; See What the Stars are Wearing to the Emmy Awards.”<br />
<br />
The Dean’s Pinto and Crazy Soup Girl reappeared instantly and I dropped the paper in dismay. They started laughing like madmen. The Dean, the Pinto, and Crazy Soup Girl began expanding at an alarming rate until they were 300 ft. tall. Rocket powered engines appeared on the car and then on Crazy Soup Girl, shooting brimstone and hellfire. The heat set my precious hair ablaze and I screamed and screamed. The Heimlich Maneuver did nothing to put out the flames that danced upon my scalp, until I realized that I should have stopped, dropped, and rolled. But it was too late for that, as Crazy Soup Girl got behind the Pinto and started pushing, and they started soaring through the skies, taking over America with their wickedness and lies. <br />
<br />
And that’s when I wet myself in front of the whole school.<br />
<br />
Then, crazed clowns came out and started ripping off my clothes, revealing my stark white, genderless body. But that’s the part of my dream that my psychiatrist wants me not to talk about.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I woke up to a cold plastic nose nudging me. My eyelids slammed against my eyebrows and I was ready to battle giant deans and horrible white clowns, white, white horrible clowns, with bright, red noses, but then I realized what had awoken me. Or rather, who: The first thing that I saw when I opened my eyes was Rolley’s cottony face.<br />
<br />
He sat atop my chest and was staring at me. “Go to sleep Rolley,” I muttered, tucking myself back in. I closed my eyes and attempted to go back to sleep, but I could feel those plastic eyes staring through me. <br />
<br />
When I opened my eyes for the second time, I was nose to nose with Rolley. I knew what he wanted. “All right!” I yelled, getting out of bed. “I’ll take you for a walk!”<br />
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<br />
Inside Kara’s closet, I found a big black coat that wrapped around me and covered most of my legs. It also had a hood that concealed almost all of my face, giving me a mysterious, spy movie-like appearance. Most importantly, no one could tell who I was. It was essential that no one recognize me, or my cover would be blown. It was only an hour until Kara came home – and God knows where Shannon had gone; I assumed that the tattoo parlor was just taking their time – so I needed to lay low until she and her wondrous plan came back to save me. Kara and Shannon both said that I should stay inside, but what could possibly go wrong if I just took Rolley on an innocent 15-minute walk?<br />
<br />
After finding and attaching Rolley’s chain to his collar, we were off. I slowly crept outside of Kara’s dorm, sneaking past a group of security guards as stealthily as possible by saying “hello.” Ha! Those fools had no idea that they had just let a ghost escape with the most prized stuffed animal on campus, and that I really wasn’t a ghost anyway, so it didn’t matter in the first place. Fools, I tell you!<br />
<br />
I felt the frigid air whisper around my face, penetrating my toasty hood and chilling my lips. It was good to be outside without people constantly yelling and running away from me. Rolley and I managed to get all the way around campus without a hitch. People just kept walking by us and going about their daily activities, some even waving to the strange passerby in the long black coat. I couldn’t believe that people who had run away from me in terror to hide in their bathtubs just an hour or two ago were now greeting me. I was also surprised at how bold they were. With a malicious ghost on campus ready to tear out people’s throats and use them like crazy straws, people sure were acting like nothing was wrong. Well, I guess that life goes on, even if there is a crazed spirit on the loose. People have got to eat and people have to go take tests. Otherwise, there was a tremendous lack of passersby, and it wasn’t just from some having gone home already.<br />
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<br />
By the time I had made it back to Kara’s dorm, Rolley and I had been gone for about 20 minutes. Looking to the top floor of Kara’s dorm, I checked the window hole for any signs of activity. Kara wasn’t due back for another half hour or so, and judging by the lack of both lights on in the room and a tarp to cover up the broken window, Shannon hadn’t returned yet either.<br />
<br />
But when I walked up to the dorm door and attempted to enter it with my car keys, I deduced that there were some things that the keys to my Taurus simply can’t open. Ironically, the window I had climbed in that morning had been shut by Shannon no less.<br />
<br />
I really, <em>really</em> taught her well.<br />
<br />
So it seemed like I’d have to wait for Kara or Shannon to come home, or for a stray meteor to come rocketing towards the United States, fizzle out to almost nothing, and then smash into the door, knocking it over and allowing me (and any stray, daylight vampires) entrance. But since the only meteor that day was scheduled to hit the dorm next to Kara’s, I decided to sit on a nearby bench with Rolley and wait. Besides, where else could I go? Anywhere else and I’d miss Kara’s return – and my salvation. I huddled on the bench with Rolley. After all, he had only his cotton to keep him warm, and I had Kara’s comically large coat. <br />
<br />
All of a sudden, a voice echoed from the artic winds. “Pretty cold today, isn’t it?” <br />
<br />
I stared at Rolley in amazement. “Rolley! You can talk?” He looked back up at me from my lap and was silent. His voice was much deeper than I would have expected. “That was amazing! C’mon, say something else, Rolley.”<br />
<br />
“Look behind you,” the voice commanded. I quickly spun around, expecting to see a dirty vampire. With his first few sentences, Rolley had already saved my life. I’d have to thank him if I made it out alive.<br />
<br />
Yet, when I spun around, I didn’t see a vampire. Instead, standing there behind me was Joe Shurize, president of the Mount Saint Mary Video Club.<br />
<br />
Now, I wouldn’t say that I panicked, per se. But my inner child started screaming and running through a field full of bear traps just to get to Mommy. I know Joe, because I’m the Video Club vice president, and he knows me. I figured that he’d recognize me upon sight, or at least the second he heard me speak. It was all over, and only minutes before Kara would come back and save me with her miracle plan. I’d have cried right then and there, had my tear ducts not frozen over about four minutes ago. I tried to conceal a terrified whimper.<br />
<br />
“Yep, it’s really chilly,” continued Joe, fishing for a response. Joe would speak to anyone who would listen and didn’t give up until he got the conversation he craved or the other person ran screaming to their dorm. A few times I caught him speaking to garbage cans when he thought no one was looking, hoping that some tiny elves might have taken residence in the receptacles so that he might speak to them about the ups and downs of being enchanted creatures.<br />
<br />
There was no chance I could have escaped with a simple head or hand gesture. I tried to disguise my voice as best I could, taking on a deep, guttural tone. “Yep. It’s freezing.”<br />
<br />
“I tried to start my car today, but the fuel line had frozen over!” mused Joe, empowered by having found another victim. “So I started trying to thaw it out by hitting it with warm water, but after filling my biggest water gun with water I’d been boiling for the past few hours, it froze before I even got back to the car!”<br />
<br />
“I see. Then what did you-”<br />
<br />
“Then I filled up my water gun with crude oil and lit the stream on fire as I shot it into the underside of my car. Well, who’d have guessed it, but the whole car became a fireball! It was like I had created the world’s biggest Molotov cocktail!” Sure enough, I could see the smoke bellowing high above the trees in the distance. The sunlight trickled through the holes in the smoke screen and the resulting scene looked like something one would find on a religious greeting card. “If I got out my video camera, I bet I could record it and made a show called American Firebomb.” <br />
<br />
If there’s a way to excrete fear as a smell, I definitely wreaked of it. And I think I was more afraid of having to cut that show together than Joe finding out that he was really talking to a “ghost.”<br />
<br />
“Nice talking to you Joe, but I really have to go and drown myself in the snow at this point,” I said, and began to stand up.<br />
<br />
Joe put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down onto the bench, all the while keeping a friendly smile plastered on his mug. “American Firebomb! What will I think of next! …Oh, hey! Did you hear about the Ying-Yang Gang’s latest jewel heist? The cops are never going to find those guys!”<br />
<br />
“Well, I heard that-”<br />
<br />
“You want a breath mint?” asked Joe, whipping out a box of Tick Tacks. I figured that my throat would need some soothing after speaking like a heavily-smoking waitress for the past few minutes. I accepted, and seconds later, my throat was coated with delicious mint. At least I could continue my façade a little longer now.<br />
<br />
Amazingly, Joe didn’t ask about the stuffed Dalmatian sitting on my lap the entire time. I was a little disappointed, because I had already concocted a cover story about my short, hairy cousin, Rolliferd. But just when I was about to give myself away and take my chances with the Ghostbusters, I spied Shannon stepping up to the dorm door and yanking out her key. There was a long, clear tarp in her right hand, catching the wind and almost blowing away more than once.<br />
<br />
Shannon was my only chance. If I didn’t get in that dorm, Joe would figure out who I was, and then I’d have to go into seclusion or join the nearest circus as the Great Ghost Boy! (“Don’t get too close, or he may try to bite your finger off, kiddies! Now give me a quarter and you can feed him some grain.”) <br />
<br />
Ignoring Joe’s story about the time he set up his computer to display on 37 separate monitors at the same time, I called out to Shannon.<br />
<br />
“Shannon! Shannon! The window was closed!” I exclaimed. My long black coat fluttered in the wind like Dracula’s cape as I waved my hand violently to catch Shannon’s attention. <br />
<br />
But as I was yelling, the breath mint that I had been sucking on became lodged in my throat. Ironically, for the first time all day, my life really was in danger.<br />
<br />
I guess that when I tried to cough up the breath mint, it must have sounded like a vampire’s hissing. Now that I think about it, had I not been choking myself at the time, I’d have thought the same and assumed my anti-vampire combat stance.<br />
<br />
As I hissed and my coat blew out like a cape, Shannon began quaking with fear, but her eyes were sparked with confidence. “Leave me alone you crazy vampire!” She tried to get the door open even faster.<br />
<br />
I had trained her <em>too</em> well.<br />
<br />
I didn’t have much of a choice, so I punched myself in the stomach as hard as I could. As if by the hand of God Himself, the mint came sailing out of my mouth and I regained my composure. “Wait, Shannon! It’s me!” I removed my hood to show her who I really was, but it was too late for Shannon to notice. She had already escaped into the building and slammed the door.<br />
<br />
“It’s you!” Joe shouted. <br />
<br />
I knew what had happened. <br />
<br />
Joe turned and vomited at the sight of me. Then he stared at me, paralyzed with fear. I could tell that, even with the extreme stress he was suddenly under, he was already formulating a show about the ghosts of Mount Saint Mary for Video Club TV, called American Ghosthunters.<br />
<br />
Joe hastily recuperated, most likely from the tantalizing prospect of putting something new and exciting on TV. “I’ve got to get this up on the station! Everyone needs to know about this!” he yelled. “I’ll make a TV news program called American Reporter!” With that, he raced towards the building we set up the station in. “And I’ll only play true stories! Because if it’s on the news, it <em>must</em> be true!”<br />
<br />
I watched helplessly as Joe became a speck on the horizon.<br />
<br />
A few moments later, after I had finally convinced Shannon that I wasn’t a vampire, I found myself sitting on the floor of Kara’s dorm, watching Shannon nail the tarp to the wall because the staples hadn’t worked very well. That’s when Kara walked back in.<br />
<br />
“What happened while I was gone?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“It… got worse,” I somberly reported.<br />
<br />
Kara blinked a few times and dropped her book bag to the floor. “You went outside, didn’t you?”Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-3293910262034371012011-05-31T20:18:00.000-07:002011-05-31T20:22:49.381-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 7<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Chapter 7: The Waiting Game</strong></div><br />
<br />
“What’s the plan, Kara?” I asked, excitement brewing deep inside of me. I could tell that Kara had a wonderful idea, a plan to end all plans, and that I would probably be considered one of the living again by dinnertime. “Are we going to go on national television?” I inquired happily. “Are we going to get the Army to help us? The Coast Guard? The Girl Scouts?”<br />
<br />
“I’m going to…” She trailed off while reaching for her book bag, which contained, no doubt, some sort of mind-controlling device that would help us reprogram all the people who thought that I was dead. I wondered if maybe we could also reprogram everyone to think that they owed me money.<br />
<br />
“Yes?” I couldn’t stand the anticipation much longer.<br />
<br />
“I’m going to …class,” she replied, slinging her book bag over her shoulder. “I have a really big test in about 15 minutes.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yYHBMlosd7I/TeWvEB7RsKI/AAAAAAAABRE/_PgQtgCxLKg/s1600/KaraTalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="321" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yYHBMlosd7I/TeWvEB7RsKI/AAAAAAAABRE/_PgQtgCxLKg/s400/KaraTalk.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Although I tried to hold it back to save face, I felt myself frowning. It was something that I had gotten used to over the past few hours.<br />
<br />
“How’s taking a test going to help me?”<br />
<br />
Kara grabbed a pen that had been sitting on her desk and chucked it carelessly into the top pocket of her bag. “Matt, if I miss this test, I’ll probably fail college. The test is worth 99 percent of my final GPA in all of my classes, including the ones I haven’t taken yet. I wouldn’t be much of a help to you then, would I? A college failure and a ghost would have a lot of trouble of convincing people to do anything but try some new kind of hamburger at McDonald’s. If I miss this one, I might as well have just gone looking for a job straight out of high school, because at least people would have taken me seriously then and not have thought that I was a slacker.”<br />
<br />
I nodded dejectedly in acceptance and agreement, if not enthusiasm. “So when will you be back?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“In about two hours.”<br />
<br />
I sighed. Kara smiled and gave me a hug. “Don’t worry, Matt. I’ve got a plan all ready for when I come back. All you have to do is kill a few hours while I’m gone.”<br />
<br />
“Did you have to use the word ‘kill?’” <br />
<br />
Personally, it was one of my favorite verbs, but today it hardly seemed appropriate. <br />
<br />
She chuckled. I managed a vague grin. “Why don’t you take a nap while I’m gone?” Kara asked. Turing her attention towards Shannon, she asked, “Would it be okay if Matt stayed here until I got back?” <br />
<br />
Shannon had been watching an infomercial for some “revolutionary new product” that was supposed to save marriages, clean carpets and eliminate pesky trips to the doctor. I could tell it was hard for her to rip herself away from the “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHretouTf5Y&feature=player_embedded">Ultra Omnisphere 3000’s</a>” hypnotic lure, but she afforded us most of her attention. “I wouldn’t let him go anywhere else anyway. It’d be pretty dangerous for him to leave,” she admitted, copying down the number on the screen.<br />
<br />
It was a good point. “That’s phenomenal; you’re right,” I concurred. “I mean, what if someone tried to catch me and use me as proof of the existence of ghosts?”<br />
<br />
“That’s right,” continued Shannon. “They’d probably perform weird experiments on you to see what makes ghosts tick.”<br />
<br />
But wasn’t that logic flawed? “Wouldn’t they discover that I was still alive then and everything would be okay?” <br />
<br />
Kara and Shannon glared at me. <br />
<br />
“I guess you’re right. They’d probably conclude that ghosts are a lot like humans, only shorter and into video games.”<br />
<br />
“That’s right,” returned Kara, reaching for the doorknob. “But that’s not going to happen, because you’re going to stay here for a few hours. Until I get back, you should take a nap. Then we’ll get started on de-ghosting you.”<br />
<br />
I walked over and ran my fingers through the stuffed dog’s white fur. I gathered that a ghost wouldn’t have been able to appreciate such a nice texture. I was glad I wasn’t really dead. “Thanks, Kara. Good luck on that test.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t worry about anything,” she assured me in a comforting tone, opening the door and walking down the hall. She yelled to me from the stairs. “Sweet dreams!”<br />
<br />
“Fat chance!” I yelled back. I never have good dreams. I closed the door and shuffled back over to Kara’s bed. <br />
<br />
Hanging on Shannon’s pushpin board, among a few Christmas and birthday cards, was an eerie paper swan. Shannon had found it that same morning; the wind blew it up next to her as she left the dorm to do some laundry. Its pencil dot eyes reminded me of the tiny, sinister eyes of the lead orphan and it made me feel terribly cold. Its number-two lead peepers were gazing straight through me, as if I were as insignificant as a particle of dust leisurely descending to the floor. A proverbial chill tickled my spine.<br />
<br />
After adverting my eyes from the strange swan, I was about to ask Shannon if she thought that I could sneak into movies if people thought I was a ghost, but she was suddenly missing. I looked around for a moment, wondering if there really was a ghost in the room. Maybe Shannon was a ghost and had just hid it very well for 20 years, and now that there was a new “ghost” in town, she felt threatened! But when I started searching for a vacuum with which to possibly attack and contain her if she became violent or tried to make me watch something stupid on TV, like Spongebob Squarepants or the news, I spied her by the shattered window.<br />
<br />
“Do you think it’s all right to leave the window like this over the winter vacation?” she asked me, examining a few remaining glass shards that had fallen on the floor.<br />
<br />
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My eyes narrowed. “Sure it’s fine… if you want to be assaulted by Nosferatu.”<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
I rolled my eyes. “Open windows are a beacon for the undead. Vampires love to climb into any open spaces of a dwelling and slowly devour the blood of its occupants.”<br />
<br />
Now it was Shannon who rolled her eyes. Obviously she didn’t know what she was dealing with. “That’s just a superstition, Matt. Everyone knows that vampires haven’t existed since 1492 when Abraham Lincoln and Jesus Christ destroyed Dracula in the Spanish-American War.”<br />
<br />
“Vampires <em>do</em> exist,” I snapped. “Didn’t you hear about that town in Alaska that was besieged by hundreds of vampires?”<br />
<br />
I could tell that Shannon was interested. She shook her head “no” and waited intently for me to explain. The hook was firmly planted, and now it was time to reel in the catch.<br />
<br />
“Well, in Alaska, darkness and daylight each last for months at a time, depending on the seasons. Vampires converged in this one town and attacked it during the nearly month-long night.”<br />
<br />
Shannon slapped her hand to her mouth in surprise. I went on, despite her obvious shock. She needed to know the truth, because vampire safety is nothing to ignore until Halloween. <br />
<br />
“And do you know how the vampires found out about the town?”<br />
<br />
Shannon again shook her head, this time almost paralyzed with fear.<br />
<br />
“Now, remember, I work for a newspaper, so what I’m about to tell you <em>must</em> be true.”<br />
<br />
Shannon nodded.<br />
<br />
“A 20-year-old girl left her bedroom window slightly cracked while she brushed her teeth.”<br />
<br />
Shannon dashed over to her computer, stared for a moment at the creepy paper swan, and began a Google search for “vampire safety techniques.” Like the hero I am, I had saved another soul from vampire damnation. I figured that as a reward for learning her lesson about the dangers of vampire break-ins (and because I didn’t want Kara to have to do it), I would clean up the rest of the shattered glass on the floor. There were still shards of the broken glass sticking out of the window frame in creative, jagged patterns, so after collecting all the pieces, I carefully stuck my head out to throw them away. However, as I let them drop to the ground, something alarmed me: Crazy Soup Girl (in any condition) was nowhere to be found.<br />
<br />
Just then, Shannon pulled me back into the dorm. “You fool! Do you want to have your delicious scalp snacked on by a vampire bat!?” <br />
<br />
I had taught her well.<br />
<br />
Shannon threw on her coat as I returned to the comfort of Kara’s bed. “Where are you going?” I asked her.<br />
<br />
“We need to get a tarp or something to cover that open window. We can’t let our scent travel too far, or every vampire in the tri-state area will be all over us like ants on honey. They can smell our fear, you know, so try not to be scared of anything while I’m gone, like that giant spider crawling up your leg.” <br />
<br />
I had taught her<em> really</em> well.<br />
<br />
Shannon burst out of the room in search of something to cover the newly created vampire portal, exclaiming “Maybe I’ll get a crucifix tattooed on my arm, just incase the one under my pillow is knocked out of my hand or something.” The door creaked shut behind her.<br />
<br />
I was alone again. Shrugging my shoulders, I started to sit down on Kara’s bed for the ninth time that day, but I got a bad feeling about it and halted halfway through. I had almost sat on Kara’s stuffed Dalmatian, Rolley. Kara and Rolley had been nearly inseparable since Kara received him as a gift from her great aunt 14 years ago. Rolley was always quiet, usually just sitting on a bed or a chair, but it was hard to miss his presence. In his own mysterious way, he had stopped me from sitting on him for the millionth or so time.<br />
<br />
Despite all the extra sleep I’d been getting lately, I was ready to wrap a blanket around my head to block out the sunlight and go to sleep standing up if I had to. Maybe waking up to find out that the world thought I was dead, breaking up a school function, and sneaking into a dorm building like a snake had taken more out of me than I had realized. Up until that moment, everything depended on getting to school to clear things up, then finding Kara to enlist her help. But, now there was nothing left for me to do, so I had the time to notice that I was seriously exhausted.<br />
<br />
I took Rolley and put him at the foot of the bed so I wouldn’t (ironically) roll over him in my sleep. Pulling the covers up to my neck – and over, as to shield myself from any vampires that might come through the window hole – I prepared to waste time the fastest and most efficient way I could, besides taking any more business classes. Through the assorted sounds of dorm life, I closed my eyes and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvgSvHaXnbA/TeWvWbXK-vI/AAAAAAAABRM/0tXYidSWQF4/s1600/SleepDorm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvgSvHaXnbA/TeWvWbXK-vI/AAAAAAAABRM/0tXYidSWQF4/s400/SleepDorm.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div>Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-91000548887603594052011-05-26T20:21:00.000-07:002011-05-26T20:21:35.378-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 6<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Chapter 6: Gaining Ground</strong></div><br />
“I can explain!” I clichéd, in the most non-threatening voice I could muster. Instinctively, I scanned the room for anyone else I’d have to explain my situation to and spotted Shannon sitting at her desk, her attention focused on her laptop computer. For a few beautiful seconds, I assumed that I could brush by her and focus on explaining my situation to Kara. Alas, my plan was trounced when she suddenly looked up from her screen and straight at me. She must have locked on to my scent with that ingenious device she wears on her face that she refers to as a “nose.” Curses! <br />
<br />
I really couldn’t deal with two frantic girls at once, so I concentrated on Kara and prayed that Shannon would listen as well, instead of just calling the Ghostbusters.<br />
<br />
“I really can explain!” I yelled.<br />
<br />
“This ought to be good,” Kara replied calmly. She still stood in front of me, her hand remaining on the doorknob.<br />
<br />
I blinked a few times with joyous disbelief. “You mean you’re not going to scream and run away?!” I was puzzled, but also ecstatic, kind of like a dog when you come home from work early. I hoped that I wouldn’t suddenly wet myself like my canine cousins sometimes do.<br />
<br />
“Run away? Why, just because you’re a little muddy?” she returned, walking back into the room and sitting on her bed. “I’d stick around even if you were covered with tuna and had dead fish in your pockets.”<br />
<br />
“That’s great Kara, but there’s something I need to-”<br />
<br />
“Take off that muddy jacket and come sit next to me. Let’s watch some TV.”<br />
<br />
Thankfully, my girlfriend and her roommate were woefully uninformed! Neither of them had read the newspaper that day! I guess when The Dean had come to their door with his crazy bullhorn trying to get them to get out of bed to come to my impromptu memorial, Kara and Shannon had simply taken Kara’s mattress and placed it against the door, muffling out even the loudest of The Dean’s flustered protests. Kara went back to sleep on the rug with her pillow, blanket and stuffed dog, Rolley, and after about ten minutes of howling obscenities at their door, The Dean gave up and moved on. Ironically, it probably would have been easier to just go to the damn service, but I wasn’t about to start complaining about that!<br />
<br />
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I stood, staring mystified at Kara. I couldn’t believe that both she and Shannon had completely missed the news that everyone and his brother’s therapist knew about. What luck! For a few seconds, Kara and Shannon ignored me because they were watching Charlton Heston’s new cooking show, From My Cold Dead Hams. But soon, using her finely tuned psychic powers, Kara sensed my bewilderment. Either that, or she picked up on the fact that I had been creepily staring at her for the past 20 minutes. But I’m pretty sure it was the other thing.<br />
<br />
“Matt, are you all right?” she inquired, a look of concern washing over her face. “What’s wrong?”<br />
<br />
I had made it to the one person (or two, if Shannon didn’t have any homework) who could help me out of the unexpected mess I found myself in, but I quickly realized that I had no idea what I was going to say to her. How do you explain to someone that everyone thinks you’re dead, and a ghost too now, because of an erroneous newspaper article? I hadn’t even brought a copy of the paper with me! And although I’m a very serious person, Kara might think that I was joking about the whole thing, go to class, and then go back home for the winter break. Then I’d be stuck “haunting” my own home, never leaving the driveway and living off of cheese and ramen noodles until the spring semester! Only this time people would think I was dead! I had to approach the subject gently and gain Kara’s trust before telling her the whole confusing tale. I removed my jacket, sat on the bed next to her, and eased carefully into the awful events of the day. Very calmly, I began my story.<br />
<br />
“OH MY GOD, KARA!!! Everyone thinks I’m a ghost but I’m not really dead and orphans beat me up so Mom smashed my Christmas gifts with a big hammer and then I wanted French fries but I had to hide behind a tree and some neon green orange pants girl threw her soup at me and it’s all because of The Dean’s bullhorn and the newspaper!”<br />
<br />
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Twenty or so minutes later, after Kara managed to get me to stop weeping so hard, I told her the whole miserable story – from the orphans to the obituary, and finally, The Dean’s sinful bullhorn. Just as I feared, Kara thought I was joking.<br />
<br />
“I think you’re joking,” Kara said predictably. “If it’s in a newspaper, it <em>must</em> be true. I mean, how could anyone be so stupid as to think you were…”<br />
<br />
Just then, Crazy Soup Girl’s voice came echoing down the hallway. <br />
<br />
“…and his ghost flew through the wall, firing some kind of lasers wherever he looked! His mud-caked body oozed with corruption and shined with evil! He attacked me and consumed my delicious gourmet soup in one malicious slurp!”<br />
<br />
Crazy Soup Girl flung herself into Kara and Shannon’s room. She desperately shook Kara by the shoulders. “Kara! Shannon! We all need to get out of here! This dorm is haunted by the terrible ghost of Matt Fr-”<br />
<br />
And that was right around the time when she caught sight of me. I waved dumbly at her. <br />
<br />
“There he is! Sweet Merciful Jesus, I can feel him licking my soul with his demonic, hellfire-charred eyes!” With that, Crazy Soup Girl ran straight for the window and gracefully dove out. I guess someone had done a great job cleaning it that day, because that window seemed open… that is, until Crazy Soup Girl shattered it on the way out. As I watched her sail through the window, glass spraying around her, she looked like an ugly neon bird attempting to take flight. Actually, I hoped that maybe she would sprout wings and fly away before hitting the unforgiving soil below.<br />
<br />
I could see by reading her lips that Kara was attempting to form words, but every time she got close to actually saying one, something went off in her head that brought her back to square one. It was kind of like a car that almost started, but promptly died before it could be driven to the shop. In my head, I thanked Crazy Soup Girl for being so gullible. <br />
<br />
“I… I’m really sorry that I thought you were joking,” said Kara, hugging me tightly.<br />
<br />
As I heard the telltale thud of Crazy Soup girl versus the ground outside the window, Kara continued, “We can’t just leave it like this.”<br />
<br />
“I know,” I muttered. “Also, someone should really go out there and clean up what’s left of Crazy Soup Gi-”<br />
<br />
“We need to do something to help you!” Kara exclaimed. Something glowed in her eyes as she spoke. I had heard about things like this before – it was called the “Eye of the Tiger” and it usually meant that someone was about to get severely beaten in the name of victory and personal perseverance. I began to back away from Kara, afraid that she was going to fix the problem by actually killing me. That way, I really would be a ghost and universal equilibrium would be achieved once more. Although it would probably have been the easiest of the solutions, somehow I wasn’t too keen on it. I braced myself for a thrashing.<br />
<br />
“We’ve got to let people know you’re still alive!” Kara yelled, thrusting her fist in the air triumphantly.<br />
<br />
A smile slowly formed on my mud-caked, grass-smeared face.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-52497154478126295252011-05-23T14:15:00.000-07:002011-05-23T14:16:51.978-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 5<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><strong>Chapter 5: Breaking and Entering for Fun and Profit</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">The campus was like a horror film: cold, silent and dead. The chilling winds gusted through the bare treetops – the only noise to be heard on the entire campus. It was as if there had been a devastating nuclear strike between the soccer field and the dorms and I was the last person on earth, just like that Twilight Zone episode I mentioned before. Although I knew it was silly, I feared that at any second, a zombie or an alien hoard would jump out and feast upon my unsuspecting bones, perhaps saving one of my thighs to stir leftovers reheated the following day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Of all the things that I could have been considering while dashing towards my final chance at rescue, from comforting my inconsolable mother to figuring out how to convince everyone that I was still alive, I was thinking about French fries. I hadn’t really thought about it before today, because I had no reason to, but being a mock ghost was definitely a tiring occupation. However, as I closed in on Kara’s dorm building, I abandoned my thoughts of French fries for reality; and I ask you, what’s more real than being falsely accused of ghostary?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Alas! My brilliant plan had a single major flaw: There was no (conventional) way of entering Kara’s dorm without calling her and getting her to come down and let me in. Most likely, she had already read the paper today, or if she hadn’t, her roommate Shannon had. And if either of them had been to that demented bullhorn pep rally of The Dean’s, calling her would only lead to more heartbreak and devastation. She’d think it was some sort of repulsive joke and hang up on me. Or worse, she might think I was trying to contact her from beyond the grave, start screaming, and call an exorcist. The last thing I needed that day was to be exorcized while still living. I bet that’s never been done before. If exorcizing a spirit makes it go back to hell or finally be put to rest, where would my living spirit be carted off to? I bet the whole affair would royally confuse God and cause a rip in the fabric of reality, and I didn’t much like the idea of having been mistakenly reported dead and inadvertently playing a role in the world’s destruction all in the same agonizing day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">If I couldn’t go through the front door, I had to find another way in! My primitive hunting instincts kicked in instantly. I hid behind a nearby sapling, smearing some crushed grass on my face as camouflage. Then, I covered myself with mud, chuckling under my breath at the cleverness of my disguise. No one would see me there behind the sapling and its remaining leaf now, as I had become one with nature! I was half man, half plant, and as long as no one looked in my general direction, I could hide out for weeks, maybe even years, living off of the land and escaping the awful destiny fate had dealt me early that morning.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But, my goal wasn’t to become a jungle boy (that particular morning, at least). My goal was to infiltrate the fortress “College Courts Building 3” and destroy the heinous rumors of my demise with the help of my girlfriend and our combined wits. From behind my infallible disguise, I surveyed the building for a flaw in its security. Small cracks in the building’s exterior were structural instabilities that I could possibly exploit with some C4, a malleable plastic explosive that could be molded into the crack and detonated at a safe distance. However, searching through my pockets, I saw that during my rush to escape the house that morning, I had left all of my C4 at home. Damn!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I had to find yet another way to gain entry to the building. Searching carefully, I spied an open window on the ground floor. Eureka! I could climb through the window! Luckily, it led to the dorm’s lounge. That meant that I could sneak in without the occupants of a ground level dorm room calling security and complaining about how some sort of plant creature had infiltrated their dorm and tracked muddy foot prints all over the pretty yellow rug on which they throw up every Thursday night.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Making sure the surrounding area was still deserted before abandoning my perfect camouflage, I dashed for the bush and underneath the dorm’s mercifully open window. Hopefully, no one would get the great idea to dump hot coffee or bad tasting soup out the window as I crouched under it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Before that could happen, I hoisted myself onto the windowsill and slid though the open window. I was disgusted. Whoever had left the window open had given me a portal to my salvation indeed; but they had also paved the way for a vicious vampire attack later that night. Had I been among the ranks of the night dwellers, I could have feasted upon an entire dorm full of unsuspecting women in a horrid, yet strangely erotic tragedy. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ESVvYiW_GPY/TdrOtyq-whI/AAAAAAAABQc/iq3I90S42MY/s1600/Break_in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" j8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ESVvYiW_GPY/TdrOtyq-whI/AAAAAAAABQc/iq3I90S42MY/s400/Break_in.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">I tried to push the idea out of my head as I carefully stood back up. The first thing I saw was almost as horrendous as the vampire attack I had just been thinking about. Waddling about the communal kitchen was an odd girl with both pigtails and a ponytail. She was wearing a neon green shirt with orange sweatpants and large pink sunglasses. She was holding a pot of steaming soup and big mug of piping hot coffee.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">“Gee, I guess it was pretty dumb of me to think that I could make a delicious soup out of my old notebooks and failed science tests,” she admitted loudly, staring into the pot of Lord knows what. “And this coffee I made out of my roommate’s dirty socks isn’t very good for some reason. Maybe I’ll throw it out the window!” </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">In my brain, I filed the event I was witnessing under “Saw it Coming.”</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But then Crazy Soup Girl caught me watching her. I attempted to pass myself off as an unusually handsome lamp by standing very still and trying to reflect the most light I could off of my body, but she somehow saw through my clever guise. I knew she was getting ready to scream.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I stared her straight into her strange, multi-colored eyes. “Boo,” I muttered softly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The metal pot slid out of her hand, hitting the floor and safely bouncing away from her, the scalding contents barely missing her exposed feet. With no further encouragement from me, she leapt over the spill and she and her dirty sock coffee escaped to the sanctuary of her dorm room. I observed her desperate scramble with interest. At least there were some advantages to being a “ghost.” Well, unless she had somehow been spooked by the strange man covered with mud and leaves crawling through her window and staring at her menacingly. But I doubt that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Quietly, I threw open the lounge door and stomped up the steps. I dashed through another door and finally I stood outside of Kara’s room. But, having finally reached my destination, I found that I didn’t know what to do. Should I just knock? What if she already heard the news? What then?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Before I could make a decision, however, the door swung open. I stood face to face with Kara. Her eyes grew wide.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My heart sank to my knees.</div>Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-4119291912206840482011-05-15T12:57:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:32:36.891-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 4<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Chapter 4: Standing Alone</strong></div>
<br />
As I pulled through the front gates and into the college, I had to maneuver myself past a large crowd that had formed on the soccer field. I slowly inched my way through the masses and squinted into horde, as if crinkling up my eyes would allow me to use some kind of latent x-ray vision. As I tilted my head to get a better view, I caught sight of the cause of the disturbance. It was The Dean. He was standing atop a small makeshift stage in the middle of the snow-covered field, broadcasting to what looked to be the entire remaining population of the college – those unlucky souls who had to stay to the bitter end before winter break began. My heart sank. I knew deep down what The Dean was announcing. A single tear slid down my cheek, turned into an icicle, and broke off.<br />
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I stepped out of the car and worked my way into the undulating crowd. At first I couldn’t hear what The Dean was saying. The only thing that registered was his voice amplified through the bullhorn he held, though still indistinguishable. Those around me ranged from indifferent to pissed off. Many were yawning or still wearing their pajamas, because 11 a.m. is still early morning in college life. A liquid snake, I slithered through the mob, closer and closer to the core. Finally, I found myself between a girl in a puffy white jacket and Dr. Zan, a professor that I had last semester for a history class called “Granola Through the Ages.” I could go no further. I twisted my head so my ear was towards The Dean and tried to interpret his muffled ramblings. <br />
<br />
“…never talked to him, but his hair looked delicious,” mused The Dean.<br />
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“He’s right, you know,” Dr. Zan agreed.<br />
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“Who?” I asked, mumbling, though I already knew the answer.<br />
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“But I know it must have come as a great shock to us all,” The Dean began somberly, “as I forced you all out of bed, one by one, by screaming at every door with my bullhorn. But obviously with good reason. The death of a classmate is nothing to be ignored; to sleep through like so many parties where you get very intoxicated and pass out in the hot early morning sun. This is especially true when the deceased is someone as widely known and respected as Matthew.”<br />
<br />
“Who?” inquired a voice from behind me. I was sure it was someone I wouldn’t have liked anyway, had I known him.<br />
<br />
“He was a jerk!” exclaimed a guy to my left who had been droning on a cell phone up until then. I wondered how he could possibly have been listening to The Dean when seconds before he had seemed so immersed in his cell phone conversation. As he melted back into his long distance world, I made a mental note to step on his foot when I left.<br />
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Other voices rang out from all sides: “Can we go back to sleep now?”<br />
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“I’m missing General Hospital for this!”<br />
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“I need to study for my test!”<br />
<br />
“I like wearing women’s undergarments!”<br />
<br />
I slapped my hand against my forehead. My case of mistaken death had reached as far as the college, and worse, the news had been used as an excuse to get everyone out of bed prematurely. The mood was still somber, but it would have been somber for the right reasons had The Dean waited three hours before giving his misguided eulogy. Now, not only was I “dead,” but hated as well. I was responsible for everyone’s bad mood on the last day before going home for Winter Recess, a day of tests and high anxiety as it was. Now everyone was going to fall asleep on their finals, drooling on the test paper and smearing their answers because their brains were all fried! And what of the people who knew me? More accurately, what about people who <em>know</em> me?<br />
<br />
Wait, that was it! I needed to find someone I knew and work from there. Maybe I could convince them that I wasn’t really dead. Yet, how would I get out of the crowd? Since I had weaved my way into the indifferent mass, others had stepped in and formed an impenetrable gelatinous casing around me. <br />
<br />
“What do you think happened to him?” asked the short girl in a puffy white jacket. The jacket was so huge on her that her arms rested on its sides and stuck out like those of a stuffed animal.<br />
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“Presumably he was devoured by the gods for wearing white after Labor Day,” replied Dr. Zan. “It’s really a pity. Too many of this nation’s youth meet their unfortunate end that way.”<br />
<br />
“I never liked him much to begin with,” continued the girl in the white jacket. “His head was always shaped like a carrot. And he smelled like a goat, too.”<br />
<br />
I sneered. <br />
<br />
“Well, at least I never looked like a walking marshmallow, lardcoat!” I shouted, fed up that not a single individual had mourned my passing since I had arrived. Unintentionally, but very much to my advantage, everyone around me heard my frustrated outburst. Now I had I way out!<br />
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Those who hadn’t run away were treated to The Dean screaming like a little girl through the bullhorn. He must have really liked that bullhorn too, because he had neglected to throw it down. <br />
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“Oh dear God! It’s his ghost!<br />
<br />
It’s the ghost of Matt!” His bullhorn quivered and The Dean froze in place, apparently too spooked to speak. Unfortunately, everyone who hadn’t heard me the first time was frantically glaring in my direction or already speeding towards their dorm, shrieking and stumbling about like they had been covered in liquefied sugar and left in a field full of fire ant hills. <br />
<br />
I slapped my forehead once more, this time grunting because slapping your forehead in disbelief really starts to hurt after awhile. “The obituary was a mistake! I’m still alive! See? I’m real!” I tapped my chest, over my heart, producing a hollow noise to illustrate my solid state.<br />
<br />
“But if it’s in a newspaper, it <em>must</em> be true!” blared the bullhorn protruding from The Dean’s mouth. With that, he sprinted from his platform and disappeared into the surrounding neighborhood. Well, at least the captives could go and study for their tests now, although hammering crosses to their dorm room doors and cowering under their beds with their rosary beads was probably slightly above studying on several people’s agendas at that point.<br />
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No matter. I needed to find someone who knew me, someone I could trust! But Santa wasn’t coming for another three days, and Mickey Mouse lived millions of miles away in the mysterious kingdom of “Florida.”<br />
<br />
Of course! My girlfriend, Kara, would know what to do! In nine out of ten crises, she was the one to help me out. From the time I fell asleep while shoveling my driveway and woke up face down in a snowdrift, with my nostrils frozen shut, to the time I accidentally got a pumpkin stuck on my head and tried to shock it off by sticking the stem in the nearest wall socket, Kara was always getting me out of some sort of trouble. Hopefully she could help me.<br />
<br />
“But what if the fiendish lies have reached her by now?” I wondered. It was just a chance that I would have to take. Readjusting the collar of my black leather jacket purposefully, I shot off in the direction of Kara’s dorm.<br />
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If she had already heard, any chance of normalcy, of my ordinary world, was lost. (It’s that dramatic?)Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-81244796287480313052011-05-13T19:56:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:56:29.025-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 3<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Chapter 3: Into the Fray</strong></div><br />
I don’t know if my mother heard the flush of the toilet, but upon my reentrance, I found her with her ear plastered to the wall and mumbling something about my ghostly moans from the beyond sounding a lot like rushing water. I walked past her and sat on my bed, deep in thought. <br />
<br />
“Everyone who read the newspaper this morning now thinks I’m dead,” I mumbled to myself. That’s when my mother threw a white sheet over her head and pretended to be a ghost, in order to trick her otherworldly son into thinking she was just another spirit and making him feel more at home. <br />
<br />
Well, how bad could being dead really be? I’d never have to go to school or work again, I’d never have to pay taxes, I’d never have to talk to people I don’t like, and showering, shaving and wearing pants, all my hated foes since day one, were now as optional as ketchup on French fries. Through some cosmic fluke, I had been given the chance to play as many video games as I could stomach while roaming about my home gleefully unshaven and gloriously sans-pants. Call it karma. Call it luck. Hell, you could even call it Richard Simmons if you wanted. That wouldn’t change the fact that after 100 million hours of doing tedious schoolwork and trying to get a decent job, I could actually do something that <em>I </em>wanted to do for a change.<br />
<br />
“This is great!” I exclaimed, throwing off my pants and attempting to shove them though the tiny holes of my window screen. After a few seconds, I gave up and threw them on the floor.<br />
<br />
“This is awful!” exclaimed my grief-stricken mother, picking my pants up off the floor and throwing them in the hamper. “What am I going to do with all the Christmas presents I bought you? Dead people can’t receive Christmas gifts.”<br />
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My heart sunk to my belly button. With my voice trembling, I asked, “What about birthday gifts?”<br />
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“Dead people don’t celebrate birthdays because when you’re dead, you don’t have them anymore,” Mom informed me. “But for some reason, one can continue receiving Hanukkah presents, even if they weren’t Jewish to begin with.”<br />
<br />
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t force out a single word and my mouth hung open like a gate in the wind.<br />
<br />
Mom left the room and came back a few seconds later with a huge iron hammer. In between blacking out with disbelief every few seconds, I wondered how she was carrying around something so big. <br />
<br />
“I guess I’ll just have to smash them all,” she said. She dashed from my room and headed for the secret present repository that has remained a mystery to my brother and me since the beginning of Christmas itself in the early ‘80s.<br />
<br />
I snapped out of my trace, screaming, “Oh dear God!” I desperately swung my hands above my head. “If I wasn’t dead before, this is going to kill me for sure!”<br />
<br />
In the distance, the hammer whizzed through the air like a pack of killer bees. I closed my eyes and prayed that at least I’d be able to tell what each gift had been by the sound it made as it was shattered from existence. Yet, after waiting a respectable amount of time, I heard nothing. I opened my eyes and stopped grimacing. <br />
<br />
My mother’s voice was soft and muffled. “Actually, I should probably give these to charity. Or, better yet…”<br />
<br />
I knew what she was about to say. I readied my lungs.<br />
<br />
“…the orphans!”<br />
<br />
“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!”<br />
<br />
What kind of cruel, twisted fate had God and the ornery orphans bestowed upon me!? The situation reminded me of that episode of The Twilight Zone where a man happened to be inside a bank vault during a nuclear attack, and when he came out, he was the only living soul on the planet. He finally had the time he craved to do what he loved more than anything: reading. Yet, as soon as he found a conveniently intact library, he accidentally stepped on his glasses, crushing them to pieces. I felt just like this man; I had all the time in the world to play them, but how would I ever get new video games if Mom kept smashing them all or giving them to those contemptible orphans?<br />
<br />
“This is awful!” I exclaimed, reaching for my discarded pants. I tugged them back on speedily (and reluctantly) and grabbed Mom’s keys from the table. Obviously, with her only second son not dead, she had to take the day off from work to grieve and watch The Price is Right, so I could use her car without causing a(nother) problem.<br />
<br />
Something had to be done. If I was going to come up with a plan of some kind to get everyone to see the truth, to see that I was still among the living, I needed to assess the total damage the obituary had inflicted. I needed to see how far the rumor had spread, and then I could begin working on damage control. Luckily, it was the last day of exams before winter vacation, and most of my friends from college would still be there. If I stepped out of my car and people started barreling away from me, screaming something about ghosts and needing Scooby Doo to come save them, I’d know that it was worse than I thought. But hopefully, the erroneous news of my death hadn’t gone beyond the relatively small distribution of the Wappingers Falls Tribune. I mean really, who reads the obituaries but the families of those who have passed on and morbid Irish people like my mother, who have been reading obituaries since the potato famine?<br />
<br />
I dashed out into the frigid winter air, side-stepping the patch of ice along my walkway that had been building since Thanksgiving. I felt much better about the entire situation as I hopped into Mom’s car, backed down the driveway, knocked over our garbage cans, and sped off towards the college. <br />
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I was positive that my salvation would soon be at hand.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-55772360164413097862011-05-09T12:50:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:33:04.931-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 2<div style="text-align: left;">
You ready for the next chapter?</div>
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Yeah, me too.</div>
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<strong>Chapter 2: Read All About It</strong></div>
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Have you ever had a dream where you knew you were dreaming and you could control it? That’s only ever happened to me once in my life, and I guess I kind of wasted it. During the summer between third and fourth grade, I had a dream that I was forced to go back to school in the middle of July. At that age, there were two things I hated – learning and socializing – and school was chockfull of both, in the same way that orphans are chockfull of sin. I realized at a very early age that video games gave me all the human interaction I needed, outside of my mother and father, who bought me new games, and my brother, whose room we kept the Nintendo in. Both of those accursed school activities kept me from my games and therefore needed to be kept to a minimum.<br />
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So you can imagine how upset I was when in the middle of the summer, I suddenly found myself in a place of learning, surrounded by smelly, whiny children. My instructor was droning on and on about the solar system or something, her scholastic ramblings a powerful neurotoxin to me. After a few moments of trying to concoct a machine that would simultaneously stab a pencil through my temple while smacking me in the head with my science book, it hit me (a realization, not my science book): I was dreaming!<br />
<br />
“Wait a minute!” I shouted, wicked students looking up from the blackest blackboard and staring at me. “You can’t fool me! This is a dream! I’m going to wake up right now and play Super Transvestite Bros.!”<br />
<br />
As quickly as the horror had begun, I found myself sitting straight up in my bed, the sheets so soaked with my terrified sweat that small fish had begun nesting in my blankets. I could have done anything in that dream, like fly, play video games, or, uh, fly some more, but instead, I decided to simply come back to the real world.<br />
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Now have you ever had a dream where you knew you were dreaming and you <em>couldn’t</em> control it? That too has only ever happened to me once in my life, and let me tell you, it was awful. It happened to me the night after the orphans had beaten me so cruelly. It was as if Satan himself had burrowed through my floorboards to stick hot pokers in my eyes while I slumbered. <br />
<br />
Crappy dreams are nothing new to me. I’m used to having bad dreams, because I have one almost every night. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a good dream. But the one I had that night went from being a bad dream to the worst nightmare I’ve ever had the terror of experiencing. There I was, surrounded by 100,000 miniature orphans (I know because I counted), each kicking me and jabbing me with their teeny sharpened elbows. I was completely immobilized and all I could do was scream like a little girl and wet myself with an endless supply of hot, steaming urine. Now I know how poor Gulliver must have felt as the Lilliputians tied him down, walked all over him and presumably contemplated venturing deep into his massive pantaloons. <br />
<br />
I knew that my tiny torturers were simply figments of my subconscious. Yet, unlike the back-to-school dream of the past, I could do nothing about it but attempt to taunt the impish orphans with the fact that I was on to them and their dream-invading ways.<br />
<br />
At first they didn’t respond. They just kept walking all over me, stopping only to poke their knife-like elbows into my quivering flesh. However, then I got a reaction I wasn’t expecting. “I know what’s going on!” I exclaimed for the 1000th time, staring at an orphan who was digging his diminutive heel into my collarbone. “I know this is a dream!”<br />
<br />
“Ooooh, Dream Weaver!” sang the orphan, jumping up and grabbing a microphone out of thin air, “I believe you can get me through the niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!”<br />
<br />
Now I was really confused. The orphans suddenly stopped what they were doing and all followed suit with the first singing orphan, belting out both high and low notes with vigor and vibrato. Thus began the demented orphan sing along of the greatest hits of the 80s, atop their (literally) captive audience. Instrumental accompaniment reverberated from an unknown source, and each orphan suddenly had a shiny new microphone to wail into. I didn’t know what was worse, the orphans beating me once more in my slumber or this wicked medley of 20-year-old superhits. All I could do was stare in bewilderment. After a rousing rendition of Van Halen’s “Jump,” the orphans were halfway through Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” when my eyes suddenly jetted open. I was finally back to the relative safety of my room!<br />
<br />
I had forgotten that my clock radio alarm was set to W-ALF, the local ‘80s rock station. For the past 15 minutes it had been going off, signaling the beginning of a new day and assaulting my dreams at the very same time. I sat bolt upright and rubbed the crust and the dried blood out of my eyes. <br />
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I felt like I had been slugged by Rocky Balboa - or twice by Apollo Creed, rest his soul. Every inch of my body ached, every muscle cried out for relief. Even sitting up was an act of sheer willpower. Actually, now that I think about it, it was pretty much the same as every morning.<br />
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<br />
Although I was already behind schedule at that point, I let myself steal a few more seconds of precious idle time. Just when I was about to get up and face the day, though still not knowing how I planned to get to school without a car, my mother burst through the door. Her eyes were red and puffy and she was sniffling. At first I thought that she was coming down with a case of the Wooping SARS, and I attempted to fashion my blanket into a makeshift facemask. But as she got closer and I saw the telltale droplets on her cheeks, it became apparent what was really going on and I felt stupid for missing it. She had a newspaper in her hand, so obviously, some stinky creature, like a skunk or onions, had been living in the mailbox, so when Mom had taken the paper out and opened it to read the funnies (or the obituaries, she enjoys both equally) she jostled the thing from its nest and it sprayed her in the eyes with its crazy stink chemicals.<br />
<br />
“Mom!” I exclaimed, jumping out of bed and rushing to her, “your eyes are leaking! Did that odious skunk-creature hurt you?”<br />
<br />
Mom took one look at me and threw her arms around my midsection. “That stinkophile must have done a real number on her,” I thought. “She’s hugging me so hard it almost hurts.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, it’s awful, Matt!” she sobbed.<br />
<br />
“It’ll be all right,” I returned calmly, hugging her back. “All we need is some tomato juice for the smell and some way to replenish the strange fluid that’s leaking from your eye sockets.”<br />
<br />
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you!” yelled my mother, thrusting the newspaper into my hands. As she continued squeezing me, I peeked over her shoulder and saw the page to which she had opened the paper.<br />
<br />
“You’re upset about the Ying-Yang Gang’s latest jewel heist?” Now I know that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but I didn’t think Mom would mourn their loss like that. <br />
<br />
“No, next to it,” returned my sobbing mother.<br />
<br />
There, in front of me, was something that very few people see in their lifetime: I was face to face with my own obituary. Confusion hit me like a sack full of doorknobs. I knew I had slept an uncommonly long time last night, but had it been so long that my body shut down all functions permanently and I died? I hadn’t even noticed! <br />
<br />
Quickly, I checked to see if I was still breathing. Indeed, my morning breath might have been enough to kill a healthy child or a sickly adult, but it was hardly enough to take down a healthy 22-year-old boy/man, especially when that 22-year-old was the source.<br />
<br />
Then I thought that perhaps my heart had exploded during my tangle with the orphan marauders, but I quickly dismissed that theory because I could feel the heart in question beating so hard at the sight of my own death notice that I wondered if it somehow needed to get out of my chest and into the outside world.<br />
<br />
The possibility that I was actually a ghost was right out of the question as well, because Mom was clearly hugging the heck out of me. If I had indeed been a specter, Mom would have fallen through me and onto the floor when she tried to embrace me, resulting in a tragic, yet dementedly comical event that would have brought a tear to the eye of even the surliest of pirates. <br />
<br />
I had been staring at the newspaper the whole time these possibilities were bouncing around in my head, and I suddenly realized that I hadn’t yet read my own obituary. After all, only one in five people are Matt, so it could have been someone else, couldn’t it? I let out a sigh of relief. Obviously it was some other Matt, and once I could get my mother to stop freaking out, I could calmly prove it to her by showing her that it wasn’t really my obituary.<br />
<br />
However, before I could do that, I automatically read the page heading with the newspaper name at the top, as my time spent copyediting had taught me. And that’s when the ghastly truth crept into my sleep-addled brain like a lightning bolt through a set of power lines.<br />
<br />
The heading read “The Wappingers Falls Tribune, December 22, 2004.” Obviously, because I had failed to show up to work the previous day, my boss assumed that I had died; after all, I’ve never missed a day of work in my life, in this job or the last. As a courtesy to his not-so-late employee, he had quickly added my obituary a few hours before deadline. Ironically, since I hadn’t been there to proofread it, my obituary was full of spelling errors and punctuation mistakes. While reading it, I couldn’t help making mental notes of all the errors. I knew that after I got this whole thing straightened out, I would demand that I be allowed to fix the mistakes and re-run my obituary in the next paper, printing a correction that I really wasn’t dead in the issue after that. I also noticed that since the people at work didn’t know me very well, they had to make up a few things to finish the obituary:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Matthew</strong></div>
<br />
Matthew, of State County, a formar emplotyee of Entertainment For Everyone and The Wappinger Falls Tribune and Homemaker entered into rezt on Tuesday, Decenbre 21, 2004,, after a long and arduous battle with Athleet’s Foot and underarm fungus. He was 22 yaers old.<br />
<br />
teh Daughter of Jeorge Washington and Jesus H. Christ he was born in Nov. 5, 1892, in new York City, China. He was maRried to thje late Chairman Meow, the, beloved famliy pet, of 256 years.<br />
<br />
Mathew was a graduate of Ministink Valley Middle Skool and an avid Member of the churc h of Sinners for Satan in Walden, Kitten Stompers of america, NAMBLA (North American Man/Boy Lov), and foundr of www.BeattheElders.com. A verteran of WWII, he fought valiantly fro the Nazi caus and relished shoplifting from the lokal bakery. A true hobo by nature, he loved hurting childern and picking up sTrange men fromn bingo tournaments. After looseing his last bid for the presidencyt to Allen Keys, he spent much of his time poisoning dolphans and grave robbing.<br />
<br />
Survivors inklude Richard Hatch and Boston Rob, as well as anyone who is still alivvve to read this. He was predecaesed by Gandhi, Richard Nixon, and Disco. <br />
<br />
Services well be held as soon as we find hiz body<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
“My God! There are so many errors!” I screamed, horrified. “I live in <em>Slate</em> County, not <em>State</em> County!”<br />
<br />
My mother clung to me like a barnacle, still apparently unaware of my lack of rigor mortis. All that was running through my mind was that infamous line, “reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Yeah, no kidding! But even in my current shocking situation, I knew that actually uttering that infamous phrase would have been the most trite thing I could have done, as well as the fact that it would have been lost on my current… unreceptive company. <br />
<br />
So instead, I went with the much wittier response of panicking.<br />
<br />
“Mom! I’m not dead! I’m right here! Please look at me!” I shouted, worrying suddenly where my magazine subscriptions would be sent if I were thought to be dead.<br />
<br />
For the first time since she came into my room that morning bearing the terrible news of my false demise, Mom let go of me. With her hands still on my shoulders, she stared into my eyes and shook her head sadly. “My poor dead son!” she sobbed, “Don’t you know that if you read it in a newspaper it <em>must</em> be true?”<br />
<br />
“But Mom, I’m fine! I’m right here,” I replied frantically, putting my hands on my chest as if to illustrate my still-beating heart. <br />
<br />
“My only son… dead!” lamented my weeping mother, ignoring me completely and using my nearby homework to dry her tears. Convincing my mother that my heart was still beating was like trying to push smoke into a bottle with a baseball bat.<br />
<br />
“But Mom, you have two sons! Remember Ian? Your first born? I mean, he just washed your car yester-”<br />
<br />
“Dead!” she sobbed once more. <br />
<br />
I was beginning to notice a pattern.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Although I was positive that mother would have been very receptive to the fact that I was still alive after a few weeks of hardcore brainwashing, I knew that I had to turn my mind to other, more pressing matters.</div>
Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-31341640343322523702011-05-04T17:24:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:33:17.294-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella, Chapter 1<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Chapter 1: Vertigo</strong></div>
<br />
I can’t tell you how much I hate orphans. I’m convinced that they were all sent from hell and disguised as lovable hobos in order to ruin lives, specifically mine. Oliver Twist, Annie, Danny DeVito – all those witty, lovable orphans – are odious lies. Orphans are really a bloodthirsty bunch; the smaller, the more deadly. They lie in wait behind garbage cans or near orphanages – or as I like to call them, Dens of Deception – and persuade the kind and the gullible to “help” them. But then, the orphans attack with their nefarious fists, and at that point, you’d have to be nothing short of a ninja or a child services worker (or a ninja child services worker) to escape their abominable terror. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately for me, with no background in child services and only a moderate level of ninjary, I was one of those kind, gullible people who fell into the orphans’ trap. And, to add insult to literal injury, it happened while I was trying to support my quirky habit of, you know, going to college. <br />
<br />
Perhaps it would be better to introduce myself first, so you’ll know to whom to send your pro-orphan hate mail. My name is Matt. I’m about 5’3”, with long, dark brown hair that I always have pulled back into a puffy ponytail. I hate being short, but there’s really not much I can do about it but try to walk tall and take advantage of my increased stealth whenever I can.<br />
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<br />
Anyway, I’m a senior at a close-knit college. Considering I’m a commuter with a job outside of the confines of the campus, I’ve pretty much taken to living in my unreliable Ford Taurus. For awhile, I worked in retail at a small entertainment store in the local mall called Entertainment For Everyone. But, last summer, a customer jumped me in the DVD section – I swear he grabbed me with his tentacles and reeled me in from afar – and forced me to look up every song Wayne Newton has ever sung. Then he told me I was no help and left the store without buying anything, so I decided it might be time for a career change: one related to my English and Media Studies majors.<br />
<br />
So, now I work as a copyeditor and reporter for a small local newspaper, the Wappingers Falls Tribune. The pay is better than my old job, but the atmosphere and sense of camaraderie is virtually non-existent. Instead of all the employees rising to a common goal of hating the customers, I just write about boring local concerts without actually being there to see the event. Sometimes I wonder if getting an extra 29 cents an hour automatically means that I have to be bored all day at work.<br />
<br />
But, I’ll wager that after beginning this with a verbal assault on what many people consider an underprivileged group of innocents, you’re wondering what happened that would make me hate orphans so much. I don’t blame you; I would too. Allow me to explain.<br />
<br />
I was on my way to work one snowy Tuesday, ready for another invigorating 13-hour day. The thought of working practically Industrial Revolution hours during the heavy snowstorm that was just beginning chilled even the warmest bones in my body. Thankfully though, my boss always keeps the heat at a blazing 47 degrees. With such extravagant heat expenditures, the office is always like a sauna. Sensing it was going to be one of those warm days at the office, I put on my light parka and only five sweaters that morning.<br />
<br />
I live about 30 million miles away from work, which is about 11 million miles past the college. So like a good little copyeditor, I made sure to get up at 4:30 in the morning, giving myself an extra half hour to bail out my buried car with the torture device my father devilishly refers to as a “snow shovel.” <br />
<br />
All this took place about 20 minutes after I had gone to sleep, after doing my nightly kilo of homework. Hurrah! I had gotten nearly six more minutes of sleep than usual! Having really stuck it to the man, I was feeling quite proud of myself.<br />
<br />
After digging my vehicle out of a snowdrift approximately the size of Rosie O’Donnell, I hit the icy roads. I hummed and I sang to whatever song was playing on the radio and before I knew it, it was 1:30 p.m. It was eight hours well spent; I was only minutes away from my destination and another long, boring day at work. But that’s when everything changed. <br />
<br />
That’s when I became a dead man.<br />
<br />
Crossing a long, harsh bend in the street, I saw them. On the side of the road, two children stood huddled around a fire weakly burning in a steel garbage drum. Through the rapidly falling snow, I could tell they were shivering like mad and coughing up icicles. Or perhaps it was hail; I couldn’t be sure. One of them stared at me with impossibly huge eyes, imploring me to somehow help her. I slammed on the brakes.<br />
<br />
My parka, my five sweaters and I stepped out of the car and approached the children. “We are orphans!” exclaimed the orphan with the huge eyes. “We are cold and it is snowing!”<br />
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<br />
“My nasal drip has formed a rather festive icicle,” interjected the male orphan, adding, “I, too, am an orphan!”<br />
<br />
“What can I do to help you poor orphaned children?” I asked. I had trouble holding back the tears. How could the world not want these two lovely children?<br />
<br />
“You can give us one of your sweaters,” replied the orphan with the huge eyes, staring straight into my soul.<br />
<br />
“Of course!” I exclaimed, removing my parka. I was planning on giving them my top layer sweater. Hopefully, it would be a really warm day at work.<br />
“You can give us your gloves,” suggested the second orphan. I pulled them off and handed them to the quiet male orphan.<br />
<br />
“What else?” I asked. I’d have given them almost anything they asked for, the poor creatures. They had put a vice grip on my heart with their impoverished fingers.<br />
<br />
“You can give us…” The female orphan trailed off.<br />
<br />
“Yes?”<br />
<br />
“YOUR SOUL!” The orphan with the huge eyes ripped off her glasses, revealing her true eyes, small and sinister.<br />
<br />
Just then, some sort of abominable snowman burst from the nearby trees. I could tell by the way he was leering at us that the lumbering yeti no doubt craved childflesh. “Orphans! Get behind me! I’ll protect you!” I screamed, assuming my most potent ninja stance. I knew full well that I was a mediocre ninja at best, but desperate times call for, uh, ninjas. If Japanese cartoons hadn’t been lying to me all these years, I’d suddenly find the power I needed to defeat this urban yeti in a highly predictable, yet vastly entertaining turn of events.<br />
<br />
The sasquatch may have been huge, but he was also terrifying. I would use that to my advantage. But before I could strike the enraged bigfoot with my work-in-progress-but-still-quite-deadly ninja jamboree, the now sinister-eyed orphan stopped me.<br />
<br />
“Hey ponytail boy! You’re the one who needs protection!” she exclaimed. The yeti shook off its odious snow covering to reveal a third, very large, very hairy orphan. He stared down at me, from about 60 stories up, with a crooked, satanic smile.<br />
<br />
My jaw hit the ground slightly before my body did, and the next thing I knew, I was being accosted by crazed orphans. They were like pack animals, tearing away the tasty skin of their fallen prey. As tiny fists rained down on my tender flesh, I was glad I had given the silent orphan my gloves, because they helped shield some of the small, stinging blows.<br />
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<br />
They crowded around me like bees on honey-covered puppies, Sinister Eyes leading the assault, while The Yeti leapt into the passenger side of my car, sitting on the sack of expensive toys and kittens I was planning to drop off in the Christmas charity box right next to the office. Between the terrible blows, I cringed as I heard his dangerous ass cheeks grind every last toy into some kind of plastic paté. <br />
<br />
“Thanks a lot, sucker!” bellowed Sinister Eyes, hopping into the driver’s seat of my car. Even at nine years old, she was somehow able to reach the pedals. Silent Orphan hopped into the back seat, and in seconds, they had driven off, tires squealing and cheery Christmas music blaring from the opened windows. I lied heroically in a pool of my own fluids, but it was no use. The villainous orphans had escaped. Fortunately, about three hours later, a helpful hobo assisted me by taking my wallet. At least some people in this world can be counted on to do the right thing!<br />
<br />
I spent the next few hours on the side of the road, slipping in and out of consciousness. During the coherent times, I took to counting the snowflakes that were accumulating on my nose. But while unconscious, I had visions of tiny, probing eyes and miniature fists raining down on me like napalm from above. At last, my eyes popped open and I finally came to. It was already dark. Looking at my bloody-yet-still-intact watch (which, miraculously, the gang of orphans had neglected to take), I saw that it was 2 a.m. Egad! I had missed work! Pulling myself out of the crumpled ball I had been in for the last 11 hours, I found that, although a little frostbitten in my unimportant extremities, like my fingers, I was basically all right.<br />
<br />
It was too late to call work and tell them that I hadn’t skipped out to play video games or watch TV: My boss had probably left a long time ago, like five minutes or so. Thus, I began my lonely, frigid walk home. It managed to rain, snow and hail all at the same time about 35 seconds into my trek. Reaching for my hood to deflect some of what could only be described as God’s horrible rage against short people with long hair, I realized that it wasn’t there; the orphans had pilfered it and tied it to my car’s antenna as a souvenir of our epic struggle. <br />
<br />
It was then that I cursed orphans forever as the damned souls they are!<br />
<br />
Fortunately, only a few raccoons and other assorted woodland creatures attacked me on my trek. Then a nice man who asked me lots of questions about sweaty men in tight, skimpy underwear gave me a ride home the rest of the way, as well as a cheerful pat on the behind. By the time I finally dragged myself through my front door, it was 6:30 in the morning. Thankfully, the nice man had driven quickly, muttering something about an “escape route” and an “arrest warrant.” <br />
<br />
After the God-awful day I had, I simply fell into my soft, inviting bed, ignoring my homework for the first time in my three and a half years of college. Somehow, after sleeping most of the day, if being unconscious counts, I was still exhausted.<br />
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Pulling those covers around my blood-caked and bruised body had never felt so good.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-17485309208162901452011-05-02T17:07:00.000-07:002011-05-02T17:07:47.755-07:00"Misprint!" - The Course Overload Novella: An IntroductionI know this might come as a shock to the reader, but there’s really no way around it – I’m a dead man. Well, not “dead” in the traditional “stopped moving and started rotting” sense, because it would be difficult for me to be writing this if that were the case; it’s really hard to see what you’re typing in a coffin. No, I was dead in a really big misunderstanding kind of way. And it wasn’t even my fault.<br />
<br />
Well, mostly.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my good name is on the line. I’m a fine, upstanding citizen. Yet, through a series of one-in-a-million coincidences and fantastic misunderstandings, my entire county thinks otherwise. I need to relay my side of the story, the gospel truth, to anyone who will listen. Everything I say in these pages happened exactly the way I’ve described it; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Elvis. <br />
<br />
I’m not the kind of person who pads his experiences to make a better story. I’m all about the truth of the matter. And the truth of the matter is that I’m just an innocent man trying to live his own life. But you’ve got eyes. (Unless you’re a pirate with dual eye patches and you’re reading this in brail.) I’ll let you examine the facts and make your own decision…<br />
<br />
<strong>Chapter 1 coming soon!</strong>Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-3030357211571659622011-05-01T14:29:00.000-07:002017-06-21T13:33:53.378-07:00Course Overload #27: "Milk Quest"You’d think that a guy would be happy about being wet and naked with a lady he’s never seen before. But when that happened to me last Tuesday, I was anything but pleased. I had just locked myself out of my dorm room after taking a shower with nothing but a towel, my cell phone, and my extemporaneous body fat to protect me. It was kind of like being on Survivor, only there was no money at stake and the chances of me catching and eating a rat were slightly lower. <br />
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<br />
After a few frantic phone calls, all omitting the trivial fact that I had done something incredibly stupid was stark naked, save for a girly towel, I managed to get a hold of security. Four minutes later, I heard a knock at the door, and my towel and I went to answer it. However, instead of the hardened security man I had envisioned busting down my door with a thunderous kick and firing a hail of bullets through my computer screen to make I was safe from computer viruses, security had instead sent a young woman who, upon seeing my exposed, dripping torso, released a confused yelp and averted her eyes. That’s when she accused me of calling her over on purpose so I could show her “what my momma gave me.” I didn’t bother explaining myself, because I was too busy weeping with an embarrassment that, along with Freddy Krueger and circus clowns, will plague my restless dreams until the day that my therapist decides that I’m normal.<br />
<br />
But lo! I know what you’re all thinking. Or at least, what you’re all supposed to be thinking: “Matt is a commuter! That sissy doesn’t have a room on campus!” Well, devoted fan(s), no longer is Matt a lowly commuter… Now he’s a lowly resident! After seven semesters of driving 35 minutes back and forth every day, up hill, both ways, in the snow, I was tired of waking up early, rarely having time to eat, and never being able to find a decent parking spot. But through the magic of whining to my parents, all of that has finally changed! Now I get to take full advantage of resident life, like waking up early, rarely having time to eat, and never being able to find a decent parking spot, all from the comfort of a single, cramped room! Hurrah <br />
<br />
Actually, living on campus looked a whole lot easier before I actually did. True, now I don’t have to hunt for a parking spot every morning, but there’s still a whole new set of challenges to deal with now that I’m a resident, like eating. One of the things I was looking forward to the most was being able to come back to my dorm and have a nice snack in between classes, instead of clogging my arteries by ordering French fries with a side of lard at the café every time a class let out early. It seems simple enough, right? Wrong. My first week here, I didn’t have a refrigerator. No refrigerator meant no milk. And no milk meant no cereal. My unopened box of Cocoa Puffs sat atop my dresser, taunting me cruelly from the day I arrived to the time I drifted into an uneasy sleep Friday night.<br />
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Morning broke outside my window that Saturday, and I was ready and waiting for it. My eyes popped open and I sat straight up, hitting my head on the top of the bunk bed above me. The night before, my father had shown up unexpectedly bearing a small refrigerator. Now I could finally get some milk! Throwing the covers off my bed, I knew in my heart that I was going to have my Cocoa Puffs that very morning, or die trying. Or I'd wind up waiting until lunch. Whatever.<br />
<br />
I’ve never been on campus that early on a Saturday morning, so I had no idea that neither the campus store nor the café are open on weekends. Of course I discovered that the hard way, trudging both places through the approximately 12 foot tall snow drifts that had piled up the Saturday before.<br />
<br />
Predictably, my milk-hating car had died earlier in the week, so there was no way I could simply go to Price Chopper for the beverage I so craved. Egad! Was I to be without my life-sustaining Cocoa Puffs for the rest of the weekend!? Of course not! It takes more than sub-zero weather, epic mounds of snow, and no transportation to stop me! I know I could have easily used a substitute liquid, like vodka, on my cereal, but never would I fold in my quest for milk!<br />
<br />
Although I had already been in the bitter, student-killing cold for nearly 16 hours, desperately searching the campus for an outlet for my milky madness, I struck out towards the Sunoco station down the street. My ears were so numb I feared that merely touching them might break them off like icicles. Yet I continued on, almost getting mowed down by crazy, anti-milk motorists whose sole purposes in life is to prevent me from having breakfast. At last, after having to tunnel though a pile of snow nearly the size of the Great Wall of China with my bare hands, I emerged in front of the magical gas station! I hauled my gallon sized prize out of the gigantic refrigerator and rushed it to the indifferent cashier. “Sweet, sweet lactose!” I exclaimed, charging out of the mini-mart. I could feel exhaustion nipping at my heels, but maybe I could make it back to my dorm before I collapsed! <br />
<br />
A horn honked, and as I looked up yell at whoever was trying to run over me that time, I saw my friend Michelle waiting at a nearby stop light! I was saved! The milk cradled under my arm like a child, I dashed towards the waiting vehicle. Michelle waved at me and grinned angelically.<br />
<br />
Then the light changed and she sped away. I think I began screaming, but I couldn’t hear anything though the ice in my ears. Everything went dark, and I felt my fingers go numb, although I maintained my vice grip on the milk. The last thing I remember was hearing an ambulance siren in the distance, praying it was for me, and not being surprised as it sped right past my fallen body. “Sirens are so romantic,” I thought to myself. Then I slipped into a coma. <br />
<br />
When I finally woke up, it was 11 p.m. As I lay dying, my milk had frozen into a horrifying block of condensed cream. There would be no cereal for me that night. I would have cried if all the water molecules in my body hadn’t frozen solid.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
So, as I stood dripping wet in my towel, occasionally ducking into the bathroom to avoid questioning eyes, I realized that everyone has their own set of problems. I’ve been on both sides of the coin, and I know that commuters have a horrible time finding a parking spot and are often left out of college activates, and residents constantly have to battle the lack of decent food and accidentally locking themselves out of their rooms. But what bonds us together, what makes us all unified students of the same college, is our mutual love of cereal. Indeed, we are all coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs in our own, special way, so let us never forget our glorious shared heritage.<br />
<br />
So, the next time you lock yourself out of your room, walk right down to the café and have yourself a big bowl of cereal. Unless it’s the weekend. Then you’re screwed.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-72511092466352398782011-04-28T18:52:00.000-07:002011-04-28T18:52:35.132-07:00Course Overload #26: Bah, Lovebug!With another holiday coming up, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about holidays in general. We all know that holidays are like expensive restaurants: some, like Wendy’s, are just better than others, like Bob’s Slop Emporium… but why? On my way to class one frigid afternoon, I pondered the situation.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iqSlpyCOFIY/TboZP3NZStI/AAAAAAAABNc/kKHWloS6IEQ/s1600/opnewater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iqSlpyCOFIY/TboZP3NZStI/AAAAAAAABNc/kKHWloS6IEQ/s200/opnewater.jpg" width="141" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awful.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Some holidays are undeniably great, like Easter, Christmas and Arbor Day. They’re the holidays you wait all year for, and fall into a deep depression when they end. You know what I’m talking about – pretty much any holiday where someone gives you something for free, unless it’s a dead, rotting caribou or a copy of Open Water on DVD. <br />
<br />
Most other holidays won’t make you wet your pants in the middle of Wal-Mart, but they’re still pretty nifty. A good example is Halloween. If we all got the day off from school and work and those dirty children came around handing out candy instead of begging for it in ridiculous costumes, I could probably be fed Halloween intravenously as some sort of plasma-like, life-sustaining fluid. Alas, for some strange reason, a few people just don’t like having round after mind-numbing round of children dressed as insipid Pokémon viciously pounding on their door until 3 a.m. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ib4nNR9Na60/TboZZ2vUJDI/AAAAAAAABNg/QBj4NId3_oY/s1600/kidpokemonoutfit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ib4nNR9Na60/TboZZ2vUJDI/AAAAAAAABNg/QBj4NId3_oY/s320/kidpokemonoutfit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gimmie all your candy, bitches!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Thanksgiving fits nicely into this category as well: Although you get to gorge yourself on delicious meat products to proudly uphold America’s tradition of being the most grossly obese nation in the galaxy, rarely have I ever received a decent Thanksgiving present. In fact, I think it’s called Thanksgiving simply because it’s closer to Christmas, and that’s something for which to be thankful.<br />
<br />
So, unless you’re some kind of heathen who can’t stand children masquerading as the undead and begging you for candy, all holidays fall into either the “life-sustaining” or the “pretty good, I guess” categories… except for one. Valentine’s Day has long been the subject of heated debate. There are legions of people out there, like women, who would defend it to the death. Yet, for every soldier fighting in the name of love, there’s another fighting in the name of sanity. Millions of people, like women without dates, despise this day of candy and roses and would just as soon donate their favorite eye charity than have to endure it. For example, before we got together, one of my exes used to refer to Valentine’s Day as “Bitter Island Day.” I guess she must have liked the name, because she still called it that when we were together for some reason, even though I took her to a nice romantic dinner at the local strip joint and bought her a PlayStation that we keep at my house.<br />
<br />
In an attempt to bring together these warring factions, this phenomenon warrants closer investigation. Why do so many people hate Valentine’s Day? It carries the mark of an awesome holiday, because there’s a possibility of receiving a wonderful, free gift! Or maybe even several, with a bunch of red things with green stems to cushion the bounty during transport! And my God, you could even get some candy! It’s like Easter and Christmas combined! Which would be really confusing for Jesus.<br />
<br />
No, it’s not what’s up for grabs on Valentine’s Day, it’s the method of receiving it that has so many people saying “Bah, lovebug.” You see, to receive anything, someone has to be madly in love with you and dash through a fiery gauntlet of horrors known as a “flower shop” to retrieve your gifts. Or, your boyfriend and/or girlfriend needs to go to Price Chopper and buy you a box of chocolates. With adversities like that, it’s a wonder that anyone gets any gifts at all. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kGIUsW1SJbU/TboZrlNh9rI/AAAAAAAABNk/izS9ZJnh5rU/s1600/chocolate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kGIUsW1SJbU/TboZrlNh9rI/AAAAAAAABNk/izS9ZJnh5rU/s320/chocolate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
But sometimes, Valentine’s Day rolls around, and you’re caught without a significant other. It all makes sense to me now; I can really see how it would be upsetting to not have someone to share your candy with. It makes me wonder what jackass came up with a holiday that not only excludes some people, but wildly alienates them as well. (Or, right. Thanks, Hallmark!)<br />
<br />
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something: There’s plenty of joy and fun to be had with a partner (like playing a multiplayer video game), but there’s also wonderful happiness you can find by yourself (like playing a single player video game). See, it’s all about enjoying the phase of life you happen to be in right now. Why tear yourself up inside about not having a date this Valentine’s Day when there are many, many more Valentine’s Days where you will have someone in the future? As a wise sheep once said on an episode of the old Garfield and Friends cartoon, “There are two kinds of problems: ones that you can solve, and ones that you can’t. There’s no sense worrying about the problems you can solve, and there’s no sense worrying about the ones you can’t.”<br />
<br />
By the time I thought of all this, my class was over, and I was walking back to my car. Suitably, a cop car sped by, its sirens blaring. <br />
<br />
“Sirens are so romantic, like Valentines Day,” I said out loud.<br />
<br />
My girlfriend was standing by my car when I got there. She was smiling, so I did too so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But wait! Oh no! During all that thinking about holidays, I had forgotten that it was National Give Dead Animals to the Ones You Love Day! <br />
<br />
I’m still trying to figure out how she got that dead, rotting caribou to swallow that copy of Open Water.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-82305384393788477712010-12-24T14:15:00.000-08:002010-12-24T14:15:03.006-08:00It's Begining to Look a Lot Like Physics<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_JFI2etJRI6M/TIaH-cmZeWI/AAAAAAAAAg8/xwXaZ88AFj4/s1600/christmasTown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_JFI2etJRI6M/TIaH-cmZeWI/AAAAAAAAAg8/xwXaZ88AFj4/s200/christmasTown.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.gocurrency.com/international-travel/2006/12/06/christmas-in-europe-winter-wonderland/">A Christmas picture from Germany</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I want to tell you about Quantum Physics, because nothing says Christmas like science. <br />
<br />
Let’s say you have a box with plutonium on one side and a cute kitten named Mittens on the other. If you put a lid on that box, you have no idea if the radioactivity has leaked over the wall separating the kitten and the plutonium; therefore, you have no idea if Mittens is playing with a ball of string or if, instead, he has died a brain-bubbling death. To you, Mittens has a quantum state of both being alive and dead at the same time. However, Mittens sure as hell knows what’s what, so to him, his state is what’s called rational: He knows if he is either alive or dead. <br />
<br />
To you, MY quantum state is either here at my computer or somewhere else. I, however, know right where I am – but I’m not going to tell you for the sake of this lesson.<br />
<br />
Something to think about at mass tonight: What is the quantum state of Jesus?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_JFI2etJRI6M/TIaIh1FaXfI/AAAAAAAAAhE/bG1mO9tW_hY/s1600/God.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_JFI2etJRI6M/TIaIh1FaXfI/AAAAAAAAAhE/bG1mO9tW_hY/s320/God.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/ni/2009/08/god_and_the_noughties.html">God?</a> What's you quantum state?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-48816195810757934912010-10-17T11:32:00.000-07:002012-07-14T08:29:43.188-07:00An InterviewRecently, an interviewer from the underground ninja magazine Silent But Deadly caught up with me and asked me a few questions. He never told me his name, but he’s a ninja - and that’s what ninjas do. So, the following is a reproduction of that interview, word for word. I hope you enjoy getting to know the real Matt Frey a little better!<br />
<br />
- Matt Frey<br />
<br />
Silent But Deadly: I’m here today with author and secret ninja Matt Frey.<br />
<br />
Matt Frey: Hello all you ninjas out there in ninja land!<br />
<br />
SBD: So, Mr. Frey, never mind the scariest moment, favorite movie, biggest gorilla you’ve ever slain, or worst career choice you’ve ever made questions! Here at Silent But Deadly, we strive to give ninjas what they want - obscure information they can use to relentlessly stalk and eventually kill you.<br />
<br />
Matt: Sounds great! Let’s get to it!<br />
<br />
SBD: The first set of questions focuses on all the information an enterprising ninja would need to know if they ever started fighting you. My first question is, are you passive or aggressive?<br />
<br />
Matt: I’m a pretty passive person, really. And I’ll kill anyone that disagrees with me. Now make me a sandwich.<br />
<br />
SBD: Excellent! I see you have the ninja way about you. Next question - Do you trust others easily?<br />
<br />
Matt: Who wants to know!? Keep your distance, I’m armed! And legged! Don’t come any closer! I’ll kill myself if you come near me!<br />
<br />
SBD: Spoken like a true ninja. Now, tell me, Mr. Frey, do you think you are emotionally strong?<br />
<br />
Matt: The voices in my head are prompting me to say no, but instead, I believe I will say “Shazbot.”<br />
<br />
SBD: Shazbot indeed, Mr. Frey. Which leads me to my next question. Without a strong will to jump out of moving cars to kill their target and such, a ninja is just a guy wearing pajamas and holding a sword. With this in mind, do you consider yourself a daredevil?<br />
<br />
Matt: By all means. Once, I jumped off of the Empire State Building into a kitty pool filled with rocks. And sharks. Wearing nothing but a thong. Too bad we forgot to account for the wind current and I wound up landing on the Pope. Man, I’ll never live that down; newspapers acted like no one’s ever fallen on a pope before, and they bent the whole thing out of proportion. For weeks, the headlines said things like Thong boy attacks Pope!, Ninja assailant dive-bombs His Excellency!, Sinister shark-man flies in bisexual UFO; abducts His Holiness and forces him to make sandwiches for $4.50 an hour!, and my favorite, Devious thong-clad alien marauders decimate New York City in a blind, hideous rage as never seen before; Pope caught in the middle with nothing to defend himself with but his trusty lightsaber; Bush declares a national state of emergency; Janet Reno still looks like a man. Then, the next day, I wore white… and it was after labor day! Now that’s daring!<br />
<br />
SBD: That’s truly impressive, Mr. Frey, and just a little bit scary. Finding a ninja who will wear white is like finding a cure to the common cold - it just isn’t going to happen. Are you suicidal or something?<br />
<br />
Matt: No, I think my life so far has been good. I have all the basics, like a rusty shack to call my home, only slightly torn and somewhat recently washed (maybe) apparel and two out of two parents. They’re both chicks, but whatever.<br />
<br />
SBD: But, what if you died doing that stunt? And I know you say it was an accident, but do you think God was upset at you for what you did to the Pope? Or, for that matter, do you even believe in God?<br />
<br />
Matt: On more than one occasion, I’ve sat back and asked myself, “Is God just another Santa Claus? Another Tooth Fairy? Another Edward Scissor Hands? Another Darth Vader? Another drink for the lady, sir?” And after some serious thought, I think I do, but it all depends on what’s going on in the world.<br />
<br />
SBD: I see. Well said, Mr. Frey. As for my last ninja-related question, what makes you think that you’re a ninja? Tell me some of your qualifications.<br />
<br />
Matt: Well, I’ll tell you, only a true ninja would try to assassinate himself. I’ve been plotting to kill me for years now. The menacing way I look at myself in the mirror sends chills down my spine. And, whenever I’m eating, and I’m around too… well, let’s just say I don’t like the way I’m always eyeballing the nearest sharp object. Also, whenever I make me a drink, I’m always worried that that jerk me is trying to poison me. So, I always have me take the first sip before I take a drink. That way, any poison would kill me before it kills me, as a warning to me to not drink whatever it is that that devious me poisoned. <br />
<br />
SBD: Bravo, Mr. Frey! Excellent! But enough about you as a ninja. What about you as a person? If a poor fellow came up to you on the street, what would you do?<br />
<br />
Matt: Are they going to ask me anything, or did they just come up to me and stare? It'd be really weird if some bum wearing, like, McDonald's bags walked up and just stared at me. I'd probably freak out and throw my wallet at them.<br />
<br />
SBD: Interesting. But that begs the question, have you ever given money to a homeless person?<br />
<br />
Matt: Does the artist formally known as Prince count? Well, if he does, the answer is… no. I haven’t.<br />
<br />
SBD: I’m at a loss for words… so I’ll just read off of my card. What’s the one modern thing you could live without?<br />
<br />
Matt: Broccoli. That is definitely something that we, as a modern society, can live without. That and Brittany Spears.<br />
<br />
SBD: It looks like you’re hostile towards celebrities.<br />
<br />
Matt: Only the ones who deserve it.<br />
<br />
SBD: All right, then, if you could be anyone famous, who would it be?<br />
<br />
Matt: I’d be Uncle Ben of Uncle Ben’s Rice. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I was an older back man who sells rice. Ever since I was young, I knew I was different from the other boys. While most boys my age were interested in football, Pokémon, and grabbing any girl that moved, I found myself drawn to cooking and watching the Black Entertainment Network. I remember that my parents took it hard when I told them. I can’t say I blame them. I mean, I’m sure if I was in their position, and my son just told me he’d like to be about 60 years older, African American and a vendor of rice, I would have felt shocked too. Now my days are a blur of cooking rice and hanging out at Uncle Ben’s bars, trying to pick up other people of my kind. Will I ever find the peace I’m searching for…?<br />
<br />
SBD: That’s tragic! So, how was your family life before all of that?<br />
<br />
Matt: Well, let me answer that with a long story…<br />
<br />
SBD: I’ve only got eight more hours before I have to assassinate the president, so don’t go on too -<br />
<br />
Matt: One snowy Christmas, at about 3 a.m, I awoke to find a large box wrapped in the most enchanting paper. With glistening eyes, I pulled off the ribbon, and slowly removed the lid, my face absolutely beaming with anticipation. I looked in the box quite slowly, as the golden light came spilling out, unable to contain my excitement. With that, a fat, demented clown thing jumped out, knocking me down. He smelled like dumpsters and rotten eggs. And, I don’t know how he managed this, but somehow he also smelled like screaming. <br />
<br />
“What the hell is this!?” I bellowed, backing away from the clearly perverted man. <br />
<br />
“Why, that’s Thrusty the sexual mime!” Mom returned, smiling. “Isn’t he what you always wanted?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, honey, he’s humping the Christmas tree!” Dad added. “Isn’t that cute?”<br />
<br />
“Why did you buy this… hideous monstrosity!?” I exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“Son, you specifically asked us for a fat, middle-aged pervert,” said Mom, shaking her finger authoritatively at me. “Don’t deny it.”<br />
<br />
“Voltron action figures, Mom. I asked for Voltron action figures.”<br />
<br />
“Same thing, boy,” Dad retorted. “Now go clean up after Thrusty. He’s your responsibility. You have to feed him, clothe him and take him for walks.” <br />
<br />
By then, Thrusty was already drunk. On top of that, he had also received three parking tickets. And he was convicted of murder. All in 30 seconds.<br />
<br />
That was the worst Christmas ever<br />
<br />
SBD: What an awful story! I can relate; one time I asked for a shiny new ninja star for Christmas, and all my mother got me was a stupid Playstation. “You’ll star your eye out!” she’d always tell me. Oh well… she got hers… I mean… Holidays! Do you have any more amusing stories about holidays?<br />
<br />
Matt: Well, once I dressed up as George W. Bush for Halloween. People refused to even answer the door. I had elderly women tossing eggs and shooting paintballs at me all night. Mom locked me out of the house too, so I was taken in by a pack of wild wolves and I learned to mimic their ways. Then I came back the next morning and Mommy made pancakes.<br />
<br />
SBD: Speaking of your mom, they say men try to marry women who are similar to their mothers. What kind of person do you want to marry?<br />
<br />
Matt: Specifically, I want a woman who will love me. I also want a girl who’s not afraid to say what she feels. Like, if my claws are puncturing her lung or something, I want her to speak up. A relationship is give and take, you know. The more you give, the more I’ll take. Now make me a sandwich.<br />
<br />
SBD: As a human being, I’m sure you’ve made plenty of mistakes. But, do you regret anything, in being a writer or otherwise?<br />
<br />
Matt: Remember when everyone was pouring money into all those online stores, like pets.com? Well, I decided to jump on the band wagon and buy thousands of dollars in stock in BeatTheChildren.com. Let’s just say it didn’t work out.<br />
<br />
SBD: That must have hurt more than just the children, Mr. Frey. But one last question - what are you going to do next?<br />
<br />
Matt: KILL BIG BIRD WITH GRENADE.<br />
<br />
SBD: Well, I meant in your writing career, but I think I’m out of questions for you.<br />
<br />
Matt: Have I won the Survivor competition yet? Because it feels like I’ve been sitting here with you for weeks. Thanks for interviewing me anyway, my ninja friend. <br />
<br />
But by then he was gone - he had slipped out the window unnoticed, into the black night.Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-18469307218629468732010-10-13T14:18:00.000-07:002010-10-13T14:18:31.118-07:00Course Overload #25: “I Vant to Give You a Midterm!”They got together one Tuesday afternoon, when they knew we were sleeping or eating after their classes. (Some of us managed to fall asleep while eating, which figures into their menacing plan even better.) They met on the mysterious staircase that keeps going up after you reach the third and final floor of the MST building, the one reserved for wickedness. Then, they all crammed themselves into the elevator and had the person with the fewest knees and elbows threatening to puncture their spleen hit a magic elevator button that no one can see without at least a masters in education.<br />
It traveled down; down below the dinosaurs, below the rocks and the heat, below the secret sinister alien stronghold I probably shouldn’t have just told you about. The elevator brought them all to their secret underground teacher’s lounge. (Well, everyone except for Mr. Barone, who lost his daily planner and thought the meeting was tomorrow.)<br />
<br />
They filed into the small dark room, cackling with twisted delight as they went. The objective of this malicious meeting was simple: to make the students’ lives as difficult as possible. That way, students would fall asleep in class so professors could drain them of their blood and drink it to retain their own failing youth! And as long as the students were still sleeping, secondary objectives included painting their faces silly colors and putting shaving cream in their hands before tickling their noses. <br />
<br />
“I hate sunshine!” exclaimed one professor angrily. “A good student is a pale one, because the more one reads, the less one goes outside!” <br />
<br />
“So let’s invent a test that they take in the middle of the semester and then we’ll schedule all of the tests to occur on the same day!” screamed another, smirking evilly. “We’ll call them murder-exams!” <br />
<br />
“I have a better idea! We’ll call them... midterms!” replied Mr. Beard,<br />
<br />
adding, “I hate cell phones!”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
You might think the above is a dramatization; that professors are nice people who want to impart their knowledge upon the next generation to help them flourish when it’s their turn to run the world. Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. What I’m about to tell you might give you nightmares for the rest of your natural college career, so I won’t blame anyone who doesn’t read any further, though I will consider you a big pansy, you big pansy.<br />
<br />
It’s a little known fact that all professors are secretly vampire-like creatures who survive by drinking the sweet, sweet blood of the innocent youth. Those eager new teachers fresh out of graduate school are anything but - most professors have been consuming their students’ tender plasma for thousands of years. Yes, that’s right - midterms are nothing new. They’ve actually been around since the days of the ancient Greeks, when the MSMC professors had their first underground meeting. (Interesting fact: midterms is from the Latin Midus Termi; “Mid,” meaning “middle,” and “term,” meaning “impossible test.”) <br />
<br />
I realized all this while sitting at my desk at my job with the Wallkill Valley Times. It was election night, at about 8 million o’clock, and I couldn’t go home until CNN told me I could. What I mean is, I couldn’t go home until someone wrote an article about who had won the election and I proofread it. In my boredom, I had resorted to coloring every person in every picture on the wall next to me with my red copyediting pen. <br />
<br />
Sometime around when Bush had 66 billion electoral votes to Kerry’s 65.9 billion (Kerry had just narrowly carried Australia), my head fell to my desk like a balloon filled with rocks. It was as if I had narcolepsy but was unfortunate enough to fall asleep in a much less humorous location than, say, in shop class while using some sort of sanding device.<br />
<br />
When I woke up seconds later, however, my boss was hovering over me with a huge, malevolent straw. He had a crazed look in his bloodshot eyes, and an odious smile on his lips. That’s when I put everything together. How many times have you seen professors using straws? Plenty! And what can you find in the college’s café, in a big round container? That’s right, straws! The evidence is irrefutable - our professors are horrible vampire creatures who survive by drinking their students’ blood as they slumber with straws! My boss was obviously one of them, and he had come to sample my fresh, zesty plasma.<br />
<br />
“Matt, could you hand me my soda?” he asked. “It’s sitting right next to you.”<br />
<br />
“Leave me alone, you foul creature of the darkness!” I exclaimed, sidestepping his criminal sinfulness like the highly trained ninja I am and blasting out the door into the cold, annoyingly Republican night. <br />
<br />
While tearing down the midnight streets of Walden and passing at least 32 biker gangs and drug dealers, I wondered if I wouldn’t have been safer in the clutches of the vampire. That’s when I fainted from exhaustion and a helpful vagabond aided me by stealing my wallet.<br />
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For a few minutes, all I could hear were sirens. “Sirens are so romantic,” I said, opening my eyes. I was inside an ambulance. Above me hung a red bag, attached to my arm with a needle. Blood! They were reintroducing to my system what my boss had managed to drink!<br />
<br />
Now you know the horrid truth. Midterms exist to make you stay up all night studying and then fall asleep during the test the next day. You must never study again, lest you be drained of your very life force!Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4263716152222261135.post-26082992332623136722010-10-11T15:16:00.000-07:002010-10-11T15:17:04.304-07:00The Case of the Mysterious Pageviews<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_JFI2etJRI6M/TLOL5MFWkwI/AAAAAAAAA2E/jZaSau9ucZg/s1600/pageviewsEchoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="135" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_JFI2etJRI6M/TLOL5MFWkwI/AAAAAAAAA2E/jZaSau9ucZg/s400/pageviewsEchoes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>What the hell...?<br />
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I got 107 pageviews at this blog yesterday, which is astronomically higher that what I normally see. My other blog, <a href="http://wordsmithvg.blogspot.com/">Wordsmith VG</a>, gets closer to 100 views a day, but it's still high. Better yet, all those hits occurred between 3 and 4 a.m. <br />
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I have no idea what happened. Oh well; it was nice while it lasted. :)Wordsmith VGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677608046266706879noreply@blogger.com2