Cully's Sci Fi Blog

4-28-06

2006-04-28T13:01:00.000-07:00

"Can you build me a campfire?" she asked her dad.

"Campfire? Woohoo! Do you want some marshmallows too?" Dad asked.

"No, that's fine. I just want to build a campfire."

"Sounds great, Darling! I'll get some fire wood, okay?" Dad said as he walked towards the garage to retrieve some surplus firewood they kept for thier periodic camping excursions.

He grabbed the grill and walked back came back to the tent. He looked at the rocket and smiled, placing the grill next to it.

"Um, Dad," said Veroncia. " I think that's too close to the rocket."

Dad looked up and smiled, "Sorry honey. You're right... Afterall, I wouldn't want you to blast off in a charred spaceship. That could be really dangerous. Ha ha ha."

Veronica let out a faint laugh because Dad obviously thought this whole rocket thing was just child's play.

[To Be Continued]

4-18-06 My daughter saved your life [a true story]

2006-04-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

Hello Gentle Readers,

I'm super glad that I still have some gentle readers. You can all thank my daughter that you're still alive to read this blog.

See, even though you're probably unaware, Humans/Earthlings almost became an extinct species. But my smart, brave, and cunning daughter, Veronica, saved the day.

It all went down like this:

Far away on planet Kinipseewahlah, lived a humanoid species of Kinipseewahlans. Unlike what people believe aliens are like, Kinipseewahlans aren't very scientifically advanced.

Kinipseewahlah is a very flamable planet. And "wildfires'' that've lasted months are well documented.

One day, a fire got inside of a Kinipseewahlan cave and made it's way toward the center of the planet.

News of this was broadcasted across the universe. "Save the Kinipseewahlans!" became the mantra for alot of Earthlings.

However, a very pretty little girl named Veronica was more interested in saving the Kinipseewahlan cats [A.K.A. CATSeewahlahns]. She was lucky enough to be homeschooled, so she told her Dad that she'd like to build some sort of space rocket type thing.

Dad let out a faint laugh. He remembered being the same age and building things like what his daughter wanted to build. So he said, "Why, of course sweety pie. We'll go get some materials right away."

She was going to use the home made rocket to fly off to Kinipseewahlah and save the CATSeewalahns.

It didn't take long to build due to Veronica's perserverence. It sat in the backyard waiting to be launched. Dad would periodically look at it and smile, impressed with his daughter's perserverence and brilliance. See, she did most of the work herself. Dad was too scared of hammering himself on the finger or getting a sliver.

After supper that night, Veronica told her parents that she was going to sleep outside in the tent. So she got the green tent from the basement and set it up outside, in the backyard.

She came back inside yawning, and said, "Well, mom and dad, I'm getting really tired. I think I'm going to go to sleep."

Dad looked at his watch and said, "You must be really tired. It's only eight o'clock."

Veronica laughed and said humorously, "It must've been all that partying I did last night!"

Mom and Dad laughed at her joke, and both said, "Goodnight."

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Entry Two - 3/31/02

2006-03-31T12:32:00.000-08:00

Here's another one. It shows that Polobobo had a fondness for philosiphizing:

3/31/02

I've been thinking about how unfair childbirth is.

Men have a simple, painless - actually pleasurable - role in it. They place their penis the woman vagina, go back and forth a bit, and ejaculate.

Women, on the other hand, have the growing child inside them. It grows and grows, and after nine months, emerges, wiggling and crying, out of thier vagina.

I have a good geneticist friend who is working on making a gene that makes men bare children.

I can't wait for that!

Entry One 3-22-02

2006-03-22T04:40:00.000-08:00

I'd thought I'd start with the an entry that was made a year ago on this date:

3-22-02

I had a pretty fun night last night. I went out partying with a zombie I went to college with. We were complaining about how this damn cotton blight is making clothing so damned expensive. Just a t-shirt is the price of diamonds.

She told be that her DIY, punk rock ethic has served her well. She doesn't have to worry about buying cotton because she raises sheep purely for thier yarn. And she uses the yarn to make all sorts of clothing. She told me that the following website taught her a lot: yarn.

She's making good money too. Yuppies everywhere are willing to fork over a lot of money for, not only handmade sweater, but for, handmade sweaters with homegrown yarn.

March 15, 2006

2006-03-15T13:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever heard of ORBItron?

Didn't think so.

Well it's the street name given to a special, newly discovered mineral called Huntseegulp. Huntseegulp is only found on the far away, relatively-unknown planet Lop Lobula. And, only a few unfortunate people have had encounters with Huntseegulp [A.K.A ORBItron].

Why do I call them unfortunate? Because, thanks to ORBItron, they're now dead.

And they all experienced severe humiliation before dying.

See, ORBItron degrades the brain so much that, before you die, you experience a sort of mental retardation.

Fortunately, I have the journal of Polobobo. Polobobo was woman who was on the mission that discovered Huntseegulp. I'll try to transcribe most of the journal. However, the parts of the journal that were written right before she died are hard to decipher because they appeared to be written by a mentally challenged person.

Wednesday March 15, 2006. Secret number one.

2006-03-15T08:36:00.000-08:00

Like I promised, I'll share some secrets that were mistakingly told to me by a U.S. government agent while I comatosed:

Secret number one:

An incredible species of aliens have been discovered on the planet, unknown to most, Blurbahoevnick.

Now, what makes these aliens so incredible is the way they bare children. It's almost the completely reverse of humans reproduction.

See, unlike Earthlings, the way Blurbahoenickans create children is very, very painful. And, still, unlike Earthlings, giving birth is very pleasurable. Birth is really, to them, as pleasurable as sex.

Now one would think that this is the perfect recipe fo overpopulation. But the pain of "sex" is so incredible that only people that really want offspring are willing to experience the pain.

March 10, 2006

2006-03-10T10:24:00.000-08:00

I know this sounds totally fictional and made-up, but, if you've read my other blog, you'll know that I was in a coma. Even stranger, while I lay unconscious in a coma, a U.S. top secret government agent visited me.

He said that the secrets he held were getting too intense to hold anymore. So, because I was in a coma, he thought he'd tell me the secrets.

He mistakenly thought that, because I was in a coma, I couldn't hear.

Unfortunately for him, these government secrets are coming back to me. They come to me in intense dreams.

It's so intense, I feel like I have to get them off my chest. So, if you people don't mind, I'd like to share them via email.

If you don't care about U.S. government secrets, remember nobody's forcing you to read this...unless you live on planet Zinksolobby where illiteracy is very widespread and the Zinksolobbian government have people that go out and force people to read by holding an electro-zapper to thier head.

Regards,
Cullen

12-04-05 Alien reproduction

2005-12-02T17:30:00.000-08:00

It's been a long eleven days.

Alot has happened since then.

For one, I was abducted by a UFO full of - lucky me - three-breasted alien chicks.

They abducted me because they thought that, since I'm a librarian, I know all of the human knowledge in existence. When they told me that, I chuckled. I explained to them that one has to read the books in order to get knowledge. They laughed and told me that the way Earthlings acquire knowledge is, not only weird, but also archaic.

"Why do you say that?" I asked. "Don't you guys read books?"

"Earthling," said one of them, laughing. "We don't need books. We get the information from the source. Yes, we have individual brains, but they all are connected by -what earthlings call - 'telepathy'. So - in other words - our individual brains act as one giant brain. So if one of us is studying the pathetic behavior of a wretched earthling, we all - every one of us - get that knowledge. "

I nodded understandingly and reluctantly asked, "So, if one of you is reading something like a magazine of pornography, you all get horny."

"Yes, that's true. As a matter of fact, I've heard of Burbalahs [thier alien term for "women"] standing in line at a Conipsylipsy store [an alien grocery store], being stricken, suddenly, by - what earthlings call - an orgasm. And our - what you call - "orgasms" are way more intense. A purple, milky fluid comes shooting out of the burbalah's mouth."

10-22-05

2005-11-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

I want to start a new literary genre. My plan is to combine science fiction and erotica. I'm going to call this new literary genre "Robotica".

My stories will involve aliens, Earthlings, robots, and more.

By the way, I'm not specist. In other words, I'm not against, let's say, a Martian having intercourse with a being from Jupiter

If any of you readers have any Robitica story ideas, please share.

11-17-05 STORY IDEA

2005-11-17T14:27:00.000-08:00

November 17, 2005

I'm going do a zine of historical fiction. But first, I'll have to go and research some shit.

For example, my first story is going to be about a boy who takes his hamster to a rocket lift off. But first he puts hamster in a plastic ball hooked up to oxygen cartridges.

The boy somehow sneaks the hamster into the rocket.

The then rocket blasts off. [I'll have to research lift offs].

When they're in space, the astronauts discover the hamster. They're good natured astronauts, so they make it the official "rocket hamster". And give him the name "Ham Star".

After a few weeks of flying, the rocket reaches mars. And Mars, for some reason, looks familiar to Ham Star.

The astronauts are extremely overjoyed that they finally reached Mars. They're excited to get off the rocket and explore mars. So they suit up and start leaving. "Aha. I've got a great idea," one of the said,"Let's take Ham Star with us." So they grabbed him and headed out the rocket door.

The female [yes, a FEMALE astronaut] holding to hamster ball, slipped and fell. The slipping accidently dislodged the ball from her grasp. The ball went floating off on mars. The astronauts saw the hamster ball and decided it was too risky to go after it. So they let it fly off.

As the ball was flying, it started speeding up. It seemed like it was in a windy storm. It finally got sucked into a martian crevase.

In the crevass, the mouse sat there looking about curiously. Suddenly, a bunch of Martian hamsters emerge from hiding spaces in the cave.

These Martian mice are different [I'll have to research ways they can be different].

"Oh my god. It's an alien, but it looks like one of us," one Martian hamster said.

And it was.

A lot of earthlings don't know that all of the hamsters on Earth have actually evolved from Martian hamsters.

Now, I bet you're wondering how Martian hamsters got to Earth. The answer to that question later...

12-02-05 - 2nd post

2005-11-02T11:24:00.000-08:00

I had a vision last night while sleeping. It was a vision enduced by Z-ray electralight. Because I normally use a Blibion machine to lull me to sleep, I usually get my fill of Z-ray electralights.

8-21-05 links

2005-10-21T16:54:00.000-07:00

Hey all,

I haven't figured out how to add links to my blog. But here are some sci fi links I thought you might dig:

http://www.doylebranton.com/ - the website of a Sci Fi writer

http://www.andrew-may.com/asf/ - an infamous Sci Fi magazine

http://futurismic.com/index.html - another Sci Fi blog

(more to come)

10-21-05 Antartica, here I come!!!!!!!!!

2005-10-21T05:41:00.000-07:00

I'm planning on joining an Antartican mission to mine the sun.

It's not well known that the interior of the moon contains a very rare, and expensive, element called Pinkle Winksy.

But first the Antartican government has to design special scientifically engineered spacesuits that can withstand the sun's immense heat.

You might think I'm nuts to take part in this mission. But, hey,I think it might help in our development of flying cars. So it's a very worthwhile endeavor.

8-13-05 Ice Worms

2005-10-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

If fish lived in ice, you could use these to catch them.

Robot Camel Jockey's...for real

2005-10-05T07:27:00.000-07:00

It really is the 21st century. This story proves it!!!

Robo-Jockeys

9-30-05 My "Knight Rider" inspired story

2005-09-30T12:17:00.000-07:00

Hello,

For some odd, geeky reason I'm addicted to the Sci-Fi channel. I'm such a techno-geek.

One of my favorite shows happens to be "Night Rider".

I'm going to write a Night Rider-inspered story. But instead of having a hunky guy like Michael Knight as the main character, I'll have an ultra hot housewife playing the part. Her name will probably be Jezebel.

And instead of having a talking car, she'll own a talking vacuum. The vacuum will save the day by alerting her of all the household spills that need to be vacuumed.

Kit was the name of the car in "Night Rider." I'm unsure what I'm going to name my vacuum. E-mail me if any of you have any ideas. I promise I'll give you credit. Of course, I'm assuming that you'd like to be associated with this idea.

10-24-05 Five Nice Dice

2005-09-24T11:16:00.000-07:00

My daughter and I often play a game that we invented. The game is called "Five Nice Dice".

We use a Yahtzee set to play this. But, really, all you need are five dice. But personally, I like the dice-rolling tray in Yahtzee. But it's not necessary. You just need five dice.

Rules:

1. Take turns rolling all of the dice.
2. Each time you roll you count how many ones you get.
3. If youu don't get a one you count your smallest numbered dice. If you get multiples, you count them all. For example, if, when I roll, I get:3,5, 4, 3,5. My score would be 6, . My score is 6 for a couple of reasons. First, I didn't get a one. Second, the smallest number I got was three. But, luckily, I got two of them.
4. You keep rolling until you all roll ten times.
5. Add your score. The person with the smallest number wins.

2005-09-17T11:34:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry if this is pretty long. But, hey, even though it's pretty good, nobody's forcing you to read it!

The Robokids

I had a daughter once.

Her adoption came through just before the Sterility Crisis hit. My wife Vanessa and I were lucky. Talk about perfect timing. About the time when everybody learned that they were shooting blanks and dropping spoiled eggs--that all of those rainy day gametes locked up in the laboratory freezers would forever lay dormant no matter what the brilliant scientists did--we were just getting adjusted to life with our tiny, precious daughter Hazel.

What a chaotic time to raise a child. At first there was outrage against the phantom sapping the life from our loins. And though nobody knew where it came from, that didn’t stop their retribution: Chemical factories were torn apart by angry mobs. Biotech test crops were torched. SUVs were sat lifelessly on the side of the streets, pocked with the scars of baseball bats, hoods ripped off and engines gutted.

Then the adoption agencies got flooded with applicants. But the agencies approached the demand with preparation, and the price of human children sky rocketed. Only the extremely wealthy could afford kids. And that’s when the wave of abductions broke out (it was also when Vanessa and I got the hell out of the city).

When the world’s orphans finally found homes--which took a grand total of two seconds (even the severely crippled kids were flying off the shelves)--the same adoption agencies that once dealt in humans, quickly found the android trade pretty lucrative. You could tell that they’d been working on the technology for a suspiciously long time--well before the Sterility Crisis. It was as though they knew what was in store for the future and planned ahead. Even the first generation of robokids looked and acted exactly like humans.

People were desperate and snatched the robokids up like hotcakes. Good thing too because we were on the verge of a worldwide class war. I think the androids assuaged a lot of animosity. If you can’t get the real thing, I guess you want something to fill that gap.

I was thankful that we got Hazel when we did. Give it an extra month and we would’ve been one of the unfortunate ones. Robokid parents.

The first six months with Hazel were a whirlwind of selfless acts. We were attendants to all the little girl’s needs. If we heard a small cry on the baby monitor, in a split second we were in her room. On those rare occasions where she slept soundly, I went into her room solely to check her breathing. It was hard enough being a father, but a father to one of the last humans—yeah, I had a right to be protective. When I was sure that Hazel was alive and well, I stood silently by her crib and just watched her. The light from the small fish tank and its bubbling aerators gave off a sort of a womblike ambiance. I underestimated how I’d feel toward my daughter. I loved her beyond love. Every move she made amazed the hell out of me. When I watched her eyelids flutter and body twitch in rhythm with her dreams, I was filled with and immense happiness. My life finally had a purpose.

#

Years went by and the world settled back into the mundane routine it was familiar with before the Sterility Crisis. The scientists were still chugging away, and the cure was always right around the corner. In the meantime people got used to their lots and the therapeutic robokids were smoothly incorporated into society.

“Smoothly incorporated” is probably a euphemism. Throughout time I learned to accept them, but back then I just didn’t get it. Personally, I thought people got overzealous. They treated these things like real humans. The whole scene was so damned politically correct. There was a big outcry against robot prejudice. Christ almighty, they’re machines, I thought. How the hell do they know they’re being discriminated against? I thought it was a slap in the face to real humans-–black, jews, women, whoever—-who’ve faced the same struggle, but whose pain was a real, tangible thing.

But in our small neighborhood of progressives you didn’t voice such opinions.

We knew that there are those among us that had robot kids, but because we were progressives and all, we treated each and every child like they were special and unique. We didn’t gossip and cut down those that we suspected of having robots for children. That shit just wasn’t important to us.

But I knew that Patricia’s kid Simon was fake, and when you had one of these things living next door to you, that changed everything.

It’s not like I didn’t have some justification for not embracing the robokids wholeheartedly. They were thrown on the market so quickly that they didn’t take the time to work the minor glitches out. Every day there were accounts of massive recalls, robokids malfunctioning and hurting--sometimes killing--those around them. This was something the progressives liked to ignore. It was like living next to a pitbull, they could be lovable and friendly but still they made you uncomfortable to be around. You just couldn’t trust them.

Simon’s droidness wasn’t obvious, I mean the fake kids went Ga Ga and Goo Goo just like your average human child would, but with Simon there was something that struck me as abnormal. I couldn’t put my finger on it. A glazed over look in his eye? A barely audible sound of hydraulics when he moved, maybe? I don’t know. I just this gnawing, relentless feeling that he wasn’t real. When I told Vanessa my thoughts she shrugged it off and, like the wonderful progressive woman she is, set me straight: “As long as Patricia gets some joy and fulfillment out of him who are we to judge. Besides I think you’re absolutely crazy.” I didn’t say anything to her about it after that. But it still drove me crazy. Every time I heard the boy’s synthetic cry, watched the milky chemical composite spit-up dribble out of his mouth, I knew I had to keep my eye on him.

#

Vanessa thought it was good for Hazel to play with Simon. “Keeps her from becoming anti-social,” she said.

I thought about those haywired androids, “I don’t know, Ness. The kid can be rough sometimes.”
“All kids are rough, Cal.” Having one of the last human children, you’d think it be easy to appeal to her protective side. But I knew that if I pushed the matter Vanessa would just come back with a logical retort: “What do you want to do, shelter her for the rest of her life? Why don’t we just keep her in a sealed glass box for Christ’s sake. I want my child to have a normal childhood.”
Normal? You mean growing up with android companions? Growing up in a goddam barren apocalypse?

At the heart of it, Vanessa was right. We couldn’t shelter Hazel. If she was one of the last, she should celebrate life. You want to see the human race go out with style and dignity. Not cowering with every danger. Flinching with every noise.

Besides, Vanessa and I were good friends with Patricia. What am I going to do, not let our daughter play with our good friend’s son? I knew I was probably exaggerating Simon’s timebomb aspects. We knew Patricia and her son for over a year, and Simon had been nothing but a sweet rambunctious, little boy. Maybe he wasn’t a haywired robokid. Shit, maybe he wasn’t even a robokid at all. But I couldn’t shake the thought. It sat in the back of my brain like a spore, and every time the kids got together, I watched Simon with a careful eye. His every detail just fed my suspicion until the spore grew and grew, infecting my every thought about the boy with suspicion and prejudice.

He seemed to be a little strong and physically advanced for his age. He could throw a ball pretty far. When we took the kids to the park, Simon tore the jungle gym apart – he had no fear, and for a two year old kept up just fine with the older, rowdier kids. On the other hand, Hazel, a normal, human child, was scared to walk across the bouncy bridge – I’d have to hold her hand every time. And the spiral slide? Forget about it!

There was something definitely unnatural to Simon’s fearlessness.

But, still, Simon and Hazel good buds. The way they played was the pinnacle of cuteness. Even the cold-hearted would thaw at the sight. They’d play this game where they’d chase each other around our living room. Hazel would chase Simon and when she caught him, would give him the biggest hug imaginable. They’d laugh adorably and the switch roles, Simon chasing Hazel (although he was a lot quicker about it).
#
I watched the two one afternoon while Patricia and Vanessa went shopping. I put a movie and they sat in front of the television mesmerized as usual. It tried to read a book but Simon’s presence distracted me.

Simon was a freckled, blonde kid--a prototype made to look Irish probably. I could faintly see the veins underneath the skin on his arms. The veins looked real enough at first glance, but if you stared long enough you’d realize that there was something not quite right about their bluish hue. I swore the veins were wire. I put my book down and crept behind the television-drugged children. I scrutinized the backside of Simon’s head, taking in every detail like an archeologist studying an unidentified fossil. I had to give it to whoever designed the boy. They did a hell of a job. The hair was flawless--seamless where the child’s smooth skin met the hairline. I examined the follicles on his sparse head of thin, blonde hair, and they looked every bit as real as Hazel’s. But the thing that caught my eye was that round part of the backbone, right between his shoulders. Through the kids freckled skin it had a subtle grayish hue, the color of metal wrapped in pale skin.

When Simon broke his stare from the television set, got up, and hid behind Hazel’s bedroom door, I knew my investigation would be carried even further. Hazel liked privacy when she took a crap too. I could hear the boy grunting, and when he was finished he came out from behind the door, tugging at his pants, saying, “poopy, poopy, poopy.” I made a policy to not change anybody crappy diapers except Hazel’s, but I found this as an opportunity to prove to myself that Vanessa was wrong, that I wasn’t just hallucinating things.

I laid Simon on the couch. He was unlike Hazel in that he just sat there without putting up a fight (Hazel would always raise a ruckus by squirming and kicking and screaming, and when I’d pick her up she’d raise her arms up so that her armpits would slip through my hands). Simon laid there with his finger in his mouth, looking at my face as I fussed with his diaper.

What was I expecting? A metal plate where his penis should’ve been? A battery reservoir for a butthole? No, he was fully intact. Whoever designed the boy was good. He had a little, knobby uncircumcised penis, small testicles, and when I wiped his bottom, his butthole was every bit as real as my daughter’s.

But here’s the thing: His crap was pink. Cotton-candy pink. I’d never seen anything like it before in my life.

Robot crap, I was sure about it.

I put a new diaper on the child and watched as he and Hazel did their little hugging game. No matter how cute the two of them looked, I couldn’t help but feel a little depressed. How was I going to break the news to Hazel--when she was old enough to grasp it--that her best friend was a robot?

It was complicated, we wanted to believe that these robot kids were a sufficient replacement for the real thing--but we were just fooling ourselves. You couldn’t replace muscle and arteries with hydraulic and wire. You couldn’t equate a soulless, emotionless machine with the real deal. When Hazel cried, I knew that there was something bugging her. And it was always a relief to find a way to soothe her. She aggravated the hell out of me sometimes, but that’s what parenthood--parenthood to human children--was all about. She was human, learning her limits, learning how the world operated. That’s a process you just can’t replicate. When Simon cried, it wasn’t because something was bugging him. It was because he was programmed to cry. When he aggravated Patricia, it wasn’t because he was on that human pathway to self-discovery, it was because he was programmed to mimic the actions of a human. I was sure Patricia paid good money for the illusion. The fantasy better damn well be convincing.

Vanessa and Patricia walked through the door and the excited kids ran to their respective moms. Simon jumped onto Patricia like a springy little bug and Hazel buried her face into Vanessa’s thigh.

“Looks like somebody’s glad your home,” I said. Patricia lifted Simon up, “Where you a good little boy for Uncle Calvin? Were you?” I assured her that he was as well-behaved as he always was, and even though I told myself I’d keep my thoughts to myself, I had to at least drop a clue of my newfound discovery: “He did have a little accident though. You might want to watch him though, his poop was kind of pinkish.”

“Pinkish?” she said, furrowing her brows, attempting to feign cluelessness. “Ohhhhh. You know what, it must’ve been the that ice cream. The more synthetic and colorful it looks, the more he likes it, dontcha Simon?” She rubbed the boy’s thin hair.

Ice cream? Okay, I thought, live your fantasy Patricia but the only person you’re fooling is yourself.
#
Since Hazel and Simon’s birthdays were only a week apart, Patricia and Vanessa decided to celebrate the kids’ third birthday together. I hated using the word birthday when talking about Simon. I supposed in a metaphorical sense it might’ve been true, but if you wanted to get technical about it, it was probably more like “On-Switch Day” or “Final-Assembly Day”. But I kept my thoughts to myself. My progressive wife hadn’t thought about the complex issues that were going to arise in the future when Hazel would find herself a minority in a world of machines.

I mean that’s heady philosophical stuff that you have to prepare them for as soon as possible.
Our backyard was all decked out with balloons and streamers, gender-neutral colors of course (even though, much to our dismay, Hazel was developing a fondness for pink). We invited friends and neighbors, and soon the backyard was swarming with kids. I saw Hazel edging up to her presents, secretively picking at the taped creases of the wrapping paper. I cleared my throat loud enough to let her know I was watching her. She noticed and ran off toward Simon, who was running around with a squirtgun chasing the humoring older kids.

Cindy and Chuck had their six month old baby with them. Of course the whole neighborhood knew it was a robot. I mean the Sterility Crisis hit three and a half years ago, there was no way a six month old was a real human. But all these sappy progressives didn’t say anything, they treated it like a real goddam kid, rubbing its cheek saying things like “how precious” and “what a sweetie.” Wake the fuck up, people. I was getting pretty pissed off watching it. So, instead, I watched the older kids – the ones I knew were human. They were works of art. God’s art. Their agile bodies a wonder of grace. “Don’t take you humanness for granted,” I thought, sitting there in my plastic lawn chair, hands gripped around a cold Pabst. “You’re natural works of art children. Natural.”

We decided to get the sprinkler going. I got Hazel in her swimsuit and she ran to the spot right outside of the sprinkler’s range and stood there, hesitating to go any farther. Simon came up next to her. He was more daring of course, opening his mouth and sticking his face in the stream of water. Of course the damned things are waterproof, designed to withstand any abuse a child could take, but I still had this wonderfully dreadful vision of the boy perishing among the smell of melted plastic and the shower of sparks.

Hazel finally warmed up to the sprinkler, mimicking Simon by lapping up water. Simon ran through the sprinkler and Hazel followed without reluctance.

I tried to kill some time by attempting small talk with Chuck, but he kept pirating the conversation, going on and on about his new baby. It was ridiculous, I mean how you could you be so proud of a robot? He thought he was doing the important and challenging job of child-rearing. But if the course of his kid’s life was already programmed, he’s doing nothing. He’s doing nothing but deluding himself. He could throw the kid into Lake Michigan where it would live out its days on the muck-filled, sludgy bottom, and the child would still turn into a healthy adult (albeit underwater). They’re programmed from the get-go, Chuck.

I thanked God when Vanessa finally emerged from the house with the cake, her beautiful motherly face lit by the flickering of birthday candles. I got up and cleared a spot on the card table in the middle of the yard. She set the cake down.

“Alright, where’s Hazel and Simon?”

The searching heads of partygoers turned side to side, passively probing the backyard.
There are those times when your parental instinct kicks in, when things in the atmosphere are off kilter just enough to give you a sense that something is seriously wrong. My instinct kicked me hard. Something just wasn’t right. Vanessa must’ve seen the look on my face because she panicked. “Hazel!” It was a chain reaction that set Patricia off: “Simon! Simon!” We ran around the perimeter of the house. No sign of the children.

That’s when I heard that awful, heartsinking screech of car tires in the distance.
I ran down the block and around the corner. I ran and ran, and without even seeing it, I knew. I knew.

Someone shouted: “Call an ambulance!”

I wanted to crumble at the sight of the scene in front of me. Hazel was laying face down on the street seven feet from the front bumper of the car. The driver stood next to the open car door palm against his forehead in disbelief, “He just pushed her…”

Simon was on the sidewalk walking around in a tight circle, spasmodically jerking his head side to side. His facial muscles contorting rapidly, going through the whole range of emotional expressions in a split second. The urge to rip the kid apart gripped me tightly, but it immediately settled into a raw, breathless worry when I saw my Hazel lying there.

My Hazel!

Vanessa and I knelt over her. When I turned her over, her face was a mess. But she was still breathing. Her eyelids fluttered and her body twitched just like it did when she was a dreaming baby.

I could hear an ambulance siren in the distance, getting closer.

I cradled my daughter as though she were an infant again. Vanessa was crying, running her hand through Hazel’s hair, “It’s going to be okay baby. It going to be okay.” I felt small and helpless. I couldn’t cry, I had to show strength, I had to have presence of mind and not freak out.

Even when that faint I heard that ripping noise from inside Hazel’s guts and that gurgle in the back of her throat, I didn’t panic. But Vanessa lost it, “I can’t take this,” she said. When the ambulance pulled up she ran towards them. “You gotta help my daughter! Please help my baby girl!”

The gurgle got louder and Hazel opened her mouth. Black liquid seaped from her gums. By then my composure was gone. “She’s choking,” I yelled, “Oh my god she’s choking.” I heard more ripping, and she started kicking her leg. She kept kicking it harder and harder, pounding it so hard into the pavement that I thought for sure she’d break her foot. I held her tightly, I had no idea what was going on. I thought about those times when we freaked out all those superficial nicks and bruises, all those childhood battle wounds, and they were nothing. This was nothing.

Yeah, this was nothing, it just seemed a lot scarier than it actually was.

What was that black shit coming out of my daughter’s mouth?

On the sidewalk Patricia nervously applied two electrodes to Simon’s temples and pressed a button on a small remote control. Simon’s jerking stopped. He stood erect, face blank with mechanical indifference.

“Look what you’ve done to our daughter,” I screamed at them.

Hazel was getting worse. Where were those fucking paramedics? She arched her back, her kicking becoming heavier and more frantic. It took all of my strength just to hold onto the girl.
Then her leg lifted one final time and came smashing down onto the road like the gavel of an angry judge calling order in the court. Her foot shattered. The skin on her knee ripped open. I held her closer and she became limp in my arms.

What was happening to my daughter?

I looked down at her torn knee, behind the layer of fatty tissue I saw a cracked, metal knee joint, clear liquid seeping slowly from inside. Hazel opened her blue eyes--now dulled from the trauma-–looked at me blankly, and said “Daddy.” But her voice was deep and garbled like a warped cassette tape.

The paramedics approached with a stretcher. “Jesus Christ,” one of them said, “Don’t waste our time with this crap, buddy.” They turned and walked back to the empty ambulance.

I felt the gawking stares of our neighbors suffocating me in their bleeding-heart pity. Directly behind me, I heard the incredulous wail of Vanessa as she watched me hold our lifeless little girlI looked down at Hazel’s blank eyes and started to sob. Hydraulic fluid ran down my arms, my hands were black with grease, and there I was crying like a fool, mourning a daughter I never had.

September 2, 2005

2005-09-02T08:32:00.000-07:00

I'm having some serious earth-withdrawel. Yes, these alien chicks are pretty smokin', but I miss my earth-wife very much. I also miss my daughter very much. To fill my family void, I wrote the following story for my daughter:

Gobbly Dobbly

Once upon time, there was a princess named Sweety Pie. It wasn't really well known that Sweety Pie was, not only a princess, but also a good-witch

Sweety Pie lived, with her flying bulldog Sparkle, in a magical forest called Gobbly-Dobbly Greenery. This princess/good-witch was so very brave, because Gobbly-Dobbly was a scary, magical forest of trees that move thier branches as though they're arms. Even the king of nearby Gobbleland was totally frightened. And he was, supposedly, tough.

This forest was magical because it was the home of trees that could move around like humans. Yes, they could move thier branches as if they were arms, but, because they had roots, they couldn't walk about like humans. This made them very angry because every day they would see humans walking on the hiking trails all around them! Those stupid walking humans made them both angry and jealous!

They got especially angry in the Fall, because every year they'd lose all thier leaves, and thier pine tree neighbors lost nothing. Stupid pine trees!!!

Autumn just began. But, unfortunately, it was still hot and humid like Summer. Because it was an unusually hot autumn, the magical trees were not only sweating a lot, but they also just began losing thier leaves. Because of this hey were very very very very very very very aaaaannnngggrrrrrrryyy!!!

Sweety Pie and Sparkle were both very hot and sweaty from playing an awesome game of frisbee. Sparkle's tongue was getting pretty dry from all that panting.

Seeing that her dog was panting, Sweety Pie said to Sparkle "Let's go get some ice cream."

Sweety Pie put a leash on Sparkle. But, unfortunately, Sweety Pie got distracted by the television as it played an episode of her favorite television show, American Idol. American Idol was also Sparkle's favorite show too. So, unfortunately, because American Idol him so hyper, she neglected to tighten Sparkle's collar properly.

American Idol ended and Sweety Pie turned off the TV. "Come on, girl,"she said putting the remote on the coffee table and moving towards the door. But Sparkle didn't want to go, so he just sat down and pretended like he didn't hear her.

Sweety Pie knew that Sparkle had a soft spot for cookie dough ice cream. So she, then, made up a jingle to get the dog's attention. She started singing it: "Whaddya know?! It's cookie dough!!!"

The dog immediately perked up from hearing the words "cookie dough". Sweeety Pie quickly grabbed his leash when she saw him make his way towards the door. Unfortunately, the motion was so quick that she didn't notice when she grabbed the dog's collar, she accidently loosened it even more than it was.

"Let's go, Sparky," she said, using Sparkle's nickname affectionately. They both headed towards the open door, and, then, made thier way out of the door.

Once outside, Sweety Pie reached into her hooded-sweatshirt pocket for keys to lock the door. Normally, she would've been wearing jeans. But, later tonight, she was going to give a ballerina recital. But she did look pretty cool in her hooded sweatshirt/ballet dress outfit.

So she locked the door, put the keys back in her hooded sweatshirt, and started walking, with Sparkle, towards the ice cream shop. There were 8,726,876,239,087 hiking paths to chose from. Luckily, Sweety Pie knew which one to take. She knew because there were pretty mums growing alongside the path.

August 30 stream of consciousness post

2005-08-30T12:36:00.000-07:00

This damn rocket I'm currently riding in has no bathrooms. And I was, unfortunately, up late last night drinking with my old space-cadet buddies.

Not only do I have to pee really bad! I also have to take, what feels to be, a crater-sized dump.

Must think of something...Not waterfalls! Not dumptrucks! Not sprinklers! Not airplanes dropping bombs!

How bout really shitty music?

I'll just think of bands like Journey and Foreigner.

Ahhhhhh, that seems to be working.

Milli Vanilli. Vanilla Ice. 'N Sync.

Phewww. SAFE!!!

August 19, 2005

2005-08-19T07:33:00.000-07:00

I'm, now, back on planet Earth, thanks to that very sexy alien chick Bahleebahlah.

See, after I drank that lugie-filled vile of Just Jinky's lugies, she informed me that they actually weren't her lugies. They were Bahleebahlah's lugies.

I was very confused. "But I saw you spit into it," I said.

She, then, let off a small, flirtatious laugh, and said, "See, when you were in here alone, and Bahleebahlah and I were in the kitchen getting those shot glasses, Bahleebahlah was feeling very - how you say? - horny. She turned me around and gave me a big, sloppy, wet kiss. In doing so, we, then, exchanged spit. So the spit you saw spit intto the glass actually came from Bahleebahlah."

To that, I say, "Thanks, Bahleebahlah!"

August 17, 2005

2005-08-17T07:15:00.000-07:00

August 17, 2005

I'm now, thankfully, back on planet Earth, thanks to Justy Jinky.

See, after she grabbed my crotch, and said,”You’re pretty hot! Do you want to fuck!?!” , she, then, took me to her Zurpodian apartment so we could "do it".

When I was there, I decided I needed a pre-sex drink, so I asked her,"Do you have anything to drink?"

She responded by giving me a very puzzled look.

I felt that I needed to explain, "See, on planet Earth we have this very special concoction called 'alchohol'. Alchohol is special because it makes our moods totally romantic!"

She smiled, and replied and said, "We have the same sort of thing here. But instead of drinking this thing you call "alchohol", we just swap eachothers'-what you call- 'spit'."

So she went to her kitchen-like thing, and grabbed two ultra-tiny, shot-type glasses.

We faced eachother, smiled, bent our heads towards the shot-type glasses, and spit into them. When we were done, we exchanged the glasses. She immediately gulped her's up. Mine, on the other hand, had, what appeared to be, lugies in it.

Just one quick glance at it, visibly repulsed me.

"What's wrong, balleebee La [that's Zurpodian term-of-endearment, akin to the Earthling term "honey"]"

I responded, "On Earth, this stuff you spit in here is totally repulsing!"

She let out a soft laugh, and replied, "But on Zurpod, it makes you feel so romantic. I hear that it actually makes impotent men last for hours. I even heard that our king tried it. And he actually fainted because ALL of his blood went to his penis!"

So I drank it. When I did so, there was a knock on the door. The Justy Jinky looked at me, smiled, and said, "I'll be right back."

She made her way towards the door, and opened it.

Just as she opened it, the fragrance of some flower-smelling perfume wafted in. This got my attention. "Who's at the door?", I thought, and turned my head towards it.

Justy Jinky smiled at me, and introduced the woman, "This is my bestfriend Bahleebahlah." And they both let out small laughs, and began holding eachother's hand. I noticed Bahleebahlah's hand make a quick grab at Justy Jinky's ass. This made them both smile.

It made me smile too, as I sat there thinking, "I'm one lucky earthling."

August 16, 2005

2005-08-16T08:29:00.000-07:00

I had a very intense night of drinking with my old college buddies last night. At three in the morning, I came home and passed out in bed. While sleeping, I had weird, drunken dreams about stuff like aliens and outer space.

I passed out here on planet Earth, and, whaddya know, soberly woke up on the far-away planet Zurgog.

Zurgog’s a very strange planet. Everything here is direct opposite from planet Earth. For example, you could walk into a bar and see tons of hot chicks just sitting there alone, by themselves. And all the men in the bar are gathered around, hitting on some immensely obese woman with - get this - a huge goiter on her neck!

I got very drunk and stupidly walked up a hot chick. I got a quick. sneaky peak at her chest, and noticed - get this – that she had THREE breasts!

“This alien chick is totally hot,” I thought. So I sat there thinking of a pick-up line. Unfortunately, all the lines I thought of were totally corny, like "Are we in a desert? My mouth is just so dry!...Maybe a wet kiss can cure that problem!?!"

Imagine my surprise when she turned to me, grabbed my crotch, and loudly said,"My name is Justy Jinky. And you’re pretty hot! Do you want to fuck!?!”