Our Thursday

Category: Challenge Blogs

  • 5 Things I Love About L.A. [Bonus Material]

    5 Things I Love About L.A. [Bonus Material]

    [display_podcast]

    Brian’s blog yesterday gave a Michael Vick-like view on dogs.  Many animals expressed disapproval.  It’s okay.  Sit.  Stay.  Listen.  You’re in for a treat.

    THE REASONS

    1.  My Building feels like a dormitory for troubled youth with a propensity for creative behavior.    At any given time, at least one apartment is crackling with activity – but never someone’s TV.  If I want to see a DJ work on her next mixtape, a chef prepare her recipe list, a band jam before tour, or a horticulturalist plant his next strain – uh, then I… go do that.  I use my knuckles to double-click on their door.  While being there, I inevitably learn something about their human experience, and thus, something about mine, which adds to the experience.  We chat, with our mouths.

    2.  The Beach – I live 50 feet from the sand.  I’ve always lived in close proximity to the ocean.  I can’t live without it.  You hear it all the time.  Waves crashing, the volume scrolls up and down randomly.  The whitewash rolling across itself in the background like white noise or Rice Krispies (sp?).  The water and the sun change people’s moods.  Everyone here is on vacation when it’s sunny, especially the people who sleep in their shoes.  I deal with a lot of stress indoors, on screens.  I don’t deal with any outside.  I don’t take smoke breaks so much as reality breaks.  Ten minutes from my door, in the sun, I’m a different person.  Gasp of air.  I usually meet an actual new person, too, because I smile at people.

    3.  The Boardwalk is as much of an entity as the beach.  It is a creature that sleeps like the sun.  It has moods.  I wake up to the sounds either Hendrix on loudspeaker or a live, acapella version of Lil Wayne’s ‘ Six Foot Seven’ done by the Jamaicans on the boardwalk.  ‘If it’s sunny, it’s summer.’  Clack of clay wheels on pavement – carts and skates.  This is Dogtown and we have our own economy.  The skeleton is made up of pot collectives and tattoo shops – our population is highly docile, but dedicated.  We live in peace, we will defend ourselves.

    The boardwalk dresses up differently all the time.  Ads.  Spraypaint.  Murals.  Graffiti.  She changes clothes constantly, but she’s got perfect taste.  She’s art.

    4a.  The Alleys (Day)

    My first love was film.  They’re shooting all the time here.  Even though I don’t watch many, I’m always walking through a set.  Lighting rigs.  Actresses in sundresses.  Director screaming cut.  PAs funneling traffic and escorting the way-too-real-people out.  No one minds the disruption, because the industry pays the city.  Locals, housed or otherwise, consider this fair, because we all enjoy the irony of an expensive shoe stepping in a smelly pile of shit.

    Speaking of which, I rewatched Richard Kelly‘s Southland Tales the other day for the first time since it came out.  I generally like everything I watch now (because of the scarcity), but the fact that I am in 50% of the scenes (just 4 years later) made me enjoy it tremendously.  I can relate to JT, SWS, and TR that much better now.

    4b.  The Alleys (Night)

    My part of the city is 100 years old.  That might as well be a million to me.  It’s haunted.  This place has been counter-culture since the 60s.  Time stopped here.  We won.  An ordinance ‘allows’ people to sleep in certain areas.

    Example:  I take the dog for a walk at night.  There are areas I can’t go.  The local population gets territorial around winter.  They’ll defend themselves.  They have secrets here and you can get into trouble if you don’t notice things.  There’s always something going on.  Ignorance of the law is no excuse, they say [first rule i’d take out, by the way].  I can’t offer much advice, but I look someone in the eyes.  Like a fellow Canadian, they just fucking know.  And so do I.

    There are severe anthropological explanations for the diverse population’s interpretation of this – BUY MY BOOK  (purchase/press link pending).

    5a. The Streets (Night)

    Graffiti all over.  Never used to know what it meant till I moved here.  That font is so hard to read.  It gets taken down so quickly.  You know most of them are love letters?

    They use chalk on the ground a lot.  It’s washed away by morning.  Used to be messages for the people without phones – now it’s propaganda or ads.  Getting crowded.

    5b.  The Streets  (Day)

    There’s no parking, anywhere.  This is good for me because I usually do not have gas, but I enjoy using my feet.  Crosswalks slow me down, and I haven’t jaywalked since the last time I got arrested for it (May).  And I can’t afford the ticket, but I like the city’s pace.  She knows when I need to stand there, do nothing, and just listen.

    The streets themselves are cracked, severely.  I have tripped here before.  There is dog shit everywhere – not everyone picks up on it.  That’s okay.  I am functional enough to not step on shit that is directly in front of me.  Don’t be mad, it was probably a stray.  I like dogs and have met several here – each has a very distinct personality.  Not a single one leaves their shit out in the street w/o securing it in plastic.

    CROSSWALK.  Stop.

    Go.

    Bonus!  The Sky

    I also enjoy the sky.  Great sunsets.

    Don’t you hate when the sky is overcast, the color of rotting cottage cheese?  Whites and grays.  Bumped with stucco clouds.

    Sometimes, often here, there are no clouds, and in those instances, I remember the earth is round.  Well, I remember that I remember the earth is round, if that translates.  26 years old, I still find that concept mind-blowing.  Right up there with the constellations.

    When it comes to talking about my home, I need to set ground rules, or I’ll never shut up.  I learned that a long time ago.  I’d talk about the weather, but I’m going for under 1,000 words.

  • Challenge Blog: We All Have a Little Masochist in Us

    Challenge Blog: We All Have a Little Masochist in Us

    The Challenge

    Describe how you willingly and voluntarily put yourself into a great deal of pain. The kind of pain that no one would be willing to accept under ordinary circumstances. You may use any medium you see fit. There is no word minimum or maximum.

    The Challengers

    In another OurThursday first, we are opening up this challenge not just to the authors, but to anyone who is willing to jot something down. That means you!

    Please send your submission to [email protected]. I will be posting the submissions on Friday Morning so you will have something to do while you avoid work before the weekend. To get the ball rolling, here is my submission…

    ====================

    Luke’s Response

    “Holy Shit! Did you see that?” I panted to the guy next to me as a knee in front of us exploded from the center splattering the two nearest cyclists with long gooey threads of lactic acid.

    “One …. less,” was all he could manage in reply to my rhetorical question…

    Three kilometers to go

    Elbows come easily when every inch of distance between you and the bike in front is worth more than the balls you have squashed deep inside your groin. The trick to a good bike race elbow is to hit low on the forearm causing the most bike wiggle and put your adversary back a few irrecoverable bike lengths.

    At 50 km/h, exposing even a third of your body to the surrounding wind pocket you have found yourself in, will instantly cause acute pulmonary explosion. Not a pleasant sight, I’ve seen it. Guys popping off the sides and getting blasted out of memory like that first blind date you should have never taken. The edges of the group cling on for dear life, grasping and clawing at any resemblance of space. As the pace picks up to 53km/h, there are no friends, their are no hiding spots. There is only the sweet smell of exploded lung as you flail your final elbow at the douche bag who clipped your tire as you tumble into obscurity.

    Two kilometers to go

    Three guys bounce to the opposite side of the road and sprint away.

    You learn a lot about a person in this random situation of life. A man could go now and work his clogged artery clear to catch the breakaway, only to be out of all energy for the final sprint. He is considered a good, hard worker, and the whole world appreciates and needs what he does. But only the few guys around him at the time will ever see this, and will likely forget about it after the next two kilometers as their bodies direct all blood to their oxygen depleted, and partially functioning, brains.

    Or you could just stare blankly at everybody and do nothing. You defer the decision to someone else, hoping that your chances will be better in the next fifty seconds. Maybe you have a retarded stare naturally, or maybe you play it dumb, it doesn’t matter… you will be receiving the next available elbow and your chances for a safe arrival have dropped 25% because no one likes you.

    Or ideally, you organize the men around you and coordinate a ten second rotation that uses up the equivalent amount of energy in each of these human bags of protein and enertia. People love you and then they hate you when they realize the pace is now 58km/h.

    1,000 meters to go

    The final turn. The mysterious reason that has compelled me to spend 20 hours a week converting my gonch into a leather knife sharpener shows itself. I presume it is the finish line because the onlookers have pushed and shoved their way so densely around and in front of it, that only a herculian leap could actually get you there. Or maybe slamming head first, ass up, into them at 65km/h will get you through. One or the other.

    500 meters to go

    The most anxious of the group bursts out of his saddle and the sprint begins. Our once efficient air dagger that we maintained for two hours is thrown to the wayside stabbing a baby cow.

    300 meters to go

    The narrow country lane is filled edge to edge with cyclists who’s only emotion is maniacal lust for an imaginary line. This lust tastes good … real good, and for this reason the tongues hang out to lap up any maniacal lust that might have fallen off the guy in front.

    100 meters to go

    65km/h and my heart rate is bubbling past 210 beats per second. I invite you to my Zen world of body over mind. In these conditions, the brain is no match for an inflamed mound of muscle incestualy invigorated by a mix of eight liters of adrenaline and a british pint of lactic acid. Thinking with your muscles is an outrageous experience. You can’t see. The only thing you feel is the sense that you’re about to explode. And your thoughts are binary. On. Off. On. Off.

    5 meters to go

    The fact that the onlookers have still not moved does not concern me. It will all be over soon. All I can see are two wheels. Mine and the guy’s next to me. Fuck this guy. Who does he think he is?

    3 meters to go

    He pulls ahead with a lurch of his bike and suddenly the world is awash with failure and heartache. I travelled so far. I trained for so long. I worked so hard. And like a rabid bat, my hopes for redemption flutter away beyond my grasp. I consider taking him out in a spectacular climax to what would otherwise be a boring story.

    1 meter to go

    I often visualize what life would be like if we lived every minute of every day in the final passionate throws of a bike race sprint. Once you got over the fact that we would all be walking around with our tounges hanging out and wearing spandex, we would realize that our world suddenly became conquerable and was no longer a mystery. It is at this time that life finds new ways to exist. Like the infinitely split atom that will forever keep getting smaller, life can find new existence when pushed hard enough. Like the cold fusion power plant that I am, I chuck, hurl, roll, and muster even more energy and strength to frantically launch my body into an epileptic frenzy. I am moving so fast I appear to be a blur to the wall of onlookers I am about to eradicate. I look to my right and see myself. An exhausted vessel of emerging life, finally climaxing after many an hour of fore play

    Epilogue

    Standing on a podium, thats pretty cool. Having some fat guy drape a medal around your neck while you lift the flowers and shake your fists to the crowd in anger and love, oh that’s nice. But pushing yourself past a limit of pain that you thought never existed, and likely doesn’t exist anymore, is a gift and pleasure that can not be equalled by most anything on this planet. Bring on the pain.

    ======================

    Brian’s Response

    Lying alone in bed the morning after a one-night-stand. . .

    “I got something this time. I know it. Syphilis, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea. I just hope it’s not one of the permanent ones like Herpes or  . . . no, it’s not that one. It’s definitely not that one. Although, she had a little bit of a “junky” look to her. Fuck me, she’s a heroin addict who has AIDS – and now I have it. I’m stuck with her for the rest of my life.

    “Relax. Chill. It’s just sex. People have it all the time. Look at Joey from Friends – he fucked tons of chicks. You’re 27, this is what you’re supposed to be doing. You got laid last night! Be happy!”

    “You’re right . . . you’re totally right . . . fuck yea, I got laid. What am I trippin for? I love my life.  She’d tell me if she had something.”

    “Exactly.”

    “But . . . what if she didn’t know?

    “Don’t start, dude.”

    “I’m not “starting”. Im just saying – sometimes people can have it without even knowing. Remember the article we read last time? About how some people experience no symptoms at all? Or the symptoms are so minor they go undetected. What if she’s one of those? . . . I’m just gonna check something real quick.”

    “I swear to God, if you go on Google – I’m out. Seriously. Kiss the voice of reason good-bye. Remember the article we read on STRESS? And how it can lead to more serious health issues than the ones you’re worried about? How you can manifest very real illnesses from stressing over nonexistent ones?” Is that what you want? I don’t think you’re liver and lungs can handle another six months of paranoia.”

    “I’m not going on Google. . . ”

    “Good. Go grab some lunch or something.”

    “Dear God, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but if  . . ”

    “Ohhhh Myyy Goddd!! Are you serious dude? You’re a fucking Atheist! Really? You’re soo scared about it that you’re gonna pray to a God you don’t even believe in? You’re a fucking idiot.”

    ” . . if you can hear me, I’d like to make a promise. If you get me out of this, I swear I won’t go past 2nd base anymore – until marriage. I’ll get married, be faithful, and raise a big happy family that goes to church every Sunday. . . and I’ll give 10 . .  20 . . . 30 percent of my paycheck to the Church . . . or to the AIDS foundation? Whichever you prefer. We can work that out. Maybe a split.”

    “I knew you couldn’t fucking handle this. I warned you last night that you’d regret it in the morning. It takes six months for a conclusive HIV test. It’s been about 14 hours. Have fun waiting.”

    =====================

    Random Dude’s Response

    My body fills with pain every time you ask one of these retarded Challenge Blogs and I want to yank out my own scrotum and serve it to you just to show that the pain I endure from that procedure pails in comparison to the pain of Challenge Blogs.

     

    [poll id=”5″]

  • Challenge Blog: Oh Man, I’m going to piss you SOO off!

    Challenge Blog: Oh Man, I’m going to piss you SOO off!

    The OurThursday authors love the readers. I mean we really love you and some of us are even prepared to take that to the next level. But recently, in a heated fit of commenting passion, we realized that sometimes if you really want to show your love for someone, you got to make them so angry that new veins will permanently remain on their forehead and small rips will appear in their clothes as their body bulges in maniacal hatred.

    The Challenge

    In 400 words or less, irritate, piss off, molest, disturb, and/or ruin the day of the reader. Audio, video, images, signal flares, are all permitted. No reusing angry villager material like Wheelchair Bicycle or Cat Abortion.

    The Challengers

    Everyone

    ———————————————————–

    Dave Glenn

    As some of you may know, Stanford University recently offered me, a self-proclaimed expert, a position to teach a new course called “Economics of Life” (which I turned down because I didn’t want live there–I’d get so bored I’d end up buying a piano or something). So instead, I would like to offer a five-point crash course on how to live your life, since nine out of ten people reading this probably suck at life. YES, YOU.

    1. When partying, do not begin drinking until 9 p.m. Be patient with your buzz. Too often I see my friends start drinking at four p.m.; and they’re long gone by ten (Remember, the sober moments in life are fun too.). As opposed to: Enjoying the day, partying at night, and passing out at two a.m. Way more optimal.
    2. Get at least eight hours of sleep every day. Take naps if you have to; it relieves stress, and why be tired at night, when you could have easily taken a nap earlier and been living your day at a 100% energy rate? If you’re at a job with crappy hours (8 a.m.-8 p.m.), get a new job. You only have one life (Seriously, this is it.). Stop slaving away and being so damn tired all the time; it’s affecting your attitude and turning you into a mope.
    3. Exercise and eat right. Respect.
    4. Are you under 30 and in some sort of committed relationship? YIKES! What the fuck are you doing? You have the second half of your life to do that. Travel the world, take adventures, explore your creativity, discover yourself! You can’t do those things with another human being nagging at you. And if you think you can, then that explains everything–you lost the human spirit long ago.
    5. Do you feel like you’re living a dull, meaningless existence? Or stumped on the question, “What’s the meaning of life?” Well here’s your problem: Do something! I’m not talking about a high-paying job. I’m talking about doing something you’re passionate about. And no, golf and working out don’t count. Start a business. Start a blog. Help the homeless. Join the Peace Corps. Raise money for a cause. Write a book. Work on a movie. Invent something. There are a ton of ways to avoid simply…existing, and having a lasting impact on the world. Discover your passion, work hard, and do it.

    If this blog has pissed you off in any way, it’s because of you, not me, and you really are sucking at life. Sorry I had to be the one to make you realize this.

    ———————————————————–

    Danielle Burner

    Ginger Snap

    Gingers: a particular breed with a distinct hair type unlike yours and mine (unless, of course, you are a ginger).  Ginger hair is complex and can be strange to the touch.  You never know what’s going on under that Ginger noggin (or stereotypically, under one’s trousers), so tread carefully.

    I know a decent Ginger when I see one, but unfortunately as a minority, Gingers get a bad rap. However, like in any other small group, a strong Ginger will find his/her way to work through diversity and perhaps one day become a president.

    Gingers- don’t knock ’em til you try ’em. You never know, you might not go back!

    Words with Friends challenge- see if you can make a new word using the letters in “GINGER” …if so, reread with whatever kind word(s) you find. If not, I’m guessing you’re a blonde.
    ———————————————————–

    Brian Pratt

    2491 Tivoli Ave.

    I recognized the address. All of the drivers at Vincenzo’s Pizza knew it. It belonged to the handicapped lady who’s “aid” always answered the door. He’d put an X through the tip column of the receipt and hand over the exact amount in change. It wasn’t that they didn’t give, it’s that they went out of their way to leave you with nothing. “Perhaps she’s foreign and unaware of our implied gratuity. . . maybe the assistant is too scared to tell her.” A co-worker hypothesized. Bullshit. They were both stiffs. It was time they got a sneeze-pizza.

    The “extra pepperoni” came out of the oven piping hot, just minutes after the order was placed. I boxed it, bagged it, and walked outside. I placed the steaming box inside my truck bed and opened the cardboard cover. I looked around the empty parking lot as if a drug deal were about to go down. I swashed saliva inside my mouth like it was Listerine before spraying it all over the cheesy surface. A few slices were missed so I churned up some more and hit them with a concentrated load. I clapped off the imaginary dust from my hands and walked back into the restaurant, leaving the pizza out to cool in the chilly night air. If you’re disgusted right now, relax. I didn’t cough up any phlegm or mucus, just a little spit. It’s like cheating on your girlfriend – okay if it’s only a blow job.

    When I pulled up to the house forty-five minutes later, I noticed something was off. I had the wrong address. 2473 was foreign handicapped lady’s place. 2491 was further down. I parked out front the correct spot, peering into the brightly lit entryway. The entire family greeted me at the door with warm smiles- Mom, Dad, and their adorable seven-year-old son. They handed me a twenty for the fifteen dollar pizza and told me to keep the change. I thanked them and quickly left. When I got back to the restaurant I noticed the tip and total columns on the receipt were left blank. I added another two dollars.

    ———————————————————–

    Luke Ollett

    Piss them off? Fuck that.

    These robotic scavengers of life have sent me to the brink of insanity filled rage and I fear I will never return.

    So you’re a teacher and hope to reach that one student … sounds like a 99% failure rate to me.

    So you’re a lawyer … you are the reason for the loss of trust in this world and you make money off it. Urchin.

    So you’re a politician … you are the undulating mass of uselessness spawning lawyers making you a larger urchin than they are.

    So you’re an artist … your shit looks just like that guy I saw down by the pier.

    So you move intangible money … I loathe you and most people in the world do as well. You like that feeling big guy? Hmmm?

    So you’re a chef … ya me too. You don’t see me begging people to pay me for it.

    So you play poker … go whine to someone else about the obvious conspiracy against you … and put some pants on.

    So you are in the middle of a giant corporation managing something that you don’t really understand … you fucked up.

    So you’re an engineer … that baller salary looks like shite when you are working 70 hours a week effectively putting you at the same pay level as the dude who cuts your lawn.

    So you’re a doctor … stop fucking with evolution and let them die. You are single handedly annihilating the human race through your efforts to prolong a single life. Emergency medicine or quit.

    So you own a business … how dare you skimp your taxes to negatively affect the people that give you money.

    So you’re an accountant … your job is to hide the simplicity in what you do. You are useless.

    So you sell real estate … I look at you and see a salivating wolf mask with cocaine eyes and polished teeth.

    So you’re an entrepreneur … if you still call yourself that then you’re failing at life and cannot entrepreneur your way into anything. Douche.

    I live a gratifying, productive, and genuine life and I have these helpless drones floating around trying to fuck up my chi and you want me to piss them off? Well fuck you Mr. Blog. I have enough “pissed off” in me to piss on all these jokers.

    ———————————————————–

    Matt Zbrog

    Abortions should be mandatory across the board for at least a decade.

    “Be fruitful and multiply.” I think even God would be startled at how far we’ve taken that directive. It’s like, your mom told you to brush your teeth… but you did stop brushing them at some point right? You took 6-8 hour breaks before brushing them again, yes?

    We are facing countless problems on Earth. Adding more people is not the answer.

    For reference, here are the problems a mandatory abortion law would solve:

    1. Food
    2. Water
    3. Pollution
    4. Poverty
    5. Unemployment

    We, as a race, are a pregnant 12 year old… with octuplets. We don’t have the education, the funds, or the maturity to handle our situation. We are greedy and irresponsible, and our children are going to pay the price. So instead, let’s take a break, mature a little bit, maybe come up with a 5 year plan, and then go on with creating another few billion lives.

    If we could cut the baby-making for even a decade — the tiniest time out in terms of history — imagine how great the world would look.

    If your brain can’t fathom the big picture of that utopia, let me offer you a few small scale improvements:

    1. Shorter lines… for everything
    2. More stuff… for everyone
    3. More space… for things

    There would be so much extra stuff, we could start giving old shit away. I’ll take this apartment building. You take that one. Fire sale on 1 grade classrooms. No bathroom lines. Want a pineapple? The Dole family has 300,000,000 extra now.

    Like Thoreau said, Simplify, Simplify.

    Quality, not quantity. Progress, shmogress. We have iPads. We have super computers. We have the internet. We can cruise control for X amount of years until we plug a few leaks. We don’t have to fix everything. Like Bill Hicks said, let’s just solve the whole food/air deal first.

    But still, some idiots will convince themselves they are different so they are going to have a baby or four because they’re giving the gift of life… When really they’re only contributing to the starvation and suffocation of billions… stroking their ego with somes trange delusion of eternal life or escape from boredom.

    Hence the mandatory part.

    I understand that some will find the concept offensive.

    Wallace said kneejerk reactions could kill a person.

    If only.

    [poll id=”4″]

  • Burner vs. Glenn: OMG This Cannot Be Forgotten

    Burner vs. Glenn: OMG This Cannot Be Forgotten

    Prompt

    You are in a high speed train leaving Paris for Amsterdam. You just had the most intense night of your life and feel lucky to be sitting where you are. You pull out a single piece of paper and a golf pencil, and decide to make a quick note of what happened last night before you arrive at your next destination in ten minutes. This response must be submitted as a scanned/photographed image with hand written text on an actual piece of paper.

    Challengers

    In an OurThursday battle of spontaneous wits, the sleazy Dave Glenn and coy Danielle Burner, will demonstrate how valuable the actual written word can really be.

    ————————————————–

    Danielle Burner’s Response

    Download Image Here

    ————————————————–

    Dave Glenn’s Response

    Download Image Here

    [poll id=”3″]

  • Sophie vs. Jay: Relevant Capitalism

    Sophie vs. Jay: Relevant Capitalism

    On Christmas Eve, two eccentric minds met for the first time and among many other things, this Challenge Blog was birthed. This Challenge Blog also rings in the new year with the first one of it’s kind that does not involve any of the OurThursday authors. So any readers that feel the need to challenge me, their mother, their three legged cat, or neighbor… please send your requests to [email protected] and I will let you know how this goes down.

    The Prompt

    In 300 words or less, explain why the  traditional concept of capitalism is no longer relevant or indeed, is relevant.

    The Challengers

    Sophie – Cantankerous genius who has lived several more lives than the rest of us.

    Jay – Intense philosopher of life, finance, and spatial worm holes who is not afraid to shoot someone with a crossbow.

    (more…)

  • BRIAN vs LUKE vs DAVE: The Post of Christmas Past

    BRIAN vs LUKE vs DAVE: The Post of Christmas Past

    CHALLENGE

    “Thursday Threat” -where we pit author versus author (or in this case author vs. author vs. author) in a challenging game of mesmerizing malarky and wit flavored mumbo jumbo. An author will select a prompt, write a 300 word or barely less response to that prompt (or in this case NOT write one but challenge the others to use their active-word vocabulary to write one), and then send this bundle to a challenger(s). The challenger(s) will then be expected to reply or live in shame and sudden cultural abandonment. Winner is decided by the sudden fan fare we expect them to receive.

    I, Danielle Burner, am not participating because I want to challenge these men on a technique I already utilize.  This is meant to hopefully enhance their story telling.

    The Prompt

    Write (don’t draw it) a true story from Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Holiday past without using the words “was”  “have” and “were”.  May the best writer, with a keen sense of active words, win.

    Merry Christmas to all and to all a good fight.

    ——————-THE AUTHOR’S RESPONSES———————-

    DAVE’S RESPONSE

    I am happy. Santa had come. A Nintendo, calculator watch, and remote control car top the list that will go down as the greatest day of my life. For someone who’s already lived 2,531 days, this is huge for me.

    The most underrated Christmas gifts, however, are the stocking goodies. While I believe in Santa, for some reason I’ve always known my mom stuffs the stockings. One gift I’m fascinated with is a red slimer jelly monster–the kind that stick to walls. This particular monster resembles an octopus and has extra stringy legs, too skinny for a squid but too thick for an insect, which expand to create an eight-inch diameter if completely stretched.

    Because I am convinced that the best humor is in observing people’s reactions to the mysterious or unusual, I shall use this monster to scare my sister, an innocent young chap of four years. I slink upstairs while she doesn’t see me and strategically smack Slimer onto her wall, carefully sticking all six legs at max distance. Her walls are completely white, not a single poster. The monster stands out like a shark in a swimming pool. It is my toy and even I am scared of it, and I’m like four years older than her.

    I wait.

    My sister finally bounces up the stairs, glowing in the wake of her fourth Christmas. I slither around in my room, waiting for her to find my surprise. The moment she walks in she stops. Because she is stupid, she doesn’t run and tell mommy. Curious, she begins talking to herself, “Wus that?” I creep up and curl my head around her door. She inches her way closer, still murmuring to herself, “Wus that?”

    Once she reaches the one-foot mark, she begins to reach out to the monster, at which point I make a disturbing noise. It sounds like a blend between an oink and loogie-hock. My sister jumps and begins bawling like a baby.

    I retreat back to my room just before she flees to tell papa. “Dave put a monster in my room!” I hear her wail downstairs. I lay in bed and laugh. Then my dad stomps into my room and spanks the crap out of me. Whatever, at least I have Nintendo.

    BRIAN’S RESPONSE

    I wore a sparkling silver long sleeve shirt with a matching hood and grey spandex tights. I waited anxiously backstage for my cue. In the annual church Christmas play, I always managed to get the lead part. Not because I possessed any acting chops, but because I could memorize the shit out of my lines. At church camp, they gave everyone bare necklaces and handed out beads for us to decorate them with for various accomplishments. Kids would get them for hitting bullseye’s in archery, or winning water balloon tosses, or participating in nature hikes. I received most of mine for reciting bible verses.

    I practiced my introduction song quietly, trying not to think about what just happened. Having your friends burst into uncontrollable laughter after seeing you in costume is not something you want to dwell on, especially moments before going on. Just a few days ago, I had on white spandex-like pants and knee high socks. No one seemed to find that funny. Put a baseball mitt in your hand and all is forgiven.

    “Peter Pan wore tights.” One of the older girls told me after I nervously stepped out of the dressing room and faced the snickering.

    “Oh gee, none of these seem right, what ever are we going to do?” a future thespian voiced from the stage. The lights dimmed and sharp beams of color zipped around the room, making the audience feel like they entered a giant game of laser tag. I jumped into the spotlight and belted out my opening line.

    “Greetings earthlings! I am G.T. the Christmas martian!  I’m here to help you find the perfect Christmas card!”

    LUKE’S RESPONSE

    I saw the signal and began bellowing “HO HO HO” and waving my lantern from side to side. I winced at the ornately covered pillow as it scratched and pulled my stomach hair and forced me to sweat despite the two feet of snow on the ground coming over the top of my green gardening boots. I entered the house leaving a trail of mud on the fine carpet. I wondered if the white tampon cotton still obscured my dark eyebrows as sweat poured over my brow. I gestured to my aunt to wipe the liquid clear before it hit the lipstick rosiness of my cheeks. I took my throne and requested/demanded my whisky and cookies as the little elf boy wearily approached to take his seat on my knee. While merrily chastising the adults for keeping the heater so high and contributing to the global warming destroying my house, I tugged on the see through red pants that could not repel my acidic body juices. The little elf boy got right close to my face and stared deep into my eyes assessing if indeed I could be the magical gift giving man. I glared back and pointed to the other side of the room to make him look away as I lifted my beard to swig from the crystal glass of Glen Livet. He turned back to find me holding a santa helper hat that I offered him and as fast as the wily Rudolph himself, the suspicious set of eyes disappeared. In their place appeared the beacons of joy atop a face that would power any quantum powered present delivering sled for the rest of eternity. The elf and I brought a holiday cheer to the room that night that will be as timeless as my annual circumnavigation.

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  • Ollett vs Burner : Dark Days

    Ollett vs Burner : Dark Days

    Welcome to this addition of “Thursday Threat” where we pit author versus author in a challenging game of mesmerizing malarky and wit flavored mumbo jumbo. An author will select a prompt, write a 300 word or less response to that prompt, and then send this bundle to a challenger. The challenger will then be expected to reply or live in shame and sudden cultural abandonment. Winner is decided by the sudden fan fare we expect them to receive.

    The Prompt

    You are walking down the neon lit street of Hong Kong one summer evening. You gaze up to see an electronic message scrolling across the screen saying “We are sorry to inform you that the world has run out of electricity and a dark chaotic life will ensue. Good luck and Thank You.” You look around to lock eyes with other pedestrians who read the same thing. You hold eye contact for a few seconds, and then in a cold instant, the  lights go out.

    Ollett’s Response

    “Really? You would build yourself a bathroom that had a switch that fogged the windows up when you turned it on? Wow. You are a dummy.”

    “Well what would you pick then?”

    “Man, if I could have one hour with anything that had the spark… easy, it would be this little plastic case my dad brought back from some country without safety standards. It had two jelly pads and wires connecting these pads back to a softly rounded base station with two spinning dials. There were no instructions but the two distinct icons of a set of wavy lines and a man looking as though he is vibrating could only mean one thing, automatic electronic massage pads of course! I would spend hours researching the pain threshold at various points of the body. One day I decided to place one pad on my lower left rib, and the other pad on my lower right rib. I began the experiment and increased the power. Without warning I had lost all bodily control and was engulfed with the biggest and most powerful tickle of my life! I was floundering on the ground with my arms contorted into obtuse angles and my gasps for air just breaking through a piercing laugh that sounded like a cackle of young teenage girls all telling the same story at the same time. After eight minutes my mom entered my room to find me in this exorcist state and quickly unplugged me from the pads. I can remember that moment well. I just laid there. I laid there and smiled and I genuinely felt good. Give me the spark and I would have a laughing orgasm for one hour.”

    Burners Response (8 hours after challenge)

    “That is sweet, kind sir. A hand held massager?  Me and other women worldwide are very familiar with this device, using it during lonesome nights, mornings, in traffic, and sometimes even during coffee breaks.  We in fact utilize it often in lieu of,” her eyes instinctively glance down where she catches a ‘tent’-like shape forming in her acquaintances trousers.  “Well…in lieu of pricks, like you.”

    Embarrassed by his nature’s reaction, he refutes “My dear, you realize that little massager you speak of has done nothing great for the male species?”

    “Oh please, if anything it has made you work harder!  Anyway, the spark would not be necessary for my hand held massager, as it is battery operated.  I will simply steal my AAs from the remote, when need be, which will ultimately render me with these ‘laughing orgasms’ without interruption from my mother, of course, because I live solo…alone…by myself”, she shudders at the thought of both the laughing orgasms and the desolate living situation as she whispers under her breath, “If only that thing would cuddle…”

    “Excuse me?”  he interrupts.

    “Oh nothing…the spark.  Yes, the spark.  Considering the cold and dark world we live in now I would take my hour of spark time to charge my iPod touch.  With that external speaker, the world can experience a music and picture show in the palm of my hands.  I will be popular, for once.  Also, during that hour I will download songs and video to prompt me during “hand held massager” time because clearly you can’t sanctify me.”

    After that jab, her fantasies retreat while she ponders that, regardless of this man’s self-proclaimed inept skill, she will return home to her massager, giggle tirelessly until she falls asleep holding her pillow, once a again.  To cuddle or not to cuddle, that is the compromise…