Nick Fury : Agent Of Shield...



God(s), I'm going to clench my fist tightly together and give you the almighty prayer scoop.

I'm gonna lay out the whole battle plan to you. Grab some coffee and a pillow, stoke up your pipe and take a rest, because you may need to be comfortable for my whole expungence.

I. Me. This person writing the words...is the greatest person in the whole universe. I'm going to be your replacement. Sorry to hear it like this, guys, but - I thought that you would appreciate hearing the bad news directly from the source rather than from an in-between/liason/puppet/robot kind of guy.

Like, I said...sorry, buddies - but, I think that your time has come, I mean - you should of really been gone from here, like years ago, man. Seriously.

You suck at your job. I'm much better at it. Playing the self-serving, wrathful, pretend-to-be-all-knowing, wrathful dude. You must understand this. You must give it up. Go home. Lick your wounds far from here. Just go.

Don't fight back for your position. Give it up. The die has been cast. The cards drawn. Here comes the river card. Checkmate. UNO. Yahtzee. You sunk my battleship. Connect Four. Touche. Tag. You're it. Boom. Bomb. Blast, and BLAH. It's all happening to you, baby.

I think that I'm tired of walking on this yellow brick road!, Dorothy said.

W-w-w-w-what about m-m-m-meeting t-t-the w-w-wizard? said The Cowardly Lion.

Dorothy stopped and said, You never can regret someone that you've never met, and it's best to forget all of the things that haven't happened yet.

And The Tin Man said, If I only had a heart!

And Dorothy said, Yeah....me too.

Bok Bok...

Tomorrow, when I'm hiding Easter Eggs - they'll all be in my pants.

I will also be looking for treats at the bottom of beer bottles.

And bunnies will be to busy to furiously hump.

The end.

Delete Yourself...

Found my first grey hair tonight.

I wanted to do something special w/ it.

So I ate it.

Older Post Than Thou...

I'm so confused. I just found out that my old grade school has a website. It was a random thought that crossed my mind and one Google search later?...I'm transported back to a time that I remember well, but seem to have forgotten at the same time. There's a picture of the school posted on the site that makes me think of my first day of kindergarten, almost being blown away by the wind in storm when I was in second grade...being a bad boy in sixth...so many memories that would probably bore you to death...I remember how fortunate I was to go to a good school, and I remember how straight-fucking-insane all of the children were in the city that I grew up in. I swear, there must be something in the water because everybody I knew was hilarious, but would kill you in a second. Too much of an overload, I'll tell ya'.

Here's something else...there was a staff list on the website. Most of the names were unfamiliar, but my second grade teacher still teaches there! Yeah, the one who screamed when I opened up the door during that windstorm. I got off of the bus last. It was a horrible, rainy, and windy day. I'm thin now, but back then I looked like a little balloon. I was about as heavy as a kitten. I made the mistake of trying to peek into my older brother's fifth grade class like I always would. The class would wave. I'd make a funny face and the teacher would playfully throw something at me. I started to move towards the windows of my brother's classroom but almost got knocked off of my feet. The big-ass, stupid, adult umbrella that I had, captured the wind and almost carried me away. One foot wasn't touching the ground. I had to hold on to a pole so I wouldn't fly away. I'm serious. I was holding on with all of my strength and could see the laughing heads of my brother's class through the windows. Some were pointing at me. Some looked like they were laughing so hard that they were crying. No one was helping. Visions of Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins went through my head. Did they think I was kidding? I wasn't. I was seriously in danger of being lifted into the air. Everybody would've been really sad if months later they found a thin, little skeleton stuck in a tree somewhere.

I don't know how I did it (maybe I put pebbles in my shoes), but I started to walk to class. I, of course, took the long way around with nothing to duck under. The rain was hard and howling. I tried to make it from pole to pole. My umbrella would flip inside out, I'd face the wind and then it would correct itself. When I opened up the door, it banged open. I don't remember how I shut it. All I remember was the silence. Every head in class turned to look at me. I saw a room full of little mouth "O's". I could hear the dripping of my clothing on the linoleum floor beneath me. Everybody laughed until my teacher screamed, "Oh my god!" and then was promptly arrested for preaching her bullshit religion in my class. No, just kidding. She swooped me up in her fat arms (maybe she wasn't fat, y'know? She could've been normal-sized. Maybe I was just so small that she seemed like a huge ol' fatty. I bet she was quite hefty though. Aren't all grade school teachers?) and put me in some room that I'd never seen before with a washer and dryer and started to take off my clothes!!! She got this weird look in her eye when she started to undo my wet jeans. Just kidding, you perverts! I'll tell church stories some other time. Ha. She took my clothes and put them in the dryer and searched for something for me to wear. I'd kill for a picture of the twenty pound second grader with the Beatles hair, shivering alone in a school laundry room. Actually, you would too, huh? You pervert! NO, SHE CAME BACK WITH AN OVER-SIZED PAINTERS SMOCK! I had to sit in class wearing only a multi-colored, blotchy, painters smock. It looked like something Boy George would wear.

They finally contacted my mother, which scared me even more. My mother was a drunk and Vietnamese-I don't know which is worse. I guess I'm still trying to figure it out, because I guess I'm both right now too. Ha. Yoo reciv petic justuff!, my mom says. See, I've never looked like I was a half-bastard Asian. My fathers strong and stubborn Irish genes kicked the asses of the gook genes that were in my body, so there ain't no slanty eyes on this face. I'm also not devoid in the crotch area either. Thank you, Ireland.

Fuck. Where was I? Oh yeah...drunk, gook mothers. I was terrified that she was coming to school to pick me up. I was surprised too because, she'd never been there before. Was she going to get the class drunk? Two hours later, when she came-I got lucky because they just told me that she was there and I could meet her instead of her coming into my class. She probably would’ve embarrassed me by taking down the address of every classmate of mine and recording the name of their pets. But it might have saved us money on food, so who knows? My little sister was there too. She must have been about...shit; she's four years younger than me. How old is one when they're in second grade? Anyway, she was small and whimpering in the passenger seat when we were driving home. The storm had turned worse. My mother wasn't drunk, but remember...she's Asian. So instead of driving fast and avoiding all of the flying shit all over the place, she drove about ten miles an hour. Everything that was moving through the air was faster than us. I saw a huge tree branch crashing down and fall behind us, blocking the road. My mutha didn't notice. I think she was singing along to The Steve Miller Band. Oh yeah, also? My little sister was probably already taller than my mother by that age.

We made it home and then my mother tried to drink me. End of story.

Sorry about that, ol' chap. I don't know where that came from. I ignored the story about my sixth grade teacher. Not much about him anyway except that he looked like Chuck Norris and would get red-faced furious at me every time that I called him that. I should call him up. I swear! Oh my god! I sound like an adult now; I don't think I have the balls for it. Do I? I want to call him and say, "Hi Chuck!" just like I always used to. I could tell he wanted to bash my fucking head in when I said that. He'll know it's me, won't he? If I did that I wouldn't be able to eat in the school cafeteria now, like I want to. Which leads me to my last part......

One final thing that I noticed on the website of my elementary school was the menu. I don't know why they have that on the site. Maybe it's kind of smart. Kids must dig it because then they could see when the pizza and the grilled cheese sandwiches are being served and ask for junk from home on the other days. Maybe all of the dirty, hippie parents can check up on the menu too, and see when the school's serving something veggie-friendly. Anyway, guess how much a school lunch was when I was a kid? One dollar. Not that bad. You got the main dish, three sides, a dessert, and a milk. The poor kids had a discounted lunch for thirty-five-fucking cents. Dudes, I'm not old. I'm an eighties kid, but thirty-five-fucking cents is the shit. I mean that in a good way. So guess what the price is now? I'm gonna smoke...I'll let you think about it for a while..................
................
......
Okay, I'm back......
.....
THE PRICE IS STILL THE FUCKING SAME! Can you believe that? Is that the one thing in the world that hasn't risen in price? Wow and double-ass Wow. Poor kids can still get a lunch for thirty-five-fucking cents? Who are they sponsored by, McDonalds?

Hail Mary, y'all. I apologize for my vile verbosity.

Vini Vidi Vietnamese.

Good night...

And Their Bruce Lee T-Shirts Will Continue To Chop Away At The Elements Until They Become Rags Of Fury...



If I was given a dollar from St. Ojos everytime I rubbed my eyes, I'd be a blind billionaire.

Weezer's coming out with a new album. So is Beck. Beastie Boys should. They need to re/reinvent the wheel again/better than their last couple of attempts. It's not an age thing, it's just more of an I EXPECTED BETTER OF YOU thing. We Are Scientists rock your dog's intestines and NGUYEN 5 kicks bloody arse.

I have no idea why I started to write about music. I hate writing about music as much as I hate writing about politics, philosophy and religion.

I used to write for a couple of music magazines. I don't anymore because I'm too old to be stupid(er)(est)(ewey).

I'm not particularly tired. Not too angry. Not sad at all. And maybe that's the problem. I want monetary and ambulatory obligations non-existent. I want to float around on hover-discs and to chop off heads with a hybrid chainsaw/sword. If I can't have this tonight, I'll have this in dreams. I want nothing. I don't even know why I'm writing. This is all crap. It seemed like a lot more way back before I smoked a cigarette and brought out all the ingredients for the food that I was going to make that I know that I now won't eat.

It's late.

Boom.

What was that?

-don't know, man. what'ya talkin' bout'?

That noise. You didn't hear it?

-idiot. no. what?

Aw. Forget it. Nothing.

I'm going on a three-day cruise soon to Baja or something for my friend's marriage. I will not be coming back, I've decided. I will not be back on the boat when it sails away. I'll be like Daniel Stern from Born In East L.A. and get hired as a door guy/promoter person. No I won't. That's pretty much what I do now. Talk to people that I don't care about and try to get them interested in the things that I'm getting paid to pimp. Yeah. Forget it, Bubba.

I might have a new job soon, though. I won't care about that either. The only occupation that I care about is my breathing job. Sometimes, I don't do this well either. I am more Jaga than Panthro. You are either Wily Kit or Wily Cat. Annoying. Stay still. My thoughts require effort and intense concentration.

I can feel the wheel turning. I can hear it squeaking. I am too poor and lazy to oil it. I am afraid of its progress. I am not strong enough to slow it down. I can, at least, kick some sand in front of it. Can't I, at least, lay in front of it? Some days I might bite it. Some days, it rains hard, and the wheel gets stuck in the mud. I laugh and cackle towards the sky and THEN I find the energy to dance wildly around the wheel. I pull down the rags around my waist and piss on the wheel. Making sure that no inch is left uncovered. I become brave. The clouds will part, though. The mud will dry and become parched. Hard. Flaky. Making it easy for the wheel to resume its progress. There will be nothing else for me to do. I won't be wearing shoes, let alone cleats. My tired feet will already be rubbed raw. I'll just sit and let it roll over my legs. Nobody will expect anything out of me by then. Nobody will ask me any more questions. They'll just see me as a regrettable speed bump in the path of inevitable progress. The vultures will continously shit on me and wait for me to die. They'll wind up fighting over what isn't there. Ghosts will fight for my energy. Most of this will dissipate. My energy will dissapate like early morning shower steam.

The only thing that I ask for is to be legendary. Legendary for all of the wrong reasons, but legendary all the same. I want people to read books about me, to drink more than they normally would and to puke on their significant other's head. I want them to regret emulating the easy and lazy aspects of my being and to remember harder than I did on what it means to make the machine work when you put your mind to it. I want them to try harder to get to know me and what I could've become. This would basically be a mirror to my life. The combination of strong and weak will, the combo of greatness and utter destruction. To be Dalai Lama/peaceful. To be Hitler/self-righteous/brutal. To be oatmeal/sticky/grey/watery/hard-rock/sludge.

This is me today and every day.

Now Neil Diamond is on.

This means no spell check.

This means goodbye.

For now.

Running Of The Vodka Redbulls...

So far, The Rev. KMal has made my girlfriend stand on patio furniture and not able to get down unless she smoked a cigarette with me - thrown bottle caps at the next door neighbors window until he came out, and then sprayed beer all over him, forced him to take a shot of crap that I would never, ever drink. I'm managing to terrorize my house and all of my surroudings. I will get everybody to do what I want until I grow tired of it. Yhis is my plan. I am in the mood. I am cleaning my teeth with my lovely tongue. Tongue is a fun word to spell. I am not drunk yet, but I will get there;. I will make this happen. I want to cause trouble tonight, because I'm Denzel Washington on fire.

Thing I'm Most Afraid Of No. 83...

That when they write about me after I die, they'll say...

'During 1995-2005, he worked various, unremarkable jobs - not really getting into his (fill in the blank here) until kjsahjkhdsjkshdjkhd, etc.'

A Puff of Smoke...

Yeah, I make dinner a lot - and it's never for me. I like to cook because it's something to do while thinking non-thinking thoughts...to...do...while you're standing there thinking, I think. I don't like to eat. I hate it. I'd rather drink things instead. Anything. It doesn't even have to be alcohol-based. I just need liquids. I can never NOT have anything to drink by me. Beer seems to be the most fun.

And I'm very proud of myself. I'm so very skinny still. An old bastard with creaking everythings trapped in a dried-out, brittle toothpick tower. Yet, you can pick me up and hear things sloshing around in my head. Where's that come from, you wonder? He's kind of like those African rain sticks that you can purchase at the mall. And then you gingerly set me back down.

I will stay forever like this until the cancers and preservatives start to eat me away like ravenous termites with buck teeth. I am a peeling Mona Lisa. Each bead of sweat is paint thinner.

I am not hungry. I am not hungry. I am not hungry. Yes I AM. I want to split your skull and slurp out everything except your brain. I need everything and want nothing all at the same time. I will not stop. Ever. I do what I want. Always.

There's your goddamn appetite.

Fatty.

Why I'm A Good Boyfriend, Reason No. 5498754376...

Me - (from the computer) Hi honey!

Her - (from the bedroom) I just watched a dsahklshwihwgrblgrh!!!

Me - What?

Her - I just watched a new Good Charlotte video.

Me - Eeewww.

Her - It was actually pretty good.

Me - I hope they fucking die.

Aayla Secura's Blue Boobs...

If I watch the new Star Wars trailer one more time - I will become THE BIGGEST NERD EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD.

You're Eating Maggots, Michael...

So, I almost caught a glimpse of Kiefer Sutherland on Saturday night. Rumor had it that he was around, and he was. After making a bunch of Lost Boys jokes, I left the patio of the bar that I was at and used the bathroom. Of course, two minutes after that-he passed by my friends. Not that big of a deal - but, I think that that was the only chance I ever had for eternal life - and I blew it. Stupid me. But then I'd have to let a man bite me on the neck. Hmmm...worth it? Maybe. I'd let The Count from Sesame Street bith me first, It's hurt less and he's just a puppet. We both have the same skin tone, don't y' know. Isn't that nice. I'd let Alliyah/Queen Of The Damned bite me, though. Dead or not. Blacula's okay too.

I Am More Raw Umber Than Your Burnt Sienna...

I bet Crayola stock used to go up
everytime some dummy used the term 'colored people'.

Doombot...



Starting tomorrow/today - when I wake up I will do everything differently than I normally do. I haven't yet, fully thought this through. I am going to act like me in the future coming back into my body now in 2005. I will also treat everyday like it's Opposites Day - that game that we used to play when we were kids. So that means everything that I say should be the complete opposite of something that I would normally say. Also, if I hate doing something, than I will do it more. And if I really love something, I'm going to do my best to ignore it. I'm going to stop this now, because normally I would explain in detail a bunch of crazy ideas that I've dredged up on the fly. But I won't. I need to warm myself up to this...tomorrow's going to be an interesting day. I should just quit my job. I might do some drugs. I never do drugs. I need to start huffing paint. Okay, this is going to be haredr than I thought because already I'm back to my old ways and just typing in things that pop into my brain. I'm confusing myself. As step number one in my FUTURE SELF STEPPING BACK IN TIME - I am going to wake up early and cook breakfast for the girlfriend. I don't do breakfast much, I'm more of a lunch and dinner type. I don't know if I'll recap the differences in the days events or post on progress - I'll just have to see. Curious I be. Hmmm. I'm insane. Experiment starts now. I'm going to bed.

Dr. Banner Says That There Are Greener Days Ahead...

When you see me out in public and I don't say hi to you, it means that: I was deep in thought, not looking at you, didn't care, was avoiding you, not feeling social, was late to get somewhere, don't remember your name, had sex with you and am embarassed, not wearing my glasses or too angry to talk.

Not One Of Independence, But Of Dependent Service...

What used to be the buzz of a million Krynn dragons in my mind, is now a housefly. What used to be an enormous fire, is now an smoky ember. What used to be the rebounding echo of a preying bats squeak, is now the gnat flitting around in the same dark cave. What used to be Voltron is now, just Pidge making Anime faces.

I move in slow motion. You still move slower. The air is electric, but I am stagnant. The doses of pain administered to me are nothing - one can't take more out of the frontal lobe after the initial operation. It's hard to make a lame horse run faster, no matter how hard you crack the whip.

Steve Rogers was trapped in time. He awoke to a different age and adapted quickly because circumstances demanded it. The Vision has been resurrected as many times as Ultron. Comic book characters make Jesus jealous. Jason Todd tried to make a comeback, but couldn't find all of his parts. It's hard to walk, when bits of your flesh deck the hall like boughs of holly. ttralalalalalalalalaaaahhh

Reading Bushido: The Soul Of Japan and Replay by Ken Grimwood.

One deals with the outdated codes and ethics of historical samurai culture and one deals with a guy who gets the chance to relive his life after he's died. This might tell me something. This might tell me that all of the answers to my questions are obvious. That everything that you think you know - you do. That nothing is easy, and anything is only hard - if you care. This might tell me that if I'm so tired, that I need to either give up and have fun, roll with the punches, throw a thematical party now and then and sleep as long as possible, or to train myself not to RE remember how I used to be. Because who the hell wants to be like they were? Especially if we're apparently alive enough to lament about the passing of youth, time, love, money, Thundercats, etc.?

No, what we need is either a slow awakening or our skulls crushed whilst dreaming. There is no in-between. That only leads to more wasted time. I am Luke Skywalker's cut off arm. I am Daniel Ketch on fire. I am the hunger pangs of Gandhi. I am Phillip Morris' pocketbook. Why can't I have the persistence of my pulse? Why shouldn't I fight as hard as my asthmatic lungs? Why fight?

Don't know.

bitches...

I walk the same strip of Lemon Ave.
Everyday on my way
To work
friends of mine
Will drive by and
Honk their horns
Waving
From their windows,
“Hey, Tom,” they yell,
and keep going.
Now, what I want to know is,
If you see me walking
The same damn street
Every goddamn day,
Why won’t you
Pick me up?

I want to strangle their
Skinny little turkey necks.
Bitches…

The Orange County Register...

Just got off of the phone with them - and I figured out a way to make the conversation as nice as possible, besides just hanging up on them...make them laugh. I was telling her how cheap her offer was, and what an amazing deal it was that she was offering me. I told her that I hated her newspaper, and that I have a fear of mulch. I told her that there was no way, ever and what-so-ever that I would ever get another newspaper delivered to my door unless she told me that she was going to kill me if I didn't accept her offer. She said that she wouldn't ever say that. I told her, good. I asked her how the Oscars were and she said that she liked them but eventually fell asleep. I told her that Hilary Swank's dress looked like crap, didn't it? And she said that she liked Million Dollar Baby. I said that she definitely didn't spend a million dollars on her outfit - but I was glad that Charlie Kaufman won for best original screenplay. She said, who? And I asked her if she really watched the awards and she said, No - that she didn't - that she never watches them. I told her that I'll buy her paper when I'm famous and to call me back in 74 years when I am. She said that she would.

And then we hung up.

Then Turn The TV OFF...

It's hard enough to watch MTV when you're awake - but somehow in this last week the TV's been playing MTV all night while I've been sleeping AND LAST NIGHT WAS THE SECOND TIME THAT I'VE HAD A DREAM that involved me hanging out with my friend, NICK LACHEY. Not Jessica Simpson - not even Ashlee Simpson. Just Me and Nick hanging out. And YES, we both had our clothes on, you schmucks. There were also subplots involving a dead pig, jumping trucks over curbs, jet planes that looked like UFO's at first, and a tiny kitten that was bleeding that I eventually ended up naming FLEA.

I will now go back to sleeping to Empire Strikes Back.

Or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Both are better than MTV.

Barrow, Alaska...

First Hunter ST dies and now this. My comic book store is closing, going out of business, finito, no mas. Sucks for me, now where am I going to go to get my stupid comics? Waste time after work?

I walked in there today and there were a bunch of other nerds milling about with lost looks on their faces. Fatties were piling up Thor and Captain America statues in their enormous arms. Geeks were whispering to other geeks and telling them to hurry up and come down because action figures and shirts were 50% off.

I was just kind of sad. Nerdy hobbies should be easy and effortless – that’s why alcoholics have it easy because they have hobby shops conveniently located on every corner for their pleasures.

I was talking with a friend the other day about the demise of local arcades, and about how there aren’t any around anymore like there were when I was growing up, when I was young, that’s what you did – you rode your bike to the arcade and comic stores. THEN at night tried to get in trouble – but what do kids nowadays do? Stay at home. They have everything they need. Why go out?

It’s dangerous out there for kids now as it is, so is it better? I’m probably gonna keep my kids at home too. Swimming in public pools in the summer? Somebody might put acid or piranhas in the water. Fly a kite in the park? Might get electrocuted by terrorists who can wield the power of lightning. Kegger parties are okay though, the worst thing that could happen is that your kid gets laid.

Regardless, I’m sad. Tonight I will be tipping my 40oz. Of Old E to the million deaths of the written word and will give a big ol’ fuck you finger to the squashings of imagination and creativity.

Excelsior.

For Your Consideration...

To remember an important lesson that you had taught yourself before,
but forgotten along the way.

To get it back from wherever you lost it,
and then,
to now,
do more with it.

To give yourself another final try.

To succeed.

To create beauty.

And to beautify others creations.

To have others learn from what you teach them.

To not be forgotten.

To be a beacon for those trying to find their way.

To push everything, constantly.

To be beautiful.

Try to remember.

To do all this.

I Am The Face Underneath The Apple On Top Of Mrs. Burroughs' Head...



I just heard something break. At first I thought that it came from the kitchen. I've craned my neck to see where it came from. It wasn't from the kitchen. It couldn't have come from outside, because the crash was too loud. It couldn't have come from the next room. The cats are right by me. Nothing has fallen off of the shelves. There are no pictures on the floor.

What was it?

Should I get up and investigate?

What broke?

And where did it come from?

It sounded loud.

It sounded heavy.

It sounded valuable.

expensive.

One-of-a-kind.

I can't replace it.

Whatever it was...

It's GONE.

Forever.

I could hear it saying a million, tiny goodbyes.

Baraka...

I would rather swing through the trees of an Ewok village rather than a Wookie one, because as a guest of the Ewoks,I would probably be able to push myself around more.

Really Makes You...

feel like schmuck when you procrastinate on doing a couple of things and let it go for a loooooong time - and then it takes you ten minutes to do them.

Stark Enterprises Whiskey...

Where My Ideas Come From
Filed under: faq— warrenellis @ 2:08 am
I still get asked with appalling regularity “where my ideas come from.”

Here’s the deal. I flood my poor ageing head with information. Any information. Lots of it. And I let it all slosh around in the back of my brain, in the part normal people use for remembering bills, thinking about sex and making appointments to wash the dishes.

Eventually, you get a critical mass of information. Datum 1 plugs into Datum 3 which connects to Datum 3 and Data 4 and 5 stick to it and you’ve got a chain reaction. A bunch of stuff knits together and lights up and you’ve got what’s called “an idea".

And for that brief moment where it’s all flaring and welding together, you are Holy. You can’t be touched. Something impossible and brilliant has happened and suddenly you understand what it would be like if Einstein’s brain was placed into the body of a young tyrannosaur, stuffed full of amphetamines and suffused with Sex Radiation.

That is what has happened to me tonight. I am beaming Sex Rays across the world and my brain is all lit up with Holy Fire. If I felt like it, I could shag a million nuns and destroy their faith in Christ.

From my chair.

See, this is the good bit about writing. It’s what keeps you going. It’s the wild rush of “shit, did I think of that?” with all kinds of weird chemicals shunting around your brain and ideas and images and moments and storyforms all opening up snapsnapsnap in your mind, a mass of new and unrealised possibilities.

It’s ten past two in the morning, and I’m completely wired, caught up in the new thing, shivering and laughing and glowing in the dark. Just as well it’s the middle of the night. No-one would be safe from me right now. I could read their minds and take over their heartbeats with a glare.

Faster than the speed of anyone.

That’s how it works.

(Written in 2003 for the Bad Signal mailing list.)