Willor,Amstel

Your man there kindly invited myself to join his little so-soing circle and I, as a man of many words, could barely refuse. Rather than force the reader to wade through a profile to get a feel for the man who is himself, I shall begin by offering the following tale of a typical night out.
     I went about my cups the other night, as is my custom of the day of the heavenly firmament. What better way to celebrate the partition of the waters above from those below than by rejoining them? This night was exceptional in that one of my bartenders presented me with a present, from his to my self: an Old Milwaukee^® hat with a poorly stitched deer on it, of a suitable hunter orange hue. I went on for quite a while to him about it, the hunter, the orange, the yellow beer of orange hunters, the authenticity of the hat- beyond the registered TM symbol, it had a solid fabric back. This is in contrast to the ironically resurgent mesh-backed, or trucker, hats that the Emojugen are wearing with straight faces as they mope around their record store workplaces alternately making people feel inferior and attempting seduction of girls by making them feel inferior. The point being that Old Milwaukee ^® has no need to go out of its way to impress people with high-faluting trendy meshbacking, and had it been mesh, then 9:1 odds say that it'd have been silkscreened by some shaggy unkempt idler terrified that any of his friends might see him in the mall getting his kioskwork commissioned. That he in turn could hold his sighting them there against them would not occur to him, so clouded would be his eyes with the obscene profits to be made selling his knockoff wares on eBay. I say, Sir, I believe we have met. Phonneas Manjack, was it?
     After about a half hour of my exposition, other circumstances called my good man away. He was presently replaced by a man who may be called Will, but who certainly drank Amstel Light. By then I'd stown away my various effects in said hat lying on the bar, and Amstel asked about the hat. He made some joke about a moose, while I patiently explained, again and again, that it was in fact a deer. Embarassed as he was, he assured me that he was only kidding, although I certainly missed the jest. He told me that he'd never seen a moose, and I, seeing the chance to regain control of a night swaying awry, regaled him with the Tale of the Manchester Moose. He could not believe that the moose had a police entourage for the protection of the public. I assured him that it was so; a moose is every bit as vicious as your man's typical suburban soccer mom. Another unfortunate trait the two share is the (erroneous) sense of invulnerability that comes from having too high a center of mass, the one from its legs, the other by its SUV. Neither is a beast with which to be fucked.
     He said something then about my getting shot for wearing the hat outside. This was another of those "jokes" of his, whatever that may mean. I assured him that he was quite mistaken, that not only would I not be mistakenly be shot by any hunters, their vision confused by my hat's namesake, but that not even the (nonexistent) gangs of the area would take offense, as they have all mutually agreed that Hunter Orange is the universal non-gang color. He didn't "get" my jibes any more than his. Alas, poor Amstel. I knew him.

Reraisment

   Last week I received a paycheck. It was an envelope with keys, a few subway tokens, and a ticket to the worst Afflection ever inflicted on a Phil Dick story. Almighty Christ, why don't you clench your jaw a little tighter. To show the strain. It also had an actual check in the envelope. A small one.
   As I am a graduate student, my stiped is trimmed over the summer. From academic-year biweekly wages of $110 over my half of the rent, it's reduced to 10 under my rentshare. Last friday it was cut still further to $151 below, which would leave me with about 148 dollars to subsist on in any given month. As appealing as is the ideal of the anchorite scholar, I like my ivory towers to be of some dead thing's bones, not my own jutting out of my palsied scurvious frame.
   Apparently, the administrator thought that since my TAing assignment had been cut (insufficient enrollees to pay a professor and an assistant), that I was cut off. Which, if anyone cares to do the math I've encoded above, would be exactly ___ dollars less biweekly income than my rent, and a pretty squalid state for me. I had fearfully anticipated this, and not looked forward to the character it would build.
   Happily, the office boss has greased the unhatched chicken, and apparently the Department is going to fund the remainder of my summer, teaching or not. In fact, I'll be getting a raise. To the tune of about sixtythree dollars more than my rent.

Headless horsefly

   There are these strange little flies around my apartment that I've never seen before.
   Small, less than a quarter inch long, and like brown with some type of stripes on their big wings, folded into a triangle when at rest. I want to say small feathery antennae. I've lived in quite a few dives and never run into the things before. Maybe that's the thing, that they're some kind of nice neighborhood pest. My own and a small few buildings aside, I live in what's called a nice neighborhood. Ancient single family homes three storeys with like roof-notch little porches.
   And then there's my dinged-out flophouse, asbestos tiles and paint not-flaking-but-entirely-flaked-off-of the porch, paperboard walls thrown up and slopshed with paint of undignified tones. Retarded upstairs man yelling at his (apparently Normal) girlfriend and their rotten boxer howling when they're not home to fight, kid across the hall wearing his black&redbulls sweatsuit every day, howling back at his own dog and taking his mouse for rolls around the neighborhood in a mini-hamsterball. The pay-washer broken often as not, broken swingplates opposed to each and every doorknob.
   I was showing it to li'l B, whom the brides brought over last night. He hadn't seen the place yet after my six months there, and showed up last night for the same reason as he'd previously stayed away, viz., the lad. They do some fighting, those boys. Not least of all when they're trying to quit smoking, as they normally are. Brief talk, no gossip really. He asked me for a story and I couldn't find one. Funny, that.
   Some people drink to forget; I drink because I'll forget anyway.

Fire drill

   I was waiting in saturday Dover traffic (such as it were) wondering, among other things, what was taking the light so long. And I felt the advantage slipping yet again. Every second I waited there, the terrorists were winning.
   It is as if the Transformers had cyberformed the earth, using huge stockpiles of energon found largely under historically Palestinian soil, and the Jews, resentful of the xenons' perceived luxurious lifestyle and constant encroachment upon their culture, declared guerilla revolution against the Autobotian empire. This time, they've found, it's not as simple as marrying their raped sister to a transformer on the condition that all male robos got circumcised, and then slaying them all on the third day when the pain is at its worst. They must fight, like real-life Palestinians, using vastly inferior technology and by any means possible.
   Every mile driven, every second sat in traffic, every engagement of the ignition, dinars and shekels roll into the horrible pockets of Terror. Lest the reader be misled, the oil-terror connection is nowhere near as insidious as the drug-terror relationship. Surveys have shown scientifically that more than 100% of every drug transaction goes directly into terror's coffers. With the petro connection, it's much, much less than 100% of the profits. A lot of that money goes to, say, citizens of the many enlightened unconstitutional monarchies and other types of mesoöriental governments where citizens are still regularly arrested for protesting their inability to vote. Vote, indeed. Who gave them the right?
   Even the citizens of the freeëst country in the world are not Constitutionally allowed a vote. That we can vote to ask our electors to vote for our candidate-of-choice is a privilege, not a right. "Such powers not specifically appointed to the federal, et c., are appointed to the States or the People et c." And a good thing, too. Imagine how much worse off we'd be if we had a popularly elected president who didn't know anything about the oil business.

Swing low, sweet autobot

For some reason, my hand bears the phrase, PLIGHT OF THE BUMBLEBEE.
   I've never really been able to sort out my feelings about the Littlest Autobot. Somewhere between annoyance and condescending affection. All of those god damned transformers shows had the same fatal flaw: Too many annoying kids, too little focus on future robot destruction. If I wanted to watch foolish hu-mans gumming up the works of an otherwise well-oiled machine, why would I watch a show about robots? Come on. Of course, it was Bumblebee's sole purpose in every incarnation of the show to cart the children around, and whether it was his personality in itself or too much exposure to their puny carbonaceous lameness, he pretty much did the same thing as them: get in the way, fuck shit up, and waste time, valuable time that could've been spent battling.
   And yet there is something endearing about him- the ultimate loserbot. I can imagine him in his youth coming home with broken mirrors, his muffler dragging, sniffling back tears after the bigger robots had bullied him all day at roboschool or whathaveyou.
   I just don't know about that guy.

I've won! new orientals scantier*.

denizen nouns, kneeling, diffusers
  Slovenian infants slow Kronecker
  reopened prophecy logged downstream
sewed
implore tiling artichoke, braided vagrant
  tutors annunciate Hubert:
  blueberry gagged fiction Boers inscribed.
droops rises truant (unlike Dutch utilities),
   departs raincoat, ailment plaintive.
backplane fillers rivalling blender quiver chinner

Three quirks for sp@m dad.a !!

*Punctuation added.

Here Comes Me again

Hi.
This is my first time here, and already I want to stab my keyboard for not letting me use the tab key in this composition window box area of the monitoring view screen.
Dear me.
Do you like jokes, dear binary wedbiary? I do, but I have the strange pathology of immediately forgetting the cause of my laughter. That's why I smirk so much, in laughter's stead. To better remember. Some people wrongly think it's an arroging condescendant thing that I do. They're probably right.
Incidentally: braghlk sqr.