Tag Archives: humor

Stardusters… Canto 22

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Canto Twenty-Two – In Golden Wing One, Fighting for Life

It first appeared over the horizon and the orange-brown clouds of the atmosphere as a sort of bright star-thingy.  It was an enemy space ship.  Farbick couldn’t identify it any more than that.  It was shooting at him with very large slug-throwers, cannons as the Earthers called them.

“Why are they attacking?” asked Biznap of the fat Galtorrian.

“Since the last war started, every ship you meet is an enemy craft.  We won’t survive if we don’t shoot them first.”  Stabharh didn’t wait for the fat one to answer.  Farbick supposed it was because war was the little lizard’s area of expertise.

“Well, come on!” squealed the fat Galtorrian, “before they kill me!   Shoot them!  Shoot them now!”

“We’ll be all right,” said Farbick, rolling away from the cannon fire.

“We will not!  That’s a top of the line space ship from the Overlord’s private fleet.  They will kill us just because we’re here!”  The fat fool Bahbahr was so frightened he squeaked when he talked… like a frightened child who was about to soil his pants.

“Don’t worry,” soothed Starbright with her calming female voice, “Farbick knows how to do this better than any Telleron pilot I know.”

Suddenly the cannon shot that Farbick couldn’t dodge came directly at the view screen.

“Aagh!  We are dead!” screeched Bahbahr.

The shot, however, exploded a fair distance away against the ship’s energy field.

“How did you do that?” asked Stabharh in amazement, and possibly enviously.

“Higher tech level than our enemy,” said Biznap smugly.  “Your people don’t even know how to generate a force field, let alone breach one with projectiles.”

“All right!” cried the fat Galtorrian.  “Now shoot him down.”

“Can’t do that.  We don’t carry ship to ship weaponry,” said Farbick.  “Defense only… the explorer’s code.”

“What?” growled Stabharh, “he’ll go back to Senator Tedhkruhz and relay our location.”

“He most certainly will not!” cried Biznap.  The Commander reached over to the proper switch on his control panel and flipped the cloaking mechanism on.

They heard the electric buzz of the device and saw the tell-tale shimmer across the viewing screen.  Moments later the enemy space craft began to drift away in a confused spiral search pattern.

“Why did they leave like that?” asked the fat Galtorrian.

“They lost visual contact and had to give up,” said Farbick.  “They can’t track what they don’t see.”

“You can be invisible?” crooned Stabharh.

“Of course we can,” crowed Biznap proudly.

“You must teach us this!” said the little lizard warrior.

“Now, hold on, junior,” said Biznap, “We still have an agreement to work out.  Are we still prisoners?”

“Well,” said the fat one, stalling, “we must still decide that matter.”

“Open to negotiation?” asked Biznap.

“Yes,” said Bahbahr in an oily voice.  “Definitely looking forward to bargaining.”

“We need coordinates to land,” said Starbright.  “You still haven’t explained where we are going.”

“I wanted to go to my secret base on Gundahl, the second moon of Galtorr Prime,” said the fat one.  “The bad guys will not find us there.  And very few of our enemies still have any kind of flight or space travel capability.”

“Which is the second moon?” asked Farbick with the navigation program pulled up on his pilot’s main computer.

“Gundahl is the big irregular one.  Rekhpahree had a base there too before the war.  The chunk missing from the moon is the result of Senator Tedhkruhz blasting it from orbit.  Melted moon-bits rained down on Galtorr Prime for a ten-cycle after that.”

“Okay,” said Farbick, “I have the moon locked in to the computer, but where on the moon?”

“The entrance to my base,” said Bahbahr, “is under the Silica Falls near the Sea of Black Bones on that big hunk of stone.”

“I see it,” said Farbick.  “We will go there directly.  But tell me, why do the names on your home-world all sound like a horror movie set?”

“You might as well ask, why do Galtorrians hate each other with such passion?” said Stabharh.

“Or why do Galtorrians eat each other after they have slain Galtorrians in battle?” said Bahbahr.

“Yes,” said Farbick.  “I want to know that too.  Why do you people eat each other?”

“We wish to absorb the fighting spirit of the defeated warrior,” said Stabharh.

“Personally,” said Bahbahr, somewhat cattily, “I just like the taste.”

“Yes,” agreed Stabharh, “I do also.  Especially in savory blood sauce.”

“Savory blood sauce?” asked Starbright as if she were about to be ill.

“Yeah, you know,” said Bahbahr, “What the Earthers call ketchup in those Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello movies.”

*****

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Writing Every Day

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These are volumes 3&4 of my daily journal that I have kept since the 1980’s.

Writing every single day is something I have been doing since 1975, my senior year in high school.  It is why I claim to be a writer, even though I have never made enough money at it to even begin to think of myself as a professional writer.  I kept a journal/diary/series of notebooks that I filled with junk I wrote and doodles in the margins up until the middle 90’s when I began to put all my noodling into computer files instead of notebooks.  I have literally millions of words piled in piles of notebooks and filling my hard drive to the point of “insufficient memory” errors on my laptop.  I am now 60 years old and have been writing every day for 42 years.

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There are days in the past where I only wrote a word, or a sentence or two.  But there were a lot of words besides the words in my journal.  I started my first novel in college.  I completed it the summer before my first teaching job in 1981.  I put it the closet, never to be thought of again, except when I needed a good cringe and cry at how terrible a writer I once was.  I have been starting, stopping, percolating, piecing together, and eventually completing novel projects ever since… each one goofier and more wit-wacky than the last.  So I have a closet full of those too.

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It would be wrong of me to suggest that my journals are only for words.  As a cartoon-boy-wannabee I doodle everywhere in margins and corners and parts of pages.  Sometimes the doodle is an afterthought.  Sometimes it precedes the paragraph.  Sometimes it is directly connected to the words and their meaning.

Sometimes the work of art is the main thing itself.

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But always, the habit of writing down words and ideas every single day takes precedence over every other part of my day.  That’s the main reason I am stupid enough to think of myself as a writer even though I don’t make a living by writing.

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But I did put my words into my profession too.  As a teacher of writing, I wrote with and to my students.  I did that for 31 years as a classroom teacher, and two years as a substitute.  I required them each to keep a daily journal (though they only got graded for the ones they wrote in class, and then only for reaching the amount of words assigned).  We shared the writing aloud in class, making only positive comments.  I wrote every assignment I gave them, including the journal entries.  They got to see and hear what I could write, and it often inspired them or gave them a structure to hang their own ideas upon.  And often they liked what I wrote and were surprised by it almost as much as I liked and was surprised by theirs.   Being a writer was never a total waste of time and effort.

So am I telling you that if you want to be writer you have to write every day too?  If I have to tell you that… you have totally missed the point.

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Scary Driving Stuff

Yesterday evening we didn’t pass a milestone… we kinda ran into it.

Number Two Son Henry is about to become a licensed driver in December.  Thursday night he finished his last drive time with driving school instructors.  We have to wait for the road test, but nothing really stands in his way.  He has been repeatedly practicing driving in Carrollton and Lewisville city traffic.  Over the summer and into the fall he has compiled hours worth of driving experience.   But, no matter how experienced, nearly everyone has at least one accident during their driving life.

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We had stopped at Wendy’s to get dinner after school, the three of us, the Princess, Henry, and I.  My diabetes was on the warpath yesterday, and I made the mistake of eating too much of a baked potato.  So, I asked him to drive even though it was Friday evening rush hour traffic.  He assured me he could handle it.

Well, we made the first turn onto the street on a yellow light and he accidentally caught the median curb with the driver’s side wheel.  Then, as we bounced into the traffic stopped at the next red light, we crunched into the backside of a lady’s car as it innocently waited for the light to turn green.

The air bags did not deploy.  There was no blood and death and fire.  My biggest worry was the fact that we were all shaken by the incident.  My hands were shaking anyway from blood sugar problems.  So, we put the emergency lights on.  I stupidly turned them off again.  Then the lady appeared at the driver’s side window with a look of utter horror on her face, her hands shaking worse than mine.  We exchanged insurance information.  She called the police to get an accident report, but they were busy and told us that if we could drive away from it, we should, and they would look into it later.  So, Henry realized the emergency lights were off and turned them back on.  We took pictures of the accident (see above).  Then we drove both cars into the Spring Creek Barbecue parking lot.  The damage turned out to be minimal, consisting of scratched paint on both cars.  There didn’t even appear to be dents.  Henry then drove us homeward, and we got him to work on time.  So it was basically a real-life jump scare that proved our hearts could still beat way faster than normal.  And Henry got the first-accident milestone done with, before he even got his license.  How fun!  But let’s not do it again soon.

 

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Stardusters… Canto 21

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Canto Twenty-One – In the Wreckage

The repaired anti-gravity coils were not one hundred per cent successful.  The station whirled to the surface of the planet in a flaming spiral that scattered red-hot sparks throughout the dirty brown clouds that made Galtorr’s atmosphere nearly solid.  The impact cracked the seal between the station and the space ship that had impaled it.  Smoke and toxic atmosphere rushed in.

“Ah!  The air stinks!” cried Menolly.

“The hostile environment suits!”  cried Tanith.  “Get them on!”

Everyone obeyed as quickly as they could peel themselves off the floor.  Alden and Gracie had trouble with the helmets since they were designed for beings with a head fin on their heads.  Brekka’s suit was almost too tight to put on.  She had to wriggle, pull, and squeal to get it on.  But when it was on and all she had to do was push a button to make it fit properly, she didn’t push it.  Davalon wasn’t exactly sure why, but he did notice her admiring the reflection of her shapely behind in a piece of interior chrome.

“What do we do now?” asked George Jetson.  He turned his helmeted eyes toward the intercom that had been their connection to Sizzahl.  “Sizzahl?  Are you still there?”

“Of course I am.  I’m not the one crashing through the atmosphere.  How many of you died?  Are the Earthers okay?”

“Is anybody dead?” George asked.  “Speak up if you’re dead!”

“We’re all okay,” said Tanith.  “I already counted all the survivors.  All seven of us made it into environment suits.”

“So, we’re all here.  What do we do next, Sizzahl?” Davalon asked the intercom.

“I need live plants.  Round up every live plant on the station and bring it to me.”

“Where do we find you?” asked George Jetson.

“Well, I need to have you tune your communicators into the intercom broadcast so I can talk to you and guide you.  This dome I am in is hidden well.  You will need to follow my directions very carefully to find me without guiding scabbies to my sanctuary.”

“Er…” said Menolly, “what are scabbies?  That doesn’t sound good.”

“There’s a movie called Night of the Living Dead, the Galtorrians’ favorite Earther movie, do you know it?”

“No.”  They were all quiet, but Davalon wondered what Alden was thinking.  He seemed to have heard of the movie.

“In the movie, dead people crawl out of their graves and eat the living people,” Sizzahl explained.  “That’s a little bit like the scabbies.  They are diseased, and they attack and eat anything they can get their rotten claws on.”

“Oh, no!”  Menolly fainted and her metallic helmet clunked against the floor of the station.

“Don’t worry.  If you can get here without being discovered by them, I am well protected here.  I am looking forward to having you here.  I’ve been alone for a very long time.”

“We are coming, Sizzahl,” said Tanith.  “Tell us how to tune our com units.”

As Sizzahl explained, Davalon looked at the plants the Galtorrian wanted.  They were rather browned and blighted.  He wasn’t sure they were really what Sizzahl wanted.  Still, gathering up the plants was not too much for her to ask.  After all, she had saved all of their lives.  By rights, Davalon and his crew of truants should all have died already for their mistakes.

*****

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Art Projects That Mickey Doo

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Mickey is suffering from too much politixity and angriefied argumentery to sleep well and eat well .   He has been eating , sleeping , and breathing polytix to the point that he can’t even spell properly any more .  Besides , pollertix doesn’t taste so good when you have to eat it after an election that went wrong . c360_2016-11-13-14-44-44-313

So Mickey started doing what Mickey always doo .   He started to draw.  First with pencil , then with black ink .   And then he started to color it in with colored pencil.  The spelling started to get better .  And not just because Mickey stopped having fist fights with the spell check . 20161113_202548

Other art projects helped too.  Like photographing Trolls in the Cardboard Castle . 20161113_202051

So, if the things that Mickey do help to save the brain , then he better doo before it all becomes doo doo.

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Concession Speeches

They keep saying, “Get over it, crybaby!” One suspects that there would’ve been far more angry lashing out on Facebook and elsewhere where the blue sphere and the red sphere intersect if the election had gone the other way.  But I get it.  They want to celebrate and glory in it.  The nyeah-nyeah-nyeahs are simply a bully’s way of expressing that.  The Trumpkins and the Trolls have their day in the sun.  Let’s hope the sunlight does for them the things it is purported to do for evil.

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But personally I am impressed with the grace and good will that Barack Obama and the Clintons have shown in their concession messages to the President-elect.  I am fairly sure that would’ve been different too if the election had gone the other way.  It seems, in fact, that Trump saying already he may preserve portions of the Affordable Care Act is a direct result of the professional approach used by the current President in talking to the President-elect about transition.  But there is much that remains on a newly defined battlefield that needs to be considered in the war to come.

Peaceful protests are going on everywhere, even in Texas.  (I know there has been some violence, but the intent is peaceful and protesting is our constitutional right.  Don’t even try to tell me the other side wouldn’t be doing worse.)  But we on the losing side accept that we lost.  Just as they now have the right to pursue their agenda, we have the right to defend ours.  And it is supposed to be the case that the argument results in a compromise for the benefit of all.  Let them consider our input.  If not, we still have those who defend us working on the case in Congress.

I am done with being fearful or sad.  I was already facing the darkness directly on a personal level.  I still intend to joke around a lot, and probably call Trump the Orangutan President, but humor is my weapon of choice against the darkness, the way I choose to shine my own small light.  I don’t believe in practically anything the new administration in this country stands for, but I didn’t during the Reagan and Bush eras either.  And there are always ways to find compromise and a solution to every problem.  I concede the election.  But I do NOT give up.  The fight itself may very well keep me alive a bit longer.  I am sure that makes old Cinnamon Hitler quake in his penny loafers.  (Yes, I know he has no idea I am even alive, but there are many things he has no idea about that he really should be worried about now.  Besides, exaggeration is a form of humor too, not just a tool for blow-hards to make themselves look bigger than they really are.)

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Stardusters… Canto 20

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Canto Twenty – Wing One Airborne Once More

The two lizardmen were both secured in the passenger seats in the cargo area of the wing.  The fat one was causing the anti-gravity compensators to work seventy-five percent harder, but Biznap and Farbick had always kept Wing One in tip-top shape.  It flew like an agile glide-wing aerial beast through the toxic fog of the Galtorrian skies.

“Why is there so little life left on this planet?” asked Farbick.

“I think a better question is why there is any life left at all?” said the fat one.

“What has happened to your planet?” asked Biznap.

“Great warriors rose up to do battle and win at all costs,” said the fat one.

“And while they did it, corporate parasites like Bahbahr here grew wealthy and horded all the best food, all the best technology… the best of everything,” said the little one.

“And warriors like Stabharh here destroyed the towns and cities and society that they claimed to be fighting for,” said the fat one.  “This one would not be alive if I hadn’t persuaded him to work for me and protect my interests instead of continuing the carnage.”

“It is possible to get tired of killing,” said Stabharh.  “I rather enjoyed it once, but when Grakknarh and I escaped from the scabbies I realized that there were really no more mountains to climb, or cities to burn.  A Galtorrian can’t live without something to strive for.”

Looking out the front viewing portal of Wing One, the crew and the two visitors could look down on the scarred and pitted landscape.  There were buildings of concrete and steel everywhere, but none were wholly intact.  Many were on fire, slow-burning fires that produced long dark plumes of greasy smoke and bits of burning rubbish.  No green was visible anywhere.  The colors of the landscape were brick-red from rubble, burnt orange from open flame and firelight, black from soot and cinders, and filthy brown from dirt and sewage.   It was a sad and basically repulsive landscape.

“If you’ve stopped destroying things,” Starbright thoughtfully asked Stabharh, “then what keeps you alive?  What do you live for now?”

“Keeping Bahbahr alive and carrying out my assignments in spite of scabbies, fires, and loss of will has become a game.  It keeps getting harder, especially now that Grakknarh is dead.  I don’t want to do it forever, but it only ends when the scabbies kill and eat me.  I’m not particularly looking forward to that.”

“I don’t know why you are so gloomy,” said Bahbahr.  “I couldn’t be any happier.  With most of the population of Galtorr gone, look at all the resources lying around ready for me to claim them as my own.  I may already be the richest man on the planet.”

“You may be the only man on the planet soon enough,” said Stabharh.

“I can live with that,” said Bahbahr with a grin that chilled Farbick to the bone.

*****

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Farbick

 

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Stop What You’re Doing and Fix It!

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The gate leading to the pool was broken.

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The pool itself was broken.  See all the cracks?

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So the city inspector said, “Fix it or else!”

I had some old boards from the fence I took down.  And as an Iowa farm boy, I have skills.

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So I fixed it.  For less than $20 .  New hinges and corner brackets, but I used old nails.

Now, to repair the danged pool my own little self.

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Filed under cleaning genii, feeling sorry for myself, grumpiness, homely art, humor, new projects, photo paffoonies, work in progress

What Mickey is Really Up to Now

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I have not been well.   Six incurable diseases combined with colder, wetter weather will do that.

But Mickey has been busy.  Yes, my goofy writer alter ego has been pecking away at a novel that pushes the boundaries of “strange” into a purple dimension where having a president that looks like a racist sour-lemon-flavored cookie dipped repeatedly in Orange Fanta with fingers covering the eye holes almost makes sense.

The novel is called Rezepte für Lebkuchen-Kinder which translates to Recipes for Gingerbread Children.  The more I let Mickey work on it, the stranger it gets.  It currently is about an old German lady who lives in a little Iowa town where she likes to bake gingerbread for children.  But it is also a fairy tale where the fairies of Tellosia are still fighting their never-ending war against darkness.  And in this story with a magical fairy war in it, there are gingerbread men who magically come to life.  There are also teenage nudists, evil Nazis from the past, fairy tales that can solve life’s problems, and a lurking possibility of werewolves.  (This is a companion novel to The Baby Werewolf and happens simultaneously to that story.)  It has hit the 20,000 word mark.  And you know how novel writing works.  Too many words all put together into the same thing will magically merge and metastasize into book form.  I know this is true, because I’ve seen Mickey do it before.

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Grandma Gretel Stein talking with fairy General Tuffaney Swift.

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Trolls, Wish-niks, and Garden Gnomes

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(From left to right)  My green-haired Wish-nik from 1966, my teacher troll from 1990, Poppy, and the wizard troll from 1992 (with the garden gnome in the background)

Okay, here is some bad news for a guy who suffers from hoarding disorder, especially when it comes to things like dolls and toys that he can play with while he’s supposed to be trying to be a writer in his burned-out sick-bed retirement.  They are making a movie about Trolls at Dreamworks… and there are dolls already on sale.

The city is after me to repair the house and yard on the outside, especially the cracked swimming pool that now only seems to hold bug-water for brewing the next generation of West Nile and Zika squeetoes to bite me and immediately die from the toxic chemicals already in my sick old blood.  I need to do more than just put mosquito poison in the water.  They say I must have the filter operating and it must be clear enough to see the drain in the bottom of the deep end.  Pool repair guy says the crack repair is in the neighborhood of $14,000, which is $16,000 more than I have to spend right now.  I’m already not buying medicine any more for my six incurable diseases.  I’m also not going to the doctor any more because he will just yell at me for not taking medication anymore… even though I actually feel better not having taken the blood pressure medicine for over a year now.  So the plan is to clean and repair the pool myself.  This apparently will satisfy the trolls at the city inspector’s office, at least until I die from the cold and rain we seem to be getting now.

But those aren’t the trolls I meant to write about today.  I am writing about the little troll doll named Poppy that I bought for $5 yesterday at Walmart.  She’s the pink one in the middle of my photo-paffooney.  The one that’s not a nudist like the rest of my remaining troll collection.  (My daughter, the Princess, played with my troll collection of over 20 troll dolls when she was smaller and decided they all needed hair cuts and make-overs that completely altered them and eventually murdered them when she learned to cut and melt plastic.)

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A troll corpse from the garage, murdered by make-up and partially eaten by rats.

So, the movie will feature a number of different trolls, the corresponding toys for which are already on sale in places where I will not be able to help myself from collecting the entire goofy little crew.  And I do not have any place for them to live.  I had to remove a section of Booggloopenstein Castle just to display the old trolls for a photo-paffooney.  They will take over the house.  And I know I should be out working on the pool instead of plotting where to put more trolls.  But I just can’t help it.  There is something irresistible about collecting ugly and goofy toys.

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Filed under collecting, doll collecting, feeling sorry for myself, foolishness, humor, nudes, Paffooney, photo paffoonies, strange and wonderful ideas about life