Tales of BLOGTRONIC: Kurt Russell (Part 1)

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I was wandering, and it was hot. Hot and dusty. Also, windy. The wind was blowing the dust around. The hot wind. Get where I’m going with this? The dust was getting into all the cracks and crevices and really cheesing me off hard. Time to get some shelter, some shade, maybe a quick lube, a beer, and the company of a lady in the mood to come like a banshee.

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light, and before I had time to think of the dangerous ramifications of this Eagles song I was about to stumble into, I realized that it was not an overwrought metaphor I was approaching but a roadside salloon. Hopefully, just the place to give this weary, Earth-walking robot what he needed.

And in a fucking hurry.

The place was dark, greasy. Sawdust on the floor soaked with blood and beer. TV set in the corner: a rodeo clown getting a horn up the ass. Jukebox playing some twangy, weepy song about a lost lover or a dog or the time the Gubmint took all the singer’s money and gave it to some welfare fags. The bartender was all beard and biceps. His mouth was a billboard advertisement for PoliGrip and Efferdent, and there was no doubt that his natural ivories had been the victims of an unnatural and violent fate that he was more than willing to share with the first person to piss him off.

My Kind of Place (TM).

A few glances were cast my way, but since this was a seedy roadside bar on US Highway 666, a dusty droid was probably the least weird thing these guys had seen this morning. As if confirming this, something in the dingiest corner booth waved a tentacle at me, and the pirate shooting pool with the anthropomorphized armadillo quite ostentatiously swatted a pixie out of the air with his prehensile tail while scoping his next shot.

But there was not a lady in the place. Not a single vagina in this forest of penises.

That was going to put a damper on my plans for the afternoon.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Gathering Storm

The steadfast loyalty of Inspector Hecatomb Redoubtable is proving to be one of my few allies against the dark forces which would pervert and destroy this world.  One by one, the Order absorbs my acquaintances, using the vast funds at Braithwhaite’s disposal to lure them from the white path of nobility and honor.

I am feeling more alone than ever.

I am even beginning to suspect my old school chum Darby McTurncoat of falling victim to the Order’s sway.  I have so few friends left!  My days are spent skulking along the shadowy, cobwebbed corridors of Marsden Manor, seeing enemies at every turn.  Every strike of lightning seems to illuminate another!

Late at night, I seek comfort in the memory of my lost Evemelda, lost at sea ten years ago today.  If only she were here to comfort me in my hour of need!

Hark!  Is that a knock upon the old manor’s door?

Friend or foe, I wonder?

The odds favor the latter.

Revolver in hand, I approach the portal, still thundering with the hammering from without, with trepidation and no small amount of resignation.

Oh, also, I’ve decided I’m disgusted with the hook-up culture on Tumblr and Twitter and have decided to no longer assume that anybody I speak to online isn’t a total skank.

Sometimes, I Think...

…I’m too old-fashioned for this world.  Being an unabashed pervert and also having very 19th-Century attitudes toward fidelity, trust, friendship and sexual responsibility is no picnic.  I am constantly disappointed by people, especially when I may have held them in too high a regard in the first place, thinking that they, like me, were, now matter how perverted, still fairly harmless.

If I could just live in a flat with my Platonic gentleman friend and solve perplexing mysteries for a living, I think I’d be in heaven.  Then I would fake my own death in Switzerland and travel around the world in secrecy dismantling a vast criminal empire, until, years later, I approach my steadfast friend in disguise and dramatically reveal my true identity before embarking on an all-new series of mysterious adventures that would delight the British reading public.

I Don't Like...

…women who are complicit in hurting other women that I am fond of.  I also don’t like whores.  I flirt plenty with a lot of ladies on here, but the fact of the matter is that if it came right down to it, I would never hurt Jill like that.  I know that in my heart.

But some people just don’t give a fuck who they hurt as they spread their slime-trail across the country, and there’s no room in my circle of friends for bitches who think drinking cum is something that happens when friends “hang out”.

Your actions have repercussions, bitch.

Adieu.

They're Not All Winners

Last night (technically, this morning) at work, two co-workers were discussing a woman who one was really attracted to, but the other wasn’t too hot on.  The first co-worker remarked that maybe it was just the woman’s pheromones, that whenever he got next to her, he just lost his mind.

At that point, I said, “Once, I was really in love with a koala, but looking back now, I think it might have just been his bear-omones!”

In my defense, it was around 4 o’clock in the morning and I was incredibly tired.