missunderstood07 replied to your post: missunderstood07 replied to your post: Neglected…

well in sherk 2 the donkey said “i’m coming elizabeth!” when he passed out, so I’m gonna assume that its the same reference. and if im right then i think iknow what its supposed to mean. haha

Great, now dozens of my followers probably think that I was making a Shrek joke.

Ladies and gentlemen, please note: I will never make a fucking Shrek joke.

missunderstood07 replied to your post: Neglected Tweet Roundup: 12.19.10 - 12.25.10

you know that i think you are “sogoddamnclever” but i wasn’t really amused by those. I still really like you though lol

My truly funny ones are starting to get more recognition since I began tweeting in earnest again, but these are my favorites of the ones that were not.  However, the “Here I come, Elizabeth!” one would be fucking hilarious to you if you weren’t too young to remember Sanford & Son.  Trust me on this.

Neglected Tweet Roundup: 12.19.10 - 12.25.10

My weekly roundup of the tweets that didn’t get as much love as I thought they deserved.

  • I can already tell that I’m gonna waste this day like an undercover cop. Whoa. Mafia flashback.
  • My roommate’s making dinner for me. I haven’t checked to see if she’s barefoot, but everything appears to be in order otherwise.
  • The deliciousness of my lunch can best be communicated thusly: “Here I come, Elizabeth!”
  • Does anybody know where I can get a wheelbarrow and some quicklime and some counseling for my catastrophic attraction to plus-sized hookers?

This has been the neglected tweet roundup for December 25, 2010.

My parents are having some serious financial hardship.  My girlfriend dumped me in the fall.  I don’t have the sort of friends who deem me gift-worthy.  I can’t afford to buy anybody anything, and I suck at gift-giving anyway.  All Christmas is to me this year is a particularly terrible time at my retail hell job.

Yeah, yeah, I know…Christmas is REALLY about companionship and love and all of that shit…go tell it to the mall.  My parents are forgiven; I told them not to get me anything.  But there is nobody else in this world who cares enough about me to give me a cheapo trinket of some kind?  Apparently not.

Back in my teen years, I flirted with the idea of not celebrating Christmas at all.  Of course, my mother wouldn’t have that.  But I’m not a Christian, and I really don’t care for the gaudy trappings of this consumer orgy we wrap in fake spirituality anyway.

So, yeah.  I’ll go to a couple parties, see some friends…but I think I’m done with Christmas, for now, anyway.

I really don’t see the point any more, and I’m fine with that.  There is no federal law stating that I have to love Christmas.  Gimme Halloween and Thanksgiving and fuck this holiday right in the manger.

jesserelly replied to your post: My Christmas Message

There are different types of love and I think many if not all of the people who used “love” in the xmas posts meant it. Bah humbug to you, sir. And I love you even if you just like me!

There is romantic love.  There is love for family.  There is intense Platonic love of the Holmes/Watson variety.  There is the often counterfeit Judeo-Christian brotherly love of all mankind that I’ve never really seen evidence of outside of a soup kitchen on photo-op day.  But “love” is not what you call it when you really dig somebody and think they’re cool and wish them well.  That is fondness.  That is something different.

I am fond of you.

I love about 4 people, and it’s a pretty tough club to get into.

My Christmas Message

Everybody else is doing it, so why not me?

I’ve noticed that the word “love” is popping up in a lot of these greetings: “I love all you guys,” “I love my followers,” “Thank you for all the love,” etc.

Well, I don’t love any of you.  I like a lot of you a whole bunch, and I’m sexually attracted to many of you, but no…not love.  Love means a particular thing, not just that you’re really fond of somebody.  I wonder if anybody actually understands that?

I don’t know any of you well enought to love you, but you’re all nice people.  You make every day funnier than it would be without you, and I hope you all have a nice holiday.

But I don’t love you.  We’re not in middle school anymore: we’re adults who should know what that word really means.

Happy Holidays.

Random Pulp Paragraphs #1

From “Agony Acres,” by Samual Douris, 1988

Mark slammed open the door to Mr. Farrin’s private study, startling the rolling millionaire and his two cybered Dobermans, who both dropping into a defensive stance, their red eyes narrowing with promised violence.

“Tash and Levert are scraped,” announced Mark with slumped shoulders and blank face, everwhere smeared with blood and grime.  He carried a stainless case in one hand, a black market toxthrower in the other.  Behind him, Brinks and Module didn’t look any happier; while Mark’s posture was one of loss and grief, his companions were primed for payback.

Farrin buzzed from around the desk, his cyber-incompatible body seemingly twisted even worse than usual by his disease.  “I see,” he said.

The toxthrower twitched.  “No, you don’t fucking see, downmeat.  Tash and Levert are strawberry skidmarks back on 19.  They didn’t make it to the offramp before there were Nisiki soldiers all over them.  I watched Tash’s face melt on the speedway, fucker.”  Mark’s eyes glimmered with fresh tears.

“Your sister knew the risks, as did you, Lainwright.  Thus the generous compensation for the run, which, by the way, you are now each entitled to a larger portion of.”  Farrin wheeled up close.  The dogs followed, low to the floor.  “Pardom my lack of empathy, but I didn’t know any of you until three days ago, and, honestly, I don’t care about anything except that steel briefcase you’re carrying, sir.  May I have it?”

“Are you ready to make the transfer?”

“I need only call my banker and give him the go code.”

“Pips 2 mil,” growled Module, flexing his fists.

Farris smiled condescendinly.  “You streets and your jargon,” he said quietly.  “Yes, that is correct.”

Brinks suddenly stepped from the back, his face twisted into a sneer of pure hate, his hands gesticulating wildly.  “Enough fucking mouth!  You need to ‘compensate’ us for Tash and Lev—yyyeaaaAUUGGCCCHH!”  The dogs were on him instantly.  One took out his legs.  The other clamped his steel teeth shut on Brinks’ throat.  Blood jetting.  Ripping, tearing.  Chunks of meat and Brinks’ head rolling free from his body.  The dogs released their prey and shook their heads, splattering Mark with blood.  They trotted back over to Farrin, gore dripping a trail from their jaws.

Mark was perfectly still.  Module’s large frame was shuddering.

Farrin smiled.  “It you think you are quick enough to get all three of us with that street-market contraption you’re carrying, Lainwright, go right ahead.  I already have to dispose of one body, now…adding a couple more isn’t going to matter at this point.”

Mark dropped the case to the ground.  “You are a rancy piece of trot,” he said.

“Yes, yes…I assume I was just insulted.  Do you want to be rich, now?”

Mark risked a peak at Brinks’ ravaged body.  “Yeah,” he growled.  “I guess I do.”

——-

Samual Douris is a writer of cyberpunk and speculative fiction who always seemed to be on the verge of a breakout he never achieved.  The story excerpted above was published in New Chrome, a magazine dedicated to cyberpunk fiction and technology news.  It folded two months later, which is par for the course with Douris.  Of the various periodicals who have published his work, more than half of them no longer exist, their ends coming pretty swiftly after his publication.  He now manages a screen-printing company and publishes his fiction online at www.SamualDouris.com.