Monday, March 20, 2006


My Family Crest Yesterday, I felt the need to slay my hunger. What was my chosen death-dealing device? Yellow Dye #5 of course. Unfortunately, any and all snack foods are contained within our Fortress' barely-functioning vending machine. It won't accept my finance (in either paper or coin form), purchased goods get lodged in between the spiraling harnesses and some of the rations have no doubt long surpassed their expiration dates. The Sphinxter brand cupcakes, for example, display a Sphynxface on its wrapping most noticeably still possessing its schnoz.

If spite could manifest itself in physical form, it would no doubt resemble our confection-spitting abomination. I mean, really, what is more devious than the idea of a non-functioning vending machine?
Products high in sodium
Su-Mortal Enemy

I will share with you my typical experience in dialogic form.
Hello! Here are some tasty things housed in my plexiglas belly. Gaze upon them! But, despite the fact that you possess the necessary prerequisites (i.e. tender, desire and motor-function), I will not dispense these pleasures to you. I mock your unhealthy dietary choices.

Actually, now that I think about it, perhaps it is doing me a service. No matter! I will not be scorned by an inanimate object unless, of course, that object happens to be the Fortress' VCR's clock. I decided to vindicate the imprisoned treats with heavy munitions. Unfortunately, our lair suffered appreciable splash damage.
Coin Return

The Sphynxter cakes survived, however. At the very least, I now know what will be sustaining the cockroaches and Joan Rivers when your inevitable apocalypse takes place.
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Friday, March 17, 2006

Taking a Dump Truck

My Family Crest I would wager that you, the reader, thought that the Mooser Extravaganza had come to a close. Oh no. Fate has deemed this story worthy of a trilogy. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any Ewok celebration in sight.

Mooser and I were driving down the highway the other day, and out of the bed of an uncovered dump truck a cruel rock of windshield spite came tumbling down the highway. It hopped with tangible glee at the no-doubt unavoidable rendezvous with Mooser's windshield. We swerved and lurched in a fruitless attempt to avoid the splenetic stone. But with every course alteration, the moose-seeking marble seemed to slightly correct its attack vector on the next bounce, until it delivered its stinging kiss.

Swearwords will not suffice. I need swearsentences.

As the crack completely encompassed my line of vision, we needed to replace Mooser's entire windshield to stay street-legal. The windshield replacement technician only suffered three comminuted fractures at the hooves of Mooser in the reparation process. And, as they say, three out of four broken limbs ain't bad.

With the recovery out of the way, only vengeance could follow. So, Mooser and I began our campaign of Dump Truck Windshield Penance. We visited no less than 40 strip mines, quarries and tipper truck car washes in our breaklust, and by the end, I believe that we ousted our anger demons. Although Mooser wasn't contented until he donkey kicked over a few ice cream trucks as well.
Long Haul
Can you hear me now?

Let that be a lesson to all negligent dump truck operators. Cover your beds or be covered in lacerations.
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Thursday, March 16, 2006

Decay, Mortis-Rigor, Vexation

My Family Crest After relating my Emissions Inspection anecdote, I thought I might share with you, the sequel... Renewing my license to operate the motor vehicle that I had inspected for criminal emanations.

Mooser and I arrived, and I tied him off outside. Things started off fine as the line number dispenser was in easy view and no one was attending it. My suspicions began to form though as I realized the line numbers themselves were in hieroglyphics.

What are you looking at?

As I entered the building I was stunned with the churning, human mass that stood before me. The line that had formed was almost an organism in and of itself due to the fact that several complex systems such as a digestive tract and nervous system had spontaneously coalesced. As there was nowhere else to go, I took my place at the business end of the line.

After the 45th consecutive hour of waiting in queue, a team of forensic anthropologists and paleontologists entered the building to examine the remains of the Bird-th guy in line. They brought all manner of archeological toolitry, so it was quite educational. Around this time, they called his ... number... glyph... picture... whatever, and since he was in no state to renew anything, I relieved him of his place in line. I gave him my line number, though, just in case he ever came around.

After some sparkling banter with the DMV attendant, I was able to finalize my transactions and take my place in line for my new license photo. Fortunately, this process was computerized, so I spent a paltry 33.3 seconds in line. My attendance prize was yet another wonderful if not miniature portraiture of myself to carry around in convenient wallet-sized proportions.

I blinked
I had a question, but the computer ignored me before taking the shot.

As I exited the bureau I was able to discern what Mooser had been occupying his time with during my wait at the DMV. They have begun designing the new DMV parking lot.
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Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Cootie Pie

My Family Crest As there is not one single villain worthy of defeat or organization deserving of covert abolition on this planet, I've decided that my talents must be put to use or risk atrophy. Therefore, I have decided to snuff out certain unpleasantnesses that have apparently been given a hall pass by your society as far as continued existence is concerned.

I hope that I'm not forgetting anything.

I speak of course of cooties, the common cold, fast food, reality TV, mosquitoes, Pi, pie, bedbugs, 4 p.m. meetings, 8 a.m. meetings, something referred to as Diffy Queue, the Boogyman, The Man, people that turn, face down, the photos of other people's infants, Golden Skulltullas, the squeaky wheel, spam, telemarketers and licorice. I will begin with cooties.

How insidious is a thing that stalks children? If this evil chose to afflict either infancy or adolescence, then at least ignorance (in the case of the former) or apathy (in the case of the latter) would deal with it in time. No, it only concerns itself with your offspring aged 5-12. How vulgar!

Bug Spray
He's even giving a gang symbol!

Hopefully, it will take me more than a week to address all of these issues.
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Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Emissions Introspection

My Family Crest I received a notice from our state governmental body declaring that I needed to submit my Earth transportation machine to a series of tests to ensure that it would both operate safely and within the acceptable bounds of toxic emissions. It is humorous to me that your government concludes that there are acceptable bounds to pollutants, and that they are just not restricted outright. As if there is a just-peachy amount of compound fractures one is capable of enduring... Regardless, as a law-abiding (and most times enforcing) citizen I considered it my duty to comply.

Imagine the look on the faces of the Emission Inspection Engineers when I rolled up on Mooser.

A moose by any other name...

This is my mount, Mooser. He's a Transmender meaning that he can take the form of whatever he pleases by enacting micro transformations throughout his hull. He is not bound to any kind of silly limitation like a set of pre-defined transformations. Oh, no. Moose, plane, boat, train... Whatever vehicular manifestation I need, Mooser provides.

We would've passed with aviating colors had it not been for the oily rag I had fashioned into a makeshift gas cap. They assured us that if we simply returned with our paperwork and a new, environmentally cognizant fuel cork, then everything would be right as rain. What they forgot to addendumize, though, is exactly what kind of rain everthing would resemble.

Namely, they were referring to the acidic type. Upon return to the station with the proper fuel storage stoppage device, we were met with a line of cars so long that it began where it ended. Mooser began to quake with agitation, so I dismounted and promptly took my paperwork and cap into the office area. I was non-promptly told that I would have to wait in line where a technician (i.e. the person talking to me) would be able to better examine the gas cap. Mooser overheard this and actual-promptly began airing his grievances upon to the facility, crew and landmarks surrounding the testing station.
At least there's plenty of parking now.

They have begun designing the new Emissions Inspection Facility.
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