New Employee Orientation


Do I got stories?

Fuck, do I ever.

OK, here’s one that’ll let you know what you’re in for. So each kid’s profile name has a number attached to it, right? Like James-12? You probably figured out we’ve been through eleven so far. Yup. Freaked me out too at first, but it’s not like they all died. I mean, some of them died. Maybe half. I don’t exactly know. But sometimes the parents change their minds, or the kid goes to bed ten years old one night and wakes up twenty-five, or sometimes they just…disappear. Spooooky, right?

You have no idea. 

Remember that blackout that happened about three months ago? Knocked out half the Midwest? No, sorry, ‘course you don’t. So about three months ago, Rich—he was one of our Day Nannies who pulled yard duty that week—gets it into his head that the kids should learn how to play catch.

And these kids…it’s charitable to say that they are not athletes. Like, they can tell you how much change is in your pockets, and they make your fillings vibrate when they walk by, and they can move Scrabble tiles with their minds, so they don’t have a lot of actual use for hand-eye coordination.

No one but the Nannies thinks of them as real kids, especially not the higher-ups. Like, I got suspended for a week after I showed some ZooBooks to John-13 and he wouldn’t shut up about the Aquarium and the sea lions and the dolphins and on and on. Dave got replaced after he smuggled in an old turntable and a shitload of records with the incoming laundry—he thought it might work since it’s mostly analog, unlike all the iPods and laptops the kids have fried just by being themselves. I’m not allowed to sing around them, or whistle, or anything. It sucks.

I mean, you maintain a healthy respect, you know what they’re capable of, but they’re still little kids. They’re just cute little kids. Unless they’re, you know, manifesting ectoplasm or some shit. Probably easier to keep them compliant when they don’t know what they’re missing.

So anyhow, this moron Rich pulls out this a goddamn NERF football he brought in. Safety first, right? And he somehow gets his kids in a circle—one’s in a wheelchair, one’s got leg braces, the other two, James-3 and John-13, are more or less standing on their own power—and he starts this game going. Like that scene, you know, from “Awakenings?” Robin Williams movie? And that scene where he gets those people in wheelchairs playing coma-catch in a circle? Priceless. It’s a good movie, sad, but that part makes me laugh my ass off. Yeah, I know you think it’s funny.

Anyway, these kids have a groove going until Rich decides to up the difficulty level, and he throws this perfect spiral pass to James-3 who takes it right in the face. It knocks him off his pins and onto his ass, and everyone in the yard just stops breathing because it’s our job to keep these kids HAPPY with two capital “P”s—for “Piss-your-Pants if they freak out.”

And James-3 FREAKS THE FUCK OUT. He’s lying on his back in the dirt, kicking and flailing, but totally silent. There’s this weird smell, like ozone, and James stops spazzing and sits up and just starts to scream like a normal kid, but under it we hear this hum—like the transformer for a model train set warming up, right?

And we’re covering our ears and grinding our teeth waiting for it to stop when James starts to collapse. Like an accordion, or like a poster getting pushed backward into a hole in the wall. He backs into the empty air like a black hole special-effect from the movies. Like someone is folding him up a little at a time and pulling him through an opening we can’t see. And the noise gets higher and louder the smaller he gets, until all that’s left is his mouth hanging in the air, and it opens backward over itself, turns inside out and twists up like a Red Vine and fucking vanishes.

Right then, cities from Bismarck to Evanston go dark as Antarctica’s asshole for, like, ten minutes, but ten minutes is forever when you’re on the new grid, you know? People notice that shit. And two days later we got James-4. I don’t know if they got the other James back from wherever he went, or if they Built James-4, or what, but here’s the thing: it’s the same kid, same face, same everything, except James-4 is a girl. Yup. So is James-12, in case you hadn’t noticed. They keep the kids’ hair pretty short.

Anyhow, Rich got reassigned and I inherited his play group. We play chess, mostly. It sucks. None of the kids talk much about the ones that disappear. But they want to. They ask questions. I don’t know what to tell them.


You look good. I mean, it’s basically my face, so I’m biased. But no black eye, no broken nose. You’re definitely taking this better than I did.

What happened? Mom always said not to play ball in the house. Brady Bunch. Never mind. Goddammit. It’ll come to you eventually. Things are still cooking up there, cable guy’s still doing his thing. Ye olde Comcast-style punctuality.

I’mma give you the short version. IV’s kicking into high gear, gonna get chatty. Chatty-er. Blah. So I wake up in my funerals-and-weddings suit, the one I wore to Dad’s funeral. The one you’re wearing now. The one I thought I was gonna be buried in after I got the biopsy results. I reach to rub my eyes and my arms are restrained, then I see all those faces on the other side of the glass and I think I’m in a fucking euthanasia booth, goddamn clinic gave up my name and my number got pulled out of the big hat in Washington and I’m gonna die, right here.

Meanwhile they’re trying to stand me up, get me up and moving and my knees go out from under me. And this tech, nicest guy you could hope to meet who happens to be metal and silicone from the waist down, grabs my arm to keep me from falling and I just punch him in the mouth. Cue dogpile. I take a walkie in the face when the fat one lands on me. Bit him in the arm and he had to get a tetanus shot and the Rabies III series and if you don’t like needles, try seventy-five of them in two weeks. We are not friendly, he and I. Him and me. Us.

Okay. First of all? The orientation video is bullshit. Forget the pictures they showed you—those yearbook pictures, with everyone smiling like real people, even the kids? Yeah, you’re never gonna meet those kids. Stock photo models.

The kids are definitely cute enough when you meet them, but no one can agree on what they actually look like, so someone goes to Shutterstock and collects a generic handful of white kids, a generic handful of brown kids, and a generic Asian boy and girl. Close enough for government work. Ha! What a funny guy we are.

Yeah, when we started they tried a zillion ways to document the process. Knocked the kids out, tried taking each picture six different times, put the kids in groups of three or less so they wouldn’t fog the film. Yup, actual film. Then they scan the negatives and put it together in Photoshop. Looked terrible. You can’t use a digital camera on the kids; electronics go all bugshit. Security cameras were a bust; nothing but snow and local television signals and shit that happened in the same spot but fifty years ago or ten minutes in the future.

Shit was surreal. Whatever that even means anymore. After a few months here you’ll pretty much abandon any concept of “reality” outside of the whole “consensual hallucination” whatchama-thing. I mean, who knows what anything really looks like?  Like, our eyes are just crappy lens-bags made out of meat and water and blood and stuff hooked up to bundles of nerve endings with poorer conductivity than aluminum. It’s like that old question: does this color look the same to you as it does to me? Maybe my red is your green and so on.

Anyhow, what I’m saying is don’t freak when you see them in person. When you see what John-16 looks like when he’s doing his thing? Yeesh. You saw them on the monitors, right? The only time cameras work is if they’re dead or sleeping. No, they’re not dead, you asshole. Just in a medically-induced coma. Even when they’re not hooked up to the drips they sleep, like, twenty hours a day. But they’re still working hard, trust me, somewhere inside their little bio-engineered monkey skulls.

We’ve never gotten this far before, apparently. I helped make this happen. We’ve always been good with kids. That’s why we’re still here. That’s why they Built you. In case I can’t deliver. You’re the next me. Makes a guy feel really special, right? Unique. Or “we”-nique. Get it?

Yeah, I know. Too soon.


Blah blah blah, I know. You wanna know more about the kids—everyone wants to know more about the kids, where they came from, what they do.

Short answer: I don’t know. I mean, if you look at them one at a time it’s nothing special, nothing that makes that much sense even. You’re thinking X-Men, mutant kids with powers, but that’s nowhere close to the real deal. These kids haven’t got big flashy abilities, they just have this mix of genes and whatnot that kind of strains the fabric of stuff when you bring them together. I don’t one hundred percent get it, but that’s how they like it. They keep the Nannies out of the loop. They want us clever, but not smart. Kind, but not loving. No attachments, no living relatives—duh, top-secret blah blah. But also because the kids…once you get near them, they can use what you know. In crazy-ass ways.

Don’t stress out over it; it takes a lot of them, not just one or two. I mean, two is enough, trust me, but it takes all twelve to make the big stuff happen. You get why it took this long for anyone to figure out how it all works, because there were never enough of them in one place for things to get truly weird.

But then all the EuGen people came out of hiding with their creepy made-to-order kids and met up with those StormWatch assholes at this protest over cloned organs. Weather starts to turn, electronics act up, everyone thinks, “solar flares” or whatever. No big, right? And then this fucking kid, this bike messenger with a 185 IQ and an aggressive brain tumor sets off an “explosive device.” WHAM. Helicopters, shaky cam cell videos, media blackout, official version of events. The rest is history, as they say.

Everyone thinks that footage was censored, but let me reassure you that no one, and I mean no one, has a recording of that shit. All anyone saw was the aftermath. Dust everywhere, bits raining down like the YouTube vid of those idiots who blew up that beached whale. Except the bits used to be people. The smoke clears and there’s twelve little kids lying in the middle of a crater full of…parts.

But the kids weren’t dead. And you know what the explosive device was determined to be? An M-80. A jumped-up fucking firecracker. An M-80 can pulverize your hand, blow up a toilet or a trash can. It can’t make a fifty-yard hole in the ground filled with two hundred or so former protestors. Cue investigation. Cue quarantine and closed-door meetings and a fuckton of money changing hands. The rest is classified.

Wanna know what really happened? I can tell you. I was there. Also, in about forty-eight hours you’ll remember enough of it that you’ll be wanting some answers.

Nothing happened. Like, NOTHING happened to us. Nothingness happened. Everything was there and then it wasn’t, like I dropped into a sensory deprivation tank except no background noise, no heartbeat, no whooshing blood in my ears. No reference points I could use to locate myself in space or time except this vague sense of “just happened.” All I could do was hang on to this last bit of fading memory. Like everything I had ever been was just this warm me-shaped divot in a mattress and it was cooling, filling back in, and then I would be gone.

Then the bomb went off. And next thing I know I’m punching nurses and biting guards and saving the world. Theoretically.

Wanna hear something awful? You know that poor sponge-brain who bombed the protest? I hear there was just about enough of him left to make into a burger. They called the meat “Ground Zero.”

I said it was awful.

Yeah, I know. Too soon.


So, how they paying you? Yeah, “with money,” ha ha, fuck off. I mean, how much? Like, are we on the same pay scale, or do you get less because…you know what I’m saying. Or do you get more? Did they…fix things in you or put stuff in you that make you worth more than me?

Fair enough. Who would have told you, why would they have told you? We’re their little sugar babies, don’t know who’s paying, don’t care. It feels military, but what doesn’t these days? And when you get right down to it, who cares? There’s no check or anything, no paper that says money changed hands, but I’m taken care of. There’s an account. And the apartment. And the fridge is always full, and the closet, and I’ve got the Mark, and that works in the commissary for pretty much anything else I need. And I can walk around anywhere on the grounds without having to know exactly how many people are watching me. Which makes a difference after a lifetime of eyes on you all day, soldiers and security guards everywhere you go, and you see them and the faces they make when they watch you do the littlest thing, like they can’t help being disgusted or disappointed, or both. So that’s nice. Different. Weird but good.

But what they pay to keep me is nothing on the money they shell out on the Creche. You’re gonna freak when you see it from the inside. That’s where they keep the kids, the Built ones and the ones that just happen. That’s where you’re headed. It’ll blow your mind. Literally? Yeah, that happened once. Bad day at the office. 

You’ll start out as a Day Nanny. They’ll give you your group assignment—four kids, one you, three dozen sets of eyes on you twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five. Nine days out of ten it’s the easiest work you could hope for. No fighting, no jealousy, nothing. These kids belong together. They fit together. Like, everything they do, they do as a group. They don’t all go to the restroom at the same time like girlfriends or anything, it’s just like…everything they do is a team effort. You watch them all holding this shape together when they walk, with all their individual weirdnesses and whatsits making one big one like the ridges on a key. Or like with aerodynamics—where there are these things you add to the surface of a ball that make it drop or rise, like the stitches on a baseball or the dimples on a golf ball and the spin you put on them to make them curve.

It’s weird too, because you can feel how everything wants to make these kids happy. Like there’s this downhill slope everything’s on to the place where the key fits. You can’t help wanting to make it happen.

Remember that time we went skydiving when I won a thousand bucks on a scratch-off ticket? It was out of an old C-17, no door on the side, and we all thought we were going to DIE. And we all went tandem, which sucks because when you’re spread out like a flying squirrel and you feel yourself sticking out in every direction, holding things back, making the air rough, adding drag, all you wanna do is pull everything in, tuck your arms and your head, curl up and feel yourself drop into that pocket of fast air, like a really good pitch when it slides into that groove between the throw that starts it and the hit that ends it.

But we went tandem, and the instructor popped the chute way too soon, and all we could do was hang there making dumb-ass small talk while we watched everyone else drop. We landed way off target, had to walk about a half-mile to meet the truck.

Hold up. Did you hear that just now? No? You will, I promise.

They’re waking up the kids.


I’m not trying to freak you out. You won’t be anywhere near us when it all goes down. I mean, the Creche is right next to the commissary, but the active part of the Creche isn’t really even in the same universe technically, so don’t sweat the fallout because either we get it right or we don’t and either way it’s fajitas next Thursday.

All right. What next? Commissary and housing. Easy. No keys, no money, just the Mark. You don’t have a Mark yet, so hang onto that keycard. You’ll have to get one before the end of the week, especially if more than one of you is working on the same day. We got the clone farm running most days, and they custom-Build adults to run some of the really squirrelly stuff.

We got spots down here where radios and cell phones and electronics don’t wanna work so well, so all you gotta do is build twelve of the same guy and make sure they’re wired right and presto: human walkie-talkies that don’t need to eat but once a week. Or the ones who work the sign-in desks that don’t have anything below the waist. They’re just these torsos installed straight into those Swedish office chairs, tubes and shit sticking out everywhere if you go behind the desk and take a look, which you should seriously do now if they’ll shut down the motion sensors and biometric stuff for you.

Hold up—nosebleed. Gotta Kleenex or something? Wow. A handkerchief. I forgot there was one in the suit. You sure? Thanks, guy. Hope you can get another one, because everyone gets the nosebleeds if they stay down here long enough. Ehhh, yuck. Must have been half my brain came out in that one. Not that there was much to start with. Heh.

So, yeah. The Mark. We all get one, ‘cause about a hundred guys work here that either have the same thumbprint as someone else or no thumbprint at all. The Mark doesn’t mean anything special; it’s not the same as the Sigil. Sigil’s a tattoo, you’ll eventually have to choose your own outta the book they show you. Mine means something in Hindu or Sanskrit or SomeShit. Looked bad-ass, I don’t know. If I’d known how this was gonna play out I might have just closed my eyes and pointed and gotten something different. ‘Course, that might not have mattered anyways, according to what they say. No one chooses any of this, really, not on purpose. Welcome to Life on Earth, right?

Anyway, the Mark comes out of the computer. You spit on a conductive membrane, they scrape your cheek, type in the date and time you were Built, do a craniofacial scan, make you fill out a questionnaire, then the computer spits out this design and they jam it under your thumbnail. It’s like your key-card, only it’s incredibly painful for about a week, and also you never forget to clip it to your belt. Because it’s jammed under your fucking thumbnail.

You gonna throw up? I’ll be here when you get back. Not. Going. Anywhere.

What’s up, Easy-Quease? Seriously, though. It’s gross, right? Yeah, I’ll show you. Can’t lift my hand higher than this, you gotta come around the side of the bed. Yup. This is where the first one was. After everything went all pear-shaped on the last run it crawled out on its own. Hurt like a bitch. Gonna lose the nail. Meantime, they put a new one in the other thumb. Sorry, should have showed you that first. Come on back around the other side of the bed. Come back to the five-and-dime, Jimmy Dean, Jelly Bean, Billie Jean. Not my lover.

Valium!  So. What? Oh yeah. Moral of the story is I got two gimpy hands for the price of one. Mom says no video games for a week. But seriously, if there’s another week of this I will register a complaint with the relevant human rights agencies, of which there are none. Only so much bed-rest a body can take. 

What? Meh. I don’t know why me. Why me? Worst two words ever uttered by human tongues. Why the fuck not me? Like, ten of us survived the StormWatch thing, but why should any of those assholes get to have this much fun? The catheter alone is very choice.

The science guys could tell you. But the ones who know the most are gone already, off in some underground vault that’s locked off with one of the Moebius engines. Like the ones that keep the kids flavor-sealed in the Creche. Someone can take you there and show you. You can see the Comp Sci guys, sometimes, through the front wall. It goes see-thru and then they pass by all herky-jerky, like a flip book, all blurry photos.

But they can’t see us. They won’t know anything until it happens, then they’ll come out and see if we saved the world this time. It’s not like they want to see what happens during. What’s that all about, anyway? They roll the dice on me, on the whole thing, then they vamoose before it all goes down. Someone has to turn the key, and they’re too chickenshit to do it themselves. Whatever. I’m kind of past caring. It’s good that you’re here now, though. I can sort of relax, knowing that. Also because of the Valium.


I can’t tell you “why me.”

I can maybe tell you a little bit of “why you” and “why now.”

I figured out we were on the fast-track after this one goddamn trip to the aquarium. Oh yeah, we get field trips from time to time. I was with John-16 at the aquarium. He loves the aquarium, it’s my fault, ZooBooks and everything. I showed ‘em to John-13 and now every John is all aquarium-this, aquarium-that. It’s the only thing that really gets through to him when he shuts down. He’s not autistic or anything; he just goes somewhere else, and he won’t eat or move, and we have to put him on a damn feeding tube, and he’s so skinny already—fuhgeddaboutit. It sucks. Too sad.

So I get clearance to take a jaunt outside—full security detail and all that, tranquilizer guns and tasers and restraints in case any of my kids try any weird shit or decide to go off the reservation. After the sedatives wear off the kids get escorted into the aquarium, which they had totally cleared out for us. We’re the only ones there. It’s awesome.

John and I are hanging out, not talking, watching this sea lion do backflips underwater. They’ve got those huge fins like wings, and everything is in slow motion and so graceful you forget to breathe. John’s hands and forehead are pressed right up against the tank, and the sea lion is coming so close that his big belly touches the glass every time he loops around, and John starts crying the way he does—small and quiet, like he’s really trying not to. It’ll break your heart.

I do the big no-no—I touch him. Just for a sec. I kinda rest my hand on his head, to comfort him, like. But all of a sudden his head feels wrong. It’s smaller than it looks, and dry and scaly. His hair…disintegrates. It rubs off into little greasy sticky balls on my fingertips, like spiderwebs or rubber cement. I smelled my fingers later and they smelled like rotten eggs, matches. And I look at him again and it’s like one of those billboards that changes when you look at it from different angles. From the left, there’s John, this little half-Asian kid with a bowl haircut and a runny nose. From the right there’s this…I don’t know. I’m gonna throw up. Gonna throw up. Help, please.

Sorry. Thanks. It…I can’t tell you what it looked like, only that it made me feel the way that fingernails on a sleeping bag sound. I got this weird taste in my mind. That’s the best way I can put it. It’s like I had synesthesia—that thing where you hear colors and shit? And it felt like my legs were carsick, like all my muscles were vibrating and turning to vinegar when he changed.

It’s like he didn’t need to be cute for anyone anymore. I feel my hand settle into these grooves and dimples and ridges on John’s little head, like they were made for me, like they’ve been waiting. And I realize that, for the first time in all my sad fucking innings on the rind of this sorry planet, I might have some skin in the game. And I am fucking terrified.

So on this trip it’s just supposed to be me and John, but at the last minute they made me take James-12 and Matthew-14 and Peter-9. That’s a fuckload more than two kids, bee-tee-dubs. Live and learn, right? And all the way back to the Creche I know something’s wrong. Matt and Pete keep switching bodies, so I can’t tell them to knock off their usual shit, and James…when we get back to the Creche, James refuses to come out of the fucking van. She gets everyone totally riled up, and we think we were gonna have a repeat of the James-3 incident, only with four kids instead of one.

So we proceed to sedate all of them, and James will not go down. She takes two shots and a dart and that’s when she starts screaming. So I have to pull James in one of the gurney-wagons while she screams this noise at the things we pass, but the noise is like fiberglass insulation, like sharkskin or steelwool, synthetic and stiff and barbed, and I have to drag her along like a glass cutter, like her voice is catching on everything and roughing it up.

Like…okay. Picture this. Remember how Dad worked in the shoe repair shop for a couple years before he died, after his pension dried up? Ladies come in all the time, wanting rubber or new tread put on the bottoms of dance shoes and dress shoes; all it takes is one good slip on a winter sidewalk, or a fall in a wedding video and a busted ass-seam in a dress, and they’re shelling out twenty bucks to tweak a pair of fifty dollar shoes. And before he’d glue on the rubber, he’d use a rasp to rough up the sole of the shoe, taking off that smooth shiny finish that has no business on the bottom of any shoe, much less one with a four-inch heel on it. That’s what this was like, pulling James. She does this thing with her voice that roughs the world up, then John follows her to do…whatever it is he does. He’s doing it now. 

So. In about ten minutes a technician will come for me and they’ll give me my Sigil and I’ll be the new Esk. And you’ll be a Nanny. Congratulations! It’s four boys/girls/things that defy scientific categorization! What? Not “Ex,” “Esk.” Short for “Eschaton.” Look it up. I’ll get my Sigil and I’ll go into the Creche with the kids and we’ll…I don’t know exactly. But with any luck, this will be the last time.

They tell you in that video that when it happens, if it happens, you won’t even know. It’ll feel like one of those twitches you get in your eye, and the world will be different. Reset, like a video game with a new cheat code typed in. If things get really royally fucked up, I’ll be gone and there’ll be one less Sigil in the book and you’ll be here to balance out all the stuff I was supposed to be for in the first place. It’ll be easy. Painless.

If it works…well, to start with, you’ll be crazy rich. Assuming they ever let you go, which…gimme a break. Gratitude only goes so far. And maybe it doesn’t work out, and you’re the next Esk. No guarantees if that happens. No guarantees all around. No one knows anything in any way that’s comforting, so just enjoy the apartment and try not to think about it too much.

I hope it’s me, not you. I’ve got this feeling that there were never any others, that it’s always been me—us. And this shit will go on and on and on until we get it right. But the thing is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how the fact that it’s me in there instead of Rich or Jake or any of those other idiots makes a difference. And what sucks is that it might not really matter. Because if they’re right they have all the time in the world to figure this out. Infinite do-overs. They keep going until they plug the right one in and bingo—salvation. For everyone but him. Me. Us. 

When I go in there, I’m bringing everything. The football. The ZooBooks. Dave’s records and my journal and all the pictures I own. All the other parts of the world that I hope will still be there when this is all over. I’m bringing them inside me, right in the front of my mind. I’ll be singing so fucking loud. And when I put my hand on John’s sweet, scary little head and turn the key that starts this going, I’ll be thinking of you. Because you’re the reason I need this to work. It’s selfish, I’m selfish, I know. But I survived cancer and the goddamn M-80 of mass destruction and I want to somehow survive this too. I’m still young—I want to meet a guy, play some hockey, make a family.

When I go in there, I’m bringing everything. The football. The ZooBooks. Dave’s records and my journal and all the pictures I own. All the other parts of the world that I hope will still be there when this is all over. I’m bringing them inside me, right in the front of my mind. I’ll be singing so fucking loud. And when I put my hand on John’s sweet, scary little head and turn the key that starts this going, I’ll be thinking of you. Because you’re the reason I need this to work. It’s selfish, I’m selfish, I know. But I survived cancer and the goddamn M-80 of mass destruction and I want to somehow survive this too. I’m still young—I want to meet a guy, play some hockey, make a family.

Hey. Hey. Promise me something.

We are never, repeat, never gonna have kids. Right?

Right. So. Now what? Well, you puked up lunch. Get some dinner in you. Everything’s better on a full stomach. Gotta keep you healthy for, you know, maybe saving the world-slash-universe-slash-one percent. And you should probably get changed. The next one might need the suit.

Yeah, I know. Too soon.

It’s all too fucking soon.



(Reblogged from onlylolgifs)

Some Of My Best Friends Wear Gay Apparel

gay carolers

Dear School Districts of Christian America and its Outlying Territories and Fiefdoms:

Having achieved momentary success in Michigan last year and again this year with Hallmark (before being thwarted by the LAMESTREAM media), I have renewed my commitment to exposing the FILTHY RECRUITING TACTICS thrust into our nation’s children’s earholes by SUBVERSIVE COMMUNIST MUSIC TEACHERS most of which are also HOMOS. In the most disgusting of all possible scenarios, they have declared WAR on our values by using the music of our own holiday against us.

There can be no war without casualties, and I am prepared to accept the consequences even if it means that our hymnals and volumes of popular carols arranged for Big-Note Easy Piano will be lighter next year.   Take note that I and thousands of other tax-paying, God-fearing Americans like me am incensed, confused, and aroused by the prospect of our children hearing the following carols:











I ask that you and all your employees please refrain from teaching or singing these “songs.” We cannot allow their pinko messages to penetrate our children’s vulnerable minds at this most wonderful time of year when we rely on Christmas traditions to recharge the fragile batteries of faith and credulity that keep things humming along so smoothly in the home, at the workplace, and on the battlefield.

Yours Truly,

That One Person in North Dakota Who Writes Every Patriotic Email Forward Ever


Image via Paper People East

Follow me on Twitter: @japanezrscrooge

(Reblogged from fuckyeahalbuquerque)
(Reblogged from toocooltobehipster)

Dear God, Whose Name I Do Not Know

As part of my research for an upcoming costume design gig, I found myself watching and re-watching this scene from John Patrick Shanley’s lovely film JOE VS. THE VOLCANO. I find it unspeakably moving in spite of—and because of—the sweet silliness of the movie that surrounds it. It fixed something that needed fixing, that I didn’t even realize was broken.

There’s a point in every creative process, no matter how exciting the project is or how supportive your colleagues are, where the best parts of your creative self flee in terror from the light of scrutiny like so many cockroaches, racing toward the rich fetid darkness under the fridge. You are out of ideas. The embers are dark and cold, the well has run dry, and also other metaphors as well. Your head is a rotten pumpkin filled with the joyless buzzing of hungry angry wasps. You feel sunburned and exposed, marooned and hunted, menaced by the very real sensation that you may drown, that you are drowning.

But then the moon rises—enormous, hallucinatory, and silent. And you remember that all around you there are huge, inexorable, tidal forces at work that take no notice of your tiny addled mind and your flailing limbs and the wasps in your pumpkin. There are forces moving the sea that surrounds you, forces that you would do well to emulate because they do not feel sorry for you.

You rise to your feet and give thanks. And you find the next small, lovely thing to add to the mess that is, slowly but surely, taking shape in front of your dazzled eyes.

I had forgotten how big my life is. I had forgotten how grateful I am. Thank you. Thank you for my life.

The only acceptable instance of scat singing in recorded history


(via tumblrisforlulz)

The only acceptable instance of scat singing in recorded history



(via tumblrisforlulz)


(Reblogged from fuckyeahfunnythings)
What it’s like every time I perform


(via evieredlips, modestotapia)

What it’s like every time I perform



(via evieredlips, modestotapia)

(Reblogged from fuckyeahfunnythings)

periodic lyrics  画


periodic lyrics 

(Reblogged from geekfeed)
(Reblogged from fuckyeahdementia)
(Reblogged from meganamram)

Daenon Froot-et-de-Bodum Lofet Yoggurt: A Video Review

"It boost energy during the early or late morning snake and also between lunch and dinner when you need a snake when you need to fill in for your mills."

Aces! Also it seems to be good for thickening your fingernails.

“It is a low calories product.”

Fine. But will it help me poop? Also, HOLD IT CLOSER TO THE CAMERA PLEASE

Every day at work = THIS

what u gonna do

Every day at work = THIS


what u gonna do

(Reblogged from quentinwork)

Hello Monday. F you in the face.

(Reblogged from walterblakeknoblock)

Happy Saturday, Children Of The Internet


I cannot think of a single way in which this could be improved.