The Sorrows of Young Morton

My Dear Geoffrey,

Glad to hear that you've finally read George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones! I'm sure you're now willing to admit that A Song of Ice & Fire makes The Sword of Truth look like a steaming pile of ... uhhh ... what's the phrase I'm looking for here? Right: steaming pile of poorly written novels.

When I was reading Wizard's first Rule and discovered that Richard was, in fact, the chosen one, well, I just went with it. After all, someone has to be the chosen one, right? I mean, God forbid a fantasy novel not have an unlikely hero that gets swept up into a epic struggle between good and evil. Why the fuck not? Jon Snow doesn't count, btw. No Stark was ever an unlikely hero. heh heh heh.

and when we find out that the head evil guy, good ol' whatshisname, is in fact Richard's father because he raped Richard's mother and so the hero and villain are connected in this most heinous and convenient way, well... I was starting to get annoyed, but I've read far more predictable plots. That crazy ol' Zed is the most powerful wizard in the world, you say? Never would have guessed it!

And then there's that 150 pages of S&M bullshit where Richard discovers that only deep feelings of love toward his dominatrix can give him the power to kill her. Thanks for the tip, daddy! Terry Goodkind, please seek therapy.

At that point, I made some decisions. First, I would finish this novel because it's pointless to read 4/5s of any novel and not finish. Second, that I would not read any of the sequels. Third, that since I bought a box set of the first three novels, that I would have to burn them all to ever really feel free of these terrible, terrible books.

Actually I cheated and read the first third of the second book. Un-Fucking-Readable!

Stop by for coffee and twinkies so that I may continue to hurl vitriol face to face.

Kindest Regards,

Morton

Homemade Firewood

There are no leaves this Autumn.
We stole them all
and burned them for heat.
Every hour on the hour
until precious maple
, and birch,
could be loaded for the slow dark burn.

A letter to Martha Stewart (Holiday)

Dear Martha Stewart (Holiday),

I was pleased as usual with your latest Halloween installment. If I had any artistic talent at all, your ideas would have been über cool. Instead, I'm going to smash, like, 40 pumpkins on my deck and tell kids that I was attacked by hobgoblins. What a terrible waste of food in a world of such unbalanced prosperity.

Yours in uncertainty,

Morton Milton, Esq.

Isaac is gone.

Isaac is gone. I know I promised to fill you in on Carl's meeting, but that sordid affair is long in the telling if you'll allow the saying, and I've a mind to fill you in on something of more import (I've also been using Lord of the Rings as my toilet reader). I'm sitting in the lunch room at the tail-end of break, waiting for a chance to get outside without making a fuss, and reliving the entire incident in brooding silence. Again, Carl was at the forefront, filling in the high school staff with the gory details of the firing while Shawn (our Night Shift Supervisor) escorted Isaac off the premises. Shawn had done all the talking during the closed-door dismissal, Carl was the first to admit in his thin, whiny voice. "I just couldn't bear to do it! I couldn't look him in the eye and take away his paychecks! He's got to live just like the rest of us!" Carl never cried, but he wailed a lot. There weren't many teachers around at 10:00 pm, so Carl pretty much had the building to himself. We were his captive audience.

There was a dramatic pause. "I fought against it (another pause). But there were just too many complaints coming from the school board. Isaac and me and that Phil Norton had a meeting and he just let right in to poor Isaac about his high dusting! He called him lazy, an-and stupid, and he pointed out so many mistakes that Isaac was making. It was just awful! Just AWFUL!"
By now, Shawn had returned. "Come on, Carl, let's go grab a Tim's."

He lead Carl away and almost at once the chatter began. Suspicion of everything from dusty chalkboard ledges to petty theft lays on Isaac's once spotless reputation. Some of the cleaners mistrusted his spiritual approach to work, but he was otherwise well-liked until now. Faced with the real possibility that they could be fired at anytime without warning, they clung to the faint hope that Isaac had earned the termination. Otherwise, we really were at mercy to the whims of Carl.

Isaac knew this was coming. He had insisted I stop by his closet for 5:30 break, where he relayed his suspicions of a coming showdown with Carl. "Carl's wanted me gone from the time he showed up. I've actually been preparing for it. I have money saved in a high interest savings account (huh?), all the fresh food in the house is gone, bills are paid in full and set for long-term disconnect. All that was left was to show you my cart."

And there it was again, sleek and black, a janitor cart like no other. It seemed prepared for any custodial disaster, and yet retained an air of elegance. Accessible compartments for Scotch pads, wash rags, toilet paper, paper towel, liquid soap dispenser, refill bottles and three sizes of garbage bags lined the sides, although a panel door slid closed to keep it all hidden when not in use. The top tray was outlined with bottle holders to house his super quat, degreaser, window cleaner and one clear substance in an unmarked bottle. It smelled faintly of ammonia. A larger holder was saved for his rag and water bucket. His broom, pan and dustmop stood proudly upright, snapped into their holders. On the other side, the top of his snapped-in mop handle disappeared into the cart. Another swinging panel door revealed the bottom half of the mop resting easily in a matching black bucket.

"I want you to have it, Morton. It's my own cart, not the company's. I think you'll find that it gets the job - any job - done well."

"I don't know what to say, Isaac. Thanks, I guess. Are you sure about this? What's going on?" I guess I did know what to say.

"I'll be escorted out. When you get a chance, meet me at my truck."

How did he know? I'm still sitting in the lunch room agonizing over the riddle when I notice that most of the staff have returned to their misery, so I excuse myself from the lunch room. I leave Gail and Kristine to arguing over who is crazier: Isaac or Carl. Sure enough, Isaac waits for me in his truck. It's a beat up '89 Dodge Ram, but the engine purrs. Some old time jazz wafts tinnily from his stereo toward me as I approach. "Duke Ellington?" I guess.
"Today is a Dizzy day, Mort. I've another gift for you." He kills the ignition, steps out and thrusts the keys into my hands.

Too much.

"Listen ... Isaac ..."

"It's too late to refuse, Mort. the truck is in your name and the insurance is paid for 6 months. You've been pining for a half-ton. Pine no more. I won't need it where I'm going."
"Where are you going?" I have to ask. Ivan just chuckles. He would have told me already, I suppose. The urge to tell him the truth comes suddenly. There won't be another chance and he deserves to know, even if he doesn't believe me.

"Isaac, I know this sounds cracked, but here goes. Sometimes I wake up and instead of it being tomorrow, it's days, weeks, even months later. I'm skipping forward in time and I don't know why."

Isaac clasps me paternally on the shoulder. "I know." he almost whispers, and his grip loses its substance. He slowly dematerializes, his eyes smiling at me until he fades to nothing and I am left holding his keys.

How did he know?

Death to Stick Man Comics

My stick man comic is totally edgy. Not only is it poorly drawn, but the humour is low brow and mildly offensive. It has almost no redeeming qualities. I challenge you to create a more pathetic comic without breaking the law or leaving it blank.

"Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist's way of scribbling 'Kilroy was here' on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass." - William Faulkner

Afghanistan speed history

If you think your country had it bad, there's one that's got you beat:
Afghanistan's a land that's had a lion share of heat.
First were those crazy Aryans, till Persia came around,
They hung out till Alexander and his army came to town.

Alexander was just passing through, but his Hellenists set up shop;
Buddhists tried to gain some ground, but the Hellenists made them stop.
The Kushans, Sassanids and Huns I s'pose deserve their due,
But then we'd have to stop and talk about all the warlords too.

During our middle ages, though, the Afghans did alright,
Some impressive Muslim kingdoms, whose brilliance parred their might.
But Ghengis Khan had plans to conquer all the world one day
And as before, I know you're sure, Afghanistan was on the way.

The next 500 years are marked by muddied Mughal rule,
A couple civil wars or so, all centred in Kabul.
And so Zaman Shah Durrani found himself in charge of all,
When up showed British redcoats armed with lots of guns and gall.

It took a century for the Afghans to drive the British out,
And even now it's hard to wash the taste out of their mouths.
A king or two named Shah took charge and made the Afghans glad,
Till the commies offed their family and things went from good to bad.

We're almost to the present day in case you didn't know,
When Bin Laden joined the Mujahideen to make the commies go.
And Jimmy Carter gave the Mujahideen the proverbial Yankee buck,
And anyway, by '89, the commies were totally fucked.

Inside the vacuum of yet another ideological collapse,
The warlords starting warlording in a familiar relapse.
Finally, the Taliban gained control of sufficient land
To proclaim themselves the sovereigns of the whole Afghanistan.

But where once a Muslim kingdom made poverty quickly flee,
The Taliban were Koran thumpers to the zillionth degree.
They covered up their women and threw progress to the wind,
And protected ol' Bin Laden as a hero, lord and kin.

So to no one's real surprise or awe, the Yankees came in waves
To catch Bin Laden alive or dead, but he fled to the mountain caves.
And so quite by accident it seems, the Yankees were in charge,
But too few soldiers stayed behind in a country much too large.

While the Afghans held elections and became a democracy for real,
The Taliban regrouped and started fighting back with zeal.
And now the Afghans fight each other and fight foreigners as well,
It's a close approximation if you've never been to Hell.

That's where we'll leave off for now, this history with speed.
I do hope you can appreciate the Afghan's present need.
About the same as yesterday, just different names and guns
and all those fucking land mines ...

Listen up. A quick scratch on Joseph of Arimathaea

People of earth: listen up. I think you've got the wrong impression here. I am not in love with my new job. I'm still the same fucked-up Morton. Yeah, I wrote a poem about mopping. Big whoopty woo bob! I'm missing pieces of time here, people! Do you have any idea how terrifying that is?!? Also, Diane still won't give me back my jacket and I'm a fucking grave-yard shift janitor! What else could possibly happen? Have you ever dared existence to kick you when you're down? Me neither.

Isaac, Jon and Carl aren't the only cleaners I work with. You should see this fucking guy named Ron. He claims to be hosting the spirit of Joseph of Arimathaea. That just blew me away when he first told me. Man. Maaaaaannnnnnnnn. You know, I looked into his eyes and saw absolute belief. Just for kicks, I've read the Wikipedia article and plan on testing his knowledge of Joseph next shift. He comes out and watches us smoke dope behind the bleachers sometimes. I figure being outrageously baked is the perfect setting.

Joseph of Arimathaea, as you may know, was obsessed with making sure Jesus had a proper burial, fit for a man of high stature. He was a man of some importance himself and ipso facto was revealing himself as a follower of Jesus. Yes, Wikipedia says that. My line of questioning will follow that vein. Should be a humdinging good time, yeah!

Carl's meeting in the lunch room was entertaining for all the wrong reasons, but I'll get into that later. I'm going outside to stand in an open field and see if I can't get struck by lightning. Ok, you're right. I'm actually going to get high.

Peace,

Morton

Mop Mop Mop

Swimming lazily on the hallway gleam,
The fresh wax hurls my sneakers in mod;
My damp mop a magic, pivoting rod,
Balanced and swirling in a sanitized dream.

Swish. Swish. Swish. My mop glides over the freshly waxed tile so freely. The subtle flicks of my wrists, feet and hips remind me of dancing. Suddenly I back into my bucket. Stop. Dip. Squeeze. Kick the bucket further down the hall. A bad wheel causes it to veer into the lockers with a loud Bang! and water splashes over the sides. No damage. Swish. Swish. Swish. I'm rather pleased with my hall mopping method. Everyone has their own and mine is particularly satisfying. Isaac would not teach me how to mop a hall. He said I had to find my own way. When I have a good bucket that I'm used to (someone stole mine last week), I can kick it down the hall the correct distance to ensure an even rinse (there's no describing the sense of accomplishment. It is the blue-collar equivalent of wastepaper basketball). I've compensated today my kicking the bucket a bit harder to cause it to veer and crash in that vicinity. Admittedly, kicking a bucket of water into lockers has its own rewards.

Carl has called a meeting during first break. Although this will be my first one, I've been informed by several lifers that this has become an almost weekly occurrence, and furthermore, that each one is more bizarre than the last. "Flaming Hitler" Jon named him recently. Even Isaac laughed at that one, and he doesn't seem the type to go for jokes about national socialism and homosexuals. Jon's wit is infectious. And his dope is killer, man. Fucking killer. Whoever said custodial work is boring had the wrong boss and coworkers. Gun nut Billy would fit right in here. Shit, I wonder how ol' Billy is doing? Maybe I'll look him up later. For now, though, Swish. Swish. Swish.

The Iranian crisis and the scuff mark trick

Isaac never ceases to amaze me with his breadth of knowledge. He seems to be a dabbler in all facets of existence, but to what end I do not know. Today he is discussing the current Iranian crisis (how many have their been in all of history, I wonder?), when he suddenly stoops in front of a scuff mark. "Black soles are a real bitch, but if you did your waxing properly, they are pretty easy to clean."

Isaac whips out a gold-painted metal pocket scraper and with a deft sweep of his arm, peels the scuff mark away from the wax. The entire mark comes up as one impossibly thin sliver of rubber, which Isaac casually tosses in the garbage can. The wax is flawless where he scraped. "You know, some cleaners actually use a floor buffer to do that. Imagine grinding at a harmless little scuff mark for 2 minutes and ruining your wax because you were too lazy to bend over."

"Not to mention that you had to haul the buffer out of the closet." I chime in.

Isaac turns and points at me. "Good point."

Back to Iran. "Right, so where was I?" mutters Isaac, eyes fixed on the ceiling in intense recollection as we stroll down the corridoor.

"You were saying that the Iranians aren't as nuts as everyone thinks they are."

"Right, right, right. You see, they captured British sailors instead of Americans. That wasn't just happenstance. The capture's got nothing to do with who crossed whose water lines. The Iranians are making a clear diplomatic statement, and they are making it to the Americans, don't you know? Kind of like a rival slaps your buddy in the face instead of you: clearly offensive, but not quite confrontational enough to make you want to strike back just yet, and your friend, smaller and weaker than you, waits for you to make the first move. The Iranians are saying 'We are still here. This problem isn't going away. We know you can't afford to fight us right now. We want something in exchange for peace.'"

I'm not convinced. "but what if they aren't that sophisticated? What about that whole multiple governments and multiple chains of command thing the Iranians have going on? What if this capture of British soldiers is just the work of some religious nutjobs who just like poking the West with a stick to see what we'll do?"

"I'm not sure I buy the whole multiple government thing. We'd like to think that the order might have come from some fractured lower level and not Ayatollah Kohmeini himself, but that's just wishful thinking. He at least gave his blessing to this escalation with the understanding that Americans were not to be involved. Structures of power always lead back to one individual. You know one of the State's top naval officers publicly stated that if the Iranians had tried that stunt on one of his crews, they would have opened fire? No one in the White House is denying that bold statement; in the crazy universe of diplomacy, no denial is the same as a confirmation of policy. The States in very clear terms have just said to the Iranians, 'You do that to me, and I'll hit back.' That's war! Diplomacy is over. There'd be air strikes on Tehran right now!

"No, Iran knows what it is doing and there is relative consensus in its highest levels of government. It knows that the British are a conservative nation when it comes to an escalating crisis. There is no chivalry, just calculation and patience and diplomacy until some bitter end forces itself onto the table. It also knows that the States is now being led by men who are just the opposite: rash, stupid and short-sighted. That's sophisticated understanding of the way the world works right now in this political climate. It might be a dangerous game to play with the Americans, but it's a game they can win!"

"Shit Isaac, then what does Iran want that makes it play this dangerous game?"

Isaac just smiles. "Well, this is where we separate. I want you to know that I don't begrudge you getting the shop wing section. Carl is doing this on purpose to turn us against each other. He is a vindictive and manipulating man, and he has reason to hate me especially."

He cuts me off before I can ask. "Another time, Mort. I'm on a tight schedule right now!" And Isaac is marching away, whistling some thoughtless tune as he disappears around the next corner.

A poem about how it feels to get hit in the head with a foam bat

Kah-Thwiff! and Boing! and Sproing! and Ploof!
Your swings only hurt my feelings.
And even then, not very much.

...

...

...

Just what were you hoping to accomplish, anyway?

The Art of Waxing

I'm not sure whether I want to tell Isaac the truth or not. He seems just wavy-gravy enough to take it well, like the old dude on the bus. I don't know if you remember him from a previous post (all two of you), but the old dude, besides telling me never to work for a contractor (guilty on two counts now, I'm afraid), also urged me to enjoy my trips a bit more. For him, experience was quality in and of itself. A lout might ask if getting kicked in the nuts is quality. To you, I say, read the My New Superpower post. I remember Isaac's speech about teenagers, and the similarities strike me. The old dude didn't wish his fate on others and so gave advice freely, drawing from past mistakes. Isaac shared his teenager avoidance manoeuvres when we first met. He too didn't want me to suffer as he had. So, I'm standing here watching Isaac teach me the subtleties of floor waxing, and his enthusiasm and perfectionism are a true sight to behold. I'm pretty sure he'd have no problem with it at all.

“Waxing a brand new floor is the best, of course, because you get it right the first time. But man, there is just something about restoring a beat up ol' floor and making it look like new. It's a true test of skill and imagination, you know?. No floor is the same to begin with, but you throw in a decade or two of different janitors using different techniques, all of them flawed, and sometimes you have a real challenge there. It's almost like antique restoration: patience and subtleness. You can't just strip the floor bare and start on naked tile! You'll get two days of shine and it'll go duller than PBS. The floor'll never be the same. Never.”

All of this while he waxes, happily enough, a brand new classroom tile floor. We are in our sock feet and Isaac is cool enough to let me help him despite my inexperience. Just enough wax on the broom, smooth, even strokes that leave a uniform coat that dries almost instantly. Rather than throw on one sloppy coat of wax, we will leave perhaps 7-10 thin ones on top of 3 similar coats of tile sealer. His monologue has left me calm and confident. I find myself admiring the transformation of the floor. Brilliant. I will say this: I am not willing to swallow Isaac's janitorial art thesis just yet, but I'll let him spoonfeed me some.

But is he cool enough to let me keep waxing if I suddenly say “You know Isaac, this might shock you quite a bit, but sometimes I accidentally travel through time. I just wanted to warn you in advance in case it happens again. You might have to finish my half of the classroom.”

Maybe some other time.

By the way, I just wanted to let you know that Diane died a few weeks ago. At least she's dead to me. Do you hear that Diane? You are DEAD TO ME! You know why, don't make me repeat it to my loyal readers! And I want my watch back. Enough of your twisted head games, just give me the watch and this whole sordid affair will be over!.

Mosaic Image Generator

I did this all by myself. It took 2 years to complete. Actually, I'm lying. You probably already know that I lie pathologically. It actually took 2 minutes and besides uploading the picture, I really had little to do with it.



Thanks to http://imagemosaicgenerator.click42.com/ for letting us all be pretentious artists.

Click the picture for a close-up.

A glimpse of the surprisingly sophisticated.

"Janitorial work is a hidden art form."

So says Isaac, my one day trainer. The ability to restore any three-dimensional space to its original pristine form takes years of training, but for now I will learn to master the high school dimension. "There are two important things to remember when cleaning a high school." says Issac. "Number one is that it is a large two-story building with numerous hallways and sections." One of those sections will be mine, and by the end of today I must find the available section that was meant for me.

"Some cleaners even like cleaning bathrooms the most. They enjoy the simplicity and repetition. Me, though," Issac points to his chest "I embrace the dynamics of a varied section. The difficulty level is stimulating and time goes faster. The shop wing would be perfect, but Ronnie has had that sewn up for years."

"The second thing to remember when cleaning a high school is that for six of the ten business hours in a day, the entire school is crawling with teenagers. They are dirty and unpredictable psychopaths who think adults are assholes." Issac has offered his full compliment of stealth techniques and avoidance manoeuvres. Aren't those the same thing, come to think of it? His best manoeuvre is staring at the floor when walking the halls, only looking up when the coast is clear. Funny, I used the very same trick when I was a student here. Maybe that glaring lack of self-confidence is the reason I've returned as a custodian ten years later? No. No. No. I'm forgetting the whole temporal issue. I can't burn bridges with decent employers. I'll have to be certain that I won't go falling into next month again before looking for a real job.

But still, amongst these dangers, I will bring health and cleanliness to these hallowed halls, this piece of modern art with its concrete and steel and central air. In the end, I don't actually choose my section as Issac has promised (actually, he rather aureately divined that the section would choose me). Carl returns, appearing suddenly around the next corner. He faces us, clipboard in hand, and with an offsetting half-smile asks "Do you mind doing me a favour, Morton?"

Turns out, they need a man to clean the shop wing. "I'm sorry Morton," Carl explains as he rushes me to the shop wing, "but Ronnie called in sick and none of the girls like doing this wing at night."

Issac's lesson was more spiritual than practical in the small amount of time he had to train me. I last saw him entering his closet. I caught a glimpse of neatly stacked cleaning agents and a surprisingly sophisticated janitorial cart. There appeared to be extra compartments for holding various tools and the entire cart was painted a monolithic black. I expect I'll get a closer glimpse at this cart in the future. Carl shows me where Ronnie's closet is, takes me on a whirlwind tour of the section, and we stop just outside the closet.

"You've cleaned before right?"

I know for a fact that I've told Carl before "Not very much at all, no professional experience," but right now, it's time to make a good decision, "Yeah, definitely."

"Great!" exclaims Carl, giving me a pat on the back and handing me the keys. As a parting shot, he yells back to me as he's scurrying away, "You know, I think this is the section for you. I think we'll keep you here permanently!"

What about Ronnie?

Elvis in 2004

Elvis Presley is a red-blooded American with a pure spirit, an honest disposition, and a generous heart. He has entertained millions with his beautiful voice, given courage to all with his rise to stardom from destitute poverty, and made us all feel safe and secure as a member of our mighty armed forces at the height of the cold war! Entertainer, warrior, brave and honorable, Elvis possesses every quality you have ever wanted in a president and more! In 2004, don't waste your vote on that dimbulb George W. Bush, and don't throw away your ballot on whatever born loser the democrats choose. Vote 4 Elvis, because he loves each and everyone of you!

Watching the superbowl and making instant and final decisions on certain things I observe, as is the style at the time.

Jim Nance is mentally disabled and Phil Simms is smart but wrong most of the time.

Dan Marino is secretly hoping Manning goes down in history with him as the greatest QBs never to win a superbowl. He no doubt volunteered to be the talking head that talked to Manning's talking head to "psyche him out."

As Hester returns the opening kickoff for a TD, I am suddenly thinking, Didn't Ohio State do the same thing to Florida? Who won that game, anyway?

At half time, it's still anybody's game, meaning that the Colts are going to win. Like every other playoff game, they have stopped the run, won the possession-time battle and the Bears D looks spent. The Pats D, older and way more banged up, had Tom Brady to keep them in the game. Rex Grossman is not Tom Brady. I'm not even sure Rex Grossman is an NFL QB.

I've never liked Prince, and I still don't like Prince, but his superbowl halftime show was way above par. then again, par is so despicably low...

Ok, I'm back and now its the 4th quarter (I fell asleep because the game got real boring) and I have two thoughts at the same time: Rex Grossman is just outtasite awful. He's actually worse than I thought he would be. The other thought is that the real superbowl happened two weeks ago when Brady and Manning slugged it out in one of the all time classic AFC championship matches. It all came down, literally, to Brady completing one pass to the venerable Troy Brown for a critical first down. Brown cut left when Brady thought he was going to cut right. The Patriots had to punt, Manning marched the Colts down the field and fulfilled his destiny, yadda yadda yadda.

Anyway, another boring superbowl that started with a bang and ended with me falling asleep before the game ended. Will Manning be in twice as many ads next year? One can only hope. His dumb "Aw Shucks" smile is nauseatingly comforting.

Carl - My Operations Manager

Carl's first order of business is to assure me that I am in no danger of sexual harassment, at least not on his part. It goes without saying that this scares the bejesus out of me, but since he's 92 lbs soaking wet (most of which is contained within his poofy hair, causing him to sway awkwardly when he stands in a breeze), I figure I'll be ok unless he approaches me from behind (pun intended).

His lips are red and squishy, and they purse and quiver in fear when he isn't talking. His eyes dart nervously around the classroom and I think I detect the faintest hint of shaky knees. Even when his voice raises in pitch and amplitude to a decidedly maternal and unbearable squawk (a common enough occurrence, especially during his lectures on the proper methods of spray buffing), I get the distinct impression that Carl is living life in constant and absolute fear. Whether this fear is present on a purely subconscious level or closer to the surface whilst remaining too terrifying to speak of openly, I cannot say.

I snap back to attention, suddenly aware that Carl is waving his finger around, accusing former custodians of deeds that led to their dismissal. "If there's one thing I will not stand for, it's SWEARING!!! Especially when a woman turns the air blue with that filth. It's so degrading to hear that come out of her mouth. Don't you think so?" I take the diplomatic high road. "It's pretty bad when a man swears too." I evenly respond. Carl smiles at me and reveals a gold tooth. "Then we understand each other. I see big things for you here, son. Stick with me and you'll do just fine." He claps me on the shoulder, spins on his heel and marches out of the room.

Later, I'm standing outside puffing on a joint that Jon from B-Wing invited me to share with him. "So ... what's Carl's story?" I carefully ask. Jon spits before taking the joint back. He takes a tremendous haul before answering. "Carl's a fucking lunatic: that's his story."

Off to Work

Yes, dear readers, Morton has a new job! It was difficult to find a position that was compatible with my temporal fluxes, but in all truthiness, I haven't suffered a jump in many months, and the entire episodic nightmare seems to have passed. That being said, I cannot commit myself to any sort of career where lives might be at stake, where others will depend on me, nor where I might find a semblance of happiness only to wake up one morning and discover that I was fired three weeks ago.

A high-school janitor graveyard shift seems a perfect fit. My supervisor is a spastic and wrinkly man named Carl, with permed hair and knobbly knees poking out from under his white company shorts. More on Carl later. To celebrate, I have created this minimalist laser-light portrait using MS Paint. Your welcome.

Evil Inverted #23-b - The Cult of Personality Revealed

Another piece from my Silly Period. Back in 1996, I was convinced that these guys were the evilest men in the world. For dramatic and spooky effect, I inverted their colors.

Freeeeaaaaaaky!

More filler for aesthetic purposes. My Dungeons & Dragons Elf Fighter/Thief was killed last night in an unfortunate encounter with a 13th level Goblin Mage. Finger of Death?!? Grrrrr... if my comrades manage to raise me from the dead next turn, you're in big trouble, pal! I needed to roll a 14 or higher on my d20 for save vs. spells. Alas, even my cloak of protection wasn't enough to tip the balance.

All but 254 were happy

Created before 9/11/01, if that makes you feel better. It doesn't? Well good. You should feel terrible about the state of the world every single second of every single day forever and ever. There's nothing like self-loathing and pessimism to bring about positive change in the world, jackass.


The following text is simply filler so as to balance the text with the image. This may or may not be a commentary on the state of mass media. God save the Queen.