I still remember the first Christmas my father killed himself.

He hung himself in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, right beside the piece of mistletoe my mother had hung there several weeks earlier. I found his body swinging there when I came bolting down the stairs to collect my gifts – a twisted nightmare sack left behind by old St. Nick.

Neither my brother nor I knew exactly how to feel. It was Christmas, our hearts were filled with the joy only a dozen new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures and a handful of shrink-wrapped NES cartridges could bring, but our father, the man for which we felt a love which could not be put to words, was dead.

My mother spent the day crying in her, formerly their, bedroom. We could hear her sobbing as we sat quietly playing under the tree.

Last year he did it again.

Now it’s just getting old.

I have recently assembled a new desk for my room. I am pleased! This means that I will no longer be forced to write outlines for my papers on the meager space available on my computer stand.

It’s a sturdy thing, but I’ve already managed to destroy the corner by dropping the top corner-first on the floor during the process of installing the heavy top section.

In other news, I spent the last five minutes making obnoxious noises at my computer screen.

(vector_black distribution appreciation.)

Upon learning, recently, that those little striped of hair that lead down from a guy’s belly button to his pubic hair are called “Happy Trails,” I became enamored of the idea of naming unusual hair constellations. I proceeded to imagine as many odd hair configurations as I could, and name them in a humorous fashion. This post represents days of work, people, enjoy.

Barber’s Pole: Shave your legs in a spiral fashion, leaving a spiral of stripes of hair down each leg. Dye the hair on your legs red. For bonus points, grow a big handle-bar mustache. And watch the ladies go wild.

What Would Jesus Shave: Shave off enough hair on your chest to leave a cross shape. For bonus points, shave into it a jack-o-lantern style face of Jesus.

Reverse Texas Goatee: Shave off all the hair on a woman’s genitals, except a little stripe of fuzz right at the top.

I promise that last one is hysterical if you think about it for way too long.

Reading through this site’s archives teaches me two things:

1. This site used to be better, or at least more entertaining, than it is now.

2. I’m sorry.

Nobody takes science fiction writers seriously. They toil and toil, and still recieve little recognition for their work and even less respect (from anybody other than another science fiction writer, of course).

Now take me — I toil and toil, no one takes me seriously. But I’m not a science fiction writer.

(vector_black idiot recipe)

I was forced to shelve about a billion books in the immediate vicinity of (sometimes practically rubbing against) two of the prettiest, good-smellingest women ever.

The first one was like what might happen if somebody took maple syrup, crushed some fragrant flowers in it, and it smelled a lot better than it could reasonably be expected to.

It took everything in me not to press my nose between her breasts and snort.

In other news, I disagree with Wedge: FF7 wasn’t mindblowing, but it was very good. So there.

What the hell is everyone’s problem with GameSpy’s 25 Most Overrated Games of All Time feature? Personally, I thought the feature was phenomenal, and I readily agree that every game on that list has more than earned its position there. Sure, I think “25 Most Overhyped Games of All Time” would have been a more apt title, but it still gets the point across. These are all games that seem absolutely amazing in concept and/or during the first few hours of play, but each one ultimately proves to be shallow, boring, or such a convoluted mess that the common GameFAQs reader can’t help but become a devoted fan. The sad thing is, websites other than Penny-Arcade (which I feel the need to hyphenate) have been complaining about this feature. Several blogs and personal sites, which I don’t feel obligated to mention and/or link to, have also gone to great lengths to ensure their dozen readers know that FF7 OMG iz liek totally rad, d00d, despite what GameSpy says. However, it will be Penny-Arcade’s related comic which I will be dissecting for you this evening.

Panel One: I believe GameSpy actively mentions this several times during the course of their feature. They often mention that they are to blame for overhyping or overscoring a particular game. And to answer your question: yes, but in a bad way.

Panel Two: Yeah, GameSpy Arcade sure is shit. But at least they consume all of the other useless multiplayer services (MPlayer, I’m looking at you) into a single worthless program. God bless you, GameSpy.

Panel Three: Donkey Kong Country was a bad game. Once you get past cutting-edge 1995 graphics, all you have is a generic mascot-driven platformer that doesn’t even stand up to most Nick Toon licensed GBA games. Rock on. And Final Fantasy VII’s ability to “absolutely [pierce] the mainstream and [deposit] the notion of gaming into a new generation” doesn’t make up for the fact that it was a substandard game with a boring battle system, generic characters, blocky graphics (even in 1997), and a completely schizophrenic plot. But it sure was sad when Aerith died, right? I remember picking up the game along with my Playstation in 2000 after hearing so many good things about it, only to find I was forced into playing some insipid mini-game every two seconds or made to fight in another generic random battle. Needless to say, I quickly ran out and bought Legend of Mana, which wasn’t much better than Final Fantasy VII, but that’s a story for another long-winded update.

Personally, there are a few more games I feel deserve a place on the list, at least as an honorable mention. Xenogears, Max Payne, and Radiant Silvergun come immediately to mind, but I could spend all night spouting off a long list of games which don’t deserve the attention they garner, and an even longer list of games which deserve more than they do.

It’s like I’m a super cool indie webmaster who realizes how cool it is to go against the norm. Either that, or I have thirty minutes to kill before I go to sleep.

I shouldn’t be proud of this.

EDIT: I found another one!

Our cashier was a nice, older Hispanic lady with patient eyes. She looked Indian to me, strangely enough. And being a female that looks even remotely Indian, for whatever reason, wins you my immediate love and devotion. (Not that this has been reflected in my dating patterns, only how long I will chivolrously hold things open.)

In what I first thought was an attempt to endear myself to her, I said, somewhat loudly, both to her and my brother,

“Can you believe Ben and J-Lo broke up?!”

She was frightened and amused. Of course, I wasn’t really trying to endear myself to her. I just like being a public jackass.

Agent BOATZ centered his rifle’s sight over the forehead of President Spears’ – President Roberts’ – forehead. BOATZ blinked, shaking off what could only be the strongest sensation of déjà vu any person had ever known. He had the distinct feeling he had done this all before. For an instant ten years of his life flashed before his eyes: events which would never happen, faces he would never know, and a life he would never lead flickered across his mind. A vision, clear as crystal, of himself sending a bullet through the skull of President Britney Spears, some ten to fifteen years in the future, cemented itself deep in the recesses of his mind for but an instant, before fading away into the fog of uncertainty. Britney Spears as an American president? Prophetic visions of the future? Ridiculous. BOATZ hadn’t allowed any hallucinogenic drugs of any kind into his body in well over a decade, so he promptly wrote off his vision to pre-assassination jitters and got back to work.

It isn’t every day a man betrays his country, but BOATZ had as good a reason as any. He had no choice. His brothers, his wife, his daughter, and a million other people who made a million other stupid decisions had corralled BOATZ into this singular event. He was here, so he might as well do as he was told. The world was damned any way he looked at it, so he might as well come out on the winning, or at least slightly less defeated, side.

Julia Roberts stepped up to her presidential podium, situated before the press outside of her 51-acre retreat near Taos, New Mexico. Four hundred yards away, BOATZ was laying quietly beneath one of many fully-needled piñons which belonged to a Christmas tree farm that rested comfortably atop a rocky hill. BOATZ rolled slightly to his side, repositioning to escape a rock which was eagerly digging into his gut. He watched Julia, looking not unlike a modern day Hypatia, place her left hand over her left ear, no doubt receiving a message from James. Kill the puppet and the puppeteer is left powerless.

President Roberts began to speak. Though he could not hear her words, BOATZ knew everything which came from her mouth, not only because he was actively reading her lips, but also because he had already memorized today’s speech several weeks prior.

“Citizens of the world,” the president began, “you have been kept in the dark for too long.” BOATZ sighed. If only she knew, if only she had the slightest idea what she was speaking of. Regardless, BOATZ had his orders, and the moment he was waiting for would soon arrive.

~~~

Agents RANKZ smiled as various members of the press gasped with each new revelation. He had forgotten what it was like to live with clouded vision. To his right, the president continued, “but the real threat, the real danger, was never within our own borders. For the last fifteen-hundred years, a single nation has conspired against the well-being of all mankind, acting in shadow, too timid to reveal their true intentions. For the last fifteen-hundred years the nation of –”

There was no sound, only light and color. Ahead, atop a hill, from below the rows of trees, came a muzzle flash. RANKZ had seen it. No, he hadn’t, but it had been there, he knew it. Beside him, the president’s head jerked violently backwards, her skull exploding on international television. Bits and pieces of bone and gray matter clung to RANKZ’s coat, but it did not matter. He had to act.

Members of the press scattered in all directions; others stayed as flash bulbs flashed and cameras kept rolling. Secret service agents swarmed the corpse, barking orders to one another through their ear pieces. Several hundred miles away, deep under the state of Kansas, a man whose real name was not James scrambled as he head foot falls above his head.

RANKZ took off running towards the nearby patch of Christmas trees, dodging press and hopping fences as he did so. Several other agents quickly joined him, unsure of what he was doing, but still feeling the need to do something.

The shot had come from several hundred yards off, atop the hill in the center of the tree farm. The terrain was rocky and lined with endless rows of deep green pine trees, but RANKZ would be able to cover it in moments. It only took him two seconds to double the gap between him and the other pursuing agents. In another twenty seconds, RANKZ had already covered the distance and, finding traces of flight away from the position, began to follow the assassin’s trail.

Ahead, just beyond the trees, RANKZ heard what sounded like a helicopter and, drawing his gun, burst onto the seen, weapon raised.

~~~

Agent BOATZ whipped back around to see Agent RANKZ pointing his firearm in his direction. BOATZ had already tossed his rifle into helicopter, leaving him completely defenseless.

“BOATZ?” asked RANKZ.

Christ, he didn’t have time for this. “The real president’s on board,” BOATZ said, motioning towards the helicopter. “It’s not safe here, we need to get going.”

RANKZ glanced up towards the vehicle’s pilot, a shaggy-looking bearded man who was frozen in place, his hands above his head and off the controls. The helicopter’s blades still whirled above their heads. “That’s a lie, BOATZ. Get on the ground.”

“I can’t, RANKZ. I need to get to London.”

“Get down on the ground!” RANKZ took a step forward, cocking his pistol. “You’re not going anywhere, traitor.”

Smiling, BOATZ said, “two nukes. One here. One in D.C. Can you escape in time?” He took a step towards the copter.

“Stop!” RANKZ yelled. “One more step and I will not hesitate to kill you, BOATZ. You killed the fucking president!”

“I did a lot more than that.”

BOATZ leaped into the open doorway of the helicopter, taking two bullets to the right leg for his efforts. The copter’s pilot took three more. Sliding in behind the pilot’s corpse, BOATZ reached his arms around the man’s body and took the helicopter into the air, jumping in his seat each time as two more bullets clanged against the machine. He didn’t bother looking at his watch, he knew he had little time to escape the blast radius. Yet he still knew he would escape. At least he felt consolidated in knowing RANKZ would not be so lucky.

“Traaaitooor! Traaaitooor! Traaaitooor! Traaaitooor!” the rabbits cried out from behind me, their monotone choir becoming frantic and unstable, cracking under the events which were occurring. Events which I had not seen. Events which I could not see. I was blind, yet I knew exactly what was happening. I had seen it all before, yet it was new and mysterious. I had not seen this before. Something was happening, something unexpected and yet predicted. Was this what he had always intended? If so, why had he not seen it coming? He had. He had not.

Then Sean ‘P-Diddy’ Combs brought his Vonich Blade down upon the rabbits. The first rabbit exploded into a cloud of blood red mist. Fitting, considering the mist was comprised of blood. I had not seen it, neither before, during, nor after it had occurred, but it did not stop me from knowing of the event. The rabbits’ singing – yelling – grew louder. “Traaaitooor!” They were multiplying, one rabbit became two, two became four, four became infinity. Rabbits everywhere. They had always been there. This was new. I was blind.

“Don’t just stand there! Run!” Sean ‘P-Diddy’ Combs yelled as he turned another rabbit into a circular red stain. Of course. I knew that. I ran.

I ran through the door, up the stairs, and onto the metallic earth of Germany. Why were there abandoned buildings here? No person had ever lived in them. They existed for tourists and politicians. They existed for video cameras and photographs. They existed so people would believe. Who would have thought the end of the world would be born of Germany? I would. I did. I had. But it was all so very, very new.

I stopped. A river of that molten electric magma bared my path. It was too wide to cross and there was no bridge in sight. I needed to reach London. There was something there, something important. Something necessary. London was to my left. It did not matter. I continued to run through the darkness, contemplating the events which were transpiring. These events made no sense. I was alive. Was Sean ‘P-Diddy’ Combs? Yes, he was. Were the rabbits? Of course they were, they were beyond death. But were we all supposed to be? Had this happened before? If so, I hadn’t seen it. Doom hadn’t seen it. Yet Doom had known this would occur. He was counting on it. But if I lived, and if Sean ‘P-Diddy’ Combs lived, and if everything which was now happening did, in fact, happen, then –

I would need a phone. I would need everyone available to meet me in London. But there wasn’t enough time! We only had six hours! Only six hours until… No, we had more time. Six hours and one week from now, we would be faced with what could quite possibly be the end of the world. It wouldn’t be, but it might be. But the Earth would survive.

I stopped. Again. I didn’t know how long I had been running. Minutes? Hours? Days? I was out of breath, I think. I could not tell. I was blind. But things were happening inside my mind. Inside Doom’s mind. No, Doom was not here. These things had already happened to Doom. Doom already knew. Or would know. My brain itself was reforming inside my skull, reshaping itself to fit events which were never supposed to happen, events which had no choice but to occur. This was it. My vision was coming back. I would know what had happened, what was happening, what would happen. I would see all that could be seen. But it didn’t matter. I had already seen it. I already knew what was flooding into my mind. I had already lived these events – these new events – a billion times over.

Beneath London was the key to our destruction. No, our salvation. But in order to survive, we would need to take the lives of many. Is this what Doom intended all along? His revenge was deeper than anyone, even himself, knew. He was defeating slavery with free will bound by slavery. No, there was no slavery. This was all new.

It had all happened before.