Foreword to Global Warming is a Myth

THE LUNATIC OF NARANATH

 There is a book titled ‘THE LEGENDS OF KERALA’. In one story a wandering Brahmin called Vararuchi takes a tribal woman with him and she bore twelve children by him. As soon as a child is born, she is told to leave it by the wayside and they proceed on. To the question: how it will survive, the Brahmin would say: if it has a mouth ,it would be fed; do not look back.   

 The first baby was brought up by a Namboodiri family (Mezhathol Agnihotry-the family is still there) and he became a Namboodiri. Another was a famous carpenter – Perunthachan. Among the rest was the lunatic of Naranath who captivated me as a singular personality.

 Like his father, he was a wanderer. At night he would rest in a smashan, where dead bodies are burnt. Not to waste the fire, he cooked rice there. In a cool night, enjoying the warmth of the fire, he slept soundly after a day of continuous wandering.

 That night, Bhadrakali, during her nocturnal trip, was surprised to find a human being and was naturally curious. In spite of her fierce shouts, she failed to rouse the stranger. Somehow he woke up and shouted back, Who is this mad woman? The Goddess was immensely pleased with the sheer daring of the man and wanted to bestow a boon; but the man refused, saying he would accept no favours either from man or God. For both it became a prestige issue. At last, the man relented. He said: I have elephant-foot on my left side; you may transfer it to my right side!

 It was his pastime to roll a stone up the hill and throw it down. Watching it tumble down, he claps his hands and laughs. The hill, supposed to be his favourite haunt, is near Shoranur. On the first day of the Malayalam month of Thulam, thousands of pilgrims go up the hill. `I had been there a couple of times. It rains and the path is dangerously slippery. Yet, I enjoyed it.

 I am mad. How else can I dare to write such fantastic nonsense? A lunatic is free of all inhibitions. He sees Nature as God made it. He does not worry about what is written in the text book. The greatest book is Nature. READ IT CAREFULLY without missing the punctuation. Accurate observation and logical thinking are the two pillars of knowledge. Science is nothing but the search for TRUTH.

 I welcome criticism-merciless and incisive analysis.

Note: Shoranur is in Palghat (Palakkad) dist., Kerala State

Lucky Luke, 9 times champion of the "Under Fridge Grand Prix" yesterday

After the recent acquisition of social network gaming giants Playfish, EA has expanded its borders a little further with the announcement that they’re also branching into World Class World Championship Cockroach Racing.

The sport, started in a Brisbane hotel accidentally by bored staff between fag breaks, has become a global phenomenon with followers of the spectacle numbering in the tens of dozens. For a small wager, participants can pit champion insects against each other on a grubby kitchen floor.

“We feel the time is right to expand into other markets and move away from hideously unsuccessful boxed-game IPs that aren’t making us enough money” said Charles Zitchawoski, Brand Attainment Manager at EA’s sumptuous Green Shores headquarters. “Cockroach racing might be niche at the moment, but for a relatively tiny development cost, a couple of larvae and some rotten fruit we can put together an attractive consumer experience that far oustrips the tedious and mind numblingly boring computer games market”.

Several key projects in EA’s upcoming 2010 catalogue have been shelved to make way for cockroach racing including FIFA 2010, NHL 2010 and that funny game with the bloke in it who keeps falling off his skateboard, you know, the one who looks a bit like that bloke off the telly.

Visit the official EA Roach Racing site here

Absence makes the heart grow sicker

Oxygen sucked through dry lips

Cracked, agitated, volatile,

Alone.

Angry tempers pursued in a rush

Crystal spiders on windscreens

Scratches, cuts, grazes

 Reparation.

My mom is celebrating her 80th b-day this month.

Quickie back story:  My mom and dad (*passed away 12/04), bless them- have 12 children.  I am one of 12.  I have 6 sisters (*2 of them,  I really don’t count cuz they have mad cow disease) and 5 brothers.  I am second to the youngest.  I am her favorite, I just know it in my heart.

Anywho.

I’m not going into micro details here because I’m bored with them myself.  We all live locally except 2 sisters on the East Coast and they are flying in.  BUT, my one sister is NOT going to go because she has picked another victim is hopping mad at one of my other sisters now.  She lives locally and has no excuse to not go.  But she’s created one which includes everything that everyone has ever done or said wrong to her in the last 20 years- all of which does not involve my mother.

I’m just wondering what the fuck is wrong with this crazy bitch?  She is upset with her life, her family, and whatever else has crawled up her ass sideways, and now is going to show us all by hurting our mom?  She’s 45 years old now.  Are you seriously still playing the same games?

They hired a photographer.  By her not showing up, she has ruined the family picture for my mom.  I’ve already decided that when I get the hard copies I am going to photo-shop in an ugly bag lady in her place.

I’ve watched this cowardice of a woman for years in action.  When I stood up to her 15 years ago, I really got labeled the black sheep because everyone else was so damn afraid of her.  I was too, but after taking it up the ass for years, I just had enough and told her to screw off.  My family… they are a bunch of wussies.  I love them dearly but the truth cannot be handled in any shape or form.  Until now?

Everyone is PISSED off at her now.  Me, meh…. whatever.  To me she’s a child that has thrown another rock in the lake looking to see the ripple effect (*Credit Dr. Phelan Book) and I could care less.  Everyone is running around in shock at her latest stunt, but I’m not even phased.  I just feel sad for my mom.

My name is Lilian and I fail at fashion. I would add that at least I am not an alcoholic, a lunatic or a cardboard box of a person who is obsessed with boring things, but that would only be a half-truth.

This blog is my clothes confessional where I am going to try and document the way I dress. Yes, it is a little shallow. Maybe even a bit conceited. But I have good reasons.

It takes me forever to get dressed. Not in a “I can’t tie my shoelaces” kind of way, but in a “I want to wear these shoes, but I can’t if it’s raining, and not with that coat or if I have to walk too much, and I have no hat to match” kind of way.

So I am going to post outfits for my own documentation, to satisfy my curiosity of clothes and to see what the internet thinks. It is a little terrifying but I think I will learn something.

In short, I am reconciling with style one outfit at a time.

British Feature Fiction Film ‘BILLY & LILLY GO TO NEW YORK’ will have its World Première at the WATERFORD FILM FESTIVAL. The film is made by critically acclaimed maverick director Bill Maloney (LUNATIC) The film is shot in a realistic documentary style but it is a spoof. Bill playing himself (a cockney –speaking Irishman) goes to New York to represent his nominated feature film at a NY Film Festival but he decides to bypass the festival glitz in favour of shooting a documentary about the homeless people of NY. Their efforts lead to a tragic close.

http://billyandlillygotonewyork.wordpress.com/selected-for-waterford-film-festival/

TIGHT, eclectic and above all thrillingly-daring; National Dance Company Wales last night performed an accomplished, yet perhaps not always perfect, programme at the Wales Millennium Centre, Cardiff.

The company, formerly known as Diversions, were directed by Ann Sholem. They performed three dances — switching between synchronized group floor-work and organic free movements with ease.

The Andonis Foniadakis-choreographed Veil of Stars began with shimmering robotic figures stalking through billows of smoke, set to Julien Tarride’s outstanding, minimal-electronic whirrs and blips.

The dance progressed to some impressively-accurate group moves accompanied by polyrhythmic violins and piano — the music seamlessly moving between digital noise, and Terry Riley-influenced serialism.

It ended in a throbbing bass drum pulse — reminiscent of the contemporary ‘break-core’ style — before collapsing into tranquil section seeing a lone dancer held aloft by the symbiotic troupe.

This was an emotionally-absorbing and dynamic work; the powerful, musical changes mirrored in both the dancers’ individual strength and their collective awareness.

Although these traits were also identifiable in the first piece, Roy Campbell-Moore’s Hinterland, there wasn’t the diversity which made Veil of Stars so captivating.

Set to the late Alun Hoddinott’s Welsh Dances Suite, Hinterland was intended to represent a community interacting and conveying different emotions.

Although Hoddinott’s neo-classical movements could be compared to Bartok or even Stravinsky, the lack of visual dynamics made the exchanges become flat fairly quickly.

The music also went silent for periods when the dancers were in full-flow. Deliberate or not, the effect was an unsatisfying lull.

Nigel Charnock’s Lunatic was hugely-witty and had vastly-differing elements yet it suffered somewhat from the ill-advised attempt at audience participation.

The dancers’ forays into the audience, led by rehearsal director, Joanne Fong, were not executed with the professionalism of the rest of the performance, and weren’t received well.

This said, the piece did have some intriguing messages: gender subversion and the glorification of war.

In summary, although the spell of the evening was occasionally broken, such instances were fairly rare in a consistently empirical performance.

When this technical excellence met with inspired choreography and breathtaking music, as it constantly did in Veil of Stars, the results were irresistibly-captivating.

We’ve all got a major, impending deadline so I’m going to cheat a bit. Here’s a review I wrote for a competition last night about a very good contemporary dance show. There’s a matinee at 1pm today – if you’re a keen net reader you could even get along. Alternatively it’s going to London this Friday (6th). Tell me if it’s worth £100, or just a slap in my pretentious face.

Last night’s homecoming by the newly branded National Dance Company Wales began with a lone figure on a blue-lit stage. A silent woman in a sweeping, sexually charged see-through dress squelched her way across the set, making an awkward din in her bare feet.

The audience could only hold its breath. That first minute held promises for stereotypes among dance fanatics; suited middle-aged ballet junkies watching silently as they stroked their chins.

But the show transformed, and quickly. By its end, Cardiff’s Millennium Centre was in joyous uproar. Red lights flashed and swing jazz was piped overhead as dancers leapt over seats and let off party poppers into a shocked crowd.

“We take the work everywhere, whether it’s Milan or Milford Haven,” said artistic director Ann Sholem. And this seems to have been the point. By demonstrating works by three vastly different choreographers, the show argued even contemporary dance should have a wide appeal.

The solitary dancer from 'Hinterland'

The highlight was Veil of Stars, by Greek choreographer Andonis Foniadaki. Masked figures in homemade-looking sparkly costumes flew across the stage at incredible speed, while stage hands laid on more dry ice and thumping electronic music than a cheap school disco.

The strobe lighting made the dancers a religious cult, and it brainwashed the audience. I was in awe of the dancers’ energy and ability to move as one. The spectacle was not in what we could understand, but in what we could see; and in Foniadaki’s piece, this was hypnotising.

Roy Campbell-Moore’s opener Hinterland did not quite achieve the same freedom. Its themes of loneliness were perhaps too complicated, and risked getting lost in the late Alun Hoddinott’s pre-recorded Welsh Dance Suites. Such an intense work needed the grating reality of a live orchestra to get its point across.

So the most memorable scenes, then, were left for Nigel Charnock’s closer Lunatic. Figures in pyjamas set the scene for a trip into dream-land, where Union Jacks were flung around the stage while a man tiptoed around in black stiletto heels.

It was chaotic, and crucially lacked the unity of the other two. Yet, it was actually fun. And if last night’s show was less about making a statement, and more about seeing if contemporary dance could make an audience laugh out loud – then all I can say is, it worked.

What is sovereignty and does anyone still have any?

By Brian Hammond

Ted hung up the phone.  This whole package idea disturbed him greatly but he put it out of his mind.  He spent the next hour going over evidence.  He really wanted another cup of coffee like the one that the lab tech guy had brought him.  In the small stack of evidence he found a crumpled piece of paper in an evidence bag.  It was an apology letter explaining that a student was in fact not expelled from culinary school.  It was addressed to Jonas.  Ted’s blood ran cold.  His mind went to the package.  He reached for his phone but it rang before he could dial.

“Officer Manus,” he said.

“Hello Ted.”

“Yes, can I help you?”

“No.”

“Well I really need this line so I’m gonna have to let you go”

“I’m sure by now you have connected the letter I left and the package I left.”

“Jonas?”

“Yes Ted, My name is Jonas.  Just to set your mind at ease there is nothing in the package that will harm your precious family.  They did nothing to harm me, therefore I would do nothing to harm them.”

“What about me Jonas, are you going to harm me?”

“Have you tried to harm me Ted?”

“No.”

“Then why worry about such things?”

“Why did you call me?”

“Because I want to know how the search is going.  I know that you found my classmates, I know that you found those liars in AA.  I know that you think they are connected, and you’re right!”

His voice was gaining volume and octave.  Ted had hit the record button on the phone minutes ago.

“Are there more?”

“Yes Ted, and there will be many more until you stop me.  Halloween is coming Teddy. Can you imagine what can happen if my candy makes it into the bags of children?”

“Jonas, why don’t you come in we could talk about this get you some help.”

“Nice turn Ted, but your people have already helped me once.  I feel much better now, and do you know why? Because you’re system works, Ted.  It made a new man out of me.”

His voice was a dull monotone, moving towards just a whisper.

“I’m not coming in. You get to come and find me.  Its not hard. I’m always in the same place I always was.”

“Where is that Jonas?”

“Look through the files, I left a long paper trail before I was changed, but the more things change the more they stay the same.  Hope you enjoyed the coffee.”  Click.  The phone call was over.  Ted was sweating but he was ice cold.  He looked at the note in his hand.  Jonas Burkett.  He switched to another line and called the records department.

“This is Detective Manus, yes I realize I am the only one here, thank you, I need everything you can find on Jonas Burkett and I need it five minutes ago.”

He didn’t wait for a reply; he hung up the phone and poured through the next stack of evidence.

This postcard fits in well with the Madness Monday theme, as it shows the entrance to the Lunatic Asylum at Haywards Heath, Sussex.

The card is not in the best of condition, it was published by Mezzotint Co. of Brighton, probably around 1903-04 and is unused. The writing up the left hand side reads “MEZZOTINT COMPANY YORK HILL LONDON ROAD BRIGHTON”.

It is a shame the postcard was not in colour, then you would see the striking red and yellow brickwork. Even so it does illustrate the thought and effort that went into building the asylum, which could just have easily been a drab and plain building.

If you look very closely, and it is not even clear on the original, there is what looks like a young boy standing in front of the right-hand gate post.

The family connection is through my 2x great grandfather George Thomas GASSON (see My Lunatic Ancestor), who was an inmate here from 1898 to 1903 when he was transferred to newly built asylum at Hellingly, Sussex.

While I was an undergraduate at UNR, earning my ‘in-essential’ degree in Creative Writing, an author and staff writer/editor for The New Yorker came to speak to my class. He was educated, professional, successful and  self-possessed- essentially, a douchebag. I was pretty interested as a very active poet and performer in the community. I was hoping I could get some insight.

 He told us that we needed to read everything or we would never make it as writers. NEVER. In context, I asked him, “Can’t you create a new path if you don’t know where the border of the road is?” I cited Antonin Artaud’s seminal work “No More Masterpieces” as grounds for crafting literature and poetry(arguably) more relevant to today’s audiences; I referenced the works of Tolstoy and Lem, working in the cold isolation of Russia, creating characters and vistas that, although foreign to western audiences were no less accessible.

He looked at me with the same contempt and disdain as if I said, “I have leprosy! Wanna make out?”

Then he told me I would be a failure as a writer, dismissed my follow up, repeated his “read everything” motto, and moved on to the next question. Needless to say, I felt a little embarrassed and discouraged. And, in keeping with my against the grain nature, didn’t buy a single book of poetry that wasn’t required for a class for many years. I got some Bukowski, some Silverstein, some books on getting published. And I kept writing. I kept performing. I kept running the damn open mic.

I know I’m a great poet – I don’t need to measure myself by the yardstick of who’s the most popular bestseller. I suck at actually sending things off for publication – I’m a procrastinator; I’ll cram all the work in at the end. So look for my first book when I’m ready to die.

Now, In the words of Ron White, I told you that story so I could tell you another. I recently reconnected with a childhood and high school friend. During our senior year, we were part of a short lived Poetry Club at St. Louis U. High. I found a lot of inspiration there that led me to make a lot of the choices to pursue the creative and experiental avenues of my life (i.e. tune in, turn on, and drop out – but that came later). He was surprised and pleased to hear that I was performing poetry, not to mention still writing. He himself had continued to pursue music. As any artist would ask another, in a letter he asked me, “who are some of your favorite poets these days?”

Shit.

I think the most recent book of poetry I’ve read is Kim Addonizio’s Jimmy and Rita Hank Sosnowski’s Love, Lust & Lunacy. I don’t really keep up with published poetry. I read Killpoet  (R.I.P. W.j.B.) on occasion and go to open mics and reader’s nights when I’m not exhausted from chasing a three year old around all day. I think poetry exists in action and work in a vacuum. So what do I tell this guy, who I’d like to at least impress a little bit? I have failed as a commercial writer, so far, much to my wife’s annoyance (but she knew what she was getting into). But then I ask myself, have I actually failed as a writer? Emily Dickinson wrote in seclusion, Jack Kerouac was a 50 year old drunk by the time people noticed him, and Hank Sosnowski was an aging hipster before he started publishing! Most of my poetry exists in this wierd world somewhere between the page and the stage; my poetic philosophy dictates that I write in order to speak, to emote, to act.

“But that’s just rationalization,” I told myself, “you don’t keep up. You don’t study the craft in classes. That New Yorker guy was right.” I had been feeling this for some time, before my friend’s letter made me face it. I’ve been off my game for most of the last few years, andhaving a kid was no excuse for me to stop writing. Then I went to the bookstore.

In the Children’s section, I stumbled across a book about Langston Hughes’ poetry for young readers. Langston Hughes was the first poet that really inspired me, in words and as a human being. I filpped through the opening biography and was reminded – he worked in a vacuum too. Langston Hughes threw away all his books of poetry while on a cruise over to Africa in the 1950’s. Threw them all overboard so that he could write with no preconceptions, no ruleset, no prescription; he mainlined the craft like a hotshot. He wrote in the particular idiom of his people at his time, like Shakespeare, like Homer, like Enheduanna, . . . like me. I am the Worst Poet from Reno, NV. I am the Reverend Rory Dowd!

I’m fired up again, my friends. What time is it? It’s bad poetry time! 

(Here’s the poem I sent my friend. It’s new.)

IF anyone feels so inclined to get me a present for my 21st (which you are in no way obligated to do), here are some suggestions:

• iTunes vouchers
• CD & DVD Store Vouchers
• Any of the following books by Ted Dekker: Adam, Heaven’s Wager, When Heaven Weeps, Thunder of Heaven, Martyr’s Song, Thr3e, House, Kiss, Boneman’s Daughters, Green, Lunatic, Elyon, Blessed Child, A Man Called Blessed. That’s about 16 to choose from hehe.
• Flight of the Conchords Season 2 DVDs

If you win the lottery between now and my birthday, feel free to get me any or all of the following:

• An iPhone 3GS
• A Macbook Pro
• A new 30 inch iMac quad core
• An SM58 wireless handheld microphone (with receiver)
• a 600W Power Amp
• A handy collapsible lighting rig truss type thing (can be found on trademe)
• A large 1080P HD TV
• a couple of JBL PA Subwoofers
• A Warwick 5-string bass guitar
• A Fender Telecaster or Gibson Les Paul electric Guitar
• A nice Pearl drum kit
• Logic 8 (recording software)
• I could go on and oooooooooon with this list….

Most important thing is to be there though, looking forward to seeing you! And bring a plate. With food on it. That tastes nice. In my opinion. That is all.

This headline is a quote is from an apologist on Carm.org attempting to prove that the story of Noah’s Ark actually happened. The article was quite comical, but I thought his comment was worth discussing.

Christians have a special gift for discerning which parts of the Bible are real and which parts are parables, allegories or Jewish folklore. Every Christian has a different opinion.

Jesus claimed to be the Son of God and is quoted confirming scripture in the gospels over and over again. This leads you to only 3 rational conclusions. Jesus is the Son of God and is confirming that the Old Testament stories are true. Jesus was a liar and a lunatic. Or the gospels are false testimony with inaccurate quotations of a man that may or may not have actually existed. So I ask Christians, which is it?

Let’s look at a few of the examples when Jesus confirmed Old Testament scripture:

The Ark

“As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. For in the days before the flood, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark; and they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man.” —Matthew 24:37-39

Sodom and Gomorra

“It was the same as happened in the days of Lot: they were eating, they were drinking, they were buying, they were selling, they were planting, they were building; but on the day that Lot went out from Sodom it rained fire and brimstone from heaven and destroyed them all. It will be just the same on the day that the Son of Man is revealed. On that day, the one who is on the housetop and whose goods are in the house must not go down to take them out; and likewise the one who is in the field must not turn back.” —Luke 17:28-32

Adam and Eve and the creation story

“Haven’t you read,” he replied, “that at the beginning the Creator ‘made them male and female,’ and said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh’? So they are no longer two, but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.” —Matthew 19:4-6

Cain and Able from the creation story

“From the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah, who was killed between the altar and the sanctuary. Yes, I tell you, this generation will be held responsible for it all.” —Luke 11:51

Jonah living in a whale’s belly for three days

“For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of a huge fish, so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.” —Matthew 12:40

How many Christians actually believe the creation story? How many believe the story of Noah’s Ark? And how many think a man can live in the belly of a whale for three days? Jesus not only believed it, he confirmed the stories in the Gospels. Is it possible for Jesus to be a liar and the Son of Man? If not, how is it possible to disagree with Jesus and still call yourself a Christian?

The word of the day is Lunatic! Use it at least once today.

Sentence Examples:

“I go to school with many lunatics.“

“Heather likes to pronounce lunatic as loon-attic.”

-Nicole

why cant i log in my yahoo email? is there anything wrong or a lunatic classmate has hacked my emails again???

The Legendary Shirtless Driver

A year earlier, Thomas Accrual, was sitting half naked in his kitchen, alone, eating canned foods and stale bread all the while foaming at the mouth.  Literally he had the shirt stripped off his back when the stock market collapsed.  As a failed day trader, he had become nearly destitute and his wife and children had left him.  The days rolled into months and his unfortunate lonely condition morphed into a madness and an obsession over replacing the shirt that was stripped from his body.  In the darkness of his abandoned neighborhood, Thomas ran around with chainsaw in hand scaring innocent travelers.  His sanity was restored when he took from a poor, ignorant, person a very lucky T-shirt.  The loss of such a prized possession drove the victim of Thomas’ attack to the funny farm, but Thomas gained so much more than a shirt, he gained a brand new lease on life and the inspiration and confidence to live it right.  Now at the nook in his kitchen, Thomas was fully clothed, with his lucky T-shirt on, enjoying a Saturday morning breakfast with his family, that had recently returned.  Thomas’ life was going so well that he had almost forgotten the months he had acted like a ravenous lunatic, and there in lay a danger that he was ignorant of; for you see, the really fashionable T-shirt, that was made from the finest fibers and was designed by a great artist who shall go nameless, had recently been taken for granted.

On that same Saturday, Thomas decided to do some yard work.  Oddly the fall had been unseasonably warm, and the grass was growing as if the summer was still going strong.  While in the midst of mowing his yard Thomas was perspiring from just about every pore, so he decided to take off his shirt and carelessly threw it up on a branch of a young tree with thin limbs.

Almost immediately Thomas felt an odd feeling inside.  A mixture of fear and anger.  It was a familiar feeling, an unsettling feeling, a feeling most unwanted, and as the source of his curious feelings was realized it was already too late.  The discarded T-shirt was picked up by a gust of wind and had fell onto the handle bars of a teen age boy passing by on his bike.  At first glance the boy was excited over his happenstance acquisition.  Upon further examination he held up his nose and said, “Whew, I think Mom needs to wash this fabulous shirt before I put it on.”  He then folded it carefully over his handlebars and raced towards his home.  Having witnessed the boy take his T-shirt away, Thomas slipped back into his old lunatic self.

The Murderous Mower

Immediately, Thomas jumped on his green, John Deere, rider-mower, and went chasing after the boy.  Thomas’ wife also had witnessed what had happened, from her bedroom window, and was shocked by his transformation.  She ran out trying to save her husband from the madness that had once again infected him but by the time she got to the front door his mower had already sped away.     Like a steam engined filled with a raging fire in its furnace, Thomas’ murderous mower was racing towards the unsuspecting boy.  Thomas didn’t have to stay on the roads to catch his prey.  He mowed through yard after yard, and smashed through countless lawn jockeys, lawn gnomes, garden balls, and plastic pink flamingos.  He even managed to drive through an award winning rose bush and not once did he flinch from the pain of the thorns piercing his flesh.

Finally the boy was in sight and Thomas drove up along side his bike.  Due to the loud music pouring into his ears from his over-sized headphones the boy did not even hear the roar of Thomas’ monstrous sounding engine.  Surprised, the boy found himself being lifted off of his bike, single handedly, by a strange shirtless man.  The boy screamed in terror.  Thomas snarled while the boy looked directly at his crazed captor.  Thomas was so blinded by his own rage he could only see the person who took the shirt and not the bike which had managed to be thrown ahead of the mower and thusly ran over and crushed by his maniacal rider-mower.  Thomas was about to inflict a major beating onto the boy, when he realized the boy did not have the shirt on him and that it must have remained on the bike.  Having panicked, Thomas threw the boy to the side of the road without any care and quickly turned around and raced to the mangled bike.

At first glance, all Thomas could see were twisted metal bars and tattered rubber scraps; however, upon further review of the accident scene he noticed the many torn pieces of the shirt that had saved him from madness.  He fell upon his knees and wept like a child.  Gone forever was his chance at a real life.  Certainly, he would lose everything dear to him again for he once more was naked from the waste up, and vulnerable to a world which had shown its utter disgust for pasty, flabby men without shirts.  He was hopeless to be sure but was he in fact helpless as he thought he was?

A white Ford Taurus pulled up to the scene of the accident; with the car placed in park, Thomas’ wife stepped out from the driver side.  She walked over to her troubled husband and placed a brand new T-shirt around his shoulder.  True it wasn’t an identical shirt but it featured an even cooler design from that T-shirt artist who shall remain nameless.  As well, there certainly was a renewed since of power, and freshness that came over Thomas as he put it on.  He stood up, took a deep breath and gave his wife a warm smile of appreciation.   Thomas and his wife hugged and as relief filled his heart and mind Thomas said, “Thank Heaven for you Muffin.”

Mrs. Muffin???

His wife blushed and she explained, “Oh Tommy.  Don’t you know that I’ve taken precautions and ordered you a whole wardrobe of t-shirts and other quality apparel from that very same t-shirt website (that shall remain nameless) that saved your sanity.”

Thomas had forgotten that fact and now in hindsight he could do nothing else but laugh at the absurdity of his actions, and said, “So I suppose this whole event was for nothing.  It didn’t even need to occur…sort of like those sequels to bad monster movies.”

The wife smiled a curious grin as if she was in on some warped joked and then suggested that they go home and back to their normal life.  What that joke was however and the real identity of the woman called Muffin is a story for another time…(AND THAT TIME IS OCTOBER 2010 in the blockbuster conclusion to the Shirtless Driver trilogy entitled: THE SHIRTLESS DRIVER ALWAYS RINGS TWICE.)

Now as we leave this haunting tale, remember to always prepare for life’s unexpected events; especially if you’ve spend most of your days behind a desk. Don’t  be caught with out a shirt on your back!  Spare yourself the maddening, inhuman, embarrassment of exposed love handles, fatty arms, and/or unsightly body hair.  BUY THOMPSON’s T-SHIRTS!  BUY LOTS OF THEM!  DO IT NOW!  BEFORE ITS TOO LATE! OH! and have a HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

The End?

Loved the Sequel?  Of course you did!  Now read the story that started it all:
“The Tale of the Shirtless Driver.“

Matt Thompson

The Archbishop of Canterbury called for an end to economic growth to save the planet.

I’m not some lunatic. I don’t actually believe in vampires. The fact of the matter is that I was always told to stop writing about stupid stuff like vampires, despite the fact that I very seldom actually did write about vampires. So, being the type that holds a grudge, I decided to take this opportunity to really shove the vampire down everybody’s throats by focusing my efforts of an entire semester completely towards vampires when I heard that we could essentially pick our own topic. Anyway, I thought I’d just make this clear before I started talking like some loon about belief in vampire existence that I barely believe in the reality of human consciousness, let alone things as heady and uncertain as the spiritual or supernatural. That being said, in a world as tough to understand as this one, vampires (as well as zombies and golems) are a welcome respite from monotonous classes, humdrum routines, and depressing blogs. Not this one of course. If you need proof that vampires can be quite interesting, even when they are actually not very interesting at all (Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight) just check out the entry for Great Vampire Sex Novels at Uncyclopedia! Here; I’ll even give you a link to it: http://wikizap.mobi/enuncyclopedia/Great_Vampire_Sex_Novels_of_the_21st_Century
I know what you’re thinking. Is this really worth reading or is this just an extraneous, link to fill space like there are on so many other blogs? Eh… probably the latter. Read it, don’t read it. I don’t care.