Doom X: XXXtreme + x(x² X 3x) = yx³, solve for x
God was out for blood today, as he often is. Ill omens hung in the air as I made my rounds looking for dandelions to feed Lizard the lizard. The shattered top of a pickup truck lay mysteriously upside down in the middle of the sidewalk, and traffic was the worst I'd ever seen for our street. At the intersection ahead all the lights were blinking red as a police officer directed traffic. Past it, a parked train blocked the road. And some kind of Mexican festival folk were passing through the intersection on horseback. As I turned back home, thinking of the four mariachis of the apocalypse, I quietly made a bet that something bad was going to happen there.
Guess I won.
Not ten minutes later, I heard that familiar sound penetrate the walls of the apartment. "SHHHIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR KCHAK!" I knew exactly what it was and where it came from…
The Hillside of Annihilating Traffic Slaughter was back to its grim work of seducing male teens. Once again, someone had driven up the wall, torn themselves across the curb, and totaled their car some 250 feet away. Yes, up the wall again. Did I not mention that the first time? Well, there was an eerily similar incident awhile ago, of which I also have pictures. That crash likewise echoed into the apartment, as did the blaring horn that was permanently on until it was towed away. The passenger called the driver an idiot. No, no one was injured in either event. A baby seat was removed from the back of the car this time, but it was quite empty.
Here's video of the towing crew turning it over:
A press photographer arrived on the scene instantaneously, almost beating the fire crew. Later, they threw buckets of sand or something on it to stop the gasoline from spreading, and hoisted it onto the tow truck after several tries during which the bumper was ripped off. Interestingly, the air bag only deployed after this happened.
As I said, the omens were literally in the air. See, California has apparently been on fire for the past year or something. Somewhere beyond the mountains is a blazing forest filled with adorable blazing animals and, depending on the wind and how much porn you've been downloading, the sun occasionally turns an unholy peach and it starts snowing dead trees. I thought maybe it was just one of one of our opaque wandering fog cubes and that the whiteflies in the bushes had suddenly developed a taste for human skin, but soon it was unmistakable.
And that's when I saw the benchling.
Ladies man: He was hunched in the shadows of a playground bench, scanning for verbal victims. As I walked into view he immediately established eye contact, and sensing the hidden Santa Barbara Madness I started crossing the street to avoid him, but it was too late. "Hi!" he says. I half-face him and return the greeting, then resume course away. "HI!!" he repeats to my back, insistently. Conversation is inevitable. Resistance is futile. "Where are the ladies at?" he asks. "I don't know," I say, forcing one of my patented fake laughs. I start to leave, but he hastily interjects with a flurry of stock pleasantries. So, taking a walk? Are you from around here? Where are you headed? Etc. I spend just one word for every five of his, determined to win by attrition, but it turns out this is a cold war and I'm the Soviet Union. "Where are the ladies at??" he non-sequiturs again. I examine his face, his clothes. He doesn't look retarded. "I uh, I don't know…" I repeat with 20% more fakeness. "I'm from Solvang," he rambles. "My family is supposed to pick me up here but they're not here!" Solvang: that weird little Norse place in the rural zone that grows ostriches and pies. Other places have Chinatowns; we have a Vikingtown. I smile with a pause, unsure of my next move, but he picks up the ball. "Where are the ladies at?" It's clear there's only one way out of this. "Haha yeah… well okay then, bye!" I launch quickly whilst simultaneously turning and waving, cutting him off at the beginning of a new sentence; possibly another inquiry as the whereabouts of female activity. He says something else as I briskly walk away that I don't try to make out, but it's definitely not an acknowledgement of goodbye. I glance to the side to see a big, plump, heavily fertilized and watered dandelion past the park gate, but in weighing the risks I decide it's not worth it.
I no longer believe in free speech; I believe in taxed speech. Every American should have an implant inserted into their throats that charges them $.05 for every word that comes out of their mouth. Then people would think a lot more carefully about what they say to strangers.
The falling ashes reached their climax by the time by the time everything was over and the car had been towed away, and I started wishing I'd come prepared with a pair of goggles and one of those makeshift, post-apocalyptic hazard suits made of rags and the skins of my mutant enemies. It was stingingly hard to see, especially on a bike. I squinted down the path ahead, and lo and behold, a couple has decided to monopolize the H.A.T.S. sidewalk, standing on opposite ends with their hands clasped together. I look over at the street beside me. Pulling up is a clumsy garbage truck roaring like a hellhound and driven by a potbellied Grim Reaper. Do I look like a moron, God? Did I not just come back from a flipped over car on this very street with Bambi's cremated remains falling on my head? Well unlike normal people, who either drift to the side or risk survival without manual contact for 5 seconds, they step completely off of the curb as I slowly and distantly approach. "You're welcome," the woman makes sure to call out snidely. I'm sorry, how thoughtless of me. Fuck you very much.
Guess I won.
Not ten minutes later, I heard that familiar sound penetrate the walls of the apartment. "SHHHIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR KCHAK!" I knew exactly what it was and where it came from…
The Hillside of Annihilating Traffic Slaughter was back to its grim work of seducing male teens. Once again, someone had driven up the wall, torn themselves across the curb, and totaled their car some 250 feet away. Yes, up the wall again. Did I not mention that the first time? Well, there was an eerily similar incident awhile ago, of which I also have pictures. That crash likewise echoed into the apartment, as did the blaring horn that was permanently on until it was towed away. The passenger called the driver an idiot. No, no one was injured in either event. A baby seat was removed from the back of the car this time, but it was quite empty.
Here's video of the towing crew turning it over:
Click to viewA press photographer arrived on the scene instantaneously, almost beating the fire crew. Later, they threw buckets of sand or something on it to stop the gasoline from spreading, and hoisted it onto the tow truck after several tries during which the bumper was ripped off. Interestingly, the air bag only deployed after this happened.
As I said, the omens were literally in the air. See, California has apparently been on fire for the past year or something. Somewhere beyond the mountains is a blazing forest filled with adorable blazing animals and, depending on the wind and how much porn you've been downloading, the sun occasionally turns an unholy peach and it starts snowing dead trees. I thought maybe it was just one of one of our opaque wandering fog cubes and that the whiteflies in the bushes had suddenly developed a taste for human skin, but soon it was unmistakable.
And that's when I saw the benchling.
Ladies man: He was hunched in the shadows of a playground bench, scanning for verbal victims. As I walked into view he immediately established eye contact, and sensing the hidden Santa Barbara Madness I started crossing the street to avoid him, but it was too late. "Hi!" he says. I half-face him and return the greeting, then resume course away. "HI!!" he repeats to my back, insistently. Conversation is inevitable. Resistance is futile. "Where are the ladies at?" he asks. "I don't know," I say, forcing one of my patented fake laughs. I start to leave, but he hastily interjects with a flurry of stock pleasantries. So, taking a walk? Are you from around here? Where are you headed? Etc. I spend just one word for every five of his, determined to win by attrition, but it turns out this is a cold war and I'm the Soviet Union. "Where are the ladies at??" he non-sequiturs again. I examine his face, his clothes. He doesn't look retarded. "I uh, I don't know…" I repeat with 20% more fakeness. "I'm from Solvang," he rambles. "My family is supposed to pick me up here but they're not here!" Solvang: that weird little Norse place in the rural zone that grows ostriches and pies. Other places have Chinatowns; we have a Vikingtown. I smile with a pause, unsure of my next move, but he picks up the ball. "Where are the ladies at?" It's clear there's only one way out of this. "Haha yeah… well okay then, bye!" I launch quickly whilst simultaneously turning and waving, cutting him off at the beginning of a new sentence; possibly another inquiry as the whereabouts of female activity. He says something else as I briskly walk away that I don't try to make out, but it's definitely not an acknowledgement of goodbye. I glance to the side to see a big, plump, heavily fertilized and watered dandelion past the park gate, but in weighing the risks I decide it's not worth it.
I no longer believe in free speech; I believe in taxed speech. Every American should have an implant inserted into their throats that charges them $.05 for every word that comes out of their mouth. Then people would think a lot more carefully about what they say to strangers.
The falling ashes reached their climax by the time by the time everything was over and the car had been towed away, and I started wishing I'd come prepared with a pair of goggles and one of those makeshift, post-apocalyptic hazard suits made of rags and the skins of my mutant enemies. It was stingingly hard to see, especially on a bike. I squinted down the path ahead, and lo and behold, a couple has decided to monopolize the H.A.T.S. sidewalk, standing on opposite ends with their hands clasped together. I look over at the street beside me. Pulling up is a clumsy garbage truck roaring like a hellhound and driven by a potbellied Grim Reaper. Do I look like a moron, God? Did I not just come back from a flipped over car on this very street with Bambi's cremated remains falling on my head? Well unlike normal people, who either drift to the side or risk survival without manual contact for 5 seconds, they step completely off of the curb as I slowly and distantly approach. "You're welcome," the woman makes sure to call out snidely. I'm sorry, how thoughtless of me. Fuck you very much.