desalinize heating titmouse

"Ah come on, haven't we got enough mechanical killer barnyard animals at home already?"

It was the third day of the world military gadget convention and Janice Bodice was struggling to keep up with Katherine Overture's buying spree. Janice was the practical side of the partnership, their boss was counting on her to stop Katherine from spending their tiny island democracy's entire defense budget on another collection of wifi enabled anti-personnel key fobs.

"But these mechanical killer barnyard animals will really catch the enemy by surprise!" insisted Katherine as Janice dragged her away from the 'Bovine Terror' table and over to the refreshment counter while making every effort to ignore the  stream of enthusiasm gushing from her lips.

"Enough Kate!"
"But weren't those ducky-wucksies with laser guided rifles so cutsee-wutsie?"

Janice often wonderered if Kate hadn't been a cartoon character in a previous life, or possibly a mime and this babble was some kind of karmic compensation?

Before too long, Kate had polished off her hastily ordered and hastily consumed coffee and barrelled past Janice towards the Town and Country Explosives and Incendiaries table where even at this distance Janice could hear her raving over the new batch of claymore type mines disguised as garden gnomes. She resigned herself to the fact that they'd be taking back at least a half dozen samples to present to their government.

"Oh well, at least the Liberal Conservatives are in power this term, they won't kick up too much of a fuss," she muttered to no one but herself.

dangling earnings nebulosity

Froederick Smith worked in an office. He was conscientious, he was dutiful, he made an effort to do things on time, with purpose.

Froederick toiled. He believed in toiling. Toiling was a good thing. Froederick believed in the work ethic. Even his Puritain neighbour from Pennsylvania admired his work ethic. Froederick toiled to uphold his reputation for diligence. It was hard earned. built up over many years.

Froederick had perfected the art of toiling. He could set his mind to any task and toil away at it. However boring the task might begin, once he got into a task he left a trail of excitment in his wake.

Froederick had a magical power. He could toil away at things with such concentration that in the end even dullards and procrastinators were convinced that Froederick always got the most interesting jobs.

Was it because Froederick put a little of himself in everything he did?
Was it because if anybody works at something long enough, it becomes interesting?
Was it because Froederick had, as some of his collegues suggested, a relative in upper management?
What was it?

Froederick wasn't any help himself, at countless integration meetings and team-building seminars he'd been asked what his secret was, often the person doing the asking was the guru running the seminar. Froederick got embarassed at such questions and found excuses to be elsewhere.

It shouldn't be that difficult, he thought to himself. All he'd ever done is follow one rule and ask two questions. His whole life, this one rule and two questions had been enough to get the ball rolling, to overcome his natural inertia.

Froederick felt the urge to lollygag about the house in bunny slippers and drink refreshingly expensive VSOP Otard Cognac just like anyone else.

But this one rule and two questions got him past the urges:

1. Whatever you don't want to do, do it first!
2. Are you focused?
3. Why don't you try it a different way?

Could it be that easy? It was easier to believe the gossip.

So people kept asking.

One day, Froederick had it, a guru had asked him for the upteenth time about his string of results and Froederick just snapped:

"Arghh!!! I-unleashed-my-synergistic- competencies-through-a-frame-of-congruent-self- representational-timelines-and-stepped-into-my-own-self-actualized-ego-concept-without-hesitation-leveraging-massive-amounts of-total-charismatic-energy-released-by-my unencumbering-of-deep-childhood-repressioons!!!!!!ARghhh!!!!!!!"

You know what? The guru believed him?

It just goes to show, what exactly it showed, Froederick wasn't sure. It sure showed something.

At least no one bothered him again, they were too busy rushing off to improve themselves with SLC (Sociologic Lateral Cogitation) pronounced "Slick."

sleuth earnings humdinger

Today on Lifestyles of the Reasonably Comfortable and Reclusive we're joined by Johnson Senderwax, A published author under several household pseudonyms.

Regular viewers of LOTRCAR will have noticed that the customary establishing shots are absent on this episode.

In fact I, your host, Jeremy Brocklehurst, have not been permitted to reveal anything about the exterior of Mr. Senderwax's home.

Yes! Finally, in the half-season long history of LOTRCAR we have made contact with an actual full-concept hermit!

"Mr. Senderwax."
"You can call me Joe."
"Joe, thank you, and how long have you been a recluse?"
"Oh, since I could afford it, Jeremy, about 12 years."
"You have a lovely home here, and the lap pool is quite unusual."
"Heh, yeah, my architect nearly had a brain fart-can I say fart?"
"-it's cable, you can speak freely Joe."
"Superb, okay, so, he nearly had a brain fart when I asked for an underground lap pool 12 feet wide and 300 feet long."
"And the reason?"
"I always wanted to watch tv while swimming so the floor of the lap pool is optical grade glass with bank after bank of widescreen high definition tv's. no other light sources."
"What about sound?"
"waterproof wireless bone induction headphones, I subcontracted to Oakley and H2Audio for those."
"And how many laps does a whole movie take?"
10, 15 if it's a long movie."
"Impressive!"
"Heh, not really, I'm not as young as I used to be!"
"And is it true that if you slow down-"
"-yeah, the image starts to dim! I installed that myself! Motion sensors in the ceiling!"

Jeremy turned to face the camera.

"After the commercial break, we'll be visiting Mr. Senderwax's Planetarium! Bought in Toronto Canada and lovingly dissassembled and reassembled on Mr. Senderwax's private estate!"

[commercial break]

During the commercial break:

"Nothing beats the McLaughlin Planetarium for an unforgettable experience Jeremy."
"I can't believe the Royal Ontario Museum sold it, It's one of the best in North America and now it's ensuite to your bedroom?"
"They didn't know what they had, it was my deal of a lifetime."
"What do you watch there?"
"Stars mostly, southern hemisphere constellations, and laser shows."

[end commercial break]

penguin banana escapism

"So are you worried about China?"
"Not really, the big margins are in services."
"But China is producing more than products, it's also producing a skilled workforce."
"How skilled?"
"I heard one international company wanted to set up a fab there and put out a call for managers with Ph.Ds in chemical engineering and got 15000 applications that fit the brief."
"That's doesn't bother me either."
"Are you serious?!?"
"Listen, there's more money today than there was yesterday, the global economy continues to grow as people add value."
"But what about jobs?"
"If you wanna build a dam, buy some heavy earth-moving equipment, if you wanna 'create jobs' then shucks, all you need is a lot more men and a lot of spoons."
"I still don't get it."
"Money isn't the fuel in the economic engine, it's the grease, the lubricant."
"Yeah, so?"
"China invests much of it's profit right back in the countries where it sells it's goods, too much demand for the Yu-an would ultimately make exports unprofitable"
"Hey, I heard they devalued their currency to protect their export business."
"Some people accuse china of dumping their goods in the west to destroy any competition."
"Ah, well, social change always entails social disruption."
"But let's get back to the subject, what was it?"
"Oh yeah, I think I'll get the hot and sour soup and crispy duck."

coronation jubilant gospel

Nine days after the holiday and 8 entries behind schedule on their school science project, Nicholas Pump and Spavin Kesey were huddled under a soggy blanket in the hard January rain and Nicholas was punching glumly at the keys of Spavin's superphone while Spavin held up the fragile booster aerial that rose above their grim faces into the pea soup sky above their pimpled teenaged heads.

Nick and Spavin were planning a miracle.

Spavin heard Nick gasp.

"Spew! heads up!" roared Nick greatly beyond what one might expect from a neck the size of an oyster.

"Is it coming?" yelled back Spavin.

As if in answer to his question the sky ripped loose a wild lightning bolt and cracking shards of thunder.

"It's hit the gymnasium!" yelled Spavin.

"Screw that! ," said Nick, eyes glued to the superphone's 3 inch screen, "it's coming through!"

"All of it!?" said Spavin, Nick scanned through the compromised Board of Education wireless data.

"Every test, every exam, every grade of every student!" Nick howled back.

"In the whole school?"

"Nah," Nick grinned at Spavin's downcast face through the rain, "the whole city!"

"Wah-hoo!"

Spavin and Nick threw off the blanket and allowed themselves a moment to dance like crazy, no, eccentric, fools, because everyone knows that the rich can't be crazy.

Mission accomplished, they hot-dogged to Nick's mom's car.

Words like: Fiduciary, Fiscal, Financial, a lot of F-words, danced behind their contact lenses.

eight eight eight

 It occured one morning at the heavenly gates. St. Peter looked up from his ledger to find a wild duck, a battery farm chicken and a carrot standing in front of him.

"Well, how did you die then?" asked the saint while the guardian angels looked on suspiciously with their flaming swords half drawn from their carbon fibre sheaths.

"I had a nice life," said the duck, "I lived in a protected area and once a year there was a lot of noise but it never did me much bother until..."

"Yes?" said St. Peter.

"...I found out the noise was connected to something called a shotgun and wouldn't you know it? I ended up shot?"

"Very good, welcome to heaven," said St. Peter, "now what about you two hmm?"

"I lived my life in misery and darkness, laying eggs and being fed growth hormone and antibiotics until I got too ill to lay eggs and then horrible things happened to me involving electric prods, cutting tools, boiling water and sharp metal teeth, I suppose I should be upset about it but strangely I don't seem to mind," said the battery farm chicken.

"Being upset requires glands, ma'am, and as you are deceased, it is only natural you have left your glands behind, I'm sure you won't trouble yourself, and what about you?"

"I was just hanging around with my family when something pulled me by my leaves and before you know it I was plonked on a wooden cutting board and cut up, totally defenseless!" said the carrot.

"Welcome, welcome, all three of you welcome, one last question before you all enter heaven," said St. Peter, "due to the large volume of traffic we receive in heaven, should it become necessary for you to be reincarnated, any requests?"

The duck, chicken and carrot looked at each other while thinking about each of the stories they had heard.

"I wanna be a duck!" they said in unison.

"It's way better than how I lived my life," said the chicken.

"You're telling me bub," said a young cow suitable for veal who'd just arrived.

Very good, said St. Peter, Welcome to heaven!

They passed the heavenly gates.

image nuzzle dubbing

Brad Peach was a star.

Men wanted to have his body. Women just wanted his body.

Brad had an unusual morning schedule.

Every morning, Brad sat on his fully automatic toilet and let himself be irrigated. The poop was collected, sterilized and placed in a clear lucite block suitable as a gift or as collectable memorabilia.

Brad signed every block, it was his way of keeping in personal contact with his fans.

Brad then walked into his personal beauty salon. Tommy next door might have a private Starbucks but Brad had a private army to wash his face, brush his teeth, groom his ear and nose hair, clip his nails, moisturize his hands, arrange his hair in that casual "bed head" that had made him such an icon of the modern casual lifestyle.

Brad would just lie there. Reading scripts off the overhead voice-activated single beam LCD projector mounted above the head of his salon chair in a custom soundproof housing designed by Pininfarina.

Breakfast was exactly what his personal trainer told him it was. Today it was sea kelp, orange juice, lemongrass chlorophyll shot and bran muffins.

Brad didn't know whether to eat it or wear it.

After his workouts, his sweat stained clothes and socks were sold at charity auctions. His underwear he kept for his favourite charities because it appreciated rapidly in value after just a few days in the sun. He didn't know his manicurist was making a tidy profit off his nail clippings.

Brad ate, slept, read, said, exercised where and when somebody told him to.

He couldn't even say his favourite lines because it violated somebody's copyright.
He didn't even own his voice. It was trademarked now.

Brad accepted all of this as the price of fame and success.

Because, he told himself, "when I retire at 65 I can do what I want!"

meme first study

This is a meme started by Lexa of Author!Author! who, among numerous achievements is also a National Novel writing Month winner for 2006. Congratulations Lexa! I have successfully failed that competition 3 years in a row.

I wrote this entry at work so I grabbed the first book of the shelve in the teacher's room which happened to be a novel by Tama Janowitz, titled: "The male cross-dresser support group."

Five sentences down on page 123 I found:

Martin shrugged. "At first the stepfather and his mother sent him to all kinds of expensive clinics and institutionalized him. But then his family got tired of spending the money and they sent him to me."

As I am a rather bookish person I'll consider whom to challenge this evening but did not wish to hesitate in participating.

Everyone is encouraged to visit Lexa's site. It's worth your time.

Regards, B8A.

conjugate monopoly tangerine

For Powell Longballs, December 8, 2006 had started out as an ordinary day. He got up, got to his car, got to work.

The commute was faster than usual, Powell thanked his good fortune and let himself relax a little behind the wheel.

Really a lot fewer cars this morning, he thought to himself. He remembered that day a few years ago during the big rightsizing at his firm when he got up as usual, got to his car as usual and got to work in light traffic only to realize as he tried to open the locked doors of his office that it was Saturday.

he checked the date on his phone, nope. Today was Friday, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

At the office, the problem grew in his mind (when exactly he'd started to think of it as 'the problem' was a mystery to him but that's what he called it once he'd taken notice).

There were so few employees. All nervously going about their tasks, preparing audits, credit opinions, reviewing balance sheets. It dawned on Powell that everyone had noticed the problem but didn't dare to discuss it. Perhaps out of fear that whatever the problem was, it would hear them talking and thus happen to them sooner.

His manager had once boasted that there could be a nuclear strike and the end of civilization and still his department could keep operating for over a month without ever needing input from above.

Now Powell watched it happening. Everyone just working through the day even as more and more employees went for lunch breaks and never returned.

Powell had gone beyond terror by the time 6pm rolled around. By then there was no one left but himself and the receptionist. She had stayed for the same reason he had, there was a lot of work to do and even as the phones had died down until by quitting time they hadn't rung in an hour she bravely sat attentively; ready to greet visitors who didn't come, answer questions that weren't asked.

As he left, he said goodbye.

"Goodbye Grace, have a nice afternoon,"
"See you Pow-pow," she smiled with tears in her eyes, she knew it too, she'd never called him that in the office.

Powell walked over to her and gently cupped her unresisting head in his hands and kissed her softly on the lips.

"There," he said, "I've always wanted to do that."

And then he disappeared.

Grace locked the office and set the alarm, run-proof mascara staining her cheeks black. She exited the office and listened. When she closed her eyes she couldn't believe she was in the heart of the city, not a car not a person not a siren, not even a bird.

Somehow, she knew she was the last person on Earth.

When she disappeared, it was with the memory of one last, first kiss still lingering on her lips.

And then nothing.

brazil scrub measures

In Lucille's imagination, all daytime drama scenes took place in underlit, windowless rooms. All the characters inhabited a permanent twilight. All silences included meaningful looks with zooming cameras into tightly framed faces in case she needed the hint.

Listening to Darren pour his troubles onto her over their second candlelit dinner at Zorba's she wondered if she'd ever find somebody to listen to her for a change. It all seemed so hard, why had she left Schroeder? She hadn't known it would be this hard to bend herself to a new mould. Hadn't she done it tens of times before she'd gotten married and divorced?

Snatches of her favourite daytime drama dialogues kept intruding in her mind: he's not the father, Danielle is Jared's sister! The babies were switched at the hospital, Francine has amnesia and nobody else knows the password.

Just at the point where she'd lost track of Darren completely he broke into her daydream.

"Lu? are you even listening to me?" said Darren.

She gave him a long meaningful look, she even caught herself imagining the zoom shot before answering.

"Sorry, I...I'm just...please go, I can't do this tonight."

There. She'd said it, the words not cold on her lips before he had grabbed his coat and left without so much as an 'I'll call you.' Thank Gods, she didn't think she couldn've stood another second of his droning on and on about himself and his problems. She didn't even mind paying.

She walked out into the cool December air and bent her head towards home.

Maybe She and Schroeder could work it out. She realized they might have bent themselves to each other too far to fit anyone else. It wasn't daytime drama but at least it was hers?

tingling panelling musket

 Batty Bronson was an android. Batty was eight years old. Batty had the body of a dead child and the brain of a super-scientist. Batty played global thermo-nuclear war in his bedroom. Batty disassembled his dad's Corvette. Batty knew protocols for a thousand and one different cultures. Batty communicated with extra-terrestrials. Batty was a compulsive liar.

Batty had one friend.

"Hey Batty Bronson!" said Josephine Cych, Batty's only friend and a girl.
"Hey Joe!" said Batty Bronson, the super secret combat droid.
"Did you catch Space Rangers on Saturday?" said Josephine Cych.
"Nah, I was at the special school again," said Batty.
"Oh no, not again?" said Josephine.

Batty had to go to a special school on Saturdays when he was bad. Batty went to the special school a lot.

"Maybe you recorded it?" said Batty. Josephine enjoyed the despair in his eyes at missing the Space Rangers a moment longer then flashed the disc out of her pocket.
"Aw Joe, you're the greatest."
"What would a super soldier be without his secret documents?"
"And his super spy," said Batty. She noticed his smile was different than before.

Josephine blushed.