14 October 2012

About the author

When I was 7, I had the "alien abduction" experience. 

I also experienced a profoundly disorienting sense of time distortion. 

These things continued throughout my life until my mid-thirties. I have not had any "unexplainable" events since then. 

It's been years. Still, it left me pretty fucked up, to this day. I'm all kinds of fucked up, but do not believe in alien abduction. I went through the experience, many times, and am pretty fucking sure it wasn't Temporal Lobe Epilepsy, Sleep Paralysis, or anything else I've heard. Something FUCKED UP is happening to people, and just because it seems like "alien abduction" doesn't mean it is. It also doesn't mean that nothing happened to all these other people and myself. I have NO IDEA what it is, but for all the world, it feels VERY "OTHER." So strange, terrifying, belittling, isolating, and paranoia-inducing that it touches EVERY aspect of your life.

It's a terrible way to grow up.

That's me. Confessing to things that happened to me. That brought me guilt, like a rape victim blaming themself. I am guilty, shameful, wrong because this doesn't happen to "normal" people. Shamed. Guilty. Paranoid. Suicidal. Unable to fit in. All I am is a meat-suit of fear, questions and a defense-mechanism of humor.

30 September 2012

Honey Boo Boo Secret Origin

(Just add lightning!)

"Have of them are true."

"Half of them are true."

Doctor Who S07E05

This feels like a "this means something; this is important" moment, ala CE3K...

28 September 2012


"I don't want to kill the president, nor do I think it's good to call people faggots or niggers. But to wholesale block, censor or charge a person with terrorism or hate crime for using the words IN *ANY* CONTEXT is COMPLETELY against the tenets that led us to this land and to kill the indigenous peoples. Yeah, thanks a lot for censoring me, facebook, and whomever ratted on me for using the word "nigger" because you are ignorant of social commentary and metaphor. It's almost like we shouldn't have come here and murdered people and stole their land so we could be free."

Posted in case fb censors my reaction to being censored. I'd post the comment that was deleted, but it got deleted. I equated horses that are abused for show to "niggers" (yes, in quotes like that) because they seemed abused like slaves. I don't recall the wording, but that was the gist. I'm guessing Mark Zuckerbook would like to go back in time and censor John Lennon's "Woman is the Nigger of the World" now, too. Yes, I've been edited and deleted and censored before, but when they act like I'm committing Hate Crimes, they can fuck right off. Fuck you facebook. I've never sooo wanted to use offensive language as I do now. Suddenly, I am a nigger. And fuck you facebook. You're the stupid cunt holding the whip. 

16 September 2012

A very short story for a friend

Me? Me!
by meat™

The wind was ripping her hair about, hurting her forehead as she edged off the building. Why does it have to be raining? Nate better be right about this, she thought, diving off. The fiction cords licked her ankles, and chewed into the leather of her high-tops, solid. Click, that annoying thing that asked to be called Click, monitored her descent and gauged the deceleration. Floor 23. Mimi tinked the diamond-cutter off her belt and onto the window and went to work breaching.
She loved that sound. And the window was open for her. A slink and a wink and she was in.

The bar, first. A scotch never hurt a woman. Then the desk to give up its ghost. She found her info in the time it took to kill one drink, so she loitered to kill another. Style must be upheld, even if standards and security are not. Her parcel packed, she thought.

Then, for good measure, one more drink, making sure the lipstick left a perfect ring on the rim.

Out the window.

Falling faster than ever.

Flit! SHOOM! The base-shoot catches the air perfectly, like the larger model parachutes, but not as powerful. Her ass hits perfectly square on top of the Bentley, blowing the windows out and cushioning her fall. Roll off, brush the glass and blood off her face and she says, “Got it.” She opens up the recovered parcel and reads it. It was a particularly funny Calvin & Hobbes cartoon. The one where Calvin started off thinking he wished everyone was dead, but ended up thinking he wished EVERYONE ELSE was dead. He and Hobbes were just fine. 

The night had not opened its secrets, yet she felt she understood the funny pages on a new level.

the end

10 September 2012

23 August 2012


Some more shit
by Meat Trademark

Remember, folks, after you sneeze, if you use Kleenex brand, don’t throw that tissue away just yet.  You can read it like you’d read tea leaves or tarot cards.  Just take the tissue, reopen it up to it’s full flat area and set it on a table.  Then get a ruler, I’ll wait.

Good, but that sure took a while didn’t it? 

Now, first, did you sneeze directly into the middle of the tissue or off-center? 

If you sneezed directly into the center, expect either a raise or a death in the family soon. 

Is it to the left or right, top or bottom? 

Measure from the edges to middle. 

Is the snot and/or saliva more to the left than to the right, more to the bottom than to the top? 

If the snot is two inches from the left and two inches from the top, anticipate an unexpected guest in the next two days. 

If the snot is three inc


                                 etrist told me my eyes aren’t receiving enough cathode.  As a corrective measure, I’ve begun a regime of seventeen hours of TV a day for three weeks and two days-  Wake up. Watch TV.  Watch some more TV.  Eat (in front of TV).  Write, during boring parts.  Watch TV.  Eat again (in front of TV).  Watch TV.  Eat again (in front of TV).  Sleep.

By my calculations, I view some 500 commercials daily.  Food, booze, cars and household goods, over and over and over. 
Saturday is toy commercial day.  Toys like:

SURGERY!-  Where kids learn how to cut one of their toes off, and sew it back on with only minor nerve damage!  And the companion game:

AUTOPSY!-  Kids learn to dissect corpses, trying to establish cause of death.  (Includes two human corpses, scalpel, X-Ray machine, bone-saw, formaldehyde, and much more!  Ages 12 and up.)

My 1st Abiogenesis Kit-  Teaches kids how to create life from nonliving matter.  Experiments include silicone-based life, merging chromosomes, changing nucleic acids, the restructurization of DNA, animating water, and more.

Fisher Price Tattoo Gun-  Comes with instructions, templates, and a year’s supply of ink.

Sharp Water- Looks like water, tastes like water, smells like water, but watch out!  It’s sharp!

Children’s Russian Roulette- All the fun of the adult game, without the messy cleanup.  (Blanks sold separately.)

Teen Pregnancy board game- Teaches children about babies, abortion, and true love.

Lil’ Hypodermic Needles- Kit includes 24 syringes, a pre-bent spoon, Bunsen burner, 24 cotton swabs, tourniquet, and instructions.  (All needles have been used once, for testing.  Ages 9 and up.)

Baby’s First Download- The original and still the best digital diaper on the market. Now available without prescription.  (Not available in the original thirteen colonies.)

Poopy Baby- The doll actually shits!  Learn about diapers and cleanup!  (Diapers, fake poop, batteries, clothes, baby powder, packaging, instructions, and head sold separately.)

Preschool Golden Seal- Herbal tea that helps four year olds pass their drug test to get into kindergarten.  (Now with better protection against Schedule IV drugs!)

Einstein’s Secret Unified Field Theory- ユヤサネカホツォーテラ゚ 
(Instructions not included.  Updates available for service charge.  Ages 30 and up.)

“Stray Bullet Jackson” inaction figure- Life-like head wound!  Figure lies around leaking blood (not included).  Kit includes: dead doll, movable chalk outline, and two spent 9mm shells.

21 August 2012


(An excerpt from my autobiography)

First off, a couple notes for context: this was written when I was dating the Greek Goddess of Chaos, Eris, and this particular event took place while she was Offworld doing whatever she does when she's not home. Also, when we started dating my life began having a literal soundtrack. Okay. Let's do this.

Not many people realize that Kurt Russel is a powerful magician. He's not just a guy who felt “kinda invincible” in that Big Trouble in Little China movie, he's also a practicing guerrilla sorcerer. He comes over every few months to ‘read’ me and realign my libido and rotate my chakra (so they wear out evenly, he always tells me). One week, I secretly replaced one of my chakra with the new Folgers crystals and I secretly taped it without his knowledge, so let’s check it out.

[Kurt enters, takes off overcoat, sits]

“Nathan. How are you?” He’s the only person that calls me Nathan. Everyone else calls me Nate (except, of course, Calls Everyone Spanky).

“Pretty good, Snake. And you?” (He asked me to call him Snake.)

“Ahn, shit, well, I can’t complain. Wouldn't say no to a beer if you offered. Just finished up doing a commentary with the Old Man.” That's what he calls John Carpenter. “Wait.” He jumps up and approaches me. He takes the last step slower, as if penetrating a barrier. He puts one hand on my chest and one hand on my head. “There’s something very wrong.” He grabs my head and pulls me to a standing position, and then waves his hands over my head. With a pulling motion he lowers them to my chest and begins wide circling motions over my body. Then, with the slightest tugging, he slowly brings his hands back to him. They are cupped. When he opens them they are full of coffee. “What is this?”

I look at him and smile. “Oh, that’s where that went! I’ve been looking for that.” I outstretch my palms and he wordlessly pours the coffee into my hands.

That’s when I noticed it was vibrating subtly. My smile dropped like a 16 ton cartoon weight. It was... As I brought it to my face to smell it, novelty turned to trepidation. I could hear the coffee. It seemed to be whistling a catchy little ditty. Familiar as hell. Oh, I know this tune it’s- HOLY SHIT!

“Snake, what exactly did you do?”

“I took out everything that wasn’t supposed to be there.”

He had taken my Madness in Theory and Practice theme music out inadvertently when he exorcised me. It was mixed in with the coffee. I feel so empty and naked now. I never realized how much I took my wonderful chesty little music for granted. I miss it already. It was like a magnet pulling me forward into the future.

Eris isn’t going to like this. She’s gonna be soooo mad at us. Him for taking it out, and me for fucking with my chakra in the first place.


What the fuck was I thinking? Oh yeah. It’s fucking brilliant. That’s what I was thinking. I’ve sure learned my lesson. Next time will be much more thought out. . .

15 August 2012



Look out everyone, generic John Smith is loose again! Hide your goodies and brace your own! There’s no telling where this rip-roaring rampage will abate. Yes, “abate” my dear friends, for this tale shall never “end.” Mere abatement is the best we can, and should, hold out for. As if our lives had a nice, conveniently placed, pause button. No actual definable End, but not even a “real” “beginning” or “middle,” either. Plain old chapter stops. Envision the chapter stops as ancient, handwritten scrolls where each chapter is a different scroll, or envision them as a new release DVD with scene selections. Either way, you should get the idea. Close your eyes, point your finger, and hit a random button. It’ll get you somewhere.


The John Smith glances out from his patio, directly at the reader, and smiles as if nothing is wrong. Of course, he understands that him being viewed is a complete assault on his definition of reality, but he takes it in stride. “Just a drug flashback…,” or some such bullshit is how he defines or justifies this awareness. As quickly as not, he forgets it and begins thinking about rubber chickens. Kind of a defense program. When things gets too rough in “reality,” he shuts down most systems and runs basic cold/heat, pain/pleasure type functions, with a piggy-back hacker-style surreal thought inducer: The Rubber Chicken.

Whenever John Smith approaches a brown-out or black-out situation he has these functions occur at once. Then, he is thinking about rubber chickens.

This time he envisions a complex history of marketing and development. Beginning with Herman Winslow. Herman, of course, is the inventor of the plastic vomit spot. (“Fool your friends! Looks like real vomit!”) His next invention, Crystal Dog Doo, never caught on. His competitor, Albert Rubinstein, had much better luck with his rubber version. Soon, Rubber Dog Doo™! and Fake Puke™! were competing for the Guinness Book of World Records position of best-selling novelty item.

Then Herman made a terrible mistake. He sank all of his money into a new novelty product. The Flannel Chicken. He paid an estimated two million dollars for 5 million Flannel Chickens. His assessment of the public’s buying prices and habits cost him dearly. The original price of the Flannel Chicken was $14.95. He sold less than five hundred of the five million units in the first year. Only two thousand sold the following year for less than five dollars each. By the third year of release, he had been completely wiped out. His fatal flaw, as in the case of Crystal Dog Doo, was in misinterpreting the needs of the buying public. Again, his main competitor Rubinstein had outdone him with another “Rubber” version. The Rubber Chicken outsold the Flannel Chicken to a ratio approaching 10,000
to 1. While this ratio gained the Rubber Chicken a place in Novelty Record history, it also granted a place in Faux Chicken esoterica. The Flannel Chicken now has an asking price in excess of $10,000 whenever an original one turns up in auction. As there are only 148 Flannel Chickens known to be still in existence, it is also the rarest known mass-produced Novelty Collectible.

Revenge beyond the grave? Only if it doesn’t come in rubber.

-Jerry Garwold,

Collect This magazine

XXIII Number V

May, 1996

a VERY short play 2

by Meat Trademark

You're the *SHIT* right?!!? You *RULE* right?!?!!

Yeah, I'm shit. And follow rules. (sigh)

NO!!! Not good enough!!!

I'm sorry.


a VERY short play

by Meat Trademark

GUY: (Entering room) Whoah! It smells like ARBY'S in here!

OTHER GUY: Yeah. My dog just shit on the floor over in the corner. I haven't got it cleaned up yet.

GUY: (Nodding) That explains it.


23 July 2012

The Crazy Dog (a true story)

I was staying with my good friend Dogsong von Trout in my old stomping grounds. That's his Holy Name. His other name is Brook. He's the friend with whom I saw the band WEEN live over a dozen times. He's a fine man, a good drummer, a shabby swords-man (so far) and probably still likes Pam's ass. Sadly, he has no part in this account other than location. 

I hadn't seen him in years and was visiting. I walked to the grocery store every day as I had no car, couldn't carry too much, and didn't feel comfortable eating all his food. It was only about a ten minute walk, at a leisurely pace. Should have been easy. The thing is, on the way I had to pass the Crazy Dog. Not a cute eccentric dog who walked on two legs crazy. Real crazy. Bad crazy. An insane emissary of death that charged at every passerby until its chained yanked it back. A monster that I saw nearly give heart-attacks to an old couple walking through a neighborhood they obviously never walked through before, and never would again. And I had to walk past it. A lot. It scared the hell out of me to do so, but unless I wanted to add a mile to the walk that was formerly an easy leisurely stroll, I had to pass Crazy Dog. It snarled barked charged and I could tell it wanted to eat my still beating heart. Even though it was always chained up, I was terrified. But still, I walked by as calmly as I could, acting like my heart wasn't pressing against my ribs like an alien chestburster seeking escape from its host. La la la, nothing wrong here. Mosey mosey. Oh, hi doggie. La la la.

And so it went. Every. Single. Day. It got a little easier as the days wore on; still I always kept a blade in my pocket. A sharp blade. A very, very sharp blade, in fact. The thought of killing this drooling teeth delivery system was not pleasant, but a little better than the image of my predated corpse lying in the street, still hungry for the bacon, peaches and candy I planned to buy. "Poor fella. He died sober, hungry for hot wings and martinis."

Grocery store checklist: keys, wallet, razor sharp blade.

As acceptance and near-complacency set in, I grew more and more confident and would sometimes even wear headphones. Usually, I listened to the then-new track BBB by How to Destroy Angels. It was my walking song. Every time, the dog would run to the edge of the yard screaming its dinner plans at my throat only to be yanked back into the yard with a sickening gargled choke noise I could feel more than hear. It was terrible and reinforced how madly and badly this creature wanted to rip into my precious meatstuff.

Except for the day it wasn't yanked back. The day it got to edge of the yard and kept coming at me. The day it was suddenly in the street. Then ten feet from me. Then five. Then one. I stopped, in shock. So did it. Snarling and barking, it started to flank me. I turned to keep facing it and each time I did, it stopped and started again. Like it only wanted to attack from the rear. It circled me for a couple minutes like hours and I slowly drew out my blade, shaking, ready to kill. Still, I didn't want to kill this animal. Why was it so mean and deadly? Probably because of the dog's owners who had trash in their yard and tapestries of southern flags and whiskey ads instead of curtains. The yard littered with beer cans. The yard with water and food dishes that seemed perpetually empty.

I thought: I don't want to kill you, but will if I have to.

Then: I'm going to die here in the street. Eaten alive.

It kept getting closer and I slowly backed up against a large knobby tree to have one less side to protect. The tree also afforded me the opportunity to pick up a rather large stick to use as a club. Anything to postpone what seemed an inevitable bleeding-out of the dog. I saw myself on the ground, crying, covered in blood, with a dead dog next to me that I'd have to explain and never be able to forget. Hit it with the stick. Just keep hitting it, scare it, don't kill it. I raised the stick to strike and the dog stopped dead. Staring at it. It backed up and started wagging its tail. It moved closer again, now panting, never removing its eyes from the stick. It began pacing, restless. Throw the stick throw the stick throw the stick throw the stick throw the stick, it said. It was suddenly so sad and so obvious. This was a mistreated dog, nearly gone crazy from neglect and apathy.

I threw the stick.

Light a light bulb turning on for the first time in years, he exploded into action. Free, tail wagging, playing, fetching. Running! Now a he, not an it. He ran back to me with the former weapon, now toy, in his mouth and circled me. Not threatening. A challenge: Catch me if you can. I smiled and the weight of death dissipated. A small tear like the sad Indian from that old anti-littering commercial, and I, too, exploded into action.
And just like that I was chasing the the no longer Crazy Dog. The Sad Dog. I'd stop, he'd stop. I'd run towards him he'd flee. I'd run away from him and he'd chase. I'd stop again, he'd stop. I'd start to turn away and he'd start to run up to me and I'd quickly turn around and sprint towards him and away he'd go with a joy I could never imagine before. It was a demon transformed. I'd yell HEY BUDDY! and he'd run back to me and I'd throw another stick. Pure joy and fun seemed to beam from the eyes that two minutes ago seemed cold and empty, like a shark's. We continued this for a good fifteen minutes. Chasing each other around. Hunger dictated that I continue my voyage to the store and he followed me, tail wagging, for a few blocks. On the way back he ran up to me. His good friend. I threw a stick a couple times but had frozen goods that needed tending and knew I'd see him tomorrow. He followed me again.

The next day he barked at me, like he'd forgotten himself in the madness that was his keeper's but snapped back into friend-mode when I called out, HEY BUDDY!

Tail now wagging, an apologetic look in his eyes. I forgave him and gave him respect and attention.

The next day I was giving him jerky and dog treats and looking forward to going to the store.

02 March 2012


Nicolas Cage's vagina stinks like rotten mayonnaise!

More news AS IT HAPPENS!

10 February 2012


If you liked the Blood Simple commentary, this might be for you.

07 February 2012


Shitty joke dump scheduled to re-go live once again?