So, I've been caught. Red-handed. After several months of trying to keep it under wraps, I've been called on it. I have, despite my best intentions, fallen head over heels in love with a fellow blogger. She's ignored my hints, my emails, my less-than-subtle yearnings hidden in "fiction" pieces. I've even strongly considered, to save myself from abject embarrassment, deleting many of the posts I've written about her.
The kicker came when she posted a poem about fake, virtual love. You can read it here: "Not Your Average Love Poem"
Yeah, I tried to play it off with a joke, but it hurt. Maybe you're thinking I'm a little crazy right now, but I don't care. I'm not about "fake, virtual love." That was uncalled for.
And I know you really love my writing - you're not fooling anybody - so here's your not-so-average love poem...
And the Muses...
To convince, of love, words as art
What better way to show you
Syllables from my heart
I could quote lyrics, and I would
But better they'd be mine own
As they should
To read of your other men
I feel sick, disgusted
My heart abandoned
No, I shall not devolve immature
But hold my head high
As I imagine our future
Please don't unfollow
Leave me on your blog roll
For its absence, as my heart...
Would leave me hollow...
You are, forever, my Muse...
***
Yeah, I'm pathetic. Sue me.
Showing posts with label satire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label satire. Show all posts
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Creative Development?
"Give me something. Anything."
"Okay, how about a fantasy piece?"
"No."
"All right. A Western?"
"A Western? Yeah, that might work. Haven't tried one of those in a while. Okay... plot?"
"Texas Rangers track down a..."
"No."
"An outlaw robs a bank and..."
"No."
"Robs a train."
"No."
"Rapes a woman."
"Clint Eastwood did that already."
"Rapes a donkey."
"Don't be a dick."
"Finds a hidden treasure."
"Oh, come on."
"Seriously. Finds a sunken pirate ship. Why wouldn't a cowboy be able to find a pirate ship?"
"Sounds stupid, but okay. So is he an outlaw or a cowboy?"
"How about a college professor?"
"For a Western?"
"Why not? Remember The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"Was Jimmy Stewart a college professor in that?"
"I don't remember, but he was some kind of academic."
"Fine. What next?"
"Wait. Didn't you want to retell The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance without all the political crap?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Why not just do that?"
"Where's the treasure come in?"
"I mean write a different story."
"Dude. I'm kinda liking this pirate-Western story now."
"You said it sounded stupid."
"So? So does spoiled Civil War brat ignoring her true love and fucking a whole lot of other people."
"That's Gone With the Wind."
"Exactly."
"Gone With the Wind is a classic."
"The book's better."
"What the fuck does that have to do with The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"I don't know. You brought it up."
"Gone With the Wind?"
"No, Liberty Valance."
"I was making a point about a character."
"Which one?"
"The outlaw. I mean the college professor."
"In a Western?"
***
Opening 2013: Liberty Valance and the Treasure of Blackbeard.
Theaters everywhere, Memorial Day.
"Okay, how about a fantasy piece?"
"No."
"All right. A Western?"
"A Western? Yeah, that might work. Haven't tried one of those in a while. Okay... plot?"
"Texas Rangers track down a..."
"No."
"An outlaw robs a bank and..."
"No."
"Robs a train."
"No."
"Rapes a woman."
"Clint Eastwood did that already."
"Rapes a donkey."
"Don't be a dick."
"Finds a hidden treasure."
"Oh, come on."
"Seriously. Finds a sunken pirate ship. Why wouldn't a cowboy be able to find a pirate ship?"
"Sounds stupid, but okay. So is he an outlaw or a cowboy?"
"How about a college professor?"
"For a Western?"
"Why not? Remember The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"Was Jimmy Stewart a college professor in that?"
"I don't remember, but he was some kind of academic."
"Fine. What next?"
"Wait. Didn't you want to retell The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance without all the political crap?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Why not just do that?"
"Where's the treasure come in?"
"I mean write a different story."
"Dude. I'm kinda liking this pirate-Western story now."
"You said it sounded stupid."
"So? So does spoiled Civil War brat ignoring her true love and fucking a whole lot of other people."
"That's Gone With the Wind."
"Exactly."
"Gone With the Wind is a classic."
"The book's better."
"What the fuck does that have to do with The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"I don't know. You brought it up."
"Gone With the Wind?"
"No, Liberty Valance."
"I was making a point about a character."
"Which one?"
"The outlaw. I mean the college professor."
"In a Western?"
***
Opening 2013: Liberty Valance and the Treasure of Blackbeard.
Theaters everywhere, Memorial Day.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Murder Mystery: An Exercise in Plot Creation
What does he do when he can't write? Be it from the so-called writer's block that he doesn't believe exists or the lack of writer's mood that he does. The answer is simple: he writes anyway. Usually it's crap, but sometimes there's a forced breakthrough in a creative process most claim is all too reliant on "flow." But he knows that's bullshit, too... even the naturals have to work at it. They all say so. Then again, there is the possibility that those naturals are just being polite, smiling to his face then laughing at him as soon as he turns away. He imagines the conversation happening behind his back:
"That silly bastard," Bob, a natural writer, would say. "He'll never know what it's like to just be able to write"
"I know," John, another natural writer, would reply. "Maybe we should just tell him the truth."
"What truth?" Bob might ask.
Then John could answer, "That he should aspire to something else."
But Bob, being the insufferably arrogant artistic type, would retort, "Are you fucking kidding? And ruin our fun?"
He remembers advice given to him when he was younger, advice he very much tried to follow. "Go live life," he was told, "because if you don't have anything to write about, you won't have anything to write." Redundant in its structure, he thinks he finally understands it now. If he is to write about murder, for instance, he should experience murder.
There's to be a smile when he reads tomorrow's headline: Bob and John Found Dead. And there's to be, perhaps, a book deal.
"That silly bastard," Bob, a natural writer, would say. "He'll never know what it's like to just be able to write"
"I know," John, another natural writer, would reply. "Maybe we should just tell him the truth."
"What truth?" Bob might ask.
Then John could answer, "That he should aspire to something else."
But Bob, being the insufferably arrogant artistic type, would retort, "Are you fucking kidding? And ruin our fun?"
He remembers advice given to him when he was younger, advice he very much tried to follow. "Go live life," he was told, "because if you don't have anything to write about, you won't have anything to write." Redundant in its structure, he thinks he finally understands it now. If he is to write about murder, for instance, he should experience murder.
There's to be a smile when he reads tomorrow's headline: Bob and John Found Dead. And there's to be, perhaps, a book deal.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part VI
Well, I was going to take some time to explain what constitutes a decade and a century, given all the half-assed hoopla going around in some circles, but once again, a football game decided to last longer than it should have. So...
This is the final part of Battlestar Enterprise that was written. I kinda got tired of it, as I'm sure most of you have. Which means the anti-fans can cheer up! You probably won't have to see one of these again!
***
"Man, fuck this shit 'n shit," He-Boomer said aloud, to no one in particular. He appreciated the fact he was back behind the stick very much, but he also couldn't stand being on a search mission for the old man's kid. David Adama was a moron, and everybody knew it. The guy would run around spouting fairness all day long, and even advocated civilization's return to the Stone Age. What a fucking idiot. What possible advantage could that have?
"What was that?" squawked the radio. It was StarHeBuck, still sore, no doubt, at being forced to have a sex-change. It was blind luck that Enterprise had found a ship-full of doctors in the middle of nowhere. One of those "deus ex machina" things that seemed to happen more often than not as of late.
"Nothing 'n shit," He-Boomer replied. "Keep your motherfucking attention on the sensors."
"I have a question," another voice declared over comms. This time it was Jolly, whom everyone referred to as the King of the Cameo. "Why the fuck didn't we take a Raptor on this mission? Vipers aren't exactly equipped for long-range surveillance, you know?"
He-Boomer grimaced. Jolly had always been the voice of reason, even after his decades-long disappearance. He had been captured by the Cylons during a Black Ops mission, then inexplicably let go. Sure, Jolly's fanboys tried to make fan-sense of the situation, but no matter how hard any of those idiots tried, the stories just didn't hold up under scrutiny. "Probably because someone forgot about them when writing up the OpOrder 'n shit. Shut the fuck up and fly 'n shit."
***
James T. Adama was biting his fingernails. He hadn't done that since he was in the cockpit of a fighter, and Saul Spock took notice. Spock raised that inquiring eyebrow like he always did, prompting Adama to put his hands in his pockets for a round of pocket polo.
"I heard radio chatter," Adama said pointedly to Duhura, mocha legs still oozing sex appeal in the dim light of the CIC.
"It's just He-Boomer, sir. He's just irritated as usual."
Adama turned to his CAG, Jackson "Ripper" Chakotay, an otherwise worthless character of man who Adama had thought was killed during the Cylon invasion. Chakotay knew what Adama was going to ask and preempted the question.
"You think I should send out more birds, Captain?"
Adama shook his head. Is it too much to ask to be referred to as Admiral around this fucking ship?
"I think so," Adama half-murmured, trying to hide his disdain for the apparent lack of recognition for his promotion. Fine, Roslin wasn't the "real" President, but she promoted him, so that counts for something, right? "What do you think?"
Chakotay nodded before even considering the question. He was nothing but a silly ethnic yes-man, after all. "Whatever you say, sir."
Adama shook he head again, almost in disbelief at the stupidity that runs around Enterprise. He was starting to worry that he was never going to find his son.
***
She-Boomer sat watching David's Viper as it just floated along in space. She could see David was talking to somebody, or maybe himself, but he didn't seem to acknowledge that she was there. She-Boomer turned to Crashdown and Helo.
"What do you make of this, guys?"
Helo got up from the ECMO seat and stuck his head between She-Boomer and Crashdown. He was so jealous of Crashdown, who got to sit close enough to She-Boomer and could smell her perfume. Silica, he thought it was.
"Don't know. Maybe he's got one of those STDs that fucks with the brain."
She-Boomer slapped Helo playfully. She wanted very much to rip his clothes off and eat him up alive, but with Crashdown there, such an action wasn't advised. She didn't know why she had such thoughts. She was very much in love with Montgomery Tyrol, but the Chief was packing on the pounds lately, and the last time they had sex he almost crushed her. That, and she could swear she smelled Cally's lipstick on him.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light.
She-Boomer, Helo, and Crashdown stared awestruck out the cockpit. Another Viper had just materialized out of thin air. And in the vacuum of deep space, no less.
***
This is the final part of Battlestar Enterprise that was written. I kinda got tired of it, as I'm sure most of you have. Which means the anti-fans can cheer up! You probably won't have to see one of these again!
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part III
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part IV
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part V
***
"Man, fuck this shit 'n shit," He-Boomer said aloud, to no one in particular. He appreciated the fact he was back behind the stick very much, but he also couldn't stand being on a search mission for the old man's kid. David Adama was a moron, and everybody knew it. The guy would run around spouting fairness all day long, and even advocated civilization's return to the Stone Age. What a fucking idiot. What possible advantage could that have?
"What was that?" squawked the radio. It was StarHeBuck, still sore, no doubt, at being forced to have a sex-change. It was blind luck that Enterprise had found a ship-full of doctors in the middle of nowhere. One of those "deus ex machina" things that seemed to happen more often than not as of late.
"Nothing 'n shit," He-Boomer replied. "Keep your motherfucking attention on the sensors."
"I have a question," another voice declared over comms. This time it was Jolly, whom everyone referred to as the King of the Cameo. "Why the fuck didn't we take a Raptor on this mission? Vipers aren't exactly equipped for long-range surveillance, you know?"
He-Boomer grimaced. Jolly had always been the voice of reason, even after his decades-long disappearance. He had been captured by the Cylons during a Black Ops mission, then inexplicably let go. Sure, Jolly's fanboys tried to make fan-sense of the situation, but no matter how hard any of those idiots tried, the stories just didn't hold up under scrutiny. "Probably because someone forgot about them when writing up the OpOrder 'n shit. Shut the fuck up and fly 'n shit."
***
James T. Adama was biting his fingernails. He hadn't done that since he was in the cockpit of a fighter, and Saul Spock took notice. Spock raised that inquiring eyebrow like he always did, prompting Adama to put his hands in his pockets for a round of pocket polo.
"I heard radio chatter," Adama said pointedly to Duhura, mocha legs still oozing sex appeal in the dim light of the CIC.
"It's just He-Boomer, sir. He's just irritated as usual."
Adama turned to his CAG, Jackson "Ripper" Chakotay, an otherwise worthless character of man who Adama had thought was killed during the Cylon invasion. Chakotay knew what Adama was going to ask and preempted the question.
"You think I should send out more birds, Captain?"
Adama shook his head. Is it too much to ask to be referred to as Admiral around this fucking ship?
"I think so," Adama half-murmured, trying to hide his disdain for the apparent lack of recognition for his promotion. Fine, Roslin wasn't the "real" President, but she promoted him, so that counts for something, right? "What do you think?"
Chakotay nodded before even considering the question. He was nothing but a silly ethnic yes-man, after all. "Whatever you say, sir."
Adama shook he head again, almost in disbelief at the stupidity that runs around Enterprise. He was starting to worry that he was never going to find his son.
***
She-Boomer sat watching David's Viper as it just floated along in space. She could see David was talking to somebody, or maybe himself, but he didn't seem to acknowledge that she was there. She-Boomer turned to Crashdown and Helo.
"What do you make of this, guys?"
Helo got up from the ECMO seat and stuck his head between She-Boomer and Crashdown. He was so jealous of Crashdown, who got to sit close enough to She-Boomer and could smell her perfume. Silica, he thought it was.
"Don't know. Maybe he's got one of those STDs that fucks with the brain."
She-Boomer slapped Helo playfully. She wanted very much to rip his clothes off and eat him up alive, but with Crashdown there, such an action wasn't advised. She didn't know why she had such thoughts. She was very much in love with Montgomery Tyrol, but the Chief was packing on the pounds lately, and the last time they had sex he almost crushed her. That, and she could swear she smelled Cally's lipstick on him.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light.
She-Boomer, Helo, and Crashdown stared awestruck out the cockpit. Another Viper had just materialized out of thin air. And in the vacuum of deep space, no less.
***
Monday, December 14, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part V
Well, as the night game between the New York Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles ran a bit late, I was remiss in my preparation to write something new (ironically, I was going with sports-related), so I'm resorting to posting another edition of Battlestar Enterprise. For those who hate these, don't fret; there's only one more after this one!
***
David blinked his eyes. He couldn't see anything but bright, white light. He was still in his Viper, but She-Boomer's Raptor was nowhere to be found. Silly him... why did he get so close to the anomaly? After all, it's the Raptor that is equipped with the necessary sensors to properly analyze it. All the Viper can do is identify friend or foe and shoot at the damned thing. Eh, it was probably the scientist in him. Why, oh, why, didn't his dad let him be a Raptor flight officer? Probably because that would've made too much sense for such a muddled continuity.
A shape appeared. Another viper. This one seemed different somehow. It looked brand new. As it drifted closer to him, he could make out a pilot in its cockpit. Blond hair. Way out of her acting depth. StarSheBuck? Wasn't she still on Galactiprise?
***
StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactica, er, Enterprise. Ah, fuck it, we'll just stick with Galactiprise and ret-con shit right now. Anyway, StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactiprise, listening to the music in her intergalactic iPod. The beat of the music matched the beat of her cadence, and she was sublimely aware that the music was guiding her around the ship. Of course, she had no idea that she forgot her iPod in her room and was listening to a random paranormal signal being transmitted directly to her brain by the Imperious Leader of folk rock, Dylan Hendrix Baltar. He did, after all, want to fuck the shit out of her. What better way to do that than convince a woman that she's a messenger from Zeus?
"There must be some kind of way out here," she said, slowing to a quick walk.
A nearby marine was rummaging through an unattended backpack, probably trying to steal some cigarettes. He looked up at StarSheBuck, a slightly confused look on his face. "Pilot quarters are aft, two decks down."
"I know where the pilot quarters are, Jarhead. I fucking live there." StarSheBuck rarely had time for significant conversation, or even a thank you.
"What are you, some kind of joker?" The marine did not look amused.
StarSheBuck picked up her gait, suddenly aware what the marine was doing. "What are you, some kind of thief?"
This is all too confusing.
***
David keyed his radio, not entirely expecting an answer. "StarSheBuck? Kara, is that you?"
"Who the fuck do you think it is, you fucking pansy." It was not a question.
Satisfied that was really StarSheBuck, I mean, really, who else but the real StarSheBuck would talk like that, David waved at her. "What's all this white light?"
A strange voice cackled over the speaker. It was He-Boomer. "Oh, you gotta go there 'n shit. White light, my ass. Fuck you honkey bitches."
StarSheBuck and David looked at each other, wondered for a moment what the Hell, er, Hades, er, Underworld that communication was. They stared into each other's eyes. David noticed his groin was getting a bit tight. He was going to profess his undying love for StarSheBuck when she started laughing.
"What's funny? We're lost, She-Boomer's gone, and I have to pee."
StarSheBuck rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."
David got defensive. "How is it my fault vipers don't have bathrooms? Fuck, Raptors have bathrooms."
"I've been to Earth, David. And I'm going to take us there."
What? Now David was really confused. What the fuck is Earth? And which one? And does it have pigeons?
***
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part III
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part IV
***
David blinked his eyes. He couldn't see anything but bright, white light. He was still in his Viper, but She-Boomer's Raptor was nowhere to be found. Silly him... why did he get so close to the anomaly? After all, it's the Raptor that is equipped with the necessary sensors to properly analyze it. All the Viper can do is identify friend or foe and shoot at the damned thing. Eh, it was probably the scientist in him. Why, oh, why, didn't his dad let him be a Raptor flight officer? Probably because that would've made too much sense for such a muddled continuity.
A shape appeared. Another viper. This one seemed different somehow. It looked brand new. As it drifted closer to him, he could make out a pilot in its cockpit. Blond hair. Way out of her acting depth. StarSheBuck? Wasn't she still on Galactiprise?
***
StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactica, er, Enterprise. Ah, fuck it, we'll just stick with Galactiprise and ret-con shit right now. Anyway, StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactiprise, listening to the music in her intergalactic iPod. The beat of the music matched the beat of her cadence, and she was sublimely aware that the music was guiding her around the ship. Of course, she had no idea that she forgot her iPod in her room and was listening to a random paranormal signal being transmitted directly to her brain by the Imperious Leader of folk rock, Dylan Hendrix Baltar. He did, after all, want to fuck the shit out of her. What better way to do that than convince a woman that she's a messenger from Zeus?
"There must be some kind of way out here," she said, slowing to a quick walk.
A nearby marine was rummaging through an unattended backpack, probably trying to steal some cigarettes. He looked up at StarSheBuck, a slightly confused look on his face. "Pilot quarters are aft, two decks down."
"I know where the pilot quarters are, Jarhead. I fucking live there." StarSheBuck rarely had time for significant conversation, or even a thank you.
"What are you, some kind of joker?" The marine did not look amused.
StarSheBuck picked up her gait, suddenly aware what the marine was doing. "What are you, some kind of thief?"
This is all too confusing.
***
David keyed his radio, not entirely expecting an answer. "StarSheBuck? Kara, is that you?"
"Who the fuck do you think it is, you fucking pansy." It was not a question.
Satisfied that was really StarSheBuck, I mean, really, who else but the real StarSheBuck would talk like that, David waved at her. "What's all this white light?"
A strange voice cackled over the speaker. It was He-Boomer. "Oh, you gotta go there 'n shit. White light, my ass. Fuck you honkey bitches."
StarSheBuck and David looked at each other, wondered for a moment what the Hell, er, Hades, er, Underworld that communication was. They stared into each other's eyes. David noticed his groin was getting a bit tight. He was going to profess his undying love for StarSheBuck when she started laughing.
"What's funny? We're lost, She-Boomer's gone, and I have to pee."
StarSheBuck rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."
David got defensive. "How is it my fault vipers don't have bathrooms? Fuck, Raptors have bathrooms."
"I've been to Earth, David. And I'm going to take us there."
What? Now David was really confused. What the fuck is Earth? And which one? And does it have pigeons?
***
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part IV
Still somewhat in the creative doldrums, so here's BSE:IV in all its glory.
Anyone irreverent enough can read the previous parts here:
Part IV originally posted April 11, 2009
***
James T. Adama paced impatiently as he waited for news of his son. Suddenly, the radio screamed to life. On it, David Adama was screaming, too, like a little bitch.
"Dad? Dad? You there dad? Hello? Does this thing even fucking work?"
"David, what's going on?" Adama asked his son over the wireless. "Are you getting a good visual?"
"Yes, dad," came the reply.
Adama rolled his eyes. Will no one call him Admiral? He earned it, after all. Fuck, he was the only surviving command officer in the entire universe as far as he knew. That's worth a promotion, right?
"Is it what we thought it was?"
"I think so. It's very coherent, lots of continuity."
Adama turned to his XO, Spock. "What do you think, Saul?"
"I'm not sure. We should contact Gaeta and have Baltar transferred over here to run some diagnostics."
"Make it so."
Adama was about to hang up his transmitter when the squelch broke.
"Oh, shit," came his son's voice.
"What is it, David?"
Silence. Spock and Adama exchanged concerned glances, then Adama keyed the mike again. "David? Come in. What is it?"
The only response was more silence.
***
"This is He-Boomer in the slot, trying to sound all military 'n shit. Ready to launch." He-Boomer flexed his hands as he placed them on the HOTAS. He'd been grounded far too long. For him, it was about fucking time. He knew why he'd been grounded, too, because despite all that bullshit about this new Galactica, er, Enterprise being all politically correct, he was the only black pilot they had, and these white fucks running the show didn't want He-Boomer to whoop up on some pale ass. Fuck 'em.
"This is Kelly. You're a go."
"Hey, Kelly, can we do that go-no-go shit they sometimes do to sound cool 'n shit?"
"No, you fucking idiot."
"Why you gotta be all racist 'n shit?"
"Good-bye."
He-Boomer felt the jolt of the catapult as his Viper shot down the launch tube. There he was, flying into the deep unknowns of space in order to save Adama's stupid-ass kid. He-Boomer checked his perimeter and spotted his wingmen joining up with him. StarHeBuck, Hot Dog, and Jolly were forming up on schedule.
"Everyone good 'n shit?"
Three affirmatives echoed in his earpiece, and He-Boomer flexed his hands again.
"Then let's go find the old man's punk-ass kid 'n shit."
***
Anyone irreverent enough can read the previous parts here:
Part IV originally posted April 11, 2009
***
James T. Adama paced impatiently as he waited for news of his son. Suddenly, the radio screamed to life. On it, David Adama was screaming, too, like a little bitch.
"Dad? Dad? You there dad? Hello? Does this thing even fucking work?"
"David, what's going on?" Adama asked his son over the wireless. "Are you getting a good visual?"
"Yes, dad," came the reply.
Adama rolled his eyes. Will no one call him Admiral? He earned it, after all. Fuck, he was the only surviving command officer in the entire universe as far as he knew. That's worth a promotion, right?
"Is it what we thought it was?"
"I think so. It's very coherent, lots of continuity."
Adama turned to his XO, Spock. "What do you think, Saul?"
"I'm not sure. We should contact Gaeta and have Baltar transferred over here to run some diagnostics."
"Make it so."
Adama was about to hang up his transmitter when the squelch broke.
"Oh, shit," came his son's voice.
"What is it, David?"
Silence. Spock and Adama exchanged concerned glances, then Adama keyed the mike again. "David? Come in. What is it?"
The only response was more silence.
***
"This is He-Boomer in the slot, trying to sound all military 'n shit. Ready to launch." He-Boomer flexed his hands as he placed them on the HOTAS. He'd been grounded far too long. For him, it was about fucking time. He knew why he'd been grounded, too, because despite all that bullshit about this new Galactica, er, Enterprise being all politically correct, he was the only black pilot they had, and these white fucks running the show didn't want He-Boomer to whoop up on some pale ass. Fuck 'em.
"This is Kelly. You're a go."
"Hey, Kelly, can we do that go-no-go shit they sometimes do to sound cool 'n shit?"
"No, you fucking idiot."
"Why you gotta be all racist 'n shit?"
"Good-bye."
He-Boomer felt the jolt of the catapult as his Viper shot down the launch tube. There he was, flying into the deep unknowns of space in order to save Adama's stupid-ass kid. He-Boomer checked his perimeter and spotted his wingmen joining up with him. StarHeBuck, Hot Dog, and Jolly were forming up on schedule.
"Everyone good 'n shit?"
Three affirmatives echoed in his earpiece, and He-Boomer flexed his hands again.
"Then let's go find the old man's punk-ass kid 'n shit."
***
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part III
Yep, it's back... primarily because I'm having trouble finding inspiration, but partially because the television movie, Battlestar Galactica: The Plan , is making waves among science fiction fandom. If initial reports are to be believed, the "movie" makes a disappointing show even worse. Ah, well...
Keep in mind as you read this that it was written as sort of an "angry response" to how the series declined in quality. It's all meant to be satire, as bad and vulgar as it is.
Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
Part III originally posted on January 12, 2009
***
"David, do you have a visual on the anomaly?" James Adama's voice was unusually tense. He didn't mind unidentified contacts; he just hated anomalies. They were always so anomalous.
The signal broke squelch and David's voice piped through the speaker. "Yes, dad."
"What is it?" And it's Admiral, asshole. Or sir, at the very least.
"Not too sure. It appears to be a tight plot, well-written characters, and..."
The signal went dead. James turned to his communications officer, Duhura.
"What happened?"
Duhura swiveled in her chair, showing off her smooth, mocha-hued legs. Adama had to force himself not to kneel to get a better look up Duhura's combat fatigue-patterned miniskirt.
"I'm not sure, Admiral, but it appears that a scientifically accurate overriding signal is interrupting our story."
James was confused. This made no sense... no sense at all. Someone had actually called him "Admiral."
"Spock, what do you make of this?" he asked, not entirely expecting a coherent answer.
"Tight plot? Well-written characters? Such a logical thing to strive for," Spock started. "Anomalous, indeed."
***
Montgomery Tyrol stared out the porthole with his binoculars, scanning space in a futile attempt to try to see the anomaly. He always worried when She-Boomer went out on patrols, particularly with that moron, David Adama. Sure, David was the old man's son, but that apple fell so far from the tree that had Eve found it, she would have finished it before ever making it back to Adam, and mankind (well, men at least) would still be living in paradise.
Tyrol was the ship's chief engineer, damage control officer, AIMD chief, command master chief, and ship's laundryman, but he always felt as though he was kept outside the loop. For whatever reason, it was always hard for him to come by information. On the other hand, it was very easy for him to come by doughnuts, and his rapidly expanding waistline served as a constant reminder of this ability.
"Chief?" a sad, quiet little voice asked behind him.
Tyrol turned and found his shadow, Cally. He found her superbly annoying, but she gave good head, and when She-Boomer was out on patrols, well... he had to do something about his sex addiction. It was like he was some sort of machine, or robot. But, never mind, these are foreshadows that are coming way too early. Wouldn't want to give any well-placed hints too early in a story now, would we?
"What is it, Cally?"
"Do you see anything?"
He watched as her chubby pouty face seemed to get more chubby and pouty. It almost made him sick.
"Other than a couple-hundred lonely ships filled with the survivors of a devastating attack on their homeworlds?"
"Oh?" Cally's face lit up with excitement.
Tyrol rolled his eyes. "That's us, you idiot."
Chubby pout returned, Cally sniffled and looked as though she was about to cry.
"Oh, no, don't. I'm sorry." Tyrol grabbed her in a mock hug, pressing her head lightly against his chest. Still, his gaze never left the porthole, though a smile did creep its way across his face. Slowly, subtly, he pressed Cally's head lower, to his stomach, then still lower, and lower.
***
Keep in mind as you read this that it was written as sort of an "angry response" to how the series declined in quality. It's all meant to be satire, as bad and vulgar as it is.
Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
Part III originally posted on January 12, 2009
***
"David, do you have a visual on the anomaly?" James Adama's voice was unusually tense. He didn't mind unidentified contacts; he just hated anomalies. They were always so anomalous.
The signal broke squelch and David's voice piped through the speaker. "Yes, dad."
"What is it?" And it's Admiral, asshole. Or sir, at the very least.
"Not too sure. It appears to be a tight plot, well-written characters, and..."
The signal went dead. James turned to his communications officer, Duhura.
"What happened?"
Duhura swiveled in her chair, showing off her smooth, mocha-hued legs. Adama had to force himself not to kneel to get a better look up Duhura's combat fatigue-patterned miniskirt.
"I'm not sure, Admiral, but it appears that a scientifically accurate overriding signal is interrupting our story."
James was confused. This made no sense... no sense at all. Someone had actually called him "Admiral."
"Spock, what do you make of this?" he asked, not entirely expecting a coherent answer.
"Tight plot? Well-written characters? Such a logical thing to strive for," Spock started. "Anomalous, indeed."
***
Montgomery Tyrol stared out the porthole with his binoculars, scanning space in a futile attempt to try to see the anomaly. He always worried when She-Boomer went out on patrols, particularly with that moron, David Adama. Sure, David was the old man's son, but that apple fell so far from the tree that had Eve found it, she would have finished it before ever making it back to Adam, and mankind (well, men at least) would still be living in paradise.
Tyrol was the ship's chief engineer, damage control officer, AIMD chief, command master chief, and ship's laundryman, but he always felt as though he was kept outside the loop. For whatever reason, it was always hard for him to come by information. On the other hand, it was very easy for him to come by doughnuts, and his rapidly expanding waistline served as a constant reminder of this ability.
"Chief?" a sad, quiet little voice asked behind him.
Tyrol turned and found his shadow, Cally. He found her superbly annoying, but she gave good head, and when She-Boomer was out on patrols, well... he had to do something about his sex addiction. It was like he was some sort of machine, or robot. But, never mind, these are foreshadows that are coming way too early. Wouldn't want to give any well-placed hints too early in a story now, would we?
"What is it, Cally?"
"Do you see anything?"
He watched as her chubby pouty face seemed to get more chubby and pouty. It almost made him sick.
"Other than a couple-hundred lonely ships filled with the survivors of a devastating attack on their homeworlds?"
"Oh?" Cally's face lit up with excitement.
Tyrol rolled his eyes. "That's us, you idiot."
Chubby pout returned, Cally sniffled and looked as though she was about to cry.
"Oh, no, don't. I'm sorry." Tyrol grabbed her in a mock hug, pressing her head lightly against his chest. Still, his gaze never left the porthole, though a smile did creep its way across his face. Slowly, subtly, he pressed Cally's head lower, to his stomach, then still lower, and lower.
***
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Phone Withdrawals
Oh, shit. The phone is gone. How is anybody going to get a hold of me? Where did I put it? I was on it this morning... or was that last night? I can't go to work without my phone... all of my damned music is on that thing and I haven't had a Walkman or a discman for years. MP3 player? Yeah, right... what century is this? No, I don't have an iPod. I don't have an iAnything... too much money for not enough quality. Then again, anyone believes commercials these days. I suppose I better get a hold of what's-her-name. I can't even remember her name! She just shows up as "hot girl" on my contact list! I'm so screwed, my whole life is falling apart.
What about my email? Why, oh, why did I get rid of my computers? Blackberry lied to me! I never lost my desktop, even though all my "hip" and "cool" friends made fun of me for having it. I need my email! Worse, I pay my bills on my phone. I suppose I could just opt in for paper bills again... nope, can't do that... I need the Internet to turn on the option, but my web browser is my phone! Maybe I can call customer service... oh, snap. Never mind.
I suppose I'll just watch TV. Wait, can I? Wasn't my phone my remote control?
No, there's my remote. Good thing there's not an app for that.
What about my email? Why, oh, why did I get rid of my computers? Blackberry lied to me! I never lost my desktop, even though all my "hip" and "cool" friends made fun of me for having it. I need my email! Worse, I pay my bills on my phone. I suppose I could just opt in for paper bills again... nope, can't do that... I need the Internet to turn on the option, but my web browser is my phone! Maybe I can call customer service... oh, snap. Never mind.
I suppose I'll just watch TV. Wait, can I? Wasn't my phone my remote control?
No, there's my remote. Good thing there's not an app for that.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
Okay, I must admit, Part I of this elicited minimal response, but there are apparently a few more BSG fans following me since that one went up, so I'm gonna give Part II a shot. This one was originally posted on January 10, 2009.
Read the first part here: Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
***
David Adama hated flying. He was, as many have pointed out, a whiny little bastard and the very thought of an aircraft crashing into the ground scared the living shit out of him. Never mind that in space there is no gravity, and he needn't worry of such a thing, but he did anyway. Suddenly in need of a security blanket, he checked his 4 o'clock and made sure the accompanying Raptor was still where it should be.
Naturally, it was, but as David was a whiny little bastard, he keyed his mike and queried for an audio response.
"She-Boomer, you there?"
"Yes, Apollo."
For a moment David thought he could actually hear She-Boomer's eyes rolling. "Just doing my job, She-Boomer. Just checking in."
"I'm fine; you're fine. Would you like to ask Helo and Crashdown if they're fine?"
"Who?"
"My crew, Apollo. The Raptor is, you know, a three-seater, and despite the propensity of other writers never taking advantage of all three seats, this one does, so I have a co-pilot and an ECMO."
Ek-mo, Apollo thought to himself. Ah! It suddenly made sense.
It really wasn't fair that everyone gave him such a hard time. He wasn't a military man by trade, after all. That honor belonged to his twin sister, Davida, and his little brother, James T. Junior.
He didn't like thinking about those two, especially given their histories. He was involved in an incestuous relationship with Davida before finding out she was his sister, and that little fact had made recent family gatherings a little awkward, particularly since he still wanted her. And don't forget the little business that his brother, James T. Junior, who had died during an atmospheric reentry, was also in a sexual relationship with Davida. Davida, in a strange twist of fate, had been one of Junior's flight instructors, and is the only reason Junior passed flight school. Junior, apparently, had no feel for the cockpit, but had a ton of feel for Davida's cock-pit, and Davida willingly screwed every other flight instructor at school in order to secure Junior a passing grade. She'd be damned if she had to tell dad that she failed her brother.
"Apollo, She-Boomer. Come in."
Apollo shook the thought out of his mind and held down a puke. "What's up?"
"Er, the anomaly. We're here."
***
Read the first part here: Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
***
David Adama hated flying. He was, as many have pointed out, a whiny little bastard and the very thought of an aircraft crashing into the ground scared the living shit out of him. Never mind that in space there is no gravity, and he needn't worry of such a thing, but he did anyway. Suddenly in need of a security blanket, he checked his 4 o'clock and made sure the accompanying Raptor was still where it should be.
Naturally, it was, but as David was a whiny little bastard, he keyed his mike and queried for an audio response.
"She-Boomer, you there?"
"Yes, Apollo."
For a moment David thought he could actually hear She-Boomer's eyes rolling. "Just doing my job, She-Boomer. Just checking in."
"I'm fine; you're fine. Would you like to ask Helo and Crashdown if they're fine?"
"Who?"
"My crew, Apollo. The Raptor is, you know, a three-seater, and despite the propensity of other writers never taking advantage of all three seats, this one does, so I have a co-pilot and an ECMO."
Ek-mo, Apollo thought to himself. Ah! It suddenly made sense.
It really wasn't fair that everyone gave him such a hard time. He wasn't a military man by trade, after all. That honor belonged to his twin sister, Davida, and his little brother, James T. Junior.
He didn't like thinking about those two, especially given their histories. He was involved in an incestuous relationship with Davida before finding out she was his sister, and that little fact had made recent family gatherings a little awkward, particularly since he still wanted her. And don't forget the little business that his brother, James T. Junior, who had died during an atmospheric reentry, was also in a sexual relationship with Davida. Davida, in a strange twist of fate, had been one of Junior's flight instructors, and is the only reason Junior passed flight school. Junior, apparently, had no feel for the cockpit, but had a ton of feel for Davida's cock-pit, and Davida willingly screwed every other flight instructor at school in order to secure Junior a passing grade. She'd be damned if she had to tell dad that she failed her brother.
"Apollo, She-Boomer. Come in."
Apollo shook the thought out of his mind and held down a puke. "What's up?"
"Er, the anomaly. We're here."
***
Friday, July 24, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
I'm trying to mix things up a bit, so here's an old(er) satire I started late last year (originally posted December 27, 2008. If it's well-received (or received at all), I'll eventually post the rest of it... might even finish it. There are currently six parts, but I've been lazy in the humor department as of late, and I suppose re-posting this is no exception to that.
Admiral James T. Adama strolled through the corridors of his ship, the battlestar Enterprise, as he always did. He liked to show his face to the crew in the morning, to let them know he was watching. They were, after all, a bunch of undisciplined jackasses. He often wondered how the Hell they survived this long. Or, he would have, had the Greek-inspired concept of the bad place in the afterlife been called Hell. Rather, he often wondered how in Hades they survived this long. Or, he would have, had the Greek-inspired concept of the bad place in the afterlife been called Hades. Hades was the god, he regularly pointed out, so he often wondered how in the Underworld they survived this long.
It seemed like his crew was more concerned with trying to gang-bang Persephone than escape the wrath of Hades himself.
Bah. It didn't matter. Today, it appeared, they were doing their jobs, so he wrapped up his little walk and headed to the bridge. Or the CIC. He couldn't remember what it was called.
***
The doors to the CIC whooshed open, because they like to whoosh, and he spotted his first officer, Colonel Saul Spock. Spock was a pointy-eared drunk from a small colony called Hephaestus. It would have been called Vulcan, but the world of Battlestar Enterprise is decidedly Greek and not, as some fools who rely too much on Bulfinch's Mythology would have, Greco-Roman.
"Captain Adama," Spock spoke, seriously slurring sloppily since Saturday, "We are approaching the anomaly."
Anomaly? Not another one. And it's Admiral, you asshole.
"Did you send out a recon?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Who?"
"David's flying escort for She-Boomer."
Oh, great. Love him as he may, James had a problem with his son doing anything that required any sense of responsibility. David Adama, as it was, had a reputation for being confused. He had been a scientist before the Cylon Armaggedon, although nobody called it the Cylon Armaggedon, since the Holy Bible was unknown to them. At any rate, David had been working on some weird "life bomb." Basically, it killed everything on a planet and replaced it with a new planet, replete with flora and fauna. James had secretly hoped they'd use it on Picon, since that colony had such a ridiculously ugly name. Nevertheless, since a battlestar had little need for an actual scientist, and a battlestar series had even less need for a competent science adviser, David was pressed into service as a Viper pilot.
"She-Boomer?" James asked. "I thought He-Boomer had flight detail today."
Spock raised an eyebrow, his typical response when Captain Adama misspoke. "Captain, need I remind you that He-Boomer is a Viper pilot. She-Boomer is the one assigned to the Raptor squadron."
"As I was, Mr. Spock. As I was." He really hated that pointy-eared bastard. And it's fucking Admiral, asshole.
***
Admiral James T. Adama strolled through the corridors of his ship, the battlestar Enterprise, as he always did. He liked to show his face to the crew in the morning, to let them know he was watching. They were, after all, a bunch of undisciplined jackasses. He often wondered how the Hell they survived this long. Or, he would have, had the Greek-inspired concept of the bad place in the afterlife been called Hell. Rather, he often wondered how in Hades they survived this long. Or, he would have, had the Greek-inspired concept of the bad place in the afterlife been called Hades. Hades was the god, he regularly pointed out, so he often wondered how in the Underworld they survived this long.
It seemed like his crew was more concerned with trying to gang-bang Persephone than escape the wrath of Hades himself.
Bah. It didn't matter. Today, it appeared, they were doing their jobs, so he wrapped up his little walk and headed to the bridge. Or the CIC. He couldn't remember what it was called.
***
The doors to the CIC whooshed open, because they like to whoosh, and he spotted his first officer, Colonel Saul Spock. Spock was a pointy-eared drunk from a small colony called Hephaestus. It would have been called Vulcan, but the world of Battlestar Enterprise is decidedly Greek and not, as some fools who rely too much on Bulfinch's Mythology would have, Greco-Roman.
"Captain Adama," Spock spoke, seriously slurring sloppily since Saturday, "We are approaching the anomaly."
Anomaly? Not another one. And it's Admiral, you asshole.
"Did you send out a recon?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Who?"
"David's flying escort for She-Boomer."
Oh, great. Love him as he may, James had a problem with his son doing anything that required any sense of responsibility. David Adama, as it was, had a reputation for being confused. He had been a scientist before the Cylon Armaggedon, although nobody called it the Cylon Armaggedon, since the Holy Bible was unknown to them. At any rate, David had been working on some weird "life bomb." Basically, it killed everything on a planet and replaced it with a new planet, replete with flora and fauna. James had secretly hoped they'd use it on Picon, since that colony had such a ridiculously ugly name. Nevertheless, since a battlestar had little need for an actual scientist, and a battlestar series had even less need for a competent science adviser, David was pressed into service as a Viper pilot.
"She-Boomer?" James asked. "I thought He-Boomer had flight detail today."
Spock raised an eyebrow, his typical response when Captain Adama misspoke. "Captain, need I remind you that He-Boomer is a Viper pilot. She-Boomer is the one assigned to the Raptor squadron."
"As I was, Mr. Spock. As I was." He really hated that pointy-eared bastard. And it's fucking Admiral, asshole.
***
Monday, July 21, 2008
Technology: the "Real" Battlestar Galactica
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
WASHINGTON, DC (June 30, 2008) - The United States Navy and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) today announced the results of a study in the viability of a proposed type of warship dubbed the Fleet Advanced Response Control Escort (FARCE), designed to replace several existing types and classes of warship. On Thursday, a congressional subcommittee approved the findings and the Navy is expected to open bidding for design proposals.
"One of the goals of the Navy of the 21st Century is to consolidate the number of hull designs it currently uses into three or four basic platforms with which to build multiple-mission ships upon," said Alan Rockwell, senior director of the Naval Vehicle Design Office (NVDO) at DARPA. "But we've encountered resistance both within the active and retired naval community. That's one of the reasons we conducted the study with little fanfare."
The proposed warship itself is reportedly designed to not only assume the role of battleship, a role the Navy currently does not fill, but also the role of aircraft carrier and amphibious assault ship. By consolidating these roles onto one hull, the Navy hopes to save millions of dollars in operational and logistical expenses. It would allow the Navy to more quickly retire the older Nimitz-class aircraft carriers, as well as reduce the need for further development of single-role warships such as destroyers and frigates, which the Navy views as becoming obsolete. The US Navy would "lead the maritime defense arena in mission capability and innovation" with this type of ship.
The mission requirements for this new ship seem a daunting undertaking for a single type of vessel, encompassing the infrastructure to act as a traditional warship, an aircraft carrier complete with air wing, and an assault ship complete with embarked Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU). Rockwell asserts that "while the size and scope of the project will certainly place limitations on the bidding process, the mere fact that the United States Navy will put to sea the largest warship, indeed, the largest ship, ever built will be more than enough to convince the American people and our enemies that America means to maintain ocean-going supremacy well into the 22nd Century."
So far, the proposal eliminates the need for the current strike group organization that the Navy currently heavily relies on, and will purportedly allow for the redeployment of most escort warships at Navy bases located along the contiguous United States' coastline. According to Rockwell, "Why send seven ships to do a job that one ship will be able to do?"
The Navy expects forceful opposition to the proposal, both from within its ranks and without, but fully expects the now-public white paper to convince its opponents of the obvious benefits of having such a ship. In order to help educate those reluctant to approve the purchase of the project, the Navy has recruited nautical strategy geniuses Ronald D. Moore and David Eick to conduct seminars on what a great idea putting all of your eggs in one basket is. After all, there's nothing like an ROTC dropout telling you how a military should work. Moore is currently accepting applications for one-eyed, alcoholic XOs who hate their wives and short-sighted, pop-culture philosophizing COs who can't even control their own children to help with the education of the public.
WASHINGTON, DC (June 30, 2008) - The United States Navy and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) today announced the results of a study in the viability of a proposed type of warship dubbed the Fleet Advanced Response Control Escort (FARCE), designed to replace several existing types and classes of warship. On Thursday, a congressional subcommittee approved the findings and the Navy is expected to open bidding for design proposals.
"One of the goals of the Navy of the 21st Century is to consolidate the number of hull designs it currently uses into three or four basic platforms with which to build multiple-mission ships upon," said Alan Rockwell, senior director of the Naval Vehicle Design Office (NVDO) at DARPA. "But we've encountered resistance both within the active and retired naval community. That's one of the reasons we conducted the study with little fanfare."
The proposed warship itself is reportedly designed to not only assume the role of battleship, a role the Navy currently does not fill, but also the role of aircraft carrier and amphibious assault ship. By consolidating these roles onto one hull, the Navy hopes to save millions of dollars in operational and logistical expenses. It would allow the Navy to more quickly retire the older Nimitz-class aircraft carriers, as well as reduce the need for further development of single-role warships such as destroyers and frigates, which the Navy views as becoming obsolete. The US Navy would "lead the maritime defense arena in mission capability and innovation" with this type of ship.
The mission requirements for this new ship seem a daunting undertaking for a single type of vessel, encompassing the infrastructure to act as a traditional warship, an aircraft carrier complete with air wing, and an assault ship complete with embarked Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU). Rockwell asserts that "while the size and scope of the project will certainly place limitations on the bidding process, the mere fact that the United States Navy will put to sea the largest warship, indeed, the largest ship, ever built will be more than enough to convince the American people and our enemies that America means to maintain ocean-going supremacy well into the 22nd Century."
So far, the proposal eliminates the need for the current strike group organization that the Navy currently heavily relies on, and will purportedly allow for the redeployment of most escort warships at Navy bases located along the contiguous United States' coastline. According to Rockwell, "Why send seven ships to do a job that one ship will be able to do?"
The Navy expects forceful opposition to the proposal, both from within its ranks and without, but fully expects the now-public white paper to convince its opponents of the obvious benefits of having such a ship. In order to help educate those reluctant to approve the purchase of the project, the Navy has recruited nautical strategy geniuses Ronald D. Moore and David Eick to conduct seminars on what a great idea putting all of your eggs in one basket is. After all, there's nothing like an ROTC dropout telling you how a military should work. Moore is currently accepting applications for one-eyed, alcoholic XOs who hate their wives and short-sighted, pop-culture philosophizing COs who can't even control their own children to help with the education of the public.
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