in which skint contemplates hunting the most dangerous game.

i remember as a kid that sad feeling that happened when parties were over, when houseguests packed up the car, when thanksgiving and christmas and new years and birthdays had played themselves out and the house became quiet and lonely and boring again... nothing special... nothing important. somehow i understood that living was when there were people around, new people, old people, strangers, friends. and without those gatherings we entered a horrible gray foamy inbetweeness. i hated that.

i woke up around 3am thinking and feeling those same thoughts and feelings... like i could practically hear that torment made real, a chirping, screeching horror.

then i realized there were squirrels fucking in my living room, who'd come in through the gaping hole in the wall. now i don't miss that janitor and his dishrag much at all.

wow! what a great audience... for the hundredth time!

so this is kind of a weird situation: that janitor and the sculpture are missing, as well as a large chunk of the corner of my apartment. i noticed this because, as i was walking home from the pharmacy, i noticed a gigantic hole where my wall used to be. also a lot of smoke, static, and a kind of electric fuzzy foam everywhere. spajjy was nowhere to be found. the landlord put up some tarp and then disappeared.

with nothing else to do, i turned on my tv, where the following video, which i'll transcribe for you, was playing. i guess it was a farewell message from that guy. here it be:

::::BEGIN TRANSCRIPTION::::

he's pacing back and forth in the living room, bottle of blueberry schnapps in his hand. it's spilled all over him, his dark blue overalls somehow being stained by the stuff, in dark oily patches.

listen world, if that fucker is narrating or transcribing this video, ignore all of his overwritten, godawful, descriptions. he's a hack, pure and simple. just listen to the words i'm saying.

he takes a seat next to the 'all'n'one™ skintronic station reactor' and gives it an eyeballing, then spits a bit of schnapps on it.

well my little fuckadees, i'm back and i have some terrible news. well, a couple of terrible newsiums...

first, i managed to get my emograph back from the shitstain skint, who kept braying into it with all his 21st century feelings and hopes and dreams and fears. there was a last entry which i'm pretty sure i erased... something about failure and writing and creativity... i don't know. sounded pretty whiny. i feel like he's tainted it and i don't want it back anymore. skint you can have it: maybe you can get some emotions into your writing this way.

i've also figured out how to use this little shitty camera to record a message. now, it's true, this video that they used was incapable of conveying pure emotions to people, but you'll have to make do. pretend like you are feeling whatever it is i am saying and this clown is writing down.

he scratches his head. his hair sticks up straight where does, thick and unwashed. he sighs, exhausted the weight of all the universes on his shoulders.

at this point, ass clown skint probably made some horrible metaphor or exaggeration about how tired i look. but here's why: this is the hundredth time i've updated you on my goings-on.

one
hundred
fucking
times

that's a lot of times to stick to anything - besides the usual stealing and drinking and blahblahblah...

he interrupts himself, like a person who farts themselves awake. he gets up, and walks over to the tv, which is off, and stares at his reflection.

you know what? this is all getting a bit tired. who wants to hear lame versions of the same stories that are (i promise they're not) completely made up, from a suspicious character who fully admits to being a liar and an asshole.

a man gets reflective on his hundredth... eh... blogday, i guess. is it worth it? have you learned anything, besides a few dirty words from the future, and that there's no justice, no matter how far in the future you look and that the state of affairs will not change, no matter how much clicketyclick (a great term i learned from a friend of mine who was a musical instrument that gained consciousness... what the fuck was his name... nadroj... i think that was it... a good story there, maybe i'll tell it to you one day) the bastards stick in the world, it's still people and their base desires.

he gives his balls and ass a little scratch while talking and, after having discovered his blueberry schnapps is empty, grabs a bottle of gin from the bar.

and here i am, standing on the cusp of destroying ∞-1 universes and i don't seem to actually give a shit. just goes to show you...

he sighs again, shakes his head. it looks like he wipes a tear away from his face, but it could also be the gin he is now glugging at a ferocious pace that sort of spurted out of the top of the bottle and bukkaked him in the eyes. 


i don't know what it shows you, but it shows you something. that's for sure.

or maybe it doesn't, i don't fucking know. or care. it is what it is. so just keep doing what you do and maybe it will work out. but it probably won't.


he now looks straight at the camera.

skint, you cunt, stop writing me little happinesses, if all you do is take them away. you owe me that, at least.

he composes himself and raises the bottle of gin to the camera.

so here's to a hundred miserable updates, and maybe, if you're nice, a few billion more.

a deep slug.

fuck you world, it's time to go home!

he reaches his hands towards the anode and cathode of the 'all'n'one ™skintronic station reactor.' the moment his hands touch the poles, he's gone.

and the wall is gone and the reactor is gone and my couch is gone. 

asshole.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint... quince!

finally, things seem to be in motion over here. weeks of this guy and his sponge soaking up all my liquor and getting in the way. he seems to have fixed the coatrack/quantum reactor in the corner of my living room and is getting ready to test it out.

although i don't quite understand how it is a janitor knows how to fix something like that. though that may be the least of this weirdness. none of this make sense anyway: janitor engineers who live in a world based on notes i write on post-its and scraps of envelopes hundreds of civilizations from now.

one benefit to all this: the spaceman has been looking for clues and technical notes in my drafts and memos on how the "all'n'one(TM) skintronic station reactor." so i guess it's like having my own in-house editor to read and comment on my work. which can be good, and also can be awful when he starts complaining about how i fucked him with the layer design of the station i described in 'dante in the crabface nebula,' or the mad scientist who discovers that happiness is merely the absence of sadness in 'we cried, we cried harder.'

i'm also responsible for making robots sad. this is what i think a crying robot looks like.

why? because i apparently i created this thing (which i did not, despite how awesome it is)...

...and the rash of robot suicides it caused because of 'me robot, me sad,' where i suggested that those stupid boxes might be a kind of tree of life/apple of knowledge symbol for robot kind.

so in one way, it's great to be read and know you're work matters. it's also awful to know that your work caused so much unhappiness.

although this guy is an asshole, so i don't really feel too bad.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint... cuatreaux!

so it's been a week since spacecadet and his absorbent friend showed up, and i have yet to see any evidence of a vast horde of janitor clones assaulting me for eternity.

there was an over aggressive sushi delivery guy, who kept claiming i owed him a dollar for the extra spicy mayo. and some asshole who pretended like she lived in the apartment building and forgot her keys and kept buzzing and buzzing my apartment until me 'n spacey sent spajjy down to freak her out. instead, spajjy bring her back up to the apartment and we hang out and talk. as it turned out she was my next door neighbor, whose name i do not know, whose face i do not recognize, but apparently moved in the same day as i did.

so this was good, because i had an issue with this particular neighbor. for years i'd hear synthesizer music blaring from our shared wall and i'd resort to banging on it with a shoe to get the music to stop.

which never worked.

so i, emboldened by some fresh-squeezed-spajjy-effluent-cocktails, asked this (apparently lovely) neighbor of mine if she ever hears loud music, of the electronic sort, invaded her homespace.

no, she tells me, but she does have a problem with a hammering on her walls at all hours of the night.

liar! i accuse her. how dare she, knowing damn well that it's her fancy synthesizer which she insist on practicing at 4 in the morning that interrupts my slumber.

no, she insists nervously, then angrily, it is not her. she doesn't own a keyboard. she doesn't even really listen to music.

i have her on the run! i pursue, she avoid. spajjy and spaceman are watching with amusement, like they've seen all this before, that this classic interaction is part of their daily lives.

i'm screaming now, jacked up on sponge-juicings and i don't know what i'm saying. everything is yellow and red and stubbly and angry. my arms are flailing i see stars.

then a pseudopod taps me gently on the shoulder. i wave it off. then i'm violated... my ears are violated... two spongebits jam themselves into my ear canals, blotting out all the sound of me shouting.

and what do i hear? synthesized bass, unts-untsing its way through my floorboards. and this cute little neighbor girl staring right at me, arms crossed, peeved.

spajjy removes the shoe from my hand, and gently places me down on the couch. there's a mighty big hole in the wall now, from my banging.

i guess one mystery has been solved. just not mine.

she took in stride, poor thing. we've even got a date next week.

unless she just said that to get out of the apartment...

i guess we'll see on thursday.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint...treis!

so now fuckface spacedick over here is making me run all over town looking for widgets and apps and gudgeons and fucktrons and fuckknows to fix this stupid coat hanger statue thing that i bought hungover ten years ago in chicago that he insists, insists! is a 'skintronic all-n-one station reactor.'

does this look like it belongs in a fucking space station to you?

and who the hell am i talking to?

special guest blogger: frizzant skint...deuce!

so i'm not really sure why this lunatic from the future insists i keep talking into this weird, flattened, eggy disc thingie, but for some reason he thinks it is important that i do. i guess this is the version of a blog in his time. full of all sorts of personal revelations, deep insight, brilliant prose, immaculate grammer (hey... it got my joke, not fucking bad at all), and not-in-any-way-no-sir-no-ma'am-not-at-all-even-the-slightest-hinty-inkle-donkle-dink-iling of self-indulgence, narcissism, or vanity.

nope. not an iota.

although, if he gave me this disc thingie, it means that i invented it. so i must have, or will at some point, write it down. but how could i be using it if i haven't created it yet. this is the problem with physics and math and whatever time travel bullshit paradoxicology... there's only one solution.

booze.

and the solution for booze, is spajjy, who is quickly becoming my first friend, though he is drinking me dry, bastard. so we came up with a solution. the other day the janitor decided to go for a walk, so me and spajjy went down to some local bar and, while i engaged the bartender in brilliant chatter, spajjy slooshed his way to the bottles by the mirror, inserted himself into one like some octopus finding a new home in a beer bottle, then jumped from bottle to bottle, dancing fountain style, sucking up all sort of liquor.

then i went to a booth, and ol' spajjy squeezed out cocktails for me under the table. yea, maybe i looked a little weird constantly looking down there and talking to, apparently, the coasters keeping the damn thing level, but you know what? fuck you. that's what.

janitor was still out when we got back, so i had spajjy get under the neighbors door and reconnoiter us some more gin. this time, though, it was terrible: some nonsense artisan shit from brooklyn.

note for stories: in my future, there will be no brooklyn.

special guest blogger: frizzant skint... yay!

first of all, i want to clear up one thing: i don't know if i really believe that all these identical assholes who show up in my apartment, who manage to sneak past the well-installed security of two buzzer-controlled gates, and knock on my door, are actually from the future. it seems a bit weird to me, if i'm honest. but the one who showed up with the giant walking spongebob squarepants (granted a drunk, anal-fixated spongebob) convinced me.

i am not happy, however, about having to kill the rest of them. in theory, if i killed this one, i wouldn't have to kill any more of them. but there's something charming, in the familiar, body-odor, sort of charming, about this guy.

i guess i can murder a couple, just to see how it feels. if he lives in a world based on my ideas, i owe him that, at the very least. poor fucker.

time to tear space/time a new one...

i think i'm starting to lose it.

a space-sponge takes a steam-bath. in the 21st century apartment of the man who is responsible for all the miseries of my life. who has apparently no technical skill whatsoever. so it's unclear how his inventions came to be. and who just happens to be an alt me. who has been a kind of quantum reconfiguration locus for now hundreds of other alt me. who were sent here to kill each other. because they are being used by the universe to destroy itself. and i have to make sure all of them die. except me. and skint here.

wait. never mind. not losing it after all. it all makes sense now.

phew.

self-loathing takes a deliciously ironic twist

breaking bread with your enemies. understanding that your differences may not be as vast as you thought. learning to trust one another. learning that maybe the enemy is, in fact, an awful lot like you.

yea. an awful lot because the motherfucker was me.
i am frizzant skint.
apparently.

here we go again.

who gets to die first?

well thank fuck all the boring expository set-up of the rest of my pointless life is finally over! i can't tell you how excruciating it is to have some encyclopedic setup... historical narrative... a narrator... some pompous bastard explaining to me what it is i have to get to getting done. from now on, i'm my own man. because what just occurred to me is that, if i have to kill an infinite number of other me's (minus 2, that is) is that it will take just shy of an infinite amount of time. woohoo... i've got most of eternity to spending perfecting my art. so no more interruptions of side missions or nested stories or nothing. unless of course i happen to come across a mathematics text about recursive time travel functions and end-up accidentally causing all the other me's (minus 2 that is) to spend the rest of their infinite time killing each other.

haha... i bet that never happens.

the plot gets significantly more confusing

how many of these stupid stories have begun with some grand pronouncement on the nature of the universe? sweeping proclamations, where i impart various wisdoms to you, gentle readers and readerettes, that i have learned through my struggles and tragedies, so elegantly written down, diarized, journalled, hyperlinked and blogged. then, seduced by my glorious pen, you lap it up, thirsty for more of my sophos, knowing that a man of my integrity, experience, and wit, must surely have more grist for your little brain-mills. then i turn it all around, and give you some pithy, obscene slap-in-the-face, bringing you back to where you belong.

well... fuck you. i don't got no pith for you today. i'm out of pith. i pithed it all out yesterday mostly on that fucking pervert in the raincoat, then the last few tinkles on spajjy. if you need pith, go pith yourthelf.

kids: meet blobbo. blobbo has to die...

the surest way to get into jail is to be part of a particular species that isn't particularly appreciated in your particular locale. committing a crime can be particularly helpful too, but isn't particularly necessary. just being hated usually does the trick.

but here i am: i thought i was hated, despised, unpleasant to all, but i can't get thrown into the brig. what did i do right? why am i being rewarded? why does god love me?

what won't anyone hate me?

right, well... if i can't get in on my own, i'll have to get in on somebody else's own. time to find a fat alien of less-than-noble birth.

how to (fail) to go to jail

there were three issues that needed the immediate attention of my (let's just come out and say it... impressive-formidable-terrifying-in-the-odysseus-sense-of-the-word-bordering-on-godlike-but-not-too-omnipotent-lets-just-say-its-like-a-very-powerful-computer-that's-a-little-obsolete) intellect.

1) i had to procure a large amount of liquids, preferably of a pleasant, yet toxic and volatile nature, to help rehydrate spajjy once i found him. then i had to conceal said liquids.

2) i had to get myself chucked into the brig.

3) i had to get us out.

apparently the trick to solving problems is to break the problem into smaller and smaller problems.

the first problem i had was that i didn't want to deal with this, so i went to zog's shop (since i'd spent so much fucking time at zargle's i needed a break) and bought myself the shittest, largest barrel of starshine i could find.

the plot hardens... er... stiffens... oh... thickens

spajjy, my favorite spacesponge (as he's the only one i've ever met), used to say that things made more sense on the inside. he spent a lot of time in various prisons for violating moisture laws and splooshing his juices over rare books, dried butterfly collections, and (perhaps most erotically) the daughters of some senior political and business leaders. frankly, i never knew what to make of that, but hey... he's got the hookup for some primo fucked-up roboporn so who am i to argue?


why do i bring up spajjy? could there possibly be any reason to do such stochastic act? could it have something to do with getting rid of the simp?

yes. yes it does.

not every pile of garbage speaks the truth...

consider, dear reader, the following: that the sum of knowledge... all the sciences, meta-sciences, pseudosciences, books, movies, videos, roboporn, emographs, pictures, paintings, photos, cave scribbles, shit-paintings, piss-portraits, cumsculptures, ass-copies, histories, revisions, expurgations, theories, bibles, screeds, and poems... every single endeavor that all of creation's manifold horrors have seen fit to extract from their asses and record in some way... was instantanously available, up-to-the-chronon accurate, immaculately categorized, and accessible to every single consciousness that roams the universe, should it choose to do so.

now imagine that someone dropped the ball when they were tasked with creating such a database and decided it would be faster if everyone in the universe just pitched in and wrote it up themselves. that way, it accurately reflected the sum total of the creation's opinion of itself.

now imagine, late one night, a stoned technician, aroused beyond belief from having to fix the roboporn databanks, rubbed one out right there in the main control room and a little of his dna managed to get jammed into said machine.

only owing to the technicians endless lack of attention to safety protocol and his rampant drug abuse, his testicles were hotbeds of both radiation and large amounts of hallucinogens, thus creating a very dangerous, psychedelic, machine-readable sperm.

and what do machines do with machine-readable things?

they read them.

so the machine gained consciousness.

then things got stupid...

another glass doll in our exotic menagerie

imagine you woke up one day and shuffled around in your skimpy, torn, stained underwear to get a glass of something strong to remove the veil that the previous night's entertainments had wrought on your already shrunken, sclerotic mind.
you lurch your way to your favorite chair, which is deeply uncomfortable anyway, your overfull glass sloshing and spilling. nervous, you lick the stuff off your fingers: waste not, want not, though that's the theory that got you into this hangover in the first place.

as you wipe the (hopefully) eye crust from your face, you see that in your chair sits a rather large, rather unattractive, deeply disturbed alien of some sort. this alien knows you and bolts out of the chair to give you a massive hug. it stinks, terribly, and you spill what little booze you haven't already spilled from your shaking hands and unsteady gait, all over yourself. it now appears as if you've soiled yourself. the large, retarded alien points out this fact and laughs, uncontrollably, farting a bit when the guffaws get too strong for him to control his sphincter.

now imagine that this is your view of happiness, and the universe is asking to take it away from you and for you to become miserable forever.

or you can destroy the universe and yourself and everyone in it. thus precluding misery from every happening again. except for the brief, actual moment of annihilation. that'll probably be pretty bad.

what the fuck would you do?

let this shot glass pass from me...

after the inevitable post-prandial tears and vomiting, alt.me and regular me had a few things to discuss. first: we had to agree to never try to fuck each other again. there wasn't much of an argument between us on that point.

second: whether or not we should bother saving the universe(s).

a new, unexplored form of self-abuse

i suppose a lot of people fantasize about meeting themselves... they go on about how delightful, how magical, how wondrous it'd be to see another version of them, alike in every way, yet different in so many ways too... how it'd answer that eternal question of nature or nurture. how they'd finally be able to see themselves as the rest of the world sees them... what a chance to grow, to learn, to experience what it is to be an individual... to finally know yourself. it'd be grand.

this is all code... what they really, really want to do... and i have witnessed this many times in my travels... the one thing they absolutely want to do... is to have sex with themselves.

so it's emoticons that will destroy the universe?

some old-fashioned scientist or some old-timey philosopher or some old-timey quotation book writer once penned, mightily, that nature abhorred a vacuum. with the exception of a very few of our infinite universes, this holds true for every kind of particle, from electrons to bosons to kleptons to the one particular quanta we've been discussing here, the emoticon. unfortunately, the emoticon is the only subatomic particle that has no anti-particle. and double-unfortunately, the emoticon is what accounts for sadness, in fact the only true emotion that exists.

all joy is merely the absence of sadness...

ugh.

i want to make you sad

if you want yet more proof that the universe is an uncaring cunt, consider the following...

if you tell the same joke over and over again, people will eventually stop laughing at you, get angry, and cut out your tongue.

but if you show them something sad again and again, they'll weepweepweep until their eyes are sucked dry.

that's because good things, like pleasure, are finite. and there are only so many laughs to go around.

but misery and sadness... those the universe sees fit to supply in endless amounts.

now that warrants a hearty guffaw... and the universe can go fuck itself... i'll waste the chuckles.

same shit, different universe

taken as a whole, i'd say every single living species in my universe is incapable of learning from its mistakes. not only do we have frillions of epic poems, novels, sculpture, paintings, decoupage, semen-statues, plays, movies, holos, emographs, and quantum-injectable consciousness states detailing every sort of fucked-up, what-do-you-do, gods-are-punishing-me, which-baby-do-i-choose, is-glory-for-me, don't-play-god situation that we've ever, and are ever-likely-to face we still do the same stupid shit over and over.

why should your universe be any different?

nice to meet me

we thought it might be kind of fun, you know, to update you on our travels together. seeing as one angryspaceman is so great, having two is gonna be, at least, twice as amazing.

that's fucking stupid... at least make it exponentially better. twice as good? might as well fucking give up now.

fuck off... that was my sentence to write, and i'll write it any cunting way i want to write it.

useless shit, i don't know why i asked you to help me.

if you don't know, how the fuck should i know...

god damn it. just stop talking into it.

i'll talk if i fuknggmmmmcccchhhhhhhhaaaaaa.........

shhh... shhh.... go to sleep.

another shocking twist and i am going to kill myself

flapjack and skip were staring at me...
the kind of stare you'd give someone if, after having the left the room thirty seconds ago, they returned, acting as if they hadn't seen you in years.

that wasn't really too shocking. seeing as that was exactly what i just did to them.

fuck me.
i hate alt.space travel.

where nobody knows your name..

there are many types of friends. the kind that you pick up from the last conversation you had, and no matter how long it's been, it feels like you haven't missed a day.

there are the kind who would do anything, even risk their lives for you.
the kind that are always willing to get together, even if it's the middle of the night.
the reliable, kindly ones.
there are the casual friends, serious friends, friend with benefits, friends you'd do business with, drinking friends, thieving friends, best friends, friends you never want to see again, happy fucking tree friends.

at least this is what i've heard...

i don't have any of those... i'm pretty sure my friends don't even know my fucking name.

and we're back... sorry for the violence

falling from the interstitial void of quantum-scale space into an enormous, non-probabilistic space station is very similar to walking over to your roommates bed and trying to make out with her: whatever happens, your model of the universe is about the change.

welcome to the void... table for one?

i may have mentioned this before (and if i haven't, fuck you)... there is no down in space. there is no up in space. left, right, sideways, diagonally... none of those directions give a single shit about you when you are out in the big black void. this poses problems, very similar to the one i experienced as i stepped through the 'hole...

doing it in the missionary position... part nine

my immediate thoughts were to ditch dippy, grab pokey and run like fuck.

so i did.

 unfortunately, dippy had the same idea.

so the both of us ran head first into each other and fell on the floor.

pleasantries were exchanged. we shook hands and decided to stick the original plan. we sent pokey to the door to scout. he gave us the all-clear beep (i assume... all his fucking beeps sound exactly the same).

and out we went.

doing it in the missionary position... part eight

it is said, ad nauseam, that under great stress, people are capable of much more than they ever suspected. they can summon unknown reserves of courage, strength and willpower. they can surmount nearly any obstacle, through sheer force of determination. they can run farther, swim faster, think gooder and strategize craftier.

dippy and i are not those people.

those people sound like assholes.

doing it in the missionary position... part seven

'dippy... you terrible cunt. you magnificent loser. your fabulous shit. you are a reprobate and a liar. how i've misjudged you!'

i leapt across the table and gave him a huge hug. pokey was getting excited too, ejaculating some kind of fracking fluid onto dippy's boots.

'yes yes... fuck off, then. here's the deal: you remember i went to prison, right?' he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. i interrupted...

'of course i do, dippy darling! i sent you there,' i cheerfully replied.

'... well, as you might imagine, prison life and i didn't quite get along. so i made deals.

'i bet you did. sexy deals, right? were they sexy deals? i bet they were sexy deals!'

doing it in the missionary position... part six

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

doing it in the missionary position... part five

there were no sweet memories of lost childhood from a different time that nursed and caressed and cradled me in my unconsciousness. there was instead only one dream... that a huge metal cock was trying to penetrate my skull. repeated, forceful banging thrusts, over and over and over, right against the side of my head... some insensate fucktron trying to get his gears off, joylessly pounding my fleshy skull until, hopefully, in his eye-stalks anyway, it would turn into something resembling an opening. anhedonic infertile copulation performed by an automaton... the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.

which of course i was actually seeing... i wasn't asleep at all. the worn down nub of the fucktron paused briefly while i looked at it, looked back, turned his eyestalks up, and went back to banging...

fuck me.

doing it in the missionary position... part four

like any good careworker who deals with the elderly, it is inevitable that you will wake up, one day, to an old woman's genitalia hovering six inches above your face... just close enough that it's unclear what is up there, and you have to refocus hard and it takes a few seconds for the picture to become clear...only to then realize that what you thought were your normal morning tears of waking to the reality that you had at least another day to live on this shitbox were not in fact tears but streams of thick, pre-diabetic, sweet urine sputtering stop-start on your face.

i'll take flapjack abusing himself in the bed next to me any day. i would rather not wake up this way again. ever.

doing it in the missionary position... the interlude

broken dreams... beautiful geometries dancing somewhere between my cornea and my eyelids... somehow both extruded into three-dimensions and yet permanently evanescent... memories, shuddering into place, then fading like those tessellations... a toy robot i lost as a child... a simple friendly giant who once helped me cross the street... an insect collection burned away in a fire... the wonder of making eye-contact with a chimpanzee at the zoo for the first time... a rotting sponge under the sink where i used to play... a trip to the shore and an encounter with a tiny octopus... cold white winters in some northern waste and the curious moose who nibbled the fruits straight from my hand... a backyard shack, with broken dusty windows, old rusting gear and long-abandoned spider webs... a safe place, away from the constant fear and suspicion of adults... the geometries grow harsher now.... they have edges... they have teeth and fangs... shouting... always shouting... always cruel... always judging harshly whining insulting  evil spiteful dangerous...  the other children, always mocking, always mean, always avoiding... the geometries grow weirder... nastier, somehow... colors that should never do so join forces... no rubbing of the eyes makes them change... they are all encompassing... they take over the robot, the octopus, the sponge, the giant... the colors grow and intensify and intensify and grow until there is nothing left but blackness, sprinkled with a few dots far away... and a giant gleaming brilliant beautiful polyhedron made of mercury, spinning and floating in the void...

then i woke up to some old woman pissing in my face... 

doing it in the missionary position... part three

i'm trying to figure out exactly how this is my fault. first off, they sailed on their own ship. they used their own funds to stock it. all i did was provide inspiration. in fact, i'm pretty sure that from a legal point of view the 'evidence' (fancy legal term) that i berated them and told them how stupid an idea it was may 'indemnify' me (more legal terms). and besides... look at it from the pirates point of view... some rich assholes show up in a fancy ship, berating them, telling them everything they've ever known as wrong and how stupid they are for believing it. what the fuck would you do?

i'd take 'em hostage too

doing it in the missionary position... part two

fuck me roughly with a laser truncheon... i wish i had thought of this missionary thing years ago. it's awesome. idiots come into the shack, i abuse them, they pay up, then they fuck right off to the far reaches of the galaxy, telling everyone how fantastic i am. it's paradise. and the best... the absolute starfucking best part of this whole thing is that they now send money and swag from all over, right back to hangar 23. it's fantastic. it's really helped take some of the sting away what with old skip being gone...

oh yea... skip.

i miss that stupid little robot.

doing it in the missionary position... part one

in difficult times, men find solace in all sorts of vices... booze, drugs, gambling, thieving, whoring, exxxtreme sportz!, family, and (most profitably) religion. for me, the fact that skip is missing has been a strain... but there are only so many nights you can rip people off at zargle's, steal from zog, spy on cute little galactopus girl or abuse yourself to dirty vids. at some point, you've got to fall back on what gave you solace as a kid... what your family taught you... your values... as i have none of those, i decided to go back to the only thing that ever made me truly happy... the shack of beration... with a fucking vengeance

heroes, heroes... every single fucking one of them is a hero

after thorough, repeated, sticky viewings of what are now known as the the 'spajjy vids,' i am convinced that dear old gear skip is not being used as a fuckbot. this makes me happy... because had i self-abused to a vid exploiting my missing damaged friend, i might have felt awkward. instead, i feel satisfied and well-rested... huzzah! the search, however, must continue... after this nap.

finding skip, by means of (fluid) elimination

as you know, my little robot friend skip, whom i love dearly and would never, ever, evereverneverever wish anything bad to happen to, has had something bad happen to him. this is a problem... for one, i have a lot more fucking work to do around hangar 23... for two, flapjack doesn't stop crying... for three, i miss him and for four, nobody steals from me and gets away with it...

chivalry is not dead, so much as subjugated by a laser-truncheon

soooo...... where have i been for these last months? have i been on an exciting adventure? have i made lots of new and interesting friends, found myself, found love, found skip, found a brain for flapjack and found happiness?

fuck you for even asking.

i've been in the brig for like a billion days. skip is still gone, flapjack still a retard, love elusive, self annoying, friends pointless and adventures temporal. i have, however, found that the das orbit's finest are in fact the finest cocksuckers in the galaxy.

who's been banging my robot?

strange things are afoot, indeed, on the station. yesterday morning, during the first few hours on shift in hangar 23, i'm getting along... doing my thing... taking a nap, as no one is visiting right now. then i realize... fuck me... where is skip? what's happened to skip? somethings happened to skip... what did i do with skip?

hey flapjack, here's how i say thank you

a while ago, i helped flapjack out of a financial jam that the poor bastard had gotten himself into. now, flapjack may be retarded, but he isn't without social graces. being the son of a shipping magnate, certain cultural niceties have been programmed into him: literally.

the revolution will not be emographed

one of life's pleasures is to piss away your money gambling in the hopes that you can get some more money, which you can then piss away gambling... this pleasure is only compounded if you are gambling with someone else's money... this is exactly what me, flappy, skip and mal-aka were doing at the robo-derby this weekend, when some unexpected events transpired... we got into a fight.

just shut the fuck up and kill yourself already

guess what galactopus boys and girls... are you ready to get a little history lesson today? exciting? well?  why? is it because i'm too hungover to remember what i did yesterday and this is the only thought that zips through my head? is it?
yes... it fucking is... stop scrolling so loudly...today we'll learn about why robots kill themselves!

splashing around the fluids of human kindness

my cup overflows with various fluids of human kindness. but sometimes, that cup gets tipped, or knocked, or jostled, or woken up in the middle of my fucking sleep cycle and it becomes time for me to take some of those fluids and start splashing them all over the place.

never try new things

i've never had much use for novelty or fads… when people get their dicks hard, or their orifices wet, or their whatevers whatever over some useless gadget, or suit of clothes, or pen, or pet, or ship, or person, or whatever-the-fuck… well… what i'd really like to do, is beat them stupid.

cosmoose's last supper

cosmoose comes from a very strange place... i believe the planet his people are from is very cold, very snowy and very depressing... sometimes, i'll be at zargle's, getting drunk by myself (it's a thing i do) and i'll see cosmoose, sitting at the bar, weeping, for no good reason, looking like he doesn't have a friend in the world... must be tough for him.

you two-faced piece of shit

so now that the shack is back, i am privy to the combined problems of however many squillion fucking losers live in this floating tin garbage can... lucky me... for some reason, people with problems also seem to be people with money...
the shack has been doing great... apparently all this civil strife has done nothing but to make people more anxious, so we've picked up exactly where we left off... swimming in coin and in tribute... it's good to be a messiah.

the shack of beration is back, ye of little faith!

the whore fortune likes to play games with me... i've mentioned before her cruelty and kindness... once again, she rolls over and accepts another at her teat to suckle... this is why i like her

robots are like cold, metal prostitutes

all i know is that if someone is trying to hide some shit from me it must either have to do with me, or be so fucking interesting that i have to know what it is... that's just the way things are

the shack of beration is temporarily closed

there is a time in every boy's life when he has to accept the mantle of responsibility and become a man... usually this takes the form of children, or jobs, or wives, or whatever stupid fucking thing people get themselves into... for me, it's because captain spacefuck shut down the shack of beration...

hey kids... want to be cool?

so ever since this insurgency thing has become a bigger deal and the fancyship has been hanging out outside the station, this fucking place is crawling with unitarded assholes, looking important and showing off their packages.

help us angry spaceman, you're our only hope...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA

politics and me... we don't mix... i am usually unaware of who controls the government, how they get there, or what they are doing. this suits me just fine, as the less i know about them, the easier it is to flaunt their laws.

hyperlift shitbags need to be thrown down the shaft

so, as i've mentioned before, this fucking place has a lot of levels... how many, i have no clue, although i'm sure i'm supposed to. so many in fact that they had to install these hyperlifts, not quite a teleportal (since those are expensive and we all know that management won't spend a fucking dime if they don't have to... think of them as an elevator that goes really fast... potentially at relativistic speeds.

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY CUTE LITTLE GALACTOPUS GIRL

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

time travel is a bitch

those interdimensional glory holes i've mentioned before have another, more illicit use... if you can imagine something more illicit than getting a a blowjob from halfway across the galaxy performed by someone you've never met nor seen nor are sure of their gender...

what in the name of fuck is going on?

as you well know, something has been very wrong with me lately... i've been nice to people. this must stop.

cute little galactopus girl

seriously, i'm losing my fucking mind... just the other day, i felt pity for someone who came into the shack of beration... me... this is bad... if i'm not angry, i'm not making any fucking money... luckily, i managed to pull my indignation at not being angry into some semblance of anger and got a bit worked up...

the shack of beration

my duties as 'the angry one' have been taking up more and more of my time. which is fine, as i don't really enjoy being a janitor anyway. besides skip and flappy can take care of most of that shit.

the diversity of nature at its best

the baroness klob is a horrible worm... pale, disgusting, lumpy, over sized, floating on a bed of her own excreted gasses and surviving entirely off other people's efforts. this has made her perfect for her position: station chief of propaganda.

don't believe any prophecy you hear

as i've mentioned before, i've become the focus of a certain cult which regards me as 'the angry one.' this has not been too profitable, but it has been entertaining.
a few days ago, their leader, who can usually be found drumming up new recruits in the ragged parts of the station, came up to me to speak, privately. i obliged, mostly cuz he takes me to zargle's when he does this and gets me loaded... besides, he'll often bring one of the cuter members of the cult and offer her to me... this i can never complain about.

it's my party and i'll destroy this fucking place and everyone in it if i want to

a few days ago, someone (with some encouragement) forgot what appeared to be a very large, very dangerous, very radioactive and very explosive bomb in hangar 23. as my birthday was in a few days, i chalked this up to the universe, finally, trying to remunerate me for all the wrongs it's committed over the years.

don't let your kids grow up to be starclowns

in this part of the galaxy, the weather is usually shit. how else could the cheapshits that run this station afford the real estate... we've got cosmic rays, fucking space debris, dead satellites banging around, and sometimes it seems like every fucking comet that's ever existed is magically attracted to us... causing a lot of tourists to shit themselves which then comes to me to clean up...

the angry one

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

precious little angel

the miracle isn't childbirth... the miracle is that you don't kill the little fuckers before they get old enough to kill you...

it's like a slow, controlled fall into hell

crazy shit happening here... two nights ago (are they even really nights) the fucking power on the station just shut off... fucking scary...

roboderby dreams part 1

i'll be straight... i'm fucked. i lost a lot of money in the master/slave races the other day (which is an entirely different story) and now various unsavoury elements on this station are on my ass.

the fraternity of man

we just got an all-station memo that morale is at an all-time low... like anyone really gives a fuck.

the administrators decided they wanted to cheer themselves up, so they called a meeting. each department had to send a representative. we played a game of 'rob the tourist' and i, sadly, got the least valuable shit off my mark, so am forced to go.

the invisible hand of capitalism

sometimes i suspect that the world conspires against my attempts to defraud it. i, like anyone else, enjoys taking a little time off of my shit job in hangar 23, and sometimes i don't want to spend my own vacation time. sometimes, i want to get something for free... some people call it 'throwing a sickie,' some people call it 'playing hookey,' i call it 'evening out the universe's attempts at fucking me.'

our perverted natures will always find a way

from time immemorial, all living beings have had two desires - teleportation and gloryholes.
the first, the instantaneous, secure travel between any two points in the (or any) universe, is easily understood.
the second, the wish to stick their reproductive organs into holes in bathroom stalls in the hopes that someone will pleasure them is also simple to understand.

fucked by the fickle (robotic) finger of fate

so, as you know, cosmoose cooked me dinner the other day, which consisted of space monkey five ways. apparently, shitzilla somehow got wind of this and is now super pissed off, what with us eating one of his cousins.

bit hypocritical if you ask me, since i've been with him while he personally ate a dozen soft-boned space monkeys in one sitting. he'll get over it.

mal-aka's murderous rampage

i was out drinking with mal-aka. he comes from a very harsh, rocky, sandy awful place and resembles something like a gigantic locust dipped in bronze. this tends to make people uncomfortable. on a shit station like this, we get a lot of weird looking visitors, so if people here get freaked out by him, it's a sign that something is different

flapjack fones home

the other day, flapjack comes to me in tears... the blubbering monster barely makes any sense when he isn't shooting salt water out of his hideous face, but today, his suffering made him completely incomprehensible... and hysterical.

even computers need a holiday

there is little doubt that sentient, carbon based species are lazy. hell, we only get jobs so we can earn money and holiday time, which basically means we work so that we don't have to work. this also makes us particularly stupid.

another pointless task

the thing about a station this size is that it's a work in progress, which is a more polite way of saying it's falling apart. it's so fucking big that if we had waited to move into until it was finished, i'd be an impotent, drooling old man before i stepped foot off the shuttle in hangar 23.

fucking cosmoose

so, fucking cosmoose invites me to dinner the other day, says he has a special treat, as i helped him out lifting some fuel from a shuttle that came into hangar 23 a while back. i get all excited, as the last proper meal i had wasn't exactly the relaxing dinner i had planned.

won't someone think of the robots

some war broke out on some fucking planet somewhere, can't be bothered to find out too much about it but, while skimming the news, found it interesting that this entire war was fought with robots. and that the generals and strategists and soldiers were all several planets away, while they were controlling their respective robo-armies.

trouble at the old watering hole

i often run into some problems with strangers... the problem being that they end up listening to my conversations (about them) and get offended. it's not my damn fault that they've been eavesdropping on my private discourses.

who will defend the space monkey?

yet another of the myriad joys we experience here on the shithole is the complete lack of fresh oxygen. while it's true, we're a bit beyond the old 'lime-in-a-bucket' days of yore, it's still the same basic principles... gotta keep as much co2 out of circulation as possible. now i think they might all pump it to the fucking farm-levels or whatever... anyway, not my problem.

it's like a printer, only more stupid

so, i am forced, sometimes, to use matter compilers. as a rule, i can't stand them, for a couple of reasons

guess who's coming to dinner

apparently, the fool in charge of the fancy ship wants to meet some of the 'real' people who work and maintain this piece of shit. somehow, i got roped into it. that's cool. i could use a decent meal with good booze and hot alien females.

new fancy ship, same retards at the helm

so, the pride of the new pan-galactic fleet is coming to town. some gigantic starship. it's so god damn big, and so fucking new, that there is no existing port on the station can handle it. instead, the visitors have to tender in on shuttles. naturally, they aren't going to be headed for hangar 23. hooray for small victories.
or so i thought..
apparently, this is a really big deal for captain spacefuck. they won some kind of contest to be the first port of call for the ship. all the internal messages are for us to be on our best behavior, get clean, not be drunk... that sort of thing, as this will be over all the news. hoo-fucking-ray.

message to time traveler/readers who live on earth, circa 2043

life here is awful, as you may know. so, if you enjoy any of what i am writing, please do the following: find an engineer named frizzant skint, who invented space stations, and kill him.

although, it just occurred to me that if any of you have succeeded at this simple task, i would never have written this entry. thanks for all your help. dicks.

that poor, fat alien monster girl thing

remember how i had that little wormhole to the paradise beneath my berth? well, owing to some too-clever-for-his-own-fucking-good engineer, it appears that some sections of this station were made with a self-healing alloy. so, my magic portal shut itself. fine, no problem, cuz i've got the antidote, my little robot burden skip.

alien tourists are the worst

so this station gets a lot of tourist traffic. inevitably, this leads to conflict, as many alien species don't particularly care for each other. not usually a problem, because in conflict there exists a chance to profit. i don't care if they knock each off or jerk each other, as long as they keep dropping their expensive shit into my grate.

what i do care about, however, is the way they get around.

a delicious turn of events

sometimes fortune smiles on those who deserve, those tireless souls who try to fix the world, make people happy, unite the species and foster peace and understanding.

those days are awful, those people are pathetic and fortune can go fuck herself... it's much better when people like me get a little luck, like last night.

nobody knows how to laugh anymore

so, a while ago i discovered robo-porn. as i said before, it doesn't do much for me, but that doesn't prevent me from watching it whenever i get bored. it's usually good for a laugh.

skip update #1

i heard a nasty rumor that some cadre of space cadets is coming to the station - a kind of convention of losers who, when faced with the option of staying on a planet (shit), staying on a station (really shit), or staying on an interstellar cruiser (complete shit) feel that the cruiser is the way to go. brain damaged.

poor, sad, stupid robot

as you can imagine, the floor of hangar 23 gets pretty fucked up. this is where, after all, they send all the shitty ships, the broken ones that got banged up in asteroid fields, ships with engines falling off them, barely flying, shooting sparks all over the place. it's a mess. sometimes they only just get the doors open and some piece of shit zooms in, clipping the doors and crashing into the wall.

explosive decompression... hell yes

i've mentioned before that we have this artificial sunrise system that wakes us up. it works for most of the people most of the time, but rarely me. i've gotten used to waking at 3 am and staring out the window, the stars poked by god's own hand in the velvet, comets fly by on their thousand year orbits, reminding me of the majesty of the universe and why i came here in the first place....

another thing that does not turn me on

technology, for the most part, is a waste of time.

sure, we can live in space. but why the fuck should we? it's cold up here. always cold. we drink each others recycled piss and breath in each others old farts. would i rather be on a beach somewhere, surrounded by topless girls feeding grapes and booze? no, cuz then i'd have nothing to complain about. so i'm fucked either way.

for sale: one weird looking baby alien

age: fuck knows, young though
found: last night, stuffed behind a garbage can in hangar 23
color: greenish, grey
texture: scaly, yet soft
answers to: spazz
race: dunno, never seen one like it
eyes: three
mouth: wet
shits: all the fucking time

any offer considered, he's cramping my style

gravity kills

or damn near tries to.

I don't have a problem when people drink on the job. or do drugs, or steal or whatever. none of us are saving lives. hell, even the medics are pissed most of the time. but there is one guy who, when he drinks on this fucking rig, fucks everything up for the rest of us. his name is longshanks. he is in control of the artificial gravity. last night was his birthday. he likes to get drunk on his birthday, to the point where his teeth are drunk

so we did. and this morning i woke up floating upside down with my head in the toilet, surrounded by globules of my own vomit. happy birthday longshanks. asshole

flapjack, a simple soul

as i've mentioned before, i work a pretty menial job. it's thoroughly unfulfilling, as you can imagine. on top of the misery of mopping vomit and surviving by stealing stupid tourists fancy crap, i have an idiot partner. his name is flapjack, he is seven foot six, 400 pounds and dumb as fuck. he is also an alien.

the company he keeps

The scum of the east village, shoreditch, hackney, LES and every other hip, young, trendy fuckbag pretentious part of the world has been skimmed off and deposited in large ladles on my god damn rig!!! (apologies to papa)

one of my only vices

if you haven't heard from me for a while... here is why:

lots of people do bad things in the name of pleasure. and i am ok with every one of them. especially if they inconvenience or injure another. after all, einstein proved that your pleasure is increased just by decreasing someone else's.

the best part of my job

i'll be honest... my job isn't fucking hard. at all... mostly it consists of mopping up the puke of day-trippers who get all SASed when they hop out of the airlock.

To make this easier, the floor has a grating about 12 inches off of it. This way, the vomit slides through. At the end of each shift, I remove the grating and clean the puke.

moonshine in space

Lots of philosophical questions around this one: should we still call it moonshine if it's made in space? Or on the moon? would it be sunshine then? or earthshine? or starshine? One gets thoughtful in one's times of rest...

bullshit. No one fucking cares. All I do know is that a liter of that shit last 'night' made me sleep past that dickbag Wiggins little prank and straight through my shift. I have a headache so fucking bad I can't see straight. Call it what you will...I call it a good time.

plan didn't go to plan...

in order to combat the inscrutable Wiggins and his hated 3am wake up calls, I decided to smash every single bulb and fluorescent in both my cell, and the hallway adjacent. Apparently this inevitability was planned for, because security came up here right fucking quick and chucked me in the brig.

but.. at least the sun didn't rise at 3am... prisoners get up at 9am. finally, a lie-in.

Bad Morning...

Wiggins, that dick who's in charge of the artificial environment on this shithole, has it out for me. Everyone else can control their sunrise as they see fit... a nice, clean, pleasant way to ease into the awful life we have up here. Except for...wait for it... you're getting closer... now close the deal...... YES THAT IS RIGHT. ME. That fuck programmed mine to go off at 3 am. And no matter how many times i yell at the control panel, or hit the wall, or threaten to chuck him out the airlock, it won't fucking change.

But today, i have a plan...

Guess what's on the menu... again?

Space is awesome. What with all the radiation, lack of pressure, weird aliens, clanging metal stairways and AIs achieving consciousness and fucking things up, an angry spaceman can build up a massive appetite.

And what does the cafeteria put out?

More reconstituted vegetable based protein from the hydroponic farm-rooms. Hooray! I love reconstituted vegetable based proteins! They are delicious, and not at all distinguishable from real protein. Who wants a fucking cow when you can milk a fucking carrots and make a faux-steak out of it.

Fuck me... I think I might wait until another one of those fucking alien greeting parties show up, pick off a straggler and cook him up.

In space, no one can hear you complain

I've fucking had it with the Captain. How is he even a fucking captain? This station is in an ORBIT... ORBITS are FIXED. It doesn't even have a fucking steering wheel. And for all that hard work, he gets his own fancy cabin and double rations on whisky... what a dick.