What in the hell happened to Jon Mackey?

So. About this glaring lack of story updates.

I have mentioned before that I am obsessed with flow. My life is defined by strange organic rhythms and eldritch, overwritten cadences, as well as a few just plain weird artifacts that I think might be related to the drugs. The things that hit me hardest are not the things that hurt me or make me unhappy-the things that really blindside me are the things that upset my flow.

It started with a change at work. I'm not sure if any of you know this, but the entire story had been written on the clock-in fact at least part of the reason I used ZS was so I could save my story somewhere and write blog entries and such when slow periods come up, as they often do in the customer support business. In addition to that glowing feeling of being the brilliant dangerous sexy subversive anti hero that I am by taking company time to write my own shit, it kept me awake all night and got me into a delicate iambic pentameter where I went through the slow periods in a very specific way. I would smoke my first cigarette at around 2 am right after our initial rush of calls, come back in for the 2 for 5 slow period, and write. I wouldn't allow myself another cigarette unless I had finished a chapter.

Then I was working on a chapter and I lost a large chunk of it due to a save error on my part. I was totally happy with it until I tried to rewrite it, and in fact I hate the shit out of it now-that's why it is only posted on ZS and not on this blog. So for a few days I mulled around with trying to rewrite it, and during that time a big change came down from management-no more filtered internet for you. So long, endless reading material and accessible notepad.

So now I have to try and make time to write on my own, and that in itself is hard enough-as a parent, prepper, consumate sodomite and full time employee of a company that enjoys that has it's dicks in more asses than an ACORN coyote, my time is very fucking short.

I can adapt. Time, though annoying, can be harvested with careful stewardship of one's resources. I can even hand write the story at work, like I am with this blog entry, though my hands are cramping like a 13 year old boy trapped in a bathroom with a brazier catalogue. But getting my flow back is another story and it is always a struggle while I balance myself again. I'm sorry to all you guys who are reading this; believe me when I say your support was a critical part of my flow as well. Every ego tickle is a cookie for my brain. Mmmmm....cookies.

Heres hoping you stick with me anyway.

Chris By-The-Throat - The Musical

So while I was bored at work last night, I came up with an odd little meme that I would like to share with you all. It boils down in a nutshell to converting my (sad, strange) life story to a bunch of song titles I made up. So I listed them all down for posterity.

They are color coded. RED items are Chorus/Ensemble numbers. Green items are duets. Yellow items are chorus/dance numbers with no lyrics. Light grey items in italic are, of course, my solos, and the bold version is a solo by someone else.

So without further ado, here's Chris By-The-Throat: The Musical

ACT I
Overture (A Fistful of Shoggoths)
Just Another Small Town Circle Jerk
Fuck This Place
Wizards and Warriors
One Middle Finger At A TimeListen to the Girl
The Yay Song
Taze Me Bro (I Love That Shit)
Your Shadow Is A Dark Cold Place
(Someone Had To) Believe In You
Going Blind (Never Look Back)
Lies, Damned Lies, and Academia
Elevator Ambush
Count Your Blessings Til It Hurts
ACT II
One Lick, One Brick, One Bullet
Listen to the Girl (Reprise)
How I Learned to Love the Rain
Rusty Castles in Stormy Clouds
Three of Hearts
A Drink At the Union Pacific

One Middle Finger At A Time (Ensemble Reprise)

So hey, if you think you are featured, see if you can spot your main number. Here's hoping this takes off.

Trite Sayings I Hate

I try not to let this blog dissolve into the raw, crude venom of "Shit that Chris Hates" because lets face it, if I listed everything I hated I would have to write about fifty thousand words every time I turn on the TV, listen to the radio, overhear conversations between people on the street, see an Eric Lustbader novel for sale or any number of broad categories including at least one that reads "Everything Else, Ever."

But sometimes, the world around me forces me to make the dreaded bullet list.

Today's burnt offering: the trite inspirational, witty, quasi-literate sayings that people give to one another in lieu of thinking of something interesting to say.

First on the chopping block is that delectable morsel of overused tripe "Love is all you need." Sure. And when you are crawling over broken syringes in search of a ten sack of crystal meth and you look over at your boyfriend's scabrous cock hanging out of his piss and blood stained boxers and you wonder why the baby stopped crying like, 10 hours ago, remember-you love him. Get a life. Exist independently. It's possible-if you aren't so hung up on connecting sex organs that you throw away everything else.
REVISED: Love is all you need, except for Food, Water, Shelter, Oxygen, and a good relationship with the Almighty. And Drugs. Need Drugs.

Next in the cattle chute, "Just be yourself." This is based on a false premise-namely, that anyone likes you. I mean, should a child molester just "be himself?" What about the fratboys hooting and making humping motions on overloaded, beer soaked balconies? I don't like those choads; I don't want them to be themselves. I desperately want them to be well armed and well trained scumfucks looking for a charismatic leader. In fact, I should put out a craigslist ad - Charismatic Leader seeks Local Scumfucks for fun and improvised munitions. No Rascists. One thing I'm sure of, I'd never put out a craigslist ad for more Fratboys. That's the last thing this town needs.
REVISED: "Be Yourself, Unless You Are A Fucking Douchebag"


And last in line, slipping on the guts of the previous two, here is the classic: "Follow your dreams." I really think this is a hell of a line to hand en masse to the kids in our schools. I mean, how do they know what your dreams are? Maybe some kids dream of being president or famous actors or finding love, but you know there is always one kid whose dream is to burn you all. And here you are, like a jackass, telling him to follow his dream of hearing your fat pop and sizzle under a huge burning beam. Thats frivolous use of that line, right there-and those aren't the only unpleasant dreams that you might be encouraging people to follow. So in other words,when I kick in a dormitory door and start taking slave girls for my sultry Arabian nights style harem and stacking them up like cordwood next to the hookah, remember-I'm only following my childhood dreams.
REVISED: Follow your dreams to the extant that it is socially acceptable, or learn to be really good at avoiding police. Other than that, yer fucked. Sorry homie.


So the next time someone speaks to you and you are inclined to respond with a tacky cliche instead of thinking, use the one Jared and I have decided to use for all purposes-"Cuz I like to party." I'm serious-it works for every situation. You may get a few odd looks at funerals, of course, but hey-everyone knows where you stand.

State of the Drug Culture Address: lawlwut? edition

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Night of the Living Stoners - Part II - Promo

Since god knows I haven't had any content besides old stories and random porn, I thought I'd throw this link I saw out on zombie squad. Finally, a zombie movie that panders to my demographic. They could have picked prettier stoners though. Ugly bastards. But then, that thars a mighty glass house I be firing 7.62x39s from.

Because you needed more proof of how fucked up I am...

...I present to you a random bit of erotica I started but never finished. I always wanted to finish this one up and send it to some publication that still publishes written erotica-those still exist, right? they have to-but I probably never will. Names changed (more than once) to protect the guilty; as originally written this was a fantasy about a cute jewish chick we used to have a crush on.

Without further ado...an excerpt from "The Crystal Menage"

It was 4:48 PM on a dull grey Friday and despite the stack of bills angrily impaled on my desk I was about ready to give up waiting on the new client my charming young secretary had penciled in for the end of the day, turn off the neon sign and get reaquainted with my good pal Drunken Stupor, with whom I had a dinner date at 5 sharp. I could hear Amanda's keyboard clicking idly, though what she was doing (at 9.50 an hour, no less; I'm too good to that woman but lets face it, my business would be even more boned without her) this close to closing time was beyond me.

The silhouette in the frosted door made me reconsider in a moment, as any good private eye always regrets his job less when seeing a curvy long haired shape through frosted glass. The knob turned, and she stepped inside, one long leg at a time. Both Amanda's and my eyes clicked to her immediately; she was definitely a sight for the sorest of ocular cavities, and as she made her slow, hesitant way to my secretary's desk, we both shared a mischevious wink. Our day was looking better already.

She was short-maybe 5'4" at the outside, with a body that pulsed with living sin. Her hair fell in dark, carefully permed ringlets that tumbled around her spa-tanned skin, and her carefully manicured fingernails were wringing nervously at a brown manilla envelope. She had a long trenchcoat on that did little to hide her curves, and a pair of sunglasses were sticking out of the pocket, but the dress that showed from beneath was raw coutre, probably with a name I couldn't pronnounce. "Mind if I smoke?" were her first words, and Amanda, god bless her, said with all the professionalism she could muster in wet panties "Not at all."

The woman pulled out a menthol and fondled it nervously, and looked around my admittedly unimpressive office. "Not quite what I expected from your website."

"Bandwidth is cheap, Mrs...." I started in, though Amanda shot me a jealous look. I came up behind her and lit her cigarette for her, close enough to feel the nervous heat rolling off that tight little body in waves. I couldn't resist grinning at my wife, who by now had retaken her seat.

"Mrs. X, but call me Serena," she replied. "I'm paying cash and I want this discrete-even from the IRS. That's why I came to you," and here she gave my dismal office a pointed glance, most notably the stacks of bills on my desk, "instead of someone more reputable-say, someone who would report his findings to the proper authorities."

"We speak the same language, Mrs. X," I said smoothly, and she finally seemed to ease up a little. She slide out of the heavy trench and plopped it across the back of her chair. I could see Amanda taking a discreet peek up her dress, and I made it a note to ask her what color her panties were as I took another rickety chair and straddled it backwards beside her. "So what can I help you with?"

"Well, it seems I'm missing a husband and...well, a trinket. A family heirloom, of no value to anyone but myself..." I could already smell trouble, but as I lit a cigarette of my own and I watched my secretary lick her red lips I decided the trouble would be worth it. "The husband can take a flying fuck into the arctic for all I care, but I need the trinket back."

"Mmmm." I dragged off the cigarette. "So you want something, presumably worthless, and you don't want it reported to the IRS?" She flinched a little, and I knew my blind toss had hit it's mark. She fidgeted some, uncrossing her legs with the whisper of silk against flesh, and I could see Amanda, the consumate minx, squirm a little in her computer chair. "Probably also need it aquired under the table, without your husband's knowledge." I licked my lips, and breathed deeply of the woman's scent as she held me pinned with those dark, glimmering blue eyes. I smelled some perfume with a name long as the Amazon and something else. Something familiar-desperation. I gave her a comforting smile. "I can probably handle both for you." Actually, the aquisition might be a problem, but I knew a group of specialist that would work for dope.

"Oh, thank you," she breathed, and I could smell the gin on her breath. Probably working up her courage all afternoon to walk into a place on this side of town. She leaned in and suddenly that red mouth was hot and slick against mine-just for a second, perhaps before she realised what she was doing. "I'll do anything...anything to get it back. Here." She pressed the envelope in my hands. "This is everything I know. Please...hurry."

Amanda quietly inserted herself in that moment, stepping beside us and wiping up the lipstick with her little pink bandanna. She kissed me as well and said "Don't forget your hat," she said, warmly and wickedly. "I'll have Serena stay here for now, so I can get the relevant case details out of her." Which was as good as code for 'I'll have her panties off by the time you get back, sucker, and you have to go to work.' I guess I lost that round, but really, I don't call that losing. Besides, I had bills to pay.

As I reached over behind my desk for my sawn-off 870, seeing Serena's blush as she realized that Amanda and I were an item, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Looks like it was going to be an interesting case, and if I played my cards right, I might not even lose money this time.

Naturally, I'd never even mentioned price.