Dahli Writes an Open Letter to the Intelligencer

The Cold War was easy I guess is what it was. I mean, how great is it to know your enemies? What the Fuck happened after all that died? Tell me that one. Tell me how I should feel. Today we've got a bunch of No Fear fuckers jumping around on skateboards. Whatever. This is fear, O My Brothers. This is fear.

I squatted for days in that ditch behind enemy lines. Dirt on all sides and a crudely fashioned plank above my head separated me from those that would...what? Killing me straight up would have been too humane. Letting me go would have been inconceivable. I have No Doubt that a long, slow, Torquemada-style torture was what I would have endured before my inevitable demise. But should I have managed to not spill any secrets while suffering through it, my death would have been For The Good Of The Country. I shiver now with the deliciousness of it. Back then I wished I hadn't traded my Cyanide pill for that pack of cigarettes.

I had nothing with me save for some nasty rations left over from the Last Great War. After my rations were used up I ate the bugs and vermin coexisting with me, which was sad. As far as I knew anymore they were the only living beings in the world besides myself. They were my friends. There was one grub in particular who squirmed violently as I slowly led him to my lips. Definitely my Type of Guy, and I told him as much, although he did taste a lot better than the government's crap. I soon became the vermin. I am vermin today.

I shit and pissed in a tiny hole I had dug in the corner. The smell was intoxicating, and not in a Calvin Klein way. My puke found its way into the hole as well.

I would get nervous at the sound of voices getting not louder, but softer. Softer as They got closer. That's a sure sign They know you're there. And They knew I was there. How could They not, with my heart beating so loud the whole world heard it? To this day I wonder why They left me there, when I was as easy a target as I'd ever be. Regardless, I was left. Years later I found out that They did return - with backup. It brings a tear to my eye knowing I was so important.

Of course, it all sounds rather cold, doesn't it? Like not scary at all. The thing is I put myself there. I LOVED IT, O My Brothers.

But.

But Michael was out there. Alone. And I didn't know where. I still don't know where.

That's fear.

Obdulia

"Yes, Lars will meet his match tonight," she surmised with an evil smile. After all, she had shared her most secret of secrets with him, and he had taken one of them away. No man had ever touched her there before and lived. Not "Bill" the McDonalds guy, who had promised her free Big Macs for a year and then forgotten about her. Not David and David, the twin gynecologists, who had assured her it was all part of the exam. No, not even Father Bob.

But none of that mattered to her now. She had a man to bludgeon, so she laid out her plans. First, she would invite him over for a bit of wine and cheese - perhaps some ham and fig paté. Then she would seduce him in that way he liked. And finally, from under the pillow, she would come out with the coup de grace, the .38 she kept hidden for these special moments. She was getting excited. Very excited. Later that evening, after the wine had been chilled and the gun polished to a brilliant shine, she made the call.

"Lars, baby," she said lustily, twirling the revolver in her fingers, "why don't you come over for some fun tonight?"

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

Stacy's Mom

My hands are small. I can't make them larger no matter what I do. Sometimes, though, when I let my nails grow, they look a bit longer. I keep looking at them because they're RIGHT THERE and I can't help it. I'd like to stop. Hell, I'd like to stop thinking about them, but here I am writing an entire paragraph on this very subject.

Johnny Sarampion, Archaeologist, Breaks Down

Where is my mind? Where Is My Mind? WHERE IS MY MIND? Way out in the water, see it swimming. (With many thanks to Mr. Black - I had a real moment with you Frank.)

Sometimes I look at archaeology reports and wonder if all the original folks ever did was sit around and make pottery all day, like pottery-obsessed Rainmen. All we ever talk about is pottery. Pottery and middens. The middens, of course, being made of pottery.

"We thought only the Orange culture of the St. John's Valley made pottery, but look! the Weeden Island related Manasota culture did too! Joy!"

I really don't know why this is bothering me today. It never has before. Maybe I'm not bothered at all, but just thought I'd make the observation. Sometimes, however, it highlights the fact that we have no clue about the meaning of life. Or if there is a meaning at all... Okay, it doesn't say anything about the meaning of life. So sue me.

Anyway, we think it's all about consumerism today, but we ain't got shit on those pottery-making fools from the Late Archaic period. Like real pottery whores. I mean, useful as pottery is, there's no reason to be giving it up all over the village.

Ignatious on the Hill

It isn't hard to imagine what Ignatious Crawley is up to on this lovely Friday afternoon. After having been shut in the house with the flu, eating his wife Frida's scathingly awful chicken broth, he is more than happy to sit on the hill and work on his series of Cuyahoga Valley paintings.

He slips a tape of his favorite classical recordings into an ancient Walkman while stroking away at the canvas. What a wonderful day it is to be Ignatious Crawley on a hill.

The valley is beautiful. The music is beautiful. Ignatious is soon fast asleep dreaming of beautiful things.