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*John Muhammed is found guilty!!! duh
*Bush likes protesters!!! ummm
*Souffle contest at the Asylum!! (everybody pm melon)
*Points are back but they are now called something different!!
*Asylum resturant now open in Jerome, AZ!!! ferreals
*Blair may become new Sec of State when Bush gets a second term!
*Rush appeals to listeners for understanding and a hairpiece!
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Hello, dammit.
About six-months ago, I walked into the local gym and overheard two fellows having a discussion about something that they kept referring to (albeit in hushed and overawed tones) as "Shrimp Louie." It was a relatively short conversation and went something like this:
"Shrimp Louie, man...he FUCKING ROCKS, dude."
"Way, dude."
"Did you see him whack that fish, bro? He slew it, dude. It was E-V-I-L."
"Way, dude."
"And the way he FUCKING looks at you, dude. It's like he knows something you don't...know what I'm saying, bro?"
"Way, dude."
"Dude, he FUCKING CHOPPED TODD IN THE FINGER, DUDE! DID YOU SEE HIS FUCKING FINGER?!?"
"Dude, I saw it. It was tore up, dude."
"The shrimp is evil, dude."
"Way."
Obviously, after listening in to a verbal tête-à-tête of this rare calibre, my curiosity was thoroughly piqued.
I walked over, introduced myself, and asked them what in the hell they could possibly be talking about. After a short introduction, they proceeded to tell me their story, with awed tones and fascinated gleams in their eyes.
To make a painfully long story quite a bit shorter, “Shrimp Louie” is not a shrimp at all, but rather a stomatopod (fancy term for one mean, mean sea creature that only vaguely resembles a shrimp at all, and is often referred to by lay-persons as a Mantis-Shrimp). This particular stomatopod, it turns out, was recently captured by their “homie” Todd after he mistakenly attempted to remove it from its perch upon his line during a deep-sea fishing trip. Apparently, Todd thought that a medium sized lobster had somehow fouled his hook and he decided to try and wrangle it off of the line with his bare hand. Todd received nine stitches, a broken index finger on his right hand and a further four more stitches in his right wrist for that mistake. The sound of the creature striking Todd’s hand was likened to that of a firecracker detonating, and the speed of its motion characterized as far too fast for the naked eye to perceive.
(If you’ve no prior knowledge of these creatures, I urge you to stop and do a quick google search just to catch the gist of what I’m rappin’ ‘bout.)
Wow. With a buildup like that, you know I had to immediately go out and get one, right? Yeah, baby…Red’s always thinking.
The process was considerably more involved then you might, at first, believe. First of all, no fish-store owner in his right mind would actually want one of these things in his store. They’re killers, man. Haven’t I convinced you yet? To compound the problem, no two fish-store owners can bring themselves to agree on anything, ever. Furthermore, no fish-store owner anywhere in the country seems to be able to speak anything other than pidgin english. They’re all from some tiny island off the coast of mainland China or something. The only thing that I was able to reliably decode with any degree of constancy was the term, “ HUNLED DORRA!!!!” This term is ALWAYS shouted as loudly as possible, and is the standard answer whenever you ask about the price of ANYTHING at all, be it fish food, fish, or whatever. Interestingly enough, it’s also frequently prefaced with the terms, “TOO, SLEEE, FO, or FIE (also shouted at stroke-inducingly loud levels)” whenever you inquire about the cost of anything that even remotely looks as though you might actually want to take it home with you.
Right. That in mind, here’s what happened to me when I went out to buy my “shrimp.”
Fish-Store Guy #1:
I walk in and inform him that I intend to purchase a saltwater set-up to house a mantis shrimp. I ask to give me a rough, ballpark estimate of what the price will be. Before I can finish, he screams “FIE HUNLED DORRA!!!!”
I retort with, “Yes, er…but what’s the budget option?”
He screams, “ARRRLEDDY CHEEEEP! FIE HUNLED DORRA!!!!!!”
As I turn to leave, he stops me, procures a pad and pencil, busts what looks like two fast games of tic-tac-toe on his pad, and gives me a whole new set of prices sans all the screaming and references to “Hunled Dorra’s.”
In the end, this is the budget plan that we came settled on:
A six gallon tank for $60, Live sand for $3 per pound ($30), Live rock for $5 per pound ($30), Rio 50GPM powerhead for $30, and a shrimp that I hadn't even seen yet for $30. (Grand total: $180+tax). He tells me that NOTHING can live in the tank with this monstrosity, because the shrimp will immediately eviscerate it and I will be out the money (at least that’s what I think he said). I left the store feeling slightly shagged, really broke, and not entirely certain that I'd done the right thing, so I cruised over to...
Fish Store Guy #2:
He communicated to me that FSG#1 doesn't know what in the hell he'd been talking about. The shrimp, he told me, would crack through my 6 gallon tank with a flick of it's tiny claws, leaving me with a ruined rug and the world's most perpetually pissed off invertebrate loose in the house and hungry for my entrails. He went on to tell me that I needed at least a 20gal tank, no rocks, no live sand (because live sand has bristle worms), and a really good air-pump/stone. Grand total without shrimp: “Fo Hunled Slee Dorra an Fie Cent.” I said, "thanks for the advice" and left to hunt for more information, which lead me to...
Fish Store Guy #3:
This guy told me that I would need a "bigger setup" to keep the shrimp alive for very long, and that it would probably break out of the tank (as in...smash through it) in the first day anyway. He also said that I would need a starfish or something in the tank in order to help stir it up (?!?), and that live sand is necessary because bristle worms will clean up the miscellaneous chunks of victim after the shrimp has murdered its dinner. The grand total for his setup: “Fie Hunled Nienee Dorra Nienee-Slee Cent.”
I ask him, politely, to please go and frig a goat, afterward shuffling off to...
Fish Store Guy #4:
I sincerely suspect that FSG#4 was a refugee from some war-torn country in Asia that only a handful of very old cartographers have ever heard of. He stood about 4'5" tall, weighed maybe 75lbs, and talked with such a heavy accent that I could only decode every seventh word or so. HE, however, ACTUALLY HAD A MANTIS SHRIMP IN HIS STORE, so he may have known wherefrom he spoke. Not a lot of good that did me, however, since I couldn't understand a goddamned thing he was gibbering.
It probably took at least ten minutes of him gesticulating and shouting "OH YOOWON SLIMP?! EYENAH SLIMP! DEEMEE KAH BOON KAH (I still haven't figured this bit out yet)! CUMSEE CUMSEE SLIMP!" before I understood that he had a shrimp that he wanted to show me somewhere in the store. It took quite a time, and quite an interrogation, for him to actually find out where it was, though. He had to call out his family(?) and question them one by one (all eleven of them) until the very last fellow in the line stepped up and said "EYEGAH POONAH SLIMP, HE COT FEENGAH!! ROOK! ROOK MEYE FEENGAH! SLIMP EEN PUMPNOW! SLIMP EEN PUMP"
With that, the proprietor opened up a door beneath a huge reef-tank, revealing a large aquarium full of peculiar looking blue balls (a filter of some sort?). Since it was dark down there, he deftly procured his cigarette lighter and knelt down on all fours to...find the slimp.
After about ten minutes of seemingly futile searching and repeatedly burning his fingers, there was a loud THWACK and the proprietor jumped back, quite startled, and shouted, "SLIMP, SLIMP!!! YOOSEE SLIMP!!"
In truth, I didn't see the fucking slimp. I didn't have the heart to tell him that, however. I couldn't stand the thought of him down there for another half-hour or so, flicking his goddamned bic and mumbling profanities in Micronesian.
I left.
I stuck with the deal that the first guy gave me, and actually went on to procure a second shrimp from him which now dwells in the same tiny tank alongside (in a manner of speaking) the first shrimp that I had purchased, despite warnings that no such commingling should be attempted, ever.
In truth, the reason that I bought the second shrimp was that, despite all the hoopla and grim foreshadowing regarding the fierce disposition of these creatures, upon introduction of the first shrimp into my tiny tank, he promptly shot-off underneath my pile of very expensive reef-rock never to emerge again. Nothing that I could do seemed to be able to persuade it to re-emerge, either (short of putting my goddamned hand in the tank, which I obviously didn’t try).
So, I bought the second, more visually appealing shrimp, and in doing so accidentally discovered something that brought the first shrimp out of his hiding place.
For the first few weeks, the tiny tank was peculiarly reminiscent of one of those old Eastwood spaghetti westerns, with each shrimp glued to his end of the tank, staring the other down…silent…unmoving. Then one day I came home from school to find the first, smaller shrimp looking much the worse for wear and partially protruding from beneath a chunk of rock and looking very apprehensive. The larger shrimp was doodling about in the center of the aquarium with no regard whatsoever for his smaller tankmate. Ever since, there’s been something of an aquatic prison-bitch feel to the whole thing that I’ve grown rather fond of. It really does quite the job of brightening up the old computer desk.
Be Well,
Redguard@blackvault.com
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 (ROOTERS ## Beaver Meadows, NY) An Asylumnation benefit Christmas play and musical for elderly residents of Sunset Acres Resthome was canceled following a power outage midway through the performance early Tuesday evening. Various law enforcement and emergency medical personnel, responding to numerous 911 calls, were greeted with chaos and pandemonium as they arrived at the scene.
 The cast for the production was headlined by Geoffrey "MstrG" Tarwaters as "Joseph" and Josephine "Missjo" Prather as "Mary". Also making his first appearance was Jackie "Roshigoth" Colby as the little baby Jeebus in the manger.
Though details were initially sketchy, nurse aides indicated the trouble began when the power went out during the nativity scene. Anonymous sources also reported that as the evening progressed, Tarwaters had developed an obvious fixation upon certain remarkably abundant features of Prather's anatomy. Apparently, the opportunity created by the blackout, which lasted no more than 15 seconds, overwhelmed Tarwater's self-restraint.
Unfortunately for Tarwaters, however, it turned out that Prather suffers from nyctophobia, an abnormal fear of darkness.
When the power went out, Prather panicked and immediately crawled under the manger. Simultaneously, Colby, who had been lying nude on his stomach throughout the production because his swadling costume had been lost in transit, raised up on all fours. As he did, his hindquarters and nether region were immediately immobilized by an unseeable, but brutishly strong and hairy force.
The lights flickered back on to reveal a scene that one outraged observer described as "an abominable abomination!" Panicked and bewildered residents scattered as they attempted to flee the premises. Walkers and wheelchairs were haphazardly strewn about in a half-block radius around the facility, due to their owners being transported to the hospital for treatment of a variety of complaints.
"I couldn't budge!" Colby said later. "I felt an unbearably scratchy and prickly sensation, like sandpaper, y'know? And I heard what sounded like muffled raspberry and num-num noises. I was stunned. Shocked and stunned. Ummm, by the way, does this mean I'm not a virgin anymore?"
Tarwaters refused comment.
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 (ROOTERS - Jiggs, NV) Herkimer Eugene McGinty, ostensibly of Evening Shade Resthome in Winslow, Arizona, was arrested early Sunday south of Elko, Nevada after an area rancher, who requested anonymity, notified local authorities complaining of a man disturbing the peace in his mule barn. Alert Asylumnation reporters overheard the dispatch on the scanner and followed an Elko County deputy to the scene. Upon arrival, Mr. McGinty, who goes by numerous aliases including "wonderaz" and "jackass", was standing in the rancher's corral, holding what appeared to be a very small, green man in his fingers.
Questioning revealed that McGinty claimed he had just removed a "little green man from Mars" from his brain. "It must've happened while I was on my space flight for the government of Djibouti," he said. "I remember passing out, then waking up with this awful headache. Fact is, the more I think about it, the more inclined I am to believe that these aliens have been coming and going in my brain pretty much as they damn well pleased, for many, many years. If this is true, and I'm convinced it is, that sure explains a helluva lot. Those voices in my head were about to drive me nuts."
McGinty evaded inquiries as to how he managed to extract something like that from his brain, but when the deputy frisked him, a set of still-moist needlenose pliars was discovered in a pocket in his trousers. The pliars, along with "the little green man", were sent to the crime lab in Carson City for testing.
After an initial appearance before a local magistrate, McGinty was ordered transported to Las Vegas for psychiatric observation and evaluation. He slipped away while his custodian was making a "rest stop" at Fluffy's Bar and Brothel. Asylumnation sources report he was later spotted in Rachel, Nevada, asking directions to Area 51.
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(ROOTERS ## Baghdad, Iraq) Apparently taking a que from Osama Bin Laden's recent video pronouncement broadcasted by Al Jazeera, Saddam Hussein vowed the Iraqi people will stand defiant against the infidels with a series of relentless and increasingly "spectacular" mullets. Hussein delivered his latest forceful speech on state-run Iraqi television on the eve of the arrival of the latest crew of U.N. inspectors.
Sporting his own spectacular mulletized coif, the Iraqi dictator was, at times, barely intelligible. His cheeks appeared stuffed and he repeatedly paused to spit into the cupped hands of Tariq Aziz, Iraq Deputy Prime Minister. Observers speculated on the identity of the unknown substance, but all official channels remained silent. Local barbers were soon swamped, however, by hordes of jubilant and defiant men waiting in line for their turn at a mullet-do. Despite the crowds, the mood was quite festive as "Sweet Home Alibaba", the new Iraqi hit single by Qusay Hussein, blared repeatedly over loudspeakers placed on top of hundreds of buildings in cities throughout the country.
While the international community reeled in shock and disbelief as the bizarre and puzzling tirade unfolded, the award-winning team of Asylumnation crack reporters confirmed the successful completion of a stunning triple double top-secret undercover covert special operations mission. As was reported earlier in Asylumnation's fabled Lost Forum, a long-time poster and humourist known to members as "Mugtoe" recently embarked upon a pleasure trip to London, U.K. It turned out, however, this was just a clever ruse to provide cover for his insertion into Baghdad. Asylumnation also discovered that "Mugtoe" is, in fact, an alias for none other than Frank "Three Dollar" Williams, storied lawman and Texas Ranger.
Asylumnation tracked down Ranger Williams at an undisclosed location somewhere in Minnesota to inquire why the White House would send only one man, let alone a Texas Ranger, on such an incredibly dangerous international mission. "Well, it's like this," drawled Williams, "One dictator, one Ranger. That's all it takes and I doggone sure know plenty 'bout dick 'n' taters."
Known as a master of disguise, "Three Dollar", as he is affectionately called by his close friends, went on to explain how he essentially neutralized the Iraqi threat by seizing control of the tyrant's mind. "They, being middle easterners, can deny it all they want, but when it gets down to the nut-cuttin', there's two things they cannot resist, which is, fresh dip and Skynyrd. It's like camel jockey catnip. And everything else ## the mullets, coon dogs, pickup trucks, etc. ## they all inevitably follow from those two things. Hell, all it takes is just a pinch, but when I slipped a little pinch to that crazy Saddam he went nutsy. No pinch for him. Nosiree. He packed his lips and cheeks full and keeps 'em crammed full. Never seen anything like it."
The interview abruptly terminated when Williams received a call from someone he called "Condo".
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People have never been my strongest suit. The apartment is wall to wall with them. Drunk people, sober people, short people, tall people, girl people, guy people, girl people, girl people. Lots and lots of people.
Many people simply shove their way into the crowd, stampeding toward the kegs like a black rhino through the underbrush. Walk through the door, dive in and swim.
Amateurs.
I sliiiiiide my way past, barely touching a soul. The second I step into the place from the cold night outside, I disappear into the throng. Ducking, weaving, bobbing. Float like a butterfly, but keep your stinger tucked away. This isn’t that kind of party.
I don’t touch anybody if I can help it. I can feel the heavy bass pounding the floor almost as much as I can hear it. A girl to my right, back turned to me, flips her hair and it brushes against my shoulder. I jolt a bit at the contact. A group of jocks, every one of them clutching shiny red plastic cups, join in laughter at something or other. People. Lots and lots of people. Everybody wanting to unwind after a hard day of not going to classes. Faceless voices and voiceless faces surround me under a heavy cloud of indiscriminate conversation and discriminate smoke.
Despite having been out of the sub-zero weather for only a few moments, my palms are already sweating. The rest of my body may soon follow; the crowded bodies raise the temperature in the room slightly above the comfort level. So many goddamned people.
I head for the booze, at the far end of the apartment. A group of pretty blondes block my way, but I artfully dodge them and take it to the hole. My throat is tight now; it’s starting to take conscious effort for me to swallow. Already.
Shitty hippy music is pounding in my head. Who the fuck blasts hippy music anyway? And why do they turn the bass up so goddamned high? What’s the matter with these people? Everybody knows that hippy music is treble music.
At last I reach the corner of the room where the keg rests; the fruitful reward for a pilgrimage brief. Curses. A half-circle perimeter of drunks, wanna-be drunks, and way-too-drunks effortlessly shift in and out of place near the spigot, creating a beautiful symphony of alcoholic motion. Men and women shift. Pump pour drink move pump pour drink move pour drink move. I insert myself into the dance.
A few moments and brushed shoulders later, I emerge from the tap-dance, holding a shiny red plastic cup of my own. I proceed to drink foam as I distance myself from the concentration around the keg.
I don’t know anybody here I don’t know anybody here I don’t know anybody here I don’t know anybody here. Occasionally, I’ll bump into somebody I know, and we’ll exchange brief nods, followed by the observation that neither of us knows anybody here. This happens several times. One such exchange goes as such:
“Hey,” he’ll say.
“Hey,” I’ll say.
“I don’t know anybody here,” one of us will say.
The haze in the room smells distinctively piney.
By now I’ve found a neutral corner. A pocket of much sought out loneliness in a mass of overpowering socialization. I have a good 5 feet to myself. People pass me going to and coming from the bathroom as I stand by quietly and drink my foam.
A pretty brown-haired girl gives me a pleasant smile as she passes me by. I try to offer her a pleasant one of my own, but it feels wrong. It feels more like a smile that says I’m Slightly Irritated or I’m Generally Unpleasant. I had aimed for a smile that said I’m Sort Of Horny. Either way, she registers nothing and continues on.
My muscles are tense and the foam isn’t helping. I’m sweating, not like a pig, but like a pig with an adrenal disorder who’s entering the twentieth mile of its first Boston marathon. My teeth are clenched tightly.
I stand there, cognitively knowing that nobody gives a shit about the guy standing over against the wall, but feeling that I’m not part of The Crowd—literally and figuratively, I suppose. And I have this sensation that at any moment I’ll be found out. Like a foreign cell in the body, suddenly the immune system will realize that the base has been breached and commence with the expungement. And I don’t want to be snot.
I sneeze unconsciously as I fumble about trying to bring a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket.
I smoke, and it calms me some. Foreign cells soothe me.
Out of the human-surf emerges a small cadre of people, heading to the door to my left. One of them, walking point, is fidgeting with an ornate glass bowl, hardly noticing the crowd as he cuts through them. But The Crowd is all knowing, and unconsciously part to allow him free passage. The Crowd protects fools and drunks and hippies.
As his small clan of reefer madness files into another room, a pretty slight girl hands one of her friends a bag of weed, parts ways, and walks right up to me. Her hair is in a handkerchief and she’s wearing a long green dress with matching green sashes around her waist. She has a small face and nice eyes, and her ears are so pierced it’s a wonder they found enough room for all those holes.
“Can I bum a butt?” she asks. I stare at her for a moment, not registering, just staring, a blank expression washing over my face.
Wait, I have to answer.
“Huh?” I say. Her smile widens and she tilts her head a little.
“Can I have a cigarette?” she asks, in a slightly more flirtatious tone. I look down at my own cigarette, now half ash of untended-to carcinogens.
“Oh. Shit. Yeah.” I mumble as I begin to clumsily fumble around my coat pockets for the pack of smokes. It takes me a few tries, but I finally come up with the pack, open it to her, and let her slide one out.
“Thanks,” she says sweetly, turning back and walking into the room the cadre of potheads had disappeared into, closing the door behind her.
“No problem,” I say to myself quietly, finishing my own cigarette and lighting another.
The crushing crowd had been swelling and I hadn’t noticed. My 5 feet of space is now down to maybe 3.
Fucking potheads. Buy your own fucking cigarettes. Never have any money, but they always have plenty of weed. I think it was the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers who said "Dope will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dope." The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers probably never had a job either.
I try and take another sip of beer and realize I’ve already drained it. I take the empty shiny red plastic cup from my lips and scan the room. Standing on tiptoes, I try to see above the crowd so I can judge how far it is back to the keg, but I’m not tall enough. The crowd is elbow to elbow by now, and I make a decision (without even having to think) that I’m not going to try and brave the masses for more foam.
So I just stand there. I don’t feel like a cigarette anymore and I can’t drink, so I just stand there, trying to look suave but not wanting to draw attention to myself at the same time. It’s hard to do either when you’re standing by yourself against the wall holding an empty shiny red plastic cup.
By now, I’m having to force myself to swallow. Each time it feels like I’m about to choke or vomit or do something that would surely lead to A Scene, but thankfully, each time I avoid the embarrassing.
The Crowd parts a bit and Jake, a person I see all the time and every time have to make an effort to remember his name, walks to me. Jake is a tall lanky fellow, never without his faded black hooded sweatshirt covered in patches that say “Madness” and “DK” and things of that sort. Also never without a glassy, vacuous look on his face.
“What’s up, Tim?” he says vacantly.
“Nothing much,” I say. We immediately start looking around us, as if searching out more important people we should be talking to but in reality just trying to look as if we are searching out more important people we should be talking to.
“Man, I don’t know anybody here,” he says. I start fumbling around for my cigarettes again. This damned coat has, like, 12 fucking pockets.
“I don’t either,” I say back to him. He turns to look at me, ruining our Important People charade for a moment.
“You need a beer?” For the first time, I notice he’s walking around with a 6 pack in his hand. Three bottles are left. I stop the hunt for smokes.
“Sure,” I say as he hands one to me. “Thanks.”
“No problem man.” We resume pretending to look for people cooler than us that would want to talk to us. I twist off the cap, let it drop to the floor, and suck down a healthy swig.
Some asshole turns the hippy music up even louder and The Crowd registers its enthusiasm.
“So anyway, what have you been up to?” Jake asks, raising his voice to pitch above the Rusted Root or Phish or Grateful Dead or Insert Generic Hippy Band Here.
“Nothing much,” I yell back.
“That’s cool,” he says, nodding a few times absently. We spend another few moments standing there, looking around the room. “Later man,” he finally says, plunging himself back into The Crowd with a nod.
I start fumbling for my cigarettes again, my personal space having shrunk dangerously to only about two feet. I finally find my smokes and pop one to my lips.
The din of The Crowd, combined with the blaring hippy music, is reverberating in my head. Sweat is dripping off my brow and my hand is shaking a bit. It’s getting hard to distinguish individuals now. Just one big mass of flesh and smoke and music and shiny red plastic cups and short black skirts and thigh high boots and red sweaters and…
And then I see her.
She’s wearing a turquoise top with thin spaghetti straps, her black hair not up like she usually does it, but freely flowing down her neck and shoulders. I catch sight of her just as she is laughing at a joke told by someone unseen, her hand coming up to shield her open mouth as she giggles wildly, her other hand clutching a shiny red plastic cup.
I know Mary only peripherally. One of my friends, Kevin, knows her well, and every now and again I would be with him and he would bump into her and the two would talk and I would stand to the side and not say anything at all but still try my best to look my best and Kevin and she would stand there and jaw merrily and the moisture in my mouth would mysteriously disappear and somehow migrate to my palms and occasionally I would nod at an appropriate moment or say “hi” or “nothing much” or “fine” or just “heh” but she was just far too attractive to talk to like you would a human being.
I’m aware of the sensation of blood either flushing to or flushing from my face.
Mary was saying goodbye to the unseen joke teller and was making her way to the bathroom as I watched in some sort of fearful detached fascination, like that Russian guy who spends all his time watching Polar Bears in the Arctic, standing behind a camera sometimes only a few feet from them, staring into the viewfinder with an odd combination of interest, fear, and attraction. One time he got too close to a large female and instead of standing up and flailing your arms and yelling and advancing and whatever else it is you’re supposed to do to ward off bears, he stayed crouched down staring into the viewfinder, which apparently to a bear indicates that he was prey, so the bear went after him and he ran all the way back to his shack but the bear cornered him in his kitchen and the guy had to use pepper spray to finally drive the bear out.
I wonder briefly if Mary carries pepper spray.
I bring the forgotten beer bottle to my lips and suck down a third of the contents in one swill. I don’t like to admit this, but sometimes I get this weird sensation when I’m in crowds, especially social gatherings mostly filled with strangers. I look around, and I don’t see girls. I see vaginas. Walking, talking, drinking vaginas. I don’t mean in a literal sense. I’m not crazy or anything; I don’t see a bunch of vaginas shuffling around, drinking from shiny red plastic cups and laughing at unseen jokesters telling unheard jokes. Just as a concept. I see a girl and I think “vagina.” Like they’re something other than human. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Not at all. I think I’m just one of the few who consciously recognize it. I see guys all the time and I know they’re doing the same. They stand there and they say “Yeah, the snowboarding trip ruled…” or “Man, I’m so wasted…” or “So how have you been?” or “So what’s your major?” or “hi” and all they’re really saying is “Please baby baby please.” Pleading with vaginas. It’s so pathetic. But I don’t even see it like that. I’m just aware of it.
It’s sort of messed up, and pretty hard to explain.
“Oh HI Tim!” she says, making me jump. Oh yeah, Mary. I had been staring at her but not even realizing she was walking up to me.
I start fumbling around to find my cigarettes, almost in a panic.
“Heh,” I say. Dammit. I had a good working template going and I fucked it up already. “Hi, Mary,” I finally squeeze out.
“So how are you doing? I just came here with some friends but I don’t know where they…” For no apparent reason I suddenly tune her out unconsciously. I can’t figure out which fucking pocket I put my cigarettes in. I need a fucking cigarette.
Man, she has a beautiful smile. She’s saying something about how man, she’s so wasted but to me she sounds more like Charlie Brown’s parents than anything else. I still can’t find my fucking cigarettes and I’m furiously patting myself down trying to locate them. I know that if I don’t find them in another second or two I’m going to look like some sort of crazed freak on a bad acid trip but knowing that doesn’t stop me because I NEED TO FIND MY FUCKING CIGARETTES!
“Are you okay?” she asks, suddenly shifting her tone slightly.
“Fine, just looking for a cigarette,” I say quietly, barely above the goddamned bass-heavy hippy music that is scorching my ears. I make eye contact for a moment, registering how gorgeous her big brown eyes are, before suddenly averting my gaze and going back to the cigarette search. For some strange reason all I can think about are polar bears, vaginas, and cigarettes; the corresponding neurons firing so quickly that they jumble up into a single concept and coinciding mental image. My palms are sweating so much that I have to wipe them on my jeans every now and then before going back to the search of my coat pockets.
“Hey Tim…”
I can’t find them. I’ve searched all my pockets three or four times and they’re just not there. Somebody must have picked my pocket or something; some sort of conspiracy to make me look like a maniacal asshole.
“Tim?”
“I gotta go,” I say hurriedly. “Nice talking to you.”
Mary registers a puzzled expression on her face but I barely have time to see how attractive it is as I shove past her and into the throng of writhing masses, stampeding my way towards the front door like a black rhino through the underbrush, people turning to stare at me as I barrel past them. Not in a run, but certainly in a rush. I feel dizzy. I am in a cold sweat. I just know, know, that I am about to hyperventilate or pass out on the floor or throw up or do something that would cause A Scene. I quickly walk through The Crowd, knocking more than a few shiny red plastic cups out of the hands of more than a few jocks and hippies and polar bears and woman who shout curses to my back, my head swimming the whole time. I can feel black specks buzzing into my consciousness, sure that I am going to pass out or go crazy or…..
I burst out the door of the apartment and into the cold night air. The moment the chill hits my face the panic starts to fade immediately. I stumble over to the end of the deck and lean on the railing, taking deep breaths.
I can hear the bass from inside the apartment, muted and distant and registering little more than a vibration in my boots.
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey Tim, you okay?” I look up at the voice. It’s Jake, looking at me with buzzed concern mingled with stoned fascination.
I sniff twice and stand up straight, zipping up my jacket for something to do.
“Yeah man, I’m fine. Just really fucking hot and crowded in there.”
“Yeah it was,” he said smiling, removing his hand and taking a swig of his last beer. “You need a ride home? Ben and I are leaving in a minute. Fucking don’t know anybody here.”
“Sure, cool. This place is dead anyway.” I reach into my pants pocket for a tissue, and instead discover my half-full pack of cigarettes. I hold them for a moment, still in my pocket, before taking them out and grabbing one.
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(ROOTERS ## Cuckoo. VA) Disease investigators tried Wednesday to track down the source of a bizarre contagion tentatively dubbed the "boobonic plague" that apparently caused a British citizen and Virginia woman to sprout gargantuan breasts. Health officials believe they became infected as a result of eating wild mushrooms obtained in a foraging expedition in the woods outside Cuckoo, Virginia, said Grant Sligert, a spokesman for the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
The man and woman showed up at two different hospitals Tuesday, complaining of severe back pain and swelling bosom. They were given antibiotics and administered enemas every hour on the hour as a precautionary measure, though doctors remain baffled.
Health officials on Thursday repeated their assertion that the public is not in danger, but issued a strong cautionary statement against the consumption of any and all mushrooms until such time as more tests can be completed.
Asylumnation reporters attempted to speak by telephone with the U.K. victim, Chauncey Quimbish, but were told to "bugger off!" before he slammed the receiver down. Anonymous sources revealed, however, that Quimbish is C.E.O. of "Smug Git Ministries, Ltd.", currently under investigation by Interpol for running numerous pyramid money schemes fronted by a weekly gospel hour carried by numerous cable television providers.
Penelope U. Forbea, who would only allow that she resided in Virginia, was more forthcoming. "Frankly, I'd been thinking about getting me some store-bought knockers. I was hoping this might turn out to be a blessing in disguise but, instead, it's been a holy nightmare. They're still growing!" She paused, then added, "On second thought, though, my hubbie can't seem to keep his hands off me now. That little stinker!"
In yet another exclusive, Asylumnation hackers obtained an image of one of the victims from her medical database.
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Limey Expelled From US for Indecent Defication in the White House
(Hooters ## Washington, DC) An unidentified British citizen was removed from the White House by force and returned to the UK after a brief confrontation.
The accused allegedly soiled a bathroom in the White House during a public tour, and assaulted White House staff when confronted. Reports indicate that the bathroom was extensively soiled with feces. There is no indication of any motive at this time.
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So you wanna find out, do ya?
It seems every site on the internet nowadays has a test specific to them. Something that they can call their own. A test that isn't yanked from a fucking Fark link. A test that defines you as a member of your community. Websites that devote precious space to tell you how you fair in their community. OK, they don't, but they'll follow our lead soon enough. What's your Spark IQ? Which Monster Robot Are You? Are You Hot or Not? Fuck all that. What you really want to know, what you're dying to hear, is simple: What Asylumite Are You?Answer the questions before you look at the choices. Consider who you are, as a human being. And then accept what a fag that human being is. Take the test, and accept your fate.
There can be only one.
[ Click Here to Take the Test ]
P.S. Yes I know this is a week old, but im posting it as news for the sake of keeping it easily accessible
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(ROOTERS ## Kermit, TX) A joint RV roundup and jamboree sponsored by the AARP (American Association Of Retired Persons) and VFW (Veterans Of Foreign Wars) ended on a sour note late Saturday evening. Josephine Prather, known to her affectionate fans as "Missjo", reported the forcible theft of "La Maison de Whoppers Rouge", her reportedly one-of-a-kind brassiere. Missjo is a traveling Australian exotic poetry performer and semi-mime, currently on her first world tour entitled "Cornucopia". Sources say she had just returned to her trailer after a rousing encore performance of "Desiderata", which she sang to the tune of Stephen Fosters', "De Camptown Races".
A Sheriff's sketch artist was able to draw a composite of the suspect based upon information provided by Prather, as well as several other vendors in the vicinity who reported several instances of food and beverage larceny by a lone, unwashed man with blood-shot eyes and remarkably bad breath. Based upon the sketch, authorities have issued an all-points-bulletin for an elderly vagrant matching the description of a Herkimer Eugene McGinty. McGinty reportedly walked away from the Evening Shade Resthome in Winslow, Arizona several weeks ago. Since then, he has been spotted at various locales on the coast and as far way as Djibouti.
"I had just undressed after drawing myself a nice, warm bath, when I turned around and saw this horrible, unkempt man leering at himself in my full-length mirror! He'd already put on my prized possession and, even though I didn't have a stitch of clothing on, I beaned him square between the eyes with the first thing I could grab, which was a bar of soap. Other than crossing his eyes, though, it didn't seem to faze him, as he just made a loud grunting noise and crashed through the side window. Oh, and I might add, the lingering stench he left behind was awful. Just awful." said Prather, in an Asylumnation exclusive interview.
McGinty uses several aliases including "Jackass", "Wonderaz" and "Juan De Ruiz". Criminal profile experts have determined that McGinty has had a deep-seated, lifelong obsession with red women's undergarments, especially red brassieres. They are also relatively certain McGinty will most likely be wearing the pilfered item.
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