Day 1

10:15 am: A co-worker is washing the blue chest plates used to teach CPR. He keeps repeating under his breath, “Die. Die. Die.” I am unsure if he is speaking to the chest plates or me.

He suggests we take a coffee break. I agree. The coffee tastes bad.

10:25 am: Reading the paper. All the CD Reviews have got three stars. I think somebody is not being critical enough.

12:08 pm: Hair cut. Hairdresser tells a story about his friend’s new cabin. It used to belong to the town dentist. In the basement, they found dozens of jars of teeth the dentist got from his patients. As a bonus, the haircut turned out pretty well.

3:50 pm: I realize the future predicted in the Robert Zemeckis film Back to the Future II is five years away. Hear that Science? Where’s my hoverboard?

3:07 pm: “Unfriend” Barack Obama on Facebook.

3:15 pm: Watch a young viking in a bandana enter the vestibule of my office building, presumably to discuss car insurance. Muse for a moment how out of step I am with other members of my generation. Suspect it is mostly because I use words like vestibule.

5:58 pm: Arrive at where I am house sitting. Find a pile of cash on top of a sheet of instructions. A bottle of Wild Turkey has been left for me.

8:14 pm: After many glasses of Wild Turkey, I consider my options. Couch or the public. I grab another glass of bourbon and my rain-jacket.

9:15 pm: I wait for the bus and look at the house where my great grandparents lived. The house has long since been sold.

9:35 pm: Reminded that I am in dangerous territory. Fell or something. Obviously not important.

9:40 pm: There is a girl, no older than 16 riding the train with a mess of groceries in her arms. I feel for her. I glance for her on the platform. She is gone. Like she never existed.

9:45 pm: I see a train. I wonder if the time it takes to reach the platform is enough time for a couple truly in love, to finish a orgasm. Counting the seconds, I decided “maybe.”

9:55 pm: The bus driver and passengers are plotting. There are dozens of balloons. The driver runs out and places the balloons on the hood of a near-by car. It takes ages.

1:55 am: Back at home after the club. Hazy memories. Saw some bands. Talked to some people perhaps. Don’t remember. Ate lots of midnight pizza.

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Dear Makers, Owners and Operators of the Large Hadron Collider

Many members of the public seem to be concerned that today’s experiment will create a miniature black hole. One that will quickly gain energy by devouring matter, growing in size until the entire Earth is vaporised in a terrifyingly cosmic blink-of-an eye.

I am not one of those people. However, I am concerned about monsters.

The big bang created the universe without towering 60 ft. flesh-eating spider squids that excrete flaming acid from leathery tendrils of teeth and fangs, but maybe this new mini-big bang will draw a different number in the monster-possible lottery.

Like others, I’ve heard the repeated assurances the LHC is perfectly safe. You’re the experts… and perhaps the first meals a pan-dimensional Lovecraftian horror has enjoyed in a non-eon. Shub-Niggurath cannot be contained with conventional weaponry, you know.

Enjoy,

Fergis T McGillicuddy

Dear Hillary Clinton

                              

It’s time. Cut your losses and give up the campaign. There are better ways to spend your time.

Head back to one of your multi-million dollar mansions. Re-connect with Bill. Watch some 24 together. Share a romantic meal .

See, the thing is, deep down, you are scary. It’s true. You know it. I know it. And, well, America knows it.

“I’m not scary,” you say. “Look at my track record on human rights, women’s rights, and other rights. etc. etc.”

Yes, that may be true, but you appear as if you want to eat America.

I don’t think that is a quality the majority of Democrats want in a leader.
Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Five Fantastic Fergis Facts

1. Fergis wishes to die in a plane crash piloted by John Travolta, but only if he uses the intercom to utter his final words: “Oh my god!”

2. Fergis thinks it is beautiful when fat people have children.

3. Fergis’ favourite historical dictator is Chairman Mao. Coincidentally, Chairman Mao is also his favourite name for a cat. Chairman Meow is his second favourite cat name. Steve is his third.

4. Fergis is unable to add prime numbers in his head.

5. Fergis always cries at the end of Jurassic Park.

To Any Potential Killer Asteroids Floating in the Black Abyss of Space Hoping to Destroy Earth

That’s right…I’m writing to you: Any potential killer asteroids out there, or 99942 Apophis, specifically. I want to let you know that we’ve got great plans brewing that will wish you never traversed the cosmos. I’m so confident that you’ll alter your course after hearing what I’ve got to say that I’m going to spill the beans on mankind’s super-duper action plan.

Are you ready?

Sure?

Really sure? What I’ve got to say will make you crap your pants.

Well…I’m not going to tell you. It surely doesn’t involve nuclear weapons because we know that would create hundreds of killer asteriods from one killer asteroids. Maybe you’ll experience the shame and humilation of a giant tractor beam or a huge magnet altering your orbit. How would you like that? We can choose from a number of ways to show you the smackdown! I bet you’ll be veering off course to some other galaxy at the thought of our mighty scientific powers.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

PS: Chicken! Bawk-Bak-Bak-Bawk!

Dear 2007

Hey good lookin’,

It was funny of you to lock me up in a poorly-lit room and force me to sleep nearly 23 hours a day. I don’t hold it against you. There is nothing like ringing in a fresh year with a 16 day hibernation. When I woke up I recalled the start of 2006…apparently I made notes:

Annotated Predictions for 2006:

1. Sale of post-Apocalyptic goggles increases.

My sources tell me this is true. It makes sense…nobody wants to get Mad Max-sand in their eyes while they are trading handjobs for water.

2. George W. sprouts horns and a tail in front of the Washington press Corp. The White House turns red.

Well…George had a rough year. On Jan. 11, 2007 he said the best way to get troops out of Iraq was to order another 21,500 in to Iraq. The he sprouted horns and a tail and spat fireballs at the Washington journalists. However, that was in 2007…so it doesn’t count.

3. Another season of Survivor goes unnoticed.

Is Survivor even on television anymore?

4. Dr. Phil is charged with having sex with a goat.

Is Dr. Phil even on television anymore?

5. That goat is Michael Jackson.

What Dr. Phil and Michael Jackson do with each other under the influence of Pinot Noir and pretty sunsets is their business as far as the public is concerned.

6. China lands on the moon and immediately sets up the first sweatshop in space. It makes American flags.

Turns out the first sweatshop in space makes zero-gravity Mardi Gras beads.

7. I run as a Green party candidate in the next Canadian federal election. The next election will be called as soon as the results of the last election (Jan.23) are returned. I lose to a Conservative moose named Curtis Taxless.

So far—no election. Conservative moose have heavily fortified their interests during incumbency. My chances of election are bleak.

8. Google will start a micronation in the South Pacific. They threaten to remove their search engine from the web unless the UN recognizes their sovereignty. Google-opia is born as Kofi Annan is an avid gmail user.

Sadly YouTube got to it first. It’s pixelated and sort of boring to watch…unless a person is at work.

9. This is the best post of the year.

There were a couple good ones. I like the one about Finola Hackett. She’s spell-tastic.

10. A new style of hat is invented called the trout-stick.

I invented this. I wear it around the house. The prototype needs some work.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Lindsay Lohan

Please don’t travel to Iraq. You have been chosen by the cosmos to be able to afford not having to worry about anything. Lindsay, people die in Iraq. Did you know that? And not from old age either, but from car bombs, bullet wounds and fire. Are these the sorts of people you want to perform for? Why not make another movie about a talking car instead. Don’t worry your pretty head about things like “politics” or “the news.” Just do some coke, drink some expensive vodka and bitch about Paris Hilton.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy