All I want for Christmas is a peek at all the wonderous and mysterious mechanisms that control the universe.

I want to hear the creaking, ticking, wheezing, and clanking of the infinite’s clockworks. It’s delicate machinery relies solely on the laws of physics to keep its gears lubed, belt’s tightened, and the bell’s ringing. This machine’s operating parameters are both intricate and precise, only needing to be wound every eight billion years or so.

As part of my all encompassing experience of the universe, I want to feel the raging, life and death giving heat of a trillion stars as they burn, flare, smolder, flicker, then die after sacrificing the last of their gaseous fire and light to the void. When the last spark is spent, only the vast coldness exists for billions of lightyears until one might feel the radiant warmth of another star. Like all of its kind, this star also ceaselessly spends itself pouring heat and light into the void. This younger star’s blistering heat might still be powerful enough to deliver total incinerating destruction to anything that draws too close. However, it also lends its light to the parasitic planets and moons that drift around it. These orbiting dependents benefit from the star’s light, heat, and gravitational stability. Still for all of its power, this star also burns towards an ending where it will eventually expel one final weak blast of warm and dimming ray of light into the cosmos.

As part of my glimpse of all that is, I want to see the birth and death of galaxies. I want to witness how seemingly random chemical and environmental processes come together in just the right quantities and under precise circumstances to create the first living cell on some new and cooling planet somewhere in the universe. I want to follow that cell and its dependents as they live, die, but somehow always change for the better with each new generation. I would like to see other newly born cells take on the challenge of life and change. From all of these cells I hope to see the strange and wonderful beauty of a flora and fauna that’s different from anything I have ever seen before. Most of all, I hope to be present for that moment after millions of generations and countless changes that the progeny of that one single cell becomes aware and has a thought.

As my voyeuristic peek at the universe comes to an end, I want to smell the ozone and the burning of carbon from the friction created when meteors collide as they drift through the universe. I want to breathe in the unique chemical heat of the friction that welds the two space rocks together to form an even bigger drifting form in space. I want to catch a whiff of the even more intense melting of the metals, carbons, rock, and remnants of organic compounds within those larger forms as they enter the orbit of a star. I want to smell the atmosphere on this new planet and hope that there is a beath of life somewhere within that harsh fragrant bouquet of melted rock, metal, and atoms.

That is what I want for Christmas, or a puppy. Whatever fits within your budget.

As a species, we humans have been trying to wipe each other off the face of the planet in one war or another since the first one of us picked up a rock in anger and threw it at a rival hunter-gatherer group. Though historically, war has become the go to solution for groups of people to address their need for resources, a means to expand their religious ideology, and conflict resolution, war rarely if almost never achieves the desired result. In fact, waging war usually breeds yet more wars. So, why do we continue to think that the mass murder of our fellow hairless monkeys will solve anything? It's actually simple. We don't value human life as much as we value power and wealth, we're too arrogant to ever think that we might actually be wrong, and we're too lazy to seek out mutually beneficial solutions most of the time. So let's wander down the land-mine filled fuckery that is humanities obsession with self-extermination.

Resources

The first human conflicts were almost certainly a result of the competition for limited resources. War was waged as a matter of survival and was often both violent and brief.

For example, if your prehistoric hunter-gather group, the Ugs has a cave with a beautiful view of the surrounding land. There's a nearby source of fresh water for drinking and bathing. The cave is on the migration route of the animals you hunt making your work commute easier. Plus, it's located in a good cave paining school district near convenient nut and berry shopping, then you're probably the envy of the neighborhood

Now, let's say that another nearby hunter-gather group, the Sugs, isn't quite so lucky. Their cave only offers a view and scent of the spot in the valley that wooly mammoths use as their communal latrine. To get to any good hunting the Sugs have to cross the territory of the local cave bears and saber toothed cats who see you hairless monkeys types as a delicacy. Then, instead of being in a good school district with easy access to berry and nut shopping the Sugs have to avoid wooly rhino, giant ground sloth droppings, while navigating tar pits to get to anywhere.

Well, the more unfortunate Sug tribe may just decide to become upwardly mobile and take the cave and territory of their Ug neighbors. Oh, the Sugs could try to join the more prosperous Ugs, but that would mean they'd have to share the cost of COA (Cave Owner Association) fees, help with the upkeep of the fire, and worst of all, possibly marry into the Ugs. This won't do at all because these less fortunate Sugs have a long tradition of keeping the breeding in the family. Chief Three Arms of the Sugs (who happens to also be your grandpa and your dad) won't abide abandoning the inbreeding tradition that has been passed down from dad/uncle to cousin/son, to sister/wife for generations. Of course, the more prosperous Ug tribe may not want to add to it's population and feel that the Sugs would drive down property values. So, with no acceptable peaceful agreement between the tribes available, war is waged. Spears are thrown, heads get bashed, and to the victor goes the spoils.

Fast forward twelve thousand years and we once again see groups fighting over the perceived scarcity of resources and the desire to protect one's own resources. Russia invaded Ukraine because Ukraine was getting cozy with the idea of Western European democracy and becoming more prosperous (getting more stuff for itself). So, in order to take Ukraine's stuff and protect it's own stuff, Russia rudely invaded and started to drop bombs on people. Of course, Ukraine doesn't appreciate ordinance being dropped on it's schools, churches, and Starbucks, so it retaliates. As of now, the outcome of this war is undecided, but the rest of the world is watching and will likely be less inclined to deal with the Russian bullies, thus opening the door for future conflict.

Religion

Hairless monkeys tend to be a devout bunch and as such want to impress their chosen deity(ies). Well, what better way to stay on your god(s) good side and avoid a good smiting with the fire and brimstone, or the flooding, soggy clothes and drowning of everyone than to bring in new worshipers? Inspired to spread the good news and commandments that their god(s) offer, the devout (we'll call them group Alpha) go to other people and nations (lets call them group Beta) to expound the benefits of worshiping their god(s).

Now, unfortunately for Alpha, Beta might've already tied their faith to different god(s) and feel that switching things up would be kinda rude to their old god. So, Beta politely refuse to switch teams and in turn, share their own god(s) good news and views of what us hairless monkeys need to do with ourselves with the Alphas. Fearing for the immortal souls of the others, both the Alphas and Betas take increasingly aggressive and violent measures to save the souls of those they see as misguided wayward heathens. Ultimately, both the Alphas and Betas decide that the other side's views are against their own god(s) and things get really bloody what with the sword hacking, poking with the sharp pointy spears, and the running each other over with horses and all. Let it be noted that neither the Alphas or the Betas can prove that what they believe or what they're doing is what their chosen god would want. In fact, the one thing the Alpha and Beta's gods seem to have in common is that their chosen divine beings enjoy giving vague instructions and then clamming the fuck up forever afterwards. So, both sides righteously seek to wipe the other off the planet in the name of their deity's benevolent love. Side note: the fact that the Alpha and Beta's have noticed that their enemy has some pretty cool stuff that their god wants them to have is an extra incentive to keep fighting.

Fast forward to the 21st Century and this religious warfare continues. Look no further than Israel and Palestine. In an effort to do their god's will (oh it's the same god, he just goes by a different name) they both want to control what they see as holy land. So, both sides launch rockets at each other bomb hospitals and school buses all in the name of their god. This violence has been going on for decades now on and off. Sadly the only thing either side has in common is a dislike for pork. One could ask why god would want two flavors of his worshippers to kill each other over the, "Land of Milk and Honey" while their children on both sides get to practice being cannon fodder instead of practicing soccer. Well one could ask, but he's not answering. Both sides of the conflict claim to be in the right and have God's favor. If you ask me, if you are putting innocent children in harm's way for a patch of dirt and the favor of a God who doesn't return phone calls, you're both wrong.

Fun fact: Worshipping the same god means that Jews and Muslims have holidays around the same time. December is no different. In fact, what is a common thing on the holiday wish list for both Muslim kiddos in Palestine and Jewish kids in Israel this season is Lego's new line of "Build Your Own Bomb Shelter" kits.

Miscellaneous Conflict Resolution Carried Out By Way of War

War is waged for so many reasons that volumes have been written about its many incarnations, but I am lazy, and not at all ambitious. So, in parting here are some other reasons/instances where wars have been fought:

The Sexual Revolution and/or The Battle of the Sexes: The winner here is to be determined

The Cola Wars: Pepsi versus Coke. The war has been nonviolent to this point, but with the recent discovery of the reaction Mint Mentos plus Diet Coke chemical warfare may be around the corner

The song, War

by Edwin Star

War, huh, yeah

What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing, uhh

War, huh, yeah

What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing

Say it again, y'all

The band War

Known for, "Lowrider" and "Cisco Kid"

The Fast Food Wars

This is a war being fought on many fronts. The combatants to name a few

McDonalds-With billions and billions served, McDonalds has the strategic edge over its enemies.

The only monarchy in the war, Burger King

Taco Bell-Which was recently convicted by the UN of crimes against toilet bowls and innocent sphincters

Arby's-The only terrorist group recognized by the ASPCA because wherever you find an Arby's cats and dogs disappear under mysterious circumstances

KFC-a military dictatorship ruled by one Colonel Sanders

The Why:

I must admit, I am not looking forward to this job. I would've told them to shove it, but I didn't fancy the image of my mangled corpse being dropped into the wilderness to become the last few calories the bears needed before they hibernate for the winter. That is what they do to anyone who crosses them. So, here I am. Who knew that the real power controlling EVERYTHING is even darker than the illuminati, Free Masons, Taylor Swift and RNC put together? Fuck, the real power holders in the world make the illuminati, Masons, Taylor Swift, and RNC look like a bunch of newborn puppies. All I know is that if I want to live and avoid having my family gutted and then hung by their entrails from the oak tree in my front yard like a morbid pinata for my disobedience, I must now do the work of the right hand of Satan himself, those twisted, evil, sadistic master manipulators of the world, the Girl Scouts of America!

The Why:

When I asked them why I was supposed to do the job I was given, the forest green and UPS-Brown clad pony-tailed wearing little imps broke my wrist for my insolence by backing over it with their den mother's Chevy Suburban. I was then informed that their reasons are their own and they weren't revealing anything about their master plan. All I was given was the details of the job along with the threat of a slow torturous death for me and my loved ones should I fuck this up or get caught. So, here I am. If anyone finds this, please WARN THE WORLD! The Girl Scouts are the greatest evil on Earth! How else can they charge an ever increasing amount of money for a box of Thin Mints? No one in their right minds would pay $10 for a box of Thin Mints or Peanut Butter Patties! And they raise the prices EVERY year yet, we mindlessly drop a month's wages on their cookies that're baked with love in the fires of HELL! I never believed in black magic before, but the way we line up to buy Samoas by the case like zombified Type 2 diabetics, we must be under the demonic influences of dark rites and spells.

The Who:

The Assignment: Observe and document the activities of one Shallow Gene Pool. Pool is a white male approximately 50 years of age. In appearance, I'd describe him like this: Imagine if Curley of the Three Stooges, Mr. Burns of the Simpsons, and Uncle Fester of the Addams Family had a hedonistic, orifice expanding, body fluid exchanging one night stand and through the power of this unholy act a child was conceived as an afront to nature. That child abomination would be the exact doppelganger of Pool.

Pool has 4 children, 3 boys, 1 girl, and a shockingly beautiful wife. Curious as to how Pool landed such a beauty, I utilized my biological sample gathering equipment and managed to get a few urine samples from her. The results came back clean every time, so he isn't drugging her to keep her trapped in hellacious matrimony. Maybe he's hung like a bull elephant? Doubtful I know, but it is the only hypothesis that makes any sense.

Pool is a social worker, meaning he and his family live in border line poverty. In fact, he's so broke I doubt he can pay attention. Anyway, he seems fairly proficient at his job, which is just as shocking as his ability to snag a hottie for a wife. I thought at best he'd be able to hold down work where common sense and intelligence aren't required, like at the DMV or FOX News. It just goes to show that you can't determine if your toilet paper is single or double-ply until its out of the package and you use it. Pool is surprisingly double-ply in his vocational abilities. Oh he's the off brand, newspaper soft, double-ply, kind of toilet tissue, but he's double-ply none the less.

The Where:

Pool lives in California's San Joaquin Valley, or as it is called by locals, "The Place Where Cows, Meth, and Orchards are Plentiful, but Hope and Intelligence are in VERY Short Supply." This place is truly a black hole of despair and apathy. I figure that my time in California's foul perineum of a valley will cost me at least 15 IQ points that I'll never regain.

The How:

In order to monitor Pool's every move I set up recording devices, cameras, and even DNA gathering equipment in his home, office, and vehicle. Once my spy equipment was in place and tested, I began to do the bidding of those diabolical, cookie dealing, freckled faced little imps.

Entry #1 Monday, 11/4/24: Pool's Work Week

Pool's work week begins just like most people's. First he showers. This immediately nullified my theory that his wife is married to him because he's hung like a pachyderm. Truth be told, in terms of his phallus, Pool's meat missile endowment can best be described as being somewhere between that of light switch and ingrown hair.

After dropping off 1 child at school, Pool drives to the office. To my surprise, Pool possesses a fair amount of road rage. In fact, his ability to use profanity in creative ways is one of the few talents he possesses! Not only is he able to draw from a vast pool of foul language, he is able to utilize it with what can only be described as a Shakespearian eloquence. Some of my favorite examples:

"Nothing Says, 'I have a micro-penis' like a raised pickup, ASS HOLE! Not sure if your Uncle Ben's Status short grain dick can even do the job, but PLEASE DON'T PROCREATE!"

"That is a handicapped spot, you're parking your Mercedes in lady and I don't see a blue placard or handicapped sign on your plate! Having a hyper-sensitive gag reflex doesn't make you disabled! It just makes your husband chronically fucking disappointed! Maybe blue balls would qualify HIM for the disabled parking placard you insensitive, ableist cunt!"

"Instant Idiot. Just add motorcycle. Gotta love it. The way you ride that thing you're gonna Darwin natural selection your stupid ass out of the gene pool, motherfucker. Cheaper for the cleanup crew too, I'm guessing. All that's needed is a spatula and a trash bag and your carcass is no longer a road or genetic hazard."

Arriving at work Pool finds his way through the cubicle jungle to his own personal 3 walls of despair. From here, he social works for a couple of hours, spends his lunch break sobbing under his desk while curled in the fetal position, and either does paperwork or goes on a home visit. Of course, HIPPA laws prohibit me from providing any information about his home visits. Let's just say that he seems to stumble through them in a frenzied kind of mediocrity, but at the end of the day, the families seem happy. Either that or they feel so sorry for him that they can't bring themselves to complain.

Upon returning home, Pool helps with dinner, helps get his 4 crotch goblins off to bed and settles in for the night.

Entry #4-5 Tuesday, 11/5/24 to 11/8/24: Pool's Work Week

Apparently, Pool is a music snob. He blasts everything from Mudvayne to Led Zeppelin during his commute and while doing paperwork. I call him a snob because as he has explained to his coworkers, if he hears that someone likes country music his distaste is made known by gagging and he experiences a compelling need to warn the person about the dangers of inbreeding. By way of apology he then explains that he barely escaped the trailer park once and now if he hears just a single guitar twang he's afraid that his Johnny Cash/Hank Williams/Willie Nelson related PTSD would likely cause him to have a single-wide flash back resulting in him assaulting whatever or whoever is producing the music all the while screaming, "Die you ring of fire falling, no talent hillbilly, yellow rose loving cousin fuckers and return to the truck stop in Hell from which you came!"

Other than that, nothing new to report. Pool is in a rut and apparently too dense to realize it. In fact, his routine could put people in medically-induced comas. In order to stay awake, I've managed to convert an insulin pump into a caffeine delivery device feeding me a steady flow of Red Bull that keeps me awake until Pool blessedly falls asleep.

Entry #6 The Weekend Saturday, 11/6/24

And the boredom continues. Pool's weekend consists of doing chores, giving his kids money, and Detroit Lions football (in California? weird). Once the 4 cum fruit go to bed and are fast asleep, Pool gets a bit randy. Most of the time Mrs. Pool reminds him that it is this very behavior that resulted in the afore mentioned cum fruit. I guess the thought of more mouths to feed acts as an anti-aphrodisiac, because Mr. Pool immediately stops humping the leg of Mrs. Pool.

Now let me say for the record, that I draw the line at snooping in the bedroom, but unfortunately, one night I forgot to turn off the audio feed in Pool's bedroom. What I heard by accident was enough to make me take a vow of celibacy, because just the thought of physical intimacy makes my want to toss my store-brand (NOT Girl Scout) cookies.

I get that sex is a free for all when it comes to groans, sighs, and (if you're doing it right), squeals. Pretty much anything goes during the Squishy-Squishy Yum-Yum. However, the sounds that I heard were the stuff of nightmares. For example:

Goat bleating (not real goat, thank you Jeebus) was a significant part of their coupling.

At some point Mr. Pool cried out, "I am the LOVE MONKEY! Let me partake of your sweet, ripe banana while you swing from my vine!"

For some ungodly reason, the couple started singing, "I've Been Workin' On the Railroad" during their copulation.

There were other sounds of varied pitch, length, and intensity that I cannot quite identify, for which I am grateful. However, I found myself experiencing a skull crushing headache accompanied by bleeding from my nose and ears as their love noises reached a body fluid exchanging crescendo. Strangely enough, according to the morning news, the exact moment the Pool's lovemaking reached its maximum sonic dissonance (11:23 PM Pacific Time) several pods of dolphins simultaneously beached themselves up and down the California coast. I'd like to think that my nose and ear bleeding was coincidence, but I cannot find a reasonable explanation as to why hundreds of sea mammals committed mass, synchronized suicide at the exact same moment.

This assignment is going to drive me to madness. Maybe I should just pray for a quick death in the Girl Scout's Thin Mint oven. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

I'm still not sure why I was chosen to be the first to ever journey into the vast and turbulent fuckery of my own mind, but there I stood with my wife. I was surprised when I was told that I could bring a guest. My wife, Sweetie (not her real name of course, because she'd kill me if she could be linking in any way to my writing) was the obvious choice I figured that she more than anyone else deserves to get some answers as to why I find the topics of trailer parks and human sexuality FUCKING HILARIOUS. Now, if you were to combine trailer parks and human sexuality into one topic, I would probably laugh until my sphincter prolapsed leading me to slowly bleed out as I chortled, giggled, and cackled into a blood loss induced state of brain death.

Well, there we stood my wife's dainty hand in mine, in front of the quietly buzzing portal that swirled with multicolored lights that kind of made me wonder if this is what a person on an LSD trip sees when they try to eat a handful of Skittles mixed with M&M's and Lucky Charms marshmallows. We'd been told that this miracle of modern science before us would transport us into the recesses of my mostly irregular, far from the acceptable operating standards of a healthy human mind ready to go where no one should really want to go in the first place.

Strangely enough, considering the scientific wonder that was about to happen, there was a surprising lack of fanfare as we stood there. In fact, all the lead scientist did was tell us to go with an indifferent waive of his hand. It reminded me of the way you might waive your hand at your waitress at Denny's when she comes to offer a refill of your coffee while your mouth is stuffed with the last bite of your Grand Slam Breakfast. So, without further adieu or adon't for that matter, we stepped into the portal.

Now, let me say that the trip into my mind was a bit anticlimactic. One second we're in a lab within the bowels of Whatsa-Matta-U College of Science and Technology (located in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota of course) and the next we're in this weird hallway lined with doors of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The floor was carpeted in that split pea soup green shag carpeting that was popular in 1970's. To our surprise, we weren't alone because in the middle of the hallway stood a little leprechaun-sized man who looked EXACTLY like Curley of the Three Stooges.

"Welcome to your wee whittle bwain," he exclaimed stepping forward with a smile that was just a bit too happy.

First, the strange little stooge stepped up to me and gave my hand a firm shaking and then he kissed me full on the mouth. While I tried to remove the Curley slobber from my face, and the Curley taste off my tongue the little perv turned his attention to my wife. He didn't offer her a handshake. Instead, he immediately attached himself to my Sweetie's leg like a horny barnacle and proceeded to vigorously dry hump her leg. Of course, I jumped in to save her, but I didn't have to do much because with a practiced movement of her arm, she grabbled little Curley by his littler Curley and gave it a good twist. To no one's surprise, Curley immediately lost all enthusiasm for adding a stain to her jeans and dropped to his knees.

"What'd ya do that for!" he groaned as he tried to untwist little Curley.

"I figured if it works for the whole you when you get a bit randy, it'd probably work for whatever the fuck you are," my wife replied while checking to make sure that her new Levi's were Curley cum free.

"Okay," I said, trying to sound mature, "I think you need to control yourself and who exactly are you?"

"I'm the most responsible voice in your head, so I was elected to be your guide." Curley replied, cautiously and very gingerly moving away from the missus.

"GREAT!" My wife and I responded in stereo.

"Geez. Think ya would be a little grateful to have someone to help you get through the cluster fuck wrapped in a gorilla circle jerk that is your psyche." Curley whined, his feelings somehow hurt.

"Maybe we should get on with it," my wife said motioning to the hallway and all the doors. "What exactly is this place."

"This my dear," Curley said with a theatrical waive of his pudgy hand, "Is your hubby's, "Hall of Important Stuff. Everything that he values is behind these doors and it's all organized by category."

"You'd think there'd be labels on the doors," my wife said approaching an ebony black door with a skull door knob.

"I wouldn't..." Curley gasped trying to stop my missus from opening door.

It was too late, because with the same quickness she used to grab Curley's berries she grabbed the door knob and pulled the door wide open and was greeted by a thunderous wall of noise. The force was such that it knocked the wee horny bastard poor off his feet and like a music grenade sent him flying about twenty yards further down the hallway.

"I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL"....." "I SEE A LITTLE SILHOUETTO OF A MAN SCARAMOUCHE, SCARAMOUCHE, WILL YOU DO THE FANDANGO"....."FAIRIES WEAR BOOTS YEAH YA GOTTA BELIEVE ME..."

Pummeled by rock lyric's, it took all of my petite Irish wife's strength to get the door closed. With the sonic bulldozer finally contained, Curley was able to stand up on his pudgy little legs. Any enthusiasm the little perv may have had left was officially gone. Now, he stared daggers at Sweetie.

"That is your hubby's music lyric room," he grumbled as he made his way towards us wiping his bald brow. "It's totally useless, but pretty fucking encyclopedic at the same time. PLEASE ask before you open another door! This hallway is filled with stuff that is worthless to us, but it can still be VERY dangerous!"

"How about this door," I asked pointing to a multi-colored door.

"That's one of my favorite's," Curley replied. "Go ahead."

So, expecting the worst, I opened the door and was greeted by, "Rabbit Season!...." "Duck Season!...." I'd obviously found my Looney Toons room. Sweetie was quick to point out that there was a lot more looney toons to me than could be found in that room.

The tour continued from there. Curley was an adept guide and quickly pointed out the more dangerous parts of my mind. The biggest danger by far was the great void that was my intellect. He explained that my stupidity was so intense it was starting to become a vacuum and there was real fear amongst the voices and my personal demons that called my mind home that they could all be sucked into the void's vast nothingness. The running theory was that if I ever reached the watches FOX News level of stupid the void would expand into a vast black hole that would first pull in the various elements of my psychosis and eventually gain enough strength to draw in all life on Earth and eventually the entire planet.

From there Curley led us through this sad little cemetery. Ever the sensitive soul, Sweetie couldn't help bust ask who was buried there. Curley explained in a solemn tone that the cemetery was the resting place for all of my dreams that had died.

As we made our way through the maze of headstones one grave site caught Sweetie's eye because it was covered with fresh flowers and lit candles surrounded the burial mound. Curley explained that this was probably the saddest broken dream of all and he didn't want to talk about it. However, after Sweetie threatened him with another twist of his little Curley he explained that the departed dream died the day my puberty ended. Surprisingly, the memory of that tragic dream brought a tear to our guide's eye as he told his tale. The dream he explained with a sob and a sniffle was that I would achieve at least an average sized penis, but it was a foolish dream because I was Irish and small even by Irish standards. More than a wee bit uncomfortable remembering this long departed dream, I couldn't help but look over at Sweetie. Of course, her eyes held more than just a single tear, and unable to hold back the loss, she sobbed and wailed for what could have been. However, as far as I was concerned that dream need not be remembered and I was ready to move the fuck on.

Eventually, we came to a trailer park at the end of a gravel road. The trailers were run down and of the single wide variety. County fair midway prize tapestries depicting Quiet Riot, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Confederate flags hung limply in dirty windows. Their frayed and faded polyester functioned as curtains hiding their denizens from the light while filtering out the smell of cheap cigarettes and charred grilled government cheese sandwiches. More than a few trailers had rusted Camaros and Pintos up on blocks in the front yard. The dismal air in the trailer park was filled with the smell of a septic system that was stretched beyond it's structural tolerances and somewhere the depressing silence was broken by Free Bird's endless guitar solo For some reason, Curley seemed nervous and put a finger to his lips warning us to be quiet.

It must've looked like Sweetie and I were going to say something because Curley, whispered, "This is where the other voices that live in your head and your personal demons live," he explained while looking around nervously.

"I don't want to disturb them because I owe half of them child support and the other half are pissed because I said that Jeff Foxworthy isn't funny and that a dating website catering to first cousins is A BAD idea," he explained in hushed tones.

Taking his lead, we quietly left the trailer park behind and after what seemed like forever we found ourselves in what looked like a huge art museum. The paintings on the wall seemed to express all of my emotions from the blah all the way through hatred.

"This is where your emotions are housed," Curley explained. "Each painting depicts an emotional response to an event in your life. Everything is categorized. Joy with joy, horny with randy, angry with angry etcetera," he noted taking on the tone of snobbish. EuroTrash.

Sweetie walked along examining the paintings. When she got to shame, she noticed that there were a few paintings that were covered up.

"What are these?" she asked gesturing towards the covered paintings.

"Oh those," Curley chucked. "Those depict times when premature ejaculation led to a bit of disappointment for her and spoiled the mood for all involved. Pretty embarrassing, so the artists are taking their time, so unlike your hubby, they're not finished yet."

"Moving on," I grumbled as Sweetie chuckled.

At the end of the museum stood a huge gate with a sign above it that read, "To Go Out of Your Mind, Exit Here."

"Well, that's your mind. Such as it is." Curley said pointing towards the gate. "I'd like to say it's been fun, but I can't. I'm gonna be walking funny for a week thanks to your wife AND NOT FOR A FUN REASON!"

With no reason or desire to delay our departure, Sweetie and I stepped through the gate and found ourselves back in the lab. Of course, the scientists were there waiting to poke and prod us. Apparently everything came back normal and we were allowed to leave.

As we were leaving, I couldn't help but overhear the scientists, Dr. Badenov and Dr. Fatale chuckle.

"Going off half-cocked," Badenov chuckled. "Hasn't Shallowgenepool heard that you gotta think about baseball?"

"His poor wife," Dr. Fatale said in sympathetic agreement.

Isn't most of life a matter of perspective? For example, for some a good, firm spanking is a reasonable punishment for bad behavior. For others a good, firm spanking is a reasonable reward and the perfect way to end a Saturday night.

Do grizzly bears see camping tents the way we see the plastic wrapper on a microwavable burrito? Oh sure they can be a bit of a pain to open, but the warm, high calorie yumminess on the inside is worth the trouble. Although there is one small drawback. No one ever includes a packet of Tapatio sauce inside the package to add a little spiciness to the overall eating experience.

Has anyone actually seen someone buy one of the 5 pound fruitcake bricks sold at Costco during the holidays? I've always imagined that after the holidays they get shipped by the ton to small developing countries to be used as hurricane proof building materials.

Why don't funeral homes offer funny t shirts as a clothing option for the deceased? For example:

-Wanna See My Stiffy?

-Yesterday Was The Last Day Of The Rest Of My Life

-AHHHHH WHO DECOMPOSED? Somebody Light A Fucking Match!

I've Been To The Mortuary, Was Embalmed, And All I Got Was This Lousy Fucking T Shirt

-I Left My Entire Fortune To My Favorite High Priced Prostitute

-My Last Wish Is That During Cremation, Blue Oyster Cult's, "I'm Burning For You" Gets Played In The Background For Mood Music.

Travel Tip: The only music stations you get on the highway to hell play nonstop country music and at the end of every off ramp is a Walmart, Taco Bell, and your in-law's house.

Why do they call it Social Media when it makes me want to fake my own death, move to a small hut in the forest, and disappear from society in favor of making friends with woodland creatures?

Those who claim to be Christians...Have they READ their instruction manual? Because from what I've seen they collectively missed all those chapters on loving their neighbors, not judging, and giving to those in need.

Should I keep what I'd do for a Klondike Bar to myself because I think it could result in criminal prosecution?

Is it just me or are the most incapable, stupid, completely devoid of common sense, and most given to fucking things up for everyone people the most fertile?

Dear Big Guy(s) or Big Girl(s) or Big Guy(s) and Girl(s) in the sky,

This letter is to inform you that your services are no longer required or desired. Of course, it isn't easy to end this love-hate-wipe out entire populations because you get your celestial knickers tied in a knot relationship that has spanned millennia, but we both want different things and we've been going in different directions for quite a while now. WelI, can't say it's been fun, in fact, it's been downright dangerous to be involved in this relationship with you, but it's time for us to cut our losses and say, "Goodbye." For the record, it's not us, it's YOU that's the problem!

Now, before you start whining about what you'll do without us, let me just say that you haven't been truly invested in a healthy, loving relationship, in well...ever. You don't communicate, you're moody and prone to extreme violence, you're neglectful in your responsibilities, and you've allowed country music to exist. Don't believe me? Well here's some things that've led to this breakup.

1. You don't communicate clearly. How can we know what you want unless you take the time to tell us. Oh, and talking bushes, the Virgin Mary's image in a piece of toast, and the books that are supposedly your word don't count as effective communication! You haven't used the burning bush thing since the Bronze Age and even then, it was only seen by one guy! The image of the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast, stigmata, and crying statues aren't a big deal. I once had a fried potato skin that looked like Mount Rushmore. It doesn't mean that Abe Lincoln is trying to send me a message about how he doesn't like how his birthday is used an excuse to sell Toyotas at, "Prices that'll assassinate the factory MSRP." The holy books? Well, first they read like stereo instructions. Second, books can be manipulated and changed to coincide with the whims of those in power. So, it's only logical that the King James translation of the bible is very monarch/keeping the elite in power friendly. There's no way to insure that we're getting the real low down on God's will. Ya Dig?

2. Your moody and violent when angry. Floods that wipe out all creation, fire and brimstone that destroys cities, and back to back hurricanes show that you're not exactly even handed. I mean, what's up with Florida and the back to back hurricanes? Does the South owe you money or something? Look, I'm no fan of the states where it was once okay for people to own people, but picking on Florida? Florida is the state equivalent of that kid that got dropped on his head repeatedly as a newborn. Give our country's limp phallus a break. Picking on someone too intellectually impaired to fight back is just plain mean.

3. You're a deadbeat parent. Look, I get it that us mortal adults do bad stuff so we deserve what we get. The wage of sin is death and all that. BUT CHILDREN? It makes ZERO sense that a 2 year old has to fight cancer or dies needlessly in a war. What great sin can a 2 old commit that is deserving of death by cancer or a bomb? These deaths are pointless. If you are indeed omnipotent and omniscient, fix it! Oh, don't give me that, "We mortals suffer so that we can learn to be better people b.s." If you are creator of the universe then you created a faulty product. Punishing children so that their faulty parents learn a lesson is totally denying responsibility for the faulty product YOU created and needlessly making innocents suffer. Besides, if you know everything, why allow faulty mortals to leave the factory to begin with? I mean, Ford didn't intentionally design the Pinto to explode when rear ended. If they knew that would happen before the car hit the sales lot they would've changed the design so that the issue was fixed, right?

So, humanity is slowly breaking up with you, God(s). Churches are hemorrhaging members who figure out that their worth can only be found in the collection plate and that the lessons they're being taught from the pulpit run contrary to the values and actions of presidential candidate the pastor is demanding that they vote for. The Old Testament sadism that led to the wholesale slaughter of (if it to be believed) the entire human race minus an incestuous family on a boat is being seen for what it is. Finally, humanity has started to figure out that no amount of wisdom to be gained is worth the death of children who're too young to even say, "Sin" let alone commit such an act.

I'd like to say it's we're sorry to end this, but after enduring centuries of genocide, slavery, war, rapine, and cruelty, I can't. Your suitcase is packed and the Uber has been called. We wish you luck, but please stay out of the business of creating sentient beings because you're not very good at it.

My mind is a lunatic's attic, filled with the rusty, dusty, moldy, moth-eaten, cracked, and bent brick-a-brac of foolishness, folly, and general fuckery. It needs to be cleaned out, but who knows, I might need that list of synonyms for, the word, "Penis" that I've carefully curated and committed to memory someday.

My name is, Smith and I'm a homicide detective. I've seen all kinds of death, but what I witnessed today was a first. The call was a body found at the Single Arms Apartments. It's one of those 1-2-3 complexes that cater to twice divorced men. You know, the bastards that marry once for love, twice for lust, and thanks to divorce lawyers, work three jobs to pay for the consequences in alimony and child support.

I arrived at the scene to find our M.E scratching his head. The body hadn't been moved yet. The victim's feet hung just above the floor, his obviously new jeans still around his ankles. The rest of his body lay backwards on his bed. His rigor-mortised face was strangely red.

"Hey, Bob, whatcha got?" I asked.

"Hi Smith," He grumbled. "Third one this week."

"Really?" I asked. "This makes a third murder?"

"Not murders." Bob replied. "Three middle-aged bastards who gave themselves heart attacks trying to squeezing their fat asses into skinny jeans.

Suddenly, it made sense. When will poor middle-aged bastards realize that no amount of skinny jeans can retrieve their youth especially when you add loneliness and a diet of microwavable burritos.

Not sure if the challenge is supposed to be about the occult or a cult, so I'll mix it up.

I am just so tired of the stereotyping! Look folks. Wiccans aren't wicked, evil, spawns of Satan! We don't fly around on broomsticks wearing ruby slippers harassing members of the Lullaby League and Lollipop Guild! We're being religiously profiled!

So, to all those members of the Manson Family, STOP leaving your kids on our doorsteps to be raised as spawns of the devil! If you want your kids to be raised to be evil, drop them at the Scientology headquarters, the RNC offices, DMV, or an NRA convention!

Oh, and to whatever motherfucker keeps trying to drop a Kansas farmhouse on my head and hitting me with buckets of water...Try it again and you'll be hearing from my lawyer!

"Stuck in limbo, are ya? Maybe next time you'll stretch before attempting to go under that damn stick. Dead or not, if you're not careful you're bound to throw your back out. Too bad you won't find a chiropractor around here, what with the shady way they do billing and all. I'm sure they've earned a place in Hell and will be forced to spend eternity adjusting Lucifer's lumbar region."