What to write when there's nothing to write

Balls. I got nothing.

And one hell of a lot of that nothing at that.

Can't bring it to the dump, they won't take it.

Can't sell it on Ebay, cause it's Illegal.

Can't give it at Christmas, because children will cry.

Can't burn it.

Can't bury it.

Can't kill it.

Heck, there's only two things that I know to do with it

Carry it around with me

Or

Elect it.

But no one likes those options.

I wonder if you can write it.

Apparently so.

Yippie-yi-oh-ki-yay!

Butter and Razor Blades

Well, friends, ThanksMcGiving is right around the corner, and you know what that means: Time for me and Big MaMa Q to start baking up a storm.

You might just find yourself saying, “Myque, I didn’t know that you and your alter-ego cared!” well… there’s a story to that.

Breakfast @ chez Q (check) consists of buttered* toast and coffee, unless I am entertaining guests, in which case it involves bacon, eggs, buttered toast and coffee.

The last of my butter was gently melted within my nightly Macaroni and Cheese, and I knew that if I didn’t fetch some, I would be an unhappy ducky in the morning. (I also realized how fuzzy my neck has been getting, so I also resolved to purchase a pack of Mach 3 blades. Now I realize that this has nothing to do with the story, except I was amused that my shopping list for the day consisted of butter and razor blades, so I wished to share it with you.)

I noticed the packaging was different on my butter, but I reckoned that change was coming to the white house, it might as well be coming to grocery store.

This morning, I noticed my butter was of a funny color, a pasty, translucent white. I viewed the packaging expecting to see some advertising promoting some left-wing value like “No longer made with yellow 5!”** Instead, I realized that I had picked up a package of shortening, not butter.

Gingerly did I nibble my toast this morning. It wasn’t bad, but at 25% of my daily recommended dose of saturated fat per tablespoon, I don’t think I’ll be melting a chunk of it into my Macaroni and cheese any time soon.

So, Big MaMa Q and I have a task at hand, and a toaster oven to do the deed. If the results are… awesome. I’ll let you know.

Waffles!

*by butter I mean Earth Balance brand Non-Dairy, Zero Trans Fat Buttery Sticks
**This was a joke. Earth Balance Buttery Sticks have never contained Yellow 5

The Icy-Cold Grasp of Advice

A couple of days ago, I had a little dream where Old Man Winter and I were sharing a bowl of soup in my grandmother’s stone cottage. He nibbled on a warm, wet turnip while I explained that it wasn’t winter that I disliked per se; it was being cold. He passed me the spoon and told me it was a metaphor for life. He explained that being cold was uncomfortable, and if I allowed myself to be comforted by others and myself, then it wouldn’t be so bad. I ripped off a piece of bread and chewed thoughtfully. He then went further on that winter was also a test, a trial by ice to experience hardships so as to know when life was truly good. He slurped at the dregs of the bowl and I went on my merry little way.

I took him up on his advice this weekend. I treated myself to ice cream, I took long baths, I even talked to my Ma. It was a pleasant time, but a little voice in my head kept telling me that I was over-doing it. Thinking about this, Old Man Winter’s voice suddenly popped into my head.

“Well,” he said, “all things are proportional. How cold do you want winter to be?”

If that’s the case, I reckon it’s time to lay off the ice cream.

Spookyness

Old Man Bones was sitting at his player piano when Dead Fat John walked into the pub.

“Sit down,” Bones offered to the weary fat man covered in dust. “Have a drink. It’s on the house.”
John shook his head. He’d played Bones’ game before, and came up a few pennies short every time.

“No thanks,” he said. “I’ll just sit and smell the roses.”

“They aren’t actually roses,” Old Man Bones replied with a smile.

“Well then, I’ll stand until you finish playing.”

Old Man Bones sat. Dead Fat John stood. The piano played long into the night.

When it finished, Bones stood up. John sat down. The player piano stayed quiet.

Everything was quiet.

Cute Little Things

With one hand I type, and within the other, I hold my breakfast.

A week ago, I met my godson for the first thru third time. Little Silas. The parents even found newsy type caps for the occasion. However, I have learned from my other little cousins, it will take twelve years or so of infrequent visits for him to remember who I am. He looked up at me with big, blue eyes and spit-up over his fourth outfit of the day. I whispered important phrases of nonsense into his ear as he spat out his Iowa Hawkeyes pacifier.

On a side note, my toast tastes like bacon. Due to the fact that I haven’t had pork like products within my house for three months, I am ignoring the improbable nature of this claim and savoring the pure bliss.

My coffee tastes a bit like hot rubber… mmm. Bacon on the go. It’s like a road trip without the nasty cheese holding everything in place.

On the subject of cute, little things. My parents have found an abandoned kitten. They waited two weeks to name it - the family Veterinarian needed to determine its sex, then after finding out it was a boy, called it Sam. Sam has decided that he is a parrot, and sits proudly on my father’s shoulder. Together they harvested the fields this year, plundering the amber waves of they bounty once again. Whenever Sam gets sleepy, he just slides off into Dad’s hood for a little cat nap. It’s so cute I can’t hardly stand it.

Well you gang of ninjas, zombies and plutocrats, I gotta run. Keep the ice clean, and may the flamingos keep politics interesting!

The Speech

You can’t tell it from the way the hall is decorated with all its pumpkins and gourds, but Jeanne’s favorite color is actually green, and Jeremy’s just so happens to be red. Every time I think of these two it’s like Christmas.

I have been a fan of team Franz-Adams - excuse me, J-Adams – since the beginning and this feeling of fandom has only grown over time. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I have my Great-grand-nephews drooling on my feet. Jeanne and Jeremy, I reckon I can speak for everyone in here that I will love and support you from now until forever.

Sister, Brother (it’s so cool calling you brother) Here’s to you. Happy Holidays.

Happy Trails to Q

Good morning and how are ya?

I'm sorry for the lack of posting, my free time has been eaten by zombies – err, a story about zombies anyway.

Chuck full of pulpy goodness, "Lich: the Undead Wizard Rides Again" has been slurping at my mind and time since labor day, and with a probably-needing-a-good-polish-if-ever-it-was-going-to-be-professionally-submitted-anywhere-but-still-one-fine-chunk-o-words version due in late October, I've been cracking rawhide to make the drive a good'un.

Having both the western and the zombie apocalypse genre on the mind makes for interesting dreams, the wildest so far pitted a gigantic, old-fashioned locomotive against one of P. F. Chang's terra cotta horses. I don't remember who won, but it was an epic battle and I woke up Casey Jonesing Mongolian beef.

Well that's all for now, I got to hop on my subway and ride it into the sunrise.

Keep shooting straight, and don't let the rattlesnakes bite!