Pretty Hate Machine With Teeth

I've been listening to a lot of Nine Inch Nails since my return to bachelorhood (mainly because the circumstances of said return were not to my liking).

Yesterday I started singing "Something I Can Never Have" from Trent Reznor's first album Pretty Hate Machine while listening to "Beside You In Time" from his latest, With Teeth. I figured they fit pretty well together, so when I got home I mixed 'em up.

Here's In Time I Can Never Have You.

Enjoy, if you like this sort of thing.

NOW WITH MORE NAILS IN THE COFFIN! (thanks Dave)

Whaddaya know, it became a trilogy.

Here's If She Says I Have To Apologize.

And here's That's What I Get In The World.

Bachelor Bacchanal (Not)

So what is it bachelors do again?

Lemme run through the checklist here and see if I can turn up any missed gems to fill my idle hours with.

1) Set up passionless, functional single bed (they call it a twin, which is a misnomer because any attempt at co-slumber upon such, let alone vigorous sexual activity, would result in the capsizing or possible paralysis of any or all parties involved).

Check.

2) Decorate the space. And by "decorate", I mean erect two towering CD stands, position a bookshelf and cover it in books, fill a bin full of books and then fill another bin, also with books.

Done.

3) Demonstrate ability to make spaghetti of one type with ease and confidence. Display this talent to none but myself. Eat the results with pride and enthusiasm of diminishing intensity.

Done like dinner.

4) Revel in complete sovereignty over the remote control. No diplomacy, bribery or outright warfare required on Planet Me. Total televisual domination. Yep, yep.

Yawn.

5) That bed I mentioned earlier? Get off it in the morning allowing only enough time for just me to perform necessary ablutions and clothing selection before livelihood-related departure - and sometimes not even enough time for that.

Zzzzz.

That's it?

I honestly can't think of anything else. I'm too old to throw all-night parties, pursue an all-pizza diet, or enforce an all-movie poster decor. Or at least, these pursuits lack the appeal they once held for me.

Yep, I'm a geezer.

Also a bachelor.

And bored.

Revenge On The Mega-Nega

Actually, it weren't thinkin' that saved 'im.

It were somethin' quicker, somethin' uncoilin' from a place deep inside Barney he din't really know existed but recognized the moment it showed isself, like his own hairy tentacle hidden mosta the time and now springin' to duty - the first duty, the only duty.

His savior were anger.

The Mega-Nega din't really know what hit it when this gangly, scraggly cowboy nearly jumped outta his boots and britches and jest like it had wanted, into its waiting arms.

'Cept the arms weren't there for long.

Never mind the burnin' hot wellpipe. Never mind the soiled potato chips and their abandoned, emptied bag. Never mind the missin' comics, even.

All Barney needed was his bare hands.

The Mega-Nega lost its left arm first. Barney dug his fingers into the nubby jelly of the thing's shoulder and he found it weren't that strong at all really. He'd been right about the sharp spikes - they was already worn down to tiny prickles like a baby cactus mebbe, and that were nothin' new to Barney, so in he dug and kept on diggin' until he found the Mega-Nega's bone, which under his pryin' hands felt like nothin' more than a thin wafer, a haft of wheat he might lodge between his lips one fine day for some idle chewin'. His rage snapped it in two and it crumbled to dust.

"Er--" gurgled the Mega-Nega, but that were all it got out before Barney rammed his other hand down the raw, sloppy gash it called a mouth. He told hold of the knobby bulb he thought might be its vocal chords (or chord, who knew?) and made that the next rung on a ladder he would climb backwards, down into the foul heart of this sick meatpile that wanted him for a mate, submerged and drowned in its dark pools forever.

"YOU WANNA HUG?!!!" screamed Barney. He knew the Mega-Nega couln't answer him 'cause its vocal chord were already a pulverized lump in his fist, and he were still goin' down, down, right through all its stupid, poorly made guts - everythin' doublin' back in on isself, each intestine and blood vessel a snake devouring its own tail and so destined to die, always die, soon as it finished its vile eating.

Barney's other hand were comin' with 'im, pullin' that useless right arm into the main mass of the Nega now, and without decidin' at all, jest straight off wrappin' it round the thing's neck, pullin' it tighter, almost casual like that's the way it shoulda always been and Barney was only helpin' it achieve its life goals a little sooner.

"Ghlkk--" protested the Nega, but Barney din't hear it. He were already down by that hairy tentacle he'd first seen creepin' toward his prifferal vision ages ago it seemed. And at the bottom here, his tentacle of hate were finishin' its own unfurlin'. He pressed on the fuzzy, bulbous Nega-extension with all the might he could darn well muster.

Well, it exploded in a messy blurt of thick, sticky fluid that roped across this parta the blasted desert and thickened up with blown sand seconds later - and Barney saw millions of tiny black bugs swimmin' in the stuff, clawin' madly for whatever sick air they needed to power their beastly, shriveled lungs and totally failin'...failin'...failin'.

Somehow this finished the Nega. It were collapsin' around him in waves of goopy sludge, soakin' his best gingham shirt and weekend britches right through and grossin' him out somethin' fierce, but Barney let it fall - every last milky membrane of split-apart Mega-Nega, now just messy trash he could clean up with a good broom or let the desert sweep away in its own time, as it did everythin' else.

Includin' his love Agnes, still gone from him now and to where nobody knew.

But the Mega, the Mega-Nega...it were nowhere at all.

Nowhere 'cept dead.

Return Of The Mega-Nega

So.

It's been a crappy week for me, with no sign of improvement on the near horizon. That calls for a Big Nose Barney story.

BIG NOSE BARNEY VS THE MEGA-NEGA PART II

It were Saturday - comics day.

But no comics for Barney this week. He'd already been to the Dusty Gulch Nerd Convention last weekend and stocked up on enough action, adventure and feats of near-reason to last him at least as long as Agnes's trek through the desert lasted.

That's what he hoped, anyway.

She'd set out eight days ago, eight months after they'd first met at the wedding of Buck's second cousin Wilf and his fiancee who Barney couldn't 'member the name of. But he sure 'membered his first glimpse of Agnes, in her spirally, poofy dress and the way she tossed back the moonshine like no other and how she picked up all Wilf's second and third cousins' chilluns and heaved and hefted them about - landsakes, what a set of arms and her legs were pretty fine too. Barney had never seen such a woman before and knew right away he'd never see one like her again neither.

But that was then and this is now and the last he'd seen of Agnes were the rear of that poofy dress as she headed out into the desert and became a silhouette, then a snaky shimmer like a heatwave, then nothing at all as the blue air and yellow sand swallowed her up and she were gone. He kept watchin' for a while after that, but he din't make a move to follow - he'd promised her, after all. This was her desert trek, her very own, and no other guy or gal could help her find the Magic Cactus she were lookin' for. Barney could have drawn her a map, you see, but that map would only point to where he found his Cactus, and she weren't lookin' in that direction besides.

Nope.

Lookin' somewhere else entirely.

Right, so like I was sayin', it were comics day, but Barney weren't goin' to the Dusty Gulch Pharmacy to drop his three bits and pick up a little excitement. No, he'd sit here with his back against the rusty wellpipe and eat salt and vinegar potato chips by hisself, leastwise 'til his horse was done at the dentist and it was time to go pick him up.

But jest then--

The wind stirred up. Pebbles bounced. Tumbleweeds tumbled.

And there, standin' before Barney as it had nigh on a year ago, and still as big as it were back then ('cept mebbe a little duller on those sharp shoulders and spiky feet, but that could jest be the light) were the Mega-Nega. All 10 foot and some 'a it, all slimy and gross and fulla things that could scrape ya somethin' good if you got too close - 'cause the Mega-Nega, see, it might be ugly and mean and all that, but it loved hugs as much as the resta us and if it got a chance to come close enough, it'd hug you so tight it ain't never lettin' go. Barney knew that good.

The Mega-Nega laughed. It had a habit of spittin' when it laughed, so Barney got a couple drops a' the stuff on his nose (which were the first part of him that got anything on it, stickin' out as much as it did from the resta him).

That Mega-Nega spit sure did sting.

"Go away," said Barney, wipin' his nose.

"Why should I do that? It's much nicer here. And you look like you need a hug!"

"Not from you I sure dain't," Barney said, tryin' not to look at the Mega-Nega. If you stared at it long enough, you noticed its eyes were really deep, like this water in a dark pond with lots of other stuff underneath, and wouldn't it be neat to go down there and see what that water's surface was hidin'? Jest dip your toe in a bit, or mebbe both feet, and walk down a ways, mebbe waist-level, see, and then sheesh, before ya knew it you were swimmin' in there and even though it were cold, it weren't so bad and you got used to it anyway. Soon enough, you was one of those things under the surface of the water, and jest as hidden too. Jest as neat to look at from far away, which is exactly what Barney were tryin' not to do.

"Who else is going to hug you?" said the Mega-Nega, and even though it were only sayin' somethin', it sure felt like maybe the Mega-Nega were touchin' him.

"Don't need no hugs today," insisted Barney. "Goan be jest fine."

"Where's your horse? He leave you too?" asked the Mega-Nega. Barney weren't lookin', but he could sorta see the thing were standin' a bit closer to him now. There were a hairy tentacle at the corner of his eye, flippin' around some, and mebbe he should get up off the dirt and get his back away from that rusty wellpipe. But it were hot out today, and he liked the chill on his back. Better than salt and vinegar chips even.

Din't matter. That were definitely a hairy tentacle comin' closer.

Barney rose and stumbled back a ways. Dropped his chip bag too.

No comics today. Not today.

"Hey Barney," oozed the Mega-Nega. "There's no Magic Cactus out there for her. And this desert's biiig. She'll be searching forever and you won't see that spirally poofy dress again, not even the back of it. You better forget you ever saw it in the first place."

"No," said Barney, but he din't sound too sure of himself. He wanted to keep moving backward, but it were hard to go anywhere when you was doin' yer best not to really look at anything. He put a hand on the rusty wellpipe but it weren't cold no more. It were burnin' hot and he had to take his hand away. Did the Mega-Nega do that to the pipe? It had lots of powers. Mebbe this were one Barney din't know about yet.

He were rackin' his brain for the right fighting technique here. Should he try to drop-kick the Mega-Nega? Nope, it were taller than 'im. What about a body-slam? Dunna think so. That would mean he'd need to pick the thing up, and once his arms was around it, the Mega-Nega would start its tight huggin', the won't-let-go huggin', and that would be that. Mebbe he could trip it, and it would fall on its mean, mean face and maybe choke on its own stingy spit, which were still flyin', I should mention, every time it said one of its awful words.

Barney's friend Scosst from Ancient Rome Arenas could fight the Mega. Even clumsy Buck would stand a chance with his five-shooter. And Zynacor, if she were watchin', she'd come down from the clouds up there and give Barney a big knife or somethin', to chop up that hairy tentacle. But ain't none of them here. Just Barney, a rusty wellpipe, and a spilled bag of potato chips. No comics at all.

The Mega-Nega opened its arms. Barney had to think fast.

Fighting Fantasy

Recently, my dear friend Mike gave me the smackdown for pointing to other folks' hosted images on their respective sites in this blog and on my own website. As always, his argument was well-reasoned and delivered with precision and tact.

Nonetheless, I felt crappy and was turned off posting for a while.

I plan to address Mike's comments in a future post, but for now (and to appease his misgivings), I present an IMAGE-FREE post with the help of my dear friend Dave.

It's more silly fantasy one-upmanship, so if that fails to crank your turn, do come back another time.

Below, Dave's bold and I, not.

Opening Swipes

REPLENISH YOUR MANA!

SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY APPLIED FORTITUDE.

MY VITALITY RATING ALLOWS ME TO DRINK AT THE BAR LONGER THAN YOU CAN!

CLEARLY YOU WILL CAPITULATE UNDER THE FORCE OF MY DESCENDING RAZORED PIKE.

AN ADDITIONAL STRENGTH POINT ENABLES ME 12 MORE POUNDS OF UNENCUMBERED LOAD BEARING!

FIFTEEN PENALTIES TO YOUR INITIATIVE ENSURE A SUCCESSFUL COLLISION OF MY BURNISHED STEEL WITH YOUR FILTH-PEBBLED CHIN.

YOUR MODERATE DEXTERITY IS NOT ENOUGH TO AVOID HURLED POISON DARTS TO YOUR LOWER ABDOMEN AND SIDE!

A SIMPLE APPLICATION OF MY ACCUMULATED AGILITY BONUSES AFFORDS ME AN EXCELLENT EVASIVE TECHNIQUE THAT STILL MANAGES TO EFFECT SIGNIFICANT DAMAGE TO YOUR AGGREGATE SELF-WORTH.

THE STACKING MODIFIERS TO MY DODGE MANEUVER ALLOW FOR A GRACEFUL BACKWARDS ROLL OVER YOUR CLOVEN HEAD TO THE RELATIVE SAFETY OF RESPITE CLOISTER.

MULTIPLE FLURRIES OF DAMNING BLOWS REVERBERATE AGAINST YOUR CRANIUM AS I UNLEASH "RAMPANT BLUDGEONING" WITH SAVING THROW.

I PERFECTLY EXECUTE THE "DOWNWARD SLASHING" TECHNIQUE, WITH MODIFIER, AFFORDED BY MY "RING OF AGGRESSION", SUCCESSFULLY ROUTING YOU BACK TO THE DURANCE OF BLOOD FLESH.

I TUMBLE TO THE SIDE WITH INCREASED ATHLETICS, SORTING OUT YOUR INNER ORGANS AS I PRY THEM ALL AT ONCE FROM YOUR GAPING GULLET, FOREMOST RUINED EFFORTLESSLY WITH A FEW FLICKS OF MY STILETTO DAMPENING HATRED PROTRUSIONS.

Reconsidered Tactics

FIVE ADVENTURERS MET A SWIFT END IN THE BLAUDDENS' EMPORIUM OF MEATS.

THE TROLLS DESCENDED AT MEANS END.

THREE UNWORTHY KOBOLDS BICKER.

SEVERAL FARMERS FARM.

A GATHERING OF ORCS WRESTLE WITH VARIOUS CONCEPTS.

FIFTY DRAGONS CONSIDER RETIREMENT.

THE YELLOWED CYCLOPS SITTING DEJECTED AND FORELORN; SNIFFLES SLIGHTLY.

PRINCESS ALLEMIEN FELT A RUSH OF PITY AT VIEWING THE DOMESTICATED BASILISK.

THE ORC LEADER WAS GIVEN PAUSE WHILE OBSERVING THE DEATH PIT FROM ABOVE. THIS WASN'T THE ANSWER AT ALL!

THE TIRED OGRE PERUSED HIS BOUND VICTIMS. HE REALLY WASN'T UP TO EVISCERATION TONIGHT.

THE GRYPHON PECKED LISTLESSLY AT THE CAPTIVE BUGBEAR. THIS REPETITIVE ROUTINE WAS ALL IT HAD LEFT.

AFTER A FORTNIGHT OF CAREFUL CONSIDERATION, SIR BALLYHOO TOSSED HIS GRAPPLING HOOK OVER THE MOAT AND ONTO YON RAMPART.

THE FOUR ORC CAPTAINS KNEW THE PRICE WOULD BE THEIR SCALPS IF EVER THEIR HAIKU CLUB WERE REVEALED TO THE TRIBE.

TAKING A DEEP BREATH, THE FUZZY BLOODWORM SLOPPED TOWARD HIS INTENDED MATE. WOULD THE EXPENSIVE EROGENOUS POLLEN DO WELL BY HIM THIS DAY?

THE OCHRE JELLY KNEW WELL THE REPERCUSSIONS OF DIGESTING ONE OF ITS OWN HIVE AND WOULD HAVE CURSED THE TRANSLUCENCY OF ITS OWN FORM HAD IT ONLY A MOUTH TO DO SO.

The Final Round

AS CLOSE TO FIERCELY AS POSSIBLE, THE UNDERAGE PIXIE LIFTED THE DOUBLE-HANDED AXE, CERTAIN HER INSOLENCE WOULD NOT GO UNPUNISHED.

THE MOVEMENTS OF THE CYCLOPS SLOWED, THE RUDE CLUB LOWERED AS HIS MILKY, CATARACT-ORB SCANNED THE ONCE BUSTLING GNOME VILLAGE. THE SMALL VALLEY WAS A RIOT OF TWISTED ABODES AND FLATTENED TINYLINGS. ONLY THE OCCASIONAL ONE TWITCHED STILL AND A TWINGE OF REGRET TICKLED AT THE MOUTH OF THIS BEHEMOTH. A SUBTLE FEELING HE COULD NOT PINPOINT NOR FINGER THE CAUSE OF. IT WAS OVER.

THE PROUD GRYPHON WOULD NOT STOOP TO CONSUMING THE POORLY-DRESSED NOBLE. TO HADES WITH THIS LOW-BORN SCHLEP. IT WAS BENEATH HIM.

THE BEHOLDER HOVERED QUIETLY IN THE GLOOM, KNOWING WELL HE WOULD NOT BE SPOTTED BY WARY ADVENTURERS INVADING HIS LAIR EVEN NOW! THE FIGHT HAD LEFT HIM AFTER NEWS OF HIS ACUTE ASTIGMATISM.

THE RAZORED TITMOUSE BURROWED UP SIR BALLYWOGGLE, MAKING THE TRANSITION FROM TROUSERS TO INTESTINES WITH A FAIRLY EXPEDITED SNIP AND TUCK.

Post-mortem: I'm not sure who won.