I asked Bunny, and this is what she responded with --

Okay.

Any of these float your boat?

What do you guys think? Should I go with some of these ideas? Have any other ones? Let me know. Maybe I'll use it. Maybe I'll call you a retard and take a dump on your laptop. I'm not sure; the world is full of maybes.

Oh, and I'm still working on part 3 of Ginsanity. Be patient, that shit is hard to write.

~Apparently you guys are really digging Ginsanity and that rules. I'm steadily working on it, but it's a slow write so be patient with me. Delving into psychosis isn't exactly like doing the dishes.

~In other best friend news, Teddy (also from a ton of my stories, also an artist) is working with our mutual friend Pete to illustrate a bunch of my stories. They're starting with And the Names of the Colossi were Lucifer and Bone Saw and are going to work their way through to my most current multi-part entry, Ginsanity. It's going to be awesome. I'll keep you posted as to when the illustrations are added as they it comes.

~Remember when I was half-jokingly requesting one of you people to buy me a Wii and Mario Kart and mail it to my house? Well somebody actually did and that shit is way too much fun. I'll let you all know when I hook this bitch up to the Internet so I can fuck-start all of your Mii heads with my racing prowess.

"Um, sorry...guy. I didn't do that on purpose. My hand just flung out. I wasn't looking."

"I can't believe you just did that. I - I don't even know what to say. You just grabbed my dick."

"Well, I...uh..."

"I don't care if you're gay or whatever, but do you normally just molest dudes dicks and hope one out of ten enjoys it? Where is your gay-dar? This is a sports bar, not the fucking Man Hole. Why did you just do that?"

"Hey. I'm not gay, pal."

"Aren't bears supposed to stick to their own kind?"

"What?"

"You didn't just tap me or graze me accidentally; you deliberately cupped my cock and my balls with your hand. You cupped and lifted. Was I really just sexually assaulted by Victor French? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Look pal. I --"

"What did you expect to happen? Did you expect me to turn around and giggle? Should I enjoy some ZZ Top looking mother fucker groping my junk? What the fuck is wrong with you?! I should fucking knock you out."

"Hey. No need to cause a scene."

"CAUSE A SCENE?!? YOU GRABBED MY DICK -- ON PURPOSE!!! EVERYBODY!!! EVERYBODY LOOK OVER HERE!!! KING SOLOMON OVER HERE JUST MAN HANDLED MY FUCKING PENIS!!! HE JUST STUCK HIS HAND OUT AND MOLESTED ME!!! HE DOESN'T WANT TO CAUSE A SCENE, THOUGH!!! LET'S ALL JUST LOOK THE OTHER WAY WHILE SEX OFFENDER SANTA GRABS DUDE CROTCH ALL NIGHT!!!" NO BIG DEAL!!!"

"...I can't believe you just did that. There's no way I can stay here now."

"That was the plan. See ya later, you fucking rapist. Keep in touch..."

I thought for a while about how I wanted to start this off, and I think it'll be most appropriate for me to do that by giving you a glimpse of a screenplay I've been working on for a while. Actually, it's the first screenplay I ever started working on, so excuse the glaring format errors. I thought I captured the situation pretty well in this clipping, and besides...it's a story about how I went off the deep end -- A little medium hopping probably compliments the subject matter. The rest of the entry will be in my typical short story format.

"Mike, it's Suzie. I just wanted to let you know that, well...my period stopped yesterday - - click"

My phone hit the bed before I even hit "end". The robotic voice muffled by my comforter rattled off options to save or delete my new message as immediate, acute panic set in; the kind of panic that would send you climbing up the walls of an impossible crevice you've just fallen into, fully well knowing that you're going to tear every one of your fingernails out in the process. The fear caused my heart to beat erratically. My breathing became irregular and the newly familiar signs of an impending anxiety attack ravaged my consciousness, tunnel vision and the whole shebang.

I am not ready for this. I am not ready for this at all.

"Unfortunately, UTZ chips are nowhere to be found out here on the west coast.

So I took your advice and ordered a couple bags of Crab Chips from UTZ online.

Fucking A Right those are the best chips ever. Those first 2 bags lasted a day & a half.

I just ordered a 60-snack-pack of them so they will last until maybe June. The second you swallow one of those little fuckers its like your hand just begins searching for another.

I will be forever indebted to you and your infinite chip wisdom."

***

Hi Mike

I have no idea whether or not you regularly check your messages here or on your main site, but I thought I'd throw out a note on the off chance you'll read it one of these days.

I've been reading your posts since I discovered you through tuckermax. com, and I have been consistently impressed -- no, that's the wrong word. I've been writing for years and have constantly struggled with the great Catch 22 of writers everywhere -- making money versus doing what you're driven to do. I know good and damn well that writing in any capacity, be it prose, poetry, music, whatever, doesn't pay the bills unless you happen to be very talented and very lucky. I just spent the last five years in university for an English degree because I hoped I would be able to delude myself into believing that a professorship would provide for me the best of both worlds -- the ability to be on stage in front of an audience (my first love), the ability to write and effectively be paid for my writing, and the ability to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. More recently I've come to the realization that all of my work in the last five years more or less amounts to cognitive dissonance on my part -- I have been following this path to please other people, and not myself. I love to write; I want to write and perform for a living, and the more distance I gain from my soul-crushing experiences in academia, the more I realize that I'm called to a path that doesn't conform to the standards of normalcy and responsibility embraced by those around me.

Your work: the honesty with which you present yourself through your prose, the unflinchingly expository nature of your serious writings and the hardened (and hilarious) cynicism of your humourous work, and the sheer fact that you're actually DOING it (probably despite the "better judgment" of those around you) has provided me with a lot of inspiration and a lot of hope for my own potential career.

I'm sure you hear this a lot, and undoubtably it's all deserved praise, but I wanted to express how much I've gained personally and professionally from reading your work and following your exploits throughout the last couple of years. I'm deeply indebted to you, and even if you never read this message, I hope you will come to realize the positive effect you have on people like me the world over.

I wish you all the very best in your endeavours, and please (if you'll forgive the cliche) keep up the good work.

***
* = Seriously, one of you needs to buy me a fucking Wii. I'm not even joking. You're all going to be bummed out when I go to jail for starting a meth lab and I can't write anymore, just because I wanted enough extra money to buy a silly little video game system. None of you would be able to live with that guilt.

Stay tuned, you fucking ruffians.

If I've learned anything about myself over the years, it's that I don't like things that go out with a whimper. I'd rather get into a car accident than run out of gas. I like a meal to be served all at once as opposed to set courses. If I won the lottery, I would take the lump sum without hesitation. The same goes for my friendships; you're either my friend or you're not. I can't sit back and be OK with a great buddy becoming a fair weather acquaintance over time like a normal person. I'd rather cut things off at the quick than let personal relationships dwindle into toxicity. I'm anxiously impatient and I need immediate closure in conflicts so I can focus on other things besides those conflicts. That's just the barbed tail of the Great Dysfunction of Mike. That's part of who I am.

I was hanging out with my friend last night and she bought a bag because they looked funny and they were only $0.99. I was embarrassed for her to even bring them to the counter with me. Crab chips? Jesus, we're those people. The people that wear house shoes and sweatpants and buy pickled eggs and pork rinds at the convenience store. Where did I take a wrong turn in life? I threw my Slim Jim by the register and turned around as she paid.

The first thing we did was open the bag of crab chips as soon as we left the store. I took a bite of one, and I was less than impressed. I was happy that it didn't actually taste like crap dust, but it was very spicy and a little too salty all on a lackluster, paper thin potato chip. Then I had another. After that second chip, I knew that Utz Crab Chips were an acquired taste, kind of like pate or kim chi. I had another. And another. My eyes lit up. Before I knew it I was elbow deep, furiously fist fucking a plastic bag of heavily seasoned potato chips like there was a million dollar check made out to "cash" stuffed into its cervix.

It's been 12 hours since I left that store and I am eating my second bag of crab chips. The sides of my running shorts are covered in Chesapeake Bay crab seasoning because I couldn't wait to change before I tore into them and I can't stop stuffing my face while I'm on the computer and I don't want to get the keys messy.

Your homework assignment for tonight is to go out, buy a bag of Utz Crap Chips and tell us what you think of them. If you love them like I do, you're welcome. If you don't? It's a ninety nine cent bag of potato chips, Schpinkleburg.

~KungFu Mike