Big Breaking Beer News

When I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge this afternoon like I owned the place (one of my favorite things to do) there was only one stool left at the bar and I hopped right on it without hesitation. The TV set that normally plays hacker videos and illegal sports like senator tossing on Saturn and nuns bowling for dollars on Uranus was broadcasting a Breaking News report from a pirate TV station on Earth.

Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, refused to record the broadcast for fear of losing his bartender's license. That's right, you gotta be licensed to serve think-a-hol and other think-a-holic beverages in this part of the space-time continuum. But he did manage to write down the URL for the Internet news story, the source for this pirate TV broadcast. I had to slip the old beady-eyed bugger a solar fin for the address so I could put it into this story. Click on the TV image for the story.

We Lounge regulars are crying in our own beer and suffering from big-ass sympathy pains for every Russian beer drinker affected by this new law. It's the least we can do. Now Mum's the word on this shit or I'll find a way to sic that Earthling broadcaster on you. I hear he eats scorching buffalo wings for breakfast. So there you go.

Holiday Cheer

The Secret Room Part 2

Continuing with this little story... About three weeks ago I found myself at Think-A-Holic Lounge again after a long summer absence. I was on my way to the male species room for a little relief when I decided to lift the lid on the peephole they installed on the door to that new back room here at the Lounge. The hair that's left on my head stood straight up and I got goose pimples all over my hairy arms when I saw what was causing all that pig-like squealing and snorting and those creepy undertones of what I thought were illegal sports betters making cute, innocent pigs fight one another for sick fun and profit.

Well, to make a long story short, the snorting and squealing was coming from pigs. Two of them, in fact. And the unmistakable sound of gambling junkies in a secret room placing bets on illegal sports action was, indeed, the sound of our big-ass head bartender Angus McCloud and a handful of regular Lounge lizards. Their fists were full of solar dollars and solar fins and solar sawbucks and I even saw an occasional Intergalactic Quid note being peeled off big fat bill rolls. They muttered and blabbed and barked out new bets to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

But the pigs — two pale-pink, full-grown, big-ass bacon makers — weren't going at each other with hoofs and snouts and teeth. Nossir. They were both sitting on their haunches in front of their own personal computer with a big-ass plasma screen and specially made keyboard with only five keys on it. That's when I saw a big brown eyeball staring back at me through the peephole and the door was opened by Angus McCloud himself.

"Got money?" he said, pulling me into the dimly-lit back room. Before I could reply, he closed the door and locked it. Then he flipped the peephole lid back down and led me to the betting table.

to be continued...  

Stealing My Thunder

It's no big deal but I have made a few bucks peddling my novella on the Internet. When Michael Casher gets paid by Amazon.com for ebook sales I eventually get a piece of that action if anyone bought any Kindle copies of Blind Fool Running. Michael's never stiffed me yet. So, naturally, when the old indie author got his first royalty check from his publisher today I'll get a piece of that action if anyone bought the paperback edition of my novella at either Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com or Lulu.com. As a matter of fact, I moseyed on down to the Lounge tonight to blab about it but I immediately saw that someone had beaten me to the draw.

I wouldn't mind so much if the real Michael Casher had gotten to the soapbox here first but it wasn't him. The joker in question (see pic) doesn't have the trademark Vineyard ball cap on his head but under what looks like an English snap brim cap just has to be the face of The Author From Another World. I can't wait for Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet, to throw the otherworldly bum out on his keister. Of all the unmitigated gall (I always liked that worn-out phrase). There's more to this Author From Another World royalty deal than meets the eye. I'd bet a solar sawbuck on it.

Man, the things you see on this side of the space-time continuum. No wonder I stay on my side of the looking-glass most of the time. The other side is just too unpredictable and way too scary.   

Cosmic Power Balls Warning

Warning to Powerful Earth MenFrom The Big Black Hole of Hell

The Secret Room Part 1

Now that summer's a distant speck in my rearview mirror, I was eager for a little diversion the other night so I moseyed on down to Think-A-Holic Lounge for a quick belt of think-a-hol and a refreshing bubbly chaser. I'm trying not to think about Hurricane Sandy and the American 2012 Presidential Election that's finally over and done with. That's reality. I mosey on down to Think-A-Holic Lounge to escape from reality. Especially since two chapters of my latest novella manuscript mysteriously disappeared a couple weeks ago, leaving me with the option to either eighty-six the whole project or face a grueling rewrite of thirty pages from memory. Only time will tell.

Anyway, after I'd slugged down two shots of the ol' elixir and two bubbly chasers and made sure to totally avoid imbibing that overpriced think-a-hol knockoff they call Death-A-Hol, I headed to the male species room for some relief. That's when I spotted the door to the new back room they added since I was last in here. I immediately suspected that an illegal poker game was probably in progress in there or maybe a little senator tossing tournament on the Saturn Outernet or maybe some nuns from Uranus were bowling for dollars (highly illegal on Uranus) but there was no TV sound at all coming from the back room.

I had to go like the proverbial Russian bull but I decided to indulge my curiosity for a minute because my curiosity was bigger than my urge to go. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like pigs squealing and snorting and squealing and then some muffled voices and then more squealing and snorting. My scalp snapped back and the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up as I entertained terrible notions of animal torture and illegal sports betting. I wanted to run but I held my ground. There was a little peephole lid on the door and I had no qualms whatsoever about lifting the lid and taking a peek. If people want to put up a peephole they'd better be ready for Peeping Toms, that's how I looked at it. But I was in for a big surprise.

to be continued...

A Message From Hell

World War 3.1

Jonco Bugos: Through the Looking-Glass

Put On Your Thinking Cap

Click on Picture

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Author's Note 8-9-12: this video was changed from an uploaded Blogger video to a YouTube embedded video in order to enhance the viewing experience and for better playing performance on this blog.

If you've been following my barstool journal on a fairly regular basis, you know that Fred Fortune cancelled the contract that the Fred & Red comedy team signed last year with Think-A-Holic Lounge before they even did their first gig here. Fred nipped their Lounge opening in the bud because he found out that it was Angus McCloud (our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet) who had reported Fred Fortune to the Pluto Police way back in Earth Year 2008.

When Red got a job as emcee at Retro Comic Spotlight earlier this year, Fred decided to go solo at The Red Room in underground Cydonia. Naturally, the left TV at Think-A-Holic Lounge (the one that normally broadcasts hacker podcasts) picked up Fred's Nightclub Debut and began broadcasting it every hour. Today, when I waltzed into the Lounge like I owned the place (something I really love to do), I saw that the entire lunch crowd was watching Fred's comedy routine. If a comedy act stinks to high heaven it always goes over really big at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Don't ask me why.

Hacker From Hell

This past Wednesday I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge and bellied up to the bar like I owned the place. Our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud, always gets a kick out of the way I let on like I'm this big-time author from Earth and he usually sets me right up with a shot of think-a-hol and a cold, bubbly chaser. Today was no exception.

As soon as my butt hit my favorite barstool the left TV — the one that shows hacker videos instead of Mexican soaps and illegal sports — began airing this disturbing video. After it aired I asked ol' Angus to set me up with a double shot of Death-A-Hol instead and no bubbly chaser. Then I asked him to turn off the left TV and turn on the regular one.

After seeing an independent author reaching out to the entire universe from Hell, I preferred to watch Saturnites toss their senators around or watch nuns on Uranus bowl for dollars. Watching illegal sports is always a lot less disturbing than seeing your own fate played out before you in living color.

The Square Root of Infinity

...concluding this little story...

The little bubble-headed alien told me what his name was but I couldn't pronounce it. He told me that was because I had a tongue which was, in his estimations, the biggest barrier to speaking the language of outer space, in addition to speaking the truth. I let his snide remark slide as we began our descent.

"Where is this place?" he asked in utter amazement as we both stared out the front porthole of his little starship. "This isn't the same Earth that we used to visit and monkey around with ."

"Well," I said, not surprised by the sudden time shift and unpredictable turn of events, including this bubble-head's spontaneous confession, "it used to be."

And then we exited the roving wormhole and landed.

Close Encounters of the Square Root Kind

...continuing with this little story...

I started the weekend a little early last weekend. Last Wednesday night (it was actually wee-hours Thursday morning), I stumbled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge for the "umpteenth time squared" (actually, it was more like the square root of infinity) full of Death-A-Hol and pleasant thoughts about immortality when this flying saucer appeared out of nowhere and hovered above the nearly-empty parking lot. A green beam of light shot out of the bottom of the spacecraft and produced a little bubble-headed biped.

"Take me to your leader," said the creature in the green beam of light. His voice sounded bot-like and mechanical.

"Oh, really?" I said, with a flippant attitude that would have gotten most people ray-gunned into flaming skeletons. But not me. I felt invincible and stood my ground. "You mean you don't want to take me aboard your evil starship and open me up to see what makes me tick?"

"Been there and done that," replied the alien, in his own flip manner. "Besides, I already know what makes you tick. Now, are you going to take me to your leader or do I have to ask somebody else's alter ego to take me?"

"No problem, pal," I responded with more complacency than excitement. Bubble-headed aliens are a dime a dozen in this part of the space-time continuum, so this joker wasn't doing me any big favor. On the other hand, I was tired of just going home every night and listening to classic "soft rock" on old vinyl LPs— like Simon & Garfunkel and The Mamas and the Pappas — and sipping hot cocoa. So, I was up for just about anything.

"Do you have transportation?" it said to me in a serious tone that made me think twice about needing a little diversion.

"No," I replied, still flip as hell. I figured why not push the interactive envelope? I had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. "No, mine's still in the shop. We'll have to take yours." A big smile crossed the extraterrestrial's little mouth that seemed more like a leer than a smile, but I was still up for adventure and for even kicking some alien butt, if it came to that.

"OK, then," he said, stepping aside to let me into the green light.


"I don't know if you'll like our leader," I confessed, "but the crazy old son-of-a-bitch is all we have." I figured honesty was the best policy when you're dealing with aliens who can beam your ass off a tavern parking lot in the middle of the night without even blinking an eye.

And then we were beamed aboard.

this story to be continued...

Seeing is Believing

As most of you know, Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time at Think-A-Holic Lounge. The place is virtually empty then and the sun's usually shining outside and most of the world's at work. That's mainly why I mosey on down to the Lounge every Wednesday. Because, when most people are out running things or being run by things, I'm hiding out. And enjoying my favorite beverages while watching the ol' Boob Tube. A combination you just can't beat.

Today I asked Angus McCloud — our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet — to turn on the new TV set. The one that shows "hacker videos" instead of the regular lineup of sports and game shows and beer commercials and those hot Mexican soaps that are so addictive.

We were in luck. A commercial for Angus McCloud's own invention — Death-A-Hol — had just begun airing. I asked ol' Angus who did the commercial and how he got it on TV in the first place.

"It don't matter," the ugly old spook chuckled, enjoying his recreational use of bad English, "if it's on TV, it's real, don't you know?" I knew he was hiding something but I didn't feel up to the pursuit.

"Oh, I believe it, all right," I replied with a loud sigh and then I tossed back a whole double shot of the less-popular think-a-hol, the elixir that makes you think and a product that's never been advertised on TV and probably never will be. I knew packaging rules the beverage industry, just like every other industry.

"Death-A-Hol is already a marketing success," Angus cooed, interrupting my thoughts and making me want to bounce the empty shot glass off the back of his homely head. But, I didn't. Instead, I ordered a single shot of Death-A-Hol, which is nothing but think-a-hol under a different label.

As I sipped the greenish liquid, I had to remind myself that it was only the original, amber-colored think-a-hol with blue food coloring added. But, at a premium price, mind you. Besides, I was drinking what I was seeing on TV. So, who cares? Suddenly, and in spite of my own better judgment, I felt less like Michael Casher's alter ego and more like the Real McCoy.

"Barkeep!" I shouted at the back of Angus McCloud's big-ass head. "More Death-A-Hol! And don't stop bringing it."

this story to be continued...

Transmission 6002020206

Related 6002020206 Links:

Little Green Man from Mars by Michael Casher

Little Green Man from Mars — the book video

25 Words or Less: 6002020206 

This week, nobody was watching the regular TV set at the Lounge. As a matter of fact, it was turned completely off because everybody was hovering around this new TV set, the one that shows hacker videos from outer space (as if the Lounge isn't already in outer space). Oh, well.

This video was the scariest one of all. Maybe it's because there are so many P.O.D. authors among our regular patrons. That means the astral bodies or the dreaming selves or the disenfranchised spirits of those authors. For us — the real outcasts in the publishing underworld — this video was even scarier than the movie The Exorcist. Why? Because when the devil does D.C. in real life, sooner or later he leaves.

Astral Feedback

Wow, the left TV set seems to be a hot item this week. But, hey, just when I felt like standing up and shouting to the TV screen, "You go, guy!" (or something to that effect) that screaming chipmunk voice kept me from even wanting to show my face around here.

But, you gotta give The Author From Another World some credit. Those Grays don't seem to scare him one damn bit. In fact, I think it might be the other way around.

...insertfeedhere...

Our regular Bar TV sits on a high shelf on the right side of the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge and always has, as long as I've been imbibing think-a-hol here, with lots of bubbly chasers, of course. Now there's a new TV set on the left side of that high shelf. What do we get on that TV? Podcasts. Or something like podcasts. But more like video hackers having their say.

Don't laugh. This junk's a lot better than the tripe on the regular TV set. Except, of course, when they broadcast another one of those Senator-Tossing tournaments from Saturn or one of those extreme fighting events between male and female homonoids. Then the regular set is my favorite. Oh yeah, we still don't know what planet broadcasts that disturbing, but highly-addictive, stuff but the scuttlebutt around here is that these broadcasts come from Earth. Wow, that doesn't surprise me one bit.

Anyway, I tried not to be disturbed by this so-called "Wanted" broadcast by the Grays. But, when they go after Michael Casher, I can't help but feel a little threatened, too.

Head Game

Even at the edge of the space-time continuum, where places like Think-A-Holic Lounge can exist without taking up any physical space in the universe, people know that nothing sells a product like its packaging. Even Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender (and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead poet from Scotland) knows that you can sell gullible people shit by the bucketful if you make it look like gourmet food.

Ol' Angus even went one step further than that this past week when he got the big, bright idea that think-a-hol wasn't selling as well as it should, like the "joy juice" everybody thought it was. Well, hell, I can tell you why it's not selling very well anymore. Think-a-hol was invented to make people think and it's quite obvious that thinking isn't much of a pastime anymore for anyone. Except for me, of course, and a handful of faithful regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge.

So, Angus came up with a little packaging gimmick this past week and, I've got to give the old spook credit, it seems to be a real winner. One of the local distillers of think-a-hol agreed to re-package his product in a black bottle with a brand-new new label on it (see pic).

It's the exact same think-a-hol elixir that all the distilleries on this side of the cosmos use, with a little something extra inside: blue food coloring, which makes the amber think-a-hol look like ghoulish, green "devil booze". None of us Lounge lizards can stomach the sight of the stuff or its dark-ass packaging but, ever since the repackaging deal, Death-A-Hol has become the number-one-selling elixir at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Go figure.

(I'd tell you why it's so popular and with whom, but I couldn't do that and keep a straight face.)