Alter Ego Blues

I don't believe in wishes. But I don't disbelieve in them either. That's why I agreed to put up one of you-know-who's latest digital paintings here at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Plus, the old semi-retired video maker and semi-retired blogger and semi-retired science fiction author slid a crisp Solar Sawbuck under my nearly empty schooner of Buxx Brew, the malt beverage that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine. We drink it to maintain our dignity when it's clearly at risk and for no other reason.

Then the old codger had the gall to chide me for drinking Buxx Brew on a weekday. He said lounge lizardry was only dangerous on the weekends and that women who pop into a classy place like the Lounge on a Monday night were worth taking seriously. Then he bought me a double shot of think-a-hol and a big-ass bubbly chaser. Then he started talking to the attractive woman on my right, the one I had my eye on.

And that's when I spilled the rest of my Buxx Brew on him and he left in a big huff. Then the babe he left behind said she thought men who spill drinks all over the place are typically too drunk to engage anyone in any kind of meaningful conversation. Then I left in a big huff. But, I was still ten solar dollars richer.

Don't Burn After Reading

Think-A-Holic Art

This past Friday, the Wonderful Wizard of Windows Movie Maker — the me on your side of the looking glass — informed me that he had a new hobby. Painting with a mouse. After I picked myself up off the floor where I'd fallen in a sudden, uncontrollable fit of hysterical laughter, I offered to buy the artist a drink. But he declined.

He cited various reasons for not drinking while I yawned and looked at my wristwatch and then he asked me to post his second painting on my blog. Without even thinking, I said, "No." Then he pulled a fiver out of his micro-thin wallet and I fell for the old greased-palm bit hook, line and sinker. Well, I drank up that fiver in about a half hour but I feel better about myself somehow. For some embarrassingly unexplainable reason that I'd rather not go into. If you get my drift. 

The Secret Room Part 3

concluding this little story... Let me begin by saying that I'd originally planned to finish this little serial-post deal last month, the story about the new Secret Room that Think-A-Holic Lounge added on behind my back last summer. But I was way too busy having a life of my own.

Excuse me all to hell and back, but two pigs playing tic-tac-toe with one another on their own, high-end. state-of-the-art personal computers with big-ass plasma screens and built in quadrastereo didn't make me want to lay a bet on the outcome. Not at first. But later I just had to.

It just so happened that the pinkest pig won seven out of the ten games I was forced to watch. I was forced to watch and participate in illegal sports betting by Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a 400-year-old Scottish poet) because he ran out of money so we went halfers and then we split our winnings. 

The fact that the pinkest pig won the tournament meant nothing scientifically because Angus told me that the paler pig won seven out of ten games of tic-tac-toe last week on Saturn. But that meant absolutely nothing to me, either, because they toss their senators around on Saturn every weekend on The Saturn Outernet and then nuns from Uranus bowl for dollars, unless the Outernet managed to hijack a Mexican soap from Earth.

It's all illegal and all crooked. Nothing but a bunch of attention-getters grabbing glory for a group of greased palms. The nuns, by the way, have to wait their turn as the third most popular sports show on The Saturn Outernet, after Pig Tic-Tac-Toe and Saturn Senator Tossing. Don't ask me why. I'd rather see a happy nun bowl for fun and glory anyday.

The pigs are from Earth and they play mostly for food and then for attention. But the most popular pig sport in this part of the space-time continuum is Pig Soccer, also from Earth. Another pig sport that's only popular because it's illegal and only illegal because of illegal sports betting.  Angus and I were up seven Solar Quid by the time the pigs keeled over from exhaustion. Afterward, Angus had to throw the other betters out on their ears for trying to welch on their bets.

Seven Solar Quid notes don't divide evenly so Angus took four and I got three. Then I really had to pee like a Russian bull so that's what I did. Well, that's the end of this sad but exciting story and if I ever see another peephole in a door anywhere I'll just pretend that I have to go to the bathroom so bad that I can't take the time to check it out. Then I'll just run in the opposite direction and never look back. Three Solar Quid might buy a lot of think-a-hol and big-ass bubbly chasers but I'll be hearing pigs squealing and stomping and grunting in my sleep for years. You know, it serves me right.