Grifter Goes Viral

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.)

Welcome To Our Cosmic Watering Hole

The Illuminati Lives!

Today was a rare day at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Hardly anybody showed up and we can't figure out why. Black Friday is over and done with, so people aren't shopping their heads off down on Earth, and the rest of the universe must be at home with the wife and kiddies or at home with the hubby and kiddlies or at home watching TV. What else do people do?

Anyway, Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet, found another rare video by SciFiFoFum so he and a handful of us regular lounge lizards watched it, over and over. We had to watch it over and over because we have no idea what it's really about. You know Earthlings. They'll do anything for the camera.

And, hey, before you get all bent out of shape about the title "The Illuminati Lives" because you're so damn sure that the word Illuminati is plural and should therefore require a verb that shows plurality, meaning "The Illuminati Live", let me enlighten you about another kind of plurality. In this case, the Illuminati is a group of people, not a bunch of Illuminatums. There are no such things as Illuminatums, to my knowledge.

But there is an Illuminati and it's not a word that any bestselling author invented. The Illuminati was here long before The New York Times Bestseller List and shlocky bestselling authors who are obsessed with antiquity and have a bug up their butts about the Roman Catholic Church.

So, pull your heads out of your butts or have a wee dram of think-a-hol, on me. Either one produces the same effect. Thinking. You can't beat it with a stick.

Because of the low volume in this "security video", headphones are recommended.

The Final Solution

Billy Blob

Friday nights at Think-A-Holic Lounge are just as notorious as Friday nights at most singles bars everywhere for expecting the unexpected. Back on Earth, people who've worked hard all week long like to let their hair down after the sun goes down and everybody expects that.

People want to act up or hook up or blow off some steam or just have fun after a week of hard work. Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. In fact, having no actual position in space makes this particular cosmic watering hole all the more interesting, if not downright dangerous at times. This past Friday night, Betelgeuse Time, one of those rare "Blob People" dropped in for a wee dram and a bubbly chaser. And, no doubt, to have a lot of fun at someone else's expense, naturally.

"What's your name?" it said to me as soon as it plopped down from out of nowhere right beside my half-full schooner of Buxx Brew, the solar suds that makes all females in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine. We drink it for our own good when the best time for "lounge lizardry" is not quite upon us.

Anyway, the blob thing's voice sounded more male than female and I reacted rather poorly to this sudden "blobby intrusion". But it wasn't because a blob person plopped down beside me. That happens all the time in cosmic watering holes, especially a hangout for publishing outcasts. POD authors like me are notorious for attracting more trouble than dollars. It's a known fact, even on Earth.

And I wasn't put off by the fact that a blob guy had plopped down beside me instead of a blob gal because they have no interest in the gender game the way we play it. Thank heavens for that. Their "unions" are more mental, if not spiritual, and that's truly remarkable in a species that still has to crawl on its belly. In fact, true blobs don't reproduce at all. They're all immortal and live forever. No, the reason I reacted poorly had to do with a rather unpleasant experience about two-and-half solar years ago.

"Before I answer that," I said, recovering from the unsettling notion that a security blob from the past had sought me out for more scrutiny, "are you in any way related to a blob named Oozee?"

"Nope," said the blob thing.

"You don't work for Angus, then?" I was determined to get to the bottom of this blasted blob business, once and for all.

"What's an Angus?" asked the blob guy.

"Never mind," I said, convinced that this new blob was not hired to see if I was stealing our big-ass bartender's precious tips. "I'm called Jonco Bugos." I wanted to shake hands but true blobs don't have any hands.

"Never heard of you," he said, probably meaning well, but the dig was in and it smarted a little. I let it slide.

"What's your name, pal?" I asked, feeling the think-a-hol I'd been knocking back starting to seethe up on me.

"Billy Blob," he said. "I'm looking for this blob gal they call Blobbie Betts. She's my steady gal blob but she thinks she can drop in any old place at any old time and I told her that's not what commitment is all about."

"Haven't seen her," I lied, when in fact I just saw Blobbie Betts bop out the back door a solar hour ago with this big dumb blob from out of town. "What you need, buddy, is a couple shots of think-a-hol and a big-ass schooner of Buxx Brew. Trust me, things'll look much better in the morning."

That seemed to perk Billy Blob right up and he even sprung for a big basket of scorching hot Buffalo Wings, which are about the only thing in the entire universe that's exactly the same in taverns all across the cosmos, no matter where or when you happen to drop in.

Mooned

I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge this afternoon like I owned the place, which was pretty easy because there was only one other customer at the bar, an indie author like me who cries in his beer every Wednesday afternoon. We never bothered to ask him why he cries in his beer. We know. Abysmal book sales, eBook lending to the point of piracy, copyright infringement, no fans, no followers and the list goes on and on. So, Angus and I indulge the poor bastard. It's the least we can do.

As I already told you before, Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time to be in the Lounge, mostly because I almost have the place to myself and, secondly, because I feel like a schoolboy playing hookey instead of sitting behind a desk somewhere taking a lot of guff from customers and co-workers or toting barges and lifting bails and all that workday rot. Plus, it gives me a quiet, semi-private place to cry in my beer.

I was just about to ask Angus McCloud — our bigass head bartender — when that Fred & Red comedy team from Mars would be doing their first gig here when Angus spilled the beans himself. He said Fred Fortune found out that Angus was the one who reported Fred to the Pluto police a couple space years back and Fred got mad and nixed their contract on the Lounge deal.

"So?" I didn't really give a hoot. I was in a funk about my eBook and that it only sold one copy so far. Besides, I think Fred & Red are funny but I can't stand looking at that goofy top hat and those outdated Jack E. Leonard glasses. I hear the nose is real and that's the only reason I never poked fun at the little homeless grifter.

"Well, there's more to it than that," Angus said out of the corner of his mouth. "The little prick mooned us. Mooned us all real good."

"Whattaya mean he mooned us?" I asked, not really interested.

"You'll see," he sighed. "Wait until after dark and then you'll see." Then the homely old spook lumbered over to the other indie author and poured him another cheap draft. Cheap is all we can afford these days.

I stumbled down the front steps around eight-thirty, full of happy thoughts again and when I looked up at the starless sky this is what I saw (see pic). I don't even want to know how he did it. All I know is that Fred Fortune will be two dirty words around Think-A-Holic Lounge from now on.

Rover

Things have been relatively quiet around here this summer. Because of all the security bots coming and going, there hasn't been a brawl at Think-A-Holic Lounge the entire summer. I hate to say it, but I'm a little bored and I could tell that Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, was just as bored, if not more.

I heard the scuttlebutt around here that Angus recently booked the comedy team Fred & Red from the planet Mars but, like most of the regular lounge lizards, I thought it was just cosmic legend. No one in their right mind would book a comedy team where one of the comics is the astral body of a dead insult comic who used to play the Catskills and the other half is a hobo from L.A. who spent the last couple years on Earth living in a rusty 1965 Rambler Ambassador.

Then reality hit me. Stranger things have happened. Who'd have ever thought that there'd be such a thing as "Reality TV" back on Earth, where bored couch potatoes watch other bored couch potatoes cook and clean and swap moms and remodel their suburban houses and bitch and fight with each other between commercials for consumer products for couch potatoes who watch "Reality TV"?

Who'd have guessed that parents would video their own kids falling off swings sets and cracking their skulls on diving boards and then sell those videos to TV moguls who'd air that shit as some kind of entertainment? Who'd have ever thought that videos of American dads taking footballs and baseballs and baseball bats in the balls would be entertainment for a jaded world gone mad with boredom from having way too much of everything for way too long?

But that happened. It all happened. And it's still happening. So, why should I be surprised when Angus McCloud, our overachieving head bartender who is also bored out of his spooky skull, went to the back room at Bots R U and purchased a roving worm hole (see starry pic, above right) on the celestial black market? Stranger things have happened. Like watching jailbird Martha Stewart emerge from prison as the new daytime heroine of American television.

This illegal black hole (see pic) is supposed to be some kind of a two-way corridor between this dimension and another dimension that allows the teaming up of a dead insult comic with a very alive social misfit and homeless shoplifter. No one at the Lounge has the courage to try the new wormhole. Angus nicknamed the thing "Rover" because it used to be a roving wormhole that the celestial entities who run planet Earth tamed for their own whimsical amusement.

I don't know about you but I think somebody should put a muzzle on "Rover" before somebody gets bitten.

Faces In The Crowd

Yesterday STEWED (the Space Tavern Employees Watchdog Entity Directive) allowed us to replace that old Comedy/Drama logo mask (see right pic) with a new one (see left pic). The other day, Michael Casher turned us down on our offer to make him our official mascot. He said just because he's trapped in the P.O.D. matrix was no reason to represent another bunch of P.O.D. outcasts.

But the pepper-tongued old recluse did agree, however, to let us use his trademark masks logo if we altered it beforehand to fit our "sorry-ass loser decor" (his words), here at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Then the P.O.D. S.O.B stole my design and made it his official logo. What are you gonna do?

If you're an alter ego of somebody with a big-ass ego, then you do what he says and learn to like it. The old POD poop said now that he's got his branding iron out he's not stopping until the smoke clears. So, as of yesterday, Michael Casher's brand is all over us. It still smarts a little but we'll get used to it.

That's right, the little POD Napoleon put his altered brand on all his blogs, not just this one. Most of us don't give a damn anyway. As long as we get to stay mobile and exclusive, we don't care whose label we're under. If we inadvertently made a pact with the Devil none of us will ever be the wiser for it.

Besides, life is too short (and, in some cases, too long) to be worrying about whether or not someone has branded you for your own good or just tattooed something on your ass for the hell of it. If the "shoe" fits, just wear it. That's our motto. Besides, Angus McCloud might be the big-ass head bartender around here but this is still my barstool journal.

Man in the Moon

One night last August, I stumbled down the steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge after closing time and when I looked up at the night sky with my new binoculars I saw what appeared to be a hideous face inside the Earth instead of the usual collection of celestial bodies that hover above the Lounge. I thought I was going crazy or maybe I'd finally got the DTs from reality withdrawal or caught something contagious and terminal. Thank heavens for that little lounge lizard shit who reminded me that the Lounge is "mobile" and has been for a long time and that I could very well see anything up in the night sky around here.

So, I asked myself last night what the hell was up now because when I rolled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge and looked up at the sky this is what I saw (see pic). I knew it wasn't the DTs from reality withdrawal because I've never been that much in touch with reality in the first place. And, in the second place, I'd had my usual shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser and nothing more and nothing less, so my "vision" certainly wan't impaired by any kind of inspiration.

I didn't tell anyone about seeing my own image in the moon last night — especially not Angus McCloud, our know-it-all big-ass head bartender — because I know damn well what I'd have heard. They would have said that having my very own website finally went to my head or something like that. And ol' Angus would have probably punned that I was simply a "lunatic" after all. Har de har har. So damn funny. I'm so glad I never even gave him the chance to unleash that lame puppy.

The truth of the matter is probably a lot less psychological or symbolic. I probably just need new contact lenses or something. Or maybe I should stop eating those sausage sandwiches I crave every summer. Or maybe I should "up" my regular infusion of the ol' elixir to a double shot of think-a-hol and maybe a schooner of Buxx Brew. Or... maybe I'm in deep doo-doo and don't even know it.