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

Related Posts:

Think-A-Hol

What is a Think-A-Holic?

Same Old Story

Lost in Translation

Cosmic Comic Continuum

George Carlin at Retro Comic Spotlight

The Girls of Think-A-Holic Lounge

Unlikely Heroes Book One

Related Post

Picture Show

Closed For The Summer

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...