NEOBlog: Canonically Irrelevant

(Note: if you're reading this on facebook, click here to read part one.)

Barack Obama took a moment to pause as he crawled through the White House's air ducts, intent on exacting his revenge on those who had put him in this situation. He recalled coming home, two weeks prior to the election, only to find a dozen members of the SWAT team waiting for him. He remembered their sad, disbelieving looks as they piled up tons of Al-Qaida propaganda that had been wrongfully been planted in his home. He even remembered the look on his neighbor little Jimmy Johnson's 13 year old face as he ripped off his Obama/Biden button, threw it to the ground, and then spat in Obama's face. Barack could feel the sting of the child's spit even as he was thrown into the back of the SWAT vehicle and take away on a route that would eventually lead him to the deepest darkest depths of Guantanamo Bay. Now, five months later, he sat huddled in an air vent above the oval office, munching on an arugula, brie, and pear croissanwich that he had managed to conjur up while riding first class back to America. It was time to let people know who the rightful president was.

Barack finished his sandwich and began crawling towards the war room, where he had heard Hillary Clinton, President of the United States, scuttle off to before he so eloquently dispatched of her husband, former president William Jefferson Clinton. He paused, as he heard voices below.

"Hillary, my friend, this is not why I agreed to be your vice president," sputterred John McCain, still reeling from the piping hot Chai latte that Hillary had thrown in his face. He looked up to see the commander in chief with fire in her eyes.

"Listen, John, I know you have 'foreign policy experience' and everything," retorted Hillary, air-quotes and all, "but I'll have you know that i know exactly what I'm doing without you." She moved back to the war table and picked up Russian president Dmitri Medvedev again. "You see, I know this guy's a pansy. I know that if we ally with..." she scanned the map, picking up French president Nicolas Sarkozy, "...say, this guy, we should be able to kick his pussy commie ass."

McCain snickered. "Hillary, Sarko is french. You can't expect..."

"I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!" Hillary screamed as she chucked the figure at McCain, who blocked it with little hesitation. Hillary raised an eyebrow. "How did you dodge that?"

Suddenly, there was a large crash as Barack Obama smashed through the air duct above and flipped down to the ground. "I think the real question, Hillary, is how are you going to dodge my plan for your demise!"

Hillary's eyes widened as she turned her back to McCain and faced her former Democratic nominee competitor. "Barack Obama! How the hell did you get here?"

Barack cracked his knuckles. "With grit, determination, and a little bit of hope." He paused, tilting his head back in reflection. "also, I killed a lot of people."

"Well, you're not leaving this room alive!" Hillary blared, pulling out a gun from her belt and tossing it to John McCain. "John! You know how to fight. Kill him!"

McCain raised the gun in front of him, feeling the smooth, cold metal upon his fingertips. Instantly, he was reminded of the Republican values that he stood for and had fought so hard to protect. Unflinching, he aimed the gun and fired.

President Hillary Clinton gasped out in horror as the bullet pierced her heart. "Jo---John....w--w-why?"

"My friend, you are unfit for command. I am hearby relieving you of your duty from this earth." With that, John McCain emptied the chamber into Hillary, and she slumped to the floor, dead.

Barack Obama observed the situation in front of him, and after a moment, moved to shake John McCain's hand. "Sir, I know we debated long and hard about our policies, but right now I can confidently say that that was the best decision you have ever made."

McCain stood there, staring at Obama's outstretched hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Obama, but you see... I'm the president now. And I'm afraid I can't let anyone jeopardize that." McCain snapped his fingers, which brought two White House page boys into the room, who instantly began moving Hillary's body aside. "You see, Hillary was insane. But unlike her, I don't need to control everything. I know my limits. But I do need to control the direction of this country. I need to make sure that every mother, father, and child believes in the fundamental message that my party strives for: government control is evil, unless we're trying to ban something like gay marriage, abortion, or casual Fridays. Then it's ok. For too long I've watched Hillary bastardize the white house with her pro-menstrual cycle agenda. But now, it's big John's time to rise."

Obama approached McCain, his hand still outstretched. "Look, John. You're out of bullets. We don't need this partisan conflict. We can be president, together! Think of how wonderfully progressive that would be! It would be an administration full of change and hope!"

"I'm afraid it's too late, Barack." Mc Cain inched closer to a door in the wall, hovering his hand over the button that would open it. A smile formed on his lips.

"Wait, John, don't do it!" Obama cried out, as John pushed the button. The door groaned and hissed open as fog and smoke blew out from the white, cold room behind. A shadowy figure appeared from the mists and the faint smell of Clinique lipstick filled the air. Obama narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out the figure.

"Yes, that's it," exclaimed McCain, wringing his hands together in joy, "come forward!" The mists began to clear, revealing the figure to be that of a slender woman dressed in a red suitjacket with a sash that read "Miss Alaska" draped over her supple bosom. In one arm she held a rifle and in the other, an infant. Unflinching, she cocked the rifle with her free hand and swung it around to point at Barack.

"Nice to meet you, Governor Obama. I'm Sarah Palin, and I'm here to kick your Ivy-league, elitist ass."

To be concluded! Read entire post...

Beep, beep, beep.

Hillary Rodham Clinton awoke from a dreamless sleep to the sound of her monotonous alarm. Without skipping a beat, she shot her right arm out to the side, laying it rest on her husband's protruding stomach. William Jefferson Clinton, former 41st president of the United States, stirred groggily. "Whazzza?"

"Just checking." Hillary rolled ceremoniously out of bed, placing her feet into designer slippers while securing her Burberry robe around her waist. She briskly walked over to the nearby window and flung open the curtains, letting fresh sunlight pour through the room. Bill rolled over, moaning something incoherent about the light while Hillary proceded to fling open the windows, letting the ambient soundscape of chirping birds mixed with car alarms and fire sirens permeate the atmosphere.

"It's a great day to be president," exclaimed Hillary, breathing in the smog of Washington through her nostrils.

---

"Madame president?"

Hillary looked up in surprise from the White House's "war table." A figure of Iranian president Mahmūd Ahmadinejād fell out of her left hand while a tank fell out of her right. Quickly shuffling the various pieces around, she turned towards her visitor, the vice president.

"You don't need to hide those from me."

"I know, Vice President McCain, but I didn't know it was you," said Hillary, as she embraced John McCain warmly.

John chuckled and moved over to the table. "You know, Hillary, you look like a natural behind the table."

Hillary smiled, fiddling with a figure of Russian president Dmitry Medvedev. "Believe me, I know. Bill always let me move things around randomly." While saying this, Hillary knocked over a tank from Kosovo's position on the map.

"That's great, Hill-Dog." McCain's tone shifted to his more serious drawl. "So...if you don't mind me asking...how is Bara---"

Hillary quickly slapped John before he could finish his sentence. "Do NOT mention his name out in the open! Are you insane?"

"I'm just asking, I feel like I should know--"

"You only need to know what I decide to tell you! That was the agreement that was made!"

McCain backed against the wall. Hillary turned away from him for a moment, resting her hands on the table. Finally, she turned around, taking a sip from her chai latte that had been sitting on top of Switzerland. "You know, John, it wasn't easy planting all of that 9/11 terrorist paraphenelia in Barack's home. Do you have any idea how many of Rudy's people I had to pay off for that stuff? TOO many." Hillary began to walk menacingly towards McCain, taking another sip of her latte while slowly unscrewing the lid. "Barack is going to be in Guantanamo for a very long time, and there's no way he's going to ever get out!"

She proceded to thrust the remainder of her chai latte into McCain's face, causing him to cry out in pain. "You're a monster, Hillary! You're more of a monster than the entire Vietnamese army."

"How did you ever think you would get into this House all by yourself?" Hillary fumed, "You're nothing but a washed up old man. While you're my vice president, you will continue to do as I say, understand?"

McCain wiped the remainder of the scalding liquid off of his face. He hung his head and managed to only utter the words "I've made a huge mistake."

---

Bill Clinton's lifeless body fell to the floor, blood spewing from his orifices. A shadowy female figure hovered above him, cracking her knuckles while beginning to unzip out of her clothes. As she removed her black jumpsuit, it became apparent that this woman was, in fact, a man in disguise. The figure loomed over Bill's body before removing the blonde wig and mask from his face, revealing his identity to his decesased pray.

"Can you smell what Barack is cooking?" said Former Senator Barack Obama, D-IL, wiping the remaining blood off of his hands.

...to be continued! Read entire post...

Open Toes is a film currently in production as part of the Film and Media Studies 106 production course. The plot revolves around the segregation between two gangs at UCSB, the Rainbows and the Reefs, and a love story that emerges between two star-crossed lovers from opposing sides. The following is Part 1 of a series of entries about the production of the movie by writer Nick Ochoa. It is completely factual.

For those of you who don't know, I'm making another movie. Well, I wrote it, anyway; other people are making it, but that's besides the point. In late summer of 2006 I responded to a cry for assistance by one Sarah Dietrich, a charismatic producer with a movie idea hot off the presses. This producer had a dream - a dream of an epic tale whose effects would span multiple generations of Santa Barbarians, much as the Bible influenced several generations of Christian fundamentalists. She had a dream of a biting satire of a segregated society, whose very rivalry depended on such minuscule issues as what they wore on their feet. Indeed, this was a tale true to every form of segregation known to man (and only man). This tale was about the bitter rivalry between those who wear Rainbow sandals and those who wear Reef sandals.

It was to this vision that I answered the call. Sitting down with the starry-eyed producer for hours upon end over endless amounts of hot cocoa and cocaine, I learned of the epic nature of her vision.

"Unfortunately," she said to me, "I cannot translate my thoughts into words. This...is where I need you."

Such candor I had never seen before. "I'll take the case!" I shouted. I fervently began writing what I could of her dream, but condensing a 5 hour epic with a star cast (including Morgan Freeman as narrator) and battle scenes that rivaled Return of The King in choreography and extras down to a mere twenty minutes was no easy task. Night after night I walked along the cliffs for inspiration, searching for a muse from whom I could channel creative energy. Alas, the sea was a cold mistress, and I succeeded only in getting my laptop wet. I spiraled into a whirlwind of 60s-era depression, complete with the funky colors and Strawberry Alarm Clock playing in my head, and tried so many combinations of narcotics that I was close to becoming more dead than Steve Irwin in a tank full of stingrays.

And yet, I pressed on. After disappearing from society for more than a month, I emerged from the depths of Isla Vista with a script whittled down to thirty minutes. I debated with myself for literally hours, trying to figure out what had to be cut for the sake of sanity. Ultimately, it was the ten minute sex ghost orgy that concluded the film which had to be left on the cutting room floor. Heartbroken but confident, I returned to Sarah Dietrich with her vision faithfully translated to a Microsoft Word document. I'll never forget the words that she uttered to me upon receipt of the stack of paper.

"That's fine, whatever."

It was my finest hour. With script in hand, we jubilantly marched off towards the film pitches, prepared to tackle whatever obstacles would come our way. Little did we know that the obstacles we encountered made the obstacles surrounding world piece look like a 4th grade obstacle course (you know, with the tires, stolen street cones, hopscotch chalk, etc).

Next: The Crew! Read entire post...

Lyndon Johnson burst into the president's bedroom.

"Now see here, Johnson," exclaimed John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, "it's 10 in the morning on a Sunday, what's the big idea barging in here like this?"

Marilyn Monroe rolled over on her side, resting her arms on Kennedy's lap. "Who is it, Jack?" she drolled.

"Well it's just Lyndie, Marilyn. You'd better get yourself cleaned up, Jacqueline might come back from Church any moment now."

"Oh, alright, darling," said Marilyn, as she kissed the Presidents ear.

"Now, ah, what was so important that you had to come barging in here, Johnson? You know this is Marilyn Hour."

"Sir, it's the Cubans. They have missiles. Lots of them. And they're pointed right at us," replied the Vice President.

"What? The Cubans? Missiles? Well, ah, Johnson, that sounds like we have a darn crisis on our hands. Better get me a hot cup o' Joe, and bring in Lincoln's portrait, will ya?"

"Yes sir," replied Johnson. Kennedy turned all business following this encounter, and quickly shooed out Marilyn Monroe. The President rushed out of his bedroom in such a hurry that he forgot to put on his pants, however seeing the President pantsless in the early hours of a Sunday morning was not unheard of. On his way to the oval office, Kennedy was greeted by his Secretary of Defense, Robert S. McNamara.

"Howdy there, Rob, you heard about this, ah, Cuban Missile Crisis thing?"

Robert S. McNamara huffed. "Yeah, those damn commies are trying to wipe us clean off the map."

"I know what you mean, Rob. It's a damn shame. They've got a better space program, more missles, and finer women. I tell ya, if I ever get tired of this job as, ah, president, I'm gonna fake my own assassination like Lincoln did and move to the Soviet Union, get me a servant-hooker-girl, and, ah, you know, participate in the glorious wonder that is organized Marxist Socialism."

Suddenly, John Kennedy's brother, Robert Kennedy, came lurking out of the shadows, carrying a handle of Russian vodka. "Jack," he stammered.

"Well, ah, if it isn't my little brother Bobby. Isn't a little too early in the morning to be, ah, drinking?" exclaimed the President.

"I got it from Teddy," said Robert Kennedy, "he told me I would need this if I was to end up fightin' ya."

"Oh, so it's come to this again, has it? A little of the ol' sibling rivalry, eh?" Just then, Lyndon Johnson returned with the President's coffee in one hand and a portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the other. "Ah, good, thanks Lyndie." John Kennedy grabbed the portrait and held it out in front of him. "You did great wonders for the American people, Abraham, and you're the only good Republican I know. On my dead baby Patrick's eternal spirit, I pray to you to give me the power to, ah, vanquish the Cubans and my little brother."

The Lincoln portrait immediately began glowing, and it emitted a beam of light that covered the President from head to toe. He stood there taking it all in, laughing in his glory.

"Well this is fucking amazing, Johnson!" he exclaimed. With that, the President tossed aside the portrait, charged at his brother, and slammed his iron fist into Robert Kennedy's jaw, sending him flying into the Red Room. Kennedy turned to his Vice President. "Lyndie, get me Khrushchev on the phone, and tell him he that if he disarms the missiles, I'll make sure that this Cold War lasts until 1991, and I'll come over there to, you know, help him running the country in a few years. Heck, I'll even through in Marilyn and my brother Bobby."

"Of course, sir!" emphatically excliamed Johnson, and he skipped merrily into the War Room.

Robert S. McNamara stood in awe of John Kennedy. "You sir, are the greatest negotiator in the history of the world."

And with that, John F. Kennedy ended the Cuban Missle Crisis. Read entire post...

[EDIT] I know this looks funny on Firefox at the moment. I'm seeing what I can do to fix it.

You might say I left my heart in San Francisco.

After months of uncertainty, Jon and I finally managed to make it up to the Bay Area this past weekend, albeit not on a road trip, but in an airplane. This unfortunate situation led me to declare the road trip as officially starting when Andrew picked us up in San Jose, and lasted for about 30 minutes as he drove us to his Stanford residence in Palo Alto. It then picked up again by means of trains and buses the following day, and culminated in the drive from Millbrae to Palo Alto the day after that. Nevertheless, it was still a fun experience overall. What follows is a typical description of my adventures in classic Trip Report format.

Upon our arrival in Palo Alto, it became apparent that our sleeping space over two of the following three nights would be relative small and crowded. Andrew, of course, remained in his own bed, while Jon and I wriggled uncomfortably together on the ground in a totally non-gay manner, with about three inches separating us from a Brokeback-esque emasculation scene. Obviously with my known sleeping issues, I failed to achieve sleep and eventually moved out into the common room and crashed on the couch, unseating its occupant and effectively blocking off the path for those who had to wake up early.

The next morning I was stept on by Andrew on his way out for work, and thusly amused myself with a bowl of oatmeal while Jon sleepily arose from his restful slumber. Following our individual grooming we subsequently headed out towards the sparkling gem of a city that is San Francisco, utilizing a shuttle, commuter train, light rail, a streetcar, feet, and a bus before reaching our destination at the north end of the city. If you're interested, we took the shuttle bus from Stanford to the Palo Alto Caltrain station, from which we took the train to its terminus on the south end of the city. Following a brief stop at Quiznos, we boarded the MUNI N line around the ports to Market Street, at which point we took the tourist-laden streetcar F line down Embarcadero to Fisherman's Wharf. We then walked across Fort Mason and boarded bus 28 to the Golden Gate Bridge. If you're not interested, just forget everything you just read. At the bridge, I let Jon talk me into walking its entire length, which was interesting and fun except for the part where we had to make the return trip. By the time we returned, my feet hurt and I was hungry, however Andrew was finished with work and met up with us at chocolate haven Ghiradelli Square. Following a red meat-laden meal, we walked to North Beach, the Italian part of the city, checked out the hipster City Lights bookstore, and then continued on into the Financial District where I ostensibly attempted to locate a restroom for the public amongst the lofty skyscrapers. If you're interested, there's one on the 3rd floor of an Asian bank building across the street from the Transamerica Tower. There's also one in the nearby Starbucks, but the guy I was waiting for to leave the restroom is probably still in there.

Our endeavour ended at our hotel of choice (Ramada) in SOMA, which was split into two buildings across from each other with a sketchy street between them. Of course we were put into the secondary building. Following check-in, my dear friend Julia arrived in suburbanite minivan (driven by her friend Mira) and took us to the modernized Brea Mall of San Francisco, where we ate at a food court. After much pronging and speculation, she then took us to the best place she could think of for entertaining Orange County-based tourists: The Castro District. For those unfamiliar with San Francisco, Castro is the GAY district. My lofty Republican reader-base just left my blog. In Castro I experienced a new sort of shop, namely, the male sex shop. It was a life-changing experience to be sure. Following these mis-adventures we decided to leave for places north, and at the insistance of Mira, ended up with cereal and milk at Julia's midscale house. This lasted a short while, however with our hotel being effectively across the city, we were forced to leave relatively early and retire for the night.

In the morning I left Jon and Andrew at the Ramada and successfully tackled the MUNI system in an attempt to reach the Filmore District, which I hoped would be better than the president it was named after. Luckily it turned out to be so, and I met Julia at a non-chain coffee shop (read: NOT Starbucks) for an enlightening conversation on yuppies, city life, and male sex shops. I said goodbye to her for at least a month and a half and made my way back to Ramada, where I learned that Jon and Andrew had gone to said coffee chain themselves a little while earlier. As we left the city, I left behind fond memories and gained a somewhat confusing feeling over personal matters, which obviously won't be explained in a public blog. This isn't Xanga.

I can safely NOT recommend You, Me, and Dupree. I make mistakes, I know, and we should've seen The Devil Wears Prada. But I was in the mood for something light. The movie doesn't know what genre it's going for and as such fails to successfully court the Owen Wilson slapstick genre and the Kate Hudson romantic genre. Why Matt Dillon, after starring in the mildly good Crash, chose to go with this movie is somewhat bewildering, but all three actors did well. A really old looking Michael Douglas is in it too, but don't expect an American President. He's pretty much just an old douchebag. The movie gets a 5/10 from me. It's sometimes funny, and sometimes romantic, but not enough to really succeed in either genre.

As for the rest of the trip, it was fairly uneventful, with the highlight being a semi under the influence romp around Stanford at midnight, much to the chagrin of people attempting to study (on a Saturday, for that matter) in the library. Upon our return to the room, noisy party aftermath accompanied my desire to sleep, which had to fulfilled for our early flight the next day. On the way out, I declared the road trip over, and bid farewell to my Stanfordian friend for a few weeks, boarded the plane with Jon, and flew back to the shelters of Orange County.

But as I said, I left my heart in San Francisco. Read entire post...

As some of you who know me know, I have many adventures when I travel between point A and point B. A great many of those adventures deal with my frequent excursions between Santa Barbara and Orange County, my old stomping grounds. Let's just say that today, I had the adventure to end all adventures. Except maybe that time where my train was delayed for 2 hours because of a bomb threat. And the time it took my 5 and half hours to get home on a Wednesday. But...it still ranks pretty hight up there.

So this adventure started as any other Sunday commute back to Santa Barbara. After spending the day with my good friend Julia, I embarked on a series of freeways to eventually lead my back to the inevitable 101. It was on the 101 just out of LA, however, when I realized that...something was different. Something was...amiss, if you will. Indeed, as I entered Calabasas, I developed a hunger for something that I do not normally hunger for. I developed the hunger for TACO BELL.

If you've never had a beef and potato burrito from Taco Bell, you don't know what you're missing. Having one of those burritos, with their majestic blend of spices and processed meat and vegetable products, is like spending 5 minutes in clogged artery heaven. It was this burrito that I suddenly had a craving for. I resolved to stop at the first Taco Bell that I came across and order a pair of the delictable concoctions. Unfortunately for me, finding a Taco Bell off the 101 past Los Angeles is like finding a gay black Republican in Massachusetts. As I drove into Ventura county, I knew my chances were becoming slim. Would I really have to wait until I got to Santa Barbara, where there are an abundance of Taco Bells, in order to have my fill? Why were there so many McDonald's and Jack-in-the-Boxes? I decided to try my luck at a random exit. Gas, food, lodging. Surely there would have to be a Taco Bell at one exit.

My first attempt was rendered useless. I found, indeed, a Del Taco, but it was not Dan the Del Taco man that I yearned for on this cloudy evening. As I wandered through Thousand Oaks, my mind began to wander. What if there was no Taco Bell to be found? What if I had to settle for a Jumbo Jack or a...dare I think of it...Big Mac? No. I would not let that happen. And yet, as I got deeper and deeper into Ventura County, there was one thing that I knew for sure. Time was running out. I got off for the third time in a city I had heard little about: Camarillo. Being from the city, I had already formed impressions of the rural villages that lay on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Little did I know that this fine hamlet had in store for me. As I exited the freeway at Lewis Road, I discovered a quaint road that ran parallel to the highway. "What luck!" I thought to myself. Surely I would be able to find a Taco Bell along this corridor of businesses. As I turned the corner, I discovered a Jack-in-the-Box and a Wendy's. Undanunted, I continued along. Unfortunately, the word got narrower and less business-like. Shear horror came over me, the kind of horror that could only be felt by a prostitute in church. Panicking, I knew that the next corner I turned might be my last before I was forced to get back on the 101. The DAMNED 101, with it's lack of food chains visible from its lanes. Turning the last corner, however, I discovered the holy grail of my quest: The finest Taco Bell ever to grace my eyes.

And just then, it started to rain. And I started to cry. And that is why this quaint village of Camarillo is my new favorite place. Ever. Thank you, wise city planners and Camarilloans, for building a Taco Bell at such an opportune location. Read entire post...

The following is from Tom Cruise's blog:


Hello out there to all of my friends both within and outside of the Church of Scientology!

Well, it's been a hectic few days since Kate came back from the hospital with Suri. Suri sure is a happy, bouncing baby girl! It'll be great when we take her to have her Thetan level measured once she's old enough to comprehend that she has an alien soul inside of her. Ha ha, I bet she's at least a level three! In any case, her and Kate are doing great. Kate makes me so proud...she didn't make a peep during the entire birth process. I was right there next to her, chanting into her ear, "You can do it! You can have this baby," and she just smiled at me. I am so in love with that woman! I swear I feel like a kid every time I'm around her. Well, except when we make love...then I feel like how Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty must feel like whenever he makes love. Oh Hubbard, would I love to truly experience that. But seriously, Nicole's got nothing on Kate. Expect maybe her nose.

My new movie is coming out soon, and I'm really excited! I must say it is an honor to be working with Philip Seymour Hoffman. His performance in Capote really blew me away. I have so much respect for gay authors, I really believe that they can do great things! If you haven't read In Cold Blood, I strongly encourage everyone out there who wants to be cool to go and read it right away! I'm going to start reading it to Suri every night. Anyway, I've been getting a lot of press for Mission Impossible 3 and I must say, all the hype you might be hearing is dead on. This movie is definitely the best movie coming out since War of the Worlds. I know I said Capote was good, but, let's face it people, it didn't touch War of the Worlds at the box office. So with that said, I just can't wait for this movie to come out. It's going to be that awesome!

Well, those idiots over at South Park did it again. I just can't understand why they have to continuously degrade me and my friends. If you don't know what I'm talking about, recently made fun of my good friend Oprah. Now I just want to say right here and right now that I know for a fact that Oprah's vagina and and asshole cannot talk! I am sick and tired of Mr. Parker and Mr. Stone portraying such blatant lies as fact! They continue to misrepresent people and truth, and during a time of war such actions should not be tolerated! I'm sure you will all be happy to know that tomorrow I'm going to call Comedy Central and have that episode never shown again. Hubbard help them if that episode ever broadcasts while Suri is watching! That's my little girl. So listen, Comedy Central. Help me, help you. Pull the episode before I have to make things freaking ugly for you.

Well, I guess that's all for now. I'll write again later. To all my loyal followers, goodnight, and good luck! I'm not exactly sure who said that, but I've been hearing it being said a lot recently, and so I want to be cool too!

~Tom

(yeah so this isn't really froom Tom Cruise's blog, if you didn't figure it out. -Nick) Read entire post...

Trapped. The corridor I had come down had no way out. It was only a matter of time before the cyber soldiers got me now. Not that it really mattered; I had nothing left to live for. That dame sure did a number on me, didn’t she? Picked me up and threw me out like a used tissue. I sure as hell felt like I was covered in space snot, which, of course, is weightless. So what do I do now? This was worse than the time that Alpha V was attacked by space lobbyists. Those lobbyists had an arsenal heavier than a snogwak, and believe you me, snogwaks have some heavy arsenals. But now, in this corner, there was little I could do. I fumbled around in one of the twenty-five pockets of my space pants, desperately looking for that one item that could save me from the certain doom I would most definitely face when the cyber soldiers discovered me. I stopped, as my right hand rested upon a silver chain. A tear came to my face, or it would have, had my tear ducts not been surgically removed when I was a baby as part of the fifteenth version of the Homeland Security bill. The memories came flooding back to me. All of this…it was all her fault.

Septembruary, 2147. Being in my nineteenth year I had just entered the space academy in New New Mexico (Old New Mexico had been destroyed in the Great Clone War, where thousands of cloned offspring of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes clashed over the great expanses of the United States), along with my friends Deak Montoya and Charles Hindenburg. Charles was British. My name was, and still is, Hubert Bedforshire, but my friends called me Jack. Charles, being British, called me Gov. The three of us had grown up in the relative idyllic rural town of Banton, New Hampshire, a suburb of the metropolis of Exeter. New Hampshire, having not been destroyed in the Great Clone War, retained its original “new” status, although there was considerable debate in the senate over whether or not the state should be renamed simply “Hampshire,” as the original Hampshire had, in fact, never existed; John Mason apparently had named the colony such after he had lost a bet with his first mate during the voyage. The first mate assured Mason that there was a Hampshire in England, and that, if it didn’t exist, it “must assuredly exist somewhere within the great expanse that is the Royal Empire.” Historians also debate as to whether or not Mexico actually existed.

The summer days before our enrollment were some of the happiest times of my life. We would spend many a day out on the ice playing the national pastime of Curling. Curling, of course, became the national pastime of the United States sometime after global warming finally kicked in, causing the entire northern hemisphere to be covered in ice. Most astonishingly, it all happened similarly to what was depicted in the movie The Day After Tomorrow, much to the chagrin of scientists. Charles, being British, was one of the best stone hurlers around, and he had expressed hope at competing on the national level once we had been accepted to the academy. It was of course my bitter disappointment to inform Charles that New New Mexico, being radioactive, had no ice. Besides participating in Curling, we would often participate in games of luck and skill, like cyber chess, space checkers, and Plinko.

During that summer, our group became acquainted with one Ms. Jenna Delahand, a delightful young woman who lit up many a man’s hearts and faces, but mostly their nether-regions, for, quite frankly, she had a nice rack. I, however, found comfort in her witty banter and negligible regard for the feelings of others. We would often spend long days sitting at the cyber ice cream parlor, watching people walk or Segway by the windows, and make up stories about their lives and misfortunes. Of course, in going with Jenna’s character, most stories would involve decapitation and monkeys. Jenna became quick friends with Deak and Charles as well, for, being of a similar character as myself, were also captivated by her acerbic wit and skill with her tongue. Much to Charles’ delight, she also threw a mean game of Curling.

Yes, this was the greatest summer of my life. It would all change, however, once we entered space academy.

To be continued...