A Bar on Mars and Emotional Scars
Day 683, 07:17
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Published in USA 
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by
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by Rex Object
A Bar on Mars and Emotional Scars
Ed. Note: Yesterday brought two "firsts" for Rex Kramer. Prior to yesterday, he's never been in the space shuttle with a cross-dressing Austrian, and neither had he been given a warning by eRep for publishing pornography. Quite frankly, that last one is the more shocking. You'd think he'd have more warnings by now than a carton of cigarettes, but no. Seriously, eRep censors, get on the ball! My articles are FILTHY with pornography!
Schwarzenegger said little on the trip to Mars. I thought he was just being the strong silent type until I realized that a) I was wearing the only spacesuit b) I probably shouldn't have opened a hatch to relieve myself. As a result, his corpse looked a lot like this…
[img]http://i684.photobucket.com/albums/vv202/RexObject/total-recallimg_assist_custom.jpg?t=1254579611[/img]
Given my reasonable fear of unattractive people, I felt completely justified in ejecting his remains into space (after going through his pockets for cash, of course) while I, relying on a decade of experience in playing video games, descended from orbit and landed on Mars with minimal damage…and by "minimal damage," I mean "fiery wreckage." If I were to hazard a guess my blood alcohol level was somewhere between .08 and flammable, so when you consider that, I think you'd agree that I'm awesome. Stepping from the carnage I chalked up my safe landing on my peerless attention to detail, my laser-like focus, my other-worldly ability to concentrate when all hell is breaking all around-
"Oh hey, look! A bar!"
Now, more reality-based souls might be surprised to find a bar on Mars, but not me; in fact, I expect such things. It's the happy result of an over-developed sense of optimism and the kind of heavy-duty tranquilizers normally reserved for large farm animals and charging elephants. In any event, I lumbered toward the bar in my cumbersome space suit, which due to the nature of my landing, reeked of urine and vomit (it's a comforting aroma, ad it's the scent my father commonly wore about him.) As I entered what the sign outside identified as "Tyler Durden's House of Cacophony" I noticed two important things: 1) no one else was wearing a space suit, and 2) it was happy hour.
Given my aforementioned over-developed sense of optimism and affinity for tranquilizers, I popped off my helmet and deeply breathed in fresh air…tinged, quite comfortably, with an acrid hint of urine and vomit. I approached the strikingly-handsome and eerily-familiar bartended and ordered the first of what I intended to be many, many two-for-one drinks. "Scotch, double, no ice, no water, no conversation on your part required." The quite frankly gorgeous barkeep arched an eyebrow and filled a mason jar with my signature drink, which I gulped down, refilled, gulped down, refilled, gulped down, refilled (this goes on like this for 23 rounds, so I'll just cut to the part where I start talking again. "You look familiar," I slurred. "Have we met, and if so, do I owe you money? More importantly, do you owe ME money?"
Again he arched his rakishly sexy eyebrow and exhaled an exhausted sigh. "Really?" he sarcastically asked. "You don't recognize me? You, of all people in the universe, don't recognize me? Tell me, do you ever look in a mirror?"
That was a ridiculous question, I thought. Of course I looked in the mirror! I mean, why wouldn't I? After all, it's generally accepted by everyone (with the exception of People magazine, apparently) that I'm the sexiest man alive. Just ask your sister! Still, this guy was acting awful familiar for someone who's only job was to pour me alcohol. Sweet, mind-erasing alcohol, but still. "Look, how 'bout this? How 'bout you do more pouring and less talking, huh? Just pour yourself a nice, tall glass of mind-your-own-damn business. It's on me."
That's when he learned across the bar and an angry, insane look came across his face. It was a look I instantly recognized, because a) I have the angry, insane look down to an art, and b) it was penguin bowling Mel Gibson. "Is that any way to talk to your father, Rex?"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OO
Ed. Note: Really? Mel Gibson is Rex's long-lost dad? And he's tending bar on Mars? Whatever happened to the Cacophony Society storyline? Should I donate money, no-questions asked, to the Cacophony Society? The answer to that last question is YES (and you can do it here.) As to the rest, subscribe to Penguin Bowling Balls and find out!)
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OO!!!"
Ed. Note: Yesterday brought two "firsts" for Rex Kramer. Prior to yesterday, he's never been in the space shuttle with a cross-dressing Austrian, and neither had he been given a warning by eRep for publishing pornography. Quite frankly, that last one is the more shocking. You'd think he'd have more warnings by now than a carton of cigarettes, but no. Seriously, eRep censors, get on the ball! My articles are FILTHY with pornography!
Schwarzenegger said little on the trip to Mars. I thought he was just being the strong silent type until I realized that a) I was wearing the only spacesuit b) I probably shouldn't have opened a hatch to relieve myself. As a result, his corpse looked a lot like this…
[img]http://i684.photobucket.com/albums/vv202/RexObject/total-recallimg_assist_custom.jpg?t=1254579611[/img]
Given my reasonable fear of unattractive people, I felt completely justified in ejecting his remains into space (after going through his pockets for cash, of course) while I, relying on a decade of experience in playing video games, descended from orbit and landed on Mars with minimal damage…and by "minimal damage," I mean "fiery wreckage." If I were to hazard a guess my blood alcohol level was somewhere between .08 and flammable, so when you consider that, I think you'd agree that I'm awesome. Stepping from the carnage I chalked up my safe landing on my peerless attention to detail, my laser-like focus, my other-worldly ability to concentrate when all hell is breaking all around-
"Oh hey, look! A bar!"
Now, more reality-based souls might be surprised to find a bar on Mars, but not me; in fact, I expect such things. It's the happy result of an over-developed sense of optimism and the kind of heavy-duty tranquilizers normally reserved for large farm animals and charging elephants. In any event, I lumbered toward the bar in my cumbersome space suit, which due to the nature of my landing, reeked of urine and vomit (it's a comforting aroma, ad it's the scent my father commonly wore about him.) As I entered what the sign outside identified as "Tyler Durden's House of Cacophony" I noticed two important things: 1) no one else was wearing a space suit, and 2) it was happy hour.
Given my aforementioned over-developed sense of optimism and affinity for tranquilizers, I popped off my helmet and deeply breathed in fresh air…tinged, quite comfortably, with an acrid hint of urine and vomit. I approached the strikingly-handsome and eerily-familiar bartended and ordered the first of what I intended to be many, many two-for-one drinks. "Scotch, double, no ice, no water, no conversation on your part required." The quite frankly gorgeous barkeep arched an eyebrow and filled a mason jar with my signature drink, which I gulped down, refilled, gulped down, refilled, gulped down, refilled (this goes on like this for 23 rounds, so I'll just cut to the part where I start talking again. "You look familiar," I slurred. "Have we met, and if so, do I owe you money? More importantly, do you owe ME money?"
Again he arched his rakishly sexy eyebrow and exhaled an exhausted sigh. "Really?" he sarcastically asked. "You don't recognize me? You, of all people in the universe, don't recognize me? Tell me, do you ever look in a mirror?"
That was a ridiculous question, I thought. Of course I looked in the mirror! I mean, why wouldn't I? After all, it's generally accepted by everyone (with the exception of People magazine, apparently) that I'm the sexiest man alive. Just ask your sister! Still, this guy was acting awful familiar for someone who's only job was to pour me alcohol. Sweet, mind-erasing alcohol, but still. "Look, how 'bout this? How 'bout you do more pouring and less talking, huh? Just pour yourself a nice, tall glass of mind-your-own-damn business. It's on me."
That's when he learned across the bar and an angry, insane look came across his face. It was a look I instantly recognized, because a) I have the angry, insane look down to an art, and b) it was penguin bowling Mel Gibson. "Is that any way to talk to your father, Rex?"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OO
Ed. Note: Really? Mel Gibson is Rex's long-lost dad? And he's tending bar on Mars? Whatever happened to the Cacophony Society storyline? Should I donate money, no-questions asked, to the Cacophony Society? The answer to that last question is YES (and you can do it here.) As to the rest, subscribe to Penguin Bowling Balls and find out!)
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OO!!!"
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Comments
Lol, Another great article.
Does your father know the three-breasted babe?
reeked of urine and vomit (it's a comforting aroma, ad it's the scent my father commonly wore about him.)
Your father MUST be Mel Gibson!
He also smells of anti-semitism, but we'll deal w/that in the next issue.
That was amazing.
Also: pornography? Really!?!?!?