As the great U2 once said in the only good song they ever wrote, “Nothing changes New Year’s Day.” I am reminded every January the 1st of the strides we didn’t make the previous year, what we could be doing if we had, and the fistfuls of pure cash I could be throwing into the air above me as I lie naked on my bed of pure money, letting the cash rain all over me like green, flapping dead birds, if only I had reverse-engineered that stolen prototype of the latest Apple dealie and filed that patent before those cidersuckers could.

(If we had only given Dean Stockwell the funding and resources we gave Steve Jobs (who was a professional charlatan known for wearing a cape in public and inviting children into his panelvan to eat dollar store candy, AND NOTHING ELSE), we could all be looking at cat gifs on Sentient Lite-Brite Speak-N-Spell Bleep-Blorp Tetris M’Bobs instead of iPhones, and asking Ziggy how to MacGyver a breast pump out of a cigar and a bolo tie instead of Siri. Lame.)

Dean Stockwell

Now here’s my tech forecast for 2018:

1. Wireless electricity by 2218.

2. Bulbless light by 2236.

3. Phones where you can actually understand what people are saying by 2020. (No more “That’s Duck with a D. First letter is D, yes. D-U-C…no, D! D AS IN DAVID! NOT B LIKE BOY, D! AS IN DOG! D AS IN DOG! YES, OR DAVID, TOO! WELL, “DELTA” I GUESS IF YOU’RE GREEK OR IN THE MILITAR…IT’S ALL THE SAME LETTER, LADY!”)

4. Silent fireworks by 2103. (More specifically, total custom control over physical placement and behavior of sound waves. Will prove essential to figuring out the bulbless lights. And I mean no buttons or anything. You just point a finger and blink your eyes and there’s some light. Shape it, color it, dim it, whatever. It responds to the thing stuck into your brain as a baby and sucks electricity out of thin air. NO MORE WIRE WIRES!)

5. Cancer is as laughable as polio by 2230.

6. Menstruation is as laughable as cancer by 2292.

7. Dark Mattricity by 2374. (Wireless electricity as an energy source will be replaced by the juicing of nonbaryonic energy right out of the dark matter we swim in, which we cannot see but know is lurking near us at all times. Like Steve Jobs in his handmade, bedazzled pedophile cape, pied piping children straight into his van, the sick bastard.)

8. Dark Mattressity by 2375. (This one will prove to be a stupid fad. It’s like waterbeds except dark matter inside. As they say in Paris, France: “L’ame!”)

9. Complete Material Obsolescence by 2779. (Nothing will be made out of anything or achieve anything by way of a mechanical process. That’s right, even our bodies. Gone. Just infinite thoughts in a braincloud, that’s us. No sex either. But it’s cool, we won’t want to at all. “Shut up, brain!” we will say. “I know you only want me to have sex so you can fill The Olive Garden with screaming babies because you hate me. I know you only live for my very torture and wish for my suffering in the eternal ball pit of Satan himself’s steward on earth, The Olive Garden, to be the last thing I think of before I join Steve Jobs and Pontius Pilate inside of his hot, forever-chewing mouth, you fat, sadistic prick. Well guess what! (Electric-guitar-unplugging-sound followed by the sound of one thousand whoopee cushions exploding out of a giant braincloud horse ass in outer space, where we live now because we finally cooked the earth in 2778.)” Also, no horses or asses or pooping horses anymore. We cooked the animals, too.)

10. Just kidding, we will never be able to tell the difference between “D” and “B” over any phone we will ever make.

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Play These Awful Games With Me!

I went down to Grandma’s Attic, which is a thrift store downtown, and I was shocked, SHOCKED at the selection of vintage and niche market games they had for sale. (Is shocked when you are pleasantly surprised, or when you can’t believe how shitty something is…because I don’t want to give off the vibe that I hate Grandma’s Attic, or that they have a shitty selection of weird games. Because there were LOTS of cool old games, more than I could count. So let’s just set that record straight right now. OK.)

Now you may have heard of some of these games. Of course there was Don’t Go To Jail, and Don’t Wake Daddy, and Don’t Break The Ice (in fact there was an unusual amount of games where the object was NOT to do things.) And there was Operation and Twister and a REALLY OLD version of Monopoly with a picture of Rich Uncle Pennybags reprimanding a slave for what looks like the crime of making him a less-than-perfect Mint Julep on the front of the box, which is…wrong on many levels. Kind of pushed that one to the side.

But I did come across some juicy finds, those rarest of the rare games that they only made twelve of for some reason, and half of those were lost in a warehouse fire in 1962 or something like that. The first on the list is a game called Burning Down The House. It is literally a box full of strike anywhere matches and a list of common places around town that you or someone you know could easily burn down. Ironically, the first place on the list is the ill-fated warehouse that in 1962 stored half of the world’s supply of Burning Down The House.

The next game I found is called Polar Dare. Inside the box is a sheet of paper with the latitude and longitude of some place in Antarctica, two plane tickets to Antarctica, a large, sharpened poking stick, and a jumbo bottle of fish oil. Oh, and here are the instructions: “Get on the plane and go to the coordinates in Antarctica. There, you will find a large population of polar bears. Strip naked. Rub the fish oil all over your body. Approach the polar bears with the large poking stick. Poke the polar bears. Survive.” Huh…that’s it. Doesn’t sound that hard. I guess the makers of the game forgot that polar bears live in the Arctic Circle in the north, not Antarctica in the south. Maybe that’s why they stopped making this game.

The next game is called Taxidermy Tommy. Inside the box is…OH, JESUS CHRIST. It’s a squirrel carcass and two dead otters. Not sure how long they’ve been in there, but judging by the smell and the festive sweater one of the otters is wearing, I’d say since Christmas at the very latest. I’m done with this game.

Last but probably least is a game that is called Mix-Em-Up. I believe that this game was trying to cash in on some of the phenomenal success of the game Twister, because there’s a picture of a group of teens on the front of the box having a hell of a time trying to keep their body parts on the specified areas of the game mat…but wait a minute…there’s something odd about the teens…they’re all…yes, they’re all males, and it looks…yes. They’re all fully naked. And touching each other’s bottoms and wieners. This is a gay party game.

OK, maybe Grandma’s Attic isn’t such a great place after all.

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I Need A New Drug.

Unlike the sappy 1984 Huey Lewis song which is actually about the love of a good woman and NOT substance abuse, I actually do need a new drug because my body has become desensitized to the effects of all of the ones I am currently doing.

Zolpidem and Benadryl have little to no effect on me now, even though I take a combined total of around 23 of them per night. Used to be I’d take a handful of them and it was LIGHTS OUT for ol’ Duck. Now I’m lucky if I fall over and drool all over myself only once after swallowing a couple dozen.

Seroquel, or “Jailhouse Heroin” as it’s called by me and several questionable people I know, used to provide me with the woozy carefree feeling I needed to get me through USA’s Law & Order: SVU marathons, but now I feel nothing. Note to the reader: Suzy Qs go great with a travel mug of maple syrup and Burger King chicken fries.

Dilaudid hydromorphone is a great painkiller to abuse. Dilly-Dallies used to be a lot of fun, but of course now they’re about as useless to me as my subscription to China Doll Quarterly. (I sold my china doll collection to buy Dilly-Dallies.)

Xanax used to get me really high, but it doesn’t anymore. But I still take lots of it because if I ever stopped, I would probably end up ripping open a commercial aircraft’s emergency door and jumping out mid-flight because of the bright orange flying horse skeletons that I see when I don’t take my Xanax.

Codeine suppositories. Once upon a time, I really enjoyed shoving Purple Drank up my ass, but now it’s no fun anymore. Neither is Percocet, Opana, Charlie Brown, Charleston Chew, Pizza Crust, Asian Zing, Spicy Buffalo, Good Time Richard, Norm From Cheers, Egg McMuffin, Secretariat, or Frank Zappa’s Moustache. (All real drugs.)

So if you’re reading this, and you have something new for me to alter my mind with, please come to my house immediately. Note to the reader: I only have twelve dollars.

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OH MY GOD I FORGOT ABOUT THE DOGS AND CATS. Shitshitshit. How long has it been now? A year? Two years? Well, they’re dead for sure now. I can’t remember where I left th…oh, yeah. They were tied to the sexy pirate at the abandoned putt-putt golf course. HOLD ON…I’ll be right back.

OK. I’m back. And you’ll never guess what I have! That is correct. Two cat skeletons and two dog skeletons in a box. Maybe I can still somehow make a large amount of money with them. I think I’ll…no. I’m going to…wait. WAIT. I’ve got it. I’ll just kill two more dogs and two more cats, and use the skins to taxidermy over the bones of the original cats and dogs. Then I’ll sell the stuffed dead versions back to their owners for 500 dollars apiece. The owners will FOR SURE want to buy them because, like I said, I stole them two years ago and then let them die of starvation. The owners will want a keepsake of their dead pet, you know, to cheer up the kids when they ask “Where’s Muffin? Where’s Scrimshaw? Where’s Tabitha? Where’s Strawberry Frogurt?”

(Muffin, Scrimshaw, Tabitha, and Strawberry Frogurt are what I have named the skeletons.)

Of course, I’m going to have to take a taxidermy class. That’s going to cost money. Plus, I’d have to get the bones professionally cleaned, because it looks like some kind of rodent or homeless person has been chewing on them. Plus, it’s going to take a lot of time and effort to do all that, and I’m largely regarded as being insufferably lazy…

FUCK IT. Yeah, I’m not going to do any of that. What I will do is return the skeletons to the putt-putt course where I found them so that the hobo who was trying to eat them may continue to do so. Chewing on bones is good for your teeth, and the homeless are notorious for having bad teeth, so really I’m the good guy in all this!

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I AM SITTING ON A FUCKING GOLD MINE! And the gold mine is about to explode money out its coin hole.

Oh, I forgot to mention: this is my first blog post. WELCOM TO ME, THE INTERNET! Pee in the swimming pool? More like pee in the ocean! I mean, more like…a drop of pee in

MORE LIKE PEE in…hold on.

Anyway, the reason I’m about to be rich is because I have IN MY POSSESSION two run-away dogs and one run-away c…no, two run-away cats and two run-away dogs. All of them RAN AWAY and all of their owners are super worried about them and have placed signs up to that affect up all over arou nd the neighborhood.

The first part of the plan was easy-peasy Japan. First I open up the back gates to several homes in the neighborhood, and waited until nightfall. THEN I set up the traps.

next, all I had to do was collect the runaways and wait for their owners to put up the signs.

The sta…hold on. OK IM BACK. One of the cats is sick, it looks like.

The stage of the plan I”m in now is called “OPERATION: WAIT FOR MORE MONEY.” hER…Herein, I carefully wait and wait. As the summer days get longer and hotter, the poor owners will offer MORE AND MORE MONEY on their signs for their pets to be found and returned.


So, fingers crossed until the big CH-CHING that I’m guessing will happen mid-August when the ransom/reward is up to around 3 or 400 apiece.

OK One of the cats is definitely sick.

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