LENGTHENING THE BRAIN

 “Hail, traveler, what brings you to my humble smithy?

“Good morrow to thee, smith, I have come seeking a mystic weapon, that I might slay the darkness that menace the realm.”

“Ah, you must be the one foretold in the prophecy. For your task, no common saber shall suffice. Only a blade blessed by the spirits above and forged in holy fires may rid our land of the forces of evil.”

“And have you such a holy blade?”

“Yes, good sir. I present to you… the Scourge of the Sodomite.”

“Scourge of the what?”

“Inlaid with mithril and hammered blue-hot in an orichalc fire, the Scourge wreaks such damage on those who lieth with one’s own that the mere sight of its glowing runes reduces paederasts to ashen—”

“Wait a damn minute here! I thought I was buying something that kills vampires!”

“Oh. Well… it’s certainly effective against those too.”

“Then what’s all this crap about ‘sodomites?’ What kind of realm-menacing darkness did you think I was talking about?”

“I… it’s… well, it’s just that this was the holiest blade I had, and… I mean, just look at the news lately.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean? My brother’s gay, you’re trying to get me to accidentally turn him into ash?”

“Er, I’m actually not certain about that part. Much of the text referring to the Scourge of the Sodomite is somewhat metaphorical in nature, although I do know for a fact that the deadly kiss of its enchanted steel burns vampiric flesh hotter than a thousand suns.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not buying anything named ‘Scourge of the Sodomite.’”

“Well, the name isn’t that important. It’s simply a product of its time.”

“What time was that? Uganda during an election year?”

“Nay, for this mighty sword was crafted in a time before time, in the forges of Crea—”

“Save it. I don’t want a homophobic sword. I don’t even know why I wanted a sword at all, I already carry a gun.”

“And does this ‘gun’ of yours hum and tremble with the fantastic powers of the divine?”

“Well, I’d have to check the SIG Sauer website, but offhand I’d say no.”

“Then let me offer you a selection of holy bullets, tipped with wolfsbane, silver, garlic, and the prayers of the meek.”

“You got that in .357 SIG?”

“Of course, of course, and let me assure you that these munitions are guaranteed ten times more effective than conventional rounds against werewolves, night-gaunts, succubi, and…”

“And?”

“…Just those things. How many boxes did you need?”

“No, tell me what the fourth thing is.”

“If I tell you what the fourth thing is you won’t want to buy the bullets.”

“We don’t know that until you tell me what the fourth thing is.”

“The fourth thing is lesbians.”

“I don’t want to buy the bullets.”

“Oh come on!”

“No, fuck you! I’m going down to Cabela’s!”

“Screw Cabela’s, I got the Vatican factory discount! I’m selling a hundred rounds for twenty bucks here! The only guy that sells it cheaper is Scott Lively and he makes you sign up for his stupid mailing list!”

“I’m not giving any money to homophobic arms manufacturers!”

“I’ll have you know that 70% of all Vatican weapons profits go to inner-city after-school warrior-nun training programs! It’s just like midnight basketball!”

“Warrior nun training programs are nothing like midnight basketball! Warrior nuns don’t even play basketball!”

“Are you kidding me? Warrior nuns live for basketball! It’s like the Mormons! What do you think the WNBA stands for?”

“I don’t give a shit about the WNBA! Nobody does!”

 “Oh, and you’re calling me a bigot?”

 “That’s it, I’m done! Next stop is Cabela’s!”

 “If you’re going to the one by the Best Buy they’re gonna screw you over! They got rid of all their enchanted stuff because the new manager’s a werewolf!”

“How does it feel to make history, Mr. Henneman?" 

"Capital, Mr. Fox, capital.”

“Indeed, this was a well-considered subject for what I might call a young or perhaps even an infant art-form; so dependent on stationary poses that allow our plates to absorb enough light and shadow to represent in some small way the images cast upon our optical nerves by the natural lenses of our own eyes.”

“I thank you for your kind words–often have I thought that the silent moments of each chess game deserve recording, as to capture the quiet machinations of each player considering the state of play.”

“And here we are, two combatants frozen in a perfect instant, locked in a sort of battle that might best be represented by the individual actions of each player during each round, rather than a portrait of the contestants from one particular phase of combat.”

“Quite.”

“A layman–a base, uncomplicated man unfamiliar with this game’s context–might see this daguerrotype and assume an understanding of this game far removed from its reality.”\

“Oh indeed?”

“Yes, I feel it is quite possible–regrettably possible–that those who view this picture might assume that I am confounded by your strategies and must require a quiet moment to mount a defense, if only because your relaxed and flippant posture could only be explained by a degree of levity unbecoming of a man seeking to challenge an accomplished chess mastermind.”

“My word and honor! I had never thought to convey such an idea in this photo-graph project, regardless of how many times I may or may not have bested you in the game of chess.”

“You have never bested me in the game of chess.”

“An interesting statement, given that it lacks any photographic proof.”

“…”

“…”

“…You know that I have never lost a game of chess to you.”

“I know nothing beyond what respectable sources have–”

“You fucker! I knew you were working some sort of angle on this!”

“Oh what the fuck ever, Mr. Fox, through all the years we’ve worked together you see fit to accuse me of staging a chess game that might portray me in a favorable light–”

“I look like an asshole! You’re all leaning on your hand like I’m fucked and I don’t even know it, and I’m tilted over to get the maximum shine off my bald spot–”

“Point of order: you don’t have a bald spot, you have a few hair spots surrounded by these shining plains of mirror-polished flesh that–”

“Oh, oh, oh, Professor Curly H. Dutchman with his fancy fuckin’ hair, sidling up next to me to ensure that history’s earliest and most significant daguerrotypes always somehow manage to show off how I went bald with dignity and never capture his big fat buttery ass!”

“You want a big fat ass? Maybe if you were really a pioneer of photo-graphic science you might understand why your good lady wife likes to take off her petticoat in front of a big bay window, and maybe if you were a pioneer of a good hard fuckin’ you might understand why I have a closet full of petticoats rank with the fetid aura of congress!”

“That’s it, Nicky, that’s fucking it. Ye have sown the wind and ye shall reap the god-damned mother-fucking whirlwind, and in the name of English science I am going to tie your poxy Hollander dick to one of your precious windmills and every time the machine completes a revolution I will smash your balls with a hammer, so help me God.”

“Fine by me, Hank Fox. Fine by me… although… we must still wait an hour for this daguerrotype to develop before we can take any action.”

“Of course.”

“Quite.”

“No reason to disrupt the picture, nor to act in an ungentlemanly manner until then.”

“I entirely agree.”

“…Wine?”

“…That’s what she did.”

“So Mr. Nicholson, I understand you had something to show me today?”

“Yeah girl… word around the R&D department is that you’re wantin’ to check out my Pocket Hose.”

“Indeed. Do you have your design documents with you? Maybe some pictures?”

“Well, I thought it would be easier for you to just check it out in the flesh.”

“You’ve got it into the prototype stage already? Interesting.”

“Uh… prototype?”

“Yes. I was thinking that with the right marketing and a carefully determined price point, we might have a good prospect for the ‘as seen on TV’ market.”

“I don’t… I’m not following you. This is still about my Pocket Hose, right?”

“Yes. I assumed that this was a gardening product and not some sort of sexual double entendre, as interpreting this name in a sexual way would mean that your fully erect penis would still comfortably fit in a standard pocket.”

“Uh…”

“I would assume such a penis to be three to four inches long while erect, and of proportionate girth. Maybe five inches at the longest, assuming the testicles to be extremely small or perhaps highly compressible.”

“What if I told you it grew to fifty feet?”

“Assuming we continue interpreting this 'pocket hose’ in a sexual manner, that length would be unnecessary and uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Well…”

“As a metaphor for the genitals this 'pocket hose’ would betray a childish misunderstanding of a woman’s sexual needs, and perhaps even a lack of familiarity with sexual intercourse in general.”

“…that’s fine, because I was definitely talking about a portable garden hose that you can fit in your pocket, so if you… uh… if you walk past a lawn that needs watering and there’s a faucet there, you can… you can do somebody a favor and water their lawn with that faucet. And the hose. And… and then just roll it up and put it in your pocket and… go away. Otherwise you just have to walk past all these dry lawns and… uh… unwashed cars.”

“That’s how I understood it.”

“Because that’s a real problem, that I have often had, and so I’ve been talking about a pocket hose to my friends at the office, because they have also been walking around and seeing all these lawns and cars and stuff.”

“Reportedly you have often mentioned that I, personally, would be interested and even delighted by your Pocket Hose.”

“…Yes, because you seem like someone who really cares about lawns. And lawn care. You seem like that sort of person, who would be interested in the sort of product I am describing and also designing for sale.”

“That’s just as well. If this was some sort of extremely clumsy sexual metaphor I would have to dismiss you and possibly seek legal action.”

“I think we have definitely agreed that is not what is going on, and in fact I am fully capable of designing a fifty-foot hose that will fit in a standard pocket.”

“I’m very glad to hear that. Did you have anything else for me today, Mr. Nicholson?”

“Not unless you wanted to see my penis.”

“I saw all I needed to see at the office Christmas party. If you ever sneak a handle of Olde Kentucky Fluid into a company event again you’re fired.”

“Oh.”

“You’re also going to be fired if you don’t have your pocket hose ready for full-scale production by close of business Friday.”

“Um… that’s what she said.”

Everyone remembers where they were when they first saw campy cult classic Dirtbike Summer– I myself had just been told my grandfather had passed away, so this fresh, fun film about the importance of believing in yourself and your dirtbike really resonated with me. I was particularly taken with the character of Max “Rad” Wheels, the enigmatic “guru” who takes a young Todd “Gnarly” Connor (unforgettable catchphrase: “Dude, that’s gnarly!”) under his wing. In later years I was in frequent contact with Gerhard Schwacht, the East German character actor whose appearance in Dirtbike Summer marks his only appearance in big-budget non-pornographic Western film.

When Schwacht died last summer, it was like losing my grandfather all over again, although my grandfather died of mesothelioma and not from what I am told IV drug users refer to as a “hot shot” allegedly prepared by Rocco Siffredi. Until the dispute with Siffredi and Vivid Video is resolved, here is how America and I best remember Schwacht as a performer, a character, and a dirtbikist.

[Todd and Max are straddling their dirtbikes after Todd’s initial disappointing performance at the bikedrome.]

MAX: You have the talent to be a champion dirtbikist, Todd. The problem is that you lack the commitment.

TODD: Commitment? I’ve been training two hours every day, man!

MAX: Two hours is nothing, Max. I am hard pressed to find two hours–even two non-contiguous hours, even one-hundred-and-twenty minutes–of any day where I am not training.

TODD: Dude, that’s gnarly! What am I supposed to do, eat with my dirtbike?

MAX: You must eat with your dirtbike. You must sleep with your dirtbike. You must live and breathe and think as if you and the dirtbike are one and the same.

TODD: You sleep with your dirtbike?

MAX: I have not slept in several years.

[After learning that love interest Holly has a hidden fascination with the art and science of dirtbikology, Todd shares his renewed enthusiasm and determination to become “king of the dirtbikes” in the annual Viscounts of Dirtbiking tour. Max disapproves.]

MAX: Who is this girl, this Holly? Why is it important now that you dirtbike to a higher standard, when before you boke dirt out of the pure love of dirtbiking?

TODD: Boke dirt?

MAX: I have spoke to you before of the importance of conjugation.

TODD: Dude, I… like, Holly is this totally special girl, but her dad’s the richest mayor in the country and it seems like every time I see her that Chip dude is all over her. When I was dirtbiking at the library and saw her checking out all those microfiche back issues of The Dirtbike Literary Quarterly I figured, you know, maybe I have a shot. Maybe all of us poor kids from the big city projects who still listen to old-fashioned rock ‘n’ roll in our blue jeans have a shot.

MAX: You wish her to be part of your audience. You wish her to be part of the gross agglomeration of spitting, screaming cattle.

TODD: I guess, yeah.

MAX: I have boke dirt before millions of people and have not had cause to remember a single face. I have boke dirt for the King of Siam and his court and I have boke dirt for the generals who would come to replace them. At no point were they more than a nagging distraction.

TODD: I think you mean Thailand, dude.

MAX: I did not err when I spoke of Siam and its king. I boke dirt for King Mongkut and the English woman Anna Leonowens. She chose to omit the event from her memoirs, a slight that would lead me to refuse to dirtbike at her funeral.

TODD: …Dude, how old are you?

MAX: I will entertain no further questions until you can do the trick where you can dirtbike backwards.

[The town of Dirtbike Falls is embroiled in scandal after Chip videotapes Max and Holly having sex in the abandoned crab boat Max uses as a dirtbike shrine. Todd bursts angrily into the hold, littered with the odd crab sculptures Max has fashioned out of dirtbikes that he feels have “died the heroic death of the crab.” Max is, as always, straddling his dirtbike.]

TODD: DUDE!

MAX: I understand that you may consider my behavior objectionable and I caution you that I do not care.

TODD: I can’t fuckin’ believe this man! I told you that I had a crush on her and you gave me all this shit about the King of Siam and then you show up at Holly’s house with that stupid dirtbike medal that you wouldn’t even let me see–

MAX: The Pour le Dirtbike Merite is not a bauble to delight the blinkered eyes of a fool. Holly demonstrated a knowledge of dirtbikosophy that proved she would appreciate the medal in a way you would not.

TODD: She doesn’t even ride a dirtbike!

MAX: She appreciates the idea of a dirtbike. She has an intuitive grasp of the principles and theory of dirtbiking rivaled only by her natural skill at lovemaking.

TODD: She’s fuckin’ seventeen man! And you’re, like–

MAX: Ageless.

TODD: Her dad is the mayor and Chip’s dad is the sheriff! I could be in trouble just talking to you!

MAX: In a society where love is a crime, dirtbiking is meaningless. With all the dirt I have boke I have proven that dirtbiking is the only meaning. It follows that society and its “crimes” are mere fiction.

TODD: Dude, that’s gnarly.

MAX: I will require your aid in purchasing a firearm.

[It’s the last stages of the Viscounts of Dirtbiking tour and Todd and Chip are tied for first place, in spite of Chip’s attempts to sabotage Todd with illegal trick dirtbike tires and a bouquet of white roses laced with curare. With the neuromuscular toxin slowly paralyzing the muscles in Todd’s legs, it looks nearly impossible for him to perform the tiebreaking stunt where you do a loop on your dirtbike. Suddenly, Max appears, bloodied but unbowed, straddling his dirtbike at the crest of the dirthill created for the dirtbike events.]

MAX: Your local constabulary has been tested and found wanting. Toddothy, I wish to apologize for not having believed in you. I make no apologies at all concerning Holly and indeed plan to repeat our act of congress immediately after I perform the stunt where you do a loop on your dirtbike in your stead. 

[Max throws his empty Steyr-Hahn pistol to the ground and sets off down the hill. Almost immediately he falls from his dirtbike, tumbling bonelessly to the bottom of the slope.]

hi, i got termed once again:(

my last blog was bignattybear, before that was untameablebrat

will u pls reblog so i can find my mutuals? i’m gutted lol

You arrive and you have me cleaning up your house in this... WYD? 😝