or so you say

Personally, I would not have named my only son Fartburger J. Thistle.  It wasn’t until forty years later, when the constant use of marijuana brought on emphysema, that Marge and Derek realized the frivolity of their naming conventions.  Aside from their son, they had been the care-givers to cats named Ali Baba and the Forty Grams, Jesus Christ Super-Sized, Alberta Huntington Fitch the Turd, and many more.  Not to mention the parakeet named Tweety. 

Fartburger pretended to be unaffected.  He earned a Doctorate in Cultural Anthropology, studied a group of aboriginal peoples in Venezuela for six years (returning to the United States only after the hallucinations replaced his memory with a 3.5 megapixel camera that was always on) and wrote THE definitive book on spirituality in the early years of the XXI^st Century. He was popular with young and old readers, his parents, and the heads of state of numerous third-world countries.
Fartburger’s thesis was this:

There is no god but atom and Quark is its prophet.

No one knew what that meant, nor did they understand the three hundred and thirty-three pages in which he developed the idea.  This pleased him.
Quark, aside from being a subatomic particle, is cheese, as well as software.  Very few people knew this trinitarian view of subatomic physics, least of whom were the physicists and cheese-makers Fartburger had interviewed for the book. 

Fame, Fortune, Ducks, and Pollen

Anyone who wants to grow up needs psychiatric help.  Or an iPhone.

life, the universe, and bullshit

it's a wonderless life if you're alone in a small town trying to make ends meet

Tales from Oblivia

Oblivia is a place where no one can remember yesterday. It is on the border between the lands of sanity and in.  It has no permanent residents, but a constant population, approximately 25% of that of the entire planet.  There is no airport, seaport, or carport.  There are, in fact, no airplanes, boats, or cars.  Anyone seeking to drive to Oblivia will either die or be arrested. 

mates and dates

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition when they’ve had a harmless, brain-deadening night at the office, posting the bosses three day late quarterly report to corporate, but there she was, standing in the door, bottle on the table, glass in the hand, fire in the eyes.  No shower, snack, sleep ritual tonight.  The demons were awake and the task at hand was appeasing them.  What did he need to sacrifice tonight?  Masculinity, pride, intellect, spirituality?  She wouldn’t let it go until he found out what was on her mind and wrote her a story that would allow her to sleep.

Story Lines

filling this place with ideas to later be posted on zavacki.com