Monday, June 12, 2017

8 Butterflies Who Can Get It

Butterflies, arguably the sexiest of all insects, flaunt it with every lilt. While us humans might not find them attractive, in the insect kingdom, butterflies are by and far the supermodels. With that in mind, we sent out a poll into the bug world, asking if there were any butterflies in particular who can "get it." Here are the results.

Steven Lipshitz

According to those polled, Steven rates a scolding 8 out of 10 on the 'Hawtometer'. Factors include a "slamming thorax" and a "touching devotion to his family."

Jamal Howerson

Jamal ain't a big city butterfly like some on this list. He's just a humble country 'erfly who loves nothing more than to sit playing his bug-guitar on a clear, warm night, while looking dreamy.

Margaret Houlihan

Given the nickname 'Hot Lips' because she shares her name with a character on M*A*S*H, it's Margaret's Abdomen that actually brings all the boys to the yard. She rated a blistering 10 out of 10 on the Hawtometer, and was described as "the kind of butterfly you don't take home to mother." 

Tom Wilson

Hawtness comes in all forms. Butterfly next door, Tom Wilson already had all the ladies' hearts aflutter before he became a hero. Seeing his friend Jenny about to get swooped up in a net, Tom flew down into the face of a small child to distract him so Jenny could get away. This led to many a butterfly saying Tom can "so get it." Unfortunately for Tom his deadline for getting it was short lived as he was captured by the same child and had the powder rubbed from his wings.


Don't let the name fool you, this bold and beautiful butterfly has been lighting up the TV sets of insects everywhere for years. Maybe it's the gorgeous proboscis, maybe it's the #$%^-me compound eyes, but Milquetoast has been long held as the impossible beauty standard for others to attain.

Martin Spirits

Lest you think this list is nothing more than an over glorified meat market, let us introduce you to Martin. Martin is a teacher who uses humor and a gentle heart to reach the kids that pass through his classes.  Also, check out those hindwings, and those forewings... Hawt is Hawt.

Sylvia Jones

Who can get it? Sylvia can get it. Across the list, one butterfly above all others, seemed to rate as the one most insects dream of. From her legs to her antennae, Sylvia rates off the charts. Her Hawtometer reading is a bubbling volcanic 12 out of 10. 

Monarch Mexican Migration

Even though we asked specifically for single butterfly names, time and time again, The yearly Mexican Monarch Migration was written in, with most expressing that they were all "sexy" and that "everyone in the orgy can so get it." Who are we to deny the insects their voice on the matter?

Thursday, June 8, 2017

A Dangerous Gamble

"Double-down," he advised.

"What does that mean?" I inquired.

He looked at me the way I look at my dog after he's been chasing his tail. Slightly amused, and pitying. I wanted to slap the expression off his smug face.

"It just means to double your bet. Greater risk, but greater reward."

"How can I bet double? You know I don't have enough to cover that."

"Sure you do," he smiled, "everyone has two lives to give. This one, and the next."

"You mean my s-soul?" I stuttered.

"It's not like you're using it."

"Alright," I agreed. "I'll wager my soul on it. Now hit me."

He turned over the card; a nine of spades. My hand added up to 22. I couldn't believe it. In a single hand I'd lost everything. My life and my soul, all gone.

"You know what that means," he taunted.

"I know," I returned. "You beat me fair and square. My soul is yours."

I felt a prickling at the back of my head as my horns began to grow out. A tail also began poking out through my now red skin.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he gloated. "It's not everyday one beats the Devil."

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

What Cats Are Saying About Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales

We recently polled some local cats to hear their opinions. This time we wanted to find out what they thought of the latest Johnny Depp film, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales.

'Sir Reginald Plumperdink'
"I've loved that Paul McCatney, ever since he was in the greatest group of all time; Wings."

'Mrs. Kisses'
"Dead men tell no tales? Then. I. Wish. They. All. Were. Dead."

'Duchess Gary Cooper'

"When we play Pirates of the Caribbean, I'm always Joon."

Thursday, May 4, 2017

God Dammed

The old man stood behind the young boy. His eyes had seen 74 years in that corridor where the child currently sat cross-legged on concrete floor. Before them a giant metal door towered with whispers of ancient promise.

"Why did God put the door here?" the child asked. His shaggy brown hair scattered in a million directions as he looked up to the old man.

"For protection. To keep you safe. And to keep your Munny and Pah safe." The old man smiled with crooked and missing teeth. He ruffled the young boy's hair.

The boy looked back to the door. Strange markings and old writings adorned it. Words that were all at once familiar yet incomprehensible.

"But what's on the other side?"

"Evil. All the darkness in the world."

"But we live in the dark."

The old man laughed. "Not that kind of darkness. It's a darkness of the soul. In here we're safe from it and the death it brings."

"And the door keeps it out?"

"Yes. Because it's a special door. One that acts like a dam, keeping the flow of evil from rushing in."

The boy studied the words again: WARNING was pressed into the metal. A label in faded yellow and red was directly underneath. On it, scrawled in faded ink, in all caps were the words GODDAMN THE WORLD.

"Have you ever seen God?" asked the boy.


"Has Munny or Pah?"

"No, they haven't either. Long ago when I was your age, my Great PahPah sat me on his knee and I asked that same question. According to him the last person to see God was his Great Munny's PahPah."

"And God told him he'd be back?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, sir. God said he'd return. All we have to do is keep the faith and wait. Then one day God will open the door and it'll be safe for us all to go through."

"But how do we know when that'll be?"

The old man ran his fingers across a long series of numbers on the side of the door.

"They say the answer lies in these, but no one has ever deciphered their meaning."

The boy sat in quiet for a moment, working himself up to ask the big question he'd been holding in.

"How do we," he began timidly, "I mean...what if there is no God?"

The old man hugged the boy reassuringly.

"I guess we all wonder that at some point or another. Many a night in my youth I stood at this same door, my hands on the locks, pondering the universe and my own existence."

"And you believe?"

"I do."

Off in the distance, a bell rang three times.

"Sounds like dinner's ready," said the old man.

"I'll come in a few minutes," the boy replied.

The old man patted the child on the back before making his way down the corridor, and out of sight. The boy stood up and placed his hands on the giant wheel that would open the locks on the huge door.

What if we're the ones being kept out of the rest of world? The boy pondered. Is it those outside or us in here who are the saved?

He ran his hands over the smooth metal wheel. Doubts raging against faith and tradition.

Maybe it's both. Maybe we're kept apart so we won't hurt each other. Maybe we're all God dammed.

Whether out of fear or out of faith, the boy let his hands slip from the wheel. He turned his back to the door and headed off to join the old man for dinner.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

The Blogger [Short Story]

"Says here you've been professionally blogging for the past three years?"

"That's correct."

Interviewer and interviewee. Two suits, across from each other, divided by a sea of desk. She jotted down a note after his reply.

"Who were you previously employed with?" she asked.

"Self-employed. I did some freelance writing, as well as ran a tech blog of my own."

"Excellent." Another response, another note jotted down. "How come you've decided to seek employment with us?"

"No more room left on the internet."

He fidgeted is his seat. One leg of the chair was slightly shorter than the other, and constantly shifted from side to side.

"You mean the market for your writing is dying off?"

He shook his head, brow furrowed. "Oh, no, I mean the internet is almost full. Soon there won't be any room left to put anything new."

The interviewer started to write something down, then, turned to look at him. She was expecting a joke, but he sat there earnestly returning her gaze.

"What do you mean, the internet's full?'" she inquired.

"Just that. We've been filling the internet for decades and now it's about full. Actually, it's partially on us bloggers. We kept writing and posting, never bothering to make additional room to replace what we filled."

An involuntary laugh escaped her. "That's absurd. The internet can't be filled. It's ever expanding. It's infinite."

"You're thinking of the universe. Even that will collapse one day. No, the internet is almost full. According to my calculations, by the end of the day. Maybe even sooner."

"This is a joke right?"

He shook his head. "No joke. Why do you think internet providers, at least the responsible ones, had a data usage cap?"

"To keep speeds consistent, and to make more money. That has nothing to do with filling some invisible amount of space."

"That's a classic misinterpretation. That cap was to protect supply. Like the price of crude going up due to demand."

A flurry of notes found their way to the page as her patience was exhausted.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not going to sit ere and listen to this," she said. "If you're going to waste someone's time with this inane joke, I prefer it be someone else's."

He shrugged and got up from his chair. By the time he'd gathered his resume and briefcase, she was standing by the open door ready to usher him out.

After he'd left she sat back at her desk and opened her laptop. She clicked the email icon and waited for the browser to pop up. The man had to be insane. Better to send a quick report to HR than risk a reprisal should he try that shtick again.

A moment later and she was signed into her account. She got as far as entering in Terri from HR's address before the keyboard stopped working. She banged hard at the keys, but no letters appeared from the prompt.

"I wonder if the internet's full," she muttered in disgust before restarting her computer.

Once rebooted she clicked the mail icon on her desktop. Instead of the usual music as it popped up, nothing happened. She tried clicking it again, and when that didn't work, several times more.

"Perfect," she said to herself.

She picked up the phone and dialed IT, preparing herself mentally. She hated calling IT. They always talked down to her and rarely fixed anything themselves. Course she would have preferred that to the busy signal that kept burping in her ear.

"Marge," she spoke into the intercom after giving up.

"Yes, Miss Stevens?"

"Can you get me someone from IT to come take a look at my computer? My email app won't work."

"No one's internet is working, Miss. All of IT is working on it now."

"Oh, okay. Thanks Marge."

She let go of the button and sat back.

"It can't be," she said to no one.

Miss Stevens flipped on the small TV in the upper right corner of her room. CNN seemed the logical choice to her. Onscreen, a video was showing, of a stock exchange room with people near rioting. The anchor was talking about the "greatest hacker attack" ever. All she heard though was white noise. She looked out the window to the city street below. People were pouring out of all the buildings looking around in confusion and excitement.

She picked up the application for the blogger she had been filling out. She stared at it for a moment, before she wrote one last note. In the hiring column she put down, "Maybe."

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