A Greeting

Dear Mr. Joseph,

I hope you like my blog.

Sincerely,
Philip

Southbound

Martina Neebelson roars down the expanse that is Texas State Highway 71 in her red '69 Camaro; a car bearing much resemblance to some kind of military vehicle or a much larger version of one of Jamie Hyneman's legendary "Battle Bots" death machines. Here I mean to say the car was fortified: a steel grate on the front that was practically industrial fencing, a 100% authentic cow-catcher, wheels with rubber nigh on 6 inches thick, bulletproof windows, floodlights, and those hubcaps that have spikes protruding on each tire. "Let's see what this baby can really do," Martina muses, though having owned the car for some 15 years now, already knowing full well what the car can "really do". Plantarflexion of the right foot, leaving it almost parallel to the road below, guns the car to 150 mph as a large cow enters the gaze of her floodlights. Kablooie! The cow-catcher performs exactly as it should, hooking the cow and throwing it over the car to smash into a million pieces upon the rapidly receding highway. Martina grins and plugs and large pinch of Skoal Long Cut Wintergreen as a reward, her very first dip. She quickly finds herself dizzied almost to the point of nausea and rolls down the window, spitting the dip into the wind and throwing the tin along with it. "Dip, shmip," she whispers in realization that she doesn't actually much care for chewing tobacco. In compensation for a strong personal sense of embarrassment (stemming from her failure to enjoy the dip), Martina floors it.

Randell's World

If you were to forcefully kick the door to handicap stall in the school bathroom open, breaking the slide-lock in the process, you'd find Randell Windell on his pristine white laptop, using the toilet as a chair. He comes here to the bathroom during the mid 5-10 minutes of his government class everyday to just unwind and peruse the internet uninterrupted, usually listening to music and singing along on a good day. It is hot in the bathroom, as there is no AC, so Randell eventually found it best to apply a paisley bandana whose tiny designs seemed almost fractal to his broad forehead thus keeping the sweat out of his eyes and from dripping onto his keyboard. At the sound of another student or potential teacher entering the bathroom, Randell bundles his legs to his chest in a sort of fetal position, except with one arm wrapped around his legs and the other drawn back, fist cocked and ready to deliver a powerful sock to the dome Randell is all too willing to fire. This is what you would find if you were to smash the door to handicap stall in, but I don't know why you would do that.

Late-Nite Jazz

Martin lies prone in his king sized bed, his face essentially smothered by pillows. "Breathing is kind of hard right now," he thinks to himself. He turns over to now lie supine and crosses his arms in an X shape over his chest. "Like an Egyptian mummy," Martin thinks, "I'm just like an Egyptian mummy right now."

A crescendoing thunder sets across the hall outside. The noise grows ever closer, the sound of someone rolling a boulder through a warehouse, near-deafening by the time it reaches his door. It's his father, Colonel, in his wheelchair coming to say goodnight. "Here I come, son!" he shouts playfully as he opens the door, holding out the e in "here" for a long time. Colonel rolls inside, his wheelchair with its magnificent titanium wheels, a silver saxophone hung from his neck. "How ya doin' son? You look like a mummy," he says.
"Doing pretty well, Dad. Yourself?"
"Well, this chair's seen better days, that's for sure."
"Chair looks fine to me."
"You're young, inexperienced. You don't know how it is."

Colonel has wheeled himself fully inside Martin's room now, perpendicular Martin amidst his many punk rock posters. Martin's room is that of a usual teen punk, its walls covered with the aforementioned posters along with graffiti in black spray painted phrases like "Punks rule!", "Death", or "Every president ever sucks", tagged by Martin and his friends, the Cockroach Crew (named for the famous Cosby Show character (non-ironically)).

"Not tonight, Colonel."
"I rather think that's up for me to decide," Colonel says, raising the saxophone to his lips, wetting his reed. "I call this one 'Blues in Blue'," he says and immediately begins to play. A powerful A♭ starts the piece, followed by an E, proceeding onwards in no discernible key. The music is loud and chaotic, death-metal-free-jazz. Colonel's face contorts to one of pure, sick passion as he plays, his eyes closed in concentration.

"Please Dad, stop!" Martin screams, covering his ears. "This is horrible!" His cries go unheard as Colonel's playing only grows louder. He tilts his head back, lifting the saxophone in a Bill Clinton-like parody. "I have a test tomorrow, please just let me sleep!" Martin wails yet unheard. It's 1:13 AM and the music shows no signs of stopping.

Eunice II Society

Eunice, 52 y.o., sits in his great leather office chair and surfs the web. He googles his son's name to find posts on Twitter which offend his so mild sensibilities. "My son is a menace to society," he thinks to himself. On a related whim, he googles "Menace II Society free movie online" and spends the next 97 minutes of his life watching the movie for free online.

Eunice now hungers; Eunice now approaches his kitchen. A room of his house he is quite proud of, predominately white in color, the realization of his hard-earned dollar. Upon the door to his 'fridge, Eunice finds a note from his son. "Dad, Out doing whatever. Sincerely yours, Germstain". Eunice leaves a note in response to his sons, which reads: "Jeremy, you know I hate it when you call yourself 'Germstain'. Best wishes, Dad". Eunice finally opens his 'fridge and removes 12 raw hot dogs and a beer. Eunice now gorges.

Antipodal Eunice, Germstain ventures the Himalayas with his friends and their Sherpa, Mike. The group comes across a vast, dirt plane upon which Germstain writes "I hate my dad. Germstain thrives!"

Eunice's Honda steadily accelerates down University Blvd. The upcoming light is red and the street bears heavy traffic. Eunice pulls strongly leftward to avoid the cars in his lane stopped at the red light. His car moves 80 mph down the wrong side of the street and soon slams broadside into a red pickup, sending it perpendicular into two lanes of oncoming, unsuspecting traffic. A white van and a black Ferrari both collide with the pickup immediately, their anterior portions buckling. Airbags deploy. Eunice watches the multi-car pile up ensue from his badly damaged Honda; somewhere, a car explodes. "Just like in Grand Theft Auto," he thinks to himself.

FBP (First Blog Post)

First blog post. This haiku I wrote a while back (amidst a pretty harsh break-up) seems like an apropos introduction:

"Welcome to my blog
I'll be writing things on here
Hope you like my blog"

That should serve as a pretty good summary of what I want this blog to be and what you can expect from me on here in the future.