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SIR
Your Number Is Restricted
Yesterday I made a post in which I rudely challenged the most masculine voice in audio-pulp to a duel…
Dude, sorry, dudes, oh, sorry to all, and lets include dudettes… can I trademark audio-pulp?
Okay, well, in any case. Today, being yesterday in most of the nation, as I just got back from closing the local bars in Portland at 10:30 Specific Time, then fell asleep in a bathtub while drinking rum and smoke [liquid smoke, you know, the stuff Tattoo Rick used for his beef briscuit chili] I rudely responded to a repeated query to delete the name of an audio reader from a Robert E. Howard book review.
I’m pretty drunk right now—you know, if Genghis Khan comes back from the barrow and decides to reconquer the world, and I get to act as his advisor, I will suggest that faggots in the Specific Northwest will be permitted to continue brewing 8.5 percent IPA!
Yep, somehow drinking this half a pot of Rican espresso with 6 ounces of whiskey after coming back from the bar did not sober me up…
But I digress…
Sir, I assume it is you, the man I challenged:
We no longer use calling cards, and my second is banging a hooker in the walk-in freezer of a florist shop in Lovell Wyoming right now, so is not available to deliver terms—and yes, the whiskey and coffee has failed to sober me up from my jaunt with the nuclear IPA—I have noticed that a number of RESTRICTED calls came to my Obama phone today.
No, it is not an Alabama phone. It works in any of the 48 contagious states of the genome.
Get off [of] the table.
Yes, I now you live here and I just visit.
But you are just a fucking cat.
...
I, on the other hand, conform to the general design of your owner—I am literally an argument for intelligent—though not creative, reductionist perhaps—design.
Back the smack off, Mars!
...
Dude, I know you have claws, but you weigh all of 16-pounds—pretty big for a domestic feline, I know—but my 174 pounds of simian certitude will run over your ass in three seconds with little left over for the insurance adjustor to tabulate.
That’s right. I knew you’d like lying on top of the dryer while it tumbled my socks dry. There you go, just like Regan and Gorbi…
If you don’t stop keying in false information on my laptop with your shit-digging paws I will tell your owner that a coyote ate you—yes, thank you.
When the Klingons take over you will feel better about our alliance. For now, just deal with it.
Okay. Mars, so when did this person call me today from these “restricted” phone numbers?
I don’t know who restricts these numbers—I’m barely human myself.
Feline paws bat at the laptop keys at lightning speed…
I am not making this shit up—it happened
Oh, I just got the missed calls, not photos?
Sure, why not, you are a house cat. You certainly know more about phones than I do…
MISSED CALLS:
11:06 AM
Didn’t I post the challenge to duel with crowbars or men-in-black at 10:45?
Wow, that was pretty stupid. What if he is a men-in-black?
Thanks, Mars. I hope he chooses crowbars.
11:30
12:22 P.M.
Nero the Pict called at 12:32—yes all is swell in Inner Pictdom…
12:49 P.M.
12:57 P.M.
6:22 P.M.
You see, Mister RESTRICTED, if you called or texted me by your real number and said, “Look, Nut-Job Jones, I would simply like your word of honor that you will not give my contact information out,” then I would protect you to the best of my retarded ability. But you insist on hiding within the Construct with the bots [Mars assures me this is so, and he is sitting right here on the dining room table drinking my whiskey and espresso at 12:59 A.M. and he just would not lie, so I am not honor bound to protect you.]
You know, Mars, you were right. Once this 12-hour old coffee cools off, the whiskey taste really starts to intrude…
Dude, give it a break with this sobriety bullshit. I’m just a monkey with a deformed frontal lobe…
Maw, maw, maw, maw, maw, maw!

Seriously, Sir, if you wish to parlay, call from a real phone number, and stop sending up flares out of The Construct. Really, at this point, even if we are as cute as Key-Canoe Reeves, do we want to be stuck working for Lawrence Fishburn.
Yes Mars, that is of interest: how exactly would a fish burn people?
You know, if Phillip K. Dick wakes up from this acid trip, we are really screwed…
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Add Comment
GooseOctober 18, 2020 11:13 AM UTC

James,

I've been meaning to ask: why do you drink so much? Is this for pain management? As a creative impulse enhancer? To bear the world for another day?

The more reality you offer, the less they want to hear. The more you know, the fewer people you can talk to. Isn't all of this futile?
responds:October 18, 2020 1:01 PM UTC

That is interesting question.

I drink usually 3 times a week, once to the point where I scratch the sense of humor. I hardly drank at all until I started writing full time, then each book I finished, I'd use the alcohol to erase the stuff that did not get deleted to my satisfaction. I suppose it is related to why I write, trying to forget.

I occasionally use it, like I did last night, to write with more humor.

Thanks.
Eamon McDermottOctober 18, 2020 11:03 AM UTC

I hope you get to talk to this guy. I suspect he's just trying to optimize his google results for his name and your blog is coming up as more popular than him. Worth having an internet war over!
responds:October 18, 2020 1:03 PM UTC

I'm sure he is a nice man and I'm just being a jerk here. But, I'm in the land of Koolaid hair so maybe the weirdness is rubbing off.

The google search angle is interesting.

Thanks.

I didn't set out to do anything but praise.