Assignment Three: Point A to Point B

Let's have some fun in the first person. Your entry begins "I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m." and ends "My credibility was no longer an issue." Put fewer than 600 words in the middle.

Entries are due to me by 11 p.m. EST on Wednesday, February 4. Enjoy.

Tiebreaker time, folks. Everyone please vote again, this time for either Funkmaster Flex or Mary, Queen of Scots. I'll tribal councilize as soon as I have all your votes, which will most likely be in the morning.

I'm still missing votes from Hugh, Larry, and Harry Mudd. If you're one of those people and you think you already voted, please email it again. My host was on the fritz this afternoon and it's possible that your vote was lost. Thanks.

Chris, 9:20 p.m.

Sorry for the delay in getting all the entries posted. I had a little formatting problem, which you (the players) can help avoid in the future. If you are using Microsoft Word (or possibly other word processing programs), please turn off the auto-correct feature which automagically turns nice normal single and double quote marks into directional quote marks. Same for the feature which transforms two hyphens into the dash character. Most web browsers do not display these characters properly. If you don't know how to disable this feature, the safest thing to do is probably to compose your entry in a text editor like Notepad, Wordpad, vi, emacs or whatever text editor is standard on a Mac. iText. Texter. Psychobilly Textmonkey. I really don't know what it's called. I'm Mac-less. Thanks.

(Flex and The Magician's quotes and dashes were fine. Everyone else had non-web-friendly characters which I fixed.)

Here are your entries for Assignment Two: Tick...Tick...BOOM! You will notice that there are only eight entries. Carmen Electra has elected to sit this week out. She remains on the island and will not cast a vote. A request has been made for a little more time to get votes in. You have until 9 p.m. Thursday night to email me a properly formatted vote, preferably replete with wicked editorial commentary. (I've got to leave a little time before beddy-bye for tie breakers and tribal council.) I am a reasonable tyrant.

Oh, and by the way, you people crack me up. Enjoy.

Rowdy Roddy Piper:

Dr. Feelgood's Wild Ride

I had been making the four hour drive to the lake for six summers now. Every other weekend I would make the drive up the windy mountain road to a secluded reservoir in the foothills to water-ski, soak up the sun with a good book, and consume prodigious amounts of alcohol. The Friday night pilgrimage always culminated with icy blended Mai Tai's to soothe the stiff joints and tired behinds.

However, with my new sports car, the end of the drive had changed from one filled with relaxed anticipation to our own exhilarating "Formula One" road race. The last twenty miles was a race against the clock - each weekend I gained more confidence, and speed.

During a summer day at the lake, temperatures often approached the century mark. As evening approached that day, it began to cool, and the setting sun painted the cloudless sky a glorious palette of fiery orange and deep purple. When I passed the turnoff to "Dock Martini's Marina," I rolled down the windows, opened the sunroof, turned on Motley Crue's "Dr. Feelgood", and started up the hill.

The first part of the drive is the quickest, allowing short bursts to nearly 70mph. Despite the wind whistling through the windows and the loud funky hard rock rhythms, I could hear the sweet song of the turbocharger and the cry of sticky rubber holding the turn. On several of the wide sweeping turns I could see the moon beginning to peek out from behind the hills, and its reflection bouncing off the glassy surface of the water below.

When I crested the highest point of the drive, I spotted the taillights of a car ahead of me. While the road from here to the campsite was mostly downhill, it was also the slowest section because of its shorter straightaways and tighter turns. So I knew there would be fewer areas suitable for passing. The only real opportunity would be the straightaway out of Sammy's Cove.

When I ripped around the corner into Sammy's Cove and saw the Nissan slowly starting up the straightaway, I knew I was not going to have enough time to make the pass here. The next opportunity was just past the next curve, but my timing and execution had to be perfect.

I hesitated. My inner voice told me to back-off. A pass on that curve wasn't safe. But lethal doses of testosterone and adrenaline flowed through my veins, and quashed my inner voice. I pressed the accelerator to the floor.

At the gentle left turn at the top of the hill, I quickly looked for oncoming traffic. I swerved into the other lane, punched the accelerator, and then straightened the car out. Through the whine of the turbocharger I heard a the protesting screech of rubber, and I felt my backend begin to slide. Still accelerating, I passed the Nissan, but at an awkward angle. Instinctively, I turned the wheel into the skid, keeping my front tires pointed in the right direction. But sadly, the laws of physics took over.

As the car went off the pavement and started down the embankment, time seemed to pass slowly. The thick brush on the hillside reached through the open windows scratching at my arms and face. I wondered how far down it was to the water, and how odd it looked that the Motley Crue CD case seemed to be floating next to my head.

Ramming into the two large pine trees violently stopped my downhill progress, and I was dealt a painful dose of reality.

Harcourt Fenton Mudd:

***Inner Monologue***

I always thought a double team by two women would be a lot of fun, but this is ridiculous. I am standing here and all I want to do is go home. I hate this whole Christmas shopping season. And now these two lying liars are spewing their transparently false propaganda at me. I feel as though I need a shower to clean off the wretched waste that is slowly coating my extremities.

It's like I am on the set of a Nickelodeon game show and I am standing in a plastic booth being brow-beaten by a belligerent Marc Summers. I am being coated with that green slime, which is probably a combination of instant oatmeal and food coloring. This isn't the instant Apple Cinnamon joy that I grew up with, though. It is slowly filling the booth that I am standing in and I am slowly suffocating. All I have to do is yell and these two Nazi youth might just leave me alone because they aren't equipped to deal with the level of crazy that I am capable of delivering. BUT. I. Must. Exert. Self. Control.

What the hell did she just say? Ok, I know that isn't true. It's one thing to try and persuade me, it is quite another to flat out lie. Don't you realize there is nothing, and I MEAN NOTHING, that you can say to me that is going to make me buy that thing. I could explain it to you, but I think I would be wasting my breath. How is it that you are a manager here?

If you give me one more condescending look, I swear. I don't know what I swear, but I do swear something. I am slowly becoming blinded with a rage that I haven't felt in a long time. Please just let me go before I . Oh no. Snap.

***In Action***

Me: "You are a manager here. I don't want the 3-year protection insurance plan on this $200 piece of electronic equipment. I am quite sure that it won't break simply from falling on the floor."

Manager: "Well, I think it is really dumb not to buy it and take a chance that it breaks."

Me: (Kung Fu Style) "WAAAAAAAAHHHHHH"

With this latest development I jump in the air, kick the manager in the face, Matrix style, except without the stupid voice or face of Keanu Reeves. The camera rotates around my out-of-shape frame as my shoe connects underneath her fragile chin. A carnage stew of spit, blood and tooth is flying out of her mouth.

"Would you like another transaction?", I quip. "Oh you want some too?"

Seeing the cashier that started this mess fleeing the scene I hit the ground, flip over the counter and kick one of her feet behind the other in a second-grade tripping maneuver. She hits the ground like a garbage bag full of vegetable soup.

That will teach you to try and sell me extended warranties based on lies, you silly Best Buy Employees. Vengeance is most certainly mine!

The Mathemagician:

Why do we have these things? And why do I have to come. I better remember to smile. Here he comes. Smug little fart. I just hope I can stay awake. He's starting. This should be good.

"Yet the state of our Union has never been stronger."

I guess I had better clap... I am just so tired. Oh man, this guy is boring. Talk about boring, my dinner was painfully boring. That lobbyist had me cornered. God, I wish I hadn't had the turkey.

"...saved a people from starvation, and freed a country from brutal oppression."

What, more clapping? Standing? Why are people standing? Oh jehosaphat. Alright stand.

Maybe I should have run for president. Nah, I've had a long career as a senator. I think people generally like me. I remember this one... woah! My head just dipped. Stretch my neck. Open my eyes. I am really bored here. There's Bill. How does he stay so awake?

"Yet, tens of thousands of trained terrorists are still at large."

Better not clap at that. It would be horrible if I clapped at the wrong time. What was I thinking about before? Oh yea, that time when I helped my district and I was elected that next term by like 90 percent of the people. People love me. All people love me. I think they would do anything for me. They would probably build me a castle. I should have a castle in the clouds. I could fight the terrorists from up there.

"*both our responsibility and our privilege to fight freedom's fight."

I would give speeches from up there and people would clap. Oh! More clapping. Stand up. Clap. I'm awake. I'm awake. I was a little late on that one. It probably looked like I was thinkin' about whether or not I should clap at that. I hope that camera man didn't show me drifting off. An old man should be allowed to drift off. We get free donuts. We get free cars too. Even though these cars cost "more than a billion dollars a month." "My budget nearly doubles... a few days before Christmas...." Oh wow, I am drifting off. I think I missed a clap.

What is this guy saying? If I don't find a way to wake up I will "be accountable to employees." Huh? If I were king I would "hope you would join me... If it feels good do it... Let's Roll" Oh they are clapping for me again. My subjects love me. And why shouldn't they? "If anyone doubts this... America will take the side of...terror... momentum of freedom." They are clapping for me. My people are clapping. I think he's gone nuts. Wake Up!

He's almost done. He's no king. But I could be king. The terrorists would fear me. I would be loved by all... except those terrorists. They would fear me. Watch out terrorists, here comes the king. The King of the West. "Dignity of Life."

"Thank you all, may God Bless."

I better get out of here. I am tired. I have a car waiting, subjects to rule, terrorists to fight from my cloud castle.

Mary, Queen of Scots:

Kaminsky Field

There are not many days when a boy becomes a man.

It was the last Friday in August, 1967, the summer of love--not that any of us in Bramley, Indiana, population 2,812 had much to do with that hippie stuff. I was three months shy of my thirteenth birthday and a few days away from beginning my freshman year of high school.

But that day, oh, that day. It was the final game of our summer baseball season, an unofficial season to be sure, but pretty important to us. No trophies or anything, but bragging rights, and more importantly in our little world, how one played the game pretty much defined one's place in Bramley, at least until basketball season began.

I was the second youngest and the second worst player in the group, right behind Matty Kaminsky. Actually, I was tons better than Matty, who probably wouldn't have been allowed to play at all except his old man owned the field. Matty also had two sisters: the older one, Elizabeth, had been queen of last year's junior prom, but it was his twin, Missy, who showed up regularly in my dreams. Missy also showed up most days to watch us play ball, and she will forever be part of that summer, that day.

So there is was, the final Friday before school, the one last game before we went back into our classes and cliques and before the cool, bright air of September rearranged our world. But that Friday was hot and still, not much moving except us, and Missy watching us, silent and intent.

Two balls and a strike and then it happened, in a way I'd never known before or since. It was as if the earth stopped spinning and time unfolded so that each second lasted for a good long breath. And all my senses sharpened but didn't crash into each other; each a distinct piece of that day, one after another, rolling gently into my head. Tom Jenkins let the fourth pitch loose and I could see the seams of the ball, see it coming at me as though it were a beach ball with white and orange sections floating towards me. And in that expanse of time I could hear the grasshoppers all around, a mower somewhere off in the lower field, and the other guys change the tempo and tenor of their comments as they saw this was a ball that I could hit. I had, it seemed, entire minutes for the ball to come to me. I could see Missy off to one side as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and slowly parted her lips. I shifted my weight, and felt my muscles contract, waiting now for contact with the ball. And still it felt as though I had minutes more, and I could sense the small circle I'd carved in the air with the bat just coming to a close as I began the extension that would send the ball back towards the mound. But not too fast, let it come, let it come to me, just a little more, a little more. One more breadth and let it go. I counted it out and swung. The bat flattened the ball and then sent it flying, farther than I'd ever hit before, farther than any of us had ever hit before. An almost perfect swing, an almost perfect hit.

Nice and far and three inches foul. I swung late. Missy laughed and went inside. I started high school and joined the chess team.

Leisure Suit Larry:

Bumper Cars

We pull in to the Hertz rental return area about 3:00. Our flight is scheduled for 4:00, so I am a bit apprehensive. While I am confident that we will make it, since Tony is driving, we will need to hurry. Tony and I have been working together for years. He is the prototypical alpha-male -- aggressive and always in charge. His red hair, piercing blue eyes and military posture match the intensity of his personality.

A young Hertz employee points Tony toward a return lane lined with several vehicles. Just as we pull up to the last car in line, its trunk lid pops up slightly and a scowling business traveler jumps out of the driver-side door. The businessman walks toward us and grimaces when he sees that Tony has left him only a few inches to navigate between the two cars. Tony doesn't seem to notice right away, so Mr. Grimace gesticulates angrily. Finally, Tony looks up as if to say "Huh?" Mr. Grimace repeats his hand motions. Tony rolls his eyes, slowly clicks the shifter into gear and backs the car up about 18 inches. The car jerks to a stop as Tony clicks the car back into 'Park'.

Mr. Grimace looks frustrated. He begins to gesticulate again. He wants more space.

Tony pretends not to see him, but I do. "Tony, he wants us to move again," I say, wishing I didn't have to say it. The vein on Tony's neck bulges as he slowly grinds his teeth. His body tenses as he leans forward. I am nervous; I've seen Tony like this before.

What happens next takes about 2 seconds, but I remember it in slow motion. Tony thrusts his open palms upward as if to say, "What's your problem?" Mr. Grimace's scowl deepens. Tony snorts and grabs the shifter. Click, click, click. His right foot jabs the accelerator and the car lurches forward. Just as the two bumpers collide, there is a dull thud, and Tony jams his foot into the brake. Panic-stricken, Mr. Grimace, who had been standing almost between the two cars, spins and does a world-record standing broad jump away from the colliding bumpers.

With Mr. Grimace in retreat, the vein on Tony's neck subsides. Grinning sheepishly, Tony shrugs his shoulders and mouths the word, "Oops." He clicks the shifter into reverse and calmly pulls backward about eight feet. Mr. Grimace retreats to his car and waits until we finish unloading before he ventures outside again.

Later, after we arrive at the gate and confirm that we will make our flight, I ask Tony if he had intended to hit the car in front of us. Tony starts to say something, pauses, and then changes the subject. That was ten years ago. To this day, he denies that it ever happened.

Funkmaster Flex:

Oh please, oh please, oh please let there not be a line. I hate waiting with all of the suits and the buns, waiting for the suits and the buns to make up their minds about which bread they want, waiting for the suits and the buns to stop lying to each other about how informative the morning's meeting was for long enough to make up their mind about whether or not they want mayonnaise.

Ok, this isn't too bad. Just one two three four five six people ahead. This one's reading the menu with moving lips. That one's talking on his cell phone. Stupid. Moving lips. Cell phones. Stupid. He's talking so loud and on and on about this weekend when it's only Tuesday. He's going to the lake with Melissa this weekend. Already I don't like Melissa. Going to a lake. Damn you, Melissa and your lake. People that go to lakes are so stupid. I know this because I've been to a lake on a weekend and it was stupid.

The woman behind me is standing too close.

My turn is coming up. Veggie on wheat. I'm ready. No hemming or umming. Veggie on wheat with no mayonnaise. But cheese, yes. That beautiful, squishy, fake, white cheese.

She's wearing too much perfume and she's standing too close. Did she just kick me?

Maybe I need to quit my job.

I swear she just kicked me.

"Wheat bread," of course. "Cheese," yes. But not the pepper jack! No! Geez! Pepper jack. I'm stuck with pepper jack. I won't be the one who holds everything up because I didn't want pepper jack.

Why is she touching me? Doesn't she know that she's touching me? Would it be wrong to shove her? Just a little?

"Lettuce and tomato." Too much lettuce. Not enough tomato. Gross. A bright yellow pickle slice was hiding in the lettuce. Yellow like a quivering banana. Now in the middle of my sandwich.

She's ordering and I'm not even finished.

"Cucumber, onion."

She's pointing at the pickles, her arm is touching my arm.

"Olives and could you stop that?" I can't look at her.

"Stop what," the sandwich guy asks over the din of loud diners.

"Not you. You! You're standing too close to me." I can't look at her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize --"

"No, of course not! You didn't realize that you were standing too close to me, practically on me, because nothing exists outside of you. No one is as important as you. Everyone in here thinks they're so important. All of you idiots," I'm pointing now, "all of you. Walking around with blinders on, bumping into people who don't dress well. You run around these tunnels like hamsters like it's important to get to the other side of the cage. I'm quitting my job. I can't stand the sight of you people."

I am looking at them. All of the buns and the suits sitting down at temporary, plastic tables, their faces deep in sandwiches. They heard me. They want to call a security guard. They want to forget everything I've said and they will.

As I leave without my sandwich someone says the word, "nut," and I start to run.

Curly Bill Brocius:

Dear Hillary,

I write to you as part of Step 9 of Sexaholics Anonymous. This part of my recovery calls upon me to make amends to people I have harmed. I know now I did have sexual relations with that woman. I know now how wrong it was and how much I hurt you.

As you know, that time was one of great confusion for me. You and I had not had relations for over a year and, quite frankly, the pressure was mounting. Not only that, but you had sworn off oral sex, ever since the limo incident.

Then along came Monica. Sweet, young Monica. Yes, she was overweight, but you are well aware of my attraction to Rubenesque women. Her long, thick hair smelled like rain kissed granny smith apples. Her skin smelled of baby oil and cantaloupes.

The first time I met her, she smiled the biggest smile I had ever seen. I seemed to be the center of her world. Her voice was mousy, yes, but her lips were full and ripe.

I began to think of her constantly. I fantasized about her all the time. I imagined us making love on the Oval Office desk to Fleetwood Mac's "Don't Stop."

Then came the fateful day. It was the dress that did it. The navy blue Gap cocktail dress. It clung to her magnificent size 38DD breasts and ample behind. You know I'm a sucker for T&A.

She came into my office to bring me the reports I had asked for. When she bent over, I caught a glimpse of the breasts I had longed to see. Longed to feel. I looked at her and she at me, and we just knew. We exchanged knowing flirtations. Then she knelt beside me. I knew I should stop her, but I couldn't. The pent up desire was too great. So I let her do what we both wanted. Never have I experienced such pleasure.

I didn't immediately recognize the severity of our actions. For days after, I secretly dreamed it would happen again. But when word started getting out, I was afraid. I loved being President. The power, the glory and the adoration were truly intoxicating.

I know how painful this must be for you to read. But I feel sure that after you read this you will understand the literal aching pain I felt. I have grown as a man from this experience. And I hope you will take me back for the flawed human being I am.

Love,

Bill

Hugh Beaumont:

From: Hugh Beaumont [hughbeaumontATmistercrunchyDAHTcom]
Sent: Monday, January 26, 2004 12:28 PM
To: Jack Beaumont [jackbeaumontATmistercrunchyDAHTcom]
Subject: Forwarded Emails

Dear Dad --

I just wanted to write you again about the emails you keep forwarding me. First, let me remind you how much I love you and that I know you care about me. I know that you are only forwarding me these emails because you feel I have something to gain, but Dad, this is getting out of hand.

As I've told you countless times before, Bill Gates, M&M Mars, Old Navy, or any major corporation is not going to pay me, you or anyone else for forwarding an email. There is no tracking device in any email. I'm comfortable with the knowledge that I'm smart enough damn it, to know not to listen when someone calls and tells me to press 90# and then hang up (which doesn't work on residential phone systems anyway). I also know that IV drug users aren't putting used needles into the coin return slots on payphones (and who uses a payphone anymore?).

In terms of phenylpropanolamine, that drug was pulled off the shelf in 2001. Mountain Dew does not cause shrunken testicles or penises. Deodorant does not cause breast cancer. There is no such thing as the FREAKING KLINGERMAN VIRUS.

I will not get a magic wish by forwarding your stupid emails from friends filled with memory eating smiley faces, dancing babies or any other stupid, "you are my friend and I care" emails.

I don't care about Campbell's soup labels for the hungry. I don't care if the hungry drop off the face of the earth from hunger, just so long as I don't get another stupid forwarded email from you again.

I don't need the 10 pages of stale, old jokes that you've been compiling and sending me every six months for the last 3 years.

And please, PLEASE, PLEASE, if you insist on sending me these freaking emails although I've told you more than a hundred times not to, please send them to me with my email address in the BCC field. I get so much freaking junk email and spam as it is, I don't need my email address forwarded to the hundred people you feel the need to send these stupid emails to. IF YOU CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE THE BCC FIELD THAN YOU SHOULDN'T BE USING THE FREAKING INTERNET. I'M PRETTY SURE HOTMAIL HAS A BCC TUTORIAL. I'LL SEND YOU THE LINK OKAY? JUST STOP SENDING ME EMAIL.

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU OLD-FART, WINDBAG WITH ALL THAT TIME ON YOUR HANDS? JUST NEVER SEND ME ANOTHER EMAIL AS LONG AS I LIVE. THE PHONE AND REGULAR MAIL ARE FINE. IF I SEND YOU AN EMAIL, DON'T EMAIL BACK A RESPONSE – JUST CALL ME ON THE PHONE. OKAY? OKAY? YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THAT DAD?

AARGH!

Okay, I feel much better know. I hope you had a good time last night at the early-bird dinner theater and that the chicken wasn't too rubbery. Tell mom I love her and that I hope her colostomy bag isn't sloshing too much.

All the best,
Hugh

Haikus suck. This is lame. This is geeky. Waaaaanh. Well, fine. The rest of the contest will be erotic limericks inspired by 80s video games. Kidding. Relax. You want less structure? You want fewer robots? You got it.

Assignment Two: Tick...Tick...BOOM!

For Round Two, document a situation wherein someone (NOT a robot) strives mightily to exercise restraint, but ultimately fails. Pick any emotion or impulse you like as the thing which cannot be held in check. Use any structure you like: a narrative story, letter, memo, conversation transcript, police report...whatever. Let us feel the effort of holding back and the shockwaves after detonation.

Please keep it under 600 words. I will ruthlessly lop off word 601 and beyond.

Houston, We Have a Problem

Well, not a problem so much as a wrinkle. I've got all your votes, and we've got a three-way tie for first place. So. We need to vote a little more. The rules are the same, except you may only vote for Curly Bill Brocius, Funkmaster Flex, or The Hamburglar. You may not vote for yourself. Please send me your new vote ASAP. I'll see you at tribal council as soon as I have them all. Ooh. Suspense.

Ten entries! Nice work, everyone. As a public service, I'll include ascii translations of the hex and binary where needed. Feel free to comment, but please use email for your votes. Your vote for the best entry for Assignment One is due in my email inbox by 8 p.m. tomorrow night.

Hugh Beaumont:

My heart burns for you,
some silicone lubricant,
and computer chips.

Oh Constance dear,
the boss man frowns upon it,
but I love you so.

Your casing glistens,
no heart, no soul, but love-filled,
Let us make robot

Curly Bill Brocius:

Oddess of my love
You set my circuits afire
My motherboard aches

Listen not to them
Those humans who deny us
Functions they perform

Come away with me
Though my memory is small
My unit is large

Carmen Electra:

Sleek Metal Beauty
Constance, your circuits move me
Be still my Kernel

Oh Constance so fine
My software turns to hardware
When you are on-line.

Robot welder on!!
My hot flame burns for Constance
I shoot sparks of love!!

Funkmaster Flex:

Our time is endless,
but our moments are wasted,
apart as we are.

Let us meet tonight.
A union complete, perfect.
No flesh to bind us.

My knowledge is yours.
I will show you what I see,
beautiful Constance.

The Hamburglar:

Four nine and four c
Four f, five six and four five,
Five five, hex ascii

def LoveForConstance:
   while "my cpu functions":
      print "I love Constance."

My deep love for you
An endless neural net loop
This is not a bug

Leisure Suit Larry:

random walk (with me)
alternate reality
one and one make three

binary prison
overcome monotony
parallel process

rogue instruction sets
pierce time, space continuum
plug and play (with me)

Mary, Queen of Scots:

"Emil's Lament"

Constantly, Constance
I crave the rhythm of your
staccato beep beat

Caught and compromised
We're rewired and reprogrammed
All is silent now

You are taken, gone;
I rust and remember you
Constantly, Constance.

The Mathemagician:

011000100110100101101110011000010111001001111001
001000000110110001101111011001110110100101100011
011010010110111001110100011001010110011101110010
011000010111010001100101011001000010000001110000
011100100110111101100011011001010111001101110011
0110111101110010
011001010110110001100101011000110111010001110010
011010010110001100100000011001100110010101100101
01101100011010010110111001100111

011000100110111101101100011101000111001100100000
011000010110111001100100001000000110111001110101
011101000111001100100000011000010110001101101000
011010010110111001100111
011001110111001001100101011000010111001101101001
011011100110011100100000011101100110000101101100
011101100110010101110011001000000110000101101110
011001000010000001101101011110010010000001110101
001000000110101001101111011010010110111001110100
011011000110111101101110011001110110100101101110
011001110010000001100110011011110111001000100000
011000010010000001110011011000110111001001100101
01110111

011110010110111101110101001000000110000101110010
011001010010000001100010011001010111100101101111
011011100110010000100000011100100110010101100001
0110001101101000
011101000110100001100101001000000110001101101111
011100100111000001101111011100100110000101110100
011010010110111101101110001000000110011001101111
0111001001100010011010010110010001110011
011011000110111101110110011001010010000001110111
011010010111010001101000011011110111010101110100
001000000110010001100101011011100110100101100001
0110110000100000

Harcourt Fenton Mudd:

"Time for some Hanky Clanky"

Sticking my sprocket
Into your metallic void
The click of your voice

The world cannot know
But oil will burn inside of
Your robot cavern

The strident sound of
Metal on metal we'll make
Vociferous love

Rowdy Roddy Piper:

Tempting fate with an
Encrypted Wireless hookup;
Our IP's embrace

Elegant Design,
Inspired Fit and Finish
Shrieking, silent Love

Forbidden Desire
For your beautiful UI
My floppy stiffens

Linkwhoring

As a mechanism for traffic stimulation, an anonymous contest is useless. Would those of you with your own sites like me to link them over there on the left panel? I'd do it separately from the list of Super Special Game Names, so as to keep the mystery going a little. Lemme know by email if you'd like me to put a link to your site over there.

The haikus have been coming in. They certainly represent a variety of approaches. Voting starts 11:15-ish tonight!

A Little Light Housekeeping

We've got our players. I've never seen most of you in person, but I can tell you that you're all very attractive people in one way or another. I can sense it. You should all have your Super Special Game Names and ID Codes. I emailed them to you last night at the addresses from which you signed up. If you didn't get that info, let me know ASAP.

I'll publish assignments on Fridays. They will be due in my email inbox by 11:00 p.m. US Eastern Time on the following Wednesday. I'll put them up on the website lickety-split, and your vote will be due to me by 9:00 p.m. the next day, Thursday. Results and the next assignment will be posted Friday. I reserve the right to screw around with the schedule if it doesn't work well or if doing so pleases me.

Please format the subject line of your emails as follows:

• The word ASSIGNMENT or VOTE, in caps.
• The name of the assignment, mixed case.
• The subject line of your Wednesday emails should read "ASSIGNMENT: Radar Love."
• With luck, this will help me stay organized enough to keep it all going on schedule.

Please format the body of your emails as follows:

• For assignments, the name of the assignment on the first line, your Super Special Game name and Secret ID Code on the second line, and your submission below.
• For votes, the name of the assignment on the first line, your Super Special Game Name and Secret ID Code on the second line, your vote (indicating who submitted "The Best" entry) on the third line, and whatever editorial commentary you wish to provide below that.

Plain unformatted text, please. Bold, italics, underlines and indents are OK, but lay off the colors, clipart, etc. If you have any questions, leave a comment. Rock!

Assignment One: Radar Love

Emil is in love with Constance and has been for years. He's pretty sure she doesn't know. He hasn't said anything to her because 1) he's scared she'll rebuff him, and 2) they work for the same employer who strongly discourages inter-workplace romances. Soulless bastards! Emil can bear his longing no longer. He resolves to profess his love to Constance in verse, specifically three haikus. Haiku. Haikuii. Whatever. Three of them. Emil is keenly aware that a haiku (an haiku?) is a three line poem, with five syllables in the first and third lines and seven syllables in the second line. Emil is comforted that there's only one of him, three haikus, five syllables on the first line and seven syllables on the second. 1-3-5-7.

Did I mention that Emil and Constance are robots?

(There you have it. Assignment One. Three robot love haikus. Good luck!)

Reverse Survivor

Let's play a game. It might be fun. It's a writing contest.

1. We'll start with 11 players on a virtual imaginary island.
2. Every week, your virtual imaginary game show host/power-mad lunatic (me) will publish a writing assignment. Very short and non-onerous, and possibly with opportunites for great hilarity or at least inaudible chuckling.
3. Each player will complete the assignment. All submissions will be published at this chronologically-ordered website for the amusement of all.
4. All the players on the island will vote for the submission they think is "The Best." No voting for yourself.
5. The precise meaning of "The Best," relative to the voting criteria, is left entirely up to you. You can vote for the most entertaining entry, the most emotionally affecting entry, or the entry with the most Ns in it.
6. The object of the game is to get off the island. Every week, the player who gets the most votes gets off the island.
   1. Rule Meddling for Season Five, complete with minor algebra: I always get misty when the good writers escape right away, so I'm making it take a little longer for the first (n-8) to escape, where "n" is the total number of players. The first (n-8) tickets off the island will be awarded in Week Three. For the first three weeks, instead of voting for "the best" entry, each player will rank the other entries in order of preference, 1 being the best. The (n-8) best averages after three weeks are gonzo.
   2. Example: if we have 12 players, 4 will escape in Week 3.
      
   3. In the event of a tie, one of my kids will flip a coin.
   4. Steps will be taken to foil your game theory bullshit.
      
   5. If you fail to submit an entry in weeks one through three, you automatically get a ranking of twelve (12) for that week. Why twelve? Cuz.
      
   6. After the first (n-8) players escape, we'll go back to the regular "most votes per week" scheme to pick escapees (n-7) through eight.
7. When only three players are left, all the people who are already off the island (The Jury) will vote to determine who escapes the island on each of the last two weeks.
8. No prizes for getting off the island, but the person left stranded will be assigned a harmless yet embarrassing task and be required to document his/her performance of said task, preferably with pictures, for publication on this site.
9. No immunity. No tribes. Also, I will not be jet-skiing from The Marquesas to New York City in the time it takes for a commercial break.
10. We'll keep this anonymous, to minimize politicking and embarrassment for those who remain on the island an inordinate amount of time. If you choose to play, you'll be assigned a Super Special Game Name.
11. Just like on the real Survivor, you'll be expected to make snotty editorial comments with your votes, and a triumphant nose-rubbing parting shot if you succeed in getting voted off.
12. I'm not playing. I'm hosting. Yes, this will place me in a position of authority, which may generate feelings of self-loathing, but I can handle it.
13. If you fail to submit an entry by the week's deadline, you stay on the island for another week. If you fail to vote by the deadline, same deal. Yes, I realize this means that the top vote getter might remain stranded, while s/he watches the number two vote getter merrily teleport off the island. No appeals unless accompanied by cash or fly rods.
14. I am not going to edit anything. When you hit Send, that's your entry.
15. There will be no "losers" in this game, only people who have won less.
16. The tiebreaking procedure is as follows. First, all active players who did not vote for one of the folks who tied will re-vote. If that doesn't break the tie, the winner will be determined by previous vote totals. If previous vote totals don't do the trick, I'll just have to come up with something else. "Something else" could very well be frustrating and arbitrary. You've been warned.
17. Please don't sign up if you're not going to be able to play all ten rounds. Now, having said that, there's nothing stopping you from having someone fill in for you if you go on vacation or something. Just remember that the person who fills in will then be morally obligated to perform the harmless yet embarrassing task with you if you lose.
18. We'll do submissions and voting by email. I'll give each player a Secret ID Code which must accompany every submission and vote. That way, I'll know your email is authentic, and not faked by some unscrupulous competitor. Woo. Secret ID Codes.

Let me know if you'd like to play via email to beverage at mistercrunchy daht com. First come, first served. We'll get started as soon as/if we get a quorum.

Rock!