No Remorse

Do they still reward Aussie hunters for shooting kangaroos? If so, do they dispose of the body afterwards or just leave it where it fell, to fertilize the bush?
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Just Between It and It

Why are spiders so dumb? Why do they keep spinning their webs in places where they will be destroyed within two hours? (And why must they spin it at face level all the time in these locations?) Don't leave your broom outside anywhere near a hydro pole. Keep your lawn chairs inside and, above all, if you have any bookends, keep them safely stashed.
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This Commercial Has 22 Minutes

I had to cut the news short. Too much bullshit. It gets on my nerves. We're shocked by the behaviour of crowds, are we? Shocked? Not at the crowds that have lined opposing sides of the battlefield all through history; not at the crowds that sacked Rome or the crowds that stormed the Bastille; not at the crowds that crucified Christ or cheered for Hitler; but this crowd was supposed to behave differently. And who's guiding their behaviour? More oil slick updates. The guy who caused it. He was on his yacht after he said he cared. He's rich. He may be growing a beard. He's getting 20 million dollars more after all this. Let's grab him and make him walk the plank. Iran is a threat. They are a very dangerous threat. If they keep going like this, they'll reach the point America was at in 1945! That's why we need to fight them. Because they're a very dangerous threat. North Korea threatened to nuke an American ship. I can see why. They don't have to worry. After they nuke that ship, they can just switch on their forcefield to prevent the US Air Force from coming in and blowing up their entire country in one air strike.
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Control This

What is with these assholes that need to bark orders at people around them - even when they have no authority to do so? How did they make it out of High School alive? And what kind of sadistic creep lets them keep their job so they can keep on offending everybody? You ever see one of these pricks? They bark out shit like, 'Put it over there!' Then, as you attempt to comply with the wish, they yell, 'After you turn it on its side, IDIOT!', as if you were supposed to know what they didn't tell you beforehand. And then you turn it on its side and you start to put it over there and they yell, 'THAT'S TOO FAR, STUPID!' And if you talk to them, they'll tell you they're the greatest. But if you talk to anyone else that knows them, you'll get a very different story.
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5: Team Five

Team Five consisted mostly of rookie forklift drivers. As the buzzer sounded, they rolled out of their bunks, donned their matching shirts with oversized number fives on their backs, and jogged off to their vehicles, parked in area five and each marked with an individual number five. Ross sat nervously as he struggled with the parking brake. Until he had it in position, his machine honked at him ceaselessly. Finally he released it, and he rolled out in formation with the others, and, for a split second, the look magnified by his glasses changed from one of fear to one of being lost. They were each equipped with radios to stay co-ordinated. Ace was the senior and the dominant voice on their frequency. 'Just remember what I said, boys. Whatever you do, stay in your forklift. The worst that can happen is we all stop and take some extra time to regain control of the situation.' Team Five were naval forklift operators. Ross had never seen a destroyer out of the water before. That wasn't enough for his employers, though. They needed that beast loaded onto a freight car. (A naval freight car.) Ace's voice came through loud and clear on Ross's radio. 'Okay, first we have to flip it over so the flat side is facing down. Everyone over to one side!' Ross complied and joined his team mates in the maneuver. They focused their forks on key stress points along the keel and all lifted in unison, and when the earth shook a second time, they knew the ship was sitting the way they needed it. Ace had assigned everyone on the team a code name and Ross's was Aging Loner. 'Aging Loner, this is Alpha One. Attach your giant chain and hook, and drive over to co-ordinates three five zero- niner!' 'Do I have to?' whimpered Ross. 'I survived a ship that was sunk by a destroyer as a child.' 'Yes,' answered the voice. Ross felt dread creeping up on him as he took his place in the circle. He had hoped they were going to lift from below with the forks. He felt more secure that way than by using the chains. Soon the great vessel was hovering amid them. Up, up, up it needed to be raised before it reached its platform. The higher it got, the more nervous Ross became. It began swinging to and fro, humbling him in its terrible shadow. He wished he didn't have to look at it, but that was his job. Then something unexpected happened. The ship spun around and appeared to aim all its guns straight at him. He shrieked and baled out immediately. 'Aging Loner, return to your post! Aging Loner, this is Alpha One. Return to your post!'
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Fyodor of the Absurd

I just realized that Dostoevsky might not have been entirely serious with some of his more tragic characters. I mean, he might have started out serious, but as the figure became more and more pathetic with every added detail of their heartbreaking plight, he might have took a look back on it and, well, laughed. After all, it was happening to his character, not to him. Do you know what I mean, though? First you find out the child is sick. Then his mother comes in to strip him and beat him with thorny branches. Then he has to walk ten miles to his school and get spit on by every other kid on the way there. Etc. Etc.
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The Atlantian Man

Hey man, I'll say it again, I'm not Jesus. That dude is after my time, all right? That's if he ever lived. [2013: Entered while atheist.] Don't let the name fool ya. I go back far. Very very far. You have to dig up some of my earliest manuscripts, located somewhere in Asia minor. I'm before the Egyptians and the Sumerians. I'm fucking Atlantian, okay? I am an ancient soul. And my reconstruction of old works is not limited to the music and writing I shared in this life. The chorus of Tunnel Vision was a war chant I wrote for the Babylonians to use against the Sumerians. Or was it the Chaldeans? Wait a minute... Chaldeans are Baylonians. Was it the Skytheans? So long ago I can't remember. Anyway, I don't know what the stupid Crystalids video looked like for that song, but if it lacked chariots and mounted archers, it was way off. It should also feature shapely women in spiraling breast plates. I'm still waiting for Nebuchadnezzar to pay me my five goats and ten virgins for that tune. I heard he was reincarnated into a modern day network executive. Still egotistical enough to name his kingdom after himself: Nebuchadnezzar's Broadcasting Corporation.
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© 2010, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Do You Want Toast With That?

If people wonder what I've been eating, I've been on a steady diet of milk and eggs for quite some time. Keeps you going.
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In Goddess Me Trust

One good thing about a pact with a goddess is that you know you're going to hold up your end because if you couldn't look into her eyes again, you'd have no place to move.
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4: A Squirrelly Grandson

The old man was a war veteran who'd heard and seen some shocking things, so he was able to handle his grandson's confession calmly as they sat on the porch together. 'Do you think he'd remember your face?' he said. 'Oh, certainly. The cameras were there, too. They got a good long look at me.' The elder's expression remained unchanged. After some thought he said, 'Where's the evidence?' 'I threw it in the river. It had blood on it.' 'Did anyone see you?' 'Probably half the town. I went out to the railroad bridge and let it fly into the water. I wound up and spun like a discus thrower and sent it spinning like a boomerang. Then I unzipped my fly and went for a whiz.' 'How did you manage to have a crowbar with you when you were in a park?' 'I always bring it with me to help me bar the door to the washroom facility if I can't hold it in until I make it to the railroad bridge.' 'Of all the times to do such things, Jonas! Didn't you see the authorities were standing right in front of you?' 'Park Rangers have a different colour uniform. It threw me off.' 'I'm surprised you got away from them.' 'After what they saw me do to that squirrel, they backed right off! It gave me time to run away.'
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3: The Candy Game

Please refer to deleted video. On other words, this story is no longer available online.
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2: Raggedy Fran

Fran was born out of wedlock and grew up in the projects. She never knew her father and rarely saw her mom. In school, none of the children would play with her. She'd try to win them over, but they could never see past her funny clothes. Teachers offered only more derision. 'This won't do!' said the art teacher as he tore up the painting she made for her mother on Mother's Day, inciting a chorus of jeers from her class mates and reducing her to fitful sobs as she got up from her desk and ran out of the room. Broken hearted, she succumbed to the absurd barrage of ill will, and gave herself over to delinquency. By her teens, having learned the street names of all the pushers who occupied the alleys of her rundown block, she thought her education sufficient to quit school. Her life after that was a blur of intoxicated antics and illicit encounters, delivering her, to the gloating fulfillment of all expectations, into the firm, unyielding grip of the law. She'd been told not to move a muscle, and she knew someone was watching her, secure behind the faceless camera that dominated her tiny cell; but her sinuses rebelled in the sickness of withdrawal and her hand had risen automatically to stem an irksome trickle. Just then, a guard burst in, seized her wrists, bound them tightly behind her, and was gone. Tranquilizers were apparently ineffective on newly incarcerated drug addicts, whose unruly fits posed a threat to the orderliness of institutional life. As the night progressed and she reluctantly entered her throes, further constraints would be placed on her until prostrate, hog-tied, and utterly immobile, she found herself on the cold, hard floor. Where was Spike? He said he'd be in the alley behind the convenience store with some good shit. Was the heat onto him? She'd waited as long as she could before giving up and trying her luck on the street corner. Even in her depleted condition, she could still attract certain males with a fetish for abuse. The first vehicle to stop for her was a broken down pickup, in which oral sex would be traded for drugs, saving her the step of tracking down a dealer. It sputtered around the block a few times, then dropped her back on the corner in a much improved mood. Her next ride she owed to an undercover cop with good timing. Ironically enough, her severe confinement afforded some comfort. The pressure on her shrunken belly kept her nausea at bay. Going cold turkey might be unpleasant, but never the total agony depicted in popular accounts. As she struggled to focus her eyes, she saw what looked like a pair of women's shoes in front of her. Thinking it an hallucination, she shut her lids tightly, then reopened them. The shoes were still there, attached, as it were, to the neatly dressed body of an unknown guest. 'Are you my lawyer?' she groaned.
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1: A Working Machine

Before anyone gets the wrong idea about the picture, I enjoy carrots, okay? They're good right down to the last little morsel. It's as sweet as a niblet. I'm serious. The stuff I smoke is too good to have to smoke it right to the end like that. It was a dreary January morning, and Zeke was feeling it keenly. Being first in line for a seat on the bus meant he would wait the longest in the punishing sleet. When a careless motorist sprayed him, a question he'd been suppressing in his mind almost shouted its way out. But even to speak this question was wrong; for, if anyone in his present company could answer it, they would not now share his predicament. What was needed here was not enlightenment but endurance. He remembered how he used to play in the snow as a child, waiting to the last minute to return to the warmth of his home. He searched within for a trace of that happy, oblivious child, a warm memory to give him refuge... By daybreak, the forbidden words had been twice said by others while Zeke had held his tongue. But, when a torrent of brown slush was again hurled in his direction, it extinguished his resolve. 'Where is it?' he uttered in a broken voice. At last the bus appeared, its tall frame and luminous banner instantly recognizable in the distance. As it crawled toward him, Zeke could make out that it was packed solid with passengers. After coasting to a halt and opening its exit doors, Zeke noticed that no one got out at his stop. Well positioned, there was only enough room for he and one other passenger, an elegant blonde. They boarded and merged with the press of bodies, soon finding themselves pinned in an awkward intimacy. Alas, deprivation summarized the human condition in Zeke's mind, whether imposed by outer forces, as was momentarily obvious, or by accidental self-imposition. Though bleak, this outlook arrested false hopes. It didn't matter that her pelvis was rubbing up against his thigh. As soon as he stepped off the bus, she would forget all about him. He focused instead on a nearby conversation about a recent sports event and caught the phrase, they should have won. It took a while for a seat amid a group of teenagers to become available. I need a new one. Looking out the window offered no escape, as a long line of identical townhouses shouted we are all the same at him. Averting his eyes again, they fell upon a transit poster. We care. He might have believed it, were he headed for the hospital. It was time for a nap. He closed his eyes and set his mind adrift. An internal timer, finely tuned by routine, would alert him when he reached his stop. The bus deposited him in the heart of a sprawling industrial complex with no sidewalks. It still had a newspaper box that displayed the daily headline, They Should Have Won. He would need no further convincing. As he trudged forward, he knew what lay ahead, for it was always more of the same. Small wonder that whole years had slipped by unnoticed, unremembered. He had once believed in working, thinking it helped others. But he'd since come to learn that, for all his fine motives, whether anyone else really benefited from his labours was at best uncertain. And with his heart no longer committed, sheer momentum was all that was left to propel his body. Keeping his misgivings private, they made no difference to his supervisor, who only ever noticed his strong farm-boy's frame. He arrived at the warehouse entrance of his employer just as the buzzer sounded. Stepping aside, he let the retiring workers file past him. They were eager to get home and salvage a bit of fun from what was left of their day - sedentary enough to make up for all that effort. Relief would come tonight, but happiness would have to wait for the week-end. The doorway clear, he stepped into what the unfamiliar eye might mistake for an alien world, with its own murky sky and foul, dusty air; a planet ruled by an inanimate, cardboard race. Axle grind combined with Diesel groan in a shameless cacophony, through which a human voice cut with the words, 'Over here!' So Zeke was summoned to a disorganized pile. 'The blue things are over at the corner. Can you get the cardboardy ones in a straight line?' The instructor left and Zeke began piling boxes onto a trolley. Before long the floor was clear and he had his load in tow, destined for the far side of the warehouse. 'Hey, Zeke!' shouted someone above him as he rounded his first corner. It was Stan up on the line, the main portion of the conveyor system, which had been elevated to conserve floor space. Even as Stan faced Zeke, his deft hands were still able to seal the lids of every box that shot past him in a continuous train. Zeke sighed, for he knew his intelligence was about to be insulted. 'Party in my yacht tonight after work! We'll take the limo!' shouted Stan. Zeke pretended he didn't hear it and proceeded on his way, taking care not to stray outside the yellow lines of the safe zone. Even this could be something of a gauntlet, with metal protrusions and surprise obstacles along every step of it. One slip could result in the most grievous injuries or even death. He winced as he remembered the time he got his foot stuck in the belt. Lucky for him, he wore safety shoes with laces that don't stay tied. Little by little, forklifts whizzing past, he traversed the vast, concrete plane, until the stark, guillotine-like figure of the cutter appeared before him. It was well away from the main working areas, which must have been why it appealed to his nemesis, Reginald, a notorious slacker and loner. It was hard for any there to imagine this apparatus without Reginald in the picture, bringing down its heavy blade again and again, with an executioner's zeal. It took a few minutes for Zeke to clear a space along the wall for his boxes. Reginald was in talking range, but no words were exchanged between the two. When he was done, Zeke was given the choice of either working with Stan or working with Reginald. He took the steep stairs that would lead him eye-to-eye with Stan, but where the blaring radio might sufficiently drown out his voice. Faltering at the thought that his shift was only starting, he drew upon the enabling words of a bygone mentor. You're a working machine.
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Say 'Dairy'!

People think it's always good to smile, but not all smiles are good smiles. It depends why they are smiling. How about that smile of pity? That smile that says, 'Aw, you poor wretch, I wouldn't want to have your life!' What am I supposed to think when people who dislike me are smiling? Isn't that cause for concern? Or how about that vacuous smile of the broken-spirited? They've been cleaning your tables for twenty-five years and that smile is for you to help lighten your mood as they serve you. Then there are the failed smiles of those who have been put on the spot to produce a smile. Don't do it! In the name of all that is holy! At the same time, the ones who are capable of sincere smiles have a way of using them on you. Sales persons and politicians, you know. With all this in my head, I'm sorry if I makes it hard for people to find some way to approach me in a non-threatening manner. But I am a fast enough runner to let you get within smiling range for a few seconds beforehand. And it also follows that my own smile is unreliable. All the same, there are still two instances that should illicit an automatic smile response. For good dogs and for small children. Anyone who doesn't smile for them should be seized and locked away in a Debtor's Prison, unless they have a good excuse. Then they'd have something to not smile about.
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Taking the Headlines

I haven't been watching any news broadcasts or other TV broadcasts in months. Guess I'm unfaithful. But I still catch the odd headline on my way out of the corner store. A couple days ago, I was concerned to learn that the Lottery Corporation is having a bad run. Got to pity them when we start winning too much. Today I found out about the TRANSIT CHEATS. They are indeed a menace. Round 'em up! Round 'em up, I say.
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Listen to My Golf Shirt

You can tell that the script for the original Star Trek series was often generated by the costumes over at Desilu there, back in the 60's: 'Well we've got the Nazi costumes! Let's use them! Let's take them to a Nazi planet!'
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It's All Right, Mom

Mom, I know I gave my soul to the goddess and I can't be in heaven with Jesus any more, but I still hope you will love me. Just don't say I'm damned for all time. This isn't another situation like we had with those letters from The Church of Scientology addressed to David Sky. Remember, I thought it would throw off the mail man to have the wrong name in the address.
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Australian Toast

You know what's a filling breakfast? Marsupial eggs. They're nice and big, like Flintstones eggs. You just need an extra big pot to boil them up in.
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Aborigine Hunts Kangaroo with Spear

The intent look on the hunter's face as he spots his prey bounding off in the distance. The quiet, rustling pulse of padded flipper-feet in unison against sage. The writhing of dinosaur-like tail against cruel tethers. The toothy grin of the triumphant.
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