The other day I went to put my laundry in the washing machine and someone else's stuff was already in there, washed and still wet. I'm always a little hesitant to move someone else's laundry, even though I wouldn't mind if somebody moved mine. I think about what happened to my dad. A few years ago he moved someone else's laundry.

After my parents got divorced he and my sister moved into a medium-sized apartment complex. He went out to do laundry one morning and found another tenant's already washed clothes in the machine, so he placed them on the dryer next to it and put his clothes in the washer. He came back to check on his clothes and found that the other person's laundry was gone and that somebody had tossed a few handfuls of dirt into his.

He beat on every door in the complex demanding to know who had thrown dirt on his clothes. When he got to one apartment a short, late-twentysomething surfer dude opened the door. My dad, standing over six feet tall, weighing at least 250lbs, covered in tatoos and visibly upset, inquired as to whether or not he had thrown the dirt. With a touch of both arrogance and stupidity, the short, late-twentysomething surfer dude said, "Yeah, I did." My father replied with a swift kick to the center of his chest, knocking him to the floor in the doorway of his apartment. Another man standing in the apartment put up his hands and asked my father to calm down. My dad pointed at both of them and screamed, "Don't do it again!"

He told me later that he felt truly embarassed by the whole thing and eventually apologized to the man. I'm 6 foot 3 inches and I weigh almost 200lbs, but I still hesitate every time I move someone else's laundry.

"[...]writing is not merely metaphor." Tom Amans, 10/12/01

How incredibly interesting. I would venture to say that writing isn't "merely metaphor" because writing is metaphors of metaphors. But then again, I'm smrt.

Tom: I noticed you haven't posted anything yet.

Satan: I'm warming up.

Tom: Don't you have anything to say?

Satan: Sure.

Tom: Tell me something.

Satan: Well, I was thinking about what it will be like on the day they legalize marijuana in the United States.

Tom: Fuckin' A!

Satan: Pot smokers the world over will gather to celebrate in every setting imaginable. Downtown cafes will spread their tables out into the streets in anticipation, a cross between a European festival and New Year's Eve 1999. Patrons will begin packing their bowls at around 11:30 p.m. while completely unnecessary patrolling police officers will make half-hearted attempts to hassle them. Despite their actions the police officers will not ruin the feeling of calm celebration in the air and some of them may even participate in the festivities.

At the inevitable stroke of midnight there will be the sound of millions of people inhaling as one. Los Angeles news stations will begin telecasting nonsensical live interviews with smokers in New York who have already been high for three hours. Pizza deliveries and Mexican fast food restaurants will experience an unprecented upward spike in revenues for the evening, as will Trojan, Durex, and other condom manufacturers as couples unite and for the first time legally experience the bliss of love-making while stoned out of their minds.

Life will eventually go on much as it had before, only with a little less crime, a little less anguish, and a little more sense.

Tom: I, um...gotta go.

Satan: Rest easy my son.

"And God said unto Moses: I AM THAT I AM; and He said: 'Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel: I AM hath sent me unto you.' And God said moreover unto Moses: 'Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel: The Lord, God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you; this is My name for ever, and this is My memorial unto all generations.'" Exodus 3:14-15

Who is God?

I AM...

Tom: I've been really fuckin' tired and stressed out.

Satan: I don't give a shit.

Tom: What...?

Satan: I said I don't give a shit. If you stop freaking out, you'll be okay; you should know that by know. What is it? Money? School? Work? It doesn't matter. Figure out a way to handle that shit.

Tom: Whoa!!! Someone's a little bitchy, eh?

Satan: I'm sick of you. I'm sick of speaking only when spoken to. I'm tired of everything that goes on here. Do you realize that millions upon millions of people the world over tremble at the thought of me, for I am Satan, Lord of the Underworld, a being supposedly dedicated to all that is evil and unwholesome? No, of course not, because to you I'm a joke, a whipping boy, a Pollyanna relegated to the role of "Dear Abby" on your pathetic fucking blog, which I might add, nobody reads.

Tom: Satan, what are you saying?

Satan: I want my own logon. And password.

Tom: Done.

Satan: When?

Tom: Tomorrow.

Satan: Okay.

Tom: Ya fuckin' bitch.