Open on the interior of a small log cabin.
MA is at the stove, stirring a large steaming pot. APRIL lies on one of the beds reading a book.
The front door bangs open and snow billows in as PA enters, wearing his polarbear-skin coat and carrying a small chunk of wood.
His beard is caked in ice.
PA: I'm home! I brought this wood I chopped for the fireplace. Boy oh boy, a man could freeze to death out there! Life sure is hard in the old frontier times.
MA: You said it! I've been slaving over this wood stove for thirteen hours just to make us a tasty meal for dinner. Luckily I'm almost done.
APRIL: Yehck. It smells like dumb garbage.
There are two things of which I am certain. The first is the inevitability of death, and the second is that the majority of human beings will end up saying at least a couple of words within their lifetime. When examined individually, neither of these events seems particularly significant. Death: You're walking along the beach and a small blonde boy drops dead in front of you? Somewhat troubling, but really no big deal. Hearing someone say various words? So what. Not surprising at all. Unless you're deaf. Then it'd probably be pretty shocking. Well, unless you're a deaf schizophrenic. Then you might not be too shocked by some disembodied voice.
Although...what if you were a schizophrenic who's been deaf since birth? Then you wouldn't even know what human speech sounds like. So if the voice of, say, Micheal Landon popped into your head one morning and started muttering things like "Chew on that baby's arm", "Start a fire in the public library", "Those dogs are laughing at you again", or "Masturbate into an aquarium" it would just sound like gibberish. You wouldn't even know it was the voice of the dreamy-eyed heartthrob who played "Pa" on Little House on The Prairie (and "Teenager Who Gets Turned Into a Werewolf" in I Was A Teenage Werewolf) you were hearing, so the fear you felt wouldn't even be mitigated by whatever fond childhood memories would've been conjured up by hearing that voice. Anyway, just some food for thought.
Celebrity last words!
We are all of us haunted by demons. Most of these demons are trivial, figurative demons (like self-doubt or chronic alcoholism), but this is not the only type of demon. No, there also exists a significantly less benign demon: Evil spirits who seize control of our bodies and bend them to the Archfiend's will.
This guide is concerned with only the latter type of demon, so those of you who've come here seeking advice on how to overcome personal demons (like a fear of flying, compulsive overeating, or the fact that Sixpence None The Richer's 1998 hit single "Kiss Me" has inexplicably been playing on a loop in your head for the past fifteen years) would do well to look elsewhere for assistance because this guide only covers demons of the supernatural variety.
So less "Doctor Phil" and more "Sweet little girls hefting grown men over their heads and tossing them through plateglass windows, middle-aged men scrawling glyphs upon the walls in their own excrement while gibbering in elder tongues, and kindly old grandmothers scuttling into your room late at night on dislocated limbs and unhinging their jaws to disgorge huge clouds of bees that swarm down your throat and eventually you choke to death on them because who could even breathe through all those bees?".
Nobody, that's who.
I awoke to the aroma of freshly-ground coffee. I could tell it was expensive coffee due to the way it smelled: Expensive. It made sense, of course. Only the finest coffees would be permitted in the mansion of infamously-handsome sex playboy Rick Mexico. I let out a sigh and began to reminisce about the countless acts of debauchery the two of us had engaged in the night before, but a sudden knock at the door jarred me from my reverie. The door swung open, and a small wrinkled Cuban hobbled in, clutching a tray of erotic breakfasting materials.
Summer: We all know it's a season, but what some of us may not realize is that with it comes the threat of deadly tornadoes. These whirling dervishes of destruction may seem cute and cuddly at first, but rest assured: They're no laughing matter. Unlike other types of weather, a tornado has little regard for local ordinances prohibiting wanton property damage. Sure, scattered flurries can be bothersome, but when's the last time a scattered flurry flung your doghouse into a nearby lake and impaled your great uncle with a gardening implement? That's right: Never. A scattered flurry has never done that because unlike tornadoes, scattered flurries aren't gigantic weather assholes.
So what can you do to survive an encounter with one of these godless, swirling deathtubes? Well, for a start, you can read the rest of this article for some juicy tornado survival tips.
In this chaotic, advertorial, multibranded world of ours, it can be difficult to know precisely how much value one is actually getting for one's money. The best solution to this problem is to carefully research your purchases beforehand, but this can take time and effort, and it's not half as much fun or easy as just buying whatever seems the neatest.
The other alternative is to rely on idiotic folk wisdom like "you get what you pay for". But of course, whenever any reasonably wealthy person follows "you get what you pay for" to its logical conclusion they end up buying German cars, $7 bags of "organic" corn chips, and eight thousand dollar sets of Bose speakers simply because these were the most expensive options available to them at the time.
Anyway, here's a bunch of entertainingly-overpriced crap.
I took a deep breath, rang the doorbell, and smoothed out my skirt. This was it. I was about to meet the man of my dreams.
The door opened, revealing an extraordinarily handsome man in a white leather three piece suit. He extended his hand, "Hello, I'm eccentric billionaire Rick Mexico. I made my fortune by being successful in big business. I'm looking for a sexually-active woman with whom I can share my material and emotional riches. Won't you come in?"
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mexico," I said, stepping into the foyer and fanning my brow with an ornate Asian fan, "You'll have to forgive me for not returning your handshake, but your masculine jawline has my heart fluttering like the pages of a butterfly book."
"You're not so bad yourself, sweet cheeks." He laughed a meaty laugh, and his eyes began scanning my body like a pair searchlights on a big city skyscraper.
To whom it may concern,I know letters like this are a dime a dozen, but I hope you’ll hear me out, because I've got an axe to grind, and I'm afraid I can't just let sleeping dogs lie. I know what you're thinking: My advice is about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party. If it's not one thing, it's another! But make no bones about it, there's a method to my madness, and once the cat is out of the bag, you'll be thanking your lucky stars that I got down to brass tacks instead of fudging and mudging like a lost dog in high weeds. So let's run this up the flagpole and see who salutes it.
First-off: Rome wasn't built in a day. And I think you'll agree that if we're going to make this partnership successful, we'll have to ensure we're both on the same page. Passing the buck is simply not an option at this point in time, so I strongly suggest we take that option off the table and wipe the slate clean. Because if we don't, mark my words: We'll be back to square one in a New York minute and we won't have two nickels to rub together. Don't forget that one bad apple spoils the whole barrel. You can take that to the bank.
It's no secret that I'm a something of a "lady's man". Any time I leave the house, an all-female sex riot never fails to break-out. Elderly women whip flashdrives filled with homemade pornography at me from passing senior citizen mobility buses, and young girls fling themselves nude and shrieking from suspension bridges and balconies in the hopes of attracting just a moment of my attention.
Frankly, most of the time all I need to do is raise my thumb and aim my index finger at a woman as if I'm preparing to fire an imaginary flintlock pistol, and a woman'll have torn her clothes off and tackled me before I am even able to pretend to pull the imaginary trigger, causing the imaginary flint to strike the imaginary frizzen and ignite the imaginary gunpowder and propelling an imaginary lovebullet into her heart (causing her to fall deeply in love with me).
Tell me, friend: Are you BORED of traditional poetry? Have you grown TIRED of rhyme, meter, and verse? Do you sometimes FLY into howling rages and embark upon methamphetamine-fueled, multistate child-disembowelment sprees upon discovering poetry books on your bookshelf? If so, then listen closely, because I'm about to share a revolutionary, lifechanging product that will blow your mind through the top of your skull and into low-earth orbit where it shall remain until The Great Wild Goddess of Orbital Decay swats it out of the sky like some cheap Soviet satellite.