Man of the Year

Anaxos Mane (not his real name) stands at the window of his 45th street high-rise, looking out over the city. At times he paces, others he stands stock-still, hands clasped behind his back. Finally, with a sigh, he squints one eye and points. Lightning flashes and the room goes photo negative for a split second before the peal of thunder follows. When that’s done, he turns and climbs into his worn office chair, a sheaf of paper before him. With a flourish of his pen, he writes a single name and returns to the window.

We sat down with Mr. Mane on the eve of what he calls the Culling to find out more about this enigmatic god, and what makes him tick.


First of all, thank you for having us. I know you must have a busy schedule.

His voice is smooth, smoky – like a cigarette after sex. There’s a hint of a British accent – maybe London. He clears his throat and fiddles with his pen.

Yes. Well you know, people don’t smite themselves. And with this Culling coming up…


Tell us about the Culling.

Oh, that. Well, it’s a thing we do every hundred thousand years. Sometimes these single smitings don’t work – that’s the thing about people, they’re very thick when they want to be – and you have to really get their attention. So, we wipe out about a third of the population.


Are there any criteria for who gets smote?

Sure, there’s your regular sin. That gets top priority – the Deadly Seven, as we like to call them. But there’s also the whole ‘being an asshole’ thing – I like to think of it as karmic retribution. Then there’s ‘just kind of a jerk’.


Isn’t that kind of arbitrary? Aren’t most people kind of jerks?

Well, of course. And we allow for that – you get three big jerk moments and a handful of small ones. Of course, we make exceptions – leaving time on a microwave probably won’t get you smitten. Eating someone’s food out of the company fridge will definitely move you up the list.


So, who did you smite just now?

Oh, that. An Uber driver. Can’t stand those guys.


Let’s change the subject for a minute. What’s your favorite food? Your least favorite?

Well, I love Pad Thai. Delicious. Delicious stuff. Least favorite? Let’s just say Hawaii was a continent before they started growing pineapples.


Favorite movie?

Easy. Biodome.



Yeah. Did you know Pauly Shore indirectly prevented the apocalypse? You really should thank him. We were going to rip a hole in the sky and let screaming flesh demons roam the streets. Encino Man saved you.


Last one of these – what’s your favorite book?

Atlas Shrugged. I’m kidding! I knew Atlas. He was not amused. No, probably Harry Potter. There really aren’t enough heroes in this world. Hold on.


Mane goes to the window, leans, and points. Another flash of light, and a faint scream. He returns to his chair with a smirk.


What was that?

Hare Krishna.


Would you characterize yourself as a sadist?

Scoffs. No. This is just my job, you know. I’ve got a home on Olympus. 45 children. A wolf. I mean, do you go home and ask inane questions all day? I know I don’t just smite my neighbors.


The worst thing you’ve ever done?

I once smote a three-year-old.



Well, just a little. I was on a flight to Vegas and he kept kicking my seat. I zapped his butt. Made it smoke for a whole day. The downside was they had to land in Omaha. Makes a face. Great steaks. Not much else.


Guilty Pleasure?

I love Doctor Who. It’s just so cheesy, but so heartfelt. And to be honest, I can relate to the Daleks. I mean, they don’t have to pretend to be friendly to idiots. Just their feelings on their sleeve. EX-TERM-I-NATE. That has got to be cathartic.


The hardest part of your job?

Conjugating ‘smite’. Smote? Smoten? Smoted? Smitten? Shrugs. It’s all very confusing.


One last question. Liberal or Conservative?

I’m an old-fashioned monarchist. I’m a little surprised you didn’t see that coming.


Before we go, any advice for the readers?



Also, really consider investing in home insurance. You’re probably going to need it.

Gnome More

An old piece I picked up and finished, because the adage for every writer is ‘finish your shit’, and I tend to leave too many shorts undone. Enjoy.


Gnome More

                Arthur Pym was both surprised and a little dismayed to discover that his lawn gnome granted wishes.  After all, it wasn’t the sort of thing lawn gnomes usually did, was it?  Normally, they’d just stand there, the grass at their feet a little longer than the rest of the lawn, tall hat pointed toward the sky, beard resting across their belly.  Now though, it lay on its side, a bare patch of earth where it had stood exposed.  A single beetle trundled across the patch, and over one of Arthur’s fingers.

He sucked in a breath and clutched at his ankle.  He was sitting where he had fallen, having knocked the gnome over, his ankle throbbing.  He had stepped in a gopher hole and twisted his ankle, and at that moment, was having particularly vicious thoughts about rodents in general.  He sat for a moment, rubbing the bruised area, and when the throbbing abated somewhat, picked up the gnome.  He inspected it, checking for chips or cracks.  It seemed to be fine, so he set it down, his hand lingering on the hat.

His ankle gave another pang of pain, and he thought, I wish there were no more gophers.

There was a pop, like someone had sucked the air out of a plastic bottle, and a mild shock passed through his hand.  He jerked away and popped his fingers in his mouth, sucking the tips absently.  He looked around, hoping his neighbor, Cheryl, hadn’t seen.

After a moment, he turned his attention back to the hole he’d tripped over.  He froze in place, frowning at the lawn.  The hole was gone, and the mound leading to it, too.  The earth was smooth in its place, and littered with dandelions.  He looked around his yard and noticed more of the same, smooth green grass dotted with more dandelions than he’d seen in years.  He turned toward his garden patch, and noticed the row of carrots, which had previously been sparse and anemic, was full and ripe.  His brain struggled with the sudden change, as though someone had snuck in and done set dressing on his yard in the time it took him to blink.

He gathered himself, stood, and wandered back into the house, a bit dazed.   On the way in, he noticed his ankle no longer hurt.  He stepped into the house, letting the screen door bang behind him.  His wife, Renee, looked up from the kitchen table, where she had been reading a magazine with her feet up on a chair she’d pulled out.  Arthur went to the sink, and grabbed a glass from the cupboard.  He listened to the water fill the glass, aware that Renee was looking at his back.

“Hot out there?” She asked.

He took a long swallow of water.  “Yeah.  I think the gopher problem’s solved.”  He turned to look at her, but she was already back on her magazine.

“Mm-hm.  Good.”  She said.  He could tell she wasn’t really all that interested.  He set his glass down on the counter, and turned back to her.  He had opened his mouth to tell her about the thing with the gnome, when a knock at the door interrupted him.  It came again, almost immediately, loud and fast and angry.  He went to the door and peered out the peephole.

His other neighbor, Frank Cubbins, was standing on the porch, his fist raised to knock again.  He was red-faced and scowling.  Arthur opened the door just as Frank had reached forward to knock again, leaving the man standing for a moment with his fist in the air.

“Hello Frank.”  Arthur said, a hint of resignation in his voice.

Frank lowered his fist, but kept the scowl.  “When’s the last time you weeded your lawn?”  He asked, with no preamble.

Arthur shrugged.  “I have the lawn people out at least once a month.”

Frank shook his head.  “Not good enough.  Look!”  He pointed a fist over at his own lawn, which was overgrown with dandelions.

“Okaaay…” Arthur said.

“You’re costing me money, Art.  Get your shit together.  You can pay my next weed bill, or you can see me in court.”  That seemed to be the signal the conversation was over, and Frank turned smartly and marched back to his own house, slamming his front door shut with a bang that echoed in the quiet suburban air.

Arthur closed the door, and leaned against it.  He ran a hand over his face, then walked back to the kitchen.  Renee didn’t look up.

“Who was that?”  She asked.


“Oh that’s nice.  Did you invite him to our barbecue next week?”

“Er – no.  Forgot.”

She sighed, as though Arthur’s memory was a burden, and said nothing more.  Arthur left the kitchen and walked into the back yard again, letting the screen door slam behind him.  He stood in the shadow of the eaves of his home, and stared out at his lawn.  After a moment, he walked over to the gnome, sat down next to it, and pulled it close to him.

I wish there were no Frank Cubbins, he thought.

The popping sound came again, as soon as he had the thought, and he felt a mild jolt, as though he’d just accidentally touched a live wire.  At the same time, there was a scream that came floating through the open kitchen window.  Arthur dropped the gnome.  It hit the ground with a soft thud and rolled on its side.  He stood, and ran into the house, banging the screen door behind him for a third time that day.

He skidded to a halt on the linoleum, his shoes letting out a squeak of protest.  His wife was standing by the table, the chair she’d been sitting on tipped over backwards.  She was looking at her belly, terrified, and running her hands over it.

“What is it?”  Arthur asked.

She looked up, tears smudging her mascara, her mouth distorted in an ‘O’ of shock.  “My babies!”

She lifted her shirt, and Arthur could see that her pregnancy had ended.  The skin of her stomach was taut and smooth, and her bellybutton was once again inverted.  He stood there staring at her for a moment, then looked around the kitchen.

He didn’t see blood, or amniotic fluid, or any other indicator that said she’d had a miscarriage or a surprise birth in the middle of the kitchen.  He only saw that her belly was flat, and she was distressed, and then he remembered his wish, and a cold rage worked its way into his stomach.

No more baby.  No more Frank, no more baby.  No more.

Renee was still staring at him, as though he might have an answer.

“Well?”  She demanded, letting her shirt drop.  “Are you going to say anything?  Are you just going to stand there?”

He struggled with himself for a moment.  Rage flowed over him, through him like cool, clear water.  It was refreshing to see the world for what it was.  He choked down the shout that had bubbled to the surface, and said through tight lips, “No”.

He turned on his heel, and walked through the back door, and across the lawn.  He picked up the gnome.  Then he made a very specific, very purposeful wish.

I wish my wife, Renee, would go away, and never come back.

                There was a pop, and a jolt, and then quiet.  He was aware of a bird singing in the sycamore tree in the corner of his yard, and the way the leaves rustled together as the wind blew the branches.  After a moment, he heard the slam of his front door.  He put the gnome down, and went back inside.  He got a glass of water, sat down, and began to think.

Wishes.  Are they unlimited?  I’ve already made three.  Maybe it’s only three.  What else do I wish for?  Pfft, that’s easy.  Money.  Cheryl?  Am I being petty?  World peace?  Hm.  What if it’s only three?  One way to find out…

                He stood, went to the back yard one more time, grabbed the gnome, and brought it inside.  He set the figurine on the table, ignoring the bits of dirt from the base that smudged the finish.

Something simple, he thought.

He put a hand on the gnome.

I wish I had a ham sandwich, on rye.

The familiar pop and shock came again, and a sandwich appeared on the table.  Arthur peeled back the top layer of bread.  No mayo, cheese, or lettuce?  He made a face.  He’d have to remember to be more careful with his wording.

He got up and rummaged through the fridge for a moment.  When he was done, he added some mayo and cheese and lettuce to the sandwich, then took it back to the table.  While he ate, he tried to think of what to do next.

You’re thinking too small, too petty, he told himself.  You need to be helpful.  You need to do the most good where it counts.  You need to be a hero.

The idea struck him, and his brain rang like a bell.  Some deep-seated part of him stood up taller, imagined a cape blowing in the wind, maybe reporters gathered around, and the strobe of flashes.  He finished his sandwich, feeling much happier than he had in the past couple of hours.  He picked up the gnome and carried it into the living room, where he sat on the couch, cradling it in the crook of his arm.

He turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels until he got to the news.  A middle-aged anchor in an Italian suit stared out at him, bobbing his head in time to his words, his gray hair absorbing the light.

“…and in other news, thousands of owls and hawks have been dying all over the world.  Experts say they were likely suffering from severe malnutrition due to a lack of readily available prey, most notably, gophers.”

There was a pause as the newsman shuffled his notes.

“In international news, the drought that has plagued Syria over the past few months has steadily grown worse.  An estimated three million families are now without water.  The Turkish government has said it is now seeing the biggest influx of refugees since the civil war.”

The newscaster went on, but Arthur had tuned him out.  A chance to save three million people?  Perfect.  He pulled the gnome close.

I wish there was enough water in Syria for all the families.

                The now-familiar pop sounded in the living room, drowning out the TV for a moment, and Arthur almost dropped the gnome as the shock passed through his arms.  He yawned and set the gnome to the side, then turned off the TV.  He’d done his good deed for the day.  He thought he would sleep well for the night.

He left the gnome in the dark; made sure the house was locked up, and went to bed.  His last thought as he turned out the light on his bedside table was an image of him having coffee with Cheryl while he revealed his secret to her.  He smiled slightly in his sleep.


                The next morning, Arthur woke with a grin on his face, and excitement tingling his nerves.  He threw his covers off, and ran down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen for a cup of coffee.  He walked to the living room with a spring in his step, and flopped onto the couch.  He set his coffee down and rubbed the gnome’s hat, grinning as he did so.

“So, shall we see what we’ve done?”  He asked it.

He grabbed the remote, and turned the TV on.  It took a minute to warm up, and as it did, he sipped his coffee.  The quiet in the living room was broken by the newscaster’s voice, sounding grim.

“If you’re just joining us, the nation of Syria is gone.  It was swallowed by the Mediterranean Sea.  Initial reports are still coming in, but the estimate is that of more than 20 million lost.”

An icy pit of fear filled Arthur’s stomach.  His coffee threatened to come back up, and he felt acid fill his throat.

“Okay.  Okay.”  He said to the room.  “Okay.  I can fix this.”

He grabbed the gnome, and closed his eyes.  I wish to undo my last wish.

Nothing happened.  There was no popping sound, no jolt of electricity.  He tried again.

I wish Syria was normal, and all those people were alive.

Still nothing.  He swore furiously under his breath.


                There was a pop, and a surge of electricity.  Arthur let out a sigh of relief, and opened his eyes, and then watched the news.  As usual, they had gone to commercial break.  Sure, all the world’s dying, but here, buy some soap.

I wish the commercials were gone.

He thought it before he had a chance to stop himself, and with a look of horror, pulled his hand away from the gnome.  PopZap.

The commercial ended mid-sentence, and the picture went black.  The newsman was back on, and looking somewhat confused.

“Oh?  Oh, all right.”  He said.  His hand went to his earpiece.  “Oh.  Oh God.”

The picture cut to a coastline, where the shot was shaky, and Arthur could hear the chop of helicopter blades overhead.  Dark shapes were emerging from the surf, in an unbroken line that went on for miles.

“This…this just in.”  Came the newscaster’s voice over the feed.  “Something is coming out of the sea that used to be Syria.  Eyewitnesses on the ground claim it to be the – no.  No way.  I’m not reading this.”  A sigh.  “Fine.  The dead.  They claim the dead are walking out of the sea.”

Below the pictures being beamed back, the stock scroll was nearly all red.  Arthur noticed, and blanched.  He’d done that, as well.  Without ad dollars, companies were failing.  The dollar would be worth about as much as a roll of toilet paper at this rate.  He thought of his pension, and his plans for a little boat.  He thought of his ideas for a future with Cheryl, and cursed under his breath.

“Make it right.”  He said, rubbing the gnome’s head.  “Make it right.”

Nothing happened.  He dropped his head.  In the background, the newscaster was drifting between the two stories – the living dead in the Middle East, and the fall of the dollar.  There was already talk of foreign markets falling as well.  The president was due to make a statement at any minute now – not that Arthur thought much of him.  Weasel of a man, hiding behind his vice-president’s skirts.  Weasel of a man.

Pop.  Zap.

                Cold dread fell into Arthur’s stomach like a bomb dropped down his throat.  He watched the news, horrified, as the feed cut to the White House lawn, where the Secret Service was chasing a man-sized weasel in a blue suit around the perfectly manicured grass.  The weasel was squeaking, and the reporter’s mic kept picking up noises that vaguely sounded like ‘USA USA’.

A knock at the front door interrupted Arthur’s frozen, horrified viewing, and he clutched the gnome close and got up to answer it.  Halfway there, it came again.  He wondered who it could be.  The CIA?  Secret Service?  Pizza guy?  He doubted the last one.  He opened the door to find Cheryl standing there, a worried look on her face. Her hand was still raised as if to knock, her mouth open. She lowered her hand, and a frown creased her forehead.

“Is that – is that a gnome?”

Arthur nodded.


He shrugged. Once you’re holding a garden decoration outside of a garden, it’s hard to explain why. He suddenly wanted her to touch it, though he couldn’t say why. In his head, an elaborate fantasy spooled itself out – Cheryl loving the gnome, and then him. Then he could share his secret. There was another pop, though distant, weaker. As if on cue, one corner of her mouth curled up and she reached a hesitant hand out.

“May I touch it?”

He held it out like a child happy to present his favorite toy. She took it, stroking its cap. Arthur blushed. She looked up, and the other side of her mouth joined the first, a Grinch smile if he’d ever seen one. Her sea-green eyes sparkled as they stared into his own mud-brown.

“Oh, I love it! I may never let it go. May I come in?”

He nodded dumbly, and she passed him, her hips brushing his, her free hand tousling his hair. He stood at the door, looking out. He almost wished someone had seen her going into the house. Sudden pain flared through his head, and he staggered. Arthur craned his neck to see what was happening, and caught a glimpse of Cheryl raising the gnome for another blow.

“Wha-” he managed to get out.

“I just love you both so much – there’s no way I can let you go. I just wish you could be mine forever. You’ll see, Artie. It’ll be good.”

The gnome descended, and blackness followed.


                Arthur woke in the garden. It was hard to move. It was hard to blink. Not that he could do either. His eyes were frozen open, his body rigid. On the upside, his head no longer ached. He tried to call for help, but his voice came out a thin squeal, like the world’s tiniest teakettle. The back door to his home opened, and Cheryl stepped out, cradling the gnome. She placed it next to Arthur and patted first it, and then him on the head.

“I don’t know what did it, Artie, but my wish came true. I have you, and this gnome, and we have our own little place. I’ll come out and visit you every day. We’ll be so happy.”

She turned and went back into the house. Black smoke rolled across the sky from the corner of his eye, and from the open door, Arthur could hear the newscaster. “They’re in the city! The dead are in the city!”

He wanted to sigh. He wanted to close his eyes. He couldn’t do either.




I was feeling silly. This popped out.

“My name is…Jeff.”

It was a less than impressive introduction for a sorcerer, and Martin felt underwhelmed.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Jeff rocked back on his heels.

“No, uh, Maestro of the Mysterious, Wizard of the Secret Skull?”

Jeff wrinkled his nose. “No, I mean…no. I once saved Flatbush from a sea monster, but you know, that’s not that impressive. It’s right by the sea. I mean, if I had saved like Kansas City or Minneapolis from a sea beast, then you’d really have something. Anyway, how can I help you?

“I need someone cursed.”

“Okay, but that’s gonna cost extra. Black magic isn’t cheap. What’s the name?”

Jeff pulled out a notepad and stubby pencil, licked the tip, and poised it over the paper.

“It’s, er, Fluffy. Sir Fluffington the Third actually, but..”

“Wait,” Jeff’s arms dropped to his side, “Is this a cat?”


Jeff sighed and put the notepad and the pencil back in his pocket. “I don’t curse cats.”

“Why not?”

“You remember that earthquake in ’85?”


“Cats. Tried to curse one, and as revenge the little bast-” he looked around, “fluffballs crawled into the fault and purred until our china fell off the shelves. I lost a perfectly good Precious Moments figurine that day.

Martin held up a hand. “Are you trying to tell me that quake was caused by cats?”

Jeff nodded solemnly. “Also, the great furball of ’62, but Frank should have known that they don’t have souls.”

“So you can’t help?” Martin asked. His face had begun to fall.

Jeff shook his head. “Sorry. Can I interest you in a love potion? Maybe a charm to ward off warts?”

It was Martin’s turn to shake his head. He slipped his wallet back into his pocket and made his way to the front door, his step a slow shuffle. The bell above the door rung once when he stepped through. When he was gone, a gray cat leapt onto the counter and sat, grooming itself.

“Well done, Jef- hhhhurrrr, hhhhhuuuurrrr, hhhhuuuuurrRRRK – Jeff.”

“Thank you, Sir Fluffington.”

Jeff lifted the hairball gingerly and placed it in a jar under the counter. Sir Fluffington continued to groom as Jeff busied himself around the shop. The jar was almost full. It was almost time.


And now, for something completely embarassing

Waldo Thelonius, last name, Fletcher

Was a Reaper, a wayward soul catcher.

He lived in the town of Necropolis

Land of the dead, decayed metropolis.


When it came to Reaping, he didn’t care

If you were young or old, or without hair.

It didn’t matter, your color or creed,

It didn’t matter, your good or bad deeds.


Waldo would Reap, in weather fair or foul,

He always showed up, in bright robes and cowl.

He was quite different, the others thought,

Though none of his charges wept tears or fought.


He was quite kind, patient, and always fair.

With a loved one’s soul, he took quite good care.

He had a neat trick, a gift, do you see?

A bag full of quirks, fun for you and me.


Waldo was ecstatic, doing his job,

Until the day he met Miscreant Bob.

Bob was a cheater, a liar, a sneak,

He’d once hid his mother’s socks for a week


Waldo came to see him in the dark night.

“You’ll not take my soul, without a great fight!”

Bob cried this to Waldo, quite unimpressed,

Waldo knew this was to be a harsh test.


Bob showed him a parchment, written in blood.

Waldo read it, and feared his name was mud.

The paper was signed, notarized and true,

The author was Satan – that really blew.


Miscreant Bob’s soul was inviolate,

With a Lord of Hell, it had a date set.

Waldo soon came up with a cunning plan.

He would trick Satan, and beat mortal man.


With a flourish, he produced his trick bag.

Inside was everything, plus a Swiss flag.

He pulled out a kitten, adorable,

Bob just sniffed, he was incorrigible.


Waldo tried a balloon, monkey and axe,

He even tried showing Clinton on sax.

He tried a sleazy porn he’d once had made,

Starring a donkey, small person, and maid.


Nothing he showed Bob seemed to sway the man,

Waldo disliked him, he was not a fan.

He seized the paper, and in a dark snit,

He shredded the contract, done with that shit


With a great heave, the earth trembled and shook,

In fire, Satan appeared, reading a book.

He looked up from his page, slightly annoyed,

Said, “Who was it summoned me from the void?”


Waldo pointed at Bob, white as a ghost,

Terrified of the Prince of the Damned Host.

“I’ll pull off your skin, and eat your old bones!”

Satan said, his voice in calm, measured tones.


Waldo capered and reached in his trick bag,

He handed Satan a pitchfork and rag.

“What’s the rag for?” Satan asked with a gleam.

“To stuff in his mouth when he starts to scream.”


Bob leapt out of bed and ran down the stairs,

Tripped halfway, broke his neck, thought “It’s not fair”.

“Well, that’s done, there’s nothing left here for me.”

Waldo heard Satan, and hopped up in glee.


Waldo grabbed the soul, put it in a jar.

‘Don’t worry, little dude, you won’t go far.’

He sat on the jar and let a great fart.

Bob was quite lucky it wasn’t a shart.


He shook and shook and shook the jar some more.

He looked inside and called it a great whore.

He even dumped in an angry old bee.

When he was finished, he let Bob’s soul free.


Miscreant Bob’s soul went floating on by,

Waldo leapt and trapped it like a black fly.

To the toilet he took it, it struggled,

He flushed it down the bowl, and then giggled.


When it was over, Satan he did say:

“Holy shit, that was harsh.  No fucking way.”

He left the room in a roaring red fire,

Leaving behind an echoing Hell choir.


Waldo felt happy and looked at his watch,

Bob’s soul was down, a job he did not botch.

Before he left, he made a great bean soup.

Let’s be quite honest, his brain slipped a loop.


Waldo is kind, patient and funny, true.

But if you fuck with him, he might flush you.

Query Letters, A How Not To

Working on my agent query letter.  Since this is my first, I’m not sure which direction to take.  This should work:

Dear Mr. Pringlebottom,

As you can see above, I am very creative. I have already crafted a nickname for you, since we will be great friends.

Anyways chum, I have written a novel, which once you read, you will be sure to shout ‘Huzzah!’, and shower me in accolades and filthy lucre.

Speaking of novels, how great was Fight Club? I can hear you now, saying, “I know, right?” I mean, Tyler Durden, what a fox. This novel is nothing like that one, just so you know. I just wanted to point out that I really like that book.

As for my novel, rest assured when I tell you it will knock your socks off, assuming you wear socks. Maybe it’s some sort of support hose. Maybe it’s stockings. Sexy.

So, there you go. To sum up, Fight Club – great, my novel – great (possibly better – you may want to sleep with me after you read it, please try to control yourself, Pringlebottom, for the sake of our friendship), stockings – sexy.

I Love You,

Clayton Snyder

Taylor Swift is Coring My Brain Like an Apple

In the middle of watching an episode of Saturday Night Live hosted by Ben Stiller, a thought occurred to me.

Self, I said, you could be doing something far more self-destructive right now.

I dunno, I said, I like not being insane.

Pfft.  You could be an example to others.  A hero.  A tragic hero.

Alanis Morissette came on, and that’s when it hit me.  YouTube has 10 hour loops of songs.  I can be one of those people who’s looked up to as a pioneer, a brave adventurer.  A lesson.  I decided then that I would seek out the least potentially damaging song, and listen to it.  I picked a song that was upbeat, with a positive message.  To paraphrase the words of Dr. Ray Stantz, “I tried to think of the most harmless thing. Something that could never, ever possibly destroy me. Taylor Swift.”

The Devil

The Devil

What follows is the log of my attempt to listen to Shake it off for ten hours straight.  Times are given in [hh:mm] format, for clarity.

[00:04] Not so bad.  Decent song, for a pop song.  Catchy.  The loop starts somewhere in here, just Taylor singing: Shake it off, uh shake it off.

[00:14] I’m already approaching insanity, like one approaches a cliff in a car with no brakes.  Shake it off, Clayton.  Also, frangibility is a word I can’t get out of my brain.  Quote from a friend who happened to be witnessing this:

Please stop. When you end up doing what you are inevitably going to end up doing, we are the ones closest to you and the least likely to get away in time.

[00:25] Everything is Taylor Swift. Even this ham I’m eating.  She’s delicious, but a little salty.

[00:40] The loop is like when you want to sneeze, but can’t.  It’s making my brain itchy.  Only 9 hours, 20 minutes left.

[00:60] Shake it off, uh shake it off ah ah shake it off uh shake it off

[01:15] I’m worried what will happen if I stop this.  Will my brain implode from the sudden silence?

[01:45] How will Taylor know I love her if I stop listening?  Wait, no.  She loves me, that’s why she keeps singing into my brain.  My soft brain, which is exposed like a pig’s underbelly.

[02:00] No, I get the philosophy.  It’s ‘turn the other cheek’ for the new generation.  I want to bite through mine to stop from screaming.

[02:15] Asked my wife why she’s not blonde.  In hindsight, I should’ve been more subtle.

[02:35] Saw a commercial for a pizza topped with bacon and hamburger and pickles, and I envy the person who kills themselves with it.

[02:50] Paused the music.  God help me, I miss it.  Catch myself singing snatches of song.  I wonder how many more hours before I turn into Tyler Durden.

[03:15] Keep trying to have thoughts.  Shit, what was I typing?

[03:18] Looking up vivisection on wikipedia.  No idea why.

[03:23] Trying to find rhymes for hate.  Crate, fellate, rate, masturbate, date.    Oh God.

[03:25] It comes back around.  Yeah, sing it, girl.

[03:56]  I am Jack’s misery.

[04:00] Realized I missed an ahh up there.  Concerned about the fact I’m picking up nuance from a Taylor Swift song.

[04:15] Am I dead?

[04:16] This is purgatory, and pretty soon, the Devil’s going to pop into my living room, pull off his mask, and be Taylor Swift underneath.  Then I will scream until I can scream no more.

[04:17] Nietzsche warned us about this.  Something about if you listen to a ten hour loop of a song, the song will crawl inside you and eat your soul.

[04:18] That’s it.  That’s it, I’m done.  No more.  No more.  I get it, my hubris is greater than my grasp on reality.

I come out the other side, a changed man.  I can tell you three things:

Haters gonna hate.  Players gonna play.  You just gotta shake it off.


The word count when I finished this was 666.  Send a priest.