The Spencer's Chronicles: The Final Chronicle

This will be the final entry in my short-lived series: The Spencer's Chronicles. Why? Because my job there was seasonal, and now that the holidays are over, they don't need as many workers any more-- which sucks, since this is the only job I've ever had that registered lower on the "Things I'd Hate To Do" meter than sticking my hand in a reciprocating saw.

I just hope I can find another job before I need to resort to making my own clothing and eating only what I can kill. You don't want to see me chasing a rabbit around my front yard with a golf club.... naked. Trust me, there are better ways to damage your retinas.

Like staring into the sun for instance.

                                                            cybercauldron.co.uk

The most beautiful way to liquify your eyeballs.

Getting back to Spencer's, do any of you know what a plasma ball is? And before you say it, I know that you just looked at a picture of the sun, which is literally a ball of plasma. Way to be a smart ass.

No, a plasma ball is a product that we sell at Spencer's. You've certainly seen one before:

It's a glass ball that uses electricity and noble gases to make you feel like Emperor Palpatine for a couple seconds. You can't really harness the energy to smite your enemies, but science is trying.

I can't tell you how to do anything dangerous with a plasma ball. That would be irresponsible.  So I'm not going to tell you that if you place a penny on top of one and hold a pointy, metal object close to it you will cause the electricity to arc through the air. I won't tell you, but I'll certainly show you.

Putting myself in harm's way-- for science!

But I digress. Just before Christmas, two women were in Spencer's looking at our plasma balls. We have three kinds: the one you see above, one where the orb in the very center is a peace sign, and one where that orb is a marijuana leaf. I overheard a very small portion of their conversation and it went like this:

Woman #1: "Should we get him the peace sign one?"

Woman #2: "I think he would like it, but I don't know if his parents are into all that hippie stuff. What will they think when he opens it on Christmas morning?"

Woman #1: Yeah, you're right. Ooooh! I know! Let's get him the snowflake one!

Woman #2: Yeah! That's a good idea.

Now, my level-minded readers, go back and re-read the three types of plasma ball that we sell. Did I say "snowflake?"

Pictured: Not a snowflake.

They bought it. I can only imagine what that house was like on Christmas morning when little Johnny opened his present from grandma and shrieked: "Oh boy! A snowflake!"

And I love to think about the mortified look on his parents' faces: his father staring with a mixture of anger and horror at his grandmother, and his mother attempting to appear like nothing was wrong saying: "Yes, Johnny. A snowflake. Say thank you to your grandmother."

But they never returned it, which means there's only one way it could've actually played out: Johnny's father smashed it over his grandmother's head in a fit of rage. Regardless of grandma's fate, the shattered plasma ball could never be returned.

I'm An Internet Writer? When The Hell Did That Happen?

So, a lot of you that are reading this were probably linked here from one of my recent Cracked articles. If that's the case, thanks. You didn't have to take the time to do that. That's really sweet, and I didn't get you anything in return. You should've told me sooner.

To be honest, when I pitched my first article to Cracked about a year ago, I never thought it had a chance-- and I was right. That article idea was terrible and it wasn't anywhere near the sort of thing that Cracked runs. But what I didn't expect was to learn enough through the mountain of failed pitches that followed to actually get one through.A literal mountain. Some evil guy forged a ring there. And it's a problem.

And my second article is on the front page today (co-authored by my friend Karl Smallwood, check out his blog "Internet Adventures" on the right) so it seems that I'm a comedy writer on the internet all of a sudden. And I still don't know how it happened so fast. One day, I was an aspiring writer with nothing in my portfolio and zero publications. Now, I've got two articles on the most popular comedy website on the internet. Holy crap!

Don't get me wrong, if I were to attempt to live solely off of my writing, I'd have to adapt to a different lifestyle:

 

Namely the "this is my house" lifestyle.

But it's a start. Before I wrote anything for Cracked, being a published author was only a fantasy; something to be yearned for but probably never attained. Now I've actually got some publications to my name and some clout to throw around when I pitch ideas to new places.

And let's be honest here, two million page views on a prolific comedy site is certainly better than a notebook filled with novel ideas that I read aloud to my cat. But at least she doesn't judge.... much. 

Don't talk to me until you improve that characterization.

So, I'm going to wrap up this short, less funny than usual blog post (expect a normal post later tonight) with some advice. It doesn't matter how big and out of reach your dreams may seem, never give up. You never know when you're going to have that first, little bit of success that sets everything into motion.

Trust Issues (A Rant)

Before I start ranting, something has been brought to my attention: since I started this blog, there has been something slowly corroding its insides, turning them to a viscous, jelly-like substance and making a general mess of things. I am of course referring to the one pixel wide red dot that has been hovering over the letter m in "Coma" up above.

You bastard.

It's gone now, but the terrible memory will remain and forever haunt the darkest recesses of my mind. Good riddance I say.

Now the rant: Let's talk about trust. I have a small, tight-knit group of friends that I would trust with my life. In the last month, that group has decreased by two. Strangely enough, my band, Sinistry, also broke up in the last month. I wonder if those two events are related?

Up until November, things were going great. We were touring a small, three-county-wide area, vanquishing the foes of rock, and generally kicking ass in every direction. But most importantly, we were getting paid to do something we loved doing. Not a lot mind you, but we would've done it for free. 

Now, this is where it gets dicey, and to protect the names of the accused those involved, I'm going to use their band nicknames: America Jane, and The Norwegian Jackhammer.

Mine was Falcon. And I was graceful!

These two band members moved roughly an hour away in late October. That was all fine and dandy though. We still found time to practice and weren't hindered very much by it. Until they started insisting that I and our bass player (let's call him The Bassman) drive an hour to practice there. Every. Single. Time. 

I'm the drummer. He's the bass player, and he also owned the PA system. Everything: the PA, my drum set, his bass and amp, all of it was at Bassman's house-- only five minutes from me. The only thing America and the Norwegian Jackwagon had at their place was the guitar and amp. So Bassman and I were forced to haul 80% of our equipment in my tiny ass car to every single practice. If that wasn't okay with us, that was cool: we just didn't practice. And they didn't even offer to give us gas money for a little compensation.

Plus, I don't think you realize just how awkward it is to transport all that equipment and two people in my car.

About this awkward.

This was irritating, but Bassman and I dealt with it because, hey, we love making music. But then we found out that America had been taking all of the band money and spending it on God knows what. All we know is that it disappeared. This was a problem, since that money was supposed to be spent on band things like replacement drum heads, guitar strings, or I don't know.... transporting band equipment.

But that's all trumped by the Craigslist ad that I found in December. America and The Norwegian Douche-Hammer placed an ad looking for a new drummer. I only found out about it because they were stupid enough to link the band email that I had access to with the Craigslist ad. Hell, maybe they wanted me to find out that way. Maybe that was easier for them than confrontation. 

But here's the shittiest part of it. They weren't going to tell me until they found someone else. I waited a couple days, and the band kept gigging and practicing like usual-- and scheduling even more gigs. All without telling me they weren't planning on having me in the band any more (which is bullshit since I was around longer than two of the other members).

I talked to Bassman about it and we both abruptly concluded "Fuck this," and quit. America "I'm A Huge Cunt" Jane and The Norwegian Cockhammer (my anger isn't showing-- is it?) even had to cancel a gig that they had lined up, which felt fantastic.  I won't even try to deny that their pain brought me pleasure at that point.

Pictured: Me immediately after finding out about their evil plans.

I'm just glad that period of my life is over now. I had some great times in Sinistry, but now it's all tainted by that shit that went down at the end. Bassman and I are working on some new stuff with another friend of ours, and Dr. Cocktopuss and the Anal Jackhammer are presumably working on their own thing as well. Whatever. I don't care.

But whatever they do, they had better name their new band Dr. Cocktopuss and the Anal Jackhammer. It definitely suits them.