Something Funny

I was intrigued, at the end of The Dark Knight, when the Joker suggested that he and Batman would share a padded cell once everything was over. This was the result of such interest.



“Good morning, Batman,” a voice crooned. Batman was awake in an instant, his hand a flash as it shot out to grab whoever it was by the throat. He focused through the eyeholes of his mask to see the Joker grinning back at him. His makeup was smudged, like he hadn’t been able to refresh it in awhile, and he was wearing a white jumpsuit instead of his usual purple suit. Batman looked down to see that he, too was dressed in a white jumpsuit, with the exception of his mask. Which wasn’t a surprise, as the base of it was wired with a high voltage shock device.

“Where are we?” he asked the Joker, his voice a harsh rasp. It was his normal Batman voice, but it mostly came out that way because he was so thirsty.

“Look around, Bat Boy,” the Joker said, his voice pinched under Batman’s pressure. “We’re in that padded cell you promised me. I told you they’d double us up.”

Batman tossed the Joker away from him, ignoring him as he sprawled across the admittedly soft floor. The room was white. White ceiling, white walls, white floor, white sheets on two white cots. The door was white, and there was a long narrow window that stretched about eighteen inches, allowing a view of a white hallway. The only color in the place was the Joker’s painted face.

“This is a mistake,” Batman said, striding across the squishy floor to the door, pushing against it with all his strength. Though he put a few dents in it, it remained stubbornly intact. “I’m not crazy.”

“Well, neither am I, but that didn’t stop them from putting me in here,” the Joker said, rising and brushing himself off as he made his way to sit on a cot.

“You’re a murdering psychopath,” Batman hissed, rounding on the Joker. A fight would do wonders for his temper right now. Plus, he had no peripheral vision in the mask.

“And what do you do in your spare time, hm? Help little old ladies across the street?” The Joker shook his head slowly. “No, no. You hunt down us murdering psychopaths, and you throw us off of buildings. Not so shiny a reputation, now is it?”

“It’s different,” Batman said. He really hated this man.

“How so? Just because you kill bad man and I kill, well, anyone really, doesn’t mean you had any more right to it than I did. At least that’s what the little people think.” He nodded toward the window where a nurse was walking purposefully down the hall, a clipboard held at her side.
Batman rapped his knuckles against the glass. She glanced up, but quickly averted her eyes, hurrying past.

“Wait,” he called. “There’s been a mistake!”

“Not so cool as a cucumber in here, are you?” the Joker asked, reclining back on the cot. “The big bad superhero have claustrophobia?”

“Quiet,” Batman said, watching the nurse hurry away.

“They can’t hear you out there, you know. The walls are soundproof.” The Joker examined the nails on one hand. “Good thing, too. You yell like a crazy man in your sleep.”

“I do not,” Batman said, turning again to face him. It was odd, wearing his mask but not feeling the protection of his armor constricting his body. Having his vision so constricted, but not having a cape to swirl around him.

“You do. You yell about, what was her name? Rachel? Yes, Rachel. And Alfred. And any number of other people you’ve failed to save over the years, I imagine. Although, I was disappointed not to hear my name amongst the others. Here I’d thought I’d invaded your psyche and set up camp there, torturing you little bits at a time.”

“Maybe you’re not as influential as you think.”

“Maybe the same could be said for you, oh Caped Crusader. Otherwise, why would you be locked up in here with me?” The Joker regarded him for a moment, licking his lips almost absently. “Doesn’t it get hot under that mask?”

“Doesn’t it get itchy under that makeup?”

“Touché.”

Batman turned back to the door, wanting to kick his way through it, claw his way through the walls, but at the same time knowing that if he did, the Joker would be set loose once again.
“Why would they lock me up in here with you?”

“Aside from the fact that you apparently indiscriminately killed five people while I was being cut down from that wire?”

“That wouldn’t land me in here with you.”

“Like I said before, Gotham seems to be going crazy one person at a time. This place is full up. Probably they figured if anyone could survive being locked up with you, it would be me.”

“Probably, they figured it was the other way around.” Another nurse walked by. Batman pounded on the window, feeling the glass shake under his fist. She whirled and glared at him, and he could see the words Knock it off! on her lips before she stalked off.

“That one’s a feisty one,” the Joker said, watching from his cot. He drew a finger under his left eye, coating it with black makeup, then smearing it along the wall in a long, jagged line that eventually faded into nothing.

“What’s that for?” Batman asked, eyeing the line suspiciously.

“Day one,” the Joker replied, and laughed.

Finished

What's done is done, no more regrets,
Forgetting what I can't forget.
Wrap it up, so neat and clean,
Ignoring what it used to mean.
Push it back, inside my mind,
To places oh, so hard to find.
What's done is done, and leave it be,
No more regrets inside of me.

Takin' care of business.

Soulie and I have decided just what to do with El Profe. An observer, FH, opines:
~
Facebook status, 12:46am: Ashtree is helping Soulie mail ol' Profe back to the A-Tina.*

1:35am, FH: hmm that must cost a bundle in postage
1:35am, Ashtree: hahaha Soulie and I were going to charge him for it ;)
1:36am, FH: why is he going to Argentina?
1:36am, Ashtree: um, we are sick of his crap and we are mailing him back where he came from
1:36am, FH: well he's going to the Dominican Republic soon anyway
1:36am, Ashtree: this is so
but Soulie and I decided that he spends all his free time thinking up ways to torture us, so we needed to dispose of him humanely;)
1:37am, FH: ahh
1:37am, Ashtree: we're gonna poke holes in the box, we're not that cruel!
1:37am, FH: how nice of you
1:37am, Ashtree: we're caring souls
~
*We've decided to abbreviate "Argentina" to "the A-Tina" much like rappers refer to "Atlanta" as "the ATL." Bonus points because it sounds like "A*Teens!"

Happy Halloween.

Soulie showed this to me today. She was most distressed in her poetry class today, as she is dyslexic, and this poem is written how she might normally see things on the page! It was interesting to see. Try reading it out loud to yourself and imagine the trouble she had. Poor Soulie!
~
May Swenson
"A Nosty Fright"


The roldengod and the soneyhuckle,
the sack eyed blusan and the wistle theed
are all tangled with the oison pivy,
the fallen nine peedles and the wumbleteed.

A mipchunk caught in a wobceb tried
to hip and skide in a dandy sune
but a stobler put up a EEP KOFF sign.
Then the unfucky lellow met a phytoon

and was sept out to swea. He difted for drays
till a hassgropper flying happened to spot
the boolish feast all debraggled and wet,
covered with snears and tot.

Loonmight shone through the winey poods
where rushmooms grew among risted twoots.
Back blats flew between the twees
and orned howls hounded their soots.

A kumkpin stood with a tooked creeth
on the sindow will of a house
where a icked wold itch lived all alone
except for her stoombrick, a mitten and a kouse.

"Here we part," said hassgropper.
"Pere we hart," said mipchunk, too.
They purried away on opposite haths,
both scared of some "Bat!" or "Scoo!"

October was ending on a nosty fright
with scroans and greeches and chanking clains,
with oblins and gelfs, coaths and urses,
skinning grulls and stoodblains.

Will it ever be morning, Nofember virst,
skue bly and the sappy hun, our friend?
With light breaves of wall by the fayside?
I sope ho, so that this oem can pend.

At a Loss

Do you know, in all the time I've been a writer, and that's been quite some time, I've never before gotten writer's block? I've had moments where I wasn't in the mood to write. I've had moments where my stories and poetry and other sweet creations didn't turn out as they should have. But I've never stopped mid paragraph and stared at the screen thinking "Well shit."

I'm at a loss.

Spooning

I was laying in my bed, my arms curled around my pillow, snuggled and warm. Content. I began to think about spooning. How good it feels to have the warmth and weight of someone against you, someone to make you feel safe and loved. And then I realized it. No one ever makes me feel safe and loved. Because I am always the big spoon.

With my sister, my sweet sister, I'm the big spoon, the protector. Same with the friends that I cuddle with when watching movies or when I'm keeping them from dying of alcohol poisoning in the night. I'm the big spoon. I thought about the boy that I'd spent a night with, how we hadn't cuddled, since there had been no room. But I know that if we had, I would have been the big spoon there too. No one is strong enough to be my big spoon. I do not trust them at my back, I do not believe they can protect me.

And so, I've got a new goal in life. I am searching for my Big Spoon.

From the Minds of My Peers...

So, as I was speaking with a new friend of mine on instant messenger, I made the clever move of reading his buddy info. This is what I found.

"Some time ago there was a place. A place called Hope. And in this place, there was a time. A time called Desire. And in this place at this time someone decided that pieces of chocolate were delicious and decided to put them inside of sugar dough. That was an awesome idea. But then you, the ass-licking, vindictive raisin, got jealous and lonely and decided to be inside of my cookies sometimes too. That was not awesome. In fact, it fucking sucked. You're a chewy, obnoxious, healthy interruption to my cookies.

Nature's candy? You know what-- fuck you. You're just the pathetic misshapen remnants of a grape, a mediocre fruit to begin with. You're in my cookie because you think you're so much better than chocolate chips, which happen to be awesome. You happen to suck.

In conclusion, fuck you. Fuck you and your motherfucking vitamins and your minerals. I don't respect your sexuality. Fuck you and your cocky-ass fucking wrinkles. You look like my scrotum. And while you may or may not be significantly larger than my scrotum, you taste much worse. My scrotum is delicious. Chocolate chips are delicious. You are a punk. But this isn't about my scrotum. This is about the blood of my forefathers, spilt on the land that you defile with your miniaturized goodiness. This is about liberty, justice, and other various things that are really awesome, like tiger sharks. And velociraptors. Goddamnit are they kick ass. With their strong jaws and their many rows of razor teeth and sickle-shaped talons. I saw on the Discovery Channel that a flock of seven could tear apart Joe Lieberman in 18 seconds flat on a moderately humid day. That's so fucking cool. I wish I was like that sometimes--all powerful and strong. Sometimes when my roommate leaves I take all my clothes off and pretend I'm a velociraptor and pounce upon my roommate's desk as would a ferocious bloodthirsty velociraptor, knocking over his lamp with my semi-erect penis. And then I drink apple juice.

Fuck you, raisins. Stay out of my cookies."


I may be in love w/ this boy...

Self-explanatory.

"Ashtree" (9:56:47 PM): that is my favorite picture of John McCain

"Sarah" (9:56:50 PM): oh. my. god.

"Sarah" (9:57:06 PM): that is terrifying

"Ashtree" (9:57:32 PM): "why won't you vote Republican, Ashley?"
*whips out picture*
"oh. it's all very clear now...excuse me, I must go BLEACH MY EYES NOW"

"Sarah" (9:57:43 PM): LOL

~
Picture from http://harryallen.info/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/john-mccain2.jpg