Brown Neon: from the diary of Tad Friend “bubbling”

had a meeting out at the bubble. piotr’s got it pretty sweet up there in a nice orbit. must have paid a pretty penny to a busload of the goddamn kneejerks to be able to build out there. i hate this freaking buttflap, but you’ve gotta keep your enemies close, know what i mean. and he has some proprietary stuff going on in those labs of his that is scary, scary, scary. i wouldn’t mind a little of that, if you know what i mean. makes no sense to me how a guy can go from making arguably very fine furniture to mega-media baron to downright asshole so fast. reminds me a lot of me. except i don’t know tables and chairs. i know themes and plots and robots. the amount of time and money i have to spend to keep piotr out of my business is a businees in and of itself. of course, i make it a point to treat him to the same. there is something inately fun about industrial espionage, if you don’t let it get to you. i have way to many other things to rob me of sleep than this piss curtain. if he wasn’t so cozy with the goddamn kneejerks i might just like the guy. but he has their noses so far up his brownhole that it gives me gas. anyways, making my way out to his office in the sky, which i am a little jealous of, even though i think the a1 office has a nice, simple understated elegance, the bubble is a work of art. a giant clear sphere floating miles above the earth housing a furniture manufacturing and media concern the size of a small moon. i do enjoy visiting. but i will never give him what he wants. never. it belongs to champ. and shelly. and me. forever.

Outrage. Uproarious Outrage.

That just pisses me me right off.


That laughter is the best medicine bullshit. Tell that to all those gruesome ghostboys on Iwo Jima and Omaha Beach. They’d laugh you right to hell.

I know.

Death comes to us all.


How about man-eating ants taking their sweet ass time gorging bit by itty bitty bit on your boney ass because you’re paralyzed because a goddamn asp bit you in that boney ass.


And don’t look at me like I don’t know that you’re thinking I’m an idiot for worrying about the FACT that nuclear weapons are being stored and handled and monitored and altogether CARED FOR by dumbass numbnutted idiots with no ambition.

I said it.


It’s a word. Look it up.

But it does not change a single atomic particle of the truth that Armageddon is being held at so-called bay by people who may have been told to get the hell off the property by the local community college where they may have had multiple contacts with the herpes virus.

Fucking irks my fucking ire.

And don’t get me started on the assheaded spacepeople with their peniseyes and vaginamouths and horrendous ideas about nutrition and sex.

Do not get me started.

Because I will not stop.


Except maybe if you wanna discuss the Indy 500.

Now that’s something I can sink my happy teeth into.

Exciting stuff that NASCAR.