The Doom That Came To Television

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining in holy matrimony of John and Jane. Yes, that really is Jane. No, seriously, it is. Really. I promise. Didn’t you guys watch television?”

Ridiculous as that seems, those words – or at least a slightly more serious version of those words – will be uttered in a few short months all over televisions in, where else, the greatest nation on Earth: America.

“But Joshua!” you ask. “What possible reason could there be for that, let’s face it, stupid scenario to ever occur?”. The answer is as simple as it is horrifying. Channel E! has spawned one of mankind’s most soul-blighting blasphemies against morality: a taint to darken the hearts of everyone that comes across it. A taint called Bridalplasty.

Bridalplasty, if you don’t know, is a reality show in which contestants compete to become the “perfect bride” and win their dream wedding. These deeply troubled women undergo a few months of counselling and rehab, excising their personal demons and become healthier, more contented individuals – oh wait, no they don’t, they whore out their self-respect to “win” plastic surgery.

Every week the brides jump through retarded, vaguely wedding-themed hoops, and the super-special-awesome grand prize for the winner is to have their plastic surgery wish list fulfilled: every nip, tuck, slash, implant, injection, removal and falsification their withered hearts desire, effectively managing to turn this:

Into this…

Think I’m joking? The first episode had the women enter a tent to find a life-sized picture of themselves waiting for them. If television executives had any kind of soul other than the kind they keep in jar and torture while snorting blow of a 12-year-old’s chest, the challenge would be to come to terms with who they are, and accept that there’s nothing wrong with it. Instead, they assemble a puzzle over the top of the photo which, when completed, shows a photoshopped version of what they COULD look like – should they win the competition. Afterwards, the first ten to complete the “puzzle” race to a table and grab a syringe, which they take to an “Injectables Party” and present to a resident doctor who (presumably while gibbering prayers to Cthulhu) gives them some Botox and sends them on their way.

Then, the twelve harpies vote off the one of them they like the least until there’s one left. That one gets to become the “perfect bride”, a sliced-and-diced sham of a human being. All this surgery will be done without their husband-to-be seeing it until their wedding day, when he lifts the veil and gets to see the living breathing mannequin he’s now marrying. And the cameras are there to watch it all.

If that by itself wasn’t enough, the women themselves are genuinely awful human beings: petty theft, threats of physical harm, secretly selling their own goddamn engagement ring to buy a nicer-looking car, these girls do it all. One of them got to see her fiance for the first time in eight months as he returned from a tour of duty in Iraq: instead of focussing on what a genuinely uplifting moment this was (and trust me, unless one of the contestants goes mad and slaughters everyone attached to the show on their way out, it’ll probably be the last one), one of the other women starts complaining about how unfair it is that she gets to see him.

 

The complainer. Ichor and halo of screaming souls removed digitally.

 

Now, I’m not going to rant about how this monstrosity of a show mocks the very concept of self-esteem, or about how it perpetuates the drive for all women to fit an unrealistic ideal in the most sickening way possible, or even about how terrifying it is that someone came up with this as an idea. No, what really get’s me about Bridalplasty is this: a lot of people put a fair amount of money behind this show, and they didn’t do it for fun: they did it because they thought people would watch it.

And they were right.

Bridalplasty is still showing in the States, which means it’s getting enough viewership to survive where other shows – shows like Firefly and the Dresden Files – have been cancelled. We, as a society, have decided that it’s perfectly okay to watch these troubled women make a mockery of their own lives: we can officially no longer look down on the Romans. Heck, in a way, we’re worse: at least the gladiatorial matches were honest, if horrible: people got in the ring, fought, and died if they lost. Yes, it was brutal, but it was an appeal to the primal bloodlust within us all: it was violence porn. This is in a whole other league, a special sort of evil that only the West could conjure up.

And what do we, as a society, do about it? Nothing. Instead, every week, people tune in to watch this abomination play out in the flickering lights of their luminescent master, and enjoyed it: talked about it with their friends, found favourites, and generally become absorbed by a show with the same sense of morality as Old Scratch. And don’t think that were safe just from being in Australia: these women will become famous even if their awful, awful show is never shown in any other country. I myself know about The Situation without having seen a single episode of Jersey Shore.

 

Knowing who this person is makes me feel cold inside...

 

These people are going to be known all over the internet, and the controversy around their show will only fuel it. And yes, I know that I’m doing it too: you don’t need to tell me that. Heck, if it’s popular enough, it’s only a matter of time before Channel 7 greenlights Bridalplasty Australia, and then we’re just as screwed.

I only hope that this show get’s cancelled before it reaches the end of the season, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that if Bridalplasty gets a second season, mankind is doomed.

And I’m not sure if I’d even mind.

 

To: Earth. From: God.

 

 

 

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The Triumphant Return

Yes, it’s true: I’m back and bloggier than ever. I know I’ve been gone for a while – since September 24th in fact – and that’s practically forever in internet land.

Above: average internet user.

Now, I know what you’re thinking (having kept my mind-reading powers over the hiatus): “Where the sweet zombie hell have you been?!” Firstly, ten points for inventive swearing. Secondly, the full tale of where I’ve been is rather long, and will be revealed in full next week: be ready, it’s quite epic.

Now, just before I go on to my actual post, I want to announce some changes to the blog. The first, most dramatic one, hasn’t been revealed yet, but is being worked on by my internet monkeys under the watchful eye of my nifty brother Jacob. The second is the instigation of my seriously-this-time-I-swear once a week posting schedule. Since Wednesday is the most boring day of the week, expect updates on Thursday, like this one. If I post anything not on Thursday, it’ll either be very short (like a nifty photo, or just a funny thing that happened to me) and not worth turning into a full-length post, or a very long, angry rant at something (which you are free to ignore). Thirdly, I’m starting a Facebook group for my blog! You can join, get told right away when I update (including the little ones), post comments about blogs without being a WordPress member (and every time you comment, a fairy gets its wings), as well as showing your allegiance and maybe tricking new members into reading my blog (for every new member you bring in, you get a Mystery Prize!!*) If enough people like me, and tell their friends, I might even become internet famous! And that would be awesome.

Anyway, enough of that. My blog this week wasn’t actually written by me, but by a man who claims to be my descendent. See, yesterday was Pretend to be a Time Traveller Day which, cleverly enough, is the future’s Go Back In Time Day. So it was that I was sitting at my laptop when, with a loud and overly-gaudy flash of light, he appeared – Chad Mansworth: TIME ADVENTURER!

*Mystery prizes include, and are pretty much limited to: air; zero of any item; a small section of vaccuum; three carbon atoms and a warm glowing feeling inside.

Chad Mansworth: TIME ADVENTURER! Episode 1

Yesterday, December 8th, 2010, I recieved a visit from an incredibly brash young man claiming to be from the future. After laughing at my iPhone, and commenting about how I shouldn’t invest in “that moon thing that’s happening soon,” he poked around at things for a while, laughing at most of it, called me “earth human,”crashed my landlady’s car and left, promising to return when he’d finished his write up about our “primitive monkey world.” I next saw Chad only a few minutes later, but the man I saw had no relation to the man that left except for his name. The new Chad was quiet, polite, and very, very old. I believe visiting me may have been his last act in life. He handed me a leatherbound book, old and scarred by god-knows-what. I would have been content to let that mysterious tome lie in my collection, there to gather dust, were it not for the note in the front. The note that I have reproduced here, minus several important features, along with the rest of the manuscript: a story to be revealed according to predetermined dates. Thus it is with great solemnity that I present the first segment of Chad Mansworth: TIME ADVENTURER.

I am Chad Mansworth, Walker through Time. I leave this manuscript so that what was may not be. After so long struggling, I hope that this will be the final nail in his coffin: the last thing left to do. But if this will end him – and I have reason to believe it will – then I can go to my grave content. I wonder, sometimes, if I had known then what I do now, if I would have travelled into the past…but such thoughts are pointless. My place in events, no matter how hard, was my own. With no more ado, I present to you my memoirs: and in doing so, seal my enemy’s fate forever.

Day one. I arrived easily in the past, as I had expected; Chad Mansworth is no mere amateur in the field of time splitting. I arrived with just the clothes on my back, a Stealth-enabled pic-caster, an Omnikey, my Galactic Positioning System, my pet robot Dino, and my MX23 Tri-Core “InfinAmmo” Semiautomatic Incendiary Plasma Repeater: hardly the armoury one would expect on a seasoned Time Adventurer like myself, but I had always prided myself on travelling lightly: fieldcraft is but one of my many skills.

As my pic-caster will show you, I stuck the landing.

My Dataslates assure me that this is garb appropriate for 2010

Dino….not so much.

Chrono-gyronic Stabilisation Systems today, am I right?

I quickly availed myself of my surroundings, and after coming to grips with the laughably primitive Earth technology of the time (I myself was born on Venus: how I miss those rolling, grassy fields and mild summer days at times) I decided to introduce myself to the locals. I easily found my ancestor, and introduced myself to him. My name appeared to amuse him for some reason, and were it not for the fact the he was clearly awestruck by my magnificent presence, I would have thought that he was mocking me.

Nevertheless, his incomprehensible amusement aside, he proved to be quite valuable for information, warning me of the dangers I might face in the wilds of 2010. His account of a form of bear – an ambush predator, apparently – that waits in trees for passing prey, then falls upon them in a killing blow to be chilling: luckily, this species is extinct in my time. For his assistance, I tapped into my vast array of historical knowledge and provided him with an equally valuable piece of advice, before collecting Dino and setting off.

Unfortunately, Dino had encountered a little problem: his threat recognition system had detected a local ruffian.

Small, but decidedly resolute.

Fortunately, after only a few hours of testing, I was able to determine that it was a simple toy, and left Dino to play, knowing that I could simply collect him on the way back: after all, I had 24 hours before the Temporal Warp Portal opened at that location again, and thus plently of time to explore.

Upon exiting the hut, I was blasted by an intense heat, and despite my immense athletic prowess, decided that physical exertion under such conditions was a bad idea: I didn’t wish to be seen as a savage by any of the locals, after all.

I found a crude vehicle waiting outside – some kind of internal combustion engine, I believe, amusing primitive, but useable nonetheless. I proceeded to commandeer it, certain that an intellect such as mine would find which button was the velocitator, and which the decellimatrix.

So, so inferior.

After crawling out of the wreckage, and consoling the bizarrely outraged owner for the loss of her clearly faulty vehicle, I decided it was better to set out on foot after all, and, alone, walked into the untamed wilderness…

This is the end of the first section. I can say that after roaring at my Megatron for a while, Dino set off himself out the door. Evidently, though, it took him some time to catch up with the self-proclaimed Time Adventurer: he doesn’t reappear in the manuscript for quite some time.

Stay tuned for more adventures of Chad Mansworth: TIME ADVENTURER!

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So Long

As many of you might know, in May this year my brother and I had to leave our residence in Yeronga, and go our separate ways. Very recently, we were reunited at my Nonna’s house. But the time in between was spent with my very dear friend Alex.

There at the Chateau d’Alex there were good times (mostly indicated with flames and explosions) and bad times (see With Pen I Am Armed Here To React part one). There were happy times, and there were sad times. We invented something truly wonderful (more on that later), and were mercifully prevented from making something awful (the Frankenputer which, actually, would have been awesome if it worked). We picked up sticks, discussed the finer points of everything, and ate a tremendous amount of fish. So, in farewell to the fine Chateau d’Alex, I present to you a photo journey to some of my finest memories….

The Hall of Flame

Yes, this is a shed.

Though humble in appearance, it was here that Al and I proved our mastery over the art of combustion: here that we vaporised many a bottle, and on one memorable occasion created a fireball that scars the ceiling to this day. It was here that we would have tested our railgun: our cannon: and here that we may well test our death-ray. And here it is that, without a single sliver of doubt, Alex and I will meet our fiery demise, pausing only to high five before moving onwards to Valhalla.

The Grassy Swamp

That is a dam. A DAM.

Ah, the Grassy Swamp. Once this was a dam of great power, a wonderful expanse of murky brown water that cultivated a different brand of weed every week. Every time I visited Alex in my youth the damn was blooming with new and exciting plants to pull out, examine, and marvel at.

Then the weed came.

In less than a week it conquered the dam, consuming it, covering it, choking it and everything that lay upon its surface. It was strong. It was legion. But it was not unopposed.

From the depths of our secret lab, we waged a guerrilla war against it, carpet bombing it with dry ice, testing out chemicals on isolated specimens to see what would and what would not kill it. We even planned a superweapon, should we ever discover a chemical capable of killing the things: the Poison Bomb, combining dry ice, poison, and a closed environment to spread toxin to large quantities of weed. As you can probably tell, this was no game: this was all-out war. When we discovered a challenger in the form of little red leafy things (which had lived there before), we did the best we could to ensure its survival. Unfortunately it didn’t take, and by the time I left, the Green Enemy had formed so thick a carpet that normal, ground-dwelling plants were colonising it’s surface…it had become The Grassy Swamp.

The Bat Tree

The Bat Tree is a single dead tree, sitting alone, shunned by all other trees. Is it haunted? Probably. Is it evil? Maybe. All I know is, it looks mean, and sometimes bats live in it.

See the way the other trees avoid it? Tree devil for sure.

The Spider Shed

Here Be Spyders

A small, poorly constructed bunker filled with unknown xenos. Long abandoned by the Imperium, Space Marines of the Josh Rocks chapter lead a daring incursion deep into the heart of the fortress to retrieve an artefact left there by the Ordo Cleanitors. The Emperor smiled upon them that day, as not a single Marine fell in battle, and the artefact was recovered without incident.

The Bed

I had a great deal of trouble with bed’s while at Alex’s. For a while, I slept on the couch. Then, when that hurt my neck, I switched to a little camp bed that was set up there, and when the paper-thin mattress and thick horizontal bars hurt my back, I switched back to the couch. It was like playing musical chairs, except the music was polka and all the chairs were lumpy. So, right near the end, an accord was reached whereby a foam mattress was placed over the cardboard one to create a passable bed. This SEEMED to be the result

Yaaaaaaaay!!!!

but after a few nights, it was clear that the real results were….a little different…..

...aaaaayyyyyooooooohhhhhhh my god no!

That’s not to say that old Soreneck Backkiller was uncomfortable. No, he was extremely comfortable: that’s how he lured you in. While you lay there, he did his dirty work. In fact, it was only when you got UP that you felt what he had done, making each morning a bitter exercise in existentialism: either get up, and suffer the pain, or lay there knowing that when you finally do get up, it will be all the worse for having been put off.

The Mighty Spoon

There was only one size of teaspoon at Alex’s: too big. Making coffee with the spoons there was a frightening endeavour at best. Except for one…there was one spoon. A spoon the likes of which I have never encountered before. A spoon of just the right size, shape and depth. This was the Holy Grail of spoons. This spoon…was perfect.

I can't make a joke here. This spoon demands respect.

Upon discovering this spoon, I decided to set it aside in a safe place, that it might be used by whomsoever desired to create the perfect cup of coffee. But such a gift is never given: it must be earned, each and every time. So it was that the Spoon never remained where it was placed, but had to be sought out, quested for, won. This was a spoon of greatness. This was a spoon for the ages. This…was a spoon to be remembered.

Anyway, I had a lot of fun times at Alex’s. An though I’ve moved away, I know that I’ll have a lot more. So, it is with a heart strangely heavy that I say goodbye. So long…and thanks for all the fish.

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The Thing Under Your Bed, In Your Closet, In Your Head

(Okay. To those of you left wondering why it’s been so long since I updated my blog, this is why. This evil post has been languishing without an ending for weeks now, taunting me with my inability to finish it. Other, more interesting, posts have been sitting around, neglected, while I wrestled with this one. But today I said, no! Not any more! I will slap an ending on this monstrosity and finally, finally post it. So it is that this ending is not particularly awesome, but bear with me, because it is a gateway for more awesome to come.)

“The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million-to-one he says…

The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million-to-one…

But still…

THEY COME”

Let me set the scene for you. Imagine me, but ten. Young. Innocent. Probably still bugnut insane, but basically just a kid with dreams of writing, a kid whose only exposure to the horror genre was Goosebumps, which as a series comes roughly between “Tales From Your Grandma’s Lap” and “Fluffy Kittens III: The Huggening” on the fear-o-metre.

Terrifying, right?

I’m just hanging round my Grandma’s place, you know, chillaxin’, when Mum, doing a spot of cleaning for her elderly mother, decides to put a CD on to clean to. A musical, she tells me, about aliens attacking and people fighting them. Huzzah, thinks little me, who’s probably picking his nose or something, I dunno. Aliens are pretty cool: it’d be kinda like Animorphs, right?

THE sci-fi series for nose-picking ten-year-olds.

Then…it began

“No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space. No one could have dreamed that we were being scrutinized, as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us”

If you’ve heard Jeff Wayne’s adaptation of War of the Worlds, then you’d know that it’s mostly electronica music interspersed with narration from the Journalist, small pieces of dialog, and only very rarely an actual song. If not, then you know it now because you just read that bit up there. And so, at age ten, I sat there, transfixed by the harsh, grating music, the cultured austere voice of the narrator and the surreal, electronic war-cry of the Martians. I sat through the attack on Horsell Common, the death of the Thunderchild, Nathaniel’s crisis of faith, the Artilleryman’s plans for a brave new world, and finally the journalist’s mad attempt to get himself killed. I listened with great relief as the Journalist explained how the Martians had died, killed by the blood they drank, and felt chills go down my spine as, at the last second, the Martians’ theme began to play again, signalling a new invasion. It was, at that time, the single most terrifying thing I had ever experienced.

Now, before you ridicule little me for being a wimp, let’s look at it logically: aside from the weird, surreal music, this was the most bleak and hopeless story I had ever heard. My concept of aliens was more ET than xenomorphs, and the worst I had ever read about were the Yeerks of Animorphs fame, feeble, sluglike creatures soundly defeated at every turn by the good guys. The Martians were, and frankly are, horrifying. They come from nowhere, devastate most of the planet, brush aside everything humanity can do, and then die thanks to a totally random fluke of biology.

So that night, poor little me had nightmares of Martians in fighting machines, and the next night, and many nights thereafter. For years I had nightmares about those damn aliens; heck, I had one just last month. Thankfully though, the wretched CD was lost, and I could stop being terrified every time Mum went to tidy up.

Then, a few weeks ago, it happened. Mum picked up a new copy of War of The Worlds. Now, I easily could have ignored it and never had to hear it again, but I decided, no! It was time to man up! Face my fears! Prove to myself that it was really nothing more than a rather dated musical! Yeah! Go Team! Et cetera!

So, just the other night, I listened to it again. It’s actually pretty good: the music does a good job of conveying the mood, and almost sounds like it could have been made by aliens itself. The singing and voice acting are both superb, and the story is just as good as it was a hundred and ten years ago. All in all, a very entertaining way to spend ninety minutes.

Oh, and terrifying. Did I mention terrifying?

You see, from the moment that music started, I was tossed around on a sea of fear wholly disproportionate to the stimulus, heart hammering, skin crawling, and resolve faltering with every note. This, then, was my childhood fear come anew, a savage and primal thing. And just as I did when I was ten, I sat there, transfixed, unable to escape from its insidious clutches as dark imaginings played throughout my mind; images of steel and fire; of great metallic fighting machines striding across a burning landscape on three colossal legs. For the entirety of the next day, I was plagued by an ill-defined sense of unease, as though heralding a coming storm, and my eyes were drawn constantly, furtively, unwillingly, to the great, dark void that loomed so ominously among us.

Why did it get to me so? Well, there are two explanations: one is that my cowardly child-self got so freaked by the horror story that my brain flagged it down as something dangerous, in the same way it does for snakes, spiders, and large, hairy things with too many teeth…

Exhibit A

…which, really, wouldn’t be too surprising given how often it happens: childhood fears carry over into adult life all the time, which is why you have grown men who are afraid of the dark, people who still shriek at the sight of a mouse (because, really, what is there that’s actually scary about a mouse?), and all that sort of thing. Heck, it’s probably even a defense mechanism: once something scares us, it gets flagged as dangerous, put in a “Watch out!” file, and whenever circumstances start to match up again we get a fear response. Since the things that scared protohuman children (Eeeeeee! Bear!) were still scary to protohuman adults (Argh! Bear!) it became rather advantageous to keep those files forever, which we still do, and while this is helpful against bears

Because BEARS ARE ALWAYS SCARY

it’s less handy in our continued defence against the monster made out of our jumper or, indeed, our war of preparedness against the martians.

The other explanation, of course, is that the martians, like bears, are freaking scary.

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Apologies

Okay
Now, some of you may know that I promised to post four things in four days. That clearly has not happened. Now, before you grab the torches and pitchforks, let me explain.

I have been spending the last week with my wonderful girl Tiffany, chilling at her place, which is awesome. Unfortunately, Tiffany has a significantly LESS awesome brother, Dale.

Dale is, to put it lightly, an A-grade selfish douchebag. Because of this, internet at the household goes consistently over the allotted usage even within a week or two of rollover, thanks to a certain someone. Now, my blog writing is actually a rather internet-heavy exercise. Apart from the text, there’s research, finding pictures, editing, finding MORE pictures (only about a quarter of the pictures I get wind up in a blog), getting sidetracked…the longer posts can seriously take a full day write. So, I decided not to add to that burden (and spend huge amounts of time on my blog rather than my girlfriend). Please bear in mind that the posts are actually getting WRITTEN in Word, they’re just not going up for the aforementioned reasons.

Anyway, everything should be back to schedule on Monday, when I return to my place of residence.

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*Incomprehensible Screaming*

Ok, now, I promised you guys a post a day for four days. I have to say that this IS NOT  today’s post. This is something for my friend Clare. See, Clare used to email me those questionare things full of her answers and I, in return, would fill them back out and email them back. It became something of a thing between us, to the point where one of them said “Who do you expect to return this first” and she said “Josh”. In the spirit of that, when I saw that she’d done something similar on her blog, I felt compelled to copy it, fill it right the hell back out, and post it in reply. Feel free to skip the rest of this if you wish. Anyway

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY SUPERPOWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE AND WHY?

Three words: Laser eye beams. As to why…three words: LASER. EYE. BEAMS. I would go to TOWN on…well, pretty much everything. Pyow! Pyew! Ka-BLAM! Take THAT, line at Hungry Jacks! POW! NOW who has insufficient fund, Mr ATM? kz-ZZAP! Take THAT police officer! Fz-BOOM! Call me MAD will you?? NOW WHO’S MAD, HUH?! NOW WHO’S MAD!?!?!?!?!

WHO IS YOUR STYLE ICON?

Ba ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Style icon…heh.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE QUOTE?

“Words in the heart cannot be taken” Terry Pratchett

WHAT IS THE BEST COMPLIMENT YOU HAVE EVER RECEIVED?

“He’s a writer, and quite a talented one.”

WHAT PLAYLIST IS IN YOUR CD/IPOD RIGHT NOW?

Good Apollo I’m Burning Star Four Volume One: From Fear Through The Eye Of Madness.

ARE YOU A NIGHT OWL OR A MORNING PERSON?

Little from column a), little from column b)….in the case of column b), VERY little.

DO YOU PREFER CATS OR DOGS?

Doggies. With their licking, and their waggily tails and their big goofy doggy heads…I wuv doggies.

WHAT IS THE MEANING BEHIND YOUR BLOG NAME?

Well, that’s actually very easy to explain. See, after Joshua-zero – the prototype model – proved to be functional, if slightly insane, the company moved into making Joshua1, the cheaper production model. Unfortunately, he suffered from a programming glitch that would cause him to attack people that used the word “antiquing”, so a second version was rushed into production, but of course, we all remember the incident with Joshua2 (especially those of you in areas still affected by aftershocks). From there, Joshuas 3 through 5 never made it past beta testing, but after the unexpected success of Joshua6, the company went into overdrive, pumping out those bad boys like there was no tomorrow. Then there was the Santa Moniqua incident, they got recalled and the company, desperate to recoup some losses, went back to their last stable version: Joshua Zero. They produced one new unit, me, which they wishfully dubbed Joshua Seven, then shut down after the CEO was lynched. Since there are still a bunch of Joshuas out there, I decided to go with something different, and use the second half of my name, Seven. See? Simple.

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THEY COME

From the dark, They came…

Allow me to tell you a story.

…the Limitless Plague…

A story of war

…the Neverending Hunger…

Of two valient warriors

…the Ravening Swarm…

And their eternal foes.

…the Great Devourer…

Of battles hard fought.

…the Plague Bringers…

Of victories sorely won.

the Unkillable…

And of bitter defeats

….the Unstoppable…

A war we did not win.

…the Unending…

A war against…

THE TITAN ROACHES.

For those of you not in the know, the Titan Roaches were an advesary fought often by Jake and I while living in our flat at Yeronga. They were kinda like normal cockroaches, only giant and frakking unkillable. Honest to god, you could spray these things with poison and they’d laugh right in your goddamn face then saunter off to eat a dog or something. Now, as a telepath, I know what you’re thinking: “It’s your own fault. If they were that big you must have been pigs.” Unfortunately, what you’re thinking is wrong: not only did we clean up good and proper after being attacked by a cockroach the size of a goddamn mouse, but we never discovered evidence of little cockroaches that could have grown into Titans. In fact, logic would dictate that these cockroaches were feeding off some damaged woodwork in one of the bathrooms. My personal belief is…slightly different…

I knew it was a good idea to keep this picture.

…but that’s a matter for a different post (namely Ten Objective Reasons The Titan Roaches Are Lucifer, Giant Cockroaches: Harbingers of the End Times and I Really Hate These Cockroaches, Parts 1-8. See also: Help, A Giant Cockroach Ate My Face.).

Now, Jake and I fought valiently against the Titan Roaches, stymieing them at every turn. And by “stymie”, of course, I mean “Crushing them with something heavy then running like a little girl”, and if you’re thinking that sounds a little wimpy then you obviously have never had to tussle with a Titan Roach. Luckily, the Titans tended to come one at a time (with a few notable, and horrifying, exceptions) allowing us to either use our superior brains and tool-using skills to smash them into a gooey paste, or our longer legs to run right the hell out of whatever room they were in depending on what was around.

Again, before you judge us too harshly, these were BIG cockroaches. How big? They were so big, you could see them giving you the finger from across the room. They were so big, if you hit them with a book, the book would break. They were so big, when you turned the light on, they turned it back off. They were so big they didn’t hide under the fridge, they walked away with it. They were so big, before trying to fly away, they notified air traffic control. They were so big, they stepped on you.

They were big, is what I'm saying.

Anyway, eventually we were saved from our doomed war of attrition. Just before we had to leave the flat, some dude came and fixed the rotting woodwork. Though we had not claimed victory, we had held out for long enough: the Seige of Roaches was over.

Or so we thought.

I have recently (like, last week) moved back in with my brother. Not two nights ago, I was in the lounge room on my laptop. Just chilling. Relaxing. Chillaxing. You know, the usual. Midnight strolled around with a nonchalant “sup”. Then, Jacob rushed in, white and trembling, and uttered three words that will change my life forever.

They followed us”

And they had.

Taking me to the kitchen, Jake showed me the remains of what I can only assume was the vanguard for the coming swarm: a Titan Roach, hit twice with a large salt-shaker and broken nearly in half. To our horror, as we approached it, this broken thing started to drag itself across the bench towards us, and after some swearing, Jake hit it again. Lifting the shaker to inspect the remains, I am not ashamed to say that I yelled a little as it kept coming towards us. Spurred on by some herculean effort of will, this Periplanitan assassin kept trying to destroy us.

With a great cry, I raised the shaker – transformed, now, from a simple dispenser of salt to a deliverer from evil, a great weapon in the fight against Order Blattaria – and, bringing the hammer of vengeance down on its armoured head, ground the beast into dust. The deed was done: the Titan Roach was dead. Scooping up its remains in a plastic bag, we moved it to a grave suitable for such a valiant warrior.

Well, sorta.

True, Jake and I are safe for now. But how long until we’re not? How long until the Hive Fleet comes to consume us? Now, I’m not trying to suggest that there’s a cockroach-controlling hive mind out there hell-bent on destroying Jake and I*. I’m just saying that you have no proof there isn’t. So, if Jake and I are killed, or vanish under mysterious circumstances, you’ll know what’s really happened. We, too, have fallen…to the Titan Roaches.

*I totally am
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