December 1998

The Future Is XXX.

The Moment You've All Been Waiting For...

    I received a lot of votes for this. After the initial vote tally it looked like the winner would be 'Cherry Jell-O & Primary Plastic Explosives. An Essay on Taking Sadism Too Far (A Nihilists Perception) Volume 1'. With 232 votes it looked like the sure-fire winner. But in the past two weeks the number two candidate has gained some ground. And as of this morning it surpassed it's afore mentioned competitor. So, with 237 votes, here's the winner.

Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that I am reading the following because I'm hungry for highly controversial and tasteless literature. I am a dirty piggy, and realize the following is nothing more than fiction for my underdeveloped brain. I like to fantasize about strange things, thus I absolutely need to read this. Matthew Good is not responsible for my actions or any actions that may occur after I read this. Mr. Good has warned me of the dangers concerning this sensitive material and I choose to read on because I'm hungry for smut. I also believe that I am a cantaloupe from a planet of super intelligent melons that have come to subjugate the human race. All hail. Full stop.

I am no longer to blame.

Todd & Matt Go To Las Vegas

(with a porn star that will remain nameless for reasons of liable)

(The Director's Cut)

It all started quite unexpectedly. Most things in life start unexpectedly, but this was completely different because it involved a porn queen, two strippers named Debbie and Launa, and a large boa constrictor named Mr. Tickles. Things quite often go bump in the night. It's those 'thuds' you gotta watch out for.

It's a fact of life that first class is one of the biggest secret societies in the world. If you've only flown coach you have no idea what goes on up there. If you've flown first class then you know what I'm talking about. After the stewardess closes that magic curtain all the rules change. Booze flows like water, the Cuban cigars are aplenty, and they break out the blackjack tables (complete with topless, and quite often Swedish, vixen-like dealers). I would be lying if I told you that I was accustomed to these surroundings. Quite the opposite. I was a spy in the midst of decadent decay. I'm not saying I didn't like it. I'm just saying I was a spy. Who's spy? That's another matter altogether.

On this particular occasion I was accompanied by my somewhat dubiously incoherent counterpart, Todd Kerns. Three hours prior to being on the plane we were sitting quietly at a downtown restaurant eating oysters and throwing pieces of damp napkin at the ass of this rather large waitress. This action had two purposes: 1- to determine how difficult it would have been for the astronauts of the Apollo mission to navigate down onto the surface of the moon at a drastically increased velocity, and 2- to gain some insight as to what Jackson Pollock was thinking all those years ago. No answers were forthcoming unfortunately. It turned ugly when we started using the straws and were quickly escorted to the nearest fire exit and discarded into an adjacent alley. It was then that we decided to go to Las Vegas for the weekend. Todd felt that we were long overdue for a vacation and thought that Vegas might offer some solution to our hyper-tensive state. I'd like to say I had a better idea, but I didn't. Frankly, I never do.

So there we were in first class, slipping through the night like a drunken teenage girl hopped up on illicit sugar smacks and baby duck. It seemed as if we were caught in some giant test tube filled with uncertain energies and strange, pig faced people from some nightmarish land long since radiated by greater forces and unseen powers of the air. I was lost and reeling in self degradation and some strange warmth that always slips through my limbs when I know something really fucked up is about to go down. I slumped down into my seat to try and sort the C-Drive files in my mainframe when I gazed upon her legs. They were long legs. Long like a one way street leading to some warped place of intimate viewing. 'Viewing' being the important verb here.

I knew her naked self from a thousand glossy paged magazines that one procures from time to time to pass the never ending hours of touring. But I was a stranger to her smile. It shocked me that her familiar lust filled sneer didn't immediately show itself when my gaze ended its journey at her face. She seemed more human that I had ever thought she would be. This is typical of girls in dirty magazines. You often think they're one way only to discover that they're either much worse or doctors of astrophysics (and the whole posing nude thing was just a big mistake). I was later to discover that she was in the 'much worse' category, but at the time she played me like a bad country song. She was unlike any woman I had ever met. And even though I was convinced that the devil was now female, I was fractured and stumbling to produce some rational dialogue that would endear me to her favor. Maybe it was the alien air in that first class cabin. Maybe it was the mesmerizing shimmer of the soft lights. Maybe it was simply the fact that I was talking to a woman that would do just about anything in front of a camera for money. I don't know. But it was something. More than likely it was the later, but I'm trying to be somewhat tactful about it.

So we continued talking in whispers and strange advances as the pig faced people milled about the cabin snorting and laughing their pig laughs. Todd, strangely enough, was no where to be found. I would later discover him face down on the floor next to the rear exit with a Polaroid of him and a half naked Swedish dealer in the bathroom. Memories are important.

Las Vegas. Home to thousands of fat people. Fat people and buffets. Buffets and super hotels owned by movie studios. Super hotels and super model rejects. Las Vegas is where the low end of normality and botched plastic surgery meet to form something that resembles glamorous euthanasia. The lights of the strip, not unlike the star that led the wise men to Christ, beckon the average to be anything but themselves. Ironically enough, most victims of Vegas end up losers. Eventually everything comes full circle. But that's Las Vegas in a nut shell. It's one of those rare places that you enter as superman and leave as the swamp thing. No one gets out of Vegas clean, despite the attempts of late to make the city appear to be something other than what it really is. And what it is, is dirty. The smart ones know it going in. That's why they go to Vegas. For the dirt. It doesn't matter if the mob runs Vegas or if big business runs it. Both are ignorant to it's true purpose. It is my opinion that a gateway to hell exists beneath Las Vegas. Either that or a river of milk chocolate.

As usual we had completely forgotten to secure lodgings for ourselves. Upon our arrival we found ourselves standing in the airport looking around in bewilderment at our surroundings. It dawned on us that we were actually standing in another city. Maybe we weren't entirely serious back in that alley. Maybe the plane had flown through some kind of vortex that had brought us into some new reality, like teenagers waking up only to realize that all the adults were dead and we now controlled the world. Luckily my first class seating companion spotted us and offered to put us up. She was working a show later that night at a strip club, but assured us that we wouldn't be a bother. Now I don't know about you, but when a porn star offers to put you up for the night there's only one thing that you can do in response. The dumb guy nod. And lots of it.

So my counterpart and I end up in this luxury sweet high atop Las Vegas. Looking down from those huge windows everyone didn't seem so fat. Maybe it was the liquor talking, but I felt like I could drop a big bomb down on those people and get away with it. Like I could drop a bomb and then casually order some shrimp cocktails, or some other kind of food that people rarely endeavor to make in the privacy of their own home. I felt like the god of Las Vegas up there, looking down on all my pitiful creations. The slot jockeys and the blackjack, low bid weasels. The hookers and the street trash, the well-to-do and the hope-to-do-well. For a brief second I saw myself from outside of my own body and was quite pleased for a change. Todd, on the other hand, was sprawled in the middle of the room trying to arm wrestle a bottle of vodka. He knew he couldn't win. But that hasn't stopped anyone from trying for the past 500 years, has it.

So there we were. Above Las Vegas. Sitting around a room that, in any other city, would be grounds for admittance into a mental institution. And the kicker was that sometime before 3am a blond porn star was going to come walking through that door (possibly with friends) and slap me around like the bad little boy that I am. Or at least I hoped that was what would happen. To be quite honest with you I had no idea. I was stuck in a painting about some guy peeping on some girls that's being watched by this figure in the sky that's supposed to be god but looks a lot like Colonel Sanders. I was perfectly wretched and deviant but completely at peace with it. Maybe that's the secret of Las Vegas. Maybe that's why we came.

So 4am rolls around and she finally unlocks the door. I'm sitting on the sofa in one of those robes that expensive hotels have in the bathrooms (over my clothes, mind you), and Todd is out on the balcony yelling quotes provided by the Gideons at the little fat people down on the street. She looks tired, but tries to act like she's good for another couple of hours. She undresses right in front of us and goes into the bathroom to get the other robe. Things are beginning to get weird. For the first time I begin to realize that my counterpart may be somewhat of a nuisance in this particular situation. I sat there on the sofa, my eyes following her across the room while my brain began to sort out the details of burying Todd's corpse somewhere in the desert. The demon of lust has complete control over my body, turning me into a fiend of the highest caliber. She sits on the bed and begins to roll around and stretch like a cat sleepily tossing in front of a warm fire. By this time I've decided to bludgeon Todd using one of the heavier looking lamps and take the damsel for myself. It's times like these that require tact and unassuming movements. For all I knew Todd could have been planning to bludgeon me to death with the vodka bottle. Luckily, no violent action would be required. For right at that moment there was a knock at the door. Enter Debbie, Launa, and the infamous Mr. Tickles.

Some of you might have seen Debbie and Launa do their show. Their stage names are Feather and Sky. Though banned from twenty three states and four Provinces, they still do their routine with the snake nightly in a variety of clubs. They're also available for private shows as well (at the whopping rate of $5,000 an hour). I thought about asking them why they called the boa Mr. Tickles, but realized that there could only be one reason to call it that in regards to vaginal proximity while performing. For all I know they might have just named the snake that for kicks. I'm flying blind here. So they come in the room and put Mr. Tickles in the bathroom. The three girls exchange pleasantries and a couple of drinks are poured. It is now 4:43am. My self control is beginning to slowly melt into the carpet like a cheap candle as my head snaps between the three trying to get a fix on which one would make the best victim. And that was the fault in my thinking. I was sitting in a room with three women that were professional pornographers. My pathetic high school mentality was childish and trite. It wasn't a matter of what I wanted. It was more like what they were going to do to me and whether or not I'd survive the ordeal. My drunken counterpart was already hard at work, as I slipped out of my thoughts and back into present opportunities. Well, either that or 'present dangers', depending on how you want to look at it.

I have, on occasion, come to the realization that though swift at times, there is a limit to my intelligence. It began to dawn on me that Todd and I weren't the hunters in the room. We were the prey. We had been brought to this lofty den of promiscuity not by chance, but by a cunning lioness that knew full well what she was doing. There was to be a feast and we were the main course. For an added measure of torture, we were made to helplessly watch the three girls launch into one of their threesome routines right in front of us. I have never been so completely immobilized in my entire life. As a man you assume that, given the opportunity, you would jump right in if a situation like this ever arose. But that's not the case. There's a good fifteen minutes of shock first. It was so severe that my counterpart actually lost interest in the vodka bottle and started crawling across the floor to gain a better vantage point. It was like some scene one would expect to find in the depths of hell or in a girls locker room on the best day of your life. We sat there, motionless, while various acts were performed right in front of our very eyes. And let me tell you something. I have felt fear in my life before. And I'm not talking about the kind of fear you feel when you know the school bully is going to be waiting by the bike racks for you after class. I'm talking about the kind of fear you feel when some skinhead that's whacked out on purple hearts and cheap tequila pulls a 45 out and puts it to your head. I'm talking about the final fear. That's what I felt. And judging from what I remember of Todd's expression, so did he.

That fifteen minutes was the longest three days of my life. As if locked inside some terrible dream, I vaguely remember the girls crossing the floor towards us on their hands and knees. And if my memory serves me correctly, they were hissing. They say that war veterans usually remember the horrors of their ordeal more clearly years after they've come home. I believe this to be true. Because I can only remember bits and pieces of that early morning, late morning, early afternoon, and late afternoon. Rivers of baby oil, chocolate sauce, and other fluids crowd my mind from time to time when I'm violently shaken from my slumber by the awakening memories of that event. The cold and terrible images of silvery bindings, leather masks, three speed genies, circus midgets, and miracle whip also plague my recollection from time to time. I don't remember the snake. But I've seen Todd's face go absolutely white ever time we see one on TV or in a picture. I can only imagine the horrors that were thrust upon him. Most of the time I try not to.

I would dearly love to provide some tangible detail for you. But I'm afraid that I'm at a loss. I woke up on the floor of the room covered in what smelled like Gin, though it could have been an antiseptic of some kind. Every muscle in my thin, frail body felt like it had been removed and then put back slightly out of place. Sitting up, the full horror of what had taken place started to dawn on me. Stumbling around the room I came upon the tattered remains of my clothes, the sofa, several tables, and the mini-bar. I later discovered Todd in the bathtub, wide awake, gazing blankly at the wall. His eyes were slightly rolled back in his head, like he'd taken a million sleeping pills and was beginning to see the rabbit people slowly encircling him. I hoisted him out of the tub and put him in the bed, while I tried to figure out what to do next. Escape was paramount. We would have to make a run for it and soon. Hopefully my counterpart would be up to it. We had no choice.

So I high tailed it to the lobby of the hotel and discovered a men's clothing shop. The only attire I was able to get my hands on consisted of two baby blue Mickey Mouse t-shirts and two pairs of white tennis shorts. Having accepted the fact that insult would have to be added to injury, I headed back to room and threw Todd under a cold shower. Luckily he was able to snap out of it long enough to realize that we had to get the hell out of there before the succubus and her fellow demonettes returned from their daylight raids. We threw on our clothes and headed for the airport.

It all started quite unexpectedly. Most things in life start unexpectedly, but this was completely different. Everyone in first class on the way back seemed to sense that we didn't belong up there. The whole trip was toned down to a semi-decadent level, with a handful of the pig people venturing out of their seats to get down to the disco quietly pumping through the cabin. I was, as fate would have it, seated next to a nun on the return trip. And though considered by most to be a servant of god, and therefore bound by some secret pact to be kind, she could smell my burning flesh and refused to engage in conversation. My counterpart spent most of the flight throwing up in the bathroom, his head held gently over the vacuous receptacle by his lovely Swedish confidant from the inbound flight. The sun seemed eager to blind me as I looked out over the mountains and the civilizations below. I felt as if I was running from something that I would never fully escape. Perhaps that was the whole point of this story. Maybe I'm just being too cryptic for my own good (as usual). But as we winged our way back into the waiting bosom of the great Pacific North West, I remember thinking that I had survived some kind of test that had prepared me for some greater encounter in the future. And if so, then I was convinced that the future was x-rated. And in it I would remain a spy. As to who's spy, that's another matter altogether.

Your Questions. My Answers. Dial 1-900-Idiot-Savant.

1] This is for Jason Moor, way the hell out there in Chatham Ontario. Happy birthday on the 10th there Jason.

2] Thanks Laycee.

3] Sorry about that Sarah. Won't happen again.

4] Liv, here are your answers.
a) I'd have to say Han Solo because I can identify with his smart assness.
b) I don't think that the current youth of America remembers who Milli Vanilli were.
c) You could be right about that.
d) That's a damn fine question. I have no idea.
e) Sorry Liv. Chaos Math is more my bag. I'm not too familiar with De Broglie's concept of Quantum Mechanics, but I'll look into it.

5] Danielle asks if 'my ideal women is really a Bud Girl?'. You know, I've been thinking about it a lot lately and I've decided that Playboy Playmates are better. But, then again, you never know how many Bud Girls have been playmates, so it's kind of tricky really.

6] These are Jellybeans answers:
a) No. No one's told me I look like Dave Grohl. I'm two feet taller than he is.
b) I am right now.
c) I have no idea.
d) I'm answering 6 of them right now.
e) Yes, we did.
f) I already did.

7] I've been asked this question about 200 times so far this month so I'll give you all one answer. I agree with you. The New Year's show should be all ages. You never know what might happen between now and New Years. It's not my call to make, but I have put my two cents in about it.

8] Answers for Alison (that sounds like an Elvis Costello song).
a) No. I don't think Dave is secretly depressed. Hey Dave are you secretly depressed? Dave says no.
b) Probably not. Sorry.
c) Why?
d) No, you cannot kill the Dude and replace him.
e) I don't have any. They're all gone.
f) Because Dave is secretly depressed and I'm a smart ass.
g) Thanks.
h) We'd actually be a hard band to stalk I think. I don't know what the best way to go about it would be. That's your job.
i) Probably no one.
j) That quote is on the back of your shirt because I put it there.
k) I'm not sure.
l) Yes they can. Sure, why not.
m) No it won't be.
n) Live videos rarely work.

9] Tracy T. Try an import store.

10] One made out of wood, Steve.

11] I don't watch the show Julie, so I have no comment. And as for the Mattopia Applications know this: how do you guys know it isn't just some big contest and you've sent in your names and addresses to us unknowingly. You might get a call one day and find out you've won something like a new TV. Then again, maybe I'm just crazy enough to actually start my own country. You never know.

12] These answers are for Greg.
a)It's a line in Prime Time Deliverance.
b) Things changing.
c) Nope.
d) Go to 7-11.
e) In the South Pacific. Keep in mind that I never said I wasn't a liar.
f) Not much.
g) No, he didn't play guitar on that song on the record but he does live.
h) Not anymore. I have a recording walkman now.
i) Figuring them out yourself is the whole point.

13] Hi to Kate, Alison, and Lee.

14] Answers for Joy.
a) No I haven't. It sounds good though.
b) Latex. Lots of latex.
c) Pinguese.

15] Abby. There's two ways that you can do it. Either you dance with the devil and take your chances, or you dance with the devil with a gun behind your back. Unfortunately, there is no three in this one.

16] Hey Marco. What are you? My creative writing teacher? Shut up.

17] These answers are for my fellow Coquitlamite Shelly Paterson.
a) You're on Shelly. You're so very on.
b) Yes I did. I used to deliver the Columbian on your street when I was a kid.
c) The mighty centaur class of 89.
d) That's a tough one. Spying is naughty.
e) Really...
f) Don't do either before shows. Just vocal do-ray-me type stuff. It's all very not glamorous.
g) If I ever meet you it will be the first thing I'll ask.

18] These answers are for Cait.
a) No, I'm not.
b) That's a secret. But let's just say there's a lot of Em in it.
c) I dunno. April Showers maybe?

19] D'Arcy in Nebraska. You could try getting in touch with A&M Canada or a Canadian store on-line. That's probably your best bet. I, myself, can't really do anything. I'm a useless smart ass, you see.

20] This is for Andrea and Michelle who've been sending in e-mailings blaming me for Geoff's departure. I'm somewhat disappointed you'd think I had anything to do with it. It was his decision and I respect his wishes. The guy's my friend. You only know him from pictures.

21] Robyn York. Your answers are as follows:
a) My favorite comedian is Mike Myers. The guy was Doctor Evil. This fact basically proves why I don't have to give an explanation as to why I think he's funny. You'd have to be fucking dead not to find that funny.

b) My middle 'names' are Frederick, Robert. Both Dave and myself have two middle names. Dave's are Robert, Madison. Ian's is just Robert. Kinda weird, but we all have the same middle name (not to mention the fact that all of our fathers are named Robert. Thus the middle names).

c) I think you might consider getting out more.

22] Barb. Though funny, I though you're funny e-mail was a little assuming. I myself wouldn't bother getting out of bed to do all that shit. If you're going to end your day like the list says (the part prior to the dog fleeing the room), might as well start it like that and spend the whole day there. Why would anyone in their right mind bother with all that other crap?

The Mega Track 2000.

It all started when I was ten. That's when I first saw her in the Sears Catalogue. It was love at first sight. I knew then that I was a mere speck in the universe compared to her greatness. Guys like me didn't have a chance with a track like that. But guys like me can dream. And, once in a very long while, one of us reaches high enough to grasp that gold ring. Even if only for a second. Those few are the great ones.

By the Christmas of 1982 it was obvious that I had a problem. My lack of concentration became so bad that I used to sit in my room alone for hours making vroom-vroom noises under my breath. It became clear to me that I had gone too far. I had become a transient figure in my own world, not unlike some decadent emperor that thinks so highly of himself that he ignores everything around him. Past allies and trusted companions started to plot against me in an attempt to free themselves from my recluse disregard. This culminated in a daring attempt by my Hoth versions of Han and Luke to escape from my clutches by stealing a Space Lego ship and flying out of my bedroom window. Unfamiliar with the lego controls, they plummeted to their deaths on the driveway below and shattered into a million pieces. Lights out boys.

Horrified by the tragedy of that night, the others started getting ideas of their own. Escape attempts became commonplace as everyone from the Space Lego Legionnaires to the mice from Mouse Trap attempted to breach the perimeter of my room and bust out to freedom. All hell had broken loose. I would suit up every night in my kick ass plastic Swat Battle Gear preparing to thwart their attempts to pin me to the ground and poke my eyes out with Playmobile spears. I had lost the ability to reason. Even though I didn't want them I couldn't allow them to leave the kingdom of misery I had so carefully constructed. If I was to suffer alone without her, then all my subjects would suffer with me or die. And die they did. By the hundreds. I was beautifully ruthless and terrible, underhanded and psychotic. But I took them on. And I fought them until there was nothing left to fight. But it solved nothing. It didn't bring her closer to being mine. I had only furthered my spiraling state of rationale until it disappeared beneath me like the ruins of a blasted ship running all ghostlike into the waiting arms of the deep.

I can't undo the past. I can only look to the future and hope that one day she'll be mine. I've waited patiently for seventeen years and still no luck. But I've got a feeling that this is the year. Some roaming tingle through my body like an electrical alarm alerting me to prepare for her arrival. I've tried everything from sacrificing live chickens to offering virgins to dark forces to appease them and gain their favor. I've waited up for Santa with a shot gun in my lap, cursing his name, hoping to cripple the old bastard until he produces her from his magic bag. I've prayed to every god that every culture on this planet has to offer (and even a few that I made up). All to no avail. But this is the year. I can feel it. I'm due. Or I'm done.

My father used to say that life was rarely fair. I've come to the conclusion that he might have overlooked several possibilities. Among them: armed robbery and entering into a contractual agreement with the devil. I know it sounds drastic but I really don't have any other options. If the devil can deliver then he can have my soul. I just want the fucking race track, damn it.

For those of you not old enough to remember it, the MEGA TRACK 2000 was the elite of electric raceways. It glowed in the dark. Not just the track, but the cars as well. There were two full loops and, to top it all off, an entire section of the track went vertically up a wall and back down again. You could set the track pieces up in an infinite number of positions and some of the pieces could be contorted into fantastical turns and switch backs. The cars were top of the line and, compared to other cars, rarely jumped track. The MT 2000 was the fastest production race set ever made. Some critics even complained that it wasn't street legal it was so fast. You can forget about Hot Wheels City, Speedway, and Hairpin. Those are for pussies. You want to be a man? You get the MEGA TRACK 2000. I am not yet a man. But I'm hoping.

They say that childhood traumas can severely affect the adult psyche. And you wonder why I'm so weird. If I had gotten the MT 2000 all those years ago I would probably be a well adjusted, positive person. BUT NO. Instead I got slacks and gay Christmas sweaters. I would have been forever contented if I had gotten that race set. But now it's turned me into a walking time bomb. Who knows what I'm capable of doing. And all because I didn't get a lousy race track when I was nine (that retails for $129.99 if anyone's wondering). So here I am. Sans the MEGA TRACK 2000. Unhappy and altogether pitiful. I'd say Merry Christmas, but it's hard through the tears.


C/O The Matthew Good Band
@ PO Box 48956 Bentall Center
Vancouver, BC., Canada
V7X 1A8
(Preferably before he goes on a gun crazy rampage)