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  • It’s A Pandemic (Pan Not Included)…

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    Hello, everyone. My name is M. R. Sellars. I’m a writer and it has been 68 days since my last blog post…

    Yes, Brainpan Leakage has been woefully lacking in posts as of late. Well, woefully for some, perhaps a relief for others. Who knows? At any rate, I used to make it a point to stick to suggested convention and blog at least twice each week. It was fun while it lasted, but after a few years I discovered that social media – including regular bloggage – had become the time suck I had long feared it would. So, I went sort cold turkey. Actually, it was more Maker’s Mark on the rocks, but you get the idea.

    And so, here I am, sorta blogging again. Not planning to fall back into the well with Timmy, though. He’s been down there so long he’s pretty corpsified and gross at this point. Damned Lassie. Never send a collie to do the job of a Basset Hound.

    But I digress (Yeah, some things never change…)

    What I came here to yammer about today is the fact that we seem to have a pandemic on our hands.

    “What kind of pandemic?” you ask.

    Well, near as I can tell, it is a pandemic of epic proportions. Not since the Holy Bible has there been such a global plague, and that plague seems to be attacking only the fairer sex. Yes, you ladies are those who are apparently in danger. You see, this is a case of widespread sexual frustration. Of course, not ALL women have succumbed to the virus. It appears that there are some who are immune, however, they are few and far between.

    How have I arrived at this? Simple. Soccer moms getting all hot and bothered over Edward the Tinkerbell Vampire. As you can plainly see, it’s not just sexual frustration, in some cases it’s creepy pseudo-pedophile sort of sexual frustration. Can I get a collective “Ewwww!” from the audience? Yep. Thought I could.

    Of course, it doesn’t stop there. Since confessionals were becoming overcrowded, and mattresses were catching fire from the hot fantasy prose penned in diaries kept tucked between mattresses, someone even took it upon herself to create some Twilight Fan-Fic BDSM Soccer Mom Porn titled 50 Shades of Grey. It’s on the NYT Bestseller list and is making all sorts of cash. That should tell you something right there.

    But (saw that coming, right?)

    But, it STILL doesn’t stop there… Over an above a plethora of fan-fic sort of f*ck stories propagating across the intertoobz, as well as the tried and true bodice rippers filling book racks in airports and news stands, there is a groundswell of demands for more. How do I know this? Well, I’ll tell you…

    After IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER hit the shelves I started getting emails and comments from fans. Fortunately, they liked it, which made reading said comments and emails much easier. However… the ongoing theme in all of these communications that bore a decidedly female name was this: Will Ben and Constance “get together” in the next book? When will Ben and Constance be “getting together”? I can’t wait for Ben and Constance to “get together”. Let’s hope Ben and Constance “get together”… ad nauseum.

    Since Ben and Constance are already dating, it’s not hard to figure out – especially when you add in all the wink wink nudge nudges in the emails – that what “get together” means is, to paraphrase Alex in A Clockwork Orange, “A bit of the old in-out, in-out…”

    See what I mean? This epidemic has spread like wildfire. I mean, come on. Neither Ben nor Constance are Vampires, and they sure as hell don’t sparkle…

    So, what can we do about this? Sadly, not much. However, don’t be disheartened, ladies; it’s okay. Men have been porn addicted since the dawn of time. We just have shorter attention spans, which is why we gravitate toward pictures instead of prose…

    More To Come – (make of that what you will, you dirty minded little baboons…)

    Until the next time,

    M

  • The Gramling Party…

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    It’s still painful to talk about. I know it has been a whole week now, but it seems like it was only yesterday. The horror of it all is still fresh in my mind, and I find myself waking up in a cold sweat as the nightmares plague my slumber. I guess that’s what I get for surviving…

    It was cold. Especially for Florida. Of course, it was also early November and George Bush had stopped denying global climate change, so those were just the dice Momma au Naturale dealt us. The Sunshine State caught in the grip of a cold snap of epic proportions. Unbelievable as it may seem, when the sun dipped below the horizon the mercury would plummet into the danger zone. Yes… the 50’s. I actually had to wear my hoodie.

    EK, John, and Murv - Prior to the ill-fated Trick or Drunking Expedition

    Earlier in the day, provisions had been running low. That’s how it is with Corona and lime when you are at a festival in Florida. One minute there’s enough, the next, not so much. We scraped together a twenty from my wallet and handed it off to the provisions maven. We never saw her again. Who knew a Jackson could take you that far…

    Well… Not far enough, because that’s about the time the trolley broke down. Any seasoned Festival-goer knows that when the Trolley breaks down you’re as good as dead – but we weren’t ready to give up. Steeling our resolve, we grabbed our plastic cups and set out down the pass to go “Trick or Drunking.” We’d heard a rumor that Pirates had set up camp below, and if we could make it there, perhaps they would share their rum with us. Or not. One never knows about Pirates, but we had to try.

    The trip was arduous. We lost three on the way, not sure if they succumbed to the cold, were eaten by the rogue bear, or simply turned back. Eventually, however, we made it to our destination. After much parlay, the assignation of Piratey names, and selling off E K to the “Feral Cathouse” run by the Buccaneers, we were accepted into the fold and beaten severely about the head and shoulders – and livers – with rum that had been shown a picture of fruit punch. But it wasn’t allowed to look for very long, as it was only supposed to pick up a hint of the fruity punchiness…

    Sometime during the darkness, a roving band of strange women, each dressed in black and adorned with bright red lipstick, descended upon the Pirate camp. Even the Pirates cowered, powerless against their overwhelming osculation. And yes, they scurried about like little pixies, kissing all of the male types and leaving gihugic Angelina Jolie lip prints on our faces.

    We were sore afraid, and a bit titillated as well, but that’s a different story.

    Eventually, seeing as we had brought the strange women upon them, the Pirates made us walk the plank. Being on land already it wasn’t much of a plank, however, there was the mountain, for we eventually had to return to our base camp at the summit.

    John – as in John Gramling… Yes. THE John Gramling – downed what was left of his punch drunk rum and pointed at the distant lights in the sky. He burped, hiccuped, and then said, “I ain’t climbin’ that mountain.”

    E K, who had been kicked out of the “Feral Cathouse” for torturing the clientele looked ahead and replied, “Psshaw! It’s just a gentle incline.”

    “It’s a damn mountain,” John repeated.

    And so we braved the cold, the wind, and the bear, stalking off into the early morning darkness (it was after midnight) and climbed the Altoona Mountains there in Florida. Just her worship THE E K, and me…

    We never saw John again. Rumor has it RD ate him when the Pirates finally ran out of rum, but then, RD is like that. (You’d understand if you’d ever met RD…)

    And there you have the true story of The Gramling Party. I’m sure that mountainside is haunted now… By John and a case of Corona. Maybe I’ll go back and look for him some day. I’m pretty sure he forgot to take the lime with him…

    More to come…

    Murv