[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]


Verse 5

Before Jehovah made the universe, he made the angels; and he was without a favorite. For he could not even see them. Then came the idea for light and from that came the idea for the Universe, which he set about the task of creating.

Only he wasn’t very good at it. He would get mixed up and over enthused and not concentrate. First came the idea for light, then the idea for the heavens and the earth, but he built them backwards, and were it not for Lucifer, he would have entirely forgot the angels.

It became obvious to Jehovah that revisions would need to be made, bumps smoothed, after the heavens and after the light. for who can create perfection with the lights off, who can make a magnum opus in the dark?

It should have been a three day job, four tops. Jehovah was well on his way to making it a twelve. That’s when Lucifer came along.

“May I take a look at that?” Lucifer said as he stepped into the light for the first time, his white robe, fair skin and blonde hair sparkling under what was truly a masterful idea.

“Um, I guess,” Jehovah said with a reluctant look on his face.

Lucifer took a long look before saying anything, hand rubbing chin.

“I like what you’ve done here,” another long pause, “It shows a lot of promise”

“But?” God asked with an eyebrow raised high.

“Oh, nothing at all. It’s your universe.”

“Well, what would you do?”

“Um, well, and again, it’s your universe, but I would start thinking about the source of tension that is going to keep your universe interesting.”

“What?”

“Oh, yeah. A source of tension to keep us all guessing would be an ace of an idea. A little variety.”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, and maybe its not the right thing. Good luck!” Lucifer deliberately turned back toward the dark, slowly.

“Wait. Robert, it is Robert right?”

“No, my Lord, its Lucifer”

“Lucifer?”

“Yes my Lord?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing major planned, just going to celebrate another day of existence with the other angels, back in the dark”

“Would you like to come back here tomorrow, maybe watch me create the universe, give an opinion here or there?”

“I’d like that. That’d be cool.”

As Lucifer reached the corner of the darkness, he noticed something. A multicolored collection of pieces of raw and pure light and creation rolled into a ball. Pieces of the imperfections discovered when Jehovah flipped the switch, now discarded and sitting inconveniently on the floor of all possibility.

“Jehovah?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to take care of this for you, get it out of your way?”

Nobody had ever offered to do Jehovah a favor before and at that moment, something happened in Jehovah, something neither he, nor Lucifer, nor the creator of creators if there is such a thing, will ever fully understand. But at that moment, all three would have guessed he felt gratitude and affection and…

“Yes, my love, I would appreciate that very much.”

For the remainder of the week, they worked on the universe. God had a powerful ability to create, Lucifer had discovered. Ideas such as Light (Why had the other angels still not wandered into it? it was obvious, a bolt of such contrast off in the distance. It was bliss to experience), Day, Firmament, Heaven, Vegetation, Seed, Waters. Lucifer would never understand where it all came from. Jehovah created a raw matter, but had trouble knowing what to do with it, how to make it do anything. This was Lucifer’s territory. Where Jehovah created the Sun, a powerful and original idea, Lucifer could only manage a Moon; new but ultimately similar. And yet, still important. It was also Lucifer’s idea to separate things. The Day and Night, the Land and Waters. It made their strengths obvious and ultimately complimented Jehovah. Jehovah again had that mystery feeling.

On Sunday, they sat on the Green Fields and drank Ambrosia. One would ask the other what they were thinking and the conversation would last an eon. Then it would switch.

They discovered each other, and discovered what they were both good at and what they could do together. Eventually the other angels had a saying. “God made the Universe, Lucifer made it better.”

They were a team, God providing the ideas, Lucifer making them work toward something, adding a moral. God made Job, Lucifer made him suffer. God made Adam and Eve, Lucifer gave them desire. Shortly after Jehovah introduced Jesus, Lucifer came up with the idea of bringing in the cRoss.

And so they went on writing together. Bouncing off of each other’s ideas. Playing good cop, bad cop. Jehovah even changed Lucifer’s shape to that of a hideous beast for the sake of the story, Lucifer’s idea.

But one of the mysteries of Jehovah’s mystery feeling, was when it would end.

Jehovah, creator of creators (if there is such a thing) bless him, couldn’t stay interested in anything forever. Lucifer never knew how many worlds lay collecting dust before him, and how many books remained unfinished after. He was a momentary pleasure, cast aside when the new big idea came. Jehovah stopped saying “I love you” to Lucifer after that. Then he stopped talking to him altogether. He even forgot to change him back to his former image.

Lucifer’s universe (For who else would lay claim to it now?) was able to run on autopilot for a while, and it did. But the gears of metaphysics were beginning to break, no new souls were being made to replace the old ones. The Universe was decaying. Creation’s natural half-life now returning reality back into its at rest state of possibility. It had lasted longer than Lucifer had really wished for a long time. But years of solitude from anyone like himself (Where had all the other angels gone?) had taught him to lean on no one but himself.

And now he had the chance to become a creator, a god, an equal to his now true nemesis, the one who taught him false love, but honest hate. Jehovah never had the power to destroy, he left that to Lucifer, but now, Lucifer might have both, and that would make him the greater.

Good thing he kept that ball of pure daylight and creation. That ball he called the Daylighter.

Verse 4

[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]

Karl wheeled awkwardly toward the conference table.

"W-what's going on?" he stuttered.

Lucifer ignored him for a moment. Spinning on his heel to face the others, he pronounced: "Gentlemen -- and lady," he said, with a wink toward Betty Bathory, "I give you the new Lieutenant General of Hell's Army: Mr. Karl Christian Rove."

He swooped behind Karl, extending a demonstrative hand in front of him. For a moment, there was dazed silence. Then all at once, as if on cue, the group erupted in protests. Lucifer cringed, unable to discern anything above the din of complaints and galumphing.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he howled. "GENTLEMEN, ONE AT A TIME!"

Somewhere, a homeless kitten got pancreatic cancer with a very poor prognosis. Its mother's teats dried up, rendering her unable to nurse the youngling. Hunger and invasive disease began playing a game for its short life.

"But how can zis be?" shouted Hitler's sound guy, pounding his fist on the table. "He is small and pudgy -- hardly ze heroic archetype necessary to lead our warriors into battle! He cannot serve ze post with dignity!"

"Indeed!" barked Jackson. "This isn't to say that all of us haven't been impressed with Mr. Rove's work at one time or another. But," he said gesturing toward a shadowy figure in the corner, "Attila's been waiting for that job for going on two millennia. How is that fair?"

The shadowy figure glowered, but said nothing.

"This is hardly the time to dwell on fairness," Lucifer shot back, taking a seat next to Karl, who was at this point weeping tears of joy and stammering incomprehensibly. "This is the time for action. Now sit. All of you."

---

Back in the kitchen, Ikey, the Devil's least favorite minion, sprinted into the room. Augoostus glanced over expectantly but did not break from the large cauldron he was stirring. He idly wiped a hand across his "Kiss Me, I'm Infernal" apron.

Ikey doubled over, clasping his hands to his knees, panting desperately for breath.

"Have you guys heard?" he croaked.

"Heawd wha'?" Stanley said, setting aside the fried intestine sandwich he had just bitten into. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and down his chin.

"There's a -- there's a -- there's a new council member, and they say the Big L's getting ready to do something drastic," Ikey said, loping over toward Stanley and scooping a handful of thick, green goo from Augoostus's cauldron as he went. The chef arced a horny brow and rapped him on the head with his spoon made of human bone, sinew, etc.

"Oh yeah?" asked Stanley, gaining interest. "What's up?"

"I dunno. I think it has to do with the souls. This morning, there weren't enough of them to fuel the furnace."

A stray intestine slid from Stanley's gaping jaw to the floor. It landed with a sploosh at Ikey's feet.

"What's happening?"

"I-I don't know," Ikey bustled. He licked the goo furiously from his fingers, salivating more with each lap of his forked tongue. "But there's whisperings among the imps that he's going to open the Door That Really Shouldn't Be Fiddled With Under Any Circumstances And That Means Now Too."

"The DTRSBFWUACATMNT -- oh, dear," said Stanley and Augoostus in tandem.

---

Back in Lucifer's throne room, the board was bickering about what should be done. The souls were disappearing, yes, and taking action was imperative -- but beyond that, no two members could agree on what should happen.

"I don't even know why I'm here," John Denver whimpered amid the clamor, clasping the neck of his guitar.

"Two words: 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy,' puss," snarled Leonard Smalls from the far end of the conversation.

The debate continued like this for some six hours, during which Lucifer gradually slunk back in his seat with a headache that increasingly hampered his senses. Finally, he spoke up. When he did, he used a tone reserved for only the most severe circumstances -- the most recent being the birth of a certain carpenter's son in Bethlehem.

"Quiet."

The board fell silent, every pair of eyes focusing on the slouching figure at the end of the table.

"Friedrick," he called. A cowering figure emerged from behind his chair.

"Yes, my most Deliciously Malignant Master?"

Satan sighed heavily.

"Fetch the Daylighter."

A sudden hush resounded through all the hallways of Hell at that moment, as if propelled by a force of nature. Had the Devil's legions of minions any hearts within their empty chest cavities, they would have begun beating wildly all at once.

Fear gripped the Underworld, but Lucifer only repeated the simple order.

"Go get the Daylighter."

[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]


Carl Marx and Immanuel Kant clasped shoulders at Tesla’s remark and bellowed. Lucifer shot them all the stink eye, literally, but it did little to quiet the roar.

Enraged, Lucifer grasped his empty snack container by the hair and punted it with one hoofed foot directly into the chuckling gullet of Richard Nixon. Nose flattened, Nixon picked up the severed head, unhinged his jaw and dropped the morsel in his mouth, swallowing it whole. “Point taken,” he snarled.

“NOW, FOR THE REASON I HAVE SUMMONED YOU…” But before he could finish his sentence, another voice called out from the council.

“We KNOW why we’re here, let us make that crystalline clear. You’re out of souls, dear heart. You need more and you can’t figure out where to start.” It was Oliver Cromwell, from far in the back. The lilting, sing-song voice was a dead give away, and something Satan hated very, very much.

“Yes, we have all noticed the drop in temperature,” Commodus said. “And look, that great big pile of souls has been diminished to nearly nothing,” he said, gesturing with his right hand. “Honestly, Satan, what good would a council do if they were always two steps behind you?” The room let out another chuckle.

Eyes brimming with acid, Lucifer dug in his pockets for another hankie. “Don’t let them see you cry, don’t let them see you cry,” he thought over and over again. In a final effort to keep his composure, the Lord of Darkness resorted to biting his tongue and repeatedly stabbing himself with his nails of pure, sharpened obsidian. When he was sure he could speak without a falter in his voice, Satan, the King of the Underworld, the Sultan of Sulfur, the Baron of Brimstone, spoke in a high falsetto.

“What good indeed, Commodus?” As his eyes met with those of the Morningstar, Commodus saw the face of every crippled man he ever killed on the sands of the Coliseum.

Lucifer switched from his mocking falsetto back into his normal, Barry White-ish baratone. “My friends, you forget your place. You hold your current positions as uneaten and unburned councilors only while I hold sway over my kingdom. When the souls dry up, your usefulness as councilors dries in tandem. However, your souls still retain that unburned quality which my furnaces crave. And, with the finely aged quality of so many of your souls, I’d wager a guess that you’ll all go up faster than an old growth forest in the middle of July!” Lucifer flicked his hands like a cheap birthday magician, and every councilmember had a separate but equally terrifying vision of heat, intense heat beyond explanation, as if they had plunged into the heart of 1,000 suns, followed by nothing. No heat, no cold, no good and no ill. Simply nothing. It was infinitely more terrifying than the blinding heat of hell’s furnace.

Lucifer felt the room shift, felt the balance of power roll back into his court, and it felt wonderful. Moreover, he felt good. And, for the first time in a long time, probably since the council helped him bring about the Spanish Inquisition, Lucifer felt in complete control of every member.

Nietzsche was the first to speak. “Vell, vat vould you have us do?”

“Dear, dear Frederich,” Satan said. “As much as I appreciated your help in bringing about the Holocaust and WWII with your absurd Ubermensch, I dare say the problems facing us now far exceed the expertise of the council, as is.”

Satan felt the collective eyes of the room on him, saw the questions bubbling up in each and every one of them. He focused all his attention to his ears, and when he heard the faint crack of John Locke’s lips part to say something, Satan leapt upon the table and, in his most earnest impression of a late night TV infomercial spokesman, the Prince of Darkness said, “Which is precisely why, at this very moment, a tour bus is veering off its proper path on Pennsylvania Ave. As I stand before you this bus is cutting across the median, barreling into oncoming traffic, and colliding head-on with a black Chevy Suburban! Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the new co-head of Satan’s Braintrust, the only man evil enough to be called away early from his most-important work on planet earth, Mr. Carl Rove!”

And, with another flick of his wrist, a black leather rolling chair holding an aged, fat and bespectacled man with wild, questioning eyes appeared between Andrew Jackson and Philippe Pétain, the leader of Vichy France.

“Oh, come off it, Carl,” Lucifer said. “Don’t act so surprised, this was all written in the fine print.”

Our powers combined

We have been joined by the illustrious Ross Brooks, Esq., in our little writing experiment. From now on, the three of us will rotate, each contributing an entry to the story in turn.

Ross is a killer writer, a recent globetrotter, and a giant on the racquetball court.

This is going to be fun.

verse 2

[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]

"Friedrick," Lucifer said, then sighed. "Be a dear and bring me a spoon."

Friedrick tried to hide the look of worry that immediately broke on his face. He knew what the spoon was for. "A spoon, your Royal Lowness?"

Lucifer jerked forward like lightning, instantly centimeters from Friedrick's face. Fire poured from his pupils.

"A SPOON!"

The words echoed through the halls of hell, burst through the gates of the world beyond existence and caused volcanoes to erupt on the surface of the earth. Children born at that instant were born deaf, or blind, or would never know their name. Roses wilted, lovers quarrelled and favorite dogs ran away.

Lucifer leaned back in his throne and spoke again. "Please."

Friedrick cupped his hands and yelled toward the hall that led to the kitchen. "Our Most Maleficent Leader requires a spoon."

the words were carried by the various sentrys down the hall toward the kitchen.

"Our Most Maleficent Leader requires a spoon."

"Our Most Maleficent Leader requires a spoon"

"Our Most Maleficent Leader requires a spoon"

(murmurs)

"How big a spoon? we talking teaspoon or ladle?"

"How big a spoon? Does he want a teaspoon or a ladle?

"How big a spoon? Does his Excellence require something in the range of a teaspoon or more along the lines of a ladle?"

Friedrick turned and asked. "How big a spoon my lord, one that-

"Friedrick go get the spoon yourself." Lucifer was sitting in his throne with one leg on the armrest and the index finger and thumb of his right hand massaging his closed eyelids.

Friedrick began walking the hallways and caverns that lead to the kitchen, passing many empty chains meant for curing souls. while crossing a rope bridge that stood above a river of magma, Friedrick heard a man named Wilhelm scream a very familiar scream, so not all the souls were gone. Wilhelm could always be counted on.

He also passed Farrokh Bulsara, hanging from a set of chains and being whipped with the radio antenna that was once atop the World Trade Center. All of the other souls had brief periods of relief from demon punishment during the shift changes but Farrokh never got one, for Beelzebub had a devil put aside for him.

When Friedrick opened the door made of human bone, senew, etc., he saw that the cooking staff was expecting him. They had all stopped what they were doing and were looking at him.The head chef, a cherub-demon named Augoostus Sprunkenmeyer, was classically trained in the dark culinary arts and needless to say wanted to get the intruder out of his workplace at once.

"Luci's one miffed morningstar right now and i dont need him angry at me because his dinner is late or there arent enough hairs in his soup. take what you need and get out."

"I dont know where to find what I'm looking for," Friedrick explained.

"Stanley, give the demon what he needs and get back to pickling testicles."

As everyone got back to work, a demon from the back of the room came forward. He was wearing an A shirt with stains on it and an apron and was the spitting image of a young Ernest Borgnine; but of course that couldnt actually be Ernest Borgnine, they had boiled him in a stew several years ago.

He flipped a wash-cloth over his shoulder and put out a giant muscular hand. Friedrick shook it.

"Friedrick Tuke-Tuke, nice to meet you."

"Stanley Washadowski, how can I help?"

"Look, I just need a spoon and a severed head with an easy-seal forehead for convenient snacking."

"Uh-oh. You think that means he's gonna call th-

"Almost certain of it, just the idea of it puts him in a funk. Frankly, I'm not too happy about it either. I think I know what theyre going to say and if they do, I swear my puss glands will run dry."

"What do you think they're going to say?" Stanley pulled a severed finger with red nail polish on the long finger nail from a small box in his pack pocket and lit one end on an open burner. The finger hung loose in his mouth while he put the box back.

Just then Lucifer's voice pierced the room.

"Friedrick!"

On earth, a nursing home burnt down, three species of rare animals, and one rather abundant species went extinct, and a large, economically powerful nation, probably a member of the European Union, became fiscally insolvent.

Stanley immediately moved to the drawer and grabbed a spoon, turned and opened the reburnerator. From this he produced a severed head: used for snacking, loaded with calories and transfats, and generally a good pick me up when a demon is feeling depressed because a boy didnt call or has to face certain advisory boards.

"Thanks," Friedrick said as he grabbed the items and moved for the door made of human bone, senew, etc.

"No prob," Stanley said as he stubbed out the lady's finger and moved back to the pickle jar.

Friedrick ran back to the main hall and found Lucifer weeping. He handed Lucifer the spoon and head and it was a matter of seconds before the top was off the head and a spoonful of wicked brains were in Lucifers mouth. He talked with his mouth full.

"Im gunnuhavtah caw in tha counshel. I dun no whad da doo." Tears of acid and sulfur ran gently down his cheek.

"I figured as much your Royal Lowness, and I am truly sorry. If there is anything i can do to-

"Yunooh, I duneven nooh why I shtawded that stoopid counshel." He took a breath and another bite. " They alvayzh make me feew sho shmall. sho shmall."

Satan sobbed.

***

There are only two ways to avoid being demon food or fuel in the afterlife. The first is the one already known to all humans and that is to live a good life and follow the path of enlightenment. The other, the one known to so very few humans, is to live the most evil, rotten, vile life full of sin and debauchery known to all creation. To be so evil that Satan himself feels a little intimidated by your presence. The only way to reach this higher level of evil, is to rationalize. It is one thing to commit an evil act, it is quite another to be able to rationalize it. These few and retched souls, in order to reach the levels of evil they have all achieved, must all be capable of rationalizing at levels beyond that of a mere demon, and are able to justify any action whatsoever if given the proper time and parameters. That is why they are called Lucifer's Council of Justified Rational Behavior. But informally they are known as Beelzebub's Braintrust. When they have ideas, civilizations crumble.

***

The spoon made a thunking sound as it hit the bottom of the brain cavity.

"Oh, I feel better." Lucifer exhaled. Still sniffling a little bit, he began to wipe the acid out of his eyelashes and off his face. He wiped under his nose.

"Would you like another tissue my leige? Best if the council didnt see that you were crying." Friedrick leaned over the throne and handed Lucifer another tissue.

"You're right, You're right."

Friedrick held up the trash basket and Lucifer put his last tissue in.

"You know, Friedrick, you really are a loyal servant." Lucifer's ill thoughts toward Friedrick had passed temporarily while he needed someone to share with.

"Thank you, you Royal Lowness."

"No, I mean it. you really are a loyal servant."

"Shall we bring in the council, sire?"

"Yes," Lucifer composed himself in his throne. "Lets bring them in."

Friedrick walked to the edge of the giant main hall and grabbed the handle on a giant switch made of human bone, senew, etc. and pulled back with a hearty jerk.

Just then a giant office table filled with bickering men in business attire descended from the ceiling via a dumbwaiter. The sound of their arguing filled the room and pierced Lucifer's ears. Nietzsche was screaming at Lenin, Lenin was screaming at the guy who set up the sound systems for Hitler's speeches, Deep Blue was begging John Denver to play him again, and John Denver was tuning his guitar. And that was just the five guys sitting closest to Lucifer.

Lucifer plugged his ears and began.

"YOU HAVE BEEN BROUGHT TO THIS CHAMBER OF ULTIMATE DARKNESS AT THE BEHEST OF THE PRINCE OF OBLIVIAN AND THE KEEPER OF THE GATES OF UNBEING! I, LUCIFER, HOLD DOMINION OVER THIS LAND OF ASH AND REGRET AND I COMMAND YOU NOW TO SILENCE!

And there was silence. And then

"No, you shut up," said Nikola Tesla way in the back.

The Man tried to shut us down (plus a cool website)

...but it didn't work. Our faithful readers (yuk-yuk) might have noticed that the blog hadn't been online for more than a few hours before Google blocked it with some terms-of-service-violation namby-pamby. Turns out they thought we were bots of some kind. It probably didn't help that Robert's new screen name is "Robot84."

Nice going, my friend.




Anyway, check out this website! It's put together by editors at HarperCollins. It's called Authonomy, and it's kind of a marketplace for book ideas. You can publish any manuscript of 10,000 words or up for others to read. You read theirs, they read yours, and at the end of the month, the five best land on the desks of HarperCollins editors. Pretty cool idea.

I don't have anything long enough to publish there yet -- but keep an eye out. In the meantime, I'm thoroughly enjoying "Royal Flush," by Scott Bartlett, and "Space," by Alexander McNabb.

Hell, Verse I

It was a cold day in Hell. Lucifer had bundled up in the burgundy turtleneck his mother had gotten him for his birthday three millennia ago. He had sworn he’d never be seen in public with it. The Father of All Lies had to snigger at the irony there: This was the first time, after billions upon billions of masterfully crafted deceptions, that he had broken a promise to himself. He had to admit it didn’t feel good. But the irony was lost in a moment, replaced by annoyance.

“Where are the souls?” he scowled at his minions. “Bring me more souls!”

His nearest minions, a gaggle of a dozen or so small, impish creatures with fuzzy bellies and great, glossy orbs for eyes, recoiled collectively. Each fastened their claws tighter around their spades and escalated their pace. It was their job to shovel the souls of the unrepentant into furnaces, thereby heating Hell and maintaining the underworld’s reputably nasty climate.

But on this particular day, there was a problem.

“We’re running out!” squealed Ikey, the devil’s scrawniest and least favorite minion, who had been given furnace detail -- a choice position among demons -- not because he deserved it, but because Lucifer wanted to keep an eye on him. Truth was, Lucifer didn’t know what he didn’t like about Ikey. He was just a little creepy in a hard-to-define way.

But at the moment, Ikey was right. Lucifer looked over at the pile, usually stacked several meters high with fresh, blue-glowy souls dropped into his throne room through a chute in the ceiling. They come from Interrogator Dave’s chambers, where they’re usually tortured for several decades to soften them up for burning. But today, the souls were stacked only about knee-high. Lucifer guessed there were maybe a hundred there, maybe less.

Steeling himself, he marched over to the chute and bellowed up.

“Hey Dave!” he cried. “What gives?”

“No more souls,” echoed Dave’s voice from the chambers above, dense and rounded like a foghorn through glass. Lucifer guessed the thick accent was of some Eastern European variety, but he’d never bothered to ask. He shuddered and folded his arms, drawing his hands into his pits.

“What do you mean, no more souls?” he grimaced.

“Dey’s a shortage here,” came the reply. “I’m beating ‘em just as fast as I can, but Friedrick says dey isn’t coming in like dey used to.”

Lucifer glanced irritably at the thermostat affixed to a nearby furnace. The reading had slid from “noxiously searing” to “oppressively balmy -- wear a hat.” He scowled and marched to the intercom at the opposite end of the wall.

“Friedrick!” he screamed into it. “Friedrick, where are you? Friedrick!”

“H-here, your Most Dubiousness,” came the reply after a moment. “What malady may I inflict upon the soul of man for your Highness’ pleasure today?”

What a sniveling wretch, Lucifer thought. Still, he had to give it to him: as the gatekeeper of Hell, Friedrick had engineered quite a frightful entrance scene. Lucifer thought it sufficiently impressed newcomers with the horror he himself liked to inflict back when he had the time. He particularly liked the bit with the severed heads with burning coals for eyes and the three-headed dog gnashing through a mountain of piled infant entrails.

Why this blog?

That's a good question.

I was wondering that myself. I suppose I was looking for an outlet for various thoughts and observations I have throughout the day most days. Like how ridiculous those big bug-eyed glasses girls wear these days are. Or how troubling it is that John McCain can't use the Internet.

Allow me to clarify one thing at the outset of this little experiment: There will be nothing in these pages that will improve your life, offer you new insights or water-cooler conversation topics, or generally reasons to make you glad you visited in the first place. Any response to the contrary is pure chance.

But then it occurred to me: the perfect way to break in the new blog. Without further ado, I give you the first installation in a new tandem story to be written with the help of the brilliant and talented Robert O.