April 16, 2004
Corporate Growth

Due to the awesomeness of the submissions to Tourette's Tournament of Evil in its very first week, management felt the raging desire to crack out some new layout features for this inimitable Crapotron. Use and abuse. Please. If we're going to get this little sleep, somebody ought to derive some motherfucking pleasure from it. Check out the entries, for sure, cause they're all superfucking cool. We won't release who did them yet, because that would taint the voting later on, but by God, when this is all over, credit will be given where credit is due. In the meantime, feel free to compliment our digital warriors in the comments.

Got my letter back from Colette today. It's late and I am tired and so, I don't give a fuck. As it goes.

Mingus,

You may be right, I may not love this man. But the fact is, that I am getting married in a few months... I am sorry that you are lonely ... sometimes I get lonely as well ... but that is life, isn't it?

I keep thinking back to that night... and I think that I wish I had done differently. I think that maybe I panicked a just a little bit, when I realized what I was doing. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just me? Maybe it was seeing you naked. Did you know that I haven't seen another man naked for ... months... years? I never told you that... did I?And the feelings that I had for that... wanting more... but feeling sooooo... guilty, I don't know, when I didn't think I should have to. It was to much, and that is why I had to leave. Bad timing... I know...

So... I don't know if I have solved anything in my head since then. I would like to see you again... talk a bit... have a drink...should we, I ask myself? Yes... I think I have to... so write me before the weekend... we can talk...

Colette

Yup. Just another fucking nightmare waiting to happen. Can't fucking wait.

April 15, 2004
10 000 Maniacs & Counting

Nunt.com Industries is proud to announce that we've had at least 10 000 unique visitors to this site since it was born. At least, that's what the cheap-ass web counter is saying. In reality, according to the huge-ass motherfucking web appliance powering this site and hundreds of others like it all over the world, we're well over 11 500. And we've had over 40 000 page views.

According to my math, if every one of those visitors buys a book over the next year, I will still be poor and driving a seventeen year old Volvo by Christmas. But I will be barred from ever being buried in a Christian cemetery, married by a real priest, or forced to attend another baptism. There is also a good chance of being called 'a national embarrassment'. The excitement is unlimited.

In other markers, the occupation of Iraq has cost the US at least 87 soldiers this month, more than have died at any other time since the initial invasion. Not to be outdone, the insurgents have apparently lost 100 soldiers in a pitched fourteen hour battle near Fallujah. As IHT reported:

‘‘They hit us with everything they had,’’ said Tom Conroy, a Marine corporal. ‘‘This is a whole another world. The hostility is no longer hard stares or dirty looks. It’s gunfire.’’

The fighting in and around Falluja is a throwback to classic urban warfare not sustained since World War II. It is the grueling, costly conflict American generals were bracing for when they invaded Iraq last year but had not seen on this scale until now.

F-Town, as many marines call it, has become the bitter heart of the resistance.

‘‘It’s their Superbowl,’’ said Major T.V. Johnson, a Marine spokesman. ‘‘Falluja is the place to go if you want to kill Americans.’’

The violence is getting thick enough that even Bush may be starting to get the message that not everything is well. As he said on national television the other day, with his usual eloquence :

"They’re not happy they’re occupied. I wouldn’t be happy if I were occupied either," said Mr Bush.

April 14, 2004
Dear Colette, Before You Get Married

After the clusterfuck with Colette about a month ago, there has been no talk and no letters. At all. And I wasn't sure I wanted any, or needed any.

But I was out walking and shaking my head this evening and it got late and the sky was cold for springtime and the snow sprinkled down into the streetlights.

And it became pretty obvious that Chloe was not going to phone me for awhile. And Rae-Anne was not working late at the Cheeseburger factory. Not that checked. And I started thinking about Nat, and that is a dangerous thing to do at anytime. So I stopped and tried to think of some other woman, and so I wandered further towards the tall buildings, and walked past a tailor's and saw the groom in his tux and wondered if Colette was still manic about her husband and getting married. I guessed that she was, and I was wet and lonely when I got home, so I sat down and wrote her a letter.

Dear Colette,

Before you get married, maybe we should talk again. That was some fucked up night, and I don't have much to say about it, cause what happened happened, and that is fine with me. It is obvious that you are not in love with this man. And you are lonely. And I am lonely. I'm not saying we should get crazy like that again, but it might be good to talk some night. And if things get crazy, they get crazy, and I don't mind it. At least, I don't mind it right now. And that might be what you need. And what I need.

Write me.

Mingus

Maybe too much to the point, but I got nothing to lose. And neither does she, from my vantage point. Whatever. These nights are getting longer, even though the calendar says they are getting shorter.

April 13, 2004
Shammalamma

I don't normally drink scotch, but it seemed like the thing to do at Easter dinner. Unfortunately, I'd loaded up on high test rum the night before, and was barely able to speak coherently when I first wandered in the door. Chloe invited me over to her aunt's awhile ago, and for some reason, she phoned Sunday morning and let me know that she still expected me to show up. So I did, smelling of Barbado's best and cheap women. I decided to attempt evening out the keel by knocking back three stiff ones with her fifteen-year old cousin, but it didn't seem to help the coherence at all. It helped the headache, which I found to be useful, but it seemed to impair my balance.

At some point, I realized that I hadn't eaten anything since the chicken wings the night before, so I made for the kitchen and wound up in a conversation with the Aunt and her pregnant sister. They had been discussing the Passion of the Christ, and asked me what I thought of it. To avoid answering, I spilled two fingers worth of Chivas on my crotch and let them butter me up with paper towels. I rolled back over to the liquor cabinet, refilled my lost fingers, and stepped outside for a smoke. Got out there and realized I wasn't alone, so I hit up Chloe's Granduncle for a handrolled. He looked at me sort of strange, and I thought fuck him, and took his pack of smokes and wandered around to the front of the house. Opened the gate, let the dog out, which was apparently a problem later, smoked the cigarette, put it out in the flower bed, walked in the front door. Rolled back into the kitchen, which was vacant, cracked open the fridge, helped myself to some creme broulee. Wandered down the hall to the office, caught the fifteen year old looking at some porn site on the web, laughed and was in the process of showing him this hunk of crap when my colon bucked and spat out a little brown broulee of its own.

Stood up, cheeks clenched tight, walked real suave to the bathroom and proceeded to violate their toilet with a sort of diarrhea opus I would normally associate with African dysentery. The event was loud, it smelled like the inside of a Ton-Ton, and had an unfortunate napalm-like sticking power that seemed to embed itself in my clothes. Desperate to cover up my ruminations, I rattled through the medicine cabinet, found a jug of Old Spice and applied it liberally to my shirt and groin. Walked out of the can, sweating, I watched helplessly as the pregnant aunt bundled herself in, saying, "Just a squirrel bladder these days. This kid..." She shut the door, and there was a long pause after she turned on the light and I could actually hear her say "Oh my God..."

Told myself that I would do less damage on my own, so I went downstairs, finished my drink, found a bed, and crawled in. I woke up in the dark, several hours later. People were still upstairs, talking and drinking coffee. I was still a little shaky, but I wandered up, aimed for the kitchen, took the wrong turn and found myself standing in the living room. Conversation stopped as I entered. Chloe looked like she would like to drill a spade into my chest. It was awkward, but I rallied my somewhat depleted resources and tried, desperately, for some grand explanation. I looked up at the roof, felt the scotch burning in my esophagus, and heard my stomach buck.

At that point, I threw up what little bile I had in my stomach. Fighting to maintain that precious dignity, I kept my mouth closed and my hands stuffed in my pocket. A little trickle came out of my nose, and I snorted it back as I looked at the silent room.The urge to run was strong, and the bitter taste of dissolved scotch was rank, but I did what a man has to do sometimes, and I swallowed. Looked up at the pregnant aunt, and said, "Yup. Sort of like French-kissing the devil."

And I winked.

Nobody laughed. Nobody smiled. I excused myself for a smoke. Chloe showed up a minute later, did some very quiet, but intense yelling and drove me home, reeking of Scotch and Old Spice. When I got home, I ate some hotdogs, had another shot of high test, masturbated to the photo of a hot young Missionary on the back of a religious pamphlet and thought about the real meaning of Easter.

Oh lord, why hast thou abandoned me?

April 12, 2004
Let The Games Begin

That's right, it's time for Tourette's Tournament of Evil to begin! Zygote and I are happy to announce that we have a brand new contest page. It will hold all the info you need to enter our exciting contests, AND it will be updated whenever we get contest entries in - if we get any. If we don't, I am going to keep that hot motherfucking gas mask for myself, stuff it full of Skunk 57 bud and see if I can light myself on fire while dancing pantless in an elevator, listening to The Doors and discharging small bore rifles at police dogs trying to take me down.

In reality, I am quite interested to see people's artistic interpretation of my writing. It's been done a few times in the past (check Cranberry's work), but not since the days of Divinity. To give contestants the most options, we've picked a Nunto with lots of visual possibilities, three distinct characters, different themes and some fun lines to use.

For those who haven't been tuning in regularly, here are the exciting details:

The Prize: You Can Win One Very Exciting Vintage Gas Mask, as pictured in the photo! It fits over your head, and looks great at dinner parties!

The Way To Win:

1] All contestants must read a selected Nunto [Nunto 14] from Mingus Tourette's upcoming book of prose-styled poems, Nunt.

2] Contestants will create a piece of interpretive digital artwork based on Nunto 14. The artwork will fit in a standard wall-paper format, ie. 1024 * 768 pixels. Anything goes - typographic interpretations, photos, illustrations, 3d, finger painting, whatever, but it must be yr own work.

3] Contestants submit the artwork for judgement. Judgement will occur with extreme prejudice. Selected entries will be displayed as the contest progresses. When the contest closes, the jury will select an undetermined number of wallpapers for the public vote. The finalists will be displayed here and readers will be asked to vote on their favourite. Whoever has the most votes wins. Quite simple, really.

The Details:

Commencement Date: April 12, 2004
Final Entry Date: May 10, 2004 @ 11.59 PM MT
Judgement Week: May 17 - 21, 2004
Maximum Number of Entries: Three


Submit .jpgs of your work to: contests@nunt.com
Inspirational Wallpaper Work: www.twelvestone.com

Thank you, that is all.

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