Freakshow Magazine Online!

    It was snowing the night when my daughter decided to finally leave the comfortable confines of the womb, almost a week late, establishing a pattern she would hold to this day. The roads were passable, but they were getting slick. Still, in spite of the typical January snowfall, I thought surely, this child had to come soon. I was off the road by this time; the band I was working with was rehearsing for an album, the sessions for which were to start a few weeks later and, well, I was not going to miss the birth of my first child. As I drove home through the fluffy, huge flakes falling heavily onto the ground and piling up quickly, I flashed on some of the scenes of my marriage during this pregnancy: I remembered the day we found out my wife was pregnant. We had just decided to try to have a child only a couple of weeks before. I remembered standing up, punching my fists in the air, and shouting “Ninja Sperm!” as I hugged and kissed my laughing bride, because I am nothing if no

  My father was a great man, and he was an even better family man; a loving, giving soul who wanted the best for his wife and kids, and worked hard to provide us that life. However, sometimes, just occasionally, the thought would cross my mind that maybe...just maybe...my father was trying to kill me. Allow me to offer this example of why this thought would occur to me: One warm, bright, sunny Saturday in August of 1967, just after I turned seven years old, my Dad gathered a bunch of wood, some scraps, four wheels and two axles from a toy wagon, and one of my sister’s old jump ropes, and decided to build a go-cart for me. Dad had a lot of talent using his hands. He was a gifted painter, a skilled draftsman, good with car repair, and an excellent wood worker. The job in front of him took roughly four hours to complete, and it was the BEST looking, COOLEST vehicle EVER CREATED !..at least to my seven year-old eyes. The wheels and axles were attached to a couple of thick, oak bo

  I left my house when the sky was blue, the sun was out; no rain, no buttons to push. I drove down my long drive-way and headed into town, pulling into a gas station to get the numbers for last week’s winning Lottery and a can of Monster. I turned right around and drove back to the house and, once there, I looked to see that no one was watching as I slipped into my secret laboratory, located in my average looking garden shed. Those who knew what was going on in my ‘shed’ thought I was crazy, senseless; they said I was mad…and maybe, just maybe, I was. I do my experiments here. No one but my wife knows what kinds of experiments goes on in my shed, and she remains tolerant of my efforts as long as, and I quote: “None of your EXPERIMENTS gets tracked into MY house!” Thankful that the love of my life has given me yet one more life rule to live by, I retire to the shed. It is in the shed where I cracked the physics of Interdimensional Time Travel™. Of course, science, though precise, is no

  In the 1980’s, in Colleges and Universities across this great nation, you would’ve found two types of people: Idea People, and People Who Would (usually) Drunkenly Cry: “THAT’S A GREAT IDEA! LET’S DO IT!” I am an Idea Guy. It’s a role that I am most comfortable with: sitting contentedly in the shadows, just outside of the outrageous and the scandalous goings on, with a drink in my hand, sending suggestions for even more bad behavior into the huge pile of human stupidity before me; like a coach on the sidelines of a football game. If the coaches were allowed to drink during the game, and if “football” were more like having some drunken idiot throw an empty keg through a closed third floor dorm room window. Not to say that I haven’t actually participated directly in my fair share of depraved comportment, as any loyal reader of this blog would know. In fact, the story of how I got banned from a major American University for life should, as it is often said, start with the words: “One da