Tag: humor

Morning meditation?  Check.  Fresh-brewed coffee?  Check.  Girly pop playing in the background?  Check.  I open my laptop, and— SHEeeeooZWEEoooKaDOOP! —get transported away into a dreamworld of magic.  Physically, I may appear to be doing nothing more than staring at the screen and plinking at my keyboard, but inside my brain, I’m parsing the verbal cadence…

I squeeze my thighs, urging my robo-chimera forward through a hyperspace fistula.  At the same time, my conceptual revolvers buck in my hands, blasting cortex-loaded ordnance at the dozen or so tardigrade rustlers who’re trying to steal my herd. How ya doing. Kent Wayne, Space Cowboy.  Pleased to make your acquaintance. Year’s 15982, but it…

Every so often, the people need a hero–a savior that ventures forth into the darkness, ready to champion the oppressed and empower the under-trodden.  A savior who breathes fresh life into the collective. Kent Wayne is not that hero.  Kent Wayne is not that savior.   WITHIN KENT WAYNE’S SAN FRANCISCO STUDIO: Holy jizzle bits! …

There are those who write… And those who use their keyboard as an interdimensional portal into the soup of potentiality that people like to call “the human mind.” Guess which one I am. 😉 WITHIN THE DEPTHS OF KENT WAYNE’S TWISTED BRAIN: “Hyah! Take THAT, Martha Stewart!”  I knife-hand-block her robotic dildo-arm and whirl into…

I shift my punchline three cultures over, adjust the timing, and incept it into a teenage mind. [Your move,] I telepathically beam to my opponent: Grammar Nazi Prime. He studies the Interdimensional Array–the vast arrangement of minds and imaginations between him and I.  He moves an essay into a college professor: a dry-ass paper detailing…

How ya doing.  True Hamster here. You may know me as the decision-making component of Kent Wayne’s brain, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  There’s a higher aspect of me that isn’t just in charge of his causal behavior, but the very manner in which he navigates reality.  It requires intense meditation to…

“There’s nothing in the Soccer Mom regs that tells us how to handle this—not even a PRECEDENT, goddammit!” I pat the air with both hands, trying to calm Soccer Mom Prime.  “Look we still have electrolyte mix; we can still–” “It’s not ENOUGH, dammit!”  She slashes her arm from left to right, making it clear…

There’s no excuse for bad pizza.  None. UnLESS… I’M-BEING-CHASED-BY-SOULLESS-FUCKS-FROM-ADULTING-INCORPORATED!!! I turn away from the street-cart pizza vendor, cramming the last of his overly sauced slice of travesty into my noms, gobbling it down as Adulting Incorporated’s jetpacked hench-cocks come swooping in on me.  They fire their net-guns—POOM POOM POOM—attempting to snare me in their evil…

Just ate some shrooms.  Don’t have to do this, but I like the pre-astral ritual. “Hit me.”  I clench my teeth around my mouthpiece.  My dick twitches as I think of how cool Johnny Mnemonic looked when he was about to enter cyberspace, then— SHOOOOOOOMMM!!!  I enter a fractalized world of imaginal bliss.  My mouth…

“KENT!  GET YER ASS OVER HERE!” “Yes, Orc Leader!” I call, sliding into my dragon-scale breastplate and hurrying out of my yurt.  On the way out, I snatch up my jagged, square-bladed broadsword and jam it into my back-sheath. GungerBung, our Orc Chieftain, is standing in the middle of the encampment, arms crossed over his…