Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
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semperbufo.bsky.social
Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
@semperbufo.bsky.social
660 followers 280 following 7.3K posts
Son of Dangerous Cliff; Hal's little brother; Bazooka Girl's guy; Potato Pup's human; Monkey's dad. (In chronological order.)

Esoteric outsider touring reality. All pronouns welcome (including yours!).

#actor #author 💙📚 #artist #tech linktr.ee/semperbufo
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semperbufo.bsky.social
Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟 @semperbufo.bsky.social · 9d
Look, when you come down to it, my skill set is "Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction"—like, basically, "what thing do you need solved/reorganized/fixed/built, I can absolutely do that."

I have literally no idea how to market that in any useful way. Because marketing is not part of that skill set.*
semperbufo.bsky.social
Convincing you to read my novel with the first sentence. Share yours if you want.

(Here's the opening of "Jackrabbit Messiah.")
[First page of "Jackrabbit Messiah" (by me):] [The chapter header "CHAPTER ONE" is accompanied by a roughly spraypainted (and dripping) cartoon of a goofy, smiling bunny head with big buck teeth.] It wouldn’t be the craziest thing in the world to question the sanity of a man in a worn, soiled bunny suit standing on the edge of a nineteen-storey building and looking calmly down at the crowd gathered on Eighth Avenue. No one could blame you for giving a second glance as his soft voice blew away on the wind unheard, like sugar dissolving in swirling black coffee, or as he gesticulated in a pleasant and animated manner like a Mafia Don caught on a good day.
November 12, 2025 at 2:49 AM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "burger"

Chapter 4 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" is a diversion with a different rhythm and tone, as we get a sneak peek at unseen antagonists (and more hints about Tim O'Boyle's mysterious past).

#StormOfTheCenturyOfTheWeek⛈️

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[Part of Chapter 4 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):] A dark room. Loud music and conversation thumping mutely through the thick walls and heavy door, smoke drifting up from a smoldering cigar in a glass ashtray on a mahogany desk. “We got word on our Money Man.” The cigar got picked up and puffed, glowing embers in the tip farting gray smoke in little beats after each puff. Ice rattled in a short glass of Scotch. “What? When?” “A blue boy told me.” “Blue boy?” The cigar glowed angrily, reflecting in similarly smoldering eyes. “Don’t make me hit you.” “Oh! Right. A *blue* boy.” “Their computers got a hit from another blue man group.” “A...yeah, right. Got it.” The Scotch was empty. The ice got munched. [The rest of Chapter 4 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):] “*Marron*.” The cigar was put back in the ashtray. “They were lookin’ him up.” “Why?” “Maybe he’s there.” “Where’s there?” A big sigh, and the creak of a high-backed leather chair as it was pushed back from the desk and turned to the window. “Some podunk in Illinois.” Orange and red and blue neon spilled through the blinds of the window, painting the room in Burger King light, but more sinister. “What’s it called?” “Fuck.” Maybe the cigar would serve as a memory aid. It was snatched up and puffed again. “Shadows, Shade, something like—Silhouette. Yeah, that’s it. Silhouette.” “I’ll get some boys out there a-sap.” “Good. ’Cause that gypsy shit ain’t workin’. I don’t care *how* much time she said to give it.” The innocent cigar was stabbed down into the ashtray, and its living embers were snuffed out for good.
November 12, 2025 at 2:12 AM
semperbufo.bsky.social
Look, have I fantasized about robot buddies since I was a tiny little kid reading and writing all sorts of sci fi stuff? Of course.

Do I 100% LOVE laughing my ass off at the pathetic drunk plastic hobos the techbros keep trying and failing to demo for their big unveilings? Fuck yeah.
dieworkwear.bsky.social derek guy @dieworkwear.bsky.social · 7h
when you wear a size 9.5 shoe but the 8.5 was on sale
November 11, 2025 at 11:34 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
Yeah, it's not hard to notice the babies (the seem kinda "brown" and svelte compared to the black/white/gray zoftig adults) if you realize that's who they are. We see *so* many in the spring.

(And I always dig these complete doofus birds. At least partly BECAUSE they're doofuses.)
rosemarymosco.com Rosemary Mosco @rosemarymosco.com · 14h
Baby pigeon mystery.
My pigeon book is here: www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/rosem...
A six-panel comic. In panel 1, text says "People often wonder, why don't I see baby pigeons? Here's where they're hiding:" and there's an egg with an arrow pointing to a question mark, then an arrow pointing to an adult pigeon. Panel 2 says "Pigeons don't nest in trees. They nest in sheltered spaces on or in buildings. This keeps their babies safe from weather and predators." There's a pigeon nesting in a sheltered cavity in the side of a building. Panel 3 says "The hidden babies look like this: like moldy potatoes, but cute" and there are two baby pigeons looking, well, like moldy pink and gray potatoes with yellow fuzz. Panel 4 says "Older baby pigeons hide in plain sight. When they leave the nest, they're adult-sized, but they're still young and learning" and a fledgling pigeon is flying out of a building saying "aaaaaa". Panel 5 says "Here's how to identify these young pigeons" and shows a fledgling pigeon with arrows pointing to these features: eyes may be gray-brown, pale-edged feathers, smaller "nose" (cere), subdued hues, and looks worried. Panel 6 says "Scientifically speaking, though, all pigeons are sweet babies" and there are three very cute round pigeons, a gray, white, and red one, with arrows pointing to them to make things look scientific.
November 11, 2025 at 11:31 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
If the twist is that it's a Trapper Keeper, I am 1000% seeing this.
britthates.bsky.social britt hayes @britthates.bsky.social · 13h
the folks at Neon let me see Keeper. here's what i'm allowed to tell you about the new one from Osgood Perkins (full review coming this week):
I've Seen 2025's Most Secretive Horror Movie – Here's What We Can Reveal
#Keeper is going to keep you up at night.
movieweb.com
November 11, 2025 at 11:28 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
"My science is different"

…said every goddamn dipshit who wanted to prove that their utter bullshit was real, ever.

(This shit makes me furious in ANY context—especially one that may impact my kid's education, mofo.)
[Screencapped text from the QP'd linked article, with parts highlighted:] Goodman rejected the idea that you can make a distinction between skilled readers and unskilled readers; he doesn't like the value judgment that implies. He said dyslexia does not exist — despite lots of evidence that it does.52 And he said the three-cueing theory is based on years of observational research. In his view, three cueing is [highlighted] perfectly valid, drawn from a different kind of evidence than what scientists collect in their labs. [end highlighting] [highlighted] "My science is different," [end highlighting] Goodman said.
November 11, 2025 at 9:50 PM
Reposted by Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
sarahjeong.bsky.social
how did i go so long not knowing we were literally teaching people to read wrong. i knew something wasn't right but jesus christ www.apmreports.org/episode/2019...
How a flawed idea is teaching millions of kids to be poor readers
For decades, schools have taught children the strategies of struggling readers, using a theory about reading that cognitive scientists have repeatedly debunked. And many teachers and parents don't kno...
www.apmreports.org
November 11, 2025 at 6:18 PM
Reposted by Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
semperbufo.bsky.social
But neither of those is the *coolest* military career in the family. That'd be my Uncle Harry—mom's mom's brother.

He was an identical twin. His twin Jules had a very different military career; foot run over by a tank, never quite okay ever again. (Probably had some other issues too.)

But Harry…
November 11, 2025 at 3:46 PM
Reposted by Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
semperbufo.bsky.social
*Still* not the easiest military career in the family.

His brother (NOT a pilot, though my dad was!) was in the air force, assigned to Nellis where he had to look after a bunch of decommissioned fighter jets. So basically, every day he checked: "Jets still there." Then went to the clubs/casinos.
November 11, 2025 at 3:34 PM
Reposted by Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
semperbufo.bsky.social
With extreme apologies to Charles Schulz AND to one of my favorites of his characters (and one of my favorite candies).
An altered Peanuts (by Charles Schulz) strip which originally features Peppermint Patty dozing at her desk in class for two panels, falling asleep with her head on her desk in the third, then suddenly flailing and jerking up with a panicked "I'M AWAKE!!" in the fourth panel while books and papers flying. But it's been altered to give her pale "blond" hair, jowls and wrinkles, a black suit with a red ties, and a face obviously and blatantly painted orange. The title has been changed from "Peanuts" to "Donald" too. Because FUCK Donald Trump and anybody who fucking stands by him. Falling asleep in office is by far the LEAST problematic thing he's done.
November 9, 2025 at 7:32 PM
Reposted by Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟
semperbufo.bsky.social
Like, look: old people fall asleep. That's fine! Life is exhausting, they've lived a lot of it, and they're outta freakin' juice.

Should they be in charge of, y'know, literally anything? No. They shouldn't even be near heavy machinery, let alone the machinery of a major governing power.
November 9, 2025 at 7:43 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
Oh, just checked his papers and Dad was actually promoted to Captain when they first assigned him to a scorched earth battle zone, and kept the rank when he was discharged, so, my bad.

(I used to tease him about his six week military career, but it DID get us all some great car insurance.)
semperbufo.bsky.social Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟 @semperbufo.bsky.social · 1d
Happy Veteran's Day on behalf of my dad, who was a First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army for literally six weeks and one day before they confirmed his hemopheliac ass didn't need to go be an army doctor in a ridiculously hot war zone and he was honorably discharged.

And he still counted, somehow. 😉
November 11, 2025 at 3:22 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
"Oh my god they killed Jimmy!"

[fade to black]

[cue music]

[roll credits]

"JAMES BOND WILL RETURN"
November 11, 2025 at 3:17 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
First of all, stop fucking linking to "articles" on *LinkedIn*. (There are no real articles there; if you see it there, find the source.)

Second of all, here's the kind of quality LinkedIn reply you'll find on a LinkedIn post with scientific news from another site. 👇

(Friends don't let friends…)
[Screenshot of text that reads:] I thought this must be a hoax, so I ran it through Grok.
November 11, 2025 at 5:36 AM
semperbufo.bsky.social
Happy Veteran's Day on behalf of my dad, who was a First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army for literally six weeks and one day before they confirmed his hemopheliac ass didn't need to go be an army doctor in a ridiculously hot war zone and he was honorably discharged.

And he still counted, somehow. 😉
November 11, 2025 at 5:06 AM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "local"

On the run from the galactic authorities In Chapter 4 of "David Earth," David and his partner/mentor Gamingo Blux head to a very seedy city on a very seedy planet to catch up with a good friend.

#DavidEarth🌎🚀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[Excerpt from Chapter 4 of "David Earth" (by me):] Ban Kooroo was one of those planets allowed to perpetuate the illusion that it was “fringe”—not quite under Imperial control, even if it was always on the Imperial radar—though the well-known secret was that the Empire needed a thriving seedy underground just as much as it needed to appear staunchly opposed to such nefarious pockets of deception and underhanded dealings. Bureaucracy is how a government makes sure nobody else can get anything done, but when the government itself needs to get things done, it’s time to turn from red tape to black market, and cleaning house involves opening the closet door on too many skeletons. The occasional raid, sanction, or casual inquisition might shake things up, but as long as the right palms were greased and the right bank accounts continued to receive mysterious deposits, business on Ban Kooroo chugged along under the black haze of industrial districts and the cracked neon lights of recreational districts. What happened on Ban Kooroo may not have exactly *stayed* on Ban Kooroo, but the general understanding was that it was in everybody’s best interests to pretend that it had never actually happened in the first place. [Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "David Earth" (by me):] There were three major continents on the planet, all of them large and congregated on one hemisphere, leaving the other hemisphere to the great crashing oceans. One continent was left mostly wild and untamed—it was rumored that Galactic Overlord Megavorx himself took holidays there to hunt down horribly fanged and diabolically clawed beasts that probably would have preferred to just be left alone to nibble on the bushes or, occasionally, each other. The other two continents were sprawling with metropolises and transit networks from coast to coast. While the planet bore no native sentients, there were those who called it home. They worked in the factories and restaurants and stores that shielded the planet with a pleasantly civilized façade, beneath which the *real* commerce of Ban Kooroo burned like a sinister basement furnace keeping a gargantuan ivory tower warm and lit. Small Samos was a huge city on the western coast of Rall, the biggest of Ban Kooroo’s three continents. It was in the Glome region, just far enough north to avoid the scorching heat of the yellow sun in summer, but not far enough to ever feel the frigid bite of winter. Small Samos spread for clicks in every direction, including spires climbing to the sky and underground labyrinths of markets, subways and sewers. Historians told stories of Big Samos, which was at least ten times the size of Small Samos before the sheer mass of its infrastructure became too much for the tortured crust of Ban Kooroo to bear; the city literally collapsed into the surface of the planet in a spectacular volcanic disaster, and not even tourists had any interest in delving into the few ashen, decrepit ruins that remained. [Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "David Earth" (by me):] Huge areas of Ban Kooroo were known to be graveyards—the sites of thousands of crashed ships, long since burnt out and gutted by scavengers. Planet-wide air traffic control was more expensive than the occasional hazardous materials team, and any mid-air collisions guaranteed some marketable debris for the survivors below. An experienced pilot and interstellar traveller, Gamingo Blux knew to come in on the less trafficky ocean side of the planet first, and then cruise at low altitudes and lower speeds to his destination. The lights of Small Samos were visible clicks away from the coast, shining across the water like the radiant fingers of beckoning sirens. A quick radio conversation and an electronic exchange of Galactic Credits was all it took to find a place to land near the center of the city. David the Snarkling and Gamingo Blux stepped down the entry ramp of the *Snowball’s Chance* and breathed in natural atmosphere—with more than a tinge of smoky industrial pollution—for the first time in more than half a cycle. “How’s security here?” Blux asked the spaceport attendant. The insectoid tugged at a colorful scarf printed with a popular holograph character. “Not bad.” Blux fanned out a few metallic credit chits and smiled. “How’s security here?” he repeated. “Top notch, sir.” The attendant stowed the chits away in a satchel slung over its thorax, clicking its mandibles. Blux amiably patted the insect on its chitinous back and headed for the concourse. David jogged to keep up with him. The *Snowball’s Chance* had its own security systems, and would alert them if anyone was tampering with it, but it paid to have the locals on your side instead of eagerly helping would-be shipjackers to circumvent locks and alarms for a kickback, or worse, obediently looking the other way if a wrecking crew met their asking price.
November 10, 2025 at 11:33 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "local"

In Chapter 2 of "The Demon's Pawn," life-long dedicated sociopathic serial killer Andy Trout fondly recalls how he acquired Macheath, the star of his knife collection.

#TheDemonsPawn🔪🩸

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[Excerpt from Chapter 2 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):] It was a stroke of luck, finding Macheath in a catalogue addressed to the previous tenants of their trailer space in South Carolina, where the boys lived for a time while Big tried some new angles with some new suckers. (Miniature golf was the claim; just another real estate con was the game.) Even the picture alone sang to Andy, whispered to him like Wendy Coleman, the smart girl behind him in fourth grade who hissed math test answers at him under dire threat of being romantically linked with his brother Billy; sharp and vindictive, but sweet and soothing and, best of all, productive. He cut the picture out of the catalogue, along with the order form, and kept it in his Vel-Croed wallet for months, working four jobs to save up enough money to purchase his own personal Excalibur. He even swore not to take another thoughtless asshole to the bog for a lesson until he finally had Macheath in his hands. [Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):] He broke that vow, of course. Twice. The first one was the lifeguard on the beach, who just had to start in on the Trout boys to impress some of the local girls with stringbean bodies, stringy hair, and string bikinis. Andy tied a few knots in him while teaching himself rigging from a book on sailing. As it turns out, tying a double sheet bend with large and small intestines is not as easy as it might sound. The other one was the fat kid who kept shoplifting at the movie theatre concession stand. Andy caught him every time, and every time, the kid’s dad weaseled him out of it and the theatre manager came down on Andy instead. Looking back later, Andy truly wished he’d waited on that one—Macheath would have been so much more elegant and thorough than the old hand axe he’d borrowed for the job. Luckily, the bog was always more than helpful when it came to disposal services.
November 10, 2025 at 11:33 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "local"

P.I. Lu Volasko gets to know her new client-slash-employee, Pen Duffy, as the head off to follow some leads in Chapter 6 of "My Electromagnetic Romance."

#MyElectromagneticRomance🧲💕

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[Excerpt from Chapter 6 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):] “Uh...your sister,” Lu awkwardly introduced the subject. “Were you close?” Duffy nodded, her eyes drifting away across the tracks. “She was four years ahead of me. So I was supposed to...you know, just do all the same things she did. Like I was Ramona Duffy, Part Two—The Sequel.” The girl smirked, her freckles darkening. “Dance classes and theatre and all that stuff. I mean, it was okay while I was there, I guess. You think being a private detective in New York’s badass, you should try taking on the girls at Ballister’s in Peoria.” Duffy grinned viciously. “Those ballerina bitches’ll *pas de chat* on your freaking *corpse* if it means one less anorexic in line for Odette.” “You were a ballerina?” Lu made no effort to rein in her incredulous expression. “Eleven years at Ballister’s,” Duffy scoffed. She raised her arms and shifted her feet. “Second, first, third,” she called off, repositioning her feet on each count. She spun once, her arms curved in a graceful equator in front of her chest, then instantly dropped the act and went back to her more comfortable cynical slouch. “Easier without the boots, but yeah. If you grow up with a vagina in the Midwest, it’s kinda just what you *do*.” She laughed—it was an unexpectedly lilting trill, as if the nightingale she’d trapped in the thorny cage in her throat peeked through the bars for just a second. “It was okay, I guess. Ramona loved it. She wanted to be Clara so bad. In the *Nutcracker*,” Duffy explained to Lu Volasko’s baffled look. “It’s a thing, every year, like *all* the local dance companies do *Nutcracker*. Clara’s the lead. Ramona never got it—she wasn’t bitchy enough.” Duffy’s face twisted deviously. “You know how many ballerinas it takes to change a light bulb?” Lu shook her head, waiting for the punchline with a sly smile. “All of ’em,” said Duffy. “One to change it, and the rest to say they could’ve done it better.”
November 10, 2025 at 11:32 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "local"

Chapter 6 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" opens in the aftermath of a bizarre blackout that hit half the eastern seaboard. Charlie Gelman's just happy it's unrelated to his case.

#ConfessionsFromTheSceneOfTheCrime🎳💀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[Excerpt from Chapter 6 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):] The Nineteenth Precinct was buzzing and squawking like a swarm of bees laying siege to a henhouse. Between cops trying to get back on track and pick up the slack, IT guys making sure everything was back up and running, and a couple of boisterous morning-afters in the drunk tank with dark bags under their frightened eyes, it was a wonder the place didn’t collapse into a singularity under the assumed gravity of the situation. On the flat screen mounted to one wall, a redheaded news correspondent who looked more like an inflatable doll come to life than an actual woman delivered her report in her best Serious Business face, casually sidestepping along a heavy stone wall as the early morning sunlight groggily fingered the low building beyond a heavy iron gate. “...however, this morning’s blackout has been tentatively traced right back here, to Green Briar, where officials say an unprecedented power surge overloaded the grid. The damage so far seems to have been minimal, largely due to the early morning hour. Most people were fast asleep in their homes...and woke up to blinking clocks after power had already been restored. We’ll keep you updated as this story develops, but as the events of this morning suggest, perhaps the scientists who predicted doomsday on Long Island weren’t wrong at all—just a couple of years...ahead of their time.” Her face went from Serious Business to Night Club Selfie in the blink of an eye. “From the Green Briar Institute on Long Island, for Channel Twelve...I’m Sherri Sellick.” “I went to high school with her,” said a young officer, distracted by the screen and staring with a bemused expression. “That’s not her real name, you know.” Charlie Gelman shrugged. “Long as that report’s real,” he said, “she can call herself Fruity MacWhiskers, for all I care.” [Continued excerpt from Chapter 6 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):] The cop laughed. Charlie watched as the news cut back to the anchor, who assured everyone that the minor disaster was strictly temporary and seemed to be largely resolved. If any small electronic devices still failed to operate, the carefully groomed anchor advised, replacing the batteries should solve the problem. Local shops and telecommunications chains alike were generously pitching in with discounts on cell phone batteries that dropped prices to only double or triple their wholesale value. All Charlie cared about was that it had nothing to do with him. A bunch of innocent, tactless eggheads at the Green Briar Institute let some mad science experiment get out of hand and blacked out most of the coast. There were no sinister forces tracking him down, no evil wizards tying up the loose ends of Laszlo Takach’s death—it was just an unsettling coincidence. After discovering that even their cell phones were dead (Charlie’s happily chirped: “No power, Chuck!”), he and Mae Tran had managed to get in touch with the department on Charlie’s dusty old walkie, unused and sitting on the floor under the passenger’s seat for the amount of time it took to build up a decent challenge for archeologists. Flickers of light—and welcome relief—were already reappearing less than an hour after the blackout hit. Now a population that relied on electricity and networked technology for everything from balancing their checkbooks and ordering Chinese delivery to pleasuring themselves and drying their hair was frantically but swiftly recovering from the temporary setback and, as usual, moving the heck on with their lives.
November 10, 2025 at 11:32 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "local"

In Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week," Sharon sits down to dinner with her kids and her best friend, and inadvertently spills the beans about the least weird part of her unusual day.

#StormOfTheCenturyOfTheWeek⛈️

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):] “You look like you’ve cheered up,” said Sophia Matuzewich. She was sitting next to Sharon—Don’s chair, at the other end of the table, was empty. “Better than when you called, anyway.” Sharon smiled and shrugged. “Just nice that the weather cleared up, is all.” She immediately regretted the last two words, which, by their inclusion, completely betrayed their inaccuracy. Sophia looked at her suspiciously. “Oh, Goddess,” she said. “You met a man.” “A who?” asked Nikki, looking up from her plate quickly. She’d done little more than lick broth off her spoon. She was in a phase where not much went down her throat other than Diet Coke. Joey was toying with the innards of the stew and poking through them distastefully. “No,” said Sharon, rolling her eyes. “Stop it,” she told all three of them for different reasons. “Only you could meet a man in the middle of the Storm of the Century,” said Sophia. “A,” Sharon began, “this wasn’t the Storm of the Century...” [Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):] “That’s what Errol Gaynes said on the six o’clock news,” said Nikki. Errol Gaynes was the local weatherman, blond and dreamy and therefore the only television news personality Nikki could name. “B,” said Sharon, ignoring her daughter, “he’s not a man.” “Your choice of pronoun would suggest otherwise,” Sophia said, pursing her lips. Her reaction to men looked strikingly similar to Joey’s reaction to her stew. “He’s just a guy.” “A guy’s a man, Mom,” said Nikki. Out of the corner of her mouth, Sharon said drolly to her daughter, “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
November 10, 2025 at 11:32 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "local"

Chapter 1 of "Grand Theft Galaxy"—no, really, this is the WHOLE chapter!—finds one of our protagonists in a very dicey situation: in a failing starship heading for an unplanned and very unwelcome planetfall.

#GrandTheftGalaxy🕳️🌌

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP
[The first part of Chapter 1 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):] Lights flashed violet, ultraviolet, hyperviolet, and mauve as a warning sounded off like a sphincter tightening around explosive flatulence. Even if the sound had gone unrecognized as a succinct and cyclical list of system malfunctions calmly announced by a pleasant female voice—for values of *pleasant* and *female* that specifically addressed the aesthetics and sexual dimorphism of the species for whom the buzzing and spluttering served as a native language—the sparking cables and noxious gases swirling about the cockpit would serve as an obvious indication that the ship was in bad shape. *Fbbbrrrbphtttttffffth.* More bad news. The pilot scrambled to get control of both the ship and some of the wilder panic swelling inside one of several stomachs. Thick but graceful appendages spun dials and trackballs in an incredible show of tentacular dexterity. The ship skimmed atmosphere, shorting out non-priority systems like the low frequency stealth baffles. Sixty miles or so below, a new blip appeared on a handful of screens across two continents. The blip registered as anomalous, but disappeared almost as quickly from most of the screens, and the less savvy sentients below, in their cozy naïveté, dismissed it as typical orbital debris. Back up at the edge of space, the ship executed a neat twist and flip, deftly diving through the scattered surface of the atmosphere like a smooth-skinned cetacean executing a spectacularly theme park worthy stunt. [The rest of Chapter 1 (really, the whole chapter!) of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):] The coolant shields held, efficiently heating up by several thousand degrees to save the ship from the obligation of having to do so itself. The pilot exhaled a gurgling murmur of relief and tentacled two sliding switches from one end of a console to the other. A dim purple glow enveloped the cockpit controls, the viewscreens, the hatch and the secure mesh hammock that supported the pilot’s weight. The near-invisible dual-phase safety cushions pulsed, their purple light reassuring the pilot that any sharp edges and corners were carefully wrapped up in force beams that would react quite gently to limbs or other body parts that were hurled across the cockpit. Another soothing sputter of flatus escaped the console speakers, prompting several of the pilot’s eyestalks to twist abruptly, focusing on one glowing readout. The expletive that reverberated through the cockpit was remarkably clear in any language. The purple glow of the force cushions flickered and went dark. In one of the lateral viewscreens, a stabilizer fin, buffeted by waves of thick atmospheric gases, sheared off and hurtled away to a fiery demise. The ship began to twirl sickeningly. Several of the pilot’s tentacles squirmed idly across trackballs and dials, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best. The ship was going down. There was no stopping that now. Only two thoughts kept a glimmer of hope shining under the pilot’s cracked and leaking carapace. One was that the pursuing ship would have to veer away or slow down to avoid the same fate, perhaps losing the chance to track its target to the crash site. The other was that, with any luck, an unfriendly local might be stupid enough to investigate the crash site.
November 10, 2025 at 11:32 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
My grandfather, in his 90s, napped anywhere, anytime—insisted he never slept.

Once he was asleep in the living room while we all played Balderdash. The word was "cleek"—we're all working up our definitions, and suddenly we hear: "It's a golf club!"

HE could win in his sleep. Dipshit-in-chief? Nah.
November 9, 2025 at 7:43 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
With extreme apologies to Charles Schulz AND to one of my favorites of his characters (and one of my favorite candies).
An altered Peanuts (by Charles Schulz) strip which originally features Peppermint Patty dozing at her desk in class for two panels, falling asleep with her head on her desk in the third, then suddenly flailing and jerking up with a panicked "I'M AWAKE!!" in the fourth panel while books and papers flying. But it's been altered to give her pale "blond" hair, jowls and wrinkles, a black suit with a red ties, and a face obviously and blatantly painted orange. The title has been changed from "Peanuts" to "Donald" too. Because FUCK Donald Trump and anybody who fucking stands by him. Falling asleep in office is by far the LEAST problematic thing he's done.
November 9, 2025 at 7:32 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
See, in my experience, this rings very, very true.

Each generation you go back in my family, the more "racist" they are…but not in the sense you're thinking. They didn't have a hate on for anybody, they just didn't want to have much of anything to do with them.
ugarles.bsky.social Sen. Lemon Gogurt @ugarles.bsky.social · 5d
I don't think it's even right to say the voting public doesn't care. I think the truth is a lot of voters may generally find trans identity moderately confusing but also *none of their business*.

on the other hand, they find an obsession with harming trans people - say it with me - deeply weird.
newrepublic.com The New Republic @newrepublic.com · 5d
Spanberger’s GOP foe spent 57% of her ad budget on anti-trans attacks. Spanberger focused on the economy. You see what won. trib.al/fkMmsR4

The simple truth told time and time again in the polls: The public doesn’t care about trans issues. Voters care deeply about the economy, inflation, & prices.
November 8, 2025 at 7:10 PM
semperbufo.bsky.social
Language acquisition is amazing.

Just trying to wrap my ahead around how my son wrapped his head around the word "itchy" directly correlating to the sensation of itchiness. Like, how the HELL did we manage to convey that? How the HELL did it not end up a "do you see the same green I do" thing?
November 8, 2025 at 11:44 AM