Snurts!

Snurts are like normal people, except they have been transformed into highly congenial, cooperative, and manic beings by an extremely contagious virus. An entire town taken over by the virus has led to great crowds of acquiescent, well-mannered, energetic people working together on one project after another. Unfortunately, Snurts have a very short attention span, rarely completing their tasks. Ordinary occupations are only held for a few days or hours, as Snurts simply leave their jobs as soon as they lose interest. This has led to the town being full of half-completed grandiose construction projects and a lack of basic services. As of today, the town has been fully quarantined. 

It is very dangerous to allow oneself to be surrounded by Snurts. They all talk simultaneously, and you cannot listen or allow yourself to be engaged in conversation, as it is believed that this process is part of transmittal of the virus. Fortunately, Snurts are easily distracted. You can throw them off by shouting at them and rapidly flicking your fingers in their direction. This is an effective means of ceasing communication, as the Snurts lose their concentration and infection is momentarily prevented. Snurts can be effectively controlled by using a very loud, demanding, and dominating tone of voice, breaking up the impulsively-cooperative groups into slightly more self-minded, self-centered individuals. Research is being performed to analyze the exact means of infection and hopefully find a cure for Snurts. So far, isolating individuals from the herd and constant shouting at them appears to diminish symptoms.

Our protagonist discovers Snurts and Snurt Town when he is staying the night at his uncle’s guest house. In an attempt to investigate strange noises of people shouting and arguing on the other side of the guest house in the middle of the night, he stumbles into a room where FBI agents and prison officials are keeping ten Snurts overnight as a stop-over on the way to a secret holding facility. David's uncle works unofficially with the FBI Snurt Team because his son was transformed into a Snurt under unknown circumstances and he hopes that the FBI will find a cure.

David is swept into the conspiracy by his accidental discovery at the guest house, and goes to Snurt Town on a “ride-along” with Special Agent Max Fielder. When they arrive at the disorganized center of Snurt Town, a large Snurt herd swarms the FBI team and David is separated from the group. From then on, he must fend for himself in Snurt Town. 

Only Parents Should Celebrate Birthdays

There is nothing more pathetic than a grown person celebrating their own birthday.

For one thing, there's just too much celebration in the world. If you're going to celebrate something, it should be a truly great thing that you experienced. For example, August 14th, 1945. Now that was a day worthy of celebration. If you wore a smile that day, it wasn't because your parents still sent you money, or because you convinced yourself that you have such a tough life you deserve a spa treatment.

Not her birthday.

So if people shouldn't celebrate their own birthday, who should? Their parents, of course. You see, the birth of a child is amazing. It's not about the specialness of the child, but about the epic struggle of simply getting the thing out of the mother's abdomen alive and in good working order. As a parent, it's horribly stressful. In fact, as a husband, I can't think of anything worse than to have my wife and unborn child urgently wheeled off down the corridor after a failed attempt at natural childbirth and then waiting to join them in the operating room in a ten foot square closet specifically designed for fathers going out of their fucking skull.

That's why it's both the greatest and worst day your parents have ever experienced. Because anything could have went wrong. You could have died a thousand different ways. You could have been born with half a head, or with half of another creature dangling off your side. Your mother could have ended up all shredded to bits. Your dad could have run out of whiskey in the waiting room, heaven forbid. The fact that you were born with a enough brain cells to be reading this--dare I say it--is a miracle. Not because of anything you did, but because of what your parents sacrificed getting you to this point.

Deciding to have a kid is taking the biggest leap of faith in your life. God hands you dice in the highest-stakes game in the world and you say "what the hell," and get ready to roll them. Sure, if my kid isn't born with three legs and an inverted face, he still might grow up to be an asshole and hate his mother. I'm still gonna roll these dice, by golly. And then, after you've rolled the dice and experienced the tremendous relief of not getting snake-eyes, it's nothing but hard labor for decades, and then heartache for the rest of your life as you realize your kid is no better than you and manages to make the same goddamn mistakes you did. But at least they were born alive, and hopefully your gamble and hard work has paid off with a little joy.

So while your parents have every reason to celebrate your birth, you have none. There's no reason to take up the torch of your own insignificance and commemorate the fact that you were born alive and healthy. What in the hell did you have to do with it? It's your parents who should feel special, reliving the day they saw their child for the first time. The emotions they experienced are way more worthy of acknowledgement than any sense of self-appreciation you need others to affirm.

And celebrating birthdays for children is even less warranted. In fact, this is where the whole problem starts. Kids should be rewarded for learning, working, overcoming challenges, and doing good things, not simply for being themselves and getting older. They have no choice but to be who they are and to get older--it takes zero effort. Why would you make them feel special for something over which they had no control? Great way to perpetuate the society-murdering principle of innate specialness. No one is innately special. That's why we have this. Greatness is achieved, not discovered.

Her birthday.

So parents, get your party hats on next time it's your kid's birthday. If they're out of the house, congratulations! You've achieved your own V-J Day. Call them and tell them about the day they were born, then guilt them into sending you money. If your kids are still living in the house, get a sitter and go out and celebrate. After all, it was the greatest and worst day of your life. I'll drink to that.

The Fly

I killed a fly a couple weeks ago and it's still stuck to my window. He's big, the size of a bee. His wings are outspread like he's ready to take flight, but he's not going anywhere. He just looks paused.

Walnut trees outside the window shake in the afternoon breeze. The narrow green leaves are fluttering like insects' wings.

I wait for Edith to wake from her nap. I think of the things she'll want to do when she gets up. Helicopters and planes! Go outside? Run, papa. Run-wiff-me?