(Compare this with my previous news post if you want to compare the earlier version with this one's additions)

It's there.

The other Island with the beacon- I just know it's there.

The Council says I'm insane for thinking that there's another Island only about a mile away from ours. My friends and family tell me that it's not there while I'm looking right at it. It exists. I'm not crazy; they're all just in denial.

It just came out of the water one day. I was combing the beaches one morning for decorative shells that my wife may have liked for jewelry, and the Island came straight up out of the water. The beacon of Light shot through the surface before any land or vegetation was visible, reaching beyond the clouds. As the Island ascended, it looked like the Light was pulling the land from the bottom of the ocean. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I ran for my wife and brought her to see the new Island, but she said that there was no Island; there was only the sea that isolated our small island village from the rest of the world. I was stunned. That beacon should have been visible from miles away. I tried to convince her, but she only became frightened. I gave up trying to convince her and I ran into the village, gathering other people who would believe me and see what was plainly visible.
But no one else could see it.
They all looked, and none of them acknowledged the glaring Light and the way it went up into the heavens. "Surely, you do not see any island out in the water; you are only joking about it", they said. I would not lie and say I was only joking. I insisted that I was as serious as death. I know what I saw, and I swear upon every precious thing that ever has been or will be that the Island exists.

The beacon's Light was even more brilliant that night as I tried to sleep. "You're just tired", they said. "Get some rest", they said. But the Light from the beacon went straight through my closed eyelids. I did not sleep for 3 days before I collapsed of exhaustion. When I awoke, the first thing I saw was my wife's face, and behind her was the beacon. The Light appeared to be coming straight out of her skull, and I was soon fixated on the beacon, insisting that it was there. She touched my face with her hand, with a tear rolling down her bronze cheek. I grabbed her wrist, set it aside, and sat up to watch the Light while she quietly wept.

My wife took our child and left to live with her parents on the other side of the village. She thought that I would harm our child, our son- MY son, the son I raised with her. She somehow thought that she had the privilege to deny me my right to see my own child. She was terrified of me, and so was most of the village. I became an outcast, a mad rambler who talked only of the Island and the Light it emitted. People soon took the long way around the village just to avoid walking past my home.
My home soon fell into disrepair, as the harsh island weather demands that one constantly tend to their dwelling. I demolished the side of my house that faced the Island's Light. Even over the trees of the lush tropical vegetation that surrounded our village, the Light shone into the sky infinitely. I had no time to spend on something as trivial as home upkeep. I was far too busy trying to show other people what only I could see, rushing up to them in the road and pointing them in the direction of the Light. All of them denied seeing anything. They all struggled out of my grasp and stumbled away from me, confused and afraid. Soon, I was imprisoned by order of the Council.

They considered me a danger to the welfare of the rest of the island. The Council is nothing more than a group of elderly men from the village who think that their sheer age gives them the right to make law. As if knowledge and wisdom can be measured by wrinkles and boils and lost teeth. Any intelligent person could have seen that the only reason that the Council even existed was to give those old creatures a reason to lift their decrepit bodies from their beds and endure the relentless aches and pains that constantly wracked their crumbling bodies. The Council members could barely see twenty yards in front of their faces; how could they possibly tell me that the Island did not exist?
For my trial and hearing, I was brought to the village square and set in front of the Council as they stood behind a podium, and the rest of the village flanked the square on all sides, leaving me in the middle, all alone. Not even my wife came to join me as I stood there. I tried to show the Council proof of the Island and the Light, but of course, none could see it. Fools, all of them. Hopeless, ignorant fools. I was cast out of the village with only my clothes and a few belongings. No one wept. No one objected. No one opposed the ruling. They all just looked down and shook their heads, in pity and disappointment- disappointment in me for seeing what no one else could. I did not object. I decided that if no one else would admit that the Island was real, then I would be blessed to be the sole admirer of the Island. No one else would know my joy and fulfillment that came from the Island and the Light. I decided that I was not being punished, but rather, I was being rewarded for staying true to the Island. And my reward was being freed from the dark, hollow faces of the doubtful and simpleminded villagers. None of them were worthy of knowing the pristine wonder of the Island. I was the only one.

I made my new home on the edge of the island closest to the new Island, so that I could enjoy it even more. I made a small hut from logs, vines and broad leaves that faced the Light. For food, I caught crabs that come onto the shore. I ate them raw, so as not to waste valuable time that could be used to admire the Light.
With every passing day and night, the beacon became even more intoxicating. I longed to be one with the Light. I began carving images of the Island into my bare flesh and rubbing harsh sand into the wounds, causing raised, pronounced scars of the Island. The pain of the tearing flesh, when intermingled with the ecstasy of being closer to oneness with the Island, would cause my spine to shiver and my eyes to roll back as saliva slowly fell from my lazy grin into my unkempt beard.
My hut soon became more of a shrine than a dwelling. Etchings of the Island decorated the wooden supports, and the leaf canopy above had an oblong hole in it so that I could lean back in the hut and see the beacon while lying down. I collected anything that reminded me of the beacon- brightly colored shells, translucent rocks, the scales of Light-colored fish.

I wanted nothing more than to somehow reach the Island. I would have done literally anything to be there. I would sever any body part, murder any innocent, blaspheme any god, and defile any grave if it would get me closer to the Island. But I couldn't get there. I could barely swim. I attempted to make several rafts, but none of them lasted in the waters for more than a few moments before either sinking or breaking apart. As I fell from my rafts into the salty water, my eyes burned- not for the harshness of the water, but out of frustration that I could not physically reach the Island. I grew jealous of the fish in the sea, jealous that they could easily swim to the Island that I could not reach. I began catching fish in a net I made of vines and mutilating them in an envious rage. It simply was not fair. They squandered their ability to reach the Island while I languished on this repugnant, pitiful excuse for an islet. They mocked me by coming so close to the wretched shores I wasted my life on. If they didn't want to use their fins to get them to the Island (which would be the only logical use for fins), they were blemishes on the sea. Killing them was the only fair thing to do, fair to the Island that the fish foolishly chose not to live around. The fish were no better than the people in the village. They couldn't see the beauty of the Light, and that made them abominations.
I decided that if I could not reach the true Island, I would have to find some other way to satisfy my need to be accepted by the Island as a disciple, the lone acolyte of the heavenly Light. I soon began my newest project: to build a replica of the Island in my hut. I dug a deep "O" shape in the center of the sand, and raised the center pillar of sand higher than the foundation. I lined the hole with large leaves and finely packed soil, and filled it with water. The packed soil and vegetation minimized water loss. I gathered plants, small rocks, and anything else I could use to imitate the Island. After days of labor, I placed a large crystal in the center of my tiny Island, and to my surprise and immense joy, a tiny beacon of Light rose out of my replica. I had made a tiny Island, an Island all my own. I fell into ecstasy. My knees buckled and I fell to the sand, my entire body quaking and my dry tongue hanging out of my mouth until I lost consciousness.

From this point on, my life was devoted to the upkeep of my tiny Island. I constantly checked the water levels, repaired erosion, replaced dying vegetation and more. I constructed a large wall around my hut, blocking everything but my view of the true Island, to help keep anything from intruding on my shrine. Each day, I would take a thorn from the rough island vegetation and prick myself, dripping my blood into the water of my Island. I was closer to being one with the Island than ever before. As I grew more devoted to the tiny Island, I gradually gave it more of my blood. Eventually, I was slashing myself with shells nightly and letting blood into the water, making it a crimson hue. I can't even begin to communicate the feelings of ecstasy I felt while giving my blood to the Island. It was as if I had left my own body and all I could feel was bliss as my blood pooled into the little Island I had made.
Soon, birds began to visit me. They were from the Island, I'm positive. These birds were nothing like the ones on the island I lived on. The birds were translucent and emitted the same sort of Light as the Island's beacon. They flocked to me, and began to peck at my flesh. I offered myself to them graciously. They took small chunks of my flesh, and flew off towards the Light. I was even closer with the Island now. Nothing could stop me from coming even closer to joining with the Island.

One night, to my surprise, I heard my wife's voice. She was looking for me. I revealed myself, scarred, bloody and filthy to the point that my skin seemed to belong to a much darker species of human. When she saw me, she gasped and turned white. After a moment, she came to me, begging me to come to my senses and leave the Island and the beacon behind. I ignored her, and dragged her to my shrine. I pointed a shaking finger at my creation, and said "Look what I have made! An exact replica of the Island, beacon and all!" She stared blankly at my treasure, then turned to me and said that she saw no beacon or Island, but only a mound of dirt and leaves. "You are losing your mind!" she screamed. "You need to forget about that stupid Light that isn't real and come back to the way things were!" I grew furious.
"Do you not understand the beauty and perfection I have created?" I shouted.
"This is not beauty," she screamed, "this is driving you mad! And I must put an end to this!" With that, she stomped my beautiful replica of the most beautiful thing. I was consumed with rage.
I grabbed her by the throat, and pulled her closer to the wreckage of the tiny Island, holding her under the bloody water. She sputtered, choked and fought, but to no avail. I pulled her back by the hair, and took her to the shore. "Do you still not see the Island and the beacon, woman? Can you not tell that it is the most beautiful thing in all of creation?" She choked under my grasp on her throat. "I-I see it quite well now, love", she croaked. "You are right about everything, now please let me go".

She was lying to me. She saw nothing. She was only afraid of me. "You lie, woman, and you see nothing", I whispered into her ear. "And since you cannot see the most beautiful thing of all, you do not deserve to see anything". With that, I pressed my thumbs into her eye sockets, crushing her eyes into her skull. Her screams pierced the night, and I squeezed her trachea with both hands until I crushed it and she went limp. I threw her into the ocean, careful not to send her towards the Island. She did not deserve to witness such beauty, even in death.

As I returned to my hut to tend to my ruined shrine, I noticed that the night sky was becoming brighter. I turned around, and to my eternal joy, I saw the beacon of the Island expanding and becoming even brighter. It was changing from a vertical beacon into a blooming, all encompassing hemisphere of pure Light. I rushed out into the shallow water so that the Light would reach me more quickly. I spread my arms and extended my bloody hands as far as I could, ready to embrace the Light. Finally, it took me. I was bathed in the glory of the bright Island. The Light on my skin at once burned and soothed, sending my body's senses into utter confusion. I smiled through it all, knowing that I was finally one with the Light.

I could not stop smiling.

It's there.

The other Island with the beacon- I just know it's there.

The Council says I'm insane for thinking that there's another Island only about a mile away from ours. My friends and family tell me that it's not there while I'm looking right at it. It exists. I'm not crazy; they're all just in denial.

It just came out of the water one day. I was combing the beaches one morning for decorative shells that my wife may have liked for jewelry, and the damn Island came straight up out of the water. The beacon of light shot through the surface before any land or vegetation was visible, reaching beyond the clouds. As the Island ascended, it looked like the Light was pulling the land from the bottom of the ocean. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I ran for my wife and brought her to see the new Island, but she said that there was no Island; there was only the sea that isolated our small island village from the rest of the world. I was stunned. That beacon should have been visible from miles away. I tried to convince her, but she only became frightened. I gave up trying to convince her and I ran into the village, gathering other people who would believe me and see what was plainly visible.
But no one else could see it. They all looked and none of them acknowledged the glaring Light and the way it went up into the heavens. I would not lie and say I was only joking. I know what I saw, and I swear upon every precious thing that ever has been or will be that the Island exists.

The beacon's Light was even more brilliant that night as I tried to sleep. "You're just tired", they said. "Get some rest", they said. But the Light from the beacon went straight through my closed eyelids. I did not sleep for 3 days before I collapsed of exhaustion. When I awoke, the first thing I saw was my wife's face, and behind her was the beacon. The Light appeared to be coming straight out of her skull, and I was soon fixated on the beacon, insisting that it was there. She touched my face with her hand, with a tear rolling down her bronze cheek. I grabbed her wrist, set it aside, and sat up to watch the Light while she quietly wept.

My wife took our child and left to live with her parents on the other side of the village. She was terrified of me, and so was most of the village. I became an outcast, a mad rambler who talked only of the Island and the Light it emitted. Soon, I was imprisoned by order of the Council, who considered me a danger to the welfare of the rest of the island. At the trial, I tried to show them the Island and the Light, but of course, none could see it. Fools, all of them. Hopeless, ignorant fools. I was cast out of the village with only my clothes and a few belongings. I did not object. I decided that if no one else would admit that the Island was real, then I would be blessed to be the sole admirer of the Island. No one else would know my joy and fulfillment that came from the Island and the Light.

I made my new home on the edge of the island closest to the new Island, so that I could enjoy it even more. I made a small hut from logs, vines and broad leaves that faced the Light. For food, I caught crabs that come onto the shore. I ate them raw, so as not to waste valuable time that could be used to admire the Light.
With every passing day and night, the beacon became even more intoxicating. I longed to be one with the Light. I began carving images of the Island into my bare flesh and rubbing harsh sand into the wounds, causing raised, pronounced scars of the Island. The pain of the tearing flesh, when intermingled with the ecstasy of being closer to oneness with the Island, would cause my spine to shiver and my eyes to roll back as saliva slowly fell from my lazy grin into my unkempt beard.
My hut soon became more of a shrine than a dwelling. Etchings of the Island decorated the wooden supports, and the leaf canopy above had an oblong hole in it so that I could lean back in the hut and see the beacon while lying down. I collected anything that reminded me of the beacon- brightly colored shells, translucent rocks, the scales of Light-colored fish.

I wanted nothing more than to somehow reach the Island. I would have done literally anything to be there. I would sever any body part, murder any innocent, blaspheme any god, and defile any grave if it would get me closer to the Island. But I couldn't get there. I could barely swim. I attempted to make several rafts, but none of them lasted in the waters for more than a few moments before either sinking or breaking apart. As I fell from my rafts into the salty water, my eyes burned- not for the harshness of the water, but out of frustration that I could not physically reach the Island. I grew jealous of the fish in the sea, jealous that they could easily swim to the Island that I could not reach. I began catching fish in a net I made of vines and mutilating them in an envious rage. It simply was not fair. They squandered their ability to reach the Island while I languished on this repugnant, pitiful excuse for an islet. They mocked me by coming so close to the wretched shores I wasted my life on. If they didn't want to use their fins to get them to the Island (which would be the only logical use for fins), they were blemishes on the sea. Killing them was the only fair thing to do, fair to the Island that the fish foolishly chose not to live around. The fish were no better than the people in the village. They couldn't see the beauty of the Light, and that made them abominations.
I decided that if I could not reach the true Island, I would have to find some other way to satisfy my need to be accepted by the Island as a disciple, the lone acolyte of the heavenly Light. I soon began my newest project: to build a replica of the Island in my hut. I dug a deep "O" shape in the center of the sand, and raised the center pillar of sand higher than the foundation. I lined the hole with large leaves and finely packed soil, and filled it with water. The packed soil and vegetation minimized water loss. I gathered plants, small rocks, and anything else I could use to imitate the Island. After days of labor, I placed a large crystal in the center of my tiny Island, and to my surprise and immense joy, a tiny beacon of Light rose out of my replica. I had made a tiny Island, an Island all my own. I fell into ecstasy. My knees buckled and I fell to the sand, my entire body quaking and my dry tongue hanging out of my mouth until I lost consciousness.

From this point on, my life was devoted to the upkeep of my tiny Island. I constantly checked the water levels, repaired erosion, replaced dying vegetation and more. I constructed a large wall around my hut, blocking everything but my view of the true Island, to help keep anything from intruding on my shrine. Each day, I would take a thorn from the rough island vegetation and prick myself, dripping my blood into the water of my Island. I was closer to being one with the Island than ever before. As I grew more devoted to the tiny Island, I gradually gave it more of my blood. Eventually, I was slashing myself with shells nightly and letting blood into the water, making it a crimson hue. I can't even begin to communicate the feelings of ecstasy I felt while giving my blood to the Island. It was as if I had left my own body and all I could feel was bliss as my blood pooled into the little Island I had made.
Soon, birds began to visit me. They were from the Island, I'm positive. These birds were nothing like the ones on the island I lived on. The birds were translucent and emitted the same sort of Light as the Island's beacon. They flocked to me, and began to peck at my flesh. I offered myself to them graciously. They took small chunks of my flesh, and flew off towards the Light. I was even closer with the Island now. Nothing could stop me from coming even closer to joining with the Island.

One night, to my surprise, I heard my wife's voice. She was looking for me. I revealed myself, scarred, bloody and filthy to the point that my skin seemed to belong to a much darker species of human. When she saw me, she gasped and turned white. After a moment, she came to me, begging me to come to my senses and leave the Island and the beacon behind. I ignored her, and dragged her to my shrine. I pointed a shaking finger at my creation, and said "Look what I have made! An exact replica of the Island, beacon and all!" She stared blankly at my treasure, then turned to me and said that she saw no beacon or Island, but only a mound of dirt and leaves. "You are losing your mind!" she screamed. "You need to forget about that stupid Light that isn't real and come back to the way things were!" I grew furious.
"Do you not understand the beauty and perfection I have created?" I shouted.
"This is not beauty," she screamed, "this is driving you mad! And I must put an end to this!" With that, she stomped my beautiful replica of the most beautiful thing. I was consumed with rage.
I grabbed her by the throat, and pulled her closer to the wreckage of the tiny Island, holding her under the bloody water. She sputtered, choked and fought, but to no avail. I pulled her back by the hair, and took her to the shore. "Do you still not see the Island and the beacon, woman? Can you not tell that it is the most beautiful thing in all of creation?" She choked under my grasp on her throat. "I-I see it quite well now, love", she croaked. "You are right about everything, now please let me go".

She was lying to me. She saw nothing. She was only afraid of me. "You lie, woman, and you see nothing", I whispered into her ear. "And since you cannot see the most beautiful thing of all, you do not deserve to see anything". With that, I pressed my thumbs into her eye sockets, crushing her eyes into her skull. Her screams pierced the night, and I squeezed her trachea with both hands until I crushed it and she went limp. I threw her into the ocean, careful not to send her towards the Island. She did not deserve to witness such beauty, even in death.

As I returned to my hut to tend to my ruined shrine, I noticed that the night sky was becoming brighter. I turned around, and to my eternal joy, I saw the beacon of the Island expanding and becoming even brighter. It was changing from a vertical beacon into a blooming, all encompassing hemisphere of pure Light. I rushed out into the shallow water so that the Light would reach me more quickly. I spread my arms and extended my bloody hands as far as I could, ready to embrace the Light. Finally, it took me. I was bathed in the glory of the bright Island. The Light on my skin at once burned and soothed, sending my body's senses into utter confusion. I smiled through it all, knowing that I was finally one with the Light.

I could not stop smiling.

Okay, today we're going to talk about the biggest badass in the entire Old Testament: Samson. You may have heard of his exploits from bible school, but today, you're going to hear the parts they didn't tell you- the parts that make Samson even more badass than you originally thought.

Let's start from the beginning: Samson's parents are visited one night by an angel. Samson's parents have been unable to conceive children, so God decided that he wasn't only going to give these people a kid- he's going to give them one of the most hardcore kids of all time. Of course, God's not just going to make this kid superhuman for nothing. Samson's going to have to follow a couple of rules. One: no alcohol. This is actually quite sensible, since one can only imagine the havoc Samson could wreak if he was ever on a bender. EVERYONE would be dead. Two: No cutting of the hair. Not only is Samson going to be a fucking badass, he's going to look totally fucking metal the whole time.
So then Samson is born, and he looks pretty normal, and he grows up pretty normally, but without booze and haircuts. See, he doesn't even know how hardcore he is, because he hasn't unleashed his power yet. It's like he's from fucking Dragon Ball Z or some shit. Anyway, he falls in love with this chick, but she's a Philistine, and Samson's an Israelite. See, the Philistines were this ancient tribe that was constantly fucking with the Jews' shit, and every once in a while, God would make a really awesome Jew so they could fuck the Philistines right back. Samson is one of these Jews, but this time, God pulled out ALL the fucking stops and made the most beastly Jew EVER. He made Samson to fuck up the Philistines, and he was God damn well going to do it.

So Samson decides to marry the Philistine bitch, but it's cool, because God has it all planned out, and this is just Step 1 in God's instruction manual on how to fuck with ancient tribes. On his way to ask the chick to marry him, Samson is attacked by a lion. You heard me, a fucking LION. But this lion has no clue who he's fucking with. The lion goes for Samson, but God just pumps Samson up like never before, and Samson, like a huge, hairy bear trap, just fucking grabs that lion and TEARS HIM THE FUCK APART WITH HIS BARE HANDS. Samson didn't even know he could do that, so he's totally shocked. No one was around to see it, which would normally suck, but Samson decides to keep it a secret. He makes it to his lady's place, and she agrees to marry him, because no woman could resist something so manly.
On his way to the wedding, he passes the carcass of the lion he killed, and sees that there are bees in it. And these bees are making honey. Samson sees this, and he sticks his hand in the corpse and grabs a fucking handful of honey and eats that shit, because he's like a bear. He gives some to his parents, too, probably to thank them for giving birth to such a studly creature.

So he gets to the wedding feast, and he's with all these lame-ass philistine dudes who think they're hot shit. Samson decides to make up a riddle just to fuck with them, because he knows they'll never get it and they'll go fucking crazy about it. Drawing on the whole honey incident, he says "Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet." Then he says he'll give 30 pieces of sweet linens and shit to the groomsmen if they can figure it out, and of course, they can't. That riddle is fucking crazy. No one could solve that fucking riddle. Meanwhile, the Philistines can't figure it out, and they're going totally nuts about it, because nothing pisses off a Philistine more than a really hard riddle. This much, Samson knew.
The Philistines get so desperate, that they threaten Samson's wife and father, saying "If you don't get the answer out of your husband-to-be, we're going to fucking burn your house down". She breaks down, and Samson tells her the answer. The Philistines are all like "what the fuck are you talking about, that's a terrible riddle". And this just makes Samson flip the fuck out, because he already knows that they threatened his lady. Once you fuck with Samson's lady AND his riddles, shit goes down faster than the walls of Jericho.
So Samson is now totally hulking the fuck out, and he kills thirty Philistines and gives their clothes to his groomsmen, because he said he'd give them 30 pieces of cloth if anyone got the riddle. This is more hardcore than anything you will ever do.
Samson goes home afterwards, and he's still pissed. Meanwhile, his girl's dad is freaking out, and makes his daughter marry the best man instead of Samson, which pisses of Samson beyond belief. See, God knew all this shit would happen, and he's just watching it go, probably listening to some funk rock and sipping pomegranate juice mixed with vodka.

So Samson goes to the Dad-in-law who wasn't really his dad-in-law yet, and asks him "what the fuck dog you messin' with my swerve and shiiiieeet". The Dad sees how metal Samson is, and tries to cool him off by giving him his other daughter, but Samson says "FUCK THAT", because the other daughter was nowhere NEAR as hot as the first one. And then Samson pulls out ALL the fucking stops and RAGES.
Get this: Samson knows that he's going to have to fuck shit up, but he's going to have to do it in a way that is so gangsta that people will be scared to talk about it 2000 years after it even happens. So what does he do? He gets 300 hundred motherfucking foxes. And he doesn't stop there- he ties fucking TORCHES to ALL OF THE FOXES' TAILS, and sets them loose in the Philistine's fields, torching all of their grains and the like. To this day, there has never been anything more badass than this. Let's break this down step by step: first find 300 foxes. That's fucking ridiculous. Next: tie torches to their tails. ALL of them. NONE of them escape without a torch on their ass. Not only was he able to catch 300 foxes, he was able to tie shit to them and then light them on FIRE without letting ANY of them escape in the meantime. Then he uses them to destroy crops. Reflect on this, because there will never be anything more awesome than that shit.
The Philistines trace the flaming foxes back to Samson, and they burn his wife-to-be and her dad to death as revenge. You would think that they would think twice about fucking with him again, but no, they keep pushing it, and that's why God hated them. Samson just starts killing Philistines by the fistful, and they can't even touch him.

When he gets tired of killing Philistines, he hides in a cave to let the situation cool down. They find him, though, because Philistines never know when to just let shit go. Then they demand that his countrymen turn him over to them. Samson lets his homeboys tie him with two ropes, and they bring him out, but then SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKERS- he busts out of the ropes, grabs the jawbone of a nearby dead donkey, and kills 1,000 Philistines with it. That's right, he kills 1,000 dudes in one sitting with a donkey mouth. And with that, he became Israel's nationally appointed resident BAMF.

But the good times were about to end, because eventually, he falls for this new chick that is just bad news: Delilah. She's probably stunningly hot, because for Samson to actually be able to feel love, it would take an unbelievably hot woman to make it happen. The Philistines find out about this, and bribe this bitch with ridiculous amounts of silver, and she agrees to find Samson's weakness. She tries without success to get Samson to tell her what his weakness is, because he likes to tease bitches. He would give her bullshit answers, like "tie me up with twine when I'm asleep, and I'm totally fucking helpless". Then he wakes up covered in twine, and then busts out like it's nothing. Finally, he tells that bitch Delilah that his power comes from his crazy long hair, because it's part of his contract with God. Sure enough, she tells the Phillies, and they cut his hair. He wakes up, and he's weak like YOU. As if that wasn't bad enough, the Phillies capture him and burn his eyes out with red-hot pokers, blinding him. That's fucking crazy.

So then the Philistines have Samson under their control, and they make him grind grain all fucking day. So there's Samson- Ripper of Lion, Eater of Honey, Wielder of Donkey Teeth- and he's reduced to a blind slave, all because of a haircut.
This goes on for some time, until the Phillies decide to assemble in one of their holy temples to thank one of their Gods for delivering Samson to them in 30,000 deaths or less. So all the Philistine hot shots are there, as well as a few thousand regular Philistines. They summon Samson and make him entertain them with terrible impressions of Philistine celebrities, blind juggling, and show tunes. What the Phillies fail to realize is that Samson's hair has grown back a bit, so he wasn't as weak as he was before. He manages to make his way to the main pillars of the temple, and he prays to God: "Oh Lord, in your divine power, please make me fucking beastly one last time, so that I may destroy this temple and kill all of these bitch-ass Philistines, even if it means I die as well, because I'm cool with dying as long as it happens in some ridiculously metal way". God hears this cripplingly robust and manly request, and being the huge hater of Philistines he was, he granted Samson enough power to stop 2 trains at full speed. Samson feels the power again, and FUCKS THE TEMPLE UP. He pushes the support arches, and the whole place just crumbles. Everyone just fucking dies- EVERYONE. This includes pretty much every important Philistine in the city, because they were all in VIP seating right next to the temple. At least 3,500 people, all dead in seconds, thanks to Samson's badassery and God's hatred of the Phillies. Samson's family recovers his body and bury it next to his father's grave, because no one deserves to be buried with fucking Philistines.

And thus concludes the story of Samson, the biggest badass ever.

This is actually a revised, expanded version of a story I wrote a few months ago. I added to it, and expect to add more. please submit comments, criticism, et .

Most people, if asked to describe me in one word, would most likely agree on one word: hairy.
I have always been hairy, even before I was born. When my mother had her ultrasound when she was pregnant with yours truly, I had sideburns and a soul patch. Upon my birth, I had a "happy trail", knuckle hair, and a modest amount of pubic hair. I suspect my father was abusing Rogaine when I was conceived.

My parents had different attitudes toward me all through my life. My Father's attitude towards his son varied as I aged. When I was very young, he bragged about me- my hair was obviously irrefutable proof of his manly testosterone levels, and I was his tiny, hairy testament to his masculinity. While his drinking buddies would brag about their child's first step or word, my Father would top them with pictures of my first full moustache-soul patch combo. As I grew into a teenager, however, I was no longer proof of his manliness; I became his greatest rival. I easily was the more masculine of the two of us, and long before most boys challenge their Father's security, I surpassed him. At that point, I was no longer brought up when he was with his drinking buddies- in fact, I was now a point of evidence toward the idea that my Father was not manly at all. What kind of man is less masculine than his 13 year old son? I became an embarrassment to him, a personal shame he was aware of, but thankfully, he never took his frustration out on me, though I did suffer nonetheless. I knew I was the source of his insecurity, and I hated myself for it. I remembered when he used to flaunt me, show me off. I was his little hairy trophy son. But my growth transformed my role as the beloved source of pride to my Father's shameful deficiency, embodied in a bipedal moving monument to his inability to back up his manly fortitude and confidence. This was his greatest shame and mine as well. I hold no hard feelings against him, though some may say I would be justified in doing so. Resenting him would only push him further away from me, when all I really ever wanted was for him to love me.

My mother, on the other hand, was quite protective of me my entire life. She tried her best to hide my hairiness for many of my early years, dressing me in clothes that would obscure as much of me as possible. She shopped around ceaselessly looking for long sleeved shirts and pants that would cover my furry limbs through my many growth spurts, tirelessly searching for garments that would be light enough in the summer. It always embarrassed me to see how eager she was to hide my body from the world, but as I grew, I came to realize that it wasn't her that didn't understand. No, she did it all because she knew that other people wouldn't understand. She went out of her way not for the sake of my ugliness, but to try to protect me from the ugliness of other people. As I grew older, however, she relented. She eventually came to accept the fact that you cannot hide the hair I was cursed with, and had to deal with the thought of my being harassed by other people who didn't understand me, and the thought of me being emotionally hurt for something beyond anyone's control hurt her. It hurt her not because I was able to be ridiculed; it hurt her because there was no real way for her to protect me. She felt it was her duty to be my shield against the world. Unlike my Father, her love for me never wavered. Whenever I came home despondent or in tears after school, she would be there, arms open, eyes moist with sympathy, and full of comfort. I took solace in the fact that, though I was different, I was capable of being loved. Despite my immense love and gratitude for my mother, I knew that I couldn't rely on her arms to shield me all my life, and so, with great difficulty, I acknowledged the fact that I would one day have to rely on myself, as an individual, to care for myself once I grew up. My memories of her are among my most treasured gleams of reminiscence.

I was always the hairiest kid in my class, all through school. In fact, after a certain point, I was hairier than most of my classmates' fathers. This, of course, led to a fair amount of teasing. Fortunately, once some of the kids started puberty, I was able to instill a great sense of insecurity in the boys, since I was sporting "big boy hair" while they didn't even have but a single ingrown hair yet, making me the manliest of my peers by far.
It wasn't until high school when my hair began to make me insecure as well. No one was safe from it, not even I. Once the raging waters of puberty reached their swelled waves of hormonal high tide, I was covered in hair. I was shaving my face 3 times a day. Shirtless, I looked like a tiny Robin Williams. This unbelievable follicular fortitude intimidated and frightened the girls of the school, all unused to seeing such a manly spectacle. This was a great blow to my self esteem, worsened by the constant hazing I was dealt by the upperclassmen. The older boys, seeing a younger lad blessed with enough testosterone to kill a bull rhino, dealt with their insecurity with pranks and bullying. My locker was often filled with disposable razors. I was once even held down while the older, larger boys waxed my chest. It took 4 boys to remove a single strip of waxed paper from my front, and I fainted from the pain. I awoke in the hospital later that day. I would often lie in bed with tears rolling down my face before they were lost in my 4th beard of the day. I would have gum placed in my hair frequently, sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally. I can't begin to describe how awkward it felt to have a patch of hair shaved while the rest remained at full length in order to remove the gum. To this day, I have nightmares about being covered in chewing gum, unable to escape, like a fly in a spider's web. Only the web had all sorts of teeth marks and smelled of exotic fruits.

By college, my hair had only become more astounding. It almost resembled fur on the majority of my body. I joined a fraternity, where my frat name was "Fursuit". I was a hit with the frat brothers, since my incredible hair allowed me to pull off incredible feats of worthless amusement. I could take punches to the chest without recoiling, since my chest hair was like furry football padding. I could fit 20 shot glasses in my beard at once. I could also turn my facial hair into a cup holder. I finally was able to get intimate with some ladies, who were now old enough to appreciate the beauty of overabundant hair. They were like moths to a hairy, hairy flame, eager to know what such a beast was like in bed. They were not disappointed. For a brief time, I felt welcome amidst my peers, despite my peers being drunken perverts who only listened to music if it was performed by Dave Matthews. For one of the only times of my life, my hair wasn't a liability- it was a calling card, a claim to fame. I was a campus celebrity. Even the Dean knew who I was. When I entered a party, I was not met with the gasps of astonishment and dry heaves I was accustomed to, but rather open eyes mouths, and people eagerly informing people that I had arrived, and now the party would finally start for real, thanks to me. Not since my mother had I felt so accepted unconditionally. Of course, my mother didn't live in a run-down house with vomit stains on the rug and refrigerators devoted to alcohol alone, but despite these differences, I was able to feel love again, if only for a fleeting moment. At the time, it was all I could have ever hoped for.

After college, however, the good times ended. My little hair tricks were no good in the workplace, and I was only getting hairier. I tried holding down a steady office job, but was let go after I couldn't walk around the office floor without getting $50 worth of paper clips, sticky notes, staples, and various other office supplies stuck somewhere on my body. I was a virtual walking strip of Velcro. Working in the food industry was right out, since no hairnet could possibly contain such Herculean hair. Working with children was difficult, since I frightened many of the young ones, probably resembling some sort of monster from their closet at home, and the ones that weren't afraid of me just put gum in my hair, which was obviously devastating. I was soon jobless, and running out of money. The cost of shampoo and razors alone cost a small weekly fortune. My landlord evicted me, since the amount of hair that I shed in the shower clogged the drains daily. I was soon selling my body to various employers, but not for sex. No, I had various other uses. I was often used by barbers for practicing technique. I made frequent contributions to wig and hair plug producers. At my most desperate, I agreed to let hair product developers to use me for product testing. My hair was in constant flux, and the strain on my body was enormous. I had to maintain a 6000 calorie diet to support the bodily process of hair growth, and still weighed under 150 pounds (213 while wet). I imagine that, at this point, I would have looked like Ally McBeal if I had no body hair, but without the situational comedy. It would have been more of a situational tragedy show, really.

My hair soon reached a point of thickness and length almost as impressive as the pelt I wear as I write this. Eventually, I joined the circus as "The Walking Wig", which was just as humiliating as it sounds. Interestingly enough, the only friend I had at the circus was "The Naked Man", who was physically incapable of growing hair anywhere on his body; eyebrows, eyelashes, nose hair, all were absent from his body. We were physical opposites, but understood each other and developed a special kinship. He would let me pet his bald cranium to help me recall what human skin felt like without having a pelt on it. For him, I would stand on a chair, and he would stand under me, wearing my massive beard like an enormous head of hair- hair he could never have.
My perpetual sour luck eventually kicked in, however, and I lost that job as well. An entire group of children on a field trip found their way into my hair trimming room, and all drowned in my discarded hair. Their bodies were never found. I was demonized by the press and media. I couldn't walk down the street without someone pulling out a lighter and singeing my leg hair. I was soon out on the streets. Humanity clearly did not want me to be happy, so I decided that the only way for me to live life on my own terms was to live in the wilderness, like Thoreau, except without the freeloading off of friends and endless whining and preaching. I hiked to Canada, living off of money given to me by photographers to have me walk around funny while they recorded me. The cold weather of Upper Canada suited me well, since my hair insulated my body to the point where temperatures above 65 degrees were almost unbearable. When I perspired, the sweat weighed my entire body down, and the hair sagged all around me, turning me into a sick imitation of Cousin Itt from The Addams Family.

I lived in the wild, making the forest my home. Clothing was almost totally unnecessary, save for a pair of briefs I washed in freshwater streams. My hair was an indispensable tool, for which I found many uses. My heard could be used to filter my drinking water. Hair that had fallen off of me could be collected and used for a number of purposes. It could be weaved into a fishing net, a blanket, a bag for harvesting berries and such, an umbrella, etc. Eventually, I had managed to collect enough hair to make myself a home. I fashioned a tent out of my hair, and soon had a respectable home.
Having made my home in that spot, I took on the task of caring for the forest that sustained me, as well as the creatures that shared its gifts with me. I frequently repaired and patched up bird nests with my hair, and made little egg cozies to secure the as-of-yet unhatched birds. I allowed rodents to make their home in my tent walls. Beavers used my hair to tie the logs of their dams together. The bears appreciated the earplugs I made them for hibernating season. I was the protector of the forests, and the birds and beasts gave me their respect and honor. And I have lived in this way until this very day.

I chose to write this down on this old typewriter I have found in the forest to try and leave something behind for when I perish, for not even hair lasts forever. I can only hope that someone finds these pages one day. I have put them in an empty bottle, and when I die, I will do so with the sealed bottle in hand. Perhaps man will learn a lesson from my life story, and learn to appreciate those blessed folks who carry the burden of prodigious amounts of body hair, and accept them for the beauty they sprout from their very skin.

This is for the Flash Fiction contest, I guess.

"Mr. Norman," the judge said with palpable contempt for the man he addressed, "you stand trial by a jury of your peers for the crime of raping Ms. Nadine Soaring Eagle. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, your honor." replied Mr. Jonathan Norman. Not quite middle aged, Mr. Norman had a full head of dark hair, which, when in tandem to his tall stature, made him look like a wet paintbrush from a distance. His slick hair erupted from his head, while the rest of his body seemed confined to grow upward instead of outward. Not a very intelligent man, Mr. Norman was often the cause of many a misunderstanding.
"Very well. Will the prosecution please call their first witness?" the judge said. A large, rotund, piggish sort of man rose from a table and approached the bench. His neck was slick and gleaming with perspiration, his hair greasy and stringy, and his hands and feet curiously small in proportion to the rest of his body, which had no problem in filling whatever space it could. He cleared his throat noisily, and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.
"The prosecution calls the defendant, Mr. Jonathan Norman, to the stand." announced the swine-like attorney. Mr. Norman walked to the stand, a look of bewilderment and bemusement on his face. Upon sitting, he was still impressively tall. He and the attorney that summoned him looked like old caricatures of Oliver Laurel and Stan Hardy in an old cartoon, one gangly and the other corpulent, one part unthinking and one part frustration. Mr. Norman fidgeted uncomfortably in his too-small seat, and the prosecutor fidgeted uncomfortably in his too-small suit. The attorney began. "Mr. Norman, you are aware of the charges against you?"
"Yes", Mr. Norman answered. His head nodded up and down with the word, like a giant novelty "drinking bird" often found in fictional corporate offices, adorning the desks of fat cat CEOs. His head went a long way down, and then a long way up.
"So you deny," said the attorney, pointing to his client, a young woman of Native American descent, "that you raped this woman?" Mr. Norman once again voiced his innocence. "My client claims that you were indeed the man who raped her, Mr. Norman. She identified you out of a police lineup as the rapist. Do you still deny raping her?"
"I didn't rape her at all!" Mr. Norman pleaded. "I thought it was consensual."
The attorney looked Mr. Norman dead in the eyes. "You thought it was consensual? My client's recollection of the event had her repeatedly saying 'No' to you!"
"I thought she was being sarcastic", Mr. Norman explained simply.
"Sarcasm does not in any way imply CONSENT, Mr. Norman!" shouted the red-faced attorney. "What you did was rape."
'It most certainly was not", replied a steadfast Mr. Norman.
"Then how do you justify this crime?" asked the prosecutor.
"I claim Manifest Destiny." Mr. Norman crossed his arms confidently. The court room was a mixture of silence and stifled giggles, most of the latter coming from the judge, who hid his face in the sleeve of his robe.

When I was born, my mother refused to part with the afterbirth
The doctors wanted to get rid of what she made
She would not have it
She fought the doctors for her placental baby
It was my twin brother
She named him Angelo
Maybe it was all the drugs they pumped into her that made her do it
We shared a crib and cuddled

I am 23 now
Obviously, so is Angelo
We are twins, after all
Angelo always wears that one baseball cap
He got it when dad took us to the ball park
Angelo caught a fly ball
We were all very impressed
Angelo loves baseball, but doesn't play many sports

He has not aged well
His shine has lost its luster
He is a bit dried out
He didn't grow much as a child
Probably because he didn't eat much
He was a very picky eater
He used to drive Mom crazy when she tried to feed him
Poor Mom

Angelo was a terrific student
He got straight A's
He was quite the cut-up as well
He used to stand in the doorway and trip the teacher when he came in
We would have a good laugh about it
It kind of ruined the teachers' shoes, though
Angelo got into Stanford on scholarship
I think he got in because of Affirmative Action
Not many placentas get into Stanford

Angelo has a way with the ladies
They can't seem to get enough of him when he's around
It always made me jealous
He has a steady girlfriend now
They've been going out for some time
It's like they were made for each other
Maybe it's because they have such similar life stories
She's an appendix

Borock Obomo

I thought I had posted this earlier, but I guess not.

I BET YOU'VE NEVER SEEN ANYONE JOKE ABOUT VIDEOGAMES BEFORE, I THINK I'M THE FIRST

This was a commissioned piece.

I hope he gives someone a nightmare.