Archive for June, 2010

Last night was a good night for many reasons.  Good times, good people, AND good ideas.  There are many things that need to be addressed and explained in my post today.



The best part of my actual job, is not the pay, it is not what I do when I am working, it is not the pension, it is not the benefits, it is not who I work with.  The best part of my job is the fact that I do not need to go to my job for another 2 months, and I have the freedom to dick around for the next 9 weeks.  PERIOD.  There is NO better perk to my career, than what I just explained, at least to me.  There are “others” who get satisfaction on many different levels sharing the same career I have, and that is fine, I don’t judge what gets other people off, its just not the same thing that gives me my main satisfaction of my job.

Its funny that when I am describing the best part of my job to someone else, I always say “The best part of my job is when I don’t have to be at it….”.  This is the most true statement I have ever said in regards to my outlook on my career.  Do I sound like a dick? I am not sure, but please let me know, because I have 2 months ahead of me with no job to have to go to 5 days a week and NOTHING on my schedule all summer long, so I could use something to do, like read how pissed off you are, that you are working for the next 2 months and I am not……


Its 9:30 a.m. and I just brought my girlfriend a glass of ice water.  She was laying downstairs in the basement, for many reasons:

  • because she woke up early from the sun shining in the bedroom
  • because our bedroom was warm
  • because the air conditioner was turned off, due to the door being open last night, and I choose to turn off the air conditioner (which can be done from bed) instead of getting out of bed and closing the door…..
  • she’s probably slightly hungover from the good times and good people of last night, so darkness is her friend and  she has formed an alliance with it, in order to help recuperate
  • and not to mention the fact that I am sure that I snore loudly, after a night of good times…..

So I go downstairs and she is now awake, and on the computer.  I give her the water and she mumbles something regarding Burger King.  Burger King does not serve lunch until 11 A.M, so I let her know that she is shit out of luck for another hour and 33 minutes.  She understands this concept very well, because Burger King has been her hangover cure for at least a few centuries.

Our conversation comes to a close, and I decide to leave her to come back upstairs to write a bit more (which ends up being a lot more).  As I am walking up the stairs (after the conversation has already concluded) she starts off a new conversation with me, by saying:

“Oh, never-mind…….”

I have issues with this statement for many reasons.

  • First, usually when you are engaged in an adult conversation with another adult, you will first say something to the other adult, AND THEN you would say “Oh, never-mind…..”.  Under a normal conversation with an adult, you should NOT start off the conversation with “Oh, never-mind…..”
  • Second, I have NO IDEA what I should NOT be minding, since I was never told what to mind yet, as this is the start of our new conversation.

So I was standing at the top of the stairs, and I am looking down to the basement in silence.  I do not know how to respond to such a statement that I apparently have issues with.

My only response is “WHAT?………………WHAT?“, because I sure as hell am not going to respond by asking her what I should be “neverminding about”, since I have not been given sufficient data from her yet in regards to what I should be “neverminding”.  She then proceeds to say:

“NOTHING, I just wanted you to look at something”.

I have issues with THIS statement as well, for many reasons.

  • First, usually when you are engaged in an adult conversation, when you say the word “nothing”, you mean…………….. “NOTHING”.

Like for example:

Some dude asks….

“What are you required to do for your job this summer? “



Now when I said “nothing” right there, I meant EXACTLY what I said.  When my girlfriend starts off a sentence with “Nothing…….”  it is almost ALWAYS guaranteed to be followed by some statement, which is obviously not “Nothing”…….This just does not make sense to me.

Here is an example of this skewed use of the word “Nothing”:

Some dude asks…..

“What are you required to do for your job this summer?”


“Nothing…….I just have to go to it, and work 5 days a week, and wake up early, and be pissed off that I have to have a job”

BACK TO THE WRITER’S STRESS……I only enjoy writing when “it flows” or when I am in this stress zone.  Last night when I was among three friends, and my girlfriend, I think I came up with at least 4 different blog posts for the future, AND……… I came up with my million dollar idea, which is a book that I will be pursuing and writing for the next 5 years at least.  There is much to be explained regarding this, and initially this book idea was supposed to be the premise of today’s blog post……15 paragraphs later, I get to what was the reason I started to write this morning, which is my book I that I will be pursuing.  This book should not be confused with my first book, this will be my second book.  And I must explain the concept of the first book before I can explain my second book.

I started toying with the idea of writing when I was about 27.  Before that, I never really considered it.  When my girlfriend bought me a nice journal I started to write short, quick snippets of things which I felt would be entertaining.  Although a lot of the things I wrote were intended to be humorous, I intended this book to be considered an “Entertaining book, which happened to be very funny as well”.  I had the idea to have all different types of reading material.  Some stories would be just crazy experiences of myself or my friends, which should be shared.  Some stories would be pure comedic in nature.  Some stories would be events of sorrow.  I have one chapter dedicated to nothing but funny quotes which should be shared with the world, rather than to be forgotten over the years, because we just go on and live our lives.

My actual goal for my first book was to write 30- 50 random, entertaining stories, which would be perfect to pick up and read while you were taking a shit in the bathroom.  I dreamed big and thought that if this book ever became published, I would need to have a website, which would show the daily life of an ordinary guy, who made it big with a published book.  It would show you what Andrew Michaels is doing now that he is rich and can go anywhere and do anything…..within reason obviously.   That is where I came up with the title of the website.  The initial point of this website was to show my daily or weekly life, when I have the opportunity to do what I want, AND I don’t need to be worried about having a fucking job anymore.  So I dreamed big and started this website back in December (well before my first book was even remotely being close to being done).

A lot of material that I have written in that book has not been used on my website, but I must say that this website basically became the book that I initially started to write.  The concept, the randomness, the funny stories, the things I feel like sharing, the sad stories, are all concepts within the realm of what I wanted to do with my initial book.

This website should actually be called “What’s Andrew Michaels Thinking Now”, but it isn’t because when I started it up, the initial plan, was for you to see what an ordinary dude was doing now that he had money and did not need to have a fucking job.

But I finally have my big million dollar idea in life, in regards to writing.  I have finally found a fucking plot, to a real story, that I feel many people will genuinely want to read.  Everything will be true which is written in this book.  Many of the things that will be read will be eye openers to average folk like myself.  Everyone’s names in my book will have to be anonymous for security purposes.  And I expect to be writing this for a LONG TIME.  My real goal is to have 2000 pages written, and take the best 400 pages for my story.  That sounds like a lot to write, but the material to which I will be writing is ENDLESS in nature.  And those other 1600 pages could always be used for other books, if the first one works out.

This is What Andrew Michaels is Doing Now……..


I don’t think that I will ever develop a good relationship with the penguins.  Granted, I could try to live among them, and if I had a rather large abundance of small fish, I can only assume that i could develop a superficial fake relationship, which would only temporarily satisfy both myself and the penguins.

I would be the center of attention to these penguins, as I threw food to them as if I was a leader who they could always depend on, and always look to for food.  The penguins would make affectionate sqwaking  and chirping noises at me, because that’s the way I would describe the noise they make towards me, in times of penguin enjoyment and indulgence.  This can be best described as the penguins purr.

But eventually the small fish stock that I had, would lose its stock, and would soon become nonexistent.  My superficial fake relationship with the penguins would become nonexistent as well at this point.  As soon as I lose my magical appeal to the penguins as the “Guy who feeds us a ridiculous amount of small fish”, they will leave me and give attention to whatever provides them with the small fish in which I am lacking.  This most likely means that the penguins will give their full attention to the ocean again, instead of me.  This rubs me up sideways, I hate that the penguins now give a body of water the attention they once so affectionately gave to me.

Fuck you penguins…….I gave you a shit load of fish, and I even pushed you on the swing set ALL FUCKING DAY, and you didn’t even say “Thank you” once, but I am ok with that, I truly am.  I totally understand that while I was feeding you, and giving you all the attention in the world, that you truly were happy with our relationship.  I know its due to the fact that you have a rather small brain, that you don’t understand what we truly had going……….. for a while.

What fucking bothers the shit out of me, is since I have run out of stock of small fish, you have never once come back to hang out with me……not even to say “hi”.  I am not expecting much,  just to shoot the shit with you for a while, and reminisce on the good times we once had………..

It’s as if you truly don’t even remember me.

Fuck you penguins, I will find a species that WILL remember me, EVEN after the food runs out.  Maybe ostriches………maybe ostriches.  (I seem to have a thing for non-flight birds for some reason, because as I was writing this, I was trying to think of another species to move on to after the penguins, and out of the millions of species I instantly picked ostriches.)

I think that the ostriches might have even smaller brains then penguins, so I am unsure if I am just headed for another heartbreak.   On top of this, it might be very difficult to live among such a speedy, high endurance species, because I have become a slow piece of shit over the years.

Only time will tell, in regards to me having a relationship with a wild species, which is unconditional for both parties, and worth sharing with the world……..

This is What Andrew Michaels is doing now……..

I admit it, I have used a coinstar machine in the past, and have lost out on 9% of my money.  But they print out this neat receipt that you get to take to the customer service desk and get cash money straight…….

I have a lot of change and I have decided that it is not worth it use a coinstar machine in the traditional way, but it just might be worth it to use one in a non-traditional way.  I am going to call this method:

The slightly, at least partially, kind of, sort of, semi responsible Coinstar usage

A little math:

  • Let’s say it takes 2 minutes to  count out, and roll up 50 pennies.  You have effectively spent two minutes of your time for 50 cents.
  • Let’s say it takes 2 minutes to  count out, and roll up 40 nickles.  You have effectively spent two minutes of your time for 2.00 dollars.  You are still spending the same two minutes as the pennies, but you are now spending those two minutes on 4 times as much money as the pennies.
  • Let’s say it takes 2 minutes to  count out, and roll up 50 dimes.  You have effectively spent two minutes of your time for 5.00 dollars.  You are still spending the same two minutes as the pennies, but you are now spending those two minutes on 10 times as much money as the pennies.
  • And finally, let’s say it takes 2 minutes to  count out, and roll up 40 quarters.  You have effectively spent two minutes of your time for 10 dollars. You are still spending the same two minutes as the pennies, but you are now spending those two minutes on 40 times as much money as the pennies.

I am the type of person that realizes that my time is worth just as much as my money.  Getting “fucked out of 9 percent of your money” by coinstar is only true if you decide to lazily give them all of your coins.  In actuality, by you giving them all of your pennies, they are not fucking you in the slightest bit, they are actually helping you out by giving you some time away from rolling your dirty pennies.

For example, if it takes 2 minutes to count out and roll 50 pennies, then over the course of three hours, you will have effectively rolled 90 rolls of pennies.  This equals 45 dollars.  Now lets not forget that you spent three hours doing this…….

If you take the 4500 pennies to Coinstar, they will fuck you out of 9 percent of your money, so:

45 dollars


4 dollars and 5 cents (which is 9 percent of 45 dollars)

Equals 40 dollars and 95 cents.

You just worked for three hours, and saved 4 dollars and 5 cents…..


You just worked for 1 dollar and 35 cents an hour, for three straight hours.

Now I am not trying to sound like a total douchebag, but my time is worth slightly more than that.

I am from now on going to follow the rules of the slightly, at least partially, kind of, sort of, semi responsible Coinstar user:

I will continue to use Coinstar on every opportunity I get, but it will only be for all of the pennies, and I feel you should follow suit……..  If you are a real slob, I guess you could give Coinstar your nickles as well, but as soon as you start giving them your dimes and quarters, you enter the realm of starting to be an extremely lazy piece of shit. Not that I would judge……..

This is What Andrew Michaels is doing now………..

It’s time I express to you all what has been going on in my head, in regards to the days of the god damn week.  Being an almost normal Monday thru Friday worker, I have developed the following graph which expresses how I feel my outlook of a typical week looks.

  • Sundays are “Pretty Pimp” in that I don’t have to work, but it’s not “Very Pimp” because I have a Monday creeping up on me.
  • Mondays absolutely “BLOW”, this should be universally understood, and needs no further explanation……..
  • Tuesdays don’t absolutely “BLOW”, but they certainly still slightly “BLOW”
  • It’s not until Wednesdays that I start to feel ok with the fact that “I need to have a job”……so everything is “Meh”, because “I have to have a job”, but at the same time, I have a rewarding weekend creeping up upon me.
  • Thursdays I rate as “Pretty Pimp” since the weekend is practically upon me.  It should be noted that a day such as Thursday (when I have to work), is rated in the same class as a Sunday (which I do not have to work).  This is because anticipation for the weekend is a MUCH BETTER feeling, than the feeling of dreading the work week ahead of me.
  • Obviously Fridays and Saturdays are “VERY PIMP”, this should be universally understood, and needs no further explanation……..


Below, you will see what I would immediately implicate, if enough people for one reason or another, decide that I should run things in this country….

The 8 day week:

Give me ONE good reason why having 8 days a week would be a bad thing.  By looking at the graph above, it is obvious that having 8 days a week will allow for a much better outlook on the week ahead for me.

  • Mondays wouldn’t “Blow” as much, since you always have a 3 day weekend instead of a two day weekend.
  • Tuesdays would practically be “pretty pimp” for this very same reason as Monday.
  • Wednesdays would be “pretty pimp” since you are practically at your typical 3 day weekend
  • Thursdays would now be practically “very pimp” since you are only one day away from this typical 3 day weekend even though you have to work
  • FRIDAYS, SATURDAYS, AND FUNDAYS would all be “VERY PIMP” this should be universally understood, and needs no further explanation……..

FUNDAY needs to be exactly where it is in the 8 day week for a few reasons:

  1. It rhymes very closely with Sunday, so you can say them, or sing them together, when you are saying or singing the days of the week.
  2. More importantly FUNDAY, CANNOT be in the place of the bittersweet position that Sunday is currently in.  I am sure that everyone who works Monday thru Friday, will agree that Sunday, although awesome in the fact that you do not have to work that day, is also kind of a buzz kill, seeing as you have not much to look forward to, other than Monday.  Given its name of Funday, it MUST be before Sunday, and not after it.

MOVING ON……………………………

The only reason why I have my first graph at the top of this page (which shows MY OUTLOOK ON A TYPICAL WEEK), is because I am NOT RICH.  If I was rich, or I ever somehow miraculously became rich, the graph below would be my new outlook on the week:

It would be “VERY PIMP” if I was rich, and I would never know what day of the week it was, because honestly, who gives a fuck about what day of the week it is when you are rich?  EVERYDAY WOULD BE FUNDAY…..Since everyday would be Funday, I would probably forget about the average folk like myself, and I would drop the whole idea for the 8 days a week thing, because when everyday is Funday, why the fuck would I care how many days there are in a week?  That’s only a fantasy for the pathetic working folk…….

On top of this, I would hire a good friend, and pay him a six figure salary, just so he could deal with all of the days of the week for me.  And even though he would have to worry about what day of the week it was for me, I think it would be safe to say that he would consider his life “VERY PIMP” everyday as well, as seen in the final graph below:

Everyday will be “VERY PIMP” for him, because when your sole responsibility for your six figure job, is to tell me when I have something important coming up, you have the most “VERY PIMP” job possible, except for if your job, was to be rich like me.  This final graph also shows that it is possible to have a job, have no day of the week that you call Funday, yet your life on a daily basis is still “VERY PIMP”

If anyone wants to make me rich, I would do a great fucking job at it, just give me a chance to prove it………

This is What Andrew Michaels is Doing Now……..

Holy shit man, I have a lot of shit to talk about in regards to bachelor parties, in which the man of the hour gets fucking beat to shit by the strippers…..

First off, this WILL NOT be anything like my eventual bachelor party.  I will not get fucking beat to shit, by a nice smelling female stranger, as my friends watch in extreme laughter…….that is SO fucking far from my cup of tea.

This morning, I awoke to an extensive amount of one dollar bills in my wallet, and yes, all of the bills are facing the same direction, president facing the same direction as well.

So the two dancers that came to the bachelor party, came with a madam of some sorts.  This was the woman who owned the dancers business, and her job was to put the show together, and collect all of the money that is scattered on that dirty, dirty fucking floor.  The dancers DID NOT bring any blanket or tarp to put on this dirty, dirty fucking floor and had no problem being in contact with it……….

But that’s perfectly fine with me, because the integrity, and cleanliness of these two girls never once crossed my mind during their show, even though they did have a way, to sure as hell not smell like the dirty type of girl, that would have no problem rolling around on that dirty, dirty fucking floor.  These dancers must all agree with each other, that loads and fucking loads of nice smelling body lotions, are a female dancer’s best fucking friend.

It’s funny what I caught myself doing in front of this madam, and the eventual conversation which I had with her, as my friend was getting his bare ass beat raw, with a belt, that was taken off an unsuspecting male patron at the party……in fact, I believe these dancers had about 4 belts all held together as they were performing this insane ass whipping.

I went up to the madam because she stated that she had plenty of one dollar bills.  I gave her a twenty dollar bill.  She handed me 20 one dollars bills, but they were all over the place, in the way that they were stacked on top of each other.  Some bills on top were facing each other, then the next three were upside down, the next one was right side up…..but backwards,  the next one was facing the “proper way”, the one after that “proper one” was upside down……so on and so fourth, for the full 20 one dollar bills stack.

My OCD kicked in fucking hard, because as my friend was getting his ass handed to him with multiple belts, I am standing there with the madam, fixing and rearranging all of the one dollar bills so they are all facing the same direction.  I looked up and said to the madam “Look at how pathetic I am, these dancers are beating the shit out of my friend, and here I am making sure, that all of the fucking one dollar bills that I am about to throw on top of them, are having all of the presidents facing the same direction, facing up……..”

The madam laughs as she looks at me and says “You must be the guy, who at his house, has all lines on his carpet, from being freshly vacuumed……. all the time.”  In the background, the dancers whack the shit out of his ass again, the crowd goes vibrantly wild as usual in reaction to this.

I am looking at the madam and I think to myself:

“Bitch….. I don’t have any fucking carpets in my house, and I certainly wouldn’t have any freshly vaccumed carpets with freshly laid lines in my house.  I, for one reason or another, have always felt more comfortable, when my money is all facing the same direction, all while the presidents are all facing the same direction………….EVEN IF, I am about to just drop all of this money on the dancers to ensure this ass whipping is to continue at full force”

In reality I look at the madam and I say:

“Nah dude, I don’t like to clean…..”

I walk away from her and proceed to make it rain…….. 10 whole fucking Washington’s, all on the dancers, I then go up to one of the dancers and say “I want you to beat the fucking shit out of this guy.”  It should be noted that this was not the bachelor, but the bachelor’s good friend, who for one reason or another, was ok with getting really beat up, in front of a large group of people, by two dancers with belts, which were stolen off of unsuspecting male patrons of the party.

The dancers know what the fuck they are doing, in regards to the ass whippings which they give, and I think there is a very primal, instinctive reason, why it  works the way it does.  You see, one dancer lays the male down and unbuttons his pants……….and to any male who is the type that is into dancers, is liking where this is going at this point.

Then the dancer turns the male over, and tries her best to pull down his boxers in order to expose his bare ass, in order to receive an ass whipping of epic proportions.  Once the first hit is made with the belt, the beating has only just begun, but the fight is all over, for the male to be able to function in any rational and normal way.  The reason why this is, is because instead of fighting and struggling with the dancer to keep his boxers at least partially on, he is now holding his bare ass in extreme numbing pain.

This makes it much easier for the dancers to grab his boxers and tear them off him.  As soon as he lets go of his numbing ass check, in order to start back up with the struggle of keeping his underwear at least partially on, the dancer will hit the male again, extremely hard with the belt, in fact harder than the last time.  Once again the crowd goes rampantly wild.

Eventually the male is in so much pain, that he gives up with the boxers struggle, and just allows the dancers to rip his underwear off, since he is just too damn tired, and in too much god damn pain, to give two shits about his boxers.

Moving on……….I picked up on a conspiracy theory that I felt was going on during the event, and only someone like myself would come up with such a random thought, during a bachelor party, while the main entertainment was taking place.

I had been buying vodka and red bulls the whole time we were at the bar, so I figured I have already spent 30 dollars at the bar.  One of our friends, (actually the one who got his boxer shorts ripped off) had a bottle of Captain Jack spiced rum in his trunk.  That’s right, NOT Captain Morgan………NOT Jack Daniels……..but “CAPTAIN JACK – SPICED RUM”.  This tells you the quality right there, with such a blatantly corny rip off name.

REGARDLESS, it was spiced rum, and we all decided that we should all make a strong Captain Jack and coke drink, to either go along with the drinks that we had, or to be the sole drink of some of the individuals (But not me, I prefer to double fist, during events of debauchery……)

We all bought a soda of our choice at the bar, along with a cup full of ice.  I believe that the soda cups are orange colored, and alcoholic drinks are in yellow cups, at least that’s what I saw with my drinks and my buddies.  This only makes sense for the owner, so at any given time when he looks around, he can tell who supposedly is not drinking alcohol, and who is drinking an alcoholic beverage.

We took theses non alcoholic beverage orange colored cups out to the parking lot and proceeded to make strong Captain Jack and coke drinks for all four of us.  As we are hanging out at the car, a dude approaches us and says,  “I can’t be having you guys doing that here” (obviously this is the owner, but before this moment, everyone in our group just assumed he was just a patron of the party…)

I look to him and say “I am sorry man, I will dump it out if you want…….”  He looks at me and says “Don’t dump it out, but don’t do it anymore please”. We all agree to this and he walks away…………eventually we head back into the party too.

So the four of us walked in, and he saw all of us with non-alcoholic cups, filled to the brim with extremely strong Captain Jack and cokes.  We all decide to stand in the background, as we are waiting for the event to begin, and I let the group know that I need to leave them, to take a leak.

I come back, and they all say that the owner was giving all of them dirty, bad fucking looks.  (Like he was extremely pissed off that we were in his bar, with drinks we obviously didn’t pay his business to have)

I look to my friends and say “You guys are fucking idiots, and overreacting for sure”………..The dancers come out and start to do their thing.  We decide to all take a seat to watch the dancers do their thing.  One  dancer comes over to one of my buddies and does her thing, so he puts his orange non alcoholic colored cup (which is filled to the brim with a strong Captain Jack and coke) under his seat.  The dancer is continuing to do her thing, and she knocks over his drink under his seat, while she is doing her thing.

The dancer then goes to one of my other buddy’s seat, and starts to do her thing yet again, and while she is busy doing her thing, he thinks to himself, that its best to put his non alcohol colored cup (which is also filled to the brim with a strong Captain Jack and coke), on the ground, so the dancer can freely do her thing, and the drink will be out of the way.  As this dancer is doing her thing, she knocks over his non alcohol colored cup as well, spilling it all over the ground.

This was the second drink out of the 4 illegally made drinks, that ended up not being drunk in a compounds of a business, that did not sell us the Captain Jack and cokes (not that I expected this bar to have  Captain Jack in stock).

It was at this point I realized that we were in the middle of a conspiracy theory.

The groups or parties of this conspiracy were as follows:

I feel that the owner of the business, and the dancers who frequently work at the business, were working against us (who were not paying the owner of the business, for our Captain Jack and cokes, that we were drinking).  I felt 100 percent sure that the owner told the dancers, to knock over ANY cups that were non alcoholic colored (orange).

Worst case scenario, it is just soda in it, and the male patron wouldn’t be bummed out by the spill, because he could easily just go to the bar and buy another soda for a dollar and change………BUT BEST CASE SCENARIO, it is a Captain Jack and coke drink, in the non alcohol colored cup, and the male patron will have to go to the bar and buy a new mixed drink (from the business this time, instead of from the trunk of my friend’s car).

Luckily I noticed this conspiracy theory as soon as the second non alcoholic cup was knocked over.  I told the dancer that “I was on to her……”  I don’t know how she interpreted that comment, seeing as this conspiracy theory was more than likely just a figment of my imagination.  But maybe I really was on to her…….and she was blown away by my Sherlock like detective work……..(On a side note, have you seen that fucking movie yet?  Sherlock Holmes is the FUCKING SHIT… or buy that movie immediately.  Robert Downy Jr.  is SO fucking on, in that movie…….)

I must admit that I am not the type of guy who personally gets all involved into the whole dancer thing at a bachelor party.  I am the type of friend who has no problem giving money to the cause while it is happening for my friends, but I really don’t give a shit about one of these dancers doing anything for me.

So, after making it rain Washington’s……multiple times for my friends, a dancer came over to me.  She gave me a purple nurple, because my friend told her to do so.  I looked at her and said

“Listen, I am really not into you giving me a nipple rip, how about…… you don’t pull that shit again?”, she giggled and proceeded to sit on my lap, so I said to her:

“I have some keys in one pocket, and my cell phone in my other pocket (which has some sharp edges), so be careful, its probably going to be pretty fucking uncomfortable sitting on me”  She laughs again, and I say:

“And listen honey, don’t even think for a fucking second, that you are going to whip the shit out of me with that belt, I am WAY too chill, to find anything remotely entertaining, in that degrading and painful activity……”

She proceeded to laugh, and asked me if I was a pothead………

Later I got up and was walking towards a friend and the other fucking dancer, whipped my back leg………I looked at her and said:

“You just didn’t fucking do that…..”

How the fuck is a dancer supposed to react towards such an anal retentive response, after she whips someone?  That’s right, the dude who was giving the strippers the most money out of practically everyone, did not want any part in getting hit with that fucking belt, and I let her know it.  I must say that I have become quite assertive in my life with female dancers, and I must think that it is all in part because of me growing up, into a mature adult.

I tell the dancers, how it is these days………….I truly communicate with them, and let them know what I am definitely “not kosher with”.

Because of this recently acquired assertiveness, which I have obtained in regards towards female dancers, she choose not whip me again, as I walked away with my non alcoholic cup (orange), which was half filled with Captain Jack and coke, because I MADE SURE, that they didn’t have a mother fucking chance to knock over my cup, and to continue on with and succeed in their master plan to knock over all of the illegally made Captain Jack and Cokes………


Andrew Michaels…….ONE       — –        Dancers/Business owner….. ZERO

…….your move mother fuckers, but just remember…..I am a fucking winner.

This is what Andrew Michaels is doing now……..

“The Good Boy”

Posted: June 7, 2010 in Uncategorized

Push Play

I have many memories of Molson that I will keep with me for the rest of my life.  Although I am feeling sadness at the moment, I know that the main emotion I will feel when I think of him throughout my life in the future is happiness.  I couldn’t have asked for a better dog than Molson. I think that Kerri and I have called him “The good boy”, just as much as we called him Molson.

A few months ago I brought Molson over my friend Andrew’s house.  I always enjoyed bringing Molson over there.  Andrew has a big, fenced in, backyard.  He also has a female yellow lab named Marley, who he loved to spend time with.  This visit a few months ago was special, because not only was Marley at the house, but her mother Lilly, and another one of Lilly’s pups (who was also a fully grown male black lab) named Blaze was at the house as well.

So we had

  • Molson a male
  • Marley a female
  • Lilly a female
  • Blaze a male

The day started out normal with the four of them running around in the backyard having a great time, but the entertainment did not happen until we brought them all inside.

Molson had his choice of two female yellow labs to hump, but for some strange reason, the only dog he was intersted in humping was the big black male dog.  On top of this, Molson has been fixed for many years, so the humping would not result in any hopeful outcomes, he might have been hoping for.

Looking back now I think the main reason Molson was trying to hump Blaze, was because of what Blaze was doing to Molson.  Blaze could care less about the two female yellow labs as well.  Blaze’s main activity was going straight for Molson’s unit.  You could not get Blaze’s face away from poor Molson’s unit.  Molson had no problem with this male on male action that was taking place, except ofcourse for when Blaze actually bit Molson’s unit slightly, causing a loud “Yelp!”.

Lilly was not interested in Blaze or Marley, for she was 100 percent interested in Molson’s butt.  Lilly could not for the life of her, stop sticking her nose right in Molson’s butt.  The best part about this was, that while she was doing this, she was dry humping absolutely nothing but the air in front of her groin.  It should be noted that Lilly does not have a unit, which made the idea of her humping air, as if she did have a unit, quite hilarious.

Marley choose not to get in on the action for some reason and just watched, just like myself and Andrew did.

Here is some cliff notes of the commentary that took place during this epic scene….(It seemed like we were constantly yelling one of these quotes, at one of the three dogs at any given moment…..)

“Blaze, get out of there, stop going after Molson’s unit!”

“God dammit Molson, stop grabbing on and humping Blaze, not only is he a male, but you are fixed and can’t even do what you are trying to do…..”

“Lilly, get your nose out of Molson’s butt, and what the fuck are you dry humping the air for?”

“Molson, stop it, leave Blaze alone!”

“Look at that……I think Blaze is trying to put Molson’s unit in his mouth…….”

“Holy shit, Molson just screamed because Blaze actually bit his fucking unit, did you see that!?!?”

“Look at Marley just laying there, she couldn’t give two shits about this crazy dog orgy that we are witnessing”

“Lilly, you really like to pretend like you have a unit, and you sure as hell like Molson’s butthole….”

“Molson, why the fuck are you trying to fuck the only one that does not have a dog vagina?”

“Blaze didn’t you learn from Molson’s scream a few minutes ago,that he doesn’t want you going after his unit?”

“Marley, are you finding this as funny as we are?”

(On and on this went for what felt like 20 minutes straight……)

Molson, I am going to miss you so fucking much, and I know Kerri is going to miss you equally as much.  I always loved you, but once Kerri came into my life, she made me realize even more, how awesome of a dog you were.  I loved you even more because of her.  Thank you for that Freckles.

Rest in Peace Good Boy, I know that we will see each other again someday……..

a long short story….

Posted: June 6, 2010 in Uncategorized

One of my blog posts that I have written but never got around to publishing was entitled “We have the opportunity to be gods”.  The basic premise was: if we could all learn to get along with each other, we would have the opportunity to prosper to the point of having much longer lives, interstellar travel, and the ability to plant life on remote parts of the galaxy, and some day the entire universe.  In some sense we would become exactly what we consider a god, or a creator of life.

Today I read a short story by Isaac Asimov titled “The Last Question”, and it was written in 1956………His story is much better than mine, so I have decided to post his story instead of mine, I hope you enjoy it:

The Last Question
The Last Question by Isaac Asimov — © 1956

The last question was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five dollar bet over highballs, and it happened this way:

Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face — miles and miles of face — of that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.

Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it quickly enough or even adequately enough — so Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to share in the glory that was Multivac’s.

For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth’s poor resources could not support the ships. Too much energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both.

But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory, became fact.

The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.

Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from the public function, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling, sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.

They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company of each other and the bottle.

“It’s amazing when you think of it,” said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. “All the energy we can possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and forever and forever.”

Lupov cocked his head sideways. He had a trick of doing that when he wanted to be contrary, and he wanted to be contrary now, partly because he had had to carry the ice and glassware. “Not forever,” he said.

“Oh, hell, just about forever. Till the sun runs down, Bert.”

“That’s not forever.”

“All right, then. Billions and billions of years. Twenty billion, maybe. Are you satisfied?”

Lupov put his fingers through his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some was still left and sipped gently at his own drink. “Twenty billion years isn’t forever.”

“Will, it will last our time, won’t it?”

“So would the coal and uranium.”

“All right, but now we can hook up each individual spaceship to the Solar Station, and it can go to Pluto and back a million times without ever worrying about fuel. You can’t do THAT on coal and uranium. Ask Multivac, if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t have to ask Multivac. I know that.”

“Then stop running down what Multivac’s done for us,” said Adell, blazing up. “It did all right.”

“Who says it didn’t? What I say is that a sun won’t last forever. That’s all I’m saying. We’re safe for twenty billion years, but then what?” Lupov pointed a slightly shaky finger at the other. “And don’t say we’ll switch to another sun.”

There was silence for a while. Adell put his glass to his lips only occasionally, and Lupov’s eyes slowly closed. They rested.

Then Lupov’s eyes snapped open. “You’re thinking we’ll switch to another sun when ours is done, aren’t you?”

“I’m not thinking.”

“Sure you are. You’re weak on logic, that’s the trouble with you. You’re like the guy in the story who was caught in a sudden shower and who ran to a grove of trees and got under one. He wasn’t worried, you see, because he figured when one tree got wet through, he would just get under another one.”

“I get it,” said Adell. “Don’t shout. When the sun is done, the other stars will be gone, too.”

“Darn right they will,” muttered Lupov. “It all had a beginning in the original cosmic explosion, whatever that was, and it’ll all have an end when all the stars run down. Some run down faster than others. Hell, the giants won’t last a hundred million years. The sun will last twenty billion years and maybe the dwarfs will last a hundred billion for all the good they are. But just give us a trillion years and everything will be dark. Entropy has to increase to maximum, that’s all.”

“I know all about entropy,” said Adell, standing on his dignity.

“The hell you do.”

“I know as much as you do.”

“Then you know everything’s got to run down someday.”

“All right. Who says they won’t?”

“You did, you poor sap. You said we had all the energy we needed, forever. You said ‘forever.’”

“It was Adell’s turn to be contrary. “Maybe we can build things up again someday,” he said.


“Why not? Someday.”


“Ask Multivac.”

“You ask Multivac. I dare you. Five dollars says it can’t be done.”

Adell was just drunk enough to try, just sober enough to be able to phrase the necessary symbols and operations into a question which, in words, might have corresponded to this: Will mankind one day without the net expenditure of energy be able to restore the sun to its full youthfulness even after it had died of old age?

Or maybe it could be put more simply like this: How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?

Multivac fell dead and silent. The slow flashing of lights ceased, the distant sounds of clicking relays ended.

Then, just as the frightened technicians felt they could hold their breath no longer, there was a sudden springing to life of the teletype attached to that portion of Multivac. Five words were printed: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

“No bet,” whispered Lupov. They left hurriedly.

By next morning, the two, plagued with throbbing head and cottony mouth, had forgotten about the incident.

Jerrodd, Jerrodine, and Jerrodette I and II watched the starry picture in the visiplate change as the passage through hyperspace was completed in its non-time lapse. At once, the even powdering of stars gave way to the predominance of a single bright marble-disk, centered.

“That’s X-23,” said Jerrodd confidently. His thin hands clamped tightly behind his back and the knuckles whitened.

The little Jerrodettes, both girls, had experienced the hyperspace passage for the first time in their lives and were self-conscious over the momentary sensation of inside-outness. They buried their giggles and chased one another wildly about their mother, screaming, “We’ve reached X-23 — we’ve reached X-23 — we’ve —-”

“Quiet, children,” said Jerrodine sharply. “Are you sure, Jerrodd?”

“What is there to be but sure?” asked Jerrodd, glancing up at the bulge of featureless metal just under the ceiling. It ran the length of the room, disappearing through the wall at either end. It was as long as the ship.

Jerrodd scarcely knew a thing about the thick rod of metal except that it was called a Microvac, that one asked it questions if one wished; that if one did not it still had its task of guiding the ship to a preordered destination; of feeding on energies from the various Sub-galactic Power Stations; of computing the equations for the hyperspacial jumps.

Jerrodd and his family had only to wait and live in the comfortable residence quarters of the ship.

Someone had once told Jerrodd that the “ac” at the end of “Microvac” stood for “analog computer” in ancient English, but he was on the edge of forgetting even that.

Jerrodine’s eyes were moist as she watched the visiplate. “I can’t help it. I feel funny about leaving Earth.”

“Why for Pete’s sake?” demanded Jerrodd. “We had nothing there. We’ll have everything on X-23. You won’t be alone. You won’t be a pioneer. There are over a million people on the planet already. Good Lord, our great grandchildren will be looking for new worlds because X-23 will be overcrowded.”

Then, after a reflective pause, “I tell you, it’s a lucky thing the computers worked out interstellar travel the way the race is growing.”

“I know, I know,” said Jerrodine miserably.

Jerrodette I said promptly, “Our Microvac is the best Microvac in the world.”

“I think so, too,” said Jerrodd, tousling her hair.

It was a nice feeling to have a Microvac of your own and Jerrodd was glad he was part of his generation and no other. In his father’s youth, the only computers had been tremendous machines taking up a hundred square miles of land. There was only one to a planet. Planetary ACs they were called. They had been growing in size steadily for a thousand years and then, all at once, came refinement. In place of transistors had come molecular valves so that even the largest Planetary AC could be put into a space only half the volume of a spaceship.

Jerrodd felt uplifted, as he always did when he thought that his own personal Microvac was many times more complicated than the ancient and primitive Multivac that had first tamed the Sun, and almost as complicated as Earth’s Planetary AC (the largest) that had first solved the problem of hyperspatial travel and had made trips to the stars possible.

“So many stars, so many planets,” sighed Jerrodine, busy with her own thoughts. “I suppose families will be going out to new planets forever, the way we are now.”

“Not forever,” said Jerrodd, with a smile. “It will all stop someday, but not for billions of years. Many billions. Even the stars run down, you know. Entropy must increase.”

“What’s entropy, daddy?” shrilled Jerrodette II.

“Entropy, little sweet, is just a word which means the amount of running-down of the universe. Everything runs down, you know, like your little walkie-talkie robot, remember?”

“Can’t you just put in a new power-unit, like with my robot?”

The stars are the power-units, dear. Once they’re gone, there are no more power-units.”

Jerrodette I at once set up a howl. “Don’t let them, daddy. Don’t let the stars run down.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” whispered Jerrodine, exasperated.

“How was I to know it would frighten them?” Jerrodd whispered back.

“Ask the Microvac,” wailed Jerrodette I. “Ask him how to turn the stars on again.”

“Go ahead,” said Jerrodine. “It will quiet them down.” (Jerrodette II was beginning to cry, also.)

Jarrodd shrugged. “Now, now, honeys. I’ll ask Microvac. Don’t worry, he’ll tell us.”

He asked the Microvac, adding quickly, “Print the answer.”

Jerrodd cupped the strip of thin cellufilm and said cheerfully, “See now, the Microvac says it will take care of everything when the time comes so don’t worry.”

Jerrodine said, “and now children, it’s time for bed. We’ll be in our new home soon.”

Jerrodd read the words on the cellufilm again before destroying it: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

He shrugged and looked at the visiplate. X-23 was just ahead.

VJ-23X of Lameth stared into the black depths of the three-dimensional, small-scale map of the Galaxy and said, “Are we ridiculous, I wonder, in being so concerned about the matter?”

MQ-17J of Nicron shook his head. “I think not. You know the Galaxy will be filled in five years at the present rate of expansion.”

Both seemed in their early twenties, both were tall and perfectly formed.

“Still,” said VJ-23X, “I hesitate to submit a pessimistic report to the Galactic Council.”

“I wouldn’t consider any other kind of report. Stir them up a bit. We’ve got to stir them up.”

VJ-23X sighed. “Space is infinite. A hundred billion Galaxies are there for the taking. More.”

“A hundred billion is not infinite and it’s getting less infinite all the time. Consider! Twenty thousand years ago, mankind first solved the problem of utilizing stellar energy, and a few centuries later, interstellar travel became possible. It took mankind a million years to fill one small world and then only fifteen thousand years to fill the rest of the Galaxy. Now the population doubles every ten years –”

VJ-23X interrupted. “We can thank immortality for that.”

“Very well. Immortality exists and we have to take it into account. I admit it has its seamy side, this immortality. The Galactic AC has solved many problems for us, but in solving the problems of preventing old age and death, it has undone all its other solutions.”

“Yet you wouldn’t want to abandon life, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” snapped MQ-17J, softening it at once to, “Not yet. I’m by no means old enough. How old are you?”

“Two hundred twenty-three. And you?”

“I’m still under two hundred. –But to get back to my point. Population doubles every ten years. Once this Galaxy is filled, we’ll have another filled in ten years. Another ten years and we’ll have filled two more. Another decade, four more. In a hundred years, we’ll have filled a thousand Galaxies. In a thousand years, a million Galaxies. In ten thousand years, the entire known Universe. Then what?”

VJ-23X said, “As a side issue, there’s a problem of transportation. I wonder how many sunpower units it will take to move Galaxies of individuals from one Galaxy to the next.”

“A very good point. Already, mankind consumes two sunpower units per year.”

“Most of it’s wasted. After all, our own Galaxy alone pours out a thousand sunpower units a year and we only use two of those.”

“Granted, but even with a hundred per cent efficiency, we can only stave off the end. Our energy requirements are going up in geometric progression even faster than our population. We’ll run out of energy even sooner than we run out of Galaxies. A good point. A very good point.”

“We’ll just have to build new stars out of interstellar gas.”

“Or out of dissipated heat?” asked MQ-17J, sarcastically.

“There may be some way to reverse entropy. We ought to ask the Galactic AC.”

VJ-23X was not really serious, but MQ-17J pulled out his AC-contact from his pocket and placed it on the table before him.

“I’ve half a mind to,” he said. “It’s something the human race will have to face someday.”

He stared somberly at his small AC-contact. It was only two inches cubed and nothing in itself, but it was connected through hyperspace with the great Galactic AC that served all mankind. Hyperspace considered, it was an integral part of the Galactic AC.

MQ-17J paused to wonder if someday in his immortal life he would get to see the Galactic AC. It was on a little world of its own, a spider webbing of force-beams holding the matter within which surges of sub-mesons took the place of the old clumsy molecular valves. Yet despite it’s sub-etheric workings, the Galactic AC was known to be a full thousand feet across.

MQ-17J asked suddenly of his AC-contact, “Can entropy ever be reversed?”

VJ-23X looked startled and said at once, “Oh, say, I didn’t really mean to have you ask that.”

“Why not?”

“We both know entropy can’t be reversed. You can’t turn smoke and ash back into a tree.”

“Do you have trees on your world?” asked MQ-17J.

The sound of the Galactic AC startled them into silence. Its voice came thin and beautiful out of the small AC-contact on the desk. It said: THERE IS INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

VJ-23X said, “See!”

The two men thereupon returned to the question of the report they were to make to the Galactic Council.

Zee Prime’s mind spanned the new Galaxy with a faint interest in the countless twists of stars that powdered it. He had never seen this one before. Would he ever see them all? So many of them, each with its load of humanity – but a load that was almost a dead weight. More and more, the real essence of men was to be found out here, in space.

Minds, not bodies! The immortal bodies remained back on the planets, in suspension over the eons. Sometimes they roused for material activity but that was growing rarer. Few new individuals were coming into existence to join the incredibly mighty throng, but what matter? There was little room in the Universe for new individuals.

Zee Prime was roused out of his reverie upon coming across the wispy tendrils of another mind.

“I am Zee Prime,” said Zee Prime. “And you?”

“I am Dee Sub Wun. Your Galaxy?”

“We call it only the Galaxy. And you?”

“We call ours the same. All men call their Galaxy their Galaxy and nothing more. Why not?”

“True. Since all Galaxies are the same.”

“Not all Galaxies. On one particular Galaxy the race of man must have originated. That makes it different.”

Zee Prime said, “On which one?”

“I cannot say. The Universal AC would know.”

“Shall we ask him? I am suddenly curious.”

Zee Prime’s perceptions broadened until the Galaxies themselves shrunk and became a new, more diffuse powdering on a much larger background. So many hundreds of billions of them, all with their immortal beings, all carrying their load of intelligences with minds that drifted freely through space. And yet one of them was unique among them all in being the originals Galaxy. One of them had, in its vague and distant past, a period when it was the only Galaxy populated by man.

Zee Prime was consumed with curiosity to see this Galaxy and called, out: “Universal AC! On which Galaxy did mankind originate?”

The Universal AC heard, for on every world and throughout space, it had its receptors ready, and each receptor lead through hyperspace to some unknown point where the Universal AC kept itself aloof.

Zee Prime knew of only one man whose thoughts had penetrated within sensing distance of Universal AC, and he reported only a shining globe, two feet across, difficult to see.

“But how can that be all of Universal AC?” Zee Prime had asked.

“Most of it, ” had been the answer, “is in hyperspace. In what form it is there I cannot imagine.”

Nor could anyone, for the day had long since passed, Zee Prime knew, when any man had any part of the making of a universal AC. Each Universal AC designed and constructed its successor. Each, during its existence of a million years or more accumulated the necessary data to build a better and more intricate, more capable successor in which its own store of data and individuality would be submerged.

The Universal AC interrupted Zee Prime’s wandering thoughts, not with words, but with guidance. Zee Prime’s mentality was guided into the dim sea of Galaxies and one in particular enlarged into stars.

A thought came, infinitely distant, but infinitely clear. “THIS IS THE ORIGINAL GALAXY OF MAN.”

But it was the same after all, the same as any other, and Zee Prime stifled his disappointment.

Dee Sub Wun, whose mind had accompanied the other, said suddenly, “And is one of these stars the original star of Man?”


“Did the men upon it die?” asked Zee Prime, startled and without thinking.


“Yes, of course,” said Zee Prime, but a sense of loss overwhelmed him even so. His mind released its hold on the original Galaxy of Man, let it spring back and lose itself among the blurred pin points. He never wanted to see it again.

Dee Sub Wun said, “What is wrong?”

“The stars are dying. The original star is dead.”

“They must all die. Why not?”

“But when all energy is gone, our bodies will finally die, and you and I with them.”

“It will take billions of years.”

“I do not wish it to happen even after billions of years. Universal AC! How may stars be kept from dying?”

Dee sub Wun said in amusement, “You’re asking how entropy might be reversed in direction.”


Zee Prime’s thoughts fled back to his own Galaxy. He gave no further thought to Dee Sub Wun, whose body might be waiting on a galaxy a trillion light-years away, or on the star next to Zee Prime’s own. It didn’t matter.

Unhappily, Zee Prime began collecting interstellar hydrogen out of which to build a small star of his own. If the stars must someday die, at least some could yet be built.

Man considered with himself, for in a way, Man, mentally, was one. He consisted of a trillion, trillion, trillion ageless bodies, each in its place, each resting quiet and incorruptible, each cared for by perfect automatons, equally incorruptible, while the minds of all the bodies freely melted one into the other, indistinguishable.

Man said, “The Universe is dying.”

Man looked about at the dimming Galaxies. The giant stars, spendthrifts, were gone long ago, back in the dimmest of the dim far past. Almost all stars were white dwarfs, fading to the end.

New stars had been built of the dust between the stars, some by natural processes, some by Man himself, and those were going, too. White dwarfs might yet be crashed together and of the mighty forces so released, new stars built, but only one star for every thousand white dwarfs destroyed, and those would come to an end, too.

Man said, “Carefully husbanded, as directed by the Cosmic AC, the energy that is even yet left in all the Universe will last for billions of years.”

“But even so,” said Man, “eventually it will all come to an end. However it may be husbanded, however stretched out, the energy once expended is gone and cannot be restored. Entropy must increase to the maximum.”

Man said, “Can entropy not be reversed? Let us ask the Cosmic AC.”

The Cosmic AC surrounded them but not in space. Not a fragment of it was in space. It was in hyperspace and made of something that was neither matter nor energy. The question of its size and Nature no longer had meaning to any terms that Man could comprehend.

“Cosmic AC,” said Man, “How may entropy be reversed?”


Man said, “Collect additional data.”


“Will there come a time,” said Man, “when data will be sufficient or is the problem insoluble in all conceivable circumstances?”


Man said, “When will you have enough data to answer the question?”


“Will you keep working on it?” asked Man.

The Cosmic AC said, “I WILL.”

Man said, “We shall wait.”

The stars and Galaxies died and snuffed out, and space grew black after ten trillion years of running down.

One by one Man fused with AC, each physical body losing its mental identity in a manner that was somehow not a loss but a gain.

Man’s last mind paused before fusion, looking over a space that included nothing but the dregs of one last dark star and nothing besides but incredibly thin matter, agitated randomly by the tag ends of heat wearing out, asymptotically, to the absolute zero.

Man said, “AC, is this the end? Can this chaos not be reversed into the Universe once more? Can that not be done?”


Man’s last mind fused and only AC existed — and that in hyperspace.

Matter and energy had ended and with it, space and time. Even AC existed only for the sake of the one last question that it had never answered from the time a half-drunken computer ten trillion years before had asked the question of a computer that was to AC far less than was a man to Man.

All other questions had been answered, and until this last question was answered also, AC might not release his consciousness.

All collected data had come to a final end. Nothing was left to be collected.

But all collected data had yet to be completely correlated and put together in all possible relationships.

A timeless interval was spent in doing that.

And it came to pass that AC learned how to reverse the direction of entropy.

But there was now no man to whom AC might give the answer of the last question. No matter. The answer — by demonstration — would take care of that, too.

For another timeless interval, AC thought how best to do this. Carefully, AC organized the program.

The consciousness of AC encompassed all of what had once been a Universe and brooded over what was now Chaos. Step by step, it must be done.


And there was light