Collapsing Shack, AZ—The Daily Discord film crew was forced to push back the start date of their soon to be Oscar nominated epic “Belch of the Mogollon Monster.” The latest S.T.Q. blockbuster was slated to be filmed on location in scenic Picture Canyon, conveniently located just outside of Flagstaff, but less than a week before the shoot the site was closed due to an infestation of plague-bearing fleas.

The Discord’s writer, editor, actor, producer, stage hand, prop boy, bar back, driver, and animal trainer, Zano, had this to say: “This is obviously a government plot, which means we are getting close to the truth. What is in Picture Canyon that they don’t want us to see? What secrets are they worried that we will uncover? Oh, and what time is it? Cokie asked me to pick up her dry cleaning.”

Alex Bone, the Discord’s Senior Camping Correspondent, towel boy, and Yig advocate added, “This isn’t going to help us either professionally or personally. Most of us are homeless and needed to camp in the Canyon just to make sure we were there on time. Zano didn’t even want to tell us about the plague and we only found out about the shutdown while we were on a beer run. He wants to start the filming again tomorrow, but I can’t get out of my wet sleeping bag and my body is now covered with purple growths the size of goose eggs. This time they aren’t hickies, honey, honest!”

Cameraman Greg was heard saying. “I wish I had known too. I parked my ride there and the plague infested prairie dogs must have mutated somehow, because they drove away with my car. I found it trashed downtown and the cops told me they had what the kids are calling a Plague Party, which is where the young prairie dogs have fleas bite them until they catch the ‘Black Buzz.’ Then they vomit and crap everywhere, just like Bone. They shit all over my Karman Ghia. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the broken folding chair in Ballz’ basement again.”

Zano tried to plead with Winslow for more funding for the project, but was told that if he already spent the fifteen dollars allocated for the three month project on beer then he was shit out of luck. After sending photos of our plague infested bodies, Winslow suggested we shoot a zombie movie instead, adding, “Think of the money we’ll save on makeup, Zano!”

We also learned too late that passing around joints and bottles of tequila when some of the people in the room have the Black Plague is a bad idea as well. As we all laid on the floor of the Man Cave counting our black plague boils we were informed by Ballz’ mother that it was time to leave. Stricken and homeless and losing limbs, we hit the streets.

What do you call a punk rocker without a girlfriend?

Homeless.

What do you call a punker rocker without a girlfriend who has the plague?

Gutter Goo.

The show must go on so Belch of the Mogollon Monster will be filmed later this month near Sunset Crater. It will star all of the survivors. It doesn’t help that Winslow pulled our health insurance this year, the bastard.

Rest Area outside of Bullhead City—In an effort to cut expenses and help fund his second home in Bermuda, CEO Pierce Winslow has moved the entire Discord reporting staff into the old Winnebago his grandmother left him. No less than a dozen reporters, six children, eight significant others, eleven cats, four dogs, twenty-six snakes, a full bar with keggerator, an eight-foot statue of Yig and seventeen cubic-feet of crawdad traps will be living and working from a space roughly the size of Winslow’s guest’s guest bathroom.

When we tried to reach Mr. Winslow for an interview, he wouldn’t allow us into his office. I did hear him bragging to his secretary’s assistant through the door. “They think this is bad, if that thing breaks down wait until they get a load of plan B. Besides, it’s all part of this team building exercise I read about, or at least a slightly more sadistic version.”

Undaunted, the Discord team has tried to make the best of their situation. “We’ll be like pirates,” said Alex Bone, while strapping a six foot statue of Yig to the hood. “Only dumb ones.”

“Yeah, look on the bright side,” added Zano, “with the Ghetto Shaman in jail, at least we won’t have to deal with all of his chickens.”

The women appeared less enthusiastic. After pulling out enough hair to allow Bald Tony to join an eighties hair band, Cokie McGrath shouted, “All the women are relegated to, big surprise, the kitchen! I’ve already heard enough of, ‘well, since you’re there, Cokie, how about twenty sandwiches and a few pizzas?’ And that’s just Bone’s order. I would call them misogynists if I thought they’d know what it meant.”

I spoke with Mr. Tony Ballz, who sat with three cats on his lap between two adults and two small children on a couch. “I’ve had worse,” he said, before turning away to place an order with Cokie in the kitchen.

Since everyone is now housed in the same location, Winslow cut staff expense accounts even further. He rationalized this by sending the gang a Sam’s Club card with a note that read: BUY IN BULK. Alex Bone Is trying to subsidize the food supply by laying out his crawdad traps each night, but when he got arrested for stealing butter, morale fell to an all-time low.

“But at least we have some space,” said Zano. “That tall freak took up as much room as all the pets put together.”

What does the future hold for the Discord crew? Only time will tell. But as long as they can sponge enough money to keep gas in the tank, there’s no limit to where they could be reporting from next week…as long as you let them park in your front yard…and, maybe, use your shower occasionally. Yeah, that would be really cool. Tony’s starting to smell. Oh yeah, and do you have Wifi? This article needs to be sent to Winslow A.S.A.P. or we won’t get our next food allowance.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—This week, quiet unexpectedly, Alex Bone called for a press conference at the Discord Tower and almost four people showed up, well, if you count Ballz and Zano. Once they had settled into Mr. Winslow’s bean bag bunny chairs, Boneman cleared his throat and addressed the historic assemblage:

“I am announcing today that I have been infected with an Alien Chest-buster,” said Bone. “As you may know, these beings typically gnaw their way through a person’s chest in a matter of hours. I, however, have survived with this one living inside me for over three weeks now!”

He raised a finger, as if to emphasize a point, but then quickly lowered it and raised a bottle of IPA instead. “How have I done this, you ask? How have I succeeded where others have just burst apart by now? (Burp.) It’s simple, it involves eating the right combination of beer and hamburgers. I’ve found that as long as I drink about forty beers a day and eat ten hamburgers an hour, the little guy seems content enough. In fact, I have named him Snookie-wookie.”

He stopped to rub his tummy, slammed down a hamburger in three bites, and then chugged two beers. His eyes then misted over a little. “The rest of you men have no idea what it’s like to feel a life growing inside of you. It is a magical… oh, we have a question. Yes, Zano.”

“Is this why all the communal beer has gone missing this week?”

Bone mumbled something, before saying, “Next question.”

When no one asked him anything, he looked at Ballz and said, “You had a question?”

“No I didn’t.”

“No, I think you did.”

After an awkward pause, Ballz said, “Don’t the aliens grow pretty quickly after they burst out of their victims? Why hasn’t this one just grown through you?”

“A very good question… I have no idea. Maybe it loves its new mommy.”

“And my beer,” added Zano.

After Bone kept his audience from wandering away with a promise of sharing his cheeseburger stash, he said, “So I’m sure all of you are wondering what’s next from here.”

“Were you?” Zano asked Ballz.

“Not really.”

Bone hurried down another hamburger and then chugged an IPA, before he held up a glossy covered book that read An Alien Inside: Skip the Beer and Stand Clear.

“We are going to have a book signing tour!” said Bone. “After the talk show circuit I plan to… Hey, come back, I’m not done yet. Maybe you guys could try to dress up like Aliens when I open my new hamburger chain. Can you guys sing Ragtime Gal, by chance? I’m calling it Buster Burgers and each burger comes with a side of a highly corrosive acid for a dipping sauce. Get it? And you should see what we’re using instead of fries. Guys… guys? Oh, can someone run down to Diablo Burger and the Pay-n-Take? It’s kind of an emergency.

Route 66.6, AZ—These days I bike almost everywhere I go and my laptop always comes with me, even if my bicycle tires are pumped full of thorns or the weather’s so bad the mailmen stayed home. I’m talking about the place where my insult-resistant rubber hits the road. I have only lost one laptop during my backpack travels. But please don’t mention “The salad dressing incident”—it still gives me P.T.S.D.D. (Post Traumatic Salad Dressing Disorder).

Another thing that can give you P.T.S.D., the real DSM-V version, is making the morning commute on a bike. The first thing I would like to point out to all combustible engine drivers is that I didn’t live all these years, grind through a world of BS, keep my bike serviced, just to die under your tires this morning. No, this isn’t a slam on your driving—just the opposite. I’d rather deal with a reckless driver that just races by than someone who slows down, but doesn’t stop. Like he thinks I’ve never seen an oncoming car before and wouldn’t know what to do. Yeah, maybe, just at the right moment I’ll decide life isn’t worth living and dash myself under his tires.

Another thing that motorists need to realize is this: when I’m on a bike, everything is a road. If I did what I do on my bike while driving a car I would make the national news…every morning. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line or at least a wavering line…um, and sometimes after happy hour a very wavering line. I ride as the crow flies, after happy hour.

There is another way riding a bike can save you money and that’s at the grocery store. You can’t buy too much food at once if you have to hump it over a hill in a backpack after working all day and commuting ten miles. Should I buy potatoes or whip cream? I don’t need whip cream, but it is soooo much lighter and fluffier. Hmm… And, I know you wanted some prime rib, honey, but rice cakes were on sale again.

As if risking your life is not enough, you can also get flack from the cops. This once happened to me:

“Sir, we heard someone riding a bike was committing crimes.”

“Um, if I call in and say someone driving a car is committing crimes, would you stop every car?”

Everyone wants to avoid that DUI ticket, but think about it, I can’t kill people on my bike no matter how fast I ride and believe me and you’re really safe after a few beers because my speed markedly decreases. So bike riding seems like a safer bet for all involved. I got pulled over the other day and the cop says:

“Sir, I want to give you a sobriety test.”

“Cool, I got a great idea for one. Why don’t I ride a bike, uphill, while carrying all these groceries?”

There is another eternal question that comes up when you are riding. Am I a loser because I’m facing the elements while others are coasting by in style? Or, am I a righteous kick ass winner, because I motivated to wake up twenty minutes early and will be staying in better shape, while helping the environment, and even saving a few bucks?

Now ladies before you answer or sneer at that fella you see bike riding, remember a few simple things. First, that guy is fighting his beer gut during his commute. Perhaps even more important is stamina baby, stamina. Who’s going to be better in the sack? The guy risking his life to pump through the miles or the guy that takes the elevator to the second floor at work? Yeah, I’m talking to you, Zano. Kidding, he usually insists people come down to his office.

So does saving money and the environment all while increasing my health make me cool? Or, are you still pissed to see a biker breaking all the rules that you wish you could? Just remember, if we bikers tick you off, you had better stay in your car. If you mess with us we’ll kick your lazy fat ass and then ride over it—during a sobriety test while carrying our groceries.