Podcast: FictoRant, Episode 1

So, last Saturday, I recorded a podcast for the Fictosphere with fellow Fictospherians Mike Podgor and Jeff Holloway.  You can take a listen here:


The description of the episode from Fictosphere.com:

“In which the men behind the Fictosphere discuss the death of Disney Infinity. (EXPLICIT LANGUAGE)”

A word about the podcasts and podcast schedules:

  • This is the first episode of the FictoRant, where we discuss recent events in the nerd world and beyond that we consider noteworthy and, more often than not, slightly aggravating.  There will be a new episode every other week.
  • A second podcast, the FictoCast, will likewise see a new episode every other week.  The FictoCast will be different from the FictoRant in that it is meant to provide a bit of insight into the Fictosphere–what it is, what we’re up to creatively, what’s on the horizon (we hope), what has inspired us, etc.  It’s a good look into how creative minds like ours work–or, in some cases, don’t work.
  • All-in-all, the Fictosphere will have a new podcast each week–alternating between the FictoRant and the FictoCast.
  • The FictoRant is slated to be around 45 minutes to an hour, while the FictoCast is slated to be about 30 to 45 minutes.

So, if you ever wondered what I sound like, here’s your chance to find out!


The Ballad of the Coffee House Poser; or, //_+-!?3

You wind up in the strangest places!
Dave and a donut with sprinkles
of pink.
Silly ninja.
You aren’t smarter than Mike P.
No one is.
The T-Virus infected the Fez,
the Fez infected the T-Virus.
Monkey and Pac-Man…
together at last.

“Read a book of wordless wonders,”
the Fez spoke with a sarcastic tone.
The Cruton replies:
“I am the Wheel Man!”
Double O said, “Hello,Rhyming is fun.”
All are one
in the ultimate truth of the depths.

There was a time when
Bob ran and pushed people to the
sounds of “Beep!  Beep!  #%$@!!!”
Tony was speaking, so all SHUT UP!
you Saigon whore!
I’m better off than I was before!
I’m a cat in a hat!  I will make you rhyme!
“BWAHA,” said Ian, “the day is mine!”

The noise continues,
Loud Friday it is!
The happiness comes to me…
The light goes away for a moment,then returns!  Sound and noise.
Noise and sound…continues…

All is quiet now…
All is quiet as it was before,
here with my heart spilled on the floor.
“Kyle this,” and “Francis that,”
“Why don’t you lick Michelle’s loose twat?”
Oh no!  Hark!  The Phil draws nigh!
Soulless bodies are left to crumble in the
bright morning sky!
My ass, doth Phillip, is surely grass.
Grass, I say!
Bwaha!  BWAHA!
I am the Crane, and he is the tiger!
Moses is the twenty-second
of a line of

“Pika, Pika,” says the Chu.
“I think that I will thundershock you!
I know the law, and that’s no lie!
What am I: straight, a homo, or bi?”
Enough of this rhyme!  The Crane grows tired!
“Because I could not stop for death…”
The god of Z is married now, the ball and chain.
“He kindly stopped for me…”
The rhyme continues, depression sets in.
“His carriage held both him and me…”
Stop this infernal rhyme!
“And eternity.”

The misses of pining, the shortest outskirt.
The ninja and the robot are one in the same.
The robot and ninja, only one has a name.
Where is Dave?
Can it get any worse?  Yes, yes, of course it can,
you slithering simpleton!
And then he ate the highly intelligent pickle.

Big Head

Big Head looks through the garbage.
His paper was stolen and thrown away.
How will he sleep tonight?
He will not.

Enis is his name.
It rhymes with something.
I cannot remember what.
Oh well.

Big Head tries to fit his head
In the toilet to drown himself.
He cannot.
His head is too big.

Poor Big Head.
He will bring about the end of days
As his head will block out the sun.
It even appears on radar!

– From An Old Man’s Nocturnal Emissions
Randall Malus, c. 2000/2001

A Tribute to “The Best Day”; or, Gillespie Wrote This Poem

Scratching at notebook paper,
Pen marks scrawling and scribbling
Evidence of words and ideas coaxed–
Subconscious thoughts of teenaged
Mind given form and manifest function–

Wealthy Gillespie hands with ease
Paper containing his own handiwork,
Breaking my concentration
Like a murder of crows
Blocking out the sun:

“One day, the sun will shine
Birds will chirp
Winds will blow

One day, air will be crisp
Bees will buzz
Flowers will bloom

One day, people will feel fulfilled
Trees will blossom
Children will sing

One day, on the greatest of days,
Life will be worth living again.
Because Ginley will be dead.”

For me, puzzled, to use as my own,
While secrets remain as to the writer’s
True identity.  I use it now, remade,
Reformed, paraphrased, eviscerated,
Sentiment exposed and revealed.

But Gillespie still wrote the original.

– From An Old Man’s Nocturnal Emissions
Randall Malus, c. 2001/2015

Sinister Penguin


Evil, wicked penguin!
Why did you steal the Eskimo’s
only beer?
The beer for which he traveled
so long and hard on a sled
of huskies?
You, evil penguin, have caused
the Eskimo to melt his
igloo in a sober rage!
He needed that beer,
Satan’s servant,
and you have robbed him of it!
But, hark, what is this?
The penguin has sipped the beer!
How can this be?  Penguins can’t fly!
Yet here, the intoxicated mammal
flaps its wings and flies to
scenic Harlem.
How can this be?
He is a drunken penguin,
and all things are possible.


There is a bulldozer where the
penguin lands, and with one small
claw it turns the key.
The penguin has turned the key!
“That sounds like a drunken penguin
operating heavy machinery,” a nearby
officer states as he draws his weapon
to stop that which cannot be stopped.
He fires in vain at the bulldozer,
knowing the penguin’s rage cannot be stopped!
The end is near for Harlem
and the world!
The penguin is a demonic force
of beer-stealing fury as
it sings, “Doo Be Doo Be Doo!”
Nothing can satiate a drunken penguin.


The next day is one of confusion as
the evil penguin finds himself in a bed.
On him, a navel uniform.
Next to him, a cheap prostitute.
In a drunken stupor the wicked
penguin joined the U.S. Navy!
A proposition came to him
and he accepted.
The prostitute, after a night of penguin
pleasures, wanted twenty dollars in return.
How can he pay?
He’s only a penguin!

– From An Old Man’s Nocturnal Emissions
Randall Malus, c. 2001