- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Friday, January 1, 2016
The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
In a galaxy far, far away...
Another life, another year. I spend my days hauling salvage from desiccated star cruisers, dragging their innards across the desert so that I may earn my bread. The sand is coarse and irritating, and it gets everywhere. I hate it. My competition is composed of various species, most barely-sentient and only capable of communicating in languages that sound like a series of farts. I understand them, however. I guess that I speak fart.
Aboard a stolen freighter, on the run from nebulous forces
I'm not sure how I got mixed up in this. A former imperial soldier more or less kidnapped me and now we're shuttling across the galaxy, trying to unite with the Rebel Alliance. I don't know what to do. Politics have never really interested me. During down time, we play holo chess. Turns out I'm something of a savant. Who would've thought a former junker who speaks farts would be good at holo chess? If we ever get out of this mess, I'm going to Coruscant to become space-Bobby Fischer.
Captured by Imperials, awaiting interrogation
Well that idiot stormtrooper really fucked things up for me. Of course, we got boarded and I got hauled off at gunpoint and thrown in a cell. This star destroyer is managed by a guy wearing a black dress and a Cobra Commander mask. He seems to have anger issues; I watched him step in gum and proceed to take out a computer console with his lasersword, all the while screaming incoherently. Unfortunately, he's the guy who is going to interrogate me. This doesn't look good. My dream of becoming a holo-chess champion is about to go out the space toilet.
Post-interrogation, lying paralyzed at the bottom of a trash compactor
That angry dude used space magic on me and now I can't move. Apparently he didn't find anything interesting in my ol' noggin, but I guess the Imperials have a guilty by association policy. I think there's something in here; I saw a fleshy eye pop up like a periscope, and I'm pretty sure a tentacle massaged my left leg. If the garbage beast doesn't get me, the crushing walls will. Still, I don't miss sand or speaking in farts. The universe is cruel, but I always seem to wake up somewhere. You folks have a happy new year's.