Dear peoples,

This could be considered a little intense to some be  encouraged not to read if you are easily bothered.

The following is an excerpt from the book FIGHT CLUB. I long very much to express the way I feel, as well as how my brother Josh feels and how we handle it. Things no one understands, not even us. So sometimes it comes out in strange short little confusing bursts. This is one.

Enjoy.
(or not = P)

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Sitting in the front of the Corniche, the guy says, "Did you see the cake I made for you? I made this."

It's not my birthday.

"Some oil was getting by the rings," the mechanic guy says, "but I changed the oil and the air filter. I checked the valve lash and the timing. It’s supposed to rain, tonight, so I changed the blades.

I ask, what's Tyler been planning?

The mechanic opens the ashtray and pushes the cigarette lighter in. He says, "Is this a test? Are you testing us?

I ask, where's Tyler?

"The first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club," the mechanic says, "And the last rule of Project Mayhem is you don't ask questions."

So what can he tell me?

He says, "What you have to understand, is your father was your model for God."

Behind us, my job and my office are smaller, smaller, smaller, gone.

I sniff the gasoline on my hands.

The mechanic says, "If you're male and Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. And if you never know your father, if your father bails out or dies or is never at home, what do you believe about God?"

This is all Tyler Durden dogma. Scrawled on bits of paper while I was asleep and given to me to type and photocopy at work. I've read it all. Even my boss has probably read it all.

"What you will end up doing," the mechanic says, "is spend your life searching for a father and God."

"What you have to consider," he says, "is the possibility that God doesn’t like you. Could be, God hates us. This is not the worst thing that can happen."

How Tyler saw it was that getting God's attention for being bad was better than getting no attention at all. Maybe because God's hate is better than his indifference.

If you could be either God's worst enemy or nothing, which would you choose? We are God's middle children, according to Tyler Durden, with no special place in history and no special attention. Unless we get God's attention, we have no hope of damnation or redemption.

Which is worse, hell or nothing?

Only if we're caught and punished can we be saved.

"Burn the Louvre," the mechanic says, "and wipe your feet with the Mona Lisa. This way at least, God would know our names."

The lower you fall, the higher you'll fly. The farther you run, the more God wants you back.

"If the prodigal son had never left home," the mechanic says, "the fatted calf would still be alive."

It's not enough to be numbered with the grains of sand on the beach and the stars in the sky.

The mechanic merges the black Corniche onto the old bypass highway with no passing lane, and already a line of trucks strings together behind us, going the legal speed limit. The Corniche fills up with the headlights behind us, and there we are, talking, reflected in the inside of the windshield. Driving inside the speed limit. As fast as the law allows.

A law is a law, Tyler would say. Driving too fast was the same as setting a fire was the same as planting a bomb was the same as shooting a man.

A criminal is a criminal is a criminal.

The mechanic yells out the driver's window into the oncoming traffic and the night wind pouring down the side of the car: "We want you, not your money." The mechanic yells out the window, “As long as you’re at fight club, you’re not how much money you’ve got in the bank. You’re not your job. You’re not your family, and you’re not who you tell yourself.”

The mechanic yells into the wind, “You’re not your name.”

A space monkey in the back seat shouts, “You’re not your problems.”

The mechanic yells, “You’re not your problems.”

A space monkey shouts, “You’re not your age.”

The mechanic yells, “You’re not your age.”

Here, the mechanic swerves us into the oncoming lane, filling the car with headlights through the windshield, cool as ducking jabs. One car and then another comes at us head-on screaming its horn and the mechanic swerves just enough to miss each one. Headlights come at us, bigger and bigger, horns screaming, and the mechanic cranes forward into the glare and the noise and screams, “You are not your hopes.”

No one takes up the yell.

This time, the car coming head-on swerves in time to save us.

Another car comes on, headlights blinking high, low, high, low, horn blaring, and the mechanic screams, “You will not be saved.”

The mechanic doesn’t swerve but the head-on car swerves.

Another car, and the mechanic screams, “We are all going to die someday.”

This time, the oncoming car swerves, but the mechanic swerves back into its path. The car swerves and the mechanic matches it head-on, again. 

You melt and swell at that moment. For the moment, nothing matters. Look up at the stars and you’re gone. Not your luggage. Nothing matters.The windows are dark ourside and the horns are blaring around you. The headlights are flashing hign and low and high in your face, and you will never have to go to work again.

You will never have to get another haircut.

“Quick,” the mechanic says.

The car swerves again, and the mechanic swerves back into its path.

“What,” he says, “what will you wish you’d done before you died?”

With the oncoming car screaming its horn and the mechanic so cool he even looks away to look at me beside him in the front seat, and he says, “Ten seconds to impact.”

“Nine”

“In eight”

“Seven”

“In six”

My job, I say. I wish I’d quit my job.

The scream goes by as the car swerves and the mechanic doesn’t swerve to hit it.

More lights are coming at us just ahead, and the mechanic turns to the three space monkeys in the back seat. "Hey, space monkeys," he says, "You see how the game's played. Fess up now or we're all dead."

The Mischief Committee is printing airline pocket cards that show passengers fighting each other for oxygen masks while their jetliner flames down toward the rocks at a thousand miles an hours. Mischief and Misinformation committees are racing each other to develop a computer virus that will make automated bank tellers sick enough to vomit storms of ten- and twenty-dollar bills.

"What will you wish you'd done before you died?" the mechanic says and swerves us into a path of a truck coming head-on. . . .
"Make your wish, quick," he says to the rearview mirror where the three space monkeys are sitting in the back seat. "We've got five seconds to oblivion.
"One," he says.
"Two."
The truck is everything in front of us, blinding and roaring.
"Three."
"Ride a horse," comes from the back seat.
"Build a house," comes another voice.
"Get a tattoo."

The mechanic says, “Believe in me and you shall die, forever.”

Too late, the truck swerves and the mechanic swerves but the rear bumper of our Corniche fishtails against one end of the truck’s front bumper.

Not that I know this at the time, what I know is the lights, the truck headlights blink out into darkness and I’m thrown headfirst against the passenger door and then against the birthday cake and the mechanic behind the steering wheel.

The mechanic’s lying crabbed on the wheel to keep it straight and the birthday candles stuff out. In one perfect second there’s no light inside the warm black leather car and our shouts all hit the same deep note, the same low moan of the truck’s air horn and we have no control, no choice, no direction, and no escape and we’re dead.

My wish right now is for me to die. I am nothing in the world compared to Tyler.

I am helpless.

I am stupid, and all I ever do is want and need things.

My tiny life. My little shit job. My Swedish furniture. I never, no, never told anyone this, but before I met Tyler, I was planning to buy a dog and name it “Entourage.”

This is how bad your life can get.

Kill me.

I grab the steering wheel and crank us back into traffic.

Now.

Prepare to evacuate soul.

Now.

The mechanic wrestles the wheel toward the ditch, and I wrestle to fucking die.

Now. The amazing miracle of death, when one second you’re walking and talking, and the next second, you’re an object.

I am nothing, and not even that.

Cold.

Invisible.

I smell leather. My sear belt feels twisted like a straitjacket around me, and when I try to sit up, I hit my head against the steering wheel.

This hurts more than it should. My head is resting in the mechanic’s lap, and as I look up, my eyes adjust to see the mechanic’s face high over me, smiling, driving, and I can see stars ourside the driver’s window.

My hands and face are sticky with something.

Blood?

Buttercream frosting,

The mechanic looks down. “Happy Birthday.”

I smell smoke and remember the birthday cake.

“I almost broke the steering wheel with your head,” he says.

Just nothing else, just the night air and the smell of smoke, and the starts and the mechanic smiling and driving, my head in his lap, all of the sudden I don’t feel like I have to sit up.

Where’s the cake?

The mechanic says, “On the floor.”

Just the night air and the smell of smoke is heavier.

Did I get my wish?

Up above me, outlined against the stars in the window, the face smiles. “Those birthday candles,” he says, “they’re the kind that never go out.”

In the starlight, my eyes adjust enough to see smoke braiding up from little fires all around us in the carpet.

I've met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, "Why?" Why did I cause so much pain? Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness? Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love? I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God's got this all wrong. We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens. And God says, "No, that's not right." Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.

There has been a little confusion about the flying moose from my last post.

This is how I think it happened.....(Now Remember I am not responceable for any eye damage caused while viewing the "art". It is for illustration purposes only! I am the worst "artist" ever to walk the earth.)

The wind goes around the car like this, V

Then along came da moose...

This is the center of mass of the moose (the heaviest densest part right in the middle of the moose's body).

When the car hits just below the center of mass of the moose....

The car being lower wants to force the moose like this (sort of like hitting the side of the ball when playing pool) forcing the moose up and out in front of the car but the car is still moving forward and it gets under the moose.

The moose is forced upward into the air, the legs are lighter so they move faster and go around the moose causing it to spin

.

Then the car moves under it and the moose starts to fall back down

Then the moose goes through the windshield, "lands" and gets stuck.

THE END

(Notice my song)