Clayton Diggs

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Ray Bradbury Dead at 91, Martians, and Sci-fi Man-juice

(Editor’s warning: clicking on links might lead you to some insanely funny shit. Or just to some informative shit.  Depends on the link)

You ever just sit around and think about Ray Bradbury? I did, yesterday when I heard that that great American writer had made his final journey to the Martian landscape that lies beyond the great beyond. No, that’s,not quite it… He got cornered by imaginary lions in a virtual reality who tore him into worm food…No, still not right…He morphed into a heap of books, heated to Fahrenheit 451, turned to ash, and blew into little bits of cosmic dust to then descend on some Red Planet at the edge of the Universe. Yeah, that’s a little more like it. Hot damn! I’m sorry. I’m not. I really am!

I am sorry that we’ll no longer share airspace with a guy who, to my mind, was one of the most original and gorgeous voices in our American literary canon.

Old Ray was born in Waukegan, Illinois, in 1920. He grew up during that tonic for the restless imagination, the Great Depression, a time when the future seemed not only bleak and depressing as shit but, well – unimaginable. But imagine it Ray did, and with a visionary zeal that always took our collective breath away. The boy was good! Was he actually a Martian? We’ll never know.

But we do know that his stories sprang from the deep and potent well of his childhood fears. In an interview on Fresh Air he once said: “As soon as I looked up, there it was, and it was horrible,” Bradbury remembers. “And I would scream and fall back down the stairs, and my mother and father would get up and sigh and say, ‘Oh, my gosh, here we go again.’ ”

Childhood was indeed an important time for the budding author. Ray read and read and read everything he could get his grubby little alien hands on. He dug on Jules Verne and H.G. Wells and dreamed of outdoing them, and so, between frenzied bouts of cranking out adolescent sci-fi man-juice (to pics of big-boobied Martian chicks no doubt), he also managed to crank out a short story a week. Lesson: the only way to (re)produce is through consistency!

Great American sci-fi writer Ray Bradbury dead at 91

When the Bradbury fam up and moved to SoCal, little Ray took to hiding out in the dank, scary basement of the UCLA library, where, for 10 cents a half-hour, he could rent a typewriter. Said Ray years later: “I thought, my gosh, this is terrific! I can be here for a couple hours a day. It’ll cost me 30, 40 cents, and I can get my work done. Also, it’s awesome to spew sci-fi man-juice in a public venue. Much more exciting than at home.”

Ray hit it big with his 1950 collection, The Martian Chronicles. Then, while that fat old cow masturbator, Joe McCarthy, was looking to anally violate anyone evenly remotely aligned with anything Red, planet or otherwise, Ray did a right ballsy thing — he shot a FUCK YOU ray-gun at censorship in general with his best known work, Fahrenheit 451, and did so in a FUCK YOU kind of way, having the story that would become his signature novel first printed in Playboy.

Have you read that fine, fine book? If not, put down whatever you’re doing, go out and get a copy, and sit the hell down. It’s about a future society in which McCarthy-like fat old cow masturbators have firefighters burn books for the purpose of keeping folks dull and ignorant. There’s never been a revolution without there first being a revolution of ideas, goes the theory. In practice, the only trouble comes when the firefighters become curious about what exactly it is they’re being made to burn. Then all hell breaks loose! Shit fire! Hot damn! Great book.

People the world over and even those in outer space loved old Ray. The crew of Apollo 15 so totally dug Bradbury’s novel Dandelion Wine that they named a lunar crater after the it. Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, the second guy on the moon, and the man forever-and-a-day frustrated by the fact that he scores way less poon than Neil Armstrong, had this say: “Ray Bradbury is one who is contributing to the understanding of the imagination and the curiosity of the human race.” Hey, it would have been better if pussy-champ Neil Armstrong had said it, but novelists can’t be choosers, right?

Amazingly, despite his visions of the future, Ray never got into using computers. He even once told The New York Times that the Internet was pointless. Well, buddy, on that point at least, we’ve gotta say: FAIL!

It’s okay – nobody’s perfect!

Old Ray finally settled down to family life right here on Earth in 1947, when he married a gal named Maggie, and the happy couple had four little Martian girls. Ray suffered a stroke at age 80 and, sadly, couldn’t write anymore. He did, however, keep having his strange visions of things to come. He felt sure we’d be landing on Mars right soon and asked that his ashes be buried on that vast and vacant red planet.

We’ll sure miss you, old buddy, old Ray, venerable imaginer of humanity’s many possible destinies. We’ll sure miss you. I raise my cup of Dandelion Wine to you, Sir. I truly do.

Get Ray’s Ashes to Mars: A Fund

  • If you’d like to help Ray complete his dying wish, shoot me an email: me (at) claytondiggs (dot) com.
  • It’s gonna take a lot of dollar bills to make it happen, but if Ray taught us anything, it’s that every dream has got to start somewhere.

“I’m so fucking cool. How big will penises be in the future? THIIIIS BIIIIG!”

My Son, Clayton Jr., Is the Coolest Guy I Know

You ever sit around and think about how damn cool your kids are? I’m serious. I don’t get people who just wanna bitch and moan about their kids. There’s nothing on earth cooler than my year-and-a-half-old son, Clayton Von Jr! Hot damn!

Last night he was at my place and he woke up around 2:30 in the morning. I heard him stumble into my room like a drunken soldier, rubbing his big blue eyes and saying “Hi-eeeee?” in that earnest way he’s got. So I carried him back to his bed with his chubby arms wrapped around my neck and set him down and lay next to him. He just lay on his side looking me square in the eye, real serious, and touching my cheek like he was petting a kitten and making kissy noises at me with his rosebud lips. How cool is that? I’d rather be doing that with my son than any other thing. You can have your billion bucks, Mark Zuckerburg; I’ve got my boy.

You know what else Clay Jr. does that gets me? Everything. Like how he says “ah-pple? ah-pple?” for any food he’s keen on, or how he’ll take a chug of beer and then look at me with big eyes and say, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” How cute is that? Just take my heart out of my chest right now and stab it with a pitchfork, you know? And I like how he builds these little towers out of blocks with an expression on his face like he’s got urban planning in mind, and how he stacks his boots one on top of the other on the bedside table.  I like how he always insists on having at least five of his matchbox cars in his hands and screams if he doesn’t.  And I dig how he dances his tiny curved thumb over surfaces like a finger-ballerina whenever his mind is somewhere else. He’s dreaming big dreams, I reckon. And I like brushing his curls back off his broad forehead (you could have a drive-in movie theater on my kid’s forhead!) until he falls asleep.

And then he’s waking me up at 2:30 in the morning again so I can put him back to sleep. There’s nothing better. Hot damn! If I had a drink for every cool thing my son does, I’d… well, I’d have the kind of evening I generally have.

So I’ll raise many cups to you, Clay Jr. As many as I can for as long as I damn well can. Here’s to you, son.

I love you.

Clayton Diggs, 2012

“I’m so damn cute it $#%@!ing  hurts.”

30 Kids, a Hatchett Man, and the Hokey-Pokey

You ever just sit around and think about fathering kids? Desmond Hatchett, a 33 year-old dude from Tennessee did, and a lot by the look of things, because he ended up with 30 rug-rats. Hot damn, man, you’re on fire! I mean, how the hell in a hoot-a-nanny do you father 30 damn kids? Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly the right question, seeing as how the answer’s as plain as pie. I mean, what the hell where you thinking, dude, when you fathered 30…hang, on, wrong question again…I’m pretty sure we know what he was thinking.

He was thinking about the Hokey-Pokey, right? He put his third leg in, he took his third leg out, he put his third leg in, and shaked it all about. He did the Hokey-Pokey and he turned himself into a dude who’s gotta pay child support to 11 women. Tell you what, that’s a “Hatchett” job if I ever heard of one. I mean, this dude’s been hacking away at this for years. I mean, he’s taken a lot of whacks at being a father.  I mean…okay, enough of that.

Thing about the child support is, seeing as how the Hatchett man only makes minimum wage, a lot of the moms are only getting like $1.49 a month, which last time I checked was enough to buy a pack of diapers….circa, about 1945. And isn’t word getting around the neighborhood about this guy?  I mean, mothers, lock up your daughters when you see the Hatchett man coming.

And here’s the really crazy part: the Hatchett man’s oldest kid is only 14. That means he’s averaged better than two kids and two moms for the past 14 years. The guy’s setting up franchises, trouble being that they don’t make money. And when they asked him how it all happened he said: “I put the third leg in, I take the third leg out…” Actually, the dude said he hit the big 3-oh because: “I had four kids in the same year. Twice.” Okay, Hatchett man, that covers eight of the little buggers. What about the other 22? I mean, that’s two soccer teams, football offense and defense. Jesus wept. And when he did, Desmond Hatchett got hot and bothered and found lucky lady 12, no doubt. What the hell!

Despite the fact that Hatchett man’s been to court over child support a bunch, it seems the state can’t shut down his factory. He hasn’t broken any laws, aside from being a total blithering-jackass-pistoning-jackrabbit of human being. So remember, kids, don’t be a Hatchett man. Wrap your junk up. Use a rubber, man. Got no rubber? Shit, grab a plastic bag, Saran-wrap, whatever, a bologna sandwich, whatever. Hot damn!

“Oh…Desmond…Hokey-Pokey me!” 

Ipads, Converters, and Whores

You ever just sit around and think about how technology doesn’t work for you but instead technology makes you its damn whore? I did recently, when I got the damn fool idea of buying an iPad. Now, first off, I’d much appreciate it if nobody reading this would tell anyone where I live about this, ‘cause I’m likely to get tarred and feathered and called a queer (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and maybe worse. In my neck of the wood an iPad is what a woman wears when she’s in a mood.

Thing of it is, I love the damn thing and I can’t stop buying shit on it. It’s too easy to get on the App Store and get free crap like kids’ books and quizzes and how-to-make-a-homemade-still-apps and how-to-put-arsenic-into-your-asshole-neighbor’s-water-supply apps and so on. It’s some crazy shit! I mean, seriously, I’m up all night throwing down juleps and looking up drink recipes and making drinks and throwing down juleps and then the damn sun comes up. What the hell? You know?

Recently somebody gave a real nice book of drink recipes, thick, glossy pictures and all that good stuff. Only trouble was, thing was written in You-Rope and all the drinks were in metric. Like, I wanted to make a Cadillac Margarita but what the hell is 200ml of lime juice? Then I thought about my iPad and all those damn apps and wouldn’t you know it, it’s three in the morning and I’m buying a universal Converter! from and converting mls to ounces and making a Cadillac Margarita (and hey, if you boys at Pinch wanna pay be for saying this shit I won’t say no) and by the way, 200ml is 2 damn ounces, you You-Ropean freaks! What’s wrong with folks? So I made the drink and then I got to screwing around with the Converter! and it converts like 400 different things and then I passed out and woke up on the ground with a cat licking my face.

The other thing about the iPad is my kid loves it. He’s like just barely a year and a half and already he’s unlocking the thing himself and starting up his favorite books, turning pages, laughing like the cute little fool that he is. Man, I hate to say it, but I LOVE this damn gadget. Anything that makes my kid happy and might be better for him than the TV is okay by me. Only trouble is, way things are going, junior’s college fund is gonna get spent on cool apps. What are you gonna do? You gotta have priorities, you know? Yeehah!

“Okay, Mister. Just leave the iPad on the dresser.”

The Kentucky Derby, Loan Crooks, and Burgoo!

Did you ever just sit around and think about the Kentucky Derby? I did today, because today was the running of the Kentucky Derby. Horses, girls in hats, low cut dresses, Bourbon juleps, betting – it’s the American way! Yeehah!

I can’t really afford to get out to Churchill Downs this year, but the least I could do was sit on the couch with my kid and slam juleps and yell stuff at the screen. Funny thing: “I’ll Have Another” won the damn race. I’ll have another too, if you don’t mind! And another!

That little three-year-old thoroughbred sure can move. Did you hear? The little chestnut colt sold for $11,000! 11 grand? That’s what owner J. Paul Reddam spends in a week on hookers to help him forget about all the American families his loan company was “forced” to throw out into street in the middle of a blizzard (Reddam used to own DiTech, sold it for a trillion bucks, and now is in the biz of raping homeowners and their kids with a company called CashCall, if you can fuckin’ believe it – also, he feasts on children’s kidneys every Sunday)! 11 grand? That’s the kind of money that J. Paul Reddam spends on diamond tie-pins! That’s the kind of money that J. Paul Reddam… anyway, enough of that. It’s cheap for the sonofabitch.

You see what that guy said about racing? Check it out: “Every once in a while, something good happens, and that keeps you gambling, buying horses, what have you” (ReadAnd what have you, Paulie? As in subprime-mortgage loans designed to drive hardworking American families into foreclosure? As in the giant sucking sound of your bloated ass gobbling the college funds of kids all over America. Hell yeah? What have you! Another day at the races, folks. God Bless America.

But I do love the races. The Derby’s been run continually since like 1875! There’s juleps and there’s burgoo! Burgoo to you too. It’s a thick stew of beef, chicken, pork, goat, elephant, dolphin, bald eagle, and veggies. It’s delicious.  Check out my recipe for burgoo here: It’s a melting pot, just like the good old U.S. of A. And there’s jockeys! Dudes the size of a six year old who weigh like 100 pounds covered in tar and eat three carrots and a stick of celery once a week and never touch burgoo, not even once. And the jockey who won it this year, Mr. Mario Gutierrez, a 25-year-old kid from Veracruz, Mexico. Word is that Mario was paid just as well for his work as most other Mexican’s get paid for theirs; that’s to say, J. Paul Reddam gave him a home loan right before he foreclosed on the guy’s six kids and had him deported back to Juarez for not having his papers in order. Yeehah! Enjoy.

So yeah, it was a good time had by all, but especially by that champ, Mr. J. Paul Reddam. Sure hope he wins big at the Preakness and at the Belmont. Can’t ever have too many shady loan companies in America. For now, anyway, me and the kid are just gonna chill here on the couch until J. Paul shows up to repossess it. It’s another damn day at the races and I couldn’t be any happier!

“Beat that horse, little Mexican. Do it for J. Paul Reddam!”

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