So, this time our family decided to go back to “Good old” Earth and go on one of these Historical Excursions. We couldn’t afford Venice or Rome, you know, cities with real significance and lots to look at over the years? Yeah, so, we end up going to Fort Lauderdale. I guess that’s all my dad could afford on his Martian Civil Servant salary.

I figured out when we got there that dad was there for a seminar, so the transport to earth was fully paid for by his job. Mom hung out with us during the day while he attended workshops. Just mom, my sister and I.

So, mom threw out her back on the flight over, so we couldn’t do much anything except hang out at the hotel and wait for dad the first couple of days. Not that I cared, I’d much rather play my 4DSiXL than, you know, walk.

Yeah, so, mom was, like, on the third day, “Let’s take the Time Taxi.” Yeah, the Historical Excursion wasn’t really planned. I just made it sound like it was cause that’s how I write.

So, like, we waited by the InterCoastal for the Time Taxi. It used to be called the Water Taxi, but that was before time travel was invented?

There were, like, two people waiting when we got there. The Taxi was half-full. My sister went for the window seat. I was just waiting for the all-clear from mom so I could use my handheld.

The Time Taxi sounds cool, I guess if you were born in 1986. It creates a speed of light field around the boat and uses computers to stay in the same spot on earth as it travels back in time. It’s weird how everything’s a blur when you start out, and then you can kinda make out shapes and stuff, kind of like a fan turning fast. It almost looks like you’re still in the same day, except the buildings are shimmering and after a while, disappear. Not that I care.

The Historical Excursion in Fort Lauderdale is kinda like, “Here’s the swamp, here’s the beach, here’s some Bonnet House, whatever, whatever.” I mean, unless you like seeing Vervet Monkeys and mosquitos, whatever, you know?

Why couldn’t they do a seminar in Rome? Or Paris? You know, a city that’s been around awhile?

Yeah, so, after that, we came back and had dinner with dad at Athena by the Sea. Man, Athens woulda been a cool place to take a Time Taxi.

After that, the next day, we flew home. Some vacation. Yeah, like I feel totally rested, not. That boredom really frazzled me. Whew.

TRS training was INCREDIBLE. I’ve never been more thoroughly trained in my life.

Seriously — Neptune Atlantis University, where I graduated, didn’t have this level of detail in their PDF’s or holo courses.

My mind was CRAMMED, ever so effectively, with TRS procedures, history of TRS, how TRS helps UCM’s mission, acronyms, acronyms for acronyms, and … let’s not forget the Rev Laws.

Every citizen of UCM must voluntarily comply with the Rev Laws. They must fill out a digital form daily that lists all their activities, expenditures, and diet.

This may sound onerous to you if you’re on earth, where mindtext technology does not exist, but here it’s no big deal. We just plug in our brains via wireless headset to the TRS server, and access our memories … cutting and pasting our lives into the TRS forms.

The initial Rev Laws I learned dealt with Citizen Form 5080. This is akin to filing taxes on earth every year, except we call it rev (short for revenue), and we “file” every day. The UCM determined early on that realtime daily mind filing of rev was the best and most efficient way to collect the necessary funds for the government, as well as monitor the behavior of the population.

Let’s face it — some people believe laws are meant to be broken. The 5080 makes it harder for lawbreakers to get away with crimes against the colony.

Look — I’m a law-abiding UCM citizen. I’ve always been law-abiding — whether I lived on a space station orbiting Earth’s moon or whatever — and I believe others should be the same way. I pay rev to the TRS, and I expect others to do the same.

I mean, sure, most citizens hate the TRS — yeah, the daily form might be a bit intrusive, but so what? It’s hard to survive on Mars. We need a well-funded UCM to keep the air generators running. Come on. It’s your colonial duty to pay rev.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The training. Ah … I’ll get to that in the next entry.

I felt so proud that day. I was about to serve my planet.

There I stood in my blue pinstripe suit and tie, with the harsh Martian landscape in the background, my right hand raised, swearing allegiance to the UCM (United Colonies of Mars) and promising to enforce the revenue codes and laws that funded the government of this fledgling operation.

It was a job with the TRS.

They call me The Loyalist. I’ve worked for small companies. You might have heard of one of them — Tashman Teleporters? I’ve also worked for big firms like QRS Nuclear Toasters, but they went out of business.

Anyway, that day I left the inter-planetary capitalist workforce and joined the public sector, swearing my loyalty to a not-for-profit pursuit — a higher calling. Star Trek come to life.

Here I sit, 3 years later, my mind stretched to the breaking point. So many things have happened, and I’m to the point I can’t even read two sentences of Rev Law without drifting off mentally into the rings of Saturn.

I’m going to try to make sense of it all here, in this journal. I’m sharing it with you, oh galaxy, in the hopes that others can learn from my mistakes and not repeat them.

Santa Claus cried. He walked through Macy’s, Sears, and the rest of the Edison Mall, looking for hope, and finding none.

He ended up a few miles East on Colonial Blvd, and found a brand new Target Superstore with a practically-empty parking lot. He walked inside, and found a shelf stocked full of $5 DVD’s.

He drifted slowly over on I-75 to the East Coast, and found a crazy kind of hustle and bustle … almost a mad desperation for that last deal before the financial Titanic hits bottom, at Ikea. It felt more like a museum than a retail store … people bought small $1 items, more like tourists at a gift shop than consumers in a mega-store.

His plan to bring a more communal feeling to the world’s consumer-driven society had failed. Instead of bringing unity, he had encouraged misery.

The goods people desired were more out-of-reach than ever.

And everywhere he drifted, he saw … signs. Signs that screamed:

“Clearance!”

“50% – 70% off!”

“This is it! Liquidation! Everything must go!”

Billboards:

“Advertise here!”

“Foreclosed homes for sale!”

“Bad credit? Call us. We’re the credit experts.”

“Hulk Hogan says….”

“Blackjack at the Hard Rock.”

The people had wanted change last year, so much so that they voted for it … and boy, did they get it.

Santa was crushed. His power faded as the populace turned their hearts from him, towards the Realtor and the Gambler.

He was skinny. His famous red motif had faded to pink.

Would the Christmas season give him a much-needed boost so that he could live another year?

Santa already knew the answer. He’d get a slight boost for a couple of weeks, as the radio stations played Christmas songs and television played It’s a Wonderful Life and Elf. He’d get just enough to get him through … until the next holiday season.

After an incredible boom, things were back to normal for Santa. He was back to being a one-month Icon in a twelve-month world.

"Hello? Albert?"

"Hi, Granny," said Albert to his 94-year-old mother Ella. She called almost every day to check on her beloved son.

Not that Albert had time to appreciate being beloved. He secretly wished they could co-exist on Earth without actually having to speak to each other. His wife chided him for getting mad at Granny, saying he would miss his mother when she was gone.

Actually, Granny said similar things to Albert at times when he lost his cool with her.

Whatever, he thought.

"Albert, I have a question," said Granny. "I received a letter from a company and it said I could work from home and make some money. Do you think that is a good idea?"

"Are they asking for money?" asked Albert.

"Yes."

"Then it's not a good idea."

"Yes. I can still work. I am not dead yet."

"I know, Granny. I just…."

"I am still breathing. I am still here! I can participate and make some money to help my poor son…."

As Ella ranted, Albert's thoughts turned to the shriveled vision he'd had awhile back of the Spam Master. He wondered if that ghastly apparition in his mind was also known as the Junk Mail Master, or the Telemarketing Master.

Had to be the same guy.

It occurred to Albert that the Spam Master preyed on little old ladies like his mom, conning them into mailing checks for $35.95 into his coffers.

The Spam Master probably needed all that money to keep his shriveled body alive.

"… and that is what I think, Albert. Really and truly. Are you listening to me, Albert?"

"Oh, yeah. Listening, Granny."

"Okay, what did I say then?"

"I have no idea."

"Oh, Albert! You're intolerable! What kind of son did I raise?"

"Granny, let me drive over Saturday and I'll look at that offer you got in the mail, okay?"

"Yes?"

"Yes. I'll bring the kids with me."

"Oh, wonderful! I have some books for them I bought at Wal*Mart."

"Great," Albert said, as he envisioned the skeletal features of the Spam Master's face — charred chunks of skin clinging to bone, and those ever-present fiery yellow eyes … was he smiling? Were they flames behind him? It almost like a Terminator promo, with the silver killing machine with glowing eyes staring at you and the world burning behind him.

Albert sat at the Melalueca distributor meeting and wondered if the Spam Master was in the audience. He looked out at the thousands gathered at the Georgia Superdome to hear and discuss the benefits of selling toothpaste and vitamins mixed with Australian tree oil, trying to see if he could spot a shrouded figure with eyes like fire and fingers like dry twigs.

Nah, thought Albert. If the Spam Master was here, he’d be behind the curtain, orchestrating the sell-sell-sell-fest. Right now, a portly Italian guy with a moustache and bad suit was telling everyone how he built his pyramid … probably reading words written by the Spam Master himself….

Albert shook his head. Snap out of it, he thought. I believe in this stuff, remember? I believe tree oil can heal people of common maladies. I believe there’s a huge market for tree oil in Wisconsin. I believe….

***

The Traveller and the Nihilist bumped into each other at Atlanta’s underground mall. Nihilist brought up the Spam Master, complaining about him.

Traveller asked, “Spam Master, huh? Has anyone ever seen him?”

“If you’ve seen the Realtor, you’ve seen the Spam Master. It has to be one of his minions,” replied Nihilist.

“I wonder if the Realtor is jealous.”

“As long as the Realtor reaps all the benefits and gets all the credit, he doesn’t care who does the dirty work.”

“Hmm. Interesting. So what does a Spam Master look like?”

“He could be another Realtor clone.”

“Or some poor guy strapped to a chair.”

Nihilist laughed. “Yeah, with an IV hook-up to keep him alive, and a laptop to do his work.”

Ha ha. Ha ha ha. They both laughed at the macabre thought.

Albert Kinnis sold his soul to the SPAM Master last night, at approximately 8:23pm. Here are some random thoughts that ran through his mind after the sale was completed:

As I knelt down to pick up my fallen mouse, I had the distinct impression that, somehow, I was genuflexing before my desktop computer screen. In that moment, I felt I had relinquished my free will to … Spam?

I felt there was a Spam Master behind it all, recruiting desperate individuals like me to his cause.

I had to get grocery money somehow. I just made a mortgage payment to forestall the bank’s foreclosure proceedings. I needed that $250 Target card.

My kids had to eat.

My guard dogs needed food.

I had to put gas in the cars, so my wife and I could take the kids to work and go on job interviews. Those gas cards will come in handy.

My savings will be tapped out in 8 days. My credit cards will be maxed out in approximately 22 days.

I couldn’t resist the offer to get those gift cards. Hey, it was advertised on Drudge, so it was legit.

I gave in. I felt like a teenager clicking on porn site ads, ignoring the harm I was doing to my desktop and mind.

It took five hours and 23 minutes, but I finally got that $250.00 gift card confirmed.

In the process, I signed up for some services that will email me survey opportunities as they come up.

As I got into bed that night, I pictured myself kneeling before some huge Sauron-like figure, with wilted, charred hands and arms, cursing my head with some unholy water and then touching my shoulders.

The following was scrawled on several napkins by a woman named Rachel, who collapsed from mental exhaustion at a Starbucks in Estero, Florida after spending five hours attempting to get a $500 Wal*Mart gift card. The napkins were found next to her laptop. The cafe barrista wondered allowed why she wrote a note by hand when her laptop was readily available. Then she read the napkins:

Ode to the SPAM MASTER

Stealer of dreams
Taker of time
I wished for $500
Cause I don’t have a dime

You came to me on my screen
Offering a free gift card
If I just fill out a short survey
You promised it wouldn’t be hard

I was on my lunch break
I was on my lunch break

I give you my info
You ask me to “Submit”
I click the fateful button
Then I am hit

Survey after survey after survey
Sweetly, you say “Submit or Pass”

I pass on most
You say, pick 2 from this list
And you will get
Your free gift

I pick 2
You whisper, 2 more
I pick 2
You say, 4 more to go!
Your $500 gift is almost yours!

Before I know it
I’m on the Book of the Month Club
The Disney Movie Club
The Coffee Club
The Acai Club
I’m headed to a vacation … Club

Discover the savings
Freecreditreport
Nationalcreditreport
Christian Living

I am dizzy

“Oh, wait! Baby there’s more!”
You shout in my subconscious
Insidious SPAM MASTER
You’ve invaded my mind

“Don’t think! Click on your Bonus Gift!”
Plasma TV, Laptop…
Wii, Playstation…
And…
And…

Another $500 gift card

Is this Bill Murray’s Groundhog’s Day?
Am I in hell?
I feel the sulfer and flames
Burning in my chest
Stinking my soul

Desperate
I click the gift card
And the process starts over
The Spam Cycle is complete
When I started, I was but a learner
Now I am the slave of the SPAM MASTER

Same list of companies
I have no choice
I click on different ads

Coffee Beans
Tea
Cell Phone promos
Just pay a $1 today
For a free trial ’til Tuesday
$39.98 afterwards

“What’s my credit card number?”
SPAM MASTER asks each time

How long have I been sitting here?
Afraid to look at the clock
Have to go back to work!

He throws me $25 gift cards
To keep me going
At least I’m getting something
I tell myself the first five times

After multiple tabs
And multiple windows
Flood my screen
I wonder, “Why?”

And I am done!

The SPAM MASTER owns me

Desperate
I click on the gift card status link
I am mocked
“You were asked to click on 2 Silver Offers … None have been confirmed”
“You were aked to click on 1 Gold Offers … One was confirmed”

But

I

***

The paramedics arrived and carted Rachel and her laptop away.

The barrista kept the napkin.

October 5th.

Credit Score? 614.

Got another email from my mortgage broker, asking me to pay off my Capital One Card — the bank will complete the application process after receiving proof of payment.

I call my friend Darley and ask for $300 today for a burger on Tuesday, or something like that.

***

December 1st.

Credit Score? 648.

The closing was last week. We got a new house for Thanksgiving!

What will we have for Christmas? The house is enough, right?

Not for my 21st century kids, fed with dreams of DS and Spongebob, Princess games and make-up — all from the viewscreen ad reality. Bubble Yum for your daily dose of pleasure, children, getting you buy, uh, by until the Christmas blowout. Your dreams will be below the plastic or dying pine tree, cardboard boxes wrapped in recycled wrapping paper — irony wrapped in a lie, holding momentary satisfaction and wistful memories for your adulthood … inspiring you to wash, rinse, and repeat the cycle with your offspring.

"Welcome, my son, to the machine."

What's a father to do? Apply for a credit card! A $4,000 Target credit card later, and Christmas is saved. The savior in the manger can remain sleeping.

***

February 23rd.

605.

I filed my 1040 February 2nd. I couldn't wait to get that home buyer's credit — eight grand will go a long way towards reducing my credit card debt.

The refund was deposited yesterday. I paid off all my credit cards except for my AmEx and my bank's line of credit. I paid, like, two grand on each of those.

***

February 25th.

I got a letter from my bank, saying that "Due to the recession and activity on my credit report," my credit line has been discontinued.

I still owe thousands on that credit line — and now I can't use it!

I was counting on using the line of credit during the summer, when my wife's not getting student loan money.

***

February 28th.

I opened a letter from AmEx that said my credit limit or whatever was reduced by $2,000.

So, now I can't use the AmEx.

I paid them two grand IN GOOD FAITH. I GOT SCREWED AS A RESULT.

It's going to be a looooooooooong summer.

***

July 15th.

Credit Score? 596. And dropping.

I am now 45 days late on the mortgage. I'm a month behind on my car payments.

I'm waiting for a life insurance settlement to kick in … my sister died in that California train wreck last year, and they still haven't paid us … they just keep asking for documents. It's like dealing with that mortgage broker times a million.

MEANWHILE, I'm stuck. My mom passed away four weeks ago … I had to max out my cards to pay for the funeral and burial … and this was after paying for my sister's….

I can't even mourn! You feel me? Like, I got to spend more time stressing over bills, talking to call center credit card reps, begging them for mercy, only to hear that the computer screen isn't dispensing mercy today, and less time FEELING.

I can't cry for my mom. I can't cry for my sister.

I got to cry for my AmEx.

This is life? Plastic takes priority over loved ones?

I call AmEx for an emergency limit increase … they agree to give me 50 bucks to fill up the gas tank.

I need five grand, not fity (pronounced fih – t'ee) cents.

Credit Card Clause giveth gifts in December, and taketh away food, house, and happiness in July.

If THEY would just throw me a lifeline, I could get through until the life insurance check arrives. Instead, we're eating Rama Noodles and feeding the dog last week's leftovers. I'm talking to Darley on my cell (got to pay that bill) about how he JUST got laid off Friday … we both know we can't loan each other money, so we commiserate about family spending and sick pets.

I'm out of options. I've played all my chips. All I can do is wait for the money that's owed me, bro.

Let me check out creditkarma … damn. I'm down to 592. I couldn't qualify for a student Discover card if I wanted to.

At least I still got a job … you know, the one that can't cover my expenses and life's emergencies? Yeah. THAT one.

Every paycheck gives me hope for a nanosecend, before turning into change in my pocket. If that.

The prayers of little boys can be quite silly. Peter, age six, would pray for the world to be healthy, for flowers to grow, for people to eat and be strong, “So that no one gets a cold,” before finally blessing the food at dinnertime. Occasionally his mom or dad would have to lean over and whisper, “Bless the food,” in order to move him to the end of his prayer, lest the food get cold.

Little did his parents know the power of Peter’s prayers. I’m not saying he cured the world’s ills with his dinnertime prayers … the maker of heaven and earth took those kind of prayers under advisement, but could not apply them to everyone all at once. Things didn’t work that way on this Petri dish called Earth — a place where living beings were left alone with no clues given and the task of discovering “Truth.”

Some people never got around to figuring out the task.

Such was the case with Paul Wender. On July 6th, 1965, Paul drove his ‘63 Buick Riviera into a railroad bridge abutment in Nashville, Tennessee. The only reason he did not die was an overwhelming instinct to slam the brakes even as he nodded off at the wheel.

The overwhelming instinct was fueled by prayer. Peter one night, in the year of our Lord 2008, had prayed that drivers not get into car accidents. This random prayer had the random effect of saving the life of a man who Peter would never meet — Paul had died of a heart attack in 1996.

In between 1965 and 1996, Paul and his wife raised three kids. He was given the chance to live a good old-fashioned life, one small cog in the American machine. He worked at the Jack Daniels distillery, made friends, lived well … and late in his life, at least began to consider truth through the prism of the Southern Baptist Convention. It was a start for Paul’s spirit, even at the finish of his flesh.