I hate it when people post stories in their blogs but...

Micah Hacim wanted me to publish a story of his and threatened my life. He also threatened to continue to butcher the word, "going."

I told him that I would publish a story of his in my blog.

He responded, "You called my bluff, I don't have any stories."

I wanted Micah Hacim to write a story for my blog, so I threatened his life.

He wrote a story for my blog. He is usually funnier. I think he wrote it while he was sober.

Micah Hacim's interests include obsessing over cute eight-year-old girls, watching either Hackers or Blue Crush ten times in the same day, drinking, vomiting, and drinking 'hair of the dog that bit him' smoothies to wash the the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

He is very lonely. His only friend is a fake cabbage patch kid (of An Interview with Tony fame).

He has a blog about watching TV: http://tonyandmewatchtv.blogspot.com

He has not updated it in a month. He needs to watch more TV.

"So Brad said he'd publish my story, but I'd have to spell check it first and I said I didn't have any stories, but everybody knows everybody has got a story so here is mine; It's called 'The Writer's Chopping Block"

THE WRITER'S CHOPPING BLOCK

I was raised by two parents who never wrote about fictional stuff and never imparted upon me the wherewithal to write good stories. I'm not criticizing anybody here with jealousy. I'm just pointing out that kid with two jazz musicians for parents that seems to have a natural genetic talent for playing music which escapes the rest of us has an advantage over those of us whom don't if his talent was for writing stories instead of music.

My parents were into accounting and making crochet sweaters. Well, I can do a decent math and as for knitting - allow me to weave you the tale of: "The Work Week That Took a Lot of Patience to Get Through."

The abandoned alleyway was affright with terrors. Ghosts, Goblins, and Gooks cowered in fear as the White Upper-Middle-Class Elite were heard trading their stocks in the attics of our society. A moon shone on the lifeless body of Tony in the gutter. It was lifeless with drunkenness and sprayed by water from the tires of a passing automobile passengered by a man on his way home from work (he was a passenger because this was in the future and Robot was driving (but the passenger owned the car)).

When the water hit his lifeless body, Tony sprang to life and shuffled his fists in anger, but the passenger paid no mind as he passed on and paid for one of the many tolls one finds while driving on the east coast and continued driving once the tollgate opened. Work, for this passenger, had been taking a lot of patience to get through this week.

His boss had been a Beeotch. The Passenger, hereafter known to the reader as Jim, was both tall and bothered. The writing assignment given to him on Monday (due the following Monday) was retribution from his boss for his natural genetic talent of being smarter than his stupid boss. Jim was a writer and he had writer's block, which had prevented him from working lately and that made his boss even more angry and his boss had decided to use Jim's writer's block against Jim.

According to Jim, bosses didn't know a thing about being a boss other than bossiness, and this was a bullshit assignment anyway! Jim wrote the assignment anyhow and how that assignment was received is the twist ending to this story because this is the very story you are reading right now! It was not well received by his boss either.

When his boss read it, Jim's head was cut off with an axe... on a chopping block!

P.S. This story is fiction; I did not have a shitty week at work.