How 36 Questions Got 5,000 Answers - The Promo
Channel: The Eldritch God
Date: 30/04/2016

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*~LOG ENTRIES~*
20160425042309 - It is 4 am and I have noticed that I have been editing these files, breaking them down into individual sound bites, but that I cannot ignore the introductions. I had not planned on it, but there are some introductions and comments that must be addressed. I now resolve myself to making 38 episodes, as there should be an introduction, as well as an epilog episode. I suspect that I should also do a parody video episode at some point. As well as a video, now that I think about it, of having some sort of contest, where I list of the best videos. Like some sort of award ceremony. I should announce that in the first episode or something. That makes 40 episodes now. I hope it grows no further. Even at one episode a week, this will take over a year.

Something keeps bothering me. Something gnaws at me. I can't put my finger on it. It makes my brain itch where I cannot scratch. I feel like Henry Morton Stanley. I fear I will never find Dr. Livingstone.


20160426180923 - I am taking pause. I have begun this project several days ago and I now believe it will drive me insane. I mean that in every sense of the word. I have started a chronology of my descent into madness. I have been editing the start of the videos. I now know I must have an entire episode just devoted to people's introductions, before I even get to the first question.

I must at this time pause to mention that I hate this woman. I am now calling her Spanish Lie. Because I'd need to swallow an entire bucket of spanish fly to want to have sex with her.

I have now watched her face move in slow motion, what feels like a thousand times. I have to do that in order to cut the video correctly. To see her lips come together in slow motion, over and over, to watch the pure condescension, combined with those dull, vapid, dull cow-eyes. 

I now know how many skin blemishes she has on her face. Nine. There are seven on her forehead and two next to her nose. The ones on her forehead form a constellation. They are like stars in the night sky and I am a navigator of a ship. The ship is my sanity. The constellation is unknown to me. The stars squirm and writhe if I stare at them too long. They will lead me into dark waters that seek to pull me down into their unknowable depths.

I must steel myself. This diary of my progress will help me to purge my mind of the numbing effect her face has on me. I must press on.


20160426210411 - My wife has complained of a great stench in the kitchen. I paused editing and went to investigate. I opened the door to the back porch and was overwhelmed. Searching the back yard at night, I discovered a skunk. It was dead. It appears to have committed suicide by wedging it's head in between a metal stake and the air conditioner, then snapped it's neck. I say it committed suicide, because I cannot imagine how it got there except by willfully wedging it's head directly into the space between and then struggling. There is nothing around the AC except for the platform it is on and loose stone. There is no reason for having done what it did. 

I fear this is some sort of warning. Some sort of dire omen from the world beyond.

I got my Garden Claw and impaled the beast to wrench it free. This is how I noticed it's neck was broken, the way it rolled around without any sort of mooring, yet the rest of the body was stiff. It's head came to a rest and I swear it was looking at me. It's mouth was agape. It's jaw frozen in rigor mortis and one eye was closed. It could have been some sort of happy go lucky cartoon animal, if not for the bowel churning stench. I once again thank my father for his genes that denied me the ability to smell. Alas, I could still taste, and the scent was powerful enough to be tasted in the air. It fills my mouth and lingers, even now. By the wrappers I count, I have eaten 19 starbursts. It has not helped much.

For a moment, when the motion activated light winked on and off, I swear it was winking at me.

I applied the same tactics of an olympic athlete participating in the hammer throw. The critter got excellent hang time and landed somewhere over the crick, into the woods, bouncing off a gleaming metallic surface with a bong. I happen to know that surface is the bumper of the front half of a Cadillac Eldorado. I state front half, because the rest of the car is missing. Nobody in the neighborhood knows how it got there. It is far from any road. I have always wondered how the bumper has remained so shiny, given I know it's been out there for at least seven years. It defies entropy.

I fear I am damned.


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