7/15/2011
Outside they are handing out free deodorant
Wonder weird in a ketchup beard, dripping with the three Ps and the gravy knees, sang sweet songs to a syllabus-screener, solved a million messages with a bathtub cleaner. Odious men don't try my shoes, never asked long and tried freehand, longhand, scrawled marathons ran in underwear; might I wonder where you hide the booze? Long ago I was promised a peach, so I asked you to marry me on the beach; I wandered in and struck a leech. Which lake was it? Probably Meech. I owe my audience an hour each. My sister-in-law says I should teach.
5/25/2011
I'm against laws and all for freedom
Turning tongue-in-cheek into an extreme sport on the comments board re "Per-vote subsidy on chopping block in Flaherty’s June 6 budget":
I'm against the vote subsidy. My tax dollars shouldn't go toward funding political parties I don't agree with.
I'm also against health care for people I don't like. My tax dollars shouldn't go toward my neighbour's lung cancer surgery if he is a smoking jerk.
I'm also against free roads for people who drive dangerously and cause potholes. Why is the taxpayer subsidizing roads? Road use should be measured and each individual driver charged a monthly fee. And if someone really needs a new road that bad, they should take an ad out in the newspaper to explain why it's important, and then maybe people will pitch in and help buy some of the tar or gravel.
I'm also against my tax dollar going toward jets I don't want and that may never be needed to protect my town from invading Russians. If the jets are so important, maybe someone should start a war with Russia, then Canadians will see the need, be convinced, and want to fund the jets. Besides, defence spending doesn't protect all Canadians from being invaded. It only protects the parts of the country that might otherwise appeal to invaders--all the rest of us get along fine. Why should my tax dollars subsidize people who live in parts of the country that are just asking to be invaded? If they didn't want to be invaded they should have moved to Moosonee.
I'm against government forcing me to pay taxes. If the government has a good argument for why taxes need to be collected, because it thinks it might be good for the country, they can try to convince me to donate to the tax fund without picking my pocket.
And don't get me started on laws. I'm against laws. If someone has a reason for why I shouldn't be setting a dog on fire, then maybe that person should write me a letter, explaining why it's wrong to set fire to a dog, and maybe offer to sell me his hose, so I can put out the fire, then THAT makes sense.
5/17/2011
4/30/2011
When I was six years old
When I was six years old the other kids would make me the unofficial referee in the foot-hockey games we played. I always felt weird about that.
We played with a tennis ball, on an asphalt surface, between two chain-link fences, about 200 feet apart. I usually played defense. I was the last guy between them and our goalie, who protected the net (the fence posts) wearing his jacket off his body on his arms like an apron. There are tens of thousands of kids who grew up playing goalie this way. For all of us, tennis-ball soccer was real hockey.
I was good at defense. Especially blocking shots and picking the ball off the forward. A lot of the time there was dispute over whether someone had actually scored. Everyone on each team would argue for their side, that the ball definitely did go in or it didn't.
Except I could never bring myself to argue for my side if I thought we were wrong - that, as far as I saw, our guy's shot did not go in the net. The thing was, I wish our team did score, so if we in fact did not, I was always reluctant to tell what I saw. I wanted those guys to settle it themselves. But eventually one of them would ask what I saw. I hated that.
How could my teammates not be honest and just let it drop if we didn't score? Why did I have to come down against my own side? But I had this reputation, see--that I wouldn't take advantage. That I wouldn't lie. As soon as I told them what I thought happened, the argument was usually over. Everyone would repeat what I said about the ball going in or not going in. The game would go on. Some of teammates would be upset that, because of me, we didn't score, but they didn't seem to argue.
To this day I think about how bizarre that was. I was six years old and I had this quasi-judicial authority. I loved foot hockey. I guess I should have felt complimented they relied on me to be the ref and make the call. Instead I felt annoyed, embarrassed, and alone.
Stop arguing, be honest and solve your own problems, people!
We played with a tennis ball, on an asphalt surface, between two chain-link fences, about 200 feet apart. I usually played defense. I was the last guy between them and our goalie, who protected the net (the fence posts) wearing his jacket off his body on his arms like an apron. There are tens of thousands of kids who grew up playing goalie this way. For all of us, tennis-ball soccer was real hockey.
I was good at defense. Especially blocking shots and picking the ball off the forward. A lot of the time there was dispute over whether someone had actually scored. Everyone on each team would argue for their side, that the ball definitely did go in or it didn't.
Except I could never bring myself to argue for my side if I thought we were wrong - that, as far as I saw, our guy's shot did not go in the net. The thing was, I wish our team did score, so if we in fact did not, I was always reluctant to tell what I saw. I wanted those guys to settle it themselves. But eventually one of them would ask what I saw. I hated that.
How could my teammates not be honest and just let it drop if we didn't score? Why did I have to come down against my own side? But I had this reputation, see--that I wouldn't take advantage. That I wouldn't lie. As soon as I told them what I thought happened, the argument was usually over. Everyone would repeat what I said about the ball going in or not going in. The game would go on. Some of teammates would be upset that, because of me, we didn't score, but they didn't seem to argue.
To this day I think about how bizarre that was. I was six years old and I had this quasi-judicial authority. I loved foot hockey. I guess I should have felt complimented they relied on me to be the ref and make the call. Instead I felt annoyed, embarrassed, and alone.
Stop arguing, be honest and solve your own problems, people!
4/19/2011
Why do I ask so many questions?
Could it be that history is a lie?
Could it be that what survives isn't what's good? Are cockroaches good? Were dinosaurs bad?
Could it be that there is no Plan? Is that a narrative fallacy? Do you believe in progress? Do you believe in chaos? Do you really think it could have happened by accident?
Could it be that, in the face of randomness, you could still choose something good?
Could it be that you can choose something bad, because you know it will turn out right in the end - because you believe there is a Plan?
Is religion for simpletons? Is atheism for the smug and the dejected?
Do you care about getting the credit? Do you just want your descendants to survive?
Have you ever thought about this--even for a second? Were you drunk?
Do you wonder why people need to take drugs? Have you ever tried connecting the dots? Is it any wonder we're tortured by sociopaths?
When was the last time you voted? Is abstinence the answer? Do I have a selective memory?
Seriously what is UP with this shit??
Could it be that what survives isn't what's good? Are cockroaches good? Were dinosaurs bad?
Could it be that there is no Plan? Is that a narrative fallacy? Do you believe in progress? Do you believe in chaos? Do you really think it could have happened by accident?
Could it be that, in the face of randomness, you could still choose something good?
Could it be that you can choose something bad, because you know it will turn out right in the end - because you believe there is a Plan?
Is religion for simpletons? Is atheism for the smug and the dejected?
Do you care about getting the credit? Do you just want your descendants to survive?
Have you ever thought about this--even for a second? Were you drunk?
Do you wonder why people need to take drugs? Have you ever tried connecting the dots? Is it any wonder we're tortured by sociopaths?
When was the last time you voted? Is abstinence the answer? Do I have a selective memory?
Seriously what is UP with this shit??
4/17/2011
Pledge
[more nonsensical than usual]
Got drain leavings to declog. When I'm done you'll hear me every day for a month. Acid builds up in the soul's muscles. Massages hurt the next day. Another twisted neck, case of heartbreak, gut rot.
Put yourself on the line and things get interesting. Stake your rep on a promise. You won't let down the fans. I mean, if you had fans. I mean, whatever.
We want myriad things, too many to encyclopedize. The massive gut wants more.
Building a tent beside the highway to Dubai, the most overbuilt shitstorm on the planet.
"I just came to say hello." ~Martina
I'm a master mummy; fully drained of fluid in my rocking chair, dessicated but with useful anecdotes. I told the one about the tortoise and hare, and the kids got bored. I said 'ok check out my art exhibit'. I try not to make children scream, but they get lollipop fingers on my knitting needles. Never mess with a middle-aged man's makework project.
Reconstruct awareness. Reconstruct ray of consciousness. Reconstruct the last authoritative version of your hopes and dreams- -a narrative to disguise your personal chaos. The trackable tale convinces passersby. Need a copywriter to tell the story of your olive oil, pressed from virgin trees in a small town in Abruzzo, so it'll be worth a 500% markup on the big box stores. One taste and you know what your tongue was for.
What words wind from mind, and what from keyboard rhythm, product of muscular bias--easier to spell depending on spacing of keys? Whatever became of the random flight of bumblebees?
Anarchy won't let you be. Sid Vicious, a bassist dead from an overdose, a '70s badboy with BO and sweat stains, blew his brains out on fame. I wanna be, the prince of malarkey. He never know God though. The mass is too predictable, too slow.
No matter what you say, people need to tell you later. Everybody wanna step on their creator.
Climbing Lou Reed's mountain of feedback - he powers his soul with battery acid. Don't be part of the scenery, step out from the machinery, grab your things, I've come to take you home.
Sooner or later you face off with bananas or booze. You've got the love, the handshake, the warmth, you've got the what-to-keep and what-to-cut. Though don't preface with hurried praise - you're telegraphing 'but'.
Got drain leavings to declog. When I'm done you'll hear me every day for a month. Acid builds up in the soul's muscles. Massages hurt the next day. Another twisted neck, case of heartbreak, gut rot.
Put yourself on the line and things get interesting. Stake your rep on a promise. You won't let down the fans. I mean, if you had fans. I mean, whatever.
We want myriad things, too many to encyclopedize. The massive gut wants more.
Building a tent beside the highway to Dubai, the most overbuilt shitstorm on the planet.
"I just came to say hello." ~Martina
I'm a master mummy; fully drained of fluid in my rocking chair, dessicated but with useful anecdotes. I told the one about the tortoise and hare, and the kids got bored. I said 'ok check out my art exhibit'. I try not to make children scream, but they get lollipop fingers on my knitting needles. Never mess with a middle-aged man's makework project.
Reconstruct awareness. Reconstruct ray of consciousness. Reconstruct the last authoritative version of your hopes and dreams- -a narrative to disguise your personal chaos. The trackable tale convinces passersby. Need a copywriter to tell the story of your olive oil, pressed from virgin trees in a small town in Abruzzo, so it'll be worth a 500% markup on the big box stores. One taste and you know what your tongue was for.
What words wind from mind, and what from keyboard rhythm, product of muscular bias--easier to spell depending on spacing of keys? Whatever became of the random flight of bumblebees?
Anarchy won't let you be. Sid Vicious, a bassist dead from an overdose, a '70s badboy with BO and sweat stains, blew his brains out on fame. I wanna be, the prince of malarkey. He never know God though. The mass is too predictable, too slow.
No matter what you say, people need to tell you later. Everybody wanna step on their creator.
Climbing Lou Reed's mountain of feedback - he powers his soul with battery acid. Don't be part of the scenery, step out from the machinery, grab your things, I've come to take you home.
Sooner or later you face off with bananas or booze. You've got the love, the handshake, the warmth, you've got the what-to-keep and what-to-cut. Though don't preface with hurried praise - you're telegraphing 'but'.
4/03/2011
Radiation release valve activated
Semiotic rifle, spoonful of trifle, we carry our cups to the dishwasher, rinsed, tossed, sealed, it's a cutlery holocaust. Tempers flare, totally tequila, bees in bonnets, nightmare sonnets:
Of his soul, it is dead, he buried it quickly with strokes of lead.
Bottle vapour is tough, but you'll be so high when you dig this stuff.
Be careful what you write: it might come true. I've been thinking about that since 2002.
There's no conspiracy - just fear and apathy. The stats are gnats; I count just fine. You can't predict a series in time.
Distrust what you know. You'll thank me later. Defeat him now - a reluctant debater.
Invisible hand removes the deadwood. Capitalism, man, it cuts down redwoods. Public institutions full of private people, bowing hypocritically for posts of unimportance? Inequality erases over time. My neighbour is starving, reeks of slime.
Of his soul, it is dead, he buried it quickly with strokes of lead.
Bottle vapour is tough, but you'll be so high when you dig this stuff.
Be careful what you write: it might come true. I've been thinking about that since 2002.
There's no conspiracy - just fear and apathy. The stats are gnats; I count just fine. You can't predict a series in time.
Distrust what you know. You'll thank me later. Defeat him now - a reluctant debater.
Invisible hand removes the deadwood. Capitalism, man, it cuts down redwoods. Public institutions full of private people, bowing hypocritically for posts of unimportance? Inequality erases over time. My neighbour is starving, reeks of slime.
2/16/2011
A reliable form of morality
A fairly reliable form of morality requires no holy books or eternal truths. If a question of right or wrong arises, simply ask yourself 'If everyone else I know did this thing, would I like it?' Saves a lot of time and gets pretty good results, in general. There are always exceptions.
2/08/2011
Leggo the Lion
[sequel to Tony the Tiger]
Give us potato hash, and ready for the backlash. We want coiled licorice strings and fast-food onion rings. We want everything on our list, boxed and delivered and rung up on the exchange. Then the devil readies thugs to de-liver deadbeats, shivering and hungover waking in a bath of ice, and missing key internal organs - or so I've read once or twice.
Tall men in suits chuff effetely on the flute, lining up for coffee instead of kneeling in a pew. Why not be a coffee bean and never wonder why? I get steamed, I get drunk, I have swimwear in my trunks. I have a bank right in the clouds -- too bad the interest rates are junk.
Try to relax as the keys get stuck, the mind in muck, the wherewithal just out of plucking range, the chi, the Clear, the dianetical celebrisphere. Why not dabble in a bit of Scientology? L Ron's alright? Give new religions a chance, if we have no use for God, we gotta have SOME sort of crazy dance.
Leo the Lion wrote an airtight business case for getting the hell out of this place: to rent a forty-foot canoe big enough for him, me, you and half the local zoo. A simple fifty bucks a head; that is, unless they're two by two.
Obadiah Smith and Jersey Pocahontas, tied together on a raft, forced to agree while Ms. Rhythm had a laugh. She put a waterfall + jagged-rocks right where they shook hands, then she'll pile their shattered souls to blackmail the Pelican man.
Grow nuts! Yes, to plant seeds, you dig up dirt to build a tree. I never smiled at a toddler reading, seems so unfair -- I had a thirty year head start to also sit and stare, wonder what I was needing, to find a decent patch of air.
Ozark Ike and the TSX, robber barons merge agendas while a man in Muskoka builds a deck. In the June air above water 'round dusk you can only hear ducks. "I don't believe in boardrooms when my teenager drives a truck." Okeeochobee in Florida, palm trees ye high, I got no patience for humidity, and cockroaches creep by. Did you call the exterminator? He's got a hot date on the playa; men with blue collars have thick brown wrists, I'll put out the ant traps myself just this once - that guy deserves a filthy tryst.
Mona Decadona has cleavage she bought in Arizona, loaned $50K to wear her dreams in silicone, or silicon, body porn or cyber porn just makes another yawn. How can we afford to pay? We got money marts poppin' up like crickets off a log. I got facelift grannies melting in Phoenix in a slow midmorning jog. I got fatass secretaries poppin' Skittles I got human-as-dogs at forty bucks a kibble, getting groomed and massaged more than a man with a sledgehammer stance and cigarette breath ever will and you wonder why the onlines seeth with despair, every thought you ever had will splat against the stare, at forms you fill in, it's never enough, you are like me, guaranteed to leave - we got a forty-foot canoe, just me and you and Leo wishing he never learned to read.
Give us potato hash, and ready for the backlash. We want coiled licorice strings and fast-food onion rings. We want everything on our list, boxed and delivered and rung up on the exchange. Then the devil readies thugs to de-liver deadbeats, shivering and hungover waking in a bath of ice, and missing key internal organs - or so I've read once or twice.
Tall men in suits chuff effetely on the flute, lining up for coffee instead of kneeling in a pew. Why not be a coffee bean and never wonder why? I get steamed, I get drunk, I have swimwear in my trunks. I have a bank right in the clouds -- too bad the interest rates are junk.
Try to relax as the keys get stuck, the mind in muck, the wherewithal just out of plucking range, the chi, the Clear, the dianetical celebrisphere. Why not dabble in a bit of Scientology? L Ron's alright? Give new religions a chance, if we have no use for God, we gotta have SOME sort of crazy dance.
Leo the Lion wrote an airtight business case for getting the hell out of this place: to rent a forty-foot canoe big enough for him, me, you and half the local zoo. A simple fifty bucks a head; that is, unless they're two by two.
Obadiah Smith and Jersey Pocahontas, tied together on a raft, forced to agree while Ms. Rhythm had a laugh. She put a waterfall + jagged-rocks right where they shook hands, then she'll pile their shattered souls to blackmail the Pelican man.
Grow nuts! Yes, to plant seeds, you dig up dirt to build a tree. I never smiled at a toddler reading, seems so unfair -- I had a thirty year head start to also sit and stare, wonder what I was needing, to find a decent patch of air.
Ozark Ike and the TSX, robber barons merge agendas while a man in Muskoka builds a deck. In the June air above water 'round dusk you can only hear ducks. "I don't believe in boardrooms when my teenager drives a truck." Okeeochobee in Florida, palm trees ye high, I got no patience for humidity, and cockroaches creep by. Did you call the exterminator? He's got a hot date on the playa; men with blue collars have thick brown wrists, I'll put out the ant traps myself just this once - that guy deserves a filthy tryst.
Mona Decadona has cleavage she bought in Arizona, loaned $50K to wear her dreams in silicone, or silicon, body porn or cyber porn just makes another yawn. How can we afford to pay? We got money marts poppin' up like crickets off a log. I got facelift grannies melting in Phoenix in a slow midmorning jog. I got fatass secretaries poppin' Skittles I got human-as-dogs at forty bucks a kibble, getting groomed and massaged more than a man with a sledgehammer stance and cigarette breath ever will and you wonder why the onlines seeth with despair, every thought you ever had will splat against the stare, at forms you fill in, it's never enough, you are like me, guaranteed to leave - we got a forty-foot canoe, just me and you and Leo wishing he never learned to read.
1/26/2011
Frances the Snark (or the Tower of Deafening Daredevilry)
[stretch old dusty limbs]
In the town of Ocanonda in the north-northwest part of Pitzmiel, on the coast of the Glaylish plain across from the Buntish Ocean -- where water bubbles of its own accord -- lay a snark den full of snarks. One snark in particular is the subject of this tale. Not just any snark. The snark was four-legged, hairy and tough, with an aardvark's disposition and a man's grasp of physics. Not just any man, but something like Niels Bohr's or Richard Feynman's grasp of phyics. Not just any physics, but quantum physics.
Now the town of Ocanonda was not of this Earth, but thanks to transdimensional teleportation and fibre optic spacetime-shifting the men of Ocanonda -- even ones who would mate with a snark -- had access to iTunes. This would mean nothing, of course, without an iPad. For Feynman in this universe was known only through the digital medium. Books of course, meant nothing along the coast of the Buntish Ocean. And all the better for the trees, particularly the knobblish and the punter trees, which heavily populated the Glaylish crescent, planted by colonial thrompets centuries before, during the Golden Age of Slag, the wanton trade of which conspiracy theorists believed made the Buntish waters boil. Of course, not many worried about such theories five furlongs deep in the lagoons near where our snark did spend his middle decades - at the edge of the waters that touched Ocanonda and made her snark-maidens (fully snark and in no way human) moist-eyed with romance and other rubbish rot. A rather picturesque place - worthy of a postcard, if punter trees indeed had ever been felled for such an industry.
The snark we will come to know -- though only those inside his mind could say so -- was nicknamed Franny and realnamed Frances. He was a solid Glaylish plain-snark who moved to the seaside for opportunity, to work part-time in the Slag mines, and be low-level PR flak for the sub-prefect #4 of Ocanonda, aka His Honour, Commodius Flatus, who was appointed to the post for no other reason than his seaside land holdings which yielded 5% of income (much less than the usual 15%) to the Ocanonda-Pitzmiel SupraRegional Treasury. Commodius Flatus' vast and wind-stubbled homestead included forty hectare fruit-groves of wannabi-dates, but was in no other way extraordinary except for its peculiar road-side construction works that included a tall thin tower of frozen mud which housed a wizened black-nosed Slag-monk who was nicknamed One-Eyed Cecil and realnamed Snert Cecilius.
[unfinished of course]
In the town of Ocanonda in the north-northwest part of Pitzmiel, on the coast of the Glaylish plain across from the Buntish Ocean -- where water bubbles of its own accord -- lay a snark den full of snarks. One snark in particular is the subject of this tale. Not just any snark. The snark was four-legged, hairy and tough, with an aardvark's disposition and a man's grasp of physics. Not just any man, but something like Niels Bohr's or Richard Feynman's grasp of phyics. Not just any physics, but quantum physics.
Now the town of Ocanonda was not of this Earth, but thanks to transdimensional teleportation and fibre optic spacetime-shifting the men of Ocanonda -- even ones who would mate with a snark -- had access to iTunes. This would mean nothing, of course, without an iPad. For Feynman in this universe was known only through the digital medium. Books of course, meant nothing along the coast of the Buntish Ocean. And all the better for the trees, particularly the knobblish and the punter trees, which heavily populated the Glaylish crescent, planted by colonial thrompets centuries before, during the Golden Age of Slag, the wanton trade of which conspiracy theorists believed made the Buntish waters boil. Of course, not many worried about such theories five furlongs deep in the lagoons near where our snark did spend his middle decades - at the edge of the waters that touched Ocanonda and made her snark-maidens (fully snark and in no way human) moist-eyed with romance and other rubbish rot. A rather picturesque place - worthy of a postcard, if punter trees indeed had ever been felled for such an industry.
The snark we will come to know -- though only those inside his mind could say so -- was nicknamed Franny and realnamed Frances. He was a solid Glaylish plain-snark who moved to the seaside for opportunity, to work part-time in the Slag mines, and be low-level PR flak for the sub-prefect #4 of Ocanonda, aka His Honour, Commodius Flatus, who was appointed to the post for no other reason than his seaside land holdings which yielded 5% of income (much less than the usual 15%) to the Ocanonda-Pitzmiel SupraRegional Treasury. Commodius Flatus' vast and wind-stubbled homestead included forty hectare fruit-groves of wannabi-dates, but was in no other way extraordinary except for its peculiar road-side construction works that included a tall thin tower of frozen mud which housed a wizened black-nosed Slag-monk who was nicknamed One-Eyed Cecil and realnamed Snert Cecilius.
[unfinished of course]
1/21/2011
Should it concern me...
That I had all my good ideas seven years ago?
When the Internet reinvents itself, I'll be waiting.
Maybe I just need more of this.
When the Internet reinvents itself, I'll be waiting.
Maybe I just need more of this.
1/13/2011
The cupcakes are burnin
Trying to think of reasons to keep blogging. I may need to declare another hiatus. The pointlessness of it all is overpowering at the moment. Let's see how I feel tomorrow. In the meantime, check out this.
1/03/2011
"Some swarthy sonufabitch scattered slurpee sauce up my sneakers!"
We grow fat at a magnificent pace, in this, the donut race, a cycle ride from Leaside up to 905 and back again - it makes a man. Now I swallow mounds of fried magoo, as only I can do. An about-face, all about timing, pace, the business case. An obsession with a grand 'a-ha' makes magicians vanish senza trace. Prophalaxis upon members of the Axis would attract some serious debate. [Even Hitler bowed and scraped at Eva Braun's father's place??] Do I snicker when I say 'Djibouti', or a keep a straight face for 'Clafouti' - your snobbery eventually lands in a glove that only fits your hand.
1/02/2011
Verbatim
Exercise
Write
Act, no plan
Read
Rent
Invest
Organize
Gather
Cultivate
Network
Get born
Flower
Flourish
Take stock
Account
Develop
Write
Act, no plan
Read
Rent
Invest
Organize
Gather
Cultivate
Network
Get born
Flower
Flourish
Take stock
Account
Develop
12/16/2010
Digitized Egos Take Up Less Space
Try harder than ever not to impress anybody. Soon you will evaporate and that will be wonderful.
11/22/2010
Some wisdom just before lunch
- Love it or list it--just get it out of my hallway, before I kick it off the balcony!
- When a man is upset, cover his face with soothing lotions. When a man is on fire, do the same. This is a kind of consistency that few appreciate, least of all an angry burn victim.
- The word 'factotum' will be downsized from the dictionary, forcing the phrase 'snap-scrotum' to do double duty. Many will be confused, and none will be pleased.
- To avoid scandal, do not mix yourself up in any assassination plots. This is harder than it looks.
- Drive more slowly, chew more noisily, breathe more forcefully, whistle more relentlessly. You will lose a few friends this way, but have awakened a way of life.
11/02/2010
14 assertions you can take to the bank
[Don't ask me how I know, just know that you now know.]
- Colbert and Stewart will get out of the satire business and decide to craft America's perfect root beer.
- Petroleum proves to be made mostly out of leprechauns. The maxim "When you drill for oil, you disturb the Irish" will be in vogue. When you see a rainbow in your gasoline, remember where that pot of gold really is.
- A tragic mistake is made when fifty thousand drums of ketchup are sent on a ship bound for Rotterdam, where they dunk french fries in mayonnaise only. Asked to explain himself, the ship's captain will argue his only true mistake was erasing last night's episode of Jeopardy!.
- Things that melt in your mouth, not in your hand prove to be heretical to flamethrowers, but obvious to fire eaters.
- A drunk midget will control the levers of power in the European fashion industry. Those seeking access to top international designers must volunteer to stay sober and learn how to drive a tiny SUV.
- A quest to reclaim the Holy Land from yuppies meets unforeseen obstacles when Jerusalem office workers discover yoga mats make very plush seat covers.
- First Contact turns ugly when UFOs land at a CFO convention in Boston, demanding an audience with Earth's leaders. When the CFOs suggest the UFOs should meet the Earth's CEOs, the aliens scoff at the perceived mispelling, and threaten to melt the planet with an infrared pulsar bomb while shouting 'UEOs! UEOs!'
- The Seventh Sign is revealed when Boris Yeltsin returns to Earth as an offensive defenseman for the Montreal Canadiens. When Yeltsin smites Sidney Crosby with a devastating hipcheck, siamese-twin serpents spring from holes in the ice and devour the injured Penguin's mouthguard, creating a YouTube sensation and earning Yeltsin the nickname 'Boris SnakeBite'
- A madman races across the Sahara desert in search of free wifi access, stupidly unaware that the password is 'scorpion'.
- The ghost of Queen Cleopatra proves to be an excellent predictor of 2014 World Cup outcomes. A special section for necromancers is installed in every sports booking table in Brazil casinos -- while a backlash against Paul the Octopus and other invertebrate prognosticators means the vast majority of calamari are still sliced up and fried or pickled.
- Cartoon physicists cite evidence that Isaac Newton discovered gravity right before an anvil fell on his head, but tested his theories only after running off a cliff and looking down.
- DJs and rappers will be forbidden from using capitals in their name, or any intentionally misspelled words. The only people allowed to misspell their names will be inner-city elementary school teachers, who sadistically force students to write out the new names hundreds of times on electric chalkboards they call 'scratchpads'.
- Equal rights will be realized in an advanced society of sleepwalkers. Where you are from and who you know will not matter nearly as much how loud you snore, how padded your stairs are and whether your drool can be monetized.
- Justice is finally done when, after centuries of having it land on them, sidewalks win the right to chew our gum.
10/19/2010
Need change
I see what a mistake this has been.
I couldn't stop it though. It needed to roll all the way down hill.
I have set myself a deadline.
I will work toward it now.
There is no future in the social networks. The more they feed us, the emptier we feel.
Old things are best.
People need to figure that out for themselves.
Feel free to take advantage in the meantime.
No use bleating. How could any of us have known?
I couldn't stop it though. It needed to roll all the way down hill.
I have set myself a deadline.
I will work toward it now.
There is no future in the social networks. The more they feed us, the emptier we feel.
Old things are best.
People need to figure that out for themselves.
Feel free to take advantage in the meantime.
No use bleating. How could any of us have known?
9/21/2010
Zounds - 150 pounds
Unfortunately I find I'm unable to write. You never had that problem, never had to fight.
Swish in sandals, heavenly dreaded scandals singing overlong in temples gold and making men feel young and old. I was white and bored and black and cold and wired to fail. Magic muffins burn in brown and challah loaves from Chinatown did frown my friends and eleventy-ninety never-ending disco bending botany beauties - walnuts wild and other fruits, I did elope and pas de tout did you know that far below, the TSX, I wrote it down, a silver quote that make men rich. You want that cash, clutching savings in a book your advisors so much trouble took and bishops knights and castles rook which check you out of fortune.
Tralala, said Sherry Sweet, from 119 East Dover Street--her rubies slippers on her feet did flit and float on Sunday. I never saw her bottled hair, I always knew she'd never share, I couldn't care when her auntie crowed of how she'd hit the jackpot. The mother lode! My poor toad! It's nothing now to save a tree, when green is black and white is wrong. Of manic men we often sing, a quota on our list to fling, a fire into open arms, we spread a blanket warm but made of lead to cover all your good ideas?
Swish in sandals, heavenly dreaded scandals singing overlong in temples gold and making men feel young and old. I was white and bored and black and cold and wired to fail. Magic muffins burn in brown and challah loaves from Chinatown did frown my friends and eleventy-ninety never-ending disco bending botany beauties - walnuts wild and other fruits, I did elope and pas de tout did you know that far below, the TSX, I wrote it down, a silver quote that make men rich. You want that cash, clutching savings in a book your advisors so much trouble took and bishops knights and castles rook which check you out of fortune.
Tralala, said Sherry Sweet, from 119 East Dover Street--her rubies slippers on her feet did flit and float on Sunday. I never saw her bottled hair, I always knew she'd never share, I couldn't care when her auntie crowed of how she'd hit the jackpot. The mother lode! My poor toad! It's nothing now to save a tree, when green is black and white is wrong. Of manic men we often sing, a quota on our list to fling, a fire into open arms, we spread a blanket warm but made of lead to cover all your good ideas?
9/20/2010
Oh yeah, still here
Big burly buckets of beans in a soup canteen, asking me politely if I still was a has been.
Slow silence and sound screams, not knowing whether to dare or dream.
Minus my magic, married by logic into a silver blue suit, never ask Noah if he packed your flute.
Obvious analogies, fitting fallacies, tautologies, originalities, all the third-world nationalities gathered baseball bats in a banana tree and launched hysterical bees at a satellite tv, laughing so rude and scatologically.
Find me foolish, drink my wine. I don't bother to dress up swine.
Heaven men, best of 10, nothing to compare when we have no when.
I miss that season, the meaning, the simple dimension, when I got excited at a media mention. When running water's everywhere, do I give my friend a drink? When information is the air, well, don't ask me what I think.
Slow silence and sound screams, not knowing whether to dare or dream.
Minus my magic, married by logic into a silver blue suit, never ask Noah if he packed your flute.
Obvious analogies, fitting fallacies, tautologies, originalities, all the third-world nationalities gathered baseball bats in a banana tree and launched hysterical bees at a satellite tv, laughing so rude and scatologically.
Find me foolish, drink my wine. I don't bother to dress up swine.
Heaven men, best of 10, nothing to compare when we have no when.
I miss that season, the meaning, the simple dimension, when I got excited at a media mention. When running water's everywhere, do I give my friend a drink? When information is the air, well, don't ask me what I think.
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