The crate was full

The crate was full. 

Oh, not of things. 

No not things.

For things are boorish.

Things are stationary.

Things are selfish.

Things are standoffish.

Things are stale. 

I mean there WERE things in the crate.

I'm not denying that. 

Just that they are not important.

Things rarely are.

Until they are.

Upon which time.

Importance is thrust upon them like a seal eating a banana. 

With its feat.

It makes no sense.

But why should it.

Other creatures dietary habits are none of your business. 

Unless you're a professional animal feeder. 

In which case it's utterly your business.   

There was a receipt in the crate. 

For a staple gun. 

Yet this crate was not at the hardware store. 

A clear sign that the receipt was put in the crate before the crate arrived at its current location. 

Clear signs being something else you can purchase at the hardware store.

But only big ones that seemingly sell everything. 

Big stores that seemingly sell anything that is, not clear signs that sell everything. 

Which would be super cool.

Except neither would sell the one thing you really need.

Which is love.

And respect. 

And opportunity. 

What, you thought the one thing you really need would be a hammer?

Well the hardware store definitely sells those.

So unless you have nails that are currently not inside wood and that this scenario is holding you back in some significant way then you do not 'need' a hammer. 

Maybe a paperclip. 

But I won't judge. 

The crate held a solution to the mystery of time. 

Or as they're commonly known - a 'time telling device'. 

Or as 'THEY'RE' commonly known - a friend who owns a watch. 

It's a big crate.

I perhaps should have mentioned that. 

The crate also holds a hair.

A brown one.

Straight.

Which is more comforting than a curly one. 

But less comforting than a hair with seven miniature societies at war with reality on them.

Relative size being something we are all comforted by.

Save the one whale who eats the billions of plankton!

Being a common war cry.

Or is it krill?

Does anyone really know? 

The answer is yes.

This is a big crate.

But it did not hold a whale.

Not because it's not big enough for a whale.

But mostly because making it water tight would require an internal membrane of leak proof glass.

And membranes are icky. 

No the crate was not empty. 

Not of things. 

But the crate was empty.

Of non-things.

Which are often more important than things.

Happiness brought on by a new relationship with a new car that was purchased by a new boss who has a new relationship with a new corporate credit card is not a thing.

Neither is sleeping with your boss.

But both involve grunt work.

Which is also not a thing. 

At least not a physical thing.

Which are the easiest things to point at.

'Check out that thing' for example. 

Yes the crate was full. 

But not of things. 

Oh no, not things. 

For things are common.

Things are misinformed.

Things are inanimate.

Things are quiet. 

This crate was full of non-things.

Like possibly.

Like opportunity. 

Like stale stench of a boss exploiting his position of power to be generous in exchange for generosity. 

That's pretty sweet. 

And icky.

Like the membrane that's absence killed the whale.  

This will warm your heart

What I think I'd say if I was asked to address a room of people on the issue of feeling cold in your home but at the last minute told 'oh, and please don't offend anyone'. 

Hi everyone. One way I've found in my life that I can deal with coldness, or the issue of coldness is to put a quilt on myself. I have a nice warm quilt on my bed, but I'll pull it into the living room from time to time, if the weather demands it, and say I want to watch a film, so I know I'll be there for a while. Yes quilts can be nice and warm. 

Not that quilts are your only option. There are things you can use as a quilt if you don't have access to a quilt, which would be sad. Because quilts are awesome. Especially if it's cold. So I'm not denying that sadness. I never would. Nor am I saying there definitely is sadness. It might not be cold where you are. Or you may also have a quilt. All I'm saying is that if you currently wish you had access to a quilt but you don't there are alternatives available to you. Well maybe they're not available to you. I don't know everything you have available to you. Just that there are options. 

Also some people call them Doonas, or Duvets. And reserve the word quilt for a traditional patchwork creation which may be ceremonial or artistic and potentially have community or family connections, and possibly even sentimental value. And I'm not saying you should pull one of those down from the wall, or out of your safety deposit locker at the bank, just cause you're a tad cold. Or a lot cold for that matter. Nor am I saying that your current feelings of coldness do not warrant this type of drastic action. Not that it necessarily is a drastic action. I am sure your grandmother would prefer your family quilt handed down through the generations to keep you warm than to be locked away while you freeze. But I don't know your grandma. Perhaps she values lasting tradition more than anything. Perhaps sacrifice matters to her. Her section of that quilt may represent life going on after she lost your grandfather in one of the world wars. Perhaps being cold and looking at that may be a way of remembering the past. I don't know your family history. Maybe your ancestors were on 'the other side'. I don't know. Then again there is something to be said for the beauty in past war enemies being friends and allies only a generation or two later. Not that there is ANY beauty in war. Well there is. A soldiers hand reaching out to save a lost child and reunite her with her parents she thought had perished. But then that isn't necessarily actually part of the war. Just cause something is happening in the same place and time as a war doesn't mean that it's part of that war. And maybe those parents are assholes. There are bad parents out there. That's just a fact. So if you were once estranged from your parents and no soldier reunited you I'm not saying that that was necessarily a horrible thing. It may have been. Maybe neither option was good. There isn't always a good or better alternative. Sometimes we have to choose between two or more bad options. And I'm not saying there are always options or alternatives. Sometimes it's ok to face something hard just by dealing with it. There is pride in that. Not that being proud is all there is. Some people don't have anything to be proud of right now. That's sad. But it's true. And if that's your case it doesn't make you less of a person. It's just the situation you're currently in. That's all we ever have. Now and this. It's not any of our duties to judge or commentate on other peoples here and nows. Or our own. Some people have mental illness. They don't choose it. These are just realities. Not that this means you should just give into them. They can be fought, they can be managed, they can be helped. Not that you are any less of a person if you face these battles and have not yet found the will needed for the fight. It's not your fault. Maybe it's hereditary. It could be your parents fault. Or they may have done all they can. Parenthood is not a science, nor is it an art. Not that if you take an artistic or scientific approach to parenthood that you're doing it wrong.

Look, blankets! Fucking blankets. That's an alternative to quilts. Fucking blankets. Although technically a quilt lives in the umbrella of the blanket genre of bedding and linen-ware. Not that I'm an expert. 

Ok, look, I don't fucking know why I was asked to give this speech. Confession - I have a space heater in my apartment. That's how I deal with the cold. And if you don't have one then it's not my fucking fault, stop fucking expecting other people to solve YOUR fucking problems. You fucking assholes. 

Powerfully Persuasive

I like to think that if I was a Sheik who loved hardwood floors but had accidentally told my aids to floor the entire apartment with tiles having mistakenly thought the wood panels on floors were long thin brown tiles, and I didn't to embarrass myself by admitting my mistake, but also didn't want freaking tiles on the living room floor like a bloody bathroom, 'I mean my god, guests might end up pissing on the humidor thinking its a fancy cat box for humans', I'd try and psyche myself into 'changing my mind', probably while blaming my dad (no one really likes him anyway) and getting the hardwood floors I desired in the first place, by looking in the mirror and saying the following: 

Look at you. Standing proud. Tall. Sexy. Not at all pathetic. Proud in fact. Not that you have anything to be proud about. But you don't let that stop you. Do you. And that's something to be proud about. 

Look at your satisfying amount of armpit hair. Not too much. Not too little. Some hints of roll on deodorant chunks still not dissolved. Showing cleanliness in an unclean way. Just cause Sheiks traditionally have beards but yours is too patchy to look at all decent is nothing to feel less of a man about. Armpit hair is fine. And yours is swell. No wonder you're not wearing a shirt. Although probably should put one on before you tell Ahgkmad about the floors.

No no, we're not there yet, confidence please Glen. Fuck, why did my dad call me Glen, it's so unsheiky, that fuck, and that's exactly why it's perfectly ok to blame him for this floor fiasco. I mean he bought half the cigars in the humidor so it benefits him anyway. Also 'that's so unsheiky' sounds like a pop song one of these modern pop stars would sing, them and their arrogant 'I'm not even completely sure what a Sheik is, and therefore this might be offensive' ways. Those fools. 

Look at you getting off track like a trackless track star. If your body wasn't so amply unbuffed in a sexy sort of 'I'm too powerful to need to be buff' way, you could totally drop a tracksuit on it. 

You're a confident, virile, important man. Look at that bulge. I bet even if the threat of beheadings wasn't in the air all the wenches STILL wouldn't complain about that. 

I wonder how hardwood floors handle beheading blood? The bathroom tiles sure are perfect for it. So easy to clean. I guess it wouldn't be all bad if they were in the living room too.

No Glen. That's not what you want. Hardwood floors please. 

Look at you confident. Strong. Handsome. Important. Manly. You always look so great in this bathroom mirror. You look good with white behind you. You should have that all the time. Wait those are tiles. Shut up. I don't want tiles in my living room. 

Do they actually have human cat litter box things so you can piss in your living room? That'd be pretty sweet actually. Plus the wenches will be impressed if I'm always whipping it out in the living room. 

Aggh. They love everything. They're required to. Just once I'd like to be told no. To not get everything my way. 

Look at you Glen you're pathetic. You're trying to talk yourself into 'wanting' the tiles, because you're too much of a pussy to admit you made a mistake, and to look stupid for not knowing that hardwood floors weren't tiles. And you're going to succeed in doing it because you're a brilliant powerful man who could talk anyone into anything so of course you'll talk yourself into this.

Plus Ahgkmad is scary. 

So it's settled. Tiles it is. Can't wait to behead a wench in the LIVING-ROOM! I'm going to go for the very next one who laughs at my patchy beard. 

It's just so relaxing

Sometimes you have to just sit and think things. It's just so relaxing. 

Sure standing and thinking things is good too. I'm even partial to a hopping on one leg while attempting to balance a glass of sarsaparilla on my head and thinking from time to time. But I feel like the very nature of sitting brings up things that standing or hopping and balancing can't possibly bring up. In fact I think it's the superior way to think. So right now I want to sit and think.

Here I go. 

I am now sitting. 

And well, right off the bat, how about the feeling of your butt on a cushion incased in faux leather? It's lovely. And that's not something you often think about when you're standing. In fact I think I most likely exclusively think about my butt on a cushion incased in faux leather when sitting. And that's comforting to think about. Yep this is a sitting comfort and it's comfortably delightful.    

And yeah, also how about having your knees bent and feet on the ground? Pretty damn sweet. You don't get that when you're standing, feat on the ground? Maybe. And yeah sure your knees bend while you're hopping, but usually only one, and it's usually not the one that's on the ground. Nope, two knees bent and two feat on the ground is its own sensation. This is a sitting sensation, and it's sensationally awesome. 

Oh, and you're NOT standing or hopping. People really don't think about stuff like that enough. Not just 'this is what I'm doing' but also 'this is what I'm NOT doing'. That can be powerful stuff. 'I'm currently having a picnic' yeah, that's nice. Possibly even romantic, but how about taking a moment to think 'I'm NOT having heroin injected into my eyeball by a man with elephant man disease' that shits important. Cause I yell ya, there's a bunch of people out there with that horrible disease, and at least one of them is currently injecting some poor sap in the eyeball with heroin, or maybe a smallpox imuination, I don't know, I don't judge.

Wait, and while we're on stuff we're not doing, you're hardly ever sitting while also being chased by a heard of stampeding elephants. 

In fact if there is an elephant involved then sitting probably isn't involved. Unless you're sitting on an elephant. And if you are then that's badass. So I think we've pretty much established that sitting kicks ass. And thats ass kickingly kick ass. 

And I'll tell you something else, it's very hard to have your ass kicked when your ass is in a chair! 

Yep. Sitting. Yay. 

Ok sure, you have to sit though most of school, and even school exams, while sitting and that shit sucks. But you can't fucking blame sitting for that. That's a school administrator, possibly even PTA decision. Frankly sitting would rather you be daydreaming, or even nightdreaming, than learning. 

And ok, you may well be sitting anytime someone has bad news for you and tries to prepare you for it by saying something like 'I've got bad news, you better sit down'. 

And yes, you're normally sitting when in the back of a cop car having been wrongly arrested on suspicion of pedophilia. 

Or wrongly accused of sexual assault of an adult. I don't judge the thing you've bee wrongly accused of, that's not my job, that's for the public at large to condemn you for. The point is that it's not sittings fault. 

You know what, I'll just fucking say it - life is a rollercoaster, that's a fact. You sit on rollercoasters, that's a rule they all have. Therefore life = sitting. I didn't want to play that card. But you basically made me. And, plus you fucking sit when you play cards, so deck the halls, storm the castle, and reinterpret the hidden message hiding in every hide club, I fucked you all hard in the fucking ear, you and your motherfucking 'I'd rather stand or hop while balancing a glass of sarsaparilla on my head to do my thinking' fools! 

Yep, sometimes you just have to sit and think motherfuckers! And we can change the world!...

Plus it's just so relaxing. 

Brought Knives

It was a dark dark dark dark dark day that day.

Or perhaps someone had just forgotten to turn on the lights. 

That happens you know. 

I'm not aware of that being the case on this particular day.

Only that it was dark that day.

Dark dark dark dark dark to be precise. 

But the no one turning on the lights thing isn't just some scenario I fabricated from thin air.

Occasionally someone will plumb forget.

And a sea of people, possibly even a whole room of them, will think that their lives have been thrust into darkness.

Because of the darkness in the room they're in.

As it turns out that those lights I speak of had the purpose of illuminating this room. 

I felt like a merry-go-round that had forgotten that essentially it's merely a bunch of horses.

Plastic ones. 

Which even though are easier to wipe down than real horses.

Still often are covered in way more germs.

Holy fuck. 

I just googled 'horse diseases' so I could suggest something that plastic horses have less of than real horses.

To make them feel better seeing as they are essentially disease cesspools. 

Why do you think they're always going up and down?

It's the oppressive itchiness.

The worst type of itchiness. 

Anyway there are a bunch of diseases like... 

Abocoises of the hoof. And..

Blister beetle poisoning. But then..

'Born without anus or rectum'. 

Thanks a lot Google, I didn't want to picture that with my mind, I just wanted to see some horse gangrene or something, you sick fucks. 

I felt like a kid in a candy story.

Ok good, back somewhere wholesome. 

Although fuck you spell check, I did literally want to write 'good' but I accidentally hit 'food' and it corrected it to 'good' but 'food' is a real word ok, and one I may well have wanted to use while speaking about candy, so don't correct me you sick fucks. 

I felt this way partly because I was literally a kid in a candy store.

A metaphoric one.

I mean I was literally in one.

But I had no money. 

Which makes the kid in a candy store scenario teasingly tedious.

I mean I was rambunctious and naughty in spirit. 

So I could have stolen a candy. 

But I also had crippling fears of capture, punishment, guilt, stealing a candy that some other kid had already fondled, panic attacks, nuclear war, getting pencils driven into my ear with a hammer, having butter rubbed into my acne suspect skin zones, getting a maid who would turn out to be sassy, hysterical blindness, accidentally taking a night time cold and flu tablet during the day, and getting my hand stuck in jars of candy and having to break the glass to get it out ruining the delicious candy with my blood. 

I felt like a polygamous person finding out that embracing the poly lifestyle was first popularized by polyurethane. 

I felt like a guy who's long disliked his old man sounding name 'Arthur' who's just found out this whole time he could have gone with with an awesomely cool name like 'Art'.

I felt like a shy boy who thought a girl had propositioned him for sushi and sex, but who had actually said 'shush the fuck up'.

I felt like the teenage girls I seriously just overheard talking about 'like the brawl' they went to on the weekend, and how 'like it was awesome, cause like some cunts brought like knives, and like there were like cunts bleeding everywhere, and like it was totes rad, but like some cunt brought some cunts who like ruined it by calling the cops' and how 'like anyway, we better to get to school, don't want to get in trouble'. (You hear the most amazing things when you have insomnia all night and decide to give up and go for McDonalds breakfast). 

I felt like it was a dark dark dark dark dark day. Because it was a dark dark dark dark dark day that day. 

Because someone had forgotten to turn on the lights.

See I TOLD you that's a real scenario. 

It actually happens. 

Whether you are aware of it or not. 

So don't doubt be again and everything will be all food. 

Oh fuck you spellcheck.

You sick fucks. 

Something was wrong

There was a log on the fire. 

A wooden log.

That's the first thing that made me think something was wrong. 

The second thing was that the fire was in the living room.

On a table. 

A wooden table. 

We were already at two things that made me think something was wrong. 

But thinking is not knowing. 

The third thing that made me think that something might be wrong was that there were seventeen people around the fire chanting 'kill the resident, kill the resident, kill the resident'.

Seventeen adult people.

Which is the oldest category of people around.

Unless you count sub-classes.

The forth thing that made me think something may be wrong was that I WAS the resident.

Now I know what you're thinking.

'You didn't know that you were a resident before you heard that?'

Also 

'You noticed the log on the fire before you noticed the seventeen chanters?'

Well I have a powerful response to that. 

The fifth thing that made me think something was wrong was that I observed that my noticing things was a little off. 

Wayward even. 

The sixth thing that made me think something was wrong was that if I observed that my noticing things was tad off, wayward even, then clearly my observation skills were as strong as ever, so perhaps I was being a little judgmental of my own skills. 

There was ambiguity. Ambiguity isn't knowing. Why feel bad when the thing you are feeling bad about isn't even definitely true?

The seventh thing that made me think something was wrong was that there was a noose hanging from the rafters.  With three bloody slain goats hanging around it with the blood dripping into a giant pit in the shape of pentagram. 

'Seriously you noticed the log before you noticed that'? I hear you asking. 

Well I have a powerful response to that. 

The eighth thing that made me think something was wrong was that the fire had given off smoke, and some of that had gotten into my eyes, which were now a tad watery! Which although was unpleasant, was a bit of a relief as it was another sign that there was a chance that while my noticing skills were a tad askew, wayward even, my observational skills were still potentially fine. 

Less of a relief however was that I now had eight things that made me think something was wrong. I have a stern rule in my life 'while thinking is not knowing, if there are eight signs of something, then it's ok to get worried and/ or excited, depending on the nature of the thing in question'. 

I don't like getting worried so I chose to get excited! So I joined the chanting, and we hung a rat which was also a resident. It was tough because they have little necks. But his final words were pretty inspiring: 

'I'm ready to go, all the cheese is melted anyway, and I prefer mine raw'.

So it all worked out in the end. Other than my half my house burning down, and them all leaving it to me to clean up the pentagram. But on the plus side, goat and rat kababs for everyone! With MELTED cheese!

 

Into the eye

I delved into the eye of the bubble storm. 

Conjured by The Bubble Storm Conjurer!

A man who's only dream was to be named after something that he'd literally done.

He was a success. 

And despite the happy laughing playing children. 

He was not actually evil. 

The future... Today!!!

I just saw a BMW commercial saying 'experience the ideas of tomorrow  today'. Sounds exciting right? 

Really fucking exciting. Tomorrow is the future for fucks sake, that's almost time travel! In a car. How did no one ever think of such a thing before?

I was about to drop everything and sprint to the BMW shop as fast as possible (apparently they don't deliver. Um if I had a car to drive to the store why do I need to buy one dicks?) 

But we're talking the future here people! How could I possibly wait. Wait for the future to arrive? 

A little bit of history for you all: Until now waiting has literally been the only way to get to the future. The definition of 'wait' should literally be - 'how you get to the future'. Which actually makes the word 'wait' seem kind of badass. 

Until you've done the waiting that is, at which point it doesn't matter how long the wait was, if you ask someone what time it is they will never ever say 'the future'! They'll only say the time is 'now'. 

Yep it's all a scam. The only way to get to the future is to 'wait' and it doesn't matter how long you wait the only place you can get to is 'now'. 

It's a problem that has tarnished the previously good name of almost every scientist from Newton to Einstein to Socrates to Dylan. No one could figure out how to get to tomorrow. 

But now BMW had solved it. The dicks wouldn't deliver, so I looked up the bus schedule, there wasn't one for forty five minutes, to get to the car that could let me experience the ideas of tomorrow today I'd first have to wait. The irony was so biting that I immediately had to mop up blood from my tongue. So I hit pause on my DVR and ran to the bathroom. 

Then it hit me, I'd hit 'pause'. This show isn't live? 

I ran back to my living room, blood running down my chin both literally and figuratively. I leapt forward in a swan dive across my rug towards the remote control that was conveniently left on the floor. 

With fresh rug burns covering most of the front of my body, I hit 'info' on my remote, the tension in the air was so biting that I cut my tongue off with a knife to stop the bleeding....

Seven days old. 

Seven whole days old. 

Seven whole long fucking days old.

BMW had promised the ideas of tomorrow today, but that today was seven days ago, and that tomorrow was six days ago, which means their future was so outdated that it was almost laughable. 

I say 'almost' because it turns out it's practically impossible to laugh without a tongue. 

BMW could no longer offer the ideas of tomorrow today. Only the ideas of seven days ago six days ago. The devastation was so biting I deep throated a spongecake to stop the bleeding. 

Then it occurred to me - medical care. I called up the hospital and asked for directions, they said not to worry that they had ambulances, medical care that they... Delivered! 

I'd say 'now THAT'S the future today' but I can't talk because I no longer have a tongue, and have a mouth full of spongecake, the irony is so biting I bet the ambulance vehicle will be a BMW! 

A mountain of advice

'Just because a man has never climbed a mountain, at least not one of any outstanding reputation for difficulty it relation to grades of gradient in regards to ascending said mountain, does not make them THAT much less of a man, being a man comes from fucking whores' He said, to the small boy sitting next to him on the large train. 

Large compared to the boy at least. Size being a very important detail when dealing with small people, small being right there in their description - 'small boy' - and this particular boy turned out to be self-conscience and worried about his relative size. 

The man had started out attempting to tell an inspirational tale to inspire the kid, a story about how size didn't matter, using mountain climbing as an analogous, but he'd accidentally gotten off path, 'much like mountain climbers who would soon be dead from exposure to the elements, as in the elements that pissed off the bears so much that they ate the climbers FEET first! "Ouch, um, ouwwee, my face is delicious, I swear little bear, grunt, try my face please, ouchie' they'd be quoted as saying, as the bear polished off a foot and started munching on shin bone. 'I don't know why the ranger was so determined to write down the quotes accurately, including every ouch and grunt, instead of using his tranquilizer gun on the bear, yet he didn't seem to care about writing down how that bear enjoyed the shin bone. For some reason I think shin would be one of the least tasty bones, but then maybe the marrow makes it worth it'. 

The man was still far off what was appropriate to say to a small boy, especially when attempting to inspire him. But bears eating humans was better than talking to him about whores. 

'I once made a whore eat out my asshole' he concluded. 

Oh man, I spoke too soon. 

'What's a whore?' Asked the small boy. 

'Well son, that's a woman with a huge  worn out vagina' the man replied, trying to help, and making use of that size detail that I agree that I had pointed out was important to small boys, but still, wildly inappropriate. Just be fucking inspiring. It's not that hard. 

'But love comes in all shapes and sizes' he added, again using size as a point of reference, and admittedly getting closer to wise words. 

'But never fall in love with your whore boy' he continued. Really just totally failing in pretty much the only rule in the world that surely no one could fail in - don't talk about whores with stranger's kids. Or any kids. 

'Just climb fucking Mt Kosiosko for fuck sake. It's the tallest mountain in Australia, a huge continent, but piss easy, I know a whore with meth teeth who's done it' he said. 'And I'm sorry I keep talking about whores, but I'm an angry little man, with little going for me in life, only a tiny home, small cock, and minuscule existence, they're all I've got' he said, with small tears welling up in his little eyes. 

He'd now said it all. The little boy knew it for sure now. Size was all that was important. He'd taken a big chance and run away from home, hoping to see a huge hole - a valley. He was already doing better than this man. 'Plus maybe I could fuck a whore on this trip and lose my virginity in a smaller amount of time than anyone else at school' he thought, having learned all he could from the man. 

I'd been watching this all go down. For some reason concerned with writing it all down instead of using my tranquilizer gun on the man. But for once I felt part of something. I'd learned something. This was my mountain. 

The train pulled up at the mattahorn, which is right next to a valley. The old man met a whore who gave him syphalis and his nose fell off. The kid took a small fall on a little slope, fell between a tiny crack and died of exposure, exposure being the what pissed off the wolf who ate him.

Dying and Dusty

When the carousel stops. 

It's gears rusty. 

It's horses dusty.

It's memories musty like an old man's cigarette and whisky phlegm coughed into an jar of mustard hoping one of his grandchildren will beg for yet 'another fucking hotdog grampa'.

'In my day we didn't say fucking to elders you little shits.'

'In your day you were too busy hoping a dinosaur wouldn't sit on your last fucking rock pile which is what you called video games, now make with the hotdogs or we won't have time for ice-cream you cranky old cunt!' 

When the carousel is silent. Its poles slimy. It's carnies Limey. Its music whiney like a pool boys night on the town after his day when the dirtiest pool he had to scrub was cavernous, wet, and between the legs of a demanding and scary housewife.

'Come inside for some lemonade, there are no leaves to scoop but there is something crusty'. 

'What did you say grandpa?'

'Whoops, sorry I was just fantasizing about your future career, want mustard on that dog?'

When the carousel stops, the times changed, the nights cold, the moments small, the glass murky, and nothing good on TV, at least not on the free to air channels, and the fucking cable is out again, we are left with just us. People. Folks. Skin and boobs and shins and hair and spleens, you know, people. And it turns out they can be interesting sometimes. 

Case in point two middle aged ladies sat next to me at lunch today and had a conversation that went exactly like this:

'I didn't know you died?'

'Oh yeah, I've been dying for a while, I like it, but it's messy' 

'I don't want to die. Well I do. But I don't have the space for it'.

'Oh you must die, it's wonderful. It doesn't take as much space as you'd think'.

'Really, to die?'

'Trust me, once you've died you'll want to keep dying'.

This went on for a while. Boy, ladies discussing arts and crafts sure are morbid fucks. 

Prominent Truth

'The envelope is full of mystery' she said. And truer words HAD never been said. Not because of what she literally said of course. There was a letter to the editor in there. No fucking mystery there. Those are pretty standard things. 

- Prominent person claims that we need more helmets in jousting competitions. 

- Equally prominent person, says 'no, it's spinal injuries not skull injuries you fool'

- Slightly more prominent person says 'but what about the cost you idiots?'

- Epically prominent monkey says 'you know that it's clear that it's the joust wounds to the chest that kill 99% of jousters right?'

- Politician says 'I'll fund the helmets with a joust tax you retards.' 

- Child molester writes a letter to the editor complaining about cameras at playgrounds. 

No there was no mystery at all. That's not why truer words had never been said. It we what she had figuratively said that mattered of course. 

I mean learn to use email you assholes, it's not that hard. 

Death under

No one has ever died of armpit aerobics.

Because that didn't exist till I invented it right now! 

Which means if someone dies of it soon it'll be MY fault. 

Holy fucking shit eating fuck balls.

I'm not built for this type of pressure. 

Inventing stuff sucks. 

Plus armpit aerobics?

Ewwww. Whoever came up with that is obviously a fucking psycho. 

YOUVE BEEN POETRYIFIED! 

So alive

Kyle Thacter was ecstatic. He was about to execute a plan to achieve living out a life long dream he'd been coveting every moment he'd lived for his whole life. 

Man did he feel alive.

He was in the world's biggest furniture store in Omaha. The beautifully green and white behemoth known poetically by its actual name - Nebraska Furniture Mart. And let's be clear, you can't not be smart when you shop in a mart. 

Oh BOY did he feel like he was living in a way that made him feel alive. 

It was past the closing time as posted on the front door in the section that they had dedicated specifically to posting opening hours. They don't post closed hours, but yep, they sure as hell are implied.

God damn it he felt life was finally mostly about feeling alive. 

They'd made several announcements to 'finish your payments and please exit', one of the doors was already locked, and several others were about to join in on the fun, and while we're in the land of severality its an apt time to point out that several of the flat screen TVs had already been switched off, most people had left, a couple of others were heading for the door, and Kyle had totally not been noticed by anyone as he was playing dead next to a stuffed giraffe and a giant '&' symbol. 

Fuck him him this way to necrophilia he was living life was like a life affirming hero overcome with feeling alive! 

He was about to be in the store ALONE! 'I'm gonna sit in at least twelve recliners!' He thought to himself with bubbling glee, almost boiling over levels of bubbling, and glee almost dripping with ice storms of yippeeness! 'Maybe even see if I can fit in a fridge!'

But then it happened. Disaster. 

Shit full of blood for three or four days type horror. He'd fucked up. Possibly even fucked down. And worst of all, almost certainly fucked in. 

He realized that had he promised his dad that he'd come around and show him how to download jazz onto his laptop. 

What should he do? The options were as many, as they were variable as they were varied in the numeracy:

- Follow his dreams? 

- Follow through with his promise?

- Try and sit on twelve recliners, then maybe compromise and see if he could fit in an oven? 

- Something else? 

The potential results of these actions were as numerable as the were obviously dripping in obvious flames of numbered possibilities: 

- Diving headfirst into an end table hoping to dislocate his neck, before calling for his lawyer from a rolled up rug that he'd rolled himself up into all while screaming 'the mob did it, the mob did it', before making new friends with someone in the organized crime division of the FBI and hoping that they owned a jazz album he could borrow making the downloads unnecessary. 

- Bellowing 'the Egyptians invented furniture and now they're all dead! DEAD I TELL YOU'? Then inventing red paint out of rug fibers, before day dreaming he was in a factory copied painting of Paris, that was magically appearing in a mirror next to the fry pans, making eggs, flipping a bird like jackpot, and using this attention grabbing opportunity to ask an employee where the nearest exit is. 

- Try sitting in an oven that's SET to recline! 

- Stealing an employee's identity and escaping to Ohio where he could burn all his skin off with melted cheese and join a traveling freak show, masquerading as a stable freak experience, before taking a job at Goldman Sacks and firing their gold trader. 

Yep, he realized right then that he had options. 

He'd never felt so lived in a living life disc that was nothing but overwhelming feelings of being alive! Or, and this is where it gets even more exciting, possibly even something else!