Life is short. Or perhaps it lasts for a really, really long time. No one is really sure. Which sucks. If they can't figure that out definitively then what else don't we know? The perfect size for a jar?
Fuck that.
Instead here are the silly, weird, unhinged, absurd, silly, stupid, completely unrelated to hinges (moslty), poorly edited, outpourings and thought vomits of a silly idiotic teddy-bear of a dickhead.
Staring Dave "Davey" David Tieck
Welcome to the fleeting forever expansion fantastical,
This is the blog where sometimes I post silly short stories, silly poems and other outpourings of silly silliness, and other other times we're focusing on the fact that by some miracle this blog has nearly one million reads!
This is something which I’d like to have, because then I could say stuff like “I’ve had a million reads… cool”
And I’d like to be able to say that.
Because that seems rad.
And being "rad" was all l aspired to be in my entire life back when I rode skateboards in my tweens in the late 80s.
And the 80s are now themselves considered rad again
So it's total dang fate man!
Today on the count to a million we check in on how the count to a million is coming along.
Today’s stats say - It’s coming along slowly.
Which is RAD, cause I love slow things! Yay.
Consider these things that are slow…
Tortoises
Turtles
Other torti
Tonka Trucks
Tanya in HR in her handling of your request for Tostito brand chips to be given a more high profile position in the vending machine
Treadmills
The music of Tangerine Dreams
The wait for a change of underpants when you are waiting in a portaloo
That one movie that was slow but really profound,
Tuesdays
Now consider these things which are not slow:
Space ships
Cool cars
Shit cars with good engines
Shit cars with shit engines dropped off cliffs
Different music by Tangerine Dreams (particularly the faster songs)
The city of Toronto’s summer night life
Sky diving out of a cool car falling out of a space ship (soundtrack by Tangerine Dreams, particular the cool faster songs)
Which list is more cool?
The second one obviously- it has the word "cool" in it THREE times.
Plus the other list seemed to suggest you’d poo'd your pants (you hadn’t actually, you’d actually got your undies ripped when you saved a child from a BEAR! You personally fought it off, ripping your underpants in the process, but then, in a moment of inspiration and glory, you said “hey bear, why are we fighting?” and started a dialogue, which ended up solving 83% of all current bear/ human disagreements- in fact you solved bear/ human relations so brilliantly that the Bear even demanded to buy you a new pair of underpants; that’s why the wait is so slow, the first three stores he went to were sold out due to pre-hibernation stocktake sales)!
And how do we KNOW that those "not slow" things are more cool than the things that ARE slow - because we COMPARED them to the slow things, and they compared favorably!
So I think we've answered this one today.
- Slow things equal rad things.
- Because of how not slow things compare to them.
- "How" being - favorably.
- The count to the million reads is going along swimmingly (a slow sport)
Plus
- You personally are... Bear interrelationally BADASS!
PS. For the love of god Tanya, GET THESE CHIPS IN A MORE HIGH PROFILE POSITION DANG IT!
It was yesterday afternoon, and I was about to leave to meet some people.
“Honey, I’m going to neck a coffee and then leave”, I said to my partner with the tired urgency of someone needing to leave, but also innocently, so the first sentence still makes sense.
“Ok” she replied. She was in the shower at the time. Which is irrelevant to the story. But some of you will have now pictured this in your minds. Which was not my intention at all. But I can’t remove this section now, because if I know this fact I possibly will lose my air of innocence, and I like air.
I was not going to take that of course. “Ok”, what was that? My statement was just “ok”. I’m not ok with “ok”; I need MORE than “ok”! And when I need more than ok, and all I get is "ok", I do what is REQUIRED. I break out into song.
“How do you like your coffee, I like mine in my neck” I sang. The lyrics were a clever reference to my earlier statement about necking a coffee, and the melody came out almost fully formed.
“How do you like YOUR coffee – I like MINE in my NECK”, I repeated the line, this time taking the almost fully formed melody, and finishing it’s formation into Beatlesq brilliance, and with guaranteed earworm POWER.
“Okay” my partner replied this time. I had gotten my more than "ok".
It had begun.
And once it had begun it could not be stopped - like a pebble thrown into a vast bottomless void – it mattered not that it was merely a pebble – this fucker was flying.
I could not stop singing it. It was catchy. It was interesting. It was absurd yet relatable. It was smart yet silly. It was the type of song that men wanted to be, and women wanted to be with.
Soon, it took on a life of it’s own.
Sailors would sing it while sailing. Bakers would sing it while baking. And candlestick makers would sing it in the car – they couldn’t sing it at work – for the air of the song exhaling from their lungs could totally fuck up the smooth excellence of a candlestick.
This is why the profession has mostly died out – too many of it’s practitioners held their breathes to fatality, trying to get the PERFECT candlestick, others just got headaches and quit to become actuaries.
Of course once the song exploded, so too did the misinterpretations of the lyrics.
Coffee sales soared. So too did neck sales.
Some, in a fit of fresh “throat action” popularity, took up Mongolian throat singing.
Sadly, others tried to actually get coffee into their necks.
And with this, of course came the side businesses trying to cash in on the phenomenon.
Some weeks people reported that they couldn’t go for a pee in a dark dirty alley without Russian mob figures coming out of the shadows saying “you vant neck couffee – I got beans of coffee, unswallable”.
Other weeks people reported that they couldn’t have sex in dark dirty alleys without smelling pee for some reason, and without Scottish mob figures coming out of the shadows saying “put away your wee willy, I have throat beans lass, you cannae swallow them”.
Other weeks people reported that the regional mob stereotypes should clean up their acts, AND their alleys.
The song’s peak had yet to hit though. It’s influence peaked one summer afternoon, when people, in a Seinfeldesq eating snickers with a knife and fork style, began inserting their coffee directly into their neck. An act that, for some reason, REALLY made Elaine in particular mad.
She claimed the very act of slicing open ones neck and popping coffee beans in the slot made some men “unsponge worthy”.
So, like so many song inspired fads of the past, hit songs such as…
“Do the hoola hoop”
“It’s ear waggle time, who likes to waggle, me me me” and
“I don’t like Mondays, this Monday I am going to push over this bridge, oh dang it’s too heavy, I guess I’ll just go to work”.
Sticking coffee in your neck died out.
It lives on though.
In direct contrast to that last sentence.
Yes it survives, on nostalgia radio stations, - in neck coffee shops – and on the floors of candlestick maker factories, where passed out candlestick makers have oxygen starvation dreams – dreams of a better world, dreams of a world where neck coffee still lives on, which is much like this world now, but just a few weeks earlier when it was still riotously popular.
Ps. My partner is not in the shower anymore, so stop thinking about it ya sickos.
“I reckon” the words flipped from my mouth like a flip phone flipping off a flipping diving board set up over some pool, or perhaps the ocean, or maybe even a large bowl of soup, set up for some sort of soup diving competition, possibly facilitated by some sort of radio station, prompting even the least cynical among us to cry “if it’s on the radio, how do we even know they’re diving into soup? That might just be broth dang it, and broth aint yet soup!”
“I reckon” it felt good. Warm. Boney. A tad hydraulic. I couldn’t help but say it again. A few times. Out loud. Letting the meat of the word saunter off my tongue into the sprogets of the machine.
“I reckon”
“Oh YOU reckon”
“I sure do reckon”
“Oh say, you reckoning over there”
“I reckon I am”
The last few had elevated me. I was suddenly a British aristocrat. Sounding all British. And aristocatty.
I knew the words that were to follow were bound to be profound. For that was the exact point I had uncovered. In that moment. At that time in history. I had reckoned something, “I reckon everything said after an “I reckon” is worth paying attention to” I reckoned.
It was just a theory for now. But it felt good. As good as a soft beaker of gumption hopping into a merry field of furry friends, possibly gathering to discuss an uprising, or possibly just feasting on daisies, or possibly doing both, for who among us has not conspired to rise up while munching on the sweet petals of earths most yellow centered flower?
I needed to test the theory out. I would say “I reckon” one more time. Then I would let the next words tumble out like a gymnast on tumble day, or frankly anyone on tumble day, frankly gymnasts should piss off, they get to tumble every day, it's our turn now you bendy bastards!
“I reckon” the anticipation was like a fox, not in any particular situation, just being all fucking foxy.
“I reckon the reckoning will be FULL of people reckoning stuff!” I said, calmly, and with the passion of a jet plane’s afterbirth. I imagined how it may go down.
“What’s all that fire shit falling out of the sky?” someone may ask.
“Oh I reckon that there fire is some sort of comet” a reply may come, with folksy southern curiosity.
“Oh ya reckon do ya?” would come the challenge from a neighbor, possibly one who loved to challenge stuff, or perhaps one who had never challenged nothing in his entire life, and saw the sky on fire and thought “fuck it, it’s now or never”.
“Yeah I do reckon!”
“Well I reckon you’re full of shit. That there sky is clearly just clouds with red food coloring in them, probably from some sort of prank by some dang kids!”
“I reckon you’ll regret it if you call MY kids ‘dang’ just one more time!”
“Well I reckon your kids ARE dang – but I also reckon that’s a good thing. My kids are dipshits, and that’s a hella lot worse than dang”
“Well I’ll be, I reckon you’re on to something there. Plus I reckon 'better' is like smooth tasty butter”.
“I reckon you are definitely onto something there good neighbor – I’ll take one croissant please, slathered in better?”
“Not butter sir?”
“No need, better is like butter”
“Not in this fucking patisserie it aint, you fucking dipshit!”
Is how I reckon the rest of that exchange would probably go.
Yep, the reckoning sure is going to be rad. Catered too apparently! Well at least the patisserie will be open. Yay. I hope they sell daisies, that middle yellow stuff might be the best tasting yellow on earth!
The End
Ps. The fox is still being Foxy. Oooooh baby.
Pps. Fucking radio stations and their charlatan broth/ soup fake outs, no WONDER its basically a dead medium.
For those of you new here, I figure I should introduce myself and the blog.
First off – what is a blog?
A blog is – the most single most important art form in the world, outside of maybe chalk drawings in front of wharfs - but only maybe - because those win points for irony - but lose points for lastability, which is the type of ability few even think about.
And I’ll tell ya something, I think about the things that few people think about A LOT!
By which I mean - I think about the fact that there are things that few think about - I do not think about all those individual things, because I just don’t have the time man, I would LOVE to have the time, and I have tried to MAKE the time,
I’ve tried all sorts of ways of making the time, such as:
-Scheduling
-Inventing time extending devices powered by the sun
-Inventing time extending devices powered by the moon
-Inventing time extending devices powered by the time I thought I was staring at the moon but it turned out to be the sun and my eyes caught fire, and when I went to put them out in the local public pool I found out that having your eyes being on fire is FROWNED upon in some circles.
-Those circles being round ones.
-Also I recently found out square circles aren’t even considered circles in some circles.
-I’d like to join a circle of intellectuals who consider ANY shaped circle to be a circle.
-But I just can’t find one. And I have looked, god knows I have looked!
-Looking being something I do with my eyes.
-Oh shit that reminds me, I never put out my eye fire, aaaagghhhhha aagghhhhha agghhhhh, please please please someone hand me some water.
-Thank you.
-That felt good.
-I appreciate it.
-Want to join my isosceles triangle shaped social circle?
-What do you mean ‘That’s not a circle’?
-Oh fuck you dick. I wish I’d NEVER put my eye fires out with your water, I hate you I hate you, we should schedule a make up meeting.
Sorry I got distracted, that happens here. You’ll get used to it.
Second off– who am I?
I’m Dave Dang Tieck, writer, poet, miscreant, marsupial acknowledger, and all round silly nonsense joy bug monster.
I have lots of fun thoughts. I write them down sometimes. Sometimes I do it here.
Come and play. Comment. Ask me questions. Here some example questions I recommend
- Um what?
- ????
- What????
Those are just off the top of my head, so image what you could come up with by using your whole head. Frankly the top bit might be the WORST bit to come up with stuff off. I recommend coming up with stuff off your sinuses, you’ll come off smart AND breathe better.
In summation
- This is a blog
- Blogs are the best art form in the world.
- If your eyes are currently on fire then join my Isosceles Circle Club – we have FREE WATER!
(This wharf has had six chalks drawings on it - not ONE lasted. So sad. Still - blogs for the win!)
I used to blog all the time. Like every day some days. And other days not quite that, but close!
Then I started not blogging all the time. Mostly because people stopped reading blogs much and/ or because my blogs had turned into nonsensical nonsense (the worst KIND of nonsense) which lead to not many people reading it.
But then, in a huge twist, the other day I thought "I wonder how my blogs doing" and then I followed that thought up with another thought, this time "maybe I will check".
And then I DID check.
What I discovered shocked me - in my absence my blog has still been slowly picking up some reads here and there. In fact, my blog as of typing has 987298 total reads. NINE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY THOUSAND PLUS. And just the PLUS is over SEVEN thousand.
The point is, I have not been maintaining this blog, which is silly, cause I am nearly at one MILLION reads.
Thats ONE MILLION reads
And I would like to reach ONE MILLION reads.
(Insert Austin Powers clip or meme here).
(Preferably the one where he says ONE MILLION dollars).
(Or maybe the one where he does a one MILLION point turn in his little cart in that little hall way, I like that one too).
The thing is, I reckon it seems like having one million reads would be rad!
(Remember that Austin Powers Meme, I recommend thinking about it again here).
(Please only remember it if it was the one about the ONE MILLION dollars).
If I had a million reads, "I've had one million reads" would be something I could say to people, for example.
Or "Hows your family" I could say to people when I am being modest and curious, while thinking "have they had one million reads, cause I have".
So I am going to do it - I am going to blog again sometimes.
Will it be nonsensical nonsense some of the time? You can dang count on it.
Will it be good sometimes? MAYBE.
But carnsarnit, I am going to go for the MILLION!
And I deserve the million dang it, or else this meme doesn't say ONE MILLION dollars.
“Dang Yeah!!” Screamed the salad man. He’d just invented salad and
he was dang happy about it. For a variety of reasons. Most of which will seem
obvious now, but probably felt even MORE obvious back in the old days, which is
when this event took place.
And old those days were. Flowers wilted, and yelled “my back” when
they closed for the evening.
A guy named Kelvin would yell “my back” when his
back went while trying to lift his Mule off his abacus. Then he’d laugh and
laugh. The joke being obvious of course. Mules couldn’t even do what at the time was
advanced actuarial accounting, so why were they even need the abacus? Ha ha. And what
was even the point of yelling “my back” when chiropractors were still in their
infancy. At the time they’d merely crack your neck and say “come back every
week for at least six weeks” and then on week six their receptionist would
flirt with you until you ended up booking a seventh week “just in case you
weren’t imagining things”.
Plus the days themselves were retired, greying, and
spent far too long in hot tubs. “Why get out” they’d say “my dang fingers are wrinkled
no matter what?” Then they’d laugh and laugh. The joke being obvious of course.
Days don’t have fingers. They didn’t bother to evolve them after their toes
often ended up with yellow nails. And what was the point of even getting in a hot
tub, in those days they were mostly full of mule carcass, with abacus beads stuck
in the skin. Where else were you going to dump it? In the bin? Ha. Ha. They were
always WAY out at the curb, and who wants to risk their backs carrying mule
bits all the way out to the curb? What and end up at the Chiropractor, with
that tormentor Harry at reception. Blah.
Oh the old days. What a time
to be alive. Especially if your name was The Salad Man, and you’d just invented
the Salad. For think of all the great things going his way, which will seem
obvious now, but probably felt even MORE obvious back in the old days:
-He finally had an excuse people understood for why his kitchen was
always full of buckets of creamy liquid with the title “dressing” label makered on the
front.
-He was about to be the first ever person to quit a diet blaming rancid
dressing as his catalyst. (In his defense he’d invented dressing seventeen
years earlier and had never made a second batch).
-And his name finally made sense!
Consider these four people:
-Harlor Man
-Frenton The Great
-Molter Woman.
-Joisltjmiuylur Person.
Losers. Every single one of them. Epic fucking losers.
But now
consider these four exciting new inventions.
-Harlors
-Frentons
-Molter.
-Joisltjmiuylurs
Those epic losers don’t seem like such epic fucking losers anymore
now do they? In fact I bet the next time YOU steam your lower intestines with a
fresh pole of Joisltjmiuylur, you’ll probably even verbally PRAISE Joisltjmiuylur
Person. And Joisltjmiuylur Person EARNED that praise.
The point being obvious. Inventions are great. And as such I
decided to try an invention today to see if great things are also fun things. I
chose a ‘disc’ as my invention, and having officially tested them for fun,
here are my finding.
-They’re fun.
-Dang fun.
Boom. So there you have it fun people. Discs are officially
declared FUN. Go enjoy one today. Also if YOU currently have a bucket of
seventeen year old creamy salad dressing in YOUR kitchen. Drag it to the curb
dang it. What are YOU scared of going to Chiropractor for? Harry’s been dead a
thousand dang years!
There are lots of things I have considered doing when this current dealy is all over:
- Milking a moo cow (the only kind of cow I’ll even acknowledge).
- Monitoring the migratory patterns of clams (They might look like they mostly stand still, but I am not THAT easily fooled).
- Sanding down saw mills until they’re practically just saw huts.
- Nocturnal donkey breeding (apparently it can result donkeys that have x-ray vision, but no one really knows for sure, because getting donkeys to breed at night is really, really hard. Also if you ask them “can you see through that wall” they rarely answer. But maybe they CAN see through that wall. And maybe even THAT wall).
- Replacing Helicopter blades with boat propellers and seeing if anyone notices. And if they do notice, what do they do about it? Call the boat police? The helicopter police? The non-land-based-travel-mode police? A repairman? Who knows?
- Experimenting with silence as a new form of serenading clams (maybe all those pick up lines people have been trying is the OPPOSITE of what they’re into).
- Lighting up a beach with my mere presence.
- Hoping that light attracts clams (it’s got to be something damn it).
- Ignoring the migratory patterns of clams. (If they’re going to keep dang ignoring me then why I should I pay any dang attention to them!)
But there is one thing I will definitely NOT be doing when this is all over.
I will NOT, I repeat NOT, purposely fall off a skateboard OR ANY OTHER form of foot-propelled conveyance, at least not with the intent of intentionally scraping my knee as a method to collect enough Band-Aids to make a hat.
Sorry. I won’t. I WON’T!
This is not a decision I have come to lightly. I want a Band-Aid hat. I promise you, I WANT that hat. And I would do practically anything to get enough Band-Aids to make that hat happen. Practically anything.
And yes, I know, when you’re out in public, and you fall off your skateboard or other foot propelled conveyance either intentionally or accidentally, and you scrape your knee, there will often be a person, sometimes numerous peoples, who will come up to and say one of the following things:
1. Oh wow, you really scraped your knee there, need a Band-Aid?
2. Ooopsy-daisy, you’re bleeding, here have a Band-Aid.
3. Yuck yuck yuck, blood. Oh my. Oh my oh my oh my. I can’t look at it. I am sorry. I can’t look at it. I am feeling faint. Oh my. I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t. But. Oh my. I am not someone who sees someone hurt and just walks away. But. I just. I just. Oh my. When I see… b… l…. Oh my. Does anyone have a Band-Aid? There is a kid here who needs a damn Band-Aid. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. HELP HIM. What’s wrong with all you people? I KNOW some of you have Band-Aids. In your purse, or in your wallet, well this kid NEEDS ONE NOW. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY SOMEONE PLEASE PUT A BAND-AID ON THIS KID BEFORE I FUCKING THROW UP. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? IS THAT WHAT GIVES YOU PRICKS KICKS? TO SEE A KID BLEEDING AND A GUY PUKING? IS THAT THE WORLD YOU WANT YOUR KIDS TO GROW UP IN. YOU SONS OF BITCHES. Oh, wait, maybe I have one. Oh my. Would you look at that? I do.
And yes, I know, in all three of those examples, a free Band-Aid was likely to come my way. Possibly two. So I get it, I do. Lot’s of you are probably out there slipping off all manner of foot propelled conveyance and scraping your knees, collecting those Band-Aids, and making those sweet, sweet hats.
But here are some things you may not have considered:
- Band-Aid hats aren’t as cool as they used to be. Sure in some circles they are only just now starting to hit. I heard of friend cluster out East that only go their first Band-Aid hat in early March, and some of the copy cat friends are only just now beginning to the process of Band-Aid accumulation, and for even the most proactive this can take days, possibly even a week, so that cluster isn’t going to hit peak Band-Aid hat for at least ten days. But that is THAT cluster. I don’t know where your particular cluster is at, but I know where mine is at, and I’ll tell you, I am currently the ONLY one sans Band-Aid hat. Sure I still want one. As I am sure many of you do. They’re really cool. But I can wait. Patience is good. With patience comes reward. And rewards are enjoyable. And I want to REALLY enjoy my hat when I finally get it.
- I probably don’t want my eventual Band-Aid hat to be full of crusty blood. Cause, I’ll tell you a secret, the person in example three above… was ME! Many people have gone down this road towards their Band-Aid hat. And I don’t like it. Every time I hang out one of them I see the crusty blood part of their super cool hat, and I get queasy. Sure you can’t see your own hat, so I wouldn’t make myself queasy if I went down this road, but I care about other people, and you should too.
- Scraping your knee can cause blood not just to go on a Band-Aid, to come OUT of you. And I prefer my blood IN me. I prefer ALL my liquids in me. That’s why I haven’t urinated in six years. And it takes a LOT of time in a sauna to make that possible. So if I can commit to that, surely I can commit to not purposely scraping me knee. Right?
- I am not good at controlled knee scraping. Too little scrape and you’ll get one of those little round Band-Aids, which are practically useless in hat making. Too much scrape, you’re going to bandage town, which is LITERALLY useless in hat making. So if this is going to be YOUR method, you better be pretty dang good at nailing your scrape.
- I am not a kid anymore. I am more like a kid plus a bit. Which should have a name, but does,n’t so I will coin it right now… A PLUSTER.
- I am a Pluster, and Plusters can’t go around scraping their knees, they already have a stupid name, and now a stupid knee?
- Is your friend cluster full of plusters? Ha ha. That’s funny.
- That could be a good name for a Friends like TV sitcom – A Cluster Of Plusters coming this Fall to NBC.
- Yes I like it.
- I really like it.
- Imagine, people will say stuff like “I like this new character Raquel, I mean she’s no Rachael, but she does have one of those super cool Band-Aid hats!”
- Oh man, Raquel is so cool.
- I want to be like Raquel, she’s on the TV and everything.
- I take it back. Fuck pacience. I need to be like Raquel and that means I NEED a Band-Aid hat.
- How about this, maybe I WILL go for a little ride on my skateboard.
- And let’s just say, if any of you want to lets say ‘spill’ some gravel in front of my path, well try to throw the right amount of gravel for a well contained medium level knee scrape, and I look the other way.
- In fact looking the other way will make it look more real!
- Also if I look the other way I might not see the blood and therefore I might not puke.
- Hey, I wonder if puking attracts clams?
- That’s it; hand me my skateboarding, I’m going to the beach!
