The Society - A poem

 

I own a shirt 

Mine's red 

Which makes me the BEST 

Or at least better than folks who don't own a red shirt 

At least during the game "who owns the most red shirts" 

In other circles 

Such as down at the Red Shirt Society of Red Shirt Owners 

I often don't even finish in the top five best 

When it comes to red shirt owners 

Which sucks because at the Society, anyone who fails to finish in the top five 

Has to give their red shirts to the top five winners

Which is a rule that I think, 

And this might just be me, 

But I think makes it hard to crown a variety of top five most red shirt owners 

Over time 

And I didn't join the Red Shirt Society of Red Shirt Owners to AVOID variety 

I'll you THAT! 

I might make a complaint at the next "How to keep everything the same" meeting. 

Oh no no, 

At the Societies Annual "wear a red shirt, variety sucks" ball. 

OORRRR. yes yes yes 

I'll raise it next weekend at the  "No Variety, EVER, if you're looking for Variety fuck off somewhere else, cause you ain't getting it here" Sadie Hawkins Dance! 

Yes. 

Variety, here we come! 

The End 

Update: They didn't go for it. They actually told me to fuck off. 

It's ok though, I've joined a NEW Society. 

The Variety Society of Variety and other sorts Of Variety Society 

It's AWESOME. 

The uniform is BLUE! 

I'm talking Birds, but not just any kind, but ones that can FLY - A poem

Tilley was looking at a bird.

He was jealous of birds.

You see Birds could fly. 

At least some of them. 

And you see those were the ones that Tilley was jealous of. 

And you see, also, Tilley couldn’t fly.

Also Tilley couldn’t walk well, on account of his Rugby career resulting in many leg injuries over the years .

To be more specific he’d sustained six leg breaks, two snapped cruciate knee ligaments, three rotted out fibulas, and worst of all one nasty ingrown toenail, all over the course of four painful years.

He did score three tries too. And make literally dozens of tackles. Although for some reason those seemed to impress less people in the pub.

The “some reason” being that that stat is genuinely not very impressive.

So for Tilley, the thought of flying seemed like a dream.

Which was why he was jealous of the birds.

Also he was jealous of their feathers, they reminded him of tickling, tee he he.

But the flying was the real desire.

A wish he'd wished for at every wishing well he'd seen since before he even noticed the developing second fibular rot.

And now.

In this moment.

As he looked at this bird. 

Which COULD fly.

And with Tilley's desire and jealousy bubbling like a wishing well being boiled from a volcano below it (ultimately melting all those coins, what a waste. Who the hell digs a wishing well without first getting a full geological study done?)

This wish miraculously came true.

Tilley could suddenly fly like an eagle, that had eaten an angel, that had been conceived in the jet-stream of bee.

'Wow, ace' he thought as he soured over a majestic river leading to a beautiful deserted beach, 'this is going to make it easier to get to the Cathedral every afternoon to tell God off for never, ever, ever, EVER letting anything good happen to me, WAY easier' he thought.

'Suck on that God, you dick!' He screamed as flew like a dream over the ocean and watched a pod of orcas swim by a previously undiscovered reef which was so vibrant it made the Great Barrier look like squished cockroach. And was somehow now owned by him.

"I mean seriously, NOTHING good, EVER?" He screamed at god. 

Meanwhile the wife of the poor guy who'd sadly passed on. (Which is a nice way of saying "died"), and through his generous organ and other parts donation, had provided Tilley with TWO fresh fibulas, sat at home forlorn while STILL awaiting her thank-you card.

She was soon giggling though.

Her new beau was ticking her with a feather.

He'd just plucked it from her pet bird which had just died.

But she didn't know that yet, so our ending remains cheerful.

Cheerful as a bee sitting proud on-top a bronzed eagle sculpted from melted coins, with a smile on its face, as it watches his bee mate sucking pollen from flowers, totally unaware that two angels are fornicating in its wake.

Awww.

The High Profile Position In The Vending Machine

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! 

Like a Lump – and/ or I like mine in my neck

 

    It started innocently enough.

    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. 

    

A bowl full of reckoning

     “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. 

Circling The Wharf

So hello, and welcome to the blog.

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!)

(Million read watch - 987484!)

Declarations, expectations and carnations carnsarnit'

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. 

(Carnsarnit)!

I tried a disc, here’s what happened…

“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!