Thursday, November 29, 2012

Times When Cookies Are Not Appropriate

This is a short list.

1. In an operating room.
2. In front of people on a diet/who lack teeth.
3. At the funeral of a person who died choking on a cookie.
4. At the Fifteenth Annual Adult-Onset Diabetes Awareness event. 

Monday, November 26, 2012

Frosty, Part II

I need help. I have a brilliant idea for a film, but I need actors.
Basically, the premise is that a man is very down on his luck. He's had a hard run of misfortune. His wife has left him, his son hates him, he's stuck paying child support but does have a job. He starts working as a children's magician because it's the only job he can get. Being forced to act cheerful all day for a bunch of snotty, terrible children eventually forces him to turn to alcohol. 
As the piece goes on, it will get increasingly surreal, representing the magician's declining sanity. Eventually, he is tortured by a bunch of children who steal his magician's hat. As he chases after them, he begins to hallucinate a hat-wearing snowman who torments him. The snowman represents all of his mistakes and failures in his life. The magician's hunt for the snowman represents his attempt to triumph over his shortcomings, but he is thwarted by bad luck and a group of heartless children who continually protect the snowman from him, and hold him back from overcoming his misfortune. 
The magician eventually slays the snowman by locking him in a greenhouse and allowing him to melt. He thinks he's conquered his problems and can go on to live a successful life. However, the children raise the snowman back to life, and they continue to torment him. Unable to destroy his problems, the magician eventually dies from a drug overdose in his squalid motel room. The snowman watches from the window, and mutters, "I'll be back again, someday."
I'll call it Frosty the Snowman. What do you think? Cult hit indie film for sure, right?

Sunday, November 25, 2012


I'm not sure leaving is ever going to get easier. You get numb to it, but that's about all that ever happens. It's not like anything is fixed or assuaged. It just becomes rote.
Right now, it seems to me that being an adult means forcing yourself to do things you really don't want to, and pretending you don't care.


GUYS. I've had a revelation. You know how in the song, it says "Frosty the snowman was a very happy soul"? Does that mean he *has* a soul? If so, then how did he get it? He's a walking block of ice! Does that mean all inanimate objects have souls? Or did he get the soul from the magic hat? Does the magic hat give things a soul? What happens when people wear it, then? Do they get two souls? Maybe the hat is possessed. If that's so, then Frosty is possessed! It's been clear all along! THE HAT CONTAINS A DEMON.

Another fun game: count the Satanic undertones in Frosty the Snowman! Santa=Satan is a good start.

Friday, November 16, 2012

College Textbooks

After years of dull, uninspired, and humorless textbooks, I am greatly enjoying all of my college textbooks. They manage to throw in voice and jokes without being biased or uninformative. For instance, my statistics textbook is hilarious. It frequently makes fun of itself in the footnotes, and gives occasionally ludicrous examples.
I also have a textbook for my evolution class which is a little drier, but I couldn't help but love the chapter on sexual selection when it gave me gems like these:

"Most sperm, on the other hand, are little more than DNA with a propeller" (Freeman and Herron 404).

" any point in time there are more males than females in the pond looking for love" (407).

"Pryke and Andersson suspected from the beginning that the reason [for the male's appearance] was that the female red-collared widowbirds think that long tails are sexy" (417).

"One impediment to quick fatherhood, however, is the presence of still-nursing cubs fathered by males of the previous coalition. That is because females do not return to breeding condition until after their cubs are weaned. How can the male [lions] overcome this problem? They frequently employ the obvious, if grisly, solution: They kill any cubs in the pride that have not been weaned" (415).
(And suddenly The Lion King takes on a whole new, darker meaning.)

"Figure 11.28. Spotted cucumber beetles in love. The male is on the left" (425).
Yes, it is a picture of copulating spotted cucumber beetles.

Also, it turns out that prairie dogs are polyandrous. So much for the theory that monogamy in females is evolutionarily selected for! Take that! Females can be promiscuous if they darn well want.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Old Man Wilson

Going back through my old files, it occurs to me that I actually wrote some pretty darn hilarious things last year when I writing paragraphs containing vocabulary words for English. I've decided to treat you all to a glimpse of my bizarre mind, and also share with you some of the beautiful, singularly insane things I wrote last year, with which I probably made my English teacher doubt my sanity.
I've left in the underlined vocabulary words, just for fun.

It was truly nothing but my own serendipity that allowed me to become the single wealthiest meat factory owner in the world.
When I was but a young lad, I had always been thrown about by the vicissitudes of life. I was born the only son of Sir Henry Wakefield, the youngest child in his family and by far the poorest. Whilst at home, I never noticed our own misfortune, but it was soon made apparent to me when the family gathered at Aunt Tilda's estate. My father and I would make our appearance in the same tatty brown suits we had worn the past year, while Uncle Ferdinand would come in a neat pressed waistcoat, or Sally-Lou would be clutching a brand new child's doll made entirely out of cashmere and embroidered with gold thread. Furthermore, my father and I were constantly mocked by our more fortunate family members. Uncles Ferdinand and Tobias would always say, “So, Hank, how's the pig farming going?”, and capricious, nasty Sally-Lou would always tell the other children to pinch their noses when I came near, and would shout crude lies that I slept in the same pen as the swine. The milieu of my youth was mostly one of inadequacy and shame.
I may have resigned myself to tragic fatalism if not for Old Man Wilson. Old Man Wilson was the uncle of my second cousin once removed, and he lived in a large house, deep in the woods. Old Man Wilson was regarded by many to be crazy, but I thought he was a savant. He may have had a quirk or two, such as perching on the backs of chairs like a crow, or throwing the cat out of the upstairs window when frustrated, but these minor flaws were nothing compared to his genius. Aided by no one but Grey's Anatomy and thirteen dachshunds, he calculated the terminal velocity of a small dog, single-handedly derived most of single variable calculus, made his own formaldehyde, and perfected the art of taxidermy. Many times, when Sally-Lou would begin her cruel games, I would run to Old Man Wilson's and spend hours staring into the torrid flames of his taxidermy kiln, or hiding under tables when he went into one of his many vagaries, like smashing the piles of dog skulls with a ball peen hammer, or training the dachshunds to act as an vicious attack squad. Sally-Lou and the others would call me insane for spending time with him, but I knew what was best for me, and I ignored their taunts and occasional thrown rocks.
Despite losing my left index finger to a cat-sized guillotine, becoming friends with Old Man Wilson was certainly the crux of my fortune, and the beginning of a steady streak of providence. On the very day of my 18th birthday, it was brought to my attention that Old Man Wilson had died in a tragic accident. A badger, certainly not in the usual torpor of winter, had found its way into the house. The dachshunds, of course, quickly dispatched it, but, riled into a feral rage by the sight of their eternal enemy, then turned on Old Man Wilson and consumed him entirely.
I was devastated, of course. I had lost my only childhood friend to cruel fate and small, furry animals. However, despite my grief, his death was actually a propitious turn of events for my future. Shortly after I reported his death, his estate manager informed me that he had left everything to me. Not Aunt Tilda, not Uncle Ferdinand, not even the sickeningly cute Sally-Lou. Me! I had never felt so appreciated. Furthermore, 'everything' of Old Man Wilson's did not merely include his dachshund kiln and collection of South American tribal talismans. As was revealed, Old Man Wilson had kept an entire fortune in his bank account over the years, and all 5000 acres of his estate were still his, and all of it was mine! I nearly swooned upon hearing the news. Finally, I was at the same level as all of my familial tormentors! I had opportunities. I had a future, and it did not involve pig farming!
I immediately began planning my empire. I invested in factories and workers, and began using Old Man Wilson's brilliant techniques to become the single richest producer of quality meat-products and adorable stuffed dachshund trinkets (which quickly became a fad among the upper classes. It was rumored that even Queen Victoria owned one of my stuffed dachshunds at one time). It wasn't long before my business grew to astronomical heights, and I was reportedly the single richest man in the nation.
Naturally, my extended family was sick with envy, and so they held a family meeting. Sitting at Aunt Tilda's table, they all demanded that I share a fraction of my success with them. They were family, they said, and so they deserved a share, if only for the sake of bloodlines. They both cursed and pleaded like they were delivering incantations, but none could move me. They even threatened me with estrangement, but I merely scoffed. Finally, when they had exhausted all of their arguments, I plainly told them that it would be a simple matter for me to have it brought to the attention of the government that they had been actively avoiding paying taxes for years. The collective sums owed could only be paid by complete repossession of every belonging of theirs, and they would be left completely destitute. I would pursue this action, too, unless they all agreed to work in my processed meat factories at minimum wage for the rest of their lives.
When they realized the severity of my threat, they gladly acquiesced.
Isn't it nice to be rich?  

Monday, November 12, 2012

The General's Ditty / People I Know

I wrote a song and now it's stuck in my head. I don't have a piano part for it yet, but I'm working on it. Meanwhile, here are the lyrics. They make me happy. I thought of them while I was on a run, and was looking at the leaves and storm drains and also I found a cat, and I knew I wanted to write a happy, quiet song with weird lyrics.

The General's Ditty/ People I Know

Sometimes I see all of my old friends here
La di da. De di da. De di da.
Waiting in boxes, and pining for years
La di da. De di da. De di da.
Pretending I see them but living in fear.
La di da. De di da. De di da.
Waiting and waiting for someone to hear.
La di da. De di da. De di da.

I pay for dinner in francs and outside I just watch the wind blow
Eddies in storm drains and grins from the faces of people who recognize snow.
I watch all the leaflets get in placed in the parking lot
mixing with litter and crows.
I think I'll be happy
La di da. De di da.
I think I'll be happy in places I know.
La di da. De di da.
I think it'll be aces to see all the faces
of people I know.

And I know that someday
I'll be taken away
by the men in black jackets who ask for your passport
I know that someday I'll be begging to pay
For the crimes of the sinners who kindly paved my way.

And I wonder if this is what I will be
Running in circles for all of eternity
Though I know that someday I will decompose
And earthworms will eat me from my toes to my nose
And I won't know better
Than to encourage and thank
The crows who laugh on the gallows
With all of their fellows
For disregarding my rank

So I know I'll stop running
La di da. De di da.
So I know I'll quit funning.
La di da. De di da.
And let the birds lead the way.
La di da. De di da.
And I think I'll be happy.

And someday I know I'll be free from the hatred
And confused compatriots of people I know
I'll be fine. I know I'll be fine. I'll be fine...
La di da. De di da.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Party Plans

Guys guys guys I have the best idea. I want to throw a party. A Communist themed party.  GET IT?!  A Communist Party?! BRILLIANT, right!?

No but really. We could have red cup and plates, and we could serve red fruit punch and have red velvet cake! And also we could hand out mustaches to everyone.

We could also have a bunch of Communist-themed party games, like Proletariat Proletariat Bourgeois (sort of like Duck Duck Goose)! Except whenever you are tagged as bourgeois everyone stands up and overthrows you and takes back the means of production.

Or we could play Charades! You can only ever act out Communist leaders, though. Also, whenever a team guesses correctly, each team gets half a point in order to redistribute the wealth.

Or we could have a Mafia themed game, except instead of having a secret hidden Mafia member, you could have a Dictator who everyone knows who he is, but are powerless to stop, and he kills thousands of people each turn. And instead of a Doctor, you could have a Trotsky, but instead of healing people you just trying to turn the people against the Dictator by writing books and giving speeches, but you have to do all this while avoiding assassination attempts. Also, you have to do all this from Mexico. Instead of the Prostitute, you can have a Rasputin, who the Dictator can't kill, but instead of doing anything useful he just flirts with all the women in the group. (Technically he wasn't a Communist but whatever). Ooh, ooh, and instead of a Detective, we can just have a Joseph McCarthy, who calls everyone Communists except the Dictator! And then sends them to jail, destroys their career, and/or electrocutes them. Except instead of electrocuting them you could just poke them with one of those shock-y pen things, because I don't actually condone killing people in party games. That's a little harsh.

We could also play the card game Mao, because, duh.

We would also play musical chairs, except instead of chairs we would just have a large rock that we would all say is a chair. Also we would have to share it.

And for party favors, I'd give out little baggies containing one Hershey kiss apiece. Share the wealth, guys!

(Thanks to Ashley and Dave for help with the party plans. You guys are commu-rrific!)

Thursday, November 8, 2012

A Short Story

Today in English I got a bloody nose. I was holding my nose, at the time. I was trying to prevent myself from giggling hysterically. What was I giggling at? The following line:

"Furthermore Gimlet knows that what would make me the happiest corporate liability trouble shooter in the history of the planet earth would be to kill my father and that I will kill my father and bathe in his blood as soon as I can do it without maybe getting caught or found guilty at it, maybe when he is retired and my mother is weak..."
 -"Girl With Curious Hair" by David Foster Wallace (1989)

The logic of these kind of events is what rules my life, evidently. Is this karma for laughing at extremely twisted literature? (No, probably not. Karma doesn't exist and if it did then it is terribly inconsistent and partial.)
The perks of taking "Dark Humor" as a freshman writing seminar.