thee are out there, o' giver of plague
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
With nothing being said but the quiet knowledge of all capable of this kind of thought and delicious yet horrid fear, with the acceptance of the most improvable yet undeniably calculable fact that everything great and worthy of praise that can be done by humankind during their universally measurable brief stay upon this celestial orb has already been accomplished coupled with the growing vastness of the population of those able to imagine and possibly conquer such achievements compared to the reversibly exponential numbers of the thinking living who strove to do such thus making the simple odds of being among the last few to stand aloft upon the pillar of glory remarkably complex, those of keen mind breathing the air of today and forward the air of each day moving in the non-existent but inescapable prison of time seek to numb and dumb those very minds that could and may create or discover the wondrous tumult of knowledge and achievement in the fear of the day when the beat ceases and possibility ends.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
WESTPORT TOWNSHIP, FL – Marcella Doming has often thought she was being watched while she worked. Little did she know it was by mini-people! The proof came one recent Monday after she left a trap for them. Marcella likes her job because, as she says, “No one is creeping around to look over your shoulder, I can work in peace.” But lately the administrator has been bothered by the notion of someone looking in on her as she toiled at her work-a-day, move-the-paperwork-along, nine-to-five.
It all began one Friday after leaving work. She remembered that she forgot a piece of carrot birthday cake on her desk and decided to go in to work the next morning on a Saturday to throw it away so it wouldn’t spoil over the weekend. What she witnessed when she got into the office, unexpectedly, on that morning is remarkable. “I thought I was still sleeping and dreaming, I got to my desk and saw these tiny people whisking around the cake like ants around a morsel of food. They had formed a line like ants do, but instead of all on the ground, the line was like an invisible escalator up to a small hole in the ceiling tile.”
The office worker couldn’t believe her eyes! But woe, no sooner had she discovered this new species then they disappeared from sight. Upon realizing their discovery, the line of mini-people, in Marcella’s words, “Got sucked up into the ceiling!”
She described them as having tiny bug-like bodies with human heads, kind of like, “Termites with people’s heads,” she declared to this reporter. “I could hear them talking among themselves before I scared them. I heard one of them say that they’d had better carrot cake.”
Wary of their predicament, the mini-people didn’t reveal themselves to Marcella until she outwitted them weeks later. Having decided she was not seeing things that fateful Saturday, the pencil pusher set a trap before she left work. None of her co-workers knew of her plan. Of course, she was embarrassed to tell them.
But she was right! The Man-O-Mites took her bait. Marcella left a small bag of fries on her desk at the end of a long work day. But she didn’t go home. Instead, she snuck around the corner and waited. The wait wasn’t long.
Momentarily, having thought the coast was clear, the Man-o-Mites dropped in. This time they were friendlier. She spoke with them briefly and they told her they lived in the crawl space above her desk. Unfortunately, just as she was becoming acquainted with them, a brazen cleaning lady burst into the office and they were frightened back to their hovel.
Marcella swears she will contact them again and communicate to them that we only want to learn of the ways of their existence, “They are my new friends now, I will do what I can to help and protect them, but first I have to finish this report.”
We will keep you apprised of further developments in this exclusive story.
It all began one Friday after leaving work. She remembered that she forgot a piece of carrot birthday cake on her desk and decided to go in to work the next morning on a Saturday to throw it away so it wouldn’t spoil over the weekend. What she witnessed when she got into the office, unexpectedly, on that morning is remarkable. “I thought I was still sleeping and dreaming, I got to my desk and saw these tiny people whisking around the cake like ants around a morsel of food. They had formed a line like ants do, but instead of all on the ground, the line was like an invisible escalator up to a small hole in the ceiling tile.”
The office worker couldn’t believe her eyes! But woe, no sooner had she discovered this new species then they disappeared from sight. Upon realizing their discovery, the line of mini-people, in Marcella’s words, “Got sucked up into the ceiling!”
She described them as having tiny bug-like bodies with human heads, kind of like, “Termites with people’s heads,” she declared to this reporter. “I could hear them talking among themselves before I scared them. I heard one of them say that they’d had better carrot cake.”
Wary of their predicament, the mini-people didn’t reveal themselves to Marcella until she outwitted them weeks later. Having decided she was not seeing things that fateful Saturday, the pencil pusher set a trap before she left work. None of her co-workers knew of her plan. Of course, she was embarrassed to tell them.
But she was right! The Man-O-Mites took her bait. Marcella left a small bag of fries on her desk at the end of a long work day. But she didn’t go home. Instead, she snuck around the corner and waited. The wait wasn’t long.
Momentarily, having thought the coast was clear, the Man-o-Mites dropped in. This time they were friendlier. She spoke with them briefly and they told her they lived in the crawl space above her desk. Unfortunately, just as she was becoming acquainted with them, a brazen cleaning lady burst into the office and they were frightened back to their hovel.
Marcella swears she will contact them again and communicate to them that we only want to learn of the ways of their existence, “They are my new friends now, I will do what I can to help and protect them, but first I have to finish this report.”
We will keep you apprised of further developments in this exclusive story.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
2 too true candy stories.....
1) Why are Lifesavers called Lifesavers?
Not because they are shaped like life preservers. But because they have a hole in the middle that assures should one be accidentally swallowed and become lodged in the throat, breathing is possible (through the hole) until the candy dissolves.
2) Overheard in the concession line at the movies....
Man: Do you want some popcorn?
Woman: No thanks, I don't like the butter on my fingers.
Man: What about some candy?
Woman: Oh yes! Uuhhmmm....uhh...get me a Butterfinger.
1) Why are Lifesavers called Lifesavers?
Not because they are shaped like life preservers. But because they have a hole in the middle that assures should one be accidentally swallowed and become lodged in the throat, breathing is possible (through the hole) until the candy dissolves.
2) Overheard in the concession line at the movies....
Man: Do you want some popcorn?
Woman: No thanks, I don't like the butter on my fingers.
Man: What about some candy?
Woman: Oh yes! Uuhhmmm....uhh...get me a Butterfinger.
Speaking of Eddie the Bookie…
One week, when it came time to pay, I was the one allotted to collect our loses and meet Eddie. I hadn’t meet him before but I had spoken to him on the phone. He would always answer the phone with his, “Yeeaahh-up?”
“Hey Eddie, I have the money, where should we meet.”
“I’ll come to you, whereabouts are you?”
I told him approximately where I lived and he agreed to come meet me in the parking lot of the convenience store right across the street from my apartment in half an hour.
“How do I know who you are?”
“I’ll be in a station wagon.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
I thought to myself is that enough information “I’ll be in a station wagon"? But I’d heard Eddie had only three teeth so I figured I’d use that to identify him as well – how many people with three teeth are going to be in a station wagon in the parking lot of that particular convenience store, right?
Now, in those days, I worked the swing shift, so my mornings and early afternoons I had free. I would usually lounge around in crappy clothes until it came time to go to work. By crappy, I mean: Smelly, torn, over-worn rags. (There’s another story there for later)
At about noon, half an hour after I got off the phone with Eddie, I headed down to the parking lot, dressed like a bum, with the cash – which was a substantial looking amount, maybe about $800, all in tens and twenties – folded in my pocket.
I crossed the street and immediately saw a station wagon parked slightly away from the front of the store, off to the side. I chalked that up to a bookie being discreet, it had to be him. As I approached I started to get nervous, I mean this was illegal, I was participating in illicit gambling activities. You hear all kinds of stories, this was the mob after all. With each step I grew more apprehensive. My mouth started to get dry. I tried to wet my lips but I was parched. My palms, however, were moist with perspiration. I started to doubt myself. Would I have the courage to go up to him when I got close enough? I had to.
I was close enough to see the driver. He was alone, sitting in a relaxed manner. I got closer. He was eating an ice cream cone and reading a newspaper, his seat pushed back from the steering wheel. Another step. I was close enough now to see he was reading the sports page, it had to be him. I was too close now, committed.
I stepped to the open window, pulled the wad of cash from my pocket, flashed it to him and said desperately, “Are you Eddie?”
“Am I ready?” It was then I realized he had a full mouth of teeth.
He turned and saw me, instantly frozen in horror at the dilapidated stranger who had so openly approached him with a ton of cash and a proposition. The ice cream cone fell from his hand.
“Ready? Ready for what? Oh my God!”
He was trembling, panicky. The words hadn’t yet left his mouth before he threw the newspaper to one side, slide his seat in a rush back forward and started the car.
“I’m getting the hell out of here!”
He pulled the car back with a set of uneven jerks, switched gears and squealed out of the parking lot like he was being chased.
It wasn’t Eddie.
He pulled in about two minutes later. Thanked me for the money, “Better luck next week.” Then left.
Transaction complete.
One week, when it came time to pay, I was the one allotted to collect our loses and meet Eddie. I hadn’t meet him before but I had spoken to him on the phone. He would always answer the phone with his, “Yeeaahh-up?”
“Hey Eddie, I have the money, where should we meet.”
“I’ll come to you, whereabouts are you?”
I told him approximately where I lived and he agreed to come meet me in the parking lot of the convenience store right across the street from my apartment in half an hour.
“How do I know who you are?”
“I’ll be in a station wagon.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
I thought to myself is that enough information “I’ll be in a station wagon"? But I’d heard Eddie had only three teeth so I figured I’d use that to identify him as well – how many people with three teeth are going to be in a station wagon in the parking lot of that particular convenience store, right?
Now, in those days, I worked the swing shift, so my mornings and early afternoons I had free. I would usually lounge around in crappy clothes until it came time to go to work. By crappy, I mean: Smelly, torn, over-worn rags. (There’s another story there for later)
At about noon, half an hour after I got off the phone with Eddie, I headed down to the parking lot, dressed like a bum, with the cash – which was a substantial looking amount, maybe about $800, all in tens and twenties – folded in my pocket.
I crossed the street and immediately saw a station wagon parked slightly away from the front of the store, off to the side. I chalked that up to a bookie being discreet, it had to be him. As I approached I started to get nervous, I mean this was illegal, I was participating in illicit gambling activities. You hear all kinds of stories, this was the mob after all. With each step I grew more apprehensive. My mouth started to get dry. I tried to wet my lips but I was parched. My palms, however, were moist with perspiration. I started to doubt myself. Would I have the courage to go up to him when I got close enough? I had to.
I was close enough to see the driver. He was alone, sitting in a relaxed manner. I got closer. He was eating an ice cream cone and reading a newspaper, his seat pushed back from the steering wheel. Another step. I was close enough now to see he was reading the sports page, it had to be him. I was too close now, committed.
I stepped to the open window, pulled the wad of cash from my pocket, flashed it to him and said desperately, “Are you Eddie?”
“Am I ready?” It was then I realized he had a full mouth of teeth.
He turned and saw me, instantly frozen in horror at the dilapidated stranger who had so openly approached him with a ton of cash and a proposition. The ice cream cone fell from his hand.
“Ready? Ready for what? Oh my God!”
He was trembling, panicky. The words hadn’t yet left his mouth before he threw the newspaper to one side, slide his seat in a rush back forward and started the car.
“I’m getting the hell out of here!”
He pulled the car back with a set of uneven jerks, switched gears and squealed out of the parking lot like he was being chased.
It wasn’t Eddie.
He pulled in about two minutes later. Thanked me for the money, “Better luck next week.” Then left.
Transaction complete.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
My Dad overheard me telling my mom about my somnambulism. He heard me saying how I wander in my sleep in the middle of the night and rant and rave, sometimes, while in a state of standing slumber, visiting the fridge. "Hhmpph..." He chortled, knowing my penchant for drinking beer all night, "Is that what they're calling it these days?'
Friday, May 11, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
the end of the world has already happened
how could the end of the world already have happened?
CLUE: first grade teacher mrs. schmidt has twenty pupils in her third hour philosophy class - the class lasts exactly one hour - how much time has past in her classroom at the end of the class?
answer: 20 hours
how could the end of the world already have happened?
CLUE: first grade teacher mrs. schmidt has twenty pupils in her third hour philosophy class - the class lasts exactly one hour - how much time has past in her classroom at the end of the class?
answer: 20 hours
"Sweeney you asshole! Go...go...go...Sweeney you asshole!!"
Those are the words that eventually led to the formation of our fantasy football league. It was the fall of 1988 and my friends and I loved to bet on Sunday games. We mostly lost. And not really having any discretionary income didn't stop us.
On Sunday, November 13th 1988, my friend George called me at around 7:30PM, "I fucked up man, I really fucked up." There was an aloof tremble in his voice. "I bet on every game."
"Every game? Every game?"
We usually watched football at his house and would place wagers with Eddie the Bookie on the games that were going to be shown on TV plus maybe one or two others, maybe four or five during the Sunday football marathon. On this day however, something compelled him to bet
on every single game: 14 in total.
"Where have you been? Every game? How did you do?"
"I was out on a boat with some friends. Before I left I called Eddie and something happened. I just- I kept going. I went through the whole schedule and picked a team in every game this afternoon. I figured you can't lose every one right?"
"How did you do?"
"I lost every game."
"Shit."
"What am I going to do? I don't have the money. How could I lose every game!"
"That sucks."
"I'm going to have to ask my dad for the money, he'll kill me. Man I'm fucked. Hey if I bet as much as I owe on the Sunday Night game and win I'm in the clear. Dallas is playing Minnesota. (to himself) Where's the paper?"
"What if you lose?"
"If I lose? I have to ask my dad for the money as it is now, fuck it, if I lose I'll just ask for twice as much. I'm dead either way, right? Let me go, I have to call Eddie."
"Hey, I'm coming over. I want to see this."
"Allright, see you."
When I got there I witnessed three hours of the most intense football watching you'll ever see. Al Pacino couldn't have done better. George bet on Minnesota and the over, a parlay. He wound up risking less ca$h exposure for a two and a half to one payout. It seemed like a good bet to me, probably what I would have done in his shoes.
Minnesota kicked the Cowboys all over the field that night, so the team bet was never in doubt. The over though, that was another story. It was 44 points. The score was 40-3 Vikings and with less than two minutes to play, the Cowboys were deep in Viking territory, driving for a meaningless score. George was very close to breathing easy. Normally we'd be lounging back on the sofa. Right then, he was sitting upright, a bundle of potential energy awaiting release as soon as Dallas scored. The celebratory scream seemingly inevitable.
A young quarterback named Kevin Sweeney had been put into the game by Tom Landry. He moved the team down to the 10-yard line, leading them with the fervor of a veteran QB in overtime of the Super Bowl. He was playing his heart out and had a new, big fan in my friend George.
Sweeney led the Cowboys out of the huddle. George tilted forward toward to TV. Sweeney came to the line and shouted signals. George rubbed his hands together, anticipating victory, "Come on Sweeny, come on Sweeney." Sweeney took the snap and dropped back. George took a deep breath and heaved up. Sweeney saw his target in the flat. George lifted his hands to his head. Not the flat, not the flat. Sweeney released. The ball headed for its target, the running back out of the backfield, with nothing between him and the endzone. George made a squeaky, gutteral sound, every muscle in his body tensing up simultaneously. The ball fluttered, hovering forever in the air, suspending every physical law. Time stopped.
A flicker of something purple flashed across the screen. The ball was no longer there.
"Sweeney you asshole!" All was lost.
The young quarterback's pass was intercepted. The defender was streaking towards the other goal line. George, distraught, was already thinking of what words to use when he was going to speak to his- WAIT! George realized any score would put the game over and win the bet. He catapaulted from the sofa, "Go....go.....go!"
The QB's determination and winning spirit launched him in chase of the purple mariah who had stolen his ball. Down the field they ran. What's this? The quarterback was catching up to the defender? How could this be? How could you lose every bet? The Viking remained stalwart, cruising on, fifty, forty, thirty....
"Go, go, go!!"
...twenty, ten. Sweeney dove. He tagged the purple man's foot in mid-air. The foot swung sideways and got tangled with the other foot. The purple man fell in a heap. He fell at the one yard line. No score.
"Sweeney you asshole!"
George fell back on the sofa, his hands grabbing his head, "What the fuck just happened."
There were no words to say. Nothing left. The potential energy had been spent, but not in the way for which it was intended. We sat in silence and watched the rest of the game. We watched as the clock ticked away. We watched, mouths agape, when, for reasons that may never be known, Minnesota sent their kicker in for a field goal leading 40-3 with seconds left to play. It was good. 43-3. Minnesota and the over. George did it.
After that day, we needed a new way to watch football, some way where we wouldn't be asking ourselves, "How could you lose every bet?"
"Hey, George, you ever about that fantasy stuff?"
Those are the words that eventually led to the formation of our fantasy football league. It was the fall of 1988 and my friends and I loved to bet on Sunday games. We mostly lost. And not really having any discretionary income didn't stop us.
On Sunday, November 13th 1988, my friend George called me at around 7:30PM, "I fucked up man, I really fucked up." There was an aloof tremble in his voice. "I bet on every game."
"Every game? Every game?"
We usually watched football at his house and would place wagers with Eddie the Bookie on the games that were going to be shown on TV plus maybe one or two others, maybe four or five during the Sunday football marathon. On this day however, something compelled him to bet
on every single game: 14 in total.
"Where have you been? Every game? How did you do?"
"I was out on a boat with some friends. Before I left I called Eddie and something happened. I just- I kept going. I went through the whole schedule and picked a team in every game this afternoon. I figured you can't lose every one right?"
"How did you do?"
"I lost every game."
"Shit."
"What am I going to do? I don't have the money. How could I lose every game!"
"That sucks."
"I'm going to have to ask my dad for the money, he'll kill me. Man I'm fucked. Hey if I bet as much as I owe on the Sunday Night game and win I'm in the clear. Dallas is playing Minnesota. (to himself) Where's the paper?"
"What if you lose?"
"If I lose? I have to ask my dad for the money as it is now, fuck it, if I lose I'll just ask for twice as much. I'm dead either way, right? Let me go, I have to call Eddie."
"Hey, I'm coming over. I want to see this."
"Allright, see you."
When I got there I witnessed three hours of the most intense football watching you'll ever see. Al Pacino couldn't have done better. George bet on Minnesota and the over, a parlay. He wound up risking less ca$h exposure for a two and a half to one payout. It seemed like a good bet to me, probably what I would have done in his shoes.
Minnesota kicked the Cowboys all over the field that night, so the team bet was never in doubt. The over though, that was another story. It was 44 points. The score was 40-3 Vikings and with less than two minutes to play, the Cowboys were deep in Viking territory, driving for a meaningless score. George was very close to breathing easy. Normally we'd be lounging back on the sofa. Right then, he was sitting upright, a bundle of potential energy awaiting release as soon as Dallas scored. The celebratory scream seemingly inevitable.
A young quarterback named Kevin Sweeney had been put into the game by Tom Landry. He moved the team down to the 10-yard line, leading them with the fervor of a veteran QB in overtime of the Super Bowl. He was playing his heart out and had a new, big fan in my friend George.
Sweeney led the Cowboys out of the huddle. George tilted forward toward to TV. Sweeney came to the line and shouted signals. George rubbed his hands together, anticipating victory, "Come on Sweeny, come on Sweeney." Sweeney took the snap and dropped back. George took a deep breath and heaved up. Sweeney saw his target in the flat. George lifted his hands to his head. Not the flat, not the flat. Sweeney released. The ball headed for its target, the running back out of the backfield, with nothing between him and the endzone. George made a squeaky, gutteral sound, every muscle in his body tensing up simultaneously. The ball fluttered, hovering forever in the air, suspending every physical law. Time stopped.
A flicker of something purple flashed across the screen. The ball was no longer there.
"Sweeney you asshole!" All was lost.
The young quarterback's pass was intercepted. The defender was streaking towards the other goal line. George, distraught, was already thinking of what words to use when he was going to speak to his- WAIT! George realized any score would put the game over and win the bet. He catapaulted from the sofa, "Go....go.....go!"
The QB's determination and winning spirit launched him in chase of the purple mariah who had stolen his ball. Down the field they ran. What's this? The quarterback was catching up to the defender? How could this be? How could you lose every bet? The Viking remained stalwart, cruising on, fifty, forty, thirty....
"Go, go, go!!"
...twenty, ten. Sweeney dove. He tagged the purple man's foot in mid-air. The foot swung sideways and got tangled with the other foot. The purple man fell in a heap. He fell at the one yard line. No score.
"Sweeney you asshole!"
George fell back on the sofa, his hands grabbing his head, "What the fuck just happened."
There were no words to say. Nothing left. The potential energy had been spent, but not in the way for which it was intended. We sat in silence and watched the rest of the game. We watched as the clock ticked away. We watched, mouths agape, when, for reasons that may never be known, Minnesota sent their kicker in for a field goal leading 40-3 with seconds left to play. It was good. 43-3. Minnesota and the over. George did it.
After that day, we needed a new way to watch football, some way where we wouldn't be asking ourselves, "How could you lose every bet?"
"Hey, George, you ever about that fantasy stuff?"
I work in an office building. Our company has offices on the 4th and 5th floors, my desk is on the 5th. One morning I was getting into the elevator on 1st floor. There was another gentleman, older, already in the elevator. He had pressed the button for the 8th floor; I pressed the button for the 5th floor. Just before the door closed, a woman got into the elevator. I recognized her as someone who worked on the 4th floor for the same company as me. Without the man noticing, the woman and I acknowledged each other with only a polite, very slight, nod. He did see me however when I reached out and pressed the button for the 4th floor.
When we reached the 4th floor, the woman got out of the elevator without saying a word. The man looked over at me, astonished. How did you know? The elevator door closed. I gave him a coy smile and raised my eyebrows.
We reached the 5th floor and the door opened. I got out and turned around. As the door was closing, I looked back into the elevator and told the older man, calmly, monotoned, "When the elevator gets to the 8th floor, don't get out."
I have never seen a person press a 7th floor button so fast in my life.
When we reached the 4th floor, the woman got out of the elevator without saying a word. The man looked over at me, astonished. How did you know? The elevator door closed. I gave him a coy smile and raised my eyebrows.
We reached the 5th floor and the door opened. I got out and turned around. As the door was closing, I looked back into the elevator and told the older man, calmly, monotoned, "When the elevator gets to the 8th floor, don't get out."
I have never seen a person press a 7th floor button so fast in my life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)