No story that begins with, ‘The cows found the box of dynamite in the barn’ can possibly end well.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep I get up and find Burt Reynolds combing his mustache in my bathroom mirror; it was uncomfortable at first, but eventually we struck up a deal where he agreed to not watch me pee as long as I didn’t ask him anything about Lonnie.
There are some snippets of conversation with friends that are so freakishly weird you would just like to pretend that you never, ever heard them.
O metal bird of non-blinking whatnot, I’m going to use this arena as an outlet because I’m 5 days away from defending a thesis and my advisor just told me that my argument, which is soundly based on math and science, YOU JACKASS, is baseless, which is only going to make me more correct during the defense and I think she knows this because she’s remarkably intelligent and wily in that way that makes you nervous, but that’s not the point, no, the point is that I feel like the time has come to do what I’d mentioned in a recent comment and follow Mr. Mencken’s advice and ‘raise the black flag...’, even though I realize ‘mouse is a lawyer and may end up prosecuting me for what follows, but what the hell, anger with no outlet leads to reality TV and that’s totally unacceptable, so here goes...If I was the kind of 16-year old in a 35-year old’s body willing to teepee someone’s house, I’d totally do it to my advisor’s hizzy, only instead of toilet paper, I’d probably use a flame-thrower, and instead of soap, I’d probably use napalm, and oh by the way, f*ck you, Auqa Man, for never destroying Sea World and freeing your watery brethren, yes, it’s a tangent, but I figured while I was getting things off my chest, I may as well be thorough about it.
There has never been a more talented and capable band than the Muppet-infested Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, because they were able to rock as hard as any band in existence, despite their butt being constantly occupied by some stranger’s hand.
Yes, tremble in fear, for they be the butterscotch, quietly metallic, curvaceous sounding cybervixens.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the time of iPods and hip real estate acronyms, it was the time of handwritten cardboard signs and street corner regulars, it was the time of demise, the time of failing language, the time of false promise and useless hope—it short, it was the time of precarious balance, when looking the other way became the drug of choice, the only thing that kept the balancing act from collapsing under the crippling weight of its own imagined brilliance.
Miss Dillman was a crotchety 12th grade English teacher who shuffled around campus with a shopping cart full of homework assignments; she could have been an object of derision, but instead, she had scores of teenaged fans, and this is why: one stormy afternoon in class, while reading aloud a particularly frightening passage from MacBeth, she stabbed her finger toward the ceiling - and the lights went out.
After grading for almost 24 hours straight, the sentence “This day in age the inner workings of companies need to run both smoothly internally and externally in order to be successful in our dog eat dog world” is enough to make me swallow a cyanide tablet just to end the pain.
Five year old Nathan quietly shuffled to the kitchen, slippers shuffling against linoleum like surgical booties, to grab a midnight snack of chocolate bunny from the freezer where they laid quietly in their boxes head first like victims in a morgue waiting for their turn on the autopsy table, the freezer light flickering, adding to the eerie ambience of the night might have scared the boy if his mouth wasn’t filled with heavenly milk chocolate.
While I was trying not to grind my teeth into powder as I read the pathetic excuses my students call resumes, I noticed the girl next to me was reading an “urban erotic” novel (I didn’t even know this was a genre until I read the back bookflap) entitled “Thong on Fire” with the blurb on the front proclaiming “If you get thrown in the snake pit, you better learn how to wriggle!”
“I call it the morally repugnant clause,” God’s attorney said during the pre-creation meeting, “and I would strongly advice you to leave it in the contract, at least for Day 6 or there’ll be hell to pay trying to explain things later; believe me, if this thing goes to trial at some point, the burden of reasonable hope will rest on our shoulders, and frankly, I don’t think either one of us have the bank for that kind of trial.”
“I’ve never eaten a mango.” [Keith]