Down with the Sickness

Getting sick can be an incredibly trying experience, both mentally and physically. I’ve always been fairly susceptible to falling ill and it tends to happen almost every month. The kind of thing I’m talking about here are stomach viruses, the occasional flu and of course, the malady to which no cure has or will ever be found, the common cold. As a result of this regularity, I’ve been able to study my typical response in an attempt to make it more efficient and advantageous to my health.

Usually things get kicked off with the sore throat. I like to think of this as “the egg period” because I’m waiting to see what eventual indisposition will poke its beak out from my initial sore-throatedness. I also like to call this “the egg period” because, in an effort to somehow rescue my health from falling overboard, I throw it a lifesaver of healthy egg-breakfasts. Unfortunately, by the time I’ve entered the egg period, my health has usually already walked the plank. I haven’t figured out what my health did to get such a sentence, but I’m already mixing metaphors so I think it best not to delve into those waters.

During the egg period I’m usually wracking my brain in a futile attempt to determine the root of my condition. Was it the dirty rail I touched in the train station? The leftovers I ate from under my seat on the train? Maybe it was that hobo I made out with to make my mom laugh. It really is a waste of time pondering these things, especially considering the fact that I always take the bus. It would be nice to know exactly how I’ve received the germs in question, but the answer is as muddled as the clogged-up basin that I always rinse my hands in.

What happens next is what I call “the sluggish period”. No matter what symptoms I begin to experience, my typical frenzied pace is curbed significantly. For instance, instead of flipping through the channels like I usually do, I just go ahead and sit through the commercials. I do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, my listlessness keeps me from reaching for the remote at every 60-second break. Secondly, there’s a slim chance a miracle drug may be advertised that speaks directly to my needs. Suffering from sore throat, back ache and mild fever? Yes, I would nod. Then try Xackalax; it’s free, comes with ice cream, and it’s guaranteed to work.

Another reason I call this “the sluggish period” is that, at this point, any discomfort I may be feeling can be easily alleviated through the use of medical marijuana. I prefer a mellow Indica blend smoked through a bowl. Brownies can be nice, but may come back to haunt you if you develop an upset stomach. Interestingly, I’ve found that in the absence of medical marijuana during the sluggish period, normal marijuana works just as good.

At the end of the sluggish period is when things get tricky. The next period is called “the grasshopper period” because grasshoppers are green, just like the trickiest creature on earth, the leprechaun. Here, my affliction can clear up without a problem, or take one of many drastic turns for the worst. Such a turn will almost always lead me to the toilet. And whether I’m perched upon the bowl like Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”, or grasping the bowl with the kind of anguish represented in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”, it’s sure to be a long and painful process like Mick Jackson’s “The Bodyguard”, starring Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston.

Frankly, if I’m going to be spending time with my round porcelain friend, I’d just as soon be vomiting than anything else. Though, there’s a sort of “ripped-off” feeling I get when pukey-sick. What’s the point of all this torture if I didn’t get to finish off everyone’s rum bottles? Instead of cursing the bitch that drove me to drinking, I’m cursing friend that drove me to the movies (I know they don’t disinfect the seats between screenings). Whatever my business happens to be in the bathroom, my mantra is always the same: out with the bad. I used to spend a lot of this time talking to Jesus, but now his mom refuses to clean the bathroom until after I get better.

From here on out, it’s pretty much wash, rinse, repeat until I’m back to normal. I have a special toothbrush for when I’m sick that I’ll sometimes give to guests as a prank. The final period I simply call, “the cleanup”. This is the period between my recovery and the redeployment of my maid squad. The cleanup usually entails a lot of hose water and incense. Raymond, my pet raccoon who comes in through a hole he chewed in the back door, does a good job of cleaning up a lot of my food mess. When I see him dutifully munching up my litter, I’m especially glad that germs can’t be passed between species, or else he’d be in all kinds of trouble. I think about all of the stuff I could have gotten done if I had remained healthy. I’m sure that a much bigger portion of my model train collection would be properly detailed if I didn’t get sick so often.

Although it tends to be an ordeal, I really don’t mind getting sick. It gives me a chance to reflect on my own health and appreciate those times when I can function as an independent adult in society. It also gives me a great opportunity to guilt my grandma into bringing me a Vanilla Milkshake. “Just leave it by the raccoon hole, grandma. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Halloween Monster Story

As the chef pried open a fresh crate of bananas, he noticed something odd about it. First of all, bananas didn't usually come in crates, so right off he knew something was wrong. Also, a large bat flew out of the crate, carrying a severed head.

The chef proceeded to stack the glowing, green bananas in their usual spot. Immediately, students began flooding the cafeteria to get a taste of the freak fruit.

Surprisingly, everyone loved the bananas. They were the most popular food item at breakfast. By lunch time though, the chef started noticing strange behavior in the students.

"Get me more bananas, Chef Tim!" said a burly, hairy, toothy girl.

"We're all out." Chef Tim replied.

"Look harder!" the girl shouted, in between unpleasant monkey noises.

Chef Tim looked around and noticed some very primitive behavior. Students were jumping up down, hanging from chandeliers, and picking lice off of each other to eat. Anyone who had eaten bananas (which was pretty much everyone) was turning into big, stinky apes. Their features were animal-like. Chef Tim felt like Charlton Heston.

Rushing back into the kitchen, Chef Tim alerted lunch lady Bertha of the emergency. "The kids are all going ape out there! It's a madhouse!"

Lunch lady Bertha turned around. Her teeth were yellow and her lips were covered in drool. Unsightly body and facial hair stuck out all over. She breathed heavily.

"Oh no, it got you too!" said Chef Tim, "You ate the green bananas!"

"What are you talking about?" Bertha grunted, "I hate bananas!"

"Oh..." Chef Tim backed away slowly, "Sorry..."

Back in the cafeteria, plates were being thrown, the floor was covered in soda, and the warm apple crisp had been violated several times over. Chef Tim knew he had to do something.

He went back into the storage where the mysterious crate waited. In it, conveniently sat a small note. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Because he was distracted by that bat.

The note read, "These bananas are evil. Don't feed them to anyone. If you do though, just recite this incantation: BALAWALANAK..."

Suddenly, a monkey child snatched the paper from him and ran back into the cafeteria.

Chef Tim tried to throw his most stale bread at the monkey child to slow it down, but to no avail. The monkeys were too quick for him for now, but he had a plan.

Immediately, Chef Tim started cooking up as many flapjacks as he could. Being a school chef, he had plenty of opium on hand and cooked it right into the flapjacks. When he knew he had enough, he shoveled the flapjacks into a shopping cart that he stole from Walmart and reentered the cafeteria. Like frisbees, he hurled the opium cakes at every devolved student within sight. They eagerly gobbled up the cakes.

Carefully stepping over the now-sleeping monkeys, Chef Tim successfully located the note and pried it from the clutches of the monkey child. Lifting it up, he recited the incantation, "BALAWALANAKTOFALA!"

Like Disney magic, all the hairy, apelike students transformed back into normal, filth-covered human students.

"That was pretty cool, eh Rex?" Tim asked his previously unmentioned talking-dog companion.

Rex answered with his old catch-phrase that has endeared him with countless children, "Yoooouu BETCHA!"

Earning Sleep

Usually, I don't mind a housefly. In the summer, when they are most prevalent, they are only a minor annoyance; A bother done away with by waving a hand, as if I had all the power of a king. But as I sat up in my bed, my neck supported by an awkwardly folded pillow, the fly that buzzed around my room captured the bulk of my attention with its performance. It was the quiet and solitude that the fly had broken. I'm sure countless insects and spiders had successfully crept in and thwarted my pure loneliness in the past, but they had done so with subtlety enough to keep the Giant unstirred and blissfully ignorant of his guests. I must admit that the thought that it is so hard to escape the world of life and survival perturbs me to some degree. There is always something not far off that would see your end to further their's.

The concentration of my read would not be broken by a passive stalker, but the buzzing fiend that left haphazard and imaginary dash-marks in its wake as it flew about the unstirred air of my room. The volume of its unattractive buzzing was directly linked to the distance it kept from me. If this distance was halved, the sound was doubled. Such a change was easily noticed in my self-induced, yet somewhat broken meditative state. Soon after becoming aware of this unwanted cad of an insect, it became the second party in the room, thereby ruining my linear thought process.

The linear thought process is the one thing that I absolutely must maintain to achieve any meaningful level of cognitive retention of reading materials. I blame the fragility of this process to all those damn video games I played as a kid. It's when my linear thought is disrupted that I end up writing something, the subject of which can usually be found at the branching of my thoughts and is rarely interesting to anyone but myself (though this particular digression is of distinctively fuzzy and faint importance, even compared with houseflies).

After a series of paths taken by the fly, many of which brought it to every cardinal direction in relation to myself, its buzzing faded. My composure rocked, I began expecting to hear the sound again. So expectant was I that the soft hum of electricity within the house started sounding incredibly insectish. I feared that the fly was just waiting for the right time to play a trick on me; To ambush me and crawl under my skin to lay its eggs, or maybe jump up and spit in my eye. The fear had hatched ugly, writhing maggots, intent on foiling any line of productive or useful thought.

At a picnic, set upon by a gang of flies, I would have no problem hearing the cry of the warrior. I'd brandish my long, plastic, flatish blade with which to bring an untimely and gruesome death to the outmatched and miniscule monsters plaguing our plates of potatoes and ham. But the idea of an army makes sense. Some would even sell the idea as noble. A lone wanderer however; A "Jack the Ripper" of the bug kingdom could certainly haunt my read as ignobly as anything under the sun.

I reached with quiet trepidation for the entomology textbook, which the fates had placed so conveniently near to my side, hoping to procure from it some advantageous nugget of knowledge regarding my enemy. The common housefly (Musca domestica) only lives for an average of two weeks as a fly. Attrition was the obvious answer. I could be certain, with all the confidence that science could bestow, that the beast would be dead within this relatively short period of time. There was no doubt in my mind that the fat reserves I had built up within the past few years at college, coupled with the pallet of Ice Mountain bottled water I had "temporarily" placed near my bed only four hours earlier would sustain me during this deadly chess match.

It was harder than I thought to wait out the fly. My checkmate would come after roughly fourteen days of motionless thought and appreciation for my adversary. I received bed sores and came down with minor scurvy due to the lack of Vitamin C. But reading in peace, and greeting slumber with certainty has never felt so good.

The Summer of Pickle Sandwiches

When this summer got underway, I was in a bit of a pickle. The kind of pickle that is sandwiched firmly between two pieces of bread that somehow symbolize laziness. I had just completed the most apathetic and lackluster semester of my college career, and I had done absolutely nothing to secure for myself a job to help ease my financial situation which can only be described as Chrysler-esque. I had relied on parental bailouts and infusions of cash loans to support my travel in the fall semester and bad habits in the spring. Waking up to my precarious situation, I felt guilt, anxiety, and hunger. Hunger for a job, and hunger for a pickle sandwich. Immediately, I began to find for myself chores to justify my existence on a daily basis, as well as a few hours here and there dedicated to applying for jobs delivering pizza. My seemingly helpless situation bogged me down and even caused a few days of real depression; the kind of depression that just boils up inside of you, urging you to do something with your life because you have no money to buy alcohol to drown it in. My Mother (who will be subsequently referred to as "Ma") saw this and it troubled, or at least annoyed her. "Why don't you apply for one of those medical studies." She suggested. I had thought of it, but refrained because I wanted to leave my schedule open for a job. As soon as I figured out my hours, I'd be able to fit a medical study around my work schedule. [Point of Information: These "medical studies" I'm referring to are amazing little opportunities that Cetero Research offers. Basically they give you a drug, take some blood from you, and give you money. It's important to note that there is almost no work involved in this process, and lots of money. I'd say it's low risk, which it is, but you're probably a superstitious jerk, so I won't waste my time.] Ma had come a long way from opposing my participation in such studies to now wholeheartedly endorsing them as a means of income. I am certain that this kind of resignation and apathy is what keeps any good family together. I explained why I hadn't signed up for any studies, but what met with Ma's cold, hard, and immovable logic: "You won't make any more working a part time job than you would doing one of those studies." I was tempted. But also worried about a potential secondary problem with signing up for a study without any other prospects lined up. That problem would turn out to be one that didn't really exist, except in my wildest imagination. You see, I was concerned that without real employment--a job that tagged me as an "associate, employee, or partner"--I would not find true satisfaction. That somehow, the title of "volunteer" would make any money I received from that position a little less satisfying. Because, you see, when I found out that I would most likely be participating in a study that paid $1,180 over the course of two weekend stays, I made a rough appropriation of the funds in my mind and figured out that this sum of money is pretty nice for me right now, and I would most likely line up another study after this one was over. What washed over me wasn't some feeling of emptiness, but one of relief and satisfaction. So I'm sitting around reading, playing video games, cleaning up here and there, and maybe riding my bike across town later... whatever. It's awesome. When I'm hungry, I tell the dog to bring me a bagel. When I'm tired, I sleep; wherever, on the couch, on the toilet, or perhaps just standing over a running lawnmower. What's most important is that I don't feel like a broke loser; just a single loser who lives with his parents, which, if I may speak so freely, is a pretty decadent lifestyle. Pickle sandwiches are a great metaphor. And even though that's a lie, and they aren't a great metaphor, I'll still slap some kosher dill spears on wheat bread and call it breakfast. Because even though pickles have almost no nutritional value, they taste good, so stop being such a drag, man.

Trying

A wolf walks past a birch tree in the snow

His fur is silver with the morning dew

And as he passes by, my slinking foe

Is drawn in by the scent of my hot stew

I long have had it cooking by this fire

So that I might fill up and warm my soul

He licks his teeth in hopes he will acquire

The meal that slowly cooks above these coals

I slowly reach for rifle by my side

So that I might then slay approaching beast

My hand lifts up the cover of cow-hide

The wolf continues lusting for his feast

Intently, creeping gently, getting close

My nerves are steady as I raise my gun

Though ignorant, I guess that my wolf knows

His days of stalking prey will soon be done

A shot rings out and breaks the silent morn

The wolf falls limp upon the waiting frost

I never, from the day that I was born

Have paid, for any breakfast, such a cost

Most people call me Ugly...

My mother calls me Sean.

Most people call my mother ugly.

I don't really know a better word

To summarize my existence,

As if that was something worth doing.

As if making things easy to understand

Really ever resulted in understanding.

I usually don't do this.

I usually don't cut out my piece.

Assuming it might fit

Might be foolish.

I'm not loud.

I lack the necessary audacity.

I've spoken out of turn before

Only to remember the look

On people's faces.

It broke their symmetry.

Ugliness isn't an appearance

Or even a status.

It's a decision.

As a young boy I decided

To be ugly.

I made it before I could

Take it back and

Lack the tools to

Turn back time.

I came into this world Sean

And will leave it so.

But I dwell here Ugly.

Knowing God lives for me

So that I may sigh lightly.

This in stead of a deep sigh.

The kind that makes Ugly

Despair at mystery,

Tear at the fabric of what

They think is real.

Feel for a world that

Doesn't keep in it uncertainty.

I am Ugly.

Ugly does twist at himself.

He twists at his face and

What lies behind it.

He smoulders in spite and

Despite of himself.

Twisting and smouldering

Bending and burning

Make a sight more ugly than before.

A sound that screeches,

A stench that is putrid.

I am Sean.

Sean does look outward.

He sets his heart to task and

Is battered back at times.

He builds his strength

Despite his weaknesses.

Looking and building

Growing and learning

Make a man just as Ugly as before.

A friend that betrays,

A lover that fails.

My works are like refuse

As they've been in my pocket.

Understand that I've said little

As you expected I might.

Forget it.

Self-indulgence with no

Self to indulge upon.

I beg the reader to forsake all here

Save one request.

I am Ugly.

Please call me Sean.

What I Want On My Tombstone

Studies have shown that people in their early twenties don't often take the time to stop and think about their own mortality. Those same studies also suggest that when the temporary nature of life is thought of, 78% of those respondents had recently listened to "Time" by Pink Floyd. Taking this to heart, I began thinking about ways I could leave behind a lasting legacy--something that will carry a message to future generations. What was a rock-solid, block-lettered way I could pass on that message? A tombstone, of course. More than anything else, a tombstone would effectively communicate a pointed message to future generations--and one of my choosing. In order for me to build a legacy, some have urged me to commit my life to charitable causes. Others have suggested having many children with wives and girlfriends, and passing on the sacred traditions of honor and family that are the bedrock of our civilization. In my own personal experience, I've tried, as much as possible, to convince those around me to do things for me so that I will be remembered as a leader. However, all of these tactics are contingent on me achieving actual goals. The beauty of the tombstone is this: I get to choose one simple message that family members and creepy cemetery-walkers will be forced to read. That message will be etched in stone, regardless of my life's achievements. I could be a shoeless tramp, a seedy ne'er-do-well, or even a high school gym teacher--it doesn't matter--this message will stand. And because I plan to carry some serious financial debt into the grave, I'll make sure to have my tombstone carved out long before I breathe my last.

This said, I've been pondering what witty phrase, or dirty double-entendre I want forever chiseled a few feet above my dead body. It has to be something short and to the point--in that way, unavoidable. The reader will be finished before they can stop themselves. For instance, most of the people who began reading this blog expecting something of real substance had the opportunity to turn their attention to something else a long time ago. If you're still reading, you're definitely enough of a sucker to stick it out till the end. All things considered, here are my possible answers:

(Tombstone will read: Nicholas Hibbeler 1987-2012)

"Here lies the President of Super-America."

"Please do not use this tombstone as a stage for puppet shows."

"I'm right behind you."

"Being dead is like having sex with Medusa."

"This corpse has a plot, unlike that joke of a movie, Signs."

"I should've used the AC less."

"Captain of the USS Enterprise."

"Time capsule. Please open 2042."

"Beauty is only skin-deep, but smarts are only brain-deep."

"He hated his children."

"Self-aware nose-picker."

"Hermit Crab enthusiast and shell decorator."

"He swam like 12 minutes after eating."

"Resurrection reward: the best chicken pasta you've ever had."

"You should have had sex with him while you could."

"He used aluminium-based deodorant."

"Died not knowing why snow-boarding was cooler than skiing."

"If you're going to pour out liquor, please be seasonally conscious."

"Rigor Mortis: the full-body stiffy."

"If I come back as a zombie, don't dismember my good side."

"Gave good karma to many by owing them cash."

"Set my iPod to shuffle."

Goodtime Activist

I have a problem with people

Who point out the modern evils

Whether pointing at a steeple

Or at their governmental weasles

But, please don't misunderstand

Because I think dissent is healthy

But dissent is never spent

And comfort belongs to the wealthy

Selfish politics are being pushed

And sold to the consumer

Where the glory is the person, not the cause

Let's see how many buttons

And t-shirts we can sell

Before they find that our statistics have been flawed

So your candidate won

But there's a war going on

No, there's several and they're clawing at your soul

See, we've broken into teams

To forget about the issues

And there's nothing left to fill the gaping hole

Sold to the highest bidder!

We're back in the swing of dreams

I'm so damned inspired

That I'll join your scene

Fiends for distractions

Actions speak softly

Words scream the loudest

When they're meaningless and costly

Often, I cry at night

Because I have nothing to cry about

Sometimes I die of fright

When no one seems to hear me out

Let's start a pie fight

World hunger, we'll forget about

Turn off the night light

And go to sleep without a sound

That's what they want from you

To lay down and take it

And if you want climax

You'll just have to fake it

Because sex is so fun when you're completely dishonest

And America's been fucked by the best

They wear lapel pins just to prove that they're modest

But beg you to rip off their vest

Chest exposed

Wardrobe malfunction

But don't disrupt their prayer luncheon

Here, munchkin!

Snack on this for a while

Daddy's got to make the trial

We're serving up death sentences and doing it in style

So keep on paying your taxes

Because I swear if you don't that we won't stay our axes

I swear if you don't that we won't check our faxes

Then can we sound mute?

I swear, when your mouth is shut, you look so cute

But I'll give you an excuse

And a little horn to toot

And every four years you can blow it

My Brother is a Genius of Modern Art

(Whether he knows it or not)

I've decided to write this note because of the artistic vision that is becoming progressively more obvious through the work of Adam Hibbeler. The fact that he is indeed my brother has no pull on my artistic criticism.

Lately my brother (Adam Hibbeler) has been putting up on facebook the product of his creative energy unleashed at work (in between phone calls).

The series is called, "When i'm bored at work I play on paint...". It's important to note that there are only two words capitalized in this title. Appropriately, the first word is capitalized, as well as the singular personal pronoun, "I". This is meaningful in several ways. For one, the lack of capitalization is fitting within the context of short-hand indicative of the information age. Not only that, but notice what else isn't capitalized: the first "I"...

From the title we can pull the following two phrases: "i'm bored at work" and "I play on paint..."

The first phrase refers to the repressed artist; the man behind the desk who doesn't necessarily value his individualism, and thus doesn't take care to capitalize his own personal pronoun. The second phrase begins with an action. The artist tells us that he doesn't consider the act of creation a chore, a job, or even a pastime. He considers it "play". Profound indeed when contrasted with the somber feelings attached to the first phrase.

Hibbeler is also on the cutting edge as far as his choice in outlet is concerned. Exhibiting these works for free, on facebook, in a public photo folder is a bold step that reveals he is an artist unbound and unhindered by the conventions of art at large. He conceptualizes the visual arts as a people's medium and carries it out as such. To further reflect this sentiment, Hibbeler makes use of the "tagging" function built into the facebook photo-sharing structure in order to bring friends and family closer to his vision; inviting them to engage their minds actively and asking them (though not directly) for what reason they were tagged, and why in that spot of the piece.

Adam Hibbeler chose to leave these works untitled. And though I don't portend to fully grasp the significance of each work, I will use simple descriptors to reference them in this review. Though it would be possible for me to look at each and every work individually, I will opt to point out just a few, leaving the reader the exciting opportunity to discover the rest on their own.

The fact that Hibbeler used nothing but Microsoft Paint is a tribute to the artistic method of tightening one's parameters. It's truly a minimalistic approach, but one that yields fantastic results.

The first I will mention is (the bird). This work features a fantastically colored and proportioned bird soaring through the sky. Although this piece seems peaceful at first glance, further reflection sparks inklings of chaos. Hibbeler creates the illusion of speed by stretching out the points on each wing, as well as giving the subject an overall direction of heading downward, as in a dive. The wings, taken individually, are held at different positions, hinting that some quick maneuvering may be taking place. Our final clue comes not from the piece itself, but from a comment left by a certain coworker. This coworker simply states, "I remember him." This simple, but chilling statement leaves the viewer guessing at what event this apparently memorable feathered friend made his appearance. Visions of birds fluttering confusedly inside an office building flock to mind, providing the viewer with ample reason to sympathise with the artist.

The next piece is actually a two-parter. (Circuit City) is a graphic and culturally relevant tale of an electronics giant felled by the inertia of uncertainty that dominates our world today. The first piece is of a perfectly normal Circuit City location on a partly-cloudy day, birds flying in the sky (our familiar theme). But something is off. As one commenter notes, "...the sun is in the wrong place...". This simple statement isn't necessarily stating the idea that the sun itself may be off its course, but it does point out that if the sun is placed where it is (in the upper-left corner of the piece), and the shadow of Circuit City is placed where it is, then something is wrong. Something indeed. This represents the feeling of foreboding that many Circuit City employees felt in months leading to the company's eventual demise. Poor decisions, layoffs, and dominance of Best Buy were all warning signs of collapse--A collapse expressed in Hibbeler's second part. In it, he depicts the same location broken, and burning. Everything else in the piece remains the same as the first; the positioning, the grass, the sun, the birds... a sign that though economic hardship may destroy institutions, the world spins on--the world spins on.

The last I will mention I will simply refer to as (Rory Nelson). This piece (so referred to in recognition of the only individual tagged), is yet another contrast of bleak conditions and human triumph. Much of the electronic canvass is etched out in black lines, leaving only miniscule windows of white peering through the darkness. Hints of pink are also used throughout, and the work is effectively organic and geometric in areas. This dark, or even disturbed depiction of life is interrupted by a simple smiling face, reminiscent of a Jack-O-Lantern, which seems to cut in and assert that life, no matter how dreadful, can be funny.

I've decided to conclude my rambling critique by saying that I don't believe that everyone is ready for the work of Adam Hibbeler. Because of this, some of you may doubt my reasons for writing this. My primary reason is not to make a spectacle of my vague inferences into this art; in fact, quite the contrary. I am writing this to draw attention to the work of someone I consider to be genuinely creative and insightful individual. As mentioned earlier, the fact that he also happens to be my brother is immaterial in regards the potency of his work. Below is a link to the folder. Enjoy.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2002325&id=1302210082

You Wanna Buy Some Drugs?

It feels good
That's why I do it
I love the feeling I get when the smoke hits my lungs
Tingling hits my brain

The boy in black says, "You wanna buy some drugs?"
Come on, guy, give me a hug!
We're all just people here and I want a good time,
Why are you stressing me over the price of a dimebag?
Yes, I wanna buy some drugs
Hand it over
My pockets grow thin, making my nights grow colder

Share it, don't spare it
To the end, with my friends, sporting marijuana grins
Light up at ten, puff to win, how could this be a sin?
Hey man
Check out my poetry

What the hell was that?
That was Lisa across the hall sounding like the fuzz
Get some pizza, make a call so we can munch off this buzz
Work's on Monday, and it's Saturday so chill out
No chores, no boss, no stupid reports to fill out
Still out with Jill, you know it's me in the van
Hey, now let me read my poetry to you, man

"West Side dreams
Seems that I've been searching..."
Hold up, let me take another hit of that burnt thing

Seriously, this is the best stuff I've had in a while
Forget your sense of fashion
Forget your sense of style
Everything is just cool man, what did you think?
Cool, I knew you'd like it
No, just throw it in the sink
Wait a minute, aren't you the one who said my poetry sucks?
Yeah, I know it sucks
No, I said throw it in the sink

When I Become Independently Wealthy 2

I'm going to build a house and completely decorate it entirely with glow-in-the-dark material.

I'm going to create a robot version of my wife. Not to replace her like in "The Stepford Wives", but to hold over her head so that she doesn't get out of line.

I'm going to dig out a system of tunnels all over the world for transportation by biologically engineered giant moles.

I'll have to build a massive giant mole breeding and training facility.

I'm going to market and sell a successful line of plush toys modelled after my world famous giant moles.

I'm going to find Moby Dick and kill it.

I'm going to finance an enormous Hollywood production depicting the story of my life. I will be played by Will Smith.

I will never clone myself.

I will, however, clone you.

I will purchase every copy of every original printing of every comic book ever and put them on display for nerds the world over to enjoy. Then I will burn them.

I will attempt to build a time machine. After decades of failed attempts and billions of dollars spent, I will finally give up. Then, as I sit smoking a cigar, using a special lung disease filter that I invented, I will realize that through all my research I learned the most valuable lesson of all: that some things just can't be done by man. As I make this realization, a mouse crawls into my latest "failed" time machine and ushers in an age of mouse-men in an alternate universe.

I will hold a special contest to allow five ordinary citizens the chance to see the inner sanctum of my lair. And out of them I will choose one who will get to see me naked.

I'm going to have special pool of molten lava in my room so that my friends and I can throw things in it and watch them melt. (This might sound like a fun drunk activity, but I've learned not to mix alcohol and lava.)

I will hire the worlds best hypnotists to convince all my ex-wives that everything was their fault, and also that I'm Batman.

I won't forget the little things like family, friends and high-grade cocaine.

I'll commission several solid gold busts of myself worth roughly $20,000 each. Then I will host a game-show where grand prize winners can either accept one of the golden busts, or whatever waits them behind the "Sur-PRIZE Door!". The show will be called, "Surprise or Bust!".

I will hire Jon Legend to play at my friend Jordan Rhea's house.

When I Become Independently Wealthy

I'm going to purchase the best sound system in the world. Then I'm going to install hyper-perceptive bionic eardrums into my skull--because even when I'm rich, I think music will--like, totally still be a big part of my life, yo.

I'm going to buy out all the ad space on every website I visit with the original intent to rid them of ads altogether. Eventually I will replace these blank spots with a moving .gif of my head, urging the viewer to hit it with a tiny boxing glove in order to win an X-Box.

I'm still going to do medical studies for a little extra scratch on the side.

I'm going to purchase publishing rights for the Bible.

I'll hire every former boss I've had to do whatever it is I did for them for one week. Then we'll have a big party to celebrate my life. Party favors will include action figures, and rolls of receipt paper. Steak n' Shake meals will be served.

I'll have anyone who looks exactly like me assassinated. I don't know if these people exist, but I'm pretty sure that if I kill them, I'll get their collective life force.

I'll bottle my excess life force and sell it for even more money which I will use to hire a shaman to suck the life force from my enemies. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I'm going to purchase a seersucker suit, and crocodile shoes. If you don't understand why, go back to Awesome School (or perhaps attend for the first time).

I'm going to get clear sinuses year-round. I don't know how, but price is no object.

I'm going to invite everyone who has ever wronged me to a "bury the hatchet"' party. As they're all chatting and having a great time drinking punch, my voice will come over the intercom and announce, "Ladies and gentlemen! I sincerely hope you are enjoying your drinks, because they are actually poison!" As they all begin to panic and clutch each other in fear, I reveal that I had been joking, and it's actually just normal fruit-punch. That was a rather distasteful joke, but that's Nick for you!, they'll all be thinking. And in that moment, the floor drops from beneath them as they plunge into cold, robot-shark infested waters.

I'm going to buy all of my friends Crocs for Christmas.

I'll have every variety of Pop-Tart within 50 feet of me at all times.

I'll make hats made of lobsters fashionable again.

Every woman I bring to my house will be treated to the finest foods and entertainment. Two words: Tom Jones.

What's So Great About Facebook

A - You can share your photos.

Memories of Ma dusting off her old photo album seem ages away from the system of quick sharing we enjoy today. She'd select the memories from a shelf that held every year of my childhood--peering into windows of the past. We'd sit by the old iron stove for warmth and would each hold a candle in order to illuminate the tiny rectangular objects of our interest. Pa would bring in whatever he had managed to trap or shoot that day for Ma to cook up, as well as any elixirs the local apothecary suggested to help rid my brother Adam of his Cholera. In this bygone age, photos were just as subject to the elements as you or I. They could be burned, warped, or cut into dangerously sharp pieces.

Nowadays sure are different. With a certain number of clicks of several buttons in a particular sequence, whole photo albums are easily shared with your friends, family, and those who aren't really your friends, but you tell them they are so as not to hurt their feelings. In my case, my favorite thing to do with photos is make sure all the pictures of my travels in England, France, and Italy are prominent. This way, anyone who is either too poor to travel, or tied down by a relationship, can be jealous of my adventures.

B - You can share your thoughts.

There was a time when I pretty much never wrote anything. This was way back before the internet was revealed to mankind by the Reptilians. I distinctly recall sitting soberly in front of my typewriter, pondering the following dilemma:

There's no point in writing something unless people are going to read it. The only way to get people to read something I've written is to get it published--either that or hold it up to their face and whine to them that they should be interested in my artistic endeavours. The only way to get something published is to write a piece that is really good, or at least has a point.

Hmmm. Good writing takes hard work, and lots of it. For me, hard work is an idea that is firmly juxtaposed to leisure time (which happens to be the only time I have to write anything). Not only that, but what kind of white kid from the suburbs has anything of substance to write about? Maybe if my dad beat me, I'd have some good insight... but he never laid a hand on me... Thanks for all the inspiration, old man!

Turns out, the solution to my dilemma is known as the "weblog" or "'blog" or "note". This function of the internet--which I am currently utilizing--allows me to write out my thoughts--what e'er they be--under the illusion that many people will read and care. With Facebook in particular, if I am feeling like I really need the attention, I can "tag" any number of friends or family in the note, assuring that they will at least take a glance! (Warning: use this tactic sparingly. After a period of tagging unnecessarily, people seem to catch on.)

C - You can keep track of old acquaintances.

In olden times, I'm sure that most people only got to see their high school pals on scheduled reunions, awkward moments at the grocery store, or sexual affairs borne of the intense desperation of middle age and marriage. These days, with the power of Facebook, we can track our old chums easily; all we need is their misguided trust. Whether you're checking to see whether someone is still single, going to school, or working at Kroger's, Facebook allows you all of this information and more. The best part for me is the pictures! Ah, the pictures. There's nothing quite as satisfying as seeing a girl who wouldn't give you the time of day in high school get progressively fatter with every new profile picture! And girls aren't the only people who get fat. I often notice with bridled rapture my male friends looking more and more like tired old men while I, in relative comparison, am as fit and energetic as ever! Thanks, Facebook.

There are certainly more reasons why Facebook is great. But A,B,C just felt so right. Three is the magic number.

Misuderstood Mutations

Evolution has answered - a sea-dwelling wish
After thousands of years: the net-cutting fish

The net-cutting fish, with scissors as lips
Will swim through the sea, the bane of all ships
Attempting to haul, and lift up a catch
The net-cutting fish, the fishermen wretch

The net-cutting fish, a friend to the swimmers
Will cut through all nets - with his marvelous trimmers
The coast towns will starve, the fish will survive
And of course, conversely - the farmers will thrive

As nature is kind, so is nature vicious
For these net-cutting fishes; they'll taste quite delicious
And predators come - from near and from far
To eat up these fish, though they leave quite a scar

The fishermen cheer, their children will sing
For the net-cutting fish - was a short-lived thing
And though the fish laughed, and fishermen hissed
History will forget - the net-cutting fish

Recember 1?th, 2008

A Day in the Life of Ornseth

Today I woke up promptly before springmeal. I hadn't missed it since Leewence served his famous chopped gipper and Memial spilled Juicemilk all over her favorite pie-green pelt. I was determined not to be deprived of something this cool again. After stepping, three legs at a time, into my pompadour slacks, I moseyed over to the crystal dish for a good cleansing of the visage... but then, you didn't want to hear about the mundane minutia of my mediocre morning, did you?

You did? Too bad. I'm moving on.

What struck me as odd this morning was that as the suns were setting in the Sweth, not a single pteradactyl tarried in the twilight. Usually at this stage of the Gamma Planet's rotation, all manner of swidge and marmel will flutter and squawk, filling the sky with life. And yet it's only at their absence I am astounded. So, since I surmised science could solve this mystery I had, I got in my Lambradire and trolled toward my neighborhood Muntz.

Now, the Muntz in my village is a sentimental glinch (pardon my Crackter). And since I had avoided him for the past Tweventy rotations or so, he was sure to expect some sort of explanation for my absence. I decided I would act as if I was incredibly tired so he wouldn't press the issue.

"Ornseth!" he exclaimed, "It's been so--" I cut him off here.

"Madgo-Muntz! There's no time! I'm curious to know why there are no pteradactyl in the sky!"

"No swidge?" he asked.

"No." I said.

"No marmel?" he inquired.

"No."

"No pine-beaked phled?"

"Umm..... No." I said firmly.

He began to laugh, wiggling his nartle like he knew a secret. "Why it's simple, Ornseth!" He waited for me to say something, but I wouldn't play his game. "When the moons are at the shores, pteradactyls stay indoors."

Thank Mindar I wasn't crazy... just forgetful. I bowed apologetically to the Muntz as he got back to work.

As I angrily ate my springmeal, I became determined not to face the Muntz again until I had something to teach him. I was embarrassed to forget such a well-known fact, but I didn't let it ruin my day...

Yes I did. Why else would I be writing this?!

Blarg! Maybe tomorrow I won't be such a poor excuse for a Mekt.

...

One more thing - Plisse still won't talk to me. Sometimes I wish romance didn't have to involve all of the genders.

Ornseth