These past four years at Big Round Pie Marketing and Sales have been great, Mr. Sperry. But I just can’t accept the promotion to General Manager of the Big Round Pie Marketing and Sales Softball Team, and I’ll tell you why. Unless you don’t want to know.
Oh, okay. So. Four years ago you flew me in for an interview. Or, you thought you did. The man you flew in wasn’t me. And I don’t mean in a touchy-feely “I’ve grown up since then,” or “I didn’t realize who I was until now,” or “I was just a kid” kind of way. I mean that wasn’t me in a “I jumped the guy at the casino, stole his suit, interrogated him about the job interview, tied him to a trash truck, and then showed up the next morning in his place” kind of way.
I knew right from the start of the interview that this was a place I wanted to work. And I don’t mean work in a “fingers to the bone,” or “from sun-up till sun-down” kind of way. I mean work in a “encourage other employees to do my work for me in a timely manner and threaten to tie every member of their families to trash trucks if they ever told” kind of way. It really has been a wonderful time.
I really can’t accept this promotion, Mr. Sperry, because I hate softball. And also, you say you want to pay me more than you’ve been paying me, but that really isn’t possible. And I don’t mean impossible in a “mission” or “that looks too hard to try to figure out how to do” kind of way. I mean impossible in a “you can’t pay me any more than you’re already paying me because I’ve stolen all of your money” kind of way. I used that money to buy this trash truck. Which, you might notice, I’ve been tying you to this whole time.
People will always love Big Round Pies, Mr. Sperry, and what I’ve learned is that as long as you put yourself in a position to be the one selling the pies, the Marketing and Sales efforts are kind of ridiculous. Remember last year you suggested putting prizes in the pies? People sliced through and chewed up the My Chemical Romance tickets, and the ones that didn’t couldn’t use the tickets because the ink was smeared and useless. We had to throw away all of the pies and nobody showed up to the concert.
I’ll be taking it from here, Mr. Sperry. I’ll be taking it (and this time I mean the trash truck) from here all the way up into the desert and over a cliff into a quarry. But only if you survive the trip.
Just bought Fleet Foxes "Helplessness Blues" at Starbucks.
When I slit the plastic open with my credit card, parts of the packaging fell off. That was a disappointment, but you know what they say! Things fall apart. Or was that the title of a book I didn’t read but was supposed to? Or maybe I read it but I wasn’t supposed to? Shrugmobile. All’s well that ends well. Shakespeare said that. Or he would have, if he’d known people were going to think he was the one who said that.
What do you think it was like living 300 years ago? There were kings and buckets of poo you had to throw out the window, and the plague. Ah, rebirth.
Would that make born-again Christians true Renaissance men? Duh.
Where do you think “duh” came from? A quick google (apparently it’s misspelled if I’m using it as a verb and not as a proper noun) of “origin of duh” reveals that in 1943, the Merry Melodies gave birth to this word by having a character say “Duh…well he can’t outsmart me, ‘cause I’m a moron.” But I don’t get it. How does that spawn a completely separate and universally-understood usage? You say duh all by itself. (Is that the proper usage of itself? It’s self? Whoa.) After someone’s said something obvious or self-explanatory, something “bordering on banal,” which must be a country I’ve never heard of. And it’s usually a response. Not the beginning of a statement.
Oh well. When has anyone ever held Merry Melodies responsible for the actions of a person or group of people far in the future? Aside from the kid who beat his family to death with a giant wooden mallet?
Anyway, I bought this album. I haven’t listened to it yet, but I wanted to review it anyway. I want to review the way it feels, the way it smells, and the weight of it in my hands. It feels like it’s about 3oz. It’s made of cardboard and when I open … it cut me. This twelve-dollar thing just cut me. It smells like blood. Hold on while I clean my keyboard…
There's still blood on my E key. I can’t get it off. Oh well.
Moving on. I never had a real good grasp of the concept of 12 dollars. But today, I bought two things that were worth 12 dollars. This CD and a medium Round Table ham and pineapple pizza.
Why does Round Table call itself the “Last Honest Pizza”? I’d understand if pizzas were going around with the reputation of being dishonest. Like if pizza dealers were car dealers. Then I’d see the need for highlighting a contrary trait like honesty to sell more pizza. But…as it is, it seems like they’re picking an arbitrary good thing and saying their pizza is that thing. And it seems like they’re saying all other pizza is dishonest. Like other pizza is made with motor oil and sawdust.
Besides, I don’t know if I want my pizza to be honest. What if I bring some to a party and it spends the whole time telling all the people eating it that I didn’t wash my hands? Or that while it was in the car with me, I was blasting “Blow” by Ke$ha?
Triple, quadruple crushing. Like, who are these girls? Every day it seems like I’m spending with another one of my soul-mates. I’m like a jellyfish, and they’re like sharks. That are also responsible for whatever blood is in the water. They always get in the way though, when it comes to baseball and to securing future employment.
When I was a kid girls didn’t talk to me. They always thought I was in the grade two or three grades below whatever grade they were in - which was always the same as the grade I was actually in, but obviously they didn’t know that or they wouldn’t have thought what they ended up thinking.
I’ve always like the idea of women. They’re like angels, sent here from a museum. Do not touch. Just look, listen, and point out when they have shit in their teeth. Stay behind the red velvet rope. These are perfect, feminine beings. Put another quarter in the machine or the girl dies.
I still have some of this romanticism towards females. Even though some part of me understands that girls are just guys with mammary glands (and that makes me feel weird about guys with mammary glands) I still feel like they’re somehow pure and good and pretty much like stuffed animals.
When I was a kid I slept with a fairly large teddy bear. Which is what I feel like, after I get married, is going to happen for the rest of my life, if my wife buys me a big teddy bear, or doesn’t shave.
Having clicked upon a somewhat hidden (the font-size was smaller than the other font-sizes it might have been) link titled “Recapitation,” I was redirected off to a page wherein a nice robot had embedded a .mov for my convenience (as I had the Quicktime plugin installed - in fact, I have been installing Quicktime once or twice every month since the late 90’s, because that was when I read that email about how if I didn’t update it my mother might find herself in a bit of trouble with the Feds. It was a chain letter, but it was from my dad) and so I watched it.
Sub the video, hordes of lunatics, having been redirected to the same page by the same tiny and barely visible link argued the validity of the short film, in which, by some coincidence, a group of men drop with some precision, a man’s head (I know!), from the roof of a building. I mean, the dropping of the head I don’t think was coincidental, I think they meant to do that, but by some fortune this tumbling gravitationally-pulled skull wrapped in meat lands miraculously ( I almost didn’t believe it when I saw it, even though IronTide52, whose comment said “Holy shit they just dropped that guy’s head on that other guy’s body!” sort of ruined it for me) on a headless body that just happened to be passing by on the street below.
What had that body have to have been thinking? Probably just minding its own bodily business, heading toward - well, not heading anywhere - NOT YET. Not until the miraculous joining of parts by way of physics and incredible timing.
It was so perfect. This lifeless match (well, the body was alive, I suppose - but lifeless in the sense that it had to have been living less of a life. Sex life? Maybe. Social life? Probably not.) meeting like they were always supposed to find each other, that it could only happen this way. Or some other way, like if the body was surgically attached to the head in a hospital, but who would want that?
In a comment box sub the video I typed:
Reasons why this video is real
There would have been no link to it if it didn’t exist.
The bird you speak of could be flying backwards, but birds do that sometimes. Google parakeets - clipped wings make it harder to maintain loft and forward motion.
If the video is playing in reverse, the marimba song on the radio would have to have been recorded in reverse.
How would they have blown a guy’s head off straight up that many stories? Would it have remained in one piece? Why would people be waiting to catch it?
There are no visible strings or green-screen effects.
The guy whose head it was and the guy whose body it was are the one(s) who posted this video. Look! How could he have done it before he existed?
What do you think?
I don’t think I should have written “What do you think?” on second think. While evocative, it isn’t a proper point. Bullets should support your position or offer new thoughts, not bookend your argument by invoking a mental call to action.
I’m waiting for responses. The background of this page is soothing, and it refreshes every 30 seconds, showing me the video again.