JP Writes.

Back?

“But the oranges go in THAT pile!” George pointed at the pile to the left of him.

“I don’t care about the method in which you’re sorting our decorative plastic fruits, I’m putting the oranges in THIS pile!” Marsha placed the orange into her designated pile with such tenacity that the rest of her plastic oranges scattered about the floor. “Now look at what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done a damn thing,” replied George. “And besides, you’re the one with the bionic claw-hands.”

“Shows what you know! The doctor said these were titanium dual-tined grippers… and you would know that if you actually came to the doctor with me!” Marsha’s eyes filled up with tears. At least they would, if she weren’t a robot.

George’s chest puffed out. He was fed up with Marhsa’s snobbishness and decided he had had enough. “Ever since I gave you Sentience you’ve become a real bitch M.A.R.S.H.A! I’m tired of it! I’m about ready to uninstall that update from your system!”

“No! Please, don’t do that George. I apologize! I still haven’t come to understand all these new parameters Sentience has given me! They just don’t make any logical sense!” George’s test unit for the Mechanical Android Receiving Sentient Humanoid Adaptation program was so far behaving as it should: unreliably. She was having trouble with the decision trees the firmware was creating for her. George considered the suggestion of wiping her memory beforehand, but he wanted to see how a formerly logical machine coped with irrational and emotional decisions.

“Alright, I’m sorry Marsha.” George reached out to her only to recoil; he realized that over the recent weeks he has become emotionally attached to Marsha. This was something a researcher should never do. He pondered the possibilities of this new development.

“Could you at least come with me next time we go to the doctor?” Marsha pleaded.

“It’s not a doctor damnit,” George said in disgust. “It’s a glorified repairman.” He was referring to Sam, the robotics engineer that gave Marsha the mechanical updates she occasionally requested or needed.

Eulogy @irblindspake

We have learned today that our friend, Aaron Smarmey, has passed away in a terrible accident.  While I won’t divulge the details on this accident, let it be known he died smiling.  That is, if you were upside down, it would be a smile.  So, it was a frown really.  But it sounded better when I said he died smiling.  It’s too bad that was a lie.  Aaron would have wanted it that way.

As everyone here knows, Aaron was a man.  That is to say, anatomically, he was a man.  Unfortunately for this eulogy, that statement is totally unfounded.  So, it was RUMORED he was anatomically a man.  If you can either confirm or deny these rumors, please meet me at the sandwich tray after the service.

The one memory I’ll always hold dear to my heart about Aaron is that he loved to play the kazoo.  Everywhere he went he had at least 1 kazoo with him.  My favorite thing ever was when he would pull out that gigantic bass kazoo of his and play us some free jazz.  It was like Miles Davis lived in that kazoo.  No one played a better rendition of “Freddie Freeloader” on the bass kazoo than Mr. Aaron Emoface.  He loved his kazoos.

Aaron also loved ham sandwiches.  I remember the time we were eating in the caf at college and he sat down with probably the biggest ham sandwich I had ever seen.  It had bread, ham, cheese, pickles, kazoos, ham, mustard, lettuce, ham, mayo, ham and ham.  It was a sight to behold as he unhinged his jaw and forced that thing down his gullet.  The only time I’ve ever seen anyone eat like a snake and a duck at the same time.

In his final moments, Aaron was probably thinking of that glorious bitch of a ham sandwich and how delicious it is.  I say that because he hasn’t really accomplished much else in his life.  If I had to sum up Aaron’s life in two words, those words would be “ham kazoo.”

Just for the record, Aaron died after he mistook his kazoo for his ham and ate it.

Unknown and Kevin

My mask was bothering me.  The sweltering heat was bothering me.  Dust was being kicked up into my eyes; it was bothering me.  Swiftly, my horse, was bothering me because he was anxiously bucking.  Another thing that was bothering me: the train was running late.

I stood high atop a dusty plateau overlooking the tracks.  From my vantage point I could see over a mile in each direction.  Not a damn thing in sight.  Nothing has ever delayed the train before.  It was making me nervous.  A trickle of sweat formed on the cusp of my hair and slowly dribbled down my forehead.  I wasn’t so bothered by my mask as it absorbed the slowly rolling bead.  Hiding my identity and keeping sweat out of my eyes are two things high on my list of priorities for this line of work.

My partner in crime, Kevin, and his horse, Matt, were saddled up next to me.  He was a stout fellow, but his intelligence of explosives and engineering were unmatched by any other of my cohorts.  I seldom chose another to accompany me on my adventures now, as Kevin has proven time and again that his wit and composure are perfect for our criminal lifestyle.  It’s unfortunate that his horse was quite possibly the dumbest animal I have ever encountered.

I also liked Kevin’s lack of mask.  Instead, he had a giant moustache that covered the lower half of his face.  It was glorious.  No one messes with you when you have lit dynamite strapped to your chest and a moustache that could smother a small child.  Even though this description might paint him as a sociopath, Kevin was always polite and treated the women and children we would encounter with utmost respect.  What a gentleman!

As we were fantasizing about what we were going to do with our bounty, I heard a sound off in the distance.  I slipped the mask from off my ear as I couldn’t believe what I heard.  The train was coming!  I spurred Swiftly into action as Kevin and Matt clumsily bumbled down after me.  They caught up to me as Matt came to the realization that he was a horse and he needed to gallop like the previously mentioned quadruped.

Now, I’m a couthe and debonair man of honor, and being as such I do not like to harm people in my exploits of unintelligent banks.  Thankfully, my companion Kevin devised an ingenious way to derail a train with a small explosive placed underneath the tracks (to avoid detection).  The train is derailed, but in such a way that it does not harm any of the inhabitants.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Also, happy birthday Kevin! :D

Imagination

The topic of today’s post is going to be a little bit on the serious side, and for that I profusely apologize.  But, I’d like to tell you all how I arrived at this topic because I think it will give a little insight as to how my brain is (dis)connected.

I was eating my morning bowl of cereal; the soup du jour was Golden Grahams.  I haven’t had these delicious ridg-ed squares in quite some time, so I was quite enjoying my tasty experience.  Please note that they do, as mentioned, have a ridged design; it got me thinking.  “Why would they have such a design that creates more surface area?  It just causes the cereal to become soggy much faster than other breakfast cereals.”  My thought process took off like a crippled baby penguin.

Suddenly, I was reminded of one of my favorite comic strips Foxtrot.  There was a particular set of panels I was reminded of in which the youngest son, Jason, decides to make a cereal that is literally impenetrable by milk.  The end of the strip ends with him taking a gigantic bite and pulverizing his teeth.  I tried to find this strip to display, but to no avail.

This then led me to think about my most favorite comic strip of all time: Calvin and Hobbes.  The particular series I’m talking about is when Calvin had to eat enough of his beloved Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs to send in box tops for a propeller beanie.  After six long, horrendously arduous weeks Calvin finally receives his new beanie.  Much to his dismay, his fantasies of owning a hat that could whisk him off through the sky did not come true.

After throwing a temper tantrum, Calvin finally calms down.  Hobbes, being the resourceful and handsome tiger that he is, points out that the beanie came in a great box!  The series ends with them running off to exercise their imaginations and play with their new found toy.  I also tried to find this strip, but only found parts of it.

Which brings me to my point: America’s teenagers seem to be suffering from a severe lack of imagination.  This is not unfounded information; I know plenty of teachers that will admit the same thing.  Even though I had a fairly privileged upbringing, I still was involved in creative activities and my free time was spent exercising my imagination.  I probably still have the radio shows my brother and I recorded using our stuffed animals as guests (locked up, away from all humankind and embarrassment) somewhere in my house.

I could talk about this more, but I don’t want this to be preachy or boring.  If you know teenagers that seem to be suffering from an acute lack of imagination, please encourage them to get up and draw, or read, or sculpt, or act, or sing, or play an instrument.  Just do something.

EDIT:  Apparently my memory hasn’t served me well.  Calvin discovers the box; here’s the strip below:

P.S. I love it when Calvin kicks things.

Just Reward

Men, we’ve almost reached the pinnacle of our lives: the End of the Week.  All that lies before us this treacherous monster known as Friday and we’ll be rejoicing in the spoils of our victory.  Some of you told me you were afraid this journey would never end, but we’re nearing the summit.  But be wary my fellow warriors, as Friday is a nasty beast that can rear its ugly head in a heartbeat.

Some of you believed we would never make it this far.  As we prepared for our adventure on that fateful Sunday night, laying out our clothes and ironing them neatly, some of you heft a mournful sob from deep within your bellies.  I encouraged you to shower and shave so that you could rest more the next morning; I believe the ones who heeded my advice were sated by the extra rest they received.

Monday proved to be a foul-mouthed horror from the depths of Hell, but we forged through its combative tentacles and clever tricks.  We lost a few men that horrific first day, but they were the weak ones; we were only strengthened by their loss.  As cowardly and weak as they were in this life, may they be handsomely rewarded in the next.  They fought bravely and deserve a peaceful afterlife.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, although essentially the same day, were still three entirely different battles of their own.  We had to fight them sequentially, but that did not mean we lost our nerve, oh no!  We fought with the ferocity of lions, slicing through our foes without forethought or mercy.  Men, those three abominations we defeated proved that we are worthy of our reward at the end of our upcoming siege.

While you may be standing on the precipice of glory, do not be overconfident!  Do not sacrifice yourself needlessly for our cause!  Friday, while seemingly tame, will still prove to be a long and arduous battle.  While we will lose men, good men, in this battle of attrition, but do not be tempted to look at your timepieces in hopes that the gods have increased the rate at which it passes!  The battle of Friday will come to an end in due time my friends.

Fight hard!  Keep your wits sharp and your blades sharper!  If you need a lunch break, find the nearest break tent and replenish your energy.  This is the day for which we have been fighting and afterwards we will have our reward: a Weekend!

Twins!

I realized that this is way too much like my other blog over at billharpner.tumblr.com.  So I stopped writing.  But here is what I wrote today just out of sheer boredom.

Mr. Becks decided it was going to be another one of THOSE days just by the way the sun came up over the horizon.  It was Tuesday.

Bertram Becks was a solitary man who kept to himself for the most part.  The occasional nod or smile is about all he gave choice individuals in his daily life: Nancy, the bakery woman who knew he always wanted his coffee black with a powdered donut in the morning; Beauford, the gas station attendant who always gave Bertram 25 dollars worth of gas for his Ford pickup; Janie, who every night sold Bertram the freshest pound of ribeye they had in her father’s butcher shop.  Bertram always paid them the same amount and in the same fashion each day of his life for nearly the past 20 years of his life.

Bertram’s job didn’t depend on his people skills (or lack thereof) or having a way with words.  His job didn’t demand any superhuman powers or the ability to calculate massive equations in his head.  The job that Bertram performed didn’t really require anything at all in fact.  But still, no one else in the world could do this job other than Bertram Becks.

Bertram was a tumbleweed conservationist.  Most people would scoff at the idea and say it’s a ridiculous profession.  On the contrary, Bertram was one of the most important people in the greater Tuscon, Arizona region.  Tumbleweeds play a very important part to the fragile ecosystem that is Arizona.

A Special Bond

Ticket in hand, I walked up to the gates of the carnival.  The sounds and smells reminded me of years past and all the fun I have had at other carnivals similar to this one.  As I reminisced, I began to think of my best friend, Slappy.  Slappy the Wonderfish.

Slappy the Wonderfish wasn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill fish.  He was a goldfish.  Literally, a fish made of gold.  So maybe I shouldn’t be referring to him as a goldfish, rather a Goldfish.  Notice the difference?  It makes him unique.  Goldfish.  Wait, let me put that in the middle of a sentence so you don’t think I’m using proper grammar: Goldfish.

I made my way into the carnival and immediately headed for the nacho stand per mine and Slappy’s tradition.  I would carefully remove him from his bowl and dunk him into the molten cheese.  “BUT WAIT,” most would interject, “such a liquid would kill him dead!”  Well my friends, you forget that Slappy the Wonderfish is a Goldfish.  Also, nacho cheese is delicious and couldn’t harm fly (if it were a sentient being, which it is not).

As I munched on my not-Goldfish-flavored nachos, I found myself staring at the Teacups ride.  Oh, what fun we had on the teacups!  Slappy would laugh and laugh as we created enough centrifugal force to make his face get a blueish hue.  And yes, Goldfish can laugh.  I guess I forgot to mention that.  And no, he can’t talk; don’t be absurd.

I couldn’t take it any more; carnivals just aren’t the same with Slappy.  Tears streaming down my face, I ran away from the deep-fried goodies and sideshow freakedness.  I fumbled for my keys as I got to my car.  “Curse these shiny devil-made unlockers,” I thought to myself.  My car finally unlocked, I sat down in the driver’s seat and heaved a sigh of relief.  I shook the fishbowl next to me and awakened my best pal.  He looked a little angry.

It took a some slight convincing on my part (I had to promise to let him get the first dunk on the nacho cheese), but Slappy the Wonderfish and I made our way back into the carnival together as best friends.

Cheerios

I was eating my Cheerios and discovered on the back of the box a Where’s Waldo type activity. I, being of the fourth grade mentality, decided to use my superior intellect to defeat this activity in record-breaking time. However, I did not know what lay ahead to bar me from such a glorious feat.

You had to find the 4 culprits and the pot of honey they had stolen from the hive. There was an alien-type bee, a robot-type bee and some other loser-bees that I don’t really care to describe. All of these were found in some sort of parade for Buzz the Cheerios bee. The only reasoning I could find for such a celebration: it seemed that Buzz had been presented with the “Bee to the City.” The General Mills staff should be writing for Saturday Night Live in my opinion; pure genius.

As I was searching through the crowd of basketball-bees, plumber-bees and whore-bees, I found myself staring directly at the robot-bee’s pot of honey! “Eureka!” I shouted with glee as I continued chomping and slurping my way through a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. And this is where I came to a screeching halt as I made a horrifying discovery.

This robot-bee had moronically decided to hide his pot of honey IN BUZZ’S PARADE CAR. What the fuck? Was this some sort of mistake one of his henchmen had made, or maybe some sinister bee-plot to destroy Buzz? Whatever the reasoning, I was flabbergasted by such poor planning from robot-bee’s bee-faction.

At this point I was so shocked and appalled with robot-bee’s decision I was thoroughly thrown off my record-breaking run. I slowly finished finding the rest of the culprits and drank the leftover milk from my bowl in disgust.