Despite man's best endeavor, fiction blog has turned personal, with The Revenge PT 1

Previously on Despite

"During normal writing classes, this would essentially be what we earlier learned is the second stage of any story," said a man wearing a t-shirt, colorful pants, and an enormous beard, "the 'conflict'."

"Beard!" said one of the students, getting up onto the classroom desk and dancing.

Then he realized none of his fellow students had joined in. His moves were ok, looking a little bit like Ricky Gervais (but not *as* bad) in that one scene in the Office, yet he solemnly wished he had never done that.

"You have no conflict!" screamed the wizard, and he smote the child that had jumped onto the classroom desk after whatever influences (parents) forced him to keep watching episode after episode of a British sitcom.

As a burning toffee, a little battered, and dare I say--vinegar--the student revealed that he had done the homework, but was just testing the Master to push the little guy who sits in the corner into the washing machine.

"Beard!" tried the student again.

"F-fuh--err." He checked his book, and then nodded at the whole class. "Ah. Yes, see: Foool me onc--"

The headmistress entered the room and ordered the children to sit still, quiet. Suddenly the room was silent.

Then she looked at him, and then her body actually *shifted* slightly away. "Ridiculous," she said, waving her hand about in the midst of his beard. "Absolute rubbish. Get rid of it!"

He tried to grab her hand, but this gesture was summarily rescinded, and just as she had appeared, she was gone.

He turned his head, all all these babies sitting at their desks were laughing at him.

"Liar, liar," they kept saying, "your beard is fired!"

He reached for the tiniest one of them, in a kind of 'pitcher' or (if you prefer cricket) 'bowling' move, and threw it into the washing machine.
End of Part One of Part Two (Chick Is Living The Good Life, Without You)

Despite man's best endeavor, fiction blog has turned personal.

Sure you start off writing a few stories after this chick leaves you.

You say, "This is all just fiction."

But it isn't, is it?

.

"Who the fuck are you?"

An annoying [adjective] person, whose one parent had awarded the missing of a fourth toe, was asking this upon fairly a pleasant granite rock, drenched in good waterfall shimmer.

"I'm just here to write," said the Observer.

"Hah," said the little guy, dancing on his dancing rock, "hah!" He then pulled away from said rock, slid behind and then kicked a small piece away with his toe, as though it were a pebble. "You can't write about me, young man!" he said.

The Observer recorded video, audio and speech, and then cataloged the collection as a 'Note'. "I'm not writing about you," he said. "I am writing fiction."

.

End of Part One (Chick Leaves You)

Why do I always experience an inward laugh whenever Jordi in StarTrek finds a girl he won't end up with?

I want to talk today about relations and sips.

When you are a primary relation, you may sip once in the presence.

When you are a secondary relation, you could sip twice, but the second one must be assuredly done in 'secret'.

The third thing can sip the whole glass, as long as they have remembered to add salt.

Add Salt!!!

so march loves

An intrusive mal-prediction once slipped as
a mistake by a father to fix the kid's broken yo-yo.
yo, yo,
you can never fix the kid's yo-yo, yo.

(don't even try)

but if you tried, here's a butter cookie.
the butter cookie envelopes the cookier parts,
making sure you never learn about puns.

"My God, I am so Smarty!"

the big mess

yo yo yo yo yo yo i'm just sayin'
when that density props you to lorraine,
sensitivity to comments online is 'just playin''.

my arrogance i'm sure defies the lies that lie after
soaping themselves all this time with lye,
found in some backwater cultural artifact;

said with tact and no facts
slipping through the teeth.

Only facts both in your brain and heart,
veins and ateries, and neurons,

need to slip through anything, whatever it is,
just to get to wherever they need to

...wait ... did I say I was limiting myself to two things?

.

.

I'd really like to start, I want to part
with baseless accusations of demise of my soul.
I'm not absconded of it, simply playing with

its parameters because what else would you do?

If you saw your own soul, wouldn't you mess with it too?

Ad Guide

A common issue that pops up is that somebody, somewhere, had received the virus from their computer. Like, I was visiting the wards of AIDS patients the other day (don't ask me why), and I spoke to one of the kiddies, and they told me in great detail how the virus had been transmitted to them simply 'by proxy' during an interaction with the computer.

"It doesn't have to be like that," I said to the child, rampant in my own personal arrogance. "Why would it have to end up like that?"

The kiddie then explained to me that they were using a Windows Operating System and that that had been their primary preferred option.

"I need to have windows," said the baby, all choked up, to me--and that was when I suddenly experienced a surge of anger that had not been in me for probably aeons.

I immediately ran from the room and began writing my guide to the galaxy (of computer operating systems (for those who came before)). As a litmus test or control, I used two people who never understood why I needed a computer -- my parents. Herein is both the result of the experiment and the guide itself, all wrapped in one.

---
Parent: Hey, kid, computer is broken again. Go check in the vacuum tunnel.

Me (Distracted from epic battle on Street Figher): You wot?

Parent: You need to go and check the vacuum tunnel.

Me: We don't use vacuums anymore, parent. At least not in the house.

Parent (Insistent, demanding): Then why is all of this popping up in my face now?

Me (pauses the epic battle): Oh f ... .... bloody ... hell. What have you gone and done now?

Parent: I need to read an email, but something keeps popping up.

Me: You're using Windows

Parent: That's what 99% of the world uses

Me (laughs out loud, like something very horrible happened inside my stomach, ulcer-like): Statistics from 1999, my friend. Ask any random customer at Starbucks. They are all using Macs.

Parent: I've heard of these...'Macs', as you call them. Do you think I could replace the computer with that? A nice shiny new notebook? Then, maybe, I could finally read this email?

Me: You're starting to become Australian. Every statement sounds like the ending of a question.

Parent: I am not.

Me (sighs): Ok, ok. Yes, you could get a Mac from an Apple Store

Parent: Apple store? Oooo...I like the sound of that...

Me: Yeah, it's nice (grabs a Mac from an Apple Store). See? There's nice pictures for performing interactions with it? It shows you how to do everything? Do you see that?

Parent: I love it

Me: (Leaves parent and goes back to epic Street Figher battle)

Parent: Hey, it's still popping up, and I can't read the email.

Me: (Throws controller into screen -- it was a losing battle anyway). Alright, alright. Now I'm going to install something for you that will no longer invoke the wrath of all pop-ups.

Parent: Does it have windows? Remember, I need windows.

Me: Yes, it has f ... ... bloody ... windows.

[EDIT
Parent: And mouse? I need a mouse.

Me: You can have a mouse with the Mac, but only 1 button.

Parent: You wot?

Me: Just one button on a mouse if you use a Mac

Parent: I can't live with that. I'm going to get confused.

Me: That is the state of most people using that product.

Parent:
/EDIT]

stepgnostic by tall broom, flowers only to the shower

When I turn on the switch or switch on my
shower

either flip like interaction or pouring blood on my face
occurs.

"These are my bloods," says the Vampire Earth (forever the sucking soul),
"drench".

Wait wait, hold on, I say, "You're not giving me a chance to shampoo."
Let me shampoo.

"No," says the entire fucking Earth. "No. You have to come out now."
"Eject from me!"

Then I go to work