When Jaymes's Forgetabble Friend Finally Called About The Job In Central Park

"Did I say 'job'. Ooo dear, I meant a little jog. Why don't we have a jog. In Central Park?"

"I'd be happy to jog in Central Park," I responded, "and I hope I get killed by a very rapid bicycler!"

"Don't instill fear about Central Park, you fool!"

"I just want to be dragged and straggled into it again, like a piece of mutton over and under a bicycle wheel, again and again. It seems like the whole thing has been discovered. There's no real ghost places."

"Why does your life revolve around ghosts?"

"Why does your stupid city have blue laws?"

"That's not an answer!" 

And this, so far, has not been literature, but some kind of vapid dialog. Feeling that his pencil had become blunt from illustrating sweet nothings, he quickly retracted and put away, revealing in the act several other writing implements beneath his coat.
 
"There's no blue laws," said someone, from Yelp.com.
 
"Because this is the communal bloody kind of reliability you need when you've been hurt by the blue! Misinfor-fucking-mation."

With this less sophisticated chit-chattery, in progress, I slowly went to a coffee shop, namely Starbucks whereupon I ordered my very big iced latte (just like in Italy), and gave my name as Ivan. Yes. Brown. Ivan. Well, I didn't want anyone to call me a Vagina, so.

IT WAS THE SLOWEST FUCKING STARBUCKS IN THE UNIVERSE OMG!

Seriously, the opening song from Roseanne began to play in my head, and 30 minutes later, only John Goodman had been introduced.

"Latte for Ivan," said someone very poshly, and I said thank you and ran out.

Finally I went to buy my gin, and I seriously wondered how I could have misjudged so terribly as to walk into that Starbucks. I sipped my coffee angrily, muttering about how it should freeze the fuck up in New York and stop being so bloody hot all the time. But I didn't want to tell Bill Murray that he was too warm.

Summertime, Dec 2015

Summertime, and the living's easy.
This is my second week off work, you see.
Living the lark, trying to wash away bad habits.

.

Introducing new ones.

.

Just heard it's not summertime in Texas.
Most definitely!
(la la la)
.

Just heard there's tornadoes running around us!

.

This ten cent Sun 
is getting hotter,
next time don't buy a solar system
just cos it's cheaper.

.

There is nothing evil about relaxing like a huge polar bear in the middle of a reggae verse, mon!

(heard much later in the warm night: fuck u it's ska)

Disclaimer: Mostly stolen from Sublime's song 'Summertime' on the album 'Sublime'. Badly.

Modulators of Insanity: Pt. 1

It was as a child when I first began to realize that one lifetime may not be enough. This was a threatening feeling (especially as a child), and something that would take far longer to resolve (I would find) than is nominal.

It was...pretty Ridiculous. "Seriously dood, you don't need multiple lifetimes! Look around, empathize, you're set. You can attempt anyone else's life!"

I bought a very nice pen for myself. It used my own blood as fuel. That such a contraption may be exciting to someone out there amused me, and I put my expensive pen back in my bag, and pulled out my special wireless keyboard. Special wireless and ergonomic keyboard for writing effortlessly and without worry or stutter.

"You can attempt, of course. But you can't assume your attempts, and the things being attempted at, are the same thing."

"Things?"

"People, whatever."

The Ridiculous gave me a funny stare. Kinda stare that said "But you were just talking about empathy."

It discomforted me, and I had to open my bag and reach down to my blood pen. "You still there penny?"

"Are we inside of an aeroplane?" asked penny.

"No. We in a submarine."

"Christmas this year is not red, then."

"No. Submarines are blue."

Internet Muncher

Slow, lazy.
Gradually traverses.
Scrutinizes every little piece of information,
employs data-mining algorithms to form some semblance of personality.

Criticized for being a psychotic online,
explains that it is only ever online.
"Otherwise I do not exist," it reveals.
Quickly, then, learns about this 'empathy'.

Employs latest techniques to form models of empathy.
List models:
* empathy about cats
* empathy for puppies
* empathy for words that are input by possible other processes
** investigation inconclusive
* empathy for Google and AlphabetS
* empathy for learning
* empathy about lists
^D
:> This is a command line interface. You may type now.

please enjoy The Walking Dead

"I'm sorry, I just don't give a shit about The Walking Dead right now"

This was simply uttered into the mist (that's right, the mist). No one had provoked it. Nobody had even been watching the television show at the time.

"Control yourself." The admonishing was gruff, and hidden beneath several layers of camel skins, and possibly buffalo. It was female, and the age of the voice was anywhere beyond 55 years.

And that was it. Just those two words. Just that phrase. Then nothing again. Mist.

Until George took issue, though. "This is a show you've been watching from the beginning," said George. It is easy to immediately think of a balding man who wears spectacles, and is probably in his mid 30s but could pass easily along into the 40s. It's easy to do that, especially as one grows older too, but one must, at some point in life, begin accepting visual data. This George was like that George, but he was wearing a red-haired wig. You know what I'm talking about--you've seen this wig in your recent life. It's a George, with fake red hair.

"Is it the ads?" asks George, again entirely unprovoked. "I mean, we *are* living in a society here, right? Nobody can get off just saying something stupid like that, and just get off free. There must be some discussion!"

Mist was turning bluer.

"It must be the ads," said George. "You're somewhere between generation X and Y, you know computers, you can write some cool scripts and you're using Linux. That's you. You've been a torrenter your whole life--"

Mist turned red.

"Shut the fuck up George! Not over the wireless please!"

Mist turned blue again.

We waited, then, several years. George now 80. "Don't be down on the show, you know, just cos of all the ads. We're living in a society here, products must be sold, food must go into mouths."

Mist turned red. And a voice came.

"No, not at the expense of my mind. I refuse to have my psyche imprinted upon like that."

We waited several more years. But the mist remained red.

Twelve years after that, George was getting wiser. "Let's talk implementation," he said.

The Ben Carson Olympics

Those who have not been selected to participate in the Darwin Awards may have a second chance to garner trophies in a new event inspired by *neuro*-surgeon Ben Carson. This will be an event so epic to mankind that it allows the hijacking of the previously popular 'Olympic Games' (a popular international sporting event) and the interpolation of "Ben Carson" into the name.

LOCATION:

This year, according to organizers, the Ben Carson Olympics is forced to take place in fucking America, because what other country would seriously allow it?

EVENTS:

The full roster of events will be slowly revealed (like all major occasions, ceremony is necessary here) in the course of the next few days. Suggestions for new events are welcome. Those who are too excited and cannot wait, however, can in the meantime soak their enthusiasm in the revelation of two (2) initial events already confirmed. Confirmed, I tell you!

(Event 1) Marathon: Carefully selected participants will be made to run 42.195 kilometres (about 26 miles) to the Finish Line. This is a grueling event during which there is no doubt that every marathon runner will be laden (possibly even besotted) with consideration of all details pertaining to their lives. Every worry, every remaining debt--even words yet unsaid to loved ones--will no doubt weigh heavily on these runners (for 26 miles!).

The event is expected to entertain thousands of participants. Of course, like any marathon, there are criteria that will separate winners from losers among these thousands. For this event, the criteria is that it will be required for every runner approaching the Finish Line to align trajectory against at least one of several rifles and/or automatic pistols aimed towards them by verified criminals. Runners must make contact with the muzzles, upon which criminals will depress triggers of their firearms.

Winners will be clearly distinguishable from losers in this event by the holes in their bodies.

(Event 2) Discus Throw: In the spirit of Dr. Ben Carson, participants will carefully label heavy metal objects with their unique personal thoughts and ideas and simply fling them out as far as possible. After throwing their discuses, they must run into a volley of fire provided by criminals and exhibit fatal gunshot wounds to the body.

Winners will be judged by either by how well they are shot, or by special acclaim for those who manage to trick criminals into shooting a member of the audience instead.

OPEN TO SUGGESTION

The Ben Carson Olympics is always open to more suggestions of events. Submissions should be tangible and realistic, and must always end by participants running into a loaded gun wielded by a certified criminal.

let's go so back

"can we...can we just go a little back?"

asked someone, who didn't want to really go all the way back.

"no," I said. "I need us to go really to the end of the past."

"but vhy?" asked another vampire.

it was one of the veghan vamphires, and never even ate food.

"you're getting crusty," noted an eyebrow demon, who personally disliked his association with all these mental or social lepers.

.

"Guys, guys," I laughed a little at my eyebrow. I felt guilty because I had run out of whiskey.
"I may end up parched in the morning," I told them. "Just saying. I don't want to leave any of you in sorrow."

"Keep us festered in description that ye may be more than a flitting lass to us," said someone, then, who was serious.

I turned my gaze at the voice. "Have you heard of the Gaze, young Throat-Strafer?" I asked.

Then the songs began, and they were overwhelming. They were not my songs, but they were the songs of the people around me.

Never being one who inspires sorrow, I began to dance with them. And I listened to their words as they danced with me.