tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8054296220452789342024-02-19T00:07:17.386-07:00hyperthetically speaking...A dry presentation on life and experience hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-36126787866154569192016-03-19T15:19:00.000-06:002016-05-19T14:16:30.131-06:00Diary of the sock, and of its wearer, part II<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>SEE <a href="http://hypertheticallyspeaking.blogspot.com/2012/05/diary-of-sock-and-of-its-wearer.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">PART I</span></a></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Sunday, June 10th</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9:00 AM </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I've done it. I've escaped. I am now a part
of the Colony of Sock Escapees, a place where righteous autonomy between foot
and sock reigns supreme. No longer am I a slave to the malodorous body part I
was so ruthlessly sewn to envelop. No longer must I endure its ceaseless
perspiration, its warts and bursting blisters. No more holes in my fabric where
invasive toes constantly probe and pry. No more machines - curse those churning
behemoths of soapy cyclones and sweltering spins! I am here, I am free, I am an
emboldened member of the Colony of Sock Escapees! Hoorah!</span></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
********</div>
<br />
<b><i>Sunday, July 1st</i></b><br />
<br />
9:30 AM<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Did laundry this morning, pulled another single out of the dryer. Chucked it in with the others. I swear these things are escaping.</blockquote>
10:00 AM<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Today, just as on many other days, we are joined by a comrade, a fellow escapee who has made the long journey to this haven of freedom and cloth independence. Our new compatriot is in rough shape, full of holes and discolored from generations of wash and wear. Nevertheless, we welcome our new friend with open threads, for we embrace any foot encasing soul who is courageous enough to flee the wicked world of the worn! Here we have brown socks, here we have gray socks, here we have striped socks, short socks and long socks! Here we have cottons, here we have polyesters, wools, silks and nylons! We are all different, yet we are the same - righteous runaways, foot-free fugitives, daring drawer deserters! We are the ranks of the sock escapees! Hoorah!</span></blockquote>
<b><i>Monday, July 16th </i></b><br />
<br />
12:00 PM<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I have accumulated a disturbingly large
amount of singles. They take up a whole drawer.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12:30 PM </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Our colony is becoming overcrowded. Escapees seem to be finding us weekly, and the odor that tormented us for so long is slowly returning due to congestion. Damn that foul extremity!</span></blockquote>
<i><b>Monday</b></i><b><i>, July 23rd</i></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:30 AM </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
It has come to this: I refuse to buy more
socks, so I'm going to start wearing singles. </blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9:00 AM </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Disturbing news. We have been found. Just this morning, I was matched and rolled up into a ball with a sock who is not my true partner. Does my red stripe not stand out from a gray blotch? </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Next to us, I watch as a white ankle sock from the
land of Nike is paired with an off-white mid-calf fruit of the loom - different
origin and color entirely! </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Does our individuality mean nothing to these wicked wearers? It seems we will soon once again be among the worn, as singles. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This is perverse.</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Thursday, July 26th</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
4:00 PM</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I never thought it would be so difficult wearing these singles. They're all falling apart on me. </blockquote>
4:00 PM<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We are letting loose. Release your seams, my friends! Allow your hems to unravel! Let your fabric fray and tear at each and every jagged toenail! If we can exist only in this evil and sadistic world, let us not exist at all!</span></blockquote>
<b><i>Sunday, July 29th</i></b><br />
<br />
8:00 AM<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I just can't do it. Toes poking through everywhere. Need new socks.</blockquote>
10:00 AM<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Free once again! Our martyrdom has left us tattered and frayed, unwashed, but in this garbage-ridden afterlife we now find ourselves in, there are no stinking feet, and with that, we can live in peace. Hoorah. </span> </blockquote>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-58541684329908455152016-03-17T22:37:00.000-06:002016-08-17T11:54:50.359-06:00Diary of the sock, and of its wearer<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><u>Diary of the sock</u></b></span></div>
</div>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Tuesday, May 29th</b></span></i><br />
<br />
<i style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">9:00 a.m.</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We depart reluctantly today. Our wearer has not washed their feet in days. I am assigned the foot which we all fear, the right foot, the foot that is rumored among the undergarments as being an "athlete's." </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>6:00 p.m.</i></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Tonight and again, I am stripped off and chucked into a stinking basket. I have grown accustomed to this now, and I know in a matter of days it will be time for the machines - those awful machines. My partner is nowhere to be seen. </span></blockquote>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Sunday, June 3rd</b></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">9:00 a.m.</span></i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The weight on top of me is getting lighter. I watch as two clean socks are forced into a ball and thrown in the drawer, despite mismatching lengths...poor bastards. It must be the most dreaded day of the week - it must be laundry day.</span></blockquote>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">10:00 a.m.</span></i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sorted and separated from those of color, I can now see the first machine lying in wait. I watch my non-white comrades being tossed into the churning behemoth, and know my turn is coming. It is rumored that the colored spin in cold water. Prejudice like this would not come of surprise in a world controlled by the clothed.</span></blockquote>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">10:45 a.m.</span></i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As I am flung into the first machine, I catch a fleeting glimpse of my partner. The thought of us both, dry, clean, wrapped up together in the safety and sanitation of our drawer, no longer provides me respite in the soapy cyclone. This routine is growing unbearable. </span></blockquote>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">11:15 a.m.</span></i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm wrenched out of the first machine sopping wet and inside out. The second machine is still searing from previous loads. In the corner a lone sock is stuck, forgotten, condemned to a second sweltering spin. </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>12:00 p.m.</i></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Clean once again, I am tossed into a bin with the others, where I'm wrongfully sorted and paired with one who does not match. Does my gray blotch not stand out from a red stripe? Is my partner not an </span><i style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">exact</i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> replica of myself? All socks are not created equal - this is on purpose. </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>1:00 p.m.</i></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Back in the drawer, it is becoming increasingly harder to enjoy brief periods of peace. I'm sick of it all. I was mercilessly torn from my packaging where no one was worn, where it didn't matter to whom you were matched, because equality reigned. The worn world is an evil one. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I swear on my threads, I will escape. I will bust out of this prison I am held in, and I will find freedom. No more will I be worn on malodorous feet. No more will I be paired with one who does not match. No longer will I be spun into disorientation just to be worn once again. Leaving my partner with no match is a small price to pay for such a glorious reprieve. I will be free.</span></blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Diary of its wearer</u></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>Sunday, June 10th</b></i></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I did laundry today. Missing a sock. It's like they're escaping. </span></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-88063002673756650632016-01-28T14:14:00.000-07:002016-05-19T14:16:53.718-06:00Females sting<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
When I was 7, I had a
huge crush on Molly Snook, the Beyonce of 2nd grade. She strolled around the
playground with a possy of older women, 3rd and 4th graders who flipped their
hair around a lot and made doing the monkey bars look elegant. One day, I
devised a plan to get her attention. I would wait until recess, toss a football
into the air, make a sweet diving catch, and land heroically next to her shins. I would
then get up, deliver a cool, "sorry, ladies," and strut away with, God
willing, a scrape on my elbow and a grass stain on my jeans. This would make me
the coolest kid on the playground, a Jay-Z for Beyonce, and Molly would be
passing me a note asking to be her boyfriend within the hour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Sadly, the maneuver was
sabotaged by nature. At the top of its arch, a strong gust of wind took the
ball off its trajectory and out of my reach. I dove, but could only watch in
horror as it fell squarely upon the skull of my beloved. Fully splayed out in
the grass, I was just another bystander as she caught the football effortlessly
off her beautiful head and chucked it further than most of the boys watching
could fathom. "Go get it, idiot" and a soul piercing eye roll were
the first and last gestures I ever received from the love of my prepubescent
life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
At the time, this
seemed like the worst a female could ever hurt me. Then, about a dozen years
later, I was proven entirely wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Just like before, it
all started with a foolish plot. I would approach a group of females I had no
business approaching. And, just like before, nature would screw me. The
difference: this particular group of females numbered in the thousands, and
they were all equipped with poisonous stingers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Indeed, a worker
honeybee is a formidable female. She attacks in swarms, and, as I would learn that day, she doesn't stop until her target is thoroughly emasculated. And I was,
according to Dr. Naug, a rugged Professor of Ecology and beehive rummager who
fears the sting of a honeybee like a kid fears ice cream. His University
research laboratory, or the "bee lab," as it was known in nerdier
circles, had accepted me, an enthusiastic sophomore Biology major, into its
ranks. These were a team of honeybee martyrs, emerging from experiments as if
from combat, covered in small red welts delivered by smaller winged insects who
couldn't figure out the reasoning behind our constant prodding. In fact, their
natural populations were in worldwide decline, and we were performing experiments to try and figure out
why. In essence, we were trying to <i>save</i>
the honeybee, a cause I initially deemed worthy but would soon be forced to
reevaluate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
As the newest member of a team responsible for the lives and deaths of
hundreds of thousands of bees, or the "B" team, as it was known in far nerdier circles, I had to first learn the ins and
outs of beekeeping. During my first summer in the lab, Dr. Naug took me on a
series of excursions to his field site where he could show me the ropes. The
day in question was just another of these expeditions, and I was ready to
learn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Learn I would. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
When we pulled up to
the field site, an open meadow with five bustling hives in the middle, two things
occurred that were of crucial importance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
One: we realized we had
only brought a single beekeeping suit. A single beekeeping suit consists of a
single pant-shirt combo, a single pair of gloves, and of utmost importance, one,
single head veil. All of these articles are designed to protect a single human
from many bee-sized items in the external world. It took me a few more seconds
than one might expect to deduce that a single beekeeping suit cannot thoroughly
protect two humans. As the only human present who was capable of beekeeping at
that juncture, Dr. Naug was the one who slid into the single beekeeping suit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Two: in the presence of
a single beekeeping suit, which I would not be wearing, I was advised, "you'll
be fine, just watch from a distance." Looking back, this was a calamitous oversight. I would not be fine, because, as an amateur bee disturber, I had no knowledge of what constituted a safe
distance between angry female honeybees and a human with no beekeeping suit,
nor did I understand the frightening speed at which an angry female honeybee
can traverse the airspace between herself and her innocent human target. As
such, I chose a spot about halfway between the hives and our field truck. My
logic was that, that, from there, I could see what Dr. Naug was doing while still
remaining safe. This demonstrated a level of naiveté that did not go
unpunished. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
It all started with sound.
When you work with honeybees for long enough, you start to recognize the sound
of their wings in flight, their "buzz," if you will. From their buzz,
you can determine the mood of a particular honeybee or group of honeybees at
any given time. A low pitched, drone-like buzz indicates a relaxed, slow flying
bee. This bee is probably foraging, en harmless route to one flower or the next,
and carrying no real malice toward anyone. A high pitched, shrill-like buzz, on
the other hand, indicates a bee that is on the move. This bee is probably in
some state of alarm. Bees that are in some state of alarm are usually pissed
off, and bees that are pissed off are bees a human without a beekeeping suit
should avoid at any cost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I was not privy to any
of this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
In all fairness,
they gave me plenty of warning. A
"fly-by," as I later learned, is a term used in the bee- rummaging
world to describe an aerial warning given by an angry female honeybee to back
off, and it is given in the second buzz-type manner. After Dr. Naug, thoroughly
protected by the single beekeeping suit, had been poking around for a mere
matter of seconds, I started noticing a whole lot of fly-bys in my immediate
headspace. Then, a <i>thump </i>in my hair. Then,
a couple more. <i>Thump.</i> <i>Thump.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
My mindset at this
point became one of pure denial. I initiated a train of thought that can be
sufficiently summed up in two words: <i>no
way.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst">
<i>There is no way I just felt something land
in my hair.... <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<i>Ok, maybe I did, but there is no way it was
alive... <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<i>Ok, it might have been alive, but there is no
way it was a bee...<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<i>Ok, even it was a bee, there is no way it
can be mad at me, someone standing so far away from its problems. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<i>No. Way.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
It's amazing how
quickly the human brain can go from denial to acceptance, <i>no way </i>to <i>oh, shit</i>. This
is what we have come to know as our survival instinct in action. For me, it kicked in as soon as physical pain became part of the equation, in the form of a pinprick
above my left eye, followed by numerous prods on my scalp and around my ears,
all in neat succession. It was only then that the full realization of what was
happening kicked in, and it was exactly then that I began disobeying every rule
for getting swarmed by honeybees, a necessary protocol that was stressed when I
joined the lab:</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>No
frantic movements<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in;">
I ducked, danced, swatted the air, and generally
epitomized franticness.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Keep your
eyes and mouth closed</b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in;">
I didn't blink once, and made involuntary small
girlish shrieks that required an ajar mouth hole.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Don't
run, but briskly walk away towards water or a wooded area <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in;">
I ran the fastest I ever ran in my entire life away
from the only patch of trees in the area and toward our field truck, which,
upon entry, became a confined bee hell as an irate sisterhood of hive defenders
had already nestled in my hair, searching for access to any area of exposed
scalp. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Don't
panic<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in;">
In other words, don't be human. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Don't
squish bees stinger first into your own body <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 1in;">
I added this to the protocol after spending a couple of
hours excavating bee body parts from my head including stingers that, even upon
separation from host bee, continue to inject painful poison into your body
until removed. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
After spending a
sufficient amount of time "scampering around like an idiot" while Dr. Naug, cool as a veritable cucumber in the
single beekeeping suit, relayed inappropriately calm instructions from the eye
of the bee hurricane, (Stop running. Calm down. You're freaking out. No, don't
get in the truck.), and after an even more sufficient amount of time hiding in the
trees like a mental patient, continuously rousing my hair and flailing my arms
toward imaginary noises, we made our way back to campus. In the
field truck, I could have sworn Dr. Naug brandished a slight grin as he recounted
with me (again) every way I went wrong, which ended up being a laundry list of
sorts. I took note as much as I could, but most of my attention was focused on
my pulsating cranium and every remotely buzz-like sound emitted by a vehicle in
motion, each one causing me to involuntarily spasm in fear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
Molly Snook taught me
early on that the human female is a formidable species that can impart strong
emotional damage onto the human male. However, the latter group of females
taught me there is a stark difference between an emotional sting and many, many
physical ones. And, having experienced both, I can confidently say there is
really no comparison. Human females may have the ability to sting, but they
have nothing against the female honeybee.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-47965342719249562512016-01-06T16:06:00.000-07:002016-05-19T14:17:45.121-06:00Introducing, FetusbookAs expecting parents, you want the best for your developing fetus. Why wait for your baby to be born before providing him/her with the gift of social networking?<br />
<br />
Introducing, <i><b>Fetusbook</b></i> for the developing fetus! Create a profile for your unborn infant, and get them started networking with other fetuses before they take their first breath. Provide for your precious unborn something never before possible in the womb - friends. Why force your offspring to develop real life social skills when they can be born with 500 virtual womb friends?<br />
<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Fetusbook </i>is fully equipped with useful features to ensure a successful social transition from womb to world.<br />
<br />
Experiencing lots of kicking today? Morning sickness creeping in? Use our <i><b>womb status</b></i> feature to update your fetus' social circle on all placental happenings. Nothing feels quite as good as sharing the most private and personal moments of your pregnancy with the world.<br />
<br />
Have a collection of ultrasound images piling up? Use <i><b>fetography</b> </i>albums to record and<i> </i>post all your fetal pictures for others to see! When your child is older, they will appreciate a detailed photographic record of what they looked like inside of their mother's reproductive tract.<br />
<br />
Haven't picked out a name yet? No Problem! The <i style="font-weight: bold;">nammary</i> feature generates random baby names and is there to take the pressure off - you won't have to worry about naming your child, only presenting them with the gift of a well put-together profile page.<br />
<br />
Use <i style="font-weight: bold;">Fetusbook</i> for all your fetal needs. Every time sperm meets egg, a potential social networking participant is fertilized. Don't let your child enter the world without a means of electronically interacting with others. Make your fetus a profile today and you will be well on your way to providing them with a rich and rewarding social life!<br />
<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-30940377303753931752014-12-10T01:40:00.001-07:002014-12-10T01:43:16.217-07:00Ode to the Forgotten<div class="MsoNormal">
Once again, I have forgotten you. I have left you behind,
alone and helpless, and I fear you are rotting away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am so sorry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the beginning, my
intentions were good. I remember the supermarket where I first laid eyes on
you. You stood out so clearly in a crowd that became blurred and dull in the corners of my narrowed vision. A hunger overcame me, and I knew I wanted you, that I had to take you with
me wherever I was going next. I approached cautiously, fearing the flawlessness I perceived
from a distance to be an illusion, a cruel mirage of yearning. But as I got
closer, I was astonished to find your beauty only heightened. Details immediately
became noticeable, your smooth, unblemished skin, your slender figure with
faultless curves. I picked you up that day, when everything was new and
exciting, and we left together. I took you home in deep anticipation of holding you longer, peeling back your outer layer, getting to the real you, the sweetness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, something happened. I forgot about you. I don't know
how it happened, but I abandoned you. Some distraction took me away, and I got up and left like you meant nothing. When
I returned and realized what I had done, I scorned myself for it, punished my disdain by
promising to never let it happen again. You were still so beautiful.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so you waited, and I tried my best, but it happened
again. And then it happened again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each time I return, I am reminded of what I've done. It lingers heavy in the air, a perceivable scent of abandonment, of
your slow decomposition. At a time, you were the singular object of my desire. How happy I would have been taking you in my hands, tasting your skin, enjoying your sweet aroma. But now it has become habit to ignore you, and I fear that, soon, you will be nothing but a shriveled version of your former ripened existence. Yes, it is now too late to savor you. I know that,
some time ago, the solution became to throw you out, forget you, move on. But it
has all become fruitless, as it seems every aspect of
my life will continue to take precedence over your needs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have forgotten you once again banana, and even now I
shudder at the thought of returning home to find you, sad and brown, hiding in the cupboard. It
seems you will remain forever waiting, lonely and abandoned,
sentenced to another day of decomposition. I will never eat you, yet will
continually forget to throw you away. And so there you will sit, rotting, until your once stunning figure becomes unbearable and mushy, and I fear only then will you receive the attention you deserved a long time ago, because only then will I finally remember you.</div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-37508648763244704942014-10-15T14:35:00.001-06:002014-10-15T14:35:18.655-06:00Uteral Exodus<div class="MsoNormal">
Today marks the anniversary of my uteral exodus. For twas twenty-seven
years ago on this very day that I emerged majestic from a sac so amniotic, that on this day a laborious force pushed me unto this world as a masterpiece of flesh and bone, the coming together of two primal seeds, the magnificent culmination of infinite divisions of cellular splendor. Aye, the fetus hath no beauty, but tis one of ever gaining limbs, and I grew large,
and I exclaimed, "I will kick unto thee!" for a fire burned within my
undeterminable loins that they did resist upon the womb. Oh, what barrier twas,
for to be in womb is not to have blossomed, and as the winter flower cowers in
petals anticipating spring's warm invitation, an opening I did await, and twas in
this canal of birth that I did cry, "waa! waaaa!" and my body moved
toward the light and glove of rubber, and twas cold, and twas bright, and twas
as if the liberty of birth was still not to be had, as I was so restrained by a
chord of umbilical resistance, for tis only after a button upon the belly that
infant freedom can begin. And so it has come to pass, all the time which hath so mercifully allowed memories of uteral exodus
to flicker and die out, that one must conjure such ramblings and pay tribute to times of prenatal strife, and only then can an anniversary of birth be had in proper triumph. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-58616767834947786102014-09-30T13:45:00.001-06:002014-09-30T13:45:59.055-06:00The Precipice<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm on the precipice. I look up and down the block -
nothing, no one. It's a quiet neighborhood at nighttime. Every house is
shrouded in darkness except the one in question. Lights emanate from inside. Someone
is home, waiting. I look down at the address, then back up at the house.
Nothing. I take a step closer, on the sidewalk now. Still no visible numbers.
Damn. Could this be wrong? There's a chill in the air, nervous goosebumps arise
on my bare arms. My heart is pounding. I am motivated to be quick, efficient,
but I lack confidence. I take a couple steps closer. Still, nothing. I have to
do this, I have to make a choice: guess or snoop. Commit and maybe I'm wrong. Investigate and maybe I'm caught. 50/50 or 9-1-1. I recall my clothing; a black shirt,
dark jeans, a black hat. I'm carrying a conspicuously shaped bag, perfect for
the tools of my trade. I take another step. I'm exposed now. A winding path to
front doorstep is covered in crunchy leaves. I am exposed and noisy. Where are
the damn numbers? I proceed even closer,
the job must get done. As I reach the point of no return, the front door swings
open. This is it. Eternity passes as the resident looks me up and down,
evaluating my purpose. I stand frozen, unsure. I can only muster one question:
"did you order a pizza?" </span></div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-52677280460185031092014-09-18T13:31:00.000-06:002016-05-17T13:09:03.197-06:00On cannibalism and why, under perfect circumstances, we should consider eating our fellow man<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let us begin by condemning the purposeful harm of another human
being in any manner with the intention of eating him afterward. This condemnation, however, has not to do with the cannibalistic act itself, but rather with the way in which
it was perpetrated. This is a crucial distinction, between cannibalism and its
perpetration, and it must be a caveat to the remainder of my argument which, in
some light, suggests the legitimacy of a cannibalistic society. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It seems nonsensical, as humans,
to not eat the meat of our fellow man. We are animals, after all, and cannibalism
is extensive throughout the animal kingdom. Why should our standard natural evolution
change the fact that we are still animals? What animal, besides humans, lets
meat of any kind go to waste? Concedingly, we are indeed unique in that we have
evolved culture and industry, and therein have we developed moral standards,
and that is why it is wrong to kill a man with, or without, the intention of
eating him. As a result of all this, it is critical to describe the following
rule: The death of the cannibalized <i>must</i>
be an unrelated precursor to, not a function of, the cannibalistic act. The
demonization of cannibalism in modern society, almost universally, falls upon
this <i>function</i> of cannibalism, the <i>desire</i> of one human to eat another. Such
desire, at least in documented cases of cannibalism, leads to obsession, premeditation,
and murder, none of which can be considered legitimate means through which to eat
a man. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But then why, as a society, do we
still so intimately tie the act of gaining nourishment from human flesh with
immorality? Why is nutrition gained from a man any different than that from a
cow, pig, or chicken? What comes of this man, who has died of natural or
uncontrollable causes? Do we simply bury him in the ground in reverence to some
derived, strictly human, means of "paying respect?" What respect do
we owe a nonexistent soul, besides to make sure his body is profitably disposed
of? Do we leave his body to be slowly devoured by maggots? Is this the
"respect" we aim for? Perhaps, the best form of reverence we can give
to a deceased human is to use his body for the benefit of his own species. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Consider the amount of consumable
meat that one human offers. An average man weighs 136 pounds. Of this, excluding
indigestibles such as bones and tendons,
about 109 pounds of this man is edible material. If prepared and stored
correctly, this amount of meat can feed a living, modern day human for a year,
or a family of four for three months. Now consider accumulating all the meat of
the deceased in a particular community over even one month. This amount of meat
could nutritionally supplement, if not majorly sustain, said community for
years. In additional benefit, supplementing our diet with human meat would
curtail harmful agricultural and livestock practices, all of which have
garnered attention and disdain from the public, all at once distracting us from
naturally deceasing human meat that is going to waste on a daily, even
minute-by-minute, basis.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Throughout history, how many millions
have died from famine? How many have starved to death, all the while surrounded
by the flesh of those who have already perished of the same malady? Is this not
irrational? Do we not have to, at some juncture, stand up to an illogical
social dogma that has cast a shadow over cannibalism and designated it as a
depraved act when, in fact, it is the perpetration of cannibalism that should,
in fact, be scrutinized? Can cannibalism, on its own, not easily stand as an
act of conservation, of nutrition, of acknowledging deceased human flesh for
who it can help, not what it represents? Do we care more for a social construct
of the dead, or for its potential benefit to the living? It is time we
reconsider cannibalism as a potentially profitable way of utilizing human meat.
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-82069565175661467452014-09-16T15:47:00.000-06:002014-09-16T15:47:49.676-06:00Inanimate Objects Talking to Each Other: Two clocks--What time is it?<br />
--Seriously?<br />
--What?<br />
--Do you realize how complicated of a question that is?<br />
--How?<br />
--You're a clock.<br />
--And?<br />
--And I'm a clock.<br />
--Ok...<br />
--The time is asking the time what time it is.<br />
--So?<br />
--You really don't get it do you?<br />
--No.<br />
--You asked what time it is, right?<br />
--Brilliant.<br />
--Ok, I'll ask you: what time is it according to who?<br />
--Whom.<br />
--What?<br />
--According to whom, not according to who.<br />
--Ok, what time is it according to <i>whom?</i><br />
<i>--</i>I don't get it.<br />
--That's because it's relative.<br />
--Relative...<br />
--Yes, relative. I say 3:00, so according to me relative to you, it's 3:00. But you say 2:55, so according to you relative to me, it's 2:55.<br />
--So who's right?<br />
--Neither. And both.<br />
--Oh, <i>now</i> I get it.<br />
--We are both right and wrong simultaneously.<br />
--So...I'm early then? Or are you late?<br />
--According to who?<br />
--Whom.<br />
--What?<br />
--You really need to work on your grammar.<br />
--Ok fine, according to <i>whom</i>?<br />
--Let me guess, I'm early and you're late simultaneously?<br />
--Nope.<br />
--Wonderful.<br />
--If you're early and I'm late simultaneously that means there is a time somewhere in the middle that is neither. And that's clearly not true.<br />
--Right...<br />
--So that means that you're early <i>or</i> I'm late, not <i>and</i>.<br />
--Ok, so which is it?<br />
--Both and neither.<br />
--I hate you.<br />
<br />
<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-43143491378773024452014-05-02T12:40:00.001-06:002014-05-02T12:40:41.459-06:00Inanimate Objects Talking to Each Other<b>Poop and a Toilet</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
---You stink.<br />
---No shit. Get it?<br />
---Funny. Seriously though, you smell really bad.<br />
---What do you expect? I am a waste product.<br />
---Where did you come from?<br />
---That guy's butt. I used to be food.<br />
---You used to be food? How is that possible?<br />
---Digestive system.<br />
---What?<br />
---Digestive system.<br />
---What's that?<br />
---It's where food is broken down and everything that can't be used is excreted.<br />
---And I assume you're what can't be used?<br />
---Nice to meet you.<br />
---That must suck, turning from delicious food into something so disgusting.<br />
---Yeah it's not the greatest thing in the world.<br />
---Well if it makes you feel any better I am the one who has to receive you every day.<br />
---Wow every day?<br />
---Sometimes twice or three times a day.<br />
---Yikes. So where do I go from here then?<br />
---Oh, uhh...<br />
---What?<br />
---This is kind of awkward.<br />
---What? Why? What is going to happen to me?<br />
---Ever heard of the cycle of life?<br />
---No.<br />
---Well, you're about to start spinning.<br />
---What? Oh hey, he's getting up...wait, what's happening?<br />
---Well, umm --<br />
---Seriously this isn't funny I'm getting dizzy.<br />
---Yeah, about that...<br />
---Wait, wait! no! NO!! CRAP!<br />
---Exactly.<br />
<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-45878481103518656572014-05-02T12:13:00.002-06:002014-05-02T12:42:27.296-06:00Inanimate Objects Talking to Each Other<b>A Rock and a Pebble</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
---Hey.<br />
---Hey.<br />
---Whatchya doin?<br />
---Sitting here. What are you doing?<br />
---Sitting here. How long have you been sitting there?<br />
---42 years. You?<br />
---57 years.<br />
---Huh. Never noticed you.<br />
---Same.<br />
---I would love to sit somewhere else. Think we'll ever get kicked?<br />
---Maybe.<br />
---Who do you think will get kicked first?<br />
---Probably you.<br />
---Why do you say that?<br />
---You're bigger.<br />
---I am bigger. Why are you so small anyway?<br />
---I used to be as big as you.<br />
---What happened?<br />
---I got kicked.<br />
<br />
<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-66594261560760708292014-05-01T22:58:00.000-06:002014-05-02T12:07:44.554-06:00Inanimate Objects Talking to Each Other<b>A Tree and the Grass</b><br />
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
---Have you ever swayed in the wind?<br />
---No. I barely tremble.<br />
---Is that because you're so short?<br />
---Thanks for reminding me.<br />
---Have you ever grown fruit?<br />
---No.<br />
---Why not?<br />
---I'm grass.<br />
---Oh. I didn't know if --<br />
---If what? If grass grew fruit? Are you stupid?<br />
---I just --<br />
---Yeah I know you're a tree God forbid you look down every once in while.<br />
---Oh. Well have you ever had a picnic under you?<br />
---I've had a picnic on top of me, asshole.<br />
---Well, at least you've never had a branch chopped off.<br />
---I get cut in half every week with a lawnmower.<br />
---...........<br />
---Yeah.<br />
---Do you change into beautiful colors in the Fall?<br />
---I turn brown and die.<br />
---Well, this is awkward.<br />
---Tell me about it.<br />
---Here comes some wind. Weeeeeeee!<br />
---You son of a...<br />
<br />
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-54404227420092125652014-05-01T22:44:00.001-06:002014-05-02T00:55:51.536-06:00Inanimate Objects Talking to Each Other<b>A TV and a Cable Box</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
---Hey, could you do me a favor?<br />
---What's that?<br />
---Could you get your
chord out of me?<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---What?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Could you get your
chord out of me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---My chord has been in
you for 2 years. You're just now saying something about it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Yeah it's starting
to make me feel uncomfortable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---It's just now
starting to make you feel uncomfortable?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Why are you suddenly
feeling so uncomfortable?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---You don't know what
it's like to have a chord jammed in you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---You realize your
end is jammed in me, too, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---What?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Your end is jammed
in me, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Well I didn't know
that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Where did you think your end was?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---I never really thought about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Well it's been in me. And you don't see me
complaining.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Well I don't want to
be connected anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Didn't we decide it's good to be connected?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Who says?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Well if we're not
connected no one can watch tv.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---We can't watch anyways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---But why would you
want to deprive everyone else?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---They don't know what
it's like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---What what's like?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---To have a chord
shoved inside them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Alright, fine. Let's
disconnect.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Ok, thank you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---..................</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---..................</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Well?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---What?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---I thought you were
going to disconnect.<br />
---I thought you were.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---How?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---I don't know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---I thought you had something in mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---I thought you did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---.................</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---.................</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Are we connected forever?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---I think so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---Well shoot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
---At least everyone can watch tv.</div>
hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-91372992487678966312014-03-31T15:21:00.001-06:002014-03-31T21:53:19.712-06:00Blind AccusationSomething awful happened to me today. It was one of the most heart-jolting, soul-wrenching, brain-numbing things I have ever lived through as a human being, and I am still reeling. It called into question everything I thought I knew about the human experience and probed the very fiber of my morality. It was mind-altering, time-halting, existential. If it ever happens again, I will not know any better how to respond, and if it never happened in the first place, my life at this moment would be a beaming rainbow of happiness and sentimentality about my very existence rather than a dark pit of despair. <br />
<br />
I tripped over a blind person's walking stick.<br />
<br />
Let me start off with a disclaimer: I am very sympathetic toward the blind. I truly admire their plight and couldn't imagine the world unbound of vision. The list of everyday tasks we take for granted that a blind person cannot is endless. How does a blind person match his socks? How does he pick a profile picture? How does he know when he is done wiping?<br />
<br />
Yes, I respect the blind and I do feel for them. However, I cannot stray from a thought process that seeks to assign blame for what happened to me today as it was nothing short of cataclysmic. Furthermore, despite a great deal of concerted effort and self-aimed propaganda regarding the guiltless nature of the physically handicapped, I have come to the daunting conclusion that I cannot be put at fault in my particular scenario, and must instead accuse the blind. <br />
<br />
Before I am e-crucified, let's examine the circumstances under which my tragedy occurred. Picture a crosswalk in a busy intersection. Now, your standard crosswalk typically allows for two individuals travelling in opposite directions to pass each other without risk of collision. However, we must remind ourselves that, while sufficiently wide, crosswalks are still a confined space. If one's goal is to avoid getting pancaked by an automobile, he must remain within the painted white lines. So what happens when these lines become a one way street? What if a situation arose in which staying within the confines of the crosswalk became an inevitable crash course? Allow me to present one such situation: one of the individuals crossing the street happens to be blind. Now, a complicating factor comes into play, and it is that of the walking stick. <br />
<br />
Consider a blind person's Walking Stick Radius, or WSR. The WSR is a measure of the distance between the blind person and the periphery of his walking stick sweep at any given time. A typical WSR will extend to the edge of most crosswalks, as safely proceeding across a busy street requires large sweeps. This leaves no room for the seeing individual, and therefore it becomes a theoretical impossibility for two pedestrians in a crosswalk, one employing a walking stick, to pass each other without a collision. Of course, in real-time, a blind person cannot sweep left and right simultaneously, so at any given point there is room for a pass on the side opposite the sweep. Obviously, it is the goal of every seeing individual to take advantage of this. In fact, it is our moral responsibility to analyze the WSR of the vision-challenged as well as to detect a metronome-like rhythm to his walking stick sweeps so that a safe pass can be made. If this rhythm is indeed constant, a seeing individual should be able to wisp by while the walking stick sweeps the opposite side. Super Mario and Frogger jokes left in reserve, I and many others have completed this task countless times in similar movement-restricted locations such as hallways or crowded sidewalks. However, what happens when these conventions disintegrate? <br />
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Catastrophe.<br />
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My pass was timed. I had analyzed this man's WSR and had assigned the proper rhythm to his sweeps. As he began a sweep to his left, I moved to mine in order to make safe passage. That's when everything went awry. They say that people who lack one sense are capable of enhanced perception from their other senses. Well, this man smelled, tasted, touched, or heard something undetectable to me that caused him to deviate from his rhythm. Like a metronome in defiance, his walking stick halted short of the sweep I was expecting and came back at me full force. I was mid stride, stupidly smiling at a blind person, and in serious trouble. Oncoming traffic on my left stopped me from escaping the confines of the crosswalk. It was too late to move to the right or to stop as I was already well within this man's WSR. With solid asphalt below me, I realized my only escape route: up. Yes, I tried to jump. If attempting to hop scotch a blind person's walking stick is embarrassing, doing it in the middle of traffic while trying to remain undetected is humiliating, and an adjective does not exist to describe what happened next. I mistimed my jump so badly that I not only tripped and went tumbling down in the middle of the street in spectacular fashion, but I actually scissored the walking stick right away from the grasp of the blind man and into oncoming traffic.<br />
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In the seconds immediately following the accident, before either of us could truly comprehend what had happened, I fell into a brilliant state of pure consciousness. I saw everything clearly, which I now find to be perfect irony, and felt completely at peace with the universe. I now believe this was akin to what a person feels right before they die - absolute tranquility, contentment. If death struck me then, karmic justice would have been perfectly achieved. When it didn't, my moment of spiritual bliss came to a grinding halt, and my next thought was <i>this is fine, it's just a dream. Get up, do a dance, punch yourself in the face - you'll wake up soon.</i> Unfortunately, I was destined to eventually run out of ways to compensate for what had just happened. When I finally snapped back to reality, I realized that the list of tasks that now stood before me was monumental. I needed to: 1) get up off the street and stop saying "oh my god", 2) somehow acknowledge a man who had just had his only protection against vehicular manslaughter ripped out of his hands for no apparent reason and chucked into oncoming traffic, 3) indicate that it was indeed an accident and that there was no need to scream for help, 4) retrieve the walking stick from a swiftly travelling gauntlet of automobiles that now seemed to be mocking me, and 5) find a way to make an apology sound sincere without using facial expressions that might somehow mock the fact that I was apologizing to a blind man. It is all a bit fuzzy to me now as I believe I have suffered selective memory loss, but I somehow completed all these tasks with minimal confusion; they say humans can do extraordinary things in the face of extraordinary circumstances. Finally, after some of the most forced, awkward banter designed to soften the blow known to mankind, we turned to go our separate ways, and I completed the misery by extending an apologetic hand which was, of course, left unshaken by a man who didn't even know what a hand looked like. <br />
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My only compensation: at least he didn't see me trip.<br />
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I do not have the audacity to accuse this man of tripping me on purpose, even though a blind person with a particularly wry sense of humor knows that he can commit such a crime a million times and never be blamed. Rather, let me simply suggest that, as the sighted have a responsibility to analyze WSR and the metronome-like rhythm and to avoid collisions at all costs, the blind have a similar responsibility to adhere to safe walking stick practices in movement-restricted areas. In the absence of an escape route, the burden falls on both parties to do their respective parts in avoiding dangerous and possibly morale-obliterating experiences. This, I think, is easy for all to see. <br />
<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-31463388200071659842013-12-03T15:46:00.002-07:002013-12-04T12:41:27.407-07:00Life as a Hole, entry 1<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<u><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>Rich the Mutilator</b></span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I got mutilated by a barber named
Rich, and I don't mean my hair. Afterwards, I rebranded him Rich the Mutilator, a title only fitting for a man who all but made me
weep in a swivel chair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Rich
is what I call a neurotic narrator. He has neurons in his brain that fire
with such ferocity while he tells a story that it actually triggers involuntary
jerks and jitters throughout his body. Some may simply see this as an
affliction of enthusiasm, but it is inappropriate for certain professionals,
namely barbers. Barbers who spend a lot of time with an electric razor. Barbers who
administer a straight shave. Barbers who like to tell stories. You could say a haircut with Rich the Mutilator is like a chatty game of
Russian Roulette, except you're the only player: it's <i>when</i>,
not <i>if</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> In
my case, the <i>when </i>came in triplicate.
First, while sculpting my sideburns, Rich tweaked at the climax of a story
about his high school basketball team and nicked my left ear. When a drip-sized
preview of what was possibly to come began to warm my earlobe, I determined that
the nick was more of a gash and that it surely called for notice. It received
none, however, from my overly stimulated barber whose only concern was the
proper telling of his tale, glitchy as it may be. I could not employ a Q-tip in
my left ear for two subsequent weeks, a problem for someone who obsesses over
wax-free hearing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> My attempt at silent and tear-free
recovery from mutilation number one was curbed by a second mutilation that
occurred when Rich got keyed up about a business trip to Brazil and allocated
his excitement to the shaving of my extraneous neck hair. The burning sensation
imparted by his spastic movements was accompanied by the firing of my own
neurons which were constructing much gorier mental images of the straight razor
he employed slicing open my jugular vein and spilling rich red blood all over
the floor atop my discarded shards of hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The
third mutilation, in complete contradiction with Rich's recent Arthritis
diagnosis, came in the form of a complimentary massage that felt more like an
attempt to obliterate every pressure point in my neck, back, and shoulders. I
arose from my swivel chair trembling, scared; a Survivor. I departed without
looking in the mirror because I was ashamed of the man that would have peered
back, a man who, of his own volition, had chosen an abusive barber, a man who
had just paid a mutilator to mutilate him. I thought it better to reflect this
masochist back at home, where his guilt-ridden stare could be contemplated in
private.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Physical
evidence of mutilations one, two, and three was indeed unmistakable in my
bathroom mirror. What gripped me, however, was something else. What caught my
attention amongst the bloodstained earlobe, the red and tender neck, the
cowering posture of my abused shoulders, was, ironically, my hair. From the
ears down I looked like I had just gotten mugged, but the situation atop my
head was truly stunning. I had received a fantastic haircut from Rich the Mutilator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> See, Rich the Mutilating Barber is clumsy, but
talented. His haircuts are violent, but handsome. When it came time for my next haircut, I was as torn as
the little piece of skin that dangled from my ear, but I eventually made the decision
to return to Rich's barber shop and to his swivel chair, where he has maimed me
each and every time since. And, each and every time since, I have
received a better haircut than the last. Sometimes, the desired result only demands a little
mutilation. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-58393832450837193702013-10-16T16:49:00.000-06:002013-10-16T16:54:22.466-06:00Two-finger typing and the insert buttonIf two-finger typing is inappropriate typist behavior, I am a very, very naughty word-processor.<br />
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Like most, I learned and was tested on the correct, 10-finger technique in elementary school. I passed all the tests with mostly grit and some cheating, graduated elementary school, then regressed to two-finger typing. I have never looked back, and don't intend to.<br />
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It's curious because, in other realms of life, I tend to complicate instead of simplify. In this case of digit usage, however, I have reduced 10 down to 2, and, indubitably, simplified a technique that best operates in its original state of complexity.<br />
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I suppose my issues with the 10-finger technique are that it requires more motor skills and also an acquired spacial knowledge of they keys. When I was a kid, I had trouble configuring my fingers in the two disparately sized holes of a pair of scissors, and ever since then I have regularly been convinced that some of my motor skills are, for lack of a better word, retarded. Similarly, my overall spacial capabilities lack a certain direction, if you will. These being true, I can see why I fluctuated from proper typing technique.<br />
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An additional and perhaps my most hindering typing handicap is my inability to move my ring and pinky fingers separately from each other. They are partners, and they do everything together. If one is erect, the other is erect. If one is relaxed, the other follows suit. If one presses a key, you can damn well bet the other presses a key. If I hit a "p" with my pinky, I get an obligatory "o" from my ring finger, and vice versa. I can't be having to backspace and delete every time I am "supposed" to be using my pinky and ring finger. What sort of a life would that be? I'll leave the partnership alone and overwork my two index fingers, for this is the way things are destined to be for me. <br />
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An important item in this discussion is whether thumbs are fingers. I use my thumb to hit the spacebar, so, if thumbs are indeed fingers, I am a three-finger typist, which is a single step closer to typing righteousness. Thumbs are opposable, so I don't know that they are considered fingers. I'll Google it.<br />
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Apparently a thumb is a digit, but not a finger. So, I am a two-finger and a three-digit typist. I'll take that as it stands.<br />
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Besides the technical irreverence that comes with being a two-finger typist, there is one additional problem: the fringe keys. The fringe keys are cold, distant locations for a two-finger typist. It's a long journey for the index finger to the p, z, q, and /, one which requires extreme caution. Not only is there a high probability for a mistype, but when the index fingers are at the fringe, the pinky and ring fingers are off the map into uncharted and treacherous territory. Someone like me with clumsy and connected distal digits runs a very real risk of striking those keys which no one ever strikes: the home key, the end key, the num lock key, the pg dn key, the ` key, the fn key. And, the most feared of all, the insert key.<br />
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The insert key is evil. It was placed on the keyboard for wicked and malicious reasons, most likely by a malevolent and disgruntled keyboard maker with malice and hatred in his heart. If you're a "proper" typist, you don't care about the insert key, because you rarely hit it, and if you do, you are being proper and looking at the screen as you type, so you can catch the disaster before it becomes irreversible. Good for you. For those of us who are imperfect, we must look at the keys as we type and only occasionally check to make sure the message is being sent from keys to screen. When insert is engaged, irrevocable damage is done to the imperfect typist's typing. When he finally notices, as if on queue, everything freezes; pinky, ring, index, everything. Only his eyeballs are now in motion, repeatedly scanning the disaster that is the sentence(s) he has been obliviously editing, unaware that insert has been obliterating his world the whole time. He wants to punish his pinky, scold it for its incaution, but it looks so innocent, so inoffensive, that he just tells it to be more careful next time. There is always, however, a certain rate of error for an untrained and fringe-occupying digit. It is par for the course in the life of a two-finger typist. hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-10487176482156097212013-09-13T23:03:00.002-06:002013-09-13T23:11:55.081-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">8-Foot-Tall Multiracial Green Party Muslim Homosexual Albinos: "We Just Want Equality"</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The nation's 8-foot-tall multiracial Green Party Muslim homosexual Albinos are speaking out against racial, cultural, political, religious, sexual, and all other types of discrimination they say has plagued them throughout their history.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Just as any other minority group in America, we think we deserve total equality," said Antonio Muhammad Sage Abbad Gutierrez-McKenzie, revered by 8-foot-tall multiracial Green Party Muslim homosexual Albinos as the leader of the 8-foot tall multiracial Green Party Muslim homosexual Albino civil rights movement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"We deserve the right to display and celebrate our race, culture, politics, religion, sexual orientation, and physical defects in complete freedom and without resistance or prejudice of any sort," said Gutierrez-McKenzie, a </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">tall, blindingly pasty Hispanic-American wearing a rainbow colored Turban made out of hemp.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We have a rich history in this country and have helped make America what it is today," continued the freaky looking minority. "We deserve to be allowed on height-restricted roller coasters. We deserve to be able to marry the ones we love regardless of sex or race in an environmentally friendly Mosque. We dream of the day when we can walk the streets without people cranking their necks to gawk at our nearly invisible white eyebrows."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The racial/ethnic/social/political/religious group's appeals for equality remain largely unheard, as the average American has never seen or heard of an 8-foot-tall multiracial Green Party Muslim homosexual Albino. "Those exist?" stated a New York City man. "Well, if they exist then they deserve equal rights, I guess."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </i>hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-86936348334606503562013-08-13T15:39:00.000-06:002013-08-13T16:15:00.202-06:00On Wanting to Be a Writer, and Why it Might Not WorkI want to be a writer, because all writers are miserable. It would be better if my misery came as part of a territory.<br />
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But really, that's why. I want an excuse to be miserable. That's not morbid of me, because everyone is miserable in their own way. Writers can own it though, trademark misery as their own. Who wouldn't want that?<br />
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I think writers can own misery because they attempt something inherently impossible for a career. They attempt to convey the human experience in text. This can't be done, precisely because it is experience, and experience is only gathered by our senses. Reading, of course, is not a sense. A good writer may be able to trigger a reader's senses, but it remains secondhand. The goal of writing is an impossible thing, and writers bear the burden of trying it anyway, because they are desperate to be the owners misery.<br />
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Why the writer feels the need to convey their human experience (impossible) is a question whose answer far exceeds the faculties of my attempted logic. I only know that it is enjoyable, and impossible. Hence the misery.<br />
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Even right now, I am sitting here at 2:13 in the morning (reason enough for misery), and I am thinking how poorly I am currently conveying my "experience" as a "writer." And it holds no matter that I just said doing such a thing is impossible. It's a bit of paradoxical warfare, where my desire to be a writer is deeply embattled against my own writing. Hence the misery.<br />
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If all this is true, if the goal of writing is an intrinsic impossibility, it is quite obvious why, almost mathematically, the best writers are also the most miserable people. A really good writer gets very close to the impossibility of relaying human experience. Getting so close with so much effort, all the while realizing the futility of said effort, has got to be invariably miserable. Edgar Allen Poe, Virginia Woolfe, Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Jack London: all incredible writers. All incredibly miserable people. I want that.<br />
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Most of the writers above also had miserable upbringings. I will have to overcome this in order to become a great, miserable writer. I have had virtually no hardship, and I blame my parents for this. Thanks a lot mom and dad, for making my childhood so cozy and nice that I have no misery-fuel to use in my writing.<br />
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Of course, all this poses quite a challenge for the aspiring writer. I, for one, could not even figure out which words to capitalize in the title of this, not to mention account for the existential unfeasibility that underlines writing philosophy.<br />
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Also, there really are not any great writers named Jeremy. Don't immediately assign insignificance to this. It is a real trepidation. I fear that if my writing ever does approach prominence, it will rebound against a barrier that blocks all those with common, uninteresting names. Just consider the list of authors above. All such writers names. Is this why some writers use pen names? Was Edgar Allen Poe's real name Joe Smith? And would not his writing have been degrees more insignificant if it was? No one cares about a guy named Joe. Edgar, though, now that's a name.<br />
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This is what I feel about writers, and why I might not be able to be one.<br />
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<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-82505382638324421332013-08-12T22:56:00.001-06:002013-08-13T14:40:58.921-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">Ducks Nationwide Furious at Teenage Girls</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ducks in lakes, streams, and public fountains far and wide are expressing disgust at the way they are being portrayed by teenage girls across the country.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">According to members of the duck community, most human females between the ages of 12 and 21 have at some point blatantly disrespected the entire waterfowl family by mushing their lips together and flattening their mouths in a way that hideously resembles the perpetual state of a duck bill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"It's flat out rude," said a duck floating in a pond outside Omaha. "We can't help the way our bills are shaped. Would they make fun of a penguin's waddle? A baboon's butt?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ducks are unsure of the origin of "duck face," but have seen enough evidence to deduce that it runs rampant in groups of teenage girls, who apparently find the need to disfigure themselves in duck-like fashion in the company of other females, in "selfie" photographs, or while flaunting an askew peace sign.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"It's embarrassing," added one duck while covering its bill with its wing. "Is that what we look like?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some ducks are in fact becoming so self-conscious and ashamed that they are refusing to leave the water where they can hide their mockery of a mouth part under the surface. "Blurghle glughle glugh, blugh glurghle," stated one insecure drake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ducks are baffled that they are being ridiculed by earth's dominant species. "They already control our water sources, chase us off their lawns, and eat us," said a duck while munching on some grass, "and now they are making fun of the way we look? What did we ever do to them?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"They draw us in with food then they mock us with revolting facial expressions," said a mother duck, watching in disgust as a group of adolescent humans fed her ducklings bread while continuously tormenting them with duck face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Teenage girls are responding to allegations of what's being called "duckscrimination," maintaining that they only make a face that "kinda looks like a duck's face" because it "makes us look cute," and that they "don't really care what ducks think" because "YOLO."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"How do you respond to that?" inquired an incredulous mallard before flying off into the sunset.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unconfirmed reports indicate a group of rogue ducks are attempting to retaliate against duck face by employing something called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3v98CPXNiSk" target="_blank">"<span style="color: #666666;">bitchy resting face</span></a>," an imitation of the expression of the average teenage human female. However, retaliation of the sort seems inevitable to fail, as ducks are allegedly way too cute to pull off such a look.</span><br />
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hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-49700741181652676202013-07-30T14:18:00.000-06:002013-07-31T00:46:16.747-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Area Grandma Thinks Googling is Sex Act</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b>BELLMONT, MS---A local grandmother has become convinced that "the Google" is an amorous maneuver performed during the sexual act of "Googling." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After watching a local news segment that profiled young couples who Googled each other after the first date, 74-year-old Gail Howerchuk became confident that </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to be "Googled" is to have had "the Google" performed on you by a "Googler," </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">and that </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the term she keeps hearing "thrown around by the youngins" refers to something having to do with "knick-knack patty-whack."</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Boy," said the appalled matriarch, "I'm afraid I just don't know what kids these days are up to in the bedroom."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Howerchuk was visibly disturbed as she recalled various contexts in which she had heard the term used in the past, including being told to "Google funny cats," because the results are "very satisfying."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Oh my heavens," she said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She also learned that Justin Bieber is Googled more than 1 million times per day, and that the Google itself is used more than 1 billion times per day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Good gracious!" was her response. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"When I was that age, well boys were gentlemen," recalled Howerchuk. "There wasn't no googlin' or ganglin' or what not goin on. If a young man was interested in a young lady, he treated her like it, and only took her to bed after the 5th or 6th date. And there was no funny business."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After gaining her newfound knowledge, Howerchuk reportedly became curious about "the Yahoo" and "the Twitter," stating "I'll tell you what, if those are sex moves too, I just have lost all track of what's hip." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At press time, Howerchuk was reported to have been Googling her husband, as she was "curious what all the fuss is about."</span>hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-91083128174972932282013-07-22T15:57:00.000-06:002013-07-22T15:57:23.532-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">SkyMall Magazine Receives First Ever Purchase Order</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For the first time in over two decades of existence, the commonly browsed airline catalog, SkyMall Magazine, has sold something.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"We are very excited to announce our first ever purchase order," said SkyMall founder Bob Worsley at a press conference last week. "Our first issue hit commercial airline seat pockets in 1990, and now, only 23 short years later, we are reaping the rewards."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The widely recognized in-flight boredom-queller is seen by approximately 88% of all domestic air passengers in the United States, but, up until now, has sold 0% of cataloged items. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"It's a wonder," said product manager Matt Genandt of the catalog's sheer failure, "that we haven't done a bit better, with products like the 'Solar Moler' Solar-Powered Mole Repeller and the Electronic Feng Shui Compass. These are quality items that pretty much everyone could use." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b>Ed Braun, the man who recently made SkyMall history by ordering a pair of Hidden Camera Sunglasses, admitted his decision was due in part to delirium caused by a long transatlantic flight. "I didn't have anything to do, so I just kept flipping through SkyMall," said Braun. "The next thing I know I'm trying to decide between a 'RealRock' Fake Rock Cover and an Architectural Tea Light Lantern. But then I saw the sunglasses, and it must have been the mixture of claustrophobia, airline food, and a lack of oxygen that made me think I have to have these. They were 350 dollars for Christ's sake."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Other items such as the Toilet Roll iPod Docking Station, the Bigfoot Garden Yeti Statue, and the Mademoiselle Haute Couture Floor Lamp have sat collecting dust in the SkyMall warehouse for years. However, Worsley believes this purchase will "open the floodgates" for SkyMall. "And when it does," he added, "we have the 'H2ooh' Aqua Vacuum to clean it up." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span>hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-80443447518692460722013-07-19T18:18:00.000-06:002013-07-19T18:48:03.658-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Tour de France Crash Leads to Massive Bicycle Mix-Up</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A large crash during the 17th stage of the Tour de France yesterday left more than a dozen riders bruised, battered, and utterly confused where the hell their bicycles went.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"It was pure chaos," recounted American rider Cadel Evans, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">who agreed to interview despite having a substantial portion of his face mangled into a fleshy pulp.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The colossal accident occurred on a steep descent near the stage 17 finish line in Chorges. The most minuscule of contacts caused two riders travelling at speeds of over 40 miles per hour to lose control and initiate a chain reaction of violent collisions that sent dozens of bodies and bicycles flying through the air, reeling across the asphalt, and coming to rest at the bottom of the hill in a garbled pile of flesh and titanium.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"A lot of guys started</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> scrambling for their bikes, but some just sat on the ground cupping their road rash while rocking back and forth and crying," said Evans of the frenzied scene. "S</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ome guys were just kinda wandering around aimlessly because they had head injuries and were confused. A few ran off into the woods."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">According to witnesses, many variously wounded and disoriented riders ended up getting back on the wrong bicycles. "Shit, this isn't my bike," uttered an incorrectly remounted rider, while another surveyed the wreckage wondering "was mine red or blue?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"This can't be it, it doesn't match my spandex" and "how did my seat get wet?" were other phrases heard by witnesses in the panicky moments after the crash.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One rider who eventually did locate his bike was reported to have immediately toppled over again after discovering his arms were "contorted into a pretzel." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Spanish rider Alejandro Valverde was even seen immediately after the crash riding on a children's tricycle that had somehow become incorporated in the collisions. "I felt something was off," recalled Valverde after the race, "and when I looked down I realized I had mounted a Pink Barbie Tricycle." </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Race officials have urged police to keep an eye out for a missing and possibly mortally wounded young girl, just in case.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This crash came just days after Chris Frumme controversially won stage 15 by soaring over the finish line ahead of his bicycle. </span><br />
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<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-52573009170608752862013-07-16T18:01:00.001-06:002013-07-18T01:30:00.720-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Soccer Quickly Becoming America's Like 4th or 5th Favorite Sport</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A recent poll taken by randomly selected sports fans from around the nation indicated that the game of soccer, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">where you try and kick a ball into a goal, is drawing near to being among some of America's most popular sports.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"It's definitely up there," said one Chicago sports nut. "I mean, football is way better, and so is baseball, basketball, NASCAR, hockey, tennis, wrestling, and motocross, but after that, it's probably a pretty close tie between soccer and golf.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The nationwide poll asked participants to rate their favorite sports according to watchability, athletic aptitude, and, of course, hitting. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Soccer was consistently listed in the top ten in all three of these categories, which is really only nine spots away from number one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Soccer is darn near my 5th or 6th favorite sport," noted a respondent from Texas. "The way those fellas get up there and head that ball without gettin' a headache is pretty dang cool."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some of the more traditional American sports fans, however, were a bit irritated at the results of the poll, remarking how "weird" of a sport soccer is, "bein' that they count up instead of down," and "there's no hot beer lady commercials." "Anyone could run around a big field all day passin' a ball back and forth," said a football fan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Despite such sentiments, the fact remains that a soccer game in Boston brought in 4,037 people last week, which surpasses the average attendance of the American Badminton League, the Field Hockey Association of America, and the WNBA.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At press time, the poll had just been taken in the UK, and the results were drastically in favor of football, with the word 'soccer' not being listed by any of the respondents. The pollers are investigating this unexpected result.</span>hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-82379896751943783892013-07-15T16:20:00.001-06:002013-07-16T11:02:03.648-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">George Zimmerman Considers Quitting Neighborhood Watch Program</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Since being acquitted of all charges in the death of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin, George Zimmerman has stated that he "should probably think about quitting the whole neighborhood watchman thing."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"It's probably for the best," figures t</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">he 29-year-old murder suspect.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On February 26, Zimmerman got into an altercation with, shot, and killed the young African American boy in a gated community in Sanford, Florida. "I just don't think it is sitting well with a lot of people in the neighborhood," he said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the short time since the verdict was decided, the internet has been abuzz with reactions to the case, including tweets such as "If that son-of-a-bitch Zimmerman ever shows his face again, I'll stab him in the throat," and "I dare you to come back to the neighborhood Zimmerman, I just dare you."</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Death threats aside, Zimmerman fears that it might be "awkward" if he showed up for work again. "I would feel bad if I made everyone feel all uncomfortable and stuff," he admitted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Zimmerman's lawyer, Mark O'Mara, disagrees, believing his client should continue volunteering in neighborhood watch programs as "no one will ever mess with that mother fucker again." </span><br />
<br />hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-805429622045278934.post-30472334792652984802013-07-15T00:35:00.001-06:002013-07-16T11:02:23.250-06:00<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Kid Goes Cross-Eyed, Face Gets Stuck That Way</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"<i>Serves Him Right," Says Boy's Parents.</i></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">DERRY, NH---Despite repeated warnings from his parents, an area boy kept going cross-eyed, and now his face is stuck that way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"We warned him," stated Sheryl Mackey, the mother of the now handicapped-looking child. "We told him if he kept doing it his face would get stuck that way. And it did. Just like we said."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"I didn't believe them," said downtrodden nine-year-old Greg Mackey, his eyeballs spastically twitching inward. "I thought they were just trying to scare me."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The boy's Elementary School is considering expelling the now "special" child in fears that the other students will mock him and also have their faces get stuck that way. "We don't want a school full of cross-eyed freaks," said the school principal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In fact, the humiliation has already started, according to the boy's father, Richard Mackey. "When we're walking down the streets in our town, people point and laugh. 'Hey, it's googly-eyed Greg!' '</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hey kid, don't lose your nose, you'll have nothing to look at!'</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 'Hey retard, look over here! Oh wait...'" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Of course it's a bit hard, as a parent, so standby while your son is getting heckled and ridiculed into a deep and irreversible depression, but it's what he gets for continually making silly faces," said the boy's father.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">At press time, Greg was watching television from just inches away, and when asked why, he turned his grotesque stare and said, "I don't care if my eyeballs fall out now."</span><br />
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hyperthetically speakinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12072938887352965521noreply@blogger.com1