William Call will call will call to see if his tickets are ready.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Sunday, November 4, 2012 11:18 AM

            The following is an autobiographical story of someone else’s life that I wrote, loosely based on a really tight story:

             Kraig was trapped between bars and a restroom, not able to decide which bar to go to. He didn’t realize that the bars weren’t actually bars, but were long metal bars entrapping him. ENTRAPPPPPPPING. Sorry, Caps Lock was on for a second there. Some people call that literary Tourette’s Syndrome. Going back a few days, his motorbicycle took him to the border, and not the singular version of the bookstore kind of border. A large Polynesian man with a tattoo of a handlebar moustache told him to “slow down buckaroo, eh.” Which in English means, “Wir kaufen keine Schnürsenkel aus kleinen asiatischen Mädchen!” So even when translated Kraig didn’t know what it meant. The Polynesian man asked sir Kraig if he had any weaponry besides his “guns” because he was inherently sick of guys flexing and making a poor joke about their biceps being WMDs. Kraig tried making the joke with his calves just to mix things up a bit, but ended up punching the border polyofficer in the throat. This did not make that man a very happy man. He was less than happy. Dare I say, he was unhappy. Mr. Polynesia’s eyes grew large, filled with magma and started leaking streams of fire. He then enacted his greatest skill of all, Polyamnesia! Causing Kraig to instantly lose consciousness and coincidentally $50 out of his wallet as well. The difference between regular amnesia and polyamnesia lies solely in the resulting side effects. With amnesia there is the possibility of gaining back all of your memory at a certain point. With the latter, you will never be able to remember the capitol of Arkansas or the amount of water a fish can drink before getting tired of drinking water.
Taitasi from Guam

             And this my readers (and in small parts of Guam my listeners), is where Kraig woke up in a cell. Next to the ribosomes and endoplasmic reticulum. These were the thug-names of his cell mates. Ribosomes wore a bone through his nose and had plated his entire right leg with copper. He would also constantly punch people while saying “check mate!” Endoplasmic Reticulum was a little thinner, and was generally regarded as being “ocassionally mopey” and owning at medium leveled Sudoku puzzles. This would be Kraig’s life for the next three weeks. He would say this to his cell mates if any of them could count that high.

To be continued:


Today we'll postdate tomorrow until yesterday.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, October 10, 2012 9:38 PM

It was evening time. Or as people on the west side of the bend say, Ning’s eve. However, this concept confuses me. If Ning’s eve is every day, when do we ever get to celebrate Ning? I want some chocolate shephards pie. And I would prefer some choco-right-on-time if you ask me. Nobody wants late choco. Anyway, there was this premier thingy that I decided to attend. But instead I anined it. (see if you get that one.) We walked down the curb and found a free limo and decided to drive it to the premier. It was slightly annoying with the four legged man running behind us hitting the car and yelling “stop!” What crawled into his cheerios and died this morning? He did have a very linear mustache that made me want to play hours of Sudoku while listening to backwards albums of the Olson twins. We were living the high altitude lifestyle in this moment. A couple of blocks later we stepped out onto a red carpet with the insignia of the bachelor on it. This made me question whether or not I was on the right red carpet, or if I had accidentally gotten onto the left one. So I was either getting put into the running with a bunch of women fighting over a man, or I was going to watch some short films. (Idea for new reality t.v. show- The bi-chelor, the competition of love, where gender isn’t a factor.)
I was on the latter of the two previously listed carpets. Who would seriously want a car as a pet anyway? Try snuggling up to will and grace with a car sitting on your lap, then tell me who’s mildly right! Walking into the event center, I felt as though my style would catch on fire. It was pretentiously exhilarating to be at a black or other color tie event. Which is the exact moment that Mr. and Mrs. Wayne stopped me, we talked about their wonderful son Bruce and his fear of various corynorhinus townsendii and, more recently, smog. They then asked me to take a photo with their state-of-the-art (a.k.a. Iowa) camera phone. A camera mixed with a phone. Who wants a camera that can call people, seriously. That was rhetorical as I could see the practical application in various second world societies and fourth world Atlantean settlements. And I’m ALL for sea people. Which is greater than or equal to or less than 103%. (103% is the same amount as putting three more M & Ms into a jar that only holds 100 M & Ms for all you visual learners out there). 

How could I possibly enjoy this night more? I’ll give you a hint, it involves an armless pianist, Ingrid Michaelson’s second youngest twin sister and a guitar that makes tears cry people.

Needless to say, the night ended with my sudden involvement in Lady Gaga karaoke and a bruise on the side of my rib cage that can only be explained by one thing: Peanuts. I couldn’t resist, there may have been an elephant, and my middle name is not Franklin.

Thank you and good night,

A month left to pack + 34 years of age =the perfect package

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Thursday, September 27, 2012 9:59 PM

            It’s not everyday that you find yourself looking at yourself in a four-way mirror wondering if the yous that you don’t see are looking at you in one of those “I just cryogenically froze my brain cells so I don’t have to thank anyone anymore” type stare, but in a casual way of course? (breathe here) Anything stern would be uncharacteristic of yourself. (yawn with a small cough at the end here) Reflecting on reflections reflects the reflecting view of reflecting reflectors. I have exhausted my “the alphabetical symbol proceeding ‘Q’” Hence my lack of using that symbol within the finite length of this blog post. Now walk with me to the opposite side of my head in which we shall dissect the most enthusing of topics. The occupation ,or A “job” in lay man’s dialect, is an activity in which one man and/if woman   suck up to an exponentially heavyweighted man named “Bensodd” who happens to have his associates in mechanical bull fighting, (slid past the system by cheating his way in and out of hat dancing 402, he’ll tell you it was because of a chuck donkey in his leg.) His associates causes him not only to be qualified to tell people what they most obviously do in a sloppy, yet cornucopius way, but also gain access to a new all inclusive package to Satellite TV which includes a decade supply of Depends and enough Slim Jims to build a life sized imitation of Splash Mountain at Disneyland . “Don’t get below the man with the wooden face, said his shopkeepee.”  

Fo’ the definition of "occupation" I give you one final statement: “Don’t be Bensodd, because ‘odd’ is not a great suffix to have, especially amidst _______________”.


Ingrid Michaelson turns to the west A LOT!

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, September 24, 2012 8:53 PM

Did you say Arabs?
No, don’t get me wrong.
Alright… what did you say?
Open Wide
Nah, I’m not a huge orange juice guy
"It’s motor oil"
Why was that the only thing in quotation marks?
Don't change the subject.
Well played
I don’t feel so well
Don’t we all…
"Good point"
Bad dull
I know that’s what you said, I just don’t like goodbye’s
That’s why I took out the “good” part
You are so considerate
Vote for me
For what?
Anything, I just want to see my name on a ballot?
I can make up a-
But ther-
Oh! Now I understand.
I don’t think you do…
Prove it
Bring on the crawdads
I prefer the brothers-in-law
Picky picky
No, that’s the name of my tablet.
You name your assets?
Don’t judge me, the camera adds 205 pounds
I can’t really see your physical appearance,  right now we’re just text on a page.
I can dream can’t I!?!
I have somewhere to be…
Where ever it is, be great.
Too far…
It’s okay.


"Dear Grammar, will you help suffix my car?"

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, August 10, 2011 12:42 PM

This is a post. But, not the wooden variety. Nor the kind that brings you bills or Bills if you're rich enough to pay for the ever-increasing post-age rates. And was there a time when the post office was called the pre-office? Or maybe just the office? When did somebody decide it was okay to name a cereal company "Post". What does this stand for? Post expiration date? Post-modern expressionism? Anything that starts with post makes me feel as though it is too late to do the subsequent verb. Post-haste: Crap! I always miss Haste!" And if someone can be post-mordem, do I get to refer to my physical state as mordem? Is there something after post, like post-post. A p.p.s. on life? Let us analyse prefixes until they become postfixes. That's also a funny conundrum, post is a prefix. Heh. Words.


This way has the same amount of letters in it as That way. Oh indecisions...

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Thursday, May 19, 2011 6:12 PM

I ran into a bug, which was highly eerie since I am not the size of a bug nor is a bug the size of me. This one was different not only in size but in demeanor. I have always imagined that meeting a personified bug would have been similar to the moment you realize that a candy bar you are about to consume is four days past the expiration date. Which is in the "so close I might be able to get away with only minor indigestion" range. And you are conflicted between eating it and giving it to a nine year old. This bug hadn't inherited any of these characteristics from the chromosomes he had purchased a week earlier from a one horned gypsy with, as he will later describe, "eyes of half melted candlesticks and an odor that was nominated 'most likely to become banned from public' in high school or the pheromonal equivalent. Pheromonal makes me laugh. " End quotation mark.

Anyway, so this bug. He turned out to be a bouncer. Why I hadn't thought of a dung beetle guarding my dance heavy heavy dance club, I haven't a clue.

Children: Behind you! The clue!
Me: Did you say a clue?
Children: Yes, a clue it's behind you. Look!
Me: Is it over here?
Children: No, behind you!
Me: Where?
Children: You are a directionally challenged moron. This show sucks.

Me: Hey look a clue!

This clue pointed me toward the straight door of a crooked house. I thought it was a joke until I saw the horizontal mailbox and the upside down cocker spaniel looking at me with a very disoriented look. It was very similar to the look I receive when I wake up on the wrong side of gravity. Nauseous mornings. I was trying hard to think of why I was at this house, but the only thing on my mind were the faint last words of an acquaintance in Europe that just got hit by a mail truck.  "I can't think of a pun!!!!" I wonder if he ever thought of one...

So the cocker spaniel opened the door, or more disolved it if you catch my brain. And I entered inside. This story seems like it should have an end. Maybe later. I'm late for my checkers match with a blind guy. It's as easy as putting a baby in a blender. No that's way too dark... It's as easy as stacking hay pennies.

Children: Yaaaaaaaay. Pennies.
Me: HAY pennies! Not yay pennies....america's future is unfortunately ill.




If the sun were a cookie, it would be a snickerdoodle.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, May 16, 2011 8:00 PM

             I had a literal meltdown the other day when unexpected company showed up at my door. It was the thirty-second last person/thing I would have guessed behind that door. It was the sun. With what little manners he was capable of having, the sun barged right into my living room. The smell of scorch filled the room. The room had little room to begin with and now it was grampy cramped.

        "Are you freaking kidding me?!1!!?" I said with 50% more than an inkling of spite under my voice, "I just cleaned up in here! Now my couch is on fire, I assume that small lump on the ground is my canary, and my turkey is now well over well done. And why in the heck are you wearing sunglasses when YOU ARE THE SUN!! And wipe that stupid grin off your face. And you brought a friend! How lovely. Oh that's a space shuttle? Did you get hungry on your descent from your lofty throne o mighty sun??? Have you ever heard of Elton John!? Apparently not. It's going to be longer than a long, long time for him! Now will you please exit my household and place your bulbous volume lightyears away from here so I don't have to look at your ugly face when I'm trying to watch America's Next Top Model on my newly charcoal print television set? And what's up with you trying to hook up with the moon huh? You think you can both be on the same side of the world at the same time?! Who ever made you the sun? Whoever it was really screwed up, a white dwarf could do a better job than you. Now go get your fat gas back into the solar system. And stop convincing children to look at you, it's creepy and damaging to their pupils. My favorite part of the day is when you set!"

      And that is how the sun became unconfident in his abilities to shine and lit the world on fire one forest fighting bear at a time.