Evolution of the first sea worm.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, May 31, 2010 12:28 PM





As I rode in the car my mind casually wandered off into the corners of my apparently square brain. I felt two consecutive bumps at the same time I hearing two slightly faint shrieks. I didn't come out of my head to see what it was. I was on a journey. After completely analyzing the fall of the Berlin wall, we made it to the building. I carefully stepped out of the car. Just in case the ground wasn't actually ground and it was a trap. It was fine. I walked as cinnamon toast crunch fell out of my teeth. We were getting closer. My skin was already starting to crack. Had it really been that long? I pulled on the handle of the building and my forefinger broke off, turning into dust. We had to get going. I started to run. I leaped over the gate to the back of the building. The radical hair-changing receptionist had a 7500 military-grade taser rifle. They say that when crazy intense stuff happens it seems to go in slow motion. It's a lie, just like when your mom said your rabid ferret went to a field full of dandelions where he could eat all of the baby rabbits he wanted. Your mom then felt bad that you didn't have your ferret, so that Christmas she gave you some brand new "not-ferret" slippers. I eventually got up from the floor. Slightly to moderately embarrassed and skin so dry it could be used as a cutting board. She also made me pay two dollars to get in. I found my way to the water. Getting in was similar to licking a broken light bulb. Odd, slightly painful, but refreshing. I absorbed the water as my skin finally got re-hydrated. When Ursula, the underwater sea-witch, granted me legs (she only charged me my voice, sucker, I'm a terrible singer.) I turned down the sea-kelp moisturizer ,due to the increasing rate of guppy-labor. Also Ursula, or Yvonne, smells like rotting cheese-nips. I tried everything to keep moisturized, pantene pro-v, herbal essences, tar. Nothing seemed to work. This water felt nice. I then met a mermaid. Her only dream was to become a part-time bull rider. The only problem was that she didn't have insurance, or legs. So I gave her mine. I should have thought a bit before tearing them off. (Note: if you want to ask a girl on a date, don't rip your legs off in front of her. Not attractive.) I should have also maybe purchased some arms from Yvonne but she wanted my collection of oppulent outfits and furs...yeah right. Thus, I invented a hip dance move called the "slimy-earth-crawling-creature-that-are-frequently-seen-after-a-rainstorm," move.  
                                        

                                             

"I've seen enough horror movies to know that any weirdo wearing a mask is never friendly."

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, May 29, 2010 10:32 AM


Waking up, walking upstairs he finds you. No matter how far you run he will find you. He's everywhere. At your school, in your home, at work, even in your dreams. When you were out of the country, he seemed to have left you alone. You wonder if he'd stopped chasing you. You hoped. Taking a deep breath, almost not wanting to stop inhaling. The fresh air, the unfamiliar peace that you feel. It seems so perfect. You don't want it to end. You feel so free. Deep down inside you know this peace has to end. It's time to return home. The airplane swims through the blue. The clouds mind their own business as we soar. It's time to get off. He's there. The air in your stomach leaps out of your mouth. Unable to speak. You feel trapped. You feel surrounded. It's harder to breath now. The walls closing in as he attacks. One right after another. Like daggers in your spine. The pressure is far too great for you to withstand. Finding yourself trapped in a corner, you give up. You join his ranks of terror. Selling your soul to get away from the constant pain and fear. After a while, you stop noticing the agony you shed on those that surround you. It becomes a part of who you are. Before you were trying to run away from him. Now he is a part of you.


          Who is he? The word "like". Seriously people, stop using the word "like" how you use public restroom toilet paper. WAY TOO MUCH. I am declaring a ban on the word "like". Stop it, or be stopped.
                                            Irately,
                                                           Kyle
p.s. If you want to laugh click here!

NBA players: The golden age (part III of III)

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Friday, May 28, 2010 8:51 AM

(If you haven't read parts I and II, you clearly don't understand how a series works. Or how to count to five. Read them, do not pass GO and do not collect $200).


After BP cried himself into a frenzy he quickly resorted to unnaturally large speakers playing unnaturally loud music, listening to his favorite song, "Single Ladies." In that very instance, when the chorus had just started, The doorbell rang. It was so in sync with the music that no one had heard it. On the other side of the door, was a petite woman. Red hair, the waist about as thin as a kinked garden hose. As this finger-thin, thin-fingered lady grew impatient, she realized her right shoe was not tied how she likes it to be tied. She wondered how in the world it got that way in the first place. She untied, then re-tied, then zip-tied and then bought ties. This episode of obsessive compulsive behavior took the exact amount of time for BP's song of choice to get through the verse and the bridge. She rang the doorbell again. At the exact time for the doorbell and the chorus to match up again. She knows that BP is home, how? First clue, the speakers are a lot bigger than a hello kitty alarm clock and just make a little bit less noise. Second, Carrrl left his 1964 Peel Trident parked in front of the mailbox.

 The mailman was infuriated by the way, enough so that he left a really descriptive flyer with very neat images on his windshield. She concluded that the doorbell was broken. So she broke down the 65-foot Victorian cherry wood French doors with her twelve inch stilettos that were suitably colored life-sucking black. She only wore that color. I don't know if it's because of the discount for buying clothes that not even a dead walrus would look upon with satisfaction, or if she honestly wanted to slowly take away all the happiness in the world with her apparel. The door shattered. The pieces flew everywhere, but they landed neatly in the center room as a grand piano. She was good.
"BP, I heard your piggy bank is depleted." the words slithering across the air.
Carrrl, knowing BP for a total of however long it takes to listen to Beyonce's complete album gift set,                responded to Vanth, the young, powerhouse, woman with the very attractive glasses,"I'm sure he doesn't understand, you need to use smaller words."
   She obviously paid no attention to statements that start with vowels. "There is a reason I am here, to make you an offer I can't refuse."
    Carrrl objected, "don't you mean an offer YOU can't refuse?"
    "NO." The rafters shook and BP's long lost pet squirrel was not so lost anymore. It lied on BP's lap, he started to stroke it. "I want you to start doing endorsements," Vanth continued.
    BP thought hard....not about the offer....about the word endorsements. "Jeeves told me you might offer me one of those." He said, as if he just watched a marathon of Walker Texas Ranger. "I accept."
   Carrrl jumped in, broke the coffe table, and said," Don't you want to know what you'll be endorsing first?"
   "No, I think I can make my own decisions. What will I be endorsing?" BP asked.
   Vanth would have almost smiled if she could. "Wonderful, Muhahahaaha!" -awkward pause- "you will be endorsing my new invention! Edible Play-Doh!"
   BP took the job. For the next twenty three years, he filmed commercial after commercial. Was put on billboard after billboard. For an item that was edible, but tasted horrible. It also dried out unreasonably fast, to the point where you have to mix it with pieces of bread. At least that made it taste better.
   Carrrl ended up finding true love! And she is very beautiful.

   I promised to answer one more question. Answer: Yes it is, just ask Carrrl. Oh wait! You can't, he's dead. THE END.

                                           Anthropologically, 
                                                                        Kyle

NBA players: The golden age (Part II of III)

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Thursday, May 27, 2010 9:29 AM



 (If you haven't read part one, look yourself in the eyes and slap your hand, then go read it).


After finding out that the climax of their lives ended at twenty-eight really rocks their world. After watching several marathons of the Brady Bunch they try hiring someone to figure out what they should do with the rest of their lives, only to find out that their sixteenth credit card has been maxed out. When you max out a no-limit credit card, YOU know there's something wrong. Remember we are talking about celebrities. They have no idea what "det" is. They then ask themselves, "if I were an average person, with no sense of potential or future, what would I do?" Obviously to ask Jeeves.
"Jeeves, what do basketball players do after the NBA?"
"Endorsements or you could hunt for crocodiles and film yourself with manta rays, I hear a spot opened up recently."
"Thanks J, here's a fifty." After fifty-six minutes of trying to find where the money goes, he gives up and goes to sign some more pictures of himself to take his mind off of things.
      His doorbell rings, to the tune of Beyonce's "Single Ladies." At the door is a three foot thirteen inch man-child that obviously can't park, plays way too much backgammon, and only knows how to shave the right side of his face.
   "HelllO! I am Carrrl, I am from the IRS, I need to talk to you for just two clicks of a whistle."
Thinking IRS is an abbreviation for a highly recognized sports team, where in fact it is a lowly-recognized sports team, "the IRS scrabblers," he let's them in.
   "Now [insert stereotypical basketball player name here, it can be a 4th grade nickname as well], you have no money, your credit is almost zero, your bank account is completely empty, your house is in foreclosure, you have an adversary proceeding Thursday, your assets are frozen and your ex-wife wants her blender back. Now, are there any words you didn't understand?"
      BP(basketball player) responds, "Foreclosure, adversary proceeding, no, zero, assets, and pathogenesis."
Carrrl ponders for a moment, "This thin green stuff you use for wallpaper. IT's GONE!"
BP realizes what this actually means, just to check he asks, "so, I don't get whatever I want anymore?"
Carrrl responds, "No, you don't."
     "What does "No" mean?
     "Oh, right. It means...(Carrrl shakes his head left to right while he pulls a frowny face.")
 BP, just sits on his golden horse and cries...











 Next time.....Is there hope for this absurdly-large childhood bankrupt prodigy? Will Carrrl ever find true love? Is there really such thing as anthrax?
             Stay tuned for part III....
                                              
                                        Empathetically,
                                                                 Kyle

NBA players: The golden age (Part I of III)

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, May 26, 2010 6:54 AM

NBA players have a relatively short career life. They start training when they turn three by their over enthusiastic fathers that were terrible at basketball in high school and want to brain-wash their children, not just to make their craniums nice and shiny but, that they  will go on to become that popular kid that he never was. What deranged daddy doesn't know is that when his son becomes rich and famous, he will still feel under-achieved. It's like climbing mount everest to make up for the all the terrible cliche names that Dane keeps calling you, as he wears his unreasonably child-sized high-school championship leather jacket and goes for the phone, knocking over all of the office supplies on his desk . When you come back down, you are still ridiculously short. Some might be surprised to find the average career length of a NBA superstar is 4.82 years. Children grow up dreaming of going to college, becoming the starting center. Later, getting drafted by the NBA and pick up a ridiculous living pattern.* What they don't expect is the sudden highly impersonal text message from their coach stating, "yrr 4.82 yrs R up, dn't cm bck.....vr." we can find out what he was trying to say using high-class technology translators. 
We can translate this from "regressing-quickly-back-to-a-simpler-more-neanderthalic-era-nese," (when "ur brb, txt rofl" meant "you can't possibly be serious accepting that  job offer from those liberal big-wigs at the quarry, can you?") to proper not-so-modern day english. What he was really trying to say was, "Your 4.82 years are up, Don't come back, ever."  
        What's next?   


      Stay tuned for parts II and III....
                                                       Improperly, 
                                                                              Kyle


* This includes: filling their bathtubs with cheese whiz, paying the maid, who claims she is half-Asian, to clean it up after you realize that it was a horrible idea, playing poker with gold coins and swallowing a few as a good party gag, and buying a national monument that you will later put on craig's list.  

Nearly fail-proof.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, May 25, 2010 9:22 AM

p.s. (pre-script) Anyone that doesn't know, when there is an asterisk *, that word or phrase that it's connected to  relates to the * at the bottom of the page.


      When you see a building burning to the ground, do you watch it as it crumbles? Or do you run in and try to save whoever and whatever you can? There is a very small window in which you choose. One step determines your immediate future. Does your momentum take you forward or back? That decision could be one of the hardest decisions you make in your life. It's almost as hard as choosing to buy an Engelbert Humperdinck CD or Jackson 5 "Greatest Hits".

   










If you do end up going into the fire, make sure you come out with something or it's best just to not come back at all. Coming out empty handed would be like finding yourself coming back from getting some snacks from the guy at the snack counter who looks like he rubs popcorn on his face. You're waiting for the premier of "Bible stories on ICE," to start with your super gorgeous date that you tricked into coming with you by becoming business partners with her dad in the new "virtual reality Dungeons and Dragons: Infernal Skrythenfar2* " . You smudge through several couples, a blind guy, his seeing eye dog, and your parents to sit down with with your date,to find that she is sitting with another guy three rows back. You hear her cute hysterically blond plaugh (knock-off version of a laugh, the synthetic kind). In this case you figure it's better to escape your problems and join, "The Homestead International for Social Suffering Underclassmen Commonly Kicked out of Stuff", more commonly known as T.H.I.S.S.U.C.K.S.(It's a working title.) So, don't come out of a burning building without anything at all. That is a terrible, terrible mistake.
 Since the likelyhood of that situation actually happening is about as probable as your cheese nips actually coming to you as you hold your hand stretched out with your fingers flexed, hoping with all your might, in that very moment, that the force was real.
 You know you have all tried that at least once.
All I'm trying to say is you most likely won't be thrown into a decision like running into a burning building. However, just in case, when I become a boss one day, I am going to have all people applying for a job at my company be required to take the "worst case senario" exam. If they get above a 50%, I will cut their company life insurance policy. I will feel at least 50% confident that they won't have a need for it, shall the event arise. I will include some example questions just in case you too would like to save money on insurance policies and take an overly expensive, kodak moment vacation on your companies expense.
                      
                           World Case Senario Exam

                    "Let's begin. THERE IS ONLY ONE RIGHT ANSWER!!! You have thirty seconds to complete each question. Emergencies don't give you much time either Jared!!! And Carl, No, you cannot write with jane's EpiPen. Just start."
    
        1. If you were trapped under a heavy object and there was a rabid werewolf in a 1930's prison jumpsuit in the building, would you...


                A. Take a picture with your camera phone.
                B. Take some time to make an epic monologue about how everyone should save themselves and how great your life has been and who you love, as the werewolf licks his chops just after finishing off your right thigh.
                C. Grab the silver bullets you keep in your left sock and the pistol in your right and fight for your life.
                D. Cry while trying to convince the werewolf that your current age exempts you from dying.
                E. Update your status on facebook to say, "I wuz totaly eated by a werewolf." Then in your last moments alive, finding out that thirteen people "liked" your new status.


        2. What sick trick would you pull while jumping from a building over a six-hundred-fifty-two meter drop into a "you shouldn't go in here after 3 pm" alley to another slightly de-elevated building?


       1. An impossible
       2. A method grab
       3. A Casper
       4. "The Jimmy Stewart"
       5. Death or severe injury (a sure crowd pleaser)
       6. Try and say the entire alphabet backwards and upside down while airborne.


    




          
3. If you are parachuting and goose-hunting shotgun bullets hit holes into your chute. Do you...


                           A. Since you always carry duct tape around, you fix it up real good and make a tri-fold wallet while you're at it.
                           B. Finally figure out how to play two nose flutes simutaneously.
                           C. Yell for help. Hahahaha
                           D. Rope together some nearby seagulls with your abnormally large insect buddies (clearly showing that your parents didn't teach you how to pick friends) and land in a strange nest which in the end turns out to be somebody's hair.
                           E. All of the above.
                           F. None of the above.
                           G. One of the above.
                           H. B
                           I.  D
                           J. Sandwich
                              
            These are just some of the many real-life scenario questions that let me know if my future employees are going to need insurance. Also if they are going to talk to HR when I do my way-too-well-thought-out halloween pranks. My plan is nearly fail-proof.
                                                
                                          Pragmatically,
                                                                  Kyle


   *This isn't real. I'm sorry. I cried when I found out it wasn't real too. You're not alone. Well, yeah you are.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, May 24, 2010 3:46 PM

          I don't know what it is about today that just feels like I'm in a reality TV show. But there's no prize at the end and the host is this little green guy that follows me around threatening to take my child and refuses to tell me his name. It started out waking up to an alarm clock that I never remember turning on... It woke me up like that annoying over-weight single guy with the sideways growing mustache and unconnected sideburns that sings really loudly in the public bathroom while you are trying to play sudoku. I walked up the endless flight of stairs to read the news of the day. If there was another name for news, it wouldn't have the word 'new' in it. Then I did a double take. Then a triple. Then I added cheese to that triple with a pickle on the side. IT WAS SNOWING!!!! इ कैन'टी बेलिएवे आईटी वास फ्रेअकिंग स्नोविंग. (edited for our younger and older, still alive, readers.) I cried, then threw something. Then picked it up. Threw it again. Then ate it. Then spit it out. Then threw it.
            My brain had one of those "I just realized I have something to do," moments. They come every time Michael Jackson dies. So like twice. I had a "job application aptitude assessment for apes and 

abnormally awesome semi-adults." It's right down my alley. I quickly showered. Then slowly showered. Then got dressed and ran out the door. (literally, it was still closed and I opened it with my face.) I promised I'd fix it later. I screamed as I ran, a very manly screech, to fend off soviet spies and peeps, the scary sugary marshmallow creatures with the beady little painted on eyes kind whose only mission is to 
make us get needles stuck into our mouthes by those blood-shot eyed dentists. I drove as fast as I possibly 
 could. That would be eight miles per six hours. This stuff they call snow which is, by the way, completely unnecessary, stopped me from progressing. Luckily, I brought my snow shoes. After I had passed the seventeen wrecks and three herds of utterly confused and misplaced flamingos, i finally arrived at the government-issue style building. The name of the company is something they created while furiously stirring their bowl of alphabits the morning before the big company name reveal. Names like Xango, Cisco, and Publix food markets, were created with the same method. I walked in thirty minutes late. The e-mail said, "Be here 5 min. early or you will NOT be admitted." Why don't they just put, you're appointment is at nine, if you come on time, you will not be admitted. It doesn't matter, I got there at nine twenty-five. I walked up the the probably engaged receptionist who pressed a secret button combination on this cool machine and picked up what seemed to be a curved bar of sorts and started talking into it. She placed it back on the machine and said, "'Something with a K' will be right with you." "Thanks," I said like a sheep, sheepishly. Seconds later a woman walked out of the door. Shook my hand like a business woman. It's kind of like a half shake with little bits of chocolate on the top. I was tempted to lick the chocolate bits, then concluded that would be "unprofessional."  She showed me to the waaaaaay out of date computers. They were like windows 2003s. Gross. She went on to explain what I would be doing. This is what I heard,
 "blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, it'll take you about two hours...blaaaaaaaaaaaaah" "what kind of test am I taking???" she continued, "...you'll also have to take this retina scan. Remove your shoes and socks and stick your feet here on this glowing green pad. Also what is your name?" 
"Kyle" 
"Ok kyle, you're new name is Bradley Mifson." 
"What is going on!!?" I wailed, "and what kind of last name is Mifson?"  
    I proceeded with the exam. It included complex algorithms and secret patterns I had to decode with my eyes closed and a pencil in my nose. Still don't know why that was relevant. Anyway, after my mind felt like it had been blended on medium-high speeds for two hours. I walked out of the exam room with smoke coming off of the still burning hole in my argyle sweater. I also had NO IDEA where my right shoe was. K- girl left her office and spit out the following robotic phrase, "thank you for your time in taking this exam, we will send you an application through your e-mail and will let you know if you have passed for the obstacle course part of the test." 
"What.... I thought this was a customer service phone thingy?" 
She didn't respond. I think her batteries wore out. I'm highly convinced she IS a robot. I don't know what gave it away, how she fell over and made a loud clinking sound comparable to hitting a stanley's hammer on someone's metal hip, or if it was the electrical wires short-circuiting out of her neck. All in all. I am done. In the words of my brother, "work blows." 
                                       Irrecoverably, 
                                                                Kyle


In Memory of Bradley Mifson

It's not like I meant to...

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, May 22, 2010 7:07 PM




  The following is almost based off a true story:  


      Have you ever been at a party and wanted desperately to grab the bass guitar sitting next to you and smash it repeatedly into the wood piano?
      The wind grew fierce as the moon made it's escape from the mountains. We followed the trail of smoke rising above the rooftops. The warm glow bounced across the houses, playing tricks in the night. The invitation said nine thirty. It was nearly ten. We snuck slowly along the house in a "I might rob you" leisurely squamp (it looks just like it sounds.) We heard the voices growing louder with every step. I couldn't pick them out individually. It was like listening for a dime in a trash compactor. We were quite unsettled by the shared internal question between the three of us, "is this the right place?" There are only two ways to find the answer to that question. We could: A. dress up like phone repairmen, knock on the door with a "cellular emergency". We would then split up and search the house for pictures, journals, birth certificates, etc. This might then give us a clue as to whose house it is. We would then deduct if this were the right house or not. Or B. we could walk around back and talk to the group of people sitting around the fire to see if they were our friends. In 20-20 hindsight, we should have probably picked B... Turns out it was the right house.




  There are many different levels of how well you can know someone. We'll put it on a scale from 2 to 9.5. Nine and a half being the people you know really really, almost too much, well. And two being the people you don't know at ALL. For instance, almost everyone in China and most all of your facebook friends. Anywhere between 3 and 7 are the " I kinda know who you are, so I guess that means we have to talk about our current lives and future plans and we quickly, internally realize how we are currently doing nothing and our future plans involve Star Craft, ordering a cheese pizza, pig wrestling and falling asleep in a construction yard. After deeply pondering this, we slip off alone into dark corners contemplating, 'Is that the reason I got the restraining order* from that distantly cute girl I used to stalk or maybe the reason was from when I made her flan that was molded into a surprisingly accurate representation of her face?" kinds of people. We'll just say there were a few 4's and a couple 5's and several 2's. The occasional 7's and 8's. And a really cute 2 that I halfway wish was an 8. Then the 1 came in and totally ruined the party.
     The story of this moral is that if you don't have confidence, you don't have anything.
                          Improbably,
                                                 Kyle
*With the sweet new privacy settings on facebook, it makes situations like this alright.
   


Oh my gosh! Look at all this HAIR!!!

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Friday, May 21, 2010 10:16 AM

  





    Yesterday I had the opportunity to support my sister in the Taylor Andrews hair show. With her sweet purple rimmed glasses, she definately fit in with the other hair designers. My sister has cool hair, so she's fine. However, many times I have asked myself while getting my hair cut, "why does the girl cutting my hair have a mutant ferret attached to her scalp. After careful anilization of the ferret, it turns out to be her actual hair. A
wave of fear washes over me. Worse than when I found out that guy who came through our window every Christmas eve taking our electronics wasn't actually santa and that santa wasn't even real. 
        Hair show. 

        We had the lovely honor of sitting next to a man. This man was drinking thirst quenching foamy apple juice that smelled oddly like yeast. When that lovely aroma was mixed with his three week old body odor, love was in the air. I'm very certain that every time he breathed an endangered species went extinct. He was alone. At least he had a cool beard-mustache combo. So strange he's not married.
   I sat in the factory-made foam seats as my ears slowly vomited to death as the music blasted at the "we're-trying-to-communicate-with-neptune" volume settings. The show was about to begin. As the models walked out, i felt bad about the Taylor Andrews school. They are really struggling in this economy. They had to save money by cutting all of the girls dresses in half. They barely had anything to wear. They must have been freezing. Poor, poor models.
   The show ended with cheers. Our mead-made neighbor took that literally and chugged another cup of beer. As I started to file out in the herd of animal women with very intimidating hair the size of a small bus, fear came in again. Like the fear of the hairstylist, only worse. The hair on these women could eat you or stab you in the eye with their two-foot split ends. The military should really look into giving their soldiers long dreadlocks to whip enemies in the face. Trust me, it hurts. These models looked so harmless on the stage, like manikins. However, in reality they were all eight feet tall, with fangs for teeth, and black spiky wings tucked behind their dresses.    I'm also sure they forgot how to smile.
     I walked out into the clean air, taking a deep breath as if I haven't respirated in several years. I caught out of my eye a bald eagle fly out of the night sky and land in one of the models hair. It was a three bedroom, two bath Gothic style, Renaissance era hairdo nest, with a jacuzzi out back, right next to the trampoline and basketball court. The eagle looked at peace. Then the beer guy breathed. 
    After each show, the models take off their three-hundred-twelve pound wigs and return them to the Hogle zoo. They then have to go through six months physical therapy to be able to turn their heads sideways again. There's a saying, "pain is temporary, hair lasts forever." Or something like that.
    I want to send a shout out to my awesome, talented, purple-glasses wearing, energetic, sushi-liking, sushi-making sister Breanna. Didn't she do an amazing job on the zebra mane vampiress manikin model? Go Bree! Take that cake you so deserve! Eat some Ben and Jerry's. You've earned it.
                                     Inopportunely, 
                                                                 Kyle
                                                  

War of the round spherical things with people on them.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Thursday, May 20, 2010 8:42 AM

Why do I run? After every run, I feel like somebody hit me in the face with a bag of dead lizards. I guess it's the fact that I'm doing something healthy and makes up for the three layered chocolate cakes that I am so fond of. I asked my trusty magic 8 ball if I am going to keep running, it said"without a doubt, fatty". There is a bleak future ahead of me. 


Runners are programmed to be best friends with complete strangers, as long as they too are in the act of running. I passed several runners who were clearly running for their lives. They instantly turned their agonized, unhealthily pale faces into beaming, better than life smiles while I passed.They also try making small talk in the .5 seconds we have of talking time. 
"Heyhow'sitgoingniceweatherwe'...." 
There is a lot of uncertainty in the world, but in the world of running, one thing is certain, cars are the enemy. It's like cowboys and indians, aliens and humans, the IRS and your bank account, sonny and cher. I have a pretty good bet that if cars were to ever turn on humans, they would win. This is how it would go down: they would sneak out while we are sleeping in our lovely, desireably comfy, three throw pillow beds. They would have a secret meeting at the auto club where they would hire a bently as their CEO, the station wagon would tell surprisingly funny jokes to make up for his lack of...everything, and the mini cooper would sit in the back looking "too cool to be blowing the same carbon dioxide as these lemons," while drinking his can of Stan's single grade 5w40 supreme oil, flushed not drained. They would then, of course, get back for everything we have done to them. Putting oreos all over doors and windows, pouring sugar in the pipes, and even putting butter on the door handles. Oh the monstrosity! Then to finish off the epic battle between cars and humans, we would play a not well thought out game of red rover. That is how cars would win. 
                           Surprisingly,  
                                                       Kyle


                                                

Cloud watching and reminiscing

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, May 19, 2010 1:19 PM




What a day to cloud watch. We should all take a little bit of time today to just watch the clouds and think. Meditation. I have a strange fascination with clouds, not the creepy obsessive compulsive type, just a fascination. Many people have told me time and time again the science behind clouds. They will always remain a quiet mystery to me. The way they float in between worlds. And when the sun is laying down to sleep, they reflect the light of the sun to give us the grand finale for a long day. As I was sitting, pondering in my "smelling-the-roses" moment, I saw a bird. Flying as if weightless, painting the sky with its fluid dives. Removing limitations. Tactfully, the bird fluttered to a stop atop of a large office building, scanning. That bird was rightfully named Giovanni. This bird means business. One small, but fierce tweet and out came the stool pigeons, Max and Toodles. Fighting as always to be on the right side of "daddy G" ,as he was known. G never elected a right winged man, there were a few litigations. Then G took off using his wings like a pro, accompanied by M and T. They had the brilliant idea to cross the interstate without looking. They knew this day was coming, ever since G and Max were hatched, and Toodles grew out of the ground. They say those that do it are real mavericks. Who doesn't want to be a maverick right? 
                                         *                  *                 *
       The wreckage crew finally scooped up the last remains into the prepared bag filled with tomatoes and the best seasoning on this earth, "the best seasoning on this earth". After the aftermath and before the after-aftermath Jim turned to Zack, the trainee, and yelled to get over the sound of the speeding cars, "five blocked lanes of traffic, three broken collarbones and poor mrs. pepper, the black tabby that you always see roaming the streets, and eight popped tires all because of three stupid pigeons! I've missed 'Law and Order' three times this week, fried squash." 'Fried squash' is the name they gave Zach the trainee when he first arrived. Nobody knows why. As Jim sat there trying to lick the small piece of who knows what from his elbow, he didn't know, nor would he ever know that these pigeons were actually quite intelligent. They got mixed in with the wrong crowd. Also, their parents gave them thuggish names.               And that, my beautiful readers, is how you get completely off topic and lose yourself in your own mind.  
         My dream is to become good at what I love. I dream to one day become a husband and father. Not an ordinary husband or even an ordinary father. I want to be extraordinary (so twice as ordinary). I want to become a somebody, unique. I want to pave the path in front of me, with my wished up fantasies and my ever present failures. I want to find who I really am, preferably without living in a cave for several years. That is my dream. Inside of that dream, however, are thousands of mini-dreams that come from our daily wishing. I know you have wished upon a star. The glimmer of hope is still inside, even if the world says that star is just a star. You wish anyway. Maybe one day.
                                                        -Kyle

A dime a dozen

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, May 18, 2010 9:30 AM



There are words for just about everything. There's even a word for the absence of everything, nothing. There's a word for a "thing" which is entirely unspecified, something. If I were to go back in time, I would stop by that original meeting ,with the old guys in funny hats, the one where they created all of the words in the universe. I would have stopped them before they could have created the word "puss". I hate that word. One of the many words that is not as gross as puss is trial. Not the stand in front of an old guy who has a fascination for black dresses type of trial. I'm speaking of the "Why does this have to happen to me?" kind. I know I've passed through times in which I've wondered, "would life be better if I was somebody else?" Then I came to realize, we all start out in this life as dirt. Sometimes we feel like said dirt. However, in that dirt lies gold. We have all been given talents in our lives, we may not know it. We may feel as though our older brother took all of ours away at birth and is using them for his own benefit. We may even feel that since we didn't try harder as kids to refine these talents, that it's too late. That is untrue. The only mistake we can make is to not start NOW.
This morning I woke up to 8 lbs of love licking me in the face. If I didn't love her, I would have probably made her into a foot rug for disturbing my sleep. Sometimes I pity her for the cruel cruel girls that gave her the name "Pixie". It took me a couple of months to begin saying it out loud. As a guy, we try finding a way around saying such words, in this case I said names such as "Pixster", "Pixinator" and "Pixie stick." Then when she finished cleaning off my face, she laid down next to me and curled into a ball, then disappeared. It took a few minutes to find her again.
      This same morning I couldn't help but feeling older. Every day that goes by, we get older with less hair and less memory. I felt the hurry in refining my talents. In getting started for a successful future. I realized that NOW is the time. That if I don't start this instance, I am setting myself up for failure. Then I got bored and went back to sleep. Three hours later and re-energized for my pathway to success, I ate a delicious waffle. Chef Gordon has been very fascinated with bread making. Today was sourdough day. From the kitchen I heard sounds of explosions, clanking hammers and a few cat shrieks. He was experimenting again. Chef Gordon could and should open his own restaurant. I offered to be his marketer, he declined. We ate sourdough blueberry waffles, so delicious your socks catch on fire. But, since we threw away all of our smoke detectors ,due to the constant cooking catastrophes in the kitchen, I didn't notice the fire. As I was getting ready to eat my "I-would-kill-any-living-creature-to-eat-these" waffles, I realized I had forgotten the butter. Resting on the counter in a lovely three inch plastic clear bottle that was slightly tilting to the left as though it had been melted one or several times, sat the butter. I picked it up and started to open it. It didn't open. So I pulled harder, nothing. So I pried, pulled, yanked, yelled at it and even threatened it, still it didn't open. After ten minutes of fingernail breaking attempts with blood coming out from under my nails, it hit me. It was a screw on cap. That very moment, it became very clear to me, as a sign from above that I should not ever be a detective. 
        Today is one of those, "man I wish a circus group gets the wrong address and comes to my door offering me a job as a fire-breathing acrobat" kind of days. I don't really have a plan. I could literally do anything with  my day. I could join the army, I could go door to door selling my old sneakers, I could even go volunteer at a homeless shelter. I think I'll use my day to go find a job. Stop this tragic disease I have called, "Dad, can I borrow $___ so I can do _______ with _______?" disease. It targets young children and poor college students. We all have an inate inner desire to be independent. There are several popular songs that say so. I hope you all have a wonderful and productive, independent day. Please feel free to comment with suggestions, that way I might get better. 

                                                                            -Kyle 

....is this thing on?

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, May 17, 2010 5:31 PM




Hi, My name is Kyle. I am new to this whole writing universe. I got hooked approximately 4 days ago. I wrote a paper for my English class once. There's nowhere to go but up, right?

         Let's see. I guess I just talk about stuff... I was thinking the other day (some unspecified day other than today) about how others see the world. We have all wondered what it would be like to change bodies for a day. See what it's like from another's perspective. Shedding light on why they do what they do. It would give a whole new meaning to walking in another's shoes, since your's probably wouldn't fit in your new body. This has taken me to new heights in my metaphysical state of thinking (when things I say sound smarter than they actually are) I have been brought to a conclusion about judging others. We can't. We have no idea what they're thinking, their pasts, their situations. It's like not eating a fruit because it smells like it has been sitting out for two weeks and dragged through a leper colony, ridiculous. We must not judge. If someone has a knife in our back, maybe it's for a good reason? Perhaps, he just wants a hug. Speaking of that, I am going to talk with my good friend, the President, and make "hug a criminal day". I conclude that crime will go down .002% (Not based on any actual predictions or facts).

       Unemployment is plaguing the nation. People have been advised to walk around with masks to not contract this terrible disease. I can't find jobs anywhere, and when your dad fires you from doing the dishes you start to wonder if the reason you don't have a job is YOU. So I started my own business. That way I can't be fired and I get to make sweet business cards. It's called, "Kyle's business." I'm not entirely sure what we do yet, but we have a 401k plan. Sweet! We are currently hiring if anyone is looking for a job as a safety inspector at    -$20 an hour. You will guaranteed have the coolest boss. (Not backed by actual guarantee).
                                              
       What is a dream? Not the kind where you are being chased by random types of movie sweets, but the one you have stored way up in the cranny of your cranium. It's something we want more than anything right? Then why don't we have it? "It's for someone else.", "I'll never be good enough", "[add lame excuse here]". If we don't follow our dreams we aren't following anything. Did I say it didn't require work? hold on...checking to make sure I never said that....we're good. Where was I...? Yes. Work! I have had my share of people complaining about their current situation. My response: DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!! If you have done everything in your power to reach your dream and you can't, then I will give you a license to complain. It's like a license to kill only with less blood and less lawsuits. I'm talking about going for IT. Whatever IT may be. I'm not going to let people tell me what I can and cannot do! Except for city officials, Smokey the bear and God. What I'm trying to get at is just start! You don't have to quit your day job, your night job, or your graveyard shift job. Just try, learn, leap, trip, fall, get back up again, you're never gunna keep me down, grow, achieve. When I put a bunch of action words into a list, then it motivates you. Take your spare time and follow your dreams. Dreams will take you to unimaginable places and maybe a few imaginable ones.

            This was my first blog post. More to come. Stay tuned,
                                                                                             Kyle