Now presenting....The emotionally-unstable friends!

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, June 30, 2010 6:09 PM

"There's no blockades when it comes to reaching our potential, right Seeven?" Ginger asked with an inquisitorial smilrk(the only thing that fits between a smile and a smirk). She stopped to pick up a double-mint gum wrapper from the acid-stained subway station floor. "She was here," bellowed Seeven in a soprano range voice. "You are quite odd right now Seeven, almost as odd as when you ate off the face of that poor ol-" "Shut yer pan handle Ginge", Seeven yelped while tripping and losing the standing on one foot contest, "Yas know it was only that one time ye yeller bellied, not that I seen yer belly, grimy toad! No offense o' course". "None...taken?..." ginger hummed, "I still can't figure out why she'd come all the way down here just to litter?" This caused Seeven to bounce into an uproar, "R U stupid!? This is the only place she could have littr'd, don't ye get it? It'd be the last place one'd 'spect to be caught. We're in a friggen supway for crying on the inside over yer X-wife. By the way, X really does merk the spot. Right on me heart....." he sobbed heartily. Ginger tried to comfort the ape-born calligraphist. "Seeve, we'll get her. I promise. I can't really pinkie promise due to my osteoarthritis, but just know I'm promising you that much."
             In the end, the emotionally unstable duo hugged it out. They also went on to further their studies in Levi-Straussology and ended up in a think tank in the better half of Carolina.
                                            Idiosynchratically,
                                                                      Kyle

It's hard to hear ever since you bit off my ear, dear.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, June 29, 2010 5:44 PM

Turns out there is such a thing called the future. It exists. Years of scientific research have brought us to a breaking point just aching to be historically historic. No matter what we do, time keeps moving. If there was a button to stop time in just one moment, which would you choose? Be careful not to hit the button too late however, or you may find yourself stuck going to the bathroom for the rest of eternity or in some extreme cases dancing with wolves. Reflecting upon such an inquisitive inquiry I stumble across something inside me that I didn't know existed, a pause. Blank, white, clear, empty, stopped, blocked, trapped, unfound. I haven't yet lived the day that I want to pause for eternity. I have a feeling that that day involves a ring, bells, lots of people, a spitting bucket and Mike Tyson. Just imagining a Vegas fight against Mike shoots down other possibilities of an eternal moment. Bring it on.
                                        Conflictedly,
                                                   Kyle

XX - XY = 0, XY-XX = XY. I don't like these odds.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, June 28, 2010 6:14 PM

Love is a matter-of-fact thing. It's either there or it's not, as a matter of fact. There are two parts to any relationship (in the man vs. woman kind). The first and most important factor in the initial seventeen days of the U.S.S. anti-platonic relationship would be the attraction to physical appearances. Which is based off the coast right in between This-might-actually-work-for-once Shore, and I-might-as-well-drown-myself-in-a-crowded-arcade-now, I'm-about-to-completely-embarrass-myself Coast Now, usually my beaches are plagued with my lack of confidence and trying so hard to be myself that I am somebody else, somebody similar to Mike Tyson in a comatose state. This time, that was my plague. For blogging all over the web purposes, I have given the girl that doesn't like me for me a nick name, the Leucistic Red-winged Blackbird Piref. Why you may ask? Well, she is gorgeous, a real gem. The sand in my hourglass, the cup in my cake, the serial in my killer. She is drop-living luminescent. That is, as I have said, just the half of it. The other half has to do with a joke created between high-school students taking them quickly up the popularity ladder straight into a 9' by 6' barred prison cell. "Hey, I heard you and Christine have chemistry together, hehehahahahaflemhahablechhahaha. Period A3, Bwahhahakhkdlkjkkkkdjafjhahah." Prison. To illustrate my point, lets try and make a chemical equation out of this possible, not probable, relationship. We are going to put that Blackbird is the sodium and the chlorine. I will be the water. Now, sodium and chlorine are both great together, while water is watching from the far distance. Preferably the length of at least 6,593 campbell's 
chicken noodle soup cans away. Horizontally. When water tries to go and talk to the progressively attractive chemical compound, THIS happens. As you can clearly see with at least one of your good eyes that this situation, in any of its forms cannot be used for the good of mankind (in the preservation of life sense). 
                              Introspectively, 
                                                     Kyle


I live a health bar-reducing lifestyle.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, June 26, 2010 12:40 PM

In the matter of seconds, one's life can flip 180 degrees. Just as mine has.

My hand slightly quivered as I held the fine point BIC in my right hand. My signature came out a bit flustered and shaken. They say the signature is the window of the soul. And by "they", I mean the three calligraphy professors at the University of Tennessee with names all based off 1950s sci-fi television shows. If they were to analyze my signature, which is often mistaken for a blind scribble or a third-century hieroglyphic, they would concur that in the very moment that I signed my apartment lease form, I was nervously excited. When one moves out, it is a sign of freedom, independence. It is the start of a new life. It was the start of my new life, again. Everything seemed to be going my way, a.k.a. south-east. When it started not going my way was when Breneider and I found out that my apartment was on the top floor. I was decently fine since I was only carrying one of the suitcases and a palmful of papers. Breneider was complaining like a bent muffler. My lair laid leering with a little number four on the door. The number four is neither a good number nor a bad one. Just a number. I took a breath, it wasn't the deep kind of breath, just a normal person exhalation. I opened the door. I was greeted with a "Can I help you" stare. Shortly followed by the words "can I help you". My new roommate, Ryan "ribcage" Michaels, sat in his nest playing an odd box with a small man stuck inside who shot spells out his eyes and sang songs that lured cats to join weight-loss programs. "I live here," I inserted,
obviously throwing off the space time continuum that surrounds such a "health bar reducing" lifestyle. "You got the middle room," i heard him chant. I briefly paused to wonder if this was a good thing, a bad thing, or not a thing at all. Turns out it was a magic thing, which wasn't even one of my three options. Tricky magicians. My mere presence in such a cracker jack box sized shared room seemed to defy all forms of gravity, physics, ethics and Lamaze breathing techniques. This is just the beginning of a ride in which you are required to keep your seat belt insecurely fastened, all limbs outside the ride at all times, and your tray table waaaaay down.
                          Hesitantly,
                                          Kyle

I didn't know that was her oxygen tube that I unplugged.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, June 23, 2010 9:11 PM

I cannot recall the day of the week we are on. I have no idea if it's morning or night. There's a constant buzzing inside of my head. It sounds like the buzz of moving machinery. I guess it's slowly and/or quickly driving me insane. I wonder, if I am able to diagnose my insanity, does that disqualify me from being so? Time seems so fake. Like a joke some guy played on the world so he could make up the word "late" and the idea of pay deductions. I wake up to the darkness and sleep when it's light. Bats envy me. Also Asian school boys with pocket protectors. Before I forget Je Xiou owes me two of his holographic super-being cards. When you sleep as I do, the days are only sixteen hours instead of twenty-four. Waking up every day is like pole vaulting without a pole, or a vault. And going to sleep only comes when I have finished watching every single pilot episode for this spring line up. Commenting on all of them. Liking none. I wish that I could reach through the computer screen and backhand the writers. Then apologize and send them a basket full of fruit. Then go play a spotting game of dance dance resolution and go home stealing their table ornament. Then apologize and trade it for their plasma screen television.
                                         Pandemically,
                                                              Kyle

You see the coolest things when you're blind.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, June 22, 2010 11:31 PM


The other day I found myself at a table so crowded I felt alone. To my right was a mute robot with honest turrets. That caused for some awkward conversation. To my left was a man that wishes he was my grandpa. And directly in front was a Martian that thought we all spoke the same language that she did.... While grandpa was attempting to remember impossibly obscure facts involving colors of fabrics that haven't ever been heard of, the robot repeatedly smacked me in the face while trying to tell me that his burrito was awfully hot. The Martian began to swallow large amounts of something in unconventional ways. The conversation grew 
progressively more and more lethal. I quickly ate my beef and potato burrito and took my leave. Grandpa was still trying to teach me a lesson that would involve me one day ending up working in a warehouse when I should be retired drinking melted chocolate through a twisty straw topped with a completely useless umbrella. It came time to return to work. My burrito had the same thought. Within twenty minutes I was writhing on the ground telling my friend what to say to my wife if the worst were to happen. He started kicking me and writing on my forehead to remind me that I had no wife. I woke up later missing a kidney.
                                                           Practically,
                                                                            Kyle   

It's actually an hourplastic, we're on a tight budget.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, June 21, 2010 10:17 AM

Time. Since ancient times it has been something measured. It has been something planned. It's something that can be wasted, as well as used wisely. It can be shared and it can be stolen. It can be used and it can be broken. In God's world, time is man's creation. In man's world it is order in a chaotic state of being. Some talk about maximizing our time. In order to do that, we must have a clear objective. That objective can vary from person to person. One's objective may involve becoming the best possible person they can be. In order to achieve such a grandiose dream, one must remove the unnecessary tasks. Some of these tasks may involve using both a spoon and a fork for the same meal, using a hatchet, and/or feeding fish with fish food. The
corresponding time-saving solutions for such common problems are A. buy a re-chargeable spork    B. use a chainsaw or a beaver, pay him in bank notes   and C. chocolate syrup. Saving these simple seconds can get you several sentences farther in your reading of "slowly and very self-diminishingly changing yourself for the better, for dummies." You are well on your way of becoming the next "good guy". In my case, I aim at finding out who I am. I figure if I cut down from watching four movies/day to only three and watching the TV-show 23 instead of 24, I can gain some ground. Let's take this week to ask, "does this attract me or detract me from becoming an amateur angle grinderer?"
                                      Pensively,
                                                      Kyle
                                            

There are three types of people in this world and I am not one of them.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Sunday, June 20, 2010 2:13 AM

Sleep is completely worthless. Follow me. We awake to an obnoxious wrench-in-a-blender alarm clock seemingly always set an hour before you actually want to be woken up. Feeling like your head is trapped in a water filled zip-lock bag for at least thirty minutes. And along with the undeniable feeling of grogginess comes the insufferable morning breath that has caused at least five civil wars. And you realize there are no towels in the bathroom AFTER entering the shower. Eventually you dry yourself off with your ten-year-old toothbrush that has faded into a mouthwatering french-green color. Moseying on upstairs, finding the cereal you think you enjoy only to find all of the bowls dirty and the only clean spoons are bigger than your face. Finally putting the many parts of your breakfast experience together, you discover that the milk is the consistency of jelly beans,  and all that's left of the cereal is the gross powder moldering in the corner of the cardboard box that gave you a paper cut yesterday. According to the highly detailed statistics run by the state physics laboratory of Kylevania, represented by highly colorful graphs on Mrs. Penny's 5th grade class' construction paper, the average sleep time of teenagers in Slovenia is 5-6
hours/night. The average life span of such rebellious teenagers has, over the years, declined to a mere 84 years. There are debate-ably 365 days in every year. Making the average life span, in days, at least more than 365 days. If we were able to cut sleeping from our list of bodily needs, we would save a lot of time that should rightfully belong to watching every TV show ever brainstormed. Other bodily necessities that could and should be cut would be putting on chapstick and inflating boating tubes by mouth. Down with sleep, up with upness.
                                        Politically,
                                                        Kyle

Is it shamwow in here, or is it just me?

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Friday, June 18, 2010 10:28 PM

When the words "current economic situation" are spoken, I immediately think of a machine gun with legs killing innocent tourists at Disneyland. In other words, not good. One of the ways that it is brutally killing off innocent civilians is through taxes. We seem to be getting taxed out of our minds. How can we combat this? My plan is actually quite simple. It involves using the tax system to our advantage. Fighting fighting with fighting. Write-offs are the answer. Listen closely. If you have a great reason for using and/or/nor/for buying something, you can write it off.  The secret to the system is that you can write off anything. For example, I am planning on getting a write-off for my constant wearing of pants as a business expense. My reasoning: without pants, I would have no business. I am also going to write off air under the category of  "Labor costs for workers who make my products." I am going to write off my cat's three newborn kittens as "interest." Under the "insurance" category I will evidently put my new Will Smith "Men in Black" oven mitts.(really awesome by the way, when you bring your thumb in it says "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that your auntie? Then that must be your uncle over there!" and 13 other wild and sarcastic remarks). Take a moment and fight this Goliath called the IRS* with creative write-offs that they wont see coming. And if all else fails and you get audited, just plead the fourth. Just take a look at our celebrity sponsor before and after using write-offs to his advantage!




                                            Abdominally,
                                                                 Kyle


*IRS stands for "International Rip-offs and Scams". They are predicted to be bankrupt by 2015.
                                                         

Definition: Angle-face

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Thursday, June 17, 2010 4:07 PM

One with a face with a whole bunch of angles.
                   Anamorphically,
                                       Kyle

Statistically speaking, that dress does make you look fat.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, June 16, 2010 3:02 PM

There is almost nothing more intimidating than people who shop at the big and tall store, except for the people who shop at the tiny and sharp-toothed store. Walking down the warehouse floor, double checking to see if I was actually awake and this wasn't one of those dreams that causes you to lose fifteen pounds during the night. Looking back, I could have probably just pinched myself instead of jumping in front of the floor waxer. I continued my promenade to the security desk. The next few seconds were going to change the course of my Everbright© future. A man, comparable to a 1988 Peterbilt 378 flatbed heavy duty truck with semi-automatic transmission, bounced down the hall causing major earthquakes in seventeen different third-world countries. I passed through that two-and-a-half second awkward inner battle (which are pretty frustrating since I never know whether to kill myself or let myself kill myself) where I wonder if I should say "Hi" or lie on the ground and pretend that I'm dead so he won't notice I'm there. Despite my best efforts I said "Hi". Do you know what he did next? Of course not, you weren't there. Why do people even say that while telling a story? He said "hey homeboy." I never felt so honored. This guy was no ordinary guy. He was a down-to-earth, fresh African-American. Word. That historic moment passed and I bit my finger to hold my shouts of uncontrollable excitement. Then for a split second, I wondered why my mouth tasted like iron. Then the thought left and I kept walking. I entered into the room where I always catch the security guards either doing nothing that looks like something or doing something that looks like nothing. The fat one turned white as a ghost and passed out onto his fingerprinting set his mom gave him      when he turned nine. It was quite weird. I turned to face the "I'm too handsome to be handsome" guard.
 He just got this weird look of self-interest as he gandered into my retinas. "Hey!" I shouted, "stop it." He was so entranced that he told the inept-of-any-intelligence-whatsoever truth, "I love myself soooooooooo much.....blub glub flub in a jub." Okay..... If it weren't six in the morning I would have done something about the odd events. It wasn't until later that evening that everything fit together. Turns out that the floor waxer does such a great job that you could literally see your face in mine. That explains a lot. First, the reason "semi-truck" called me homeboy is because I reflected his blackness, the fat-guard finally saw his reflection after refusing to look in the mirror for twenty-one years, and the other guard literally fell in love with himself. Another day, another dime.
                                              homogenizedly,
                                                                Kyle

I'll always be by your side, unless you have leprosy

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, June 15, 2010 4:27 PM

At the end of this morning's 12 hour shift I refused to leave. I was so pumped I wanted to go the full 24 hours of the day. Six to Six to Six. The managers thought it was pretty funny until I locked my ankle to the conveyor belt with twisty-ties. When I saw them coming with 7" bolt cutters and a tranquilizer gun, I weighed in my mind if this had actually been a good decision......I concluded that it was still a great decision. I slipped out of my poorly executed plan A. Thought about plan B, but quickly ruled it out because of the increase in animal rights acts. That left plan C. I scaled the wall as a jackal in a sandstorm. I didn't look back. I couldn't, my eyes have refused to open since two-thirds the way through the last shift. I tried negotiating: "Alright, I'll come down if you will give me an advance on my Christmas bonus." They thought they were convincing by responding, "You've only worked here three days. Also, Christmas isn't until December." I had no choice but to create a diversion and get up onto the rafters that were so high up that you could close your left eye and pinch your      
fingers together, making it look like you were squishing the heads of the people on the floor. I had to think of a diversion and fast. The auto-shop-gorilla-repairmen-looking security guards were already loading their tranque guns. The only thing I could think at the time was to shoot down several of the light fixtures with my pen. The thing about this pen is that it just looks like a pen. It's actually a mechanical pencil. But they had no idea. I used my marker dart skills to launch the pen-cil at the ceiling-protruding cable holding the large light fixture. I completely missed. However, the pen-cil dove into one of the day-shift crew member's eye. That was even a better diversion than my initial plan. I raced up to the rafters as fast as I could. Then I woke up in prison with a massive headache. What they don't know is that I haven't even clocked out yet! Suckers!
                                        Criminally,
                                                    Kyle

A jobs a job, unless it's a boj.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, June 14, 2010 2:48 PM


After days and days of job searching, the three invisible moons of  our moon have aligned in the shape of Al Capone. I got a temporary position! Sweet ships of flags! Working twelve hour graveyard shifts on an assembly line for $8 an hour. This job has it's perks. For example, they have a shrink-wrap machine. Do you know the extent of possibilities that contains. Imagine shrink-wrapping your M&M's individually, preserving the ever-delicious chocolate and impressively thin candy coating. If that doesn't light your bubble pipe, think about this one: but first, do you want to be a crime-fighting superhero? Alright. Just insert yourself into shrink-wrapmachine, quickly poke
nose and mouth holes for respiration. Third, pick out an awesome nickname. Like saranwrap man, or nearly see through boy. The possibilities are pretty open ended.
                                   Magestically,
                                                     Kyle
                              

The galaxy isn't really a galaxy, it's just some dust that fell onto the Hubble.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, June 12, 2010 5:13 PM

***We interrupt this series to bring you a word from our sponsors...***


Are you tired of THIS happening to you?

Being faceless can be one of the most traumatizing experience on the planet. 
There's only one thing that you need!   Uncle Mike's spray on face!
Are you tired of not having a face? Needless to say, sooner or later you are going to need one. Come to Mike's body parts and auto. Where we got your back!
             It'll only cost ya an arm and a leg! Who needs those anyway?

Side effects may include but are not limited to: Growing a second head, Face dripping, wrong gender, Loss of self confidence, Upside down face, constant need of unmade cake mix and Global warming.

Liar, Liar Plane's on fire!.......AHHHHHH! (Part II of III)

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Friday, June 11, 2010 7:05 PM

Contrary to popular belief, waking up with thirteen salted peanuts lodged in your nasal cavity isn't the most pleasant thing. I finally got the last peanut out when over the loud speaker we hear,
"Man, I was way off," echoed the voice of our captain named Brad.
"Yeah, you need a lot more practice. But I admit, I am far from being any good at this thing."
"I did almost hit it right on the top there, I was dang close. Just don't tell anyone that I'm just plain awful at this okay?"

Since I, having some flying experience as a third time flyer, I decided to step up to the responsibility of getting these passengers home safe and sound. (I'm still working on what it means to get someone home sound.) As I opened the steel-looking cardboard door to the cockpit, I was absolutely dumbstruck by what was going on. Captain named Brad and his co-pilot Damian "the angle-grinder" Slvchkrvlc were competing in an intense game of horseshoes. I was taken aback by this moment, so taken aback that I had my personal stenographer record the occurring events for the next faculty picnic at Leaky-Pants High. Luckily, a gas station attendant anonymously known as T.S., arrested them both. T.S. conveniently carried around his laptop that was also a parachute. Thinking quickly he jumped out the front windshield that was knocked out in the sixth round of their horseshoe tournament. Now that Captain named brad and D"ta-g"S are gone, I know that there is a question festering inside of you, aching to escape. "WHY IN THE HECK WOULD A CAPTAIN AND HIS CO-PILOT LEAVE WITHOUT ANNOUNCING THE WINNER?" Well, Captain named Brad was trailing behind on the last round before being heaved out the window.
However, as they were peacefully falling to the ground they both spotted Sam the state seagull struggling furiously to fly with a horseshoe hanging around his neck. Ringer.
     We all looked at each other with blank stares as the reality of the situation hit us. A perfect "you could hear a pin drop on a memory foam mattress," silence would have washed over the entire plane if it weren't for that singing night-terror rabbit from the skittle commercial. It even sang all 35,212 feet to the ground, landing into a preheated waffle iron. The velocity of the fall caused the rabbit to turn into the exact consistency of McDonald's waffle batter. To be continued...






                                            


Next Time: Will Kyle make it to India? Will Sam endure? Will McDonald's add an item to their dollar menu?

                                         Aeronautically,
                                                               Kyle

Liar, Liar Plane's on fire!.......AHHHHHH! (Part I of III)

Posted by Kyle Jacobson 12:12 AM

This is how my journey would be if I were going on a trip from Utah to Bangalore, India.



No matter how early I leave or where I am flying, I am always sprinting to the gate. Feeling guilty for the two/one 90 year old siamese twin(s) I pushed into the waiting chairs. Always. I notice the television that is showing re-runs of 1993 news programs with news anchors that have upside down cupcake haircuts. Obviously it has no sound and you have to read faster than your eyes could possibly move.  They then call out your 6-digit boarding number after all the precious medals and the 129,275 other boarding classes. I finally got onto the plane. The cheeky stewardess in a "I've been smiling constantly for the past decade" kind of way, showed me where my seat would be. "Just go to the tail of the plane and just keep on going. If you can't go anymore, then that's your seat. Doing all sorts of gymnastics that made me twist and flip in ways that would give Newton an aneurysm. I made it through the first section, only about purple yards left to go. (there wasn't a number large enough to describe the distance, so we started using colors. If you think purple seems far, you should see off-off -white.) I crammed myself through the aisle only to run into the siamese grandma(s) again, but with casts on all of their appendages. Guilt creeping over my face, entering my larynx and shimmying down my esophagus. Why they bought tickets at 23 C and 24 A, I will never know. Needless to say I made it past them. DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT ast for details on how. Matching up my seat with my ticket that I bought from a guy with a combstache in a starbucks, I finally found my seat in the registered sex-offender section. I still don't know which ones are men and which are women... To be continued....

                                                      Agriculturally,
                                                                           Kyle

"Bueler.....? Bueler....?" "WHAT! I've said 'here' like a thousand times!!!"

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, June 9, 2010 4:17 PM

"Ten bucks says you can't hit that drunk guy with this yacht!"

      I am going to create my own prison. It will be called "the horrible movie penitentiary". Where they will force your eyes open with lobster legs and your head held in place by tacky jungle-themed lawn chairs. And not the comfortable kind. It will be a chair that is at the "Oh my gosh, Why did I trade my freaking magic beans for this crappy chair. I could have gotten a cow or something," kind of uncomfortable. It would also be slightly tilted to the left to drive you slowly into a sense of a rather putrid loss of balanced equilibrium which will slowly cause your brain to seep out your tear ducts. If you are sentenced to the death penalty, you will watch "Dragonball: Evolution" followed by "Shark boy and lava girl......in 1-D..." AHHHHHH!!! A slow and painful death. The prison will be stationed by large beefy and salmony men in Disney theme park costumes.
                             Painstakingly,
                                          Kyle

The language of Louvre

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, June 8, 2010 10:22 AM

I am quite interested in creating my own language. I am going to start from the beginning. I am quite interested in creating my own language. I am going to start from the beginning. I am quite inter... Doing a countless 4-day research plunge, I have found that most made up languages come from the latin root base and not the root beer base which would be much cooler. I obviously don't want anything to do with something that has 

already been done. So I am just going to make up my own root to base my language off of. I am then going to go to a little known spot of dirt and bury old-looking artifacts made out of $3 walmart molding clay. This will give the illusion that there was an actual civilization attached to said language. I have also been looking into my options of making some money off of this. Pepsi is currently thinking of my business plan where we place the pepsi logo on the artifacts. I would also place subliminal messages in various 7-up places on my brochures and hostess. There will be few who know said language, myself, and possibly my Colombian pen-pal, Álvaro Uribe Vélez. . Checker Auto parts. 
                            Trans-atlantically, 
                                                        Kyle

War is to peace, as Mac is to cheese.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, June 7, 2010 11:33 PM





I am in a coma. It's like watching re-runs of infomercials except without the stale cheese-nips. This coma isn't your average "I didn't that he was serious about hitting me with the bat" kind of comas. It's the "I'm looking through a window and can't see outside" kind. No one bothered to tell me that it wasn't actually a window either. If I were to actually find a window, I could probably make an accurate judgement if it was greener on the other side or not. Little did I actually know that we live dangerously close to a factory of toxic waste.* So any side would be greener than ours. Which also explains the inability for my tulips to sprout. Before I forget, if anyone is interested in finding a job, this factory has new positions available every three hours. The certain coma in which I am in, is that I cannot see my future as clearly as I might like. There are three ways I could go with this, 1. ride the ride, feel the excitement, go into the unknown (as of thirteen minutes ago, this is now known). But, how well did that work out for Amelia Earheart. She's dead. Or 2. I could write a list of all of the things that I want to accomplish in the next few years and get working on them. Or the seemingly always more popular 3rd option: translate the very first copy of "War and Peace" into fleece.
                                     Tensiously, 
                                                        Kyle


*The mission statement of our facility, "Our objective is to not only give the world what it is asking for, but to make it one day into a history pop-quiz that everyone will get wrong anyway. We do not restrict those looking for superpowers. We are here to revolutionize the toxic waste industry and hopefully one day have an actual selling of radioactive products license. 


I said, are you gonna be my ferret?

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, June 5, 2010 7:46 PM

What do the following have in common: buying dishwasher soap flavored dental floss, murder, having THIS as your hairstyle of choice, saying the phrase "same diff", and climbing a skyscraper with a ferret wielding a chainsaw attached to your cheek? They are all things you should never never ever do. It seems so easy to do the things that you shouldn't and hard to do those that you should. At various times we may find ourselves being a little bit hippocritical. As for myself, when someone or something (to be politically correct) doesn't appreciate something that I do, have done, or possibly and/or probably will do I try to justify it. Saying whatever I can to make myself seem to have been right all along. Yet when someone else makes a mistake or does an action that I don't like, I attack. Like 12 year old girls at Justin Bieber concerts.

Is it too much to just say, "I was wrong." It's time for me to resign from my high and mighty toadstool and return to the land of fairy crockers and fire starers. Also, I want you to know that I chose to be myself today and it worked. I can be who I want to be.
                               Imperfectly,
                                          Kyle

Will the real June 4th please stand up? Oh wait you can't, you're a date.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Friday, June 4, 2010 8:57 PM


Searching for something didn't used to be so hard. Then my brain fell out. Also, technology can only get you so far. You remember that commercial about duracell batteries where they come out and say that all of the medical equipment that this unidentified medical center uses duracell. Would you like to know the real reason why they stopped playing that commercial. I don't know what it is. However, I am extremely good at guessing, so good I can even guess what I am going to eat in the morning before I even eat it. I can guess what you're thinking right at this very instant. "I'm going to think of something that he won't be able to guess." OWNED! So this is what really started happening with the termination of the duracell commercials. Click here now. Was it there? If not, click here or here. You can also click here, just kidding. Wait, Over there. Here, hahahaha. Click here. The reason that I bring this up is the fact that GPSs were made to make people get lost.
                      MEFACT #3: I get lost easier than lady Gaga in fashion                                      trends.
                                        
                              
                                           Ingrownly, 
                                                          Kyle

To be or not to be....that's not a very good question.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson 8:12 PM

There are two major things that I would like to discuss. Things that can and will change the course of our futures from a southeast to southwest direction. First, but not last, your dependence on smiley face emoticons. If you use these more than a frequency of exactly 1.2 smiles/msg, your entire future will by less smiley in real
 life. Second, but not first, choices. Life is like a blender from the future. There is one blender but so many stinking options to choose from.* Everyone hold on to something that is tightly fastened to the ground or the nearest 3,000lb scapegoat, I am going to say something sentimental. When I was a young lad, a little older than Gary Coleman ever became, I started to change who I was according to the current circumstance. For example: Sitting quietly in a room full of kids that obviously will not have a future exempt from jail time. The natural borne jason sitting at my left. I think of a joke. Not a five star, three thumbs way up, kind of joke. Just the casual, make everyone giggle until their noses flip inside-out, kind. Fear slowly creeps in like the guilt kept inside for hanging all of your sister's dolls up by their necks with small pieces of string. So I tell the joke, but the slightest most insignificant amount of self-consciousness shows itself. Like a mis-stroke would look on the Mona Lisa. Completely unnoticeable, but turns something valuable into a worthless piece of worthlessness with a filling of worthlessnesstershire sauce. The other day I officially (in a non-official way) found out that it all comes down to my choices. If I choose to not care about what others think, I can easily be my self. I learned the priceless three-dollar tip for being yourself. Two words, and one added for emphasis, "who FREAKING cares." A week ago I had an irrational nervousosity of saying anything around adults, especially jokes. I would ill-wittily say them anyway. -Refer to mona lisa statement-.  Fwooooooshkaq4boooooooooooom!!!!! However, NOW I can talk to them and I feel like myself. I learned after way too long that if you want to do something you can. Well, that's not 1000% true. Referring to the fact that no matter how much I want to, I will never be taller than 67 feet... Aside from that if you love to do something and you have some natural talent but are too afraid to do anything or don't know where to start, just look at the end.
Ex.
   Wanting to be the first charitable evil-scientist with white hair.
               Ask yourself: "What do I need to be that guy."
            Game Plan:
                1. Go ask for a free tour of a laboratory: take many photos so you can pattern your own lab.
                2. Networking: Call up other evil-scientists, be confident but NEVER give them your real name.
                3. Think up an awesome new evil-scientist name like Francis or Dr. Deathmagnet, use while
                        networking.
If you want to be someone professional, talk with professionals. There is a 42.6% chance that they are cooler than they stereotypically should be. They will love to help you aspire, well at least 42.6%.
      That now brings us to finding myself, MEFACT#2: I can choose to be myself. Now, just have to find out who that is so I can be it.
                                        Copyrightedly,
                                                               Kyle

*Like the inflatable tie fastener, the aquarium cycle, the dead-celebrity-head compartment, and even the button that is just there and doesn't actually do anything button.
in memory of Gary Coleman and Eddie Murphy

Trapped in a cave.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Thursday, June 3, 2010 6:31 PM

I'm going camping in an abandoned railway tunnel, I didn't have time to post today, however, Double dosage tomorrow. It'll be tragic!
                                       Medethodically,
                                                               Kyle

Look into my eyes. Alright, waaaay too close. Back up.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, June 2, 2010 7:28 AM





I've been doing a lot of thinking, also a lot of reading. Books, blogs, newspapers, palms. I need more focus. I've decided that I lack some conc.................entration. I'm going to take you on an adventure. So, keep your gray tables up and your feet in the stand up-right position. I am on a search, to find out who I am. I've tried googling it. It wasn't as helpful as one, or two, might like google to be. It sure didn't save my cheesecake from going moldy. Mmmmmm....Cheese......Cake..... Focus. If you have any ideas who I might be, please feel free to tell me. But please whisper it, people are sleeping. Also, I don't want anyone to steal my identity. If anyone were to actually steal my identity they would find themselves in a very troubling situation. It would go something like:
 "Weee heeew! I just stoled me sumones eye-dent-itee."
"Yous don't even no what an eye-dent-itee is Cliford."
"Sure I's do. It's where I can be sumone I is not."
"Yous sure gots a way with thems words Clif. So, who                                    are ya?"
"I's got no idea..."


        *    *    *Three Days Later*      *       *

"Yous know who you is yet Clif?"
"Alls I know's that ever sense I's got this eye-dent-itee I sure do love the number 5. I's hopin' to catch one of them magic fishes. I hear their real goood at tellin' you who you is."

         Consider yourself privileged and honored, not necessarily in that order. You have officially (in a non-official way) taken the first step with me in finding out who I really am! Then we tripped, hit our heads, got up five days later confusing ourselves for the Olsen twins. 
              STEP #1: I prefer the number 5 above all others! Even including the halfway numbers like thrix and fiveven. 

     Clif and Dutch sat on the bank of the Skibidy-flake river for the next three weeks, tossing back all the normal fish, but not before naming them after 1930's radio stars. They eventually died of not showering. Scientists are looking into that now.
                                         Translatedly, 
                                                        Kyle

Disclaimer: Animals were definitely harmed in the making of this post. Cancer is very bad for you. Little Nemo is a demon movie that should be burned, stomped on, shot by cannons, digested, regurgitated, smashed, deathed, and put through an Easy-bake oven. Also, this contains small parts not for people above the age of 75. 


Stereo-Typing

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Tuesday, June 1, 2010 12:01 PM

Let's take a step back and look at stereotypes. What is a stereotype? And how could we use it to our advantage? First off, a stereo type can be one of two things: 1) a new wave version of typing in sync with music. OR 2) Stereotypes are generalizations about a group of people whereby we attribute a defined set of characteristics to this group.  In order to thoroughly analyze the ideal of stereotypes, we must take into consideration one test group. We'll start with homeless people. Stereotype #1: They smell bad.  Not always true. There is an homeless gang in east Chicago, 


called the Gnever Gnasty Gnor Gnude Gnomads," that use all of their begging money on old spice and Axe. They also occasionally land gigs at "Lover's Rock".     Stereotype #2: All homeless people are homeless. Possibly False. One word: Method acting.  Stereotype #3: All they want is alcohol. I met a homeless man that was saving up for a Phantom 2 Wing suit. Which, by the way, is the coolest thing you could ever save up for, ever, just check out THIS video. So as you can see, homeless people can be surprising. Especially when you don't notice they're there and they grab your leg as you walk past. If this wasn't proof enough that stereotypes are as lame and horrifying as furbys , keep reading. If it was proof enough, then....keep reading anyway. The second test group we will take into consideration are cereal slogans. Stereotype #1: silly rabbit, trix are for kids. Little known fact is the target audience of TRIX cereal. Using the latest in reverse psychology, advertisers created the "silly rabbit" to pose as the antagonist. In reverse psychology, everything is backwards. Thus, the antagonist really is the protagonist and the fact that adults "can't" have tricks causes them to go wild with want. This takes us to a much deeper topic that as we get older the idea of not being able to get something becomes more frightening because adults can't throw things while screaming AND keep their day jobs. Stereotype # 2: "They're after me lucky charms." First, terrible grammar. Secondly, They really aren't. Lucky suffers from a 

disorder called "paranoid personality disorder."


 According to mentalhealth.com, Paranoid Personality Disorder is a condition characterized by excessive distrust and suspiciousness of others". It causes some pretty severe complications in one's life, such as: "Individuals with this disorder are generally difficult to get along with and often have problems with close relationships because of their excessive suspiciousness and hostility." Stereotype #3: "Gotta have my pops." Many people are misled by this creative little crazed burst of need. The guy, steve "pops" jenkins, who created this slogan was going through withdrawals at the time. Later he was arrested for illegal possesion of over, under, and around-the-counter drugs. 
        Now that we have cracked the code of stereotypes, lets all take a step back before jumping to conclusions. Unless of course someone is trying to take away your delicious bowl of overly-sugared-monthly-budgeted cereal. Then jump to all the conclusions you want. Make sure he pays for what he's trying to do.
                                                          Pathologically, 
                                                                                 Kyle