I am tied to a tree surrounded by men, who I'm not quite sure are men, but more of an undiscovered species of half man, half beast. They had hair covering most of their faces, and deep, heavy wrinkles protruding from every wrinkle-able part of their large and bulbous faces. The thing that disturbs me the most are their bodies, they're normal. They don't look extra-strong, fast or exercised in any way. More like high school chess team bodies. However, if appearances meant anything in this place, I sure wouldn't be tied to this tree. I mean, I'm a tough guy but, they're much stronger, impossibly strong.
Had I known that becoming one of the greatest ecologist-interns that the colorado forest service has seen in the past several years, I would have become a lawyer like my Mom pressured me to become ever since before birth. And if it wasn't for my complete inability to care for the justice system, I probably would have. Now, I feel that since I am strapped to this large and in-charge aspen tree I must tell you that I am not a very good story teller, so if you are going to blame anyone for the lack of scintillating content in this literary piece, blame me, the protagonist, James Tronk, and not the probably brilliant genius writer/blogger who is sharing my story with you.
We'll have to start two days ago.
July 29th: I woke up to the sound of hundreds of gun shots and even more tire screeches. Normally, I would have cared, but last night had really taken me out. It had been a long night at the lab researching the highly toxic, color inverting mushrooms I recently discovered with "Chex," my new partner. I live in a small town with a population of sixty, named Dottville, it is located three-point-six-plus-or-minus-point-one miles north of Denver. It is not normal for one in such a small town to hear gun shots and tire screeches. I did not notice. I just went to work.
Work seemed normal, but didn't everything this morning? Cheryl greeted me like she normally does, "..." She said nothing. I walked by, made a face at her, and kept walking. She still remained silent. I am not thoroughly unconvinced that she is a robot or some other soulless object. That is to be determined at a much later date. My office seemed messier than I remember leaving it, the trashcan was dumped over, the blinds had bite marks in them, my Gladiator movie poster still crumbling with embers. I remembered none of this. I even tried imagining myself remembering what happened. Nothing. There was a badly written note that said "The Coons Wer Here." Right next to that note there was a letter, my next assignment. My boss refused to mix work with direct confrontation. He only wrote in letters and this letter stated:
Armillariella X: Mysterious fungi in Stockholm. Flight 342 9:00 AM. Contact: Isaac Apple; New Partner: Isaac Apple. If there is something that I hate more than observing mushrooms, I really wish someone would tell me and I'm not sure why.
The flight was boring, the in-flight move was worse. They played "Troll 2" three times, in four different languages. The food was good though. Especially before they told me what it was. I blew it off as though I had eaten it many times on my many adventures. I kept my cool. Then rushed to the bathroom to avoid a scene. On the bright side, the bathroom was more spacey than the airline seats and suited me just fine for the next three hours in which I was a resident on the ivory throne. All-in-all we landed and I was luckily only in a few pieces. I saw Isaac walking to where my torso lied when he yelled, "pull yourself together, we've got work to do." I responded accordingly. We muscled our way through security after emptying our entire set of thirty two bags only to prove to ourselves that we are working light and we couldn't help but think that we might not be able to do all that we had come to do. The real problem we were facing is putting all of these bags in our Geo Metro.
You would think that with the governmental funding that we should be able to at least have a car with more storage space. I think working seat belts might be in the interest of some as well. But my say in the forest service doesn't hold any weight. I don't even have as much a say as Mr. Coffee does when he stops working. Then people drop everything they're doing just to succumb to his technical problems.
"Isaac, Could you change the station, I'm not such a fan of soundtracks of small cats being bludgeoned into singing badly written songs."
"This is Journey you stupid intern!" He said Antarctically cold-like.
"And...." I always was good at causing people to hate. Not so much me, but just hate. This was going to be a great trip.
Stay tuned for next Sumptuous Saturday where we find out how much Isaac really loves his mother and how James handles being an intern caught on fire.
Reasonably,
Kyle
"I want blacker font!"
"This is as black as it goes sir?"
"No it bloody well isn't! Have you tried inverting the level of color switches to neutral and then checked the box that says anti-existence?!"
I had no idea what to say back to my boss....
He flubbered back into his attack of rage, "I'll take that ulcer-giving dumbstruck look on your face as a 'Nooooooooooo....,' it's extremely simple once you access the secret menu, Der!" He said that as though even a cheaply brewed hot chocolate knew how to access the menu. He continued, "All ya gahts to do is say the password," He began with a decent tiger roar and then projected, "sally sells sea shells by the sea shore erohs aes eht yb sllehs aes slles yllas!"
I sat in and absurd state of astonishment. I never knew a shade of black so black could exist.
I responded with a simple, yet perfectly timed, phrase, "Well, that destroys ALL of my preconceived notions of Windows 95 not having a voice recognition software."
What we gain from my humiliation.
It always only takes a few more clicks and a few more animal sounds to create a masterpiece. The difference between something good and something great is the matter of desire and a willingness to keep going until you have reached that greatness. At times it brings you to your knees, you're on the verge of the desertion of that perfectly imagined product. But, in that time of fragile motivation is when perfection finds itself. It would have been so easy to accept a 1995 default shade of the color black, but how could the world be changed with such mediocrity. Don't give up, don't ever give up until you have reached masterpiece.
Increasingly,
Kyle
Drool. Why drool? Who came up with the word "drool anyway"? I know it fits perfectly to its physical meaning but why "Drool"? I can only think of one way that it could possibly be useful and that exists only in the realm of the Twilight Zone. And even that is a stretch for them. And when you catch wind of the Twilight Zone thinking that something is quite disgusting, you must question whether or not it holds a meaningful place in our society at all. Well it laid all over my cubicle desk when I woke to the sound of a construction fleet of ninjas at the window that wasn't there when I had rested my eyes for a brief moment on my keyboard between calls. The actual miracle in this situation is that I heard the impossibly minute sound at all. And since I did hear the faint creek of the right converse shoe of the ninja crew member, Zhao "Pills" Anderson, he was killed instantly for breaking the code of Ninjas, which may or may not be stricter than the business casual dress code at the place of my work. For example, If I wear flip-flops I am in danger of being "written up" which sounds unbearable. No one seems to know what it really is, but unbearable
sounding. Now if a Ninja wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, instant head removal and/or total mutilation. If He/She is "caught shaking what their mama gave them", a.k.a. A solid steel mace, they are placed into a highly uncomfortable, WMD massage parlor, for several millennia. If I were to button all of my buttons on my collard shirt with a lack of tie I may see over my shoulder a couple of giggles followed by a smirk. It cannot be done.
I stared out the newly created window an found that it just led to the next cubicle over where Steve the plumber sat flexing into his web cam for a overly compensated 401k plan. He did not notice my placid disgust creeping into all the major and corporal muscles in my facial region. it wasn't a pretty sight. I had successfully taken a 15 min break for three and a half hours and missed approximately thirty six outraged customers demanding their rebates. I feel bad for a select few that are unable to receive their rebates three years before Apple was founded, especially with their pathetic stories of cancer, dwarfism and global genocide. All forming together for a sob-story that would make Robo-Cop cry, if he was programmed to not be so dastardly gorgeous. That still does not change the fact that they bought a crimson sofa and would really appreciate a free iPod for "the bloated and starving children in Mrtazachistern." Couches are not an eligible product to replace a MAC computer. Stupidity and arrogance are on the rise directly related in a cross-fire ratio to the sale of Amphetamine and bubble-gum flavored masks for Nitrous Oxide.
Now thank you for calling Apple, you have a wonderful day sir.
Impressionally,
Kyle
"Why do I have "asdfghjkl;" imprinted on my face?" Kyle wondered.
There wasn't much Ictor found more appealing than fashionable items. The silks, furs, dried fruits, chamomile, silk worms* you name it and Ictor has made a sweater vest out of each. He didn't always used to enjoy fashion, at all. It was quite the opposite sentiment indeed. He spent most of his childhood wearing the same blue jeans with holes in mysteriously awkward places. No one knew of the awkwardly placed holes because he always wore the same T-shirt that was almost completely clear except for various splotches of denim which, just as mysteriously covered up the mysteriously awkward placed holes. He just didn't quite care for fashion.
Many years after what might be called to a suburban-grown mother, a "childhood", Ictor went to college. This college, contrary to popular belief, was not a college at all, but a small newly opened ice-cream parlor downtown named "Boston University." You would instantly be led to wonder why anyone could mistake such a place for an actual University, except for when it is explained how inconvenient the job application is. It also helps to know that his mother was baking an apple pie with real pies mixed into the apples and a crust that could melt hunger, when a radio ad came on for the opening of "Boston University." Ictor's mother, Gwenevieveivenewg, who we will from now on call "Ictor's mother", mistook the ad for a recruiting and instantly printed off the transcripts required for "admittance."
Needless to say He got the job. Then His mother became so excited that she tweeted the news! Then to make sure that people understood the importance of the message she followed up with a second tweet. Then just to make sure that she was sure, She tweeted again, and again, and again, and again. She tweeted so many times, in fact, that Twitter ran out of server space and she was permanently banned from the world wide web as a whole. And as soon as this incident was blogged, hundreds of attention-starved teens found what they call "a pretty neat prank idea". We'll end by saying that Myspace is frightened and Facebook now has emerging stress lines.
Ictor's first day at work was extremely boredinary. Six hours of scooping and stirring for little ingrates whose entire goal in life is to annoy one man to the point of ulcer development and subsequently pulling out the ulcers and eating them in order to "take his mind off the current situation." What Ictor failed to consciously, subconsciously, and Unconsciously notice is that in the dark, damp, boring places of the earth are where crazed geniuses grow the best.
This particular night, Ictor was becoming increasingly irritated as the long hours stopped being hours and not actually existing at all. You seem confused, let me try to explain. Just imagine working for six hours straight. It's long, it's boring, you're scraping at the edges of ice cream buckets that are placed from you at an extremely awkward distance. Now imagine how much longer that would feel if the entire concept of time vanished and you were stuck working at an ice cream store with a large empty void where the clock used to stare at you while at the same time a test scoop of ice cream literally freezing your brain ever since that putrid child threw it at your cochlea. It was a very, very long time. "MAX!" screamed Max and threw another test scoop of ice cream.
However, even all non-existent hours must come to an end, and it was time for Ictor to return to his "dormitory," which was actually a small apartment right next to the subway system, yes, the underground one. On his way to his apartment, He verbally wondered, "how come nobody seems to know how to contact the academic advisors or how to get onto the Dean's List for that matter?" Nobody heard these questions, not even a mouse. He would have persisted on thinking of these inexplicable anomalies if he hadn't, in that moment, realized that his socks did not quite match the color of his shoes. What bothered him most about the clashing colors was the fact that it bothered him at all. He quietly shook the thought off and then kicked it into the nearby rose bush, willing that thought never to return.
Ictor did not sleep well that night, ironically, the only one that did sleep quite wonderfully that would be Steve, the insomniac hamster. Ictor did not sleep well because his famous nightmares began again. They started out, more or less, harmlessly. His first dream was just a few tailoring mends to a leather jacket. Then it led to the trying on of different outfits. Sometimes there would be a segue into the vestment of several outfits throughout the course of the day. He told no one of his dreams, especially not himself. He tried to hide, he tried to run, then the nightmares just exploded! Afghans, ribbons, flowers. Paisley and plaid. Stitching, sewing, hemming it up a tad. He began to transfer this new fixation to the real world, being critical of everyone. He was trapped in a passion for fashion.
If Ictor could cry, he would in this moment more than any others. The most he could work up was a very sub-par sniffle. It would have to do. Comfort would not be found and Ictor had absolutely no clue as to what the next "step" was. "It can only go down from here," he mused.
Ictor found no solace being alone, less being with others, even less with both, and much less hanging out with his father's urn. It seemed like a hopelessly lost cause, just like the "LEAVE BRITTNEY ALONE," charity fundraiser. He found no solace with his pumps, his penny-loafers, nor his high-tops. There was no peace to be found with his Derby, Go-go, nor Wellington boots. Clearly no tranquility trying on his galoshes, his pampooties, and not even his Abarkas. Despair grew as each shoe was tried on. What once provided such pacification now seemed meaningless crafted pieces of meanings. That was, at least, until he saw them. The Thems. Staring delightfully into Ictor's soul, simultaneously washing over him were the feelings of an epileptic seizure and a calm reassurance that "everything is going to be just fine." They kept staring, up until the point that he placed them over his callused feet, Ictor cringed. He immediately grew emotionally attatched with these beautifully Milan crafted 7" stilettos from last years fall line-up. After placing on His stilettos, He gained what one might call, "superpowers." The superpowers inherited by Ictor were the ability to scoop ice-cream debatably seconds faster than any co-worker within a five mile radius and a slightly more reliable job security at "Boston University," .
To this day Ictor "struts his stuff" with his 7s who he has named after his favorite musical group, "Motley" and "Crue." He became Ictor and His stilettos.
Ensnaringly,
Kyle
*Startling for runway shows as he tamed the worms to increase the length of the dress in the process of the models doing what they do best on the runway: walking and also staring off into various corners of the room apparently trying to win a staring contest with the stucco. They then become instantly distracted into another corner of the room by a soundless *BANG* that only they seem to hear and then casually turn around, flip a scarf or two over their shoulders and walk back up the runway.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's story that is short, "Ictor and His Stilettos," for Tragicallyfine's first Sumptuous saturday!
Life is meant to be inspired by various creators of the past, present, and presumably the future. I only worry about claiming that the future is going to actually be any sort of inspiring while taking into perspective the current downfall of creativity and abstract thinking. For example, let's begin with music, most people and middle-aged Kamikaze pilots* like music right? I have also heard that plants love a good Rumba beat. Let's begin now: Johann Sebastian Bach, followed by Mozart, The Dixieland Jass band, Bing Crosby, Elvis Presley, The Beatles. As you can see, the more that time goes on the more musical barricades we break down. However these barricades weren't actually barricades, but were, in fact, intellectual stimuli such as literature and philosophy. Clearly when rock bounced it's way into the ears of citizens who wanted nothing more than to sit at home and listen to "Avenger" until 8 o' clock, making them "the rowdiest bunch of hooligans on the block." (That would, of course, be if rock had not hit it's high point in this decade.) Let's keep moving along the timeline of music. We find ourselves trailing the Beatles with Earth, Wind, and fire, as you can see, now it starts to get a lot more slanted on our speedy incline to our imminent demise. That demise being a world without the words, "Yes", "-ish" or "Batmobile." It may or may not be more frightening than Lucky the paranoid leprechaun actually being real. Ok, so after Earth, wind, fire, water, heart all combined and created the most eco-friendly superhero, we see the emergence of Justin Bieber. Case and point. And I am now framing that point and submitting it for a patent, no ideas. Stop it. Just No.
Existentially,
Kyle
*I have very reliable sources in which tell me they especially prefer "Bridge over troubled water" by Simon and his more famously named counterpart Garfunkel that was inexplicably released 25 years after their beautiful, best-ever written eulogy that caused tears. We would have published it all over America, but after it being translated it looked oddly like "November Rain" by Guns n' Roses, so we left it alone.
"I WHAT?!?" Kyle shrieked inside of his plural brain stem as he reached into his pockets to find his wallet in the form of a small piece of pocket lint. How it became such a space saving piece of worthlessness, he could never assume. Along with the transfiguration of his wallet, also went his bus pass. He slumped down into a crevasse to drown his troubles away with a slightly off-colored "crazy" laugh. It didn't work. His mind seemed to trip over various ideas, hitting it's head, and then realizing that they weren't good ideas at all. Which always seemed to unnerve Kyle. He finally put on his thinking cap until it became unbearably sweaty and was forced to take it off. If he were to leave it on for just a fraction of a second, around 5/8ths (rounded to the nearest 'th' of course) he would have received a brilliant idea to walk to the nearest Wells Fargo bank and withdraw two dollars to pay for his bus fare and simultaneously fend off a rival grudge against a well-known bankeress named "Catthy". More well known for her easily misspelled name rather than her complete and utter lack of banking talents. In his case it does deal a bit more with the talent portion. Instead, He began to pace around building Q. He paced around until he caused such an intricate pattern of vibratory waves to instantaneously shift earth's gravity ninety degrees southward. There isn't quite anything as shocking as removing the responsibility of ground and promoting it to wall. In other words, he fell. Since ground has failed to exist, he kept falling, and falling, and falling, did I mention falling? If not, falling with a strong mixture of falling sprinkled with chocolate fallings. All was fine in terms of obstacles until the Jengersons decided to move. As a side note, and excluding ground rules since they no longer make sense or exist, the Jengersons have lived in their
Jayco Designer 31RLTS on the corner 6th north for some time. At two o' clock in the
afternoon, they made quite a spontaneous decision. They wanted to move. And not a routine "Let's get's shakes for Bo's celeberated dayh of berth" kind of move. They were going to head south, to Jimmy Jake's RV park with heated sewage removal pumps located on 3rd south. What they were only half-expecting was for gravity to also decide it needed a change of scenery. What Kyle was not expecting, clearly after not expecting the whole gravity junk, was for the Jengersons to be in his way. Good thing Kyle drank 76 Red Bulls at lunch, since not only does it give you wings but when mixed with cookies with way too much baking soda, it makes one fireproof. At a free-falling acceleration of 9.8m/s (not taking into account air friction) he turned into a raging ball of fire and sliced through the RV like a soggy marshmallow on the end of a 5 yr old's roasting stick. The only injuries he managed to obtain was a large gash in his aortic artery which was instantly cauterized and therefore didn't leave much lasting damage and an increasingly awesome scar. Kyle is still plummeting towards the ground which no longer exists and he sure hopes it stays that way.
Orbitally,
Kyle
P.s. I plan for suing Red Bull for millions in medical charges when they begin adding a fireproof angle on their advertisements after rejecting a partnership with my "Baking Soda Cookies" franchise.
People can go days listening to an iPod. Days. I also have heard through the grapevine that one child has listened to his iPod for such an extended period of time that it has grown into part of his nervous system, giving an entirely new meaning to the phrase, "felling the music." Music, it can be a power for good, a power for evil, even, dare I say, a power to be reckoned with. It can lead to wars and peace, and then back to wars, followed by a brief coffee break, and then back to wars again. If the pattern of this increase in musical influence continues, we may find ourselves living in a world in which our very lives are manipulated by a large rustic volume dial in the hands of various infamous and outfamous criminal masterminds. The only exception to this well known fact that everyone has a soothing experience while be pumped full of sound bites would be, in the highest regards, myself. I find it difficult, while listening to a casual beat or a rambunctious rift, to not imagine a digitally realistic music video in which I cause delightful damage to my surroundings. This causes for immediate speculation for innocent bystanders and respectfully, many medical students failing the MCAT. I do not vainly consent to this being entirely my fault, it is just one of my better features. However, I am working on becoming more "responsible". You should, for my self-preservational purposes only, know that my definition of responsible does not follow the common definition of the word, but deals with a more uncommon sub-definition of the word that states: Responsible: The unique characteristic of fooling others into believing that you honestly did not mean to make quite so many mistakes but were aiming for a standard deviation of 'less than a mediocre amount; when in reality you did mean to make those mistakes and are now running to one of the approved foreign countries in which they cannot track you or their entire stock return fund that is now sitting obsequiously in your zipper-belt." My version of such a sub-commonly mistaken word is much more applicable and looks much better on a legal resume and coinciding T-shirt.
Deep down, I only want to be able to make such music videos and am haunted by such a brilliant combination of theatrical effects and dramedy that will not be actualized with my personal financial recession.
Imperiodically,
Kyle
The race of life is about as fair as mud being stuck being mud. I am certainly certain that mud did not in fact choose to be mud. And if it did, that was a terrible career move. The possibilities of being a large pile of mud are end-less, meaning less of an end and more of a definite termination. It can be stepped in, sometimes thrown, rare cases eaten, and more absurdly grown. But that is the point that was not my point. Until now. My original point was to say that no matter how many swigs of California-exploiting juice we swallow or lamp posts we may have caught on fire; no matter how hard you can throw or how many feathers in your comforter you can smell, the only thing does matter is that life is unfair and you will always be that broken light bulb in the bottom right-hand corner of a flatbed Re-Po truck. Life is not your friend. If you were friends, he would daily beat you and tell everyone else of your abnormal fascination for leopard print finger-nail clippers. Forcing you into a downward spiral of emotional shadow. Crying upon your speed racer pillow counting in your head all the other friends you have. That's when life comes back and slaps you across the eyebrow forcing you to realize that you don't yet know how to count to the number one. And no matter how many times you may ask, people seem to think you as a "pretty funny guy" for asking such a question. It is in that moment of internal reflection of "am I really am funny? Or am I vaguely recalling my funny bone being surgically
removed after a horrible accident occurring just before finishing a 64 day marathon of Malcolm in the middle and Malcolm on the left-side. Then for an undisclosed reason you hold on tight to the phrase, "The truth hurts" not knowing why or knowing whether one day you will stumble upon a "why" that satisfies your savage seek for closure. Pain killers help. Painful killers hurt. Killers of pain help. Help on pain killers is informant. Help on painful killers is far too expensive for the lack of helpful hints that it contains. Simply stating, "good luck." Which isn't even a complete sentence. Just remember, that when in doubt, no one can be trusted. No one can give you the help that you need, except for CHA-CHA.
James-Deanly,
Kyle
Killing inanimate objects can be one of the most complex hobbies on the IN side of IN N' OUT. It requires the fundamentals: Brute strength, treacherous dexterity, fascinating abs, and calm reluctance. What most don't know of are the more technical aspects of such a task. It begins with, silence.
The night wore on. I finally unearthed the reason why NCIS was having a three hour marathon and Mountain Standard Time had spontaneously become Pacific Time, throwing the entire system of schedules and organization to the wind. When one finds this out for the first time, he may feel the wind being knocked out of him, then back in, swirled three times counterclockwise and then out again. Advertisements have never been so misleading. I had assumed that the series premier of my Television dramady/comedrama Psych was scheduled to be on at 10/9c. And yes, I did rule out that maybe "c" stood for cents or continued theory. It decided to air at eleven, throwing my biological clock out the window and making a stupid pun about how "time flies." When that happened, the air that was forced out of my body was currently swimming around my florescent light fixture like most moths. It decided to return into my left lung making the right one completely jealous and leaping out of my navel. I prefer to have the wind knocked out than whatever happened there. Then to top off my premiering experience, I received a lovely package from my aunt, Agnes, the headache. The contents of the package contained: one Agnes and a completely
unnecessary large amount of packaging peanuts, which semi-clearly exacerbated the situation. Then that famous jingle, the one so famous it may not fit into the "jingle" category, serenaded my ear-drums with its soft rock beat. It has begun. It played. It ended. The intensity and comic relief went hand in hand, arm in arm, gullet in gullet. Then I passed out on the couch. I was anticipating the waking up to the loudest alarm clock in the Eastern and Western hemispheres, so loud in fact that the Lucky Loser Orphanage in Singapore uses my alarm in lieu of purchasing one of their own. It would have been the loudest alarm in all the recorded July the 15ths in the world, had it not also fallen on a Thursday morning. Ever since Y2K, every Thursday had been declared the national weekly ghost hamster "sneak into every apartment and turn all alarms off" day as well. Resulting in silence and the immediate death of a factory made alarm clock. I became late for work.
There is no possible way to anticipate the moment when you speak with Satan. He is characterized as a dragon, a demon, a billionaire, a cocktail waitress, or even an oven mitt that does television endorsements for popular fast-food chains. All of these are officially wrong. I for one could have never guessed that Satan, the great Lucifer, Pluto, the Devil, just to make sure we are talking of the same fellow, the Father of All Lies, yeah, He has an Indian accent. Shocking, I know. Now don't get me wrong, or any of the other forms of such an ideology, not ALL Indian people are Satan or satanic in any way. That wouldn't make sense and I would be guilty for a number broken laws, 99% of those ending in my head being separated from my neck. A rather unpleasant feeling if I do say so. Saying that all people with indian accents are the infernal being himself is like saying that all actors are terrible actors, when in reality there are many different stages of acting, I have narrowed it down to five. Peer with me:
- The hardcore- almost all their latest movies have been blockbusters-most likely involves one or more Emmys.
- The softercore- had one hit movie and all the others would find themselves on pre-teens bedroom shelves along with semi-nude posters of werewolves without the wolf part. Leaving were. Also meaning has-been.
- The applecore- these penny and nickle actors, as no one calls them, are seen merely in independent films. Their dreams ringing high, hoping to make it big one day, while they get kicked in the face by some fat kid at the Cinema 6 trying to find theater number 7 as you pick up chewed something from the thing people stand on that used to resemble a floor.
- Extras and people that act as a joke/extras.
- Rosie O' Donnells- There is only one person that fits in this category. When that one person dies, there will be none. The future list will save type space occupying only 4 bullet points.
I was sitting in my cubicle, which I have now named "Cubicle Jr.", when I received a call. Presented with a soothing "DONG" and "APPLE REBATES" in a voice seemingly recorded with the help of Spanish Fork county prison. "Hi, thank you for calling Apple, my name is XXXX (edited for privacy issues), can I get your name please?" "Hi, yes, my name is SATAN!!!!".
"Sorry sir? Can you repeat that?"
"Oh, why I would be glad to, it's SATAN!!!! That's S-a-t-a-n."
"Ok...and you're last name?"
"I don't have a last name, but you might sport for trying one of my alias', you know those secrademons and their habitual inconsistencies," he added.
"Alright....can I get those please?"
"Yes, you could try...let's see...you could try Adversary...or maybe.... Angel of the Bottomless pit? Yes, with two 'T's."
"I'm sorry, nothing seems to be coming up..." I said cautiously and pendiously.
Satan then muttered, "I shall reap the organs from your very inside and roast them well done and feed them to my Hell Hounds."
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that last part. And was that your order number or receipt number?"
"Come to Hell! I hate this stupid company! You should use Windows Vista!!! And just for my inconvenience I will personally see to it that you have several embarrassing moments this week!!!"
"One second...you are
the Satan, right?"
"Yes, that is correct."
"And that is your threat? Embarrassing moments? I was expecting a bit more brimstone, maybe some eternal damnation?"
"I get that a lot. You see, it's all become quite a mess down here in the infernal underworld, since all we seem to receive are pimps and lawyers. Mostly British ones at that. However, the American ones impeached me from King of the undead, and the British set up parliament. I am quite limited on my powers as of late."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I completely understand."
"How could you
possibly understand?"
"I actually can't, It just says that on my teleprompter."
"You use a teleprompter?"
"It says no."
"Oh ok," Satan retreated, "well, I hope you have a great day."
"Thank you," I responded,"I hope you have a nice time in Hell."
"Alright, we'll see ya."
"I hope not."
Que dial tone.
Intensive-caredly,
Kyle
The following is a picture of me when I first wake up and make it to the call center.
24 hours in a day.
6 hours of unconscious sleep per night.
18 hours in a day.
8 of those hours spent in a cubicle.
10 hours in a day.
2 hours getting to and from that cubicle.
8 hours in a day.
30 min walking to the bus stop to get me to and from that cubicle.
7.5 hours in a day.
30 min getting ready for the day.
30 minutes undoing it all.
6.5 hours in a day.
1 hour eating enough to partially give me the nutrients needed for the day in my cubicle.
5.5 hours in a day.
30 minutes getting rid of it all.
5 hours in a day.
1 hour planning for the life that lies ahead.
4 hours in a day.
How you use those few remaining hours, determines who you are.
Chromatically,
Kyle
I wish my life was a hypothetical situation. When speaking of hypothetics we can include just about anything into something that isn't really a something, but more of a nothing. Do you get what I'm saying? In my "hypothetical" (are the quotation marks necessary? I don't know) life I would go and talk to the homeless guy sitting next to me entering into thousands of sweepstakes offers. He still hasn't completed a single one, however. He can never get past the "address" box. Maybe he'll figure it out one day. In my hypothetical life, his name would be Bubba. I would casually stroll in one day and make a friendly jest about weight and
possibly high fructose corn syrup. He would laugh, slap me a five, pound it, then throw on his ray-bans. In my hypothetical life, he wouldn't be homeless, just undercover. He would be a respectable homeowner disguised as a homeless man, no one would see it coming. In my hypothetical life we wouldn't need to sleep, we would only need to dream. In my hypothetical life I would be 9' 7" and have razor sharp claws that can tear through campbells chicken noodle soup cans in a single flick of the wrist. Possibilities. I could go on, but I don't want to take ALL of the fun away from hypothesizing. I do have a final question. If I lived a hypothetical life, would I waste time with my friends thinking up "realistic" situations?
Maniacally,
Kyle
Casually sitting at the bus stop, I stared at the back of the 832 bus stopped in front of me while I waited for the 830. The back flap/trunk/thing swung open several inches. It created a black void between the flap and the back of the bus. And when I can't see something, I just assume what is lying in the darkness. In this moment, I couldn't help but wonder how I would react if I saw an arm swing down and hang idly in front of the muffler. I think I might stare, maybe gawk, then catch my bus and eat my triple meat sandwich. Then I wondered if a head swung down and started to stare at me. I decided that I would probably become uneasy at the least and throw up all over the freshly poured concrete sidewalk at the most. Nothing did happen and I was left to wonder what lie inside. I climbed the stairs of bus #900 - 70. The bus jerked and imbeciled out of park into what one might assume was drive, but in fact was labeled with a skull and crossbones. The bus driver wore her hair like a normal person which frightened me more than the hand-head scenario. She turned and cracked a joke.
That caught me off guard. Who knew that the
application to become a bus driver included a humor category. I have lived my entire life under the facade that bus drivers had to be old and/or creepy. Turns out they can be cool. Which is a lot cooler type of cool than school-bus driver school. For that I'm pretty sure you have to have lived in prison for at least three years to get that job. Not that I have ever thought about it....... On the straight road, which seemed to be a Zig-zag road with 90 degree angles when you close your eyes, Kathy related her disgust for the drunks that are commonplace on the Utah transit authoritative scene. She told us that she often stops extremely quickly when they are to be found aboard. "I'm sahwy, did someone fall off their seat?" Hahahaha. Can you imagine? I am right now. Haha. And now. Hehehe.
Hangman-playingly,
Kyle
It was a long night, the night before tonight. The clock had struck midnight before I was able to finish off my off-brand lucky charms. That may have been because I had taken much of the night fusing x-ray glasses with nutritional fact software that allows me to see the breakdown of ingredients just by looking at my food. I spent my time from 10pm to midnight trying to force myself to eat cereal. It's much less appetizing when the mallows stop looking like mallows and start looking like jet puffed blobs of high-fructose corn syrup injected with a pure sugar filling. I finally guzzled it down and quickly patented my invention before my roommates could pull a "James Cameron" on me and take my glory. My mind wandered for a while down into the rhetoric of His movie as I inserted myself beneath my "just imagine it's a down comforter" bedding. My eyes gracefully and politely rested themselves, tucking in my corneas and painting a sweet lullaby with rods and cones. Mmmmmm....Bliss....ERRR!!!! ERRRRR!!!! ERRRR!!! "HIT THE DECK!!! AHHHHH!!!" I screamed when my alarm clock punched me in the cochlea with it's sound waves. Is it 4:30 already? Time for work. The day passed. And then it passed again. Then again. Again. Then it finally ended. I left work racing a V-something engined bus to the stop with the helpful blue marker they call "a sign." I wave my pass, feeling important. Then seeing my co-riders and re-evaluating my existence. The next thing I remember is waking up with an odd taste of cracker jacks mixed with lemon meringue pie and an over-over-weight woman vocally wondering "where the HECK I am headed." This being the last stop on her route. A quarter-groggily I pulled on the string that I was resting my head on for the past hour and a half, stopping at every stop now made
sense. I got off and walked until I saw a familiar face. I never did find one. So I got on the next bus I saw and it seemed like it took me to somewhere and it was probably important. I got off on the corner of something and it was probably important and walked to the library. The same library that I am now forced to call my home due to the amnesia I have from whatever was stuck in my mouth during my crazy-neon-like dream while I was napping on the bus. Greetings from the Provo Library at Academy Square.
Consistently,
Kyle
Breaking News: Morticians quickly running out of jobs due to mild climate and Xango drinking contests.
Climbing a mountain seems much easier without roller skates. It wasn't until the bouldering part that things became increasingly difficult. It's all the rage with rock-climbers these days. Using shoes to climb is only a gateway into the real thrill to risk ratios.
Reaching the top was the only thing on our minds, except for the first two lines of the chorus from the song "Zombie" by The Cranberries.While singing that chorus in as many accents as existed in 1830's Spain, we ran into the past. He wore neon shorts, a bandanna, and looked you in the very center of your core making you want to either take a lukewarm bath or drown yourself in depressing poetry. He made quite the first impression. He was friendly mind you, his countenance disagreed. He pointed us up the mountain and gave us intricate directions in a language known only to the guild of mountainous socialists. With no better options
jumping into our path, we followed the man's advice. At least it led upwards, for lack of a better word. We finally breached the horizon, dazed and glazed with multi-colored sprinkles. The sight was inspiring. It was in that moment that I decided upon my 20th birthday present. A waterfall.
Dreamily,
Kyle
The majority of my family parties begin with a water balloon and me looking like I wet my pants. My sister chuckled as she filled a crimson water balloon with vinegar. Once filled, the color emerged as more of a pink. I was minding my own business, networking with CEOs, VPs, GMCs, TVs, EMPs, and other acronyms, when I feel a blasting force to my right chestal area. The thin rubber tore to pieces like a Lego on a exclusive android only night club dance floor. Vinegar sliced into my eyes, dripping into my nasolacriminal duct and trailing down through my nasal passage. I wanted more in that moment to rip out my molars with a muffler from a 97' ford explorer than any other moment in my life. The pain was excruciating. I have not the slightest idea of where she got that ridiculous idea. I'm guessing it was some one's facebook status for a while. That facebooker, assumedly named Indersaal, sat on her appleI computer, waiting for someone to comment upon her "witty" status. Her mother found her the next day searching videos of Craig Crocker. Indersaal was
admitted the next day into the viral-video rehabilitation center. Other patients include: Ben, who became obsessed with "Charlie the Unicorn", he is still looking for candy mountain; Jamison- the worst case- was diagnosed with "Salad Fingers", he will surely get the "Banana Phone" treatment . All he cares about are rusty things and hasn't had his tetanus shot. They will end his media-induced misery.
As the party grew on, so did the frequency of psychotic episodes of rage and demonic nay saying. There had to be a connection. I grabbed my Jr. detective kit, placed on my recently lustered badge, filled my bubble pipe, and ate some carbs. I was ready to tackle this mystery. I searched and searched and searched and then un-searched my last search so I could re-search my search. I found nothing. All this detective work got me thirsty, real thirsty. I panthered over to the current holiday themed tableclothed table where I retrieved a cup with a curiously circley circle to drink from. I reached down to fill up my cup with homemade root beer. It was bone dry, dead skeleton's femur in the Arabian desert dry. I picked up the nearest vertically-challenged individual and threw him into the river. The chanting came next. I tried summoning Michael Savage but, it was of no use. I had no lung of beaver or any sort of summon warrant. And you know what happened the last time I tried it without those key items.Well, forensics are still trying to figure out how his left foot ended up in the Pope's potpourri dish.
It was when the root beer container contained no root beer that I solved the case, but not without the help of my animated, speech-impaired, no-idea-what-breed-of-Dog Dog named Scooby Doo. No Root Beer.......No Happiness.
Ambitiously,
Kyle
There are many things in life that inspire. It is just a matter of finding yours. It may be something so close. It may be something you have to work at until your face falls off, but we all have our own. I find inspiration in my predecessors, in Rembrandt, in Seuss, in writers, dreamers, achievers. The stories have been written. The inspiration is there. But how can we find it?
I am about to tell you the biggest secret in the universe, bigger than the future and the past put together. The key to finding your own inspiration to carry you from moment to moment, from bus stop to bus stop, from poor to rich, and rich to poor, and even from Milli to Vanilli, is finding out what doesn't inspire you. I am the perfect example. While in my youth I pursued a supply of different career options. First it was a magician, then a warehouse salesman, then a microscope veterinarian, followed with my invention of the cheese blanket was the apple un-appler. None of those quite gave me motivation, some even gave me Chlamydia. I kept fighting though and I still haven't quit. I have only metaphorically and phorically made some pit stops for some peach-o's. Only to quickly get on the trail again to tackle the beast they call, for a lack of a better word, feelinglikeanorangepeelitis. Maybe some of you have been affected by him. Symptoms include: lack of self-motivation, extreme laziness, terrible oral hygiene, uncontrollable consumption of Ramen Noodles, and constant paranoia of close friends and siblings "motivating" you to do something with your life. If you feel any of these symptoms please call the "Help, I'm not going to make it past 30" Hotline, using the following number: 7.
Ethanolly,
Kyle
You would think that with the governmental funding that we should be able to at least have a car with more storage space. I think working seat belts might be in the interest of some as well. But my say in the forest service doesn't hold any weight. I don't even have as much a say as Mr. Coffee does when he stops working. Then people drop everything they're doing just to succumb to his technical problems. 
