My bicycle decided to tell me, halfway up the mountain, that it had been a chain smoker it's whole life. It coughed and choked up the hill. Grease spittle going in all directions. We made it to the top of the hill. Once we did my phone rang with the good vibrations. I'm not entirely unconvinced that they knew about vibration patterns of cell phones long before cell phones came out; It was a good vibration. The sun, like every day of my life, was setting. I answered the phone and heard a bear on the other line. I'm not one to jump to conclusions, but I felt that the language barrier was going to end in some miscommunication. It did. He was talking about some sort of fish he caught in the mountains, while all I wanted to know was how to get to the party. Bears throw great parties, by the way. If you ever do get invited to a party by a bear, take him up on the offer, even when the game of the night is murder in the dark. I promise, always go. Unless, they are having tacos for dinner, then stay far, far away.
I reached the house just before the party was about to begin. A small dog greeting me at the door, followed by the large bear in my previous conversation. The next thing that happened can only be explained by the following equation: Bear + Dog - Dog = Bear + Indigestion.
The house was draped in beautiful things and the door was shut behind me. The bear was a great host. Especially once all the other animals started to show up. First entered another bear, greater and larger than the first. Followed by a small cub, trying to prove his independence from the older and stronger bears. Then came the beautiful lioness entrancing those that watched. The zebra trampled in later. Followed by the sloth who just had to have brought tacos. That never ended well in a party full of rare beasts of far off lands. Ending the parade was the stork couple carrying around their baby in a small white cloth. This group setting would provide much to talk about in the future.
The games started out wonderfully. We smurfed and we smurfed, until there was waaaay too much smurfing going on and three people were forced to leave, on stretchers, in an ambulance. Then we were all up for a rousing game of murder in the dark. If you are unfamiliar with this game: two people are randomly assigned to be murderers, just like real life. Then you turn off all of the lights and let the murderers run amok and kill people in the dark, also like real life. Only once someone screams and informatively states, "I'm dead," can the lights be turned on again. Then we make guesses as to who is running around killing all our friends. But, here's the catch, if you make a false accusation you die instead.
I took many things out from playing this game:
- Don't catch myself running around in a dark basement with a serial killer.
- Hide behind the couch if I am in the situation described in #1. Most times someone will die before they can find me.
- We need to make the legal system just like how it is in the game. If I accuse someone of being a murderer and they tell me that they aren't a murderer, I die instantly.
Before the end of the night, several crazy things had occurred. Four more people managed to be hospitalized which adds to a total of seven. However, we had no clue who six of them were; so it was okay. The sloth tried to make a move on me, but was heart-breakingly too slow, like sloths most usually are, not to be a speciesist. Someone had peed in the heating vent and the place reeked for a couple of weeks. And to top it all off, we got invited next week for another party. I hope they bring hamburgers this time, instead of tacos.
Criminally,
Kyle
For this Sumptuous Saturday, I am going to attempt to write a Thriller! I'll probably use Saturdays to explore many different genres which will in turn assist my growth in satire. Be warned, to step out of one's comfort zone is generally regarded as a "bad idea" in most Asian and African cultures (not based off substantiated facts or truths of any kind.) So if you want a Kyle's-Style-of-Comedy piece, might I suggest something over on my "favorite posts" section, or just going back a couple of days.
Thanks,
Kyle
Please Comment and critique.
Don't Forget to Wash Your Hands.
The bus broke down. My mom, Samantha, was out buying groceries at the time. I just walked seven miles to get home. Sweat is soaking my shoulders and sides and I am ready for a nap. School sucks. I have no friends. I have never kissed a boy! My life is like what adults call a "recession." I have absolutely no idea what that means, but life sucks just as much as they think the recession sucks. I grew up with just my mom, Samantha. But Samantha works seven days a week at two different jobs; she refuses to tell me what those two jobs are. I sometimes see her come home really late at night; on those nights I am awake because of the nightmares, unable to sleep. The only memories I have of my dad are from when I was just a little girl, still wearing diapers and enjoying just about everything. The nightmares about my dad are from when he would come home late; that usually meant a lot of screaming and hitting. Not just my mom, sometimes me too. I could show you the scars that are still there, but I don't see the point. What happened, happened. And my daddy's in prison. He'll be there for a long time. Samantha won't tell me why he's there. I sometimes guess why, but it doesn't help anything. He tried to call me a couple years back on my tenth birthday. I didn't know who he was. How could I? I didn't feel anything for him. No love. No compassion. I didn't want to talk to him, but he kept on apologizing and listing all the things we were going to do together once he got out.
"Honey?"
"In here, Samantha."
"How was your day at school? I bought you some after-school snacks!"
She obviously wasn't serious about the "How was school" question, so I'll drop it too.
"What kinds?" I tried to show mild curiosity, but it's hard when you don't have much motivation for anything, let alone after-school snacks.
The phone rang. And since Samantha has her own cell phone, it rarely rings. I strained to hear at least one end of the conversation. Samantha had gotten very good at muffling the calls. I could only pick out a few words and sentences like, "early" and "how come nobody told me?" She seemed upset. Real upset. The phone rocked as she hung it up on the wall mount. Anger creeped into her creased brow. I wondered if she scrunched her face enough if it would disappear. It didn't. Her face looked drained, almost lifeless.
"We're going to go on a long vacation, sweetie. Go pack your suitcases."
I knew exactly what that meant. We were moving and we weren't ever coming back. I also knew that every time we moved something bad was going to happen. Even though I would rather die than move again, I trusted Samantha.
"When are we going?"
"Tomorrow. Make sure you pack your toothbrush this time." She tried to smile, but I could see the grief and fear beneath her willing, but tired eyes.
After a night of deciding what to take and what to leave behind, I finally filled my suitcases. I was forced to leave behind almost all of my stuffed animals. It was about time I grew up. I'm going to be fourteen next month.
Sleeping was extremely hard. Impossible, actually. 2 am passed as if time didn't exist at all. It wasn't until about 3:30 or 4 that time really began to drag on. I was bored out of my mind. I got up to get another drink of lemonade from the kitchen. The light from the fridge blinded me for a second. It was hard to get around in the dark. Even harder after looking into a bright light. I decided to go sit on the couch in the front entryway to enjoy my lemonade and think about all the things I'd miss from this place. The trees. The mountains. The streams. The flowers. I wonder if they'll have all those things where we're going. I learned a long time ago that it's best not to ask Samantha questions like these. I hope she'll be o--CRASH! The breaking of glass echoed through the house. Before I could realize what had happened, I felt a cold, firm hand squeezing my neck. I couldn't breathe. The hand was so solid and so tight. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't think. I scraped and clawed. I even think I drew blood, but the hand kept holding. My chest, it hurt so bad! I want to breathe! Please, let me breathe! I could feel glass cuts stinging the back of my neck from when the window shattered. The blood almost felt soothing to the sharp incisions. Everything was going dark, well darker than it already was. Before I blacked out I saw Samantha running from her room with a bat. She looked so frightened, so scared. The last word I heard Samantha say was "Jake!" That's my dad's name.
I never did wake up again. I never did get to see if there were mountains in our new hometown. I never got to see what a first kiss felt like. I never did get to fall in love. I didn't even know what love was.
-Impressionistically,
Kyle
We drove for what seemed like 47 minutes, when in reality it was only 46. But time always does run a bit slower when you are about to initiate your own half voluntary, half involuntary execution. This all began two and a half months ago. There was a conversation that seems vaguely familiar, like the "what was that girls name that I made out with last night? Wait, did I even make out with anyone?" kind of vague. The conversation went something like this:
My dad burrowed into the room to apparently figure out how Facebook works, at least, that's the front he used.
"So...I just smash one of the clicker things on the rodent? Then I just go into my profile and this light blue, or maybe it's a bit darker than light blue.....what's the color in between light blue and dark blue?"
"Blue?"
"Yeah," he continued "the blue button here that says 'edit,' right?
I began to open my mouth, but couldn't let out an audible sound before my Dad began again, "so in two and a half months....do you want to die?"
"What? You kinda mumbled off there at the end."
"I said, *cough* *sneeze* *stomach grumble* in two and a half months do you want to die? *cough* *cough* * exfoliate* *cough*
"I'm not thoroughly convinced that you're not trying to sign me up for another half marathon. I remember last time you roped me in, you used the exact same tactics. The answer is No!"
My dad blinked a couple of times, shocked at rejection, even though rejection didn't do anything. It was me he should have been shocked at. "Okay..." he continued, "well do you want twenty bucks?"
This had to be a trick question, but just in case it was real and I could instantly inherit twenty bucks, I had to respond.
As I was summoning up the breath to blurt out the word Yes, my dad rapid fired the phrase, "doyouwantmetosignyouupforthehalfmarathoninaugust?"
By that time it was far too late. The "yes" was past the point of no return.
"Yes," I said.
"Okay, your wish is my command, you better start training."
"I'll get you next time, father. Next time!"
Any other possible petitions against this race were obliterated once the fifty dollar racing fee was paid.
The morning was stiff, the trees glared at me for being up so early, and my eyeballs tried several times to leave my head and run home where they felt more comfortable. The birds sang melodic tunes of various songs, such as:
All Nightmare Long- Metallica;
Black Curtains-Megadeth;
Endless Sleep-Jody Reynolds
We arrived at the park in just enough time to be really early. We waited for the buses for what impatient people would call an hour and what patient people would also call an hour, since it did, in fact, take an hour. The buses pulled up, like buses do. The organizers of this event assumed that anyone running such a grueling race would be skinny and fit, and so they put seven people per seat. It just so happened that they forgot to take into account Edith, who came in at a startling 643 lbs. Showing that did they not care that she was the size of six people, they put five more people in the same seat with me. Good news was that they were all fit. Bad news was they were fit, 300 lb Scottish body builders. The bus vomited us up the mountain, wishing it had never been assembled in the first place and silently questioning it's purpose in life as a rent-a-bus.
When we arrived at the starting line we met John. He was the regulation keeper of the race. He had made it his personal destiny to annoy every living creature before the race began. We loved John about as much as faces love rubbing up against asphalt.
Then began the race. If you could call it a race. It was more of a "fastest person to the finish gets to go home sooner," kind of competition.
Later, rather than sooner, mile one passed. Then mile two. Then before I knew it a man wearing an incredulous top hat was heard shouting, "Mile twelve!" What sweet, beautiful relief it was to hear such a number, mile twelve!
"Yay for mile twelve," I shouted.
"Oh crap!" shouted the man, "I'm sorry, I accidentally read the number twelve instead of the number three. Sorry everyone, Mile Three!" Two men and three women collapsed at the mere error of saying twelve instead of three. I kept going. Mile four, then five, tripping over bodies as I ran. The density of dead people grew less and less as the race continued on. Mile eight and nine passed like my algebra tests, barely.
"My legs, my adorable legs!" My shouting seemed to give me some odd sort of boost. The end had to be near. I turned a hard left, followed by another, and another, and another. "You've got to be kidding me! I just ran in a freaking circle! Good one race organizers!" They took my comment literally and are now planning on implementing twelve more next year. If I hadn't had wasted my breath on sarcasm, I would have definitely sworn an oath to never run again. But, since no air was left in my lungs to make such a protest, I am now signed up for a half marathon in January, in Alaska, barefoot, naked. I reached the real mile twelve and the same guy with the top hat was standing there, "Mile Thirteen! Sprint! Sprint!" One guy next to me pulled out his phone, "T Mobile, actually." The guy to my right was so sick of Mr. top hat that he pulled out a 12 gauge
shotgun and blew off Top Hat's arm. "Shut up!" He yelled stylishly and continued to run just slightly faster than me, which was really annoying. My legs were ten feet behind my torso, my arms were dragging on the ground, my eyes were leaking out of my nostrils, and my forehead sagged far below average. I was a mess. I remembered a wise running man once told me, once it gets to the point in which you don't think you can run any farther, count down from fifty. I tried. Nothing. I then decided to try counting colors, that seemed to work up until I got to the greens and couldn't keep counting. The thirteen mile marker danced on the horizon. "If I can just make it there," I thought. "I wonder if my entire body has to make it passed the finish line, or if my torso only will count?" I didn't have any energy to dwell on that thought. I kept running. 13 passed, blazing before my eyes. Only .1 miles left to go. Great idea: I'll run it! Bad idea: I ran it! I expected to see the finish line just around the corner. I passed the corner, and saw another corner. "It has to be behind that corner," I thought. There was another >^.^< (kitty LOL) corner! Just around this corner, there can only be one last corner, that's logical, right? Phew! No corner, but the finish line was on the other side of the field. I collapsed and died right in front of the finish line. Grass has since grown over my limbs, and my skull is a great hangout for insects. At least for me, the half marathon was over.
Ominously,
Kyle
Welcome to Mondays: Theories, Postulates, and other Life Threatening Illnesses. Today's program is brought to you by the color: Q and the letter: Sand.
Disclaimer: You may or may not find yourself eating various articles of clothing while imagining a fierce blizzard tearing through a trailer park.
Language. Language is the medium in which all thoughts are communicated. It may be a written language, facial language, body language, censored language, practical and/or impractical language. Whatever it is, it's a means to a goal. Now imagine removing those means. You're left with only the goal. I am going to make a related tangent to texting. Besides the Textually Transmitted Diseases that we may contract while participating in text messaging, there lies a greater threat: miscommunication. A slight miscommunication can start a war, can scare away a love interest, or it can even cause a horrendously dangerous volcano to erupt in an urban marketplace. Let's examine what life would be like if our mode of communication was simply ideas. If ideas could transfer from brain to brain within the time frame of nothing seconds. Boundaries would not be a problem, busy signals could pack up and move to Northern Canada where other unwanted things go to be alone and co-start hot chocolate shacks that end up not doing so well.
Imagine presenting instantaneously to a producer a screenplay that could revolutionize the world, while at the same time he is critiquing your work. This speed and accuracy of thought transfer would spin us into another age of unceasing technological advancement. The only problem that we could foresee in this circumstance would be that the human brain is small and 90% worthless. And if we were to try and use more than the allotted 10%, we would end up looking like this:
Euphorically,
Kyle
"It can't end like this?!"
"Like what?" Her crossed eyes really bugged the man strumming the homemade banjo, his discontent showed in his vocal fluctuation and the timbre in his pitch.
"Like, you know,
this." She thought constantly, so constantly that the constant became a variable.
The man's voice quivering, "Your clarification skills are like trying to put contacts into your ear drums in hopes of obtaining better hearing!"
"Well, I really don't appreciate your sense of analogical configuration, mind you!"
"Why?" The man said, whose name will shortly revealed.
"Why what?"
"Why the 'mind you' part?"
"Haven't you battered me enough today Pimples?"
Pimples had always found that pet name endearing.
In light of his prominent endearment he said, "alright, Scandy (short for Scandinavia, another pet name created while a nitrous oxide leak filled their basement.) I'll stop as long as you let me dust your cats off once in a while!"
"Have [censored] you gone insane!" Scandy screamed and later edited for our more illiterate readers.
"If I tell you whether I am insane or sane, that would prove or deny my current state of sanity, which I prefer that you do not know. I refuse to say anything at this time."
"Lick the floor!"
"Okayyyyyllrrr." Which means "okay", but sounds completely different while licking the floor, "tastes like cats and cigarettes!"
"Dang cats! They've been smoking again!"
"I thought you gave them the patch!" Pimples pandered for a moment,
"Well I tried, but they just started eating each other!"
"Scandy, I am going to be what most people call a mediator in a debate, now have we or have we not diagnosed the situation of my sanity?"
"I declare that we have not, but I have my theories."
"Such as...."
Pimples shook open another bottle of Pepsi to hydrate the six cats, Cogs, Wheels, Lever, Wedge, Pulley, Crank, and Shaft, were their names, Pimples was, obviously, an accountant.
Scandy just opened her mouth, "You did just lick the floor didn't you?"
"Yeah...." Pimples tried to escape through the wall, but it turned out that the wall was a wall and he ended up getting a bloody nose.
Scandy's fingernails stretched foreword. Her thighs keeping her from falling off of their microfiber couch. Her waist decided to abandon it's purpose as a waist and forcing Scandy to improvise in order to obtain her goal. She did a small barrel roll to the left side of the couch, leaned forcefully backwards and dislocated her shoulder. This should give her the precise angle and stretch length capability to click the small "plus sign" button on the remote. The illuminated display of the 27.3" x 6.
♥" television screen to switch from "Cops" to a re-run of "When Evil Babies Attack: Horror Stories from the Crib and Back."
"Meh," both Pimples and Scandinavia said cooperatively, and then they smiled.
Pimples and Scandy ended spending their Friday night watching low-budget television shows, while eating Nutella from a tub, and spraying Lysol on a thirty-second cycle in lieu of cleaning the year old pile of TV dinners. They had a deal that whoever's mother-in-law dies first, has to take it out. They loved each other, and loved themselves just a bit more. Also, despite Scandy's whining, it did in fact end like
this.
Observationally,
Kyle
My hair-color-changing-chameleon of a sister picked me up from a death-defying day at work. It was so death defying that death actually stopped by my apartment later and cried on my couch for an hour demanding an apology. I laughed at death in the face, turns out he doesn't like it much when people do that, he just sobbed harder.
And as my reptilian sister and I were escaping the co-racial confinement of a call-center, the time drew closer, like a very impolite trucker who gets as close as he possibly can to your bumper while you are waiting out an endless red light. Time came and it creeped.
We were driving terrifically while the counterproductive music projected so loudly that it reached into parts of the car that I didn't even know sound could reach into. The lyrics of such music describe nothing and sound like something even less. It would have been unbearable had I not been trained for such situations. That training all began at birth. My parents held rock concerts nightly in my room, the long haired musicians placing the bass in my crib. They would rock out to various Bon Jovi and Leonard Cohen songs. A kind father and mother looking out for their baby boy, protecting him from the noises of life.
The climax of this story concludes in the Provo city hospital. And begins when we ran around the hospital building. I thought about entering the building. I entered the building. This was vital. But wait! Oh no! Pregnant lady! Must.....Hold.....Door....For....Her.....Holding....Holding...... Holded! Running. Running. Running. Stop Running. I was greeted by none other than, you guessed it, no one. I was greeted by a MACHINE! "
I must prove my dominance!" I thought to myself. "
I could unplug him, but that would only stop him for a short time. He'd be back, and with friends. No, I must end this now!" The time was wearing thin, thin clothing that proved to be a nylon spandex biking outfit. Time was just preparing for it's daily bike ride, if you know what I mean, probably not. It could only end in one way, and one way only. If you were wondering if there was any other way, the answer is no way. None. Way? No. Are you sure? (spanish accent) Yes. It was a staring contest. My eyes began to bulge, my pacemaker started to pace, and my spine was beginning to crawl down my leg. The machine wasn't even straining or looking worried at all. How much longer? Then, my left eye shriveled up with lack of moisture and fell out of it's socket. I picked it up as it was dangling above my chin and held it towards the machine. It was soon followed by the right. I caught myself holding both of my eyeballs at a machine that, as the nurse described, just wanted my name. I finally gave up after my sister bribed me a milkshake, that I would just use later to moisturize my terribly dry eyes.
"Kyle, we're ready for you." That statement can unnerve a complete bio-dome with it's implications. Why don't they just say, "Kyle, we've been setting up your death catcher machine for twenty years and have been expecting you since before you were born. The tools are sharp and the monotone doctor is waiting."
The hospital smelled like a bunch of sick and injured people wishing to get better. It wasn't the odor of sickness that bothered me, more the smell of wishing and hope.
They then instructed me to put on pants and go into another room where I would be called into a conjoining room and shuffled into a nearby closet until the doctor came to retrieve me. I named the mop, his name is, of course, Benjamen Franklin.
"Kyle" gulped the doctor.
"Why did you just gulp?" I asked.
"I thought it would relax you."
"Hmmmm....okay, you seem like a man who play blackout, no-light, racquetball, I can trust you." I logically succumbed.
"Get in the machine, and don't move a muscle"
"K"
"it is of the utmost importance that you do not move or the pictures will come off blurry and, just so we don't have to take another MRI, we'll just document it as a serious form of cancer and instantly start you on chemotherapy."
"Okay....."
"You use far too many ellipses."
"Sorry, I didn't know you could tell."
The whirring sound began and grew and flourished into a BZZZZ BZZZ BZZZZZZZ sound. Then followed by a WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH sound and complimented with a BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP TICK TICK TICK noise. It wasn't but four minutes before I fell asleep and when I awoke, I jolted awake, like you do when you fall off a high rise building on a Tony Hawk signed skateboard in your dreams. Cancer was all I could think of, oh no.
I left the hospital too embarrassed to tell anyone that I had fallen asleep in the MRI machine since I went there to be tested for falling asleep at inappropriate times throughout the day. Irony might be one way to look at it, zombie revolution might be another. The tests come tomorrow, the end of the world comes on Thursday, making my prognosis completely pointless.
Radiologically,
Kyle
His name was Andy.
He was a big man.
He can grow a 63 Watt mustache in 2.1 Nano seconds.
His muscles feed off of themselves, triplicating in density and size every time he blinks.
His sideburns could shine my shoes, from twenty feet away.
When people ask Andy, why are you so?
He responds. With articulate rhetoric, "why are you so?
They say when he whispers, it's like smooth jazz symphony, to the second power, bathing in the milky way's outer rim. The outer rim where the lipstick stain still remains from the NCMO* our galaxy had with the Horsehead Nebula.
They say these things. But, I don't.
Not just yet.
Andy is my new roommate, you see. I've designed the ultimate test for him to prove to me his right to live in close proximity with me.
The Test:
Part A: Dress up like this guy, smile always, attempt to breathe heavily through my mouth and nose simultaneously.
Part B: Learn to opposite dance. Only activate as soon as Andy begins talking.
Part C: Buy an alarm clock of 249 decibels that shouts Adolf Hitler speeches every two hours.
He'll be gone faster than it takes a rock to go from being a rock to still being a rock.
Atrociously,
Kyle
*Non-Committed Make Out
To view part I Click Here
To view part II Click Here
I waited for the universe to spring me from the bondage which had me joined to this in vows stronger than in normal-person matrimony. If not to make matters worse, the aspen tree would not stop calling me racially-based names. I resent anyone or anything, for that matter, calling me anything other than my list of acceptable names that I created and patented when I was 17. Turns out that waiting for rescue doesn't do crap, even when you are the protagonist of your own story. Apparently the hero has to figure all this out on their own and get to safety by themselves. Stupid climax. My heroic escape goes as follows:
It began with my insanity level bursting high above the advertised acceptable amount. I began to see things, such as, myself as a large two dimensional smiley emoticon slowly being eaten by a pear. It was not the prettiest sight, I actually wish I had not seen it at all. However, wishing and actual occurrences of events are like unrelated half-cousins, not alike in the slightest, but somehow connected by a long stream of web-like diagrams and crooked family trees. Just imagine a family tree so crooked that on occasion various relatives fall off the tree altogether. Now, if you have imagined that, you can comprehend the relationship between wishing and reality. I had spoken to myself repeatedly about this matter, discussing it at length, because that's what you do while requesting an interlude of tango dancing with your hot date, insanity. The trees also occasionally chimed in by saying things like, "after a long and well thought out vote, we declare you metaphysically mental." What this dramatic, interpersonal monologue has to do with my heroic escape? I haven't a clue, In my defense I am a bit lonely out here and wish for someone to talk to. I'll get on with it.
As I was whimpering on about my insanity to the unseen stenographer capturing the very story that you are reading, the ape men had returned. They surrounded me, setting up Coleman brand camping chairs, and doing unspeakable things that I am now going to tell you about. They first initiated the session of torture with half-baked conspiracy stories about the Nixon administration, that lasted seven hours, twenty eight minutes, twelve seconds. They then moved on to viral videos of hyperactive cats on Youtube, that lasted for X amount of hours. I hope to paint you a picture of what it sounds like when a group of ape men laugh hysterically at utter nonsense, like viral videos. Picture yourself placing a wrench in a garbage disposal made of half-breed Chihuahuas in an air-tight, noise enhancing coke bottle, all on medium-high speed settings. And that is what I experienced as the cat kept running into the wall and the groupish gathering of ape men slipping quickly into fits of laughter. After that horror fest was over, they finished off by giving me an ape-man style manicure, pedicure, nosicure, and brainicure. The pain! The beauty! The horror!
I was out of options like a cop out of parking ticket forms. So, I did what any ninety percent crazy person would do, I told a story to the ape men.
"Once upon two times, there lived a man and his evil-twin, but they lived in two separate universes. They hated each other, but only wanted to love everyone, including each other....."
I feel as though I should explain what happened in the part in my story that goes "...." You may be led to believe that it signifies the continuation of the story. In truth, it represents the exact moment that all of the ape men fell asleep, deeply, deeply asleep. I wanted so badly, for the grand total time of two halves of a second, to press repeat on the "cat and wall" video just so I could save face with the hairy men. After weighing my options I summed up that the option: "escaping" may have lost the Popularity vote in the option election*, but won in the favor of the Electoral college. So, I clearly went with escaping. Lucky for me, one of the ape man had passed out right onto my face, so I could easily use his teeth to saw through the rope that held me prisoner. It worked. I was free. But, the ape men began to wake! Millions of thoughts rushed into my mind, so many that I had to open up the pressure release valve on the back of my well toned neck. I lost a few ideas that leaked out of my orifices in my face. They were probably the good ones too. I went with plan D, version 4.2 Home and Office edition 2010, or in other words running like Jello would in an all you can eat buffet, if it were given the opportunity.
I had to find Isaac, and his GPS tracking sticker that I taped to the back of his cornea had been removed. I eventually did find him, in the mess hall.
"This is no time to be eating, Isaaaaaaaaaaa!? Whoa!"
I was not staring at Isaac...
I was staring at Isaac.
Dang. I was staring at Isaac.
In the middle of the room lied a picnic table bent in half at a ninety degree angle. Sitting there, using it as a seat was Isaac Apple. He weighed in this moment 1,248 pounds. It seems they had brainwashed him to eat continuously. Isaac was strapped up to thousands of different machines of every type of color, race, gender, political affiliation you could ever imagine. It took me a few several dozen minutes to pull them all out of his beastly warehouse of a body. How in Heaven's waiting room was I going to get Isaac out of this building? At that moment, the herd of men apes intruded heavily into the mess hall. What happened next surprised everyone, mostly Isaac even though he would never admit it. He ate them. He ate them all.
"Wow, great work Hostess." I said with my mouth open wide enough to say that sentence.
"MEhfhhherrr!" He could only respond in gurgles and blurphs (statements that are not recognized by any language in existence)
I used my quick thinking skills to strap a leather saddle on his back and kick my heels into his side. The latter of the two did absolutely nothing, but he moved. He ate through the wall and through the forest as well.
Who would have thought that we were only thirty-five feet away from the international airport? Convenient was that airport's middle name. Too bad we had to buy out seven seats to fit my new partner, Shamu's obese cousin Shamtwo. And they gave me, in order to "stick it to the man", a seat in the direct middle of Isaac's six personal seats. And then approved a new state law that prohibits the swapping of any pre-assigned seating. I passed out within the first .012 seconds of the flight.
I woke up three days later tied to another tree, "ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!!"
THE END
Importedly,
Kyle
*option election: An election taken in a small Podunk town in Iowa where six people have the right to vote.
Today was one of those-"did I leave the tri-hub coaxium server on?"-days, if you catch my electron fluctuations. Who knew that the switching of shifts would conjointly change the universe as well? Well, obviously not me, or you, or that guy, /point awkwardly at Darth Vader bed lamp. I woke up and the sun was shining brightly, the moon cast away its final die and was now bothering people in Shanghai. Ah, just a norma- wait...What?! The sun?! I could not believe that I was actually witnessing a bona fide morning! And what's this? Real people! I am waking up to the sounds of real people with just as real respiratory systems! Except for Will "Iron Lung" Jeffrys. Sorry Will. But everyone else! With so much free morning time, I had no idea what to do! Think of all the glorious possibilities! And by a quick calculation, there were 45,098,299 possible actions that could productively fill those three beautiful hours. I, being an anti-anti-conformist, chose to do the one possibility that was not on that well-crafted list. Absolutely nothing. And what a beautiful nothing I did.
There did come a point when I was right in the middle of nothing very very important, I was in danger of actually doing something and I once heard that if you are doing nothing and are about to fall into the slippery slope of doing something, then to do something very quickly to throw off the universe into thinking that you are still doing nothing, but were actually doing something. It was worth a shot. So, I decided to go buy a lunch from Smiths for my first 11-7pm shift at the Apple Rebates Center. As I walked across the parking lot, still shuffling through the free literary classics audiobooks on my Zune, passing them off as extremely descriptive and boring, a poor homeless man came up to me and asked me for money for food. I was going to give it to him from the moment he asked, but he wanted to seal the deal.
"Can I have some money sir? I don't usually ask for money, but my friend and I are extremely hungry and would really like to eat. We live on the streets. I broke my rib. My child sold me to the government for dirt cheep rates. I am what you may call a trans-transvestite. Oh sir, might you please spare a dime? A quarter? Cocaine?"
"hmmm.... Here's 85 cents, sorry, it's all I've got."
"God bless you sir, may he bless you and all the land that you walk upon. May your baby be made of pure gold and pee diamonds for you. May the Taj Mahal be your sudden inheritance, sir."
I wondered for a second,
if that was just eighty five cents....
The thought vanished and the time was ticking for my journey to work. I ran inside, grabbed my microwavable lunch and rushed to the check-out line.
Beep.
"Allwrite, thadt whill bee won dalller aand sehvehnttee phive sentse." The checker said completely normally, but quite oddly when written down.
"Cool as Nitrous Oxide." (I was trying to implement my various new phrases slowly into society. No one told me that it would fail miserably.) I continued by pulling out my jar of wheat pennies; as I began to count them, the workeress quickly wrote on the back of a napkin, "We do not accept wheat pennies," and pinned it to the register.
Dang.
Fine, I pulled out my jar of Nickels and saw her once again write on another napkin, "No Nickels."
It was the same story with every denomination that I stored in jars that I carried around with me always. From civil war dimes to my extensive collection of African trading shells.
I finally paid with debit and headed to work. I could barely see with all these napkins taped to my face. And somehow I made it to work alive, and more somehowishly made it there on time.
And that was my morning. How was yours?
Exhaustedly,
Kyle
Every hero doesn't start out a hero. They start out as mostly pathetic losers with absolutely no potential and a birthright that means about as much as dead skin. They are completely ordinary and live in an ordinary world. But, a call to action is trumpeted from the highest rooftops and heard by every lemon-sucking peasant in the land of constantly burnt, dead grass. It is rung from the mountains of York, branded on the cows at the slaughter house, and texted into every teenagers social circle. The pathetic hero, of course, declines at first, but a mentor steps in and motivates the PL to action, to conquering worlds without order or more controversially, hanging out with a girl. Once he crosses the threshold of complete non-interaction with the girl, he enters the special world. Now I will tell you about my day. I woke up into my ordinary world, not so much as a pathetic loser just more of a pointless appendage to society. Then the call to action. It came
silently, but there was an absolute surety that it was a call and to action. I followed it, chased it, studied it, morphed it, deleted it, undid it, baked it, raked it, faked it, and traced it. It was my time to overcome the weaknesses to which I have become a slave. It was my time to emerge as the hero that has been sending impolite telegraphs to the house of representatives that live in my Parietal Lobe.
I traveled over the coarse concrete field, Sildwaalk, all the way to the Street of States. I boarded the craft that would become the means to the goal. Many called the craft "Buster" because of the immense weight that it threw into a constant foreword thrust. Buster has a built in momentum encompassor that drains the momentum of every inanimate object within the radius of three and a half light years and wraps it into a tightly bound ball of pure density and throws it backwards like one would a mildly warm potato. We went very very quickly in a direction that I prayed was the right way.
When I left the public warp-speed transportation, my eyebrows were where my neck used to be and my forehead became my new cape to be worn always. My cheekbones decided not to be bones and took a permanent vacation in my thighs. You don't even want to know what happened to my earlobes, okay, I'll tell you. They changed into more manly, desirable earlobes. Who would have thought. I walked, attracting the gazing eyes of thousands of people in a city with a population of almost fifty-seven. I paid no attention. I actually had no idea whatsoever, my eyes where currently staring at what I had just eaten several minutes ago travel slowly down my small intestine. I kept walking. I had a mission. And I wasn't going to let disturbing
mutilation get in my way. After several decades of walking, I reached the gate. The doorway to which life was about to be changed. My goal lie on the opposite side; I felt it taunting me. I raised my hand, I took a breath, and ran away as fast as I possibly could before someone noticed my presence at all. I had failed. The noises on the other side of the threshold became to intimidating, too fierce, too mysterious. I walked away beaten, afraid. I was not about to let that happen the next time around. I will face my fears, I will battle my foe.
Cautiously,
Kyle
To read part one, click here.
Hi. I am still tied to this tree by the way, it has been a few days. It's Okay though, they are even thoughtful enough to help us with our dieting. I mean, back home, I would eat up to three meals a day! Here, they may give us one every few days. I can't believe that I've already lost sixty-seven pounds. This diet is working great!
Now, to continue this story of the epoch, I am going to ask you to buckle up (if you are in a car, driving and reading this blog post, please pull over immediately and begin to pay attention. While reading a story, the plot is vital, and if you are constantly being honked at or rudely interrupted by many near-misses to horrible oncoming car crashes, how do you expect to understand the storyline?)
Now, where were we...Ah yes, Isaac and I were driving along what some Swiss call the "autoroute" and what all the other Swiss people call the "highway." He blared his speakers so loud until the speakers became upset and began complaining in high nasally speaker-like voices to "keep down all the ruckus." So we rode in silence. We also stopped in silence, walked in silence, bought soda at gas stations in silence, shaved our backs in silence, talked about how much silence there was, and then contemplated our talk about silence in silence. When we arrived at the base of Sample Mountain, we could clearly believe what we were seeing. Mushrooms. Lots and lots of mushrooms. Did I mention that I hate observing mushrooms? I hate observing mushrooms.
"Let's get started, eh?" stated/questioned Isaac.
"Yeah."
I slapped on my tightly fitting mesh latex gloves. Another thing in which the government failed to increase our budget, non-mesh latex gloves. I could only hope these weren't poisonous to the touch. I carefully reached down to pick up our first sample mushroom. What I pulled out was more than a mushroom. The thing I just pulled out was at least six inches taller than what appeared on the surface. I saw two eyes the size of 1993 Denver mint pennies. They stared at me in a state of absolute confusion and uncertainty. I wondered if it has ever seen the outside world before. As I continued to pull I saw what might be labeled as arms. They were stubby and kept close to the torso. They had no fingers and no thumbs, more like two long roots coming from just below the head, if a head is what you would call the bulbous appendage quietly staring at me. I continued to pull this fascinating creature from the earth. It slid out quite easily. I continued pulling until the entire thing had emerged from the soil. He, or she, or it had two stumps for legs as well. Could this creature move? Could it travel from place to place? What a strange find.
"Isaac! Come check this out!" I shouted.
No response.
I turned around and saw Isaac curled up behind a rock with a small bottle of mace, kissing his crucifix that he held around his neck almost always 76% of the time. He was the senior ecologist in this partnership and was hiding behind a rock. Just great. I better get some sort of promotion for handling this case myself under the supervision of a thirty five year old heap of bawling flesh. He was crying on the phone with his mother, "Momsy, I am about to die, I am sorry that I never did learn how to sew like I promised. I feel as though the failure of my life must come down with me to the grave. I luff you Momsy, luff, luff you........luff......"
Isaac had gone to a more familiar world.
The creature had no nose, no type of auditory sensor. Just a small hole that I concluded was the mouth and the two eyes that gave me the shivers. I hate the shivers, no idea why he I was given them so I politely handed them back. I had no idea what to do with the strange speciman, so I stabbed holes in my containment pouch and began to place the creature inside. The next thing that happened was so unexpected and caused both Isaac, myself and most of the Netherlands to jump in alarm. The small creature let out a scream that would turn a group of CEOs into a pile of crying women led to eat their shoes, only because they would know not what else to do.
I clasped my hands over my ears, mostly to keep my brain from sliding out of them. I did find out that the creature could run, and fast. Its little legs picked up speed as it sprinted across the mushroom field, shrieking its eye bulging screech. This apparently alarmed all the other mushroom-looking creatures. The spontaneously burst from the
ground and added to the horrific noise. The worst part was that they all deliberately had a different pitch while screeching. I discovered something about the human mind that day, it can only process up to a certain decibel of noise before shutting down and requesting a reboot. The request took a few days to process and get approved, and once that pending process finished, I awoke strapped to a tree with no sign of Isaac Apple anywhere. So I guess this wasn't all bad news... I still don't like final ratio of bad to good news.
What is that awful smell. It smells like burning something. Like, burning....John? No, no....burning Jackson? Not that one either.....It's a slighter smell, like a James.....hey, that's my name. That's MY name! Ahhhhh! I'm on fire, on fire!!! If I only learned one thing from my alcoholic father it was this: I am able, in tight situations, to shoot various types of liquid from my eye. It was best to use milk, but I did not have any in this moment. All I had was my own saliva, one of the most painful things to shoot through your eye. I contemplated it for a bit, up until the pain of my burning flesh surpassed that of the ptential pain of saliva through the eye. I muscled my face to the left as best I could. My head was strapped to the tree, making this extremely difficult. Through a LOT of motivation and desperation I was able to force my head to the left and shoot out the saliva into the small fire on my shoulder. The fire stopped burning my shoulder and seemed to move to my eyes.
"AHHHHH!!! OW OW OW OW OW." I cried and cried and again cried and then finally cried myself to sleep. And now, I am strapped to this tree. I would most likely forget this weeks events in a matter of days. I have a really shotty memory. Now, since I am the protagonist in this story and I most likely won't die, I could either sit here and do nothing until something does happen and I escape, or I could try to escape by myself and fulfill my destiny as the hero/protagonist.
See what James decides to do in part III of this sumptuous saturday story that is short.
Acceptingly,
Kyle
Today I took a large step towards paying for school this Fall. A large step indeed. Some might even consider this step a little too large and in need of some sort of restraint or containment. I beg to differ. It was an articulately sized step with a perfect amount of grace and zeal.
We sat around the glassy pond that was only being broken up by tiny rain droplets dive bombing themselves into the "party," as referred to by the droplets themselves. When rain falls, it can land in three different places.
The first place it can land is in another body of water. This is ideal for even the youngest of water droplets. It not only provides a community in which it can grown and maybe even end up getting filtered and into a plastic bottle. Maybe even a plastic bottle that is ultra-recyclable, but will eventually be thrown into a fire somewhere, thus counteracting any good done by any of the other bottles that it was born with.
The second place, much less ideal in being, would be a solid. When a droplet lands on something hard, be it a small rodent or various types of ham sandwiches, it's life has proven to be a very short one. However, some droplets believe in reincarnation, that being "if they are lucky enough to be evaporated then they will recycle in the clouds and come down as a brand new droplet, hopefully landing in a body of water this time. I don't believe in such idiocy, droplets will believe any half-baked theory if it makes them feel any better about their bleak futures. *Just now, in the space of one second, 30,028,327,082 water droplets just hit a solid surface", they are now trying to look foreword to the only thing that could possibly be foreword, evaporation. If they didn't believe in evaporation before, they do now. Thus proving to themselves that believing comes from hoping and sometimes hoping comes from sheer desperation and trials. But enough about morals and important things, let's get to number three.
The only fathomable option is the worst and most boring of all options for even the most boring, normal, elementary ed teacher-like droplet. It is also the most controversial of all three, mostly because it is very hard to think of anything controversial into a completely uncontrollable contact location of a randomly selected water droplet. This location is of course a spontaneously created worm/black hole. If a droplet ends up with the terrible luck of landing him/her/itself into on of these holes then they will spend the rest of their imaginable careers as a droplet circling the galaxy without anything to be done or able to do, breathing oxygen out of a small tube slightly larger than the air molecules themselves, thus causing much clogging and an even longer addition of time onto the waiting period for whatever it is we're waiting for at the time.
This all brings me to the point that we were able to take some outlandishly brilliant photos for my entrepeneur spirit and desperate need of a "little extra cash," as someone might say if they were being audited by a large man with a yellowish purple handkerchief. Let the games begin corporate world! I shall place my carbon footprint right on your forehead as a token of my appreciation for allowing Star Wars Episode I,II,and III to enter into our poor and unprepared occipital lobes. Such a horrific excuse for what one may call "a screenplay."
Droopily and back,
Kyle
This weekend was filled with mindless wanderings and cautiously silly tangents. I was in the mountains. The real mountains, the ones filled with rocks and birds and dead deer carcasses! I couldn't help but imagine people running through the trees with a shocked and desperately frightened men and women being chased by large, and preferably smelly beasts. Once that fantasy was exhausted, I trailed onto the theoretical mishaps of the Wizard of Oz. If I had directed the W o O, it would have included a lot more "ermph" and quite a bit more "yelch." And to top it all of, I would be morally forced to include a large beach ball bouncing around in a rock concert. Then a flashback, in a factory. In this factory is where that beach ball was created, I would then follow around Billie the Beach Ball's life with many dramatic camera angles and unnecessary cut-aways. And the flying monkeys would zoom into the picture, very ostentatiously, and scream absurd things that only rare species of apes could comprehend. What we don't know, is that we're the lucky ones. Flying monkeys only seem to talk about being audited all the time and how treacherous it makes their dating life. That, in fact, was the real reason Kurt Cobain killed himself. Flying monkeys.
There would then be an extremely descriptive intermission montage with clips from thousands of the worlds most popular infomercials and low-budget endorsement ads by B movie actors. And to top off the fun, Dorothy would break down with post-traumatic stress syndrome right before they get to the wizard, leaving only the lion and the tin-man. (The scarecrow was burned to death at the stake much earlier. At least he had absolutely no feeling whatsoever since he was made of dead plant remains.) The lion would get cold feet and flash into an intense argument with the Tin Man, forcing by escalated circumstances to pull out their light sabers and fight to the death. The lion would attack with the first strike, slicing open the stomach of poor old Tinny. Nothing came out of the large gash in his abdomen, probably because he was made of tin. They both stared in amazement and shock. This carried on for several hours mixed in with small snack breaks for juicy-juice and massage chairs. They would then get right back into gawking and awing. It sounded a little like:
"Gawk?"
"Gawk."
"Gawk."
"Awe..."
"Awe?"
"Gawk."
"Awe. Awe."
*Slurp* *Bvvvrrrrrrr....dmph.dmph.vrrrrrrrr.* *Slurp*
"Gawkawe!"
"Awe!!!"
They then looked around and realized the seven camera crews from Lolliguild News at 9, NLG at 4, and several others from various other controversial "green party" sponsored news stations.
It would then end in a truce by both parties, Of lice and Tin, and the unveiling of the wizard to be Elvis' great grand cousin "Fish" who seemed to be simultaneously utterly lost and in the process of trying to lick his elbow. They became highly disappointed and began a spin-off game of "Hot Potato", they called it "Hot nuclear warhead." And that is how I would direct the Wizard of Oz if I was ever presented the opportunity. Coming soon to indie film venues near you.
Utterly,
Kyle
I reached the house just before the party was about to begin. A small dog greeting me at the door, followed by the large bear in my previous conversation. The next thing that happened can only be explained by the following equation: Bear + Dog - Dog = Bear + Indigestion.
