All of the world's crappiest drummers are constantly auditioning in my head

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, September 29, 2010 5:19 PM

Thoughts on my mind...Not funny. Why? No idea. Stay tuned for Sumptuous Saturday when you get a taste of my finished novelette: "Robert Daisy and His Future Neighbors."

My brain sits in my head all day, mocking what it sees. Need I remind, that it sees everything. It sits on his lofty throne and deletes all the good ideas out of my head before they reach my fingers. I blame my job. It's literally sucking all the creativity out of me. What kind of job is that? Not one that I want to be a part of. I am losing my mind. Which is a terrible thing, for me, to lose. It's all I have. 

I look up to my father, a lot. He has it all. The creativity, the wits, the smarts, the brains, the braun, the work ethic, the pure artistic genius. 
I'll never fit into his genes, or jeans.

Tomorrow, I go off to my sleep study. Four weeks from tomorrow, I get answers. 

I am quitting my job. 

Looking for new brain; despising current one. 


Jacob Sean; He got gillz

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, September 25, 2010 12:31 PM

Jacob Sean can breathe underwater. Gross, huh. That means he has a physical mutation. Something between a human and a fish. Like a humanish or a fishuman. He hates it. For reasons very obvious. First, he owns turtlenecks in thirteen hundred and fifty two colors. This is thirteen hundred and fifty two more than any person should have at one time. The second reason goes along with the amount of water intake he must ensure in order to live. In order for Jacob to commit suicide, he would simple stop drinking water for twenty four hours. Jacob must drink thirty five gallons of water a day to remain hydrated and healthy. He is also half human, the bad half, which makes his bladder work the exact same as that of a normal boy. That, plus drinking thirty five gallons of water a day... He is running out of excuses as to why he must leave his geometry class sixteen times during the course of a one hour lecture. Mrs. Friedrichson, the fat and phat educator, was utterly annoyed by his lack of responsibility and respect for the public school system. The same system that he complies with by attending it in the first place. Nobody can know of his "disease," as he refers to it sometimes.

             The only thing that makes today any different than any other of the twenty-four hour days that Jacob has previously experienced, would be that today, someone would know that he was half fish.

          Jacob returned home that afternoon to the sweet smell of salmon on the barbeque. He didn't know if it was wrong for him to love seafood. He is only half fish anyway. 

          "Hey fishman, what's up?" His dad's voice carried over the smoke. His dad clearly thinking that his son's life was a game and not reality. The same dad that played video games until his eyes hurt and then played some more. He has done very well at hiding the "real world" as he liked to describe it.

          His dad's cooking always put a stop to the mediocrity of the school day. His family were the only people who knew he was half fish, so he thought. They were the ones that bred him that way. They said to him growing up, "it's not because we love you less, we were thinking of how awesome it would be to have a mutant child in our family. You understand that, right?" Jacob would nod silently to these types of comments. 

         The dark clouds were rolling in for another rainy night. "My favorite," thought Jacob. The rain had always calmed Jacob. It felt so good on his, more leathery than normal, skin. The way it ran down his neck and his skin absorbed it within seconds. It was going to be a great night. 

          After a great meal of honey smoked salmon and sauteed asparagus, the rain began to fall. Jacob had set up a chair out on the lawn while his entire family set up chairs in front of the window to watch their freak-show brother. They knew he was different and loved to treat him that way. "Circus time!" they would yell when he came home from school. It didn't bother him. Insults aren't supposed to bother you when they're from your family right? He sat in silence, watching the dismal clouds wash over the night sky, unleashing their rainy bowels all over Jacob's face. He loved every minute of it.  

           In the meantime, a man wearing all black crept around the house, being careful not to breath too much or too little. That would make him either hyper-ventilate or hypo-ventilate. Neither of which he cared for right now, "maybe later," he thought. His feet pressed on the damp grass as he moved step by step around the west of the house. He had the slip-resistant cuffs ready for use. And just in case, he had purchased a Winnie the Pooh mask to hide his identity. 

           Jacob was completely unaware that his moment of euphoria was going to turn south, since it was currently soaring an a north-east direction. And to turn completely south would require a very terrifying experience. That is exactly what was to happen. 

           The man crept up behind Jacob, breathing at an immaculate rate for kidnapping a mutant fishuman. Jacob's family watched and did nothing. 

           The man threw on the cuffs so quickly that even the raindrops became distracted for a second, paused mid-air, and then continued falling onto the self-conscious grass. Jacob was very startled and didn't have time to struggle before the man injected him with a liquid that stung sharply at first and then a cool soothing sensation rushed over Jacob. He relaxed and then wet himself.
          Jacob's family had done nothing. They planned for this. They were watching with popcorn in their hands, viewing the capture. It sure beat watching another episode of the Golden Girls.

          "See kids," began Jacob's father, "wasn't it a good idea not to become emotionally attached to your older brother?"
          "Yeah!" the family shouted in unison. 
          The father pulled the camera open. "Who wants to see it again?" Cheers erupted as he pressed play.

          Jacob woke up inside a tank of water. "At least I'm not dead," he thought, "well, best not to make that assumption." He swam around for a bit. Looking through the glass at different angles, trying to make out anything that was going on outside. He could see movement, and lots of it. He just couldn't make out what it was that was moving. Jacob circled the tank a few more times until he rested his eyes upon someone else's eyes. They were looking right at him. Through the tank there were eyes staring back. "What is this place?!" He began to panic. He pushed against the top of the tank expecting nothing to happen, but trying anyway. Pushing against the tank was about as effective as whale saving charities. Even less. He was stuck. And that's when he saw the sign. "Fishboy: The only living Fishuman/Humanish."

             "Wow... How tactful." Said Jacob.

The End


I put the "i" in "i win"

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, September 22, 2010 7:43 PM

The click of a button brought me such joy in my already resplendent life. I turned one corner on the web browser and wound up ordering what would become my quarter-life crisis. I could imagine it sitting there glimmering, like brown packaging seems to do when you have just ordered something that will change your life for ever. I ordered what the youngsters of today are calling "iPod Touches." I often question what it is touching, then I question whether it is touching me. "How would an iPod touch someone?" I asked myself. Later I would realize that answer. The moment that I would turn it on and move it for the first time, it would in turn, move me. I was touched, but in a place that I would not have guessed, my heart.
             Earlier today, I sat in my "cute-icle", more darling than any cubicle, at work. I illegally checked up on the status of my iPod package. It had been delivered. I curled up and cried with joy. Think of all the amazing things I could do with an iPod. I can see through walls, bring dead celebrities back to life.  And I'm pretty sure it plays music, I could be wrong.

              I arrived home to Sams sitting upon the couch looking like a deer almost caught in the headlights. I wondered what would happen if I did hit Sams with a car... what would he do?
              "Hey, have you seen any package lying around?" I asked.
              "Just you."
              "I don't get it."
              "You don't have to." Sams snickered loudly, then dying down into a mild chuckle.
              By the way, my entire relationship with Sams is almost entirely filled with "..."s which pushes life onto the side of awkward. Also, my package must just be on my bed.
              I ran into my room, had one of those "we haven't seen each other for so long, we HAVE to hang out" kind of run ins, and then I opened the door.
             There lie the fruits of my labors, the golden goose of all my dreams. It shimmered in the lightened glory of an honest wish. I could barely breathe; my heart beat to the beat of a thousand shirtless african drummers. The world seemed to turn its eyes on this one moment and breathe on my neck, causing shivers to travel my spine. Now how to open the packaging...


Kyle and the Bus Stop Hermits

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, September 20, 2010 7:46 PM

"Crimson circles!" Cried the bus driver lady.
We paid no head. 

         I was once again riding what I had sworn away as a mild speed bump in my life, the bus. Little did I know that buses actually make horrible speed bumps, and mild is no way to describe it. I was taken deeply into the depths of a book, a.k.a. with my nose lodged in the binding, snoring loudly. Being taken into books is not the most relaxing way to rid a bus, neither is riding it barefoot with three-year-old cotton candy stuck between your toes. Both equally uncomfortable. And as all things that go up must come down, some people that go to sleep, must wake up. In this situation I did, in fact, wake up. Only six stops passed the destination I was aiming for. 

"This is the end of the line!"
"You need to get off."
"So why aren't you getting off?"
"Why would I do that?"
           I guess I got my answer once the giant claw came down, picked me up, and threw me out of the bus by my collarbone; all of that while still gloating about how great a claw he was. 

           I got up, stood, waited, and pretended like I cared about what was going on in the world. Just like any other day. Only, any other day, there wouldn't be a triple-toothed, frightening-as-animatronic-dolls-at-night, old lady. Also waiting at the same stop that I was.
        Lady began to speak, "She knows where I'm going. She always knows where I'm going." The words that came out of her mouth are currently lobbying for a ban on any more audible phrases being forced through that horrible orifice. 

         I tried to laugh as genuinely as I could. It looked more like a failed attempt at appearing pretentious.
         "Come sit by me..."

         "Nah, I've been sitting all day."

         "Yeah, me too."   

         I wondered if that were actually true for her. Does she even ride the bus? Is she a bus stop hermit? Are there such things? Too many questions, too little attention span to figure them out. 

         I had no idea what to say and she had far too many ideas of what to say. She arose from her dwelling and slugged over to my very private patch of bus stop grass. 

         "As you can tell, I really like Eeyore!" Her jacket, tee-shirt, track pants, shoes, and belt, all agreed with her. And I can't leave out the giant Eeyore tattoo across what might be considered a neck. "But I like Tigger better," She cared to expound.  

         "You know...they also sell clothes that have Tigg....Nevermind."

        This conversation carried on too long. Three conversations too long, to be exact. Even when the bus came, the conversation continued. Ranging from speaking of Tigger puzzles to a top ten list of her favorite swear words. 

        Relief had never meant more to me than just the word "relief," until I left the bus and breathed the air. The pure air, free of creepy-person carbon dioxide. Pure relief.
        "What a great day!" I shouted.

        Then I heard a voice that condemns damned souls into further damnation. It was her. "Which is the way to the Apple rebate center?"


The Illusion of Age

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, September 18, 2010 10:23 AM

       For this week's sumptuous saturday, I am going to post a murder mystery that I just entered for a contest honoring Agatha Christie. It's a murder mystery type thing with the motif of "Entrapment". If you are looking for something on my normal funny, please check back every Monday and Wednesday, or feel free to browse past posts.
                       Thanks and hef fun,

“The mouse sits, feeling like it’s got the cheese, when in reality it’s the cheese that’s got the mouse.”

            It feels good holding well earned money. It might not hold the same value as a man who breaks rocks up all day for thirty bucks, honest money. I earn money the only way that I know how. I do stop to think sometimes if I am too old for this? Yes, I am. But this isn’t the end of it either. It can’t be the end. I have to leave my legacy. It killed me to think of taking on another job. Every time I thought of working, I couldn’t help but think of my wife. She needs me now more than ever. It would just one more. And that damned paper. I stared at the paper and the paper did nothing. It didn't move or leave me alone. I wish it would just burst into flames. But, that would make life simple, and that's not right. The paper never slept and didn't let me sleep either. God knows I will be seventy next month, this is my last opportunity for a final job. A grand finale. I was well aware of the risk. That was what made me hesitate. The one thing this business had taught me was to be very wary of those who prefer to stay anonymous. They obviously have something to hide; there is always something very risky attached to such luring offers. Like this one. The job seems perfect. Every detail immaculate. This could be my legacy. With the extraordinary prospected money sum, I  could finally stop risking my life and move far away with my sweetheart, Sue. I’ll do it for her. Ever since the moment I met her, I hadn't the heart to take her money. Was it her long, beautiful brown hair and her enticing gray eyes, showing like  a continuous rainstorm. I'll do it for her. 
          It was only two days until the rendezvous at Gloria Park as requested in the cursed letter. He'd be wearing a patriotic  pin on his lapel. Funny. In this vocation, patriotism isn’t something we hold in the highest esteem.
                                *** Two Days Later***

            Ugh. I feel sick. Nervous never used to be a part of what I do. I assumed it came with age. If I had been calm enough to have eaten something, it definitely wouldn't have still been in my stomach. Am I ready for this? Is this bigger than me? Doubts. There were always doubts. Get rid of the doubts and get rid of the nerves. Parker Thomas. That’s me now. At least for today. It was time. I walked over to the fridge and downed a couple cups of skim milk to calm me down. Sue claimed it was healthier to drink skim. I hated skim. And health isn’t something I’m too worried about.

     I walked over to the door; placed my ray bans on my recently sweated brow. The door swung open as I pulled on the handle. The creaking sound just added to the nerves and frustrated me. I can't get frustrated, it's not who I am. I really do have to get that door fixed. Yet, it seems so trivial to think of such things now. Even our reserved, kept-to-themselves neighbors seemed like they were staring at me. That doesn't sit well... Has this job turned me paranoid. My hands have never shaken so badly. 
     The distance to the wasn’t bad from where I lived. I decided to ride my bicycle; another of Sue’s “solutions” for a healthy lifestyle. The constant pedaling wasn’t bad until the first hill, reminding me that I'm growing weak and fragile. But, what must goes up, must come down, right? The brim of the hill confirmed that idiom.  
     I could see the park growing bigger as I gained speed on the incline that took me down to the park. I scanned the available buildings and set up the scene in my mind. The plan was simplistic. This contact had clearly done this before. He tried to explain it in the letter, but I only understood a third of it. All I had to do was convince a young man that his investments are better placed in our oil company, the san bernardino oil co., or something cheesy like that, easy enough. He would then chord transfer, or wire-something-transfer the money from his account to a dummy account set up prior. During the transaction, we would extract the money mid transfer and relocate it in a second dummy account. This takes the trail cold, he had said. When they try looking into it, they can only see that money being sent and never received by the end party. No way of relocating where it was stolen to. I think he said some stuff about firewalls and counter-routing, but I'll take his word for it. I could only wish to have known more about this technology stuff.

           I pulled my bike to the side of the old barber shoppe, and began searching for the patriotic pinned man. After a couple close scans of the park, I quickly realized that something was wrong. He wasn't there. I looked again. No one. Just a few little girls jumping out of swings onto the ground and their mother lying on the ground reading some form of romance novel. This is weird. It was five minutes after the posted time. Something was really wrong. Before I could react, I felt a cloth yank my face backwards. I couldn't see a thing. Two hits to the legs with something very hard and very fast, took me to my knees. They, whoever they are, dragged me across the pavement, further into the alleyway. Is this how it was going to end? Me, an old man, sobbing and completely helpless? I couldn't pick out voices, the pain rang in my ears. I couldn't hear anything, and at this point I didn't care what I heard. The world seemed fake, surreal. They threw me around like I meant nothing. I felt like nothing. Am I nothing? My head hit something hard and more tears travelled down my rough, aged face. I heard a door slam open. They dragged me inside what felt like a large empty building. The stairs into the place hurt the worst. No mercy. The small sounds echoing throughout the vacant space. Why did I have to do go for this job. Anonymous! How could I have been so STUPID! I'm sorry Sue. The words soon became audible. 
        "I'm so sorry. So sorry, Sue." I was sobbing uncontrollably.
        "Shut up old man!" This man was  clearly the brave one. Not a single inflection of fear. These people sure  weren't going to stop at torture. This would be my legacy, dying at the hands of thugs and criminals. I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. The tears still streaming. 
Another voice chimed in, "I don't know if you remember me Anthony, but I could never forget you."
How does he know that name? I had rarely given out that name. "Who are you?! What do you want from me!?" 
        "You stole everything from me. EVERYTHING!" The man hit me across the jaw. I felt the cool blood drip from my mouth. "Think back ten years ago. Does Gafling Insurance mean anything to you? DOES IT MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU!?!"
        Gafling Insurance meant everything to me. It had been my biggest con. I was late in rising to the heights of my infamy, but it had been my glory. Sometimes referred to as "The smoothest con." I once heard that people had studied it. There had been a young man, full of the entrepreneurial spirit. It had been so easy. He ate from my hand like a starved child. Back then nobody meant anything to me; it was just a thrill, a way to survive. 

          The fury escalated in his voice, "I had it all! MY LIFE WAS PERFECT!"
I recognized that voice, it was Pete Frank. That young man who I conned to the ground.
        "When you came into my life, I was married to the most amazing woman you could dream of. Do you know what love is Anthony!?"
His words found their mark. There were no more tears, only the dry sobs of a guilty conscience. I had no idea who he was, just another number. That's all he was. Was... But, now he seems so real. 
        "They pinned your silly little fraud game on me! I went to prison for TEN YEARS! I lost my job, my wife, my kids, my reputation! EVERYTHING! I am the hollow shell of a man who used to have unlimited potential. A man who loved life and cared about his future. I feel numb. I feel dead. Now it's your turn to feel what death feels like old man!"
The monologue was over. My time was up.

          I could hear my bones cracking under the pressure of the bats and fists being swung at me. Memories flashed into my mind. Everyone I have hurt. Everyone I have loved. What did it all mean? 
My body went numb and became cold as they exacted their revenge. 

       "I love you Sue."

I never would get to tell her my real name. It was Zachary. Things like that only matter when it’s too late. The little things. How could I have deceived her? I kept so many secrets from her and still I kept her heart in my hands. She gave me nothing but trust. How I would take it all back now if I could. I would show her how much I worshiped her. How much I truly loved her. Death was only too fitting of an ending for a man who has cheated it so many times. I wonder what i’ll have to pull to get into heaven? It’s worth a shot right?

                                               The End


Doctors, Proctors, and Digestion Blockers.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, September 15, 2010 11:26 PM

         I shall begin this week's EDventure with a quiet part of my life. 
         Besides what lies obvious, I have problems with my brain. It belongs to an underground cult. My brain joins his "colleagues" (as he calls them, attempting to sound smarter than me) causing political strain on every almost-important thing, like the environment and mutant fetuses. He also constantly discusses ways to get back at me when he should be busy remembering things like when my birthday is, how many times I need to breathe per minute, and where I left my stinking umbrella.
         For these reasons I have been seeing doctors. Doctors that tend to get frustrated with me when my brain decides it would be really funny to shut off all the nerves in my face.
         "So, Kyle, you were saying something about how you tend to fall asleep at the wheel.  That seems dangerous....mumble...mumble...mumble....."
         My face dragged downwards, and I involuntarily gave the doctor such a blank, blank stare that he had to leave the room quickly and change his scrubs. The only clean scrubs he could find were color-inverted hello kitty scrubs that only reached slightly past the knee. He began the appointment by instructing me to take my shirt off.
        "When I come back in, you better have your shirt off! Put this plus-sized gown over your body and then count all of the Chinese dynasties since 'the five emperors' by the time I open this door again."
        "Doubleyou tea eff?"

***                                             ***                                      ***
        He finally did re-return, once again, to my diagnosis.
        "Kyle, I have come to the conclusion that you might have a physical problem, medically speaking of course." The doctor said this as he stared meticulously at the life-sized painting of himself.
        "Alright....So...." I said, trying to get him to say something.
        "Yes." He said.
        "Oh really?" Now the doctor was beginning to understand.
        "Right, well, we don't exactly know what the problem is. In order to come to such a preposterous conclusion, we must watch you while you sleep. And yes, in the creepy way."

        It didn't bug me that he wants to watch me while I sleep so much as the fact that he presumed that I didn't know he was going be creepy about it. That bugged me. Of course I knew. Something about this doctor gave me the shivers. It might be caused by his undeniable characteristic that he was born with his nose physically 180 degrees upside down.  When he gets bloody noses, it overflows like a central park fountain. When it rains, he gets water up/down his nose. And when he tries to kiss someone, it really gets in the way.

        "I want you to come back Kyle, in about three weeks."
        "Okay. Will I be fixed then?"
        "Oh, no no no. Two weeks after we plug you in to fancy monitors, we will meet again to review your results. Oh wait, no. I'm sorry. I'm headed to Norway for a pointless doctor conference after your sleep study. So four months after your sleep study, we'll review it, but mostly just hope that it works itself out by then. Also, no driving. Be in bed by ten. And STOP pantsing the other doctors in this office. They find it embarrassing."
         "Anything else?" I asked with no idea of what he just said. I had lost him at "Oh."
         "Yes. I called the police and they impounded your bike."
         "WHAT!? WHY?!"
         "Because you look like a kid who respects a good prank."
         My next step is to return to the doctor in three weeks and have them monitor me with fancy machines that can not only monitor my sleep patterns, but also charge me thousands of dollars.


Garfield Is Let Out of the Bag and Cries at the Literalness of the Pun.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, September 13, 2010 7:26 PM

Why it was harder to see this morning, as opposed to other mornings and rare cases mournings, remains a mystery to me and all of my "friends." It wasn't pitch black or even a darkened gray encompassing my sight. It was just like looking at the world through a child's halloween mask. It was confusing. This morning just started off, off.

        I grabbed the newspaper and began to search for the comics, being the most trusted source for facts in a newspaper. I first noticed the front page. It was jumbled beyond belief. So beyond belief that no religion accepts that extent of jumbled. I couldn't read a word.
        "Mlrfistick?" What is that? Well, it doesn't have an "i" in front of it, so it has nothing to do with music.
        "That's all iGot." I said in a hurry.
         I felt a bit claustrophobic while reading the paper and not being able to understand a single word. Then I climbed out of the dog kennel and claustrophobia vanished. But the annoyance of jumbled letters still flicked me in the ears. I took a leap of faith and moved to page F11.
          "The comics can't be jumbled, they just can't," I half-heartedly reasoned. The comics, i.e., the most used resource for ninety-eight percent of collegiate research papers had to have some sort of anti-jumbler.
        "Palyfekj!" Said Garfield.
        "Immmpep!" John replied.
          "NOOOOOOOO!!! This can't be!" My screams would not be heard.
          I went to my computer as fast as my crutches would take me. I quickly realized that they wouldn't be taking me anywhere. Crutches are inanimate objects. I require far too much of them. Feeling bad, I got up and ran over to the vibrant screen. I began to search all of my usual forums: I searched the declaration of independence gang blog, the procedure of making license plates in prison, even the online Rastafarian  vocabulary dictionary! All of them were completely incoherent and even harder to understand than normal.
            I went to Jeeves. Jeeves knows everything.
            I began to type in his perfectly-sized text box.

            KJfiyyyije alkckjz ieiufajk mi tarrimp?
           "AHHHHHHH!" I screamed, "What is going on!?"

            I grabbed a close-by pen and began to write on the nearest paper I could find, my birth certificate. I couldn't afford to lose my sanity, it took me three hours and sixty seven bucks to get it back from the city auction the last time I lost it.
        The message I had just written came out resembling messy picture blocks, made of lots of little scribbles and lines. I couldn't think of anything else to do. I would die a confused adult that only wanted to live to see what it was like to ride inside of a herse. I never will get that chance. I began to cry, a bit more annoying-sounding than usual.

             I ran to the mirror. I had no idea what to expect to see, and I had even less of an idea of what to see to expect. The person looking back at me from the mirror was not me at all. Then, I realized that a mirror just reflects things and that the person in the mirror was exactly me. I had obviously gone to sleep Caucasian and woken up Asian again.

Albert Maxwell: The Soft-Spoken Cavern

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, September 11, 2010 5:14 PM

For this Sumptuous Saturday: A story from my youth.

        The soft morning light peaked over the mountain as if awakening from a deep sleep. The light bathed the cavern in a luminescence unnoticed by anyone walking past. That is probably due to the fact that the cavern was currently above their heads by thirty thousand or so feet. One man in Nepal however, is currently at the precise altitude to where if he were to look a little bit east and forty seven thousand miles north he would be looking directly into the cavern. Since this man has cataracts and cannot see forty seven thousand miles to the north, the cavern remains involuntarily unseen. What one day may become a world-renowned beauty now sat alone contemplating it's life as a cavern. This Cavern would not know any more than it does now of it's purpose in life. The proof of this statement lies in the mere existence of the cavern, which we will now refer to as Albert Maxwell, for thirty million years.
           Born of the wind, Albert Maxwell was always a modest hole in the mountain, never boastful. The other children would never associate with Albert. In retrospect, Albert realized that he can't blame them for not being able to turn their heads, or what would be considered heads, in order to make conversation with him. If the other caverns knew of Albert's existence and could turn their "heads", the conversation would have gone a little something like, "whoosh, whoooooosh, whosh whosh whooosh." "Whish, whoosh, whosh whosh." They would have simply become bored and slightly frustrated with their lack of vocabulary to communicate ideas to one another. Albert realized it for the better to sit alone and contemplate his purpose in life than it would be to finally find out what an awkward conversation feels like. His purpose however would forever remain a mystery.


Amish people make terrible landlords.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, September 8, 2010 11:08 PM

         It was a lot of preparation mixed with just the perfect amount of preparation H.  I logged on to what most people refer to as a computer. Everyone who doesn't is either Amish or died in the sixties.
         Evidently, I was buying a computer while on a computer, so compute that! 
         Let's imagine for just one tangental second some tactics that we might use to try and buy a computer without a computer. 

One idea quickly jumps into my mind: roadside advertising! Now we must contemplate the proper procedure in letting people know that you are looking for a computer without making yourself look desperate or like you're fixing to eat someone's liver. That doesn't sit well, far too many digestive issues with eating human livers. Just imagine how your liver would feel. Jealous?
For this first experiment, you, no matter what, need a cardboard panel in which you can make hard to read sentences, with excruciatingly bad grammar. For example: "Me for study on college, N.E. one half computer 4 Me?" 
            Don't write my example word for word; I know you have it in you to branch out and reach new heights in pursuit of the perfectly unconventional advertising method. 

The second idea I can quickly whip out would be word of mouth. Which makes me compulsively write a short list of "word of..." possibilities. "Word of mouth, word of writing, word of smell, word of legal jargon, word of non-importance, word of foreign mouth? Order now with a credit card and I'll throw a second set of "word of....s" absolutely free. 

            Word of mouth might become useful, but it really limits your purchasing options. Especially if you're a deaf/mute leper. Then word of mouth becomes impossible. I think they call that word of sometimes-literal-hand-movements. And how long could a leper use sign language? Can it be done with just four fingers?

Those are just a couple of prime examples. 

I finally found the perfect computer. It sang songs full of 1s and 0s until my heart turned into 128 bit color and lit up like a backlit LED screen. The aesthetically entrancing keyboard and eerily symmetrical trackpad found its home in my dreams. I had to have it. I must call Bradley!

"Bradley! I have to have it!"
"Who is this? And how did you get my number?"
"Uhhhhh...what's that over there?"
"You do realize this is a phone conversation right? I have no idea what you're pointing at?"
"AHHH! How did you know I was pointing at something?"
"Who are you, and what do you want?" Bradley's voice rang with a tone that I couldn't quite pick out. Something between mild contempt and prison-tude.
"Me want computer." 
"Right, so just come to alleyway number seven."
"Okay, and where's that?"
"Right next to the abandoned railway tunnel and the uncertified drug and needle store."
"Sweet. So what time?" At this point a normal person would have second thoughts, but that google image of the computer he put on was really cool!
"Say...two a.m.?"
"Sounds great!"
"I'll be wearing a black metaldeath hoodie listening to headphones so loud you'll be able to hear it from main street." Bradley said.

***Two A.M.***
I brought along a lioness to protect me from potential harm. It was her idea, i felt as though I could handle myself in such a situation. She disagrees.
The lamp posts were trying to say, "what are you, stupid?", but their voices are so whiney that I never listen to lamp posts. We walked into the alley when I began to ponder. "If it's so dark in an alley that you can't see the alley, is it still an alley?" The answer is yes.
We marched up and knocked loudly on the door, that was very peculiarly placed next to a dumpster full of dead bodies. The lioness began feasting while I stood at the door, now alone. 

"Passcode?" came a voice that sounded like what my siamese twin sounds like with a voice scrambler.
"Can I get a hint?"
"You're in a dark alleyway, no hints."
Seemed reasonable, "Okay... I'm just going to take a shot in the dark here..."
"Correct. You may enter."
The lioness and I shook our heads in amazement. 
We should have also taken this moment to realize that it was a stupid idea to enter.
But, all in all, I got out alive and now I have a new macbook. She serves me well and loves me just as much as I love her, except she doesn't kiss back...


Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Monday, September 6, 2010 9:55 PM

Hey all! Happy labor day in which we get to oxy-moronically do nothing! Also due to a disturbingly heated lawsuit against no one, there is no post today. Sorry.

Sewers, Sandwiches, and Sam

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, September 4, 2010 3:16 PM

         Sam Longstreet had a bowl of cereal every morning with exactly two-hundred-and-sixty pieces of cereal. If Sam had more or less than two-hundred and sixty pieces of cereal for breakfast he would be an emotional wreck for several days following the incident. It wasn't the amount of sugar. It wasn't the time it took him to eat it. It wasn't even the way the beautiful square-ish pieces floated gently atop the dairy product. Some doctors say he has OCD. Others say he's just mental and that he should pay them another $40 to prove that he's not mental.  None of these doctors seemed to satisfy the question within Sam of "what's wrong with me." So about a month ago, give or take a couple of years, Sam went into the nearest alleyway to contemplate his existence in life. He didn't get very far.
          "Hello." A voice echoed through the alley.
          "Who am I?" Asked Sam.
          "You're Sam." Replied Sam.
          "Well, then who are you?" There was obviously a viscous fog of confusion. The confusion was partly due to the conversation, but mostly due to the word viscous.
          "I'm Sam," Replied Sam. Sam had a confused, "Sam-like," look on his face.
          "Well we can't both be Sam."
          "Alright. So what do you suggest we do then?"
          "I'm not sure."
          "Well, I'm at a loss as well. How are we ever going to keep track of the changes in dialogue that we're making right now?"
      Moments of pointless contemplation passed.
          "I've got it!" Sam said while contemplating which Sam he was, "We'll pick different names!"
          "Okay. That sounds unprovenly intelligent! I'll be Peter. Now you choose your name."
          "Alright. I'll also be Peter."
          "That completely defeats the purpose!"
          The people formerly known as Sam both became bored of such mindless bickering and began to contemplate life again, together. Once again, they did not get very far.
     The reason for such a story was only to illustrate that Sam has the same IQ as the cereal that he's currently counting.
         It never occurred to Sam that he was different than other people. He had always considered himself to be very normal. He went around naively thinking that everyone else was the weird one.

         It also had never, not even once, occurred to Sam that he was going to save the world this morning.

         Sam began walking as most Sams do. The air was fried and crispy this morning. The trees had just awoken from their slumber party; The same slumber party in which they decided to put the oak's branch in a bowl of water. Oak woke up to realize that he had wet his trunk, again.

         Sam tripped over everything that he could possibly trip over; then he tripped over a few things that appeared physically impossible to trip over. Sam hated when he did things that appeared impossible. And while he thought how much he hated it, he tripped again.

          He got up and continued to walk. He had been walking for quite a while without any tripping; a smile began to grow on his face. He tripped again. This time over a thirty-foot tall statue of Winona Ryder. "Stupid impossibilities," he thought. Sam caught his balance with just enough time to  stumble painfully across the street and onto a sewer drain cover which inadvertently saved the world.
         You see, at that very moment there was a small bomb filled with toxic chemicals being placed on the inside of a very specific sewer drain, by a man, unimportantly named Jake.   Once Sam tripped clumsily over the sewer drain, it sent a vibration that counteracted the
type of glue holding up the bomb. The bomb fell like an imaginary bird does when you shoot it with an imaginary bullet. The bomb floated along its way through the stream of sewage.

          Jake was sitting down eating a sandwich, wondering why he was eating a sandwich, that he never remembered making, and of all places, in a sewer drain. Then he remembered, "mmmmm.... Delicious!"  He never would find out what happened to the bomb. The bomb only knew that it was floating aimlessly down the "river of dreams," as nobody called it. It eventually wound up trapped in a box used for donuts and sat there quietly.

          The bomb never saw it coming. Nobody saw it coming.
          The bomb went off.
           But, it was so logged with fecal matter, shredded denim, dead puppies, and other things found inside sewer drains, that it didn't make it past the bomb's outer layer. The only casualty that happened in this episode of failed genocide would be Jake. And not by the bomb going off, but by the sandwich he just ate. He contracted 73 different diseases, 21 viruses, 63 bacterial infections, 5 children, 2 extra limbs, and a mutated partridge in, what looks like, a pear tree.

          Moral of this story: Don't dunk your sandwiches in underground sewer rivers.

The wind blew, up my head.

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Wednesday, September 1, 2010 6:59 PM

Sleeping isn't so easy when Andy "The Basher" Robinson and Thomas "Icicle" Simpson are screaming death threats at one another through Skype in your room. I'm not even sure why they were in my room. They each have their own rooms, the living room, and the entire kitchen/dining room area to scream at one another. It made me feel a thousand times worse when they started tearing my clothes to shreds for dramatic effect.
                "I hope your arteries become corroded and your dead dog comes back to life to eat your remains!" The Basher shouted in a reserved, for him, fashion.
                "Well I'm going to rip up this newly tailored suit just to emphasize my utter dislike for your showering habits!" Politely shouted Icicle.

              It wasn't even the fact that they were strewn across the floor shouting obscenities that really irked my irk bone, it was when they started up the karaoke machine that I swear was not there just a second ago. The fact that they chose the nature sounds album was the final straw. Listening to Icicle mimic a rainstorm for an hour and a half really brought a damper to my REM sleep.
             "GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" I screamed. Too bad I was still in my REM sleep and neither of them heard me.
             "Whoooooooooosh-sh-sh-sh." Sang The Basher.

            I woke up. Found out it was just a dream and went and told Andy and Tom of the weirdest dream I had last night. That was a horrible idea since they have the combined IQ of freshly poured cement. They thanked me for the idea and are now at Best Buy shopping for a karaoke machine with a rebate-able nature sounds CD.