Tragically Fine

This is a post. But, not the wooden variety. Nor the kind that brings you bills or Bills if you're rich enough to pay for the ever-increasing post-age rates. And was there a time when the post office was called the pre-office? Or maybe just the office? When did somebody decide it was okay to name a cereal company "Post". What does this stand for? Post expiration date? Post-modern expressionism? Anything that starts with post makes me feel as though it is too late to do the subsequent verb. Post-haste: Crap! I always miss Haste!" And if someone can be post-mordem, do I get to refer to my physical state as mordem? Is there something after post, like post-post. A p.p.s. on life? Let us analyse prefixes until they become postfixes. That's also a funny conundrum, post is a prefix. Heh. Words.
                                         Imersionally,
                                                            Kyle 

















PPS   
  VS   
 P.P.S.

I ran into a bug, which was highly eerie since I am not the size of a bug nor is a bug the size of me. This one was different not only in size but in demeanor. I have always imagined that meeting a personified bug would have been similar to the moment you realize that a candy bar you are about to consume is four days past the expiration date. Which is in the "so close I might be able to get away with only minor indigestion" range. And you are conflicted between eating it and giving it to a nine year old. This bug hadn't inherited any of these characteristics from the chromosomes he had purchased a week earlier from a one horned gypsy with, as he will later describe, "eyes of half melted candlesticks and an odor that was nominated 'most likely to become banned from public' in high school or the pheromonal equivalent. Pheromonal makes me laugh. " End quotation mark.

Anyway, so this bug. He turned out to be a bouncer. Why I hadn't thought of a dung beetle guarding my dance heavy heavy dance club, I haven't a clue.

Children: Behind you! The clue!
Me: Did you say a clue?
Children: Yes, a clue it's behind you. Look!
Me: Is it over here?
Children: No, behind you!
Me: Where?
Children: You are a directionally challenged moron. This show sucks.

Me: Hey look a clue!


This clue pointed me toward the straight door of a crooked house. I thought it was a joke until I saw the horizontal mailbox and the upside down cocker spaniel looking at me with a very disoriented look. It was very similar to the look I receive when I wake up on the wrong side of gravity. Nauseous mornings. I was trying hard to think of why I was at this house, but the only thing on my mind were the faint last words of an acquaintance in Europe that just got hit by a mail truck.  "I can't think of a pun!!!!" I wonder if he ever thought of one...

So the cocker spaniel opened the door, or more disolved it if you catch my brain. And I entered inside. This story seems like it should have an end. Maybe later. I'm late for my checkers match with a blind guy. It's as easy as putting a baby in a blender. No that's way too dark... It's as easy as stacking hay pennies.

Children: Yaaaaaaaay. Pennies.
Me: HAY pennies! Not yay pennies....america's future is unfortunately ill.

                           Tectonically,

                                              Kyle
                                                                     
                                                                     
                                                         

             I had a literal meltdown the other day when unexpected company showed up at my door. It was the thirty-second last person/thing I would have guessed behind that door. It was the sun. With what little manners he was capable of having, the sun barged right into my living room. The smell of scorch filled the room. The room had little room to begin with and now it was grampy cramped.

        "Are you freaking kidding me?!1!!?" I said with 50% more than an inkling of spite under my voice, "I just cleaned up in here! Now my couch is on fire, I assume that small lump on the ground is my canary, and my turkey is now well over well done. And why in the heck are you wearing sunglasses when YOU ARE THE SUN!! And wipe that stupid grin off your face. And you brought a friend! How lovely. Oh that's a space shuttle? Did you get hungry on your descent from your lofty throne o mighty sun??? Have you ever heard of Elton John!? Apparently not. It's going to be longer than a long, long time for him! Now will you please exit my household and place your bulbous volume lightyears away from here so I don't have to look at your ugly face when I'm trying to watch America's Next Top Model on my newly charcoal print television set? And what's up with you trying to hook up with the moon huh? You think you can both be on the same side of the world at the same time?! Who ever made you the sun? Whoever it was really screwed up, a white dwarf could do a better job than you. Now go get your fat gas back into the solar system. And stop convincing children to look at you, it's creepy and damaging to their pupils. My favorite part of the day is when you set!"

      And that is how the sun became unconfident in his abilities to shine and lit the world on fire one forest fighting bear at a time.


                            Precisely,
                                                Kyle 

Let's begin this morning with a slight adventure with a sleight of hand, aka prestidigitation or to the less fortunate known as legerdemain. I wouldn't consider myself a magician, mainly because to consider oneself is overrated and undercool. However, I would say I share some of the underlying traits of a magician. For example, two weeks ago I was skipping rocks in an underground cave with a lake the color of the sky and a sky the color of a Montana. In one word, Shimmering. In two words, Really Shimmering. There was a small hat, compared to a life-size recreation of what should have been a new planet I was working on creating. In this hat was a tag that clearly stated: do not wash with silks, balsa wood, communists or any other delicate items. So... I did. And what happened next is almost indescribable. I just realized, since I said almost in the previous sentence, I must out of sheer duty to sentence structure and story continuation tell you what happened next. FRANKIE MUNEZ! Pardon my Cantonese. Here goes.
                  Have you ever seen a fish swallow itself whole? Me too. Now this question prefaces the following:  the cave began to tremble, and not the tax-free kind. The walls ached with the tense pressure similar to what snow dogs experience in the summer. The opening to the cave started spitting out rabbits with very unpleasant looks on their faces that said something along the lines of, "just when things started to look up." And that wasn't even the worst part. I recognize that in such situations one must curl into the fetal position and start counting how many fingers you have. "If you don't get passed eight, remember to count your thumbs," my early mother will say. I did not get into the fetalition (saves time) as I probably should have. The rabbits huddled in a corner like football players do before breaking both of your legs "accidentally" and I could smell their plotting scheming minds laboring profusely. Rabbits make me sick. To avoid being eaten alive by 212 monty python rabbits, I snuck out the convenient door set in the back of the cave. I am very glad the elements of nature had the foresight enough to erode a well crafted door for these types of situations.
                    And that my faithful, never failing readers, is why I am a quarter magician and three quarters speluncaphobic.
 
               If you're interested, this cave can be found at (r, θ), (r, θ+2π) according to the polar coordinate system.


                                       Primordially,
                                                                Kyle

As everyone knows, I love to be mainstream and do everything that everyone else is doing. Every time. Hahahahaha. That was a good one Kyle. Now tell them why you brought that up. Okay. I must gravely tell you, my alluring audience, that I did something that rings of clichedom, but is individual to me and who I am. That is my justification and I am almost practically aware of my surety that has been founded in a foggy haze of what once seemed like a good idea. I made a dixie cup list. It's like a bucket list only not a bucket and smaller in scale. Also, it won't end in death. At least not more than once. Here it is. I hope it gives you a pleasant feeling in one or both of your kidneys.

                            Dixie Cup List (50 things I want to do before summer is over).

1. Move Out
2. Write a 2nd Novelette
3. Work at least 1 day on a mid to high budget movie
4. Climb The Thinking Peak
5. Road Trip W/ Sam
6. Start a business
7. Dye my hair blue
8. Paint my face and go sit in the mall
9. Eat lunch in the food court with friends all wearing large masks (preferably tribal)
10. Dress up in full wrestling outfit and wrestle in a public place
11. Dress up for every movie I see in theaters
12. Read stories to kids@ primary children's hospital
13. Buy a pet
14. In one day come up with 200 short film ideas
15. Meet 50 Strangers   
16. Skydive
17. Hang Glide
18. Become friends w/ someone involved in hollywood
19. Make a weblog with friends (scripted)
20. Sew a jacket from scratch
21. Sew a pair of jeans from scratch
22. Invent something (orchestral gloves?)
23. Read 1 news article a day
24. make a scrapbook
25. Photograph a model
26. Film an explosion to be put into a film.
27. Make a fly system
28. Make a dolly
29. Make a crane
30. Sell an art piece
31. Learn German
32. Convince someone of something absolutely absurd. 
33. Make a huge break-up scene in public
34. Propose to a (random) girl in a public restaurant.
35. Go into public dressed as a woman. 
36. Pull off a spy mission
37. Invent a board game
38. Win a radio contest
39. Be on a radio show
40. Make a viral video (at least 1,000,000 views)
41. Try stand-up comedy once.
42. Write a pilot for a TV show.
43. Replicate a full scene from a movie.
44. Direct a music video for a real band.
45. Submit a film to a festival.
46. Make a zombie film w/ at least 50 people.
47. Box in a real ring.
48. Invent a dessert.
49. Backflip off a pogo stick
50. Film and edit a movie on 8mm film.

         It has been a tragically fine break in the thought bank of this blog. In an attempt to salvage my creativity from the junkyard of lethargy, I write again. Looking to the future, I realize that the man standing in the cramped, dimly lit booth creating a makeshift entrance to this junkyard of mine will charge me for taking this creativity home with me. Since this would surely be the case, I write this post from the inside of what I assume is a rusty car, next to a pinball machine with no pin nor ball, and a creepy poster of a magician with the head of a rabbit pulling a skull out of his hat. Not much inspiration from this perspective, but we roll on. If you have never been to a junkyard that is, oddly sufficient, your neighbors garage then you cannot fully appreciate the absolute fear that presents itself as a mild mannered UCLA business graduate looking for a lost t-shirt with a terribly yet spunky pun sown onto the front. This disguise is to be trusted by no one. What a horrible misfortune that my name in that moment was in fact "no one". So I succumbed to the ever-present fear and began searching for the aforementioned jersey.
  At least it wasn't a New Jersey. Hahaha. It was at that moment I realized that "Sean", as UCLA boy is now calling himself oh so pretentiously, had a terrible aura about him that caused terrible puns to escape through the sleeping joke guards whose entire responsibility it was to keep such jokes from entering into this overpunulated country. Years ago, my joke guards died in the terrible pun flood of 2006. You can imagine the aftermath... girls kept their distance, friends stopped being friends, and old people laughed so hard they died prematurely, though not by much. This tangent bringing us full circle to the point of me finding my creativity while inadvertently being distracted by Sean and his filthy jersey of puns.
        
                                      Transitionally,
                                                              Kyle