You thought it was the stuff of fiction. You said it couldn’t happen here. You were wrong; dead wrong. Too bad you’re the President of the United States.
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You may have heard a few mathematically-inspired, nerdy-as-hell pick-up lines such as “I wish I were your derivative so I could lie tangent to your curves.” Until now, you may not have been familiar with their inbred cousins: programming pick-up lines. If you wish to remedy this situation, read on! So, my circadian rhythm was going crazy last night and I had 6 unique dreams, all of them incredibly vivid. I’ll spare you the more epic bits to present this little gem. I’m on an airplane with two other guys and one chick, the chick is telling a story to the guy she’s dating. Oh, and we’re all dressed as pirates. 1. I don’t rinse things before I put them in the dishwasher. It’s called a dishWASHER, people! Rinsing things is what it DOES! You don’t roast something over a fire before you put it in the oven, do you? That’s like parking a car in your bedroom so you can drive to the car in your garage. Now, it’s true that I don’t have a bedroom, but I do sleep in my car. I have a bed. It’s sitting in the back of the somewhat derelict van that is parked in front of my house. I have actively chosen not to put it together since the end of July, because I, through my own sloth, accidentally discovered the greatest sleep-apparatus short of a hammock. Mattress on the floor is divine for the following reasons. 1: Endless nightstand. Do you really want to fuck around with a two-by-one-and-a-half-foot space for your alarm clock, cellphone, and everything else you’re way too lazy to put where it belongs? Stop, then! Your nightstand just became the floor within arm’s reach of your mattress. You have been liberated.
Mayweather Syndrome is a debilitating condition that results in audience apathy. Onset of symptoms occurs whenever Travis Mayweather opens his mouth. Shortly thereafter, the cancer of his atrocious acting metastasizes to the other cast members, eventually killing the appeal of the show. There is no known cure for Mayweather Syndrome. I think of my phone like I think of my toilet. Once every three years, I peer into its darkest, most mold-encrusted corners and briefly contemplate cleaning it. I scrape off two layers of caked shit-dust and gag. Then I give up. Also, I rub my face against it, but that is a story for another day.
July 12, 1919 Dear Mr. Chaplin, I just wanted to write to say how much of a fan I am of your work! Even here in Munich, whenever a poor paper-hanger like myself can scrap a few hundred thousand marks together, I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon than to watch you “tramp” about! A good joke, yes? I think I have a future as a writer, but am focusing on painting at the moment. I feel I just need a decisive look to define myself, and so I was writing to ask if I could use your trademark mustache to help with my own image?
They say I am dead. That I will never haunt the world again. That I shot myself in a bunker in Germany sixty years ago. What they don’t know is that I had a long-hidden twin brother who actually was the one who died, and that I learned the secrets of eating right and exercising. I have lived to see the ripe old age of 120. They also don’t know where I’ve been hiding, the one place no one has thought to look: Sentinel Island. From the smallest of the Andaman Islands, I shall attempt my comeback. For years, I thought I was off to a good start. I smacked these foolish islanders into a steely, unforgiving discipline. I have trained them to make unmotivated attacks on all outsiders. And though they have never met a Jew or Frenchman, they assure me that if they ever do, they will growl menacingly. What a heinous advertisement! My monocle flew from my eye.
After the child is old enough to enjoy it, you sick fucks. I returned Peter’s stash to its rightful (though dare I say unlawful!) place, and soon enough Peter returned in a similarly criminal manner. I could see in his bloodshot eyes that awful gleam of knowing. Like any good spy, I had returned his rifled-through things to their original places, carefully restacking the most casual of stacks, etc, and though any layman would have been none the wiser, something in those flat eyes knew that I knew that he was a fiend, both horticulturally and demonologically. The fabled woods of Nor are usually filled with the chirping of birds this time of year. Yet in the clearing near the Tree of Infinite Truths, no creature dare stir. Sitting upon the roots of the aged elm sits the Tree Guardian, a powerful dimension traveler, the wrinkles of his years resembling the sacred bark he rests his back against. Nature itself respects the elder’s meditation. |
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