Friday, September 18, 2009

Endings

Everything must come to an end. Beethoven. Cars. Footballs. Tennis matches. Bungee chords. Limozeens. Words ending in "e." Words ending in "s." Violence. Suffering. And space.

But this blog must not. I know this because it is speaking to me. It tells me, "Where must you go now?" I ask it, "To the restroom." It shrugs, but I know that it is whispering, listening. "Let me in," it wants to say, but it can't, for it is a blog.

That is why I am marking this post as the end of the end of this blog. This blog is no longer ending, because the end has ended. In fact, it never really began. So ends the end, before the end begins, at the beginning of the beginning, which is the middle of something else. In fact, I declare that the end of the beginning of the beginning of the beginning comes tomorrow. That will throw them for a loop.

Everything must come to a bend. Race cars. Runway models. Roller coasters. Words ending in "s." Arrows. And space.

But this blog must not. I know this because it is not wearing any underwear. It asks me, "I am rather embarrassed." But I do not know why. Blogs are not supposed to have these kinds of awkward emotions. In fact, they don't.

Perhaps your blog is speaking to you, now. Not your real blog, but your inner blog, is trying to scruff its way out. Don't let it. It's a nuisance. Anyway, do you really believe that there is a blog living inside you? If so, I would like to know why. Because I find that notion to be extremely confusing.

My blog is following me around like a lost child. It picks up a piece of lint and I smack its hand. "Don't eat that," I say. "It's not clean."

"Yes it is," replies my blog.

Then I stop. How did my blog become anthropomorphized?

It didn't. I'm lying. Obviously. Do you really believe that blogs follow people around and pick up lint? Because I think that would be very cool, but it's highly unlikely.

That will not stop someone from patenting it.

I know you don't believe. But I believe, and in many things. I believe, for instance, in lions. I used to be one, a long time ago, before my haircut. But I decided that hair is unsuitable for blogging. You see, everything must come to an end. Even lions.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Sugarmint

Love is finding a cup in your cabinet that hasn't been washed yet.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

God doesn't care.

Deborah was her name. She was made of cream. She was my secret dream. She worked at a company called BLEEM. Where she was a secretary.

She used to make coats. Her coats were the most fantastic coats. They didn't even exist, usually, or at the very best they tried really hard not to, which you have to admire. Sometimes they would have more buttons than buttonholes; other times, they would have more buttonholes than buttons. Sometimes, they would even secretly be hats. Whatever the case, everything would be misproportioned and crumbly. Somewhat like a cat.

That was when Deborah lied to me.

She told me that there was spaghetti. But that morning there was no spaghetti. Only blood.

And blood cannot be twirled around a fork. Not under Montana law.

So I had to leave. What else could I do?

But sometimes I think about mountains. Mountains are very large. Sometimes I sit at the bottom of mountains. And at these times I go, "Mountain, where is your wallet?" But the mountain does not run away. The mountain can afford a Segway.

I cannot even afford a decent sandwich. Not without clapping a lot, anyway.

The point is, I used to think it was so cool. And all that stuff was just like, whoa. But today, I know that there's not really that much you can do to get discount cigars on this Earth. You have to plead for them.

But that only makes Deborah laugh harder. She laughs like a goat takes steroids. And that is simply impolite.

When you think about table manners, do you remember your religious values? How are you supposed to use a fork without considering God? Perhaps God is the fork. He is also a lion and a puma. There are so many types of cats, and God is all of them. Even a fork.

Do not let Deborah teach you table manners. Read your Bible, instead. It is more delicious. I know this from my own experience.

Barack Obama used to be a fish, before he learned how to tie his tie properly. But sometimes he does it wrong, just for kicks.

Do not let Barack Obama teach you table manners. He will kick you. I know this from my own neck's bleary aunts.

I just crushed another television with my toe. It was rather painful, for the television. Hopefully, I will not run into any trouble. But that should not be a worry, since I am wearing such a costly watch.

I have been watching a lot of news lately. This is very difficult. News is like quantum mechanics. If you don't split the banana, it just doesn't work.

Quantum mechanics is not at all like table manners. Barack Obama can teach it to you, no problem.

But that will not save you. Not for long. And that is why we must not forget.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Toes of Trepidation

I was on a plane the other day. It was pretty scared. When I got off the plane, I realized that it hadn't taken off yet. Well, that was no good. So I took off for it. What I took off is still a subject of perfunctory study.

When I was on the plane, I was asked by the stewardesses if I would like some tea. None of the stewardesses were bears, which was a little disconcerting, it being so high up. So I answered, "No thank you, I do not want any tea." That was, you see, my existential state. The problem is that I really did want tea, only I knew, from a scientific standpoint, that I didn't. These things can be ascertained, you know.

So I jumped. What else was I supposed to do?

On my way down, I began to pass clouds. After a while, though, they had run out, so I started to pass other things. I passed a dragon, a canoe, some small cakes, and a guy I could have sworn was a sandwich, if I could have sworn. Everyone was very friendly.

Looking back on these events in my later years, as I am wont to imagine that I am the type of person who occasionally happens to do that I am, it all seems very hazy to me, but also very wistful. Maybe this is because I did not clean my glasses, but I think it's more likely that I forgot to clean the world.

What sort of a rag do you use to clean the world? And does it come in pink? Can you buy it at a grocer's? Will he give you a discount? If so, would you like to do it for me? I could really use a discount, I suppose.

Maybe they have pink ones in Japan, but I don't think they sell them that way here. Or maybe it's all just a joke.

It wasn't very funny. And yet I can't stop laughing.