19 October 2023

First thots after waking

What do you want to do now? Reflect on the badness of your existence? OK. What rating do you give it, on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst? You give it a seven or eight? That sounds pretty bad; I feel sorry for you. Next time, you should try to avoid getting born. – Whoa, watch out for the fate! – Just now the fate swept you up and placed you back in a womb.

What do you think life will be like this time around? Remember how humans were manipulating the building blocks of their beings, last time you were living? You might have to endure a series of medical injections and procedures after you pass through the matrix. Or maybe they’ll do their meddling prior to birth. On the other hand, you might not be a human at all. You might be a rabbit. Would that be better or worse? An advanced type of alien would be best: then you could invade the planet with the rest of your species and establish a new Paradiso.

And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. [Revelation 20:13-14]

I always thought that when beings died, their corpse dissolved back into the earth from whence it came while their spirit returned unto God who first breathed it forth. And my other assumption was that the souls of the dead would end up either in the sky (in Heaven) or underground (in Hades); but according to the above quotation, the dead go either into the sea or death or hell. I’d like to know what happens when hell gets cast into the lake of fire. I bet there’s going to be a loud explosion then, and lots of smoke.

P.S.

I’ve gotten to the point where I barely ride my bicycle anywhere anymore, because all the motorized vehicles on the streets are maniacs: their rude impatience has grown life-threatening. I mostly travel on foot, now. 

But even walking has lately become intolerable. Just yesterday, for instance, I was heading north by northwest on a footpath, and a trio of large suburban moms appeared approaching from the opposite direction; all three of them had dogs on leashes, and they were striding side by side, rather than single file, and taking up the entirety of the path. Then, when it came time for us to pass each other, none of them budged an inch to let me thru: I had to step aside into the grass and walk around their whole party; not even the hounds thought fit to share the road. If the grass had been lava or a steep cliff, I might have been injured. Plus, not one of them acknowledged my greeting or returned it, when I smiled and waved and said: “Top of the morning.”

18 October 2023

My Experience as a Secret Agent

“One does not simply rebel against and leave the Heavenly Host. Once an angel, always an angel.”

—God, addressing the devils in Pandæmonium.

On May Day of the Year of the War, I decided to seek a job. Up to that point, I had been pretending to be the famous essayist Bryan Ray, but all my projects had failed, thus I needed to reinflate my ego. So I went out to pound the pavement. And, after getting no results, I went home to take a nap.

My house is one small room with gray flowered wallpaper and a bookcase against the fourth wall, plus a table to dine on. That is all.

When I entered my abode, I noticed a newspaper on the table. Eyeing the article at the top of the page, I found that it was my own obituary! “How could this be?” I said aloud to myself; “I’m not even dead yet!” However, no matter how many times I adjusted my monocle and reread the article, the facts remained the same: I, Bryan Ray, “single husband, father, and dog-lover,” reportedly “died fighting the good fight,” when the airplane that I was piloting crashed in flames.

I shook my head in disbelief at this work of fiction. Just then, the bookcase on the wall of my house rotated and revealed the figure of a well-dressed patriarch. He extended his arm and clutched my hand and shook it, and he said:

“Greetings, Bryan. Allow me to introduce myself: I am your handler from the Worldwide Espionage Agency. We would like you to undertake a secret mission. The reason we faked your death by printing that obituary in the newspaper is that we would like to use you to identify and eliminate a dangerous enemy upon the mountains of Ararat.”

“But why?” I cried.

And the man answered: “To stir up trouble in the East.”

Upon agreeing to cooperate, I was given a new identity: Bryan Ray 2. Since my former identity had already been extinguished, the only thing remaining to be done was to crown me a British Knight and assign me a sidekick for this covert expedition. My handler thus introduced me to General Hemingway, who likewise emerged from the darkness behind my bookshelf. “He is codenamed ‘The Friendly Kitten’,” my handler explained, “despite bearing zero resemblance to a newborn cat and possessing an extremely murderous nature.” This role of the General was played by Peter Lorre.

My handler brought us up to date on the developments in the operation: We were told that the agent who preceded me in this position, before getting blotted, had convinced himself that the enemy was hiding out in a hotel across the street from a Milk Chocolate Factory in Switzerland, whose headquarters happened to be located in a hallway next to the conveyor belt that the chocolate bars ride on once they’re wrapped. “Bryan Ray 2 and General Hemingway,” said my handler, “I want you boys to travel to this hotel and find room number Omega – that should be easy to remember because it’s a very lucky symbol, which resembles a horseshoe – and, when you open the door and begin to look around, note that I have hired an attractive damsel to play the role of your wife. (I did not need to do this, but I did it anyway, because I like you guys.) She will be stepping out of the shower when you first meet her – the room shall be quite steamy from all the hot water, and she shall be wearing nothing but a towel. OK, go and begin your mission now. Find the HQ inside the Milk Chocolate Factory. Then get some sleep. And if your wife and the man with whom she’s having an affair ask who sent you to interrupt their lovemaking, tell them, ‘My handler’s name is I AM NEITHER PRESENT NOR ABSENT.’ Or, if that’s too much to remember, call me ‘I AMN’T’ for short: Just say, ‘I AMN’T sent me.’ They’ll know who you mean.”

§

When General Hemingway and I arrive at the hotel, we are surprised to find that my handler was telling the truth: he has indeed provided us with an attractive wife, who happens just to be stepping out of the shower when we arrive. Entering our suite, we also encounter our fellow hotel guest Adam the Adversary, who doesn’t even seem to mind the fact that the General and I have arrived in room Omega for the purpose of continuing the mission at the point where our deceased predecessor left off when his plane went down in flames. Adam the Adversary continues sipping his gin and making suggestive comments to our wife.

I turn and look at General Hemingway and give him a nod. He nods back and approaches the Adversary in a threatening way. Adam smiles and leaves.

Once we’re alone, I nudge my squire to introduce me to my wife. She shakes her head and blinks and says: “Now that the mist has cleared, I seem to be seeing you for the very first time. I’m so pleased to meet you, Bryan Ray 2.” I then ask her why she agreed to play my wife if she is so interested in that old Adversary Adam. She insists that she fought hard to get this role because she truly believed in it when she read the agency’s script, but that her shower scene was so long, and she spent so much time admiring her own beauty while waiting, and . . .

“But what about the Adversary?” I interrupt.

She explains: “Oh, you should pay no attention to Adam – he just happened to be nearby: he means nothing to me.”

So the General and I leave to contact a fellow agent who works as the organist of a church in San Francisco.

§

Approaching San Francisco in our taxi cab, the gates of the city open for us. We then exit the cab and look up and see the church rising directly in front of us. We walk forth and enter.

One eerie note from the organ pervades the air. Following this sound, the General and I soon espy the organist, whose back is facing us: The man is slouched over his keyboard and not moving. I point to this sight and nod at General Hemingway; the General nods back, and we slowly begin to pace toward the fellow.

“That’s rather a strange tune that you are playing,” I say loudly, as I tap the man on the shoulder.

The music stops and the organist falls over and topples off the bench. His body lands in a heap on the floor.

“Looks like he’s dead,” says General Hemingway.

I kneel with the intention of searching through the fellow’s suitcoat pockets, but I notice that his fist is closed tightly, as if he managed to snatch a piece of his murderer’s attire and died protecting it. I pry open the organist’s fingers and discover that our man was clutching a cufflink.

“Look at this,” I hold the clue so that General Heminway can see it, while adjusting my monocle.

§

We then head to Gran Casino to meet my wife. She is standing near the roulette wheel. I greet her with a kiss and a hug; however, while doing so, I accidentally drop the cufflink of the assassinated organist onto the gambling table, and it lands on number seven.

“Has everyone finished making their bets?” asks the dealer.

“Oh no!” says an Unfortunate Traveler who happens to be standing near us. “It looks like one of my cufflinks happened to fall out just now and land on the table here – I’ll just pick it back up and keep it: I didn’t mean to bet the farm on green double zero, ha ha!”

The dealer laughs along and waits patiently for the man to finish pocketing items from the table, including the luxuriously glittering cufflink.

“But wait,” says General Hemingway, pointing at the place where the cufflink had landed, and then pointing at the Unfortunate Traveler who just retrieved it; “that was not the green double zero spot; rather, it was the number seven. And that cufflink belongs to my compatriot here.” Hemingway pats me on the shoulder of my suit, and then he gestures to my nametag, which reads “Bryan Ray 2.”

“Are you accusing me of making a mistake?” says the Unfortunate Traveler, as he squints at my nametag while adjusting his monocle. Then he smiles brightly, like a child, and says: “Hey! you and I both share the exact same name.”

“Please stop stalling, and let the dealer spin the wheel,” says the spy who is playing the role of my wife.

“Don’t change the subject,” says General Hemingway, pointing firmly at the Unfortunate Traveler. “You just snatched a memento that does not belong to you.”

The Unfortunate Traveler now holds up both of his arms innocently, to show the cufflinks on his shirt. “If what you say is true, then why does the missing link match these on my cuffs?”

It is revealed that the cufflinks on the Unfortunate Traveler’s shirt indeed resemble the one that General Hemingway and I pried from the hand of the murdered church organist in San Francisco.

“But look!” General Hemingway announces while pointing to the still-raised arms of the Traveler: “If the accessory truly came from this man’s shirt, then why is neither cuff devoid of a link?”

“Oh, that’s easy to explain,” says the Unfortunate Traveler: “I lost a cufflink at the church service that I attended earlier today in San Francisco, so I swung by my hotel room and installed a replacement before coming to the casino.”

The dealer now spins the roulette wheel as General Hemingway and I huddle to discuss our next move. The roulette ball comes to a stop on the number seven.

“Nobody wins,” mutters my wife Cortina.

“Cortina,” I say, “listen, honey. General Hemingway and I are going to leave for a spell, to perform a secret mission. We’ll be gone” (I check my wristwatch) “for no more than five minutes. After that, we shall return.” And I kiss my wife’s forehead.

General Hemingway now stands beside me while I address the Unfortunate Traveler: “Sirrah. Would you care to make a wager?”

The Unfortunate Traveler looks to the left and right, then answers: “This is the Gran Casino. The whole reason I came here was to make wagers.”

“Do you like mountain-climbing?” I ask.

He says: “I love mountain-climbing.”

Therefore, I bet the Unfortunate Traveler that General Hemingway and I can climb to the top of the nearest mount faster than he can.

The three of us hail a taxi and drive to the mountains of Ararat. I enjoy daydream visions of my wife Cortina while I climb happily toward the peak. In the meantime, General Hemingway misleads the Unfortunate Traveler out to a steep cliff on the side of the most desolate, icy region.

I shout to my partner Hemingway when I’m near the top: “Look, Hemmy, I’m almost there! I feel so healthy and fine, after breathing this mountain air and puffing on my churchwarden pipe, that I am starting to have second thoughts about what we agreed upon performing this afternoon – the revenge plot, I mean. I think I’d like to back out; I’m getting cold feet.”

Overhearing my remark, the Unfortunate Traveler looks shocked. He then casts a fearful glance at General Hemingway. At last he grasps why the General has led him over to this cliff instead of climbing with me toward the pinnacle. Thus, before General Hemingway can answer my above speech from across the echoing mountainside, the Unfortunate Traveler shouts:

“Do you mean that you gentlemen never intended to race me to the mountaintop at all but rather planned on tossing me to my death and making it look like an accident?”

General Hemingway begins to push the Unfortunate Traveler towards the brink of the steep cliff, as he says: “You slew our friend in the organ loft, back in San Fran. Now you’re going to pay the debt that you owe.”

The Unfortunate Traveler’s boots continue sliding toward the cliff’s edge as Hemingway pushes him. “Wait a minute,” cries the Unfortunate Traveler; “I didn’t assassinate any organist!”

“Then why do your cufflinks match the one that his cold, dead hand was clutching?” snarls General Hemingway. And he shoves the man off the cliff, and he falls to his death.

§

When we return to our room at the hotel near the chocolate factory in Switzerland, we are greeted by my spy-wife Cortina, who is holding a telegram.

“What’s this?” I say.

“Read it,” says Cortina. “It’s from our handler.”

General Hemingway and I crane our necks toward the paper that Cortina has placed upon the table. In unison we sound out the coded symbols: 

You killed the wrong man. The Unfortunate Traveler was innocent. Try again.”

Once the meaning of this message sinks in, General Hemingway guffaws.

My spy-wife Cortina, shocked at this reaction, grows enraged and flies into a tirade: “This is not a laughing matter,” she says. “I did not enter the field of espionage as some sort of joke, only to destroy lives without regard for ethics. My desire was to become a crimefighter, but now I fear that we are no different than the criminals. Whose side we are on, anyway – the victims’ or the villains’? I can continue working as a spy only if I know that my deceptive practices are leading to a better world; but if we’re actually making things worse, then count me out.”

I gasp and cry to Cortina: “No, don’t quit!”

She shakes her head and says: “I’ll arrange for the agency to find a replacement – they can falsify some divorce papers for us, and you’ll be issued a new wife.”

Just before leaving the room, Cortina pauses and looks back over her shoulder at me and says, with tears in her eyes, “It’s really too bad – for the truth is that I fell in love with you at first sight; in fact, I still am in love with you, and I will always love you.” Then she shuts the door behind her and dashes down the steps.

When Cortina enters the lobby, she spies Adam the Adversary lurking behind some synthetic houseplants. “Are you hiding from me?” she says. 

“No,” Adam answers. “I was just pacing around this fake garden here, preparing to leave the hotel and go cultivate the real ground out-of-doors.”

“Will you take me with you?” asks Cortina.

The Adversary smiles: “I thought you’d never ask.”

§

Back in the hotel room, still stunned from Cortina leaving us so abruptly, General Hemingway and I console each other for our loss; then we begin to discuss what our next move should be.

We end up climbing out the window of our hotel room and using the clothes line to sneak into the Chocolate Factory across the street. Once inside, we snoop around observing the ins and outs of the assembly line; and we discover, in the hallway, a hidden entrance labeled “Underground Messaging Service.” We then engage in legal lobbying techniques to importune two of the nearest workers to open this entryway. Eventually they agree to press a button, which slides the silver slab aside, and General Hemingway and I then storm the Messaging Service, which is the holiest place of this establishment. (The term “Angel” simply means “Messenger,” in both Hebrew and Greek.) We follow a king-size bar of chocolate along a conveyor belt until we are close enough to grab ahold of and remove its golden wrapper. On the shiny side of the parchment is scrawled a message addressed to Adam the Adversary. This secret communique reveals that Adam himself is the Master Spy whom we have been seeking all along; moreover, an attachment included as a postscript offers incontestable proof that it was Adam who murdered our fellow agent in San Francisco: the organist in the church loft.

After carefully xeroxing all this evidence and then shutting the door to the Chocolate Factory’s hidden Underground Messaging Service, General Hemingway and I sprint outside and breathe deeply of the Swiss atmosphere while pursuing the airplane that we now know is carrying away my double-agent spy-wife and Adam the Adversary.

The plane is heading into enemy territory. As multitudes of evil henchmen attempt to repel us, General Hemingway and I leap up and grab onto the aircraft’s wings and infiltrate its fuselage.

“This place is a maze!” the General remarks while gawking back and forth and up and down at all the zigzagging rows of seats arranged in dizzying patterns throughout the vast interior.

“Look there!” I say, pointing at my wife and Adam, who are seated next to each other in the cockpit.

General Hemingway and I run as fast as we can in their direction. Cortina looks back and sees us coming. She unbuckles her safety belt and stands up and moves aside, so that the General and I can dive atop the Adversary together. We tackle him, and each of us holds one of his arms, so that he cannot get away.

Cortina now pulls a pistol out of her purse and aims it at Adam. “Gentlemen,” she addresses General Hemingway and me, “don’t tear him limb from limb like my maids did to Orpheus. Let us instead bring him to justice, alive and kicking.”

Just then, however, the plane begins to shake, and all of us lose balance. At first, we assume that the cause is severe turbulence, but when we look in the periscope, it shows that a fleet of jets labeled “Worldwide Espionage Agency” are bombarding the craft with a myriad of armaments.

Huge pieces of wooden framing come crashing down in flames upon us all. During the confusion, somehow Adam the Adversary ends up in possession of Cortina’s pistol. As there are only moments left before the airplane explodes and crashes into the mountains, Adam has time for just one single gunshot: He wavers between Cortina and me, then pulls the trigger. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on which of us agents you have money on), the Adversary’s bullet ends up fatally striking General Hemingway.

My wife and I thenceforth decide to retire from spying.

THE END

14 October 2023

Trying to get back in the practice of confessing

I haven’t been writing anything lately because I’ve finished putting all my messages in bottles. But today I woke thinking: Creating for no clear purpose is exactly what attracted you to this realm – why stop ever? So I’ll try to keep writing new entries, despite being worth-free.

Horrors occur at points in space and time. Let’s say that a murder happens: I don’t want to be present at that particular intersection of spacetime. But it’s interesting to consider how I feel about a murder taking place in a faraway space yet at this very moment, versus a murder being committed in this very room yet at a time in the past. For some reason, I think the former is worse. That’s why I’m presently disturbed about world events; for there are massive atrocities occurring at this instant, elsewhere on earth.

(I’ve said all this before – it’s an obsession of mine; bear with me while I get the repetition out of my system, and then I’ll start this entry over.)

People talk of the Two World Wars, plus an up-and-coming Third World War, but there’s really just a single giant ongoing ULTRAWAR, which will never stop unless humankind permanently renounces organized violence or else finally offs itself. Sometimes there are lulls in the continuous destruction, these relatively peaceful spans lure fools like me to dream that brute force has become passé, and we therefore begin to indulge in creative writing. Then, during periods like the present surge in mayhem, it feels ineffective and irresponsible to sit at one’s desk and simply scribble words on paper… But that ineffectiveness and irresponsibility is also why I find the act attractive. Moreover, aren’t the humanities the apex and central point of existence? And isn’t there a hint that putting these messages in bottles might be the most effective and responsible thing that one can do? (I can’t stop trying to justify myself.)

§

It’s raining this morning. It rained hard all night. But I slept soundly through it. So, if I was asleep, then how do I know that it rained hard? I really don’t; I just inferred it – I guess I just lied to you. Yet I did sincerely feel that I was telling the truth.

§

What have I been doing lately? The same old stuff: reading and watching movies. That’s all there is to do in the Age of Isolation – everything else is either immoral or illegal. Everything that one can get paid to do in the U.S. is immoral, and every act that could remedy the immorality has been made illegal. I like the concept of good laws. We have bad laws.

I need to get away from caring so deeply about right and wrong, though; because I have no power to amend anything, and it’s tedious to grouse and carp like this…

Grouse and carp – both of these terms can mean “to grumble or complain” but I like better when they refer to living creatures: the primary definition of grouse is “a large game bird with a plump body and feathered legs”; and carp is “a deep-bodied freshwater fish, typically with barbels around the mouth.” Let me remember to keep matters animalistic.

§

I ate all my chocolate cookies that I recently baked. I also finished the apple crisp. In the past few months, I’ve been trying to get in the habit of making desserts, because I like how they taste. I’ve never cooked much – that’s an understatement: the most work I’ve ever done to prepare food is pouring breakfast cereal out of a box into a bowl. So I’m expanding my horizons and transforming myself into a Renaissance Man by learning to create things like pies and muffins. The most recent dessert I made is called “Bonnie Butter Cake.” I just follow the directions from an old Betty Crocker Cookbook. You can decide what type of frosting to spread over the top – I chose French silk chocolate. To make this, I mixed confectioner’s sugar and cocoa powder, among other ingredients. My opinion, now that I’ve eaten it all, is that it’s too fluffy – I like frosting that is heavy, dark, spiky and rocklike. Crisp and crystally, rather than greasy.

I’m still bad at cracking eggs, but I’m getting better.

So I need to replace all these desserts that I have devoured. To replenish the cookies, I’ll make a different type of cookie that is officially titled “The Ultimate Chocolate Chip Cookie”: it has dark and light brown sugar (I’ve learned that I prefer these to white granulated sugar) and claims to be “a cross between a chocolate chip cookie and a chocolate croissant.” Then, in place of the butter cake, I’ll make carrot cake that uses pineapple in its cake and cream cheese in its frosting. Also I’ll make cranberry-cheese bread to replace the banana bread.

Nacre is another word for mother-of-pearl. I use a nacre spoon to spread caviar on blinis.

§

But like I said, the only other way I’ve been spending my time is watching books and reading movies. There’s nothing else to do, where I live – there’s no square dances, no church services, no tractor pulls… (Truck and tractor pulling is a form of a motorsport competition in which antique or modified tractors pull a heavy sled along an 11-meter-wide track, with the winner being whoever pulls the farthest.) ...So I’ve been reading Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, which strikes me as the very best book ever written. Also I think I mentioned starting this in my last post, but I now finished screening the filmography of Jean Renoir, which I found extremely rewarding.

And last night I re-watched Luis Buñuel’s 1969 film The Milky Way, which is one of my favorite movies. I wish I could force my parents and your parents to watch it, and also the neighbors down the street from us who are Catholic. I would like to get their reaction, listen to their opinion.

I wish people would view and discuss motion pictures more often. Or any artworks. Gather to talk about anything: any thoughts or observations. There should be a zone at the center of town where folks can philosophize. The intellectual exchange could become so heated that some people who cannot stand mental interchange would resort to physical violence.

§

When I was in high school, I recorded a rap track where I ridiculed all my classmates – the content of my lyrics was like a so-called comedy roast: I made fun of each individual by saying generic insults about their person (“X stinks, he should take a bath”; “Y’s feet are too big”; etc. – I thought that this was what rappers were supposed to do: brag about oneself and “diss” everybody else); and the audio cassette that contained my rap got passed around so that everyone in school could hear it… Then, later that week, a group of these fellow students who had been targets of my recorded ridicule followed me out of school, as I walked home one day; and, right when I was almost to my house, they circled around me and gave me a beatdown. This was presumably my punishment for mocking them on my rap record. But I noticed that, although they were technically all kicking and punching me, their fists and boots were not making very firm contact – in fact, secretly, they were all only pretending to give me a beating; perhaps they all were uncomfortable with committing actual violence, yet none of them was willing to admit this reservation to the others, so they nevertheless continued acting out their disapproval in this symbolic way. So each of my enemies thought that his fellows were truly harming me, and that he himself was the only one feigning his part in the mob attack – pantomiming participation – whereas, in reality, every single member of the entirety was holding back individually, thus rendering the event a fake beatdown; and I, the intended target, received no physical pain – no blood or broken bones, not even a bruise – because my aggressors’ hearts were made of gold. But, after all, the psychological effect of being ganged up on like this was so distressing that I cried genuine tears, as if I’d been bodily injured.

24 September 2023

An Attempted Solution

I was mowing the lawn and noticed many wasps near the corner of my house. I looked up and saw a great mass of these insects crawling all over each other. Then I noticed a hole in the wood trim about a hand’s width away from where they were congregating. I imagine that this hole had been made by the wasps themselves; or, on second thought, maybe a rodent chewed it open; it also could have been the work of a woodpecker. Anyway, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I left this hole unfixed; but I didn’t want to tear off the entire piece of trim and nail up a fresh new board, because I feared that all the prying and pounding would disturb the wasps and they might inject me with venom. So I went and got a can of some stuff called “wood putty,” which seems like a powder made of sawdust and glue: I put on some gloves and added water to the powder and mixed it with my hands until it felt like pliable clay. Then I climbed up a ladder until my head was level with the roofline, and I pressed the blob of putty into the trim hole. While I did this, I was trembling, because not only am I afraid of heights, but the wasps were writhing in a mass very close by: I could have reached out and touched them without even stretching my arm. 

Once the hole was plugged, I descended the ladder swiftly and shakily. Then I went on a bike ride.

Later that night, I baked a dessert called “apple crisp,” which can be eaten with ice cream; and I also made chocolate-chip cookies. (I did not ever return to look at my patchwork of the house’s trim, but I hope that the putty solidified and is securely holding.)

23 September 2023

A Little More Local News

The last two Hitchcock movies I watched were called “Young and Innocent” and “Rich and Strange.”

P.S.

As I explained in yesterday’s entry, my neighbor from the end of the street asked me to pick up his mail this weekend. Friday was my first day on the job, and it went smoothly, but it almost ended in disaster. Here’s what happened:

After seeing the mail truck make its deliveries on our street, I stepped outside and headed to my mailbox first to retrieve my own mail (it was just a piece of junk mail); then I walked down the street until I reached my neighbor’s mailbox. But my neighbor’s mailbox shares a pole with the mailbox for the house across the street; and both boxes look the same: they are black, and they have four stickers on their front lid corresponding to each house’s address. So I looked up from the mailboxes and read the number hanging over the entryway of my neighbor’s house (the one who asked me to collect his mail) – it was 1872. Then I looked across the street and saw that the house for the other mailbox was 1873. Then I looked back at the mailboxes themselves, and, I kid you not, the address on each lid was missing its final digit: the first three of the four number-stickers were legible, but, in either case, the final sticker’s number was faded so thoroughly that it was indecipherable – so each box said “187_” with the fourth sticker being blank. I shook my head and murmured: “Only in reality does this type of thing occur.” And I thought to myself: How am I supposed to determine which box is correct? I knew that I could just open each mailbox and read the names on any envelopes it contains, but I didn’t want to look like I was a mail thief snooping around; for then someone might call the police and report my suspicious activity, which could land me in jail.

So I tried to reason out which box might belong to house 1872, since that’s the number of my neighbor whose mail I was fetching. I therefore walked down the curb to the next pair of mailboxes, whose house numbers were intact and visible; and I noted that the box on the right had an even number, while there was an odd number on the box at the left. Figuring that this pattern likely continued, I returned to the pair of boxes in my neighbor’s yard and guessed which one I should try:

Putting my hand on the lid of mailbox “187_” I began to open it slowly. My heart was racing. When I could finally see inside, I was relieved to recognize, on the topmost letter in the stack, my neighbor’s name: I had chosen the right box! 

So, after collecting its contents, I shut the mailbox’s lid and went back to my own house. I set my neighbor’s mail in a safe place, and I plan to give it to him on Monday when he returns.

22 September 2023

Local News

I just want to let everyone here know that, on Tuesday, my neighbor who lives down at the end of the street told me that he will be traveling to Wisconsin this weekend, and he requested that I collect his mail while he’s gone. So, since today is the day he leaves, I sent him a text message in the morning, saying: “I remember what you asked – I plan on collecting your mail throughout this weekend.” And, just now, he replied by sending a sparkly image of animated letters that say: “THANK YOU – YOU ARE AWESOME!”

18 September 2023

Update

I haven't written anything lately because I haven't wanted to. But I shared some excerpts from my published books here, here, & here. Also I've been reading a lot of other people's books & copying quotes from them into my reading diary. That's all for now. 

06 September 2023

Unposted Sayings from a Network that Does Not Exist

Are you happy with your current tomb? What’s more, are you in love with it? If not, go out and look for something different. Now could be a great time to see how far you can crawl!


Thunder can really blast loud.


New: this milk is fast-paced and black like outer space


The president of our yacht club is digging a hole in my yard.


solar falcons with pompadour hair


During our date, I reveal to you my secret identity and demonstrate how powerful I am.


Raise the roof for that poor goose.


Now I know why my last book was a failure. It’s probably cuz I was high on suds.


My name is Bryan, and my DJ’s name is Claudius.


Whether you celebrate World Peace with an extravagant day on the battlefield, or a long flight in the cockpit of your favorite bomber jet, you deserve to experience this time of year.


Dorothy from Kansas and Cinderella now each own something gray.


I’m here to check my pole position.


doing a backspin with robot face gear on a Perkins napkin


When I throw a dart and it hits the map, that’s the city I decide to tour and never leave, until I get scared when I see a beehive.


like a hamburger that is juicy and rare


I’m spinning the great wheel of destiny


When my alarm goes off, I hit snooze.


My favorite chewable nightgown is the one called Big League Shredded Pink Elegance.


I use a bass cannon to shake the ground, and it shocks all the worms up out of the dirt. Now I can go fishing and catch some flounder.


As you can see, my city of emeralds is growing.


I made this status update at school by using oak scent on both the sides and porcelain grooves to finish. Why do you ask?


We be hanging like fuzzy dice.


I grew up in a two-parent family. All of us believed in gravity.


So that’s how my instructor corrupted my Teddy Ruxpin.


I’ll tie you up like Thailand


When I told my dad that I want to be a rapper, he objected and said: “Rap is what you do if you can’t sing.” He also said: “Rap is not music—it’s something else.”


Imagine if everyone in the world were highly educated.


I like your skin tone; it is olive.


I look so tough that you don’t dare to befriend me, because I drive around in a two-storey trolley.


I am a pop star, greeting my groupie backstage; I shake her hand and say: “How about I take you to dinner and a movie?” Also, I thank her for buying me roses.


Ready to fall into a pit? Run around blindfolded and see what your future might hold.

05 September 2023

My failed Labor Day entry

I tried to write an entry for Labor Day yesterday, but I failed – I was too hotheaded and tendentious. I’m so madly FOR workers and AGAINST bosses and owners, that everything I say comes off like a self-righteous sermon.

I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of his church. Do I not know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word? . . . Do not I know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side . . . ?

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance”

Logic and sermons never convince,
The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,
Only what nobody denies is so.

—Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”

Additionally, because I think its subject is in the spirit of Labor Day, I wanted to share the account of the ancient Israelites in Egypt, from the fifth chapter of Exodus in the Bible; but I couldn’t find a good place to start and stop the story. Almost every detail of the text provokes in the reader further questions, which lure one back to earlier developments.

And afterward Moses and Aaron went in, and told Pharaoh, “Thus saith Yahweh God of Israel: ‘Let my people go, that they may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness’.”

That’s the first verse of Exodus chapter 5. It necessitates explaining who Moses and Aaron are, and why Pharaoh has possession of Yahweh’s people. Also, my wish is that readers would allow the tale to illuminate the life of the working class in the contemporary USA; but, in order to do so, we would need to update the idea of “holding a feast unto Yahweh in the wilderness” – What would be the modern American equivalent of this: Having a barbecue at the park?

Plus, the struggle of the working class of Israel never altogether concludes; its breaking-off point is neither a sad nor happy ending: it’s simply ongoing, even to this very moment. For the people who are treated harshly by the taskmasters of Egypt eventually flee the country (hence the title Exodus), but then they wander in the wilderness so long that future generations are left to try to find a place to settle down (the “Promised Land”); and yet the people never actually finish occupying the country before they’re taken into captivity by other nations (see the rest of the Hebrew Bible). No plan ever quite pans out.

My point is that if you’re going to excerpt the story of Exodus, you must decide whether you’ll end with the Israelites’ successful escape, which leaves the reader thinking “Hooray, now they can have their barbecue!” while keener minds will be haunted by the thought: “Yet they’re now stuck in the desert until they die” – OR, on the other hand, you could stop the story as the Authorized Scripture does: for Exodus chapter 5 officially ends with Moses voicing a question to God – note that anyone in modern times could pose this inquiry as well, with the same emphasis, because it STILL hangs unanswered:

Moses returned unto Yahweh, and said, “Lord, wherefore hast thou so evil entreated this people? why is it that thou hast sent me? For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in thy name, he hath done evil to this people; neither hast thou delivered thy people at all.”

03 September 2023

Things That Are Weird

Here is a list of all the things that are weird:

  • Laser-bombing jack-o’-lantern
  • Ebony and ivory
  • Willy Wonka Women 
  • Queer Beer 
  • Gold sphere, silver deer, house of mirrors, buy it here
  • Fertile bas-relief
  • Elevator detonator (“Waiter, why’s a gator wading in my totter taters!?”)
  • Danny Ainge 
  • Jimmy James 
  • Cats with no tail and extra wings
  • Metal rain plaid sodden leather bream
  • Jolly fat rats with no back, so you must saddle their neck
  • Deer with antlers 
  • Spanish dancers with lances and a burning lamb with a human head
  • Multiple ropes on the side of a boat
  • Feet with no person to stand for

Thoughts this morning (Sun Sep 3)

The Age of the Internet is a stagnant nightmare. Every individual is isolated, and each one can only experience the world thru a tiny window: an electronic screen. All these individual screens are supposedly connected, but it’s clear that the connections are manipulated by various authorities. What do the authorities want from those who are isolated? Apparently, they wish that every individual would die quietly.

§

I quoted the following paragraph from Wikipedia exactly five years ago in this same online diary, but I was wondering yet again about the subject of political “left wingers” versus “right wingers” (because I hear these terms still being bandied about), so I’ll copy it a second time:

The terms “left” and “right” first appeared during the French Revolution of 1789 when members of the National Assembly divided into supporters of the Ancien Régime to the president’s right and supporters of the revolution to his left.

So LEFT means “supporters of the revolution.” Shall we say that this counts for “supporters of the American revolution?” Here in the U.S., it’s hard to tell how to apply this terminology, because, in the years since the revolutionaries first gained independence from old Britain, the U.S. has gradually become more and more like old Britain. It reminds me of the way that rebellious children grow up to resemble their parents. Now I look at all the people living in the U.S. suburbs who care deeply for their country’s original revolution – they revere the “Founding Fathers” and they call themselves “patriots” – yet the political opponents of these folks currently insult such patriotic suburbanites by calling them “far-right wingers.” And if I cite the above encyclopedia quotation to show that these same patriots are the truest left wingers, because they “support the revolution,” they themselves take offence because the modern misuse of the terminology is so entrenched that they believe they hate the left.

On the other hand, according to the etymology, RIGHT means “supporters of the Ancien Régime.” In the U.S. case, I assume that this would signify old Britain. In the French example, according to the same encyclopedia, “The Ancien Régime, also known as the Old Regime, was the political and social system of the Kingdom of France from the Late Middle Ages until 1789 and the French Revolution, which abolished the feudal system of the French nobility and hereditary monarchy.” Now I ask: Are there any right wingers still in existence? Does anybody support the feudal system, the nobility and hereditary monarchy? Are there any United Statesians who still hold out support for old Britain? Or what would be the equivalent of France’s Ancien Régime in the U.S. nowadays? My first guess is that it would be the banks, the billionaires and their corporations that govern the U.S. Is anyone FOR these entities, other than the heads of such structures themselves? Perhaps the people who work for these systems as armed security (guards, police, military, mercenaries, etc.) can consider themselves a part of the true new right.

§

Also, when I was researching the above terms in the encyclopedia, an illustration caught my eye. You’ve probably seen it before: it was a pyramid with four horizontal echelons. The tiptop was a triangle that contained one man, and this section was labeled “The King.” The level below that was labeled “Lords (Vassals to King)” and it contained several people. Beneath that was a level with a larger crowd of folks labeled “Knights (Vassals to Lords).” And under that was the vastest foundation that contained multitudes and was labeled “Peasants (Serfs).” I mention this just to wonder how it might be brought up-to-date; for, again, we U.S. citizens no longer have a King; so the top of our pyramid is nonexistent. Instead of four sections, our modern pyramid only has three. Its “Lords” section is the highest: those are the modern oligarchs (the word “oligarch” comes from two Greek words: oligoi, which means “few,” plus arkheim, which means “to rule”; so “oligarchy” signifies “a small group of ruling powers”). Then the middle section of our modern pyramid is the police and military (etc.): they’re the modern “Knights.” And the “Peasants” are everyone who’s not an oligarch or an armed protector of the oligarchy.

§

I was also thinking about childbirth. “Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.” (That’s one of William Blake’s “Proverbs of Hell.”) The body feels pleasure during conception: it’s like a lure to a trap; then, once the new life is conceived, the pregnant woman must gestate the being. For the being, this is bliss; and although I can’t say whether the period of gestation is joyful or sorrowful for the one who is carrying the being, my guess is that impregnation has its pluses and minuses: I assume that it’s fun to consume a lot more food than you normally do (cuz now you’re eating for two), but it’s a drag to feel bloated and heavy, and you probably get too easily exhausted. And then comes childbirth – THAT is what is supposed to be agony.

But I wonder about cows and horses and deer – do they all feel pain when birthing their young? I remember the narration at the beginning of the biblical book of Exodus, which contrasts the Egyptians, who experience difficult and sluggish childbirths, to the Hebrews, who give birth easily and quickly:

. . . the Hebrew women are not as the Egyptian women; for they are lively, and are delivered ere the midwives come in unto them. (1:19)

I think that this is how it should be: bringing forth a calf should be as trouble-free as having a pleasant dream.

§

Speaking of Exodus, I think I’ll read Chapter 5 tomorrow, in memory of May Day (which the U.S. observes on the first Monday of September, to prevent solidarity between international workers).

§

The last thing I want to say here is that I’ve been re-watching a lot of Alfred Hitchcock movies. I’ve screened title after title, and I’ve almost worked my way through his entire filmography. I’m simply doing this for kicks, on a whim, over many months; and I’m watching other movies in between, whenever I like. The first time I screened all of Hitchcock’s films was when I was just out of high school – but, back then, I did it more mechanically and it wasn’t as fun. This time it’s nicer. I own a copy of that famous book HITCHCOCK/TRUFFAUT, which consists almost entirely of casual conversations between Hitchcock and the French New Wave filmmaker François Truffaut, and I like reading what they said about each movie after I see it. Truffaut calls Hitchcock the best director. I myself favor Orson Welles (or others, depending on my mood). I truly love Hitchcock, but he also feels cold to me. If I were to write a book-length study of one filmmaker consisting entirely of interviews, I would choose Jean Renoir. He’s the warmest and most humane. He’s a human-heart director. So before reaching the end of my Hitchcock filmography-trip, I’ve begun to do the same thing for Renoir – I’ve already made it as far as his U.S. films (1941). It’s hard to express how rewarding it’s been. I hope I’ll mention more thoughts about both directors in future entries, but right now I’ll just give one excerpt from the HITCHCOCK/TRUFFAUT book, since it concerns the genesis of Hitchcock’s career:

I always wonder, How does one become a director, or any known, officially recognized artist? The film industry is poisoned by money nowadays; I would even say that cinema is dead forever. And although financing has always been a toxic aspect of it, it wasn’t always so lethal. Hitchcock began working in the background of the industry during the days of silent films. Here’s the exchange from Truffaut’s book that I wanted to share:

FRANÇOIS TRUFFAUT: This brings us to 1925. Following the shooting of The Prude’s Fall, the director doesn’t want you to continue as his assistant. And that’s when Michael Balcon suggests that you become a director.

ALFRED HITCHCOCK: Balcon said, “How would you like to direct a picture?” and I answered, “I’ve never thought about it.” And in truth, I had not. I was very happy doing the scripts and the art direction; I hadn’t thought of myself as a director. Anyway, Balcon told me that there was a proposal for an Anglo-German picture. Another writer was assigned to the script and I left for Munich. My wife, Alma, was to be my assistant. We weren’t married yet, but we weren’t living in sin either; we were still very pure.

This makes me smile, but it also maddens me. Hitchcock never even thought about becoming a director? And the position simply landed in his lap? Then if you follow the pictures that he directed from the beginning, you’ll note that many were far from masterworks (to put it gently), but somehow the industry allowed him to continue creating. I’ve seen other directors ruined after just one box-office disappointment. In fact, a director could make the most sublime film of his generation and yet nearly suffer being exiled from the business, since, as Blake’s VALA always sez, “wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy” – I’m thinking about Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York (2008), which Kaufman has said almost made it impossible for him to find future financing. All the same, I’m glad that Hitchcock was permitted to make so many movies. And I like that he and his wife were such good kids – in that moral realm, I relate to him: I’m afraid of sinning, too.

28 August 2023

A few thoughts on Monday morning (AUG 28)

Let’s make a movie about gloomy people falling in love.

§

Do you think that you could earn a lot of money selling heroin in Paradise? I assume that nobody would care to buy from you, because everyone’s so naturally blissed-out there. FIRST, you need to fashion Hell on Earth, and only THEN can you begin to sell your drugs. But you’ll make very good profits, at that point – enough to finance various agencies that can enforce the status quo. For, thenceforward, the tricky thing will be to effectively prevent people from improving their situation.

§

If you’re going to speak the world into existence, why would you begin with dichotomies – light and darkness, water and land? And why follow steps (the creation of whales and birds on Thursday, then cattle and humankind on Friday)? Why not have everything simply pop into existence and appear at once, like a Polaroid snapshot of the 1980s, complete with credit cards and tennis shoes? If such a jumble’s instantaneous materialization was forborne on account of distastefulness, then why permit the 80s to exist at all?

§

Imagine creating a human body by saying “Let there be blood,” and then squiggly veins appear slithering on the earth, squirting redness haphazardly. So you say: “Let there be flesh to surround all this gore like an amphitheater, and a heart to fight the brains.” But then you would need to construct a skeletal system, lest your sculpture end up resembling a big baggy worm. Give it legs and arms; then remove them on second thought.

§

Nations settling the land and clashing with their neighbors. Always fighting. “You can’t stop war,” people say. I guess the argument is that if you cooperate, share, and harmonize, then someone from the other side might eventually take advantage of your trust; so the smart move is to lie, cheat, and steal before anyone else gets the bright idea to do so. If evil must exist, then at least let US embody it. The worst-case scenario would be to find that you are truly wise and compassionate: then you’d be guaranteed to lose – you’d get slain before you could utter the word “diplomacy.” Once you’re reborn, I hope you learned your lesson and are now a hardened criminal.

27 August 2023

Going to Hell

1. Riding the Trolley in Hell

Traveling to get a big bulging barrel of white snowflakes in the underworld. Never sleep, never wake; always pay money. Jump on the damned trolley and ride thru a pitch-dark tunnel. Sit back, relax. The bell is dinging as we head down the track to Paradise City. The trolley’s conductor has large black wings. We are wearing blue jeans; our eyeballs are melting jellies. We’re standing on red hot coals amid rivers of lava. Fire and brimstone are raining down, giving us a headache. It smells like burnt hair.

2. Picnic in Hell

Packing up the tomato pie, cold cuts, and Soylent Green (1973). We’re having a picnic, right in the flames. Got a Magic 8 Ball that keeps telling us to drag things across the sand. We sit cross-legged. Pass the napkins. Molten rock in a drinking cup. The Devil joins us. There are flaming pillars and burnt black flowers. We are sitting on a beach towel. Fiery death-birds rip open our throat and slash us to pieces.

3. Meeting the Fire Lord in Hell

In the last episode, we picnicked with the Devil. Today, we meet the Fire Lord. He enters the scene and yells: “Nom de guerre, is that you? Hello!” We get burnt badly by the flames that fly out of the Fire Lord’s voice. We scream and shout: “More!” Then we cry big teardrops, and the Fire Lord says: “You are lying.” The Fire Lord concludes by whipping us with a chain.

4. Trapped in Hell

The door is locked. It is damp; there are moths and mold. Try praying to God. Now try denouncing God. Nothing happens. We are trapped flat on our back in a maze of death, with serpents and demons pawing us, and hell-panthers dancing. There are trap doors everywhere, all leading to fire.

5. Falling in Hell

What a rush! Dropping like a tennis ball off a very tall building. We remark: “I wonder if this pit truly lacks a ground floor like those elevators in New York that just keep going down and down and down,” but, just then, we land on a cold, damp mattress.

6. Dead in Hell

What happened is that we woke up in bed with no memory, and we could not move. So someone called the authorities, and they knelt and prayed that one of the modern miracles of science would come and save us. But, as the proverb says: “When you return from Hell, there ain’t no goin’ back.” So the funeral is tomorrow. Tell everyone to don a soot-black suit and gather up their daughters and wives: “Come join your friend in one last act of solidarity by putting an end to yourselves upon the pyre. After that, we can all wake up in bed with perhaps a new lover.”

25 August 2023

I just awoke, so I’ll write down what I’m thinking…

Imagine trying to persuade someone of the truth of your religion, and then, when they raise an objection that trumps what you said, you simply change the goal posts. (Does this tactic ever work? I wish I had the discipline to follow thru on such a thought experiment.)

Imagine being a pacifist living in a war-based economy. Now think what it’s like to be someone who really loves war.

Imagine taking a canal barge to Paris, and then buying new clothing for yourself when you arrive. What would you wear? I myself would want to look presentable; but I wouldn’t follow the fashion advice that is broadcast over the radio, because I don’t want to wear a white beret with a white suit or a pleated skirt.

To reduce everything to a mercantile transaction – does this make you more or less happy? Personally, I don’t like it; but I also don’t want to waste time criticizing. So I’ll just step back and wait to see what develops next, though I fear that things will never change. (What if the best way to spend your life is to refrain from action?)

Text etched in stone can survive the death of its author. But what about text that is saved on electronic devices? (“Saved” – in this context, what does it mean?) I’m attracted to the longevity of text, because, having never found a contemporary readership, I hope to earn one in futurity. Yet, for a message to span the ages, there must eventually be born an individual who is willing to read dead authors – I wonder what type of mind this fact limits us to.

Think of a woman who is generally considered attractive. Everywhere she goes, people show her favor on account of her beauty. But she didn’t have a hand in crafting her features; she simply inherited them. Meanwhile, a homely woman is given less positive societal attention, through no fault of her own. – Or are we somehow responsible for the way that we look? Is being born pretty or ugly a type of judgment from God? Might comeliness be insinuating something beyond itself?

I say that beauty is a dead end, although I love it and desire it to flourish.

Also, I say: Memory is identity. So, since the recipient of reward or punishment is never the culprit, then whoever invented the karma system is evil.

20 August 2023

Things That Are Good

Here is a list of all the things that are good:

  • Birds, trees, singing
  • Going to the spot 
  • Passing the written portion of your Law Enforcement Officer Exam
  • Stripper alone in the dark (no one can see)
  • Machines on fire
  • Metal razor gun
  • Joggers
  • Cola
  • Summer Lovers Wonder Wood
  • Semiautomatic belt strap with free asteroids
  • Falling into a trap — or, rather, when your enemy falls into a trap
  • Going shopping at the mall
  • Talking with a southern accent
  • Lollipops, apples, colorful cats, moonbeams, pencils, shoes
  • Vending machines
  • Fingernail polish
  • Bulletproof wallets attending a school devoid of students
  • Black holes in the Red Sea
  • The time when people did not steal my bicycle
  • Pretty robins
  • Wooden coffins
  • Rocks, airplanes, combs and zippers
  • Cattle, dynamite, earth
  • Construction was halted for the better part of a century, as the Republic of Pisa continually engaged in battles with nearby nations — this allowed time for the underlying soil to settle; otherwise, the tower would almost certainly have toppled
  • Smiling sun
  • Having fun
  • Candy, guns 
  • Pickles and buns

19 August 2023

If I Were a Boxer

If I were a boxer, my favorite part of training would be when I get to drink raw eggs out of a clear glass. But I would never bulk up – my body would not gain weight – instead, I would remain so thin that you can see my ribcage (I always fight with my shirt off). Yet my arms would move fast, and I would duck and dodge very well.

I’d like to fight a series of matches and win them all, so that eventually I reach the top of the fighting pyramid to challenge the champion. I would then train long and hard, and drink many tall glasses of raw eggs, to prepare for the battle.

Now, on the day of the Big Match, I would enter the ring and stand facing my opponent: He would be a full foot taller than me plus notably stronger. In the First Round, he would almost knock me out. In the Second Round, I would mostly try to avoid him as he continues to swing at me. Then the bell would sound, signifying that the Second Round is over: I would stumble back and sit down on the chair in my corner, and my coach would slap the sides of my face and yell at me to keep me from passing out. At this point, my dream-girl would materialize beside me: she would lean down and whisper words of encouragement into my ear. (She smells like perfume.) This loving talk from my dream-girl would do wonders to revive my sense of fight. 

When the bell rings to note the start of Round Three, I would stand up and step straight forward and punch the champion’s face: KABAM! – the man would drop to the floor, and the referee would hold up my arm, signifying that I am the winner. My dream-girl would then run out into the center of the ring and embrace me, saying: “We can get married now!”

18 August 2023

A Truly Wet Kitchen

Some people claim to have all-wet kitchens, but if you actually try them out, you’ll notice that certain aspects are still dry, like the knives and the hand-towels. But my own kitchen is thoroughly wet: you are advised to wear a waterproof suit to enter. Now hobble over in your flippers to the drawer that holds the swords; pull one out and notice that there’s water gushing and flowing all over the blade and its handle, swooshing about in slow-motion picturesquely. Use the cutting board and slice some peppers: behold how liquid squirts and splashes around on everything. This is a truly wet kitchen. Now try baking cookies . . . taste them: they’re sopping! And carrot cake turns out moist. My favorite food is potatoes – I make them twenty different ways. The King of France often joins me, and we eat sardines together with our fingers.

16 August 2023

Roundup of More New Sayings

It’s Judgment Day, and you’ve been resurrected into eternal life: What’s the first thing you’d like to do? (How about taking a look at one of the many amazing homes on the market right now!)


My new job is to predict the future, so I announce: “The sun will rise tomorrow.” Then, when it doesn’t come up, I say: “I can’t do this; fortunetelling is too hard!” – I quit and become a car mechanic instead.


Now I’m a scientifically illiterate automotive engineer moonlighting as a psychiatrist. I leave your vehicle broken and claim that it’s repaired. When you angrily stomp your foot and demand a refund, I excommunicate you from the collective consciousness.


I’m a headless corpse attacking Nostradamus for spuriously claiming that I would die by fire.


Learn to prefer to spend the winter months outdoors.


I’m prevaricating to death.


Now I’m wearing colored contacts and acting tamed.


I am spilling out a box of Rice Krispies and searching thru it to find my proof of God, which I then bring to school for show-and-tell. After passing it around, I get it back, and now it smells funny.


I’m the Cobra Commander with a slit cut thru my opaque face-shield so that I can see the trick-or-treaters.


Even before immaculately conceiving Jesus, I’m giving birth to some weird thing that keeps squirming.


She’s betting that her Death Machine beats his Love Box.


I am a true punk rocker, drinking beer in my dorm room that stinks.


I used to be wild and immature and real daring and unpredictable, but now I’m thinking about grownup stuff. I quit drinking, and now I’m going to get married.


I’m like something that’s too hard and you have to cook it to soften it.


The holiday season is now permanently over.


I care about people and I like to be nice now.


Putting your God on trial before a jury of mortals; making him pay us child support.


I am good and I post good status updates.


I’ll give you something that you don’t want.


I’m toting my tote bag, zipping my knapsack, and wrapping up my raps in my blue-green backpack.


This statement is dedicated to my unborn demon.


My positive message is: Do what you’re told.

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