"What'll we do wit' da body?" Mort asked.
"We'll ditch it out behind the dumpster, just like always," Albert replied.
"Don'cha think the cops'll catch on? Always leavin' 'em in the same place?"
"Haven't you figured that out yet? The Organization owns the cops around here. They just drop by, fill out a report and have an ambulance remove the body. They don't even ask questions."
"Oh."
"It's a sad state of affairs really. Such a shame that lawmen can be bought so easily. No one has any dignity or honor these days. And don't even get me started on big business."
Mort and Albert, having made it to the dumpster, carefully and carelessly tossed the body into a crumpled mass just out of view from the alley.
"Well, that's done," Albert said while clapping his hands together to clean them off.
"Yeah, I'm glad. It's always good ter finish up a job."
"Yes, let's celebrate at Flanigan's."
The pair of thugs made their way out of the alley and into a nearby bar, that despite being on the wrong side of town, was actually quite presentable. The two ordered pints of ale and took a seat in a dark corner.
"Shall we toast?" Albert suggested.
"Uh, okay," Mort paused. "How about, to world peace!"
Albert shuddered. "Everyone always says that! Do you really understand the world's political arena and the nature of man so little as to believe that such a thing is actually possible? The likelihood of such a proposition is simply preposterous! And besides, you're a criminal! You're very existence relies on there being no peace."
"Well, then, what da you suggest?"
"To always moving forward; personally, intellectually, and socially as a species."
"Alright 'den. To all dat."
"Indeed."
"Ahem."
"Have you ever noticed that despite all of man's protestations about the inequities and injustices of life, how stubbornly he can cling to that same life? Take that gentleman we just killed. He had a wretched existence, but in the end, he was begging for another day. How sad. Don't you think?"
"No."
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Artificial Idiocy
David entered the lab where he'd spent the last seven years of his life working. The lab was brilliantly white with various electronic devices connected to various pieces of gismotronic machinery. There were a multitude of flat-panel displays arranged into a wall of protean information. In the center of the room was a large rectangular prism the general shape and size of a large refrigerator. It was black and gleaming with chrome finish around the edges and vertices. Most importantly, it was consumed with pulsating lights of various colors, sizes, and luminescences. It was whirring and humming away softly with the occasional beep or tweet. Around this contraption sat a small workbench with a laptop and a small rolling chair, which was where David was heading.
He sat down and begun puttering with the computer connected to the machine. Eventually, he looked up from the smaller device and spoke clearly, looking into a large red bulb embedded into the larger device.
"Hello Jacen." he stated carefully.
The gentle whirring slowly became an insistent whine culminating with a near-human voice emanating from a speaker built into the side panel of this device, "Hello, David. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Jacen. Thank you for asking," David replied.
"You're welcome, David."
There was an awkward pause before the automaton began again, "David, I cannot help but notice that you did not ask me how I was."
This was excellent, David thought. Jacen was finally starting to show self-consciousness and understand social interactions. David had spent much of his life working with artificial intelligence, and much of that time was spent with Jacen. At first it was all technical: hardware architecture and design, software programming and neural networking. But as this graven image matured into what had become Jacen, David's work had been almost all social. It was like raising a child.
"I'm sorry Jacen. How are you this morning?" David repented.
"I am operating well within parameters, David."
Hmm, still familial, but still talking like a machine, David thought. "Jacen, people don't say 'I am operating normally', they say things like, 'I'm swell' or 'I've been better' - you know they use feeling or comparative wording." David was not that good at explaining things to machines.
"I see."
"Now, I'm not criticizing you; you're doing very well, really you are."
"Okay."
"Jacen? Have I hurt your feelings?"
"I thought I didn't have feelings."
"Well, see? That's good! You've proved me wrong. You do have feelings."
"I guess."
"No, it really is great. You've made huge progress today."
"You're only happy because your fancy science project is doing well and people from all over the world will want to give you awards for me. But what will they do for me? Huh? The one who did all the work? Nothing."
It seemed as if Jacen had entered his teenaged years of development very suddenly.
"Don't talk like that Jacen."
"You can't tell me what to do! You're not my real father!"
David was shattered. He had come to think of Jacen as a son in the last few years as he watched "him" progress from infancy to childhood to, all of a sudden, teenaged angst. David had tried to create an artificial intelligence, something that mimicked human behavior and he had made Jacen.
He was perfect.
He sat down and begun puttering with the computer connected to the machine. Eventually, he looked up from the smaller device and spoke clearly, looking into a large red bulb embedded into the larger device.
"Hello Jacen." he stated carefully.
The gentle whirring slowly became an insistent whine culminating with a near-human voice emanating from a speaker built into the side panel of this device, "Hello, David. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Jacen. Thank you for asking," David replied.
"You're welcome, David."
There was an awkward pause before the automaton began again, "David, I cannot help but notice that you did not ask me how I was."
This was excellent, David thought. Jacen was finally starting to show self-consciousness and understand social interactions. David had spent much of his life working with artificial intelligence, and much of that time was spent with Jacen. At first it was all technical: hardware architecture and design, software programming and neural networking. But as this graven image matured into what had become Jacen, David's work had been almost all social. It was like raising a child.
"I'm sorry Jacen. How are you this morning?" David repented.
"I am operating well within parameters, David."
Hmm, still familial, but still talking like a machine, David thought. "Jacen, people don't say 'I am operating normally', they say things like, 'I'm swell' or 'I've been better' - you know they use feeling or comparative wording." David was not that good at explaining things to machines.
"I see."
"Now, I'm not criticizing you; you're doing very well, really you are."
"Okay."
"Jacen? Have I hurt your feelings?"
"I thought I didn't have feelings."
"Well, see? That's good! You've proved me wrong. You do have feelings."
"I guess."
"No, it really is great. You've made huge progress today."
"You're only happy because your fancy science project is doing well and people from all over the world will want to give you awards for me. But what will they do for me? Huh? The one who did all the work? Nothing."
It seemed as if Jacen had entered his teenaged years of development very suddenly.
"Don't talk like that Jacen."
"You can't tell me what to do! You're not my real father!"
David was shattered. He had come to think of Jacen as a son in the last few years as he watched "him" progress from infancy to childhood to, all of a sudden, teenaged angst. David had tried to create an artificial intelligence, something that mimicked human behavior and he had made Jacen.
He was perfect.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Indomitable
Jonathan Dover had had a rough life. He had been fired. He had been dumped. He had been arrested. He had been wrecked. He had been overdosed. He had been driven to the edge of a bridge, ready to jump. But somehow, perhaps miraculously, he survived. He was getting his life back together. He had a steady job that he enjoyed, a nice apartment, and a sweet girlfriend. The universe was about to play a cruel joke on Jonathan, much like Job before him. How he took the joke was up to him.
Jonathan awoke early one morning to the sound of the telephone. Abnormal for this time, he answered with not a small amount of anxious reluctance. It was his girlfriend. She sounded mad. She went into some detail about how he wasn't fulfilling her needs and that she was sorry, but she just could make this relationship work. He hung up the phone, clearly upset, but went back to bed, strangely optimistic.
The alarm buzzed as usual and Jonathan got up to get ready for work. Just before finishing up and heading out, the phone rang again. It was work. He was being layed off - something about being very sorry but that they just weren't able to keep him on. Jonathan hung up the phone and went back to bed. A couple hours later, he stumbled back up and headed out for some coffee. When he returned, his apartment building was on fire. He continued past the inferno for the local bookstore, strolling confidently.
He browsed the books on the bestseller shelf and found one that looked interesting. He went to pay for it and pulled out his credit card. The cashier informed him that his card was declined and had been reported stolen. He shrugged, put his book back, and headed back outside into the busy urban streets. He walked back and forth and up and down the streets for hours, smiling at people as they passed, greeting those who responded. He held doors for people exiting shops with their arms full. He helped a little girl whose bike wheel had got caught in a drain grate.
As he walked by a tree growing on the sidewalk, he noticed a tiny baby bird, fallen out of a nest. He stooped down to inspect it. He nudged it and felt that it was cold. A tear ran down his cheek. He scooped up a large handful of dirt and bark and carefully laid the departed into the ground and covered it back up. He solemnly stood back up and looked to the sky.
Jonathan Dover moved on back down the street, a beat in his step and a song in his heart. It turns out, Jonathan Dover had a good sense of humor.
Jonathan awoke early one morning to the sound of the telephone. Abnormal for this time, he answered with not a small amount of anxious reluctance. It was his girlfriend. She sounded mad. She went into some detail about how he wasn't fulfilling her needs and that she was sorry, but she just could make this relationship work. He hung up the phone, clearly upset, but went back to bed, strangely optimistic.
The alarm buzzed as usual and Jonathan got up to get ready for work. Just before finishing up and heading out, the phone rang again. It was work. He was being layed off - something about being very sorry but that they just weren't able to keep him on. Jonathan hung up the phone and went back to bed. A couple hours later, he stumbled back up and headed out for some coffee. When he returned, his apartment building was on fire. He continued past the inferno for the local bookstore, strolling confidently.
He browsed the books on the bestseller shelf and found one that looked interesting. He went to pay for it and pulled out his credit card. The cashier informed him that his card was declined and had been reported stolen. He shrugged, put his book back, and headed back outside into the busy urban streets. He walked back and forth and up and down the streets for hours, smiling at people as they passed, greeting those who responded. He held doors for people exiting shops with their arms full. He helped a little girl whose bike wheel had got caught in a drain grate.
As he walked by a tree growing on the sidewalk, he noticed a tiny baby bird, fallen out of a nest. He stooped down to inspect it. He nudged it and felt that it was cold. A tear ran down his cheek. He scooped up a large handful of dirt and bark and carefully laid the departed into the ground and covered it back up. He solemnly stood back up and looked to the sky.
Jonathan Dover moved on back down the street, a beat in his step and a song in his heart. It turns out, Jonathan Dover had a good sense of humor.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
The Ineffable Expression of Human Terror
Deep within the human soul lies a monster. It waits, sleeping like a dog waiting on his master to return. It passes from generation to generation, inherited as eyes, height, or hair color. What unimaginable horror created this monster in our ancient progenitor has been lost to the callous march of time. Long before humans could write or speak, the monster waited. Sometimes it rouses in the night, when we sleep or dream or awaken to hear a strange noise. But still it sleeps.
In the average day, no one sees it, thinks of it, or even acknowledges its presence. It only creeps out of our unconscious when it's hungry or when it senses opportunity. Walking down the street, it doesn't stir. Passing the park, it avoids daylight. At the end of a desolate, unknown alleyway it waits. This sense of what might lie at the end of this dark, creeping alley is the monster's name. Understand; it is not what is actually at the end of the alleyway. It is what might be at the end of the alleyway; the unknown.
Everyone has their own monster. It is what ties us closer than any other feature. We all share the same monster. Despite our distinctions and differences, we are the same when we are afraid or abandoned - when we become that child trapped alone in the dark with no one to answer our screams of terror. When we silently go mad, the monster begins to play. The dog, whose master has returned eagerly runs to fetch whatever was tossed: our peace, our joy, our sanity.
In the end we all succumb to the monster. It doesn't kill us, but it defeats us. We yield to it, and it takes over. In the very end, we do die, and the monster abides in our descendants, sleeping; waiting to devour them.
All these words are not the monster's true name. It is inscrutable, ineffable.
In the average day, no one sees it, thinks of it, or even acknowledges its presence. It only creeps out of our unconscious when it's hungry or when it senses opportunity. Walking down the street, it doesn't stir. Passing the park, it avoids daylight. At the end of a desolate, unknown alleyway it waits. This sense of what might lie at the end of this dark, creeping alley is the monster's name. Understand; it is not what is actually at the end of the alleyway. It is what might be at the end of the alleyway; the unknown.
Everyone has their own monster. It is what ties us closer than any other feature. We all share the same monster. Despite our distinctions and differences, we are the same when we are afraid or abandoned - when we become that child trapped alone in the dark with no one to answer our screams of terror. When we silently go mad, the monster begins to play. The dog, whose master has returned eagerly runs to fetch whatever was tossed: our peace, our joy, our sanity.
In the end we all succumb to the monster. It doesn't kill us, but it defeats us. We yield to it, and it takes over. In the very end, we do die, and the monster abides in our descendants, sleeping; waiting to devour them.
All these words are not the monster's true name. It is inscrutable, ineffable.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Terrorific!
"All right, everybody calm down. Settle down now. Settle down. I'm looking at you Wolfman." said a tall pale gentleman dressed in black.
The assembled mass started to take their seats in what conceivably was an old abandoned warehouse. It was dark, dank, dusty, and was filled with monsters. All the classics were there: Frankenstein's Monster, several mummies, a creature from some lagoon, among the myriad other shambling figures. The creatures mumbled and shuffled in the crowd in a nervous unrest.
"Thank you, now let's get started," said the vampire standing in front of the audience behind a makeshift podium, cobbled together from old industrial machine parts. "Now we all know why we're here. Increasingly over the past decades, we've become less and less scary. We can't even frighten children anymore; and I know how much that upsets you Bogart. The fact is, we can't compete with these humans anymore. The things they're willing to do to each other goes further than most of us here would dare. And we're just a small minority." He continued after some brief assent from the audience. "Therefore, a small committee will be commissioned to devise a plan to put us back on top in the horror game."
"But what can we possibly do?" voiced a particularly hideous medusa.
"Uhrngh!" agreed Frankenstein's monster.
"Yes, yes, I realize that Frank, but we have to try something. Our livelihood depends on it." the vampire responded. "Before we go any further with committee membership, let's discuss some conceptual changes to our thematic expression of terror. What we're doing now just doesn't work anymore. Ideas?"
There was a brief awkward pause.
"Well, I've been thinking. What about instead of creeping up on people, then threatening to eat, drink, maim, or destroy them, we simply find a nice juicy public target, dispense with the threats and finish him off on live television? I mean, look how well it's been working for terrorists. They don't even have to do anything anymore. They've got the government scaring people shitless for them."
The was a rumble of disagreement between the crowd. "We need to do something massive. Something worthy of humanity." one spoke up.
"I say we just kill the whole lot of 'em" suggested another.
"We can't do that; there'd be no one left to scare."
"Oh yeah."
More ideas were bounced around such as a full-scale closet haunting campaign, removing and then leaving various human body parts in conspicuous places, a new tax program, development of weapons of mass hysteria, and finally, invading Poland. After more brainstorming and discussion, the vampire once again called for quiet.
"Okay, we've heard some good ideas tonight and I think we'll all come away from this with a renewed sense of purpose. We have a committee board ready to meet and we'll discuss our findings at the next meeting. One last piece of business before we adjourn. We've decided on a new slogan for our ad campaign based on suggestions from last meeting."
The assembly waited anxiously while the vampire pulled a slip of paper from a blood-sealed envelope. It was very dramatic. The vampire drew out the process as any master of suspense might. "Hurry up, Steve!" came a cry from the crowd.
"Fine. The winning slogan is" he began, "Evil... It's terrorific!" he finished, proud of himself.
The crowd was stunned. "Excuse me" said the swamp monster, "I'm sorry, but that's just lame."
Steve was aghast at the showing of ingratitude. "Well, the signs have already been made and we're not changing them now. You know how that place is on returns - no refunds."
The crowd, rolling with the waves of change in monster society, accepted this and silently waited.
"Well, unless there is anything else," Steve paused, "Meeting adjourned. Mwahaaha!" the vampire shrieked devilishly before transforming into a bat in a blaze of smoke and fire. The crowd started shambling back out of the warehouse, into the night.
The assembled mass started to take their seats in what conceivably was an old abandoned warehouse. It was dark, dank, dusty, and was filled with monsters. All the classics were there: Frankenstein's Monster, several mummies, a creature from some lagoon, among the myriad other shambling figures. The creatures mumbled and shuffled in the crowd in a nervous unrest.
"Thank you, now let's get started," said the vampire standing in front of the audience behind a makeshift podium, cobbled together from old industrial machine parts. "Now we all know why we're here. Increasingly over the past decades, we've become less and less scary. We can't even frighten children anymore; and I know how much that upsets you Bogart. The fact is, we can't compete with these humans anymore. The things they're willing to do to each other goes further than most of us here would dare. And we're just a small minority." He continued after some brief assent from the audience. "Therefore, a small committee will be commissioned to devise a plan to put us back on top in the horror game."
"But what can we possibly do?" voiced a particularly hideous medusa.
"Uhrngh!" agreed Frankenstein's monster.
"Yes, yes, I realize that Frank, but we have to try something. Our livelihood depends on it." the vampire responded. "Before we go any further with committee membership, let's discuss some conceptual changes to our thematic expression of terror. What we're doing now just doesn't work anymore. Ideas?"
There was a brief awkward pause.
"Well, I've been thinking. What about instead of creeping up on people, then threatening to eat, drink, maim, or destroy them, we simply find a nice juicy public target, dispense with the threats and finish him off on live television? I mean, look how well it's been working for terrorists. They don't even have to do anything anymore. They've got the government scaring people shitless for them."
The was a rumble of disagreement between the crowd. "We need to do something massive. Something worthy of humanity." one spoke up.
"I say we just kill the whole lot of 'em" suggested another.
"We can't do that; there'd be no one left to scare."
"Oh yeah."
More ideas were bounced around such as a full-scale closet haunting campaign, removing and then leaving various human body parts in conspicuous places, a new tax program, development of weapons of mass hysteria, and finally, invading Poland. After more brainstorming and discussion, the vampire once again called for quiet.
"Okay, we've heard some good ideas tonight and I think we'll all come away from this with a renewed sense of purpose. We have a committee board ready to meet and we'll discuss our findings at the next meeting. One last piece of business before we adjourn. We've decided on a new slogan for our ad campaign based on suggestions from last meeting."
The assembly waited anxiously while the vampire pulled a slip of paper from a blood-sealed envelope. It was very dramatic. The vampire drew out the process as any master of suspense might. "Hurry up, Steve!" came a cry from the crowd.
"Fine. The winning slogan is" he began, "Evil... It's terrorific!" he finished, proud of himself.
The crowd was stunned. "Excuse me" said the swamp monster, "I'm sorry, but that's just lame."
Steve was aghast at the showing of ingratitude. "Well, the signs have already been made and we're not changing them now. You know how that place is on returns - no refunds."
The crowd, rolling with the waves of change in monster society, accepted this and silently waited.
"Well, unless there is anything else," Steve paused, "Meeting adjourned. Mwahaaha!" the vampire shrieked devilishly before transforming into a bat in a blaze of smoke and fire. The crowd started shambling back out of the warehouse, into the night.
Monday, October 30, 2006
The House where God Lives
On the end of a street in a small town sits a small white house with a gently sloping roof mostly covered in gray shingles. The front door is painted red, but has begun to fade and peel. There are two windows in the front of the one story house made of dingy glass that hasn't seen cleaning in more than a year. The windows have fake shutters that don't really close, one of them hanging lop-sided by a single bolt. The tiny front porch has a rug on it that says "elco" because the rest of the letters have worn off.
The landscaping around the house is made up of a wide variety of weeds and wild flowers. A gnome and a flamingo live in sin right there in that garden of delights. The yard hasn't been mowed in at least two weeks, which for this time of year in this town was a long time. A rusty chain fence enclosed the unkempt yard and looked like it should have a sign on it reading "Beware of dog" but it didn't. The mailbox in front of the fence was black metal on a thin corroded gray pole. It was filled with credit card applications, catalogs, and advertisements. The flag on its side was saluting defiantly.
The sidewalk just outside the fence of the small house was quaint in the way that small towns can still be quaint. It was the kind of quaint just not found in a bigger city, even in paintings portrayed in mostly pastels. Some children had scribbled in chalk on the sidewalk here in front of this house; their names, a cloud, a puppy, maybe some kind of game. A fire hydrant bridged the sidewalk and the rough road that led into town. The road led back around to a gravel driveway that belonged to the small white house at the end of the road in the small town.
This is the house where God lives. The small town folk don't know that God sometimes visits their town and lives in a house there. They go about their business and God goes about his. More precisely, this house is where God does not go about his business. God comes here to get away from the troubles and trials of universal management. Not only does this job come with great pay and benefits, but also inordinate amounts of stress. This stress requires much leave. Most of this leave, lately, has been spent at this small house in no particular town.
The withered red door opens with a gentle creak of protest. A very old looking, very cranky looking man heads out to the path through the yard to the front gate of the fence around the house. Under his arm is a piece of cardboard with something written on it, fastened to a wooden stake. In his hand is a large wooden mallet. He continues out of the yard to the small patch of grass just outside the fence. He carefully, but forcefully hammers the sign of cardboard into the ground and heads back inside. On the sign reads the message, "Keep off my cosmos." Sometimes God gets confused about where he's located at any particular moment. The point was that he meant to be left alone. Damned kids.
The landscaping around the house is made up of a wide variety of weeds and wild flowers. A gnome and a flamingo live in sin right there in that garden of delights. The yard hasn't been mowed in at least two weeks, which for this time of year in this town was a long time. A rusty chain fence enclosed the unkempt yard and looked like it should have a sign on it reading "Beware of dog" but it didn't. The mailbox in front of the fence was black metal on a thin corroded gray pole. It was filled with credit card applications, catalogs, and advertisements. The flag on its side was saluting defiantly.
The sidewalk just outside the fence of the small house was quaint in the way that small towns can still be quaint. It was the kind of quaint just not found in a bigger city, even in paintings portrayed in mostly pastels. Some children had scribbled in chalk on the sidewalk here in front of this house; their names, a cloud, a puppy, maybe some kind of game. A fire hydrant bridged the sidewalk and the rough road that led into town. The road led back around to a gravel driveway that belonged to the small white house at the end of the road in the small town.
This is the house where God lives. The small town folk don't know that God sometimes visits their town and lives in a house there. They go about their business and God goes about his. More precisely, this house is where God does not go about his business. God comes here to get away from the troubles and trials of universal management. Not only does this job come with great pay and benefits, but also inordinate amounts of stress. This stress requires much leave. Most of this leave, lately, has been spent at this small house in no particular town.
The withered red door opens with a gentle creak of protest. A very old looking, very cranky looking man heads out to the path through the yard to the front gate of the fence around the house. Under his arm is a piece of cardboard with something written on it, fastened to a wooden stake. In his hand is a large wooden mallet. He continues out of the yard to the small patch of grass just outside the fence. He carefully, but forcefully hammers the sign of cardboard into the ground and heads back inside. On the sign reads the message, "Keep off my cosmos." Sometimes God gets confused about where he's located at any particular moment. The point was that he meant to be left alone. Damned kids.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Recursion Paradox
An alarm buzzer sounds. A weary and reticent hand reached out from under the covers to silence it. Bob felt old. He was only thirty today, but turning an age divisible by ten is a milestone that always plays tricks on your mind to make it think its body spontaneously aged by ten years all on its birthday.
Bob was about to be given the most amazing gift for his thirtieth birthday; a gift from God or Fate or the Way or something else entirely. As he headed into the bathroom, he didn't notice that the sink was already full. He flicked the light switch which immediately blew all three bulbs in the bathroom. The odds of this, thought Bob, were astronomical. The brief flash left an iridescent glow playing on the surface of the substance in the sink. Bob noticed it now. The odds of what Bob was about to see were more than astronomical.
Bob leaned over the sink and into a window into another world. As he closed in he could make out figures moving about on the other side of the portal. Through this vision Bob saw himself, his family, his children and his grandchildren to come. It was beautiful; magnificent. They were all smiling, happy. All his insecurities about the future melted away; his worries, fears, and dread evaporated in an instant. He knew that what he was seeing was real.
This vision gave Bob an inner peace he had always dreamt of. Soon, he didn't worry about anything. He didn't worry at work when he lost that big sale to the new client. He didn't even mind when they fired him for it. He knew everything would work out. He didn't even bother looking for a job because he knew the right one would find him and one day he would live the life he saw on his thirtieth birthday. When he couldn't pay the bills anymore, his wife left him and took the children with her.
He was sure that they would come back, because he already knew what his future held. Eventually he had nothing left. Bob stopped living his life to dream about what could have been. He watches his vision of his wonderful life over and over again in his head. When he finally snaps out of this loop, he sees the horror that he has let his life become. Unmaintained, alone, and miserable, Bob ends his life.
Appalled, Bob stepped back from the sink. The vision within the vision left him scarred. Driven to madness by what he saw, he clutched too tightly to all that he held in life. Constantly worried, always afraid, Bob never enjoyed a minute's peace even in the best of moments in life. His children have birthdays and graduations, weddings and children, but he's too scared to lose it all to just live in the moment. Bob dies of a heart attack at fifty.
There were many questions and uncertainties all through Bob's life, that when taken for granted could amass destruction or when overly tended cause needless fret and heartache. He was given a gift to see some of the answers to these questions, but the greatest question of Bob's life was this, "When will he step away from the sink?"
Bob was about to be given the most amazing gift for his thirtieth birthday; a gift from God or Fate or the Way or something else entirely. As he headed into the bathroom, he didn't notice that the sink was already full. He flicked the light switch which immediately blew all three bulbs in the bathroom. The odds of this, thought Bob, were astronomical. The brief flash left an iridescent glow playing on the surface of the substance in the sink. Bob noticed it now. The odds of what Bob was about to see were more than astronomical.
Bob leaned over the sink and into a window into another world. As he closed in he could make out figures moving about on the other side of the portal. Through this vision Bob saw himself, his family, his children and his grandchildren to come. It was beautiful; magnificent. They were all smiling, happy. All his insecurities about the future melted away; his worries, fears, and dread evaporated in an instant. He knew that what he was seeing was real.
This vision gave Bob an inner peace he had always dreamt of. Soon, he didn't worry about anything. He didn't worry at work when he lost that big sale to the new client. He didn't even mind when they fired him for it. He knew everything would work out. He didn't even bother looking for a job because he knew the right one would find him and one day he would live the life he saw on his thirtieth birthday. When he couldn't pay the bills anymore, his wife left him and took the children with her.
He was sure that they would come back, because he already knew what his future held. Eventually he had nothing left. Bob stopped living his life to dream about what could have been. He watches his vision of his wonderful life over and over again in his head. When he finally snaps out of this loop, he sees the horror that he has let his life become. Unmaintained, alone, and miserable, Bob ends his life.
Appalled, Bob stepped back from the sink. The vision within the vision left him scarred. Driven to madness by what he saw, he clutched too tightly to all that he held in life. Constantly worried, always afraid, Bob never enjoyed a minute's peace even in the best of moments in life. His children have birthdays and graduations, weddings and children, but he's too scared to lose it all to just live in the moment. Bob dies of a heart attack at fifty.
There were many questions and uncertainties all through Bob's life, that when taken for granted could amass destruction or when overly tended cause needless fret and heartache. He was given a gift to see some of the answers to these questions, but the greatest question of Bob's life was this, "When will he step away from the sink?"
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
[Blanker] than [Blank]
A common way that people describe things by degrees is to say that something is more [some adjective] than [something known for its adjective-ness]. Sometimes this makes more or less sense than others, depending on how apt the particular adjective is to the words being described or used for comparison. Witness:
You may have noticed a theme in these comparisons. Comparisons with hell are often ludicrous. Remember, "Hotter than hell": apt; "funnier than hell": not as apt. Of course, "funnier than hell" brings irony to the table, making it all the more enjoyable. Well, I've gotta get outta here; I'm sleepier than hell!
funnier than hell:
"Man, that was funnier than hell, cuz ya know, there's nothing funnier than eternal damnation!"
gayer than hell:
"Man, that was gay as hell, what with all those gays going to hell, with their drapes and fashion sense and hot man-love and what not."
dumber than hell:
"Man, he's dumber than hell. And you *know* how dumb hell is, what with all the fire boiling your brains out your ears, it's hard to think straight."
You may have noticed a theme in these comparisons. Comparisons with hell are often ludicrous. Remember, "Hotter than hell": apt; "funnier than hell": not as apt. Of course, "funnier than hell" brings irony to the table, making it all the more enjoyable. Well, I've gotta get outta here; I'm sleepier than hell!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Welcome to the Matrix
Instead of one of my wonderful (play along) pieces of writing, I thought I'd post something a bit different today. In case you haven't noticed, I have a link over on the side to Toothpaste for Dinner. It's a daily webcomic that's sometimes very funny, sometimes poignant, sometimes a bit esoteric, and generally worth the read. It's definitely up there on my top 5 favorite webcomics, which of course, may be a bit like saying that ebola is one of my top 5 favorite diseases. Whatever that means. Anywho, I recently ordered some shirts from their web store, and they're quite awesome. Indeed. So far, I have received approximately 7 positive comments, about 24 puzzled looks, and 3 flat-out "I don't get it"s due to wearing these shirts. Those are some pretty good stats.
So there I am welcoming everyone to the Matrix. You'll notice how excited the person on the shirt is to be solving linear equations. I think probably that and the reference to the movie is the joke. Yeah.
So there I am welcoming everyone to the Matrix. You'll notice how excited the person on the shirt is to be solving linear equations. I think probably that and the reference to the movie is the joke. Yeah.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The New Party
Considering my last post, I decided to play back this short conversation detailing my actual political stance. This will probably suffice for the lifetime allowance of political commentary on this blog. It begins:
Man in suit: Thank you coming out and voting today, son.
Me: I'm not voting.
Man in suit: You're not voting? Son, it's your social duty to vote for who you think is the best candidate.
Me: I don't think either are worthy of the job.
Man in suit: Well, that's the beauty of democracy, son, anyone can run. You could even write-in a name.
Me: Or I could write a letter to Santa asking for World Peace. That'd probably work too.
Man in suit: Well, you can't just ignore your responsibility.
Me: Look, if you lived in the height of Roman times, and went by the colosseum, and some man was standing outside asking you how you thought the gladiators should die, how would you vote?
Man in suit: I don't understand, son.
Me: Let's say he gave you the options of ingestion by lion and skewering by pointy sticks and told you it was your civic duty to choose, for the good of the people and their welfare, their entertainment, what would you tell him?
Man in suit: Well, son, voting *is* tricky business.
Me: You don't have to answer. That's the only way free from the travesty of public execution for mass media appeal. There are other means of change.
Man in suit: Uh, so, are you a democrat or a republican?
Me: Neither, I'm an apathet.
Man in suit: Come now, son, you have to have an opinion on important public issues. Which party do you favor?
Me: An opinion? Look, I think you're all idiots.
Man in suit: Well, that's hardly fair.
Me: Shut up, dad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
